It's that Time of Year (and I don't mean Christmas)

For my youth group, the highlight of the year is Youth Conference. Undeniably. Some of my best youth group memories are from youth conference. 

This year, I'm going as a chaperone. Gah! Okay, semi-chaperone. Basically, I've been promoted from happy, carefree teen to teen with responsibilities and younger roommates. I was told I could go as a teen or a chaperone, whichever I wanted, and I chose chaperone because I'd like to help out with the event instead of just participate.

As always, I can't believe we'll be leaving this Sunday! Something that's contributed to the surreality (yeah, that's a word) is probably the fact that just yesterday we had our annual fundraiser dinner. Normally that happens in June. Before fireworks tent.

Tuesday, Mom took us girls out to try to get some last minute sales from the car dealerships. They've bought in the past, but this year only yielded sales from one place. Probably because it was such short notice. Ah, well.

Yesterday, I was up by 7 (well, that's when I set my alarm, anyway) so I would be good and ready to go by 8:15. We ran out to collect the tally for sales and then headed to the church. The health inspector was coming by, so we kids hid on the opposite end of the church for a while. When the inspector finally left, we jumped right into preparing a huge order. (Lunch is mostly big orders to be delivered to companies, and supper is walk-ins, usually church people.)

I was on the brisket side of the table, as I have been every year but last. Throughout the day, people shifted around so all the girls worked brisket and the guys had chicken.

The day was busy, but not really the sort of activity I can say much about (at least, not much that's interesting and not rambling.) I served up brisket and yelled for more brisket and dished up baked beans and tried to ignore my aching feet and salivated over brisket we weren't allowed to eat in case we ran low. (You'd think working over food all day would mean you weren't hungry for it, but this time every year I really crave BBQ brisket. Go figure.) My hands were sweaty from wearing gloves and my hat kept falling low over my eyes and I was thirsty. However, now that I've slept, I can say I enjoyed the whole ordeal. After all, the proceeds go to Youth Conference, bringing the cost for each kid down. Yay!

Dad and Mom teach a class on Wednesday night with which Heather had been helping, but last week we traded places. Since we're so close to everyone moving into their new grades, we don't really have a lesson we're working on, so I got to sit at the back with Mom and pretend I was awake.

When we got home, I had every intention of going to bed, but that didn't happen until 10:30 or later. Instead, I watched some TV with Dad while we waited for news from Mom, who was at the hospital with a friend who was 42 weeks pregnant and going for a C-section. After that good news arrived and made it a very full day, I went to sleep.

But little of this has very much to do with Youth Conference. On that subject:

Mom took us girls shopping...last week? And since then I've been mentally packing, making lists, looking over the extensive and detailed schedule one of our amazing and very organized youth workers compiled, panicking over my lack of practice on a song I'll be singing with Heather and another girl, and trying to proceed with normal life. Funny how we all build up to this one week, spend months preparing for and thinking about it, and then it's gone in a flash.

There's something philosophical in that, but I can't dig it out right now.

Unless I get abnormally productive in the next few days concerning this blog, the next you'll hear from me will   be after Youth Conference. And probably a little while after that, because I'll no doubt need to process everything and try to sort out the blur. Man, I love this time of year.

So now I'm a Squirrel (Also: Driving and Cars)

It's been brought to my attention over the last few months that I have a very hard time making decisions.

Okay, so we've all known this for years. I remember Mom accusing me of being "wishy-washy" when I couldn't decide which candy bar I wanted from the vending machine at the newspaper building in Lincoln. However, only recently have I been made aware of just how dangerous this habit can be.

I actually realized the seriousness of this mental condition through my driving. I hesitate a second too long, I don't respond immediately to a situation, I panic and don't respond at all. Don't worry; thus far, I've had a wise, alert parent in the car ready to scream at me when I show the slightest signs of uncertainty, and I've started to curb a lot of my bad driving tendencies. However, this issue has cropped up in all areas of my life. Especially, I've found that I second guess myself. A lot.

I could be 100% certain of something, could have double checked it twice, but at the first sign of contestation to my well-grounded opinion or determination, I question myself. Am I absolutely positive I put that away? Well, I was until someone asked. Did we deliver this house on routes? I distinctly remember because I picked up their recycled bags, but now that you mention it, I don't know.

Mom described me as a squirrel.

(That's where I intended to go with this, but my prelude was a bit longer than I'd planned.)

Turns out, when it comes to my ability to make definite, final, solid decisions...I'm a squirrel.

Mom declared this yesterday after we witnessed a squirrel so unsure of his own desire to cross the street versus his desire to live that we drove over top of him and very nearly killed him. Mom said, "That's you."

Wow. Thanks. I've always wanted to be compared to a spazzy, brainless rodent in terms of my mental soundness.

She went on to warn me that if I didn't get this terrible tendency under control, it could potentially lead to death.

Nothing like a morbid ultimatum to push something to fix their problems.

That was about the time I fully grasped just how serious this situation is. While I thought the worst that could happen was not getting the meal I wanted, it turns out that's the least of my worries.

So now whenever we drive by a dead squirrel, I get to remember Mom's sweet, encouraging advice and just say "No" when that's what my instincts tell me.

Speaking of driving.

Last week my brother was asking me when I was going to get my license. Considering the nice lady at the Secretary of State waived the 30 day waiting time and I could have got it that day if I'd been ready, it's a good question.

Between our hectic lives and lack of cars up until a few days ago, I haven't had much time to practice driving and especially parking, so not only have we not had the time for me to take my test, but I haven't been ready.

Last week Mom had decided that today I would take my test, because Dad has off and could be in the car with me so Mom didn't have to. (She's convinced she would spend the whole time yelling at me or the instructor and just cause problems, and I'm inclined to agree. Sorry, Mom.) Of course, I panicked. I haven't parallel parked since driver's ed, and there's no way I could back-in park. (And who even does that when there's a perfectly good spot to pull into, anyway?) I'm comfortable with actually driving, though I haven't practiced pretending to believe in blind spots, which would fail me instantly. So Mom suggested I do what Wes did to learn how to drive: drive on routes.

She was kind enough to just have me do a couple residential streets and the condos, but most of it was pulling in and then backing out. I've been convinced that backing out was one of my worst issues with driving, but three driveways with Mom cured me of that. Trying to gauge the distance between the side mirror and the mailbox is another issue entirely.

Turns out, however, that all my panicking was for nothing, because (at least, to the best of my knowledge) Mom never got ahold of the people who were to give me my test, so nothing was scheduled. Which is fine, because I would have had to take the test in a borrowed car due to mine having a cracked windshield and touchy brakes.

Which brings me to the last thing: cars.

I don't think someone my age who's parents are not in car sales should be this familiar with the process of buying and registering a car. We bought two this last week. Both on Friday.

The first was for my brother. Now remember, this is the guy who had decided that his preferred vehicle is a mini van. A friend found him an '83 Oldsmobile. A yacht among boats. A far cry from a minivan. In MINT condition, having formerly been a grandma car with the average annual miles being much less than what makes for a low-mileage car. And "a good deal" doesn't cover it.

Guess who now has half his facebook friends jealous of him: my brother.

Guess who is so glad the car, sweet at it may be, isn't hers: this girl.

I mean, it's a good car; it's a fantastic car. Cream with a dark brown canvas top, a spotless interior, whitewall tires.... And of course, a sound system he approves of. However, the thing is ginormous and all my close calls with my own car's long front end would be horrific accidents in that thing. (Of course, a run in with a semi wouldn't end terribly with this tank, so the Olds wins the safety factor.) His could blow mine away in a street race, and I'm fine with that. It was luxury in its day and it's too much for me now. My "gangsta car" is no longer the gangster car in the driveway, and I'm so thankful. No debating or second guessing on my part about that.

The other car is Dad's. Mom picked it up right after Wesley's, and...well, yeah. $200 clunker, and, as Dad puts it, where the rust spots on Wes's could be covered in one hand, that same hand could cover the non-rusted spots on Dad's. Where Wes's glides and purrs, Dad's clanks. I mean, Dad's happy with it. It's a standard, which is what he wanted after Mom's Kia, and it can do the job of getting him back and forth to work. (That is, until winter, when the snow will come up through the hole in the floor.) My only consolation is that when it dies, we can scrap it for $300 at least, and move on to the next clunker.

So now we have five cars in the driveway and one being worked on by friends: the Ford Expedition, my Chevy, Wes's Olds, Dad's...I don't remember what model, and a Buick we're borrowing. Eventually the car being worked on (a Pontiac sports car Heather will eventually get) and a routes car for Mom will be added. It's a good thing we have a long driveway.

The other day we were counting all of the cars that have been in our driveway since we moved here. Not the cars of people visiting or picking up or dropping off someone; the cars we've owned or borrowed. We got to 15 before I stopped. Between 8 and 10 of those are the cars we've owned.
Needless to say, our car...adventures keep life very interesting.

It's Amazing What You Find When You Clean

When we were kids - and even now, on occasion - and we'd happen upon a long lost item while cleaning, Mom would give us that "I told you so" look and say, "Yeah, it's amazing what you find when you actually clean stuff up."

No, this isn't going to be a post about how I discovered money when I was cleaning my room. (Though the thought of such a possibility, however slight, does make me want to clear out that madhouse.) Despite my ability to lose pretty much anything, I'm a little more careful when it comes to where I put my money. Usually if I've misplaced it, I need only check a limited number of places to find it.

This post is about my garden. Please, try not to get too excited.

My garden has been in serious need of tending for the last couple of weeks. My negligence isn't completely intentional. We've been busy running fireworks tents lately, and I was up there most weekday afternoons. I did manage to keep the garden well-watered most days, and almost drowning it made up for the days I failed to turn on the sprinkler.

Anywho! I'd noticed that the pea plants were starting to droop and asked Mom for some advice. She'd mentioned setting up a lattice (I think that's what it's called) to keep them upright, and said I could just use sticks and string. (Sticks and string have been staples in our garden supplies this year.) So I trooped out to tend to the peas.

I got pretty philosophical observing how the peas all clung to each other and, instead of holding each other up, pulled the whole line down. I had a feeling that could develop into some sort of deep illustration, but after coaxing peas to let go of each other for fifteen minutes, that's as far as my deep musings got.

I noted that the garden seriously needed weeding, but I was a bit tired and sore after stooping over peas, so I left it.

Now we get to the point!

I went out this morning to check on the peas and make some adjustments and starting pulling at weeds scattered around the garden. Along the kennel fence there's been a mass of grasses and weeds that keeps coming back, and I decided it was time I took care of it, because the peppers were being overrun.

I was reaching for a rather large weed when I noticed the leaves. They looked familiar, but not like any weed I'd seen yet. Then I glanced back at the tomatoes and realized I was staring at a tomato plant. I gawked at the leaves for a few minutes just to be sure, and then spotted the little yellow flower. Yup. Tomato.

After I reported my discovery to Mom, I went back out and started working on the weeds around the tomato plant. My efforts uncovered something unexpected. There were not one, not two, not even three, but five tomato plants. (I brought Dad out to confirm this, just to be sure I wasn't being an idiot.)

Along the fence is where our tomatoes were placed last year, and I can only guess that some of the overripe tomatoes I abandoned when we became overrun with produce planted themselves.

The irony is that Dad left five spaces for tomatoes when we were planting everything, with the intention that we would pick up a few more, which we never did. So I finished weeding and transplanted the plants to those empty spaces. Now I'm hoping they're the traditional style of tomato and not more romas.

Speaking of curious garden discoveries, I don't think I mentioned the walnut tree I found while uprooting day lilies last month. I pulled up a curious little plant, thin and straight with a few small leaves and a bulge near the bottom that looked like a walnut. I brought it to Dad for inspection, and he declared it a walnut tree. Of course, he then proceeded to crack open the nut just to be sure, right as I was planning where I'd replant the little thing.

That tree was a result of the girls shucking walnuts on the deck last autumn. One must have rolled off and settled in the hideous mass of lilies.

So that was my adventure for the way! When I came back in to wash dishes, I noticed my arm was hurting and itching, and looked down to see what looked like the beginnings of a rash. I'd noticed the itch earlier but ignored it. Either I scraped against a dangerous weed or the tomatoes were punishing me for moving them. I'd received small rashy scratched before when I've scraped rose thorns, so it might just be a simple skin irritation. I hope.