What's in a Name?

Recently - I don't remember why - Jessi was talking about googling herself and people she knows, and telling me about the funny (or weird) results. I think I've tried it once or twice for myself. Out of curiosity, I googled myself yesterday. Just my first and last name.

I didn't find myself until the second page.

I did find a photographer, a couple restaurant employees, an ancestry.com page to a lady b. 1908 d. 2000, and a character for a Percy Jackson fanfiction. I enjoyed that last one.

Strange how googling myself and finding many people with the same name who are not me can make me feel so insignificant. I guess that's what middle names are for. Although one search result informed me there were only five people in the U.S. with my name. I find that hard to believe.

We were watching a TV show on Netflix the other night - one of those apocalyptic/world collapses kind of shows everyone seems so interested in - and one of the characters mentioned how she couldn't remember her dead husband's face.

Dad jumped in with a comment about how that has a scientific explination: We have a hard time remembering what the people we know most and love look like because there are so many images of them in our brains that they all jumble together, whereas we recognize people we've only seen a few times because there are only those couple images to link to them.

And here I was worrying that it was just my weak memory that made me incapable of recalling the features of a friend's or relative's face.

I did get to pondering something like this a while ago, while I was feeling especially poetic. It seems to me that for the people we love, it's less what they look like and more who they are that comes to mind when we think of them. Less physical features and more of their...essence, if you will (though I don't mean to sound creepy). I've often heard pastors talk about our bodies as just being the shell for who we actually are. When I think of my family, I think of what they mean to me, what I know and love about them, not the color of their eyes or how tall they are.

I don't know why I find this so comforting. Maybe it's the knowledge that, though I'm bound to forget the face, I won't forget the person.

At one point that was going to tie in a little better with the name thing. Something along the lines of "it's not the name, but the person", and how a name is just what someone is called by. (And that, in turn, was going to link to my dog.) Maybe I'll give it a try.

First off, my dog. Don't y'all love hearing about her? In those brief moments when I find the will to train her, I realize that one key component to her training is the fact that she doesn't answer to her name. In the training guides I found through google, they tell you to say your dog's name, and every time she (most dog training manuals always refer to the dog in question as "she") responds, "click and treat". Dogs don't answer to their name because it's their name, but because it's the word they know to  mean we want them. If that makes any sense.

In a lot of the fantasy books I read, especially Tolkien's, the characters have multiple names. They have their given name, and then sort-of-nicknames based on their characteristics, or terms of endearment, like the Elvish word for "laughter". Names are used to identify, but often the name used identifies with the true person, and it's not the name they were born with.

It's a concept I can't quite put into words, and I almost feel funny trying. I don't want to sound bizzare or anything. This isn't supposed to be deep and un-Biblically spiritual, just a thought.

That whole thing about our body just being a shell makes me think of Jesus. He was God incarnate, God in a body prepared for Him. Even His name wasn't unique. It had significance, of course, and then He was also called "Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us". All this junk about how Jesus looked makes me roll my eyes. (Especially when He's depicted as Caucasian. It's not racist to be firm in the fact that Jesus was a Jew.)

Do you understand what I'm trying to say? Because I'm having a really hard time trying to explain, and it's frustrating.

Names do have significance. They can define you, especially last names. People associate names with things. A child with a good, upright family will have more expectations put on them to be like the others who carried that last name. Names can connect people. But names and faces aren't all we are. They aren't the impression we'll leave on people. It'll be the attitude, the spirit of joy or of depression, the laughter or the temper, the hope or the sorrow, friendliness or pride, love or hate. They might never remember our name - they might not even know it at all - but there's a chance that, even for a couple hours, they'll remember who we were because of how we lived in front of them.

Dreaming of a Real Winter (Also: Back to the Issue of Titles)

Last year around this time (okay, in September) I wrote a blog post about autumn, and about the different "visions of autumn", like gray and drizzly with the bright colors or sunshiny and clear and vibrant. This year, I haven't even been able to enjoy the colors all that much. Our color peak came a couple weeks early, and then wind and rain brough most of that color to the ground in a few days. We're still getting some shifting trees, but mostly it's all brown. And it's been gray and rainy.

There's snow in the forecast for next week. Considering our poor winter last year, I'm super excited. I'd love to actually have snow on the ground for Christmas - Thanksgiving, even - and be able to build a few forts and things like that.

The only thing that worries me is driving in the snow. I took driver's ed in November last year, but it wasn't really wintry weather yet. (And when we finally did get snow, it didn't last long.)

Mom and Dad like to use the old-school methods of predicting the weather; chiefly, how the animals are behaving. (But then, this is Michigan, and our wildlife is always a little abnormal.) I've seen some pretty obese squirrels lately, which Mom says could mean either lots of snow or lots of bitter cold. I'm hoping for the former.

The bad weather all year meant poor crops. Where the apple trees were overloaded two years ago, they're empty this year. The next time someone complains about having too much snow and wishing for more southern weather, I'm going to point to last winter and the one before and the subsuquent harvests. And I'll probably be struggling to refrain from kicking them solidly in the shins. If you want southern climates, move south. This is Michigan, for crying out loud!

Of course, the warmer weather last winter meant I was puddle-jumping for my birthday instead of throwing snowballs, and that part was fun.

My biggest problem with a decent winter is that I'm going to have to be careful to not spend all of my money on fun winter clothing. And boots. With colorful winter inserts. And fingerless gloves. And a new NaNoWriMo t-shirt. Especially with the big ladies' shopping trip coming up.

Speaking of NaNoWriMo, this will be the second year in a row that I'm not doing it. I'm still struggling with my superhero story ( and to any of you reading this who read that, I'm so sorry) and the story about the dragon who can't fly (which I'm wise enough to only share with my sister before it's completed). There's also the matter of my not having a computer of my own. Hopefully, a couple more paychecks will fix that (although the other thing that needs to be fixed is my dog, and that's a more pressing issue), but until then I'm using Dad's computer, and that won't work for word wars.

I'm sure about mid-January I won't be half so happy about snow (if we do in fact get it and not the alternative of bitter cold), but right now I can't wait for it. Actually, about the time we start subbing our youth pastor's boys' paper routes is when I'll be hating it.

I finally broke out the Christmas music this week. Sometimes we start listening to it in August, but this year and last we started late. I'm not very excited for when the radios start playing it, though. How many different versions of "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" can they come up with?

In other news, I've still been pondering the matter of a new blog title. Yeah, even I'm beginning to wonder if it's worth it.

What about "Slapdash Serendipity"? Yup. I seriously just made that one up. But I really do like the word "serendipity". However, "perfunctory" is rather a fun word as well, but it's definition isn't all that great ("lacking interest, care, or enthusiasm").

Something that's been stuck in my head since yesterday is the phrase "banana guilt", a concept introduced to me last week. It's where we look at a banana that's not yellow but more brown and a tad mushy, and we would prefer not to use it, when in fact that's the best time to use bananas, because that's when they have the most flavor. Which explains why banana bread recipes call for overripe bananas.

I had the idea yesterday that, were I ever to write a biography of sorts, even fictionalizing it a little, "Banana Guilt" could be a fun title.

Seems that, currently, I'm leaning toward fun phrases as opposed to a title with my name in it. I even briefly considered "Defying Gravity", because I'm thoroughly enjoying the "Wicked" soundtrack I borrowed from Jessi. (Up until a few weeks ago, I'd only heard a few songs.) Then there's my continued attempts to think up a good phrase from a favorite poem, quote, or verse.

It's probably because I can't track down a decent adjective that flows with my name. I don't even care right now if it starts with "a".  I still like "abstract", "absentminded" suits me, "anecdote" is fun, and "ambidexterity" has the same first three letters as my name, but none of those really seems to work.

Did you know that "somniloquence" is talking in your sleep? Yes, I'm browsing dictionary.com.

Ah, well. Guess I keep pondering that. Maybe eventually I'll come up with something.

Sleep-overs, Book vs. Movie, and the Definition of "Classic"

It's been repeatedly brought to my attention lately that I am "deprived". "Culture deprived", it might be called, because it's all about the movies and TV shows I haven't seen and/or don't desire to see. I only just saw an episode of "I Love Lucy" last year upon Jessi's insistance, followed by "Gilligan's Island". Yeah, I wasn't impressed with either. I'm not much into watching or reading things because it seems to be the thing to do.

At the latest "singles'" evening get-together, Jessi and I got to talking with one of the fairly new guys about this topic. They both gaped at me with a mixture of shock and mild disgust when I said I hadn't seen or even heard of this show or that. At one point, the guy said, "What about Star Wars?"

Ha! I know about Star Wars because I'm American. I "get" the references. However, I think I've seen about 30 minutes in total from all the movies. (I don't even know how many movies there are.)

"Never seen 'em," I proudly informed him.

His head sank onto his arms, folded on the table.

"Actually," I continued with a smirk, "my dad's a Star Trek fan."

He groaned, and his head sank even lower.

As a kid, the worst form of punishment one could give me was to take away my reading privileges. Especially when I was two chapters from the end of the book or someone had either died or was just about to. I rarely got grounded from TV or computer, and if I was, it didn't bother me too much, because Sims could wait. It was when Mom told me I wasn't allowed to read another sentence until my chores were done that I fell into the depths of despair. Such a concept leaves most of my peers flabbergasted, and the remaining, the kindred spirits, settle down to discuss their favorite books, so it's not like my feelings are hurt.

Don't take this to mean I only read great literature and all the old classics. I did just finish A Wrinkle in Time and the sequels (personal favorites), but now I'm reading Gail Carson Levine's Two Princesses of Bamarre, which has "Ages 8-12" on the back.

Last night, I went over to Jessi's, because she was going to be all alone with her eccentric dog and wanted company. She was determined that I was going to watch this movie called "Quest for Camelot", which evidently every '90's kid should see, but of which I'd never heard.

First off, it took me about half the movie to adjust to the old style of animation. Second, it was on VHS and the sound quality was whacky, so I couldn't enjoy the music numbers because I didn't have a clue what was being sung. Third, Cary Elwes (Westley from "Princess Bride") played the main guy, who was blind, had awesome Jedi moves (See? Star Wars), and had a silver-winged falcon for a best friend. Fourth, the main girl made a huge show of being adventurous and independent, but leave her alone for two minutes and she was so incompetent that she almost ruined everything. Fifth, I was again reminded of how of much those old kids' movies were actually cheap comedy to keep the kiddies interested and didn't add anything to the storytelling. Looking back at all my old favorites ten years later, I have to wonder why I loved them so much. This is why I can't write children's stories.

Jessi did warn me in advance that the movie wasn't spectacular, but she built it up as this epic thing I simply couldn't miss. Ha!

But it was fun anyway. Nothing like dorky, harmless entertainment to laugh about while we eat pizza and tackle the dog. We followed up with "Race to Witch Mountain", though I fell asleep half-way through. Some nights we have deep discussions while trying to dicipher things like "Inception", and other nights we snack and avoid boredome only by commenting on all the silliness, having put aside all expectations of being blown away by epic storytelling and visual effects. It's all good. I still think A Wrinkle in Time is a must read for everyone, no matter how much they like or hate reading, and for Percy Jackson, The Lord of the Rings, and all the Chronicles of Narnia, the books are better than the movies. As far as Princess Bride, however, I prefer the movie.

Just "One of those days"

You know "those days" you have sometimes? Where it's just one thing on top of another, and eventually you either go to bed early or brace yourself and ask, "What's next, while I'm ready?"

Yeah. I have plenty of those days. Sometimes I have those weeks. Once, I was convinced it was one of those years.

Usually, "one of those days" is Thursday. Don't ask me why. Last week, things kept building up. Not dangerous or even directly impacting us for the most part. Just things like having to stop at the gas station more than twice for various reasons, seeing emergency vehicles and accidents all over the place...that kind of thing.

Today was "one of those days". Big time. (Okay, maybe that's hyperbole....)

Whenver I need to be up and moving by 9, 8 always seems to come too early. I go through stages; sometimes I'm happy to be up by 7, and other times I'd rather sleep until 9, despite the fact that I always go to sleep about the same time. Maybe it has to do with the weather. It's been getting colder and it's also been rather rainy lately.

In any case! I had a slow morning where I shambled around the kitchen, took a shower, and almost waited too long to leave for work.

Work itself was fine. Actually, the poor weather didn't discourage business very much. Twice in five minutes the electricity blinked off. Wasn't that fun!

After work was when things really started happening. Nothing huge, like a car wreck, but the little things that build up until I'm like, "Okay, really? This too?"

Mom had me run home to grab something and drop it off at the church for her before I went to babysit. Sasha and Hershey thought I was home for good, so when I ran them out and then went toward the door, they freaked. They make me feel like such a horrible human.

So I ran to the church, dropped off the stuff, and climbed back into the car. Moving around, I knocked the steering wheel thing (you know, the thing to which is attached) and suddenly the hazards were flashing. What?

And what do I do? I start slapping at the steering wheel trying to turn them off, of course. The button is on the top, so how I turned on the hazards in the first place is anyone's guess. Meanwhile, I was running short on time to get to babysitting, which only made me more frustrated. Commence grumbling/shouting in the harshest words I can manage. (Which aren't much beyond "stupid", but still sound severe in a low tone.)

Finally, I realized I was trying to move the little switch in the wrong direction. Without knowing it at first, I nudged it in the right direction. It took me another 30 seconds or so of unintelligible muttering to notice. Then I was off.

When I got to the house where I babysit, I was in a rush and didn't make sure the seatbelt retracted. (It has an issue and likes to droop where the driver leaves it.) I shut the door, seeing as I did that it would hit the seatbelt but not much caring. Smooth, Amber.

Babysitting didn't last long. When I arrived, the kids were having nap/quiet time, so I did  little writing. When they woke up, we read some, played some, ate some, and then I was off!

I had to run by Wal-Mart for dog food, because we were completely out. (It's like Sasha knew I gave her and Hershey the last of it this morning, because she devoured it in near-record time.) Wal-Mart is only about five minutes from where I babysit, which is good. About half-way, I noticed a windy sound coming from my door. I hit the lock button, but had a feeling it didn't matter. I would have clung to the door, but I was driving 30 MPH on one of the most winding sections of road in this city.

And then, right on the curb, the door started to open.

I'm proud of my level-headed reflexes in situations like those. I caught the door, tugged it closed, and gripped the wheel with my other hand. Wal-Mart was in sight!

There's a sort of turn lane into the parking lot, angled and with a sharp turn. Here my door pulled as if to swing open again. I got through the turn and stopped to try to close the door. It wouldn't close.

I hunted down the closest parking spot (well, sort of, because I wasn't parking in the sticks) and turned off the car, then confronted the door.

I had some vague memory of this happening before to Heather's car when the seatbelt gets caught in the slamming door. I knew the latch needed to be fixed, but I couldn't do it. So I called Mom. She was also at Wal-Mart!

However, my loving mother who never fails to encourage me to do things on my own told me to take care of it myself. Yeah. Love you, too.

There was a guy who had walked to his car, parked next to me, about the time I pulled in. He was sitting in it, probably waiting for me to deal with my issues and move. Admittedly, I made a bit of a show of grumbling at the car while I knelt next to the door and tried to fix the latch with a key. Eventually, my damsel in distress act worked.

"Are you having a problem with your door?"

Yes! Oh, yes, yes, yes!

Of course, he fixed it with no issue, and behind him I'm fist-pumping in joy. I thanked the man profusely and skipped off to get dog food.

I'll admit: I thoroughly enjoy the occassional reminder that I'm the "weaker vessel" and deserve a little sympathy, a little patience, the door held open, and to go first in line. Why would any girl want any less? In moderation, of course, but it was just what I needed to help me cool down after the frustrating door issue.

I called Mom just before leaving to ask her something, and she told me to take the back way home like normal because there was an accident near the other way out of the mall area. I soon saw proof of this when the winding-most road in the city was backed up with traffic. Thankfully it cleared quickly, because I hate leading a pack of cars driven by frustrated drivers, and that's the situation in which I temporarily found myself.

Okay, so now that I've reviewed it all, I guess it wasn't truly "one of those days". Maybe it was more like a "you had to be there" kind of day?

One more thing. On the way to Wal-Mart, before I really noticed the door issue, I saw a little toy monster truck sitting right in the middle of the road. My immediate reaction was pity for the poor little kid who lost their toy car. That kind of thing (abandoned objects in strange places) always makes me wonder how they came to be there.

Taking the Adventures as They Come

Our parents raised us to be fairly self-sufficient. We've always done chores, worked for most of our spending money, knew how to entertain ourselves, and learned through living. Life was the fieldtrip, especially right after the big move 9 years ago.

It's because of this fact, I believe, that I survived yesterday.

The "singles" group at church (AKA "College and Career", AKA everyone out of highschool who isn't married) recently started a Bible study at our youth pastor's house. There's always good food (homemade, not pizza!), and it's normal for some of us girls (young women?) to be called upon to help prepare it.

Sunday night, I was asked to bring potato soup, because our youth pastor's wife was going to be out of town. I was also told that if I managed to make contact with the youth pastor, he'd give me some money for supplies.

Finally, around 10:30 the next morning, I got ahold of him. He was nearby and told me to come meet him. When I did, I received not only a credit card, but also a list of things he needed for the Sr. High Bible study (he teaches that first and then comes to his house for the singles') and instructions to call one of the youth workers, who recently had surgery and needed some things picked up.

And then Mom needed me to drop off a newspaper. Downtown.

I've never driven downtown unaided. Since my driving test, I've been terrified with the idea. One-way streets. *shudder*

And then I completely shocked myself by successfully angle parking, delivering the paper, and getting out of the parking space and headed toward Wal-Mart, all while going the correct direction on the maze of one-way streets. Score! And also completely nerve-wracking.

The library was on the way, so of course I had to make a quick stop. My sister has been waiting for a certain book to become available. Like always, it wasn't there.

Then Wal-Mart. This where that whole "learning through living" bit comes in. Whenever Mom had the chance, she was teaching us how to do the seemingly little things of every day life, like shopping. And while I was hunting for the things my youth pastor needed, I was calling his wife and the youth worker for their lists (his wife had a few more things I needed to get for last night), and then calling back when I translated "Velveeta shells and cheese" as "Sullivan" something-or-other. Don't ask. This is why I prefer face-to-face.

But I emerged victorious. And got out of that parking lot alive. Then I had to hunt down the youth worker's appartment. I've been there at least three times, when she's had some of us over, but I always forget where it is. I couldn't use my phone's GPS because I was spelling the name of the street wrong. So I called her back again and finally found her. After going 15 MPH down every nearby street trying to see building numbers.

Then a quick stop at the church to drop off the Sr. High Bible study supplies, and home at last to make the soup.

I've only made it once. It's one of those recipes where we have a general idea of ingredients, but mostly we just throw it all together until it tastes good, trusting our instincts about measurements. Maybe one day I'll take the trouble to write some of these recipes down for future reference.

The first time I made it, it wasn't thick enough (and my whole family likes their soup thick). This time, however, I suceeded. I'll be honest: it was one of the best parts of my day. And everyone seemed to enjoy it, which was nice.

Bible study itself is a whole other story I'd rather not go into....

Sometimes It's Better to Laugh at Yourself

For starters, my computer died. Yep. Just like that. Wes thinks it's the motherboard, which means I should be able to (eventually) retrieve all the stuff I was careless enough to not back up somewhere. Mostly pictures and music.

So I'm writing from Dad's computer. And trying to get used to the fact that when I get a new computer (I'd already determined to save for one before mine kicked the bucket), it won't be anything like my old one. These new, shallower keys and funky mousepads tick me off, especially when they have invisible scroll bars my hands too often settle over.

Either way. That's not why I'm posting. And yes! I did have more of a reason to post besides the old "It's been a week, so it's time to post" reason.

I didn't work yesterday. Not "work" work, that is. I babysat from around 9 to 11:30, and then rushed off to join Mom on paper routes. Thus far, work has not prevented me from the Thursday route routine. Not that I'm complaining.

As usual, we had to wait for papers. Good thing I usually have a book with me. This sitting around waiting in line is another part of the routine, and I don't know why we keep expecting it to change.

Mom has a new route in the downtown area of...town. There's about 40 papers, and it takes around 45 minutes to deliver them every day. Lots of businesses and official buildings and stairs and hallways and poor little people suffering in their cubicles. I think I've mentioned this before now, to some degree. Oh, well.

The last part of the route involved me speedwalking/jogging a couple blocks to deliver to four places. One is a congressman's office, and there's always one guy in there who's really nice. It also tends to smell strongly of coffee. Another place is a jewelry store, and the old lady who owns it is quite the character. Her moods are unpredictable and entirely unrelated to the weather as far as I can tell, so that some days all she does is scowl and other days she is very polite, though I've never seen her smile.

After I walk/jog these four deliveries, I meet up with Mom to run the last few papers in one of the coolest buildings downtown. The outside is mundane, but inside is skylights and bright colors and patterns. It's a collection of organization offices, like the Red Cross and Cancer Association or whatever it's called. The people are always nice (and usually the same people every time I see them). It also has a cool staircase. (Cool enough that I still enjoy it though there are 30 steps.)

Wow. Sorry. I totally didn't intend to write that very long preface to this very short story.

Typically, Mom and I stop for a pitstop here before continuing to her driving routes. Yesterday, I decided to grab a drink at the water fountain outside the restrooms.

I don't really like water fountains. I don't like having to bend over them and contor my face into strange shapes and slurp just to get a decent drink. Also, the only drinks I like ice cold are milk and iced tea, and the water in water fountains tends to be very cold. I did have a waterbottle in the car, but, for whatever reason, I chose the water fountain.

It was absurdly low, and I pitied anyone taller than myself who happened to pass it in desperate need of a drink. Then I bent over it and casually touched the button.

I'm used to having to apply just a little pressure to get the water going. Not with this fountain. The next thing I know, there's a stream of cold water shooting up my nose. I recoiled, snorting and spluttering and trying not to inhale any more water because my nasal passages were already burning. As I was wiping at my face with my paper route hands, a woman came out of the ladies' room.

I kept my head bent over the water fountain as she inched past me. "The water fountain attacked me," I muttered, attempting a chuckle. She just kind of smiled uncertainly and gave a little laugh before hurrying away.

Not wanting to bother with the fountain again, I went into the restroom to clean my face. By the time I'd scrubbed off the ink from my hands, my nose was all red.

But I decided it was better to spend a few minutes laughing at myself (and then plan a blog post and give you the chance to do the same) instead of moping over an attack from a water fountain. If only I'd apply that principle to the bigger things in life.