Locked Out

If my month were a book and last week was a chapter, I would title it Locked Out.

It all started when my dear friend and boss stuffed my keys into her purse before heading to the U.P. for the weekend. I discovered their absence at 11:00 p.m. After a call to my husband (who had gone to bed 3 hours prior) and a call to the cab company, my evening ended at 12:15 when a friend picked me up from work.

The following day I lost the key to the house where I was staying for the week.

The next day I went to see a few apartments and three of the landlords had key problems. One had to call the previous tenant to ask them to come with their key; one broke into the top apartment to unlock the main floor. The third landlord said, "Huh. My key isn't working." I said, "I could have told you that hours ago."

That same day I called Matt to tell him that the church office key wasn't in it's usual spot. He said, "Yes it is, I saw it last night." I said, "I took everything out, and it's really really not." He said, "Well it's in there! Okay! Bye!" and hung up. (But he was the friend that picked me up from work at midnight, so we're not even a little irritated with him.)

I waited on my car for my friend to get home with the car opener (since I lost her only house key).

I waited on my car for my husband's boss to arrive with my house key (since mine was in my friend's purse).

I waited, I waited, I waited.

In frustrating moments like these, I like to comfort myself by weaving meaning into what seems pointless. I'm usually pretty good at it, too, so I was surprised to come up nearly blank. Oh, I dug up a few little analogies about doors and keys and knocking and opening and master keys and loose keys, etc., though nothing worth mentioning. Then I thought to myself,

"Self? Dearest. Perhaps you need to spend a little less time weaving meaning into your daily life, and a little more brain power remembering to put your KEYS in your PURSE when you get to work, rather than leaving them strewn about the office." Which turned out to be the mundane moral to last week's story.

If You are Bored

My mother is a woman of signs and labels. My childhood was mostly coordinated by postings throughout our house: labels on the foods we were allowed to eat, charts of our rotating chores and responsibilities, directions on how to sort laundry loads on the washing machine, sign-up sheets for household projects, and so on.

This week I was happy to see a new sign on the Towers refrigerator.



The goal of a Christian is not to be entertained, but to be busy at work for the Lord. Because God has blessed me with time this summer, here is a list of things I am going to do:

1. Read a list of books recommended by friends
2. Keep a journal
3. Plan a late fall vacation
4. Go camping with Pete
5. Get a head start on my fall classes by reading recommended books
6. Study the Word
7. Cook
8. Go berry picking; can preserves
9. Spend time developing friendships
10. Play guitar
11. Finish my little book about my first year of marriage
12. Memorize my list of Bible verses for the family competition

And perhaps:

13. Learn Hebrew, a la Rosetta Stone. I haven't committed to it yet, but I'm almost there.

Good Friday

7:00 pm on Good Friday found me in the church kitchen helping Glenda prepare communion. "We're only supposed to cut these pitas in half?" she asked. "Not smaller?"

"That's what Matt said," I shrugged. Matt walked appeared in the doorway, so I clarified his instructions. "You said in half, right?"

"Yes. Half."

Glenda: "Only half?"

"Half."

"Maybe people are getting in groups and breaking from the same piece," I said to Glenda, who was halving whole-wheat pitas with one eyebrow raised, still dubious. But then I noticed the juice. Individual servings of juice in plastic, barrel-shaped containers were being carried in baskets to the auditorium.

The baskets were spread out under the cross on the stage, and the congregation was released to receive the elements. I selected a piece of whole-wheat Jesus, a barrel of his blood, and sat on the floor against the back wall.

When I was eight years old my mother explained the Eucharist. "We think of communion like a symbol," she said. "Catholics believe that the bread really turns into Jesus's body, and the juice really turns into his blood."

I noticed a potential concern. "Like, after you swallow it?" I asked. "Or while it's still in your mouth?" Jesus digesting in my stomach--perhaps. My childlike faith had accepted far greater mysteries. But Jesus stuck between my teeth? Jesus in my toothbrush that night? Mom said she was pretty sure that Catholics chewed the bread and digested the Jesus. But the next time I took communion I swallowed the juice-soaked bread whole, just in case.

Confession: I have ever since.

I'm pretty sure that the bread remains bread and the juice remains juice, not because I can't swallow the miraculous, but because Jesus is the Metaphor's biggest fan. "This is my body" and "this is my blood," he said. Your body is a temple, I am the vine, my sheep know my voice. I swallow the bread whole because purple, soggy bread isn't something I savor; I swallow it whole because it's difficult for me to metaphorically chow on my savior's flesh. The substantial carnivorous snack before me, however, was not going to go down in one gulp.

I broke off a piece of pita (his body, broken by me) and sipped the juice (his blood for my sins). I heard the tops of juice containers popping all around me and saw bread lifted to lips (his life in ours). When do the carbohydrates absorb into my blood stream? I wondered. And as always when I think about digestion or any other body function, I marveled at the complexity of it. Then I ate another bite, drank another drink, and marveled at the simplicity of it: Eat food. Live. This is my body, he said. This is my blood. I'm doing this. I'm remembering him.

“I am the bread of life. He who comes to Me shall never hunger, and he who believes in Me shall never thirst.”

I rarely eat breakfast on Sunday mornings before church, and when the small purple morsel hits my stomach, I'm reminded how hungry I am. I finished my pita and juice on Friday feeling full, my spirit satisfied with the bread of life.

Hurricane hits Detroit

In an interview with Wood TV news on Tuesday, March 31st, Jennifer Granholm compared the Detroit auto crisis to a natural disaster. She did not use an appropriate simile: This crisis, like a tornado, formed under a specific set of conditions and then struck suddenly. Nor did she employ an corny metaphor: The tectonic plates of Michigan's economy have been shaken.

Granholm said that she is pushing for support of the auto companies and families, because "this is our Hurricane Katrina... so we need a response that is like that."

Katrina victims could empathize with Detroit families who have lost their jobs and homes. But in the interest of everyone involved, the governor shouldn't be drawing comparisons between foreclosed homeowners and rooftop survivors, between an unemployment rate and a death toll. And perhaps the government's response with helicopters, food and shelter (reportedly inadequate as it was) should look different than the government's response to a failing business and its employees.

This is the American automobile industry and these are struggling families; I hope the government can assist both where it should. But there are about 600 miles between Michigan and the ocean, which is roughly the same metaphoric distance between Michigan's economy at the tragedy of Katrina.

http://www.woodtv.com/dpp/news/Gov_auto_troubles_Michigans_Katrina

Lifelong Sport

Every year I vacation on Hilton Head Island with Pete's family, and every morning on the Island we take a tennis class with a bunch of retirees. I can't think of any group more fun than old people with health and money. This year my favorite was Jim.

Jim is in his early 80's. He pumps his arms at a 90 degree angle, as if running a great speed, while shuffling his feet with a good-natured smile. Jim's hearing aid was out of whack this week; often the entire class had to join forces in getting his attention. Jim would forget about a fly ball long before it hit the ground, inevitably two inches from his feet. When it did hit the ground, his entire body would jerk in shock. Then he'd toss his hand and walk away as if to say, "Ah, I've made it this far."

Yesterday we practiced signals. I played opposite of Dick and Lennie. Our instructor, Rem, was on my team.

"Make the signal, acknowledge the signal, serve the ball," Rem told our opponents. Lennie made the signal behind his back to Dick, who acknowledged the signal and wound up to serve. "Wait!" said Lennie, who turned around to ask Dick a question, while keeping his "fake" signal in tact. Rem and I shared smiles at this senile moment, pretending to be oblivious. It was all the same because Lennie didn't fake once the ball was served. (a) Lennie didn't know what the "fake" sign meant, (b) Lennie forgot to fake, (c) Lennie is very clever.

At the end of class Rem reviewed signals. "This is stay," said Rem, making a fist. "This is move." He opened his palm flat. "And this," he said, making devil horns out of his pointer and pinkie, "Is fake."

"What's this?" Asked Jim, pointing his middle finger to the sky with a grin.

I have always heard that tennis is a game for life, but until I mentioned the sentiment to Dick, I didn't quite grasp its totality. We were sitting on a bench, me watching and him waiting to rotate in.

"Oh yeah," Dick said. "My wife and I have several friends whose spouses died on the court." He chuckled a little.

"Seriously? On the court? How?"

"Heart attacks, that sort of thing. One hit a return and then just fell over right there. Right there in the middle of a match." Dick seemed to think this was nearly hysterical, his friend hitting a ball and dropping dead before its return.

I don't understand how I'll play the same game at 80 that takes the breath out of my 22 year old lungs, but I like the thought. I'll play it differently, of course. Right now I swing my racket every which way and run cross-court to return. The old people I played with this week mostly hit what comes in their direction, strategically. They also mostly beat me.

Dick and I were still laughing over his friend. "I hope he made the point!" I said, and Dick slapped his knee a little in response, which I found charming. On the court, Jim's first serve his the net. He drew another ball from his pocket and tossed it above his head, his racket back and ready.

Messy Cars

Last week I decided to become a Clean Car Person. It's a lofty goal, as any stranger who has glanced at my backseat could tell you.

I know of four groups of Messy Car People. One group is the Just Plain Sloppy. The second group is Moms--women who used to keep clean cars before resigning themselves to a higher calling. The third group consists of Students and Small Apartment Dwellers.
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Historically I have belonged to this third category. When I was going to school full-time and working at Olive Garden the rest of the time, my backseat served as a library/wardrobe. When I later moved into an apartment with a startling lack of closet space, I would actually bring items from the apartment to store in my car. Pete would ask, "Where are our photo albums?" and I would answer, "Left side of the trunk towards the back." (This is a lie. Pete never asks to look at our photo albums.)
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The fourth and final group is Randy Peterkort. There may be others who have reached this sophisticated level of messiness, but he is the only one I have met in person. I once spent a road trip testing 75+ pens for ink and reading aloud from 25+ Indiana antique store pamphlets. In the end he reluctantly agreed to part with 30-some inkless pens and four pamphlets (duplicates). To reward my efforts I selected treats from his dashboard candy shop; to rejuvenate my intellect (dulled by the ink testing and and pamphlet reading) I studied the Constitution of the United States. Randy has a copy in the middle counsel, next to the Declaration of Independence and a back-stash of Tizzlers.

Now, I am not choosing to be a Clean Car Person because I think it is intrinsically better than being a Messy Car Person; on the contrary, I think there are many seasons in a person's life when it isn't logical to keep a clean car. It would have been inefficient to continuously stock and clear my car of books, aprons and ties. For what, a clean car while I slept? Cleanliness and organization only makes sense to the point that the efforts don't outweigh the benefits.
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Moms and other busy people who keep a clean car may be serving their aesthetic visual preferences (which is right and fine), but they aren't necessarily more productive for doing so. And I can't think of any reason why being comfortable in order is better than being comfortable in mess. Just think of all the times you could have used the Declaration of Independence while driving! I can't think of any, so I appreciate your help illustrating my point.

The "cleaner is not intrinsically better" truth also applies to living rooms, closets, drawers and desks. The one exception is a clean kitchen, which is superior in every way to a messy kitchen. I definitely want to become a Clean Kitchen Person.

I am choosing to keep a clean car because I enjoy a clean car and because it makes sense in this season. A clean car lends a certain calmness and a feeling of put-togetherness that (though perhaps artificial) feels nice. A clean car is a special kind of luxury, one I can afford at this point in my class-less, olive garden-less, child-less life. Also, I am a part-time service rep and an online student, which makes a clean car one of the only luxuries I can afford.

Next week: "Becoming a Rich Person."

The Customer is Sometimes a Manipulative Liar

(QUIZ)

Q: Suppose you check into a hotel for a three night stay. On the second morning you receive a receipt under the door, signifying the end of your stay. What do you do?

a. Call the front desk and say, "I'm supposed to be checking out tomorrow, not today."

b. Pack your bags, go to work, and tell your boss (who set up the reservation), "They kicked me out of the hotel!"

Q: Suppose your employee shows up to work with his luggage and says that the hotel "kicked him out." What do you do?

a. Ask the employee, "What happened, exactly?"

b. Call the hotel and throw a righteous fit at 8:45 in the morning.

Q: Suppose the front desk representative explained that the hotel did not "kick" the guest out, though did put a bill under the guest's door, due to the (apparent) incorrect departure date. The incorrect departure date could be the fault of either you (the boss who set up the reservation) or the fault of the reservations office; regardless, the guest approved the (incorrect) departure date at the time of check-in, and the hotel is more than happy to extend the stay of its guests. What do you, the boss, do?

a. Recognize the misunderstanding, apologize for your employee's rather embarrassing and dramatic response, request that another night be added to the reservation, and assure that your employee can return to the same room.

b. Email a hotel manager and express your outrage over this situation in which, essentially, nothing happened.

Results:

If you answered mostly (a), you are a reasonable person who plays by the logical rules of goods and services. If you answered mostly (b), congratulations! You make a sucker out of everyone in the (a) category, and win $20 off your nightly rate.