Continuing Adventures Of This Week

Lured by the promise of an ArtsyFartsyJesusFreak Woodstock, I went camping this weekend to an event known as "GratisFest." It featured bands like Jake Speed and the Freddies and The Pomegranates and The Psalters; primary-color-themed art projects; and a half-pipe for young skater dudes and chicks. I haven't been on a camping trip since I was, oh, one. But I had a supremely easy time of it--all I had to do was buy a sleeping bag and a cooler and borrow D.'s flashlight. My friends G. and T. let me sleep in their tent and eat their food; I didn't even have to drive, I just bummed rides to and from rural Indiana.
The first evening I helped serve ale in the makeshift pub (Price: "a penance a pint"). I stepped outside when the dusk was all gone and only night was left. There were STARS. There was even a MILKY WAY. Jake Speed and the Freddies paid tribute to the sight with a lovely rendition of the Woody Guthrie/Wilco classic "California Stars." I had brought along an H.A. Rey starbook borrowed from the library (growing up I had a copy of his Know Your Stars); I used it to make exceptionally futile attempts at identifying constellations. Over the course of the weekend, I managed to find Scorpio--that was all I gained in constellation knowledge.
The first night, Friday to Saturday, I did not sleep well, so my Saturday passed as follows:
Got up
Sat in a chair
Ate tasty food (eggs and cheese in a bagel)
Napped in the tent
Sat in a chair some more
Ate tasty food (pasta salad with tomatoes and green olives)
Napped some more
...You get the idea. I also went for a couple of walks in the fantastically picturesque woods, trying to identify elm and black walnut trees.
Saturday night The Pomegranates staged a triumph. They made me miss Pants terribly though, because she was the one that introduced the band to me, plus there was a redheaded girl dancing in front of the stage and for a fleeting moment I thought Pants had come to town to surprise us all. Alas, it was not so. But The Poms were simply incredible, particularly considering the audience was probably 75% musicians, so it would have been rather an intimidating show to play, I'd think. I expect great things from this band.
Walking back to the campsite (which by the way consisted of most of my friends and neighbors) after the concert I happened to look up as I wandered through the corn fields and saw some shooting stars. I thought--not for the first time--that I've been given a great life.

Not quite a month between posts, so that's good.

Got word of the passage of another good dog--Robbie, a sweet and sincere floppy-haired fella who lived for two things: to be loved and to torment his big sister. In my prayers I am entrusting him to the intercession of St. Puppy-Pants.
I also tried to be extra kind to both Cori and Chili the night of Robbie's passing, in his honor. I took them both out for walks. Normally I only walk Cori, and Chili gives me the look of utter devastation only boxers can give as we leave. But this time I came back for Chili and hooked him on the leash. (I had to walk them sequentially--there's just one leash.) I was naive in thinking I could make both dogs happy this way, however. As soon as Cori saw we were leaving without her, she started snapping and growling at Chili something awful. Never mind she had just returned from a walk some .5 seconds ago; another dog was getting a privilege she wasn't! They crack me up.
Did I ever tell you about Maay-BEHH's nun friends who wanted a biblical name for their dog? They named him Moreover. (Just pretend "dogs" is singular in that citation.)

St. Puppy-Pants

We had a loss in the family this past week. Go to Bean's Blog (the June 10th entry) to read all about it.

Ice Cream and Swords

The Ice Cream Social last week went very well. We had a good team of volunteers in to help us; a couple of them mentioned having handyman skills as well as ice-cream-scooping skills, so we put them to work hanging a plaque in Cooie's honor. Overheard while they were thus engaged in that task: "Don't get it out of whack now. We want to keep it in whack if at all possible."
The miracle of the loaves and fishes got transmogrified into the miracle of the ice cream and bananas. Not only did we serve 259 bowls of banana splits and sundaes, but when everyone was absolutely done with as many helpings as they wished, we had maybe two cups left in the bottom of one tub of the donated Graeter's, so it was a perfect amount. Plus, I had gotten some emergency backup Kroger brand (with money donated by the volunteer team's company), so we have enough for another Ice Cream Social next week, if we so choose. I don't think we'll choose that, but at least we'll have a good snack option on the next hot day.
The office staff served the volunteers ice cream at the end of their shift, and so also served many second and third helpings for guests returning to the line. It was my first time working the serving line, I'm embarrassed to admit. If I'd known I was gonna be putting some time in there, I wouldn't have worn heels. A Val quote about the experience at the end of the day: "I think I have ice cream on the bottom of my shoe."
In other news, I'm moving out of the artsy-fartsy JesusFreakCrazyCommuneCultHouse. I'm just moving down the street though, so I'm not actually moving out of the artsy-fartsy JesusFreakCrazyCommuneCult. My new home is the first floor of a two-family flat. It's a shotgun house, and my bedroom will also be the front room. I was up late last night talking to Pants about it. I knew she could relate to any moving anxiety--we're both moving out at the same time. "I'm a little worried because I don't have a dresser yet," I told her, "And I don't want to start out at my new apartment just flinging all my clothes everywhere, like I do now."
"Well, here," she said, "You want to use this dresser? It belongs to the folks whose house you're moving into, anyway."
"That's perfect! It's tall, so I can use it as part of my 'bedroom wall.' I want to separate my bed off from the rest of the front room, and first I thought I'd use screens, but since I haven't been able to find any I was just gonna use bookcases and dressers."
"You want a screen?" She pulled a set of three wooden screens complete with louvres that she had hidden away in her closet.
It was like Princess Bride, you know? "Ah--if only we had a Holocaust Cloak!"
Speaking of swashbuckling--the last couple of weeks I've been introducing Izaac, one of the young'uns in the JFCCCHouse, to all my favorite old movies--Robin Hood, The Thief of Bagdad (with Douglas Fairbanks, Sr.), The Prisoner of Zenda (with Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.). I love Robin Hood for its lesson that you can do good things without being a goody-goody, and Izaac seemed to agree.
"Watching Robin Hood makes me wanna be Robin Hood!" he said at one point.
"Except without the swordfights," Zoe (his sister) interjected.
"No! The swordfights are the whole point!" Izaac and I said together.
And I introduced him to Zenda to teach him the lesson that, if you're gonna be a bad guy, at least be a charming bad guy. He seems to have learned that, too. He's been going around shouting "Au revoir, play-actor!" at every opportunity.

Nicknames

One day a couple of my J.F.C.C.C. housemates and I started discussing (I no longer remember why) group dynamics in terms of the personalities of the members of U2. This led to a search online for a "Which member of U2 are you?" quiz. One of the questions on the quiz we found was "Do people refer to you by your nickname more often than by your real name?" I ended up being a Larry, but we decided what tipped me over the edge (so to speak) was that I answered the nickname question in the negative.
In the days after we took that quiz I noticed M. wasn't calling me Angela anymore. I finally asked her, "Are you trying to tip the nickname scale for me?" Yes, she admitted; that was exactly what she was doing.
All this to explain how I've acquired the name "Angie-Pants," or "Pants" for short.
She, in turn--and because she is moving to Japan soon to teach--has acquired a new nickname of her own. You can find it in my blogroll.

The Original All You Can Eat Fish Fry

Today's a beautiful day, as last night was a beautiful night. This morning the snow fell in a combination of dance and fury. Last night the moon lit the top of a low bank of cloud. I hope everyone who was looking for a silver lining saw it.
I went out last night with the J.F.C.C.C.'ers. B. wanted to go out to eat; I wanted to go someplace out of the ordinary and someplace where I'd know they'd use our money for good. Then I remembered it was Friday, and I couldn't eat meat. Fish fry!
B.'s husband (who is also a B; B2 we'll call him) suggested Hartzell United Methodist. I wasn't so sure at first--a Methodist fish fry? It didn't seem quite right--but then he said it was all you can eat. Allrighty then.
Mr. and Mrs. Glorious Leader were out of town, as was another of our housemates, but everyone else from the J.F.C.C.C. House joined the party--M. and her friend T. who was visiting, J. and B. (erm, I guess for this story he's B3). The two B.s would meet us there; the five of us from the 'House piled in the M.-mobile amid merry cries of "shotgun!" and elaborate arguments over shotgun rules. (Does everyone have to be out the door before shotgun is called? Some said yes, some said no. Can you call shotgun for the way back on the ride out? No. Does the driver have veto power? No--the driver has the vehicle; that's enough power.)
On the way we discovered this would be The Very First Fish Fry for many of us, a concept that frankly I have a hard time wrapping my head around. But that meant a Methodist fish fry was a good choice--gotta ease'em in slowly. Plus did I mention it was all you can eat?
We arrived just as B squared did. The parking lot looked like a country church picnic's (I wonder how many of my fellow J.F.C.C.C.'ers have been to a country church picnic?) and the line was out the door. But the line moved fast. As we drew near the money-takers we were getting closer to the actual church part of the building. We could hear piano music and see people sitting in pews. "Where's the fish?" we cried in dismay. Would we have to profess Christ (admittedly not a problem in this group) before we'd be admitted to the dinner? Or was the whole thing a setup--were they just wafting the smell of frying Icelandic cod through the place to lure people to their service? No, B2 explained, they were just letting us sit in the pews until our numbers were called as a more pleasant alternative to standing in line. As he said this, the woman on the piano broke into "It's All For the Best" from Godspell. And the selection after that was from Grease.
We paid our money, got numbered tickets, and sat in a pew. We leafed through the Methodist hymnal and listened to the guy up front call numbers like this was bingo or somethin' (he was really letting us know when we could go get our fish). Bingo Guy was named Harold--of course he was--and he was wearing a shirt that said on the back "The Original All You Can Eat Fish Fry--Hartzell United Methodist Church" with a Bible citation at the end. We asked him to turn around so we could get the verse number. He obliged, shaking his tailfeather to the music as he did so. It was Matthew 15:29-38. The pews were equipped with Bibles, so we looked it up--it was the feeding of four thousand with loaves and fishes.
When our numbers were called, we went into the Fellowship Hall. The smell of fishy goodness was making us hungrier and hungrier, but the end was in sight. We dropped the main portion of our tickets in a basket ("Save the little part for the dessert table!" a church lady admonished) and picked up a plate of cod, mac'n'cheese, cole slaw and bread. The girl pouring iced tea and lemonade knocked over a glass of ice as I approached. "Oh, snap!" she said, to the delight of the My Name Is Earl freaks among us.
I was beginning to lose my faith in the promise of all you can eat fish; we'd already gone through the line and given up our tickets, so how could we get more? Then we got to our table. There was a bright orange laminated fish in the middle of it. On it was another Bible verse about a miraculous feeding--the "and fishes" part of "loaves and fishes" was italicized and underlined--and the words "Want more fish? Wave me!" That explained the people I'd seen at other tables holding brightly colored laminated fish over their heads. No one was waving them, though M. made hers "swim" as she held it up.
The meal was excellent, as was the company, and we all ate a lot of fish. We thought going bowling would be a nice way to round out the evening, but the local alleys all had tournaments and private parties, so we went to Starbucks instead (with a side trip to DQ for some of us) where M. and I explained the -Pants Rule to those who hadn't heard it.
It was a fine evening, and we plan on doing it again next week. So if you're in the area and want some great all you can eat fish next Friday, drop me a line (rimshot).

Puppy-Pants

I'm not going to write about Our Daily Bread all the time, especially when something interesting happens at home.
Recently at the JesusFreakCrazyCommuneCultHouse we pondered one of life's mysteries--why is the expression "Puppy-Pants" (first employed by T., adopted by the rest of us as the catch-all term of endearment for any of our three resident dogs) so darned funny? Can other words become as funny when they are "pantsed"?
M. and I worked out what we believe are the definitive -Pants Rules. I present them to you now.
1. The "pre-pants" word must be multisyllabic--two syllables are the ideal. This explains why "Puppy-Pants" is funny while "Dog-Pants," while funny, isn't as funny.
2. The accent must be on the first syllable of the two syllable word, or the penultimate syllable if it's multisyllabic. "Renee-Pants"--not funny. "Potato-Pants"--pretty funny. But not as funny as it can be, which leads us to the next rule:
3. The last syllable should end in an "ee" sound: "Spaghetti-Pants," "Angie-Pants," "Sammy-Pants"--all funny.
4. The crowning touch--alliteration. This can trump almost every other rule: "Popsicle-Pants" is funny even with the accent on the wrong syllable and no "ee" sound at the end.
So "Puppy-Pants" is the perfect storm of "-Pants" expressions--we've got the right syllable count, the right accent, the "ee" sound and three "p" sounds in a row.
"Poopy-Pants" works too.