¿Habla Español?

In my never-ending quest to improve myself, I recently began taking Spanish lessons. Not with, you know, someone who actually speaks Spanish, but with my computer. My parents might be slightly confused to hear this, recollecting that I took five years of Spanish in high school. Haven't I learned it by now? I'm thinking of these lessons as more of a refresher course, brushing up on skills that I'm now too old to remember having learned in the first place. I wanted to learn Swedish, figuring I could do something no one I know can do and maybe even better understand those Scandinavian mysteries I've been reading, but then I realized this meant I'd be speaking Swedish to myself, and I do that enough in English.

I loved learning Spanish in school, and I was really pretty good at it. My parents even bought me a nightgown that called out in big, bold letters "¡Hola!" I practiced on anyone who would listen to me, including the dog, the kids I babysat, and occasionally the unsuspecting customers on the other end of the line at the answering service for which I worked after school. The 7-12th grade school I was in for 7th and 8th grades allowed me to take first year Spanish in the 8th grade, so I was already a year ahead by the time I got to high school. Probably it's what made all the cool kids want to hang out with me. I even got a chance to use it in real life during a cruise down the Mexican coast. My aunt and uncle, having spent a lot of time in a wide-variety of Spanish speaking countries, held many phone conversations with me in Spanish, so I was lucky to have multiple opportunities for annoying others with my evolving language skills.

But if you don't use it, you lose it, or so they say, and so, while I still recognize a lot, I  couldn't possibly speak it so easily anymore. Yet, recently, I've found myself wishing I could, either because it would be useful in communicating with a Spanish speaker or because it would allow me to visit Spanish-speaking countries I'd like to see or just because it broadens my awareness of other countries. Also, it's fun to say "pantalones."  Spanish is spoken as a native language by more people in the world than any language but Mandarin, more than 400 million people. Right here in the United States, Spanish is spoken as a first or second language by almost 50 million people.  It can only be a good thing for me to know how to hold at least minimal conversation. Not that any conversation of which I'm a part is minimal.

So when the library at which I work acquired a new online database for learning foreign languages, I decided it was time to renew my Spanish language skills. Imagine! I could read, write, and converse in Spanish with native speakers all without leaving my couch. Add food, and it's my idea of Heaven. There are several such databases out there, some designed for consumers (like Rosetta Stone) and some for libraries (like Mango). The one we're using is called Transparent Language from Recorded Books, the folks who have provided us with audio books for many years. With just my library card number, I was logged on and ready to start Unit 1.

So far, it seems a little on the easy side, but maybe I've retained more than I thought. The first unit focuses on easy words and phrases, the kind of thing you would use immediately upon visiting a Spanish speaking country. "Buenos Dias!" the program exclaims. The exercises run through recognizing words (which can be hard for me in English on a good day), pronunciation, and putting words together into short sentences. I can do this!  I like clicking on words and having them pleasantly repeated for me (funny how the voice never gets annoyed at me for asking so many times). One of the exercises is sort of a hybrid between hangman and Wheel of Fortune, where letters appear one at a time and you try to guess what they're saying. I'm not entirely sure how buying a vowel increases my foreign language skills, nor have I won any money for getting it right, but it's more practice. I have begun conversing with Sasha in Spanish, and so far, she doesn't seem to notice the difference. I recently began Unit 2, which covers terms needed while traveling in Spanish speaking countries. I don't plan to do so anytime soon, but can it ever be bad to know how to say "Take me to the hospital?" 

I plan to continue this adventure for, well, as long as it interests me. The program covers a slew of languages--perhaps next I can learn Farsi.

A Visit to Harry and Bart

If I had to write an school report about what I did on my Christmas vacation, it would be filled with descriptions and tales from visiting Universal Parks and Resorts (not to be confused with Universal Studios, the people who actually make movies) in Orlando. I was able to spend about a week with my parents in St. Petersburg, Florida for Christmas, and, being the active and interesting people we are, we decided we had enough time to spend a few days on the other coast. They don't let me go to school anymore--something about aging out--but I'm excited to recount the experience for you here.

The primary goal in going to Universal, of course, is to see Harry Potter. What's the point otherwise? But you know, while Harry was, as you would expect, fantastic, it turns out that Universal is so much more than that. Universal Orlando resort is made up of multiple parks and hotels, and you would truly need days to have a chance of getting to see everything. The two major parks are Universal Studios, Orlando, which opened in 1990 and includes actual production studios in addition to exhibits to help guests "ride the movies;" and Universal's Islands of Adventures, which opened in 1999 with six "islands" designed to emphasize a journey of exploration. The Wizarding World of Harry Potter opened as the seventh island in 2010. In addition, there are a million (only a slight exaggeration) restaurants, stores, and various and sundry other things to see. In 2011, approximately 30.8 million guests visited the Universal Studios theme parks, making it the third-largest amusement park operator in the world, and it was the only theme park in the Orlando area that actually had increased attendance after September 11.

Mom made sure we would get the most from our trip by reserving a room at one of three hotels on the property. This meant that we could park once and go back and forth between the room and the parks as often as we liked (by water taxi; a lovely path to the park was available, but why would we do that?). So, on a bright but chilly Friday morning before Christmas, my parents and I, the dog, and four or five suitcases took off for Orlando. After bragging to everyone I knew that Florida at Christmastime generally means 70 degree weather, the weather had chosen these few days to make a liar out of me. We bundled up in jackets and sweatshirts (except the dog, who already had one) and made our way through the desolate flatlands that is I-4 from Tampa to Orlando.

Lucky enough to get into our hotel room early, great discussion ensued over which park to visit first. One of the fabulous things about staying at a hotel on the property is that we got Express Passes, which not only got us into the speedy line at most of the rides but also got us into the park an hour before everyone else the following morning. Deciding that this privilege should be reserved for visiting Harry at the Islands of Adventure the following day, we settled on Universal Studios. Dad was especially excited about this, as it is home of the Simpsons ride. "Trust me, it's the best!" he enthused.

The first order of business was lunch, as none of us had eaten yet that day. There are a ton of restaurants outside the parks, but once you're in, your primary food groups consist of pretzels, churros, hot dogs, and turkey legs (I know, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself). We located a lovely cafe where we could grab not only a sandwich but a table in direct sunlight, much appreciated in the chilly air that Floridians were sure came directly from Canada but was likely only about 55 degrees. This proved fortuitous, as it had us moving towards the Simpsons ride just in time for a front row seat at the character parade. What with no longer being 10 years old, I didn't recognize most of the characters, but that in no way detracted from the dazzle that was the parade. The music had us tapping our toes, the costumes dazzled, and the dancing was soon imitated by those in the streets. The video above will give you a taste of the incredible talent to which we were witness.

After a stop to battle with the Terminator, we finally made our way to the Simpsons ride. Really, you can't call these activities rides.  There are stories, artwork, videos, animation--half the time, it's not you that's moving, it's whatever you're watching. Loving the express passes we had, we quickly got to the front of the line that led to Krustyland, the low-budget park created by that much-loved clown. Not wanting to spoil, I won't share details, but essentially, I sat in a box that shook me around while watching fast-moving animation on a screen in front of me. You know how, when you're on a roller coaster, and you're breathless, scared, and thrilled all at once, you tend to start laughing? I couldn't stop! That is, until my stomach dropped. I was distressed to find that, while I loved doing things as a kid that made me dizzy, I'm no longer able to handle that round and round and upside down feeling anymore. The ride ended and I began breathing deeply. "Are you okay"?" my parents asked.

"It was great!" I responded. And it was. Amazing, in fact. As we continued around the park, I realized that nothing Universal does is done halfway. Nothing is just a ride, but a story, with clever, funny scripts, awesome animation, and beautiful music and special effects. It's rare to find so much talent all in one place. Maybe I admire all this creativity so much because the only thing that comes out when I take pencil to paper is a stick figure. 

The rest of the afternoon saw visits to the Men in Black exhibit, Disaster! movie, and the Macy's Christmas parade that used actual floats from the original parade in New York. After a rest at the room (they wouldn't let us nap on one of the floats), Dad and I had dinner at a restaurant designed around the NBA and NBA memorabilia. Good thing, because we'd need the energy the next day.

In Dad's ideal world, that would have begun around 6am. Our express passes would get us into the park at 8am, an hour before everyone else. Mom and I were having none of that. By the time we rose, Dad had gone on to the park and been on the Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey ride at least once. Returning to the room to pick us up around 9am, we all made our way over to Islands of Adventure. Agreeing that if we did nothing else, we needed to get me to Hogwarts, we headed all the way to the back of the park (kind of the like the milk that everyone needs is in the back of the supermarket).  There's nothing that can explain what it's like to walk into the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Truly amazing. Walk through Hogsmeade, have a butterbeer, browse in Oleander's shop...it's everywhere around you, and that's all before you get to the castle. While there's always a long line to get into the castle, there's plenty to see while you wait. As we stood in line, I was terribly amused to see a couple of escapees from Azkaban ahead of us and trying to get into the castle. We saw talking portraits, Harry, Ron, and Hermione on a balcony wishing us luck, and even Dumbledore. No one offered me a wand. We were finally buckled into our seats and set off for a wild ride. As with everywhere else in the park, it could only be described as amazing. The animation was terrific, and other than that roller coaster feeling that had me breathing deeply again, I thoroughly enjoyed it. It was better than any of the movies because you truly felt like you were flying with Harry. I truly can't adequately describe it here, but if you like flying with Hippogriffs, I highly recommend it.

After some lunch, we checked out a few of the other rides and exhibits, then went back to the room for a nap. I really liked this staying in a hotel on the property stuff. We went back in the late afternoon, checking out Shrek and the Despicable Me rides (I must immediately add Despicable Me to my Netflix queue). We got to see the entire Christmas parade this time (I can still hear the music in my head), and then hung out for a concert by Manheim Steamroller, which Mom had been hoping for but wasn't sure we would get to do. Making our way out of the park, we decided on dinner at Bubba Gump's, where I spent at least five minutes trying to figure out why someone had left a suitcase with a box of chocolates left on the bench outside the restaurant. We all failed the Forrest Gump quiz given to us by the waiter but thoroughly enjoyed dinner. After a good night's sleep, we headed back to the other coast.

I couldn't possibly express how impressed I was with Universal. The dancing in the parades, the animation in the videos, the creativity of the stories. It's so real. You can't NOT be there, totally, and I'm all about being present in the moment (well, I try to be). Don't wait. Run, don't walk. Let the kid inside you out.

Comfort and Joy

It's hard to imagine a time when you feel more uncomfortable than when you are sick. Be it a cold, headache, or stomach bug, not feeling well has most of us attempting to hibernate in some capacity and come out only when our faces are no longer red and puffy. Or, at least, we've washed our hair.

So, it's quite disconcerting to be sick during the holiday season, when everyone around you is seemingly at their best, smiling, laughing, and calling out "Merry Christmas!" (I actually think this is a huge ruse perpetuated by the masses to generate Christmas sales, because, really, who's that happy all month long?). I'm getting over...well, I'm not sure what, let's just call it an upper respiratory infection...and despite my massive sense of discomfort, I continued to run into shiny, happy people every time I turned around. I've spent the better part of five days sleeping, eating ice cream, and walking around the house with warm compresses on my face. Even Sasha, who would choose to become permanently attached to my body if it was possible, had enough of the coughing disturbing her sleep to stay away from me. All I wanted was to hide under my covers for a few days.

But it was not to be. It began at Sunday brunch, when, despite feeling lousy, I managed to get dressed, do my hair, apply a little make up, and generally look presentable to the world. I had a little time before meeting a friend, so I wandered a department store a bit, hoping Santa might pop out and tell me I'm a winner (of anything, I'm not picky). I quickly noticed that there were more staff members in the store than shoppers, which was fine by me, since whatever I had was starting to make me cranky by then. I meandered, undisturbed. Until I was overtaken by a coughing fit. Not one of my finer moments. Or two. Finally, I looked up to see two staff members, peering over their counter at me, probably wondering if they needed to call 911. I decided Santa was not paying me a visit here and moved on to the restaurant.

Brunch proceeded, a good time had by all, despite a momentary desire to run for the bathroom when a beautiful stack of pancakes were set in front of me. Afterwards, I decided to stop at the drug store to pick up some Claritin. Other than being certain I didn't have a cold I wasn't sure what I had, and allergies was as good a guess as any. Quickly grabbing a package, I waited patiently in line at the counter. Because I'm known for my patience, especially when I don't feel well. "Merry Christmas!" the clerk said to me. "How are you today?" he asked, seemingly genuinely concerned yet evidently unaware that I was purchasing medication. Responding that I'd feel a whole lot better once I could take a few pills, I paid and began to move on. "Hope you feel better!" he called out after me.

The next 24 hours were a bit of a blur. At some point, I decided that ice cream was just what my sore throat needed. Wearing sweats with a spot on the shirt, thick Christmas bed socks, and my hair held up by barrettes, I headed for the grocery store. Selecting a carton, I made my way to the self-checkout, hoping to avoid the conversation from the drug store. "How are you today?" asked a nearby clerk, sweeping the nearby floor. I looked up, coughed, and attempted to smile. Being the organized person that I am, it took a good minute for me to find my store card and begin the checkout process. Just long enough for the clerk to make his way past me again. And apparently long enough for him to have forgotten that he'd already greeted me. "How are you today?" he asked. Again. This time I sneezed, waved my hand, and watched as the tissue I'd forgotten was in my hand floated to the floor.

A day or two later (they all started to blend together at this point), I was sitting up on the couch, hoping that by sheer will I could clear my head of the post-nasal drip that had taken over. The mailman whizzed past outside, and since no one is more welcome than the mailman at Christmastime, I climbed out from under my blanket to go get the mail. I never had bothered to get dressed, wearing my only nightgown in an attempt to avoid overheating in winter jammies (I was still experiencing hot flashes). I peeked out the door, observed the quiet that is mid-afternoon in a residential neighborhood, and decided it was safe to head down the driveway. Right before a big, yellow school bus pulled up at my corner, letting out impressionable and easily frightened young children. Not to be deterred, I finished my mission, carefully avoiding looking at the children who were now sure to go home to ask mommy if they could stay in their pajamas all day.

While most of my symptoms have abated, I continue to cough all day and night, making it difficult to return to a state of comfort and joy. But at least everyone around me isn't responding to my cough with "Merry Christmas!"

A Turkey at Target

Every year, millions of people across the country count down the days, hours, minutes until Thanksgiving. Oh, not because they want to see their family, or because they love themselves a turkey sandwich. No, these people are only hanging around with Uncle Bob and Cousin Eloise tracing their hands on construction paper and calling them turkeys to pass the time until Black Friday officially begins. They people want nothing more than to dash head first into the sales and specials that kick off the holiday shopping season, suspiciously unable to tell you exactly what it is they plan to buy for Uncle Bob or Cousin Eloise. I can only assume these are people with money to spend. Whether they plan to spend it on Christmas gifts or themselves, I'm unclear. Me myownself, I try to stay as far away from crowds of people ready to start a fist fight over the last iPad as possible, and with the possible exception of a 5am excursion to Wal-Mart one year, I spend the Friday after Thanksgiving locked in my house with the blinds down. Not unlike how I spend Halloween.

This year, my Thanksgiving began as most others, happily ensconced in a book and cut off from the world as we know it. At some point during the day, my mom called with news. "There are some nice sheets on sale at Target," she announced. This was good news indeed. I had asked for new sheets for Christmas, and these were 600 thread count in a ton of different colors. Plus, how much do we love Target? And because Black Friday no longer actually begins on Friday, she added "They open at 9pm tonight."

There was one problem. "But, you don't like to go out at night," I reminded her. This was not really news, and one assumes she was already aware, but it did seem relevant here.

"Oh, no, I thought you could go and get a set for each of us," she responded, as though this should have been obvious. Hmmm. Well, 9pm wasn't so bad. In my world, it's a whole lot better than 9 in the morning. And really, I don't need much of an excuse to go to Target. I probably wouldn't have chosen the beginning of Black Friday madness, but Target is Target. Maybe I would pass by the deal of the century, or maybe I would meet Prince Charming. Who knew? So I agreed.

My aversion to standing any longer than absolutely necessary delayed my departure until about 8:40. The store is less than 10 minutes away, there's plenty of parking, and I had no intention of being one of those people with my face up against the window, peering inside and leaving face prints on the windows. I arrived with time to spare and found a line wrapped around the front of the building. Traffic was being organized around a single entrance, and well-behaved shoppers patiently waited for the doors to open. I slowly made my way to the end of the line, hoping to arrive just in time for it to begin moving into the store. I found myself behind one person on the phone (because it's a great time to catch up on phone calls) and in front of another person trying to convince a child that they could get some candy, but they needed to look at televisions first (seems to me the kid was getting a good deal either way). It wasn't long before we crossed the threshold, and I made a bee-line for housewares.

How did people who got inside approximately 30 seconds before I did already have so much in their carts? There were stacks of electronics piled everywhere, even in the grocery aisles. People walked around with a big television box or with a stack of games piled in their cart. Glad that I didn't have to deal with that, I pushed my way through the crowds and finally made it to the shelves of all things domestic. Unfortunately, not before three other people, who had made themselves comfortable (one was sitting on the floor) comparing sheets, pulling them down and putting them back. Openly pleasant but silently making nasty comments, I scanned the shelves until I found the sale tags and located the sheets in question. Excellent. That was easy, as the Staples folks like to say (probably not while in a Target store, though). But now I had to pick colors. Mom wanted white, and I accomplished that with a long lean over to the right. But what should I get? There must have been 12 colors on the shelf, and the chick on the floor had already cleared a couple of them clean. If I didn't hurry, I was going to be getting white, too, but I'm nothing if not colorful. Red? Empty. Brown? Love it, but I've already got brown. Settling on purple--won't that be fun?--I reached up to the top shelf (isn't that always where the stuff a short person wants is?) and grabbed my purple sheets. The voices next to me began to get louder. I thought two women were arguing with each other over which sheets to get. Turns out, it was just woman on the phone. I squeezed my way past the woman with multiple personalities and headed for the checkout counters.

I knew it had been too easy. Despite the fact that the store had been open less than 10 minutes, every checkout line had a, well, line. A long one. I had no idea that a set of sheets in each hand would be so heavy. Clearly, I should have brought a bag. Twenty minutes later, I made it to the cashier. Who, as it turned out, absolutely loved my sheets. So much so that she spent the next 5 minutes telling me just that. That? Right there? That is why I do not participate in the phenomenon known as Black Friday.

Mission accomplished, I headed for my car. Overall, it wasn't a bad experience. I was not trampled, my feet did not hurt, and I made it home before 10pm. Not to mention that I now have a set of shiny purple sheets!

Happy Honda Days

I've spent a good deal of time at the Honda dealership this week. While this was not exactly by choice, it was not an altogether unpleasant experience.

Unlike my drive home from work, which is really where this story begins. It's long, it's boring, and it's occasionally an exercise in patience (turns out, I don't have any). Occasionally, it's brightened by an audio book I can't wait to get back to or an interesting story on NPR. And occasionally, it's made even more frustrating by a car that is a little too smart for its own good. Which is what happened this week when, perhaps just to give me something to look at, my dashboard lit up with lights spelling out "IMA" and a picture of some unidentifiable car part. IMA? I queried my memory and came up with nothing that seemed to make sense. International Management Associates? Indianapolis Museum of Art? Independent Music Awards? And what was that picture supposed to be? I tried to get a better look at it, but every time I glanced that way, I got the sense that I was no longer driving in a straight line, and I determined that a closer study of the picture would have to wait. I would just have to hope that, whatever these lights meant, I wouldn't be studying them more closely from the side of the road.

Maybe I'd have better luck looking it up in the manual. As it happened, heavy traffic further on gave me an opportunity to slow down and pull the manual out of the glove compartment. My earlier difficulty with getting a lasting look at the lights did not dissuade me me from trying to locate the page that would enlighten me as to the origin of the IMA light. Why wasn't IMA in the index? I don't understand. Why wouldn't such an important piece of information be in the index? This was going to have to wait until I got home.

Pulling into the garage, I grabbed the manual and brought it into the house with me. Sasha, who likes to check out and approve all items coming into the house, sniffed it like she works for the TSA and gave a nod of approval. Flipping through, I quickly found the pages describing the light. Integrated Motor Assist. Of course. It was on the tip of my tongue. I read on. This refers to the battery that makes my Civic Hybrid a hybrid. It seems that, if this light comes on, it's not doing its job and saving me gas. Since I drive a minimum of 68 miles each day, I viewed this information with panic. I NEED that battery. I need the extra mileage it gives me from each gallon of gas. I need the money that it would cost to replace the IMA battery. I sighed. I looked at Sasha, who still doesn't have a job. Maybe I'd get lucky, and it just got wet in the rain. Perhaps, by tomorrow, it would be gone.

My life doesn't work that way. I started the car the next morning, ready to get to work more-or-less on time. The IMA light didn't come on, but the picture of the funny little cart part did. I never did find out what that was supposed to be a picture of. My life being too valuable to undertake another drive across the triangle with the dashboard lit up like Christmas, I headed for the Honda dealership.

I was greeted by Joe, my personal service adviser (this is equivalent to how flight attendants are now known as in-flight service coordinators). Joe has helped me before, and I was delighted to see him again. Most of my experiences with Honda service advisers have been excellent, but I needed someone who was going to get me in and out again quickly and for as little money as possible, and I was confident Joe was the guy to do it. I lowered the window as he approached and pointed at the dashboard. "I have a light on" I explained.

Anyone else might have found this to be an odd statement, especially considering that I've been known to have my lights OFF about 75% of the time, but not Joe. He nodded. "You have a light on," he agreed. Excellent. We're on the same page. But would he know what to do about it? And how much would it cost me to find out?

Joe smiled reassuringly. "Let's find out what's going on." He wrote down the mileage and VIN and sent me to the waiting room. I was impressed that he didn't need me to give him any of my information but was ready to find it in the system. It's good to be a regular customer.

I quickly emailed work and dug into an eBook (I love my iPhone). The people around me were quiet at this time of the morning, watching Good Morning America or reading the paper. A passing Honda employee smiled at me and said "Coffee and donuts are on the counter!" entirely too brightly for any time before lunch. I'm not generally a coffee drinker, but I could use something to drink. I wandered over and pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. Ooohh, Dunkin' Donuts. I opened one of the boxes and inhaled. Funny, sugar smells like sugar regardless of the form in which it comes. Even though I'm certain there was a jelly donut with my name on it, I lowered the cover of the box and went back to my seat.

I'd barely made a dent in my eBook when Joe returned. "I've already ordered a new IMA battery for you, and it should be here by tomorrow." Oh, dear. This sounded like the kind of thing that requires a lot of time and dollars.

I crossed my fingers and held my breath. "Is that covered?" I asked.

Joe waved his hand. "Oh, absolutely, don't worry about it." If he knew me at all, he would know that telling me not to worry was futile, but it did help to know that this wasn't going to hit the credit card. We agreed that I would try to come back in the next day or two, and he sent me on my way.

So the next morning, I found myself back in the waiting room, this time with my work laptop on my shoulder so I could get some work done during the expected 4 hour wait. I settled in at one of the computer stations and went through the somewhat slow process of connecting to Honda's guest network. I pulled out my snacks, got a bottle of water, and began a lengthy period of productivity. I could get used to this. Everything I needed right in this little space. Almost. At one point, I got up to stretch and throw away my trash but was stunned to find a trash can lacking in the waiting room. I saw cartons for recycling cans and plastic but nothing for trash. This was not agreeing with my overall pleasant perception of the Honda waiting room. Eventually, I found one in the ladies room. I then returned to the counter that served as home to fresh Donuts. Because I need more sugar. To my great relief (and, to some degree, disappointment), they were all gone. I returned to work.

When Joe found me a few hours later, I had already accomplished quite a few items on my list and was deep into reviewing a list of potential titles to purchase for the library. He handed me my keys and told me where my car was. Noticing the reluctance in my face, he said "Finish what you're doing. Take all the time you need." Evidently, Joe had seen this productivity phenomenon before. And why not? It was fairly quiet and there were few distractions. I couldn't help but zip through my work.

Eventually, I got hungry enough (the snacks had run out hours earlier) that I decided it was time to pack up and leave. I looked around the waiting room. A television, donuts, newspapers, and a network connection. And no charge for the work on my car. I could get used to this.

On the Ice

I do not travel well. It's not that I don't like to travel. There are lots of places in the world I'd like to see. I'm waiting for it to be possible to visit Australia during the day and be home in my own bed at night.

So my recent interest in Antarctica might seem a bit odd. I recently read a book called Where'd You Go, Bernadette?, the events of which are initiated by a 15-year-old's desire to take a family vacation to Antarctica. Who knew you could even take a vacation to Antarctica? But you can! And so, my current fascination with The Last Continent was born. This curiosity defies the expectations of those who know me best. "Cold" does not begin to describe the temperature, regardless of which part of the continent you refer, nor does "storm" accurately depict the whiteouts caused by hurricane strength winds that occur on a regular basis. Since I begin to worry about my hair's tendency to frizz during cold weather, Antarctica would not seem to be a good match if I'm to look my best. The people who stay there are either "beakers," scientists conducting research, or support staff, hard-working folks who work six days a week to keep everything running so scientific data can be gathered. Being interested in neither research nor hard work, again, Antarctica would not seem to be a natural fit for me. Because everything has to be flown in, from building materials to medicines, one finds very few comforts on the ice, including when one needs to visit the powder room. And, of course, food becomes a source of sustenance and calories in a harsh environment that requires all the energy one can get, more likely consisting of oatmeal rather than fresh apple pie. Way to take all the fun out of it.

Yet, I'm entranced by the idea of Antarctica. A place where there is little impact by human beings, where night and day each last six months, where nature exists in a beauty unlike anywhere else. The continent is about one and one-half times the size of the United States with 97-98% of it covered by ice. It is a desert, cold, dry, and windy. While its existence was suspected from ancient times, it wasn't until 1820 that a Russian Navy captain named Fabian von Bellinghausen actually laid eyes on an Antarctic island. This prompted people from nations around the world to swarm the coastal islands, but it wasn't until the early 1900's that "the Great Race" into the continent's interior began. British naval officer Robert Falcon Scott's expedition arrived at the South Pole, deep and high in Antarctica's interior on January 17, 1912, only to find the Norwegian flag already left a month earlier by an explorer named Roald Amundsen, who had used skis and dogsleds to cross the polar plateau (trust me when I tell you you don't want to know any more than that). Antarctica is now governed by an Antarctic Treaty System, currently signed by 50 countries, that sets aside the continent as a scientific preserve. Today, a number of countries have set up research stations; the United States has three: McMurdo, Palmer, and the Admundsen-Scott Station at the South Pole. Who wouldn't find such a mysterious, untouched place captivating?

I began reading more. As with all complex topics, I began with some children's books. Non-fiction written for children is an excellent way of learning just enough about a topic to abate one's curiosity. I highly recommend Wikipedia as another fountain of information on a variety of subjects but with the caveat that, well, stupid people sometimes write for it. I learned a bit more about the race between Scott and Amundsen to reach the South Pole (typical men, always trying to out-do one another). Seems that Scott and his men made it to the South Pole but didn't quite make it all the way back, the last three of them dying only 11 miles away from their base at McMurdo Sound. I also read some fiction taking place on Antarctica. While the first novel I tried, a young adult book that focused on a teen's relationship with one of the men from Scott's expedition (dead for 90 years, of course), turned out not to interest me. I gained the most from In Cold Pursuit by Sarah Andrews, a mystery that takes place at McMurdo Station. It was here that I truly began to understand why I will never be able to work on Antarctica. Lack of "freshies" (fresh food, particularly fruits and vegetables), not to mention sunshine for months at a time, would have me on the first plane out of there. Depending on where and when you are on the continent, it's not unusual for temperatures to remain significantly below 0 degrees Fahrenheit. Everything they do has to account for the safety of the people there, as a small problem anywhere else could become disastrous in a place with few resources, little communication, and at times, no access to the rest of the world. Ironically, it was when I read Ice Bound, written by a doctor who was "wintering-over" at the South Pole when she discovered she had breast cancer, that I saw why people would choose to do this. The South Pole, even more so than McMurdo or Palmer stations, is particularly remote and unreachable during the austral winter (not to mention dark and cold). Jerri Nielsen, the only doctor wintering-over with 40 other polies, had every reason to want to get the heck out of dodge. But her book is, in many ways, a love letter to Antarctica. She loved the changes it brought out in her, the beauty of the geography and the unique skies where you can see things like the auroroa australis, the kindness it brought out in the people around her, the way it forced her to depend on herself. What she describes is a place unlike any other. There are, of course, consequences, and Nielsen also reveals the conditions known to be brought on by the effects of the temperatures and high altitudes (including memory loss). But there was a camaraderie that one would never experience anywhere else, and I found myself sort of wishing I was a part of it. I also watched several movies, from a feature film to documentaries, about Antarctica, surrounding myself with all things Antarctic, if not the continent itself.

Which brings me back to vacationing in Antarctica. How do we make that happen? No need to actually stay there for long. Can't we just look at the pretty icebergs for a while? In fact, you can. Tourists visit through one of the 80 operators that are part of the International Association of Antarctica Tour Operators. Most travel by ship. But this is no cruise. These are special, ice-breaking kinds of ships, and they must go through some of the roughest waters in the world to reach even the more temperate islands and coastal regions (if you can call 50 degree highs temperate). And that's in the summer, November through March in the Southern hemisphere. There are special land tours and sightseeing by air as well (there are no paved runways on Antarctica, so make sure they don't let the new guy land). Again, that's only during the summer, as everything would freeze up if planes tried to go in and out during the winter. Most tourists keep accomodations on the boat, where operators take them on excursions to the land. There are no hotels, so you'll be back on the boat at night. They take preservation of the continent very seriously, so expect to clean off your boots before stepping onto land to avoid carrying seeds, dirt, or other contaminates with you. And you'll be taking all waste back with you. Just a heads up. But is it worth it? In 2006, more than 25,000 tourists visited Antarctica, so most likely, yeah, it's worth it.

What an incredible place! It occurs to me that there's no where else that has prompted such cooperation among the nations of the world, people from all over living in harmony with respect for each other and for the land. My delicate sensibilities will keep me from ever actually, you know, working there, but perhaps one day I can wave to those who do from the heated cabin of my airplane.

Wine and Cheese with Jill

I had the pleasure of meeting author Jill McCorkle in person a few days ago. Preparing to launch her new novel, Life After Life, her publisher, Algonquin, held an open house in her honor, and I was lucky enough to get an invitation. Okay, so I tagged along with the person who did actually get an invitation, but the result is the same, isn't it? Happily, the Algonquin offices are only three miles from my house, as the further from my house an event, the less likely I am to get out of my pajamas. Plus, there was food involved, also serious incentive to get me out of my pajamas. Trust me, there isn't much out there that makes getting dressed worthwhile.

I was not the only person piggybacking on the invitation. One of our senior librarians received it, and she graciously invited me and a couple of other coworkers to join her. We were all excited--imagine a teenager getting to go backstage at a concert, and you're in the ballpark. Meeting a real-life author is an occasional but not common occurence, so this was definite cause for celebration. Which is why my first stop was to the drink table for a glass of wine. As is often necessary at these events, I was handed a name tag to fill out and stick on my already pilly dress. I pondered what I should write. Tracy, librarian extraordinaire? Tracy, high on fresh ink? Tracy, Adult Materials Selector at the busiest public library system in the state? Tracy, cat mom? I finally settled on just Tracy. I handed the pen back to a cheery looking woman directing people to the elevator. She awkwardly took it, shifting on the crutches on which she balanced. "You tried to take the stairs instead of the elevator, didn't you?" I observed.

Arriving at the third floor, we were greeted by another Algonquin employee, very sweetly making sure we were all adequately wined and dined and offering to take us a on a tour of the offices. The Algonquin suite of offices is lovely and overlooks a wooded, residential area through large, bright windows that seem to be everywhere. The creative side of the house, where the artists do their brilliant thing, is full of beautiful book covers and other amazing artwork. Having no artistic abilities myself, I'm astounded by the beauty that these people can produce, not to mention their gift for making me want to read the books that inspired it all. We then moved over to the offices that house the editors and marketing staff. One room's walls were filled with books, a copy of every book Algonquin has ever published, in chronological order. In the center of this room is a short, round table at which interns and assistants sit and quietly make their way through stacks of manuscripts. Somehow I had always imagined this work taking place on a couch, in front of a fireplace, but this works, too. I found myself wondering how I could be a part of this world only to remember that I can't get through the pile of books already on my dresser without anyone adding more to them. After the tour, we made our way back to the central party area and prepared to mingle. I ran into a few people I know from other libraries and immediately wished I had lost 10 pounds that afternoon. Or at least put on more makeup. Before I could give this too much thought, it happened. Our tour guide pushed us forward, and suddenly, I was standing in front of Jill McCorkle, library star. Oh, and author.

We are proud to call Jill McCorkle a local author. Having grown up in Lumberton, NC she studied writing at UNC with greats like Lee Smith and Louis Rubin. She slipped away "up north" for a while, but we're happy to report that she's back home in North Carolina, living in Hillsborough with her husband and teaching at NC State. While much of her writing has been in short story format, her latest work is her sixth novel the first in seventeen years. Life After Life centers on on a retirement community in fictional Fulton NC, full of the quirky characters for which Jill is known. Lovers of southern fiction--well, any kind of good fiction, really--anxiously await its release.

And now she's smiling at me. Waiting for me and my colleagues to say something. Anything. While I tried to figure out what that would be, we were rescued by one of my colleagues, who expertly stepped forward and introduced herself, recounting a story in which she had met Jill at a reading years earlier. The conversation began to flow. Jill told us about some of her work while she was up in Boston. We asked her what she was reading, and like anyone involved with the academic world, she laughed and responded that she has to fight for time to read things not involved in her teaching work. But she has several titles she's hoping to get to, like an upcoming Daniel Wallace, and I could tell that she loves being on the reader's side of the book as much as the writing side. Jill's family is clearly important to her, and you could truly feel how much she loves her mother. The exchange even touched on eBooks, and we all agreed that there's nothing like holding a print book in your hand to really appreciate a writer's work. Jill has such a lovely, unique voice, that I had to ask if there would be an audio version of the new book and there was a possibility she might narrate it herself. The American south is as much a character in Jill's writing as any human, probably because it seems to very much be a part of who Jill herself is, and we shared an appreciation for North Carolina's wide-range of offerings, from mountains to beaches, large cities to country towns. Jill has a wonderful smile and a charming personality, and I would have loved to keep her attention all night listening to her stories. But another group of book-lovers was waiting its turn, and a table of fabulous looking appetizers was calling to me, so we said our good-nights.

I was about to follow a caterer with a fresh tray of goodies when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Surprised, I turned around to find one of my closest friends, also a collection development librarian. Each of us accused the other of having kept the evening's plans a secret, but both of us were feeling quite special to have been invited. We talked shop with some of my colleagues, and when no one was looking, I grabbed an extra copy of a galley of Life after Life. I was certain I would want to share it with a yet-unnamed someone and wasn't about to hand over the copy I was going to be reading.

Still not having made it to the hors d'ourves table, I turned my attention to the Algonquin staff members who quieted the group to allow Jill to read. As delightful has she'd been earlier, Jill talked for a few minutes about her fondness for Algonquin and all their staff had done for her. She described a bit of her process for writing this book, which began seventeen years earlier and included scraps of paper with notes that came to her in the most unexpected of places. The day she was driving her 14-year old son somewhere in heavy traffic and heard him ask her how many of the people in the cars around them were probably murderers, she paused, thought, and pulled out a piece of paper to start writing. Too many, she eventually responded. As it had earlier, her love for her mother clearly shined and even comes through in her new book. One of the characters possesses a trait of her mother's in which she cuts up pictures to rearrange people's lives to be what SHE thinks they should be. This person really should be in that person's life, so let's just cut them out of this picture and paste it on this one. As Jill noted, she was the original Photoshopper. Jill then went on to read from the new novel, and I knew I was right to think she absolutely must narrate the audio for this novel. The words truly poured out with a lilt only a true southerner could give them and with the added quality that only the author can give it.

Finally. The hors d'ourves table. Juicy looking barbecue sandwiches, crispy cream-cheese pastries, elegant cheese and crackers (and I've never met a cheese I didn't like), and decadent looking finger deserts. I indulged for a few minutes. I was a little awestruck but the fabulousness with which I was surrounded. I was on a first-name basis with a nationally known author, if only for a few minutes. I was in the offices of the people who have brought us not only Jill but Hilary Jordan, Lee Smith, Michael Parker, Sara Gruen, and Robert Morgan, among so many others. I was surrounded by people who loved books. Since I work with librarians, that last one is not exactly unique, but talking with writers and editors is an entirely different experiences than talking with librarians. I was thrilled to find myself among such literary genius.

But all good things come to an end, and it was time to start making our way to the door. We said some thank-yous and got in the elevator. The good news is that I now get to start reading my galley of Life After Life, and I feel certain I'll have lots to say about it to co-workers and library members.

My Life Next Door by Huntley Fitzpatrick

For years, Samantha has watched the large family next door with a sense of fascination. All those kids! But they seem to be having a lot of fun, always into something--the exact opposite of her own family. Her mother, a state senator, doesn't look fondly upon the 10 Garretts next door (ironic, since she ran on a platform of "family first.") She thinks Samantha and her sister should associate with the right people in the right places, and the Garretts just aren't right.

But this summer, 17 year-old Samantha gets drawn into the Garretts family life, and she finds that she kind of likes it. Every member of the family is a character, and I especially loved little George and Patsy. It's Jase, however, to whom Samantha becomes drawn. And we love Jase. Confident, smart, and, of course, adorable, Jase falls for Samantha as well. Soon, Samantha is spending all her time with Jase and his family. Until a horrible accident changes everything.

There were so many things to love about this book. The relationship between Samantha and Jase is perhaps the first and most obvious, but certainly not the only one. Their transition from next door neighbors (who don't even know each other) to boyfriend/girlfriend is an appropriately complex journey. I could feel the tension building as I moved through the narrative, wanting things to move faster, but savoring the slow build. Jase's family may not be perfect, but it's not totally dysfunctional either, and I found myself wanting to escape next door with Samantha. The youngest Garretts are bright and funny, and it seems perfectly normal that they're as busy, not to mention smart, as everyone else.

To my great surprise, my favorite character may have been Tim, the brother of Samantha's best friend. Having known Tim since she was little, it was painful for Samantha to watch his descent into addiction. Yet Tim is sharp, even clever, and it turns out that he's the one who's there for Samantha when she needs someone. We watch Tim struggle to get his life together, wanting to hug and slap him at the same time, and I couldn't help but love his directness. In many ways, I rooted for Tim more than anyone.

It's Samantha's relationship with her mother, Grace, that requires the most contemplation. Grace has very definite ideas of what is right for her daughters. They're ramped up considerably when Grace decides to run for re-election and is influenced by a new, assertive, and equally charming campaign manager. Suddenly, nothing Samantha does is right. Grace seems to love her daughters, but she loves her career more. She doesn't know Samantha very well, and she doesn't particularly care to. Throughout the novel, I watched for signs that Grace would put her family first, wanting her character to develop over the course of the book and become a different person by the end.

I want to be part of the family next door!

Shades of Gray

It's finally happened. I've found a gray hair. At least, I think I have. It's a little hard to tell, since my hair color is compliments of Miss Clairol. But, all good things eventually fade, including hair dye, allowing me a glimpse of something I hoped to never see.

The day started out like any other, one in which I hurriedly pulled a brush through my hair as I prepared to leave (late) for work. Something caught my eye, twinkled a bit in the mirror, and I leaned in closer to investigate. Was something reflecting off my head? Did I get glitter in my hair? No, haven't used that since kindergarten, so that's not it. Did I get water on my head when I was brushing my teeth? No, that would make my hair wet, not shiny. Could those vitamins I've been taking finally be making a difference? Um, probably not only to a single strand on the top.

I continued to ponder what was wrong with my head. The hair shone brightly under the fluorescent lights of my bathroom. It was more obvious near my scalp and seemed to be a little more normal toward the end. Maybe I could pull it out. I might not be able to figure out what it is, but I could sure make it go away. I dug for my tweezers and set about trying to isolate the single offending hair. As it turns out, this as not a simple a task as it might sound. After several tries and coming dangerously close to a bald spot, I decided that my scalp is just too delicate for this kind of surgery. Or I am.

I returned to studying it, changing positions, using a magnifying mirror, shining a flashlight on it. Only after puzzling over this difference in a single hair for a good ten minutes did it occur to me. Could this really be my first gray hair? But that can't be right. I've always had great hair, not gray hair. Aren't the two mutually exclusive? I'm only 41. I'm too young for gray hair. I don't feel like I should have gray hair. Yet I could come up with no other explanation for such renegade tresses. It was time to ask an expert.

As it happened, my next hair appointment came up quickly, so last week, I announced to my hairdresser that I thought I'd found a gray hair. She had already started to cover my hair in dye, so there was no chance for show and tell. Instead, we played twenty questions. Well, since I have an awesome hairdresser, it only took one question. "Was it shiny, especially at the root?" she asked. How did she know? "Oh, yeah, that's a gray hair, alright." She nodded. "It's only one hair," she insisted when she saw my face. "You're not exactly going fifty shades of gray, yet." That, however, is not the point. Don't the hair gods know that they're not supposed to come after me for at least another ten to twenty years? 

I returned home and tried again to locate the offending hair, but now that I was freshly coiffed, it was impossible to find. Nasty hair. Thankfully, modern technology and a talented hairdresser mean it will never see the light of day.

Cat Treats

Sasha, the cat who owns me, has excellent taste. She prefers the comfort of a warm laptop to a ratty old towel or blanket. She prefers one of my pillows to the dime-a-dozen cat beds built expressly for her kind (which, as far as I can tell, is significantly higher on the totem pole than my kind). She prefers to cry and yowl for me to get her off the dining room table rather than climb down herself (despite the fact that she managed to get up there all by herself).

Her desire for the finer things in life extends to food. Why eat boring, modified-for-renal-failure food when you can have bright, colorful, Fancy Feast? All I have to do is crinkle the bag it comes in and, suddenly, there's a little face with big ears in the kitchen asking "Where's the beef?"

So recently, when she and I both experienced some disorientation after rearranging the bedroom, I knew a little dry Fancy Feast was just the treat to calm her anxious tail. A little furniture movement proved to be quite distressing, since neither of us are inclined to change any more than our positions on the couch. All of the sudden, the bed was in a different place, her little kitty stairs (required, because my bed is so high) were on the opposite side of the bed (or is that the same side but the opposite side of the room?), and the baskets and toys that used to be on the floor by the kitty stairs are now somewhere else. What's a girl to do?

I started by putting Sasha dead center on my bed and watched her turn around in circles until I got dizzy. She sat. She turned again. She leaned forward. She turned again. Finally, she looked around the room, looked at me, and gave me an expression that told me she was about to jump, kitty stairs or no. Now, Sasha is 19, ancient in kitty years. Imagine your grandmother jumping off the roof of your house, because that's pretty much how it compares. I dashed to the kitchen, shaking the bag of Fancy Feast, and hurried back to the bedroom, placing a handful on the bed in front of her. As predicted, this calmed her down immediately. If you're not familiar with it, dry Fancy Feast is crack for cats. Sasha starting rubbing her cheek on the bed, tossing the pieces of food up in the air, batting them around, and finally gobbling them up as though she hadn't eaten in days.

Seeing an opportunity, I placed a few pieces on the nightstand next to the bed, and a few more on the kitty stairs that leads from the nightstand to the floor. Maybe I could get her to eat her way to the floor and finally figure out how to get up and down with the new setup. While Sasha has a heat sensor that can lead her to a basket of warm clothes from the dryer in 0 to 60, her sense of smell is not as developed, so I followed Hansel and Gretel's lead to create a trail of Fancy Feast from her spot on the bed to the edge closest to the nightstand. The temptation was too great. Tentatively, she stepped onto the nightstand, ate the Fancy Feast pieces, and looked at me. I have no idea what she thought I should be doing, so I pointed to the stairs. Oh, she seemed to say. That's kind of far, isn't it? But she bravely made her way down the stairs, familiarity returning, nibbling along the way. Satisfied, I left.

A few minutes later, I came back to find Sasha comfortably waiting at the bottom of the stairs. What now? She'd positioned herself oddly, around to the side of the stairs, essentially cornering herself under the window. Evidently, she was now under the impression that, if she waited long enough, the stairs would begin growing Fancy Feast pieces just for her. Since she has nothing but time on her hands, she figured she'd just wait for the next delivery. She looked up, glanced my way, and glanced back at the stairs.If there's a clearer way for a cat to order her mom around, it must involve them learning the English language. Anyone who thinks people own cats as pets has never had one. I would argue the point, but my cat is calling for me.

The Rules of the Road

Gentle Reader,

I am frequently puzzled by the lack of manners demonstrated by those in command of the tanks, mid-life crises, and mom-mobiles driving around on our roads (which, by the way are for cars, not bicycles. We love bicycles. We love bicyclers. We love them so much that it makes us nervous for them to be outside bicycle lanes on the roads, which are for cars. See where I'm going here?). It seems that, once one becomes the director of a two-ton potential death-trap offering a level of anonymity exceeded only by the Internet, one loses all sense of etiquette. I recall having had to study a manual of driving before I was allowed access to one of these devices, yet those on the roads today appear to have lost all memory of instruction in how to politely, amiably, and safely interact with fellow drivers. You know, how to play nicely with others? To this end, I offer a refresher course on the driving rules that, evidently, so many of us have forgotten.

1. Use Your Blinker. Please. I promise it doesn't hurt, and it's really easy. To those of you who use your blinker before making a turn, yes, even in a turn lane, I congratulate you. Please note that blinkers work equally as well when preparing to change lanes. Those of us who do not travel with our crystal balls cannot read your mind to determine your intentions.

2. Pull into the intersection when preparing to make a left turn. That's right. A few more inches. No, no, don't turn your wheels. That will send you right into oncoming traffic if someone bumps into you. But there's no excuse for at least one car not making the light.

3. Stop completely at a stop sign or red light. Do not honk when I stop completely before making a right turn. Red means stop. Not pause. Not roll through. Not wave as you drive by. Say it with me now. Red means stop.

4. Turn into the lane closest to you. Just because one has a green light and permission to turn does not mean that one can turn into any lane of one's choosing. Turn into the lane closest to you, and then move over if you need to be in another lane. The person coming from the other direction and turning into THEIR closest lane will thank you. Yes, this is in the driving manual.


5. Adjust your speed to avoid too much togetherness. If you're traveling east at 45 MPH and someone else is traveling west (that's directly towards you, in case you missed it) at 45 MPH, and a bike or mailman or rogue jogger is on the side of the road somewhere in between you two...why wouldn't you slow down or speed up so you're not all across from one another at the same time? I don't understand.

6. Don't squeeze into a small space in front of me when there's plenty of room behind me. That's just rude.

7. Park between the two lines. As with coloring, it is frowned upon to park outside the lines. And while you're at it, park in an actual parking space. I regret to tell you that, when your mother assures you of what a special human being you undoubtedly are, she was not implying you could park along the curb while the rest of us have to go find a parking space.

8. If your speed is equal or less than the posted speed limit, get out of the freakin' left lane!

9. If you're going to drive, drive. Don't talk on the phone (well, not for long). Don't read (road signs are okay if you have your glasses on). Don't put on lipstick (okay, maybe at a stoplight). Don't eat (unless you're driving a really long distance and are faced with no alternative but to hit the Wendy's drive-through window), and don't chart your course on a map (except for a digital GPS, and only because they talk to you).

Gentle readers, these eight simple rules will not only keep you safe in your car and cause others to comment on the considerateness of your driving, but will keep me from being forced to rear-end you.

Forgive and Forget?

I admit it. I'm not good at forgiving and forgetting. Or, rather, I might forgive, but I rarely forget (which is really ironic considering the frequency with which I forget where I left my car. Perhaps I should have clarified). In case you weren't sure, this is not a good thing. The problem is that, for the most part, it's the person who can't forgive who suffers a whole lot more than the person needing forgiveness. At least, that's what I'm told.

Having recently read an astounding story of forgiveness at the hands of unspeakable treatment, I've been thinking about this a lot. The Devil in Pew Number Seven by Rebecca Nichols Alonzo is the true story of a pastor's family terrorized by a neighbor who was determined to force them to leave his town. I won't repeat my review here--you can go to Goodreads for that--but I will say that the actions of this man towards Becky's family put the family members' lives at risk and may have influenced the events that resulted in the death of Becky's mother and the physical and emotional downfall of her father. What has had me thinking so hard is the fact that, not only did Becky and her younger brother forgive the man behind the harassment, they did so before he even asked them to. Becky spends the last chapter of the book discussing the concept of forgiveness and that her religious upbringing tells her she has no choice in the matter. God tells her to forgive, and it is not up to her to judge who receives it and who doesn't. Choosing not to forgive someone only keeps the withholder in a prison of his own making.

I'm fascinated by this idea, though I haven't decided if I'm on board with it yet or not. I'll generally treat someone as well as they treat me, and I'm not likely to forget intentional wrongs (or even a few unintentional ones). Yet, as often as not, the person doesn't even know that they're being withheld forgiveness, never mind cares about it. Could this really mean that choosing not to forgive someone is most harmful to the person making that choice? And is it really a choice? What's the point if no one even knows? Even if they do know, what difference does it make to them? No, forgiveness would have to be something you do for yourself, because no one else is going to care nearly as much as you do, if at all.

What would happen if, instead of being angry with someone who did something I didn't like, I chose to forgive it and move on? That sounds a lot easier than it is, and I'm still a little uncertain about whether or not this is something I can actually choose to do or not. In kindergarten, or somewhere around that time when we learn the most basic lessons of life, I learned that it takes more energy to frown than to smile. I live in a perpetual energy drought, so the thought that smiling and forgiving is the path of least resistance appeals. Except, I don't think it is the path of least resistance, at least not initially. Forgiveness is hard work! But is it possible that, in the end, it's the best way to be good to both yourself and the people around you? I don't think I know how to do that. But maybe I could practice.

I read another book recently that explored a theme of forgiveness, among many other topics, after a main character dies, possibly at her own hand. Can she be forgiven? Can her friends, who didn't stop her from dashing head-first into a dangerous situation, be forgiven? Who does that help?

I don't know the answer to most of these questions, but here's what I do know, at least now that I've been hit over the head with it. Forgiveness is more about the person doing the forgiving than the person needing forgiveness.

To the Dentist's Office We Go

Yesterday, I got to go to the dentist's office. That's right, I said "got to." I love going to my dentist's office. Just to be clear, I do NOT love getting my teeth cleaned. What fool with a metal sharpie, a water pic, and a God complex came up with the concept of semi-annual torture sessions in your mouth? This does not, however, keep me from thoroughly enjoying my time at the dentist's office. The cleaning is just a little thing they make me do before I can leave. Really, I go there to socialize.

True? Absolutely. I've been going to my dentist for about 11 years, and I've had the same dental hygenist for most of that time. My Marie, for I do feel somewhat possessive of my time with her, may be one of the funniest people I've ever met. Marie keeps me laughing the entire time she's cleaning my teeth, which you would think would make her job more difficult. Tall, with wild, curly hair and a smile from ear to ear, she catches me up on tales of her husband and daughter, as well as the cats, dogs, donkeys, and other various and sundry animals that live at her house in the country. When I saw her the other day, Marie tipped me back in my chair, pulled my hair to make me scoot up (she's tried adjusting her chair for my short frame, but this is the best she could come up with), and recounted her daughter's recent Day Off from first grade. When the school called her to report that her daughter was in the nurse's office threatening to throw up, Marie immediately called her husband, who was working at home, to pick her up. Rushing over to school, Daddy asked all the requisite questions. Are you all right? Where does it hurt? Do you have a temperature? Do you think you can eat a little something? Their daughter nodded, agreeing that maybe something to eat would be okay. Expecting to run through the McDonald's drive-through, Daddy asked what his little girl would like for lunch. Considering this a moment, she looked him straight in the eye and said "I'd like to go to the Angus Barn Steakhouse, please." Truly precious. I spit out my toothpaste. It's hard to keep up with Marie, and her cleaning my teeth while trying to do so only makes it more difficult.

Eventually, as much fun as we're having, Marie has to call in one of the dentists. I see Dentist and Son, and while I know Dentist the Elder better, Dentist the Younger is not hard to look at, so either way, I'm getting a good deal. Dentist the Elder says I keep them in stitches, but really, I think it's the other way around. This time I got Dentist the Younger, who spent five minutes bantering with me that his drive between Raleigh and Chapel Hill is worse than mine because he goes in the opposite direction. He began describing how Sports Radio keeps him interested and busy while he puts up with the traffic until he can get home to his wife and two-year-old, but I stopped listening somewhere around the word "sports." Nevertheless, he thoroughly checked my teeth while I tried to imagine bunny shadow puppets on the screen with my X-rays. Satisfied, he subtly suggested that I actually consider wearing the night guard for which I paid a great deal of money. With a smile that only a guy with a dentist for a father could have, cute Dentist the Younger was gone.

No party is complete without a goody bag. Marie handed me a paper bag filled with two rolls of dental floss (I'm pretty sure she's trying to tell me I need to floss more), two toothbrushes (a regular one and a children's one because I'm special. Okay, because I complain that the regular one is too big), two mini-tubes of toothpaste (because I need different flavors in case I don't like one of them), and some kind of new dental pick to keep in my purse, as she wants me to be prepared for any situation. Gee, in high school they used to give us something different to keep in our purses to be prepared for any situation. With a hug, she sent me off to the front desk.

The front desk is where I catch up with Libby, master of scheduling, and get a book report. Libby belongs to a book club, in addition to reading a good bit on her own, and since I live to comment on what other people are reading, this can take a while. This week Libby reported that her club is reading Gone Girl, which I told her was an uninspired choice, as everyone in the free world is reading it. She quickly grabbed her calendar to see if the group would soon be reading something else that met my approval. Settling on some worthy titles, it was my turn to give a book report. I convinced her that she and her club need to read The Devil in Pew Number Seven (more in another blog entry), an eminently discussable title involving churches, bombs, and mental hospitals. Writing this down, Libby and I began to say our goodbyes, only realizing that we hadn't actually scheduled my next appointment until I began walking out the door. And a good thing she called me back, as this was when Terri, the keeper of the insurance payments, called out of her office "Is that Tracy? Tell her "hi." Three patients on the other side of the desk looked up, presumably wondering why they were being called "Tracy."

Six whole months before I get to see these guys again! I miss them already.

I love miniature people!

Last week I got to meet one of the newest humans to populate the Raleigh-Durham MSA, Little Miss Harper (I think I had a book by that name when I was a kid). I used to work with Harper's mom--I still cringe at having to say the "used to" part--who allowed me to come visit her precious bundle a few days ago. Since she and I have a certain miniature-ness in common (if to varying degrees), I couldn't wait to welcome her to the world.

If there's something cuter than a newborn baby, I don't know what it is. When I arrived, Baby Harper was sleeping in Dad's lap just as you see her here, mouth open in a kind of perfect circle "oh" that can only be located on the face of a newborn baby. When I commented that I hadn't wanted to ring the doorbell so as not to wake her, her mom scoffed. "Please," she said. "I don't know why everyone's so freakin' quiet. She's a baby. She sleeps." These were the words of a mom who had been through a long week of learning the delicate rhythms of a baby's sleeping and eating patterns. Successfully, as it turns out, since here was Harper, snoozing away on her father's lap, already secure in her role as Daddy's Girl.

But Daddy generously offered to share. I took more time to make myself comfortable on the couch than my cat, Sasha, does, and Daddy handed her over to me. Not that Harper noticed. She continued to snooze, nary the wiser that she had a new protector in the world. Princess that she is, Harper has a full head of hair and is already busy trying a variety of hairstyles to see which flatter her the most (my vote is "all of them"). Some give her bangs. Some give her spikes on the top of her head. Here's a fun fact. Supposedly, babies born with a lot of hair were often the source of much heartburn for their moms (the kind that growing babies give their pregnant moms, not the kind that growing teenagers give their weary parents). Pregnant moms who have heartburn frequently inhale Tums like mountain air, and the calcium encourages hair growth in the unborn baby. Harper's hair is only the beginning of her good looks. With cheeks crying out to be squeezed, that full head of hair many women pay good money for, and a petite, 6lb figure (she STILL doesn't fit into the outfit that was to be her "going home" frock), the girl can rock a onesie.

I settled back and happily imagined ways that I might convince Harper's parents that she really belonged at my house. I love the way a newborn's head can kind of reshape into whatever position works best at the moment, flattening out one minute, pointing up a little the next. I watched Harper snooze, not even able to tear myself away when offered a slice of pizza. I needed both hands on Baby Harper, lest she, I don't know, sneezed or something. Dad sat next to me, watching with a smile on his face (HE was able to eat his pizza). Mom sat across the room, watching carefully, ever vigilant and not entirely unlike the Tiger Mother described in the well-known book of last year. Evidently, this sharing thing was only going to go so far.

Shortly before I was forced to offered to hand Harper back to her parents and give up my dream of kidnapping her before anyone could stop me, Harper's Auntie came home. Reluctantly, I handed her over and watched Auntie's face light up at being reunited with Harper. "Were they good to you?" she crooned. Harper's mom explained to me that Auntie has already been giving Harper life lessons in things like the proper use of the Internet and worthlessness that is the Gossip Girls books. Auntie takes her job very seriously.

Mom, having watched Harper make the rounds long enough, took her new daughter back and allowed me to snap some pictures and videos. Well, not so much allowed as stood still and muttered something about short people with camera phones. Through all this, Baby Harper didn't wake up once. Clearly adaptable, she has joined the world demanding all the attention that she deserves, happy to let those around her cater to her every need. Her mom reports that she does little besides eat, sleep, and require diaper changes, and really, isn't that the way it should be?