Chicago at Last

Well, the day that's been talked about for many moons has finally come. I am no longer an Ohio resident. I live in Illinois. I am living with quite the terrific family. I know Sean from school of course, but his whole family is just great. Very into the arts (violin lessons were going all day...I wanted to bring back my violin from third grade), very generous ("We'll just plan on you joining us for dinner unless you let us know otherwise"), and there's even a big friendly dog. I love dogs. Almost as much as I love penguins and dolphins and elephants.

My room is pretty much all set. I wanted to get it as organized as possible since in two days I have to pack up for Oregon for six days then get ready for Blom's wedding for another few days. The summer's off and running. Crazy. My room is nestled in the corner of the basement, with comfy carpet, a big armoire, and even a heated comforter for those cold winter nights. Joy and I put together a bookcase and mementos and pictures from Italy and Nepal are everywhere. I love it.

With that being said, I'm exhausted. So now I'm gonna head downstairs and lay down in my new bed. But not before I say goodnight to the dog.

Tennis Champ

Now, I don't want to brag, really, I don't. But I'm going to. You see, I've never been too much of an athlete. Sure, I played a lot when I was a kid, but over the years, I've slacked off. Well, I'm regaining my sports side, and we all know about the Cubs game, Pacers game, and oh yes, that glorious day of skiing in Vail.

Well, last year the Chorale started a new tradition. Since the Chorale people are always staying around to sing in graduation with nothing to do after finals, we decided, of course, to start a tennis championship. Well, last year was amazing. My partner was Hugh Conor Angell, and it was rough, but ended up with the title. 2004 Chorale Tennis Champions.

Well, last night I was informed that the second annual championship was at 9 this morning. Well, already being here for Joy's graduation, I thought I'd just stop by. You know, do an opening serve or something. Well, it worked out for me to play again, and not just play, but be partners with Hugh Conor Angell. We played three rough sets. In the second, we were down 4-1, but came back to win 6-4. Then it was pushing towards a glorious ending, where we once again claimed the title. Oh yes, oh yes. 2005 Chorale Tennis Champions.

Next year Conor will be a senior. You better believe I'll be back for a third victory.

From Shelby to Upland

In two days, Joy will be a college graduate. She took her last final yesterday and is pretty much just sticking around waiting for the diploma. Really, I'm proud of her. She's a pretty unbelievable student, much better than I ever was, and she still made time for fun and friends and all of that that makes college college. (Well, TU doesn't really do the drinking/partying scene, and Joy didn't either, so I guess she did not what makes college college, but that which makes Taylor Taylor.)

Tonight I get off of work at 10 and then I'm driving to Upland. It will be the last time I make this trip from Shelby to Upland, at least for quite a while. Honestly, I've hated having a long-distance relationship this year. Yeah, people say that there are benefits and all of that, which may be true, but I don't really care. I didn't like it one bit. So to make life easier all year, I would make my regular trips to Upland, it seems at least once a month. I bet this year I've driven to Upland about 15 times, three hours each way. I've become rather intimate with US-30. I know where i can spead on 75. I know I know all the exits and know all about the construction currently going on. I know where the cheapest gas is (right when I leave 30 and am about to get on 75) and know where I got pulled over. Actually, I know both of the places I got pulled over. For a long stretch, 30 is just two lanes and you're usually stuck behind some dumb truck. I know I'm getting close to it becoming four lanes again when I pass that one church with the white sign on the right. I also know that I have forty minutes left when I pass the beautiful Catholic church on my left side soon after crossing the Indiana border. I also know exactly where it was that I looked in my side-view mirror and saw my gas cover dangling from the side of the car. I know I smile every time I see the one church called "Happy Corner Church." I think more churches need names like that. Okay, probably not. It might be giving out a deceptive message. I also love the hotel that is straight from an Alfred Hitchcock movie, certainly hasn't been occupied since the last World War, but it still has that "Vacancy"sign barely visible.

I remember always being delighted on the way to Upland, and it always seems twice as long on the way back. This is my last time making this trip this year, and probably for a really long time, and probably the last time all by myself. Sad as it may be, I love Upland, so it's kinda sad that Joy is graduating and I'll no longer have a reason to visit every month. But when she walks across that stage, I also know it means we're both moving to Chicago within the week and that means this long-distance nonsense is over.

This will be a good weekend to be sure. Time with Blom and Kelmo, music practice with Loralee, hanging out with the in-laws. I'll even be spending time with Joy's brother, Matt, another Taylor grad who isn't exactly similar to me. Maybe this will be the weekend we really connect. (Doubtful, but can't a guy hope?) So yes, as I make this journey for the last time, there will be both delight and sadness, joy and sorrow. I am guessing Joy will feel those same things when she packs up her boxes at the Ritz and finishes up four years of college. At least we'll be able to talk over this feeling and emotions in person and not on the phone. Congratulations, class of 2005.

This means I graduated from high school five years ago. I haven't gotten any info about a reunion or anything and certainly won't be in attendance if there is one. I may miss my trips from Shelby to Upland, but I'm pretty sure I won't miss Shelby. Indeed, this is a good thing.

Richard Cory

In the last few years, I've become quite a fan of Simon & Garfunkel. Really, they're amazing. Nothing like the '60's. Not only are the harmonies just perfect, but they're musically genius. Don't get me wrong, I love Black Eyed Peas, but somehow, Simon & Garfunkel are just a few steps ahead. They say the words "synopated time" and you better believe the music behind it is syncopated. Don't even get me going on the polyphonic texture in "Scarborough Fair." Plus, they speak of things that really matter. (Actually, I think that may be an actual lyric from one of their songs...) They question life, truth, love, home. They have a song called "The Sound of Silence." Genius, genius I say!!! So yes, I find them quite fantastic.

This week I've been listening a lot to Simon & Garfunkel, and I really enjoy the song "Richard Cory." It's upbeat, fun, easy to sing along to while I'm driving to work. But as is usual with S&G, the song is a lot more than just what it appears. In this song it's not too hard to see, because the lyrics say it all. Basically, Richard Cory has it all in the eyes of those around him. He's rich, stylish, sexy, and famous. Basically, he's living the American dream. The singer even muses, "Oh, he surely must be happy with everything he's got."

The chorus goes like this:

"But I work in his factory
And I curse the life I'm living
And I curse my poverty
And I wish that I could be,
Oh, I wish that I could be,
Oh, I wish that I could be
Richard Cory."

The ultimate irony occurs when Richard Cory went home one night, and "put a bullet through his head." It seems Richard Cory wasn't all that happy after all. I find that most of us know things like money and fame and beauty won't bring us happiness. I know that I know that, but I still want those things, more than I should. My mind knows it's not all that it's cracked up to me, but my body still desires those things, is pulled towards them.

I have a lot of Richard Cory's in my life. There are so many times that I wish that I could be someone else. It's one of the things I hate the most, because what it is in essence saying is that I'm not content with who I am. I want to be content with who I am, who God made me to be, but there is always someone out there I would rather be. Maybe not the whole person, but some bit or piece. This person is more fun. This person is more funny. This person is more well-read. This person is more insightful. This person is more wise. This person is more loving. This person is more well-liked. This person is better looking. This person doesn't even think about money. This person is more talented. This person, this person.... The list could go on and on.

Many of those things, like vanity and money, are simply dumb. But they're still there. And I think it's okay to desire more wisdom or to want a greater ability to love and love well. But when those things turn into jealousy or self-hatred, I don't think that's a good thing. I often fall into that trap and I never seem to quite learn.

Changing subjects completely, I am only in this world because of my mother, the dear Vickers, the Mothership. Happy 55th birthday, mom. When I told her Happy Birthday this morning, she said, "Fifty-five years young." You go girl. Booyah.

The Deer on I-71

I think I witnessed something pretty scketchy earlier this afternoon. I was driving back home from Columbus, visiting ex-roommate Kevin of the Sea Welty. It was a beautiful hour. I felt energized and rested, and Kelly Clarkson was blaring from the speakers. I pulled off to get gas at the rather low $1.92/gallon, got back on the highway, and then, a few miles later, around exit 140, I witnessed something I'd never seen or imagined before.

We have all seen dead deer as we drive to and fro. It always saddens me and I'm always thankful that I've never actually hit a deer. In my lifetime as a driver, I've hit both a racoon and a possum. There was also a time when I was just a very young driver, when I hit a chipmunk. Now, you may be tempted to laugh here, but please do not, as it is still a rather emotional memory for me. You see, it was a splendid spring day, beautiful and blue, soft and light. Love was in the air. Well, I was driving on the back rounds on my way to Meijer and all of a sudden two chipmunks started to run across the road, certainly in the middle of a game of tag or whatever games two chipmunks in love in spring play. They were "twitterpated" if you will. I tried to brake, but my rear tire got the second chipmunk. I was devastated. I started to shake, and then I started to cry a little bit. My mom was with me and can witness to the truthfulness of all of this. I even turned the car around and when back to the scene to make sure Alvin's girl wasn't suffering. There she was, pathetic and ruined. Darkeness came into that beautiful spring day and death cast a shadow over the land. I remember it vividly.

Anyway, back to today. So yes, we've all seen dead deer along the road, and we always just assume it is someone's job to come and clean up the deer and other dead animals along the road. Today I realized that I had never once actually seen anyone cleaning up these carcasses. Well, at exit 140, I noticed a white truck pulled off the road and then saw two mem scrambling up a bank. And what did I see coming up from the deep grass? You guessed it...Bambi himself. (I don't even want to recall my time of seeing Bambi in the movie theatre. We went for my birthday party when I was just a wee one. Well, needless to say, just to remember the part where Bambi's mother died still gives me shivers. I mourned until the following birthday when we played it safe and had mac and cheese on the porch.) But what alarmed me the most about these two men who had this deer was that they were not putting the deer into the bed of the truck to be taken away and buried properly. Each one of them held onto two legs (much as if they were playing a game and were threatening to throw a friend into a cold pool with all their clothes on) and were dragging the deer away from the road, towards a field. I slowed down to watch what was going on. They dragged the deer behind a tree and simply left it there and walked away.

I don't know about you, but this startled me. This changes what I will think everytime I see a dead deer along the road from now until I die. I wonder if they were doing what they are supposed to do or simply wanted to take the easy route on their job. Either way, I don't like it, not one bit. I suppose even though many of the forests are gone, what Bambi's mom said still holds true:

Bambi: What happened mother? Why did we all run?
Bambi's Mother: Man was in the forest.

I think of Eden. I guess there wasn't death in that place I can't really imagine. But if there was, and if a deer had died, I wonder what Adam would have done. I wonder if there would have been a tear, a little service, maybe Eve would sing a song. I get sad when I see dead animals and I was sad when I saw that deer on I-71 being dragged behind a tree. Thanks for listening.

My OG Friends

Last night as I was driving home, I realized that I actually enjoy going to work on most days. I remembered thinking I would hate being a waiter when I first started. On my first day, I spilled water all over a dear old man and later had a table ask me what my problem was. “Oh, you just started. Well, good luck…I hope you last.” Well, I have, and I'm a better person for it.

It’s funny looking back at my nine months as a waiter here in Ohio. Sure, there have been moments of amazing frustration (“Excuse me, a few drops of the water you were pouring splashed onto my pasta…I want another one for free” or the time I said, “Ma’am, I talked to the cooks myself and they did put extra sauce on your pasta.” The response: “They’re lying.”), but all in all, it’s been a really good job. They let me take so many days (and sometimes weeks) off and in December I was even Hospi Hero of the Month.

Apparently when I started I was really quiet. Now, everyone reminds me of this. The thing is that while I never thought I would enjoy any of the people I worked with, it turns out that I rather enjoy almost all of them. As I was driving home, I thought of some specific people and what I’ll miss the most about them. I thought I’d share a few here with you now:

TABITHA, who always makes jokes about black people (she is one) and just always tells me, “You’re crazy.” I tease her about her boyfriend busser and the fact that one night she thought the grilled green and yellow squash on an entrée were lemons and limes. She is also the one who was talking about a sexy waiter who was fired. I told her, “Tabby, you get to work with me. Don’t you think I’m sexy?” Slight pause, then, “Yeah, you’re sexy in that intellectual kinda way.” Wow, what a compliment.

TRACY, who every once-in-a-while will smack me on the butt and remind me that she loves my lips. I coached her as she prepared for her first plane flight, we’ve talked about problems with her kids and ex-husband, and she even came up to me the other night and said, “Hey, there are pistachios hidden behind the computer if you want some. Don’t share with anyone else, but they’re there if you want them.”

BRITTANY, the spunky red-head who one day came up to me randomly and said, “Can we get drunk together sometime…I really wanna see you drunk.” (We didn’t.) I also remember the time we were sitting down counting our money and she told me she didn’t know much about God or Jesus. That was a good conversation.

SANDY, the manager who knows about good wine, has been to Italy, and takes an active part in asking and caring about my life. She is known for getting rather intense when the kitchen is backed up on a Friday night. She gets this hoarse yell going and all the veins in her neck start popping out. I just laugh. I think it’s special when someone else’s anger can turn into my joy. I really do love Sandy. I hope she sticks to her word and comes up to Chicago for the wedding.

JONATHAN, the very nice guy going to seminary to be a pastor. Bless his heart, he always wants to pick up extra tables, which is fine, but he is pretty well known for getting ahead of himself. He gets that dazed look in his eyes and then comes to you and says, “Hey, can you do me a favor?” I never had the heart to say no. I bet I did hundreds. One of my favorites: “Can you take two toscana soups to 80, 5 mints to 86, and a peach tea, a diet coke to table 83. Oh, and can you get the bottle of Chardonnay from the bar and open it for table 85?” Yes, that is a true scenario. Let it be known, Jonathan is also the one who came up to me one day and said, “Hey, make sure you give me your address when you move so I can send you a wedding gift.” I guess he’s paying me back for all those favors.

BECKY, the rather pessimistic salad-maker turned cook. She picked on me when I first started, always saying, “Have I ever told you that you’re a loser?” “Yes, Becky, you told me yesterday.” She’d always say just kidding, but at first I wasn’t too sure. But there were those good chats when she’d really be intrigued by the fact that Joy and I don’t sleep together or she’d start to cry some when I talked her through some things with her busser boyfriend. (Yes, if you are wondering, there are countless OG Hookups that happen all the time…)

JANE, the salad-maker I just love. She’s probably in her mid-fifties, is spunky and fun, and has had a pretty rough hand dealt her in life. A husband who divorced her, a young baby who died, a second husband that has been extremely sick for the last eight years, a daughter who hasn’t spoken to her mother in three years. But she clings to God and it’s really beautiful. She told me she wants a bunch of us to go out for a few beers before I leave. I have no doubt we’d discuss life and love and God and pain. I hope it happens.

JOEL, the divorced father of two who just wants to be married. He just longs to find a lasting relationship. He is also convinced that there is such a thing as a “bad gene,” a gene that makes some people (for instance, his ex-wife) not able to be monogamous. They can’t stay in a marriage for more than a few years and be happy. Needless to say, Joel and I have had many many conversations while running in and out of the kitchen.

NELLY, the Filipino spitfire. Short and beautiful, she always sneaks me homemade egg rolls or whatever other concoction she made that no one else will try and like but me. Goodness, she even invited me to her son’s two-year birthday party. She’s so fun and so nice, but she also steals tables if you’re not careful. Almost every other server will back me up on this one.

RANDALL, my service manager who has really become a friend. We talk about some hard aspects of life, he questions his worth as a person, and he is always telling me that he hates to see me go, that I’m the “cream of the crop,” irreplaceable. That means a lot to me, and the thing is, I think he means it. He cares about me as a person. I often wonder about Randall and how he’s doing. In one discussion, he told me that he has “no redeemable qualities.” All I could say was, “Randall, if that was true, then why would God desire to redeem you?” Since he’s a manager, we’re not really allowed to talk outside of work, but we’re supposed to sit down for a real chat to discuss what’s going on with him the day after I’m done. Randall always tells me he’s gonna miss me, and the truth is I’m gonna miss him too.

Yeah, I know this is getting long, so I’m going to leave some others out. If I’ve seen anything, it’s that we’re all unique. None of us think or act the exact same, we all have our quirks and annoyances, and we’re all beautiful. After being around these people for almost a year, I’ve come to see that each one of them is beautiful and special and wonderful and lovable. I’m sure this will be true up at my new OG in Chicago, but I am a little nervous. No one knows me there, I’ll probably be all shy and quiet, they won’t get my jokes or want me to sing opera for the big dinner parties, they won’t think I’m so intelligent just because I have a college degree. But I hope that when I’m done I’ve found the people I have yet to meet beautiful and special and wonderful and lovable.

I have more thoughts about my time at the OG that perhaps I’ll share later, but this is enough for now. I have ten working days left, and I’m going to try to enjoy each and every one. Then there will be hugs and good-byes, promises to visit, and then I’ll drive away, wondering what’s going to happen to Tracy’s kids, wondering if Becky will ever stop having that fight with her boyfriend, wondering if Brittany ever did start going to church like she said she would, wondering if Jane will ever talk to her daughter again.

Penguins

Today in the mail came my new book, "Penguins and Golden Calves" by Madeleine L'Engle. Really, I've only read the first twenty pages or so, but I'm quite excited about it. I have always wanted to go to Antarctica, and at the top of my list of life goals is the desire to visit all seven continents. (Kevin LaMar, remember when we looked up jobs in Antarctica? I still think you should have done it. Joy and I could've visited for our honeymoon...)

Secondly, and the real reason why I think I'm going to love this book, is because I love love love love love penguins. I think it goes back to Mary Poppins, one of my favourite all-time movies with my all-time favourite Dame Julie Andrews. Remember that scene where Dick van Dyke dances with the penguins at that little cafe after the big horse race? Oh yes, that has always been one of my favourites, and really, I trace my love of penguins back to that film. Oh, and we musn't forget the book "Mr. Popper's Penguins," one of my childhood favourites as well. The man buys penguins and creates a little ice rink for them in his basement. I used to dream of doing the same thing when I was a child. Goodness, sometimes I still do.

This love for penguins was confirmed in my adulthood (well, I think "adulthood" is still up for debate) last fall when Joy and I visited the Columbus Zoo. Certainly, penguins are some of the coolest animals in the world. They would swim and waddle and waddle and swim. It's a beautiful life. They live in community, they know how to have fun, and let's be honest, they have a great color scheme going on. You know I love the classic look. I bet Audrey Hepburn loved penguins too.

(Speaking of Audrey, I do love her, but I am still a little upset that she got the movie role for "My Fair Lady" over Julie Andrews, when it was Julie's Broadway role to begin with. Oh, those Hollywood producers didn't think Julie was a big enough name. I bet they regretted that decision when Julie got the Academy Award that year for "Poppins" and the beautiful Hepburn...who didn't even do the singing but gave that task to "Sound of Music" nun Marni Nixon...walked away with nothing!)

So yes, I love penguins. That is my thought for today. Perhaps tonight at the Olive Garden I'll pull down my pants a little bit and waddle around. Yes, I can't wait till the day I get to Antarctica and see the penguins for myself. That will be a glorious day.

Welcome Home, Ulee!

This is just a special welcome home to my dear friend Andrew Ulasich, who has been over in Egypt for the semester. Rest up, say hello to your family, and then lets get together for Nepali tea, alright? I love you buddy!

Homes

I've decided I don't actually believe people own homes. I mean, of course they do, millions and millions do, but I just can't imagine myself ever actually owning a home. My sister and brother-in-law have been married for almost three years now and are in the search of a house. Today my sister even took me to the house they think they may buy. Two bedrooms, big garage, pretty blue. It's even near a park. Well, I've recently been thinking about this whole house-buying thing that people do. It seems like 1) a lot of commitment and 2) a whole lot of money.

But part of buying a home also makes sense. I mean, if over three years I'm going to spend (at the minimum) about $45,000 on an apartment, wouldn't that be better spent in investing in a home? So I decided to do a little searching for real estate. I started in Wheeling, which is the town Joy's parents live in. At the cheap end of homes available, I found one with two bedrooms, 1.5 bathrooms, and a two car garage. The price is $230,000.

Like I said, it just seems like a whole lot of money. I don't know how people do it. I guess you just do it and think about it after everything's been signed. Maybe you actually believe that it is an investment, even if that investment takes thirty years to pay off. So I'm not sure what the wise decision is here. Should Joy and I just buy a home when we get married? I hear they have 100% financing these days. But even then, would they really let us BUY a HOME?

In other news, Blom and Kelmo are getting married one month from today. I'm not sure what I think about this actually. It's weird. Maybe they will want to go in with Joy and I and we can all buy a home together.

Black Powder...

Okay, I need some help. We all know that my dear beloved Volvo, Victor, has been revived. Some thought him dead (myself included for those horrible hours), but he is on the road and running better than ever. Not only is the oil leak fixed, but he also is sporting new rotars and brake pads too. Yeah. Plus the duct tape on the front holding that one flap up is really doing well.

But yesterday I had a new little problem. You see, when I got Victor, there was no air-conditioning, or at least, it didn't work very well. Very tempermental. Kinda like my grandma if you know what I mean. Well, on Monday night Joy and I were meeting for one last rendevous. She's in Indiana and I'm in Ohio, so we meet halfway in Lima, Ohio. Exit 25A. Well, on my way I was talking to Orbitz on the phone. (Actually, I was on hold for the vast majority of the time. Yes, we still have honeymoon tickets and no, they are not exchangeable or refundable in any way, shape, or form.) Well, since I was on the phone, it was just so loud with the windows down that I had to roll them up. (Isn't it cool that we still say "roll" the windows up even when we have electric windows...I like that.) Well then I just got hot. I was sweating and overheating and thought, "Why don't I just see what happens when I try to use the A/C." So I cranked up fans and for a second I think I felt cold air. Then there was a really loud BOOM and little flecks of black powder came flying out of the vents. I was terrified and thought for sure my car was on fire or something. Well, I of course turned off those fans, and so far have not had any problems with my car. I just get nervous. Little black things shooting out of the vents can't be a good thing, can it?

If anyone has advice, this is your moment. Until then, I'm leaving my windows down.

What Novel Next?

Today I was in Barnes and Noble longing for another great novel to occupy my spare moments and thoughts for the next few months. I find there are so many and I really haven't read the vast majority of them. I kinda want to stay with the Russian classics--maybe Dostoevsky--but perhaps need a break. I remember reading the beginning of Dickens' "David Copperfield" a few years ago and liking it quite a bit. Or what about "The Cather in the Rye" that I always hear so much about and always say I'm going to read. Of course, I've also thought about going back and re-reading my all-time favourite, "Les Miserables."

Which reminds me, while I was in B&N, I was there looking at all these classics books, wondering about the characters found within and the themes and motives that will speak to me years and years later, and I overheard one of the sales associates answer the phone. Apparently someone was looking for "Les Miserables." I wish I could have taped the dialogue. Not only did this woman not know the author, but she had not ever heard of the book. Now, I know it's my favourite, so I do have some personal attachment, but as I listened to her mispronounce the title at least a dozen times...over and over...I wanted to talk to her manager and have her fired. Needless to say, I calmly walked away, told myself that we are all unique, smiled at the woman as I walked by, and under my breath said, "Oh, and the author is Victor Hugo."

I think she heard me.

I Miss Anna

Last night, after about six months, I finished reading "Anna Karenina." During my senior year of college I said one thing I wanted to do was read some of the classics, and Tolstoy was my first choice. (Yes, I know that Opera also had this as part of her Book Club last year, and no, that's not the reason I selected this book.)

Now, this book is 817 pages long. I started it around Christmas last year. Throughout this entire time, I have been with Anna and Vronksy, Levin and Kitty, Stiva and Dolly, almost every day, at least every week. The pages have been read in Boston and Eagle-Vail, but mostly in my home in Shelby, Ohio, far away from eighteenth-century Russia. So as I saw the end approach, realized there were only about fifty pages left, I think I began to get a little sad. Of course, there were feelings of joy and accomplishment as well, a time of both celebration and sorrow. I opened a bottle of wine, got into my favorite pajamas, grabbed some pillows and a comforter, and stayed awake late into the night, and when I turned the last page, there might have been a tear or two. I felt like I was losing some close friends. I had a first-hand view into their lives for so many days and weeks and months that I almost forgot they weren't actually real. As with most novels, at the end, the characters aren't all dead, so now I am left not really knowing what happened to them after they stopped inviting me into their lives and thoughts. I don't know what happened on page 818.

One of the things I really loved about this novel, and about all the great novels, is that I find I love each character. They all have virtues and they all have flaws, but this is what makes them believable. I especially loved Levin. Rather awkward, socially inept, he was intelligent and compassionate and questioned the society that he saw around him. Towards the end of the novel, he comes to accept "faith" that he before had not taken a part in, and his journey there is quite beautiful. I discovered after reading the novel that this "coming to faith" represents Tolstoy's own conversion while writing the novel. The last sentence is a great one, and one that I think I can share without really giving anything away. Levin says:

"[M]y life now, my whole life, regardless of all that may happen to me, every minute of it, is not only not meaningless, as it was before, but has the unquestionable meaning of the good which it is in my power to put into it!"

I love it. Indeed, those last fifty pages were breaktaking, and I wish I could share more without giving away the climax of the story which Tolstoy brilliantly leads up to. I suppose you'll have to read it yourself.

Cinco de Mayo!

I love holidays. I wish America adopted more holidays from around the world. Of all of them, I guess St. Patrick's Day and Cinco de Mayo are at the top that are actually celebrated here. Gosh, St. Paddy's is celebrated more here than in Ireland. Anyway, Taylor and I were discussing Cinco de Mayo earlier today and realized we weren't exactly too sure about what we were celebrating. It's been a long time since Spanish class in high school and I've never been to a Spanish-speaking country (besides America of course). So I did a little Google action (of course), and thought I'd bring a little information in a nice compact format here:

• Cinco de Mayo marks the victory of the Mexican Army over the French at the Battle of Puebla in 1862, but this is NOT Mexican Independence Day (which is September 16, 1810), because Mexico eventually lost to the French.
• Holding onto true nationalism, the "Batalla de Puebla" came to represent a symbol of Mexican unity and patriotism.
• Rumour has it that the French wanted to create an empire in America under Napolean III which is why the French stayed after the Spanish and English had left.
• Cinco de Mayo has become more of a Chicano holiday than a Mexican one, and really, according to my sources, has become quite commercialized.
• And similar to the Irish, the holiday is celebrated much more in America than in Mexico.

There you have it. There's a lot more to it, many more names, but I think that's enough for one year. But we all know I love a good party, so grab a Corona, some salsa, and some overcooked beans. It's a day of celebration! I can't wait to work at the OG tonight...I'm going to tell all my tables about this great day and make up a reason why it relates to all things Italian.

The Fig Tree, Part 1

I've recently been spending a lot of time in the Gospels of the New Testament. This summer I think I am going to begin reading through the Old Testament from beginning to end (a quest I really am quite excited and scared about seeing that there are many books I've never once read...), but recently, I've just been reading about Jesus, something I've really enjoyed tremendously.

I believe God loves stories. I believe He is involved in every story, and as Madeleine L'Engle would say, calls us to be "co-creators" with Him in story. The thing is, however, that there are so many stories I just don't understand, and this lack of understanding leads to questions, and it seems these questions only lead to more questions and less answers. In fact, those things I thought I had answers to it turns out are foiled by new questions. Somehow, this doesn't really surprise me too much, but it is a little frustrating at times. I love the fact that God is greater than what my little human mind can wrap around (God is God after all), but this little human mind still struggles to understand and finds this rather impossible. So you see the dilemna and I assume many of you know it just as well as I do. Grace. Faith. Love. Trinity. Incarnation. Redemption. I know I will never fully understand and grasp these things (oh yes, what a journey this is), but that doesn't mean my mind and soul still won't try.

So since God is a God of story, the Bible is really one great story, with many smaller stories adding to the whole. But today I want to focus on one story, the story involving the fig tree in Mark 11 and Matthew 21. At first glance, this is what I took from the story: Jesus sees a fig tree, Jesus wants figs, it is not the season for figs hence there are none on the tree, Jesus gets angry and makes the tree wither, never to produce figs again. It's probably best to actually read the Biblical accounts yourself.

I asked Joy about the fig tree story a few weeks ago and then just a few days later I was in Borders and picked up Bertrand Russell's "Why I Am Not a Christian." Interesting stuff. He brings this story up as a reason that Jesus was not only not God incarnate, but not even the high moral teacher others ascribe him to be. I'll admit that I also found this story somewhat perplexing and odd. Initially, I thought it rather odd that Jesus would 1) expect fruit from a tree out of season, and 2) curse a tree because it didn't have fruit even though it wasn't the season for it. I don't remember ever hearing any sermon on this passage or topic, but apparently many and many people have wondered about this story found twice in the Gospels. I thought it amazingly interesting that just a few days after thinking about this story and talking it over with Joy, Madeleine L'Engle said something about it in her book "And It was Good." (Coincidence that it just keeps coming up...?)

(For the note, while doing some online research, I discovered that Madeleine has written a more complete interpretation on this fig tree story in her book, "Penguins and Golden Calves: Icons and Idols" and have already ordered it used from Amazon for just $1.05! What a deal! Plus she discusses how icons can turn into idols, something I had many great discussions about at Ashland last fall. Oh Mad. I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship. I'm sure Neville in L.A. and Bonnie in Australia are both quite happy about this recent development.)

So I had some thoughts going on about this fig tree business and was going to bring them up here. Some scholars say the story shows Jesus' humanity (he was hungry) and some say there is an allegorical or symbolic meaning (predicting the destruction of Jerusalem). Fair enough, but my initial response would say that Jesus was quite a marvelous story-teller, as seen in his many parables. This isn't a parable...this is a real fig tree, a fig tree created by God, the same God who knows when even a single sparrow falls.

I decided I just wanted to explore some other views. So I did a little Google action. I found that this really is a widely discussed passage. I found a few messages to read through that look interesting as well as an article on an atheistic web-site that says, "If the fig tree story is to be taken as read, the main character in the story, Jesus, is just plain stupid." Quite a statement. One I don't agree with, but it does make me wonder what exactly is going on in this story. So I think I'm going to do some reading. Borrow some commentaries from my dad, read some more L'Engle and Russell, as well as read and reread the actual Biblical account. So, my initial intent thwarted, I don't think this is all going to fit into one blog entry after all, and thaso I have titled this "The Fig Tree, Part 1." I'm not sure what will follow, but I suppose we'll just have to wait and see.

My OG Weekend

Okay, my time at the Ontario OG located on Lexington-Springmill Road is coming to a close. It is now May and May 28 is my last day. Four weeks. So in these last weeks I'm basically trying to work as much as possible, which is 40 hours...it's against OG law to go over 40 hours. It happened to me once and a manager called me and told me not to come in that day because I'd be over. Yeah, they take this 40-hour thing seroiusly. So anyway, this past weekend I worked a ton....Friday dinner, Saturday lunch, Saturday dinner, Sunday lunch, Sunday dinner. Needless to say, I served more Chicken Parm's and Tours of Italy (so overrated and overpriced) than I can remember. We were actually busy (a good thing), but I also found myself actually bored at times (not a good thing). I would like to think that boredom came in simply because I'm the best server this world has ever seen, but that's still up for debate. Just ask the lady who had coffee spilled all over her fettuccini alfredo. During these moments of boredom, however, I had some time to think. So these are my thoughts from my weekend at the OG:

1) I don't like it when people mispronounce things. Especially Italian. I know, this sounds snobbish and elitist and all of that and I don't care. And yes, there are words I need to ask about or look up, but the point is that when those words come around, I ask or look them up, I don't simply point and laugh like a child who just soiled themselves. We serve a soup at the OG called "Zupppa Toscana," and for those who want to know, it is a brothy soup with spicy sausage and potatoes, and that green stuff is not lettuce, but kale. "Zuppa" is Italian for soup and "Toscana" is...no surprise here...Italian for Tuscany, my personally favorite region in the country that has not only Florence, but also Chianti. Now for the record, "Zuppa" is pronounced (thank goodness for IPA) "Tsuppa" with the beginning like "tsunami" and a nice little Italian break between the double "p's." "Toscana" should be self-explanatory, but you'd be surprised how many people butcher this word as well. And for the record, the wine is "kianti." There is no "house Chee-an-tee" and no one who pronounces like that should be allowed to drink wine in the first place.

2) I began a dialogue at our restaurant on the issue of gender. I asked the female servers if they thought men or women tipped them better and asked men the same question. Really, this is quite a subject and there needs to be an in-depth study, perhaps a documentary. You see, the ladies said that when they have a table of all guys, they definitely get better tips, especially if they flirt. I can testify that when I let my flirtatious side out (or just say something stupid that young women laugh at), I get better tips followed by names and phone numbers. (For those of you think I'm making that up, ask Joy...I tell her about all such encounters.) The question into play is really regarding the middle-aged men and women diners and then the elderly. In general, the elderly don't tip well, be it their fixed income (who doesn't have a fixed income?!), remembering how much they were tipped in the fifties, or maybe even memories of the Depression. I'm going to start paying attention to this and maybe come to some more conclusions at a later date.

3) I also began to wonder how much money I would make if I was hot, or on a really good day after I'd been tanning, hott. I mean, if Brad Pitt were a waiter at the Ontario Olive Garden, how much more would he make than me? Certainly our culture is saturated with images and bodies and all of that, so this must play a role. I don't think I would actually do this, but what if I had plastic surgery...would the cost of plastic surgery be worth it if I made up for the cost and more in better tips?

4) Prom is in season and most girls look like sluts. They're not Hollywood starlets, and don't have the budgets, designers, or quite frankly, the bodies to pull of some of these dresses. Somehow it just doesn't work to have your midriff showing and your rather modest cleavage showing when you still show braces when you smile.

These are just a few of my thoughts from my weekend. I hope you're off to a fantastic May.

Also, tomorrow is my friend, Goose's, birthday. Happy birthday, you Bostononian soprano you.