A Series of Mostly Fortunate Events

(My new living room -- the exotic couch pillows and cattails on the endtable are compliments of Marjorie)

When I was a child, I loved a book about a little girl who had all kinds of adventures. The story went something like this: "Fortunately, Elizabeth got to visit her uncle's farm in the countryside and jump from the barn loft into heaps of hay. Unfortunately, there was a pitchfork in the heap of hay. Fortunately, she barely missed landing on the pitchfork. Unfortunately, she also missed the pile of hay. Fortunately . . . " You get the gist.

The past couple weeks of my life have followed a similar motif.

Fortunately, my dear friend, Cherice, bequeathed me with her lovely apartment when she moved to Utah.

Unfortunately, this means Cherice no longer lives in Michigan.

Fortunately, other kind people stepped in to help me pack and move -- including Marjorie and Ramona who packed up most of my apartment and some of the busiest men from church who kindly volunteered their Saturday morning and brute strength to move my belongings.

Unfortunately, on Saturday afternoon I learned that the woman who had been planning to move into my old apartment (and thus prevent me from having to pay double-rent for September until my lease expired) would not be able to move in after all due to circumstances out of her control.

Fortunately, just as I was about to shrivel up from exhaustion, the sister missionaries called and offered to help me clean the old apartment.

Unfortunately, I now had two apartments: one that was vacant and one that was equally uninhabitable due to mountains of boxes.

Fortunately, Nan and Janice showed up at my doorstep at just the right moments to help me unpack.

Unfortunately, my new apartment -- although spacious, sunshiny, and clean -- was rather boring and austere.

Fortunately, Marjorie helped me hang my pictures and plates and provided a trunk full of home decor items to "punch up" my apartment.

Unfortunately, my super comfortable "punched-up" apartment did not come equipped with a pre-written dissertation.

Fortunately, I have close to a year to write the silly book.

Unfortunately, my laptop was nigh unto death and I could only see the screen if I was in a dark room.

Fortunately, Best Buy had laptops on sale for a very good price.

Unfortunately, my bank account took a third major hit when I received a terse notice informing me that I had failed to pay city taxes in 2005. Ouch! (It was an accident, truly!)

Fortunately, I happen to enjoy rice and beans and consumed them for three days straight, thus saving oodles of money that might otherwise have been spent on groceries.

So you see, all's well that ends well!

Grad School Angst

I've enjoyed a stretch of mostly stress-free days this summer. Nights, however, are a different story. Often I have dreams that are -- well, stressful. For example, the other night I dreamt that I was desperate for a haircut. My regular stylist wasn't available, so I had another woman in the shop cut my hair. When I gave her my card to pay for the cut, the charge rang up as $150. "Why didn't you tell me it would cost this much?!!" I exclaimed in my dream. And then sobbing, I wailed, "But I don't have that much money!" Very stressful indeed. But not as stressful as last night's dream. Last night was a new version of my recurring concentration camp nightmare. In the dream, I was a prisoner fearing for my life. There were hundreds of us held captive under the watchful eye of brutal guards. Our job? We were housed in a library and were forced to study all day, every day. Given my present vocation, it doesn't take a therapy session to interpret that dream. Do you suppose I've been a student far too long?

A Mother's Prayer

Depending on who you ask, I have either the best or the worst job in the church. I consider it the best. I'm the nursery leader -- which means each Sunday I get to spend two hours playing with some of the youngest congregants while their parents teach other classes or attend the adult meetings. Instead of having to sit reverently for long periods of time, those of us in the nursery (on a good day) attempt to sit reverently for approximately 2 1/2 minutes while one of the adults gives a short sermon appropriate for two-year olds. The rest of the time we play with toys, go for walks outside, color, sing, dance around with scarves, blow bubbles, and have a snack. Who wouldn't love a worship service like this?!

Believe it or not, we do occasionally get a child who does not love it. Not at all. I suspect it has something to do with being thrust into the arms of strange grown-ups in a room full of strange children for an indeterminate amount of time. It's like being in the slammer -- when the door shuts, you can only peer at the outside world through a small window and there's no escape. Your mother is on one side of the glass and you're on the other. In such dire straits, even your very own bag of fruit snacks is small solace.

Eighteen-month old Katie (not her real name) had been inconsolable in nursery for two weeks. We tried everything and occasionally, she would get distracted for 30 seconds only to burst into tears the moment she remembered her misery. Most children eventually resign themselves to their fate after a few minutes, but not Katie. Her heart was broken. Her mom tried staying with her in the nursery room, but the moment Katie lost sight of her, the tears started again.

Last week, Katie's mom dropped her off and told us she had been talking to Katie about nursery, assuring her that she would indeed come back for her. Then she left us a very sad little girl. Katie cried for a few minutes until I managed to distract her with a toy. To my surprise, she played with the toy for several minutes. Eventually, I even put her down. It was obvious that Katie wasn't feeling 100% secure or happy about the situation and she needed plenty of reassurance. But for most of the two hours, Katie was reasonably happy and when she got sad, she was consolable. I'm not sure if 18-month old children are able to make a choice to be courageous, but this was one brave little girl. Of course, I attributed Katie's relatively successful day in nursery to her naturally becoming accustomed to nursery like most kids do. I also thought she might have decided that I was an o.k. adult. Probably, these were factors, but I discovered the most important reason when her mother picked her up. She was pleased that Katie had done so much better and said, "I've been praying all week that she would be happy in nursery."

No wonder. The faith of Katie's dear mother, God's love for little children, Katie's natural responsiveness to heavenly comfort: this is why Katie was able to be brave. If the Savior is aware of sparrows who fall, He certainly cares about little girls who are scared to go to nursery. And if He cares about that, He also cares about the seemingly trivial concerns of grown-ups. All we have to do is let Him know.

Photo by hlkljgk - retrieved from www.flickr.com/photos/52473526@N00/911016819 on August 2, 2008

Tales from an urban center with small town charm

I add now to my collection of small-town tales, a story from a visit to a very large city with my dear friend, Carol Lynn.

From browsing travel guides and websites, we learned that Toronto loves to boast the largest, tallest, most anything in North America – e.g. The tallest free-standing building, the largest southeast Asian market, the largest Greektown, etc. But we think Toronto must be the friendliest city in North America. Repeatedly, we were approached by perfect strangers who asked if they could help us find something. The workers at the hotel were kind and gracious, as were the servers at restaurants, etc. We had a great impression of the city – clean, quiet, safe and filled with well-groomed and polite people. (Although we’re certain some people must have a different opinion of Toronto, we choose to maintain our happy caricature.)


We stayed at a lovely Marriott Residence Inn – our nicest hotel of the trip. The room was truly tastefully decorated with every amenity and the breakfast buffet was impressive. We did have to get used to the idea of paying $30 for parking, but after discovering that free parking does not exist in Toronto, we conceded.

Opera on the Subway

We walked along the harbor and then took the subway to Greektown. A man was sitting next to me on the subway. He was a big, burly, black man with hair that was nearly shaved off except for a Mohawk strip down the middle. Dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, the guy had an Ipod and appeared to be really getting into his music. We were subtly (or not so subtly) staring at him wondering if this guy was a wanna-be hip hop singer or just mentally unstable. But then he started to make some gestures imbued with grace and passion, a look of sheer ecstasy on his face – like he was really being carried away by the music. When we exited the train, he started to sing, a gorgeous sound escaping his lips. Carol Lynn boldly tapped him on the shoulder and asked, “Are you singing opera?” (She had recognized the signs and symptoms of a true opera singer). He smiled and said yes – he was on his way to a rehearsal for a Handel opera. Carol Lynn complimented him on his voice. He thanked her and mentioned that he had decided to stop worrying about people thinking he was crazy on the subway. Wow. After walking a couple blocks, Carol Lynn realized we might have been able to hear the guy really sing. We regretted not following him and asked several friendly Torontonians if there was an opera theater in Greektown. (There wasn’t, but they were amused by our request.) One woman – after an enthusiastic round of “welcome Americans!” – brought us a free newspaper in the hopes that we could find it. Although we didn’t find the theater, we did find a Greek bakery and enjoyed a delicious custard pastry served by a woman who called us “love.” (Thanks, love!)

A long walk

We then walked to the India Bazaar. I had read that it was the largest Asian market in North America and imagined a big market with all kinds of interesting things. Plus, it looked relatively close on the map. Periodically, we asked someone for directions and each time the person assured us that it was a 10-15 minute walk. At least an hour and several miles later (in the sweltering humidity) we arrived. On the way, however, we had some interesting encounters. For instance, I visited with an elderly gentleman sitting in the shade with his dog. When I complimented him on the dog, he told me that she loved the cold, but the heat made her very tired. She was 14 years old, after all. He explained that his air conditioner was broken. When the repairman came to fix it, he had discovered a nest of bees inside and refused to tinker with it. “That’s why we’re outside,” he explained.


We also wandered through various neighborhoods with residents from all over the world. We passed by a park where small groups of elderly Chinese men were intently playing a game resembling checkers. We saw a cluster of children (presumably from a daycare) that was the most multicultural group of children we had ever seen outside of picture books designed to be politically correct. We passed a block of stores devoted to Middle Eastern goods and stopped for a moment in an Islamic bookstore. When we finally arrived at India Bazaar (which turned out to be a couple blocks of shops carrying goods from India), we were hot and tired. We walked into a store jam-packed with stuff and strongly smelling like incense. Instead of music in the background, they had a yoga tape with the soothing voice of a man speaking English with a pronounced Indian accent. “Become very aware of your body. If you are wearing anything tight, loosen it. Now relax every muscle from the top of your head to your toes. Just breeeathe.”

Breathe we did – and promptly found a bus that would take us back to the subway station.

(Photos taken by Carol Lynn, the artist)

One more tale from small town USA

Based on my observations, I have come to the conclusion that dissertation writing ranks right up there with being forced to do hundreds of sit-ups at gunpoint. Therefore, doc students go to great lengths to make the process more palatable (that is when we're not avoiding the process altogether). Our latest attempt was a writing retreat at a lovely log home 20 feet from a lake. We (my writing group) spent four days writing, eating tasty, healthy food, and basking in the beauty of our surroundings. One day we went into town to get internet access and spent the morning in the local "bakery and beanery" where the owner kindly passed around his security code so we could use the wireless. Which brings me to another report of small town America -- while my friends were working on their dissertations, I was conducting my own informal ethnography.

I'm not sure how many people officially reside in this small Michigan town, but probably at least a few hundred. The locals are friendly and the town has not yet been taken over by corporate franchises -- not a Starbucks, a McDonald's, or a Walmart anywhere to be seen. When we walked into the bakery, we were greeted not only by the employees, but the customers as well. One of the customers, a middle-aged man named Marshall, quickly informed us that this bakery was baking 5000 cookies for the local church social. After ordering some treats, we settled in for a most enjoyable few hours.

We weren't the only ones -- Marshall and his friends stuck around reading the newspaper and visiting with the other customers for the entire morning too. The bakery workers also periodically came out from the kitchen to mingle. Whenever someone came into the bakery, he/she greeted everyone and then promptly went behind the counter to choose a treat. By the end of the morning, we were doing the same thing. (There was a much better view from that side.) The ambiance was definitely "mi casa es su casa." In fact, when we asked if we could hang out there, the owner replied, "You can do anything you want here" -- and seemed to truly mean it. We learned that there are two things that were forbidden, however. For instance, my friend asked if she could purchase one of the 5000 freshly baked church social cookies. The answer was a resounding no - not even one. The other taboo was leaving hair in the bathroom. I base this assertion on the following conversation I (and everyone else in the bakery) overheard between the baker's mother and Marshall.

Baker's Mother (upon returning from the restroom): Marshall, did you comb your hair in the bathroom?!

Marshall: Yes

Baker's Mother (in a very perturbed tone of voice): I thought so. The sink looked like somebody shaved in there!

I thought this was going to be my favorite conversation until I went across the street to the "Five and Dime" where everything (according to the storefront) was between 5 cents and a dollar. I wandered through the store looking for plastic knives. Meanwhile, the cashier - an older gentleman with six strands of hair carefully combed in a circle across his shiny, bald head - visited with a customer. When I made my purchase, the other customer started talking to me.

Man: I have this neighbor. He's very nice, but doesn't have all his marbles. I have these big ole' red plastic birds sitting on my fence. They look like overgrown cardinals. Well, one day this neighbor comes to me and asks, "Just what are you feeding those birds to make them grow so big?"

The man chuckles and I join him as the cashier meticulously documents my purchase on a hand-written triplicate receipt.

On that note, I met my friends and we returned to the cabin, happy that we had a few more days before returning to urban sprawl. And glad to have spent a few hours in a place where everyone knows your name -- or at least would like to.

Lindsey's Temple (Palmyra - Part 3)

On Monday morning before leaving Palmyra, we participated in a temple session. This temple is unique because of the window that overlooks the Sacred Grove. I remembered sitting in the chapel in Utah eight years ago as we watched the Palmyra temple dedication via satellite. Although I was thrilled about the temple, I was seriously distracted because at the very same time my sister was in labor in Ohio on the verge of delivering my first niece. It's against protocol to repeatedly check your cellphone during a temple dedication, but I couldn't help myself. We were so grateful for Lindsey's safe arrival -- which is why I always think of the Palmyra temple as Lindsey's temple.

Palmyra - Part 2

Although our small town diner dinner was an added bonus, we (like most visitors) actually came to Palmyra to visit the Sacred Grove. I have a similar "grove" near my apartment in Michigan -- equally beautiful and peaceful. But the Sacred Grove in Palmyra rendered a feeling that goes beyond the peacefulness of nature -- it felt like a temple. We naturally quit talking and basked in the transcendent spirit that dwells there. I can understand why God chooses to visit his prophets on a mountain or in a forest. The majesty and beauty of His creations undisturbed by human intervention seem an appropriate setting for such sacred communion.

Palmrya - Part 1

I just returned from a fabulous 1700 mile road trip with Teresa and Janene. We laid eyes on four of the five Great Lakes (all but Lake Superior), discovered the glories of life on an island where cars are prohibited (Mackinac Island), visited important church history sites (Kirtland and Palmyra), spent the night in a haunted inn, got robbed at Niagara Falls, and spotted numerous species of birds and reptiles along the way (the fringe benefit of traveling with a bonafide zoologist). Today's post, however, highlights our adventure in Palmyra.

Palmyra is a small town in upstate New York near Rochester. I'm pretty sure the place is of little consequence to anyone except for local residents and the Mormons who flock there in droves to check out the birthplace of their faith. And so, it should not have been a big surprise to learn that we were staying in a hotel apparently modeled after a stake center (a Mormon meetinghouse). The big difference is the price -- attending church is free. There were beds instead of chairs in the classrooms, I mean guest rooms, but otherwise the resemblances were striking. We desperately wanted to put signs on the doors to designate which Sunday School class was assigned to each room, but we refrained.


Now that we were checked into our rooms, we decided to find some food. After surveying the cashier at the local grocery store, we determined that the pickings were rather slim in Palmyra. "There's a good place 20 miles away, " the cashier guy suggested, shrugging his shoulders. Far too hungry to wait an additional 20 miles, we noticed a nearby restaurant called "The Akropolis." Aside from a gaggle of teenage boys hovering around two cute teenage waitresses, we were the only customers. It was 7:50 and the restaurant closed at 8:00. When I asked if we were too late to eat, the cute, blond waitress assured us enthusiastically, "Oh no! You can stay as long as you want. Don't you worry. I'm here for you!" Escorting us to our table, she added, "You don't mind if we vacuum the other side, do you?"

The menu was a bit daunting -- this place offered approximately 700 options, everything from pancakes to a "messy plate." (If I recall correctly, the dish consisted of hot dogs smothered in tomato sauce served over a pile of macaroni and cheese and french fries.) Oh yes, and a small Greek collection -- we were at The Akropolis after all! We each ordered something Gyro-ish and amused ourselves with the laminated trivia book on the table. Our two favorite questions came from the "religion and mythology" section. "What sculpted bird sits atop the Mormon temple in Salt Lake City -- and why?" and "What day of the week is the Sabbath for Muslins?" Considering that there is no bird atop the temple and Muslin is a type of fabric, the warning printed on the booklet was appropriate, "Please leave Trivia Book on table. Booklet monitored for theft."

We were still giggling over the trivia, when our bubbly waitress brought us our food -- a giant pile of iceberg lettuce with a few olives and jalapenos adorned with three strips of meatlike something or other. Meanwhile, a woman (apparently the owner) strides in and begins barking orders (in a friendly barking sort of way). Mid-sentence, she noticed us. "I didn't know there were customers in here!" A few minutes later, the chef (another teenage boy) bursts out of the kitchen, a string of profanity rolling off his tongue. Our waitress promptly shuts him up. "There are customers in here!" she shouts in a whisper and rushes to apologize to our table. "I'm SO sorry. That guy is such a jerk." We stifled our laughter by pondering the meaning of the pink carpet and the possible ingredients in the meatlike material atop our salads.

Thoroughly amused, we tipped our waitress generously and made our exit. As an encore, someone had posted this flyer near the door.



And on the way back to our hotel, we saw a sign of similar charm attached to a telephone pole.



What can we say? We love Palmyra -- where else but small town America affords you the full entertainment value of a sitcom without ever having to turn on the television!

Tough Guys and Bunnies

Yesterday, I was visiting with a friend who told me this story. He's a runner and trains six times a week with his buddies. One day, a rabbit scurried onto the track. The men stopped to observe the furry running partner who was surprisingly unafraid of the humans. Apparently, the rabbit liked her new-found friends and was regularly sited on or near the track. After a bit of investigation, the men discovered a rabbit nest with a group of baby bunnies all huddled together. Lately, they've been observing the bunnies, but out of respect for the mama, they refrain from touching them. They've watched the mother rabbit nurse her babies and noted how the ground seems to breathe where the nest is located. To protect the rabbit family, they've placed a large plastic cone near the nest so the grounds crew doesn't accidentally disturb it. "These are the best-guarded bunnies in the country," my friend told me.

Sadly, so are the runners. Each man is spending the prime years of his life in prison.

(Photo credit: Original image: 'N1 #07682' http://www.flickr.com/photos/49638217@N00/536888745 by: Gehat. Released under an Attribution-NonCommercial License)

Food, Glorious Food!

Food is my hobby. I love buying it, preparing it, studying it, eating it, and sharing it. And so in that spirit, I'm sharing two of my very favorite food websites.

1. www.cookthink.com - Unlike other online recipe collections that are essentially unwieldy databases, this is a recipe site with flair. One of its best features is the ability to search for recipes by ingredient. If you're like me, you have all the best intentions of preparing menus and then going to the grocery store, but in reality, never get around to the menu planning. Thus when it's dinner time, the inevitable, "What should I cook?" question arises. The meal needs to consist of ingredients you already have -- not those you wish you had! Cookthink to the rescue! You go to the site, type in the ingredients you'd like to use (up to eight, hit return after each entry) and then search for recipes. If it's not ingredients that's driving your "what to fix" dilemma, you can also search by type of cuisine (e.g. Mexican, Chinese, etc.) or even mood (e.g. heavenly, junky, or easy). You can create your own personal cookbook and keep notes on recipes you've tried. (By the way, the site organizes recipes by "meals" -- I prefer to label my meals as categories that you'd find in a cookbook - e.g. soup, salads, desserts, etc.) One final note: there are accurate photos for many of the recipes, but some of the pictures are merely illustrations. So don't get distressed when the recipe for triple-chocolate mousse cake merely has a coca bean as the illustration. :)

2. http://whfoods.org/foodstoc.php - The World's Healthiest Foods. Although I very happily eat plenty of not-so-healthy food, as a general rule, I do try to eat nutritiously and "naturally." Plus, I am fascinated with nutritional aspects of food. This site lists the hundred healthiest foods and provides detailed nutritional information, cooking and eating ideas, and sometimes, even a history of the food. I'm quite sure this is where I learned about quinoa and the wonders of cinnamon.

Bon Appetit!

Photo credit: Original image: 'Fruitcake' http://www.flickr.com/photos/62021300@N00/439084552
by: Incase Designs, Released under an Attribution License

Some of my favorite tech tools

Flashback to The Sound of Music and imagine that I am frolicking amongst the curtains singing in melodious protest to the thunderstorm raging outside, "Pandora, Picnik, and free Google Reader . . . these are a few of my favorite things!"

Seriously - if you haven't used these free online tools, they're worth checking out.

1. Google Reader I have a handful of blogs that I love to read regularly, but it's cumbersome to keep track of them. Google Reader solves this problem. All you have to do is create an account, list the blogs or other websites you want tracked, and then whenever these sites are updated, Google Reader collects the changes and puts them in an in-box -- similar to email. Whenever I have a minute to read blogs, I go to Google Reader and can see at a glance which blogs have new posts!

2. Picnik This is a great digital photo editing tool. You upload photos and can do all kinds of cool things with your pictures. (If you need to do more complex editing, you can download Gimp -- a free, open source equivalent to PhotoShop.)

3. Pandora Ever wish you could have a radio station that only played music you liked and with no commercials? Pandora does precisely that -- you create your own stations based on musicians you like and Pandora streams music by that artist and others with similar qualities.

4. Image collection Many of the images online are restricted under copyright regulations. But there are thousands of images that do not have such restrictions. This site, for example, is a huge collection of images created by people willing to share their work.

5. Google Calendar Another great Google application. I've never been able to stick to a paper planner, but Google Calendar helps me stay at least slightly organized. A cool feature is that you can create and share multiple calendars for various purposes. For example, spouses can keep individual calendars and then make them available to each other.

Hoodwinked

Call me simple-minded, but in my world a hood that has been slammed down and not since reopened should stay shut. Such an assumption proved to be utterly fallacious, however. See exhibit A below:



Here's the story: I'm driving home from church on the freeway going about 70 mph when all of a sudden my hood flies up, shatters my windshield and sends my rearview mirror flying. And since I didn't pay extra for a transparent hood, I have zero visibility. Hoping that there's a clear shoulder on my right and nobody close behind me, I slow down and pull over to the side of the freeway. I get out of the car and put my hood down, only to discover that it is now too mangled to shut properly. What to do? Call my husband? (Nope - he's MIA) The police? (How embarrassing!) Wait for a prince in shining armor to gallop up and save this damsel in distress? (Fat chance!) So, I put on my hazard lights, pray that the hood will stay down, and creep along to the next exit. A nice woman followed me into a parking lot after I exited. Apparently, she had watched the drama and followed me. She kindly asked if I was o.k. and offered to help. Just then, her husband happens to drive by -- she flagged him down and he pulled over. Luckily, he had rope in his car and tied down my hood. Now I could drive the rest of the way home with the peace of mind that my hood was not going to fly up; whether or not my windshield would crumble to bits was still a question. The hundreds of glass shards inside the car did not add to my confidence.

Thankfully, I made it home safely. As the nice rope man observed, "You're very, very lucky. Hoods and windshields can be replaced. You can not be replaced." It's true - this incident could have so easily been a tragedy. Can't help but think a few of my guardian angels put in some overtime hours yesterday. . . .

(Note to self: Next time you have an inkling that the hood of your car is protruding slightly, take immediate action!)

Spring

A bush outside my window after an ice storm. Lake Michigan in January.

Michigan is the land of the long winter. And Lansing ranks right up there with Seattle for endless days of gray. Actually, the gray and the ice feel more oppressive than the cold.



Blooming spring in Hawk Island Park not far from my apartment.

So when the cloud cover finally lifted in May and green overtook the gray, I felt like new life had been breathed into me. Ah, the sunshine! My cells were drinking it up like a sponge on a soggy counter.

It reminded me of Narnia and the constant winter (without Christmas) imposed by the White Witch -- until Aslan returns and brings spring with him.

"And now the snow was really melting in earnest and patches of green grass were beginning to appear in every direction. Unless you have looked at a world of snow as long as Edmund had been looking at it, you will hardly be able to imagine what a relief those green patches were after the endless white."

(C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe)

Late Rent

I concede that I have many character flaws; however, being blatantly irresponsible is not one of them. I pay my bills on time, attend my appointments, and even do my visiting teaching. Thus, I was deeply disturbed when I received a notice in the mail entitled, "Demand for Possession, Non-Payment of Rent." Apparently, for the first time in my life (if my memory serves me right) I forgot to pay rent. Given the cacophony in my brain of late, I'm not terribly surprised. And I'm sure it's cause for great distress when a landlord doesn't get rent. But still -- was it really necessary to threaten to throw me off the manor?! The notice informed me that I "must do one of the following within seven days from the date this notice was served: a. pay the rent owed or b. move out or vacate the premises. If you do not do one of the above, your landlord/landlady may take you to court to evict you." Then there's a big black box in the bottom of the form entitled, "How to get legal help."

(Brief philosophical aside: Why do people so often rush to harsh judgment? My adviser speaks of "generosity of spirit" - a virtue that seems to be desperately needed in our society. It's a beautiful thing when someone gives you the benefit of the doubt -- and usually goes further in encouraging positive behavior and attitudes than threats and punishment.)

I confess that I rushed to harsh condemnation of my landlord after receiving this not-so-friendly-practically-arrest-warrant. In fact, my first response was to write a scathing letter -- which thanks to the better judgment of a friend, I chose not to send. Instead, I enclosed the following poem with my rent check.

Do you think I've just increased my chances of eviction? (Perhaps if I do have to live on the street, I can make a few dollars as an itinerant poet?)

An Ode to Form MCL 600.5714(1)(a): Demand for Possession

I once had a horrible week -
The future was looking quite bleak.
With troubles galore,
and patience no more,
I caused my dear landlord to freak.

My timing for crisis was poor –
(couldn’t be worse, to be sure).
The first day of May?
You’ve got rent to pay!
But all reason went right out the door.

Up till now, I had been a good renter
when I suddenly hit a nerve center.
“Get out the big guns!”
“What if she’s out of funds?!”
cried the boss when the room he did enter.

Swift action is urgently needed,
“Arrest her!” he fervently pleaded.
“This person’s a crook!”
“It’s written here in this book!”
“The deadline for rent’s been exceeded!”

Unaware that I’d made a mistake
and was acting a lot like a flake,
I felt very alarmed
(not a tiny bit charmed)
when the “notice” did cause me to quake.

My rent plus a late fee’s enclosed
-my sin is now fully exposed.
I’ll not do it again.
(Amen and amen!)
And as penance this poem I’ve composed.

Diva-land

I want to be a diva. Correction: I will be a diva. At least that's what my voice teacher, Joann, seems to think. Actually, she would argue till the final curtain call that I am a diva. As for me, I'm still dubious.

For those of you who weren't aware, I have been taking voice lessons for several months now. My friend, Cherice, and I drive 45 minutes to Jackson each Thursday afternoon to shriek like a fire engine and cast off the nice, understated church choir voice that has been trapping the inner diva for all these years. It's remarkably satisfying actually.

Joann is an amazing teacher --more like a coach. She is absolutely convinced that under her tutelage anyone can sing. And she's probably right. Her tactics are a bit unconventional, but I must say, they really work! For instance, she acts utterly unconcerned about whether or not we practice -- but if we should be so inclined, she recommends 15 minutes, twice a day. She's all about stage presence, but doesn't require students to memorize or polish pieces before they perform. (Case in point: at one lesson, I sang a little Dvorak piece for the first time. "That's wonderful!" she chirped, "I'll put you down to sing this at the recital." The recital was in two weeks! And yes, I left all self-respect at the door and shaking from head to toe, performed a most amateur rendition of the Dvorak ditty. No one else could have conned me into such a thing!) Joann steeps us in mental imagery and positive thinking. ("Getting hung up about your mistakes is like driving with your eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror!) Yet, she does not accept mediocrity.

At our lesson today, Joann gave us advice should we ever be asked to sing at a funeral. "Put your music in a black folder so you can hide a copy of the Reader's Digest. You must not talk to or look at anyone until after you sing. In the meantime, you sit quietly in the back reading the jokes in the Reader's Digest until it's time to perform. It's the only way to get through a song at a funeral without falling apart!" Not that I'm regularly asked to sing at funerals -- or anywhere for that matter -- but forewarned is forearmed, I suppose.

And then after some intense coaching involving the gag reflex, I sang a high A-flat!!