Score!

One thing James has taught me is that joy comes from the little things, but you have to allow yourself to toss away your pride and just get giddy.  (I live to hear his little "squee!" when I make Rice Krispies and if you've never heard it, you life is that much poorer.)

So I went out running errands today and as I was checking out at the Home Depot, I randomly decided to get cash back based on a conversation I had with the owner of the baking supply shop at my previous stop.  We had been talking about how people use their debit cards for the most minute purchases and how it sometimes costs the store more to charge the purchase than to just give the merchandise away for free.  In any case, I'd given him my last four dollar bills and decided to get some cash for future impulse purchases.  As I was at a U-Check station, I scanned my purchase and agreed to the $10 cash back before looking down to the little slot where my cash should appear, only to find a one dollar bill where my ten should be.  Well!  I held the measly dollar up for the cashier, who was manning the four different stations, to see and said, "Um, this should be a ten" in what I hoped was not my biz-natch voice, but probably was (James always points it out when I get saucy with the cashiers, but he wasn't there).  Then, the poor man came over and very nicely reached up further into the slot and produced my wayward ten dollar bill.  "They sometimes don't come all the way down the slope," he explained very nicely, especially considering my tart little remark earlier.  "So, this one dollar is a bonus?" I asked hopefully.  "Sometimes people don't take all their cash," he agreed (or I'm assuming he was agreeing with me, as I didn't wait around for him to ask for it as re-payment for my little attitude hissy).

So, free dollar!  Score!  Here's a picture of my loot, taken along side the ten for perspective.

Motivated Mathematics

I've always loved math.  I was the Math Olympiad winner three years running in elementary school.  I used to write myself long long-division problems during summer vacation just because I was bored.  What's 36,183,756,383,729 divided by 26?  Let's find out!  (Not really - I've since discovered the joy of calculators.)

Anyway, when James and I decided to make Rice Krispy squares this evening, I thought I had enough ingredients, but when we got home, I found that one of the bags of marshmallows in the pantry was fruit flavored.  No way.  And I wasn't about to go back out and buy more marshmallows, so I took stock of what I did have.

  

Four cups of mini-mallows (mallow-flavored).

Now, my cardinal rule of Krispy squares is this:

5 Tbsp butter

6 cups mini mallows

9 cups Rice Krispies

So, with four cups of mallows and a major Krispy jonsin', what's a girl to do?  Anwer: fractions!

First, since the mallows determine our lowest common denominator, I needed to find the conversion rate between what I usually use and what I have:  6 x ? = 4

Anybody?  Anybody?  Buhler?  2/3 is the conversion factor.

So, now to convert the Krispies and the butter by 2/3.

5 x 2/3 = 10/3 or 3 1/3 tbsp butter

9 x 2/3 = 6 cups Krispies

 

Then I was faced with another problem: I don't have a casserole dish 2/3 the size of my regular dish.  But I did have one roughly half the size, and thanks to the laws of displacement...

Super tall Krispy squares!

So, did I get the magic formula right?

I only caught the first bite because it's hard to take pictures and eat a Krispy square at the same time.  Gets the camera all sticky.

Mmm . . . oh yeah, I got it right . . .

In case I forget

So, to remind myself of what my little apartment is supposed to look like, here are some pictures:

I especially like the scriptures lying expectantly on the table.  Now, if I only sat here to eat more often...

They say you can tell a person's most treasured item because they place it in the corner furthest from the door.  As of this morning, I moved the TV and put Stanley, my cello, in that corner.  I tried putting The Boy there, but he won't stay put!

Proud artist - I made that trunk myself!  Just moved it into the position of coffee table this afternoon.

And now, for my next project:

So many books...

I'm actually not allowed to organize this one, but in the interest of being thorough, I threw it in.

This one, on the other hand, is all my mess.  I guess I'm not allowed to quilt until I clean it.  Or stack it somewhere else... No!  Must clean mess!

Just not today.

Mercury and Jupiter

I had a professor once who said his life was controlled by Mercury and Jupiter: most of the time, he was in a slow, ponderous orbit, millions of miles from anything productive, but occasionally he would whip into a storm of energy and production.  I've never had a professor with whom I identified so much (you see, he was an English professor, so I had to contort that sentence around so the preposition is floating somewhere in the middle instead of dangling precariously at the end - I hope I did it right).

I'm sure James often comes home from work and wonders how I manage to have so much time off and yet the house is the same slovenly hole it was when he left it before dawn that morning.  Books piled haphazardly on the coffee table, being kept company by the only major change in the decor: dirty dishes from breakfast and lunch stacked next to the piles of DVDs pulled out and never returned to their place on the shelf.  Sometimes I'm still in my pajamas, though I try to get to the bathroom to brush my teeth when I hear him coming up the stairs.  I've had at least nine hours of free time since he last saw me; how could I have nothing productive to show for it?

Then there are those other rare days, when he gets home and I (as if to prove that those other days are simple a very common fluke) immediately launch into the laundry list of tasks I have managed to accomplish since he kissed me goodbye this morning (btw, I love it that he kisses me goodbye in the morning, even though I usually grumble at the time).  I show all the organized shoes in the closet (he gets the lion's share of space both for the quantity and size of his size 13 collection of Doc Marten boots), the scrubbed kitchen floor and oven and range and hood, I nonchalantly mention the folded laundry in the drawers and the sparkling clean toilets and how Hamlet was terrorized by the vacuum - the vacuum! - and what could I make for dinner?  This happens about once a month.  Then Jupiter takes charge again and here I am, sitting in my pajamas at 12:35 pm and debating clearing off the coffee table before 3:45, when the boy gets home.  If only I could tap into Mercury more often, or figure out how it works so I could harness it at will.

These things I know:

1. I work better in the morning, before breakfast and a shower.  I have no idea why hunger motivates me, but I know that getting on my hands-and-knees to scrub bathroom floors after a shower just ain't gonna happen, so if I'm planning on cleaning (hah!), I delay the shower.  Of course, that usually backfires if I don't clean, and am still stinky at a quarter-to-four, when J gets home...

2. Music helps.  I got J a portable player for his iPod and just truck it around to whatever room I'm working on at the time.  If the music goes away, I get distracted really easily.  Putting books away, music fades into the distance, Hey, I haven't read this book in a long time...bye bye, clean house.

3. Speaking of getting distracted, if I get distracted cleaning a room and end up focusing on one particular corner, I just go with it.  Otherwise, the hood over the range would never get clean.  I spent an entire afternoon once cleaning out the oven and then behind the oven, and then the backside of the oven, when I was really just trying to tidy up the kitchen and do the dishes.  Oh well.  James can do the dishes.  How often have either of us cleaned behind the oven in the 3.75 years we've lived here? (Answer: once)

4. After I get done with my frenzies, I wish I'd taken before-and-after pictures, because clean just looks so good!  My biggest regret of this type is when I took Comet with bleach and steel wool to the nasty grimy shower floor.  It took me three showers (ok, so I clean the shower when I'm in the shower, taking a shower.  It just makes sense to me.  Don't judge me.) to get the whole thing clean, and it's just a stand-up shower, not a bathtub.  By then end, it was beautiful and white, but who would ever notice?  It's not like it shouldn't be white.  I almost wanted to leave a little grimy corner to remind me of my accomplishments.  But I didn't.  

5. I love new stuff because it looks better clean.  Although it's just an apartment, it's a newer apartment, unlike the trendy, vintage look that catches such a high premium here in the NW.  I love it, because when I clean the kitchen, the countertops are white, the floor is clean, and there aren't any corners of just-won't-ever-be-clean grime and mildew.  There are stains, but they're few and easily hidden in the tan carpet.  I hope to find the same qualities in a house some day (soon?).

6.  I love to be appreciated.  Although I realize that James does at least 60% of the housework, when I get into one of my frenzies, all I can think of is "He's going to love this so much!" and it makes me work harder.  That's not to say that "He would love it if I cleaned the house" is a motivating force, but once I get going, it keeps the ball rolling.  And he always delivers, that wonderful man of mine, in spite of the fact that he does at least 60% of the housework on a daily basis.  (I'm probably underestimating him, but if I say 75%, I'll feel far too slovenly to continue quilting, writing, surfing, practicing my cello, reading...)

So, on that note, I'm going to finish clearing off the coffee table, vacuuming the main rooms, moving stuff down to the garage, re-arranging the furniture, emptying the dishwasher, brushing the cat (before vacuuming, I hope), showering and looking presentable for my boy in 2.75 hours!

What I really need

I saw this on Lindy's blog and thought it was hilarious. You type in "[your first name] needs" into google.com and post the first ten things listed. Here goes:

1. Kristina needs a two parent adoptive family with one or two older children. (So THAT'S where I came from!)
2. Kristina needs to find something to do tonight to keep her mind occupied. (Hmmm, maybe some mindless blogging??)
3. Kristina needs your help. (This one's fairly straight forward, I suppose.)
4. Kristina needs a good kick in the ass! Oh yeah...and soy gelato. (Insightful, since I've recently discovered I'm lactose intolerant, but I really don't like soy much.)
5. Kristina needs lots of support for speech therapy and occupational therapy. Kristina needs your help. Kristina needs a bone marrow transplant. (As a BMT nurse, this one really caught my attention.)
6. Kristina needs some serious help. (Did you ever doubt it?)
7. Kristina needs a tech makeover. (I don't even know what this means.)
8. Kristina needs a tent revival. (Amen, sista!)
9. Kristina needs a JJJOOOBBB!!! (Thank heavens, I already have one, but I only have a job, not a JJJOOOBBB!!!, so maybe I'm missing something in my place of employment.)
10. Kristina needs encouragement. (Boy, don't I! Namely, at the aforementioned job, or maybe it IS a JJJOOOBBB!!!)

Now what Kristina REALLY needs: to stop blogging and _go_to_bed!

Sweet melodious tones of the...

...cello.  When we were first married, James bought me a CD titled "Romantic Cello," complete with embracing couple pictured on the front in a vaguely European setting.  Anyway, it took about thirty seconds of listening to realize that there was some miscommunication between the cover art people and the playlist people.  Sure, it was cello music and, strictly speaking, "romantic," but only in the classical sense, as in "from the Romance Era of classical music."  Like, Tchaikovsky.  Beautiful sweeping melodies, dripping with emotion, grand sforzandos and crashing cymbals, tied together with delicate pianissimo trills and descants.  Beautiful stuff, but definitely not smoochy music; the suddenness of the fortissimo can be jarring when played by candle-light.  So the CD sat on the shelf for many months, and then somehow made its way into my car, silent, un-played, and waiting.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago.  James and I are taking a short road trip to Astoria and in my haste, I fail to pack any good music for the road.  We're on our way home and I come across this CD, "Romanic Cello," crammed into one of the door wells.  Well, it's better than listening to one of the other three CDs we've already grown tired of on our trip, so I pop it in.  As we're not smooching while driving, we're able to better appreciate the intent of the Romantic composers and the cellists who pay them homage.

Since that fateful voyage, the CD has not left my car CD player.  Given the fact that I drive much less than I once did, one is less inclined to wonder that I don't grow tired of the same nine songs played over and over again.  Rather the contrary - I came into a familiarity and fondness for many of the songs.  One piece in particular moved me greatly, such that I went to the local music store and bought the sheet music.  Thus has begun  the renewal of my acquaintance with my dear old friend, Stanley.

I first met Stanley when he was rather new and I was fourteen.  Through the previous three years of hard work and determination, I had earned the right to move up from my old cello, Chelsea, a top-of-the-line machine-made cello, to a hand crafted instrument of music.  Chelsea is blonde and sturdy, but Stanley is a beautiful chestnut brown with a thin, delicate neck and graceful scroll.  We bought him new from his crafter, Wayne Burak, a budding luthier and retired first chair cellist in the Ft. Worth Symphony Orchestra.

I'll admit, Stanley is no Stradivarius, but he's mine, he's beautiful, and I love him.  Because we bought him new, Wayne placed an inscription on the inside that reads, "For Kristina Martinsen," whom I am no longer, but Stanley has stayed with me nevertheless, through the years of diligent practice and shameful neglect alike.

For over the last week, Stanley and I have become reacquainted.  I've pulled out some of my old practice material as well as working through Kol Nidre, by Max Bruch, the genius that inspired my renaissance.  This piece is about on par (or perhaps ever so slightly below) with where I left off oh so many years ago.  Composed mostly in tenor clef with equal parts bass and treble thrown in for a good range of tone.  I'm developing callouses in all the old places and some new ones (namely, along my left thumb as I develop my "thumb position" callouses).  After a few days of sore bowing and weak fourth finger vibrato, my muscles have also begun to re-develop.

I find that the more I play, the more I can play, and therefore the more I want to play.  My only regret is that unlike when I was in school and would prepare for a concert or competition, I now have no goal in mind when I practice beyond my own enjoyment.  On second thought, perhaps that might not be considered a regret.  Rather, my regret is that I have no venue to share the music I am creating.  Don't get me wrong - I'm sure there are plenty of venues available for an amateur cellist yearning to share her half-baked gift with the world (the street corners of Portland come to mind), but I'll admit I'm just not that brave and/or confident.  I have touched upon a fairly simple piece that I intend to share with my church congregation (assuming it sounds more complete with the piano accompaniment), so I suppose that's a start.  I know of an adult amateur orchestra in the area; perhaps I'll seek it or something of the like out.  Let's see how far this re-awakened hobby carries me.

(On a slightly related note, my sewing machine has been in the shop for a week and will be so for another . . . we'll see what happens when I get it back and have to divide my hobby time between the audio and the visual.)

p.s. I'll post pictures of my beautiful cello later.  I'm learning thumb position and he's embarrassed to be seen with tape on his fingerboard.