Adventures in Babysitting

So, I babysat three kids yesterday. Desiree is 10, Jared is 8 and Lars is 3, I think. (He and I were never able to reach a real conclusion here.) Their collective English ability consists of: "Hello, my name is ...", "What is your favorite color?", and "Do you have guinea pigs?" (Which, of course, is WAY ahead my second language ability at their ages. But I digress ...) So this naturally made things extra interesting. At no point more so than when, in the pouring rain, I locked myself and Desiree out of the house (Jared was at karate), leaving Lars all by himself watching us through the second floor window with an expression of mild concern.

To explain how this happened, I must explain German doors. Unlike private exterior doors in America, which have knobs and locks that must be manually set from either inside the door or with a key from the outside, all German private exterior doors (at least all that I've encountered) have no exterior knob. They just have this handle apparatus that does nothing to manipulate the latch and lock keeping the door closed. It's just there for convenience when pushing the door open. The thing — and I stress the ONLY thing — that can open the door from the outside is a key. So a closed door is ALWAYS locked to the outside. This means you never never never let that door close behind you without your key on your person. I have been pretty obsessive-compulsive about this so far. I check my purse at least three times for my keys before I leave the apartment because I am terrified of being locked out.

Which brings me to yesterday. Desiree gets home from school and buzzes from outside the yard gate (the gate works the same way as the doors — always locked — and I have to push a button from inside that lets her in). So I push the button, but she buzzes again. I push a different button, thinking I messed up and pushed the wrong one initially. She buzzes again. I look outside at her, bewildered. She does some flailing I don't understand. And this is when I apparently lost all sense. I run downstairs and outside to talk to her and see what I'm doing wrong. It's raining and I'm wearing only slippers. She tells me what to do, slowly and with lots of gesturing (I was right the first time, but she didn't catch the gate quick enough). OK! So I turn around to run back inside and ... yes. The door is closed. And then I'm screaming and Desiree is trying to figure out how to climb the fence. And then we see Lars just standing in the window watching us. So we start waving and jumping and pointing toward the front door and — miracle of miracles — he smiles, bobbles down the stairs and opens the door for us.

And that is how I came to owe my life to a toddler with a stinky diaper.



JEM

An Ode to Our Suitcases

I just wanted to announce that as of a couple of days ago, we officially have no clothing in suitcases, backpacks, or garbage bags. It is all now in a closet and a dresser. We're like real live people.

But before we banish our suitcases to the scary basement storage closet, let's reflect.

We bought our three suitcases about five months ago at the noble Deseret Industries, each for under (if I remember correctly) $7. We bought them because they were ginormous and the zippers and wheels still worked. Mostly. After much cramming, vacuum packing, and discarding, we filled them with all the things we couldn't live without.

And then, on July 9 ...

We dragged them through the Salt Lake International Airport, where I apparently turned into a celestial being. We checked them and were reunited with them eight years later in the Dresden airport.

And then we moved into this little rented room, where we spent the next 10 days in a brief stretch of my life I try to avoid thinking about for any length of time. (Jake started work immediately, so I got to sit here by myself all day being alternately freaked out and really bored.) But then, heaven be praised, we found an apartment ...

... where I turned into a lollipop after dragging our stuff up the stairs — and I didn't even do the biggest suitcases. I thought Jake was going to have a stroke. This picture is the strangest of them all for me. This is literally everything we own standing in one corner of a three bedroom apartment that is EMPTY. There was not a horizontal surface other than the floor in the whole place. No fridge, no oven, no kitchen sink, nothing.

But through it all, our trusty Suitcases were there, keeping our clothes and other possessions together and off the floor. Thank you, Suitcases, for your loyal companionship.



JEM

Dresden: Home of the Bra?

So I'm reading "Dresden" by Frederick Taylor and he says in passing in Chapter 3 that the brassiere was invented in Dresden in 1889 by one Christine Hardt. Naturally, I find this fantastic. So I go to the Interwebs to learn more about Fräulein Hardt. And I can't find any mention of her or that year with regard to the advent of the bra. In fact I can't find one solid answer as to who did, actually, invent the bra.

A lot of people (including MIT) seem to side with New York socialite Mary Phelps Jacobs who sewed together two silk handkerchiefs and some ribbon so she wouldn't have to wear a corset with her evening gown in 1913.

Others claim it was a German man named Otto Titzling who, in 1912, engineered a sort of reconfigured half-corset with shoulder straps for an ample-chested opera-singing acquaintance. The story goes that his idea was swiped and patented by a Frenchie named Phillip de Brassiere. But Snopes.com says that whole story is total bunk, completely fabricated by Wallace Reyburn in the satirical book called "Bust-Up: The Uplifting Tale of Otto Titzling and the Development of the Bra".

Still others say that if we're going to get down to the nitty-gritty of it, the bra was really invented by the Minoans in the seventh century B.C.

But, if it's OK with everyone, I'm going to stick with Frederick Taylor on this just so that I can say that I live in the home of the brassiere.



JEM

Five things ...

Usually I find surveys pretty dull, but I saw this one on my pal Dani's blog (www.vestlife.blogspot.com) and found it more telling and interesting than most. So here goes nothing ...

Five things I was doing 10 years ago: (October 1997 — high school freshman, age 14)*
1. Stalking three or four different older boys (who shall remain unnamed to protect the innocent) at Hillcrest High.
2. Playing guitar constantly at my house or at friends' houses. When not near a guitar, I was thinking about playing guitar.
3. Thinking a lot about whether the age difference would be a problem if I were to marry Jakob Dylan, lead singer of the Wallflowers. (He was 28 at the time, exactly twice my age. And the Wallflowers hadn't gone crap yet.)
4. Going to D.I.
5. Watching "That Thing You Do" over and over.

*For the record all of these things were done with my dear friend Marci.

Five things on my "to do list" today:
1. Buy cereal. (Check. Can't go the weekend without our SwietWiet and Red Berry Wellance!!)
2. Clean the apartment. (Check. Obscene amounts of dust swept up in bedroom. Yuck.)
3. Download "The Office." (Going to do as soon as I finish this.)
4. Get to 100 pages in novel. (Almost check. Still two pages shy.)
5. Deutsch lesson. (Check. I can now talk to a cab driver in German.)

Five things I would do if I were a millionaire:
1. Furnish this blasted apartment.
2. Take German classes.
3. Buy those smoking hot black boots I've been eyeing at the shoe store.
4. Travel. And fly all my family and friends out here to do it with me.
5. Buy Jake all the gadgetry he could handle without exploding.

Five things I will never wear again:
1. Really baggy old man polyester pants. (Thanks, Jake, for turning my life around by putting your foot down here. Yes, I was still doing this in college.)
2. Scrunchies.
3. Exploded bangs.
4. Shoulder pads.
5. Any jewelry item that has a green alien head on it ... OK, I might wear that again.

My favorite toys:
1. The Interwebs.
2. Nintendo DS.
3. Guitar.
4. Knitting needles and yarn.
5. iPod.

I don't think that turned out nearly as interesting as I thought it would.



JEM

Happy Birthday, Jake!

While I bum around all day, Jake analyzes data about gene networks dealing with the hippocampus. If anyone wants tips on marrying way out of your league, just let me know, I'm an expert.

Today is my wonderful husband's 27th birthday, so let's get to know him better with 20 Quick Facts About Jake!

1. Loves milk.
2. Recently lost 11 pounds with sledgehammer workout routine. (Don't fret, we'll talk more about this later.)
3. Is a leader for the Young Men in our ward.
4. Loves video game "Half Life 2".
5. Reads books with titles like "Electric Sensors for the Evil Genius" for pure enjoyment.
6. Favorite color is orange.
7. Favorite band is U2.
8. Used to be an Audi/VW car salesman.
9. Fifth of six kids.
10. Least favorite chore: dishes.
11. Most favorite chore: vacuuming.
12. Must dance whenever he hears "Chains of Love" by Erasure.
13. Afraid of aliens and heights.
14. Builds computers for fun.
15. Has hair EXACTLY like Trapper John from M*A*S*H.
16. Weakness for puppies.
17. Currently working toward his Ph.D. in bioinformatics.
18. Believes androids will be commonplace within our lifetimes. (I disagree, but we still make it work.)
19. Of all the superheroes, he most identifies with Batman.
20. Against all his better judgment he married me on Dec. 20, 2002.

I love you like crazy, mein Schatz, and I hope you have a wonderful day.



JEM

Pro 2: Amazing Art in Random Places

In the Intermountain West, where I'm from originally, if there is any manmade structure that is pretty or old (100 years old is old) it's treated like diamonds. The city puts plaques and little gardens around it. They get it certified as a historical whatever. The local watercolor society paints pictures of it in every season and from every angle. It is adored.

Something I've noticed here is that pretty and old are the rule, not the exception. There are fantastic sculptures and stunning architecture everywhere. And it's no big whoop. They don't put up plaques telling you every detail about its creation. As a matter of fact, most people don't really seem to notice it at all.

This couple in the photo is flanking the window of a dentist's office. Not a palace or a museum. A dentist's office. I ride by them on the bus all the time, and I love them. But I don't think I've ever seen anyone else look up at them. In fact, the wall just below them (I purposely cut it out of the photo) is splattered with graffiti.

I haven't decided yet if the nonchalance is refreshing or disconcerting, but I definitely enjoy soaking it all in, no matter what the locals think (or don't think) of it. I'll post more pictures of the public art for your enjoyment as I take them.



JEM

Communist Plumbing and You

I feel that our bathroom plumbing warrants a word. You can see here that we do not have a shower. Not that I didn't try to shower when we first moved here. It didn't work very well. Mostly I just splashed all over the non-tiled walls and the place smelled like wet, musty paint for a while. So I relunctantly succumbed to the bath. Before this I hadn't bathed since childhood. Well, in the sense that I didn't sit in a person-sized ceramic bowl of hot water. I did clean myself. I just showered, was all. At first I hated my return to the bath. I hated all the contortions involved with leg-shaving and washing all those parts that aren't very accessible when sitting. But I've gotten my routine down, now, and I thoroughly enjoy my baths. Maybe you can tell from my happy boiled lobster toes in this picture. I even (with my dear husband's help) created a bathtime mix on iTunes. I'd always hated the Beatles' song "Octopus's Garden", but it turns it that's only because I'd never listened to it while scrubbing up in a tub.

But enough about my hygiene. The really interesting thing here is our stunning faucet arrangement. I'm not sure why the communists were opposed to having two faucets in the bathroom, but I have to admit, I find the set up rather ingenious engineering-wise, if not sort of useless. The faucet, as you can tell, swivels between the sink and the tub, and the shower head comes straight out of the sink faucet. Making it impossible to brush your teeth while running a bath. I suppose with my schedule, I can afford to lose a little multi-tasking.

That third fixture, between the shower and the faucet is our washer hookup. The hose runs along the base of the tub and attaches to the washer, which sits right next to your head when you're sitting in the tub. The washing machines drains, as I've mentioned before, but still haven't gotten over, through an open-ended hose that I have to remember to lay in the tub anytime I do a load. So there goes another multi-tasking option: No doing laundry while anyone's taking a bath. Unless they like to bathe in dirty laundry water.

Strange that my amazing Doc Brown bathroom is able to do all the multi-tasking it wants, but in the process it leaves me even less productive than normal.



JEM