I have 7 days

No, no. I didn’t watch a video and then receive a phone call from a creepy-voiced character telling me I have 7 days.

I have 7 days to kick a habit.

A habit I’ve had all my life.

I bite my nails.

The only time I managed to stop was right before my wedding. I wore a rubber band on my wrist and snapped myself anytime I realized I was biting my nails. I guess the wedding was motivation, but as soon as it was over, so was the rubber band snapping and soon my nails were gone again.

The reason I have given myself 7 days is because today is 7 days away from my 28^th birthday. My mom has always said she had a habit of biting her nails when she was young, but stopped when she was 28. Her reason: she got engaged at 28 and didn’t want people looking at her ring and then turning up their nose at her short fingernails that had obviously been destroyed by her own teeth.

Whenever mom would tell me the story about how it took a ring at age 28 for her to stop, I would simply reply, “well I have ___ years left then!”

Well, D Day has arrived. It’s time. I can no longer cling to my last “reasonable” justification for a bad habit I believe developed in the womb.

We’ve tried the liquid you paint on your nails that burns and leaves a horrible taste in your mouth if you bite. We’ve tried scraping a bar of soap (a Grandma Chris recommendation), but my nails were barely long enough to do much scraping. We’ve even tried bribes…my mom offered me $10 a fingernail if I could grown them out and keep them that way for a certain amount of time. We’ve tried all sorts of tricks, tips, punishments and bets.

So, with the 28^th in sight, I have painted my nails to help me out in this all-or-nothing attempt to stop. I’ve already repainted my two pointer fingers and as you’ll note from the pictures below, I’ll need to repaint them again tonight.

These were taken at 11:44 a.m. this morning. I’m going to post pictures from time to time to help hold myself to my challenge.

Wish me and my 10 buddies luck.

Why Scrambled Eggs Remind Me of My Cat

I had a friend named Kristine when I was little. We met in Sunday School and quickly became friends because we shared a name and because were wearing the same sweater the day we met. It was red and black with several black bows attached to the front. It was pretty stylin’.

Kristine and I would go to one another’s houses almost every Sunday after church. At her house we’d play outside in the tree fort or their motor home, inside throwing things down the laundry shoot and we’d even go down the street at her neighbor’s house so we could jump on their trampoline.

Kristine’s family had a few farm cats around, and one Sunday, one of the momma kitties introduced us to her new litter. I fell deeply in love with the runt. I felt bad that he was small and I felt even worse when Kristine’s dad explained the likely fate of a runt. I scooped him up, called my parents and begged them to let me bring the little guy home.

I had to do a lot of begging, but I got to bring Runt home. We’d only ever had a pet dog that we called our own. Her name was Jessica. We had all sorts of stray cats and dogs wondering around, but Jessica was ours. She got run over by a cement truck right in front of my brothers and me one day while we were out with our mom who was turning on the irrigation pump. But that’s another story for another time.

Runt was a playful kitty and grew to be one of the larger cats I’ve ever seen. He enjoyed attacking his rainbow colored bear and joining me in a game of “chase your brothers around the house.” He was so playful that my second-grade self decided that his name should be Playful.

Yes. I named a cat a verb. I was in second grade, ok!

Playful, in true farm cat form, would sometimes take his playfulness a little too far. Without notice, he would attack, claws bared and sharp teeth glinting. We quickly learned that he didn’t enjoy being petted anywhere but his head. Once in a while, he’d let us stroke his back, but if you liked your hands, legs and even face scar free, it behooved you to stick to his head only.

Playful, being the lucky animal we called our real pet, was allowed to come in the house from time to time. Other animals had to tough it outside 24/7.

Now, the moment you’ve been waiting for…

Sometimes he even got bowls of leftover salmon. What a lucky kitty!

If we ran out of cat food, I’d scramble an egg in the micro for Playful. Good golly did he love scrambled eggs. I think he liked how it kept his coat shiny. He’d scarf them right up and then go back outside to hunt gophers, birds and the occasional, unfortunate, bunny.

Playful was in our lives until the fall I went to college. My mom called me at school to let me know that shortly after I left for WSU, Playful disappeared. They hadn’t found him anywhere, but she just wanted me to know. I was ok with that, he was old. However, I did like to pretend he was roaming the Palouse in search of me because he missed curling up, one foot over the other, next to me on my bed. And no one else at home was going to make him a scrambled egg.

I went home for Thanksgiving break my freshmen year. At some point during the week, my brothers were outside raking leaves, and I was inside helping mom in the kitchen. There was a tap on the window by the kitchen sink so I stood on my tiptoes to find the source. It was my bro Matt. He had a sly grin on his face and then he said, “Hey Chris, I found your cat!” As he said “I found your cat” he lifted up the pitchfork. Lying (not speared) across it, legs crossed, was the barely-there (and still furry, sorry) carcass of my cat.

Playful had passed in his sleep, right in the bushes lining our back yard. I can’t really remember my reaction to the cat on the pitchfork…I probably yelped, chuckled and felt a twinge of sadness, especially because my theory of Playful on the Palouse was busted...but I do remember grabbing a shovel and going out in the orchard with Matt to bury the ol’ Playful.

Playful on the Palouse…now there is an interesting movie name.

Talk about Gourmet!

I microwaved myself a scrambled egg last night for a quick dinner between getting home from work, washing the dishes and heading out to OAG, a weekly church small group gathering.

Whenever I make scrambled eggs in the micro, I think of my friend Sarah. And here’s my roundabout way of telling you why:

Sarah and I met our freshmen year at WSU. We were/are such good buddies that we rented an apartment together our senior year. During our senior year, she would kindly wake up early to drive me to a work (at one of the various campus espresso carts) and I would stay up late to pick her up from work (at one of the various campus convenient markets). That’s what friends are for, right?

Right?

Ride sharing actually started in the spring of our freshmen year. I landed myself a gig with the campus espresso carts, but twice during the first week of work, I had stayed up most of the night with a friend in need. I panicked when I awoke from dozing off and realized I only had 10 minutes to get back to my hall (up the hill), get out of my PJs and get to work across campus (up and down another hill). I ran back to good ol’ Community Hall, rapped on Sarah’s door and begged her to drive me to work. She had been lucky enough to have a (crimson?) parking pass which got her a sweet parking spot right behind our hall. My car was parked in the blue lot by the coliseum, about a mile away and a hill away.

Sarah graciously drove me to work that first day, in her forest-ranger green colored jeep, and she did so later that week when I had been up all night again. I’m still grateful for her doing that -- it was my first week after all, and I was mortified that I was late. Twice. I was lucky to keep my job.

Back to the egg. I still worked at campus carts my senior year (no doubt because of Sarah driving my late bootie to work my freshmen year!). During our first week as seniors at WSU I had a 6 a.m. start time at the CUB campus cart (RIP old CUB. RIP). Sarah got up to drive and while I finished getting ready, eyes half open, I asked if she could pop an egg in the micro so I could eat on the way to work.

“An egg? Um, ok,” she said, eyes half open.

About 25 seconds later I heart a POP! and a YELP! from the kitchen.

I thought everyone scrambled eggs in the micro from time to time…apparently it was just an Emerson thing. Sarah had never heard of this before so she popped an egg -- in the shell -- in the microwave, just as I had asked.

That egg exploded.

Stinky, exploded egg easily frustrated us at 5:45 a.m. – especially because I’m sure we were nursing a welcome-back-week party hangover. We laugh about it now though, and thanks to that explosion, I’m known in Sarah’s family as the one who introduced them to the microwaved scrambled egg.

Imagine going through life not leaning on the microwaved scrambled egg for a quick snack, breakfast or dinner before bible study! Where would these families be with me? I imagine they’d be hungry during bible study and/or stuck washing icky cooked-on egg from sauté pans for the rest of their lives.

There you have it. The reason scrambled eggs ala microwave remind me of my friend Sarah.

They also remind me of my old cat, but that’s another story for another time.

In the meantime...

We've been waiting for both cars to return to us so we could post a post about how the prodigal cars have returned.

However, it appears that the Mazda Tribute is more of a problem child/car than its sibling, my first born/bought car, the Mazda 3.

This seems to go along with the idea of sibling birth order in families, doesn't it? The first born tries to stay out of trouble while the second one likes to see just how far the rubber band of patience stretches before it snaps.

Snaps!

We love both cars just the same, and upon the Tribute's return home to our apartment parking lot, I plan on yelling out to Justin, "Quick! Bring the best car cover and put it on him. Put an air freshener on his rear-view mirror and new tires on his rims. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let's have a feast and celebrate. For this car of mine was damaged and is back to normal again; he was hurt and is repaired."

Ben, the repairman, said the car part they're waiting on should arrive tomorrow and that we should expect to get it back early this week (although that's what they said last week...). We'll keep ya posted.

We know you've been wondering...

PS -- I'm not going to spend too much time thinking about the fact that I wrote "first born car." I know it's weird I did so in the first place, but I typed it out without first pulling up the mental image.

PPS -- To Joe/Curtis and all other middle/second born children of the world. You know your oldest siblings love you immensely. And not just because you were able to create enough drama so that the attention was off of we older children long enough so we could act out and no one would notice. Promise :)

PPSS -- Special thanks goes out to Jesus' "The Parable of the Lost Son" for inspiring that last bit. You can read the original parable in the bible in Luke, chapter 15.

PPPSSS -- We have reason to believe a slug is living in my rental car. Reason: there is a slug trail running the length of the backseat and it then the trail trails to the front seat. It could have been moving the opposite direction, but either way, I find it quite disturbing. A slug!??

Wake me up when September ends

This is the car that rear ended Justin TODAY.

This is the back of the RENTAL CAR Justin was driving at the time.

It was one of those moments where you’re stopped in traffic, look in the rear-view mirror and say out loud: Oh, that car isn’t going to stop.

And it doesn't.

Thankfully, everyone is OK (again), though Justin’s neck is a bit more sore this time.

In the words of Green Day, wake me up when September ends.

A Tale of Two Mazdas

It's a good thing we have only two cars.

I'm not sure how many more stress knots our backs can handle.

And I'm also sure that our insurance representative wouldn't answer the phone if she saw our number pop up again.

Over the course of two Fridays, last Friday, Sept. 10th, and yesterday, Sept. 17th, we've managed to send both of our rides, the Mazda 3 and the Mazda Tribute, to the Mazda repair shop. Thankfully, only the cars had to go to the hospital. Neither one of us or the other drivers did.

This is the Mazda 3 that Justin was driving Friday, Sept. 10th:


He got front-end T-boned by a gal with a learner's permit, who was accompanied by someone with a suspended license, as she turned to cross 4 lanes of traffic, only to find that not all the lanes had stopped to let her through. The impact, which wasn't at a high rate of speed, thank goodness, pushed the car up and onto a curb and into a pole. The other side of the car had a flat tire and the bumper is bent out a bit.

Outside damage doesn't look too bad, but there are a few things to deal with inside. Thankfully, Justin left without a scratch, as did the two ladies. He was just a bit sore for a few days.

This is the Mazda tribute that was parked innocently on the side of the road on Friday, Sept. 17th, while I was working away inside the store.

I would like to point out that I had in fact parked within the real parking lines, so the Tribute was pushed up a good 4 feet or so, with the emergency brake on.

A fellow apparently ran into the Mazda. Some of the store employees heard it, saw the truck leave, and came inside to deliver the bad news. We all assumed it would have been a hit and run, but the fellow came back, we chatted and he left again to go get his insurance info.

In the meantime I called the PD to ask for someone to come by in the event we needed a case report or something. The kind officer simply facilitated the exchange of our information, said she enjoyed shopping at our store, and then went about her business.

We had the Tribute towed to the fix-it place because the damage was near the gas tank and things had been pushed up near the tire and I wasn't too comfortable with the idea of driving it over to the East Bay to our friendly repairman.

So now Justin and I each have a rental car. He has a silver Ford Fusion and I have a blue Nissan Altima. By the way, State Farm and Grange Insurance have been wonderful to work with during these events.

It's been a fun ride. No pun intended. We're just thankful all drivers involved are ok!

Oh the 17th

Though it's technically the 18th, I, along with a few others, think of the 17th as the day we lost Matt. It was the 17th in the U.S., but the 18th in Iraq.

I miss you so much, Tiller!!

(Matilda is what I used to call Matt from time to time. I eventually shortened to Tiller, and he would answer to it, so it stuck!)

Today is also Steven's birthday. Miss you too, bud!