My first job out of college was working for the youth ministry at my home church. Part of my job as the administrative assistant for the Sr. High group was to keep track of our department budget and make sure we weren’t overspending. Being as about as financially and math savvy as a squirrel, this part of my role intimidated me, but I tried to suck it up and keep track as best I could.
At one meeting with my boss man, the youth pastor, he mentioned that he wanted me to print out our current financial status on a quarterly basis so that we could review the figures together. Already feeling flustered by the budget analysis, and remaining true to my blond roots, I replied, “Right. Can you define quarterly?”
Matt blinked at me for a second, then responded, “Every three months.”
Desperately trying to save face, I said, “Oh, yeah” and left his office not too long afterwards.
A few days later, once I realized just how stupid I’d sounded, I reminded Matt of this incident and he burst out laughing. He admitted that he’d desperately wanted to laugh at the time, but didn’t want to offend me because he could tell I was serious. This remains a favorite joke for us to toss at each other from time to time, though I still blush at the memory.
11 April 2011
31 January 2011
Light on the Subject
JUST because I believe in honesty...and because I dearly love to laugh, even if it's at my own expense...I present to you Embarrassing Moment #1,456. (Calculating the corresponding number for this particular embarrassing moment is an inexact science...I assume that I've embarrassed myself at least once a week during my lifetime, x 52 weeks in a year x 28 years of life = you get the idea.)
A few months ago, I purchased some lamps at IKEA in an effort to make my cubicle at work feel a bit cozier and a bit less, well, like a boring old cubicle. I was particularly stoked about the larger of the two lamps that I purchased, which is adjustable in height and therefore perfect for sitting behind my computer monitor.
Now, if you've ever been to my apartment either in Austria or the U.S., you'll know that I have an incredible affinity for Most Things IKEA, and I've assembled a fair number of IKEA articles over time...though, to be fair, I'm not the most technically minded person on the planet and rely heavily upon the written and drawn assembly instructions included with each IKEA article.
Anyhoo, I was super excited to unpack and assemble my new lamps. The smaller one was no problem at all - a very straightforward assembly (I hardly needed to consult the assembly instructions/pictures, but did anyway because that's the way I roll). The assembly of the larger, adjustable lamp went smoothly until it came time to put on the lampshade. When I went to screw in the energy-efficient light bulb, it stood a full three and a half inches above the shade, which in turn obviously did very little to "shade" the light bulb from my eyes...or the eyes of others who came by my cubicle that day. The unshaded bulb spotlighted everyone as if my cubicle had become an interrogation room.
Since the energy-efficient light bulb seemed to be quite taller than other bulbs, I at first blamed it for the lamp malfunction. "Energy efficient it may be, but practical it is not!" I thought. That evening, I ran out to Target and bought some plain, old-fashioned GE light bulbs, thinking that would fix the problem.
Imagine my dismay, however, when I screwed in the plain, old-fashioned GE bulb the next morning only to have the exact same problem - the bulb still stuck out above the top of the shade! I consulted and re-consulted the instructions, but they didn't seem to shed any light on the subject (Ha - pun intended). Not knowing what else to do (and not having many other lighting options, as the fluorescent light above my desk had been extinguished at my request), I left the lamp as it was for the day, feeling discouraged and disgruntled. "You've disappointed me, IKEA!" I groused. "You normally produce pieces of such flawless design, but BOY have you ever screwed this one up!" Adding to my puzzlement was the fact that I didn't remember the lamp's floor model having this problem. I resigned myself to the fact that I'd have to make a special trip to IKEA (the closest one is in Charlotte, a couple of hours' drive away) to return it.
A couple of days later, after my boss was nearly blinded by my faulty lamp upon entering my cube, I was explaining my predicament and pulled out the lamp to show her its faultiness. She took a good look at it and asked, "What if you turned the shade upside down?"
- PAUSE (wait for it...wait for iiiiiiiiiit....) -
Absolute hysteria broke out. Of COURSE! I quickly flipped the shade upside down and EUREKA! The problem was solved, and the shade turned the cornea-scorching eyesore (literally) into the warm, ambience-creating piece that I wanted.
In my defense, the lamp shade is of a uniform width from top to bottom, unlike other shades that are narrower at the top and grow wider at the bottom, so the fact that I had the shade upside down wasn't obvious in that regard...though it SURELY should have been obvious from the way the bulb stuck out at the top. For whatever reason, however, my brain didn't connect those dots, and we now have this little gem of a story because of it. If it amuses you even 1/18th as much as it has me, then all the frustration and subsequent embarrassment was well worth it. :)
A few months ago, I purchased some lamps at IKEA in an effort to make my cubicle at work feel a bit cozier and a bit less, well, like a boring old cubicle. I was particularly stoked about the larger of the two lamps that I purchased, which is adjustable in height and therefore perfect for sitting behind my computer monitor.
Now, if you've ever been to my apartment either in Austria or the U.S., you'll know that I have an incredible affinity for Most Things IKEA, and I've assembled a fair number of IKEA articles over time...though, to be fair, I'm not the most technically minded person on the planet and rely heavily upon the written and drawn assembly instructions included with each IKEA article.
Anyhoo, I was super excited to unpack and assemble my new lamps. The smaller one was no problem at all - a very straightforward assembly (I hardly needed to consult the assembly instructions/pictures, but did anyway because that's the way I roll). The assembly of the larger, adjustable lamp went smoothly until it came time to put on the lampshade. When I went to screw in the energy-efficient light bulb, it stood a full three and a half inches above the shade, which in turn obviously did very little to "shade" the light bulb from my eyes...or the eyes of others who came by my cubicle that day. The unshaded bulb spotlighted everyone as if my cubicle had become an interrogation room.
Since the energy-efficient light bulb seemed to be quite taller than other bulbs, I at first blamed it for the lamp malfunction. "Energy efficient it may be, but practical it is not!" I thought. That evening, I ran out to Target and bought some plain, old-fashioned GE light bulbs, thinking that would fix the problem.
Imagine my dismay, however, when I screwed in the plain, old-fashioned GE bulb the next morning only to have the exact same problem - the bulb still stuck out above the top of the shade! I consulted and re-consulted the instructions, but they didn't seem to shed any light on the subject (Ha - pun intended). Not knowing what else to do (and not having many other lighting options, as the fluorescent light above my desk had been extinguished at my request), I left the lamp as it was for the day, feeling discouraged and disgruntled. "You've disappointed me, IKEA!" I groused. "You normally produce pieces of such flawless design, but BOY have you ever screwed this one up!" Adding to my puzzlement was the fact that I didn't remember the lamp's floor model having this problem. I resigned myself to the fact that I'd have to make a special trip to IKEA (the closest one is in Charlotte, a couple of hours' drive away) to return it.
A couple of days later, after my boss was nearly blinded by my faulty lamp upon entering my cube, I was explaining my predicament and pulled out the lamp to show her its faultiness. She took a good look at it and asked, "What if you turned the shade upside down?"
- PAUSE (wait for it...wait for iiiiiiiiiit....) -
Absolute hysteria broke out. Of COURSE! I quickly flipped the shade upside down and EUREKA! The problem was solved, and the shade turned the cornea-scorching eyesore (literally) into the warm, ambience-creating piece that I wanted.
In my defense, the lamp shade is of a uniform width from top to bottom, unlike other shades that are narrower at the top and grow wider at the bottom, so the fact that I had the shade upside down wasn't obvious in that regard...though it SURELY should have been obvious from the way the bulb stuck out at the top. For whatever reason, however, my brain didn't connect those dots, and we now have this little gem of a story because of it. If it amuses you even 1/18th as much as it has me, then all the frustration and subsequent embarrassment was well worth it. :)
13 December 2010
There's No Place Like Home
My concept of home has become quite ambiguous over the past few years. Those of you who have lived in multiple locations over the course of your life (especially if one of those locations was outside your home culture) will understand what I mean. They say that "home is where the heart is," but what if pieces of your heart are scattered all over the world? I have left pieces of my heart in various locations worldwide, and I've felt at home in Georgia, Tennessee, Austria, and North Carolina, but today wouldn't classify any one of those places as the one above all others where I feel at home. I've heard from a few different sources that "home is where your stuff is," and that's the definition that I've adopted at this point in my life. For right now, North Carolina is where my stuff is, so it's home. Fair enough.
The concept of home can get particularly tricky when you start talking about a home church. I'm currently "church searching," a process that I have found simultaneously exhausting, encouraging, discouraging, nerve-wracking, and emotional. I've driven away from churches in various moods - cheerful, tearful, somber, and shocked. (The shock came mostly from one church that employed the use of smoke machines during worship. Oh. My. Goodness.) Yesterday, as I drove home from the sixth church I've visited in the Triangle area, I realized that perhaps the reason I'm struggling so much to find a home church is because my definition of HOME is so "squishy" right now. While I don't doubt that the Lord has me in North Carolina for the foreseeable future, and while I deeply value the concept of putting down roots and becoming part of a community of believers here, the uprooting process I went through in leaving Austria is still fresh on my mind (and those roots were only three years old).
With all of that being said, I'm giving myself some grace to let my new roots come in gradually, especially while my soul settles into the fact that North Carolina is home for now. I'm also relearning (and cherishing) the concept that nowhere on this planet was meant to be my eternal home. The Lord is my Home, and He never changes, though my physical location may change a dozen more times before my life is over. He is the safest place in which to put down roots, and I trust that, in His timing, He'll show me the right church family to join as I walk through this part of my journey.
The concept of home can get particularly tricky when you start talking about a home church. I'm currently "church searching," a process that I have found simultaneously exhausting, encouraging, discouraging, nerve-wracking, and emotional. I've driven away from churches in various moods - cheerful, tearful, somber, and shocked. (The shock came mostly from one church that employed the use of smoke machines during worship. Oh. My. Goodness.) Yesterday, as I drove home from the sixth church I've visited in the Triangle area, I realized that perhaps the reason I'm struggling so much to find a home church is because my definition of HOME is so "squishy" right now. While I don't doubt that the Lord has me in North Carolina for the foreseeable future, and while I deeply value the concept of putting down roots and becoming part of a community of believers here, the uprooting process I went through in leaving Austria is still fresh on my mind (and those roots were only three years old).
With all of that being said, I'm giving myself some grace to let my new roots come in gradually, especially while my soul settles into the fact that North Carolina is home for now. I'm also relearning (and cherishing) the concept that nowhere on this planet was meant to be my eternal home. The Lord is my Home, and He never changes, though my physical location may change a dozen more times before my life is over. He is the safest place in which to put down roots, and I trust that, in His timing, He'll show me the right church family to join as I walk through this part of my journey.
19 August 2010
Shocking Blue Mouths
Overall, Vienna is one of the safest cities that I’ve ever experienced. As in all cities, however, there are certain parts that I wouldn’t venture into by myself. Karlsplatz, a main U-bahn (underground/metro) station, is one of those places that I tried to avoid as much as possible. It just seems to be a magnet for the unsavory…if you’re going to be pickpocketed in Vienna, it’s most likely going to happen at Karlsplatz, and the lower level of the station (aka the underbelly) is a popular hangout for drug addicts.
The Karlsplatz drug addicts are easy to spot for a number of reasons. First of all, there’s their location – the druggies like to hang out right across from the Starbucks where the U3 and U4 lines intersect. (Why they chose to put a Starbucks in the underbelly of Karlsplatz is beyond me…but that’s another story for another time.) Secondly, there’s their bizarre behavior and dress. And then there are the blue mouths. Apparently, there’s a popular drug in the area that turns your mouth (lips, tongue, the whole shebang) blue when you use it – as if the user has sucked on about 35 Electric Blue Raspberry Fruit Roll-Ups simultaneously.
Needless to say, when my travels did take me through the underbelly of Karlsplatz, I kept my bag close, my eyes forward, and my stride purposeful. It also helped that my understanding of German was quite limited…so even if a druggie had addressed me (which none ever did, to my knowledge), I could easily ignore him/her.
Fast forward to the 4th of July this year, after I had moved back to the States. I was celebrating the 4th at a Braves baseball game with my dad, sister, and almost two-year-old nephew. Being a toddler means having a relatively short attention span, so the three adults took turns taking my nephew for walks around the stadium when he got antsy. On my walk with him, as we wended our way through the crowds (and of course stopped to inspect trashcans, giant baseballs that comprise the stadium décor, and other things that captivate a two-year-old), I began to get a vague feeling of unease that almost began mounting to panic. I noticed a number of people around us –mostly teens and tweens – with blue mouths. What is going on?! I thought. These kids are so young…where did they get the drugs?? I thought Turner Field was family friendly!
It was then that I had the “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” moment. It wasn’t drugs that were turning the kids' mouths blue...it was blue snowcones! Welcome back to the land of artificial colors and food dyes, Anne! The only thing these kids are ODing on is sugar.
21 June 2010
A Random Request
One day in recent history, a summer intern and I were visiting the botanical gardens at UNC Chapel Hill. An old log cabin that was once the home of playwright, botanical enthusiast, and North Carolina native Paul Green sits on the garden property. It seems a little random, but inside the cabin visitors can read about different plants that were native to the cabin's original location and their various uses, so it has botanical ties.
Soon after entering the cabin, we were joined by a young family with two small children. They sat down on the benches in the cabin and talked as Kate and I read about Persimmon Beer and other interesting uses for local plants.
All of a sudden, Kate and I heard the dad say to his children, "Maybe these two ladies will sing for us."
"Maybe we'll WHAT?" I thought. As soon as they walked in, I was totally prepared to take a family picture for them, but a request to sing was quite unexpected. Dad, however, asked if we knew "Baa Baa Black Sheep," and so, realizing that we couldn't gracefully excuse ourselves, I turned to Kate and said, "Well, ready for a duet?"
Then, standing in the middle of a 19th century cabin that now sits in a botanical garden, four adults broke into "Baa Baa Black Sheep." (To my relief, the parents didn't expect a duet and jumped right into the song...which all four of us sang in pretty perfect unison, I might add.)
When our song ended, the parents explained that the kids had been singing the song all the way to the botanical gardens and had apparently just requested it again (I hadn't heard the kids' request, only the dad's). I laughed and said that I have a 21-month-old nephew and know that you just have to roll with the whimsy of a kid.
As we walked away and I was trying my hardest not to laugh, I reminded myself that I am once again living in the South, where people are more open about sharing certain parts of their lives with friends and strangers alike. At the same time, the random request struck me as odd...which has since been confirmed by other southerners to whom I have told the story.
So, future note to self and all my readers - if a small family requests that you sing them a song, it's strange (though funny), not southern!
Soon after entering the cabin, we were joined by a young family with two small children. They sat down on the benches in the cabin and talked as Kate and I read about Persimmon Beer and other interesting uses for local plants.
All of a sudden, Kate and I heard the dad say to his children, "Maybe these two ladies will sing for us."
"Maybe we'll WHAT?" I thought. As soon as they walked in, I was totally prepared to take a family picture for them, but a request to sing was quite unexpected. Dad, however, asked if we knew "Baa Baa Black Sheep," and so, realizing that we couldn't gracefully excuse ourselves, I turned to Kate and said, "Well, ready for a duet?"
Then, standing in the middle of a 19th century cabin that now sits in a botanical garden, four adults broke into "Baa Baa Black Sheep." (To my relief, the parents didn't expect a duet and jumped right into the song...which all four of us sang in pretty perfect unison, I might add.)
When our song ended, the parents explained that the kids had been singing the song all the way to the botanical gardens and had apparently just requested it again (I hadn't heard the kids' request, only the dad's). I laughed and said that I have a 21-month-old nephew and know that you just have to roll with the whimsy of a kid.
As we walked away and I was trying my hardest not to laugh, I reminded myself that I am once again living in the South, where people are more open about sharing certain parts of their lives with friends and strangers alike. At the same time, the random request struck me as odd...which has since been confirmed by other southerners to whom I have told the story.
So, future note to self and all my readers - if a small family requests that you sing them a song, it's strange (though funny), not southern!
14 June 2010
Video Tour of my NC Apartment
For any interested parties, here's an 8-minute tour of my new space in North Carolina. (Yes, eight minutes...apparently, I love to blab about my living space.) Enjoy!
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10 June 2010
The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of Transition
The dust is beginning to settle. Now that I have successfully arrived in North Carolina and begun my new position with TWR's HR department, I find myself looking around and wondering, "How did I get here? Is this really my new reality?"
On some level I'm quite happy to be here, but I'm also sad not to be there. I enjoy telling people about my new little apartment and what the transition has been like thus far, but I also grow sick of talking about it. (It's kind of like when you're at Freshman Orientation at college, and everyone wants to know where you're from and what your intended major is. After a while, you just get tired of talking about it, even though you're thrilled that people are interested.) I want to establish roots, make friends, and be invited out places, but I also just want to go home, curl up in the fetal position, and be alone.
It's almost like I am my own strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. My Dr. Jekyll is all smiles, nice-to-meet-you-yes-it's-great-to-be-heres, and thinking that he (she) should start making some social plans and setting up lunches out. My Mr. Hyde, on the other hand, is wildly emotional, anti-social, and full of I-can't-believe-I've-uprooted-my-life-AGAIN self-pity. It's that strange beast of transition, I'm afraid. No matter how many times you deal with it, it just can't be tamed, though it seems to behave for some better than others.
Don't read this and think that I'm cracking up or in the "depths of despair," as Anne Shirley would say. Most of you (probably those of you who have been through a major transition in recent times) will just realize that I'm being honest. There will come a day when Dr. Jekyll will be seen (or felt) more often than Mr. Hyde. It's just that today is not that day. I have hope that "the day" will come sooner rather than later, but in the meantime I'll take one day at a time and live in the fullness of God's grace.
On some level I'm quite happy to be here, but I'm also sad not to be there. I enjoy telling people about my new little apartment and what the transition has been like thus far, but I also grow sick of talking about it. (It's kind of like when you're at Freshman Orientation at college, and everyone wants to know where you're from and what your intended major is. After a while, you just get tired of talking about it, even though you're thrilled that people are interested.) I want to establish roots, make friends, and be invited out places, but I also just want to go home, curl up in the fetal position, and be alone.
It's almost like I am my own strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. My Dr. Jekyll is all smiles, nice-to-meet-you-yes-it's-great-to-be-heres, and thinking that he (she) should start making some social plans and setting up lunches out. My Mr. Hyde, on the other hand, is wildly emotional, anti-social, and full of I-can't-believe-I've-uprooted-my-life-AGAIN self-pity. It's that strange beast of transition, I'm afraid. No matter how many times you deal with it, it just can't be tamed, though it seems to behave for some better than others.
Don't read this and think that I'm cracking up or in the "depths of despair," as Anne Shirley would say. Most of you (probably those of you who have been through a major transition in recent times) will just realize that I'm being honest. There will come a day when Dr. Jekyll will be seen (or felt) more often than Mr. Hyde. It's just that today is not that day. I have hope that "the day" will come sooner rather than later, but in the meantime I'll take one day at a time and live in the fullness of God's grace.
27 April 2010
Somewhere, Someone's Life is Normal
During the course of my relatively extensive travels, I have always found it soothing to observe people going about their normal lives. When I am in a foreign country, outside of my normal schedule and perhaps even outside of my comfort zone, I love to see people shopping for groceries, children returning from school, business people going about their daily office routines, and families visiting friends in the evening. While my life, however temporarily, has assumed an element of the unfamiliar (which is simultaneously scary and thrilling and is one of the reasons that I love to travel), I take comfort in the fact that somewhere, someone's life is still functioning normally.
While I myself may not be entirely "normal" (please no comments from the Peanut Gallery), my life is relatively normal, even if I have been living in a foreign country for the past three years. Now that I'm in the process of transitioning from life in Austria to life back in the U.S., life is anything but normal. Crazy, yes. Distracted and disjointed, most definitely. Both exciting and sad, you betcha. But normal? You must be smoking something.
Despite the unsettling process of re-settling, however, I take infinite comfort in knowing that somewhere, someone's life is normal. So the next time you (or I, for that matter!) are feeling a bit dissatisfied with a seemingly boring life, remember that somewhere, someone's glad that your life is functioning normally!
While I myself may not be entirely "normal" (please no comments from the Peanut Gallery), my life is relatively normal, even if I have been living in a foreign country for the past three years. Now that I'm in the process of transitioning from life in Austria to life back in the U.S., life is anything but normal. Crazy, yes. Distracted and disjointed, most definitely. Both exciting and sad, you betcha. But normal? You must be smoking something.
Despite the unsettling process of re-settling, however, I take infinite comfort in knowing that somewhere, someone's life is normal. So the next time you (or I, for that matter!) are feeling a bit dissatisfied with a seemingly boring life, remember that somewhere, someone's glad that your life is functioning normally!
18 April 2010
As Nature Intended
There's this driving school in the town where I work. It's housed in a mint green building and, for reasons known only to the school's designers, their mascot is a cow who stands outside the building with the school's logo painted on her side. I have no idea what cows have to do with driving, but at least Bossy makes a good landmark and conversation piece.
The funny thing about this cow is that it has, within the last year or so, had some pretty significant surgery. It originally had both large horns and udders, which I initially thought was a sign of major gender confusion. Then I started reading The Pioneer Woman and realized the female cows can have both horns and udders. How's a girl from the suburbs supposed to know these things? Sesame Street should address these kinds of issues so that children growing up in the suburbs don't make fools out of themselves as adults due to their lack of bovine knowledge.
In any case, many months ago, during one of our frequent bouts of wind and rain, the Driving School Cow toppled over, dislodging one of her (rather large - I still maintain that the horns were too large for a female cow) horns. There were a few pathetic and asymmetrical months in which the poor cow sported only one horn - and in which the children of the town once again began believing in unicorns.
Then, whether by man's design or the power of the elements, the second horn later disappeared, leaving behind a sedate-looking, hornless cow who continues to serve as the driving school mascot...albeit a mascot who kind of looks like she has brain matter oozing out of holes above her ears. Don't worry, readers with delicate sensibilities, it's not really brain matter - just some sort of foamy adhesive.
And that's no bull.
The funny thing about this cow is that it has, within the last year or so, had some pretty significant surgery. It originally had both large horns and udders, which I initially thought was a sign of major gender confusion. Then I started reading The Pioneer Woman and realized the female cows can have both horns and udders. How's a girl from the suburbs supposed to know these things? Sesame Street should address these kinds of issues so that children growing up in the suburbs don't make fools out of themselves as adults due to their lack of bovine knowledge.
In any case, many months ago, during one of our frequent bouts of wind and rain, the Driving School Cow toppled over, dislodging one of her (rather large - I still maintain that the horns were too large for a female cow) horns. There were a few pathetic and asymmetrical months in which the poor cow sported only one horn - and in which the children of the town once again began believing in unicorns.
Then, whether by man's design or the power of the elements, the second horn later disappeared, leaving behind a sedate-looking, hornless cow who continues to serve as the driving school mascot...albeit a mascot who kind of looks like she has brain matter oozing out of holes above her ears. Don't worry, readers with delicate sensibilities, it's not really brain matter - just some sort of foamy adhesive.
And that's no bull.
04 April 2010
The Mystery of St. Michael's
There are over one hundred churches in the Vienna area, of which I've been to maybe fifteen. One of my favorites of the fifteen I've been to, however, is St. Michael's. It's old and dark, and it has this extraordinarily beautiful altarpiece depicting the archangel Michael and the angels throwing down Satan and his angels, while the eye of God watches over the scene. There's just such a feeling of victory in the altar, and the action and movement that is captured in the sculptured stone is breathtaking.
I love the worshipful atmosphere in St. Michael's, and another favorite aspect was that I always seemed to visit when the choir was practicing. The gentle Gregorian chant and choral music, which seemed to float out of one of the back chambers as if out the mists of a time long past, heightened the feeling of solemn awe that you feel when visiting a beautiful old place of worship.
St. Michael's was always part of my Vienna tour when I had visitors, and I always hoped that the choir would be practicing when I took my visitors inside, and it usually was. Because I am usually in Vienna on the weekends, it made sense that St. Michael's choir would be practicing on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon in one of the church's back rooms.
At least two years passed. Then, during one routine visit, as I was soaking up the atmosphere and reveling in the beautiful sounds of the choir's singing, it suddenly occurred to me how incredibly lucky I was that the choir always seemed to be practicing when I visited. My heart sank a little bit...and then I saw it.
At the foot of one of the statues beside the altar.
A CD player. For over two years, I had been convinced that the hard-working choir of St. Michael's practiced constantly, and that I always lucked out in timing my visit to overlap with their practice time. I was incredibly disappointed - and more than a little sheepish - to discover that the "choir" was really a CD on repeat!
I love the worshipful atmosphere in St. Michael's, and another favorite aspect was that I always seemed to visit when the choir was practicing. The gentle Gregorian chant and choral music, which seemed to float out of one of the back chambers as if out the mists of a time long past, heightened the feeling of solemn awe that you feel when visiting a beautiful old place of worship.
St. Michael's was always part of my Vienna tour when I had visitors, and I always hoped that the choir would be practicing when I took my visitors inside, and it usually was. Because I am usually in Vienna on the weekends, it made sense that St. Michael's choir would be practicing on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon in one of the church's back rooms.
At least two years passed. Then, during one routine visit, as I was soaking up the atmosphere and reveling in the beautiful sounds of the choir's singing, it suddenly occurred to me how incredibly lucky I was that the choir always seemed to be practicing when I visited. My heart sank a little bit...and then I saw it.
At the foot of one of the statues beside the altar.
A CD player. For over two years, I had been convinced that the hard-working choir of St. Michael's practiced constantly, and that I always lucked out in timing my visit to overlap with their practice time. I was incredibly disappointed - and more than a little sheepish - to discover that the "choir" was really a CD on repeat!
16 March 2010
March Comes in Like a Lion...
So, there's that expression that March comes in like a lion and leaves like a lamb. But the pressing question, especially for this year that has been so ridiculously full of snow even as we approach Easter, is what if the lion EATS the lamb? Inquiring minds (and shivering bodies) want to know.
22 February 2010
Much Depends Upon a Handshake
Shaking hands by way of greeting is an important practice in Austria, whether you're greeting people in a business or a more intimate setting. As a general rule, Austrians are good hand shakers, according to my personal standards, which include the following characteristics: good hand contact - palm to palm, with fingers grasping the edges of the palm; a firm - but not tight - grip; and one or two controlled pumps up and down. I developed these personal guidelines long before I moved to the Land of Handshakes, and I've even begun classifying the different types of handshakes. For example...
The Limp Fish. We've all experienced this one! You reach to shake someone's hand and are offered something that is more akin to a limp, spineless fish. Though I'm sure it's all in my head, this handshake usually communicates one of two things to me: 1/ I'm a lily-livered wimp afraid of my own shadow and particularly of this handshake. 2/ I just don't care enough to put any effort into shaking your hand. Here, take this limp fish instead.
The Handcuff. I recently discovered this type; it's when the hand-shaker grabs your wrist instead of your hand. It's an awkward one, to be sure, and reminds me of the TV series "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman" - Sully and Cloud Dancing greeted each other by grasping forearms, a practice I always found hilarious. So, unless implementers of The Handcuff are Cheyenne Indians, I'm just not sure why they would choose to go this route.
The Vice, The Wringer, or The Squeeze. Few things are more uncomfortable than having your hand wrung by someone who doesn't know his or her own strength. This is most common among men (though I have met some women who do this) and can communicate enthusiasm or just outright brute strength. These aren't necessarily bad qualities, but they CAN end in pain. For the love of all small-handed people - less pressure, please!
The Pump. This is the handshake that practically knocks you off your feet with its vigorous up-and-down movement. Again, this can communicate enthusiasm, which is fine, but it can also communicate hyperactivity or an overdose of caffeine. Rein it in, people! Our arm fat jiggles quite enough without your pump.
The Prima Donna. Instead of offering his/her hand, the implementer of The Prima Donna only offers fingers. Fingers! It hardly even qualifies as a handshake - it's more like a fingershake, really, and who's ever heard of those? The Prima Donna could potentially communicate a Sovereign Complex ("You may kiss the royal hand, peasant"), Germaphobia ("The less of your hand I touch, the beter!"), or, like The Limp Fish, a general lack of interest in shaking hands at all.
I'm sure there are other handshakes out there that I have yet to experience and classify (for which you, my three readers, are probably grateful). I realize that cataloging these kind of subtle social interactions is one of my personal quirks, but we've all got those. Next time on Things That Don't Matter, I'll outline my Rules of Winking!
The Limp Fish. We've all experienced this one! You reach to shake someone's hand and are offered something that is more akin to a limp, spineless fish. Though I'm sure it's all in my head, this handshake usually communicates one of two things to me: 1/ I'm a lily-livered wimp afraid of my own shadow and particularly of this handshake. 2/ I just don't care enough to put any effort into shaking your hand. Here, take this limp fish instead.
The Handcuff. I recently discovered this type; it's when the hand-shaker grabs your wrist instead of your hand. It's an awkward one, to be sure, and reminds me of the TV series "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman" - Sully and Cloud Dancing greeted each other by grasping forearms, a practice I always found hilarious. So, unless implementers of The Handcuff are Cheyenne Indians, I'm just not sure why they would choose to go this route.
The Vice, The Wringer, or The Squeeze. Few things are more uncomfortable than having your hand wrung by someone who doesn't know his or her own strength. This is most common among men (though I have met some women who do this) and can communicate enthusiasm or just outright brute strength. These aren't necessarily bad qualities, but they CAN end in pain. For the love of all small-handed people - less pressure, please!
The Pump. This is the handshake that practically knocks you off your feet with its vigorous up-and-down movement. Again, this can communicate enthusiasm, which is fine, but it can also communicate hyperactivity or an overdose of caffeine. Rein it in, people! Our arm fat jiggles quite enough without your pump.
The Prima Donna. Instead of offering his/her hand, the implementer of The Prima Donna only offers fingers. Fingers! It hardly even qualifies as a handshake - it's more like a fingershake, really, and who's ever heard of those? The Prima Donna could potentially communicate a Sovereign Complex ("You may kiss the royal hand, peasant"), Germaphobia ("The less of your hand I touch, the beter!"), or, like The Limp Fish, a general lack of interest in shaking hands at all.
I'm sure there are other handshakes out there that I have yet to experience and classify (for which you, my three readers, are probably grateful). I realize that cataloging these kind of subtle social interactions is one of my personal quirks, but we've all got those. Next time on Things That Don't Matter, I'll outline my Rules of Winking!
19 January 2010
The Lost Boy
Those of you who either speak or are learning another language will be able to relate when I say that my dreams sometimes include random snatches of either Spanish (which I studied in high school and part of college) or German (which is, of course, the official language in Austria). Shortly before I returned from my Christmas holidays in the U.S., I had a dream that I was back in Austria already and ordering meals, bus tickets, etc. in German. I remember using “bitte” (please) a lot, so though my German is still broken and disjointed, at least it’s polite!
Well, last night my dream included snatches of Spanish. While touring my old elementary school (don’t you hang out in your old elementary school in your dreams? No?), some friends and I encountered a small boy. He was very charming and super cute, with shaggy blond hair and blue eyes, and was apparently lost – being originally from Mexico. Yep. How we deduced that he was from Mexico I’m not sure (because his appearance sure as heck didn’t give it away – he looked like an escapee from an IKEA catalog in Sweden), but we could tell that he didn’t understand much when we spoke to him in English. So I, ever the linguist (ha!), hoped that my Spanish would come back to me and asked, “¿Como estás?”
His reply indicated that he was either a) confused to mental abstraction to find himself in the U.S. when he obviously belonged in Mexico, or b) not really Mexican, but a Swedish IKEA catalog escapee who bravely swam across the cold North Sea and the Atlantic to reach the coast of Georgia, where he hitchhiked several hours inland to take refuge in an elementary school building, and was so exhausted from the journey that he didn’t have the energy to correct our assumption that he was Mexican – because his response to my friendly, “How are you?” was “Cien.” Yes, cien, the Spanish word for “hundred,” which, coincidentally, rhymes with bien, which would have been an appropriate answer to my question. I looked at my friends and muttered, “Yeah, that’s not right. He means bien.” Ah, those crazy IKEA catalog escapees! Always trying to pull a fast one on the world.
17 November 2009
Dreamy Geography
Welcome to another edition of Anne's Dreams, Chapter 27. In last night's episode, I was participating in a mission trip team meeting. I believe that the team's destination was Serbia...only this wasn't the Serbia that we all know and love, located in Central East Europe next to Hungary, Romania, and Bulgaria (to name a few border countries; and yes, I had to Google a map of Serbia just now because I couldn't recall its border countries beyond Hungary). When the team leader and I consulted the map to locate Serbia for the team's benefit, we found that Serbia was, in fact, an island located next to Guam...off the southern tip of South America. What? Serbia is an island? What?? Serbia is next to the Pacific Island of Guam?? What??? Serbia and Guam are located off the southern tip of South America??? My geography skills never were that impressive, but even I know that's wrong!
30 October 2009
The (Onion Flavored) Body of Christ
The international church that I attend here in Vienna has been a great place to call my church home for the last year or so. The people are warm and welcoming, and I've learned a lot about how diverse the body of Christ is through this family of believers. Since the church has been without a pastor for the past few years, the elders and other church leaders divide weekly responsibilities among themselves, resulting in a delightful blend of unpredictability. Each week it's anyone's guess as to what the service will contain...but it could include an African-style baby dedication with singing and dancing down the aisle, a testimony from a Middle Eastern believer, or a guest musical performance. This unpredictability has given me plenty of opportunities to laugh, as well as to learn flexibility and openness to the different ways the Lord works.
One particular Sunday, the celebration of communion became one of those opportunities. When we were invited to partake of the bread, I put the cracker in my mouth and began to pray, Thank You, Lord, for Your...onion flavored body??? Indeed, the cracker was onion flavored, no doubt due to an oversight on the part of whoever was responsible for buying the communion supplies that week. It was a bit of a challenge to maintain my meditative mood (not to mention my composure) after that.
One particular Sunday, the celebration of communion became one of those opportunities. When we were invited to partake of the bread, I put the cracker in my mouth and began to pray, Thank You, Lord, for Your...onion flavored body??? Indeed, the cracker was onion flavored, no doubt due to an oversight on the part of whoever was responsible for buying the communion supplies that week. It was a bit of a challenge to maintain my meditative mood (not to mention my composure) after that.
25 October 2009
Requiem in a Dream
As previously stated here on AustriAnne, I have a very active and strange dreamlife. This is something to which I've not only grown accustomed, but is also a pretty reliable form of personal amusement. I felt like I had pretty much experienced it all in terms of dreams - I've dreamt that I was pregnant, married, a murder witness, and even that I was executed. I've woken up screaming, laughing, crying (not real tears, but real sobs), and so angry that I've wanted to punch the offender (who, of course, hadn't done anything in real life). But last night was a new experience for me; I actually composed a poem in my sleep.
In the dream, it was actually a song, but the tune was lost to the mists of my personal dream world. The funniest part is that the poem is basically a marriage proposal to Billy Boyd - the Scottish actor who plays Pippin in "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy. We were riding on a horse through the forest with my sister (yes, all three of us cozily seated on one horse) when I began singing my song of proposal. I was only able to compose part of the song-poem before I woke up, but I got as far as the first stanza:
Billy Boyd, Billy Boyd, why won't you marry me?
I'll be your bride, stand by your side,
For all eternity.
I didn't say that it was actually good poetry. I was never that keen of a poet, even in my waking hours!
In the dream, it was actually a song, but the tune was lost to the mists of my personal dream world. The funniest part is that the poem is basically a marriage proposal to Billy Boyd - the Scottish actor who plays Pippin in "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy. We were riding on a horse through the forest with my sister (yes, all three of us cozily seated on one horse) when I began singing my song of proposal. I was only able to compose part of the song-poem before I woke up, but I got as far as the first stanza:
Billy Boyd, Billy Boyd, why won't you marry me?
I'll be your bride, stand by your side,
For all eternity.
I didn't say that it was actually good poetry. I was never that keen of a poet, even in my waking hours!
29 September 2009
Not You, Too!
During my Annual Performance Review with my supervisor yesterday, we were discussing a training process that he'd like to see me involved in. I was nodding intently and tracking our discussion until I heard him say, "Within the next year, I'd like to see you engaged." Say what? He was the last person I'd have expected to take an interest in my love life (or utter lack thereof)! I had a few moments of confusion, during which it seemed likely that I'd say something to the effect of, Whoa, there - back off!, but when his meaning sank in, I started laughing. He meant that he'd like to see me engaged in the training process within the next year, not engaged to be married! And I had wondered if he'd been talking to my mother...
You know you've been single for too long when your boss lists "get engaged" among your 12-month career goals!
You know you've been single for too long when your boss lists "get engaged" among your 12-month career goals!
20 September 2009
Vanity of Vanities...
You have to understand something about me for this entry to make sense. For as long as I can remember, I've been a nail biter. I never really mean to bite my nails, but it just kind of happens when I'm stressed or pensive or annoyed by an odd nail shape - so maybe sometimes I do mean to bite them. In any case, this bad habit means that my nails only have a chance to grow long enough to be painted every several months or so. Then they may stay nice, long, and painted for a couple of weeks until one of them breaks and I cut them short again.
Over a month ago, they grew to the paint-worthy length and, in an unprecedented twist of events, they stayed that way for about a month. I painted them multiple times, trimming and filing them carefully to avoid breaks. I felt like a grown-up woman with my long, painted nails - and found the color on my fingertips somewhat distracting (and sometimes all-absorbing).
Then, a few Sundays ago, I was sitting in church and admiring my lovely pink nails while listening to the sermon. (Though distracted by their loveliness, I really was listening.) I didn't realize the extent of my vanity until the preacher asked, "If Jesus were to walk into church right now, what would He say to us?" The first thought that sprang to my mind was, "I'm pretty sure He'd say, 'Nice nails!'"
At times like this, it seems most appropriate to quote Ecclesiastes: "Vanity of vanities," says the Preacher, "Vanity of vanities! All is vanity" (1:2). But honestly, check out the photo below and tell me if my vanity was unfounded!
Over a month ago, they grew to the paint-worthy length and, in an unprecedented twist of events, they stayed that way for about a month. I painted them multiple times, trimming and filing them carefully to avoid breaks. I felt like a grown-up woman with my long, painted nails - and found the color on my fingertips somewhat distracting (and sometimes all-absorbing).
Then, a few Sundays ago, I was sitting in church and admiring my lovely pink nails while listening to the sermon. (Though distracted by their loveliness, I really was listening.) I didn't realize the extent of my vanity until the preacher asked, "If Jesus were to walk into church right now, what would He say to us?" The first thought that sprang to my mind was, "I'm pretty sure He'd say, 'Nice nails!'"
At times like this, it seems most appropriate to quote Ecclesiastes: "Vanity of vanities," says the Preacher, "Vanity of vanities! All is vanity" (1:2). But honestly, check out the photo below and tell me if my vanity was unfounded!
10 August 2009
Don't judge a book by its cover - or its movie, for that matter
Recently, I literally felt pieces of my literature-loving soul shrivel and die as a friend noted that she had no interest in reading Pride and Prejudice because she didn't like the movie - actually, the first half of the movie, as she had fallen asleep somewhere in the middle. I was tempted to whack her with a copy of the offending novel. But alas, like the U.S., Austria has laws (not to mention social customs) that frown upon physically attacking one's friends in bookshops. In lieu of being arrested for assault and battery with a Jane Austen novel, I opted for a somewhat melodramatic hyperventilation, which succeeded just as well in alerting my friend that something was amiss. I quickly explained that the "I don't want to read the book because I didn't like the movie" excuse was absolutely against the rules. (I didn't specify which rules her declaration violated, but I'm pretty sure there are some standard Literature Statutes that all literate human beings are obligated to uphold.)
It's not that I find it inconceivable that anyone could not like P&P; what raised my hackles was the judgment of a book based solely upon its movie. Though there are numerous film versions of books that I love to watch, I'm not sure that I've ever seen a film version of a book with which I have been fully pleased. There is always some aspect of the plot that has been changed that I don't like, some key character left out, or some symbol that has been totally ignored. I suppose all of this is due to the fact that it is not a screenwriter's purpose to create a perfect rendering of a book in its film version. If you wanted a perfect rendering of the story contained within a book, you'd just read the book.
But therein lies the trouble. Do people read classic literature as much as they used to? It seems to me that these days people are getting their literary educations merely by passively viewing a 90-minute film version of a 300-page novel. When the film ends, they walk away and dispense of the story's beautiful truths and applications along with their empty popcorn containers and candy wrappers. Unless you're a crazy speed reader, you can't read a novel of significant size in 90 minutes. It takes several hours, usually over several days or weeks, to read and comprehend something like that, and it is during that extended period of time that the story and its themes, symbolism, and potential life applications can take root in your soul. Please note here that I am talking of true literature, not just any story that happens to be printed.
Perhaps I feel so strongly about this issue because I have experienced so many "aha" moments during the act of reading literature. I hate to think that we are becoming an illiterate society when it comes to literature (illiterate because we choose to be, not because we lack the ability to read) who are content to let filmmakers and actors interpret beautiful, classic stories for us. What a shame that would be.
It's not that I find it inconceivable that anyone could not like P&P; what raised my hackles was the judgment of a book based solely upon its movie. Though there are numerous film versions of books that I love to watch, I'm not sure that I've ever seen a film version of a book with which I have been fully pleased. There is always some aspect of the plot that has been changed that I don't like, some key character left out, or some symbol that has been totally ignored. I suppose all of this is due to the fact that it is not a screenwriter's purpose to create a perfect rendering of a book in its film version. If you wanted a perfect rendering of the story contained within a book, you'd just read the book.
But therein lies the trouble. Do people read classic literature as much as they used to? It seems to me that these days people are getting their literary educations merely by passively viewing a 90-minute film version of a 300-page novel. When the film ends, they walk away and dispense of the story's beautiful truths and applications along with their empty popcorn containers and candy wrappers. Unless you're a crazy speed reader, you can't read a novel of significant size in 90 minutes. It takes several hours, usually over several days or weeks, to read and comprehend something like that, and it is during that extended period of time that the story and its themes, symbolism, and potential life applications can take root in your soul. Please note here that I am talking of true literature, not just any story that happens to be printed.
Perhaps I feel so strongly about this issue because I have experienced so many "aha" moments during the act of reading literature. I hate to think that we are becoming an illiterate society when it comes to literature (illiterate because we choose to be, not because we lack the ability to read) who are content to let filmmakers and actors interpret beautiful, classic stories for us. What a shame that would be.
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