We went on a whirlwind tour of the keystone state, complete with family, scenic tree-lined mountain vistas, and milk.  Oh, the milk!  No one does dairy like Pennsylvania.  Yeah, I’m lookin’ at you Wisconsin.

Upon our return, blogging was further impeded by the fact that my goodly employers (and, technically speaking, landlords) had installed a new kitchen.  Well, not so much “installed” as “thrown together.” And I had to make sense of it whilest preventing the now walking TheologyBaby from entering an unbaby-proofed area.

I have mixed feelings about the new kitchen.  Since my home is actually three hotel rooms converted into three dorm suites converted into a two bedroom apartment, it has some quirks to it.  LIke an utter lack of a 90 degree angle in the whole place, for instance.  Thus the previous “kitchen” was this metal wall, impressive both for its bulk and for how ugly it was.  There was a range with three burners (the space where the fourth would have been was a small oasis of counter), an oven that was often shamed into inadequacy when confronted its far more powerful EZ-Bake brethren, a sink the size of a bread box, a small counter (with a drawer), a perfectly respectable fridge, and a set of cabinets.  Oh, and a carpeted floor that just went with the rest of the carpeting in the apartment.

The new kitchen has hard-wood looking linoleum for the floor, wooden cabinets (one of which is still missing, as it had to be special ordered), and a huge fridge.  The oven might not be able to take the EZ-Bake in a fight, but the two would probably nod at each other if they passed each other in the street.  The sink is also huge.  Therein, it would seem, lies the first problem.  There are no counters.  Or, I should say, there is five inches of counter on either size of the sink.  Room for a bottle of dish soap but not for, say, a dish drainer.  Or food preparation.  Or really any functional thing I could think of to do in a kitchen.  Likewise, they took my one and only drawer, which is fine, because really, why bother to store knives?  On what surface would I cut anything? 

My father-in-law is coming to visit soon, and has graciously offered to build unto me a kitchen island that will have a drawer and a counter.  So I am less vexed.  I will have to move the mouse-proof box that stores most of our dry goods (don’t ask), but I will live.  A second problem arises, however, when one tries to open the oven.  Because one can’t.  Because it is too big and the door gets stuck on the wall.  This is interesting, because it appears as though the people who installed it cut away a piece of the crown molding on the floor (is that what its called if its on the floor?) to get it in in the first place.  No one stopped and thought, “Hmmm.  We couldn’t install this such as the wall was.  I wonder if this will present a problem.”

And finally, the sink.  It oozes.  Oozes what, I do not know.  My husband (whose opinion I trust in these matters, handy fellow that he is) believes that whoever installed the kitchen used wood putty instead of caulk around the drain and around the sink itself in instillation.  Said wood putty seems never to harden, only to ooze.  Because it longs for wood, I suppose, not the cold heart of metal with which it is trying desperately to bond.  While wet.  Because it’s a sink. 

Heavy sigh.

Oh, did I mention the floor is bubbling?  The linoleum?  Yes.  Yes it is.  I know this, because my close associate spends much of her time scooting, crawling, flopping, and falling onto it and has noticed the bubbles.  One of her knew favorite hobbies is poking at them, watching them move and widen. 

I said I was of two minds on this.  On the one hand, I long for the old kitchen.  I know now that it was not ugly, but a design triumph, a kitchen built exactly for the space, for maximum efficiency and ease of use.  It was beautiful in its own way--it’s simplicity, it’s ability to have a sink, drawer, and counter.  The old kitchen would have stood long after humanity dies out.  This new kitchen will surely only last a year or two.  But . . . it’s so pretty.  The wood, the gleaming metal, the floor that matches the cabinets.  I bought new hand towels to hang.  I can’t prepare food, wash dishes, or tread to heavily on the floor, yes . . . but it looks good.  I find myself rocking the baby to sleep at night staring at it.  I lovingly swiffer that floor and watch is shine, sunny and bright.  I am either vain or shallow or both, but so help me I love this kitchen.

Really, I have no right to complain.  I mean, hey, free new kitchen!  Looks pretty good!  Not functional and it probably won’t be too great for the person who lives here after me, but who I am to argue?  I’ll get a kitchen island and all will be well.  Butt part of me wishes that some thought had gone into the new kitchen.  That someone had asked, “Why did they get this really odd sink/oven combo?” Or, “How can we fit a drawer and a counter into a space that still needs an oven and fridge?” I wonder if that is how things are done anymore, on an institutional level.  If designs are clever, functional, and attractive.  Not one done to the exclusion of the other two.  What I see in dorm design these days (and, sadly, I see a lot) just seems to make the place pretty, even if it will fall apart in a few years.  Or it doesn’t really work once people are actually using the space. 

Rest in Piece(s) old kitchen.  And the design ethic you embodied.  You shall be missed. 

I have come to the unfortunate conclusion that I will have to include Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series in my dissertation.  I guess I don’t have to, but it is so terribly popular still.  How can I not?  I have filled many pages with lesser known (well, books that have sold fewer copies and spawned no movies) novels, but vampires are all the rage.  It’s not that I have anything against vampires per se, though in my youth I much preferred books about witches.  And if I were 15 I would probably swoon over Jacob (not Edward, moody tortured soul that he is).  But now I just look at all. those. pages. I have to sift through to get something to write about.  Oh, the text.  The melancholy, angstful text.  Hundreds upon hundreds of pages in just one book.  Out of four.

I watched the movie again last night to avoid having to reread the first novel to get a different perspective on the first book.  Here is the plot summary I intend to include in my appendices (caution, may contain spoilers):

Girl meets boy.
Boy is a vampire.
Brood.
Brood.
Emote.
Brood.
Girl gets boy anyway.
Brood.

Two of my co-workers have read all of the novels and loved them (and the movie!).  I asked them if they thought there was anything theologically significant in any of the books.

Blank stares.

“Anything religious?” I tried again. 

“No.  Not really.” They both agreed.

“Well, what about that whole thing about vampires not having a soul?”

“Oh, well, I guess you can read something religious into anything.”

This, in a nutshell, is why I don’t talk about my work.  Even when asked.  Because when I launch into what I feel is the fascinating topic, I quickly come to the realization that few people care.  They were asking to be polite.  They think Twilight has no religious themes.  Which is fine, really, except that it means I won’t be able to steal their ideas bounce theses off of them for argument’s sake. 

It’s times like these that I think I really should have gone to library school.

The phenomenon occurs when you see a person you think you realize.  “Hi Sally!” You call out, enthusiastic and engaged.  “How is your dog, Roy?  I understand he was taken with the worms.  Rough thing, that!” “Sally” looks at you like you have three heads, quickly turns in the other direction, and breaks into a sprint away from you.

Confused, you wonder if you recently did something to offend Sally.  You then realize that you know Sally from School X, where you work, and you are currently walking across the quad at School BU, where Sally does not attend.  You think she might have attended a concert there once, actually, but it is still pretty unlikely that she would be there in the middle of the day.  In July.  When Sally is in Tibet helping orphans for her summer practicum.

Right.

This happens to me all the time.  I’ll be home in Pennsylvania and see someone I know.  But wait, I know them from Boston.  Is it them?  Usually not.  I then have to stop and remind myself where I am, who I should know here, and where it is I met the person who is confusing me in the first place.  I’m caught in this horrible nostalgia feedback loop that paralyzes me for minutes at a time.  Heaven forbid I see someone in the middle of the street.  I’m toast.

I think I need to commit to one institution or maybe a one college town, so resplendent is Boston with doppelgangers of the students with whom I live.  Though, it probably wouldn’t matter. I’ll be standing in Staples convinced I see my third grade teacher.  Who died last year.

“What’s the matter?” A companion will ask me.

“I see live people.” I’ll reply confused, the blood draining from my face.

And then he or she will quickly turn in the other direction and break into a sprint away from me.

First, humans benefit from having teeth.  I have known edentate individuals in my life, and they gummed their through food to sustain themselves.  However, this notwithstanding, I think we can all agree teeth help. 

Thus, as teeth are a close to essential part of the human body, why must it be so difficult for them to come in?  They hurt so much a person can’t sleep.  They give a person a runny nose so that she can’t suck most of her calories down, sucking being the way she was born to get most of her calories in her first year of life.  And, tired and hungry, the teething person is generally unpleasant to the people most closely associated with sustaining her life.  These people then grow tired, angry, and frustrated in proportion to that of the teether, and do not wish to be in her presence for continuous wakeful hours.

Now, humanity has been given intellect to invent things.  Things like orajel, frozen teething rings, etc.  And I’ve tried all of these things to little or no affect today.  There is no eating or sleeping here.  Just teething. 

How does this benefit the human race?  How am I to gather berries, mend the bison hide, and hide from predators, when the infant won’t. stop. yelling?  How are we to survive for her to produce still another generation if she falls into a heap, a milkless insomniac?  I DON’T UNDERSTAND UNIVERSE.  I DON’T CARE WHY WE ARE HERE AT THE MOMENT, I’M JUST AMAZED THAT WE STILL ARE.

Now, if there is a theory out there called “ironic” design or “it’s fun to mock you fief” design, then okay, I get it.  There is a force out there while perhaps “intelligent” also has a quirky sense of humor.  I’d say “sadistic” but that is probably heresy.  So I’ll refrain. 

And sure, you could argue birth hurts blah blah blah and so does other processes that have to do with continued life on the planet.  But these things generally happen to people who have the cognitive ability to cope.  I would just like to put out there that there is little intelligent about the current process of teething. 

If you agree, feel free to copy and paste this letter I composed and send to your local intelligent design representative. 

Dear God [Or other Intelligent Designer Salutation],

Teething.  Really?  Really? You could do better. 

Sincerely,
[Concerned Citizen] Adrienne

PS Actually, the whole “problem of suffering” thing is, frankly, not so great either.  Please refer to your troubleshooting department immediately. 

The odd thing is, the kid looks good in it.  She can pull off pink cheetah print butterfly velour. 

Sadly, this is the least of my worries when it comes to TheologyBaby’s clothes.  That outfit was purchased for Christmas by her great-grandmother, and is infinite measures more tasteful that a lot of things I’ve seen in the kid’s size.  She has one outfit that is a midriff top and a mini-skirt (another gift).  Midriff?  For the pudge?  She has no waist to speak of, just a roll of chubbins that sticks out over top the denim (well-intentioned?) skirt.  And I have tried to teach her about irony, about why this outfit is kind of funny, but ultimately it just leaves me feeling kind of sad to see her in it.  So I change her into a sassy Gap onsie that says “teething bites” or “my crib rocks” or some such punk baby rocker pithy saying. 

But it does not end there.  Another outfit that I saw in a store that may or may not rhyme with “Shmallmart” had a pair of sweat pants with the word “hottie” on the butt, with a matching hoodie.  And then there were the low-cut dresses featuring FISH NET in-lays.  Isn’t that a choking hazard?  Fish nets?  For infants?  Again, I assume, paint huffing designers.

Eventually I assume she will demand to wear make-up at age six or shave her head in high-school.  Whatever.  I have long said that as long as she doesn’t expect me to call her college to complain about her roommate, I will consider myself successful as a parent.  Her appearance is up to her and the code of conduct of whatever institution to which she is subject (like, say, laws requiring clothes in public).  But while this sort of thing is in my control, I have vowed to avoid making my toddler look like a Bratz doll.  Gender her in pink sparkle cutesy-shmutsey I will (so help me, those little dresses are so stinkin’ cute), but it’s tasteful gendering.  Which years from now will make all the difference to her therapist I’m sure. 

Let’s also then say that while walking to the grocery store (for the family did not own a car, living in a city where such a thing is often more tomfoolery than it is worth) she comes to a large intersection where two busy streets cross, and there is at least one rotary involved. 

The mother reaches the intersection just as the little man indicating “walk” lights up, so she proceeds across the street in the crosswalk.  Three law-abiding cars pull to a stop, as their light is red.  A fourth car is approaching the intersection, but no one seems to think much of it as this is a street and often cars roll down streets.

However, upon almost stopping, it becomes apparent that this car is a police vehicle, as it turns on its lights and starts the siren blaring.  The mother, who was half way across the street, poised close to the double yellow lines that put her in the path of this sirened vehicle, has the bejebees scared out of her.  The baby startles.  The cars that were stopped seemed confused.  They beep at the mother and baby, who are for a moment frozen with indecision.  Turn around?  Stay still?  Continue moving because the hand on the signal has started blinking? 

So the mother decides to just finish crossing the street.  Sirens are still blaring, cars are trying to pull over.  Oh, and it starts to rain.  And a giant thunderclap booms overhead.

The mother, still with no bejebees but otherwise undaunted, pulls on to the sidewalk to cross yet another street to get to the grocery store.  However, the police car, who obviously is very busy and important to turn on its siren with little warning, pulls over to the curb where the mother is waiting.

It starts to rain harder.  The mother bends down to get the stroller rain cover and notices that she forgot a rain coat or umbrella.  “Diapers are worth it,” she mutters to herself.

“Excuse me!” Comes a voice, from a window of the police car, whose lights are still flashing.  “Excuse ME!” The mother looks up, wrestling with the plastic sheath the baby hates, trying to secure it against the win.

“Young woman, I had my sirens on.  That means I am to go by.  You had no business getting in the way of traffic.” The mother wipes rain out of her faith.  The baby kicks and starts to squawk in protest that the stroller is not moving.  Cue more thunder.

“Um, I’m sorry?” Things race through the mothers head.  Like, “But my light was on!” Or, “Dude, are you freaking kidding me, it’s raining!” Or even, “The first time in four days I get to blow-dry my hair and it is now soaking wet I HATE YOU POLICE MAN.”

“You shouldn’t have that baby out in this weather.” With that he rolls up the window, peels away, and turns on his siren again.

The mother is now soaking.  The baby is miserable.  The thunder rolls.

She gets diapers, but is still pretty annoyed, an hour later.

Given this hypothetical situation, should the mother, say, right a letter in protest (despite the fact that she failed to get any details about the police car, and due to where she lives, it could be one of two cities police man or even a state trooper?) Or just think mean thoughts about lawmen?  Or write an annoyed post on her blog?

Well.  I guess it will probably be number three.  If I were her.  Hypothetically. 

“Yeah, they had birthday cake for all of the June birthdays at church and then I had a sandwich leftover from the LGBT group meeting.”

“LGBT?  What did you have? A BLT? HA!”

“Yup.  That’s what the event is called on the poster.  (G)BLT.”

“Seriously?”

“No.”

“Oh.  That’s too bad.” *shakes head sadly.*

“Wow.”

The past few months have not gone by Josh Groban free, of course.  He has yet another live album and DVD of songs I already own.  On at least two other albums, at least one of which is also a live recording.  One could argue I need not buy them, and for awhile I don’t, but then I get nervous and think, “But what if this album has that one perfect note, that one refrain that will trigger something in my brain to achieve academic greatness?” And then I end up buying the Limited Edition Super Special Internet Edition.  Because maybe there’s something in the included fan art booklet.

However, also recently released is a recording of “Chess,” a musical about, I think, the game of chess.  I’m unsure about it for several reasons.  First, I tried to watch the production of the show on PBS, but due to digital conversion issues, or the cable issues of the college where I live, or perhaps God’s will, PBS channel 2 or 44 does not come in correctly.  So while I taped the Great Performances and also watched it when it was on, all I could get was grainy, broken up images that went black every minute or so.  I would miss key scenes featuring solos by Josh Groban’s hair and other seemingly important characters.  The pixelated love story seemed to be about a Russian and an American and some woman who could really sing, though I know not about what.

Another issue is that the baby does not care much for Josh Groban, a clear indicator that genetics have favored her father’s DNA.  She likes to watch him emote, laugh hysterically, and then chew on the remote because she knows there is a connection between it and making the noises stop coming from Groban’s song hole.  (Also, interestingly, the remote turns on her ocean aquarium singing crib toy.  So Groban stops and the fish start dancing.  Poor guy can’t compete with that.)

Finally, since the sun hasn’t been out in Boston in about a week, the child and I spend a lot of time hunched in the Britax box.  Well, I’m hunched and she’s sprawled luxuriously.  She loves it in there.  And she gets mad when I try to do anything but entertain her these days, looking at the TV included.  So I would try to angle myself to subtly glance at the screen from under the box flap, and she would growl in disapproval.  Then we’d have to watch 10 minutes of Feist videos for me to make it up to her.

Seriously.  I’m related to this child?

Anyway, I mandated convinced Peter to get me the Internet Only Sparkle Version of Chess, so that I might finally know what is going on, and hear Josh once more.  Singing new music!  See, live music can be new! 

Allegedly he’s also recording a new album for possible release this year.  (Uh, or maybe next year.) Which probably means a tour. 

Which means that the child, she will be reared in the ways of popera whether she likes it or not. 

In the case of TheologyBaby, a child so city that she has trouble sleeping without the constant ambient din of sirens and hospital helicopters, the people she sees regularly are quite, um colorful.

Take, for instance, her friends from our daily walks.  We regularly stroll around a park (well, a T stop with some trees) near a river (well, a stagnant pool of black goo that alleges to be a river).  There are benches, occasional avant garde art work and, on a good day, ducks.  There are also several homeless people who frequent said benches; notable among them are Cliff and Leo.  Daily they smile and coo at TheoBaby; Cliff is a surprisingly competent tenor who sings her little ditties about how the man done kept him down.  Leo can juggle almost anything left in the trash can.  The kid loves it.  On one of our walks, Vera (a friend of Cliff and Leo’s) held court with the men and the three of them declared that TheoBaby is the most beautiful baby they see, and they see a lot of them during the day.  Though, they did say she deserved a better stroller.  (My neighborhood has a lot of “Bugaboos”.  I refuse to spend 1,000.00 on a conveyance device that a. I must push or b. carries someone who regularly gnaws on it.)

At the end of the “park” is a fenced in area I always thought belonged to the state, as it often had equipment for the upkeep of the wooded area.  And it has been brought to my attention that it does in fact belong to the state.  However, the nice men in orange jumpsuits who wield the equipment and keep my neighborhood spiffy and clean aren’t “employees” so much as convicted criminals paying their debts to society through landscaping when not in prison.  I learned this as TheoBaby and I were passing by and a nice young man hit a tennis ball outside of the fence with a splintered tree branch.  “Ma’am?” He called politely, “Could you toss us that?  I think we’d get in trouble if we tried to get it.” I threw it back thinking that those poor employees really should be able to do what they want with their lunch break.  And then I noticed the van parked nearby whose logo included the words “correctional facility.” Ah.  That would explain the orange jumpsuits, I suppose.  In any case, the baby waves and gets excited to see the park keeper-uppers, and they always call her beautiful and make leaf tornadoes with the leaf-blowers for her.  It’s a regular carnival over there.

Odd to note, though, was awhile back I noticed a few men, similarly attired to the park guys, standing at our intersection on the way home.  They had on orange vests and appeared for all the world to be collecting money in cans.  Again, this is not odd in the neighborhood per se.  But it is odd to see this particular group engaged in it.  With official outfits and matching orange cans.  I wondered if this was some sort of new strategy to beat prison budget cuts.  Or maybe it was another group altogether, whose fund raising efforts just favored the color orange.  I don’t know, though I think I will ask them if they ever come back. 

In the meantime, I wile away the hours ignoring the dissertation in creative parenting by making up little ditties on rainy days.  Sing along if you know the tune . . .

Oh, the incarcerated keep our parks clean
Even if the T riders are pretty mean,
They work, and work the whole day through
To make sure the paths are safe for you!

Cause a work-release inmate’s in your neighborhood
In your neighborhood, he’s in your neighborhood
A work-release inmate’s a person in your neighborhood
A person who you meet each day! 

Ahem.

Why is it that while I am surrounded with God’s glorious creation, where I have no earthly (and certainly not an unearthly) reason to be bored, where each moment is alive with potential, I choose to watch the Real Housewives of New Jersey?  Or, worse, why do I choose to read the blogs of these women, the comments on those blogs, and then Google the latest news on Jon and Kate Plus 8?  Is this the sort of thing confession would help?

Funny thing about confession.  One might think I wouldn’t be interested in such a thing, being a Methodist and all.  And you would be correct, except that as of this past Easter I joined the warm fold of Rome.  I’m playing for another team. 

Let me answer from FAQs I have gotten due to my recent subtle shift in religious affiliation:

Didn’t you want to be ordained?

Well, yes.  From about 1996-2006 this was a definite goal.  But little by little committees and people who may or may not have been older white males whittled away at my resolve until I was sick of the whole process.  Seldom if ever did I see God during that, my honest attempt.  At least the Catholic church is upfront on not ordaining women.  It won’t string me along for a decade only to decide that my theology isn’t quite up to snuff.

Why Catholic?  Isn’t that a little extreme?

Maybe for some.  But I didn’t really think so.  Transubstantiation?  On board.  Seven sacraments?  Sure.  Nicene Creed?  Word.  Also, my husband and daughter are Catholic and it made me sad to see them go up to Communion together and I’d be left sitting in the pew feeling all heathen and resentful of many a proud Wesleyan tradition.

So what are you, like, going to do for a job?

Oh, who knows.  Before I always sort of wanted to try pro-surfing.  This is still always an option. 

Do you find anything different now that you’re Catholic?

Yes, actually.  I find the mandatory attendance at the liturgy of the word is good for me, as before I could skip church and think nothing of it.  And I enjoy this whole “patron saint” thing.  I feel like I have people, an entourage, a posse.  Granted they are dead, but their connections to power?  People would KILL for them.  HA!  Get it?  Kill?  Saints were often martyrs?  HA!

Oh yeah.  I know the Vatican is ready for ALLLLL THIS.