The Birthday Girl... Every Week

Our young upstairs neighbor, Ariana,* is absolutely obsessed with artificial nails. She continually asks me to buy her some, for all manner of occasions, big and small. Every other week or so, she claims that her birthday is coming, and she asks if we will host a party for her and, of course, buy her some nails.

A couple of weeks ago, we helped one of our friends in the apartment complex give a party for her daughter, a friend of Ariana's. 

"When will you have my party?" Ariana asked. 

"We'll give you a party when it's your actual birthday," I promised.

"It is!" Ariana insisted. "On Friday it will be my birthday." 

"You say that every week," I said. "I'm going to ask your dad when your birthday is."

Because her father usually works in the evening, I didn't have the opportunity to ask him for quite a while. A week or so ago, while I sat cross-legged on their floor one evening helping Ariana with ridiculously hard math homework--something about number bonds and five-groups, things we never learned when I was in school--Ariana started in again with the birthday requests. 

"I'm gonna ask my mom to tell you," she said. She launched into a stream of rapid-fire speech in their native language. The only thing I could understand was the word "mama" and the inflection that signaled a question. 

"Yes!" Sediqa* replied with a smile.

"See?" Ariana demanded triumphantly. "I told you my birthday was coming." 

"Ariana, I have no idea what you just said to your mom. I'll have to wait until I can talk to your dad." 

A few days later, she took up the refrain again. "My birthday is this Friday."

"That's what you said last week," I reminded her. "I thought you said it was last Friday."

"No, it's this Friday," she said. "I forgot to say next when I said Friday."

"Hmm," I said. "I'll need to ask your dad."

"My dad is getting me a cake," she said excitedly. 

"Oh, he is? Are you having the party at your house? I hope you will invite me."

"Yes, we will invite you," she promised.

Despite having observed her impressive talent at spinning yarns on many occasions, I began to wonder if perhaps she really was having a birthday. I resolved to talk to her dad very soon. 

This evening, I finally got my chance. I had gone upstairs to help Ariana with more math homework, and to read to her little sister, Safya.* On my way out the door, I asked Basir* when his daughter's birthday is. 

He laughed. "I don't know." 

I didn't find this terribly surprising; I had heard from a friend in the community that in their culture, they don't often celebrate birthdays. Further, some of the children here were born in refugee camps, and their parents don't know exactly when their birthdays are. For most of them, a birthday is just a normal day. 

"Ariana tells us it's her birthday every week," I said, joining in his laughter.

"I check the green card," he said.

I nodded. "Tomorrow," I suggested. "We will give her a party when her birthday comes."

Meanwhile, Ariana had gone into the kitchen. "My dad bought me a cake," she called out. "Come and see." 

I rounded the corner to find her on the floor with a good-sized cake in a bakery box. She and Safya were scooping up dollops of frosting on their fingers and then slurping it off. 

I turned toward Basir. "You bought her a cake?" I asked. "So it really was her birthday?" 

He threw his hands in the air. "I don't know!" he repeated, bursting into laughter again.

I could easily imagine what had happened. Her relentless pleading must have worn him down. 

"When it's her birthday, we'll give her a party," I repeated. "You can check the green card tomorrow." 

"No," Ariana wheedled. "Can't we check it now?" 

"My wife check the green card now," Basir said.

Sediqa disappeared into one of the bedrooms.

While we waited, Ariana announced, "I'm gonna give you some cake. Three pieces, for you and Amy and your mom." 

"That's very kind," I said, eyeing Safya's blue, frosting-stained finger dubiously. 

"What should I put it on?" Ariana said to herself. After perusing the kitchen and the dishwasher, she grabbed a plate with a cut apple on it. "I know what to do," she said, dropping the remnants of the apple into the sink. She ran some water over the plate and wiped it with the end of her T-shirt. I suppressed my shudder. 

Ariana picked up a large knife from the counter and studied the rather messy cake thoughtfully. I gestured to a corner that looked undisturbed. "Maybe you could cut some cake from that corner," I suggested. 

While she laboriously cut out three triangular wedges, her mother emerged from the bedroom, holding a laminated card with a photo of Ariana as a baby. When I read the birthdate, my eyebrows rose in surprise. She really had had a birthday earlier this month, though it had been on different day than Friday.

"Your birthday already passed!" I exclaimed. 

"It did?" she asked, shocked.

I read the date aloud. "Yep, we owe you a birthday party."

"And nails?"

"Yes. A party and nails and a cake. We can do it... tomorrow night."

"Yay!" she said. 

"What year she was born?" Basir asked.

I took off my distance glasses and moved the card so that I could make out the tiny print. "In 2018," I said. I counted out the years on my fingers. "So she's seven years old."

"No, I'm not. I'm eight," Ariana argued. 

I counted out the years again, confirming something I'd been suspecting for a long time. When we'd moved in, she'd said she was seven, but she'd actually been only six. "You are definitely seven years old. You just turned seven." 

Ariana handed me the plate of cake, and Sediqa handed me some peach yogurt that they wouldn't eat because it was haram (forbidden for Muslims). Little Safya cheerfully carried the yogurt down for me while her mother waited at the top of the stairs. 

I told the whole story to my mom and Amy when I got back inside, shuddering over the part where Ariana used her shirt as a towel. "So I don't know if we'll want to eat it," I concluded.

"Oh, I guess we can eat it," Mom said. And I suppose we will. You can hardly refuse birthday cake--even if we will all be eating some more tomorrow night. 

*Names changed to protect privacy

Confessions of a Chia Bomber

When I first started planning my trip to Washington State to help Allyson settle into her dorm, I was thrilled to find I'd earned enough frequent flyer miles for a free flight. The only problem was that Allyson didn't have her move-in date, so I had to delay making the reservations. Then, time got away from me and before I knew it, I was under three weeks out from my departure. At this point, there were no available reward flights. 

Unperturbed, I searched for a flight on Spirit, the budget Airlines we used on our $55 flights to Indiana in August. My hopes were dashed, though; there were no Spirit flights listed for Seattle. The only airline remotely in my budget was Frontier, which has an even worse reputation than Spirit. Still, the cheapest fare on Frontier was $276, a decent price, but a far cry from $55. 

Allyson Just Before She and Bill Embarked on the Very Long Drive

It occurred to me to skip the trip because I didn't know how helpful I'd actually be. But Allyson had said it was very important to her that both of her parents be there for this milestone. All of this frantic searching occurred during my trip to lovely Vermont to visit a Girl Scout friend, Allison, whom I have known since first grade. As we trekked from one quirky tourist attraction to another on what her family lovingly calls The Death March of Fun, I had a cell signal approximately 25 percent of the time, and I was desperate to secure the tickets before they were gone. So I turned to my personal travel agent, my budget-savvy little sister, Emily. Over a series of sporadically delivered texts and phone calls between myself, Emily, and my other travel companion, Diana, we managed to purchase the tickets. 

"Are you sure you're okay with just a personal item?" Emily asked. "It's over $50 each way if you take a carry-on." I said that for a four-day trip, I figured I could manage with a standard backpack, just as I had on the longer Indiana trip. 

I made up some of this unanticipated travel cost by booking a shockingly cheap Airbnb, a single room with a shared living area, kitchen, and bathroom(!) for just $56 a night. I'd never stayed in a facility with a shared bathroom, but the next cheapest option would have cost more than double. After reading every single one of the reviews, all positive, I clicked Reserve, resolving not to mention the details of my accommodations to my mother until after my safe return. 

Finding a cheap rental car was easy. I used my American Airlines AAdvantage membership to secure the discounted rate of $242.10 for four days—a steal! 

The final phase of my budget travel planning was the most challenging: planning a menu consisting of cheap food that I could pack into a lunch bag the size of an average purse. On the Wednesday night before my departure, I made Buffalo chicken in my mini slow cooker while I boiled two eggs, baked my favorite gluten-free sandwich bread, and whipped up a batch of chia pudding, which I topped with some frozen pomegranate arils. While the bread baked, I carefully tucked a pair of casual pants, a hoodie, a pullover sweater, two nighties, some socks, and a stack of panties into my backpack. I figured I could wear the cardigan and the fleece jacket that I would need in the much cooler Northern climate, rather than carrying them in my bag. 

The Disastrous Debut of the Dunlap Quartet: Rick's Tribute

Last, but not least, here is the eulogy presented by Dad's only son, Richard Allen.

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Most eulogies are a collection of stories about positive aspects of the departed. I’m going to mix things up a little. I am going to start with a story about one of my dad’s flaws: Dad was a terrible singer!

One of my early memories is of me sitting next to my dad in church with him singing old-timey hymns in an extreme off-key manner. I had to plug my ear to block his singing so that I could attempt to sing on-key.

A Dubious Idea

One day, my family was asked to sing for the outreach program at one of the local nursing homes. We knew that this was a bad idea, but felt that we couldn’t say no.  We dutifully practiced our number, but it didn’t matter; we were still terrible. 

When the time came to sing our number for the old folks gathered, we were all very nervous. Melody played the piano while my Dad, Mom, and I “sang.” Well... Dad started to giggle. The giggling spread to Mom and me despite our efforts to suppress it.  Soon, the giggling spread more widely.  Dad tried to stifle the giggle by closing his mouth, but it came out through his nose... along with some other things which hit the top of my head.  Feeling this, I turned around to glare at him. Dad erupted into laughter, followed by Mom, me, and nearly the entire place.  We were unable to finish our song.

Afterwards, a sweet little old lady told us that she really appreciated our number and was greatly touched by it.  I don’t know if she was just being nice, or if she appreciated the comedy.  

That was the end of the Dunlap Family Quartet. We were not destined to be the next Partridge Family.  On the plus side, though, we were never asked to sing again.

Photo Taken a Year or Two After Our Disastrous Debut
Rick, Amy, Sarah, Melody

Carrying on the Family Line

I come from a long line of one-son families, going all the way back to my great grandfather Arthur Dunlap.  My grandfather Arta used to pressure me to “have lots of sons to keep the Dunlap name alive.”  I didn’t do so well because Diane and I only had one son and one daughter.  My son Mitchell and his lovely wife Michelle, however, did a much better job as they have three boys: Miles, Caleb, and Landon. This made my dad very happy.

Our Family Line: Miles, Mitchell, Caleb, Dad, Me

I don’t mean to imply that my dad loved his son more than his four daughters; he most certainly loved all of his children equally.  Dad was just very old-fashioned and believed that a father has a duty to teach his son how to be a man and father. He fulfilled this duty well.

Early to Rise

Dad believed that a man gets up at an insanely early hour, and that he is at least an hour early for work each day (you never know... you could have a flat tire on the way to work). When I was a teenager, he would literally drag me out of bed far earlier than was necessary and frog march me to the table. He would then talk to me and make me breakfast. I may not have appreciated at the time why he did this, but as I matured I began to understand--although I still don’t like to eat breakfast.

From when I was young and on through engineering school, I was lucky enough to work with my father on many jobs. We seem to be our most relaxed and closest when we were working together.  We carried this tradition on throughout my father’s life through completing numerous projects together.

Staying Active in Retirement

After my dad retired, he kept himself busy with projects, odd jobs, and yard mowing. At one point he was mowing multiple yards in addition to his own and mine.

Ready to Get to Work

Dad would show up to mow my yard at around 5:30 or so and wait in his truck until it was light enough to begin mowing. Diane and I would awake to the sound of the lawn mower before it was even fully light outside.  Dad would be finished with the job around the time I would be having my first cup of coffee. He would sit there with me on the patio drinking coffee and discussing things: current events, sports, family, etc.  These are some of my most cherished memories.

As my dad got older and slowed down, he dropped all other mowing jobs except for his own yard and mine. I frequently asked if he was up to mowing my yard. Up until the end he would always say that he was.

At age 91, he went the the VA for a checkup, and his doctor noted that he was in really good shape for a 91-year-old man. She asked what he did to stay so fit. He told her that he mowed yards. She reacted, “Oh my, Mr. Dunlap, you are far too old to be mowing yards. You should have your son mow your yard.” My Dad said that he was afraid to tell the doctor that he mowed his son’s yard too.

Last year when Dad was 92, I could see that he was struggling to mow my yard, and I asked him again if he was still capable of mowing. He answered that perhaps it was time for him to stop. I knew then that as tough and strong as my dad was, time was finally catching up with him in the end.

Cowboy Buddies: Tribute from Amy

Here is the eulogy shared by my older sister Amy Beth, the middle child. 

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I didn't think I'd have anything to say about Dad, but God brought to mind what I could say about Dad. 

The first thing is Dad was real quiet and didn't talk much, but although he was quiet, he was definitely there. He was always there. He was in the background, but he had a mighty presence in his family. He could always be counted on to be there. He showed his love by doing. He lovingly hung all my pictures and knick-knacks in my apartment. That's what gave him joy. 

The second thing is when I moved to Texas with Mom and Dad. He handed me his razor and said, "You're my barber now." I was scared because I never cut hair before. I did it the first time and found out it wasn't that hard. I cut Dad's hair about every six weeks for three years. That became a special time between Dad and I. I loved cutting Dad's hair. And he loved his time with me. 

Lastly, Dad was an avid Cowboys fan. I was his Cowboys buddy. We watched the Cowboy games together. One of the last games we watched together, I got drowsy and dozed off. My dad got upset and woke me up because he wanted me to watch the game with him. 

I wasn't going to talk about this, but Aunt Sue told me I should. The last time I spent with Dad before he died, I was sitting in the living room with my dad. The last thing my sister Melody told my parents when she dropped me off at my parents' was that I was not supposed to sleep during the day. I got drowsy and went to sleep. Daddy kept poking me with his cane to wake me up. He took his job seriously and kept poking me. He thought it was really funny, which I did not. I was really angry at him. I know he was doing it because he really loved me. But his sense of humor shone through because he loved to tease me. He had a fun loving heart. He was a lot of fun even when he was being annoying.

Dad with His "Poker"
At Granddaughter Erin's Wedding, 2021 

He was a great man and left a huge hole when he left this earth. He's now in heaven, dancing for joy. 

Love you, Dad! Goodbye. 

A Working Man's Hands: Tribute from Emily

I so enjoyed all of the eulogies that I asked my siblings if I could share theirs, too. This one was written by Dad's youngest child, my sister Emily Diane.

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Strong, steadfast, faithful, hardworking, dependable, provider, protector, man of integrity, God-fearing. These are just a few of Dad's many virtues.

You might be wondering why Dad is not dressed traditionally in a suit and tie. Well, that's just not who he was. Dad was a hardworking man. He rarely ever wore suits. 

Dad loved the Texas Rangers. He literally cried tears of joy when they won the World Series. Afterwards, I bought him a World Series Champions T-shirt. He was so looking forward to wearing it to a Rangers game this season with Rick, but was called to his heavenly home before he had the chance to wear it. So what could be more fitting than for him to wear it into his eternal rest?

With Son Rick and Grandson Sean

Family was everything to Dad. He was happiest when surrounded by us. Well that, along with watching Newsmax, according to Mom, for eleven hours a day. 

I can see him now, sitting in his old easy chair in the living room, his whole face lighting up upon seeing us enter the room. We were always welcomed with a warm smile, hug, and kiss on the cheek.

With My Son Knox in the Easy Chair

As a little girl, I remember Daddy as a big, strong man with calloused hands; a carpenter with working man's hands. Deep down though, he was a big teddy bear. And as he grew in years, so did his tenderness.

One of my favorite early childhood memories is of him making pancakes for the family. He was always sure to make Sarah and I "Doll pancakes" as he liked to call them. These were tiny drops of pancake batter that dripped onto the griddle, no bigger than the size of a dime or nickel. We would snack on these while we eagerly awaited our pancakes. 

Mom, Dad, Me, Sarah - 1975

Another fond memory I have is as a 6 year-old little girl on Dad's 50th birthday. I made him a homemade birthday card and gifted him with a couple of my Barbie dolls. With a chuckle and genuine gratitude, he pulled me onto his lap and gave me the biggest hug. I'm pretty sure he treasured that gift more than any other he received that year.

And of course I can't forget how when Amy, Sarah, and I were growing up, we were woken up each morning by the sound of Dad's jolly voice, "Get up squirrels, I mean girls!," which always brought a smile to our face.

Dad was goofy and had a great sense of humor. He had the best laugh. A contagious laughter that would spread across the room. 

A favorite memory from recent years is of him telling us about a time when he had made himself a hamburger. He grabbed the mustard from the refrigerator, squeezed it onto his burger, and took a big, juicy bite. "What in the world?!" he exclaimed as he looked down and saw the butterscotch syrup on the counter, which he had grabbed by mistake. "Oh well," he said, and ate it anyway. He got so tickled telling us about it, and the room just burst into laughter.

Dad was a fierce protector. Years before I was born, when Melody, Monica, and Rick were small children, and Mom and Dad lived in California, they were coming home one night, driving through a sketchy part of LA. They came across a chain gang blocking the road and heading straight toward them. Without giving it a second thought, Dad hit the gas and plowed right through them. Being a man of integrity, though, he drove straight to the police station to report what he had done. They said, "Sir, you did the right thing. They would have surely killed you and your family." Dad was a hero.

Monica, Mom, Rick, Melody

I have many more stories and could go on and on about how wonderful Dad was, but it is only fair to give my brother and sisters a chance to share their love as well.

As long as I live, I will share Dad's legacy. And until we meet again, Daddy, I love you. Forever, your Baby Girl.

Tribute from a Daddy's Girl

I have always been a Daddy's girl. During one of our conversations last week, Dad reminded me of his ritual of lying down on the floor next to the heat register for a nap after work and how, as a toddler, I'd lie down right next to him and go to sleep.

1972

Though I can't remember this, I'm told that I loved him so much that he never needed to spank me when I was naughty. All he had to do was frown at me and I would burst into tears. 

There was so much to love about Dad. 

My Long Lost Brother

A week or two ago, I took leftover spaghetti sauce to work for lunch. I had no noodles left because I usually only make enough for a single meal; the gluten-free noodles don't hold up very well in the refrigerator. Briefly, I contemplated taking the dry noodles and a small pot to cook them in on the full-sized stove in the break room. I'd never seen anyone cooking anything on that stove, only reheating meals in the five microwave ovens. To my knowledge, I'm the only one who uses the toaster/convection oven (because I don't trust microwave radiation).

I decided the stove was probably there for potluck lunches, and if anyone saw me cooking on it, they'd think I was weird. Had I known everyone better, I wouldn't have cared what they thought. Indeed, at my previous office job, I had occasionally cooked my dinner in a slow cooker under my desk. My coworkers had laughed at my eccentricity and ribbed me mercilessly, but I didn't mind. No one was laughing when the tempting aromas wafted through our quad of cubes and into the surrounding ones. One after another, my coworkers commented on how amazing it smelled. "Yep!" I agreed smugly. "Nope," I replied when they asked for a taste.

After chuckling over those fond memories, I decided I'd better make my noodles on my own stove while I cooked oatmeal for my breakfast. For most of my four years at this job, I've been fully remote, and now I only go to the office on Mondays and Fridays. Therefore, very few people in the office know anything about me, let alone about all of my quirks. I don't know why it should seem weird to cook at work, but I'm too conventional to rock the boat. Today, however, I learned that some people dare to defy cooking conventions. 

Dogs Change Everything

I've been working on two other, more important, blog stories for the last few days, but I just had to stop and tell you this story while it's still fresh, so to speak....

In the 19 years (!) that I've been walking in the park across the street from my house, I've learned some fairly reliable protocols about social interactions. I find these conventions fascinating, and I rarely deviate from them since I'm a rule-following sort of girl. Here's how it works, at least in my park:

• The first time you pass someone on the large circle around the soccer field, you may make eye contact and smile. If they also make eye contact, you may mutter, "Good morning" or "Hello." If they pretend they don't see you, you just smile self-consciously and stay silent.*
• On the second and perhaps the third passes with the friendly people, you smile at each other without speaking. After that, it isn't rude to avoid eye contact if the smiles become tiresome. 
• If you pass the person who ignored you last time, you feign an intense interest in the soccer practice, the basketball game, or the sunset. 
• If you pass the same person on three or four different days, and they seem to recognize you, you may smile and also nod. 
• If you pass the same person on ten or more different days, you may pause next to them and say, "Good morning, how are you?" in a voice loud enough to actually be heard. They will say, "Fine, thank you." 
• If you see one of these familiar people after a long absence, you may say, "Good to see you again." And that will be true. There's something so comforting about the seeing the same familiar faces each morning and evening.
• After the 20th time or so of nodding and smiling or exchanging pleasantries, you may ask the person's name. It's okay if you don't remember their name the next time, because they probably won't remember yours either. 
• If you've greeted each other by name a few times, you may even fall into step with them for a ways and start a real conversation.

*It may be only me who feels self-conscious. Yes, probably. 

All of these rules work very well to help create just the right combination of solitude and human connection. BUT... 

A dog changes everything.

I've noted that if you walk a dog, people will stop and talk to you. Children will ask to pet your dog. Adults will ask you about the breed, the age, the weight. Just like that, you will find yourself having a real conversation with someone you've never seen before.

If both parties have dogs, the conversation can go much deeper while the dogs play, especially if the dogs are well-behaved enough to be trusted off leash. When that happens in the evening, a dog party might ensue. Dogs of all shapes and sizes will chase each other around and roll in the grass while their humans chat about dogs and who knows what else. Laughter will echo in the air over a backdrop of insects' songs. 

Up until recently, I'd never been able to fully join those dog parties, though I hovered wistfully around the fringes and asked about dog names and breeds. One very kind lady--whose name I've forgotten--with an amazingly obedient Dobermann named Matisse always welcomes me in. She teases me about getting a dog, but when others ask why I don't have one, she explains, "She's a cat person." 

As you can imagine, when I got to watch Allyson's Husky, Archer, the week before last, I was quite eager to take him to the park on my nightly walks. I was not keen on picking up poop, so even though he would only be with me for a week, I bought an ingenious poop scooper that is totally contactless. It clicks onto the leash and comes with a compartment for dispensing the bags.

Archer on his first stay back in February

If you've been reading a very long time, you may recall how excited I can get over poop scoopers. After about eight years, I haven't changed a bit, at least in that regard. I must admit that I was rather disappointed when I had no occasion to use the scooper, night after night. I was even more disappointed that there was no sign of a dog party, although several kids did ask to pet my dog and one father admired his beautiful blue eyes.

On his last night with me, I got to join the dog party. Matisse's owner was thrilled to see me with a dog, but Matisse shocked me by snarling at Archer. Up until then he'd seemed to have an affinity for dogs of every size and type. Archer didn't react strongly, but I thought it wise to leave the party early.

Perhaps that encounter had scared the crap out of Archer, because a couple of minutes later, I got to use the new poop scooper for the first time. It was amazing! I unfurled a little bag, opened it wide, and stuffed it into the jaws of the scoop, wrapping the rest of the bag around the outside. Then I just scooped that turd right up, Pacman style. There was no warmth, no squish, and best of all, no smell. At the nearest trashcan, I tied up the ends of the bag, pinched the scoop open, and dropped the bag in.

It worked so well that I even contemplated getting a dog of my own. But then, Archer almost yanked my arm out of socket as he drug me into the brambles chasing something, probably a rabbit. "No!" I shrieked, pulling back on the leash with all my weight as I cast my eyes about for snakes and poison ivy. 

Despite these misadventures, and the piles of hair that he shed around the house, I readily agreed to watch Archer again this week. 

On our first walk last night, I noticed that he was far less reticent about pooping away from home. We'd scarcely reached the circle when he assumed the stance. "Oh, you're all about pooping in the park now, aren't you?" I said, but I wasn't worried since I'd remembered to clip the poop scooper to his leash. I soon found, however, that squishy poop isn't so easily retrieved. The novelty had already worn off.

On tonight's walk, he had other plans for livening up my evening. As we crossed the bridge over the babbling brook that leads to the park circle, I admired a sweet family. The mom held onto a stroller and looked down on her husband and two young children who were throwing rocks into the water from the bank. Absorbed in this heartwarming scene, I forgot to take up the slack on Archer's leash on our approach. 

At the last moment I recognized his intent to sniff the lady and tugged on the leash, but I was too slow. The woman stood with her back to us, in a partial crouch, probably checking on her baby. Without hesitation, Archer plunged his wet nose right up... where the sun don't shine!!

The woman let out a little shriek and stumbled backward--away from the edge of the bridge, thank God. She whirled around to see who had goosed her just as I yanked Archer away.

Our eyes locked on each other, both of our jaws lowered in horror and shock. Time seemed to stand still for a few moments. 

"I-I'm sorry!" I squeaked at last.

She just stood there, still speechless. And then we both burst out laughing. Her husband, who was climbing up to the bridge, joined in. The three of us shared a belly laugh, gasping and snorting. "I'm so sorry," I managed to splutter.

"Cute dog," she replied. 

As I walked away, I kept laughing, so hard that tears were rolling down my cheeks as I passed a man coming from the circle. This was only the second time I'd ever seen him, and we were not even at the head-nodding stage, but I forgot all about the protocol. 

I could see his curiosity over my maniacal laughter, so I stopped next to him and said, "I just have to share the laughter. See that lady over there?" I gestured with my head toward the family, who were still laughing behind me. "My dog just sniffed her butt. He just put his nose right up there," I said, forming a crack between my thumb and fingers and pressing the fingers of the other hand forcefully into it. "Oh my gosh," I said, shaking my head in disbelief and breaking into fresh giggles. 

He smiled and laughed, and went on his way. I felt decidedly self-conscious and rather wished I'd stuck to the protocol. Surely he must think I was crazy.

One minute later I forgot my embarrassment when Archer crouched in the same spot along the circle from the night before. This time, he shuffled around and made three squishy piles. "Archer!" I groaned. "Stop moving around." 

As he danced around, pulling against the leash looped around my wrist, I wrestled out a bag with one hand and clumsily wrapped it around the scooper, wrinkling my nose at the noxious fumes rising into the hot air of the summer evening. As I crouched to scrape up the first pile, I felt him lunge behind me and realized he must be sniffing another hapless stranger. "No!" I yelled as my phone dropped into the grass dangerously close to the poop and I fought to keep my balance.

"I'm sorry," I said to the person behind me. But then I heard familiar laughter. It was Allyson, coming out to meet her friends Morgan and Jacob. I sighed with relief. "Will you take Archer while I..." I gestured to the remaining piles. 

"Sure," she said, taking the leash.

"Unless you want to pick it up."

"Nope," she said decisively. 

"But he's your dog." 

She just shook her head. 

The job took two bags, and there was a lot of smeared residue on the grass that I just had to leave there. "I did my best," I said ruefully as I took back the leash. 

I was just thinking how happy I'd be to give Archer back to Bill when I passed someone familiar: the man I'd told the butt-sniffing story to. He nodded and smiled at me, chuckling audibly.

The second time he passed me, he smiled and asked, "How many more do you have?" 

I figured he must mean how many laps. "This is my last," I replied. "Have a good evening."

"You too," he said warmly. 

As I walked the short distance to the house, I admired the gorgeous sunset and beamed over the memory of the laughter I'd shared with three strangers, and over the way a dog can accelerate you past days or weeks of polite encounters, straight into connections that make you smile and forget your cares. 

Maybe I do need a dog... or at least I should borrow one now and then.

Archer and Arwen last night, breaking the ice with a salesperson who came to sell me solar panels

Doesn't he look angelic? 

An Uninvited Guest

I've missed you guys lots. I think of you often and have many stories to share but very little time to write them. My life is mostly consumed with planning meals, cooking them, and cleaning up the kitchen afterward. Throw in laundry, exercise when the weather permits, and plenty of sleep, and there go all 24 hours in my day.

Here's a story that a normal person would never share, but when you read it perhaps you will understand why I just had to tell it. If you're terribly shocked, my guess is that  you haven't been reading this blog very long....

I'd been anticipating my Sunday morning shower for two reasons. First, due to my severe dry skin, I shower only twice a week in the winter. Oh, how I love standing under the warm water--not too hot!--for as long as I dare, even though I know my skin may hurt for a day or two afterward.

Second, I'd just gotten all my hair cut off on Saturday, and this would be my first time to style it. I was really hoping it would look as good as it did when I'd left the salon.

I'd mistakenly set my clock an hour ahead on my dad's advice, so this week I planned to enjoy a leisurely shower before church.

I let the water run for a good three minutes while I brushed my limbs, back, and stomach with a natural-bristled brush to stimulate circulation and lymphatic drainage. It stings just a bit, but it's very invigorating.

The water was nice and warm when I stepped in, turning my back to the flow and closing my eyes as I sighed, "Ahhhh."

It only took a moment to wet my shorn locks, and then I opened my eyes to reach for the preservative-free shampoo bar, which I keep on the shower ledge outside the door. (I learned the hard way that you can't keep a shampoo bar in the shower, or it will melt away to nothing.)

I wasn't wearing my contacts, but I had no trouble spotting something that didn't belong in the corner of the shower pan, to the right of the door. It was big and brown and... terrifying! Had Ethan still lived at home, I might have mistaken my uninvited shower guest for one of those toy bugs that used to take my breath away for a moment. This water bug, as motionless as a toy, was the length of my thumb, and all too real.

Like the bug, I froze. The only thing that moved was my vocal cords; I started to scream but sort of swallowed the sound even though Allyson was sound asleep on the other side of the house and couldn't possibly have heard me. Maybe I didn't want the giant roach to hear me. In any case, the only sound my throat emitted was a strangled squeak.

My thoughts seemed to tumble over one another in slow motion. What should I do? If I moved, the bug would run. The only thing I had in the shower that might kill this thing was a bottle of neem oil, but if I hesitated even for a moment, the bug would run at me.

The sensible thing to do would have been to step out of the shower, reach back in and turn off the water, dry off, and return with a shoe. But the warm water was so divine, and the bathroom would not have had time to steam up yet, and I couldn't bear the thought of stepping out into the cold with my soaking-wet body. So I made a very foolish decision.

I decided to share the shower with the roach and just try to finish very, very quickly. There was only one problem with that plan. Although you can use a shampoo bar, with its luxurious lather, quite quickly, there's no rushing the process with a conditioner bar. You're supposed to run the bar up and down the strands of your hair, which is surprisingly hard when your hair is super short. Basically I just rubbed it all around my head while I kept my eyes trained on the still motionless roach.

So far, so good. Now all I needed to do was rinse my hair and wash my armpits and nether regions with yet another soap bar. There was no question of shaving the legs today.

I'd just begun the rinsing--carefully, with my eyes open--when the roach started scurrying toward my feet. I yelped out another strangled screech and sprang into action without any conscious thought.

In one motion, I somehow flung open the shower door and leapt over the brass-edged shower pan, landing on the fluffy rug. Meanwhile, the roach ran to the opposite corner, behind where I'd been standing. I don't know who moved faster, but somehow we missed meeting in the middle.

With water spraying through the open door and streaming in soapy rivers down my body, the rug was drenched in seconds. I scarcely noticed the cold as I stared at that bug, statue-still once more, and pondered the best course of action. I really did not want to smash a roach on the wet shower floor when I was only half done washing.

After 30 seconds or so, I flipped over the plastic drain lid, pulled down the shower head from its hook, and blasted that bug toward the gaping hole. It happily scrambled down when it reached the edge, and I slapped the drain cover back in place.

Back under the warm water, I was unable to enjoy the rest of my shower because I couldn't stop mentally replaying a video I'd shown my students last year. Roaches' articulated exoskeletons are incredibly flexible and strong. Did you know they can be compressed to half their height and still run full speed?

That meant that my shower buddy could easily squeeze back through one of those holes in the drain cover any time it wanted to.

My trembling as I slathered neem oil over my wet skin was not just from the cold, therefore. But I finished the process without incident and was soon standing on the waterlogged rug. The only problem I had to deal with was washing that rug, which was dirty anyway.

So it all turned out fine in the end... even my hair.

Photo from that fateful morning--with clothes

For the record, my house is not infested with roaches. Those water bugs live in the creek across the street. The ones who wander in are usually slaughtered by my cat Arwen. A typical Russian Blue, she is an accomplished hunter, so typically all I might encounter is a dismembered leg--or head, eww!!

I may have to rethink my policy of keeping Arwen out of my bathroom.

Good Medicine: Joy, Gratitude, and Sisters

I am posting this at 2:41 a.m. after another horrible immune reaction, this time to tea tree oil. That is a crazy, crazy story, and I promise to tell it tomorrow. It involves a new friend named Courtney. I'm going to be just fine, but if I'm going to be awake with tachycardia again, I might as well use my time for a good purpose. I've been praising Jesus and listening to scripture meditations on Youtube for a couple of hours, but my heart rate is still too fast to sleep. 

I was tempted to clean up this entry a bit because I wrote it during brain fog this afternoon, from something I ate; have to figure that out if possible. It took me about 3 hours to write because I knew it was all in the wrong order. Ana can tell us if I got it right.  But I don't want to clean it up because I want you to see my progress. It doesn't matter whether this is my best writing or not.


I had just finished my last blog entry and was making myself a smoothie (banana, a bit of plum--new today, so low and slow--, yogurt, honey, turmeric drop, iceberg lettuce, cantaloupe), when I saw a woman coming to the door. I ignored her, figuring this was another of the many deliveries of unusual food items and kitchen gadgets that arrive by the day.

When I answered the doorbell, I was shocked to find my sweet neighbor, Ana, with a bouquet of pink roses.

This morning I'd had another of my panic attacks, brought on by immune reactions to my food, and after I'd meditated on half the scriptures on my kitchen sticky note collection, God had directed me to go outside.

2 Timothy 1:7, Isaiah 12:2-3, Romans 8:15, Psalm 23:4, Matthew 11:28, Romans 5:2-5, Psalm 23:2-3, Genesis 21:6, Joyce Meyer quote, Romans 8:24-25, Habakkuk 1:5 

 

 

Outdoors, I breathed deeply in the warm morning air and feasted my eyes on the mature trees in my neighborhood.

"I am like a tree planted by the water," I prayed aloud. "My roots go down deep to the life-giving water. You are the water. The water of life."

I felt the wind and saw it moving the leaves in the tree.

"The wind is like your Holy Spirit,"  I said. "No one knows where it comes from or where it is going, but we know that it is there. I have your Holy Spirit inside of me, carrying me wherever you want me to go..... I am Dust in the Wind. You are the wind."

I felt my breathing slowing down, though the headache that had brought the panic continued to throb in the back of my head. Something I had eaten, surely. But what? I focused myself on my breathing, the green leaves, and the wind.

Just then, I saw Ana getting into her truck, dressed in cute gym clothes. I called out to her and then just ran across the street.

"A hug," I said. "I need a hug." I'd been at her house the night before, so she knew about my panic attacks when I get autoimmune symptoms.

She wrapped me in a tight hug and held me.

"It's medicine," I whispered into her hair as tears streamed down my face. "Your hug is medicine."

"Yes, it is," she said.

I told her about how God had told me to come outside while I was meditating on my scriptures like I usually do for anxiety.

"Yes, you need to go outside," she said. "The sun on your skin, the vitamin D. You need that."

"Yes, I do!" I said. "I can read my Bible outside. That's what I was about to do."

"Yes. Get a chair and bring it outside. Do your reading out here. Sit in the shade, though."

"I will," I promised. And I did. I had the most amazing quiet time in.... ever, I guess. God really spoke to me and did a great work in my heart. But I will share that another time.

Back to the Doorbell and Sweet Ana

"Oh, Ana!" I exclaimed as I threw my arms around her.

"Be careful. There are thorns," she warned.

I carefully took the little bouquet and breathed deeply. "This is aromatherapy," I said.

"Yes, it is!"

"And it reminds me of how much you love me and how much God loves me."

"I just want you to be happy," Ana said.

"Oh, I am. I am. I am so happy right now."

She hugged me again and laughed aloud. "You've got to focus on being happy so you can get better."

"Yes, but it's hard," I said. "I focus to much on this..." I pointed at all the food strewn around my kitchen. "But I have to. I can't eat the things that make me sick. I've been so isolated here," I said. "I do need to focus on things that make me happy."

"Yes!"

"You have to remind me," I said. "I can't remember things right now. When you're at work you can send me texts."

"I will," she said. "You have to do little things for yourself to make yourself happy."

I sniffed the roses again.

"You can put them in your room so Arwen won't eat them."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot about that. Arwen ate Juan's roses, remember?"

She laughed. "Yes, she did."

"I'll keep them in my room, and I can look at them and smell them there."

"You need to focus on being grateful," Ana added.

"Oh, I am. That's what my dietitian suggested. I've been making a gratitude list at bedtime every day. That's why I sleep so well. Last night I had the best sleep in years. Eight hours in a row!! You're going to be on the top of my list today."

"Yes, you need to focus on being happy and grateful."

"Not just at night, but at the start of the day, too," I interjected.

"And whenever you feel sad," Ana agreed. "Focus on being happy and grateful. My mom used to pray and thank God every day. I don't know how to pray, but I-"

"You know how to pray," I said. "God loves us so much. All you do is talk to him."

"Focus on being grateful," she repeated.

"I will," I promised, making a mental note to add a gratitude list to my morning routine and hoping that I would not forget that.

"Hey, can we pose for a selfie?" I asked. "This is going to be in my book for sure," I said.

"Oh, I don't know. I'm all sweaty from the gym."

"All of my selfies are ugly, trust me," I said. "You're going to look beautiful next to me."

"Okay," she said.

"Can you help me find my phone?" I asked. "It's part of this Hashimoto's thing [the brain fog]. I lose everything. Constantly. It drives me crazy."

We both scoured the kitchen to no avail.

"Did you bring your phone?"

"No, I didn't."

I thought back to my last blog entry and how I had emailed the photos from my phone while I was on the toilet. (Yes, I use my phone on the toilet. So do you. You just don't admit it.)

"Oh, I think it's in the bathroom," I said. Sure enough, there it was next to the sink. (Yes, I washed my hands. Of course!)

I then proceeded to take an ugly selfie of us both. [Out of respect for Ana, I am withholding that photo. You're welcome, dearest.]

"I can't see it," Ana said; I think she uses readers.

"You look great," I lied.

"I take selfies all the time now for my book, but I don't know how to do it," I said. "Selfies help me remember things, so it's great.... If Allyson were here she would know how."

"Let me try," she said. "I think people usually hold the phone out farther like this." She extended her arm high above us.

Her picture was a little better. She looked gorgeous but my nose still looked gargantuan. I guess that's because it really is gargantuan. Anyway, I hope you can see our joy.

That's Ana on the right. Aren't the flowers lovely? Like Ana.

I told her about a short message from Levi Lusko that I had just heard on the radio, right before she knocked.

"It was a message for me," I said. "Really specifically for me. It was about how when we lose so much, God always gives us something better."

"Yes, when you go through a hard time you can really appreciate the good things more," she said.

"That is true. And God loves us so much. He gave me you as a heart sister."

Ana hugged me again, squeezing me tighter.

"I love you, Sarah," she said, and she held me while I cried.

"God gave me you as a sister. Also, he gave me an Egyptian tax driver for a brother, a new Christian."

"Really?"

"Yes, and a Christian Uber driver from Rwanda [Africa]."

"Really?"

"Yes. The Egyptian man asked if he could hug me because I am his sister. And he did. He held me while I cried." Also he prayed for me, but I forgot to tell her that part.

"And the African man prayed for me in his car. He has only been in Texas for one month, and he barely speaks English."

"Really?"

"Well he's been in America for 8 years but he just moved to Texas a month ago. They are both my brothers."

"Wow!"

"So you see that even though I have lost so much in this battle with Hashimoto's, God is giving me new stuff, better stuff."

"Yes, he is! I love you so much, Sarah."

"Me too, sister."

"You look really beautiful in the selfie," I said when she was on the way out my door.

She grinned. "You think?"

"Oh yes, everyone who sees you always says you're gorgeous."

"They do?"

"Yes, like my roommate Kim." I gestured behind me to her bedroom. "The first time she saw you she sent me a text saying that you were so gorgeous."

Ana flushed with pleasure.

"It's true," I said.

"Stay in touch," Ana said. "And do things to make yourself happy."

I will. Oh, I will.

My life is like these roses. The thorns make the beauty all the sweeter when God gives me eyes to focus on it. I could barely see them through my happy tears.

Un Tour de Turrialba / A Tour of Turrialba

EN ESPAÑOL ABAJO

[This is my fifth bilingual travelogue entry, chronicling both my travel experiences and my progress with Spanish in a Costa Rican language immersion program. Note that all grammar errors in the dialogue are mine.]

ENGLISH TRANSLATION FOLLOWS.

[Todos errores gramatical en el diágolo son mios.]

El día siguiente el día cuando conocí Walter, Amable, y el Chihuahua, mi profesora Karen me dio un tour de Turrialba, la ciudad más cerca de mi pueblo de Tuis. En el autobús, hablábamos sobre nuestras vidas. El bus iba muy lleno, y a mí costó concentrar porque las personas me apretaron.

At Least You Know You're Alive

Last week I told you a bit about my family's recent road trip to Indiana. Now I'm going to tell you about the day that most of us will remember when we look back on this vacation.

Our last Tuesday was designated as Chicago Day. Rather than to brave the traffic and fight for parking spaces, we decided to take the South Shore commuter train that runs between South Bend, Indiana, and Downtown Chicago. I've actually ridden that route many times, and I usually enjoy the sense of adventure. This was my sister Amy's first time to ride the train since her stroke, but our sister Melody had done her research and assured us that the train was handicap accessible.

We decided to depart from Michigan City, an hour's drive away, because it had more return options than the closer South Bend station. On the trip out, we had the benefit of a one-hour time difference; we could leave at 7:00 and have plenty of time to catch the 9:00 train.

I got Amy and myself up that morning at 6:15, which seemed like plenty of time. But I had not factored in the shared bathroom, nor the multiple trips to the basement to holler at Allyson and her friend Kambry. Aunt Sue came to rescue by cooking our oatmeal and even washing Kambry's hair in the kitchen sink just moments before we left.

Following Melody and her husband Joe, we pulled out of the driveway around 7:20, not too bad in my book. While Kambry brushed her wet hair, Allyson routed us to the Carroll Avenue station. If all went according to plan, we would arrive with 40 minutes to spare.

Home Depot! Home Depot!

Yesterday afternoon, I rode with my mom to her bank, where we were meeting my sister Emily. We had an appointment to sign paperwork so that Emily and I could have access to Mom's safety deposit box.

"Where's your father?" Mom asked. "He was supposed to go to the bank with us."

"I don't know," I answered absently, but then I remembered what Dad had said to me after a sweaty hug when we passed each other in the doorway. "Oh, wait.... He said something about working on some lady's plumbing."

"Oh, he's at Lupita's, then," she said, drawing in an exasperated breath.

"Isn't it too hot for him to be working outside?" I asked. "They said on the radio that it's over a hundred degrees today [38 degrees Celsius]."

"Yes, it is too hot," Mom agreed. "That's why I made him promise to do the work in the morning. But obviously he didn't keep his promise. Every time those ladies call, he runs right over."

I raised an eyebrow.

"He wants the money," Mom went on. "I told him maybe I'll have to start giving him money so he'll stay home now and then."

Just then, Mom's phone rang over the car speaker, and I saw Dad's name on the dashboard display. Apparently his ears must have been burning.

More Things You Can Do With a Muffin

I'm beginning to realize that muffins have a surprising range of uses. My regular readers may recall that I recently tried to use them to win a man's affection. (For the record, I don't think it worked. Time will tell.) This past Sunday, I found a revolutionary new use for my beloved muffins.

Allyson, her friend Gabby, and I were attending the Harvest America event at the massive AT&T stadium, where the Dallas Cowboys play. I recalled two things from our first experience with this Christian rally at the same venue:

• The food at the stadium is VERY pricey. Think $12 for a hamburger, $6 for a bottle of water. I may be exaggerating, but not by much. 
• Security is tight. You can't even bring a purse, let alone a cooler. 

So I studied the rules on both the stadium's website and Harvest America's. I learned that we could bring transparent plastic totes no larger 12" x 12", and we could bring water in the original manufacturer's bottle with the cap's seal unbroken. 

I filled three plastic makeup totes with sandwiches, mini chip bags, grapes, and some homemade blueberry muffins I'd made around bedtime the night before in response to a wild craving. I found three water bottles leftover from last week's camping trip and threw those, along with everything else, into a cooler.

Love and Muffins

Disclaimer: I hesitated to write this entry, but the whole experience made me laugh so hard that I just couldn't keep it to myself. Before you read on, you have to promise that you won't get excited over the possibility of a little romance in my life. I promise you, there's virtually zero chance of anything coming out of this.... 

It's been five years since my divorce, and many of the people I love--including Allyson--often ask me if there's any possibility that I will marry again, or at least go on a date. I always say that I don't know. At this point, if God brings a godly man into my life, I'm not opposed. In the meantime, I've had a few crushes, which are always great fun.

The Old Job Was Never This Fun

It's been a good week, our second one reading The Hunger Games. The last three days were a little chaotic, but I was proud of myself for trying something new that I had read about in an article. I divided my classes into six groups and put them through rotations of reading, blogging, and small group discussion. A lot of the time, the reading groups take so long to settle down and start their audio that they can't finish an 18-minute chapter in 22 minutes. And the bloggers have been writing mostly one-sentence posts so far, or even sentence fragments. But some of the discussions have helped me remember why I dreamed of being an English teacher--in those magical moments when the "self-directed" groups are actually self directing, and I'm able supervise the discussion groups as per my lesson plan.

It's so fun to hear their thoughts, and to help them connect a really dramatic story to their own lives. It's also fun to ask them about the shocking parts that many of them somehow missed. For example, when I ask them why Katniss isn't embarrassed to be naked in front of the prep team, several pairs of eyes open wide. "What?? When was she naked?" [For the record, it's not an obscene book. I promise.]

"It doesn't pay to get off task," I answer. "You might miss the really good parts."

The best part of my day is when some of my lowest performers step up as discussion leaders, sharing some perceptive views, or when a painfully shy student finds her voice. If I ever get to meet Suzanne Collins, I just might give her a kiss.

Not So Bad After All

Okay, so I ought to be grading papers, or at least doing the dishes. But I just have to tell you about my day yesterday....

It all started when my eyes fluttered open in the early light of morning, instead of the darkness before dawn. With a gasp, I rolled out of bed and squinted at the clock. 7:23. Not too bad. If you're going to oversleep, 23 minutes is the way to go.

I rushed to Allyson's room, where she was lying sound asleep under the glow of the overhead light. Her alarm had gone off, but she'd been seduced back to sleep. "Get up, Allyson!" I shouted. "I overslept. It's 7:23."

She popped out of bed almost as quickly as I had. "I'm going to be late for school," she said.

"Not necessarily. Just pull on your clothes and brush your teeth. We gotta go!"

Like Ten Husbands

Do you ever make yourself laugh? I mean, really laugh out loud... when you're all by yourself? I did this morning, on a solo walk with Jesus. As I walked, I thought of the revelation God had given me on my last solo walk: that I don't have to be married to enjoy the forever love I've always craved.

In the background, I must have also been thinking of the chapters I'd recently read in 1 Samuel. The book opens with Samuel's mother Hannah mourning her barrenness. I've always loved these lines, in which her husband Elkanah clumsily tries to comfort her: "Hannah, why are you crying?... Why won't you eat? Why are you troubled? Am I not better to you than 10 sons?"

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

Tonight I only have time for one story, so I'm going to tell you about Allyson's birthday. 

Her first little celebration was on Monday the 6th, the night before her birthday. She shocked me this year by deviating from the dinner request that both she and Ethan have made every year for as long as I can remember: yellow rice and chicken. This time, she wanted pierogies, those little Polish dumplings filled with mashed potatoes. Instead of cake, she wanted homemade apple pie.

Now, I've only ever made pierogies once in my life, and the memory of that day carries a complicated mix of emotions. It was several years back, on one of our semi-annual trips to visit Bill's family in Canada. While the rest of the family went on a fun outing, Bill's mom and I spent nearly the entire day making pierogies. We mixed and kneaded the dough by hand and then rolled it out thin. We cut little circles, stuffed them with seasoned potatoes, folded them, and crimped them. Sandi folded hers neatly by hand, and I used a little pierogi-making gadget which someone had given her but which she did not trust. The truth was, nothing could make that task easy for my fumbling fingers.

But what I remember most about that day was chatting and laughing with Sandi for hours, and then savoring the sweet success when we tasted those first dumplings. In-credible! Sharing in the lavish praise that evening when the entire family devoured hours' worth of labor in minutes was also pretty gratifying.

Looking back, I'm torn between nostalgia, loneliness for my other "Mom,"and a little dread at the idea of ever doing all that work again.

So when Allyson asked for pierogies, my first question was, "From scratch?"

"Well..."

They Don't Miss Nothin'

Disclaimer: This story might shock a few of you. Feel free to bail out if you feel uncomfortable at any time. However, chances are that none of you is more of a prude than me, and if I survived the  actual experience, you can probably survive reading about it. I'll go easy on you, which is more than I can say for my masseuse yesterday. But I'm getting ahead of myself....


On Friday we celebrated my sister Amy's 50th birthday. True to form, I didn't even think about what I might buy for Amy until that morning. On the way to Allyson's summer day camp, I asked her for ideas.


"Gently used kids' tattoos?" [Leftover from her belated birthday party the night before; more on that soon.]


"Um... no."


I thought about it off and on through the day, but all I could come up with was a massage. The only problem was that, according to Amy, I promised her a massage for another birthday a couple years back and then forgot about it. So how could I promise her another now?


I prayed about it, but still came up with nothing. Before long, I was off to the party empty-handed.


While Amy opened the presents that other people so thoughtfully purchased or even made, I stood around feeling like a pretty crappy little sister. Okay, so I'd offer her a massage, and we'd schedule it right on the spot. But when? The next several weekends were booked....


Just then, I tuned into a conversation between my sister Melody and her friend Dana. They planned to go to the King Spa the next day. Melody and her husband Joe had been talking about this Korean bath house for years, and I'd always been curious about it, but not curious enough to spend the money.


The gears spun in my head for a moment. Hmm. What if Amy and I went along? It could be a sisters' day. A sisters' and friends' day. But I could hardly buy Amy a massage and not also buy myself one. What would I do while the rest of them got pampered?


"It isn't in the budget," I thought.


"Be quiet, Dave Ramsey," I answered. "Amy only turns 50 once. And I could use a massage, too."


"...and it's pretty cheap," Melody told Dana.


Those were the magic words, though I later learned that "cheap" is all a matter of perspective.