tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-356452332024-03-13T18:49:45.593-04:00Way to Go Kevin!Keep a sharp eye.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.comBlogger192125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-89315483275336511852011-06-09T08:44:00.006-04:002011-06-09T11:05:01.498-04:00The Avett Brothers - live!Concerts are funny things. You spend a lot of money to stand a little too far away from the stage and listen to music that sounds better coming out of your laptop speakers. You have to endure the delayed start time, the no-name opener, and (depending on the concert) the haze of marijuana smoke radiating from your neighbors.<br /><br />And yet I love them.<br /><br />A few weeks ago I crashed the Flower’s date night and went with them to The Avett Brothers concert. Before we booked the tickets, I wasn’t that familiar with the band, having only heard them when they performed with Bob Dylan at the Grammys this year. But Ken knew them, and when he found out that they were playing in Columbus in May he called to see if I wanted to go with him and Beth. Looking back, it is possible that he was calling to see if I would baby sit the kiddos, but was unable to bring himself to ask after I reacted with such excitement to the prospect of a concert (any concert), and invited me to come along instead. Win.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD9X6E7RdI2S2gvnkQqxKQNSt0Sisd63hg90575wbBVDqSFOhDlXr1ANf9POYMcgbuVTavQ5sZpEwBLqLFUHnueyJvznfH2k9KPeU2gvZ5ZGlWRbwSRGp8AzRsK1TVOpEOxEU/s1600/DSCN0561.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD9X6E7RdI2S2gvnkQqxKQNSt0Sisd63hg90575wbBVDqSFOhDlXr1ANf9POYMcgbuVTavQ5sZpEwBLqLFUHnueyJvznfH2k9KPeU2gvZ5ZGlWRbwSRGp8AzRsK1TVOpEOxEU/s400/DSCN0561.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616200710841662530" /></a>I did tell them that they could make out and I wouldn't look. I'm not totally insensitive to date night.<br /><br />Going to concerts is a perk of living in the big city. For some reason, it was difficult for Alaska to attract big names to come and sing to us. They must be reluctant to navigate their tour buses around the curvy Canadian passes of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alaska_Highway">ALCAN</a> (stupid Canada, you ruin everything).<br /><br />The Avett Brothers are great. They have a very energetic presence onstage, and look like they’re having a good time and enjoy one another. I devoted myself to learning their music (thanks Grooveshark!) before the concert, and I like almost everything. My favorites are Murder in the City, I and Love and You, and Kickdrum Heart.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRyIBVXOwfPlNxH6YOuanDDabjYSP_BV2-msiZ_OOmk4D3qwTMmt2qWeYAv40SlZQ4JlEtLg2-yTjRwuxoFugGr-wREk8mxkaAQwyk5Mc5EIliOlPXMNhlJyV3klYJEvK6owo/s1600/DSCN0562.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRyIBVXOwfPlNxH6YOuanDDabjYSP_BV2-msiZ_OOmk4D3qwTMmt2qWeYAv40SlZQ4JlEtLg2-yTjRwuxoFugGr-wREk8mxkaAQwyk5Mc5EIliOlPXMNhlJyV3klYJEvK6owo/s400/DSCN0562.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616200714992602258" /></a>The Avett Brothers – Check ‘em out!<br /><br />Of course, that might just be the second-hand pot smoke talking.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-88139050847578165952011-06-01T10:45:00.003-04:002011-06-01T10:51:13.748-04:00You're preaching to the choir, Paul Bowlesfrom <span style="font-style:italic;">The Sheltering Sky</span>:<br /><blockquote>As long as he was living his life, he could not write about it. Where one left off, the other began, and the existence of circumstances which demanded even the vaguest participation on his part was sufficient to place writing outside the realm of possibility. But that was all right. He would not have written well, and so he would have got no pleasure from it. And even if what he might have written had been good, how many people would have known it? It was all right to speed ahead into the desert leaving no trace.</blockquote>jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-12292921910510025872011-05-30T15:28:00.005-04:002011-05-30T16:50:24.787-04:00Dog day afternoon.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcX3PioXbS2w-WN-upd3b_-FE5pPVxIsKtFPKvmpcLBRXMpfHglawxoimMLYE0fEKJ-OBUq1p81rK1mXUFZ3xnc12Z_DU27FHYklDaV1SUttYf7LwZVXP15hNBc314Pf6SFo/s1600/DSCN0618.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcX3PioXbS2w-WN-upd3b_-FE5pPVxIsKtFPKvmpcLBRXMpfHglawxoimMLYE0fEKJ-OBUq1p81rK1mXUFZ3xnc12Z_DU27FHYklDaV1SUttYf7LwZVXP15hNBc314Pf6SFo/s400/DSCN0618.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612607257633693874" /></a><br />The spring has been mercifully temperate and rainy, but Ohio is starting to show her true colors now. I don't know if I will ever get used to the artificial, goosebumpy cool that my air conditioner churns out, but it has become preferable to the sweltering stickiness that is overtaking my house. So I closed the windows, and turned the AC on to 78 and am looking forward to welcoming the Columbus summer with open, bared arms.<br /><br />And honestly, it's not all that bad yet. The sun is hot, but there is a breeze that shivers through the treetops all day and cools the evenings. And the thunderstorms (!) cover a multitude of sins.<br /><br />Today is Memorial Day. The neighborhood is quiet - maybe people have taken advantage of the long weekend and have gotten the heck out of Dodge, or maybe they are waiting for things to cool down before they venture outside.<br /><br />It's not like Anchorage. A day like this - warm, sunny - would set off a sort of panic in Alaska. Are we wasting it? We can't waste it! Garage doors would be thrown open to reveal homeowners ransacking their camping gear, feverishly praying that they remembered to patch that punctured bike tire, unwilling to lose valuable minutes of the midnight sun. Old women hack away at their gardens, mindful of the brief growing season. Children shudder through sprinklers filled with glacier water, screaming with...joy? Pain?<br /><br />But here, everyone's a little more kick-back about summer. It's because I'm now around city-folk, who have chosen to be surrounded by skyscrapers and coffee shops instead of mountains and ocean. Or perhaps it is the comfortable knowledge that today is not an anomaly. <br /><br />I would think that this is more my speed. Anyone who knows me would not put self-propulsion down on my list of strengths, and when I lived in Alaska I often had to straight-arm attempts from my friends to push me up steep, steep mountains or cycle over root systems. I have a hard time getting over "the hump," which is what I call that space in motivation between being outside exerting myself and the comfort of sitting on my sofa with a cup of coffee. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeQWms7e50gujLxPEY5GHnM_dcCZ8hrf33yTMUS80fpCUmMGr2p68Y3yOViMgIFpje3q-GIYyrE2InOeWEM0-zRKq6Dv1pZaBCOQlCXUMfFOx0uTbvYPmcKDwodcG6XBEhno/s1600/DSCN0569.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeQWms7e50gujLxPEY5GHnM_dcCZ8hrf33yTMUS80fpCUmMGr2p68Y3yOViMgIFpje3q-GIYyrE2InOeWEM0-zRKq6Dv1pZaBCOQlCXUMfFOx0uTbvYPmcKDwodcG6XBEhno/s400/DSCN0569.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612605347133736290" /></a>In an "absence makes the heart grow clichè" sort of way, I am all nostalgic about the fireweed and green grasses of the Alaska summer. I want to go flying and fishing and camping. I want to ride horses on my parents' farm and hike Flattop and make driftwood fires on the shores of Resurrection Bay. <br /><br />But I'm not so far gone that I can't enjoy the rhythm of urban life, and until I visit AK in July I'm happy to fit in with the reality of the sleepy summer city, and take walks in the cool of the evening. I'm satisfied with reading at the park fountain with the rainy-day girl, and sitting on my front porch listening to The Who streaming from my neighbor's window.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-72267625193494645092011-05-10T21:59:00.004-04:002011-05-10T23:51:32.285-04:00Lock Your Cars, People. A Cautionary Tale.In a timely reminder that I live in a city now, my car was broken into last night. <br /><br />I thought things looked a little messier even than normal as I approached my trusty Santa Fe, and upon closer inspection it was clear that my car had been breached. Someone had raked through my glove compartment and ransacked the middle console.<br /><br />I peered through the window and hesitated about getting in. It seemed creepy, like the crook could still be in there, I don’t know, hiding behind the shearling seat covers. Also, do I need to worry about fingerprints? How high on the priority list is petty theft to the Columbus PD?<br /><br />But as it turns out, I couldn’t see that anything was missing. Nothing was damaged on the outside of the car, leaving me with the unsettling suspicion that I may have <span style="font-style:italic;">possibly</span> left it unlocked last night (rookie move, Jess). And as far as an inventory, it appears that he (or she!) had no interest in the following:<br /><blockquote>Ball of twine (1)<br />Plastic package of fast food condiment (several, various)<br />Plastic army guy w/ parachute (1)<br />Prism (1)<br />Teething ring (1)<br />Debit card, expiration 9/2008 (1)<br />Napkins (3)<br />Book on memorizing Scripture, purchased circa 2003 (1)<br />Dog food in Ziploc Bag (about 3 cups)<br />Playing cards (about 48)<br />$60 cash that was in the untouched lower compartment of my middle console (which I will now be referring to as the “secret compartment”)<br /></blockquote><br />He (or she!) also left my registration and car info alone. So not a malicious burglar. Not even a good burglar. Just a messy one.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-54701927627759191022011-04-28T07:47:00.001-04:002011-04-28T07:49:40.108-04:00How I Ruined Easter Service.I will be honest with you (it’s this new thing I’m doing). Easter is not my favorite Sunday of the year. My issues are practical, not theological. Often, and despite the best efforts of my church and friends, Easter kind of sneaks up on me. I find myself surprised on Saturday night that I have to find something on the high end of presentable to wear, cook an egg dish for the earliest potlock of the year, and show up to church before the sun rises. My groove gets thrown off – and I don’t even have any little girls to wrestle into tights.<br /><br />This is a shame, because Easter Sunday (also known in my circles as Resurrection Sunday) is a celebration of the very core of my identity. Jesus Christ, the perfect son of God, willingly died an unjust death and unlocked a depthless mercy. This mercy is what makes me a Christian. Christ rose to life again on the third day. He conquered death. And now he wraps his arms around me, warts and all, and presents me to the Father.<br /><br />It’s a beautiful story, and an every day story, but once a year we celebrate this remarkable event in a special way. With egg dishes and sunrise services and cantatas.<br /><br />Cross City Church, being the reasonable baby church that it is, opted for a simple celebration for Easter. A nine a.m. service followed by lunch at the Burns’s house.<br /><br />We all had our roles. Ken was leading music, Scott was teaching. Melissa prepared to feed us all afterward. Beth was teaching the kiddos something involving palm branches hidden in Easter eggs. Others in our congregation brought friends and family and food. I, jetlagged from a redeye flight and reeling from the four hour AK-OH time-zone gap, was tasked with printing and bringing the song sheets.<br /><br />When my cell phone rang on my nightstand at 9:15 Sunday morning, my first thought was, “There’s no way I can fix this.” Those were also my first words to the person on the other end of the line, who turned out to be Scott. Ken couldn’t come to the phone, because he was too busy standing up front with his guitar strapped on his shoulder.<br /><br />The meeting had started, and Christ has risen, but I was still abed.<br /><br />The irony is not lost on me.<br /><br />We don’t have songbooks, or hymnals, or any kind of projector yet. Each week, we print the lyrics on a sheet of paper and make a copy (more or less) for everyone. Unless Ken wants to lead us in some kind of worship solo performance, we need those song sheets.<br /><br />My one job, the “bye” job, had disrupted the whole flow of the morning.<br /><br />“No problem,” said Scott, his voice an octave higher than normal, “we’ll just sing at the end. Come as quick as you can.”<br /><br />I threw on some clothes (definitely not on the high end of presentable), battled my printer and rushed out the door. The trip from my house to the community center where we meet takes about 2.5 minutes. Unless you catch the one red light. Then it takes about 15. <br /><br />Ken was waiting as I pulled into the parking lot. I could see the whites of his eyes. He traded me his six-month old for the sheaf of songs and rushed into the building, just as Scott was wrapping up an uncharacteristically prompt sermon.<br /><br />I was unshowered, bleary-eyed, and embarrassed. Easter service! It’s supposed to go smoothly! I’m supposed to look pretty! Everything was out of whack this year.<br /><br />The whole church was nice about it, although I did get some deserved mockage. Ultimately, the blame was placed squarely on my jetlag. <br /><br />Sweet, sweet, scapegoat jetlag. What do you have against Easter?jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-34984138037307370242011-04-26T08:20:00.002-04:002011-04-26T08:25:28.559-04:00Calibrating.The subject of me being the worst blogger ever has been a recurring theme in my life – and for good reason.<br /><br />Weeds are growing up through the floorboards of this blog. The eyes on the potatoes of this blog have sprouted into curling vines that spiral around the feet of anyone who dares to visit. It has a layer of dust on every surface, it smells damp, and the mail has piled up on its front porch. In other words, it looks a lot like my house, to which I just returned after my three-week trip to Alaska. Cute infrastructure, pleasant history, but obviously unlived-in.<br /><br />It’s not like I don’t have anything to write about. I just moved across the country to a new place, bringing with it a host of awkward moments and funny stories. And it’s not like I don’t have readers – my dad harangues me about writing every time we talk.*<br /><br />But when I sit down at my rapidly aging computer to tackle the day’s events, I run into the same wall.<br /><br /> I don’t want to look like an idiot.<br /><br />“But Jess!” you protest, “You’ve never had a problem looking like an idiot in the past. Wasn’t that you who got her jeans stuck on a doorknob? And hit the moose with your car? You know that every time you pen a sentence, you display your utter lack of “when in doubt, leave it out” comma mastery.”<br /><br />That is all true. I do my best work with the flush of embarrassment in my cheeks.<br /><br />But while I don’t mind being an idiot about driving, or England, or even my own failure as a grammarian, I’ve found there are some subjects that are a little too close to my heart for me to comfortably share.<br /><br />Right now I’m in the midst of the early days of a new church plant in Columbus, Ohio. It is a hard, often awkward, uncertain process. I am on a team of good-hearted men and women who love the Lord and are doing their best. I’m confident that God has called us to German Village, and that our efforts will result in His best plan. I am even fairly certain that His best plan is a healthy, thriving church in the middle of the city. The road to that church, however, is paved with the stones of setbacks. It also seems to be coated with some kind of sticky syrup that is slowing everything way down.<br /><br />Now, I feel compelled to say that there have been some huge encouragements. I don’t want to miss the wonderful people that God has brought to our church (the few, the proud), or the overwhelming financial support form believers who don’t even live here. Or the awesome neighborhood which features a huge park, streets paved in brick, and a restaurant called The Sausage Haus.<br /><br />Still, we are toiling – praying for more believers to commit to our church, for direction and leadership, for shared vision, for funding, for the heart of the community. And, not being clairvoyant, I can’t help thinking that it’s all “too soon” to commit to print.<br /><br />In writing about Columbus, I know that I will be betraying my naiveté, my selfishness, my ignorance about church planting and a fair amount of presumption. But the effort to present my life devoid of mistakes and troubles has paralyzed my writing voice. If I knew how everything turned out – if I could control my story arc – then I think it would be easier. But I don’t know what I’m going to learn through this process. I don’t even know what I don’t know yet.<br /><br />I miss being a blogger. I look back over the years and see every post as a snapshot of my life. When I have to quantify a feeling or impression into a sentence, it draws my perceptions into focus. I also know that Christ did not come for the well, but for the sick, and any true thing I divulge about myself on this simple, silly website is already known by God and forgiven by Christ’s sacrifice.<br /><br />Don’t worry, this blog will never become an exposé of the innards of my soul, but I know it is read mainly by my family and friends scattered across the world, and I want you guys to know what’s really going on. And great things are going on.<br /><br />Which is why my next post will be entitled, “How I Ruined Easter Service.”<br /><br />______________<br /><br />*don't worry, Pop, you don't really harangue me. Just a little authorial license to make the joke that my parents are the only ones who read this.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-10190617321023240552010-12-18T03:26:00.008-05:002010-12-18T06:13:49.157-05:00“Silent night, holy night…is calm…is bright, round yon…gin mother and child, holy infant so tender and mild…in……pea….sleep in heavenly peace.”<span style="font-weight:bold;">Or “Guys start carols too high”</span><br /><br />Caroling, right? What a great idea! Everyone, let’s get together and we’ll tromp around the neighborhood singing familiar Christmas tunes. How Christmassy! How effortless!<br /><br />The emperor has no clothes on.<br /><br />Or, to be more precise, not nearly enough clothes on. I held this truth to be self-evident about ten minutes into last night’s evening of caroling, as the temperature plunged in a sick inverse relationship to our group’s starting key. At least there were a lot of us – the body heat of 30 people raised the ambient temperature a good two degrees. And thanks to the quick thinking the organizer, we had song sheets pinched between frozen fingers, so the second verse of Joy to the World escaped sounding like an unintentional Christmas mash-up.<br /><br />I’ve noticed that there is a moment in events like this – that moment between “this is going to be the best!” and “Well, we’re in it now, so let’s soldier on,” where you realize that real life is not a Christmas calendar. It’s cold and unorganized and some things go on a little too long. Some people are a half-measure ahead of you. Sometimes your driver locks his keys in his car.<br /><br />Times will not always be sentimental, or hilarious, or traditional, or perfect. There are long stretches of off-key ordinary connecting the post-card memories. And that’s fine. You have to give good memories some breathing room. They don’t perform well under pressure.<br /><br />And actually, I had great time caroling with the youth group last night. We weren’t going to be mistaken for a GAP advertisement at any point of the evening, but there is a bonhomie that comes from freezing your collective keister off with a group of happy people. It was fun, it ended with a gift exchange, and I was treated to some of those flashes of brilliant humor that teenagers display during their great transformation.<br /><br />And it was my last youth group at Chapel by the Sea, at least for bit.<br /><br />So I guess it was sentimental and hilarious and traditional and perfect.<br /><br />But seriously, somebody should have brought a pitch pipe.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-12429730618903368702010-12-17T22:54:00.001-05:002010-12-17T22:54:20.982-05:00this is a testof Facebook sharejessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-19545744202359921152010-12-16T04:05:00.004-05:002010-12-16T04:50:08.149-05:00Sometimes I call it GV<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDaGHpOJp6Af5EDNUCSM7m6Y2WIcqyceXJQnRMqoy-PVHBo77OEDHfg3VVMa-KbDhClM0VqagIqoOtFz4QmO9602si2CvVaoQhO4dn7kZHsiMFO4hfGPpdPdNfY9aLGVB8Q_4/s1600/ccc-horizontal1.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDaGHpOJp6Af5EDNUCSM7m6Y2WIcqyceXJQnRMqoy-PVHBo77OEDHfg3VVMa-KbDhClM0VqagIqoOtFz4QmO9602si2CvVaoQhO4dn7kZHsiMFO4hfGPpdPdNfY9aLGVB8Q_4/s400/ccc-horizontal1.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551214773455077938" /></a><br />The vision of the <a href="http://lumenfoundation.org">Lumen Foundation</a> is to plant several small, neighborhood-based churches in the city of Columbus over time.<br /><br />I love the idea of neighborhood churches - congregations full of people who live near one another and can invest not only in their church, but in their community at the same time. A place where new attendees feel comfortable because the rooms are full of their neighbors. I like the idea of meeting actual needs without being saddled to a cumbersome program. I want people to come to church because I want them to hear about Jesus and to understand that the stories in the Bible are the key to unlocking the truth about life. I want them to experience the power and peace of the Holy Spirit. I want believers to have a place to be around other believers, to be encouraged and exhorted.<br /><br /><a href="http://crosscitychurch.org">Cross City Church</a>, the Lumen Foundation's first plant, is going to be established in German Village, just south of Columbus's city center.<br /><br />Here is another reason why the decision to move was easy: German Village looks amazing.<br /><br />A historical neighborhood with brick streets, old houses, and a big second-hand bookstore, German Village is the kind of place I would visit on vacation. As near as I can tell (using my trusty resource, Google Maps), GV is located just south of the city center, near the river (whose name I can't remember) and close enough to the freeway (whose number I also cannot remember). It's about 12 minutes from Ohio State University, so I expect to be dusting off my enthusiasm for college football. And that's...pretty much all I know.<br /><br />So, I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to insinuate myself into what seems to be a fairly tight-knit neighborhood. I mean, even when I moved to Bath, I had an MA programme full of potential friends, and more than 5 people attended my church. But my plan is to try to get involved in community activities - like a writers' group, or a scrabble night, or some kind of volunteerism. I will most likely spend a lot of time standing around, trying not to look awkward.<br /><br />Nothing new there.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-49526120119889100292010-11-05T02:32:00.009-04:002010-12-15T04:00:32.333-05:00Next.If all goes as planned, I'll be leaving the mountain-hemmed port town of Anchorage, Alaska and moving to the Midwestern plains of Columbus, Ohio in four weeks.<br /><br />If you’re surprised, imagine how I feel.<br /><br />Some good friends of mine have been praying about Columbus for over ten years, and ultimately have felt compelled to pack up their SoCal lives and move to that city, in order to plant a God-honoring, gospel-centered church.<br /><br />More power to you, I said two years ago.<br /><br />I was happy for them, and happy to help in any way I could…from Alaska.<br /><br />But itchy feet, it turns out, are not always the sign of an encroaching foot fungus. Sometimes they are more akin to a dewy fleece. I began to feel restless, and ready for a change. Maybe another international trip, or an exciting romance, or ramping up my business and hiring a bunch of baby bean counters – I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, but I wanted something. And I wanted whatever it was to count.<br /><br />So this past August, when I visited the Burns and the Flowers in California and listened to their plans, the idea of actually joining them began to take root.<br /><br />And after a month of prayer and talking with people I trusted…it was a yes.<br /><br />These past few months have been some of the best of my life – all the stars that had to align to make this move possible have flown to their places, as though guided. My job is flexible enough that I can work from anywhere, and travel home to Alaska regularly. My apartment will be left in the capable (?) hands of my newly-graduated kid brother. My dog will learn the meaning of “humidity.”<br /><br />The unknowns are legion, but at this point I do not feel anxious.<br /><br />In fact, I’m super excited.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-80808420313711299282010-01-08T05:16:00.005-05:002010-01-08T05:54:49.248-05:00™EiggunsDear Makers of the the Snuggie ™, <br /><br />I'm about to make you a million bucks. <br /><br />Please don't scoff at me. <br /><br />I know that you've already made a million bucks. I know that your cheap polyester fleece "blanket" with "sleeves" has swept the fad-sappy American psyche - hemorrhaging dollars. <br /><br />But I'm telling you as a friend that you guys have missed the marketing boat.<br /><br />If you look at any officially endorsed Snuggie™ commercial, you will most likely see some woman with a Dorothy Hamilton Haircut and a Dolly Parton Smile cozied up on some studio couch, working a crossword puzzle while draped in a bright blue blanket (with "sleeves").<br /><br />Never has this image appealed to me, Makers of the Snuggie™. Too many times have I been burned by QVC and her evil cousin, the in-flight magazine, to be taken in by such a gimmick. A blanket with sleeves? I already have blankets! I already have sleeves! Lots of both! Also, I'm horrible at crossword puzzles. <br /><br />So, even though Jimmy Fallon featured the Snuggie™ on his hip, new show targeted directly toward young professionals in their mid (late!) twenties, I wasn't buying. Not even those cool guys from Roots could convince me.<br /><br />But, MotS™, you'll be happy to hear that this is not where our story ends.<br /><br />Because everything changed when I journeyed from my home in the wilds of the Alaskan wilds through the Lincoln Tunnel and into the heart of New York City. That's right. The Big Apple. The mecca of all things fashion. <br /><br />And it was there that my impression of the blanket with sleeves was subverted. Was turned inside out. Upside down. Or, more literally, back to front. My new friend Ginger had a drafty apartment. But what was that she was wearing to keep warm? Some kind of designer wrap? Some cutting edge leopard-print fashionista experiment? <br /><br />Whatever it was, I wanted one. I wanted ten.<br /><br />A Snuggie™ may just basically be a robe worn backwards, but that does not mean that a Snuggie™ worn backwards reverts to a robe. Oh no no no. It is way cooler. Hem sweeping the floor behind you. Monkish sleeves. A massive cowl neck. Who doesn't look awesome in a cowl neck?<br /><br />Elegant. Cozy. It's like Cruella DeVille's car coat, except it's not made from puppies.<br /><br />Get a Snuggie™, but don't wear it like an out-of-work ice skater trapped in a hospital gown. Spin it around. Elongate your vowels. Smoke with a cigarette holder. It's 2010 after all, dah-ling.<br /><br />If you employed this approach, Makers of the Snuggie™, maybe people would actually start buying your product.<br /><br />And I expect a percentage.<br /><br />All the best,<br /><br />Jessi the Greatjessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-15941943151586576222010-01-06T14:26:00.010-05:002010-01-06T16:22:21.786-05:00Life on the RangeMany may think that something was lost with the advent of highways and property lines and barbed wire. That the Great American West, full of migrating tribes of people and herds of animals, swirling around the prairie like air currents, is gone forever.<br /><br />But take heart! There is still a place where discouraging words are seldom heard. Where the deer and moose play in the street. Where the biting, incessant wind pushes cloud formations across the sky, so rarely is it cloudy all day. That place is Lazy Mountain.<br /><br />Most recently, the buffalo roamed over to my parents' house. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ppKnFIpt_Roa6Rcw4Ds20PPzlYvbNQu7NUYYs0alnd4Rqyrs44IemJ_kpbV0bKNIzit46RNKjrF8QqKAfiOyczlnArF33t8DM4V460UaVPncdfAdAxrzkdzC0v6SDgmuDwA/s1600-h/IMG_0239.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ppKnFIpt_Roa6Rcw4Ds20PPzlYvbNQu7NUYYs0alnd4Rqyrs44IemJ_kpbV0bKNIzit46RNKjrF8QqKAfiOyczlnArF33t8DM4V460UaVPncdfAdAxrzkdzC0v6SDgmuDwA/s400/IMG_0239.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423715519839856226"></a><br />They were quite orderly about it, and everyone stayed together.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlOqLEE3hPYbo9t0gJnUZMDkQIJscRfpFkWOZxcO8fWfVSt7ac8HctJyI9PwfDt1U1MQkZDsLMu5xp1Oz0lxVK5EbTZV1pQPF2UfRfW9AgvaHUbGc9r2gxmvWM4bCgbUPSxbI/s1600-h/IMG_0243.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlOqLEE3hPYbo9t0gJnUZMDkQIJscRfpFkWOZxcO8fWfVSt7ac8HctJyI9PwfDt1U1MQkZDsLMu5xp1Oz0lxVK5EbTZV1pQPF2UfRfW9AgvaHUbGc9r2gxmvWM4bCgbUPSxbI/s400/IMG_0243.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423715523074637746"></a><br />Maybe to borrow a cup of sugar for some neighborly cake they were baking?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKkQXajEjxwggcZMlMM8mNOSTbapAeiMsdPsRykjZDPTu51TdL8K9Knb7kokpyPNRxDKJPrDX3-z_QPz3hk0SRFLfJ9MiH5iNtsTWHcGOUjaJcEjFFqfJqj2xk4PvPgUWW2GI/s1600-h/IMG_0244.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKkQXajEjxwggcZMlMM8mNOSTbapAeiMsdPsRykjZDPTu51TdL8K9Knb7kokpyPNRxDKJPrDX3-z_QPz3hk0SRFLfJ9MiH5iNtsTWHcGOUjaJcEjFFqfJqj2xk4PvPgUWW2GI/s400/IMG_0244.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423715532908924834"></a><br />Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that these <span style="font-style:italic;">tatanka</span> were bred in captivity and destined for the slaughter shed. So Dances with Wolves this is not.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GMLW7PqMltg&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/GMLW7PqMltg&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />But still, it was kind of fun.<br /><br />Ooh, and speaking of ranges. After a year and a half of hotplate cuisine, I finally got a stove!jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-85836250585102973742009-12-12T15:52:00.006-05:002009-12-12T16:15:15.864-05:00Another interest for my dossierCarmen Sandiego. Ugh. Even the name turns my stomach, churning up 20 years of animosity and frustration. Ever since that fateful day in 1989, when her henchman flunky, Rob M. Blind, slipped through our fingers with the Rio Grande, I have devoted myself to the destruction of Sandiego and her V.I.L.E. criminal empire.<br /><br />Our irreconcilable differences have knit us together like a sweater made of irony. Her experiences and adventures become mine as I chase her around the globe – our lives lived in lockstep with Carmen always one step ahead.<br /><br />Most recently, this cat-and-mouse game took me to Iceland – a small island country known for its geothermal energy, fish exports and Viking heritage. Sandiego was there to coordinate the effort of V.I.L.E. operatives to steal Yoko Ono’s Imagine Peace Tower, a shaft of light beaming up from a rock off the coast of Reykjavik.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3mmPitupea0xZeMUY3IzBLHmI5989RYsce2t96Ua3FsELHmKy7BtpGgqh25GTzDiXAYVPs1vINLN81uRam5GQEd1N4rlo6TDaPaN6KjwhKsE8RbAL4F3XrEk45SH-5kO-4Q/s1600-h/peace_tower01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3mmPitupea0xZeMUY3IzBLHmI5989RYsce2t96Ua3FsELHmKy7BtpGgqh25GTzDiXAYVPs1vINLN81uRam5GQEd1N4rlo6TDaPaN6KjwhKsE8RbAL4F3XrEk45SH-5kO-4Q/s400/peace_tower01.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414460960688735298" /></a><br /><br />One can only assume that the malignant madam planned to use the tower to light her secret hideout.<br /><br />Okay, this is getting ridiculous. <br /><br />I started with this whole Carmen Sandiego thing because that was where I first learned the term “spelunking.” And I went caving in Iceland. And I’m not patient enough to write an effective transition.<br /><br />So we went to a cave in Iceland and crawled around. It was nice, but I there were many things that I will have to chalk up to “learning experience.” The next time I go caving, I’ll be so much better. Here are a few lessons for you, my faithful readers, so that you can avoid my mistakes and make a whole bunch of your very own.<br /><br />1. Do not wear a stocking cap under your helmet. It might be nice for the walk out to the mouth of the cave over uneven aa boulders but once you get inside, the cap will constantly slip down over your eyes and blind you even ore than the intense belly-of-the-whale darkness.<br /><br />2. Do not wear Danskos. There are two reasons for this – 1) the rough volcanic basalt that you will be clambering over and tripping on will not be kind to the soft leather uppers of your favorite shoes, 2) If you are already pushing 6feet and entering a cave that will scrape the head of even the shortest spelunker, do you really want to be two inches taller? I didn’t think so.<br /><br />3. If you are a beginner caver, as I was, am and forever will be, it is probably best to take the short cave tour. That way, just when the reality of your situation – that you’ve willingly buried yourself underground (with nothing but a headlamp and a very fragile human guide to keep you oriented) and are wiggling through holes that look just big enough to permit your 6-year old niece – you can catch a glimpse of blue light and know that around the corner the mouth of the cave, blowing snow, and freezing winds are awaiting you with open arms of open space.<br /><br />4. Never translate cave names from Icelandic into English. Our cave was called Leiðarend, or “the end of the road.”<br /><br />The way is through.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib077MVtBDuyLkGHRkUA5bX1JJvF76iIpZyEOu-qPd3n8x8pbk-yxmJ9yhPUgYi7ud7KxUinilQUgLSgt6FOBwhXsBWAFwk-aqsQN6My080FTJbT2XvaSWzK5ZOCcJlGRoexE/s1600-h/DSCN0225.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib077MVtBDuyLkGHRkUA5bX1JJvF76iIpZyEOu-qPd3n8x8pbk-yxmJ9yhPUgYi7ud7KxUinilQUgLSgt6FOBwhXsBWAFwk-aqsQN6My080FTJbT2XvaSWzK5ZOCcJlGRoexE/s400/DSCN0225.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414460462203482210" /></a><br /><br />Oh, and incidentally, Carmen did get the Imagine Peace Tower. But nobody really minded.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-76113773183600135112009-11-30T06:26:00.002-05:002009-11-30T06:43:20.673-05:00Winter wonderland."I'm not exaclty sure how Iceland in winter is going to be different from Alaska in winter." This from Jacy, one of my three travel partners during our one and only planning meeting for this, the Iceland trip.<br /><br />She had a point. Iceland is an isolated, sparsely populated hunk of land in the Arctic. Main activities for tourists include walking on a glacier, ice climbing, and buying cool winter gear. Not exactly the typical beach vacation for wintered-in Alaskans.<br /><br />But, after being ehre for 2 days, I think that we are all in agreement that Iceland is waaaay different than AK and can totally justify the expense, time, and hassle of traveling thousands of miles laterally across the hemisphere.<br /><br />First of all, although yesterday we battled a blizzard that blew two-foot drifts across the road and pelted sand-like snowflacks at our faces - we've been promised that the weather is usually quite mild. The Gulf Stream is Iceland's friend and generally keeps the country cool and moist all year but saves it from the deep freeze winters we experience over in the West. Temps in the winter swing between 5 and 55 degrees. We (lucky us!) just happed to catch them in a 5 degree valley.<br /><br />Second, Iceland is full of Icelanders. Alaska, on the other hand, is very low on Icelanders. Here it seems everyone is Icelandic! It's great! The fashion is more Euro-Nordic (but still sensibly warm), the hotels look like Ikea threw up in the lobbies, and the buildings are a mix of traditional quaint houses and contemporary steel-and-angles design. Way different from the T1-11 subdivisions at home.<br /><br />Also their language rocks. A mouthful of consonants and funky vowels spoken very quickly. It´s amazing they can get anything said with words like Rauðarárstígur in their vocabulary. But they seem to make it work. And there is nothing cuter than a little girl in braids jabbering to her father in excited Icelandic.<br /><br />Three. Iceland may not have cool animals or beautiful vegetation or enormous mountains, but it does have one thing that makes it much cooler than Alaska.<br /><br />Geothermal energy.<br /><br />Why didn't we think of this? They use it for everyting - inexpensive heat from the steam, geothermically heated water for pools and hot tubs and long, long showers, they pipe water under their sidewalks and parking lots and driveways so they don´t freeze up. It´s fabulous. And I know from experience that winter is easier to bear after a long, hot, free shower.<br /><br />So there you have it. We are obviously not crazy for traveling to Iceland for a winter vacation. <br /><br />Honest.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-8737234602127051632009-11-24T14:08:00.004-05:002009-11-24T14:20:26.982-05:00I spent eighteen bucks on a package of digestive biscuits and a thing of British candy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_x_wsrXsjq7oxKAZJROhZ3_GV_DULTCXOfgXlb5QipvIDwONy9Kwmx4WOf59c1JMaAztIsxsUDmCmKUpKyb5_stx-UTvGRLrR5xt3OP6mkFWro1gjeyaOSlrAqRnhIsg1YrE/s1600/IMG_0024.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_x_wsrXsjq7oxKAZJROhZ3_GV_DULTCXOfgXlb5QipvIDwONy9Kwmx4WOf59c1JMaAztIsxsUDmCmKUpKyb5_stx-UTvGRLrR5xt3OP6mkFWro1gjeyaOSlrAqRnhIsg1YrE/s400/IMG_0024.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407751809506222690" /></a><br /><br />I can't afford nostalgia.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-45313969757654351592009-09-16T02:47:00.003-04:002009-09-16T02:54:58.178-04:00The key.I have a long list of wants when it comes to actually sitting down and committing words to (figurative) paper. But there is one thing that transcends mere want. There is something more important than inspiration or a functional computer or a hot cup of coffee or sheets of blank, college-ruled notebook paper or index cards or the Sense and Sensibility soundtrack or a solid character or a laugh-out-loud opening line. Above all these very reasonable requests shines one necessity, the Key Ingredient to Authoring, if you will.<br /><br />I must have vast wastelands of time.<br /><br />In England, this was handed to me on a silvah plattah, because as an unemployed expat with no friends, no TV and no internet, my greatest resource was time. <br /><br />But back in Anchorage, life gets a little more crowded. I have a car, so I can actually go places. I have some people, so I have places to go. I have a job so, that I can continue feeding myself in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed. I have church events. I have a Blockbuster card. Suddenly the hours that used to drift upon my doorstep have melted into an icy puddle of commitments and 99-cent 5-night rentals.<br /><br />But I think I’ve found a loophole. Turns out, this is a pretty big state. And there are many villages and towns in Alaska that feel even further from home than England. And if by some twist of luck you can find yourself paid to go to these remote villages armed with a calculator and a cooler of groceries, you might also find yourself facing evening after evening of quiet solitude.<br /> <br />I’m writing this post because there is literally nothing else to do. <br /><br />It’s a foggy, rainy night here in King Cove, a small fishing village on the southwestern tip of Alaska’s mainland. The one channel that comes in on my television’s bunny ears is ratnet – a haphazard conglomeration of all the networks that gets shot out to rural Alaska antennae. Currently the program playing is a how-to on recording and reporting Maritime weather (“only<strong> you </strong>know the sea and weather conditions at your boat’s coordinates!”), and it puts me in mind, both in tone and era, of the old McDonald’s training videos where they still use the Styrofoam McDLT containers.<br /><br />I’ve cooked and eaten dinner. I’ve finished my book. I walked around town for awhile until the clerk at the mercantile said, “Aren’t you afraid of bears?” and I decided it would probably be prudent to be a little wary. I’ve fought with the Paleolithic internet.<br /><br />And still the hours drift.<br /><br />So I break down and write.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-84319868182460418822009-05-27T17:38:00.003-04:002009-05-27T17:44:56.606-04:00Porcupyre“Mom, porcupines are pests. Once they come up to your house you have to get rid of them,” JR said as he loaded shells into my dad’s old 22. “They chew wood, they get under your deck. Think of the dogs! Think of the horses!” And with that, my oldest brother strode through the back door and sighted in on the unfortunate prickly porcupine treed in a nearby evergreen. <br /><br />Like everything my oldest brother says, there was merit. And little room for argument. Or sentimentality. And my mother, with her sixteen years of experience parenting adult children, folded her arms across her chest and decided that she would not pick this battle.<br /><br />Two muffled pops and the porcupine was dead, a still and spiny little heap. I held our hysterical neighbor dog by the collar (he wanted nothing more than a face full of quills) while JR rolled the body into a laundry basket, walked over to my parents’ burn barrel and lowered the porcupine, basket and all, into the cold ashes.<br /><br />“Well,” he said, “gotta go.” He loaded his family into their car and headed home. The family farm had been saved from unwanted incisors, and he other irons in the fire.<br /><br />Which is how the Great Porcupine Cremation of 2009 fell to me.<br /><br />I’d like to say, for the record, that this was my first ever cremation attempt. Here was what I knew going into it:<br /><br />1. The human body is 80% water – I apply the same percentage to quilled rodents<br />2. The porcupine has been dead (by this time) for two days. Rigor mortis is sure to have set in. And it will probably have glassy open eyes. And its tongue might be hanging out like it was on a dead squirrel I saw once.<br />3. Mom wants her laundry basket back before the cremation commences.<br /><br />And here are the steps to cremating a porcupine, should you ever be called upon to do so:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Step One: Dump porcupine (hereafter referred to as P) out of laundry basket, into burn barrel. </span> <br /><blockquote>P appears intact – tongue still contained in mouth; eyes, as hypothesized, glassy; quills white and gray; claws curled into tiny fists to protest the world’s injustices, which have hit him rather hard of late.<br /></blockquote><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Step Two: Start fire by pouring half a cup of gasoline on P and several pieces of pressure-treated junk wood. Watch for nails. Also, as I was told later by JR, watch for explosions from trying to start a fire with gasoline (no explosions noted).</span><br /><blockquote>P a bit singed, but was still primarily intact given that the fire was mostly happening above him.<br /></blockquote><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Step Three: Build a bigger fire by throwing all manner of junk wood into barrel until flames are taller than you. Pause to find work gloves. Have a glass of iced tea as you wait for inferno to die down enough to check on P.<br /></span> <blockquote>P appears slightly more singed, however quills are still intact and glassy eyes still accusatory. At abdomen, P has split open to reveal a ballooning large intestine, color: green.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Step Four: Staying well away from the mouth of the barrel to avoid possible large intestine explosion shrapnel, obtain a large stick or board and attempt to lever P up from its position at the bottom of the fire to the top, without actually pushing him over the edge and on to the ground. The idea being to create a sort of funeral pyre for P in manner of King Arthur or that one crazy king in the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. Or a Jedi warrior.</span><br /> <blockquote>P starting to look charred now – no sign of quills. Lots of sizzling as body fluids are released. Skin breaks apart revealing pink flesh underneath. Pervading smell: banana candy.</blockquote><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Step Five: Continue in this manner for…I don’t know, two hours? Add wood, and stir P to the top. Add wood and stir P to the top.</span><br /><blockquote>P has lost his tail. His lower organs are also gone, but his lungs are hanging in there like little troopers.<br /></blockquote><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Step Six: Now it’s time for dinner. Get some good pieces of wood (none of that plywood crap) and rebuild your pyre, capping it off with P and then the little grate lid that goes on the barrel. Go inside and wash your hands. Eat rotisserie chicken.</span><br /><blockquote>P looks disturbingly similar to rotisserie chicken.<br /></blockquote><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Step Seven: After you have eaten, go check on P. He will look just the same as when you left. But wait! Take off the grate! Tap P with stick. He will dissolve into a pile of dust.</span><br /><br />Congratulations! You have just cremated a porcupine! Please send a self-addressed stamped envelope to Way to Go Kevin, along with your check or money order for $29.99, so we can we will mail your commemorative porcupine plaque, complete with certificate of authenticity.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-54526468368941055282009-01-17T14:57:00.002-05:002009-01-17T15:02:58.805-05:00Roadblock of Flesh and Bone“Watch for moose!” has been my mother’s constant refrain to her children since my parents moved up the mountain two years ago. Their new house sits nestled among acres of tilled fields and scrubby forest and the occasional neighbor farmhouse. In other words, a perfect breeding ground for the oversized ungulates. They walk through our horses’ electric fence about once a week. They browse for potatoes in the garden. They meander along the side of the road as we whiz past, heading back to Anchorage after a weekend of leisure and hauling firewood and a backseat full of Sunday dinner leftovers.<br /><br />Katy once had a near miss. A bull moose standing just outside the reach of her headlights leaned a little too close and his antlers clattered across the side of her car as she tried to stop on the icy hill. Other than a shaken Katy, and a bull moose whose head probably rang with vibrations for days, they were unharmed.<br /><br />But a few weeks ago, I crossed an item off my Alaskan list that I hoped would always remain unticked.<br /><br />I hit a moose.<br /><br />She just appeared in the far reaches of my low beams, scrambling in the center of the road, trying to avoid my car. I stood on my brakes and the Santa Fe slowed. It slowed almost to a stop on the wind-cleared roads and, for a split second, I thought we were all going to be okay. But, just as the Santa Fe was halted, we caught up with the moose, and clipped her back legs. She sat on my hood, her rump making a loud, metallic thump that I had only heard in the movies when unsuspecting teenagers hit pedestrians in the road.<br /><br />She recovered her footing quickly, and I don’t think she ever hit the ground. We were all still for a moment – me, with my hands wrapped around my steering wheel; Peter Segal from <span style="font-style:italic;">Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me</span> telling some joke over the radio; the moose, avoiding eye contact, her right back leg lifted gingerly.<br /><br />As we stood there, avoiding eye contact in the middle of the road, I thought of the moose/vehicle confrontations that I’d heard of in the past.<br /><br />In high school, I drove past an accident. The car was totaled, its front bumper pushed into the dashboard and windshield shattered. And the moose lay, her legs curled under her, and a stream of blood flowing to the storm drain. They were waiting for the police to come and put the animal down.<br /><br />When I was in elementary school, my dad hit a moose on his way to work. Again, the car was totaled and the moose was shot.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />I’ve broken her leg</span>, I thought. <span style="font-style:italic;">I’ve totaled my car. Now we’ll have to call the Troopers and make them come out and shoot and quarter this animal in negative-fifteen degree weather.<br /></span><br />I don’t mind the fact that people kill and eat moose. Moose is a staple in Alaska – its lean meat is healthy and plentiful. But if I’m going to hunt, I want to do it on purpose. Neither of us was looking for a fight. We both just wanted to cross the road.<br /><br />My fears were allayed when she started putting weight on her leg. Eventually she stepped over the snow berm and crunched through the snow - walking off without even exchanging insurance information.<br /><br />So she wasn’t broken, although I’m sure that she’ll be sore for a while. And aside from a large dent in my hood, my car was unharmed.<br /><br />As moose collisions go, this one went about as well as it could have.<br /><br />And now that I’ve crossed it off my list, I can drive as fast as I want down that mountain.<br /><br />Just kidding, Mom.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-49460790206026359542008-12-14T05:52:00.004-05:002008-12-14T07:20:03.325-05:00Aw, you're just pulling my leghorn.Sooo, picking up a chicken isn't as easy as it looks.<br /><br />Camera work - Natalie Rose (she digs the artsy "everyone is sideways" look)<br />Chicken consult - the Queen Mother<br />The video is about 2 1/2 minutes. Budget your time.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6wabKTpN8dc&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6wabKTpN8dc&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Victory!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVAi9O3ZuzxxR_uSSAVMJteTzbgb5RAFJed5ErAItgGhloFQoVxuvsDBt5ELDPjks2J0ibVrY7kp3Sp0lXdE7mhd3DSMruYS9do5BZD4lbfRMek64RaQFv0Z3Zha6g6xRDVI4/s1600-h/PA305012.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVAi9O3ZuzxxR_uSSAVMJteTzbgb5RAFJed5ErAItgGhloFQoVxuvsDBt5ELDPjks2J0ibVrY7kp3Sp0lXdE7mhd3DSMruYS9do5BZD4lbfRMek64RaQFv0Z3Zha6g6xRDVI4/s400/PA305012.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279597703654601858" /></a><br /><br />Caleb had it down on the first try. Smuggo.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWgNoOSb9lxVk3thxn9EMoN1Rv2kYxn1y1fmzLX6qhsWceNKf17tsDiOWq4t-22sK3ul6UNMOXXaUnw33KLvZebDDFijP8Q_lTkqZLQm9pvFlizlHX-UCvX9DlFg1AJh9rzZw/s1600-h/PA305015.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWgNoOSb9lxVk3thxn9EMoN1Rv2kYxn1y1fmzLX6qhsWceNKf17tsDiOWq4t-22sK3ul6UNMOXXaUnw33KLvZebDDFijP8Q_lTkqZLQm9pvFlizlHX-UCvX9DlFg1AJh9rzZw/s400/PA305015.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279597710361815122" /></a><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6wabKTpN8dc"></a>jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-78148475256167526742008-10-22T04:29:00.002-04:002008-10-22T05:06:11.160-04:00Future Jess.I read in a magazine that the Sahara Desert has a humidity of 20-25%, and that airplane air has about 1%. This may be why I feel like my contacts are going to stick to the insides of my eyeballs when I fly. Any why my tongue swells to twice its original size as I sit, strapped into my blue upholstered chair, and think about the bottle of cool, clear, "geyser-fresh" water that TSA made me throw away.<br /><br />Sleeping in the arid airplane cabin is especially awkward for me. I clench my jaw in the hopes that muscle memory will spare me the humiliation, but I have a sneaking suspicion that my jaw hangs down like a stroke victim's any time I manage to nod off. My mouth and sinuses feel like they have been swabbed out with cotton when I jolt awake to the sadistically loud and staticky captain announcing that we are experiencing some minor turbulence.<br /><br />Last week, flying back from China, I had my first experience flying east-to-west across the international date line. <br /><br />Our flight left the eerily empty and modern Beijing airport at nine in the morning on Saturday. I wore my pajamas and my glasses (see above: "contacts") in the hopes of sleeping the journey away. <br /><br />We flew for what seemed like a weekend. I ate several meals. I watched a couple movies (have you seen The Hulk? Pretty good!). I read about two hundred pages of my book (Wild Swans - meh). I flipped through the in-flight magazines and the duty-free catalogue. I went on several field trips to various lavatories. <br /><br />We landed in San Francisco and almost exactly the same time we took off out of Beijing. Nine am, Saturday morning. So really, I was coming from the future.<br /><br />But if I'm any indication of the future, here's what it's like: <br /><br />The future is peopled by a bunch of staggering zombies with thick tongues, haggard skin, and dark circles under their eyes. Their fashion seems to consist entirely of jersey-knit pajama pants and chenille sweaters. <br /><br />Their priorities upon arriving from the future appear to be twofold - <br />1. Locate, overtake, and habitate any sources of fresh water and western-style toilets<br />2. Begin the search for an allusive, holy-grail-like item known only as "baggage"<br /><br />People from the future are desperate to get their baggage. It is not uncommon to hear them say things like "Where is baggage claim?" and "Don't leave your baggage there, what are you crazy?" Be careful, people from the future are liable to move in a mob created by singular purpose. You do not want to get between them and their baggage.<br /><br />But, above all, if you encounter people from the future who have just landed in their metallic, cylindrical vehicle, and traversed, on foot, a "jet-way" and maybe even a "moving sidewalk," treat them gently. <br /><br />They will most likely be cranky.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-42828719758684032282008-10-22T04:11:00.002-04:002008-10-22T04:28:11.093-04:00Are you still there, World Wide Internet?London - Frankfurt - Whitehorse - Anchorage<br /><br />Anchorage - Houston - Birmingham - Memphis - San Francisco<br /><br />San Francisco - Tokyo - Shanghai<br /><br />Chongqing - Xian - Beijing<br /><br />Beijing - Tokyo - San Francisco - Memphis - Birmingham<br /><br />Birmingham - Houston - Los Angeles<br /><br />These have been my flights over the past month. Only a few more next week - Los Angeles - Seattle - Anchorage - and I'll be done with air travel for 2008.<br /><br />I just got back to the States after a couple weeks of touring like a tourist in China, and I am facing the ever-intimidating prospect of Settling Down in Anchorage. This means finding a job, getting plugged back into ministry at the Chapel, searching out an Anchorage-area writers group, and finally unpacking that bright yellow toiletry bag that has been my constant companion over the past year.<br /><br />It also means, I hope, taking some time to reflect on everything that has happened since last September, and maybe even sharing some of it with you. It has been a great year, I can tell you that much right now, and I stand on the other side humbled and blessed and tired.<br /><br />So the posts may be a bit chronologically random as I strive to keep you up to date with my present while catching up on my past.<br /><br />But I'm back to the blog! Spread the word.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-19641398029354984322008-09-18T13:25:00.000-04:002008-09-18T13:26:31.725-04:00Filler post.I have been busy wrapping up my time in England during the weeks that have intervened since my last post. (Wow, Jess, wordy much?)<br /><br />I think I’m just going to skip all the goodbyes and wrap up posts for now, as they are a little overwhelming and I’m trying, trying to be a good novelist and get my thesis ready for the 30th of September (yipes!).<br /><br />So friends, I’ll see you soon! Stick with me!<br /><br />Jessjessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-53934017348669497472008-08-26T20:03:00.004-04:002008-08-26T20:54:20.344-04:00An InfestationWhen I was little, and we lived on Greendale Drive in Anchorage, fall arrived with the shrews. While we went about our business - buying new winter coats and enjoying the frosty September mornings - a legion of rodents would begin their annual assault.<br /><br />Operation Warm and Dry<br /><br />I, in fact, never saw a live one in the house - just their little mangled corpses pinned beneath a metal bar or a thin, naked tail snaking its way out of the mouth of "Kitty," who was meaner than spit but a fine mouser. Nevertheless, I learned through this experience that home invasions should be frowned upon.<br /><br />This impression was further reinforced throughout the years. There are those Looney Tunes cartoons featuring a horde of termites that buzz up a wooden home, leaving only a porcelain sink, a tub, and a bewildered couple behind. Then that little baby termite would come and eat up that last toothpick in the guy's mouth. The poor Ingalls family lost their home to those vicious locusts. A cockroach on the counter means there are like twenty thousand in the walls.<br /><br />And now, as fall approaches, I find that my small-but-fabulous flat is being invaded by a small army of pill bugs.<br /><br />They're crawling under my back door. This much I know.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/4e/Armadillidium_vulgare_001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/4e/Armadillidium_vulgare_001.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Of all the things that I could find every morning on my bath mat, I am happy to say that two or three pill bugs isn't so bad. They don't move quickly, opting for neither "fight" nor "flight" when faced with a stressful situation. Instead, they do this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2b/Slater_rolled_up_for_wiki.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2b/Slater_rolled_up_for_wiki.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Kind of cute, actually.<br /><br />But even these tiny creatures with their cute little exoskeletons can give me the heebie-jeebies. I blame it all on my Alaska roots - we are taught from a very young age to give moose a wide berth and to never run from a bear, but on the subject of creepy-crawlies we remain largely uneducated and inexperienced.<br /><br />So it is with a nervous cringe that I tweeze these hapless little critters between my thumb and index finger and fling them out into the back garden (where, I'm sure, they immediately begin the long march back to my bath mat). If they stay still, I'm usually okay. But if they move a tiny little antenna or brush me with one of their hair-like legs, I can't take it. I make a very childish noise and drop them back onto the bathroom floor, where they roll around like tiny billiard balls. And we try again.<br /><br />I think I'm secretly afraid they are going to run into my mouth.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-84035509047268816412008-08-17T15:24:00.007-04:002008-08-23T06:02:23.424-04:00Do you know where this shirt came from, lady??PARIS, FRANCE!*<br /><br />What is it about Paris that intimidates me? Is it the high fashion, the gourmet food, and all the people (even very small children) speaking fluent French?<br /><br />Yes.<br /><br />Of all the places that we visited, Paris was the stop that I was most worried about. I saw it as a city that I should know a lot about - it is famous after all - but the things that make it famous are things about which I am an idiot. High society. Romance. Just standing around looking really good. So forgive me if the thought of spending time in this city dredged up those feelings of thirteen-year-old Jessi trying to hang with the cool kids.<br /><br />As it turned out, Paris is wonderful. Although none of us speak a lick of French beyond the basics like <span style="font-style:italic;">bonjour</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">merci</span>, and <span style="font-style:italic;">buffet</span>, and although we didn't have Rick Steves or actually any guidance with us whatsoever (we bought a map from a vending machine at the train station), Paris wooed me like she's wooed the rest of the world.<br /><br />If we had known more about the city, or if we were spending more than 24 hours there, we probably could have done it up solid. But, in the spirit of making the best of it, we just gave it a go, strolling along the Seine from Notre Dame to the Eiffel Tower. <br /><br />Paris is just chock full of ambiance, with her tree-lined neighborhoods and street vendors. Being there made me want to study art history, to make friends with bohemians, to learn French, and to shop somewhere other than the Gap.<br /><br />Started at Notre Dame. I wasn't sure if you could see Sarah and me, so I drew a little arrow.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxeeSvGgsEIf0ABULXZYEuppqhaE-hbbVeC6qXbDf23ZDeW1rcNs-oKNJ0GdJRZR0T02w_YmMD9iUnJtnzvMeAFpooaqs3EpjvGX6ZiFnzH0r1iOe4DlY139dwSN0kKvy5dP0/s1600-h/IMG_0636.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxeeSvGgsEIf0ABULXZYEuppqhaE-hbbVeC6qXbDf23ZDeW1rcNs-oKNJ0GdJRZR0T02w_YmMD9iUnJtnzvMeAFpooaqs3EpjvGX6ZiFnzH0r1iOe4DlY139dwSN0kKvy5dP0/s320/IMG_0636.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234838745282611010" /></a><br /><br />Close up in one of the doorways of the church.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRY2yFfPY5B_ULZ13cUh1l1DTTx-aZr9VVJMdY3KkD6eOGvF7LkRkRV5EWGAQ6pU0lwhKO2WsvuY3Us1QcA_9wHMIkSyW00OOsKVruO7RFFb0Jv6tOQ4noGis5noP1WvfVZsI/s1600-h/IMG_3414.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRY2yFfPY5B_ULZ13cUh1l1DTTx-aZr9VVJMdY3KkD6eOGvF7LkRkRV5EWGAQ6pU0lwhKO2WsvuY3Us1QcA_9wHMIkSyW00OOsKVruO7RFFb0Jv6tOQ4noGis5noP1WvfVZsI/s320/IMG_3414.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234836156460843826" /></a><br /><br />The most legendary foosball table ever is on the bank of the Seine. I really wanted in on that action, but didn't know how to say "C'mon guys! Give me a turn!" in French.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY08IivlfZoCWRwcv30y-BgByhcQXek6jFgFstrfIgNZlueToN4IdtetkZEi2hFop3O9POIxG9KSA9prd7bN6hoN4AqrPxmsBLejEn5RsAiSdBqDJYmUV2uCCh6sUa4cvtpw8/s1600-h/IMG_3432.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY08IivlfZoCWRwcv30y-BgByhcQXek6jFgFstrfIgNZlueToN4IdtetkZEi2hFop3O9POIxG9KSA9prd7bN6hoN4AqrPxmsBLejEn5RsAiSdBqDJYmUV2uCCh6sUa4cvtpw8/s320/IMG_3432.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234836160573641458" /></a><br /><br />The Arc! Just a few days after the Tour de France, too.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5tVpBEcNm-Icu1GYmXc2YqyC1WGkQ0wh-0Qef8JpTFEcHeeVhl4Y8H0Yobceq6bGkoksZ8iiRyXtFY9S2gLu6d1CHJ9laClapFPmQYBVGP4NaWMGeFA0Q1HI3vO-iGdTrvU/s1600-h/P7310423.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5tVpBEcNm-Icu1GYmXc2YqyC1WGkQ0wh-0Qef8JpTFEcHeeVhl4Y8H0Yobceq6bGkoksZ8iiRyXtFY9S2gLu6d1CHJ9laClapFPmQYBVGP4NaWMGeFA0Q1HI3vO-iGdTrvU/s320/P7310423.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234828112673241538" /></a><br /><br />No label. You're not stupid.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho_DsyaEP_qnOLzswlMwqMZ-G18SeB6bRSEEizD9NwZj1N9LP6np0CJAaG61vJQCjnHCXqeTnht7pX6Yp30Z000YXXDwmGRRN4ZCchT4vxxcUD_G1bSQ_C7HxCZncawKltOe4/s1600-h/IMG_3458.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho_DsyaEP_qnOLzswlMwqMZ-G18SeB6bRSEEizD9NwZj1N9LP6np0CJAaG61vJQCjnHCXqeTnht7pX6Yp30Z000YXXDwmGRRN4ZCchT4vxxcUD_G1bSQ_C7HxCZncawKltOe4/s320/IMG_3458.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234828130170223058" /></a><br /><br />Laurilee and I took a Ferris wheel ride to get a different view of Paris.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFpqbyP5HhtzDp6AFvKAKZvThdUfM9SirMaXPbFN8MH_O6t-PWpMVbSy7JUinipT7rhQAq0tCso4N8qa9uJ4vnOoLfDAyUM_-QNH_v_m9UejoF5beMdz0Gk8FyV1UZLzFWLJU/s1600-h/P8013796.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFpqbyP5HhtzDp6AFvKAKZvThdUfM9SirMaXPbFN8MH_O6t-PWpMVbSy7JUinipT7rhQAq0tCso4N8qa9uJ4vnOoLfDAyUM_-QNH_v_m9UejoF5beMdz0Gk8FyV1UZLzFWLJU/s320/P8013796.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234827736491386610" /></a><br /><br />Eiffel, extreme close-up.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFaFL10eereoin-HsCrlJ3R8guJoKpE3O-tt4t347V6lxKjPbcBx0gB6O4LafzfXhY7FFaU1VSgAk4khjEBkjyBP11svaYb3DxbBvANuc9ZXpwIspvh3AkUd0sFiFDYBWBX4E/s1600-h/IMG_0688.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFaFL10eereoin-HsCrlJ3R8guJoKpE3O-tt4t347V6lxKjPbcBx0gB6O4LafzfXhY7FFaU1VSgAk4khjEBkjyBP11svaYb3DxbBvANuc9ZXpwIspvh3AkUd0sFiFDYBWBX4E/s320/IMG_0688.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234842390763844034" /></a><br /><br />So, Paris was lovely. I understand now why everyone is so crazy about her.<br /><br /><br />*Mel Gibson, Maverick. It's time to watch it again.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35645233.post-10793567374464727952008-08-16T13:36:00.004-04:002008-08-16T13:45:17.702-04:00We all need goals.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYihBWBPMwudL7EDCJq8R8f-khlK8d-iqV5-Kqgb6YF23Ig_LkDm0vuZL3pLEcHUVtFmqWJ506l5SdzwdFF1imibKG_ztM0Rat2xyNkhnh9sanQsDtKKAALVxFVHioJAkgPo4/s1600-h/Jessi+and+Michael+Phelps.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYihBWBPMwudL7EDCJq8R8f-khlK8d-iqV5-Kqgb6YF23Ig_LkDm0vuZL3pLEcHUVtFmqWJ506l5SdzwdFF1imibKG_ztM0Rat2xyNkhnh9sanQsDtKKAALVxFVHioJAkgPo4/s320/Jessi+and+Michael+Phelps.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235169879836746530" /></a><br />Much like Michael Phelps, I have some records to break.<br /><br />I've had the opportunity to visit a lot of different countries in the past ten years. But never could I claim to have slept in three countries on one night.<br /><br />Until now.<br /><br />That's right. On one Thursday night/Friday morning I slumbered my way through Italy, Switzerland, and France via an international night train.<br /><br />I know, I know. Amazing. <br /><br />Amazing enough to be mentioned in the same breath as the most winningest athlete in the history of the Olympics? (Most winningest? They're running out of superlatives for this guy!)<br /><br />You be the judge.<br /><br /><br />Nevermind. I'll be the judge. <br /><br />And yes. Amazing enough.<br /><br />I just let the train do all the work. That's my secret.jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13668515782718972489noreply@blogger.com5