I really try hard and make an effort to keep my children's bodily functions off this blog. But this is too good.
The kid has been sitting on the toilet for a good five minutes and counting.
It started with him shouting nonsense.
Me: Please be quiet and don't shout like that.
Him: But I'm shouting.
Me: I know, and I've asked you to stop.
Then the cat starts meowing from down the hall.
Cat: Meow, meow, meow.
Him: I don't know Banjo, but I'm pooping right now.
(He's never been known to have conversations with the cat before. A new phase. I think I like it.)
His little brother sneezes in the next room.
Him: Bless you, Bless you...Bless you too, papa.
Then he starts singing an improvised song.
Him: Down, down, down to the sewer. There's an octopus down there. And a crocodile too.
The cat starts meowing again.
Cat: Meow, etc.
Him: OK Banjo, I'll be right there. Papa? I'm all done!!
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Mix Tape: Big Enough for the World To Love
Find me a person who can't like Coldplay. If you need me to explain why I like a Coldplay song like I need to explain why I like some obscure indie-instrumental-act-from-Iceland, well then, you're just weird. Is there a band bigger than Coldplay? U2, maybe. But I still have the hunch Coldplay is bigger.
It started with the single "Yellow" on the radio. This is really good. Who is this? Something about this song sounds oddly like Dave Matthews Band, but way cooler.
Parachutes was introduced by my roommate Kyle. I think his brother gave it to him for Christmas after I confirmed he didn't have it already. He once said, "If Coldplay were a wanton woman, I would be led astray."
Rush of Blood to the Head was Travis. I can still picture him pounding the steering wheel of the Ford Probe and singing along, probably on the spring break trip from Indiana to Pennsylvania. We'd all pretend to cry while singing falsetto at the top of our lungs with "The Scientist." And then just when you thought the single "Clocks" could get old and overplayed, it didn't. We all just kept on loving it.
X&Y all sort of blended together and went unappreciated for a while, but I came around to it. It helped to watch old people sing "Fix You." It helped to sing "Fix You" at our Fete de la Musique, too.
Viva La Vida started by seeing posters all over Paris. Favorite songs would switch after every listen. This album is pretty much perfect, no? Man oh man.
Mylo Xyloto will now always be New Year's Eve 2011, celebrating a year in a new land with brothers and sisters, especially because that opener is such a dance-the-year-away-with-reckless-abandon sort of hit.
And this song is emerging as a favorite. But how can Coldplay be against the world when the whole world is for Coldplay?
Coldplay, "Us Against the World" from Mylo Xyloto
It started with the single "Yellow" on the radio. This is really good. Who is this? Something about this song sounds oddly like Dave Matthews Band, but way cooler.
Parachutes was introduced by my roommate Kyle. I think his brother gave it to him for Christmas after I confirmed he didn't have it already. He once said, "If Coldplay were a wanton woman, I would be led astray."
Rush of Blood to the Head was Travis. I can still picture him pounding the steering wheel of the Ford Probe and singing along, probably on the spring break trip from Indiana to Pennsylvania. We'd all pretend to cry while singing falsetto at the top of our lungs with "The Scientist." And then just when you thought the single "Clocks" could get old and overplayed, it didn't. We all just kept on loving it.
X&Y all sort of blended together and went unappreciated for a while, but I came around to it. It helped to watch old people sing "Fix You." It helped to sing "Fix You" at our Fete de la Musique, too.
Viva La Vida started by seeing posters all over Paris. Favorite songs would switch after every listen. This album is pretty much perfect, no? Man oh man.
Mylo Xyloto will now always be New Year's Eve 2011, celebrating a year in a new land with brothers and sisters, especially because that opener is such a dance-the-year-away-with-reckless-abandon sort of hit.
And this song is emerging as a favorite. But how can Coldplay be against the world when the whole world is for Coldplay?
Coldplay, "Us Against the World" from Mylo Xyloto
Friday, January 13, 2012
Discerning a Call 1
Most anyone in the church at some point or another hears about this mysterious thing we refer to as 'a call,' and especially those considering entering some sort of full-time or at least more-intentional-on-some-level ministry. In a lot of ways it seems like something in the American church we're absolutely obsessed with, really. I've lived through a lot of it, have heard a lot about it, have thought about it, discussed it, wrestled with it. I've always wanted to write, but it has always seemed too vast to tackle. I have no real plans to turn this into a 'series' and don't know where it will lead, but there's one facet I've wanted to get out recently...so we'll get this started and see where it goes from here...
More often than not, discerning a call is not rocket science. Start at the easiest, most obvious place: What do you like to do? What do you want to do? What seems like common sense to you?
I told a friend once that he had the gift of evangelism. "I do? You think so?" was his response. It was so crystal clear to me, but it came so naturally to him that he didn't see it. I told him I could see this gift in Him because he was so eager to talk to people about Christ. "Doesn't everybody do that?" was his response. "No, some people are terrified to do it," I told him. This is a guy who built a full-size cross out of wood and carried it around a city center in a foreign country with the objective to a) take Christ's words about carrying a cross very literally and b) start some conversations. I tried convincing him that this was not normal behavior despite what he may think, and that only people with the gift of evangelism would even entertain the idea.
From the very first time I visited a church plant, I was hooked. Setting up chairs in an old VFW building in Staten Island with a diverse, rag-tag community of people who didn't know the first thing about Jesus or the church...so much about this scenario excited me, so much seemed like common sense, why wouldn't everyone want to be involved in work like this? The more my experiences with church planting grew, the more it seemed like common sense: this is what the church should be doing, this is what Christians should be excited about, this is what I want to be involved with. Church planting seemed like the solution to everything: Church is too big? Plant one. Can't find a church? Plant one. And more than that, when I read scripture, I saw church planting everywhere I looked. But of course, it didn't take long for me to see that some people just really don't like going to church in VFWs or school cafeterias or community centers, and some people are scared to death of the work involved in gathering a new community. The fact that it seems so common sense to me is the first step of recognizing my call towards church planting.
One couple in our organization love the beginning stages of church planting. They have seemingly no fear of moving by themselves to a town where they know no one, where there is no existing church network, no nearby Christian support. And they have a knack for gathering people around them and turning it into a community. The problem is, after a good five years or so, they are ready to move on and start again. Right now they have been in the same town for around eight years, have a church of thirty or forty people, and they are tired, eager for the next project. If I were in their shoes, I would just be starting to get comfortable and excited, just now be breathing a sigh of relief, glad those first years are over and eager for the "real work" to start. That tells us something about the respective work to which we are called.
What about the average Joe in the average church? Not the one that is coasting, just attending for the sake of attending. The one who is committed, who serves behind the scenes, who supports the life of the church. What is he called to? To him, the most common sense way to serve God is to work hard, lead a family in love, give a percentage of his income to sustain the life of the church, and help the people around him who need help. He reads scripture and everything points him to this simple lifestyle of obedience. We start to see some clues about his calling, and it would not be right for us to make him feel guilty for not being a preacher or a church planter.
Put another way, ask this question. What is it you complain about? What do you see as missing in your church? We don't practice community...we don't serve the poor...we don't teach our children...we don't drink enough tea together...we ignore the neighbors in the town around us...we aren't serious about the Bible...we don't do our musical worship with excellence... Even our grumbling can show us what is most common sense to us, where we are gifted, in what direction we are called.
The trick is not burdening others with our own common sense gifting and calling. Sometimes it's so common sense that we think everyone should be doing it with us, and that's simply not the case. That's not to say we don't talk about it, we don't try to persuade others of the importance of certain things, and we stick to ourselves taking action in our own little individual corners. No, we talk and share and impress and persuade, but at the end of the day we act on our own calling while trying to see how others' gifts and calls fit in with ours and how mine fits in with theirs. How do the puzzle pieces go together to join as a body? How do we free one another--supporting and serving--so that each one can minister in the best possible and most effective way? The church planters need Average Joes and the Average Joes need church planters. Let's not forget this most beautiful part of the creativity and diversity of God's design.
The discussion of a call can get pretty thick and heavy and convoluted sometimes, much more complicated than it needs to be. Let's simplify by starting in the most obvious place: How did God design you?
More often than not, discerning a call is not rocket science. Start at the easiest, most obvious place: What do you like to do? What do you want to do? What seems like common sense to you?
I told a friend once that he had the gift of evangelism. "I do? You think so?" was his response. It was so crystal clear to me, but it came so naturally to him that he didn't see it. I told him I could see this gift in Him because he was so eager to talk to people about Christ. "Doesn't everybody do that?" was his response. "No, some people are terrified to do it," I told him. This is a guy who built a full-size cross out of wood and carried it around a city center in a foreign country with the objective to a) take Christ's words about carrying a cross very literally and b) start some conversations. I tried convincing him that this was not normal behavior despite what he may think, and that only people with the gift of evangelism would even entertain the idea.
From the very first time I visited a church plant, I was hooked. Setting up chairs in an old VFW building in Staten Island with a diverse, rag-tag community of people who didn't know the first thing about Jesus or the church...so much about this scenario excited me, so much seemed like common sense, why wouldn't everyone want to be involved in work like this? The more my experiences with church planting grew, the more it seemed like common sense: this is what the church should be doing, this is what Christians should be excited about, this is what I want to be involved with. Church planting seemed like the solution to everything: Church is too big? Plant one. Can't find a church? Plant one. And more than that, when I read scripture, I saw church planting everywhere I looked. But of course, it didn't take long for me to see that some people just really don't like going to church in VFWs or school cafeterias or community centers, and some people are scared to death of the work involved in gathering a new community. The fact that it seems so common sense to me is the first step of recognizing my call towards church planting.
One couple in our organization love the beginning stages of church planting. They have seemingly no fear of moving by themselves to a town where they know no one, where there is no existing church network, no nearby Christian support. And they have a knack for gathering people around them and turning it into a community. The problem is, after a good five years or so, they are ready to move on and start again. Right now they have been in the same town for around eight years, have a church of thirty or forty people, and they are tired, eager for the next project. If I were in their shoes, I would just be starting to get comfortable and excited, just now be breathing a sigh of relief, glad those first years are over and eager for the "real work" to start. That tells us something about the respective work to which we are called.
What about the average Joe in the average church? Not the one that is coasting, just attending for the sake of attending. The one who is committed, who serves behind the scenes, who supports the life of the church. What is he called to? To him, the most common sense way to serve God is to work hard, lead a family in love, give a percentage of his income to sustain the life of the church, and help the people around him who need help. He reads scripture and everything points him to this simple lifestyle of obedience. We start to see some clues about his calling, and it would not be right for us to make him feel guilty for not being a preacher or a church planter.
Put another way, ask this question. What is it you complain about? What do you see as missing in your church? We don't practice community...we don't serve the poor...we don't teach our children...we don't drink enough tea together...we ignore the neighbors in the town around us...we aren't serious about the Bible...we don't do our musical worship with excellence... Even our grumbling can show us what is most common sense to us, where we are gifted, in what direction we are called.
The trick is not burdening others with our own common sense gifting and calling. Sometimes it's so common sense that we think everyone should be doing it with us, and that's simply not the case. That's not to say we don't talk about it, we don't try to persuade others of the importance of certain things, and we stick to ourselves taking action in our own little individual corners. No, we talk and share and impress and persuade, but at the end of the day we act on our own calling while trying to see how others' gifts and calls fit in with ours and how mine fits in with theirs. How do the puzzle pieces go together to join as a body? How do we free one another--supporting and serving--so that each one can minister in the best possible and most effective way? The church planters need Average Joes and the Average Joes need church planters. Let's not forget this most beautiful part of the creativity and diversity of God's design.
The discussion of a call can get pretty thick and heavy and convoluted sometimes, much more complicated than it needs to be. Let's simplify by starting in the most obvious place: How did God design you?
Thursday, January 12, 2012
The New Guy, 7
A few weeks back I "finished" language school. Got good grades. My wife's been bragging about me. My head has grown.
Then the other day, a faucet stated leaking. You know I'm not much of a bricoleur, and so this sort of thing, especially after recently receiving a very sizeable and unexpected water bill, really has a knack for ruining my day.
My brother-in-law helped me figure out the basics of sink valves, and shortly thereafter, I showed great initiative and went to the big hardware store at my earliest convenience. I asked a man in the plumbing aisle for help finding the right replacement valve.
And I was instantly transported back to my first month in France.
He rattled off an answer and I got very few of the basics of what he was saying. I asked him to repeat himself, and he went just as fast the second time around, much like the fast mumbler at the post office a while back. I knew he was telling me they didn't carry the type of valve I needed, and I had a feeling he was telling me exactly the type I needed, though I wasn't understanding a thing he was saying, and then he told me I needed to go to a certain customer service desk, but I don't understand why. It sounded like he was explaining himself clearly and thoroughly enough, but I had no idea what was going on.
Last ditch effort: "And that's my only option?"
"Yes, sir. Only option."
"Well, thank you very much..."
"Don't mention it."
I walked out like I knew where this particular customer service desk was and I knew what I would be asking for. Couldn't find the desk, didn't know what to ask for anyway. I circled back around the store like a lost bird, something I tend to do in these situations, trying to decide what to do next, desperate. Eventually gave up and went back home exhausted.
I put the valve back in so that water wouldn't shoot everywhere before turning the main valve back on. I'm enough of a bricoleur to know these important steps, for which I'm grateful. Funny thing is, even though we had played around with the valve in several ways before this trip to the hardware store and nothing changed, this time, the leak stopped.
Sometimes I have this odd habit of making up reasons why God does certain things. On one hand, I think he could care less about plumbing and bricolage. On the other hand, I do believe his sovereignty extends even to the mundane minutia of our lives.
And so, while I wouldn't tell you this is a 100% sure-thing act of God, I have this hunch that he gave me that leaky faucet just to remind me I'm not finished learning French yet and still have a long way to go. A little humility can work wonders, you know. And once the lesson was learned, he was content fix the leak himself.
And if that is in fact the case, I imagine him patting me on the back with a smirk like I might my son after a lesson learned, knowing these little stunts aren't exactly the most desired lessons, but they're peculiar little practical jokes for our ultimate good. And all we can do is chuckle along with him, a little bit more tired than before, not exactly thankful, but admittedly a little better off in the end. You've got to hand it to him, he's creative in his methods.
And while I do have to keep worrying about my French, at least I don't have to worry about the leak.
Then the other day, a faucet stated leaking. You know I'm not much of a bricoleur, and so this sort of thing, especially after recently receiving a very sizeable and unexpected water bill, really has a knack for ruining my day.
My brother-in-law helped me figure out the basics of sink valves, and shortly thereafter, I showed great initiative and went to the big hardware store at my earliest convenience. I asked a man in the plumbing aisle for help finding the right replacement valve.
And I was instantly transported back to my first month in France.
He rattled off an answer and I got very few of the basics of what he was saying. I asked him to repeat himself, and he went just as fast the second time around, much like the fast mumbler at the post office a while back. I knew he was telling me they didn't carry the type of valve I needed, and I had a feeling he was telling me exactly the type I needed, though I wasn't understanding a thing he was saying, and then he told me I needed to go to a certain customer service desk, but I don't understand why. It sounded like he was explaining himself clearly and thoroughly enough, but I had no idea what was going on.
Last ditch effort: "And that's my only option?"
"Yes, sir. Only option."
"Well, thank you very much..."
"Don't mention it."
I walked out like I knew where this particular customer service desk was and I knew what I would be asking for. Couldn't find the desk, didn't know what to ask for anyway. I circled back around the store like a lost bird, something I tend to do in these situations, trying to decide what to do next, desperate. Eventually gave up and went back home exhausted.
I put the valve back in so that water wouldn't shoot everywhere before turning the main valve back on. I'm enough of a bricoleur to know these important steps, for which I'm grateful. Funny thing is, even though we had played around with the valve in several ways before this trip to the hardware store and nothing changed, this time, the leak stopped.
Sometimes I have this odd habit of making up reasons why God does certain things. On one hand, I think he could care less about plumbing and bricolage. On the other hand, I do believe his sovereignty extends even to the mundane minutia of our lives.
And so, while I wouldn't tell you this is a 100% sure-thing act of God, I have this hunch that he gave me that leaky faucet just to remind me I'm not finished learning French yet and still have a long way to go. A little humility can work wonders, you know. And once the lesson was learned, he was content fix the leak himself.
And if that is in fact the case, I imagine him patting me on the back with a smirk like I might my son after a lesson learned, knowing these little stunts aren't exactly the most desired lessons, but they're peculiar little practical jokes for our ultimate good. And all we can do is chuckle along with him, a little bit more tired than before, not exactly thankful, but admittedly a little better off in the end. You've got to hand it to him, he's creative in his methods.
And while I do have to keep worrying about my French, at least I don't have to worry about the leak.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Sunday, January 08, 2012
Can't Do It On My Own
The kid was unusually defiant this morning, and when it was just the two of us going to church, I knew I had to give him a little pep talk about cooperating during the service. It went back and forth for a little while with him continuing to disagree, and ended something like this, complete with pathetic whiny voice...
"But I don't want to obey!"
"Well you must."
"But I can't do it on my own!"
Once again the wisdom spewing out of this three year old's mouth stops in me in my tracks, hits me like a ton of bricks, knocks the wind out of me.
"You're exactly right...and I can't do it on my own either...so let's ask God for help..."
The end of that particular story is that he did pretty well. But there's more.
The sermon was on forgiveness, the terribly convicting passage we don't talk about enough, where Jesus tells his disciples just how many times they need to forgive the people around them, and then tells the story of the man being forgiven of an enormous debt only to turn around and demand the relative pocket change a friend owed him. What the preacher sadly never made explicit became clear when he told a brief story of Corrie Ten Boom. After speaking to an audience about forgiveness, the man who killed her sister came to her to ask her forgiveness. She recognized him immediately. And if I caught the story correctly, she immediately prayed allowed, saying, "God, I cannot forgive this man on my own...and so I ask for your help..."
I was stunned again. My toddler apparently has the wisdom of preachers and Christian heroes. This fatherhood thing is a crazy, humbling blessing.
"But I don't want to obey!"
"Well you must."
"But I can't do it on my own!"
Once again the wisdom spewing out of this three year old's mouth stops in me in my tracks, hits me like a ton of bricks, knocks the wind out of me.
"You're exactly right...and I can't do it on my own either...so let's ask God for help..."
The end of that particular story is that he did pretty well. But there's more.
The sermon was on forgiveness, the terribly convicting passage we don't talk about enough, where Jesus tells his disciples just how many times they need to forgive the people around them, and then tells the story of the man being forgiven of an enormous debt only to turn around and demand the relative pocket change a friend owed him. What the preacher sadly never made explicit became clear when he told a brief story of Corrie Ten Boom. After speaking to an audience about forgiveness, the man who killed her sister came to her to ask her forgiveness. She recognized him immediately. And if I caught the story correctly, she immediately prayed allowed, saying, "God, I cannot forgive this man on my own...and so I ask for your help..."
I was stunned again. My toddler apparently has the wisdom of preachers and Christian heroes. This fatherhood thing is a crazy, humbling blessing.
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
On Rough Years
There were plenty of quirky things that my college roommate and I did back then, but there was one that still strikes me as an actually fairly healthy practice. When one of us would enter the room a bit stressed out at the end of a full day, the other one would say in a half-patronizing half-validating tone,
"You've had a long day."
No matter how sarcastic it really was, it actually always kind of felt pretty good, like someone understood, like someone empathized, like someone noticed, like someone cared.
And it's an interesting practice, because it seems like more often one of two things happens. We try to fake our way through the tough days to impress the people around us and try to convince them we're strong and OK. Or, when we admit to having a long day, the other person tries to convince us that their day was longer and proceeds to tell us all the reasons why. And both tendencies just drive us further into independence and hardness and solitude and isolation.
But when we can actually admit to having a tough day, or when we can actually validate another's tough day, what happens then? The possibilities are endless. It's the start of empathy.
One of my all-time favorite movie moments comes towards the end of The Royal Tenenbaums. A distant father makes a loving gesture and finally pursues his son. All sorts of important phrases come out like "Sorry" and "Thank you" and "You're welcome" and all of a sudden walls come down. The son, a dad with boys of his own who has been trying to be strong with not much success finally confesses, "We've had a rough year, dad." The dad affirms, "I know you have." And a burden is lifted.
I know that we're 4 days into 2012 and people have already finished reflecting on 2011. But I wonder what sort of freedom could come from friends and family being able to admit that they had a rough year last year, and what would happen with us responding "I know...You're right, you did..."
"You've had a long day."
No matter how sarcastic it really was, it actually always kind of felt pretty good, like someone understood, like someone empathized, like someone noticed, like someone cared.
And it's an interesting practice, because it seems like more often one of two things happens. We try to fake our way through the tough days to impress the people around us and try to convince them we're strong and OK. Or, when we admit to having a long day, the other person tries to convince us that their day was longer and proceeds to tell us all the reasons why. And both tendencies just drive us further into independence and hardness and solitude and isolation.
But when we can actually admit to having a tough day, or when we can actually validate another's tough day, what happens then? The possibilities are endless. It's the start of empathy.
One of my all-time favorite movie moments comes towards the end of The Royal Tenenbaums. A distant father makes a loving gesture and finally pursues his son. All sorts of important phrases come out like "Sorry" and "Thank you" and "You're welcome" and all of a sudden walls come down. The son, a dad with boys of his own who has been trying to be strong with not much success finally confesses, "We've had a rough year, dad." The dad affirms, "I know you have." And a burden is lifted.
I know that we're 4 days into 2012 and people have already finished reflecting on 2011. But I wonder what sort of freedom could come from friends and family being able to admit that they had a rough year last year, and what would happen with us responding "I know...You're right, you did..."
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Lesson Learned
Note to self: staying up til 3:30 AM Christmas Eve, no matter how noble the reason, makes Christmas day just a bit less merry.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Leaving Keys
The very first phrase we learned in French class:
"J'ai laissé mes clés."
which translates as
"I left my keys."
Not the most immediately useful phrase, but it was taught to us in order to learn the vowel sound that is found in every syllable of the sentence. In his typical humor, our professor said that now when a French person tried talking to us, we could simply respond by saying the only phrase we knew, "I left my keys."
Six months later, it was the morning of the kid's birthday party, just a few days after my wife and newborn had returned home. I ran down to our storage unit in the basement to retrieve a few things. Details aside, Erica's key ring had the key to get into the main door, my key ring had the key to open the lock on our unit, and so I marched down with two sets of keys. When I opened our door, I set both sets down and began searching. I said to myself, "That's stupid, don't forget to pick them up on your way out." Attention obviously elsewhere, I got what I needed, locked up, left, and went back upstairs, and as I went to open our apartment door I realized.
Every key in our possession, locked behind two doors in the basement. Already running late to set up for the party happening at our school, too early to ask a neighbor for help, no longer able to drive all of the things we needed to the party, and unable to leave our apartment or our building without having absolutely no way to get back in...this was quite the predicament.
I waited a little while until someone was more likely to be awake, then listened outside of my nice neighbors' door for some noise. When I heard some, I gulped down the cowardice and knocked. When it opened, I gave a greeting, then proudly used the phrase with perfect pronunciation: J'ai laissé mes clés...
I got what I needed, but that only opened the first door. Thankfully I laid the keys close inside the second, which had wooden slats with narrow openings between each. With my trusty broom handle, I flipped the box toward the door, and the keys came sliding right to the entrance at the bottom opening. All things told, the predicament was worked out fairly easily. Not the best way to start birthday party day, but could have been worse.
Now here we are another six months later, and I cannot find the key to the first basement door. Nowhere to be found. It was loose in my pocket, and assuming it fell out somewhere when I pulled out the others. It's a key I've been meaning to copy since the last incident.
And it's a problem because, well, it just may have been the choice hiding spot for a few Christmas presents this year. And when an elf locks everyone out of Santa's workshop 2 days before the big event.......it just kind of puts a damper on the festivities, no?
Time to quit telling you about it and find a solution, I suppose.
"J'ai laissé mes clés."
which translates as
"I left my keys."
Not the most immediately useful phrase, but it was taught to us in order to learn the vowel sound that is found in every syllable of the sentence. In his typical humor, our professor said that now when a French person tried talking to us, we could simply respond by saying the only phrase we knew, "I left my keys."
Six months later, it was the morning of the kid's birthday party, just a few days after my wife and newborn had returned home. I ran down to our storage unit in the basement to retrieve a few things. Details aside, Erica's key ring had the key to get into the main door, my key ring had the key to open the lock on our unit, and so I marched down with two sets of keys. When I opened our door, I set both sets down and began searching. I said to myself, "That's stupid, don't forget to pick them up on your way out." Attention obviously elsewhere, I got what I needed, locked up, left, and went back upstairs, and as I went to open our apartment door I realized.
Every key in our possession, locked behind two doors in the basement. Already running late to set up for the party happening at our school, too early to ask a neighbor for help, no longer able to drive all of the things we needed to the party, and unable to leave our apartment or our building without having absolutely no way to get back in...this was quite the predicament.
I waited a little while until someone was more likely to be awake, then listened outside of my nice neighbors' door for some noise. When I heard some, I gulped down the cowardice and knocked. When it opened, I gave a greeting, then proudly used the phrase with perfect pronunciation: J'ai laissé mes clés...
I got what I needed, but that only opened the first door. Thankfully I laid the keys close inside the second, which had wooden slats with narrow openings between each. With my trusty broom handle, I flipped the box toward the door, and the keys came sliding right to the entrance at the bottom opening. All things told, the predicament was worked out fairly easily. Not the best way to start birthday party day, but could have been worse.
Now here we are another six months later, and I cannot find the key to the first basement door. Nowhere to be found. It was loose in my pocket, and assuming it fell out somewhere when I pulled out the others. It's a key I've been meaning to copy since the last incident.
And it's a problem because, well, it just may have been the choice hiding spot for a few Christmas presents this year. And when an elf locks everyone out of Santa's workshop 2 days before the big event.......it just kind of puts a damper on the festivities, no?
Time to quit telling you about it and find a solution, I suppose.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Turned my back for a second...
Walked into the living room to find the Christmas tree leaning at a 60 degree angle with the bottom strand of lights turned to their hyper-flash mode.
Asked the kid what he knew about it. Nothing.
Darn cat.
Asked the kid what he knew about it. Nothing.
Darn cat.
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