Things For Which I Am Thankful, In No Particular Order

1) Kindergarteners, because they are generous with stickers and compliments.
2) My police station class, because it is giving me a new appreciation of our law enforcement officers while simultaneously providing me with most unexpected topics of later conversation.
3) This little dictatorship, because I am free to publish two Thanksgiving posts, neither of which appeared on Thanksgiving.
4) Prepositional phrases, because I loved crossing them out in ninth-grade grammar exercises.
5) The crazy characters gathered around last Thursday's table, because I'd be essentially nowhere - nonexistent, broke, depressed, and unemployed - without them.
6) Our garage, because parking inside is infinitely superior to parking on the street and having all your car doors freeze shut on a nightly basis and being forced to scrape several miles of ice and snow off your windshield every morning.
7) Eavesdropping, because how else would I have heard the following statement (made by one five-year-old to another): "This Bingo has words. We can't play it; we can't read!"?
8) My coworkers, because they make enduring a daily wakeup call at half past six worthwhile.
9) The public school system's field trip budget, because thanks to it I am seeing Disney On Ice tomorrow.

and finally,

10) All y'all, of course, because you pretty much rule.

(So clearly the title was misleading - saved the best for last, you know!)

Giving Thanks With Snyrtingar

Over the past few years, I've developed a somewhat unnatural affinity for Iceland. It all started the summer before I became a senior at college. Collegium was embarking on a tour of France, Portugal, and Spain, and most of the choir members had seats booked on a flight to Paris via Frankfurt. A lucky few, however, departed several hours later and touched down for a brief hour in Reykjavik, Iceland. That hour, my friends, has been the source of much hilarity ever since. It was there that I informed Meg of her future firstborn son's name - Snyrtingar Winston Jeffrey the Fourth, after the word emblazoned on the sign pointing to the restrooms. (Yes, I am that mature.) While devouring a cafeteria doughnut covered in frosting and crispy chocolate sprinkles, we planned out the pilgrimage he would take on his eighteenth birthday to discover the true meaning of his name. At the time, we could blame our giddiness on the sugar high, but it quite frankly still sounds like a good idea to me, so perhaps I have no excuse.

I'm thinking of Iceland this evening because of my propensity for eavesdropping. As I climbed the stairs in the parking garage near St. Thomas after today's class, I overheard the following conversation taking place two steps above:

"Do you have turkeys in Iceland?"

"We do now, we import them. When I was a child, we didn't have any, though."

This informative chat gave me a great and marvelous idea. Forget family Thanksgiving; I'm totally going to Iceland on Thursday to sample imported poultry and delicious baked goods. If you happen to be called Snyrtingar, do feel free to come along; there's something we should probably talk about before we land, but don't worry - the sprinkles are worth it, and there's a turkey with your name on it. Well, possibly not your name exactly, but you get the idea.

An Educational Weekend

It's true, you know: you really can learn something new every day.

On Friday, I learned how to play poker. Badly. This isn't a reflection on my teachers, of course; it's just that the small corner of my brain that was originally intended to house intimate knowledge of poker strategy has now completely atrophied due to a lifetime's lack of use. The game was Texas Holdem, and I know there was a River and a Flop and some other thingo in between the two, but that's about as much as I recall. Over the course of the evening, I managed to use up all my nickels and dimes a total of four times. After this spectacular failure, I am no longer allowed to play poker.

On Saturday, I learned how to open a bottle of wine with a Philips-head screwdriver, a screw of proper length, and a needlenose pliers. It's a tricky science, you realize, opening a bottle of wine with these less-than-proper implements. You have to make sure to insert the screw far enough into the cork to avoid splitting it, and you have to make sure to apply the pliers at the proper angle in order to make the cork move. I hear they invented some object that operates on the same principles as our jury-rigged machine, but I put no stock in such technology.

And today, I learned that should you wish to make a cereal-and-marshmallow-based dessert bar, it is perfectly acceptable to substitute Cocoa Pebbles for Rice Krispies without otherwise altering the recipe. Now my brain is all worn out; learning something new every day is hard work, after all.

Suppertime Conversation, or Overheard Over Dinner

Ali to Emily: "Dad went to West Virginia today and didn't tell Mom. She called him at one, and he said, 'Oh, I'm in Virginia.'"

Emily to Ali:

a) "..."
b) "Bad move, Patrick. Bad move."
c) [aside, to the invisible masses] "No, this is perfectly normal behavior. Really."

Watching the Sky

Today, we’ve all been watching the sky. It’s a pale violet-white, uniformly cloud-covered. Winter storm season is rumored to have arrived in the Metro area, although the snowflakes have not yet begun to fall. While we wait, we occupy ourselves by contemplating the current cold drizzle and the predictions of gloomy meteorologists. The forecast is at the forefront of almost every discussion, whether it is in-depth (from a coworker: “Listen to the weather tomorrow, and you take as much time as you need to get here”) or superficial (from a barista: “I wouldn’t want to be out driving in this if it turns colder”). And when all the conversation on the topic has been exhausted, we go back to staring toward the horizon, where buildings meet the clouds.

I’ve never really scrutinized the relationship between skyline and sky before. You need to achieve distance to see the patterns that the varying heights of towers form, and before this fall, I could only step back far enough on occasion, when I traveled across the Charles River from Cambridge to Boston on a Red Line train. From my subway car seat, I could see the city stretch along the riverbanks, all old brick buildings and leafy green parks and metal and glass towers. I could see the sun reflecting from office windows and shimmering on the river. I could see illuminated roofs twinkle against an inky, starless backdrop. The sky wasn’t the important thing; it faded when confronted with a rush of city brightness, its natural points of light replaced with electric approximations.

But today, I have spent plenty of time considering the twin skylines. They’re not much to look at, in truth – two handfuls of buildings reach feebly heavenward. The great flat stretches of Midwest land render the closely-built towers of East Coast cities unnecessary. Instead of scraping the sky, buildings here only need to brush lightly against it, and because of this limited reach, towers and atmosphere interact. On chilly mornings, fog rolls in on the cold air, obscuring the tops of buildings not yet familiar to me. On stormy days, modest spires point upward into a depthless grey expanse. And on rainy evenings, the lights lining the tops of towers blur, forming red and gold halos that radiate through the night air. Here, the skyline accents the surrounding space instead of overshadowing it.

That’s the thing I’m learning to like about my cities’ modest skylines: when there are fewer buildings, it’s easier to watch the sky.

A Realization

Whilst folding laundry this evening, I came to the realization that I own six items of clothing (one long-sleeved shirt, one short-sleeved shirt, and two pairs of [or four individual] socks) emblazoned with squirrels. I suspect that this number is much higher than the national average.

Vote Vote Vote

Because I received a wonderful gift - an "I voted" sticker - today, I thought it would only be fair to pass a little present along to the rest of you. In case you've forgotten or missed it the first time around, candied yams can't vote.

Small

This weekend brought about an unexpected family reunion. Not another business meeting, mind you, and not an organized family getaway, either. No, this reunion was one of the wholly random variety. What's that? You'd like to hear about it? Well, if you insist...

On Friday, Ian arrived in MSP with the other members of the Drake Mock Trial team for a weekend tournament at Macalester. For the uninitiated, Mock Trial, or "Mock", as it is known in SE (as opposed to the rest of the world, which calls it "Trial"), is an extracurricular activity that exists in high schools, colleges, and law schools. At the beginning of the season, each team receives the same case information - stipulated facts, case law, witness statements, evidence, and so on. The students then prepare both sides of the case (here, prosecution and defense, since this year's proceeding is a criminal matter); witnesses memorize their statements and make their characters memorable, lawyers write directs and crosses and opens and closes. During competition, one school's prosecution side goes up against another school's defense side, and they fight it out in court (or, as the case may be, a tiny little classroom that bears no resemblance to any courtroom).

The weekend's tournament guaranteed each team four trials: one on Friday, two on Saturday, and one on Sunday. Ali and I, being the stellar sisters that we are, decided to spend our Friday night watching our wee little brother compete, so we frolicked over to Mac with Mal in plenty of time for the seven o'clock start of the first round. We greeted Ian in the hall and then walked into his assigned room, where most of the team members from St. Thomas (prosecuting) and Drake (defending) had already assembled. Upon our entrance, a dozen college students attired in courtroom-appropriate suits jumped to their feet. "Oh, we are so not the judges," Ali said. We claimed the last three chairs in the room, pulled them over to one side by the timekeepers, and sat down; as the only spectators, apart from one student's mother, we spent the next two and a half hours watching Ian's team attempt to defend an accused kidnapper. I thought there was a reasonable doubt, when all was said and done, but then, I was so not a judge; the presiding judge didn't make a final ruling, however, so I'm just going to go ahead and say that Ian won. Go Ian!! (His team did come in sixth out of forty, so they must have done something right.)

After the trial, we met up with Chris, who was competing with Mac, on the second floor of the campus center. He hadn't eaten supper, and as it was past nine and he was most hungry, we decided to go snag him some food. Unfortunately, Ian had to stay with his team, so we bid him farewell for the evening. As we turned to walk away, he casually mentioned, "You know, Pat's here judging."

"Huh?" I looked back at him. "Right now?"

"Yeah, somewhere. He's driving back to Sleepy Eye tonight, then coaching Mock there in the morning and coming back to judge an afternoon trial. I think he's staying at your house."

"Good of him to let us know."

I wondered if I should call my father, being as we were probably in the same building and all. Ultimately, though, I decided against it; he has a bad habit of leaving his mobile phone's ringer on and answering calls over speakerphone during meetings. "We'll see him tomorrow, apparently," Ali said, and she, Mal, Chris, and I descended to the first floor, heading for the main exit. There, alone in the foyer, was Patrick, telephoning away. So we all went out to Applebee's, and Daddykins bought us cheesecake and beer (well, okay: two cheesecakes and one beer [and two entrees, one appetizer, one margarita, and one martini]; if you want to play "pin the order on the orderer", you're more than welcome.)

Long story short (hmm... perhaps it's too late...), it looks like Minneapolis-St. Paul is just another small town.

Tails Up

"Blast," said I aloud as I sped toward Minneapolis. (Yes, I was talking to myself. I do so quite frequently. It is most enjoyable, especially when other people look at me strangely.) "I forgot to get cash."

I was on my way to class, and needed a measly two dollars to pay for my parking spot in the garage. The whole process is automated: take a ticket and pay the machine before you return to your car, thank you very much. Want to write a check? Too bad for you; no one's on hand to receive it! This, for an Emily who lives out of her checkbook, is most inconvenient. The original plan involved stopping by the ATM after completing the take-home midterm that consumed the period of time between three-thirty to six o'clock today. Unfortunately, when the first fifteen minutes of said time period is spent asleep on the floor by the space heater, a bit of a hectic time crunch ensues.

I pawed through my wallet, knowing its contents full well - a completed book of checks, several extraneous receipts, Tom's e-mail address, a ticket to one of the spring concerts in which Alex and Oliver participated; a single dollar bill, three quarters, a nickel, three pennies. As I walked through the garage, I trained my eyes on the ground. "If only I could find two dimes or a quarter. Surely someone has dropped a quarter."

But no, no one had dropped a quarter, or a dime, or a roll of nickels. So, already running late, I dashed into the little campus store that would be closed by the time my class was over and bought a bottle of water. "Can I write my check out for a quarter more so I can pay for parking?" The clerk laughed and nodded, and I went on my merry way to class.

Two and a half hours later, I descended from the fourth-floor classroom to the third-floor restroom, one I had never entered. And what did I discover there by the leftmost sink? Two dimes, tails up. I put them in my pocket, walked to the garage, and paid with a dollar and four quarters.

Business As Usual

Ali and I just had an all-out six-minute dance party in my bedroom. We spun and frolicked, we rolled on the floor, we even broke out a classic Sleepy Eye Spirit in Motion Danceline sideline dance from my senior year of high school. For an encore, we performed a wrenching rendition of the recent remix of "Listen To Your Heart", complete with dramatic singing and interpretive gestures.

I think I like having my own house.

Golden Brown

Recently, I've been rediscovering a whole host of things. In paging through a poetry anthology, I came across ten lines of literature that I was once required to memorize, and the rediscovery reminded me of how much I enjoyed choosing the poem in the first place. While sitting in the preschool nap room, I heard some strangely familiar German lyrics emanating from the stereo, and I was reintroduced to a long-forgotten piece of music. And this past Saturday, I made the most important rediscovery of all. I have rediscovered Pillsbury Toaster Strudel. Things will never be the same.

The light, flaky crust that turns golden brown if your toaster is on just the right setting; the thick filling, smooth enough to convey the flavor but not the texture of actual fruit; the icing, conveniently included in an individual packet so that you can decorate your strudel to your heart's content - these elements create prepackaged perfection.

I don't want to hear about their sugar content or the fact that frosting is never an ideal breakfast topping. I don't want to hear about the miniscule percentage of real fruit in the fruit filling. I don't want to hear about the detrimental effects of preservatives and how you once knew someone who kept her box of strudel in the freezer for five years before eating one and, really, anything that can stay good for that long can't be healthy.

I just want someone to confirm that a Toaster Strudel is somehow, miraculously, the best possible breakfast selection you could make. I mean, I'm sure of it already, but if you provide corroborating evidence, I just might give you a prize, perhaps one involving a flaky golden brown crust and an individually packaged dollop of icing.