there's no place like gnome.

I visited a man named Norm on Thursday at a care center.  He’s sweet and always makes a few off-handed comments to note.  “What are you wearing on your feet?  Moccasins?” [They were red heels.]  “Men in Owatonna are tall.  At least six feet.”  

Last week while we were visiting, he shared his wisdom that went something like this –

Oh, Norman.  I could have hugged him for this comment, and oh how I want to do exactly what he suggests.  Today in my mailbox I received my first issue of Travel and Leisure, a magazine that boasts hotels, restaurants, and travel plans far too luxurious for my salary.  But I love to look and dream.  [And I used my frequent flyer miles to pay for the subscription, which, I suppose, is slightly backwards.]

This month, an article on Madrid is featured.  I was lucky to travel to Madrid when I was a sophomore in high school with a school group.  It was beyond awesome – a group of, oh, fifteen of us and five of them were Bananas and three more guys who grew to be close friends because of the trip.  [Two of whom are now married to Bananas!]  My eyes were opened that trip – my first time on a airplane and the longest I’d ever been away from home [two weeks].  We discovered Kinder eggs, spent a day in Morocco, and saw incredible cathedrals and fortresses.  We explored the halls of the Prado museum, walked the streets of bustling European cities, and learned the joy of eating bread and cheese for breakfast on open-air patios at our hotels.  

It’s been nearly exactly 12 years since that trip, since I caught that disease people always talk about – the travel bug.  I want to go back.  I wonder what it would be like to experience a European city for a second time around.  I feel more experienced, more ready for the adventure of travel.  It’s funny how that feeling and urge coincides exactly with my severe inability to afford anything like it.  [Thanks a lot, Norm and T&L.]

It makes me want to brush up on my Spanish [aka start over] and say that in three years – come hell or high water – Madrid and I will reunite.  I would also settle for a return visit to Istanbul, or going for the first time to Ireland or Norway.  Really, I’m not too picky so I guess I should rephrase – in three years – come hell or high water – I will get on a plane and cross an ocean.  

One can dream.

It turns out getting internet is like a mediocre drama film.

No romance, horror, or documentary.  But there was a little comedy as Daniel, once again, used the word comma as a spoken part of a sentence and not just as a squiggle on paper.  I love grammar humor.  Oh, Daniel.  [Who, I realized, reminds me totally and completely of prom date and friend, Timmy.  Totally.]

He arrived, along with his assistant/girlfriend/truck passenger.  Dashed romantic notions aside, they went to work.  Walking on roofs, pulling cable, and climbing up tall ladders, eventually a cable made its way to the router.  The. church. has. internet.  Praise Jesus.

My house, however, does not.  Putting aside some questionable ethics, we’ll wait and see if a wireless booster does the trick.  If not, well, I’ll wear my sweats and bring a blankie to church to watch The Office, season seven, of which I have seen no episodes.  [woe to me, right?]

Mediocre drama it may be.  Hopes both realized and dashed.  The outcome positive but not the best case scenario.  No hearts broken but no love found.  But truth is, I’d watch this mediocre drama any day.  And now with fast internet, I can stream it online.

Ticket, please.

I’ve waited.  And dreamed.  And waited.  Finally, the day is almost here.  Tomorrow.  The day when I can once again watch my television shows online, peruse google reader, and send an email in less than five minutes.  Oh, the glorious day.

Tomorrow is it.  The internet comes tomorrow.  There are lots of expectations and there has been lots of time to think about what the day will actually be like in the last seven months of mediocre to poor internet.  I’ll spell it out for you according to movie genre.  

Here’s how the day would go if my life were a romantic comedy:

Last time Daniel, the internet man, was here, he cracked a grammar joke.  [I always say humor is the way to my heart.  Make it grammatical humor and that’s the fast lane to my love.]  He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring either.  I imagine him walking in, and I tell him that he’s my favorite person ever.  [That might actually happen.]  He sets up the internet, cracks another grammar joke, and is intrigued by my pastoral charm.  He asks me out.  I say yes and blush.  ps he drives a truck.

If my life were a horror movie:

Daniel comes.  It starts to storm with crazy rain and lightning.  Because of the weather, he cannot set up the internet.  Oh, the horror.

If my life were a documentary:

It would be hand-held camera style with likely much footage of Daniel explaining to the camera how his type of miraculous internet works while standing on the roof.  I would be near-by, soaking it all in, likely wearing my cleric collar to maintain all clergy stereotypes.  There would be an interview of me, probably sitting in a church pew with the altar in the background, sharing my feelings and woes of life with no internet.  When the internet is set up and works properly, the church would have a hamburger feed.  There would be balloons. 

If my life were a foreign film:

There would be subtitles, a la llamas in Monty Python.

In real life? 

Stay tuned.  The story will be told tomorrow.

Tomorrow.  Tomorrow.  

Tomorrow.

I went at Cabela’s tonight because Mabel needs some sort of boundary control, most likely in the form of pain.  She runs off a lot these days – if I give her the chance – and it’s frustrating.  I say naughty words.  So I talked to Duane a lot about my options at the store.  If I have any further questions, I’m supposed to call and ask for him.  “Just tell me you’re the church lady.  I’ll remember.”

This church lady also got her hair cut in the Cities this evening.  Her name is Tiffany and I think we’re in a [hair dresser – head of hair] relationship now.  She gave me duck clips.  The feelings are obviously real.

Remember how yesterday this church lady received a lawn mower tutorial from Bob?  [It’s a thing.]  Today, I tried to start the mower and it didn’t work.  I feel so incompetent and helpless when it comes to mechanical things.  Read more about the lawnmower and my feelings here.

This church lady got home late from the escapades in the Cities … and the lawn was mowed.  I figure there are a few options behind it –

1. The mower started just fine when Bob stopped by to look at it and then he felt sorry for the pathetic girl who couldn’t do it herself.  If so, I’m embarrassed.  Completely.

2. The mower battery needed jumping.  Bob did so and had to run the engine.  So he mowed.  If so, I feel guilty that he did the whole lawn.

3. Bob mowed and thinks his pastor is a pathetic church lady who can’t start a mower or do anything mechanical.  If so, I feel totally stupid.

The pessimist in me bets on one and three.  Chances of me turning beet red the next time I see Bob?  Very high.  I’ll never live this down.  I feel like I should bake him cookies.  Or use my magic wand to erase his memory of it.  Maybe both.