Top 100 Ways You Know You Live In NEPA No.96

96. Your bathroom's GFCI receptacle is on the same circuit as all your apartment's essential functions, so when your hairdryer goes trippy, it also cuts out the fridge, the Christmas tree lights, the modem, and the only basement light near the breaker box.

But on the flip side, it does give the huz an excuse to pull out his cute little head lamp. I think he enjoys that. :)

Culture No. 35: Christmas Trees

I am kind of particular about my Christmas Tree.

So particular, in fact, you might say I am a borderline snob. As a child, "Get the Christmas Tree" Day was up there with Christmas and the Fourth of July in terms of favorite holidays. In college, I even got into a shouting match with a good friend about the merits of real and fake Christmas Trees that ended with me storming/getting kicked out of the room. (Honestly, artificial is just a fancy word for NOT REAL.) That particular.

My Christmas Tree must be real and it must be freshly cut by either a close male relative or myself. (Usually the former, which I don’t mind. Especially those years when mid-December is a mud fest.) It must be sold by a farm that provides free cider or cocoa, preferably both. (Free candy canes are bonus points.) It must be taller than myself, but shorter than the ceiling. (An obvious requirement, but unfortunately sometimes forgotten. Even by me.) It can have a maximum of one bald spot. (This is turned towards the wall.) The branches must be strong enough for those heavy Hallmark monstrosities and there must be enough of them for 27 year’s worth of ornaments, but not so many that it feels like you’re decorating a hedge.

And finally, it must be hardy enough to live until Valentine’s Day, because sometimes that is the first chance I’ll get to take it down.

Borderline snob? Hehe. I think that border is about two states behind me.

Bert and I went out yesterday afternoon to procure our first married Christmas Tree. Thankfully, Georgia Boy jumped on board the “Cut Your Own” train several years ago, so we didn’t have to fight that battle. He did, however, miss my memo on “quaint farm with snacks.” (In his defense, I never actually told him. I hate to look bossy.) So when he took me to the “farm” where he’s cut down his recent Christmas Trees, I was a bit aghast to discover it was actually someone’s back yard. With an unattended shoebox cash box.

Now, before you think I am being utterly ridiculous and commercialized, I’ll have you know that one year I did make an exception and cut down a tree from someone’s backyard. But that was in the Berkshires, there was significant snow, and my roommate had never cut down her own tree before. It felt like we were in a Norman Rockwell painting. I have never felt that way in NEPA or else I would act accordingly.

Bert, bless his heart, saw my face when we turned into that house’s driveway and pulled a quick u-turn. (He is sensitive to my particular ways.) We set off driving north into the wilds of Pennsyltucky and eventually happened upon a trail of Christmas Tree signs for a place called Bennie’s. “That’s looks promising,” we said. “Let’s go to Bennie’s.”

Well, let me just say: Bennie’s has a rockin’ marketing department because we followed those signs for over 10 miles – long enough for it to turn from a desperate search to a game and then back again. Surprise! Bennie’s is in Tunkhannock, a very rural 25 miles from our house. There was no cocoa or cider, but there were trees in the ground and saws. And as there are only so many hours of sunlight here in the frigid north, I decided I would live.

They had a lot of nice trees and it didn't take too long for us to pick one out. Geoff the Mazda carried it home with his usual panache and Bert had it up in no time. (Although unfortunately, he seems to suffer from “Rigging Up the Lights” Syndrome just like my father. We always used to run and hide when it was time for Papa V. to put up the tree. ;)

The tree’s only about half-decorated now - we need to run out and get another string of lights – but I’ll post some photos later. It’s not quite bright enough for me yet!

Culture No. 34: TSO/Mohegan Sun Arena

When I found out in October that the Trans-Siberian Orchestra was coming to Wilkes-Barre's Mohegan Sun Arena on Veteran's Day, I started droppin' "I want to go hints" like they were hot. (That sentence sounded funnier in my head.) By this point in time, Bert knows how I operate, so when I replaced his Sunday morning comics with the Entertainment section's full page write-up on the upcoming concert, he caught my drift and bought tickets. Surprise! :D

We went out for burger's at Grotto's beforehand - a low key treat for us! - and set out an hour early to brave the inevitable traffic disaster that occurs with any big event at the arena. NEPA suffers from a severe lack of qualified parking lot designers. (Who would that be? The civil engineers? The landscape architects? Let's blame it on the latter, otherwise Papa V. won't buy me any Christmas presents this year. :-*) The arena is right off 81, but it took us almost 45 minutes to inch off the exit and park. (Leaving was just as bad, although I guess that's a bit more understandable.)

Regardless, we made it to our seats in time for the show, after I landed this comment on our way down to the floor. I think this was probably the first "big" concert I've ever been to and WOAH. You'd think it was directed by Michael Bay! Just when you thought the rotating lights, moving catwalks, hydraulic scissor lifts, and epileptic laser shows were getting old, they'd throw in a few flame throwers and chorus lines just to shake things up a bit. It was over-the-top to the point of being hilarious and I loved it! So much fun!

The concert was divided into two parts with no intermission. The first part was all Christmas music; the second, everything else they play, which I was completely unaware of until that point. The Christmas music was great - especially my favorite, Christmas Eve/Sarajevo 12/24 - although all of it was "narrated" in a Suess-ian nature with a story that didn't make much sense. (Something about an angel wandering around the earth? It was hard to make out the words...) I felt like I was at an 80's hair band concert. You can tell the guys have a lot of fun playing. (And the soloists were all great as well! :)

The second half was all songs I was unfamiliar with, but the band kept up the same fun, over-the-top tempo. At one point, the lighting and staging took a turn for the bizarre and turned into a two-eyed, three-jawed monster. I felt bad for the kids in the audience. Little Sarah would've been hiding under her fold-out chair. (Big Sarah wanted to feed her fold-out chair to the monster. Why is it that the more you pay, the less uncomfortable your seats are?)

All up, it was a good show. It wasn't quite what I was expecting - So. Much. Hair. - and I'm not sure if I'd go again, but it was a fun Christmas treat nonetheless. I'd definitely recommend going at least once, if only to see the crazy violin player! :)

Top 100 Signs I Married the Right Man No. 84

84. When I call Mr. "I worship Apple and all things clean, white, and shiny" from the Target seasonal aisle to ask what color Christmas lights he prefers - 99% sure he is going to make me buy the boring white ones - he sheepishly confesses to loving the multicolored, "tacky" ones like it's some sort of industrial designer sin.

I love that - six years later - we are still surprising each other. There's something new to learn every day. :-*

Big Thought of the Day No. 1: Guiltless

What is this? This is me, looking not guilty, which is a great look that I ought to rock more often. Why do I look not guilty? Because originally I felt guilty for not posting in, like, forever. I had a whole slew of excuses to give you, but then I remembered that this blog is supposed to be fun and the only reason it was turning into a chore was my own sense of obligation. And that's no fun.

Our pastor hit close to the mark last night when he gave a little talk on Matthew 11:28-30 and pointed out that Jesus doesn't call us to a doctrine or twelve step plan, he calls us to HIM. And getting to know HIM is much more fun than following a laundry list of rules. And I am all about fun. Especially at Christmastime.

Life lately has been fun. And Busy with a capital B. Can you believe it's December already? Christmas alone is enough to make your head spin. (And because I don't have enough to do, I decided to throw a Christmas party this year. My first! I'm so excited. :) I love this time of year and I'm going to un-obligator-ily enjoy it. First up? I get to make a Jesus birthday cake for a party Monday night. For him. Not of him. (Remember my cookies? Can you imagine if I had to pipe Jesus out of frosting? Oy vey.)

At first, I thought about making a tower of whoopie pies with alphabet candles spelling out "Happy Birthday, Jesus!" (I read too many blogs. I know.) Then I drew it out. And realized I'd have to bake over 100 whoopie cakes. And frost them. That didn't sound like fun. So Jesus will probably be getting something a little more conventional this time around. But still fun. We're both all about that. ;)

Top 100 Ways You Know You Live In NEPA No.97

97. While attending your first concert at the Mohegan Sun Arena, the woman in the row behind you takes one look at your outfit at says, "That girl is too dressed up. I would never wear something like that here."

That's right, kids. The resident slob was judged for breaking out her one pair of black pants and wedges, which are both definitely over two years old and were originally purchased for a job at Bath & Body Works. (i.e. They've seen their fair share of wear, tear, and lotion bottle explosions.) So much for dressing up for date night. Sometimes a girl just can't win. ;)

Top 100 Signs I Married the Right Man No. 85

85. He cleans the bathroom with surgeon-like precision. And hums the "Zelda" theme song while he does it.

This is why trophy wives don't work.

Do you ever have weeks where you go to bed Sunday night and suddenly wake up the following Saturday morning, not really sure where the five days in between went? Yes. Welcome to my new, working life. (Nine months of unemployment really gets you out of working shape.) On my fourth day of part-time work, the boss man decided to bump me up to three-quarter time, which - while financially nice - is basically full-time when you factor in my double commute. (We only have one car, so my work day is bookended by dropping off and picking Bert up.) So I'm just popping in to say, I'm not dead. Just acclimating to the new sched. ;)

Miss you. Ox.

NTOTD No. 14: Christmas Music

Okay, this is not so new. I can't lie: I started listening to Christmas music in mid-October. (After a brief refresher in July, of course. ;) I LOVE Christmas music. Do you have a favorite album? I'd have to say mine is a three-way tie between Mariah Carey's first Christmas album, Amy Grant's Home for Christmas, and Diana Krall's Christmas Songs.

Bert had Christmas music playing on Pandora last weekend when this song came up. And it's been in my head ever since. *Sigh* I love John Williams too. :)

Cat No. 10: Cat Naps

This is a dangerous place for napping. Sometimes, Nora and I will take a cat nap and when we wake up my camera is full of photos like this:

And this:

What can I say? (Besides "at least I'm not drooling.") Bert's just not a napper. Oy vey. That does not bode well for future offspring. Let's hope they take after me (and Norbit) in that department.

TWOTW No. 2: Phyllis Nefler

Have you ever seen the movie Troop Beverly Hills? It's one of my childhood classics. You know, those movies you watched so many times that - 15 years later - you can still quote them verbatim. No wonder I am the way I am today. Phyllis Nefler (played by Shelley Long) is an inspiration to trophy wives everywhere. Enjoy! (And go watch the whole thing! It's a riot. :)

Culture No. 33: Cafe Beignet

A few weeks ago on a whim, I bought a Living Social Deal for a coffee shop up in Scranton called Café Beignet. We usually don’t travel much farther than our kitchen for a hot cup of joe – except on Fridays, when we go to Dunks – but this past weekend, Bert and I braved the wind and the snow (Hurray for October nor’easters!) for a Saturday morning date in our sister city.

Scranton’s always quiet on the weekends – actually, it’s quiet all the time – and the weather didn’t help any. There were approximately three “occupiers” in front of city hall and only one other brave patron of Café Beignet. The café is just north of Cooper’s Seafood (of “The Office” fame) on Washington Avenue downtown. It’s run by the Milk Saving Starving Children Foundation and all profits go to support child nutrition programs overseas. So you can drink your coffee and feel good about it too. Sweet.

The café is decorated New Orleans style, right down to the Mardi Gras bead-wearing donkey out front. (My inner architect especially appreciated the old school tin-style, stamped metal inserts in the dropped ceiling. Because we all know how I feel about dropped ceilings.) We ordered two mochas – the Carlton Family favorite – and six beignets – the Café Beignet specialty. (Go figure. ;) We didn’t know what a beignet was (or how to say it), but the barista explained that it is essentially a square piece of fried dough covered in powdered or cinnamon sugar. Mmm…he had me at fried. (And it was only $4 for six. What a deal!)

Since it was quiet, the barista went to the back to get our beignets started. (Yes! They make them to order!) He brought them out to our table – three covered in powdered sugar, three in cinnamon sugar – and proudly announced that “lunch had arrived.” (It was about 11:15 a.m.) We laughed, but oh man, was he right. They were hot and amaaazing. Totally worth the snowy drive up 81. The mochas were eh – lukewarm and a little acidic – but in perspective, totally inconsequential. It doesn’t matter what the coffee tastes like when you can eat fresh fried dough. I’m definitely adding Café Beignet onto the “NEPA Highlight Tour.”

PS Cooper's is totally better than that place in Tel Aviv. Just as long as you're at the Scranton one. The Pittston branch? Eh, not so hot.

Top 100 Signs I Married the Right Man No. 86

86. He listens to Christmas music before Halloween of his own free will!

...

Be still, my beating heart. <3

Cooking No. 10: Boo Cups

In college, my good friend E. introduced me to the best Halloween dessert ever: Boo Cups. I’d never had one of these amazing little creations until my sophomore year, but now the season just doesn’t seem right without them! Boo Cups are to Halloween what Peeps are to Easter – a delicious sweet you can only eat once a year for fear your teeth will rot out. Oh yes, they are that good.

Bert’s coworker invited us over for a Pumpkin Party last weekend (where Bert carved his first pumpkin ever), so it seemed like the perfect opportunity to introduce Boo Cups to the NEPA crowd. (Interested? You can find the recipe here on the Kraft website.)

They are super easy to make. First, mix the instant pudding. The official recipe calls for only chocolate, but I always split it up into half chocolate, half vanilla. Trust me: Boo Cups are not lacking in the sugar department. I’ve found the vanilla makes them a bit more palatable for the “older than 5” crowd and adds a nice color contrast, as well.

Next, mix in half a tub of Cool-Whip (or “whipped topping,” if you go the Brand X route like me. ;) and 3/4 cup of crushed Oreos. (No Brand X on the Oreos. No one can match the yumminess of the real thing.) If you use both chocolate and vanilla pudding, make sure you split the Cool-Whip between the two, (i.e. a quarter tub in each bowl). I usually only put Oreos into the chocolate pudding, but again – up to you. ;)

Set the pudding aside and lay out twelve small cups. Sprinkle more crushed Oreos into each one. Divide the pudding between the cups - layering, if you're using multiple flavors - and top with more Oreos. (Can you ever have enough Oreos? No, I don’t think so. ;)

Finally, divide your remaining Cool-Whip into twelve “ghosts” on the cup of each pudding cup. This part always makes me laugh because the ghosts on the Kraft website look so perfect while mine always come out…well, blobby, for lack of a better word. (I'm sure they'd look neater if you piped them on.) Each ghost gets a pair of chocolate chip eyes and you’re done! The recipe says to use miniature chocolate chips, which I never have because they never go on sale, so I just substitute the regular ones for a more “googly-eyed” look. But they are yummy either way.

Unfortunately, transporting Boo Cups is not nearly as easy as making them. Eek! I have this issue every year and every year I forget about it until it’s time to leave the house. You’d think I’d learn.

The party was about 45 minutes away, so I threw the Boo Cups in the freezer to stiffen them for the drive. I tried a bunch of different pans and covered dishes, but the only thing big enough was a metal crate that Bert uses to hold office supplies. Out with the pens! In with the Boo Cups!

I covered the bottom with foil, lined up the cups, and then threw in a roll of saran wrap to wedge them in. (The crate was a wee bit too big. Or maybe I just didn’t make enough cups. ;) And it worked! The Boo Cups were a little melty by the time we arrived, but we put them straight in the fridge and they were perfect by the time dessert rolled around. Success!

Mmmm… Make sure you give them a try! And Happy Halloween!

NTOTD No. 13: October Snow

October snow? Yes, please! I always considered myself lucky to have snow on Thanksgiving, never mind Halloween. (Halloweens in New England always seem to be damp and mild, although I'm not sure how they usually run in NEPA.) I know we'll be lucky if the white stuff hangs around till Monday, but still... It makes for a very cozy weekend! (And I love how Bert's jack-o-lantern looks like it sprouted hair overnight. Chia Pumpkin, anyone? ;)

Craft No. 10: Sucrets Tin Makeover

In a recent scientific survey performed by yours truly, there were 3,210,000 hits for the Google search “Altoids tin craft,” but only 906,000 for “Sucrets tin craft.” And most of them appear to be "Altoids tin repeats."

Travesty! Sucrets tins are great! Mine has lived in the uncharted regions of my purse for some years now, providing a fantastic home for any sort of meds I need/think I need/probably will never need on-the-go. However, they are uglier than their small, mintier cousins, I’ll give you that. So the other night, in a burst of craftiness, I decided to give the ugly duckling of the tin packaging world a much-need makeover.

I started by removing the ingredients sticker from the back of the tin and scrubbing off the residual goop with rubbing alcohol. (I know some people like to use Goo Gone for that sort of job, but I’ve found rubbing alcohol works just as well – if not better – minus that awful smell.)

Next, I traced the top of the tin onto a piece of cork leftover from an old coaster project and cut it out with my special sharp scissors. (I protect my sharp scissors with my life. They live in an undisclosed location only known to me so they don’t get used for anything mundane or manly. Hehehe… Do you have a pair like that?) But even using the sharp scissors left the cork a little rough and crumbly around the edges. I rubbed it down as best I could, but I planned on covering it later and wasn’t too worried about the finish.

Now for the fun part! I pulled out my set of mini alphabet stamps and went to town. (Practicing on a bit of scrap paper first, of course. :) Originally, I wanted to use red ink to match the red tin, but the red didn’t show up too well on the cork. I substituted black and it came out just fine. “For what ails you” – it makes me think of a spoonful of sugar or the glass of “medicine” in Peter Pan. Hopefully, whatever lands in this tin is somewhere in between!

Then I tried gluing the cork onto the tin, but the cork soaked up the Elmer’s and hot glue just got all gunky. (I think my glue gun’s dying and it wasn’t quite hot enough.) Plan C involved several strips of double-sided scrapbooking tape and that seemed to work just fine.

With the cork secured, I wrapped the edges in decorative adhesive tape (God’s gift to crafters? Quite possibly. I was thinking of gluing ribbon on, which in hindsight would have been a disaster!) and taped a bit of paper inside the cover for the finishing touch. Voila! What do you think?

Except for the skull and bones tape – 50 cents at Jo-Ann’s with a coupon! – I had all the supplies on hand, so this was a pretty low budget project. I wouldn’t mind sticking a brand or two in the cork for a little extra decoration, but I don’t mind it as is. I think my Sucrets tin is lookin’ mighty fine!

(What ails me? A sore throat, stomachache, and allergies, apparently! :)

NTOTD No. 12: The Vera Bradley Train

Am I the last one to jump on? Probably. Unfortunately. Trophy Wife or not, I never thought I'd see this day. But when I saw this wristlet on Listia, I was totally hooked before I even knew it was the ubiquitous V.B. How could I know? It's vinyl and there's no paisley. Obviously, Vera was out sick the day they snuck this bad boy through.

I am, however, 100% guilty of bandwagon-ing when it comes to that ID case. I bought it at a local consignment shop fully aware of where it came from. But it was on sale. And I am a complete sucker for anything turquoise and brown. And, well, I had already lost any street cred I had in regards to not owning a V.B. Might as well jump in head first...

Do you own a Vera? Why or why not?

Culture No. 32: Working!

I broke the number two trophy wife rule this week and got a job. Thankfully, the number one rule is “there are no rules,” so I quickly exonerated myself and emerged guilt-free and slightly richer. (I am all up for an extra dollar or two – sadly, literally – added to my monthly grocery budget.)

The new gig is a part-time office job at a local construction/trucking company with nary an AutoCAD station in sight. I can also wear jeans, so it is pretty much Sarah heaven in those two respects. (There is also an office cat named “White Trash.” Hellooo, NEPA!) I have to teach myself QuickBooks stat, but I already use Quicken at home so it’s not too bad of a learning curve. And who knows? My own personal accounting will probably drastically improve in the coming months as well. ;)

Ahhh…It feels good to have one foot back in the working world!

Culture No. 31: Hiking the Lehigh Gorge

I have a list of things I want to do while we live in NEPA. It's a small list, but it does exist. (On my iPod. So I can add to it when inspiration hits. Just like my grocery list.) After our trip to Jim Thorpe this summer, I added “Hike the Lehigh Gorge in the Fall” for two reasons: one, I am too cheap to pay for the tourist rail when I can walk it myself, and two, if it was gorgeous in the summer – which it was – I could only imagine how it’d look in autumn.

And since we’re coming down to our last few fall weekends here in the Northeast (Can you believe it?!), Bert and I took advantage of the beautiful weather and snuck away this weekend for an afternoon on the trail. And I'm so glad we did, because I think the Pocono leaf-peeping season is just about over!

I had imagined a really tough and rugged hike, but – like the Back Mountain Trail – the path turned out to be a bike trail (Whoops. Missed that memo…), so it was more like a leisurely stroll. (Thankfully, I packed enough chocolate bars to maintain our caloric intake. Got to love those Halloween sales!)

Still, we walked six miles+ and both came out sore. (Although that may be more a reflection on our own condition. I am blaming it on my boots. ;) There were lots of people out biking and walking their dogs and we even saw a large group of rafters headed downstream towards Jim Thorpe. (At the end of October? Crazies!) It was a beautiful day and I'm so glad I can check the Gorge off my list now! What were you up to this weekend?

(And before you ask: Yes! I am hunting wabbits! The resident male model was quick to point out my resemblance to Elmer Fudd. Guess I won't be wearing that hat again! ;)

NTOTD No. 11: Pumpkin Carving

(For Bert, at least.)

This weekend, Georgia Boy fessed up to never having carved a pumpkin before, which of course we had to remedy. Immediately.

Sacrificing one of my three pumpkins to the cause - the smallest one, just to start him off slow - we let the Carving Newbie go to town. He struggled a bit through the gutting process and - unaware he was supposed to save it - threw the top away, but once we rescued the stem from the trash it was smooth sailing from then on out. (Granted, he did have help from a five year-old expert. That may have helped. ;)

I think he named pumpkin, "An Ode to Steve Jobs," which is why it has glasses. Stevie the Wonder Pumpkin has since returned to the pumpkin ranks on our still-cornstalk-less front step and looks fantastic. I am so proud. :)

Trophy Wife of the Week (TWOTW): Shenandoah S.

My bestie S. just inspired a new series of posts with this shot of her "Homecoming Hokie Cupcakes": mini bits of red velvet deliciousness smothered in butter-rich orange frosting. (I'm guessing on the butter, but she's a big Paula Dean fan, so it's probably not too far off the mark. ;) I also enjoyed the peek at her red, Kitchen Aid stand mixer in the background (Remember this post? Kitchen Aid mixers are a trophy wife must.) and the very-obvious cupcake carrier in the foreground. This lady carries her baked goods in style! Way to go, S.!

So from now on, on a quasi-weekly basis/whenever I get submissions, I want to showcase YOUR forays into the world of trophy wifing. (Or trophy wifing-in-training. That counts too.) Outtakes from your tennis lesson? Awesome. The latest craft project? Bring it. Your cat? Show us. We all love the cute, feline children. You, my friend, could be the next Trophy Wife of the Week.

Charity No.3: Chicumbane, MZ

(Here's another story from my time to Mozambique! You can read my previous posts about the trip here, here, and here.)

Between eight team members, two missionaries, and three MKs, we easily had (at the very least) nine cameras and 2,000+ photos of our twelve days in Mozambique and South Africa. There is one day of photos, however (the second Thursday, to be precise) when yours truly mysteriously vanished. Was I on a spiritual walkabout, communing with God amidst the beauty of the African bush?

Haha. I wish.

I was actually sick as a dog, holed up in my tent, and wishing Bert was there to make me toast and tea. (The thought of eating and drinking was revolting, of course, but the idea of having him close by was comforting.) That’s right: I was the team’s lucky and sole recipient of the self-titled “24 Hour Bush Bug.” Go Team Sarah.

After spending a few nights in Maputo, our team camped for a luxurious three days/four nights next to a church in a small town called Chicumbane. We spent one full day there, then drove deeper into the bush the next morning for the day. (This was the day we spent in Manjacaza.) That night, while driving back to camp over teeth-jarring roads that make PENNDOT look like God’s gift to transportation, I started to get a headache.

Now, in and of itself, that is a fairly normal occurrence. I get headaches all the time. I even have an app on my iPod to track them and rank them according to how bad I want to die. On a scale of “Nothing” to “Give Me a Lobotomy,” this was somewhere around “Did I Just Run Into a Brick Wall?,” but given the bumpy ride and the long day we’d spent out in the sun, I brushed it off and tried not to think about it.

Everyone was tired by the time we got back to camp, but I was exhausted. As in, "too exhausted to eat," which is not something I usually suffer from. (They don’t call me Hoover for nothing! And yes, unfortunately, they do call me that…) Upon our arrival, I immediately went to bed and slept straight through till six the next morning, quite the feat considering the roosters start yakking around three and the witchcraft drummers never stop.

I woke up feeling tired, more headache-y, and – fun! fun! – nauseous. I got up and went through the morning routine, hoping I'd feel better if I started moving around, but to no avail. (For some reason, I always think this will work. It never does.)

Well, to shorten a long story full of too much information, we all decided I should just take it easy that day. (Decided? That makes it sound like we sat around and discussed it. No, I physically could not get off my air mattress and they refused to bring it in the 4x4s. So that was kind of the kicker. ;)

One of our resident missionaries, Adrienne, stayed behind with her munchkins to keep an eye on Gimpy and to give the kids a break from the car. (Adrienne is like the African version of the Pioneer Woman, although she is very modest and would never tell you that. ;) She closed my tent when it was cold, opened it when it was hot, and made me sit up and get some fresh air halfway through the day.

And it worked. (Super Moms are the best. I hope I’m like her someday.) My nausea went away sometime mid-morning and I slept till about four (minus my “fresh air break”), despite the bands of children staring into my tent and wondering what was wrong with the white lady in her funny pajamas. The rest of the team did not get back until long after dark, so I spent the rest of the evening in my tent journaling, playing solitaire on my iPod, and munching on bits of Portuguese rolls. (Fun Fact: Mozambique has an amazing supply of carbohydrates. Many thanks to the Portuguese for infusing this bit of Western culture.)

All this has been a very long explanation to explain why I was in my tent, alone and in the dark, when choir practice started.

Now, I've said before how much I love African music. I don’t think I need to explain that much further. So when choir practice started up a mere twenty feet from my tent, I was glad. The chorus of foreign female voices permeating through the dark and quiet camp was beautiful and calming. And strangely familiar.

Where have I heard this before? (And yes, that question is as crazy as it sounds considering I was sitting alone in the dark on a continent I had spent a grand total of three weeks on. But it is not crazy when you remember I was kind of sick. ;) Technically speaking, I had not heard it before.

But then it came to me. When I lived in the Berkshires, my friends and I spent several weekends at the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Bethlehem, Connecticut. Regina Laudis is a Benedictine community famous for – among other things – their Gregorian chants. The Abbey observes the full, eight hour Divine Office, which begins with Matins at 1:50 in the morning and ends with Compline sometime around 9.

Over the span of two weekends, I think I made it to Matins only once – must be in the middle of an REM cycle ;) – but it was well worth it. Even though the chants are in a different language (Latin), the sonorous chorus of women praising God in the quiet dark is not something you easily forget. Nor is it something I expected to find thousands of miles away smack dab in the middle of a culture equally as far removed from the hills of New England.

There is no moral to this story and I have no punchy point to end on. Only the thought that as I lay in my tent and listened to these women sing in the dark of the light, I marveled at how true worship sounds the same in pretty much any language. And that is an awesome, awesome thing.

Culture No. 30: Winning!

I have terrible luck when it comes to winning contests. During my entire childhood career, I won exactly one coloring contest, which Sister V. won as well - there's a photo somewhere of us touting our respective Crayola prizes – and to this day I question the legitimacy of my victory. Did Mama V. swing by Ames on the way home and pick up an extra set of crayons to keep me quiet? Quite possibly.

Last year, I won my first blog giveaway: a toddler’s bathrobe, which – while super cute – was obviously not something I had any use for. So I gave it to my cousin for his daughter and stopped entering giveaways for things I didn't need. It worked. My bad luck returned and my blog giveaway winning streak ended at one. Until now.

Giveaways for things I can use (or really, really want ;) are totally still fair game, so recently I entered a contest on one of my favorite blogs, Design Mom, and won a mural from Modern Murals. Sweet! I knew just the place for it!

While the wall at the foot of our bed continues to rock this photo collage I put up in June, the opposite wall was still really, really bare - the perfect spot for a new piece of art. Bert and I spent a few hours on the Modern Mural website agonizing between something Foster-esque (his favorite architect) versus something warmer, and eventually decided on the later. We chose #4301, which sports yellow gingko leaves on a dark, wood plank background. The mural was here within a week (Our UPS man was so impressed I got a package from Cali. Ah, NEPA…) and unboxed in minutes. And then it sat on the floor. For a week or so. Or more. Go me.

Finally I got tired of tripping over it, so last night I conscripted Bert and his drill for an hour of hanging fun. Usually I try to hang pictures around 57” on center – the “museum standard,” so I’ve googled, although I’ve never asked any of my museum friends if it’s true, so take that with a grain of salt – but because our headboard takes up the lower portion of the wall, Bert pointed out that it might be better to center the mural between the top of the headboard and the bottom of the molding. So I made a ‘mural mock-up’ out of newspaper and went to town:

The consensus? To stick with the 57" mark. It's hard to tell from the itty-bitty photo, but centering the mural between the headboard and the ceiling made the room feel really small. And it's small enough as it is. ;) A few off-the-mark holes later - if you have to spackle one, you might as well spackle three, right? - and we were in business! (And on a side note, that baseball bat is a souvenir Bert and I picked up on our 'engagement weekend' in Cooperstown, NY. Not a reflection on the safety of our neighborhood! ;)

I love it. The scale is perfect and the extra color is very, very welcome. We still may be curtain-less, but at least the walls are done, right? :) I'd like to buy a pair of clip-on lights for the headboard so we don't have to get up and down at night to turn off the lights, but I struggled to find something reasonable that doesn't scream "college student!" or "architect!" (No offense to my fellow archies, I've had enough of those tensor lights for about five lifetimes.) Any ideas? Other than the Clapper? ;)

(And a big thank you to Modern Mural and Design Mom. You totally made our week! :D)

Top 100 Ways You Know You Live In NEPA No.98

98. Your pastor refers to the Court of the Gentiles in the second Jewish temple as "the size of two Beaver Stadiums." You know it's football season when... (Fun Fact: Beaver Stadium, with an official capacity of 106,572, is the second largest stadium in the Western Hemisphere and the fourth in the world. Yeah! Go Pennsylvania!)

And while we're on the schedule of college football, yay Virginia Tech for getting back into the Top 20! Is Penn State even up there? Hmmm... No, I think not. ;)

Culture No. 29: Fall Decorating

In the NEPA spirit of over-the-top decorating, I went out yesterday and bought not one, but THREE pumpkins for our front porch. (I also took down the baskets of impatiens that have been dead for about a month ago now. Whoops. I always miss that unofficial day when it's okay to switch over to mums. Like when I secretly listen to Christmas music in July, I live in fear that I'll switch flowers too early and be summarily ostracized and excommunicated for lack of proper seasonal observance. So I just didn't buy any this year. C'est la vie. I digress.)

Bert and I tried to get pumpkins at a local super-farm (aka corn mazes, hay rides, cider donuts, the whole shebang) this weekend, but as soon as we pulled into the overflow parking lot and I saw the line to get on the school bus to take you to the farm that was still miles away, I was overcome by a sudden fit of stroller-induced claustrophobia and decreed that I did not want a pumpkin that bad. So we ended up doing a little leaf-peeping and drinking pumpkin spice lattes at Dunk's instead. An acceptable substitute, methinks.

These pumpkins came from the 'flower tent' that springs up seasonally in an abandoned lot across the street from the grocery store. (Mid-summer, it is the 'fireworks tent.' ;) I went there after my dentist appointment, and even though I had this weird novocaine-induced Elvis thing going on with the left side of my face, the guys there were still really nice and even helped me carry the pumpkins to the car. But when I got home, I realized we had four front steps instead of three (Who's observant? This girl!) and now I feel one pumpkin short of a whole patch. (Seems like that's been the story a lot lately...)

This is how it starts. It's one little white pumpkin now, and before you know it, we'll be like that crazy house on Route 11 that has no less than six blow-up monstrosities in the front yard. Even now, it's all I can do to keep myself from buying corn stalks for our porch columns. Oy vey. This time of year does funny things to people...

Culture No. 28: Heynabonics

In college, I took a linguistics course that I absolutely LOVED, even though I was the only one in the class who could appreciate Boston accents. (All the Southerners thought they were "obnoxious.") It was both amazing and revealing to see how attached people are to their local dialects and how thoroughly they identify with them. I'll be the first to admit: I always say "Wilkes BERRY" in lieu of "Wilkes BAR" for fear that people will think I'm from NEPA and treat me accordingly. I can't help it. It's the New England snob in me. ;)

So in the spirit of furthering our linguistical education, I'd like to share this little introduction to "Heynabonics," courtesy of my friend T. It doesn't get more Pensyltucky than this. <3 it.

Charity No.2: Manjacaza, MZ

Between my previous trip to Uganda and this past month’s trip to Mozambique, I’ve been vaccinated for everything from Hep A to Yellow Fever, yet I still managed to come home with a doozy of a cold. Excepting a fever, I've had all the symptoms of malaria, so my psychosomaticism has been in crazy mode the past week or so. (Confession: I went out last Tuesday – braving all malarial symptoms – solely to buy a thermometer. And I may have checked my temperature hourly. JUST TO BE SURE!) But my temperature has stayed consistently normal for me (usually not higher than 97°), so I think I’ll probably survive. Huzzah!

In the meantime, it’s been frighteningly easy to slip right back into the old PA routine, like nothing ever happened. I’m generally not one prone to large swings of any type of emotion – I’m not expecting a Hallelujah Chorus to start following me around or anything – but I do think it’s important to reflect on my time in Mozambique. What did happen and how does it change things?

Well, to be honest with you, I am still figuring that out. That’s why I’ve been home for two weeks and barely written a peep about it. ;) So rather than give you a day-by-day journal account of the trip - I tried to write one of those for Bert and only made it to Day Three! - I've decided to do an experience-by-experience account instead. A “highlight reel,” if you will, of moments that really stuck out to me and are somewhat indicative of the trip as a whole.

(If you need a quick brush-up on where and why I went, you can read some background here and here. I am going to assume you’ve read those and jump right into things. ;)

I’ll start with the photo I posted early last week. This was taken in a small village called Manjacaza. Manjacaza is in the bush. The way-far-away bush. The “only place that didn’t serve us Coca-Cola” bush. That's how remote they are. Even the American capitalists can't find them. ;)

We were camping in a not-quite-so-remote part of the bush (i.e. Coke was aplenty) about three hours away and arrived in Manjacaza via our two Speed the Light 4x4s sometime around midday. (Time is mostly irrelevant in these places, so I judged things by mealtimes. It was before lunch. ;) We’d come for a church service, which started when we arrived and was held underneath a large shade tree in the center of the village. As the guests, we were given molded plastic lawn chairs. Everyone else sat on bamboo mats.

Like church services in the States, theirs started with music – my favorite part of any African service. I love how they sing. I love that they sing. I love that everyone – boy, girl, man, woman – belts each song out as loud as they can – regardless of skill – with absolutely no sign of embarrassment or self-consciousness. I wish we sang like that here.

And I love that they dance. Let me tell you: the older women in this town could really break it down. And they did. All the time. For every song and for any reason. It was absolutely fabulous.

At each village and church we visited in Mozambique, three of our musically inclined team members played through a small set of Portuguese worship songs they’d learned ahead of time. Most of the villagers in Manjacaza only spoke Shangaan – the local dialect – but when they started playing one lone woman still got up to dance. And while I watched her dance, I felt God say to me, “Get up. Dance with her.”

Uh, what? (Why, yes. I am that unbelievably well spoken when I talk back to God. You'd think if I was going to be sassy at least I'd be smooth about it.) Sure, I love that they dance, but I’m not really a “get up and dance” person myself. That’s my mother. Surely you must have us confused.

“No. You were okay with coming halfway around the world and now you won’t do this one simple thing for me? Get up and dance.”

It was a complete and utter Namaan Moment. Do you know that story from the Bible? It’s one of my favorites because it’s a situation I find myself in all the freakin’ time. (Slow learner? You could say that...) Namaan was an army commander who suffered from leprosy. He traveled miles and miles to ask Elisha to heal him, then got all cranky-pants when Elisha told him to go jump in the Jordan seven times.

“I could’ve jumped in a river at home, Elisha,” he said. “Thanks for wasting my time.” (This is the Unofficial Sarah Paraphrased Version, of course. The USPV? Sounds like a disease… Maybe that’s what I caught.)

Fortunately for the Nam-ster, his servants pointed out that he was being ridiculous. “My father, if the prophet had told you to do some great thing, would you not have done it? How much more, then, when he tells you, ‘Wash and be cleansed’!” (That is from the NIV, just to give this some sort of legitimate edge. The whole story’s in 2 Kings 5, if you’re interested.)

So I hedged that God had a point. I was all up for long plane rides and sketchy border crossings and brushing my teeth with bottled water, but I wouldn't dance? Like Namaan, I suddenly felt kind of ridiculous. What was I doing besides saving up pride for some sort of nebulous, Super Christian feat that would mean nothing to no one but me? Bah.

So I got off my buns and danced. Is it possible to look cool while dancing in Tevas? Absolutely not. (Do I still love them? Absolutely yes.) Do I dance as well as Mama V.? Not on your life. But was I obedient? Yes. And I'm glad I was because it was surprisingly fun. (And they gave me a bag of fresh cashews for my skillz. That was nice. :) For a brief moment - regardless of language and culture and everything else that makes us different - my lady friend and I worshipped our God together. And that was pretty cool. I'm glad he pulled me out of my seat.