My first camera was pink and had a picture of Mickey Mouse on it.  It was the kind where you  had to buy an expensive attachment if you wanted to have a flash, and it was only good for ten flashes or so.  Plus, you had to pay to get film developed, so I remember my mom instructing me on making every shot count.

Fast forward about fifteen years, and picture rationing has gone the way of walking across the room to change the TV channel.  Now that everyone and their brother carries a digital camera around in their back pocket, picture overload is a much more common dilemma.

In the spring I worked on a scrapbook of our family trip to Germany.  Of the ten people in our group, at least five had a camera with them at any given monument.  Each cameraperson took a few shots of everything to try to get the best angle.  Click, click, click…that was blurry…a guy walked in front of my shot…now one with all of the siblings…now one with Mom and Dad in it…now one with just Alan and Katy…oh, hold up your ring and let me make sure it’s in the picture…well, you get the idea.

By the time we got home, we had literally hundreds, maybe a thousand pictures of our ten days overseas.  It took forever to sort through them all, distinguish the poor from the good from the better, and select just a lucky few to represent our trip.

Fast forward a few months, and picture these diligent documentarians in the presence of their first daughter/nice/granddaughter.  Oh, my!  Everything Abby did was new, or cute, or hard to capture on camera, so from her first weeks at home we ended up with–again–hundreds of precious images!  There were so many, it was  hard to really even enjoy them all.  Rationally, I know there’s really only so many pictures we need of those first yawns and snuggles with our various family members.  But how is a loving mom to cull the photos?

Even the pictures that are blurry or poorly lit can be hard to delete.  These photos represent moments of Abby’s life that we’ll never get back again!  Even if she’s making a weird face–not the one we meant to catch–it’s hard to get rid of it.  (Of course, if I am in the picture making a weird face, or looking excessively bloated, the choice was much easier.)

Anyway, the Germany scrapbook eventually came together, and just a few days ago, I got the bulging photo folders in My Pictures pared down to a representative hundred or so.  But it wasn’t without a few regretful scrolls through the recycle bin!

I started by making five or six sub-folders, so that I could divide the pictures up and look at a manageable number at a time.  Then I arranged “like” pictures side-by-side: all six images of Stephen dressing Abby in her coming home outfit.  Of those, I picked one that was the best.  Or sometimes I’d decide I really didn’t need a picture of Stephen dressing Abby in her coming home outfit at all, and all six would be deleted.  Hitting the delete button took some determination, but I feel a great sense of accomplishment now that it’s done.

Now I have a few great pictures that are easy to enjoy and share, and I have plenty of space on my hard drive for all of the cute faces and occasions that are coming up just around the corner!

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Follow up-  My mom and I were discussing this overwhelming problem the other day, and we decided that one good technique is to sort through pictures long after they were taken, so that you are not as emotionally tied to each one.  In hindsight, many lovely medieval buildings actually look basically the same.  It’s easier to get rid of the three or four versions of “Alan holds Abby at the hospital” when we’ve since taken several other lovely pictures of Abby with her dear uncle.  Just a little tip in case anyone else struggles with the same issue!  Meanwhile, I’m trying to break the habit of snapping three pictures of every sweet scene I’m trying to capture.

This morning I got up, rinsed my dirty cereal bowl, flushed the toilet, ran the tap to wash my hands, and every time I used a faucet I thought I noticed a little bit less water pressure.  Sure enough, within about an hour, the water was completely shut off.  Stephen had messed with the water heater the night before, and so I figured he had just twisted something too tight and he could fix it later in the day when he got home from school.

But when I walked out to my car at 10 to go to my doctor’s appointment*, I saw the true culprit: a city water crew was a few doors down, with cones blocking off a huge geyser that was sending hundreds of gallons of water down the curb.  (Stephen told me later that the water was spraying four hours earlier when he left the house for a breakfast meeting.)

The irony of the tons of wasted water in the gutter while I tried to coax drips from my sink was enough for me to shake my fist at our local government, but the cherry on top came a couple of hours later, when the doorbell rang while we were eating lunch.  On the porch was a nice young man wearing a city badge.  “Just wanted to let you know your water will probably be out for about 6-8 hours today,” he announced.

“Um…yeah, I noticed.” I said, trying not to be rude.  “Does that mean 6-8 hours from when the water stopped running at 9 this morning?  Or 6-8 hours from now?”

He didn’t know.  So my sink is full of dirty lunch dishes, my floors are not mopped like I had planned, and I am spending the rest of the afternoon at Starbucks.  As if I needed an excuse!

* In case you are distracted from my story by your curiosity, the doctor did not have any news, except to say “See you back here next week!”  with lots of confidence. So those of you eager for baby news, don’t hold your breath!

Now that I’m home during the day I’m listening to more talk radio, which of course is primarily geared toward pretty conservative listeners, to say the least.  I’ve been kind of flummoxed by some of the advertisements that I’ve heard between segments lately.  One entices, “Because of provisions in the stimulus plan, there is no better time for taking out a mortgage!”  Another one asserts, “If you have more than $10,000 in credit card debt, you have a RIGHT to settle that debt for a fraction of what you owe!”  Just today I heard an earnest recruitment ad for AmeriCorps, followed by the testimony of a mother who was encouraging all parents to enroll their children in some sort of child healthcare program so that their children might also have access to unlimited doctor and dentist visits for only $50 a month.

Not to deal in stereotypes, but these ads seem to be a little midguided.  Most conservatives I know (especially the kind who listen to news-talk radio stations) oppose anything having to do with the stimulus bill, believe that people should be held accountable for paying off their own debt, and are suspicious of all government-sponsored philanthropy and healthcare.

I have no additional commentary, I just think it’s kind of weird.

The classroom is erupting in chaos, and students are tripping over each other as they make their way to the door.  The teacher is still collecting her thoughts and papers, but then finally gets around to announcing to the few students still remaining: “That’s it for today!  Class dismissed!”

Homes are flattened along the coastline, the Red Cross has been delivering necessary supplies to survivors for days, debris is scattered far and wide.  The news reporter annouces:  “The Governor has decided to declare the Texas coast a disaster area.”

The song ends and four-fifths of the congregation sits down.  The pastor gets up to pray and instructs, “You can all take your seat.”

The first twenty students are already in line for the Titan as the last group members make it through the turnstile at Six Flags.  The youth minister raises his voice as if he is addressing the entire group:  “You guys can take off on your own…we’ll meet back here for lunch!”

Similarly…

High temperatures have been in the 100’s for ten days.  The grass outside of the path of the sprinkler is as crispy as hay.  Everyone in Texas is wearing the thinnest, skimpiest layers they can decently get away with.  When June 21 comes around and all of the weathermen announce “it’s officially the first day of summer,” they seem a little late to the party.

A few years ago I attempted to boycott Target because I thought their store organization and lack of efficiency was maddening.  Unfortunately, this happened at about the same time that I became too much of a snob to shop at my local Wal-Mart, so eventually I caved and grudgingly became a Target shopper once again.

Well, the arrival of my new washer and dryer, whose stackability and quiet noise level have greatly improved my quality of life, created a void in the kitchen.  I am in need of some extra storage, so I set out to look for a nice small shelf to put in the dryer hole.  There’s a window above it, so it had to be short, and it’s a very specific size, so it was going to take a magical, perfect shelf to fit the bill.

Well, I found the shelf of my dreams at Target.  Good news: it was even on sale.  Bad news:  there were no more in stock.  So I circled around Target for fifteen minutes, searching for an employee, and when I finally found one, I led them back to my shelf and we had the following infuriating conversation.

L:  “Can you tell me if you have any more of these shelves?”

Employee:  (types into her scanner)  “No, sorry, that item is out of stock.  Actually, it’s discontinued, so we won’t be getting any more in.”

L:  “Hmm.  Well, I REALLY like that shelf.”

Employee smiles sympathetically, but offers me no solution.

L:  “So, what happens to this shelf?”  (indicating display model)

E:  “We’ll throw it away.”

L:  “Can I buy it?”

E:  “No, sorry.  We don’t sell displays.”

L:  “So let me get this straight.  There is no way that I can give you money to take home this shelf that you’re going to throw away soon anyway?”

E:  “No, sorry.  It’s our policy.”

I asked if she had a manager, and she said not one that could sell me a display.  Frustrated, I left the store empty-handed.

Now, I can’t say that I was totally surprised, because Stephen and I had actually found the shelf a couple of weeks ago, and he had had a similiar conversation with a different employee.  But the complete irrationality of the situation convinced me that maybe Stephen just wasn’t charming enough when he asked.  Besides, the fact that the display was still taking up store space made me think that Target might be more willing to deal, since throw-away day was two weeks closer than it had been when we originally asked.

NO SUCH LUCK!  Meanwhile, my kitchen organization project remains at a standstill.

I’ve read extensively in the self-help/relationships genre, and the bottom line seems to be that women and men have a hard time understanding each other. Particularly, women don’t understand why men think it’s so hard to be in a relationship with them. Women tend to be pretty fluent in relationships with men and also with other women; it’s hard to imagine what it is like to be in a relationship where the other party is a complete mystery. So, women, I have a great exercise for you to sympathize better with your man- invest yourself in a relationship with a piece of office equipment.

At my place of work, it is our copy machine. See if these little exchanges don’t sound familiar:

Scenario A: Paper Jam

I think: All I want is thirteen double-sided copies of this worksheet. Why do you have to make everything so complicated? Can’t you just make my copies for once? I don’t know what those pictures on the screen mean; So I guess I am going to have to open every single one of your doors and find this #%$!! jammed paper myself. Now this simple interaction that could have been done in five minutes is going to take my whole lunch break.

Copier thinks: If you would only take a minute to understand my inner workings, you would know exactly where the paper went and why it became jammed. I am even giving you a diagram to help you find it! How can I make this any easier on you? By the way, slamming my doors and yelling is not getting you to the root of the problem any faster. And if you knew how much this “simple task” actually involves, maybe you’d be a little more patient.

Scenario B: Replace Toner

I think: Are you freaking kidding me? I JUST replaced your toner–there is no way you could possibly need more already. How often do I even copy here…once or twice a day? Do I need to come up with a toner allowance for you so you don’t blow it all on one set of memos? I don’t even know what toner is, so how can it possibly be that important?

Copier thinks: That just shows how much you know, you big jerk! You have no idea how hard I work all day while you are off in your classroom. You are not the only one that needs me; if it’s not one teacher, it’s another, and everyone thinks that their needs are the most important! By the time you come to me with your demands at the end of the day, I’m already exhausted. ALL DAY, I give, and give, and give. And all I ever ask for in return is a little toner!!

Scenario C: The indecipherable message

I think: Holy, moley, what does that even mean? I have NEVER seen that before on your touch screen. I get the paper jam; I get that you need toner, but how can I even start to figure out how to fix this problem when I don’t know what you’re talking about? And by the way, I happen to need three transparencies and fifty packets, hole punched and stapled. Do you have any kind of a time frame for how long this meltdown is going to last?

Copier thinks: Maybe I don’t even understand what I need right now! This is the time when a little love and understanding goes a long way–and that does not mean telling me about the transparencies and packets that you need! Do you notice that the only time you ever come in here is when you need something from me? Maybe this little message is the only way I can get you to stop and pay attention to me. All I want is a little quality time!

And, hopefully, Scenario D:  The Reconciliation

Me:  Thank you for making my packets.  They’re exactly what I needed.

Copier:  You are welcome.  It really is no trouble; I’m sorry that I lost my temper and jammed those papers on purpose.

Me:  No, no, it was  my fault.  I don’t tell you enough how much I appreciate all of you hard work.  I know that for every transparency paper that melts in your heating element, you have made 100 more without any trouble, and with no thanks.  I’ll try to remember to be a little more appreciative.

Copier:  Me, too.  You really are working so hard.   And without you, my life would have no purpose.  What would I do if I wasn’t making copies for you?

<Teacher and copier continue affirming their mutual need for and admiration of the other.  Violin music swells in the background as teacher and copier move forward in cooperation and respect.>

I’m only 5 years out of college, but it seems like a lifetime ago that I was hanging out down in Aggieland in my t-shirts and flip flops, enjoying leisurely afternoons at Coffee Station and unconsciously getting tons of exercise from trekking miles across campus from class to class.

Last night was as far from the college life I could get; I was hanging out in Waco because I was attending a book club meeting at 7:30, and so I went to Common Grounds to grade some papers while I waited.  So there I was, so mature with my name badge and whistle still around my neck, watching college rituals unfold before me as if I had never left.

Now, granted, Baylor is no A&M, and so these were merely shadows of the realities I remember, but the scene was familiar enough.  On the couch near me, the McPDA’s were deluding themselves with the idea that they could actually study while wrapped around each other.  They would stop frequently to nuzzle one another or engage in some sort of insignificant, flirtatious argument, and then he would return to his math problems (One-handed juggling of pencil, paper, and graphing calculator use was actually a new sight for me), and she would get back to her PolySci reading.

On my other side, a girl was alternatively talking on her cell phone and engaging in small talk with the people who walked past.  She never once even glanced at the organic chemistry papers she had so artfully arranged before her on the table.

All over the coffee shop, conversation buzzed.  I could hear passionate debates about theology, slightly flirtatious “studying,” and lots of social networking.  Lots of people camped out on the dirty, sagging furniture were sleeping, in mockery of the empty coffee cups still in their hands.

My favorite quintessential collegian was a very lean “emo” kind of guy who walked past toward the end of my stay.
He greeted the guy in the chair nearest me:  “Hey, man.”

My neighbor responded, “Hey, what’s up?”

Emo rolled his eyes.  “I’m so tired, man.  All stressed out…I’ve got so much homework to do.”  At that, my neighbor nodded knowingly and hummed in sympathy.  Emo moved on to the front of the store.

About thirty minutes later, I happened to notice the same guy as I was walking toward the door.  He was stretched out on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, iPod buds in his ears.  He was just sitting there, staring into space, nodding faintly along with his music, with no books or papers in sight.  Ah, yes, the busy and stressed life of poor Emo.

And, yet, here I am, still at the coffee shop, still watching, still narrating, and, yes, judging in my own head as I sit quietly pretending to work.  I guess more things have stayed the same than I even realized.

Although for all of our sake, I usually refrain from political commentary on this light-hearted and rarely controversial blog site, I decided to make an exception today due to the fact that we are in an election year and today was the very important first step in the process of electing a new American President. I am going to give you…wait for it…the official Cum Grano Salis position on all things political.

1. All political candidates are liars and flatterers. The few candidates who may actually posess principles will more than likely be corrupted by the intoxication of power within a month of taking office, and if, by some fluke, they actually try to accomplish anything they had promised to do, they will be thwarted by Congress and the bureaucratic red tape of the American political system.

2. Any Republican loser who wins the nomination would be less horrible than Hillary Clinton.

3. Of the Republican losers, Mike Huckabee is my least favorite because he taking advantage of evangelicals. I am equally unimpressed with evangelicals who are going along with it.

Now you can forego all political commentary between now and November and vote for the guy with the nicest tie on Election Day.

I have always hated going grocery shopping. I really prefer to have food magically materialize in my pantry and refrigerator, like it used to do when I was young and living in my parents’ house. I never bought fresh fruit in college because I could never eat it fast enough and it would go bad. I remember on one particularly emotional night, I cried watching a Sonic commercial that featured fresh peaches bouncing across the screen. Oh, for the simplicity of a life when peaches would just be available for the eating, through no hard work of my own!

So anyway, as I am saying, grocery shopping has always caused me a certain amount of angst. But lately I’ve been feeling the pressure even more as I have struggled to reconcile my desire to achieve four mutually exclusive attributes in my grocery purchases:

1) Organic. I am very compelled by the argument that Christians should be leaders in responsible environmental causes. Additionally, I am genuinely unsettled by the idea of consuming processed and chemically enhanced food. I like the idea of free range chickens and farmer’s market tomatoes and such.

2) Healthy. This is a dilemma all in itself, because I am a consumer of women’s magazines which always inform me of the latest health news. I can’t ever remember what I should be looking for- high protein? high fiber? low in saturated fat? low in carbohydrates? low in calories? calcium enriched?

3) Convenient. If it does not come in a pre-rationed package, it will usually sit in the pantry until it is stale. If it is an ingredient in a recipe that takes more than twenty minutes to prepare, I will probably not use it more than once. If it does not have a shelf life of at least one week, it will rot in the fridge because I never stick to my meal plans.

4) Inexpensive. I like to imagine that I am a responsible, frugal, housewife and I think that two normal eating human beings should not spend outrageous amounts of money on food. I am inspired by people who have a food bill of $100 a month.

So every item that goes into my basket adds the extra weight of some sort of guilt. These 100-calorie packs will create so much trash! This spaghetti is made from white flour! These plums will rot in the produce drawer! These salad ingredients will double the total bill!

Alas.

I used to be a snob about public restrooms. I claimed that I would rather risk a bladder infection than expose myself to the parasites and bacteria that were found in those unsanitary little rooms. For several years, however, I have become reconciled to the reality that sometimes I just can’t be choosy. I consume beverages almost continually, and so I have become acquainted with all manner of restrooms in gas stations, restaurants, department stores, and Starbucks statewide.

I have a pet peeve regarding public restrooms that I believe many of you might share. The traditional labeling of restrooms is very simple for me to understand: it’s a little picture and the word “MEN” or “WOMEN.” In that case, I have no problem at all making the appropriate choice. I am not even bothered by bathrooms that accommodate both sexes, except for hygienic reasons. But it really throws me for a loop when certain establishments choose to label the restrooms in accordance with their decorating theme, and come up with keywords that are not immediately obvious to the non-enlightened public.

Sometimes I have to know to use the door labeled “Sheilas.” Other times I have gone into “peach” door or the “Trudy” door. My sister claims to have seen bathrooms labeled “innies” and “outies.” By far the most baffling choice I have ever faced was last night at Shivers’ Frozen Treats in College Station: Was I a “Cup” or “Cone”?