But what can you do?

Fortunately, my flu was a mild one.  I slept all day Tuesday, took it easy on Wednesday, and was prepared to be back in the game bright and early on Thursday morning.  Little did I know that my internal organs were conspiring against my well-developed, infallibly-perfect, schoolwork-abolishing plans…

Those of you who have had appendicitis know how it goes.  You start with mild stomach pain, which turns into moderate stomach pain, which very rapidly becomes severe stomach pain, and then your appendix explodes.  Fortunately, I’m pansy enough that at “moderate stomach pain” I called my mom and went to the ER.

The only other ER visit that I remember involved a coffee table and a seriously bruised tailbone.  In that experience, I knew exactly what I hated myself for doing and exactly where the pain was coming from.  All I needed to know was: is the thing broken? (And how can I best avoid any sort of physical movement whatsoever for the next month and a half?)  So my experience with mystery pains and the ER has been pretty much nil.  This foiled my attempts to anticipate what sort of traumatic experience lay before me.  All I could think about upon my arrival at the hospital (aside from the rage inside me) was this sketch by Brian Regan:

So naturally when they asked me what my pain level was, not only did I sincerely over think my answer, but I felt the need to justify it.  In the end I went with a six. “It’s enough that I couldn’t sleep, but I’m not ready for Jesus to call me home yet.”  (Apparently the nurses approved because said that this would be the new official definition of level six pain.)

Once in my room, they pulled out all the stops: a lovely gown, an abdominal exam, an IV, and (the best thing of all) pain and nausea medicine!  In no time I was sitting up, chattering away, and drinking the contrast that would make my innards show in the CT scan.  (The doctor forewarned me that the contrast would taste like flat diet lemonade.  Sadly, he was right.  But I was thirsty enough that I would have been thankful for some even more dramatic options.  Probably not Bear Grylls thirsty.  But thirsty.)

Chugging away at the contrast. See that cup there? I drank four of those in an hour.

After all the tests came back, the surgeon came in and explained that it was possible that I had appendicitis, but that my symptoms were atypical so he couldn’t be sure.  He gave me two options.  The first was to wait a few days to see if my pain decided to forgo the meager “six” and move temptingly closer to the “Jesus, call me home” level. (Thanks for that option, Doc.)  Or to just go for it and have an appendectomy.  As eager as I am to meet my Jesus, I am not eager to have wish-I-could-just-meet-my-Jesus levels of pain, so I decided to take that angry organ out.

I was moved into pre-surgery, and around two that afternoon they knocked me out and slit me open.  My surgery was laparoscopic, so instead of a large cut down my midriff, I have three small incisions. (I have been told that they will pretty much disappear, so, sadly, I will have no epic battle scar to prove my worth.  But I guess that’s okay.)  Honestly, by the time my surgery arrived, I wouldn’t have cared if they slit the mark of Zorro into my torso.  All I wanted was to be asleep.  The risks of general anesthesia are so much less intimidating when you’ve been awake for 32 hours straight.

Not quite over that anesthesia yet… (Why am I posting this on the Internet?)

I stayed overnight in the hospital, so my family and friends had time to filter on through to see me at my best.  It was nice.  They made me feel loved.  They brought me flowers.  They commented on how pale and splotchy I looked.  My older brother bought me this book:

How am I supposed to read this book and not literally burst at the seams? My gut is too wounded to laugh, dear brother. Buy me a book about the Spanish-American War or something.
(photo courtesy of barnesandnoble.com)

My dad stayed overnight with me in the hospital, and 24 hours after my surgery I was discharged.  I spent Friday night at my dad’s house and on Saturday I moved over to my mom’s place to recover with her.  The timing had turned out so that at the very moment I was being discharged from the hospital, she was having her gallbladder removed.  (Crazy week for our family! Who needs organs anyway?)  It was nice having our surgeries a day apart because we could recover together.  The only problem was that my mom and I make each other laugh, and laughing resulted in severe amounts of pain.  It was not uncommon to see both of us clutching our stomachs and trying desperately to regain our composure.

Such unhappy organs to deal with…

Since our surgeries were laparoscopic, the healing processes shouldn’t take too long.  The doctors said that we aren’t allowed to lift more than 10 pounds for the next two weeks, but we will be fine to leave for our trip to England on the 22nd!  (This means that my step-dad and brother will be carrying all the bags for a good portion of the trip.  It’s really too bad…)  The best part is that my professors were incredibly understanding, so I made it through finals and will be graduating college tomorrow.  Turns out my “uninstalled app” (as my computer-nerd friend called it) didn’t have such bad timing after all.  Au revoir, angry appendix.  And good riddance.

Paris

Traveling from Strasbourg to Paris was like traveling from Cedar Rapids to New York City.  It’s the type of difference that is so drastic it forces you to actually say to yourself “Wow. I’m not where I was.”  And your heart races.  Although Strasbourg is no small town, it certainly feels like one.  Paris is big, and it feels big.

My first deep confession for this post is that I did not love Paris.  I’m glad to have been there and I did enjoy  my experience, but I don’t anticipate ever going back.  It was a good one time visit for a girl who cares little about food or fashion, has learned only a handful of French words, and knows how to correctly pronounce zero of them.  The city and the people were far too impersonal for an extroverted Midwesterner like me.

The Parisians drove uncomfortably close to one another and did not seem in any way indisposed to playing chicken with a charter bus.

The first clear indication that we had entered the capital city was the traffic patterns.  I hesitate to call them “patterns” because this American driver saw no pattern in their driving whatsoever.  What really got me is that they did not have lanes painted on the road.  How can they not have lanes painted on the road?  Seriously. How?  The impressive thing is that they still managed to have lanes of traffic, and they generally avoided slamming into one another.  (Although there was considerable evidence that Parisians are not timid in applying the proper definition of a bumper.)

My goal on our first night was to locate and consume a meal that was worthy of Paris’ culinary reputation.  I’m sure there are dozens of books and websites that could direct a visitor to the finest cuisine in the city.  Our method was a bit more sophisticated than that: we walked toward the hotel until we were too cold to move, and then we went in the nearest open door.  Fortunately, our warm escape also managed to live up to my expectations.  I had a delectable meal of grilled salmon and ratatouille.  (Yes, I tried ratatouille. Yes, I did so solely because of the Pixar movie. And yes, you would do it, too.  For the same reason.)

We noticed immediately that our waiter spoke English quite well (which we very much appreciated).  So, being the extroverted American that I am, I decided to congratulate him on his successful conquest of the English language.  His polite response was, “I’m Australian.”  “Well, sir, you speak your native language very well.” (Smooth, Jenna.  Real smooth.)  Our favorite moment, though was about halfway through the meal when he came running over to our table to proclaim, “You are all so lucky! It’s snowing in Paris!”  We all smiled and rejoiced and looked gleefully out the window.  (Of course, what we didn’t have the heart to tell him was that Iowans don’t equate a bit of snow with a bit of luck unless it involves school being cancelled.)  However, our walk back to the hotel proved him right: the snowfall in the city really was rather charming.  Besides, from that point on we had something to laugh about, rather than complain about, every time the flurries flew. (So thank you, Mr. Australian Waiter Guy, for providing us with a cheerier perspective for the rest of the trip.)

The second day in Paris was my favorite.  We started out the day by touring the Palace of Versailles.  I will not attempt to describe its overwhelming extravagance.  All I can say is that seeing Versailles was all I needed to understand the French Revolution.  No man returning empty-handed to his starving family could pass by those gates and calm the rage in his heart.  That being said, Versailles was beautiful, and I enjoyed exploring it.  My only regret is that it was too dreary outside to tour the gardens.  If ever I did return to France, it would be in the summer, to walk in the gardens of Versailles.

The Hall of Mirrors in the Palace of Versailles.

From there we headed back to Paris to visit Notre Dame.  The inside was beautiful, but the best part was climbing the stairs to the bell tower.  I had no idea they allowed people to do that, but I like heights and I like gargoyles so my day was completely made.

I loved the gargoyles of Notre Dame. I think I find them so fascinating because “Gargoyles” was my favorite show as a kid.

Our final day in Paris was full, but fairly relaxed.  We visited the U.S. Embassy where we sat through a lecture from members of the U.S. Commercial Service.  The two things I remember are that their job is to help American businesses succeed in the French market, and that we had official permission from the United States government to eat at McDonalds while in France (clearly, a selective memory).

“La Jeune Martyre” by Paul Delaroche. (photo c0urtesy of twentytwobridges.wordpress.com)

Apparently I was not the only one craving a cheeseburger by that point, because immediately after that meeting over half of us set out together to find a Mickey D’s.  Eventually we succeeded and we were rewarded with a feeling of home.  (And a needed one at that.  This was the only day of the trip that I felt homesick.)

After lunch we all met back up and visited The Louvre.  The Mona Lisa looks pretty much like I expected (a lot of people say she’s smaller than they think she’ll be, but I thought she was reasonably sized.)  My favorite piece was a painting called “La Jeune Martyre” by Paul Delaroche.  It’s not an uplifting piece by any means, but it drew me in and held me there for a bit (which is what I think art ought to do.)

The rest of our time in Paris involved a stroll down the Avenue de Champs-Élysées (one of the most expensive strips of real estate in the world), a good long pause in front of the Arc de Triomphe (built by Napoleon and later made a Tomb of the Unknown Soldier for WWI), and a wonderful evening relaxing in a quaint crepe shop.

The next morning we were up and off to the destination that I had been most looking forward to: London!

London

Here comes this post’s second deep confession: I cried in the customs line.  Like a big, blubbery baby (actually it was kind of subtle, but crying in a well-lit, public place never feels all that subtle).  Here’s the deal: I was born in England (I’m an Air Force brat) and I have not returned since infancy.  I remember absolutely nothing about being there, but I have always, always wanted to go back.  So there I stood in the customs line realizing that my life dream was about to be achieved (add that to the stress of eight days of travel) and I broke down and cried.  Most people didn’t notice, but the guy who checked my passport wiped his finger across his cheek and shrugged, as if to ask what was wrong.  So I told him the truth: “I’m just so excited to go back to England.”  He clearly did not speak English so he just sent me on my way with a sympathetic nod.  (That was utterly embarrassing, but I found consolation in the fact that that man will forever think that “excited” is English for “absolutely distraught.”)

We rode the Eurostar from Paris to London.  The Eurostar, as you likely know, goes through the Channel Tunnel.  I have always thought that the Chunnel was cool; I still think that saying I’ve been through the Chunnel is cool; actually going through the Chunnel is super lame.  The train goes in (which you barely notice), it is black out your window for about half an hour, and the train comes out (which you notice if you are awake, but it’s still not cool.)  And that’s the Chunnel!  (I don’t mean to sound cynical about it.  I just don’t want anyone thinking that you can see sharks swim by or anything.  Because in the past there may have been an unspecified person or so who was a bit disappointed that she, ahem, that they couldn’t look out the window and see the ocean floor.  I just want to spare you the pain and sadness that any random previous travelers may have felt when they saw blackness, not sharks.)

London was amazing!  I absolutely loved it.  That city was the perfect blend of Washington D.C. and New York City (a strong foundation driven by an excited energy).  It was refreshing to be where the people were more lively (although not quite “American” lively), and where the menus, signs, price tags, maps, posters, guidebooks, t-shirts and graffiti were written in English.

My one goal for London was to accomplish my long-time dream of seeing Les Miserables on the West End (London’s Broadway).  Les Miserables has been my favorite musical since childhood and since Victor Hugo was French, it has just always made sense to me that I should see a European show in Europe.  I knew that my chances of getting tickets were slim, but I allowed myself to “dream the dream.” (Overtly corny moment right there. I couldn’t resist.)  After our initial tour of the city, three of us made our way to the half-off ticket booth in Leicester Square.  They told us that our only hope was to buy the tickets straight from the box office, so we went on to Queens Theatre.  They had two tickets left for that night’s performance (if you recall, there were three of us), so my only chance was the next evening.  I asked and held my breath for an unbearably long moment before he responded that there were three tickets left.  Ladies and gentlemen, we got the last three tickets.  And £45 later this young lady had a brand new spring in her step.

The cherry-on-top of this day was walking back through Leicester Square and seeing, in person, none other than Denzel Washington.  Apparently the movie Flight was premiering in the U.K. and we just happened to walk back through the Square in time to hear the announcer prep the crowd for his appearance.  By the time he came out, we had located a reasonable spot where we could get a good glimpse.  My camera’s zoom allowed for this paparazzi shot:

Here is my proof: the man himself.

The next day we explored London through the great blizzard of 2013.  And by “blizzard” I mean a predicted ten centimeters of snow of which less than three stuck.  They cancelled school.  For three CENTIMETERS of snow.  (Dear sweet Brits, how amusingly timid you seemed to us.)  It was a slow steady snowfall that lasted all day and was all the more beautiful because of that random waiter in Paris.

We visited the Tower of London where I saw The Crown Jewels and made friends with Henry VIII:

Henry VIII! This is the only picture I have because immediately thereafter I was reprimanded by a Beefeater for taking a picture… So it’s not the best quality, but it is fun to say that I have been truly reprimanded by a true Yeoman Warder.

And of course you can’t encounter any reminder of Henry VIII without a reminder of Herman’s Hermits and the best song ever:

That whole day was devoted to making sure we made it to Les Mis on time.  By 7:30 in the morning I was planning how not to be late for a showing at 7:30 that night.

That made for an incredibly leisurely day, because every step I took was one step closer to Leicester Square.  We had an early dinner and shopped for souvenirs (*snicker*) in the theatre district before making our way to Queens Theatre.

Outside of Queens Theatre

Les Miserables was undoubtedly my favorite part of the trip.  It is such an emotional show, and the company did a fantastic job of bringing it to life.  I am always fascinated by how sets, lights, props, and costumes can take a single stage and turn it into so many different things.  Les Mis is performed on a rotating stage, which allows for an extra display of creativity.  I was sincerely impressed and delighted by that experience.

All the shows must have let out at the same time because the Tube out of Leicester Square was packed.  (In Paris the metro cars were always packed; in London they only were this once.)  I had to squish in, and I ended up face to face with a guy my age that I did not know.  My mind said, “This is super awkward and obvious. Quick! Do something!”  So my mouth said, “I guess we’re going to be friends now.” (Facepalm.) Fortunately, he responded with a joke, “Talking? On the tube!”  And my unnecessary response, “I’m American.”  After which we all laughed.  (I think I mentioned previously, but Europeans just don’t talk to strangers as much as Americans do.)  We talked about the weather (you will recall we had lived through a blizzard) and it turned out that his roommates were from Australia and had never seen snow before that very day.  (All of a sudden our interactions with that waiter in Paris made so much more sense.)

On our final day in London we visited the Palace of Westminster which is where Parliament meets.  I had learned about Her Majesty’s Government in a comparative government class so it was really interesting to see the chambers where the House of Lords and House of Commons meet.  The most intriguing thing I learned was that Brits call the Revolutionary War the American War of Independence.  The tour guide said it without a blink, but I was struck that it had a different name in the U.K.  The more I thought about it, the more I realized that they might feel a bit sensitive about the defiant nature of the word “revolution,” so really it makes sense.  (Especially since they lost and all.)  Still, that was a new idea to me.

The next morning we were loaded onto the bus by 6 a.m. and on our way to Heathrow Airport.  The big hubbub was about the 23 kilogram weight limit for checked bags.  After all, we  had each gathered our fair share of odds and ends from across Europe.  I was particularly concerned because my checked bag contained a weighty coffee table book that I had purchased in Frankfurt. (I had absolutely no intention of carrying that thing through a chain of airports.)  Fortunately, my bag weighed in at 22.3 kg.  Dangerously close. But not quite there. Win.

Thirteen hours later I found myself sitting on the runway at the Eastern Iowa Airport waiting impatiently to be allowed off the plane.  It had been a such a great experience.  I had an amazing time in Europe!  (I’m still not tired of saying it.)  However there is something so wonderful about being home.  And these hooligans are part of it:

My welcoming committee!

As I explained in my previous post, this trip was a part of my January term class about the European Union.  There were 22 of us who traveled together: 19 students, 2 professors, and the university president’s wife, Moira.  (President Blake and Moira are from the U.K., so she proved to be a great resource on the trip.)  I ended up being her travel buddy, so I was responsible for making sure she didn’t get lost or left behind or murdered or anything.   That’s a lot of pressure when she is the wife of the president of your university: “Moira, if I lose you do I get expelled?” “I’m a fairly responsible adult, Jenna. It should be fine.”  Fortunately, I arrived in the Eastern Iowa Airport with the two equally important things I was determined not to leave in Europe: Moira and my water bottle.  I consider this a great success.

We left the morning of January 9 and returned mid-afternoon on Sunday the 20^th.  On the trip we spent roughly four hours in Frankfurt, four days in Strasbourg, four days in Paris, and four in England (give or take travel time to and from each location).  In this post (and the next) I will do my best to summarize the twelve days, share the highlights from the three countries, and share just a few of my thirteen hundred pictures.  (For more of my photos visit: http://www.flickr.com/jennamarzen.)

Frankfurt

Our first stop in Europe was Frankfurt, Germany.  The four hours we spent there were unreal.  I wish I could say this was because of the emotions inspired by achieving a longtime dream of returning to Germany, but actually it was because I stepped off of an eight hour flight only to find myself smack dab in the middle of Thursday morning after living through all of Wednesday day.  The wonders of time zone travel made it so Wednesday night was lost in the void.  In other words, Day 2 of the trip began immediately after Day 1, altogether skipping Night’s Sleep 1, which was dearly missed.  (When it is 8 a.m. and you find yourself wondering when it will be bedtime: this is a scary moment.)  My point is, Frankfurt was a haze, but we all pushed through and enjoyed ourselves as much as possible in our weary state.

We actually packed quite a bit into those four sleepy hours.  We visited the main square of the city, ate bratwursts and pommes frites (fries) from a little stand, went shopping, and attempted to identify popular children’s stories in a German bookstore.  My favorite part of Frankfurt was the bridge over the Main.  I’m sure there are multiple bridges over the river, but THIS bridge was covered in “love padlocks.”  Apparently this is a trend where couples engrave their names on a padlock and clip it on a bridge or fence as a sign of their eternal love.  There were hundreds of them on this one bridge.  I am not the romantic type, but I think this is absolutely adorable.

This is the bridge covered in love padlocks in Frankfurt.

Strasbourg

From Frankfurt we traveled to Strasbourg, France.  Strasbourg is the capital of the Alsace region, an area that France and Germany fought over for centuries.  Apparently, there was a span of time when the region changed loyalties four or five times in one generation.  (Because of this history, many of the population today consider themselves Alsatians rather than French.)

This is the cathedral in Strasbourg. We walked around a tight corner and all of a sudden there it was! So impressive.

A few fun facts:

• Strasbourg is the seat of the European Parliament and the Council of Europe (which I now know are two very separate things).
• The cathedral in Strasbourg was the world’s tallest building for over 200 years.
• Alsatians produce seven local wines and one champagne that they are very proud of.
• Signs in Alsace are written in three languages: French, English, and what we would call Alsatian.  This third language is a blend of French and German, and is used by the older generations of the region.
• Also, the tradition of the stork delivering babies originated here.

Now you know.

Our tour guide in Strasbourg was a lively woman named Patricia.  She had grown up in the region and was incredibly knowledgeable about its history and traditions.  I learned so much from her.  She showed us around the city and (more importantly) answered our bombardment of questions about social norms.  (Little things were very different in France. For example, at restaurants the tip is always included on the bill and they will never split it for you so don’t bother asking.)

We stayed at a beautiful château in Strasbourg that had been converted into a hotel and student lodging.  The château had a lovely ballroom (with a grand piano that I played for 15 wonderful minutes), a large park in the back with walking trails, and a serious mole problem.  When talking about the park, Patricia had told us that “the trees have ears.”  We all thought she was just making some naturalist point about mother nature “hearing” us, but nope!  The trees literally had ears carved out of stone.  (Which I’m sure represents some naturalist point about mother nature “hearing” us, but it still caught us by surprise.)

The trees with ears display in the park.

The Château de Pourtalès. Complete with its yard FULL of mole hills.

During our tour of the city, Patricia took us to the part of town that is on a small island in the river Ill.  She told us that the area is called La Petite-France and is now a tourist location, but it was originally where they hospitalized and quarantined the soldiers who returned from war with syphilis.  (How pleasant, Patricia.  I’m so glad to know we are visiting the worst tourist location in all of France.)  The best part though was that when she explained it, she said the soldiers went off to war, slept around, and came home with “souvenirs.”  That ruined us for the rest of the trip; no one could say anything like, “Yeah, I still need to get a souvenir for my brother,” without eliciting a chorus of snickers.

The castle on a cloud.

My favorite day during the Strasbourg part of the trip was the day we visited Haut-Koenigsbourg Castle.  It was a foggy morning so the drive was mysterious and beautiful.  (I am a huge fan of fog.)  It was especially lovely when we drove up the small mountain/large hill and the cloud cover ended up below us.  (It made me think of “Castle on a Cloud”  from Les Miserables).  The castle was not as exciting as some that I have visited before.  This may have partially been due to a poor attitude inspired by how miserably cold I was.  The day was just cold enough that spending that much time in an icicle of  a castle put me in a mildly foul mood.  To make it worse, the tour guide went on this big spiel about the special old-fashioned furnace that could heat the castle and how well it worked.  (That is, how well it worked when they actually had it running, apparently.  I was tempted to challenge its capabilities, just incase that could possibly result in a demonstration of its power.)

The best part of the day was the time spent in the village of Ribeauville.  We all crammed into this tiny local restaurant for lunch where we had a traditional Alsatian food: tartes flambees.  This is a local type of pizza made with cream instead of tomato sauce.  We tried multiple varieties and each was as fantastic as the last.  I think I had so much fun because this was the first time I felt welcomed, appreciated, and enjoyed by the French.  The strangers at other tables actually smiled at us, and the waiters teased and joked with us quite a bit (which was made all the more amusing by the confusion of a language barrier).  I could have sat in that restaurant all day.  As we were leaving we passed by a tour group of older men who (in French) explained to Patricia that they had plenty of extra room on their bus if we wanted to join them.  Both groups laughed together and waved, but it should be noted how quickly we loaded our own bus and drove off.

Laughing with the men who jokingly invited us to join them.

And thus, after multiple days of learning, touring, and shopping our time in Strasbourg drew to its close.  As we waited for the train to Paris, Patricia had us gather for a stuffed stork toss (like you would with a bouquet at a wedding.)  I caught the stork and she said it meant I would have “the luck of the Alsace.”  I definitely do not know what that means, but she clarified that it does not imply that I will get pregnant soon.  (Which is a good clarification to have. I caught three bouquets at weddings this summer and I need those to work their magic before the stork does.)  Loading the train took too long so Patricia had to literally push the last of us off the platform before the doors closed.  And with that we were off to Paris!

Patricia and I after I caught “the luck of the Alsace.”

I am writing this post from the airport in Minneapolis. From Minneapolis I will be venturing to Detroit. And from Detroit I’m off and away to Frankfurt, Germany! That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, this young lady is off on a European adventure.

I have wanted to travel to Europe since the moment I stepped off the return flight from Germany when I was in second grade (we spent ten days touring and visiting some old Air Force friends). Year after year I have waited for an opportunity to travel back. I have even had a couple options that almost worked out, but then the door closed. So when the opportunity to take a January term European Union class IN Europe arose, I grabbed it. Three class meetings, twelve days in Europe, one class meeting and done. Short and super sweet.

My intention is to keep you all updated on the events of the next twelve days (but I’m not making any promises. Blogging comes secondary to experiencing.) I also intend to post pictures on Flickr if you’d like to see more: http://www.flickr.com/people/jennamarzen/.

From Frankfurt we are traveling to Strasbourg where we will spend the first four days of our trip. See you on the other side!

All packed, wet haired and ready to GO!

Needless to say, I have a lot on my plate as the semester draws to its close.  I have to finish knitting the baby leg warmers I’m making for my niece-to-be by March 3^rd, I need to continue watching multiple episodes of “Whose Line is it Anyway?” each night, and I absolutely must read all 1463 pages of Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables.  Oh!  And my homework…

Fortunately, my senioritis battle is not the only challenge I’m facing this December.  In fact, I have 25 self-imposed challenges to complete before Christmas.  “Why so?,” you say.  Well, because my roommates and I decided to create for ourselves a very special advent calendar.  One that I have been referring to as “the advent calendar of adventure.”  Meaning instead of consuming a piece of chocolate each morning, we have instead been presented with a set of daily challenges.

Here is our lovely advent calendar neatly stuck to the living room wall. (Please note the bizarre bird on the tube. I have been watching Planet Earth as I write.  It’s a fascinating series.  I highly recommend it.)

Each morning one of us busts open the official seal (Christmas sticker) to reveal that day’s challenge.  So far the tasks have been reasonably manageable.  (Although, I will confess that this comes as no surprise; seeing as we made the challenges for ourselves.  Shh.)  So far we’ve had:

1. Discover a new band
2. Bring home something that is special for its own sake
3. Give a stranger a high-five
4. Get a bit of exercise
5. Brush your teeth with your left hand
6. Drive a different route than usual

The best part of the whole plan is that I also made a sticker chart:

Sticker chart! We joke about making sticker charts all the time and finally just came to terms with the fact that it’s not really a joke… we actually do want to relive the better parts of elementary school.

That’s right.  When we complete a challenge, we get a sticker.  (And it is no small reward… we are adults.)  You are bound to notice the gaps in our accomplishments thus far… we decided after the first day (to my shame) that we would give grace on completing challenges late, so long as they are all achieved by Christmas (if only teachers/professors were so generous with their stickers and due dates.)

My favorite challenge so far was Dec. 2.  My “special for its own sake” item is this lovely Christmas hedgehog coaster:

This is my new favorite Christmas decoration. Nothing says “Merry Christmas” more than a hedgehog giving his lady a candy cane.

I found this along with a bunch of old Christmas decorations that my mom was getting rid of.  I recognized every red and green item on that table, save for one: I swear I have never seen this coaster before.  I am convinced I would remember it, because I absolutely love it.  (Hedgehogs are definitely a favorite.  In fact, when I need a little picker-upper I Google image search “baby hedgehog.”  Try it sometime.  You won’t be disappointed.)  This coaster immediately became mine.  And, quite unintentionally, Challenge #2: complete.

I could use a bit of help!  I have yet to complete the Dec 1 challenge: discover a new band.  Do you know of any obscure, fantastic musicians for me to listen to and love?

A quick recap from my previous post: I am not an experienced or talented cook, but I found myself in a position to feed dinner to a crowd of 12-20 people on four Tuesday evenings during the month of October.  The first Tuesday I made chicken-veggie-noodle soup and the second Tuesday I made tacos.  These meals were both created and consumed without any sort of trauma ensuing (at least to my knowledge).  The question we departed with was: what should I make for the last two nights?

On night number three I made (drum roll…) chicken alfredo!  A little bit of spaghetti, some broccoli on the side, some homemade garlic bread… perfect.  Definitely a meal worth having.  You see, I grew up eating a lot of spaghetti with red sauce.  And I mean a lot.  Pasta with spaghetti sauce is my step-dad’s favorite food.  He could probably eat that and lima beans and nothing else for the rest of his life and die happy.  I, having grown up in that house, have had enough spaghetti to meet my pasta needs for many years to come. (Although, I will confess, I am not sick of lima beans yet. They’re not so bad if you give them a chance. And maybe a bit of salt…)  My point is: I crave red sauce maybe twice a year at most. Alfredo, however, I could eat any day.  So I was pretty excited to make a chicken alfredo dinner.

Noodles, fresh broccoli, alfredo sauce with chicken, and garlic bread. So much to think about at once!

Of the people who came for dinner, two had never had chicken alfredo before. Two!  I found that to be shocking (although it is possible that I just rejoice so greatly in the chance to have chicken alfredo (rather than red sauce) that I esteem its greatness more highly than others do).  Regardless, they both liked it, so I was fairly proud to have been involved in their first chicken alfredo experience.  It was a good night.

It was Andrea’s birthday so we had 17 extra guests on the 23rd. Fortunately, they were polite and didn’t party too hard. (We need not discuss that a 21, 27, and now 28 year old managed to find 17 stuffed animals in our home… although it’s technically only 16 because I will forever stand by the fact that Mr. Blue Man (middle) is not a stuffed animal, but a pillow. I’m an adult.)

Typically when cooking I pick a main course and choose sides that will compliment it well.  The final night of cooking came together, instead, because I was craving a root beer float.  I figured, well if I want a root beer float, probably everyone does.  (This may be flawed logic, but the result of it was that I would get a root beer float, so I went with it anyway.)  The next thought was that root beer floats go well with burgers or sloppy joes; and since sloppy joes would be easier to feed to a horde, I went with that.  So we ended out the month with sloppy joes, homemade fries, pineapple, and root beer floats.  Delicious.

Sloppy joes and homemade fries. I prefer to call them “slappy joes” in honor of my high school foreign exchange brother, Jorge.

Although I am relieved to be free of my cooking responsibility, I do feel the tiniest bit sad to see October go.  I definitely enjoyed the whole experience much more than I thought I would.  And my friends were all fed and happy so long as it was my job to feed them.  It may be a while before I once again don the IHOP apron, but I feel confident that the next time it is needed, I will be able to answer the call.

In honor of the end of October, I leave you with a favorite song:

Perhaps the theory is true, perhaps not.  But it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?  “Don’t stress out about dinner, Martha! All the work you did at the office today provided the power to cook dinner, set the table, and light a few candles in your dimly lit dining room.”  Boom.  Dinner is served.

But alas, feeding a large mass of people isn’t typically that easy.  At least not for me.  Perhaps I am just venting years (and years) of cooking frustration…  You see, I’m not an awful cook.  I’m not even a bad cook.  I simply am a cook in dire need of experience.  But I don’t cook very often because (I am ashamed to admit) cooking scares me.

In steps “the pie plate story” (this is for you, Mom):  When I was a young teen I blew up a pie plate.  No exaggeration.  Mom made quiche in a glass pie plate and set it on the front burner of the oven to cool.  She then left the house to run a quick errand before dinner, and asked me to make green beans in her absence.  I put the water on the back burner to boil, turned on the front burner, and left the room (which contributed to my own safety, in the end.)  And the rest follows naturally: the front burner heated the glass until it exploded, shattering red hot pieces of glass everywhere.  Many of which seared into the floor and resulted in the need for new tiling in the kitchen.  (In my defense: Mom wanted a new kitchen floor anyway.  I just sped up the inevitable.)

So there.  I have a cooking horror story that has scarred me for life.  I am afraid to cook because I don’t want to be in the kitchen the next time something explodes and ruins the quiche.

However, ladies and gentlemen! Against such insurmountable odds, I recently have aspired to forget about what lies behind and strain forward to what lies ahead (Phil 3:13).  This means I intend on actually learning to cook!  (This is your cue to applaud.)  Thank you, thank you!  No really, it’s too  much! Thank you!

Of course I say that in theory, but the reality is this: my opportunity has arrived. And it scares the bejeebers out of me.

October is the Lil House’s turn to host Life Group.  (The Little House on the Prairie Drive is my home, and Life Group is a small group Bible study of people from my church. Our LG is made up of about 25 college students and yuppies.)  We meet every Tuesday night: eat dinner, sing worship, talk about last Sunday’s message, and pray together.

Please note that we eat dinner.  As it turns out, neither of my roommates are home on Tuesday before LG starts, meaning the whole “eat dinner” part of LG is all on me: my “opportunity.”

Although feeding the LG makes me nervous, I am actually very excited to go about it.  After all, these people are my friends.  And honestly, most of them are just happy to have a free meal.  So really the only pressure there is self-imposed.  (Let it go, Jenna.  Let it go.)

There are five Tuesdays in October.

• I didn’t have to cook for the first one because someone else took care of it (I had to leave early that night).
• The second Tuesday was rainy so I made a giant vat of chicken noodle soup with veggies.
• And last night I successfully made some pretty amazing tacos.

The task now is to decide what to make for the last two Tuesdays.  And this is where you, oh reader, come in.  Have any great (or even mediocre) ideas?  (If it helps to know: on a given night anywhere between 12 and 20 people show up.  The large range of possible mouths to feed makes the task all the more interesting.)  Thanks for the help!

I will give a full report of the month’s dinner-making when it has drawn to completion.  So for now I will leave you with photo evidence of my accomplishments thus far:

Excited about making soup. (Please note the IHOP apron. This is the best cooking apron around. The fabric is thick enough that I can use the corners of the apron as oven mitts. And it has pockets! Enough said.)

The already prepared taco assembly line to the left and I, finishing up the taco meat, to the right. (Photo by Andrea Bonifazi)

My dinner, just prior to being consumed.

I over-achieved and made brownies. I don’t even like brownies. (Please note that I greased the pan. Forgetting to do so is another cooking error that I have been known to make, eliciting disastrous results… again and again. But not THIS time!)

(www.starwars.com)

Having Yoda was refreshing for us at the Little House on the Prairie Drive (this is how our house is identified in some circles).  Katie and I are particularly fond of cats and Andrea has (in her own words) “learned to be okay with them.”  That’s enough for Katie and I to consider her right in among the ranks of the “cat people” (we take what we can get here at the Lil HotPD.)

If you’ve never had a cat, it’s likely you’ve at least been exposed to cat-loving culture enough to understand some common characteristics: They are independent, often distant, and have an air about them that I like to define as “classy.”  And my favorite feline tendency: average cat by day, king of the jungle by night.  Indeed ladies and gentlemen, at night, house cats think they are tigers.

My guy friends have this poster in their basement. Love it.
(www.biddingforgood.com)

This usually just means that the cat will run recklessly from one end of the house to the other. And back again. Many times.  I read this comic years ago and never forgot it because it captures this trend so well:

by Darby Conley 8/19/2005

Yoda’s “tiger by night” was overly dramatic (if I do say so myself).  In a split personality, fair weather friend sort of way.  He went from being perfectly calm and snuggly in the sunshine, to being a cold-hearted, hand-stalking terror at night.  That’s right.  Hands.  Why hands?  I have no idea.  But in the spirit of optimism we decided to be thankful it was hands… and not faces. Or jugulars.

Late one evening, as the roommates and I were preparing for bed, Yoda was being especially animated in the living room.  Andrea and I stopped to watch for a minute when she commented that it looked like he had something on him.  Just then, he really went nuts: slamming himself into the wall, writhing around on the floor, and letting out that awful scream-yowl that cats do when you’re sure they are dying.

In a very short amount of time we were on the floor with scissors trying to cut his collar off.  It turns out he had somehow managed to get the collar, which was still around his neck, stuck in his mouth (think horse bridle only far too tight and behind sharp teeth).  He was NOT pleased.  The battle was long and fierce: vicious cat with back claws and (surprisingly unimpaired) fangs verses three young women with caring hearts and a single pair of scissors.  The hardest part was managing to snip the collar without impaling the squirmy cat.  However, caring hearts and scissors won out in the end!  We cut the collar and fell backwards, bloodied but victorious! The cat leap out of the circle only to sit on the carpet immediately next to us as if nothing had happened.  (He has an image to maintain I suppose.)  It took a while for me to fall asleep after that because of all the adrenaline coursing through my system, but I ended up sleeping well in the assurance that I had played a part in rescuing a cat from certain discomfort…

He returned the favor by… keeping me up all night the last night he was here.  He kept crying just outside of my room (probably because he had no hands to stalk) and tore a bunch of the papers off of Katie’s door.  Although I forgave him in the morning because of the amazing feat he accomplished.  Check this out:

Oh yes, dear readers.  He took on “Katie!” and left behind “Kat!”  Impressed?  I sure am.  Well played, Yoda.  Well played.

Yoda returned home to Andrea’s parents’ house two days ago.  Although the week had its ups and downs, it was nice having a cat around. Miss him, I will.

For those of you who have never been to an air show, it can be described as the aviator’s playground.  Basically, it’s where all of the coolest planes and the gutsiest stuntmen come together and show off.   All you have to do is bring a lawn chair and a pile of friends, pay twenty bucks, settle down along the runway (at a safe distance), and look up.

I loved going to air shows as a kid, so when I went off to college I decided to share the fun with my friends.  The first year I was excited just to go.  The second year I was even more excited because my dad was flying in the show.  And this year I was even more, more excited because Dad AND the Thunderbirds were flying.  I saw the Blue Angels a few years back and they were fantastic!  However, both of my parents were in the Air Force so I am loyal to the Thunderbirds over the Blue Angels (who happen to represent the Navy).

Some of the family at the Air Show.
Ashley (sister in Law), Jake (darling younger brother), Dad, self, Nate (darling older brother)
Dad’s plane is in the background.
(photo by Andrea Bonifazi)

I will confess that half the fun of going to an event like an air show is people-watching.  There are some weird people on this planet and it turns out that many of them deem it appropriate to come out in public on occasion… Nate and I had fun with that.

The show also gave me a great opportunity to practice a bit of photography.  I decided that if I can successfully shoot jets flying at low altitudes, I can pretty much handle any motion shot.  Jets are fast.  Here are some of my shots from the show:

I want to take a moment to dedicate this post to pilot Glenn Smith, who lost his life in a fatal crash in the air show on Saturday.  He piloted an L-39.  And to his family, sorry for your loss.

I have decided to post the video of the crash in honor of Smith’s memory.  Only watch if you are comfortable doing so.

My point is, I’m back and all gung-ho to carry on with my slice o’ life bloggin’.

With that said, I will affirm that my summer overall has been exceedingly enjoyable.  I slept eleven hours a night, was only stressed over whether to drink English or Irish breakfast tea in the morning, and waitressed in the evenings at a job I absolutely love.

For leisure activities I listened to hours and hours and hours of Mumford & Sons, watched as much of the Olympics as I possibly could, and read 10 books.  Can’t complain too much.

It is also important to note that this was a wedding summer.  I guess I’m at “that age” where my peers start marrying one another.  (And where I say “Wait! Slow down! Let’s all just chill out until Jenna is more prepared for this.”  Meaning: Stop. I’m still single.)  However, regardless of my unpreparedness, all three weddings were perfect.  Each was exactly flavored like the couple involved.  I had the honor of being a bridesmaid in all three.  And while a wedding a month isn’t great for my bank account, it IS great in just about every other way, so it was totally worth it.  Besides, I caught the bouquet at all three weddings! (Although it’s only fair to admit that the second was a direct toss to me, void of competition.)  Still.  Three bouquets in one summer hasn’t been bad for my non-superstitious high hopes of one day getting hitched myself.

Jake and Ashley Marzen – June 23, 2012
(Photo by Megan Ledoux)

Karlin and Megan Stutzman – July 27, 2012
(Photo by Heidi Mast)

Tim and Carrie Kearney – August 11, 2012
(Photo by Eli Schaefer)

Other major events included a weekend camping trip to Three Fingered Lake, a day exploring the Maquoketa Caves, and my most recent journey to the Iowa State Fair.  The tale of which, I shall tell in a separate post.

For now, I simply wanted to tell the World Wide Web that I am still here.  And, being that school starts back up in five days, it is likely that I will assert my presence on a more regular basis (given that certain things just go better when life has a schedule attached to it.)

In the meantime, I will be found savoring every free moment I possibly can before the school bell rings.