JEOPARDY: a daily reminder that I’ve reached a perfect balance of genius and idiot

Dear Canada, (hang with me, I promise there’s a connection)
Here is a comprehensive list of everything I know about you: snow, French, expensive, Niagra Falls, hockey, bacon, useless coins, syrup, Eskimos, eh?  Pathetic, I know.  So when I was watching Jeopardy—one of my summer obsessions—I got slapped twice with the dumb stick in response to this question in the category Canadian Provinces: The answer is an unscrambled version of IN A ROOT.  I shouted out “Toronto!”–the only Canadian place I know.

Yep, to the list of subjects that are NI (Needing Improvement for those of you who forgot what report cards were like before A’s and F’s), go ahead and add Spelling.  I think it falls right under Geography.  Not only are there a few letters difference between Ontario—the correct answer—and Toronto, but Toronto is not a province.  It’s a city.  Humbling, eh?

O Canada!  O Canada!  I’m not worthy to share a border with you,
Ignorant American

FAILURE: what I am.
Dear blog,
Please forgive me.  It has been 37 days since my last post.  I have failed you.

Whew, glad that’s out of the way.  I hate confrontation.

So, SUMMER what?  Just a distant memory.  You’ve packed up your Old Navy Bermuda shorts.  Changed that beachy landscaped facebook picture.  And forgotten what it’s like for the sun to be out at 9pm.

But I’m still holding on.  Because I never stop something that I’ve started—thank you Dad.  In a very abbreviated format–the kind you’d write if you knew it were just a completion grade–I give you the rest of the Encyclopedia of Summer: Volumes H-Z.  Daily posts are promised until the calendar changes to November and all sweet summery memories are replaced by pumpkins, touchdowns, hoodies, and Charlie Brown.

Your flip-flop wearing failure,
–A

ENVIRONMENT, SAVING THE: It’s fun and trendy and sometimes ironically misunderstood

Dear Plastic Target Bag,
I know, I have some explaining to do.  On the fateful day of your death, this is probably what you remember: you were pulled from you cozy pile and opened up when a large Pilates mat was placed inside you.  This is where your typical lifecycle of being a plastic bag was disturbed.  Words were exchanged and a moment later the Pilates mat was removed.  Then, you were thrown.  Away.  In the trash.

It’s been a couple of months now, so I think you should know the truth.

I had become a bit more conscious of my plastic bag usage after noticing my collection under the sink had grown into the abominable snowman (making it impossible to reach the dish soap—which is not a plausible excuse to neglect doing the dishes.)

So I tell the cashier that I don’t need a bag since the Pilates mat is already in a long, awkwardly shaped box.  She takes it out of you and hands it to me.  I reach the exit.  I turn around.  I witness the greatest tragedy of the Green movement.  You are being wadded up and tossed into the trashcan by the cashier.

I’m sorry.  This is not the life I intended for you.  I hoped that I was saving you from that awful fate.  At least if I would have taken you home with me I could have crafted you into some plarn like the diehard environmentalists do.

Instead you’re dying away in some landfill next to a dirty diaper and Dollar Tree kaleidoscope birthday party favor.

Darn irony,
A

ME, GUILTY MISSIONARY (GM): What should we do tonight? 

ROOMMATE BROTHER (RB): Save Africa.  We only have 4 days left.

GM: I was thinking we could watch High Fidelity.  I need a movie with narration.

RB: And John Cusack.

GM: You know me too well.

RB: So, the Africans dying and going to hell?

GM: Right.  About that….

2 hours later

GM: I love that movie.  Minus the cursing.  In its honor we should make the perfect compilation tape.

RB: To the iTunes.

A few hours and Reese’s pieces cookies later…

GM: Well that wasn’t the most productive use of my time.

RB: Did you know the Hawaiian guy who sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” weighed over 700 pounds when he died?

GM: Maybe if I put my life-changing playlists on my blog, it will prove to be just as valuable as converting Muslims.

And so with a prayer of absolution I present the product of my evening…

10 Songs that Encompass Everything I Think About When I Think About My Future Wedding:

1. Sundress by Ben Kweller because I will wear a sundress.  Not really.  But wouldn’t that be fun?
2. Oh, It Is Love by Hellogoodbye.  Yes, I think it is will be love.
3. You Belong to Me by Jason Wade (of Lifehouse).  Written as a war song during WWII.  All the makings of perfection: covered by Dean Martin, Patsy Cline, Bob Dylan…and good enough for Shrek and Mona Lisa Smile.
4. When You Know by Shawn Colvin from the super Serendipity soundtrack.  Sweet and lovely.  The crème de la crème of songs about fate.  Which I don’t believe in, but who cares.
5. Your Song belted out by my favorite Elton John.  And how fitting it will be when Ewan McGregor attends the wedding just to do his rendition of it at the reception, which will be held inside a giant elephant in Paris.  Also starring Nicole Kidman. And can-can dancers.
6. Book of Love by Peter Gabriel. Every word of it is true.
7. It Had to Be You by none other than Harry Connick, Jr. because Harry Burns knew all along that it had to be Sally Albright.  And because it means there’s hope for all of us who are high maintenance but think we’re low maintenance, the worst kind.
8. Crazy for This Girl by Evan & Jaron despite my brother wincing through the whole “gay” song.
9. All You Need Is Love by Lynden David Hall from every bride’s dream scene in Love Actually.
10. Stand By Me by Ben E. King.  Cliché, yes.  Classic, yes.  Still giving me goose bumps, absolutely.

And for packing purposes as we think about home…

Turn Off the Lights on Your Way Out or A Tribute to Home (Cory and I cleverly named our computer at home the lights on your way out so that at the bottom of the main screen the shut down icon would always read TURN OFF the lights on your way out.)

1. Home by a man who can write brilliance that sways my soul—Jack Johnson. But when I get home, I hope my lime tree isn’t dead like his was.
2. Closing Time by Greenday.  Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.  Oh, how you speak to me Greenday.
3. We’ll Come Home with You by Philmore. Who rocks. And hails from Oklahoma.
4. I’ll Be Home for Christmas by Bing Crosby because my mother claims I promised her as a young and foolish little girl that I would never leave home.  But may Bing never make a liar out of me.
5. It’s Good by Better than Ezra.  Simply loved this song ever since my dear roomie put it on the soundtrack of our youthful college memories movie.
6. Sweet Home Alabama by Lynyrd Skynyrd.  Nope, not from Alabama.  Wikipedia won’t even include Oklahoma as a part of the South.  But who doesn’t think of home when they hear this song?
7. Heartbreak World by Matt Nathanson.  Major props to Jenny for discovering this song, putting it on a CD, and sending it across the ocean for such a time as this.
8. Inspiration by our parents’ preferred listening Chicago.
9. American Pie by Don McLean.  Cory insisted on it.  Our parents love it.  Almost as much as they love us.
10. Run by George Strait chosen from among a slew of other country songs that express the same sentiments sung my Mr. Strait.  This one somehow is just right.

May this letter bring me just a little piece of redemption.  Or at least give me motivation to do something more with my remaining time in this incredibly amazing place of Mali. It seems I temporarily checked out before even printing off my e-ticket.  Just a little guilt to get me back on my missionary feet.  But I’ll probably get a taste of you tomorrow when I choose to organize the tupperware cabinet instead of some other worthy evangelical cause.  At least I’m honest,

Amber

How did I let it come to this? There are more boxes of Jell-O than days left in Mali! At first I begged for you fill my empty cupboards. Graciously my friends and relatives hightailed it to their local Wal-Marts with shopping lists that resembled that of a panicked Y2K schizophrenic. Cotton balls, Cheez-its, Oust, marshmallow cream, bicycle seat, tampons, Rotel, flashlight, honey, dryer sheets, walnuts, industrial sized can of processed cheese.

After that scavenger hunt came the contemptible workings of the post office. You have no idea how much trouble you innocently cause, box of brownie mix and bag of M&M’s. Thirty-seven dollars for an 11″ x 8.5″ x 5.5″ box! And the friendly smile behind the counter has the audacity to claim you’ll be anywhere in the world in 6-10 days. What false hope! Alas, in 3-4 weeks I find you in the corner of our “post office” and must again pay $4 per box to retrieve you.

The next move is crucial: inventory. No, it’s not just for Thank-you note purposes. I have reasonable grounds for counting every packet of oatmeal and bag of Skittles. Rationing. All items must be spread out depending on the amount of time left in this depleted land. Oreos: 1 every other day. Pumpkin puree: 4 pies’ worth. Cereal: a bowl each Sunday before church. Potpourri plug-ins: 2 outlets, change every 3 months. Reese’s peanut butter cups: emergency use only.

Yet here I am with 55 days left and my system in ruins. I greedily hoarded you as long as I could, throwing out the counsel of my missionary friends who advised me to consume you immediately upon arrival. Instead, I counted and strategized and Ziplocked you up.

With cabinets full and 2 months to go, I don’t have time to eat you all individually at my hoarder’s pace. So I find myself each evening at allrecipes.com dueling against the INGREDIENT SEARCH. Let’s see, any recipes for pistachio pudding and cranberry sauce or maybe olives, tuna, and spaghetti sauce mix?

I give up and shoot the I’m-sorry-I-suck-at-being-a-homemaker look to my roommate-brother, “Coco Puffs or Easy-Mac tonight?” (I love you Coco Puffs, but I secretly hope he says Easy-Mac so I don’t have to mix up some milk.) It’s not limited to dinner. Our sack lunches consist of beef jerky, yogurt raisins, and lime Jell-O. Birthday presents for students and friends aren’t fragrant candles or even cash. They’re Hershey’s bars and bags of Doritos. Anything to get rid of you before your expiration date or our departure date.

This isn’t how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to savor you on the tough Africa days, let you remind me of home when the countdown seemed too far away. Now I’m monstrously devouring you without regard to my precious inventory. How did I let it come to this?

Yesterday my temper won. I’m sorry for the way I treated you. It’s not your fault that the price of bread went up 50cfa. It was a long, frustrated Friday. But can I partly blame you for my crossness? The bread was not ready at 3:30 like usual and I was forced to stand in the oven-baked heat with the bread loiterers for over 15 minutes. And that scintillating smell of baking bread only added to my anxiousness to quickly purchase and be off with my afternoon delight. Yes, you were kind enough to finally offer it to me for the old price, and you didn’t deserve the severity with which I flung open my wallet and slammed the extra coin into your palm. The bread was delicious, as it always is. And I beg that you’ll continue to sell baguettes to me, as you always have.

Ashamed,

Amber