Pickles & Dimes

It started with an email. Our friend’s girlfriend, whom I’ve met twice, asked if I played volleyball. Turns out she had exhausted her list of people and was desperate for someone to sub. I hemmed and hawed: The last time I played was about seven years ago, I’m not the athlete I used to be, and the game started at 8:30 p.m. Since I am 80 years old, the thought of leaving my home on a weeknight was abhorrent. I called Jason in a slight panic, not wanting to say no, but whining that I probably wouldn’t be home until after 10:00 when I go to bed at 9:30 and that’s just nuts. What am I – some kind of socialite?!?

He reminded me that it was just for one night.

So I said yes, and then dug my old, yellowed volleyball kneepads out from the bottom of a tote hidden in the back of a closet underneath a mountain of Jason’s t-shirts.

Twenty years ago, I played volleyball in high school. In fact, I was somewhat good at it. But since then, I had lost something significant.

My vertical jump.

At 5’5 (and a half!), my vertical jump was what made me. When I jumped, my elbows cleared the net. And because my jumping skill wasn’t obvious from just looking at me, I was constantly overlooked by opposing teams. I’d go to volleyball camps and every time (every time!) they’d assign me to be a setter. I dutifully set the ball for others until I’d get my chance. Then I’d slam a ball on the 10-foot-line, turn to the coaches and say matter-of-factly, “Actually? I’m a hitter.” Good times.

But that was 20 years ago and my ship with the vertical jump had sailed.

So on Wednesday night, when I saw how good the other girls were, I had some doubts. It didn’t help that my shoes were impossibly slippery, to the point I was sure my hamstring was going to detach itself from my leg and point a tendon-y finger at me while laughing hysterically.

But once that ball came floating over the net, everything clicked into place. The game became an automatic, effortless symphony of sliding (literally) back and forth across the floor, watching the ball, placing my serves exactly where I wanted, seeing my spikes landing in between opposing players, and hearing the various cries of “mine” and “got it” and “tip!” There was the familiar smell of dusty gym floors, the THWACK! of the ball as it bounced off my reddened forearms, and the automatic regression to my high school habit of licking my hand and wiping it on the soles of my shoes to improve traction (gross, but surprisingly effective).

At one point, I jumped as an opposing player hit the ball, my wrists clearing the net, and the ball stopped short against my palms – a textbook-perfect block.

Maybe I didn’t lose that much after all.

Afterwards, I felt victorious, young, happy. I hadn’t embarrassed myself. In fact, I had played well. The other girls thanked me for subbing on short notice. I thanked them for letting me play and said to call if they ever needed a sub again.

That’s when they gave each other a look before one of them said, “No. You’re not a sub. You’re on the team. You’ve just been recruited.”

And I felt 17 all over again.

(Minus the never-been-plucked eyebrows.)

Yesterday, we stored our camper at Jason’s parents’ place and then had a leisurely breakfast. On our way home, we passed this place.

So we stopped.

This place will put a smile on your face. The smells alone are worth the trip: Fresh-baked lefse, long-forgotten candy, homemade fudge, thick-cut bacon, fresh apples. Two seconds after we got in the door, an older gentlemen practically grabbed Jason by the lapels to exclaim happily, “Isn’t this place great?!?”

YUP.

I spotted this right away.

Buffalo wing-flavored soda. Part of me wanted to buy it, but part of me definitely did not. Next time.

(more…)

Knowing where/how to invest my money. I really, really wish I knew more about this. Every time I get my statement detailing how my 401(k) is hemorrhaging money in a sickly, arterial spray of dollar bills and nickels, I get pissed. And yet I don’t want to change the plan I’m invested in because I don’t know what might yield better results. (I also have a teeny tiny 403(b) or some other government account from my very first job 15 years ago that can’t be rolled over into a 401(k), and there is so little money left in it I would rather take the tax penalty by cashing it out and investing it elsewhere than lose the rest of the balance, which I estimate will happen in about two years.)

The ability to sew. I took Home Ec in high school, but we never used sewing machines. We did have to sew a giant pillow (mine was a giant chocolate chip cookie because of course I would immortalize food as a permanent couch fixture), but I distinctly remember sloppily hand-sewing it together. My mom would attempt to show me how to sew on her Army green sewing machine, but I just remember sewing the same seam over and over and then watching the bobbin tangle itself into an impressive snarl, leaving my mom to deal with the mess while I escaped to my room (probably to snuggle with my cookie pillow). I would like to be able to sew my own clothes, since all the stores are firmly planted back in 1985 and I CANNOT wear neon colors/legwarmers/shaker sweaters again.

Wiring skills (and closely related, a less pervasive fear of fire). A few years ago, the light above our washer and dryer stopped working. My brother, who knows all about wiring, talked me through fixing the light over the phone. The next day, convinced our home was going to burn to the ground, I ran home over my lunch hour to check that the wire caps were securely in place. Despite this, I have a yearning desire to unearth a Mission-style light that’s been languishing in our garage for seven years, and wire it to an available spot near our desk downstairs. This despite the fact that I still know nothing about wiring, and I’m not even sure if the lamp will work in that spot.

Basic construction knowledge. Jason suggested that we put in a fake “wall/shelf” when you first come into our house to give it the feeling of a foyer, since when you enter our house you either walk straight into the kitchen or the living room (typical rambler). It sounds like it would be something relatively easy (no sledgehammering of existing walls, etc.) but yet I have no idea if it’s even possible.

Drawing ability. I used to love to draw. I took art class in high school, and I wasn’t terrible, if what I was drawing was right in front of me. (My favorite/best drawings, incidentally, were the cover images from the movies Dead Again and Silence of the Lambs. Also, I once drew my flute, which was really, really fricking hard and took forever. It did look pretty awesome/realistic when I was done, though.) However, I really wish I could draw something from memory or create something awesome from my own imagination. For my last job, I had to sometimes pick up supplies at an art store, and after coveting them on multiple trips, a coworker and I both optimistically bought a sketchpad and some colored pencils. Apparently, I imagined filling my vast pockets of free time sketching landscapes while tilting my head critically to show off my beret. The only thing I have drawn in that new sketchpad has been a horse that looks rather odd and disproportionate.

How about you? What skills or knowledge do you wish you had?

I like this photo – it’s so dreamy. It reminds me of a French painting.

Hey, let’s talk about artists, huh? Who’s your favorite artist or painter? Mine is Caspar David Friedrich, a German Romantic landscape painter who favored spooky trees and shipwrecks. I only stumbled across his work because of a screensaver, of all things. It was this image, which I spent years tracking down to find out the artist (this was well before the Internet, kids). (It also didn’t help that it’s titled differently depending on the website.) I finally found it, bought a cheap print and mounted it on foam core. While I usually display it at work I currently don’t have the space. But I just decided that I’m going to make the space because this print makes me super happy.