The Chair

The vacation rental my brother booked for the wedding this weekend in Ann Arbor is definitely one of the wackier places we have stayed. The mid-century ranch house had a modicum of curb appeal, although our first impressions upon entering were a bit skeptical. 

It has been remodeled, but in a haphazard, DIY kind of a way. For example, there are five different types of flooring on the main level, and it isn't that big. And the curtains over the front picture windows are unabashedly secured with jumbo binder clips. The house had also been closed up for a while and was a little musty. 

But the nuttiest feature of all is the industrial-grade massage chair, the only other piece of furniture in the living room besides the leather sectional. It looks like an updated version of a medieval torture device, complete with a remote control. Of course we had to try it! The first night we all laughed hysterically as Treat sat in the chair narrating his experience as it hummed and farted, squeezing and pummeling him from shoulder to toe. 

For a while, the record for the longest time endured in it was 7 minutes, but Treat finally managed to withstand an entire 30-minute session late last evening. It's definitely functional as furniture, but it makes up for it in conversation and entertainment!

M Minus 2 Days

The weather was glorious today as we barreled around Ann Arbor running all sorts of wedding errands. The minivan did not disappoint, as any number from 2-6 of us and all the treasures for our big day projects piled in and out, here and there, back and forth, and all over town. At one point, we drove, windows down, along roads lined with woods and prairie plantings, past a former Esso gas station built in 1927 to resemble a gatehouse and turned into a coffee shop, and through the campus of U Michigan, the back of the van loaded with three buckets of flowers and six cake layers. We may not be super focused, but? We're here! And ready to do our part.

Blueberry Blues

I was just about to get into the shower before leaving for the airport when I received a notification that my blueberries had been delivered. No! I panicked. Those are supposed to come next Wednesday! 

It didn't matter whose miscommunication it was, mine or the dairy folks' or both, because when I checked the milkbox, there they were, three pounds of New Jersey's best blueberries in what seemed to be an enormous box, and at that point? They were mine. 

Fortunately, I had cleaned out the refrigerator in anticipation of having a housesitter staying for the next five days, and there was some room in the freezer, too. Plus, we hadn't eaten breakfast yet, which became a blueberry smoothie for me and yogurt and blueberries for Heidi. I put three quarts in the freezer, and a 9x13 cake pan with a lid full of berries in the fridge, then, as an extra measure, put the box out for recycling and hopped in the shower. 

Oh, I know I'll be happy to have all those berries next week when we get back, blueberry jam, blueberry muffins, blueberry galette, and all that, but my original plan was so much more elegant.

Out of My League

I reported to the bowling center as directed, 15 minutes before the league start time, to register as a substitute bowler. As I waited for the manager to sign me in, I scanned the crowd. At least ten of the bowlers from my regular league were there, and they waved and welcomed me to the Summer Owl League. "There are only 2 people per team," someone told me, "so it goes pretty fast."

I found my partner and lane, and sat down to change my shoes before warm-up. Both of our opponents for the week were on my regular league, so I felt comfortable right away. The teams on the lanes to our left and right started to warm up, and I realized how out of balance the competition could have been. "Do you bowl against everybody?" I asked incredulously as a guy next to me threw his fourth practice strike.

"Just the luck of the draw," one of the women told me fatalistically, eyeing the teams around us. 

"I guess that's why we have handicaps," I shrugged.

She nodded. "It levels the lanes, doesn't it?" she replied over the thunder of the pins around us.

High Tech, Low Arches

After we got our toenails done for the wedding next Saturday, Heidi wanted to go shoe shopping, so we headed over to the big-box shoe store and trolled the aisles for a nice pair of heeled sandals to go with the dress she's wearing. After a while, I wandered over to clearance and found some glittery platform slides on sale, and the two of us were headed to the checkout when I spotted the foot scanner. 

Even though I was anxious to pay and be on our way, I couldn't resist! I slipped off my flip flops, stepped on the pad in the middle of the sensors, and followed the on-screen directions. In 20 seconds, I had the report detailing the length, width, girth, arch, and instep height of each foot, plus the percentiles those measurements fell into. There was also an option to dig deeper with even more granular data, which you could also have sent to your email. 

And of course! There were shoe and orthotic recommendations, many of which you could buy on the spot. We left without adding to our purchases, but as we walked to the car, Heidi thanked me for going with her. "I know you don't love shopping," she said, "but I feel much better about my outfit now that I have these."

"You're welcome," I said. "But to be honest, I did find a bargain pair of shoes myself, and plus? The scan made the trip worth it!"

Conquistadors

I wasn't going to watch it. 

But stuff happens, and my plans to go to the gym were railroaded by a late start and Heidi's previous commitment, and blah blah, blah, I tuned into the World Cup final about 30 minutes into the match, just to kill a little time and perhaps engage with 4 billion of my fellow humans in this global phenomenon. 

It was mesmerizing.

The crisp Spanish offense pitted against the disciplined Argentine team captivated me in a way I did not expect.  And the players? So resolute and strong and kind of cute in a he-could-totally-be-my-former-student way. I couldn't turn it off! 

Then, who could resist the halftime show, with the muppets, Ted Lasso, Madonna, Shakira, and Bieber, and its message of universal love? 

I didn't even realize that I was rooting for Argentina, but when Emiliano Martinez broke the record for the number of saves, keeping the match tied at nil until the 106th minute, in the second half of extra time, despite playing the entire tournament with a broken finger? Wow! Just wow. And even after Spain scored, Argentina was totally in it until the final whistle.  

I do confess that I turned it off before the cup was presented by he-who-ruins-everything. It was such an unexpected pleasure, and I just wanted to keep it that way.

In Gear

Word today that, according to the Washington Post, "the death of the stick shift is almost here." I have mixed feelings about the news. Part of me is sad, in a nostalgic way. I learned to drive on a manual transmission and, back then, vowed never to drive anything else. There was something satisfying about how active driving was, being mindful of the sound of the motor to avoid grinding gears, and something soothing about the gentle vibration of the idling engine as you rested your hand on the knob of the gear shift. 

There was also the fun and practical fix of popping the clutch if the car wouldn't start. Whoever was around would be enlisted to roll the car to a flat straightaway, and then push it as fast as they could while the driver kept it in neutral with a foot on the clutch until it picked up enough speed to hit the gas and let up on the clutch at the same time, usually encouraging the engine to roar to life; why, I don't know. 

The article blames sophisticated engineering, computerized transmissions with as many as 7 gears to optimize acceleration and fuel efficiency. Maybe, but I broke my vow to never drive automatic after a particularly grueling ride to BWI. The 30-mile trip took nearly two hours that day, and my leg and foot were cramped from all the stop-and-go. After that, I made sure my next car was an automatic, so I put the onus on the increased traffic congestion over the last few decades. It seems impossible to take a drive of any length without experiencing at least a few slowdowns, and an automatic transmission makes such aggravations a little less onerous. 

Even so, I'll be sorry when the stick shift goes the way of the penny. They are both such classics, and I never thought they could be anything but timeless.