Portable Radios Aren't Dead Yet

Last night while running, twice I ran past a homeless man sitting on a corner across the street from me by a shopping center.  I felt bad for him since he was sitting all alone in a dark corner.  He wasn’t in a very good location for people to see him and stop.  And recently I happened to receive a lot of presents, and then when I got back in my palatial apartment I started feeling even sorrier for the man.  Here I have so much, and he is sitting by himself in a dark corner by the street.

So I hopped in the car and drove off to meet him to see if he needed any help.  When I drove up, he was situated such that he was on my passenger side.  He looked older, maybe in his 60s or 70s.  I called out to him, and Bob, as I later found out his name, got up and came over.

“Hi, do you need any help?”

“Yes, I need an AM/FM radio.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes, at night I hear a lot of peoples' voices, and the radio helps me sleep.”
…
“This probably makes no sense to you.  But the radio helps cuts down on the voices.”
“I understand, but the problem is that I don’t have an AM/FM radio on me.”
“Oh that’s okay, Wal-Mart sells them.  You can go there and get one.  Incoherent part (we’ll come back to that).”
“You’re right.  Okay, just hold on and I’ll go get you one.”
“Okay, I’ll wait right here.”

I drove into Wal-Mart, which was in that shopping center, and lo and behold they had portable AM/FM radios for sale, two models actually, batteries naturally not included.  So I got him a radio, and a pack of triple As, (kept the receipt just in case), threw ten dollars into the bag, and drove back to him.

“Hi again, I’ve got your radio!”
“Thank you, what do I owe you.  (Ahh, now I realized that his incoherent part from before was him stating he was going to pay me back).”
“It’s a gift, enjoy it.”
“No really, what did it cost, let me pay you back.”
“That’s really okay, it’s a gift.  Sleep well.”
“Hey, thanks a lot!  Do you want to come sit and talk?”
“Oh, I am sorry, I really must be going.  But I’ll take some prayers!”
“Sure, I’ll pray for you, what’s your name!?”

And that’s pretty much the story.  I felt bad for not staying with him.  The poor guy probably would have loved the company.  But he also literally hears voices in his head, and he was in a very dark corner.  Although, I still feel bad, because that is really just an excuse.  If he had violent tendencies he would likely have been in prison, and he was very friendly and nice.  No, the reason I didn’t stick around and talk is because I really just didn’t want to get more involved.  Gah, that’s heartless.  I was happy to see he had food with him, and appeared to be in good spirits.  But it breaks my heart thinking he has no one to talk with.  Hopefully, he has a good group of friends.  It’s hard to be sure, because there are a variety of places around here for people to receive assistance be it shelter, job training, food, and so on.  Hopefully he makes use of those services, but sometimes, all we really want is someone to hang out with on our Saturday nights.

So keep Bob in your prayers, that he finds some good friends to talk with.

Breakfast for Two

On Friday morning, I woke up a little early.  While lying there, I realized I could go to Confession and morning Mass.  I really needed to go to Confession, and didn’t want to wait until Saturday evening.  However, I was very tired and I really didn’t want to go.  At all.  I wanted to go so little, I decided I was probably being persuaded not to go.  That made me grumpy.  It’s one thing when I am simply too lazy to go, but it’s another matter altogether if I feel like I’m being supernaturally tempted not to go.  So rather than letting the devil win in the very first skirmish of my day, I very grumpily got dressed and went out.

It’s about a 15 minute drive to get there, and is in a different city.  I live in a very well to do suburb.  When I go out at 6:45 AM in the morning, there is no one out, except for maybe the occasional disgusting person out jogging.  Show offs.  But then I get to the neighborhood of the Church, and it’s completely different.  It is in a poor neighborhood.  And people are everywhere.  The Church is in the middle of a residential neighborhood.  To get there, I drive by a gas station on the same street of the Church.  The gas station was a hub of activity.  Not with people getting gas mind you, just people going in and out of the store.  In fact, as I was looking at the people walking in and out, I had a brief scare when I looked back to the road, and saw a lady who looked like she was about to walk in front of the car.

I make it to Church, and I go in.  But, the door is locked.  Then I realized, that because it was a Friday in Lent, they probably canceled Confession and morning Mass, for Stations and Mass in the evening.  This did absolutely nothing to improve my mood.  I had another 15 minute drive back, and I wouldn’t be able to get to Confession until at least Saturday evening.

Driving back, on the same road as the gas station, I passed by that same woman from before.  She was on the same side of the street, as she when I almost “hit” her.  That seemed odd to me, because it looked like she was trying to cross again.  On seeing her again, I figured she should have either been in the store at the gas station, or already back and on her way.  Not going back in again.  As I drove by her, it seemed like she was trying to wave me down, and I thought I heard her shout something.  I kept driving, and thought “I didn’t want to go to Church.  I drag myself here, and it’s locked.  Now a lady is trying to flag me down.  Blast those Angels who got me out here, I just want to go home and back to bed!”  So I slam my hand down on the wheel, roll down the window, and put the car in reverse.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“Can I come in your car and get warm?  I just want to sit and get warm, that’s all.  I’m freezing.  Here, feel my hand.”

I did and it was indeed very cold.  Now I had to think a little.  In this neighborhood, her asking to get in the car to get warm was not exactly the question I was expecting to receive from a lady at that horrible dark hour of the morning.  Ahem.  And given the nature of this neighborhood, and feeling that it would do nothing to improve my mood if I were to get stabbed, I asked her if she would mind getting in the back.  The words weren’t fully out, before she had the back door open and she hopped in.

“Sorry, about the back, I have a bunch of things up here in the front seat.”

“It’s fine.  Thanks.  Turn up the heat.  Are you Catholic?”  She noticed my Rosary hanging from the rear view mirror.

“Yes.  I was just on my way to Confession and Mass, but the Church is locked.”

At this point I didn’t get a good look at her.  She was white, of an indeterminate age, wearing a decent looking coat, and jeans.  Throughout this story, keep in mind that when I ask her questions that she doesn’t feel comfortable answering, she would mumble and give neither a straight nor coherent answer.  The poor girl was frozen solid and I asked her if she lived in the area.  Mumbling she said something that sounded like, “Yes, but I can’t get in right now.”  It sort of sounded like her roommate wouldn’t answer the door.  I figured they were asleep and for whatever the reason, she was unable to wake them up in order to get in.

Realizing it was a sore subject, I didn’t know quite else what to say, so I said she could just sit here as long as she needed.  After a brief pause in talking she asked, “Could you give me some money for food at the gas station?  You can buy it for me if you want.”

“Well, I haven’t had breakfast yet, would you like to join me?”

“Yeah.”  And she directed me to a little diner just down the street from the gas station.  This place.  I’ve driven by it many times.  And there is a reason I’ve never stopped.  I like dives, I go to many around here, but this place has a uniquely downtrodden atmosphere to it that has kept me from ever visiting.

As I turn into the parking lot she asks, “You were going to Confessing?”

“Yes, I’ve got a lot of demons, and I need to go.  But I suppose it was a good thing that it was locked, because then I would have never met you.”

We go in.  I was dressed in my work clothes, slacks, a nice button down shirt, dress shoes, and my best winter coat.  Each article may have cost more than the entire outfit of any given person in there.  There was a table of 4 older gentlemen, drinking coffee and playing lottery tickets before they had to go to work or start their days.  There was also a younger woman, who my woman (we’ll call her Kay) knows.  They talked for a little bit but in very hushed tones, and I couldn’t make out any of it.  I did hear that the other woman was looking for a phone to use, so I handed her mine.  A little shell-shocked by all of this, I didn’t watch her, but on later inspection I learned she either didn’t use it or deleted whatever number entered.

Kay and I ordered.  We each had a slice of chocolate pie, and a normal breakfast too.  I ordered two eggs over-medium and cinnamon toast.  Kay ordered two eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, and toast.  It was a huge plate of food.  It was like two or three of my typical meals.  Kay then proceeded to pour on a ton of salt, pepper, and ketchup.  In my mind she completely ruined the meal, but she ate nearly all of it.  It was impressive.  I was also able to take a good look at her.  She had dyed blonde hair, but there were some other shades in there from previous colorings.  It looked like spots were missed, so maybe it was hand done by a non-professional.  She had on a lot of foundation, but no other major makeup.  I could not tell you her age, or even make a guess.  Somewhere between 20 and 40.  She looked as though she lived a rough life.  She was of a healthy build, not under or over weight from what I could tell.  She appeared and acted completely sober.

She was very cold.  She drank a few cups of coffee but it took a while for her to warm up.

“Were you outside all night?”

Mumbling, “Yeah, well sort of, no, yes.”

Kay: “When you go Confessing do you do it in a small room like a box?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Alone?”

“Well, the Priest is there.”

“Oh yeah, right.  I’m non-denominational.  You’re a good Catholic.”

“Haha.  Just keep in mind that what makes a good Catholic, aren’t just the Saints, which I’m absolutely not, but also those who are making the struggle to try and be a good Catholic.”

“That makes sense.”

I tried to make chit-chat about restaurants and how I’m new to area and still exploring, and that I hadn’t been to this one before.  She told me she really likes a local Burrito chain, but that conversation didn’t last long.

Me: “Do you live around here?”

“Yes.”

“Is your family here too.”

“My parents are dead.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“I do.  They live in Florida.”

“Oh, Florida is really warm.  You should go there.  When was the last time you saw them.”

“5 years ago.  Do you have children?”

“No.”

Without any hesitation, barely letting that come out of my mouth, and with no regard for the other patrons, she asks, “Are you a virgin?”

“Yes.”

“No, you aren’t!”

“Haha, I don’t know what to tell you.  I don’t have a lot of luck with women, and I want to wait until I'm married”

“I’ve never met a man before who is a virgin!”

“Do you have children?”

“No, but I want them.  What do you do?”

“I’m an engineer.  An electrical engineer.”

“Oh, I bet that pays well.”

“Yes, it pays the bills.”  Now throughout this, I didn’t always keep eye contact.  I knew some of my questions, even though standard get to know you questions, might make her feel uncomfortable, so I tried to avoid her eyes to make it a little easier for her.  I wasn’t trying to make her feel bad, or thinking bad things about her.  I was just curious.  Now once the initial shock of the situation wore off later in the day, I thought of possibly better ways I could have expressed myself, to maybe show a little more affirmation and love for her, but I did the best I could at the time.  For example, I avoided her eyes when I then asked her, “What do you do?”

Mumbling and displaying clearly uncomfortable body language, “I’m a dancer… Adult…Industry…KRWh.”  I couldn’t really hear the end.  I think she was saying where she works, but I couldn’t be sure and decided it was best not to ask her for clarification.

Towards the very end, she shyly asked, “Could you tell me what you were going to say at Confessing (she never did get the language quite right)?”  Now it was my turn to be uncomfortable.  I didn’t want to tell her and then have her think or say, “Really?  That’s you biggest problem?”  It could possible make her feel bad if it brought her to reflect on her own situation.  Also given her job, I wasn’t sure if she would understand some of what I had to say.  But I told her anyway.  Haha, but I’m not telling you!  I told her the 3 main things I was going to say.  For each of them, the only way I could describe her looks was motherly.  But like a mother who has a child saying they did something wrong, and is trying to look serious but is secretly hiding mirth.  It was the only time, she showed any sort of genuine happiness (well she did get a big hit out of my lack of experience with girls), but also hidden under a sincere mask of “yes, those are good things to work on.”

She decided it was time we headed out, and we left.  I cleared off the front seat, and let her in.

Me:  “Okay, can I take you somewhere that you can get in?”

“Yes, but I need some money to go home.”

Thinking she was talking about a bus, “No, don’t worry about it.  I’ll drive you home.”

“That’s fine, but could you just please give me some money to go home?”

“No.  I just spent all the cash I have on breakfast (where we went only accepts cash).”

“You can go to an ATM.”

“Come on, you have a paying job.  I’ll just drive you home.”

At this point, I sensed a change in her.  There was the beginning of panic in her voice, and a change in body language that made me realize something was not right.  She then began the mumbling again.

“You don’t understand.  I need money to go in home…sqwpuk puwex…roommates are addicts…”

“Ahhh.  Okay.  Where I can find an ATM?”  I like to think she was just a little late on rent.  And I think about Jesus’ Good Samaritan.  He didn’t just address the person’s immediate problem, he gave the person some pocket change for later.

She told me the gas station has an ATM and that she thought she was going to cry.  Then I couldn’t help it.  I burst out laughing, “We couldn’t be from more opposite worlds could we?”

“I don’t know about that.  You’re Catholic and I’m non-denominational, but God looks on all of us the same.”

“You’re right.  That’s right.”  Inside I was still laughing.  Apparently it went completely over her head, that I’m a boring engineer in my boring apartment with my rut life, and she’s possibly a prostitute living in a crack house.  No discrepancy there at all.

At this point, she told me she’s writing a book about her experiences.  She also asked me to pray for her.  She made a point of telling me that, bringing it up a few times towards the end.  I told her I would, but that she needs to pray for me.  I didn’t tell her why, because I didn’t want to confuse her or upset her.  She is in a horrible situation.  No parents or other family around, apparently late on rent, and has to work all night long.  God is going to be so merciful to her.  But I have no excuse, and am generally deplorable.  So Kay, you storm Heaven for me.

As we pulled into the gas station she goes back to our conversation at breakfast.  “Do you date?”

“Sure I do.  I just don’t have much luck that’s all.  My last girlfriend decided to become a nun.”

“So that means she can never have sex, right!?”

“Haha, yes, I suppose that’s right.”

Now, I have another tricky situation.  She is cold, and the ATM is in the inside of the store.  She sees me hesitate and says, “I won’t take your car.”

“Please, don’t take my car.”

I’m so shell-shocked, I can’t even figure out how to use the ATM.  I had to ask the clerk to help me.  When I come back out, she looks like she is trying to sleep, curled up in the fetal position on the front seat.  Pulling out, there is a big pole that I’m trying to avoid on my left.  So I’m not paying attention to her or as much to my right.  All of a sudden the right window is down and she is talking to someone.  I look over and it’s a roughened black man.  I hear her say, “What!?” “Got a smoke?  Smokes?”  “Oh, no, I don’t.  I don’t smoke.”  To me:  “Sorry about that, I thought he was trying to talk to me.  You can go.”

Now completely out of it, I take her home.  But it doesn’t end there.  The house, was the same house she was standing in front of when I picked her up.  I was so confused.  If she couldn’t get in before, I didn’t know what changed now.  Maybe the residents were up?  Maybe she now had the money she needed to get in?  In any event, she told me again to pray for her, gave me a hug, and was gone.  I drove up a little bit, out of her sight, but waited and watched through my rear view mirror to see if she was going to walk right back out into the street.  She didn’t, and I drove home.

I came back to my boring life and apartment.  I opened the door, stepped in, and let out a big breathy contented sigh.

Memory Holders

Prior to the breakup (see immediately previous post), I had developed a number of the photographs from the trips to Malta and Spain.  After the breakup, I had to decide what to do with them.  For some reason, I have a hard time throwing out any photo of any kind.  Something about that glossy photo paper, just says I can’t throw it away where the memory captured will slowly decay into nothing.  Maybe I would be okay with burning them, like the American flag.  But I don’t have a fireplace, so I simply hold on to them.

 

So for 6 months, I had these photographs sitting on my desk, in those little cardboard carrying cases that you get from the developer, while I thought about what to do with them.  A large part of me said to throw them out.  If I should change my mind in the future, I always have the digital copies.  I should throw them out because it helps the process of moving on, and is emotionally easier.  Additionally, it could be awkward if I should ever happen to find another girlfriend and she sees them.  But I didn’t like these options for a number of reasons.

 

First, who goes and looks at old digital photos?  No one.  This culture has gone digital and it is not for the better.  We have lost a layer of intimacy.  What produces the more profound emotion, holding an actual photograph of your memory, or seeing it on a computer screen?  There is a difference.  More of our senses are involved with the actual photograph.  We can touch it, hold it close, maybe even smell it if we are keeping it in a box that has scents from the experience.  It is more personal.  And we are far more willing to pull out a photo album and reminisce, than we are to pull out the computer and load up the photos.  Plus they are great coffee table fillers.  Digital copies should serve as backups and nothing more.

 

Second, why are we always so eager to do what is emotionally easy?  If we have an incredible experience and some tragedy occurs afterwards, that doesn’t mean we should stop remembering the good times.  When your spouse of 40 years dies, do you simply decide to burn all the memories and forget you were ever married?  We mustn’t live in the past, but we also shouldn’t pretend like it never happened.

 

And as for future girlfriends, they’ll just have to get over it.  I had an adventure and I’m not going to hide the fact.

 

So, while it took me awhile to make up my mind, I decided to keep the photos and get an album for them.

 

Which brings us to the purpose of this post.  Photo Albums.  Picking one out was a terrible experience.  I was appalled, offended, and ready to scream.  The albums were devoid of any quality.  They were flimsy, cheaply made, messes.  Pages were wrinkled, easily ripped, and offered insecure holdings for the photos.  Think about who buys photo albums anymore.  Despite all my comments above, most of today’s culture won’t buy photo albums, because their digital backups are their main means of presenting the photos.  That means the people who buy photo albums are those who really have something worth preserving, at least in their lives.  These are some of their most cherished memories, to be shared and remembered, and the offerings to preserve some of those memories were cheap filth.  That the makers of the albums, and the stores that sold them, felt these were in any way suitable was what got me so mad.

 

After going to 3 different stores, my fourth stop landed me at Jo-Ann Fabrics, where I was able to find a photo album that didn’t make me want to throw it against the wall.  As a side note, I noticed it also happened to be made in America.

 

It isn’t a perfect album, but the main problem I have with it is not its fault, but has to do with the mechanism for keeping the photos in place.  I have what they call the magnetic paper.  That’s where you lay the photo on a sheet of paper in whatever orientation you want, and the paper is slightly sticky to keep the photo in place.  Then you place a thin transparent plastic sheet on top of the page.  That thin plastic sheet is a huge pain!  It is staticy which means dust loves it.  And once that dust touches the sticky paper, you’ve got a mess on your hands. And it is really hard to keep out air bubbles, due to the thickness of the photos themselves.  The thin plastic sheet is meant to lie perfectly flat, but the photos add the smallest of change in height from an otherwise flat surface, and the think plastic sheet doesn’t know what to do about it.  So you get air-bubbles.  And because the pages are slightly flimsy, you can get more or less air-bubbles just by simply flexing the sheets.  But the benefit is that the photos aren’t going to budge, and you can orient them however you want.

Flowers

After the trip to Spain, Mellen and I essentially became pen-pals for the time being.  With her still being over there, until later this month, there was little we could do other than write each other letters and Skype.  Unlike myself, Mellen's days are full of activities and true to the Spanish culture sometimes she is out until about the time I wake up to start my day!  But she has always found sometime to talk.

 

We talk about all sorts of things, such as what I had to get Brittany for her birthday, and how what I wanted to get her was all wrong.  She also has the tendency to find 20 things I am doing wrong, and 100 ways on how to improve myself.  Haha, I always like guessing what new thing she's going find that I need to do.  Like how I need to go to Mass more, or pray more, or read more, or play less video games.  She even got me to change my brand of milk!  But it is all enjoyable.  And we talk a lot about our future plans and God's will for us, and how He is calling her to the religious life.

Oh my.

On March 20th, she let me know that we can no longer date because she felt a strong internal push towards the religious life and that she needed to explore this.  We decided that we would talk again on Father's Day to see how things were going, but until then communication was "illegal".  I lasted a good two days.  But then I got quiet, and nearly a month later we came to Father's Day.

On Father's Day she said that she was still feeling a strong calling to the religious life.  But the conversation was good and not too awkward.  Or at least I felt I did a good job not being tremendously awkward, just my typical really uncomfortable awkward.  We planned our next conversation to be a little sooner.  This time we decided to talk on July 5th.  Actually, she planned to talk on July 4th, but because I couldn't stop laughing about the idea of us "celebrating our independence day", she made me wait another day which brought us to the 5th.  And that is today!

The first span of quiet time, that part leading up to Father's Day, wasn't too bad.  The night I received the news, I felt the only appropriate thing to do was to go get a carton of ice-cream.  I brought it home, and was looking at it, but then decided the most appropriate thing to do was not have it.  So I gave up ice-cream and pop, and still haven't had any since.  I felt this would also allow me to have an excuse against any particularly obscene flair ups that I might have at completely inappropriate times, such as at Brittany's upcoming birthday 5 days later.  Fortunately however, I did not have any flair ups, and the month went by alright.

The second time span, even though it was only around 2 weeks was much more difficult.  Haha, I even started learning Herb Alpert's "This Guy's In Love" on the piano.  Actually I'm still practicing it, but wow am I tone deaf.  You may not see it posted up here anytime soon.  This goes beyond vanity and is more out of charity to your ears.  A part of the difficulty is that for various reasons I strongly believed that Mellen and I were supposed to be in the relationship.  So if she is really meant to join the religious life, then that means I am mistaken.  So I had to re-evaluate some things and pray.  Eventually I finally (finally because I've known about them for a long time but never took the time to bother looking them up) came across St. Teresa of Avila and St. Therese of Lisieux.  They fixed me right up.  Actually if you ever wonder what Mellen sounds like to talk to, just read St. Therese of Lisieux's autobiography.  Mellen sounds identical (in engineering, 'identical' is how we say something with 5 exclamation marks) to St. Therese of Lisieux.  So these readings and others were comforting and helped me at least get my mind rightly oriented which is to say focused on God rather than on "poor poor pitiful me".

Which brings us to today's conversation.  Today, she told me that now she absolutely believes she is not called to be married.  And so now it is a matter of her determining what sort of religious life is meant for her.  This naturally means that our story has likely come to a close.

Lean Eats

Pamplona was incredible and a bit of a culture shock even though Spain is still a "Western" country.  But first, a word on flights.  The first time I flew to Madrid (going on to Malta), I flew American Airlines, and the second time I flew Delta.  Overall I preferred Delta.  The one area they slacked on was the hot towel.  Other than that, I preferred the meal and the in flight entertainment.  But I think both were very comparable overall.  There was plenty of legroom in both cabins.  However, for these long trips, I advise getting a window seat.  In general, I prefer an aisle seat, but on the long trips a window seat gives your head a prop.  When I flew to Madrid the first time, I had an aisle seat, and quickly learned that not being able to lean yourself up against a surface can become very uncomfortable.  You think you can simply tilt your head back on the headrest but that requires muscles and when you sleep, so do your muscles which brings your head forward and bobbling around.

At the Madrid airport, Mellen was waiting for me with a huge sign so I couldn't miss her.   We planned a time to meet and a gate to meet at.  I arrived very early and she got delayed so I had about an hour and a half to kill.  We were going to meet at a particular cafe at Terminal 4, which is where international flights go.  So I found the cafe, and anxiously tried to read for class.  The hour and a half came and went.  Another half an hour went by and I got a little concerned.  We had a backup plan that if we should miss one another, I would purchase a ticket and take the 6 hour bus ride to Pamplona from Madrid and meet her at her apartment.  I started walking around, and learned that I was at Terminal 1.  I was supposed to be Terminal 4!  And I had no way of contacting her!  So I hopped on a bus, and rode over to 4, and immediately found her walking around with the huge sign.  She had had a 6 hour bus ride and I the 9 hour flight, so we were very hungry and we had our second date, this time at the airport McDonalds.  Chicken nuggets and a chocolate shake never tasted so good.

We then got on the next bus out, and rode to Pamplona.  I don't remember sleeping.  I think we talked the entire 6 hour ride.

The entire time I was in Pamplona we had a blast.  Unlike Malta, the bus schedule is not as frequent, so we missed a lot of buses and had lots of down time as a result.  This was not so bad, because instead of running around everywhere, it meant that we could simply pal around like chums and take things at a more relaxed pace.  That was first time we simply hung out like normal people.

The culture shock, as you might guess, was the food.  In Spain, they don't really eat much.  Portions are much smaller, like they might have half a chicken breast for dinner.  On the final night, I made Mellen and her roommates, stuffed peppers with mashed potatoes, and Mellen made brownies.  The Americans who joined us were so happy to have a proper meal!

First Date in Malta

Malta is a beautiful country.  The citizens are friendly and English-speaking, the food is great, the cities are safe and the scenery is fantastic.  I met Mary Ellen at the Madrid airport the following morning of my arrival to Madrid.  Being unfamiliar with the area and airport, I got there first by about an hour.  Turns out, if I knew what I was doing I probably could have shown up about 1hour before my flight and had time to spare.

 

When Mary Ellen arrived I immediately recognized her.  Happily, she was not a 300 pound creepy looking man.  She looked just like her photos.  Not wanting to make the initial greeting awkward we had already decided that we would follow the traditional Spanish greeting of kissing cheeks.  Upon further inquiry I learned that this actually meant kissing the air, and that you lean left first.  So we did that and then had about 1.5  - 2 hours to talk before the flight.  So we did that.  It was primarily a mixture of chit-chat and indepth discussions.  I don't remember having any awkward moments, but there was a bit of anxiousness on my part and she probably had some too.  Recall that we had not even spoken on the phone prior to meeting.  Outside of e-mails, and just a couple text-based chats, this was our first time having a real conversation.

 

During the flight, it was more of the same.  However, I remember we brought books in case we felt that we needed breaks during the trip from one another.  We are both taking classes and we made plans before hand to have time in the afternoon to study.  So during the flight she pulled out a spiritual based book on lesson's learned from "It's  A Wonderful Life", and she had me read the first chapter aloud.  We were going to read a chapter a day.

 

None of this really creeped me out.  Actually I greatly approved of one of her books, the writings of Josemaria Escriva.  He is awesome.

 

When we landed we got a taxi and road to our Bed and Breakfast.  Mary Ellen heard of this place that charges only $35 a night, and is located in the heart of beautiful Valletta.  The Bed and Breakfast was run by an 80 year old 4 foot tall lady.  She was incredibly sweet, and like anyone her age would not suffer fools.  Mary Ellen caught her yelling at someone who wasn't behaving.  But as far as guests in the Bed and Breakfast, it was just her and I for all but the very first night, where there was one other guest.  We had huge separate rooms and our own showers.  So it was very nice.  At nights we would sit in the kitchen and watch movies on my computer since the Bed and Breakfast had free wi-fi.

 

Our first official date was in a cafe not more than a 5 minutes walk from the Bed and Breakfast.  Although due to the disorienting layout of the city, we had to ask for directions 3 times.  We both had the lasagna.  It was interesting watching one of the locals feed a pigeon part of her lunch while sitting inside the cafe.  The food in Malta was excellent when it was good and unedible when it was bad.  By unedible I don't mean that the ingredients were spoiled, I mean that the cultural differences between their taste and American taste are not necessarily the same.  Our first night, I ordered a dish that came highly recommended by our waiter.  Mary Ellen tried it and then proceeded to laugh at me the rest of the night as I had to eat it or go hungry since it was so late and no other place would be open for service.  While hers was delicious.  But one night we found a restaurant called Nenu.  Oh my.  The chicken.  You have not experienced chicken before.  We had to go back the next night for more.  In fact, we discussed that if we were to marry, Mary Ellen would have to fly the chef (remember the girl's family is in charge of the reception) out to our reception hall, and everyone would eat this chicken dish.  There would be no other vegetarian or meat options.  Just chicken, and everyone would be the happier for it.  I have no idea how it was prepared.  It looked liked a piece of chicken was beat thin, then rolled into a tube without stuffing, then cooked over a charchol grill, and served with a vegetable-based sauce.

 

Mary Ellen and I grew close very fast.  The entire trip was a blast, primarily spent hiking through towns and up and down cliffs, and eating.  We probably ate 5 - 6 times a day.  Mary Ellen is a practicing Catholic who goes to Church every day and that did not change in Malta.  However, I would be surprised to find anyone who would complain about going to Mass in Malta.  These Churches were jaw dropping.  For example, one of them had the floor tiles decorated with skeletons and Death (and also interestingly a seemingly random chicken).  Then as you started to raise your eyes to the ceiling you started seeing the angels and finally at the highest peak the Trinity.  And every view was a masterpiece.  So no complaints.

 

At one point Mary Ellen decided she wanted to be in a relationship.  She wears one of those rings with a heart and depending on how it points it means if you're taken or not.  So when she decided she wanted to date, and I certainly wasn't going to disapprove, she turned her ring around.

 

The final night was actually spent in Madrid.  I was to fly out early the following morning and she was to take a bus back to Pamplona, where she is currently studying.  That night in Madrid we took a taxi to downtown Madrid and had a steak dinner.  The steak seemed very expensive at first.  Then I realized the price was per kilogram.  A kilogram is 2.2. pounds.  And a 2.2. pound steak is quite a thing.  So we ordered one which is served on two very hot plates.  The plates are hot so that the steak does not get cold while you are eating it.  Steaks in Spain are served with french fries.  No baked potatoes, or brocolli, or whatever else you think might go with steak.  French fries.  The idea is that you are to use the french fries to soak up all the juices from the steak.  And what a steak it was.

 

Finally the trip had to come to an end.  When we got back Mary Ellen told her parents.  She did not tell them beforehand!  Could you imagine if your college age daughter were to call you up on the phone and say, "Hi Mom and Dad.  I just got back from a 5 day trip to California (assume you live in Eastern America), which I spent with a guy I had been talking to for the past two weeks online.  We had a blast and now are dating."  The appropriate response is to flip right out.  But no, her parents were thrilled.  Perhaps it's because she is 1 of 10 siblings, but their happiness about the situation caught me by surprise.

 

Since then we continue to talk everyday through e-mail and usually text-based chats.  Typically once a week we have a Skype-date.  And right now I am typing this in the Atlanta airport, because I am currently on my way to go visit her in Pamplona.

Help From Above

The trip to Malta required some planning and I decided to seek the help of a travel agent.  Marilyn, the travel agent's name, helped me book plane tickets and lodging in Madrid.  The idea was I was going to fly to Madrid and then from there fly to Malta with Mary Ellen.  It would be in the Madrid airport where we would first meet. 

Marilyn was very helpful, she booked the flight, found me a hotel with English speaking employees, and she was even able to convert some American currency into Euros.

Recently, my friend's Mom died from cancer.  She had been sick for sometime.  My Mom had told me I needed to pray for her, but I wasn't told why.  So for several months I prayed for my friend's Mom, and then around Christmas I was told the sad news.

It was maybe a month after this time that I started speaking with Mary Ellen.  The interesting thing about all of this is that my friend's Mom name is Marilyn and her daughter (my friend's sister) is named Mary Ellen.

St. Paul's Shipwreck

Having to ever expand my search radius on my current dating sites to impractical distances, I decided perhaps it was time to try another site.  This certainly seemed more reasonable than even considering the possibility that the problem could be with me.  So I signed up for a subscription to a Catholic oriented site.  I already had a profile so I was allowed to creep around, but I couldn't communicate with anyone, and there were several girls I wanted to say hello to.  This now made for site number 4.  But almost immediately I started having some luck.  Sure I still got one response in twenty to my own e-mails, but I was getting a lot of first-time messages from the girls.  Unfortunately, and much like the other sites, it seems it only takes about two messages from me before the girl's alarms start to ring and she bolts.  I'm still puzzled on what exactly I say that is so off-putting because I feel the girls haven't written me enough to determine that quickly how difficult I can be.  I expect them to run, just not so fast.

 

Nevertheless, exactly two weeks ago to the day, I got a message from a girl.  I think I had viewed her first, which she probably saw and gave me a look and then after seeing my manly physique she felt compelled to write.  Actually it was the site's version of a wink.  Anyway, while I liked her photos, I had some misgivings about her profile.  Oh, it was a great profile.  She was clearly someone I had to write.  But it was a very happy profile.  All these hahahas, and exclamation points all over the place.  It was all a bit much.  In fact, to highlight my point here is a passage from her profile:

Don't stop reading because I am in Spain...for that would make you a GIVER-UPPER! hahaha!

All caps, two exclamation points, and a hahaha.  Oh my.  However, she has a tremendous smile, and I can't really fault someone for being happy so I decided to send her a message.

But then there's that whole bit about Spain.  It turns out she is studying abroad there until May or June.  Well alright, I can live with that so no problems I suppose.  And we've been talking a bunch.  A bit surprisingly because as bubbly as she is, I really have no idea why she keeps writing a non-bubbly guy like me.  But she does.

Next week I have to take a holiday.  It's a long involved account of how work does vacation, but basically I'm going to have 4 days off next week.  And I am in the mood to go skiing.  I called up some friends who live somewhat nearby where I wanted to go, but unfortunately they couldn't join.  Then I thought that I hadn't been to the Alps in Italy before so maybe I should go there.  So I asked Mellen, I call her Mellen, if she'd want to take a train from Spain to Italy to go skiing in the Alps with me.  Okay, that would be a little crazy, but I put the question as a joke so while she could say yes, she could just awkwardly laugh it off.  But no, I got neither of that.  Instead I was informed by her that the Alps are crazy hard so it might not be best to go there if my skill level is not much higher than being able to sit up right on a moving sled.  And it isn't.

So now we're going to Malta instead.  I fly out Sunday to meet her in Madrid where we'll be catching a flight that day to Malta and then spending the next four days exploring the Mediterranean island and its neighbor Gozo.

Message Garners Response

Finally someone responded to a message on these dating sites. In this case it took about 10 messages to get 1 reply. And this was a great win because on this secular site, I don't think I've ever read a better profile. Not a single red flag anywhere, and she is extremely attractive. So I got a response, very quickly, and wrote back. As I waited for a second reply I went to the other site where she said she had a profile to see if I would still have written her based on this other profile. And I what I found was very interesting.

She is a devout Catholic, who goes to daily Masses, and her statements about what she is looking for in a guy couldn't be more in accord with the Church's teaching of the purpose of relationships in general. So all good there. She wants children but doesn't have any yet, has never been married, is exceptionally attractive, has a good job, works out every other day, likes dogs, lives nearby, and is very well educated. She doesn't drink or smoke, and does not "party".

However, on this other dating site, a Catholic one, I noticed her relationship status was a little different than the one on the secular site. On the secular site, she wrote, and truthfully so, 'never married'. On the Catholic site, she wrote 'annulled'. At first, still a little overwhelmed by the positives of everything else, this didn't bother me in the least. I actually wrote her a second time to say that I went to this other site to see if I still would have written and said I would have. I made no mention of any of the particulars I found there. As for the annulment I figured, whatever happened in her past, in the eyes of God as I believe in my Catholic faith, she was never married. She may have experienced a ceremony, and lived with her man for a time, but sacramentally she was never married. As the day went on I wanted to see if I could find anything else out about her. Like maybe she had a facebook page that wasn't secured, or maybe a blog. I don't think of this as creepy, I think of this as middle school crush. Anyway, I found two articles about her. One was her engagement announcement and the other was her wedding announcement. These two things bothered me a great deal.

 

Sure, sacramentally speaking, in the eyes of God the marriage never happened. But to everyone involved she experienced all the things that lead up to it. The falling in love, the engagement, the announcement, the ceremony, and then the reception. And I realized those are things I would really like both myself and my future wife (here's hoping), to experience for the first time together. Okay, I know it is crazy to think about marriage when I haven't even met this girl, but it got me thinking, and I wasn't sure what to make of it. Deep down I felt this was all stupid. I was discrediting all those amazing things about her because of this one thing. Like a potential life time of good times, was not going to happen because I wouldn't let this temporally small thing in the grand scheme of things go. But still I was stuck.

Knowing it is usually best not to let myself dwell too much on any topic, I thought I should just take it up to prayer and said a Hail Mary. Immediately, I came to a solution. I thought about Mary. Here was a young woman who was going to marry a man who already was married, and probably at that point a widower with children of his own. And from what I can tell it didn't bother her in the least. And after reflecting on that, I decided that I too should not let this be a deal breaker, and was able to move on and continue to hope that she would indeed reply to my responses to her.

Of course, she never did respond and I got myself worked up all for nothing.

One Way to Increase Temperatures

Okay, I’m giving you two in one day because I know some of you probably barfed at that last post. Shame on you, but Sunday is supposed to be a happy day, so let’s see if I can amuse you with this story.

My parents came to visit me yesterday. Visit isn’t the correct word though. They came to do “projects” in my new apartment. Mom, who had decided she was going to decorate my entire guest bathroom, had a ton of products she needed to get in there, and Dad wanted to install a number of shelves that both he and Mom felt were necessary for me to have in my laundry room and coat closet. Additionally, Dad wanted to move my thermostat. The thermostat is in the middle of a wall where I want to put my book case.

When they got here, Dad turned on golf, or rather he grabbed my three remote controls and stabbed at the buttons until I went over and helped him get the TV and golf on, and then he turned to the thermostat. He got it opened up and pulled on it till the main cable came out. The main cable houses five little wires, and these five little wires plug into the thermostat. Dad’s idea was to buy another 3 or so feet of cable, unwire the 5 little wires from the thermostat, splice them into the 3 footer, and then wire the 3 footer into the thermostat. Splicing is where you take two wires and twists the ends together to make one long wire. So essentially he just wanted to extend the amount of cable he had to work with so that it would be easier to move the thermostat to the side of the wall. Then I’d be able to put my book case against the wall.

But he ran into a problem. The five little wires were really plugged in hard into the thermostat. So hard he couldn’t get them out. So he resorted to cutting the cable. Now the idea was to place his 3 footer between his cut. So he had to do two splice jobs. Stay with me, I know this can be hard to picture from just my text. But basically he did that, and now he’s got one really long cable.

Uh-oh

What’s happened.

The thermostat isn’t turning back on.

Let me look at it.

And I looked at it. Dad seemed to have done a good job. I couldn’t detect anything wrong with his work. But the thermostat wouldn’t come back on. Then Dad thought about what he had done. He hadn’t bothered to turn off the power to the thermostat because he thought it didn’t draw enough voltage to hurt him. I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Just because something doesn’t have a lot of voltage it could draw a lot of current, and I think it’s current that gets you more than voltage. But either way, he hadn’t turned off the power and he thinks that when he cut the cable he blew a fuse in the air-conditioning unit which is in the furnace room.

For those of you who rent apartments, in my experience I almost never have access to the furnace room. So now we had to call the apartment and see if they could get us into my furnace room. I went down to the office and asked if a maintenance worker could come up and get me in the furnace closet. The man said none were available but that he could try if he had the key. That was not what I wanted. The last thing I wanted was for the managers to find out about what had happened. But I was stuck so I said okay. My idea was that maybe Dad could stand in front of the thermostat, which was now hanging on the ground due to his 3 foot extension, and the manager wouldn’t see it.

The manager walked over and I had driven and I made it back before he did, and ran in to tell Dad my plan. Dad said I should just tell him what I did. I said no way, and mocked him as a business man. I said you never ever show your full hand in cards. Let the manager come up with a key to the furnace room and just say we think a fuse is blown. There is absolutely no reason at this point to tell him what we did. So he comes up, and at the door he says he realized he doesn’t have the proper key, and the maintenance worker is out of town, so it won’t be until Monday that someone can help me get into the furnace room.

(Me) Oh that’s okay. I’ll just open a window, thanks for coming by and enjoy the rest of your weekend.

(Him) No problem. Have a great day.

(Dad) Why don’t you come in here and see what we did?

Great, thank you Dad. I had no choice but to let him in. He walked over to Dad and Dad explained the situation. He seemed fine about it, he didn’t make any faces or show anger in his voice. In fact he wanted to talk more about the golf we had on rather than the fact that my thermostat in my less than a month old brand new construction apartment was hanging on the floor from a double splice job, done by a tenant, and has apparently broken the air-conditioning unit.

On Monday, I am scheduled to meet with someone who will have the key to the furnace room. On Monday I will be wearing a tie all day, in the hopes that by looking a little distinguished, perhaps I won’t get thrown out of my apartment. Either way, Monday will be a very interesting day.

Diamond in the Rough

There are many types of Catholic Masses. To be sure they are similar, but just as Doritos and steak are similar in that they are foods, there are many varieties of Catholic Masses. A rosary is essentially 50 Hail Marys, and other prayers mixed in. But the Rosary said on Tuesday is very different from the one said on Wednesday. Only at the most superficial level can they be said to be the same. And the same is true of Catholic Masses. I have been to many types over the years. By far the absolute best is the Easter Vigil. Nothing really can compare to it in my opinion because it’s the best mixture of modern day refinements mixed with the ancient rites. For example, take an old house. Old houses have character, and some people love them for that. But no one wants to live in an old house that hasn’t been updated with air conditioning or proper electrical fixtures. For me the Vigil is like the old house that has been modernized. It’s the best of both worlds.

Anyway, despite having been to many types of Masses over the years this Friday I found myself at something completely different from anything I’ve ever experienced. In fact it was so different that the Doritos / steak example no longer applies. It’d have to be X / steak, where now there is a question as to whether or not X is a food. I got to the Church around 6:40 AM for a 7:15 Mass and Confession. The drive to the Church took me through a very run down area of town. At that hour of the morning it seemed quite peaceful but there were subtle signs that betrayed the peaceful demeanor. A bit of graffiti here, someone sleeping on a chair over there. And in the middle of it was this Church. I got there at the same time as an older lady, who had a mantilla in her hand. Mantilla’s seem to be making a comeback, enough that I don’t notice them as much anymore, maybe 1 in a thousand now, and she was older so I thought on it even less. Then I got into the Church and right away you can’t help but feel like you’ve just walked into a 3D masterpiece. Everywhere the eye’s looked was a photograph. And happily, right smack dab in the middle where it belonged was the tabernacle. A good sign. I sat down and started noticing the smaller details. The Church faced East. The altar seemed small in width and pushed back up against the tabernacle. There was a communion rail. As people came in the men and women seemed to be a little more dressy than is typical, particularly for a daily Mass, and every female young and old wore a mantilla. Then it struck me that this Church kept to the pre-Vatican II reforms.

About that time it was time for Confession. I got to go first, and had another new experience (just seeing that old style Church was the first new experience). It was in the closets like you see in the movies. I had to kneel and talk to a screen that was a curtain between me and Priest, who was in his own closet. I kept playing with the screen because I didn’t like the separation. In the end he gave me 3 decades to say. I think I upset him, because he was like “Pray 1 . . . pray 3 decades . . .”, but that was a good thing, it was a sign of holiness or in this case holy anger. Like, “in the past two weeks you just back slapped the love of my life, multiple times, you’ve got some making up to do.” I then went back out and waited for Mass to begin. And sure enough it was something radical.

The Priest had his back to us the entire time because he faced the tabernacle, and spoke entirely in Latin. I didn’t catch a single word, not because I don’t understand Latin very well, but because he spoke so incredibly fast that I couldn’t make out a single word, not one the entire Mass, excepting when he addressed my directly when I received the Eucharist, and we never said the Our Father, made a sign of peace, and there was no Homily. And it was wonderful. But I’m not saying it should ever become the norm again. No, I like the modern day “improvements”, but some things may be worth bringing back. For example, the Priest having his back turned to us. That’s one way of looking at it, but the better way of thinking about it is that he was turned to God. We live in this self-centered entitled culture, and here for the entire Mass the Priest had his back turned to us. Few things are more insulting than when someone turns there back on you, and this is what happened. But in reality he turned his back on us because he was turning to God to worship with us. It was great, and that may be worth bringing back. But the rest was a bit much. At least give us a homily, some word of encouragement in our own language. One things for sure though, I bet they have the best music on Sundays.

Still I couldn’t help feel sad the entire time. This Church really is a masterpiece, and it was built in the 50s. At that time, it was probably the focal point of the community, which was also probably very nice. But now the community had degraded so much that driving back at 7:40 AM, I thought I witnessed a crime, and felt that I would feel at risk if I dressed in anything more fashionable than jean shorts and a white t-shirt. The Church spoke of a much happier time, when that community had thrived and built that masterpiece. And so sitting there at that early hour with the others, watching the priest with his back turned, I hoped that when he leaved the Church to go about his day, he turned back to us. As though he started the day turning to God for strength, and now he’s ready to turn back to us. There’s great beauty in that.

Tennis Elbow Meets Tiger Eye

While at the club house last Saturday, I noticed a flyer for another tennis clinic that was hosting a tennis tournament.  Wondering if it offered clinics, I gave it a call and the receptionist said they didn't but that a coach comes who does and that I should call him.  That confused me a little.  If the coach gives clinics at the tennis center, in my mind that means the tennis center offers clinics.  But I just took the phone number and called the coach.
The coach, named Curtis, spoke fast and sounded a lot like Traey Jordan, the character on 30 Rock.  Basically he said he does advanced adult clinics Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, from 6 - 7:30 for $30 and then we can keep playing afterwards.  So it's an hour and a half of class and then he pairs us up with one another for match play.  It's on clay and the courts cost $12 an hour so it's a great deal.  Still a little confused, but thinking $30 a time is a lot better than $100 per month + $21 per time, I decided to attend the Monday session.
Driving there Monday evening I noticed I was heading into a poor area of town.  In my experience tennis seems to be a prep sport for the wealthy, so as I headed into poorer and poorer areas I started wondering about this tennis center.  Eventually I came to a park and saw a bunch of clay tennis courts.  The tennis center was actually a park district.  Now the receptionists odd response about the center not offering clinics made a little more sense.  Getting out of the car I made my over to group of people, sitting at a picnic table holding racquets, who reminded me of a scene from Rocky 3 (please forgive the clip and it's overlayed music, it's the best I could find.  Just go watch the movie if you shamefully haven't already).

Fortunately, everyone was very nice and welcoming.  They were also good players.  So from 6:20 (they couldn't have moved slower to start) until 7:30 we Curtis gave a lesson and then from 7:30 until 8:45 I played matches.  At that point I felt it was time to go.  I was the first to leave.  It was 95 degrees out and I was told they meet everyday and that I should come again the next day.  I was also told by Curtis that I was going to be on the team and that I had to come Friday to meet with another coach who would hit with me for an hour.  At no point was I told what this team was, or asked if I wanted to join.  I was simply told I would be on the team and to be there Friday.  Finally, it was time to pay, and to my delight I found it wasn't $30 per day, it was $30 per week.  So even though I felt very much like Steve Martin the entire time (please somebody get that reference), it was a great evening.

Susie Q in Your Bathroom

Tasteful thurday is a while off yet, but maybe we can make this a Malleable Monday.  This time around, I went with a two bedroom apartment.  I'm still not sure why I made this decision, but I did.  Maybe a part of it was that my original one bedroom apartment was so large that it was impossible to find anything in this new town that size without going to the two bedroom format.  But while that second bedroom would make an awesome study, instead I'm going to treat it as a bedroom.  That means I need to furnish it, and it's full bathroom, and find places to put my old furniture that simply do not fit in my now much smaller living room.

One major problem with the new apartment is the tremendous lack of space and the seriously questionable design considerations.  For example, there is a fantastic wall in the living room where my bookcase could go.  But right in the middle of this wall, the electricians installed my thermostat.  That should have been placed on the side of the wall, now the entire wall is ruined and I have to move it myself.  And yes I'm going to actually try moving it and the wires myself.  There are just so many things like this, little things, that add up and it just makes the whole layout entirely questionable and head scratching.

However, rather than nitpick, I want to talk about shower curtains.  In my opinion they are very important.  Basically they are like an extra wall that you're trying to decorate in full.  They're these big rectangular pieces that have decorations.  And I have some concerns with them.  For example, in smaller bathrooms, I feel shower curtains can really enclose the space and make it feel even tighter.  This is because they do act like a wall of sorts and if the bath tub is let's say a foot and a half wide, that brings the wall a foot and a half closer.  While inside the tub, if there is not an overhead light in the tub, shower curtains will block a certain amount of light from the bathroom lights.  So if a dark material is chosen the bathing area will be dark, and some people, like me, may not like this atmosphere.  I like things bright.  Also a dark material will make the entire bathroom darker when you're not in the tub.  However, a shower curtain does not have to be pulled out when it's not in use.  So this can fix both the darkened bathroom on the outside of the tub and the enclosed space problem.  But they usually come with a decoration and just having it pulled in may look weird or be dissapointing if the design is meant to be showed off.  For me, I like designs that are simple and light.  Here are the two I considered and I wound up getting the second one for the guest bathroom.  In my own bathroom I just have a simple vinyl liner with some leaves on it.  It's great but apparently no longer made, so I had to get something new for the guest bathroom.  The light blue is my contrast against the toupe walls and brown mirror frame.

The rings are also important.  If you get a shower curtain you may also need to get a vinyl liner.  But clipping both in the rings is a huge bother.  And maybe the rings don't nicely glide along the curtain rod.  Fortunately there is a solution to both these problems which was solved by Moen.

Look at those little guys; they look like a popular ladies hairstyle in the 50s.  But they're amazing.  Finally and maybe most importantly, while some may not like your choice in shower curtains, everyone will most certainly be put off by unclean shower curtains.  Mold can grow, both on the vinyl liners and the curtains.  Most are treated nowadays to prevent mold from growing, but that doesn't mean mold grow over the years.  So when you see it, throw it in the wash. 

Side Of A House Works Just As Well

Week two showed a little more progress in terms of getting out and about.  For example, today I went to a new Church.  Unfortunately, like last time, the tabernacle was no where in sight.  And while there was an extremely attractive girl whom I saw as I was leaving, she was with younger people which made it difficult for me to determine her age.  That's a really difficult problem when it comes to trying to meet people.  Like I may see a person, guy or girl, and want to strike up a conversation and later find out I'm talking to an 18 year old.  Now there's nothing wrong with that at all, just talking to people, but it puts a major block on just asking people out.  Like I cannot just go up to a random person at a grocery store, and ask a girl out only to find she is really young and just picking something up for her parents.  That would just be terrible and I would probably have to go to the hospital when my body stops functioning.  So the trick in that situation is to be a bit of a creep and try to make sure that the lady is older.  Like maybe she has an alcoholic product in her buggie.  Or something like that.  Anyway, these are just some things to think about if you're going to just go and try approaching random people on the street or at Church.  Oh well, next week I'll try yet another Church in my quest to find one with a tabernacle where I can see it.  For all my non-Catholic readers who do not know what I'm talking about, I would be perfectly fine with this tabernacle:

Speaking of images, this is the first one I've uploaded since the new blogger design and it's so much better than before.  Before I had to hand edit a bunch of html code in order to get them where I wanted.

Anyway back on topic.  Today I also went to a tennis center to inquire about their clinics.  On the way there I passed by a driveway that had a brick fence and immaculate landscaping, which snaked through some woods off to some mansion I imagined.  I started thinking this tennis center must be nice if hidden mansions are in the neighborhood.  Then I realized I missed my turnoff.  That driveway was the entrance to the tennis center.  This "tennis center" was actually more like some sort of sport center resort.  It had everything from a heated outdoor pool, to those types of classy locker rooms that scream English refinement.  So in short the place was very nice.  But I just wanted to play some tennis and when I got a view of the required membership fees I decided this was not the place for me.  And for more than just the money.  See I am allowed to participate in a discrete amount of tennis clinics as a non-member.  And the thing about the clinics is you have to call ahead of time and register because if not enough people sign up then they don't hold the clinic.  Yesterday I called and asked to be in this morning's clinic.  And just 8:00 this morning I got a call saying not enough people had signed up so the clinic was canceled.  Now if I were a paying member and I heard this I would be really upset.  I don't want to pay $100 a month, on top of the cost of participating in the clinic which is $21, just to find out the one thing I want to do is canceled.  So I asked the clubs representative who was showing me around if this sort of thing is typical.  She said in the summer time a lot of people are on vacation and that the tennis program experiences a lull in signups.  But in August it picks back up.  That was not what I wanted to hear.  Because in August school starts up.  So if tennis picks up it's because the types of people who are playing it are families.  I don't want to meet families.  So this palace of sports is a no-go.  But there may be others that offer clinics.  Not that I've found any yet, but maybe something will turn up.

Then the other day I got an e-mail from a dating site saying I'd get a discount if I signed up that day.  Well I've done this before and had absolutely no good things to report about it at all.  None.  But I decided to sign up anyway for the 3 month period for the price of a new video game.  Sigh.  So far I've written 6 women.  Two have read my e-mail, and of those one actually looked at my profile after reading it.  I kind of was excited about her too, she reminded me a bit of number 13 from House.  I've also had one wink from an Agnostic 25 year old whose 'for fun' section includes " judo chopping people when I'm drunk."  Positively she is a social worker who specializes in child abuse, so that's good, but I'm going just be flattered by the wink and keep looking.