It’s been an uneventful week and I wasn’t entirely sure what topic would make for a good post. Maybe this time I should celebrate the mundane.
The church I where I sing is undergoing extensive renovations. The building will be magnificent when complete, but for the moment we’re celebrating the services in the parish hall. The parish is known for its excellent music. Singing there is the only real reason I’ve got for attending. The sanctuary has pristine acoustics. The parish hall can be euphemistically described as “comfy.” There are no hard surfaces and any sound is swallowed. Construction is delayed a bit and now we’re not likely to be back in the sanctuary until after Easter.
Our director has used this as an opportunity to be creative, selecting anthems that sound lovely sung with a piano or a cappella. The organ isn’t an option so he doesn’t lament. I admit that I’d be prone to griping in similar circumstances. I’m not the director, I don’t have to worry about the music, and I’m fine with both things. Credit it to my Lenten maturity. Ha!
Today I’m thankful for olives.
I don’t remember seeing this happen but my sister swears it’s true and I have no reason to doubt her. Neither of us is fond of olives. Our mother almost inhales them, she enjoys so much. While the two of us were growing up she’d always have a jar of them in the refrigerator. I always gave them a wide berth. My sister would lick the salt from them and replace the olives in the jar. She says she thought the salt was the only reason a well-balanced person would purchase olives. She told this to our mother about a year ago. Our mother responded that she’d always wondered why her olives were so bland.
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This might run a little long though I hope you still enjoy it. Today I’m thankful for my mother’s unflappability.
We visited Reykjavik in 2014. Our return flight left Keflavik in the afternoon so we landed late in the evening. We both had an additional flight. We scheduled a layover long enough that we could get a hotel room and full night’s sleep.
I wanted to find an acceptable hotel offering a free shuttle to the airport the next morning. Most hotels have shuttles but they can cost as much as a nice dinner. I eventually found a place with fair reviews, advertising a free shuttle.
A cheerful driver picked us up at the airport. The hotel concierge greeted us as we walked in, from behind a substantial pane of glass. We were shown to a very clean room, complete with concrete floor and sturdy deadbolt. We ordered pizza (actually quite tasty), blocked the door with a chair and had a quiet night. Our drive to the airport and return flights were uneventful.
It wasn’t until I finally got home and scoured the hotel website that I noticed the discreet mention of “hourly rates.” I had booked my mother and me into what was essentially a love hotel. I was mortified. My mother thought the entire experience was exceedingly funny, and did it all with a broken fibula. I have to say that everyone at the hotel treated us very kindly, as we were clearly out of place.
Today I’m grateful for basic self-awareness.
I had the sheer breadth and depth of my nerdiness confirmed when I realized I’d confused the Ainulindalë and the Annunaki, and I didn’t even stop to think about why I know this stuff. I will never, ever, ever be cool.