Help Wanted

Into the midst of our high-pitched mess—
Come, Holy Spirit:

Move in,
Take over,
Permeate this place
with Your power and peace.

Immerse our house, every corner and crack.
Saturate our creaky, crumb-covered floors;
Bathe our naked dolls and Potato Head parts.
Ooze into our chaotic cupboards and our crayoned couches.

Blow through the books,
Swirl through the stacks,
Peruse and pervade the piles and piles of papers,
Commandeer the cable!

The clothes, laundered and un-,
strewn about the floors of the basement and bedrooms,
Please fill them.
And bless the wearers,
bearers of Your image, Your aroma, Your name,
Mess-makers, all.

Progress Regret

A few weeks ago, I catalogued some cute characteristics of our girl Pearl. Sad to say, one of her sweet sayings, “Farry” (meaning “Sorry”), has fallen by the wayside of progress—that is, speech development. She apologizes (albeit reluctantly) with full-bodied Ss now. I know I shouldn’t feel saddened by the advancement…and mostly I’m glad. But for parents (heck, for people in general) it’s sometimes a little bit hard to let go of the baby ways. Or, as Pearl would still say, pronouncing her Ls like Ys: “a yi’ll bit hawd.”

Courthouse Conundrum

The County Courthouse is located in A-Town. It’s a beautiful and majestic building. When we first moved back here six years ago after living in a larger-city suburb, I felt a small thrill each time I drove up our new street returning from work in the evenings: It was winter, so I could see the Courthouse dome beaconing through the leafless trees. My heart would swell with love for A-Town and I would sigh—sometimes out loud, sometimes just inside myself—and say, “I'm home.”

In those days, I often romanticized about what it felt like to be living back in A-Town. I am not exaggerating when I say that my feelings of affection for this place sometimes swept over me in a such a way that I likened our first few months here to a honeymoon between me and my hometown. Fellow A-Town-ites tease me about this, particularly “Purple Eagles” (yep—our school mascot) who have flown away to the ends of the earth. One childhood friend is living in Los Angeles; my former next-door neighbor currently resides in London, England; TK lives in Detroit, RC lives in Phoenix, JD lives in Washington, D.C. ... (Of course, I have scrounged up most of this information from Facebook, the amazing classmate connector. But FB is a topic for another day ... perhaps even a dissertation!)

But back to A-Town Square: I admire the Courthouse so much for its architectural ambiance that I frequently forget its somber purpose of upholding the laws of the land. About two years ago, I was called for jury duty—my first opportunity since our fourth grade school tour to actually set foot inside the structure. On that day, sitting through the tedious proceedings of jury selection in an accident-injury case, I realized that not everyone has warm-fuzzy feelings each time they cast their eyes on this glorious edifice. In fact, it is a dreaded place of prosecution for many people whose actions and/or circumstances force them to face the halls of justice. That those halls have been beautifully crafted and carefully preserved likely serves as little comfort to those who pass through them only to “serve time.” Nor to the victims whose anguish cannot be assuaged by cold marble columns, no matter how elegant.

This week, my work prompted me to visit the Courthouse again in an official capacity, and I was reminded of the reality that A-Town is not a charmed place where everybody lives happily ever after. There are problems here—painful ones, troubles of which I know not.

Totally Headless Hermione

This picture is symbolic of the bordering-on-bizarre scenarios I encounter on a nearly daily basis whilst living with young children: Sunday morning, early. Dining room table. Newspaper, Valentine carnation, Duck tape, pillar candle, headless action figure. And not just any action figure, but the brilliant, lovely Hermione Granger, dear friend of Harry Potter, who is dear indeed in the Waters household.

Will and I, like lots of Christian parents, were wary of the HP series when our then-8-year-old daughter Vi expressed interest in the books. We were fine with the fantasy concept; it was the witchcraft and wizardry we wanted to keep out of our children's hearts and minds. But when a trusted English professor at a nearby Christian college told me she included and enjoyed the Sorceror's Stone in her Children's Lit class, I decided to embark on a "campus visit" to Hogwarts (Harry's school) and investigate the possibility of enrollment in the worldwide HP Fan Club. (I was only about 10 years behind the times!)

From the moment I stepped my proverbial foot onto Platform 9¾, I could not stop the reading train! Vi and I began the books out loud together in July 2007—although, I confess, in hushed tones: We started the series while at Christian Family Camp, and I semi-seriously suspected that a camp official, out walking the grounds one evening, might overhear our HP recitation, rap on our cabin door, and confiscate the "objectionable" literature. But no such knock disturbed us. In fact, over the next few months, we deemed very little important enough to interrupt our intense interest in the outcome of J.K. Rowling's epic tale.

The "witchcraft" and "wizardry" were not the sort I originally feared. Midway through the adventure, I discovered John Granger, a like-minded believer well-qualified to articulate my own inklings: that Rowling's work is rife with Christian symbolism and offers many meaningful lessons for readers of faith to apply to their own lives—lessons of loyalty, friendship, self-sacrifice, perseverance, and, above all, love. (Someone we know, Travis Prinzi, shares his impressions as a Christian convert to the HP series in his recently released book, Harry Potter & Imagination: The Way Between Two Worlds.) I realize and respect that not all HP fans share this view. However, the influence of Harry Potter on my family and me has been so intimate, important, and decidedly religious that I can't imagine experiencing HP in any other light. (Kind of like I don't understand how anyone can watch the movies and follow the storylines without having first read the books. I know that plenty of people do it, but I prefer my way.)

Will says I should come up with some clever manner of tying up these thoughts, connecting the odd assortment of items from the picture with my "Surprised By Harry" reflections. However, I maintain that the unexpected parts of life, like finding weird stuff around the house or finding oneself in a formerly feared fictional character, are anything but tidy. I'm leaving it at that.

Essential Groceries - Part 2

Waters Shopping List(s)
Could be called: "Things we prefer not to live without"
Or, "If I don't buy it, no one will"
Or, "Life is just better with these things on hand"

Grace's Grocery Gotta-Haves

1) Coffee - whole bean, darkish roast
I mentioned this on the ubiquitous "25 Things" list which I was (apparently) too uncool to resist writing (cf. Joel Stein's recent column on the subject): #20) I like coffee—good coffee, properly roasted, ground, and brewed. I’m pretty picky about it, and I tend to drink too much of it, especially in the winter.

2) Ziploc sandwich bags
What can I say? I find oodles of uses for them.

3) Cat litter
Will's olfactory awareness is dim indeed compared to mine.

4) Cheese sticks - mozzarella, part-skim
...the "string cheese" variety, only most days I'm too grown-up and un-fun to actually pull the cheese apart into edible strings.

5) Nuts - whole cashews, roasted almonds and/or peanuts
A filling, healthful snack (if only I could stop when I'm supposed to!)

6) Dryer sheets
Not only is Will apathetic about the nice aroma dryer sheets create; he also couldn't care less about the static caused by their absence.

7) Steel-cut oats...oh, and honey to squeeze on top
Just plain yummy—delicious and nutritious.

Will Won't Go Without...

1) Bagels - cinnamon raisin or everything...occasionally blueberry

2) Dish soap [which disappears much more quickly than it ought to, even at Will's admirable pace of dish-washing upkeep—Ben and Pearl are obsessed with any substance that lathers!]

3) Whipped topping - lite [blech!]

4) Imitation maple syrup - lite [double blech!!]

5) Bacon bits [why???]

6) Yogurt - many varieties [whatever's on sale]

7) Twizzlers - the red kind (strawberry), jumbo package [sometimes he buys that ultra-fake cherry-flavored, pull-apart, stringy kind]

8) Deli ham, ground beef, and hot dogs [perhaps to prove that, despite the dish-washing role, he is a bona fide, red-blooded American male]

Essential Groceries - Part 1

Will does most of the grocery shopping for our household, a fact for which I am grateful. I have always openly disliked doing dishes (ever since I was cruelly forced to wash them as an elementary school girl), so I was happy that Will took on that task early in our marriage. But it was fairly recently that I realized my reticence toward shopping for food and supplies.

Set me loose in a thrift store, and it feels like a treasure hunt—fun! But choosing groceries is a burdensome chore in my view. The main reason, I think, is that I struggle to make decisions. There are so many factors to consider: price, quantity, quality, visual appeal, likelihood of consumption (especially acute for perishables), environmental conscientiousness (organic vs. non, recyclable packaging), ETC.!

As a child, I witnessed my mother’s long grocery outings with a mixture of fascination and frustration. As a traditional homemaker of the 1970s, she tackled shopping preparation and administration as an essential function of her job. And I do mean tackled! Retrieving the wad of fliers from the Sunday newspaper was, to my mom, like accepting a weekly bonus. She spent many hours poring over the pages, scissors in hand, “The Box” nearby.

The Box was Mom’s organizational system for keeping coupons according to product types. There were at least two dozen categories of couponable items filed in there, including a section in front, marked “Urgent,” containing soon-to-expire coupons. Coupons that were eligible to be doubled or tripled in value—a promotion offered by certain stores—were kept in the front part of their filing areas.

The Box was serious business, protected almost as fiercely as The Purse. The Box was plain brown, double-wide shoebox-sized, cardboard. No lid (crazy, I know—the open top resulted in tragic dumping too-many times). If The Box was missing, our household was a-harmonious. The Box was in constant need of purging and refreshing. It was almost like a family pet—but a creature loved and nurtured solely by my mother. The rest of us considered it a constant nuisance. In truth, The Box—and its proprietor—likely saved us thousands of dollars, per year, in grocery money.

As I write, I’m beginning to understand the source of my angst: I mean, when I do step foot in the store, I’ll go for the Shopper’s Club savings, but how could I ever possibly measure up to the legacy of The Box?

In the next installation of “Essential Groceries,” I’ll write about what I intended to in the first place (before the coupons commandeered my memories): Will’s quirky shopping habits, like buying imitation bacon bits on every third grocery run, even when we already have five containers of the imperishable items in the household and he’s the only one who ever dares consume them. (Things that make me go, “Hmmm…”) Perhaps in writing on that topic, I will discover the meaning behind that mystery as well.

Squint!

Sunshine flooded A-Town today,
Startling me with its boosting power,
Basting me in its confidence and cheer,
Mesmerizing me with its mood-altering brightness.
I had to squint; I had to smile.

Card Clutter

Originally Posted by Will Waters Feb. 8, 2009 @ lifeinatown.wordpress.com

I grew up collecting boxes and boxes of baseball, football and basketball cards. Initially it was for fun, but later in my teen years I started to view them as “investments.” That’s about the time, in the early 1990s, when the card companies flooded the market and the card industry hit the crapper.

Many of the stars of that era—Dwight Gooden, Don Mattingly, Jose Canseco, Darryl Strawberry and Mark McGwire—also fizzled with injuries, drug problems and off-field troubles. Their card values plummeted like Kodak stock.

But it was a good era for football with guys like Dan Marino and John Elway. Basketball also was golden with Michael Jordan, Charles Barkley, Magic Johnson and Larry Bird.

As I moved around, venturing off to college and changing addresses several times with my mother, I kept the really good cards close by. I even sold a few in a pinch at college. When it was time for the winter formal dance my freshman year, and I was short on cash, I sold a couple Barry Sanders and Troy Aikman rookie cards. I think I got $100 for the lot. That paid for my tickets, a new tie and flowers for my date.

I was content to leave most of the cards in my old bedroom at my father’s house. Last year he began cleaning out the house preparing to move into a smaller one. Each trip home I returned with three or four boxes of cards. After a year, the cards started piling up and they’ve overtaken an entire bedroom in our house.

I’d sell some of these, but they’re not worth that much. They’re not worthless either, so I don’t want to give them away. I also don’t want to take the time to hunt down buyers. With online auctions, you should have these things professionally graded because the difference in value between “good” condition and “very good” is about double the price of the card. I don’t want to shell out money getting a card appraised and its condition graded when the sale price may not cover those costs.

So I’ve just let the cards sit on shelves, in the corner on the floor, on top of desks and tables. My wife says they should go. I agree. I don’t feel much emotional attachment to them. I keep hoping someone will show up, hand me two grand, and take the lot.

Anyone interested? lifeinatown@gmail.com

Exercises in Enthusiasm

Originally Posted Feb. 7 '09 @ lifeinatown.wordpress.com

This week, Ben decided he really wanted some homework. He expressed feelings of jealousy that his older sister Vi and many of his bus friends have homework. This is the sort of sweet enthusiasm exhibited by very young learners. If only we could keep this passion alive throughout grade school, junior high, and on and on, throughout our lives.

In my own experience, the fires burned brightly until about ninth grade, when my primary love interest turned from books to boys. My intellectual curiosity didn’t regain its full fervor until late in college, when I looked back with no small level of remorse about the brilliant scholar I might have been were it not for the allure of dancing eyes, witty one-liners, and Stetson cologne. But enough about me!

Ben wanted homework, so we took a look at Mrs. K’s Pre-K Newsletter and found the Home Corner Activity of the week: “Draw a picture of a place you can go or something you can do to get exercise.” Taking cues from his strong-man dad, Ben quickly sketched the attached picture. To add weight to the work, Ben asked me for the first letters of several of his friends’ names, which appear on the right side of the body-building boy. Beautiful.

In other Waters exercise news, Vi had her first P.E. swim session last Monday. This is an experience Vi had been fretfully fearing—even dreaming about—since the first day of fourth grade last September. We have taken her to the school pool to practice as frequently as our crazy-juggling schedules would allow (not nearly often enough to suit Vi). We have discussed the dreaded “Swim Test” many times over the last several months. The night before the Big Day, Vi received a pep-talk phone call from Auntie Jean who lives overseas and who promised to offer prayers for peace, strength and success at 2 o’clock Monday, our time. After school, big smiles: Vi was one of 6 kids in her class to qualify for the Deep End—in the non-nutty sense of the term. What a relief! “Who of you by worrying can add a [swim-stroke] to your life?”

Lastly, I can’t end an entry about this week’s exercises without sharing a bit about our Ballroom Dancing lessons, which we’re taking Tuesday nights in February. I gave Will a gift card for the class as a Christmas present. I thought it would be fun and funny, and I liked the notion of supporting our friend, the dance instructor. Will felt sheepish at first: When we arrived at the studio and the greeter/receptionist asked whether we were there for Ballroom lessons, Will asked her to keep her voice down. But when he saw several other respectable men enrolled in the class, he seemed to let down his guard. And, amazingly, we found out we can Fox-Trot! The part where the man is supposed to guide his partner into a spin was the most fun for me. The instructor tried telling the men how to apply pressure to the woman’s left shoulder to indicate the intended twirl, but Will gave away the move every time with a ridiculous brightening of his face, raising his eyebrows and dropping his jaw in a jaunty grin. It was fun and funny—and will be for the rest of this month. We hope to be able to show off our new moves at two weddings we’re to attend later this year. Breakdown!

Original Comments:

1. I LOVE reading your posts!! I could just see the scene at the dance studio!! Too fun!

Comment by SeekingPlumb — February 7, 2009 @ 4:24 pm

Vi-va Nervosa

Originally Posted Jan. 31, 2009 @ lifeinatown.wordpress.com

Vi landed a part in the local high school musical. She’s just a fourth-grader, but the show calls for two kids, and Vi was recommended as a ham-who-can-sing by some of her teachers at the elementary school. She can sing, too—while our precious Pearl (ahem) “sings” like her Papa, Vi stood in the theater director’s living room and performed “The Star Spangled Banner” with such confidence and precision that I practically burst with pride.

There were no formal auditions. The director sought suggestions, interviewed the children, and chose the ones he needed. So it all came about in private—until this week, when Vi had to attend her first full-cast sing-through of the show. I picked her up at the end of the school day, rather than having her ride the bus home. Then I walked her from the elementary school over to the Big-Bad-H.S., site of many happy memories as well as angst-filled moments in my own adolescence. It smells the same—the school. I’ve noticed that all three schools retain the same predominant aroma as when I hallowed their halls 17-30 years ago: elementary (Tempera paint), middle (chlorine from the pool), and high school (unidentified source—pheromones, probably pheromones).

My pulse rose slightly as we checked in at the office and made our way to the music wing. We wove through a few small groups of teenagers. (Why did I feel intimidated? Am I not twice their age—or more? I wondered if my hair looked okay. I hoped my jeans were long enough. Had I remembered to tweeze my eyebrows that morning?) We arrived at the rehearsal room—chock full of musical teens, plus the director and choreographer. I felt daunted by the scene. I wondered how my 9-year-old daughter would manage the pressure awaiting her in the next two hours. But I didn’t hover. I handed her a brown paper bag with some snacks in it, and I left the room, the hall, the school—briskly.

At exactly six o’clock, I returned to collect my girl. She reported that when it came her turn to sing her solo, she “felt hot and wanted to puke.” Flashback! I remembered the feeling.

Original Comments:

1. I feel exactly the same way… but about people my own age on down to teens.
Comment by SeekingPlumb — February 1, 2009 @ 12:47 am

Precious Pearl-isms

Originally Posted Jan. 25, 2009 @ lifeinatown.wordpress.com

Pearl is 3 years old and, in her parents’ completely biased opinion, exceptionally cute. Here are some representative Pearl-isms, for your enjoyment:

Instead saying “Sorry” (as Pearl must often be coaxed to say, especially to brother Ben), she says: “Farry.”

In like manner, “sweater” is pronounced “fwetter.”

To Pearl, the pronoun “I” is nonexistent – in its place, she substitutes “My”:

“My need a drink of water.”
“My love you.”
“My don’t want to wear a fwetter.”

Pearl’s all-purpose curse word / insult / expression of exasperation is “Shut up.” (OK, we know this is not really cute, but sometimes we find it hard not to smile at her usage.) Pearl seems to invent excuses for uttering this powerful phrase. For example, she might tell us: “Hannah told me to shut up, and that was not really nice.” (She might not have seen Hannah for well over a week, and it’s almost certainly a false accusation, but the ‘reporting’ premise allows her to say ‘shut up’ without actually saying it.)

Pearl, like her Papa, loves to sing, and she usually does so with tremendous enthusiasm and scant regard (or is it oblivion?) for accuracy of pitch. (Much like Will.)

Pearl is a chatterbox. Her enlightening explanations about the world and the way things work is peppered with the conjunction “be-tuz” (because).

One of Pearl’s most frequent, most adorable phrases is: “Pick it up me.” And we do.

Original Comments:

1. Too cute!!
Comment by SeekingPlumb — January 25, 2009 @ 6:37 pm

2. One of my friends has a son who yells, “Hugga me…Hugga me..” in the middle of the night. They run and pick him up. Wouldn’t you?
Comment by Sarah — January 26, 2009 @ 8:59 pm

Excusing the View

Originally Posted Jan. 22, 2009 @ lifeinatown.wordpress.com

Thatched hut dressing rooms. That’s what I’m staring at for the entire 40 minutes of my workout. Directly behind me, the wall is covered with a beautiful tropical beach scene. In fact, the whole gym is tropical/nautical in décor – which, with as much winter as we endure in these parts, is a good idea. I like the place. It’s all women, and I like the friendly banter among the patrons. But the layout of the exercise equipment leaves this to be desired: A better view from the elliptical trainers than two simple curtained stalls with a faux straw roof. Positive spin: I am compelled to exercise my imagination, as well as my body.

Original Comments:

1. Way to spin it!
Comment by Jean — January 22, 2009 @ 8:53 pm

2. LOL! I love your writing!
Comment by SeekingPlumb — January 25, 2009 @ 6:34 pm

Pee and Peppermint

Originally Posted Jan. 17, 2009 @ lifeinatown.wordpress.com

This is a story about our downstairs bathroom. We have a 4-year-old son. Anyone who lives with a little boy can relate: They might be potty-trained, but their aim stinks. And I mean, literally, stinks.

First, there’s the wet seat problem – despite my repeated admonitions for Ben to please lift up both toilets lids, he frequently forgets. Then, I frequently forget that he forgets and – doh! – I sit on the peed-on potty. Hate that.

The second and more vexing problem is the smell the errant pee causes when some of it lands on the floor and dries there. And no matter how hard I try to clean the toilet bowl and the surrounding area on a regular, almost-daily basis, I can’t keep up! The bathroom always seems to smell like pee.

Another one of our potty problems is the traveling soap and towel set. I’ve tried bar soap, liquid soap, foaming soap, even dish soap, but I haven’t yet secured a soap that will last more than two days in our bathroom. The kids play with it, drain it, hide it, or drop it behind the bureau, only to be rediscovered clumped up with the dust bunnies six months later. As for hand-wiping implements, our youngsters seem to think a wet towel is a happy towel – they douse any and every piece of cloth (or paper) that I place within three feet of the sink.

My father works part time at a grocery store. About a month ago, he brought home a lovely, pearlescent, pear-shaped dispenser filled with special, holiday-scented soap: Peppermint Vanilla. I received it as one would a treasure. I protected it from the resident soap-snatchers by stealthily stashing it behind the bathroom curtain, on the upper level of the double-hung window sill – surely, I thought, this one will survive.

For the last month, the soaps have rotated as usual though the family wash basin, while I have carefully apportioned a half-pump’s-worth of Peppermint Vanilla lava-like surfactant onto my skin and enjoyed the luxury and success of my personal soap supply.

Two nights ago, however, our two potty predicaments converged: A friend of mine had come to see me. In preparing the house for her visit, I left the precious peppermint soap perched on the sink so that, should nature call, she could enjoy the extravagance of washing her hands with something other than grease-fighting dish detergent. I think she did, in fact, use the restroom while she was here. So I should have felt proud of making provision for my guest. However, I forgot to return the soap to its hiding place.

Two hours later, I was sorting books in an upstairs bedroom when I heard my husband Will exclaim: “Oh, man! This is dangerous, you guys.” I dashed down, only to discover my fears confirmed: My lovely peppermint gift-soap, thickly lathered all over the downstairs bathroom floor. My heart sank (unreasonably, I realize – this was soap, Grace – keep your eternal perspective!) but 10 minutes later I laughed out loud when I realized: No more pee smell! The peppermint wiped up the pee. At least for the next 24 hours.

Original Comments:

1. Grace - This is wonderful - you are such a gifted writer, and I love the stories about family life - they are the best !! Love - Renee
Comment by Renee — January 17, 2009 @ 11:20 am

2. Hey, that’s the same topic that got “Will” banned from speaking in school. You guys are two pees in a pod (no pun intended…)
Comment by Randy LeBaron — January 17, 2009 @ 1:22 pm

3. My boyfriend and Ben have much in common! Maybe I need to invest in some of that stuff.
Comment by Jean — January 17, 2009 @ 9:10 pm

4. ha ha ha Soap may not be safe but it is good.
Comment by Lucille — January 25, 2009 @ 6:22 pm

5. ROFLOL!! Kids are an adventure!! Some day, maybe you’ll have an ensuite to the bedroom. Then, you can have your very own lovely, smelling soaps. It’s something I splurge on for myself, now that I’m single. Yummy smelling soaps from Bath & Body Works.
Comment by SeekingPlumb — January 25, 2009 @ 6:28 pm

The Why

Originally Posted Jan. 15, 2009 @ lifeinatown.wordpress.com

I’ve started other blogs before, but I’ve never kept up with any of them. I hope this one will be different — partly because I have my cousin Karin in mind, but also because I’m overcoming two of my biggest obstacles: identity and anonymity. Let me explain:

1) Identity. Because of the nature of my work, I’ve always hesitated to express personal thoughts about my life as publicly as in a blog. So I’ve decided to use pseudonyms in this one.

2) Anonymity. I’ve tried the pseudonym trick in the past, but then I haven’t told anybody that I’m writing the blog, thus missing out on my most natural readership: family and friends. So, this time, I’m notifying potentially interested parties via private email.

My sister says the best blogs have a theme of some sort. She’s probably right (she usually is), but I don’t have any set theme in mind, except “Young Family Life in Small Town America.” Pretty bland, probably, but maybe a theme/themes will emerge. One of the nice features of the WordPress blog program is that readers can sign up for email notifications whenever there are new posts. My ambition is to post once a week, but in case I don’t, I won’t have thousands of readers eagerly checking, only to have their hopes dashed.

Switching Horses

When I was a kid, one of our favorite family games was Yahtzee—Triple Yahtzee, to be more exact. My dad loved the game and, somewhere along the line—maybe it was a gift from Uncle D., I'm not sure—he acquired a brown leather dice-shaking cup. The cup was longer-lasting and a lot quieter than the red plastic cup that came with the Yahtzee game from the stores (apparently). By the time I entered the family (I'm the youngest kid by 5 years), Triple Yahtzee was so well-established in our household that we only bought replacement packages of scorecards.

Many happy holiday hours were spent shaking five dice in the leather cup, spilling them onto the card table, choosing the best combinations to suit one's number needs, marking the red-white-and-blue scorecards, and tallying them up at the end of the game. (Bad as I consider my math skills, they'd be much worse were it not for all that Yahtzee addition and multiplication.)

One of the maneuvers I learned playing Yahtzee was what my father referred to as "switching horses." Each player's turn consisted of three rolls: 1) Shake and roll the dice once, choose the best pair, or go for a sequence; 2) shake and roll again, then see which of the remaining dice best suit your goal for that turn; 3) shake and roll a third time, and mark your sheet with your cumulative best. "Switching horses" meant changing your strategy after the second roll. For example, say your first roll yielded two 5-dice and three miscellaneous numbers; you might set aside the two 5's and roll the three remaining dice, trying for more 5's (resulting in a 3-of-a-kind, 4-of-a-kind, or 5-of-a-kind, otherwise known as Yahtzee, worth 50 points!). However, if your second roll yields, say, three 4's, you'd likely consider "switching horses" and going for 4-of-a-kind in 4's or even Yahtzee.

The Yahtzee-Blog analogy is: I recently began a blog by a similar title on WordPress.com—lifeinatown.wordpress.com—but it's not as user-friendly as I'd hoped. Mainly, I really want friends and family to be able to receive email notifications whenever I post, but there doesn't seem to be a quick-and-easy way to activate that option. (I'm not the world's most techno-savvy person, but I consider myself pretty adept at figuring things out. My patience ran thin fiddling with the WordPress set-up.) So, I'm switching horses! I'm starting this blog and planning to transfer my previous posts from WordPress to Blogger. We'll see how it goes.