bekahcubed

Once in a blue moon, you have one of those days.

It just so happens that yesterday was a blue moon. And one of those days.

It started out normally enough. Go to work, do work, get interrupted and don’t get anywhere near as much work as you should get done done.

And then I got the call from my cook.

Help was needed in the kitchen.

As in–roll up my sleeves and wipe tables, set tables, serve meals kinda help.

When I got done and did my dining room twirling (you mean you don’t do a tour of your dining room to see how all of your resident’s meals were and if you can get them anything else at the end of meal service? For shame), I offered to transport one resident to her room only to have her break down into tears.

It wasn’t me. It wasn’t my offer. She was just having one of those days and was discombobulated and overwhelmed and frustrated at her own inability to take care of herself.

But it was rather emotionally draining for me too.

I finally left the building around 7:30, sending a quick Facebook update as I did:

“I don’t think I even need to look it up. It’s GOT to be a full moon.”

A friend commented back that it was not only a full moon but a BLUE moon, which I realized at once was true.

As I drove by the stadium, I saw the cars and realized that–oh yes, I had been planning on going to Columbus High’s first home football game (and the first marching band performance of the year.)

I drove home, filled my water bottle, hopped on my bike and headed back towards the football stadium.

In a hurry to get into the game (I was already rather late) and with little option for where to chain my bike (why doesn’t this town have any decent bike racks?), I chained my bike to a low post. It was low enough that someone with will could lift the bike off–but the chain through the rear tire and around the pedals would have made it hard to take the bike anywhere without drawing attention.

I found my friends, squeezed onto the bleachers and cheered the boys on. The brother of a friend has become quite a dynamo on the team, and I was proud to hear Spencer’s name mentioned again and again over the loudspeaker.

The band, home to a number of kids from church, did an admirable job, marching like troopers in the 95 degree heat. Once the band kids sat down in the section next to us and once a bit of breeze came up, the rank odor of their superheated bodies wafted our way. Delicious (not).

Columbus pulled off a victory, from a 35-35 tie, with a last minute touchdown.

After the game, scores of fans made their way to the field to revel in the new taxpayer-funded Astroturf.

We stood around talking–and eventually determined that three of us (Beth, Jon, and I) hadn’t had supper yet.

Which, of course, calls for a late night taco run.

I ate my first Taco Johns. (Potato Oles. Meat and Potato Burrito. Crisp Shelled Taco. Sopapilla things. Yummy.)

We drove back, debating whether to drop me off at my bike or at home (I could always get the bike tomorrow.) We figured Jon could hold the bike out the car window on the way back to my house :-) so we drove by for the bike.

We drove along, laughing and wondering whether we weren’t on a one way section of the little turn about in front of the stadium, when I realized that we’d passed the post my bike had been chained to.

My bike wasn’t there.

Yeah.

We played around with possibilities for a while. Wondered at such a thing happening in Columbus, of all places. Seriously? A bike isn’t safe in Columbus?

I figured there was always a chance it was locked inside the stadium by some “grown-up” who locked up. I’d find it, probably. And worrying wouldn’t do me much good anyway.

Beth asked me about the bike. “How’d you get it?” she asked.

I paid for it. Around $500.

I think both Jon and Beth were starting to freak out. I was still pretty calm. It wasn’t like I could do anything about it.

One thing worried me though. The long weekend meant I probably couldn’t reach anybody from the school until next Tuesday. Which meant that if, on the off-chance, the bike had actually been stolen…the police would be like “And you didn’t say anything until now?”

So I called the police station.

Yesterday, at 11:18 pm, the Columbus Police Department logged an incident…well, maybe they did.

The switchboard operator listened to my story, took my information, started asking me to describe the bike.

How do I describe my bike?

“Um…it’s black, maybe 26 inches. It’s a ladies bike–or at least it doesn’t have the high bar. It has a, uh–what do you call that thing on the back? It has a rack on the back. There’s a mount for a speedometer on front but it wouldn’t have the speedometer installed.”

The woman was very patient. “Does the bicycle have any markings?”

I’m trying desperately to remember the brand, trying to think if I have an owner’s manual somewhere that would give details.

I’m remembering that my bike has a name, but I can’t remember what my bike’s name is. I know there’s a clue there but I can’t figure out what it is*.

The woman tries again: “What color was the chain you tied it up with?”

That was easier. “Oh, red. A combination lock.”

“Ma’am, we have your bicycle here at the station. One of the street department guys thought it was too nice to be sitting out and brought it in. You can come and pick it up anytime.”

Yep.

That’s my story. Friday the 31st.

Once in a blue moon in Columbus, Nebraska.

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There IS a clue in my bicycle’s name. I call him Kane, as in “Citizen Kane”, because my bike’s brand is “Citizen” and it has “Citizen” written across the thingammy post that goes betwixt your legs.

My favorite place to shop is the thrift store.

I’m an absolute sucker for fabric (“yardage”), books, and vintage clothing.

Even when I already own twenty plus yards of double knit, when I see another couple yards sitting in a bin for fifty cents a yard, I just know that I need it for that amazing double knit quilt I’ve got hanging around in my head. And vintage patterns? Who can resist, even if the sizing is wrong? (I have a dressmaker’s curve–unfortunately I haven’t made myself that dress form I keep saying I’m going to make to make fitting easier.)

Books. You know how much I love them. I used to buy them indiscriminately, ending up with multiple copies of the same book because I wasn’t sure whether I already owned them or not. Now I have the titles of maybe 2/3 of my collection (the fiction and the “religious” books) on a file on my Kindle so I can double check whether I already own something or not. Still, I find myself uber-tempted to buy duplicates just for the sheer love of books.

And clothes.

Honestly, I’m not a clothes horse in the traditional sense of the term. I’m not about keeping up on the trends or being fashion-forward or anything. But I do like browsing through the used store racks.

Most often, I’ll stop in my flipping to muse “Hey, that’s cute” over a dress or skirt. Then my fingers will slip inside to bare the tag.

Size 2.

Definitionally cute. As in, small.

Why do the clothes that little petite things wear appeal to me so much?

I’m neither fat nor big-boned, but some of those cute little things couldn’t fit over a single one of my thighs.

But they’re so cute.

Tiny, adorable, I-probably-couldn’t-have-fit-them-when-I-was-eight.

Which is probably why I stick with vintage.

Despite the evidence that today’s people are much fatter than yesteryear’s, I tend to find vintage that fits (or that I can take in just a bit to make it fit).

Why is that?

Maybe they just used more fabric in the olden days.

Yes, I’m going to guess that’s it.

Not like the cute things they sell these days which would never cover my (even my otherwise rather inadequate) bottom.

Columbus and Grand Island are home to a large and ever-increasing Hispanic population, and, while my Spanish is very poor, I try at least to pronounce peoples’ names properly.

Thankfully, the rules for Spanish pronunciation are fairly straightforward; so as long as I can see a name in print, I can pronounce it with something resembling accuracy.

One of the conventions of Spanish pronunciation is the double “l”, which makes the “y” sound, as in “yarn”.

So I am used to seeing double ls and reading Y.

What I am not used to is what happened Saturday evening as I drove home from work.

I saw a llama sitting in a yard and I thought…

Perhaps I have mentioned before my affinity for the written word; for instance, how I rarely understand movies unless they are accompanied by subtitles? But with all my affinity for the written word, I still think verbally. I think in spoken words rather than in written words.

Except for this time.

This time, I saw the llama and my brain thought in written form.

“Huh, there’s a llama in that llard.”

Yep. That’s right.

When I “read” what my brain had written, I read it as “There’s a lah-muh in that yard”, but I spelled it as written above.

Weird. Just weird.

The things our minds do.

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My apologies for all my blog readers who are also Facebook friends who have thus been forced to hear this story twice. Have I mentioned that I’m experiencing a bit of bloggers’ block? Feel free to ignore everything I write until I emerge from this funk. Actually, I take that back. I’d still really, really appreciate your interaction. Maybe it would help me come out of the funk faster?