Nina Lewis

Archive for the ‘Misc.’ Category

For years and years and years and YEARS, my husband has said that he wants to take me to Denmark.  He served a mission for our church there.  He loved the country.  Loved the people. (Loved the pastries . . .)  Now he loves me.

Finally, he decided that we could afford to go.  The Euro is declining so it won’t be such an expensive trip for us.  Rumor on the street has it that Denmark is the most expensive place in Europe.  Just my luck.

Our airplane tickets are purchased.  We’ve been planning and preparing more for this trip than any other trip that we have taken.

Saying that we are excited to go is the understatement of the year.  Make that century.  We’re in a relatively new one — and his promise started last century.  (That sure sounds like a long time ago, huh?  Well, it WAS!)

The other night on the news, there was an interesting report about the work of the Danish artist Carl Bloch coming to the United States.  Churches and museums are busily packing up their pictures and sending them off for an art show in the United States.

Just my luck.

To say that I was not a happy camper is the understatement of the century.  (Wait.  There is another comment that holds that rating.  I guess this is the second most understatement of the century.)

After all of these years, we finally make arrangements to go to Denmark.  And, once we get there, we’ll see empty wall spaces in those museums and churches that for the past one hundred years have displayed Carl Bloch’s paintings.  Over 100 years they’ve been there.  Waiting patiently for me to come see them.  And now this.

I’m so mad I could eat worms.  (Not really.  Well, maybe.  If they are gummy worms . . .)

To top it off, guess where those paintings are going on display?  At Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah.  THAT IS WHERE I WORK!!!

Folks, do you see the irony in this situation?  We’re going to Denmark.  The pictures are coming here.  We’re like ships passing in the night.

I just might not go see the display once it opens here on campus.  That’ll show them, huh?  (Whomever them might happen to be . . .)

I’m babysitting two of my grandchildren this week.  And I would like to say this about that.

First, I would like to have a chat with whomever it was that coined the phrase ‘babysit.’ Unlike a wicked step-mother that might be a character in a fairy tale, I do not sit on babies.  Not ever.  Nor do I even have a desire to do such a dastardly deed.

And, whomever thought that the baby caregiver might have an opportunity to sit has never taken care of children.  Sitting is not in their genes — and  they don’t let anyone taking care of them sit down on the job.  Unless it is after the little chickabiddies are sound asleep in bed.  But then, the caretaker is probably sound asleep in her bed, too.  Sitting is just so not a viable activity.

I have forgotten how many times I swept the floor when I had little children.  I have forgotten how many diapers I changed, how much time I spent feeding them, what 2:00 a.m. feedings were like, and how many time I read the same book over, and over, and over.  (I still love you anyway, Tyler . . .)

On the other hand, I had also forgotten what it was like to have a blue-eyed sweet little boy smile innocently at me and tell me he loves me.  I had forgotten what it was like to get warm hugs and slobbery kisses. I had forgotten the sparkly bright eyes of a baby and her cooing and singing.

It warms the cockles of my grandma-heart that I get to spend time with my grandchildren.  (Kaylissa, I promise not  to scrunch you in a little ball while you are staying with me . . .)

How are you feeling today? Nervous? Fearful? Afraid? Apprehensive? Paranoid? Full of trepidation? Skittish? Like you wanna crawl back in bed, pull the covers over your head, and stay there until tomorrow?  You might be suffering from triskaidekaphobia.

Lest you fret unduly about the meaning of triskaidekaphobia, I shall tell you the definition. Aren’t I nice?

Triskaidekaphobia is a fear or phobia about the number 13.

Today is not only the 13th day in August. It is also Friday the 13th. (Cue scary music and ghoulish moans in the background.)

For those who might have forgotten how the days of the week got their names (because you — like me — learned that information back in the Mesozoic Era when you attended grade school in a cave and had a rock for a desk), I shall refresh your memory.  The Greeks named the days after the sun (Sunday), the moon (Monday), and the five known planets which were named after the gods Ares, Hermes, Zeus, Aphrodite, and Cronus.

The Romans substituted the names of their gods as did the Germanic folks.  And from those Germanic folks we get Freya’s Day (after the Norse goddess, Freya) which is known to us today as Friday.

It is interesting to note that Freya was a Norwegian goddess associated with love, beauty, gold, war, death, and prolific procreation between those who were married.

How, you might wonder, could one goddess represent such diversity?  Easy.  Beauty leads to love which leads to gold which leads to marriage which leads to prolific procreation which leads to war and death.  Make sense to me.

But I digress. Back to triskaidekaphobia.

Friday the 13th has gotten a bad rap through the years. In numerology, the number twelve is considered complete.  We have twelve Zodiac signs, twelve months in a year, twelve tribes of Israel, and Christ had twelve apostles.  The number thirteen was considered irregular and transgressing the completeness of the number twelve

Friday has been considered an unlucky day since the writing of the Canterbury Tales when Chaucer alluded to Friday as a day that bad things seemed to happen.  Christ was crucified on a Friday.  The goddess Freya was banished to a mountain top and labeled a witch.  In retaliation, she gathered eleven other witches plus the devil (which makes a gathering of 13) on her day (Friday) and plotted ill turns of fate for the coming week.  Because of this tale, Friday was known as the ‘witches Sabbath’ for many centuries in Scandinavian countries.

As a closing note, King Philip ordered the mass arrest of the Knights Templar on Friday October, 13, 1307 — which happens to be my birthday!  It’s a good thing that I don’t have triskaidekaphobia and I’m not superstitious!

The other day I was doing some light reading — an article published in the PLoS Medicine magazine. (That’s the Public Library of Science Magazine in case you were wondering. What? You weren’t wondering? I just can’t believe that!)

Now, where was I?  Oh, yes.  The article.

The article gave a “short list” of factors that predict a person’s odds of living or dying.  (What.  As opposed to a long list?  Are they afraid that people won’t live long enough to read a long list? Whatever.)

Back to the article.  The one with the short list.

This article reported that social connections (with friends, family, neighbors, and yes, even the pesky co-worker in the cubicle next-door) improve our odds of survival by 50 percent! (Well, that pesky cube-mate might not impact your odds of survival that much.)

The article claimed that low social interaction compares to these widely known risk factors:

• Equivalent to smoking 15 cigarettes a day
• Equivalent to being an alcoholic
• More harmful than not exercising
• Twice as harmful as obesity

Whaddy think about them thar statistics, matey?

It’s a good thing that my sweetie and I are practicing at being retired by going places with friends and family.  According to that article, those good feelings I had pulsating through my veins were feelings of love and goodwill from the great social interaction I had.  And I thought it was just cholesterol from the decadent, rich, and high-fat content foods I had consumed . . .

My dear friends, I’m tellin’ ya, my life is in your hands.  You gotta socialize with me.  You just gotta!  If you don’t, you’ll literally take years off my life.  Years that I could spend dancing on the tabletops ’til dawn, swigging Geritol, and eating foods high in fiber instead of lying cold, in my casket, in a grave. I don’t want to die an early death because nobody would come to my house and play.

If people refuse to socialize with me, I might as well stop exercising, put on a few hundred pounds, and take up drinking and smoking.

Last week, we had a grand time having fun with a vengeance.

(’Fun with a vengeance’  is a phrase that I picked up from a book I read that encouraged people to take their nose off the grindstone and enjoy life.  Fun with a vengeance is what I try to do with my husband on a weekly basis.  Many times, it is going to the grocery store on a Friday night.  Sigh . . .)

Our fun with a vengeance started by going with friends to the Tuacahn, an outdoor theater in St. George, to see Cats.  Man oh man!  Rum Tum Tugger can sing and dance for me any day of the week!

The day after we saw the show, we had breakfast, took a dip in the hotel pool (and the hot tub where the others couldn’t stand it as long as I could . . .), and visited the St. George Temple visitor center.

When we got home, we saw Shrek 4 in 3D.  Amazing!

The next day, we went with my husband’s sister and her husband to the Olympic Museum in Park City and watched a skiing exhibition performed by future Olympic skiers in training.  (Boy howdy!  We went from one end of the state to the other!)

On the way home, we meandered through the elegant homes in Midway.  We ended the day by sitting on my sister-in-law’s front porch, eating watermelon, and looking at the fabulous view of the valley.

If the saying ‘practice makes perfect’ is true, then we’ll keep ‘practicing’ at being retired so that when we finally do retire, we’ll be professionals!