Last night Himself took me to an Indian place he's been raving about for weeks on the other side of The Frontier. He found it his first day of work at The Store (making me ponder the sanity of applying to work at $9/hour when it takes $9 in gas just to get there and back!).
It was divine.
It was free samosa night - and they were huge and puffy and full of wonderful things like potatoes, peas and garam masala - one of my favorite spices ever.
I had brought leftover ratatouille for Woodstock to eat, in case she didn't like Indian food. She scarfed down the ratatouille, some tasty little crackers and then reached for the rest of my samosa and popped it in her mouth.
She then signed "more."
As it turns out, Woodstock likes Indian food almost as much as I do. It isn't just indiscriminate "I'll eat anything," because while Woodstock loves food, there are some things she will not eat. For instance, shse will not eat green beans - not in a pot, not in homemade chicken noodle soup, not in a box, not with mixed veggies, not with a fox, not pureed ... she will not eat green beans.
She loved the shahi paneer (of course - the kid inherited my love of all things cheese). She loved the nan. We already knew she preferred basmati rice to regular rice. She loved the vegetable curry (minus the green beans). Mostly, she loved the rice pudding. (She did not, however, like the carrot pudding - pulling so many faces that the table next to us broke out in laughter).
Of course, she delighted them by blowing them kisses and saying "ba ba" (bye-bye) as we left. I dread life in 13 years when loving to be the center of attention is full of drama instead of baby cuteness.
On the way out, I told Himself, "We just fed our kid eggplant and peppers and squash and an assortment of Indian food for dinner and that she liked it? We cannot afford this."
Himself drew the connection that she's had more different kinds of food at 11 months than Grover has had in almost 12 years.
We're in trouble.
Why did I have to go and decide against feeding Woodstock jarred baby food?
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
One Fish on Mulberry Street and a Feline in a Fedora
People are insane, I said. What are people thinking when they throw parties for their 1-year-old children who can't remember who Grandma is, let alone realize it is her birthday?
People are insane, I said. Why do they buy presents for someone who is gleefully happy to sit on the kitchen floor in front of the potato bin and lick or bite each potato and then immediately discard it?
People are insane, I said. Why do they go to such elaborate attempts to have a fully-planned party for a child who only wants to know when her next meal is coming.
Clearly, the tables are turned. It is now me who is insane.
"We've never been close enough to family to celebrate much," I said. "It's my birthday too - we'll celebrate together."
Except, somehow, I've ended up with a Dr. Seuss-themed party with a bazillion kids, an equal number of adults and a list that breaks the menu preparations into shopping lists and "to do" lists for each day a week prior to the party.
Somehow, I don't think this is my party any more. I even went to check out Dr. Seuss books at the library last night, at which point I discovered that One Fish, Two Fish has got to be the longest picture book in history, To think that I saw it on Mulberry Street is still my all-time favorite and Return of the Cat in the Hat is still better than the original, but failed to find anything that would inspire me much.
I'm still at a loss at what to do with two dozen children, if I should make a cake or ice cream cone cupcakes and what, exactly, I was thinking when I thought this was a good idea.
People are insane, I said. Why do they buy presents for someone who is gleefully happy to sit on the kitchen floor in front of the potato bin and lick or bite each potato and then immediately discard it?
People are insane, I said. Why do they go to such elaborate attempts to have a fully-planned party for a child who only wants to know when her next meal is coming.
Clearly, the tables are turned. It is now me who is insane.
"We've never been close enough to family to celebrate much," I said. "It's my birthday too - we'll celebrate together."
Except, somehow, I've ended up with a Dr. Seuss-themed party with a bazillion kids, an equal number of adults and a list that breaks the menu preparations into shopping lists and "to do" lists for each day a week prior to the party.
Somehow, I don't think this is my party any more. I even went to check out Dr. Seuss books at the library last night, at which point I discovered that One Fish, Two Fish has got to be the longest picture book in history, To think that I saw it on Mulberry Street is still my all-time favorite and Return of the Cat in the Hat is still better than the original, but failed to find anything that would inspire me much.
I'm still at a loss at what to do with two dozen children, if I should make a cake or ice cream cone cupcakes and what, exactly, I was thinking when I thought this was a good idea.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Coughing, Crying and Cursing
Himself has a bad cough - I'm placing money on bronchitis (because, hey, someone always gets sick the week we're supposed to have company ... bronchitis, strep, tonsilitis, pneumonia ... and it is Himself's turn to be sick). It's bad enough he's actually going to the doctor. I can count the number of times he's been to the doctor on one hand in the 9.5 years I've known him, if that gives you any idea how lousy he must feel.
Saturday night, Himself hacked up a lung. In one valiant, irritated moment at some unearthly hour, I said, "Himself. We still have the prescription cough syrup from when you had bronchitis in VA, I found it in the move..." Himself, who won't take an Advil if the expiration date was yesterday, bounded out of bed. Every light in the basement went on as he searched for the cough syrup (just because I saw it in the move doesn't mean a) it has been unpacked or b) that I actually have any idea where it is). He came in four or five times to ask about its location. After the last time, I said, "Himself, it is either in the linen closet in the guest bathroom, under the sink of the master bathroom or buried in a box - in which case it will take you until the next move to find it at the rate we're unpacking," and buried my head under the pillow.
Last night, Himself took the cough syrup, in hopes we'd both have a peaceful (relatively) night sleep. He pawed at the sheets, tossed, turned, hacked, groaned, yanked on the sheets again and started the whole process again. And then ... he woke up hacking up a lung. Finally, he said he was going to sleep on the couch. Never one for couch-sleeping, I didn't even argue. At this rate, neither of us were sleeping.
I blissfully settled into quiet slumber, unable to hear Himself hacking away upstairs .... what felt like minutes (but was, in fact, a couple of hours) later, Woodstock wakes up with a full on yell. Nothing would console her. Exhausted, feeling drugged and wanting nothing more than to be in the horizontal postion, I brought her back to my bed.
How someone who isn't even 2.5' tall and weighs less than 20 pounds can take up the entire bed is beyond me, but at 11.5 months, Woodstock is already a bed hog. Every time I'd roll over, Woodstock would snuggle up against me. I'd wait until she was in a deep sleep, then roll over further, to no avail. Soon her fingers would be tangled in my hair and her feet would be in the small of my back.
The cursing started at oh-dark-hundred when Woodstock sat up, sunny smile on her face, said, "alldoh!" (All done) and leaned over to slobber on my face.
Today is not a good day to ask me if I like Mondays.
Saturday night, Himself hacked up a lung. In one valiant, irritated moment at some unearthly hour, I said, "Himself. We still have the prescription cough syrup from when you had bronchitis in VA, I found it in the move..." Himself, who won't take an Advil if the expiration date was yesterday, bounded out of bed. Every light in the basement went on as he searched for the cough syrup (just because I saw it in the move doesn't mean a) it has been unpacked or b) that I actually have any idea where it is). He came in four or five times to ask about its location. After the last time, I said, "Himself, it is either in the linen closet in the guest bathroom, under the sink of the master bathroom or buried in a box - in which case it will take you until the next move to find it at the rate we're unpacking," and buried my head under the pillow.
Last night, Himself took the cough syrup, in hopes we'd both have a peaceful (relatively) night sleep. He pawed at the sheets, tossed, turned, hacked, groaned, yanked on the sheets again and started the whole process again. And then ... he woke up hacking up a lung. Finally, he said he was going to sleep on the couch. Never one for couch-sleeping, I didn't even argue. At this rate, neither of us were sleeping.
I blissfully settled into quiet slumber, unable to hear Himself hacking away upstairs .... what felt like minutes (but was, in fact, a couple of hours) later, Woodstock wakes up with a full on yell. Nothing would console her. Exhausted, feeling drugged and wanting nothing more than to be in the horizontal postion, I brought her back to my bed.
How someone who isn't even 2.5' tall and weighs less than 20 pounds can take up the entire bed is beyond me, but at 11.5 months, Woodstock is already a bed hog. Every time I'd roll over, Woodstock would snuggle up against me. I'd wait until she was in a deep sleep, then roll over further, to no avail. Soon her fingers would be tangled in my hair and her feet would be in the small of my back.
The cursing started at oh-dark-hundred when Woodstock sat up, sunny smile on her face, said, "alldoh!" (All done) and leaned over to slobber on my face.
Today is not a good day to ask me if I like Mondays.
Friday, August 22, 2008
You cannot make this stuff up!
I thought my days of embarrassing moments were over. It appears not.
Thursday morning up at Deer Valley, Himself took some of the stuff out to the car for me, since he had to be at his conference at 8 a.m. sharp and I wasn't leaving until 8:15ish. I thought I very clearly indicated to only take my laptop bag out when he took the pack-n-play and Woodstock's bag. Apparently I didn't (likely) or he didn't listen (more likely), because after I finished nursing Woodstock I went to find my shirt.
Himself had taken ALL of our things to the car. Including, as it turns out, my shirt - which was in the bag I had thought I had indicated he should leave.
It took me five minutes to decide whether stealing the lodge's bathrobe was more acceptable than walking down the hall, out the doorway, across the patio, down the stairs and throug the FRONT parking lot half clothed.
Let's just say I didn't steal the bathrobe. And that I'm REALLY glad Woodstock's sleep sack was still on the bed - between her and it an indecency charge would be hard to prove.
----
Today, I left work to attend a meeting with a contract designer. We had to swap horror stories of The Factory (the story actually gets worse, unbelievably!), which meant I was a little longer getting back than I anticipated.
I got back only to discover ... a locked office. Of course, my office keys and my laptop and my lunch were INSIDE the office. I made a to do list. I paced around the building. I went to Whole Foods and bought a vegan cookie (strangely delicious) and some herbal tea (to counteract the calories in the cookie, of course!). I came back and chatted with the neighbor who works in the suite next door. And I imagined being fired for incompetency.
Some time later who should appear but the VP. He was rather awstruck that I was stupid enough to leave my keys in the drawer (hey! I've always worked for huge companies - there is no such thing as getting locked out at 12:30 p.m.) and wondered how long I had been there.
I confessed to half of it. If figure the trip to Whole Foods could count as lunch and the 15 minutes I took to do a to do list counted as work, right?
Good grief. Two humiliating moments in one week. This is ridiculous.
Thursday morning up at Deer Valley, Himself took some of the stuff out to the car for me, since he had to be at his conference at 8 a.m. sharp and I wasn't leaving until 8:15ish. I thought I very clearly indicated to only take my laptop bag out when he took the pack-n-play and Woodstock's bag. Apparently I didn't (likely) or he didn't listen (more likely), because after I finished nursing Woodstock I went to find my shirt.
Himself had taken ALL of our things to the car. Including, as it turns out, my shirt - which was in the bag I had thought I had indicated he should leave.
It took me five minutes to decide whether stealing the lodge's bathrobe was more acceptable than walking down the hall, out the doorway, across the patio, down the stairs and throug the FRONT parking lot half clothed.
Let's just say I didn't steal the bathrobe. And that I'm REALLY glad Woodstock's sleep sack was still on the bed - between her and it an indecency charge would be hard to prove.
----
Today, I left work to attend a meeting with a contract designer. We had to swap horror stories of The Factory (the story actually gets worse, unbelievably!), which meant I was a little longer getting back than I anticipated.
I got back only to discover ... a locked office. Of course, my office keys and my laptop and my lunch were INSIDE the office. I made a to do list. I paced around the building. I went to Whole Foods and bought a vegan cookie (strangely delicious) and some herbal tea (to counteract the calories in the cookie, of course!). I came back and chatted with the neighbor who works in the suite next door. And I imagined being fired for incompetency.
Some time later who should appear but the VP. He was rather awstruck that I was stupid enough to leave my keys in the drawer (hey! I've always worked for huge companies - there is no such thing as getting locked out at 12:30 p.m.) and wondered how long I had been there.
I confessed to half of it. If figure the trip to Whole Foods could count as lunch and the 15 minutes I took to do a to do list counted as work, right?
Good grief. Two humiliating moments in one week. This is ridiculous.
Back to School
I always get a little nostalgic at the beginning of a new school year (now that I don't have to plan my commute around school busses on the back roads through Reston/Vienna).
School supply sales still get me excited - though I never actually venture into a store when they are going on for fear of ending up with, I don't know, 24 mechanical pencils (um, like Heidi). I kind of miss getting excited about wearing something new on the first day of school. I miss seeing old friends and meeting new ones. I even miss the learning portion (though I most definitely don't miss ridiculous homework assignments).
You would think, having been out of college the better portion of a decade, I wouldn't feel that way. But I do. This year, even more so.
I have half a dozen friends who starting back to grad school this fall. A couple are on year two, most are starting for the first time. It makes me even more nostalgic. I know I made the right decision to lay my grad school plans aside, but knowing it is the right thing and feeling 100% fabulous about it are two different things.
Johns Hopkins apparently managed to locate me in The Frontier and has begun sending me information on their Real Estate/Urban Development program - the only thing that ever tempted me from my MBA dream. The last one came as the same day as the ShopKo ad for school supplies. I felt oddly sad as I threw them both in the trash before I even went inside. It's a bit weird to be slightly jealous of one's thirtysomething friends headed off with their new laptops and iPhones to the first day of classes.
There have been many days over the past several years when I feel like I haven't lived up to my potential - especially the last year when I've been so bored at work. (Discounting The Factory insanity, which had nothing to do with being challenged and everything to do with utter nonsense). Thing is, it's not so much about work or school. When it comes down to it, I know at this moment in time it's not really what I want. It's the lack of a challenge - of feeling like I'm using my brain.
Don't get me wrong. Motherhood is challenging (probably more so for me than some, given my lack of my warm-fuzzy-maternal genes), but everything else is mind-numbingly repetitive. Not to mention the fact that I can't even work a full crossword puzzle or read a magazine article without falling asleep. I want to use my brain. I want to think, to analyze, debate ... learn. It won't happen in a classroom anytime soon (I'm not willing to concede grad school into the "never" category yet - maybe when Himself has settled into his career and Woodstock and any future child(ren) are in school ... maybe), but there has to be some way to feel challenged, excited, alive.
Then again, there's the whole falling asleep every time I sit down thing ... maybe my Back to School wish should be for a full night's sleep more than once a month.
School supply sales still get me excited - though I never actually venture into a store when they are going on for fear of ending up with, I don't know, 24 mechanical pencils (um, like Heidi). I kind of miss getting excited about wearing something new on the first day of school. I miss seeing old friends and meeting new ones. I even miss the learning portion (though I most definitely don't miss ridiculous homework assignments).
You would think, having been out of college the better portion of a decade, I wouldn't feel that way. But I do. This year, even more so.
I have half a dozen friends who starting back to grad school this fall. A couple are on year two, most are starting for the first time. It makes me even more nostalgic. I know I made the right decision to lay my grad school plans aside, but knowing it is the right thing and feeling 100% fabulous about it are two different things.
Johns Hopkins apparently managed to locate me in The Frontier and has begun sending me information on their Real Estate/Urban Development program - the only thing that ever tempted me from my MBA dream. The last one came as the same day as the ShopKo ad for school supplies. I felt oddly sad as I threw them both in the trash before I even went inside. It's a bit weird to be slightly jealous of one's thirtysomething friends headed off with their new laptops and iPhones to the first day of classes.
There have been many days over the past several years when I feel like I haven't lived up to my potential - especially the last year when I've been so bored at work. (Discounting The Factory insanity, which had nothing to do with being challenged and everything to do with utter nonsense). Thing is, it's not so much about work or school. When it comes down to it, I know at this moment in time it's not really what I want. It's the lack of a challenge - of feeling like I'm using my brain.
Don't get me wrong. Motherhood is challenging (probably more so for me than some, given my lack of my warm-fuzzy-maternal genes), but everything else is mind-numbingly repetitive. Not to mention the fact that I can't even work a full crossword puzzle or read a magazine article without falling asleep. I want to use my brain. I want to think, to analyze, debate ... learn. It won't happen in a classroom anytime soon (I'm not willing to concede grad school into the "never" category yet - maybe when Himself has settled into his career and Woodstock and any future child(ren) are in school ... maybe), but there has to be some way to feel challenged, excited, alive.
Then again, there's the whole falling asleep every time I sit down thing ... maybe my Back to School wish should be for a full night's sleep more than once a month.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Pausing.
It must have been the cooler air.
Or the drive through Parleys Canyon.
Or the Aspens mixed in with the rugged pines.
Or the postcard-perfect (if overpriced) Main Street.
Although it was probably the huge comfy bed and the jetted tub.
I went to Deer Valley for an overnight retreat and didn't want to come home.
Himself has been up there for several days for a work conference. A free hotel room is the perfect excuse for a 14-hour vacation. So yesterday after work, Woodstock and I went on a mini-road trip (30 miles, the perfect kind with an 11-month-old). I've been up there once or twice since moving back, but I forgot how absolutely visually stunning it is.
I'll admit, "Deer Valley" is usually a term that is apt to rile me up a bit. I'm usually one to gripe how people fly in with their ski gear and flashy snow pants, drive up to Deer Valley, throw money around, live like the world is their playground and then go back and rag on all the "goofy natives" that live in the rest of the state.
However, I've significantly underappreciated what is only minutes from my own backyard. If it didn't snow in the winter (or I was a die-hard skier, which is about as likely to happen as winning the lottery) and the housing was affordable (ha!), I'm not sure I would have left. The air was clean and warm, but not too warm. The lodge was lovely. The jetted tub ... oh the jetted tub!
It reminded me so much of our trip to the Sunday River Ski Resort in western Maine five springs ago. A bit like we were the only people on earth, for a moment. Lovely and quiet (off seasons are the best time to visit ski resorts, in my snow-hating opinion), nestled in the mountains, bringing back floods of wonderful memories.
I didn't have to think about the boxes to be unpacked or the kitchen floor that is in dire need of attention. Or the dishes I didn't get done before I left for work yesterday. Or the still-damp-even-though-the-landlord-took-the-fan-back drywall in my bedroom. Or work. Or anything, really. I just existed, and it was beautiful.
We dined on Cajun/Carribean food, wandered Main Street, watched some Olympics (during which the Men's 200-meter race had me yelling at the TV) and slept soundly in dark, quiet room.
As I carried Woodstock to the car this morning, I thought how much I love nothing better than slightly cool, silent mornings before the world begins to stir.
Forty minutes later, I had dropped Woodstock off at Miss Jan's and pulled into work, feeling more refreshed than I had in weeks.
It was the perfect mid-week pause.
Or the drive through Parleys Canyon.
Or the Aspens mixed in with the rugged pines.
Or the postcard-perfect (if overpriced) Main Street.
Although it was probably the huge comfy bed and the jetted tub.
I went to Deer Valley for an overnight retreat and didn't want to come home.
Himself has been up there for several days for a work conference. A free hotel room is the perfect excuse for a 14-hour vacation. So yesterday after work, Woodstock and I went on a mini-road trip (30 miles, the perfect kind with an 11-month-old). I've been up there once or twice since moving back, but I forgot how absolutely visually stunning it is.
I'll admit, "Deer Valley" is usually a term that is apt to rile me up a bit. I'm usually one to gripe how people fly in with their ski gear and flashy snow pants, drive up to Deer Valley, throw money around, live like the world is their playground and then go back and rag on all the "goofy natives" that live in the rest of the state.
However, I've significantly underappreciated what is only minutes from my own backyard. If it didn't snow in the winter (or I was a die-hard skier, which is about as likely to happen as winning the lottery) and the housing was affordable (ha!), I'm not sure I would have left. The air was clean and warm, but not too warm. The lodge was lovely. The jetted tub ... oh the jetted tub!
It reminded me so much of our trip to the Sunday River Ski Resort in western Maine five springs ago. A bit like we were the only people on earth, for a moment. Lovely and quiet (off seasons are the best time to visit ski resorts, in my snow-hating opinion), nestled in the mountains, bringing back floods of wonderful memories.
I didn't have to think about the boxes to be unpacked or the kitchen floor that is in dire need of attention. Or the dishes I didn't get done before I left for work yesterday. Or the still-damp-even-though-the-landlord-took-the-fan-back drywall in my bedroom. Or work. Or anything, really. I just existed, and it was beautiful.
We dined on Cajun/Carribean food, wandered Main Street, watched some Olympics (during which the Men's 200-meter race had me yelling at the TV) and slept soundly in dark, quiet room.
As I carried Woodstock to the car this morning, I thought how much I love nothing better than slightly cool, silent mornings before the world begins to stir.
Forty minutes later, I had dropped Woodstock off at Miss Jan's and pulled into work, feeling more refreshed than I had in weeks.
It was the perfect mid-week pause.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The Big Read
Erin posted this list on her blog, from the NEA's Big Read project.
I am a voracious reader - I even read the free copy of Field & Stream that for some reason keeps coming to my house (along with Men's Vogue - which if I could get beyond all the ads for clothes neither Himself, nor I have any use for, I might read as well ... where are these coming from?!). One never knows just how much knowing about tree stands and waders might come in handy.
Suffice it to say, reading is the one thing I do for myself each day. It is usually only a page or two before I fall asleep at night, but it's my favorite time of my day. I noticed there were many on here that I hadn't heard of or read ... and I'm always looking for new things ...
I'm also essentially lazy, so instead of doing all of the symbols, I'm just categorizing the list. * Indicates I've seen a movie/play taken from the book.
READ (31)
5. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire*, JK Rowling
6. To Kill a Mockingbird*, Harper Lee
7. Winnie the Pooh*, AA Milne
8. Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell
9. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe*, CS Lewis
10. Jane Eyre*, Charlotte Brontë
12. Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë
14. Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier
15. The Catcher in the Rye, JD Salinger
16. The Wind in the Willows*, Kenneth Grahame
17. Great Expectations, Charles Dickens
18. Little Women*, Louisa May Alcott
22. Harry Potter And The Philosopher’s Stone*, JK Rowling
23. Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets*, JK Rowling
24. Harry Potter And The Prisoner Of Azkaban*, JK Rowling
25. The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien
29. The Grapes Of Wrath, John Steinbeck
33. The Pillars Of The Earth, Ken Follett
35. Charlie And The Chocolate Factory*, Roald Dahl
36. Treasure Island*, Robert Louis Stevenson
41. Anne Of Green Gables*, LM Montgomery
42. Watership Down, Richard Adams
47. A Christmas Carol*, Charles Dickens
51. The Secret Garden*, Frances Hodgson Burnett
52. of Mice And Men, John Steinbeck
54. Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
60. Crime And Punishment, Fyodor Dostoyevsky
63. A Tale Of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
58. Black Beauty*, Anna Sewell (although it's been so long I couldn't even give you the plot synopsis - other than the fact it's about a black horse)
74. Matilda, Roald Dahl
99. The Princess Diaries*, Meg Cabot
STARTED, NEVER FINISHED (10)
1. The Lord of the Rings*, JRR Tolkien
2. Pride and Prejudice*, Jane Austen (Here's where I enter into what most women consider blasphemy - I do not like Jane Austen - the books or the movies. I try and try and never can quite see the appeal they have over every one of my girlfriends).
4. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
26. Tess Of The D’Urbervilles, Thomas Hardy (I've started this one five times. I own it - my grandmother gave it to me - the story's premise is fine, Thomas Hardy isn't. The only book of his which I've been able to make it through was required reading - had no choice).
30. Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland*, Lewis Carroll
38. Persuasion*, Jane Austen
39. Dune, Frank Herbert
75. Bridget Jones’s Diary, Helen Fielding
78. Ulysses, James Joyce
91. The Godfather, Mario Puzo
WANT TO READ (7)
19. Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, Louis de Bernieres
20. War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy
21. Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell
44. The Count Of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas
62. Memoirs Of A Geisha*, Arthur Golden
56. The BFG, Roald Dahl
83. Holes, Louis Sachar
THE REST (?? = never heard of it (24))
3. His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman??
11. Catch-22, Joseph Heller
13. Birdsong, Sebastian Faulks??
27. Middlemarch, George Eliot
28. A Prayer For Owen Meany, John Irving (Note: John Irving is another author I really don't care for. The Ciderhouse Rules wasn't too bad - but then I read The Other Hand and it all went downhill from there. One more book by him and I gave up. I will probably never read this one).
31. The Story Of Tracy Beaker, Jacqueline Wilson??
32. One Hundred Years Of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez
34. David Copperfield, Charles Dickens --
37. A Town Like Alice, Nevil Shute ??
40. Emma*, Jane Austen
43. The Great Gatsby, F Scott Fitzgerald
45. Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh??
46. Animal Farm, George Orwell
48. Far From The Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy
49. Goodnight Mister Tom, Michelle Magorian ??
50. The Shell Seekers, Rosamunde Pilcher
53. The Stand, Stephen King
55. A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth
57. Swallows And Amazons, Arthur Ransome ??
59. Artemis Fowl, Eoin Colfer
61. Noughts And Crosses, Malorie Blackman ??
64. The Thorn Birds, Colleen McCollough
65. Mort, Terry Pratchett
66. The Magic Faraway Tree, Enid Blyton??
67. The Magus, John Fowles ??
68. Good Omens, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman ??
69. Guards! Guards!, Terry Pratchett ??
70. Lord Of The Flies, William Golding
71. Perfume, Patrick Süskind
72. The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, Robert Tressell ??
73. Night Watch, Terry Pratchett
76. The Secret History, Donna Tartt??
77. The Woman In White, Wilkie Collins
79. Bleak House, Charles Dickens
80. Double Act, Jacqueline Wilson??
81. The Twits, Roald Dahl
82. I Capture The Castle, Dodie Smith
84. Gormenghast, Mervyn Peake ??
85. The God Of Small Things, Arundhati Roy
86. Vicky Angel, Jacqueline Wilson ??
87. Brave New World, Aldous Huxley --
88. Cold Comfort Farm, Stella Gibbons??
89. Magician, Raymond E Feist??
90. On The Road, Jack Kerouac??
92. The Clan Of The Cave Bear, Jean M Auel??
93. The Colour Of Magic, Terry Pratchett??
94. The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho
95. Katherine, Anya Seton??
96. Kane And Abel, Jeffrey Archer
97. Love In The Time Of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez
98. Girls In Love, Jacqueline Wilson??
100. Midnight’s Children, Salman Rushdie
Clearly there are a few of these I should get working on!
I am a voracious reader - I even read the free copy of Field & Stream that for some reason keeps coming to my house (along with Men's Vogue - which if I could get beyond all the ads for clothes neither Himself, nor I have any use for, I might read as well ... where are these coming from?!). One never knows just how much knowing about tree stands and waders might come in handy.
Suffice it to say, reading is the one thing I do for myself each day. It is usually only a page or two before I fall asleep at night, but it's my favorite time of my day. I noticed there were many on here that I hadn't heard of or read ... and I'm always looking for new things ...
I'm also essentially lazy, so instead of doing all of the symbols, I'm just categorizing the list. * Indicates I've seen a movie/play taken from the book.
READ (31)
5. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire*, JK Rowling
6. To Kill a Mockingbird*, Harper Lee
7. Winnie the Pooh*, AA Milne
8. Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell
9. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe*, CS Lewis
10. Jane Eyre*, Charlotte Brontë
12. Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë
14. Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier
15. The Catcher in the Rye, JD Salinger
16. The Wind in the Willows*, Kenneth Grahame
17. Great Expectations, Charles Dickens
18. Little Women*, Louisa May Alcott
22. Harry Potter And The Philosopher’s Stone*, JK Rowling
23. Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets*, JK Rowling
24. Harry Potter And The Prisoner Of Azkaban*, JK Rowling
25. The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien
29. The Grapes Of Wrath, John Steinbeck
33. The Pillars Of The Earth, Ken Follett
35. Charlie And The Chocolate Factory*, Roald Dahl
36. Treasure Island*, Robert Louis Stevenson
41. Anne Of Green Gables*, LM Montgomery
42. Watership Down, Richard Adams
47. A Christmas Carol*, Charles Dickens
51. The Secret Garden*, Frances Hodgson Burnett
52. of Mice And Men, John Steinbeck
54. Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
60. Crime And Punishment, Fyodor Dostoyevsky
63. A Tale Of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
58. Black Beauty*, Anna Sewell (although it's been so long I couldn't even give you the plot synopsis - other than the fact it's about a black horse)
74. Matilda, Roald Dahl
99. The Princess Diaries*, Meg Cabot
STARTED, NEVER FINISHED (10)
1. The Lord of the Rings*, JRR Tolkien
2. Pride and Prejudice*, Jane Austen (Here's where I enter into what most women consider blasphemy - I do not like Jane Austen - the books or the movies. I try and try and never can quite see the appeal they have over every one of my girlfriends).
4. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
26. Tess Of The D’Urbervilles, Thomas Hardy (I've started this one five times. I own it - my grandmother gave it to me - the story's premise is fine, Thomas Hardy isn't. The only book of his which I've been able to make it through was required reading - had no choice).
30. Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland*, Lewis Carroll
38. Persuasion*, Jane Austen
39. Dune, Frank Herbert
75. Bridget Jones’s Diary, Helen Fielding
78. Ulysses, James Joyce
91. The Godfather, Mario Puzo
WANT TO READ (7)
19. Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, Louis de Bernieres
20. War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy
21. Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell
44. The Count Of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas
62. Memoirs Of A Geisha*, Arthur Golden
56. The BFG, Roald Dahl
83. Holes, Louis Sachar
THE REST (?? = never heard of it (24))
3. His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman??
11. Catch-22, Joseph Heller
13. Birdsong, Sebastian Faulks??
27. Middlemarch, George Eliot
28. A Prayer For Owen Meany, John Irving (Note: John Irving is another author I really don't care for. The Ciderhouse Rules wasn't too bad - but then I read The Other Hand and it all went downhill from there. One more book by him and I gave up. I will probably never read this one).
31. The Story Of Tracy Beaker, Jacqueline Wilson??
32. One Hundred Years Of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez
34. David Copperfield, Charles Dickens --
37. A Town Like Alice, Nevil Shute ??
40. Emma*, Jane Austen
43. The Great Gatsby, F Scott Fitzgerald
45. Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh??
46. Animal Farm, George Orwell
48. Far From The Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy
49. Goodnight Mister Tom, Michelle Magorian ??
50. The Shell Seekers, Rosamunde Pilcher
53. The Stand, Stephen King
55. A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth
57. Swallows And Amazons, Arthur Ransome ??
59. Artemis Fowl, Eoin Colfer
61. Noughts And Crosses, Malorie Blackman ??
64. The Thorn Birds, Colleen McCollough
65. Mort, Terry Pratchett
66. The Magic Faraway Tree, Enid Blyton??
67. The Magus, John Fowles ??
68. Good Omens, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman ??
69. Guards! Guards!, Terry Pratchett ??
70. Lord Of The Flies, William Golding
71. Perfume, Patrick Süskind
72. The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, Robert Tressell ??
73. Night Watch, Terry Pratchett
76. The Secret History, Donna Tartt??
77. The Woman In White, Wilkie Collins
79. Bleak House, Charles Dickens
80. Double Act, Jacqueline Wilson??
81. The Twits, Roald Dahl
82. I Capture The Castle, Dodie Smith
84. Gormenghast, Mervyn Peake ??
85. The God Of Small Things, Arundhati Roy
86. Vicky Angel, Jacqueline Wilson ??
87. Brave New World, Aldous Huxley --
88. Cold Comfort Farm, Stella Gibbons??
89. Magician, Raymond E Feist??
90. On The Road, Jack Kerouac??
92. The Clan Of The Cave Bear, Jean M Auel??
93. The Colour Of Magic, Terry Pratchett??
94. The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho
95. Katherine, Anya Seton??
96. Kane And Abel, Jeffrey Archer
97. Love In The Time Of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez
98. Girls In Love, Jacqueline Wilson??
100. Midnight’s Children, Salman Rushdie
Clearly there are a few of these I should get working on!
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Reflections
25 years ago:
* I was devestated to learn that I could not, under any circumstances, enter Kindergarten, even if I did know how to read.
* Summers were spent at grandma and grandpa's. Dad was building a new house - and I spent evenings at the new house with him while he worked. I drew pictures. One of them is actually still hanging in the basement - behind the drywall. Don't ask me how that happened.
20 years ago:
* I was getting ready to have my largest birthday party on record - both Garfield and I were celebrating our 10th birthdays, and so I carefully half-drew, half-traced my invitations with Garfield on them. My mother lovingly put up with thirty kids at our house for that one.
* I had entered the fifth grade - my teacher was the "scary" one, but I grew to have incredibly fond memories of the fifth grade. As the upperclassmen, we were feeling very old - if only we knew!
15 years ago:
* I entered my sophomore year of high school. Then I was really grown up. If only I knew!
* I had recovered from my first surgery - and, as it turns out, the only one without complications.
* I met three of my four high school best friends. Kari Ann and I shared a locker, which meant I became intimately familiar with "Birth Control Salad" (a salad so smelly no one would want to get close to you after consuming it). She can attest to me having a penchant for odd foods from the start ... as I liked her parents' cooking better than she did.
* I took my first trip to the Pacific Northwest. Little did I realize I'd return there on a semi-regular basis as an adult to visit in-laws. That is when I realized how much of great summer fun we missed out on by living in a land-locked state.
* I won my first debate tournament - completely, I'm convinced, by accident.
10 years ago:
* I had moved to DC and was embarking on the best year of my life - living with 5-22 other college-aged youth, making new friends and absorbing every odd-ball fact about DC.
5 years ago:
* I was travelling cross-country several times a month to talk about Internet advertising with motorcycle and ATV dealers and manufacturers.
* I was married and living in my spacious 1-bedroom apartment 9 miles from the beach.
* We made frequent trips up the Eastern Shore to get Grover. I have seen every square inch of Delaware. I made frequent use of the 24-hour round-trip toll discount on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. I never got over my fear of driving/riding on/in the bay bridge tunnel.
1 year ago:
* I was *thisclose* go giving birth to Woodstock - or so I thought. It would actually be another three weeks.
* I loved my new job at The Factory, after two layoffs.
* We had just moved back to The Frontier from DC.
This year:
* I am planning Woodstock's first birthday party. No Garfield this year, it's Dr. Seuss instead.
* Himself and I have different jobs than we did this time last year.
* We moved. Again. Fifth address in 5 1/2 years.
* I have a guest bedroom for the first time in my adult life - and right now all it has in it is boxes and board games.
Yesterday:
* Woodstock and I shared a dinner of fresh tomatoes, basil and mozarella on whole wheat bread, sprinkled with balsamic vinegar.
* I took Woodstock to Coscto to buy some of the items for her birthday celebration.
* I watched Olympic beach volleyball and some of the women's trampoline event. People jumping up and down just don't thrill me.
Today:
* I cleaned the Master Bathroom
* I took the trash out the curb - narrowly making it before the trash truck came.
* I made blueberry pancakes for Woodstock and I (Himself is out of town until Thursday night for work).
* I wrote a progress brief on our New Orleans campaign for work, sat through a web development progress meeting and started writing scripts for the annual gala.
* I was devestated to learn that I could not, under any circumstances, enter Kindergarten, even if I did know how to read.
* Summers were spent at grandma and grandpa's. Dad was building a new house - and I spent evenings at the new house with him while he worked. I drew pictures. One of them is actually still hanging in the basement - behind the drywall. Don't ask me how that happened.
20 years ago:
* I was getting ready to have my largest birthday party on record - both Garfield and I were celebrating our 10th birthdays, and so I carefully half-drew, half-traced my invitations with Garfield on them. My mother lovingly put up with thirty kids at our house for that one.
* I had entered the fifth grade - my teacher was the "scary" one, but I grew to have incredibly fond memories of the fifth grade. As the upperclassmen, we were feeling very old - if only we knew!
15 years ago:
* I entered my sophomore year of high school. Then I was really grown up. If only I knew!
* I had recovered from my first surgery - and, as it turns out, the only one without complications.
* I met three of my four high school best friends. Kari Ann and I shared a locker, which meant I became intimately familiar with "Birth Control Salad" (a salad so smelly no one would want to get close to you after consuming it). She can attest to me having a penchant for odd foods from the start ... as I liked her parents' cooking better than she did.
* I took my first trip to the Pacific Northwest. Little did I realize I'd return there on a semi-regular basis as an adult to visit in-laws. That is when I realized how much of great summer fun we missed out on by living in a land-locked state.
* I won my first debate tournament - completely, I'm convinced, by accident.
10 years ago:
* I had moved to DC and was embarking on the best year of my life - living with 5-22 other college-aged youth, making new friends and absorbing every odd-ball fact about DC.
5 years ago:
* I was travelling cross-country several times a month to talk about Internet advertising with motorcycle and ATV dealers and manufacturers.
* I was married and living in my spacious 1-bedroom apartment 9 miles from the beach.
* We made frequent trips up the Eastern Shore to get Grover. I have seen every square inch of Delaware. I made frequent use of the 24-hour round-trip toll discount on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. I never got over my fear of driving/riding on/in the bay bridge tunnel.
1 year ago:
* I was *thisclose* go giving birth to Woodstock - or so I thought. It would actually be another three weeks.
* I loved my new job at The Factory, after two layoffs.
* We had just moved back to The Frontier from DC.
This year:
* I am planning Woodstock's first birthday party. No Garfield this year, it's Dr. Seuss instead.
* Himself and I have different jobs than we did this time last year.
* We moved. Again. Fifth address in 5 1/2 years.
* I have a guest bedroom for the first time in my adult life - and right now all it has in it is boxes and board games.
Yesterday:
* Woodstock and I shared a dinner of fresh tomatoes, basil and mozarella on whole wheat bread, sprinkled with balsamic vinegar.
* I took Woodstock to Coscto to buy some of the items for her birthday celebration.
* I watched Olympic beach volleyball and some of the women's trampoline event. People jumping up and down just don't thrill me.
Today:
* I cleaned the Master Bathroom
* I took the trash out the curb - narrowly making it before the trash truck came.
* I made blueberry pancakes for Woodstock and I (Himself is out of town until Thursday night for work).
* I wrote a progress brief on our New Orleans campaign for work, sat through a web development progress meeting and started writing scripts for the annual gala.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Love What Is
Today was head shrinking.
I haven't been in nearly two months ... since my head shrinker is about the coolest person on the planet, I was excited to go - until we actually had to talk about head shrinking stuff.
And that is hard. And painful. And while being brutally honest with oneself is probably the best thing, it stinks. It makes one feel like a complete booger.
As is usual, she had some great ideas and thoughts ... and she told me how she applied them in her own life.
She talked about "The Work" - four questions by Byron Katie that helps one understand the motivation and power behind thoughts and beliefs. My final "homework" was to play the videos on the sitee - to see it put in play - and then to go to the library and get Katie's book, Love What Is.
I've watched some of the videos already (at the expense of not doing any cleaning tonight). I watched and listened and thought until my brain hurt and my eyeballs begged for something else. This might be the most useful thing yet - and the most difficult.
Love what is. What power do you give your thoughts and how do they translate into behaviors?
Wish me luck.
I haven't been in nearly two months ... since my head shrinker is about the coolest person on the planet, I was excited to go - until we actually had to talk about head shrinking stuff.
And that is hard. And painful. And while being brutally honest with oneself is probably the best thing, it stinks. It makes one feel like a complete booger.
As is usual, she had some great ideas and thoughts ... and she told me how she applied them in her own life.
She talked about "The Work" - four questions by Byron Katie that helps one understand the motivation and power behind thoughts and beliefs. My final "homework" was to play the videos on the sitee - to see it put in play - and then to go to the library and get Katie's book, Love What Is.
I've watched some of the videos already (at the expense of not doing any cleaning tonight). I watched and listened and thought until my brain hurt and my eyeballs begged for something else. This might be the most useful thing yet - and the most difficult.
Love what is. What power do you give your thoughts and how do they translate into behaviors?
Wish me luck.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Cursed
Remember this - a year and three days ago? Or the later floods that required fans? (briefly touched upon here), just a couple of weeks later?
We're cursed. They're baaaacccck!
I came home yesterday in a flurry - having only minutes to change clothes before heading up to a cabin retreat with some neighborhood women.
I couldn't find my socks. I don't wear socks in the summer, so naturally they wouldn't be among the first (or second) things I unpacked.
As I got closer to the outside wall in our bedroom, looking for my socks, I heard a gurgling noise.
In fact ... the wall was gurgling. I called to himself. He said I was imagining things. There are two rooms in the new house that should never, ever have water sounds in them - one of them is our bedroom.
I moved over to the wall to get a better idea of what the gurgling noise was and ... SQUISH! Water pooled up around my toes.
Something tells me that a room that has no plumbing behind the walls should not EVER have water pooling around ones toes on top of gurgling walls.
"HIMSELF!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. He said "it can't be that bad."
But it was. And 30 seconds later, when I opened the blinds, it got MUCH WORSE than "that bad" because there I was, staring into no less than a foot of water in the window well.
The good news is, the windows apparently don't leak. The window and the sill were dry.
The bad news is, the wall DOES leak - the water from the window well was seaping into the wall and running down the INSIDE of the wall (gurgling) and under the carpet (squishing).
At this point I drug Himself in to see the fact that our bedroom was now, in fact, some sort of macabre excuse for an aquarium - with floating spiders instead of fish.
It was the spiders, in fact, that made Himself declare "no way am I bailing the water out!" I had to remind him that the only place for the water to go was INSIDE. Then, finally finding my socks (after moving the remaining unpacked boxes out of our room), I grabbed a bucket, ran outside and began bailing out the mucky, spider-filled water in the now appropriately named "well" outside our window.
It turns out there is a suspected leak in the 33-year-old sprinkler line. Now we have a wet wall, a wet floor (with the carpet half removed) and ... you guessed it ...
A horrible, industrial-sized fan. In a room with no screen and half a dozen nasty looking spiders just outside, which means no fresh air through the window.
I give up.
We're cursed. They're baaaacccck!
I came home yesterday in a flurry - having only minutes to change clothes before heading up to a cabin retreat with some neighborhood women.
I couldn't find my socks. I don't wear socks in the summer, so naturally they wouldn't be among the first (or second) things I unpacked.
As I got closer to the outside wall in our bedroom, looking for my socks, I heard a gurgling noise.
In fact ... the wall was gurgling. I called to himself. He said I was imagining things. There are two rooms in the new house that should never, ever have water sounds in them - one of them is our bedroom.
I moved over to the wall to get a better idea of what the gurgling noise was and ... SQUISH! Water pooled up around my toes.
Something tells me that a room that has no plumbing behind the walls should not EVER have water pooling around ones toes on top of gurgling walls.
"HIMSELF!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. He said "it can't be that bad."
But it was. And 30 seconds later, when I opened the blinds, it got MUCH WORSE than "that bad" because there I was, staring into no less than a foot of water in the window well.
The good news is, the windows apparently don't leak. The window and the sill were dry.
The bad news is, the wall DOES leak - the water from the window well was seaping into the wall and running down the INSIDE of the wall (gurgling) and under the carpet (squishing).
At this point I drug Himself in to see the fact that our bedroom was now, in fact, some sort of macabre excuse for an aquarium - with floating spiders instead of fish.
It was the spiders, in fact, that made Himself declare "no way am I bailing the water out!" I had to remind him that the only place for the water to go was INSIDE. Then, finally finding my socks (after moving the remaining unpacked boxes out of our room), I grabbed a bucket, ran outside and began bailing out the mucky, spider-filled water in the now appropriately named "well" outside our window.
It turns out there is a suspected leak in the 33-year-old sprinkler line. Now we have a wet wall, a wet floor (with the carpet half removed) and ... you guessed it ...
A horrible, industrial-sized fan. In a room with no screen and half a dozen nasty looking spiders just outside, which means no fresh air through the window.
I give up.
Friday, August 15, 2008
From the Mixed-Up Language Files of Woodstock
"Bum!" Woodstock said as she pointed her little finger skyward last night.
What on earth....?
"Bum!" She cried again. I followed her gaze (her finger is often off its mark) - there, on the power line above the backyard fence was a sparrow. But while Woodstock's verbal prowess is increasing every day (last week it was the addition of "alllllldoh" for "all done"), "bum" is not even remotely close to "bird" in any language, much less English.
I chalked it up to finger-pointing, babblings of an 11-month-old.
Several minutes later I returned outside to check on the fish on the grill. Himself handed Woodstock to me. Noticing that the bird had relocated to the fence itself, I decided to test her.
"Where is the bird?" I queried.
Her eyes immediately went the power line. No bird. She looked around for a moment ... and spotted the sparrow on the fence. "BUM!" she cried, pointing her little finger at the fence. I nearly dropped her.
"Good girl I cried. BIRD." She looked at me, then looked back at the sparrow. "Bum!" she cried, pointing at the bird and then clapping her hands gleefully.
Still not convinced, we tried later - when it came time to take the fish off the grill. This time the sparrow had moved back to the power line and had been joined by another sparrow buddy.
"Woodstock, what is that?" I pointed toward the birds lollygagging on the line.
"Bum!" she cried and clapped her hands, delighted. "Bum!" - this time pointing at the bird.
Paint me with sparkles and called me surprised - I think she is trying to say bird in context, never mind her odd choice of pronunciation.
I "tested" her again this morning and said, "Woodstock, where are the birds?" (There were none). She looked around and around, craning her neck, then stared at me with a blank stare. No birds.
"No birds, good girl!" I said.
She clapped her hands.
Who knew language development could be so entertaining.
What on earth....?
"Bum!" She cried again. I followed her gaze (her finger is often off its mark) - there, on the power line above the backyard fence was a sparrow. But while Woodstock's verbal prowess is increasing every day (last week it was the addition of "alllllldoh" for "all done"), "bum" is not even remotely close to "bird" in any language, much less English.
I chalked it up to finger-pointing, babblings of an 11-month-old.
Several minutes later I returned outside to check on the fish on the grill. Himself handed Woodstock to me. Noticing that the bird had relocated to the fence itself, I decided to test her.
"Where is the bird?" I queried.
Her eyes immediately went the power line. No bird. She looked around for a moment ... and spotted the sparrow on the fence. "BUM!" she cried, pointing her little finger at the fence. I nearly dropped her.
"Good girl I cried. BIRD." She looked at me, then looked back at the sparrow. "Bum!" she cried, pointing at the bird and then clapping her hands gleefully.
Still not convinced, we tried later - when it came time to take the fish off the grill. This time the sparrow had moved back to the power line and had been joined by another sparrow buddy.
"Woodstock, what is that?" I pointed toward the birds lollygagging on the line.
"Bum!" she cried and clapped her hands, delighted. "Bum!" - this time pointing at the bird.
Paint me with sparkles and called me surprised - I think she is trying to say bird in context, never mind her odd choice of pronunciation.
I "tested" her again this morning and said, "Woodstock, where are the birds?" (There were none). She looked around and around, craning her neck, then stared at me with a blank stare. No birds.
"No birds, good girl!" I said.
She clapped her hands.
Who knew language development could be so entertaining.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
I Want To Be Like Mike
I grew up during the era of "I want to be like Mike" - as in some basketball player of Chicago Bulls fame. You know, just a regular guy.
Twenty-plus years later, I've changed my mind. I still want to be like Mike, but this time Mike is a swimmer of Olympic fame. You know, just another regular guy.
I think I have a better shot at swimming well than playing basketball at this point in my life.
Although, by the time I am good enough to qualify for the Olympics (roughly around the time I'm 50), there will be no swimming because the races will be measured in milliseconds ... after all, at some point there is either an "unbreakable" world record or the race ceases to exisit because someone swam it in no time at all.
At that point, all I'd have to do is dip my toe in the pool and then touch the wall, because we'd be too fast to actually have a race. Which means I probably have a pretty good shot (If you overlook the fact that I cannot dive. At all. And, okay, several hundred other things.)
Seriously. 5 seconds off a world record? Makes you wonder if the old suits had lead or the new, much-hyped U.S. suits are jet-propelled.
Either way, I want to be like Mike. And Jason. And Ryan. And Peter. And Cullen. And ... you get the point. With the body of Dara, of course.
Twenty-plus years later, I've changed my mind. I still want to be like Mike, but this time Mike is a swimmer of Olympic fame. You know, just another regular guy.
I think I have a better shot at swimming well than playing basketball at this point in my life.
Although, by the time I am good enough to qualify for the Olympics (roughly around the time I'm 50), there will be no swimming because the races will be measured in milliseconds ... after all, at some point there is either an "unbreakable" world record or the race ceases to exisit because someone swam it in no time at all.
At that point, all I'd have to do is dip my toe in the pool and then touch the wall, because we'd be too fast to actually have a race. Which means I probably have a pretty good shot (If you overlook the fact that I cannot dive. At all. And, okay, several hundred other things.)
Seriously. 5 seconds off a world record? Makes you wonder if the old suits had lead or the new, much-hyped U.S. suits are jet-propelled.
Either way, I want to be like Mike. And Jason. And Ryan. And Peter. And Cullen. And ... you get the point. With the body of Dara, of course.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Happy Hangover
I am too old to be going to bed at 2 a.m., as evidenced by the fact that my brain cells feel scrambled and my eyelids hurt this morning.
Woodstock and I went to visit Oliver & Kristin to help fold paper ... I mean help unpack (I'm glad to know I'm not the only one who saves moving supplies, in dreaded anticipation of the next move).
We arrived home at the unearthly hour of 12:50 a.m., at which point I left Woodstock snoozining fitfully in the car while I lugged the trash can and recycling container to the curb.
Unfortunately, our cars took up the entire driveway, so I had to "drive" the recycling container on the grass. In an attempt to miss the sprinkler heads, I went in a wide arc through the thickest part of the grass. Hit a bump and disaster! Pieces of cardboard and recycling debris all over the lawn. It looked like a box factory had exploded. I refrained from throwing a tantrum (out loud) and kicking the recycling container as I picked it all up. I did contemplate just pulling the blanket out of the trunk, building a fort out of cardboard and camping on the lawn.
I finally arrived inside the house at around 1:15 a.m. and went to put Woodstock to bed for the second time (she had spent most of our visit sleeping in Oliver & Kristin's closet). Except - now my tired little kiddo was WIDE AWAKE. I decided I was too tired to deal with it, and snuggled with her in my bed. Or tried to. Woodstock discovered my hair and, sitting right next to me, began pulling my hair, combing her fingers through it and pulling it over my face - then giggling hysterically when my breathing made it poof up.
This was not condusive to sleeping for either party. I put my hair up in a pony tail. She then began poking at my eyes, sticking her fingers up my nose (she hasn't discovered that HER nose has holes yet - but she loves the ones in mine...) and chattering up a storm. I rolled over and put the pillow over my head (a very adult thing to do).
Eventually, I got her to bed - in her own bed - sometime after 2 a.m. Neither one of us woke up until 8 a.m. I have to leave for work at 8:30. It made for a lovely morning.
I'm already contemplating naps, and I've only been at work for 90 minutes.
It's going to be a long day.
Woodstock and I went to visit Oliver & Kristin to help fold paper ... I mean help unpack (I'm glad to know I'm not the only one who saves moving supplies, in dreaded anticipation of the next move).
We arrived home at the unearthly hour of 12:50 a.m., at which point I left Woodstock snoozining fitfully in the car while I lugged the trash can and recycling container to the curb.
Unfortunately, our cars took up the entire driveway, so I had to "drive" the recycling container on the grass. In an attempt to miss the sprinkler heads, I went in a wide arc through the thickest part of the grass. Hit a bump and disaster! Pieces of cardboard and recycling debris all over the lawn. It looked like a box factory had exploded. I refrained from throwing a tantrum (out loud) and kicking the recycling container as I picked it all up. I did contemplate just pulling the blanket out of the trunk, building a fort out of cardboard and camping on the lawn.
I finally arrived inside the house at around 1:15 a.m. and went to put Woodstock to bed for the second time (she had spent most of our visit sleeping in Oliver & Kristin's closet). Except - now my tired little kiddo was WIDE AWAKE. I decided I was too tired to deal with it, and snuggled with her in my bed. Or tried to. Woodstock discovered my hair and, sitting right next to me, began pulling my hair, combing her fingers through it and pulling it over my face - then giggling hysterically when my breathing made it poof up.
This was not condusive to sleeping for either party. I put my hair up in a pony tail. She then began poking at my eyes, sticking her fingers up my nose (she hasn't discovered that HER nose has holes yet - but she loves the ones in mine...) and chattering up a storm. I rolled over and put the pillow over my head (a very adult thing to do).
Eventually, I got her to bed - in her own bed - sometime after 2 a.m. Neither one of us woke up until 8 a.m. I have to leave for work at 8:30. It made for a lovely morning.
I'm already contemplating naps, and I've only been at work for 90 minutes.
It's going to be a long day.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Brusselian Wax: An Intro
Giving a shout-out to a new blogger, who I can guarantee will keep life interesting, because her life is truly stranger (and definitely more exciting) than fiction.
The title alone should make you at least curious enough to view it: Brusselian Wax.
Phil is the former intern of my very good friend, Jane. She has a delightful sense of humor, a wit brought on by a globe-trotting life and has excellent taste in shoes. (Ask me sometime about a fabulous pair of red heels I own, thanks to Phil's assurance that they would be "perfect.")
She is currently living in Brussels, working as a communication manager and living the exotic, fabulous life of a twentysomething.
And already she's had quite the adventure.
Note to Phil: please keep blogging - I need a humorous diversion in my daily life.
The title alone should make you at least curious enough to view it: Brusselian Wax.
Phil is the former intern of my very good friend, Jane. She has a delightful sense of humor, a wit brought on by a globe-trotting life and has excellent taste in shoes. (Ask me sometime about a fabulous pair of red heels I own, thanks to Phil's assurance that they would be "perfect.")
She is currently living in Brussels, working as a communication manager and living the exotic, fabulous life of a twentysomething.
And already she's had quite the adventure.
Note to Phil: please keep blogging - I need a humorous diversion in my daily life.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Operation Import Virginia
Last summer, I informed Heidi with excited glee that friends of ours from Virginia were also moving to Salt Lake City. Together we chatted - wouldn't it be great if we could just import our friends from Virginia - thereby eliminating the need to go great distances to visit them?
It appears we are on to something.
A couple of months ago, I came home and told Himself, "I have something to tell you that you'll never believe in a million years."
Without missing a beat, Himself said, "Oliver and Kristin are moving to Happy Valley."
Apparently, we agreed on that news being the most surprising thing we could think of. If you know them, you probably aren't surprised at that.
Last night, I got to again welcome Oliver and Kristin from Virginia. It was surreal. It was a whirlwind of young children and old adults who had last (and first) all been together nearly six years ago. It was a quick flashback to 14 months ago when I arrived, tired, sore, swollen and vowing to never drive more than an hour or two a day. It was a sense of delight that two of my favorite people were now less than an hour's drive away. It was a sense of the void they surely left in our beloved Chantilly congregation when they departed. It was a giddy sense of "Hoorah! More Virginia friends!"
Most importantly, it was an itch to play Killer Bunnies.
Apparently the barely-discussed, but often-pondered Operation Import Virginia is off to a grand start.
It appears we are on to something.
A couple of months ago, I came home and told Himself, "I have something to tell you that you'll never believe in a million years."
Without missing a beat, Himself said, "Oliver and Kristin are moving to Happy Valley."
Apparently, we agreed on that news being the most surprising thing we could think of. If you know them, you probably aren't surprised at that.
Last night, I got to again welcome Oliver and Kristin from Virginia. It was surreal. It was a whirlwind of young children and old adults who had last (and first) all been together nearly six years ago. It was a quick flashback to 14 months ago when I arrived, tired, sore, swollen and vowing to never drive more than an hour or two a day. It was a sense of delight that two of my favorite people were now less than an hour's drive away. It was a sense of the void they surely left in our beloved Chantilly congregation when they departed. It was a giddy sense of "Hoorah! More Virginia friends!"
Most importantly, it was an itch to play Killer Bunnies.
Apparently the barely-discussed, but often-pondered Operation Import Virginia is off to a grand start.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Adieu, Grover
Tonight, for the first time in 9.5 years, I heard Grover utter the words, "I'm not ready to go home yet."
Even with all of the drama. With all of the pain and anguish and hurt of years past, all I could remember was this summer, and my heart broke for him and for Woodstock. Siblings divided by fractured parentage, thousands of miles and 11 years. Siblings who share the same nose, the same birthday month, the same blond hair and blue eyes. Siblings who met 6 weeks ago and quickly developed a bond through a bear hug and a two-toothed smile.
Just before we left, Grover sat thumbing through the albums of photos of Woodstock, commenting here and there on how tiny she was. He selected six of the photos to take back with him - carefully preserved in a Ziploc bag inside a box.
As we went outside to load the car and depart for the airport, Grover stood off to the side, gazing at the Hobbit Hole next door. He nearly whispered, "I'm not ready to go home yet." It was followed by the pre-teen logic of how life would be better for everyone if we returned to the East ... it was hard not to agree with, "and then Woodstock and I could see each other a lot more."
I wondered, for the first time, how much of Himself's heart breaks every time Grover leaves. I saw myself in the same situation - if I was standing in the driveway readying myself to drop Woodstock off at the airport.
For the first time in 9.5 years, I wanted to cry as I drove Himself and Grover to the airport - for the brother Woodstock adores, for the son Himself must always bid farewell, for the redemptive summer we had - where Grover doted on Woodstock and Woodstock's very presence, her even-keeled, sunny nature thawed years' of buried icebergs that had capsized hundreds of other visits.
Adieu, Grover. May you resolve your fear of flying enough to visit more often.
Even with all of the drama. With all of the pain and anguish and hurt of years past, all I could remember was this summer, and my heart broke for him and for Woodstock. Siblings divided by fractured parentage, thousands of miles and 11 years. Siblings who share the same nose, the same birthday month, the same blond hair and blue eyes. Siblings who met 6 weeks ago and quickly developed a bond through a bear hug and a two-toothed smile.
Just before we left, Grover sat thumbing through the albums of photos of Woodstock, commenting here and there on how tiny she was. He selected six of the photos to take back with him - carefully preserved in a Ziploc bag inside a box.
As we went outside to load the car and depart for the airport, Grover stood off to the side, gazing at the Hobbit Hole next door. He nearly whispered, "I'm not ready to go home yet." It was followed by the pre-teen logic of how life would be better for everyone if we returned to the East ... it was hard not to agree with, "and then Woodstock and I could see each other a lot more."
I wondered, for the first time, how much of Himself's heart breaks every time Grover leaves. I saw myself in the same situation - if I was standing in the driveway readying myself to drop Woodstock off at the airport.
For the first time in 9.5 years, I wanted to cry as I drove Himself and Grover to the airport - for the brother Woodstock adores, for the son Himself must always bid farewell, for the redemptive summer we had - where Grover doted on Woodstock and Woodstock's very presence, her even-keeled, sunny nature thawed years' of buried icebergs that had capsized hundreds of other visits.
Adieu, Grover. May you resolve your fear of flying enough to visit more often.
Friday, August 08, 2008
Not Funny. Not Funny At All.
Updates to this.
I've since had a drip of pink nail polish end up on the cuff of the dry-clean-only beige linen pants I have on, then the hem up and fell out of said pants. This is probably not the time to think about how much money I paid for them.
I did not bring an extra outfit. There is no way I have enough time to go home and change. Pictures are at 6. It is 4:30. I still have to get Woodstock and fight the interchange's Friday night traffic.
Himself called. Does he really have to wear those shoes? Can Woodstock wear something else he thinks is cuter? What have I planned for dinner? No, he hasn't packed or checked himself or Grover in for their flights - they'll do it later (as in seconds before we have to race to the airport at dire risk of them missing their flights). Yes, he picked up the new dining room table - did I realize how SMALL it is? No, he hasn't put it together - can't I do it this weekend when I'm off, I'm better with tools anyway.
And oh yes, I just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I'm definitely ensuring that I'm on my knees (to hide the hem and the pink spot) with Woodstock covering my middle.
Maybe I should just have the kids' photos taken.
Or go with the whole "we don't wear clothes" theory I pondered before.
Wish us well.
I've since had a drip of pink nail polish end up on the cuff of the dry-clean-only beige linen pants I have on, then the hem up and fell out of said pants. This is probably not the time to think about how much money I paid for them.
I did not bring an extra outfit. There is no way I have enough time to go home and change. Pictures are at 6. It is 4:30. I still have to get Woodstock and fight the interchange's Friday night traffic.
Himself called. Does he really have to wear those shoes? Can Woodstock wear something else he thinks is cuter? What have I planned for dinner? No, he hasn't packed or checked himself or Grover in for their flights - they'll do it later (as in seconds before we have to race to the airport at dire risk of them missing their flights). Yes, he picked up the new dining room table - did I realize how SMALL it is? No, he hasn't put it together - can't I do it this weekend when I'm off, I'm better with tools anyway.
And oh yes, I just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I'm definitely ensuring that I'm on my knees (to hide the hem and the pink spot) with Woodstock covering my middle.
Maybe I should just have the kids' photos taken.
Or go with the whole "we don't wear clothes" theory I pondered before.
Wish us well.
Greasy-Haired Nudists
Now I know why, in my memory, we only had two family pictures taken between the time all four siblings were born and I left for college.
It is a royal pain in the bottom side.
We've scheduled and rescheduled family pictures three times - the last one being tonight, a mere 5 hours befor Grover and Himself's plane is set to depart. If they weren't leaving tonight, I would cancel again. Woodstock scratched her nose two nights ago and I woke up with a giant red spont on my face.
I also woke up late - to discover that Grover had dutifully taken a shower. A long shower. A shower so long that I was left with tepid water. I cannot shave my legs in tepid water. Nor can I wash my hair in tepid water.
Woodstock woke up screaming at the top of her lungs. Or, rather, she probably woke up just fine and only started screaming when she realized she cannot stand up in her crib while wearing her sleep sack ... and needed to let mom have it.
Himself, who is off today, woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
Then there was the matter of what we're all wearing for family pictures. We had to coordinate around Grover, who only has a limited number of clothes ... all in various shades of faded dark colors. I bought a white t-shirt at Target a few days ago - but we had no idea if it actually fit. Himself has a white t-shirt too, but it was dirty. Which meant we had to start a load of laundry.
I forgot to wash Woodstock's jean capris from camping - which is what she was supposed to wear. They clearly could not be washed with the whites ... upon close examination, I realized no one would know they'd even been worn before and stuck them on her.
Since I couldn't wash my hair in now cold water, I curled it. Never mind that I have to work a full day before pictures are actually taken - so my hair will end up a greasy disheveled mess by tonight. We didn't dry Woodstock's hair very well after her bath yesterday, which meant all of her fine, ultra-blonde hair is sticking straight up like a mohawk...and will continue to do so unless washed again. No chance of finding her cute pink headband either - so her hair will likely be a disheveled poofy mess.
Himself wanted to know why I cared what shoes he wore. I wondered why on earth I had to choose a color scheme that had me wearing shoes too ridiculous for a photo. Grover wanted to know why I had bought a shirt just for one photo session - and if he really had to take it home with him. Woodstock wanted to know why all she had been given for breakfast was "Krispies".
It will be a minor miracle if we are all dressed at the photo tonight, let alone looking presentable. I might just have to explain that we just escaped from a nudist colony where there wasn't any running water with which to wash our hair.
That ought to go over well enough.
It is a royal pain in the bottom side.
We've scheduled and rescheduled family pictures three times - the last one being tonight, a mere 5 hours befor Grover and Himself's plane is set to depart. If they weren't leaving tonight, I would cancel again. Woodstock scratched her nose two nights ago and I woke up with a giant red spont on my face.
I also woke up late - to discover that Grover had dutifully taken a shower. A long shower. A shower so long that I was left with tepid water. I cannot shave my legs in tepid water. Nor can I wash my hair in tepid water.
Woodstock woke up screaming at the top of her lungs. Or, rather, she probably woke up just fine and only started screaming when she realized she cannot stand up in her crib while wearing her sleep sack ... and needed to let mom have it.
Himself, who is off today, woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
Then there was the matter of what we're all wearing for family pictures. We had to coordinate around Grover, who only has a limited number of clothes ... all in various shades of faded dark colors. I bought a white t-shirt at Target a few days ago - but we had no idea if it actually fit. Himself has a white t-shirt too, but it was dirty. Which meant we had to start a load of laundry.
I forgot to wash Woodstock's jean capris from camping - which is what she was supposed to wear. They clearly could not be washed with the whites ... upon close examination, I realized no one would know they'd even been worn before and stuck them on her.
Since I couldn't wash my hair in now cold water, I curled it. Never mind that I have to work a full day before pictures are actually taken - so my hair will end up a greasy disheveled mess by tonight. We didn't dry Woodstock's hair very well after her bath yesterday, which meant all of her fine, ultra-blonde hair is sticking straight up like a mohawk...and will continue to do so unless washed again. No chance of finding her cute pink headband either - so her hair will likely be a disheveled poofy mess.
Himself wanted to know why I cared what shoes he wore. I wondered why on earth I had to choose a color scheme that had me wearing shoes too ridiculous for a photo. Grover wanted to know why I had bought a shirt just for one photo session - and if he really had to take it home with him. Woodstock wanted to know why all she had been given for breakfast was "Krispies".
It will be a minor miracle if we are all dressed at the photo tonight, let alone looking presentable. I might just have to explain that we just escaped from a nudist colony where there wasn't any running water with which to wash our hair.
That ought to go over well enough.
Mexican McDonald's Mayhem
Last night, Himself had to work until 9 p.m.
We had to return Nephew to the very top of the state by 8:30 p.m. Which meant the duty of getting him there fell on me.
It was Grover's last night at our house. He and Himself catch a plane at 11-something tonight to head East.
I got home from work, piled all three kids in the car and we headed north. We zipped along for the first 20 miles and then ... well, one thing you should know about The Frontier is that there are only two seasons - winter and construction. We hit the awful, painful, traffic-slugging, lane-reducing, disasterous construction in the next county up.
Stop and go. And stop. And crawl. I haven't been in traffic that annyoing since I left DC. Mostly annoying because on the other side of the big orange barrels was a 2-lane-width stretch of smooth new asphalt that really should not have been sitting useless.
Of course, Grover and Woodstock had conked out the minute we left the driveway. Nephew, surely bored by NPR's Marketplace on the radio, had shoved his iPod in his ears and was looking mournfully out the window. We were off to a wild beginning.
In order for Grover to not have to endure his last night with us in the car, stuck in traffic for the 162-mile round-trip excursion with nothing else, I took them all out to dinner. Me. One teen. One pre-teen. One baby. You can only imagine the looks we got.
I decided on Mexican. Eeasy enough to satisfy everyone, right? Apparently not. Our final tally at the Mexican restaurant was Grover's "burrito" with just meat and cheese, Nephew's bacon cheeseburger, Woodstock's rice and my Chicken Mole (which I only ordered because I knew Himself would ask me how the Mexican restaurant was, and I didn't want to have to admit that no one, in fact, had ordered anything Mexican).
Add to that a 10-minute wait between our drink order and the next time we saw our waitress (who arrived sans drinks), the 15-minute wait for a table when there were five completely empty tables when we arrived, Woodstock's insistence on happily flinging rice all over - encouraged by Grover and Nephew's giggling, the fact that my food was nothing more than mediocre, and I was seriously thinking we should have done a drive-through run at a burger joint.
We made it to the northernmost McDonald's parking lot in the state, where we were meeting Nephew's dad, only 15 minutes late. As we were pulling in, Nephew said, "I don't really want to go home tonight." Grover said, "I don't really want to go home tomorrow." Woodstock clapped her hands in agreement.
The thought passed through my mind ... "Seriously? We've had the most convoluted, traffic-construction-mess, hot and sticky, mediocre food night of your entire stay and you don't want to LEAVE?!"
But I didn't say anything. Someday someone will say, "remember when?" and we'll all chatter about the happy adventure that involved not-very-Mexican food, road construction and a trip to the northernmost McDonald's parking lot in the state. Stranger things have happened.
We had to return Nephew to the very top of the state by 8:30 p.m. Which meant the duty of getting him there fell on me.
It was Grover's last night at our house. He and Himself catch a plane at 11-something tonight to head East.
I got home from work, piled all three kids in the car and we headed north. We zipped along for the first 20 miles and then ... well, one thing you should know about The Frontier is that there are only two seasons - winter and construction. We hit the awful, painful, traffic-slugging, lane-reducing, disasterous construction in the next county up.
Stop and go. And stop. And crawl. I haven't been in traffic that annyoing since I left DC. Mostly annoying because on the other side of the big orange barrels was a 2-lane-width stretch of smooth new asphalt that really should not have been sitting useless.
Of course, Grover and Woodstock had conked out the minute we left the driveway. Nephew, surely bored by NPR's Marketplace on the radio, had shoved his iPod in his ears and was looking mournfully out the window. We were off to a wild beginning.
In order for Grover to not have to endure his last night with us in the car, stuck in traffic for the 162-mile round-trip excursion with nothing else, I took them all out to dinner. Me. One teen. One pre-teen. One baby. You can only imagine the looks we got.
I decided on Mexican. Eeasy enough to satisfy everyone, right? Apparently not. Our final tally at the Mexican restaurant was Grover's "burrito" with just meat and cheese, Nephew's bacon cheeseburger, Woodstock's rice and my Chicken Mole (which I only ordered because I knew Himself would ask me how the Mexican restaurant was, and I didn't want to have to admit that no one, in fact, had ordered anything Mexican).
Add to that a 10-minute wait between our drink order and the next time we saw our waitress (who arrived sans drinks), the 15-minute wait for a table when there were five completely empty tables when we arrived, Woodstock's insistence on happily flinging rice all over - encouraged by Grover and Nephew's giggling, the fact that my food was nothing more than mediocre, and I was seriously thinking we should have done a drive-through run at a burger joint.
We made it to the northernmost McDonald's parking lot in the state, where we were meeting Nephew's dad, only 15 minutes late. As we were pulling in, Nephew said, "I don't really want to go home tonight." Grover said, "I don't really want to go home tomorrow." Woodstock clapped her hands in agreement.
The thought passed through my mind ... "Seriously? We've had the most convoluted, traffic-construction-mess, hot and sticky, mediocre food night of your entire stay and you don't want to LEAVE?!"
But I didn't say anything. Someday someone will say, "remember when?" and we'll all chatter about the happy adventure that involved not-very-Mexican food, road construction and a trip to the northernmost McDonald's parking lot in the state. Stranger things have happened.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Half My Life
I have a very vivid memory of an August day, 15 years ago, sitting on a picnic table outside my high school (neither the picnic table nor that portion of lawn is still there - in fact, the new fine arts complex and school entrance sits on that very spot).
I was sitting with two seniors - Heather and Becky, and my friend McKinzie. We were lowly sophomores. We were eating Little Ceasars Pizza - one of the few times I went out for lunch in high school (we had an open campus, but about half the students brought their lunches and stretched out in a mass picnic along one of the main hallways).
I remember Becky saying, "In 9 months I am out of here - I cannot wait!" I thought, "In a little over 2 1/2 years, I am out of here - and I'm not ready!" Though I probably would have submitted to Chinese Water Torture before ever admitting something so blasphemous.
At that time the most important things were my insane forensics schedule, surviving whatever math class I was in and the great injustices that seem to plague all teens. There was also a great deal of wailing and gnashing of teeth about being too young to drive or date. And a sense of wide-eyed adventure, after four torturous years of middle school/junior high. (On a side note, NO kid should ever be subjected to 4 years of middle/junior high school - the horrors!)
Looking back - everything seemed so ... simple. I hadn't started working yet (my first job would come the following summer). It was school, homework, chores and ... whatever my mind could dream up - including a stint in the school play. There was nothing to complicate things - the biggest drama was whatever romance my best friend was in the middle of at the time.
I wonder if simplicity is something given to children and teens only or if there is even a slight chance of recapturing that simple mid-day, late-summer lunch where the Now seemed so much better than the Future.
That was half a lifetime ago - and yet it seems shocking to admit that. And shocking that such a random memory is seared in my mind in such pristine detail.
I was sitting with two seniors - Heather and Becky, and my friend McKinzie. We were lowly sophomores. We were eating Little Ceasars Pizza - one of the few times I went out for lunch in high school (we had an open campus, but about half the students brought their lunches and stretched out in a mass picnic along one of the main hallways).
I remember Becky saying, "In 9 months I am out of here - I cannot wait!" I thought, "In a little over 2 1/2 years, I am out of here - and I'm not ready!" Though I probably would have submitted to Chinese Water Torture before ever admitting something so blasphemous.
At that time the most important things were my insane forensics schedule, surviving whatever math class I was in and the great injustices that seem to plague all teens. There was also a great deal of wailing and gnashing of teeth about being too young to drive or date. And a sense of wide-eyed adventure, after four torturous years of middle school/junior high. (On a side note, NO kid should ever be subjected to 4 years of middle/junior high school - the horrors!)
Looking back - everything seemed so ... simple. I hadn't started working yet (my first job would come the following summer). It was school, homework, chores and ... whatever my mind could dream up - including a stint in the school play. There was nothing to complicate things - the biggest drama was whatever romance my best friend was in the middle of at the time.
I wonder if simplicity is something given to children and teens only or if there is even a slight chance of recapturing that simple mid-day, late-summer lunch where the Now seemed so much better than the Future.
That was half a lifetime ago - and yet it seems shocking to admit that. And shocking that such a random memory is seared in my mind in such pristine detail.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Introducing Grover & Woodstock
Baby Girl and Son as names are so ... blah. Neither of them have any sort of color or personality or sense of reality about them.
So today, I'm giving them new names.
Son - nearly a teen, who lives 2,500 miles away except during summer vacation, for the most part, will heretofore be known as Grover. Yes, like the blue (purple?)long-armed, inquisitive, huggable monster on Sesame Street.
Baby Girl - a month shy of her first birthday, will heretofore be known as Woodstock, the charming little yellow bird who is the faithful companion to Snoopy.
They fit. Sort of. At least they're more interesting than generic gender labels.
So today, I'm giving them new names.
Son - nearly a teen, who lives 2,500 miles away except during summer vacation, for the most part, will heretofore be known as Grover. Yes, like the blue (purple?)long-armed, inquisitive, huggable monster on Sesame Street.
Baby Girl - a month shy of her first birthday, will heretofore be known as Woodstock, the charming little yellow bird who is the faithful companion to Snoopy.
They fit. Sort of. At least they're more interesting than generic gender labels.
Himself and the Grand Vanishing Trick
Himself went and got a second job when my job went to part-time in June (before I saw the light and quit that job and went and got myself a new real job).
Of course, it took them six weeks to orient him. And now that he's sold his soul to the big box chain in blue, he owes them a certain number of hours in the first 30 days of employment, post-training. You know, just in case LG, Frigidaire, GE, Whirlpool and all the rest come out with all new appliances in the next 30 days and he can't figure out how to sell them. Or something.
This new venture means several things:
1. Renewed complaining about our old-as-dirt and teeny dishwasher. He will again become Mr. Appliance Expert (as he was 3 years ago) and will say things like, "Sigh, if only it had two water thingys inside, it would clean dishes so much more efficiently." (replace "water thingys" with the technical name, and you'll have it right).
2. Renewed drooling over Dysons from me. I just realized the other day that my probably-perfectly-good-vacuum is 7 years old. It's not so much that the vacuum doesn't work (it's an "eh" on the scale of worthless to fabulous), it's the fact that it takes half a day and half a dozen big box stores to find bags for the dumb thing. Apparently, no one uses their old vacuums any more or Eureka stopped making bags in size RR because they are nearly impossible to find. THAT (and envy) is the reaosn I want a Dyson - because if I'm going to have to buy a new vaccum, it will be one that lasts forever and sucks everything out of the carpet, so Baby Girl can't find it and shove it in her mouth.
3. Renewed coveting of some huge TV on Himself's part. If you know him, you know the agony he's been in for three years. Never mind the TV is newer than the vacuum.
4. He won't be home. Ever. This effectively renders me a single parent in a house that is only semi-unpacked and definitely not clean (thanks to Son and Nephew and Baby Girl). Between his real job and this new job and his flight back East to return Son and a 3-day, overnight conference in the mountains ... I expect to see him on the 29th and not before ... just as the out-of-town company arrives for Baby Girl's birthday party.
This means that we're 0 for 3 on camping trips this year, it means that Labor Day weekend will be only the second weekend since June that Himself will be home all weekend. It means that I really will have been able to pack, move and unpack the entire house almost entirely on my own, due to Himself's schedule. And it means another month of sheer exhaustion.
Labor Day will never have so much meaning as it does this year.
Of course, it took them six weeks to orient him. And now that he's sold his soul to the big box chain in blue, he owes them a certain number of hours in the first 30 days of employment, post-training. You know, just in case LG, Frigidaire, GE, Whirlpool and all the rest come out with all new appliances in the next 30 days and he can't figure out how to sell them. Or something.
This new venture means several things:
1. Renewed complaining about our old-as-dirt and teeny dishwasher. He will again become Mr. Appliance Expert (as he was 3 years ago) and will say things like, "Sigh, if only it had two water thingys inside, it would clean dishes so much more efficiently." (replace "water thingys" with the technical name, and you'll have it right).
2. Renewed drooling over Dysons from me. I just realized the other day that my probably-perfectly-good-vacuum is 7 years old. It's not so much that the vacuum doesn't work (it's an "eh" on the scale of worthless to fabulous), it's the fact that it takes half a day and half a dozen big box stores to find bags for the dumb thing. Apparently, no one uses their old vacuums any more or Eureka stopped making bags in size RR because they are nearly impossible to find. THAT (and envy) is the reaosn I want a Dyson - because if I'm going to have to buy a new vaccum, it will be one that lasts forever and sucks everything out of the carpet, so Baby Girl can't find it and shove it in her mouth.
3. Renewed coveting of some huge TV on Himself's part. If you know him, you know the agony he's been in for three years. Never mind the TV is newer than the vacuum.
4. He won't be home. Ever. This effectively renders me a single parent in a house that is only semi-unpacked and definitely not clean (thanks to Son and Nephew and Baby Girl). Between his real job and this new job and his flight back East to return Son and a 3-day, overnight conference in the mountains ... I expect to see him on the 29th and not before ... just as the out-of-town company arrives for Baby Girl's birthday party.
This means that we're 0 for 3 on camping trips this year, it means that Labor Day weekend will be only the second weekend since June that Himself will be home all weekend. It means that I really will have been able to pack, move and unpack the entire house almost entirely on my own, due to Himself's schedule. And it means another month of sheer exhaustion.
Labor Day will never have so much meaning as it does this year.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Something Missing
Today I had a startling revelation: I have no goals.
While that is not entirely accurate, as I have big, long-term goals, I have no specific goals. No plan.
Growing up it was get these grades, take these classes, earn this scholarship, graduate with this degree, get this job, get this promotion, do this, work here, get married, figure out how to have a baby (all jokes aside, this was more complicated than one might think giving my odd medical issues) ...
I've done all of that. And while there are plenty of things for me to continue doing ... I don't feel compelled to do any of them. There is no longer any joy in my career, no motivation to climb higher. Been there. Done that. Really didn't enjoy the experience. I've migrated out of the Hobbit Hole into a place I can really call "home," even if I don't own it. I have Baby Girl and Himself ... and even Son's visit this summer has been pleasant.
That's not to say I am content or particularly happy. I am blessed in many respects, but I also realize there are some big things that need to be tackled. I spent my 20s racing for yet another finish line. I would like to spend my 30s enjoying my life. Spending less time worrying about getting ahead, figuring my life out and more time ... Living.
A movie for which I've seen previews talked about having a "Bucket List." In the subsequent months since it came out, I've thought a lot about it. I have this long, intangible list in my head of things I want to do, go, learn. This morning I realized, none of them will ever happy if I keep exisiting instead of living. Nothing will change if I keep living to satisfy everyone else's expections of what my life should be.
I want to play the piano again (which would take a piano and about 15 other things) and this time, as I practice, really pay attention to music theory - something my instructor tried to pound into my head for 10 years and I never fully appreciated. I want to take up running again. I want to write seriously. Spending time working on it. I want to go to Europe and the Canadian Rockies and a dozen other places. I want to take up backpacking. I want complete my grandmother's cookbook - complete with photos and binding. I want to have playdates for Baby Girl. I want to teach her more sign language and the difference between a lion and a kitty. I want to start quilting again.
I want to Live. I don't want to spend 2 hours cooking and cleaning every night, only to have to repeat it all again, then put Baby Girl to bed, do laundry, run errands, read for 15 minutes and then sleep - only to wake up late because I stayed up late.
I want to stop feeling like the bread winner, the maid and The Parent (which is happening more and more due to Himself's work schedule and the addition of Son and Nephew this week) - and feel like a person with a husband and a little girl and a life. I want to be dimensional. I don't want to be tired all the time. I don't want to feel like I'm wasting every single day. And I want the laundry basket and the washer and the dryer to be empty for once (or twice).
But I need a plan. And someone to tell me I'm not selfish or ridiculous.
And that's when I start to feel tired and overwhelmed ... and head for the laundry room. After all, there are still clothes in the dryer.
While that is not entirely accurate, as I have big, long-term goals, I have no specific goals. No plan.
Growing up it was get these grades, take these classes, earn this scholarship, graduate with this degree, get this job, get this promotion, do this, work here, get married, figure out how to have a baby (all jokes aside, this was more complicated than one might think giving my odd medical issues) ...
I've done all of that. And while there are plenty of things for me to continue doing ... I don't feel compelled to do any of them. There is no longer any joy in my career, no motivation to climb higher. Been there. Done that. Really didn't enjoy the experience. I've migrated out of the Hobbit Hole into a place I can really call "home," even if I don't own it. I have Baby Girl and Himself ... and even Son's visit this summer has been pleasant.
That's not to say I am content or particularly happy. I am blessed in many respects, but I also realize there are some big things that need to be tackled. I spent my 20s racing for yet another finish line. I would like to spend my 30s enjoying my life. Spending less time worrying about getting ahead, figuring my life out and more time ... Living.
A movie for which I've seen previews talked about having a "Bucket List." In the subsequent months since it came out, I've thought a lot about it. I have this long, intangible list in my head of things I want to do, go, learn. This morning I realized, none of them will ever happy if I keep exisiting instead of living. Nothing will change if I keep living to satisfy everyone else's expections of what my life should be.
I want to play the piano again (which would take a piano and about 15 other things) and this time, as I practice, really pay attention to music theory - something my instructor tried to pound into my head for 10 years and I never fully appreciated. I want to take up running again. I want to write seriously. Spending time working on it. I want to go to Europe and the Canadian Rockies and a dozen other places. I want to take up backpacking. I want complete my grandmother's cookbook - complete with photos and binding. I want to have playdates for Baby Girl. I want to teach her more sign language and the difference between a lion and a kitty. I want to start quilting again.
I want to Live. I don't want to spend 2 hours cooking and cleaning every night, only to have to repeat it all again, then put Baby Girl to bed, do laundry, run errands, read for 15 minutes and then sleep - only to wake up late because I stayed up late.
I want to stop feeling like the bread winner, the maid and The Parent (which is happening more and more due to Himself's work schedule and the addition of Son and Nephew this week) - and feel like a person with a husband and a little girl and a life. I want to be dimensional. I don't want to be tired all the time. I don't want to feel like I'm wasting every single day. And I want the laundry basket and the washer and the dryer to be empty for once (or twice).
But I need a plan. And someone to tell me I'm not selfish or ridiculous.
And that's when I start to feel tired and overwhelmed ... and head for the laundry room. After all, there are still clothes in the dryer.
Monday, August 04, 2008
F-E-V-E-R Spells Disappointment
I am, by nature, rather high strung. As a result, there are very few activities or places that I find relaxing. In fact, there is only one place where I feel absolutely, totally relaxed - where I can seperate all of the nonsense chatter in my head from complete serenity.
It is a little campground on a big mountain next to a tiny lake, where the air, even in mid-summer is cool enough for long sleeves in the early hours of the day. For nearly 3 decades, my family has trekked up the mountain for a week of relaxation, hiking, fishing, good food, board games, reading and naps. It was the one place as a children where we could venture out on our own. Every childhood memory there is perfectly preserved, as changes in nature are measured by centuries, not by decades. (So little changes, in fact, a fort constructed by my brother years ago still stands at one of the remote "satellite" lakes located a couple of miles from camp).
This year was to be a year of firsts, and a year of much-needed respite after a year of extreme highs and lows. I was taking Son and Baby Girl for four days - meeting my family (who had arrived days before) and spending some time just being. It was to be my first year as the "middle" generation. My whole body ached with anticipation (and, later, we discovered, it also ached with tonsilitis).
The morning arrived, I piled both kids into the car with the camping gear, the snacks, the range of clothing (mid-summer to early-winter outfits in three different sizes) and all of the baby gear. We drove through some of the most scenic country in Utah for three hours, turned onto a dirt road and drove up the mountain for another hour.
We arrived elated. Sedated. Happy. Ready to unpack and soak up nature, family and the stillness that drives me crazy everywhere else.
An hour later, Baby Girl registered a temperature of 104.9.
For the next 24 hours, it spiked and ebbed ... in the early morning hours our first (and only) morning there, her fever broke without medication and I breathed easier. I bundled her up in a blanket and sat on the end of the dock to watch the ducks. She pointed and chattered a little - but clearly didn't feel like herself. Three hours later, her temperature again reached 104.9. It wouldn't abate.
I hiked a nearby hillside and stood perfectly still to capture the dicey cell signal. I called the ranger stations in the tiny towns on either side of the mountain, searching for a medical clinic.
Exactly 24 hours after arriving, I gathered up Baby Girl, her things and any "necessities," threw them in the car and charged down the mountain - leaving Son to stay an extra day and return home with an aunt.
The official diagnosis was tonsilitis and pneumonia. My heart was broken. Weeks of anticipation followed by 30 minutes of elation and 23.5 hours of worry, concern and confusion had left me heartsick and exhausted. A million questions ran through my head, "how on earth can somone have pneumonia and no signs?" "how did I make Baby Girl feel better?" "was there nowhere I was going to find solace?" "what do people in Wayne County do if they get sick, since there is ONE clinic in the entire county?!"
I cried on the way home. I sobbed the next morning, enveloped by my own case of tonsilitis, exhaustion and self-pity. Home was not the haven I had craved for weeks - rather it was a disheveled collection of half-opened boxes spilling their contents in every room as the process of "moving in" dragged on. There was no family bonding, no relaxation, no hikes or early morning fishing. Baby Girl did not go on the lake on the boat, or up to the lookout tower in the backpack, or to the beaver pond. She didn't play with her cousin, get coddled by Grandpa or experience the great outdoors within the confines of her playpen while I dozed nearby in the clear, cool mountain sunlight.
I read 50 pages between monitoring Baby Girl's temperature between 9 p.m. and 5 a.m. The only reason I left the mountain dirtier than when I arrived was due to diaper leakage.
It felt like running a marathon - excited for the celebration of finishing the race, only to discover part-way through that it had been extended for another 26.2 miles and one must keep on running to the new end point.
I will keep on running. Running and running and running.
(ETA: Baby Girl is fine. Her lungs had cleared by the next morning - after some high-powered antibiotics administered via a shot. Her tonsilitis cleared up almost immediately. She slept for almost an entire day and woke up happy and healthy. I'm still working on getting to sleep for the first time).
It is a little campground on a big mountain next to a tiny lake, where the air, even in mid-summer is cool enough for long sleeves in the early hours of the day. For nearly 3 decades, my family has trekked up the mountain for a week of relaxation, hiking, fishing, good food, board games, reading and naps. It was the one place as a children where we could venture out on our own. Every childhood memory there is perfectly preserved, as changes in nature are measured by centuries, not by decades. (So little changes, in fact, a fort constructed by my brother years ago still stands at one of the remote "satellite" lakes located a couple of miles from camp).
This year was to be a year of firsts, and a year of much-needed respite after a year of extreme highs and lows. I was taking Son and Baby Girl for four days - meeting my family (who had arrived days before) and spending some time just being. It was to be my first year as the "middle" generation. My whole body ached with anticipation (and, later, we discovered, it also ached with tonsilitis).
The morning arrived, I piled both kids into the car with the camping gear, the snacks, the range of clothing (mid-summer to early-winter outfits in three different sizes) and all of the baby gear. We drove through some of the most scenic country in Utah for three hours, turned onto a dirt road and drove up the mountain for another hour.
We arrived elated. Sedated. Happy. Ready to unpack and soak up nature, family and the stillness that drives me crazy everywhere else.
An hour later, Baby Girl registered a temperature of 104.9.
For the next 24 hours, it spiked and ebbed ... in the early morning hours our first (and only) morning there, her fever broke without medication and I breathed easier. I bundled her up in a blanket and sat on the end of the dock to watch the ducks. She pointed and chattered a little - but clearly didn't feel like herself. Three hours later, her temperature again reached 104.9. It wouldn't abate.
I hiked a nearby hillside and stood perfectly still to capture the dicey cell signal. I called the ranger stations in the tiny towns on either side of the mountain, searching for a medical clinic.
Exactly 24 hours after arriving, I gathered up Baby Girl, her things and any "necessities," threw them in the car and charged down the mountain - leaving Son to stay an extra day and return home with an aunt.
The official diagnosis was tonsilitis and pneumonia. My heart was broken. Weeks of anticipation followed by 30 minutes of elation and 23.5 hours of worry, concern and confusion had left me heartsick and exhausted. A million questions ran through my head, "how on earth can somone have pneumonia and no signs?" "how did I make Baby Girl feel better?" "was there nowhere I was going to find solace?" "what do people in Wayne County do if they get sick, since there is ONE clinic in the entire county?!"
I cried on the way home. I sobbed the next morning, enveloped by my own case of tonsilitis, exhaustion and self-pity. Home was not the haven I had craved for weeks - rather it was a disheveled collection of half-opened boxes spilling their contents in every room as the process of "moving in" dragged on. There was no family bonding, no relaxation, no hikes or early morning fishing. Baby Girl did not go on the lake on the boat, or up to the lookout tower in the backpack, or to the beaver pond. She didn't play with her cousin, get coddled by Grandpa or experience the great outdoors within the confines of her playpen while I dozed nearby in the clear, cool mountain sunlight.
I read 50 pages between monitoring Baby Girl's temperature between 9 p.m. and 5 a.m. The only reason I left the mountain dirtier than when I arrived was due to diaper leakage.
It felt like running a marathon - excited for the celebration of finishing the race, only to discover part-way through that it had been extended for another 26.2 miles and one must keep on running to the new end point.
I will keep on running. Running and running and running.
(ETA: Baby Girl is fine. Her lungs had cleared by the next morning - after some high-powered antibiotics administered via a shot. Her tonsilitis cleared up almost immediately. She slept for almost an entire day and woke up happy and healthy. I'm still working on getting to sleep for the first time).
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