Some manner of comedy

Kate & Leopold has been out long enough that probably everyone who wants to see it has seen it already. Just in case, the following commentary may give away the plot, if you couldn’t guess it already from the previews. Last night it was playing on TV, and since I’d had a mild desire to see it ever since it came out, we stayed up and watched it. Well, it was free, anyway.

Perhaps the best thing I can say about the movie was that it fell far short. It began with bright hopes, and I enjoyed the period costumes and witty repartee (‘You light up a room simply by leaving it’) as well as the promise of a clever plot twist involving the time travel paradox. There was real potential for a resounding moral about the need for true gentlemen to defend the honour of all ladies, distressed damsels or not, innocent or otherwise, against the machinations of unscrupulous villains. But in the end, this positive message was lost in the fray and the moral degenerated into your typical follow-your-heart romantic comedy theme. I did enjoy observing how a gentleman simply behaving like a gentleman tends to show up the shallow shortcomings of your typical modern male, and how the little matters of common courtesy which Leopold took for granted – speaking respectfully, standing when a lady left the table – made such an impression on women. This theme – women like to be treated like ladies and generally prefer to be courted and wooed rather than taken for granted – could have been explored a bit more.

Ah, well. It was ‘pleasant piffle,’ and I liked Meg Ryan’s wardrobe of spiffy suits, even if Michael thought her hair untidy and messy. ‘Well, it’s supposed to be tousled and adorable,’ I told him. ‘Adorable only if you like the Raggedy Ann look,’ was his reply.

You can say that again

Yet another wonderful thing about marriage is the mutual immunity and confidentiality clause. So I term the 1 Corinthians 13 method of 'bearing all things, believing all things, hoping all things, enduring all things.' In other words, it's our sworn duty to think the best of each other and take everything the other says in the best possible light. So we can get away with saying so much more to each other than we would ever consider with the rest of the world.

Last night we were discussing something and the matter of a mutual acquaintance came up. Michael said, 'Well, I don't know what she thinks about that topic because I've never had a really serious conversation with her.' 'Has anyone?' I said, and then clapped my hand over my mouth to indicate that I couldn't be-LIEVE I had said it and had no malicious intent whatsoever. It was just begging to be said.

Sox on Fox

I went to sleep last night after the first inning. (We ate supper in front of the TV while we watched the first game, the Astros v. the Cardinals, and Michael was actually cheering the Astros, even though they beat the Braves not one month ago.) But there seemed no point to staying up for the second game. I even told Michael, ‘You KNOW the Yankees are going to win! They ALWAYS win! And why is it always the Yankees v. the Red Sox? Why don’t they ever play any other teams besides each other?’ ‘Of course they play other teams, silly!’ Michael laughed, and proceeded to list several ‘famous’ games wherein they faced other opponents besides each other. But aside from last year’s World series (Yankees v. Marlins), which I actually watched on TV, I had never heard of any such matches. With no roots in either state, I had no personal interest in which team won, although I had sympathy for the Red Sox, but I figured it was a foregone conclusion. I was therefore very much surprised to find out, post hoc, that the Red Sox had pulled it off after all. Although this is apparently not such an earth-shattering thing as I thought it was last night, when I assumed that all the ‘1918’ signs meant that the Sox had not been to a World Series since that time, when in fact it was the last time they won.

More about that wonderful weekend…

Saturday was such a perfect day that I just can’t stop talking about it. So, to resume the narrative…

After a perfect morning of bargains (2-for-1 lipstick and a free haircut) we had lunch at Atlanta Bread Company, where I used a coupon for a free bowl of soup with sandwich. I had never eaten there before, and their sandwiches were delicious! Plus it was sunny out, and I couldn’t help tossing my newly-short hair over my shoulders. Then we went shopping for maternity clothes, and that was a real eye-opener. It was just a scoping trip – we didn’t actually buy anything, but we got a lot of ideas, which to my mind made it a success. (Michael expressed amazement at this. ‘How can you be happy? We set out to buy maternity clothes; we came back without any; ergo, we failed.’) It was incredible to pick out a few really cute-looking outfits and try them on. In the dressing rooms, they had those little six-month pillows, and trying that on with the clothes was astounding, to say the least. (I heartily recommend this to all my married friends who are not expecting yet. This is a very poignant and surprising exercise to bring home, as nothing else can, the reality of what to expect.) Just as seeing the little fuzzy sonogram of our baby brought home the reality of this adventure like nothing else, so putting an actual picture of what I’m going to look like 5-6 months hence opened our eyes anew to the seriousness of this and, oh, I don’t know – as Bertie says, just plain thing-ness.

While we were walking through the mall we passed a confectionary and watched with interest the confectioner pour out scoops of praline onto a solid slab of marble. It looked delicious and terribly expensive. A few steps further brought us to the other side of the store, where there were free samples of that very confection. Delectable! It was your basic penuche candy (brown sugar and butter simmered together to soft-ball stage, cooled and infused with powdered sugar) with pecans in it, and simply marvelous. The samples were terribly generous, too – more than just tantalising-size. How could the day get any better? Yet it did.

We dashed home, wrapped our gift, and went down to Ken and Anne’s wedding. All our friends were there. Everyone noticed my haircut. Michael pretended to be miffed at first that no one commented on his. (I cut his very short that morning.) He even predicted on the way down: ‘You just watch. Amanda is going to come up to you, put her hand on your shoulder, and exclaim, “Oh, Rose, it looks so cute!” But is Benjamin going to do the same for me? Nooo.’ When Laura commented that she is going to donate her hair to Locks of Love, too, as soon as it is long enough, Michael put in, ‘Yes, I offered mine, but apparently they mean each hair has to be 10 inches long. Come on! I mean, if you lay it end to end…’

The ceremony was simple and unorthodox (the groomsmen came out from behind a black curtain wearing sunglasses while rock music played; Ken’s alma mater song ‘The Victors’ played for the recessional; and there was no live music: DJ Ron Garner played all songs off his laptop) and the food was prompt and delicious. While we guests filed out to the receiving line, the rest of the wedding party (sans bride and groom) quickly rearranged the chairs and pulled out the tables. The lights in the hall dimmed, and we danced the night away amidst white Christmas lights and flickering candles. It was fabulous beyond words.

Haircuts and history

The last time I chopped off my hair so dramatically was just over two years ago, in the fall of 2002. It had gotten to my waist, and Catherine even complimented me on it when I picked her up at the airport for Nathan and Sarah's wedding. We stayed up far into the night, discussing such things as the advantages of having makeup tattooed on (wouldn't it save SO much time in the mornings if you didn't have to apply eye-shadow?). Catherine returned to Georgia and I went on to England, returning just in time for Kevin and Amy's wedding. The night before, I went over to the Bloom's and Kerin cut my hair - and did a fabulous job, I might add.

Meanwhile. Back in Georgia, Catherine was over at Ron's apartment one day. Ron and Catherine were 'almost' dating, and Michael was moving in with Ron. Catherine turned to Michael and said, conversationally, 'So what are you looking for in a woman, Michael?' Michael's red flags went up, and, suspicious of Catherine's reputation as a killer match-maker, replied vaguely that his ideal woman would be 'godly, intelligent, and someone whom he at least found attractive.' Eventually she did elicit from him that he liked long hair, and proceeded to tell him all about this Virginia friend of hers, who had very long hair.

Then I showed up at the Georgia conference with my new look. Catherine confesses to a feeling of despair upon seeing me, but apparently she stopped short of calling up Michael and telling him not to bother to come to the Sunday school social, after all. And somehow Michael was sufficiently undeterred by first impressions to ask for my email address anyway. All's well that ends well.

Rainy day

As Innigo said, 'Let me explain...No, there is no time. Let me summarise.' Our internet was down at work all day yesterday, thus curing me from my obsessive checking of email and blogs all day. On the plus side, I got numerous compliments on my new haircut. The funny thing was that I was asked at least five times, 'How does your husband like it?' or 'What does your husband think?' As I told Michael on the way home, 'You'd almost think it was universally recognised as a generally accepted principle that men preferred longer hair!' Michael has been very sweet and complimentary about it, which is comforting, as I would never have done it without his blessing. But it is SO nice to take care of! I love a new haircut. Nothing like a new look to brighten my mood.

Saturday was a fabulous day. It was sunny, which was auspicious to begin with, and there was the free haircut, of course. While in the salon I spotted my favourite lipstick, which I haven't been able to find for months, which I had finally given up on as being discontinued by the manufacturer. Of course I seized two, and discovered at the register that there was a buy-one-get-one-free sale going on. The day got better and better. I even picked up a penny in the parking lot.

But the time would fail me to tell the tale of the rest of the weekend. Suffice it to say that yesterday, on my way in to work, I ran through a descending barrier at a railroad crossing. That was exciting.

Today is rainy. Want to be at home curled up with a good book and a cup of hot chocolate too. =)

Bargains

I love bargains. I routinely pick up pennies in the parking lot and was delighted, this past week, to buy lots of milk at half price because the expiration date was looming. Our milk consumption has gone up drastically of late, so I knew we could drink a whole gallon in two days anyway.

Last night I was too uninspired to cook. Literally, I could think of nothing to make. I even opened the freezer. 'Ground beef? I can't think of anything to make with that. Never mind, it's not thawed anyway.' So Michael came to my rescue and suggested that we go out to eat. Naturally this led to the question of where. What sounded good to Baby? Michael started listing off options. 'Wait, wait!' I exclaimed, and ran to the recycle bin to look at last Sunday's paper (which gets delivered to our driveway despite the fact that we don't pay for it). 'Let me see whether we have a coupon for anything.' Sure enough, there was a coupon for Applebee's, so Applebee's it was.

I've been intending to get a haircut this weekend, and happened to ask a friend about donating my hair (which I've done the last few times I've gotten it drastically chopped). She sent me the link for Locks of Love, a non-profit organisation that makes wigs for cancer victims from donated hair. I read the site and could barely contain my excitement when I discovered that participating salons offer free haircuts for those donating their hair to Locks of Love. And there's one very near home! I am so excited. I had a coupon to get it done for $10, but free is even better.

Sing a song of sixpence

We arrived early. There was background music playing, and I was mainly tuning it out while flipping through the program. A very catchy tune came on, and my ear caught the line, ‘I’ve traveled the world and the seven seas.’ Wow, I thought. ‘That’s a great song,’ I told Michael. ‘I love the tune. Have you ever heard it before?’ He gave me an odd look. ‘Yes, it was pretty popular a while back.’ ‘Wow! What a great line! I like that song!’ Further listening yielded the line, ‘Some of them like to abuse you…some of them like to be abused…’ Oops. So much for that song. I never would have guessed that a song about the Seven Seas could have been found so wanting.

Visions of the night

Yet another interesting side effect of pregnancy (not wholly unexpected - after all, the pregnancy books give full warning and explanation) is the occurrence of vivid and dramatic dreams. This shouldn't be too startling, since my dreams are always pretty vivid anyway, but recently they've taken on exceptional brilliance. This, tinged with a faint rooting in reality, gives the whole thing a ludicrous tinge of the really absurd.

Last night we had our Bible study at Amanda's house. This was our 'off'' week for couples, meaning that we girls met to do our study while the guys met elsewhere to do their study. Amanda served us this delicious peanut butter chocolatey confection that was really outstanding - not too sickly sweet, like Reeses cups, but just right. I ate several bites.

So last night I had this dream about leaving Amanda's apartment, and somehow Michael and I were driving separately, and for some reason I had smuggled him a bit of the peanut butter treat. I had thought to meet up with him in the parking lot, but when I called his cell phone to locate him, he was already on 85 heading north! The confection was soft and gooey, and it started melting in my hand, and I kept speeding to try to catch up with him so I could give him a bite...very random. And flavoured with just enough truth to be really funny.

Speaking of first words

There was a time when it dawned on me that every big word actually meant something, and that unfamiliar collections of syllables were not merely senseless sounds. I don’t recall when this revelation hit me, but I do know that circa age four I just blithely assumed that if it didn’t make sense to me, it was nonsense and jumbles. It was very simple: I spoke normally, babies talked baby talk, and sometimes grown-ups talked jumbles.

I distinctly remember singing at least two hymns that contained lines of unintelligible jumbles. The funny thing was that no one else seemed to notice it. I fully realised that at times we were babbling, but since no one else minded, I gamely sang along. Most imprinted on my memory was the verse of Crown Him With Many Crowns that ran:

Crown Him the King of years
The potentate of time
Creator of the rolling spheres
Ineffably sublime!

Then there was the line in Wonderful Grace of Jesus that talked about ‘The scope of my transgressions.’ Obviously these sounds didn’t mean anything. And yet people were singing it in church! It was all very amusing. And no one else seemed to notice this irony but me.

Aha!

So can I drive in the HOV lane now?

Miscellany

So the Braves lost to the Astros last night. Not that I was awake to see it. Very sad, especially after such a hard-fought series.

Recently I was driving home from work and heard the following joke on the radio:

Two blondes were having a deep conversation. (Michael: Oh, I thought that was the punch line.)

'So which is farther away, Los Angeles or the moon?' asks one.

'Duh!' says the other. 'Can you see Los Angeles from here?'

Ha, ha! It was so funny that I called Ryan Hall on my cell phone to relate it to him.

Saturday was full of unexpected fun. There we were, sitting around at Dave and Andrea's reception (and I was eating chocolate-covered strawberries, my first sweets in seven weeks), and Ron announced, 'Here's the deal. We can either go hike Kennesaw Mountain, or all go home and take a nap, or go on over to Michael and Rose's place to watch Bertie and Jeeves.' He was joking, of course, but we seconded the invitation so heartily that several people came along. We grabbed spaghetti fixings and watched three episodes. It was a delightful instance of spontaneity, a very fortunate thing as I haven't felt up to really planning any hospitable ventures lately. Spontaneous spur-of-the-moment is definitely the lowest-stress way to go.

Pictures and Conversation

‘And what,’ said Alice, ‘is the use of a book without pictures or conversations?’

(Except this post doesn’t have pictures yet, because I still haven’t scanned any in.)

Last night over dinner Michael remarked, ‘Have you thought about the amazing generation gap our children are going to face?’

‘Why, Michael,’ I replied, ‘I’m surprised to hear you say that. You know I would never cast your age up to you – especially in front of the children! What makes you think they’d notice that their papa is so much older than their mama?’ (Hee, hee!)

Never one to be distracted by my frivolous attempts to bait him, he persisted with his point. ‘Do you realise that they will likely regard CDs as archaic?’

‘Now, that’s just not reasonable,’ I protested. ‘CDs are SO cutting edge!’

‘To you, perhaps. They’re going to be replaced by digital technology – CDs are giving way already to MP3s.’

‘That doesn’t count. MP3s don’t really exist. They’re just concept – a theory – an idea out in cyber-space.’

‘No, they do exist, and they’re the wave of the future.’

‘Well, the problem I see with MP3s, aside from the fact that they don’t really exist in tangible form, is that they rely on a computer to play music. You’re not just updating the standard – you’re introducing a whole new way of life. We went from stationery musical instruments to victrolas to record players to cassette tape decks to CD boomboxes – in all scenarios, you’re dealing with a central music-making station. An MP3 just isn’t the same. Are people going to start installing laptops in their cars so they can play their MP3 collections in the car? Ha!’ (Very good defense, I though, for someone who knows as little about it all as I do against someone who knows as much about it as Michael.)

Michael was not to be dissuaded, and began explaining the virtues of digital storage, comparing how many MP3 files could be saved in such small amounts of space to how many songs – 27, maybe? Or 30? – could be burned on a CD, and bringing up such topics as our digital camera’s flashcard for memory storage comparison. I held gamely to my point. ‘Well, no matter how many songs you can store on it, it won’t work if you don’t have something to look at and hold. A CD, now, not only has a very pretty shimmer effect, but can actually be picked up and played.’

‘You can still burn MP3s onto disks, you know,’ Michael pointed out. ‘That’s what MP3 players are for – it can be a separate entity from a computer.’

‘Well, then, if you burn it onto a CD, then it’s a CD. Like I said!’

‘Do you even know what CD means?’

‘Sure I do. Circular Disk! Hence the shape.’

Sometimes, as Cilla observed, a girl likes to be silly. Almost anything can happen, and she has to know which way to jump.

We watched one of the play-off games earlier this week – the one where Furcal hit a three-point home run, winning the game in the eleventh inning. It was highly amusing to ask Michael such questions as, ‘Now, are the bases all equidistant from each other?’ (a trick question, it turns out), ‘Is any base historically easiest to steal?’ and ‘Can you steal first? Why not? Well, maybe if the pitcher really wasn’t paying attention…’

Morning vignette

‘This milk tastes funny,’ I told Michael this morning.
‘It tastes fine to me.’
‘It tasted funny last night, too, when we opened the new gallon.’
‘When does it expire?’ he asked. He has a proper respect for spoiled milk.
‘No, it doesn’t taste spoiled. It’s just different. Maybe the cows got into the garlic pasture.’
‘Ha! I’ll bet Baby told you to say that!’
‘It’s true,’ I persisted. Put together, Baby and I have special powers. I feel like such a super-hero. (We just watched Daredevil recently.) Ha! What’s perfect aim or super-sonic hearing to an uncannily and acutely accurate sense of smell?

But where it comes from is the Key

Our office celebrates every birthday. With about 50+ employees, that amounts to a birthday party practically every week. (Whenever more than one birthday falls in the same week, we combine celebrations and the guests of honour have to compromise on the cake.) Earlier this week Melanie chose Key Lime Pie for her birthday cake. What an ingenious idea! It was delicious and refreshing – such a pleasant change from the usual cardboard cake with paste frosting.

As I ate the sumptuous slice of pie, I recollected a most fascinating article I read once about Key Lime Pie. Did you know that, in all likelihood, you have never had a slice of Key Lime Pie? (It seems that I hadn’t, before last year.) The recipe originated in the Florida Keys, where the Key Limes grow. Most of the limes you see in the stores are actually Tahitian Limes (not that they all come from Tahiti, but that is the variety). Tahitian Limes are small, round, and have a tough skin that transports well. Key Limes are much larger and softer, and would get bruised in shipping, so the only place you are going to find honest-to-goodness Key Limes is in the Florida Keys (mainly Key West) or in those very, very expensive mail-order catalogues where they sell fruit at outrageous prices and package it up cosily. Because the recipe for Key Lime Pie has come to be associated with a particular dish, and no longer refers to the actual main ingredient, it is permissible to sell Key Lime Pie (in stores, restaurants, etc.) which in fact is not made with Key Limes and not get charged with false advertising. But unless you’ve actually traveled to the Florida Keys and ordered a slice of genuine Key Lime Pie, you’ve probably been eating Tahitian Lime Pie all your life.

For the wrath of man…

I’m hard put to it not to sputter in outrage over the proceedings. Me getting mad over it won’t solve anything, and will probably just be bad for Baby (a consideration that’s still rather foggy at this point), but it’s terribly provoking to see how these debates are spun.

A contributing factor is my sense of helplessness, because most of my information now comes second-hand. Whereas before I would have been in the thick of things, reading Drudge avidly and hanging on to every word of the debate, I’m rather trailing behind to catch up. So I think I’m justified in feeling this upset. But don’t quote me on any of this.

During last night’s debate I fell asleep after the first round of questions (at which I agreed that Cheney looked suitably unflappable and respectable and Edwards looked inappropriately slick [Did you catch his constant sideways glances at the TV cameras and patent-leather grins? How maddening! Could anyone really be fooled by that Miss America-quality smile?]) as my bedtime these days is usually 7:30 or thereabouts. So I didn’t actually see or hear Cheney’s remark about Edwards’ poor attendance record in the senate. But Michael was much impressed with it, and it sure sounded like a slam-dunk sound-bite to me.

Then this morning I read an article that pitched the contest as a dead tie, with both candidates getting in zingers at each other and both being guilty of misinformation and inaccuracies. It even referred to Cheney’s brilliant remark, and stated how he addressed this remark to the Senator himself, in direct violation of the debate rules to which both candidates had agreed! Excuse me? What of Kerry’s pulling something out of his pocket before his debate last week, something that looked suspiciously like a crib sheet, in direct violation of the debate rules to which both candidates had agreed?

Correct me if any of this is wrong. I didn’t actually see a clear video. I did see a picture sequence of Kerry with his hand very much in his coat pocket. But where is the outrage? Where are the accusations? Why isn’t anyone in the Republican Party shouting it from the housetops that while President Bush spent all day before the debate helping hurricane victims, Kerry spent it in the salon getting primped for the show?

The proof of the pudding

I almost don't believe it. It defies comprehension. As Mark Twain said in his stirring piece on the literary crimes of James Fenimore Cooper, 'You would not guess what happened in a hundred years, so I will tell you.'

It was a Good Day, and I came home from work feeling amazingly bright and energetic. I mentioned to Michael as we ate that I would have to change out of my work clothes, because I wanted to bake. This is very good. Usually I am asleep in bed at this time. I repeated my intentions and the evening itinerary perhaps three times. I was wearing a black skirt, which is irresistible to flour. Michael went out to mow. I realised we are out of milk. Bother. Will have to run to store before I can make cornbread. Will just start with cookies for now.

So there I am in the kitchen stirring up chocolate chip cookies, and whoosh goes a gust of white flour down the front of my long black skirt, which I have somehow forgotten to change. It is astounding. It is so comical that I have to run out and tell Michael all about it.

Observations on motherhood

The triumph of the moment is that all my clothes still fit, with only the merest snugness on the jeans. There’s been no drastic expansion, merely the slightest convexity which Michael attributes to my using his shampoo. Sure enough, the label very clearly warns, ‘Adds Body, Maximizes Fullness.’

Far more dire are the psychological effects. Not since I first fell in love almost two years ago have I felt this scatter-brained and utterly-useless-to-mankind. I’m going off and forgetting things at a frightful rate – ingredients, shopping lists, lunches – my attention span is flagging, and my grasp of the simplest concepts is reduced to rubbish. I’m all ready for the second trimester – ‘growing and glowing’ – and the return of sanity, energy, and appetite.

But for all that, life is not so bleak. We played another game of Scrabble over the weekend, and after a breathless, hard-fought battle, it appeared that I had lost by one point. I was philosophical. Fate had been against me all game. There were two rounds when I had naught but consonants. I had drawn some great letters – Q, Z, J – but the tiles never aligned to allow me to take advantage of extra points, and I threw all my great letters away. Then we discovered that we had forgotten to add Michael’s leftover tiles to my final score, and I ended up winning by six points.

Moreover we started reading a new fantasy series last night, and much to my surprise, I’m liking it. I tend to be skeptical of fantasy books, as a rule, because I disapprove of the general quality of the genre (in my experience, most fantasy books are cheap Tolkien spin-offs), but this one so far promises well (leaving aside the prologue, which is VERY peculiar and beyond the pale).

Michael is enjoying the back-slapping and congratulations from his co-workers, two of whom recently became first-time fathers and who are now happily dispensing advice and commiseration. There is, luckily, quite a difference in the confidentiality understandings of our marriages. For the last several months Michael would come home with pregnant-wife tales that Richard and Andy would swap over the morning coffee. The last time I dissolved into irrational tears over a misunderstanding with the microwave, I had presence of mind to add, ‘You’re not going to tell Richard and Andy your own pregnant wife tale about this, are you?’ ‘Of course not,’ he said, shocked. No, of course not. Why is it such a foreign concept to the modern marriage that you don’t tell uncomplimentary personal details about your spouse to others, even in jest?

It didn't use to be a laughing matter when Michael would say something like, 'Hey, Babe.' Now I can reply, 'Who, me?' or 'Which one?' Oh, the possibilities are endless! This is going to be grand.

Then there were three

Michael and I are pleased to announce that we are expecting an addition to our family, due next May. Nothing much can be ascertained from the very grainy and miniature black-and-white pictures we have except that our child has the correct number of heads and arms. Beyond that, as Michael points out, ‘If you add blue hair, it looks very much like a lemming.’ (Michael used to have a computer game called Lemmings.)

Baby has very persnickety tastes, an issue we shall have to address at some point. I am very grateful for the recent acquisition of said black-and-white pictures, thus providing concrete proof that this is not all an elaborate hoax to indulge my random taste for lasagne or a Schlotzsky’s sandwich.

A Catholic friend once told me, ‘The creation of a baby is an amazing providence granted to a man and a woman under God’s blessing; not even the angels have this grace.’ It is indeed an awesome thought to contemplate.

Absurdity

The front desk area (informally known as the Pit) has three work stations enclosed by a ledge at elbow height, and the printer is located across the space from my desk (a distance of perhaps seven feet). When I first started working here, I would generally hop up and walk over to the printer to retrieve my documents. Then I started getting lax, and I'd simply roll my chair over, scooting with my feet to propel me. Now I've gotten very languid, and generally push off from my desk, roll over on the force of inertia, and push off for the return voyage. Yesterday I miscalculated the required force and drifted to a stop in the middle of the Pit, perilously stranded between desk and printer, with no desk surface nearby to shove off of. Fortunately I was wearing my Nextel, and I had to laugh at the ridiculous notion of radioing for help - 'Help, help! I'm stranded in the middle of the Pit and I need to be rescued!' It reminded me of the time Michael and I were at the airport traveling on one of those moving walkways, and we started speculating about what would happen if it broke down: fortunately the sides were made of glass, so we could easily signal for help if we became stranded. The mental picture of two hapless souls frantically waving for assistance from the midst of a stalled moving walkway was well worth a thousand words.

How we do it

In response to Alison’s query as to ‘How you working married ladies do it,’ I began to type up a comment. Then it got too cumbersome and rambling for the comments, so I decided to move the thought to a post of its own.

How do we do it? Well, Amy evidently relies on the crock-pot for those long days away from the home fires. (And yes, Amy, I’ve been wishing for the comment feature on your site for a long while!) The cooking isn’t usually a problem, since I’ve established a pretty good repertoire of quick, easy meals that can be made up in a hurry. This includes stove-top recipes (soup, mashed potatoes, spaghetti, beef stroganoff, actually anything with rice or noodles and sauce, etc.) and fairly basic casseroles. Fortunately I usually get home before Michael (5:15 v. 5:30-5:45), so I have a good head start. On weekends I do more leisurely recipes, such as roast chicken or chili (which requires soaking and simmering the beans a while). I’m still making large portions, so at least once or twice a week we have leftovers from earlier in the week. We are both very fortunate not to be picky about eating leftovers – as far as I’m concerned, if it’s good today it should be good tomorrow too, and as for Michael, if ever I get apologetic about serving him something too soon (I like to have at least two days lapse before re-introducing the same item), he is quick to remind me that before he got married, he had ramen every day for supper. I usually pack leftovers for my lunch – quick, easy, and cheap. Michael doesn’t always have a microwave on his job sites, so I make him a lunch of sandwiches, cookies, crackers, and a hard-boiled egg or fruit. I usually make his lunch in the evening while he reads to me. Hmm. This last paragraph reads rather like a chatty, tell-all feature in Good Housekeeping.

As far as housework, I’ve actually found that I’ve become a better housekeeper since I started working. During the first weeks of our marriage I fell into a very easygoing routine, where I slept very late every morning, gradually got up, spent some time online, walked down to the mailbox to see whether the mail had come, checked email again, wrote a few thank-you notes, and maybe around three got dinner started. Then I’d realise around 5:00 that I hadn’t run any laundry, or had forgotten to sweep the kitchen floor. Somehow having the whole day stretch before me was too daunting a prospect for me to actually buckle myself down to getting anything started. I’ve always worked best under deadlines and pressure. Now, I can come home from work, get dinner started, dump a load of laundry into the washer, and sweep the kitchen floor before Michael comes home. Getting something done while my energy is high is actually a stress reliever for me and gives me a feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment, thus freeing me up to relax and enjoy the rest of my evening. (This is the complete opposite of Michael, who says that his method of relaxing after a long day is to actually relax, not to dash madly around the kitchen accomplishing things so he can daydream about relaxing in the near future.)

And as for shopping, I’ve simplified that substantially. There’s a cheap warehouse-type store about twenty minutes from home that I hit maybe once a month to stock up on the basics like flour, sugar, oatmeal, and chocolate chips. Then I just stop by the grocery store on my way home from work once or twice a week, depending on need. Our dairy needs fluctuate amazingly (surprisingly enough, in pretty close conjunction with the sales on milk).

Our lives are uncomplicated enough at this point to admit a great deal of flexibility. Although it’s still amazing to me how quickly the dust and dishes pile up with just the two of us, realistically – without toddlers spilling milk and cheerios on the floor on a daily basis – I have the freedom to let housework be a bit more of a haphazard proposition. For all that, working a full-time job is definitely more of a challenge when running a household. Some days the pace can feel exhausting, but I remember that this time has been given to us for a season, and I should savour it while I can. Some day my dream of quitting my job, sleeping in, and goofing off all day may come true, and how bored I’ll be then!

The main factor that allows this all to work is that Michael is very supportive of my working. For me, it’s not a matter of balancing work and home – my family life always comes first. I don’t work as late and tirelessly as I used to do when I was single, and in a sense I regret the fact that I feel like a less valuable employee, since I have less to give and can’t just effortlessly rise to the occasion when the occasion calls for it. But that’s why I chose to take a low-key job, where the pressure is not as high and I have the low stress that comes with a less glamourous job.

Well, there it is. As I said, rambling and cumbersome. I’d certainly be interested to hear how other working wives do/did it. Any ideas/thoughts/observations?

Stranded

Michael's truck is still in the shop, so we drove to work together again today. Now he is stuck in traffic and I am stuck at work. Amazingly enough, I am caught up on all my projects, and am sitting at my desk completely bored. I have checked my email and my friends' blogs, and there is nothing new under the sun. I am very, very, very bored. Especially because I know if I were at home I could:

1) Fix supper
2) Bake date bars
3) Run laundry
4) Sweep kitchen floor

All of which I have to do, and which I had planned to do tonight, but if it gets much darker and later (and when Michael picks me up, we still have to go back to the shop to get his truck, which is supposed to be ready now) I will just go home and bury my head in the sand.

Hmm. I must not be over the cold yet. Everything feels very grey.

En passant

Apparently Mt. St. Helens may explode again. This is very intriguing. The last time it exploded, I was 23 days old. I wonder how the new eruption will affect its profile; maybe even it out again? I seem to remember this being very big news in the early eighties, or perhaps we were just singularly aware of it because of our location in nearby Oregon and involvement in Creation seminars, which gave a lot of attention to the event. I remember, when very young, licking my ice cream cones into a smooth dome and saying things like, 'This is Mt. St. Helens before it erupted.' Then I'd bite a big chunk off the (north) side and say, 'Now this is Mt. St. Helens after it erupted!'

Now it seems that swords are forbidden in Australia. Somehow this reminds me of Sleeping Beauty's father banning all spinning wheels in the kingdom. What are they going to do with all metal weapons, melt them down? Export them?

I was reading the Sunday paper and saw that Kohl's had a sale on jewelry, most notably diamond earrings. There was a pair of 1-carat diamond earrings for $600. This set me thinking. An enterprising pair of young men could buy this pair, spending only $300 each for a 1-carat diamond, which is the main expense of a diamond ring: you can buy the band and claw for relatively little. Now, I'm not fond of diamonds, but wouldn't that be a clever and inexpensive way to give your fianceé a 1-carat diamond for, oh, maybe $400 total? I thought it was a very clever scheme. Michael pointed out that earring diamonds may not be the quality required for an engagement ring. Oh, well. It's a moot point for us anyway.

So far Michael does not like our friend Johnny too well. 'He's an arrogant, bossy, know-it-all - and now I'm supposed to feel sorry for him just because he had an accident? No way! I'm not going to be manipulated like that!' I'm trying to remember how I felt about Johnny the first time I read the book. I think I disliked him at first, too. That's what I love about the book - how the characters develop and grow. I remember learning in literature class a few years ago that if a character changes through the course of a story, he is three-dimensional; if he stays the same, he is two-dimensional. I disagreed strongly with this, pointing out that a flamboyant, effusive, or otherwise interesting character can stay in the same character all throughout, but does that necessarily make him two-dimensional? On the contrary, such a character could be much more interesting than a boring person who changes throughout the course of the story and morphs into another boring personality. Think of Tristan Farnon in James Herriott's books. Does he ever change? But is he two-dimensional? Ha! Much of what we learned in that class was hocus-pocus. Well, anyway, that was a bit of a digression, but the point is that, granting that definition, the characters in Johnny Tremaine are certainly three-dimensional.

Muth'thard! Let'th not be thilly!

It dawned on me this morning as we drove to work (Michael's truck is still in the shop, so he dropped me off - very sweet of him, as, though my work is sort of on the way to his, my work starts half an hour earlier) that I'd left out the mustard and mayonnaise packets in his lunchbox. So far I've left out the bread slices, the cookies, the spoon, the napkin, and the water bottle. About the only thing I haven't forgotten is the little note, and that's only because I scribble it during my own lunch break the day before. I'm still feeling remorseful over this one. Cold cut and cheese sandwiches are supposed to be the high point of the week! This is the best lunch on the menu, and I spoiled it by leaving off the condiments. Bother. At least Anne of Green Gables cheered Marilla up by the observation that she never made the same mistake twice, so eventually she would learn better and outgrow her mistakes. I seem to have no problem going right along and making the same mistakes over and over again.

Home of the Braves

It was a busy but fun weekend. On Friday we headed out to a marriage retreat with our young marrieds class at church. Getting there was something of a trick, with Friday traffic and ongoing construction on I-85 southbound. We both dashed off from work, our itinerary complicated by the fact that Michael had to drop his truck off at the shop for a tire rotation. I ended up running home, throwing things into a weekend bag (you’d think I would have thought ahead to pack beforehand!), not even bothering to change, and heading down to the shop to rendezvous with Michael. We drove downtown to the conference site, getting there only half an hour after registration ended and exactly as dinner began. (As Merry said to Frodo in Rivendell, ‘You have shown your usual cleverness by getting up just in time for a meal.’) It was a great retreat. I love retreats: the good food, the fellowship, the (usually) luxurious accommodations, the sessions, the breakout activities, the relaxing downtime. This was my first marriage retreat, and it was simply marvelous. I’ve missed the annual Blue Ridge Women’s retreat. This reminded me a bit of that. But if I were going to the Women’s retreat, I’d have to leave Michael behind. So this was even better.

After the final session on Saturday afternoon, we dashed back north and congregated in the parking lot at my work, to ride the chartered bus to the ball game. Practically my whole office was there. It was great fun. We had great seats on the lower level (and it was the only time, of all the three Braves games I’ve attended, that I’ve sat below the upper deck skyline) right along the third baseline, in a perfect set-up for foul balls if any had come our way. It ended up being a low-hitting game (we won 1-0), with no one making it past first base except for the one home run, so it went by quickly. It was great fun going with a large group. Several people bought peanuts, and they passed them around liberally, and we cracked the shells and dropped the husks on the ground. There was one point at which the catcher dropped the ball, and it rolled away, and in all the scramble and confusion I thought there was plenty of time for the runner to make it to first base, if he’d been on the alert and ready to run. But Michael said he was only allowed to make a run for it on the third strike. Very odd. When we won, they shot off fireworks from the stadium. I love going to Braves games!

Mounds of rotten steak

Recently I stumbled across a new word that described perfectly a grammatical situation of which I'd been aware for some time but which I had no idea had a word to describe it: Hypallage. This happens when an adjective is incorrectly applied to the object instead of the subject of a sentence (or maybe the other way around), often deliberately for rhetorical or dramatic impact, but also unintentionally from sloppy speech. P.G. Wodehouse was a master of the deliberate use, as in 'I dabbled a reluctant toe in the water.' This delightful discovery of a whole word to describe a concept which bears proper attention in its own right reminded me of another situation that has its own word to describe it, only I can't remember the word, and I'd be much obliged to the helpful soul who can point it out to me. It's the Mad Gabs scenario, when a certain phrase is mistaken for something completely different because the syllables sound enough alike. For instance, Michael says that for years he couldn't figure out why the Beach Boys were singing about mounds of rotten steak (Monserrat mystique). What is this word? It's driving me mad.

And by the way, BlogSpot's spellcheck has a VERY limited vocabulary.

Put up thy sword into thy sheath

Having grown up on the King James Version, I’ve always thought it was the most beautiful, poetic, and lyrical version of the Bible. I still love to read it and savour the rich language and profound expressions. Michael also grew up reading the King James version, which is nice as all the verses we memorised are King James so we can recite the ones we know together. But for many years he has read the New American Standard (or maybe just the American Standard) in his personal reading. We’ve been reading through the New Testament together, and recently came to the end and began again. This time I decided to read it in the New American Standard (or perhaps the American Standard) version too. It’s been very insightful and eye-opening. I still have a tendency to breeze through the parts I know and put the words automatically in place (as I read through the second chapter of Luke I was mentally saying, ‘And it came to pass, in those days, that there went forth a decree from Caesar Augustus…along with Mary, his espoused wife, who was great with child…and she brought forth her first-born son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger…’) but the more I read, the more fascinated I am with how greatly my perspective is altered just by making the words fresh and new. Yesterday I read Luke’s account of the upper room. Now, I’ve read the New Testament however many times before in my life, and I never noticed this: Jesus is talking to His disciples about the times to come, and they say, ‘Look, here are two swords.’ And He said, ‘It is enough.’ How random is that?? They actually had two swords with them in the upper room! And I never noticed it before! (Well, obviously, at least we know Peter had a sword on him later on in the garden.)

We are now reading Johnny Tremaine together. We’ve actually just read the first chapter. But Michael says he likes it. I love that book – it has the best chapter titles: The Pride of Your Power…An Earth of Brass…The Scarlet Deluge…Salt-Water Tea….I love the story of Boston in revolt. I love Mr. Banks’ priceless commentary on it toward the end of Mary Poppins, recounting the history of the last time a loan was defaulted and there was a run on the bank: ‘While it was lying in Boston harbour, several of the Americans, dressed as red Indians, behaved very badly and dumped the tea into the harbour…this made the tea quite undrinkable, sir – even for Americans.’

Equinox

Hurrah, it's the First Day of Fall, and in just over a month we'll get to sleep in for an extra hour! The grass is growing more slowly now, allowing us to go for at least two weeks between mowings, but the crickets are as healthy as ever. Last night they were going at it full blast all night long, right outside our bedroom window. I just tuned them out, but Michael said they kept him awake. 'What kind of creatures would sit outside our bedroom window and rub their legs together all night long? Why can't they just get a life?'

Kreative Kooking

Recently I baked a new recipe unearthed in a magazine, mainly because I had all four of the ingredients on hand and no ideas. It was called something like Bruchetta Chicken Bake, and consisted of tomatoes, chicken, cheese, and a pack of stuffing mix (don't ask me where this last one materialised from. It just appeared in our pantry one night). It smelled very good, I thought, for being such an Instant Meal.

Michael: What's in this casserole?
Me (defensively): What's wrong with it? Doesn't it taste good?
Michael: Oh, yes, it's delicious. I was just wondering whether you had saved some ground-up eggshells and added those.

Ha, ha. Apparently I have established quite a reputation for culinary efficiency. This is because I never throw out bread crusts, but instead freeze them in the optimistic hope that they will turn out to be useful one day, perhaps ground up as crumbs and baked with butter on top of a casserole. Bread crusts and black bananas can always reincarnate fairly well.

In 'ampshire, 'artford, and 'arrisford...

Whether the weather be cold
Or whether the weather be hot
Whatever the weather, we'll weather the weather
Whether we like it or not.

It's very wet and windy here. As if getting our power knocked out last week wasn't enough, it looks like we're in for it tonight and tomorrow. What strikes me about this whole cloud cover thing is how dark it is. Brrr. I just want to curl up and hibernate for a week.

Love story

There's some discussion afoot (http://www.carrotduchy.blogspot.com/ - I can't figure out how to link directly to the specific post, so depending on the Queen's verbosity you may need to dig a bit) about the advisability of writing up Our Story for the edification of one's friends and the general populace. This is a delicate proposition, because in theory the tale of How We Met should always be a good story, like all brides are beautiful and all babies are adorable. A Romance should always make a good story. But in actual fact, the dangers flanking such a telling are many and dire indeed. First, there's the matter of sappiness. Now, sappiness per se isn't bad, provided it's done right and comes off sweet and endearing rather than smug or saccharine. Sappiness done wrong (overdone or otherwise) is pretty harmless in its own right because it can be a lot of fun to parody. The trouble is that it's already an overdone genre due to the spate of courtship testimonials hitting the radar beginning in the mid- to late-nineties, when the first generation of homeschoolers grew up, fell in love, and got married (or perhaps we should reverse those last two steps). The trouble with the majority of these is not their sappiness content but their sincerity factor, which makes it impossible to parody in good fun. You can't really make fun of these people's evident desire to share God's blessing in their lives. So you just cringe at their judgment in baring every last detail and swear, 'When my time comes, I will never go off the deep end like that!' And when your time comes, it is the most exciting thing in the world and sure enough does make a great story. So the dilemma is how to canvass it abroad without sounding smug ('Here's how it worked for us. Now we're the happiest people in the world and you're not.') or boring ('He's the most wonderful person in the world and I'm so lucky and we're both so happy and isn't life just wonderful...*happy sigh*') or pious ('But it was evident that God was at work behind the scenes, despite the anxiety occasioned by Prince Character not calling my father within 24 hours of my praying for a husband, which was the fleece I had asked for....') This, I suppose, is the essential question before us now. How does one navigate these difficulties? What criteria should be the Reasonable and Rational Person's Guide to Relating Tales of Romance in the First Person?

Oh, bother!

I suddenly remembered that our computer at home is broken. Michael told me last night that the internet doesn't work and several of the more important applications are likewise beyond reach. This is a real drag, because it means I can't enter any more receipts into Microsoft Money. For the last two months we've been very good about tracking our finances, and it's so satisfying to click on the pie chart and create an instantaneous report of Where The Money Goes and ascertain that our tithe is indeed where it should be in relation to the whole pie, and we've been amazingly faithful about keeping up with the records...but I just know a little thing like this will throw all my good habits out of whirl. The receipts will pile up, and I'll stuff them into an envelope, and when the computer is fixed I'll probably just decide to start from that day forward. Also it means that Michael is going to have to spend the next several evenings working on it. As I said before, Bother. And buther, too.

Requiems spurned

Over the weekend we played a game of Scrabble. A few months ago we went through a real Scrabble kick and were playing practically every night, but it had been awhile, and it was good to be back. There was one point at which I got onto a string of bad luck and had not a single vowel. Of course I was too determined to win to risk losing a turn by exchanging all my letters, so I limped along for a good three turns with six-point words, helplessly plugging the consonants in wherever they could do the most good. It was a satisfying game, though, because both Michael and I got a chance to go all out in one turn. His big word spanned a triple word score; mine didn't, which he apologised for at first (he blocked me with his latches), but I didn't mind because my q landed on a double letter score and then the whole thing got a double word score, which means that my q got counted four times! You can't beat that!

Oh, miserable wretch that I am!

This is one of those Apostle Paul days, where I say things like 'The whole creation groaneth and travaileth together,' and 'Who shall be able to deliver me from this body of sin and death?' Blah. I hate colds. Usually I can bounce right back, but this has been one of those miserable long drawn-out affairs that started with sneezes and watery eyes on Friday and is still lingering today. I think the last time I was this sick was soon after I met Michael, and I remember penning the thought, 'It is evident that not even Intrigue is proof against the hardships of life.' Alas, True Love has solved most of my problems but has been unable to address the mortality issue.

You know you're grown up when...

This morning some of the women in the office were passing around a forwarded email. There was much laughter and snickering, and when it came to me, I read a list of 'You know you're grown up when...' which included such examples as 'You go from "I'll never drink that much beer again" to "I just can't drink the way I used to,' 'All the plants in your house are actually alive - and they're non-smoking,' and 'You're awake at 5 a.m. because that's when you set your alarm, not because that's when you stagger into your room and pass out.' 'So true,' was a commonly repeated phrase as the email changed hands. Well, that put me in a bit of a dilemma. As I read it, I kept thinking, 'Well, none of these apply to me!' By this standard, I'm not a grown-up, and not because I'm still doing the stuff on the list, either. (Kind of a 'Have you stopped beating your wife yet?' paradox.) But I sensed keenly my inability to express any of this without sounding snobby or aloof. In the end, when I handed it off and the laughing recipient asked, 'Isn't that too funny?' I merely smiled. It reminded me of the desperate need for discernment between when to speak up and when to keep silence. Ten years ago, my courageous stand-alone self would have been more than happy to spout off virtuous sentiments espousing shock and horror at the sad state of the rest of the world while enjoying the solitary status of lonely martyrdom. Later I might have questioned whether I should speak up, simply from the personal testimony angle, so as to encourage and uplift others and provide an alternate perspective to those who might be wavering. I'm all for leadership and courage and inspiring others by example. But I realised, nothing is really at stake here, and there is nothing to be gained by making other people feel bad at my expense. So I smiled and held my tongue. And thought, You know you're grown up when you know when to shut up.

Where did that come from??

I have the oddest dreams sometimes, and I generally remember all my dreams pretty vividly. Michael never remembers his dreams, so I get to monopolise our morning conversations. 'What did you dream about last night?' 'I can't remember.' 'Oh. Well, anyway, listen to this...'

This is the second night in a row that I dreamed about Kevin and Amy, and I think it's because I have their blog bookmarked, since they have such a tidy directory of all the other blogs I like to read too, so theirs is the one I read the most. Two nights ago I dreamed I was answering phones at HSLDA, and got a call for Nathan Richmond. Duh, I thought, Nathan Richmond doesn't work here anymore. When Kevin and Amy got back from lunch I gave the message to them, but I was laughing so hard I couldn't even explain why I was giving the message to them instead of Nathan's replacement. Maybe I thought Kevin and Nathan were still living in the Hall's basement. I still want to laugh when I think of my dream-self thinking so clearly, Duh, Nathan Richmond doesn't work here anymore. Duh! Neither do Kevin, Amy, or Rose!

Then last night Amy invited me over to help her pick tomatoes. Their new house had a wonderful garden but it had gotten away from the previous owner and was pretty weedy, and there was a huge tomato patch with tons of tomatoes. I showed Amy how to make fried green tomatoes, and I remember explaining to her matter-of-factly, 'Oh, that's just one of the things you learn to do when you live in the South.' How random is that?

Home is the sailor, home from sea

Had a fabulous weekend camping. We flew in Saturday afternoon in time for supper; played Clue and Dutch Blitz all weekend; went canoeing and sailing; sat down with Oma and Cheryl to try to plan next spring's Holland trip; and enjoyed a wonderful square dance and ice cream social on Sunday night. The food was pretty good, for camp food, and there was plenty of it.

We had great fun reminiscing about Michael's first visit to Camp Letts, two years ago. There was the time, during the square dance, when a little kid came up and Michael started playing with him, and I remarked to him, 'That's not one of my brothers, so you don't have to suck up to him.' Or the time it was raining, and we walked back from the dining hall with one umbrella, and Michael gallantly held it over me while getting drenched himself. Ah, fond memories indeed! Michael even remarked that in the time he's been coming to Camp Letts, he can notice significant differences, such as erosion of the beach on the Island and skylights in the cabins.


Things turned dire on the return trip. Our flight back to Atlanta was delayed due to weather, and we sat at the gate in Dulles airport for several hours, exactly as we did over a month ago after Carrie's wedding, only then we had Ron and Catherine to hang out with. At least we had brought along books, and read several chapters. We were right next to the gate for a flight leaving for Copenhagen, and talked to a friendly couple from Sweden, who had spent the last two weeks in Miami buying a boat. As the man explained, to buy the same boat in Sweden would cost three times as much, so why not use the money to take a vacation while they were at it, pick out a much less expensive American boat, and ship it back?

Yesterday we felt the outer reaches of the hurricane. It rained torrentially all night and all day, and the electricity was off at the office when I came in. Today has been a bit more moderate, but it's still raining. Much more of this and I expect the roof to start leaking.

Gonna soak up the sun

Or what there is of it. We're heading north tomorrow morning to join my family for our annual Labor Day camp-out. There are cabins with running water and meals three times a day, so it's pretty civilised, although the water (showers, drinking water, etc.) is pretty strong on sulphur.

This was the venue wherein Michael first met my family, two years ago. Three weeks after we met, he flew up into unknown territory, to get better acquainted with a girl he'd seen for one evening, meet her entire extended family and relations, join in on the yearly family reunion, and share a cabin with her father and five younger brothers. Quite the gauntlet, indeed. Next time around (Memorial Day 2003) things were much jollier, as we were engaged by that point. Next time after that (Labor Day 2003) we were married.

I can't believe that, save for the fact that we're flying into Dulles tomorrow and leaving from there on Monday, we won't even be setting foot in Virginia. I still get excited when I see a Virginia license plate on the road.

?Comment dit-on?

Which means something in French, I think, only I don't know what. What I do need to know is how to change the formatting for the comment field. It would be so nice if I could make it something nice, like Times New Roman, instead of the horrid scratchy-looking font. I tried looking around under Settings and Template but didn't stumble across anything that looked promising. Bother.

An intriguing idea

The Queen of Carrots (http://www.carrotduchy.blogspot.com/) has favoured me with an interview. Here is a new game, and being a game involving questions and conversations ('And what,' thought Alice, 'is the use of a book without any pictures or conversations?'), the concept is absolutely irresistible. (The premise is that I am supposed to perpetuate the chain by offering to pose five more questions to any takers on my site, but I'm skipping that step.) Anyway, below are her questions and my replies:

1. How did you find this blog? ;-)
An easy one to start with! I clicked on the link from Kevin & Amy's blog. 'Any friend of Miss Woodhouse...'

2. If you could make everyone on earth read and fully appreciate one work of fiction, what would it be? Why?
This is tricky, because there are far too many unread and under-appreciated books that the world collectively would be so improved by reading! But I think I'll settle upon Pride & Prejudice. Embraced as a romance novel by too many women and dismissed as a girly book by too many men, it is rather a true classic well worth the read: a comedy of manners, a very well-drawn period piece, and a sound moral tale. Aside from the improvement to one's vocabulary inherent to reading such a book, one's mind must be elevated by the notion of people acting with decorum and decency, saying polite and civilised things with wit and refinement, and behaving as they ought, not necessarily as they may want (or else suffering the consequences). But sadly, many people are not open to new ideas, such as brother-in-law Eric, who's a perfectly splendid person in many respects but is determined to disparage Jane Austen's works sight unseen, along with Anne of Green Gables ('I'd rather stick pencils in my eyeballs!') Michael, on the other hand, was perfectly willing to be introduced to new wonders, and so Pride & Prejudice is one of the books I read aloud to him on our honeymoon (along with Scaramouche, The Prisoner of Zenda, and Beau Geste), and now he likes it every bit as much as I do, to the point of feebly protesting last month when Amanda asked to borrow out A&E DVD: 'But what if they break it or lose it? You know, it's time for us to watch it again already.'

3. Before you lies a wand with the power to solve any problem you might have in the future. Do you a) Take it and use it often; b) take it but use it only in very rare instances or not at all; or c) destroy it? Why?
Ah, an obscure hypothetical! Probably b), because I would like the ability to solve seemingly insurmountable problems but I would be cautious about allowing myself to become too dependent upon an easy cop-out for exigent circumstances. Basically it would be nice to have a surefire back-up plan up my sleeve without allowing myself to become slack and begin relying on magic to solve all my problems. I would probably let one person in on the secret to hold me accountable to moderation, lest I get careless and lazy and start falling back on my fall-back plan once too often. I don't think I would destroy it because that would be such a waste. Nor would I use it often because relying on magic too regularly can be dangerous. It always makes you a stronger, more creative, more confident person to rely on your own resources, as evidenced by the fairies' determination to give up magic in Sleeping Beauty. Doing something the hard way will make you appreciate it all the more and open your eyes to a whole new world that otherwise you might take for granted. (From the cake-baking scene: '' "1 tsp...." What's a tisp?') Also, the idea of relying on magic too much brings to mind the sobering story of the Magic Thread in The Book of Virtue, about a little boy who can make time go faster by pulling on a thread and ends up throwing his whole life away because he kept getting impatient at the hard parts.

4. What one thing would you most like to do that you haven't yet done, and what is the main obstacle that stands in the way of you doing it?
I'd love to tour Europe - primarily England - for a month - preferably a year - with Michael. The main obstacle, of course, is time and money. Fortunately this is a self-curing problem: someday, we will both have enough of both, and so it's just a matter of waiting until it happens.

5. List three things that are within your sight as you sit at the computer.
1) First and foremost, the picture of Michael and me at the Lisk's party last summer. Janice snapped it on the spur of the moment and it turned out to be one of the best shots of us together. It's a sunny day, I'm wearing my pearls, and we're both wearing green and looking so happy. Definitely one of my favourites.
2) My bottle of water. I'm on a must-drink-more-water kick right now and am making every effort to get my eight full cups a day in.
3) The telephone. This is exciting because any call could come through at any time; there's an element of the unexpected and the thrill of the unknown in hearing the ring. Michael will probably call at least once, and that will brighten my day.

Dear me, what fun that is! It reminds me a bit of career/life planning classes in college, penning imaginary hypotheticals and exploring ideas and possibilities. I think everyone should go to the Queen's website and play this game.

Swimsuits and standards

I have finished reading Cheaper By The Dozen aloud to Michael and am now on the sequel, Belles On Their Toes, one of the rare cases where the sequel is every bit as good as the original. It's interesting to see how drastically the culture has changed since that time (the Roaring Twenties), in that nowadays, at least in mainstream America, the one-piece bathing suits are the more modest, conservative models, while the two-piece suits are the modern, daring, skimpy types. Just the reverse: back then, two-piece suits consisted of inner and outer garments, while one-piece suits were tighter, generally sleeveless, and often came above the knees.

A bridge too far

Michael's brother Eric came last Friday to spend the weekend. We went out to a Braves game Friday night and WON! It was terribly exciting. The score was tied through five innings, and the Giants scored three almost before we knew it, and then at the bottom of the sixth we scored four most dramatically. There was this point at which the ball bounced at the edge of the court and rebounded out, over the wall. The batter jogged complacently around to second base, and then stopped. 'When it bounces out,' Michael explained, 'it's counted as an automatic double.' This made no sense to me at all. I mean, if the ball gets outside the arena at all, never mind how, whether it gets hit out or whether a bird swoops down and carries it off, it seems that it is just as inescapably out of reach. 'Well, I'd like to see the outfielder try to retrieve that ball and tag the batter out before he reaches home plate,' I told Michael. 'Ha!' But anyway, we were vindicated by a home run later in the inning, and ended up winning 5-3. Very fun.

On Saturday we hiked Kennesaw Mountain, northwest of Atlanta and site of several Civil War skirmishes. Actually Michael and Eric hiked to the top while I browsed the museum. Then we went to Ron and Catherine's for dinner, and amazingly enough Catherine had not invited any single girl over to set Eric up with.

It was a good visit.

Unexpected happenstance

Some of the most delightful surprises have come to me when I wasn't even looking, most notably (because this was the topic that sparked this train of thought) in the literary realm. The serendipitous circumstance that comes to mind first and foremost was the discovery that happened a couple of years ago, when, in a lull and fired by a burst of curiosity, I set out to procure a quote for yet another Away message (at one time I had 87 Away messages for my IM). What I was envisioning was an excerpt from the Speech of Regulus, which I know about only from reading the Little House books, where Laura quotes a few lines, something like, 'Ye doubtless thought - for ye judge of Roman virtue by your own - that I would sooner break my plighted oath than, returning, brook your vengeance....Here in your capital I defy you! Have I not conquered your armies, plundered your coasts, and [something something something] since first my youthful arms could wield a spear?' The basic premise is that Regulus was a great general during (I think) the Punic Wars, and Carthage, having captured him, offered him his freedom if he would go back to his Roman generals and convince them that it was useless to fight and that they should make terms with Carthage. He went back, but instead he convinced them to fight on, assuring them that they could win, and then went back to Carthage to face torture and death. The quote was nagging at me most compellingly, and I spent a good deal of effort trying to track it down - I emailed all sources of useful information, such as Classics Professor David Noe and Classics Expert Darren Jones - all to no avail. I searched and searched online, and finally succeeded in stumbling across an absolutely killing little play entitled 'Rinse the Blood Off My Toga,' by Simon and Schuster. Totally hysterical! I laughed so hard I actually had to close my office door. 'Gimme a martinus.' 'Don't you mean a martini?' 'Look, buddy, if I wanted more than one I would have asked for it.' 'Gimme a wine...vino, vine, vini....hey, where's my wine? Didn't you hear me order it?' 'On the contrary, I distinctly heard you decline it.' I never did find the complete text of the speech of Regulus, but I felt well rewarded for my trouble.

Then there was the time I was flipping through an otherwise worthless magazine and discovered that the poem I had long quoted with mirth:

A wonderful bird is the pelican;
His beak can hold more than his belican.

was actually a limerick:

A wonderful bird is the pelican;
His beak can hold more than his belican.
He can hold in his beak
Enough for a week
And I'm d--d if I know how the helican.

The trouble, of course, is that you can't really recite it out loud, but it is terribly funny, all the same.

Another time I was looking for a particular poem and discovered The Wondering Minstrels, a delightful site that posts a new poem every day, with commentary, links, and an incredible archive containing all kinds of poems listed by author name, poem name, and first line. An invaluable resource. Sometimes the selections are a bit modern, but the collection is impressive, and I've found many a gem on there.

I suppose the online search engine is the modern equivalent of looking for a word in the dictionary and finding ten others of fascination and obscurity. To that system I credit the discovery of deus ex machina, ad kalendas graecas, recondite, abstruse (particularly elegant as they are so self-descriptive, a property they share with polysyllabic and self-descriptive), paucity, pellucid, pelf, and so on. Michael won't even let me look things up for him now when we're reading because it takes ten times as long. 'Oh, look, here's a really neat word-' 'Rose! All we're trying to do is to figure out how to pronounce yolk!'

August showers

Yet another co-ed shower on Saturday, this time a wedding shower. I thought it was fun just because it's always more fun to do things with Michael, even though I can't say I endorse the trend. Lots of delicious food and the most exquisite punch. There were chocolate-covered strawberries and these delicious ham and cream cheese pinwheels. Michael complimented Deanne on them. 'Oh, thanks, they're so easy,' she replied. 'And so even, too,' he added. 'You sliced the ham first and then spread the cream cheese and then rolled each one up, right? How painstaking!' 'No, actually, you spread the cream cheese first...' she began to explain, before realising that Michael was joking. We played a couple of games, one of which reminded me very strongly of those marshmallow and lifesaver games we used to play at the Lisks, which sounded so innocent in theory and whose suggestive undertones only became apparent in practise. =)

To seek the pale, enchanted gold

So last night we watched The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. 'Badges? We don't need no stinkin' badges!' Very gratifying to hear that line at last. It was on my list of Movies To See At Some Point In My Life, although I was disappointed not to get Bringing Up Baby. Blockbuster does not have the world's best selection when it comes to classics. This may be a good thing, though, as it will provide us a credible excuse to cancel our membership next month. 'We've found that your selection of classic movies just isn't comprehensive enough for our tastes' sounds so much better than, 'Well, our really cheap promotional-offer first month is up, and while it was fun while it lasted, we really don't want to live our lives watching this many movies, and certainly we don't want to pay for it at the higher rate.'

The movie offers a sober look at the effect of riches on mens' characters. In the beginning, washed up and at rock bottom, Humphrey Bogart's character tells an old prospector that he'd be content to make a small pile, in response to the prospector's warning that it's impossible to moderate your demands: gold gets a hold on a man and changes him. Bogart sounds so convinced that he'd be impervious to the lure. In fact there's a scene toward the beginning when a large sum of money comes into his hands, and he limits himself to that which is due him. A great instance of resisting temptation. But as the movie progresses, and wealth comes into the picture, it is astounding to see how the characters of the men alter. Suddenly what would have been a fortune when they were destitute seems like 'small beans,' and as their avarice grows, so does their mistrust and selfishness. It makes you wonder what that much money would do to you. Surely you'd be sensible and call it a day when you're ahead!

Ain't he sweet

Michael (kissing me): Good thing we're not snakes.
Me: Why?
Michael: Well, you know what happens when two snakes get this close. And I'm bigger than you.

Ha, ha. This refers to a rather gruesome fact that I mention from time to time, because it fascinates me so much: snakes' mouths only work one direction, because their teeth can't go backwards. So when two snakes happen to start eating the same rabbit or shrew, the larger snake will always have to end up eating the smaller one, because neither can disengage its jaws.

The week wears by

Last night we watched Jaws. I knew the basic premise - killer sharks keep eating stupid bathers, unmistakable soundtrack - but had never seen it. At the very beginning, watching all the teenagers wasted on the beach in their pathetic 70s hairstyles and clothes, I remarked, 'What a bunch of losers. I don't care if they DO all climb into the water and get eaten.' But the movie improved from there, especially as the fishing expedition got underway, at which point it began to assume semi-classical proportions, resembling in a small way 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea or Moby Dick, pitting the forces of man against monster amidst the backdrop of the awesome forces of nature. It was a very scary movie. 'Was it scarier than Alien?' Michael asked. No, it wasn't. Alien is still the scariest movie I've ever seen. But I have to say that Jaws was very frightening.

Tonight we're going to see about watching Bringing Up Baby, which Michael has never seen. I remember watching it with Harmony probably ten years ago and laughing virtually without intermission throughout the entirety of it. This should be fun. It's high time for a happy movie now.

Let the games begin!

It's Olympic season once again and at current writing, America stands third in total medal count! It's terribly partisan, but I don't even mind losing so much to, say, Australia or Canada; it's so much more palatable than losing to the Ukraine or Germany.

We were in the video store over the weekend picking out two more videos to check out. We are going to get our money's worth out of this month of unlimited movie rentals, by jingo! This relentless frenzy reminds me very much of our trip to England two years ago (there she goes talking about England again, just like Sir William about St. James), when Leah and I made the impulse decision to buy a week-long English Heritage Pass. We were standing outside Tintagel about to pay our 3 lb. admission fee, and the lady asked us where we were going next. 'Oh, we're going to visit Stonehenge...' 'Well, Stonehenge is 2 lbs. admission, so already you're more than half paying for a week-long pass.' And somehow she talked us into it, so we bought the pass, and thereafter spent the rest of our week dashing madly over the countryside in search of any and all castles on the English Heritage list. Here was how our itinerary fell out each day: Look at the map. Locate where our youth hostel was for that night. Observe what castles lay within a wide berth of our prospective route. Hit them all. It was great, really, because we got to see so many places that we probably wouldn't have bothered with if we had to pay admission. Anyway the similarity holds true. This is our chance to watch all those minor movies not worth our notice after all. For instance, yesterday we watched Jurassic Park, which I had never seen and hadn't ever really wanted to see but which Michael insisted was necessary. Hel-LO! I could see the plot coming a mile away! 'Let me guess,' I told Michael. 'The tropical storm is going to hit, wipe out their power, and the dinosaurs are going to break out through the now-not-electrified fences. Am I right?' No, but very close, as it turns out. And I don't know for sure, but I highly doubt that a human could survive a jolt of electricity strong enough to keep a dinosaur back.

So anyway there we were in the video store aisle, and I picked up King Solomon's Mines out of curiosity. The description on the back sealed its doom. Something about escorting a young girl across the African desert in search of her father...blah blah. Now, it's been a few years since last I read the book, but I DO know that there are no beautiful young girls, heiresses or otherwise, taking center stage throughout the majority of the book - just an ugly old crone who cackles and casts spells. And it irritates me excessively, this relentless pattern of extracting the element of an idea from a good book and re-shaping it to meet the film-maker's notion of what will sell. Obviously, this film-maker thought there had to be some kind of love interest in this story for it to succeed, and even though there was no hint of that in the book, one was manufactured and squeezed in there. Now, I have nothing against romance and all that, and I'm all for the dramatic and compelling power that a love story can weave over a tale - IF it's meant to be and IF it fits in nicely with the rest of the story. Some stories just don't lend themselves to the romance angle. Some stories simply don't require it.

So what great stories out there don't have a romance or overt love interest theme to carry them along? Right off, from the books on my 'favourite' shelf, which is where I keep my top classics, I can think of Lost Horizon, which is a very well-written and compelling story where a love interest does not play a primary role in the plot. Any other ideas?

Yesterday was Catherine's birthday. I remember this because five years ago I attended her 21st birthday party in Virginia, at the girls' townhouse, which was the first time I met her parents, who had come up for the weekend to throw her a party. Such elegant, wonderful people - I actually received a written invitation to her birthday party, a week before, from her parents in Georgia! Sara Roberts, who was NOT invited, nevertheless came because she was staying with us at the time. This was the same visit when we took Sara to Harper's Ferry. We had announced Sara's impending visit the week before, at Game Night, and invited anyone who wanted to join us to come along to Harper's Ferry. Darren stopped by my desk next week and mentioned that he'd like to come along. What I said was, 'How nice! What fun! Great!' What I thought was, 'Oh, Darren, you don't know what you're getting into. It's just going to be a bunch of girls, and you're the only guy who's said he's coming, and of course you're always welcome, but I think you'll just be bored.' Sure enough, he was the only guy, but somehow I don't think he was that bored. We had a great trip and a fun day, and the next day we were all together again at Catherine's party, and Sara...but this is impolitic, for I may be provoking her to retaliation, and such things may come out, as may shock my relations to hear.

Hmmm...that was a far-fetched ending for a post that was supposed to be about the Olympic games.

Ooops

Bonnie Prince Charlie didn't climb the oak tree, after all, at least not as far as we know. Wrong century. That's what comes of thinking while half asleep.

Triskadeckaphobia, anyone?

Nothing sinister so far about this Friday the 13th. But it makes for a very fun word, and it's a long word that is a bit more usable than the one about peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth. (Is that even a remotely practical word, or is its sole purpose in life the brag value of being able to rattle it off glibly, like antidisestablishmentarianism?)

Last night we went to Benjamin and Amanda's for dinner. Based on our month of unlimited movie rentals, we had just checked out Daredevil, which I am very glad we didn't go out to the theaters to see when it first came out. So lame it was almost funny. Unlike The Thomas Crown Affair, which we watched night before last, a very elegant crime caper with an unfortunate ratio of fast-forward scenes. I love the elegance and intricacy of high-class society - very reminiscent of How To Steal A Million.

It rained torrentially yesterday morning. Popular wisdom holds that it was an effect of the hurricane. Thanks to Sarah for pointing out that Clyde would have been an appropriate name to match Hurricane Bonnie. Ha, ha! Actually, though, Charlie is also an apropos name for a hurricane under these circumstances, as I realised last night. I was on the brink of falling asleep when suddenly an idea struck me, and my mind leapt up, alert and ready for action. 'Michael!' I whispered. 'It just occurred to me that Charlie IS a good match for Bonnie, after all. Don't you see? It's a classic historical reference instead - Bonnie Prince Charlie! Remember? And far below the Roundhead rode, And humm'd a surly hymn.' (It should be noted that I only know this quote from reading No Entry.)

We are duly primed and ready to watch the opening ceremony of the Olympic games tonight at eight. I've been waiting for this ever since the ice skating of February 2002.

Laughing matter

For some reason I was remembering our Oregon trip last spring (by which I mean the spring of 2003, last year) and I could just picture one very funny episode as we drove along one day. Leah and I had flown out for Mike and Rachelle's wedding, and Jonathan and Benjamin got to come along for the ride. We were all piled into the back of Grandpa's car, and someone brought up the topic of whether we were all present and accounted for. 'We could call roll,' suggested Jonathan, and then beat us all to the punch by hollering out 'ROLL!' before any of us could. Then Benjamin chimed in, 'We could count legs and divide by two.' 'That only works as long as none of us are pirates,' I pointed out, 'and the same goes for counting by hands or eyes, too.' We all giggled hysterically at the idea of Captain Hook, Pegleg, and One-eye trying desperately to find a way to call the roll. And Captain Hook wouldn't be much help for counting up on his fingers, either. 'One, two, three, four, five...darn, I keep losing my place!' It was one of those never-to-be-forgotten and impossible-to-recapture moments, rivaling in sheer hilarity the time late one Game Night when Mr. Hall went on a rampage describing his method for dealing with fellow passengers who oozed into the neighboring seats - 'Oh, sorry - didn't mean to smack you in the eye there - it's just an uncontrollable twitch that I'm seeing my doctor about - oh, terribly sorry about that...' That night I literally laughed until my sides ached, something I had hitherto been wont to regard as a mere figure of speech.

Penny wise

Michael still laughs at how far out of my way I will go to pick up a penny. 'I will make my fortune yet!' is my triumphant cry whenever I straighten up from the pavement or landscaping, a penny to varying degrees of muddiness or greenness clasped between thumb and forefinger.

Penny-pinching isn't limited to the literal. We were at Blockbuster earlier this week on a spur-of-the-moment movie binge. We had just decided to get a movie for the evening, and determined to rent only one, at which quantity it was more efficient to run down to the local Blockbuster than to drive twelve miles to the nearest Hollywood, where prices are better. Somehow things got out of hand and we were standing in the aisle with three selections in hand, when I spotted a sign offering a promotional deal for membership: sign up for unlimited movies at $24.99/month, but the first month is only $14.99! 'At four movies,' I pointed out to Michael, 'we're already at $16.00 plus tax, so we might as well sign up. We'll come out ahead just for tonight, not counting all the movies we can watch in the next month before we cancel.' So now we're members of Blockbuster's unlimited movie rental. It's a bit like Netflix, I guess, except more convenient. Now we're going to have to watch a lot of movies, to make it worth our while. I anticipate that they'll consist of the type that we want to show each other or have been curious about but wouldn't spend the money outright to rent.

Uptown Girl

[Editor's note: This post was intended to be published yesterday. By an oversight of the editor it was saved to the draft folder instead of the live blog. So treat all the dates accordingly.]

More thoughts on that eventful evening two years ago last night.

On the way to dessert from dinner we were stopped at an intersection, and there was a whole caravan of cars in front of and behind us, all headed for the same place. Catherine, who was driving a stick shift, revved the engine loudly a few times and then explained to me, 'That will give the people in the car ahead of us something to think about.' She added, 'Ron's driving. He'll like it.' Ah. Unbeknownst to me at the time, Ron liked Catherine, and unbeknownst to Ron, Catherine liked him. I thought it was pretty cute, in retrospect.

While we were driving Catherine turned on the CD player and we listened to Uptown Girl. I had never heard it before and I loved it. It perfectly captured my mood of upbeat euphoria and boundless energy - right after a conference is always the best time to conquer the world. I mentally filed it away in my list of 'Songs to download someday and burn onto a master CD of Great Tunes.'

Last night Michael retrieved some old songs that had been on another partition of his computer for a while, and called me in at one point. 'Here, listen to this.' And proceeded to play Uptown Girl for me! The memories of that hot evening in Atlanta came flooding back to me. And I hadn't ever even told Michael about that song! I thought it was an incredible coincidence. So I told him all about it. 'Do you know when I first heard that song? It was two years ago while I was on my way to winning a game of Mafia...' That set us off in a whole train of memories and reminiscings. Ah, auld lang syne...

Memory Lane

Two years ago today I was in Atlanta, wrapping up the Georgia conference. I had worked it with Jenna (Pocoroba) Cobb, and we had had a great time visiting, reminiscing, talking of bygone Virginia days and marriage. After the conference Catherine Hackler picked me up to spend the rest of the weekend with her family...but first, she said, she hoped I didn't mind if we went to a progressive dinner party with her Sunday School class. Of course I didn't mind. The conference was over and I was typically high-strung with the post-conference adrenaline rush, all game for adventure.

We were late to dinner and there was a game of Psychiatrist going on. After observing for a few minutes I whispered the pattern to Ron (now Catherine's husband) and he was SO impressed that I had got them all figured out, even being new to the crowd and all. Ha. Little did he know what an old hand I was at the game, having played many a merry round at Sherri Wilson's log cabin in West Virginia that halcyon summer and fall!

From thence we progressed to dinner, and on the way Catherine confessed to me that she had her sights set on introducing me to a friend of hers, a Michael Focht. 'I don't know him that well, but I respect him alot and I think he'd be a good match for you. He was in the Marines and very handsome, but I'm so disappointed because he just cut his hair really short, and I think he looked much more handsome before...' On she went singing Michael's praises to me. I laughed at her enthusiasm. 'My dear girl, short hair or no, I have no intention of falling for someone with such a monosyllabic last name. But many thanks for your kind thoughts and all that.'

We arrived at the dessert setting and began a game of Mafia. Against all odds I drew the Mafia card and, through an intricate series of bluffs, double-crosses, and intrigues (one of my favourite dodges is to confide in whispers to the person next to me, a couple of rounds in, that I'm the sheriff, that I know that person is safe because I just checked him/her out, and that if I go down he/she must carry on and here is a list of the people I've checked so far that are safe, etc.) went on to victory! It was terribly exciting. Twice I was put on the witness stand and each time I defended myself with such artless innocence that I was acquitted...Michael tells me that although he voted to acquit me the first time, he really did suspect me and was just being nice to this new out-of-towner. Certainly he it was leading the charge against me the second time. Fun, fun, fun!

Catherine, never one to leave well enough alone, left nothing to fate in ensuring that Michael left with a favourable impression of me. As Ron described it to me later, 'Catherine is Emma Woodhouse in the flesh. I'm like, Hey, so-and-so, here's so-and-so; I think you should meet. Catherine's like, You stand here, you stand here. Now stay right there while I run get the vise.' After the game of Mafia, Catherine sidled up to Dave, who has a Jeep. 'Hey, Dave, Rose has never seen the Atlanta skyline at night! Would you like to take us out for a spin in your Jeep? How many does it seat again? Four? Hey, Michael, would you like to come along?' Curiously enough, Michael had been hanging around, and was not averse to coming along. And as we headed out to the Jeep, Catherine announced, 'Oh, I can't crawl into the back wearing this short skirt. I hope you don't mind if I take the front seat.' So we gamely clambered into the back together and spent the next hour admiring the Atlanta skyline by night, talking of books and travel and chess and ships and shoes and cabbages and kings. And it wasn't very long before he had extracted my email address.

And the rest is history.

This day in history

One year ago today I married the man of my dreams. Two years ago today we had never met.

We have now been married for more than half the time we've known each other. Actually, this happened a couple of days ago, since, as Michael pointed out, this was a Leap Year and, hence, longer.

It's very definitely been the happiest time of my life. And promises to get only better.

Overheard at Red Lobster

Michael: I'm really looking forward to being a dad.
Me (Aww, how sweet!): Why?
Michael: I can't wait to feed our kids a slice of lemon and see their expression of stunned surprise.

The mousetrap

Night before last I was seized with a brilliant idea while packing Michael's lunch for the next day. I took a tiny bite out of his peanut butter sandwich, thus placing a very personal touch on his lunch, stamping my seal of approval on the whole germ-sharing-now-that-we're-married concept, and giving a Mark of Ownership to the little sandwich. Ha, ha! I thought it was a very funny idea, especially as I nestled the hard boiled egg into the dip.

There were torrential storms yesterday. We actually lost internet access at work for a while in the afternoon. But it was well compensated for by cake and ice cream at three, celebrating the birthdays of four employees this week.

Ice cream always improves my mood, and I was feeling very competent by stopping at the store on the way home from work, picking up essential groceries, and even using two coupons that I'd clipped from the Sunday paper. This feeling of elation lasted through putting the spaghetti on to boil and scrubbing down the guest bathroom, until I discovered that I'd forgotten to pick up a loaf of bread and thus could not pack Michael's lunch for today. The evening was on the point of being ruined, when Michael saved the day by suggesting that we run out to the store (which really is right around the corner) together while he read to me. Currently he's reading The Bourne Identity aloud to me, which I've never seen in movie form, and which he says is very different from the book. (With all the hype surrounding the release of the second movie, I was the 22nd person on the wait list to get it!) So we are reading it together, and then we will watch the movie, probably, and then read the second one and then criticise the second movie together.

Anyway on the way home from the store we ran into traffic. There was a car turning left, and it even pulled leftwards to give us a wide berth in which to circumvent it, but the bovine Georgia drivers in front of us sat patiently waiting for it to turn because Heaven forbid they should run even so much as an inch of tire tread on the shoulder. I began narrative commentary on the situation. 'Come on, people, how hard can this be? I mean, it's not like we're navigating the Straits of Magellen here!' Michael started laughing. 'I think it's really funny that you use words like Straits of Magellen in casual conversation!' The really funny part is that I obviously didn't know how to spell it.

Later he said: Oh, by the way, I should have asked you to pick up a mousetrap while we were at the store.
Me: Oh, no! Do you think we have mice?
Michael: Yep. You'll never believe where, either.
Me: Where?
Michael: In the fridge. I found evidence of them today.
(Thoughts race madly through my head, picturing little mouse pellets strewn across the refrigerator shelves, wondering how this horror has happened, and envisioning the waste of having to throw out everything in the fridge, poison the kitchen, and hope they never come back.)
Michael: Yeah, there was a bite taken out of my sandwich today.
Me (pause; then realisation dawns): Oh, you! (Throws pillow.)

As the Apostle Paul would say, this witness is true.

Tact v. Truth

Tact v. Truth requires such a delicate balance. Last night in our Bible study, an in-depth look at the life of David, we were talking about the spirit of jealousy. I pointed out that while it was wrong of Saul to react wrongly to the accolades of the people with an improper spirit of jealousy, it was also probably not the wisest thing for the women to be saying things like 'Saul has slain his thousands and David his ten thousands' right in front of the king. 'Yes,' chimed in Marcela, 'They should have thought: Saul has slain his thousands - might be a thousand and one if I don't shut up.'

Another highlight of the weekend was playing the poem game one evening between rounds of Clue. Michael, poor soul, had never played before. Jonathan, deluded soul, insisted that it was boring and kept threatening to drop out. David, poor child, kept insisting that he couldn't think of anything to write. But it was fun. We came up with some real masterpieces, along the lines of:

Old King Cole was a merry old sole
He was round and bright, as I've been tole
I wonder why Old King Cole was a fish?
He should eat, not be, a tasty dish.

Or this:

O'er the misty mountains cold
There rode an errant knight, and bold
His shield was made of lemonade
Which, alas, did melt and fade
In the bright rays of the sun
At least he had his trusty gun
To shoot the pesky critters down
Which falsely wore a wedding gown.

Or this:

Once upon a midnight dreary
At the bar sat Tim O'Leary
With great sorrow on his shoulders
Lacking brown manila folders
How was he to keep his files?
All his papers sat in piles
On his hardwood office floor
They'll be sorted nevermore.

Hilarity at its finest.

Well, why should I want to be bad at the zoo?

From 'The Good Girl,' by A.A. Milne.

'...I go to a party, I go out to tea
I go to an aunt's for a week at the sea
I go to the zoo, and it's always the same:
Wherever I go, they will say to me: Jane,
Have you been a good girl, Jane?

Well, what did they think that I went there to do?
And why should I want to be bad at the zoo?
And should I be likely to say if I had?...'

Went to the zoo last night with Benjamin and Amanda and Todd and Marcela. Marcela's company had a special pass, so off we went. It wasn't the biggest or cleanest zoo I've ever seen, but it was fun to go off and do something unexpected with friends.

Michael (coming out of the reptile house): Marcela, did you see the snake in there that lives in Costa Rica?
Benjamin: What, do they just commute?