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?
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
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.
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.
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.
Monday, October 04, 2004
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.
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.
Friday, October 01, 2004
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.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
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?
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?
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
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.
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.
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.
Monday, September 27, 2004
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!
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!
Friday, September 24, 2004
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.
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.’
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.’
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
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?'
Monday, September 20, 2004
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.
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.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
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.
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?
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
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!
Monday, September 13, 2004
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.
Friday, September 10, 2004
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.
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