On aging

Michael remarked that this was a very pleasant birthday, although nothing spectacular. We've pulled off surprise parties for each other for the last couple of years, and I think we both sensed that it was time to end that genre, since we can't possibly top every masterpiece. Better quit while we're ahead. So no more surprise parties, and the major milestones only come around every five or ten years at this point (Twenty-one is, I think, the last major non-divisible-by-five milestone birthday).

But that's all right. We decided that the antidote to not-so-special birthdays anymore is the more special everyday existence. Sure, the cards only come from family and the obligatory co-workers now. But what's a bit of fleeting recognition compared with overall quality of life? I couldn't buy Michael anything that spectacular because he doesn't really need anything. Which means, by implication, that everything he needs/wants has come along throughout the year, instead of having to save up all year hoping and waiting, like the bike on a tenth birthday or something. I did bake a layer cake for him, which was special, as I've never done an actual layer cake before, with frosting between the layers, but not that spectacular, as I bake fresh yummies every week anyway. I cooked his favourite meal and set the table nicely with all the silverware and candles - but I've been setting out all place settings at every meal anyway for the last few months. That doesn't make his birthday seem any more special by contrast, but it does make our everyday living style more elegant.

So I guess the moral of the story is, birthdays for kids are really grand because the rest of the year is miserable enough to provide a sufficient contrast. Adults, by comparison, can have a nice enough life that birthdays are only marginally more exciting.

Octophobia

What is it about spiders, giant squid, and octopus that makes them so universally horrible? At first glance one might think that it must be their eight-leggedness. But that can't be the only factor, because the 50-foot squid arm they found in the stomach of a sperm whale means that there's a seven-legged giant squid swimming around out there, and that's just as bad.

Tag time

So Sara is passing the torch to me, and I, nothing loath, am happy for the opportunity to toss off another list.

Four Jobs I Have Had in My Life:
1) Pig-sty swiller
2) Ball chaperone and greeter
3) Office mover
4) Proofreader

Movies I Could Watch Over and Over Again:
1) Princess Bride (of course!)
2) Ever After
3) Mary Poppins
4) Star Wars Trilogy (at least I think so; I watched it 37 times the first summer I saw it) (but that may just be a sixteen-year-old thing)

Four Places I Have Lived:
1) Dallas, OR
2) Alexandria, Egypt
3) Leesburg, VA
4) Atlanta, GA

Four TV Shows I Love to Watch:
Love? That's a bit strong of a word for the occasional Frasier re-run and the Alias kick we were on a few months back

Four Places I Have Been on Vacation:
1) Cyprus
2) Holland
3) England!
4) Florida

Four Websites I Visit Daily (or at least weekly):
1) Amy's blog (because she has the links to all the other blogs I like to read)
2) The Wondering Minstrels (not quite every day, but it's a wonderful website)
3) Modesty Zone
4) The Daily Su-do-ku (we'll see how long this kick keeps up)

Four of My Favourite Foods:
1) Ice cream, of course
2) Pineapple pizza
3) Lasagne
4) Oreos

Four Singers I Can't Live Without:
1) Enya
2) ABBA
3) Pat Benatar
4) The Beatles

Four Places I'd Rather Be:
1) England!!
2) Scotland (because then I could hitchhike to England)
3) Italy
4) Heaven

Four Bloggers I Am Tagging:
See, well, now, that's the tricky part. Tagging someone is kind of like a Tupperware party: I'm always eager to go, but I'm reluctant to invite anyone because it may not be their cup of tea, and besides this little quiz has been circulating for long enough that it's likely most people have already had the opportunity to play. I'd tag the Queen of Carrots, who's such a good sport and so up for tagging that she even went out of her way to tag herself recently, but for the fact that I think it might have been this very quiz she answered. So I'll throw in this twist: O Queen, answer as if written by D1 and/or D2. Hee, hee! Won't that be cute?

Many happy returns...

...to Michael, the love of my life, who celebrates yet another birthday today!

Things We Still Like To Say And Think Are Clever, No Matter How Often We Say Them:

Michael: I'm afraid that's the last one.
Me: Oh, don't be afraid! Everything's going to be all right!

Michael: Well, to be honest-
Me: I want you to be honest with me, Michael.

Me (coming home from church or something): Well, I think I'm going to go change.
Michael: Oh, don't change, Love! I like you just the way you are!

A-pun my word

Recently we were trying to eat our meal in peace and quiet, and Jane simply would not settle down. She had been fractious all day, and I was writing her off as tired, but I feared that her peevishness would adversely affect Michael, who, like most men, tends not to tune out the sounds of a baby's crying so well. I apologised for her behaviour. 'I don't know why she's being so cantankerous,' I said, and went on to make such excuses for her that he finally assured me such excuses were unnecessary, adding, 'I hope you don't think I'm being cantankerous.'

'Well, no,' I admitted, 'but you were looking so tense that I figured you were getting a bit can't-take-her-ous.'

*************************************************************

For a very long time, puns were considered strictly lowbrow humour. Their obvious play on well-known words guaranteed a wide and appreciative audience, and a form of humour that was readily enjoyed by people of all education and literacy was not considered highbrow or subtle enough to entertain those of refinement. Any self-held wit could transform himself into a punster, and cheap puns appeared en masse in the daily papers for the guffaws and amusement of the common readership. High-class society entertained itself with such dainties as the double-entendre, which we already know must be far cleverer and more refined because it has a foreign name. Those who did venture a pun were quick to disavow their wit, insisting 'No pun intended,' which became quickly seized upon as a humble form of saying, 'Did you catch that? You may be too thick-headed to notice that I just made a pun, but I simply cannot let this example of my cleverness get by without acknowledgement.'

I am glad that in our less class-conscious society, puns are making a respectable comeback, because I think they can evince such cleverness of word tricks and give us an opportunity to play with the language. Tom Swifties are among my favourites of the genre. I think I may have mentioned these before:

'That's my gold mine,' Tom claimed.
'But that used to be my gold mine!' Tom exclaimed.
'I used to be a pilot,' Tom explained.
'I dropped the toothpaste,' said Tom, crestfallen.
'I lost a fight with a lion,' Tom said off-handedly.

Tooth and consequences

Yesterday Jane sprouted her very first tooth, a sharp spar protruding from the bottom gum. Henceforward no inflatable toy shall be safe from her. I discovered it while she was chewing on my finger yesterday morning, and all last evening as we fed her a practise cup of water we could hear the chink of tooth on glass. It's the end of an era...and the beginning of a new one.

For his birthday, Michael is teaching me how to play Axis and Allies. At first I asked him to teach me as a splendid gesture on my part, because I thought it would be such an incredible Good Wife thing to do. But I find I'm not doing any martyristic favours, because the game is really riveting in its own right. It's very hard to learn, and very difficult to pry one's mind away from; I'm seeing East Front maneuvers in my mind's eye as I fall asleep. I just wish it weren't so intense and so absolutely emotionally draining. (No! No! You can't sink my transport! I'm on an island - I need that transport to move my troops!)

An interesting article about blogging

Miss Manners has such a delightful way of putting things:

'[B]logs have served as an outlet for those unable to book their confessions on television. Whatever this does for the general tone of society, etiquette has no rule against people spreading unflattering gossip about themselves.'

The article also berates those using blogs to betray confidences of others, something I try to avoid doing by referencing friends anonymously, as in the following anecdote:

Once, I decided to call a friend. She answered the phone with a rather suggestive greeting, which took me so much by surprise that I could only manage a feeble 'Who, me?' Obviously she was expecting the call to be from her husband, and it is hard to say which of us was more thrown for a loop. We both got a hearty laugh from it, and I still feel inclined to giggle whenever I think of it.

Note: this trick doesn't work so well when trying to relate an anecdote about one's spouse. That kind of anonymity is a little harder to pull off. I suppose one could try the old third-person dodge, a la Once I had a friend who was so delighted to find what appeared to be a great sale on toilet tissue that she stocked up and bought dozens of rolls, only to find that it was of such cheap quality that her husband insisted it was not allowed in the house, and she ended up giving it all away to her family on their next visit, because her five little brothers didn't care about such niceties as double-ply toilet tissue. Ha! How's that for subterfuge and discretion??

Undeck the halls and untrim the tree

On Saturday we took down the Christmas lights, a thunderstorm having prevented this activity last weekend. I was secretly glad for the delay, because I love to revel in the Christmas spirit as long as possible. Anyway, Michael was up on the ladder unthreading the lights from the clips and tossing them down to me, and I was shivering in the chill wind, wearing a sweater with the hood pulled tightly around my face.

Michael: It's so nice that you're not vain.
Me: What? Are you saying that I don't look pretty?
Michael: No! It's just good that you care more for practicality.
Me: I'd rather be pretty than practical!
Michael: Well, lucky for me that you're both.

That was a very diplomatic reply.

Reverent and relevant Christianity

Last night as we were reading the Bible together, Michael started laughing. We were in the last chapter of Ezekiel, involving dimensions for the city, and I am afraid that I was not being quite as attentive as I ought. I asked what was so funny, and Michael replied that he had suddenly imagined what would happen - and if I would even notice - if he read some outrageous number. 'Like a gazillion cubits to the eastward! But then I thought you would notice a number like a gazillion, and anyway, it's the Bible.' We both agreed that the Bible is too revered to be treated lightly in that manner, misquoting deliberately for frivolous amusement, but couldn't quite put our finger on the determining factor for what degree of levity is allowable. We don't have a problem making word plays or jokes about Bible facts or characters (such as Bildad the Shoe-height). I suppose it's an individual conviction.

I was recently reflecting on what degree of importance I accord to my faith, and decided that it's either a very good sign or a very bad sign how intrinsic it is to my life. It's a good thing that my faith is so central and assured, but it might be a bad thing to take it for granted. This comes up in any sort of question about important decisions or books, where a qualifier is always required. 'List the three books that have had the most impact on your life - excepting the Bible, of course.' 'Marriage is the most important decision you'll ever make - after salvation, of course.'

It occurred to me that, in some ways, I really don't feel that scale all too keenly. I felt clearly that the decision to marry Michael was the most important decision of my life - maybe because the salvation question was resolved so long before, and is not a matter open to debate? I was scribbling a mental note to Michael the other day, and thought of saying, 'You're the best thing that's ever happened to me,' when it occurred to me that Christ's love and redemption is actually the best thing that has ever happened to me, or can ever happen. But of course, that's a given. As Michael soberly pointed out when I mentioned this all to him, 'If the Bible really were our favourite book, we'd read it a lot more often.' Of course we read it every day. But did I really want to know all that about the temple and the tribes? Hmmm. Is puzzlement.

A question of modesty

There are so many uses of the word modesty. One definition, of course, relates to personal humility, a la not Toad, as in the programme offered up for his house re-warming party ('Other songs will be sung during the evening by the Composer'), in anticipation of reading which I chortle over with glee, because I just received my very own copy for Christmas, and I'm now reading the delightful book aloud to Michael.

But another use, obviously, relates to clothing, and I was recently pondering whether there is any universal standard by which we can determine what is and is not appropriate wear. Even the most conservative dressers today would have been considered shockingly disreputable a hundred years ago, so we must grant some leeway for current culture, but we can't get too far down that path, or we end up with no standards at all, based on prevailing trends.

The most annoying standard of modesty, in my opinion, is the purely anatomical one, which measures certain landmarks on the body and dictates modesty according to the coverage. What makes this particularly irksome is the fact that different body sizes end up apportioning certain landmarks rather differently, and what may be passable for one person may look totally inappropriate on another. Or vice versa. The knees as the determining factor for hem length is of course the preferred measuring rod for skirts, and the knees' only saving grace, as far as I can see, is the geographical monopoly they have on the legs. A hem that hits just below the knee, to satisfy rigorous modesty requirements, smacks of drab Eighties business suits, and doesn't really flatter many figures. Yet without that rule, we're left with an arbitrary 'Not too short,' which can't get too specific without sounding ridiculous. ('Two inches above the knee' is a whole lot higher up the leg on a petite person than on a tall one.) What a bother. And yet, short skirts (within reason) can be worn very classily by the right person, while certain long skirts can push the envelope.

I wonder whether there is any final universal rule on what is modest. Probably not, since so much of what is appropriate depends on cultural connotations. So a real standard for modesty would probably consist of an individual custom fit rule, which combines the answers to the following questions, rather like a personality quiz, to deliver up a personally tailored rule for each person:

1) What is your intention in dressing like that? (i.e. What attitude do you hope to inspire in your on-lookers?)
2) What is your attitude as you wear that? (i.e. How well are you carrying it off?)
3) Do you realise what message that colour/style conveys in this society?

Of course, the trouble with that system is that it presupposes taste, discernment, intelligence, and good intentions on the part of the wearer. So I don't think they'll be reforming the dress code at strict places anytime soon.

A week of Sundays

The week between Christmas and New Year is just about the cosiest time to be alive. You drift along, basking in presents and eating chocolate and drinking hot cocoa and wearing casual clothes, with nothing pressing to accomplish and nothing on the calendar (unless it were parties). Even in my working days, I always enjoyed dead week at the office, when the kitchens were still full of goodies brought in by pre-Christmas cheer or sent by helpful vendors, and there was always a good chance of getting let out early.

This week has been no exception. We had a fabulous holiday weekend with my family, and there was good food in plenty, although I was absolutely astounded at the expanded appetites of my little brothers. I thought I could cook for ten people, and handily doubled and tripled every recipe, and they still asked for oatmeal after dinner. I guess it really is true what they say about teen boys' appetites.

After they left, we tidied things up and drifted around, enjoying Michael's time off work and glowing with the satisfaction of having all three extended LotR DVDs at last. We must watch those all in a row, perhaps on New Year's Eve. It took us the better part of three days to solve a Monster su-do-ku, rated Very Hard and far too hard for my taste. I'd rather spend ten minutes solving an easy one, and enjoy the satisfaction of feeling clever, even if it's cheaply earned. Somebody gave us a huge bag of the most luscious chocolate truffles, and those have been disappearing at an alarming rate. And I got the new Enya CD, so the house has been filled with airy, ethereal music every day. It's been such a pleasant week, I won't know what to do with another weekend.

Overheard late last night

Michael: Oh, by the way, we never did get each other anything for our anniversary.
Me: Wasn't it supposed to be clocks? I need a new battery for my watch.
Michael: I think it's cotton.
Me: Well, you bought that big box of cotton balls awhile ago. Does that count?
Michael: Maybe we can count the robe you got for Christmas.
Me: Do they even make cotton balls out of cotton any more?
Michael: Um, yeah, hence the name.
Me: So if you put them in the laundry, would they wrinkle? Ha, ha! Or if you put them in the dryer, would they shrink?
Michael: Go to sleep!

Merry Christmas!

God bless us, every one!

Happy shortest day of the year!

Darkest, too.

On the ongoing saga of the differences between men and women

Last night we were getting ready for bed, and I was fiddling with my hair in front of the mirror. I mentioned how one particular style turned out surprisingly well, considering that I used to think it was not at all flattering, and Michael commented that it looked nice. I went on to say how interesting it is that tastes change, faces change shape, how much I would have disliked it a few years ago, how unattractive I would have thought it would have looked, etc. Then there was a pause.

(Now, I am not one to let innuendos and hints litter the air, going off and sulking when my mind is not being read. One of my most despised female cliches is the classic 'If you don't know, then I'm certainly not going to tell you.' Silly! If he doesn't know, then all the more reason to tell him!)

Me: And the silence grows long as my statement remains uncontradicted.
Michael: Oh, did you want me to say something else? I already told you that you looked nice, so I didn't want to be redundant.
Me: Never mind that! Compliments are never redundant!
Michael: Is that what you wanted? Of course you look beautiful!

Mystery and guesswork are all very well, but a straight line is always the shortest distance between two points.

Babies are such fun

Bibliophilia

'If any man despises [books], for him I have no liking.' ~Martin Luther.

Okay, so Herr Luther originally said that about music (and I agree with him on that point too, actually), but it's an apt expression of my thoughts at the moment. I never feel so cosy and well-prepared to meet a dose of flu or snowbound-ness as when I have a stash of books in tow, as now. (Although even the stash of books did not make the cold and isolating ice storm of last week palatable.)

I was recently thinking about what made good books good, and decided that for the purposes of my immediate thought trail there were mainly two kinds of books: those with closure and those that were problematic.

In the former category fall all the happy endings, as well as the good solid tragedies such as A Tale of Two Cities or Les Miz. It may not necessarily end happily for all involved, but there's triumph and resonance and something that rings true.

Then there are the odd ducks that don't exactly coalesce, and that still have me puzzled and pondering, such as Till We Have Faces. Is it a good book? Perhaps. It's powerful and well-written, certainly. But what is the moral? Is it pagan? Is it allegorical? Is it worth reading? I find it useful for two reference points, at the very least: 1) the idea of Psyche growing up and imperceptibly moving past her sister's reach and sphere, so that suddenly she was older, wiser, and more mature; 2) the idea of the Queen and Bardia being fellow soldiers and strategists, and having so much in common that at the end of the day the Queen feels cheated and deflated when Bardia goes home to his wife and family and she realises that his life really tilts that direction despite his best efforts being spent for Queen and country. Is it ever possible to outgrow people through sheer life experience? Must home and work be forever in conflict, and must one inevitably drown the other one out? Ugh. Back to Ivanhoe and simple, elegant, understandable, predictable plots.

Narnia

So Michael and I went to see it last night. His company sponsored a movie night, and we all got discounted tickets and pizza beforehand. Very fun!

I love the movie. Beautiful scenery, beautiful clothes, lovely accents, excellent characters, great music. I'd love to see it again, and probably wouldn't mind owning it. Of course it did depart from the book in many (mostly minor) ways, but most of the time it wasn't jarring at all. I missed some good dialogue, but what they put in was excellent. I have two major complaints to make, and then I'll cease:

1) The witch wasn't nearly beautiful enough.

2) The children shouldn't have been so insistent on giving up and going back to their own world. That never came into the book, and it really didn't do anything for their characters or the development of the story. They could have been easily cast as reluctant heroes without seeming like cop-outs or cowards. Also Susan seemed a bit shrewish - a pity, as she was so very pretty.

A splendid movie!

Roughing it

It's been a long week and no mistake.

On Tuesday I had the girls from my Bible study over for a cookie bake. I discovered that I have managed to run a household for 2.5 years without ever using food colouring, which of course is essential if you're going to be frosting sugar cookies. (Sugar cookies' only function is to provide a nice backdrop for the frosting, since they taste pretty bland on their own. But we continue to make them, nonetheless. One instance where being pretty is all it takes.) Off to the store to buy food colouring. We had fun, and ended up with plates and plates of cookies. Couldn't possibly get through the Christmas season without at least one cookie bake!

On Wednesday the cable was down. We have VOIP, so this meant no internet connection and no phone line. I felt desolate and isolated without access to email or news, but fortunately I had a cell phone to call Michael just in case. He had cleverly set up the phone such that if the cable connection ever goes down, the home phone automatically forwards to his cell phone, so there was no risk of missing any calls. But it felt grueling to me.

Yesterday grew even more dire. Scarcely had I gotten up and admired the pretty trees, all covered with frost and icicles from the ice storm, than the lights flickered and went out. For five long hours Jane and I languished in a dark, quiet house, amidst the flickering light of candles (which, like Bob Cratchit's spark, did not heat the room much) while the temperature steadily dropped. I was afraid to open the fridge or run hot water, not sure how long we'd be without power. Of course there was no electricity for the internet, which meant, again, no phone. No way to heat up anything to eat, so I gnawed plain bread slices and drank tap water. I daren't open the door lest more precious heat escape, so no checking the mail or peering down the street to see whether lights were coming on in other neighbourhoods. I couldn't even escape to warmth and light because, with no internet or phone, I had no way of knowing how many other areas were affected. No guarantee the library offered a warm haven. And besides, the garage door opener runs on electricity anyway. Michael by cell phone was my only contact with the outside world, and he did walk me through the manual release on the garage door just in case, but I doubted I would be able to lift it or prop it up. And I had to ration my cell phone minutes lest the battery die, because the only way I could recharge it would be to plug it into the car charger, which I couldn't run without the garage door being open!

You don't realise how completely helpless and dependent on others you are until one of the props that you unconsciously rely on is pulled out from under you, and you didn't even know how much you took it for granted. How would I ever survive without all the trappings of civilisation? I thought we were well prepared to handle any moderately major crisis, with a pantry well-stocked with canned goods and a pile of wood in the back yard. But practically speaking, I've never built a fire in this fireplace before, fireplaces are no good at heating a house, and most of the cans contain vegetables, which would not be enough to sustain life for any length of time.

The worst of it was (and Michael laughed to think that this was my main worry) that I was supposed to make a dessert for him to bring to work today, and I couldn't do a thing without electricity! I couldn't bake anything, obviously, but I couldn't even make no-bakes on the stovetop! I couldn't even melt the ingredients in the microwave! I briefly considered trying to melt chocolates for fudge over a candle, but I didn't think that would work too well.

I could bundle up, and I bundled Jane up, but her little fingers were quite purple from the cold. Mostly I put her down for naps, since it was dark enough outside that she fell asleep readily and she could keep warm best under the covers.

Finally the electricity came back on, in late afternoon. And there was great rejoicing. And I don't think I will ever want to move to Alaska.