I'll start with no. 3, the unfortunate (but sweet) sign that Matt loves me.
He had been away for the evening for three of the previous four nights last week. This and that, nothing big. But I think part of me misses him, and part of me resents that he's out there 'free' while I'm at home on Lizzy duty. Yet, I wouldn't WANT to go, because then I'd have Mommy guilt... Eh. The same ol' thing. So I told Matt on Friday, Look. I know your brother or one of your friends is going to call you today and want you to go out tonight. And, you've been out enough this week. (not that he was partyin' it up all week. Once I think he was shopping. But still, gone.) Please stay home this time. You don't even need to tell me they called. Just stay home.
So, he stayed home and we had a nice little family evening. I don't recall what we did, but I'm sure it was quite thrilling. :) Matt bathed Lizzy and put her to bed, etc. A nice break for me.
The next day, we're driving along or something and I asked what his brother was doing this weekend, I think. "Oh, he's in Charlestown (W.Va, the casino/races complex thingie)." The trip Matt was invited along on, too, with his brother, good friend and good friend's parents. Which was totally cool with me. But I guess we didn't write it on the calendar, and Matt forgot it was this weekend. So when his brother called up Friday afternoon and said, "You ready to go tonight?", Matt told him he'd promised me he'd stay home.
I FELT SO BAD. And I rarely ask him to make promises of this kind. I can't believe he didn't call me up anyway, and say, y'know what, that trip is this weekend, so, sorry about that promise. Pre-existing agreements, and all. But he didn't. Didn't even bring it up, 'til I asked.
He's a good one.
As to why I still don't have Internet access at home -- that's a short one. Comcast stinks, as I said. Two technicians couldn't figure it out, and the third appt. we made for one to come out resulted in no one coming. The person we called said there had been no appointment scheduled. Ooookay. Three strikes, and you're out, guys! I was struck by the attitudes of the folks on the phone. As in, the techs are total idiots. "They should be boiled in oil," was one comment. Yikes. Interesting to see it's not just OUR office that has rampant interdepartmental disrespect. So we've called Verizon. No home visit involved; just a modem in the mail. This could be a good or a bad thing. We'll see.
Our couches: Received, as I said. And, GREAT! Though, they might convey with the house when we move. They're huge. Had to be built in the basement. And while I'm harping on disrespect, the older guy who helped move the couch in kept giving the younger guy a really, REALLY bad time. Constantly asking him why he did such-and-such. Even stuff that wasn't move-related. "Why do you keep touching your arm like that?" I despise micromanagement, especially when it's personal. I just can't handle it. I feared for the younger guy's sanity, and, if he gets sick of it, the older guy's life.
We almost didn't get the couches, AGAIN, though. I was given a delivery window of 1-5. The delivery guys were told 11-4. They came while Lizzy and I were playing with the Thomas the Tank Engine train at Barnes and Noble. So stupid to leave the house when a delivery is expected. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HOUSE, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Thank goodness, the delivery guys called me back at about 4 to see if they could try again. YES, you can try again! If I have to use three vacation days to get couches delivered to me, so help me, I'll ... complain about it a lot.
More later.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
the couch has landed
I wasn't at work yesterday, so I'm a bit behind here at the office, still the only place I have internet access. But I'm not bitter. No, wait, yes I am.
I have compiled a good half-dozen bits of minutae to blog about, but don't have time right now. Instead, I think I'll make a list (they seem popular) of things you are(n't) missing. To be elaborated upon later this week:
1) I don't have internet access at home. Why that still is, and it has a lot to do with the fact that Comcast sucks.
2) My first visit to a Weight Watchers meeting. No offense, WW, but it's probably my last.
3) An unfortunate sign that Matt really loves me. Or, he's just good at keeping his word. Or both.
4) The Disney/Pixar movie I watched this weekend, and what it told me about God's love.
5) The couches! The couches that almost weren't, again.
6) Our day care tuition is rising by five percent. Why do you care? I don't know. It's just on my mind today. And we're talking, five percent of A FREAKIN' LOT.
7) A baker's half-dozen: Lizzy's visit to the dentist this morning! It went amazingly well. Details after your local sports update.
I have compiled a good half-dozen bits of minutae to blog about, but don't have time right now. Instead, I think I'll make a list (they seem popular) of things you are(n't) missing. To be elaborated upon later this week:
1) I don't have internet access at home. Why that still is, and it has a lot to do with the fact that Comcast sucks.
2) My first visit to a Weight Watchers meeting. No offense, WW, but it's probably my last.
3) An unfortunate sign that Matt really loves me. Or, he's just good at keeping his word. Or both.
4) The Disney/Pixar movie I watched this weekend, and what it told me about God's love.
5) The couches! The couches that almost weren't, again.
6) Our day care tuition is rising by five percent. Why do you care? I don't know. It's just on my mind today. And we're talking, five percent of A FREAKIN' LOT.
7) A baker's half-dozen: Lizzy's visit to the dentist this morning! It went amazingly well. Details after your local sports update.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Prose Thursday
Live cricket count in basement (specimens were shortly thereafter dispatched): 2
Cricket corpse count (already dead upon discovery): 1
My new working theory is that the crickets somehow find their way from the outside into the unfinished side of the basement, where it is always dark. Especially now that i'm leaving that door closed all the time in a fruitless attempt to keep them out of the finished side of the basement. So they're singing their little hearts out (rubbing their little legs? Whatever it is that they do) night and day, day and night. Until they get so tired and rummy that they go for a stroll to the finished side. Where they seem to either be spotted and summarily disposed of, or they hide under the furniture (not much of that these days 'til we get our new couches -- Monday!) until they keel over and we find them when we slide furniture around. What a life.
(new, possibly not any more interesting subject)
As if Cinderella weren't bad enough in her own right, Lizzy has now found a LONGER VERSION -- more words, fewer illustrations -- to get us to read at night. However, she has not gotten the message that this means fewer books at night, total. We have mostly transitioned from the beautiful, three-minute-and-you're-done,-even-with-23-questions-per-page board books to the wow-Dr.-Seuss-sure-is-a-wordy-sonofagun-type "real" kids books. Arghh. We are now called upon to do the entire, "Salaga-doola, midgika-boola, Bibbity Bobbity Boo!" instead of just Bibbity Bobbity Boo. Matt and I have both been caught listening in on the other's rendition via the baby monitor. I have found few things more hilarious, and endearing, as hearing him read Lizzy's silly books to her.
The movie comes out 'for the first time on DVD' Oct. 4. Oh rapture.
Forty-five minutes seems a bit excessive for the span of the bedtime read, especially when one's daughter cannot be coerced into said bed until 9:30 or 9:45. This morning, she was so zonked still when we left the house at 7:30 that we had to take her straight from the bed to the car. Then I end up changing her from jammies and nighttime diaper into day clothes in front of the day care people, and feeling foolish. If only someone would patent little hammers that would put a kid out cold, but not permanently harm them physically or psychologically. Hey! There's an invention we can work on.
I just got an e-mail from another day care mom whose 2-year-old "doesn't want to wear clothes" in the morning. I don't know how lucky I have it.
Cute Disney crossover Lizzy phrase of the week (what is this, a homonym?):
"Daddy is a dear. Like Bambi!"
See the resemblance?! (must be the cleats.)
Cricket corpse count (already dead upon discovery): 1
My new working theory is that the crickets somehow find their way from the outside into the unfinished side of the basement, where it is always dark. Especially now that i'm leaving that door closed all the time in a fruitless attempt to keep them out of the finished side of the basement. So they're singing their little hearts out (rubbing their little legs? Whatever it is that they do) night and day, day and night. Until they get so tired and rummy that they go for a stroll to the finished side. Where they seem to either be spotted and summarily disposed of, or they hide under the furniture (not much of that these days 'til we get our new couches -- Monday!) until they keel over and we find them when we slide furniture around. What a life.
(new, possibly not any more interesting subject)
As if Cinderella weren't bad enough in her own right, Lizzy has now found a LONGER VERSION -- more words, fewer illustrations -- to get us to read at night. However, she has not gotten the message that this means fewer books at night, total. We have mostly transitioned from the beautiful, three-minute-and-you're-done,-even-with-23-questions-per-page board books to the wow-Dr.-Seuss-sure-is-a-wordy-sonofagun-type "real" kids books. Arghh. We are now called upon to do the entire, "Salaga-doola, midgika-boola, Bibbity Bobbity Boo!" instead of just Bibbity Bobbity Boo. Matt and I have both been caught listening in on the other's rendition via the baby monitor. I have found few things more hilarious, and endearing, as hearing him read Lizzy's silly books to her.
The movie comes out 'for the first time on DVD' Oct. 4. Oh rapture.
Forty-five minutes seems a bit excessive for the span of the bedtime read, especially when one's daughter cannot be coerced into said bed until 9:30 or 9:45. This morning, she was so zonked still when we left the house at 7:30 that we had to take her straight from the bed to the car. Then I end up changing her from jammies and nighttime diaper into day clothes in front of the day care people, and feeling foolish. If only someone would patent little hammers that would put a kid out cold, but not permanently harm them physically or psychologically. Hey! There's an invention we can work on.
I just got an e-mail from another day care mom whose 2-year-old "doesn't want to wear clothes" in the morning. I don't know how lucky I have it.
Cute Disney crossover Lizzy phrase of the week (what is this, a homonym?):
"Daddy is a dear. Like Bambi!"
See the resemblance?! (must be the cleats.)
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
thoughts
The stuff I've been thinking about the past few days hasn't really been Blog-worthy, or appropriate (as if the photo below is), so I haven't been saying much. Sorry to my fans. :)
I should post one of the lovely photos taken of Lizzy at her baptism for those who weren't there, though, shouldn't I? And perhaps even the 'full text' of my dad's prayer for her. Yes, that would be lovely.
Her grandparents’ prayer is that Lizzy:
Will grow in wisdom and stature and favor with God and man,
Will be as much a blessing to her parents as her mother was to us,
Will come to know the Lord early in her life that He might do a great work in her,
And that her grandparents will always be a blessing and a help to her and her parents.
In Jesus name - Amen.
It was one of those things -- God's grace was evident in that lots of stuff didn't go right. But, oddly, not for lack of planning, on everyone's part. It SHOULD have gone great. But it's a super reminder to me that certain things -- I daresay, MOST things -- don't HAVE to go right. And I've been lucky enough to never be in a truly life-or-death situation, so all things considered, I guess everything's gone pretty right for me.
In fact, the Mars Hill leadership team seems to always go the extra mile, to make things look and feel special for the weekly services. I really appreciate that. I mean, check out this baptismal basin: (the rose petals were dropped in by the rest of the 'congregation,' as a reminder of their baptisms, and as a sort of symbolic pledge to support the wee ones as they grow.)
This is probably my favorite photo of the day. Another example of God's grace, or some such thing: The kids wolfing down the leftover Communion bread! Wait, someone put the wine aside, right? :)
Lizzy has such a ball with her friends there at church. She was particularly taken with Elizabeth (center of photo) this day. And what a treat to have Nicolas (right), her very first little friend -- they're about a week apart in age -- with us! He's quite the jet-setter, that Nicolas. We were bummed that poor Ethan wasn't feeling well that day. Lizzy isn't too keen on giving Ethan back his tie-dyed shirt, but I've promised her we'll scout out her very own.
(Thanks for all the great photos, Ross!)
Other stuff: there's something afoot over our heads (hm, that doesn't really come out right, does it?) here at work. Something construction-ey. We keep hearing very loud bangings, stuff being dropped, etc. Ever since my boss told me that a worker actually burst out of a wall and into someone's cubicle last year when I was apparently on vacation or something, I have been quite the paranoid cubicle monkey. The bangings seem to be migrating to the center (newsroom side, away from us feature creatures) of the room, so I guess I don't have much to worry about. And, c'mon -- what's a little insulation in the air, among friends? Or co-workers. Heh.
Speaking of scary: I know I'm naive. Part of that is intentional. It really is. I don't do scary movies. Thrillers, sometimes, but NEVER horror movies. I still get wigged out by The Village, which overall was totally unscary and generally disappointing to M. Night Shyamalan fans. I think it was the way Adrien Brody as Scary Red Creature would suddenly appear next to poor blind Ivy -- out of freakin' NOWHERE. Ugh! I was alone in the house last night (except for Lizzy), and kept hearing noises. More noises than the cricket symphony that has taken up residence in my storage room, that is. Every once in awhile, one will take a break from the concert and amble across the floor in the furnished side of the basement. What the? I've never dealt with cricket infestations before. i've always thought of them as friendly little Jiminy types, not pests who covet my living space. If I were to watch Pinocchio right now, I might just cry. I don't need to have "When You Wish Upon A Star" going through my head as I'm hollering for Matt to come squish an intruder.
(side note: No, I'm not one of those females who fears everything, exactly, but when a bug reaches a certain mass and crunchiness, I just can't stand the feeling of squishing them. Spiders, heck yeah. Millipedes, barely. Crickets are just too much for me to deal with.)
Oh yeah, back to my point. I have been SO EXCITED about Brent Spiner having a recurring role in a (critically acclaimed!) TV show again -- c'mon, folks, he was Data from Star Trek: TNG, sheesh!, whaddya mean who is he -- but I didn't so much care for last Friday's premiere of Threshold. First of all, he's just a supporting character. The lead woman seems cool -- I saw her in Spy Kids, though she might like to be known for other roles, I don't know -- and it's also sweet that she is just about exactly the same age as me (according to internet movie database.com, my almost-infallible online movie source). And she looks kinda oldish! Wait a minute, why is that cool. I was feeling all good that maybe I looked younger than someone in Hollywood who's my age, but that's totally backward logic. Oh, well. She's cute, anyway. So she and these dudes check out this ship, near which aliens seem to have appeared or something, and almost the whole crew's dead and stuff. And suddenly there are all these violent, garish flashbacks. And I'm getting all freaked. And Lizzy's in the room. And I'm trying to hustle her out, and wondering if this is going to give me nightmares. But now of course I have to see, what's up? ARE she and two others of her team (not Brent Spiner, praise be -- he's the only one there with half a brain, natch) turning into aliens with triple helixes? (helices? Can't remember how that all went, though I loved genetics classes.) I mean, the writing is pretty poor. I COULD HAVE WRITTEN IT. That's how sucky it is. And, sheesh, people, they work out of a skyscraper in D.C.! So you know it's totally factually bogus. Yet I'll probably keep watching. Hey, it's on Friday night. What else am I going to do, help my child get ready for bed? Yeah, right!
Now that I've babbled on and on about stuff none of you care about, I wish you a pleasant evening. :)
I should post one of the lovely photos taken of Lizzy at her baptism for those who weren't there, though, shouldn't I? And perhaps even the 'full text' of my dad's prayer for her. Yes, that would be lovely.
Her grandparents’ prayer is that Lizzy:
Will grow in wisdom and stature and favor with God and man,
Will be as much a blessing to her parents as her mother was to us,
Will come to know the Lord early in her life that He might do a great work in her,
And that her grandparents will always be a blessing and a help to her and her parents.
In Jesus name - Amen.
It was one of those things -- God's grace was evident in that lots of stuff didn't go right. But, oddly, not for lack of planning, on everyone's part. It SHOULD have gone great. But it's a super reminder to me that certain things -- I daresay, MOST things -- don't HAVE to go right. And I've been lucky enough to never be in a truly life-or-death situation, so all things considered, I guess everything's gone pretty right for me.
In fact, the Mars Hill leadership team seems to always go the extra mile, to make things look and feel special for the weekly services. I really appreciate that. I mean, check out this baptismal basin: (the rose petals were dropped in by the rest of the 'congregation,' as a reminder of their baptisms, and as a sort of symbolic pledge to support the wee ones as they grow.)
This is probably my favorite photo of the day. Another example of God's grace, or some such thing: The kids wolfing down the leftover Communion bread! Wait, someone put the wine aside, right? :)
Lizzy has such a ball with her friends there at church. She was particularly taken with Elizabeth (center of photo) this day. And what a treat to have Nicolas (right), her very first little friend -- they're about a week apart in age -- with us! He's quite the jet-setter, that Nicolas. We were bummed that poor Ethan wasn't feeling well that day. Lizzy isn't too keen on giving Ethan back his tie-dyed shirt, but I've promised her we'll scout out her very own.
(Thanks for all the great photos, Ross!)
Other stuff: there's something afoot over our heads (hm, that doesn't really come out right, does it?) here at work. Something construction-ey. We keep hearing very loud bangings, stuff being dropped, etc. Ever since my boss told me that a worker actually burst out of a wall and into someone's cubicle last year when I was apparently on vacation or something, I have been quite the paranoid cubicle monkey. The bangings seem to be migrating to the center (newsroom side, away from us feature creatures) of the room, so I guess I don't have much to worry about. And, c'mon -- what's a little insulation in the air, among friends? Or co-workers. Heh.
Speaking of scary: I know I'm naive. Part of that is intentional. It really is. I don't do scary movies. Thrillers, sometimes, but NEVER horror movies. I still get wigged out by The Village, which overall was totally unscary and generally disappointing to M. Night Shyamalan fans. I think it was the way Adrien Brody as Scary Red Creature would suddenly appear next to poor blind Ivy -- out of freakin' NOWHERE. Ugh! I was alone in the house last night (except for Lizzy), and kept hearing noises. More noises than the cricket symphony that has taken up residence in my storage room, that is. Every once in awhile, one will take a break from the concert and amble across the floor in the furnished side of the basement. What the? I've never dealt with cricket infestations before. i've always thought of them as friendly little Jiminy types, not pests who covet my living space. If I were to watch Pinocchio right now, I might just cry. I don't need to have "When You Wish Upon A Star" going through my head as I'm hollering for Matt to come squish an intruder.
(side note: No, I'm not one of those females who fears everything, exactly, but when a bug reaches a certain mass and crunchiness, I just can't stand the feeling of squishing them. Spiders, heck yeah. Millipedes, barely. Crickets are just too much for me to deal with.)
Oh yeah, back to my point. I have been SO EXCITED about Brent Spiner having a recurring role in a (critically acclaimed!) TV show again -- c'mon, folks, he was Data from Star Trek: TNG, sheesh!, whaddya mean who is he -- but I didn't so much care for last Friday's premiere of Threshold. First of all, he's just a supporting character. The lead woman seems cool -- I saw her in Spy Kids, though she might like to be known for other roles, I don't know -- and it's also sweet that she is just about exactly the same age as me (according to internet movie database.com, my almost-infallible online movie source). And she looks kinda oldish! Wait a minute, why is that cool. I was feeling all good that maybe I looked younger than someone in Hollywood who's my age, but that's totally backward logic. Oh, well. She's cute, anyway. So she and these dudes check out this ship, near which aliens seem to have appeared or something, and almost the whole crew's dead and stuff. And suddenly there are all these violent, garish flashbacks. And I'm getting all freaked. And Lizzy's in the room. And I'm trying to hustle her out, and wondering if this is going to give me nightmares. But now of course I have to see, what's up? ARE she and two others of her team (not Brent Spiner, praise be -- he's the only one there with half a brain, natch) turning into aliens with triple helixes? (helices? Can't remember how that all went, though I loved genetics classes.) I mean, the writing is pretty poor. I COULD HAVE WRITTEN IT. That's how sucky it is. And, sheesh, people, they work out of a skyscraper in D.C.! So you know it's totally factually bogus. Yet I'll probably keep watching. Hey, it's on Friday night. What else am I going to do, help my child get ready for bed? Yeah, right!
Now that I've babbled on and on about stuff none of you care about, I wish you a pleasant evening. :)
Friday, September 16, 2005
Celebrate!
Oh, you thought this was about my daughter's upcoming baptism? Silly you. NO. Much more important events beg my attention.
Tomorrow morning, the Cable Guy (masquerading as the Internet Guy) will come to spread joy, love and internet service in our home. I cannot believe that I am at a place in life where I happily accept an 8 a.m. to 11 a.m. time slot on Saturday morning for such shenanigans. Then we get to go watch Daddy (aka Matt the Gnat -- his soccer alias) run his out-of-shape tushie off on the football pitch. Er, soccer field. I don't quite think he deserves the opportunity, honestly. I had to explain to him that his team's name, The All Blacks, was not, in fact, racial commentary of any kind.
After tomorrow, I can check my friends' blogs and wish someone had posted something new FROM HOME, instead of from work! Exciting. I'm sure my boss will be excited about it, too. :)
My most interesting D.C. Sighting of the day: I walked behind a girl -- a teen, go figure -- who had her underwear waistband hanging out. Not unusual, unfortunately. But the brand (?) appeared to be called 555-HOTTIE. Ha!
I post the following, as it is too ridiculous to go uncommented-on:
Catherine Zeta Jones is reportedly splashing out a fortune - on bottled Welsh air.
The raven-haired beauty allegedly forks out £24 per bottle of air from her native Wales - and has it flown to her Los Angeles home.
The patriotic actress then dishes it out to friends visiting her and husband Michael Douglas, according to a report in Britain's The Sun newspaper.
(conversion -- that's probably around $45 a bottle. Yeeeeeesh.)
Now, CZJ is one of my favorite actresses, for several reasons. She's one of the most beautiful women on earth; she's Welsh; and, um, I guess that's all it takes for me. Even her marrying Creepy Old Guy has not put me off.
The item is amusing -- and ridiculous -- on the face of things, but I find it even more hilarious because I lived in Ms. Zeta Jones's hometown for eight months. I know whereof I speak here. And I can attest that the air there? Not so great. Quite industrial, in fact. (though it was one of the best years of my life, easily. I loved it there.) When I tell a British person that I studied abroad in Wales, they say, "Oh, really? Where?" And without exception, they wrinkle their nose and ask, "Why??" or, "Poor you!" when I saw Swansea. Har!
Perhaps she's importing that nice, northern Snowdonia air.
SHE'S IMPORTING AIR.
How do you even put air in a bottle? Wave it around outside? And some people thought WATER in a bottle was absurd. (those people, by the way, do not live in D.C.)
Tomorrow morning, the Cable Guy (masquerading as the Internet Guy) will come to spread joy, love and internet service in our home. I cannot believe that I am at a place in life where I happily accept an 8 a.m. to 11 a.m. time slot on Saturday morning for such shenanigans. Then we get to go watch Daddy (aka Matt the Gnat -- his soccer alias) run his out-of-shape tushie off on the football pitch. Er, soccer field. I don't quite think he deserves the opportunity, honestly. I had to explain to him that his team's name, The All Blacks, was not, in fact, racial commentary of any kind.
After tomorrow, I can check my friends' blogs and wish someone had posted something new FROM HOME, instead of from work! Exciting. I'm sure my boss will be excited about it, too. :)
My most interesting D.C. Sighting of the day: I walked behind a girl -- a teen, go figure -- who had her underwear waistband hanging out. Not unusual, unfortunately. But the brand (?) appeared to be called 555-HOTTIE. Ha!
I post the following, as it is too ridiculous to go uncommented-on:
Catherine Zeta Jones is reportedly splashing out a fortune - on bottled Welsh air.
The raven-haired beauty allegedly forks out £24 per bottle of air from her native Wales - and has it flown to her Los Angeles home.
The patriotic actress then dishes it out to friends visiting her and husband Michael Douglas, according to a report in Britain's The Sun newspaper.
(conversion -- that's probably around $45 a bottle. Yeeeeeesh.)
Now, CZJ is one of my favorite actresses, for several reasons. She's one of the most beautiful women on earth; she's Welsh; and, um, I guess that's all it takes for me. Even her marrying Creepy Old Guy has not put me off.
The item is amusing -- and ridiculous -- on the face of things, but I find it even more hilarious because I lived in Ms. Zeta Jones's hometown for eight months. I know whereof I speak here. And I can attest that the air there? Not so great. Quite industrial, in fact. (though it was one of the best years of my life, easily. I loved it there.) When I tell a British person that I studied abroad in Wales, they say, "Oh, really? Where?" And without exception, they wrinkle their nose and ask, "Why??" or, "Poor you!" when I saw Swansea. Har!
Perhaps she's importing that nice, northern Snowdonia air.
SHE'S IMPORTING AIR.
How do you even put air in a bottle? Wave it around outside? And some people thought WATER in a bottle was absurd. (those people, by the way, do not live in D.C.)
Thursday, September 15, 2005
tasteless joke du jour (you've been warned)
In honor of 'Talk Like A Pirate Day,' on Sept. 19:
(and yes, normally I would find this completely stupid, but it's 3 p.m. and I just sat through a meeting in which the structure of the Army was explained to me, and I'm feeling, well, a bit Rummy.)
(HAR!)
A pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel shoved down his pants. The bartender does a double take upon seeing this and asks the pirate about it.
Barman: Uh, why do you have a steering wheel in your pants? Doesn't it bother you?
Pirate: Arr! It's driving me nuts!
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
what price, freedom?
Last night, I sat in on my new church's planning meeting. As usual with new churches, I come for the approach to church and the general theological underpinning, but stay for the community. So, any excuse to spend time with this bunch -- whenever possible, which isn't very often -- is welcomed. (for those who might not know, Lizzy's going to be part of a group baptism/dedication thingie this Sunday at church. So the planning group invited me along to give input.)
All that was lovely. As was the dinner, and the divine margarita(s) served up by the hostess! And the wee precious baby I got to hold for most of the evening... Such a good infant. I'm unused to that.
I got home at about 11. Grandma (not coincidentally, the one who doesn't have knowledge of this blog) was babysitting. I thought, "All right! It's late, and it's a 'school night,' but I think I can muster the energy to plop down and watch the 46 minutes of the House season premiere." Which Matt attempted to tape for me. He's got a better success rate with these things than do I -- imagine my rage one night at having accidentally taped NBC's "So You Want To Be A Hilton," or some such rubbish, instead of Fox's "House" -- where to turn for my weekly Hugh Laurie fix!! -- so I had high hopes. Until I crossed the threshold to see my 2-year-old daughter eagerly hoofing it up the stairs toward me.
WHAT!!!
I try to thank the virtual mother-in-law as best I can, through gritted teeth. Lizzy brightly announces, "I had two lollipops!" I furtively conceal the M-n-Ms package I find on the kitchen counter. I wonder whether my child had anything but refined sugar the entire evening. I note full package(s) of pasta, cooked but uneaten, on the stove.
Maybe it's time to try paying for a babysitter.
And, of course, we paid another kind of price this morning. You'd have thought we asked the Lizzard to eviscerate her favorite stuffed animal, instead of merely requesting shoes on feet. I guess a 2-year-old needs more than just shy of eight hours' sleep. Hm. Who knew.
All that was lovely. As was the dinner, and the divine margarita(s) served up by the hostess! And the wee precious baby I got to hold for most of the evening... Such a good infant. I'm unused to that.
I got home at about 11. Grandma (not coincidentally, the one who doesn't have knowledge of this blog) was babysitting. I thought, "All right! It's late, and it's a 'school night,' but I think I can muster the energy to plop down and watch the 46 minutes of the House season premiere." Which Matt attempted to tape for me. He's got a better success rate with these things than do I -- imagine my rage one night at having accidentally taped NBC's "So You Want To Be A Hilton," or some such rubbish, instead of Fox's "House" -- where to turn for my weekly Hugh Laurie fix!! -- so I had high hopes. Until I crossed the threshold to see my 2-year-old daughter eagerly hoofing it up the stairs toward me.
WHAT!!!
I try to thank the virtual mother-in-law as best I can, through gritted teeth. Lizzy brightly announces, "I had two lollipops!" I furtively conceal the M-n-Ms package I find on the kitchen counter. I wonder whether my child had anything but refined sugar the entire evening. I note full package(s) of pasta, cooked but uneaten, on the stove.
Maybe it's time to try paying for a babysitter.
And, of course, we paid another kind of price this morning. You'd have thought we asked the Lizzard to eviscerate her favorite stuffed animal, instead of merely requesting shoes on feet. I guess a 2-year-old needs more than just shy of eight hours' sleep. Hm. Who knew.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
couching my statements
*side note -- I just finished the column on Pete's Web site. Wow. I feel super petty now. So, disclaimer -- this is one woman's self-absorbed, pointless-in-the-long-run tale. Pointless, as most of blogs are anyway, points out The Brick.*
I need to expand on something I said in an earlier post. I guess my expression was accurate -- BUYING a couch might make one feel like an adult -- but RECEIVING the couch is really the part that's important. Kinda like Seinfeld and his making, and holding, of car reservations. *sigh* I mean, don't most things in life eventually boil down to Seinfeld sketches?
So I took yesterday off, because (we're told) in Prince William County, couch deliveries -- from Jennifer Convertibles, at least -- take place only on Mondays and Tuesdays. So I slept in, took a walk, bought a latte, did some cleaning. Even managed to scrapbook a bit, which is what I told Matt I would be doing all day. Hee! The couch dudes swing by at about 4:30. They're a couple of very nice guys. But they took one look at my entryway, and say, "I hope you have a backdoor entrance." Which we don't (to the basement, where the lush new couches were to go). So I try calling Matt to get his advice on what to do. He's out of his office at the moment. The guys go ahead and start assembling our side tables. I'm standing there, trying not to look like I'm trying to supervise them, but also attempting to demonstrate that I am trying hard to come up with a solution to our dilemma. That Matt's phone call will magically shrink the couch, or expand our hallway ceiling, or something. (I wish I'd taken photos of him and me getting the old couch out the night before. Lizzy was quite amused. She still doesn't quite understand what it's doing in the backyard.)
So Matt calls back in a few minutes. He's not too thrilled about the situation, either. His solution is to not believe me -- he asks me to measure the old couch, the new couch. He wants me to tell the couch movers something -- I'm not sure what. That they'll have to take back the couch, I guess. I suggest we ask what our options are. No! He says. I TELL them what the option is! Um, okay... So these very nice men, who have refused a tip because "we haven't actually delivered anything," kindly allow me to measure the stupid couch. Which is several inches bigger than the old couch. Their supervisor, equally distrustful, tells them to attempt to take the couch into the house anyway. Just so we all agree it doesn't fit. They try. It doesn't fit. She talks to me on the phone. I agree. It doesn't fit. We all join hands and let our voices swell in one mournful accord: THE COUCH DOESN'T FIT.
So back it goes. To make an already long story short, we went to Jen Converts and the lady there said that if we paid $200 to dismantle and 'remantle' the couch, she would waive another delivery fee. Whoopee. And we get to do it all over again, when we move. The saleslady joked about how we could have the couch convey with the townhouse when we sold it. Ha-ha.
Here comes another (carless) vacation day lounging at home for me. In a few weeks, of course. Because there's "red tape" to clear up. At least I'll be able to ensure that I have some cash on me this time, to tip these extremely nice men. (they even commented on Lizzy's baby pictures! It just doesn't get nicer than that.) My friend Mr. Mike has given me several lessons on how to stash cash on unwilling recipients. Not that I can do it nearly as well as he can.
Current count: Deliveries, one. Vacation days wasted, one. Couches, zero.
On the positive side, I might just get that Alaska vacation photo album done yet...
I need to expand on something I said in an earlier post. I guess my expression was accurate -- BUYING a couch might make one feel like an adult -- but RECEIVING the couch is really the part that's important. Kinda like Seinfeld and his making, and holding, of car reservations. *sigh* I mean, don't most things in life eventually boil down to Seinfeld sketches?
So I took yesterday off, because (we're told) in Prince William County, couch deliveries -- from Jennifer Convertibles, at least -- take place only on Mondays and Tuesdays. So I slept in, took a walk, bought a latte, did some cleaning. Even managed to scrapbook a bit, which is what I told Matt I would be doing all day. Hee! The couch dudes swing by at about 4:30. They're a couple of very nice guys. But they took one look at my entryway, and say, "I hope you have a backdoor entrance." Which we don't (to the basement, where the lush new couches were to go). So I try calling Matt to get his advice on what to do. He's out of his office at the moment. The guys go ahead and start assembling our side tables. I'm standing there, trying not to look like I'm trying to supervise them, but also attempting to demonstrate that I am trying hard to come up with a solution to our dilemma. That Matt's phone call will magically shrink the couch, or expand our hallway ceiling, or something. (I wish I'd taken photos of him and me getting the old couch out the night before. Lizzy was quite amused. She still doesn't quite understand what it's doing in the backyard.)
So Matt calls back in a few minutes. He's not too thrilled about the situation, either. His solution is to not believe me -- he asks me to measure the old couch, the new couch. He wants me to tell the couch movers something -- I'm not sure what. That they'll have to take back the couch, I guess. I suggest we ask what our options are. No! He says. I TELL them what the option is! Um, okay... So these very nice men, who have refused a tip because "we haven't actually delivered anything," kindly allow me to measure the stupid couch. Which is several inches bigger than the old couch. Their supervisor, equally distrustful, tells them to attempt to take the couch into the house anyway. Just so we all agree it doesn't fit. They try. It doesn't fit. She talks to me on the phone. I agree. It doesn't fit. We all join hands and let our voices swell in one mournful accord: THE COUCH DOESN'T FIT.
So back it goes. To make an already long story short, we went to Jen Converts and the lady there said that if we paid $200 to dismantle and 'remantle' the couch, she would waive another delivery fee. Whoopee. And we get to do it all over again, when we move. The saleslady joked about how we could have the couch convey with the townhouse when we sold it. Ha-ha.
Here comes another (carless) vacation day lounging at home for me. In a few weeks, of course. Because there's "red tape" to clear up. At least I'll be able to ensure that I have some cash on me this time, to tip these extremely nice men. (they even commented on Lizzy's baby pictures! It just doesn't get nicer than that.) My friend Mr. Mike has given me several lessons on how to stash cash on unwilling recipients. Not that I can do it nearly as well as he can.
Current count: Deliveries, one. Vacation days wasted, one. Couches, zero.
On the positive side, I might just get that Alaska vacation photo album done yet...
Thursday, September 08, 2005
greetings
I have very little to say today. Nothing's new. I could regale you with the tale of yesterday's Pedicure Gone Bad, during which my foot, for the love of all that is holy, would NOT stop bleeding after the pedicure lady nicked it with her little scalpel -- I'm amazed I'm still functioning on the little blood that remains -- but since some of you might actually be eating as you read this, or planning to eat sometime later today, I'll keep it at that. I'm limping around. It's quite sad. I feel like Paula Abdul.
So barring that, nothing interesting. Except the cautionary note that if you should find yourself at the Metro Center food court -- I know for fact that two of you have been there at least once -- do NOT, under any circumstances, order the tofu teriyaki from Kabuki. I'm usually fine with the concept of tofu, but these boys just don't do it right. Trust me.
Just wanted to say 'hi' to everyone. And I hope to build fences or playgrounds or somesuch with many of you Saturday.
So barring that, nothing interesting. Except the cautionary note that if you should find yourself at the Metro Center food court -- I know for fact that two of you have been there at least once -- do NOT, under any circumstances, order the tofu teriyaki from Kabuki. I'm usually fine with the concept of tofu, but these boys just don't do it right. Trust me.
Just wanted to say 'hi' to everyone. And I hope to build fences or playgrounds or somesuch with many of you Saturday.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
on change
I love the memory lane stuff some of my cohorts are doing on their blogs. It's so cool, especially for me who doesn't know some of them very well yet, to catch up a bit on their lives -- get some insight. Keep it comin', guys!
After reading Maggie's latest, I was thinking about the night my family moved from a suburb of Portland to Ephrata, Wash. As Schuyler and Maggie can attest, no one in their right mind -- well, no one who has grown up in the U.S., I should say -- would be thrilled about a move to that area of the state. We sure weren't. It was some job thing of my Dad's (maybe that's always why people move. Yeah, okay). I'm all for him going where he's happy, and at 12, I was still at the age where I pretty much took change at face value, but yeesh, did it seem an ugly little hole at first.
We arrived at the homeliest possible time of year. Mid-January, after all the festive Christmas lights had been taken down, but while there was still plenty of filthy, gravel-encrusted snow shoved into the middle and sides of all the streets. Dad had found us a stinky little rental home to inhabit for awhile. Mom refused to stay until the walls were washed -- some SERIOUS indoor smokers had been there before us -- so we hung out at the TraveLodge on the main street (three traffic lights! YESSS! They're up to four now, I believe) for a few days. The wall-washing didn't help, but we made do.
I'll be blunt -- it sucked to be there for a little while. I didn't make many friends right away. I was rather free with my mockery of the small-town hickdom, and it didn't endear me to folks. I eventually found my way and have great, great friendships still from that time, and I learned a lot about keeping one's opinions to oneself. (though I still have a lot to learn on that count.) But what strikes me, looking back at it now after 20-plus years, is how necessary it was for me to move at just that point in my life. I had just started school at a huge junior high, and I was getting lost. Socially, class-wise, etc. I flubbed a math test by forgetting how to convert decimals to fractions (yikes!), so they put me in some bone-head class in the middle of nowhere. I was about to quit basketball. (in Ephrata, I ended up playing through my senior year, then went on to play for a team in Wales during my year abroad there.) It wasn't a good scene. But, like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Ephrata was just right.
Funny how we don't know what we need, even when we get it, sometimes. But, looking back, we see God's wisdom at work.
I wish I had a photo and scanner nearby to give you a sense of what a pathetic little creature I was at the time. Har! Those were not my best years. At least I had ditched the glasses and braces the year before. And the afro-perm. *shudder*
So, here's to Ephrata. And all those little apparent hellholes that make us the carefully molded folks we are today. Or will be tomorrow, God willing.
*raises glass*
After reading Maggie's latest, I was thinking about the night my family moved from a suburb of Portland to Ephrata, Wash. As Schuyler and Maggie can attest, no one in their right mind -- well, no one who has grown up in the U.S., I should say -- would be thrilled about a move to that area of the state. We sure weren't. It was some job thing of my Dad's (maybe that's always why people move. Yeah, okay). I'm all for him going where he's happy, and at 12, I was still at the age where I pretty much took change at face value, but yeesh, did it seem an ugly little hole at first.
We arrived at the homeliest possible time of year. Mid-January, after all the festive Christmas lights had been taken down, but while there was still plenty of filthy, gravel-encrusted snow shoved into the middle and sides of all the streets. Dad had found us a stinky little rental home to inhabit for awhile. Mom refused to stay until the walls were washed -- some SERIOUS indoor smokers had been there before us -- so we hung out at the TraveLodge on the main street (three traffic lights! YESSS! They're up to four now, I believe) for a few days. The wall-washing didn't help, but we made do.
I'll be blunt -- it sucked to be there for a little while. I didn't make many friends right away. I was rather free with my mockery of the small-town hickdom, and it didn't endear me to folks. I eventually found my way and have great, great friendships still from that time, and I learned a lot about keeping one's opinions to oneself. (though I still have a lot to learn on that count.) But what strikes me, looking back at it now after 20-plus years, is how necessary it was for me to move at just that point in my life. I had just started school at a huge junior high, and I was getting lost. Socially, class-wise, etc. I flubbed a math test by forgetting how to convert decimals to fractions (yikes!), so they put me in some bone-head class in the middle of nowhere. I was about to quit basketball. (in Ephrata, I ended up playing through my senior year, then went on to play for a team in Wales during my year abroad there.) It wasn't a good scene. But, like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Ephrata was just right.
Funny how we don't know what we need, even when we get it, sometimes. But, looking back, we see God's wisdom at work.
I wish I had a photo and scanner nearby to give you a sense of what a pathetic little creature I was at the time. Har! Those were not my best years. At least I had ditched the glasses and braces the year before. And the afro-perm. *shudder*
So, here's to Ephrata. And all those little apparent hellholes that make us the carefully molded folks we are today. Or will be tomorrow, God willing.
*raises glass*
Monday, September 05, 2005
media matters
I guess I'm part of "The Media" (which takes a plural, folks), so perhaps I shouldn't criticize. Or question. NO QUESTIONS!
Here goes anyway:
Does anyone actually play Su Do Ku? Or know how to pronounce it properly? Did anyone play it before The Media decided it was The Game To Play?
I'm a die-hard crossword gal myself, on those occasions when I have a half-hour to kill and feel the need for some humility (hm, not lately on either count), so I don't do the numbers. But, does anyone? Or did one reporter say, hey! What's this? And every other reporter picked up the story and made it his/her own. Thus, a "craze" was born. I mean, geez. A book on the game cracked the Top 50 list last week.
Maybe it's just my anti-numbers bias. I just don't get it.
I could never do a Rubik's Cube, either. And, while we're at it, the only playstation I've ever owned is an Atari.
Here goes anyway:
Does anyone actually play Su Do Ku? Or know how to pronounce it properly? Did anyone play it before The Media decided it was The Game To Play?
I'm a die-hard crossword gal myself, on those occasions when I have a half-hour to kill and feel the need for some humility (hm, not lately on either count), so I don't do the numbers. But, does anyone? Or did one reporter say, hey! What's this? And every other reporter picked up the story and made it his/her own. Thus, a "craze" was born. I mean, geez. A book on the game cracked the Top 50 list last week.
Maybe it's just my anti-numbers bias. I just don't get it.
I could never do a Rubik's Cube, either. And, while we're at it, the only playstation I've ever owned is an Atari.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
oh, also
Lizzy and I will be home Friday (in Manassas). If anyone's home and wants to play, let me know.
571-921-1655
571-921-1655
Poetry Thursday
For those who post poems:
How do
You choose your poems?
Do you
Have a vast
Storehouse
of favorites?
Or do you
Rather
Thumb through a
Much-loved book
To find the
Perfect one
for
Today?
Inquiring minds
Want
To know.
(oh yeah, and some are original, apparently. Wow. I didn't think I was underselling you guys, but apparently I have. Because that fact is darned impressive to me.)
How do
You choose your poems?
Do you
Have a vast
Storehouse
of favorites?
Or do you
Rather
Thumb through a
Much-loved book
To find the
Perfect one
for
Today?
Inquiring minds
Want
To know.
(oh yeah, and some are original, apparently. Wow. I didn't think I was underselling you guys, but apparently I have. Because that fact is darned impressive to me.)
stupid, generous, petty
Man, was it an interesting commute this morning.
First, we're putting along in the carpool lane on Hwy. 66 -- barely moving, mind you. No advantage at the moment to being in that lane at all -- when I note, with some irritation, that there's a woman behind me with no one else in the car. This isn't rare, so aside from wishing a cop would come by and bust her, I kinda growl and shrug and ignore her. Until I realize that she's READING A BOOK. Since being rear-ended is not on my to-do list today, that really annoyed me. I told Matt about it and he asked if he should get out (we were at a dead stop rather frequently) and confront her. She didn't look the type to pack heat, but still. I'd rather not make a scene unless I'm so mad I can't stay silent. And people reading at the wheel, much like singles in the carpool lane, is scarily not too rare, either. Though I hate to see it directly behind me. (side note -- she also had a temporary handicapped tag. I didn't know they gave those out for mental deficiencies.)
We finally crawl to Rosslyn, and I do the usual drop Matt off at the metro, drop Lizzy off at the day care, park the car in the parking garage. Sometimes I linger here for a minute or two, savoring TOTAL CONTROL over the car stereo. I usually listen to Mix 107.3; it's fairly inoffensive, and occasionally amusing. And they're playing "the best mix of ... Everything!" these days. Who can resist THAT?! So I'm sitting there, and they're doing their best telethon imitation today, encouraging people to call in donations to the Red Cross for New Orleans relief. I'm not even sure why I kept listening. Probably because that's when I have to head to work. So they field a couple callers who have donated $1,000 -- impressive -- and then this guy named Randy calls up and challenges all other realtors to put a portion of their recent gains toward the effort. "How much will you be contributing?" Jack Diamond says. "TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS," Randy says dramatically. The radio personalities and I flip out. Then Jack says his full name, and I realize that I KNOW this guy! He kinda took me under his wing when I was taking swing dance classes, and he danced with me quite a bit when I went to subsequent dances. How cool is that! I love those examples of how the D.C. area is actually a community unto itself. It's easy to forget. Randy IS a very, very nice man. I haven't been in touch with him since Lizzy came along and I stopped dancing. It's good to hear he's doing well.
So I'm feeling this little glow of man's goodwill to man, and I go to Starbucks. Where Jami Gertz's evil twin was haranguing the poor woman behind the counter (whom I happen to know just started working there last week or so) because Jami twin just put a quarter down on the counter! She can't BELIEVE this cashier! She JUST PUT A QUARTER DOWN! I was fuzzy on the details, but the woman left no doubt that the source of the argument was over A QUARTER. As she stormed to the end of the counter for her drink, she tossed an, "I'm NEVER coming here AGAIN!" over her shoulder. What a pity.
First, we're putting along in the carpool lane on Hwy. 66 -- barely moving, mind you. No advantage at the moment to being in that lane at all -- when I note, with some irritation, that there's a woman behind me with no one else in the car. This isn't rare, so aside from wishing a cop would come by and bust her, I kinda growl and shrug and ignore her. Until I realize that she's READING A BOOK. Since being rear-ended is not on my to-do list today, that really annoyed me. I told Matt about it and he asked if he should get out (we were at a dead stop rather frequently) and confront her. She didn't look the type to pack heat, but still. I'd rather not make a scene unless I'm so mad I can't stay silent. And people reading at the wheel, much like singles in the carpool lane, is scarily not too rare, either. Though I hate to see it directly behind me. (side note -- she also had a temporary handicapped tag. I didn't know they gave those out for mental deficiencies.)
We finally crawl to Rosslyn, and I do the usual drop Matt off at the metro, drop Lizzy off at the day care, park the car in the parking garage. Sometimes I linger here for a minute or two, savoring TOTAL CONTROL over the car stereo. I usually listen to Mix 107.3; it's fairly inoffensive, and occasionally amusing. And they're playing "the best mix of ... Everything!" these days. Who can resist THAT?! So I'm sitting there, and they're doing their best telethon imitation today, encouraging people to call in donations to the Red Cross for New Orleans relief. I'm not even sure why I kept listening. Probably because that's when I have to head to work. So they field a couple callers who have donated $1,000 -- impressive -- and then this guy named Randy calls up and challenges all other realtors to put a portion of their recent gains toward the effort. "How much will you be contributing?" Jack Diamond says. "TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS," Randy says dramatically. The radio personalities and I flip out. Then Jack says his full name, and I realize that I KNOW this guy! He kinda took me under his wing when I was taking swing dance classes, and he danced with me quite a bit when I went to subsequent dances. How cool is that! I love those examples of how the D.C. area is actually a community unto itself. It's easy to forget. Randy IS a very, very nice man. I haven't been in touch with him since Lizzy came along and I stopped dancing. It's good to hear he's doing well.
So I'm feeling this little glow of man's goodwill to man, and I go to Starbucks. Where Jami Gertz's evil twin was haranguing the poor woman behind the counter (whom I happen to know just started working there last week or so) because Jami twin just put a quarter down on the counter! She can't BELIEVE this cashier! She JUST PUT A QUARTER DOWN! I was fuzzy on the details, but the woman left no doubt that the source of the argument was over A QUARTER. As she stormed to the end of the counter for her drink, she tossed an, "I'm NEVER coming here AGAIN!" over her shoulder. What a pity.
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