I'm having a hard time sitting still today. It was bound to be a good day, anyway -- the beloved little white 30GB iPod* I got for Christmas from my fabulous and very generous husband now has an iSkin, which just arrived. Lovely!
But far bigger events are unfolding today. It looks like we might move. VERY soon. We're staying in the D.C. area. I guess that's good or bad news, depending on whom you are, and also whether or not you like us, but I'm going to assume you do, if you're bothering to check in here.
It feels very, very strange to basically buy a house on a whim. We've been thinking about 'upgrading' for some time, but probably not trying in this miserable housing market until summer. Forgive me for omitting a lot of details here, but the point is -- my head is spinning, and it's all weird, and I've talked to almost nobody about this!
Back to trying to work today. Ha.
I'll keep you updated. It might all come to naught, anyway.
If this does go down, we lose some really good, lovely neighbors, and gain some really good, lovely neighbors. I'm already simultaneously sad and excited about it, and I don't even know for sure it's happening yet.
* I didn't even know I wanted an iPod until, say, last month. A couple of solid years of kids' tunes in my heads leaves me believing I "need" it to retain whatever sanity is left. I feel very consumeristic (is that a word?) and selfish, but I do just love it. I really love it. It's got an 'Atomic green' iSkin case now, and Matt says I should call it Kermit the Pod.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Tagged
All right. I've been asked to list five things that not many people know about me. This isn't nearly as fun as 'two truths and a lie,' but I'll do my best.
After mulling it over for awhile, I'm a little embarrassed at how boring I am. :) Are there fascinating facts that I've completely forgotten about? Let's hope so.
1) My two front teeth are fake. Well, they're porcelain veneers. The little nubs of original teeth are still back there -- I can't remove the teeth, or anything -- but the parts you can see aren't really my teeth.
2) I was voted most gullible of my high school class as a senior. One classmate (who had far worse grades, I must add) told me that she voted me most gullible because there wasn't a biggest airhead category. Ouch.
3) I actually went to college to be a veterinarian. If I could've inhabited any person's life, it might well be James Herriot. He was a country vet, and lived in the English countryside. And wrote entertaining, funny, touching books. Brilliant. (though that would be weird, because he was a guy, but you get the point.) In reality, I might not have liked the lifestyle at all, but in a romantic, it-couldn't-possibly-happen-anyway sense, that would be a strong contender for me.
I think I knew, though, in the back of my mind that my skills lay elsewhere. It took an almost-fainting spell at the small-animal vet clinic in my hometown the summer after my freshman year to fully convince me that I shouldn't be in a medical field. The traumatic sight? Watching a dog's sixth toes removed. My handwriting is bad enough to be a doc of some kind, though. No doubt about that.
4) I was on the Welsh national basketball team for a (school) year. As much of one as there was, anyway. The embarrassing thing about that is that I wasn't one of the starting five; that would've been five English girls. Who didn't grow up playing basketball, as I had. Ouch again.
5) I had my first kiss at age 22. TWENTY-TWO. And it was awful. I didn't really like the guy; I just figured, hey. I might not get another chance. Painful, but true.
So -- I'm supposed to tag some other folks. How about Erin, Julie, Tara and Jay? Let's have five things we might not know, folks.
After mulling it over for awhile, I'm a little embarrassed at how boring I am. :) Are there fascinating facts that I've completely forgotten about? Let's hope so.
1) My two front teeth are fake. Well, they're porcelain veneers. The little nubs of original teeth are still back there -- I can't remove the teeth, or anything -- but the parts you can see aren't really my teeth.
2) I was voted most gullible of my high school class as a senior. One classmate (who had far worse grades, I must add) told me that she voted me most gullible because there wasn't a biggest airhead category. Ouch.
3) I actually went to college to be a veterinarian. If I could've inhabited any person's life, it might well be James Herriot. He was a country vet, and lived in the English countryside. And wrote entertaining, funny, touching books. Brilliant. (though that would be weird, because he was a guy, but you get the point.) In reality, I might not have liked the lifestyle at all, but in a romantic, it-couldn't-possibly-happen-anyway sense, that would be a strong contender for me.
I think I knew, though, in the back of my mind that my skills lay elsewhere. It took an almost-fainting spell at the small-animal vet clinic in my hometown the summer after my freshman year to fully convince me that I shouldn't be in a medical field. The traumatic sight? Watching a dog's sixth toes removed. My handwriting is bad enough to be a doc of some kind, though. No doubt about that.
4) I was on the Welsh national basketball team for a (school) year. As much of one as there was, anyway. The embarrassing thing about that is that I wasn't one of the starting five; that would've been five English girls. Who didn't grow up playing basketball, as I had. Ouch again.
5) I had my first kiss at age 22. TWENTY-TWO. And it was awful. I didn't really like the guy; I just figured, hey. I might not get another chance. Painful, but true.
So -- I'm supposed to tag some other folks. How about Erin, Julie, Tara and Jay? Let's have five things we might not know, folks.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
better and better
Turns, out Chocolate was recalled.
Oops.
Still, I trust my 4-year-old not to rip off a limb of her cherished 'honey' and aspirate its tiny beads. I'm always amazed when, in one instance, a child destroys a toy and eats it, and suddenly it's unsafe for all. Better too safe than sorry, I suppose.
On another, very embarrassing subject: Is anyone else suffering from total hilarity after seeing last weekend's SNL video skit with Justin Timb3rl@ke? Oh my gosh. It is so utterly inappropriate, and yet I cannot stop laughing. Or singing it. Which is unfortunate, because there's a naughty word in the main chorus part.
And if you ask me about this in person, I will completely deny any knowledge of it. Sorry.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
perhaps I'm not learning the lesson
Last night, we swung by Target to shop with a little friend of ours (a human one). Another little friend -- the aforementioned Chocolate, the pretend lizard -- also went with us.
I try to keep Lizzy's toys in the car when we're out and about. I'm afraid we'll lose them. Sadly, Chocolate went the way of pretend lizards last night. One minute, she was sitting on a seat next to the girls (in one of those gigantic carts in which your kid can sit on the outside, but which are impossible to navigate, especially through holiday shopping traffic) -- the next, she was gone. I think I did three complete sweeps of the store last night, and bugged the lost-and-found folks three other times. To no avail. Chocolate, too, is no more.
I took the lost-and-found number so I could bother the people further the next day, and went sadly home. Lizzy, probably giddy in the presence of a rare weeknight friend outing, didn't seem that bummed. I, on the other hand, actually cried at one point.
As soon as we got home -- as soon as we got home and I could pry Matt off of e-mail and YouTube -- I checked eBay. I'm not sure if eBay is my best friend, or worst enemy, for this, but it seems that the reign of Chocolate is not to end this night. For, lo! There she is, in different body but same spirit, shipping speedily to us via a 'Buy It Now' one-click from heaven only knows where.
Now -- to get my daughter to buy the switcheroo.
I try to keep Lizzy's toys in the car when we're out and about. I'm afraid we'll lose them. Sadly, Chocolate went the way of pretend lizards last night. One minute, she was sitting on a seat next to the girls (in one of those gigantic carts in which your kid can sit on the outside, but which are impossible to navigate, especially through holiday shopping traffic) -- the next, she was gone. I think I did three complete sweeps of the store last night, and bugged the lost-and-found folks three other times. To no avail. Chocolate, too, is no more.
I took the lost-and-found number so I could bother the people further the next day, and went sadly home. Lizzy, probably giddy in the presence of a rare weeknight friend outing, didn't seem that bummed. I, on the other hand, actually cried at one point.
As soon as we got home -- as soon as we got home and I could pry Matt off of e-mail and YouTube -- I checked eBay. I'm not sure if eBay is my best friend, or worst enemy, for this, but it seems that the reign of Chocolate is not to end this night. For, lo! There she is, in different body but same spirit, shipping speedily to us via a 'Buy It Now' one-click from heaven only knows where.
Now -- to get my daughter to buy the switcheroo.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
stuff
This morning, during our mad scramble out the door, Lizzy was rooting around through the Papasan Chair o' Toys (if you've been to our house in the past few months -- both of you -- you know what I'm talking about) to find her chosen toy du jour, a hand-me-down, $5 frog from Kohl's that she has dubbed "Chocolate, the Pretend Lizard." She is among a handful of Lizzy's very prized stuffed animals. We had recently cleaned up the toys from where they had been strewn around the room, so Chocolate was near the bottom. Hence the active search.
We finally found her. As we drew her out of the pile, I heard a strange 'ping/crack' as something else fell and struck the chair next to the papasan. Something breakable, clearly. As there's only one breakable thing in that pile, it had to be ... Olivia, the porcelain doll I found among my childhood possessions when my mom mailed them to me a couple of years ago. Lizzy quickly claimed the doll as her own and named her. She, too, was prized, but I wouldn't allow Lizzy to take her out of the house. I KNEW I shouldn't have allowed Lizzy to play with her at all. Lizzy IS careful, but play is play ...
Olivia's head broke clean off of her body this morning. I'm trying not to care. Really, I am. Even before Lizzy got her mitts on the doll, she was showing signs of age -- the edges of her porcelain head piece were wearing through her vintage gown. Her bonnet was rarely found anywhere near her head. Her boots were actually on her feet, but that was the exception rather than the rule. What I feel slightly ill about is that Olivia was probably some heirloom of a grandmother's. There's probably some 80-year-old history to her, and I blew it by giving her to my (then-) two year old. I'm not going to inquire of the parents as to probable origins. I don't think they remember, anyway.
I'm not wild about the idea of dolls that aren't meant to be played with. I understand that, if one wants something preserved, one does not give it to a child. But I have no use for dolls on a shelf, or under glass. My new rule: If it's fragile, my daughter doesn't get it. And it won't be purchased by me.
My biggest problem (in this regard) is that I'm too sentimental. I'm not into 'stuff,' for stuff's sake, but I have a hard time parting with stuff that I've grown attached to. I have a hard time throwing away stuffed animals or dolls that I've ever played with. I remember people fondly, but many of these dolls and toys that I had are held in much the same esteem. That's a little disturbing to me.
I've heard the suggestion of taking photos of the things you care about -- children's drawings, for instance -- and scrapbooking them. But photos just can't capture certain things. And yet, I have only so much storage in my house, you know? Only so much tolerance for boxes of my past that I have no current, or future, use for (though I can always justify it somehow), and yet can't seem to part with.
It almost makes me wish for a house fire. (BUT NOT REALLY. FICKLE FINGER OF FATE, I'M ONLY JOKING.)
I think the problem is best solved by working on my issues, though. I'm just not sure how to. Therapeutic trashing of one's own possessions? Anyone want to join me? Maybe if we trashed EACH OTHER'S possessions, it would be easier. Gulp.
And now comes Christmas. The loot (almost all for Lizzy) under our tree is unreal. It will soon sit next to the half of the things she got for her birthday that she hasn't yet touched.
At least I asked Grandma and Grandpa Williams for a nice doll for Lizzy. A non-breakable one.
Holy crap! Maybe I doomed Olivia. Maybe our town is only big enough for one pretty doll.
RIP, Olivia. At least two generations loved you well.
We finally found her. As we drew her out of the pile, I heard a strange 'ping/crack' as something else fell and struck the chair next to the papasan. Something breakable, clearly. As there's only one breakable thing in that pile, it had to be ... Olivia, the porcelain doll I found among my childhood possessions when my mom mailed them to me a couple of years ago. Lizzy quickly claimed the doll as her own and named her. She, too, was prized, but I wouldn't allow Lizzy to take her out of the house. I KNEW I shouldn't have allowed Lizzy to play with her at all. Lizzy IS careful, but play is play ...
Olivia's head broke clean off of her body this morning. I'm trying not to care. Really, I am. Even before Lizzy got her mitts on the doll, she was showing signs of age -- the edges of her porcelain head piece were wearing through her vintage gown. Her bonnet was rarely found anywhere near her head. Her boots were actually on her feet, but that was the exception rather than the rule. What I feel slightly ill about is that Olivia was probably some heirloom of a grandmother's. There's probably some 80-year-old history to her, and I blew it by giving her to my (then-) two year old. I'm not going to inquire of the parents as to probable origins. I don't think they remember, anyway.
I'm not wild about the idea of dolls that aren't meant to be played with. I understand that, if one wants something preserved, one does not give it to a child. But I have no use for dolls on a shelf, or under glass. My new rule: If it's fragile, my daughter doesn't get it. And it won't be purchased by me.
My biggest problem (in this regard) is that I'm too sentimental. I'm not into 'stuff,' for stuff's sake, but I have a hard time parting with stuff that I've grown attached to. I have a hard time throwing away stuffed animals or dolls that I've ever played with. I remember people fondly, but many of these dolls and toys that I had are held in much the same esteem. That's a little disturbing to me.
I've heard the suggestion of taking photos of the things you care about -- children's drawings, for instance -- and scrapbooking them. But photos just can't capture certain things. And yet, I have only so much storage in my house, you know? Only so much tolerance for boxes of my past that I have no current, or future, use for (though I can always justify it somehow), and yet can't seem to part with.
It almost makes me wish for a house fire. (BUT NOT REALLY. FICKLE FINGER OF FATE, I'M ONLY JOKING.)
I think the problem is best solved by working on my issues, though. I'm just not sure how to. Therapeutic trashing of one's own possessions? Anyone want to join me? Maybe if we trashed EACH OTHER'S possessions, it would be easier. Gulp.
And now comes Christmas. The loot (almost all for Lizzy) under our tree is unreal. It will soon sit next to the half of the things she got for her birthday that she hasn't yet touched.
At least I asked Grandma and Grandpa Williams for a nice doll for Lizzy. A non-breakable one.
Holy crap! Maybe I doomed Olivia. Maybe our town is only big enough for one pretty doll.
RIP, Olivia. At least two generations loved you well.
Monday, December 18, 2006
the weekend
Things I experienced this weekend that made my gut hurt:
* Not one -- oh, no! -- TWO rounds of chili taste-testing. I thought I was already ill, but Matt pointed out that we sampled 13 varieties of chili this weekend. Hurl. When I look back on it, I realize that I ate little else. (and the copious amounts of cheap candy consumed whilst decorating gingerbread houses with two of my favorite Elizabeths doesn't count. I'm talking nutritional value, here.)
* A priceless moment Friday night: We received a card in the mail from a certain production company that provides music for weddings and group events. Matt said, "What -- do they want more money?" "Nope," I said, shaking my head and rolling my eyes. "It's a Christmas card!"
Then I checked our phone for messages. No WAY. One message -- from said production company, calling to see if we were planning to settle up our account. The timing was priceless. Or, I should say -- the timing had a very specific, large price tag attached. Matt and I looked at each other dumbly, mouths agape. "Didn't YOU send them a check?" we both asked each other. "No. ... Oh."
Oh, well.
Things that made me feel incredibly happy and loved:
* Our church's Christmas party and chili cookoff and gingerbread house-building contest. Really fun! The second annual I've been to. A real highlight of the year.
* Not one, but TWO talented painter friends unexpectedly giving me original works of art that they'd created as wedding gifts. (if you give me license to include today in 'this weekend'.) I am in awe of the talent and thoughtfulness and love expressed in those who would create an entire quilt -- or an entire painting -- for us. Unreal. I was touched by every gift we got -- and the sentiments they expressed -- but absolutely overwhelmed by those. Truth be told, the best gifts were the effort made by people to be there to share the day with us. But I'm still pretty wowed at the moment by the other stuff. :)
* Not one -- oh, no! -- TWO rounds of chili taste-testing. I thought I was already ill, but Matt pointed out that we sampled 13 varieties of chili this weekend. Hurl. When I look back on it, I realize that I ate little else. (and the copious amounts of cheap candy consumed whilst decorating gingerbread houses with two of my favorite Elizabeths doesn't count. I'm talking nutritional value, here.)
* A priceless moment Friday night: We received a card in the mail from a certain production company that provides music for weddings and group events. Matt said, "What -- do they want more money?" "Nope," I said, shaking my head and rolling my eyes. "It's a Christmas card!"
Then I checked our phone for messages. No WAY. One message -- from said production company, calling to see if we were planning to settle up our account. The timing was priceless. Or, I should say -- the timing had a very specific, large price tag attached. Matt and I looked at each other dumbly, mouths agape. "Didn't YOU send them a check?" we both asked each other. "No. ... Oh."
Oh, well.
Things that made me feel incredibly happy and loved:
* Our church's Christmas party and chili cookoff and gingerbread house-building contest. Really fun! The second annual I've been to. A real highlight of the year.
* Not one, but TWO talented painter friends unexpectedly giving me original works of art that they'd created as wedding gifts. (if you give me license to include today in 'this weekend'.) I am in awe of the talent and thoughtfulness and love expressed in those who would create an entire quilt -- or an entire painting -- for us. Unreal. I was touched by every gift we got -- and the sentiments they expressed -- but absolutely overwhelmed by those. Truth be told, the best gifts were the effort made by people to be there to share the day with us. But I'm still pretty wowed at the moment by the other stuff. :)
Thursday, December 14, 2006
holiday cheer
Oddly, the National Press Club's main entrance on 14th street is flanked by a liquor store -- Press Liquors -- to the left. This fact has been the basis of many a joke, and is a great place to run if you've forgotten your gift for the office holiday party (which is tomorrow). Alcohol is always an appreciated gift at this event. I prefer the likes of the fridge magnets shaped like turtles, or even the unimaginative gift card to Corner Bakery. But many do go for the booze.
Never before, however, have I seen a (presumably) homeless man standing right next to the Nat'l Press door, GUZZLING from a fifth-sized bottle. (tequila or rum, I'd say, based on color? Is whiskey brownish? Maybe that, then.) Not until just now.
We've had a slightly interesting week. Matt did make a reappearance Monday night, successfully navigating -- or at least surviving -- an extended weekend with his dad and brother in the wilds of West Virginia. The next morning, we all dashed to the car as usual, but not quick enough for Matt, who (to quote my then-ancient high school driver's ed teacher, Mr. Exeter) romped on the gas in between speed bumps in our neighborhood. When we reached the end of the neighborhood, and took a left, then a right, something audibly snapped. (not just my temper) "What the h--- did you do to MY car?" I barked, ungraciously. Matt slowly pulled over, to reveal that the accelerator pedal was totally lifeless. Seconds later, our one neighbor whom we know well and like happened by, pulled over, diagnosed a snapped throttle cable (I think I remember that right), and bumper-pushed us back to our parking spot. The last time I was bumper-pushed was almost five years ago -- at 3:30 a.m., down by the docks of Long Island. I was pregnant. But that's another story.
We eventually made it to work that day by stealing Matt's mom's car (we had a spare key to it) -- Matt thinks his boss never did believe our story. I volunteered the repair bill, in case he wanted to show it to her. Kinda like a doctor's note.
I'm trying to think of something else blog-worthy that's happened this week, but I'm coming up blank. I learned this morning that it's often best to let Amazon do the shipping for you. Especially if the item is oversized. Also, there are worse things than endless loops of kids' music in the car. Thirty minutes of hearing about poo-poo and pee-pee sandwiches (don't ask ME where she gets this stuff), and you'll be DYING for some Larry and Bob and the rest of the Veggie Tale gang.
Never before, however, have I seen a (presumably) homeless man standing right next to the Nat'l Press door, GUZZLING from a fifth-sized bottle. (tequila or rum, I'd say, based on color? Is whiskey brownish? Maybe that, then.) Not until just now.
We've had a slightly interesting week. Matt did make a reappearance Monday night, successfully navigating -- or at least surviving -- an extended weekend with his dad and brother in the wilds of West Virginia. The next morning, we all dashed to the car as usual, but not quick enough for Matt, who (to quote my then-ancient high school driver's ed teacher, Mr. Exeter) romped on the gas in between speed bumps in our neighborhood. When we reached the end of the neighborhood, and took a left, then a right, something audibly snapped. (not just my temper) "What the h--- did you do to MY car?" I barked, ungraciously. Matt slowly pulled over, to reveal that the accelerator pedal was totally lifeless. Seconds later, our one neighbor whom we know well and like happened by, pulled over, diagnosed a snapped throttle cable (I think I remember that right), and bumper-pushed us back to our parking spot. The last time I was bumper-pushed was almost five years ago -- at 3:30 a.m., down by the docks of Long Island. I was pregnant. But that's another story.
We eventually made it to work that day by stealing Matt's mom's car (we had a spare key to it) -- Matt thinks his boss never did believe our story. I volunteered the repair bill, in case he wanted to show it to her. Kinda like a doctor's note.
I'm trying to think of something else blog-worthy that's happened this week, but I'm coming up blank. I learned this morning that it's often best to let Amazon do the shipping for you. Especially if the item is oversized. Also, there are worse things than endless loops of kids' music in the car. Thirty minutes of hearing about poo-poo and pee-pee sandwiches (don't ask ME where she gets this stuff), and you'll be DYING for some Larry and Bob and the rest of the Veggie Tale gang.
Friday, December 08, 2006
hubby appreciation
One way I know I married the right guy: I hate it when he's out of reach (by phone or e-mail), because after half a day, I start having a hard time keeping track of all the no doubt fascinating things I want to tell him, or talk to him about.
He's a really great listening ear. :)
And processing mind.
I already miss him.
one reason I'm at least 10 pounds overweight
Lizzy's day care teachers asked the parents to donate a cake for a bake sale they're having today. I decided to go all out -- in my mind, it's worth it for baked goods, but you won't catch me making a proper meal very often; go figure -- and make a carrot cake from scratch, complete with cream cheese frosting and decorated with carrots on top!
(yes, yes, okay. enough applause. Thank you.)
So I proudly trotted it in there yesterday. Matt was slightly annoyed because I used our Tupperware cake transporter thingie; we figured we'd never see it again as a result, but I couldn't find anything that would get the cake there, and back to someone's house without the cake being smashed. He joked that I'd have to buy it back myself.
I was late this morning. My usual motivation for getting into town in a timely manner -- the aforementioned Matt -- is going to West Virginia with his brother to visit his dad and help him work on some crappy rental houses he owns. Here's hoping his dad sells them, so the guilt trips can end about Matt coming to help with them. But that's the wild optimist in me. Anyhow, Matt will be gone until Monday night, so I dorked around, wrapping gifts and such, and Lizzy and I left about an hour later than usual.
We arrived at day care about a half-hour into the bake sale. To my surprise and delight, the ladies had sliced up the cakes and were selling the pieces for $1. Yay! I'll get my Tupperware back! And, I could contribute a few dollars toward the cause. I HAD to buy a piece of the carrot cake to make sure it was fit for consumption by paying customers. And I basically bought whatever else wasn't chocolate. (I'm not a fan of chocolate cake.)
I just had a midmorning snack of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, and my trusty Starbucks drip coffee. Ahhh! Can't wait for my post-lunch dessert of velvet cake. Or perhaps the pumpkin muffin.
And then there's the Sunday night cookie exchange with some ladies from church...
I'd better set aside some time this weekend to shop for bigger pants. :)
(yes, yes, okay. enough applause. Thank you.)
So I proudly trotted it in there yesterday. Matt was slightly annoyed because I used our Tupperware cake transporter thingie; we figured we'd never see it again as a result, but I couldn't find anything that would get the cake there, and back to someone's house without the cake being smashed. He joked that I'd have to buy it back myself.
I was late this morning. My usual motivation for getting into town in a timely manner -- the aforementioned Matt -- is going to West Virginia with his brother to visit his dad and help him work on some crappy rental houses he owns. Here's hoping his dad sells them, so the guilt trips can end about Matt coming to help with them. But that's the wild optimist in me. Anyhow, Matt will be gone until Monday night, so I dorked around, wrapping gifts and such, and Lizzy and I left about an hour later than usual.
We arrived at day care about a half-hour into the bake sale. To my surprise and delight, the ladies had sliced up the cakes and were selling the pieces for $1. Yay! I'll get my Tupperware back! And, I could contribute a few dollars toward the cause. I HAD to buy a piece of the carrot cake to make sure it was fit for consumption by paying customers. And I basically bought whatever else wasn't chocolate. (I'm not a fan of chocolate cake.)
I just had a midmorning snack of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, and my trusty Starbucks drip coffee. Ahhh! Can't wait for my post-lunch dessert of velvet cake. Or perhaps the pumpkin muffin.
And then there's the Sunday night cookie exchange with some ladies from church...
I'd better set aside some time this weekend to shop for bigger pants. :)
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
random (not at all deep) thoughts
* Why is it, when you have a gift card to spend in a store, you almost never can find anything you really want? And the reverse is usually true.
I just wandered through Barnes and Noble with a $50 card burning a hole in my purse, and the only thing I got was a $2.50 caramel apple cider. (it IS yummy, though!) I successfully resisted the urge to buy Lizzy something in the kid's section. She has enough books, for now. And it's MY card, darnit. Some few things must remain mine. She tends not to agree with that sentiment.
* Speaking of Starbucks: I'm really glad they (it?) dropped last year's holiday slogan. I'm not sure what the specific name of the grammatical mistake was that they were (it was?) making, but said mistake 'bout drove me crazy.
("It only happens once a year.")*
* Have I stated here, for the record, what an unexpected delight it was for me to discover that Patrick Stewart is the voice of the Great Prince, Bambi's father, in Bambi II? This factoid is not even mentioned on the packaging. WHAT! I'll watch just about anything -- including 'I, Clavdivs,' and 'X-Men III' -- if my beloved Jean-Luc is involved. I'm embarrassed at how long it took me to recognize his princely voice, though. *hangs head in shame*
* Seriously. If I thought the world were as amoral and corrupt at Michael Crichton appears to, I would be tempted to give up and end it all right now. That man has some issues. And that is (I promise!) the last I'll say about that book, except that I was delighted that one of the monkeys in the book does, in fact, eventually throw poo. Because, as I explained to my mom, you can't have monkeys without including a little poo-throwing. (right, Ryan?!)
* If you're scratching your head, wondering what the mistake is, "only" should come AFTER happens. What the phrase is saying in its current form is that the only thing that happens -- ever! -- is "it." Once a year. Nothing else ever happens. As opposed to, "It happens only once a year." Just the once. "It" does not occur at any other time. Other things might well occur, but not "it."
I just wandered through Barnes and Noble with a $50 card burning a hole in my purse, and the only thing I got was a $2.50 caramel apple cider. (it IS yummy, though!) I successfully resisted the urge to buy Lizzy something in the kid's section. She has enough books, for now. And it's MY card, darnit. Some few things must remain mine. She tends not to agree with that sentiment.
* Speaking of Starbucks: I'm really glad they (it?) dropped last year's holiday slogan. I'm not sure what the specific name of the grammatical mistake was that they were (it was?) making, but said mistake 'bout drove me crazy.
("It only happens once a year.")*
* Have I stated here, for the record, what an unexpected delight it was for me to discover that Patrick Stewart is the voice of the Great Prince, Bambi's father, in Bambi II? This factoid is not even mentioned on the packaging. WHAT! I'll watch just about anything -- including 'I, Clavdivs,' and 'X-Men III' -- if my beloved Jean-Luc is involved. I'm embarrassed at how long it took me to recognize his princely voice, though. *hangs head in shame*
* Seriously. If I thought the world were as amoral and corrupt at Michael Crichton appears to, I would be tempted to give up and end it all right now. That man has some issues. And that is (I promise!) the last I'll say about that book, except that I was delighted that one of the monkeys in the book does, in fact, eventually throw poo. Because, as I explained to my mom, you can't have monkeys without including a little poo-throwing. (right, Ryan?!)
* If you're scratching your head, wondering what the mistake is, "only" should come AFTER happens. What the phrase is saying in its current form is that the only thing that happens -- ever! -- is "it." Once a year. Nothing else ever happens. As opposed to, "It happens only once a year." Just the once. "It" does not occur at any other time. Other things might well occur, but not "it."
smug -n- sassy
A conversation from this morning's car ride:
LIZZY: Guess whose birthday it was yesterday!
ME: I know!
LIZZY (distressed): NO! I asked DADDY!
ME: Oh. (nudges Matt, who's driving to allow me to finish my crappy Crichton novel for once and all)
MATT: Uh ... Henry? Shefali? Katherine? Christopher? (flounders for more names)
LIZZY (impatiently): No! ... You're not very smart, Dad.
MATT: (silently steams a little. suddenly concentrates very hard on traffic.)
ME: Lizzy, why do you say that? Your daddy's a very smart man.
LIZZY: Well, maybe so. Sort of. But he's not as smart as me.
(By the way, it was Jack's birthday. In case you were curious.)
Monday, December 04, 2006
Deck the home
We had our second annual Family Tree-Trimming Party this Saturday. We drove about six blocks to the local K-Mart parking lot where we picked out our tree by streetlight -- we meant to make it there before dark, but c'mon! That's, like, pre-4:30 these days. THAT wasn't happening. We managed to keep Lizzy and her friend, Rachel, from dashing to their deaths on the highway that ran scarily close to where the trees were sold. Nor did they snag their little shoes on the twine that lay all over the ground, trip and fall and knock out their front teeth. (Hi, Chris! Yes, your daughter was with responsible people that evening. Seriously.) Nor did they spill their Starbucks (tm) milk all over our back seat, for which I was grateful.
So we decorated with great gusto -- it took Lizzy approximately six seconds to break the Hallmark ornament I had to special-order her by mail (you saw it -- the Dumbo one). I wasn't very pleased. Matt had to remind me to channel some holiday cheer.
Lizzy was very enthusiastic -- VERY enthusiastic -- about the ornament-hanging. We had to step in and help rather quickly. Otherwise, there would've been a well-hung (so to speak) midsection of tree, and bare top. Woo HOO! Pretty racy for the Christmas season. (Yes, it's getting late and I'm tired.) (Yes, for me, 9:45 is late these days.)
Without further ado, some photos. I didn't take any of the actual unloading of the tree from the car, because we took those last year. Matt "joked" that if I hadn't done anything (scrapbooky) with the photos I took the year before, I wasn't allowed to take any more the following year. Hardy HAR-har. Easy for him to say.
And, sorry about the red-eye. We don't have photoshop at home. Maybe I do have a way to fix it. I really can't remember at the moment, though. But you get the point.
... aaand, once AGAIN, despite Blogger's repeated claims that it is uploading photos, it is not, in fact, displaying them. So, instead of six or eight, it will allow me two. Oh, wait -- three. I slipped another one past it. Woo!
I'm in a rather grumpy mood right now; can you tell?
Better luck to me next time, I guess.
For the record -- the Jean-Luc Picard ornament at the bottom of the second photo WAS A GIFT. I managed to restrain myself from purchasing this year's killer Star Trek Hallmark ornament. With great willpower.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Things I Learned Over The Weekend, Which I Should Have Already Known
1) Don't believe the 4-year-old when she says, at bedtime, that she's "just" gone potty. (as in, just a few minutes ago.) Don't believe it unless I see it with my own eyes.
2) Don't assume that my phone company has decent -- as in, short of highway robbery -- rates to foreign countries. Definitely call the company first to confirm this before talking to an old friend for an hour.
3) Don't open any bills right before it's time for the family to trim the Christmas tree. Having a heart attack because of a $161 hourlong call to England is not going to put me in a festive mood.
4) Don't assume that the car has gas in it, even if it appears to be above the "empty" line and the gas light has not come on yet. In fact, don't ever let it get below empty. One day, an angel in the form of a good friend might not happen along quite as conveniently. (Thanks, God! And Dee!)
5) When my mother warns me, in not so many words, that a bit of pulpy fiction I'm considering reading isn't worth my time (or money), I should listen. Please remind me of this when his, er, "next" book comes out.
2) Don't assume that my phone company has decent -- as in, short of highway robbery -- rates to foreign countries. Definitely call the company first to confirm this before talking to an old friend for an hour.
3) Don't open any bills right before it's time for the family to trim the Christmas tree. Having a heart attack because of a $161 hourlong call to England is not going to put me in a festive mood.
4) Don't assume that the car has gas in it, even if it appears to be above the "empty" line and the gas light has not come on yet. In fact, don't ever let it get below empty. One day, an angel in the form of a good friend might not happen along quite as conveniently. (Thanks, God! And Dee!)
5) When my mother warns me, in not so many words, that a bit of pulpy fiction I'm considering reading isn't worth my time (or money), I should listen. Please remind me of this when his, er, "next" book comes out.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
fashionista Lizzy
Lizzy sometimes mazes me with her fashion sense. I mean, I don’t know if this is from observation, or what – probably actually more because Belle does this, and that’s her current obsession for imitation – but she prefers the low-slung ponytail. (very fashionable these days in Hollywood) Sometimes I get chastised for putting her ponytail too high. I have to convince her sometimes that it’s as low as is possible to make it.
We went back to the doc today because one of Lizzy's shot sites was swollen and red and hot to the touch. Didn't turn out to be a big deal. But she insisted on stickers, even though it was a brief, routine trip to the doc's office. She picked out one orange and blue Care Bear sticker, and one pink and red Strawberry Shortcake sticker. For reasons I'm not clear on, I always get one. And I have to be wearing it when I pick her up that night from day care, or there will be heck to pay. She held both stickers up to my (purple) pant leg to see which would match better. (I have a black shirt on, so that's a wash.)
Then she handed me the blue and orange one. Nice choice! It's probably causing some puzzlement on the part of my coworkers today, but that's okay.
A recent scene to warm my heart – she said, “Mommy! I’m being Belle.” Because she had been “reading” a book, and she’d put it down, spine open, and she picked it back up to pick up where she’d left off. Belle reads, therefore it’s cool, therefore Lizzy reads.
Disney, I owe ya one.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
car vs. bicycle
Each day, Matt and I battle our way from Manassas to Rosslyn, then onto the metro (separately) and to our jobs. We strive to get Matt there on time (by 9), but in truth, it rarely occurs. That stress, on top of all the other stresses -- mostly stupid, political-type interpersonal paranoia stuff that any manager has to deal with -- is a bit much for him these days. So we're really trying to at least get him there on time.
Each day, it feels like we're thwarted by something new and stupid. Of course, we COULD all get up early enough to get out of the house by 7 -- that's pretty much a fool-proof way. But, c'mon! That never happens. Ha! Are you kidding me?!
Today, the sticky spot was Manassas itself. The spot where we merge onto the main road that leads to Hwy. 66 (234) had a lineup of cars as long as I've ever seen it. Unfortunately, Matt was driving -- I usually take the 'morning shift,' but not today -- so he took the "shortcut." It proceeded to take us 15 minutes to get to the highway from there, because we had to wait behind everyone else taking the "shortcut." Honestly! I really do think this is a gender thing. Men will run around a block in circles, just to keep moving. It FEELS like progress, I suppose. I was chuckling to myself that all the folks taking the "shortcut" seemed to be driving trucks, SUVs or work vans. Hmm! Probably not women behind the wheels. But, I try (emphasis on try) to bite my lip. Because it's just like a woman to point these things out. It's also like a woman to hope that, by taking note of them, we can perhaps avoid certain decisions and thus repeating certain mistakes in the future. But I realize how optimistic that is of me. As in ... a snowball has a better chance of not melting.
The commute wasn't so bad after we actually made it to the highway. We dropped Matt off at the usual corner in Rosslyn, where I pull over around the corner behind a legitimate parking space. Not ideal, but it gets me out of the flow of traffic long enough for Matt to hop out. Then I scoot back into the lane, drive around the two parking spaces, and turn right, into our parking garage, which is underneath Lizzy's day care.
Today, I checked for traffic, as usual, then pulled out. Almost immediately, something rapped my window, hard, three times. Two inches from my head. I let out a little shriek. Lizzy said, "What's wrong, Mom?" I saw an irate biker pedaling ahead and away from us. I looked at him incredulously for a moment, my heart pounding, then got mad and blared the horn. He gave the universal gesture for "you could rot in hell for all I care, road hog," glared back at me and rode off to wherever he was going. It really shook me up for the rest of the commute, and I'm trying to sort out why.
I guess that, when it comes right down to it, I hate confrontation. I really do. I mean the sort of confrontation that will a) make someone (whose opinion I care about) mad at me, or b) the sort where I realize that I did something wrong, and it's being pointed out, and I feel a lot of embarrassment and shame. The latter was true today. But I REALLY DIDN'T SEE THE GUY. I have no idea where he came from! And so I feel he's putting me in an impossible position by expecting me to take care of him, and yet ... I just don't know what he wanted me to do differently. SENSE his presence, I suppose.
Here's how it is: I really can see both sides of this issue. The biker was mad at me because, ultimately, he was scared. He's doing the good thing; taking the high road in the sense that he's biking to work. Good for him, good for the environment. In truth, I'm wildly jealous that he has that option. I would give at least a couple of eyeteeth to have that sort of commute. That sort of life. Lizzy and I used to live a half-mile from her day care. It was awesome. Except in bad weather, and I only cared then for her sake, but I digress.
However. Self-righteous little snots like that jerk think that, because they ARE doing such excellent work as stewards of their bodies and the environment, (apparently) they have the right to treat the road/sidewalk/bit of space between stopped cars as their own personal lane. And the right to look scornfully at those who do drive. Well, guess which lane is yours, bikers! That's right -- you don't have one.
This is unjust. I will be the first to agree with you. In Germany, there were bike lanes -- and paths -- everywhere. It was totally awesome. I biked all over the place, and loved it. Then I moved here, and my bike was stolen, and I have no time, and I don't bike. Nor would I, in Rosslyn. Because, as I said -- it's freakin' DANGEROUS. I looked around for traffic of all sorts this morning, as I do every morning. Granted, I don't think "biker!" most prominently. But bikers expect that somehow I will have some sort of all-seeing radar for them. They come whipping around a corner going 20 mph. I can only do a head check so fast, dude. And sometimes my daughter is distracting me. Sometimes something else is distracting me.
Bottom line: Open message to bikers. If you're whipping around on busy streets, particularly during rush hour, you are ON YOUR OWN to make sure you're safe. I will not -- cannot -- help you. I can't see you, you see? And you scaring the bejeebers out of me by banging on my window is not going to endear yourself to me.
I know that some sort of rules for bicyclists exist. I have wondered what they are ever since I moved to D.C. When I lived in Cleveland Park, I usually confined my biking to the paths of Rock Creek Park. Occasionally, I tried biking through neighborhoods, but it felt too much like taking my life in my hands. Should I have been on the sidewalk? Seemed like it was for pedestrians. The road? Heck no. Drivers are nuts, and they just don't care. So ... where was I supposed to be?
As we were pulling into the parking lot, Lizzy was quizzing me about what had just happened. I, trying to get a handle on my bitterness and fear, feebly explained that bikers AND cars think they have rights to the road, and sometimes it's not so safe for both of them to be there. "He could've pushed our car over!" Lizzy said, after I told her that I'd shrieked because the biker knocked on the window. "Well, no, honey, he couldn't have. He just wanted me to know he was there," I said. "But it scared me."
"Oh -- maybe he was scared, too," she said.
Yes, darling. You have it exactly right.
Each day, it feels like we're thwarted by something new and stupid. Of course, we COULD all get up early enough to get out of the house by 7 -- that's pretty much a fool-proof way. But, c'mon! That never happens. Ha! Are you kidding me?!
Today, the sticky spot was Manassas itself. The spot where we merge onto the main road that leads to Hwy. 66 (234) had a lineup of cars as long as I've ever seen it. Unfortunately, Matt was driving -- I usually take the 'morning shift,' but not today -- so he took the "shortcut." It proceeded to take us 15 minutes to get to the highway from there, because we had to wait behind everyone else taking the "shortcut." Honestly! I really do think this is a gender thing. Men will run around a block in circles, just to keep moving. It FEELS like progress, I suppose. I was chuckling to myself that all the folks taking the "shortcut" seemed to be driving trucks, SUVs or work vans. Hmm! Probably not women behind the wheels. But, I try (emphasis on try) to bite my lip. Because it's just like a woman to point these things out. It's also like a woman to hope that, by taking note of them, we can perhaps avoid certain decisions and thus repeating certain mistakes in the future. But I realize how optimistic that is of me. As in ... a snowball has a better chance of not melting.
The commute wasn't so bad after we actually made it to the highway. We dropped Matt off at the usual corner in Rosslyn, where I pull over around the corner behind a legitimate parking space. Not ideal, but it gets me out of the flow of traffic long enough for Matt to hop out. Then I scoot back into the lane, drive around the two parking spaces, and turn right, into our parking garage, which is underneath Lizzy's day care.
Today, I checked for traffic, as usual, then pulled out. Almost immediately, something rapped my window, hard, three times. Two inches from my head. I let out a little shriek. Lizzy said, "What's wrong, Mom?" I saw an irate biker pedaling ahead and away from us. I looked at him incredulously for a moment, my heart pounding, then got mad and blared the horn. He gave the universal gesture for "you could rot in hell for all I care, road hog," glared back at me and rode off to wherever he was going. It really shook me up for the rest of the commute, and I'm trying to sort out why.
I guess that, when it comes right down to it, I hate confrontation. I really do. I mean the sort of confrontation that will a) make someone (whose opinion I care about) mad at me, or b) the sort where I realize that I did something wrong, and it's being pointed out, and I feel a lot of embarrassment and shame. The latter was true today. But I REALLY DIDN'T SEE THE GUY. I have no idea where he came from! And so I feel he's putting me in an impossible position by expecting me to take care of him, and yet ... I just don't know what he wanted me to do differently. SENSE his presence, I suppose.
Here's how it is: I really can see both sides of this issue. The biker was mad at me because, ultimately, he was scared. He's doing the good thing; taking the high road in the sense that he's biking to work. Good for him, good for the environment. In truth, I'm wildly jealous that he has that option. I would give at least a couple of eyeteeth to have that sort of commute. That sort of life. Lizzy and I used to live a half-mile from her day care. It was awesome. Except in bad weather, and I only cared then for her sake, but I digress.
However. Self-righteous little snots like that jerk think that, because they ARE doing such excellent work as stewards of their bodies and the environment, (apparently) they have the right to treat the road/sidewalk/bit of space between stopped cars as their own personal lane. And the right to look scornfully at those who do drive. Well, guess which lane is yours, bikers! That's right -- you don't have one.
This is unjust. I will be the first to agree with you. In Germany, there were bike lanes -- and paths -- everywhere. It was totally awesome. I biked all over the place, and loved it. Then I moved here, and my bike was stolen, and I have no time, and I don't bike. Nor would I, in Rosslyn. Because, as I said -- it's freakin' DANGEROUS. I looked around for traffic of all sorts this morning, as I do every morning. Granted, I don't think "biker!" most prominently. But bikers expect that somehow I will have some sort of all-seeing radar for them. They come whipping around a corner going 20 mph. I can only do a head check so fast, dude. And sometimes my daughter is distracting me. Sometimes something else is distracting me.
Bottom line: Open message to bikers. If you're whipping around on busy streets, particularly during rush hour, you are ON YOUR OWN to make sure you're safe. I will not -- cannot -- help you. I can't see you, you see? And you scaring the bejeebers out of me by banging on my window is not going to endear yourself to me.
I know that some sort of rules for bicyclists exist. I have wondered what they are ever since I moved to D.C. When I lived in Cleveland Park, I usually confined my biking to the paths of Rock Creek Park. Occasionally, I tried biking through neighborhoods, but it felt too much like taking my life in my hands. Should I have been on the sidewalk? Seemed like it was for pedestrians. The road? Heck no. Drivers are nuts, and they just don't care. So ... where was I supposed to be?
As we were pulling into the parking lot, Lizzy was quizzing me about what had just happened. I, trying to get a handle on my bitterness and fear, feebly explained that bikers AND cars think they have rights to the road, and sometimes it's not so safe for both of them to be there. "He could've pushed our car over!" Lizzy said, after I told her that I'd shrieked because the biker knocked on the window. "Well, no, honey, he couldn't have. He just wanted me to know he was there," I said. "But it scared me."
"Oh -- maybe he was scared, too," she said.
Yes, darling. You have it exactly right.
Lizzy pincushion
The shots heard 'round the clinic...
Lizzy had her 4-year-old doc checkup yesterday. No fun was had by all. I usually try to mentally prepare her for things -- told her about it two weeks ago -- but the panicky reaction I got prompted me to let it drop until yesterday morning. And I didn't really go into the shot portion until the nurse came in with the needles. Shots just stink. I told Lizzy: No one likes them. Not even grown-ups! Shots are no fun.
She ended up getting five. One flu, and four others that have acronyms of uncertain origin. Poor baby. She cried, "Take it out! Take it back out!" each time the nurse stuck her. I cannot imagine how their little bodies can handle fighting off five (or more; some shots are combined) separate germies at once. It's amazing.
She's doing fine today, but she smells kinda funny. Maybe it's the new shampoo. She will very animatedly tell you all about her shots, how many, etc., if you ask her. She's fixated on the fact that (told us by the nurse) she will be getting shots again when she's age 12. The nurse and I figured this would sound like a long time off. Not for Lizzy. For her, it's horrifying, the thought of having more shots! In EIGHT YEARS, darling. We got into an elevator this morning on our way to day care. The building is 12 stories high. She pointed at the button for the 12th floor, and said, "That's how old I'll be when I get shots again." Yeesh.
In other Lizzy health news, the doc couldn't see one of her ear tubes. AGAIN. Well, she did have a bad cold a week or two ago, so we're due for the inevitable ear infection. If I had a thousand bucks for each ear infection she's had in her lifetime, I might even be able to pay off our wedding debt! (oops, tmi.)
Could it be possible that she needs a third set of ear tubes? Please, Lord, no. I've heard of other kids who had five or seven sets. WHAT ... Incredible. With each passing germ, I keep hoping that means it's one less that she'll have later in life. I have no idea if that germ ideology is true, but it makes me feel a little better.
Thank goodness that ear infections and colds are the worst of her problems, though. We are truly blessed.
Lizzy had her 4-year-old doc checkup yesterday. No fun was had by all. I usually try to mentally prepare her for things -- told her about it two weeks ago -- but the panicky reaction I got prompted me to let it drop until yesterday morning. And I didn't really go into the shot portion until the nurse came in with the needles. Shots just stink. I told Lizzy: No one likes them. Not even grown-ups! Shots are no fun.
She ended up getting five. One flu, and four others that have acronyms of uncertain origin. Poor baby. She cried, "Take it out! Take it back out!" each time the nurse stuck her. I cannot imagine how their little bodies can handle fighting off five (or more; some shots are combined) separate germies at once. It's amazing.
She's doing fine today, but she smells kinda funny. Maybe it's the new shampoo. She will very animatedly tell you all about her shots, how many, etc., if you ask her. She's fixated on the fact that (told us by the nurse) she will be getting shots again when she's age 12. The nurse and I figured this would sound like a long time off. Not for Lizzy. For her, it's horrifying, the thought of having more shots! In EIGHT YEARS, darling. We got into an elevator this morning on our way to day care. The building is 12 stories high. She pointed at the button for the 12th floor, and said, "That's how old I'll be when I get shots again." Yeesh.
In other Lizzy health news, the doc couldn't see one of her ear tubes. AGAIN. Well, she did have a bad cold a week or two ago, so we're due for the inevitable ear infection. If I had a thousand bucks for each ear infection she's had in her lifetime, I might even be able to pay off our wedding debt! (oops, tmi.)
Could it be possible that she needs a third set of ear tubes? Please, Lord, no. I've heard of other kids who had five or seven sets. WHAT ... Incredible. With each passing germ, I keep hoping that means it's one less that she'll have later in life. I have no idea if that germ ideology is true, but it makes me feel a little better.
Thank goodness that ear infections and colds are the worst of her problems, though. We are truly blessed.
Monday, November 27, 2006
great weekend
I feel like I just had a vacation -- complete with, "Do I REALLY have to go to work tomorrow?" feeling as Sunday evening progressed. Such a lovely few days off.
It felt like a little break from the everydayness of life. We had zero social obligations. Don't get me wrong -- I love to do things and see friends, but I think Matt and I are still both doing the wedding detox thing. Perhaps I say that in each blog entry. I don't know. In any case, it felt so fresh to have a few days with nowhere to get to.
Matt's dad stayed with us for a couple of nights. Not long at all. We did Thanksgiving at Matt's uncle's house, as we have each year since Lizzy's been born. And maybe before that. It's really starting to feel like an annual event, anyway. I figure, since I can't be with my own family, I might as well feel good about having a tradition of some kind with someone's. (and, no, I'm still not at the point where I can embrace all of Matt's family as my own. Sorry. Just not there yet.) We ate a lot, we sat around some, then we left.
Matt and I kicked around the idea of doing a little midnight shopping that night. We heard a mall in Ashburn was opening at 12:01 a.m. for Black Friday. We don't really have much that we have to buy; it just sounded like an adventure. (and, yes, I feel slightly wicked and materialistic regarding all of this. Just so you know.) But we didn't end up doing it. I did get up at 5:30 and drive around at 6 a.m., just to see what folks were up to. The line at Best Buy when we drove by the night before (at about 9 p.m.) was unreal. People had lined up at STAPLES, for crying out loud, by the next morning. Crazy! What the hey do you buy at Staples that's worth getting up early for? Fire sale on office chairs? Rock-bottom prices on laser-printing paper? Baffling.
I went to Macy's and bought some stuff. I technically stood in line, because I arrived right at 6 a.m. and waited a good 20 seconds before the Macy's employee technically unlocked the door. She looked slightly alarmed to see the dozen of us who stood there, pointedly not forming a line. "It's cold out here!" she said. Really, it wasn't. But, okay. The employees in general looked a little shell-shocked to be there so early. It was kind of a hoot, I'll admit. I'd tell you what I bought, but then Matt might read it. Although, some might point out that I've given him enough surprises for one lifetime. :)
That evening, we ran some errands, ate at Pizzeria Uno (PIZZA TO DIE FOR, one way or another! My arteries are still feeling it), then tried to find the Centreville-area drive-through light show. We ended up going miles down a rutted dirt road. Oops. We caught it the next night. Pretty cool, I guess. Lizzy got a charge out of it. Though sometimes I wonder if she's kind of pretending to be excited, because we're pretending to be excited for her benefit. If you know what I mean.
That day, we took our annual drive into Old Town Alexandria to do a little shopping and walk along the pretty streets and see some pretty lights. I love it there. I've been there a billion times, and I love it each time. We're guaranteed to see 40 or 50 doggies with each visit, so we have Lizzy count. Keeps her occupied all evening. She talks about them nonstop for the rest of the night. I'd tell you what we bought there, too, but then my parents might read it.
And I had a new little Creative Memories adventure into the wee hours of Sunday night, but I can't really tell you about THAT, either. My (deleted reference to specific relatives) might read it.
Sheesh. Blogging around Christmastime sure is difficult.
It felt like a little break from the everydayness of life. We had zero social obligations. Don't get me wrong -- I love to do things and see friends, but I think Matt and I are still both doing the wedding detox thing. Perhaps I say that in each blog entry. I don't know. In any case, it felt so fresh to have a few days with nowhere to get to.
Matt's dad stayed with us for a couple of nights. Not long at all. We did Thanksgiving at Matt's uncle's house, as we have each year since Lizzy's been born. And maybe before that. It's really starting to feel like an annual event, anyway. I figure, since I can't be with my own family, I might as well feel good about having a tradition of some kind with someone's. (and, no, I'm still not at the point where I can embrace all of Matt's family as my own. Sorry. Just not there yet.) We ate a lot, we sat around some, then we left.
Matt and I kicked around the idea of doing a little midnight shopping that night. We heard a mall in Ashburn was opening at 12:01 a.m. for Black Friday. We don't really have much that we have to buy; it just sounded like an adventure. (and, yes, I feel slightly wicked and materialistic regarding all of this. Just so you know.) But we didn't end up doing it. I did get up at 5:30 and drive around at 6 a.m., just to see what folks were up to. The line at Best Buy when we drove by the night before (at about 9 p.m.) was unreal. People had lined up at STAPLES, for crying out loud, by the next morning. Crazy! What the hey do you buy at Staples that's worth getting up early for? Fire sale on office chairs? Rock-bottom prices on laser-printing paper? Baffling.
I went to Macy's and bought some stuff. I technically stood in line, because I arrived right at 6 a.m. and waited a good 20 seconds before the Macy's employee technically unlocked the door. She looked slightly alarmed to see the dozen of us who stood there, pointedly not forming a line. "It's cold out here!" she said. Really, it wasn't. But, okay. The employees in general looked a little shell-shocked to be there so early. It was kind of a hoot, I'll admit. I'd tell you what I bought, but then Matt might read it. Although, some might point out that I've given him enough surprises for one lifetime. :)
That evening, we ran some errands, ate at Pizzeria Uno (PIZZA TO DIE FOR, one way or another! My arteries are still feeling it), then tried to find the Centreville-area drive-through light show. We ended up going miles down a rutted dirt road. Oops. We caught it the next night. Pretty cool, I guess. Lizzy got a charge out of it. Though sometimes I wonder if she's kind of pretending to be excited, because we're pretending to be excited for her benefit. If you know what I mean.
That day, we took our annual drive into Old Town Alexandria to do a little shopping and walk along the pretty streets and see some pretty lights. I love it there. I've been there a billion times, and I love it each time. We're guaranteed to see 40 or 50 doggies with each visit, so we have Lizzy count. Keeps her occupied all evening. She talks about them nonstop for the rest of the night. I'd tell you what we bought there, too, but then my parents might read it.
And I had a new little Creative Memories adventure into the wee hours of Sunday night, but I can't really tell you about THAT, either. My (deleted reference to specific relatives) might read it.
Sheesh. Blogging around Christmastime sure is difficult.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
I do run, run, run
The cool part: I got up a little earlier than usual, even, this morning and ran a 5-k race!
The sad part: I am most proud of that 'running' the race bit. Because I don't run. I don't enjoy it. It hurts. It's hard. I have friends who love it, and I admire them for it and envy them a bit, but it is not for me.
Today, though, was a little different. I'm not sure why.
This is the second year I've done the So Others Might Eat Thanksgiving Turkey Trot. My cubicle neighbor and friend here at work asked me if I wanted to do it last year. We walked it with her roommate. We actually walked so slowly that I got sore from the lack of movement, if that makes any sense at all. My muscles weren't even being engaged.
This year, we decided to push ourselves a little and actually RUN some of it. Bits here and there. I know! We are so daring. Really going out on a limb there.
But she caught a bad cold -- probably the one I had all of last week -- and couldn't make it. So I was on my own. I wish she'd been there, but I had a different experience this way. I didn't know what to do with myself, once I'd registered, so I walked around eavesdropping on people and just generally looking around. Trying not to get sucked down into the mud bog that this particular part of the Mall grass was quickly becoming.
I saw Adrian Fenty, D.C.'s newly minted mayor. My gosh -- I think the guy's younger than I am. He seems a decent fellow. Good luck, Mr. Fenty! You have a challenge ahead of you, and I ain't talkin' about this 5k race.
I saw lots of dogs, and some kids in strollers. I wonder if Lizzy would like to go with me next year? The 6:30 a.m. wakeup time and 45-degree weather would not win her over.
We were ushered to the starting line -- 2,000 of us participants -- and I heard a guy behind me say, "Well, it's 8:28 -- looks like this thing isn't going to start on time." Then the starting horn sounded. Off we went! As soon as the pack moved, that is.
One thing I like about this little jaunt is that it's a down-and-back track, so you get to see the frontrunners hauling back toward you at some point. It shows me what people who actually run move like. (They move fast.) I haven't run (or walked) any other race, so I have no point of reference, but I get the impression that this is about as low-key as it gets. My out-of-shape self felt right at home.
I told myself I'd start running, and stop when I wanted to. I suppose a lot of running is physical, but for me it's almost purely mental. I think to myself, "I could stop now! I could stop soon! When can I stop?" I do this right away, as soon as I start. I told myself to let go of this mentality as much as possible -- to go at my own pace, to not let anyone's pace intimidate me, and just keep moving. It was okay if it was slow. And I enjoyed it! Not like doing the treadmill at home, that's for sure. I couldn't tell how far I'd gone, which was also helpful.
In seventh grade, we had to run a mile-plus in P.E. class, once a week. At the time, I thought this was the most horrifying request possible. By this time, I was already a three-sport athlete, if you can call a 7th-grader that with a straight face. But running! Puh-leeze! Not for me. I remember my dad telling me that I should be able to run the whole thing, no problem. Sure, if I was a superhero! I think I ran a lap, then walked. I got a C-minus for that part of the class. I just had no use for it. I'm not sure why I didn't let it challenge me more. Now, I realize that a mile is nothing. Heck, three miles is nothing, too. I mean, I'm not choosing to go out and run it, but if I had to, for class or whatever... I have no idea why I let mental barriers like that hold me back sometimes.
Anyway, as I ran, I was revisited by many conversations with my dad, or coaches, or friends who run. Things they've told me over the years. I think I spend so little time alone that my mind goes on overdrive when it gets the chance. Things like, "It's all about breathing. Pace your breathing with your stride." And Hebrews 12, about pressing forward, running the race, etc.
I began to think about all those metaphors that a race brings to mind. How we all start from the same place, but -- not really. There is a front row of runners, and they're probably better at running, anyway, and they will have greatly improved odds. I cheered a bit inside, actually, when someone who clearly was way back in the pack went huffing by me occasionally. (or did they start late? I have no idea why they'd have that much steam, but have been behind me.) Someone was beating the odds!
And, after all that, it's just fun to be in downtown D.C., near all the monuments and such. It happens so rarely these days.
And then I came across what must have been the only open Starbucks near Metro Center, at just the time it opened, on my way to work afterward. That, plus the serious endorphin rush I was experiencing, made for a great start to a Thanksgiving, work or no work.
Happy Turkey Day, y'all. I'm really thankful for you, my friends and family. I'm feeling that this year more than ever, and I don't take the chance to say it enough.
The sad part: I am most proud of that 'running' the race bit. Because I don't run. I don't enjoy it. It hurts. It's hard. I have friends who love it, and I admire them for it and envy them a bit, but it is not for me.
Today, though, was a little different. I'm not sure why.
This is the second year I've done the So Others Might Eat Thanksgiving Turkey Trot. My cubicle neighbor and friend here at work asked me if I wanted to do it last year. We walked it with her roommate. We actually walked so slowly that I got sore from the lack of movement, if that makes any sense at all. My muscles weren't even being engaged.
This year, we decided to push ourselves a little and actually RUN some of it. Bits here and there. I know! We are so daring. Really going out on a limb there.
But she caught a bad cold -- probably the one I had all of last week -- and couldn't make it. So I was on my own. I wish she'd been there, but I had a different experience this way. I didn't know what to do with myself, once I'd registered, so I walked around eavesdropping on people and just generally looking around. Trying not to get sucked down into the mud bog that this particular part of the Mall grass was quickly becoming.
I saw Adrian Fenty, D.C.'s newly minted mayor. My gosh -- I think the guy's younger than I am. He seems a decent fellow. Good luck, Mr. Fenty! You have a challenge ahead of you, and I ain't talkin' about this 5k race.
I saw lots of dogs, and some kids in strollers. I wonder if Lizzy would like to go with me next year? The 6:30 a.m. wakeup time and 45-degree weather would not win her over.
We were ushered to the starting line -- 2,000 of us participants -- and I heard a guy behind me say, "Well, it's 8:28 -- looks like this thing isn't going to start on time." Then the starting horn sounded. Off we went! As soon as the pack moved, that is.
One thing I like about this little jaunt is that it's a down-and-back track, so you get to see the frontrunners hauling back toward you at some point. It shows me what people who actually run move like. (They move fast.) I haven't run (or walked) any other race, so I have no point of reference, but I get the impression that this is about as low-key as it gets. My out-of-shape self felt right at home.
I told myself I'd start running, and stop when I wanted to. I suppose a lot of running is physical, but for me it's almost purely mental. I think to myself, "I could stop now! I could stop soon! When can I stop?" I do this right away, as soon as I start. I told myself to let go of this mentality as much as possible -- to go at my own pace, to not let anyone's pace intimidate me, and just keep moving. It was okay if it was slow. And I enjoyed it! Not like doing the treadmill at home, that's for sure. I couldn't tell how far I'd gone, which was also helpful.
In seventh grade, we had to run a mile-plus in P.E. class, once a week. At the time, I thought this was the most horrifying request possible. By this time, I was already a three-sport athlete, if you can call a 7th-grader that with a straight face. But running! Puh-leeze! Not for me. I remember my dad telling me that I should be able to run the whole thing, no problem. Sure, if I was a superhero! I think I ran a lap, then walked. I got a C-minus for that part of the class. I just had no use for it. I'm not sure why I didn't let it challenge me more. Now, I realize that a mile is nothing. Heck, three miles is nothing, too. I mean, I'm not choosing to go out and run it, but if I had to, for class or whatever... I have no idea why I let mental barriers like that hold me back sometimes.
Anyway, as I ran, I was revisited by many conversations with my dad, or coaches, or friends who run. Things they've told me over the years. I think I spend so little time alone that my mind goes on overdrive when it gets the chance. Things like, "It's all about breathing. Pace your breathing with your stride." And Hebrews 12, about pressing forward, running the race, etc.
I began to think about all those metaphors that a race brings to mind. How we all start from the same place, but -- not really. There is a front row of runners, and they're probably better at running, anyway, and they will have greatly improved odds. I cheered a bit inside, actually, when someone who clearly was way back in the pack went huffing by me occasionally. (or did they start late? I have no idea why they'd have that much steam, but have been behind me.) Someone was beating the odds!
And, after all that, it's just fun to be in downtown D.C., near all the monuments and such. It happens so rarely these days.
And then I came across what must have been the only open Starbucks near Metro Center, at just the time it opened, on my way to work afterward. That, plus the serious endorphin rush I was experiencing, made for a great start to a Thanksgiving, work or no work.
Happy Turkey Day, y'all. I'm really thankful for you, my friends and family. I'm feeling that this year more than ever, and I don't take the chance to say it enough.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Theological debate between 4-year-olds
It's always fascinating to hear what that little brain will spit out next.
This morning, on our way in on Hwy. 66, Lizzy says:
"My friend Erin said that God told us to be friends with everyone.
"But I told her, No -- God just tells us to love everybody.
(pause to gauge Mommy's reaction)
"I think I'm right."
Granted, there are subtleties here that I would have plumbed, had she been a little older. But I think I know what this stems from. Lizzy's in a class with kids who are almost a year younger than herself, in most cases, and a year makes a big difference at that age. She's been telling me about a little girl who apparently trails along after her, wanting to do whatever Lizzy does and always asking if she's Lizzy's friend. (not Erin; a smaller girl. Erin's one day younger than Lizzy.)
Matt and I have been counseling Lizzy to tell the poor girl that, yes, she's Lizzy's friend. I'd prefer to say, look, just be decent to her, okay? Just be nice. Friend is an important distinction to give someone, I think. Not to be given too lightly. But, she's barely four. I don't think she quite grasps the difference. So -- just tell her she's your friend, Lizzy. Just give her that happiness.
What I did say: "Well, Lizzy, maybe you were both right. Maybe when God says to love everyone, He means to be everyone's friend."
"Oh," said Lizzy. "Maybe so."
What does it mean to a 4-year-old, to be someone's friend? What does it mean to a 35-year-old?
It's interesting to see Lizzy pondering God's love, and what He asks of us, in the same ways that I do. I often don't think I know much more than she does -- sometimes, I'm convinced I know less. She's always ready with a hug when someone's not feeling well; when someone's feelings have been hurt, or they're having a bad day. (unless she caused it and she's mad at that person, and that's another story.) I usually feel helpless when someone's hurting. It seems like I've known a fair number of folks who have been hurting incredibly deeply lately. I pray, but it seems ... it seems like not enough. And, what should I say? Something that sounds, even to my ears, trite and unhelpful? Or nothing? It's not like I can change things. Not these sorts of things. But when I just sit or stand there, I feel so useless. Like it looks like I don't care. But when I've never been through what they've been through, what do I have to offer?
God, please teach Lizzy and me to love other people really well. Those we like, and those we don't. Because You did say to love everyone. Help us know what that looks like. I often don't have any idea. And sometimes I do, but it's really hard. Please help us overcome our selfish natures. Teach us to be better reflections of you. Help me to do the things I tell Lizzy she should do. To practice what I preach.
Amen.
This morning, on our way in on Hwy. 66, Lizzy says:
"My friend Erin said that God told us to be friends with everyone.
"But I told her, No -- God just tells us to love everybody.
(pause to gauge Mommy's reaction)
"I think I'm right."
Granted, there are subtleties here that I would have plumbed, had she been a little older. But I think I know what this stems from. Lizzy's in a class with kids who are almost a year younger than herself, in most cases, and a year makes a big difference at that age. She's been telling me about a little girl who apparently trails along after her, wanting to do whatever Lizzy does and always asking if she's Lizzy's friend. (not Erin; a smaller girl. Erin's one day younger than Lizzy.)
Matt and I have been counseling Lizzy to tell the poor girl that, yes, she's Lizzy's friend. I'd prefer to say, look, just be decent to her, okay? Just be nice. Friend is an important distinction to give someone, I think. Not to be given too lightly. But, she's barely four. I don't think she quite grasps the difference. So -- just tell her she's your friend, Lizzy. Just give her that happiness.
What I did say: "Well, Lizzy, maybe you were both right. Maybe when God says to love everyone, He means to be everyone's friend."
"Oh," said Lizzy. "Maybe so."
What does it mean to a 4-year-old, to be someone's friend? What does it mean to a 35-year-old?
It's interesting to see Lizzy pondering God's love, and what He asks of us, in the same ways that I do. I often don't think I know much more than she does -- sometimes, I'm convinced I know less. She's always ready with a hug when someone's not feeling well; when someone's feelings have been hurt, or they're having a bad day. (unless she caused it and she's mad at that person, and that's another story.) I usually feel helpless when someone's hurting. It seems like I've known a fair number of folks who have been hurting incredibly deeply lately. I pray, but it seems ... it seems like not enough. And, what should I say? Something that sounds, even to my ears, trite and unhelpful? Or nothing? It's not like I can change things. Not these sorts of things. But when I just sit or stand there, I feel so useless. Like it looks like I don't care. But when I've never been through what they've been through, what do I have to offer?
God, please teach Lizzy and me to love other people really well. Those we like, and those we don't. Because You did say to love everyone. Help us know what that looks like. I often don't have any idea. And sometimes I do, but it's really hard. Please help us overcome our selfish natures. Teach us to be better reflections of you. Help me to do the things I tell Lizzy she should do. To practice what I preach.
Amen.
Friday, November 17, 2006
if Jesus went to the dark side,
this is what it would look like:
and, no, I don't really have permission to use this photo in this way. Please do not tell on me. Enjoy this photo now, until this production company hunts me down and hurts me.
Useless Kate trivia fact of the day: I am PRACTICALLY RELATED to Jesus! I know. Amazing, but TRUE. You see, my cousin dated his cousin (follow the link) for a couple of years in college. (she went to the hated University of Washington, but I try not to hold it against her.)
It's so incredible. You may have my autograph when next we meet, if you desire.
For FREE.
and, no, I don't really have permission to use this photo in this way. Please do not tell on me. Enjoy this photo now, until this production company hunts me down and hurts me.
Useless Kate trivia fact of the day: I am PRACTICALLY RELATED to Jesus! I know. Amazing, but TRUE. You see, my cousin dated his cousin (follow the link) for a couple of years in college. (she went to the hated University of Washington, but I try not to hold it against her.)
It's so incredible. You may have my autograph when next we meet, if you desire.
For FREE.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
the next generation
I realize that I've been blogging about nothing but Lizzy witticisms lately. And, that sort of sucks. But maybe it's better than no blogging at all? (since you're reading this, I assume you agree.)
Matt's eager to establish a family tradition of selecting one Hallmark ornament per person for our tree each year. Our poor little tree (yet to be purchased this year, which I would hope is obvious -- I will unreservedly call you nuts if you have your tree up already, unless you are a department store, and then I sigh and say, well, I'm used to it from you -- but NO CAROLS until after Thanksgiving) is already heavily laden with Kathe Wohlfahrt goodies collected on my many trips to Germany's uber-touristy Rothenburg. We're going to have to buy progressively bigger and bigger trees. Yes, we COULD refrain from putting them ALL on the tree, but what fun is that?
We were passing through Manassas Mall last night -- always a frightening venture -- and saw that the Hallmark store had its ornaments out. Hooray! So, we checked them out. Did a little prep work to let our potential selections simmer in the backs of our brains before making a final, irrevocable choice -- The Ornament of '06.
Matt and I always teeter between our favorite pop culture crap -- for instance, I have soft spots for Star Trek, the Wizard of Oz and Raggedy Ann and Andy, and Hallmark seems intent on developing at least one new version of each of these annually -- and Matt digs the Star Wars, etc. But there are some lovely nostalgic ones, as well. And old favorites such as Snoopy and the gang. It's tough. You'd think Lizzy would have the toughest time, but she settled decidedly on a really cute one -- it's Dumbo, taking a bath.
I have one or two Trek ornaments already -- THEY WERE GIFTS, people -- but this year's is kind of awesome. As I was rooting around for the photo to show y'all, I noticed that it has shimmery lights! As if someone is actually being transported! Ooooh cool!!!!!
The version in the Hallmark store originally had three people standing on the transporter pad, but the middle dude had been broken off at the shins. Looks like a messy transporter accident, or maybe an officer ran afoul of the Klingon mafia. Nevertheless, Lizzy thought it was cool.
"Look, Mom!" she said, excitedly. "It's the Wiggles!"
Aiiieeeee. They DO look like the Wiggles. Why has this never occurred to me ... Now I feel even worse about my love of things ST:TNG.
(and tomorrow, if blogger feels like adding the photo to this post, I shall show it to you. Drat!)
Matt's eager to establish a family tradition of selecting one Hallmark ornament per person for our tree each year. Our poor little tree (yet to be purchased this year, which I would hope is obvious -- I will unreservedly call you nuts if you have your tree up already, unless you are a department store, and then I sigh and say, well, I'm used to it from you -- but NO CAROLS until after Thanksgiving) is already heavily laden with Kathe Wohlfahrt goodies collected on my many trips to Germany's uber-touristy Rothenburg. We're going to have to buy progressively bigger and bigger trees. Yes, we COULD refrain from putting them ALL on the tree, but what fun is that?
We were passing through Manassas Mall last night -- always a frightening venture -- and saw that the Hallmark store had its ornaments out. Hooray! So, we checked them out. Did a little prep work to let our potential selections simmer in the backs of our brains before making a final, irrevocable choice -- The Ornament of '06.
Matt and I always teeter between our favorite pop culture crap -- for instance, I have soft spots for Star Trek, the Wizard of Oz and Raggedy Ann and Andy, and Hallmark seems intent on developing at least one new version of each of these annually -- and Matt digs the Star Wars, etc. But there are some lovely nostalgic ones, as well. And old favorites such as Snoopy and the gang. It's tough. You'd think Lizzy would have the toughest time, but she settled decidedly on a really cute one -- it's Dumbo, taking a bath.
I have one or two Trek ornaments already -- THEY WERE GIFTS, people -- but this year's is kind of awesome. As I was rooting around for the photo to show y'all, I noticed that it has shimmery lights! As if someone is actually being transported! Ooooh cool!!!!!
The version in the Hallmark store originally had three people standing on the transporter pad, but the middle dude had been broken off at the shins. Looks like a messy transporter accident, or maybe an officer ran afoul of the Klingon mafia. Nevertheless, Lizzy thought it was cool.
"Look, Mom!" she said, excitedly. "It's the Wiggles!"
Aiiieeeee. They DO look like the Wiggles. Why has this never occurred to me ... Now I feel even worse about my love of things ST:TNG.
(and tomorrow, if blogger feels like adding the photo to this post, I shall show it to you. Drat!)
Friday, November 10, 2006
I'm a Maisel, part II
Matt and I have been talking, in a joking fashion, about what exactly it means to be a Maisel, in the general sense. What comes to mind, in the Maisel family, when, say, 'You're such a Maisel!' is said? (if it ever is. This is mostly theoretical, people.)
We decided that the Maisels -- with some exceptions, of course -- are generally two things: Bright and thrifty. Always on the lookout for a good deal. There's also a lazy streak, but it affects some and not others.
I think my favorite Maisel story thus far is about one of Matt's uncles. (his parents both hail from big families) One of his uncles, whose children are now teens, used to buy cans of food for a nickel or a dime each. If a can's label came off, the grocery store would toss the label-less cans in a big shopping cart, and hope folks like Matt's uncle K. would give them at least a few cents for them. Something's better than nothing, I guess. So uncle K. would bring home the can, and they'd open it up and have Mystery Vegetable for dinner. Sometimes the game backfired, and it would be, say, dog food. Legend has it that Uncle K. got so good at this that he could identify the contents of the can before he opened it -- just by weighing it in his hand and shaking it. I hear this story each Thanksgiving, which is the one time of year (except for those years in which Matt and I get married) I usually see the Maisel clan all at the same time.
I recently proposed a plan that Matt considered so impressive, he thought even his dad would find it Maiselish. (his dad is pretty much the ultimate arbiter of things creatively thrifty.) Matt and I were talking about Christmas gifts -- one of our pre-Christmas traditions is turning out to be that we both vow to spend very little on gifts. Considering that, on one Christmas, we were about to buy a house; the next Christmas, we had just bought a house; the next Christmas, we had just gotten married -- it's a good plan, in theory. There are always lots of monetary reasons to take it easy on Christmas presents. But it's a plan that seems to fall along the wayside as the holiday approaches. Matt wants so badly for everyone to "have a good Christmas" -- and, sadly, that seems to translate directly into, "people get lots of money spent on them for gifts" -- that he spends far more than he vowed he would. I admit that I'm not immune to this tendency, myself.
To get back to the story: Matt's mom really likes getting gift cards. Which is fine with us! They're easy to get; she likes them; she loves to shop; she shouldn't be spending her own money; everyone's happy. The downside to gift cards -- if you don't find them a tacky gift in the first place. I know that some do -- is that you can't find, say, a gift on sale, or pretend that it cost anything other than the EXACT DOLLAR AMOUNT that you're giving. Really, you might as well give cash. I suppose you could argue that giving a gift card shows you know where the person likes to shop, so that conveys some thoughtfulness. In any case, as I said, I'm fine with the concept of gift cards. I like to give other things when possible, but sometimes a gift card makes sense.
Earlier this year, Matt's mom received a settlement of sorts, and went hog-wild with spending it. I will say this -- the woman is generous, when she can be. She showered Matt and me with the gifts she probably had wanted to get us for Christmas the previous year, but couldn't afford to. It was fairly ridiculous, all the stuff she gave us.
One thing she gave me was a gift card to a new linens store that opened near us. She wanted me to check it out, and have a little something to spend in there. A very lovely gesture. I never did make it in there, though.
Lo and behold -- this same store appeared on her Christmas gift card wish list. I told Matt about it, and suggested that maybe I should just give her back the card. Did he think she'd notice?
His eyes widened, then a smile crept across his face. Grinning broadly, he said, "Wow. Re-gifting to the ORIGINAL GIVER. That is truly a Maisel move."
Uh, yay for me?
We decided that the Maisels -- with some exceptions, of course -- are generally two things: Bright and thrifty. Always on the lookout for a good deal. There's also a lazy streak, but it affects some and not others.
I think my favorite Maisel story thus far is about one of Matt's uncles. (his parents both hail from big families) One of his uncles, whose children are now teens, used to buy cans of food for a nickel or a dime each. If a can's label came off, the grocery store would toss the label-less cans in a big shopping cart, and hope folks like Matt's uncle K. would give them at least a few cents for them. Something's better than nothing, I guess. So uncle K. would bring home the can, and they'd open it up and have Mystery Vegetable for dinner. Sometimes the game backfired, and it would be, say, dog food. Legend has it that Uncle K. got so good at this that he could identify the contents of the can before he opened it -- just by weighing it in his hand and shaking it. I hear this story each Thanksgiving, which is the one time of year (except for those years in which Matt and I get married) I usually see the Maisel clan all at the same time.
I recently proposed a plan that Matt considered so impressive, he thought even his dad would find it Maiselish. (his dad is pretty much the ultimate arbiter of things creatively thrifty.) Matt and I were talking about Christmas gifts -- one of our pre-Christmas traditions is turning out to be that we both vow to spend very little on gifts. Considering that, on one Christmas, we were about to buy a house; the next Christmas, we had just bought a house; the next Christmas, we had just gotten married -- it's a good plan, in theory. There are always lots of monetary reasons to take it easy on Christmas presents. But it's a plan that seems to fall along the wayside as the holiday approaches. Matt wants so badly for everyone to "have a good Christmas" -- and, sadly, that seems to translate directly into, "people get lots of money spent on them for gifts" -- that he spends far more than he vowed he would. I admit that I'm not immune to this tendency, myself.
To get back to the story: Matt's mom really likes getting gift cards. Which is fine with us! They're easy to get; she likes them; she loves to shop; she shouldn't be spending her own money; everyone's happy. The downside to gift cards -- if you don't find them a tacky gift in the first place. I know that some do -- is that you can't find, say, a gift on sale, or pretend that it cost anything other than the EXACT DOLLAR AMOUNT that you're giving. Really, you might as well give cash. I suppose you could argue that giving a gift card shows you know where the person likes to shop, so that conveys some thoughtfulness. In any case, as I said, I'm fine with the concept of gift cards. I like to give other things when possible, but sometimes a gift card makes sense.
Earlier this year, Matt's mom received a settlement of sorts, and went hog-wild with spending it. I will say this -- the woman is generous, when she can be. She showered Matt and me with the gifts she probably had wanted to get us for Christmas the previous year, but couldn't afford to. It was fairly ridiculous, all the stuff she gave us.
One thing she gave me was a gift card to a new linens store that opened near us. She wanted me to check it out, and have a little something to spend in there. A very lovely gesture. I never did make it in there, though.
Lo and behold -- this same store appeared on her Christmas gift card wish list. I told Matt about it, and suggested that maybe I should just give her back the card. Did he think she'd notice?
His eyes widened, then a smile crept across his face. Grinning broadly, he said, "Wow. Re-gifting to the ORIGINAL GIVER. That is truly a Maisel move."
Uh, yay for me?
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Anatomically correct
Yes, boys and girls. We have definitely reached that age.
The age where the differences are greater than "Princesses are smelly and stinky!" (from one 3-year-old in Lizzy's class. Lizzy's response: "No! Princesses are smelly and YUMMY!")
The differences are greater than, "My favorite colors are pink, purple and white. His favorite colors are brown and black."
My friends, we have definitely reached the, "Boys have penit-zes! Girls don't," stage.
Lizzy shouted out this little gem on Monday evening as we wended our way not so swiftly through rush-hour traffic. I was driving. As usual, I pause; glance questioningly at Matt, whose smirk confirms that I heard our little darling correctly; and say, "What was that, sweetie?"
She reiterated her stance, and I said, "Oh. Yes, I guess they do." and sat and waited for the moment to pass. After I thought for a minute, I queried: "Who told you that, Lizzy? Where did you learn that?" She must've realized that she said something a little strange for Mommy and Daddy, because she said, "Uh, nobody. I learned it all by myself."
Oh. How comforting.
It's not that I want to keep my daughter in the dark, as it were, about things of that nature. I wouldn't even mind talking to her about it. It's just that I don't want to have that kid -- you know the one. The one who parrots everything he or she has learned to the grandparently neighbor, or the childless couple who just isn't amused, or the very worst possible person and place to reveal this. It's my own fault -- Mom said I was forever doing this to her when she was trying to socialize with people after church when I was small. And I remember why -- I wanted her attention! My mom was cool, and she was MY mom, but she wasn't paying attention to me, so something had to be done about that.
Anyway. I don't want to have that kid. If it comes at the cost of keeping her ignorant... Oh, well! (I refer you to the "Oh my God" post of a few posts ago... Etc.)
So. The next morning, Tuesday, was her birthday. Matt had (finally!) gotten up and gotten into the shower, and I was downstairs doing something or other, when Lizzy woke up. (I heard about all this later) She trotted into the bathroom, pulled aside the shower curtain a little, peeked in at Matt, and said: "I'm four years old!" Apparently, he sensed it coming, and managed to turn strategically away from her. But she was a bit too clever. She sneaked quickly to the other end of the shower curtain, tucked it aside, and said: "You have a penis!" and pointed at Matt's groin. Out she ran, and Matt stood there and thought, "Yes. Yes, on both counts."
There's just no holding down a bright little mind, I guess. Four years old -- watch out. I can't believe I have a 4-year-old. It's blowing my mind.
The age where the differences are greater than "Princesses are smelly and stinky!" (from one 3-year-old in Lizzy's class. Lizzy's response: "No! Princesses are smelly and YUMMY!")
The differences are greater than, "My favorite colors are pink, purple and white. His favorite colors are brown and black."
My friends, we have definitely reached the, "Boys have penit-zes! Girls don't," stage.
Lizzy shouted out this little gem on Monday evening as we wended our way not so swiftly through rush-hour traffic. I was driving. As usual, I pause; glance questioningly at Matt, whose smirk confirms that I heard our little darling correctly; and say, "What was that, sweetie?"
She reiterated her stance, and I said, "Oh. Yes, I guess they do." and sat and waited for the moment to pass. After I thought for a minute, I queried: "Who told you that, Lizzy? Where did you learn that?" She must've realized that she said something a little strange for Mommy and Daddy, because she said, "Uh, nobody. I learned it all by myself."
Oh. How comforting.
It's not that I want to keep my daughter in the dark, as it were, about things of that nature. I wouldn't even mind talking to her about it. It's just that I don't want to have that kid -- you know the one. The one who parrots everything he or she has learned to the grandparently neighbor, or the childless couple who just isn't amused, or the very worst possible person and place to reveal this. It's my own fault -- Mom said I was forever doing this to her when she was trying to socialize with people after church when I was small. And I remember why -- I wanted her attention! My mom was cool, and she was MY mom, but she wasn't paying attention to me, so something had to be done about that.
Anyway. I don't want to have that kid. If it comes at the cost of keeping her ignorant... Oh, well! (I refer you to the "Oh my God" post of a few posts ago... Etc.)
So. The next morning, Tuesday, was her birthday. Matt had (finally!) gotten up and gotten into the shower, and I was downstairs doing something or other, when Lizzy woke up. (I heard about all this later) She trotted into the bathroom, pulled aside the shower curtain a little, peeked in at Matt, and said: "I'm four years old!" Apparently, he sensed it coming, and managed to turn strategically away from her. But she was a bit too clever. She sneaked quickly to the other end of the shower curtain, tucked it aside, and said: "You have a penis!" and pointed at Matt's groin. Out she ran, and Matt stood there and thought, "Yes. Yes, on both counts."
There's just no holding down a bright little mind, I guess. Four years old -- watch out. I can't believe I have a 4-year-old. It's blowing my mind.
Anatomically correct
Yes, boys and girls. We have definitely reached that age.
The age where the differences are greater than "Princesses are smelly and stinky!" (from one 3-year-old in Lizzy's class. Lizzy's response: "No! Princesses are smelly and YUMMY!")
The differences are greater than, "My favorite colors are pink, purple and white. His favorite colors are brown and black."
My friends, we have definitely reached the, "Boys have penit-zes! Girls don't," stage.
Lizzy shouted out this little gem on Monday evening as we wended our way not so swiftly through rush-hour traffic. I was driving. As usual, I pause; glance questioningly at Matt, whose smirk confirms that I heard our little darling correctly; and say, "What was that, sweetie?"
She reiterated her stance, and I said, "Oh. Yes, I guess they do." and sat and waited for the moment to pass. After I thought for a minute, I queried: "Who told you that, Lizzy? Where did you learn that?" She must've realized that she said something a little strange for Mommy and Daddy, because she said, "Uh, nobody. I learned it all by myself."
Oh. How comforting.
It's not that I want to keep my daughter in the dark, as it were, about things of that nature. I wouldn't even mind talking to her about it. It's just that I don't want to have that kid -- you know the one. The one who parrots everything he or she has learned to the grandparently neighbor, or the childless couple who just isn't amused, or the very worst possible person and place to reveal this. It's my own fault -- Mom said I was forever doing this to her when she was trying to socialize with people after church when I was small. And I remember why -- I wanted her attention! My mom was cool, and she was MY mom, but she wasn't paying attention to me, so something had to be done about that.
Anyway. I don't want to have that kid. If it comes at the cost of keeping her ignorant... Oh, well! (I refer you to the "Oh my God" post of a few posts ago... Etc.)
So. The next morning, Tuesday, was her birthday. Matt had (finally!) gotten up and gotten into the shower, and I was downstairs doing something or other, when Lizzy woke up. (I heard about all this later) She trotted into the bathroom, pulled aside the shower curtain a little, peeked in at Matt, and said: "I'm four years old!" Apparently, he sensed it coming, and managed to turn strategically away from her. But she was a bit too clever. She sneaked quickly to the other end of the shower curtain, tucked it aside, and said: "You have a penis!" and pointed at Matt's groin. Out she ran, and Matt stood there and thought, "Yes. Yes, on both counts."
There's just no holding down a bright little mind, I guess. Four years old -- watch out. I can't believe I have a 4-year-old. It's blowing my mind.
The age where the differences are greater than "Princesses are smelly and stinky!" (from one 3-year-old in Lizzy's class. Lizzy's response: "No! Princesses are smelly and YUMMY!")
The differences are greater than, "My favorite colors are pink, purple and white. His favorite colors are brown and black."
My friends, we have definitely reached the, "Boys have penit-zes! Girls don't," stage.
Lizzy shouted out this little gem on Monday evening as we wended our way not so swiftly through rush-hour traffic. I was driving. As usual, I pause; glance questioningly at Matt, whose smirk confirms that I heard our little darling correctly; and say, "What was that, sweetie?"
She reiterated her stance, and I said, "Oh. Yes, I guess they do." and sat and waited for the moment to pass. After I thought for a minute, I queried: "Who told you that, Lizzy? Where did you learn that?" She must've realized that she said something a little strange for Mommy and Daddy, because she said, "Uh, nobody. I learned it all by myself."
Oh. How comforting.
It's not that I want to keep my daughter in the dark, as it were, about things of that nature. I wouldn't even mind talking to her about it. It's just that I don't want to have that kid -- you know the one. The one who parrots everything he or she has learned to the grandparently neighbor, or the childless couple who just isn't amused, or the very worst possible person and place to reveal this. It's my own fault -- Mom said I was forever doing this to her when she was trying to socialize with people after church when I was small. And I remember why -- I wanted her attention! My mom was cool, and she was MY mom, but she wasn't paying attention to me, so something had to be done about that.
Anyway. I don't want to have that kid. If it comes at the cost of keeping her ignorant... Oh, well! (I refer you to the "Oh my God" post of a few posts ago... Etc.)
So. The next morning, Tuesday, was her birthday. Matt had (finally!) gotten up and gotten into the shower, and I was downstairs doing something or other, when Lizzy woke up. (I heard about all this later) She trotted into the bathroom, pulled aside the shower curtain a little, peeked in at Matt, and said: "I'm four years old!" Apparently, he sensed it coming, and managed to turn strategically away from her. But she was a bit too clever. She sneaked quickly to the other end of the shower curtain, tucked it aside, and said: "You have a penis!" and pointed at Matt's groin. Out she ran, and Matt stood there and thought, "Yes. Yes, on both counts."
There's just no holding down a bright little mind, I guess. Four years old -- watch out. I can't believe I have a 4-year-old. It's blowing my mind.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Halloween
Here are Matt and me, looking absolutely nothing like Cyclops and Jean Grey:
I had plans to dye my hair red, at least, for the night (and subsequent month), but didn't have time for the execution. A pity. I think the dollar-store sunglasses, and electrical tape, are especially fabulous elements.
As you can see, Nicole Richie insisted on being in the photo.
Thus ends the celebrity ridicule portion of this post.
We went to a party right before this that was a bajillion times more fun -- the annual wine tasting at Chez Pete and Jackie! Yummy.
I must say, I did add "flippy cup" to my arsenal (three) of known drinking games at Matt's friends' party. (A note to mom -- I did not drink at all. Seriously. I drove shortly thereafter.)
I got home at 1:15 a.m., which I note only because I was later told it was about a half-hour after Lizzy had gone to bed. Hmmm. Could this have ANY connection to the meltdown she had the next afternoon at her friend's birthday party?
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
bah!
Once again, too many blog entries rolling around in my head, and too few of them here 'on paper.'
Not that you've missed much. Just the usual crapola. A newlywed pratfall or two here, a little Lizzy puke there, mixed with a pinch of angst and a dash of humor. Stir well. Half-bake, let cool, and enjoy!
We headed to The Great Beyond one evening last week, looking for a panini maker. (hey. we've gotta do SOMETHING with the excellent gift cards we received! Why not something fun?) We ended up getting a sandwich maker instead that was considerably cheaper. It is AWESOME. Bread plus leftover mystery meat from fridge plus cheese equals a meal! I overstuffed my first attempt, though -- a tuna/spicy brown mustard/sweet relish concoction. The smells of singed tuna and mustard were not terribly appetizing as I waited for the little 'it's done' light to turn green. It'll take some practice. And Matt's idea of putting chunky beef soup into a pocket didn't go so well, either. We were going to try eggs in it this weekend, but ...
Lizzy got sick. (and when Lizzy's sick, no one gets to eat.)
My weekend started an hour early with a call from day care, saying, "Lizzy's got a temperature of 100-point-something, so you don't really HAVE to come get her, technically, but she's just kind of been lying around. So, are you going to come get her?" Uh, yeah. I guess I will.
Matt couldn't leave early, so I wasn't sure how to kill an hour with a sick kid. We ended up driving into D.C. during a rainy Friday rush hour to get Matt. One of those ideas that you know is foolish. And yet ... why not? Why not. WHY NOT sit on New York Ave. between 14th and 12th streets for 25 minutes... WHY NOT. I'll give it this -- it killed any extra time we had, and then some. I did get the very special opportunity to meet, in the flesh, one of Matt's favorite street beggars -- a lady who has been claiming to be pregnant and hungry for handouts for the past three or four years, and who then cusses out anyone who dares question the veracity of her statement so loudly and vigorously that she chases away any potential handouts within earshot. I was pleased to make her acquaintance.
Someone -- me? -- then had the bright idea to stop at C&B in our ongoing quest for "affordable" drapes for the sliding glass door in the dining room. The trouble is, Matt and I have a difference of opinion regarding "affordable." One of us thinks that, say, $270 is an outlandish amount to spend on drapes. Another of us supposes that that one of us should go to a fabric store and check out how much bare material costs, before assuming the finished product can be found cheaper. The suggestion that we not buy anything before traveling to the Salvation Army to see if they have cheaper drapes did not go over well. But the deal was called off in any case when Lizzy decided to upchuck as we were pulling into the parking lot. Brilliant! And then she HAD to go to the bathroom as we were inching down Hwy. 66 on our way home. So, we stopped at the rest area. Which is closed for renovations. Settled for the porta-potty in the back. The sick child was not amused, but was desperate enough to comply.
Nine bouts of puking -- and six or seven children's movies -- later, she's better. We, and the washing machine, are grateful. What is up with kids and the stomach flu? The real weirdness is (as I knock on wood), I usually seem to get her colds, but not her stomach flu viruses. Are we adults more resilient to the stomach flu virus? Or maybe I personally have some special skill at repelling the barfing germs? Regardless, I'm grateful.
One last random note: I find myself inexplicably sad that Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe are getting a divorce. Am I alone in this? Can NO ONE in Hollywood sustain a marriage, at least on paper? Will Smith and Jada Pinkett-Smith, my hopes now rest squarely on you. Don't let me down, kids!
Not that you've missed much. Just the usual crapola. A newlywed pratfall or two here, a little Lizzy puke there, mixed with a pinch of angst and a dash of humor. Stir well. Half-bake, let cool, and enjoy!
We headed to The Great Beyond one evening last week, looking for a panini maker. (hey. we've gotta do SOMETHING with the excellent gift cards we received! Why not something fun?) We ended up getting a sandwich maker instead that was considerably cheaper. It is AWESOME. Bread plus leftover mystery meat from fridge plus cheese equals a meal! I overstuffed my first attempt, though -- a tuna/spicy brown mustard/sweet relish concoction. The smells of singed tuna and mustard were not terribly appetizing as I waited for the little 'it's done' light to turn green. It'll take some practice. And Matt's idea of putting chunky beef soup into a pocket didn't go so well, either. We were going to try eggs in it this weekend, but ...
Lizzy got sick. (and when Lizzy's sick, no one gets to eat.)
My weekend started an hour early with a call from day care, saying, "Lizzy's got a temperature of 100-point-something, so you don't really HAVE to come get her, technically, but she's just kind of been lying around. So, are you going to come get her?" Uh, yeah. I guess I will.
Matt couldn't leave early, so I wasn't sure how to kill an hour with a sick kid. We ended up driving into D.C. during a rainy Friday rush hour to get Matt. One of those ideas that you know is foolish. And yet ... why not? Why not. WHY NOT sit on New York Ave. between 14th and 12th streets for 25 minutes... WHY NOT. I'll give it this -- it killed any extra time we had, and then some. I did get the very special opportunity to meet, in the flesh, one of Matt's favorite street beggars -- a lady who has been claiming to be pregnant and hungry for handouts for the past three or four years, and who then cusses out anyone who dares question the veracity of her statement so loudly and vigorously that she chases away any potential handouts within earshot. I was pleased to make her acquaintance.
Someone -- me? -- then had the bright idea to stop at C&B in our ongoing quest for "affordable" drapes for the sliding glass door in the dining room. The trouble is, Matt and I have a difference of opinion regarding "affordable." One of us thinks that, say, $270 is an outlandish amount to spend on drapes. Another of us supposes that that one of us should go to a fabric store and check out how much bare material costs, before assuming the finished product can be found cheaper. The suggestion that we not buy anything before traveling to the Salvation Army to see if they have cheaper drapes did not go over well. But the deal was called off in any case when Lizzy decided to upchuck as we were pulling into the parking lot. Brilliant! And then she HAD to go to the bathroom as we were inching down Hwy. 66 on our way home. So, we stopped at the rest area. Which is closed for renovations. Settled for the porta-potty in the back. The sick child was not amused, but was desperate enough to comply.
Nine bouts of puking -- and six or seven children's movies -- later, she's better. We, and the washing machine, are grateful. What is up with kids and the stomach flu? The real weirdness is (as I knock on wood), I usually seem to get her colds, but not her stomach flu viruses. Are we adults more resilient to the stomach flu virus? Or maybe I personally have some special skill at repelling the barfing germs? Regardless, I'm grateful.
One last random note: I find myself inexplicably sad that Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe are getting a divorce. Am I alone in this? Can NO ONE in Hollywood sustain a marriage, at least on paper? Will Smith and Jada Pinkett-Smith, my hopes now rest squarely on you. Don't let me down, kids!
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
another Maisel
It's official. I'm now a Maisel.
I got my Social Security card in the mail yesterday. "Katharine Rachelle Maisel," it says.
I showed Matt. He looked genuinely a little horrified by the prospect.
"Another Maisel in the world," he said, wide-eyed and a little reflective.
An inauspicious start to the rest of my life as a Maisel.
Regarding a little Maisel-to-be, as soon as I can figure out how to change her name:
I love this photo of her. It might be my favorite of her from the wedding day. (not a lot of competition, as she looks grumpy or is asleep in almost all of the rest.) The colors; her expression; the light. Ross outdid himself from the get-go. She's just been dressed here, by Aunt Molly, and awaits her intricate hair braid. (It's been suggested that we each have a gift. That we're each really skilled at at least one thing. I have no idea what my super skill is, but Molly's -- or one of Molly's -- is most definitely braiding. Maybe I'll have to post a photo of that, too.)
Anyhow. I both love and am terrified by this photo. She looks so OLD in it. It's like flashing forward 12 or 13 years to her first prom. Shakes me to my core.
Heeey, what the heck. While I'm at it! Two other favorites that day (though there are many more. I'm just sparing you, for now:
I got my Social Security card in the mail yesterday. "Katharine Rachelle Maisel," it says.
I showed Matt. He looked genuinely a little horrified by the prospect.
"Another Maisel in the world," he said, wide-eyed and a little reflective.
An inauspicious start to the rest of my life as a Maisel.
Regarding a little Maisel-to-be, as soon as I can figure out how to change her name:
I love this photo of her. It might be my favorite of her from the wedding day. (not a lot of competition, as she looks grumpy or is asleep in almost all of the rest.) The colors; her expression; the light. Ross outdid himself from the get-go. She's just been dressed here, by Aunt Molly, and awaits her intricate hair braid. (It's been suggested that we each have a gift. That we're each really skilled at at least one thing. I have no idea what my super skill is, but Molly's -- or one of Molly's -- is most definitely braiding. Maybe I'll have to post a photo of that, too.)Anyhow. I both love and am terrified by this photo. She looks so OLD in it. It's like flashing forward 12 or 13 years to her first prom. Shakes me to my core.
Heeey, what the heck. While I'm at it! Two other favorites that day (though there are many more. I'm just sparing you, for now:
Monday, October 23, 2006
weekend
We had a nice weekend. It started with a Friday night movie date -- The Departed, which is the first Scorsese movie I have ever wholeheartedly endorsed (Movie of the Year, you heard it here first) -- and, since it was a late one, Matt's mom slept over at our house. And got up with Lizzy the next morning, meaning we slept in until NINE THIRTY... Bliss!
Then we packed ourselves to Lizzy's weekly (I'm not joking) birthday party. This week: Bowling with Nicholas in Annandale! Tonight, I really should post a photo. Those little kids (most of them 4) were cute as snot. Well, um, even cuter than snot. Or something. They would carry the ball to the head of the lane (no small feat), then sort of hurl it down the lane -- if we parents were lucky, it traveled faster than your garden-variety snail, but not always -- and watch it gently kiss the bumper on each side from time to time, until it meandered all the way down and (again, with luck) bumped over a couple of pins. Once, a kid even picked up a spare! I guess the odds dictated that it would happen sometime. Then we -- er, uh, I mean, they -- had Cars cake. And bowling-hall pizza and fries. Yummy! Oh, and their wee shoes were so cute.
Then we stopped to get Lizzy her Halloween costume -- Belle is the princess of choice this year; Halloween stuff now 50 percent off at the Disney store -- and then to Xxxxx and Xxxxxx, where we decided they wanted too much money for drapes. I'm not sure how we came to that conclusion, since we hadn't priced them anywhere else. But I wasn't too inclined to argue, since it's true of every other dang thing at C&B.
And we had a little cleaning. A little grocery shopping. A little helping of some friends to move. A little laying of the hands to rest. A fair amount of thank you card-writing, with promises of much more to come! But it feels good, getting wedding stuff wrapped up.
Now to call the 57 businesses (rough estimate) who will want to know that I'm changing my name... Looking forward to a morning parking it in a chair at the DMV. Ugh.
Oh yeah -- I had something more to say about the party...
Out of the eight little partygoers, Lizzy was the only girl. Which I thought was super cool, and a couple of the parents commented on. She is such an adorable combo of totally girly at times, but also tough like a boy. (at times, I must emphasize. She can overdo the emotional stuff with the best of us females at other times.) Matt was saying how that boded well for the future -- navigating that sometimes challenging space of befriending both guys and gals.
I've been chewing on that ever since. What sort of personality -- or traits -- best lend themselves to this? I'm thinking, it's important not to take certain things to seriously. An easygoing nature has to be helpful here, don't you think? I'm trying to remember what sort of person I was as a teen, and who my friends were. As I recall, I was pretty much scared by the whole social interaction/practicing dating thing (no offense to those who found their true loves in high school -- it mostly seemed like practice, from an outsider's perspective). So I had female friends, almost exclusively. I think I was brave enough to talk to my friends' boyfriends, or to throw around some sports talk with some of the less 'threatening' guys. But mostly -- girls. So, lack of fear, as well, maybe? Lack of concern what people think? But if you don't care what people think, you might tend to disregard their feelings, as well. Seems a tough balancing act at times.
I was also intimidated by the more queen bee popular types. As if they truly WERE better than me, by virtue of clearly thinking it themselves. Of course, on this side of things, I realize how insecure they were, what other crud they were going through, etc.
All in all, I'm glad dating was scary for me, at that age. I'm glad I waited until much later to jump into those waters. But I do hope that Lizzy learns how to be a friend to many, if not all.
Then we packed ourselves to Lizzy's weekly (I'm not joking) birthday party. This week: Bowling with Nicholas in Annandale! Tonight, I really should post a photo. Those little kids (most of them 4) were cute as snot. Well, um, even cuter than snot. Or something. They would carry the ball to the head of the lane (no small feat), then sort of hurl it down the lane -- if we parents were lucky, it traveled faster than your garden-variety snail, but not always -- and watch it gently kiss the bumper on each side from time to time, until it meandered all the way down and (again, with luck) bumped over a couple of pins. Once, a kid even picked up a spare! I guess the odds dictated that it would happen sometime. Then we -- er, uh, I mean, they -- had Cars cake. And bowling-hall pizza and fries. Yummy! Oh, and their wee shoes were so cute.
Then we stopped to get Lizzy her Halloween costume -- Belle is the princess of choice this year; Halloween stuff now 50 percent off at the Disney store -- and then to Xxxxx and Xxxxxx, where we decided they wanted too much money for drapes. I'm not sure how we came to that conclusion, since we hadn't priced them anywhere else. But I wasn't too inclined to argue, since it's true of every other dang thing at C&B.
And we had a little cleaning. A little grocery shopping. A little helping of some friends to move. A little laying of the hands to rest. A fair amount of thank you card-writing, with promises of much more to come! But it feels good, getting wedding stuff wrapped up.
Now to call the 57 businesses (rough estimate) who will want to know that I'm changing my name... Looking forward to a morning parking it in a chair at the DMV. Ugh.
Oh yeah -- I had something more to say about the party...
Out of the eight little partygoers, Lizzy was the only girl. Which I thought was super cool, and a couple of the parents commented on. She is such an adorable combo of totally girly at times, but also tough like a boy. (at times, I must emphasize. She can overdo the emotional stuff with the best of us females at other times.) Matt was saying how that boded well for the future -- navigating that sometimes challenging space of befriending both guys and gals.
I've been chewing on that ever since. What sort of personality -- or traits -- best lend themselves to this? I'm thinking, it's important not to take certain things to seriously. An easygoing nature has to be helpful here, don't you think? I'm trying to remember what sort of person I was as a teen, and who my friends were. As I recall, I was pretty much scared by the whole social interaction/practicing dating thing (no offense to those who found their true loves in high school -- it mostly seemed like practice, from an outsider's perspective). So I had female friends, almost exclusively. I think I was brave enough to talk to my friends' boyfriends, or to throw around some sports talk with some of the less 'threatening' guys. But mostly -- girls. So, lack of fear, as well, maybe? Lack of concern what people think? But if you don't care what people think, you might tend to disregard their feelings, as well. Seems a tough balancing act at times.
I was also intimidated by the more queen bee popular types. As if they truly WERE better than me, by virtue of clearly thinking it themselves. Of course, on this side of things, I realize how insecure they were, what other crud they were going through, etc.
All in all, I'm glad dating was scary for me, at that age. I'm glad I waited until much later to jump into those waters. But I do hope that Lizzy learns how to be a friend to many, if not all.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
a little prayer
I worry sometimes that Lizzy isn't getting enough, hm, 'spiritual guidance' from me. That she could not recite a single Bible story at almost age 4. Well, maybe she sort of could. She knows that Jonah (whoever he is) was inside a whale for some reason, and that Daniel goes with lions. God is everywhere, and He loves us, and Jesus is someone we pray to (as well as God). So that's something, I guess.
In a bit of a digression from my main point, I've been pondering this a bit more lately because there's been some in-church discussion (unofficially, over e-mail -- we don't do this via round table on Sunday morning, or anything) recently because we've had a new convert -- praise God! -- and we're wondering whether we need to provide anything in the way of instruction for her in addition to the usual fare. Some are in favor of this, yet opinions differ slightly as to how and what the (education? discussion? Bible study? book group?) addition should look like. Some seem offended by the notion that we change the way we do things to, uh, serve the needs of our congregation? Okay, I don't really understand their perspective, which tells you where I'm at. I start applying this to the growing crop of kids we have at Common Table, and I start wondering how instrumental my years growing up in the Methodist Sunday school were. Were they? Weren't they? I don't know. I'd certainly take being raised by God-fearing and loving parents over simply learning Bible stories for an hour a week, if I did have to choose. (fortunately, I had both.)
Anyhow. I figure at this point, the least I can do is try to model Jesus-like behavior (ha! I have some work to do), and pray with Lizzy each night. Imbue her with a sense of who God is, and that He cares about us -- the big things and the little.
Her perspective on it all has been revealing itself in interesting ways. Earlier this week, Lizzy was on the tail end (ha!) of a bladder infection. I took her to school anyway, since we were almost at the end of her meds, and I figured she was mostly, if not all, better. I conveniently chose to forget about the peeing of the pants that occurred the day before, at a local pumpkin patch. Though the image of her skirted, pantyless form shimmying down the slide one fateful time -- skirt sliding above her waist, if you're slow to get the picture here -- is burned on my brain.
So I dropped her off at school, and waited while she 'went potty.' As she sat on the cute little 3-year-old-sized toilet, she said, "Mommy? Let's pretend you and I are going to bed, and pray Jesus." I said, uhhh, okay. Do you want to, or me? She wanted to. So she did. She prayed that God would make her bottom all better. "In Jesus' name, Amen!" My heart swelled with pride like I cannot describe. That she made the connection to spontaneously pray when she needed help with something... It made me glad. (obviously, I want her to see God as a whole lot more than her Santa Claus in the sky, but one thing at a time.)
A 'fun' element of raising a child in the 'learning-to-talk' stage is something I've mentioned before -- the need to teach them, somehow, that not all that they hear is appropriate for them to say. Either because it's 'not nice to someone,' or because it's inappropriate at the moment, or because it's just plain something I don't want hearing come out of my child's mouth. Let me say here and now that I'm not trying to censor anyone's speech, so please, dear friends, don't feel that you can't use certain words or phrases around me. (except you, Ryan. You can keep it toned down. I appreciate it. Thanks.) That said, I don't want Lizzy saying everything she hears. One that's been an off-and-on struggle to explain to her is "Oh my God." Something I hear a lot. Something I don't want to hear coming from my 3 or 4-year-old's mouth.
I've explained that that's God's name. That it makes no sense to say God's name, unless you're talking about, or to, God. (I've heard the rejoinder that, in essence, when people say that, they ARE praying. But I'm not so sure I buy that, at least not much of the time.) So, I say to Lizzy, let's save God's name for those occasions. Okay, she says seriously. Okay.
One day, her day care teacher pulled me aside and told me that Lizzy had lectured her on this point. I was rather mortified, but what are you going to do? Ms. Sharline genuinely seemed to think it was rather sweet. Oooookay.
A couple of nights ago, Lizzy was saying her bedtime prayers. She did the usual, "DearGod, thank you for this family/thank you for this prayer/thank you for all of our friends/(and then she goes on to list, if it's mealtime, thanks for each item on the table or on the menu. If it's bedtime, it can end there, or she throws in whatever occurs to her. Her school, her pony tails, her new book. Whatever.)" This time, she concluded with, "Oh my God. Amen." She kind of peeked at me with one eye open, then opened them both and beamed at me. "Did you hear what I said?" she demanded. "I was talking to God, so I said 'Oh my God'."
Sigh. I can see the logic, but ...
In a bit of a digression from my main point, I've been pondering this a bit more lately because there's been some in-church discussion (unofficially, over e-mail -- we don't do this via round table on Sunday morning, or anything) recently because we've had a new convert -- praise God! -- and we're wondering whether we need to provide anything in the way of instruction for her in addition to the usual fare. Some are in favor of this, yet opinions differ slightly as to how and what the (education? discussion? Bible study? book group?) addition should look like. Some seem offended by the notion that we change the way we do things to, uh, serve the needs of our congregation? Okay, I don't really understand their perspective, which tells you where I'm at. I start applying this to the growing crop of kids we have at Common Table, and I start wondering how instrumental my years growing up in the Methodist Sunday school were. Were they? Weren't they? I don't know. I'd certainly take being raised by God-fearing and loving parents over simply learning Bible stories for an hour a week, if I did have to choose. (fortunately, I had both.)
Anyhow. I figure at this point, the least I can do is try to model Jesus-like behavior (ha! I have some work to do), and pray with Lizzy each night. Imbue her with a sense of who God is, and that He cares about us -- the big things and the little.
Her perspective on it all has been revealing itself in interesting ways. Earlier this week, Lizzy was on the tail end (ha!) of a bladder infection. I took her to school anyway, since we were almost at the end of her meds, and I figured she was mostly, if not all, better. I conveniently chose to forget about the peeing of the pants that occurred the day before, at a local pumpkin patch. Though the image of her skirted, pantyless form shimmying down the slide one fateful time -- skirt sliding above her waist, if you're slow to get the picture here -- is burned on my brain.
So I dropped her off at school, and waited while she 'went potty.' As she sat on the cute little 3-year-old-sized toilet, she said, "Mommy? Let's pretend you and I are going to bed, and pray Jesus." I said, uhhh, okay. Do you want to, or me? She wanted to. So she did. She prayed that God would make her bottom all better. "In Jesus' name, Amen!" My heart swelled with pride like I cannot describe. That she made the connection to spontaneously pray when she needed help with something... It made me glad. (obviously, I want her to see God as a whole lot more than her Santa Claus in the sky, but one thing at a time.)
A 'fun' element of raising a child in the 'learning-to-talk' stage is something I've mentioned before -- the need to teach them, somehow, that not all that they hear is appropriate for them to say. Either because it's 'not nice to someone,' or because it's inappropriate at the moment, or because it's just plain something I don't want hearing come out of my child's mouth. Let me say here and now that I'm not trying to censor anyone's speech, so please, dear friends, don't feel that you can't use certain words or phrases around me. (except you, Ryan. You can keep it toned down. I appreciate it. Thanks.) That said, I don't want Lizzy saying everything she hears. One that's been an off-and-on struggle to explain to her is "Oh my God." Something I hear a lot. Something I don't want to hear coming from my 3 or 4-year-old's mouth.
I've explained that that's God's name. That it makes no sense to say God's name, unless you're talking about, or to, God. (I've heard the rejoinder that, in essence, when people say that, they ARE praying. But I'm not so sure I buy that, at least not much of the time.) So, I say to Lizzy, let's save God's name for those occasions. Okay, she says seriously. Okay.
One day, her day care teacher pulled me aside and told me that Lizzy had lectured her on this point. I was rather mortified, but what are you going to do? Ms. Sharline genuinely seemed to think it was rather sweet. Oooookay.
A couple of nights ago, Lizzy was saying her bedtime prayers. She did the usual, "DearGod, thank you for this family/thank you for this prayer/thank you for all of our friends/(and then she goes on to list, if it's mealtime, thanks for each item on the table or on the menu. If it's bedtime, it can end there, or she throws in whatever occurs to her. Her school, her pony tails, her new book. Whatever.)" This time, she concluded with, "Oh my God. Amen." She kind of peeked at me with one eye open, then opened them both and beamed at me. "Did you hear what I said?" she demanded. "I was talking to God, so I said 'Oh my God'."
Sigh. I can see the logic, but ...
Monday, October 16, 2006
the little-known Firth of Virginia
As seen on a sign hanging on a cubicle wall behind the marriage license counter in the Arlington County Courthouse:
THE 231th YEAR OF THE COMMONWEALTH
But don't call it a state. No, no! Because THAT would be inaccurate.
THE 231th YEAR OF THE COMMONWEALTH
But don't call it a state. No, no! Because THAT would be inaccurate.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
aftermath
Well, we're back.
Sort of.
Mentally: Mostly. I had my usual couple of days of melancholy and depression on Monday and Tuesday. The usual follow-up to a trip to the West Coast, especially to see family. It's just depressing to realize, "Hey, I'm on the East Coast. How did that happen again? And, when will I get to see my family again, after this?" I never have satisfactory answers to those questions. But, here we are, so let's make the most of it. And, truly, I do feel that Matt and Lizzy are primarily my family. But I miss everyone else, too.
In many ways, the past couple of weeks have been such a rich time of family and friends, some of whom I almost never see. Some family and friends, I didn't get to see much at all of, which was a bummer, but I knew it would be that way, so -- okay. One has only so much time. Unfortunately, that's true in the long term, as well. I just want MORE TIME -- more time with my family. More time traveling. More time soaking up my daughter's hugs and proclamations of surprise/insight/playfulness/anger. Whatever she feels like throwing at me. It was just so much fun to spend time with her most of last week. She had a field trip on Wednesday -- the day care did their annual trip to a pumpkin patch in Maryland. I'd gone the two previous years, but there was no way I could swing it on our deadline day, the week after I'd missed so much work. I was totally bummed. She, though, had a great time, apparently. "Milking the cow" was her favorite part. I am so sorry I missed that. Just as I miss so much else of her day. Almost every day.
I'm starting to get depressed all over again.
We haven't fully returned physically, either. This has been Lizzy's refrain the past few nights: "I don't WANT to go to bed! I can't fall asleep! I don't know how to do it!"
At 11 p.m.
By this time, I am begging her to go to sleep, as I want to, myself.
The little girl's still on West Coast time.
I must say, though, it feels good to be married. It feels different, in some hard-to-discern way. Seeing the ring on MY HUSBAND'S hand makes me feel proud. It looks good on him. And, he's such a great guy. Which I knew, but ... I keep seeing glimpses of it through other people's eyes, and I totally eat it up. I talked to my mom the other night. "What's Matt up to?" she asked. "Oh, he's at the grocery store," I replied. "You have the perfect husband," she said. Heh! I kind of do.
For his part, he asked, with much trepidation, if he could go to a party on Saturday night that a bunch of his friends are going to. "Sure!" I said. "I just want to spend some time with Lizzy this weekend. Besides, you haven't seen much of your friends for the past few months." He looked at me as if I were a winning lottery ticket. Pleased, but dubious of his good fortune. Fair enough. I don't often respond to that request in quite that unselfish a fashion.
As for the wedding and reception themselves: They came together amazingly well. Amazingly well! My two minor complaints about that day are that 1) my daughter was such a wet blanket, and 2) the staff of the inn was actually a bit overzealous about cleaning up. Every time I put down a drink, it was whisked away. Grrr. But those are teeny tiny things. We felt so blessed, by God and by our families and friends, and felt such an (often uncharacteristic) sense of joy all around us, and the event, that day. I found myself wishing that I had been a guest at the wedding, instead of IN the wedding. I had been told repeatedly what a blur the day will be, how little chance we'll get to have deep conversations, or eat anything, etc., but I didn't expect ... so little chance to stop and take things in. I can relate to my friend, the Mrs., when she says she hopes to relive her lovely event of last year when she goes to other weddings. Weddings have always been an occasion of deep stock-taking and introspection for me. (unless I'm the bride) :) And there's nothing like settling the entire bill the very next day to rub off a bit of the glow. But I know myself -- I absorb things very slowly. I have to process things for a long time. As I might have said before (and I hope Lizzy never reads this), I didn't even feel like I wanted to be a mom for, oh, the first year or so of my child's life. In a sense, I mean. So it will take me awhile -- let's hope, not the rest of my life -- to make some sense of myself as a married woman, and to put that day into perspective and to truly savor it. The awesome photography will help a great deal.
Two things I have learned, that I hadn't exactly heard before, that would've made the day even better:
1) What you haven't accomplished (programs, favors, etc.) by the end of the day two days before the wedding, just forget about. It's not worth the stress it will cause you.
2) Arrange to have food brought to your room that night -- or bring it yourself. Or be somewhere where it can be obtained. You do not want to be throwing up on your wedding night because you had alcohol and not enough food that day. (sorry to out you, dear!)
3) (which totally DID happen, in my case) Surround yourself with good, capable people -- some of whom have 'gone there before' -- and accept their offers of help. They will save the day.
So many people helped in so many ways, expected and unexpected. Too many to mention. The friend who tried, so hard, to get my daughter calm enough to walk up the aisle, and who ended up carrying her because it was the only way. The friend who saw that the video camera (his) that had been borrowed for the occasion wasn't being put to use, because of a small planning snafu, so he found it and held it up for the entire ceremony because he couldn't find the tripod. The friend who took care of another friend's fussy child so that the child's parents could stand up with the bride and groom. The friends who stayed with my daughter while she slept, in a room up away from the action, so we could enjoy the reception, even though it meant that they couldn't. And on. And on. And on.
We had a pretty nice reception at my aunt's house the following Saturday, as well. And two lovely days in Seattle! I was tired before of the lack of indy-type coffee houses in the greater D.C. area, but now ... man. I am almost ready to give up coffee entirely, in protest.
Almost.
We spent two nights in the MarQueen on Queen Anne, for those of you intimately familiar with Seattle. We swung by Uptown Coffee two or three times -- home of the velvet foam. We saw starfish in the water, from the pier! So wild. We saw Experience Music Project (for Matt), the Sci-Fi Museum (for me), and the Children's Museum (for Guess Who) -- all at Seattle Center. (How did I not know before that Mel Blanc voiced that irritating robot on the original 'Battlestar Galactica'? I hang my head in shame!) We swung through Pike Place, of course. We went to the original Starbucks store (but I didn't buy coffee there. Just a "bearista." I successfully boycotted Starbucks coffee products for our short visit.) Best of all, we found the most awesome little diner I have seen since this kicky little place I used to go in Germany. That was called Cafe Chaos -- this one was called Minnie's Diner, or some such thing (Schuyler or Maggie can correct me). We were just aimlessly wandering one weekday morning, wishing for a greasy spoon-type diner, and this place appeared out of nowhere. The perfect place. We saw the 24-hour sign, and knew we were in for a treat. Throughout our meal -- prepared by the lady who took our order, which for some reason really impresses me -- we heard Seattle grunge music from the '90s. Matt and I were beside ourselves. Fresh-squeezed orange juice. Fresh peaches IN my pancakes. Lizzy had chocolate chip pancakes, with whipped cream and chocolate sauce on top. (hey -- we were on vacation!) So what if the bill came to about $45. Some things are worth it.
And it was the most gorgeous day -- THE most gorgeous day. As if the entire city wanted to seduce Matt and convince him never to return East.
Sigh.
Even our flights were all on time, and we sat together on all of them. There's a first time for everything.
Also -- God bless the inventors of the portable DVD player. GOD BLESS THEM.
Sort of.
Mentally: Mostly. I had my usual couple of days of melancholy and depression on Monday and Tuesday. The usual follow-up to a trip to the West Coast, especially to see family. It's just depressing to realize, "Hey, I'm on the East Coast. How did that happen again? And, when will I get to see my family again, after this?" I never have satisfactory answers to those questions. But, here we are, so let's make the most of it. And, truly, I do feel that Matt and Lizzy are primarily my family. But I miss everyone else, too.
In many ways, the past couple of weeks have been such a rich time of family and friends, some of whom I almost never see. Some family and friends, I didn't get to see much at all of, which was a bummer, but I knew it would be that way, so -- okay. One has only so much time. Unfortunately, that's true in the long term, as well. I just want MORE TIME -- more time with my family. More time traveling. More time soaking up my daughter's hugs and proclamations of surprise/insight/playfulness/anger. Whatever she feels like throwing at me. It was just so much fun to spend time with her most of last week. She had a field trip on Wednesday -- the day care did their annual trip to a pumpkin patch in Maryland. I'd gone the two previous years, but there was no way I could swing it on our deadline day, the week after I'd missed so much work. I was totally bummed. She, though, had a great time, apparently. "Milking the cow" was her favorite part. I am so sorry I missed that. Just as I miss so much else of her day. Almost every day.
I'm starting to get depressed all over again.
We haven't fully returned physically, either. This has been Lizzy's refrain the past few nights: "I don't WANT to go to bed! I can't fall asleep! I don't know how to do it!"
At 11 p.m.
By this time, I am begging her to go to sleep, as I want to, myself.
The little girl's still on West Coast time.
I must say, though, it feels good to be married. It feels different, in some hard-to-discern way. Seeing the ring on MY HUSBAND'S hand makes me feel proud. It looks good on him. And, he's such a great guy. Which I knew, but ... I keep seeing glimpses of it through other people's eyes, and I totally eat it up. I talked to my mom the other night. "What's Matt up to?" she asked. "Oh, he's at the grocery store," I replied. "You have the perfect husband," she said. Heh! I kind of do.
For his part, he asked, with much trepidation, if he could go to a party on Saturday night that a bunch of his friends are going to. "Sure!" I said. "I just want to spend some time with Lizzy this weekend. Besides, you haven't seen much of your friends for the past few months." He looked at me as if I were a winning lottery ticket. Pleased, but dubious of his good fortune. Fair enough. I don't often respond to that request in quite that unselfish a fashion.
As for the wedding and reception themselves: They came together amazingly well. Amazingly well! My two minor complaints about that day are that 1) my daughter was such a wet blanket, and 2) the staff of the inn was actually a bit overzealous about cleaning up. Every time I put down a drink, it was whisked away. Grrr. But those are teeny tiny things. We felt so blessed, by God and by our families and friends, and felt such an (often uncharacteristic) sense of joy all around us, and the event, that day. I found myself wishing that I had been a guest at the wedding, instead of IN the wedding. I had been told repeatedly what a blur the day will be, how little chance we'll get to have deep conversations, or eat anything, etc., but I didn't expect ... so little chance to stop and take things in. I can relate to my friend, the Mrs., when she says she hopes to relive her lovely event of last year when she goes to other weddings. Weddings have always been an occasion of deep stock-taking and introspection for me. (unless I'm the bride) :) And there's nothing like settling the entire bill the very next day to rub off a bit of the glow. But I know myself -- I absorb things very slowly. I have to process things for a long time. As I might have said before (and I hope Lizzy never reads this), I didn't even feel like I wanted to be a mom for, oh, the first year or so of my child's life. In a sense, I mean. So it will take me awhile -- let's hope, not the rest of my life -- to make some sense of myself as a married woman, and to put that day into perspective and to truly savor it. The awesome photography will help a great deal.
Two things I have learned, that I hadn't exactly heard before, that would've made the day even better:
1) What you haven't accomplished (programs, favors, etc.) by the end of the day two days before the wedding, just forget about. It's not worth the stress it will cause you.
2) Arrange to have food brought to your room that night -- or bring it yourself. Or be somewhere where it can be obtained. You do not want to be throwing up on your wedding night because you had alcohol and not enough food that day. (sorry to out you, dear!)
3) (which totally DID happen, in my case) Surround yourself with good, capable people -- some of whom have 'gone there before' -- and accept their offers of help. They will save the day.
So many people helped in so many ways, expected and unexpected. Too many to mention. The friend who tried, so hard, to get my daughter calm enough to walk up the aisle, and who ended up carrying her because it was the only way. The friend who saw that the video camera (his) that had been borrowed for the occasion wasn't being put to use, because of a small planning snafu, so he found it and held it up for the entire ceremony because he couldn't find the tripod. The friend who took care of another friend's fussy child so that the child's parents could stand up with the bride and groom. The friends who stayed with my daughter while she slept, in a room up away from the action, so we could enjoy the reception, even though it meant that they couldn't. And on. And on. And on.
We had a pretty nice reception at my aunt's house the following Saturday, as well. And two lovely days in Seattle! I was tired before of the lack of indy-type coffee houses in the greater D.C. area, but now ... man. I am almost ready to give up coffee entirely, in protest.
Almost.
We spent two nights in the MarQueen on Queen Anne, for those of you intimately familiar with Seattle. We swung by Uptown Coffee two or three times -- home of the velvet foam. We saw starfish in the water, from the pier! So wild. We saw Experience Music Project (for Matt), the Sci-Fi Museum (for me), and the Children's Museum (for Guess Who) -- all at Seattle Center. (How did I not know before that Mel Blanc voiced that irritating robot on the original 'Battlestar Galactica'? I hang my head in shame!) We swung through Pike Place, of course. We went to the original Starbucks store (but I didn't buy coffee there. Just a "bearista." I successfully boycotted Starbucks coffee products for our short visit.) Best of all, we found the most awesome little diner I have seen since this kicky little place I used to go in Germany. That was called Cafe Chaos -- this one was called Minnie's Diner, or some such thing (Schuyler or Maggie can correct me). We were just aimlessly wandering one weekday morning, wishing for a greasy spoon-type diner, and this place appeared out of nowhere. The perfect place. We saw the 24-hour sign, and knew we were in for a treat. Throughout our meal -- prepared by the lady who took our order, which for some reason really impresses me -- we heard Seattle grunge music from the '90s. Matt and I were beside ourselves. Fresh-squeezed orange juice. Fresh peaches IN my pancakes. Lizzy had chocolate chip pancakes, with whipped cream and chocolate sauce on top. (hey -- we were on vacation!) So what if the bill came to about $45. Some things are worth it.
And it was the most gorgeous day -- THE most gorgeous day. As if the entire city wanted to seduce Matt and convince him never to return East.
Sigh.
Even our flights were all on time, and we sat together on all of them. There's a first time for everything.
Also -- God bless the inventors of the portable DVD player. GOD BLESS THEM.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
wedding advice
It is now time, ladies and gents, for Last-Minute Words O' Wisdom. Your opportunity to tell me what I should really, really know days before -- or days of -- or even days after? -- a wedding. My wedding, anyway.
The big favorites, which means they're probably quite sage, are:
I. When you get to that day, Just Relax.
a) Delegate everything to someone else. Don't leave yourself ANYTHING to worry about.
b) If something goes wrong, you
1. Won't care, or
2. It'll just make a better story, down the road.
II. Soak it all in. Do your best to, anyway.
III. Eat something. It'll be hard to find a chance (not sure why this is, but all marrieds say it's true)
IV. Get as much sleep as possible the night before.
That's all I can remember at the moment. Anyone got anything else? Or funny stories about what went wrong for you? (or have I already solicited those? Yeah, I think I did. Well, tell me again.) :)
I heard from a friend the other day who forgot to carry her bouquet down the aisle. The photographer thrust it into her hands in time for the last few photos afterward! It's funny, the things that can go "wrong." But, as I say I've heard, usually not a big deal, in the end.
Experiences like this -- big life experiences, which some have had and others haven't -- remind me of the advice I got for pregnancy/labor/motherhood in advance. It's nice to have friends who have "gone before," who can help. And it's fun, on the flip side, to have another way to relate to them. More common ground.
The big favorites, which means they're probably quite sage, are:
I. When you get to that day, Just Relax.
a) Delegate everything to someone else. Don't leave yourself ANYTHING to worry about.
b) If something goes wrong, you
1. Won't care, or
2. It'll just make a better story, down the road.
II. Soak it all in. Do your best to, anyway.
III. Eat something. It'll be hard to find a chance (not sure why this is, but all marrieds say it's true)
IV. Get as much sleep as possible the night before.
That's all I can remember at the moment. Anyone got anything else? Or funny stories about what went wrong for you? (or have I already solicited those? Yeah, I think I did. Well, tell me again.) :)
I heard from a friend the other day who forgot to carry her bouquet down the aisle. The photographer thrust it into her hands in time for the last few photos afterward! It's funny, the things that can go "wrong." But, as I say I've heard, usually not a big deal, in the end.
Experiences like this -- big life experiences, which some have had and others haven't -- remind me of the advice I got for pregnancy/labor/motherhood in advance. It's nice to have friends who have "gone before," who can help. And it's fun, on the flip side, to have another way to relate to them. More common ground.
Monday, September 25, 2006
that's how we roll
Or, as Matt referred to recent events last night when my mom called, "Two catastrophes." Nothing serious, though, by real measures. Just bad in a Last-Minute, Dear Lord, What Can Go Wrong With Our Wedding A Week Away sense.
We went to church yesterday, which was lovely. We talked about Rosh Hashana (sp?), more specifically, new beginnings and the Jewish New Year. Also, what bugs us in other people, and what of these traits are inside us.
Afterward, we planned to run a couple of last-minute wedding errands. We stopped at the Party Store -- Lizzy scored a pair of Belle slippers for Halloween, and we got a bunch of balloons to hang on signs so folks can easily see where to go, etc. Then we headed back to Hwy. 66 to go to Manassas and do some other things -- and, very shortly after hitting the on-ramp at Centreville, ran out of gas. We RAN OUT OF GAS. Okay, maybe this happens to other people with frequency, but it's never happened to me. We sputtered to a halt, and Matt got out and started haulin' himself down the highway on the shoulder. I mean, what else do you do? Lizzy and I stayed in the car. We weren't far from the rest stop, if that gives anyone better reference as to our location. So, there we sat -- I won't bore you with tales of sitting roadside, apparently pointlessly, with a 3-year-old. Not my chosen activity, but I think Matt still had it worse. He eventually returns, with a 2-liter bottle that once recently held Sprite, but now holds sweet, sweet gasoline. (the gas station he went to, EXXON IN MANASSAS -- so there, Exxon!), didn't sell gas container thingies! How, as a gas station, do you not?!?) Okay. Cool. So we start the car -- oops, not quite. The car wants more. The car is not yet satisfied with its lot. And, so, neither are we -- we jerk down the shoulder to just past the rest area. Matt gets out again. After awhile, Matt returns again, this time in a police car backing up on the shoulder. Two gallons of gas -- roughly $4.40 these days. The opportunity to see your fiance cheesily grinning out of the passenger window of a cop car six days before your wedding -- priceless! This time, the car was satisfied, and we went directly home. No errand was that important, at that point.
Matt told me afterward that he thinks God was speaking to him through that. And, he adds, he got a pre-wedding workout! It would seem that the two people who stopped to help Matt on his way(s) to the gas station(s) were: Bolivian, and Mexican. Anglo-Saxon types are too busy, apparently. Or too cautious? We sometimes (often) aren't too fond of the inexorable direction our neighborhood's profile seems to be heading. But maybe we could use just a wee more tolerance.
I need to go, so the second catastrophe, which, in fact, so profoundly had me freaking that I clean forgot about the first catastrophe by the time my mom called: Or pianist/organist bailed out on us last Thursday. Matt had a guy in mind, but the more we thought about it, the more we thought, uh, maybe he's not the best choice. Also, he had another role in the wedding. So then we thought of another friend of ours, but he's got an even bigger role in the wedding -- see! This is what happens when friends help you. You can't, um, replicate them and get them to help you again! Yeah, that made no sense to me, either -- so we were totally pulling out our hair last night. Desperately casting about online for a solution, six days out.
In short, we found a guy. He used to be the organist for the church where we're getting married. Praise God that he agreed to do it on such insanely short notice! He probably won't be able to learn and use all of the songs we carefully selected for each opening element of things, but right now? I truly could not care less.
A wedding with no music was not going to be.
We went to church yesterday, which was lovely. We talked about Rosh Hashana (sp?), more specifically, new beginnings and the Jewish New Year. Also, what bugs us in other people, and what of these traits are inside us.
Afterward, we planned to run a couple of last-minute wedding errands. We stopped at the Party Store -- Lizzy scored a pair of Belle slippers for Halloween, and we got a bunch of balloons to hang on signs so folks can easily see where to go, etc. Then we headed back to Hwy. 66 to go to Manassas and do some other things -- and, very shortly after hitting the on-ramp at Centreville, ran out of gas. We RAN OUT OF GAS. Okay, maybe this happens to other people with frequency, but it's never happened to me. We sputtered to a halt, and Matt got out and started haulin' himself down the highway on the shoulder. I mean, what else do you do? Lizzy and I stayed in the car. We weren't far from the rest stop, if that gives anyone better reference as to our location. So, there we sat -- I won't bore you with tales of sitting roadside, apparently pointlessly, with a 3-year-old. Not my chosen activity, but I think Matt still had it worse. He eventually returns, with a 2-liter bottle that once recently held Sprite, but now holds sweet, sweet gasoline. (the gas station he went to, EXXON IN MANASSAS -- so there, Exxon!), didn't sell gas container thingies! How, as a gas station, do you not?!?) Okay. Cool. So we start the car -- oops, not quite. The car wants more. The car is not yet satisfied with its lot. And, so, neither are we -- we jerk down the shoulder to just past the rest area. Matt gets out again. After awhile, Matt returns again, this time in a police car backing up on the shoulder. Two gallons of gas -- roughly $4.40 these days. The opportunity to see your fiance cheesily grinning out of the passenger window of a cop car six days before your wedding -- priceless! This time, the car was satisfied, and we went directly home. No errand was that important, at that point.
Matt told me afterward that he thinks God was speaking to him through that. And, he adds, he got a pre-wedding workout! It would seem that the two people who stopped to help Matt on his way(s) to the gas station(s) were: Bolivian, and Mexican. Anglo-Saxon types are too busy, apparently. Or too cautious? We sometimes (often) aren't too fond of the inexorable direction our neighborhood's profile seems to be heading. But maybe we could use just a wee more tolerance.
I need to go, so the second catastrophe, which, in fact, so profoundly had me freaking that I clean forgot about the first catastrophe by the time my mom called: Or pianist/organist bailed out on us last Thursday. Matt had a guy in mind, but the more we thought about it, the more we thought, uh, maybe he's not the best choice. Also, he had another role in the wedding. So then we thought of another friend of ours, but he's got an even bigger role in the wedding -- see! This is what happens when friends help you. You can't, um, replicate them and get them to help you again! Yeah, that made no sense to me, either -- so we were totally pulling out our hair last night. Desperately casting about online for a solution, six days out.
In short, we found a guy. He used to be the organist for the church where we're getting married. Praise God that he agreed to do it on such insanely short notice! He probably won't be able to learn and use all of the songs we carefully selected for each opening element of things, but right now? I truly could not care less.
A wedding with no music was not going to be.
illin'
Please pray for us. I know this is frivolous, but please pray that we're all healthy and well for the wedding.
I have a sore throat this morning, and I knew -- I KNEW -- when Lizzy awoke with that telltale seal-bark cough (you parents know what I mean, I bet) that she would have a nasty cold for about a week, then pass it on to me for the next week, then Matt would get it the following week. (just in time for our plane trip to Washington state for a second reception there.) That's how the little buggies circulate in our family. That day care is such a germfest... I just DON'T WANT TO BE SICK RIGHT NOW. (unlike all the times I DO want to be sick??)
Lizzy's cold was so bad that she had a fever on Thursday, and I had to pick her up from school and keep her home Friday. Please, Lord, no. And please keep sickness, even minor forms of it, from the doors of everyone who has anything to do with this wedding, as well. Those who will be coming to it, etc.
The good news is -- it's supposed to be a lovely day. A little cloudy, which is perfect for photos. Thanks, God, for that.
I have a sore throat this morning, and I knew -- I KNEW -- when Lizzy awoke with that telltale seal-bark cough (you parents know what I mean, I bet) that she would have a nasty cold for about a week, then pass it on to me for the next week, then Matt would get it the following week. (just in time for our plane trip to Washington state for a second reception there.) That's how the little buggies circulate in our family. That day care is such a germfest... I just DON'T WANT TO BE SICK RIGHT NOW. (unlike all the times I DO want to be sick??)
Lizzy's cold was so bad that she had a fever on Thursday, and I had to pick her up from school and keep her home Friday. Please, Lord, no. And please keep sickness, even minor forms of it, from the doors of everyone who has anything to do with this wedding, as well. Those who will be coming to it, etc.
The good news is -- it's supposed to be a lovely day. A little cloudy, which is perfect for photos. Thanks, God, for that.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
regularly scheduled programming
These days, I feel almost like I can do all my expressing by merely linking to friends' blogs. Case in point, Dottie's latest post. About the ridiculous and the sublime, all rolled into one's day. And one's blog. Because, you know, that's life. I guess.
Monday was one seriously weird day. Matt and I took the day off, and dropped off Lizzy -- who knew, somehow, that something was afoot, and wanted to come with us, but we didn't really want to deal with all that. So, we left her screaming for us at the day care. At least Matt garnered a greater appreciation for some of my mornings. Then we grabbed a quick coffee, and an almost quicker marriage license. (ya know, we figured -- hey! Why not. Might as well take care of the very most vital part of the wedding prep.) We had been told that it would be the easiest part of getting married. And, lo! So it was. We walked up to the window, filled out our paper, forked over 30 bucks, and that was that. As the lady's typing the info. into her computer, she says, "When are you getting married? Today?" Our jaws dropped a little. "Uh..." we said. "Can you DO that?" Matt asked. "Sure!" the lady said. "Just go down to the next building, pay them 80 dollars, and it's done." Don't think we weren't tempted, a little. I was doing a bit of mental calculation regarding how many dresses had been purchased, deposits had been put down, and ... naaaah. We'll just push through, as planned.
in case you can't tell, I'm joking. we did know about the elopement option, and were, in fact, tempted, but we decided to do it the long, painful, expensive way instead. Good times!
We then tackled the prenup. I had taken two copies to a notary public and had them signed, but we needed FOUR, so we might just as well start from scratch, with a copy that spells my name correctly, and has my (really, our) house listed as being worth a few hundred thousand, instead of a few hundred. Details!
So that's done. And when I say done? I mean, as far as I'm concerned, it doesn't exist, and never did. Matt and I did have a great (meaning, somewhat heated and emotional, but very honest and productive) conversation about why he's not high on counseling. Feel free to ask me another time, if you're curious. It's not really blog fodder, though.
THEN we went to the funeral. I actually told Matt in the car beforehand: I grieve in weird ways. Usually, by not reacting until bits come out much later. Just rolling things around in my head. Don't be surprised if I don't cry. Then I cried buckets. So did he. How could you not? Besides the obviously painful subject matter, and the incredibly dear friends involved, our church does an excruciatingly (in this case) good job at planning these sorts of things. Wedding, funeral, whatever. Our church planners will knock it out of the ballpark. The committee should hire itself out.
It was lovely, and awful, and so, so sad. But, as Matt said in a word -- cathartic.
Rest in peace, Will. You were well and truly loved. I look forward to meeting you one day. On a better occasion, in a much better place.
My eyes hurt for the entire next day. I have not cried like that, maybe ever.
Over the past few days, we've gotten almost everything done in preparation for the wedding. Hooray! Met with DJ, check (I tell you now, you Rod Stewart, AC/DC and Billy Idol fans are out of luck. I've blacklisted them for my own personal reasons, unless they're requested. but you motown and funk fans will be in heaven); I talked to the pastor on the phone; I tell you, it's just about all done. Lizzy's dress hasn't arrived yet, but I'm assured it will, "by Monday, at the latest." Then the lady proceeded to tell me a ripping tale about a customer of hers whose flower girl's dress didn't get to her until THE DAY OF THE WEDDING. Just to boost my confidence in her, maybe.
Oh! Saturday last, we had a tasting at the reception joint. Mmm MMMMM, their food is good. Matt and Lizzy wandered over to the church next door and introduced themselves as part of the wedding party for the Sept. 30 wedding. The lady running the jumble sale or whatever they had going on over there said, "We don't have a wedding scheduled that day!" (insert sound of Kate hitting floor when this story was being relayed to me.) At least they hadn't scheduled someone else. So we've now sent our deposit check in. Money seems to talk to the keepers of schedules. It's all figured out now. I hope.
Monday was one seriously weird day. Matt and I took the day off, and dropped off Lizzy -- who knew, somehow, that something was afoot, and wanted to come with us, but we didn't really want to deal with all that. So, we left her screaming for us at the day care. At least Matt garnered a greater appreciation for some of my mornings. Then we grabbed a quick coffee, and an almost quicker marriage license. (ya know, we figured -- hey! Why not. Might as well take care of the very most vital part of the wedding prep.) We had been told that it would be the easiest part of getting married. And, lo! So it was. We walked up to the window, filled out our paper, forked over 30 bucks, and that was that. As the lady's typing the info. into her computer, she says, "When are you getting married? Today?" Our jaws dropped a little. "Uh..." we said. "Can you DO that?" Matt asked. "Sure!" the lady said. "Just go down to the next building, pay them 80 dollars, and it's done." Don't think we weren't tempted, a little. I was doing a bit of mental calculation regarding how many dresses had been purchased, deposits had been put down, and ... naaaah. We'll just push through, as planned.
in case you can't tell, I'm joking. we did know about the elopement option, and were, in fact, tempted, but we decided to do it the long, painful, expensive way instead. Good times!
We then tackled the prenup. I had taken two copies to a notary public and had them signed, but we needed FOUR, so we might just as well start from scratch, with a copy that spells my name correctly, and has my (really, our) house listed as being worth a few hundred thousand, instead of a few hundred. Details!
So that's done. And when I say done? I mean, as far as I'm concerned, it doesn't exist, and never did. Matt and I did have a great (meaning, somewhat heated and emotional, but very honest and productive) conversation about why he's not high on counseling. Feel free to ask me another time, if you're curious. It's not really blog fodder, though.
THEN we went to the funeral. I actually told Matt in the car beforehand: I grieve in weird ways. Usually, by not reacting until bits come out much later. Just rolling things around in my head. Don't be surprised if I don't cry. Then I cried buckets. So did he. How could you not? Besides the obviously painful subject matter, and the incredibly dear friends involved, our church does an excruciatingly (in this case) good job at planning these sorts of things. Wedding, funeral, whatever. Our church planners will knock it out of the ballpark. The committee should hire itself out.
It was lovely, and awful, and so, so sad. But, as Matt said in a word -- cathartic.
Rest in peace, Will. You were well and truly loved. I look forward to meeting you one day. On a better occasion, in a much better place.
My eyes hurt for the entire next day. I have not cried like that, maybe ever.
Over the past few days, we've gotten almost everything done in preparation for the wedding. Hooray! Met with DJ, check (I tell you now, you Rod Stewart, AC/DC and Billy Idol fans are out of luck. I've blacklisted them for my own personal reasons, unless they're requested. but you motown and funk fans will be in heaven); I talked to the pastor on the phone; I tell you, it's just about all done. Lizzy's dress hasn't arrived yet, but I'm assured it will, "by Monday, at the latest." Then the lady proceeded to tell me a ripping tale about a customer of hers whose flower girl's dress didn't get to her until THE DAY OF THE WEDDING. Just to boost my confidence in her, maybe.
Oh! Saturday last, we had a tasting at the reception joint. Mmm MMMMM, their food is good. Matt and Lizzy wandered over to the church next door and introduced themselves as part of the wedding party for the Sept. 30 wedding. The lady running the jumble sale or whatever they had going on over there said, "We don't have a wedding scheduled that day!" (insert sound of Kate hitting floor when this story was being relayed to me.) At least they hadn't scheduled someone else. So we've now sent our deposit check in. Money seems to talk to the keepers of schedules. It's all figured out now. I hope.
Friday, September 15, 2006
the problems with having a blog
Sometimes, something's troubling me, and it's just not something that would be good to write about. If it involves another person, for instance, who might not appreciate it.
And sometimes, I just don't know what to say. How can I blog about silly wedding planning junk -- something that, at the "best" of times, never seemed that important -- or my child's latest precious little statement or something equally, in the long term, unimportant, when my friends are in agony? Besides, in this case, others are saying it already.
God bless you, Mike and Stacy and Ella, and your family and friends. We love you so, so much.
And sometimes, I just don't know what to say. How can I blog about silly wedding planning junk -- something that, at the "best" of times, never seemed that important -- or my child's latest precious little statement or something equally, in the long term, unimportant, when my friends are in agony? Besides, in this case, others are saying it already.
God bless you, Mike and Stacy and Ella, and your family and friends. We love you so, so much.
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