Action!

Here's a photo I thought y'all might enjoy. Taken at a friend's recent birthday party:

I'll get in trouble for this

Here's an e-mail we just received from our company lawyer. Awesome. (the language he's using, not so much what he's saying.

There is a computer software failure effecting (sic) S&S employees. The DOD and Army systems currently do not recognize some organizations in their ID Card (CAC) systems including S&S. Consequently anyone attempting to have issued a new or renewal ID card will not be able to do so. The WRAMC NAF Personnel office is pursuing a fix to the system with the IT leadership and will keep us informed as to when the system is operable. We hope this will not be an extensive disruption to service to us.

A couple of days ago, I heard about a gal in my office whose HR records reflected that she had been terminated (fired, not killed, I should specify). Why? Because they couldn't figure out what department she was in, so they just decided to kill the file and not have to deal with it. Ahhh, the government.

And I got my fun-filled letter from A*TNA last night, informing me that someone stole a laptop out of someone's car while that second A*TNA employee someone was running a personal errand, which means that my, and thousands of other A*TNA-insured folks, have personal info -- S.S. number -- floating out there. Oh yeah, so does Lizzy.
What really peeves me is, I didn't want to be insured by them. I'm actually insured by Kaiser. But they're the only dental plan that we're offered.
I'm told their stock dropped drastically today. HA.
Any others of you affected by this? Woo hoo! Fun with personal info.

feeling playful -- and, the ears have walls

I'm feeling some pressure from Brickdude's flashy precedent to make post No. 150 some kind of a big deal. But to me, it's not. So, I won't. Heh.

We took our several-times-a-month (er, three or so) foray to a fast-food joint that usually would make me retch at the thought, but, well, eating even a fast-food salad in peace (child occupied) has a certain attraction. We tried out Burger King in Centreville this time. Unfortunately, a group of women had decided to take their teenagers there to play (I'm serious -- one might've been OLDER than a teen) whilst they sat around and gossiped, having long finished their food. I sat in the other room and steamed and tried not to glare at them until they left (at least a half hour later). It was one of those moments in which I felt completely entitled to have my child's considerations surpass everyone else's. After all, it is a PLAYGROUND. And she is a CHILD. As opposed to the rest of their wild, screaming, oversized, overaged bunch. (Lizzy was too freaked out by all of that to play at the same time.)

An aside: It's weird and scary how much I overreact to the small (perceived) inconsiderations people demonstrate, if a child is involved, now that I have Lizzy. You know -- the girls who are using the bathroom changing table to balance their coats and makeup on (ewwwww! who would want to do that, anyway?); the oblivious, self-absorbed 20-something who entered the only stall in a Sea-Tac airport bathroom that had a changing stall -- out of at least 25 stalls -- when a woman with an infant was right behind her ... Hm, I'm seeing a pattern here. I think I'm glad my child is out of diapers. It's the mommy gene, I tell you. THE MOMMY GENE WILL KILL PEOPLE IF HER CHILD STANDS TO BENEFIT. Suddenly, I'm feeling a little more kinship with the likes of the Texas cheerleader moms. Well, no, not really. Because I tend to stop short of murder. Screaming, however, I'll do in a microsecond.

But back to BK: So, as I say, these other moms eventually took themselves elsewhere, and we moved into the playroom. Has anyone seen this thing? It is the hugest monstrosity... It defies description. Imagine the most massive warren of gerbil-like plastic tunnels, but kid-sized, that you have ever seen, and multiply by at least 10 or 20. The thing had five or six levels of tunnels. And only two ways up and/or down. Children not only COULD get lost up there; the wonder is that they're ever able to get back down! As Matt said, once we'd had a good look at the thing: "No wonder those older kids figured they'd have a go." It'd be a most excellent laser tag kind of deal.

Lizzy managed to get up to the next level (Dee, Ryan, Becky, you know what I mean), and proceeded to get lost and freaked out a few times, but had some fun on it once a couple of other little kids showed up. And we all managed to pry our kids away by leaving at the same time.

Medical update: Lizzy and I went to the doctor this morning for a hearing test. Turns out, not enough sound is getting past the fluid in her ears that the ear tubes were supposed to drain. But one ear tube came out, and one is apparently stopped up. They pronounced her to have "mild to moderate hearing loss," but somehow tested the apparatus behind the fluid, and said her ears themselves are fine. It's fascinating to see how the docs can coerce a 3-year-old into complying with a hearing test! This doc, who was great, used "whistling blocks" -- she put a headphone, or a "crown," on Lizzy's head, and told her to listen for the blocks to whistle. When they did, drop them in the bucket. They were normal blocks -- the sound came through the earphones, of course -- but the doc used Lizzy dropping the blocks to indicate when she heard the noises. Very smart.

So, another round of ear tubes for Lizzy. With a side order of adenoid removal, just in case it helps. Matt's got serious issues with apnea or some such thing -- I can't quite convince him to go to the doc about it, but let's just say that the snoring can wake me up from across the hall -- so I figure, whatever they take out of Lizzy's breathing passage is probably a good thing, in case it's genetic. And Matt's dad has the same thing. Easier when they're young, and all that. I don't know when it'll all get done. Anyone know any drawbacks to adenoid removal?

weddings

Yay! Okay. The Golden Girl requests more wedding talk. And, right now, I can't get enough, either.

Two questions today. One super-girly one, though men who paid attention to detail (anyone? Anyone?) of course may also answer. And one for the general populace, though, men, step carefully, now.

First, for the ladies: What flowers did you choose? This is the thing I'm currently obsessed with, and it sounds like I can't get much hard info without talking to an actual florist. Drat! So I'll live through you for the moment: How did you choose your colors/flowers? Were you happy with how it turned out? Would you have had more/less flowers/decorating, if you could have done it over? This is significant to me because it seems one of the least important, yet most expensive, details. And yet flowers are inherently wonderful things.

For all: I've heard probably equal numbers of friends say that either they a) are so glad they had a wedding, it was a day to remember, a cherished moment in their lives together, etc.; or, b) they wish they had just eloped and saved money. Is there anything you would have done differently? Or maybe not had a wedding at all?

Bonus questions: What was your favorite thing about the wedding? (besides the actual fact of getting married, I mean.) What one thing went horribly wrong?

It's a lot, I know. But please let the comments flow like water! The more (and longer), the merrier.

paci update

Thanks, Liz and Dee!

There was crying last night. At bedtime, and at about 1:30 a.m. Lizzy assumed that those pacifiers were gone, but the others we had stashed around the house would still be in circulation. Sorry, darling. Not so. ... It's so distressing to see how heartbroken she is (at moments) over this. Like I have snatched her one source of comfort. But at other times, she was giddy and hyper and happy. Those mood swings. It's hard to keep up sometimes.

This morning, in the day care parking lot, she was telling Chocolate, the Pretend Lizard (she's actually a frog), about how it was right here that she threw away her pacis yesterday! Right Mommy? Right, Lizzy. "So we can get them today, right? Because I'm going to get out of my seat today," she chirps brightly. Awwww. Sorry, dear. By now, you really REALLY wouldn't want them.

She's just been so moody at times lately. I get her to 'school,' and the other kids swarm around and ask me if she can play with them. She just sits there, looking sullen. And yet, when she's home for three or four consecutive days, she's begging to return to her friends.

Truly, the grass is always greener.

ask me about this later

Matt doesn't check my blog much, but, in theory, he could. So I can't give you details on the no doubt fascinating-to-all drama that is unfurling regarding his bachelor party.

In short, the two friends of his that have thus far gotten married have had blowout, alcohol-infused, stripper and strip club-packed parties. Which each friend in attendance is expected to pay hundreds of dollars to help make happen. I'm honestly not sure that even Matt's friends really enjoy all this debauchery -- I think it's more what's "expected." But, again, even they are a bit tired of it after twice around. It's not that clever any more, and (I hope) is seen as a bit much. Anyway, Matt's not that interested, in part because I have made some dire comments (threats?) as to what might happen if such a party were to take place for him.

There's a new plan afoot. But, as with all of Matt's friends' plans, it's fraught with complications, misunderstandings and just plain juvenile behavior, on the level of "don't tell X, but blah blah," then X is told, then X is offended, but can't do anything about it because he's not supposed to know... Shades of fifth-grade playground drama. Matt's friend, the intended best man, has actually come up with a cool, inventive plan. I'm impressed. But, uh, I'm not supposed to know anything. :)

Also -- Matt gets the impression that all of his friends, including his brother, are assuming that they will be selected as best man. Guess what, boys -- you aren't even all going to be groomsmen! HA HA HA. I must be feeling particularly evil today, to delight in their feelings of offense. But I have no interest in a), asking a half-dozen friends to be bridesmaids to complement his half-dozen (or more) groomsmen, OR b) having a three gals to six guys-type inequality. At what point does it all get to be too ridiculous? Isn't it okay, and special, just to be invited at all? Or to know that your friend cares about you?

Feel free to post your silliest wedding friend-juggling stories. I can totally see why certain friends of mine were strongly suggesting elopement. Though, it has been pretty fun to plan so far.

Hm. I'd forgotten I did that.

Here's my scary few seconds of fame for the day:

Question submitted to columnist, whose column we run in the magazine I help put together. I was no doubt dared to do it. Seriously, I e-mailed this a year ago or so. Quite shocked to find it this morning as I put the column on the page:

http://www.charlotte.com/mld/charlotte/news/columnists/jeff_elder/

(check out first 'glad you asked' question)

Someone's clearly been watching too many 'Friends' reruns.
Eeeeeewwwwww.

hesitantly going where we've never gone before

This is one of those posts that those of you without much kid experience might not grasp. I will not blame you for thinking I am overreacting. But I assure you, in my mind, this is a Big Deal.

This weekend, Lizzy was really testing Matt and me. Just not doing things we told her to do. Pretending she didn’t hear us, until the fifth or sixth time we told her with a dire threat attached for noncompliance. Frankly, we’re sick of it. And so, after a hard 1 hour and 20 minutes in the car, driving the 25 or so miles from Manassas to Rosslyn in the fog this morning, I was not amused, nor sympathetic, when Lizzy pretended to be asleep when we finally got to the day care. She plays this game where I have to say the right lines, in the right way, and then when I’m “fooled” into thinking she (and her stuffed animal du jour) are asleep, then – surprise! – her eyes pop open. She has fooled me!

But the right lines didn’t work this morning. Then the volume level was too low. (She has a cold, too; I think her ears are rather stopped up. The onset of the cold is, no doubt, due to the fact that she has a hearing appointment scheduled for Thursday, and the fluid in her ears will effectively confuse us, as it does every time, because she’s ALWAYS just getting over a cold, regarding whether or not she needs to have ear tubes re-inserted. But I digress.) She decided she just plain didn’t want to go to school today. Which, naturally, is not an option, especially when we’re at least a half hour late. So, I thundered: “Lizzy, if you don’t get out of that chair THIS MINUTE, and put your pacifiers in the seat, we will be throwing them IN THE TRASH!!” I think I gave her two or three verbal chances. No dice. So – I dragged her out of the car, and made her toss her prized possessions, her little Pooh bear and Tigger pacis, in the parking-garage bin with her own chubby little hand.

I am not trying to be funny when I request prayer for all of us this evening. She has been in love with the pacifier since she was about three days old, and my mother convinced me to give them a try to quell the nonstop squalling. (Breastfeeding experts suggest you wait until infants really have the hang of the feeding before offering a pacifier, and of course docs aren’t ever wild about them. Only moms who are struggling to retain a shred of sanity.) But, in two weeks, Lizzy will be three and a half years old. It’s ridiculous that a child who can speak fluently still has a plug stuck in her mouth.

Please pray also that either she gets over it, or we can afford the therapy when she’s older. (That’s sort of a joke. Sort of.)

I'm hoping several of you will reply

Matt and I got into a bit of a tiff this morning. The reasons aren't important -- well, okay, technically, it was during an 'informal' discussion of wedding finances, and specifically about flowers. But it was just a misunderstanding -- a misinterpretation of a certain word. When we cleared up the misunderstanding, we were fine.

My question: How many is "several"? What's your immediate impression when you hear the word "several"?

P.S.: Apparently, the phrase "that's just what things cost," especially in reference to flowers, does not go over well with the menfolk.

odds, and perhaps a few ends

For those of you with significant others, or even good friends: Do these folks ever embarrass you? Answer honestly. I hear you. No, never! Yeah, RIGHT...
I'm not talking, "Can't he throw that raggedy shirt away once and for all?" embarrassment. I'm talking about an official, intentional intent TO embarrass you. Ouch.

So we're driving along in Manassas. A little deeper into Manassas than we typically dare tread. We thought it would be nice to make a second visit to Eat More Chikun, and let Lizzy romp about in the clean and well-kept playplace at Chick Fil-A. (or however they spell it. I can't be bothered to check at the moment; sorry. As soon as I get paid to spell things right on this blog, I will make more concerted efforts to do so.) We pull to a stop; one of many, I might add. I am frequently amazed at how many people are traveling through Manassas at any given time. We stop just ahead of a car in the neighboring lane that has one of those little street sign-looking window attachments -- you know, the ones that once said "Baby on Board," but now say just about anything. This one said, "Honk if you scrapbook." Matt got all excited -- he was clearly in a goofy mood -- and said, "Look! Look!" "Huh! Cool," I respond, nervous at his over-excitement. "You have to honk!" he said, still a bit more exuberant than the occasion called for. "Um, no, I really don't," I say. (I was driving.) He tries to reach over and honk the horn. Yeesh! He rolls down the window and is waving to the lady. He gains access to the horn when I am motionless with frightful embarrassment. But it just keeps on getting worse. "Hey!" he hollers toward her. "We scrapbook!" He's waving his hands around and bouncing with excitement. She laughs. I am, while repeatedly whacking Matt in the shoulder, hoping and praying that the lady doesn't think we're making fun of her. "What if she thinks we're making fun of her?" I say. Matt reacts by rolling down the window again. "No -- we really DO! We scrapbook, too! It rules!" he says, or something like that.
Thank God, the light turned green right about then. Horrifying.


As you might have noticed, despite the fact that I am forced to defect to an inferior brand of coffee when I see most of you (at church), I am a huge fan of Starbucks. They were founded in 1971 -- in Washington state! So was I! It's a match made in heaven. And I learn so much from my daily -- or, when I'm really being naughty, twice daily pilgrimages thither. So many shrines at which to worship this particular caffeine god! Today, feeling a rare weariness of the Starbucks rocket fuel they call their drip coffee, I went to Firehook Bakery for my infusion. Big mistake! Seriously, it tasted watered-down. Ouch. So, this afternoon I returned to my original love and begged forgiveness. I don't know if you've noticed, but sometimes the baristas -- that's employees who sling espresso drinks, for the uninitiated -- recommend a favorite on the chalk board attached to one of the walls. Something for us to stare at and ponder as we wait in line, I guess. Today's suggestion was a "Black Eye." Have you heard of a red eye? That's the unbelievably strong-sounding one shot of espresso in a cup of coffee. So a black eye is ... TWO shots in a cup of coffee. I have to tell you, their coffee is insanely strong. I honestly think it would serve me better than gas if I poured it into my car's tank, but as it's even more expensive than gasoline -- hard to believe as that is -- I shan't give it a try. Also, I don't have enough scratch to pay off the nice mechanics at Tyson's Ford if I'm wrong.

In other news: Oh. Okay. Since folks are still voting on dresses, I should fess up and say that I dragged Matt along -- actually, he was quite willing -- and Lizzy, too, to try on three of the finalists. I wish it had been convenient to try on the one that, it would seem, most of you liked -- the one with the straps across the shoulders. I really liked it, but I don't recall loving it more than any of the others. And, Matt agreed (after seeing the photo) that it was probably a bit more formal a look than we were going for. Though, it did look nice... (moment of silence for the Dress Not Taken. Thank you.)

So. When I tried on the Final Three -- halter top, sleeveless with lace overlay, and Option No. 5 -- the sleeveless was clearly, far and away, the best. Which surprised me! It really stood out. Matt said he had "a moment" when he saw me in it, so -- say no more! It was interesting to me how much I wanted -- needed -- his opinion on this to make a decision. I like that that's the case, too. (Option 5 was not, in fact, exactly the one that I found the photo of, as it turns out. The bodice was different. The skirt sprouted out from the natural waist, and I have to tell you, it was not a good look for me. I was right to discard it in the beginning. Though, I did love the edge of the skirt, and the cap sleeves were a fun touch.) So the sleeveless has been ordered. Hooray! I measured in between two sizes, and went with the smaller one, so you're all authorized to, if you see me shoving something sugary and/or carby in my mouth between now and Sept. 30, bat it away in horror. Please. I have no self-control; I need to borrow all of yours.

Speaking of Matt, and our relationship: On our way home at night, as we're commuting out on Hwy. 66, the one who's not driving -- most often Matt, since he usually drives in the morning -- will work on either Sudoku (Matt) or the crossword (me). The other night, the Sudoku puzzle was an "easy," so Matt finished it super fast. Yay Matt!! He commenced the crossword, soliciting my help. He was dazzled at my prowess. It made me feel all smart and stuff, a sensation that comes along all too rarely these days. I really used to think I was hot stuff, in high school and maybe even occasionally in college. Now, most of the time, I feel mostly brain dead. Not sure how, why or when that happened. Eh. It's not important. But it IS fun to nail some intellectual pursuit now and then. "You must be really good at Scrabble!" he said. And the fact is, I'm totally not. I'm much better at something that doesn't put a time constraint on me, and that doesn't involve putting things in clever places. Just coming up with the words, or playing with the letters, it/themselves.

Movies I've rented lately: Capote and Madagascar. Was less impressed with Madagascar than I'd hoped to be. Oh, well. It just felt a little too disjointed, and didn't, I thought, fulfill its dangled promise of exploring how the animals would react to being dumped on an island in the wild after so long in captivity. Okay, the lion wanted to eat his friends. True. Maybe I expect too much. Lizzy had great fun repeating the line, "You BIT my BUTT!" Thanks, Madagascar!
Capote: I wanted a bit more of his motivation -- for being interested in the crime, mostly, and for being so taken with the prisoner at first sight (a physical attraction thing? Not sure), but overall, it was pretty cool. Interesting to see his character just crumple by the end. How it took his life, in a sense, as well as the convicts'. And he was such a delightfully flawed character from the beginning. So self-centered and manipulative. Fascinating. And, of course, great acting job by PSH. And Catherine Keener, too.

Heard the new Metro voice? I don't like it. It's lame. Fat waste of money. People will pay more attention for a couple weeks, then ... No. And it's not like "paying attention" means "suddenly becoming polite users of the metro system." Or suddenly "treating other people as human beings, the way you'd like to be treated yourself." No. Those expectations are way too lofty.

Hm. I can't read my note regarding the other item I was going to type about, so ... oh well.

Happy day, everyone. ;)

nowhere to shop

I had a weird experience Sunday. Not Easter-related; well, sorta. We went to church, had a wonderful time celebrating the resurrection with our church friends, then for some reason, I had the perverse urge to shop. It's not like I'd given it up for Lent, or anything. It's not like I do it much, anyway. It just sounded like fun. We recently discovered how close Tyson's Mall is to our church coffee shop joint -- dangerous knowledge. Matt humored me by driving on over there. We got out -- got a good parking spot; no surprise, as it turns out -- and walked into the mall. Walked around and around, as were a bunch of other people. We had a few destinations, which turned out to be closed, just like 97 percent of the rest of the mall.

Part of me was glad; hey, it's Easter Sunday! Not a time for people to be manning (or womanning) shops. Time for people to be with family, or celebrating, or whatever.
Part of me was bummed, because, hey, I felt like shopping!
And part of me was thinking, "So -- if the shops and food vendors seem to all be closed ... what are we all DOING here?"
Are we such a nation of shoppers that we like to wander 'round even when stuff is closed? Or were that many people confused as to the closedness, as we were?

It's probably a great illustration for something, but I'm not quite sure what.

on seven years

I probably should save this post for about six weeks, but I'd most likely forget, or not be in the mood... So I'll strike while the inspiration is hot. Or at least lukewarm.

This morning, I got off the metro at Farragut West -- I usually get off at McPherson Square, but sometimes, if the morning is fine, and my boss is on vacation and can't see when I get in, I add a few blocks to my walk. Especially since this particular route takes me past the White House, and that's always interesting. Always something going on around there, somewhere. This morning, when I pulled my nose away from the Express celebrity gossip page, I saw a planter with about eight varieties of tulips in it. Yellow ones with frilly edges; pinkish-red ones that had multiple layers of petals, giving them more of a posey-ish look; purple fluted ones; and some of the more standard shape, as well. Gorgeous. I kicked myself for not toting my camera around, but you'd think after two visits to Keukenhof, I'd never want to another tulip picture again. But ohhh, I love tulips! They're so simple, and bright, and bold. I love that combo. They lack the complexity of roses, but roses seem more vain and showy and self-aware. And prickly, of course. Whereas, tulips seem more childlike, with the simple splashes of color, and short growing season. And they're one of the first heralds of spring. I love both roses and tulips, actually. They each have their place, and their season.

Lafayette Park was typical for that time of day -- I saw at least four squirrels with peanuts in their mouths, frantically trying to find a place to bury them. I thought they stored things in the fall... Hmmm. It's cute how nervous they look about it. How furtive they seem about their hidey-holes. I saw a working man or two in a fedora, striding importantly along the path. A homeless person or two still slumbering, though not as many as some D.C. parks seem to support. I suspect the po-lice are rather diligent about combing Lafayette for suspicious activity. And oh MY! What gorgeous tulips with purple, um, is it hyacinth? maybe not -- was there. I love that D.C. stays on top of the seasonal plantings. Gorgeous red tulips in front of the White House, too. What a lovely photo I could have taken -- er, had I had my camera -- except that Mr. Nuclear Bomb Protester was there, just as he has been for the past umpteen decades. Anyone know anything about that guy? Does he sleep there, too? I've always wondered. Are there several, and they do shifts? I guess I get irked when people are exercising their freedom to gather, protest, squat across from the White House, and the people (Bush, Clinton, fill in the blank) whose policies they're protesting don't notice or care, but the tourists are the ones who pay with marred photos. Boo. Yeah, yeah. The tourists notice, and the message gets passed on, blah blah. All right. I'm being hard-hearted. Indulge me.

Anyway, it's inspiring, and just plain pretty, to walk by the White House occasionally. To see the hordes of tourists, and realize, hey, they came from a long way away for this moment. And I could see this every workday! It makes me feel a bit better to live thousands of miles away from where I'd like to be.

Which brings me to my actual point. I moved here seven years ago on May 21. Awfully hard to believe. Yet it makes sense, considering all the places I've lived in this area (Cleveland Park, O St. NW, Rosslyn, Manassas) and all the people I've known. I've attended three churches, dated three guys (eep), had a kid. Worked at the same job, miraculously. In two different departments, though.

I've been told that seven years is about when you become indoctrinated to a place. Is that the word I want? Probably not. It's when the Americans who live in Germany really start fearing America. They lose sight of what it really is, and develop a real, deep-seated (seeded?) Germanness. I'm afraid that's what's happening to me. At what point am I not a West Coaster any more? I haven't lived there in eight and a half years. It's feeling less and less part of "me" when I return. More like a place I love, but not a place I'm in. Kind of the same way I feel about England. The mentality, weather, lifestyle (how scary) are feeling familiar here. I have resisted this, but is it worth the fight? Maybe when I stop wanting to go to the West Coast, that's when it'll happen.
More than anything, I'm feeling comfortable here, I think. Like it would be a pain to get up and move. When I think a few years down the road, it's in terms of the D.C. area. Again, not that I WANT to be here. But... if I'm thinking of a few years at a time, it's now a bearable notion.

all that's old is new again

Nothing original here... But still, it must be said.
I wore sandals today that really shouldn't be worn any more. They should be thrown in the trash. But there's something about shoes -- shoes don't really wear out when you're an adult, right? -- that I don't want to part with. They'll be useful, someday! They'll be back in style, someday! As it turns out, I'm right about that last part. My parents used to tease me about these horrid Roman sandal-looking things I wore in high school. To make it worse, I always chose the closed-toed ones -- extra-sandally-looking. Because I thought I had ugly feet. As compared to ... Anyway, I slapped my way over to Hecht's today to see if they had anything to tempt me. They did not. They had an awful lot of stuff that was STRAIGHT from 1985. Unreal! Maybe even from 1984, but if I said that, you'd be searching for a George Orwell connection, and there isn't one, not that I know of, so we'll go with 1985. There was a pair there that used to have a certain name... Can't remember what the style is called. My friend Lisa wore that exact pair for years. I have no idea how she kept them on her feet, and after trying them on -- who can say why I bothered -- I am even more mystified.
So I took my business to Payless Shoe Source, where at least I will be paying a maximum of seventeen bucks for a pair of crappy throwback sandals. And, of course, they had already worn a hole in the top of my foot by the time I had skipped the four blocks or so back to my office. Sheesh.

it'sadressit'sadressit'sadressdressdress

Since you've been so kind as to not mock my public endeavor here, I'll throw you one more to consider. I had originally had it in the "maybe a keeper" pile, but tossed it away because of the cap sleeves, which slipped a lot. But that was in the tester dress, which, as those of you who have been wedding dress shopping might recall, is a really weird system. Women of all shapes and sizes try on (mostly) sizes 10 and 12. It's a bit of a riot to see a size 2 woman clutching at all of the spare material, or a size 22 woman with barely her front covered in the things. I mean, how are we supposed to learn anything from this?
All that to say, it might fit just fine -- and those sleeves might stay put -- if it were tailored for moi.

Without further ado, Option No. 5:




Would it flatter? Would it suit my style (whatever the heck that might be)? Does it combine the elements you've fancied from dresses past? Only you can say!

clearance at Target

Okay, Jayster -- this one's for you. For requesting a Lizzy story, that is.

Matt's been in Vegas since Friday afternoon. That's right -- Sin City. I'm not so much worried about what he might do -- he's not really into doing anything stupid -- I guess I'm just mildly alarmed at the possibilities of what his friends might get into, and what he might feel obligated to do to get them OUT of trouble. But, since 'what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,' I'll probably never know one way or the other. He called me a few hours ago -- he sounded like he was having fun. He and the friends were on their way to their umpteenth breakfast buffet. In response to 'what's the craziest thing anyone's done yet,' he said, "Well, I'm not sure if this is true or not, but I hear that Nick (his goofball younger brother) ran across the street with his pants down at some point." Okay. That's fairly innocent. Heck, the way he wears his pants most of the time (Kids these days! Tsk), it's a wonder they ever stay up at all.
And, as friend Stacy pointed out, "You've got to get into a LOT of trouble in Vegas to get put in jail." So my fears that Matt will have to bail people out are probably unfounded.
He called to ask if a "black Harley/Las Vegas t-shirt" seemed an apropos gift to bring the Lizzard. I said, um. Ooookay. Can't wait to see what he brings me.

But back to my Lizzy tale: So, Matt's been out of town, and my parents left on Saturday afternoon. So it's been "girl's night" for the past couple of nights. On Saturday, I had a couple things to get at Target, so Lizzy and I trucked over there. I might look like a bad parent here by admitting that we watched "The Incredibles" that afternoon. Hey -- she wanted to see it. And, I sorta forgot about the inappropriate violence and shooting and death implied and shown in the movie. Oops. Otherwise, though, it's really great. If you haven't seen it, you should. One of the more realistic family portrayals I've seen in a cartoon, if not THE most. And very well, er, computer animated, and a great plot. Okay. Enough of a plug.

So Lizzy decided that Daddy was "Mr. Credible," and I was "Lastigirl," and she was the daughter, Violet. So I had to call her Violet. There must be a point at which Elastigirl (the mom) carries Violet in her arms with both arms straight out in front, and Violet doing a dead man's flop. Lizzy wanted me to do this in Target. I said, Hey, kid. I'll carry you, but in the usual on my hip, so as to save my arms from undue stress, position. Be happy with that, you almost 40-pounder. But she wasn't. She loves to push what's allowed past the point that we're willing to go, and then throw a fit and see if she can't get her way after all. So she collapsed in a dramatic, sobbing heap about 20 feet into the store. I said, Okay -- you don't want to come with me, stay there. Bye! See ya! Usually, this will send her shooting after us in a panic, or else she'll lie there and sob, in which case I go pick her up and ideally carry her the way I wanted to in the first place. (and, no, she won't ride in the cart. Too easy for everyone to do THAT.) But this time, I looked back, and she was gone. GONE. No sign of her.

As my friend Liz said, well, at least we comfort ourselves with the thought that if some stranger tries to carry our little darling off, she will scream bloody murder and we'll hear it. That was the weird thing -- there was no sign of her. No crying, no laughing, no nothing. I looked all around, and eventually saw her quite far from the starting point. I said, "Lizzy! Come here!" and she bounded away laughing, then only the slap-slap of her receding sandaled footsteps were my clue where she'd gone. I heard slap-slapping from the kid's clothing section, but it turned out to be another sandaled munchkin. I truly had no idea where she was. And the crushing realization of how enormous a Target store is really bore down on me.

It felt like one of those super silly crises -- probably nothing is wrong, probably it will be fine in two minutes... But what if it's not?

I get weird in times of true trouble. Really calm and reactionless. Very clear-headed. Usually, my thought is, "People aren't going to take me seriously unless I'm reacting more than this." It's the smaller things that have me freaking out. Especially if there's a time crunch involved. But losing my kid? Eh.

I actually got the items I went to Target for, then alerted the guy at customer relations that I had lost my 3-year-old daughter. A lady issued a 'code yellow' into her walkie-talkie. I paid for my items, and as the cashier was handing me the receipt, another young woman walked over to the walkie-talkie lady with Lizzy in tow. "Is this her?" Walkie-Talkie asked. Yep, that's her. Dry-eyed, looking a little wary, but my Lizzy.
I couldn't believe she hadn't been freaking out. This kid has been glued to my leg every moment that she's not in day care... Always. Unless there are other kids she knows to play with, and then only if she knows exactly where I am, or can see me.
We've turned a dangerous corner. She's growing up. It's kinda wild. At least now I know not to play the 'dare her' game any more. I knew she'd outgrow it sooner or later.
Darn.

I feel somewhat bad that I didn't show more gratitude to the Target ladies. I think I mostly felt foolish. "Hi! I'm the mom who can't keep track of her kid!" I did say thanks, but could've been more showy about it. I hope they knew. Maybe I'll drop the manager of the store a note this week.

best dressed

MEMO TO MY MALE FRIENDS: You will not care about this post. Trust me. So, just move along, nothing to see here... If you do wish to take part, please do so! But you have been warned. Serious estrogen levels ahead.

So, okay. I know this is unorthodox. I know that NO ONE, least of all my fiancee, is supposed to have the SLIGHTEST CLUE what my wedding dress will look like. I kind of get why, but, well, I kind of don't. I mean, it's a dress. You're not seeing me in it, right? And for just about exactly four years now, nothing in my life has been a secret. So why should this be?

The thing is, dear lady friends, I need your help. I cannot choose! Please feel free to vote. But please don't feel offended if I disregard your thoughtful selection. In the past 24 hours, I have convinced myself, at various times, to go with each of the following. Yep. That's the one. Only to change my mind later.

So I'm not exactly saying "choose for me" ... only sort of saying that.

One friend said, "If you didn't feel like the dress was THE ONE when you put it on, then none of them is." But, c'mon. It's just a dress, for just one day (or two, since I'm having a West Coast reception also). So I shouldn't care so much. And I don't. But, I do have to choose SOMETHING...

Here are the contestants. Please remember that we're talking a late September wedding out in the country. If that makes any difference. And rest assured, these are all flattering, or they would not have made the final cut.

What think ye?

OPTION 1:



















OPTION 2:




















OPTION 3:
(but not pink. Probably ivory. And the edges down the back would be rum-colored. I couldn't find the exact dress online. Actually, I could, but they're not-so-great photos from ebay -- I'll throw two of those on here, too, just to confuse things.)


















OPTION 4:

(please ignore the extremely strange model. Nothing like the 'bedhead hairdo with sea anemone hat' look for your wedding!)

I knew better

There needs to be some sort of sensible formula that parents of small children can use to assess whether a child should be allowed in a particular restaurant. For instance, perhaps for mobile children (those over, say, nine or 10 months -- infants can often sleep through anything), you can't take your child to a restaurant if the restaurant's average entree costs more dollars than your child weighs in pounds. Something like that.
My parents have been in town all this week -- Dad has not one, but two, conferences in D.C. -- so I've been eating heavily. Dining out for most lunches and dinners. Oof! And somehow, that makes me want to consume more coffee, too, and of course there's no time for exercise (is there ever?), so the health is totally going out the window. Yes, restaurants serve salads. On the rare instance, I might even order one. But usually, no. I go for the burger and fries, or whatever sounds good.
Anyway, last night, we wanted to have dinner in D.C. Matt and I racked our brains -- what's vaguely kid-friendly, or at least might be fun for Lizzy, that we haven't been to with my parents before? We've been to Bucca di Beppo, a family fave. We've been to Cactus Cantina, but it wasn't really walkable, anyway. I poked around on the internet and thought, Hm, fondue might be interesting for her!
So, we went to The Melting Pot. Anyone ever been to The Melting Pot? Didn't expect to see a 3-year-old there, did ya? Neither did the other patrons last night, I'm sure. For the record, nobody reacted, and the waitstaff was very patient and good about it all. Lizzy was being a stinker, but not in a way that would really bother anyone else, I guess. I was a wreck, and I'm not quite sure why. I think it was just too many weirdnesses at once. I really enjoy time with my parents, but there's something slightly unsettling about seeing them right after a workday. The usual slog interrupted by family time. I can't quite explain why. I guess after commuting in for work, I have about enough energy to commute back out, entertain Lizzy for three hours and crash when she does. But I wasn't tired, exactly... Oh, who knows. Matt really likes my parents, and my parents like Matt, but there's the inevitable psychoanalyzing by both sides that goes on after each encounter. Just making sure the liking each other continues, maybe.
So Matt thought to get a coloring book and a sticker book for Lizzy. The waiter even gave her a helium balloon. But she wasn't in a mood. Not even the hot, bubbling oil interested her that much. She must've just been hungry and tired. We (Matt and I) kept tensing for her to start crying, and when she did, we'd take her up and out and give her a stern talking-to.
After dinner, we walked to the Ritz-Carlton, which was a bit more fun. Lizzy had some protein and milk in her tummy at last, and was genial. We heard Matt's coworker play the piano in the lobby while we had a little dessert. (the only place I know that charges considerably more for a latte or cappuccino than does Starbucks.) Bread pudding and some sort of apple pie derivative... Yummmm. Daniel, Matt's coworker piano player, is AWESOME. Story goes, a certain former lady prime minister of England is in town, and she was so charmed by Daniel's playing on Tuesday night that she lingered 'round the piano for the last half of his shift. So they asked him back on Wednesday night. (it's a regular gig, but Wed. isn't his regular night.) We hoped to catch a glimpse of the dame, but she had other things to do and had already shuffled off last night, Daniel said. He'll be playing at our wedding and reception... Sweet.
We got home to Manassas at about 11 p.m. Poor Lizzy. She crashed in the car on the way there, but she's still hurtin' for sleep today. Such is the price for time with the grandparents, sometimes.