a question.

Feel free to weigh in on this one: When you overhear people having a public discussion about something -- on the Metro, let's say, or next to you in a line -- and they're struggling for a name, or a fact, that you have on the tip of your tongue, do you break in and tell them? Or, perhaps, under what circumstances (if any) would you join an already-in-progress conversation with strangers?

The following anecdote isn't a perfect illustration of the above, but it says a lot about me. The fact that I have an imperfect record at keeping my mouth shut, specifically. And that I may perhaps know a bit more about certain elements of pop culture than is technically necessary. (and less about lots of other things than I should.)

I dedicate this story to my friend Tim Davies. (pronounced DAVIS.) Those of you who know who he is will see why in a moment.

Tuesday night, I was hanging out at the front desk of the bridal shop, waiting for something or other -- a ticket to be written up? A credit card to be run? -- when I overheard two women, both aged somewhere between 50 and 60, discussing the CD that was currently playing. One woman might have been the owner of the shop -- definitely worked there, at the very least -- and I have no idea who the other was. Perhaps she worked there, too.

"This music is so lovely!" said the woman who's possibly the owner. "What is it?"

"Oh, it's some opera excerpts, a lot of them by (a young singer we'll call Carlotta Temple)," said woman No. 2.

"Who?" said Possibly The Owner.

At this, my ears perked up. I find it fascinating when I know something that someone else doesn't know. It's just so unusual, in the Land of the Pompously Overeducated (the D.C. area).
My mistake, of course, was lumping Manassas into that category. I MUST remember to stop doing that.

"She's a really young, really amazing singer. She has the most beautiful voice," said Woman 2.

"Oh. Where's she from?" said PTO.

"I ... I ... I'm not sure," said W2.

I waited a few beats for her to come up with it. It wasn't going to happen. Finally, I said,

"She's from Wales."

The first woman looked at me as if I just spoken in tongues. She had no idea what I'd just said. "What?" she said.

"She's from Wales. She's Welsh," I said, suddenly doubting myself.

"I thought she was from somewhere like Hungary or Romania," says the other lady.

"What's Wales?" the first lady asks me.

At this point, I'm seriously wishing I had kept the trap shut.

"You know -- Scotland, Ireland, Wales, England. The U.K.," I said, waving my arm in a clockwise motion to indicate the position of the islands (from her perspective).

Now, if I'm this lady, I would have begun to feel stupid. I would have said, "Oh," and hoped that the conversation died. Because, not to have HEARD of Wales? I can understand not knowing where it is. Who hasn't at least heard of the Prince of Wales?
Maybe lots of people. Okay.

But then she says, in a bit of a chiding manner, "Why didn't you just say British, then? Isn't it the same thing?"

My jaw dropped a little. Here's my second chance to keep quiet. But, no.

"I know lots of people who wouldn't consider them the same," I say, half-jokingly.

"What are you, Welsh yourself?" she retorts.

"I, uh, lived there for awhile," I say. Then I think of a great analogy. I open my mouth, ready to compare it to, say, Chinese and Japanese people. And then I take a look at the lady. Who obviously hailed from somewhere in Asia, originally. But a very long time ago (at least, she has an American accent now). I say nothing.

"How old is she?" the first lady says.

"Fifteen or so," says the second lady.
"Early twenties," I say.
The ladies look at me. I decide to stop talking.

The two ladies resume their conversation. "Her voice is so pretty! says Possibly the Owner. "What does she look like?" (don't ask me why the intense interest. It was just weird.)

"Oh, she's kind of a strawberry-blonde," says the other lady.
"Oh. Orange hair," says the first.

Carlotta would be fascinated to hear that her hair is orange. It is SO not orange.

My mind suddenly floods with trivia about this particular singer. All the alleged partying and hard living she does now. (When I got home, I did a Google image search to verify hair color. The fourth or fifth photo shows her topless. Might be photoshopped, but if so, it's the best photoshopping job, EVER. Classy!)

But, these ladies wanted to believe in a sweet little flame-haired teenager with the voice of an angel. Who was I to throw the cold water of tabloid rumors onto their fire?

I think I cared at all because I went to a book-signing of said opera diva-ette about five years ago at the Arlington Olsson's Books. I don't go to a lot of these things, so maybe all the "authors" do this, but this gal refused to sign anything but a copy of her crappy, hardbound "autobiography." (she WAS 15 at this time. Must've been quite the extensive read.) And then, she would sign only one item. One item per $25 purchase of said book. You bought an album of hers, and wanted her to sign the CD cover? Too bad. Unless you purchased the book, and wanted her to sign that instead of the book.

I opened the book halfheartedly to see what sort of fascinating revelations it contained. I read a short passage about how she, her mum and her stepdad, I think, were driving somewhere, and she belched, and one of her parents told her to stop, because it would ruin her voice. Tee-hee!

Blech.

And, long live Wales. May your ex-pats not shame you.

gains and losses

My wedding dress came in this week. I went to the shop and tried it on Tuesday night. And ... ugh. Maybe going with the size that was a bit smaller than me was a bad idea. (I was between sizes. Had to go a bit down, or a bit up.)

"This will be fine!" the dress lady chortled encouragingly. "You can lose five pounds between now and then, and it will still fit!" I'll say it would. And my shoulder blades might not even touch each other. And wedding guests might not be whispering to each other, trying to sort out whether the small spare tire around my middle is fat, or baby No. 2.

Ugh.

So -- nine weeks to go. No problem, right? You could practically sneeze off five pounds. Sure. Yeah.

Yesterday, despite extreme hunger (I ate breakfast and lunch; whatup with that?) I didn't snack at all, and then last night, I worked out -- that's a good start! When I got home, our favorite neighbor had stopped by, with fresh veggie goodies from her garden -- also good -- and HOMEMADE BLUEBERRY MUFFIN CAKE. With sugar on top. Verrry tasty!

Then, today, at work -- a place of great peril for diet-busting -- the national press building is giving away FREE ICE CREAM. I'm racking my brain to think of something that would be more tempting. Perhaps this, but not much else. And you would not believe the variety. Strawberry shortcake ice cream? Or chocolate-coated vanilla ice cream, with a chocolate core? Or, an old favorite, ice-cream sandwich. No drumsticks that I noticed, fortunately.

I managed to resist, but I fully expect to find my car full of Starburst, or that this is the one day of the year that the day care offers free samples of our dessert fundraiser. Just you wait.

Naturally, if I had one iota of self-control, none of this would matter. I would reign supreme over the tasty, tasty, sweet temptations, laughing at their pathetic attempts to ensnare me! My strength would overcome! I WOULD HAVE THE POWER!

But I so don't. No power. Of the will variety, anyway. And Matt doesn't help. He says he'll help, but when I fail to eat three massive slabs of chicken breast, he says, "You're not starving yourself, are you?" What a great Italian mother he would make.

I promise not to care any more, once the wedding is past. This is THE LAST TIME I will care. From a vanity perspective, anyway.

question of the day

Have any of you ever used your cell phone -- to call someone, I mean, not just to look up a number or something -- in a public bathroom stall?! How 'bout, in your office building?

C'mon, people. Are you THAT hard up for private space/time? And, "I worked on Halloween! She read POETRY on Halloween? Oh. Okay. ... I love you, too." Was that conversation really of vital import?

I hope whomever you were talking to enjoyed the loud flush near the end of the conversation from your neighbor to the right. It was the least I could do, quite literally.

*sound of bride-to-be hyperventilating*

So. Guess who was fired? The woman whose job it was to coordinate events at our reception site, that's who.

First of all, it's a shame. I liked her. I was afraid that was going to happen.

Second of all, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Because the guy who's suddenly got an extra job and a half dumped in his lap is unlikely to care very much about the finer points, I would suspect. He seems all about convincing us that things will be fine, which, as I might have mentioned the first time we chatted with him, I find rather insulting. Dude, MAKE things fine. Tell me the ways in which things will be fine, and then I might choose to believe you.

Do you remember the scene from "Mars Attacks" (a much better movie than you might think, if you haven't seen it. Or maybe I'm the only one who thinks so) in which the Martians chase the people around, saying, "We come in peace! We will not harm you!" and other total lies designed to get people to let them approach, at which time the Martians would obliterate them with a laser blast? (or some other weapon. I really don't remember.) That's what this feels like. Your words do nothing to comfort me! Show me that you are doing something about it! Prove yourself, man!

Also -- I wonder when we were going to be informed of this change. Are they just waiting around until brides-to-be call them, expecting to talk to the coordinator? Lovely.

I'm getting off track here. Suffice to say: Yikes. This puts an entirely new angle on things.

hair's to ya, darlin'

Poor Matt. He just can't catch a break. If anything embarrassing happens to him, his fiancee blasts it to the "whole world" (all eight friends of hers who read her blog). Such is life. We must suffer for our art.

Matt was one of those curious individuals who, looks-wise, had his heyday in his teen years. I, myself, looked like some species of dog in my teen years, on my better days. Some species of rather sizable dog. Matt, however, was ... well, quite the cutie. Naturally, I did not know him then, alas. But this is probably a good thing, since I would've been graduating from high school shortly after his 12th birthday. Ewwww.

Legend has it that he resembled some combination of Patrick Dempsey -- in the "Can't Buy Me Love" era -- and John Cusack, he of "Say Anything" fame. One of the components of Matt's relentless cuteness -- judging only from the few photos that survive from the era, and hearsay -- was his fine mop of hair. He cringes when he remembers the time he took peroxide to the bangs, which turned them some form of nasty reddish-yellow. He swears he cannot imagine what he was thinking. I suspect he had the mind-set of many young men: I will live forever. I will never be old, or bald, or suffer any other such hideous deformity.
And that's probably good. Teens shouldn't spend a lot of time obsessing about their mortality, right?

Unfortunately, he was mistaken. In the five-plus years that I have known Matt, his hair has been slowly but surely making its escape from his scalp. Now, I adore the photos of him with a full, curly black head of hair, but I don't really much care what his hair does or doesn't do. I'd be opposed to him dying it bright pink, or sporting a mohawk, and I'm not a huge fan of him shaving his head to the skin, but otherwise -- who cares? After all, Patrick Stewart is my favorite Star Trek captain. Quite a sexy bald man.
Matt, however, cares deeply, and bemoans the death of each follicle. He tries to treat what remains with respect and dignity.

Recently, he has been having his hair cut at a barber shop of sorts in Vienna. We stop there on our way home every so often, and a lady named Bee Bee takes care to give him his customary "Four on top, two on the sides." It looks pretty good. He pays his $12, plus tip, and we inch our merry way back down 66 toward Manassas.

Yesterday, though, we had a hiccup in this routine. We decided on the fly that we would stop at the shop for the cut. Our schedule has been a little more restrictive than usual recently -- this is my fault, with the afore blogged-about workout routine I've been attempting to maintain -- so we take the windows of opportunity that present themselves. Bee Bee, however, did not cooperate with us. Turns out she was on vacation, or some darned thing. I entreated Matt to get a haircut anyway, telling him that stopping by the shop again later in the week would throw off the pre-set rhythms established. He agreed, but warily.

We knew the risks. We took the chance.

We paid the price.

I dearly wish I had a photo to share at this point, but my wedding would probably be called off if I dared to post such a thing, so it's just as well.

As you can tell, the cut went badly. In my mind, a man's haircut -- at least, when you get to Matt's stage of hair loss -- is a fairly basic thing. Heck, even I could do it! (And have.)
I'm in favor of getting cuts at barber shops, though, because they clean up their mess, it's not that expensive, and they should know what they're doing.

Should.

The young woman who sat Matt in the chair in front of her was told, "Four on top; two on the sides." She took her electric razor, and with one sweep down the middle of the top of the head, rendered Matt speechless with horror.
Even the guy across from him, in another chair, said, "Oh, man -- there's no WAY that's a four."

Tension hovered thick in the air for the rest of the ill-fated cut. More like a "two" all over. Not good.

I'm not sure if Matt ultimately was maddest about the botched cut itself, or the fact that the young woman, and the guy who apparently was the manager (?), kept insisting that, according to HER razor, she HAD used a four. Matt kept saying, "But the point of the numbers is that they're consistent! You need to use a consistent measure! That's the point!" They kept pointing to the woman's razor, and gesticulating, and insisting that it had been a four. Matt countered with an analogy about going into a shoe store and asking for a size 10, only to receive a size 5 and being told it was a 10. (Clearly, Matt is a man. Any woman can tell you that you MUST try clothes on. Never shop by size.)

Throughout these charades, Lizzy remained entranced alternately by the M&M vending machine, the Happy dwarf figurine by the cash register, and the tantalizing possibility that she might get a Dum-Dum lollipop, like the little boy who exited the store minutes earlier. I was torn between the inherent fascination of the debate, and horror at what might ensue.

The shop folks actually charged Matt for the cut, which I still can't believe. He held it together, aside from voicing his displeasure, until we reached the car. God bless his shorn little head. He was rather depressed for the rest of the evening.

I told him he would look natty in a hat. He said, "I can't wear a hat to the office!" I said, there are hats that aren't baseball hats! He said, oh, really? Well, then, I'll wear one at the wedding. I said, okay. Do so. Hey! Then you'll be taller than me for sure.

The debate lives on. All I can say is, thank goodness this cut did not occur right before the wedding. Because then I'd be the one flipping my lid, and heaven help the shopkeeper then.

ode to the '80s

I saw this photo online, and couldn't resist, ahem, borrowing it:




TOO AWESOME.

The partial weekend with extra munchkin went well, of course. Isn't it the things we agonize over that end up going smoothly, and the things we think will be great fun that crash and burn? He was very well-mannered -- more so than our kiddo, I daresay -- and they played nicely together. He seemed delighted to be in a bigger space (he lives in a 2-bdrm apt.) with lots of new (to him) toys. Gave the train table a lot of love that it hasn't seen in awhile. He didn't seem to miss his mom until she came to get him, which was a blessing.

Getting the two of them to sleep was a challenge, but that's any two kids, I'll bet.

The one thing that really set Matt's and my teeth on edge after awhile was the frequent "Why"? s. In retrospect, I think we skirted that stage with Lizzy for the most part. She asks a lot of questions when, say, we are watching a new movie or reading a new book, but she asks them in full sentences, seems to absorb the answer, and asks intelligent follow-up questions. Then, the next time around, she will inform us of all of this information. :) This kiddo seemed to be waiting until the end of the explanation to ask "Why?" again. We figured it was more of a game to him than a way to learn. Which, after about nine straight hours, became wearying. He was also hard to understand -- I forgot how much of a specific kid's pronunciation one picks up on after being around the specific kid a lot.

But all in all, it worked out! Felt good to do someone else a favor, for once. I'm usually on the receiving end of favors. I'll have to try to even the ledger a bit.

We also got an 'invitation prototype' banged out. Then realized we were thinking about two different start times for the wedding. Whoops! But, no major printer disasters, or anything else I feared. The envelope embossing doesn't appear to melt anything inside. Whew.

Next on the agenda: Florist, invitation compiling, envelope addressing. And, getting our new furnace and a/c unit tomorrow! Talk about your zero-thrill purchase. This will be the least bang for my buck (for a few months, at least) EVER.

the beat goes on

I feel like I've been rather negative on the ol' blog lately. I've tried to avoid posts without any redeeming quality aside from venting, but maybe just one won't be so bad. :)

You know how certain annoying events or occurrences aren't a big deal, unless you've put up with them in the past? Sometimes, when something small reminds me of some huge past grievance, I react in a way that is far overblown. I am having that feeling right now.

I don't recall if I've mentioned the apartment where Lizzy and I lived before we moved out to Manassas. We loved being in Rosslyn -- yes, I'll go ahead and speak for her, since she almost never had to get into a car during that era, except during the Dark Days when her daddy and I weren't together, and she commuted out and in with him, but hey, she's doing it now all the time, so I guess it wasn't that bad after all, hey? -- Rosslyn is SO convenient. And has a nice park or two, in one of which is buried a whole bunch of important military people. A nice place to walk and ponder stuff. But not to jog, regardless of what Hollywood will lead you to believe -- they always film those scenes elsewhere. Anyway, this apartment was a couple of blocks down the street from our previous, and very awesome, first Rosslyn apartment -- the one Mike and Stacy moved out of when they went to The Shire. That apartment -- the first one -- had such lovely, thick walls. I've never been in a place that carried less noise from apartment to apartment. Out in the hall, you could hear some stuff sometimes -- the doors allowed sound to carry a bit -- but who cares? You're not trying to sleep in the hallway, generally.

This second apartment afforded us more space, and some precious counter space in the kitchen. A lovely, remodeled kitchen, a new carpet, etc. Lizzy and I had our own bedrooms! I could close her door and actually watch TV. Bliss! (The first Rosslyn apartment was rather small.)

Sadly, our very nice neighbor next door moved out a few months after we moved in -- I'm pretty sure there wasn't a connection there -- and a total jerk took his place. This guy loved to throw raging parties -- "Dude, I've never been so drunk! I'm not sure I can even drive home," was heard one night as one of Jerk's friends stumbled down the stairwell past me. On his way to his car. Charming. I was really tempted to call the police and ask them to pick off the DUIers one by one as they departed. I'm a sweetheart like that.

If this guy was home, his music was on. Always. Really loud. Always thumping. You could feel it, if you put your hand on the adjoining wall. He had a cute little blonde girlfriend who tried to run us down with her car one time, as well. The hazards of, well, living someplace with neighbors, I guess.

It's one thing to have loud neighbors. Annoying, but, I suppose, bearable. It's an entirely other thing to have a 1-year-old who doesn't like to sleep in the first place, to try to get down each night while these shenanigans are raging. Also, we had a couple of lovely Moroccan men in the apartment above us who loved to have dinner parties and talk, VERY LOUDLY, late into the night.

We got our revenge at 1:30 a.m. many nights, when Lizzy would wake up, crying. I honestly don't remember why, all the crying. Did she want me, and did I cruelly insist on sleeping in my own bed, and having her sleep in hers? I think it was for a sippy cup of milk, actually. The mommy brain tends to forget these details, as soon as it is allowed.

I'm reliving these fond memories today, because we have neighbors HERE AT WORK, in the National Press Building, for goodness' sake, who are apparently having some sort of midday rage. Next door or above us; it's difficult to say. My cube neighbor, D., says it sounds like it might be Eminem. It's the fastest-paced, thumpiest Eminem I've heard, if so. And I thought I liked Eminem (mostly). Not when coming through the wall, mutedly, though.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

small steps

Last night, we knocked out the selection of tuxes. Yesss! It was a joke, albeit an expected one, how easy it is to say, "Yeah -- we'll take that combo of jacket style/shirt style/tie style/color palette/shoe selection. Fine." If only the wedding gown were that easy.

Lizzy even behaved herself like a princess the whole time. The shop -- same one where I got my dress, conveniently enough in Manassas -- is across the parking lot from McDonald's, so we went and got a Happy Meal with a promise of return to play on the McPlayPlace when we were done with tux selection. She daintily dipped her McChicken McNuggets in the McKetchup, and likewise her McApple McDippers in the McCaramel McGoo. (she used to list French fries as one of her favorite foods, but somewhere along the line recently, they have fallen out of favor. I'm not shedding a tear over it.)
She told me this morning that ketchup was on her favorite food list. I said, Lizzy, that's a condiment! She looked momentarily taken aback, then digested the information, and said, "Mom, you know what one of my favorite cond'ments is? Cinnamon rolls." Seemed unrelated to me, but maybe ketchup and cinnamon rolls are closely aligned in the 3-year-old mind.

For reasons I cannot fathom, Matt brought up an 'unresolved point' for us to argue about, all over again, on the way home/and to the tux shop. I don't know why we seem to get in arguments right before wedding-planning outings. I mean, I'd understand it if the arguments were about wedding-related items. But this seemed merely picking nits for zero reason. I truly don't know what was going on. I guess something just reminded him of it, so he wanted to get it 'resolved.'

There's probably a logic-related term for this -- an all-or-nothing? Something that's either a, or b? In which compromise isn't really possible? It's the old, tired newlywed discussion over whether his friends can 'crash in the basement' or not. Sheesh. You'd think we'd have hashed this one out by now. I think the root of it is that Matt doesn't want to feel that I'm making "house rules" -- that makes him feel like he has no power, or say, in what occurs. And yet, to have his friends come over, smoke a lot and then wallow on our couch, on which I sometimes like to, you know, sit, makes me feel gross. And I want order, darnit! I want pre-planning! I, well, I want them to go home to their own beds like civilized people! They live 10 or 20 minutes away, for pete's sake!

So we managed not to get into shouts over it or periods of silence that lasted for days (this time). We managed to get to the tux place and have a civilized discussion and make a civilized decision. It was, in short, miraculous. It was weird, because we walked in there and met with the lady who convinced me that the dress I got was just right for me, yadda yadda. When I took Lizzy to McDonald's, Matt still seemed rather uptight and frosty. By the time we got back, five minutes or less later, he was loose, relaxed and laughing with the lady. She is AMAZING! I need to tell her at some point how amazing she is sometime.

If I had a photo of the tux combo, I'd post it, but then again, a tux is a tux is a tux, right? They're black, and the groomsmen will wear champagne (light brown, really)-colored vest and tie. The ties are 'hand-knotted,' which to me means they look like regular ties. Not cravats, not bow ties. The shirts are off-white. The groom, the father of the bride and the ringbearer will be in black tux and black vest and tie. I think they'll look sharp.

I'll have another chance to practice my nearly nonexistent sense of hospitality this weekend when Matt's first cousin once removed -- his first cousin's child, who is Lizzy's second cousin (trust me) -- comes to stay with us. We've met him on two Thanksgivings. Don't really know him at all. He's about exactly Lizzy's age. I'm not that excited about it, I'll be honest -- he'll be at our place from 5 p.m. Friday to 6 or 7 p.m. Saturday. I think it's the fact that we don't really know him (if it were, say, Sophie, or Levi, or Ethan, or Elizabeth, I'd feel totally differently), but c'mon! How cold-hearted can I be? I'm just a selfish, selfish person, and I'm coming to realize that. So I am looking at it as a chance to loosen up a bit. Learn how to share -- a bit. You'd think I was actually putting myself out here in some way, the way I'm reacting to it.

I just won't let him sleep on our couch. :)

home improvement

For those of you who lie awake at night, wishing for updates in the continuing stooooory of our air conditioning system:

We had a guy come out on Saturday -- we'll say he was from, uh, the HMS Fur -- to give us a competing estimate. I said, might as well check out the furnace while you're here. I know it's a good 30 years old, and have heard from the two other people to look at it (home inspection guy and coil maintenance guy) that its days are seriously numbered. Yep, he says, that thing's gotta be replaced, too. No shock that he would agree. So after several stellar price reductions, we get way down to $5,400 to replace them both. Woo-WHEEE!

As he's putting together paperwork for the interest-deferred (MATT: "Interest-free?" MR. FUR: "Interest-deferred,") loan, I'm thinking, well, this is it. Nothing else can go wrong in this dang house. Before we moved in, the water heater was replaced, as were pretty much all of the utilities (fridge, etc). Whoops, not the stove. Forgot about that one. We patched up the roof last fall. We found the badly-sweated pipe the week we moved in. This should about do it!
And then, mere minutes later, I shriek a little and jump up from the couch. A big bug of some sort just landed on the arm of the couch next to me. It looks like ... an ant with wings. Mr. Fur says, "Huh! That looks like a flying ant, all right. Probably a carpenter ant. Nasty beasties. Maybe a scout. They can eat a home right up." I'm mentally kicking myself and my smugness.

Sorry, God! We really ARE at Your mercy and grace. Not our own. Not our own efforts or promises of wealth or anything else. Forgive me. Please don't allow a pox on our house.

Now it's left to Matt and me to thumb-wrestle to see who "gets" to take a vacation day to lounge around the house whilst the servicemen install both systems next week.

In other repair: Matt *snicker* broke the stair out back recently -- it had been threatening to give way since we moved in -- so his brother came over yesterday, and they slaved away at crafting a new little staircase back there. Matt tells me, at an early stage, they said to each other, Hm. We're going to need a crowbar to pry these stairs off the house! Matt wiggled it experimentally. Totally gave way with ease in his hands. Turns out, the board -- which is part of the wall of our house -- to which it was nailed is rotten. With his gloved fingers, Matt poked a hole through it big enough that he could peer into the basement.

We no longer wonder how our cricket chorus found its way down there last summer.

today's wedding topic

Not a subject to fascinate, perhaps... Hymns.

For those of you still with me: Thoughts? Suggestions? I'd like to have a hymn or two. As a way to pad out the wedding, I admit, but also because I love hymns, and it seems like a neat way to get everyone to participate and come together, in some sense.

So I'm looking for a wedding-appropriate hymn, and so far I've come up with -- nada. Did any of you married types use hymns? Which ones? I thought of one that I love, and read the lyrics and the history a little closer, and realized that it was written by some guy who was dumped by his fiancee when he went blind, and wrote the hymn years later, in despair, on the day his sister (who helped him through all this) got married. Perhaps not the best pick.

And, it should be something that Matt wouldn't object too much to. No, "Jesus, my fair redeemer, You're the only thing that matters to me" sort of blatancy. (yes, that's an actual word. I was surprised, too.)

Hip-hop psalm

Currently, Matt and I are avoiding doing wedding invitations. Not a constructive policy, but it's working for us so far.

I have been paddling about on the internet this week, looking at all of the 'unique readings for your wedding!' Web sites that the other 20 million brides-to-be are also checking out. The following was not among them, but Matt suggests (jokingly) that we use it. I said, okay, but only if your brother and other friend do beat-box behind whoever's doing the reading.

Without further ado, I present:

The 23rd Psalm
taken from "The Hip Hop Prayer Book"

The Lord is all that,
I need for nothing.
He allows me to chill.
He keeps me from being heated
And allows me to breathe easy.
He guides my life
So that I can represent and give
Shouts out in his Name.
And even though I walk through the Hood of death,
I don't back down
For you have my back.
The fact that you have me
covered allows me to chill.
He provides me with back-up
In front of my player-haters
And I know that I am a baller
And life will be phat.
I fall back in the Lord's crib
For the rest of my life.

As usual, when I read this psalm, I just can't decide which verse is my favorite.

prandial ponderable

It occurred to me last night, over dinner, that this is the only place in Manassas where one is guaranteed not to encounter a Hispanic person. One who isn't working there, that is.

disclaimer: I was not seeking such a place. The irony just struck me, that's all.

yee haw

Most exciting things I've done since Saturday, in order of greatest excitement:

1) Found a Lightning McQueen car at McDonald's! Amazing. Yes, I was that idiot customer who held up the line whilst the cashier hunted it down, but honest -- I didn't even ask for it, specifically. Just asked which cars they had left. Jackpot!

2) Watched fireworks last night. Yay! With friends, no less. Didn't get caught in the crush of people in 'downtown Manassas,' but unfortunately did get stuck in the cross-town traffic en route to home. Oh, well. Still beats being out in public during the festivities. (more firework-related material in future post)

3) Got the air conditioning fixed on Sunday afternoon. You remember the day -- the one in which it was NINETY-FIVE DEGREES out. This would have easily ranked as my most exciting event, but for the high cost of repair (if one year equaled $100, it cost about as much money as Lizzy is old) and the fact that the repairman figured we'd need an entirely new system within the next year. Ouch.

4) Had only a few kids to watch during church! I feel kinda bad about this one. Like we owe the church another shift sometime soon. So, fellow kid-watchers, you know whom to ask if you need someone to take your turn.

5) Found the reusable Starbucks cup I lost, which entitles me to 55-cent refills on coffee. YESSSSSS. (it was on the floor of the car. The car that prompts Lizzy to brightly proclaim every now and then, "John said our car has a LOT of JUNK." Yes, Lizzy. He did. And, it does.)

Speaking of Lizzy -- this, by the way, was NOT a highlight: As probably anyone who knows Lizzy very well knows, she LOVES babies. She's always threatening to hold them, and rubbing their wee fuzzy heads, etc. So she was stalking the only baby at last night's 4th of July party, and his poor mother. (for her sake, I shall not name them here, but it's kinda pointless because most of you can probably suss out who the parties were.) I noticed that she skipped off after them into the living room a couple of times, and showered the baby with attention. The mother is a kind and patient lady, and as far as I could tell, Lizzy didn't seem to be interjecting herself too much, so I didn't worry about it.
This morning, she tells me, "(Baby X)'s mommy was feeding him milk last night with ... (struggle to find the right word) her 'elbow tummy.' "
"Oh, was she," I say, with alarm. Oh, poor Baby X's mother. I'm sure it's barrels o' fun to try to breastfeed your baby with a curious 3-year-old hanging over you.
"Yes!" Lizzy says. "The wasn't any more milk in the bottle, so she had to feed (Baby X) milk with her elbow tummy."

I confess -- I let it go. "Hmmm," I said. That anatomy lesson is likely to come in our own family soon enough. But it's weird, because we've given names to these 'elbow tummy' appendages that women have. I just never know how things are going to filter through that curious little head.

elbow tummy?

hot, hot, hot

I know there are bigger problems in the world right now -- such as, what's going on in Wimbledon this fortnight? I hear Andre Agassi's retiring. Which is sad. There are few good American men out there. Not that it's super important. I think the retiring is more striking to me because he rose through the ranks and hit his stride while I was first loving tennis, and the Old Guard, as I knew it, is most definitely gone now. Except for perhaps Tim Henman. I see that he lost. When WILL that boy retire? Britain, just accept that Greg Rusedski is an honorary Brit, and get it over with. Oh, so he's considered old now, too? Well, FINE -- but all I can really think about is how freeking hot it is in our townhouse. Lizzy and I are sleeping on the Cot O' Springs in the basement for the third night. The repairman was to come between 2 and 5, then it became 5 and 7, then it became, um, whenever, then he called at 9:50 and said no-go today. Ugh.

I'm just grateful I have a/c to break! And that I'm no longer renting an apartment on the second, or third, or fifth floor with no basement to escape to. (at least then I didn't have to pay for repairs. Oh, wait. That wasn't a grateful comment. Oops.)

(note to Ross: Thank you for your fine suggestion, but the a/c didn't seem to do any better post-defrost and scrubdown. Rats!)

I'm having fun lying here in a puddle of sweat, listening to the pop-pop of early-bird fireworks. Praying that none land on my newly repaired roof. Ahhhh, home ownership.