Richard Marx drove me to it

I tote my iPod -- last year's awesome Christmas gift -- around faithfully with me almost wherever I go, but so rarely break it out and listen to it.

Today, I had no choice. I had some crappy song that I used to do aerobics to in gym class in the '80s stuck in my head. Yikes.

And, you know what? It took me about 25 seconds to extricate it from the depths of my purse. Not really a sacrifice. And I've so enjoyed listening to it for the past 45 minutes or so. Just think about how the quality of my life would improve in general if I weren't so lazy about so very many things.

In honor of my newfound friend, I thought I'd do something that I've seen on a couple of blogs. I'll write down the first 10 songs that come up on shuffle.

Here they are:

1. Piano in the Dark -- Brenda Russell
I admit, I have a girly weakness for overwrought, emotional songs. This is one of my faves of that type. I actually hunted it down on iTunes and forked over my 99 cents for it.

2. Material Girl -- Madonna
I'm a little surprised I have this one on there. I didn't like it at the time, but I've learned to embrace the '80s in all of its cheese. Many's the artist I'm quite fond of that I really didn't like when I was in high school. (can you say Prince, for instance?)

3. Dependin' on you -- Doobie Brothers.
I love the Doobie Brothers. More specifically, I LOVE Michael McDonald. (and, yes, I've seen 'The 40-Year-Old Virgin.' ha HA.)

4. Soul Dance Number Three -- Wilson Pickett
This one's DEFINITELY Matt's fault. He's the Pickett fan. One of his favorite songs is 'Man and a Half.'

5. Deep and Wide -- Veggie Tales
You can guess whose fault THIS one is. Believe me, it got skipped over right quick.

6. Jump -- Van Halen
I LOVE Van Halen. Heck, I think I loved this song even in 1985. How can you not love this song? It's one of the all-time classics.

7. I Still Believe -- Jeremy Camp (from the WOW No. 1s album)
There's also a large place still in my heart for the stuff I did listen to a lot in the 80s -- cheesy, heartfelt, not necessarily musically good Christian stuff.

8. Hold Me, I'm Falling -- The Unknown (an instrumental from the 'Monsoon Wedding' soundtrack)
I love soundtracks. I love, love movie soundtracks. Someone else went to all the trouble to compile a bunch of awesome music for me! And in some cases, I get to relive the memories of some of my favorite movies! This should really be the 'Nora Ephron award moment.'
Oddly, I haven't even seen 'Monsoon Wedding,' now that I think about it. I just love the sound of Indian-style music.

9. How -- The Cranberries.
Uh, yeah. I guess I like the Cranberries, too. Not this particular song, per se. I don't generally care for angry music, with Alanis Morrisette the occasional exception.

10. A Time to Love -- Stevie Wonder
Another musical master I didn't appreciate in the '80s. Hey -- I thought of him for years as the guy who sang 'I Just Called To Say I Love You'! Ugh.

theology

I had a “first” a few nights ago – I was served communion by my 5-year-old daughter.
What few members of our church remained in the D.C. area over Christmas gathered with two other residual groups to read some Bible passages, sing some songs and have a “hearty communion.” Which I’m now a big fan of! What a tasty bounty of bread, juices and all sorts of fabulous fruit.

Toward the end, we passed around a cup of grape juice and a loaf of bread, and were instructed to offer them to the person on our right so that person could tear off a hunk of bread and dip it in the juice. Lizzy was on my left.

I might diverge from some of my churchgoers here when I say that I’m not really in favor of kids taking part in communion if they're too young to grasp what it is. And I know that Lizzy is definitely too young to have any idea of what communion is. I'm not too wound up about the bread and drink themselves being sacred, or anything; it just doesn't make much sense to me, to perform a symbolic gesture if one is unable to understand the symbolism. But when she solemnly handed me the elements, I knelt down and tried to explain to her in a sentence or two that we eat and drink these things to remember Jesus, and how much he loves us. She nodded her head. I’m told later that she double-dipped her bread. Oops!

This would seem to be the first year that she’s starting to get her head around the Nativity story. I’ve tried to read it to her in past years – in “Little Golden Book” form, not in full-fledged Biblical passage form – and she’s really resisted, so I figured, well, I don’t want the story of Christ’s birth to be forced on her. I’ll wait until she’s a little older. This year, when she hears a mention of Mary, she says to me, “I know what happened to Mary! She rode on a donkey when she was pregnant with baby Jesus.” “Yes, she did, sweetie,” I respond.

The other night, she added more to the story. “And Joseph was there, too. Well, I don’t really know why he’s called Joseph, because he’s also called God,” she says. I pondered that for a moment, then realized that it was the “who’s your daddy?” element of the story that confused her. Hm. I tried to explain as best I could, and I tried not to chuckle while I did it. I love the earnestness with which kids process things.

She’s yet to ask me WHY God sent Jesus to live among us. I’ve explained that he was meant to teach us how to live good and loving lives, and to tell us about God and how much he loves us. I feel that obviously that’s not the entirety of the story, but I really don’t know at what age it’s appropriate to go the whole nine yards of the crucifixion with your kid. I’ll have to ask around for opinions on that one.

on behalf of your gift-giving loved ones,

I do earnestly beseech and entreat you to refrain from making purchases for yourself within a couple of weeks of Christmas.

And five days before Christmas? Definitely not then.

Keep in mind as well that if the item is particularly sought after, and it is known that you would welcome the item with great delight, what would have been a fantastic surprise for you might then well be ruined. And certain parties' effort that went into procuring said surprise might then be all for naught.

And when you are told expressly not to buy a particular item? DO NOT BUY IT. It's just possible the person who said that might have had an excellent reason for doing so.

looking for the weekend

I hate to come across – or perhaps be? – someone ruled by mood swings (thanks, pregnancy!), but it really felt to me this morning as if a recent cloud had been lifted. I’m not sure what the cloud is, or was – I think largely just the daily grind lately. This season is so relentless, it doesn’t feel like I’ve left, or perhaps created, any space to just enjoy it. And I do so love the Christmas (or should I say Advent?) season.

I don’t know why today seems so much sunnier. Is it that we’re so close to the long weekend, I can smell it? I don’t even mind the fact that I’m working Monday. It still feels like a long, no-pressure weekend lies ahead. Or that the traffic was so minimal this morning? To underscore that point, I noticed with amazement that there was a major accident that blocked two lanes of Hwy. 66 traffic at what would normally be a critical point in the commute. That accident (bless them – I hope everyone was okay. I don’t mean to minimize that) would have slowed things down 30 to 45 minutes on any average day. But FINALLY, enough people have left town to make it smooth sailing, accident or no.

Or was it the bit of festive shopping I squeezed in before heading to work?

I’d hate to think my mood could turn on such inconsequential things. But I’ll enjoy the good mood, anyway.

In other news, we get to inherit a pet for about a week and a half.! Lizzy’s classroom needed to find a Christmas home for their guinea pig, Graham Cracker. He is SUCH a cutie, and (I hear) so well-behaved. He’s even taught Lizzy to like salad! I’m all for any creature that can do that. I’ll have to post some photos of our short-term resident. Maybe he can make friends with the squirrels.

Lizzy’s going on a field trip, on the metro, to see Santa Claus at a local mall (Pentagon City) today. McDonald’s lunch is also part of the plan. Should be quite a time. She said it was a good thing they weren’t going all the way to the North Pole to see him, because she wasn’t quite dressed for the weather there.

recent musings

You know how you do things a certain way, and that's normal to you? And then you realize, either one day or as the result of a series of little reactions from others over time, that the way you do things is weird to a lot of people?

I don't have this experience often, but every once in awhile, I do. Here are a couple of recent ones:

* Is it really so weird for an adult to order a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for oneself? In this case, in a crowded Potbelly's Sandwich Works in downtown D.C.? I realize that it's a bit stupid, in the sense that it costs Potbelly's about 45 cents for the ingredients, but sometimes, you just want what you want. I am rarely in the mood for a sandwich with four kinds of meat in it, a la their "Wreck." And yet I am the odd one for my order of PB&J.

* Is it really so strange/alarming for a married couple to maintain separate monetary systems? Bank accounts and the like? I have heard a lot of scoffing (not really directed at me, but as it happens, that's how we do things) from people about this. Especially marriage "experts." I clicked on a story discussing marital finances in regards to this matter at msn.com yesterday, and I thought for a few seconds that I had found sweet vindication. Until I saw that it was financial "experts" who suggested separate accounts. For purposes of simplification if a divorce happened. Whoops. But seriously, it works for us. We are open with each other about finances, we share all expenses fairly equally, and geez, we were 29 and 35 when we got married. We're used to what we're used to. So what's the big?

nostalgia for childhood, part II

We had a REAL fire in our REAL fireplace last night. The first ever! So real, Lizzy toasted a marshmallow for me. A s'more was the last thing I felt like eating at that moment, but who can resist a 5-year-old's s'more offering?

When we moved into our house in January, we noted the many, many things that we wanted to fix/change/eliminate. Could be a big reason why that house sat on the market for six months. But, as Matt has said since, the opportunities to make the house our own were an attraction for him. He's been itching to roll up his sleeves and do some home improvement.

Lately, he's been wondering how many thousands it would cost to tear out the wretched gas fireplace insert and get the chimney fitted for fire. He had an inspector come over and check it out, and verify that nothing really needs to be done, aside from physically tearing out the loathsome unit and plugging the hole where the gas line went in. The unit was henceforth torn out. A chimney cap, grate and screen were purchased. And ... voila! A roaring fire.

(I did take pictures, but didn't get around to downloading them. My evenings have been short recently. Too many presents to wrap, errands to run, too much sleep to get.)

Heck, Matt might even MAKE money on the deal if he successfully unloads the gas fire thingy on craigslist. And manages to get a deposit on the gas tank.

All in all, it's a pretty awesome development. Our first significant home improvement 'project,' and it turned out to be so easy!

Matt said he almost cried last night, after he turned off all the lights and gazed into the fire. But don't tell him I told you that.

Next up: Lots and LOTS of wallpaper removal. Wish us luck on all of that.

on people's pet peeves

Recently, I visited the blog of a good buddy who recently moved away from the area with his lovely wife to start a new life where the living is a little slower. I won't even pretend I'm not jealous!

He's more of an 'images' guy, though he can turn a phrase, or a thought, with the best of 'em. Or better. Anyhoo, he blogged one day about bloggers who start titles of blog posts with "on."

Is it beginning to dawn on you that the sole reason for this post is to do just that? It's true. I AM that lame. But I can't resist! I caaaaan't.

I won't do it again, though, Steve-o. I'll do my very best to remember!

You think I'd be sympathetic to these sorts of things ...

sick day

Lizzy and I stayed home yesterday. She had what only amounted to a cold, but the onset seemed severe and unsettling enough to merit a day at home.

As long as we’d decided that she was definitely staying home, Lizzy was cheerful enough about the consequences. She was marginally okay with the fact that she’d have to take a nap, and she brought up the restricted diet aspect all by herself (mistakenly, as it turns out – it’s more of a flu thing).

“And I’ll have to eat selfish!” she declared.

“Eat selfish?” I said, utterly baffled.
“You mean, eat the word ‘selfish’?”

“No,” she said, looking at me pityingly. “Not the word – the letters! I mean, what they stand for!”

Then it hit me that she was referring to the BRAT diet (Bananas, Rice, Applesauce and Toast). Aha!

I love the occasional moment of insight into how her little mind works.

It turned out to be a neat day to be home, if we had to choose one this week. We went outside in the late afternoon and watched the snow falling as dusk descended and the neighbors’ Christmas lights blinked on. So peaceful.
And then I had to pretend to be frightened, and run shrieking, as Lizzy pelted me with little softly packed fistfuls of newfallen snow.

And we got a package from my mom that had to be signed for by the recipient. Thank goodness for one less errand to run (package pickup) this weekend.

loss

I had my first ultrasound yesterday afternoon.

It went pretty well. The doctor/tech/whatever her official title was, seemed very nice and attentive and put me at ease. Quite a contrast to the dismissive male I was treated to last time around (with Lizzy). No offense to males in general, but the ones I've encountered in prenatal care just don't seem to 'get it' like women do.

The doctor/tech found the little 'peanut' without difficulty, said there was just one (whew!), and pointed out its little flickery heartbeat. Even printed out a photo for me. It's quite the fetching grainy gray blob.

So that was all good. The dates seemed to match up to what I thought they should, at least within a few days, so ... so far, all is well.

But somewhere across town, a good friend of mine, also getting her first sonogram, was getting the opposite news. No baby to be found.

I don't even know what to say about this disparity of fortune. Except, it makes me deeply sad. In all my paranoia about what might happen (and might still happen; it's still early in the game, no guarantees) to my little peanut, I never dreamed anything would happen to my friend's.

There's no rhyme or reason to it. No rhyme or reason, whatsoever.

I'm so, so sorry that things happen this way. All I can do is pray. And hope for better things, someday soon.

the beach

The other day, I read a book review at work that launched a mighty sense of nostalgia for the beach.
I was lucky enough to have parents who grew up loving the beach – what I would consider the REAL beach, with waves that break, wind in your hair, sand in your (everywhere) and where it pretty much never, ever gets above about 55 degrees – not the poser beaches I’ve been to elsewhere. (I realize that's highly subjective. Please allow me my subjectivity here.)

I reflect sometimes on how lucky I was to be taken to the beach at least a couple of times a year in my youth. The place we went the most often was at Rockaway, Oregon – called Camp Magruder. It’s still there, the handy internet tells me, still run by Methodists. I went to a summer camp there for a week, two or three times, and my extended family would meet there (in the big lodge, where I was forbidden to go when there as a camper) for spring break. It was divine. In addition to the beach, the camp had a ‘big swing’ that was a loop you could sit in that wrapped around a tree that was kind of hanging over a cliff (a little one). And they had a freshwater lake on the eastern border of the camp that you could row or canoe or, later, paddleboat in. The one and only fish I caught in my life, I caught there. One year, my dad devised clues for a scavenger hunt around the camp. It utilized all the big draws – you even had to take a boat out onto the lake to get one of the clues. (or so we were led to believe – Dad told us later he’d secured it to the big dead overhanging tree via a land route. Hmph!)

The best part, though, were the campfires at night. My grandpa, a man of few words, and my grandma, a woman of many songs, would make that event special. Grandpa scouted up the requisite driftwood for a fire, and he’d drive some horseshoe stakes into the ground, and us kids (my three female cousins, me and my younger brother) would poke around and see what we could find on the beach. When darkness fell – after we watched the flaming ball of sun drop into the ocean, a feat not easily possible on the East Coast – we roasted marshmallows and sang songs. And oh, did my grandmother know songs! From the man on the flying trapeze, to the preacher who hunted the bear, to the man who invented a machine that made sausages out of the neighborhood cats and dogs … family classics, all. And the fifteen thousand-piece puzzle awaiting us at the lodge that the adults would rush back to pore over some more. (only a slight exaggeration, I assure you.) And the huge cupboard into which my younger cousin and I would squeeze with our recently acquired Betty and Veronica comic books and Jolly Ranchers. And games of volleyball and tetherball. Much of it footage for home movies somewhere in my uncle and aunt’s house.

It’s a happy memory, and I’m smug in my remembering, until I realize: My daughter is not growing up going to the beach every year. She doesn’t know what it’s like to force yourself into the wind along the beach, which is too cold, but you don’t care because there might be a special shell or even a Japanese float just ahead!

Then it all just makes me sad.

We went to the beach, in April. In California, with my brother and his family. This beach was near L.A., but somehow it was still cool. Almost no one else was there, and I suppose it was early enough in the year that it somewhat resembled a Pacific Northwest beach. In that windy and cold kind of way. Not quite as scenic, but when you're starving for beach, you'll take it.

Lizzy loved it. It's getting more and more expensive to get us to the West Coast, but I have to stay committed to the attempt. At the end of the day, or the middle of one's life ... it's worth it.

kind of like I'm Vulcan

One of the characteristics of first-trimester pregnancy that’s the weirdest, and most acute, for me is the super-powered sense of smell. I suppose it serves the purpose of getting me off coffee for awhile – it takes a lot to do that. But I spent the entire evening at home last night thinking our house really stank. Then this morning, I realized that I had that same unpleasant smell in my nose, and I was sitting at my desk at work. (I assure you, it’s not ME that I’m smelling.)
So it seems to be something even worse than actual heightened smell – it’s phantom smell, as well. Overactive smell memory, perhaps? I can’t really figure it out.

And don’t even get me started on walking behind someone actively smoking as I’m making my way down the D.C. sidewalk to work. If noses could kill …

Anybody know an effective way of thoroughly cleaning couch upholstery? One that doesn't involve owning a K1rby vacuum?

in sickness and in sickness

Matt and I seem to have this unintentional competition when it comes to health.

If one of us mentions that we're not feeling well, almost without fail, the other person will say, 'Gee, I'm feeling crappy today, too!'

It's a little annoying, to be honest. I mean, let me have the theoretical sickie couch to myself now and then! But it happens (maybe almost) just as often from my direction as it does from his.

Granted, that's going to be a little MORE annoying, for awhile. In my mind, hey, I have a legitimate REASON to be feeling poopy. My body's brewin' up a young'un! It makes sense that this might take the wind out of my sails from time to time.

A couple of months back, I took this tendency to its extreme conclusion. Matt had been complaining about a nagging headache that day. It seemed like it was really taking it out of him. I could tell he was suffering.

I'm not usually a headache person, thank goodness. And never terribly bad. They usually mean I'm getting the flu, which is rare.

So on that evening, we were tootling about the house -- Matt making dinner (bless him! despite his headache!) and me doing ... whatever. We have this hallway that's pretty narrow, and the half-bathroom door blocks the entire thing if the door's open. (if you've been in our, or Sam and Dee's, house, you know what I'm talking about.) Good ol' Ryan homes!

I was breezing down the hallway, and thought, for some reason, that I could kind of kick the door shut on my way by. Unfortunately, the bottom of the door somehow got stuck on the edge of my shoe. Or something? I wasn't quite sure how it happened, only that I next heard a tremendous CRACK!, which was the door caroming off of my forehead.

Needless to say, I had a headache to rival Matt's for awhile.

Happy Thanksgiving!

As usual, I have much to be thankful for.

The latest thing: I'm finally pregnant! Thanks be to God. I was beginning to wonder if that particular blessing would be forthcoming.

I was asking a friend a couple of days ago whether I should put this on my blog yet. It's obviously uppermost in my thoughts these days, so NOT blogging about it was putting a damper on blogging at all. (yes, that DOES mean you'll be treated to all kinds of pregnancy mumbo-jumbo for the next eight or so months. Sorry ...)

Then I realized, most of the 14 or so souls who read this blog already know. So, why not?

I was beginning to feel like the whole world, minus me, was living in baby expectancy. We just had two new babies in my office (born to wives of my co-workers), and another lady's about to pop. I have three other dear friends who are in various stages of pregnancy, another acquaintance/friend (she feels like a dear friend, but since I know her mostly through her blog, does that count?) and two wives of friends. It's a baby boom!
Which was a little depressing, when I was trying to join the party but couldn't seem to land an invitation. Now I have, and it feels great.

And I'm looking forward to hearing who's next to join our rounded-belly band!

speaking of birthdays,

Congratulations to my new little niece! Poiema Williams. She was born last Friday.

My brother Ben's fifth daughter. Heaven help him!



But I have to hand it to the real hero(ine), their mom, Molly. Way to go, girl!

Happy birthday, Lizzy!

We can't believe you're five years old today.


Lizzy had a great party on Saturday. Here she is with a friend, Elizabeth -- she had probably about 25 more friends at her pool party, too!

We can't believe she's such a big girl. We love you, Lizzy Lou!

anybody need a 10-pack of Depends?

So the Halloween costume didn't pan out. Three of Matt's friends invited us to Halloween parties this past weekend and the one before, but we just couldn't be bothered. What? Drive to Arlington for a Halloween party? You must be joking. We drive there and back every weekday. We are sloths. Sloths who had a 5-year-old's birthday party to plan and execute. (which went, er, swimmingly, by the way.)

So my costume idea -- actually, Matt's costume idea for me -- L1sa Mar1e Now@k, the cr@zy @stronaut lady, didn't come to fruition. Too bad. (one of the parties had a 'Heroes and Villains' theme, so I was to be a modern-day villain.) I had the jumpsuit-like dark-blue sweatshirt and sweatpants -- and the gen-yoo-ine NASA patches and baseball cap -- at the ready. Didn't ever manage to find a container of TANG and some mace and a rope to throw into a clear plastic backpack, though. But I would've, had we decided to go to a party somewhere ... I would've.

Oh, and the Depends. I did have those. I modeled a pair for Matt over the sweatpants. I thought he was going to spit his drink across the room.

They were kinda frilly. I guess incontinent folks like to feel stylish, too.

please pray

We just found out that Matt's grandma, his mom's mom, died.

It's thought that she died of a sudden heart attack, and didn't suffer. She's been doing poorly for the past few months, but still, it comes as a bit unexpected. She was still living on her own, etc.

Please pray for Matt's mom, Connie. That she's feeling peace, and no guilt, and that God helps her through the grieving process. That this brings her family together in ways that they often don't come together.

Thanks.

Hummus vendor

So ... there's this new little stand about a block away from my office. A shiny metal cube. A couple of guys who are doing their best to whip up interest. They were even giving away free baklava for your first visit. Too bad I was in "dieting mode" that day.

------------------

A little back story: I LOVE TURKISH KEBABS. In Germany, there was this whole Turkish subculture -- I'm guessing it's (by far) the biggest minority ethnic group in Germany -- and thus, many Doner Kebap stands flourished. And I LOVED them.
I don't know what they put in those kebabs -- rumors were wild and plentiful on that front -- but I also didn't care. I was totally hooked. The sauce! The meat! And it was a relatively cheap sandwich (about $4) you could grab and go. Ohhh man.

To make matters better -- or worse, depending on your perspective -- a Turkish guy set up a stand on the back road that led from my German motel to the Stars and Stripes where I walked, back and forth, every day. Since I had to pack a lunch/dinner with me each day (noon to 8 p.m. shift), this led to me having probably a kebab a week or so. Mmmmmm.

My kebab-buying tendencies (at that stand) slackened when the guy started taking a keen interest in me. He didn't know much English (we were in Germany, after all), and I knew very little German and zero Turkish, but he managed to ask me out on a date one day. I found that puzzling, seeing as how his wife occasionally ran the stand, often accompanied by her young (infant/toddler) son.

"Oh, in Turkey, we can have as many as five wives!" he said. Well, he didn't say it quite that articulately. But that was his point.

After that, I had fewer kebabs on my way to work.

--------------------

Back to the original story. So I was a little excited to see this kebab stand appear near my office. Woo! Kebabs!! And maybe with no side of second-wife suggestion. (no guarantees there; it is, after all, a city. Weird things happen on these streets between strangers.)

So, one day, I go to the stand and get a "kebab." Very disappointing -- the meat was rather dry (they were out of cucumber sauce), and was merely chicken, not whatever meat mashup they usually have roasting on the vertical spit at good kebab places.

Hm, think I. Well ... maybe I'll try hummus one day, if I'm feeling like eating light. I loooove hummus!

A few weeks later, I return. It's raining, and I'm glad the stand is relatively close to my workplace. (I lived in Seattle -- I don't need no stinkin' coat or umbrella!) The guy is excited to have a customer. He asks what I want.

When I say "Hummus", his face falls. "Oh," he says. "Well, we don't really have that today." (bad sign when they don't have something both times you've tried a place, I mentally note.) "Well, we do, but ... it'll be a half hour or so." "Oh?" I say. "Welll, maybe more like 10 minutes!" he says brightly. "My business partner had to run an errand, and the hummus is in the car."

The CAR?!!?!
Thus ends my interest in the shiny new kebab stand.

Lizzy journal

Okay, I probably shouldn't have put this on the list, because it's more a passing observation than a story.

(However, I completely agree with Tara's comment below -- that someone else could write about the coffee stain they got on their pants, or the mystery smell in their kitchen, or their annoying cubicle neighbor, or the crazy episode of CSI they saw last night -- I would still find it fascinating. Because, as she said, when I'm reading someone else's blog, I'm either looking for an update or a break, or both. My ability to be entertained is pretty basic. Heck, I do my most talking to a 4-year-old.)

That said:

I'm repeatedly impressed by the ways Lizzy's school finds to get the children to express themselves on their terms, at their skill levels. Matt and I were concerned -- well, he concerned, I intrigued -- to hear that Lizzy would be completing a "journal" in kindergarten. I think he was worried that all the other kids could read and write, and she'd be expected to. She's starting to put letters together, a little, but to be honest, we don't work on that much at home. (We should start.) I've probably mentioned that she prefers more of a bedtime story format, and loves memorizing them and "reading" them to us. Hope we're not stunting her too much.

So Lizzy's been tearing through this "journal" -- I think the kids have regular journal time each day -- and this is what it is: They draw, with markers, what they've learned about. One day, they recited a "five busy bees" poem. So she drew and colored five bees. The day we all went to the pumpkin patch, she drew that. Some days, the teachers spell out words for them to write down, to practice.

She's very, VERY proud of it. She has tried to show it to us a few times -- and we want to see it, and we look and listen to her descriptions, but the problem is, we pick her up right at the end of the day, and we just can't sit there for 20 minutes and pore over it. But I LOVE it.

She's also, of her own accord, appropriated notebooks at home (probably encouraged by her school experience) and calls them "her journal(s)", and is putting stickers on each page, or drawing pictures ... It's just the cutest thing. We got our first one from Ethan down the street -- his July birthday party (Go Diego Go!) incorporated "field journals" to document all of the things they'd seen on their party adventures. So creative!

It just makes me proud. I'm a journal-keeper from way back, though about ... hm ... the time I had Lizzy, I stopped keeping one. I guess the blog is supposed to fill some of that gap, but it really doesn't. Which is okay.

I love to see her doing things that I'm interested in. (what can I say -- I'm a parent! I guess we're all alike in that way.) I love to see her discover her own interests, for sure, but there's something sweet and special about handing down a skill or interest to the next generation.

Oh, she's also got her first "photo album." I took her little camera in to Ritz and got the photos developed. Dude, they're terrible. A horizontal pic of the top of the vacuum cleaner; a few shots of the clothes hamper; a few blurry photos of the flowers on the table. Endless variations of her animals clustered together on the couch. A half-dozen of Daddy, from the back, as he made dinner that night.

Impossibly cute, nonetheless. But next time we buy a camera for her, she gets more pixels! The thing will break the first time she drops it, but darn it -- more pixels.

too much (blank), not enough (blank)

How's this for a mind-blowing statement? When you have something to write about, you don't have time to write it! I know. I'd best now go about suing anyone who expresses that sentiment, because it's completely original and unique to myself.

Sarcasm aside ... it seems like all I've done toward blogging lately is writing down a few words of a story or thought that I'd like to type in. But a few days later, the story/thought seems outdated and/or dumb, and totally not worth anyone's time. And then there are stretches where I cannot think of a single tidbit that would be of interest to anyone but my poor dear husband, who is forced to listen to me rattle on every morning and evening and does a darned fine job feigning interest. But this blog isn't really for him, because, as I said, he gets to hear it from the horse's mouth. Whether he likes it or not.

And then, of course, there are the things I'd just best keep to myself -- not because they're dark, fascinating secrets, but because they're boring, self-pitying, downright mean, or what have you. For instance, you do not want to hear me get frustrated all over again about the latest pregnancy test failure. There are only so many ways and times to say, "Just how the HECK was it so easy when we WEREN'T TRYING???"

For your puzzlement, here is my current list:

-- fundraising update
-- Halloween costume
-- duet
-- Lizzy journal
-- Hummus street vendor
-- work mural

Do any of those sound especially intriguing? I'll take a vote on what eager readers want to see next.
And if no one votes for anything, I'll count that as the people having spoken, as well.

Ariel fishes for candy, compliments

I'm feeling guilty throwing this together at work. But I can't let Lizzy fans go the entire day without a glimpse of last night's festivities.!


Happy Halloween, trick-or-treaters!




Soon after battling unbelievably nasty traffic -- everyone tried to get home early, as did we -- Lizzy and I forged out on our own. We soon ran into the Lone Ranger!



He was accompanied by his trusty sidekick ... er, Frog Boy.



(In actuality, these are our good friends and neighbors, Ethan and Keenan, from down the street.)

Lizzy's Pop Pop came home from a vacation in the Philippines just in time to see her transformation into a mermaid.



And here's a close-up shot of her brassy hair, which really completed the costume.



(please pardon the toplessness. It's a mermaid thing, you know.)

quote of the day

by Lizzy:

"Mom, I really want to have a baby brother or sister.

"Either that, or two cats."

seasonal carnage

curb your generosity

Isn't it fun when life imitates art? Except when it's not.


Consider this clip. I'm told that this guy, L@rry Dav1d, was the basis for the George character on Se1nfeld.


Yesterday, a woman with whom Matt works fairly closely posted a sign-up sheet for a fund-raiser on her office door.

Matt thinks, well, I'd like to contribute a little. It's all I feel I can do right now. I wish I could do more. Another time, perhaps.

He sees that two or three people have already signed up, and one of those people pledged ten dollars. He thinks, okay. I can do ten dollars. I have it right here, in my pocket.

He writes down his name, and his donation amount, as the two or three others have done on the list above him. He goes on about his business.

A little while later, he's walking past the list, and he glances at it to see if any more donations have been made. Below his name:



-------NAME ------------------------- DONATION


---------X ---------------------------- $100



Matt is horrified. WHAT?! An anonymous donation?! He wasn't donating for glory or fame! He didn't know he could slip a donation in there without putting his name on there! Now he feels like a total chump.

As the day progresses, more and more people sign up to donate. All anonymously.

Matt's is the last actual name on the list.
He'd like to cross it out, but figures that would look even dumber.

I'm thinking, any day in which you in any way resemble George Costanza is just not the best of days.

lunch

I had an all-too-rare treat today -- lunch with three old friends.

Friends who weren't TOO old -- not so old that I hadn't seen or talked to them in years, and had no earthly idea what they were up to. Whom I have zero in common with any more, but for the sake of our friendship, we attempted once more to meet up, since space and time were for some random reason in favor of it. (Michele, Jennifer, and any other old friends I've seen in the past year or two, this is not you guys. More of a hypothetical, really.)

But friends that weren't too new, either -- who don't really know much more about me than strictly my current situation in life. Those newer friendships are precious, too (insert old Girl Scout song here about silver and gold), but not quite what happened today.

It's scary how close in proximity I can work, or in some cases, live, to people who are very dear to me - and generally, everyone has e-mail, anyway -- and yet, friendships just go on hiatus sometimes. It's inevitable, I suppose. I remember talking to friends once about how many friendships it's reasonably possible to sustain and keep healthy at any given time. I don't remember what the number was. A dozen? Ten to twenty? It was fewer than I cared to hear, yet I knew it was probably pretty accurate.

I've been going through a weird inner tug of war lately. Really, since I got pregnant with Lizzy. But it feels like it's taken a different cast in recent months. I want to get together with friends and let those friendships grow, but it's so hard. So hard. The commute sucks up so much of the day. And Lizzy's at an age where she's so much fun, and relatively little, um, maintenance, that I no longer, uh, well, fantasize about, er, totally ditching my family for the day or evening. It's much more of a trade-off these days than a sought-after pleasure. And I'll be darned if I want to get into the car on the weekends, even for the sake of seeing a good old friend. Like I said, it's a tug of war.

I've just kinda felt like giving up recently. I'm not sure why. And that won't last. Like most else, it's an ebb and a flow. I guess I'm in an ebb, for whatever reason.

Anyway, back to my old (but not TOO old) friends. What fun to have lunch with Erin/Dotty, Amy B., and Laura K. today. Two of whom I work 15 minutes or less from (their offices). Ridiculous.

It's hard to feed all these parts of our lives. And so, it was with great pleasure that we were able to feed our bodies while we fed our need for social girliness with old buddies, as well.

Thanks, ladies. Love to you, and to those old friends whom I very rarely get to see, but I think about often. Who reminded me how powerful and vital and healthy it is to have girlfriends. For too many years (before I moved to D.C. and met you), I had forgotten that.

the day (so far)

Random notes:

Lizzy didn't want to wear brown pants, "today or EVER!", because she thought it would make her "look like a boy." (horrors!) Recently, we borrowed some blue jammies from our friends down the street (I'll get 'em back to you eventually, Dee!), and she looked so darn cute, it was insane. But I'm having a hard time translating the "sometimes, boy clothes make you look even more girly!" principle of overalls/dressing as a baseball player for Halloween concept to almost-5-year-old language.

Speaking of: Last night, I stayed up late filling out birthday invites for Lizzy's pool party next month. Whew! Now we're COMMITTED to doing it. In some ways, it feels scarier than sending out the wedding invites. It's the first event of any size I've attempted since the wedding, and it's giving me hives, a little. What if it all goes horribly wrong? Well, then a bunch of parents grumble, and go home. We're out a few hundred bucks. Oh, well. Man, have I mentioned how I NEVER write any more? With my hand, I mean? No wonder my shoulders are all hunched and sore today.

Thirdly, and most importantly: After a freekin' year, Matt's company was informed that the government is indeed picking up their contract. He will have a job (barring other disasters, of course -- what's the online equivalent of knocking on wood?) for four more years! HALLELUJAH.

(so, God -- is it a good month to grant the fertility prayers? That's my vote, if I get one.)

practice?

We did a few things this past weekend! You wouldn't know it from my apparent need to complain on the blog about things that don't matter, but seriously -- we did. It's just that the photo-heavy entries require time, or at least some furtiveness at work, to compile. I apologize for my timeline-busting entries here.

We inherited a small boy for a few hours on Saturday -- our buddy Kieran from church. This was fun for two reasons: We got to spend some quality time with him, instead of sort of wrestling him and six or so other small kids in a hallway during church kid care; and we got to see how Lizzy reacted to having one younger one around in the context of just our family at home.

I couldn't believe how grown up he is these days! This newly minted little 2-year-old was chattering away, and so well-behaved. His parents should be proud. I hope they don't mind that we totally used him for free labor as we worked on the yard:

Lizzy's learned how to make even dead leaves into a posing accessory:



Lovin' the yardwork help.





Lizzy said a few times, "Kieran's such a good baby!" Which, predictably, Kieran didn't care for. "I'm not a baby!" he would assert. "Wow," says Lizzy. "He can talk pretty well!" I was feeling bad for Kieran about then. But they did play nicely, and shared pretty well. It made Matt and me hope for things that haven't seen to manifest yet.

The cute-as-heck kid wheelbarrow that they both got a kick out of using:

One of the things I love about other kids coming over is that Lizzy is reminded how many very cool toys she has. Many of which are ignored until that very moment. I was guilty of this as a kid, as well -- I don't think my brother and I played much Atari until our cousins came over. Then it was wall-to-wall Atari until they left, or so it felt! I miss Breakout -- sigh.

Back to Kieran. He reminded us that we have a functional, fun train table at our disposal!

And now, finally. Last, but as I'm sure you'll agree, certainly not least -- a photo I'd like to dedicate to Kieran's father, Ken:

This time, Starbucks, you've gone a bit too far

This morning's new discovery: A broccoli and cheese scone.

Can anyone say, ewwww?

It won't last two weeks. And, hey, Starbucks, when you do get rid of it -- could you bring back that five-fruit muffin that you got me hooked on awhile back, then snatched from under my nose? I never knew how yummy apricot could be in a muffin, and I haven't seen it since.

Thanks.
(I still love you, though.)

seen last night

I hate protests. They mess up my daily life. Traffic is often rerouted; the peace of my walk around the block near my office is sometimes disrupted; metros near my workplace are flooded with well-meaning do-gooders. I picture them having come from all corners of the country -- sometimes beyond, rubbing their hands together with glee at how they're going to go to D.C. and be HEARD! Make a differencE! Just like last weekend's protesters, and the weekends leading up to that ... But I bear them no ill will. Go shout your message, protesters. Hope for change. Change can be good. Enjoy yourselves. Just know that your pleasure in the moment and camaraderie might be all you actually achieve from the experience.

Our family has to go out of its way to accomplish certain errands. Since we generally hit the doorstep at about 7:15, this means an arrival home of an even later magnitude. Generally meaning we're eating out that night, an act we can't afford, and sacrificing other things we might reasonably do with what's left of our modest weeknight evening.



So it was with great displeasure that we saw the following last night:



Note the signs on the windows, darkened during what should be business hours. What do they say?



The misspelling is merely insult on top of injury.

Well, okay. Touche. You got me. Point taken. You might have made me mad, but you've at least got my attention. I did stop for a few seconds and consider your situation. So, bravo.

We drowned our sorrows in the one (aforementioned) place we knew would not be affected by the protest.

sometimes, I'm dumb

Wow! I just realized something. We never registered our phone on the National Do Not Call List!

That might explain the many, many unlisted calls that we are unfortunate enough to receive. We must've been one of three phone numbers in the U.S. that remained unregistered.

Well, now it's only two. Sorry, guys! Good luck with all the siding and time-share salesmen. Don't say hi for me.

... but who's counting

Number of vehicles in our driveway these days: 3.

Number of vehicles that it would be possible to fit on the street outside our home, even if we wanted to: 0.

Number of mailboxes to bite the dust this week in someone's vain attempt not to hit other vehicles lining the driveway while reversing out of said driveway: 1.

Sigh.

if wishes were fishes ...

I'd see my high school friends a lot more often.

Here are a couple of photos that my dear friend (and bridesmaid!) Lisa just sent.

At the time(s) these friendly gatherings of folks were being planned, I thought, "Yeah, right, I'm going to fly myself and possibly my family over to Seattle for this! C'mon! What am I, made of money and vacation time?"
Now I kinda wish I had. Some opportunities just don't come along very often.

It's hard to know in the moment which opportunities to take hold of, and which to regretfully let pass me by. I'm trying to take the 'opportunity' to not add to my mountain of debt, but ... as a certain pithy credit-card ad campaign (irony alert!) reminds us, some things are priceless.

Some of my friends, and their hubbies, and their kids:



And some of the friends by themselves.



I hope none of them get mad that I put these on the internet. Sorry, gals!

corporate shill

You all know I'm Starbucks' biggest unpaid fan. Well, except for those dudes who have attempted to visit every Starbucks in the country. How would you define that, anyway? Isn't one opened every 23 minutes, or something? (random and silly speculation) The never-ending quest ... Not for me.

This morning was funny, because we stopped at Dunkin Donuts -- we do so generally one weekday a week -- but they take only cash, and "we" (which means Matt) had only six bucks (I personally had about 11 pennies). I skipped the usual coffee, thinking that I'd get a tasty DD muffin then, and grab a 'Bux coffee later.

I'm glad I did! The cashier handed me a card for a -- you will NOT believe this, unless you're Jen Way and you work there -- FREE iTUNES DOWNLOAD! Just for buying a cup of coffee that day! It was for some Bob Dylan song that I probably won't even like, but my point is, what a totally awesome concept. The thing that really blew my mind is that the guy told me there'd be a different song download available if I come back the next day. And the next day. And the next day. Through November 7th, I see on their Web site.

I heart Starbucks. They are the best.

Speaking of Starbucks: Last week, I went into one of my usual two stores on 14th Ave., and was enthusiastically greeted by the cashier. "Do you remember me?" she said, treating me (as well as she could from behind the counter) as a long-lost friend. And as she said that, I did remember her. She looked familiar right away, but then I realized that she was a lady who used to ring me up at Magruder's grocery store, in Cleveland Park. When I lived there six years ago! I was mighty impressed with both of us, that we remembered each other.

Perhaps it's not over the line now to ask what her name is. That might be a nice next step.

today's pet peeves

1) Computer systems that don't work, one day before your deadline. (believe it or not, a computer that didn't work on the day of my deadline would be preferable.)

2) People who request personal information, then sail off without telling me why they wanted it.
Even better: "It's for the company newsletter." Say WHAT?

"What, the list of folks who are soon to be fired?" I 'joked.'

Hm. She didn't say 'no'.

happy anniversary, on the time-share dime

We had such a great family weekend at the time-share community.

We didn’t really know what to expect, aside from some sort of cheesy, high-pressure sales pitch (and boy, we were not disappointed), but the place was beautiful, we had family-style activities galore to choose from, and we thoroughly enjoyed getting away as a family. The experience has shown us something that Matt and I have been realizing for some time – we don’t do enough as a family. Aside from commuting, it goes without saying. Usually, I spend my vacation time flying West to visit my brother and his family, or my parents. Worthy uses of my time, but Matt often doesn’t come with us (for reasons of expense and the fact that he has fewer vacation days). And we really miss each other when we’re away. Perhaps that shouldn’t be such a revelation. Lizzy has known this all along, I think. She tries to tell us, but we, out of senses of guilt, obligation and resignation, don't listen.

Lizzy was such a grown-up little girl. She LOVED being on vacation! Our hotel room had a fabulous view of the valley ‘bowl’ that constituted much of the time-share acreage. We could see the ski slopes off to our right, a giant (but closed, alas) outdoor pool immediately below us, some time-share units perched along the hill near the ski slopes, and the nearest town and highway a ways off into the distance. And trees, trees, trees. That place is going to be a swirling canvas of reds, oranges, yellows and browns in about three weeks. Just beautiful.

So we endured our four-hour tour – originally billed as a 90-minute tour – by an earnest 19-year-old named Derek, whom we were sad to disappoint with our refusal to buy. We should’ve tipped the kid, or something. He was sweet. His sales pitch was slightly wobbly, but he did pretty well. Probably told us some stuff he wasn’t supposed to. He had to call in the manager eventually, of course, and Matt could barely keep a straight face, that guy was so obvious. He pulled out all the slick sales tricks. I was completely hooked by the time the final offer rolled ‘round, but the saner head prevailed (Matt’s), and we escaped without being caught. We were both almost wishing we had been, though. We could see spending at least a week up (altitude-wise), or downish/over (geographically), there a year. I'm especially intrigued by the ski slopes that it obviously wasn't possible to sample on this trip.

We played tennis twice with some spiffy new recently purchased racquets (birthday money from parents, plus great cheap racquet connection through a friend), and Lizzy’s a little natural! She loved it. She got the forehand down pretty well; the backhand will take a little work. Best, though, her attitude was great about it. We hit that sweet spot where Matt and I were loving teaching her, and she was loving the attention and the feel of improving with each swing of her kid-sized racquet. She’s now convinced she’s a terrific tennis player. We didn’t bother to correct her, much.

We also did some swimming, including an evening at the STUNNING water park. An amazing place! Expensive, too, so we were a bit cross when all Lizzy wanted to do was paddle around in the one small still pool, or play in the toddler area. She’s still freaked out by water splashing on her, or spraying in her face. Heck – this time last year, she didn’t want to get into a pool at all. So I suppose we’re making progress.

And we played Ping-Pong – it’s been awhile, since Matt’s dad’s been in the basement and our Ping-Pong table's been in the garage – and some arcade games such as Skee-ball, a cool little mini-bowling lane, air hockey and more.

We mini-golfed – Lizzy wasn’t quite as pleased with the learning curve on that one, and there were admittedly some tears – and took a few rounds on the Go-Kart track. We ate a bunch of food, of course, and Lizzy grew very fond of our daily morning waitress, Jenna. Almost best of all – we (Lizzy) watched almost NO television. Now, that’s what vacation should be about!

a difference between boys and girls

We were at a recent wedding -- a couple of weekends ago, in Strasburg, Va. -- listening to the dulcet tones of a string ... quartet? quintet? during the outdoor, tented reception. A very pleasant evening, if a bit chilly.

The group knew all the classic, fabulous reception-type tunes. The ones that fit the occasion, I should say. Everyone has his or her own interpretation of an appropriate reception tune! I'm talking about Moon River and beauties like that.

Also among the selections: 'The Rose' and 'Ice Castles'. Matt seemed a wee bit mortified to learn that I knew every last lyric to both theme songs. I never saw the movies, but that was an absolute staple of our female fifth-grade selves in the early 80s. Then again, Matt was probably in kindergarten that year. But he knows 'The Rainbow Connection', which was in the same beginner piano songbook I had then! Maybe Kermit's manly enough to merit the boys' attention, even if rainbows are involved.

It's funny what your mind will remember.

Speaking of wedding receptions, we're headed out of town tonight -- to somewhere in the Shenandoahs -- to celebrate our first anniversary. (I know! Already!!) I suppose the fact that the year has zipped by is a good sign. We're quite broke, so we were pleased when a condo-selling venture recently begged us to come take a look at their facilities. For the low, low cost of taking a thorough tour and enduring a no doubt high-pressure sales pitch. I'm not great with stuff like that, but I suspect the hubster is made of sterner stuff. Perhaps getting through it together will be a fitting tribute to our first year as marrieds.

The little girl is tagging along. We've recently acquired a trio of lovely tennis racquets, thanks to a certain inside source on such things, so we're eager to try them out. I can't wait to see Lizzy gripping her little pink Maria Sharapova racquet. I hope she has fun. If not, there's always a Build-a-Bear(ish) store on site. And a gigantic indoor kid water park-type place. Something for everyone. We're just about over that cold virus (which turned out to be much more hellacious than it at first seemed -- please accept an open apology to those whose kids we watched at church on Sunday. Ugh), thank goodness.

in sickness and in health

It's been brought to my attention in recent years that I'm a very healthy person.

I don't think I fully realized that before. I mean, I've never broken a bone, and I don't have any chronic illnesses, and I very rarely go (0r need to go -- an important distinction there) to the doctor, but I never realized that some people are different.

When I am at the doctor -- generally for some sort of annual womanly examination (yuk) -- the doc asks what medications I'm on. And doesn't seem to believe me when I say, none. An aspirin maybe a few times a year. Tums once in a rare while? And a cup of coffee a day. :) I wonder how many people are on some sort of medication all the time. I'm not trying to make that into a bad thing. People should take what they need to take. But this recent story about all the stuff (including caffeine, in fairness) scientists found when they tested certain cities' sewer water made me think.

When I worked in the sports department(s), I kind of wasn't allowed to be sick. Too much to do. I did stay home with the flu one day when I worked in Germany, and felt horribly guilty for doing so. And when I was on the overnight shift, there was no one else to do the work, unless my boss (who worked the 3 to midnight shift) stayed and pulled a double. Ugh. It all paid off, I suppose, when I had enough sick leave saved up to take three months of paid maternity leave with Lizzy. And things aren't nearly so dire now that I work in the features department, which is great. I call in sick now and then, but it's always because I have to stay home with a sick little girl.

For another example, take Matt and me today. Last night, on our drive home, I said, "I think I'm getting a cold. I feel that yukky tickle in the back of my throat." Matt gave me a shocked look, and said, "Me, too! I am, too!" We both proceeded to feel worse as the evening progressed. I think we both went to bed fairly early, and got pretty near eight hours' sleep. Unusual.

This morning, my throat still feels kinda cruddy, but minorly so. It's not on fire, or painful to swallow, or anything. Matt, on the other hand, was going to call in sick until Lizzy and I were about to head out the door, at which time he sprang from the bed, showered and got ready in about 10 minutes. (why can't he be that fast every morning?) He snoozed in the car and sounded pretty sick when he called me on the phone a few minutes ago.

It must be the same cold germ, as we caught it at the same time. I'm mystified by our different reactions to it. And grateful for my own good health. I don't take much credit for it, though. I don't think I'm any stellar example of good living these days. Neither bad nor good, really.

Sometimes, we're just blessed, I guess. And sometimes we're not. I'll spare you the little, everyday ways in which my body could be more efficient. (an increasing number of foods that leave me with a horrible stomach ache, for instance.) Perhaps we all have our ups and downs. Still, I feel better off than most, and I am properly grateful.

tv time

Believe it or not, Matt and I don’t watch a lot of prime-time TV. Especially not in the summer. But we have recently been seduced by the charms – or perhaps more accurately, the train-wreck aspects – of ‘Wife Swap.’

Do any of you watch this show? I was horrified when I first heard of the concept, but if you’re not familiar with it, it’s not what you’re thinking. The wives sort of swap entire lives, not merely husbands, for two weeks. For one week, the wife has to fit into the new fam’s routine as much as possible. Then, she gets to lay down the new rules that she sees fit (is used to in her ‘normal’ life).

The show’s brilliance is that the producers seem to go out of their way to choose opposites. So you have the rustic, meat-eating charm of, say, a farmwife from North Carolina, and the PETA-loving, vegan professional woman from Oregon butting heads. It’s awesome. And there are usually (always?) kids involved, as well.

We were treated to not one, but two! craptacular episodes on Monday night. We didn’t mean to watch; really, we didn’t! In fact, Matt turned on the TV only to find the Redskins game.* We both quickly agreed that the scene unfolding before our eyes would go down better than any first-half early-season NFL action, however. (they were reruns, by the way. In case any of you are avid fans and are confused that I’m describing something you saw in January or February.)

Now generally, the shows succeed in opening the eyes of the participants, as well as giving audiences something to utterly mock and be amused by. This one, though, was the first failure of that kind that I have seen. Because these families were just about as polarly opposed as it is possible to be in our great country. Without bringing in religious differences, anyway.

One family (white), from Iowa, were strict – and when I say strict, I mean STRICT – raw food dieters. They took the diet to extremes that most raw foodies (as I understand it) do not take it. They eat raw chicken and beef, sometimes letting the raw meat sit around for days or weeks before eating, for extra bacterial goodness. In fact, they almost never clean anything – including a washing of their hands – and they rarely bathe. They had two early-to-mid teen kids, a boy and a girl.The mom ranted many times about the hazards of “chemicals,” and declared that the only cleaning agent she would use was vinegar, and then only if SHE deemed it necessary. The family did not drink water. It was considered a solvent, as I recall, and would only wash the good things out of your body. “Bacteria are our friends,” they said. “Why would God put something on the earth that would harm us?” The mother spent an average of six hours in the kitchen, and the kids stayed home all day. They weren’t home schooled – they were “unschooled,” according to the mother. Why fill their heads with all sorts of facts they’d never need? They learn all they need to know by helping out around the farm. Milking the cows. Collecting eggs. Straining unpasteurized milk (“We don’t like to drink cow hair, after all!” chuckle chuckle). I’m not sure how that was legal; it’s my understanding that kids have to be schooled in some manner, and that there are standardized tests to ensure this … I’m unclear on that point. They brushed their teeth with a home-concocted mixture of butter and clay. Appearance and vanity were wastes of time, they believed. They ate plates of fresh raw chicken – slaughtered right there on their own farm, by them – and downed raw eggs. (the teen boy ate a dozen a day) The mother awoke the other three at 2 a.m. each night to consume a quick raw egg or yogurt meal so that their bodies wouldn’t go into … anorexic shock, I think it was? They had lived this way for a little more than a year.

The other family (black) was from San Francisco. They had two small boys – maybe 3 and 6? The man was very into fashion, and shopped for and dressed the entire family. The wife ran a business from home. They had intentionally chosen to live in the city to give their sons a cosmopolitan, educated upbringing. They ate out several times a week, and sometimes twice a day – “We live in one of the most international cities in the world, so why not take advantage of it?” They were obsessive about cleaning. Vacuumed, cleaned and dusted daily. And apparently the husband was still dissatisfied with the cleanliness factor. They were into some Asian-influenced orderliness rituals, as well – burning sage in the corners of their rooms, ‘clapping out’ the corners, feng shui. The man believed that you only get one chance to make a first impression; that appearance was everything. THE top priority.

As you can imagine, when the wives swapped, things did not go well. The San Francisco husband told the farmer wife to shave her legs and armpits for the first time in seven years, and they all went out to dinner. She spent lots of time giving them self-righteous lectures about knowing WHAT they were eating, and the damage they were doing to their bodies. She made much of the fact that her speech and thoughts were slowing down in her brain after her cooked meal; all the cholesterol, I believe she said. She tried to insist that the husband throw out his wardrobe (NOT gonna happen, he said), and she tried to get the man and boys to wear overalls for the week (her usual apparel), so they would realize that the important aspects of themselves came from within. And she tried to ‘rid the house of chemicals.’ She licked the kitchen floor to prove her point. The man refused to eat raw chicken. Or to participate in the slaughter of a chicken.
The other wife was pretty disgusted by the filth she perceived in the other home. “You live like the animals you farm,” she told them. Ouch. She took them all out to eat – burgers, chicken strips, etc. – then looked fairly unconcerned when the three were writhing in pain the next day. She was also full of the lectures about how horribly the couple were raising their kids, how much irreparable damage they were doing, what slobs they were.

Neither family seemed to learn much from the experience, in retrospect. A healthy appreciation for what they had, I suppose, but all concerned seemed quite convinced from the outset that they were already living the Good Life.

Why on earth am I blogging about this? Have I lost my mind? (whatever made you think I had one??) Well, three days later, I’m still fascinated by this. Utterly consumed by it, especially the raw/bacteria Iowa family. As they’re arguably the most different from my own way of life.

I have so many unanswered questions about all of it. I’d like to know why this family chose to embark on the raw diet, and why they included meat in their raw quest. (I saw somewhere online that it was an attempt to ‘cure the daughter’s ADHD’ – and that it worked – but I can’t confirm that.) I wonder what the family’s religious affiliation is, if any. Their firm sense that God wouldn’t make no dangerous stuff is suggestive, but I’m not sure of what. I wonder whatever possessed them to do the show in the first place – an attempt to get the good word out about raw foods? Mostly, I wonder why the diet and lifestyle DOESN’T make them sick – they claim they never get sick, and they eschew doctor visits because ‘they’d only give us an antibiotic, anyway’ – and what WILL happen to those kids. Do they know anyone else? There was no indication that they had friends, or ever came in contact with anyone outside of that four-person immediate family. (the husband had some farmwork gig elsewhere, and the wife left every couple of weeks to drive 90 miles for soap, toilet paper and organic vegetables that they couldn’t grow.) How can they reasonably get by without a community of some kind? They had no education whatsoever, except what farmwork and a bit of TV-watching would teach them.
I wonder what the parents expect. That they all live there and farm together their whole lives? That the children stay on and take care of their parents in their old age, and never marry? It’s absolutely mystifying. The girl seemed pretty pliable – open to trying the new things that the other wife represented, yet not unhappy with her present lifestyle -- and the teen boy was openly disturbed by the criticism of his family and ways of doing things.

And I wonder – if I’m being honest – if there’s anything to this raw food diet.
My secret suspicion is that our bodies are amazing, adaptable, nearly magical machines that will deal with almost whatever we throw at it. And be very upset when that balance is thrown off, if but temporarily. Yes, some fuel is more optimal. Some activities are preferable. Some things will affect how long, and in what level of comfort, we live. But how much? And how much time and effort is worth achieving what level of improvement, especially since we can’t REALLY know how much difference it will make? At what point are you spending your ENTIRE LIFE beholden to a particular diet or lifestyle? Is it ever worth that?

And then there’s the matter of ‘live and let live.’ Of the two women being SO scornful of the others’ ideas.
It seems like that’s been a theme around me recently. Not only that, but more specifically – that there are two sides to every story. Two perspectives. Maybe more. And it’s just possible that neither one is strictly the truth – or perhaps that there isn’t a ‘pure truth’ to the situation. It’s all about perspective. So how am I to judge, so much of the time? By the evidence? And why do I feel the need to choose sides at all? The evidence I see here is that this family is thriving by not drinking water, not cleaning their house (their toilet bowl was a black hole – foul!), not showering much, and eating RAW MEAT. I assure you, I will not be picking up any of these habits. But was the cosmopolitan family who exposed their boys to lots of types of foods, cleaned obsessively and quizzed the boys on the order of the planets whilst playing classical music at breakfast “better,” per se? Or does their apparent obsession with appearance neutralize any of these points? Who am I to say?

I’m honestly not trying to make this episode an allegory for anything. I’m mostly trying to figure out why my brain won’t let it go.

Some good friends just went through a detox diet. And of course, being them, they did so in an utterly non-judgmental manner, and were open to talk or not talk about it, as others wanted. Yay for them, I say. Genuinely. It was inspiring to behold. I’m positive I’d be better off, in some definable way, if I followed suit. Or if I took some more minor steps. If I, for instance, stopped drinking coffee. I don’t NEED coffee. It’s more a habit than anything; not much of an addiction. A mental comfort. Or if I gave up sugar – a much harder thing for me, but my body does feel great and doesn’t crave naughty things on the rare occasions that I haven’t had sugar for awhile.

I just don’t know that I care enough to make changes such as these. Would it make much difference?

At heart, I’m such a lazy, status-quo person. When it comes to myself, the water has to get REALLY hot before I jump. I’m just generally okay with what’s up, and not eager to make long-term change. Sometimes, I wonder if that’s good, or bad. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s either.
Sometimes, I wonder if I should bother wondering at all.



* Side note: It always feels a little satisfyingly naughty to me to type the word “Redskins.” When I worked at the Seattle Times, that was a massive no-no. Keep in mind, I worked IN THE SPORTS DEPARTMENT. In, if you didn’t put this together, Washington state! So, to refer to the Redskins, we would have to make it “Washington of the NFL.” So as not to confuse with, say, the state of Washington, or the UW Huskies. Awesome!

please tell me it isn't so bad

if my daughter has a pink summer dress on today for her fall school photos.

I mean, it IS just kindergarten, after all. And, due to a school/photographer schedule foul-up, we had photos taken (in, hm, a pink summery dress, but a different one) last March or April.

Because I'm feeling bad about it. I think every other kid there has a cute winter sweater to throw on right before the photo is taken.

A (childless) coworker assured me that it was okay, since the background is sky blue -- not with fall leaves or a Christmas tree or something like that.

I hope so. I've been having a bit of a downer week -- for no super good reasons, though -- and I shouldn't be beating myself up about something so inconsequential.

Right?

Web site o' the day

I love passive aggression. Seriously! Don't you also find it hilarious?

Unless it's directed at me. Then it's not so cool.

But I have no such examples to share just now, thank goodness. Merely this little chuckle. (warning: I haven't poked around this site extensively, so I hope it contains no offensive material, but can't absolutely vouch for that. It seems fairly tame, though.)

she's in kindergarten now

Can you believe it!



Matt and I exchange looks of amazement so very often when we're with her. It's almost impossible to believe what a sharp, fun, gorgeous big girl Lizzy has grown into.

(photo taken two weeks ago when we were in Texas for my cousin's wedding -- Lizzy and her Build-a-Bear, Dorothy. The bear packed almost as many clothes for the trip as we did.)

I will be such a wreck this time next year ...

festive weekend

I had an awesome 'birthday' weekend. (I'm now 36 -- I know you were curious.)
Starting with the birthday itself, on Friday -- I had to take the day off because Lizzy's day care was closed (grrr). A friend had given me a spa package last year that I'd been unable to use until now (the lady stopped working weekends), so that was a lovely start to the day while my neighbor friend watched Lizzy. Then we all went to a nearby park, then Lizzy and I bummed around the house, taking it easy. (nap, etc.) Matt arrived that evening, bearing lovely roses, gifts, a carrot cake (YUM!) made by a talented coworker of his, and a hilarious card! He 'enhanced' the artwork on the front of the card -- perhaps 'personalized' is a better word. Here's a photo of it, next to the inspiration:



Yes, it's good to be married to a man with a sense of humor.

The next day, we went for a lovely drive into the Virginia countryside. Destination: Luray Caverns! I've been once before, and I thought Lizzy might enjoy it. But boy, was it ever crowded! They gave up on guided tours, and let the unwashed masses shuffle their way on through.
A few photos:







Lizzy was pretty tired as we went through -- she said she was scared of going into a cave at first, but after she got down there, she thought it was pretty neat, actually.
She really loved the labyrinth-style maze we did after that. Especially because we let her lead -- why not? We didn't know which way to go! More on that another day.


That night, we dropped Lizzy off with her grandma Connie and went to a birthday party. For someone else, but that's okay! I can share the stage occasionally.
As I am here, when Matt and I sang a lovely karaoke duet. To, "We Built This City," by Jefferson Starship! (or just Starship? I lose track and am too lazy to check.)
Note Wii-style guitar. Good form, Matt, as usual!

squirrelly goings-on

An arch-nemesis has returned. We knew he (or perhaps more probably she?) would, sooner or later ... and that day has come.

Yesterday, as I was dressing in my bedroom (isn't that how most scary stories start?), I heard a suspicious scratching sound coming from up yonder. I finished dressing, then rushed outside to find ... a squirrel furiously clawing away at the corner of our roof. He (she?) stopped and peered down at me. We had a little chat.

"Now, listen here, you," I started, after staring at him for 20 seconds or so. "We don't want you in our house again. You go find a tree, or something, to build your nest in." He seemed mesmerized. But no sign of intent to comply was given.

I went back out a minute later, to see if the would-be intruder still lurked nearby. The squirrel had made its way to the apex of the roof:


*shudder*

I really don't want to sleep with that thing right above my head for another couple of months. I hope Matt's partial anti-squirrel efforts in the attic (he said he ran out of screen halfway through) will be sufficient.

haiku Thursday

Water saturates
ceiling under our bathrooms
Home ownership: Wheeee

dirty laundry

Warning: The title will be the best part of this entry, I fear.

Erin tagged me to answer the following questions about my laundry habits. As she pithily spake -- world, prepare to be astounded! And, likely, a little disgusted:


1. In your home, who does the laundry? I do mine and Lizzy's. Matt does his own. We don't want his boy germs tainting our stuff, ya know. (just kidding, dear!)

2. Do you sort your laundry? Yes. You'll know the folks who don't because their entire wardrobe is gray, right?

3. If you sort, how many different color/fabric type groups do you sort it into? Whites, brights, blacks, sometimes a fourth category of not-so-white, not-so-black and not-so-brights. Scarily, I occasionally seem to have enough yellow items to justify a medium-sized yellow load, if all are dirty at once.

4. Do you hand wash anything? Swimsuits.

5. Are there any articles of clothing that you send out to be cleaned professionally? On a very rare occasion only. I try to avoid owning anything that requires it.

6. If you have any clothes cleaned professionally, is that drycleaning? Matt sends a lot of professional work clothes to the dry cleaners. I will occasionally toss a summer blouse into that pile, but they've NOT gotten stains out so often that I'm put off counting on them to do any good.

7. At home, what detergent do you use? Whatever. I'm a fan of the no dye/no scent, but not militantly so.

8. What whiteners/brighteners do you use? an occasional glug of bleach in the whites.

9. Do you use any fabric softeners? A dryer sheet per load.

10. How do you handle stains? spray and wash, if I catch them. If not -- oops.

11. Do you use different water temperatures for your different loads? Yes -- usually just cold or warm, unless something ... well, let's just say I have a kid, all right? Stuff happens. You don't count on 'warm' to do justice to barfy sheets, is all I'm sayin'.

12. Do you use a tumble dryer, or do you hang your clothes to dry? Most everything is tumble dried. Some of those fuzzyish blankets that seem almost dry after a wash cycle, I just take out; and bras get hung to dry. Well, and a few other items -- tops I shouldn't have washed in the first place, dresses.

13. In your home, who folds the clothes? Me. When I don't pluck them straight out of the 'done but not folded' pile. (Matt folds his own stuff, of course) Perhaps this would be a good Lizzy training exercise... Fold clothes with Mommy! We'll whistle while we work, for good measure.

14. Where do you fold your clothes? (i.e., in the laundry room, at the kitchen table, etc.) I cart the clean stuff upstairs and dump it on the floor, the bed or a chair until I can get to it. (again, if.)

15. Who puts the folded clothes away? Whoever washes it, puts it away.

16. Do you have a certain day of the week you consider ”laundry day”? No. There are certain bellwethers, though -- all the comfy underwear is dirty; all of Lizzy's preferred apparel (dresses) are dirty; etc.

17. About how many laundry loads do you do per week? three or four

18. Do you iron? Almost never. I did for the first time in years a couple of weeks ago. I'm not sure the skirt looked any different for my efforts.
Scary story -- last weekend, when we were in Austin, TX, my mom (who irons all my dad's shirts, and always has) pulled out the ironing board in the motel room. As she's unfolding it, Lizzy asked her what it was. I silently died a thousand deaths.
My parents tried to raise me right -- they really did!!