last night

I finally, finally, finally got home from Phoenix. A place I was eager to go for a few days - until it snowed Sunday here in Virginia, and United Airlines canceled my flight and told me that I could not leave until Wednesday. They decided they could make it Tuesday, after I gave the quavery-lipped plea. But that had to be to Reagan National, instead of the much closer Dulles, which my original itinerary had me flying to.
(yeah, I know. Poor me! Enduring warmer weather, taking naps, reading books and hanging with my friend Dottie for a couple of more days. But I was letting down my boss, my family, and getting in the way by being there longer, and that kind of sucked.)
So last night, United -- or its partner/stepchild?, AmericaWest, got me home. From then on:

10:25 -- disembark from plane.
10:45 -- receive baggage.
11:24 -- arrive home in taxi. $60, plus tip.
11:30-1:30 -- deprogram with spouse. Hear what I missed; tell him what he missed. Get ready for bed. Try to ignore messy state of house (in all honesty, it hasn't been clean since we moved in. Many boxes sitting around, etc. But this is all the more apparent after I've been away.)
2-ish -- drop off to sleep.
2:30-ish -- sleepily receive small child climbing into marital bed.
3:30 -- decide that, even in my very sleepy state, I cannot sleep with the door open (too light) or the current amount of space I'm allowed (not enough to put arms down at sides). Adjust daughter and door accordingly.
4 a.m. -- Squirrels.
6:10 -- alarm goes off. Oh yay. Brand new day. And I WANTED to be here?!

(Answer: Still a resounding 'yes'.)


A few photos from our hike in Sonoma follow. These were taken by Dottie's hubby, Dr. G. I have yet to check mine out, as my battery died -- again! -- and I haven't located the other one. Besides, Dr. G's are so awesome, they're as good or better than mine will be.

Doesn't it look fake? Like the Thunder Mountain ride at Disneyland? "Hold on to your hats and glasses, folks. This here's the WILDEST ride in the wilderness."

critters

I've been running through a few cute ways to say this, but when it comes down to it, it is not cute at all. We have some sort of rodent life forms residing directly above our heads (when we're lying in our bed, in the bedroom, at, say, 3 a.m.) in the attic.
A few people who have heard this story have assured me that it's probably just 'wintering squirrels.' Just an innocent little fuzzy squirrel family, holing up against the bitter late-winter weather. Hunkering down in their wee nest made of whatever the families that went before left up there.
If only this lovely image wasn't accompanied by the skittering of little clawed feet along the ceiling. (did I mention, RIGHT ABOVE MY HEAD?!!) And visions of bits of plaster and rodents raining down on my face in the middle of the night.
Honestly. A demonic,* shape-shifting rodent terrorized my dreams last night. What little sleep I had after staying up 'til 2 a.m. to pound through another 100 pages of 'The Memory Keeper's Daughter.' A lovely book, but not entirely cheery.

Otherwise: Our fridge died -- again -- in the old house, and what with Matt's eternal proposal-working, we haven't had a chance to make any forward progress on the house itself; our car needs a thousand dollars of repair and new tires; and I haven't found a chance to exercise for a month. On the flip side, I'm going to Phoenix on Thursday. Boarding a plane. BY MYSELF. Bound for somewhere sunny and warm. To hang with a good friend for sizable chunks of time.
Maybe she'll take me for a brisk walk now and then. And maybe she'll offer respite from the tree rats a few feet from my head. And maybe I won't miss my daughter TOO desperately.
One can dream.

* by the way -- 'demon squirrel' yields A LOT of Google hits. I am not alone.

nice to be 'home'

Lizzy, Matt and I all stayed home yesterday. Matt's intent was to do work, but he mostly slept instead. Lizzy and I got out in the snow a little bit, slept a little bit, and played with the neighbors some.

I was amused that morning by the sights -- and sounds -- of kids sledding on our driveway. (we have officially claimed the garage for the CAR, as opposed to all of the storage boxes we originally threw in there -- we LOVE having a garage!!!) They didn't ask if they could; they just sledded away. Which doesn't bother me, but I didn't know how Matt would feel.
When I asked him, he said: "I think it's GREAT! We're the sledding hill!!" It just feels nice to be in a neighborhood where everyone cares about their homes, and feels comfortable about sharing. That's a combo I haven't experienced in a long time.

The best was when we went out to do a little sledding ourselves. We waited 'til noon or so, so the snow was a little mushier than would be optimal, but it was also more Lizzy's speed that way.
The neighbors have a St. Bernard named Sammy who is a total sweetheart. He looked very happy to see snow and cooler temperatures. He wasn't sledding, but he was hanging out alongside the 'sledding run' with his owners. His collar had bells on it and one of those little barrels hanging from his neck that had a tap on it, just like you see in cartoons -- the neighbors told us it had Apple Schnapps in it. They kept trying to tap it, but Sammy wanted a tummy rub instead of allowing easy access to the tap.
I have to post photos. It was about the cutest (non-kid) thing I've seen in awhile.

marriage on the mind

A couple of days ago, Lizzy was in a reflective mood on our drive into town.

“When I grow up and get a lot older – when I’m all grown up, like, 6 years old, or something,” she pronounces, “I’m going to line up all the boys I like and I’m going to pick which one I want to marry.”

She’s been quite obsessed with the fact – and asks for confirmation of these details – that she cannot marry more than one person. I’m tempted to kick in a polygamy joke sometimes, but so far, I’ve resisted the urge. Don’t want to confuse her, and all.

The feminist in me (small, but still alive) wants to kind of shout, “and you don’t HAVE to get married, anyway, kid!”, but I stifle her, too.

So her church buddy and new neighbor Ethan will be in the lineup (of course!), as well as a few friends from her day care, and her second cousin (but his mom, Matt's cousin, was adopted, so I guess that’s sort of okay). That might be it. There were about six lucky lads, all told.

Later, she was showing a bit of concern for those who will be rejected. “Maybe they can find other girls to marry!” she said brightly. Yes, I imagine they’ll probably manage their grief somehow. They’ll find a way to cope. There ARE other fish in the sea.

I’ve tried injecting a bit of reality into the proceedings. I’ve told her that she might even meet NEW boys before then that might make the cut. She seems unconvinced. Also,
“You know, Lizzy – those boys get to say whom THEY want to marry, too,” I said. “They have to want to marry you, as well as you wanting to marry them.”

She pondered this for a moment, then said, “Daddy? When I grow up, how will I get boys to like me?”

Matt, not missing a beat, immediately said, “All you’ll have to do is show up, Lizzy. They’ll come to you.” She seemed rather pleased by that.

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Another Lizzy note: Next Wednesday is Valentines’ day, and Lizzy’s class is scheduled to go to some nursing home and sing songs for the elderly. A really lovely idea – I can’t think of many groups of people who are more ignored or in need of affection; I’ve always kind of had a heart for that, though I’ve done very little about it.
I fear, though, for the reactions of the 3- and 4-year-olds. Nursing homes can be very scary places, at least to kids. Strange, hospital-like smells; some of the kids have never seen ‘very old’ people; some of the people have kinda lost their minds, and don’t act the way kids expect people to act. I’m kind of bracing for Lizzy to freak out and make them feel even worse. Ugh.

Wednesdays are the worst possible days for me to skip out of work. But my boss has granted me a half-day off that day, given the occasion, so I’m going to volunteer to drive some kids and at least see what transpires for myself.
As I was leaving the day care this morning, I walked down the hallway past the 4-year-olds’ classroom. (if you’re saying to yourself, ‘Hey! Lizzy’s 4. Why isn’t she in with the 4-year-olds?’ Boy, you don’t want to get me ranting about that. Suffice to say, SHE SHOULD BE.)
So the 4-year-olds are planning a field trip soon, as well. Where to? Well. Disney on Ice, as it turns out.

Sing for old people.
Disney on Ice.
Sing for old people.
Disney on Ice…
Gee. Some field trip disparity there, or what?

settling in

Mom just called me out for not blogging, so I'd best post something to prove to those far away that, yes, I'm still chugging along. It's a bit harder (the blogging, not the act of living itself) when one does not yet have internet access at home -- actually, I have, officially, had a wired home for about an hour now; not that it's done me any good yet -- but I'll ramble here for a few minutes. Whoops, my boss just walked by as I was typing away on the blog. Oh, well. My annual review isn't until October. :)

At the new homestead, unpacking is going slowly but surely. It's fun to establish new routines and cubby-holes for things that we didn't really have room for before. On the new routines: Our two-car garage (!!We have a garage!! I've never had a garage. The automatic garage door opener is acting up. I couldn't care less -- we actually HAVE A GARAGE!!) is still fairly full of junk, so we've been parking our car in our driveway (!!We have a DRIVEWAY!!). It's been so cold, though -- for D.C., mind you, okay -- that ol' Betsy is acting up a little in the morning. Just a little. She doesn't want to idle for us, to warm up. One of us has to be in the driver's seat, giving it some gas, for the first couple of minutes. I was complaining about this to one of our new neighbors, SuperSam. About how it feels a little treacherous to actually accelerate while we're backing down our steepish driveway in the morning, to keep the motor running; how, otherwise, it will stall and then the steering wants to lock up. He listened thoughtfully, then said: "Yeah, I know what you mean. How about if you backed it up the driveway when you got home at night?" I stood gaping, dumbfounded at the obvious and brilliant solution to a pesky problem. It's good to have friends. Especially smart ones!

At this point, we've unpacked and sort of put away most of the obvious stuff, leaving us with boxes of random junk that we haven't found a place for or haven't urgently needed over the past five days. (let that be your hint; I know, I know.) With great ceremony, we unpacked most of the wedding gifts that we didn't dare get out in our smaller space before. Such fun! All of these new things. We hung our fabulous Rebecca Tiffany art last night, and it is way too good for even our new home. WAY too good. Seriously, it's about the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. We'll have to commission some to keep it in good company.

Lizzy told us yesterday that she'd rather move back to the old house. Matt couldn't believe it, until I explained that I figured it's because we've been Ferberizing her 4-year-old self. Yes. She'd been sleeping with me -- Not That There's Anything Wrong With That, except that Matt would rather share a bed with his wife, and he promises not to do the perpendicular position things that Lizzy loves, when her head or feet are firmly wiggled into the small of my back (though she does snore less) -- but now that we have a new house, and are thinking about having another baby one of these years, we want to get her using her own room and bed. You know, so that when I toss her out of bed because I'm pregnant, or to give the baby room, she won't build up a pathological resentment for the second-born. As if that's ever avoidable. In any case, we'll have her hating the house, instead of the sibling. Hm... So far, five nights in her own bed, and counting. Or is it six? Something like that. She still wakes up and cries for me in the middle of the night, but I am quite content to tell her to stuff it and get back in her own bed. Mommy can be so mean when her sleep is being compromised. (just ask Matt when he snores.)

Poor Matt. He says a house just isn't a home without TV service. Hee! That might be awhile in coming. A certain telephone/internet/cable provider, who employs James Earl Jones as its spokesperson, is giving us a bit of runaround. It could be a couple of weeks. I've already warned SuperSam and WonderDee that they might be receiving visitors on the doorstep during American Idol hours. I don't want to push my House and e.r. addictions on them, but A.I.? Must-have.

Speaking of Matt: He was up until 3 a.m. Again. In theory, this proposal he's helping his boss with should end sometime, but it's for the government, so maybe it won't ever. I hope it does, though. It really stinks for him right now. Poor guy. And ... he'll be 30 next week! He doesn't seem too concerned. Maybe dating/marrying someone 5 1/2 years older than yourself leads you to fret about your age a wee bit less. He's got less hair than me, but I'll always have more gray.