The Bomber learned to read awhile back, and is now reading like a demon, assuming there's some demon whose evil power is reading books about dinosaurs and Hot Wheels. At first I thought this was an awesome idea, but like that whole walking & talking thing, it seemed better in theory than in practice. All this reading has really put a crimp in our spelling things we don't want him to know, and it's made it hard to claim there's no hot dogs on a restaurant menu. But I digress...
The reason I mention the Bomber's reading skills is because while his are improving by leaps and bounds every day, it appears that mine have been seriously deterioriating. What make me think that, you ask? Well, there's this sign in the street right in front of my house:
When they first put it up, I thought it read "Road Closed." I always understood those words to mean something like, "we don't want you to drive past this sign, because the road beyond is not meant to be used right now." Also, that little orange sign? I thought it read "Detour" which I always understood to mean "drive this way instead."
Apparently, though, I need to go back and take some kind of remedial reading course. Because the rest of the world (or at least the rest of the people who drive down my street) are apparently reading these signs differently. If I'm correctly understanding the proper interpretation of these two signs, "Road Closed" actually means "drive around this sign, and the one at the other end of the street, too, because we know you're far too busy and important to go 60 seconds out of your way." And that little orange sign? Apparently that means "and if you're going to be a sucker and turn that direction, you don't need to bother stopping at that pesky stop sign first."
Maybe I'll put up a little sign of my own. It'll read "Have a Nice Day!" I assume all the people driving down my street will correctly understand that those words actually mean "I hope you break an axle in that big old hole, or at the very least get a traffic ticket."
I've been feeling pretty blue lately, for a variety of reasons, but as my husband has pointed out, I really have very little to be unhappy about. Which isn't to say I think that only people with "real" problems are allowed to be sad or unhappy, but I do think it's good to remind one's self of the good things once in awhile, just to keep everything in perspective. With that in mind, in no particular order, I bring you a few things that make me happy:
1. A sleeping Bomber. Aside from the fact that he doesn't talk (much) while he's asleep, when he's asleep, I can still see the tiny infant he once was - in the expression on his face, the way he still holds his hands in his Han-Solo-Meets-Carbonite pose, and the tiny bit of drool running down his chin. Awake, he's all little boy who knows everything, but asleep, he's still my baby.
2. Larry. He's all kinds of awesome. I don't know what I can say that doesn't sound ridiculously sappy, but I got seriously lucky when I met him. He's cute, funny, understanding, thoughtful, a good father, an awesome partner, and the only person I can even imagine spending the rest of my life with. He puts up with me when I'm moody and unpleasant, and tries to make me smile when I'm down. Yeah, he's a keeper.
3. Donuts. I really like donuts. I used to be fairly apathetic toward them. I mean, I'd eat one and enjoy it, but I didn't have any particular love for them. When I was pregnant, though, I craved them all the time, and the craving stayed with me afterwards. Since almost five years has now passed, I figure the craving's not going away, so I might as well just embrace them. Figuratively, of course, since embracing donuts literally would be kind of sticky. But actually, it might also be kind of nice...mmm.... donuts...mmmm.... wait, what was I saying? *ahem*
4. The Money Eating House. Not only am I grateful to have a roof over my head and the means to afford it, but I am especially grateful for the MEH in particular. Yes, it eats money. A lot of money. But there's nothing like walking on floors that have been there for 106 years and wondering who else's feet have walked there, or shoving open a window and thinking about someone throwing the same window open in the spring of 1906 or so, and taking in a deep breath of sweet-smelling southern air. So even though the walls aren't plumb, the windows aren't level, and nothing is either a standard size, nor the same size from one room to the next, I wouldn't choose to live anywhere else.
5. Exercise. Yeah, I have to get up at 5 AM to do it, but there's nothing like a great workout (or really, even a bad workout) to give your day a boost - even if you do nothing else that day, you've already accomplished something at the end of your workout. And it can be motivation for eating healthy (why ruin all that work you dragged your butt out of bed at the crack of dawn for) or justification for eating something "bad" (hey, I worked out! I can have a donut! mmm....donuts....mmmmmm.....wait, what was I saying?)
6. Margaritas. Larry makes really good ones. I mean, REALLY good ones. I could tell you the recipe, but then I'd have to kill you. They're that good. He mixed up a post-rapture-five-year-old-birthday-party recovery batch this weekend, and they were TAY. STEE. And there's still some in the 'fridge...
So, there you go. Half a dozen things that make life pretty great. A lot of the stuff that's got me down is still there and getting me down, but I truly do have nothing to complain about (though I reserve the right to continue to do so), and lots of stuff to be happy about.
Fifteen years, 11 months and 18 days ago, I walked up to the front of a crowded courtyard full of people wearing black robes and goofy-looking hats, and accepted my juris doctorate from the dean of a fine institute of higher learning in scenic Camden, New Jersey.
Four and a half hours ago, I put this:
In here:
The last payment, EVER, on my law school loans. It took 5832 days, three deferments, one consolidation, and a LOT of patience and understanding from my husband, who married me despite the enormous debt I brought with me, but I have finally paid off that very expensive piece of wall decor I purchased back in 1995:
I've still got some empty wall space, though....maybe it's time for the next degree!
I’ve really been jammed up lately, and kind of not in the bloggy mood, I think because of all my preschool solar system homework (which is a story for another post) and the scintillating presentation I was preparing on the new Uniform Adult Guardianship and Protective Proceedings Jurisdiction Act (which is way too boring to be a story for another post). So I’m stealing this from my friend Tara, just to have something to say.
1. Were you named after anyone? My older sisters. They were named first, get it? I slay me… okay, no. My mother just liked the name.
2. When was the last time you cried? I cry all the time since the Bomber came along. Which is not to suggest that he makes me cry. It's just that I' m way sappier than I used to be. That kid totally ruined my iron-fist-in-an-iron-glove rep. Now I’m a big pile of mush. Yesterday I teared up over something with one of my imaginary friends. Real cry? My beloved husband said something thoughtless to me about how I was dressed Tuesday morning, and I cried over that. The Friday right before that, I got weepy at the circus – THE CIRCUS – because I realized it would be H-Bomb’s last trip there with his daycare/preschool. A couple days before that, I cried over having to make a 3-D model of the solar system. See, I told you – the kid messed me up.
3. Do you like your handwriting? No, I hate it. I’m a lefty, and have a weird grip even for a lefty. I struggled with handwriting all through school, and I was actually worried that I wouldn’t pass the bar(s) because they wouldn’t be able to read what I wrote. Apparently those people are good at reading chicken scratch. This is why all my scrapbooking, card making and journaling is done on the computer.
4. What is your favorite lunch meat? I don’t know that I really have one. I was going to say cheese, because I frequently eat cheese-only sandwiches (and there's nothing like a good cheese and potato chip sandwich with mustard), but I realized that’s not actually a meat. So… turkey, but only when accompanied by cheese.
5. Do you have kids? Just the one I mentioned up there that made me all sappy. He’s 4.5, knows everything, never stops talking and is pretty stinkin’ awesome.
6. If you were another person, would you be friends with you? Absolutely. I'm awesome.
7. Do you use sarcasm a lot? Nope. Never. Nooooo way. Actually, that was some right there. I frequently say it’s my defining characteristic.
8. Do you still have your tonsils? Unless some mad tonsil thief broke into my house one night and stole them, yes.
9. Would you bungee jump? Not just no, but HELL no.
10. What is your favorite cereal? Cheerios. Actually, to be completely accurate, it’s Publix Greenwise Organic Toasted Oat cereal. I know, that’s really boring.
11. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Only if they have laces. Untying the slip-on and zip-up ones takes way too long.
12. Do you think you are strong? I think I'm tough, but I'm not sure if that's the same as strong.
13. What is your favorite ice cream? Vanilla. Coffee is a close second.
14. What is the first thing you notice about people? Their smile (or lack thereof).
15. Red or pink? Green.
16. What is the least favorite thing about yourself? My telephone phobia. I’m not actually afraid of telephones – it’s not like I run screaming when I see one – but I do wish I was more comfortable making and receiving phone calls. I’ll go to great lengths to avoid having to do it, and I’ve been known to beg my husband to do it for me.
17. Who do you miss most? Right this second? My friend Claire – I used to see her every day, but now I don’t, and I'm having a day where I keep thinking “I need to tell this to Claire” or “Claire would think that’s hilarious” and then feel sad she’s not just in the next office to talk to. More generally, I miss my best girlfriends and my sisters, who also count as best girlfriends, who all live too far away to see more than a few times a year. If you mean because of a loss, I’m lucky that I’ve never really lost anyone I was terribly close to.
18. What color shoes and pants are you wearing? I'm actually not wearing pants. (I’m wearing a skirt, so all you pervs can just get your mind up out of that gutter!) I am, however, wearing brown boots. And brown socks with pink stripes.
19. What was the last thing you ate? Penne pasta with chicken, mushrooms & sun-dried tomatoes, from Greek Boys. That thrilling presentation up there at least came with lunch.
20. What are you listening to right now? Right now? The secretary down the hall coughing. Music-wise, the last thing I listened to was “Homecoming (Walter's Song)” by the brilliant and grossly under-appreciated Vienna Teng, in the car on my way to work.
21. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Atomic Tangerine. I actually think this question is kind of silly, and I always just go look up the list of Crayola color names and pick one that appeals at that moment.
22. Favorite smells? A wood-burning fireplace, a freshly peeled clementine and the Bomber’s hair after a bath.
23. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone? My boss.
24. Favorite sports to watch? Baseball. And Super Modified Shovel Racing. What? That’s a real sport.
25. Hair color? The color it grows out of my head? Or the color it currently is? It’s sort of a dark blond-light browny color naturally, but it’s currently a great light blond with golden highlights, thanks to Pia, High Priestess of Hair.
26. Eye color? Green.
27. Do you wear contacts? Only from the moment I wake up, until the last instant before I go to bed. I wear my glasses so I can find the bed after I take them off and find the bathroom before I put them on, and that’s pretty much it.
28. Favorite food? Pizza. Which is also the 8th deadly sin, at least according to Jimmy Buffett
29. Scary movies or happy endings? I like them both.
30. Last movie you watched? Last movie in a theater was the most recent Harry Potter movie. Last movie at home – Casablanca. “Round up the usual suspects!”
31. What color shirt are you wearing? I’m not wearing a shirt. (Um, gutters… minds…) I’m wearing a brown military-style suit jacket.
32. Summer or winter? I used to like them both equally, but my time in South Carolina has made me really wimpy, and now I can’t stand when it drops below about 45 degrees. Pathetic, I know.
33. Hugs or kisses? Yes, please.
34.Favorite dessert? To eat, key lime pie. To talk about, pecan pie.
35. What book(s) are you reading now? Pride & Prejudice & Zombies, A Short History of Nearly Everything, and some really trashy Nora Roberts book about a sculptor and a cop finding love in a small town while fighting off a band of Satanists. Really.
36. What is on your mouse pad? I don’t have a mouse pad. Years ago, I developed terrible tendonitis in my mousing thumb, and switched to a touch pad.
37. What did you watch on TV last night? Angel, Season 5, Episode 4.
38. Favorite sound? A train in the distance late in the evening, the bells from the church up the street on a lazy Sunday afternoon in the summer, the little sounds the Bomber makes while he sleeps.
39. Rolling Stones or the Beatles? Beatles. No question. I named my car after one of them!
40. What is the farthest you have been from home? Budapest, Hungary.
41. Do you have a special talent? I'm a peripheral visionary. I can see into the future, but way off to the side.*
Seriously, I don’t know… I can do a lot of things, but I never really think of any of them as special talents. I do make a *mean* 3-D solar system, though.
42. Where were you born? Pequannock, NJ, in the same hospital as Derek Jeter. Not at the same time, though.
43. What time is it ? Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care?**
Okay, okay, it’s 4:15 PM right now, but thanks to the $*#&%&^ firewall at my office, this won’t get posted until much later.***
* That's a quote from Mad About You, one of my all time favorite shows to quote.
** With apologies to Chicago.
***Turns out the firewall problems are fixed, but the problem of my being too lazy and tired to sit at the computer last night remains. I have a trouble ticket in for that, though. Anyway, these are yesterday's answers. Deal with it.****
**** I certainly do have a lot of these footnote-y things today, don't I?
Crafy Sunday doesn't have that nice alliterative thing going like Thursday Thirteen or Wordless Wednesday, but I couldn't think of a word for crafty that starts with an S (though admittedly I didn't try for more than about 30 seconds). I hadn't been crafting for the longest time, mostly because it was hard to squeeze in between work, the Bomber and house stuff, but a lot of that stuff has resolved, or at least evolved, and I'm finding myself in a crafty way again. I even dragged out the knitting needles and am halfway through a pair of fingerless gloves. Of course, it's supposed to hit 73F here today, so they might be for next year...
Anyway, today I did a birthday card for the Bomber's friend Ben, who is apparently as dinosaur crazy as the Bomber. I used my Cricut, Sure Cuts a Lot software and this free SVG file.
(And I just realized I forgot his tooth - I know I cut it, so maybe it's still floating around upstairs.)
To make a card, I took the main dino shape, flipped it and welded the two together at the head. Ialso had to cut one bump off the back dino's ridge so it would open. This is a full view of the inside:
The text says "Hope your birthday is Dino-mite!" The Dino-mite part was also done on the Cricut with Sure Cuts a Lot. The font is Crazy Girlz Blonde. The rest of the text was stamped and embossed. I had to tape off part of the stamp for the word birthday, and I'm a little bummed at how the embossing powder adhered to the word, but eh. It's for a five year old boy. If he looks at it for more than 30 seconds, I'll be shocked. Here's a closeup of the inside:
And because I'm apparently completely insane, last week I made a card for the little girl up the street. The one was all Cricut, with no software. The four is the George cartridge that comes with it, the cake is from Just Because Cards and the inside phrase is Doodletype. The frosting on the cake was accented with a little bit of blue chalk. The candles on the cake were stamped, embossed and glitter glued. The embossing got a little smeared, but since the birthday girl looked at it for about three nanoseconds before tearing into the present, I guess it's okay.
People of a certain age (not me, of course, since I'm only 29) will remember this as the tag line for Cookie Crisp cereal in the late 70s and early 80s. The theme of the commercials was that a wizard would catch someone trying to eat cookies for breakfast, and magically turn them into "cereal" - part of a complete breakfast!
It turns out, though, that good old Jarvis the Cookie Crisp wizard was WRONG. You can have cookies for breakfast. I know this, because since the holiday season really got underway three or so weeks ago, I've actually had cookies for breakfast once or twice or *cough* six times *cough*.
Somehow it seems like an awesome idea at 7:45 AM when I'm rushing around getting everyone ready to get out the door. "Let's see... for the Bomber, grapes, cheese, two all-natural cereal bars and an organic yogurt tube. For me... um...six snickerdoodles!"
I'm here to tell you though, if you do eat six snickerdoodles, or a piece of fudge and three chocolate crinkles, or four pfeffernüsse and two pieces of some graham cracker-chocolate-caramel thing, or three peanutbutter cookies and a partridge cookie in a pear tree cookie, it will give you a lovely sugar rush. It will not, however, make you even remotely able to sit in front of your computer and do research on the Architectural Barriers Act or the statute of limitations for collection of a debt owed to the city water utility.
On the bright side, it may motivate you to spend 30 minutes watching old commercials on YouTube or give you a topic for a blog post. So maybe cookies for breakfast aren't so bad after all!
So, we're sitting in the pew on Sunday, listening to Easter mass. As usual, we have a whole bag of ostensibly quiet activities to keep H occupied. (I say "ostensibly" because a few weeks ago I discovered that if you give a small boy five large crayons, he can make a LOT of noise with them on a wooden pew, so you never know what might turn out to be loud. Everyone with small boys should now feel free to roll their eyes and say "duh.") Anyway, he asks for his Cars coloring book, and Larry reaches down to get it out of the backpack. "Only ONE crayon," I whisper. (See, I'm a fast learner...).
Larry rummages around in the quart-size Ziploc bag that contains all of the crayons we have ever been given in any restaurant, birthday treat bag or child-friendly public gathering and fishes out a blue crayon. "DADDY!" the Bomber whines softly. (Hey, if he's going to whine, at least he knows to do it softly.) "I need a RED crayon." Okay, kid's got a point. Most of the pictures in the book feature Lightning McQueen, who everyone knows is red. Larry takes the blue crayon back, fishes around some more in the bag, and comes out with a small red crayon. H colors half of one McQueen (and is it me, or does that sound like some unit of scientific measurement?) and then announces (this time not quite as quietly) "this one is BROKEN." And it was, so into the bag Larry goes again. This time he comes out with a brand-new, unbroken, untouched by human hands (though it's possible the cat licked it) red crayon. He goes to hand it to the Bomber, who bobbles it and drops it under the pew in front of us, to which Larry responds thusly:
"FUCK!"
Did I mention we were in church? On Easter Sunday? In a packed, standing-room-only house? And naturally it wasn't during a choral interlude or while the music director was pounding away on the organ as he is wont to do. Of course not.
And since one embarrassing outburst per high holy day is never enough, about 15 minutes later, H is watching people come back down the aisle after communion and spots a woman wearing this dress, more or less:
(It was actually a color-block type thing, with the bust area in yellow over one breast and pink over the other, with the skirt area in bright blue, but I digress.) "Mommy," he stage whispers just as she passes us. (Because at this point, actual quiet has given way to "on the loud side, but everyone's up for communion anyway, so he's not disturbing anyone.") "WHY isn't that lady wearing a SHIRT?" Larry and I did our best not to crack up over that, but the three southern ladies sitting behind us had no such compunctions. Instead, they cackled happily that tube-top chick had been called out on her Easter dress (or lack thereof) by a three year old.
Ah, Easter mass. I can hardly wait 'til Christmas.
A few years ago I somehow got onto the mailing lists for various organizations geared toward older people. (I suspect that somewhere along the way I gave some website a fake birth date because I didn't trust them not to sell my information. And lookee there, I was right! But I digress.) Since then I've been getting various bits of junk mail from pre-need funeral planning companies, those insurance companies that offer guaranteed term life insurance "regardless of your age or health!" and Medicare Part B and prescription drug plan providers. I also get offers to join AARP about twice a month, plus another two or three AARP credit card offers each month. Honestly, real senior citizens must get exhausted just from opening their junk mail.
Anyway, sometimes I sigh and wish a large-ish portion of the junk mail community didn't think I'm over 65. Mostly I just laugh, toss the stuff in the trash and move on, although I am starting to get a little scared that AARP might send some kind of goon squad to my house if I don't sign up soon. But the other day, I got something in the mail that really made me cringe:
It's bad enough they think I'm a senior citizen, but apparently they think I'm a CONSERVATIVE senior citizen to boot! I swear, if I start getting junk mail from Michael Savage or Rush Limbaugh, I'm going to have to throw my bottle of Geritol at someone and then beat them with my cane.
My dear doctor of lady bits. You know I adore you. You were awesome while I was gestating, you've given me excellent advice on how not to do it again, and you've managed to have a successful medical practice while also becoming a world famous jazz musician. (Okay, he's not actually a world famous jazz musician. He just has the same name as one, which has led to lots of jokes in my household about seeing his trumpet. Which is stupid, since I don't see his trumpet, he sees mine. Or something. But I digress. And really I don't even know if he has a trumpet. It could be more of a soprano sax. Or, poor guy, a piccolo. And now I've moved from digression to flat out babbling. I find visits to the lady bits doctor have that effect on me.)
Ahem. In any event, while I adore you generally, I think it may have escaped your notice, dressed in a complete set of clothes AND a lab coat as you were, that for those of us clad only in two middle-sized pieces of paper, it's really frickin' cold in your exam room. Honestly, would it kill you turn the heat up a little? Or is this some sort of health care cost reduction measure? And really, if you're going to make me sit around for 20 minutes with nothing on but paper, maybe you could spring for some heavier paper. Would a roll of brown kraft paper cost that much more than that box of over-sized tissues you're handing out now? And maybe you could throw in a pack of crayons, too. At least then I could doodle on it while I'm sitting around mostly naked. I realize that's not terribly dignified, but by the time you've found yourself sitting around wearing nothing but processed wood pulp, dignity is nothing but a distant memory. (Aaaaand, I'm babbling again.)
And while I'm at it, what's with the music? I know you're just trying to keep me entertained during my long, cold, paper-clad wait, so I don't mean to sound petulant (although...why don't you strip naked, sit around in a 65 degree room wearing a paper sheet and contemplating cold metal instruments coming in contact with your private parts and see how petulant you feel), but really? Asia? Air Supply? Are you trying to torture me or was that just a happy accident? Either way, the unfortunate fact that you entered in the middle of the Air Supply song has left me with "The One That You Love" as an ear worm. That's just cruel.
Hopefully both my ear worm and my petulance will be gone long before I show up for next year's bout of torture-by-cold-and-pop-music, and I can cheerfully go back to adoring you and your taste for bad 80s love ballads until then.
