Overheard: Polite dinner conversation at home

"Did you hear about the 18 month old baby that fell out of a window seven stories high in Paris?"

"Oh my God NO!"

"Oh no.. Sorry. I mean the baby's fine. She fell seven stories, bounced off of the awning over a door, and a man who happened to be walking by at that moment caught her. "

"What? Really?"

"I know. It's like something out of a damn cartoon."

Seriously. Look:

http://news.blogs.cnn.com/2010/11/02/baby-survives-7-story-fall/?hpt=Sbin

Regarding London

Regarding London:
There is so much hopping around in my brain right now that blogging seems ridiculous. But then maybe that's the point - the idea that I can be relatable, appreciated, and, I admit, loved in a virtual world. Not that I'm not sincere - most of the time - but that the chaos of life (who I am in this life) can be ordered somehow in an 8x4 computer window is outright silly.


And now for the old college try... whatever that means:

1. Shaun of the Dead is real.
Rich and I were in London during several work days, and it looked just exactly like the movie when people were commuting to work in the morning - zombies and regular folk alike - and one would be hard pressed to tell the difference between the dead tired and the truly dead. The tube was full of silent carriages, the only movement an occasional yawn, and even that kept to a minimum because a yawn would be proof of a living being. I tried not to look around ( a dead giveaway that I was a tourist), but I couldn't help but laugh.. thankfully, silently, when I then remembered the slipping on the brains part of the film. To make matters worse, this advert decorated nearly every tube station:

For the record, the zombies in the picture are WAY more enthusiastic than the ones commuting to work. These must be the after 10 zombies.

2. My mother was right.
Cars are weapons and we only get one chance. That was the line she fed me when I was a teenager. At the time, I knew that probably she was right, that I didn't really want to find out, and that hopefully God was on my side, especially since I had gone on practically every youth group mission offered. It turns out, that all she had to do to teach me the validity of this lesson was put me in a car in England with my husband. (sigh)

I'm not saying (ahem) that Rich is a bad driver.. He's just a bad driver in England. In his defense, I practically badgered him into it, reminding him that it was my birthday and that it could be romantic to visit the countryside and picnic near the sheep. It might even be fun, I intimated, to get stung by the nettles and have to look for the leafy cure which, as we all learned years ago in England when I got stung on my backside during an ill-timed bathroom emergency at Hadrian's Wall, is always nearby. We compromised. We took a train out of London and into Oxford where we rented a car and drove through the Cotswolds. It was a gorgeous drive, minus the honking and the curb brushing, and we learned how to utilize round-abouts (kind of), we learned about how to fill a tank with gas (not so different), and we also learned that driving in England is a stress to our marriage and that probably we should stick to train riding. The kind folks in Stow-on-the Wold would agree.

3. I am possibly the most lazy blogger in the world.
Actually, the photo pasting is kind of a nightmare here and my patience is waning. So here's what I'll do: Speed blogging followed by a photo montage, hopefully in slide show format:


* We saw some excellent political/modern art at two fantastic galleries - The Saatchi Gallery in a posh part of London and at the ICA where we viewed a political Russian opera film called Dissent while reclining in beds.


*We took a day trip to Canterbury - made the Pilgrimage, Chaucer style, yo! (minus the donkey/horse riding, the lack of bathing, and the story-telling)- and had a moment of silence for Thomas Becket on the alter where he was murdered. We also witnessed a bell ceremony there in remembrance of all soldiers. I couldn't help but marvel at how American it seemed.. or possibly how British we still are.


* My friends, Mark and Ilham, took me out to lunch at a fantastic open-aired cafe for my birthday and then the next evening took me, a Texan, to a Mexican restaurant called La Mexicana, co-owned by a native Mexican and a Turk, who employed a blond haired, fantastically sarcastic Canadian. All three - the Turk, the Mexican, and the Canadian - wore sombreros and sang Happy Birthday to me in front of a mural depicting a cowboy screaming "Yee Ow!" See, this is why I love Mark and Ilham. They thought to take me to that awesomely surreal place, and it wasn't that weird to them.


*We watched ping pong matches in St. James Park. Had I known ping pong was a free-for-all sport there, I totally would've played. Next time..


* We visited various pubs, including the good-ole standby - the Black Friar- and ate all kinds of horrifically bad for you pub foods, including fried fish sandwiches and a plowman's lunch. Of course there was shepherd's pie (duh), but sadly no bangers and mash.We declined the invitation to "go out back" to the bar-be-cue at the local pub near our hotel where it was perfectly acceptable behavior to roll around in the floor with puppies. I can't begin to explain that - the puppy part - except to say that it happened, and we tried not to stare at the coin slots. Seriously. At the time I was worried about looking all touristy.. but in retrospect, it just grossed me out.

And now for the montage:

4. London is my favorite place on the planet.
We spent a huge amount of time walking around the city and then taking the tube back to our hotel. We ran across several fantastic sites, including the Victoria Rail Station and a car boot sale (where I bought a purse). Mark even took me on a tour of his school - yet another reminder of how same we all are.

World Cup: Ghana v. US

Four years ago Rich and I went on one of the best - if not THE best - tours of our lives. Before there was a Baby Jack, there was travel. Lots of it. We had been in Italy for two weeks with our students and sent them home with a chaperon while we continued our sojourn through Austria and Germany.
The trip happened to coincide with the World Cup in Germany, and our best friends, Christine and Jamie, happened to be in Germany for the World Cup. We met up with them. I could go on about how amazing the time was - how much fun Rich and I had in Nuremberg at the viewing party (That's where you go when you don't have tickets to the game..), how we met new friends, drank too much beer, and cheered on our team. But that's not what this post is about. It's about this:

Four years ago we played Ghana in the World Cup. Four years ago, they beat us, knocking us out of the tournament. It was a sad loss, yet I was elated for the Ghanans. Today we play them again and there is a lot at stake for both of our teams. For one of us this will be our last game in the tournament, so it is sure to be played with lots of heart, the emotional factor being at its highest.


Go USA!

Hell

Dante and Milton have made egregious miscalculations in their assessments of hell in the form of a very obvious omission. Dante's circles are incomplete as such, as is Milton's burning, sulfurous terrain.
_______________________________________________
Rich and I, in the middle of enduring a very long "staycation" in our house over spring break, looked at each other, exasperated. In that raspy, "I see dead people" voice, the one only used in the face of some supernatural terror, he whispered, hardly audible,"Dear God. We have a toddler.."
"How in the hell did this happen?" I responded in the same hissy tenor.

And then we both started sobbing.

Earlier, I was horrified to find banana smeared all over the keyboard and screen of my laptop. I turned to Rich and began to complain, when I remembered that earlier that day, Toddler Jack had taken a crayon to Rich's. Unfortunately, it was too late. The statement was out. That's when we broke and started remembering all of the mischief that took place that day related to the actions of our almost-two-year-old Jack. The statements came rapid fire and generally began with "And then he...", "And then.." In the interest of brevity, here is that frantic exchange, ordered more cogently than the original and in a bullet point list (because it's alot):

* Computers - one artistically adorned, the medium being crayon, the other glazed in a sticky fruit compote.

* Shoes firmly planted.. in the flower pots...in the house.

* Items put away (somewhere) for the future:
- One half-eaten jelly bean
- One hairbrush (Daddy's)
- Ten pairs of socks (his)

*Items put in the trash (that were thankfully recovered):
- A check in the amount of $13.50
- A lovely necklace and one earring
- One copy of Alice in Wonderland
- One television remote
- One book of Christmas postage stamps
- One pair of glasses

* Bathtub - One toy boat played with in bath, the same boat that needed to be bailed out, as did apparently the bathtub itself.

* Climbing Practice (freestyle):
- On top of the dinning table
- On top of the bar stools
- On top of a dresser, using the back of a couch as a spring board

* Number of fits thrown: 5, not including diaper changing ones

* Number of diaper changes: 5

* Number of time-outs: 1, including fit

*Number of headache pills taken by parents as a result of fits: 4 (2 ea)

* Number of glasses of wine consumed: 4 (2 ea and counting)

* Percentage of patience lost by parents: 99.9% (.1% away from total breakdown)

And we're really good, attentive parents! I can't imagine the catastrophe that must happen in homes where parents aren't as attentive, or in homes where, and I shudder to say it, more than one toddler resides!
_____________________________________________
Dante and Milton clearly never spent very much time with an almost two-year-old kid. Surely, they would've considered them when writing their epics..

(Though all of the items on this list did actually take place in one day, I have to say that I have the best kiddo in the world! He's smart and sweet and wonderful... which is why we can endure the storm and which is why all of our spare change is going to the local vineyards.)

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Hell, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

The Opposite Sex: Wratch

I am unbelievably lucky that I have the partner that I do. His name, if you didn't know, is Rich. He's pretty much the most lovely person on the planet. I adore him.

Rich and I met in college. Actually, sometime during the first week of my college career, between orientation and my first exam, I saw him across the room. In a millisecond I knew that I would marry him. Seriously. You can stop gagging. It's true. A "voice" we shall call "intuition" whispered it in my ear. Instead of the pronouncement garnering that warm mushy feeling reserved for the beginnings of Nicholas Sparks books (the endings reaping a different emotion), mine was more akin to what it feels like when one's stomach drops at the first intonation of a tornado siren. Panic. I ran home and called Jen (who will confirm my account), and said, "Jen, guess what!? I just saw the person I'm going to marry!"

She, the ever-calm and rational presence, asked, "What's his name? Tell me about him."

"Uh. I don't know. I haven't actually talked to him, yet.."

And that was the beginning. It only took a month for me to collect myself and actually talk to him. Er.. really, it only took me a month to: find the perfect event, a street dance in this case (yes, darlings, it was the 90's), put together the perfect granola/attractive outfit to draw his attention, practice possible conversation openers with my roommate, and steel myself for the first words that would essentially begin what I was sure would be, "the first day of the rest of my life."

Melodramatic? Yes.

A true assessment? Also yes.

Obviously at that time I did not know the sheer impact of that first meeting, the extent to which knowing Rich - growing up with him, traveling the world with him, being a co-parent with him - would truly change my world for the better.

I suppose I could list traits and actions that describe why Rich exemplifies the perfect version of the opposite sex for me. Probably that is too much for a less than sappy blog post. What I will say is that Rich is the most considerate person on the planet. His love is unconditional, his patience infinite, his kindness apparent. He's reason to my manic. He's stability to my chaos. In short, he's both my opposite and my compliment and I am a lucky, lucky girl.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (The Opposite Sex, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Giving

I was standing in line at one of the most frantic toy stores in the world - the one that is always out of what you came to buy, even if you're going in August, even if what you want has nothing to do with Christmas - and I was kicking myself for being there for a couple of reasons:

#1 Rich and I decided that we would make our Christmas gifts this year which we are frantically currently doing. Why, then, were we at the toy store, annoyed, trying to find presents for our son and the nieces and nephews in our family? The excuses ranged from, "Well, kids don't understand the gesture of a handmade gift. They want toys! And it's Christmas, for the love of God! (Yes, go ahead and laugh at the irony.) It takes a level of maturity to understand that 'I love and value you' does not have to mean 'store bought and popular'," to "while noting that consumerism is way out of control in our country and that what we need is not more 'stuff,' we really wanted to give a meaningful, handmade gift to our loved ones because, honestly, we couldn't think of anything good enough to buy. We were being hypocrites by making everyone else's gift but his!"

#2 I hate toy stores, especially at Christmas. They beat the joy right out of gift-giving.

The Advent Conspiracy asks people to shop less and give people something more precious - your time, your attention, your love. Give presence, not presents. I love that idea, but it goes against the West's culture of gift giving - of black Friday and 'finding the best deals', of waking up at four in the morning and standing in line in the cold to get the "perfect" gift. It's easy to poo poo the West for being so materialistic, but at the same time I think that the sentiment is in the right place, even if it is misdirected a little.

Herein lies the dilemma. Giving, something that should be lovely and selfless, becomes stressful and problematic. And that's mostly why we decided to only give handmade gifts this year - to combine the present and the presence. The toy store was out of the item we wanted to buy for Jack. Was it a sign? Maybe. Who's to say what Jack will find under the tree this holiday.

As for the rest of our family, hopefully everyone will love their handmade gifts:

Love, Ginger and Rich

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic and post responses - all of us together at the same time, even though we are continents apart. (Lovely!) Introducing Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana.

Parade of Lights

My mom owes me twenty bucks.*

During the last afternoon of her visit, we piled in the car to get our ritual town coke** and decided to check out the prices for our community's "Parade of [Christmas] Lights" exhibit. The sign read, "$15 per car Monday-Thursday; $20 on the week ends."

Fully aware that our one-and-a-half year old son, Jack, loves lights we knew we had to go. Evidence: when Jack wakes up he runs to the living room, points to the Christmas tree and says, "chee!" (his word for tree, the sentiment being, "Momma, could we please turn on the lights on the Christmas tree?"), and then he whirls around to the kitchen and says, "nomin?," translated as "snowman?" our other light-up decoration we keep by his seat at the kitchen table. And then there are the lights around our front door, a little strand of red and white that we haphazardly threw up just to say we decorated. At night he sees lights on the other houses in our neighborhood. He points at them and yells, "Oh Wow!" And then there are the normal lights in the house - the fan light, and the bathroom light, and the kitchen light, all the normal lamps and flashlights, etc. that he notices. With delight he exclaims, "Ooooh!" as we illuminate each of them through the course of the evening.

That afternoon Mom said, "Ginger, you have to take Jack to see the Parade of Lights. In fact you might have to leave the Christmas tree up all year! He loves it! I'll leave you the money to go. Just promise me you'll take him!"

She forgot to leave the money, but we were convinced we had to go.

And we went.

We left right as the sun was slumping on the horizon and the sky was that gorgeous deep blue, the color that makes a whimsical impression and then quickly fades to black. I wanted to be sure to be at the front of the line at that moment in order to avoid the crowd. Already lines of cars, bumper to bumper, sat in two lanes full of families who were eager, if not a little impatient, to see the festive spectacle. I remembered to bring snacks and the eclectic "Happy Holy Days"CD my friend Russell for us. All was perfect!

When we got to the entrance, we paid, turned off our headlights as per the sign, and I pulled Jack out of his car seat into my lap so that he could see better. We drove through the maze of lights. There were a million things to see: blinking toy soldiers, a hundred Santas making toys, reindeer attending flight school, angels heralding, elves having snowball fights, deer leaping, squirrels throwing nuts, - a billion, trillion things to look at!

Despite the glowing wonderland around us, Jack was most interested in the floorboard of the car. He squatted on the floor and did his best to be in the way. He found the car's hazard light button which he rhythmically pressed in time to the Happy Holy Days CD. We tried to point and squeal like he does every morning to trick him into being interested, but he fussed and wanted down, and needed to do everything except look at lights. In short, going to the Parade of Lights was a nightmare for our son.

At the end of the trail was a lovely carnival complete with rides, funnel cakes, and pictures with Santa. Jack looked around, blinking, drooling, bored. We even took him on his first carousel ride. His expression remained blank as the horses went up and down and the lights spun around him. One cup of wassail later (Rich and I needed something to make it worth our while), we got back into the car to head home. Our baby had defeated us.

As soon as we pulled into our driveway and drug ourselves out of the car to come inside, Jack saw the piddly lights around the door. For the first time that night and with an expression of complete awe and wonder on his face, he exclaimed, "OH WOW!"

Of course.

* Mom, You don't really owe me $20. You do too much already! :)
** Town cokes are sacred.

Rich

Happy birthday, Wratch!!! You're the best husband on the planet!! Thank you for choosing me daily.

Deciding To Be Poor In Order To Be Rich

Yesterday, for the first time in a long time, I told the story about how my partner, Rich, and I met. It's the silliest story in the world, one that involves "just knowing" that we'd be together before we had even met, keeping a box of "Rich" trinkets - name tags he had worn, a sticker he had given me, and a napkin that represented the first time I touched his arm - hidden in my sock drawer, and then the first time we danced, or really danced around a conversation. What sicky-sweet, wholly endearing lunacy!

That story led to the one about living in a migrant worker shack, and selling blood to eat, and picking wildflowers for presents because we couldn't afford much more.. etc.

In my mind, these stories are highly romanticised. I see them as a time when I was happy and carefree despite having nothing or maybe because we had nothing. And yes, I do remember having to decide which bills to pay. I remember the sting of embarrassment when my credit card(s) were rejected when I tried to buy books for school, or when I had to count pennies at the gas station to see exactly where I had to stop the pump. If my car died or got towed, I wouldn't be able to drive for a month, or until I could save enough to get it fixed or un-impounded. The idea of actually going out to dinner was hilarious - as in Taco Bell was a date.

The great thing about this time in my life was I didn't consider myself poor. I knew I always had a place to stay (even if that meant going back home). I knew I wouldn't starve. AND I had so many friends in similar circumstances that we were creative in how we shared. We lent (read "gave" because there was no expectation of paying anything back, unless it was rent) each other cash - shared bank loans, crashed at each other's places, fed each other, and spent a lot of time simply hanging out because that was the entertainment we could afford.

Was this community?

Without going into too much detail, I had (I suppose) the opportunity to revisit my life pre-SUV, pre-responsibility, and pre-suburbia. I could imagine what living in community really could be, though I would have had to do it carefully with a one year old Baby Jack. I could almost concretely see my life in a community where I left all of my "comfortable" security (and the lonely solitude that comes with it) to be in a place where I had the time to "hang out" with people again. I would be vulnerable, exposed - two qualities that fly in the face of my culture's defining value of 'pulling yourself up by your bootstraps."

In short, I would have to sell back my version of The American Dream.

Please don't misunderstand. I'm not talking about patriotism here. I do love my country. It is made up of good, hardworking people. Somehow, though, I think we got a little bit distracted by what we could own, rather than seeing the value in what we have or can be. I absolutely am the poster child for the typical independent, self-reliant, white picket fence American. It's not necessarily a bad thing, but for me it isn't THE dream.

___________________________________________________
I applied to be an international teacher and was accepted into a program that will match me to schools in Europe and/or Latin America. Rich has proudly applied to be a stay at home dad - his dream. Though I'm eager to go RIGHT NOW (so much so that I am literally grinding my teeth together in anticipation and have sent cover letters and resumes and applications to at least 15 schools), I will probably have to wait another year. One year. Next year.

I'm not sure where we'll go. I don't know how we'll live without two incomes. I don't know what will happen to our 403B's or how fast we can sell everything we own, save our pots and pans and shoes. But we've made the decision. We're going. And I am so happy about the prospect of it all that I can hardly breathe.

Dr. Manhattan, Meet Ethel Merman

You know those really violent movies that involve so much brutality that it is a relief for there to be dialogue in between butcherings so that one can breathe a sigh of relief and loosen the white knuckle grip one has on the sticky movie chair arm rest? This was not that movie. This one had no rest between butcherings. It was dialogue dubbed over brutal chainsaw dismemberings - social commentary woven amidst the hacking of meat cleavers into brains and women being raped and/or shot in the face.

It was the first date they had had in a while.

He had assured her that it wouldn't be bad. "It might even be funny, " he said. "Not at all like Sin City or Kill Bill- much less violent. Trust me."

She had finally found her voice after sitting through such heinous atrocity, and was trying to decide how sincere he was in his repeated, pleading apologies. "I'm so sorry," he whispered scene after scene, "I promise I didn't know." And then after, "Let's go somewhere nice - anywhere you want - have some wine and something lovely. We can hang out.. talk."

She said, " but you said.." and then repeated the "it might even be funny" part of his speech.

"I didn't know."

That's the reason why it was ridiculously funny for them to be eating in the restaurant they were in - classy and expensive as seen in the absurdly large wine glasses that held splashes of twenty dollars-a-sip Cabernets. "Look for the legs," they were taught, "after you smell the cork, swirl the glass, and inhale the aromas." She knew that they were out of place. They weren't like these patrons. They weren't dressed up enough, plus they were still covered in the filth of the movie. She imagined that everyone who looked in their direction knew this about them as they were being paraded to their table in the back of the restaurant.

He tried to ease the moment by ordering wine and sitting on her side of the table with her. She tried to be rational - it was a good movie overall, just little too much violence. Yes. Focus on the message.. um.. that humanity will eventually fail, even if people are willing to sacrifice a few (millions) for the many (billions). Or maybe the message was that good guys are actually warped, desperate people who can only play at being good.. What was the point in good guys existing? This wasn't going well.

He interrupted her train of thought.

"So, I know you think there isn't just one soul mate for each person, because what if that person is in Bangladesh and you are here and you never meet," he said. "You think you could probably make it work with lots of people. Right?"

"Yeah, I guess," she said, curious. Her attention turned to making a list of people she knew with whom she might have "made it work".

"I think I was Ethel Merman in a previous life, although it wouldn't have been a previous life because she was living at the same time as me. Do you think you could be married to Ethel Merman?" He then broken into a much too perfect chorus - "Everything's coming up roses.."

She smiled, in spite of herself.

"There it is," he said, referring to her smile. "You're going to write about this, aren't you?"

"Probably,"she acknowledged, though she hadn't really processed the moment fully.

"Damn. I wish I had picked to be the reincarnation of someone who had a penis, then." He smirked at her and then hugged her. "I really am sorry."

"It's OK," she said. "Don't worry about it, Ethel."

Turbo Scara

A mother and her grown daughter primp for the day together in front of a mirror:

Mother: Ginger, here. Check out this mascara that Great Aunt Jody had to buy.

Daughter: Um. OK. (opens mascara. mascara begins to vibrate) Oh my God.(grinning) This is make-up and a vibrator all in one. How old is Aunt Jody?

Mother: (laughing) I think she's 79 or so.

Daughter: Huh. Go Aunt Jody! (using the mascara) Hey this is pretty cool. It separates my lashes nicely. I like.

(Son-in-law walks in)

Daughter: Hey Babe, check this out. Open it.

(vibrates)

Son-in-law: So. Do you need to be alone?



Estee Lauder: Fufilling all a girl's desires and then some..

Sometimes it's hard having a superpower.. You know?

It turns out that I have bionic hearing. Of all the superpowers one could acquire, this wouldn't be my first pick, but then one rarely chooses these things as he is being bitten by a radio active spider, as he is careening from his destroyed planet into a farm field in his infant sized space ship, or as he is being genetically modified into a weapon of mass destruction by the military who (generally) underestimates a person's emotional yearnings to do the right thing. Not that any of that happened to me. I don't think.

But I do have strong hearing as evidenced by the fact that I get angry when certain members of my household breathe too loudly. I try not to react when the person next to me sounds like the space shuttle throttling as he casually watches a movie turned up so loud that the Branch Davidians feel nervous. That confrontation always ends poorly, with a snippy comment by the breather that goes, "You seriously want me to die, don't you. Sorry I have to breathe in your space to survive."

Because of my extraordinary (ahem) gift, life can be fairly miserable. I can hear every conversation in my classroom and have to pretend not to hear most of them since some of them could ruin a person's faith in humanity. I hear every slight move the baby makes over the monitor. It wakes me up at night and I have to make sure he is Okay, even though I know that he probably just slightly moved his hand. Also, I hear a horrifically high pitched shrieking that comes from our cable box. So much so that I sometimes can't be in the same room with the TV.

And the last sound is a particular bitch.

We had satellite up until a month ago when fate would send a cable representative up our drive. Rich, in his usual hospitable manner, invited the guy in, made him a cup of cocoa, and asked him if he'd like to build a fort in the living room with the couch cushions and play Wii Mario Cart. Or that's how it sometimes happens in my mind when we invite a salesman into our house. It's always bad news because we "befriend" the person and feel obligated to buy whatever it is that he's selling. That's how we ended up with the most worthless vacuum known to man and a subscription to Cruising World Magazine.

Needless to say, we got cable and bundled some stuff, or something.

The problem was the cable box screamed. Loudly. Sometimes even Rich could hear it.

After the first week of enduring the sound, I demanded that Rich call the cable company. They remarked that sometimes the boxes squeal a little when the DVR is working and that they would come out and fix it right now. They did. I hardly had time to drag a comb through my hair when the man showed up with a shiny new cable box. And I was impressed. Until the shiny new box began squealing, too.

Once again we called. This time, At&t (the phone company/cable supplier) hung up on us twice and on the third attempt told us they would send someone between 12 noon and 4pm the following day. I tried not to be too snarky about the fact that noon to 4 is when all of the cool stuff happens in a day. I'm not sure exactly what, but I do know that I was most inconvenienced. And it was, after all, my fault, I suppose, that my super bionic military infused hearing from another planet was picking up the sound. I had already been a pain, and I was trying not to push it.

So we waited. Patiently. From 12 noon to 4pm. No calls. No doorbells. No new cable box.

Annoyed, Rich called again. They "checked on his account" for 20 minutes, and while doing so, hung up. We hung our heads, defeated.

As life moves along in it's own special time, or two hours later in this case, I forgot to be mad about the cable box. We were having dinner guests over to celebrate Christmas before all of us succumbed to family visits and the usual "holiday cheer". Around the time that the fist guest arrived, the phone, which hadn't rung all day, rang.

Me: "Hello?"

Him: "Yeah. This is Dennis. From At&t. I have a work order for you."

Me: (Annoyed)"Um. You guys were supposed to be here from noon to fou.."

Him: (Also annoyed and cutting me off)"Yeah and I just got the order."

Clearly he was having a bad day, so I tried to soften my tone.

Me: "Okay. Where are you, Dennis?"

Him: "Close."

Me: "Okay. But we're having a dinner party. I suppose you are welcome to come on in and install the new box.. and if you're hungry, there's plenty of spaghetti. Do you like spaghetti?"

Him: "Uh. Well. (sigh) Um. It's OK about the dinner part, but I'll come and install the box."

Me: "Okay. See you soon, Dennis."

And we disconnected.

The dinner guests arrived. And so did Dennis. He began installing the new box as we were toasting our evening. I again offered some dinner to Dennis, who was clearly amused at the proposition, and as the evening went on, I occasionally looked around dinner guest Jamie who was sitting directly across from me and who silently snickered with me, to check on Dennis. He was fine, his blue tooth ear piece blinking with importance. And we ate. And he watched.

Rich eventually showed Dennis out, inviting him back later for fort building, and everyone seemed content or at least amused.

That is until I was up with the baby in the middle of the night. While walking through the living room I sighed to myself, "Well. At least this one doesn't scream as loudly as the previous two." And I wasn't talking about the baby.

At least we're home

This is just a quick note to say that we're home safe. We had to make a midnight drive back -- the baby (finally) asleep in his car seat, Rich hanging over a sick bucket for 6 hours. They both have a nasty stomach virus, and I'm doing my best to help, though helpless is exactly what I feel..

In related news, this morning I awoke to find a baby cricket in the kitchen sink. I tried to save it, using the ole paper under the bug relay. In the end, I got the cricket outside, but I think I broke two of its legs in the process.

I hope this doesn't reflect poorly on my nursing skills.

Hooray Beer...Goggles

The man with the snake brimmed ten gallon hat swaggered by our table at Buck n Loons. He paused, eyes piercing through my skin, and continued on around the corner. I mumbled something about that being an odd behavior - to walk by a person, stop for enough time for the observed to feel uncomfortable, and then continue on without a word - but then I realized that I was talking about a man who had a rattle snake wrapped around his hat, the head of said snake lying limply on the brim. Probably he was not very concerned with social norms or ordinary types of pleasantries. He certainly did make an impression, though.

I am not unaccustomed to West Texas eccentrics since many of them were members of my Texas Panhandle family. Those men would gather in Mimi’s kitchen, chug Keystones, and rehash old stories that usually involved pick-ups, dirt, and/or a shotgun. These yarns were endearingly woven and told of some idiot friend who got himself into some sort of scrape, one that the ______(fill in the blank with fire chief, preacher, or sheriff)____ had to get him out of. Many of the tales ended with the listeners braying, “Ah hell” in whatever inflection was appropriate to the story – as in “No shit?!” or “That’s too bad,” or “That’s the most hilarious thing I’ve ever heard!” As the evening progressed and the beer coolers emptied, some of the stories were reenacted with props – like with a dead rattlesnake, a weed whacker, or shot gun shells. Always there was a lot of laughter, though any city slicker would have been justifiably afraid. Even I was sometimes uncomfortable, though I felt a great love and admiration for those Flatlander good-ole-boys.

So the snake brimmed man at Buck n Loons didn’t scare me as much as he reminded me of my childhood.

I, being at the end of an extremely challenging work day, sat lethargically people watching and sipping on Texas tea when he sauntered back around. I was determined to speak, to at least say hello to this dusty cowboy who obviously had some fascinating stories to tell. Before I could take a breath for what would be hello, he again stopped at our table.

This time he tapped Rich on the shoulder and said, “You do know you’re with the prettiest woman in the room, dontcha?” But before I had the chance to puff up with any ounce of pride, before Rich could even respond to confirm or deny his observation, the man said, “You better realize it or else we’ll have to take you to Vegas.”

Being understandably thrown, Rich asked, “What?”

The man explained, “You know, Vegas.. Where you can easily bury a body without being caught.”

We paused for a moment, trying to determine whether or not the man was making a joke or being genuine. I glanced over at Baby Jack, wondering how I would grab him and make a speedy exit if necessary.

Then with a huge yawping guffaw, the man slapped Rich on the back and made his way back to the bar.

“He he..he,” we weakly tittered in return.

“Check, please!”

I've got your friggin' post

I'm in a foul mood and I am about to take it out on you.. or really on this blog. And before I even say why I'm pissy, I should first say that I am embarrassed about airing it all out in such a public venue. Apparently, though, I'm not embarrassed enough to not post it.

So I think I'm sick. This may or may not be a direct result of the flu shot I got on Saturday.

I think Jack is sick. I can't tell, exactly, other than to say he is CONSTANTLY fussy/crying, won't take naps, is arching his back when being held, won't play or smile or do anything except cry. And I am helpless. I can't fix it. He has no other symptoms except that he won't sleep and is constantly crying.

I am buried in homework. I can't get caught up. And the district wants to give me more to do. They decide on Thursday whether or not next year they will give me more students and take away a conference period.

We don't have enough funds to make our magazine in litmag right now. Unless the kids come up with some significant patrons, the mag is sunk.

I feel really bad for Rich at the moment. He gets to hold the screaming kid right now. He, too, is feeling helpless.

I have to go and help now.

The Universal Conservation of "L"s

During our three hour window of baby-less transaction, we careened towards the great metro-wonderland of music and lights and dancing and sin, leaning forward to get there faster. And then this:

Him: So, yesterday my students noticed the way I say bolth. They were all like, "Mr. Haag, it's not pronounced boLth, it's both."

Her: See. They're smart.

Him: Well it's not bowwwth. Bowwwth sounds so.. so..

Her: Correct?

Him: Snobby. (lifting his nose in the air) Bowwwth. See? Uppity.

Her: (eye roll) Dude.

Him: Look. It has to do with the Universal Conservation of "L"s

Her: The wha..??

Him: The Universal Conservation of "L"s dictates that we sometimes conserve the L in words like "solder". Say it with me. "saw-der" See? No "L" is pronounced. You then take that L and move it where it is supposed to be - in words such as "boLth".

Her: Oh my God, it's a good thing this is your birthday week-end, the one time you get to say weird stuff and I nod and smile instead of explaining, using pie charts and graphs, why what you are saying is completely pulled out of your ass. (nodding and smiling)

Him: Precisely.

-And scene-

Happy Birthday, Love.

(p.s. I hope you are not too disappointed that we can't afford your midlife crisis Ferrari. At least you have a hot young trophy wife.. (wink))

Guess What We Did Yesterday..

We performed our civic duty...happily.

From the Gut

Last night after Rich had sung Jack to sleep, he went out to the "little outside" (our backyard) to bring in Casey Cat for the night. I was in the other room getting ready for bed when I heard Rich come in, riffle through a drawer, and go back out.

I wasn't sure exactly what was happening, so I listened for a minute, heard nothing out of the ordinary, and then followed Rich outside because it was too quiet. That's when I saw an unusual sight:

Rich was standing remarkably still four feet away from the corner of our yard, steadily shining a flashlight where the fences meet. I stood there for a second or two trying to assess the situation. In those very brief seconds, my brain crawler went something like this: "What is he looking at? Is the cat OK? Should I call for help? Should we be on high alert? I have a golf club.. no a bat..Damn, I know I'm for gun control, but maybe I should rethink it. Is that a cadaver? Buried alive? An arm coming from the ground? Mexican mafia..." and so forth. And as my paranoia went from healthy fear to certain global doom, Rich looked over at me and said very mater-of-factly, "Look. A possum."

"Oh," I sighed, a little disappointed, I have to admit.

"No it is! Look. I've never seen a real possum before."

"Is the cat OK?" I asked, not so much impressed by the possum.

"Yeah," he said, "they're friends. They were smelling each other when I got out here. See look. Casey isn't even puffed up."

"Is the possum trapped? Do we need to call animal control?" I asked in hopes that the possum could find his way out of our yard so that it could share this Disney experience with someone else's cat.

Ignoring my crankitude, Rich declared, "Man. I can't wait for Jack to be big enough to come outside and see stuff like this. I'll say, 'Look Baby Jack! A possum!' and he'll be all, 'Cool Dad! That's awesome.'"

"Will you teach him that possums are marsupials?" I mocked.

"Oh. Are they?" he questioned, followed immediately by, "Oh right! The opossum is North America's only marsupial."

And then the laughter came. I realized at that moment that I hadn't laughed in a really, really long time. And I couldn't stop laughing because, damn, Rich is adorable and I'm delighted that he's such a great Dad, and because um, when did Rich apply for, get hired by, and make a documentary on North American Marsupials? I laughed hard. Outloud. From the gut.

And it felt so good.

Rich says (and he's right) that hiding what I post is promoting censorship just as much as not posting what I need to say. But I'm not ready to be that open, to put myself out there like that. I'm not much of a [confident] person. I'm sometimes good at faking it. And I'm far too concerned with not rocking my personal boat since these days if I go overboard, I'm certain I'll drown. So here we are: back to posting, editing, deleting, and hiding - for whatever that's worth..

10 Whole Years

Today is the day that marks the fact that I have been legally married to the same man for ten years. (!) Does that mean that before I was illegally married? (eyebrow raise). Perhaps..

Anyway.

The following demonstrates how important this day is to the both of us:

Scene: The house is quiet. Rich and Jack are asleep. Ginger is awake, the only time she gets to herself, and checks email.

Ginger: (silently reads the words "Happy Anniversary!" in an email from her mom)
(under her breath, to herself) Anniversary? Today? Is it the 25th?
(checks her calendar)
Huh. It is.
(walks to bedroom where Rich is asleep and sits on the side of the bed; whispers) Rich. Wake up, Rich! Hey. Happy Anniversary, Rich!

Rich: (groggily) Oh yeah. That is today. Ten years?

Ginger: Yeah. Weird, huh.

Rich: Yeah. Hey. Maybe later, when Jack is asleep, we could celebrate our love by, you know..............................taking a nap.

As in seriosly, lets take a nap.

And Scene!

10 years, it's been, folks.