Happy Anniversary Robby!
November 12, 2008
Today’s our anniversary. Fourteen years ago we were married in a relatively simple ceremony and a roomful of friends and family to wish us well.
It was a good day.
Then we went off on our Honeymoon which was a grand adventure. We went to Alaska. In November. We seemed to be the only non-residents there at the time and got quite a reception everywhere we went. It was fun.
Then– when we were brand new– we couldn’t imagine that every anniversary wouldn’t be as magical as our wedding day. We imagined years ahead of champagne corks popping.
Today has been somewhat ordinary and a little extraordinary. I got to “be the Mommy” in Jack’s class today. So my morning was spent with tempura paint and little scissors and happy little four year olds. They’re nice kids. I like being with them. The Mommy Helpers are minor celebrities in their world. It’s fun being a rockstar for the day.
While I was tidying up their little tables after snack (bananas and graham crackers and juice boxes if you’re curious) a delivery man brought in a bouquet of daisies and a mylar balloon wishing me a Happy Anniversary. The other Mommy Helper and Jack’s teacher agreed that I have a good husband.
AunT took Jack and I to lunch at McDonalds. The new Madagascar toys are in– so it was a fun lunch. And the nice men with the tall ladders have come to do our eavestroughs so, also, a good thing. Tonight is Jack’s little choir practice and dinner at church (hamburger gravy on mashed potatoes. Again– yay).
No champagne in sight but there was theme music this morning by way of my sister and nieces singing, “Happy Anniversary!” as the Flintstones did.
And isn’t this what the goal was 14 years ago? The two of us still happy. Still Us. Under our own roof and with the JackRabbit?
Happy Anniversary Boy!
The internet shouldn’t be accessible to crazy people
November 6, 2008
Okay. I’ve given you all a day to absorb it. Now get over it. It’s no longer about who you voted for or who you didn’t it’s about moving forward.
Yesterday I overheard a conversation that I still don’t know what to do with… two older people horrified that Barack Obama was elected president. The woman said things like, “I read on the internet where he’s going to take all the young black boys off the street and put them in uniforms and have them patrol the city streets like an army! They’ll go after all of us!”
No. I didn’t make this up.
The man said he wasn’t surprised. And added that he’s been telling everyone he knows to make sure they get their social security as soon as they can because the cut they’ll take in pay is better than nothing and now “they’ll get all our money!” By they it was clear he meant black people.
Again. Didn’t make this up.
“You know that there won’t be any of us one day! I read on the internet that by 2040 there won’t be any white people!”
“How could people be so stupid as to believe all his lies? The people that voted for him just don’t want to work– and he’ll let them just sit there while the rest of us do!”
It went on. And on. I was frozen to the spot unable to react. My mind was reeling with what I could say or what I should say and what I wanted to say. Their venom scared me so that I didn’t say anything.
And then– and this is the kicker… a little black girl walked in and the man adopted the voice you use with very small children– and cooed over her pretty hair. WHAT?
The people I overheard, I hope, are the extreme example. But there are lots of people grumbling. The facts, however, remain the same– Barack Obama is our president-elect. America gives us the right to disagree and to protest but it also charges us with the responsibility of all those freedoms. It would be nice if all the passionate energy of the campaign could now be channeled into a, “What can I do?” attitude.
It’s good to have someone in the White House that didn’t come up through a privileged dynastic system. It’s nice to think of small children in nation’s greatest home– and a president who will be keenly aware of how important education is. It’s good to have a huge investment into the country’s future made by the 18-24 demographic that came out in droves to vote. It’s very good that all children can believe, “You could grow up to be president if you want!”
And it would be really, really good if people could realize that the race is over– a winner emerged– and that, in a place where we all get to cast a vote and choose without fear of retribution, we all won.
Maybe the crazy lady will read THIS on the internet.
I voted
November 5, 2008
I walked to the polls yesterday. It was a beautiful Fall day here– lovely, big yellow leaves wafting down and unseasonably mild weather.
I didn’t take Jack to the polls. I should have– should have held his little hand and shown him the process… but really, in our town, the process isn’t very exciting. There aren’t any curtained booths– just cubicle-like dividers as though you are keeping your neighbor from copying your third grade math test. And there aren’t any neat machines with levers or touch screens– we have to fill in little bubbles with a black marker attached by string. The most exciting part is probably the machine that sucks in your ballot at the end…
I left Jack at his grandparents.
All morning the news reports warned of long lines and delays so I came prepared. I carried a book with me and relished the idea of an hour or two of uninterrupted reading.
Turns out our polling place was entirely too darned efficient. Extra quasi-booths had been set up and extra volunteers were in place. It took me longer to fill out my little card then it did to wait in line. My book wasn’t ever cracked open. Sigh.
And now, almost 24 hours later, with the results in I wonder why we have this long period of limbo. I’d hate to be George Bush now (or any sitting president)… I know that president-elects have lots to do. Cabinets have to be formed and plans made but do they need 3 months?
Hum Drumming in the Rain
October 24, 2008
It’s cold and gloomy outside. There are all sorts of leaves on the ground that are now soggy. Jack and I are a little ticked that we can’t go for a Crunchy Walk around the block.
He’s convinced me to set up his little race track and he has the Car de Jour out to play with on it.
I’ve just finished a small mountain of work and am trying to decide whether I “want” to iron or crack open a book. I should clean the house. Should but won’t.
Listening to the new Durian Durian album…?
October 22, 2008
Our pals took a recent trip to the foodie mecca that is Jungle Jims. I’ve never made the trek there but was pleased to share in their bounty which included durian fruit, a cheramoya, and Uncle Joe’s mint balls.
So, after heaping servings of Shepherd’s Pie and beer (the boys), Woodchuck cider ale (me), and Vernor’s (the Pregnant One) the weird fruits were presented.
Cheramoya taste like bubble gum perfume. They are somewhere between a cantaloupe and pineapple in texture. One down, one to go.
Durian fruit are about the size of a football and spiny as all get out. They grow in big tall palm-like trees. It wouldn’t, we agreed, be good at all to be under one should it fall. We touched it gingerly. We sniffed it. The weird food guy, Andrew Zimmern has waxed rather poetically about the horrors of the durian. The Today Show hosts have pronounced it wretched, too. The four of us decided it smelled woody. (It reminded me of the inside of furniture from India. I used to spend a lot of time at Pier One and World Market.) We cracked it open and scooped out the custardy fruit. And, again, disappointedly, found nothing offensive in the taste or texture of it.
We wondered what people do with a durian. There’s a lot of fruit in it. It’s not like a neat little banana or orange– there’s enough to feed several people. We fired up the laptop and did a quick search for durian recipes. We vetoed the originally promising “Durian Gingerbread Pudding” when it needed spinach and fresh ginger. The photo of it was green. Green and pudding are not appealing.
Durian ice-cream? Durian coconut surprise? Durian cake? It was during the reading of the Johnny’s Durian breakfast muffin recipe that the phrase “never drink alcohol while eating durian fruit” jumped out at us. WHAT? A quick google search brought up a slew of old wives tales and anecdotal references to a theory that drinking alcohol while eating durian fruit leads to certain death.
Oh dear.
We push our nearly finished bottle of Woodchuck (me) and glasses of Scotch (the boys) away from us and wonder how long until the Pregnant One will have our three bodies to deal with plus Jack who, all the while, was trying desperately to play with Sadiedog.
A little more searching had us convinced that probably our night will yield only a hangover (it would be my first. How exciting. I’m 19 again. Go College Team! Yay!) and possibly a night or two of diahreaha. (Oh, joy.) Durian apparently sucks the water out of you– we immediately all filled glasses with water and started to drink while laughing off the psychosymatic effects of too much book learnin’.
(It also occured to us that perhaps we should run a google search on “pregnancy + durian”– all’s well there. The three of us still should have a driver to get us to the hospital…)
Poor Pregnant One. She left the room to return to the three of us laying on the floor as though dead. She was nonplussed and set the dog on us.
Uncle Joe’s mint balls were minty but not very ball shaped. Unless your ball had rolled into the street and been flattened by the durian that had fallen out of the tree… They were one of the odder flavors– the mix of toffee and mint was akin to brushing your teeth after eating a slowpoke. Not bad– but odd.
If this is my last blog, however, you’ll know not to consume the very deadly combination of cheramoya and durian. Live and learn. And enjoy a mintball.
My kingdom for a Mallomar…
October 16, 2008
I love my little Mitten-shaped state. I do. I’m quite happy to be nestled amid the Great Lakes…
But it seems collosally unfair that Mallomars are not distributed here.
I watch a lot of Gilmore Girls reruns. On average, at least every three episodes there will be a mention of Mallomars. I want one. And yet– apparently, it’s a regional thing that cannot be breeched. A Google search tells me that they are only available at certain times of the year in the Northeast.
Which explains why, three years ago, on a trip through Upstate New York to NYC, and 43 separate stops at various sized markets we couldn’t locate any. Poor Robby. I dragged him through all those corner stores in the city and all those sprawling suburban markets for naught. You can’t get a Mallomar in June.
Sigh.
I’m going to go drink a Vernor’s all the while knowing there must be somebody in New Hampshire jonesing for a sip while they eat their box of Mallomars.
Sad.
Extreme Home Mock-Over
October 13, 2008
I’m off my game this week. Some of the people I work with have been existance banes this week. Fun suckers. Arse pains. Donkey tongues.
I don’t know what a donkey tongue is either. It just came to me. I like it. I might try it out loud and see if it works.
The saving grace is that I have a life outside of work. I have a family that I enjoy spending time with. Last night, for example, after Jack went off to bed (after trying comically hard to “go poo on the potty, Mommy!”) Robby and I settled in. Robby got out the bills– which usually makes him grumpy. I got out the computer to do some work. In the background we had ABC’s Extreme Home Makeover on. And oh, how we laughed.
The trick to watching EHM is that you have to get passed the sappy sob story. Accept that the family is far better than your own. Accept that they deserve to be given a multi-million dollar mansion in which to live, their mortgages paid off, and a pro-series kitchen to boot. Accept that their well-scrubbed children will cherubically pipe up, “I’m so glad mommy doesn’t have to work so hard.”
And then mock them mercilessly.
A guide (taped or TiVo’d. No live-time viewing here):
The first 5 minutes are crucial. It will introduce you to the family and Ty will inevitably make it sound like this is the most deserving of all the families they’ve helped thus far… The next few minutes will be the interview with the individuals and a tour of the state of their current residence. Skim it. Tune in to see where the family is going on vacation…
After the commercial zip past the part where the local building team is assembled. You won’t miss anything… The worker bees will be dressed in blue, they’ll make a speech about working hard to finish on time, there’ll be some one there with a connection to the family, blahdittyblahblahblah. Then they’ll rip the house down while the vacationing family watches. (Doesn’t this ever freak out the little kids? It can’t be good to see the vulnerability of modern architecture to large machinery when you are in the Night Terror Stage. Surely, “Don’t worry, you’re safe in your own bed in your own house” rings a little hollow after that. “Will the scarey loud man knock it down with his excavator, Daddy?”) Last night they ripped down the “dream house” their dead father had worked so hard on. Ripped it down with glee. Don’t know what to say about that…
Skip the frantic interviews with the Design Team. Yes. You’re building the most extreme room ever for the kid of the week. We get it. Crazy! You’re just insane! Wow! Keys will be given. Furniture unloaded. We get it. They’re the most deserving family ever.
Watch the Reveal. It’s a study in cultural differences. Stoic fathers, weeping mothers, sobbing fathers, collapsing mothers, jumping teenagers… It’s interesting. And then enjoy the tour of the house. Count how many times people say, “Oh my God!” over and over. Really? You’re going to bring God into it in this way? Huh. Wonder at some of the inexplicable choices made by the Design Team. (Last night for example there was a silo/observation tower attached to the house. Well sure. Just what every teenager wants. Awesome. “Where’s Jimmy?” “He’s in the tower huffing bleach with his buddy from shop class.” And a white couch– really? After 40 minutes of telling us that the kids want most to be able to invite their friends over you give them a WHITE couch? “Want to come hang out tonight? We can’t eat Cheetos or drink anything other than water but it’ll be awesome!” “Uh, no thanks. We’re all going to Dylan’s. They don’t have a silo.”)
Skip the part where Ty will gather the parent(s) outside of their room because he’ll give the same speech about how important it was to give them a special place of their own because they’ve been taking care of everyone else and this was to show them how… blahdittyblahblahblah. Try not to envy their inevitable infinity tub and 6 nozzle shower. It’ll just make you bitter.
There’ll be something else to see for the family then they’ll bring in the Design Team. Hope for Paulie. He’ll cry and wear something odd. Paige will be wearing pink and have done some little girl’s room “so that she can be a little girl” (huh?). Eduardo will do something exteme to the outside. Again. Ty will welcome everyone home.
And then you can go back to your life where you aren’t deserving of anything.
For the Love of Peat
October 4, 2008
Our trip to Ireland was wonderful. We saw a lot of the southern part of the country with daily excursions from our little cottage in Terryglass. Robby had a Guiness at just about every meal (I think the only exceptions were breakfasts and on the plane?) and I indulged my love of all things Cadbury. JackRabbit loved the colorful death-trap playgrounds. Momma and Eric discovered soda bread and are now life long converts to its ministry.
And we all got pretty good at “recycling” peat. Our little cottage had a stove suitable for burning wood or peat. We had beautiful, unheard of weather the entire time we were in Ireland. Apparently, before we arrived, the region had endured two solid months of rain every. single. day. Every conversation we had along the way included some variant of, “Oooooh! You’re so lucky now aren’t you? Sooch lo-vly weater we are having now, aren’t we?”
Still– there is an eternal dampness to the country. Our damp towels, laid out to dry, were just as damp in the morning… so a nice fire was an appealing way to create both atmosphere and dry out things. At every store there were bundles of “peat” briquettes but they had the appeal of a fake fire log.
And then we saw a chunk of peat on the side of the road.
We never bought any peat– fake or real. It became part of each days adventure to find peat. Ireland had maybe two straight roads in the entire country. The rest are twisted and wobbley and akin to a very poorly designed roller coaster. Momma and I, in the back seat of the rental, were jostled and jarred about. The daily “Peat Watch” gave us something to focus on. By the third day we were able to anticipate where the peat would be– which kind of twist in the road or bump along the way would be enough to dislodge a brick of peat from the delivery wagon. We carried an old shopping bag designated for peat and counted it a successful day when we could return to the cottage with it full.
At night we’d fire up the little stove with sticks from behind the cottage and toss on a chunk or two of peat and enjoy the radiating heat. It seemed right to sit by the peat fire with our journals and postcards and books and puzzles. Nibble on bourbon creams (which have nothing to do with bourbon at all– they’re chocolate biscuits with chocolate cream filling) and sip our tea.
They’re doing all kinds of construction in Ireland with European Union funds to “improve” the roads. Around Limerick there are all kinds of modern highways being built with overpasses and entrance ramps. It will completely cut out the lost time in traveling around that city.
And the peat industry should see a real decrease in their product losses.
Tis a shame it is.
September 19, 2008
September 19, 2008
Dear JackRabbit,
You will turn four this weekend– or at least you will technically. You keep insisting, “I stay three!” whenever we remind you of your birthday.
There’s a big difference, it turns out, between three and four. In the last month you’ve been a different kid. At choir you’re a good listener– you participate in all the little singing games like “sleeping” during “Frere Jacque” and all the little motions of the Echo Song. Last year each week was an exercise in me holding my breath that you didn’t cause too much of a disruption. (The week that you enlisted Brandon into running through the racks of choir robes until Mrs. L had to stop. STOP. the class and untangle the two was a real highlight…)
You seem to be doing well at school, too. Your vocabulary has exploded again– Daddy and I are amazed at how much better you are able to express yourself. You’ll tell us, “I’m feeling angry right now!” with such a scowl that it’s hard not to laugh. You’re negotiating our world a little bit more each day– figuring out that being a good listener and using good manners can be rewarding. There are grown-ups who don’t have that down, kiddo.
You still like watching your stories– Caillou, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Sesame Street, The Wiggles, “The Camel Story,” and Thomas. You’ve (FINALLY!) come to appreciate Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood with me (”He’s home from working Mommy!” is what you said the other day when he took off his suitcoat to put on his cardigan). Cars and Mickey Mouse Christmas are still your favorite movies. You play with your trains and Cars cars and blocks. At restaurants you ask to play with your “lemons” wire toys and the little Mickey Mouse figures we picked up at Disney last year.
You can run very fast. You like to jump off things and climb a little too higher than I’d like sometimes. This month you figured out how to really pedal your little trike. I think it was after the day you and Trey played together that it clicked for you. You love to sing and pick up songs very quickly. Sometimes we sing whole conversations to each other. It cracks you up.
Every night you say prayers and we’ve been trying to teach you that we go to church because we love God– not because we’ve “been bad” like you say.
You’re very affectionate. You still love to cuddle us both– which is good. We can’t get enough of you. Your sweet kisses are our favorite part of having to send you off to bed.
I wish, JackRabbit, that you didn’t have to grow up quite so fast. But I so love the kid you are in this moment that I can’t really regret that you are already (nearly) four either. Our hearts have grown so much since you came into our world. We really are the luckiest Mommy and Daddy.
Love,
Mommy
Columbus didn’t actually discover anything that wasn’t already there
September 18, 2008
When Jack discovered his hands– that they were attached to him and he could make them move at will– was one of those Big Moments. Sure, it was wrapped in the ridiculously cute packaging of his mouth in a little “O!” shape while his eyes lit up with the wonder of these strange things at the end of his arms. We were charmed at his utter delight. We were crew members on an Apollo mission. New frontiers and all that.
I’ve been feeling that way myself a little lately.
My high school reunion a few weeks back was pleasant enough– there were some old pals that made it worth the $45 dollar bad appetizers. The real payoff of the night was when a couple of those old pals encouraged me to get on Facebook. (Encouraged is nicer than saying that they openly mocked my admission that “I used to have a MySpace page…” “Uh, Terri– it’s not 2005 anymore. Catch up with the rest of us.”)
Later that week I signed myself up. And now I’m in contact with a handful of people that I grew up with and then lost track of. Which is where I’m feeling a little akin to that moment when Jack was so startled by his own hands…
I’m still me. My trappings are different– I’m somewhat of a grown up with a mortgage and a job. I have Robby and the JackRabbit and the little black dog and the demanding Dorothy (for a goldfish she’s got a lot of attitude)– but underneath the new layers is still me.
I find that somewhat astonishing.
Take my pal David. I haven’t seen him for years and years– twenty probably– but in the last few weeks, plucked out of cyberspace– there he is. Still recognizably the boy I knew. He commented on the Koala entry– about his experience with the Ian McEwan’s book Atonement. And I gasped out loud because I’d felt the same way about it. The last third of that book is a bullet train. No way was I jumping off until I’d got to the end… And when I finished I sat somewhat stunned. Dazed a little at how dizzying the effect of a really good story is. I’ve told at least a dozen people they should read Atonement and there is crickets. Yet it came as no surprise that David would have loved it, too– despite the fact that I haven’t a clue as to what he’s read in the last two decades.
My pal Dehan and I like some of the same music. We did twenty years ago, too. My pal Gail and I used to write letters to each other. I have a suitcase stuffed with them. We’ve fallen out of that habit somewhere since Jack’s arrival… yet she can send me a text message with less than 10 words that has almost the same effect that one of her neatly lettered envelopes in my mailbox.
It’s jumbled– I can’t really explain it other than to say if nothing else I’ve had the good fortune to know some very good people. People that I still recognize and still recognize me. Our cores are still the same. Jack’s hands were there all along. He just had to figure out that. The only difference is about 38 years.
