Lace, dimnity, and Unbounded Domesticity

If cats' accidents are TMI for you, then read no more.

You've been warned.

Got home late Sunday night, after a grand and glorious tour of the mid-Atlantic and Pennsylvania heartlands. Good times, nice visits, etc etc etc. Here at home, I've been struggling (and suceeding) to stay off the computer and accomplish things. So far so good, with the downstairs of the house almost completely conquered and the attic well on its way. As a matter of fact, I was so enegerized that I decided to open up the baby's closet and clear out all my stuff that doesn't belong in there.

Working, progressing, working, progressing, until the little cat jumps on the desk and knocks over the little Christmas candle decoration that I'd set up there. *Crash* [say the cymbal] and there's little bits of glass on my desk and in the floor 'round about. So, I think, "Hey, let's go ahead and strip the bed/shake out the comforter and just vacuum the whole room. It needs it." So I get my shoes, the vacuum, and come back to tackle this worthwhile project. Unfortunately, while stripping the bed down I came upon a progressively more distinct odor of kitty, um, well, "pee pee." Yuk. When I got through the brown/green sheets to the white matress pad, the distinct color of kitty, um, well, "pee pee" was also unmistakable.

Yuk.

My memory wafted back to Monday morning, when my catsitter told me about "finding the little cat locked in the baby's room! Wonder how long she'd been in there? Silly thing." [Be it known: I am not angry at the cat. I knew before I left that she has the ability/habit of locking herself in rooms by accident, and I didn't make sure that the door was propped open. It's my fault. She was considerate, too, in not going in the crib or on the carpet, both of which would have been much more permanent problems to have to deal with. And more expensive.]

So, into the washer with bleach goes the [stinky] mattress pad. Into the garbage goes the unsalvageable [stinky] foam mattress-make-feel-nicer thingy. Out comes the adjustable wrench, and into the garage goes the ruined-but-already-falling-apart box [stinky] spring/mattress itself, and into the shed go the rails, headboard, and footboard. I've been wanting to rid myself of the wretched bed anyhow (didn't go together properly due to long use and mis-sized bolts) and this was my chance.

Out came the vacuum, into it went the glass, the dust, the fur, the paper shreddings, and the dirt. Onto the computer goes I, to take a break. Now the sheets and comforter are calling my name, but I don't have any color safe bleach yet. Curtain.

Choreographed Mayhem

So, day three at Family North headquarters. Lots of people in the house, lots of noise being made by the people in the house. Dog, three babies, brothers, silly string, dinner. It's been intense, so intense that the baby had to be taken out of the house for a ride in the car in order for him to get to sleep. Waaaay too overstimulated otherwise.

File Under "Other"

Found this great video linked on Meredith's blog. The next generation of filmmaking at Christendom (no offense to the Handycams and Cybershots of my class and before) is just, well, amazing. And funny. :) Too bad the billions aren't in hand to make full-length features.

Also, we've reached new lows in the world of sports. As a cranky mommy who doesn't even want her kid to play football until he's fifteen or sixteen, this is just silly.

Bought a book from The Strand today, in honor of big brother. Hope it comes on time.

Finally, don't get creeped out by all this. Only 16 hours (give or take a day, darn embark schedule) before my spouse is supposed to be free to come home. So I'm killing time. Really killing it. It's infuriating for him to be that close and yet still not close enough.

Brave Chicas Club: The Rules

So, another insane young woman who has decided to tether her horse to the military wagon called me yesterday. Not only does she love and cherish her spouse, she's willing to move cross-country with him while eight months pregnant. She wants to know "did I like the doctor that delivered my baby?" I did. The photo is not related to that fact. (Partially because the doctor pictured is, in fact, a dentist. A dentist did not deliver my baby.)

The photo goes with the insane young woman who emailed me last week. She wants to know "if I have any advice for getting married right after graduation and going straight into the Marines?"

So, this is for her. I present: The Rules

#1: Always have a sense of humor. See photo.

#2: Never fall in love with the plan.

#3: When you have fallen in love with the plan after all, retain a sense of humor when it screws you over.

#4: Assume your husband forgot it, didn't know about it, or failed to make a copy of it.

#5: Don't buy any furniture that you can't move alone (even while pregnant).

#6: Oh heck, don't buy any furniture at all.

#7: Make many accquaintances within the unit--if they don't become your BFsF, that's fine.

#8: Thank God for the random person with whom you did happen to become good friends.

#9: Learn everything you can about your husband's job (even if this is very little because he's doing Secret Squirrel Stuff).

#10: Learn how the military system works on your own (i.e. without spousal aid), including the acronyms, the bureacracy, the benefits, the drawbacks, the free stuff, the complementary programs, and how to correctly spell bureaucracy.

Stay tuned for details on each rule. And more dentist photos, if I can find them.

Apropos, perhaps.

The final paragraph of my Christmas present and new favorite book:

"Americans are proficient at war the same way they are proficient at work. It is a task, sometimes a duty. Americans have worked at war since the seventeenth centuery, to protect themselves from the Indians, to win their independence from George III, to make themselves one country, to win the whole of their continent, to extinguish autocracy and dictatorship in the world outside. It is not their favoured form of work. Left to themselves, Americans build, cultivate, bridge, dam, canalise, invent, teach, manufacture, think, write, lock themselves in struggle with the eternal challenges that man has chosen to control, and with an intensity not known elsewhere on the globe. Bidden to make war their work, Americans shoulder the burden with intimidating purpose. There is, I have said, an American mystery, the nature of which I only begin to perceive. If I were obliged to define it, I would say it is the ethos--masculine, pervasive, unrelenting--of work as an end in itself. War is a form of work, and American makes war, however reluctantly, however unwillingly, in a particularly workmanlike way. I do not love war; but I love America."

--John Keegan, Fields of Battle

Deeply Saddened

Perhaps it's no excuse, but "real life" got in my way this past month (that is, husbands coming and going, babies growing and changing, moving, traveling, cancer in the family, etc etc etc) and I freely admit that I didn't really vet Scott Brown for my own personal information. I knew he was campaigning against a woman Democrat, a woman Democrat who has readily and easily behaved as instructed by the political powers-that-be in her party, and that Scott Brown was campaigning strongly against the health industry takeover being orchestrated by the Democrat-controlled Congress.

I did not know, point blank, that he was not pro-life.

I did not know until after the election was over, and I now feel like I was cheated by the man. At the very least, the mainstream coverage of him was not so complete as to mention his stance on abortion. The wiser among you would rightly respond, "He's a Massachussets Republican. What do you expect?" One does not make headway in the bluest of blue states by touting conservative social opinions. I should have known. Still, I feel cheated. Here was a "good man" who was setting an example of clean living and honest campaigning--he defeated the bad guys and stood in the way of millions of babies being killed on the American taxpayers' dime.

He just doesn't stand enough in the way. He's standing alongside the train tracks, throwing rocks at the train wreck that is our social amorality run amok. He ought to be standing on the tracks, letting the machine know that more innocent children will be slaughtered in this country over his dead body. That's where we all ought to be. Last week, several hundred thousand of you were out there on the tracks, marching down the National Mall. Kudos, but you can't write laws, and you can't change the ones that are written. Bigger men must collaborate to change the status quo in the country. Why do all of our big men have small hearts?

But back to Brown. Was a vistory won? Or are we teaching American politicians that "good enough" is, well, good enough? It isn't. Thinking abortion shouldn't be paid for with tax dollars is NOT good enough. (They already are paid for, by all kinds of back-alley government social projects, but let's not go there right now.) My own baby means everything to me--I made Joseph promise when we went to the hospital that if it came down to me or baby, well, the answer was "baby." When I look at my baby, when I see his face twist in fear at a bad dream or hear his anguished cry at finding himself alone, I cannot feel in my heart that any politician in office who supports abortion is a politician who shouldn't be there. No pro-abortion "victory" is ever a victory. Babies are dying. Abortion is frightening to them--they are terrified, aware of what is happening, and they are terrified. Such a horrible thought...my little baby's cry at a bad dream (a cry which usually dissolves into hysterical laughter, thank goodness--I have a versatile little dreamer) breaks my heart. How can knowing that hundreds of thousands of babies' cries go not only unheeded, but are actively caused by the decisions of their mothers and the behavior of their doctors, not break my heart as well?

It does break my heart. But it doesn't help me answer in my own soul what to do in cases like that in Massachussets last month. Was stopping healthcare takeover worth it? I understand fully the prinicple of double effect, and the discussions like Judie's at ALL are not opaque to me. But I'm still uneasy. I probably would have voted for him, because I truly feel that the prevention of large-scale evil is a good thing. And I certainly did not will the evil of his pro-abortion opinion. But would it have been right?

Sigh. What a sick world. I want to enjoy my life, my child, and my country in peace. No such luck.

Hame agin.

Only one cat had a bathroom episode on this trip--appropriately enough, just as we got in the door of the house. So we cleaned the cat, the carrier, and the kitchen floor.

More later. Sigh.

Not Your Nana's Sales Representative

Once upon a time, those persons who are paid to help you spend money you don't have were trained about how to do their job well. This training included, but was not limited to, teaching young persons how to arrange sellable items in appetizing fashions. Falling until "not limited to" were things like personal appearance, attitude, customer interaction, and ability to do subtraction without a computer.

The last went the way of the dinosaur about the time Cortez discovered Disneyland, but the other items in the list lasted until more recently. I thought. After all, I learned them when I worked in retail, and that wasn't too long ago. However. Comma.

After a fabulously enjoyable two days of shopping with my mom, I've decided that only grumpy, overly-made-up, poorly clothed, English-butchering chicks are hired by retail entities. No eye contact? No smile? No "Hello!"? No "What the fajita can I do for you?"? Nope. No nothing, in fact, but my being treated to the conversation above mentioned chick is having with her companion chick (sometimes a man-chick, which is a subject for another post) about hail, nails, altering surgeries, school grades, or whateverthehellelse she wants to talk about.

Sigh. My Nana would not approve.

*Cue Sarcastic Violins*

So, while completing my morning toilet, I was struck by a series of thoughts I wanted to post on the blog. They were good thoughts, and halfway through them would have been the bracketed indication: Cue Sarcastic Violins. Unfortunately, that bracket is all that still remains among my synapses. Can't remember a thing about the rest of my thoughts for the post. Oh well.




Cue sarcastic violins.

Wond'rous Strange

So, I decided to get off Facebook, effective the end of the month. No one that I've talked to, so far, has attempted to dissuade me from this resolution. I find this an interesting [tacit] commentary on Facebook itself--no one thinks it's so good for me that I ought to continue using it as a means of social networking. Having been pregnant at the time, I have no memory of how I voted during the Facebook debate last semester, but I think that (except for my continued effort to vote based on the debate presented and not necessarily my actual opinion) I think I would have been pretty down on it had the vote been offered me right now.

Of course, it doesn't necessarily have to be about Facebook itself. It's mostly about me, in fact. It seemed, honestly and truly, like I was in to Facebook because of a sense of personal fame that it gave me. There's a pride in seeing your status liked, or your photos viewed and commented upon, and I decided it wasn't for me. Besides, when you're sitting around on Facebook actively thinking, "You know, I'd really like to go do X project," but you never do it because you're sitting around on Facebook...well, it's time to quit.

If people want to email me, I'll email back. I'll return to the blog. Mary Beth has inspired me to only write something worth, well, writing. While I doubt I'm as capable of writing meaningful things as she, I know for a fact that I'll put more effort into it if it's on the blog. A status (or a tweet, or anything like it) just takes too little time. A blog post takes some thought. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. And if I'm narcissistic about the blog, well by golly, at least I'm being prideful about something I actually put effort toward.

Finally, the whole thing is funny because I do this as I begin a spring full of scheduled responsibilities (i.e. raising child, teaching piano, caring for husband, going on travels) and I just know deep in the heart of my self that the blog will fall by the wayside as it always has. But oh well. Facebook, farewell. And good riddance.

p.s. I will continue, dear listeners, to utterly fail in my proofreading of blog posts. They are always ended upon the occasion of (a) the phone ringing, (b) the doorbell ringing, (c) my husband returning, or (d) the baby crying. I never finish a post a couple minutes before disaster strikes, so that I may carefully check for errors before A-D happens. I always finish because A-D is happening. And who's going to proofread during all that?

Grumble Grumble

Well, we might not have 20+ inches of snow on the driveway like most of the Eastern US, but it's still nice and chilly outside. Not only is it chilly (upper 30s/low 40s), there's this massive body of water out in the back yard that keeps it respectably damp at all times. Feels very chilly.

I'm sick. As a consequence of this fact, we've been turning off the heat at night to help alleviate the dryness/sore throat part of my sickness. This works pretty well, since everyone but the big cat tends to share a bed at night, and we stay mostly toasty. Joe turns the heat on when he gets up for work, and it's all good. However, "nice and chilly" having arrived, this is a less-perfect solution all of a sudden. Additionally, on mornings like this when I have to get up early to go to Mass, I'm out in the rest of the house before it has warmed back up. Specifically, the office/nursery/guest room is FREEZING COLD AT ALL TIMES. I climbed (stupidly enough, in socks) onto the nice smooth changing table top this morning to open the vent even further, but I think the real culprit is these stupid windows. They don't seal well, methinks.

But this is where the action is, including my sewing machine at the moment, as I was working feverishly to finish the tree skirt last night before Joe got home with the tree we had picked in the afternoon. This mad dash for project completion, however, ended with a fizzle. Turns out, the tree stand substitute (or, if you like, "plastic bucket") we had intended to use will not work after all. That was the first problem. The second problem is that, after much phoning and driving, we learned that there was not a tree stand to be had for love or money in the whole metropolitan area. [Interesting digression: Ever thought about what exactly "love or money" means? Naughty, naughty.]

So, the tree is still all wrapped in her traveling garb, standing rather awkwardly in a bucket of water in the corner of the living room. She will be unfurled later this week, once we've made our already-scheduled trip to Wilmington and have obtained a tree stand. Why, you ask, did we even get the tree without making sure we had a stand that worked? Well, I answer, that just wouldn't be like us...

A New Woman

And now, Best Beloved, I begin my new life! In the new house at last, with my new desk, in possession of a new and pristine daily planner for the next year. I'm like Sally Forth or something, completely coordinatedly equipped to tackle everything life can throw at me.

We'll see how this works out...so far, so good. The last 48 hours have not been a total loss. In fact, I learned a new introit and made two kinds of cookies. I'm on a roll. This is, of course, aided by the freak sleeping cycle of my son, which is running in 5-6hour spurts for some unknown reason. These blissful days are numbered, I know, but while he's doing whateveritis that makes him so sleepy, I'll take what I can get.

In the meantime, Advent is flying by at a breakneck pace--much faster than any year previous. This is the time that usually drags on awfully for me, but not now. Oh no. Granted, Gaudete falls (frustratingly) right in the middle of Advent, almost, since Christmas itself falls so late in the week, but having that pink candle aglow on the kitchen table is still such a great sight. We're almost there.

Almost there.

New Life

They weren't kidding. When a baby actually arrives, post-utero, at the house, it does rock your world. You have a whole new life. One characterized by many tears, much leaking of fluids, and countless coos, smiles, and laughs. And we haven't even started talking about the baby yet.

Joseph was on the range all week, leave between 0230 and 0330 every morning, so not much happened other than surviving here around the house. Last week we were out every night doing things that just couldn't be put off, like going to Wilmington for Five Guysl The week before that, his mom and sister were here.

Blogging simply isn't a priority now. Of course, it never really was, and the eldest readers out there can vouch for the fact that I've always been hit-or-miss, at best. Now that the little man is here, I'm probably more miss than hit. And of course stupid Facebook takes its toll...

BFF

The piano tuner is here today. Who knew? A little WD-40 and a hair dryer, and viola! The whole action actually functions now. Oh, and we got more of the wax off because the tuner took the action further apart.

Of course, the poor instrument is still badly in need of physical therapy and other medical attention, but just hearing all 88 notes was a thrill this morning. At the very least, we'll easily get our investment back if we decide to sell.

Not much else going on...the other baby (the real one, the important one) is going to come on Saturday with professional assistance, if he doesn't come on his own before then. My mom has been heroically walking with me in the evenings/afternoons, but so far no go. As dear Mrs. H. says, "Mr. Gravity is our friend." We'll see what happens with that project over the next couple days. I'm carefully watched, like unto a bomb, but nothing interesting to report as yet. Ugh.

Poor small cat is suffering from the cold...the heat is just now coming on in the house (long story, don't ask) due to a miscommunication with maintenance, and she's just dying. Sixty degrees indoors just isn't cutting it for the little girl. Thankfully, she's got lots of people to heat leech on in the night.

Randomnimity

First of all, I've developed an awful habit which is rendering three hours of my day practically useless. I listen to the radio. Joe paid for the year's subscription and our AM (to put it plainly) is nonexistent, so I turn on the computer and stream Rush from noon to three. This is problematic because I get started listening to him and looking up or reading the articles and news items he references. And nothing happens except that I become informed on how wrecked our world is. No laundry, no packing, no chores. Too much trouble to move the computer every time I switch rooms.

Second, I honest to goodness have eaten junk food for most of today's broadcast. Banana and yogurt for breakfast, good, good....then it all goes to the dogs about 1315, when I found the half box of Milk Duds. And a coke. And some sun chips. Wow. Poor Baby is probably going to have a sugar attack, too, because I don't ever go through sweet junky stuff like that. Ick. Oh well. Maybe I'm more upset over this FEX than I thought. 12 days left...stupid Braggistan. Also, I ate cereal for dinner last night, because I wanted to. But it was healthy cereal, with lots of folic acid and fiber. (I'm a big fan of fiber these days. That and apples.)

Finally, the small cat likes to blog. She sits upon my tummy, ruining my spelling and kneading away at my neck and left shoulder. Life as a kitten (okay, an almost grown up kitten) must just be the schnizzle. So cozy, so relaxed. Except for having the pee-diddlies scared out of you by things like clocks, twist ties, and the completely inanimate carpet.

Wif Our Baby...

Okay, this is our baby, at least for the next two weeks. (Then the other one will be here and we'll have two high-maintenance items in the house.) After spending several known months in a NC garage, and several undocumented years being treated (quite obviously) as a piece of furniture and who knows what else, this Model R is now happily taking up the better part of our living room. Built around 1928 by the Premier Grand Piano Company of New York, she needs a LOT of work and care in order to be back in playing order. But hey, who are we to turn down a piano, right? Check out what $150 and some heavy lifting will get you:
Baby with her insides all out.

Cleaning the lid--GROSS buildup of pollen and dust on the entire box.

Vacuuming under the sound board, which is in miraculously good condition.

Wax inside the action of one of the bass octaves (yes, the whole octave worth).

Wax -0, Jennifer - 1. This is just what came from the box. I got another 1/2lb or so from inside the action, and can't reach the rest without dissasembling the hammer assembly (something I'm not about to try).

The action lying in state upon our dining room table.

OPSEC

Just thoughts today...

First, please don't be confused or feel left out if I fail to mention things about my life or schedule that you know are going on. I might have just forgotten, it might be a question of keeping myself secure by not mentioning (for example) when Mr. Bird might be away from the next. I might have just forgotten.

Also, many kudos to the famously-stuffy IOC for denying Chicago the 2016 Olympics. Hurrah! I mean, I'm sorry for the Chicagoans who have genuinely been excited by the prospect. I remember how it was the greatest thing to have the Olympics in my own back yard during 1996--good times, so many things to see! It was awesome, and I'm sorry for people between 7 and 18 who are now sad. But poo on the heads of the people that run Chicago, and go Europe for putting them back in their place. Such ego, such self-confidence and self-importance....wasted.

Epic fail. I love it.

Natum Videte!!

It's that time of year again.

Okay, fine. It's that time of year for 7.8 out of 12 months in my case, but still...I can't wait for Christmas! Part of the problem is that I'm sick to death of Halloween decorations in stores, and part of the problem is that a few places already have their red and green and fir-scented line out on the shelf. Most of the problem is that I'm always like this, with Christmas music playing whenever no one is around to hear it.

Does this ruin my enjoyment of the season? Don't be silly. In fact, I'm finally learning how to channel the Christmas Blues into something productive--I make Christmas gifts! This way, I feel like I'm actually getting something done and, at the same time, get to enjoy a Christmas -themed afternoon. Thus my table has been covered with red paper and x-acto blades for the past several days. There are little angels and fun latin phrases stuck all over the mushy ridges of my cerebral cortex...ahhhhhhh.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Waiting until the full moon

Well, let's hope not. The next two available full moons do not fall during optimal baby-having times. I'll wait for the new moon, though. That's acceptable.

So, had an interesting week. Spending 48 hours in the hospital does, as the wise man once said, actually destroy an entire week. I'm starting new this morning (slowly, obviously) at exactly the point I left off last Monday. Well, maybe a little ahead. Father came over and blessed the house yesterday, so that's progress at least.

Hospital staying is not something I recommend. For one thing, at least if you're me, it exacerbates whatever might or might not have been wrong with you in the first place. I went in to see if I had the flu (I didn't), and ended up staying for two days so that they could make sure I had neither suffered a heart attack or was going to throw an embolism. All this, basically, becaus my heart rate stayed above 135bpm long enough that they were able to justify an EKG, then ultrasounds of my legs and heart, then a CT scan, then chest x-rays. And so on. And so forth.

The poor doctor (whom I liked very much, btw, and whom I will hear no ill words against despite my belief that perhaps my trama was treatment-induced) wanted very badly to know what was wrong with me. He, in fact, spent a very long hour out of his busy day talking to me/Joe about my condition, what could be wrong, why he recommended certain treatments, etc. All of the poor doctors were frustrated that nothing clear cut could be said about me. Still, they gave me a list of meds, I declined one right off the bat and went home with the rest, and agreed to get a meter to check my blood pressure and pulse twice a day--as a compromise, for my loving family was greatly afeared for me.

So far, in the peace and tranquility of my own home, my heart and my blood pressure are very cooperative. No hypertension, no sinus tachycardia. Just me, my baby, and a nagging head cold (which two days in the hospital failed to fix, interestingly enough). Still, I have to go back today for them to test baby for stress, and I have to go back Wednesday for the new OB to have a look at me, and I go back for both every week from now until the party starts. In a way, I feel silly that I went in last week and put myself (and poor, poor Joseph!!) through all that, but oh well. I've got 7-day benchmarks, which ought to make the time go faster. That's just the best way to look at it.

Time Eaters

There are many, of course. House, chores, husband, bills, pets, appointments, phone calls, etc. However, number three seems to have sucked away every extra second between here and two weeks ago, without effort and certainly without me noticing. How? Well, besides the week in PA, how?

I don't know. Maybe I'm still getting as much done as I used to, but he creates "stuff" that needs to be done that I'm not yet ramped up to take care of yet. For example, I know that I'm still doing laundry on a regular basis, but there's twice as many dirty clothes around all the time. I know that I get up at a decent time, but breakfast doesn't get eaten until after nine. I know that the downstairs bathroom was clean when I left here, but...

All this is, I realize, shades of things to come. Soon there will be two people on his team, and still only one of me. There will be two laundry factories, two trash machines, two time eaters. Will I get only 1/3 of everything done? Sigh. My mom's solution to this problem is to Never, Ever, Ever create messes of her own. There are no mom-produced chores to address, only those the others in the house have come up with. It's a thought, you know? Her next step in the brilliant plan was to raise us up in the fear of the Lord [and Mother], so that we more or less cared for most of our own messes ourselves. We made beds a lot of the time, we took our own dishes from the table almost without exception, we took out trash in the early thursday mornings just because running out the driveway in pajamas and bare feet was fun.

But one cannot raise up an infant in the fear of oneself. He does not change his own diaper, he does not wash his own clothes. He definitely does not do his own dishes. And my husband has already been raised up, but he only fears the Lord, and forgets about most everything else. ("What dishes? Oh, that's where I put them! I was going to put them in the sink...") I'm trying to instill a fear of something into the two cats in the meantime, since they're the only living things around that I think I might have an effect on. So far, no good. They still start crawling around on me about 0545, ready for breakfast. The little one still follows me around he house crying until I sit down, then climbs up on my stomach to take a bath. The big one still throws litter all over creation every time he uses the box.

Sigh. Time to do the chores.

A Complete Set

So, Mr. Bird comes back within the hour...man, it has been a long summer. :) Stay tuned for the fall, though. You never know what I'll decide sounds like a good idea to try.

The Nest: Revisited

For anyone who only reads the blog and doesn't actually talk to or with me (or have Facebook, which is practically the same thing)--the air conditioner was leaking because a lead line was busted, they fixed it, it still doesn't cool the house, but I had two window air conditioner units installed and life is much more livable. So there it is.

Also in nest news, though, are some good things. With the motivation of someone special coming home, as well as the helpful presence of my mother, I've been finishing all the other little projects around the house that have been wanting done since we moved in six [freaking] months ago. There are now curtains in the bedrooms, for example. I am not using my night stand to hold the silverware. Little things like that, you know. The place looks like real people might live here now, and I'm so happy. Only a week and a couple days left...

Spent yesterday morning washing all kinds of teeny tiny little clothes. Can you just imagine the convenience of being able to wash every item of clothing you owned in a single load through the washing machine?? It was amazing. His whole wardrobe cleaned in an hour and ten minutes. Unfortunately, I'm told that he'll go through the whole wardrobe at least once a week, so maybe there's not so much to be thrilled about there. Still, imagine putting everything Joseph owns into the machine at once. Ha. The dryer would have a hernia.

p.s. Posting once a week? Every two weeks? Is this is future of my literary career? I dunno...I've had company or help in the house every day for three weeks, so not a lot of time is spent communing with the virtual world. Then again, who cares? :) September is coming. I'm so happy.

"Edema"

It's a fancy name for retaining water, and not really in the sense of "oh, wow, I feel fat today" but in the sense of "the climate is confusing my body so bad that my fingers and knees don't bend properly because of how edemic I am." The more you drink, of course, the less trouble you have with this problem. The human body is a funny thing. Somebody's RN mother explained to Joseph that my getting dehydrated could cause premature labor, and he asked me if that was why I drank so much water. I said yes, but if I got so bad that that was an issue, there was a serious problem. I'm still stuck, I told him, at the stage where I drink lots of water so that my fingers stay skinnier than my ankles.

Also swelling, by the way, is the number of people my very own age (or younger!!) who are having babies, going to have babies very soon, or have had a baby within the last six months. Among those I know in the college classes immediately above and below my own, I can name over a dozen mommies without even thinking--and a bunch more if I dig deep. This is cool, and wierd, and wonderful, and wierd. Joe said that he realizes a lot more just how un-normal it all is, though, from being around the other Marines. One of them told him the other day that we "were the first people he really knew personally, his own age, who were having a kid." Wow. And for us and our school perspective, we're actually "behind" the curve by about four months. How funny.

Smellin' Coffee

Always a bad thing--I'm trying to make coffee this morning, but (a) I have no chart for measuring the stuff and (b) I don't drink it so I wouldn't know nasty from nice. My company usually makes their own, for safety's sake, but I'm trying to be brave this morning.

So, this pregnant memory loss thing is really funky. I am unable, even whilst swearing upon the phone book, to remember anything about conversations I've had in the last month. I forget whether I locked the door. Two seconds ago. Spelling and typing are olympic events. However, all these great memories from the first two years of college are positively flooding my mind! It's wonderful! I mean, I remember down to colors and smells these snapshots of life when I had first met all my friends. I remember really early conversations with Joseph, I remember "first seeing him again" after those long, long, long mid-term breaks. I remember choir things, I remember the presidential election and staying up all night in the chapel to pray about it. I remember walking out toward Guardian Angel and back between Sunday choir and Mass, saying morning prayer with Joseph. I remember my first van run to town. I remember my first trip to Shoe Show with Cass and Laura, and my first trip to Winchester with them (on which we also bought shoes). All that stuff is coming back to me, at the expense of dinner, which I forgot was in the oven.

I'll take the memories. Such sweet things.

"Hey, great reception in here! Like, four bars!"

So, I vicariously lived the life of a woman's handbag last night, thanks to a special friend (you know who you are) who toted me through the length and breadth of O'Hare last night on her way to a flight. It was delayed, else we would never have made it in time. I went through the x-ray machine, I went to the restroom, I sat on the floor while she checked in, I stood in line while cappucino and danish were ordered, I waited on the seat while carry-on items were safely stowed in the overhead bin. It was great--and at the end, I knew exactly how one's purse feels. There to hear every conversation, there to endure every long wait and line full of cranky people. I enjoyed even (and especially) the conversations that the human has with herself as she tries to find the correct gate after an airline switch.

Who knew that you could run a phone through the x-ray machine and not drop the call, anyway? That was the coolest part. I could hear the machine running, then all the voices and people and bumpings of baggage as I came out the other end. Now we know.

Also, found out that "vicariously" has the same root as "vicar." A substitute or representative.

Treble Without a Clause

Feeling a bit schizophrenic today...Joseph has gotten me started on all these little projects that involve networking, getting in touch with people in one's field, etc. The obvious rock in my path is that I don't have a field right now. However, the networking website forced me to invent something, so I examined my life and decided, fairly enough, that I'm currently a self-employed researcher. I'm not paying myself anything at the moment, but I'm certainly undergoing a very eclectic, fairly rigorous set of tasks that involve researching things.

All kinds of things, of course, and that's what renders this exercise a little silly-feeling. After all, I have a grand plan in mind, but it's hard to explain what a Montessori handbook, neuroscience study, leadership manual, and Blink have in common. The only clue to my strategy, which is now sitting in the "to read" pile in my office [the dryer] is Classical Education at Home: Strategies and Systems for Teachers Learners to Learn. Taken broadly, I'm learning how to educate, all on my own. So, that's what I'm up to these days. I had no idea.

The Great Pumpkin

So, another interesting divergence of viewpoints on holidays. This time, though, it's more a funny story about my next door neighbor (whom I know does not read the blog--she has dialup) than a diatribe about the raising of children.

Due to an ongoing renovation project, a continual shifting of families from their [old] house to a [still old but nicely resurfaced] new house is taking place within my immediate neighborhood of about 60 homes. My neighbor and I are in Phase Eight homes, which means we'll be moved into resurfaced homes in October. (Phase One households were supposed to get their resurfaced homes by July 31st, though, and it didn't happen. I'm personally not holding my breath for October.)

Anyhow. For reasons which continue to cramp my drinking style (this is funny if you know me) and my fashion options (this is funnier if you've seen me in the last month), I am not excessively thrilled by the prospect of moving "sometime in October." Especially since I'll have a spouse in the field during most of the month. Moves, even moves financed, boxed, carried, and unboxed by the government, are things which one hesitates to do while nine months pregnant. I am not happy about moving in October, and I religiously waddle down to the housing office once a month to (a) let them see me waddle and, (b) find out if "sometime" has been narrowed down a bit. It never has, but I usually walk away thinking that it could be worse. I could be having twins. My housing lady is apologetic, but more or less useless. Things will not change, they will only continue to change on a weekly basis (this is funny if you know anything about the military).

My neighbor, on the other hand, is no tame woman. She's a steely-eyed sailor-swearing she-man. (Whom I like, kinda, in a keep-your-distance kind of way.) As I relayed the scuttlebut from most recent waddle, she became steelier eyed. She glinted. She tossed her mane and dragged a hoof across the linoleum menacingly.

"You know," she said, "I'm going to have to get myself down there and talk to those people. I mean, if I have to get in her boss's face and get serious with him, well then I'll do that, too, but she has got to understand. Being told we're moving 'sometime' in October just does not work! I mean, I have a child! I am NOT about to ask him to be moving the week of Halloween! No, I am not. No, there are things that have to be done that week, things that I re-fuse to have screwed up by their stupid moving schedule!"

Location, location, location.

A Mystical Body Part

New blog in the sidebar: an admirable friend's journey toward convent life. "Engaged to Christ," and what a beautiful way to put it, too. I told Joseph once, a long time ago at school, that it must be simultaneously humbling and motivating for young men to know that Christ, too, is a Lover who is after the hearts of young women of faith (well, all young women, but the context of the conversation really only included us more or less religion-minded dames). After all, being Perfection, you just know he'd be the best boyfriend ever. ;) Talk about competition.

The Best Nest

"'I love my house, I love my nest! Of all the rest, my nest is best!' sang Mr. Bird.

'It is not the best nest,' said Mrs. Bird from inside the house."

Alas, my precious castle of a house is, likewise, not the best nest. However, quoting one of my favorite books should not mislead you into thinking that Joseph and I disagree about our nest. It's just that he's outside it and I'm inside it, so my view is just a tad darker about just how bad the nest now appears to be.

The a/c is off again. After a long day of the temperature slowly climbing inside, with the unit going at a steady pace, there were already a number of reasons to feel less that genteel about our environmental control systems. However, a concurrent problem pushed me over the edge--so far over the edge that I broke my cardinal rule and called the 24-hour maintenance number. In my downstairs hallway, the little tiny puddle of unexplained water on the carpet was slowly growing. Not only that, but he was reproducing.

With a saucer-sized wet spot at the kitchen doorway and about $2.50 worth of silver-dollar-sized wet spots in attendance, I called The Man. The Man was concerned, and asked me a list of "is ..... leaking?" All my answers were nos, so he said, "Well, if you've got it coming up through the carpet, whatever damage that'll be done is done. We'll be there first thing in the morning." Wonderful. Not my house, I only rent, so it doesn't hurt me at all.

Still, with my totally awesome family in residence, the mystery was just too good to pass up. What on God's green earth could possibly be producing water from beneath my house? Brother suggests we look at the outside closet/utility space that houses the downstairs water heater and all the ductwork for the a/c (the physical unit is upstairs). Voila. Merrily trickling down the ductwork is a steady stream of supposed condensation, which has pooled about an inch deep upon the concrete foundation of my house.

This is now a bigger problem than we thought--the electric boxes for the house are in that closet, the grounding wires run amok within as well, and the framing of the house is steel. They're going to have to shut the power off at the road to clean all that up. ("Well, cow poopy," I say to my father, oh the phone, as I survey the closet.) To confirm my opinion, we notice that water is actually seeping to the outside of the house along the edge of the foundation, as well. How nice.

Now we're really intrigued, so I send my brother upstairs with the phone in hand. He inspects the unit's actual location (along with, vicariously, my father) and calls down: "Yeah, there's water here in the floor, too." Wonderful. So dad sends us looking all over for the drain line, hither and thither, because we want to find out if it is clogged. We look, and nothing is to be found. However, in the meantime, I had the good sense to really think about the layout of my house, and did determine that the water we were seeing come through the carpet had made at least the 3-foot journey from that closet floor, underneath the corner of the kitchen linoleum, to the visible location under the carpet.

How far has it gone along the other three compass points, I wonder? That's what got me up at 0430 this morning. The refrigerator, downstairs bathroom, pantry, and washing machine are all within reach. I feel like a geologist. Whence cometh the magma? When will the volcano explode?

But back to the drain line. We couldn't find anything that looked point-blank like a drain line. I reminded dad that this was not a traditional a/c unit, and he said, "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmm...........ugh. Yeah. It's that energy efficient thing, isn't it?"

Yes, it is.

My a/c unit is 10-15 years old, and was one of the original "green" large appliances. Rather than using a fan unit and a big compressor outside the home, my unit pumps ground-cooled water from below the house, runs air across the ground-cooled water (supplemented by a little compressor supplying freon-cooled air), and feeds it into the house. It uses less energy, less fuel, less freon, and works like an absolute dream in temperate climates. Unfortunately, this is not a temperate climate. The best the unit can do with the ground-cooled water is 10-15 degrees cooler than the outside temperature. Not only that, but it tends to break down fairly often because of its highly organic nature--fewer moving parts, but more parts that can get dirty, clogged, or otherwise become nonfunctional. Not only that, but the entire unit is twined up inside the house, instead of having an outside unit that can easily be accessed and serviced (oh, yeah, and when it leaks it does so outside).

Not only that, but when you have water leaking, it doesn't have to be a drain line. There are two major supply lines of plain old honest groundwater that run up through the center of my house--my father has realized that we might be dealing with a bigger demon than we thought.

Unfortunately, it's still four and a half hours until The Man comes to look at everything, so you'll have to stay tuned for what happens next. We turned the unit off at 2030 last night, both to stop further water accumulation (we hope--do the supply lines run all the time?) and because it had ceased cooling sometime late the night before. It's now pretty miserable in here, and I feel so bad for my family having to deal with all this. Thankfully, they can use the fans I have. I can't run a fan in my bedroom, unless I want to have my pregnancy equivalent of an athsma attack. So, it's hot, nasty, mytersious, and five o'clock in the morning.

Sigh. I love my nest.

Land of the Free, Home of the Brainwashed

So, after my lovely week with family on the Jersey Shore, I've returned to "my" America. The one where people wave on the highway using all their fingers at the same time (except in Atlanta) and when you buy a Sweet Potato it will be both sweet and a potato.

Not that I haven't been to or spent time in "The North" before, but a solid week's time to live among "Them" was a little different than my previous forays into the region. For one thing, I was the only person in the house who was born south of the Mason-Dixon line. Well, except for Uncle Luis who was born in Cuba, and my littlest brother-in-law who was born in Japan. Close enough, though. Jerseyans in large groups of fellow Jerseyans are not the same as those encountered singly while in the company of fellow Southerners. No, they are a breed unto themselves. For one thing, some of them really do believe that little baby chickens stay cute and yellow. How funny.

[Oh, minor digression: I'm talking about the Jersey within sight of New York City and the vicinity. Like, industrial and urban Jersey. The part of the state where they only say "Jersey." In the rest of the state, especially away from the coast, there are normal people who farm real farms and use all of the hard consonants provided by the English tongue for our enjoyment. It's a pretty state, and don't think I'm lumping it all into one giant borough of the Big Apple.]

Also, no matter what you're told by the media, "They" do not drive small cars, eat organic foods, and wear hemp in order to help the environment. We in the South, my fellow Americans, are not the only ones driving trucks and killing trees en masse. On the direct and opposite contrary. The only small cars I saw on the Shore were the ones that locals drive there year-round, meaning the ones that they don't mind ruining with sea salt corrosion. Everything new and shiny weighed at least 3800lbs and got less than 30 miles to the gallon. Escalades and Pacificae were especially prevalent. Every 6th car was a sedan or compact, and that's being generous (every 4th and 5th car was from New York and was also an SUV, and every 7th car was a police cruiser running a red light).

It was fun. The guy in the Italian bakery really did talk like the guys in Italian bakeries in movies. It was awesome!!! I loved it! I giggled myself unconscious, in fact, and we left the place with more really good food than you can shake a stick at. They really do have four-lane roads from which one may not legally turn left (one must go to the right and complete what's known as a "jug handle"). They really do never use their turn signals. They really do shop at Lacoste, Crocs, Fossil, Pottery Barn, Saks, and Bloomingdale's.

I can't wait for next summer. :D

Santa Claus is Comin' to Town

Someone I admire has written an interesting piece about, in a nutshell anyway, how telling the truth to children is better than "protecting" them with a lie. I agree with everything she said pretty much wholesale. (I'd caveat my agreement on a couple small points, but the principle of the thing is solid. No lying to kiddies, or else the boogie man will come out and eat me.)

However, she's got me thinking on this fine muggy morning about this whole "truth to children" thing, in the wide context of all the peeps I know and their varying opinions on the subject. The ready example is Santa Claus--ought we or ought not we lead children to "believe" in Santa? A very old friend staunchly insists that to do so is tantamount to mortal sin, is a grave lie, will damage forever the little child's ability to trust adults, and those who do so ought only suffer by riding the buffer of Parliamentary trains. His children have never even heard the name--Santa has about the same household standing as Eminem: should he come up in conversation via something the children hear outside the home, he is dismissed as "Oh, he is a bad person that we do not talk about." And this, I sincerely hope, is the outer limit of anti-Santa in the world. Personally, I think it's a bit much. After all, one could always thoughtfully reintroduce the history of where "Saint 'Claus" came from in the first place.

I feel a need to digress at this point, though. First of all, are there those of you in the world who really and truly believed with all their hearts, after reaching the age of reason, that Santa Claus did in fact exist and came down every chimney on Earth every Christmas Eve? Perhaps my whole take on this subject is skewed, because I was never one of those children. We had Santa, we knew he was "coming," there is amusing video evidence of my disappointment that he "had to use the front door" for a particularly large doll house one Christmas. (I was skeptical, too, because I knew how careful we were to never let any strangers have our keys.) But I was four.

I have a convenient break in my childhood memory between "before the age of reason" and "after the age of reason," as my family moved when I was six years old. Post-Move Jen did not have any idea that Santa was really really real. She never felt that all adult humanity had led her gravely astray by telling her that he existed in the first place. He has been a character of fiction for as long as I can honestly remember. We watched the old claymation movies, we sang Santa songs, when my sister was a very wee thing we did the milk and cookies thing one year--but I drank the milk and my brother ate a cookie, to help preserve the illusion. By the time she was five for six, my sister certainly knew that there was no Santa of the flesh-and-bones variety. For once thing, with a birthday falling less than 30 days from December 25th, she learned the hard way about "this is your birthday and your Christmas present." Perhaps my whole stance is based on the fact that my parents were so seamlessly able to give us both the fun of the popular icon along with the reality that he isn't real, that I'm just a little dismissive of those who have such a stinkin' hard time reconciling the two. And I'm done digressing.

The larger question of telling chilren the truth is not confined to Santa Claus, though, and I know this. Similar fictional characters, likewise, are not really the limit of the issue. The tooth fairy, Easter bunny, cupid, Father Time, and all the rest are just imagery. But do we "believe" in imagery (of the secular sort!!!)? Does Uncle Sam have to appear in the parade for July 4th to be complete? If I find out he isn't real, will all my future celebrations of our country's birthday be void and empty? This goes back to the Santa-after-sixth-birthday thing--I never really did believe he existed, at least not past the time when I also believe that the tub drain would suck me underground and Big Bird was actually a bird and not a person in a suit. If I had, my parents would have done me a disservice, and I suppose that's what is at stake. To put one's children in a position where will have such a strong belief in something that they are truly shaken to find it is not so, well, that is a crime indeed.

And I'm out of brain cells for the morning. More on this later, if I remember I was thinking about it.

p.s. For the record, there are Santa books on my shelf and they shall be read aloud with gusto every Christmas.

Happy Birthday!

It's my darling-baby-buggy-bumper-boo's birthday!!

Since I'm pretty sure he doesn't read the blog, I feel fairly safe about putting up a photo and some goopy tributary nonsense. He's done things to me on my birthday (or whatever other day he feels like it), so this is my shot. After all, revenge is a dish best served online.

The Pot Hath Been Stirred

I love how my wonderful husband has gone and put up something on Facebook meant for me--meant to sooth the savage incubator in her hour of teary need--and has stood by it tooth and nail, philosophically and theologically, historically and categorically, instead of going, "Oh, for pete's sake, people, get a life. I was just trying to make my wife feel better. Get off my back!"

:D

This makes my heart smile. Love is beautiful!

Incidentally, the comment has elicited the typical broad-ranging response to be expected from our nimbus of friends. However, rather a Franciscan mentality prevails, which is what brought me to my afore-mentioned state to begin with. [The previous sentence ends with a preposition.] Am I a bad person, I asked him last night, to not buy cribs and car seats at yard sales? Am I a materialistic and snobby human being to feel that certain things are best paid for at market value? That something new for your most precious possession is something worth buying? I cry, I fret, I sniffle.

He assures me, he pats my had (via phone), and says that I am not a bad person. First of all, he made the excellent observation that very little of this "new" stuff is stuff I'm actually shelling out the dough for. [The previous sentence also ends with a preposition.] On the contrary, my more or less affluent extended family is shelling out their democratic cash to pay for it. Lord and Master has a point ("Let them loose, I say! Onward!"). Second of all, he made the also excellent observation that paying little for something does not mean getting a good deal. We have furniture in this house, at this very moment, that breathes a fiery example of this truism every time I walk into the living room. What we paid little for is headed out the door, in fact, as soon as I can find a way to cheaply get it movng in that direction. In might even cost us more to dispose of our "great deal" than it cost us in the first place. Alas, what looks good on first sight may hide terrible faults!

Thus assured by Joseph, I slept well last night, and was greeted today by his little Facebook gift, along with the Franciscan onslaught that ensued. Not sure about how sleeping is going to go tonight, but I'll endeavor to put them from my head all the same. After all, I have my own ways of being thrifty, of being careful, of being thoughtful with what kind of material environment my child will enjoy. For someone who has spent 4 of her last 12 months of married life alone, I'd say knowing what things are really important in life is a fairly easy knowledge base to acquire.

And I'll tell you, money is not one of those things. Neither, to be quite frank, is penny-pinching. There is nothing I have willingly parted with in this world that God has not returned to me tenfold. An investment can be made in people, whatever the "cost."

Time Travel

Too bad it doesn't work...I'd fast forward to August.

Anyway, back in NC at long last, after enjoying a fun week with family. Unfortunately, being "home & relaxed" means I have all kinds of duties and projects staring me in the face--duties and projects that ought to have been done months ago. Spent yesterday fixing all the books upstairs, at least as far as categorization goes. The literature is easy to alphabetize and deserves more attention. The political-historical-tactical-reference books, on the other hand, are a little tougher to cubbyhole.

Sigh. And I really should unpack these last three boxes. And finish the books I'm reading. And finish all 8 sewing projects.

Trippin'

Posting this afternoon from the USO lounge at Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. Nice place! I feel a little out of place without my ACUs and attention-grabbing tactical American Flag Patch, but what the heck. I got Reeses to drink a little water, which was such a big accomplishment that I don't mind being the only pregnant woman with teal shoes in the USO.

So, yesterday's flight plans didn't work out too well. Arrived at the airport at 0945, 1.5 hours before my scheduled departure. Checked in, paid my pet fees, all is good. Our airplane has not arrived. Joseph observes at about 1010 "Your plane should be getting here by now." His combat hunter is finely tuned and (surprise, surprise) correct. The plane should have arrived about 1015, but failed to do so. Not only that, but the plane failed to even depart Dallas by 1010. Instead, it chose to undergo a series of heat-related maintenance delays before finally taking off from Dallas at 1120.

The security checkpoint was opened to passengers at 1200. A very tearful me and a very frightened Reeses made it through security without trouble, me ending with considerably more fur than when I started, and she with considerably less. All is well. The flight crew of our plane had totally deplaned to use the "real" bathroom--they'd been sitting on the tarmac in Dallas for quite a time--and we waited until they returned before we boarded. We boarded. I sat in the second-to-last row, aisle seat, next to a niceish gentleman who was flying to Anchorage.

It is 93 degrees and rising outside. The temperature inside the cabin remains currently classified. We wait and wait, until finally we've been given our safety features brief and all is set to go. Then, suddenly, like in a movie, the phone bell rings for the flight attendant to pick up, about the same time a person (no kidding) starts knocking on the cabin door from the outside.

[Now, I can't tell you exactly what sort of aircraft I was flying it. It's a twin engine turboprop commuter, and the cabin door is at the rear of the plane. Therefore, me in the back rows sitting on the aisle can enjoy the fulll range of emotion going on at the door.]

The door opens. The guy from the desk (he's also the guy with the chocks and the baggage train) explains the trouble to the flight attendant. He was a nice young man with a well modulated voice. She was also nice, but neither young, nor male, nor in possession of a well-modulated voice. So I hear:

"pssspspspsps"
"You've got to be kidding me!!"
"haaamsmsmsspssppsppssssspssssss"
"Seriously?"
"spspsspsps"
"Well, you go tell her, I'm not gonna tell her, it wasn't my fault!"
"I can'tspspsppppspspcauseospsppss. Okay?"
"[deleted]"

Then Modulated Voice moves away from the door, back down the steps, and Flight Attendant comes over the speaker. "Miss [Passenger]?? Please raise your hand." Now, here's where we knew something was fishy--the hand goes up immediately and the chick goes ahead to start gathering her stuff before Flight Attendant gets to her. Conversation ensues, Passenger disbarks. Passenger is heard telling Flight Attendant that she had bags checked (planeside) aboard the flight. This is bad news, because it means the engines have to be compeltely throttled back so that the ground crew can open the baggage compartment, which sits just forward of the left engine.

Sooo, 20 minutes into our stay on the tarmac (temperature still rising), Passenger and bags begin their exit. Turns out, she was flying standby and shouldn't have been approved but was anyway and no one wanted to flame their own butt for the mistake so they were flaming everyone elses'. End of story: passenger and bags exit.

Now its, what, 1240 and the temperature has to be close to 100. The cabin door is shut, and the phone bell rings a couple more times. Flight Attendant explains to Silent Flight Attendant that there's a problem with the weight/cargo ratio calculations, and the Captain didn't like the numbers and was redoing the whole equation before Captain was willing to take off. This takes another 20 minutes. 1300, and Captain says in a very professionally exhausted tone, "Sorry for the delay. We have had to make adjustments for the heat. Performance on this aircraft is no longer capable of supporting the original weight we took on board. We've elected to keep all our passengers [!] and offload a portion of the cargo. It will follow us to Dallas on the next flight."

Another 20 minutes of bumping whilst cargo is offloaded. Reeses has started to show strong signs of distress. She's panting, listless, etc. I start waving the safety briefing card at her (useless) and hoping they'll come by with some water. They, do, eventually, and I get it in and get some of the water on to her face (mostly useless). I'm now bothered by the idea of arriving in Dallas with a dead cat. What a buzz kill, right? Thankfully, about the time I'm really starting to worry, they finish their calculating and get us to the end of the runway. Huzzah! So, at 1320 (one hour in the non-ventilated plane at this point) we've progessed 500 yards.

A pause. Hearts sink. After about 2 minutes of sitting, Captain says in her tired professional tone, "We're still taking off heavy, need to lose about 150 gallons of fuel. That takes 8.2 minutes and then we're outta here." She is right-- 8.2 minutes later we head down the runway. Unfortunately, 8.9 minutes from the original announcement, we stop heading anywhere in particular and instead get to feel what an aborted takeoff feels like.

Engine #2 overheated on throttle up, it appeared, and so Captain took us all back to the terminal and told us to get off. "This is just silly," she was thinking. She'd already done this once today. So, we all get off and relive multiple times the feeling of suddenly getting to the point where, normally, the plane would have lifted from the ground, but instead the counter-forward-motion measures had been quickly applied and we did a number of things other than lift. The first, of course, was a slowing down. The second was a rapid series of side-to-side motions which gave fright to myself, Critter, and Reeses a lot more than the unbelieveable noise that the brakes on a twin-engine turboprop commuter makes.

End of story? Joseph came back to get us, we went home, enjoyed a bonus 18 hours together, and woke up this morning to light rain and a blissful 79 degrees. Life is good.

World's Most Expensive Stroller

"The most expensive baby stroller in the world is the Dreamer Design Axiom. Available in blue or red, this is a sturdy (200 lbs.) and versatile stroller. Sporting the usual options – washable fabric, reclining seat, and storage basket, it also comes with a 20-year-warranty. It has an on-board hand and foot brake, adjustable handle, various lanyards and harnesses, and even a water bottle holder. The most expensive single baby stroller in the world for just $1,219."

-from www.newluxuryitems.com

The article is slightly off base, in that strollers for triplets (and higher multiples) can run into the three and four thousands pretty quick, but for a "put your One Kid in it" stroller, this was the winner. Sick, eh? Also, who on earth would want a 200lb. stroller?

Monday things

Well, been married a year come yesterday. That's a pretty interesting achievement, in today's world anyhow. It seems like a very long time. Like Joe said today at lunch, we've moved three times since that wedding, with a fourth time coming before Christmas. We've traveled from Philadelphia to Florida on I-95 (not missing any pieces in between!), and from the Atlantic Ocean to Oklahoma City on I-40. It's been a busy, ground-covering year. Wow.

To celebrate the day, we decided to do as little as possible. This consisted of an extreme "relaxation" afternoon at a friend's house, enjoying french toast for lunch and watching half of the first season of "Arrested Development." (Will blog about the show some other time.) Perhaps not the most edifying way to spend an anniversatry, but it did the trick as far as chilling out went. Besides, we've been celebrating the big event for a least a month, off and on, especially a couple weeks ago when we thought that we wouldn't be together for "thuh day" itself. I think it'll do.

I get to fly back East with a cat on Saturday. The drama is worth sparing, but Reese and I will travel with many prayers and milagros about our persons, in hopes that no snitty passengers notice my dander-bearing companion and raise a stink. The Airline is on my side, but that isn't saying a whole heap of a lot. We arrive in EDT land at 9pm on Saturday, and have to hop in the car Sunday morning to return home. In the meantime, my Mr. Kitty will have been retrieved. If they don't each know what the other smells like by the beginning of the trip, they will by the end. Thank goodness poor Elizabeth will be along for the ride, for referee purposes if nothing else.

Speaking of minor land wars, another member of the Class of '08 has fallen into the military pit. Dave heads out to Navy something (OCS? Boot?) on Sunday, oily oily in the morning. This makes 5 grads out of 97, so just over 5% so far...we're also working on a couple more prospects who don't [yet] want to give up a steady diet and air conditioning in order to serve their country. Disappointingly, two non-cool (just kidding) classmates were unable to muster what it took to survive the Corps' OCS last summer/fall, or we would have been well on our way to 10% by now. Still, we're pretty sure that 5% is a fairly high number, judging from school history. Even more impressive is the whopping 2% of the class that has committed itself just to foreign languague studies with the US Navy. Now, if we can just get some more of those bums working in bars around DC to pack up their butts and get a real life...

Too funny

In light of my last post, I suppose, all the google ads on my publish page were for ethernet cable, patch cords, and flea medicine.

Chicken Fried Cat

So, Reeses the cat (that's her, lounging upon my increasingly cushy stomach) is reaching new heights in her quest to die young. Power cables are now the foe--chewing through them is her game.

Fortunately, the only ones she's had a go at have either been (a) unplugged or (b) ethernet cables and therefore not carrying any voltage. She severed her second ethernet cord in a week this morning. Of course, you know, this means war.

Unlike the "real" power cords, which are in plain sight (and now unplugged for cat's safety), the internet port is way up underneath the bed, so the edible ends are out of my usual reach. This means that little Reeses can dedicate the necessary hours to chewing her way through the cable before I catch her. That is, before the internet goes off for no apparent reason. Thus I shopped today for the hottest pepper I could find. Thanks be to diversity, the Commissary was carrying habenero peppers today (at a whopping $10.00 a pound!!!). I got two of the little suckers, anda hazmat suit for Joe. He gets to cut one up and rub it on the ethernet cable when he gets home. I shall spend no more moneys on cat snacks in the form of computer cables.

Next step is to do all the regular power cords, too, but for now they just get put away whenever I'm not watching over them. Stupid cat.

I, Pharisee

There really ought to be a way to proofread one's posts. On paper, or something...I never see the boo-boos until they've been published a week or longer. At that point, I feel like anyone who's got good sense has already seen the boo-boos and written me off for the write-off that I am. Part of my problem, though, is a simple physical inability to press the proper key. My IQ (as mentioned before?) has been hijacked by some small being inside me. I'm getting dumber by the week.

Terminator: Slavation

I spelled it that way on purpose. Since the first time I saw a commercial or walked by a poster, I've only been able to read the word that way. Sorry.

Still, there's a vague kind of irony in calling it "Slavation" if you spend time around people who are, indeed, slaves to the culture of going to see movies. Good movies, bad movies, fair-to-middlin' movies all get their share of eyeball time from a certain group of people, simply because they want to see it. Maybe because they've "always" gone to see movies on opening night, and they feel honor bound to continue the tradition. Maybe because "everyone else" is going. Maybe not.

How come this thing happen? How come? Why don't they only go to see movies that are good, that they've checked into beforehand, that they really feel will add something to life? I mean, I've seen my share of lemons in the last 20 years, but they've been rented or borrowed or otherwise cheaply obtained--I don't pay $20 to take myself on a date ($40 if we eat something) in order to walk out two hours later and so, "Well, that was a waste of time."

How come this happen?

Another Midnight Episode

Closer to the real thing, too. I'm really not sure what is bringing this coughing on. I know that I've got rattly stuff in my throat, but what makes some nights like this and others not is a mystery. The stupid medicine is not a delineating factor.

This time, I seem to have perfected a half-asleep mode that allows me to not realize I've been laying there coughing for two hours. Usually, I get up long before then and try and find some remedy, inadequate though it might be. Now, my throat is so irritated, I don't know that anything I've got on hand is going to help. Don't have any lozenges, no Robitussin, and can't make tea without any, well, tea. Not that any of this isn't my own darn fault, but there it is. Like I said, it isn't that this occurs every night.

Sigh. I thought I was done with this. Dealt with it for almost two straight months, kicked the thing, then came back out here to Oklahoma and it starts almost all over again. The disease is missing this time, though, rather curiously--no sinus problems. Did I never really get over the cough at all? What is wrong with me? Did my doctor leave me with a bigger problem a month ago and not realize it? Will this be the story for the rest of my life?

Grrrrr.

This article appeared in the The Daily News today, in Philadelphia. It's more or less benign, I suppose, unless you're bothered by reading in a liberal tabloid about the demise of a conservative broadsheet.

However, the "staffers who gathered" are friends of mine, personal friends, and it's creepy to know the story behind what hundreds of thousands of Philadelphians will read today and simply dismiss. How many stories escape my notice every single day, yet spell disaster and harship for some other person and their family?

Real Midnight Radio

At least, EDT it is midnight. Here, it's only 11pm. Regardless, it's be an bloody full hour and a half since I first started trying to go to sleep. The medication I am supposedly taking to "keep me from coughing in the night" is proving largely useless--no matter what time of day I take it, it wears off by about 9pm. This is still true if I take the medicine at 8pm. If I fail to take it at all, it seems to have the same effect. Weather, climate, proximity to animals, nothing seems to change my situation. I've been dealing with some incarnation of this stupid allergy/cough thing since mid-March. I have had it. I'm miserable.

This stinks. I am so incredibly, unbelieveable tired. All I want in the whole world is to sleep. I can't lay down, because I'll start coughing. Even if I don't, I'll have to get up within three minutes to use the bathroom because all this coughing makes me, well, need to go about every three minutes. I'm so tired!!!!!!!!!! This is awful. The solution, then, is to sit in front of the computer and numb my brain until the rest of me is so beyond exhausted that it goes to sleep, coughing and bathroom trips notwithstanding. Then, I carefully get in bed without waking it and hope to last at least three hours before regaining consciousness.

Meanwhile, Joseph sleeps the sleep of the dead. And unpregnant. And unallergic.

Lamentabili

Sigh. One feels so grossly ill-equipped to actually discuss moral matters with the world at large. There simply is no common ground on which to stand. I cannot begin to discuss rights and justice with someone who does no believe in absolute truth. I cannot begin to discuss the integrity of marriage with someone who rejects nature. I cannot begin to discuss either with someone who, to put it simply, does not believe in God. My only weapons are against some kind of aristotelian semi-heretic. I need too many things to be similar in order to "debate" someone else. I can't make headway on the sand dunes that I'm faced with instead.

The large family my adversary was born into has provided him with an unshakeable opinion that abortion is wrong. Somehow, he and his siblings share a deep love, deeper than the love they have for their parents in some ways, that makes the idea of "not having" one of them unthinkable.

However, that's as deep as it goes. It's wrong because it's wrong, basically--I mean, which sibling would you have chosen to abort? There is no underlying belief in the sanctity of life in general, the notion that life is a gift from Almighty God not to be toyed with. There is no feeling that somehow abortion is a grave moral evil, contrary to Natural and Divine Laws. It's just wrong. Like killing a fox in England. It simply isn't done.

I know this for a fact. If you pursue abortion down the political road with my adversary, he gets peeved. He complains that you shouldn't make politics a "one issue thing." Somehow, abortion is wrong enough to object to, but not wrong enough to make you utterly and completely distrust and despise someone who thinks it is not wrong. Someone, no less, who spends their energy and their influence making sure that it is made as available as prevalent as possible. My adversary thinks such an attitude of distrust and despising is silly--think of all the other isssues there are to consider, he says. This is a silly thing to base your whole attitude on.

My adversary does not believe contraception is wrong. He has no problem with IVF, gay marriage, surrogate motherhood, artificial wombs, cloning, the creation of genetic children for gay couples, or stem cell research. I cannot in any way approach him on these subjects. What is being damaged, what is being destroyed by all these evils is a good in which he does not believe. I have no common ground with him on which to discuss the integrity and sanctity of marriage. He loves babies, but not enough to marry someone who wanted to have babies of her own. Ever.
What makes these people this way? He was raised a Catholic. He has siblings, older and younger, who are raising Catholic families. He has siblings that are altar servers, siblings who have considered the priesthood. What happened?

Have a little Hyfrydol

So, this post is funny only to people who recognize the word in the title right away. If I have to explain it, it won't be as funny when you're done.

Anyhow. Was reminded in Mass yesterday of an old friend, my very earliest days of email (when I still used my mom's account), and what happens when educated people with senses of humor say whatever comes into their head. Thus, as they say, was born Hyfrydol: The Only Cure for An Upset Cello.

It does, after all, sound like some sort of perscription stuff-for-what-ails-you, and good ol' Mark insisted on pointing it out. Which was all fine and good, until we played a fanfare prelude on the tune in band the next semester--with HYFRYDOL [for-what-ails-you] emblazoned across the top for all the world to giggle at. Not that giggling is a problem, but when you are not only the only oboe in the band but also the only oboe in the band with a significant solo, being struck by the funniness of it all is just a perscription for disaster.

Especially since Mark is never out of your field of vision, sitting like he does at the head of the clarinet section. Drat him. Giggle giggle, went the clarinet.

To clean off a hard drive is a dangerous thing...

Oh my gosh!!!!!!!!! What was I thinking!!!!?????!!!!!?????

A Breakthrough

So, I've discovered that I'm actually quite a remarkable writer. My writing is witting, personable, fun, and speaks to the reader. Unfortunately, this only applies if I am writing to a specific person about a specific thing. For example, if I write to 2LT Jungle Man, my writing is exactly and perfectly suited to him, his reading style, his personality, and our relationship. If I write to Donna, the same applies.

I decided yesterday that making the whole blog a letter to my readers would fail utterly, because the personal touch of "writing to a specific person about a specific thing" would be lost. Then, I considered just putting up my letters to individuals instead, since they've already got their fire and spirit.

Over Jungle Man's dead body.

Apologia pro doing nothing

I just had to mention again how cool appliances are. I fill them up, I push the button, and the house is filled with deceptively purposeful, busy, businesslike noises instantly. In the meantime, I do nothing at all and yet still feel like I'm getting so very much accomplished. Ha ha!

The Score: Dirty Dishes - 1; Me - 0

Well, after talking and talking and failing to knock on wood, I've found a smell that makes me sick. Oh well. My allergy medication must be working, because that sour milk was the first thing I've really smelled in two months.

Can anyone tell me why there are no fingernail clippers in the house?? Someone I know can't leave home without a pair, and it looks like he left home with every single one we owned. I know for a fact there are two in his car...just in case he needs to do both hands at once.

Blah again?

Unlike my beloved spouse, who has recently exhibited a rather pronounced proclivity for authorship, I feel less and less inclined to write anything these days. Shall I mention letting my soft palate get away from my brain and say things to my dearest friend that it shouldn'tve? Shall I mention having blood pressure and a pulse so high this morning that the technician made me come back at the end of the doctor's visit to check it again (it was normal)? Shall I mention the baking sunshine that's making the puddles in my front yard from the [concurrent] driving rainstorm be warmer than most people would want to bathe in? Shall I mention not feeling like putting away all the stuff that I sorted out to put away? Shall I mention trying to nap in four different places, only to be pursued and interrupted by a dreaming kitty?

Nah.

Piggy Flu

Sorry for the lengthy hiatus. Vacation, you know. Cuts into one's blog time dreadfully.

So, they're telling people not to fly anyplace for any reason; don't use public restrooms; if you think you're sick at all, don't go to work; stay close to home; don't eat out without great caution; wash your hands all the time; if you're considered "at risk" don't go ANYPLACE for ANY reason. Sigh. How excessively inconvenient. I had at least two trips to Oklahoma planned between now and August. I have a husband to visit! I have a long road trip to Virginia and Pennsylvania I have to take! I have public restrooms I simply must utilize on the way!

Darn the CDC. Why any group of people would want to spend all their time studying and trying to trap billions of deadly little microbial terror-mongering bacteria and viruses is beyond me. Of course, somebody has to do it and I for one am glad they're up there in their rubber suits with their microscopes, but good heavens. It's still a funny breed of fella who does it for fun.

So anyway, in the interests of the common good of all those who do not make a living in the air travel industry, they're trying to scare people into not flying, since they can't prevent us any other way. Is it for real? It is just a giant conspiracy theory? Who knows, right? And who would risk getting and dying from the Swine Flu testing the theory that it was all bunk....right? I think that's the assumption they're operating under.

Bother.

:-(

Stinks to be going away tomorrow. I know I'm going to be very busy, and have lots to do, and enjoy the next month or so, but it still stinks. Can't flying be free? Can't everything be closer together?

2,814 miles

From Sunday morning to Sunday morning, that's how far we've driven this week. (Mr. Kitty was there for 586 of them, too.) At the moment, it's just me here in Wild America, battling the mice and ants as we prepare to leave Army Lodging and head for the apartment (yay!). Oklahoma is a woundrous strange place, if somewhat misrepresented. For one thing, one ought not ride a horse across the plain. One will be thrown from the horse by the occasional rogue gale-force wind gust. Also, no corn, no elephants, and no elephant's eyes. And no Weepin Willers. I think I'm in the wrong bit of Oklahoma.

According to the Oklahoma State Wildlife Management Office, "15% [of the snakes in Oklahoma] are potentially harmful to humans. Venomous species include the copperhead, cottonmouth, western diamondback rattlesnake, timber rattlesnake, prairie rattlesnake, western massasauga, and western pigmy rattlesnake. Snakes are found statewide and in all habitats. Some species thrive in urban and suburban environments."

No word yet on whether feeding the mice to the rattlesnakes is cruelty to either species. I'm looking in to it.