As I type, my tween (!) Bean is downstairs hosting her BFFs for a Hunger Games movie "marathon" (there are only two of the films, but at almost 2.5 hours each, watching them both constitutes a marathon) and sleepover. I've been popping down there to check it out from time to time.
Have you ever tried to watch a movie with a room full of 12 year-old girls who've mostly seen it before? They talk. Constantly. Mia knows the movies by heart and loves them, and is quoting every line, about a half second before the line is said. Audrey doesn't like scary parts, creepy parts, or tense parts (did I mention these are thrillers set in a dystopian future?), and is watching through her fingers, asking if every scene is over yet. Olivia talks all the time under any circumstances, so she's talking, all the time. And my quiet, steady Bean is just laughing her goofy laugh and loving all of it. They are awesome.
They have also consumed about a half pound of M&Ms, each. So yeah, I get Mom of the Year.
Mr. Sandyshoes is down there with them, maybe on account of the M&Ms. I can hear him asking the girls, "wait, who just got killed?" from time to time. They are patient with him and explain everything, which makes me smile. When he asks questions while watching a movie with my brother and me, we always admonish him in exasperated unison: "JUST WATCH!" (He asks a lot of questions. Sometimes we have to pause the movie.)
Where's the Peanut? Glad you asked. She would not like this movie at all (it's not set in space, it's not a comedy and/or about sports, and nobody has superpowers -- so, three strikes). Fortunately she's pals with Audrey's younger brother Colin, so our families swapped daughters for the night and the Peanut's sleeping at their house. She and Col are going into 5th grade, so, I suppose, are running out of time for innocent Lego-and-Star-Wars-focused sleepovers. It didn't occur to either of them that there's anything odd about it, but they both know not to mention it to their friend Kyle. Kyle was over at Audrey and Colin's house one day earlier this summer when the Peanut went over. He hadn't expected to see her there, and reportedly blushed, went quiet, and couldn't finish his lunch in her presence. Yikes.
We're having a great summer... when bedtime matters not, and friends can just stay over. Hope you are enjoying yours too!
Showing posts with label Mr. Sandyshoes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mr. Sandyshoes. Show all posts
Saturday, August 02, 2014
Saturday, June 07, 2014
Just lucky, I guess.
So I've been writing professionally, a little bit.
A very little bit. Nothing Mr. Sandyshoes can quit his day job over. But it's a start.
And what do people say, when they ask what I do for work, and I tell them that I write? An astonishing number say something like "hey, how do I get hooked up with a gig like that? Because I could write, too."
Am I alone in finding this to be pretty rude? Actually, the rudest thing someone said was "oh wow, that sounds sooo boring!" I don't know what that person does professionally, if anything. I'm going to assume she's a glider pilot, or a spy, or something.
Some of these people probably can write. Most of them probably can't. I don't know and don't care. I'm just a bit amused at having dipped my little toe into a profession, felt some pride at having my work pretty well-received, and now finding that all of a sudden everyone I talk to could do it just as well as I can, if only they had the time/inclination/connections.
I suspect writers hear this sort of thing a lot.
Here's what I don't say, in response:
"Well geez, how do I get hooked up with a gig like yours? Because I could sell houses/run toddler playgroups/manage an office, too."
What I do say:
"Oh, just lucky, I guess."
(Couldn't be, y'know, working at it. That's crazy talk.)
A very little bit. Nothing Mr. Sandyshoes can quit his day job over. But it's a start.
And what do people say, when they ask what I do for work, and I tell them that I write? An astonishing number say something like "hey, how do I get hooked up with a gig like that? Because I could write, too."
Am I alone in finding this to be pretty rude? Actually, the rudest thing someone said was "oh wow, that sounds sooo boring!" I don't know what that person does professionally, if anything. I'm going to assume she's a glider pilot, or a spy, or something.
Some of these people probably can write. Most of them probably can't. I don't know and don't care. I'm just a bit amused at having dipped my little toe into a profession, felt some pride at having my work pretty well-received, and now finding that all of a sudden everyone I talk to could do it just as well as I can, if only they had the time/inclination/connections.
I suspect writers hear this sort of thing a lot.
Here's what I don't say, in response:
"Well geez, how do I get hooked up with a gig like yours? Because I could sell houses/run toddler playgroups/manage an office, too."
What I do say:
"Oh, just lucky, I guess."
(Couldn't be, y'know, working at it. That's crazy talk.)
Saturday, August 10, 2013
What a difference a year+ makes, right?
Actually not so much. Life continues to be really good, thankfully.
The Bean just turned 11. She got a new bicycle, and pre-ordered the next Rick Riordan book. It comes out on October 8; she'll have read it a half dozen times by Halloween.
The Peanut, earlier this month, realized that 1) it is, in fact, August, and 2) September is next. She did a little fist pump/victory dance thing in the kitchen. That is how psyched she is to start fourth grade.
This morning, I asked them to finish up their "Dig Into Reading" logs for the public library so that I could turn them in for them when I went down there later. (The logs are due today, if you want to participate in the ice cream social/puppet show event that marks the end of the summer reading program). The Bean handed me a log with attachments, saying that she only wrote down books that she actually liked or would recommend. She is a reading machine.
The Peanut has been reading a lot, as well. They are both enthusiastic readers. It's the accounting for it that trips the Peanut up, a bit. She doesn't like to have to keep track of these things. Tell her to read a book, and she's happily absorbed for hours. Tell her to write down what she read and for how long, and she can't find a piece of paper, or didn't look at the clock, or doesn't remember the author. You see how it goes. Anyway she sat at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, trying to come up with a list of things read that's respectable enough to turn in to the library.
She wanted to know if the subtitles from the part of that X-Men movie* where the evil guy is in Russia might count as summer reading? "Probably not, but I did read them, Mommy."
Can't argue that.
Evidently our vacation has been more cinematic than literary. We watched all the X-Men movies. And for the record, there are also subtitles in part of Star Wars.**
She also wrote down that every week she reads all the police reports in the local newspaper. Our recent favorite is one in which a man walked into the police station early on a Saturday morning to report that someone had stolen his pants the night before. Said pants were later discovered in the bathroom of the man's house.
It's cool, living in a town where so much of the crime is imaginary. It's also frequently the best part of the newspaper.
So that's been our summer. We've swum at the lake, played with friends, done Camp Invention and archery camp and summer basketball and generally whatever else we felt like doing.
Mr. Sandy has been working flat-out on a very exciting scientific proposal. He surfaces for meals, and to oversee plumbers and such. Someday, our addition will be done. Someday.
Me? I tried stand-up paddle-boarding for the first time, which was really fun. I sprained my ankle playing backyard badminton, which was really not. I've been writing professionally a wee bit, which is excellent. I need a new computer, which is not. All is well, on balance.
Still a few weeks' worth of fun to fit in before school starts. I wonder if there are any subtitles in the Batman movies?
*X-Men: First Class
** It's the part where Greedo the bounty hunter finds Solo in the cantina in Mos Eisley. But you knew that, right?
The Bean just turned 11. She got a new bicycle, and pre-ordered the next Rick Riordan book. It comes out on October 8; she'll have read it a half dozen times by Halloween.
The Peanut, earlier this month, realized that 1) it is, in fact, August, and 2) September is next. She did a little fist pump/victory dance thing in the kitchen. That is how psyched she is to start fourth grade.
This morning, I asked them to finish up their "Dig Into Reading" logs for the public library so that I could turn them in for them when I went down there later. (The logs are due today, if you want to participate in the ice cream social/puppet show event that marks the end of the summer reading program). The Bean handed me a log with attachments, saying that she only wrote down books that she actually liked or would recommend. She is a reading machine.
The Peanut has been reading a lot, as well. They are both enthusiastic readers. It's the accounting for it that trips the Peanut up, a bit. She doesn't like to have to keep track of these things. Tell her to read a book, and she's happily absorbed for hours. Tell her to write down what she read and for how long, and she can't find a piece of paper, or didn't look at the clock, or doesn't remember the author. You see how it goes. Anyway she sat at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, trying to come up with a list of things read that's respectable enough to turn in to the library.
She wanted to know if the subtitles from the part of that X-Men movie* where the evil guy is in Russia might count as summer reading? "Probably not, but I did read them, Mommy."
Can't argue that.
Evidently our vacation has been more cinematic than literary. We watched all the X-Men movies. And for the record, there are also subtitles in part of Star Wars.**
She also wrote down that every week she reads all the police reports in the local newspaper. Our recent favorite is one in which a man walked into the police station early on a Saturday morning to report that someone had stolen his pants the night before. Said pants were later discovered in the bathroom of the man's house.
It's cool, living in a town where so much of the crime is imaginary. It's also frequently the best part of the newspaper.
So that's been our summer. We've swum at the lake, played with friends, done Camp Invention and archery camp and summer basketball and generally whatever else we felt like doing.
Mr. Sandy has been working flat-out on a very exciting scientific proposal. He surfaces for meals, and to oversee plumbers and such. Someday, our addition will be done. Someday.
Me? I tried stand-up paddle-boarding for the first time, which was really fun. I sprained my ankle playing backyard badminton, which was really not. I've been writing professionally a wee bit, which is excellent. I need a new computer, which is not. All is well, on balance.
Still a few weeks' worth of fun to fit in before school starts. I wonder if there are any subtitles in the Batman movies?
*X-Men: First Class
** It's the part where Greedo the bounty hunter finds Solo in the cantina in Mos Eisley. But you knew that, right?
Thursday, May 24, 2012
The words that don't fail say this:
A friend's husband died unexpectedly this week. Dave was 46, very fit, ate a vegan diet. He was a beloved father, husband, and friend. He coached Little League baseball and little girls' basketball. He was a handsome man of energy and good humor.
He and my friend were supposed to be celebrating their 20th wedding anniversary today. Instead, she's planning his funeral. There is no rhyme or reason to the world sometimes.
Their children are the same ages as mine. I imagine each of our friends is taking a private mental stroll down "If That Were Me" Lane. It is unfathomable. I can't help but think I couldn't be half the things to our girls that Mr. Sandyshoes is to them. I can't teach them what he'll teach them, can't be the role model he is, can't, can't, can't. So much he does, I can't.
But that wouldn't be the point. Our partners are irreplaceable, period, as are we. It would be an unfixable break, an unfillable hole. A little girl is going to grow up saying "my Dad died when I was 8," and it's just dumb luck that it isn't my own little girl. We are, all of us, any given heartbeat away from our lives turned upside down.
Love like there's no tomorrow, people. Yes, it's impossible to sustain that energy, that urgency, through every interaction with our dearest ones, let alone with every other human we encounter. But do keep perspective. Do remember what matters and doesn't. Be good to each other. Plan a long life, sure! - and fill each day of it with words and acts of love, because plans go awry, and all you really have is now.
He and my friend were supposed to be celebrating their 20th wedding anniversary today. Instead, she's planning his funeral. There is no rhyme or reason to the world sometimes.
Their children are the same ages as mine. I imagine each of our friends is taking a private mental stroll down "If That Were Me" Lane. It is unfathomable. I can't help but think I couldn't be half the things to our girls that Mr. Sandyshoes is to them. I can't teach them what he'll teach them, can't be the role model he is, can't, can't, can't. So much he does, I can't.
But that wouldn't be the point. Our partners are irreplaceable, period, as are we. It would be an unfixable break, an unfillable hole. A little girl is going to grow up saying "my Dad died when I was 8," and it's just dumb luck that it isn't my own little girl. We are, all of us, any given heartbeat away from our lives turned upside down.
Love like there's no tomorrow, people. Yes, it's impossible to sustain that energy, that urgency, through every interaction with our dearest ones, let alone with every other human we encounter. But do keep perspective. Do remember what matters and doesn't. Be good to each other. Plan a long life, sure! - and fill each day of it with words and acts of love, because plans go awry, and all you really have is now.
Monday, July 04, 2011
Our Independence Day came early this year... or 9 years late, maybe.
Mr. Sandyshoes and I just took a trip... on our own. Just us. No offspring. This is something we said we'd do annually, on or around our anniversary each June. Maybe a few days, maybe just an overnight, but certainly, we said, we should get away on our own once a year, even when we have children. We will be the kind of parents who believe our children will need time without us, as we will need time without them, we said.
(Go ahead and laugh. It's OK.)
Well. I couldn't have left the girls with anyone, as babies. They each nursed until 16 months, for one thing, and I'd have been bereft without them, for another. It just didn't feel right until this year. Yes, our oldest is almost 9. Yes, that is a long time not to have had a few days alone with my husband.
Over the years I'd see Facebook posts of friends with more and/or younger children than we have, heading up to Boston overnight or grabbing date time with their spouses here and there. I'd envy these friends a little. You hear all the time that it's important to do things as a couple, to jealously guard that time and MAKE IT HAPPEN or it's likely your marriage will suffer. Yeah yeah, and yeah right. How do they do it, these parents of toddlers who go away alone together? My children were school aged before I'd ever even hired a babysitter for an evening. When the Bean was a babe and I still had a paid job, my parents filled in the child care time between Mr. Sandyshoes leaving for work late and me coming home early. It worked for a while, but when the Peanut was born, there was no way I couldn't be home with them. It was good to be at work, but it was better to be with my girls.
Of course, one income means less money for babysitters, dates, and weekend trips... so it's sort of a reinforcing cycle. And so here we are, with the girls 7 and 8, taking our first time together without them. I don't regret the home time one bit, but now we really should be able to do this every year. The girls are ready, we're ready, and, after all, we're the kind of parents who believe our children need time without us, just as we need time without them... right? Right.
So, this year, Mr. Sandyshoes made the plans secretly, and on our 10th anniversary he emailed me (he was at sea) that -- surprise! -- we would be spending a few days in Maine while the girls stayed with his sister and her family, who live near Boston. Yay! This gave me some time to prepare them for Our Big Trip and Their Big Trip as separate events. They were super-excited and felt All Grown Up.
The Peanut made a brief mention of possibly missing us, then reminded herself she knew our phone numbers, so she'd be OK.
The Bean started making a packing list. I told her I'd made one for them that she was welcome to, and she said no, thanks, she'd do it. Ten minutes later she came to ask for it. Ten minutes after that she said she was going to use my list, because "it looks like you spent a lot of time thinking about it" and it didn't seem to her that I'd forgotten anything. Hee! Oh Bean, after a few hundred trips, you'll get packing lists down to a science as well. I'm actually pleased to have her approval though, she's tough.
Last week we dropped them off and hit the road. Our lucky girls have the best aunt and grown-up cousins ever, and they had the time of their lives playing games and watching movies and doing the swan boats and the Museum of Science and Quincy Market and scootering through Boston Common, and they can blog about that their own selves whenever they want to, but this is MY blog, damnit and WE went to Mount Desert Island, Maine, which was just perfect. In my next post I will plug our hotel and some of the restaurants we went to and share a couple of pictures from Acadia National Park.
In the meantime, happy Independence Day!
(Go ahead and laugh. It's OK.)
Well. I couldn't have left the girls with anyone, as babies. They each nursed until 16 months, for one thing, and I'd have been bereft without them, for another. It just didn't feel right until this year. Yes, our oldest is almost 9. Yes, that is a long time not to have had a few days alone with my husband.
Over the years I'd see Facebook posts of friends with more and/or younger children than we have, heading up to Boston overnight or grabbing date time with their spouses here and there. I'd envy these friends a little. You hear all the time that it's important to do things as a couple, to jealously guard that time and MAKE IT HAPPEN or it's likely your marriage will suffer. Yeah yeah, and yeah right. How do they do it, these parents of toddlers who go away alone together? My children were school aged before I'd ever even hired a babysitter for an evening. When the Bean was a babe and I still had a paid job, my parents filled in the child care time between Mr. Sandyshoes leaving for work late and me coming home early. It worked for a while, but when the Peanut was born, there was no way I couldn't be home with them. It was good to be at work, but it was better to be with my girls.
Of course, one income means less money for babysitters, dates, and weekend trips... so it's sort of a reinforcing cycle. And so here we are, with the girls 7 and 8, taking our first time together without them. I don't regret the home time one bit, but now we really should be able to do this every year. The girls are ready, we're ready, and, after all, we're the kind of parents who believe our children need time without us, just as we need time without them... right? Right.
So, this year, Mr. Sandyshoes made the plans secretly, and on our 10th anniversary he emailed me (he was at sea) that -- surprise! -- we would be spending a few days in Maine while the girls stayed with his sister and her family, who live near Boston. Yay! This gave me some time to prepare them for Our Big Trip and Their Big Trip as separate events. They were super-excited and felt All Grown Up.
The Peanut made a brief mention of possibly missing us, then reminded herself she knew our phone numbers, so she'd be OK.
The Bean started making a packing list. I told her I'd made one for them that she was welcome to, and she said no, thanks, she'd do it. Ten minutes later she came to ask for it. Ten minutes after that she said she was going to use my list, because "it looks like you spent a lot of time thinking about it" and it didn't seem to her that I'd forgotten anything. Hee! Oh Bean, after a few hundred trips, you'll get packing lists down to a science as well. I'm actually pleased to have her approval though, she's tough.
Last week we dropped them off and hit the road. Our lucky girls have the best aunt and grown-up cousins ever, and they had the time of their lives playing games and watching movies and doing the swan boats and the Museum of Science and Quincy Market and scootering through Boston Common, and they can blog about that their own selves whenever they want to, but this is MY blog, damnit and WE went to Mount Desert Island, Maine, which was just perfect. In my next post I will plug our hotel and some of the restaurants we went to and share a couple of pictures from Acadia National Park.
In the meantime, happy Independence Day!
Thursday, June 02, 2011
How's 2012 -- is 2012 good for you?
We're building an addition on our little Cape Cod house. Contractors will do the things that licenses are required to do, but Mr. Sandyshoes is doing most of the rest himself. You may remember he has a full time job as an oceanographer at a university. Yes, he's on sabbatical this year; but that relieves him of teaching and faculty meetings, not of his research, which continues at a greater pace, if anything. He's actually at sea for a month-ish, as I type.
Getting a building permit was a long, complicated, expensive process, riddled with really, really boring conversations, even though it's my house and I'm supposed to be fascinated (support beams! rebar! sub-slab plumbing! Honestly, all I can manage is a Beavis-like snicker whenever anyone says "double hung.") Eventually the permit was granted and work began. Astute readers may remember my account of the Bean's 8th birthday festivities amid the chaos of a new septic system installation and destruction of our deck and alcove, just days before I left for our short-term move across the country. Good times.
Since then, various, usually pleasant representatives of the Board of Assessors like to come visit. "Hello," I tell them. "It's not done yet." "Oh, OK," they say, "can you give me some idea of your timetable?" I explain about Mr. Sandyshoes and the full time job, and they say gotcha, and everything seems cool. Lather, rinse, repeat.
By the way, there is nothing against the rules about taking a long time to do a permitted project, as long as work is ongoing, which, as the pit o'dirt in front of my soon-to-be-demolished garage makes manifest, it is.
When the most recent emissary came up the driveway this week, clipboard in hand, I came out to greet him as usual. "Hello," I said, cheerfully. "It's not done yet." For some reason, this one seemed kind of annoyed. "Well," he said, gesturing at our foundation, then back at his clipboard, "this doesn't look like an 'addition.' It says here, 'addition.' This just looks like a garage."
Actually, what it looks like is a garage foundation around a pit o'dirt in front of an existing garage, but let's not quibble. What you see there, is what we've got so far. The plans for what it will become are at the Building Department. It's an addition.
I explained about the parts that, looking only at the foundation, you can't deduce will be built. I confirmed his information about our existing house.
After a short, inconclusive silence, he said, "you know, when this is all done, we're going to have to come in and look at your whole house." At which my inner Beavis struck again, but I managed to keep it at "yes, I know."
It's still not done yet.
And, y'know, I'm sorry about that. We are not on a mission to dupe or inconvenience the Board of Assessors. It's just not finished. Believe me, nobody would be happier than I if it were. Summer's going to bring banging of hammers, screeching of power saws, and a spike in ibuprofen consumption. Also, that pit o'dirt isn't nearly as charming as it sounds.
Getting a building permit was a long, complicated, expensive process, riddled with really, really boring conversations, even though it's my house and I'm supposed to be fascinated (support beams! rebar! sub-slab plumbing! Honestly, all I can manage is a Beavis-like snicker whenever anyone says "double hung.") Eventually the permit was granted and work began. Astute readers may remember my account of the Bean's 8th birthday festivities amid the chaos of a new septic system installation and destruction of our deck and alcove, just days before I left for our short-term move across the country. Good times.
Since then, various, usually pleasant representatives of the Board of Assessors like to come visit. "Hello," I tell them. "It's not done yet." "Oh, OK," they say, "can you give me some idea of your timetable?" I explain about Mr. Sandyshoes and the full time job, and they say gotcha, and everything seems cool. Lather, rinse, repeat.
By the way, there is nothing against the rules about taking a long time to do a permitted project, as long as work is ongoing, which, as the pit o'dirt in front of my soon-to-be-demolished garage makes manifest, it is.
When the most recent emissary came up the driveway this week, clipboard in hand, I came out to greet him as usual. "Hello," I said, cheerfully. "It's not done yet." For some reason, this one seemed kind of annoyed. "Well," he said, gesturing at our foundation, then back at his clipboard, "this doesn't look like an 'addition.' It says here, 'addition.' This just looks like a garage."
Actually, what it looks like is a garage foundation around a pit o'dirt in front of an existing garage, but let's not quibble. What you see there, is what we've got so far. The plans for what it will become are at the Building Department. It's an addition.
I explained about the parts that, looking only at the foundation, you can't deduce will be built. I confirmed his information about our existing house.
After a short, inconclusive silence, he said, "you know, when this is all done, we're going to have to come in and look at your whole house." At which my inner Beavis struck again, but I managed to keep it at "yes, I know."
It's still not done yet.
And, y'know, I'm sorry about that. We are not on a mission to dupe or inconvenience the Board of Assessors. It's just not finished. Believe me, nobody would be happier than I if it were. Summer's going to bring banging of hammers, screeching of power saws, and a spike in ibuprofen consumption. Also, that pit o'dirt isn't nearly as charming as it sounds.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
So, you're now reading the blog of an elected official!
(Whaddya mean, "whose"? Why I oughtta...)
And... that and $2 will get you a medium coffee. But yes! I did win a seat on my local School Committee, and am now getting into the work of being on the local School Committee, about which, as promised, I will not write in specific terms here.
Campaigning, though. That was something. Longtime readers, you know me; you know that ordinarily, I am a bit of a loner, with a self-deprecating sense of humor and quiet, non-confrontational hobbies. I'm just not used to talking so damn much, not to mention being interviewed and photographed and quoted and being in the newspaper and on television (just local cable, but still). For a few weeks, among the other candidates' signs, there were white-on-purple signs with my name on them all over town. People gave up their Saturday mornings to hold these signs and wave to voters. Amazing.
I spoke to everyone: Town Republicans, Town Democrats, the local fish and game club (at which "where's the rest of this moose?" went over like a lead balloon... sigh), gatherings of retirees, gatherings of parents, gatherings of first graders, gatherings of puppies. Everyone. I walked around town knocking on people's doors to talk to them. I talked in coffee shops and grocery stores, playgrounds and parking lots. Wherever a registered voter, or anyone, really, would listen to me, I talked. More importantly, wherever anyone would talk to me, I listened.
I got very tired sometimes, and quite sick of my own voice, and my mouth felt dry a lot. I'm sort of a worrier about health-related things; Mr. Sandyshoes and I joke about that, because it is silly. One night during all this madness I said to him, "what kind of cancer does it mean you have if your mouth is dry all the time?" and he said, basically, "the kind that comes from talking constantly for weeks on end. Now shut up."
If only.
I became necessarily, utterly, reluctantly self-absorbed. At some point during the campaign I was pulling into the grocery store parking lot, and a white-on purple sign caught my eye, and for a split second I thought, "COOL! Who got one of my signs in such an awesome location?!" Then I read the sign, which said "Please return shopping carts here," and I thought, now I have lost my mind.
It became important to get out of town for a couple hours every few days just to clear my head.
At one point Mr. Sandyshoes and the girls decided to take me out to dinner to give me a break from campaigning and talking about the election. We went to a local restaurant and were seated in a booth near the door... and proceeded to campaign and talk about the election with a steady stream of well-wishers who paused to say hello on their way out. It was really lovely. But it was not a break.
How do you feel, people would say -- how do you think it's going? And I felt good, I really did. I was a bit concerned about being in an echo chamber of sorts; the people I spoke to almost always responded positively, but surely somewhere people were responding just as positively to a candidate with a different message, and I had no idea how many. Voters really did seem to want a change on our school board, though, and that's what panned out.
It's now time to get to the real work ahead, which feels just fine to me... and also to get back to writing here, which feels pretty good as well. Thanks for waiting out the hiatus!
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Road trip reflections
So our west coast adventure is about done and we're winding down, making preparations for the trip home. Back in August, I drove out here and Mr. Sandy flew with the girls. In two weeks I'll fly home with them and a friend will join him to drive the car back.
Though I'm eager to be home sweet home as soon as possible, I'd happily do the drive again. I had such a great time on the way out here. People kept asking if it wouldn't seem less daunting to have a companion along, but I was frankly craving the time alone.
I get so excited for a long road trip! I love to drive, which helps, but beyond that, I often get itchy to see... well, anything different. Where does that road go? What's around that bend? on the other side of those hills? down that valley? What would happen if I turned? kept going? pointed the car west and just didn't stop? Nothing scratches that itch like a drive across a continent. Wheee!
I figured on day 1 I'd get as far into Pennsylvania as I could manage, with a midday stop to see friends in New Jersey.
Now, it doesn't matter if New Jersey is the end of the line, or just the first of many stops in a heady adventure leading all the way to the glorious Oregon coast -- there's no getting around that unlovely bit of I-95 S through Connecticut (the unlovely bits of I-84 through Connecticut are arguably not progress). So I was about 40 minutes into my journey before I was tempted to flip off another driver. This was a BMW driver from New York. I had been driving almost 55 minutes before I was tempted to flip off another other driver. This was also a BMW driver from New York.
Ah, the lure of the open road.
But really... really. There is nothing like crossing the great, gorgeous, rolling American prairie for hours upon hours, and seeing a towering, snow-capped mountain range come into focus out of the far horizon's gray haze. My first strained view of the Beartooth escarpment from the ranch lands of eastern Wyoming brought tears to my eyes. (See, I can't have anyone along for something like that. I have my curmudgeonly reputation to uphold.) What must that sight have felt like from horseback or covered wagon? I just can't get my mind around it. I'm sure many a pioneer diary just left off at the 19th century equivalent of "ho-ly shit."
For the return trip though, it's my turn to fly. That'll be OK. I'll get back sooner, I won't have to cross the Rockies in winter weather, and it will be really fun to see the girls rediscover their own home, which they've missed so much. Maybe they'll be so delighted to see what toys they've forgotten that I can avoid Christmas shopping altogether. Now that would suit my curmudgeonly reputation just fine.
(Oh don't worry, I'll get them Christmas presents. I'm not that big of a Grinch. Yet.)
Though I'm eager to be home sweet home as soon as possible, I'd happily do the drive again. I had such a great time on the way out here. People kept asking if it wouldn't seem less daunting to have a companion along, but I was frankly craving the time alone.
I get so excited for a long road trip! I love to drive, which helps, but beyond that, I often get itchy to see... well, anything different. Where does that road go? What's around that bend? on the other side of those hills? down that valley? What would happen if I turned? kept going? pointed the car west and just didn't stop? Nothing scratches that itch like a drive across a continent. Wheee!
I figured on day 1 I'd get as far into Pennsylvania as I could manage, with a midday stop to see friends in New Jersey.
Now, it doesn't matter if New Jersey is the end of the line, or just the first of many stops in a heady adventure leading all the way to the glorious Oregon coast -- there's no getting around that unlovely bit of I-95 S through Connecticut (the unlovely bits of I-84 through Connecticut are arguably not progress). So I was about 40 minutes into my journey before I was tempted to flip off another driver. This was a BMW driver from New York. I had been driving almost 55 minutes before I was tempted to flip off another other driver. This was also a BMW driver from New York.
Ah, the lure of the open road.
But really... really. There is nothing like crossing the great, gorgeous, rolling American prairie for hours upon hours, and seeing a towering, snow-capped mountain range come into focus out of the far horizon's gray haze. My first strained view of the Beartooth escarpment from the ranch lands of eastern Wyoming brought tears to my eyes. (See, I can't have anyone along for something like that. I have my curmudgeonly reputation to uphold.) What must that sight have felt like from horseback or covered wagon? I just can't get my mind around it. I'm sure many a pioneer diary just left off at the 19th century equivalent of "ho-ly shit."
For the return trip though, it's my turn to fly. That'll be OK. I'll get back sooner, I won't have to cross the Rockies in winter weather, and it will be really fun to see the girls rediscover their own home, which they've missed so much. Maybe they'll be so delighted to see what toys they've forgotten that I can avoid Christmas shopping altogether. Now that would suit my curmudgeonly reputation just fine.
(Oh don't worry, I'll get them Christmas presents. I'm not that big of a Grinch. Yet.)
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
in which I revisit my brief academic career
Mr. Sandyshoes, in temporary residence at the excellent Oceanography department here at MWCU, gets seminar announcements from the Geology Department as well. He forwarded one to me today. The advertised lecture was about marine sedimentation, and I thought, what the hell. That's a language I used to speak. I should go.
However, I felt as though I had a neon "IMPOSTER" sign on my forehead. It has been almost twenty years since I was in grad school for geology. From time to time I take out my degree just to remind myself, yep, it happened, and this is a real and true thing that came out of it. Then I shake my head in bafflement, put the official paper back in its official file, and get on with the laundry.
Today, though, I dashed off a flip facebook status about planning to sit in the back row with a pillowcase over my head, checked the online campus map, put on my shades, and headed out.
It's nice to live such a short walk from the university. Sure I was lost within ten minutes, but I was lost inside the right building. I walked the hallways a bit, unconcerned about being a couple minutes late, as arriving after the lights went down would lessen the likelihood of anyone jumping up to point at me and shout "HEY! You don't belong here! You should be at the grocery store!"
I passed classrooms and labs, displays and bulletin boards -- the usual Science Building stuff. One small office I walked by was shared by six grad students, each bent over their desks. The stress was palpable even from the hallway. In that brief moment, I had two strong and conflicting impulses: to shudder -- God, I remember how much that sucks -- and to do this. I'm not proud of that one, but there you go. Schadenfreude. It can be funny. At least I'm pretty sure that twenty years ago, my stressed-out officemates and I would've thought it was funny.
Thus cheered, I entered the seminar room, sidled over to an out-of-the-way seat, and settled in to see if any of it would make sense. Happily, much of it did.
One of the things I've always loved about geology is the vocabulary. So many delicious words! Bioturbation, box cores, piston cores, isotopic dating, concretions. Turbidite. Paleointensity. Worm tube. (Heh heh. I said "worm tube.")
Audience manners, I noted, have not improved over the years. You're going to tuck into a big crunchy apple during a professor's presentation? Seriously? Unless it's a "brown bag" seminar (implying bring your lunch), that seems kind of rude, no?
Something else that hasn't changed: the mid-talk sleepiness. I have never fought so hard to stay awake as during department seminars in grad school. You try everything. Coffee, of course. Also rapid breathing, rapid note taking, blinking, not blinking, pinching yourself. I used to fantasize that if I were made of money, I'd donate a lecture hall to a science department, and include a private room for myself behind it, where I'd put a really comfortable recliner from which I'd watch and listen to talks with complete freedom to close my heavy eyelids any time. The talk could be fascinating, but the dark room, the white noise from the slide projector fan... what? It was the 1990s. They used slide projectors then.
Quit looking at me like that. You have your fantasies, I'll have mine.
Anyway. I understood enough of the talk to be emboldened to attend another one. Maybe I won't even be stealthy about it. But I promise not to bring an apple.
However, I felt as though I had a neon "IMPOSTER" sign on my forehead. It has been almost twenty years since I was in grad school for geology. From time to time I take out my degree just to remind myself, yep, it happened, and this is a real and true thing that came out of it. Then I shake my head in bafflement, put the official paper back in its official file, and get on with the laundry.
Today, though, I dashed off a flip facebook status about planning to sit in the back row with a pillowcase over my head, checked the online campus map, put on my shades, and headed out.
It's nice to live such a short walk from the university. Sure I was lost within ten minutes, but I was lost inside the right building. I walked the hallways a bit, unconcerned about being a couple minutes late, as arriving after the lights went down would lessen the likelihood of anyone jumping up to point at me and shout "HEY! You don't belong here! You should be at the grocery store!"
I passed classrooms and labs, displays and bulletin boards -- the usual Science Building stuff. One small office I walked by was shared by six grad students, each bent over their desks. The stress was palpable even from the hallway. In that brief moment, I had two strong and conflicting impulses: to shudder -- God, I remember how much that sucks -- and to do this. I'm not proud of that one, but there you go. Schadenfreude. It can be funny. At least I'm pretty sure that twenty years ago, my stressed-out officemates and I would've thought it was funny.
Thus cheered, I entered the seminar room, sidled over to an out-of-the-way seat, and settled in to see if any of it would make sense. Happily, much of it did.
One of the things I've always loved about geology is the vocabulary. So many delicious words! Bioturbation, box cores, piston cores, isotopic dating, concretions. Turbidite. Paleointensity. Worm tube. (Heh heh. I said "worm tube.")
Audience manners, I noted, have not improved over the years. You're going to tuck into a big crunchy apple during a professor's presentation? Seriously? Unless it's a "brown bag" seminar (implying bring your lunch), that seems kind of rude, no?
Something else that hasn't changed: the mid-talk sleepiness. I have never fought so hard to stay awake as during department seminars in grad school. You try everything. Coffee, of course. Also rapid breathing, rapid note taking, blinking, not blinking, pinching yourself. I used to fantasize that if I were made of money, I'd donate a lecture hall to a science department, and include a private room for myself behind it, where I'd put a really comfortable recliner from which I'd watch and listen to talks with complete freedom to close my heavy eyelids any time. The talk could be fascinating, but the dark room, the white noise from the slide projector fan... what? It was the 1990s. They used slide projectors then.
Quit looking at me like that. You have your fantasies, I'll have mine.
Anyway. I understood enough of the talk to be emboldened to attend another one. Maybe I won't even be stealthy about it. But I promise not to bring an apple.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
3rd grade homework
One of the Bean's current assignments is to "begin saving some interesting items from your recycling box!" Evidently next week they will "create something" from these "interesting items."
I hope and trust that further guidance will follow, or I will be forced to conclude that third grade teachers just like fucking with parents from time to time. Not that I could blame them.
Mr. Sandyshoes is the one with the family full of artists; this is totally his jurisdiction. Naturally, he is away this week.
Ugh. I always hated doing shit like this in school. Styrofoam ball solar systems, shoe box dioramas of life in a covered wagon, ugh, ugh, UGH. Whenever possible, I chose the essay option. I would rather have written a 30 page report on the history of the space program than create a single aluminum foil spaceship.
Also, what "interesting" is there in the recycling bins? It looks to me like she's going to have to make something largely out of wine bottles. I'll do my part by making sure she has enough of them.
I hope and trust that further guidance will follow, or I will be forced to conclude that third grade teachers just like fucking with parents from time to time. Not that I could blame them.
Mr. Sandyshoes is the one with the family full of artists; this is totally his jurisdiction. Naturally, he is away this week.
Ugh. I always hated doing shit like this in school. Styrofoam ball solar systems, shoe box dioramas of life in a covered wagon, ugh, ugh, UGH. Whenever possible, I chose the essay option. I would rather have written a 30 page report on the history of the space program than create a single aluminum foil spaceship.
Also, what "interesting" is there in the recycling bins? It looks to me like she's going to have to make something largely out of wine bottles. I'll do my part by making sure she has enough of them.
Monday, October 11, 2010
house and home
We are renting a three-story Tudor which sits prettily on a small corner lot with a neat front yard and the back garden made private by dense vegetation between neighbors and a fence on the street side. Thick, tall rhododendrons block the front and side windows. There is an enormous white pine, an herb and flower garden, and a hot tub in the back. The driveway is very narrow. Since the dense hedge of sharp-leaved holly alongside it scratched my arms to ribbons on Day 1, I have decided street parking is the way to go.
It's a very different setting than at home, where we have a neighbor on one side, nothing but woods on the other side and behind, and a treed island in the circle between us and the neighbor across. Here, houses surround houses on streets laid out in a tight grid. Some blocks are charming, some shabby. Everywhere has sidewalks and bike lanes, low speed limits and lots of stop signs. (After a couple of weeks here the Bean asked me, "Mommy, are there really stop signs every 15 feet in this town?" I guess I had been grumbling about it.) The density is nice in some ways -- it certainly feels less wasteful than the acre+ subdivision zoning we're used to, and the neighborhoods have histories which if I lived here, I'd want to get to know -- but not so nice, in others. It's noisier, obviously. I really, really like quiet. I savor it, at home, and when I am home again I am going to savor it all the more.
It is strange, living in someone else's house, with all their stuff. We have settled in, but everything still feels not-quite-right, and we won't be here long enough to make it so.
The girls have been given the third floor as their play space; it's cool to play at the tippy top of the house, and by happy coincidence, that room has the fewest antiques. For a bedroom, they are sharing the one opposite ours on the second floor. They're doubled up in a queen bed. I wasn't sure about that at first, because they have very different getting-to-sleep and waking-up styles. At night, the Bean needs quiet, and the Peanut is almost incapable of quiet; you can guess who's the early bird and who's hard to roust. But they felt strongly about having each other close in this unfamiliar place, and with the other bedrooms on different floors from the master, this seemed the best option. It hasn't been entirely trouble-free, but working things out is good for them, and I think they'll treasure the memory of When We Shared A Room Even Though You Sometimes Drove Me Nuts.
We spend a lot of time in the back of the house, an addition to the original structure, which has a sunroom with the TV/DVD player, and a cozy library where we've set up our desks. Well, Mr. Sandyshoes has the proper desk. I am perching at a corner table. I tried out the desks in the other two studies (yes), but the wireless is strongest here and, well, I need those Daily Show clips to stream smoothly, damnit.
I am still not used to the noises this house makes, or the shadows cast by its big dark furniture and the foliage which seems in constant motion outside the windows. It is impossible to move around quietly through the main part of the house; every floorboard makes a deep squeak. In the darkness, I see movement where there is none, and hear sounds I can't identify from rooms with nobody in them. More than once, very late at night, there has been a kind of brushing sound from the main part of the house while I worked in the library. One night, with the girls long in bed, I walked by a hallway and a light was on that hadn't been on earlier. I turned it off. Next time I walked by, it was on again. The next night it happened again. This was, of course, while Mr. Sandyshoes was back in Massachusetts for a week. Were I easily unnerved, I'd have been pretty unnerved.
I miss my shamelessly huge home theater screen and sound system. Movie-watching is so awesome at home.
I miss the Atlantic; but I love the mountains and big national forests that are everywhere here, and the great Pacific right within reach.
I miss my pantry, clean, bright, and stocked to keep us going through the zombie wars if need be. Paradoxically, in order not to accumulate too much stuff here, I feel like I am shopping all the time.
I do not miss having a bathroom right off my kitchen. Having it down the hall is a really, really nice difference.
I have learned that I do not like dark cabinetry, half-ring dresser drawer pulls, or kitchen counters made of tile, but I do like a Tempur-pedic mattress, a gas fireplace, and a good radio in the kitchen. The kitchen radio seems an obvious thing, but I don't have one at home, and now it's on my wish list. Sadly, I have no hope for a Tempur-pedic of my own, as Mr. Sandyshoes hasn't taken to it. (I won't even comment on a gas fireplace. He wants a wood stove, and I hate them, and round and round we go, but we'll end up with a wood stove.)
He has taken to the hot tub, though, and what's not to love about that? Well, besides the electric bill. I'm not sure I could stomach that part of owning one myself, but as the nights get chillier, soaking in the heat under the stars makes not-quite-right feel just fine, for a while.
It's a very different setting than at home, where we have a neighbor on one side, nothing but woods on the other side and behind, and a treed island in the circle between us and the neighbor across. Here, houses surround houses on streets laid out in a tight grid. Some blocks are charming, some shabby. Everywhere has sidewalks and bike lanes, low speed limits and lots of stop signs. (After a couple of weeks here the Bean asked me, "Mommy, are there really stop signs every 15 feet in this town?" I guess I had been grumbling about it.) The density is nice in some ways -- it certainly feels less wasteful than the acre+ subdivision zoning we're used to, and the neighborhoods have histories which if I lived here, I'd want to get to know -- but not so nice, in others. It's noisier, obviously. I really, really like quiet. I savor it, at home, and when I am home again I am going to savor it all the more.
It is strange, living in someone else's house, with all their stuff. We have settled in, but everything still feels not-quite-right, and we won't be here long enough to make it so.
The girls have been given the third floor as their play space; it's cool to play at the tippy top of the house, and by happy coincidence, that room has the fewest antiques. For a bedroom, they are sharing the one opposite ours on the second floor. They're doubled up in a queen bed. I wasn't sure about that at first, because they have very different getting-to-sleep and waking-up styles. At night, the Bean needs quiet, and the Peanut is almost incapable of quiet; you can guess who's the early bird and who's hard to roust. But they felt strongly about having each other close in this unfamiliar place, and with the other bedrooms on different floors from the master, this seemed the best option. It hasn't been entirely trouble-free, but working things out is good for them, and I think they'll treasure the memory of When We Shared A Room Even Though You Sometimes Drove Me Nuts.
We spend a lot of time in the back of the house, an addition to the original structure, which has a sunroom with the TV/DVD player, and a cozy library where we've set up our desks. Well, Mr. Sandyshoes has the proper desk. I am perching at a corner table. I tried out the desks in the other two studies (yes), but the wireless is strongest here and, well, I need those Daily Show clips to stream smoothly, damnit.
I am still not used to the noises this house makes, or the shadows cast by its big dark furniture and the foliage which seems in constant motion outside the windows. It is impossible to move around quietly through the main part of the house; every floorboard makes a deep squeak. In the darkness, I see movement where there is none, and hear sounds I can't identify from rooms with nobody in them. More than once, very late at night, there has been a kind of brushing sound from the main part of the house while I worked in the library. One night, with the girls long in bed, I walked by a hallway and a light was on that hadn't been on earlier. I turned it off. Next time I walked by, it was on again. The next night it happened again. This was, of course, while Mr. Sandyshoes was back in Massachusetts for a week. Were I easily unnerved, I'd have been pretty unnerved.
I miss my shamelessly huge home theater screen and sound system. Movie-watching is so awesome at home.
I miss the Atlantic; but I love the mountains and big national forests that are everywhere here, and the great Pacific right within reach.
I miss my pantry, clean, bright, and stocked to keep us going through the zombie wars if need be. Paradoxically, in order not to accumulate too much stuff here, I feel like I am shopping all the time.
I do not miss having a bathroom right off my kitchen. Having it down the hall is a really, really nice difference.
I have learned that I do not like dark cabinetry, half-ring dresser drawer pulls, or kitchen counters made of tile, but I do like a Tempur-pedic mattress, a gas fireplace, and a good radio in the kitchen. The kitchen radio seems an obvious thing, but I don't have one at home, and now it's on my wish list. Sadly, I have no hope for a Tempur-pedic of my own, as Mr. Sandyshoes hasn't taken to it. (I won't even comment on a gas fireplace. He wants a wood stove, and I hate them, and round and round we go, but we'll end up with a wood stove.)
He has taken to the hot tub, though, and what's not to love about that? Well, besides the electric bill. I'm not sure I could stomach that part of owning one myself, but as the nights get chillier, soaking in the heat under the stars makes not-quite-right feel just fine, for a while.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Arrival
Overdue greetings from MWCUville! (To recap: Mr. Sandyshoes, on sabbatical from his home institution, is visiting a Major West Coast University for the fall semester, so we have all moved out here for a few months). It has taken some time to get used to our home-away-from home. It has taken even longer to get around to writing about it, but now the girls are in school, Mr. Sandy is at work, a routine has happily settled upon us, and Noted and Blogged is back to noting and blogging.
The house we're living in is almost a hundred years old, has three stories plus a finished basement, and is full of nooks and crannies, window seats and little closets. It's a far cry from our own 1980s, basic Cape-style box.
The owners of the house are professors with grown children. They are good-humored, thoughtful people, and I liked them immediately on my arrival last month to officially begin our tenancy. We did a quick tour of the property, me taking notes on how often to water the plants, etc. I really, really don't want to wreck the joint.
Their home is full of antique furniture, Tiffany lamps, Oriental rugs, and walls and walls and walls of bookshelves filled with all the volumes two academic lives can accrue. There are books on feminism, literature, politics, geography, language, history, sociology, poetry. Books in English, French and Arabic. Initial shelf scanning revealed nothing by Stephen King or Carl Hiaasen... maybe there is a "guilty pleasure" shelf to be discovered later. In any case it feels good to be renting from nice people who read a lot.
We wrapped up the tour in the formal living room. Over the mantle, there is a painting of domed dwellings closely gathered on a hillside beneath a burning orange sun. To either side of the painting is elegantly framed Arabic calligraphy, with intricately patterned borders in jewel tones. I haven't the foggiest idea what it says, but it's lovely to look at. The man said gently, "I am from a Muslim country, and this is Arabic writing. If it bothers you, or if you think it might offend your guests, please just set it aside and I will put it back when we return." I was embarrassed for our whole country - this is what it's come to, that he felt he should say that to make me comfortable? I could only shake my head -- of course I wouldn't take it down, it's beautiful. He then showed me some old photographs "of the oasis near the cave where I was born." "It's not every day you meet someone who was born in a cave," I said. He looked at me, smiling. "No," he replied. "Americans do not understand this."
I received the house keys, unloaded boxes from the car, and we shook hands and parted ways. They left for the airport to begin their journey across the globe. I headed north to reunite with Mr. Sandyshoes and the girls where they'd been visiting friends after their flight from Boston. Though it would be another week before we dipped our toes in the chilly Pacific and I declared my trip across the continent officially completed from ocean to ocean, the solo part now did feel complete, from house to house, from home to home-away-from-home.
The house we're living in is almost a hundred years old, has three stories plus a finished basement, and is full of nooks and crannies, window seats and little closets. It's a far cry from our own 1980s, basic Cape-style box.
The owners of the house are professors with grown children. They are good-humored, thoughtful people, and I liked them immediately on my arrival last month to officially begin our tenancy. We did a quick tour of the property, me taking notes on how often to water the plants, etc. I really, really don't want to wreck the joint.
Their home is full of antique furniture, Tiffany lamps, Oriental rugs, and walls and walls and walls of bookshelves filled with all the volumes two academic lives can accrue. There are books on feminism, literature, politics, geography, language, history, sociology, poetry. Books in English, French and Arabic. Initial shelf scanning revealed nothing by Stephen King or Carl Hiaasen... maybe there is a "guilty pleasure" shelf to be discovered later. In any case it feels good to be renting from nice people who read a lot.
We wrapped up the tour in the formal living room. Over the mantle, there is a painting of domed dwellings closely gathered on a hillside beneath a burning orange sun. To either side of the painting is elegantly framed Arabic calligraphy, with intricately patterned borders in jewel tones. I haven't the foggiest idea what it says, but it's lovely to look at. The man said gently, "I am from a Muslim country, and this is Arabic writing. If it bothers you, or if you think it might offend your guests, please just set it aside and I will put it back when we return." I was embarrassed for our whole country - this is what it's come to, that he felt he should say that to make me comfortable? I could only shake my head -- of course I wouldn't take it down, it's beautiful. He then showed me some old photographs "of the oasis near the cave where I was born." "It's not every day you meet someone who was born in a cave," I said. He looked at me, smiling. "No," he replied. "Americans do not understand this."
I received the house keys, unloaded boxes from the car, and we shook hands and parted ways. They left for the airport to begin their journey across the globe. I headed north to reunite with Mr. Sandyshoes and the girls where they'd been visiting friends after their flight from Boston. Though it would be another week before we dipped our toes in the chilly Pacific and I declared my trip across the continent officially completed from ocean to ocean, the solo part now did feel complete, from house to house, from home to home-away-from-home.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Leaving tomorrow
Packing's done... I think. I hope. There's room in the car if I've forgotten something, but it's a matter of time, now. I'm ready to get going, and don't want to spend the morning loading "one more thing" a dozen times.
Turns out everything I need to wear for four months takes up about three cubic feet. Remarkable. I don't know whether to be proud or embarrassed. I'm a simple dresser and I didn't pack anything fancy. Talking about this trip over dinner with some friends earlier this summer, they asked if I'd started figuring out what to pack yet, and if I was anxious about it. Nah, I said. What do I have to pack? Clothes for fall, right? And how complicated can that be, when all I wear is jeans, turtlenecks and fleece vests?
The girls are a little upset. I haven't taken this long of a trip without them before. I do get away for the occasional long weekend -- Mr. Sandyshoes is very good about accommodating visits to friends on my own -- but not for ten days. This time, when the girls see me again it will be on the other side of the country, after a long flight to a completely unfamiliar place, at the home of people they've never met. It's all feeling pretty momentous to them. Plus, their backyard is wrecked and the driveway's all torn up, and the deck is pulled apart. It must seem like a lot of upheaval. It seems that way to me, and I'm not 6 or 8 years old.
I've told them they can call me as often as they'd like, and say "where are you now?" and Daddy will show them on a map. The Peanut thinks it will be hilarious to call me before I've even turned the corner and ask me where I am. She is planning this and giggling. The Bean isn't finding any of it funny yet, but that will come in due time.
I drove around a bit today, saying a mental farewell to my favorite parts of town -- library, beach, pretty town center. When I return, it will be wintertime, and I'll have missed a Town Meeting (I know, the horror! but I almost never miss one, and this will be a biggie) and two elections (got my absentee ballots though), and many school committee meetings. It is probably for the best that I miss those latter, as I'm starting to feel more frustrated than is useful with all the goings-on of late. I love this town, but I fear the school district is being taken over by Bears of Very Little Brain, and this in a critical budget year. It'll be refreshing to spend time in a place where I know none of the ins and outs of how it's being run, and I won't be there long enough for it to matter anyway. I can stay in the loop online, of course, but it might not hurt to disconnect a bit, either. We'll see if I can manage it.
Right now though, the important thing to manage is not to stay up all night wondering what I've forgotten to pack.
Turns out everything I need to wear for four months takes up about three cubic feet. Remarkable. I don't know whether to be proud or embarrassed. I'm a simple dresser and I didn't pack anything fancy. Talking about this trip over dinner with some friends earlier this summer, they asked if I'd started figuring out what to pack yet, and if I was anxious about it. Nah, I said. What do I have to pack? Clothes for fall, right? And how complicated can that be, when all I wear is jeans, turtlenecks and fleece vests?
The girls are a little upset. I haven't taken this long of a trip without them before. I do get away for the occasional long weekend -- Mr. Sandyshoes is very good about accommodating visits to friends on my own -- but not for ten days. This time, when the girls see me again it will be on the other side of the country, after a long flight to a completely unfamiliar place, at the home of people they've never met. It's all feeling pretty momentous to them. Plus, their backyard is wrecked and the driveway's all torn up, and the deck is pulled apart. It must seem like a lot of upheaval. It seems that way to me, and I'm not 6 or 8 years old.
I've told them they can call me as often as they'd like, and say "where are you now?" and Daddy will show them on a map. The Peanut thinks it will be hilarious to call me before I've even turned the corner and ask me where I am. She is planning this and giggling. The Bean isn't finding any of it funny yet, but that will come in due time.
I drove around a bit today, saying a mental farewell to my favorite parts of town -- library, beach, pretty town center. When I return, it will be wintertime, and I'll have missed a Town Meeting (I know, the horror! but I almost never miss one, and this will be a biggie) and two elections (got my absentee ballots though), and many school committee meetings. It is probably for the best that I miss those latter, as I'm starting to feel more frustrated than is useful with all the goings-on of late. I love this town, but I fear the school district is being taken over by Bears of Very Little Brain, and this in a critical budget year. It'll be refreshing to spend time in a place where I know none of the ins and outs of how it's being run, and I won't be there long enough for it to matter anyway. I can stay in the loop online, of course, but it might not hurt to disconnect a bit, either. We'll see if I can manage it.
Right now though, the important thing to manage is not to stay up all night wondering what I've forgotten to pack.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
T-5 days
I AM TYPING TO THE SOUND OF
Sorry. I am typing to the sound of concrete being jackhammered to tiny bits, and asphalt being broken up, and a deck being sawn apart. To build more house, we have to wreck some alcove, some driveway, some deck. Did I mention it's loud? It is freakin' LOUD.
Still, it is a different loud than the half-dozen 8 year-olds made during the Bean's slumber party last night. Good grief girls, why all the screaming? I just don't get it. One friend in particular is a screamer, and my Bean isn't far behind, and holy shit that sound cuts through my skull like a jackhammer cannot. I had them playing outside as much as possible. Mr. Sandyshoes laid out giant tarps across the dirtscape that is our once-lovely backyard (the new septic system went in yesterday and all is well with that) so that there is a bright blue path from the part of the deck that still exists to the girls' play structure. It
...what fresh screeching hell is this? Oh, concrete saw.
... anyway the big blue tarp making a path like that looks like some sort of water park feature. I kind of want to hose it down, dive off the deck and slide like a penguin out into the yard. Needless to say that would end in all kinds of sadness, but it's fun to consider.
The best part of the party, for me, was dinnertime. I made tacos. Kids are supposed to like tacos, but holy crow, kids are also picky eaters. How do they grow, these children that won't eat anything? Anyway, I heard a fair bit of "I don't like taco meat," but I had them try just a tiny scoop on their plates and lo and behold, it wasn't what they thought it would be, and they loved it, and both pleased and embarrassed me by saying so as much as they did. (My advice, which I know you didn't ask for: Don't cook with "flavor packets." They're revolting, filled with salt and MSG and who knows what the hell else, and really no less complicated than adding your own cumin and chili powder.)
Anyway the party went well -- playing outside, sand art on the deck, dinner, cake, presents. We were about to get set up for the movie at that point but the girls were being nuts and Mr. Sandyshoes, because he is awesome, hollered "WHO WANTS TO RUN AROUND THE CIRCLE?!" and dashed out of the house, and they all followed him around our little cul-de-sac a few times, and returned panting and quiet. Heh.
Then the movie (the chihuahua one, but at least I didn't have to watch it again -- pre-screening it was 91 minutes I can never get back), then bedtime. They were set up in the playroom. As the night wore on I made a couple of bad-guy appearances to tell them it was time to sleep, and as far as I can tell it was actually quiet from 11:30 until 7:30 this morning...
...just in time for the excavators to arrive. The noise didn't get really going until just before the parents were due to pick up their girls, so there was some unfortunate overlap. We hollered thank yous and good-byes over the pounding of the jackhammer. Since then I have had some time at my desk while the girls chill out to The Lion King. Any moment my old friend will arrive, frayed from a long drive in Cape Cod-bound summer traffic but hopefully happy to be here.
And yes, I'm still leaving in 5 days, but, you know, hakuna matata.
Sorry. I am typing to the sound of concrete being jackhammered to tiny bits, and asphalt being broken up, and a deck being sawn apart. To build more house, we have to wreck some alcove, some driveway, some deck. Did I mention it's loud? It is freakin' LOUD.
Still, it is a different loud than the half-dozen 8 year-olds made during the Bean's slumber party last night. Good grief girls, why all the screaming? I just don't get it. One friend in particular is a screamer, and my Bean isn't far behind, and holy shit that sound cuts through my skull like a jackhammer cannot. I had them playing outside as much as possible. Mr. Sandyshoes laid out giant tarps across the dirtscape that is our once-lovely backyard (the new septic system went in yesterday and all is well with that) so that there is a bright blue path from the part of the deck that still exists to the girls' play structure. It
...what fresh screeching hell is this? Oh, concrete saw.
... anyway the big blue tarp making a path like that looks like some sort of water park feature. I kind of want to hose it down, dive off the deck and slide like a penguin out into the yard. Needless to say that would end in all kinds of sadness, but it's fun to consider.
The best part of the party, for me, was dinnertime. I made tacos. Kids are supposed to like tacos, but holy crow, kids are also picky eaters. How do they grow, these children that won't eat anything? Anyway, I heard a fair bit of "I don't like taco meat," but I had them try just a tiny scoop on their plates and lo and behold, it wasn't what they thought it would be, and they loved it, and both pleased and embarrassed me by saying so as much as they did. (My advice, which I know you didn't ask for: Don't cook with "flavor packets." They're revolting, filled with salt and MSG and who knows what the hell else, and really no less complicated than adding your own cumin and chili powder.)
Anyway the party went well -- playing outside, sand art on the deck, dinner, cake, presents. We were about to get set up for the movie at that point but the girls were being nuts and Mr. Sandyshoes, because he is awesome, hollered "WHO WANTS TO RUN AROUND THE CIRCLE?!" and dashed out of the house, and they all followed him around our little cul-de-sac a few times, and returned panting and quiet. Heh.
Then the movie (the chihuahua one, but at least I didn't have to watch it again -- pre-screening it was 91 minutes I can never get back), then bedtime. They were set up in the playroom. As the night wore on I made a couple of bad-guy appearances to tell them it was time to sleep, and as far as I can tell it was actually quiet from 11:30 until 7:30 this morning...
...just in time for the excavators to arrive. The noise didn't get really going until just before the parents were due to pick up their girls, so there was some unfortunate overlap. We hollered thank yous and good-byes over the pounding of the jackhammer. Since then I have had some time at my desk while the girls chill out to The Lion King. Any moment my old friend will arrive, frayed from a long drive in Cape Cod-bound summer traffic but hopefully happy to be here.
And yes, I'm still leaving in 5 days, but, you know, hakuna matata.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
T- 7 days
I hit the road for the West Coast in one (1) week. This time next Thursday I will be as far west in Pennsylvania as I can stand to drive in one day. Hopefully at this hour I'll be settled in a comfy hotel room, watching whatever's on cable and browsing the AAA Tour Book for where to stay in Indiana the next night.
However, a few things have to happen before then.
We are having a new septic system installed tomorrow. A hulking yellow excavator sits silent in my torn-up back yard as I type. Early, early, early tomorrow, its cheerful operators will be here to get the job going. They will be cheerful because they started on it today, and it looks like they'll get a jump on the weekend. Their cheer may be short-lived, because Mr. Sandyshoes plans to ask them if the system really needs to be oriented exactly the way they've staked it. Cheer or no, I really, really hope the job goes well, because:
Tomorrow afternoon begins the Bean's slumber party for her 8th birthday (btw, the Bean turned 8). Six other eight year-olds will be here for a crafty activity (why yes, I am doing sand art again... the Bean requested it), dinner (tacos, again by request), cake and presents, a movie (God help me, this might turn out to be Beverly Hills Chihuahua; I tried to sell her on that new documentary about hydrofracking, but no dice), and then they will all go to sleep, right? RIGHT? Anyway sometime between now and when these friends arrive, I have to bake and frost a cake, take the Peanut to get a present, clean the house enough to have everyone sleeping (humor me) on the floor, and tidy it enough to have room for all their stuff. They leave after breakfast on Saturday, which is good timing, because:
A different excavator will be here by then, ready to break ground for the foundation to an addition to our house. Did I mention we have been planning an addition to our house? And that we got the building permit earlier this summer? And that having the building permit means we have to start work within six months? Which means we have to start before we leave for MWCU? Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Because that's just how we roll. Haha! In fact, I thought we didn't have quite enough on the calendar, so:
A friend from high school whom I haven't seen in 25 years is coming to visit Saturday - Sunday. It's going to be really great to see him. Sometimes, visits just need to happen no matter what else is going on.
So that's the weekend. I can only look that far ahead at this point. Beyond lies packing, and nobody wants to look there.
However, a few things have to happen before then.
We are having a new septic system installed tomorrow. A hulking yellow excavator sits silent in my torn-up back yard as I type. Early, early, early tomorrow, its cheerful operators will be here to get the job going. They will be cheerful because they started on it today, and it looks like they'll get a jump on the weekend. Their cheer may be short-lived, because Mr. Sandyshoes plans to ask them if the system really needs to be oriented exactly the way they've staked it. Cheer or no, I really, really hope the job goes well, because:
Tomorrow afternoon begins the Bean's slumber party for her 8th birthday (btw, the Bean turned 8). Six other eight year-olds will be here for a crafty activity (why yes, I am doing sand art again... the Bean requested it), dinner (tacos, again by request), cake and presents, a movie (God help me, this might turn out to be Beverly Hills Chihuahua; I tried to sell her on that new documentary about hydrofracking, but no dice), and then they will all go to sleep, right? RIGHT? Anyway sometime between now and when these friends arrive, I have to bake and frost a cake, take the Peanut to get a present, clean the house enough to have everyone sleeping (humor me) on the floor, and tidy it enough to have room for all their stuff. They leave after breakfast on Saturday, which is good timing, because:
A different excavator will be here by then, ready to break ground for the foundation to an addition to our house. Did I mention we have been planning an addition to our house? And that we got the building permit earlier this summer? And that having the building permit means we have to start work within six months? Which means we have to start before we leave for MWCU? Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Because that's just how we roll. Haha! In fact, I thought we didn't have quite enough on the calendar, so:
A friend from high school whom I haven't seen in 25 years is coming to visit Saturday - Sunday. It's going to be really great to see him. Sometimes, visits just need to happen no matter what else is going on.
So that's the weekend. I can only look that far ahead at this point. Beyond lies packing, and nobody wants to look there.
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Holy crow, it's really happening
A few posts back I mentioned that our family is headed West this fall, to spend a semester at a Major West Coast University where Mr. Sandyshoes will be on sabbatical. Actually, that was way back in March that I mentioned it, and here it is August and we are leaving soon. Whoa.
In the interim, we found housing (important!) in MWCUville, made arrangements for our own house, figured out where the girls will be attending school for the first half of third and first grade, and bit by bit, got details decided on and buttoned up.
For weeks I've been aiming at using up everything in the pantry, and the shelves are looking pretty bare. I'll have to really get creative to leave things as empty as possible. Quinoa and chocolate sauce, anyone? Canned pineapple and navy beans? Come on over, I've got a decent Chardonnay to go with!
Now it is time to think about packing. I hate packing, so I'm prolonging the list-making phase as long as I can. It's weird, for this long of a trip. On one hand we have to bring, well, everything, so it should be a long list. On the other, "everything" is really just clothes/coats/shoes, and some games, scooters for the kids because they take up less space than bikes, a few important files/documents... what am I forgetting? Something obvious, no doubt.
We're bringing a car out. For a while, we thought of taking all of August to drive out there all together, but the timing didn't work. Mr. Sandyshoes is at sea on a research cruise (less lovely than it sounds, but still exciting) and won't be back in time for us to have made it the trip we wanted it to be. So I will drive the car out myself, and rendezvous with Mr. Sandyshoes and the girls at a friends' place, and we'll do a little west coast sightseeing all together before we settle into the house we're renting.
When I tell people I'm about to drive across the country solo, I generally get one of two responses: "Why? Are you insane?" or "oh wow, I wish I could do that!" The are-you-insane camp doesn't like driving and/or solitude, and is overly concerned for my safety. I love both driving and solitude, and while not unconcerned for my safety, I'm not worried about it, either. Common sense + car in good shape + phone + AAA + GPS = I will be fine.
Actually, I am late to the whole GPS-in-the-car thing, though I had a hand-held model way before it was common. I didn't see the need, because I never had any trouble using good old-fashioned maps (except in Boston, where all direction-giving aids, including actual road signs, are, infuriatingly, useless). I know people who got a GPS device, and suddenly can't navigate their own home towns without it. How does that happen? But it is nifty, and probably useful for locating hotels in unfamiliar places, and the little voice will give me something to talk back to. I hear you can download a Darth Vader voice for it. Heh. Give me Patrick Stewart, though. Or Alan Rickman. Oooh, how about Ian McShane as Al Swearengen from Deadwood: "Turn fucking left, or prepare for eternal fucking traffic lights, and the like." That would be awesome, and I will be going through Deadwood...
I digress.
Anyway, I'll be fine. I've always been a very independent person. But you know, you get married, you have children, maybe you quit your paid job... before you know it, that proud independence plays a faint second fiddle to the wife-and-mother part of life. I miss it. This road trip gives me a chance to taste that again, for a little while. Also, I do plain love driving. Which is good, because 3400 miles is a hell of a long way to drive.
In related news, I am delighted to report I have found a travel mug I don't hate. There shall be tea on the road, without styrofoam cups!
In the interim, we found housing (important!) in MWCUville, made arrangements for our own house, figured out where the girls will be attending school for the first half of third and first grade, and bit by bit, got details decided on and buttoned up.
For weeks I've been aiming at using up everything in the pantry, and the shelves are looking pretty bare. I'll have to really get creative to leave things as empty as possible. Quinoa and chocolate sauce, anyone? Canned pineapple and navy beans? Come on over, I've got a decent Chardonnay to go with!
Now it is time to think about packing. I hate packing, so I'm prolonging the list-making phase as long as I can. It's weird, for this long of a trip. On one hand we have to bring, well, everything, so it should be a long list. On the other, "everything" is really just clothes/coats/shoes, and some games, scooters for the kids because they take up less space than bikes, a few important files/documents... what am I forgetting? Something obvious, no doubt.
We're bringing a car out. For a while, we thought of taking all of August to drive out there all together, but the timing didn't work. Mr. Sandyshoes is at sea on a research cruise (less lovely than it sounds, but still exciting) and won't be back in time for us to have made it the trip we wanted it to be. So I will drive the car out myself, and rendezvous with Mr. Sandyshoes and the girls at a friends' place, and we'll do a little west coast sightseeing all together before we settle into the house we're renting.
When I tell people I'm about to drive across the country solo, I generally get one of two responses: "Why? Are you insane?" or "oh wow, I wish I could do that!" The are-you-insane camp doesn't like driving and/or solitude, and is overly concerned for my safety. I love both driving and solitude, and while not unconcerned for my safety, I'm not worried about it, either. Common sense + car in good shape + phone + AAA + GPS = I will be fine.
Actually, I am late to the whole GPS-in-the-car thing, though I had a hand-held model way before it was common. I didn't see the need, because I never had any trouble using good old-fashioned maps (except in Boston, where all direction-giving aids, including actual road signs, are, infuriatingly, useless). I know people who got a GPS device, and suddenly can't navigate their own home towns without it. How does that happen? But it is nifty, and probably useful for locating hotels in unfamiliar places, and the little voice will give me something to talk back to. I hear you can download a Darth Vader voice for it. Heh. Give me Patrick Stewart, though. Or Alan Rickman. Oooh, how about Ian McShane as Al Swearengen from Deadwood: "Turn fucking left, or prepare for eternal fucking traffic lights, and the like." That would be awesome, and I will be going through Deadwood...
I digress.
Anyway, I'll be fine. I've always been a very independent person. But you know, you get married, you have children, maybe you quit your paid job... before you know it, that proud independence plays a faint second fiddle to the wife-and-mother part of life. I miss it. This road trip gives me a chance to taste that again, for a little while. Also, I do plain love driving. Which is good, because 3400 miles is a hell of a long way to drive.
In related news, I am delighted to report I have found a travel mug I don't hate. There shall be tea on the road, without styrofoam cups!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Midsummer
Well folks, summer on Cape Cod is lovely, and we've been having a thoroughly terrific time of it. Even I have not been especially grumpy, which is really something considering all the summer things I usually find to be grumpy about. Heat, humidity, crowds, mosquitoes, relentless searing sun, blah blah blah. There has been all that, but for whatever reason none of it has bothered me overmuch.
We've been to baseball games, town band concerts, and the County Fair; to birthday parties, family gatherings, and reading group meetings. We've swum in the tidal creek, the lake, the ocean, and various pools. We rode bikes in the town parade on the Fourth of July. We've had a steady stream of guests, and were even sad to see some of them go. We've had lettuce, peas and beans from the garden, cookouts, campfires and s'mores in the backyard and at the beach, and picnics at the Cape Cod Canal, where we watch the boats go by as we eat our dinner. We caught the tail end of the World Cup and dreamed of stretching the word "vuvuzelas" across two triple word score squares.
Oh all right, that last was just me.
Just this week, I have noticed that the girls are starting to get on each other's nerves earlier in the day than usual. That I'm feeling less inspired to mow different patterns into the front lawn, and more inclined to flip off tailgating assholes from New York and Connecticut (New Jersey seems underrepresented this year) than move aside for them.
I know I am nowhere near the end of my rope yet, but I can sense it starting to fray. Hopefully a total unraveling can be avoided altogether, or will at least hold off until Mr. Sandy is back in town. He is intensely, if not frantically (though I just heard him actually swear) preparing for a research cruise, and will shortly be away for a couple of weeks. My shopping list for before his departure consists of non-drowsy formula Dramamine for him, red wine for me.
Stay tuned.
How's your summer going?
We've been to baseball games, town band concerts, and the County Fair; to birthday parties, family gatherings, and reading group meetings. We've swum in the tidal creek, the lake, the ocean, and various pools. We rode bikes in the town parade on the Fourth of July. We've had a steady stream of guests, and were even sad to see some of them go. We've had lettuce, peas and beans from the garden, cookouts, campfires and s'mores in the backyard and at the beach, and picnics at the Cape Cod Canal, where we watch the boats go by as we eat our dinner. We caught the tail end of the World Cup and dreamed of stretching the word "vuvuzelas" across two triple word score squares.
Oh all right, that last was just me.
Just this week, I have noticed that the girls are starting to get on each other's nerves earlier in the day than usual. That I'm feeling less inspired to mow different patterns into the front lawn, and more inclined to flip off tailgating assholes from New York and Connecticut (New Jersey seems underrepresented this year) than move aside for them.
I know I am nowhere near the end of my rope yet, but I can sense it starting to fray. Hopefully a total unraveling can be avoided altogether, or will at least hold off until Mr. Sandy is back in town. He is intensely, if not frantically (though I just heard him actually swear) preparing for a research cruise, and will shortly be away for a couple of weeks. My shopping list for before his departure consists of non-drowsy formula Dramamine for him, red wine for me.
Stay tuned.
How's your summer going?
Saturday, July 10, 2010
My Bean and the No Good Very Bad Naptime
My girls are 7 and 6 and still have "naps." They don't sleep at nap time -- haven't for years -- but it's just an hour in the afternoon during which they go to their rooms and read or play quietly by themselves. They each have a phone in their closet that can buzz the other one (it doesn't work for anything else; it's just a sister-to-sister intercom Mr. Sandy rigged up because he is the Best Daddy in the Universe), so sometimes they sit in their closets and talk to each other. The idea is just to get them some quiet down time each day. Some days they need it more than others.
Yesterday, the Bean was out of sorts by afternoon. We'd had friends visiting us for several fun-filled days, and they'd left that morning, so she was let down and tired. She couldn't sleep at nap time, but couldn't leave the Peanut alone either. I had to go upstairs and scold her for banging on her sister's door. "Knock it off," I said. "WHY DON'T YOU CARE ABOUT ME AT ALL?" she screamed. Sigh. I left that unanswered, except to say we'd talk later -- clearly, nothing was going to come of pursuing it then -- and came back downstairs. When it was time for her to come down, she presented me with a list:
Yesterday, the Bean was out of sorts by afternoon. We'd had friends visiting us for several fun-filled days, and they'd left that morning, so she was let down and tired. She couldn't sleep at nap time, but couldn't leave the Peanut alone either. I had to go upstairs and scold her for banging on her sister's door. "Knock it off," I said. "WHY DON'T YOU CARE ABOUT ME AT ALL?" she screamed. Sigh. I left that unanswered, except to say we'd talk later -- clearly, nothing was going to come of pursuing it then -- and came back downstairs. When it was time for her to come down, she presented me with a list:
WHEN YOU LEFT, I FELT
hungry
thirsty
tired (but not sleepy)
bored
mad
angry
wanting to go down stairs
sad
poor
mean
wishing
unhelpful
left out
selfish
cruel
and uncomfortable
and last of all; annoying
ALL AT THE SAME TIME.
We fixed hungry and thirsty right away, and a lot of the other stuff just went away. We talked about how not being allowed to bang things doesn't mean she isn't cared for, but she knew that -- just needed to scream something, I guess.
I like the negative emotion inventory. Kind of a mature thing to do, I think.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
in which I am 40-something-else
Concluding Birthday Season I in our family, I am now Even Older. (Doesn't that get on your nerves, when people who aren't remotely elderly talk about how oooollld they are? Mine too. Get off my lawn. Oh wait. OK, I'll get off my own lawn. But I'll be back on it before long, as it's about to need mowing.)
I had a lovely birthday, which started when my lovely husband made sure I was exempted from getting our lovely daughters ready for school. I was supposed to sleep in, but was wide awake at the usual time. Grrrr. He also made me a beautiful chocolate cake, and I can now say definitively that the chocolate frosting recipe on the back of the unsweetened cocoa label is much superior to the one I'd been using for years. Riveting news, I know. But chocolate frosting improvements are always cause for good cheer.
I got a fishing pole and a Nancy Drew book and a Black Eyed Peas CD (the one with the boom-boom-pow song that I can't stop singing. "Them chickens jackin' my style," and stuff!) and Season 3 of The Muppet Show. The Muppet Show makes me very happy. Also a new novel, socks with flamingos on them, and a Life Is Good t-shirt. And it is, folks, it is.
In other news you will be delighted to know that I finally finished the biography of George Washington that I've been reading on and off for FIVE YEARS now. Of which more later. My cat-herding exemption was for one morning only, so I'd better hit the hay.
I had a lovely birthday, which started when my lovely husband made sure I was exempted from getting our lovely daughters ready for school. I was supposed to sleep in, but was wide awake at the usual time. Grrrr. He also made me a beautiful chocolate cake, and I can now say definitively that the chocolate frosting recipe on the back of the unsweetened cocoa label is much superior to the one I'd been using for years. Riveting news, I know. But chocolate frosting improvements are always cause for good cheer.
I got a fishing pole and a Nancy Drew book and a Black Eyed Peas CD (the one with the boom-boom-pow song that I can't stop singing. "Them chickens jackin' my style," and stuff!) and Season 3 of The Muppet Show. The Muppet Show makes me very happy. Also a new novel, socks with flamingos on them, and a Life Is Good t-shirt. And it is, folks, it is.
In other news you will be delighted to know that I finally finished the biography of George Washington that I've been reading on and off for FIVE YEARS now. Of which more later. My cat-herding exemption was for one morning only, so I'd better hit the hay.
Monday, April 26, 2010
in which my Peanut is Six and we have a busy but lovely spring break
Phew. We've been busier than one-armed paperhangers around here.
Last week was school vacation. The Peanut's birthday fell on a weekday, and we had her party on the weekend. I made a small cake for her birthday, and a giant cake for her party. She requested a "sunshine party, with a yellow cake with yellow icing and an orange sun and a big orange 6!" Okey dokey -- as long as she keeps the frosting colors down to two, I can manage. Shopping for presents was also fairly easy, as she'd written up a wish list which included things like a "real purse," and a Zhu Zhu pet (= a battery operated hamster-looking thing that scoots around and makes noises. Definitely a playroom-only toy, and knowing how to make it "sleep" is key). I also got her a cute little watch. The Bean got one on her 6th; it just seems like the right year for it. So, we got presents, party supplies, favors -- all manner of errands got run.
On her birthday itself we went to the public library to get her very own library card. All our library staff are great, and the children's librarian is exceptional. "No, no, Peanut, you have to be six," he told her. "I AM SIX!" she said. "Oh, well, then, you have to come in with your Mom or Dad." "MY MOMMY'S RIGHT HERE!" "Oh, but you have to know how to spell your name... " etc., until eventually she'd proven herself worthy and was presented with her very own wallet-sized card which she had to sign, and a little globe keychain to attach the smaller card to. She was fit to burst with pride from the whole transaction. Have I mentioned how much I love our library?
What else? We had picnics at playgrounds and beaches, and Mr. Sandy took a day off to join us on a trip out to Race Point to look for whales from the beach. We had a wonderful time but didn't see any whales. I still think they were probably all breaching and dancing on their tailfins just around the corner from us.
So it went... and now we are back to our regularly scheduled routine, which is always a pleasure in itself. Next stop, summer vacation!
Last week was school vacation. The Peanut's birthday fell on a weekday, and we had her party on the weekend. I made a small cake for her birthday, and a giant cake for her party. She requested a "sunshine party, with a yellow cake with yellow icing and an orange sun and a big orange 6!" Okey dokey -- as long as she keeps the frosting colors down to two, I can manage. Shopping for presents was also fairly easy, as she'd written up a wish list which included things like a "real purse," and a Zhu Zhu pet (= a battery operated hamster-looking thing that scoots around and makes noises. Definitely a playroom-only toy, and knowing how to make it "sleep" is key). I also got her a cute little watch. The Bean got one on her 6th; it just seems like the right year for it. So, we got presents, party supplies, favors -- all manner of errands got run.
On her birthday itself we went to the public library to get her very own library card. All our library staff are great, and the children's librarian is exceptional. "No, no, Peanut, you have to be six," he told her. "I AM SIX!" she said. "Oh, well, then, you have to come in with your Mom or Dad." "MY MOMMY'S RIGHT HERE!" "Oh, but you have to know how to spell your name... " etc., until eventually she'd proven herself worthy and was presented with her very own wallet-sized card which she had to sign, and a little globe keychain to attach the smaller card to. She was fit to burst with pride from the whole transaction. Have I mentioned how much I love our library?
What else? We had picnics at playgrounds and beaches, and Mr. Sandy took a day off to join us on a trip out to Race Point to look for whales from the beach. We had a wonderful time but didn't see any whales. I still think they were probably all breaching and dancing on their tailfins just around the corner from us.
So it went... and now we are back to our regularly scheduled routine, which is always a pleasure in itself. Next stop, summer vacation!
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