I couldn't sleep last night.
For the first time, I let my mind run away with all those things I've been carefully not looking at. I thought about cradling a small baby and those little knitted caps and their little squashed tomato faces when they cry. And rocking chairs and little snow suits and waking up in the middle of the night and being exhausted and not having time to mop the floors and putting a blanket out on the grass and lying there with baby, watching the leaves.
I haven't let myself think of these things because it doesn't help. People keep saying if you don't think about how much you want it, it will come. So I didn't. After all, I have a lovely life now. So I focused my mind on the oodles and oodles of spare time I have now and how clean and shiny everything is and the passionate relationship I have with my young and adoring husband and all the energy we have. (Except right now, as he got back this morning at five after being a lane walker for some guys earning their spurs. He is dead to the world.)
Anyway. I also had a sudden burst of sheer terror. I'm talking terror. What have I done? I thought to myself. Oh my god. I'm not ready to be a mother. This is huge. So many things could go wrong. We should wait, we should wait at least until August, when we know what's going on reproductively.
The agencies won't take us, I went on thinking, and saw the Agency Person in my mind during the home study interview; an upright, nobby looking woman on the edge of sixty, with hair scraped back, saying "Mm hm," in a distant voice as she checked something off on her sheet, something bad, no doubt.
We probably will end up waiting until August anyway, because I have found out that if we get pregnant during the adoption process, we'll be dropped immediately. At least that's the way it is for one agency whose fine print I had the opportunity to read through. It's not that I want to get pregnant while adopting, it would be very complicated if that happened. So it seems we must take clear steps in one direction or the other, but not allow for either possibility at the same time. I have to talk to Keith more about this.
I know this sounds really weird, but I keep hoping that I'm completely infertile and that door is just closed for good. Maybe this is my way of expressing anger at myself for not producing the desired effect in the desired time. Or maybe I just dislike the ambiguity of many different shaded possibilities, the ratios, the averages, the time span to chase this ellusive goal via one technique and then the other.
In the meantime, I am waiting around for various agencies to call me back. It's good practice, since waiting for one thing or another is going to feature largely in my life from now on.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
April 29th
Keith and I made a momentous decision today. We decided to go ahead and actively pursue adoption.
I am ambivalent about pregnancy itself. We could keep trying to get pregnant indefinitely and who knows what would happen. In the meantime, time keeps going by. I want to have a family, I don't care if I have given birth to my children or not. I simply want my children in my home.
Maybe during the adoption process we will get pregnant. That's fine; that can't be any harder than ending up with twins. I'm willing to try hormone therapy, up to a point. I don't want to try IVF. There are many complex moral issues there for me personally. Maybe at some point I will change my mind. But I doubt it.
I keep going back over in my mind about whether or not it matters to me to get pregnant. But if it did, wouldn't I be highly motivated to pursue every avenue in order to achieve that? My lack of motivation seems a clear sign to me that as a woman, it simply is not a make or break kind of deal.
Not that I wouldn't love being pregnant if it happens. It's profound and life changing. If it happens to me, I will embrace it whole heartedly. But I don't feel bound to wait for it to happen to start my family.
The other defining factor is that I have longed to adopt since I was in elementary school. There was a story on the news about someone finding a new born in a trash bin. I wanted, with every fierce fiber of my little being, to find any babies who had been discarded. I prayed to God to let me find one, a tiny castaway, and take it home.
That desire never left me, I just changed location. First I wanted to adopt from Eastern Europe-Poland or Romania, for example. And, later on, from China. Just lately, I have been looking closer to home, realizing that many American children need homes. I thought about becoming a foster parent. I still dream about a little South American girl, which chocolate brown eyes and latte skin. (I half dreamed of this little girl, one night when I was wordlessly offering up the whole mess to God and felt immediately peaceful afterward. Maybe we will end up adopting a newborn of hispanic heritage. Who ever God has in mind for us will be just perfect.)
I thought for sure Keith would say no, this morning. I'd been bringing adoption up pretty often lately and he would talk about it for a while and then say that he wanted to keep trying for a biological child. Which I don't in the least judge him for, it's perfectly natural to want a biological child, it's the way we're made.
Even so, I kept going on line and looking up agencies and wait times and costs and home studies. And this morning I just asked him, as I was in the middle of scrubbing the tub, my jeans rolled up, bleach in hand. I asked how about we just start, just adopt our first child and if we get pregnant later than we get pregnant. But for sure we have a child, our own child.
And he said yes. I was stunned. I kept checking in to see if he was for sure. He is. He's reinlisting and has decided not to spend any of the money, but to use it to pay off the small remaining debt we have and to save the rest, "We'll need the rest," he said meaningfully.
He wants a boy. He still wants a newborn. I don't care what age my children come to me, I just want them, but to have a chance to parent a newborn! Their soft little heads and that new baby smell and dear little froggy legs... We're going to put "either" instead of requesting a specific gender and just see what happens.
I've contacted three different agencies. I called Bethany, but it was close to five, so the operator gave me the Kentucky office number. I'll call them tomorrow. I have to find out if they even accept military families before I ask for the info packet. Some agencies don't, because a move can happen right in the middle of an adoption process. I hope they do, because I really, really like Bethany.
We know a move is coming up in a year. Maybe we'll just choose to work out of the Georgia office, or maybe it can be started in KY and then moved to GA when we do. I have to find out.
This is going to be a very long, emotional and at times difficult process. We will wait months to be picked by a birth mother. Even if she does pick us, she could stop the adoption proceedings at any time. Disrupted adoption plans are fairly common. The child doesn't legally become ours until forty eight to seventy two hours after birth.
But the end result will be a child of our own, my very own little newborn. I don't care how hard it is or how long the process. I'm in for the long haul. I want to buy things, soft little swaddling blankets and onesies and little shoes.
I'm going to. I'm going to start stocking up. I've also started the process of getting my birth certificate and divorce certificate. We have to get all that stuff in order. I'm not going to worry overmuch about the Dear Birthmother Letter or the home study; I'm just going to be myself.
I am ambivalent about pregnancy itself. We could keep trying to get pregnant indefinitely and who knows what would happen. In the meantime, time keeps going by. I want to have a family, I don't care if I have given birth to my children or not. I simply want my children in my home.
Maybe during the adoption process we will get pregnant. That's fine; that can't be any harder than ending up with twins. I'm willing to try hormone therapy, up to a point. I don't want to try IVF. There are many complex moral issues there for me personally. Maybe at some point I will change my mind. But I doubt it.
I keep going back over in my mind about whether or not it matters to me to get pregnant. But if it did, wouldn't I be highly motivated to pursue every avenue in order to achieve that? My lack of motivation seems a clear sign to me that as a woman, it simply is not a make or break kind of deal.
Not that I wouldn't love being pregnant if it happens. It's profound and life changing. If it happens to me, I will embrace it whole heartedly. But I don't feel bound to wait for it to happen to start my family.
The other defining factor is that I have longed to adopt since I was in elementary school. There was a story on the news about someone finding a new born in a trash bin. I wanted, with every fierce fiber of my little being, to find any babies who had been discarded. I prayed to God to let me find one, a tiny castaway, and take it home.
That desire never left me, I just changed location. First I wanted to adopt from Eastern Europe-Poland or Romania, for example. And, later on, from China. Just lately, I have been looking closer to home, realizing that many American children need homes. I thought about becoming a foster parent. I still dream about a little South American girl, which chocolate brown eyes and latte skin. (I half dreamed of this little girl, one night when I was wordlessly offering up the whole mess to God and felt immediately peaceful afterward. Maybe we will end up adopting a newborn of hispanic heritage. Who ever God has in mind for us will be just perfect.)
I thought for sure Keith would say no, this morning. I'd been bringing adoption up pretty often lately and he would talk about it for a while and then say that he wanted to keep trying for a biological child. Which I don't in the least judge him for, it's perfectly natural to want a biological child, it's the way we're made.
Even so, I kept going on line and looking up agencies and wait times and costs and home studies. And this morning I just asked him, as I was in the middle of scrubbing the tub, my jeans rolled up, bleach in hand. I asked how about we just start, just adopt our first child and if we get pregnant later than we get pregnant. But for sure we have a child, our own child.
And he said yes. I was stunned. I kept checking in to see if he was for sure. He is. He's reinlisting and has decided not to spend any of the money, but to use it to pay off the small remaining debt we have and to save the rest, "We'll need the rest," he said meaningfully.
He wants a boy. He still wants a newborn. I don't care what age my children come to me, I just want them, but to have a chance to parent a newborn! Their soft little heads and that new baby smell and dear little froggy legs... We're going to put "either" instead of requesting a specific gender and just see what happens.
I've contacted three different agencies. I called Bethany, but it was close to five, so the operator gave me the Kentucky office number. I'll call them tomorrow. I have to find out if they even accept military families before I ask for the info packet. Some agencies don't, because a move can happen right in the middle of an adoption process. I hope they do, because I really, really like Bethany.
We know a move is coming up in a year. Maybe we'll just choose to work out of the Georgia office, or maybe it can be started in KY and then moved to GA when we do. I have to find out.
This is going to be a very long, emotional and at times difficult process. We will wait months to be picked by a birth mother. Even if she does pick us, she could stop the adoption proceedings at any time. Disrupted adoption plans are fairly common. The child doesn't legally become ours until forty eight to seventy two hours after birth.
But the end result will be a child of our own, my very own little newborn. I don't care how hard it is or how long the process. I'm in for the long haul. I want to buy things, soft little swaddling blankets and onesies and little shoes.
I'm going to. I'm going to start stocking up. I've also started the process of getting my birth certificate and divorce certificate. We have to get all that stuff in order. I'm not going to worry overmuch about the Dear Birthmother Letter or the home study; I'm just going to be myself.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
April 27th
I have too much to do to write.
I have to steam clean the bedroom, which always smells bad no matter how much I clean it.
I have to organize the basement and start taking down the boxes that we saved from our move here, in case we moved again.
And I should take the girls for a walk, as it is again rainy and cold, a state of affairs that usually drives those soft golfers away, leaving the playing field clear for those with heartier constitutions.
But I want to write.
Last night Keith brought up a hearty plate of his signature original cheesy nachos. This batch was comprised of a base of Cheesy Doritos with shredded cheese topped with the spaghetti sauce left over from dinner.
He settled into bed beside me with this in hand, where I was cozily ensconced, having started the second book of "The Once and Future King" and bracing myself for the seeds of tragedy, both in bed (due to cheesy foods) and book. Heh.
"Read to me," commanded himself, after having fed me a sample of his creation. It was pretty good. It didn't drop onto the sheets, which was better.
I like reading out loud, but he'd caught me at a bad moment in the story.
"You won't understand a thing," I warned him.
"That's fine," he said easily.
So I started reading aloud the exact part I was at, which most unfortunately happened to be the place where the four sons of the witch Morgause have decided to use the kitchen girl Meg to trap a unicorn and then Agravaine, moved by his rage and desire to inflict pain, races up and spears the unicorn to death.
"What?" cried my husband, sitting up, nachos forgotten. "Hold up, hold up! What the hell? What kind of sick book is this? Who kills a frickin' unicorn?"
It disturbed me too, though I was sort of prepared, having earlier read through their mother casually boiling a live cat to death in order to pass the time away.
"I mean, it's one thing to kill something, if it were a cow, I'd make me some cheeseburgers. I mean, I'm a staff sergeant in the Unites States Army, if something needs an ass kicking, I'll kick it. But to stab the thing five times? It's sick! It's a unicorn, it's the source of inspiration for all little girls! I mean, come on! Unicorns! It's what all little girls love! What kind of sick book is this?"
I was torn between love, amusement and aggravation. Mostly love; who couldn't love such a passionate, if profane, defender of the unicorn and their adoring little girls everywhere? Not this girl; this girl who went to sleep every night from the age of 3 until well into her teens with a pale yellow unicorn named (what else) "Unnie."
"It's to illustrate how cruel and amoral they are, it sets the stage for who they are when they grow up," I tried to explain.
"It's just a book," I said.
"How about I just skip ahead and read another part?" I offered.
To no avail. Though I myself am sort of dreading further developments in the book, anyone vaguely familiar with the King Arthur legends must know they are bound up with sadness.
Despite my mother in law's certainty that I was pregnant, I started my period several days back. Though I tried not to let her belief stir me up any, it did make it harder when it came. I mean, the woman put her hand on my belly when she left and said, "Bye bye, Baby!"
There is no baby in there, thank you. Thank you so much.
Lately I've been doing a lot of research on both adoption and infertility treatments. We have a time line in plan. We will do infertility treatments for a year, then we will begin adopting. We will adopt domestically, as it turns out to be very important to Keith to adopt a new born. I can very much respect that.
The only way to adopt a newborn is either through an agency or privately, though an open adoption. I prefer through an agency, which allows for the semi open adoption. We'll meet the birthmother (who will have chosen us from a data base), exchange information, etc. This makes it easier for the child to search back for their birthmother when they feel the need to, which I think is healthy and inevitable.
I don't like fully open because then it's as though the birthparents are extended family and involved a great deal. I don't know what that says about my character, but there it is.
It costs about ten thousand dollars, which includes the cost of a homestudy and the birthmother's hospital and care costs. These costs are spread out over time, sometimes payment plans can be arranged through the agency.
I would choose Bethany; I like the feel of it and they have an office in GA, which is where we'll be in two years. There are generally forty families to one birthmother, which makes creating a profile and "Dear Birthmother Letter" writing competitive.
These brings up a morass of emotions, about which I am going to be completely honest as I work through this process publicly on my blog.
I will be competing for my own child? I will "buy" my child for ten thousand dollars? I will share my child with his or her birth mother? What if I want a second child? Or a third?
I know it's not really buying, but I am exchanging a great deal of money in exchange for a child of my own. This feels somehow inherently wrong, though I understand completely the logic of it and it's a good system; the birthmother gets the care she and the child needs, I have helped out and receive the child after birth.
But still. It brings up other emotions too. Who's going to choose a military family for their child? Who says "I want my child to be a military brat?"
That's the appeal of an international adoption. It's completely closed and the foreign agencies match up family and children on a first come, first serve basis and on the basis of age (older family tend to receive older children). But the youngest a child will be is generally six months and more typically twelve. Also, the health records can be incomplete and the process literally takes years and costs between twenty and thirty thousand dollars.
It's the whole choice thing that's freaking me out. Getting pregnant naturally involves no choice over age, type, race or gender of child. That feels right to me. But adoption now means that I must choose. I must choose between age, cost, race, ethnicity and health concerns. I must choose what level of involvement the birthmother will have.
What will my choices say about myself?
Moving on. Infertility also means choice, and on a much more intense and bewildering way, especially if it's IVF. Do I choose not to implant all the fertilized embryos? How can I make that choice? It makes me sick to my stomach. I really don't want to use IVF.
The only answer is to hold tight to my faith that God has my children in hand and those children, my children, will come to me some way or another when the time is right.
So if it's through adoption, a birthmother, the one for us will come to us and it will be right and orchestrated by God. I need simply to be authentic in all my paperwork and interactions, which is my natural way of being.
But if it were just up to me, I would simply adopt an adorable little girl from South America, about two or three years old, and then a little boy a few years later. And if we get pregnant, we get pregnant. If only it were that simple.
Oh well. Back out upon the wide, wide seas of blind faith.
I have to steam clean the bedroom, which always smells bad no matter how much I clean it.
I have to organize the basement and start taking down the boxes that we saved from our move here, in case we moved again.
And I should take the girls for a walk, as it is again rainy and cold, a state of affairs that usually drives those soft golfers away, leaving the playing field clear for those with heartier constitutions.
But I want to write.
Last night Keith brought up a hearty plate of his signature original cheesy nachos. This batch was comprised of a base of Cheesy Doritos with shredded cheese topped with the spaghetti sauce left over from dinner.
He settled into bed beside me with this in hand, where I was cozily ensconced, having started the second book of "The Once and Future King" and bracing myself for the seeds of tragedy, both in bed (due to cheesy foods) and book. Heh.
"Read to me," commanded himself, after having fed me a sample of his creation. It was pretty good. It didn't drop onto the sheets, which was better.
I like reading out loud, but he'd caught me at a bad moment in the story.
"You won't understand a thing," I warned him.
"That's fine," he said easily.
So I started reading aloud the exact part I was at, which most unfortunately happened to be the place where the four sons of the witch Morgause have decided to use the kitchen girl Meg to trap a unicorn and then Agravaine, moved by his rage and desire to inflict pain, races up and spears the unicorn to death.
"What?" cried my husband, sitting up, nachos forgotten. "Hold up, hold up! What the hell? What kind of sick book is this? Who kills a frickin' unicorn?"
It disturbed me too, though I was sort of prepared, having earlier read through their mother casually boiling a live cat to death in order to pass the time away.
"I mean, it's one thing to kill something, if it were a cow, I'd make me some cheeseburgers. I mean, I'm a staff sergeant in the Unites States Army, if something needs an ass kicking, I'll kick it. But to stab the thing five times? It's sick! It's a unicorn, it's the source of inspiration for all little girls! I mean, come on! Unicorns! It's what all little girls love! What kind of sick book is this?"
I was torn between love, amusement and aggravation. Mostly love; who couldn't love such a passionate, if profane, defender of the unicorn and their adoring little girls everywhere? Not this girl; this girl who went to sleep every night from the age of 3 until well into her teens with a pale yellow unicorn named (what else) "Unnie."
"It's to illustrate how cruel and amoral they are, it sets the stage for who they are when they grow up," I tried to explain.
"It's just a book," I said.
"How about I just skip ahead and read another part?" I offered.
To no avail. Though I myself am sort of dreading further developments in the book, anyone vaguely familiar with the King Arthur legends must know they are bound up with sadness.
Despite my mother in law's certainty that I was pregnant, I started my period several days back. Though I tried not to let her belief stir me up any, it did make it harder when it came. I mean, the woman put her hand on my belly when she left and said, "Bye bye, Baby!"
There is no baby in there, thank you. Thank you so much.
Lately I've been doing a lot of research on both adoption and infertility treatments. We have a time line in plan. We will do infertility treatments for a year, then we will begin adopting. We will adopt domestically, as it turns out to be very important to Keith to adopt a new born. I can very much respect that.
The only way to adopt a newborn is either through an agency or privately, though an open adoption. I prefer through an agency, which allows for the semi open adoption. We'll meet the birthmother (who will have chosen us from a data base), exchange information, etc. This makes it easier for the child to search back for their birthmother when they feel the need to, which I think is healthy and inevitable.
I don't like fully open because then it's as though the birthparents are extended family and involved a great deal. I don't know what that says about my character, but there it is.
It costs about ten thousand dollars, which includes the cost of a homestudy and the birthmother's hospital and care costs. These costs are spread out over time, sometimes payment plans can be arranged through the agency.
I would choose Bethany; I like the feel of it and they have an office in GA, which is where we'll be in two years. There are generally forty families to one birthmother, which makes creating a profile and "Dear Birthmother Letter" writing competitive.
These brings up a morass of emotions, about which I am going to be completely honest as I work through this process publicly on my blog.
I will be competing for my own child? I will "buy" my child for ten thousand dollars? I will share my child with his or her birth mother? What if I want a second child? Or a third?
I know it's not really buying, but I am exchanging a great deal of money in exchange for a child of my own. This feels somehow inherently wrong, though I understand completely the logic of it and it's a good system; the birthmother gets the care she and the child needs, I have helped out and receive the child after birth.
But still. It brings up other emotions too. Who's going to choose a military family for their child? Who says "I want my child to be a military brat?"
That's the appeal of an international adoption. It's completely closed and the foreign agencies match up family and children on a first come, first serve basis and on the basis of age (older family tend to receive older children). But the youngest a child will be is generally six months and more typically twelve. Also, the health records can be incomplete and the process literally takes years and costs between twenty and thirty thousand dollars.
It's the whole choice thing that's freaking me out. Getting pregnant naturally involves no choice over age, type, race or gender of child. That feels right to me. But adoption now means that I must choose. I must choose between age, cost, race, ethnicity and health concerns. I must choose what level of involvement the birthmother will have.
What will my choices say about myself?
Moving on. Infertility also means choice, and on a much more intense and bewildering way, especially if it's IVF. Do I choose not to implant all the fertilized embryos? How can I make that choice? It makes me sick to my stomach. I really don't want to use IVF.
The only answer is to hold tight to my faith that God has my children in hand and those children, my children, will come to me some way or another when the time is right.
So if it's through adoption, a birthmother, the one for us will come to us and it will be right and orchestrated by God. I need simply to be authentic in all my paperwork and interactions, which is my natural way of being.
But if it were just up to me, I would simply adopt an adorable little girl from South America, about two or three years old, and then a little boy a few years later. And if we get pregnant, we get pregnant. If only it were that simple.
Oh well. Back out upon the wide, wide seas of blind faith.
Monday, April 26, 2010
April 25th-26th
April 25th
It is an absolutely delicious morning, as crisp and sweet as biting into a ripe apple. Last night there were tornado warnings, thunderstorms and pounding rain and the last of those clouds were lying across the eastern horizen when we woke, turned gold and pink as the sun came up through them. The wind drove the dogwood blossoms apart and large white petals are strewn over lawns, driveways and our back deck.
We are heading out to go back roading.
April 26th
I can't ever seem to write a blog during the weekends.
There were no tornadoes this weekend, though the thick, cloying clouds remain and the temperature had dropped. The day seems to be growing darker, if anything. Torn dogwood petals are everywhere, they glitter deep in the shadows of the woods, like the crumbs dropped from Gretal's hand on their way to the Gingerbread house.
(I'm listening to Van Morrison's "Stranded." One of my most favorite songs of all times. Liquid seduction.)
Yesterday we returned to the olde tyme inn deep, deep in the Kentucky past, where previously we were too nervous to linger. There we had a Sunday brunch of deep fried cat fish chucks, finger lickin' fried chicken, country ham balls, fried okra and other "signature Kentucky cuisine," as advertised. It was delicious, the coffee was especially good. Other offerings included chicken fried chicken liver, spiced apples and corn pudding.
We ate out on a porch that reminded me of summer camps of long ago, the deep green, glossy paint on the window sills, the screens, the muddy river frothing over the rocks in the holler. The main house is old, so old that Abraham Lincoln's father helped with the masonry. The creek was discovered by Dan'l Boone's brother, Squire Boone. We live in the lap of American history around here; this was the Western Frontier back before the American Revolution. Mind blowing, is it not?
For the first few months, the only books I would borrow from the library were historical fiction such as "O Kentucky!" and some about the Appalachian mountains, which I have yet to see.
That first time in the library, as I spoke, I heard my clear and carrying northern vowels cut sharp against the quiet, Kentucky murmur around me. It was as though my voice were printed and readable.
I wonder what Georgia will be like.
This time around I have borrowed "The Once and Future King" by T.H.White and "The Little Friend," by Donna Tartt, both hefty tomes.
I read an article this morning about the death threats "South Park" creators received recently. The first I heard of it was watching "The Daily Show." Jon Stewart was awesome, point blank. In any case, I thought this article was particularly thought provoking. (What was equally thought provoking is that it's from The New York Times, which is about as left wing as the Huffington Post these days. Which is fine, if you want to be an ideologically driven publication, but don't keep pretending you have anything to do with impartial journalism. Anyway.)
"But there’s still a sense in which the “South Park” case is particularly illuminating. Not because it tells us anything new about the lines that writers and entertainers suddenly aren’t allowed to cross. But because it’s a reminder that Islam is just about the only place where we draw any lines at all.
Across 14 on-air years, there’s no icon “South Park” hasn’t trampled, no vein of shock-comedy (sexual, scatalogical, blasphemous) it hasn’t mined. In a less jaded era, its creators would have been the rightful heirs of Oscar Wilde or Lenny Bruce — taking frequent risks to fillet the culture’s sacred cows.
In ours, though, even Parker’s and Stone’s wildest outrages often just blur into the scenery. In a country where the latest hit movie, “Kick-Ass,” features an 11-year-old girl spitting obscenities and gutting bad guys while dressed in pedophile-bait outfits, there isn’t much room for real transgression. Our culture has few taboos that can’t be violated, and our establishment has largely given up on setting standards in the first place.
Except where Islam is concerned. There, the standards are established under threat of violence, and accepted out of a mix of self-preservation and self-loathing.
This is what decadence looks like: a frantic coarseness that “bravely” trashes its own values and traditions, and then knuckles under swiftly to totalitarianism and brute force.
Happily, today’s would-be totalitarians are probably too marginal to take full advantage. This isn’t Weimar Germany, and Islam’s radical fringe is still a fringe, rather than an existential enemy.
For that, we should be grateful. Because if a violent fringe is capable of inspiring so much cowardice and self-censorship, it suggests that there’s enough rot in our institutions that a stronger foe might be able to bring them crashing down."
-The New York Times, "Not Even in South Park?" by Ross Douthat, April 26th, 2010
It is an absolutely delicious morning, as crisp and sweet as biting into a ripe apple. Last night there were tornado warnings, thunderstorms and pounding rain and the last of those clouds were lying across the eastern horizen when we woke, turned gold and pink as the sun came up through them. The wind drove the dogwood blossoms apart and large white petals are strewn over lawns, driveways and our back deck.
We are heading out to go back roading.
April 26th
I can't ever seem to write a blog during the weekends.
There were no tornadoes this weekend, though the thick, cloying clouds remain and the temperature had dropped. The day seems to be growing darker, if anything. Torn dogwood petals are everywhere, they glitter deep in the shadows of the woods, like the crumbs dropped from Gretal's hand on their way to the Gingerbread house.
(I'm listening to Van Morrison's "Stranded." One of my most favorite songs of all times. Liquid seduction.)
Yesterday we returned to the olde tyme inn deep, deep in the Kentucky past, where previously we were too nervous to linger. There we had a Sunday brunch of deep fried cat fish chucks, finger lickin' fried chicken, country ham balls, fried okra and other "signature Kentucky cuisine," as advertised. It was delicious, the coffee was especially good. Other offerings included chicken fried chicken liver, spiced apples and corn pudding.
We ate out on a porch that reminded me of summer camps of long ago, the deep green, glossy paint on the window sills, the screens, the muddy river frothing over the rocks in the holler. The main house is old, so old that Abraham Lincoln's father helped with the masonry. The creek was discovered by Dan'l Boone's brother, Squire Boone. We live in the lap of American history around here; this was the Western Frontier back before the American Revolution. Mind blowing, is it not?
For the first few months, the only books I would borrow from the library were historical fiction such as "O Kentucky!" and some about the Appalachian mountains, which I have yet to see.
That first time in the library, as I spoke, I heard my clear and carrying northern vowels cut sharp against the quiet, Kentucky murmur around me. It was as though my voice were printed and readable.
I wonder what Georgia will be like.
This time around I have borrowed "The Once and Future King" by T.H.White and "The Little Friend," by Donna Tartt, both hefty tomes.
I read an article this morning about the death threats "South Park" creators received recently. The first I heard of it was watching "The Daily Show." Jon Stewart was awesome, point blank. In any case, I thought this article was particularly thought provoking. (What was equally thought provoking is that it's from The New York Times, which is about as left wing as the Huffington Post these days. Which is fine, if you want to be an ideologically driven publication, but don't keep pretending you have anything to do with impartial journalism. Anyway.)
"But there’s still a sense in which the “South Park” case is particularly illuminating. Not because it tells us anything new about the lines that writers and entertainers suddenly aren’t allowed to cross. But because it’s a reminder that Islam is just about the only place where we draw any lines at all.
Across 14 on-air years, there’s no icon “South Park” hasn’t trampled, no vein of shock-comedy (sexual, scatalogical, blasphemous) it hasn’t mined. In a less jaded era, its creators would have been the rightful heirs of Oscar Wilde or Lenny Bruce — taking frequent risks to fillet the culture’s sacred cows.
In ours, though, even Parker’s and Stone’s wildest outrages often just blur into the scenery. In a country where the latest hit movie, “Kick-Ass,” features an 11-year-old girl spitting obscenities and gutting bad guys while dressed in pedophile-bait outfits, there isn’t much room for real transgression. Our culture has few taboos that can’t be violated, and our establishment has largely given up on setting standards in the first place.
Except where Islam is concerned. There, the standards are established under threat of violence, and accepted out of a mix of self-preservation and self-loathing.
This is what decadence looks like: a frantic coarseness that “bravely” trashes its own values and traditions, and then knuckles under swiftly to totalitarianism and brute force.
Happily, today’s would-be totalitarians are probably too marginal to take full advantage. This isn’t Weimar Germany, and Islam’s radical fringe is still a fringe, rather than an existential enemy.
For that, we should be grateful. Because if a violent fringe is capable of inspiring so much cowardice and self-censorship, it suggests that there’s enough rot in our institutions that a stronger foe might be able to bring them crashing down."
-The New York Times, "Not Even in South Park?" by Ross Douthat, April 26th, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
April 22nd
It is a cool, leafy morning. Sometimes I feel like I'm living in a tree house, especially when I look out over the back deck into the flowering boughs of trees floating at eye level. The dogwood blossoms still float, foam on the woodland sea or as single trees, sometimes in a yard or in the golf course, as a perfectly still, living cloud of white.
Ferns are unraveling their lacy selves from the forest floor and various other things have sprouted up, about a foot high and put forth leaves. The neighboring houses are beginning to disappear into the green. Deep in the woods, under pine branches, tiny little star shaped flowers have appeared, the palest blue or sheer white. They seem to prefer growing up out of moss.
When mowing the lawn recently, Keith came across a truly terrible looking spider hiding out in the wheel well of the car trailer. It was about two inches long and later was identified as a wolf spider, not poisonous, but horrible all the same. Since then, I have been squeamish about putting my bare feet into my shoes, since some helpful person told me that they like to hide in dry, cool places exactly like the inside of shoes.
<>
However, the Orkin man came, saw and sprayed the heck out of the house. He also left peanut buttery death traps in far corners, like behind the fridge, to lure bugs to their sticky death. It's too early to know if it will work or not, but when I took the girls out this morning, I did notice how clean and bare the front porch was; no insect traffic to be seen, high or low. I'm taking that as a good sign.
A few days ago I bought a nice package of bone in pork chops and today am on the hunt for an inspiring recipe for them. I also purchases one pineapple, three mangoes, a bunch of bananas, grapes, a bunch of asparagus, five on the vine tomatoes, a small wheel of brie, two packages of hummus and a gallon of milk.
Keith saw someone on the Food Network make a steak sandwich using brie and roasted red peppers and suddenly wanted to try the cheese. When I was single, younger and the owner of a much faster metabolism, I used to buy the stuff, along with a long loaf of French bread and make a meal of that alone. Ah, the good ol' days.
Anyway, I bought the cheese and it turns out Keith is not exactly a fan, so it falls to me to eat the entire wheel.
Sigh. The burdens in life I have to carry... like banana peels.
Here is Lynn. Note the plastic wrap over the fireplace, put there in hopes that, a, it was the source of the bugs and b, would keep them out.
Ferns are unraveling their lacy selves from the forest floor and various other things have sprouted up, about a foot high and put forth leaves. The neighboring houses are beginning to disappear into the green. Deep in the woods, under pine branches, tiny little star shaped flowers have appeared, the palest blue or sheer white. They seem to prefer growing up out of moss.
When mowing the lawn recently, Keith came across a truly terrible looking spider hiding out in the wheel well of the car trailer. It was about two inches long and later was identified as a wolf spider, not poisonous, but horrible all the same. Since then, I have been squeamish about putting my bare feet into my shoes, since some helpful person told me that they like to hide in dry, cool places exactly like the inside of shoes.
<>However, the Orkin man came, saw and sprayed the heck out of the house. He also left peanut buttery death traps in far corners, like behind the fridge, to lure bugs to their sticky death. It's too early to know if it will work or not, but when I took the girls out this morning, I did notice how clean and bare the front porch was; no insect traffic to be seen, high or low. I'm taking that as a good sign.
A few days ago I bought a nice package of bone in pork chops and today am on the hunt for an inspiring recipe for them. I also purchases one pineapple, three mangoes, a bunch of bananas, grapes, a bunch of asparagus, five on the vine tomatoes, a small wheel of brie, two packages of hummus and a gallon of milk.
Keith saw someone on the Food Network make a steak sandwich using brie and roasted red peppers and suddenly wanted to try the cheese. When I was single, younger and the owner of a much faster metabolism, I used to buy the stuff, along with a long loaf of French bread and make a meal of that alone. Ah, the good ol' days.
Anyway, I bought the cheese and it turns out Keith is not exactly a fan, so it falls to me to eat the entire wheel.
Sigh. The burdens in life I have to carry... like banana peels.
Here is Lynn. Note the plastic wrap over the fireplace, put there in hopes that, a, it was the source of the bugs and b, would keep them out.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
April 20th
(Lake Party, Part Two)
So, to continue, after five hours in the sun and eating sandwiches, chips and soda pop, everyone was pretty tuckered out by the time we returned the pontoon to the Marina. I thought for sure one or another of the wives would say that they regrettably couldn't stay for dinner, the kids were tired, they had stuff to do at home, etcetra.
Nope. Not a one. They all came on back to the house and after I had put everything from the coolers away and wiped down the counters, I could hide no longer. I would have to be hostess for the rest of the evening.
Keith's brother did take off, but they were the one group I was at all comfortable with. I watched them take off and leave with a wistful longing. If only I could get up and go! Somewhere, anywhere, so as to avoid my living room with the waiting hordes of people.
I walked to the living room, and took a sharp turn toward the stairs. I just couldn't do it.
"I'm going to take a shower,' I mouthed to my husband, over people's heads. He nodded understandingly, already regretting his earlier proclamation.
The shower was blissful, hot and steamy and I took my time getting ready. When I emerged, I wore a white, loose linen shirt and cargo pants and smelled like grapefruit. The sun had turned my cheeks red and my skin dark, my lips are naturally a cherry red. I looked pretty good and that gave me a much needed confidence booster. Back to the fray I went.
Downstairs the TV was on, but no one was home. Outside, I found my husband, Amy and her husband sitting around the tailgate of someone's truck, laughing and talking about TV shows, In the distance, I heard a suspicious deep throated rumbling.
"Would that be the ATV I'm hearing?" I asked my husband sweetly.
"That's craziness!" retorted the man, with wide eyed innocence. "Who would be riding the ATV? That's a lawnmower you're hearing. You and these crazy accusations..."
And then the ATV rounded the leafy corner of our previously quiet side street, a couple astride the monstrously loud machine. And when I say loud, I mean, Keith put in a very pricey, completely chrome exhaust, the purpose of which is to make the ATV as loud and mean sounding as possible, in addition to increasing its power.
After a while I had to go back inside. I just couldn't bear the suspense of waiting for the security people to come up and fine Keith, which I was certain would happen. I mean, yesterday the PA system, last night at eleven, the PA system and now, the ATV on the public roads.
Our standing as good neighbors I'm afraid has been completely ruined. We are officially "Those People." And I'm the one that has to walk the dogs, therefore coming into direct contact with the neighbors.
Soon everyone else came in and the grilling commenced. I busied myself in the kitchen until there was nothing more I could do in there, but the Army wives were sitting at the dining room table and I found that we were all engaging in easy, breezy conversation that was fun. There were chips in a big bowl and icy glasses of soda and it was a pretty good time.
Until Keith's mom got it into her head that we had to have alcoholic drinks. One of the Army wives had a birthday very soon and apparently, to Keith's mother, birthdays equal getting drunk on fruity alcoholic drinks and she kept muttering away about how this wife's husband was neglecting her by not producing said alcoholic drinks. (We only had whiskey and beer at the time.)
It got to be a little embarrassing and when Keith popped in from "man territory" on the back deck, he got besieged by his up in arms mother, on her quest for celebratory cocktails. Soon after, his mom and I were in her tiny red VW bug, literally riding off in the sunset in pursuit of Pina Coladas and ice.
We returned with a paper bag of liquor, but no ice. I had forgotten it, my entire focus being on finding the right brand of rum and mixer. Back we went, into the long falling shadows of an early summer evening.
When we returned with two huge bags of ice, the grilling was done and I had escaped most of the socializing, not a bad exchange. The men and children settled at the dining room table with paper plates full of beautifully grilled ribs and large hamburgers and we women sat on the floor around the coffee table in the living room, watching "Shrek 2" on TBS.
After dinner, I escaped to do the dishes, and Pina Coladas were concocted. The young Army wife on whose behalf my mother in law had been so adamant turned out to only be able to drink a small amount, as she was her husband's DD. This is very common. In fact, I sometimes quip that my MOS is to be the DD. (Little Army joke there. Very little.)
Anyway. Keith's mom was quite disappointed and we tried to tell her that we had tried to tell her. I couldn't drink any because I don't drink, due to the fact that I'm actively trying to get pregnant. The other wife had some. The men were drinking whiskey sours or Coors Light.
By this time, it was past eight and there was no sign of anyone leaving. In fact, my husband came up to me and said in falsely bright voice that the other couple were going to be coming by the house again tomorrow, in order to groom Abby for free, since that Army wife knew how to do it and could paint Abby's nails pink.
I tell you what, I could have skewered my husband and grilled him for kebabs upon hearing that, but since it was in public I managed a grimace and ground out "How nice," and then walked away randomly, in shock.
Finally, about nine thirty I just went bed. The young Army wife and her husband had long ago gone home, but the other family just stayed. Their children were literally asleep on the couch, but still they stayed. I actually don't know when they went home.
The next morning, Keith and I woke up exhausted. The house was a wreck. We spent some time straightening up and in dread of the family returning to groom the dogs. Keith called them to see if they come come early.
"I'm going up stairs with the laundry," I informed him. "And I'm staying there until they leave."
He did not even put up a fight, he just nodded.
"And you are not going to invite them for dinner," I added, turning to face him, laundry basket on hip.
Another nod.
"Give me your word."
"You have my word," he said firmly.
So I went up to hide in the bedroom, thinking they were on their way. But they did not arrive for a full three more hours and then stayed until five pm, when Keith, out of desperation, said that I wasn't feeling well and we had better wrap up the visit.
In the meantime, there I was, on toilet seat with book in hand, in case one of the children opened my bedroom door and gave up my hiding place, thereby forcing me to interact. And once one is hiding, coming out of hiding is just too unthinkably awkward.
At five thirty, the house was ours; Keith's mom had left for her journey back to Indiana. After returning again to retrieve a child's toy, the other family also had left. Keith and I were limp.
"Sweetie, I'm sorry. That even took me to the edge," Keith admitted, as we stood about in the kitchen, wondering vaguely about dinner. "And it was all my doing... Why do I get myself into this stuff?"
"Because you can't help but invite every person you talk to," I suggested. "Or else you feel bad. But no more. Just don't tell people next time."
"Right. No more," he agreed.
I love my husband, but I'm a realist. Maybe next time he'll just invite some of the people he talks to. As for me, I'm shameless now. I will hide and or run away the next time. I'm an introvert; that's just the way I'm built. What other people think of me is none of my business.
(Those last sentences being my most recent mantras. I like them. I especially like saying, "That's just the way I roll." Which is dorky, but quite liberating. I recommend using it.)
So, to continue, after five hours in the sun and eating sandwiches, chips and soda pop, everyone was pretty tuckered out by the time we returned the pontoon to the Marina. I thought for sure one or another of the wives would say that they regrettably couldn't stay for dinner, the kids were tired, they had stuff to do at home, etcetra.
Nope. Not a one. They all came on back to the house and after I had put everything from the coolers away and wiped down the counters, I could hide no longer. I would have to be hostess for the rest of the evening.
Keith's brother did take off, but they were the one group I was at all comfortable with. I watched them take off and leave with a wistful longing. If only I could get up and go! Somewhere, anywhere, so as to avoid my living room with the waiting hordes of people.
I walked to the living room, and took a sharp turn toward the stairs. I just couldn't do it.
"I'm going to take a shower,' I mouthed to my husband, over people's heads. He nodded understandingly, already regretting his earlier proclamation.
The shower was blissful, hot and steamy and I took my time getting ready. When I emerged, I wore a white, loose linen shirt and cargo pants and smelled like grapefruit. The sun had turned my cheeks red and my skin dark, my lips are naturally a cherry red. I looked pretty good and that gave me a much needed confidence booster. Back to the fray I went.
Downstairs the TV was on, but no one was home. Outside, I found my husband, Amy and her husband sitting around the tailgate of someone's truck, laughing and talking about TV shows, In the distance, I heard a suspicious deep throated rumbling.
"Would that be the ATV I'm hearing?" I asked my husband sweetly.
"That's craziness!" retorted the man, with wide eyed innocence. "Who would be riding the ATV? That's a lawnmower you're hearing. You and these crazy accusations..."
And then the ATV rounded the leafy corner of our previously quiet side street, a couple astride the monstrously loud machine. And when I say loud, I mean, Keith put in a very pricey, completely chrome exhaust, the purpose of which is to make the ATV as loud and mean sounding as possible, in addition to increasing its power.
After a while I had to go back inside. I just couldn't bear the suspense of waiting for the security people to come up and fine Keith, which I was certain would happen. I mean, yesterday the PA system, last night at eleven, the PA system and now, the ATV on the public roads.
Our standing as good neighbors I'm afraid has been completely ruined. We are officially "Those People." And I'm the one that has to walk the dogs, therefore coming into direct contact with the neighbors.
Soon everyone else came in and the grilling commenced. I busied myself in the kitchen until there was nothing more I could do in there, but the Army wives were sitting at the dining room table and I found that we were all engaging in easy, breezy conversation that was fun. There were chips in a big bowl and icy glasses of soda and it was a pretty good time.
Until Keith's mom got it into her head that we had to have alcoholic drinks. One of the Army wives had a birthday very soon and apparently, to Keith's mother, birthdays equal getting drunk on fruity alcoholic drinks and she kept muttering away about how this wife's husband was neglecting her by not producing said alcoholic drinks. (We only had whiskey and beer at the time.)
It got to be a little embarrassing and when Keith popped in from "man territory" on the back deck, he got besieged by his up in arms mother, on her quest for celebratory cocktails. Soon after, his mom and I were in her tiny red VW bug, literally riding off in the sunset in pursuit of Pina Coladas and ice.
We returned with a paper bag of liquor, but no ice. I had forgotten it, my entire focus being on finding the right brand of rum and mixer. Back we went, into the long falling shadows of an early summer evening.
When we returned with two huge bags of ice, the grilling was done and I had escaped most of the socializing, not a bad exchange. The men and children settled at the dining room table with paper plates full of beautifully grilled ribs and large hamburgers and we women sat on the floor around the coffee table in the living room, watching "Shrek 2" on TBS.
After dinner, I escaped to do the dishes, and Pina Coladas were concocted. The young Army wife on whose behalf my mother in law had been so adamant turned out to only be able to drink a small amount, as she was her husband's DD. This is very common. In fact, I sometimes quip that my MOS is to be the DD. (Little Army joke there. Very little.)
Anyway. Keith's mom was quite disappointed and we tried to tell her that we had tried to tell her. I couldn't drink any because I don't drink, due to the fact that I'm actively trying to get pregnant. The other wife had some. The men were drinking whiskey sours or Coors Light.
By this time, it was past eight and there was no sign of anyone leaving. In fact, my husband came up to me and said in falsely bright voice that the other couple were going to be coming by the house again tomorrow, in order to groom Abby for free, since that Army wife knew how to do it and could paint Abby's nails pink.
I tell you what, I could have skewered my husband and grilled him for kebabs upon hearing that, but since it was in public I managed a grimace and ground out "How nice," and then walked away randomly, in shock.
Finally, about nine thirty I just went bed. The young Army wife and her husband had long ago gone home, but the other family just stayed. Their children were literally asleep on the couch, but still they stayed. I actually don't know when they went home.
The next morning, Keith and I woke up exhausted. The house was a wreck. We spent some time straightening up and in dread of the family returning to groom the dogs. Keith called them to see if they come come early.
"I'm going up stairs with the laundry," I informed him. "And I'm staying there until they leave."
He did not even put up a fight, he just nodded.
"And you are not going to invite them for dinner," I added, turning to face him, laundry basket on hip.
Another nod.
"Give me your word."
"You have my word," he said firmly.
So I went up to hide in the bedroom, thinking they were on their way. But they did not arrive for a full three more hours and then stayed until five pm, when Keith, out of desperation, said that I wasn't feeling well and we had better wrap up the visit.
In the meantime, there I was, on toilet seat with book in hand, in case one of the children opened my bedroom door and gave up my hiding place, thereby forcing me to interact. And once one is hiding, coming out of hiding is just too unthinkably awkward.
At five thirty, the house was ours; Keith's mom had left for her journey back to Indiana. After returning again to retrieve a child's toy, the other family also had left. Keith and I were limp.
"Sweetie, I'm sorry. That even took me to the edge," Keith admitted, as we stood about in the kitchen, wondering vaguely about dinner. "And it was all my doing... Why do I get myself into this stuff?"
"Because you can't help but invite every person you talk to," I suggested. "Or else you feel bad. But no more. Just don't tell people next time."
"Right. No more," he agreed.
I love my husband, but I'm a realist. Maybe next time he'll just invite some of the people he talks to. As for me, I'm shameless now. I will hide and or run away the next time. I'm an introvert; that's just the way I'm built. What other people think of me is none of my business.
(Those last sentences being my most recent mantras. I like them. I especially like saying, "That's just the way I roll." Which is dorky, but quite liberating. I recommend using it.)
Monday, April 19, 2010
April 20th
(Lake Party, Part One)
I have a therapy appointment today and I believe I will need it, but not for the usual. I will need it due to a weekend so full of chaotic socializing that it left me on hiding in the master bath, on the toilet seat with the lid down, reading and pretending there was no one else in the house.
(Ha! Now there's a blog beginning for you.)
To put the above image into perspective, I must go back to Thursday, when it all began. Thursday, you may remember, my mother in law came down. I also mentioned that we had rented a pontoon boat. Well, immediately after securing it, the guest list for the pontoon boat began to unfold like those endless scarves pulled out of the magician's hat.
First, it was just young army wife (let's call her Amy) and her husband and little one year old girl. Add to that the couple who had moved from CO the same time we did, with their three year old daughter. Add to that the guy who helped Keith install a PA system into the HD, as well as his wife and their three children, all of them complete strangers to me.
But, let me pause here and talk briefly about the PA system. This is a system identical to those in emergency response vehicles and technically, illegal to be put in anything else without a certificate. Mere technicalities in the Indiana household, I assure you.
Mid day on Friday, the entire house was electrified by the mind shakingly loud alarms which issued forth from the truck after the installation was complete. I mean, the dogs went berserk, the small son of the man assisting Keith leaped in the air and my hair was on end.
I went marching out to order the husband to turn the thing down before our neighbors called the housing association security.
"But it's awesome," protested the man, in the driver's seat, comm in hand.
I paused. "Yes, it is awesome," I admitted, thinking of the original use of the word. "And it's way, way too loud. Turn it down."
Fast toward to that evening when Keith informed me that now the guest list included his brother (the one not deployed) his wife and daughter and that they were due down that night at eleven.
Right. So, let's recap. I had rented a six person pontoon and the guest list now included eleven adults, four children, two toddlers and his mother's mop of a dog. Every time I tried to bring up the logistical impossibilities of this, the husband dear waved my concerns away. He thought most people wouldn't show up.
At eleven or so, his brother and family showed up and all hell broke loose as Keith had to show off his PA system and then began watching "Ironman" at ear splitting decibel levels. Around one am everyone had settled in, around two am I fell into an anxiety troubled sleep.
We woke in the eery calm before the storm. We women made breakfast together and it was actually very nice. I felt like it was one of the church gatherings that used to happen annually when I was a child; when the house would be full of family and sunlight and plans. We all drank coffee and juice and had scrambled eggs and toast.
Then I knew the reckoning could be put off no longer.
"So," I said, leaning my shoulder against the doorpost. "How many people are coming?"
I watched my brother in law's eyes widen as he heard Keith rattle off names. With the added pressure of his family and the time fast approaching, Keith was forced into reality.
"I'll call the Marina and see if we can rent a larger pontoon," he admitted.
"I think you had better do that," I agreed.
A larger one was available, for one hundred seventy five dollars for the afternoon, not including the gas and oil. We rented that one.
"What about food?" I then asked. By now, it was ten thirty in the morning, we had to be ready by twelve thirty. "Are we feeding everyone? If so, what? What are the kids going to do on the boat for five hours?"
He called everyone, told them to bring their own food and snacks, explained that we'd had to rent a larger boat and people were happy to chip in to help with the cost. I and sister in law and niece drove down to the local for sandwich makings.
We came back to a packed house. In a flurry of preparation, I put together a pasta salad, sandwich stuff, drinks, sun block, wipes, books, house key, a check to pay for the boat, Keith's wallet and the housing association card. I did not get a chance to shower and I was not wearing a bathing suit, it being a tad on the cool side.
Amy's husband had brought along a side of ribs, perhaps thinking we were grilling on the lake. Since we were not, Keith loudly proclaimed that everyone would come back to the house straight from the five hour boat ride to grill out burgers and ribs for dinner.
I heard him, but I was past caring; I was in sheer survival mode and quite numb.
The boat ride itself went very well. We stayed in groups; the army folks in one and Keith's family in the other, but we all started to mingle when we dry docked the pontoon on the association beach (perfectly empty and lovely). Kids and insane guys jumped off the pontoon and splashed their shrieking wives with the incredibly cold lake water.
Keith was the captain and piloted the boat all the way around the lake, which was much larger than any of us had thought. We glided past wood tangled shore, watched turtles and deer and ducks. ("See kids, I told you we were going on a safari," said one wife merrily.) We all shamelessly ogled at the huge and marvelous lake front houses with their multiple decks and docks. ("Redneck Yacht Club" proudly proclaimed one little house, built on someones dock.)
To be conotinued...
I have a therapy appointment today and I believe I will need it, but not for the usual. I will need it due to a weekend so full of chaotic socializing that it left me on hiding in the master bath, on the toilet seat with the lid down, reading and pretending there was no one else in the house.
(Ha! Now there's a blog beginning for you.)
To put the above image into perspective, I must go back to Thursday, when it all began. Thursday, you may remember, my mother in law came down. I also mentioned that we had rented a pontoon boat. Well, immediately after securing it, the guest list for the pontoon boat began to unfold like those endless scarves pulled out of the magician's hat.
First, it was just young army wife (let's call her Amy) and her husband and little one year old girl. Add to that the couple who had moved from CO the same time we did, with their three year old daughter. Add to that the guy who helped Keith install a PA system into the HD, as well as his wife and their three children, all of them complete strangers to me.
But, let me pause here and talk briefly about the PA system. This is a system identical to those in emergency response vehicles and technically, illegal to be put in anything else without a certificate. Mere technicalities in the Indiana household, I assure you.
Mid day on Friday, the entire house was electrified by the mind shakingly loud alarms which issued forth from the truck after the installation was complete. I mean, the dogs went berserk, the small son of the man assisting Keith leaped in the air and my hair was on end.
I went marching out to order the husband to turn the thing down before our neighbors called the housing association security.
"But it's awesome," protested the man, in the driver's seat, comm in hand.
I paused. "Yes, it is awesome," I admitted, thinking of the original use of the word. "And it's way, way too loud. Turn it down."
Fast toward to that evening when Keith informed me that now the guest list included his brother (the one not deployed) his wife and daughter and that they were due down that night at eleven.
Right. So, let's recap. I had rented a six person pontoon and the guest list now included eleven adults, four children, two toddlers and his mother's mop of a dog. Every time I tried to bring up the logistical impossibilities of this, the husband dear waved my concerns away. He thought most people wouldn't show up.
At eleven or so, his brother and family showed up and all hell broke loose as Keith had to show off his PA system and then began watching "Ironman" at ear splitting decibel levels. Around one am everyone had settled in, around two am I fell into an anxiety troubled sleep.
We woke in the eery calm before the storm. We women made breakfast together and it was actually very nice. I felt like it was one of the church gatherings that used to happen annually when I was a child; when the house would be full of family and sunlight and plans. We all drank coffee and juice and had scrambled eggs and toast.
Then I knew the reckoning could be put off no longer.
"So," I said, leaning my shoulder against the doorpost. "How many people are coming?"
I watched my brother in law's eyes widen as he heard Keith rattle off names. With the added pressure of his family and the time fast approaching, Keith was forced into reality.
"I'll call the Marina and see if we can rent a larger pontoon," he admitted.
"I think you had better do that," I agreed.
A larger one was available, for one hundred seventy five dollars for the afternoon, not including the gas and oil. We rented that one.
"What about food?" I then asked. By now, it was ten thirty in the morning, we had to be ready by twelve thirty. "Are we feeding everyone? If so, what? What are the kids going to do on the boat for five hours?"
He called everyone, told them to bring their own food and snacks, explained that we'd had to rent a larger boat and people were happy to chip in to help with the cost. I and sister in law and niece drove down to the local for sandwich makings.
We came back to a packed house. In a flurry of preparation, I put together a pasta salad, sandwich stuff, drinks, sun block, wipes, books, house key, a check to pay for the boat, Keith's wallet and the housing association card. I did not get a chance to shower and I was not wearing a bathing suit, it being a tad on the cool side.
Amy's husband had brought along a side of ribs, perhaps thinking we were grilling on the lake. Since we were not, Keith loudly proclaimed that everyone would come back to the house straight from the five hour boat ride to grill out burgers and ribs for dinner.
I heard him, but I was past caring; I was in sheer survival mode and quite numb.
The boat ride itself went very well. We stayed in groups; the army folks in one and Keith's family in the other, but we all started to mingle when we dry docked the pontoon on the association beach (perfectly empty and lovely). Kids and insane guys jumped off the pontoon and splashed their shrieking wives with the incredibly cold lake water.
Keith was the captain and piloted the boat all the way around the lake, which was much larger than any of us had thought. We glided past wood tangled shore, watched turtles and deer and ducks. ("See kids, I told you we were going on a safari," said one wife merrily.) We all shamelessly ogled at the huge and marvelous lake front houses with their multiple decks and docks. ("Redneck Yacht Club" proudly proclaimed one little house, built on someones dock.)
To be conotinued...
Friday, April 16, 2010
April 16th
I hate this stupid Internet connection. It takes me hours to get through my usual morning reading as I wait for pages to open and pictures to download.
My mother in law is here; she's staying the weekend. I have a marvelous mother in law.
"No, really, I'm not actually a gourmet cook, it was quite easy to do,"
and "I'm not really all that tiny around the waist, I've put on fifteen pounds, but thank you,"
and "I'm so glad you like it," are murmured deferentially in a steady stream from yours truly, who really is not a terribly good cook and really did put on fifteen pounds since last summer. But it's nice of her to say.
However, she is convinced from none only but the Lord himself that I am pregnant.
"Oh, its just like that feeling I had for my other daughter in law, I knew it; I told her she'd be pregnant before Keith's brother left and that was ten months ago!" she declared triumphantly. "And I knew it, just as soon as I saw you, that you're pregnant. I don't often get this feeling so strong and I know it's from the Lord."
Sigh. She means well, she has a heart the size of Texas and a fluffy little mop of a dog and a Paula Dean hair cut.
I'm anticipating my period in about four or five days, so at least I don't have too much longer to wait. In the meantime, I have every symptom that I always have this time of the month, nothing feels different at all.
One of those symptoms is an undeniable craving for carbs. Time time I caved. Yesterday I bought a family sized bag of Lays and a tub of French onion dip and the last forty eight hours have been in the process of systematically consuming every crumb.
But that's nothing new.
In an effort to off set that heavy influx of fat ridden calories into my body, I will now take the dogs for a long walk in the suffocating heat of April. I really will have to start regulary getting up early to walk, but it's not fun. In the early morning, I get hungry, thirsty and nature always calls when I'm furthest from the house.
My mother in law is here; she's staying the weekend. I have a marvelous mother in law.
"No, really, I'm not actually a gourmet cook, it was quite easy to do,"
and "I'm not really all that tiny around the waist, I've put on fifteen pounds, but thank you,"
and "I'm so glad you like it," are murmured deferentially in a steady stream from yours truly, who really is not a terribly good cook and really did put on fifteen pounds since last summer. But it's nice of her to say.
However, she is convinced from none only but the Lord himself that I am pregnant.
"Oh, its just like that feeling I had for my other daughter in law, I knew it; I told her she'd be pregnant before Keith's brother left and that was ten months ago!" she declared triumphantly. "And I knew it, just as soon as I saw you, that you're pregnant. I don't often get this feeling so strong and I know it's from the Lord."
Sigh. She means well, she has a heart the size of Texas and a fluffy little mop of a dog and a Paula Dean hair cut.
I'm anticipating my period in about four or five days, so at least I don't have too much longer to wait. In the meantime, I have every symptom that I always have this time of the month, nothing feels different at all.
One of those symptoms is an undeniable craving for carbs. Time time I caved. Yesterday I bought a family sized bag of Lays and a tub of French onion dip and the last forty eight hours have been in the process of systematically consuming every crumb.
But that's nothing new.
In an effort to off set that heavy influx of fat ridden calories into my body, I will now take the dogs for a long walk in the suffocating heat of April. I really will have to start regulary getting up early to walk, but it's not fun. In the early morning, I get hungry, thirsty and nature always calls when I'm furthest from the house.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
April 14th
Well, I wish I could write a post chock full of juicy on post gossip about FRGs, but unfortunately, I chickened out at the last minute and didn't go; Keith told me he didn't think any one else was bringing their wives and I didn't want a repeat of the pool fund raiser.
Hence, my blog suffers for good material. Though in case any one is curious, I wore khaki cuff shorts and a scoop necked, cap sleeved tee in a white and red stripe for a spaghetti dinner at home.
Keith had to go, of course, and he said that there actually were a lot of wives there after all and the meeting was very apropo, it being about our up coming move, which was moved up to June.
Also, it was about how there wasn't enough on post housing for everyone and as soon as some became available, we would be called and have twenty four hours to decide to take it or not. Finally, this housing would still be forty five minutes from where our men would be working. So the commute from off post housing one can only imagine.
Needless to say, this caused some commotion in the Indiana household. Should we live on post for the first time ever? How much money would we lose from the BAH? Would we get our security deposit from our landlord here, even though we wouldn't have been here for a full year?
All that dissipated this morning when the higher ups clarified that the move wasn't this June, but next June.
Good to know.
We have rented a pontoon for this Saturday and have invited the young Army wife and her husband to join us on the lake. It should be fun. The pressing question on my mind now is, should I wear the bikini of last year, or the still functioning one piece of many years? The perfect answer to this question may be a swim suit wrap.
One of the bloggers I follow just got pregnant. Just like that. She blogged about if they should try for a third and like, a month later, she is proudly presenting the double pink line of success. I'm happy for her, but of course it rocked my little boat, which had been experiencing some dearly won smooth sailing.
I'm looking forward to August with an unmistakable maternal feeling. In August, we get referred to the specialists and will be put on hormone therapy. If this doesn't produce the desired result, I think we will draw the line there. I'm not up for anything more invasive or intense. Mostly because I already long to adopt. If I could skip the process now of getting pregnant naturally and simply begin the adoption process, I would.
But everything in its own time, thoughtfully and deliberately done. That is my mantra.
Hence, my blog suffers for good material. Though in case any one is curious, I wore khaki cuff shorts and a scoop necked, cap sleeved tee in a white and red stripe for a spaghetti dinner at home.
Keith had to go, of course, and he said that there actually were a lot of wives there after all and the meeting was very apropo, it being about our up coming move, which was moved up to June.
Also, it was about how there wasn't enough on post housing for everyone and as soon as some became available, we would be called and have twenty four hours to decide to take it or not. Finally, this housing would still be forty five minutes from where our men would be working. So the commute from off post housing one can only imagine.
Needless to say, this caused some commotion in the Indiana household. Should we live on post for the first time ever? How much money would we lose from the BAH? Would we get our security deposit from our landlord here, even though we wouldn't have been here for a full year?
All that dissipated this morning when the higher ups clarified that the move wasn't this June, but next June.
Good to know.
We have rented a pontoon for this Saturday and have invited the young Army wife and her husband to join us on the lake. It should be fun. The pressing question on my mind now is, should I wear the bikini of last year, or the still functioning one piece of many years? The perfect answer to this question may be a swim suit wrap.
One of the bloggers I follow just got pregnant. Just like that. She blogged about if they should try for a third and like, a month later, she is proudly presenting the double pink line of success. I'm happy for her, but of course it rocked my little boat, which had been experiencing some dearly won smooth sailing.
I'm looking forward to August with an unmistakable maternal feeling. In August, we get referred to the specialists and will be put on hormone therapy. If this doesn't produce the desired result, I think we will draw the line there. I'm not up for anything more invasive or intense. Mostly because I already long to adopt. If I could skip the process now of getting pregnant naturally and simply begin the adoption process, I would.
But everything in its own time, thoughtfully and deliberately done. That is my mantra.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
April 13th
Internet, sweet Internet!
How thy vibrant electronic siren song
so seduces my curious heart and draws
the commerce of the whole wide world
into my humble home and wandering eye!
Never, never again withdraw from me
your heavenly hosts of data and display!
I remain ever your humble and loving servant,
me
So, as you can see, I was Internet-less for about three days. In that time, desperate for information, I watched a great deal too much TV. I already do watch too much, not to mention it was no substitute.
Now I'm back, but with AT&T. For a company that I do not like, I sure am using a lot of its services.
There is a mandatory FRG meeting tonight. As you know, if you've been following my blogging for a while, I do not attend FRG meetings. Keith offered me the choice to do so or not, but he highly recommended the choice of not.
Being the shy and retiring creature that I am, not appeared an excellent choice. Though I have often wondered what they are like and felt sometimes like only a pseudo Army wife, what with not living on post and never attending an FRG. Also, I'm really bad at care packages.
Anyway, Keith and I are attending this meeting. I am experiencing pre meeting anxiety and already mentally trying on every clothing combination my closet offers me. I will let you all know how it goes. And what I wore.
In other news, I have purchased the dress pattern, two and a half yards of peach eyelet and peach cotton, thread and a sixteen inch zipper and have begun the process of sewing the dress all over again, in a size 10.
Also, I missed my last therapy appointment. It was the Monday after Easter, which we had spent up in Indiana with Keith's family. It was Keith's brother's last weekend before he deployed; he is in the Air Force Reserves. Consequently, Keith wished to stay late and live it up with his boy that night.
That is how it came to be that at midnight, I was driving the two and a half ton diesel pick up down the winding roads of Indiana with two well lit military boys living it up in the back. Once we got to my brother in law's house, we collapsed in their spare bedroom for a few hours and then drove back home in the early morning hours, still wearing our Easter finery, much the worst for wear and very gritty eyed.
So I told the therapist's office that I wasn't feeling well and couldn't come in. The truth is, I've been pretty well and contentedly stuck for the past few weeks. The initial agony of processing faded and I was just left in this middle place.
Since then, I actually started doing what I knew I needed to be doing in the first place; which is re-parenting the inner child; I'm relearning basic lessons that went wrong the first time around. I do this by a lot of specific internal dialogue. A great deal of it has to do with image, personal boundaries and coping skills.
The immediate result of all this has been, unexpectedly, this incredible joy and wonder at my life. It's as though a part of myself came out of the dark to the reality of where I'm now. I've walked into my kitchen and thought, "Holy cow, I have a real life kitchen! A beautiful kitchen! Well organized and well maintained. How do I do this? How am I managing this? This is awesome."
It's the same with my husband. I have fallen so in love with that man in these last few days I can't even find words to express the wonder of it. How did I know to choose him? It's incredible to me that I have this man so intimately wound up in my life, so integral to it.
I guess I feel like a child again, but with all the perks of being an adult. I'm filled with a thirst for and wonder at life. I want to eat lobster and fruit and pizza, I want to go see the places I see on TV, I want to be in the commercials, to sit at the cafes I see there, to live in the beautiful houses. I want to sit on the couch and make out with my husband; I want to pounce on him the moment he comes in the door from work.
I can't believe that I'm thirty two years old. Yesterday, for a moment, I couldn't remember if I was thirty two or thirty three and the idea of being thirty three was terrifying to me. Because that would mean turning thirty four this fall. Horrors.
But thirty two, I don't mind that. It's like being twenty two, only with more money, more self knowledge and better toys. I wish I could stay thirty two forever.
How thy vibrant electronic siren song
so seduces my curious heart and draws
the commerce of the whole wide world
into my humble home and wandering eye!
Never, never again withdraw from me
your heavenly hosts of data and display!
I remain ever your humble and loving servant,
me
So, as you can see, I was Internet-less for about three days. In that time, desperate for information, I watched a great deal too much TV. I already do watch too much, not to mention it was no substitute.
Now I'm back, but with AT&T. For a company that I do not like, I sure am using a lot of its services.
There is a mandatory FRG meeting tonight. As you know, if you've been following my blogging for a while, I do not attend FRG meetings. Keith offered me the choice to do so or not, but he highly recommended the choice of not.
Being the shy and retiring creature that I am, not appeared an excellent choice. Though I have often wondered what they are like and felt sometimes like only a pseudo Army wife, what with not living on post and never attending an FRG. Also, I'm really bad at care packages.
Anyway, Keith and I are attending this meeting. I am experiencing pre meeting anxiety and already mentally trying on every clothing combination my closet offers me. I will let you all know how it goes. And what I wore.
In other news, I have purchased the dress pattern, two and a half yards of peach eyelet and peach cotton, thread and a sixteen inch zipper and have begun the process of sewing the dress all over again, in a size 10.
Also, I missed my last therapy appointment. It was the Monday after Easter, which we had spent up in Indiana with Keith's family. It was Keith's brother's last weekend before he deployed; he is in the Air Force Reserves. Consequently, Keith wished to stay late and live it up with his boy that night.
That is how it came to be that at midnight, I was driving the two and a half ton diesel pick up down the winding roads of Indiana with two well lit military boys living it up in the back. Once we got to my brother in law's house, we collapsed in their spare bedroom for a few hours and then drove back home in the early morning hours, still wearing our Easter finery, much the worst for wear and very gritty eyed.
So I told the therapist's office that I wasn't feeling well and couldn't come in. The truth is, I've been pretty well and contentedly stuck for the past few weeks. The initial agony of processing faded and I was just left in this middle place.
Since then, I actually started doing what I knew I needed to be doing in the first place; which is re-parenting the inner child; I'm relearning basic lessons that went wrong the first time around. I do this by a lot of specific internal dialogue. A great deal of it has to do with image, personal boundaries and coping skills.
The immediate result of all this has been, unexpectedly, this incredible joy and wonder at my life. It's as though a part of myself came out of the dark to the reality of where I'm now. I've walked into my kitchen and thought, "Holy cow, I have a real life kitchen! A beautiful kitchen! Well organized and well maintained. How do I do this? How am I managing this? This is awesome."
It's the same with my husband. I have fallen so in love with that man in these last few days I can't even find words to express the wonder of it. How did I know to choose him? It's incredible to me that I have this man so intimately wound up in my life, so integral to it.
I guess I feel like a child again, but with all the perks of being an adult. I'm filled with a thirst for and wonder at life. I want to eat lobster and fruit and pizza, I want to go see the places I see on TV, I want to be in the commercials, to sit at the cafes I see there, to live in the beautiful houses. I want to sit on the couch and make out with my husband; I want to pounce on him the moment he comes in the door from work.
I can't believe that I'm thirty two years old. Yesterday, for a moment, I couldn't remember if I was thirty two or thirty three and the idea of being thirty three was terrifying to me. Because that would mean turning thirty four this fall. Horrors.
But thirty two, I don't mind that. It's like being twenty two, only with more money, more self knowledge and better toys. I wish I could stay thirty two forever.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
April 8th
The moth trees are a variety of pear tree. The purple trees, whose hues have only grown more dusky and rich with time, are redbud trees and the tulip trees?
Those are magnolias. It was like opening a window into the southern soul when I realized what they were. Unfortunately, the only pictures I have of those are on my phone and I've no clue how to get them off.
There are dogwood trees everywhere and only now are they opening. The delicate, white blossoms sit like tiny china tea cups, thin and transucent, set out on a place mat of tiny leaves, all for a flotilla of elves in the night.
I've never known such a lush and verdant spring. Springs in the northeast are spare almost to the point of elegance, seeing snow on newly opened birch leaves is a common occurance.
As for the insects, our landlord has called in the Orkin man. I hope he has the voodoo to keep the hordes at bay. Yesterday we killed two hornets in the house; we vaccumed them alive. What a way to go. I dread to think what the inside of that particular vaccum bag looks like. Possibly like the lower circles of Dante's hell, only for winged insects.
My hunny recently purchased his dress blues, to replace his class As. I don't know why the Army is changing that around, but frankly, I don't care. He looks damn good in them. Even though it did cost us a pretty penny.
And here is Lynn, saying, "Please Mom. Not this sock. I can keep just this one sock."
Saturday, April 3, 2010
April 3rd
This entire region is in a state of bloom.
Trees that during the winter blended with the general grey have lit themselves up with this deep purple fuzz. Other trees are covered with the most extravagant white and pink blooms, each as showy and large as a tulip. They look so airy and gorgeous that I have trouble believing they are real. Surely they are tissue paper flowers that some one attached to the old, gnarled tree in the front yards with thousands of unbent paperclips, just in time for Easter.
But no, they are real. And oh! Let me not forget the white trees. Dear lord. These are trees of sometimes majestic stature, I mean, as large as an oak tree in some cases, that have lit up like holy white candles. In the evening, they draw all the light to them and simply glow like a paper lantern. In the day, it looks as if tens of thousands of delicate white moths have landed in the branches of a otherwise bare tree and are hovering there.
And apparently the dogwoods are not yet in bloom, so there is more to come. Hard to imagine.
I am ruined for life. Here's just what's in my back yard. Unfortunately, we don't have any of the tulip trees or the moth trees. (You can tell my grasp of botany is top notch!)
This last is my vine. It's doing quite well.
The other thing in a state of bloom is the insect life. We are besieged by them. Spiders guard the front door and the back deck. Wasps hover by the first story windows, wiggle in between the screens. Ants mark out their territory on the kitchen counters and the lady bugs continue to die by the scores in every place imaginable.
That's just the regular troops. There are the special forces as well, like the slimy little thing that was darting around in the sink the other day, the long flat thing that was zipping across the bathroom floor and, of course, the cockroaches. You would think that I keep a very dirty house from all this, but I really don't.
Yesterday Keith and I decided to throw worry to the wind (it's been tight as we try to pay off Tier Two debt as quickly as possible.) and head off an a spring road trip. We started with a gas station breakfast of fried chicken and cheese in a greasy croissant and coffee for me, with a cheeseburger for the hubby.
After this invigorating start, we headed out for Shephardsville along a back road route, where the scenery kept me in a perpetual state of flower shock. We had the windows rolled down and the country music on. The sun, even at eleven in the morning in early April, was hot.
We stopped first at the Jim Beam plant, where the sweet smell of Bourbon literally perfumed the spring air. It's on a hillside amid towering ginkgo trees. Ginkgo trees have very dark, almost black bark and looked sharp against the delicate spring green all around them. We thought we might be able to purchase some Bourbon for cheap, but not so much. We did learn how to make the perfect mint Julep.
Further on into Shephardsville we saw a horse drawn carriage. Fifteen minutes later, we were in said carriage, jolting amiably down the lane amid heavy traffic. It was awesome. There was the down home smell of horse, the clip clop of hooves, and a jolly, white bearded Southern character type in cowboy hat giving us the age and history of various buildings along the way. Some of them were as old as the 1790s.
Afterward, we gave the Percheron a friendly pat and went on our way to lunch in what used to be the town tavern way back when. It had double, huge fireplaces with hooks above for hanging pots, low doorways and blackened beams above. I got the "Kentucky Club," which was a massive, gut busting combination of ham, Cheddar, turkey, swiss cheese, fried green tomato and bacon and three slices of toasted bread.
When we got home, instead of doing the sane thing and taking a well deserved nap, we took the dogs out for what turned out to be a two and a half mile walk. We returned limp with sweat and was forced to turn on the AC due to the real heat outside. We had to keep it on all night long.
The AC. In April. What, oh what, will this summer be like?
Trees that during the winter blended with the general grey have lit themselves up with this deep purple fuzz. Other trees are covered with the most extravagant white and pink blooms, each as showy and large as a tulip. They look so airy and gorgeous that I have trouble believing they are real. Surely they are tissue paper flowers that some one attached to the old, gnarled tree in the front yards with thousands of unbent paperclips, just in time for Easter.
But no, they are real. And oh! Let me not forget the white trees. Dear lord. These are trees of sometimes majestic stature, I mean, as large as an oak tree in some cases, that have lit up like holy white candles. In the evening, they draw all the light to them and simply glow like a paper lantern. In the day, it looks as if tens of thousands of delicate white moths have landed in the branches of a otherwise bare tree and are hovering there.
And apparently the dogwoods are not yet in bloom, so there is more to come. Hard to imagine.
I am ruined for life. Here's just what's in my back yard. Unfortunately, we don't have any of the tulip trees or the moth trees. (You can tell my grasp of botany is top notch!)
This last is my vine. It's doing quite well.
The other thing in a state of bloom is the insect life. We are besieged by them. Spiders guard the front door and the back deck. Wasps hover by the first story windows, wiggle in between the screens. Ants mark out their territory on the kitchen counters and the lady bugs continue to die by the scores in every place imaginable.
That's just the regular troops. There are the special forces as well, like the slimy little thing that was darting around in the sink the other day, the long flat thing that was zipping across the bathroom floor and, of course, the cockroaches. You would think that I keep a very dirty house from all this, but I really don't.
Yesterday Keith and I decided to throw worry to the wind (it's been tight as we try to pay off Tier Two debt as quickly as possible.) and head off an a spring road trip. We started with a gas station breakfast of fried chicken and cheese in a greasy croissant and coffee for me, with a cheeseburger for the hubby.
After this invigorating start, we headed out for Shephardsville along a back road route, where the scenery kept me in a perpetual state of flower shock. We had the windows rolled down and the country music on. The sun, even at eleven in the morning in early April, was hot.
We stopped first at the Jim Beam plant, where the sweet smell of Bourbon literally perfumed the spring air. It's on a hillside amid towering ginkgo trees. Ginkgo trees have very dark, almost black bark and looked sharp against the delicate spring green all around them. We thought we might be able to purchase some Bourbon for cheap, but not so much. We did learn how to make the perfect mint Julep.
Further on into Shephardsville we saw a horse drawn carriage. Fifteen minutes later, we were in said carriage, jolting amiably down the lane amid heavy traffic. It was awesome. There was the down home smell of horse, the clip clop of hooves, and a jolly, white bearded Southern character type in cowboy hat giving us the age and history of various buildings along the way. Some of them were as old as the 1790s.
Afterward, we gave the Percheron a friendly pat and went on our way to lunch in what used to be the town tavern way back when. It had double, huge fireplaces with hooks above for hanging pots, low doorways and blackened beams above. I got the "Kentucky Club," which was a massive, gut busting combination of ham, Cheddar, turkey, swiss cheese, fried green tomato and bacon and three slices of toasted bread.
When we got home, instead of doing the sane thing and taking a well deserved nap, we took the dogs out for what turned out to be a two and a half mile walk. We returned limp with sweat and was forced to turn on the AC due to the real heat outside. We had to keep it on all night long.
The AC. In April. What, oh what, will this summer be like?
Thursday, April 1, 2010
April 1st.
April!
I went outside yesterday and noticed that the entire woodland behind our yard is currently carpeted with violets. Not only that, but there are wild daffodils out there too.
I found what I think must be kudzu vines and cut them down to put them in a vase on my sideboard, which officially makes me a crazy Yankee. But their spiraling shapes and budding leaves make such an interesting pattern against the bare wall.
We slept with the bedroom window open last night for the first time. It was a hot and hazy night; the girls were restless, excited by the many smells and sounds drifting in. In the morning it was cool and quiet.
Keith and his platoon had the afternoon off today. The Sergeant Major (I never know if ranks should be capitalized or when. I should probably google that.) arranged for a pool game fund raiser. Everybody buys in for ten bucks and the pot goes toward something for the platoon.
My husband assured me that other wives should be there, he briefed me to be ready by eleven hundred sharp. We would go, have lunch and a few beers and then take off.
Dressing for these things is always such an agony. My instinct is to overdress. If I could go in heels and nylons with a cap sleeve knit top and tweed skirt, I would. Except that's a fall look.
Anyway, other wives, I have learned from experience, dress in jeans and a little top or a little dress. So, this time, I lined up a nice casual pair of white trousers with a wide leg, a wine red button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and my Bass wedge sandals in a buff leather. I smeared on some wine dark lip stick, pulled my hair back in a pony tail and was looking pretty sharp.
And still too dressed up. And happened to be the only woman there. Yes. There I was, in the on post bar with the entire platoon and not another Army wife or girlfriend in sight. My knees were literally shaking.
I don't know what exactly I am anxious about; its just a combination of my natural shyness, my awkwardness in making conversation, and my constant awareness of the fact that my husband is a very jealous man.
But it went just fine. They really are a bunch of nice young guys and they came round to shake my hand and introduce themselves and make only slightly awkward conversation with me. Also, Keith got me a cheeseburger and pretty much never left my side and called me kitten and was just so gosh darn proud of me. It made me glow.
Though he did go a little far and might get teased for being so cute with me in public.
8:30pm
This evening is the epitome of gorgeous spring evenings. The sky still holds light, a blushing pink in the western horizen and the air is clear and fresh. It's delicious. There are two fat spiders who have woven a large web in front of the door and my husband has gone to wage war on them.
I went outside yesterday and noticed that the entire woodland behind our yard is currently carpeted with violets. Not only that, but there are wild daffodils out there too.
I found what I think must be kudzu vines and cut them down to put them in a vase on my sideboard, which officially makes me a crazy Yankee. But their spiraling shapes and budding leaves make such an interesting pattern against the bare wall.
We slept with the bedroom window open last night for the first time. It was a hot and hazy night; the girls were restless, excited by the many smells and sounds drifting in. In the morning it was cool and quiet.
Keith and his platoon had the afternoon off today. The Sergeant Major (I never know if ranks should be capitalized or when. I should probably google that.) arranged for a pool game fund raiser. Everybody buys in for ten bucks and the pot goes toward something for the platoon.
My husband assured me that other wives should be there, he briefed me to be ready by eleven hundred sharp. We would go, have lunch and a few beers and then take off.
Dressing for these things is always such an agony. My instinct is to overdress. If I could go in heels and nylons with a cap sleeve knit top and tweed skirt, I would. Except that's a fall look.
Anyway, other wives, I have learned from experience, dress in jeans and a little top or a little dress. So, this time, I lined up a nice casual pair of white trousers with a wide leg, a wine red button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and my Bass wedge sandals in a buff leather. I smeared on some wine dark lip stick, pulled my hair back in a pony tail and was looking pretty sharp.
And still too dressed up. And happened to be the only woman there. Yes. There I was, in the on post bar with the entire platoon and not another Army wife or girlfriend in sight. My knees were literally shaking.
I don't know what exactly I am anxious about; its just a combination of my natural shyness, my awkwardness in making conversation, and my constant awareness of the fact that my husband is a very jealous man.
But it went just fine. They really are a bunch of nice young guys and they came round to shake my hand and introduce themselves and make only slightly awkward conversation with me. Also, Keith got me a cheeseburger and pretty much never left my side and called me kitten and was just so gosh darn proud of me. It made me glow.
Though he did go a little far and might get teased for being so cute with me in public.
8:30pm
This evening is the epitome of gorgeous spring evenings. The sky still holds light, a blushing pink in the western horizen and the air is clear and fresh. It's delicious. There are two fat spiders who have woven a large web in front of the door and my husband has gone to wage war on them.
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