I have taken the sewing machine from the box!
And yesterday it was sunny. Of course, today it is again cloudy and in addition, cold with snow predicted sometime tonight. But oh well, that's winter. I don't mind the snow, at least it takes and refracts all the light, however little it might be.
As to the sewing machine, it was just a bit complicated.
Ok, I lie. It was really complicated and I had to approach it in bits until I felt warmed up and things started to fall into place, like the horizontal spool pin and its cap. Once I had the bobbin filled and placed and the top of the machine threaded, I felt pretty darn good.
Inspired by fellow blogger Jessie at What You Wish For, I decided to try my hand at pillow cases before trying the John Deere curtains that are on order from Keith. I deconstructed an old pillow case and used that for the pattern for the new one, but my piece of fabric is shorter than the pillow case, which is all one piece with two side seams.
What to do? Make two pieces, resulting with three seams, side and bottom? Make it shorter? Will it still fit my pillows? Or I could make the wide edges at the opening from other pieces of fabric, sew them on later, which would be more complicated?
I don't know, but I'm enjoying myself and the dining room table is a mess.
I also made Alaskan Salmon Patties with Lemon Tartar sauce for dinner, which was yummy and something I could only do because Keith is on Staff Duty (twenty four hours of manning the telephone and being point man for any emergencies that should arise during that time.)
Later on, I'm looking forward to curling up in bed with a gentle romance novel (with surprisingly good dialogue for the genre!) and then sleeping sans ear plugs. But I'm also looking forward to waking up to an adorably exhausted, long legged husband coming home.
Yum.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
January 28th
Someone came to my blog via Jacksonville, TN and I just want to say to said person, I do not actually think that Tennessee is comprised of utter darkness. In fact, I think it would be pleasant to visit there. It was simply the only state adjacent to Kentucky that I could come up with off the top of my head. Ohio, in retrospect, could have done just as well. Perhaps Indiana even better.
That off my chest, I must say that today is a very bad day.
And just as I was writing that sentence, Keith came home unexpectedly, and he was having a terrible, awful day as well, so we collapsed into each other's arms and had a joint pity party which then turned into a tickling session which then......anyway, suffice to say, he has headed back into work and we each feel much better.
We hate it here, that is all there is to it.
Well, there is more. We're trying to pay off the, as I think of it, Tier 2 debt. Tier 1 was business and bank credit cards, which we paid off during the deployment. Tier 2 is the Star Card (the military credit card which can only be used on a military installation) and recreational vehicles, one of which is sitting on my own personal credit card, a situation I find most uncomfortable.
But mostly, we hate it here. Here is all well and good if here is where one wants to be. But we long for the glories of past days, now heavily glossed over with the sheen of nostalgia.
Oh, the gilded barbecues upon wide expanse of perfect deck, bedecked with blooming flowers and bordered by the very Rockies themselves! The neighbors loudly puttering about in their yard and putting their head's over the fence to converse, the birds flocking to the bird feeder, the broken hoop which saw many a drunken game of Around the World.
And the garage! Oh the garage! I will weep if I talk of the garage so we won't linger upon its sealed and smooth cement floor, finished walls and trim, shelves upon shelves of storage space and wide windows. Or the concert speakers which blared country music classics, or the wood paneled eight track player, which did more of the same, only more authentically.
The weather! The sun! The King Soopers right down the road with bags of baby spinach for only one ninety nine and the door man to whom I never spoke but with whom I felt I had a quiet, civic connection.
Friends a phone call away, however irregular those phone calls might be made and shopping just down Powers if one wished to shop. The gleam of the floors, the polish of the kitchen counters, the sound of sirens and traffic coming in the open windows and always the light.
And best of all, just an hour away, endless mountain tracks high up in the Rockies, drenched in clear, fresh air, that we could drive to anytime at all and have all our worries worn away by the roar and rumble of the four wheeler.
But now, alas! Everything smaller, put away, dreary, dark and unknown.
I must wrap this up, the girls are clearly communicating "Outside or Bust" which I ignore at my peril.
That off my chest, I must say that today is a very bad day.
And just as I was writing that sentence, Keith came home unexpectedly, and he was having a terrible, awful day as well, so we collapsed into each other's arms and had a joint pity party which then turned into a tickling session which then......anyway, suffice to say, he has headed back into work and we each feel much better.
We hate it here, that is all there is to it.
Well, there is more. We're trying to pay off the, as I think of it, Tier 2 debt. Tier 1 was business and bank credit cards, which we paid off during the deployment. Tier 2 is the Star Card (the military credit card which can only be used on a military installation) and recreational vehicles, one of which is sitting on my own personal credit card, a situation I find most uncomfortable.
But mostly, we hate it here. Here is all well and good if here is where one wants to be. But we long for the glories of past days, now heavily glossed over with the sheen of nostalgia.
Oh, the gilded barbecues upon wide expanse of perfect deck, bedecked with blooming flowers and bordered by the very Rockies themselves! The neighbors loudly puttering about in their yard and putting their head's over the fence to converse, the birds flocking to the bird feeder, the broken hoop which saw many a drunken game of Around the World.
And the garage! Oh the garage! I will weep if I talk of the garage so we won't linger upon its sealed and smooth cement floor, finished walls and trim, shelves upon shelves of storage space and wide windows. Or the concert speakers which blared country music classics, or the wood paneled eight track player, which did more of the same, only more authentically.
The weather! The sun! The King Soopers right down the road with bags of baby spinach for only one ninety nine and the door man to whom I never spoke but with whom I felt I had a quiet, civic connection.
Friends a phone call away, however irregular those phone calls might be made and shopping just down Powers if one wished to shop. The gleam of the floors, the polish of the kitchen counters, the sound of sirens and traffic coming in the open windows and always the light.
And best of all, just an hour away, endless mountain tracks high up in the Rockies, drenched in clear, fresh air, that we could drive to anytime at all and have all our worries worn away by the roar and rumble of the four wheeler.
But now, alas! Everything smaller, put away, dreary, dark and unknown.
I must wrap this up, the girls are clearly communicating "Outside or Bust" which I ignore at my peril.
Monday, January 25, 2010
January 25th
The 25th? Good lord. I was thinking the twenty first or the second.
I haven't written in a while; I've been battling depression. It's a quiet battle and is renewed each day.
On good days, I feel like getting up, instead of having to force myself to get up. I feel like writing instead of playing endless, mindless games of Spider Solitaire or watching so much TV that the jingles from the commercials still ring on and on in the dark when I finally go to bed.
It has been dark and dreary for over two weeks straight. A couple days ago, the sun struggled forth enough to cast watery shadows of the dogs onto the sodden grass. The shadows wavered and ran along side the dogs for a little while and then dissolved again into the grey.
I watched the local channel to try and get hope of seeing some sunlight in the future, but none was forecast. Not only that, but she did not express any horror, or even any wonder at the weather pattern. She did not cry out, "Which one of you sacrificed something to an unholy god, to cause this curse of clouds?" which I certainly would have said.
"Declare yourself," I would demand, "and like Jonah, you will be tossed from the state of Kentucky into darkest Tennessee so we can get on with it and prevent mold from growing on our sheets."
In fact, she acted as if all was normal and that was the worst part. "Cold air coming in from...blah blah blah..." and "...a chance of snow late Tuesday night but won't affect Wednesday morning commute...etc, etc."
I mean, really! At least in Colorado the weather people were mildly apologetic when the weather turned to the worst. There was the usual stilted banter between them and the news anchors.
"More bad news, Bob? When are you going to show us some sun, huh?"
(Canned laughter.)
"Well, Carl, I'll do my best for next week; I know you want to get back out on that golf course..."
(Canned laughter, jumbled awkward moment as female anchor says something at the same time as Carl Anchor does and then someone leaps in to cut to the next commercial break.)
But this weather person! No, no apology from her, just wooden declarations of another solid week of rain, snow and clouds. It's not so much that I want her to be sorry for something she can't control, it's just that her non-reaction made this weather pattern appear commonplace.
There are two things that I must do to keep the depression manageable. I must make the bed and walk the dogs. If on any given day I fail to do both, then depression rises up in the mid afternoon and swallows me whole. There is then no escape from the deadening lethargy and bleak, sepia tones that bleed away into the grey evening.
To date, I have sometimes failed one or the other, but never both. Most days I go from task to task like a mountain climber reaching for the next handhold. I grope, grip and heave myself from the task of breakfast and onto the next task of laundry. When I've reached a certain height; the bed made, coffee consumed, the dishes washed, I can take a deep breath and feel some lightening of the burden.
I then must tackle the afternoon and that means going outside, no matter what. To date, I have walked through one thunderstorm, two rain showers and a snow fall. It is no fun carrying an umbrella in one hand and the leashes of two rather large dogs in the other and it is especially no fun balancing these and the poop bag when the occasion demands, but I have done so and will do so, no matter what.
On the worst of days, I look at the coffee machine and don't even want to bother with it. Now, that is bad. On the best of days, I do all the same things as I do on the worst, but everything is filled with a light, buoyant sense of purpose and accomplishment. I naturally flow from one thing to the other, the afternoon is filled with quiet tasks, such as dusting, or the pleasant anticipation of dinner, which I research on line. I come up with a menu or a recipe all my own and then busy myself in making it, while listening to the evening news. I put away the washed coffee cup, the deep navy blue tone pleasing to the eye, and think with pleasure of the next morning, the wash of sunlight and the steam rising up, the peace and quiet.
Depression comes with a kind of stigma, but I think most of us women experience it to one degree or another at certain points in life. Mine at the moment is seasonal compounded by monthly. The combination is deadly, but at least I know what's causing it. That helps; I know that I have about another week of being in the very densest part before experiencing a most welcome lift up and a renewed focus on projects, like the sewing machine that I have not even taken out of the box. Poor thing.
Now if only the sun would come out.
I haven't written in a while; I've been battling depression. It's a quiet battle and is renewed each day.
On good days, I feel like getting up, instead of having to force myself to get up. I feel like writing instead of playing endless, mindless games of Spider Solitaire or watching so much TV that the jingles from the commercials still ring on and on in the dark when I finally go to bed.
It has been dark and dreary for over two weeks straight. A couple days ago, the sun struggled forth enough to cast watery shadows of the dogs onto the sodden grass. The shadows wavered and ran along side the dogs for a little while and then dissolved again into the grey.
I watched the local channel to try and get hope of seeing some sunlight in the future, but none was forecast. Not only that, but she did not express any horror, or even any wonder at the weather pattern. She did not cry out, "Which one of you sacrificed something to an unholy god, to cause this curse of clouds?" which I certainly would have said.
"Declare yourself," I would demand, "and like Jonah, you will be tossed from the state of Kentucky into darkest Tennessee so we can get on with it and prevent mold from growing on our sheets."
In fact, she acted as if all was normal and that was the worst part. "Cold air coming in from...blah blah blah..." and "...a chance of snow late Tuesday night but won't affect Wednesday morning commute...etc, etc."
I mean, really! At least in Colorado the weather people were mildly apologetic when the weather turned to the worst. There was the usual stilted banter between them and the news anchors.
"More bad news, Bob? When are you going to show us some sun, huh?"
(Canned laughter.)
"Well, Carl, I'll do my best for next week; I know you want to get back out on that golf course..."
(Canned laughter, jumbled awkward moment as female anchor says something at the same time as Carl Anchor does and then someone leaps in to cut to the next commercial break.)
But this weather person! No, no apology from her, just wooden declarations of another solid week of rain, snow and clouds. It's not so much that I want her to be sorry for something she can't control, it's just that her non-reaction made this weather pattern appear commonplace.
There are two things that I must do to keep the depression manageable. I must make the bed and walk the dogs. If on any given day I fail to do both, then depression rises up in the mid afternoon and swallows me whole. There is then no escape from the deadening lethargy and bleak, sepia tones that bleed away into the grey evening.
To date, I have sometimes failed one or the other, but never both. Most days I go from task to task like a mountain climber reaching for the next handhold. I grope, grip and heave myself from the task of breakfast and onto the next task of laundry. When I've reached a certain height; the bed made, coffee consumed, the dishes washed, I can take a deep breath and feel some lightening of the burden.
I then must tackle the afternoon and that means going outside, no matter what. To date, I have walked through one thunderstorm, two rain showers and a snow fall. It is no fun carrying an umbrella in one hand and the leashes of two rather large dogs in the other and it is especially no fun balancing these and the poop bag when the occasion demands, but I have done so and will do so, no matter what.
On the worst of days, I look at the coffee machine and don't even want to bother with it. Now, that is bad. On the best of days, I do all the same things as I do on the worst, but everything is filled with a light, buoyant sense of purpose and accomplishment. I naturally flow from one thing to the other, the afternoon is filled with quiet tasks, such as dusting, or the pleasant anticipation of dinner, which I research on line. I come up with a menu or a recipe all my own and then busy myself in making it, while listening to the evening news. I put away the washed coffee cup, the deep navy blue tone pleasing to the eye, and think with pleasure of the next morning, the wash of sunlight and the steam rising up, the peace and quiet.
Depression comes with a kind of stigma, but I think most of us women experience it to one degree or another at certain points in life. Mine at the moment is seasonal compounded by monthly. The combination is deadly, but at least I know what's causing it. That helps; I know that I have about another week of being in the very densest part before experiencing a most welcome lift up and a renewed focus on projects, like the sewing machine that I have not even taken out of the box. Poor thing.
Now if only the sun would come out.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
January 17th
Another dreary Kentucky Sunday, an occurrence that in the future I'm sure will be described of as "iconic."
Speaking of Kentucky, Keith and I were out on the quest for a nice restaurant day before yesterday. It was, as usual, dark and dreary. We saw a sign for an Inn that declared itself "Country" and "Romantic." It was down a winding dirt road, so we decided to investigate.
After a few turns, we saw this impressively authentic rock building amid log cabins and a collapsing barn, deep in the woods.
"Let's get out of here before we're murdered by a crazy, axe wielding country person" I whispered, clinging to the door.
I was kind of torn actually. The architecture had such integrity and charm, I felt transported back to the 1800's. But I was also afraid to get out of the truck.
In the end, we decided to keep driving, but to investigate it further on line, in case we want to go back to eat there. (Eat what? one wonders. Corn pone? Maybe with a little molasses on the side? And chitlins. All that stuff I read about in "Little House in the Big Woods.")
Keith has headed off to Red Box for a movie and to Kroger's to purchase a sweet onion for chili later, but mostly to stave off a debilitating case of cabin fever.
He washed all the vehicles yesterday, so today his options were limited to a. driving me crazy or b. look at stuff on Craig's he can't afford to buy right now but which are really, really affordable in the long run and then pester me about "investment" vehicles, so in essence, options a. and b. are the same option.
Other observations: wearing one's glasses on the bridge of one's nose so that one can look up and through them to the TV and then down and over them to see the laptop makes one feel strangely intelligent but actually just gives one a headache.
Also, when Keith and I go out, we are one of those couples that make everyone else around them feel slightly nauseous. We don't mean to, it just happens. Keith whispers sweet naughty nothings into my ear, which makes me giggle, blush or just laugh out loud, he holds my hands across the table, tells me I'm beautiful, and gives me the best bites of his steak, lovingly dipped in Heine's 47 sauce.
Altogether, we look as if we had come straight from the marriage bed or were on our way straight back there; all we are missing is the tell tale tousled hair. (Actually, its likely that we are, but that's the joy of having a marriage bed in the first place.)
We had people over again last night, the young couple and a friend of ours from Colorado who is here for a course. It turns out I can actually socialize. This comes as such a relief after the New Year's Eve Party. We set the bacon on fire (it was being grilled) and I had a bad moment when I started to wonder if the name I was calling the young wife really was her own (it was), but everything felt so comfortable and fun. There were no linen napkins, but I would say it was a successful dinner party.
(I'm listening to this XM radio station that describes itself, rather pretentiously, as "an intelligent, eclectic mix of tunes." I'm forced to admit that it is making me feel quite sophisticated in a New York City loft, I-have-a-collection-of-vinyl and drink artisan coffee kind of way.
Wow. Yeah. That's Patsy Cline, and right after a classic Smashing Pumpkins. Wow, and now we have some 70's Soul music. This is great. They do not lie, it is eclectic.)
So, I've been thinking lately about the role of submission in marriage and how it is percieved by popular culture. Natually, an argument precipitated this line of thinking and it went about like this:
Husband: Can you make sure to take my uniforms straight out of the dryer and hang them up? They looked like crap the last time.
Wife: What are you talking about? I do take them right out.
Husband: No you don't, they're all wrinkly.
Wife: They are not! I'm doing the exact same thing as I always have with your uniforms.
Husband: Well, they look like crap. I can't go to work like that.
Wife:....
(But she is thinking: You egotistical, demanding jerk! How dare you insult my laundry skills! How dare you, the domineering male, ask me, the liberated female, to do more for you. Go eat worms.)
The sheer intensity of my anger and resentment shocked me into thinking why? Where was that coming from?
I mean, sure, his delivery was way off. If he had said, "Sweetie-honny-bunnie, I love you so very much! And I appreciate every little thing you do for me and this comfortable home and the home cooked meals and always doing the laundry and folding it and putting it away. But now that I'm a platoon sergeant, I feel like I need to raise the bar with my own appearance so it would mean so much to me if in addition to everything else you do, if you could hang my uniform with the seams matched up...and then afterwards I'll take you out to the Cheesecake Factory!"
Delivery aside, the fact is, my job is the house. And I don't say this because it's a generic stereotype, but as something that I more than willingly volunteered for. I, the liberated female, wildly waved my hand in the air when home making became a viable option.
And even though I felt as though Keith were piling unnecessary work upon an already overburdened home maker, the fact of the matter is, I have nothing else clamoring for my time. I couldn't say, "Well, when I come home for work, I don't have the time/energy..." or "You have no idea what it's like being home all day with (insert number here) kid(s)..." because of the obvious.
No, there really was no reason whatsoever for me to feel so put upon, no reason why I couldn't hang his uniform up immediately upon its getting out of the dryer, no reason at all; in fact, it was quite simply my own responsibility and by my own choice.
In the weeks since the argument, I have concluded that (in addition to my own stinky attitude) the general culture did not help the situation. Where is service and through it, submission, within a marriage, addressed positively in our society? I could not think of a single instance. Instead, I thought of all those countless portrayals of misfired feminine empowerment which helps fuel the unfortunate gender wars.
To think that service has no place in a marriage is as misplaced an idea as the now infamous line from "Love Story": that true love means never having to say you're sorry. The hell it does. Not only does it mean being prepared to possibly saying I'm sorry every day of the week, but also it means being prepared to serve the one you love.
But there's just no room for humility or service in pop culture. In addition to this brilliant and unique observation, I also realized that I wasn't taking my responsibilities as housewife very seriously. I was thinking of it as a "non job" when really, I'm central to the running and organization of the entire household.
So I sat down and identified the key areas of responsibility and what exactly was entailed within each. Then I thought about what kind of systems I could put in place to make things run more smoothly, like my expenditures spread sheet and the weekly meal planning with attendant shopping lists.
So yes, the dang uniforms get hung up right out of the dryer, with the seams lined up. And yesterday, Keith spontaneously got down on his knees beside me, where I sat on the couch, and told me how much he appreciated each and everything I did.
I love my job.
Speaking of Kentucky, Keith and I were out on the quest for a nice restaurant day before yesterday. It was, as usual, dark and dreary. We saw a sign for an Inn that declared itself "Country" and "Romantic." It was down a winding dirt road, so we decided to investigate.
After a few turns, we saw this impressively authentic rock building amid log cabins and a collapsing barn, deep in the woods.
"Let's get out of here before we're murdered by a crazy, axe wielding country person" I whispered, clinging to the door.
I was kind of torn actually. The architecture had such integrity and charm, I felt transported back to the 1800's. But I was also afraid to get out of the truck.
In the end, we decided to keep driving, but to investigate it further on line, in case we want to go back to eat there. (Eat what? one wonders. Corn pone? Maybe with a little molasses on the side? And chitlins. All that stuff I read about in "Little House in the Big Woods.")
Keith has headed off to Red Box for a movie and to Kroger's to purchase a sweet onion for chili later, but mostly to stave off a debilitating case of cabin fever.
He washed all the vehicles yesterday, so today his options were limited to a. driving me crazy or b. look at stuff on Craig's he can't afford to buy right now but which are really, really affordable in the long run and then pester me about "investment" vehicles, so in essence, options a. and b. are the same option.
Other observations: wearing one's glasses on the bridge of one's nose so that one can look up and through them to the TV and then down and over them to see the laptop makes one feel strangely intelligent but actually just gives one a headache.
Also, when Keith and I go out, we are one of those couples that make everyone else around them feel slightly nauseous. We don't mean to, it just happens. Keith whispers sweet naughty nothings into my ear, which makes me giggle, blush or just laugh out loud, he holds my hands across the table, tells me I'm beautiful, and gives me the best bites of his steak, lovingly dipped in Heine's 47 sauce.
Altogether, we look as if we had come straight from the marriage bed or were on our way straight back there; all we are missing is the tell tale tousled hair. (Actually, its likely that we are, but that's the joy of having a marriage bed in the first place.)
We had people over again last night, the young couple and a friend of ours from Colorado who is here for a course. It turns out I can actually socialize. This comes as such a relief after the New Year's Eve Party. We set the bacon on fire (it was being grilled) and I had a bad moment when I started to wonder if the name I was calling the young wife really was her own (it was), but everything felt so comfortable and fun. There were no linen napkins, but I would say it was a successful dinner party.
(I'm listening to this XM radio station that describes itself, rather pretentiously, as "an intelligent, eclectic mix of tunes." I'm forced to admit that it is making me feel quite sophisticated in a New York City loft, I-have-a-collection-of-vinyl and drink artisan coffee kind of way.
Wow. Yeah. That's Patsy Cline, and right after a classic Smashing Pumpkins. Wow, and now we have some 70's Soul music. This is great. They do not lie, it is eclectic.)
So, I've been thinking lately about the role of submission in marriage and how it is percieved by popular culture. Natually, an argument precipitated this line of thinking and it went about like this:
Husband: Can you make sure to take my uniforms straight out of the dryer and hang them up? They looked like crap the last time.
Wife: What are you talking about? I do take them right out.
Husband: No you don't, they're all wrinkly.
Wife: They are not! I'm doing the exact same thing as I always have with your uniforms.
Husband: Well, they look like crap. I can't go to work like that.
Wife:....
(But she is thinking: You egotistical, demanding jerk! How dare you insult my laundry skills! How dare you, the domineering male, ask me, the liberated female, to do more for you. Go eat worms.)
The sheer intensity of my anger and resentment shocked me into thinking why? Where was that coming from?
I mean, sure, his delivery was way off. If he had said, "Sweetie-honny-bunnie, I love you so very much! And I appreciate every little thing you do for me and this comfortable home and the home cooked meals and always doing the laundry and folding it and putting it away. But now that I'm a platoon sergeant, I feel like I need to raise the bar with my own appearance so it would mean so much to me if in addition to everything else you do, if you could hang my uniform with the seams matched up...and then afterwards I'll take you out to the Cheesecake Factory!"
Delivery aside, the fact is, my job is the house. And I don't say this because it's a generic stereotype, but as something that I more than willingly volunteered for. I, the liberated female, wildly waved my hand in the air when home making became a viable option.
And even though I felt as though Keith were piling unnecessary work upon an already overburdened home maker, the fact of the matter is, I have nothing else clamoring for my time. I couldn't say, "Well, when I come home for work, I don't have the time/energy..." or "You have no idea what it's like being home all day with (insert number here) kid(s)..." because of the obvious.
No, there really was no reason whatsoever for me to feel so put upon, no reason why I couldn't hang his uniform up immediately upon its getting out of the dryer, no reason at all; in fact, it was quite simply my own responsibility and by my own choice.
In the weeks since the argument, I have concluded that (in addition to my own stinky attitude) the general culture did not help the situation. Where is service and through it, submission, within a marriage, addressed positively in our society? I could not think of a single instance. Instead, I thought of all those countless portrayals of misfired feminine empowerment which helps fuel the unfortunate gender wars.
To think that service has no place in a marriage is as misplaced an idea as the now infamous line from "Love Story": that true love means never having to say you're sorry. The hell it does. Not only does it mean being prepared to possibly saying I'm sorry every day of the week, but also it means being prepared to serve the one you love.
But there's just no room for humility or service in pop culture. In addition to this brilliant and unique observation, I also realized that I wasn't taking my responsibilities as housewife very seriously. I was thinking of it as a "non job" when really, I'm central to the running and organization of the entire household.
So I sat down and identified the key areas of responsibility and what exactly was entailed within each. Then I thought about what kind of systems I could put in place to make things run more smoothly, like my expenditures spread sheet and the weekly meal planning with attendant shopping lists.
So yes, the dang uniforms get hung up right out of the dryer, with the seams lined up. And yesterday, Keith spontaneously got down on his knees beside me, where I sat on the couch, and told me how much he appreciated each and everything I did.
I love my job.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
January 14th
I've been plagued lately by the feeling that I haven't written a blog in a long while. Nothing really terribly bad happened, it's just that I've just been forcing myself to actually accomplish stuff and I've had a dearth of interesting blog fodder. (Which will explain this one, I'm just throwing that out there in advance...)
For instance, right now I should be cleaning out the refrigerator of left overs and making notes of anything I might need to replace on the upcoming grocery trip.
I'm compromising by writing a bit and then forcing myself to scout around in the depth of the appliance in search of sad and wilting meals, and then wash out the scuzzy container. Ugh.
Lynn is politely reminding me that we are over due for our mid day walk and right she is.
Bolstered by January's promise of new beginnings, I started in on some new domestic systems. Firstly, I have adopted a weekly meal planner, in the hopes that this would save us money and time at the commissary.
Two weeks lately, I remain unconvinced. The initial grocery trip came with a staggering price tag; the accumulated cost of seven meals is a shocking one. Reacting to this, I stubbornly made the supplies stretch for two weeks instead of one, with only one additional shopping trip that was still pretty pricey.
I don't know how this compares to what we used to do, however. But all that will change because I have made a Budget with a capital B. Yes, it has a spread sheet for monthly adjustable expenses and I have nailed down all the fixed monthly expenses. The amount we spend on gasoline alone is mind blowing. Also food.
I have a love/hate relationship with spending money on food. I love provisioning the house. I have a pantry fully stocked, three of every item, and can produce Drunken Stew, Chili or Cheesy Corn Chowder at any moment. I keep it restocked with accountant-like attention to detail. For example, we make pizza at home, so I have three cans of pizza sauce, cans of black olives, jars of sweet red peppers, along with crust, olive oil and mozerella cheese all on hand for pizza night.
On the other hand, I hate spending money on food because we literally...well you know...piss it away. It's just gone and there's nothing to show for it except perhaps some extra inches on the waste. I save wherever I can; I shop at the commissary, I buy the store brands, I buy frozen and canned fruits and vegetables because of the flexibility in storage time and the cost savings. We rarely ever eat out.
Still, we spend a shocking amount on food and I'm hoping my new, laser focus on the budget will help improve that. In addition to organizing meals and money, I'm also on tract with taking care of myself. I now wake at eight am each morning feeling rested and ready to go and I take the girls out for one hour every day.
This is great, because I am back at the exact same weight that I was this time last year; 133.4 lbs. This is 3.4lbs more than I'm comfortable with, especially since I have lost all that sleek, toned look I had from the intense strength training I had been doing last summer. Still, if I could do it last year, I certainly can do it this year.
I just have to remember it took several months of increased physical activity before I saw any change in weight and not get discouraged this time around.
Just now, while washing out scuzzy containers, I dropped a Pyrex bowl onto my thick ceramic cereal bowl and chipped it. I felt this sudden wash of sadness-my oatmeal bowl! How fond I have become of it, how much a part of my life!-now ruined.
Only to remember that it wasn't my bowl at all, to start with. It was Keith's ex wife's bowl. I never picked out "our own" dishes, merely used what was there. Does this make me admirably pragmatic or sadly lacking in self esteem, do you think?
Last night we had the young couple over again, the same couple that had Christmas eve dinner with us. It was very comforble, actually. I seem to have succeeded in making the young wife feel at ease about me and we had a very lively and fun conversation about the classic "civie" comments we have endured, about military life, deployments, etc.
I felt like they really enjoyed being around us and that we were being...a good example, or encouragement, or something. Something bolstering and yet not boring.
Keith has been attached to his official platoon today and will be shadowing the platoon sergeant for a few months before taking over his duties. He has snapped back into official work mode.
"No more vacation," he mumbled sadly into my neck, when he came home for a quick lunch and a change into PTs.
"Hallelujah, hallelujah, ha-lle-e-lu-jah!" say the angelic chorus in my head, while I made the appropriate wifely and comforting comments publicly.
I sound so bad! Gleefully sending my husband away, so heartless. But I just want him away for the work day, I definitely want him back in time for dinner. Speaking of which, what in the heck will I make for dinner? I am tired of my tried and true pantry meals... Oh well, I'll think of something.
For instance, right now I should be cleaning out the refrigerator of left overs and making notes of anything I might need to replace on the upcoming grocery trip.
I'm compromising by writing a bit and then forcing myself to scout around in the depth of the appliance in search of sad and wilting meals, and then wash out the scuzzy container. Ugh.
Lynn is politely reminding me that we are over due for our mid day walk and right she is.
Bolstered by January's promise of new beginnings, I started in on some new domestic systems. Firstly, I have adopted a weekly meal planner, in the hopes that this would save us money and time at the commissary.
Two weeks lately, I remain unconvinced. The initial grocery trip came with a staggering price tag; the accumulated cost of seven meals is a shocking one. Reacting to this, I stubbornly made the supplies stretch for two weeks instead of one, with only one additional shopping trip that was still pretty pricey.
I don't know how this compares to what we used to do, however. But all that will change because I have made a Budget with a capital B. Yes, it has a spread sheet for monthly adjustable expenses and I have nailed down all the fixed monthly expenses. The amount we spend on gasoline alone is mind blowing. Also food.
I have a love/hate relationship with spending money on food. I love provisioning the house. I have a pantry fully stocked, three of every item, and can produce Drunken Stew, Chili or Cheesy Corn Chowder at any moment. I keep it restocked with accountant-like attention to detail. For example, we make pizza at home, so I have three cans of pizza sauce, cans of black olives, jars of sweet red peppers, along with crust, olive oil and mozerella cheese all on hand for pizza night.
On the other hand, I hate spending money on food because we literally...well you know...piss it away. It's just gone and there's nothing to show for it except perhaps some extra inches on the waste. I save wherever I can; I shop at the commissary, I buy the store brands, I buy frozen and canned fruits and vegetables because of the flexibility in storage time and the cost savings. We rarely ever eat out.
Still, we spend a shocking amount on food and I'm hoping my new, laser focus on the budget will help improve that. In addition to organizing meals and money, I'm also on tract with taking care of myself. I now wake at eight am each morning feeling rested and ready to go and I take the girls out for one hour every day.
This is great, because I am back at the exact same weight that I was this time last year; 133.4 lbs. This is 3.4lbs more than I'm comfortable with, especially since I have lost all that sleek, toned look I had from the intense strength training I had been doing last summer. Still, if I could do it last year, I certainly can do it this year.
I just have to remember it took several months of increased physical activity before I saw any change in weight and not get discouraged this time around.
Just now, while washing out scuzzy containers, I dropped a Pyrex bowl onto my thick ceramic cereal bowl and chipped it. I felt this sudden wash of sadness-my oatmeal bowl! How fond I have become of it, how much a part of my life!-now ruined.
Only to remember that it wasn't my bowl at all, to start with. It was Keith's ex wife's bowl. I never picked out "our own" dishes, merely used what was there. Does this make me admirably pragmatic or sadly lacking in self esteem, do you think?
Last night we had the young couple over again, the same couple that had Christmas eve dinner with us. It was very comforble, actually. I seem to have succeeded in making the young wife feel at ease about me and we had a very lively and fun conversation about the classic "civie" comments we have endured, about military life, deployments, etc.
I felt like they really enjoyed being around us and that we were being...a good example, or encouragement, or something. Something bolstering and yet not boring.
Keith has been attached to his official platoon today and will be shadowing the platoon sergeant for a few months before taking over his duties. He has snapped back into official work mode.
"No more vacation," he mumbled sadly into my neck, when he came home for a quick lunch and a change into PTs.
"Hallelujah, hallelujah, ha-lle-e-lu-jah!" say the angelic chorus in my head, while I made the appropriate wifely and comforting comments publicly.
I sound so bad! Gleefully sending my husband away, so heartless. But I just want him away for the work day, I definitely want him back in time for dinner. Speaking of which, what in the heck will I make for dinner? I am tired of my tried and true pantry meals... Oh well, I'll think of something.
Friday, January 8, 2010
January 8th
Today my husband turns thirty and my dog ate a bug.
About the latter, she probably didn't realize that cockroaches are virtually indestructible; being chewed hardly leaves a dent. No doubt Lynn merely thought she was doing her doggy duty.
I didn't realize any of this had gone down until I heard her retching behind me and all I could do was move the kitchen mat out of the way and try myself not to vomit. Eventually, a little puddle of some white fluid lay on the linoleum, along with the half crushed and still struggling roach, with Lynn looking all ashamed and weirded out, poor girl.
So that's how my morning began.
I gave Lynn a doggy biscuit to help her forget about the sensation of a creepy bug in her throat and threw the roach into the waste paper basket in a welter of paper towels, where no doubt he remains still, struggling bitterly and thinking that if only there were a nuclear explosion right now, only he would survive, leg or no leg.
About the former: ha! Not only is my husband now in the same decade as myself, but our ages appear to be only two years different, until November, when for a few short months I will appear to be three years older. I know it's only vanity, but damn it, at least now he can stop teasing me about how I robbed the cradle!
About the latter, she probably didn't realize that cockroaches are virtually indestructible; being chewed hardly leaves a dent. No doubt Lynn merely thought she was doing her doggy duty.
I didn't realize any of this had gone down until I heard her retching behind me and all I could do was move the kitchen mat out of the way and try myself not to vomit. Eventually, a little puddle of some white fluid lay on the linoleum, along with the half crushed and still struggling roach, with Lynn looking all ashamed and weirded out, poor girl.
So that's how my morning began.
I gave Lynn a doggy biscuit to help her forget about the sensation of a creepy bug in her throat and threw the roach into the waste paper basket in a welter of paper towels, where no doubt he remains still, struggling bitterly and thinking that if only there were a nuclear explosion right now, only he would survive, leg or no leg.
About the former: ha! Not only is my husband now in the same decade as myself, but our ages appear to be only two years different, until November, when for a few short months I will appear to be three years older. I know it's only vanity, but damn it, at least now he can stop teasing me about how I robbed the cradle!
Thursday, January 7, 2010
January 7th
Snow!
I know all you in the mid west are well over this phenomenon by now, poor guys...
But we have been dying for it here and how pretty it looks.
Keith needed new running shoes but bad so we went out shopping, Keith still in ACUs from his morning at work. It was really nice; there was no one else out, the roads were pretty bad.
In the mall I ducked into Victoria's Secret, knowing their semi annual sale was on. Gosh, it'd been a while; since going to the mall and certainly since going to VS's. I can't help but think that Victoria's Secret are for all those girls in their late teens to early twenties who haven't yet figured out that the lingerie there is over priced and highly unimaginative, and they can get better quality at a much lower price at Target. Still, their bra sales can't be beat and I found one that fit well for just sixteen dollars, not bad at all.
Keith took one look inside the yawning pink maw of the store and did some rapid back tracking, sputtering on something about how he was going to go look for shoes down the way. I was still trying bras on, a process any woman knows to be both timestaking and painful in any venue, when my cell phone rang.
Apparently he had made several brief forays into the store, heart pounding and quickly retreated in panic when he was unable to make contact. From his temporary position off target, he called to be sure I was still there. He said everybody was looking at him and he was going to withdraw completely and establish temporary base at the food court, out of everyone's line of sight.
After lunch, he picked up the bags. I looked over to see my tall, uniformed soldier grasping the tiny little pink bag in one of his hands and looking a little lost. I couldn't help it, I just laughed right out loud.
"Jenny," he said, trying to be stern and not laugh. "Take the bag."
"Jenny.... Jenny Lynn Indiana!"
I took the bag before his head exploded, poor guy. But it made my day.
He felt much better on the way home when we came across two vehicles that had slid off the ice slick road.
"I bet they need help!" he said, with an undertone of excitement.
They did indeed, and he was able to pull the battered sedan back up onto the road with hardly any effort from the HD. ("The RPMs hardly revved over idle as he pulled the heavy Cadillac out of the two foot deep ditch in ice and snow." That sentence courtesy of the man himself. He has now wandered on up to his Man Room after pronouncing himself "Editor.")
While Keith was helping, another soldier, this one in his Class-As, showed up as well. He whipped his green jacket off, put on a wind breaker and plowed in to see if he could pull any one out with his truck too, never mind his spit polished shoes. I was proud to see how the Army showed up.
I love the Barefoot Contessa. She just whipped up a big batch of chicken chili. She always wears black and yet seems to get nothing on her shirt. How is that possible?
I know all you in the mid west are well over this phenomenon by now, poor guys...
But we have been dying for it here and how pretty it looks.
Keith needed new running shoes but bad so we went out shopping, Keith still in ACUs from his morning at work. It was really nice; there was no one else out, the roads were pretty bad.
In the mall I ducked into Victoria's Secret, knowing their semi annual sale was on. Gosh, it'd been a while; since going to the mall and certainly since going to VS's. I can't help but think that Victoria's Secret are for all those girls in their late teens to early twenties who haven't yet figured out that the lingerie there is over priced and highly unimaginative, and they can get better quality at a much lower price at Target. Still, their bra sales can't be beat and I found one that fit well for just sixteen dollars, not bad at all.
Keith took one look inside the yawning pink maw of the store and did some rapid back tracking, sputtering on something about how he was going to go look for shoes down the way. I was still trying bras on, a process any woman knows to be both timestaking and painful in any venue, when my cell phone rang.
Apparently he had made several brief forays into the store, heart pounding and quickly retreated in panic when he was unable to make contact. From his temporary position off target, he called to be sure I was still there. He said everybody was looking at him and he was going to withdraw completely and establish temporary base at the food court, out of everyone's line of sight.
After lunch, he picked up the bags. I looked over to see my tall, uniformed soldier grasping the tiny little pink bag in one of his hands and looking a little lost. I couldn't help it, I just laughed right out loud.
"Jenny," he said, trying to be stern and not laugh. "Take the bag."
"Jenny.... Jenny Lynn Indiana!"
I took the bag before his head exploded, poor guy. But it made my day.
He felt much better on the way home when we came across two vehicles that had slid off the ice slick road.
"I bet they need help!" he said, with an undertone of excitement.
They did indeed, and he was able to pull the battered sedan back up onto the road with hardly any effort from the HD. ("The RPMs hardly revved over idle as he pulled the heavy Cadillac out of the two foot deep ditch in ice and snow." That sentence courtesy of the man himself. He has now wandered on up to his Man Room after pronouncing himself "Editor.")
While Keith was helping, another soldier, this one in his Class-As, showed up as well. He whipped his green jacket off, put on a wind breaker and plowed in to see if he could pull any one out with his truck too, never mind his spit polished shoes. I was proud to see how the Army showed up.
I love the Barefoot Contessa. She just whipped up a big batch of chicken chili. She always wears black and yet seems to get nothing on her shirt. How is that possible?
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
January 5th
I have a cold, a nice mild one with the power only to distract and annoy.
I have written many an unpublished post about the party, but can't seem to capture that exact brand of misery in words. Let's just say that Keith and I are both on a very steep learning curve when it comes to socializing here.
It bothers me that I did not take the time to prepare myself for what clearly has proven to be the inevitable; usually I over prepare. Our way of socializing in Colorado suited both of us, but we are not in Colorado anymore, Toto; we are in with the lions, tigers and bears.
So now we play catch up. Firstly, I must take a moment to try and see where Keith is coming from. This is his home ground; arrayed an hour or so north of here are all the physical ruins and memoirs of a very hearty high school experience. Most of his childhood friends are spread out in that area, a bright constellation of high spirited, beer drinking, corn farming, muscle car driving, general carousing Glory Days of Bruce Springsteen proportions.
It was inevitable, now that I think about it, for him to be drawn up toward that junction and for breath taking revivals to take place. There is nothing wrong with that. The only problem lies within my participation. How do I fit into the scene?
I do not, that is my conclusion. Keith, bless is heart, loves to show off the fact that he has an attractive wife who is very comfortable with public displays of steamy affection but who also coldly ignores the boorish advances every other guy in the room and who, on occasion, wears pantyhose and who has no problem with his own highball consumption but does not herself drink anything stronger than Sprite. He eats it up, it makes his day, he is The Man.
On the other hand, I am the sober, completely miserable dork who is doing a very good impression of an ostrich, hoping against hope that if she keeps her head down, the stalking beasts of prey will not notice her, when all I'm really doing is putting my ass up in the air.
Well, I've had enough. That is my conclusion. They can party on, the next time. Keith can go and rock and roll it with the gang, but I will be home, drinking hot tea and watching House Hunters International. It's already obvious that I don't fit in, staying home will simply be doing the honest thing, instead of living the polite lie while everyone else lives la vida loco.
It's not as if Keith just threw me to the lions either, to be fair. He has had, it turns out, more than one conversation with his friend about how sexual jokes are not really my fare and to lay off them when I'm around. Which does explain why I was able to make eye contact and something approaching a normal conversation with him this time. Yay, progress!
But there's only so much I can expect; its not like Keith can screen all the people that show up at the party. And even if he did, I don't expect them all to have a transformational moment and live a life monastical from that moment thereafter. They can do their thing- slap asses, brush boobs, joke about genitalia and scream at their wives. It's a free country. I just don't want to be around when it happens.
I don't think that's too much to ask, really. I hope. We have three or four more years of living here. I have to figure out a working game plan if I am to survive. A good sign: we will not be attending the birthday party to which the Crazy Lady might attend.
That was the lady who chased Keith around a trailer. I was assured later that "she always acts crazy when she's been drinking too much" and usually our well meaning hostess had a chance to warn the unsuspecting before the Crazy Lady was unleashed. As if that were the issue! The fact that I went unwarned, which presumes that anticipating them would have made the actions just a-ok acceptable.
I don't understand these people.
My life is like some sorry, sordid soap opera. How did this happen? This is absurd; I am simply not cut out for the part. On one of the blogs I follow, I saw a picture of the Prudential building in down town Boston and it literally brought tears to my eyes. Something about the winter light, the particular grey of the city street; I felt like I could smell the city, dirty ocean harbor and brick, salt slush in the gutters and coffee.
Oh, for the straight laced, Puritanical thinking! The unfriendly Yankees with their one and a half acre farms and all the granite pulled out of them now bordering the road, from when great grandpa had sheep.
Nobody waves to anybody there, unless they're personally acquainted. When I came out here and people waved to me, I would get all flustered. "Who the hell are they?" I'd wonder, indignant. "Do I know that person?"
You aren't a local unless your grandfather's father was born there and if your brother is late returning the rental from the General Store, the proprietor will let you know when you go in to pick up a gallon of milk for dinner.
People actually go to town hall meetings, in actual town hall buildings and you expect to hear shouting at the damn things, because, by god, every one's entitled to their own opinion.
You're considered well off if you own land but still go to the Church Bazaar to buy shoes and cultured if you own a house at least two hundred years old, never mind that you have to cover the windows with plastic during the winter to keep the heat in.
The tiny libraries are each in their own little architecturally and historically interesting building, but the selection is going to be limited and they still use an actual hand held stamp with the date when you borrow a book. If they are like the librarians I knew, they will have a hidden chocolate trove somewhere and will know the down low on every patron.
There are Thai and Chinese restaurants in almost every town but a movie theater may be a good forty five minutes to an hour away and going there in the winter might be taking your life in your hands, but at least everyone knows how to drive in the snow, which can't be said for Colorado, where everyone becomes an idiot the first time each season, causing I-25 to become as littered with wrecks as a windshield is with bugs.
If you grew up in southern New Hampshire, then one time or another, you skipped school and took the T down into Boston where you wandered around, giddy at the reach of your adolescent rebellion. You might have done this several times.
Your family vacations in Maine, you ski in Vermont (you don't realize that the skiing is crap and that people from the mid west would tremble to take the ice slick, packed slopes that you consider normal), you make fun of Massachusetts drivers.
You've gone to hear the Boston Pops, you've seen the Nut Cracker at the Opera House and went the Science Museum on a field trip, where the mysteries of outer space and star systems were displayed in all their curved infinity inside the Imax theater. You will forever think that Dunkin' Donuts has the best coffee ever.
And I went and married a cowboy, a darling, rough riding, high living Staff Sergeant in the United States Army who can out drink and out play any Hoosier around. And I'm darn proud of him too. I'm just going to stay home when he goes out to play, is all.
I have written many an unpublished post about the party, but can't seem to capture that exact brand of misery in words. Let's just say that Keith and I are both on a very steep learning curve when it comes to socializing here.
It bothers me that I did not take the time to prepare myself for what clearly has proven to be the inevitable; usually I over prepare. Our way of socializing in Colorado suited both of us, but we are not in Colorado anymore, Toto; we are in with the lions, tigers and bears.
So now we play catch up. Firstly, I must take a moment to try and see where Keith is coming from. This is his home ground; arrayed an hour or so north of here are all the physical ruins and memoirs of a very hearty high school experience. Most of his childhood friends are spread out in that area, a bright constellation of high spirited, beer drinking, corn farming, muscle car driving, general carousing Glory Days of Bruce Springsteen proportions.
It was inevitable, now that I think about it, for him to be drawn up toward that junction and for breath taking revivals to take place. There is nothing wrong with that. The only problem lies within my participation. How do I fit into the scene?
I do not, that is my conclusion. Keith, bless is heart, loves to show off the fact that he has an attractive wife who is very comfortable with public displays of steamy affection but who also coldly ignores the boorish advances every other guy in the room and who, on occasion, wears pantyhose and who has no problem with his own highball consumption but does not herself drink anything stronger than Sprite. He eats it up, it makes his day, he is The Man.
On the other hand, I am the sober, completely miserable dork who is doing a very good impression of an ostrich, hoping against hope that if she keeps her head down, the stalking beasts of prey will not notice her, when all I'm really doing is putting my ass up in the air.
Well, I've had enough. That is my conclusion. They can party on, the next time. Keith can go and rock and roll it with the gang, but I will be home, drinking hot tea and watching House Hunters International. It's already obvious that I don't fit in, staying home will simply be doing the honest thing, instead of living the polite lie while everyone else lives la vida loco.
It's not as if Keith just threw me to the lions either, to be fair. He has had, it turns out, more than one conversation with his friend about how sexual jokes are not really my fare and to lay off them when I'm around. Which does explain why I was able to make eye contact and something approaching a normal conversation with him this time. Yay, progress!
But there's only so much I can expect; its not like Keith can screen all the people that show up at the party. And even if he did, I don't expect them all to have a transformational moment and live a life monastical from that moment thereafter. They can do their thing- slap asses, brush boobs, joke about genitalia and scream at their wives. It's a free country. I just don't want to be around when it happens.
I don't think that's too much to ask, really. I hope. We have three or four more years of living here. I have to figure out a working game plan if I am to survive. A good sign: we will not be attending the birthday party to which the Crazy Lady might attend.
That was the lady who chased Keith around a trailer. I was assured later that "she always acts crazy when she's been drinking too much" and usually our well meaning hostess had a chance to warn the unsuspecting before the Crazy Lady was unleashed. As if that were the issue! The fact that I went unwarned, which presumes that anticipating them would have made the actions just a-ok acceptable.
I don't understand these people.
My life is like some sorry, sordid soap opera. How did this happen? This is absurd; I am simply not cut out for the part. On one of the blogs I follow, I saw a picture of the Prudential building in down town Boston and it literally brought tears to my eyes. Something about the winter light, the particular grey of the city street; I felt like I could smell the city, dirty ocean harbor and brick, salt slush in the gutters and coffee.
Oh, for the straight laced, Puritanical thinking! The unfriendly Yankees with their one and a half acre farms and all the granite pulled out of them now bordering the road, from when great grandpa had sheep.
Nobody waves to anybody there, unless they're personally acquainted. When I came out here and people waved to me, I would get all flustered. "Who the hell are they?" I'd wonder, indignant. "Do I know that person?"
You aren't a local unless your grandfather's father was born there and if your brother is late returning the rental from the General Store, the proprietor will let you know when you go in to pick up a gallon of milk for dinner.
People actually go to town hall meetings, in actual town hall buildings and you expect to hear shouting at the damn things, because, by god, every one's entitled to their own opinion.
You're considered well off if you own land but still go to the Church Bazaar to buy shoes and cultured if you own a house at least two hundred years old, never mind that you have to cover the windows with plastic during the winter to keep the heat in.
The tiny libraries are each in their own little architecturally and historically interesting building, but the selection is going to be limited and they still use an actual hand held stamp with the date when you borrow a book. If they are like the librarians I knew, they will have a hidden chocolate trove somewhere and will know the down low on every patron.
There are Thai and Chinese restaurants in almost every town but a movie theater may be a good forty five minutes to an hour away and going there in the winter might be taking your life in your hands, but at least everyone knows how to drive in the snow, which can't be said for Colorado, where everyone becomes an idiot the first time each season, causing I-25 to become as littered with wrecks as a windshield is with bugs.
If you grew up in southern New Hampshire, then one time or another, you skipped school and took the T down into Boston where you wandered around, giddy at the reach of your adolescent rebellion. You might have done this several times.
Your family vacations in Maine, you ski in Vermont (you don't realize that the skiing is crap and that people from the mid west would tremble to take the ice slick, packed slopes that you consider normal), you make fun of Massachusetts drivers.
You've gone to hear the Boston Pops, you've seen the Nut Cracker at the Opera House and went the Science Museum on a field trip, where the mysteries of outer space and star systems were displayed in all their curved infinity inside the Imax theater. You will forever think that Dunkin' Donuts has the best coffee ever.
And I went and married a cowboy, a darling, rough riding, high living Staff Sergeant in the United States Army who can out drink and out play any Hoosier around. And I'm darn proud of him too. I'm just going to stay home when he goes out to play, is all.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
January 3rd-4th
January 3rd
Today Keith and I went outside for a long walk. He got a Switch Blade for Christmas, a little battery powered plane and he took it with us, to fly out on the golf course. The weather has changed and we now have sun, the thin, white light of winter that often accompanies the bitterly cold temperatures. I don't mind the cold, I'll take sunlight anyway it comes.
Our breath rose up in the air and the girls made a racket in the frozen leaves at the sides of the road. It was noon, but the shadows of the trees still stretched long and thin across the pavement and the chill in their shade made me shiver, even under my many layers.
Keith managed to get the Switch Blade stuck in the reaching limb of an oak tree once, but otherwise, it flew well, scaring the dogs and buzzing like a wasp out of someone's worst nightmare.
When we got home, it was tomato soup and salad for lunch, I have roast planned for dinner.
Tomorrow Keith goes back to work for real and this whole chaotic chapter in our lives, one of transitions and upheaval, closes and a new one opens. It opens into the cold, clear spaces of a new January.
I've always loved this time of year, the light, the relief from the hot and cloying holidays, the heated jumble of overspending, overeating, emotional train wrecking. Though we did plot a pretty direct and satisfying course though them this year. Even so, I'm glad to be out, out into the clear blue cold, the quiet steady rhythm of work, early mornings and chores.
Today Keith and I went outside for a long walk. He got a Switch Blade for Christmas, a little battery powered plane and he took it with us, to fly out on the golf course. The weather has changed and we now have sun, the thin, white light of winter that often accompanies the bitterly cold temperatures. I don't mind the cold, I'll take sunlight anyway it comes.
Our breath rose up in the air and the girls made a racket in the frozen leaves at the sides of the road. It was noon, but the shadows of the trees still stretched long and thin across the pavement and the chill in their shade made me shiver, even under my many layers.
Keith managed to get the Switch Blade stuck in the reaching limb of an oak tree once, but otherwise, it flew well, scaring the dogs and buzzing like a wasp out of someone's worst nightmare.
When we got home, it was tomato soup and salad for lunch, I have roast planned for dinner.
Tomorrow Keith goes back to work for real and this whole chaotic chapter in our lives, one of transitions and upheaval, closes and a new one opens. It opens into the cold, clear spaces of a new January.
I've always loved this time of year, the light, the relief from the hot and cloying holidays, the heated jumble of overspending, overeating, emotional train wrecking. Though we did plot a pretty direct and satisfying course though them this year. Even so, I'm glad to be out, out into the clear blue cold, the quiet steady rhythm of work, early mornings and chores.
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