Tuesday: In which we got our new couch but I don't have much else to say.

(UPDATED with PICTURES!!)

We got our new couch and it’s beautiful! 

It’s surprisingly huge. I knew how long it was going to be (81”), and I knew that wasn’t going to be any bigger than our other couch, so I wasn’t prepared for how tall and cushy it would be.  When I sit on it, my feet don’t touch the floor!  Ha!  The back goes up high enough so that if I wanted to rest my head backwards, it would have a place to rest.  

It’s a perfect shade of grey/tan, and it makes our living room look zen and peaceful.  Also, the accompanying throw pillows have flowers on them that are the same shade of spring green as our “chandelier” (read: paper-lantern-looking, cloth, hanging light fixture), thus tying everything in and completing our massive home-makeover project.  C'est fin!  

(The only negative thing I can say is that the new guy has a pretty powerful new/synthetic smell to it.  I'm tempted to leave it outside to air out tonight, but then I wouldn't have anywhere warm and cozy to enjoy my breakfast in the morning.  Nothing is worse than a frost-covered sofa.  I suppose.)

That’s all for now.  Pictures to follow.  I am now going to attempt the maneuver of propping my Kindle so that I can keep my arms inside the covers and still read and pretend I’m not falling asleep.

Peace. ßSee? My living room made me say that.

Ta-da!!  Sorry it's so dark... it's a rainy day and when I put the flash on, it looked like this:

Blog #2 for today: In which we mourn the loss of things we never should have loved.

I'm going to come clean about a problem that I have.  I personify everything, which makes replacing, throwing away, and generally overall rejecting inanimate objects very painful to me because I become emotionally attached to them.  Rationally, I know this is ridiculous, but nonetheless, it is my brain.

In a comment on a previous post, my mom shared an idea she was considering to help get rid of Christmas chocolate faster in order to combat the fat belly issue that accompanies this time of year.  She is toying with the idea of throwing a piece of chocolate away for every piece of chocolate she eats.

I could never do this.  I'll compare it to my pill thing: when getting my vitamin in the morning, I'll pour them into my hand.  Most of the time more than one will fall out.  I'll play out this scenario where the two pills were either best friends, husband and wife, siblings, whatever, and one is sacrificing itself for the other. "NO!  Take ME instead!  I LOVE YOU!!  I LOVE YOU-HOOHOOHOO!! NNOOOOOO!!!!!!"

Heartbreaking, right?  So, the chocolate thing would never work, because then I'd imagine all of the chocolates huddling together for comfort.  The chocolate pieces would sit together discussing either fulfilling their martyr-destiny of being eaten, or getting old and being thrown away -- which is sad because the chocolates sat and waited, probably finally coming to terms with the martyr-destiny, only to spoil, get that white chalky coating, and be thrown away cold and alone among other trash items.  The riff-raff of the food world:  coffee grounds, chicken trimmings, eggshells.

Saddest and most disturbing of all, however, is this new and inherently wrong idea of being thrown into the trash in the chocolate's prime.  I imagine, despite myself, that the chocolate pieces catch wind that their eater is going to eat one piece and then choose another piece for sacrifice to the garbage.  Now there is a whole new cause of unrest and disturbance in the candy basket.  Picturing the chocolates like this is too much for me.

That's truly crazy and I wouldn't blame you for considering not reading another word I write for as long as we both shall live.  The true reason for this blog post is something a little more understandable.  I shared the pill and chocolate examples, though, to convey how much more magnified my feelings are toward the subject.  So here it goes.

We're getting a new couch.  Marcus and I just celebrated three years of matrimony.  About four years ago, we made our first major purchase together.  After we got engaged, we bought a couch for $400.  At the time, we probably high-fived and congratulated ourselves on such a frugal find!  The couch has been through a lot,

(This was the night we spilled potato and leek soup on it.  We brought the cushion into the kitchen to clean it off, just to explain the setting.)

but it's been a good couch for our first three years.  Neville has taken to sitting on the back cushions, which has caused a serious squashedness overall.  We've also had to switch out the seat cushions because they sag in one ::ahem:: particular spot where some fatty sits every morning and drinks her coffee, and every evening watches TV.

We've done a makeover on our greatroom recently, kind of accidentally.  I won't get into the details, but needless to say one project causes other projects, and we became increasingly aware of the necessity for our couch to be replaced with something of a bit higher quality.

As excited as I am to put the cherry on top of the massive greatroom project, of course I'm more than just a little nostalgic and straight-up depressed about saying goodbye to our old couch.

The new one came in faster than I was planning.  I wanted to get the old couch prepped for sendoff.  I was planning on removing the cushion covers and washing them (as I learned this can be done after the leek soup fiasco), vacuuming out the inside, and getting it all spiffed up for a new owner.  My brother and Marcus are taking it to St. Paul's thrift store in the morning on their way to pick up the new one.

 A lot of thought went into the donation location.  Initially I was going to donate it to Goodwill.  I'm going to be picky about who buys our couch, even though I'll never know where it'll end up and have little (if any) control over this factor.  I figured that the likelihood of some kid who got kicked out of his parents' house for being a bum buying it and putting it in a rundown apartment, spilling bong water on it and putting cigarette holes in the upholstery is less if I donate it to a church's thrift store.  I like to think if I take it to St. Paul's, some nice retiree will buy it for his or her new place, and on it good books will continue to be read, crossword puzzles will be worked, and coffee (even if it is decaf) will be enjoyed.

Tomorrow morning I'll drink my last cup of coffee and enjoy my last zucchini muffin while sitting in my dented-in spot.  I know it's ridiculous, but my heart aches to say goodbye to our first couch.

Taken minutes before they hauled it off.  We thought it was appropriate to include the pillows that came with the couch.

Tomorrow, we'll welcome the new guy.

And now...

Alright.  Here we are and it’s after Christmas.  Sure enough, I got what I was hoping for—a Kindle.  Do you think I’m going to be able to talk about it, though?  Of course not!  It’s Christmas weekend, and any attempt for real quality time I’ve made with my Kindle has been sabotaged in one way or another.

In my short, and very sweet time with it so far, I’ve discovered that I can’t live without the dictionary feature, but it’s very, very distracting and I find that I want to look up any and all words that aren’t solid members of my vocabulary yet, regardless of whether I can assume the meaning from context.  I hope this new habit doesn’t prove detrimental to my mad context-clues skills. 

I’ve begun reading Cutting for Stone by someone whose name I can’t pronounce and/or remember to save my life.  It’s about twins born in Ethiopia to an Indian nun and an Englishmen, both of whom practiced medicine.  From what I can tell so far, the nun-mother is dead, but evidently the people she left behind were not entirely scandalized that she, a nun, somehow got pregnant without immaculate conception.  One of the twins is narrating – I’m in the prologue, so I haven’t really started yet, I don’t guess – and it starts out with his four-year-old self exploring his mothers desk that has been preserved as she left it in a missionary hospital, and wondering about a particular framed print of St. Theresa being shot in the heart by cupid. 

So far,  (and according to my Kindle, I’m only 2% through the book) I love the language and the general feel of the book.  My friend, Laura, who recommended the book to me in a comment on the Book Monkey on my Back entry, said that this book ruins all other books, because none are written so beautifully.  I hate to ruin any other books for myself, but I found that I couldn’t pass up the chance to read a book that pales all other books in comparison.  What would you do?

I’m writing this first on Microsoft Word, (for Mac.  And the rendition is grossly inferior, but whattaya gonna do?) because Marcus has unplugged the Internet from the wireless router so that it goes directly into the PC because our router doesn’t have enough ports to run them both, and the PC has no air card. 

He did this last night to setup his new Civilization V game, which I believe he may have played until 2 am.  I don’t feel like going in there this morning, crawling under the desk in that disaster of a room (thanks to Christmas decoration boxes and other such junk) in my delicate state of sleepiness to fool with Ethernet cables and wireless routers.  That is not my cup o’ tea. 

* * Significant Lapse of Time * *

I’m home from work now, Internet is back up, and I’m about to post this!  I thought I may have had more to say by the time I got home from the first day back to work after Christmas, but as it turns out, I don’t.  Plus, I have pizza waiting to be eaten, and it’s taking serious precedence.   

A Christmas Eve dream that has nothing to do with Christmas Eve

I know I said I wasn't planning on writing more til after Christmas, but I have a little bit of time (that I should be using to wrap and make cookies) and I wanted to share my dream.

I dreamed I was at my old high school and I was searching for my old friends.  I found a couple of them sitting in the courtyard, which was way smaller than it used to be when I was in school there.  They wanted to go to the auditorium for some sort of speech or assembly that was optional.  When I got there, I was late (I somehow got separated from my friends) and I walked across the top of a few refreshment tables and kicked over a bunch of things trying to get from the entrance of the auditorium to the exit.  Suddenly, I was MUCH taller than everyone else!  Freakishly so, like Alice.  I couldn't be small enough, and everyone was staring at me as if they were waiting for me to provide some explanation for my massive size.  I pretended they weren't looking and sat down in the aisle.

At some point in the dream, after the assembly and after I had returned to my natural size, my friends were asking for my email password so that they could email me (why they needed my password, who knows, but it made sense enough to my dream self), and I was signing it to them in American Sign Language alphabet.  They didn't understand and kept excitedly guessing the wrong letters, as if it were some mystery game.  I yelled at them because we had always signed to each other in high school to talk when we were told to be quiet.

Later, we all convened in some large room.  At first, I was talking to Keith Richards through a little ticket window, but he was also George Harrison (but mostly he was Keith Richards).  He was telling me how Mick always stole his girlfriends.  I told him that surely that wasn't true.  He started naming 60's and 70's supermodels that they had both dated, and I admitted he had a point.  Then, I told him that I was always more attracted to him than Mick, anyway (the Keith Richards that looks more like George Harrison, at least) and then, embarrassed, I slunk away.

My friends had doubled, tripled, quadrupled in numbers, and I didn't remember or know most of them in the first place.  Everyone was crowding around in a big circle to visit, which, even in a dream I thought was kind of weird.  They set up chairs in a big amoeba-shaped circle around an old bar.  I ended up sitting in between some of the folks I either didn't remember or didn't ever know, but I had a blast.

Then, in real life, Neville stood on my bladder and I woke up.

Christmas

Guess what!  Pretty soon many of my blogs will be about my new Kindle and all of the amazing books I'm reading on it!

They will also be about playing on the Wii, which was last year's Christmas gift, because while it's not the toughest workout around, it is the most fun and it's much better than not doing anything at all!  Plus, my posture is atrocious, as it so often tells me, condescendingly.

It also may mention how much I hate the task of un-decorating.  That's okay, though.  This year, we hardly decorated and it's been kind of nice!  We have our tree up, our Nativity scene out, our stockings hanging from each end of the curtain rod, and a couple of other decorative knickknacks.

We finally got our plans worked out.  Tonight, I'll go to my parents' house and help my mom cook and prepare.  And maybe have a little "cheer." And listen to music.  Tomorrow, I'll mostly work on cleaning my house.  I'll drop into my Grandmother's party for a bit, but since we live next door, I may also bake Tollhouse.  Then, at 3:30 is the Christmas Eve Service at Fairhope United Methodist!

We're changing it up a little this year with our traditions.  The six of us (being, Mama, Daddy, Alex, Elizabeth, Marcus and myself) are going to do our Christmas on Christmas Eve this year.  We concluded that it made it as fair as possible for us to have enough time to spend a good bit of Christmas with Marcus's family.  Last year they got the tiniest wedge of our time, which isn't right.

On Christmas morning, Marcus will sleep in, (because Lord knows, he needs to!) and I'll get up and work on getting ready and cooking and whatnot.  Lunch is at Papa's house with my EXTRA SPECIAL, AMAZING, FABULOUS, BEAUTIFUL, TALENTED, INTELLIGENT family at or around 11:00 (with my family, you never know! 11:00 may mean 1:00, or 1:30. . . )

Anyway, after lunch and coffee and relaxing and visiting with my family, we'll head over to have the rest of Christmas with Marcus's family.  The forecast calls for a tiny chance of snow, which means that mostly it'll be disgusting, wet, slippery rain.  I'm glad we're at least staying local!

I'm guessing that I won't blog again until the day after Christmas, because the madness and mayhem begins this evening at 6:30, but you never know.  Just in case, I hope everyone has a Merry Christmas!!

Fat Belly

The season is upon us.  I have been eating a tiny bit heavier everyday, feeling a little sorrier for myself everyday, and getting a little thicker through the middle everyday.  I made this realization to my mom this morning:  I was telling her that I wasn't feeling great, and she suggested I drink a coke.  I drink a coke anytime I'm feeling sick in one way or another.  Diarrhea?  Coke.  Nausea?  Coke.  Headache?  Coke.  Any combination of the above deserves a coke.

Then, something happens.

Anytime I feel sick in any or all of the aforementioned ways, I feel rather sorry for myself.  The Pavlov's Dog thing kicks in, so that anytime I feel sorry for myself for reasons emotional, physical, mental, bratty, or otherwise, I crave a coke.  It's my reward for being so sad and pitiful.  (I usually only drink half of it, though, because I only like extremely cold coke.  As soon as it's not extremely cold, I lose interest.  This usually happens halfway through.)

I've been feeling alright most days, but the closer it gets to Christmas, the less I see of my husband, and the more stress that's on everyone that I come in contact with because right now, almost every American in some way or other is on a deadline that comes due on December 24th around 3pm.

Even if I'm feeling fine, somehow, somewhere, someone will be difficult  to me in my sensitive state and will cause me to think things like, No one else has to wait on demon-possessed customers if they don't want to.  Then, I'm reminded (by myself or someone else if I think the previous statements aloud) that that's not at all true.  I counter with But they have a choice.  I don't.  At which point I realize the ridiculousness of my thoughts and I can no longer speak (which is best), so I just swig my coke down and gaze out the window at the mall traffic jam or the grown, bearded, balding man who ran, grabbed the light pole, and tried to swing his body around it, either like a pole-dancing hooker, or a little boy.  Let's assume the latter and move on.

These days have been happening much more frequently, so I've either consumed more cokes than normal, or more candy than normal since it's readily available.  I'm working on getting rid of it (by eating all of it).  As soon as I get close, some other thoughtful moron brings our office more chocolate.  I swear I'm the only one working on getting rid of the temptation.

Do you think it would be less fattening overall if I sat and ate all of it at once?  How does that work?  It seems like one massive indulgence wouldn't be so bad as a habit of significantly smaller, yet not totally insignificant indulgences spread out several times a day, everyday during an entire holiday season.  What do I know, though.  I'm not a nutritionist.  Although being a nutritionist would be really cool . . .  I guess, if my coworkers want to be all willpower-ey, they can.  I'll get fat for their sakes.

I don't know if this is weird or not, but I'll risk it to prove my point.  Often, at some point during a bathroom trip, at home, at work . . . usually not at public facilities, I look at my belly.  I either look at it to admire it's near-flatness and general nice shape, or I'll look at it to monitor it's growth and Jabba-the-Hutt-like qualities.  I've always done this.  I don't feel critical towards it, so it's not really a dangerous thing, just in case you were worried.  Anyway, last night while performing this ritual, I wondered how big it really would be if I pushed it out as far as it would go.

I'm not kidding.  I looked 6 months pregnant.  After I relaxed it, I still kind of looked 6 months pregnant, except I was carrying this coke-and-candy baby lower.

Recently, while walking down to the bay with a bunch of my cousins, I discovered that it's sort of a family trait to always have somewhat of a belly.  I shared with them that I had gotten down to too-skinny for my wedding and I still had a little belly.  My youngest cousin (who is very short, so the following is okay and not scary) said that she got down to 98 lbs and still had hers.  I think it made us all feel much better and more accepting of it.

I'm accepting that one will always be there, but I feel much more affectionate towards a little one than a 6-month-pregnant-with-no-baby one.  I'm not making a diet resolution, though.  I don't like the way I look or feel while I'm like this.  I have a tremendous amount more digestive issues, and I feel sluggish, physically when I don't eat right.  I don't require a resolution, because it's the natural order of things.  Once the holidays are over, I'll be happier, more relaxed, and there will be less need to medicate with candy and sugary, carbonated beverages.

So there.  Ta-da!

(Does anyone else feel the need to end their blog post with some sort of dumb last-word thing?)

Almost

Unfortunately for you, the reader that hopes for something fun and interesting to read, and fortunately for me, the crash test dummy, I have a lot of things that almost happen to me.  Lately, when these things almost happen, I think "Wow!  I'm glad I skirted that one, but it definitely would have been something funny or interesting to blog about!"

For example, last night, I was trying to close the curtains behind the Christmas tree.  I reached my hand behind the tree beyond my reach, resulting in my almost topple into the fully decorated Christmas tree.  I hit a few ornaments, touched my face to a few branches, but nothing fell off, nothing broke, I didn't hurt myself at all.  Horror of Horrors!!

I don't even like to jinx myself by bringing this up.  I never wish anything of this nature would happen to me just for the pathetic sake of blogging.  I work at a bank in or near the only traditional mall in Baldwin County, which is one of the highest-populated counties in Alabama.  The traffic up there this time of year is . . . there isn't the right adjective to tell you how heavy and ridiculous it is.  What's more, people will straight UP try to run over pedestrians.  What changes in the mind of a normal-shopper when the shopper makes the transformation into a Christmas-shopper, I do not know.

Raw animal instinct takes over.  I must buy that sweater for Uncle Joe!  Survival of the fittest!  Look!  That person has left the protective covering of her vehicle!  Let's eliminate the competition!  Like a gazelle in the Serengeti.  The gazelle is only trying to get to her office, but the lions are hungry.  Wait, they aren't hungry.  They want shoes!  They want to take the gazelle out for the SPORT of it!

It's amazing the number of people who wait til the last minute, KNOWING that they won't be able to find a parking place.  Knowing they'll get in a huge traffic jam.  Knowing the crowds they'll have to battle.  If you knew that here it is, 4 days before Christmas, and the mall is as jam-packed as it was a week ago, you'd be ashamed at your unprepared kinsmen.

Needless to say, I could easily be run over walking into my workplace this time of year.  It has almost happened almost everyday!

Communication

It bums me out when I occasionally realize my feelings about certain things are very normal, very commonplace.  It makes me feel like my thoughts are nothing special or independent to my brain.

Then again, most times I think that I don't see the world the way most everyone else sees it.  That my problems and my thoughts and feelings are just not expressed very well, so that others believe my thoughts are the same as theirs because they can't understand what I'm really saying.  When I finally make a breakthrough in conveying my opinion or explanation of feeling towards one thing or another, I get that ever-so-original comment, "Tell us how you really feel!"

How incredible is that?  "Incredible" in a more literal sense.  Or is that un-credible?

People say they long for authenticity, but when they hear something that doesn't coincide with their line of thinking, they're uncomfortable.  They say things like, "Tell us how you really feel!" and sever whatever tie they may have been able to make by attempting to understand the outside perspective.  Not only does that person communicate that s/he thinks I'm being absurd, s/he completely isolates me in my opinion, validating the insecurities in my own thoughts.  People can be harsh.

I was recently told that when a person is unable to communicate what s/he is trying to say to someone else, the Communicator is the one with the problem.  It is often not the Recipient of the communication who is at fault.   For example, if I say something in Italian to someone who only speaks Russian, it's my fault for speaking Italian instead of Russian.   I thought that was an interesting way to think of it.

In this line of thinking, people who suffer being "misunderstood" are the ones at fault for that.  I can't believe this as blanket truth, though.  Sometimes the Recipient is stubborn and chooses not understand something that the Communicator is trying to convey.  The Recipient does this by shutting comprehension out entirely, thereby sabotaging his or her ability to understand.  S/he hears but is not listening.  I'm guilty of this.  I recently had a certain idea in my mind so completely, that when that thought was corrected and cleared up, I was still of my original mind, and unwilling to accept the truth.  That isn't the Communicator's fault.  It's mine.

[Nerdy-yet-clueless moment:  It is really hard to write in that perspective--one in which neither the reader nor the writer, nor any specific person or persons are involved.  Speaking in "ones" and "s/he" and whatnot . . .  I keep trying to slip into the habit of saying, "you do this, you do that."  This is technically incorrect, though, because using the word "you" in that context is telling the reader something about his or herself.  This isn't what I'm trying to do.  Is it okay to use "you" collectively, though?  That's how I'd mean it, but it just sounds like a 4th grade demonstration assignment.  "This is how you make a peanut butter sandwich."  The response to that would be "This is how I make a peanut butter sandwich?  Who are YOU to tell ME how I make a peanut butter sandwich?" and that isn't the intent of the original sentence.  Usually, to accompany this misuse of "you," the completely disagreeing use of "they" and "them" is used in place of a single, asexual person.  This probably isn't making sense.  It is entirely likely that YOU will not understand this paragraph, and that will be entirely my fault!]

Back to the topic.  I've really been aware of how pathetically I communicate with most everyone.  I think this is why I like to write.  I can type something ridiculous like, "The dinosaur footprint in my living room trips me up every time I walk in the front door," and then delete it.  No one has to see it.  I get to think of how I want to word what I'm trying to say, read over it to make sure it sounds right, wait a while and look at it again to make sure it still says what I want it to say, and then send it on.  Easy.  Cheating, right?  I guess not.  Writing is legit.

I just find myself talking to people and, based on their responses, I realize they really missed what I meant for them to understand.  This happens more often than not, it seems.  I usually let it go because chances are, I should have just kept my mouth closed.  Though, if it's a terrible misunderstanding, I'll try to fix it.

I just typed that and I'm mostly lying.  That last bit made it sound like it's no skin off my back if someone misunderstands me.  I usually do let it go but it's not without great effort, and plenty of anxiety because now that person has the wrong idea.  I know it, but that person doesn't.

I think my sitting up in bed typing is bothering Marcus, who has to get up at the most ungodly hour of 1:45 tomorrow morning.  Peak season at UPS!

With that, I'll say goodnight.

Weekend Recap: Diary Post Edition

Because it's Christmastime, I'm finding myself on my laptop less and less, but I have more and more thoughts to record.  The problem is, I'll think the recordable thought, then think, That'd be good to blog about, and then it's gone.  I will sometimes text the thought to myself, but that makes me feel slightly pathetic.  This is especially true when I send the text, and then a half-second later it pops in on my phone and I get that excited, Ooh!  I have a text, feeling.  Lame-o.

Some of the thoughts will probably come to me if I just do a bit of a recap, as uninteresting as that may be.

On Friday night, Marcus and I celebrated 3 years by going out to eat at Jesse's in Magnolia Springs.  It was very romantic.  Candlelight, classical Christmas music alternating with foreign opera.  For the occasion, I decided to order the most typical fancy-restaurant item on the menu.

I ordered their special salad to start, and then straight up ordered the Filet and Lobster.  I thought I didn't like lobster, but I may have judged it to harshly in the past since my only two experiences eating it were at a hibachi restaurant and another time on a cruise.  I was so very wrong about it, though.  It's somewhere between crab and shrimp, but closer to shrimp.  That is, until I got to the claw. It tasted like the most delicious, flavorful crab I had ever eaten.

Then, for dessert, and because it was our anniversary, we got a free creme broulee!  I recited the entire scene in My Best Friend's Wedding about creme broulee and Jell-O.  I had also never had creme broulee before, either, and it was marvelous!  It was made with Kahlua!  Somewhere toward the end of dinner, Marcus reached into his pocket and started to look embarrassed and happy the way he does, and I thought, Oh!  He's going to propose to me! but then that idea was dashed when I realized he already did that several years ago.  Rats.  Anyway, he didn't propose, but he DID give me a beautiful necklace for Chistmaversary!  Hooray!

Saturday we attended our friend Dana's wedding.  We were late (actually we were right on time, but with weddings, that tends to be inappropriate, as the wedding party is kind of trying to walk down the aisle at the same time).  We slid in, unnoticed by the congregation, but very noticed by the bride!  She was so adorable, waving excitedly at us even though we were kind of messing up the processional.  The floors were wood plank and I was wearing insanely uncomfortable peep-toe, high-heeled shoes, and to add injury to avoid more embarrassment, I had to make sure the big heels didn't clonk noisily on the floor while running to find our seats.  After all of that, I was thoroughly flustered and couldn't really relax.

It was a beautiful ceremony in a gorgeous Catholic church (designed in part by the Father of the Bride, who is an architect) with one of those successive stained-glass window pictures of the Immaculate Conception, birth, life, death, and resurrection of Christ.  I realized a few times during the service that I was childishly looking all around the church at the pictures in the glass, and not paying attention as well as an adult might.

Afterword, we made our way to the reception.  It was at another church's fellowship hall and it was exquisitely decorated by the families of the bride and groom.  They used mix-matched china for the place settings, and served soup and salad.  It was all delicious!  I ate a pumpkin bisque.  The band sounded great and Marcus and I danced to "Something" by the Beatles.  I typically don't dance unless I've been drinking (and that may also be true for a lot of people), so that was the only song we danced to, but it was fun.

Today, we ran into the father, mother, and brother of the bride at Walmart after church.  We went into the entrance to get a Redbox movie for tonight.  Actually, we first ran into my mom, then Dan, Angie, and Justin came by and we talked, and then our friend Katie walked in!  It was a wonderful, irritating-to-others reunion!  Anyway, the point is, it's okay for me to say that there would have been more dancing if there was booze, because Dan said so.  (It wasn't allowed since it was at a church.)

I'm sorry this blog isn't very interesting--it reads like a diary, and none of the bloggable thoughts surfaced in the process.

Ohh, good news (to us)!  We ordered a couch from La-Z-Boy a few weeks ago.  La-Z-Boy makes each couch to order, right here in the U.S. of A., so the wait is usually 4-5 weeks.  However, since it's Christmas, it could take as long as 8 weeks.  We called today just to see where we were in the process and when we could expect it.  The woman that answered the phone said that it should arrive just after Christmas!  Woohoo!

My brain is shutting down because it's Sunday afternoon and there are naps to be taken and cookies to be baked.  I know you're wondering what movie we rented at Redbox.  We rented A Christmas Carol (the one with Jim Carrey).  I wanted to see it last year, but never got to the theater.  A lot of people said it was too scary for children, (Parents of small children run that risk assuming the movie sticks to the original plot of the book.  Hello?), but I'm curious.

Okay, nap time, cookie time, and movie time!

Update: 10:36 pm, Monday night, more than 24 hours after watching the movie.  I will report that the movie was, as expected, quite scary and disturbing.  This wasn't my gripe, though.  I needed subtitles because I'm completely unable to understand a cockney British accent.  I was able to hear key words like, "Christmas!" and "Bah, humbug!" and "Dead!"  I am not exaggerating.  If I didn't know the story already, I would have been laughably lost!  I also didn't take a nap OR make cookies like I said I would.  Instead, we anally and precicely hung pictures in the living and dining rooms using our level.

The Book Monkey is on my back.

In my first post, I talked about this spreadsheet that I'll be using to keep track of all the books I read.  I wasn't sure what the "rules" were for this (and there must be rules), so I asked the creator of the spreadsheet: my mother.  She said she only records things that she has never read before, or a re-read that may as well be new because it's been an unknown amount of time since she read it last.  Fair enough, but now that I finished the GL&PPPS, what should I read!?

I drive everyone insane about my quest for the next most excellent book.  It makes me and everyone around me much more comfortable if I have a lineup.  If I don't, I obsess.  I talk about it constantly, I pour over the Barnes & Noble website, I ask people for suggestions and then I don't take them.

(I really don't ignore the suggestions, for the record.  I file them away.  The problem is that when I ask people what I should read next, what I don't tell them is that I have a specific vibe of a book that I need to read next based on the end of the last book I finished.  I either need a complete change of scenery, or I need something to segue smoothly out of something I'm not ready to part with quite yet.  I have trouble explaining this to people without sounding insane or revealing my anal-retentive ways, so I usually just ask for blanket suggestions.)

This time, I'm trying to be calm about the fact that I don't have a new book lined up.  I want one because I don't want there to be a date gap in my "ended" column of my last book and the "started" column of the next book, but I also don't want to be enraptured with a new book when I receive my Kindle in 10 days.  The Kindle will need my full and undivided attention because I'm not sure how I'll adjust to non-traditional reading material.  Conundrum.

What I'm currently doing is finishing a re-read that got put on the back burner when I started a new book, two new books ago.  It's kind of boring, though, because the momentum is lost.  I also thought about starting a non-novel, but I have the very hardest time in the world reading those before bed because I'll drop right off to sleep and never, ever finish them.

I also have books in my shelf that haven't been read, and I'm pretty sure I won't be too enraptured with them to detract from the Kindle, but they intimidate me.  I hate to admit this.  I like to conquer books.  I normally tackle books that intimidate me so that I can be victorious over them.

I have a few reasons for my reservations, though.

1.  I'm afraid I won't get it.  Nothing in the world is worse than realizing I'm too dense to read something that is written in English.

2.   I'm afraid it'll be dull.  Okay, I'm just going to say it.  I don't care for Jane Austen novels, and I have three in my bookcase.  I know the dialogue is witty and charming and adorable and there are all sorts of social happenings, but it doesn't do it for me.  I can totally appreciate it, but for me, it leaves something to be desired.  I like adventure.  I like for people to be almost dead or bleeding or lost forever or being chased or on a quest.  I like for there to be witty dialogue and strong character interaction as well, but not at the expense of some action.  I know you're thinking, "There isn't a whole lot of action in The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society!" but that's where you're wrong!  Concentration camps, German Occupation of English islands, the sea, free-spirited people, and books.  Where there is history, there is action, and there is history in that book.

3.  Alright, maybe I just have two reasons, but those reasons are pretty legit.

Maybe I'll bite the bullet and try The Picture of Dorian Gray again.  I can't remember why I put it down.  I probably just got distracted, although it was awfully bizarre.  Bizarre doesn't bother me, though.

Just in case anyone was wondering.

Stamps Rant

The difficult thing about blogging is that, in contrast with an email, there is no direct audience.  Today, I spent my morning blog time emailing a good friend because, like I said to her, I didn't have anything to blog about.  My blog would have said something along the lines of, "I'm so tired.  I got up this morning, banged my injured knee on the bathroom cabinet, and then made my way into the kitchen.  Then, I made myself a cup of coffee and warmed a zucchini muffin in the microwave.  Now, I'm eating said muffin and drinking my coffee.  The End."  Not that I would end a blog post with "The End," but still. 

I had plenty of things to talk to my friend about, because she's a specific person.  Whereas, I have no idea who is reading my blog (if anyone), so my posts tend to be less specific to any one particular reader.

I'm not sure who would care about such pointless things.  Regardless of the concern, onto an actual, albeit unmeaningful post.

Did you know that stores can charge more than face-value for stamps?  This makes no sense.  How can a store earn a profit on federal property?  Marcus told me to let it go, so if he reads this, he'll probably be irritated that I'm still stewing, but it's the principal.  I asked him to pick up two books of Christmas stamps for the Christmas cards that I was, on the clock, filling out and addressing.  When he brought them to me, I saw that they charged $10.80 for a book instead of $8.80, even though the books had $8.80 printed on them.

I called the store to ask, wondering if maybe the man who rang Marcus up keyed the price in wrong, and he very smugly answered that yes, they do charge more than face-value, in almost a challenging way.  I was stunned into silence, thanked him, and hung up. 

I angrily placed each stupid stamp on the Christmas card envelopes, noting that the stamps aren't even all that cute this year.  If you receive a Christmas card from me, please know that that stamp cost $0.54 instead of $0.44 and it was placed on the envelope with a resentful attitude.  Okay, maybe I'm not THAT angry about it, but seriously, did anyone know that this was allowed?

I finished Guernsey!

Ta-da!

It's 11:45 on Monday night and I just pried The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society out of my hands.  I finished it and then couldn't bring myself to set the book down.  I am always fascinated by the different effects each new book has on me.  I felt no need for additional closure with this one, but for whatever reason, I felt like I could soak more of the book through the skin on my hands if I just kept holding it.

The book itself (the physical paper of the book) was a gift from my parents to Meme on her last birthday.  I don't know if she ever read it, but I feel like she has read it now, through me.  We won't get into the inherent spookiness of that last sentence, but just to say that I don't mean it the way it sounds.  After she died, my cousins and I agreed to let her live on in and through us, her grandchildren.  I believe she can see our joy in life and in the things that we love most--the qualities and interests we possess from being hers.  I stared at the words inside the front cover from Mama to her Mama on her 81st birthday.  Mama gave me the book after Meme died, and it feels like more than just a good book, but something I was meant to read.  Between adoring the book with a part of my heart that I didn't realize I had, and the book having belonged to Meme, I guess I understand why I had a hard time setting it down.

Normally, I feel so accomplished and free after finishing a book that I immediately snap it shut and set it down in my book cubby in my bedside table, but not with this one.  The only reason I was able to set it down was because I wanted to document my findings in my blog--my blog that I haven't written in in a few days due to a massive painting project going on in my house that requires all of my waking/non-working/non-reading attention.

I've had one other book that I thought I was going to hold forever after I finished it, and it was The Help by Kathryn Stockett.  I didn't hang onto it feeling satisfied and unwilling to release myself from that feeling in the same way as the GL&PPPS made me feel.  I clung to The Help because I felt changed, heartbroken, enlightened, moved, and inspired after reading it.

On the last page of the GL&PPPS, there was a quote by Juliet that I thought was noteworthy:

"This obsession with dignity can ruin your life if you let it."

Kind of simple, but very profound.  If only making note of a quote would actually be enough to take heed of its advice.  Maybe it can.

Late Night Impromptu Entertainment

I like to document such things properly.

Marcus talks in his sleep.  It's been some of the best entertainment in almost three years of marriage.  I first discovered this while sitting up in bed (as I am now, at 2 am). I always respond to him in hopes that he'll keep talking.

The following was my first encounter with conversing with a sleep talker.

Marcus: That's quite a jacket you've got there.
Me: (stifling laughter) What?
Marcus: That's quite a jacket you've got. (Reaches over and feels my arm) Well, you're not wearing a jacket at all.

There have been many other instances throughout the years.  It doesn't happen so often that it's commonplace, but it happens often enough for there to be plenty to record.

Last night he spoke in French.

Marcus: Je vais vous?
Me: Beg pardon? (I'm getting good at responding, but that one caught me off guard)
Marcus: What was your autopsy?
Me: Gunshot wound.

The best part of the whole thing is right at the end when he resumes sleeping, there's always a nice, definitive snore.

Just a few minutes ago, he sat up in bed violently, and collided with my open laptop.

Marcus: Woooaaahhh.  Woah.
Me: What was it?  What happened?
Marcus: It was a huuuuuuge mouse.  Like, bigger than Neville.  We were fighting it, and then I was running away.
Me: Well, did you get away from it?
Marcus: No!  It attacked me!

This conversation, I believe, was with mostly-awake Marcus.  We'll see if he can remember it at all in the morning.

Okay, seeing as how it's 2:08 am, I'm going to try and sleep, even though I got my 2nd wind.  Tomorrow we're painting the great room and kitchen and eating sushi at Master Joe's as my office Christmas party for lunch, so I'll need my strength.  Plus, it's too cold to keep my arms out of the covers any longer.

Something Between a PETA Rant and a Native American Connection?

Adios to the good friend who was killed 30 years ago today.  Exactly three years and five months before I was born.  Continue to rest in peace, John Lennon.

Okay different subject.  So the other day I talked about how I was having a hard time putting down The GL&PPPS.  Well, it got kind of depressing.  Some woman who feels the way I do about domestic animals just had to write a letter to Juliet telling of the horrendous things that went on as a result of the abandonment of thousands of family pets during the German Occupation.  I'm afraid to pick it back up.

Feeling the way I do about domestic animals is a crippling love.  I feel so powerless to all of the evil that these animals are subject to, without defense.  They depend on humans solely, and to let them down is deplorable.

I want to rescue them all and see them to homes deserving of their undying devotion, but I know this is impossible.  It's impossible in part because there are only a small handful of homes that fit this description on this earth.  The number of pets to the number of homes that deserve the love of those pets is a Dolly Parton fraction, and their lives at these otherwise loving homes would be unpleasant as a result.  It leaves me with an incurable, sickening sadness that there's nothing that I can do.

I love my pets more than I possibly can, hoping that somehow, some sort of supernatural phenomenon will occur where, as I love and play with Seamus, and if I concentrate my effort and my intentions enough, all other neglected and mistreated dogs will feel inexplicably loved and attended to, too.  This feels more possible than the former impossible feat, and the only way I can manage to face this reality is to believe that it works that way with the telekinetic love thing.

Telekinetic Love Thing.  Good band name.

I had to add a picture of my rescue, since I was on the subject.  Isn't he wonderful?

Depressing subject!  So, let's talk about something else.

I got boots today!  They're brown and tall and simple and exactly the right balance between casual and dressy.  These boots are a big deal because I don't have any real boots, and I've waited for three years to get myself some.  They were on sale at Shoe Station, and then we had a coupon.  There's nothing better than that, is there?

Um... What else?  We got peppermint holiday coffee creamer to put in holiday coffee!  OR to put in hot chocolate so that then we have hot mint chocolate!  How incredible is that?

There are 17 days til Christmas, and this year I'm only buying for my parents and three sweet little boys.  Two nephews and a . . . cousin's baby.  How does that work?  When a first cousin has a baby, what is that baby in relation to me?  What about to any future children that I may have?  It wouldn't be so simple as them being second or third cousins, would it?  Why is the cousin thing so complicated?

I guess I've run out of happy things to keep me distracted from the sad thing.  Heeeyyy.  I said I wasn't going to post sad things to this blog.  Or maybe I said I wouldn't post angry or grouchy things.  I'm not grouchy, so it's okay.  Anyway, I think now would be a good time to trudge along with Guernsey until I get over the high offense of drawing my attention to the irrecoverably sad.

Buh-bye! <-- Remember that, from middle school?

Sitcom Dream

Let's talk about my dream, shall we?

First, some explanation:  I was on the phone with my friend last night.  I shared some hormonal information that I won't share on here that made her think that I needed to take an at-home pregnancy test, JUST to be sure.  Rationally, I know that there is really no need for me to take one, but of course there's always that iota of doubt that throws all rationality to the wayside.  I'm pretty sure all of my pregnancy tests that I bought during a bright moment that I thought, "You don't want to have to run out to the store for one of these when you need one!" are expired.  I resolved to worry about it later since it was about 1 o'clock in the morning, and just go to bed.

Onto the dream:

I was in some sort of convention center for some very unorganized reason.  I decided that the time was right for me to take my at-home pregnancy test based on my conversation with my friend.  I found "my" pregnancy test and had the foresight to check the expiration date.  Of course, it expired back in 2008, but luckily, the gum that came with the stick was still good.  It was some sort of activator gum that was supposed to encourage your body to be in its true state--pregnant or not-pregnant--to discourage any false positives or negatives. (Brilliant idea, huh?)  I started chewing the gum.

In the hallway, some girl said, "I'm going to Walgreen's, do you need anything?" and I told her that yes, as a matter of fact, I needed an at-home pregnancy test.  She went and got one and brought it back to me.  Marcus was there and he was trying to help me find a location to take it.

I was having trouble, though, finding a suitable location.  I tried to take it out in public and a filthy community restroom that had no acceptable stall door and someone pooping in the next stall.  The more unsuitable locations we tried, the more I started to get really upset.

I ran into some girls that I know, during the "let's try and take the test while sitting in a classroom chair" attempt, and they questioned what I was doing, seeing my weird and compromising position of hovering over a plastic chair with my pants around my ankles and Marcus helping me hold my purse and the pregnancy test.  I blew up at them and screamed and yelled and stalked off.  Only my stalking-off attempt was completely unsuccessful because there was no exit in one direction, and then I had to cross the room again and stalk off in another.  All the while, I could hear someones stupid car alarm going off, and it was incredibly irritating.

I realized at some point that it wasn't someones stupid car alarm, but my alarm clock.  I was lying on both of my arms, and my head was buried in the covers.  When I realized what it was, I found that it was difficult to move because both arms were completely asleep, and it was 45 minutes since the last time I had hit snooze!

What I find so bizarre is that I hardly ever have a dream about something disturbing that happened in real life as immediately as the following night's sleep.  Seems like that sort of thing only happens on 90's sitcoms with pink or white haze around the entire scene and cuts back to the dreamer tossing his head back and forth, finally sitting straight up and yelling, "NO-O-O-O!!"

What is nice about the dream is that, no matter how insane the location of my urge to take a pregnancy test was, Marcus was there protecting me and holding my purse and making sure I wasn't alone.  Whatta guy!

Grey Flannel

I was behind my dad walking into church on Sunday morning this past week when I felt overcome by inexplicable contentment and secure happiness.  It took me half a second to realize that I could smell his Grey Flannel cologne, and another half-second to realize it was the reason for my happiness.

Every Sunday morning smelled like Grey Flannel when I was a child and we were all getting ready for church.  It also smelled like that on nights that my parents would get dressed up and go out on a date or for some military formal function.   To me, it's the smell of security, love, and devotion.  I immediately decided that Marcus needed something to be our future children's "Grey Flannel" for their olfactory-stimulated subconscious development.  It can't be Grey Flannel, though, because that's what their granddaddy will smell like to them.

It can't be anything too popular, either.  Part of the reason the smell of Grey Flannel creates such a strong response is that the only person in the whole wide world that I've smelled it on is my Daddy.  After church, I was telling Marcus that we have a quest to find him a cologne that can be like Grey Flannel is to me for our children.  First he reminded me that he likes his Polo Sport.  I reminded him of the importance of it being a rare or original smell, and he suggested we go to Belk and sniff at the fragrance counter.

The problem that we've run into is that every time we grabbed at a cologne we'd never heard of (and therefore know that no one else uses) it smelled like a Russian cab driver.  (I've actually never sniffed a Russian cab driver, nor been in a Russian cab, nor a cab being driven by a Russian, NOR any cab at all!  Anyway, it's an expression.)

I'm not sure why I feel it's necessary to try and recreate my childhood for my children.  It says a lot about my childhood, though.  It says that I must have felt that it was worth replicating.  Or maybe there are wonderful things about it that are worth replicating, and then there are other things about it that, assuming all other things are the same, could be changed and I would have turned out better--less inhibited, more self-loving, etc, and I think maybe a person thinks they get to redo their own lives once they have children.  This is probably a thought only a non-parent would have.  Oh well, we'll see.

I still want Marcus to have a special Sunday morning cologne.

Sunsets and Reading

This really isn't going to be a photo blog, but I just have to show you how incredibly talented my camera is!  My cousin celebrated her 14th birthday today.  She and her family came to Fairhope from their home in Houston and rented a house on the bay for the occasion.  I saw that the sun was about to set, and my mom was trying to see it, but she got cornered by Granny and I could tell she was going to miss it.  I grabbed my camera, remembering that I was going to start taking pictures along with the added moral obligation to at least document what she was missing, being talked-to in depth about tomato cornbread something or other.  

I guess you can't really go wrong with such a subject, but I was thoroughly impressed.  Plus, the end of that pier has a hammock and a bench swing.  It also has no side-rails.  I always hated piers without at least one side-rail.  I couldn't make myself be enough in the center.  I'd try to avoid one side and get too close to the other, then I'd over correct and have a small panic attack.  It's best to stay on the balcony and take pictures with a fancy-pants camera.  

* * * *

Okay, so onto a totally different subject.  I'm currently reading and enjoying The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows.  I'm having a tough time putting it down.  I'm even able to read it at work, which I haven't really been able to do since I've been at the Eastern Shore Center office.  

It had me with a quote fairly early on in the book.  "Perhaps there is some secret sort of homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers. How delightful if that were true."


It's written all in letters to and from a circle of people.  There is a main character, Juliet, and most of the letters are either to or from her, but occasionally some sub characters will correspond with one another.  It takes place just after the German occupation in Guernsey (where the Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society is located, in case that wasn't apparent) and in mainland England somewhere--I should know where, but this isn't a test--during WWII.  Juliet writes books and newspaper columns and has decided, after being contacted by a man in Guernsey concerning a book by a favorite common author, to do a series of articles for the paper about this literary society.  Where I am currently, she's gathering information by writing and receiving letters from the members of the society.

There is an unspoken (or maybe it is spoken--I just never heard it) rule of thumb with books, I've noticed. A majority of the time, a main character (or at least an important and likable sub character) loves to read and loves books.  It ties the reader to the character because the author safely presumes that the reader of his book also loves to read and will at the very least identify with the character in this way.  Readers can pretty much get along with any other reader because that common ground is pretty substantial, and there is always something to discuss.

I always feel somewhat relieved when I find out that a new acquaintence enjoys reading, and also disappointed if they don't.  The disappointment comes in various forms, though, depending on the sort of things the person says regarding reading.  Something like, "I don't have time," causes mild disappointment.

However, this: "I like to experience things for myself.  I don't want to read about other people doing them," causes distaste and extreme agitation.  I think we've all heard that on occasion.  Reacting to a comment like that is impossible, too--usually resulting in the ever so intelligent open-mouthed throat-noises.  It isn't about the reading at that point.  It's about the "zing."  This comment is a not-so-very-well hidden insult, suggesting that I am incapable of my own life.  Anyone who can insult someone so thoroughly is . . . something really awful.

Bringing the plane back in for landing after a tremendous tangent:  GL&PPPS (as we'll affectionately call the book).  The part I'm enjoying most, aside from the fascinating history lesson, is the mini book reviews.  Isola loves all things Brontë, Dawsey loves Charles Lamb, some other guy whose name evades me loves Seneca, and so on.  It's basically been a classics quick-reference for me and my new goal, post-acquisition of said Kindle on December 25th.  I'm so jazzed!

Pictures (this post doesn't really count)

It's going to be tough learning how to not destroy this blog.  Apparently when you click delete while in picture mode, it means "go back in time, before I started typing this blog."  I may be onto something!

Anyway, I was thinking that it would be nice to start taking and sharing pictures as part of blogging regularly, so here's my beautiful Christmas tree that I took no part in decorating:

Somewhere between high school and moving down to the dirty south, I lost my ability to smoothly suggest a photo-op.  I also don't possess that artsy quality where I can lay on the floor or contort in some odd position with my camera trying to find the most excellent shot, and then mess with the "isos" or whatever the heck it's called to make it look fancy and professional.  

Therefore, my cute little blue camera sits in its cute little blue camera case in my purse.  I just backed-up and deleted all of the photos on my camera onto my computer since 2008!  If my memory card can hold almost 3 years worth of pictures all at the same time, that proves to you that I rarely take pictures.  The bulk of the pictures on my camera is the same picture over and over again:  blurry, blurry, blurry, and then the successful one.  ALL saved for later review!

It would be wrong not to show how much my cat enjoys being under the tree, too.  Please excuse the puniness of our tree skirt.  We had a tabletop tree last year and we're pretending this one still fits.  Everyone, meet Neville:

Happy Sunday!

First

I'd be willing to bet that most people's first-ever blog posts will be about the same thing:  the goal to begin writing more consistently.  It makes me feel a little unoriginal, but I never really thought I was overly original to begin with.  I do pretty well with resolutions.  I resolved at the beginning of the year to quit using facebook so often, and I really did, looking back on it.

Upon receipt of my Kindle for Christmas, I'll begin resolution numero dos:  to read a classic novel for every non-classic novel or re-read of a novel for an entire year (to start).  For example, if I read Harry Potter, I'll also read Wuthering Heights.  Actually, that's not a good example because I've read Wuthering Heights before, but you get the gist, I think.  You're smart.  I may or may not have procured a spreadsheet to record my readings from my equally turned-on-by-spreadsheets mother.

I was reluctant to begin a blog when I really have nothing of consequence to say.  However, I've found plenty of blogs that I thoroughly enjoy reading that don't have a major purpose like travel, cooking, eating, eating while travelling, ... I can't think of any other purpose for a blog.  Anyway, I figure that if I care enough to read about silliness going on in the lives of other people, maybe other people will care about my silliness, too.  I'll try not to be too depressing or angry on here.  I'll save that for my emails. ;-)  Aren't you excited?