Recently in Mr. & Mrs. Penguin Category

When last we spoke, I believe I was bitching about snow and my driveway. Well, since then Mother Nature and my driveway decided they'd give me something to really cry about. As all the world probably knows by now, DC got hit by a huge snow storm this weekend. Here on the side of the mountain, we got just under two feet. Two feet! I can think of maybe three other snowstorms in my life where we got this much snow. The snow is up to poor Seamus' head!

After the Penguins vs. the snowy driveway round one went to the snow, we tried to contact the neighbors with whom we share our driveway to find out what the deal was with getting the driveway plowed. This was actually harder than you might think, because they get up leave the house at 4 am. I am sleeping at 4 am. But yesterday they were trapped here in the snow just like us, so I walked over and chatted with them. No problem, my neighbor said. We'd split the cost. He'd called his plow guy, and it turned out that he was retired, but he recommended a replacement. The replacement guy said to give him a call on Sunday and he'd come by. Easy peasy, right?

Wrong. First of all, the guy was supposed to be available early in the day, and then it was 2:30, and then he actually got here about 3:45. But his rates seemed reasonable and we all figured he'd zip up and down the main driveway a couple of times, then do where ours branches off, and everyone would be happy.

Yeah. He got stuck at the bottom of the driveway on our neighbor's side. Hever even got to our driveway. His truck couldn't make it back up the hill. So we started trying to clear the steepest part with our shovels, hoping that would help. He called in a friend with a slightly newer, bigger truck, hoping he could help. The friend parked at the top of the drive and walked down.the drive, saying he wasn't sure he could make it either. We kept shoveling snow. After a lot of manly conversating, complete with the removal of caps, and the shoving of hands in pockets, the smoking of cigarettes, and some muttering, guy #2 agreed to try to clear some of the higher part of the driveway down to the blacktop. We kept on shoveling.

Truck #2 got stuck on the way down the hill. I'm not kidding! My driveway managed to defeat two experienced guys with big pickup trucks and plow blades. After even more shoveling and a discussion of what sort of vehicle would be right for the job (the odds-on favorite was some sort of John Deere four wheel drive tractor), they called in a third guy to help get the second truck unstuck. He was a fireman, and as firemen do, he took care of business. He had an enormous pickup and backed that thing down the driveway, hooked a chain up to truck #2 and hauled it out of the snow and right back up to the road. Guy #1 actually left his truck at my neighbor's house. They are coming back in the morning with something they swear will do the job. I sure hope so.

In other (related) news, I think we're getting a snowblower.

I had a lovely weekend. The weather was gorgeous, I got about a million things crossed off my to-do list, I spent a nice chunk of time baking, and I am generally pleased with the world. The parts I did not enjoy? The purchasing of curtains and the installation of a carpet runner.

First of all, the curtains. Have you bought curtains recently? I had no idea they were so expensive. And I'm talking about the cheapo curtains you'll find at say, Target or Bed Bath & Beyond, not fancy pants decorator curtains. I found one style I really liked for our living room, then did the math (six panels at $x each would be...) and about fell over. I did not buy those particular curtains. No, I went for all unlined, hey, do they have anything I like in the clearance bin curtains. I'm not finished, but there are now curtains up in the living room and dining room, and balloon shades waiting to be hung in the spare bedroom. It's a start.

Living room:

Dining room:

Notice that they are not tied back, because curtains do not come with ties. No, you have to buy those separately, or install permanent metal ones on your wall. I'll deal with that later, I think. Some days it seems like it would be really, really useful if I knew how to sew.

That brings us to the carpet runner. One of the things we noticed first off when we moved in was that Seamus has a hard time on the wood stairs. Then Becky told me a story about how her someone she knows took a really bad tumble on hardwood stairs, and we knew we had to get a runner. I fall down the stairs regularly enough that it just seemed prudent. For people who don't know me, yes, really, I fall down that much. I just do.

It is probably too sweeping to say I hate all DIY, but man, there is some stuff I just do not want to do myself. There was the whole caulking debacle, plus a painting related one I didn't even talk about here, and a couple of other projects that have cropped up recently. Now we can add "installing stair rods" to that list. The carpet itself has been up for a while. To be honest, I can't really complain about that part, because I didn't do all that much. Although I did manage to step on a tack strip while wrestling the carpet into place and puncture my toe through my shoe, leading to anxious googling of "tetanus." But no, it was the stair rods that gave us the most trouble. We didn't have enough room to operate on the bannister side of the stairs, and the wall side wasn't much better, and it was one long, miserable process. At least now it is done, and it looks nice.

Behold the fruit of our labor:

If I had written this a couple of days ago, that title probably would have been "Hyperventilating" because while I like to pretend that I am good with change, the fact is that I always need some time to adjust, even when the change is positive.

For the last year and a half, we've been debating whether or not to buy a single family house. Prices were down, bringing houses we never could have afforded before into our range. We initially hoped to move closer in, but while prices have dropped in Montgomery County, they haven't gone quite low enough. Besides, we've come to like Frederick County.

We didn't have all that many requirements. The house had to be bigger than our townhouse. It had to have a nice kitchen, and we really wanted a finished basement. We looked at to-be-built homes and existing homes, scouted neighborhoods, and changed our minds about what we wanted fifteen different times.

We even went so far as to put down an offer on a house back in February. It had sat for seven months, and then half an hour after we submitted our offer, they got another one, all cash, for $25,000 more than our bid. In this market! We had a second choice house in mind, but when we went back to give it another look, a pipe had burst and flooded two floors. So that was out. For a long time we were focused on Urbana, which is a little closer to work, and a very nice neighborhood - great library, good grocery store, and I have a friend who lives there - but the right house never seemed to come up for sale. After the layoffs in March, we took a break from looking because I just didn't feel confident about spending any money at all. Thankfully, the stock market, while not completely recovered (and seriously, don't believe anyone who tells you otherwise) has improved to the point where I no longer fear a third round of layoffs. Recently we started poking around looking at listings on the Internet again, just to see what was out there.

And then we saw it. The house that we looked at and said "well, we've got to go see that one." I called the realtor last Sunday, we saw the house on Tuesday, loved it, put an offer in a day later, and it was accepted this weekend. I still can't believe it. This place is perfect for us. It is a custom-built house on a couple of acres, but only a couple of miles from where we live now. Custom-built sounds fancy, but in this case think less Fake French Provincial and more Old Fashioned Farmhouse. It has all the neat quirks and nice touches like hardwood floors, built in benches and a porch that a historic home might have, but without the hassles that come with the plumbing and wiring of a house built in 1880. It is nestled in some trees and tucked back from the road, beautifully decorated and landscaped. And apparently it is going to be ours.

My father. I’m reading David Sedaris’s new book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, and I find myself wishing I could somehow mine my relationship with my father and make it humorous. I certainly wish I could find a way to write about today’s Father’s Day encounter without sounding both pathetic and bitter. I find my father baffling, and frustrating and exasperating and all sorts of other “ings.” I should have known better than to expect two positive Dad interactions in a row, but he lulled me in to a false sense of security. When I called him this week to ask about getting together for Father’s Day, he sounded so delighted to hear from me that I felt like a jerk for not calling him more. Not that he ever calls me, mind you, but still, I told myself I should make more of an effort.

So today I get to the restaurant to have lunch with him, and he leads off the conversation by telling me he’s registered to vote so he can vote for John McCain. Now, the man knows what my political views are, so by starting off with that little tidbit, he was pretty much asking for a fight. I refused to rise to the bait though. I mean, I did a little bit, because it is physically impossible for me to let someone saying they think Bush has done a fine job over the last eight years and they want more of the same go unchallenged. But then I said I wanted to be nice to him because it was Father’s Day, and I changed the subject. Luckily, it was grandiose Dad who showed up today, not angry and hostile Dad. Grandiose Dad is easier to deal with. But oh, all the schemes and plans he has. I hate listening to them. Most of them don’t even make sense, but if you try to question them, you’re just asking for trouble.

And then there’s the personal stuff. He asks me about my financial plans, and then acts like I’m an idiot, when my finances are in much better order than his are. In fact, the last time I saw him I told him something he wanted to do wasn’t possible, and guess what? I was right.

Then he insulted my nose. My fucking nose is fucking fine, but he felt the need to call it big and tell me it was just going to get bigger as I got older, like his. Thanks. I didn’t feel the need to point out that his eyebrows are now long enough to braid, did I?

Eh, a whole bunch of other crap happened, but I don’t even want to get into it. It wasn’t the day I’d hoped to have with my dad, but I’ve had worse meals with him. Hell, I’ve had worse meals at that restaurant. I particularly enjoyed the monster headache that this interaction spawned. By the time I got home, I was shying away from light and feeling like crap. Two Advil and one decongestant later, as I was slumped on the couch convinced that my head was going to explode and/or I was going to throw up, John suggested that I try his Excedrin Migraine pills. Those things are awesome, and quickly crushed my headache into submission. He also went to the store and got me a Coke. That settled my tummy down a bit, and made him the hero of my day. As always.

We’ve come to the end of a perfectly lovely holiday weekend. I’d lament my return to work tomorrow, but the last three days have been so nice that I don’t even care that I have to get up and sit in traffic, tackle a long list, and most likely try to pack five days worth of work in to only four.

I had a specific plan for my weekend. Saturday was to be chore doing and errand running day. Sunday was to be spent celebrating our sixth wedding anniversary. Today was to be dedicated to laying about reading books, and perhaps napping. Well, my dad called up on Saturday morning and basically insisted that I invite him over today. I didn’t want him to come over. I wanted a weekend where I didn’t see anyone or go anywhere. Particularly not my dad, and particularly not when he wanted to discuss his efforts at estate planning. But I had no choice, and in the end we had a pretty nice visit. I’ve always said that if my dad could be content to just hang out with me rather than trying to shove an agenda down my throat, I’d be happy to do that. And that, mostly, was what he seemed to want today.

So even the thing I was dreading turned out to be ok. And everything else – all of the stuff I actually wanted to do – was wonderful.

Both my back and my front gardens look neat and respectable again. The hooks on the fence in the backyard no longer display empty baskets with dead plants in them, but instead are proudly holding petunias and greenery and some flower I can’t identify. The one lone azalea that survived last summer is now surrounded by other plants. Weeds were conquered, and impatiens were planted. Guess how many trips to Home Depot it took to accomplish this. Three! Yes, three, because I am apparently incapable of estimating how much mulch I will need, plus we ran out of lawn & leaf bags.

I got some reading in, including two Hamish Macbeth mysteries, recommended to me by Dorie. They are very enjoyable. A part of me is now ready to pick up and move to a small highland village. Next up is Already Dead, recommended by Chris. If nothing else, blogging has definitely expanded my reading horizons.

I did some baking, although I had a cookie disaster. The PB&C cookies did not turn out well. The inside-out ice cream cake did. And really, it was fitting that we had cake as our anniversary dessert.

I am now officially caught up on back episodes of Lost and am ready for the season finale this week. I conducted a successful splinterectomy on one of my toes. We took Seamus for a nice hike in the woods. We relaxed. We hung out. And of course, celebrated the aforementioned anniversary. In fact, the reason I had such a good weekend is because I was lucky enough to marry such a good guy. John, I love you so much. Thanks for a wonderful weekend, six years of wedded bliss, and 13 years with every day better than the one before it.

Hey, guess where I’ve been! On my long awaited vacation and whirlwind tour of London. It was a wonderful trip, and I’m very glad we went. I got to see just about everything on my “must-do” list: Westminster Abbey, the British Museum, the National Gallery, the Tate Modern, the Tower of London, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, Cleopatra’s Needle, Tower Bridge, the Millennium Footbridge, Blackfriars Bridge, Harrods and more. We drove under the green light that signifies the Meridian Line in Greenwich, took the Tube, trains, light rail and double-decker buses all over the city – I have never been so impressed by a public transportation system as I was by London’s – saw the guards doing something at Buckingham Palace, ate lunch in Green Park by the Palace, checked out Hyde Park and met ducks and a goose (yes, a real life case of duck, duck, goose) at the Serpentine and hung out in Wimbledon. We had a truly delicious Indian meal, proving that the best Indian food in the world is in London is true, as so many of my friends have told me. We encountered masses of soccer fans singing and chanting and cramming the Tube on their way to a match. I don’t know which team they supported, but I do know that they quite firmly believe that Chelsea is shit.

I absolutely loved the whole trip, but my favorites were the British Museum and the Tower of London. I know the Tower is supposed to be a huge tourist trap, but seeing so many years of history packed in to one place was just really, really cool. I don’t even care about the crown jewels. Frankly, I thought that was the lamest part of the tour. The best part was at the very beginning when John and I had parts of the place to ourselves as we went through the medieval portion of the Tower complex. Second best was probably the White Tower itself. My advice to anyone going to the Tower of London is go early, get in line before they even open, and make sure you set aside 2 ½ to 3 hours so you can see everything. Oh, and if you have a stroller to haul around, you won’t be able to see at least half of the place. Possibly more. Be prepared for lots and lots of twisty, steep, narrow staircases.

The British Museum has one of the best collections of pretty much everything historical that I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been to some good museums in my day. The Egyptian statuary and the Elgin marbles alone were worth the time we spent there, although I dragged my poor husband through just about every exhibit they had in the place. We skipped the Hopper to Pollack one because we’d just been to the Tate Modern, and I think we missed part of the Africa section as well. Ok, and even I can hit a wall on caring about Greek vases. There are only so many red figure and black figure vases you can look at before your attention wanders. The National Gallery was no slouch either, but so packed with people that it was actually frustrating. You could not see the Van Goghs at all because there were so many people piled up in front of them. After a while we fled the Impressionists for the relative quiet of 16th century Italian painting.

But it wasn’t all touristy stuff. We hung out with family too, and I got to see what it is like to be part of a very large group of interconnected people. It was fascinating and delightful and moving all at the same time. John’s oldest cousin has to be in her 40’s, and the youngest cousin (our niece) is less than a year old. You could see the resemblances running through all of them. It was lovely to attend a 50th wedding anniversary party, and see the life the two of them have built with each other through many twists and turns and ups and downs, for longer than I’ve even been alive. To meet people who knew the bride and groom in college and daydream a little bit about having an anniversary party with my friends and family in 2052. Or perhaps we’ll go for one in 2027. Anyway, we had a wonderful, romantic, fun-filled trip, and at the same time I’m very glad to be home.

The ultimate tourist shot -- me and a Yeoman Warder at the Tower of London:

John went to Colorado this weekend for a brief visit so he could attend our newest niece’s christening. We didn’t have much notice, so he had to keep the trip short. He left Saturday morning and came back this afternoon.

Things I learned while John was gone:

1) When you get up at 4:45 am, it is possible to get to BWI and back before dawn. At one point, I had the highway all to myself – not another car in sight.

2) Also, when you get up at 4:45 am, you will think it is lunchtime at 10:15 in the morning.

3) I can get a lot done when I’m home by myself all day. I vacuumed the whole house, reorganized the kitchen, filed a bunch of papers, redid the closet in the spare bedroom, and more. Apparently John is more distracting than I realized.

4) Seamus can focus on pining for the human who isn’t home just as seriously as he can focus on food. He was fine for a few hours, but then the lying in front of the door, staring out the window and the sighing began.

5) I am so used to having John around, that it is hard to sleep without him in the house. As I lay in my bed not falling asleep even though I was exhausted, I realized that John has not traveled without me since we got married. I’ve gone away on business, and for weekends with my girlfriends, and to see my brother, but whenever John has hit the road, it has been with me. We never go to bed at the same time, but somehow, just knowing that he wasn’t downstairs was enough to keep me restless. At one point I got so tired that complete irrationality set in, and I started worrying that the house would catch on fire and I’d have to get Seamus and our valuables out by myself. Seriously. Then I told my brain to shut the hell up, and finally fell asleep.

6) While it was fun to hog the computer, eat whatever I wanted for dinner without having to ask “what do you feel like eating?” and watch a movie I knew John would have mocked mercilessly, 32 hours apart was plenty of time for me to miss him, and to be delighted when he returned.

No post tonight. John and I were very busy decorating our Christmas tree. And hoping the house doesn't blow away. Wow, is it windy here right now! We had one of our special all-appetizer dinners, debated the right way to string the lights, ran out of ornament hangers and obsessed over getting the best photo of the tree. Pretty much the way it always goes, and it was a delightful way to kick off the Christmas season here in the Penguin household.

Here's to quality time with the husband and the hound. Hope your evening was a lovely as ours was!

This summer, in order to get John out of doing some unreasonable thing or other that someone wanted him to do, I lied and said that he had broken a tooth. It seemed harmless enough, and he really did need a break at that time. I can’t even remember what it was they were trying to get him to do. It was at the height of all of the stressful family goings-on, and it was something inconsequential that some family member was trying to get him to do that they could easily do on their own.

Anyway… since then, he’s had nothing but tooth trouble. First he had a tooth get infected and need a root canal and a crown, which a) hurt and b) was expensive and c) required a ridiculous number of trips to the dentist. Tonight he bit into a piece of bread and heard a crunch. Alas, it was not the crunch of the tasty and delicious Tuscan bread crust, but instead, the crunch of one of his canines suffering some sort of tooth disaster.

Ladies and gentlemen, I appear to have spread the curse of my lousy teeth to my poor husband, all with one well-intentioned lie. Does the law of three apply, meaning he will have to suffer through three bad tooth episodes to balance it out? Do you think my insanely expensive and horrifically painful tooth surgery/bridge experience from this summer will help at all? Got any curse removing advice?

My little Honda Civic, which I love, is closing in on 100,000 miles. It has been a steady, sturdy, reliable car so far, requiring little more than oil changes, new tires, and new brakes. I still like the way it looks. I still enjoy driving it. And yet…the minor inconveniences are starting. Neither of the alarm remotes works anymore. The automatic door lock on the passenger door is broken. It makes an ominous creaking noise if you take a curve or corner too fast. John insists that creak is just the car getting older, but it makes me nervous. The engine doesn’t run as quietly as it once did, and on top of that added noise, mystery rattles make an appearance from time to time. Every once in a while, it sort of hiccups between gears, which makes me wonder if the transmission is starting to go. But like I said, it has been a great car so far.

Lately, John and I have been talking about getting a new car. I have a long drive every day, and as John points out, I won’t love the car very much the first time it breaks down and strands me on the side of the highway. Part of me feels like it is dumb to get rid of a car before it breaks down – I mean, it’s working fine right now. Part of me feels like it is smart to get rid of a car before it breaks down. I mean, we all know it will someday! Part of me is sentimentally attached to this car. Part of me likes not having to make a car payment every month. We can afford it, but not having to spend that money is better.

So I guess you could say I’m conflicted.

Then there’s the problem of what car to get. I like cars like these:

Volvo C30

Honda CRV

Honda Civic coupe

Porsche Boxster

Ok, fine, so the Boxster is a complete fantasy that a) I can’t afford. Hell, I probably can’t even afford the insurance on it. and b) far too impractical for me to buy even if I could afford it. But I do like the other cars. Another Civic coupe would be acceptable. I think those new Volvo hatchbacks are really cute and they aren’t planning on selling a ton of them, so I’d have a car that wasn’t like everyone else’s, and I just plain like the shape of the CRV. It may be too much of an SUV for me though, in reality.

John wants to get a hybrid, and I know he’s right. I drive a lot, so we probably would make up the extra expense with savings in fuel costs. I do care about the environment, and none of the cars above get spectacular gas mileage. Oh, my current Honda isn’t bad, but it’s no hybrid. He’s specifically interested in a:

Toyota Prius

Or

Honda Civic Hybrid

because they have the best gas mileage and yet are still decent sized cars. It’s kind of funny, because you would expect him to be whining about not getting a sedan – the man loves to drive, and drive fast – but no, he’s fine with the idea. The design of the Prius is probably closer to the type of car I like than the boring Civic sedan, however, my brother’s girlfriend has one and it beeps at you A LOT. I think that might get on my nerves. You don’t have to tell me when I’m in reverse. I know when I am in reverse, because I am not a moron. Plus, I already know Hondas to be quality cars. Of course, I think my mom is closing in on 300,000 miles on her Toyota, so I’d say that’s a pretty good mark of quality too.

For now, I think I’ll probably waffle indecisively for a while until either my car breaks down and I get pissed off enough to take action, or I start to feel better about one of my options. Maybe take a couple of test drives. Perhaps if I try that new Volvo C30, I will hate it, and then not want one any more. And I could take a Prius out for a spin and fall madly in love. We'll see.

One of the unexpected joys of marriage, in my opinion, is finding new ways to say I love you to each other. John and I had been together for seven years before we got married, and I didn’t think life post-wedding would be all that different than it was pre-wedding, but I was wrong. Our relationship really has deepened and grown since we got married. I suppose there’s a chance it would have happened even if we hadn’t gotten married, just as a natural extension of being together for so long, but at the same time, there’s a feeling of “we’re in this together” that only came about after our wedding. It’s nice.

Well today John did what may be the most romantic thing he’s ever done for me. I was feeling oppressed by the man (sometimes work just gets me down), my sister-in-law (sometimes she’s just bitchy) and Comcast (apparently my only option for high-speed Internet, which sucks, because they suck) and still tired from yesterday’s overexertion/heat exhaustion extravaganza. And then I came home to discover that he had cleaned three of our four bathrooms. We don’t bother with the one in the basement because we never use it. The sink is cracked, and the toilet clogs if you think about using it.

Screw diamond jewelry, roses, and boxes of candy. Nothing makes my heart beat faster than a man who’ll clean a bathroom.

I love you John, and thank you for doing something you know I hate so much.

I said I was feeling like doing a little cooking, and so I did. Not Friday night. Friday night I worked late and then I went running, so by the time I got home, it was really late. That night we ate a dinner so un-gourmet and processed that I don’t even want to admit to having consumed it.

Saturday and Sunday were a whole different story. On Saturday I went out and bought a whole mess of food. John has been bugging me to try making sushi at home for a while. Frederick has many delights, but a restaurant that serves his two favorite kinds of sushi isn’t one of them. I’d resisted the idea though. Sushi always seemed to be one of those items like spring rolls or croissants. Sure, I can make them, but isn’t it a whole lot easier to pay someone else to do it? But John really wanted to try it, so try it we did.

We started with the rice. Making proper sushi rice is way more work than just making regular rice. First you have to rinse it several times. Then you have to drain it. Then you have to let it sit in the water for 30 minutes before you start cooking it. Once it is “done” you’re supposed to let it sit for another 15 minutes. And you still aren’t finished! Then you have to spread it in a wide flat bowl and mix sushi vinegar (essentially rice vinegar and sugar) in it and wait for it to cool. I had no idea they were going through all that at sushi restaurants! Of course, while all that is happening, you can be getting your fillings ready. One new lesson I’ve learned – tempura batter gets everywhere. The second lesson I learned is that my husband is a sushi making genius! Seriously, you should see the rolls he made. They are beautiful, with pinwheels and swirls, and also very tasty. Using the various ingredients we’d prepared, he made vegetable tempura sushi, cucumber cream/cheese roll, potato/onion/cream cheese roll, and a vegetable inside out roll. It was very impressive. I was reading the directions for assembling the inside out roll and getting confused, and he just naturally intuited the way to do it that made sense. John could usually care less about cooking (although he is an appreciative eater) so it was a lot of fun to make stuff together.

Tonight we had fake chicken & veggie fajitas, sweet corn cakes, and mini-chocolate tarts with strawberries. I made the marinade, the tortillas, the corn cakes, and the tarts. I never knew making tortillas was so easy. I’m definitely going to do that again. They were way yummier than the ones you get at the store. And much healthier, too, with no preservatives, high fructose corn syrup or partially hydrogenated whatever. They were the flour kind. The recipe for the corn tortillas said you needed a tortilla press, which I don’t have. Plus, I wasn’t sure whether masa harina was corn flour or corn meal, or even what the difference is between the two, so it’s probably better to wait until that question it answered. And I was already making the sweet corn cakes.

The marinade ended up being a little spicier than I would have preferred – I put in a bit too much cayenne – but still good. And all pretty darn healthy too. Well, except for the mini-tarts, but they are mini. I know it sounds like a lot of work, and it was, and for that matter, I still have some pans to wash, but it was what I wanted to do with my time, and I loved every minute of it.

I also managed to fit in running on Friday and Sunday, an early morning hike in the woods with John and Seamus, and a workout with weights. John took care of some laundry, and I ran a bunch of errands that needed running. This was one heck of a satisfying weekend.

How was yours?

John and I saw Ocean's 13 recently, and I just want to assure all of my friends and family that if you ever need me to take part in a revenge caper, I'll be there. Particularly if Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Don Cheadle are involved.

I'm not 100% sure what I could contribute to the effort. Research probably. I'm pretty good at that, so you can imagine me visiting libraries and tracking stuff down on the Internet in the preparation montage. All while dressed in snappy outfits with hip and jazzy music playing the background.

And I'm positive I could play the ditzy blonde who distracts someone at a crucial moment. Seamus could help too. We'd work as a team, befuddling bad guys and striking blows against the man. We'd have to be dog burglars though, if it came down to a diamond heist or something. Seamus does have standards.

What role would you play if I had to assemble a crew for a job?

Recently, John and I ordered a new computer. The day it arrived, John called me to say it was here, and even better, that the box it came in was, and this is a direct quote, "fort-sized."

"I would love it if you built a fort with that box!" I said. "I hope you do."

Tonight, when I got home, Seamus greeted me with his usual dance at the front door and commenced to killing his stuffed bear, but John was nowhere to be found. I figured he was probably puttering around in the basement or something, until I got a little farther into the house. He was in the dining room, crouched down in his fort, waiting patiently for me to notice him. Truly, he is the man of my dreams.

I didn't get a photo of him in the fort, but behold its fortly (although John-less) glory:

We spent the entire day working on the yard at Nora’s house, landscaping it in preparation for putting the house on the market. We made a ton of progress, but it was a long, tiring day. I’m covered in scratches, bug bites and bruises, and I used muscles that apparently don’t get all that much regular action. Wow, am I sore. And tired. Did I mention how tired I am?

And I had the easy job. I would go in with the little hedge clippers and work on trimming branches out of the way, and then John would follow behind with the saw and do the heavy duty work. We cleared a huge tangle of four different plants that was taking over the front yard. John got rid of a whole flock of little trees that had sprung up in inconvenient places. I cleaned up the hedges in front of the house. We raked, and mulched and swept for hours, but sadly, we aren’t done quite yet. At least we’re a lot closer to making the house look presentable. I’m sure the neighbors just love the fact that we left a huge pile of branches in front of the house, but we tidied up as best we could for now. The yard got overgrown so quickly. Nora had a lawn service, and I don’t know if she would only let them cut the grass of if they were just half-assing their way through the job. There sure was a lot of work to be done.

We still have to pick up all those branches, clear out some more growth, clean up the path that runs around to the door at the side of the house, paint the rusty spots on the rail for the front steps, and then tend to the borders of some of the areas we’ve been trying to make nicer. Then there’s the inside of the house. John and his sister and her husband have already done a lot of work sorting through the stuff in the house. We’ve donated some of it to Goodwill. There isn’t all that much furniture. I guess we’ll try to sell that. There’s a baby grand piano, which I wish we could keep, but we don’t have any room for it in our house. There’s a bunch of food, which I hope we can donate to a food bank or something. The yard work is productive, at least. You feel like you’ve accomplished something when you’re done. But the rest is a disheartening and depressing dismantling of Nora’s life. I don’t much care for it. I know it has to be done, but I’m not enjoying it.

John’s sister went back to Colorado on Thursday, so now the bulk of the work is going to fall on us. She’s the executor of the estate, but she’s not here, so we’re the ones who have to work with the realtor and get the house as ready as it can be for potential buyers. All in all, I think it will actually be easier for us with her 2,000 miles away, even if she won’t be around to help out. Plus, it will make it that much simpler for me to justify hiring someone to clean the house instead of doing it myself. And no way am I doing it myself.

So, anyone want a nice dining room set, baby grand piano or very low mileage Hyundai? Ever sold any furniture on eBay or Craigslist? How did that go? We’ve got a lot to do in the next two weeks, so any advice you have to share would be much appreciated. Ok, now I’ve got the song from Smokey & The Bandit stuck in my head. “We’ve got a long way to go, and a short time to get there…” I think that’s my cue to go to bed.

John and I are debating something about the Godfather. He says it is unrealistic to think that Michael would get married so quickly in Italy. His argument is that Michael always has a plan, and wouldn't do something so impulsive.

I think that it is precisely because it is so against his nature that he gets married. He's alone in a foreign country, having just thrown away the life he had planned to avenge the attack on and betrayal of his father. He's left he woman he loves behind, and is faced with an uncertain future. Why wouldn't he grasp at something safe and traditional and comforting like marriage to the beautiful daughter of a powerful man?

And of course, it is her tragic death that allows him to become the ruthless man he needs to be to become his father's successor. It's a key point to moving the plot forward.

Or, at least, that's how I interpret the story. It's sadder that way, I think, which makes it even better. There's something about a story where you know the "hero" is doomed. John and I both love stories like that. Don't get me wrong -- I love a happy ending too. In fact, most of the time, even when I know what is coming, I'm still hoping for a happy ending. I am a big gooey wheel of cheese who wants everyone to live in a world with true love and puppies and rainbows. But I love a sad story too.

I think I had a point back when I started writing this, but I've completely forgotten where I was going, and now I'm tired. So...I'll settle for asking -- what's your favorite? Happy ending or sad story?

I freely admit I've been lacking inspiration on this blog lately. I'm just feeling quiet, I guess. Introspective rather than outrospective. Yes, I know outrospective is not a real word. It seems like the perfect word to describe blogging though -- being outwardly focused and sharing your thoughts, as opposed to looking inward and sorting through what you find there on your own.

I think it must be part of the grieving process somehow. I mostly just want to hang out with John, snuggle with Seamus, do stuff around the house, read, watch TV, and cocoon. There were all sorts of things I said I would do as soon as our lives returned to normal, but I haven't done them. Well, I have been working out more regularly, which is wonderful, but that's it. I don't care about planning ahead. I don't care about being social. Yes, I want to figure out a new fertility plan. Yes, I want to see my friends again. Yes, I want to plan a vacation. In fact, I think I really need a vacation at this point. Yes, I still want to sign up for a writing workshop. Yes, we probably should start thinking about buying a second car.

Instead though, I've read something like six books in two weeks...baked a pie (my first lattice top crust ever)...made cupcakes...cleaned the ktichen...done laundry...walked Seamus...lost a chess game to John...had many lovely conversations with John...and watched several episodes of The Tudors. I'm becoming quite the expert on 16th century religious debates and royal controversies. I have managed to resist cleaning the bathrooms though. So we know I'm still me.

I'm just me on a little hiatus from my usual forward-moving self.

I always have a plan. I love making lists. Not quite to the point where I make lists of lists, but I usually have multiple lists going. You can’t pile everything in to one big list. They don’t work as well that way.

But for almost the last three months, I’ve been living very day to day. Well, not at work, although I will admit to feeling a bit overwhelmed at everything that has to be done right now at work, now that I’m back and fully focused on all of my projects. From the moment we knew Nora was sick, it felt like there was always someone doing something to disrupt any plans that John or I tried to make, looking for ways to create drama in a situation where we really didn’t need any more drama, and generally making life more difficult than it needed to be. My sister-in-law seems to be quite determined to continue being disruptive, and I am just as determined to find a way to put an end to it. John and I deserve our lives back. So, today, in honor of the 4th of July, I’m declaring our independence from family bullshit. My sister-in-law can try to make as many problems as she can think up in her pretty little head; we will not play her game. Instead, we will:

• Stop living in crisis mode and instead proceed with our lives as normally as possible. Recover our old routines. Remember what it’s like to not run around all the time.

• Get back on track with our fitness goals. I have gained six pounds since Easter, which pisses me off more than you can possibly imagine. Now instead of being seven pounds away from my next (not final) weight loss goal, I am 13 pounds away from it. I wish I could be one of those people who loses weight when they get stressed out instead of strapping on the comfort food feedbag. Yes, part of it was that I was spending my evenings with Nora instead of going to the gym, but that’s not all of it.

• Come up with a new fertility treatment plan. It seems like every time I think we’re getting ready, some other new obstacle raises its head. Hopefully that’s just the universe trying to teach me patience and our time will come.

• Schedule a nice vacation somewhere. I think we’ve earned it. Our big trip to Europe will be re-scheduled for next spring or summer, but I’m not waiting that long for a big chunk of relaxation time.

• And a whole lot more…just as soon as I get to make a proper list!

We had the funeral on Thursday. John wrote and delivered a beautiful, moving eulogy. The priest spoke of Nora’s life not having ended, but instead having changed as she left this existence behind. I don’t think he meant it in the way I interpreted it, but still, I appreciated the convergence of philosophies that allowed both the serious Catholics and the heathens like me to walk away feeling well satisfied with what he’d said. I thought I would be more disturbed by leaving her at the cemetery, but it wasn’t as awful as I had made it out to be in my head. Funerals apparently do serve the purpose for which they are intended, and make it easier to accept death and to say goodbye. We had a small wake at Nora’s house afterwards, and then made our way home, utterly exhausted.

Friday we spent together, just the two of us and Seamus, trying to recover from the effects of the last 10 weeks. We’ve been on high alert since Easter, with family battles raging, and Nora steadily declining, and relatives from all over the globe coming and going. I’ve been so impressed by the way other people have acted throughout this period of our lives, although most particularly in the week since Nora died. My friends have been outstanding, whether they were Seamus-sitting, attending the funeral, listening to me complain, listening to me cry or generally offering support. My family has been lovely, even my dad. Everyone at work from the people on my team, to my boss, to my boss’s boss said “Don’t worry, we’ve got everything covered, take the time you need to be with your husband.” Even people who don’t know me, like the guy at Kinkos who helped me do the programs for the funeral, were just wonderful. And of course, my friends in the computer. Thank you to everyone who has been so kind to us recently.

Now the challenge will be to get back to normal. It will be nice to find the old rhythms our lives and take them back up again.

I’ve been putting off writing this post for days now, as if writing the words that I’ve already had to say over and over to people will somehow make them more final, more concrete. Nora died on Friday afternoon. As deaths go, I think it was a pretty gentle one. She lost consciousness around 3 pm, and was gone just before 4 o’clock. Unfortunately, it happened so quickly that neither John nor I were there, but his sister and his aunt were, so she wasn’t alone.

It wasn’t unexpected, of course, although we all thought she had more time left. On Wednesday night she said that she was ready to go, that this process of dying was tiresome and taking such a long time. But she said it with so much vigor, I really thought she’d live another couple of weeks.

So we are sad – John naturally much more sad than I am – but doing ok. We had time to prepare for this, I guess. And there are so many details to focus on right now instead of grieving. Planning the service and what should go in the programs. Picking up relatives from the airport. Wondering about ordering deli trays. Still, the realization that Nora is gone comes out of nowhere sometimes, just sneaks up and whacks me on the back of the head, leaving me teary. She’s gone and I miss her already. That’s pretty much all I have to say right now.

I Dysoned the whole house for the first time yesterday. That vacuum cleaner continues to amaze me with its powers of awesomeness. Given the amount of hair and dirt it pulled out of our carpets, I’m also amazed that a) John, Seamus and I aren’t completely bald and b) that we don’t go around perpetually enveloped in a Pigpen-esque cloud of dust. Apparently we’ve been unknowingly living in an appalling amount of filth. But now my carpets are safe for humanity once again.

Not so safe? All of my bathrooms. But I’ll get them next weekend. I can only handle so many hours of cleaning in one weekend, and after the all vacuuming (I even moved furniture!), cleaning the kitchen, and tackling the massive pile of papers that had built up on my desk, I hit the wall and put down the sponge.

In other news, John and I are considering purchasing a second car. He’s been using his mom’s car to get back and forth to see her, but that may not work as an option for us much longer. We’d already started talking about buying a second car, so we might just do it a little earlier than we had planned. We’ve talked for years about getting a hybrid, so we’re looking at the Honda Civic Hybrid, the Prius, and the new Toyota Camry hybrid as possibilities. John’s main concern is that we get a car with a sunroof. My main concern is that we get a car that I like. I don’t know. Given how much time I usually put in to obsessing over decisions like these, it will probably take us a while to make up our minds. Got any cars you would recommend? Or perhaps cars that you’ve owned and hated that you’d like to warn us about?

There’s a lot that goes on in my life that I don’t write about here. Given the rate at which I’ve been posting lately, there’d have to be, wouldn’t there, or I’d be the most boring person on the planet.

Anyway, lately I’ve been not blogging about a situation that is just driving me nuts. A person in my life is going through something really awful, and has decided that rather than facing up to the fact that she ended up where she is because of the choices she made, it is much easier to blame me and John.

It’s very odd to feel so much compassion for someone and the truly sad situation they are going through – I can’t imagine how she is feeling, and I hope I never have to deal with something like what she’s facing – and be so incredibly angry at them at the same time. Last night I spent the whole time I was walking Seamus telling her off in my head. Tonight at spinning class I tried to just get in to the groove of the bike and let all of my resentment and hurt feelings go, but I can’t quite seem to shake it. She’s just so damn wrong, we’re being so unjustly blamed, and there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s never going to admit that she’s wrong. Intellectually, I can understand why this is happening. I can even say, rationally, if blaming us is what she needs to do to get through her extremely lousy days right now, then let her do it. But I can’t quite bring myself to believe it. I know she's wrong, and I want her to know how wrong she is.

This is not healthy, and I know it. I’ve got to find a way to grow up, get past this and move on. One of us has to, right?

I didn’t have high hopes for this holiday weekend. My sister in law was coming back in to town, which generally makes our lives exponentially more complicated and I could already tell there was going to be trouble. I was sure my anniversary was pretty much going to be a non-event (and it was. I worked late, went to the grocery store, visited Nora in the hospice, ate dinner with John at 10:30, briefly debated immigration policy with him, and went to bed.) and it looked like we wouldn’t get any time to relax at all.

I’m pleased to say that it turned out a little better than I hoped, although, sadly not for a very good reason. We bowed out of going to the hospice on Saturday since my sister in law, her husband, and their two kids were there to visit, and I was exhausted. Then, on Sunday, against our better judgment, Nora went home from the hospice. She’s going to be home with 24 hour nursing care, but even so, the only people who think this is a good idea are Nora and my sister in law. The process of picking her up and bringing her home when she is clearly too weak and confused to be out of a medical facility was incredibly stressful. And so then when we got to the house, John and his sister had a truly horrific fight. My sister in law crossed a line yesterday, and I’m not sure she can repair the damage she’s done. She knows it, too.

The upshot is, John and I left his mom’s house yesterday at 11:30 or so and have spent the last day and half totally free of any obligation to go near his sister. Since she’s staying with his mom right now, that also meant we got some time for just us, guilt-free. First time in what feels like forever. We took Seamus for a hike in the woods. We hung out and talked about random stuff. We ate Thai food. There may have been some snuggling. I indulged in a little retail therapy, and bought myself that Dyson vacuum cleaner off my list. Holy crap that thing is awesome! My living room carpet is at least one shade lighter now. It’s like using a vacuum cleaner powered a jet engine.

I also read two books (Sara Paretsky’s Fire Sale and Mark Haddon’s A Spot of Bother, both quite enjoyable) and made some decent progress on a third – Jane Eyre. Can you believe I’ve never read Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights? I recently decided it was time to read them. Jane Eyre is actually a pretty interesting story, although sometimes Charlotte Brontë’s writing style is a little on the florid side. All of the books from that time period are like that, but boy am I glad that our use of language has changed. Can you imagine if I wrote this blog like that? My first sentence would go something like this: “Truly, gentle reader, when I contemplated the coming few days, which in the normal course of events would have been cause for celebration, I did not find myself filled with the prospect of joy.” Or something like that, except I probably should have tried to work in a classical reference of some sort.

Against all odds, we actually had a pretty decent weekend. How was yours?

This week in May has been a fairly momentous one in my life over the last few years.

Two years ago, we closed on our house. Living here and the homeowning experience continues to delight both of us. I highly recommend it.

Three years ago around this time, I came back from a business trip to Las Vegas and started this blog. Well, the first incarnation of my blog anyway. I find it amusing now to look back on how much time I spent worrying about whether or not to start a blog. I don't know why it seemed like such a big deal to me, but it did. Of course I got hooked almost immediately after writing my first post.

And five years ago I got married. I can't believe it has been five years already, although I also can't quite remember what life was like before we got married. John, nothing could be better than being married to you. You are my best friend, my soulmate and my beloved all rolled in to one. No matter what I'm doing, I always know I could be having just as good a time, if not better, hanging out on the couch just being with you. I love you so much, and I'm so glad we got married. Happy Anniversary!

P.S. Yes, that is the same photo I posted last year. My useless printer/scanner, which never prints when I want it to, has now started refusing to scan too. It is now officially a completely obsolete piece of crap taking up space on my desk, and will be replaced very soon. But until then, I wanted to post a wedding photo for our anniversary, and this is the only electronic one I've got handy.

There was a time when the prospect of a two day music festival would have filled me with anticipation and delight. Music is pretty important to me. I spent large swaths of my summers on the lawn at Merriweather Post Pavilion. Later, as my musical tastes grew a little more obscure, I spent a ridiculous amount of time at the old 9:30 Club and the WUST Hall (which coincidentally, is the new 9:30 Club). I was at the original Lollapalooza. It was hot. It was poorly organized. They wouldn’t let anyone bring water in, but they also didn’t have enough vendors selling water. At one point they had to start hosing down the crowd with the water from a fire truck. I was in the section of the crowd that got sprayed by Ice T. And unbeknownst to me, my future husband was also wandering around the crowd, but I didn’t know him yet. I was a mainstay at the old HFStival, starting back when they had it at Lake Fairfax and when it may have even been free.

But now I find myself unwilling to shell out $175 per person for two tickets to the two day Virgin Fest in Baltimore. There are even a bunch of acts playing that I like, including the reunited Police, which is a very big deal to me as a Police fan. Now maybe – maybe – if Regina Spektor and Amy Winehouse and the Fratellis and Velvet Revolver and the Police were all playing the same day I would have gone for it. Instead, John and I considered the time, expense, effort and likely hassles involved in going to Virgin Fest, and decided to buy tickets to see the Police up in Hershey instead. Two tickets for less than the cost of one Virgin Fest ticket, an hour and a half drive, and a visit to the home of Hershey chocolate, plus a Police set that isn’t shortened to fit on the festival bill. It may be my encroaching old age, but I feel pretty good about that decision.

Strike two in my incipient fogey hood – a suspicion of teenagers and vice versa. I went running outside today, and at one point I had to pass a gaggle of teenagers. They had been laughing and talking and yelling out stuff at each other, and then they got all quiet as I went by. I gave them a look, like somehow they were going to start harassing me, and they gave me a look, and then they started laughing when I was past them. When the hell did I get old enough to make teenagers nervous? Sigh.

All the stuff I don’t like about running outside:
1) teenagers giving me the eye (whippersnappers are up to no good, I tell you)
2) bugs
3) I can’t watch TV
4) hills that I can’t control
5) the guy who yelled “whore” out the window at me as he drove by. It’s one thing for my friends to call me a whore. It’s completely different when strangers do it. And why whore, anyway? I wasn’t running naked.

What I liked about running outside
1) I saw a really pretty mallard duck sitting by a pond, and then he went swimming
2) I ran to the grocery store and back. It feels like that much more of an accomplishment somehow, running to a place where I usually drive.
3) I think I ran faster than I do on the treadmill
4) I got to look at all sorts of pretty spring flowers

I actually had a third recent example to illustrate my fogeyhood, but sadly, I’ve forgotten it. I guess we can add senility to the list as well.

I ran my first 10k today. Well, ran is probably a little bit of an exaggeration. I ran about five of the six miles, but my time was terrible, and I dragged my poor friend Becky down with me. I told her she could go ahead and run faster and leave me behind, but she said it was ok and stuck with me. Becky is a good friend. Here we are in our post-race glory:

I’m pissed about the fact that all of my careful training completely fell apart over the last few weeks, leaving me struggling with what should have been a pretty easy race. However, I’m trying to let it go. I’ll do better next time.

After the race we went to John’s mom’s house to pick her up and take her back to the hospice. She had gone on and on about how she had to go home to sort through some papers, so we arranged for her to go home for the weekend. John’s sister was back from Colorado and could stay with her. Unfortunately, as soon as she got home, she started refusing to go back to the hospice. We spent the whole weekend arguing with her about how she can’t stay at home by herself. And she really can’t. She can’t make food for herself. She can’t make it to the bathroom and back without getting exhausted. She’s incredibly frail, and easily confused. The steroids that control the swelling in her brain could stop working at any second, leaving her unable to talk, or perhaps unable to walk. The doctors have said very clearly that she needs 24 hour care. She doesn’t believe us. I’m not sure what reason she thinks we have for lying to her about it, but I can tell you that she can be extremely unpleasant when she puts her mind to it. And then there you are, trying not to yell at this frail little old lady who is dying, who you care about so much, and who is completely irrational.

Anyway, the stress of arguing about this with her for three days has finally pushed me over the edge. I got sick after we left her house yesterday, and by this morning I was so upset I threw up as soon as we got to back there. And so I’ve had it. After what may have been one of the longer and more uncomfortable days I’ve had in a while, she finally went back to the hospice, and there she will stay until we can arrange 24 hour nursing care. And then she will leave the lovely hospice with its caring, kind and highly trained staff to go die at home in her crappy little house while being tended by some underpaid but still extremely expensive nursing assistant. But she’s going to do it with less involvement from me. I’m going to make sure I get my workouts, and I’m not going to go see her every night. No more getting home at 10 after a long frustrating evening, eating dinner, and then crawling off to bed. I’m determined that John and I will have time for ourselves. Next weekend I’m getting a massage and a long overdue pedicure, and I’m going to take some time to work in my garden. I am most definitely not going to spend part of every day throwing up, that’s for sure.

I’m still alive.

So is my mother-in-law.

Even more miraculously, so is my sister-in-law.

The last two weeks have been two of the most difficult weeks of my life. I’ve watched my mother-in-law go from being a woman who tired easily and was a little vague every once in a while to someone who was barely conscious half the time, then someone who was clearly out of it and dying, and now who is someone whose symptoms are responding to treatment, at least in the short term.

It was terrifying to see her struggling to form thoughts and sentences, and to know that she really had no idea what was going on a large percentage of the time. She’d look at me and give me a very polite British “yes…” and I’d know I might as well be speaking Hindi to her for all the good it was doing me.

It is heartbreaking to watch my husband half-help, half-carry her to the bathroom because she’s so frail now she has trouble standing sometimes.

It’s frustrating to explain over and over again that the doctors have given her one to three months to live. Sometimes she gets it. Sometimes she thinks we’re mistaken. Sometimes she’s sharp and funny (or cranky) and lucid. Other times she’s very confused. No one can tell us how long the steroids that are helping her will continue to work. They could last five weeks, or cut out tomorrow.

When she first responded to the treatment, they announced she was no longer a candidate for the hospice we’d been talking to – for them, you must have 14 days or less left to live – and then they sent her home from the hospital. Apparently the hot new thing is “Hospice at Home.” Do not be fooled by the enthusiasm with which Hospice at Home is presented. It sucks. The hospice people are really nice and really helpful, but they are only around for an hour or two, and not even every day. That leaves family members to care for their terminally ill loved one the rest of the time. Non-medical family members. It became clear almost immediately that hospice at home was not going to work for us. As my sister-in-law got more and more hysterical and my husband got more and more depressed, I scrambled around trying to find an alternative. An alternative that we have to pay for, because even though Nora has Medicare and Kaiser Permanente, no one will actually cover the cost of caring for her 24 hours a day. Don’t get cancer or Alzheimer’s. You’ll be screwed. We finally got her in to a hospice up near our house that has a longer-term time frame yesterday. It’s a lovely place, designed for people in her situation, staffed by people who seem to be truly kind, caring and compassionate.

She gave it an hour and then announced that she wanted to go home, but we told her she had to stay there until Friday. Today she seemed to like it a little better. We’ll see. Ultimately it is her life and her money, and if she wants to pay for round the clock nursing care at home and die at home, then those are her wishes and we’ll make it work. John and I feel very strongly that the hospice is the place where she’ll get the best level of medical care, but we don’t want her last days to be miserable either. It’s a tricky set of priorities to balance. And in the end, she’ll die no matter what we do. How’s that for uplifting? But it is the cold hard truth.

And that’s where I am. Tired, ok, beyond tired, cranky, grateful for my wonderful friends, family and co-workers, who’ve been as helpful and supportive as anyone could ever ask them to be, up and down at any given moment, stressed out and maybe a little overwhelmed and definitely in need of a good stiff drink.

How are you? I'm totally out of touch with the blog world right now. What's new?

Dear members of my husband’s family,

This is a trying time for all of us. We’re all sad and struggling with the news that Nora is dying. We have a lot of decisions to make and a lot of stress to cope with right now.

I promise to do my best to help out where I can and to make this the best situation that it can be, given what it is. In a way it is a little bit easier for me to be slightly removed. I love Nora, but she’s not my mom or my sister or my aunt. I can help track down details and try to keep everyone reasonable when emotions run high. But, and this is a very important but, you do NOT want to get hysterical and start wildly criticizing my husband just because he has a different way of dealing with his grief than you do. I’m feeling very protective of him right now, and I will get medieval on your ass.

Sincerely,
Bad Penguin

P.S. It may be hard to tell by the above entry, but I’m actually trying very hard to develop some sort of “I will defuse the situation. I will not rise to the bait.” mantra. Please wish me luck.

In-laws are weird, at first. You get married, and all of a sudden you have all of these new people who are family. If you’ve been with the person you marry for any length of time, hopefully you’ve had a chance to develop some sort of relationship with the rest of their family before the wedding. John and I dated for seven years before we got married, so I knew his parents and his sister pretty well. Still, it was an adjustment, being married. I had to get used to new family traditions on the holidays, to different ways of interacting (every family has its own unique dynamic) and to add a whole new layer of family to the way I looked at my world.

A couple of months after our wedding, John’s mom Nora reached out to me, and suggested that we start having lunch from time to time. She’d come meet me at work, and we’d go to the Corner Bakery. I’d have the mozzarella and red pepper sandwich, and she’d get a muffin and some coffee. We’d chat, and eventually I’d have to go back to work. Sometimes she’d call me just to talk on the phone. I got to know her better over the last five years than I did for the first seven. We went from being people who liked each other and cared about the same person (John) to being people who cared about each other.

She’s been ill with lung cancer for a couple of years, and today we learned that the cancer has spread to her brain. She only has weeks left to live. Their hope is to keep her as lucid and free of pain as possible in the time she has left.

It’s so very sad. There are so many things I never learned about her. I don’t know how she and John’s dad met, for example. Or how she ended up coming to the United States from England. Or what it was like growing up in England during World War II (I do know that while she was sent out to the country during the Blitz, she never went through the back of a wardrobe to a magical land. I asked). We had talked about going to London together, and maybe even Paris. She loved France, and sometimes we’d try, hesitantly and a bit self consciously, to speak French to one another. When John and I do have kids, they won’t get to know their Grandma Nora. Yet another loss to chalk up to infertility.

And then there’s John. As sad as I am about this, he’s losing his mom. I can’t even think of the prospect of my mom dying without panicking, and here he is, facing it head on. I don’t know how to help him. I know I have to be the strong one, but this is something that I can’t fix or make better in any way. So far all I have provided is a sympathetic ear, and junk food. I’m really good at buying junk food. I love him so much and I hate to see him hurting. I hate to see his mom dying. It helps, a little, to believe in rebirth as we do. To think that we’ll see her again in another life. But not quite enough. I'm not ready to say goodbye, but I guess I don't have a choice.

One of the things I like best about being a grownup is having the chance to build your own traditions. John and I are known for going our own way in our families (the fact that Seamus was best dog and ring bearer at our wedding is still a subject of some controversy) but in my mind, following our own path is part of what makes our marriage special and strong. Today we had a lovely Easter, managing to meld the old and the new. John and I aren’t religious, but we had Easter lunch with John’s mom and sister and her husband and kids, but instead of the typical lamb or ham or whatever, we had takeout Indian food. John’s mom doesn’t cook much anymore, and she was never really all that comfortable cooking vegetarian food anyway. If you’re wondering, Indian food makes for a delicious Easter lunch.

We had a short, chilly Easter egg hunt in the front yard for my niece and nephew. Good thing the Easter bunny knew where to find them! He left them plastic eggs filled with candy and cookies. We got to see my nephew play the tiniest violin I’ve ever seen. Well, to say he plays it is a bit of an exaggeration. He sang us a song about the parts of the violin, and then showed us the proper way to hold it. When I came home I read an article in the Post about how Josh Bell started the violin when he was four, so my nephew may already be on the road to being a virtuoso.

Then we had the fancy cake I made, hoping that my niece and nephew would get a kick out of it. It looks like a chocolate bunny, see:

With eggs:

And they did love it. Their delighted little smiles made me very happy. Hope your Easter was just the way you wanted it to be too.

I had lunch with my mom today. She’s going to be 65 in March, and she asked me to help her sort through the mass of information she’s gotten about Medicare, and Medicare supplemental plans, and Medicare subscription plans. First off, I had no idea how complicated all this crap is. Regular Medicare, called Part A, only covers hospitalizations, and it only covers 80% of the costs of what they allow for hospitalizations. Part B, which you have to pay extra for, covers 80% of the cost of your doctor’s visits, and some of the costs that Part A won’t cover. There are at least 11 different Part B plans, which have a variety of different options. You’d be amazed at how much detail they go into about what they will and will not cover. They are all pretty expensive. Oh, and they don’t include prescription drugs. The prescription drug plans are yet another additional cost.

Suddenly I find myself believing in universal healthcare even more firmly than I did before. There’s no reason why healthcare should be so complicated, and yet so inadequate at the same time. But all that aside, what I’m really not ready for is my mom getting older. Talking through the various insurance options and ways that she could get sick over the course of the rest her life that she might want to have covered was just plain unnerving. Listening to her worry about where her money is going to come from when she retires brings up all sorts of potential problems that I am not interested in facing right now. I don’t want my parents to get sick. I don’t even want to think about my parents getting sick. And then there’s the notion that someday they could be dependent on me. I’m not even completely used to being dependent on me yet, and besides that’s not where they are supposed to fit in the hierarchy of our lives. Plus, my parents are just plain difficult people sometimes, so whatever we encounter as they get older, I can guarantee they won’t make it easy. John’s parents can be, well, individuals, so I’m sure they won’t be a picnic either. In fact, they are older then my parents, so we may well get to go through all of this with them first.

So, of course John and I are willing to take in any and all of our parents if the time comes where that is the right thing to do. Sure, we make jokes about stashing them in shed. Or about how we’ll move to a bigger place where they can have their own little apartment over the garage, but we’ll put in one of those invisible fences that shocks them if they try to wander over to our place. Bzzt…ow! No really, we wouldn’t do that. We kid because we love. And maybe just a little so we can put off acknowledging that we can’t stop our parents from getting older, and at some point, getting sick and dying.

Nope, I’m definitely not ready for this yet.

Instead of talking about me, let’s talk about John for just a minute.

He has, perhaps motivated by the success I’ve had over the past nine months, has decided to join me on the getting fit/losing weight wagon. It’s interesting to see him just starting out on the same path I took – figuring out what he can and can’t eat, working hard to change his habits and even harder to resist temptation. So far, he’s made it a week without his beloved soda. He’s been riding our exercise bike a few more minutes each day, and today he added in push-ups and sit-ups. He’s pretty determined so far. He’s even overcome a broken belt on our elderly and somewhat busted up exercycle (duct tape really can fix anything) and kept on going.

Last fall we started going hiking together with Seamus every weekend, and the weather has been so mild we’ve been able to stick with it so far. That has turned into something we’re really enjoying doing together. It’s nice to have some time in the woods where we can pretend we are the only people around. We always seem to get into these great debates on our walks. I guess the woods make us philosophical. And Seamus couldn’t be happier, since tromping through the woods smelling stuff is probably his most favorite activity in the world. Well, after eating and napping and getting belly rubs.

Anyway, John is the king of willpower, so I’m sure he can do this if he really commits to it, which he has. And I have to admit, while I did occasionally reap the benefits of his eating junk food by getting a bite of candy bar or donut, I think I’ll be just a little less bitter now that he’s eating the same stuff as I am. He’s not diabetic (or at least, not that we know of, since he hasn’t had a physical in three years), so he doesn’t have the same restrictions that I do, and he’s a guy so he can eat more than I can anyway. In fact, he'll probably piss me off by losing 20 pounds in six weeks or something. But he is still making some pretty big changes in his life, and I am pleased and proud that he is making the effort. By the end of 2007, we are going to be a stunningly fit and healthy couple.

Lately, when I look in the mirror, I find myself dwelling on my body’s faults. I look so much better than I did, but my stomach isn’t flat yet. My thighs are still too big. My arms are showing definition, but they aren’t perfect.

Then this morning, John says to me “You are getting sexier and sexier every day.” Not only did that earn him more good husband points than possibly any other statement he’s ever made, and make me feel very, very good about myself, but it also got me to thinking. Why have I gone from being excited about the positives to being focused on the negatives?

It’s interesting to realize that my body image is shifting so quickly. I look and feel so much better than I did at this time last year. It’s not arrogant to say that if it is true, right? I was miserable about the state of my body before I started losing weight and getting fit. When I stop and think about it, of course I’m happy with the way I look now. Yes, I’m still in transition, but what exactly am I expecting here? I could lose another 40 pounds, and I probably still wouldn’t look like one of those Hollywood starlet types. I don’t even really want to look like them. I’d prefer to achieve the healthy athletic look than the skinny sickly look.

So I’ll just be over here concentrating on being happy for what I’ve already accomplished and not getting down on myself about what I still need to do. And I’d like to thank my husband for never making me feel bad about my body in the first place, making me feel so good about it today and finally, opening my eyes to what I was starting to do to myself, for no good reason at all.

Sorry, Internet. I got really busy and wandered away from you for a while. First, I was frantically trying to wrap up stuff at work so I could be off this week. Then I was frantically trying to take care of last minute Christmas stuff. Sunday, Monday and Tuesday can be summarized thusly: family, food, presents, and lots and lots of driving in the rain. Oh, and my brother and I went to see The Good Shepherd, which can be summarized thusly: very well done, but too long, and awfully depressing. Nothing like watching a man lose his soul, piece by piece, over the course of two and a half hours to put a damper on your holiday spirit. By the end of the day yesterday, I was feeling totally overwhelmed and just a little worn out.

But today, today was my day. I got up and walked Seamus, and then went back to bed for another hour and a half. And then I got up and had breakfast and ran errands, and came home and read one of my new books I got for Christmas on the couch for a couple of hours. I worked out, and had dinner, and John and I just watched Must Love Dogs on HBO, which was a really cute movie. I do like John Cusack and Diane Lane. In fact, if they ever made a movie about my John, I would nominate John Cusack to play him. Not sure who would play me though. Anyway, I’m officially declaring that today was awesome. So now, late in the evening of December 27th, I’m finally ready to wish you all a Merry Christmas. I’m a little late, I know, but I still hope your Christmas was lovely.

If it makes you feel any less neglected, I’ll confess that I’ll be mailing out all of my Christmas cards late and calling them New Year’s cards. My pal Sara and I concocted a plan to blame my late cards on the post office, as in "You just got your card? I mailed them two weeks ago! That blasted post office is so inefficient!" but I can’t really pull that off here…

Look, the Internet forcing someone to be honest, rather than allowing them to deceive. Refreshing, isn’t it?

We had the party. I think everyone had a good time. They weren’t all sitting there looking miserable, anyway, so that’s something. And it wasn’t the disaster I feared it would be. The hot hors d’oeuvres proved to be a little tricky, because I didn’t want them to get cold, but at the same time, I wanted them to be ready when people started arriving. That didn’t quite happen, but my friend Amy’s husband Gus jumped in and sliced up some Camembert for me, so the crouton with carmelized onions and Camembert came together just fine. And in addition to helping me clean and organize the house all week and putting up with my party-related worrying, John also saved the day by grating the cheese for my smoked cheddar and potato in phyllo cup appetizer. The desserts were a big hit, but that’s not a surprise – they were delicious after all. And the wine situation turned out just fine, although no one went for the red, plus two people brought red wine, so it’s like the bottles I already had got together and had a red wine babies. Oh! I got carded when I bought the wine, and the guy was serious too! I told him I really liked him, and he told me I must be living right, because I don’t look my age. Thank you liquor store guy.

But back to the party. It was freakishly warm here today, so we didn’t get to have a fire in the fireplace. In fact, no one went downstairs at all, so all of the cleaning and space-maximizing furniture rearranging we did down there was for nothing. Although if we hadn’t done it, everyone would have wanted to hang out downstairs. Complete strangers would have stopped by to hang out in our messy and poorly organized basement.

Naturally, the best part of the party was having my mom and my friends here. It was strange though, because I was so busy fretting about keeping the food stocked, and the appetizers warm and every other little detail that I didn’t really get to talk to everyone the way I would have liked to do. I got to have little chats with most people, but no real conversations. I guess it is usually that way.

The party was a lot of work though, and now I’m totally exhausted. I did manage to work out today, but other than some fresh vegetables and dip, I didn’t eat anything healthy at all. Still, I think I’ll have another cookie and then toddle off to bed. I can go back to dieting in the morning, right?

Recently I had the bright idea to throw a little Christmas party. “Wouldn’t it be fun,” I said to John, “to have a bunch of people over for an open house? I can make hors d’oeuvres and desserts and people will come over and some of them will bring their kids and we’ll have a great time.”

But now the weekend is approaching and with it, the date of the party and I’m a little freaked out. My house is not nearly as clean as I thought it would be by now. I started buying some of the ingredients for the appetizers, and I realized that I don’t have any idea how many appetizers I should have per person. I’m not sure how many different appetizers I should make so that people have some variety. And I really, really am not sure what to do about beverages.

The last time I threw a party (aside from my wedding reception, which was catered) I think all we worried about was buying chips and dip and making sure we had a lot of beer on hand. As I recall, that party was not exactly a smashing success. We got a great turnout, but everyone showed up very late for some reason, and I was irritated with one of my housemates so I drank way too much, way too quickly and ended up hiding out in my room throwing up in a trashcan for a couple of hours.

I can guarantee that won’t happen this time, but now I’m concerned about dust bunnies in the corners, clutter under the coffee table, and not making enough food or having enough wine. You know what is not helping? Watching Top Chef on Bravo, which is what I am doing right now. I’m almost positive that the Top Chefs would laugh at my little menu, as none of my ingredients are infused with anything else. I’m not putting any weird combinations together, and I’m not using 15 ingredients for one tiny little creation. I do think my food will taste good, and I know my baked goods will be excellent. So I guess I just have to hope for the best. And be glad that my friends are nice people who won’t be mean if something does go wrong!

Now who can tell me how many glasses of wine I can get out of one bottle? I really don’t know how many bottles to buy.

My husband is making fun of me. We’re watching ER, and he made some crack about what was Blackie’s last name anyway? Parrish, I said immediately, because apparently that vital fact is buried deep in my brain, along with the ‘80s song lyrics that are possibly responsible for my inability to learn calculus. John (my husband, not the man who was Uncle Jesse) thinks this is hysterical for some reason.

Perhaps he thinks it is evidence of some long-held crush on John Stamos. It isn’t. If forced to choose between soap opera generated pop stars, I’d have to say I was really more of a Rick Springfield fan. Interestingly enough, I cannot remember his character’s name, but I do believe he was a doctor.

What useless fact is taking up space in your brain?

It’s funny, isn’t it, the way the little things are what come together to make you feel complete. I had a lovely weekend. It made me happy. In fact, all day today I was still in a good mood. We didn’t do anything fancy, but that was what I liked about the weekend. Just to give you a taste, it went something like this...

Seamus had his annual checkup, where the vet assured me he is healthy. Afterwards, John and I took him for a hike in the woods as a little reward for being so brave. Not that he was all that brave, shaking and shedding fur like they were torturing him, instead of weighing him and listening to his heart. And he gave the vet the cold shoulder when the vet offered him a treat. My rude little boy. The vet said Seamus is the only beagle who won’t take food from him! Beagles are slaves to their bellies, as evidenced by that fact that Seamus gained three pounds since last year. That’s why they use them to catch people smuggling unauthorized sausage in through customs.

John prevailed in the Christmas tree debate, so we picked out a tree (a 6-7 foot tall Fraser fir to be precise) and brought it home. I have to admit, it was nice to have a selection to choose from instead of getting stuck with the best of whatever was left like last year. Dealing with the lights was a pain as usual, and complicated by the fact that I just can’t help getting all obsessive about stringing them on perfectly. But in the end, I had a lot of fun listening to music and decorating the tree, which ended up looking quite nice. I can see it now, glowing prettily in the dining room.

I also ran 5.3 miles in an hour. The running is still hard, but I am getting better at it. Oh, and we got the oil changed in the car. I was curious if they would try to get John to have some system or other flushed like they always do when I go alone, and what do you know, they did. That made me feel better, because I have always nursed a suspicion that they tried to sell me so much other stuff because I am a woman and don’t know much about cars. As long as they are treating everyone like a sucker, hey, no problem.

There’s more, but you get the general idea. A small, homey weekend, full of small, homey tasks and events makes Bad Penguin a happy girl. I hope your weekend, and your Monday were as good as mine!

I was just chatting with my friend Becky the other day about what we thought the optimal time to buy a Christmas tree was. I thought that waiting until closer to Christmas was the right way to go. I’ve been thinking that John and I would go get our Christmas tree on the 15th, since I have that day off from work, and I thought going tree shopping on a weekday would be more fun and less crowded.

John, on the other hand, thinks we should get our Christmas tree this weekend. I’m worried that is too early, and that the tree will be all dry and yucky by Christmas. Of course, last year I was so busy with work that we didn’t get our tree until about five days before Christmas. As I recall, we got quite a deal, because by then they were trying to get rid of them. For all I know, that tree had been sitting around since December 1st, so perhaps getting a tree this weekend will be fine.

When do you get your tree? Or are you a fake tree person?

My husband has many fine qualities. He’s smart, he’s sweet, he’s loyal, he’s opinionated, he believes in me, he cares about animals, he’s trustworthy and genuine and sincere, he’s hott (that’s right, he rates two t’s), he's doing the dishes while I write this, and he has the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. But what I love best about him is his sense of humor. No one, and I do mean no one, can make me laugh the way that he does.

And so I say to you, Internet, that if you’re looking for dating advice, I firmly believe that finding a man (or a woman) who shares your sense of humor should be very high on your list. Tonight alone John has had me laughing so hard I ended up crying at least twice. No, wait, three times. I’m not sure the jokes would be funny to anyone outside the two of us, but really, that’s the point – they don’t need to be. So if we have a (hypothetical) scenario where I end up frantically quacking at him as a codeword to remind him that he doesn’t want to rise to the bait and quarrel with his sister, or if we construct a storyline for the 4th season of Prison Break where they become the new A Team (because, seriously, that show has gone beyond willful suspension of disbelief for fun’s sake into “let’s see what preposterous direction they take this in next.” And yet I’m still watching) and we’re the only ones laughing, that’s cool. Because we are both laughing, and with every chuckle, giggle and snort, I love him just a little bit more.

This is the week of my vacation. The first real vacation John and I have taken in forever. I mean, I’ve had the odd long weekend or two, and I generally take the week between Christmas and New Year’s off, but this time, we were going out of town. On a real vacation. Except it didn’t quite work out that way.

Our original plan was to go to the Outer Banks for a week, but then I wanted to do the Race for the Cure on Saturday, and John needed to be back here on Thursday, and so it didn’t seem quite worth it to drive all the way there and pay for a place for a whole week when we would only be there four days. So we decided to go to Rehoboth and stay in a hotel. It’s so much closer than North Carolina. And a hotel gave us more flexibility than a house. It seemed like such a good plan.

Our little vacation got off to a great start. We made such good time getting to the beach that we arrived two hours before our room was supposed to be ready. So we hit the main drag of Rehoboth, ordered ourselves a delicious Grotto pizza, and took a quick spin on the beach. Then we went to check into the hotel. And that’s where everything went wrong. I wanted to start crying as soon as we walked into the room, but I was determined to make this a fun vacation. I lectured myself very sternly about being a good sport and how all that really mattered was that John and Seamus and I were together and we could have fun no matter what. But the room was tiny. It was so small it didn’t even have a closet, and the bathroom was so claustrophobic that I felt trapped when I went in it. Maybe people on other floors had a lovely view, but we were on the ground floor, so our view was of the street. A view we got to enjoy from a patio with two rusty chairs and an equally rusty railing that had the bonus of being dented as well. It was nothing like the photos they had on their website. I don’t want to shock you, but it turns out that sometimes things that look good on the Internet turn out to not be so hot in reality.

We dropped off our stuff and decided to go out for another walk so we could check out our surroundings and look for fun things to do. So we walked around, and Seamus excitedly tracked scents all over town. And then we had to go back to that dismal room. I think we’d been in there for about 15 minutes before John said “Hey, how would you feel if we left a day or two early. Do you think they’d give us any money back?” He hated it as much as I did. Possibly more. So I asked. They said they’d refund the money, and we said we’d only be staying one night. And what a crappy night it was. That room had the power to make everything suck including the food we ate and the TV shows we watched. We even tried going to sleep early, but the beds were uncomfortable. We kept hearing people in the parking lot on one side and the traffic going by on the street on the other side (seriously, I think every truck and construction vehicle in the state of Delaware – or as John has taken to calling it, Hellaware – drove past that room starting at 5 am). Seamus was thoroughly freaked out and thought he had to fulfill his watch dog duties and bark a lot, and he is not a barker. This morning we packed up and hit the road, yelling “so long, stinktown!” as the car squealed out of the parking lot. And now we're home. Home sweet home.

John used to drive a motorcycle, which he loved, and I know he still misses quite a bit. His motorcycle career came to an end after a particularly nasty accident which could have killed him, but instead left him with a fractured elbow and abdominal surgery. After that he bought a car. And every time he brings up riding a motorcycle I give him a steely eyed glare and remind him of the four days he spent in the hospital, the pain, and the truly spectacular bruises which lingered for months. I then conclude with some sort of promise to march around the house banging a drum and chanting “no more motorcycles!” until he gives up the notion. I love him, and I don’t want him risking his life like that ever again. It’s not that he’s a bad driver, although he does like to go fast. It’s all the other people out there who don’t think to look for motorcycles and pull out right in front of them or change lanes into them. At least in a car you’ve got a metal box around you that provides some protection.

Still, I have to admit, when I see someone on a motorcycle going slow, like I did on the drive home tonight, I compare them to my husband, and call them “punk ass” in my head.

Last night, after I posted my post and went off to bed, John came upstairs and said “You know, you might want to make sure you don’t have any typos in a post where you talk about not being a dumbass…” So I got up out of bed and trudged downstairs to fix my post. Here at Bad Penguin, quality is job one, even after I’ve brushed my teeth and put on my pj’s for the night.

The worst part is, I didn’t have just one typo – I had two! Neither one was because of adult onset moronhood though. One of them was due to the fact that sometimes my Y and T keys stick and if I don’t hit them hard enough, they don’t register. The other one was really a typo. Oops. What can I say, I’m usually pretty tired by the time I get to sit down and write in the evening. I consider myself lucky if I don’t accidentally start typing in French or Martian or something. Anyway, as John was giving me grief for proofreading and missing (more than once) two typos in a very short post, we actually had a debate about whether or not he could call typo number one a spelling error, which it totally wasn’t. There is a difference between a typo and a spelling error, and I’d like to point out that spell check would have caught a spelling mistake. The problem was that I had typed the wrong word, or rather, left an important letter off the end of the word due to my sticky T key. But last night, I was tired, and so all I could come up with was “That is not a spelling mistake! I can spell your ass into the ground!”

Because I’m a gangsta spella like that. Beware my mad spellin’ skillz, yo, or I’ll spell your ass something fierce.

When I mentioned to John last night that I thought my most recent post might make me look ever so slightly geeky, instead of replying with the obvious “might?” he said “Better to be geeky than a dumbass.”

Obviously I made a smart decision when I married him, because he is so very right. So what if I’m somewhat less than cool in my approach to life sometimes. At least I’m not a moron.

I’ll have to remember that one so I can use it on our kids. Because you know I’d rather have geeky kids than stupid ones. And let’s face it, the chances of us having a kid who follows their own path is pretty high. Either that or we’ll end up with some all-American football playing/cheerleading/beauty pageant liking/Michael J. Fox on Family Ties kid who mystifies us on a regular basis. Sullen and punky I can relate to, no problem. Mainstream might be tricky. We will, however, raise our children right, so at least Republicanism shouldn’t be an issue.

Four years ago today, I stood in a beautiful garden at dusk, surrounded by the people I hold dear, and married the love of my life. I’ll repeat the vow I said that night to you all today. I still mean every single word, as much as I did then and many times more over.

People keep asking me if I’m nervous, and my answer is always the same – no. I’m not nervous. I’m thrilled. How can I be nervous when I’m marrying my best friend? You’re the first person I want to share good news with, and the only person I want to run to when something bad happens. Every day you challenge me to look at the world in a new way – and I love doing the same for you. I can’t wait to see what this next phase of our life together brings. I love you so much.

Happy anniversary, John. I knew I loved you with my whole heart, but I had no idea how wonderful our marriage would truly be. I didn’t know being married would get better and better with each passing day. I didn’t know I’d be able to love you even more now than I did then. But I do. Here’s to our happy ending.

I believe I already mentioned burning my wrist on Wednesday. Sadly that was only the beginning of my fajita-related troubles. Usually when I make fajitas, I make up the marinade myself, but this time I decided to get all fancy and try a marinade mix. I was also trying these fake chicken strips for the first time and I was worried that my regular marinade wouldn’t be strong enough for them. Well, this mix was so strong that my eyes started watering while I was making it, so strength wasn’t really an issue.

It turned out to be so spicy that I could only eat about half of my fajita before I had to give up. Luckily, John loves spicy food, so he enjoyed it. Unfortunately, he also decided to share some of it with Seamus, which was a huge mistake. Huge. On Thursday morning, poor Seamus ran to the front door and howled because he was experiencing serious tummy troubles. Troubles which continued for most of the day. And then Thursday night he got up at 12:30 and again at 4:30 because he had to go out. Tired as I was, I was still grateful that he asked to go out. Two days later he is finally feeling better.

So, burned wrist, dinner I couldn’t eat, sick dog, no sleep for me or John. That’s fajitas 4, us 0. I don’t think I’ll be making them again. And John definitely won’t be giving Seamus anything spicy to eat again.

John and I just had a very enjoyable hypothetical conversation about music appreciation lectures he’ll give our kids in hopes of ensuring that they have good taste musically. So far we’ve got “The Origins of Heavy Metal” and “Myths and Legends of Rock and Roll.” I’m sure there will be room for “Understanding the Subtleties of the Guitar Solo” and “Bauhaus and the Sisters of Mercy: On Not Taking Goth Music Too Seriously.” And then there’s “Rock Hits That Are Actually Old Blues Songs” and “Using the Internet to Discover Cool New Bands.” As one of John’s favorites and due to their complexity, Pink Floyd will no doubt get their own 300 level class.

We’re not serious, of course, although I’m sure every parent hopes their kids won’t like lousy music. And I’m sure every kid goes through a phase of loving some horrific boy band or poppy crap. I myself still harbor a love of Duran Duran and Depeche Mode that probably borders on uncool. Or maybe it is a weird thing to care about. Not that it is something I really have to worry about now (I might just want to focus on actually having a kid first) but oddly enough, I do kind of care. So while there won’t be actual lectures, I do intend to play lots of music for my kids in hopes of influencing them.

Maybe it’s because music is pretty important to both John and me. I’m surprised I don’t write about it more, as we spend plenty of time discussing music and listening to it. I thought I knew a lot about music before I met John, but he blows me away. He knows just about everything there is to know about music. I’m always shocked if I can come up with a band or artist he hasn’t heard of. He’s got an impressive wall of music in our basement, full of CDs, records, tapes, box sets, DVDs. And that doesn’t even get into the massive collection of live music he has.

Like a dumbass, I burned the shit out of my wrist tonight while heating up tortillas and typing is kind of a drag right now, so I’ll throw this open to you. What “classes” would you give your (hypothetical or actual)kids? What silly things do you worry about them doing or not doing, liking or not liking?

Sometimes, life is just such a fucking hassle. I was in quite a state tonight after I got a statement from my insurance company saying that they aren’t going to cover some of the bloodwork or the day three sonogram my fertility doctor did to check that my ovaries are doing some of what their supposed to do. Now, I called my insurance company, and they told me diagnostic testing is covered. My doctor’s office called the insurance company and they were told that diagnostic testing is covered. Simply looking at my ovaries is in no way shape or form a treatment. And yet I have a statement from the bastards at Unicare/NCPPO saying that they aren’t covering the $670 bill from the clinic. Which, first of all, oh yes they fucking well are. And second, $670?! For looking at my ovaries for approximately 47 seconds and taking a couple of pictures? You have got to be kidding me. Seriously, right now, I hate all of them. The doctor’s office for charging so much money. The insurance company for denying the claim, and the world at large for not recognizing that infertility is a disease. Infertility is a MEDICAL CONDITON and treatment should be covered by insurance!!!!! Even though this was NOT a treatment.

It’s not that I don’t have the money to pay the bill. I do. That’s not the point.

Actually, that’s not even the point of this entry. The point of this entry is that I’m in an exceedingly negative place where I despise just about everything and everybody (not you, of course. Never you!) I’m dealing with all of this health bullshit, trying to feel my through eating healthy and exercising properly all on my own because God forbid I be able to get an appointment with an in-network specialist in a timely fashion. I’m STILL feuding with the oral surgeon from when I had my tooth pulled last summer over the bill for the anesthesia. The car is acting up – the left front tire gets wobbly feeling and rattle-y sounding after you hit a bump. I’m in this terrible and uncreative place – at work and at home – where all I want to do is whine and feel sorry for myself, and frankly, even I am sick of me.

And then there’s John. My husband, my best friend and truly the light of my life (not in the Jack Nicholson/The Shining way. The real, non-sarcastic way). Who, when I am in the middle of a full blown tantrum about all of this, notices and admires the new t-shirt I’m wearing. Who takes the time to make me laugh and not care, for a little while, about the assholes in the medical and insurance communities. Who makes dinner when I get home late because there were six raindrops and my evening commute slowed to a crawl. Who offers to pass up buying something he really wants so that we can put the money toward the $670 if it comes to that. And so much more. I love you.

Yesterday was John’s birthday. We spent the morning tidying up, as John’s auntie Bea from London and auntie Jimmie from Australia are here in the States visiting, and they came up to have lunch and to see the house. We had a really nice time, and they seemed to really like our house.

After they left, we headed over the West Virginia to pick up some Powerball tickets. That isn’t as much of a production as you might think, since we’re only about 20 minutes from Harper’s Ferry. John was hoping his birthday luck might apply to the lotto, so we went to Harper’s Ferry and then kept going until we found a 7-Eleven. 7-Elevens in West Virginia sell liquor. I know this because we were not the only people who thought to duck over to West Virginia to get a Powerball ticket, and there was quite a line. It moved pretty quickly, but even so, I spent several minutes in the extensive liquor section. Alas, we did not get a winner. We had exactly one of the numbers, which means we get nothing. But it was fun to go anyway.

Today I had my first blood draw and sonogram at the new clinic. I was a little worried about going in on a Sunday – but I was pleasantly surprised. I had almost no wait, even though they were very busy. The techs were friendly and efficient, explaining what they were doing and seeing. I was in and out in half an hour. At my old doctor’s I would still have been stuck in the waiting room in half an hour.

Then I went and helped my mom clean out her office for hours and hours and hours. She’s a consultant and she’s got an office that she never uses, so she’s closing it at the end of February. She’s been in there since 1998, and I don’t think she’s thrown out one single thing since she moved in. We threw out 13 bags of trash and moved out 11 boxes of stuff. Next Sunday John and I are going to help her move the furniture and the rest of her crap out. Next Sunday is going to completely suck.

My presentation went well. I believe I managed to be informative without providing so much information that everyone expired of boredom. Even better, for once I did not blush because I was the center of attention. That’s a major accomplishment for me. I always blush.

Anyway, I got through the presentation fine, sat through the rest of the surprisingly interesting meeting, ate my free Corner Bakery lunch, and headed back to my office none the worse for wear. Although I did find myself suffering from a major case of lack of focus-itis.

A case that kept going even after I left work. If my husband didn’t read this blog I could tell you about the silly mistake I made with a present for him, and oh, how we would laugh. But he does read, so instead I guess I’ll have to share my other goofy John story of the week.

On Sunday I learned the shocking truth that John doesn’t like dip. Doesn’t like dip, can you believe it? I was off to the grocery store to pick up a couple of items, and he requested potato chips. And I said, “But we have chips!” “Just plain ones,” he replied. “Well, I’ll be making dip when my mom comes over for the Super Bowl,” I said. And that was when he confessed his secret hatred of dip. So I get to the Giant and I’m looking at all the chips, suddenly concerned that I have no idea what he likes or dislikes anymore. I knew he’d just had salt & vinegar chips, so I didn’t think he want those. And I passed on sour cream & onion, because if he doesn’t like dip, maybe he's also harboring resentment of sour cream (a major component of dip). So after all this careful consideration, what do I buy? Cheddar & sour cream potato chips. Yes, that’s right, the other chips with sour cream in the name. Apparently I’ve been having trouble focusing all week.

This morning, as I lay sprawled in the bed contemplating how much I did not want to get up, my husband, his rest no doubt disturbed by my resentful brainwaves, woke up, smiled at me sleepily, kissed me gently on the wrist and mouth, gave the hopeful tail-thumping Seamus a quick pat, and then went back to sleep. And it made all the difference in the world, making me feel cherished and ready to face the day after all. I guess Mr. Lennon had it right – all you need is love.

Last night, I lay in my back yard with my husband and my dog, watching clouds race across the moonlit sky as a new weather front moved in. There were low, wispy, fast-moving clouds, and higher, chunkier clouds that lumbered behind them. It was really windy, but also still 60 degrees out, so we were quite comfortable. There’s something magical about connecting with Mother Nature and your two best friends, all the while in your own back yard. Particularly at night, when you can imagine that you are the only people in the world.

If you ever get the chance to do it yourself, I highly recommend it.

I have just learned that my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law are coming for dinner tomorrow night. Along with my adorable nephew and my new niece who I’ll be meeting for the first time, which is great, but I thought I’d have more notice. Must go clean everything. And frame photos. Do you think I can keep them from looking in the linen closet? My linen closet is a mess. And I think we’re out of toilet cleaner. Yikes!

Attend a beautiful and romantic wedding on Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

During the outdoor cocktail hour, enjoy the gorgeous view of the Chesapeake Bay as you sit with your husband and are reminded of all the reasons you married him.

Fondly reminisce about all the ways your own wedding was perfect.

Slip away to a rocking bench right at the water’s edge with said husband for a little while.

Drive home through the warm late-summer night, listening to good music and laughing with the man you love.

We did it! I am so excited this post might not even be coherent, but just as I was convinced we had no chance, our offer on a house was accepted. A house right on the very same street as the one we liked so much last week. It’s thrilling. And a little terrifying, but wahoo! We actually put our offer in on Friday, and they said we’d have an answer on Saturday, and then the sellers kept stalling and stalling and even my realtor thought we weren’t going to get the house. And then this afternoon another house in that neighborhood listed at a price over our absolute highest limit, and I thought, well, that’s it, started composing a post in my head with the working title Fucking DC Real Estate and began looking up new listings in other neighborhoods.

But instead, it turns out we got the house! They made us wait until 10 pm, but we got it and it is so awesome. It has a breakfast nook off the kitchen that is all windows, and a deck and a fireplace and a little fenced yard where Seamus can go off the leash. And it backs up to a common area, and has trees to block the road and is right next to a park. The only thing I don’t like about it is the wallpaper in the living room, and that’s just two walls. And possibly the paint in the master bath. John is already planning the move, and I'm...well, I'm pretty much just bouncing up and down like a little kid.

I don’t know how I’m ever going to get to sleep tonight. Yay!

We went out with our realtor for the first time yesterday to look at houses. Easter weekend isn’t a great time to go looking – there just isn’t that much for sale right now. I had picked five places I wanted to see, but unfortunately one of them listed and sold in one day, so we only got to see four. Two of them were in Montgomery County where we currently live. Sadly, these houses were completely unacceptable. (That sound you hear is John saying “I told you the houses in Germantown would be crap!”) Which he did, but I thought maybe we could find something decent in our price range. And if we hadn’t gone to check these two out, not only would I have always wondered if we could have found a place closer in…we also would have missed seeing the place where the woman had a topless photo of herself displayed in the bedroom. Now that’s classy. I actually felt bad for her realtor, because the place looked as if it might collapse or spontaneously burst into flames at any second.

Anyway, after that experience, I can definitely say we’re headed for Frederick County – a little bit of an adjustment for someone who grew up making fun of “Frednecks,” but the houses out there are soooo much better. The first place we checked out in Frederick was the Harley house. This guy had Harley everything, up to and including a Harley cookie jar. The place was ok, but it just wasn’t what we wanted.

And then we went to the house. It is in the neighborhood we had identified as our number one choice. I loved it. John loved it. Even the realtor seemed impressed. 3 good-sized bedrooms, a huge kitchen, a really nice deck, a fenced-in back yard and a fireplace! It even backs up to a park. It’s not perfect – there’s a shed in the back yard that we don’t really want, the fridge is kind of crappy and the woman has vastly different taste than I do. Vastly. It is decorated all cutesy and pink and purple and froufy, which is just not my thing. But that can be fixed with paint. The main problem is that they’ve overpriced it by $20,000-$25,000. We could afford it, although it is at the top of our range, but the house is just not worth as much as they are asking for it. The realtor says all we can do is hope they don’t get any offers at that price, and then maybe make them an offer in the right price range next week. So, dear Internet, please keep your fingers crossed that no one else is willing to overpay for this house either! Or, alternatively, that another house in the same neighborhood will come on the market at the proper price. Preferably one without a lilac and floral master bathroom.

John and I started driving around looking at potential future neighborhoods today. I was so excited to get started on the home buying process, I was like a small child on Christmas morning. We didn’t get off to the greatest start – we live in a very expensive county – and the first area we went to check out was a big disappointment. We went way the hell out in the country to a spot which I thought might be promising. But the townhouses out there were either shack-y looking or cost $400,000+. And we don’t have $400,000 to spend. So that was a little on the depressing side.

But then we went a little farther up the road, where the situation started to look more promising. Well, first we got a little lost. And by that point we were so far out in the country that once we missed our exit, we had to drive a ways before we could get turned back around. But once we figured out how to get where we wanted to be, we found three neighborhoods that we liked. And there are a couple more developments out there we didn’t get to see yet. Plus there are a few places closer in that we still have to check out. The whole notion of us actually buying a place is starting to feel real. It’s thrilling.

I had a lovely three day weekend – jam packed full of fun and good times. I actually kicked off the weekend on Thursday night, when Laila and I went to dinner and to hear Judith Warner talk about her new book. That was very interesting and deserves its own post, which I will write later.

Friday was John’s birthday, and we celebrated with a Gentleman Jim’s pizza (John’s favorite, and also a favorite of one Mr. Frank Sinatra) cheese fries and homemade peanut butter chocolate cake. And presents of course. Can’t have a birthday without presents. On Saturday we took a drive in the country and had some delicious Mexican food for dinner. We also discovered that there is an Indian restaurant in Frederick, so if we end up having to move there, at least there will be something to eat.

Sunday was Laila and yoga day. I love getting to hang out with Laila and Noah. I wish I could find the words to express how much I admire Laila for handling single motherhood the way that she is. It’s not easy and certainly not the life she expected to have, and yet she’s a good mom, with a sweet and wonderful boy.

Monday was the day that made the weekend great. I was so nervous because we were meeting with the real estate agent and the mortgage guy, and I was convinced that they were going to laugh and point and tell us we couldn’t afford enough of a mortgage to buy a shed in someone’s back yard. But it went great! We qualify for more money than we thought we would. So now we’re starting on neighborhood research. It’s all very exciting. I had to physically restrain myself from spending the entire day at work looking at real estate listings online today. I was pretty strict with myself though, so I did manage to get some work done.

I wish every weekend could last three days. Particularly when the three days are like the ones I just had.

This past weekend, I made a gingerbread house. My mother-in-law gave me a kit for Christmas, and I thought my two-year old nephew might enjoy it. Which he did, for about 7.2 seconds and then it was back to "Play cars and trucks now!"

Which left me with this gingerbread house that I had no use for whatsoever. For me, gingerbread houses are like easter eggs -- I enjoy the decoration part, but I have no interest in eating the result.

So we trucked the gingerbread house back home, and I said to John, "What the hell do I do with this thing?" And in a flash, it came to him...set it out in the woods! And now there's a miniature Hansel and Gretel house out there in the woods behind our house for someone to find. I like to think that a family of mice has set up house inside. That, or maybe some stoners from the high school will find it.

In my head, I am the worst housekeeper ever, a horrible wife, practically even a bad person because it has been so long since I vacuumed the apartment.

When I pull out the vacuum cleaner, John says to me “Are you going to vacuum again? Already?!”

Perhaps I’ve been a little too hard on myself.

So, today is Zoot's anniversary. She wrote a very sweet post that was romantic and totally made me cry. She and Mr. Zoot used one of the same songs that John and I used in our wedding, which made me all mushy. Then, Myllissa asked, how long can you be a newlywed? Which got me to thinking...

John and I have been married for exactly 2 years and 5 months today. I still think of us as newlweds. I get excited about the fact that we're married. I giggle when someone calls me Mrs. I smile to myself when I think about something funny John said or did. I find new reasons to love him every day. He manages to surprise me on a regular basis. And he's always coming up with new ways to make me smile and giving me new reasons to appreciate him. I think that still qualifies us as newlyweds.

On the other hand, I hope that the friendship, love and joy we have for each other will continue grow and evolve as it has since we got married. I don't plan on stopping that just because a certain amount of time has elapsed. And I hope I'm just as giddy about John in five...fifteen...thiry years...you get the idea. So does newlywed-ism have a time limit, or is it a state of mind? I'm voting for state of mind, and I'm hoping it will last a lifetime.

So, I was watching the movie Blue Crush on Sunday afternoon, (Shut up. It was on cable for free, and I clicked by during one of the cool-looking surfing scenes and got sucked in.) and I was seized by a longing to chuck my boring everyday life and move to Hawaii, where I would live at the beach and learn to surf. Somehow in this fantasy I also have Kate Bosworth’s body, but that’s a whole separate delusion.

The thing is, I’d never actually do it. Or move to Paris or Tuscany or London or Ireland or wherever it is that looks good to me based on a movie I saw or book that I read. But I know that there are people who do just that. My husband’s relatives all seem to be ready to try a new place at the drop of a hat, so he just thinks it is normal. I, on the other hand, get caught up in the romance of the idea for approximately 5.2 seconds, and then reality starts to intrude.

I mean, where would we live? I can’t even pull off buying a house in this country. Would anyone want to hire us to do anything? If we went to Europe, how would Seamus get there? Because he would be the dog who freaks out in the luggage compartment of the plane, gets out of his crate, and chews through some vital wiring in the landing gear.

John looks at the idea and says “Everything would be different! ” and I look at the idea and “But everything would be different. ” All the stores, all the people, all the roads. I wouldn’t know how to find anything. Even the notion of moving to a city that I love, like Vancouver, is intimidating to me.

Am I missing some sort of adventure gene? Or is it that I am more content with the way things are?