Ask any one of my family members about my gift-giving habits, and they'll let out a belly laugh.
You see, I'm not exactly always on top of things when it comes to buying presents for people. My sister Beth's birthday, for example, was in September, and I've yet to get her something for it. I'll hopefully have found the perfect thing by the time I see her for Christmas. Hopefully.
At this time, late on December 8, I have not yet bought one single gift for anyone for Christmas. In the past, that fact wouldn't have stressed me out a bit. In the past, however, my family has celebrated our holiday closer to January 1st because of work schedules. This year, I'm not so lucky. This year, we're having Christmas on Christmas.
Another cause for concern is the fact that I've got a whole 'nother family to buy for this go round. Another mom-who-has-everything, another sister, a father/sports fanatic, and (for the first time) a brother. Getting married has basically doubled the gift load, and in response I should've doubled the time I take to shop. I haven't. I think I'm in trouble.
Along those same lines, I think I've officially decided that Christmas is NOT a holiday for women. Take my post on decorating, for example. Cal does his expected part: getting the boxes out of the attic. My tasks, however, include hanging the wreaths, decorating the mantles (we have four fireplaces), creating a centerpiece for our dining room table, hanging the ornaments -just so- on our oh-so-wonderfully-gaudy tree, setting up the nativity scenes, placing holiday pillows on the couch, etc etc. You see, I hope, my point.
Tonight we had a Christmas party with my Sunday School class. I spent most of my Saturday buying ingredients at the grocery store, shopping for white elephant gifts, making an appetizer to take, and wrapping our white elephant gifts. What did we come home with from the "Chinese Auction" portion of the evening? A sports trivia game and a pocket knife. Cal is thrilled.
I think about Christmas at both mine and Cal's parents' houses. Our moms go all out with not only the meals, the tree, the decorations, and the cleaning, but also the gifts. Oh my goodness, the gifts. Mom will have 5 presents under the tree to unwrap: one from each of her kids, and one from my dad. Some of these are still in the Target/Walmart/Rayann's Christian Bookstore bag in which they came. We, on the other hand, literally spend hours opening our tens of thousands (slight exaggeration) of beautifully and lovingly packaged goodies, each with a handmade ribbon or bow to top off the gorgeous paper. She even color-codes the gifts that need to be opened simultaneously, such as the Veggie Tales Nativity set that we all four got a couple of years ago. Cal's house works pretty much the same way.
Anyway, this post really has no point, and it's just full of my musings from the last few days, particularly ever since I had my breakdown over the house-decorating last weekend. I should clarify that Cal is doing everything that I ask him to do and more, so it's not as if he's being a jerk while I do all the work. It is, really, stuff that the woman is just expected to do. Stuff that wouldn't ever get done if it were left up to the male gender.
Aren't we glad that it's not?
12.08.2007
12.06.2007
Living dangerously.
Cal and I live in a house that was built in 1921. It has all of the wonderful charms of age, along with a lot of its pitfalls. For example, most of our windows still have that beautiful, wavy glass of old. These windows, however, do not necessarily perform their practical duties as nicely; air seems to seep in from the outside much more easily than it does in newer homes.
Because both of us are pretty cheap (I prefer frugal), and because neither one of us is "cold-natured", we don't turn on our heater very much. Correction: we don't turn on our heater at all. At least we haven't yet.
Inside our house, it is somehow colder than it is outside. It's gotten down to the low 50's in there so far this year; last year, I'd often be able to see my breath when I'd go and visit Cal.
We use space heaters in the rooms that we use often so that we can stay warm, at least while watching television or taking showers. However, should one of us want to leave the comforts of the warm, cozy sitting room to get, say, a cup of hot chocolate, we argue over who has to make the mad dash to the frigid kitchen to fix it. I've started taking my clothes from the bedroom to the warmer sitting room so as to not freeze when I'm changing in the mornings or at night. Thankfully, we have a mattress warmer on the bed, so that helps once I actually get under the covers.
I knew it was bad when I left my house early for the Ladies' Christmas Banquet at our church the other night. You see, I really had to go to the bathroom, and I just couldn't bring myself to pull down my pants and sit on that frigid toilet seat at my house with my bare bottom. Yes, it's true. Immediately upon arriving at the warm church, filled with wonderfully paid-for heat, I knew that I had made a very good decision. Cal doesn't really understand just how cold those porcelain fixtures can get. Would any man? I don't think so.
I'm blogging here at school, and it's past the time that I'm allowed to leave, but that's okay. I know once I get home I'll be too bundled up in blankets to manage typing on my keyboard. I've never been so happy to stay late at work, and I've been getting here a lot quicker in the mornings, too. Maybe that old, cold house will end up being good for me ...
Because both of us are pretty cheap (I prefer frugal), and because neither one of us is "cold-natured", we don't turn on our heater very much. Correction: we don't turn on our heater at all. At least we haven't yet.
Inside our house, it is somehow colder than it is outside. It's gotten down to the low 50's in there so far this year; last year, I'd often be able to see my breath when I'd go and visit Cal.
We use space heaters in the rooms that we use often so that we can stay warm, at least while watching television or taking showers. However, should one of us want to leave the comforts of the warm, cozy sitting room to get, say, a cup of hot chocolate, we argue over who has to make the mad dash to the frigid kitchen to fix it. I've started taking my clothes from the bedroom to the warmer sitting room so as to not freeze when I'm changing in the mornings or at night. Thankfully, we have a mattress warmer on the bed, so that helps once I actually get under the covers.
I knew it was bad when I left my house early for the Ladies' Christmas Banquet at our church the other night. You see, I really had to go to the bathroom, and I just couldn't bring myself to pull down my pants and sit on that frigid toilet seat at my house with my bare bottom. Yes, it's true. Immediately upon arriving at the warm church, filled with wonderfully paid-for heat, I knew that I had made a very good decision. Cal doesn't really understand just how cold those porcelain fixtures can get. Would any man? I don't think so.
I'm blogging here at school, and it's past the time that I'm allowed to leave, but that's okay. I know once I get home I'll be too bundled up in blankets to manage typing on my keyboard. I've never been so happy to stay late at work, and I've been getting here a lot quicker in the mornings, too. Maybe that old, cold house will end up being good for me ...
12.05.2007
The Twelve Days of Christmas
Check out this video. Pretty impressive. Yes, I'm a dork for thinking it's worth posting, but we all knew that already, right?
12.03.2007
Oh, what would Martha say?
For the last 6 months, I've been looking forward to Christmas. For the first time in my adult life, I live in a house -- a real house -- that is big enough to decorate. I have the hardwood floors, the high ceilings, the beautiful molding... all things conducive to being beautifully adorned for the holiday season.
In preparation for the big decoration day (henceforth known as D-Day), I've been scouring all kinds of magazines for ideas. Cottage Living (my new fave), Southern Living, Martha Stewart Living. If it's "living", I've looked at it. I've watched countless hours of HGTV, searching for the perfect inspiration for the holiday house-of-my-dreams. I warned Cal for a week that Saturday, December 1, would be the day. Would he please get my two rubbermaid boxes filled with fabulous Christmas decorations down from our attic? Sure, he says. No problem.
D-Day arrives. Cal does his part. I'm standing in my hall, ripe with anticipation about opening the boxes and revealing the treasures within. I lift the lid and ...
Oh yeah. My decorations. I forgot.
You see, my collection of holiday "treasures" includes pretty much my mother's and grandmother's old castoffs. There are the stained needlepoint angels, the Hallmark eskimos (who knew eskimos AND polar bears liked to play billiards?), the raggedy rocking horse, and the teddy bear ornament that's missing a plastic eye. All of these are at least, oh, 30 years old. All of them except the ones that say "Merry Christmas, Miss Terry!" or "I love my teacher!" Those, of course, are new. And equally as unattractive.
Looking at my hodge podge junkpile of decor, my enthusiasm began to fail me. I got out the two nice things that I own -- two different Nativity sets given as gifts from mom and my grandmother -- and set them up. I looked around at my great house. I stared again at my rubbermaid boxes. There was the garland that once lived in Mom's attic for 27 years. There were the once-silver angels that sat on her fireplace mantle back when I was seven. The stuffed reindeer that my high school boyfriend gave me one year. The santa kitty cat doormat. I pulled a few things out. Got frustrated. Abandoned the whole mess.
Sunday came, and everything was still sitting there, just as I'd left it the day before. Cal found me yesterday afternoon sitting on the floor of our guest room, surrounded by mounds of ugly festivity, crying. When he made the mistake of asking me what was wrong, I shook my head. Where to begin? I'm a failure! I cried. I can't even decorate my house for Christmas! What kind of woman has a beautiful house and stops halfway through trimming the mantle to go take a nap, never intending to resume her task? Apparently, this kind of woman.
After many reassurances (baffled though they may have been) on his part that he didn't care whether I was a home design guru or not, I packed the boxes back up (aside from a few ornaments and the two nativities) and sent them back to the attic. The decorating spirit that I know is waiting somewhere, deep down inside of me, will just have to wait patiently at least one more year. Or at least until I have the money to buy the items more similar to those I envisioned in my sugarplum dreams.
(I did, in the midst of my crisis, manage to run to Fred's and buy a seriously ugly, little white Christmas tree for $9, on which I hung the few ornaments that I salvaged out of the bins before they went back upstairs. I decided that if I'm gonna go fake, I'm gonna go BIG fake. It's actually kinda funky, in a tacky kind of way. Pictures below. Oh, and yes -- that IS Uga at the manger scene, and Jackie Robinson stealing home in the background. You got a problem with it?)
In preparation for the big decoration day (henceforth known as D-Day), I've been scouring all kinds of magazines for ideas. Cottage Living (my new fave), Southern Living, Martha Stewart Living. If it's "living", I've looked at it. I've watched countless hours of HGTV, searching for the perfect inspiration for the holiday house-of-my-dreams. I warned Cal for a week that Saturday, December 1, would be the day. Would he please get my two rubbermaid boxes filled with fabulous Christmas decorations down from our attic? Sure, he says. No problem.
D-Day arrives. Cal does his part. I'm standing in my hall, ripe with anticipation about opening the boxes and revealing the treasures within. I lift the lid and ...
Oh yeah. My decorations. I forgot.
You see, my collection of holiday "treasures" includes pretty much my mother's and grandmother's old castoffs. There are the stained needlepoint angels, the Hallmark eskimos (who knew eskimos AND polar bears liked to play billiards?), the raggedy rocking horse, and the teddy bear ornament that's missing a plastic eye. All of these are at least, oh, 30 years old. All of them except the ones that say "Merry Christmas, Miss Terry!" or "I love my teacher!" Those, of course, are new. And equally as unattractive.
Looking at my hodge podge junkpile of decor, my enthusiasm began to fail me. I got out the two nice things that I own -- two different Nativity sets given as gifts from mom and my grandmother -- and set them up. I looked around at my great house. I stared again at my rubbermaid boxes. There was the garland that once lived in Mom's attic for 27 years. There were the once-silver angels that sat on her fireplace mantle back when I was seven. The stuffed reindeer that my high school boyfriend gave me one year. The santa kitty cat doormat. I pulled a few things out. Got frustrated. Abandoned the whole mess.
Sunday came, and everything was still sitting there, just as I'd left it the day before. Cal found me yesterday afternoon sitting on the floor of our guest room, surrounded by mounds of ugly festivity, crying. When he made the mistake of asking me what was wrong, I shook my head. Where to begin? I'm a failure! I cried. I can't even decorate my house for Christmas! What kind of woman has a beautiful house and stops halfway through trimming the mantle to go take a nap, never intending to resume her task? Apparently, this kind of woman.
After many reassurances (baffled though they may have been) on his part that he didn't care whether I was a home design guru or not, I packed the boxes back up (aside from a few ornaments and the two nativities) and sent them back to the attic. The decorating spirit that I know is waiting somewhere, deep down inside of me, will just have to wait patiently at least one more year. Or at least until I have the money to buy the items more similar to those I envisioned in my sugarplum dreams.
(I did, in the midst of my crisis, manage to run to Fred's and buy a seriously ugly, little white Christmas tree for $9, on which I hung the few ornaments that I salvaged out of the bins before they went back upstairs. I decided that if I'm gonna go fake, I'm gonna go BIG fake. It's actually kinda funky, in a tacky kind of way. Pictures below. Oh, and yes -- that IS Uga at the manger scene, and Jackie Robinson stealing home in the background. You got a problem with it?)
11.29.2007
The Men in my Life
Yes, men. Plural. You see, there are two of the male gender that have captured my heart, two with whom I share my life.
Cal .... and Nicholas the Cat.
When Cal and I first started dating, conversation would get really awkward as it turned to the subject of my cat. He would get kinda quiet, mumble something about the dogs he had growing up, them promptly change the subject. He told me once that he could lie and say that he's allergic, but that he'd feel bad about the dishonesty. The truth was, he said, that he just didn't like cats one bit. And if he and I were going to last, then the cat would have to go.
One time, I remember, he suggested giving Nicholas to my parents. No nod to the fact that Nicholas had been a part of my household since 1998, when I was a junior in college. No comprehension that he, not Nicholas, was the newbie, the one who had to pass muster. Cal thought he had the right to approve (or not approve) of Nicholas. In actuality, Nicholas was the one who needed to decide about Cal.
When Cal moved to Macon a little over a year ago, he began to realize the special place that Nick held in my heart. After a good little while, he got accustomed to the cat hair on my furniture, the incessant meowing at the door, the random piece of cat food (tracked into the house, latched somehow on one of Nick's paws) lying on the carpet in my bedroom.
I knew Cal was starting to come around when he'd get (subtly) excited to see Nicholas lounging on his porch instead of mine when he got home from work. We lived, you know, only 1 house apart.
Nicholas didn't take long to figure out that Cal and I had a thing going. He knew we spent a lot of time together, and it didn't matter to him which of us fed him or talked to him, as long as someone would just please pay him some mind. He got to where he'd park himself on the steps of the house in between the two of ours after we each left for work; that way, he'd be equally close to whichever of us got home first that afternoon. Cal would laugh at his antics, but he'd never admit that Nick was a pretty fabulous feline.
It wasn't until we got married, however, that Cal stopped pretending that he hadn't fallen -- hard -- for Nicholas. He started out tough: no Nicholas in the house. Ever. Since then, he's changed his tune. The cat, MY cat, has become the husband's new best friend. Cal laughs at just the sight of Nick sauntering past the window. He'll call me in the room to look out at the porch at a particularly funny way that Nick is sleeping. They're inseparable. If Cal's in the yard working on his boat, Nick's in the yard watching. If Cal comes out the front door to get his newspaper in the morning, Nick beats him there to say hello.
And, just recently, I've started coming home to find Nicholas curled up, asleep ... (wait for it) ... IN THE HOUSE. And on Cal's beloved recliner, on top of that. Who'd have ever thought?
And so, a tribute to My Boys. Aren't they adorable?
Yes, Cal is feeding Nicholas yogurt in that last one. Nasty, I know. Too funny not to share, though, and too perfect for making my point. That one is going on, actually, as I write, and inspired this blog post to begin with.
Cal .... and Nicholas the Cat.
When Cal and I first started dating, conversation would get really awkward as it turned to the subject of my cat. He would get kinda quiet, mumble something about the dogs he had growing up, them promptly change the subject. He told me once that he could lie and say that he's allergic, but that he'd feel bad about the dishonesty. The truth was, he said, that he just didn't like cats one bit. And if he and I were going to last, then the cat would have to go.
One time, I remember, he suggested giving Nicholas to my parents. No nod to the fact that Nicholas had been a part of my household since 1998, when I was a junior in college. No comprehension that he, not Nicholas, was the newbie, the one who had to pass muster. Cal thought he had the right to approve (or not approve) of Nicholas. In actuality, Nicholas was the one who needed to decide about Cal.
When Cal moved to Macon a little over a year ago, he began to realize the special place that Nick held in my heart. After a good little while, he got accustomed to the cat hair on my furniture, the incessant meowing at the door, the random piece of cat food (tracked into the house, latched somehow on one of Nick's paws) lying on the carpet in my bedroom.
I knew Cal was starting to come around when he'd get (subtly) excited to see Nicholas lounging on his porch instead of mine when he got home from work. We lived, you know, only 1 house apart.
Nicholas didn't take long to figure out that Cal and I had a thing going. He knew we spent a lot of time together, and it didn't matter to him which of us fed him or talked to him, as long as someone would just please pay him some mind. He got to where he'd park himself on the steps of the house in between the two of ours after we each left for work; that way, he'd be equally close to whichever of us got home first that afternoon. Cal would laugh at his antics, but he'd never admit that Nick was a pretty fabulous feline.
It wasn't until we got married, however, that Cal stopped pretending that he hadn't fallen -- hard -- for Nicholas. He started out tough: no Nicholas in the house. Ever. Since then, he's changed his tune. The cat, MY cat, has become the husband's new best friend. Cal laughs at just the sight of Nick sauntering past the window. He'll call me in the room to look out at the porch at a particularly funny way that Nick is sleeping. They're inseparable. If Cal's in the yard working on his boat, Nick's in the yard watching. If Cal comes out the front door to get his newspaper in the morning, Nick beats him there to say hello.
And, just recently, I've started coming home to find Nicholas curled up, asleep ... (wait for it) ... IN THE HOUSE. And on Cal's beloved recliner, on top of that. Who'd have ever thought?
And so, a tribute to My Boys. Aren't they adorable?
Yes, Cal is feeding Nicholas yogurt in that last one. Nasty, I know. Too funny not to share, though, and too perfect for making my point. That one is going on, actually, as I write, and inspired this blog post to begin with.
11.26.2007
Go Figure.
Oprah came to Macon.
Oh yes, it's true. Those of you who know me know my guilty pleasure ... curling up with a diet coke and watching Oprah on a weekday at 4 pm. Yes, she's got her theology totally wrong. Yes, she's a diva. Yes, she's likely overbearing and arrogant and b****y, and yes she's probably the antichrist. But I love her.
So did I get tickets to her show? Stalk her at her hotel? Follow her entourage around for the 3 days she was here?
Nope.
I left town.
Yep. I went to New York City on a conference with the English department. Sure, it was fun. Kind of. Broadway was on strike. We were in meetings all day. And Oprah was in Macon.
It was probably the one time in the history of my life here that I haven't wanted to be anywhere but Macon. And I was out of town. Sigh.
Oh, and did I mention that she taped her favorite things show while she was here? Uh huh. Yes, that one where she gave away the refrigerator with the television set in it. And the high definition camcorder. That's right. That's the one.
Tomorrow's (Tuesday's) show is all about the behind-the-scenes, how she pulled it off stuff. So tune in, and see Macon at what is hopefully (but unlikely) its best.
Just don't waste your time looking for me in the background.
Oh yes, it's true. Those of you who know me know my guilty pleasure ... curling up with a diet coke and watching Oprah on a weekday at 4 pm. Yes, she's got her theology totally wrong. Yes, she's a diva. Yes, she's likely overbearing and arrogant and b****y, and yes she's probably the antichrist. But I love her.
So did I get tickets to her show? Stalk her at her hotel? Follow her entourage around for the 3 days she was here?
Nope.
I left town.
Yep. I went to New York City on a conference with the English department. Sure, it was fun. Kind of. Broadway was on strike. We were in meetings all day. And Oprah was in Macon.
It was probably the one time in the history of my life here that I haven't wanted to be anywhere but Macon. And I was out of town. Sigh.
Oh, and did I mention that she taped her favorite things show while she was here? Uh huh. Yes, that one where she gave away the refrigerator with the television set in it. And the high definition camcorder. That's right. That's the one.
Tomorrow's (Tuesday's) show is all about the behind-the-scenes, how she pulled it off stuff. So tune in, and see Macon at what is hopefully (but unlikely) its best.
Just don't waste your time looking for me in the background.
10.26.2007
Preggers (not me, thank goodness.)
There must be something in the water.
At this particular minute, 13 of my friends are pregnant. It might be more than that, but that's the number I came up with right off the top of my head. 13. And I'm not talking 13 acquaintances. Nope, these are all either pretty close friends or family. 8 (EIGHT) of them are in my Sunday school class, which is not very big. 2 of them are my best friends from my childhood days (including Kelly with another little boy... Hurray!) 1 is the wife of a good friend from my childhood days. 1 is the dear Julie V., in whose basement I used to live when I first moved to Macon. She now lives in Jackson, MS with her family of currently 3 little girls. Wonder if they have a boy in store?
The 13th? My sister, Amy, and her husband, Matt. She's having a boy, which is totally and absolutely a shocker for the entire family. A boy! In the Terry family!
If you don't know us, you won't understand. You see, we're a family of girls. Four girls, to be exact, and five if you count my mother. We have one baby amongst us, and she is, predictably, a girl. (What up, Anna Claire!) When we found out Amy was pregnant back in late June, we assumed hers would be, too. I mean, what else would it be? A boy? Ha!! Yeah, right.
But we were wrong. I think that my mother is still unconvinced. Apparently, she keeps asking Amy and Matt if the doctor was absolutely positive, if there was some room for debate. Apparently, there was not.
You can imagine that we are thrilled with the possibilities that lie in front of us. The color blue! and trucks! and little soldier men! and baseball bats/gloves/balls! Tools! And (most exciting for me, who always secretly wanted to play with them) Transformers!
The due date is early March, along with the rest of my circle of friends.
Can't wait to meet you, Little Baby Casper.
At this particular minute, 13 of my friends are pregnant. It might be more than that, but that's the number I came up with right off the top of my head. 13. And I'm not talking 13 acquaintances. Nope, these are all either pretty close friends or family. 8 (EIGHT) of them are in my Sunday school class, which is not very big. 2 of them are my best friends from my childhood days (including Kelly with another little boy... Hurray!) 1 is the wife of a good friend from my childhood days. 1 is the dear Julie V., in whose basement I used to live when I first moved to Macon. She now lives in Jackson, MS with her family of currently 3 little girls. Wonder if they have a boy in store?
The 13th? My sister, Amy, and her husband, Matt. She's having a boy, which is totally and absolutely a shocker for the entire family. A boy! In the Terry family!
If you don't know us, you won't understand. You see, we're a family of girls. Four girls, to be exact, and five if you count my mother. We have one baby amongst us, and she is, predictably, a girl. (What up, Anna Claire!) When we found out Amy was pregnant back in late June, we assumed hers would be, too. I mean, what else would it be? A boy? Ha!! Yeah, right.
But we were wrong. I think that my mother is still unconvinced. Apparently, she keeps asking Amy and Matt if the doctor was absolutely positive, if there was some room for debate. Apparently, there was not.
You can imagine that we are thrilled with the possibilities that lie in front of us. The color blue! and trucks! and little soldier men! and baseball bats/gloves/balls! Tools! And (most exciting for me, who always secretly wanted to play with them) Transformers!
The due date is early March, along with the rest of my circle of friends.
Can't wait to meet you, Little Baby Casper.
10.16.2007
Blood Traitor
I received the following email a few minutes ago from my sister, Julie:
I really want to thank Cal for being such an understanding person by writing on his blog more than once a month. I mean people in Pelham need to do something all day, and I must say Miriam has been very disappointing. If she truly cared about her sister, she would write a blog at least once a week. Notice I am not being unreasonable because i didn't say every day. Anyway, thanks Cal for keeping me posted on life. I really do enjoy your blogs and I do hope your titties never become speed bumps. Julie
And just now, a few seconds later, this response from my husband, Cal:
Julie,
I am very happy to oblige. I, too, am disappointed in your sister's blog output.
I fear that complacency has set in, so I feel obligated to take up her slack ...
Cal
Although I feel it unnecessary to make a rebuttal (as anyone with any class would realize the silliness of these statements), I will oblige for their poor, pitiful sakes.
If you count them, you will realize that I have made 224 posts, to date. Cal, on the other hand, has written 24. Two hundred less than me.
You will notice that many of my posts came close together (namely, those I wrote when I first started blogging), while others were more spread out. Much of this inconsistency is due to the fact that, over the same span of time that I was blogging, I was nurturing a new, long-distance relationship with the man who is now my husband, the very same man who is being so chummy with my sister and her unfounded and unreasonable assertions.
My hours these days are divided between fighting off pillows at night and folding underclothes (that don't belong to me) fresh out of the dryer.
Forgive my lack of time to blog.
And Julie? Perhaps, if you're so bored in Pelham, you can bring my niece up here to visit her aunt. Maybe then I'd be inspired to write more ...
(What up, Anna Claire!! Don't forget me!)
I really want to thank Cal for being such an understanding person by writing on his blog more than once a month. I mean people in Pelham need to do something all day, and I must say Miriam has been very disappointing. If she truly cared about her sister, she would write a blog at least once a week. Notice I am not being unreasonable because i didn't say every day. Anyway, thanks Cal for keeping me posted on life. I really do enjoy your blogs and I do hope your titties never become speed bumps. Julie
And just now, a few seconds later, this response from my husband, Cal:
Julie,
I am very happy to oblige. I, too, am disappointed in your sister's blog output.
I fear that complacency has set in, so I feel obligated to take up her slack ...
Cal
Although I feel it unnecessary to make a rebuttal (as anyone with any class would realize the silliness of these statements), I will oblige for their poor, pitiful sakes.
If you count them, you will realize that I have made 224 posts, to date. Cal, on the other hand, has written 24. Two hundred less than me.
You will notice that many of my posts came close together (namely, those I wrote when I first started blogging), while others were more spread out. Much of this inconsistency is due to the fact that, over the same span of time that I was blogging, I was nurturing a new, long-distance relationship with the man who is now my husband, the very same man who is being so chummy with my sister and her unfounded and unreasonable assertions.
My hours these days are divided between fighting off pillows at night and folding underclothes (that don't belong to me) fresh out of the dryer.
Forgive my lack of time to blog.
And Julie? Perhaps, if you're so bored in Pelham, you can bring my niece up here to visit her aunt. Maybe then I'd be inspired to write more ...
(What up, Anna Claire!! Don't forget me!)
9.29.2007
Love Affair
Growing up, most people likened me to my father. I'm somewhat quiet like he is, reserved in unfamiliar social situations, would rather sit at home on a Friday night than go out with friends. He and I are also both "Type B" personalities, or, as Dad says, "Type L for Lazy". My mother, on the other hand, is a go-getter. She can't sit still to watch a movie, for example; she has to get up and unload the dishwasher, or sew a button on Dad's khakis, or email her friend BJ. When something has to be done in November, she gets it finished in July. She is highly organized. My sisters received her enviable qualities. I, for the most part, did not.
I did, however, inherit at least one thing from my mother: an undying, ever-loyal affection for TJ Maxx. Elizabeth, thankfully, shares the same relationship. Macon doesn't have a TJ (yes, I'm on a first-name basis with the store), but Warner Robins (15 miles south on I-75) does. We make plans to visit TJ from time to time and get really excited about it. Or, if Lizzy visits one in Atlanta or Athens or something while she's traveling, she makes sure to provide a detailed account to me when she gets home, and vice versa. Athens, by the way, has the mac daddy of TJ's: a TJ Maxx Home Store. It's somewhere close to the size of Walmart, with a super-sized home department. Fabulous. I get butterflies of anticipation in my stomach just thinking about it.
One time, less than 3 months into my relationship with Cal, he and I went up to Athens for a UGA football game. It was his birthday, and we went to Longhorn to celebrate. Longhorn in Athens is, very conveniently, in the same shopping center as the TJ. He agreed to accompany me, after which he shook his head in confusion. "That's the happiest I've ever seen you, Miriam," he said.
He repeated a smilar sentiment this past summer after we had gotten married. I had gone to Ross and Marshall's, Macon's (sub-par) equivalents to TJ, in order to pick up some decorative items for our house. I happened to hit the jackpot on that particular day, spending way too much money, but, then again, hardly anything compared to the value of all of the goodies that I bought. He couldn't believe my giddiness.
My mother and her friend, Gloria, are TJ fanatics as well. They go to the one in Valdosta as often as they get the chance. While I spend the most of my time in TJ looking in the home dept, they are patient and talented enough to be able to wade through the aisles and aisles of clothing to find deals like you wouldn't believe. I get frustrated if I try to spend too much time with that, so I often don't even attempt the task. Maybe the sorting-through ability is a gift that comes with age and wisdom. I hope so.
People who don't love TJ don't understand the appeal. They, like Cal, walk into the store and see a warehouse full of unorganized junk. They often turn away in disgust and promptly head to the mall where they will, inevitably, pay 2, 3, or 4 times as much money for the exact same item of clothing, brand and all. I consider that a tragedy.
Thank you, Mom, for the legacy. I couldn't have asked for a better one!
I did, however, inherit at least one thing from my mother: an undying, ever-loyal affection for TJ Maxx. Elizabeth, thankfully, shares the same relationship. Macon doesn't have a TJ (yes, I'm on a first-name basis with the store), but Warner Robins (15 miles south on I-75) does. We make plans to visit TJ from time to time and get really excited about it. Or, if Lizzy visits one in Atlanta or Athens or something while she's traveling, she makes sure to provide a detailed account to me when she gets home, and vice versa. Athens, by the way, has the mac daddy of TJ's: a TJ Maxx Home Store. It's somewhere close to the size of Walmart, with a super-sized home department. Fabulous. I get butterflies of anticipation in my stomach just thinking about it.
One time, less than 3 months into my relationship with Cal, he and I went up to Athens for a UGA football game. It was his birthday, and we went to Longhorn to celebrate. Longhorn in Athens is, very conveniently, in the same shopping center as the TJ. He agreed to accompany me, after which he shook his head in confusion. "That's the happiest I've ever seen you, Miriam," he said.
He repeated a smilar sentiment this past summer after we had gotten married. I had gone to Ross and Marshall's, Macon's (sub-par) equivalents to TJ, in order to pick up some decorative items for our house. I happened to hit the jackpot on that particular day, spending way too much money, but, then again, hardly anything compared to the value of all of the goodies that I bought. He couldn't believe my giddiness.
My mother and her friend, Gloria, are TJ fanatics as well. They go to the one in Valdosta as often as they get the chance. While I spend the most of my time in TJ looking in the home dept, they are patient and talented enough to be able to wade through the aisles and aisles of clothing to find deals like you wouldn't believe. I get frustrated if I try to spend too much time with that, so I often don't even attempt the task. Maybe the sorting-through ability is a gift that comes with age and wisdom. I hope so.
People who don't love TJ don't understand the appeal. They, like Cal, walk into the store and see a warehouse full of unorganized junk. They often turn away in disgust and promptly head to the mall where they will, inevitably, pay 2, 3, or 4 times as much money for the exact same item of clothing, brand and all. I consider that a tragedy.
Thank you, Mom, for the legacy. I couldn't have asked for a better one!
9.26.2007
Moved in
This past Monday, I moved into Cal's house.
Sure, I've been living here for a little over three months now.* My stuff, however, has a different story.
When my parents came up to Macon the weekend before we got married, they helped Cal and me move my boxes from my house all the way --two doors down-- to Cal's. I was leaving for Thomasville the next day to make final wedding preparations, and the next time I'd be back up here would be the day we came back from our honeymoon. I knew that if I still had an apartment full of boxed-up mess awaiting my return, I'd never fully enjoy our time away. So we moved it.
The problem came in the fact that Cal was still going to be living in his house (alone) for a few more days. He wasn't heading to Thomasville until the Thursday before the wedding, and I'm sure he was hoping to treasure his last few days as a bachelor, living in his bachelorish bachelor pad. He was quite ready for me to move in, I think, but he got a bit squirmy when anyone made mention of my things coming with me. I was, therefore, a little nervous about filling his house up with mounds and mounds of boxes filled with unorganized junk and promptly leaving town. What if my stuff drove him nuts and made him rethink his proposal? What if he didn't show up as planned?
In an effort to avoid the rather annoying abandoned-at-the-altar scenario, I decided that we should cordon off one of the guest rooms for my things. That way, we could shut the door and Cal wouldn't even have to see it. And, when we returned from St. Simons, we'd have a semi-clean, organized house in which to live, and I'd have the rest of the summer to unpack and get settled.
Those who know me well can, I'm sure, figure out exactly where this post is going. You see, I procrastinate. I procrastinate severely. And so, three months later, I was still living out of the boxes in the front bedroom, digging through piles of old bills, checkbook stubs, notepads, staple guns, and extension cords whenever I needed to use, say, my calculator. When I had found it, I could leave the room and close the door, forgetting again the mess behind me. Whenever we'd have company, we'd just stack the boxes so that they'd perch precariously on top of one another, reaching as high as we could get them and thus providing the illusion of a somewhat clean room with lots of floor space. Goodness knows the mess we would've had if the boxes had ever toppled.
But now, I am pleased to announce that it's official. This is my house, just as much as it is Cal's. No more boxes, no more wedding gifts, to unpack. It is done.
What made me finally do it? Kinda funny, actually. Cal and I had gotten into a silly argument a couple of weeks ago on a Saturday night. I can't even remember what it was about. Afterwards, he was watching football in the tv room. I had three options: 1) stay and watch tv with him and silently seethe about whatever it was that had made me mad, 2) call Elizabeth and head to the local Irish pub for gin and tonics, or 3) go to the other room and find something to keep me busy.
The first option, let me tell you, just wasn't going to happen. The second? Well, I was SO tempted. It was certainly the most pleasurable option. But I knew that my leaving would be a slap in the face or a slamming of the door after our argument, and I felt that it wasn't a real mature move. At some point I would have to learn how to argue with the man who I share a house with, and it might as well be now. So, the third choice it was, and I was so dreadfully bored that I decided I might as well throw some of my tension into the mess in the guest room. I put on my Ipod headphones, and, two hours later, I was done. The room was spotless. Ready for overnight company.
This past Monday night I completed the moving-in task by finally making room in some of our kitchen cabinets for our fine china, which, until then, had been sitting out all nice and pretty on our dining room table, gathering dust. I figure that it'll buy us some time until we can find a china cabinet that we really like, rather than feeling pressured to settle on one just to get the dishes out of the way.
It feels nice to have a house of my very own. And even nicer to be sharing it with an adorable man, who just happens to also be my husband. How did I become so blessed?
*You wanna know something crazy? Last Thursday, we had officially been married longer than we were engaged. One of Cal's cousins got engaged a couple of weeks before we did, and his wedding is still 2 weeks away. I don't know how they're standing it. We HATED being engaged, and that was just for 3 months.
Sure, I've been living here for a little over three months now.* My stuff, however, has a different story.
When my parents came up to Macon the weekend before we got married, they helped Cal and me move my boxes from my house all the way --two doors down-- to Cal's. I was leaving for Thomasville the next day to make final wedding preparations, and the next time I'd be back up here would be the day we came back from our honeymoon. I knew that if I still had an apartment full of boxed-up mess awaiting my return, I'd never fully enjoy our time away. So we moved it.
The problem came in the fact that Cal was still going to be living in his house (alone) for a few more days. He wasn't heading to Thomasville until the Thursday before the wedding, and I'm sure he was hoping to treasure his last few days as a bachelor, living in his bachelorish bachelor pad. He was quite ready for me to move in, I think, but he got a bit squirmy when anyone made mention of my things coming with me. I was, therefore, a little nervous about filling his house up with mounds and mounds of boxes filled with unorganized junk and promptly leaving town. What if my stuff drove him nuts and made him rethink his proposal? What if he didn't show up as planned?
In an effort to avoid the rather annoying abandoned-at-the-altar scenario, I decided that we should cordon off one of the guest rooms for my things. That way, we could shut the door and Cal wouldn't even have to see it. And, when we returned from St. Simons, we'd have a semi-clean, organized house in which to live, and I'd have the rest of the summer to unpack and get settled.
Those who know me well can, I'm sure, figure out exactly where this post is going. You see, I procrastinate. I procrastinate severely. And so, three months later, I was still living out of the boxes in the front bedroom, digging through piles of old bills, checkbook stubs, notepads, staple guns, and extension cords whenever I needed to use, say, my calculator. When I had found it, I could leave the room and close the door, forgetting again the mess behind me. Whenever we'd have company, we'd just stack the boxes so that they'd perch precariously on top of one another, reaching as high as we could get them and thus providing the illusion of a somewhat clean room with lots of floor space. Goodness knows the mess we would've had if the boxes had ever toppled.
But now, I am pleased to announce that it's official. This is my house, just as much as it is Cal's. No more boxes, no more wedding gifts, to unpack. It is done.
What made me finally do it? Kinda funny, actually. Cal and I had gotten into a silly argument a couple of weeks ago on a Saturday night. I can't even remember what it was about. Afterwards, he was watching football in the tv room. I had three options: 1) stay and watch tv with him and silently seethe about whatever it was that had made me mad, 2) call Elizabeth and head to the local Irish pub for gin and tonics, or 3) go to the other room and find something to keep me busy.
The first option, let me tell you, just wasn't going to happen. The second? Well, I was SO tempted. It was certainly the most pleasurable option. But I knew that my leaving would be a slap in the face or a slamming of the door after our argument, and I felt that it wasn't a real mature move. At some point I would have to learn how to argue with the man who I share a house with, and it might as well be now. So, the third choice it was, and I was so dreadfully bored that I decided I might as well throw some of my tension into the mess in the guest room. I put on my Ipod headphones, and, two hours later, I was done. The room was spotless. Ready for overnight company.
This past Monday night I completed the moving-in task by finally making room in some of our kitchen cabinets for our fine china, which, until then, had been sitting out all nice and pretty on our dining room table, gathering dust. I figure that it'll buy us some time until we can find a china cabinet that we really like, rather than feeling pressured to settle on one just to get the dishes out of the way.
It feels nice to have a house of my very own. And even nicer to be sharing it with an adorable man, who just happens to also be my husband. How did I become so blessed?
*You wanna know something crazy? Last Thursday, we had officially been married longer than we were engaged. One of Cal's cousins got engaged a couple of weeks before we did, and his wedding is still 2 weeks away. I don't know how they're standing it. We HATED being engaged, and that was just for 3 months.
9.23.2007
9.21.2007
A Matter of Extreme Urgency
It's Friday afternoon on a nice, Fall day in the South, where every high school for miles around has its mind on ... its ability to pee when it wants to?
About an hour ago, the faculty received this email, entitled, simply, "restrooms":
We are having plumbing difficulties that can not be resolved until after the school day has ended. The only functional restrooms we have are located at the stadium.
Seven minutes later, we get another email, entitled, simply, "restroom":
Lee Dawson just told us the stadium restrooms do not work at this point.
Wonderful! We have a school full of over 1000 students, faculty, and staff, all of varied ages and bladder-control capacities, all unable to use a restroom. Let me correct that. They can use a restroom, they just can't flush the toilet after they do. And, well, I'll just say that it's just past lunchtime, and, well, folks need to be able to flush. Right.
The faculty and students are, of course, pushing for getting off for the rest of the day. I mean, there are only 1 1/2 hours left before the final bell rings anyway... what could it hurt? The problem is that none of us are certain that any of the administration (those with enough power to make such a call) are here today. None of us have seen them. We're left to fend for ourselves.
And so, when my students ask (as they usually do) at the beginning of seventh period if they may go to the bathroom, I'll tell them that yes, they may. But they can't flush.
3:10, come quickly.
About an hour ago, the faculty received this email, entitled, simply, "restrooms":
We are having plumbing difficulties that can not be resolved until after the school day has ended. The only functional restrooms we have are located at the stadium.
Seven minutes later, we get another email, entitled, simply, "restroom":
Lee Dawson just told us the stadium restrooms do not work at this point.
Wonderful! We have a school full of over 1000 students, faculty, and staff, all of varied ages and bladder-control capacities, all unable to use a restroom. Let me correct that. They can use a restroom, they just can't flush the toilet after they do. And, well, I'll just say that it's just past lunchtime, and, well, folks need to be able to flush. Right.
The faculty and students are, of course, pushing for getting off for the rest of the day. I mean, there are only 1 1/2 hours left before the final bell rings anyway... what could it hurt? The problem is that none of us are certain that any of the administration (those with enough power to make such a call) are here today. None of us have seen them. We're left to fend for ourselves.
And so, when my students ask (as they usually do) at the beginning of seventh period if they may go to the bathroom, I'll tell them that yes, they may. But they can't flush.
3:10, come quickly.
9.20.2007
Fame!
Cal already did the work of blogging about our most recent news, so check out the latest post on his site to see. And no, I'm not pregnant. (Phew!!)
9.10.2007
Perks of Being the Press
Or at least of being married to the Press.
Cal pulled some strings and is getting the two of us, plus one of his Journalism students, in to the big "black tie optional", $100 per ticket Otis Redding tribute this Friday night at the Macon City Auditorium. For free, of course. He's been talking to none other than Redding's daughter, Karla, to get it set up.
Hurray! Check out the fun music lineup. And Cal said there would probably be some "minor celebrities", as well. Yes!! I love celebrities!
Cal pulled some strings and is getting the two of us, plus one of his Journalism students, in to the big "black tie optional", $100 per ticket Otis Redding tribute this Friday night at the Macon City Auditorium. For free, of course. He's been talking to none other than Redding's daughter, Karla, to get it set up.
Hurray! Check out the fun music lineup. And Cal said there would probably be some "minor celebrities", as well. Yes!! I love celebrities!
9.09.2007
There is a word in our language that, I believe, is short one letter. What word is that, you ask? Jog. Why is it short a letter in my opinion? Because I think it would be more appropriate as a four-letter word. In my vocabulary, it IS a four-letter word.
It's 6:45 on a Sunday night, and I just got back from participating in this hateful activity. I'm sitting at my computer, dripping with sweat. I realize I should go shower, but I've found that showering immediately after a jog does nothing, as I'm still sweating when I get out, and 5 minutes later I need yet another shower.
Some people --including people I know and am actually very good friends with-- enjoy this activity immensely. If they're anticipating a busy day, they get up extra early (another activity that should be banned, I might add) in order to get their jogs in. I cannot imagine this mindset. If I'm anticipating a busy day, I look forward to it all week because I know that it means I have an excuse NOT to jog. Heck, I've even been known to purposely fill up a day with trifling errands and pointless busy work just to create this excuse not to jog. I hate it. HATE it.
Why?
It makes my knees hurt, it makes my butt hurt, it makes my thighs hurt, my chest, my lungs, my head. I get so hot within the first 30 seconds that my face turns its infamous shade of beet red (charming, or endearing as some folks put it. downright grotesque, say others.) immediately and I have folks stop me to ask if I'm okay. My inner thighs get chafed (yes. I admit it. I'm not ashamed that my thighs touch.), the soles of my feet get hot in my shoes, and I have trouble breathing. All of this before I leave the house. Ha! Just kidding.
Worst of all, though, is that I sweat. I detest sweating. Even though I can't run very far and am back at my lovely, comfortable, somewhat cool house within less than half of an hour, the jogging process takes about 1 1/2 hours once I add in the shower, the hair drying, the reapplication of makeup, the dressing. Cal walks in the door dripping with sweat and is back in the comforts of his ugly green recliner, all clean and spiffy, checking his email or watching the latest installment of Design Star on HGTV within five minutes. Quite literally. I, on the other hand, am not so blessed with natural, low maintenance beauty as he.
However, in spite of all this, I continue to put myself through the torture day after day, month after month. I don't get better, I don't experience the "runner's high", I don't know what folks are talking about when they say I'll get addicted. Wouldn't that have happened by now, 2 1/2 years into this routine? Surely.
I jog, though, because it means I can eat. And I like to eat more than I hate to jog, if that's possible.
I am no athlete, and I'm under no delusions that I ever will be. Even Cal, I think, has resigned himself to that fact of my life. So, for as long as I strive to conform to mainstream society's impossible image of skinny beauty, I will hate to jog. And I will, likely, complain about it.
But I'll do it. Sigh.
Off to shower. Cal, of course is already done and in his spot for the night. Lucky him. I'm just getting started.
It's 6:45 on a Sunday night, and I just got back from participating in this hateful activity. I'm sitting at my computer, dripping with sweat. I realize I should go shower, but I've found that showering immediately after a jog does nothing, as I'm still sweating when I get out, and 5 minutes later I need yet another shower.
Some people --including people I know and am actually very good friends with-- enjoy this activity immensely. If they're anticipating a busy day, they get up extra early (another activity that should be banned, I might add) in order to get their jogs in. I cannot imagine this mindset. If I'm anticipating a busy day, I look forward to it all week because I know that it means I have an excuse NOT to jog. Heck, I've even been known to purposely fill up a day with trifling errands and pointless busy work just to create this excuse not to jog. I hate it. HATE it.
Why?
It makes my knees hurt, it makes my butt hurt, it makes my thighs hurt, my chest, my lungs, my head. I get so hot within the first 30 seconds that my face turns its infamous shade of beet red (charming, or endearing as some folks put it. downright grotesque, say others.) immediately and I have folks stop me to ask if I'm okay. My inner thighs get chafed (yes. I admit it. I'm not ashamed that my thighs touch.), the soles of my feet get hot in my shoes, and I have trouble breathing. All of this before I leave the house. Ha! Just kidding.
Worst of all, though, is that I sweat. I detest sweating. Even though I can't run very far and am back at my lovely, comfortable, somewhat cool house within less than half of an hour, the jogging process takes about 1 1/2 hours once I add in the shower, the hair drying, the reapplication of makeup, the dressing. Cal walks in the door dripping with sweat and is back in the comforts of his ugly green recliner, all clean and spiffy, checking his email or watching the latest installment of Design Star on HGTV within five minutes. Quite literally. I, on the other hand, am not so blessed with natural, low maintenance beauty as he.
However, in spite of all this, I continue to put myself through the torture day after day, month after month. I don't get better, I don't experience the "runner's high", I don't know what folks are talking about when they say I'll get addicted. Wouldn't that have happened by now, 2 1/2 years into this routine? Surely.
I jog, though, because it means I can eat. And I like to eat more than I hate to jog, if that's possible.
I am no athlete, and I'm under no delusions that I ever will be. Even Cal, I think, has resigned himself to that fact of my life. So, for as long as I strive to conform to mainstream society's impossible image of skinny beauty, I will hate to jog. And I will, likely, complain about it.
But I'll do it. Sigh.
Off to shower. Cal, of course is already done and in his spot for the night. Lucky him. I'm just getting started.
9.08.2007
The Kite Runner
I realize that I'm late on this one, that it's been out and popular for a while, that it's already been made into a movie that will be out soon. But. If you have not read The Kite Runner yet, you must do so. After more than a year of telling myself that I needed to get it and read it, I just inhaled every word in a span of about 24 hours, finishing not 5 minutes ago.
Riveting, I tell you. Captivating. Beautiful. Wow.
Riveting, I tell you. Captivating. Beautiful. Wow.
9.07.2007
Pokemon on Ebay
Have y'all seen this ebay auction site? One of my sisters sent it to me, and after reading the story and following the blog link the woman posted, I was amazed to discover her popularity. I mean, 184 comments on one of her posts. 184 comments!! All due to a couple of funny anecdotes on Ebay about her life as a housewife and mother-of-six.
Apparently, because of her stories, she's been interviewed on all the national morning news shows and radio shows, not to mention a book deal in the works.
Amazing the power of the Internet and word of mouth. Anyway, she's pretty funny. Check it out.
Apparently, because of her stories, she's been interviewed on all the national morning news shows and radio shows, not to mention a book deal in the works.
Amazing the power of the Internet and word of mouth. Anyway, she's pretty funny. Check it out.
9.05.2007
Evidence
If you don't understand these pictures, see this prior post.
View from above. Note the small amount of space between the left side of the yellow pillow and the edge of the bed. You guessed it. That's where I go. (Remember the Weight Watchers post? Yeah. Now you know.)
View from my side of the bed. This is what I see first thing in the morning, when we get up late enough that the room is light.
These last ones are just for fun.
Picture Day, 10th grade version
Today is picture day.
The boys in the sophomore class all decided that they would use this day as an attempt to sabotage the 10th grade section of the yearbook. How?
1) All wear red, so that the pages are overwhelmingly monochromatic.
2) Wear no undershirts beneath their polos
3) Unbutton every button of their polos so that their scrawny bare chests are exposed
4) Make the goofiest fake-smile face possible without alerting the photographer that the face isn't one's naturally awkward smile-for-the-camera.
As a result, I've been fighting laughter all morning as I strap on my stern teacher face and tell them to behave. The girls are all doubled over in fits of laughter, the boys each trying to top the previous in line. The photographer caught on during one of the classes, prompting him to lecture the kids about how "this picture will be the one in the yearbook!" and "we don't do retakes!"
Of course, that's just what the guys want to hear. That's the point. Wonderful.
The boys in the sophomore class all decided that they would use this day as an attempt to sabotage the 10th grade section of the yearbook. How?
1) All wear red, so that the pages are overwhelmingly monochromatic.
2) Wear no undershirts beneath their polos
3) Unbutton every button of their polos so that their scrawny bare chests are exposed
4) Make the goofiest fake-smile face possible without alerting the photographer that the face isn't one's naturally awkward smile-for-the-camera.
As a result, I've been fighting laughter all morning as I strap on my stern teacher face and tell them to behave. The girls are all doubled over in fits of laughter, the boys each trying to top the previous in line. The photographer caught on during one of the classes, prompting him to lecture the kids about how "this picture will be the one in the yearbook!" and "we don't do retakes!"
Of course, that's just what the guys want to hear. That's the point. Wonderful.
9.04.2007
Pillow Fight
My husband loves pillows. I mean, he really, really loves pillows.
At night, when he sleeps, he encases himself in a sarcophagus of feathers. He has one under his head, one on top of his forehead (to block out light, he says), one propped up on the left side of his face, and one on the right. He keeps one at his side, as well, and each time he turns over, he swipes the side pillow up under his body to the other side. My unproven theory is that he spends more time arranging his pillows than he does sleeping.
I decided I'd try it. I got one extra pillow --one besides the single one that I rest my head on-- and put it at my side to snuggle up against during the night. I've done this for two nights now.
This morning, I asked my usual, "Did you sleep okay?" when the alarm clock went off and we were getting up. Cal's response?
"Eeeehhh... not really." When prompted further, very matter-of-factly and without a trace of irony in his voice, he continued,
"That pillow of yours kept jabbing me in the side."
Seriously?
At night, when he sleeps, he encases himself in a sarcophagus of feathers. He has one under his head, one on top of his forehead (to block out light, he says), one propped up on the left side of his face, and one on the right. He keeps one at his side, as well, and each time he turns over, he swipes the side pillow up under his body to the other side. My unproven theory is that he spends more time arranging his pillows than he does sleeping.
I decided I'd try it. I got one extra pillow --one besides the single one that I rest my head on-- and put it at my side to snuggle up against during the night. I've done this for two nights now.
This morning, I asked my usual, "Did you sleep okay?" when the alarm clock went off and we were getting up. Cal's response?
"Eeeehhh... not really." When prompted further, very matter-of-factly and without a trace of irony in his voice, he continued,
"That pillow of yours kept jabbing me in the side."
Seriously?
Men
I found this article on FoxNews.com highly irritating. Not because of the fact that men like attractive women (don't we all already know that?), but because of the last little part when it talks about how a woman would make her choices on the basis of how attractive she perceived herself to be, and how she was usually pretty on-target as to which guy she could "get" based on her attractiveness level.
Why is this so annoying? It's not because women exhibit this behavior; I actually think that's pretty smart. The problem is that men DON'T. You know what I mean. We all know the guy who shoots too high, who will accept nothing less than a Heidi Klum or a Cindy Crawford, regardless of the fact that he is on par with, oh ... Chris Farley or, um, Rob Schneider, or ... well, Chewie from Star Wars. And I think that the pop culture promotes this idealistic thinking. I mean, other than Shallow Hal (in which the lead actor is anything but attractive, by the way), how many movies can you think of where the ugly or unconventionally attractive girl gets the guy? Very few. And now flip that. How many movies are there where the unattractive guy gets the model-like girl? A million!
So here we are, perpetuating this myth that a guy shouldn't settle for any girl who's not celebrity-worthy in her appearance. A very-much obese guy dismisses a female friend as a dating option because she's "a little overweight" (which actually happened in my sphere of acquaintances, recently). When did this become okay? Has it always been the case? And what has to change in a guy's head before he realizes that he needs to adjust his mindset or else remain single for the rest of his life?
Anyway, just a rant. I can't stand the double standard. Sorry.
Why is this so annoying? It's not because women exhibit this behavior; I actually think that's pretty smart. The problem is that men DON'T. You know what I mean. We all know the guy who shoots too high, who will accept nothing less than a Heidi Klum or a Cindy Crawford, regardless of the fact that he is on par with, oh ... Chris Farley or, um, Rob Schneider, or ... well, Chewie from Star Wars. And I think that the pop culture promotes this idealistic thinking. I mean, other than Shallow Hal (in which the lead actor is anything but attractive, by the way), how many movies can you think of where the ugly or unconventionally attractive girl gets the guy? Very few. And now flip that. How many movies are there where the unattractive guy gets the model-like girl? A million!
So here we are, perpetuating this myth that a guy shouldn't settle for any girl who's not celebrity-worthy in her appearance. A very-much obese guy dismisses a female friend as a dating option because she's "a little overweight" (which actually happened in my sphere of acquaintances, recently). When did this become okay? Has it always been the case? And what has to change in a guy's head before he realizes that he needs to adjust his mindset or else remain single for the rest of his life?
Anyway, just a rant. I can't stand the double standard. Sorry.
8.31.2007
A new level
Some of you who have been around a while may remember my post from last spring in which I informed you readers that I'd be making a change in my job this year. Others, who have been around much, much longer, might remember this other one, written 4 years ago on my first day teaching 6th graders. It has now, strangely enough, become a story that the middle school principal reads to her new teachers every year during their orientation. Pretty funny.
Anyway, my sister in Pelham has been moaning and groaning about how there's nothing to do where she lives, and how the highlight of her and Anna Claire's day is when, first thing in the morning, they sit down at the computer to see if "Meeyam" (we're still working on the pronunciation. heck, who am I kidding? We're still working on getting the 1 1/2-year-old to know my name.) has updated her blog. And guess what? She hasn't. Not in over a month. And guess what? She knows it. I told Julie that she could blog for me, if she wants, but she declined.
So here I am, wondering how to come up with a story to write about my first year of sophomores that will rival the one about my first year of sixth graders. No scary locker stress this year, no tears (from students and parents) as first period begins on the first day, no dads with power tools in the hall after school, installing mirrors and shelving units in the teeny weeny little spaces that belong to their kids. None of that.
The interesting part about it all is that the sophomores that I'm teaching now are the very same 6th graders that I wrote about that year. You see, four years ago, these guys, now so big and macho and cool, were entering the 6th grade. These were the ones who stared at me in wide-eyed wonder as I revealed the mystery of the correct combination of numbers, these were the ones who cried when they couldn't do it themselves. Now, I'm merely "Miss Terry...oops! I mean, Mrs. Powell." Now I hold no power to them, no mysterious trait, no reason to be respected merely because I'm a teacher. Instead, it's the opposite.
Merely because I'm a teacher, I have to prove that I'm worthy to be listened to. I have to prove that I know what I'm talking about. I have to prove that I mean business.
It's like that "innocent until proven guilty" thing in a different form. With 6th graders, I was respected until proven unworthy. Now, I'm unworthy until proven otherwise.
So far, I think I'm doing okay. I have one class that's really testing me, but I'm done with them after 1st period. The other four have gone well. We'll have to see how that lasts. For now, I'll leave you with a few of the questions I've received from my students, all prior to 11 am this morning, as they were taking a test over a novel we've been studying. Seriously. are these truly 10th graders? and what do these questions say about me, one of their former teachers, and my abilities? Hmmm.
1) What is an "assertion"? (pronounced, ass' er shee' yun)
2) What does "i.e." mean?
3) Is worldly-est a word?
4) What about "calmness"?
5) Can we abbreviate?
6) 10 seconds later ... "Can we abbreviate?"
Right. Wish me luck!
Anyway, my sister in Pelham has been moaning and groaning about how there's nothing to do where she lives, and how the highlight of her and Anna Claire's day is when, first thing in the morning, they sit down at the computer to see if "Meeyam" (we're still working on the pronunciation. heck, who am I kidding? We're still working on getting the 1 1/2-year-old to know my name.) has updated her blog. And guess what? She hasn't. Not in over a month. And guess what? She knows it. I told Julie that she could blog for me, if she wants, but she declined.
So here I am, wondering how to come up with a story to write about my first year of sophomores that will rival the one about my first year of sixth graders. No scary locker stress this year, no tears (from students and parents) as first period begins on the first day, no dads with power tools in the hall after school, installing mirrors and shelving units in the teeny weeny little spaces that belong to their kids. None of that.
The interesting part about it all is that the sophomores that I'm teaching now are the very same 6th graders that I wrote about that year. You see, four years ago, these guys, now so big and macho and cool, were entering the 6th grade. These were the ones who stared at me in wide-eyed wonder as I revealed the mystery of the correct combination of numbers, these were the ones who cried when they couldn't do it themselves. Now, I'm merely "Miss Terry...oops! I mean, Mrs. Powell." Now I hold no power to them, no mysterious trait, no reason to be respected merely because I'm a teacher. Instead, it's the opposite.
Merely because I'm a teacher, I have to prove that I'm worthy to be listened to. I have to prove that I know what I'm talking about. I have to prove that I mean business.
It's like that "innocent until proven guilty" thing in a different form. With 6th graders, I was respected until proven unworthy. Now, I'm unworthy until proven otherwise.
So far, I think I'm doing okay. I have one class that's really testing me, but I'm done with them after 1st period. The other four have gone well. We'll have to see how that lasts. For now, I'll leave you with a few of the questions I've received from my students, all prior to 11 am this morning, as they were taking a test over a novel we've been studying. Seriously. are these truly 10th graders? and what do these questions say about me, one of their former teachers, and my abilities? Hmmm.
1) What is an "assertion"? (pronounced, ass' er shee' yun)
2) What does "i.e." mean?
3) Is worldly-est a word?
4) What about "calmness"?
5) Can we abbreviate?
6) 10 seconds later ... "Can we abbreviate?"
Right. Wish me luck!
7.24.2007
7.17.2007
What spoiling looks like, and how to create a pedicure addiction at a very early age*
*Anna Claire is staying with her "Shug" (as in the first syllable of "sugar") and "Da Da" (my parents) for the week while her mom (my sister) is with her twin (my other sister) in Atlanta. She (Anna Claire) is, apparently, having a grand old time.
7.10.2007
Also:
Strangely enough, the Flipper song was in Cal's head a few weeks ago, and ever since we've been singing it pretty much nonstop, much to our own annoyance. We even come up with variations on the lyrics, such as, oh ...
Strangely enough, the Flipper song was in Cal's head a few weeks ago, and ever since we've been singing it pretty much nonstop, much to our own annoyance. We even come up with variations on the lyrics, such as, oh ...
Yes. It's summer. No. We've got nothing of any real substance to occupy our minds. Obviously.They call him Nicholas, Nicholas,
Faster than lightening!
No one you see, is smarter than he.
And we know Nicholas, Nicholas,
he lives in a world full of wonder!
Lying there under,
Under the patio table!
Various and Sundry:
It's strange living in a big, unattached house for the first time since I graduated from high school. Throughout the last 11 years, I've only ever lived in a place where I share at least one wall (or a ceiling) with at least one other person. Apartments, duplexes, basements, etc. I catch myself turning down the television from time to time because I don't want the neighbors to hear. Then I remember!
I got to go on a $4500 shopping spree the other day in Thomasville in order to use all of the credit we had built up through wedding gifts. What fun! The only problem was that all of that money was just in two stores. What I could have done with it had it just been in my bank account!! Then again, probably for the best that it wasn't... it would've been tragically wasted on something as mundane as the mortgage or the water bill.
I'm hearing of sad goings-on at my former church in Athens, so my heart goes out to you all still there or connected.
I stopped in Pelham to see my 1-year-old niece (shout out to Anna Claire! What up girlfriend!) on my way back to Macon after the shopping spree day. She was in a very hyper mood and figured out (while I was there, apparently) that if she spun around really quickly she'd get dizzy and fall and make all of us laugh. It provided at least a half hour of solidly hilarious entertainment before I had to get back on the road. Love me some Anna Claire.
It's strange living in a big, unattached house for the first time since I graduated from high school. Throughout the last 11 years, I've only ever lived in a place where I share at least one wall (or a ceiling) with at least one other person. Apartments, duplexes, basements, etc. I catch myself turning down the television from time to time because I don't want the neighbors to hear. Then I remember!
I got to go on a $4500 shopping spree the other day in Thomasville in order to use all of the credit we had built up through wedding gifts. What fun! The only problem was that all of that money was just in two stores. What I could have done with it had it just been in my bank account!! Then again, probably for the best that it wasn't... it would've been tragically wasted on something as mundane as the mortgage or the water bill.
I'm hearing of sad goings-on at my former church in Athens, so my heart goes out to you all still there or connected.
I stopped in Pelham to see my 1-year-old niece (shout out to Anna Claire! What up girlfriend!) on my way back to Macon after the shopping spree day. She was in a very hyper mood and figured out (while I was there, apparently) that if she spun around really quickly she'd get dizzy and fall and make all of us laugh. It provided at least a half hour of solidly hilarious entertainment before I had to get back on the road. Love me some Anna Claire.
Cal got a boat as a wedding gift from his best friend, and he asked me to come with him on his maiden voyage. It was my first experience fishing with anything other than a cane pole off of a dock, and it was great fun. We caught lots of bass and brim. He fried some of them up the other night.
We've decided that the most annoying question for newlyweds is "How's married life?" I hope I never ask another person this question for the rest of my life. What are you supposed to say? "Well, he elbowed me in the side 5 times last night, and I kicked him in the groin by accident." Right. This most annoying question falls close on the heels of the engaged one: So how are the wedding plans coming?
Married life, though, really and truly is grand. I keep waiting for the bomb to drop that folks keep telling me about. You know, the whole "the first year is the hardest year you'll face" thing. When does that first year start? We're both loving life. It's nice, especially, to have someone with whom to share your totally weird dream when you first wake up right before you forget it. That way, when you want to tell your friend about it later but it's gone from your head, you have someone to remind you.
My sister Beth has officially moved to Boston. You know what that means? That's right. A free place to stay. Hurray for Beth and her brilliance that got her to Harvard Med!
Cal and I went to St. Simons for a few days after the wedding. As we were packing up to come home that Monday morning, a friend from work called to offer us a couple more nights for free in her condo down there. Talk about an abrupt change in moods! We used the extra day to visit Cumberland Island.
Hmmm. What else?
The title block on this template isn't working for some reason, so this post may not have a title and it won't be my fault.
I am totally and completely obsessed with all these house-flipping shows on television. I didn't have cable at my old place, so TLC, HGTV, A&E, etc, are all novelties once again. My favorite is the "Real Deal" show (now called "The Real Estate Pros", I think) that comes on TLC on Saturday nights at 9. Cal and I watched 3 or 4 in a row Sunday night. There was some marathon thing on or something. Quite enjoyable.
We don't have enough cabinet space for all of our new china. I'm going to some antique places today to see if I can find a china cabinet. When did I get so old that the thought of owning a china cabinet could be so appealing?
Our furniture meshed quite well in this old house of Cal's. He's a little concerned over the amount of cat paraphernalia that I brought with me. He also doesn't like it when I hang pictures on the walls, but as long as I do it while he's gone to work, everything's okay. It makes him nervous to hear the hammering and know that it means that holes are being punctured in his sheetrock. He likes the finished product, though, or is at least sweet enough to say that he does.
We head out to Colorado for our true honeymoon next Thursday. I'm totally excited. Cal rented a cabin on the top of a mountain somewhere west of Denver, and we'll have a car and everything. No set plans except for white water rafting one day (I'll probably fall out, hit my head on a rock, and die, but that's okay) and a Rockies game the night before we fly back home. We'll be there for a week.
I've been talking in my sleep a lot lately. It didn't matter when I was single, but now it's pretty embarrassing. At least I haven't said anything too incriminating. One night, I was dreaming that we had to reenact the wedding for some reason, but we were already married. Someone noted that we were sharing a bed, and I said "It's okay, we're married." Out loud.
I have to go to the DMV, the Social Security office, and the car tag/registration place to change my name this week. I was going to go today, but I looked online and noted that the web sites warned of extreme busy-ness on Tuesday, so I've opted to go tomorrow or Thursday instead. Phew! An excuse to procrastinate on that business a little longer.
I have approximately 57 thank-you notes left to write. I've written 136.
Nicholas the Cat enjoys his new digs. He is not allowed inside, but he often stays on the deck right outside of our tv/sitting room where we are for most of the time that we're home. If we go out on the deck, he's there waiting. If we go out the front door, he's there waiting. The only thing that I can figure is that he sits up under the house and listens to our footsteps to know which way we'll be coming out. He seems happy.
I get eaten up with mosquitos every time I walk outside. Last night I was on the front porch for about 1 minute and got 6 new bites on my arms and legs. Cal got none, as usual. I told him that it's because I don't have any hair on my legs to discourage the bites. That's the only thing I can figure.
School starts in a month and I am SO not ready. I haven't read a single one of the books that I'm supposed to be teaching to the Sophomores. Do they still make Cliff notes?
HARRY POTTER!
6.20.2007
A few photos for you
More photos than you ever wanted to see of Saturday's festivities. Some labeled, some not. Enjoy!
My very lovely maid of honor, Elizabeth
Macon (and formerly of Macon) showed up in full force! Hurray!
Father/daughter, Father/son, Father/Father
Pre-wedding jitters?
Anna Claire. Clothed, and ... unclothed.
The unlucky pig
Groomsmen and Bridesmaids
Cake (yes, it was green!) and toasts
Athens!!! Hurray!!! (we missed you, Jenny and Oren.)
Miscellaneous fun
Rehearsal and Dinner
Cal's sweet grandmother
My Girls! (and Cal)
The unlucky pig
Groomsmen and Bridesmaids
Cake (yes, it was green!) and toasts
Athens!!! Hurray!!! (we missed you, Jenny and Oren.)
Miscellaneous fun
Rehearsal and Dinner
Dad!
Cal's sweet grandmother My Girls! (and Cal) My family, all together for a rare occasion
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
