August 24, 2004
Must Be A Guy Thing

I was reading King-Of-Fools this morning (like every other morning :), and its a good thing I wasn't having breakfast at the time. I've pretty much been broken of the habit of sneaking in my email/surfing while having breakfast because ChrisMuir/DayByDay is invariablely my first stop. Trying to eat/drink while reading DayByDay is SO dangerous! It often leads to uproarious laughter, which either means I spill my breakfast or sputter orange juice on my monitor/keyboard. Anyway, at least Chris wasn't talking about boogers today.

Thats right. Boogers. Not a word that would normally come to mind first thing in the morning. But I'm a girl. DEFINITELY a "girly" girl. Apparently the King-Of-Fools is a real guy. So's his son.

Side note: I'm in awe of his Queen being able to nip it in the bud, but I find it ominous that the question still simmers in his mind.

Boogers. That feels really odd to type. I mean, its not a curse word. But it still feel taboo. Like something you would only type behind closed doors in the privacy of your own home while engaging in shady conversations with anonymous internet buddies using fake names.

AND it occurs to me that I have a booger story of my own to blog about. Thats right, there's actually a booger story. When my oldest son was about 18 months old, he put his finger in his nose and found an especially horrid booger. He looked at it. He looked at me. He looked at it. He knew it went in a nose, but he also knew it wasn't going back in HIS nose. (wait for it ... wait ...) Quick as a wink he reached over and stuffed it in my nose!

As a parent, I find myself often uttering sentences I never thought I would combine words to form. "Do NOT put your booger in my nose" is one of them!

August 21, 2004
Written in Stone, Part Two

("To save one is to save the world")

My husband is a charmingly confident man. One of his better qualities is that he doesn't really care all that much what other people think. Even as a child, peer pressure was an almost foreign concept to him.

Its funny/odd that he married me, who had elevated the evaluation (and occassional manipulation) of other people's perceptions to an art form (motivated by my own insecurity and a healthy sense of self-preservation, but that is neither here nor there). I'm a totally different person now. A better person. Because of him. Think of me as an antique, covered in layers and layers of horridly nasty paint and stored in the garage. He kept refinishing until the paint was gone, and now he doesn't let ANYONE put paint on his antique. Definitely, one world saved.

Another funny/odd thing is that he doesn't see it. He doesn't see himself through other's eyes very well. The upside is that he doesn't give credance to any detracters trying to pull him down. The downside is that he doesn't see the complete adoration and gratitude from the "worlds" that he saves. Its a good thing he married me (for both of us) because I can understand, and I'm not shy about explaining things.

August 20, 2004
Only for the Physically Fit

I read a book this week that made me laugh so hard my side hurt. Literally. This is an indicator of two things. One, I need to be in better shape. Two, this is one WILDLY fabulous book.

"Skipping Christmas" by John Grisham. Maybe I'm the last one to read it. If so, then you all ought to be ashamed of yourselves for not telling me about it.

I can SO see Grisham in the basement with a typewriter, a case of Scotch, and a dark attitude.

I found myself wanting to read whole chapters to friends.

I'm especially captivated by a sentence on the third page. "Things would get worse for Luther". Talk about subtle foreshadowing! I have a probably outragously-inaccurate mental image of Grisham laughing diabolically while typing that sentence, much the same way my friend Tina laughs as she drops tourists into ponds and watches them drown when she plays a simulation computer game.

This is the funniest thing I've read in decades. HOW is it possible that it wasn't more outragously sucessful!?!

Written In Stone

Recently, we were in Florida visiting members of my husband's family. I find myself thinking about a proverb I heard somewhere, and how it reminds me of my husband's grandfather.

"To the person doing the small kindness, it is written in sand. But to the person recieving, it is written in stone."

My husband's grandfather, who we'll call George because I'm tired of typing "my husband's grandfather", was a contractor in the Miami area decades and decades ago. He died a few years ago in his eighties. He fascinated me because he had such a striking resemblance to my husband. Sure, they looked physically alike. But the really shocking part is how much their personalities were alike. And the physical mannerisms. It was especially fascinating because they didn't spend much time in close proximity when my husband was growing up. Still, there was no denying that they were two of a kind.

I also found it incredibly interesting that George thought I was the greatest thing since sliced bread (which was slightly out-of-character for him). Of course, we had something in common. We both thought my husband was practically perfect. I think perhaps sometimes he wished he could show his bias toward my husband the way that I could, but he maintained a firm neutrality among his grandchildren. Still, he was a clever man. Looking back now, I realize there were things he told me that he couldn't/wouldn't tell my husband, trusting that I would know how to handle it when the time came.

I was a novel concept for him. George was a successful man, who commanded respect from everyone around him. When he talked, people listened. Quietly. With respect radiating from every fiber of their being. Its not that he was an ogre, he was just awe-inspiring. With that image firmly in your mind, imagine him having lunch with me. I'm chatty. I don't think he had been exposed to "chatty" in a very long time. Culture-shock might be an understatement. Yet, we were exactly what each other needed. I love to talk about my husband, and he loved to listen about my husband.

Not Dead

I'm NOT dead. For me, this is a very happy thought.

I could harp on the horror that was my vacation (it turns out we didn't have sinus infections, we had an antibiotic-reisitant version of Strep-throat). I could whine about the horror that is my partly remodeled/repaired house. I could question my husband's sanity in thinking that a dial-up in this town would give me better than 16.2, which is not a quick enough connection to make most internet sites functional. None of those are happy thoughts, and this IS going to be a happy site. Lalalalala. For example ...

Strep didn't kill us, the house will eventually be "amazing" according to the contractor who thought I was totally nuts to choose these particular paint colors, and my husband fixed the phone and the tv and the internet access (and even rearranged the computer room more attractively).

Lets put my little absence behind us, and move on. Shall we?