Monday, July 31, 2006


Sorry for the scant blogging

I seem to have hit an empass. Apparently, I am not capable of doing two things at once.

Now, I can rub my stomach and pat my head at the same time, but I can't work and blog at the same time. This does not bode well for my future presidental campaign, although I do suspect that Howard Dean's blog was kept by staff people. And W probably doesn't know what a blog is:

"Blog. I don't see no blog. Where's the swamp round here? We're in I-rack. It's a dee-sert. Right, Condi??"

Ok, so, I guess I can become president. But, I can't become anything else that requires doing two things at the same time (or even sort of, kind of, near one another in the same day.) Maybe this will not be the case, and I will just be a blogging machine. But I am afraid that is unlikely.

I will say that I am very happy in my new career. Working with quirky kids is a lot more charming than working with quirky adults with drug problems. And, I will have them when they are all "Just Say No!" on your ass. Nancy will be very proud of my classroom. Except for the left wing, peace activism campaign I plan to wage. Maybe she is anti-raisin, because we will definately be anti-raisin in my classroom.

Sunday, July 16, 2006


Abandonment Issues, Yours, Mine and Ours

So this is what it is like to have a job! I never knew! It means that you work, a lot, and don't have time to do wonderful things like blog or eat.

Actually, not to worry, I am eating just fine, but the combination of going to Summer School everyday and then coming home and preparing lessons to teach and doing the reading for class and then meeting new people and, oh, I forgot, unpacking, really seems to be taking away all of my free time. Which is a shame, because there has been so much to blog about.

First, I have learned a very valuable lesson: make sure you state explicitly what you mean when you say it. Case in point: the apartment needs not just a dishwasher but a working dishwasher. I appreciate that the machine looks so nice and new and high-tech, but as much as I can enjoy beauty for beauty's sake, I do like a little function in my applicances. Our dear, trusty portable dishwasher was adopted (for a nominal fee) by a nice art student in Baltimore. I feel like the match was a good one and that Portable will be very happy in his new home. I did emphasis that he has a bit of a reflux problem so it was important to be very selective with what you feed him, and I think his new father definately got the importance of that.

I am having a little seller's remorse and am understanding more everyday how it is possible for a pretty normal, previously unmedicated soul to become a horder. Bringing a portable dishwasher with me to an apartment where there is a dishwasher already neatly installed would have seemed a little crazy, no? But in retrospect, it would have been genius. I want the apartment to give us back the 25 hours we have so far spent washing dishes. Do you think they are going to? We are negotiating on Monday. And since I am still technically a lawyer, I think that my hourly billable rate is about $150. I will give them a break and let them know that if they fix the dishwasher (oh, need I mention that the part is on backorder? -- I guess I need to start a club for people who have beautiful, expensive dishwashers that have gone on strike) and pay us $1,000,000 for our loss of time, consortium and neck pain, we will feel satisfied.

Actually, as I type this I realize that the real victims in all of this are my poor readers, who have not had an update in weeks! I'll be sure to mention that in my filings with the court.

Monday, June 26, 2006


Please Excuse My Rudeness

Having received a comment from a Gen-U-Ine blogging celeb I feel I should take this opprotunity to comment on my love of comments.

I feel like a bum most of the time. This applies to almost all of my life, frankly, but especially to handling comments. Getting a comment on a blog entry is basically the best present ever! One, it does not clutter my house. Two, it suggests that someone actually reads this. And three, (and most importantly) reads it and thinks it is worth taking the time to write to me. Having read countless blogs that I have never commented on (it's called lurking people! It basically makes you a stalker-lite) I know what a big deal that is.

Frankly I have no excuse to not leave comments nor to not respond promptly and personally to comments. Although right now my life is sort of busy because we are moving and I am trying my darnest to be charming and personable whilst meeting lots of new people whom I want to like me and and be my very bestest friends, in general my life has been my own from 4-10 everyday, plus all day on weekends.

I'm totally lame. That is the problem. So, given that today seems to be my equivilent Christmas day and I was unable to get to sleep until 4 this morning (having gone to bed at midnight) and then awoke promptly two hours later, I have plenty of time to take care of my serious misgivings.

First, thank you to my loyal readers, of whom I just take complete advantage. Take Kathy, whose blog makes me want to actually have skills. She finds the time to knit and blog and raise two boys and move to another state and comment on my blog. I, on the other hand, rarely comment on her's. Does that mean that I have a more interesting blog. Frankly, as the most biased person on the subject, NO! See, Kathy is good at things, where I am just...well...I like to think that I am special.

There is also J, who often sends her three or four readers this way. You should go and see what a real writer can do with a blog.

Then we have Sue, who I am hoping is very happy right now, as she has something to read this morning with her coffee. She actually has a blog as well, which in my lameness I do not have a link to because she gave it to me and I promptly lost it. If she would be so kind as to email me or leave a comment, I would take care of that misgiving. (Note...even when I am trying to make up for my transgrettions I am just a taker at heart.)

Ten people, including J, commented on my second ever blog post. I said hello to one! And it was Nai. And if you read his mightier than thou comment, you would know that he certainly did not deserve the first thank you. Although, internet, you should know, he did find us an apartment. I am reserving judgment until I see it Friday. So far, on the outside, pretty good work Nai. No views of sex shops. The others who shared in my distain of raisins in the oatmeal cookies were MistyD, Lori, Shannon (who has been a very loyal and valued reader, even though I am a very lame fellow blogger. I didn't even ask you all for positive thoughts for the return of her cat. Although the cat came back without an internet candle lighting ceramony, I still could have at least mentioned it. So, I do so now, three weeks after the fact.), Jill. Bonny (whose blog link has been broken since the blog began, another completely inexcusable situation.) Larissa, Pineapple Queen, Tish, Anne, J, and a very nice Annoymous person who gave me a receipe that I will never make, but all of the effort is estonishing to me! In fact, if Annoymous were to come over for dinner, I would make it.

Staci commented sevearl times and I did thank her in person but there is something different about being thanked on the world wide web. Sarahs as well.

Kmi was at one point gifted an entire post dedicated to her, but blogger took it away. Kmi forgave me, but I have never forgiven myself.

Stacey (in NZ) is also a very loyal and dedicated reader, who is always trying to pump me up. And it works Lady! Keep up the good work.

Karen tells me she reads my blog everyday and some other blog which is all about Paris Hilton. Karen's brain, I am afraid, is rotting out of her skull, piece by piece. When Karen was a little girl, she once was trying to negotiate getting dessert, even though she had not finished her vegetables. She told her mother, "My green bean stomach is full, but my ice cream stomach is still empty." Karen, dear, Your vapid brain has got to be really full up from our blog reading, but I suspect that your intellectual brain is waiting for nurishment, big time. This is a big world wide web lady. We do not want to rush you to the hospital for bleeding on the brain. Everything in moderation. Karen rarely comments, because she thinks that the other commenters are too nice. And she will look like a bitch. Karen, don't worry, you are in the company of friends here.

Sarah also is a reliable commenter, when she is not flying off to Cobo-San-You-Will-Get-Burned-And-Die-Here-Margaret-But-It-Will-Be-Worth-It, Mexico. Apparently, there are other things to do in Mexico than read my blog. Who would have thought???

CM, Lynn, and others gamely played my "fill in the blank" game. Which I very much appreciated. CM was my first first unknown to me in any form commenter. I wrote her an email after she commented (and after I figured out how to get in touch with her, which took way to long for someone who is under 30 years old) that went something like this:
Hey!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How did you find my blog?!?!?!?!!?!?!!?!?!!?!?!?!!?!!? You are awesome!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I love you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Will you marry me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Because she is a nice person, she didn't press charges.

T.E.A. also has dropped in a few times. She must just shake her head and say "Poor Margaret." I secretly suspect that I am one of her charity cases. :-)

And there has been Amanda, Beanie Baby (who has a wonderfully cute baby, who is no longer a baby but a real live talking and walking girl, who is also adorable. Her mother is a fine writer too.), Mamakat, K, Mr. Angry, Margie.

There was this one random post from some illiterate person. I was going to blog about it, but thought it was even beneth this blog.

Most recently Franseca (whom I do not know) posted and that made my day. Also, Amy, whom this post is actually motivated for, because I never thanked her for the nice lies she told me. :-)

I hope this is everyone. And if I didn't thank you, please feel free to hate me. I would hate you did you did the same to me. Or else drop me a comment and I will fawn over you too.

(Oh, and links to come. I started this at one computer and now am finishing it at another. It's too complicated and boring to explain...)

Sunday, June 25, 2006


Honey, what's your name again? Margo?

As Karen and Nai know, because they have met my mother, she is a very interesting woman. Now sometimes when people only know of my mother through my stories (and, I assume, my brother's stories) they have the impression that they wouldn't like my mother. But, my mother is in fact very popular. She raisees millions of dollars by being charming. Unfortunately, her mothering skills are a little, well, un-maternal.

My mother, as I think I have mentioned before, has four great hatreds in her life: (this list is in no particular order)

1. Catholics
2. Vegetarians
3. Musicians
4. Teachers

Raymond is 2-4. When I met Raymond, I was none of the above, but have since become number 2 and now, as of Tuesday, I will be in training to be number 4. I am seriously considering converting just to get a clean sweep. My mother would have a real dilemna on her hands if she had vegetarian Catholic grandchildren. It is really, really tempting. Other than that belief in God thing, I am so there!

My brother, G, is none of those, but his girl friend is number 2, and he likes music, so he is a little bit of number 3.

Unlike normal people, my mother loves the lawyers. Why? Because my father, whom she worships, is one. Does she know what lawyers do? Not really. But, in her mind they generally make a lot of money and they are "smart" (again, my mother doesn't know enough lawyers, clearly) so she is all for them.

Teachers, on the other hand are dumb. Especially elementary school teachers. She is concerned that I will be so much smarter than my collegues that we will not be able to relate. My mother, if it is not clear, thinks in extremes. She knows that teachers are dumb because she was in a sorority with a lot of elementary education teachers. And she thought her "sisters" who were that major were dumb and all they did all day long was make bulletin boards. Which in 1965 may have been true, at least the bulletin board part, but what I like is that my mother is so "smart" that her sample size of 6 rich girls who double majored in MRS is sufficiently large enough, in her opinion, to extrapolate that all elemetary school teachers are dumb. My mother did not major in statistics, although with that logic she could work as a statistician for either major American polical party.

I didn't tell her for over a year that I was planning this career change, because, when your husband is 3 of the 4 things your mother hates most in the world (notice that Nazis, KKK members, or oatmeal-raisin cookies are not on the list) you tread lightly. When I did tell her she acted all shocked like "Little ol' me...would be upset or disappointed that you were going into teaching...why would you ever think that darlin'????" Of course the next day she was trying to talk me out of it, giving me all sorts of career advice. My mother is a career counselor too, it seems. She thinks I am leaving the law because I think that lawyers have to work too many hours. Although I have told her that I am leaving the law because I don't like being a lawyer and becausee I want to be a teacher, she can't seem to understand it. So, in case you didn't know, my mother informs me that there are some lawyers who work part-time. My mother knows twenty of them and she is happy to put me in touch with them.

Because my program starts at the end of June but apartments tend to lease at the beginning of each month, I am up here without Saint Raymond (see below) for a week. Conveniently, Nai lives in the same New England town where I will be in school, so I am staying with him. In exchange, he verbally abuses me. I see it as a pretty good deal on my part. My mother, who does not call much, left a rather cryptic sounding message on Nai's answering machine. Assuming someone had died, I called back My father answered, and assured me that no one was dead, my mother had just called to check-in with me. But, she was eating, and would I call back?

When I did call back, my mother wanted to know how my trip was (fine) and if I had seen our new apartment (only from the outside) and why I hadn't gotten to see the inside (because someone else lives there right now) and why they couldn't arrange for me to have a look-see (because I was going to do that Friday) and why not just today (because the agent probably has acutal work to do and not huge amounts of time to run around showing me apartments at my whim.) Oh. (So, Mom, how's the weather?)

She then asked me about my program, which is sort of our thing -- we talk about the same things over and over and over. It never seems to get old for her. I had told her all about the program before, but, I discovered from this conversation that she didn't quite grasp it. Here's how it went down --

Mom: So, Maaaac (which is the nickname she calls me...the "a" is very, very drawn out. Feel free to draw out all of her "a's", it will be a far more authentic experience that way), where will you teach?

Me: At the lab school.

Mom: So, it's a private preschool at the University?

Me: Mom, do you think I am going to school to become a preschool teacher?

Mom: Well, (hesitating...the witnesses realizes that she might be walking into a trap) yes? Aren't you?

Me: No, Mooooom (in my most exasporated teen voice) El-e-men-ta-ry school. We have talked about this.

Mom: But, I thought....oh Mac. I'm sorry. Don't hold this against me. I didn't know. Elementary school. (In the background you can hear my father saying..."C, I told you...")

Me: El-e-men-ta-ry Mom. Get it?

So the conversation then centered around my mother finding ways to excuse her "memory lapse." Least you think that my mother is going senile, next she inquired about Nai (whom she has met about 4 times), asking:

So, how's Nai's residency program in pediatrics going?

Oh, well. At least she cares about something.


I'm not wearing any underwear

There are lots of reasons I am becoming an elementary school teacher, but one reason is because I had such a mean 4th grade teacher. There are so many jobs that mean people can do, but teacher, especially the young, is no one of those jobs. Why people who are mean do that, I don't know.

So, I am all about being a super-nice teacher (just being nice is not enough.) I have already started planning the monthly birthday celebrations (also known as cupcake-fests) as well as the field trips to Chucky Cheese. Which is educational because skee-ball a life skill that everyone should master. Although, if we use my fourth grade teacher as the comparison, it really shouldn't be that hard to be nicer than she is.

I was in the fourth grade in 1985. For Christmas that year I got an AWESOME sweat shirt-leggings combo. The sweat shirt had some AWESOME geometric pattern on the front. Probably looked like a teenager from NYC had driven to Atlanta the night before with a few cans of neon-colored spray paint and marked the shirt with with his gang symbols. It was AWESOME, if I haven't already mentioned that part. To compliment the top, I also received HOT PINK ribbed leggings. Which were Double AWESOME. Basically I was ROCKIN the fourth grade on the day after Christmas break.

After having not been beaten down everyday for the past two weeks by my teacher, I was blindsided when I saw her. She said to me
Margaret, it looks like you are wearing long underwear.
I replied, saying
I'm not wearing any underwear.
And, then, she did the meanest thing a person could have done at that moment. She said
Class! (just to make sure that she got everyone's attention. If she had been smarter, she would have waited for the kids who were in the bathroom to come back, so she woukd have had a full house)

Margaret just told me she is not wearing any underwear.
Obviously, in fourth grader-like fashion they all rushed to my defense. Telling the teacher to go to hell and that she needed to stop being so mean to me. (At least this is what happens in my fantasy movie version where I take revenge and use her full name -- because the truth is a defense to any slander or libel they tell me...)

Well, fast forward about 20 years and, in fact, I was not wearing any underwear on the day that I fell and sprained my ankle (which almost cost me a million dollars, until my senses returned.) This is in spite of the fact that my mother just recently purchased some very nice underwear for me. But, I am out of practice of actually putting it on. Oh, I also forgot to mention. one other detail..I was wearing a skirt.

So, I told Raymond a few days ago that I was going to go and buy even more underwear and asked if that was that ok, financewise. Before recovering his shock that I actually wanted to go to the mall and pay someone money for something I don't consider "essential," he said that it would be fine. That I should splurge away. He did want to know from where I had gotten this new interest in underwear. I told him that on the day I sprained my ankle and was laying on the sidewalk next to a well traveled street in a major metropolitian city in America I realized that I wasn't wearing any underwear.

Raymond's response
"I know. I could see. We all could see."
Poor Raymond, he is the husband of the woman who got hit by the bus and wasn't even wearing dirty underwear. Light a candle for him, would you? He really is a living saint.

Monday, June 19, 2006


L aw Diploma For Sale, Cheap!

On Friday I offically retired [read: changed careers] as a lawyer. Practicing law for 50 years [read: 2 1/2] has been a really wonderful experience [read: it was someone else's dream for me.] I retire [read: quit] as a contient and fulfilled 75 year old man [read: a eager to start a new path in my life 28 year old woman.]

Other than the man part, I do think this is how my mother and father imagined my retirement dinner speech would begin. First, they must have very little faith in my speech writing abilities if they thought that I would pen such crap in honor of 50 damn years as a lawyer. Second, even if that is the exact speech my future self would have made, it is not to be. Beginning next week I will be a student again. Had you told me on the day of my law school graduation three years ago that I was going to willingly go back to school, I would not have believed it. But, the alternatives are not very appetizing:

1. Be a lawyer
2. Work at McDonalds

I am sure that there may be other alternatives between those two, but I don't really see any. Actually, I could probably do without another degree what I am going back to school to learn how to do, but I really think that when your job is to teach people how to read and write and the basic fundimentals of math, you owe it to them to not be shooting from the hip.

Yes, I am going to be an elementary school teacher. And I am going to do all my learning up in a birkenstock-wearin', tofu-eatin', gay-pride-parade-marchin', bra-burnin' hippy college town. (I'm sure that there is much hemp-derivative-smokin' going on too, but if it didn't happen when we were 18, it's not likely to happen for us now. We will just have to satify ourselves with our neighbors' incense-burnin', pot-maskin' coolness. Maybe it will rub off on us -- although it's going to have to get through Nancy Reagan first.)

Now many people have tried to make comparisons between being a public defender and being an elementary school teacher. I prefer to not make such comparisons. I see it as my job to try to instill some basic fundimentals (such as literacy) so that my students are not wearing orange jump suits on the side of the road. And as part of that vision, I also imagine that my life as a teaching student will be utterly unlike my life as a law student. In place of casebooks, Black's Law, the socratic method, and competition, there will be Green Eggs and Ham, Webster's, wholistic learning and we will braid flowers in each other's hair while listening to our professors share insightful thoughts with us.

I will be happy if this dream lasts even for three full days. But, truthfully, I am most excited right now about school suppy shopping. I have been writing in crayon and marker for years, and now I feel like I can do so without a dozen puzzled faces trying to figure me out at Starbucks. I am also planning to only wear jumpers. It is going to be a very happy year.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006


With Friends Like These...

We are having a party on Sunday, which if you know us you know it is going to be a rockin' time. Raymond and I are party animals. In college, I was known as Margaret the Pacemaker, because where ever I went, the beat came with me. Raymond was known as Raymond the Drunk, because where ever he went, he was drunk.

If you put the Pacemaker and the Drunk together in the same room, turn on a little music and start pouring the Spirit Water, well, needless to say, it is going to be one happening time.

(Note: other than the fact that we are having a party on Sunday, nothing else I typed above was true, although if you want to start calling me the Pacemaker, I wouldn't object.)

Now, when geeks have parties, there are certain prerequisite. The first is that geeks must thoroughly clean their apartments. Secondly, they must go and buy beverages because geeks tend to drink things like water and tea, and are therefore woefully understocked for any festivities. And thirdly, this is a biggy, they send out an E-vite.

If you don't know what an E-vite is, then you either aren't a geek or you are so lacking in friends that you haven't been to a party in 35 years. Even Raymond and I have been invited to parties with E-vite. For those who don't know, E-vite is a "cool" (with "cool" defined as "geeky') way to invite people to a party with an email invitation. It is also free, and since I took a $2 toll road for the sake of my marriage the other day, I have to find ways to start cutting back.

E-vite also placates the stalker in us all, because you can secretly see who has "viewed" the E-vite. Which brings me to my point (eventually I get there). If you are going to view the E-vite and not respond, that's cool. We have all been there. But, if you then speak to the person on the phone who is hosting said party and that person asks you if you saw the E-vite (which that person knows you did because E-vite is magic that way) then you should know that person is only going to mock you behind your back if you (a) act like you didn't see the E-vite, (b) suggest that person re-send the evite to another address, because the two that that person already sent the E-vite to were insufficient (even though we both know you got the E-vite on Sunday), (c) are unable to keep up the ruse that you haven't seen the E-vite and then finally (d) refuse to commit to coming, and instead say "Well, Sunday is a better day for us than Saturday."

Oh, I forgot to mention the fourth prerequisite: Geeks are required to invite at least one lame couple to their parties who will act like the party is all about them and then come (although make it clear that it was very, very difficult for them to re-arrange their already super-tight schedule) and then, once they get there they will then ignore the rest of the crowd and make out like 18 year olds in a dorm room, even though they graduated from college 7 years ago. Clearly, it's part of the geek-code.

Saturday, June 10, 2006


Learning about Myself

Today, dear reader(s), I sprained my ankle. It is possible that it is broken, but that would require a trip to the ER, an xray, and a million dollars in gold coins (actually $50, but seriously, right now $50 feels like a million to me.) I first thought, I should go to the ER but then I discovered it would cost a million dollars, so I changed my mind. I decided that ice, an ACE bandage, and some wine was all I really needed (actually, I had a Shirley Temple, but at 28 a person can't be confessing about drinking a Shirley Temple, even when she is in a vulnerable state.)

Then, I spoke to Nai, who moonlights as a doctor. I called him to get a second opinion, even though my opinion was definately the most important. I figured I would call a doctor and he would be able to help me make the decision. Well, kids, in 2006 when you call your doctor you might as well save the nickle (or 50 cents or what ever it costs to call people on non-existant payphones). They just use the computer to find the information. (You know, Nai, I know how to use Google too.)

This fancy version of Google has a man's voice that talks to the doctor. Which just confirms what I suspected all along --- doctors became doctors because they couldn't hack it as English majors. Well, Computer-doctor diagnoised me as having a sprained ankle (thank god I didn't having to pay Nai for that brain damaging diagnoises.) Although Nai did recommend that I go to the ER. Apparently, Nai has a golden coin tree on his balcony that grows millions of golden coins, but I did not think I needed to go to the ER for a sprained ankle. Nai said that if I couldn't walk on it, I had to go (or, more likely, that talking Computer-doctor said it first and Nai just repeated it.) I was getting ready to go, when I decided to stand up and apparently all of the icing and elevating and Raymond-TLC (Tender-Loving-Can't-you-see-that-I-am-trying-to-do-it
-right-Margaret) had worked its magic, so I was able to stand on it.

I called Nai and told him that although I was certain he must be getting some sort of cut from all this ER talk, I did not think I needed to go. Nai said he didn't care, it's my ankle. (Where do you think they teach these doctors such lousey bedside manners?) So, here I am, at home on a Saturday, on the coach, at the computer, waiting for Raymond to do all the chores. Not so different from most Saturdays actually, except that this time I have more of a licence to whine. We will see how far I can take it until Raymond cracks.

I did learn something about myself today though -- I clearly have Adult-onset-ADD. I have suspected it for some time. But, as I was lying on the sidewalk waiting for Raymond to bring around the car, coming in and out of consciousness, I was thinking "I hope Raymond makes sure to bring some work with him. No point in sitting at the ER for 4 hours when you have grading to do." Of course, Raymond didn't remember to do this (do I have to think of everything!?!?!). So, once I was in the car, I sent him back to the apartment, and while I waited, I learned that we would have to pay a million dollars to the ER, at which point I decided my ankle didn't hurt that much. So, when he came back to the car, I told him that we didn't need to go to the ER, and we went back into the house. Raymond told me that he can just see us now, in the car, when I am in labor. He thinks this will be the scene:

Me: (Screaming)

Raymond: It's ok honey. We will be there soon!

Me: (Screaming...then suddenly distracted...) Raymond...what are you doing taking the Mass Pike?? It's a toll-road!!! Did you forget that? It will now cost us a million dollars to have this baby!"

Oh, and the look in his eye when he said this. I can tell he just can't wait for that day to come.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006


Two communists went to Hawaii and all they sent me from there was a cynical "Aloha" postcard.

My brother and his girl friend just spent 10 days in beautiful Hawaii. Or, what people tell me is beautiful...I have never been. The trouble is, that when you are left of Castro (or at least in and around his neighborhood) it is hard to enjoy vacation, because all around you is evidence of oppression, greed and injustice. However, when not on vacation, they live on Manhatten Island, the same island that settlers stole from the aboriginal people for a handful of beads, so they are getting by somehow.

I am sure they had a nice time. In fact, their post card says so:

'Dear Margaret and Raymond,

Hawaii sure is beautiful. We highly recommend it as a vacation spot."

Seems like an ordinary enough exchange on a post card. Rather unpersonalized and generic. As if they had just checked the box that says 'Having Fun.' and 'Wish you were here.' Well, folks, if you think that, you have not met my brother. The postcard continues:

I mean, out of all of the imperial, terrible conquests by the USA, this has definately got to be in the Top Ten.

Then he signs off:

Talk to you soon.

Love, G & L

I feel loved.

Wednesday, May 31, 2006


Oh My!

Nai went and looked at an apartment for us a few days ago. Actually two apartments, which were part of the same complex.

After that trip, I can say without question that Nai will go just about anywhere for us. I had to take a shower after seeing pictures he emailed, because I could feel the pet hair in between my toes and the grit in the carpet, and the one-ply toliet paper hanging on the roller which was attached to the sink counter that was just painted ply-wood exposing the pipes underneath (and that was in the nicer of the two units.)

When I scheduled the appointment, the manager, Mary-Beth, said to me, "Now, it is an older apartment. So, if you like "new" then this isn't for you."

"Oh, no. We are fine with older." I didn't know that "older" means "decrepit," but it must mean that in realtor-speak. Because this place was that. (Nai sent me pictures, not because I doubted his candid description of the apartment, but I suspect because he wanted full credit for the waisted and gross hour he spend with Mary-Beth. Point very much taken, my friend.)

However, it did have one very nice feature -- the apartments both had views of the Adult Toystore across the street. The store is called "Oh My!" which is probably what Nai said when he entered the apartments. I do like that my Adult Toy needs would be easily met living in this location. That wasn't on the 20 page list of essential apartment needs, but it will be now!

Tuesday, May 30, 2006


Would You Mind?

Raymond isn't exactly my whipping boy, but, on the very rare (nightly) occassion that I need something that is not within my wingspand (or is behind me, and thus would require actually turning around on the sofa to get it) I will (very, very) nicely ask "Raaaaayyymmooonnn (in my world, the "d" is definately silent), will you please get me:

1. Some water (I add sound effects to emphasize how parched my throat has become)
2. Socks (I will sometimes rub my feet, emphasizing the frost bite)
3. The remote (in case I have been purusing other media in my nightly quest for knowledge)
4. Whatever (the hell else I want, need, want him to get me. Insert problem here.)

Raymond is nice about it. To a point. He will point out to me that it would be more polite if I were to say "Raymond, would you please get me..." which I try to do, but it is an extra letter and all (Raymond points out, yes, if I were writing it, it would take more effort, but since I am saying it, it is the same number of syllables. He says tomato, I say tomater...)

But, generally he does help me out. ("Help out" is defined as placate me before I start whining) Now, sometimes helping out is really above and beyond. Today for example is day 5 of my sickness. When I am sick I crave sugary foods. Mainly donuts. I feel confident that donuts are not on the list of foods that doctors recommend to ward off a cold, but I just needed them. So when Raymond came home from work, I asked in my nicest voice:

"Raymond, honey (terms of endearment go a long way) would you please consider going out and getting us some donuts. I just think I neeeeeeed them."

Raymond, because he is so sweet (and because he loves donuts) said "Okay. How many do you want?" Well the answer to that question is not exactly a number. What I said was "I want you to build a donut factory so we could have donuts all the time and you could be the donut man who makes the donuts and I could be the taste-tester. But, I think you should get half a dozen."

"Are you sure you only want half a dozen?"

"What exactly is confusing about donut factory? But please only get six (just to make sure he knew what half a dozen means. He is from Virginia and all, and not that D.C. suburb Virginia. He's from the part of Virginia where it isn't unusual for the bride and groom to share a set of grandparents.)

And, six is what he returned with. He had two, which he was lucky to get because there wasn't much coming between me and the donuts.

To reward him, this evening when I was in the shower and realized I didn't have a towel, I did not make him wakeup and get out of bed to bring me a towel. I got it myself thank you very much. And, the fact that I gave a little show to the neighbors -- that was a bonus.

Monday, May 29, 2006


The Fastest Way to Raymond's Heart? A Thermos

So, Raymond and I generally do not exchange gifts. We started out, like all couples, exchanging trinkets of endearment, but soon into the relationship it be came clear that it was not really going to do anything to enhance the relationship, and it may have become its down fall.

I should have known only two months into the relationship that this would be the case. In a state of new-relationship haze, I planned a birthday outing, complete with a picnic and romantic walk through an arboretum. Hair blowing in the wind, summer dress barely covering my ample bosom, I pulled out of my basket an apple and offered it to him, "No thanks." he said?'re a've got to like apples. Well, he likes apples well enough in the fall, but by mid-May I was offering him an apple that had been sitting in a warehouse for 8 months waiting to be eaten by some sucker who doesn't know about seasonal fruit. At this precise moment, I realized...Raymond is somewhat particular.

Now, this seemed unfair to me, because really, there couldn't be two particular people in the relationship. I had already taken that role as my gender's birthright. What was Raymond, a man, doing with opinions and feelings? That he expresses? Without apology? So, like any reasonably educated and independent woman, I clung to hope for another three years that Raymond would change and we would suddenly become April apple eaters -- and he would like it!

Well, change did happen, but, it came from me. Raymond was happy all along not having to spin the wheel of fortune, having to find just the right gift that I would have known I wanted if I had ever known it existed. Since giving up the hope of this happening, we are much happier and it has been "Happy Birthday, here's your cake!" ever since. It works well for us.

But, it does make me a little skitish about buying things for Raymond when he isn't at the store with me. On Saturday, I braved my cold (I'm doing somewhat better today, thanks for asking) and went to the grocery store and Target. Raymond asked me if I would look to see if they had any Thermoses that he could take to work.

If you don't know Raymond personally, you may be unaware of his love affair with loose tea. The obsession is so strong that we own a hot water heater that boils water and then cools it to three separate temperatures for optimal tea-steeping. This "useful" machine is made in Japan and cost us more than Raymond's entire wardrobe. Therefore, he has not purchased another of these "useful" appliances for work. But, that doesn't mean he shouldn't be able to drink his tea steeped at 175 degrees fahrenheit, as God intended.

So, he wanted a thermos so he could make the tea in the morning and then drink it all day. As much as I wanted to get him a Strawberry Shortcake or A-Team thermos, I suspected, like the apple, those choices would not be very well received. I found the thermoses and then stared at the selection for a good ten minutes, trying to channel Raymond so I would know exactly which thermos he would choose. I picked up the various contenders and opened them up and imitated the behavior of pouring tea. Even without water, it was clear that not all thermoses are created equal (All of the contenders performed identically when undergoing the "leaving the thermos on the roof of the car and driving away" test -- so I had to consider that as a neutral criteria).

After much prayer and soul searching, I settled on "The Rock" which looks vaguely like the drive-thru bank canisters, and according to the manufacturers keeps the tea warm for 24 hours. Driving home, I was nervous about Raymond's reaction.

I shouldn't have been. No one has ever been more pleased with thermos. For the past 2 days he has drunk his tea from the thermos, even though our little tea pot is perfectly capable of doing the job. If I let him sleep with it, he probably would. Every so often he turns to me, grinning ear to ear and says "I love my thermos."

I hope Raymond and The Rock have a wonderful life together. Thankfully, tea is always in season.

Sunday, May 28, 2006


Hold on to Your Ears

One thing that sinks when I am sick with a cold is that my singing voice goes to pot.

This morning's rendition of "I believe I can fly" ended almost before it began. I was unable to hit the high note in "fly" and so I stopped. Some would say that I never really can reach the high notes in that or any other song, but I ignore those people. I have mentioned here before that I am a great shower singer. I am available for any shower gigs you may need.

And, I don't actually need to know that lyrics of the song to make it my own. Actually, without being burdened by the "original" words, the song is transformed by me into a deeper, more personal experience.

Take for example "Hey Jude." Everyone has heard the song sung as the Beatles sang it. But, only a select few have heard my version, which is an ode to Raymond. And, I feel like that needs to change. I have considered recording it myself, but I think Paris Hilton may actually be able to pull it off the way I intend it. And, that would save me from having to deal with the trappings of celebrity.

Saturday, May 27, 2006


Reason 16,438 My Parents Do Not Know of This Blog

It's hard to put into words how big a moment this is going to be. In approximately 15 minutes Raymond and I are going to....are you sitting down? Seriously, sit down. You need to be prepared for this one....

We are going to Pick Our Wedding Pictures!

We were married March 13, 2004. It is now May 27, 2006. A mere two years, two months and 14 or so days later, we are taking care of this.

"Why," might you ask "has it taken two years, two months and 14 or so days to pick the pictures?" And, if you are asking that question, well, basically we have nothing in common and you might not want to read this blog anymore.

For those kindered spirits who are like "Two years, two months and 14 or so days is nothing! My kid is 14 and I still haven't sent out her birth announcement." please stop by our home any time you wish. There is always a place at the table for you. This is especially true if you paid in advance for those birth announcements, shoe repairs, dry cleaning, coupon book, or tv (because it was such a great bargain with the $150 mail in rebate...)

In case you people who take care of business in a timely fashion are still reading, the reason those $150 rebates exist for you is because suckers like me buy the product and then fail to mail the envelope, because obviously you need to photocopy the receipt first and, well, some people never get around to doing that very important step.

I'm sure Raymond and I will be very happy to see these pictures which my parents paid thousands of dollars for and which have been sitting in our living room in their archival paper for the last two years, two months and 14 or so days. I'll be sure to let you know how the pciture choosing goes, (in a timely fashion.)

Tuesday, May 23, 2006


Wanted: Nai to snap to it!

We are currently apartment shopping. Actually, because we are moving out of state, we are managing the apartment shopping while Nai does all the footwork. Generally, I am in favor of being the peon, because then only one person (the "boss man") will generally be mad at me. Whereas, when you are the manager, all of your managees are likely to revolt (or at least that is how I imagine it, given my general lack of respect towards those in middle management.)

But, managing Nai is oddly satisfying! I mean, I pretend to be all concerned about his schedule and free time, but secretly I look forward to telling him "Call her" or "Go there." (In an effort to maintain an efficient working relationship, the "you" is understood.) Of course, delegating the responsibility to Nai of finding us shelter does have its potential obstacles. For example, in his quest for us to be next door neighbors, he may choose to neglect to mention that the bathroom and the kitchen are a shared space. Or he might overlook the woman on the first floor who is expecting triplets.

We are just going to throw caution to the wind and trust that Nai would rather not hear me bitch and moan for the next year about the apartment he chose for us. Which, given my great skills in the bitching and moaning department, he probably has already carefully considered it.

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