Tuesday, July 31, 2007

And what a lovely day it is, too.

Today is a momentous day for two notable reasons:

#1, my mother in law, the lovely and charming Lynn, who not only gave me her son but many knitting tips and tools, was born. May she remember this day for all the glorious things sure to come to her, deserving woman that she is. Lynn, may you ride all day in perfect weather and only come home because there's an excellent bottle of wine and a cake waiting for you with a new puzzle to complete afterwards. Sal, do you hear me?

#2, the muffin head was born, fluffy pooper bunny that he is.

There is much to celebrate.

Friday, July 27, 2007

Six years ago, on this very day (tomorrow)...

Hi honey. Tomorrow is our anniversary, but since we'll be in Bellingham celebrating your mom's birthday, I thought I'd write this today.

Six years of marriage. Apparently, the sixth anniversary gift should be candy, at least traditionally. The modern gift is iron, but you already have several shot puts and I bought you a hammer (against my will) a couple of Christmases ago. Oddly enough, recommended sixth anniversary vacations are Hershey, PA and Walt Disney World, so I guess our upcoming vacation in WDW was meant to be, although I think the best evidence for that is the $60 hotel room price we all got.

I was thinking about our marriage the other day, and I got kind of giggly. That's seems to be my usual response when thinking of us. I giggle like I'm twelve and the boy I like just looked at me, except I'm 34 and the boy I like lives with me and I get to wake up with him every day. The comment I always hear about the two of us as a couple is that we seem made for each other, and I think that's because we're always laughing. It's kind of a miracle that, considering how easy it is for me to lose perspective on, well, everything and become so anxious and clamped down, laughter is such the predominant theme in our marriage that I can't think of us without chuckling, but in a happy, non-Mr. Burns, non-demoniacal kind of way. I don't know how you've managed to turn me into this person who not only laughs all the time but who can laugh about things I used to cry over. That's practically a miracle.

We've both grown a lot in the last year. We each took new jobs, causing our income to plummet. However, you never let the money be a factor in your insistence that I work only half time so I can sing and not want to fling myself off the roof of our house in sheer dramatic exhaustion. You've become so handy, even more so than you were before, and good Lord, am I grateful. I love that you're so competent around the house that all I have to do is ask you to auger the bathtub and it's done. You seem to take great pleasure in being "the man of the house," and I'm shocked that I don't mind. Well, not really. I like the fact that, despite what I say to the contrary at 1 am when we've been hanging shelves all day, you simply MUST screw everything into a stud. When that inevitable earthquake comes, that picture of our house on the bird room wall won't budge. Of course, I also like that I can put together furniture and such and you let me do it without standing to one side with a beer in your hand criticizing how I used your drill.

One thing that happened this last year, though, really defines for me what our marriage is, and what makes it my lifeline. I had slowly been becoming resistant to my anxiety medication, and I was putting off going to the doctor. We were getting ready for bed one night and I was particularly ornery and unwilling to put away laundry, and, while most other people would get upset or argue in the same situation, you looked at me and said, very calmly, that you could tell that I was much more anxious and upset than when my medication was working, and that you were going to harass me until I went to the doctor because you hated to see me so unhappy. You were right, and I knew you were right, and I finally went to the doctor because you wanted me to. It's funny how sometimes that's what it takes for me to do things I know I have to do. I won't do them for myself, but I'll do them for you. I'd do anything for you.

I love you, sweetie. Happy anniversary.

Thursday, July 26, 2007

So many kinds of pretty.

Shelly and I went raspberry picking (my favorite, favorite thing) on Tuesday, and, while the recent rainy weather caused about half of the berries on the bush to mold (is this summer? IS IT, I ASK YOU??), we did get about 10 pounds, which is a third of what I usually pick.  I did manage to put up 15 containers of freezer jam, but I only had enough to bake one pie, with a lone bowl of fruit left over which, even after having been refrigerated, molded completely in one day.  Still, we had lovely weather and talked about musical theater and sex.  No bad can come from that.

Pretty, pretty jam.  Too bad peanut butter never, ever enters our house.  And that hazelnut/chocolate spread in the closet, Christian?  That's where it stays.

I also finished the tunic dress for my friend Laura's birthday.  She does burlesque and I wanted something that could be saucy and easily removable, if necessary:

Note the ribbon and pearly buttons. Those were my addition. I'm so creative.

The whole dress is quite lovely and I want to knit one for myself.  It would be much easier this time, as the unconscionable number of mistakes in the bottom trim pattern I found after knitting and frogging it three times got corrected when I charted out the pattern MYSELF (which took as long as knitting the dress in the first place:

But so, so pretty.  I hope she gets to rip it right off.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Domestic Goddess

Teenage girls usually rail against becoming like their mothers.  The idea of being the kind of person who wears pantyhose every day is terrifying to the "likelikelike" mentality of the 15-year-old.  Then you move out on your own and get a job that requires you to look nice every day and thusly need to iron your clothes at 7 am and then you realize that nylon and lycra are the only things keeping you from being lumpy and you understand why your mother owned 25 pairs of Hanes, the kind that you get in an egg from the drugstore.  Why were they always suntan?

Anyway, when I was 20, I didn't want a house, I didn't want to cook, I hated the idea of a yard and I never hemmed a thing.  Now, I have a house that I love a little too much to be healthy, I still don't like weeding, but I do it because I don't want to look like a hillbilly, I could cook all day long and I made a skirt on Friday night because I wanted one to wear shopping with Tina on Saturday (and I now have commissions by two fellow choristers to make the same skirt for them).  My motivation in making the skirt was that I didn't want to go shopping downtown and look slobby.  Mom always dressed up to go shopping.  She said she wanted to look nice so she could wouldn't feel embarrassed, aaaaaand that's why I did it, too.  That and I didn't want to be sneered at by the salesclerks.  I even went shopping for the shopping.  I had to buy a pair of pink and white shoes and a lightweight cardigan that would match my new skirt.  I even wore makeup and fixed my hair.  When I met Tina for breakfast before the shopping, she was also wearing a skirt and a necklace and said she didn't want to look slovenly for shopping, either.  Well done, Mom, the subliminal messaging worked.  I refuse to wear hosiery from the drugstore, however.  

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

In Print

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention this in the last post.


For someone who doesn't enjoy gambling, I am a glutton for chance. Singing at my level is all about odds. You do as many auditions as possible and hope that, if you're singing well enough, the odds will be in your favor. If you're of a common voice type, you have lower odds. If you're a tenor, the odds are much higher. I'm somewhere in the middle. However, the odds have been oddly (hee) with me this summer and I've gotten roles from my last two auditions. Both auditions were pretty good and I feel lately that I can keep it together long enough to sing well, at least for the ten minutes in front of the panel. The performing part is great, it's just the auditioning that sucks my ass.

Christian has to keep forcing me to go to auditions. I schedule them, and then, the day of, I whinge and complain and whine that no one will ever cast me and I'm too fat and why do I bother (as I've stated in NUMEROUS earlier posts) and then Christian withers me with a glance (all while squeezing his Hard Woody (sorry, IRON Woody is the proper name according to Christian, which is MUCH better) grip strengthener so he can throw further as he never backs out of anything) and I go and then, afterwards, painfully and minutely dissect everything I've done and drive myself into the ground with my convincing description of my own ineptitude. Usually what follows is a letter or email saying that there wasn't a part for me and I swear it all off all over again. But , recently, I decided that I wanted to be a sidekick. I don't want to be the lead. Too much pressure. I want to quip from the background and be in it with the butler. My auditions got much better after that. Fewer unrealistic expectations. Seems to be working. Sweet.

Sunday, July 01, 2007

Loquacious Lolly

We're trying to capture all of the words and expressions that were obviously taught to Sasha by an owner that could only have been an old man with lots of dogs and cats.