20

20 years ago found the above starry-eyed, broke kids standing up in front of their nearest and dearest, dressed in meringue and tails, promising to care for, love and provide really good beer to for the rest of their lives. As neither of them could think of anything they'd rather not do more than stand up in front of a couple hundred people and be the center of attention, the whole damned ceremony, from bridesmaids slow-stepping down the aisle to Pachelbel's Canon in D, (I'd always loved the music and this was at least a year before I'd heard ANYONE else use it in their ceremony.) to the last of the bride's train disappearing out the door at the end, took 5 minutes. 10 minutes tops. For real.







They then went off with those nearest and dearest and ate cake (which they did not smear on each other and the white-white dress and rented tails) and cold cuts (poor, we were) and drank good beer and cheap champagne.







All while making their very best friends dress in the height of wedding fashion of the late '80s: the tea length, off-the-shoulder dusty rose dress and the morning coat, with cravat. Amazingly, some of those friends still speak to us, although not the majority. If anyone wishes to step forward and identify themselves in the pictures, feel free, otherwise, I'll preserve anonymity. (Hi, Stacy!)







There was no dancing (including no Chicken Dance), as Charles detested dancing, and the music was initially classical music, followed by a compilation of U2 at the end, on the cassette player of their boom box. (With some of their wedding loot, they bought the first CD player of their lives and a TV. Marvelous Charles was already starting down that long, slippery slope of home electronics obsession.)







And everyone had their picture taken. A lot.


After that, the two kids, high on champagne, cake and love, went home to stop shaking, open the pile of loot in their skuzzy med school apartment and grin, falling into exhausted sleep. The friends all went to the campus grounds of the happy couple's alma mater, and celebrated more. (The ceremony had been held in the campus chapel and the reception in the law school library.) The friends all got very happy on the leftover champagne and food and some bushes were fertilized with minimally digested cold cuts. We have pictures of that, too, but are holding them in reserve for either a slow blogging day or the reciept of the appropriate blackmail funds.

The next day, the young pair left for a lovely week in Canada (Victoria and Vancouver), where it was very cold and rainy and they bought thick sweaters and their first few CDs for the CD player.


And how'd that all work out?


Swimmingly, thank you. Every morning, Marvelous Charles makes me a latte and asks me how I slept. If he gets up at night (because the dog, she has neeeeeeds, she does), he always shuts the door so the light and noise don't keep me awake. He tells me I'm pretty when I look disgusting. He brings me tea when I'm sick.

In short, much better than that other Charles and Diana. Besides, my Charles is way cuter.

So, happy anniversary to the disgustingly happy couple who still holds hands in public, just to annoy everyone else. We may be revolting, but at least we're revolting together.

Feel free to throw rock-filled rice balls now.

Newsy

After 4 years of living in this house, I've finally learned how to get the upper windows to swing over so I can clean them. With this knowledge, I then spent 30 minutes cleaning one window. I'm guessing 4 years between window cleanings is probably too long. Actually, it was probably longer than that as the previous owners were house cleaners on the same level as I am, so make that 8 years.

So, to celebrate, I've decided to admire the lone clean window and, as an added bonus to seeing how nice and, well, transparent it is, I've decided that to reallyreally get the full shiny effect, I should not clean it's brethren until after tomorrow morning, when the morning sun has really shone upon the glass.

So, that's one down, 19 to go, meaning another 9+1/2 hours, give or take.

So nice to have settled that.

It's finally spring, here and all the green things are green and all the bulb things are blooming and all the other things are doing what ever else they do.

And for final proof of spring, yesterday, I saw the year's first patient presenting for 'removal of retained tick parts'. Her husband had only been successful with decapitating the embedded tick in her shoulder and his attempts at blunt dissection with bathroom implements did not have the outcome they hoped for. But she's better and I got to excise and suture, so win-win, yes?

Of course that was preceded by the tick that dropped of my mother-in-law while she was reading on Tuesday and followed the tick I found under the computer desk yesterday. For an encore, I encountered one in my hair, getting ready to mine for red gold this afternoon, so I'm feeling a bit less sanguine, but I'll still take the spring.

It's been such a long damn winter this year. Record snowfalls and all that, and while I firmly avow that colds, flu and gastroenteridities are all caused by various viruses, I can't help but notice that Sara's missed more days the past few months of school than she's attended and yesterday was the first time in 2 weeks that I've been what I consider well. Not symptom free, but not ill, if you get my meaning.

So I feel a little symbolic (and actual) house cleaning is in order.

I also got those scary morning glories planted out by the front porch. Hopefully, they will scramble up and drape themselves picturesquely over the railing. Realistically, they will scamper up and strangle the lilies, monarda and butterfly bush and I won't be able to stop it as I'll be prostrate inside on a couch in the air conditioning wilted from the heat and humidity come July. Actually, I'm fine with summer, I'm just bone lazy, but it makes a better tale to say that I'm swooning like an Edith Wharton character.

What else, what else?

Oh! We should now take time to pat Marvelous Charles vigorously on the back. He's gone and landed himself a position as Superintendent of Schools. "Schools" as there are, indeed, two schools in the district, but we are very excited. It's tiny (the whole district has fewer students than his current school) and they have no textbooks. Well, that's not precisely true. Apparently they do have a social studies book written in the early '90s, and lord knows the world hasn't changed in the last 15 years. So we'll be adding Friday night sports events come the fall and he'll attend all sorts of school board meetings and have new tales to tell. That'll be the end of riding to and from work together, but it really is time for him to do this. It's also about 15 minutes closer than his current district and in the more stable state of Wisconsin.

He's also taking his comprehensive exams for his doctoral program tomorrow, so that's one more hurdle he'll have jumped. He's got, we think, 3 more classes to take and then he launches into all the ballyhoo surrounding the proposing, writing and defending of The Dissertation and so, with luck and a few bribes, he should be a newly minted 'doctah' in 2 years, give or take. Then we can mess with callers who ring asking for 'Dr Piffle'.

So, if you happen to have time on your hands Friday between the hours of 8:15 am and, say, 5:00 pm CDT, and you feel like sending a good thought his way as he hunkers in the basement of some cement walled ed. building on the U of W Madison campus, feel free to send them his way.

Me? I'll be taking the day cleaning another window, musing on the nature of spring and wondering if there's a service you can call to come and vacuum your property to remove all those blood-sucking parasites that make living in the country not quite so nice as it would otherwise be.

Yin And Yang

Now we come to the tale of last week. A tale of Karma. A tale of woe and salvation. And donuts.

As you all know, Marvelous Charles is in the throes of grad school. He attends in Madison at the illustrious University of Wisconsin. One of the main reasons for us moving from the small town in which we work, across the border to our rural place in the sun: instate tuition. At some point, say in 2-3 years (these academic time lines are strangely vague to me) he will have his PhD (which I pronounce "Fudd", as in "Elmer", because I can't help such things) in educational-something-or-other and we will only have to share him with work, running and football.

At least that's the plan.

Along the way, he's also looking into garnering his superintendent's license, so he can, well, superintend, if the right situation comes up. No one in his right mind wants to be a middle school principal all their live-long days. It's a good gig for now, but he'd like not to be doing it at the age of 60.

So, last Thursday, he trotted up to campus to have a little heart-to-heart with the Powers That Be about what he'd need to do to get his superintendent's license, in addition to his current course work, followed by his exam this fall, followed by writing his comprehensive exams (and orally defending them), then the dissertation proposal (which must be orally defended, too), and, if accepted, the actual magnum opus of dissertation and (well, naturally) the defense of such.

At the end of which will be much wine and song and fatty foods. You're all invited.

And this is where nature fell out of balance.

You see, the Powers That Be (who consisted of a nice woman with, let's hope, some authority and not one of the adjunct faculty having a laugh) told him that "things could be arranged" and they basically could wipe out his need for the 6 hour exam covering 2 courses this fall, wipe out his need for the 2 comps exams, and thought that the courses for his superintendency would fall in with his general requirements.

Bada-boom, bada-bing! More for less!!

Again, this is not in writing.

Filled with hope and light of foot, our Charles tripped merrily to the elevators of the grim cement rectangle that houses the education department and hopped aboard Elevator #1.

And, here's where Karma realigned the universe, which had tipped dangerously in his favor. Half way down from floor #13 (that would be floor #6+1/2), the elevator stopped. Thinking this was an odd thing for elevators to do, but remembering that he's heard of other elevators in the building breaking down (namely Elevator #2, the partner of Elevator #1), he was not as shocked as one might otherwise be.

He looked for a way to pry the doors open, as he's seen done multiple times on TV by grannies. Nope. No way. He looked up to see if he could escape through the panel in the ceiling, again as we know to do from the entertainment media. Not happening. Clearly, these elevators were bought on the cheap from the Houdini foundation.

Well, nothing for it but to push The Red Button at the bottom of the floor button panel. You know The Red Button: the one we've all secretly wanted to push but don't dare. The one that says "Emergency" on it. I always figured it sounded some alarm.

Before pressing The Red Button, shall we mention that the fire alarm started to go off.

So it was with no calmly beating heart that our beloved Charles punched The Red Button, suspended about 80 feet above the earth's surface in a machine that suddenly seemed less than kindly.

Shall we mention that our Marvelous Charles has a decided dislike of heights? Usually this means things like airplane flights and lookouts over ravines with flimsy guard rails, but his new predicament of being trapped in an elevator with the fire alarm sounding is not made more comfortable by being a goodly distance from the ground.

So, with a desperate pounding with his thumb, did he activate The Red Button:

"911. Do you need help?" came the disembodied voice from the panel.

"Oh, yes. Please."

"Are you in Elevator 1?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Shall we come and get you out?"

"That'd be nice. And the fire alarm is sounding. Is there a fire?"


"Not to my knowledge, but someone will be there in about 15 minutes."

Longest damn 15 minutes of his life, and this is a man who's played several seasons of rugby, has administered a middle school and taken weapons off 'children' who've outweighed him by several stone, not to mention faced down armed, pissed parents. He routinely diffuses enraged custodial staff, lunch ladies, bus drivers and secretaries with aplomb. He has yet to be poisoned by the head of the teacher's union. This, in short, is a man with no little courage.

He has also, in younger days, broken up an altercation consisting of 20 snow ball throwing youths and a really cranky old man by asserting his presence and authority. He may have also uttered the phrase, "Excuse me!! Can I help? I'm an undercover narcotics agent." (Phrase said in a booming voice that caused all involved to either hop back into his Lincoln Town Car or scurry back to their respective houses.) We may mock Marvelous Charles but we do not doubt his courage and resourcefulness.

But, in the end, many members of the fire dept came. They had quite a difficulty getting the doors open, but he did get to climb out through the doors and jump the 5 feet to the solid floor and not have to be hoisted out the roof, a la Hollywood.

And there was no actual fire, thank goodness, but one of the firefighters noted that he smelled smoke, likely from evil Elevator #1, just having another laugh at the expense of one of those punk college kids.

So, all's well and so forth.

Will The Powers That Be keep her word? Will the misfortune of having been trapped in the elevator assure that the good things discussed in the preceding meeting will come to pass? Will Marvelous Charles ride in another elevator again or will he forever more climb the 13 flights of stairs to his classes? Will this generalize to a more universal distrust of elevators in general?

Time will tell, but the next day he decided to start living life to the fullest, starting with breakfast:







These here are the best donuts known to man. They are a chocolate yeast dough, filled with this... this...I can barely describe it with any adequacy: a cross between freshly made whipped cream and custard tasting strongly of vanilla, not too sweet. It is topped with thick, very chocolate frosting, again, not too sweet. The good from the bad.

Vroom! Vroooom!

Yesterday was a banner day for Gorbag The Half-Orc (a.k.a. Marvelous Charles).

You see him finally riding his dream:



Ever since moving out among the thug deer and the ticks 3 years ago, one thing became clear: To keep the wildlife at bay and away from our back door, we needed to mow approximately 5 of the 8 acres of Wisconsin prairie upon which we reside throughout the growing months of the year. (See, the deer don't like to leave the tall grass and the ticks like to stay in the deer traffic paths. The ticks aren't adverse to eating human when they can get it, but are happiest, again, in the tall grass, where the deer play.)

Therefore, Gorbag and I went shopping for our first riding mower. We went around to places before the snow had thawed and, after comparing advice from friends and online forums, we decided on this little beauty and brought her home (well, as it was 3 years ago, it is actually the 5000 and not the 6500, but looks the same, so good enough for government blogs and so forth).

The snow thawed, the grass grew, and she started breaking down about 2-3 times a season. Fortune had partially smiled upon us as we had ponied up for the extended service plan, where they send the guy out rather than making you bring the damn thing in. Over the past 3 years, we've soaked Sears for the price of the plan plus the mower twice over in service costs. We also exchange Christmas cards with Burt, the service guy. But, while it warms the little cockles of our hearts to stick it to major corporations for sucky products, it doesn't get the grass cut.

As the grass sprouted that first spring in '04, we began noticing various serious landscaper-guys and occasional gentleman ruralites, like us, with this new breed of mower. Fast. Low to the ground. Fast. Tough. Fast. Yellow. Fast. And, best of all, not parked by the side of the garage with the hood up, a person hopping up and down nearby throwing things at it, curse words drifting across the hills.

There was instant desire.

But, "No," we told ourselves. We had a perfectly good (Well, not really "good", but work with us. We'd paid for the damn thing AFTER doing the research.) mower at home. And what if the damn thing broke down every other month? That still meant that it could be used 6 weeks out of 8, right?

That leads us to this year. It broke. And broke again. And almost broke a third time. (There was all this white smoke that started pouring out of it, but it went away when the thing was stopped and didn't return the next day, when it was restarted.) And the second time it took 3 weeks to get it repaired. And the orc part of Charles roared and would not be denied.

So, now he has his new yellow mower, a terror to vegetation everywhere, and, as I recall, he can mow the place in about 2 hours, once he gets the controls down, with a good tailwind, as opposed to 5 hours with the other machine.

Last night, I walked him around the yard and, once again, showed him where things were planted so he wouldn't cut them down. (I do so enjoy deluding myself.) And then he hopped aboard and took 'er for a spin.

Don't worry, though, we are keeping the crappy Garden Tractor for a spare. We're sure that the new one will have the occasional break down (oh, yes, we did spring for the extended service agreement on that one, too). Plus, when they are both working, we can mow in tandem, creating patterns and love knots in the grass or mowing in formation, like fighter pilots, only with 2 of us, on the ground, and much slower.

Literary

Him (flipping through a small book): "So Colin's reading assignment is titled My Worm Farm. She (indicating the person narrating the book, smiling in the pictures, running her hands through compost, meticulously detailing the care of compost worms--not to be confused with earth mover worms!) has a worm farm as a hobby and gets to write a book about it?"

Her: "Yeah. Poor kids. Maybe you should write one entitled My Home Theater."

Him: "Or we could write one entitled My Home Theater and My Garden With Compost Bin."

Her: "And I could follow it up with the sequel: Squash Bugs are Evil."

Him: "Or a picture book: Squashing the Squash Bugs."

Her: "Or Squash Bugs are Evil and Cucumber Beetles are Fuckers."

Him: "And at the end of the book, you could go through how to conjugate the verb 'fuck'.

Her: "Or maybe not."

Him: "It'd still be better than My Worm Farm."

Granted.

How Not To Awaken the Bug Phobic

Thank you for all the well wishes. I'm mucusy but getting better.


So, shall we step into the way-back machine? Don't bring a lunch. It's just a little trip, say back to the Friday before last.

Ah. Friday. How I love you. I don't work Fridays and the house is usually somewhat clean. Plus, the real weekend stretches out like a dream.

Or a nightmare.

Our scene: The Master bedroom, 5:07 am. Charles, all rumply, plops down on his 1/2 of the bed, waking our heroine, who is quite rumply and rather bleary, as well. Yes, people often say we look alike. I'm guessing this is why.

Charles: "I have to share what happened last night!"

Me: "Mmmmm. Yeah. I'm awake. Mmmmmm. I'm listening."

Charles: "Molly got me up at 2 am to go to the bathroom. So, I let her out and just as she was coming back in..... This THING flew in the house!"

dramatic pause...

Me: "Mmmmm. What sort of thing?"

Charles: "This huge flying bug! About THIS big!!!" And he demonstrates with his hands, measuring the air between them by about 8".

Me: (completely awake) "What? What sort of bug?" (Grabbing for my glasses, the better to see the approaching demon.)

Charles: "I think it was a moth. It was all hairy. And huge. Really huge."

Me: "You're shitting me. Moths aren't 8" big. I was asleep, you poop."

Charles: "Well, this one is."

Me: "IS??"

Charles: "Well, yes. It flew up into the loft. Molly and I feared for our lives. We didn't go up. Kitty did, though. She raced up after it. I stayed on the couch and Molly leaped on top of me."

Me: "And it's now......?"

Charles: "Um. Still up there, I think. Although maybe Kitty ate it. She's unusually spunky this morning."

Mad-Kitty now leaps on the bed, and is, indeed quite spunky. Horrifyingly spunky.

Me: "Ew. What's worse? Mothra loose or Mothra recently chomped with much relish by my cat?" To Mad-Kitty: "I'm not kissing you, today."

20 minutes later, Charles is out of the house and I am alone with either a possible mutant moth or a horrifying cat. Yup, just me and the kids and the wussy dog. He has also informed me that the THING is mottled gray, which would blend perfectly with the carpet.

I throw on my long, heavy robe, thinking the terry cloth might provide some protection, should the creature still be up there. Gingerly, I creep up the stairs to the small loft above the living room, MY room, the loft where the house plants and my most favorite books live and the kitty lurks and terrorizes the plants, because the dog is never allowed up and the kids are only allowed up with permission.

I creep all about and find nothing. No large mutant winged bug and no large mutant bits of wings, legs or feelers.

I descend and shower, resolving to think for the best, that the beast is in the belly of the cat. Or, better yet, a waking dream, spawned by having to get up at 2 am to let the damn dog out.

We go about our day without further incident.

Later that evening, as I curl up with Charles in the Big Chair, he informs me that he's done his manly duty and dispatched The Bug. Just a few minutes ago, while I was putting Sara to bed.

Oh dear. And where was it? Oh, yeah. Up in the loft. And how did he, erm, slay it?

"You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do. I've had a beer. I'm now brave. Tell me. With a rolled up magazine?"

"Um. No. He would have laughed at the rolled up magazine as a weapon, taken it from my hands and beaten me about the head with it. No. You know that glass vase? Yeah. I don't think it left too big a mark on the wall."

"Are you sure it's dead?"

"Would you like me to re-create the sound it made?"

I passed on that.

A bit later, Charles headed off to bed. And I? Well, I may be bug phobic, but I am a blogger, and that glass of beer was still warm in my veins. I grabbed my camera and headed back up the stairs. And snapped a picture:



You'll notice that I even included my thumb in the shot for scale. You'll also notice that, while it's a goodly size, it's not quite 8". Maybe 3":



And now, you'll notice that it's looking a bit worse for the wear? And is now on the floor?



Seems Mad-Kitty thought, if she couldn't be a lion, being a vulture was almost as good. The kids noticed a commotion going on in the loft the next morning and I ran up, thinking she was attacking a plant. Nope. She'd managed to first, sniff out the moth, then extract it from the back of the bookcase, then start to munch on it.

I shooed her away, went to get a stiff piece of something to put under it (And my camera, of course. If I'm disposing of the carcass, I'm getting credit, dammit.) and shooed her away, again, scooted it onto the stiff paper, shot pictures, tried (and mostly failed) to scoop up the now-present bits of wings, legs and feelers that were strewn about the carpet, and gingerly carried it to the trash.

I think it is a sphinx moth of some sort, which are really very cool. They can hover like humming birds. I once saw a large flock of them around my butterfly bushes when we were living in Illinois. They even make a humming sound when they hover.

Kitty, however, was disgruntled.



Which is nothing new. You can't see the bits of moth all over her face. Lucky you.

Tizzy

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaAAAAAaaaauugggghhhhh!

*pant, pant, pant*

AAAAAAAaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAaaaaaaauuuuuugggggghhhhhhhh!!!!!



(oooooommmmm.........ooooooooommmmmm.........oooooommmm)

*blink, blink, blink*


There. Better.


Our Scene: The kitchen, lunchtime, today. A lovely warm, spring day. Lots of chirping of the birds, sunshine, flowers blooming. The sort of scene, were it in a movie, that would portend Something was about to Happen.

The phone rings.

Diana: "Hello?"

Charles: (Sounding a bit strange, dare we say 'strained'? Not quite himself at any rate.) "Hi, Honey."

Diana: (Very suspicious) "What's up?"

Charles: "Guess who just called?"

Diana: "Ummmmm......ummmmmm.....mmmmm. No idea." Can't even come up with a wise-ass guess.

Charles: "U of W."

Diana: "............ No. ...... Really? ........ No. They didn't. They did?"

Charles: (sounding bewildered or befuddled or bemused or all 3) "They did."



Now, there's something I've kept from most of you. At least I don't think it's made it to the blog. See, when we moved out here from points West, looking for the life less crazed, Charles was thisclose to finishing his doctorate in education at Portland State University. He'd done all the course work, passed his comps and had his proposal for his dissertation accepted. His data was basically gathered. All he needed was to finish the last 100 or so pages of the monster, revise it, and successfully defend it. Probably about 6 months of work, all told. The plan was to finish it out here, communicate with his committee via the internet, and fly back to do his defense.

Well, his first job here was working as one of the district central office administrators in a job that basically required 60+ hour weeks. He learned a lot of law and a lot of politics. The last 2 months of it, he served as interim principal for one of the grade schools whose principal left, on top of it all. The second year, he changed jobs to become the middle school principal of a school in crisis. Let's just say he was very busy, shall we, and that the dissertation sat, unfinished. About 2 years or so ago, we moved, partly because he had his eye on transferring to the PhD program at U of Wisconsin in Madison, the #3 school in the country in his area of interest. Tuition is much cheaper if you are a Wisconsin resident. MUCH cheaper. Plus, we are Wisconsin folk. Liberal to a fault. We just don't fit in with all the nice republicans down in rural Illinois.

He applied to the program last year and was told he was #1 on the waiting list. Apparently no one who was accepted declined their spot, and we mulled over whether or not he should apply again this year. Figuring the odds were good that the #1 alternate would stand a chance the following year, he did re-apply this winter. And about a month ago, got the standard rejection letter.

OK. Fine. Done. He and I made our peace, he planned out how to get to where he wanted to be in 1 year, 5 years, 10 years, and so on. I secretly felt relieved, as with him working in Freeport and being a full time grad student in Madison for about 4 years, well, let's just say, he might as well move to Antarctica for all we'd see him. He was disappointed but relieved, too.

That's where the phone call comes in.

He's been offered a spot in their program. Once again, it's The #3 Program in the Nation. You don't turn that down.

So, now we're spinning. He has not formally accepted. The letter offering the spot is being mailed out as we speak. It may even be here tomorrow, the way the mail works around here. He needs to do this. The doors this opens are amazing. He's always, ever since he was a little undergraduate student in knickers and knee socks, wanted to go into politics. This places him in the state capital in a kick-ass program. We also realize that there's no way he can stay in the job he's in and do this, at least not without special dispensation, which probably won't happen. It also means the jobs he has been looking at aren't what he needs to look at and the ones he passed by, are suddenly up his alley.

Our placid little world is suddenly upside down and we're just reeling a bit. There's a lot to plan.

Fuuuuuuck.

Points

I want this written down in a ledger somewhere; I want credit for it.

I have proof that I do not suck as a mother:

Today, I went shopping and bought packages of socks for both kids.

I resisted the urge and did not wrap them up for Christmas to put under the tree.

As I knew I was weakening, I will admit that I quickly opened the packages and threw every last mother lovin' pair in the washer, but that is beside the point.

My kids may be able to say a lot of things against me but getting socks and underwear for Christmas will not be one of them.

So far.

Note: Actually, I probably would have done so but Charles put it in our marriage vows that no future offspring were to receive underwear for a present. Maybe I am not as good as I try to proclaim.

The fact that I am re-wrapping some things that Sara got last year and didn't un-box won't count against me, right? Because if it does, that little carnival playset that she is seen opening in the '04 Christmas video is just an illusion. Really. She got it this year, not last.

The Story of Us

Ah. Here we are. November 6th. Now, I am really not terribly sentimental. I celebrate major candy associated holidays, birthdays, and my wedding anniversary. That is enough to keep track of in my selfish little book. However, November 6th is a little special, at least for me.

Anybody care to gander a guess?

Anybody?

Oh, you are so good!

Yes. It is the anniversary of Charles and my first real date. Real date in that it involved a car and money and a movie, as opposed to the night of November the 5th, the day we first made googly eyes at each other, me thinking he was just being, well, drunk and that I was handy, and he thinking that there might be something between us. Good thing he was right, rather than me.

But I am getting ahead of things, here.

Let me tell you the tale of how we became the Royal Couple, to our friends. (Remember, this was in the way back days, when both the Prince and Princess of Wales were not just alive, but to appearances, still in love and married, with children.)

I was a geeky new college freshman, the first week of class, actually, I think it was a day or two before class officially began. I was sitting on the grass with the other four freshmen on my floor, pondering what we should do about the gold Porsche that had been habitually parking in front of the fire hydrant. The fire hydrant that the fire trucks would attach their hoses to in order to put out the theoretical fire that would race through our disgracefully wired tinder-box of a dorm. The first day we moved in, it was drilled into our heads that the place would likely become completely engulfed in 45 seconds from the start of a fire. We were taking no chances. We were also very happy that we lived on the bottom floor, and thus would be able to just climb out the windows and scale the bushes to make our escape.

Clearly, the atrocious gold Porsche needed to be taught a lesson. (Besides, who the hell goes to college driving a gold Porsche, I ask you? Talk about crass. Especially because most of us didn't have the price of a Whopper, without cheese, on 99 cent Wednesday, in our pockets. We were poor freshmen in our little clique, well except for one of us, but we were cutting her slack, plus, she had no car, gold or otherwise.) Yes, there was campus security, but all they would do was hand out tickets, something like $2 a pop. The gold Porsche just laughed at such a fine and continued to use the No Parking area in front of the hydrant as his own personal space.

Well, what would make the Porsche sad, we wondered? Well, to find that all four of the tires were flat, of course. So, the five of us set about letting the air out of all the tires. It was about this time that our floor Resident Assistant (she of the keys and her own single room), Margaret, came up with this very nice looking young man. She had asked her friend Charles (you knew it was Charles, didn't you, clever pants) if he wanted to meet some nice freshmen and he said, "sure." So, he sat on the lawn and chatted to us while we continued our lesson in inappropriate parking of cheesy gold Porsches. He remembers that I was cute and didn't look or talk to him. I remember feeling completely awkward and that he was way too attractive to talk to. He was taking a year off after his Sophomore year, working graveyard shift in a produce warehouse, while he figured out what the hell he was going to do with a Poly-Sci major. (Answer: Return to school and get a second major in Psych, and then figure it all out later.)

So, there we were, each smitten with the other, so we do what normal young idiots do. He goes out with my floormate (the rich one) and I date this nice but annoying putz. As my rich floormate is also dating four other guys (remember, this is the first week of college!!) including the bell hop from the hotel she and her mom stayed at their first night in Portland, Charles happily backs off after the one date with her (she took him out for coffee and pie). In another odd turn, it happens that the bell hop went to high school with me, graduating the year prior. He only went out with her once or twice and he paid, the chivalrous fool.

Flash forward to the night of November 5th, 1983. My floor decides to host a party. The advantage to going to my tiny liberal arts college in the early '80s, is that all drinking is policed by the campus, as it is private property. The learned heads had felt for decades, probably since before prohibition, if the college was even around then, that if underage drinking were looked on with a completely blind eye, not to mention a deaf ear and congested nose, the students would stay on campus to do their drinking and not drive off campus to do so. They were mostly right, especially because freshmen were required to live on campus or with their parents, and most Sophomores chose to do so, as well.

We decide on a sort of tropical theme and make my friend Dolo's patented Killer Punch. I don't remember what all was in it but remember we mixed it in large plastic garbage cans and it had copious quantities of rum, everclear, and Hawaiian Punch, to mask the taste of it all. It probably had other liquid ingredients as well. Also, there was cut up fruit that marinated in the mixture and was served as the only "food". As we had no money, our rich floormate funded it, someone with a license purchased it (maybe Margaret, the RA?) and we charged $5 to get in, for all you could drink and dancing to really loud music. We had a good turnout and we all took turns at the door, collecting money and stamping hands with someone's bunny stamp. During my shift, Charles appeared to keep me company, he being rather buzzed on punch, and me, just a little bit so. We laughed and joked and he stamped bunnies up and down his arms, which for some reason we thought was hysterical. You had to be there.

We then went down and danced and talked, (well, yelled), over the music. Afterward, we went upstairs with my poor roommate, who was really drunk, and stood on each side of her in the bathroom stall while she brought up everything she had in her, and then some. He patted her back while I held her hair, and we made googly eyes over her heaving body.

Que romantico!

Really.

He then asked me out to a movie the next night, a Sunday night.

I of course accepted, thinking he was just being nice, as a friend, because why the hell would this lovely, handsome, charming man who did not flee at the sight of a vomiting young woman want to go out with me? As I got in the car, I told him the following: "I can't stay late, I have to study and I have 8:00 class tomorrow." He thought I was trying to be nice but really didn't want to go out with him, silly man. I was just being honest, because, hey, I was a Biology major with her eye on med school. Science classes always started at 8 am as the afternoons were devoted to lab, no extra credit for that fun. He took me to The Big Chill, and we played at being commandos in the parking lot. At the end of the movie, as we were sitting in the seats, he looked over and our eyes met. I swear the room did one of those "wah-wah-wah" things and then, finally, he kissed me.

So, there you have it. Love, or at least lust, at first sight. Aren't I the lucky one? It took me a whole week before I told him so. Didn't want to rush things, don't you know.

Can't Wait To See What They "Give" For A Christmas Treat

In honor of National Boss's Day, I have been authorized to relate the following from Charles, Principal Extraordinaire. (You know: The boss of the school.)

Driving home in the car last night, he tells me of the treat that awaits him for National Boss's Day from the school board. The treat he just found out about that day.

Not flowers. Not a gift certificate for McD's. Not the afternoon off (sheesh, what the hell were you thinking?) or chocolates. Not a cheesy mug or a figurine of a guy behind the desk with the obligatory "World's Best Boss" blazoned across it.

The board wants all the school administrators to assemble at Wednesday's school board meeting to be "recognized".

Sounds like a lovely thought, yes? I thought so, too, for that fraction of a nanosecond before the next neuron fired.

What that really entails is that he "gets" to stay late another couple of hours (they meet at 7 pm), eat dinner from plastic and stay in his tie, for 5 minutes of "Thank you, oh you district administrators." Only then can he get in his car and drive home.

Instead of eating dinner with his family at 6 pm, putting his feet up or chasing the kids or throwing the ball with the dog, he gets to come home around 8 pm. The kids will be in bed. The dinner, in the fridge. The dog curled by a chair.

Yeah, that's really going to raise morale and boost job satisfaction. He is really going to feel appreciated after that.

And don't even think the question, "So, it's optional, right?"

Now, we both knew that he'd have his share of late nights with this job. Hell, he's been doing this for several years. What puts our skivs in a twist is having a late night for no good reason. This does not help kids. It is not a parents' night or even the dreaded Family Fun Night. It is not even hours to be spent this Saturday canvassing the area to get folks to fill out a survey regarding their perceptions about the district. (Never mind that it is his son's last soccer game of the season or that family will be in town. An entire Saturday morning.) That, at least, has some pretense of use.

Thanks, but no thanks.

I Can't Make This Stuff Up

The scene: Our kitchen on a Sunday morning. Kids watching cartoons. Charles seated at the breakfast table. Me making biscuits. Teapot steeping. Sun streaming.

Charles: "You know what I'd like to study after I finish my PhD?"

Diana: ......"Uuuuuhhhh".....(thinking of the most ridiculous, improbable course of study for our new citizen)..."The law?" (snort, chuckle)

Charles: "Nope. I want to learn how to calibrate TVs. I can do the basic stuff but don't know how to get into the programs and really do it."

Diana: (blink, blink, blink.) "Well, I support you, honey."

I think Somebody is taking their home theater fixation a bit too far. Hmmmmmm?

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Courthouse

You know that dream? The one where you are desperately trying to get somewhere important, say a big exam or a crucial meeting, and everything seems to be going well, and you just can't believe you are making such good time and you just might get to stop and grab a cuppa at that really good coffee place? And in the back of your mind you just know that things are going to go terribly, terribly wrong and you find that you are on the wrong road and there are no signs and no way to turn around and it gets dark and your lights don't work and your car won't go faster than 2 MPH and, and, and, and just before the one-hooked escapee from the mental asylum slashes through your car's roof on this suddenly deserted road, you wake up?

Yeah. That one.

...........................................................

Cut to this morning. A big morning in our household. Marked on the calendar and etched in our brains. 10am. Courtroom 390. The Federal Courthouse in Milwaukee. Charles's summons to the swearing-in ceremony for new American citizens.

Yup, our boy was officially cashing in his green (pink, now yellow) card and becoming a dual American-Canadian citizen. We were a bit surprised that his citizenship application went through so quickly, as he is even more left than I am and I can't imagine the current administration will be thrilled to have one more of us liberal chuckleheads voting, but oversights can sometimes turn out in your favor.

For the past week or two, we debated whether or not to have Sara and I come, Colin being in school, getting his own civic education. His bus comes about 2 hours and 20 minutes before we needed to be there and we are about 2 hours out, driving the speed limit. Now, Charles is a master at (ahem) compressing the drive time, but what about road construction? And parking. This is downtown, for Pete's sake. Parking is sure to be a nightmare. There is almost certain to be a parking garage nearby, though. We decided that, worst case scenario, if we cut it too close, we could scream up to the entrance and he could leap out of the driver's side and I could scootch over and park the car, then worry about getting myself and Sara where we needed to be.

OK, then. We were going. Yes. Plans and back-up plans.

This morning, we were up in plenty of time, got ourselves all ready, including breakfast stuff in the car and change of clothes for Sara, in case she wiped out what she was wearing. All final paperwork in hand. Gas in the vehicle. Jumper cables and street maps (3 separate sets, yes, why?) and all, because you just never know. Colin's bus comes right on time and we pull out as planned. Traffic is great. The radio is playing good music. All is well. We take the I-94 out of Madison and I pull out the Gameboy, because, well, we are on target to get there 30 minutes early and all is going better than planned. We just have to head East until we hit Milwaukee and then take 1 exit and turn left twice. We toodle along blissfully for about 20 miles.

So why is the sun behind us? Well, sort of behind and over to the right? That would make our direction Westish. Well, Northwestish. Huh. Well, freeways sometimes curve one way and then back to where they are heading. Except why is the sign telling us how close we are to the fucking Wisconsin Dells?!?

Fuck! Fuckity fuck, fuck. Fuck!!

It is now 1 hour and 15 minutes until we have to have Charles in Milwaukee, some 90 miles away. Forget parking and traffic and road construction delays and courthouse security. There is just no way. NO. WAY.

Yeah. Getting to feel just like that dream.

Charles takes the pragmatic view and decides to throw in the towel and go back home, maybe by way of the liquor store. I take the completely unrealistic hopeful view that we should just go for it, because, where else do we have to be today? Who knows, maybe someone will take pity on a nice, clean-cut Canadian and his sweet, frazzled wife and absolutely adorable daughter and swear him in, in the hallway, if we slip them a $20. We turn off at the next exit, another mile or so down the freeway, gritting our teeth, deeply regretting my coming, because if I had stayed, he would have left at least an hour before, just to be there early and park and all, like he always does. I also realize that the bribing of the federal official will not work as this is Wisconsin, not Chicago, and we may even end up in jail, including Sara, if we attempt it.

I frantically search the documents for a phone number to call to see if there is any way we can rectify the situation. There is a sentence at the bottom of the summons that says to respond in writing if you are unable to make the ceremony. Somehow I don't see this as helpful at the moment.

We drive, um, quickly. Yes. Quickly. Speedily. Not implying that any laws of the road were broken. Nope. Not us. We are a completely law-abiding citizen and soon-to-be citizen, if we had only taken the right exit to get on the freeway.

We speak tersely. We grind our teeth. I feel very, very bad for coming. We look at the speedometer and the clock and the speedometer and back to the clock and my God! just stop looking at the control panel of the car because it just isn't helping the situation at all, is it?!

We also keep all our eyes that can be spared from the worthless watching of the dashboard peeled for anything that looks like a cop car. Not that we were speeding. Nope. Just out of interest.

The miles peel away. We reach Milwaukee at 9:50. I can not tell you how. 10 minutes to navigate the seemingly easy off-ramp to the 2 left turns. We raise the arm rests in preparation for our screech-and-swap-drivers plan. The ceremony is, after all, taking place in a government institution. Maybe they are running late. Maybe they schedule like anal medical clinics, telling people to be there early so if they are late, they will still have time to fill out their insurance information and medical histories and patient satisfaction surveys and all. Or so I've heard.

We just need the exit 310B. Not "A" or "C", but "B". It is one of those 3 way exits. "A" and "C" are labeled. "B" is not. "C" says that it is for I-794, which we are looking for but does not designate "East" or "West". We have 10 feet to decide. I yell, "left!" as the instructions say to bear left and it is the only exit to the left and is between "A" and "C".

I am, of course, wrong. We should have gone with door #C, to the right.

All hope is lost. We decide to turn around and go to the courthouse, anyway, to see who we can talk to to reschedule things. We rehearse our deep apologies. We practice summoning some discrete tears. Even I give up all hope.

Dispiritedly we head off in the right direction.

And the heavens part and the angels sing and we are magically transported to the front of the courthouse. It is 10:05.

And what the hell is that? The entire curb across from the main entrance of the Federal Courthouse is open and clear. Parking meters marching along empty spaces. The sign reads "No parking from 6pm to 10am."

Movie parking for us. Movie parking when we needed it most.

Now I really don't believe that the All-Being-Of-Time-And-Space micromanages in our piddly little lives, but if I did, I would call it a miracle and go on the 700 Club.

Charles pulls up and leaps across the street and into the courthouse.

I sit stunned for 5 seconds, stagger out and plunk 90 minutes of change in the meter (all the quarters in the parking-and-toll change-cup in the car), thinking that it would be a small good deed for who ever came after us.

I gather up toddler, books, purse, and sanity and scamper to the corner. Notice I did not jaywalk, despite my urge. Very law abiding.

The two polite security guards at the metal detector and x-ray thingie efficiently get us through and, after asking if we were here for the ceremony, direct us succinctly to the room. I notice they don't seem surprised that we are late.

We get to the room, an amazing, polished, carved and gleaming oak room. (Only the floor was not oak. Seriously. That and the 2 small busts of Lincoln and Kennedy.) There were about 50 others sitting in rows in front of the bar, where Charles was, waiting to be sworn in. The 30 or so friends and family members along to watch were seated on benches (oak, natch) in the back. We camped out on one and broke out the books. And then the crayons.

At 10:45, the clerk came in and announced that in 15 more minutes, the court would be called to order and hizonner would preside over the swearing in. We should feel free to roam about the halls.

Yup. It started an hour late.

And I could do nothing but giggle with glee.

And look at my watch rather frequently to make sure the parking meter was not going to run out before we were through as I had only put in 90 minutes of change in. Good deed and all.

So, the nice, friendly judge (a credit to Wisconsin, he was) came in a bit after 11am and swore in all those newly minted Yanks (or 1/2 Yank, in the case of Charles), even cracking a sly joke in the midst of his speech.

Sadly, there was no cake afterward, so we went out for lunch and bought a chocolate pie, which made Charles and I rather sick but the kids loved. (Note to self, if you ever go back to a Perkins, do not succumb to the French Silk pie. It has little chocolate flavor and about 3 times the amount of sweet it needs.)

So, there we are. Beforehand, I had thought this trip, aside from being a notable event for us as a family, might be worth a post. Heh.

All rise. This court is no longer in session. Thank you, God and all the sweet saints, micromanagers or not.

Car Wars

Amid all the badness of the last couple of weeks, one small bit of selfish good has happened in our little household as a direct result. We were finally able to justify a 3rd car.

Let us all take time now to throw things at our heroine as she hangs her head in shame, for shameful it is.

It is true. Three. Cars. In a family of two drivers, who, truth be told, almost always carpool anyway.

Let the justification begin!

Let us now take time to go find new, heavier things to throw, having already let fly with our stock of rotted tomatoes and wormy apples. There must be a "D" cell battery or 3 around here, somewhere...

The first vehicle is el minivan, complete with 57 cup holders and a good safety record. It has surprisingly reasonable gas mileage, too, as good as the small sedan it replaced. We tote kids and often a grandparent or two, at least once a week. We anticipate that our children will have friends that will need toting in the near future, too. So, really, the van makes good sense. Fine. I am somewhat able to sleep with that and rarely cringe as I get into it anymore.

The second vehicle is a several-years-old (mumbles) SUV. It has 4-wheel-drive and is paid for. It has horrible gas mileage but there are about 10-15 days each winter that we have to have it to get to work. Neither of us has a job that recognizes "snow days". We live way out in the country with the cows and deer. Wisconsin is also surprisingly hilly, the county road that we drive for much of the way resembles a rollercoaster, enough so that Colin shrieks with glee when we drive it. We are into cheap thrills in this family. Try as we might, we just can't get around needing the shameful SUV. We need the weight as much as the 4-wheel-drive and anti-lock brakes. A nice little Subaru just won't do it. The wind in a blizzard will just blow it off into the ditch and the cows will then laugh and shake their heads when they find us come spring. Cows are like that. Bitter creatures.

That leads us to the new car. It is small, it is stripped down, it is fairly gutless, and it gets really great gas mileage. If gas stays at this price, we actually make money with the purchase, given the commute. The seats are less comfortable than a gym bleacher, the windows, mirrors and locks are all dealt with by using your hand, rather than some remote, infra-red button or switch. It has 2 demi-cup holders. The radio is pure, tinny crap. It happily takes regular gas rather than "super". It is a stick shift. It feels like you are driving faster than you are, unlike the other two cars, where you frequently glance at the speedometer and then quickly in the rear-view mirror, expecting the flashing lights of the patrol car.

It is little and black and sexy. Well, sexy to two people with a minivan and a shameful SUV.

We have taken to covertly staking our individual claims to this piddly car. I started things by saying, "I love it. This is MY car," during the test drive. Hah. Dibs. Charles trumped me by driving it home while I took the kids and his mom in the minivan. Grrrrr. I drove it last week on the day we couldn't carpool, citing some obscure law about wives getting to drive the vehicle of their choosing on Wednesdays. Plus, as principal, he often has to drive kids home (yes, chaperoned, of course, such are times). He should have the vehicle with most seating. Yesterday, we were again unable to carpool, as it was "Family Fun Night" at school and I really didn't want to wait hours after the clinic closed to go home to the kids. I again claimed the car on the grounds that he should have the more deer-resistant vehicle as he would be coming home after dark. He countered with "squatters rights", placing HIS lunch, work-out clothes, pile of papers, coffee mug, PDA, and all in the front of the car. I ceded defeat of yesterday's battle, glaring beetle-browed through the car window, MY coffee mug, coffee pot, purse and lunch bag in hand, and vowed to piss on the driver's seat in the near future. Today, we are at a limited cease fire as we carpooled.

I am drinking lots of water and coffee. Better to fill a bladder.

So, there we are. A sad, sad pair.

Fire away.

An Equal Division of Responsibilities

Two nights ago, poor Charles came to a frightening conclusion: Our lives are in his, and only his, hands.

As you are more than aware, we live in the Midwest, where lovely and sometimes violent thunderstorms roll through. We all know the sound of the tornado siren. We have a place to escape to in case that siren goes off. For some it is a storm cellar, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz had. Others have a corner of the basement or under the stairs. We are lucky to have a concrete room, that seems to have been poured as an afterthought to the foundation, but damn safe, stocked with food, water, blankets, some toys, radio and, coincidentally, the wine, as it is also cool and perfect for a wine cellar and pantry. The house may be smashed but the wine and cans of soup will be safe. I did take the precaution of having a cork screw down there. I am nothing if not prepared. We would have to sacrifice something, though, as there are no glasses, only little plastic cups.

Unfortunately, to hear the tornado siren, one must hear the siren. If one is sleeping so soundly that one is not only snoring loudly enough to nearly drown out the storm but also one does not so much as move a toe when the storm crashes all around with barely a pause between flashes of lightning, the wind howling and even Emma looking worried, well, one can not be counted on in a disaster. (We have been blessed with dogs that don't freak at all with storms, just becoming a bit, well, concerned, if things get really bad.)

Charles has just formally decided that, while I am responsible for saving us in case of grave injury or illness, he is the sole bearer of responsibility for making sure we are not crushed in our beds or taken off to see The Wizard.

With age comes responsibility.

Maybe we should next time find a pooch that freaks during storms, thus insuring that both of us can sleep like the dead without ending up dead.

Friday Ramblings of Little Interest

I really should go pull weeds. If I let them go for much longer, I will no longer be able to find the produce, which would be sad, as I just found a watermelon the size of a large softball and would hate to lose it. I just can't face it, though. Tomorrow. Tonight, I will chat with you all.

Today, I cleaned much house. Not all of it, as Charles and Colin pitched in, but much of it. Usually I split it up, doing the floors and picking up on Thursdays, maybe even doing some wash or dusting or bathroom scrubbing. What I didn't do Thursday gets mostly done on Friday and the weekend is mostly for other, nicer things. Like going out to breakfast and napping. Yesterday, however, we had an appointment, you see, which threw the whole schedule off. That and the fact that we have an actual social engagement in the form of having nice people over for a barbecue lunch, tomorrow. As those of you with houses that revert to entropy even before you finish the cleaning process know, it is futile to clean too far in advance. Thus the frenzy of today. I also baked cookies, well a few, you know to make sure the batter was good and all for tomorrow. Actually, it wasn't, so tomorrow I will adjust the batter and baking time and all should be good. NEVER leave the cookies to chance.

The dentist appointment (God, she is resorting to blogging about her kid's dentist appointment.) was fine. Turns out Colin inherited not just my stinky feet, ability to produce oodles of ear wax, and snore, but also has his bottom incisors coming in behind his lower baby teeth. (sniff) I am so proud. The dentist was all, "Well, we may need a retainer and will watch him for braces, you never know." I was all thinking, "Yeah, let's just wait and see. I needed neither." She is nice but her style and mine are very different. She is aggressive, I am more of a minimalist. Do what needs to be done but if it won't hurt, let's just give it a bit of time and see. So many things end up taking care of themselves. Sara was horrified by the whole business. She sat on my lap in her patented Marlene Dietrich pose, head turned away from the proceedings, left arm bent and over her eyes. She held the pose for a full 30 minutes, answering every question "no".

Of course, as soon as we were leaving, Colin laden with toothbrush, paste, and different flosses as well as a timer for brushing those full 2 minutes, she pops out of character, hollering, "BYE! SEE-YATER! BYE!"

Earlier that morning, before leaving for the dentist, a storm rolled through. Yes, the sky rapidly blackened, the booms and flashes crashed and the wind blew. It also poured, thank goodness, as it has been dry and if it doesn't rain in a week, I start getting nervous for the water level in the well. Anyway, all was over except for some rain by the time we pulled out of the garage and went our merry way. No big deal. Love the storms. Teri got hit by one around the same time. It was an atmospheric morning for the state of Wisconsin.

Got back home, did the lunch thing, the Sara-down-for-a-nap thing, the caffeine-and-chocolate thing (bribery for a workout), and hit the treadmill, engrossed in the episode of Gilmore Girls I was watching (thanks, Linda). I heard an odd tramping of feet upstairs and soon Charles stuck his head in, looking somewhat sheepish and relieved.

You see, the storm was apparently more than just your typical storm. He had been at work and heard people talking about how the teeny town we live just outside of, had just gotten the royal smack-down from this really nasty storm. Trees down, roofs blown off, toads falling from the sky. He tried to call for hours but couldn't get through. Finally, terribly concerned, he left work early, fully expecting to find mayhem and exposed plumbing. He found not a blade of grass out of line, his family safe and his electronic gear sound, except for the big TV needing the audio reset. The answering machine was out as a small block of outlets in the kitchen got zapped when we briefly lost power and needed the master outlet reset or some such thing. This apparently affected the other phones? I don't really understand, which is not terribly unusual.

Hey, got him home early.

Have to remember that one.

I'm Mr Heat-Miser, I'm Mr Sun...

(So, can you place the song snippet from the title?)

Mid July.
Wisconsin.
Thermometer: 95 degrees F.
Humidity: mid 90%.
Air conditioning: absent. (cue the tragic organ music)

Poor Charles. He really has a hard time with heat and humidity. Must be that thick Canadian blood. His mother is even more miserable in such conditions. Having the A/C break the night before last did not make him Mr Happy, although he valiantly tried to hide the fact. Thankfully, the heaven-sent A/C fixer guy was able to come out yesterday and partially fix it. Fixed it so cool air flows from the vents, even though the fan must stay on, having jury-rigged something bypassing something else. He promised to return today and finish the fixing. (mutter-something-mutter-circuit board short-mutter-water damage from leak-mutter). Cost? Doesn't matter as we can't live without it any more than we can live without oxygen, In fact, given the choice, I believe Charles would prefer to die cool, de-oxygenated, and gasping for breath than hot, oxygenated, and gasping for breath. He probably has a point.

Yes, I too, found it unpleasant, but heat does not bother me as much. A case in point: In the way-back days, when I was a high-school cross-country runner, I always did best in races involving hills and heat. I felt miserable, just not as miserable as most everyone else. Not sure what that says about me.

Obviously, this makes for some vacation destination disagreements. My idea of nirvana? Sun, sand, warmth, drinks with little umbrellas, arrived at by plane, naturally. I thought Hawaii was marvelous and considered, quite seriously, just not getting back on the plane, the one time we went. OK, some of that may have been because returning involved going back to work as a 2nd year medical resident, but hey, Hawaii has residency programs, yes?

Charles nixed that thought in a heartbeat.

His idea of a perfect vacation? Cool, some clouds would be fine, beer, not a speck of humidity. In short: Ireland or Iceland or maybe Finland? How is Finnish beer? That would factor in. Bavaria would probably work nicely. Or Belgium. To be fair, I too, would love to go to any of these places and hoist a beer, but would also place the Greek Isles high on that list (yes, Portugal, too, dahling). As he seriously would rather walk to his destiny than fly (not exaggerating here, nope), even these trips will be hard. Poor guy.

So there we are. At an impasse. But with central air. So all is well in our world.

Oh, I forgot. I have a correction to make. In the last post, I said Colin had caught a carp when, in fact, it was a catfish. My deepest apologies to the catfish for the slight. It won't happen again. Maybe.

Finally, I really need to keep a camera in the car, as we were forced to stop and honk at one of these blocking the 2 lane county road this morning on the way in to work. I am not shittin' you. She meandered off toward a clump of trees across the road from a secluded drive, where she presumably lives. I had caught a glimpse of her last fall but had convinced myself I hallucinated her. It is fun to prove yourself right to yourself. Charles maintained that he believed me all along. Good man.

Maybe she was looking for the llama.

The Cliff Was High

So.

17 years ago today, I was dressed in white meringue and stunned.

It seems to be the pattern in my life that during the REALLY BIG moments, I just stand outside myself with my mouth agape in wonderment that what is occurring really is occurring. It has happened at all my graduations, at the birth of BOTH children, and at my wedding. Sort of a David Byrne in the headlights "Well, how did I get here?"

It is not that I was so shocked to be getting married. I mean, we had been together for most of 5 years, engaged for a year. (Actually, marriage was not really in my plans until I met Charles. I just really didn't think I would find someone that 1) I thought I'd happily spend my entire life with and 2) would put up with all my oddities and irritating habits and want to spend his entire life with me.) I was shocked that the world had turned, time had passed, and here I was, actually getting married. I really can't explain it. It was as though I had planned it but really didn't think it would ever arrive.

Imagine my shock, standing there, before the doors of the chapel of Lewis and Clark College, shaking, ready to march down the aisle. Thank God for the champagne my bridesmaids and I imbibed, otherwise I'd have passed out on the spot.

FLASHBACK

8/3/1987: I have recently graduated from good ole Lewis and Clark College and am spending the summer before launching into med school as a research assistant in the biochem lab, studying something or other on neutrophils and Legionella pneumophilla, the bug that causes Legionnaire's disease, but really, just enjoying the heck out of life, I mean, summer and done with college and all. Charles and I had dated for most of college, broken up in a horrible mutual spasm of idiocy and depression and What the Hell Am I Looking For in Life? and gotten back together 2 months ago. All was smiles and roses and living in a rent-free dorm room with my dear friend, Katrina, as part of the research stipend (that and getting paid something like $1500, which had to cover everything but the roof over our heads and THANK GOD for the infusion of grad school loans in the fall and the crappy job at the movie theater.)

Charles: "I have tickets for the musical, Cats, and I thought we'd go out to brunch before hand."

Diana: "Great! Food! Theater! Beats Kraft mac and cheese, again, or Top Ramen."

So, we go to a lovely brunch buffet, where I stuff myself shamelessly. (Hell, if I cram in enough food, I may be able to get away with not eating until evening, at least.) We go to see Cats, which, at the age of 22, I loved. I don't know about now, I am not 22 and I really don't remember much about it, except for fur-encrusted actors scuttling about on a stage set as a junkyard, singing.

Then we went for a drive to the Columbia River Gorge and up to the Vista House at Crown Point. Having lived within easy driving distance for oh-so-many years, I, of course, had never been to it.

We sat on the grass at the top of the cliff, overlooking the large river way, way, way down there. He produces a bottle of champagne. He is driving, so pours much of it into me. Good thing my stomach was full or I'd be completely amnestic. At the point everything is going "wah-wah-wah-wah" from the champagne, lovely Charles leans in and flourishes one of those little ring boxes in my face. I swear all I can see is strange sparkly light and his face weaving back and forth 2" from my nose muttering, "willyoumarryme?"

Too much for my poor brain to focus on.

As I recall, my reply was stunned squinty-eyed silence followed by, "...Wha?..." Spittle and drool were likely present. As it was a hot August afternoon, it is a given that the sweat is pooling and pouring. So glamorous.

What seemed like hours later, poor adorable Charles finally managed to get what he was asking through my muddled brain.

Of course, I said, "Yes!"

As we chuckled over on the drive home, what else was I going to say? I mean, I was drunk, at the top of a cliff, and 30 miles from town, in heels. And he had the car keys.

Best decision of my life, in every way.

I love you so very much, sweetie. Here's to us in every way.

A Difference Of Opinion

Scene: In el Minivan, leaving the driveway, heading in to work this morning, 5:55 AM. Lattes at the ready.

Diana: (sigh)

Charles: "What was that for?"

Diana: "Just a sigh, not a bad one. Just one because I have not had to get up at 5AM for the last week and a half."

Charles: "And you call yourself a morning person. You may want to re-think that."

Diana: (taking umbrage) "Excuse me?" (both eyebrows shooting up, turning 90 degrees in the passenger seat to face the chipper Canadian) "I am very much a Morning Person. I am happily up at 6:30 AM, except for one morning a week when I like to sleep in until 7:00."

Charles: "But a TRUE morning person is up at least by 6AM, every day of the week."

Diana: "What? I so must ask the internet. Will you abide by their judgment as to whether I am a Morning Person or not?"

Charles: "No. Because they are a bunch of heathens*. I admit that I am somewhat extreme in my definition of A Morning Person, though."

Diana: "Humph. I am still asking. I know I am right. I AM a Morning Person."

* Yes, he is being sarcastic as to the "heathen" comment. How else would he live with me? His only other option would be to become deaf and he loves his surround sound too much for that. He is not being sarcastic when he feels that I am not a Morning Person, however.

So, there you have it. I will abide by your decision as to whether I am a MP or not.

Because I am sure you will agree with me.

Not the deranged and arbitrary Canadian.

Even though he does make a damn fine latte.

His saving grace.

Paranoia

After this morning, I am beginning to think that maybe it IS personal:

Charles comes in reeking of DEET, dressed in a LONG SLEEVED T-shirt, from his morning run on the local trail.

Charles: "I just don't get it. I was running along, when I passed 2 women running the other way. They were in shorts and jog bras. They obviously were not covered in DEET. Nothing but exposed skin, galore. That huge cloud of black flies that were chasing me not only didn't veer off and swarm all over them, they didn't even consider it."

And there you have it, proof positive. Everything loves a Canadian.

Either that or he is some sort of Messiah for the blood sucking insects of the world and they just need to be near him, to adore him and taste of his goodness. Sort of a kink in the sub plot of a Douglas Adams classic. Or, just maybe, they were trying to hitch a ride with him to get back to me! That's it! Me, me, me.

So I will leave you with the following bastardization of a horrible Sonny and Cher song that has haunted me for the last hour, just to share the pain, because I, too, am like the stinging gnat:

And the DEET goes on,
And the DEET goes on.
La de da de de, (la de da de de).
La de da de da, (la de da de da).

The TeeVee

Charles and I come from very different TV backgrounds.

Growing up, we had a small black-and-white set until the early 80's. His dad got the newest and biggest color set as soon as each model came out. We (sister Gail and I) were allowed no more than 1/2 hour of viewing a day. At Charles's house, it was always on, even during the night. And, well, cable, schmable. You know whose house had it and whose didn't.

As an aside, it is hardly surprising that Charles is heavily into things audio and video. We have 3 TVs, although none are in the bedroom (she says as though that makes up for anything, sheesh!). One a plasma; one a large set downstairs in the basement for games (and is also currently the only working internet access); and the really big one in the (ahem) home theater.

Yes. Charles has realized his dream of a theater in the damn house. Good thing he married a doctor, huh? Too bad she works part time in a low key (and therefore relatively poorly compensated) field. God knows what he would put in the theater if I were a cardiothoracic surgeon. The newest acquisition is a bigger sub-woofer (the thing that makes the room rattle with low sounds and booms) the size of a small refridgerator. I must say, though, he does sniff out the good deals and with the trades he does, he comes off fairly well. He has also corrupted several friends, many of whom have started down that long, dark road of electronic equipment amassment.

I suppose he could have worse hobbies, or chase other women, or do drugs. (Floozies and coke would be cheaper, though.) And it does keep him home. The treadmill is also down in the theater, which makes it almost a pleasure to run, as the run is in front of a big screen with THX surround sound. Poor Colin and Sara will be spoiled for life.

Back to childhood TV: The only exception to the 30-minute-a-day TV rule was Saturday morning cartoons. Gail and I were allowed to watch from the minute they came on (6am, following the test pattern--this was network TV, remember) until 10 am. We each got, as an added incentive to let our parents sleep in, a Pop-Tart, unfrosted. So we watched Bugs Bunny and Superfriends, Scooby Doo and Shazam, all slack-jawed and tranquil.

The network, however, obviously felt the need to sneak in some nutrition during these mornings, in the form of Schoolhouse Rock, which we, of course, hated as we saw through this and felt obligated to resist. I mean, what were they thinking, putting educational stuff in the middle of the refined sugar that was Saturday morning cartoons. Just plain wrong. Of course, over several years, all the little ditties about no more kings and naughty number nine stuck. I even owe getting an essay question right on a high school Rights and Responsibilities test to this ditty.

When the collection came out on DVD, we had to have them and now I inflict them on our kids. Colin likes the multiplication ones best and Sara is more partial to the grammar ones. Me, I have several favorites but think Rufus Xaviar Sarsaparilla has them all beat. How can you not sing really loudly to that one.

I even sent a copy to Gail for Christmas this year, along with a box of Pop-Tarts. Unfrosted, of course. I haven't heard if she has watched it, but have a fantasy of her, while tidying the condo, singing and dancing along, thinking nostalgically about her childhood and nibbling a stale Pop-Tart.

Anyone else with me on this? Anyone have a favorite or even remember them? Lioness, did you have anything like this?