Momomama
Friday, October 29, 2004
My better half is finally home. At least he became my better half again after showering and changing into clothes that had been washed.
Coming back from Albany late Saturday night, we watched the lunar eclipse and cheered to learn the Red Sox had won the World Series.
They say good things come in threes, so now that Bill is home and the Sox are champs, John Kerry is a shoe-in. You heard it here first.
Coming back from Albany late Saturday night, we watched the lunar eclipse and cheered to learn the Red Sox had won the World Series.
They say good things come in threes, so now that Bill is home and the Sox are champs, John Kerry is a shoe-in. You heard it here first.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Friday, October 22, 2004
Last night I started to work on my quilt again. This project got its start at a visit to the Shelburne Museum in the summer of 2003. Bill and I joke that the Shelburne Museum was made for us, as their special collections are decoys and quilts. It was on this visit that I fell in love with the man for about the 500th time. Just thinking about it brings me to the 2567th time. In the decoy building, Bill was twisting and turning his neck in front of the glass cases, so he could look at the carved wood figures from as many angles as possible. I followed him into one room, to find him lying on the floor, trying to look at the bottom of a wooden duck boat. I expected him to rush past the quilts, but instead I found myself waiting for him, as he examined every stitch. He kept grabbing my hand and showing my quilts he liked most. At the end of the day we found the pattern for one of his favorites in the museum store. I started the quilt that fall, thinking it would be ready for our wedding, but it is a complicated appliqué pattern, and I haven’t even come close to finishing the top, never mind quilting the three layers together.
My grandmother is a quilter, as is Bill’s mom. They have unique style. My grandmother is fussier and is a true artist in her stitches. I am amazed at their evenness, and I mourn with her the loss of control over her arthritic hands. Emily is much looser. She enjoys piecing the tops, but she either machine quilts or ties them together. Her color sense, though, is like nothing else. She finds fabrics that complement or contrast one another perfectly, even if the finished product isn’t perfect. My grandmother and Emily’s quilts are equally beautiful, and I am trying to learn a little from each of them.
My grandmother is a quilter, as is Bill’s mom. They have unique style. My grandmother is fussier and is a true artist in her stitches. I am amazed at their evenness, and I mourn with her the loss of control over her arthritic hands. Emily is much looser. She enjoys piecing the tops, but she either machine quilts or ties them together. Her color sense, though, is like nothing else. She finds fabrics that complement or contrast one another perfectly, even if the finished product isn’t perfect. My grandmother and Emily’s quilts are equally beautiful, and I am trying to learn a little from each of them.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
In my mind, I am only 16.When I look I the mirror, I am happy to say that I am not totally disavowed of this notion. If anything, I just look better than I did then, not necessarily much older. It’s a blessing to look young, this I know. But the fact that I feel like I am still young is more of a curse. I always assume that people think of me as young --- an assumption that is often borne out in comments made by co-workers, random people I meet, the 16 year old who works at the convenience store where I sometimes buy beer. I often think that people might be thinking of me, “She’s not old enough for THAT!” I was thinking that about getting pregnant. I was sure that if let people know that this is a not so distant plan someone would call my mother. Until I was standing in the lab next to Arlene, watching her pour my urine into the little depression on the plastic case of the test. Suddenly, I was with someone who was even more sure that I could or should be a mom than myself and my husband. Someone was filled with anticipation and hope for me and the little strip of paper. In that moment I realized that Bill and I could figure out the money and the childcare and the insurance. Even though Arlene and I were both pretty sure of what the result would be, we held our breath together when she said “Let’s look!” We sighed as if one person. Then she squeezed my arm, “It’s not time for you yet. But almost, Martha, almost.”
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
I promised not to talk about this, I know, BUT...
After two months of charting my fertility signs there was no pattern I could understand. So, I decided to download the free trial of some software that analyzes your signs. This morning, I put in all the data from my last two charts. The first thing I learned is that I did not ovulate in September, which means my period was not my period but spotting. This also means that I am day52 of my cycle. But good news! I apparently ovulated two weeks ago, as indicated by an egg in a nest on my chart. How cute. So, what does the little chicken mean on yesterday's date? That's what I thought. Now, you would think the little chicken would only show up if you had checked one or more of the intercourse boxes on the chart, preferably around the time of ovulation. But hey...I did have the sex dream about Al Gore around the time I ovulated - the Lord works in mysterious ways.
(Note to parents: I am sure I am not pregnant - esp. not with the love child of Al Gore. But I'll make sure before I go on any drinking binges, ride any amusement parks rides, or take up smoking or hard drugs.)
(Update: My secret love affair with Al is still a secret, since I am not actually pregnant. I love where I work!)
After two months of charting my fertility signs there was no pattern I could understand. So, I decided to download the free trial of some software that analyzes your signs. This morning, I put in all the data from my last two charts. The first thing I learned is that I did not ovulate in September, which means my period was not my period but spotting. This also means that I am day52 of my cycle. But good news! I apparently ovulated two weeks ago, as indicated by an egg in a nest on my chart. How cute. So, what does the little chicken mean on yesterday's date? That's what I thought. Now, you would think the little chicken would only show up if you had checked one or more of the intercourse boxes on the chart, preferably around the time of ovulation. But hey...I did have the sex dream about Al Gore around the time I ovulated - the Lord works in mysterious ways.
(Note to parents: I am sure I am not pregnant - esp. not with the love child of Al Gore. But I'll make sure before I go on any drinking binges, ride any amusement parks rides, or take up smoking or hard drugs.)
(Update: My secret love affair with Al is still a secret, since I am not actually pregnant. I love where I work!)
Monday, October 18, 2004
This morning, I woke up under 55 pounds of down, fleece, flannel and dog. I had a fire going all day yesterday, and the heat was set at 65. My fire making skills have improved, evidenced by the fact that the furnace did not kick on once last night. I stumbled through my morning routine and made coffee, showered, and filled Momo’s bowl with water. I brought him to the backyard, which has the dog run and the view. There it was. On the big mountain, below the cloud that is always caught on top, white patches peeked through the mostly bare trees. I scanned the hillside to the next lower peak and there was snow there too. And the mountain, which is really more of a hill, due South of my house—more snow. Down in the valley, my grass was damp from a sprinkle. But as I drove to work, ice and snow slapped my windshield as I crossed the higher ridges.
Friday, October 15, 2004
It’s my birthday and I am 29. For the first time in my life I have an age that I consider to be legitimately grown-up. There’s no fuzziness left on that front—though I guess being married has help make it clearer to me that I am big now. Last week my mom called to tell me that my mother-in-law called to tell her how proud she is of me. My mom commented on how she has noticed that I have stopped calling her in a panic and have moved on to calling her post-panic, once things are fixed up. I told her that the reason for this is not maturity, but the presence of a spouse on whom I can throw panic. Still, better run to your life partner than your mommy, I guess. I proved her wrong this week, though. Lest she forget I am still her baby, I called crying about my plumbing (not a euphemism.) I’ve got to keep her on her toes.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
I’m in line at the deli, waiting for my turkey, tomato and slaw with Russian dressing on rye, when I realize that the guys in front of me are US Marshals and that one of them has a gun. I don’t know what US Marshals do and I can’t imagine why they are here now, getting subs at Zuke’s. They’ve never been here before – I can tell because they don’t know that they get a bag of chips with the sandwich. They pay and walk out. They get into their van, which has a big lock on the side sliding door. I follow them out. They pass me with their van, and I wonder why they don’t have special plates.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Homeownership has driven me insane in the same way having car drives one insane. When things are really quiet, you can hear your world start to fall apart. With my car, it's the flapping noise I hear on certain roads at high speeds. In my house, it's the sound of running water. The sound is not connected to a toilet or a sink or the washing machine or the hot water heater. It comes and goes and gets louder at night. Everytime I start to hear it, I get this pain in my stomach that worsens with every shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh and eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee that I hear. I've spent hours already, pulling boards of of walls, and climbing under cabinets with flashlights. I imagine a spongy floor with every step. I smell mold in the druest rooms of the house. I imagine the worst, and see my kitchen disappear into a sinkhole created my a broken water main. But then I notice that there hasn't been a decrease in water pressure. Neither the inside or outside of the walls are wet and I remember that i don't have a basement that might be filling with water. So I put off calling the plumber. And then the cycle starts all over again.
Friday, October 08, 2004
NOW I know why I should have paid attention in math class. If I had, I might be able to figure out how to calculate the price of 200 column inches of newspaper advertising at $7.62 per week assuming I use 4 column inches at a time and run those same 4 inches for six consecutive days for a 40% discount on the third day and 60% discount on the sixth day.
I can't wait to get home and start stacking the wood that should be delivered tonight.
I can't wait to get home and start stacking the wood that should be delivered tonight.
For the past few weeks, tension has been spreading through my neck and shoulders. I still have not been able to find the source of this bodily manifested angst. Sure, there are the usual worries about money, starting a family, concern about my husband as he communes with bears in Alaska—but none of that is unusual. Which leads me to believe that I am totally stressed out by something external. It dawned on me today that it might be the election. I picked up the paper this morning and saw that one of our local pro-choice candidates might have a chance, and that Kerry is now ahead of Bush in the polls. (Of course for that last week, I’ve been telling folks that polls don’t matter and it is in the media’s interest to keep it close. Can I change my tune now that the polls say what I want to hear?) I felt this incredible sense of relief, but now, after a few hours of budget planning, so much of which depends on the election, the stress is back. It’s hard to be a concerned citizen.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
I just finished talking the the satellite tv folks. The whole reason I want to get satellite is that we get one (and a three-quarters) channels at my house. (By three-quarters, I mean it only comes in half the time, but it is a combined FOX/WB channel which is more like two channels.) Of course, the person I talked to could not confirm that I would be able to get local channels once I have the satellite tv. Okaaaaay. I'm going to have to wait to get to service and then file for a waiver which would let me get the channels. So I could be paying for this and still not be getting what I want (though I will be able to watch TLC and HGTV) but I will have to commit to a year or service before I can know that. Obviously. All of this is assuming that I pass the credit check. I might not get anything at all.
I must be having a pretty good life, though, if this is the main thing I have to be stressed about.
I must be having a pretty good life, though, if this is the main thing I have to be stressed about.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Apparently, Martha Stewart underwent the standard prison-entrance strip search. She had to squat and cough – I guess this would make any pinking shears or bone folders she had stashed in her cooter fall out. I can’t imagine needing something so badly that I’d be willing to smuggle it in a body cavity. But that’s just me I guess.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Oh crap. It's not time yet. It's not time to check wunderground and see an icon of a cloud blowing little snowflakes. NO. No to this, too: "Mostly cloudy with a chance of rain or snow showers." The "or" and the "chance" aren't making me feel better.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Guess who just figured out how to post pictures on her blog? Speaking of North Country traditions, like burning garbage, we also had a shotgun wedding.
Last night was the first time it was cold enough to need a little heat, so I decided to try to build a fire in the woodstove in the kitchen. No one up here has a fireplace. Fireplaces are for romantic light, not heat. When I lived in Texas we had a fireplace at our house. You could stand six inches from a blazing log, and not break a sweat. It was also perfectly acceptable to use a firestarter log. The one time I attempted to make fire from scratch I failed miserably and called C., my then on-again off and on again boyfriend for aid. “First you put you some paper in the fireplace. Then you get your kindling. Put you that kindling on the paper. Then you are gonna want to put you a log on top of that.” I lit the paper. It worked.
When I was a kid I helped my dad make fires in our woodstove in New Hampshire. The house was too big and too cold for its own good, but it had an attached woodshed, in the el, between the house and the barn. It was a skill to get in and out of the woodshed at night without terrifying yourself. The skunks that would sometimes move in made it that much harder. We learned to roll and tie sheets of newspaper into Nantucket candles. It was all very quaint.
Our current wood stove looks like a pipe organ and an oil drum got it on and made a big round baby. The door swings open and shut, and to keep it sealed tightly, you need to wedge an old flat nail down into the latch. The stove itself is deep and could probably hold an unsplit length of wood three feet long. I scooped out ashes left from our last fire in May, and dumped them on the compost heap. Then I made the Nantucket candles and layered them with kindling and more paper. (Bill straightened me out on when the logs go in, you wait until the paper and kindling are roaring hot.) I lit it, and open the event on the door and walked away.
I was back in three minutes to find the fire was out. I tried again.
I came back in five minutes. The fire was out.
I tried a third time to no better results.
I was about to give up when I decided that my fire was testing me, to see if was really going to make it in the North Country. I realized then what it needed. Garbage. I ripped a piece of cardboard of a box that was sitting on the porch, waiting to go to the dump. I put it in, wedging it between unburned kindling and ashy paper. I threw in two logs, in spite of Bill’s advice. I lit the cardboard. I shut the vent a little and walked away.
When I went to the kitchen thirty minutes later to rinse my tea cup, the stove was radiating a lovely heat.
When I was a kid I helped my dad make fires in our woodstove in New Hampshire. The house was too big and too cold for its own good, but it had an attached woodshed, in the el, between the house and the barn. It was a skill to get in and out of the woodshed at night without terrifying yourself. The skunks that would sometimes move in made it that much harder. We learned to roll and tie sheets of newspaper into Nantucket candles. It was all very quaint.
Our current wood stove looks like a pipe organ and an oil drum got it on and made a big round baby. The door swings open and shut, and to keep it sealed tightly, you need to wedge an old flat nail down into the latch. The stove itself is deep and could probably hold an unsplit length of wood three feet long. I scooped out ashes left from our last fire in May, and dumped them on the compost heap. Then I made the Nantucket candles and layered them with kindling and more paper. (Bill straightened me out on when the logs go in, you wait until the paper and kindling are roaring hot.) I lit it, and open the event on the door and walked away.
I was back in three minutes to find the fire was out. I tried again.
I came back in five minutes. The fire was out.
I tried a third time to no better results.
I was about to give up when I decided that my fire was testing me, to see if was really going to make it in the North Country. I realized then what it needed. Garbage. I ripped a piece of cardboard of a box that was sitting on the porch, waiting to go to the dump. I put it in, wedging it between unburned kindling and ashy paper. I threw in two logs, in spite of Bill’s advice. I lit the cardboard. I shut the vent a little and walked away.
When I went to the kitchen thirty minutes later to rinse my tea cup, the stove was radiating a lovely heat.
Friday, October 01, 2004
