Confrontation

Scene: Bedroom, Sunday morning pre-church, cufflinks, mascara, the usual. Music for appropriate atmosphere in the background via Pandora.

Enter smirking husband.

Him: Am I correct that you are already listening to Christmas music and it is not even July 4th yet?

She pauses, anxiously wracking her brains for a good explanation that will not make her look like a complete loon, and opts to pout this one out.

Her (pouting): So? I love Christmas. What's wrong with love? Are you saying you don't love me?

Him: Nice try, crazy-face.

The Nanny, Aliens, and Literalism: A beginner's guide

Not quite a month between posts here, and I'm not even going to pretend to apologize. You want regular posts? Leave a comment, my dear. Otherwise, you're just as silent as I am on this wasteland of a blog. In other words, this is totally your fault.

We went to San Francisco last week. It was cool. And I mean that literally, as in "I wish I had packed a jacket, for behold this weather doth blow." I also mean that literally; the wind never did shut its pie hole. I don't mean that literally, though. To the best of my knowledge, wind has no pie hole. Unless it does. In which case, wind is suddenly much more exciting to me.

So anyway, San Fran. And can I just say, I hate when people call it San Fran? His name was Francisco, people, not Fran. Unless they've canonized Ms. Drescher, which would be weird because she's not dead. Also, I'm thinking she's jewish. Don't you have to be catholic to be a saint? I think yes, but the wikipedia article is soooo looong and I'm just not sure I care enough to skim through it. Anyway, the point is, I went to San Francisco and it was apparently not interesting enough to keep me on topic about it for the duration of an entire paragraph. Done.

Also in this month's headlines: New nephews! Yay! I gotta say, for newborns they're pretty cute. All newborns sort of look like aliens, but these are two particularly cute aliens. So, welcome to planet earth, little extraterrestrials! And I mean that literally.

You're Welcome

If I wanted to, I could make this whole blog into one big, annoying string of posts about how much I love my husband. But I don't.

You're welcome.

Ten years ago I went to Jr. Prom. It was...fine. I honestly have no strong feelings about it either way, and I consider that sort of a blessing. Prom didn't really have the chance to ruin my life forever, because I never expected it to be life-changing, or even vaguely life-affecting. I just expected it to be, and then I would wake up the next day and wash my hair. Which is pretty much how it went, so bravo to Prom.

It seems a bit strange, then, that I still own my prom dress. I never really loved it to begin with, actually. I remember being a little annoyed to be prom-dress-shopping when we bought it because that was the day I took first place at regionals for impromptu speaking and I really just wanted to focus on that for the rest of the day. Who gave a flying fig about some dance when I had just wiped the floor with some kids from Juab? I mean, honestly, I was on fire that day. I felt very good about myself right about then and spending the next few hours trying on dresses seemed like a step in the wrong direction, you know?

I also remember that the dress we bought wasn't my first choice. My first choice was light green, with a cream lace overlay and empire waist. It was very Jane Austen, and I loved it. That dress was at least a size too big for me, though, and they didn't have it in any other sizes. After that I pretty much stopped caring which dress we bought. My mother and sister picked out the dress I came home with. And in retrospect, I think they did a pretty good job. At the time, I could not have cared less. I was probably still reliving the recent debate win or planning my next one. Or reading some dumb novel. My nerd quotient was running at an all-time high in those days.

Anywho, when Mr. Awesome and I made our pilgrimage back to my hometown (Actually, is it really my hometown now? My home is out here now. Is that how you use that expression?) I happened to find my prom dress hanging in my mother's closet, looking very pleased with itself for having survived so long without getting tossed out. So obviously I tried it on, because that is simply what one does in that situation. And wouldn't you know, that thing still fit like a dream. And then there was Mr. Awesome, grinning at me, and saying "You know, you should wear that out dancing sometime." And I was like

DONE!

So that's how I came to be wearing my prom dress last Saturday, ten years after my Jr. Prom, at the Glen Echo Gala Dance. We jitter-bugged, we waltzed, we ate Georgetown Cupcakes, and we held hands on the carousel as our matching ostriches rose and fell while the old-fashioned organ played on. Would you forgive me if I said this was much more romantic than the last time I wore this dress?

This time around I even managed to do my own hair. Oh, and I added those little cap-sleeves that morning (they look a little wonky here, but I fixed them before we went out, promise). Can you believe I actually went to prom in a sleeveless dress? Apparently I was not only a nerd but a skanky one at that.

A bicicle built for two...or just one, actually. One who does not have an actual bum and must use a special seat.

10 mile bike ride, people! Ok, so it's not actually all that impressive. Except, you know what? It is. We hauled the bikes out of our somewhat sketchy bike storage room in the basement of our apartment building (Mr. Awesome's comment on the improved state of that room since they cleaned it out last month: "Well...at least it smells less like urine in here.") and bought a new tire pump and a helmet for the Awesome One and we rode out, into the wild blue! Well, not so wild or blue really. More like a bike lane in a very urban area that led, eventually, to the Mt. Vernon trail along the Potomac River. But it was still lovely. My favorite part is where it goes over a marsh, and the trail is this wooden bridge thing without sides, and all around you are marshy plants looking all...marshy. It felt legit, you know?

Anywho, we rode down to Old Town Alexandria for lunch. Here's a query for you: what is it about Irish pubs? They keep drawing me to them, like a moth to a flame. Even though the moth knows she does not like hamburgers and cannot force herself to eat seafood. Even though the moth does not drink any type of beer, Irish or otherwise. Even though every time she does end up going into one of these oh-so-alluring pubs, she finds herself eating a sub-par salad with questionable lettuce. Still, she is drawn in, helpless to resist. Oh well, at least the Awesome One enjoyed his chicken pot pie.

Torpedo factory? Meh. I mean, you know, modern art and all, but... Look, I work within walking distance of the Smithsonian. You can't expect me to get all verbose about a few water colors when I've got the Peacock Room calling my name, mmmmkay?

And then we sat on a bench next to the river and watched boats float by. Actually, I watched boats. His Awesomeness was totally enthralled with a garbage diving squirrel eating an ice-cream cone. Apparently it was quite the spectacle. I should know, he gave me a play-by-play.

The ride home was not quite so easy or comfortable as the ride there had been. It had it's similarities, though. On both trips I found myself muttering "holy crap, holy crap" every time we came upon a turn in the trail. I can bike 10 miles, no problem, it's just the whole "turning" thing that FREAKS me out.

Our kite, Ferguson, showing the airplanes how it's done. Aw yeah. Fergalicious, baby.

Escapades.

I love the fact that when I got up last night to get some water, my husband's first thought was "Uh oh, she's sleepwalking. Wonder what she's up to? I better go make sure she doesn't hurt herself." Of course, I didn't know that was his thought process at the time. At the time, all I registered was that my very groggy husband was standing in the hall, watching me drink a glass of water, and I though "Huh, he must be sleep-walking."

Now, if we're being realistic, he had every reason to be suspicious. He knows that I have a slight, moderate, every-once-in-a-while tendency to sleep walk. And, okay fine, one time I did rip a doll to shreds in my sleep. Just once. Oh, and that other time I locked myself out of my dorm at the MTC. Oh, and the night I woke up trying to unlock my balcony door with every intention of jumping (No, not suicidal. I was about to take flight. Obviously). And then I guess there was the time I tried to climb my sister's office chair so I could leap from the desk to the bookshelf (too many video games, I guess). Anyway, the point is he wasn't totally crazy to be mildly concerned by my behavior. He was, on the other hand, totally adorable. Standing there with his scruffy face, eyes all squinty in the hallway, blond hair sticking up in that "I'm a sex machine" sort of way (sorry Mom, uhh, pretend I didn't say that. We just play a lot of scrabble together. Nothing else.) If I hadn't been so tired, and pretty sure he was sleep walking, I would have smooched his face right off. And then challenged him to a rousing game of backgammon, or something.

Aaaaaaand that's the end of my small but faithful group of followers. I knew I'd find a way to chase the last of you off eventually.

Scotland Part the Fifth: Les Châteaux

Less French, more pictures!

 This, my lovely ones, is Cawdor Castle. 

I repeat: Cawdor Castle. 

Cawdor, people. 

Yes, yes! THAT Cawdor. 

As in:

"All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!"

 Dudes, we have called forth some Shakespearean awesomeness right about now.

 And, okay so technically, MacBeth killed king Duncan at Inverness rather than at Cawdor.

"Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not
Those in commission yet return'd?"

 And if we're being totally honest, this castle was built well after said assassination occurred.

"Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor!
Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter!"

 Actually, if we're being totally honest, it wasn't an assassination at all. Macbeth spanked King Duncan on the field of battle and Shakespeare sort of...played with the plot, if you will.

"'Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no more.'"

 Nevertheless and notwithstanding, I choose to believe I toured the gardens, poked around the maze, got lost in the "wilderness park", wandered the halls, and had a lovely ham sandwich in the kitchen of Macbeth's castle. 

"Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all" 

Why yes, Banquo dearest, I do have it all.

And this, 

This is...

Umm....

Honestly I don't remember what this castle was called. But it boasted some very self-important and entitled swans, a lovely long walk around a lake/pond, and a pinkish tone to the facade. Sadly, it was closed by the time we stopped by for a tour, so we didn't get to see inside. Maybe that's why the name totally escapes me. Or it could have been the antipathy for the seriously annoying swan mentioned above. That guy was a total jerk.

But this one I do remember. 

Ladies and Gentlemen, Scone Palace.

Complete with a replica Stone of Scone, upon which I did not sit. (The "real" stone is in Edinburgh...or London...or Mars. The theories vary.)

Also featuring

One very confused tree. Why is it growing horizontally? It does not know, and neither do I.

We did go inside both Cawdor Castle and Scone Palace, but as there was no photography allowed you can't see it. Actually, you can see it. Just google them, I'm sure there are pics.

Thing about castles is, they're awesome. And we got to see the whole bit. There were dungeons and fireplaces and family portrait galleries and four-poster beds with thick canopies and gardens with mazes and well planned "wildernesses" and suits of armor and gift shops and much making out in any or all of said places.

Oh yes, the smoochage was everywhere!

And then we went here:

But Edinburgh deserves it's own post, obviously.

Update: This photo should really have been in the original post, for reasons that do not need stating.

Bandaid

Eventually I will write that "Castles" post, I promise. (I'm sure you're all waiting with bated breath for it, obviously). Meanwhile, a few conversations I've overheard/taken part in that I want you to have for your records. I hope they are as useful to you as they have been to me.

Scene 1: Marshall's Department Store, near the pottery/crockery/stuff-you-don't-really-need-but-like-to-look-at isle (specifically that pitcher shaped like a chicken)

Woman behind me (loud and clear): "You do that and you belong to Satan."

Me (hastily snatching my hand away from the seemingly harmless ceramic poultry): Wha..?

Turns out she was on the phone. Still.


Scene 2: The elevator in my apartment building, on the way up from the laundry level, paused to let in two people with dogs.

Man (to small, agitated chihuahua): "If you can't play nice, you'll go to bed early!"

Woman (to larger, equally agitated canine of unknown breed): "Now be nice! I know I'm just your mama and you don't believe me, but you can share!"

Me (internally): If I stay in this elevator with them for too long, will I come out crazy too?


Scene 3: Years ago, some big EFY meeting that probably consisted of boring speakers and/or emotional manipulation. I have just noticed a paper-cut on my finger is bleeding a little (No, EFY did no make me cut myself...quite).

Me (turning to my roommate behind me): "Hey, do you have a bandaid?"

Roommate (leaning forward, whispering loudly): "I have diarrhea."

Me: "Do you also have a bandaid?"

Her: "I think it was something I ate."

Me: "Did you eat the bandaid?"


So, in conclusion: Too much time with animals may or may not lead to mental illness, chicken shaped crockery will lead you straight to hell, and in some cultures the word "bandaid" is code for "gastrointestinal problem."

You're welcome.