Just Sit Right Back And You’ll Hear A Tale

(You were singing that– weren’t you? It’s okay. Embrace the Sherwood Shwartz inside of you and sing the rest of the song. But don’t sing the tag after the commercial. That would be over-indulging…)

The newest Survivor cast has been released upon the rest of us– little tidbittely details that has my pal Scott and I already placing our bets. The devishly handsome Jeff Probst has thrown in a new twist (okay… Mark Burnett is really in control, but honestly are we as emotionally tied to him as we are our Jeff?)… the “castaways” only have the clothes on their bodies and a luxury item this round. No extra stuff. (Let’s hope the Pearl Island beaches aren’t as disgustingly dirty as the Thai beaches?) Yes, Mr. Probst, we’re still watching.

And, on a side note, on the manner of what to call “it” before he/she arrives– I was trying (very hard) to stay gender neutral the other night and used “they” and “them” as a means of avoiding he/she/his/hers…. Until Robby finally interupted with an ashen face, “uh, Could you stop using ‘they’? It implies that there is more than one in there…”
Ooops.

Yogi, BooBoo and me playing the part of Ranger Smith…?

God most definitely has a sense of humor…

About six months ago Rob came home from a Sam’s Club run with the news that he’d run into an old Delta U brother, Raj. I flicked through my memories of Robby’s university days and came up blank.
“Raj? Which one was Raj?”
“My little brother– don’t you remember? I was called ‘Yogi’ so he was called ‘Boo Boo’?” This jogged my memory. (How could it not?)
I asked, “So what’s he doing in Jackson?”
“He’s a doctor… it’s so wild!”
I think I was doing something at the time– probably the evening crossword puzzle but I absently remarked that “that’s nice.” And then added, “I thought he was an engineer. What kind of doctor is he?”
“Ob/gyn.”
“Huh.” I went back to my puzzle. “Hey– that reminds me– I called to schedule my annual appointment and found out that Dr. M. has left the practice– they gave me the new guy but apparently they can’t get me in right away…” and then– with a slow-motion horror asked, “Wait. What’s his last name!?”
“Pa—-.”

So, it turns out that my husband’s old frat brother is my doctor. Oh Ha. Ha. How very funny.

We met with him today. Turns out he’s a very nice man. I think we’ll all be in good hands. (Though I’m not sure about attending any more college reunion weekends with Robby… Sweet Moses.)

“Pregnant Chicks Rock!”

One of my coworkers, 19 year-old Cody is quoted as saying, “Pregnant chicks rock!” It’s one of my most favorite of the kind things people have said to me and Rob over these past week.

Rob and I have happened on to a quandry. Our first puzzling parenting situation… What do we call this little creature until it arrives? I feel terrible saying “it” when “it’s” a person. And yet everytime I refer to “it” as “he” or “she” people react with a ridiculously interrogative, “Do you think it’s a boy? is that why you said ‘he’?” or “Ah! You’re hoping for a girl! That’s why you said ’she’!”

We’ve ruled out “Roo” (despite the fact that I do feel a little sympathetic to the marsupial families). My cousin has been nicknamed Roo since she was a tiny tot. To say Roo in our family is to refer to her. Too confusing. “The Baby” seems too much like the Seinfeld episode with the annoying, grating voice saying, “the Baaaaaby” so I can’t begin to use that without laughing.
Any suggestions?

Meanwhile– though it’s far too early– I can’t help but think about the room that we’ll put this kid into… so, while on an errand to pick up paint for an unbaby related project I took a minute to peek into the books of wall coverings and fabrics for baby rooms. Oh. My. Gosh. I’ve looked into the portal of hell and it is done in pastels. I’ve never seen such a collection of insipid colors and designs– blah! Pale fuzzy bunnies and oddly faded firetrucks… For the love of Pete Brady! What’s this nonsense? No wonder babyies sit with their eyes wandering unfocusedly about while they drool– anyone would in such a “soothing” environment…

No rabbits were harmed in the making of this blog…

Yay for me! I’m having a baby!

These past 10 days have been a whirlwind of finding out (who knew that peeing on a stick could yield so much joy?) and telling the family.

Telling Robby was fun. I gave him a copy of Meet the Parents sliding in our pictures over Ben Stiller & Robert DeNiro on the front. Heehee. It took him just long enough to make it worthwhile.

We made a trip to the family doctor to confirm that I had, indeed, peed correctly on the little sticks. I was handed a cup and asked to urinate into it… (What else would I have done?) and then, the highly scientific method of determining whether I was pregnant or not was determined by the combined devices of a kitchen timer (I kid you not) and probably the same test that I had already taken twice at home.

We’ve been deluged with advice that, if taken literally, would drive any one insane since it’s all very contradictary. Eat this– don’t eat this. Do that– no, don’t do that. And let me say that What to Expect When You’re Expecting is the most highly overrated bit of hoopla since The Bridges of Madison County–.

And now, apparently, we wait.
Hope you’re comfy in there.

Morning has broken

(sorry. You probably have that dreadful song in your head now. My old pal Jon used to sing a warbily falsetto version of it that still makes me laugh… But you probably don’t have a happy memory of it to temper the annoyance. And now it’s in your head for the rest of the day. My gift to you?)

My new favorite thing in the mornings? TV Land’s airing of The Waltons at 7 a.m. Sigh. Happy blissful Waltons… The only downfall to this arrangement is that they are the icky later episodes after John Boy’s gone off to New York and Grandma’s off recovering from her off-screen stroke.

Love the Waltons.

Na na na na na na na na… Batman!

Robby went to Ohio for the night. (That sounds like a euphemism for something… but sadly, it’s actually where he was. Some kind of air compressor trial?) I take myself out to eat (ah! the joys of a book at the table!) and to Target (pronounce it correctly– Tar-JAY). At home I dutifully walk the puppy, pleased to have thought to do that before it gets all dark and creepy out… and then return home where pup plays in the backyard with his ball and I hunker down in the living room.

And then it flies past my head.

First instinct is quickly silenced by second instinct that says, “Wow. What a large moth!” And then second instinct is quickly boxed by first instinct that registers the bat now doing curlicues in my living room. I do that full body shudder/scream thing and launch myself on to the floor where the thing dive-bombs me on my way down the hallway and into the half-bathroom (stupid name for that). It makes a few loops around the first floor– through the kitchen and the dining room, in and out of the living room and then down the hall towards me where it stops to flail against the door then on it’s circular route again. I realize that the bathroom isn’t the best choice in shelter– unless I want to stay there all night– so I crack the door long enough till it makes another pass and fling myself back out into the hall and out the back door through the screened-in porch outside. Puppy trots over to me and looks up questionably. I tell him of my narrow escape and then realize that the phones are in the living room and that my cell is on the kitchen counter– Uncle Eddie is now swooping around the kitchen in big figure eights. Luckily there’s an old dial phone on the porch so I commando crawl to it and realize that Robby’s of no use. His father’s up at the Lake. I dial my sister. Brother-in-law Andy answers the phone. I explain my predicament and he says reassuringly that he’ll be right there. (Andy is the only brother I’ll ever have. God Bless him. Thank heavens my sister married him.) I call Robby in Ohio. He sympathizes and tells me to call when it’s over.

Andy charges up in his white truck (how appropriate) and unsheathes his tennis racket. I can’t find the leather gloves he’s requesting so I hand him my Dad’s baseball glove. We agree that I’m safest from the dive-bombing if I stay out in the yard. I call “good luck!” as he heads into the war zone.

The next 10 minutes are like a really well done Warner Bros. cartoon. Lights going on and off illuminating his route through the house… while he’s upstairs I see the bat again– swooping through the narrow hall and into the kitchen. I creep back inside the porch and dial Andy’s cell. “He’s in the kitchen. Hanging on the curtains in the bay window.” (I hiss this information into the phone as though the bat will hear me.) Andy thanks me and I watch his descent to the first floor. He stalks into the kitchen– racquet raised and baseball gloved hand at the ready. I pull my sweatshirt hood tighter and wait. Just as he reaches the middle of the kitchen floor the bat hurtles through the air straight at him. Andy flails all 4 limbs simultaneously while I double over in laughing. More flailing on Andy’s part then silence.

He comes out with the little body on the end of the racquet. We cautiously peek at it and wonder whether it’s stunned or dead… fling it off in the direction of the pole barn and shudder.

“Did you see that? Boris Karloff flew right at me!!,” girl-shrieks my Knight in Tahoe Armour. We shudder again.

I didn’t grow up with a brother. But it’s nice to have one later than never.

“Wait! There’s no danish at this breakfast!”

I am a firm believer in documenting great moments in photographs when possible– but sometimes it’s impossible. And sometimes a picture’s proverbial thousand words just falls short…

Our friend Dorrit’s face this weekend could never be properly captured on film. It had too many emotions fleeting across it… This Saturday was her 25th wedding anniversary– of course, it was her husband David’s, too, but somehow we all focused on Dorrit. Dorrit’s arrival into David’s life is legendary now… I came into the story late so I have only the photographs pasted in the albums and the Lake Stories on which to rely– but the story goes that David, divorced and the father to two boys, met Dorrit– a young Danish stewardess. At the Lake the men imagined a tall, willowy blond… when David’s Dorrit was introduced the Lake was midly amused to find that their image had been off about a foot– tiny Dorrit and her brown short hair was not what they’d salivated over. In time, she and David were married– at the Lake by the Episcopal priest. (Robby was only 8 at the time and took pictures. They are the crooked, too small pictures of an 8 year old boy… all of them from the knee level angle of his cousin Marsha’s better aimed photographs.) It doesn’t occur to you, when you look at the pictures that this isn’t the wedding Dorrit probably dreamed about as a little girl. That the danish traditions were forgotten in the happy compromise made in marrying here in the United States.

And now… it’s twenty five years later. We had been alerted (Dorrit’s long ago roommate) to the Dane’s traditional Twenty Fifth Wedding Anniersary celebrations… We assembled at an early hour at our cottage– all of us yawning and fighting the late night of before. The cars were organized and filled and the drive down the road made so that we tumbled as quietly as possible out taking care not to shut any doors too loudly. An arbor was erected– a triumphant arch of flowers and tiny Danish and American flags. At the signal we began a rather maudlin interpretation of “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain” with half the group playing wax paper comb kazoos and the rest of us humming or singing. A stir at Dorrit & David’s windows revived us– we quickly switched to “Love and Marriage” and erupted into an accompanying applause when they finally appeared at their back door. Dorrit’s face beamed– crumbling happily while David laughed behind her. He called out, “What do you want for your breakfast?” but we shouted back that it was all taken care of… Apparently, in Denmark the silver anniversary couple is chivareed on the morning of their wedding date and, in return, they provide breakfast for the noisy friends and family. We’d modified the tradition to American considerations for the fact that all of us would be returning in the evening for a dinner party– the last thing we could possibly expect would be breakfast, too… So out of the tailgates came crates of egg casseroles and breakfast stradas, great bowls of fruit, platters of breads and cakes. Carafes and thermoses of coffee and jugs of orange and tomato juices… table cloths were spread out on the long tables and within minutes a feast was laid while champagne was open and poured. Dorrit padded happily about here and there with her browned bared feet and purple bath robe. And we congratulated ourselves for actually waking them and keeping quiet in our caravanning.

It dawned on me then– while watching the plates pass and the champagne disappear– how important such a fete-ing must be to Dorrit– how unexpected when her first home and family are far across the deep Atlantic and a day’s trip from the shallow shores of our little Lake. Dorrit is a stong woman and while she’s appropriately sentimental, she’s not the type to rue her American wedding or the compromises made in marrying David here and not in her childhood town… but still, I don’t suppose that she necessarily thought she would still have her Danish Twenty Fifth celebration?

How nice it is to be among the Lake people who insisted that she have it then. Happy Anniversary! May we all build another arch in 25 years.

Unraveling My finger

The stitches came out this week. A very, very creepy feeling. Ugh. I sat on the paper covered table and clenched my other hand while the nice nurse took out the stitches… I tried thinking of nice places I’ve been to but couldn’t manage to ever get there… what with the squeamy feeling sneaking up the back of my throat. (Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t fall off the table and end up with more stitches… Smile at the nurse. Respond to her questions.)

Nurse lady prattled on all during her stitch ripping and she patted a steri-strip and bandage in place then handed me the paperwork for the counter girls. I clutched the edge of the table with my good hand (bad hand was now throbbing) and said, “Uh Huh” in a far away voice. (Did I drop to the bottom of a tin can? Why did my ears ring? Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Hold on to the table.) She looked at me finally and asked, “Are you okay?” (Smile. Look like you have color.) I found a grimace and added, “Uh-Huh” while she narrowed her eyes. I asked her if, “I could just sit for a minute?” and she said yes and left.

Because my head was now between my knees and the table was pretty far off the ground I could see very clearly into my little staw tote where there was an orange Gatorade. Slowly– not to disturb the delicate balance of my perch– I reached down and pulled over my bag and grabbed the Gatorade… Then I noticed the mirror at what would be knee level. What in the blazes is that for? My face and my t-shirt are the same brilliant white. (I use Tide. It does a nice job of getting out the yellow in the white…) Great gulps of Gatorade later and I was able to wobbily walk out the long passageway and hand in my paperwork. In the parking lot I leaned against my truck and breathed in fresh air.

Such a gross feeling. But my finger’s much better. I can type again with both hands. Yay!

Thank you for all the kind thoughts this last week. Very kind of you.

What I’m Reading on my Vacationless Summer

With my finger still carefully wrapped swimming was out of the question this weekend… so I stayed tucked into the cottage with a stack of books. Sigh– bliss.

Four books in four days– not a bad way to start off the Dog Days of Summer.

French Impressions:The Adventures of an American Family by John S. Lytle based on his mother Mary’s writings.
Absolutely hysterical. A family of 4 packs up for a year to live in the South of France while the father takes advantage of the G.I. Bill to attend school. It’s just after WW2 but a lot of the cultural differences are still relevant… and Mary’s inability to ever grasp French is timeless.

They Came Like Swallows by William Maxwell (1937)
The 1918 Influenza outbreak as witnessed by a small, midwestern family. Told in three parts, each is in the head of the two sons and father. Nice, quiet little story.

Ethel on Fire by Helen Humphreys
A terribly odd little book with a “You had to be there” kind of humor about it– it’s funny if you’ve worked in a living history/museum situation but not so much if you haven’t?

Lamb in His Bosom by Caroline Miller
It won the 1934 Pulitzer Prize for Literature– and was one of the chief inspirations behind Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind. I picked up copies for myself and pal Sue when I was in Atlanta at the Margaret Mitchell House (See “Atlanta!”)… it’s a good read. I’m only half way through it… so I’ll let you know how it turns out?

(Note from T: I took out all the links on this page because I was really getting sick of all the “comments” posted by viagara, Texas Hold Em Poker, and other idiot spamming sites. Curses on their heads.)

Chai Tea & Snooty People

My new addiction…
Vanilla Chai Tea.
On ice.
Delicious…

The fact that it’s trendy is disappointing, of course– I’d much rather it not be the flavor of the moment. Robby took me to Harbor Springs for lunch today and we strolled about… wandering in and out of the wee, overpriced boutiques and amongst the knots of uppity rich folk. It rained and made us feel sorethroated and damp so we popped into a coffee bar and plied ourselves with coffee (Rob) and Chai (me)… It soothed the disgruntledness the mean rich people wrought upon us and filled our bellies. The other balm was in the wonderfully small bookshop in Harbor that has never failed yet to yield me a good title… [Though there was a wretchedly foul woman who defied all bookstore etiquette by planting herself in the corner with her absurdly shiny covered hardback (maybe she brought it in? This little shop generally stays away from stocking crap....) and completely blocked a corner of "Fiction N-Q" and "Fiction T-Y."]

Sigh. If the putting up with meanspirited rich people means the easy access to Chai I’ll endure it…