Brain in a 4-oz Jar

Saturday evening ramblings

As good parents who didn't plan ahead and get a sitter so we could go see "Walk the Line," we're enjoying a lovely Saturday night at home. Rick hung up his flight planning for the time being - he's a pilot and has a checkride on Monday - and is working a crossword in front of the fire. I'm trying to tackle the Christmas shopping, which I mostly do online. I have no problem paying USPS, UPS, and Fedex to save me trips to the mall. Part of the problem is that I haven't seriously shopped in so long that I forgot how to do it. I wear classical styles that are never out and never in, my feet are such a weird size that I can only buy shoes on the internet, and I was spending my disposable income on race entry fees and sports equipment instead of low-rise jeans...as a female grad student in engineering, I could curtail bathing and still look and smell better than most of by peers, so why make an effort? Then I was wearing maternity clothes, which are nearly deserving of their own blog, but suffice to say that I was lucky to borrow a "magic suitcase" full of nicely-cut Gap Maternity and saved myself most of the hassle.

Anyway, Rick's crossword brought me a revelation tonight. He asked what the French word for "hour" is, since my four years of high school French make me the local authority on all things Frog. It's "heure," which I pronounced as correctly as I can manage.
"What? How do you spell that?"
"Heure," which comes out resembling noises that I recall hearing around 3am on Sunday mornings in the coed bathroom in my freshman dorm. We had bathrooms for men, women, and both, and nobody wanted to trash their own gender's bathroom, so any "heure" took place in the coed one.
"Are you serious?"
It dawned on me that requiring five letters to spell a word that sounds like an unfortunate aftermath is ridiculous. As if being conquered by an American seven times doesn't make them look silly enough...and a Texan at that...

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Speaking of college freshman, tiny babies have a lot in common with the people who we hope they will not become in eighteen years or so, though I believe that it's better to work out one's stupidity in a car-free environment while surrounded by friends than to do it later when one has actual responsibilities above any beyond maintaining a scholarship and/or getting one's parents' money's worth. Tiny babies and drunk college freshman guzzle liquids, fuss when tired, pass out anywhere, don't care about any bodily functions that may sound, throw up at whim, and have to be carried home by more cognizant people.

The sleeping part is currently quite amusing as little Natalie is stuck face-down at a 45' angle in the corner of her crib, with one hand stuck out under the bumper on one side, and the other stuck out the adjacent side. I had to suppress a strong urge to gently tug a little finger and see what happens. Let sleeping babes lie. (In a freshman dorm situation, I would have yanked it.)

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I think the caffeine from half a cup of coffee and small piece of birthday cake is making me loopy. The cake has coffee ice cream, devil's food, Heath bar chunks, and chocolate ganache. It's heavenly and obscenely rich. My birthday is actually 8 days from now, but in my family, we practice Festivus Movus, and my birthday got moved to last Saturday, when my parents, brother, and sister-in-law were here. Rick and I went out for my birthday date on Friday and saw the new Harry Potter flick (me: loved it, but it makes more sense if you've read it; him: was confused, haven't read it). Over the years, we have moved numerous birthdays, and nudged Christmas a few days in either direction. We also have moved Thanksgiving several times, including once when it was in February because my dad was working in India for three months and my parents had plans to visit me over President's Day weekend. There's nothing wrong with making your own rules sometimes, and I'm a direct descendant of Gov. William Bradford of the Mayflower, so I can eat turkey whenever I want.

Anyway, I am about to turn 32. I don't really care. In fact, I was happy to hit 30. Finally, an age with some credibility. I enjoyed my 20's, but I have no desire to go out partying any more, and I still get carded in places that card everyone under 30 when I go buy my case of wine every so often. I think the early 30's are an excellent age bracket - old enough to know things but not really near 40 yet.

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Beef of the month for November: the electricians who installed the light switches in our house apparently do not live in houses themselves. They may not have had to worry about positioning light switched in their own dwellings, assuming that their dwellings came from a factory like most of those in Harnett County. For example, when the switch for the fan is outside the Throne Room, things are just wrong. I always forget to turn on the light before entering and usually just do my business in the dark, which doesn't really bother me, but still makes me mutter rude things about the stupid electricians at each visit.

posted by Anne Johnson @ 6:49 PM