Friday Fragments: Belly Shirt Edition!

I am having a friend and his family over for dinner tonight. I thought I hadn't seen him since 1993, so I told the Facebook universe (since these things must be shared) that I would wear my burgundy Doc Martens and Pearl Jam T-shirt so he would recognize me. 

He corrected me, reminding me that we last talked at a wedding in 1999. Undaunted, I googled "Fashion in 1999" and corrected my status, stating that I would wear my low-cut jeans and a belly shirt.

Yes, ten years and two babies later, a belly shirt would be a grand idea. I didn't even like them the first time around. After all, I'm not a boy, nor am I fourteen.

***
I am testing myself today. I believe that one of the reasons that people don't have others over is a preoccupation with appearances. One cannot entertain without sparkling floors, fresh-cut-flowers, and a gourmet dinner with artistic garnishes.

It's a totally unrealistic standard, unless you have a staff.

So, to test myself, I am leaving things imperfect on purpose. I am sweeping the floor, but not mopping it. I am leaving the backyard in its normal, toy-strewn disarray. And, I'm moving the laundry baskets into a bedroom, and closing the door.

I must admit, I have a compulsion to stop writing this and over-clean, but I am choosing to relax for awhile. Perhaps my calm demeanor will spill over, and my children will not put his children into headlocks.

***
It's official, friends. I am doing a mini-triathlon. It's eight laps in the pool, four miles on a bike, and a 1.4 mile run. I've got a posse of girls doing it with me, and I am seriously excited. Do you want to know what I'm most excited about? Getting a number on my arm written in black Sharpie. Because, that, dear friends, is officially bad-ass.

***
It's spring, and that means that Paul is power-washing. There is no drug more addictive, and no high as powerful as the sight of gleaming white siding and a grime-free deck.

***
Owen's T-ball practice kept getting in the way of the massive, ten-foot dirt volcano he was constructing in the infield. Every time the ball would be in play, he would sigh, run to the next base, and construct another Mt. Distraction.

I can relate. There's that moment when bowling totally gets in the way of one's drinking. Talk about harshing my mellow.

***
Thanks, Mrs. 4444 for hosting Friday Fragments!

Another First

Owen had his first school field trip yesterday. We went to the farm. It was perfect.

We planted a marigold in the greenhouse, we rode a tractor, and we patted llamas, goats and sheep.

We watched a sheep getting sheared, which was surprisingly not traumatizing.

I wish I had taken a picture of the utterly disgusted expression on a little girl's face when Owen scooped up a worm and let it slither through his fingers. There may have been trauma on her part (and, perhaps, the worm's as well).

Owen has a best friend at preschool. When it's time to go home, he says, "Bye-bye, Best Buddy!"

My little man. You are growing to be more beautiful than any marigold, any redwood, any green thing on this earth.

Wal-Mart--Selling your Soul at Discount Prices!

Dear Super Wal-Mart,

I know that you are too easy of a target.

I take that back. I could never say "Target" in the same sentence as I say "Super Wal Mart." That would be like comparing a Renoir to a velvet portrait of two gladiators fighting Fat Elvis.

Just to be clear, Super Wal-Mart, you are the Velvet Elvis, not the Renoir.

I love everything about Target---the dollar aisle, the trendy discount clothing, the Archer Farms trail mix, even the Target-brand facial soap. I don't love, however, the fact that I am incapable of leaving the store without dropping over one hundred dollars.

Conversely, I hate everything about you,  Wal-Mart. I know that there are industries dedicated to mocking Wal-Mart, so I am not exactly plowing new ground here. Nevertheless, I hate the noise, the rows upon rows of processed food-like-substances and those Godforsaken demonic happy faces.

Every single time I go to Wal-Mart there is a surly teenager wearing a cape and a baby drinking Mountain Dew. I don't judge, because I watched Owen devour an entire chocolate bunny in one sitting yesterday, and I thought I was incredibly bad-ass in my Doc Martens back in high school.

But, still. Wal-Mart: you crush my soul, just a bit,  every. single. time.

Yet, dammit, I save so much money that my Scrooge-like tendencies win again and again. Frozen peas, yogurt, cheese, cream of tartar---they cost so much less, and it's the same stuff. We save at least forty dollars a week buying our groceries from you.

I wish I knew how to quit you.

Remember, Super Wal-Mart, that while I patronize your store and increase your bottom line, deep down, I am not one of you. I will be with you, but I will never join you. Never.

With much disgust,

Nancy

Hook up with adrienzgirl to write your own "love letter."

Brushes with Greatness

When I was in high school, I was in Spanish class with a girl that made the U.S. Olympic Trials for Gymnastics. Her arms were like tree trunks.

My senior year, a local weatherman from the CBS affiliate joined our church. His closer connection with God did not lower the AZ temperatures.

During college, I saw Adam Sandler in a bar. I daresay he had partaken of the ganja.

Also during college, my windshield was broken by a member of the Brazilian National Soccer Team. They swear that a soccer ball, kicked at high velocity by a world-class player (training at NAU's high altitude training camp) could not break a windshield. Filthy Brazilian Liars.

My friend, Sunshine, partied with The Misfits, a punk band.

At the HORDE festival, I told Ben Folds that he put on a good show.

While teaching, one of my students showed me pictures of him posing with his family's friends: the members of REO Speedwagon.

Also while teaching, a student, whose mother worked for Canyon Ranch, (a fancy-pants resort) shared that Leonardo DiCaprio and Sharon Stone were "really nice" while they were in town filming, The Quick and the Dead. Apparently, though, Mike Myers's (now former) mother-in-law, Linda Richman, was a real bitch. Not at all like but-tah.

I worked at a summer camp with a man whose brother taught Kirsten Dunst. She was a cheerleader.

My sister-in-law, an occupational therapist, had a patient whose mother trained animals for movies. Thus, I held the kangaroo from an Avis commercial.

My friend's dad worked at a body shop and repaired James Brown's car. He also saw Smokey Robinson in a motel elevator. This man, apparently, has a direct line to Motown.

Another friend drank kamikazes with John Kennedy, Jr.

A student's father piloted Air Force One, and flew George Bush to Iraq for his surprise Thanksgiving Day Feast with the troops.

My aunt has a friend whose daughter works for Oprah.

Barack Obama spoke at my cousin's graduation ceremony.

A friend of mine saw the actor that plays John Locke at a Whole Foods on the Eastern Shore. She said, "I kept babbling to him about chutney."

About a year ago,  I found out that a friend of mine used to work with Sterling, the boy who played Young Benjamin Linus on  Lost.

One of the losers from Hell's Kitchen owns a restaurant a few miles from us.

And today, I saw President Clinton's former secretary, Betty Currie, buying bananas at Wal-Mart. 

Brushes with greatness, indeed. 

Your turn!

(PS--Yes, if you've been reading from way back, you're right. This is a slightly updated re-run!) 

Sundays in My City: Cherry Blossoms

In the eight or so years we've lived in the greater DC area, we have made it up to the Tidal Basin to see the Cherry Blossoms once.

Yes, once.

I could give you all sorts of reasons why (work, young & nursing children, pregnancy...) but it would be an elaborate avoidance of the truth: I hate crowds.

And yes, while the blossoms are quite lovely, there are lots and lots and lots of people and their dogs and their strollers and their leaflets and their cameras and their political T-shirts in the mix.

I mean, look at these crowds! You'll have to look past my squint-tastic, pre-children self.

I'm happy to say that I have found my own Cherry Blossom oasis just minutes from my house. 

St. Leonard is one of the "towns" in my rural county. This means it includes all of the important things in life---a gas station, two liquor stores, a tattoo parlor, and a watering hole called simply, "The Tavern."

Paul and I call it "The Tav," because we are wicked awesome. 

St. Leonard also has a polling house/memorial garden. It stopped being the polling house back in 1974, but the building remains, and serves as a meeting area for community caroling, egg hunts, and other seasonal gatherings. 

 

I'm always moved by the memorials---the stones and the benches that represent lives, laughter, and now, eternal longing. 

 

Although I am touched by the memorials, I am restored by the incandescent, spontaneous ecstasy of the Cherry Blossoms. 

Yes, the DC Cherry Blossoms are very nice, and everybody should see them at least once. However, I prefer my own private Eden just minutes from my house.

Thanks Unknown Mami for hosting Sundays in My City. 

Such a Good Friday.

It is so glorious outside right now that I have to contain myself from singing, as if I'm one of the Van Trapp Family singers, or perhaps Neil Patrick Harris.

This is the first Easter since I've moved to Maryland that I've been able to feel warmth on my arms, and it is a resurrection of sorts. A return to warmth, a return to boundless energy and mud pies in the backyard. New life! The grass is risen! It is risen indeed!

I don't care that for the third day in a row, I am posting a picture of my children playing in the sun. If that isn't a holy thing to show during this Holy Week, I don't know what is:

I am going to finish writing this, and then I am going to make the glaze for my Easter Ham, using a can of Dr. Pepper and some brown sugar. I'm pretty sure that Giada or The Barefoot Contessa would not approve. Paula Deen surely would, so I am comfortable with this decision.

My glaze will cool in the pan and my husband will be home from a meeting in DC. I cannot yet share what the meeting is about, but I know that the results were good, and Paul is happy.

I will be glad to see him, and I'm especially happy that I will see him smiling, his shoulders no longer stiff with tension. I don't give him enough credit for all he carries to keep our family aloft. We float effortlessly on his iron wings.

When the boys wake up, we will walk to The Bay, and I will soak up the remaining sun. I will look to the heavens, and on this Good Friday, I will mean it all the more: "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

The View from My Backyard

Neighbor Jimmy's Chickens.

Experimenting.

Little Boys:

Off to do more, my dears. Catch you soon.