No, it wasn't a dream.

Last weekend my in-laws came to town and said, "Get out of here! Scram!"

I am not sure if they were talking to me or the cat, but I raced into the bedroom and opened a random dresser drawer. Think fast, Jennie: where are the suitcases? Upstairs. Too far away. What do I need to wear? Hmm. Who cares? I tossed the first layer of clothes in the drawer into a little plastic shopping bag that was on the bed. I ran to the kitchen, yelled something about milk in the freezer, grabbed my purse, and sped away in the little red convertible.

As I got to the stop sign, I saw Brian in my sideview mirror. He was running behind the car, waving his wallet. Reluctantly, I pulled over and picked him up.

That night we had an adult dinner at a quiet restaurant, with wine and candles and excellent food that did not need ketchup. Or sippy cups. We checked in at the hotel, propped open our eyelids with scotch tape and headed to a bar for a beer. And then came back to the room to enjoy the deep, uninterrupted sleep of parents who refuse to call home and check on anyone.

The next day we had a wonderful lunch at a Mexican place with margaritas, where not a single grain of Spanish rice landed on the floor. Afterwards we strolled around the mall and sat in the massage chairs at Brookstone, where we enjoyed the entire 5-minute demo without hiding the massage chair remote control. We even played with the new iPhone at the overly crowded Apple store, where we didn't pull a screaming child away from banging on the laptop keyboards at the kids' table.

Later, we saw a newly released movie in a real theater - not a pay per view or Redbox rental ("Knight & Day" - go see it, it's hilarious and very well done). We didn't have to share concessions with someone who can eat her weight in popcorn, and we didn't need to take a bathroom break every 10 minutes.

That evening, our outdoor tourism plans were foiled by a sudden thunderstorm, but we did manage to pass several hours with a bartender who kept plying us with special concoctions involving a large array of homemade flavored vodkas. This was not as disappointing as it sounds, although Brian does not recommend the habanero vodka, unless you are attempting to win a very large bet. I vowed to return another day, when I would once again not be counted on to nurse a young infant.

We headed down the street and happened upon a dueling piano bar that looked promising, so we handed over the cover charge to enter a place that did not have a giant inflatable slide or a singing robotic rat. Turned out to be the best entertainment we'd seen in ages. And folks, we have 3 little girls who must be quite entertaining, since we haven't been on a date in 6 months, but two pianos, one drumset and a bass guitar later, we had seen an entire evening of sheer FUN. We got back to the hotel after 1 a.m. and crashed.

The next morning, we spent far too much on breakfast from the hotel buffet, and headed home. The girls were clearly excited to see us. Helen spent the morning dancing around in the $4 tourist shop cowboy hat we purchased for her. Alice promptly glued herself to my lap for the next two hours. Nana swore up and down that Jane was a good baby while we were gone.

I'm working on medals for the in-laws. Do you think it should mention "bravery in the line of fire" or "valor beyond the call of duty" - or both?

Strawberries!

Last month Brian picked up Helen from daycare and headed southeast of town to one of those Pick Your Own farms. He and I had looked at possible places to go the day before what ended up being the big flood weekend. That flood sort of put everything on hold for a while. So when he texted me this picture in the middle of my workday, I got excited.

When I got home that night, I realized I had to do something with over 10 pounds of perfectly ripe strawberries. Fast.

We ate a bunch of them that evening. Most of the berries you buy at the grocery store are red on the outside and white on the inside and taste vaguely berry-ish. Sometimes there is an exceptional period of about a week or two where you break down and buy a pint or a quart and they turn out fantastic, but you dare not press your luck any longer.

Not these berries. These berries were red on the inside, juicy and DELICIOUS.

One summer when I came home from college, I visited a farm near campus and brought my mom a couple of pounds of fresh strawberries. She made a pie with them that was amazing. So, naturally, I decided that's what I had to do with these berries.

The next night, after the kids went to bed, I got to work making my own pie. Rolled out the crust, found a recipe online, and WOW. It was fabulous! I didn't even bother with making a whipped cream topping, but that would have made it even better.

We snacked on the rest of the berries that week. Truly a delightful way to start off the summer. Prices were reasonable, around $2 a pound (not counting the gas for the trip out of town). Most farms will have some pre-picked for a little bit more, if you don't want to do it yourself. The way the heat index has been the past 2 weeks, I wouldn't blame anyone for skipping that step.

Blueberries are in season now, and so are blackberries. I might need to send those two off for my next cobbler ingredients.

Dreams Fulfilled, Right Here

Many years ago, there was a James Bond named Timothy Dalton, who may have looked the part but had trouble acting better than a wet stack of newspapers. Plus, everyone knew that Pierce Brosnan was born to be James Bond, because he totally looked the part. No one cared about the acting. I swear it.

Anyway, in Pierce's first foray into the role, I hardly noticed the acting, because there was a scene where he drove this absolutely beautiful blue BMW convertible. Long story short, I fell for both the guy AND the car. I even dreamed about having that car. Being single, it seemed a shame to waste my time driving such a practical thing like a 4-door Honda Accord. And then I'd think, hey, that cute little 2-seater convertible is not the car for you. You need a trunk and a backseat.

Why? I don't know. I just know that at times, trunk space and backseats come in handy. Plus, I'm a Taurus, which means PRACTICAL is my middle name. And COST is something that factors into everything I do. Remember, I'm the kid who wanted to be an accountant when I grew up. I'm basically the most boring person on the planet.

Fast forward to when I was first dating Brian, and he asked me about my dream car. I waxed poetic, perhaps a bit on the longish side, about this beautiful car that I would never, ever buy. I know next to nothing about technical aspects or features or the eventual comparison to a Mazda Miata, but I know beautiful cars and beautiful men driving those cars, and the image had stuck with me. If I ever win PowerBall, that would be the car for me. Even then, I would be standing in the dealer's lot, calculating the lost interest on the money I was about to spend, and deciding I would still need a trunk and a backseat.

So. Since that conversation, Brian has been shopping for this car. Honestly, he has to shop for cars like some people have to breathe. You know, all regular-like, and necessary to continuing life. Occasionally, I'll look up one evening and notice him staring intently at the laptop screen, lost in another world. I'll remind him to breathe, and he'll just click another link on the Craigslist site.

In the years we have been together, he has learned everything there is to know about this car - how many versions of the engine they made, what the options are, and what makes one better than another. He has spent years looking at listings online, stopping by to chat with dealers and reading up on the specs. He knows the car inside and out. Me, I like the looks, and that's enough for me. Specs, schmecs.

Anyway, one evening about a month ago he interrupted the TV show I was enjoying behind closed eyes to show me pictures of a BMW Z3. Not just any Z3, mind you - blah blah blah, wipe sleep from eyes and notice it's red, blah blah blah, aren't wheels are special, check out these 50+ pictures, it's the deal of the century, blah blah blah.

I murmured something which may have been vaguely complimentary, and promptly shut my eyes again. This was my mistake. It resulted in a car payment.

Years of shopping means that once you see it, you know it's the real deal and you have to have it. Brian spent the next few weeks getting his ducks in a row and checking it all out from stem to stern. And he spent just about every single day getting me on board with the idea of buying it. Finally, he came home an official owner. Yes, we have three kids, and my husband bought a 2-seater convertible. The practical side of me screamed and writhed in agony.

Once it got home, I took it for a spin. Let's just say it's a flat-out awesome vehicle. With the wind in my hair, and the sun on my face, I felt transported back to my single days and on my way to Pierce's house. So now I know why Brian's been shopping all this time. That feeling is addictive, and it shut up Mrs. Practical for good. I know she's off in a corner somewhere, muttering darkly. I just can't hear her with the top down.

Catching Up

So, it's been a while.  Sorry about that.  Some minor stuff has been going on in the Wyatt house, and adjusting to Alice sleeping through the night, and somewhere in there I got so excited I decided it was time to stop breathing through my nose and instead developed this kind of rainbow-hued congestion along with sneezing - well, you get the idea.  

Oh, and I turned 37 last month.  So I'm old and I forget things now.  Blog entries?  Someone out there needs to remind me, regularly.  Dear Readers, please form a committee, and get it done.

A couple stories to share, all related:

For my birthday this year, Brian got some scratch-off lottery tickets to put in my card.  Lottery tickets have been a thoughtful addition to most of our gifts - Christmas stockings, wedding anniversaries, Secretary's Day, etc - for years.  But the excitement over possibly winning never matches the payoff.  We dream of how to spend the money, and then minutes later we're tossing the losing tickets in the trash.  Ah, well.  So much for the Mexican vacation.

So Brian had stuffed about $20 worth of tickets into my birthday card this year, and in order to postpone that awful feeling of disappointment, to enjoy that feeling of "What if I had all that extra money?" for just a little bit longer, I waited until after dinner to scratch off the tickets.

And promptly won $1000.

No kidding.

Yeah, that's what I did, too.

You have to understand, there's a giant conspiracy theory gone haywire in this state that nobody wins from these tickets, and it's all a ruse to get suckers to pay in to the education fund, rather than actually pay winners.  So to win money?  I was jumping up & down in the living room, screaming for all I was worth.  Alice was crawling around, looking at me like her mother had just gone insane, and Helen was standing at the top of the stairs, asking me, "Mommy, what's so exciting?"

So, it was a great birthday.  Honestly!  Loved every minute of it.

The next weekend, Brian went on a road trip to see a friend.  The guys made a stop for snacks and lottery scratch-off tickets.  That afternoon I was driving in the car, talking to him on the cellphone, with Helen & Alice in the backseat.  I told him if he won big bucks, he better get his butt back home.

After I hung up, I had the following conversation with Helen:

Helen:  Mommy, who were you talking to on the phone?

Jennie:  That was Daddy.

Helen:  Why did you tell him to get his butt back home?

Jennie:  (wincing) Helen, you remember when Mommy won that money from the green cards last week?

Helen:  Yeah.

Jennie:  Daddy bought some more green cards, and I told him if he wins a lot of money, he needs to come home.  

Helen:  (quiet for a moment)  Mommy, what does Daddy do if he doesn't win a lot of money?

Jennie:  (thinking - dang, that kid is getting too smart)

Overheard

This morning the entire family awoke at 4 a.m. to take Brian to the airport, who is flying out for the annual Bataan Memorial Death March.  Previous years here and here.  

On the way home, a heavy rain started falling.  I turned up the wipers, and heard Helen singing in the backseat:

Helen:  The wipers on the bus go swish, swish, swish ...

Jennie:  Good song.

Helen:  The mommy on the bus goes shhh, shhh, shhh ...  The daddy on the bus goes ... (silence)

Jennie:  (waits for a while to see if she comes up with anything) What does the daddy say?

Helen:  I don't know!

Jennie:  Well, what does your daddy say?

Helen:  Be quiet?

Teach a man to fish

Brian's newest obsession is fishing.  One of his co-workers has a boat, and enters a lot of bass fishing tournaments each year.  Last month he invited Brian to join him for a Sunday fishing excursion.  It meant Brian had to wake up around 4 a.m. and drive an hour away to help haul the boat to the lake.  Yes - FOUR IN THE MORNING.  He's come home that late, but he hasn't been up that early on purpose since we met.  To top it off, it was really, really cold outside.  I figured this would be a one-time deal, and I never dreamed he would enjoy it, let alone do it again.

But he came home and talked my ear off non-stop about the fishing that day.  And as soon as he had a free weekend, he went back twice more, leaving even earlier than 4 a.m. and in even colder weather.  And by the third time, I caught on to the shenanigans.  A full day on the lake, plus travel time.  That is a very long day when you do it two weekends in a row.

For me, I mean!  Let's see:  a day that starts out shivering in the freezing temps just after dawn, casting out and reeling in over and over and over, or a day with The Girl With A Thousand Questions.

Heck, I can always wear more clothes.

Now I know what they mean by "fishwife" and "carping."  Good lord.

Anyway, for Christmas I decided to be a little less selfish, and I put some bait in his stocking.  He loved it so much, he took it down to the lake behind my parents' house and spent the evening fishing.  I gave up hope for him to catch anything until around 9 p.m., when he appeared on the deck with a flashlight aimed at his prize.  My parents and I headed out to take pictures of the catfish he pulled in with his hands (the line got tangled up on the reel):

This one weighed about 15 pounds and measured about 2 feet long.  Brian's fingers were a bit chewed up from holding the fish for this picture.  After we oohed & aahed over our favorite hunter/gatherer, Brian took the catfish back down to the lake and let him go.  The fish swam off quickly and managed to avoid getting hooked again the next day, when Brian spent the entire day fishing.

The first step is admitting you have a fishing problem, and that you are powerless to stop fishing on your own.

Next up: Safety Patrol

Brian's friends at work asked him to join them on a fishing trip on Sunday.

Brian:  He asked me if I needed to get a hall pass.

Jennie:  As if!  You don't have to get a hall pass from me.

Brian:  Yeah, I told him he had it all wrong.  He should have married someone who didn't like him.

Jennie:  Then you get all the hall passes you can handle.

We Have a Winner

Brian's company provides rewards for meeting certain sales goals, and this fall they were offering a long weekend for both of us at an all-inclusive resort in the Dominican Republic.  In June, Brian had done the math after having an exceptional couple of weeks, and he was already halfway there.  He really wanted to go on this trip, and he vowed to make it happen for us.

At the time, I was pregnant.  I thought, hey, we'll have a very little baby then!  Won't that be a problem?  Brian assured me that the company would let us take a baby if I was nursing.  I knew Brian would work very hard to get there, but my thought was, let's worry about that when he meets the goal.

Brian kept selling all summer.  He was racking up the deals.  I was thrilled for him but waited to make any plans.

And then I went through labor and delivery and maternity leave, which was sort of distracting.  Just as I headed back to work, Brian hit the last week of the program and learned he had qualified.  We had a trip to the Dominican to book on the 4th weekend of October.

So, now it was time to worry about what to do.  I knew Helen would have a ball with her grandparents, but I went back and forth on what to do with Alice.  Four whole days away from an 11-week old baby is rough on both mom and baby.  I could take my breast pump with me, and Alice is used to getting bottles at daycare, but the connection is not the same.  She recognizes my voice now, and god, that smile!  She really is a happy baby, and I would just miss her.  I didn't want to ruin the progress we were making together, and I couldn't imagine leaving her behind.

And then I thought, Dominican Republic.  I don't know if you are catching the news on this place lately, but it's in a bit of political unrest right now, and that's putting it mildly.  Also, the middle of the Carribbean at the end of hurricane season could be dangerous.  On top of that, they tell you not to drink the water.  And it's hot and humid and there's sand everywhere.  So maybe not the best place to bring a new infant.  

So, in the end, I told Brian to book it for just the two of us, and we made plans for Helen and Alice to stay with her grandparents.  I spent weeks pumping and freezing extra milk for the baby.  And then the day finally came - we got up at the crack of dawn last Friday, drove to the airport in the pouring rain, boarded a plane and headed due south.

Of course, it was an incredible trip.  We never left the resort to do any sightseeing around town, but instead spent the entire time relaxing, sleeping, and enjoying the beautiful beach.  Oh, and eating and drinking.  The food was fantastic, and the drinks were amazing.  

Coming back home, we discovered the temperatures hit freezing.  Helen had so much fun with her grandparents, now she actually cries at night and tells me how much she misses them.  And the baby didn't seem any worse for the absence.   Alice spent her time hitting them up for more bottles, and when I took her to daycare, they mentioned she suddenly wanted to be held all the time.

Hmm.  I wonder why.

Below are some pictures of the resort.   Just plain awesome doesn't begin to describe it.

Our rooms were surrounded by gorgeous lush Carribbean landscaping - lots of flowers and palm trees everywhere.

Of course, the beach was a big favorite.  The sun was a bit strong, so I stayed under those huts all weekend.  It was either that or look for SPF 480.  
They had these beds by the pool area for lounging and snoozing. 
And here's the pool area.  Not too shabby.
Wait, how'd that get in there?!  That is a Mai Tai of extraordinary goodness.  In fact, they were so delicious, I ordered two at a time.

And there is Brian's favorite, the Bloody Mary.  Secret ingredient:  soy sauce. 

All in all, it was a fantastic four days.  Very relaxing to get a bunch of hours of sleep in a row and have a little bit of peaceful quiet and ocean waves to enjoy.  I'd recommend the place to anyone looking for a nice vacation spot, and I wouldn't mind going back there again.  

But it sure was nice to hug the girls when we got home.

Whatcha Got Cookin'?

So, I can feel the last few hours of my maternity leave ebbing away.  I head back to work on Wednesday, and I've spent days thinking of how in the world I can get up, get ready, and get an infant and a toddler to daycare, while trying to catch a bus to work before 7:15 a.m.

Pregnancy, childbirth and now sleep deprivation have done something crazy to my brain this time around.  I forget things at the grocery store, lose track of time, have trouble recalling names of people or places, or derail my train of thought in the middle of a story I'm telling.  So I've made lists of everything I need to get done at night and in the morning.  Between pumping at work for an infant that's still nursing, getting the kids' stuff ready to go each day, finding my way to a brand new bus route, and taking care of the house, I haven't even given a moment's thought to actual work once I get back.  

(I do have the baby brag book ready to go, though, chock full of pictures.  I already feel sorry for people who make the mistake of asking me about Alice & Helen this week.  "Here are 25 pictures of my baby!  Please fawn profusely over all of them.")

Honestly, what worries me more is getting home in the evening.  After a full day at daycare, Helen is a HUNGRY HUNGRY HIPPO and if I don't have dinner on the table within 20 seconds of the front door opening, I have to throw snacks at her for about 30 minutes straight while we hurry around putting a meal together.  (Yes, they feed my daughter at daycare.  But animal crackers and juice at 4 pm doesn't cut it.  And then snacks right before dinner - well, you know what your mother always told you.  Turns out it's true!  So we're stuck between a rock and that other inflexibly rigid spot known as Terrible Threes.)  

We have tried getting her to help us cook.  That hasn't stopped the whining, but only serves to distract her for a few minutes until she remembers she's hungry again.

Before I went on maternity leave, Brian & I had a system.  Without a lot of room for food storage at our place, we maintain a "just in time" inventory of food.  I'm not one of those people who could cook dinner with just anything in my pantry.  Most of that stuff is there for show, to cover a one-time use, or to help with the baking every year at Thanksgiving.  So each night, via cell phone, Brian & I hammered out a dinner plan on our way home from work.  

This meant when I picked up Helen at daycare, I already knew what I needed to get from the store.  Our grocery store is great at handing out samples, and one little thing would usually tide Helen over until I could get her meal ready, instead of the 3 things she wanted at home.  As long as I explained the plan to Helen ("We're going to the store, and Daddy is going to cook burgers on the grill, and then we'll eat dinner"), she could generally manage the "long" wait with just a cup of milk.

With 2 kids, one of which is still nursing like a champion, I don't think I'll be able to have this little luxury of stopping at the store each night.  Maybe the baby will have a bottle just before I pick her up.  But she's not on that schedule yet, and knowing my luck, they'll hand her over and she'll need one as I'm getting home.

So I've decided to become one of those mothers who plans menus and cooks ahead and freezes things.  I might even spend the weekend baking goodies, too.  Who knows?  This could be a good thing for our family, even if I don't do it all the time.  

My first foray into this experimental lifestyle is crockpot cooking.  So rather than collapsing in front of the TV at night, I'll cut up some things, throw the mess into a crockpot, turn it on in the morning and come home at night to the aroma of dinner, completed.  It sounds like the most perfect thing in the world.

Tonight we're trying a meatloaf.  In the crockpot, you ask?  Yep!  I found a recipe online.  Prep the loaf of beef, line your pot in foil, put the loaf in it and pour the sauce on top.  Set to high or low, depending on when you want it to be done, and wow, does your house smell good in a few hours flat.  

I'm adding green beans and sourdough bread on the side.  That should be enough to tame even the hungriest of toddlers.

Tomorrow, I'm trying a whole chicken.  Wish me luck.

And feel free to share your own time-saving tips for meals in the comments.  I have a feeling I'm gonna need it.

Wii are not happy.

So last weekend, Brian surprised me with a present - a new Wii.  This game console is designed with a remote that helps you play games by mimicking the movements you make in an actual game.  So for example, in tennis you would swing a racket, or in bowling you would roll a ball.  Mimic these same movements while holding the remote, and you're on your way to becoming a pro at Wii games.

I am not that good at video games.  Brian loves them, and can play them for hours.  I, on the other hand, am very picky about the games that appeal to me, and can't seem to get the hang of a PlayStation controller.  Brian has worked hard for years to find something that we can play together but hasn't had much luck in piquing my interest.  His thought was that a Wii would be good for me to play on maternity leave, while he works - that way I can spend the time to get good at it and play with him.  

The first real test of the console came later that night.  We had company visiting from out of town.  I put Alice to bed after her last feeding of the night and found Brian and his two friends in a hotly contested tennis match.  By all accounts, it was a good time for everyone.

This week, Brian spent some time poking around all the features, and discovered a fitness test.  The Wii randomly selects 3 training tests for you - for example, returning tennis serves, finishing spares in bowling, or hitting homeruns.  Based on the results, Wii calculates a "fitness age" for you. 

Brian took the test - keep in mind he had spent the prior evening playing all of these games with his friends - and Wii told him his fitness age is 37.  He's actually 35, so he didn't take the news well, and it didn't help that I laughed at him.  And pointed.  And laughed some more.  I told him he better not spend the next day taking the test over and over again, trying to turn into a 19-year old Wii stud.

Well, he tried, but it turns out Wii lets you take the test only once per day.  So the next night, he dutifully took the test again, and discovered he'd aged 2 more years.

Frustrated, he handed me the remote and made me take the test, whereupon he discovered he's married to a 62-year old woman.

I was so mad, I promptly sent him down the street to get me ice cream.

And yesterday, when I was allowed to take the test again (and did much better, I thought), I had aged 7 more years.

This has not been the best present so far.

Haunt me? No, thank you.

Maternity leave has been an eye-opening experience.  For example, did you know that daytime television sucks?  Yeah, I thought we had it rough with prime-time TV.  Trust me - it's like watching Shakespeare compared to the crap they shove out between 10 am and 5 pm.

Anyway, that should help explain why Brian came home late yesterday afternoon to put together an order for work, and discovered I was watching John Edwards on "Crossing Over."  This show, for those of you who aren't familiar with it, is sort of like a televised seance.  He has a studio audience, and he spends the hour "reading" ghosts who want to connect with audience members.  It could be family, or it could be friends, and he manages to come up with some spooky connections (i.e., nicknames, weird family secrets, occupations, how they died, etc.) to validate their identities.

I'm not a true believer, but sometimes this show is just enough to make me wonder.  (Plus, have I mentioned that there's really not much to watch on TV?)  Brian, however, scoffed out loud.  

(To understand the following conversation, please keep in mind that we joke about the payoff on our life insurance policies, like, A LOT.)

Brian:  You're watching THAT?

Jennie: What?  Really, sometimes it's interesting.

Brian:  You better not go to one of those shows if I die, because I will mess with him.  (imitating John Edwards) "I don't know if this means anything to you, but I'm seeing rat poison."

Jennie:  (laughing)  Yeah, you'd be all, "Why you'd spend all the insurance money so fast?"

Brian:  And you'd be sitting there in the audience, laughing.  It wouldn't look so good on TV.

The thought of Brian reaching out from beyond the grave, just to mess with the life insurance proceeds - well, if you don't know him very well, it sounds EXACTLY like something he'd do.

You just wish you could be me

So, last night at 10:15, I was standing in our garage, watching my husband hold a small butane lighter in one hand, and repeatedly push the pilot light button on our brand-new water heater with the other hand. My hands were trembling as I held the instruction booklet. "Oh please God," I prayed, "let it be the tiniest of explosions."
_____

Monday night Brian came home to discover a giant pool of water in the garage. Turns out our water heater finally remembered that its warranty had expired. Our main concern was how quickly we could get the new one installed. Brian was leaving Wednesday for a 2-day work meeting out of town, so waiting until the weekend wasn't an option. Especially after that first cold shower on Tuesday morning. A headache-inducing cold, I might add.

Homeownership has been grand, (3 years next month!) but unlike apartment living, it's a steady debate of "how much does this bother me? a lot? okay, let's spend the money to fix it." Or, "well, daycare will be over in a few years, we can get it then." And the idle conversation about how we might spend our PowerBall winnings - um, I mean daycare budget - turns to new appliances and new flooring and we're off to the races. But in all honesty, we haven't actually done anything significant to the house since we moved in, except to paint it. Well, I take that back. There was the Toilet Repair Day of 2005 right after we increased the water pressure, but for the most part, this house works just fine. So, to find a broken hot water heater Monday night - I thought, you know, we've been pushing our luck for 3 years. Time to pay up.

On the Top 10 list of reasons why I married Brian, somewhere around #5 is "truly handy with tools." I just assumed he'd look at the old unit and try to fix this himself. But we needed a new hot water heater instead. And in our initial discussions on Monday night, I learned that Brian knows enough about plumbing to be dangerous, but was understandably nervous about working on something attached to a natural gas line. So I had a conversation with a guy at Home Depot before work the next day, and Brian checked out the scene at Lowe's. We compared prices & models & warranties & the all-important online reviews. The choice was made, and payment exchanged hands.

Note to taxpayers: Next week is tax rebate deposit week. We are spending our economic stimulus package early. You can thank us next month when you hear about the rebound in the manufacturing sector.

During the shopping, Brian saw the stiff numbers associated with an installation, and he was truly inspired to try it on his own. (I should have known.) He borrowed a truck from a friend, shut off the gas & the water, got the old unit out and hauled it to the dump. Then he hauled the new unit home from the store. By this time, Helen & I were home from work. I sort of helped manuver it through the gauntlet of car projects while Helen danced around like a ninny. I quickly decided the two of us would be no use in the garage and planned to put her to bed early with the idea that I would try to help later.  Instead, a short time later, she & I were at Home Depot getting 90 degree copper pipe bends. Plus, a propane torch and solder and flux.

Yeah, a blowtorch near a natural gas line. Sign me up for this job!

When I got home, I put Helen to bed and then watched Brian work. First he soldered a new cold water pipe out of the wall and attached a flex bend pipe to it and the new water heater. Then he did the same thing for the hot water pipe coming out of the tank. Next trick was to get the air out of the line, and pray nothing would leak. It's hard work to solder copper pipes together from an angle above your shoulders.  Even with a ladder. It's even harder to attach that flex bend pipe with two wrenches at that angle. But he kept cranking away and finally achieved no leaking.

He then had a tricky time figuring out if the gas was on or off. He turned it back on to the house, but the knob on the pipe was a mysterious little thing that didn't indicate either way. I think he must have pushed that pilot light button a zillion times and kept readjusting the knob with a wrench to see what might work. Finally he grabbed the butane lighter. I clutched the instruction manual like it was our Last Rites, which clearly stated with all kinds of giant warning signs - DO NOT TAKE OFF THE INNER DOOR TO LIGHT THE PILOT. DO NOT LIGHT THE PILOT WITH A LIGHTER. DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT $200. Oh dear lord, the praying began. But to my credit, I never said a word out loud.

He didn't have to use the lighter, thankfully. After some more adjusting, which also included me moving clear to the other side of the garage for an easy escape, I heard him say "Aha!" and I realized something important must be happening. Or something bad was about to happen. I inched even closer to my escape hatch. And then there was light - a pilot light. Lo & behold, it all worked like a charm! Oh, what a relief.

That night I slumbered peacefully, with the new water heater humming along a mere 6 feet away on the other side of our bedroom wall. This morning, our house was still standing. The bonus? We had plenty of hot water this morning for Helen's oatmeal and both of our showers. Hallelujah.

Brian, deep down, I never doubted you for a second. But I'm peeking into the garage when I get home to see if I need my swim fins, or a nice hot bath.

Put those dreams on hold

If you didn't know, this weekend was the NFL Draft.  Brian watched diligently for several hours on Saturday and Sunday, commenting occasionally on the prospects of our local team.  Sunday evening he got a call from our Navy friend W.

Brian:  Once again, nobody called me up for the draft.  

W:  And you waited by the phone all weekend.

Brian:  I'm firing my agent.

And the Oscar goes to ...

This weekend the laptop reached a critical mass and threatened to go on strike. So I spent some time figuring out how many pictures of Helen to keep. I lamented how many worthless TV episodes I bought in iTunes. And I especially considered the various applications that we never use to see if there was a way to free up some hard drive space.

I discovered we had 2 very large moviemaking programs. We have some basic programs that we've used to cobble together some clips of Helen or various vacations, but we've never used the fancy applications, ever. This laptop was a hand-me-down from my mother, who used the movie stuff frequently as a teaching tool for her consulting work. So we got the programs for free, and at the time, I was pretty thrilled about it. 

I'm also the proud owner of a fancy video camera that connects to the laptop for easy downloading.  So, I'll go ahead and confess:  at one time, I had dreamed of becoming a short filmmaker.

No, I don't mean that as opposed to a tall filmmaker.  

_______


I grew up knowing I would work in accounting. It was one of those things that few kids know with certainty - except me. I'm one of those people who prefer to have a small selection of good choices rather than an uncertain plethora of everything. It's easier to make up my mind. So when I met a woman at my church who seemed to be the ultimate professional role model, and I found out she was an accountant, that was the person I wanted to be. At the time, I was 12.

You're allowed to be scared of me. I would have been, if I weren't already me.

For some reason, I never wavered from that path. Maybe because I'm boring or predictable, or a giant freak. After college, I became an accountant and spent over a decade working in my chosen profession. Each year, I went through the stress of putting together information for the company tax return, which is no mean feat given the regular workload that has to get done, too. So each March, it became my habit to take a decent vacation on my own, to treat myself for all the hard work and long hours.

One particular year was harder than the others. In February, my grandmother died unexpectedly. Our family was devastated by the news, and as we spent the next day making a plan of how to take care of her and her things, our family dog of 12 years was in the vet's office being assessed for a serious illness that turned out to be kidney failure. She was suffering tremendously, and the vet called that day to tell us it was time to make the painful decision. I will never forget the sight of my father on the phone with the vet, sobbing. With everything going on, we couldn't make it to the vet to say goodbye. It was horrible to lose so much of our family in such a short time, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

In my mind the timing is a little hazy, but I think it was only a week or so later that my mother ended up in the hospital with an emergency appendectomy. When it rains, it pours, I hear, and that month was a gusher. 

Oh, and of course, there was some work to be done. So by the time I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, I planned a pretty fantastic vacation to get away from the grief and stress. I headed out of state to visit with a couple of college friends and made reservations at a nearby B&B for the weekend in a small town with a film festival that weekend. I knew they filmed Dawson's Creek in that town, so I figured it would be a fun time for me to wander around and see famous people. Or Pacey. I was okay with either one.

But it wasn't that kind of film festival. I discovered it was a fledgling event, created in response to the movie industry's growing interest in their town, and it definitely encouraged local folks to get in the act, but famous people? Not so much.

I carefully perused the schedule and selected a variety of films to see. One of the sessions was a showing of short films at a very old, small theater downtown. One of the short films was a 12-minute documentary of a guy walking around a giant field in North Dakota, where one of those buried nuclear missiles from the Cold War used to reside. The missile silo was no longer occupied by either soldiers or nuclear material, and I think he interviewed some locals about living so close to something that threatening, and now it was just a field with a concrete slab in the middle. He created tension and humor in a short time, and I remember thinking, "I COULD TOTALLY DO THAT."

Suddenly, in my head, I had a career as a amateur filmmaker, creating a short film that I could shop around to various festivals, traveling the country until I had gained some notoriety. Eventually I'd be nominated for an Oscar. In my acceptance speech, I would carefully thank Pacey for guiding me to the film festival where I got my start.

_______


So this weekend, as I found myself dragging those movie applications to the trash bin on my laptop to make room for more pictures of Helen, I realized that I have a long way to go before I'm up at that podium. I also have someone else to thank - my husband, who bought me my first video camera. Now, if I could just get some blank tapes, ones that don't get filled up with our vacation footage or clips of Helen doing goofy stuff, I could figure out what might be a good short film subject. Suggestions are welcome.

Overheard

This evening I called Brian on my way home from work and discovered that he had already picked up Helen from daycare, and was driving home with her. To understand this story, you may want to know that she often takes a stuffed animal to daycare with her, and that day she had a brown puppy dog.

Anyway, while I was on the phone with Brian, in the background I could hear her chanting.

Helen: Puppy driving!! Puppy driving!!

Brian (to me): Puppy's up front with me.

Jennie: A-ha.

Helen: Puppy driving!! Go puppy, go puppy, go puppy, go puppy ...

(Brian & I have a short conversation about possibilities for dinner that evening. We have this same conversation via cell phone every evening. In the background I can still hear Helen chanting.)

Helen: Go puppy, go puppy, go puppy, go puppy ...

Brian: Helen, we can't go any faster, sweetie. You don't want puppy to rear-end the car in front of us and cause his premiums do go up, do you?

Helen: (complete silence)

Brian (to me): Boy, I really got her there.

Jennie: Hahahahaha! Oh, that's totally going on the blog.

Helen: (still silent)

Brian: Helen, you'll get that joke when you're older and you wreck your daddy's car.

Jennie: And how!

It's still way more than I could manage.

Last week Brian was feeling the need to combine a little activity with our coach-potato evening of watching TV. He's just started to work out in preparation for another Bataan Death March next year, so I can understand why he wanted to squeeze in a little exercise.

So he asked me how many push-ups I thought he could do. I ended up betting him that he couldn't do 200 push-ups in 15 minutes. He got down on the floor and proceeded to do push-ups.

(Ladies, I wouldn't be surprised to hear that the words "double dog dare" got him down the aisle.)

Brian did several sets in the allotted time, and kept track on a piece of paper as he finished each set. After he finished, he showed me his notes:

Set One: 50 (not too bad)
Set Two: 30 (little tougher)
Set Three: 20 (glad it wasn't 50)
Set Four: 20 (starting to burn)
Set Five: 20 (ma, ma!)
Set Six: 30 (why God, why?)
Set Seven: 20 (let me go change my undies)
Set Eight: 20 (ooooooo!)
Set Nine: 10 (no words)
Set Ten: 10 (just so you couldn't say I was cheating)

Total: 230 pushups

PS - Happy Birthday, Brian. You're still the man.

Love,
Jennie

So you want to learn to golf ...

Last month Brian played in a charity golf tournament for a cause near & dear to his heart: a summer camp where he worked for several summers, and made friends that will last a lifetime. (Or until his liver gives out, I forget which it is.)

Anyway, a few weeks prior to the tournament, Brian started shopping thrift stores for the perfect pants to turn into the classic golf knickers. He even got some pants for the guys in his foursome. Then he got out a needle & thread to make the necessary hem. Boy, he was proud of that hem work. I think the zippers will fall out before the hems do.

He searched for sweater vests, and he also found a website that sells the entire outfit, including the all-important argyle socks. He snagged a deal on several pairs, and apparently their group was quite a hit for the traditional foursome pictures.

Our Navy friend W. came into town for the weekend to stay with us. I happened to be at home when they stumbled in after a long, hot day on the links. The sweater vests were gone, but I think the fashion statement still comes through, loud and clear.

It Just Might Work

Last night I headed off to bed after a long football game went into overtime, while Brian stayed up late to play PS3 with a friend. I must have quickly crashed into the deep sleep of a single girl with no responsibilities in life, because I slept through a late-night slumber party with Brian and Helen. She woke up before he was through with the PS3 game, and they tried a few different rooms, but she didn't sleep much. When she did try to pass out, it involved a lot of flipping and flopping. At night, Helen is hard to cuddle. It's like hugging a washer in spin cycle.

This morning, I was dreaming, something about eating pancakes and taking care of birds, and the sound of pounding feet running through the hall snapped me straight awake. I got out of bed, and found Helen & Brian in our guest room, where Helen was having a conversation with Daddy.

Helen: I need to be under the covers.

Brian: You know what might work? If we put you under the covers, and wrapped you tight, tucked you in with ...

Jennie: ... duct tape.

Brian: ... compression straps.

The Long March

Last month, Brian spent a Sunday walking 26.2 miles with a 35-pound backpack.

On purpose.

Several months ago, our Navy friend W. mentioned a marathon march in New Mexico that commemorated the Bataan Death March from World War II. Brian, being male, said "Sure, that sounds great!" He got a pair of boots and a backpack like the military guys wear, and went out for a breezy 6-mile hike near our house.

He came back with no skin on his heels. Seriously.

So, after a trip to the podiatrist and a sporting goods store for hiking shoes, and SEVERAL bandaids later, he continued with the training hikes. He got up to 19 miles before the actual marathon event, and that particular one left him feeble for a few days.

I made lots of jokes about making sure the life insurance was paid up, asking our agent if something called Bataan Memorial DEATH March would invalidate our policy, speculating as to how I would spend the life insurance proceeds, etc. It was endlessly amusing (to me, anyway), and at the same time a little bit worrisome to realize that Brian would be hiking a marathon with a giant pack on his back. Athletic events like this can cause heart attacks, strokes, dehydration and serious sun damage.

So I did what any loving wife would do. I reminded him to use sunscreen.

Brian got to town early to register, but everyone else was getting in late at night. Late arrivals meant very little sleep the night before the race. Everyone knew this ahead of time, and then Brian learned at registration that participants would have a long wait at the security checkpoint before parking on the military base. They recommended leaving the hotel around 3:30 am.

Which meant NO sleep before the race. Optimal, don't you think?

Despite all of this, they managed to have a good time. No bad attitudes, no complaining, just set out and hike and get it done. And all three guys finished the race. W. called me afterwards to mention that I shouldn't go spending the life insurance just yet. A few days later, Brian came back with gorgeous pictures, aching calves, and a strong desire to do this again next year.

(I mentioned the part about him being male, right?)

This is W. and T. setting out at first light - W. has the orange camelback:

This is a bagpiper that kept up with them for the first 7 miles, without a break:

This is my favorite picture - I love the view in the distance, and all of the footprints in the dirt:

A new toy

Brian's been ordering car parts like a maniac since the 1966 Mustang came back from the paint shop.

For those of you who don't know, there's a car that's been part of our lives, weekends, and garage since early 2005. It belongs to a friend in New Orleans who kindly allowed Brian to take on a new project. Brian has taken the entire thing apart to restore it.

The car has spent a lot of time sitting in a body shop or a paint shop, waiting for busy people to get around to working on it. So it hasn't lived in our garage the entire time. But the pieces are everywhere in our house. Seats in the guest room. Glass in the closet. Dashboard gauges on the kitchen table. Stacks of Mustang magazines and car part catalogs and mechanic manuals everywhere.

Now that the body and paint work are both done, all that's left is to put it back together.

That sentence implies a certain amount of simplicity. Really, there's still some significant stuff left to do, not to mention interpreting a few diagrams in the manual that look suspiciously like Helen's artwork. But everything is (slowly) coming together.

Last week, new chrome trim parts arrived at the house.

They were packed in a not-insignificant amount of bubble wrap. Brian took it apart, set it aside, and later that evening at dinner he told Helen about the "bubbles."

It's now one of Brian's favorite words to get Helen to say. She pronounces it "buh-bullsh."

Any bubble-wrap popping addicts out there? (Mom, raise your hand. Higher.)

Meet the newest one in the family: