The Return of the Mojo

After my recent painful experience while rereading one of the Harry Potter books, I was almost afraid to try reading anything longer than a magazine article. I picked up another children’s book, though, and crossed my fingers. I am relieved to report that some of my reading mojo has returned.

Dancing Shoes by Noel Streatfeild
Grade: B

Sorry to say, the book that brought back my mojo will not be kept as a favorite. Narrated more than described, the story is dull, at least from the perspective of an adult who never had aspirations as a dancer. My mother forced dance classes upon me when I was very young. Perhaps that should have made me sympathetic toward the main character, Rachel, who hates dancing but is forced to work in a dancing troupe, but I just couldn’t care about her predicament or her concern that her sister Hilary would become the “wrong kind” of dancer.

See, Rachel wants Hilary to become a ballet dancer, because she believes that’s what their deceased mother would have wanted. Hilary just wants to dance for fun, and not even that very much. By the end of the book, she just thinks she’ll have a couple of babies and laze around for the rest of her life. Geez. What a downer way to end a book that’s supposed to be about a little girl’s fondest dream of becoming a dancer.

Other cast members include the uninvolved Uncle Tom, the mean Aunt Cora, the spoiled Dulcie, and the bland Pursey. I didn’t like any of the characters except perhaps Mrs. Storm, the sympathetic teacher, but she was as one-dimensional as the rest.

As this book is considered a classic (I can’t help but think back to the movie You’ve Got Mail and how dearly its main character loved Streatfeild’s books), I believe it likely that young girls will love this book. So I give it a B and recommend it for girls.

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Quoth the Robin

Once upon a morning eerie, while we slept still weak and weary,
Under covers, asleep, the silence unbroken by even a snore,
While we lay there, clearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one loudly rapping, rapping at our mud room door…

It was around 6 a.m. on Saturday morning when we heard a tapping coming from the mud room downstairs. Faithful Reader grabbed his weapon of choice, a small keepsake PawSox bat, and crept down the stairs to surprise our intruder, whoever or whatever it might turn out to be. When he came back upstairs, he mumbled something about fluttering wings and went back to sleep.

Around 8 a.m., I was awakened again by the same noise. I sneaked downstairs and slowly opened the mud room door. There was no one there. I was looking directly out the back-door window when all of the sudden a robin fluttered up and rat-a-tat-tatted on the glass, only to disappear again seconds later. As I stood there wondering if I had really seen a robin knocking on the door, he did again. And then again. I went to the door and peered outside, and there was the robin sitting on a pile of wood, looking perfectly innocent. He saw me and flew away, but he had left evidence behind. There were smudgy beak marks all over the window and poops aplenty on the wood pile.

We probably would already have forgotten about this Hitchcockian episode were it not for our running robin joke. You see, Faithful Reader has been insisting for weeks that the robins are watching him. They hang around our house all the time, and if they notice that you’re watching them, they stare right back at you. It is strangely unnerving to gawked at by birds. Now that the robins have gone from surveillance to harassment, Faithful Reader must be wondering, will it escalate?

Quoth the robin, “This is war.”

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A Swarm of Blessings

We have a room in our house that I’m not sure what to call. The old owners called it the Dog’s Room, presumably because they kept their dog locked in there, which probably wasn’t very nice for the dog. As the room that opens to the garage, it is dirty. As the room with the furnace, it is sooty.  Poor dirty, sooty dog! The room also functions as a laundry. So sometimes I call it the Mud Room and sometimes the Furnace Room and sometimes the Laundry Room.

Today I might have called it the Ant Room, because it was crawling with ants, most of them winged. I saw a few and stomped on them, but with every stomp I noticed another live one, until I realized that they were everywhere and that eradicating them would require more than just my stomping foot. Further investigation revealed a mass of them emerging from a hole in the foundation slab. We had a full swarm on our hands

It sounds like a horrible scene, and I was startled at first but not really scared or disgusted. I have a certain amount of tolerance for generic types of ants. I won’t let them live in my house, mind you, but I’m not going to freak out while they’re here.

The emotion I’m feeling the most is relief. They appear to be pavement ants, which are relatively harmless. Had they been millipedes or centipedes, I would have been screaming, dancing around in fear that they’d crawl up my legs, and I would almost certainly have needed a shower after the encounter. Had they been carpenter ants or termites, I’d have been worried for my house. Our ants are like sweet little angels in comparison

It’s like they say—count your blessings. Every single ant in that swarm is a blessing because it’s not something worse.

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31 Weeks

One nice thing about my pregnancy is that I haven’t had to buy any maternity clothes. Oh, believe me, I couldn’t have gotten this far without them. There came a point, somewhere around 4 months, when normal pants just didn’t fit around my belly anymore, even if they were a size too large and made from stretchy material. No, I just got lucky because my mom took me shopping and bought me enough outfits to get me through the first two trimesters.

My sister-in-law also gave me tons of second-hand maternity clothes, some from her two pregnancies, some from her sister-in-law’s. Since most of the clothes were for warmer weather, I haven’t had much use for them until now. I went through them again this week and found a few more wearable items. They should be enough to get me through most situations, the one exception being Faithful Reader’s cousin’s wedding. That is, if we can go. Her wedding is scheduled for the day before my due date!

During my months of wearing maternity clothes, I have developed a love-hate relationship with them. On one hand, I hate the poor quality and the lint-attracting capabilities. The limited sizing is also ridiculous—just S, M, L, XL, and XXL, even for pants, with no consideration for height or stage of pregnancy—and the sizes are so inconsistent that I might wear anything from a medium to an extra-large. On the other hand, I love the convenience and comfort that maternity clothes offer. They go on easy and there are no buttons or zippers to worry about. Most of the pants have elastic panels in the waist, which can be very comfortable. But even this has a drawback. Some of the pants just won’t stay up and I find myself constantly tugging at them.

Readjusting my clothes is one of those things that once upon a time I would only have done out of public sight (i.e., at home or in the privacy of a bathroom), but pregnancy has given me the courage to readjust anywhere. This courage springs from a combination of necessity and self-righteousness. If you went to the bathroom every time you needed to readjust, between that and your real bathroom breaks, you’d be in there all day. It is also better to readjust than to show your privates in public. That’s the necessity half of the equation. Pregnancy also gives you a feeling of being justified in behavior that’s normally not socially condoned, because you know that people will cut you some slack out of sympathy and respect for your physical condition. If they don’t, then they should, dammit! This attitude doesn’t just apply to clothing readjustments, but also to audible burps, absent-minded belly rubbing, putting your feet up whenever you feel like it, and other such “unladylike” behaviors.

There are other good social benefits of being pregnant too. For one thing, it provides an endless amount of conversation, at least at first. People who are good at small talk may not appreciate the benefit, but if you’re like me, confined mostly to weather-related subjects, pregnancy is the best conversation source ever invented. People can’t help but ask you questions—how are you feeling? when are you due? which hospital will you use? will you nurse? Answering them is easy. The only problem is that you get sick of the subject, begin to hate the way it dominates the conversation, and start subtly trying to steer the talk toward other topics. In other words, you start learning better conversation skills!

I haven’t quite gotten the knack of it, as I found yesterday at the wedding shower for that cousin I mentioned earlier. I did my best, but Baby was still Topic #1. But then, he is going to be the cutest baby in the world, so doesn’t he deserve to be Topic #1?

🙂

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Ha, Ha, Ha. Umberto!

Last Thursday night we had a gift certificate for a restaurant in Providence and tickets to a show at the nearby Providence Performing Arts Center (PPAC). The restaurant, Aspire, had an attractive decor and a menu with some tasty-sounding items at affordable, if slightly expensive, prices. The food was presented prettily enough, but it was awfully bland. I salted my roasted half chicken twice. Faithful Reader salted his stuffed pork chop three times. This from people who hardly ever pick up the saltshaker! Aspire seems like a good location to hang out and have a drink, but I wouldn’t recommend it for dinner.

After dessert and coffee, we walked down to PPAC, a beautiful old theater, built in the 1920s as a Loew’s Movie Palace. I spent some of the preshow time just staring at the walls and up at the ceiling. It’s all glitter and gold. Thank goodness it wasn’t torn down in the ’70s. They just don’t make theaters like that anymore.

The headline act was comedian Brian Regan. Neither of us had ever seen him perform except in some short clips at YouTube. In fact, neither of us had even heard of him before I started looking for a show to see at PPAC, which I only did because I had a gift certificate to Aspire. Ironically, the show was the better part of the outing. I was impressed at how entertaining Regan could be while keeping his act clean. He didn’t use a single vulgar word. That’s so rare and very much appreciated. The theater was packed with fans, some of whom called out routines for him to perform during the encore, so other people must appreciate it too.

Regan also taught us about the power of suggestion. One of his jokes was about Pop Tarts. Faithful Reader and I hadn’t had Pop Tarts for eons and suddenly we felt a mad desire to buy them, so we stopped at the grocery store on the way home. We couldn’t agree on a flavor and ultimately bought two boxes, both of which, by the way, are already gone. Shame on us!

P.S. A word of advice to the people who sat behind us at the show: Regan’s jokes were funny, but they weren’t made magically funnier when you echoed the punchlines (“Ha, ha, ha. Umberto! Ha, Ha.”). Here’s an idea—how about next time you bring some Pop Tarts and keep your mouth full during the show? That way we can all be happy. Faithful Reader and I can watch the show without distraction and you can have yummies in your tummies.

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They Call Him Mr. Salamander

“Did you post the picture yet? Didya? Didya, huh?” asked my Faithful Reader.

mr-salamander

This is the cute salamander that crept onto our patio a couple of weeks ago.

Thanks for the photo, Faithful Reader!

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30 Weeks

My biggest struggle last week was with the iron pills. I couldn’t seem to find a good time to take them. They supposedly work best on an empty stomach, but I never seemed to have an empty stomach. It was as if I had always just eaten or was just about to eat. When I managed to find a time that was truly between meals, the pills upset my stomach and then I had to eat something to settle it down. So really, what was the point of even attempting to take them on an empty stomach? It took me all week to realize that. Now I just take the stupid things when and if I remember to.

On Saturday we had our all-day childbirth class. It was both frightening and reassuring. I’m not sure it will really help us prepare for the big scary day, but there was a definite bonus in going. Faithful Reader had to massage me or look like an insensitive bastard in front of a roomful of people. That made it well worth my time and money.

My sister-in-law’s sister-in-law gave us a huge bin of baby boy clothes. Some of them have not only never been worn, they’ve never even been taken off the hanger. I wish I could sort through them now, but we won’t know what to keep until the little one is born. If he’s a bitty baby, the warmer things will fit him next winter. If he’s a big boy, they won’t. I guess we’ll find out soon enough. Only 10 more weeks to go!

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Time Flies

I just realized that today is my two-year blogversary. Sing along with me, Faithful Reader.

Happy Blogversary to me,
Happy Blogversary to me,
Happy Blogversary, Dear Me,
Happy Blogversary to me.

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More Cake!

wedding-cake

On the day of the wedding, Faithful Reader and I cut the cake according to tradition and fed each other small pieces, while I (and perhaps he, too) prayed for the embarrassment to be over quickly.

If I had known it would be my only taste of the wedding cake that evening, I might have savored more that tiny morsel. We were so busy making the rounds and talking to our guests that we never got a chance to eat the slices of cake that had been served at our table. The cake top, which ought to have been saved and frozen until our one-year anniversary, accidentally ended up sitting in a garage for a week. We returned from our honeymoon to find that our beautiful cake had become a greasy mess. We had no choice but to throw it away.

Part of the supplementary sheet cake did survive, though, stored in my sister-in-law’s freezer for all these months. Last night we finally brought it home. Faithful Reader chiseled out a couple of slices and nuked them just long enough to soften them up. The trace of freezer flavor could not ruin the wonderful sweetness of the frosting and the filling, which were perfectly made, and the reason we decided to go with that particular baker. I’m relieved to know that we made such a good choice.

Eating the cake reminded me of our wedding day, which was a great time to revisit in my memory after having spent most of the day in childbirth class. Childbirth is one of the scariest things I’ve ever had to face, but cake helps. It’s hard to be scared while eating cake. I think that as long as my Faithful Reader is by my side and he promises that we will have more cake, I’ll be able to get through the birth of our child.

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29 Weeks

I wish I could pinpoint the exact moment when I started to feel the baby kicking, but this is my first pregnancy. When I first felt something moving in my belly, I couldn’t be 100% sure that it wasn’t just gas. I didn’t want to call it a kick until I knew it was a kick.

Since those first flutters, the little guy has grown increasingly active. Now I can’t help but notice his kicks, which are often strong enough to visibly move my belly, sometimes even enough to bump up my arm if it happens to be laying across my stomach. I had the strangest new sensation just the other day. He moved against my belly and held his position. When I put my hand against the spot, I felt a firm lump, and I wondered whether it was his elbow, his foot, or his head.

I would love to be able to look inside and see what he’s up to.  Too bad the belly button doesn’t function as a peephole!

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