More bibs and bobs.

Doug is in the basement recording what is sure to be the next American hit single for his final push towards the completion of the RPM Challenge, and I am up here wasting (er... spending?) time on my blog. I was going to play my violin, but it's hard to play and hear myself over the sounds coming from downstairs. So Internet, I give in to you, finally.

I get up early for work (up and brushing the teeth, etc., by 5:45am), and have conditioned my body to get up early. If I am lucky, I can sleep to 7, maybe 7:30 on the weekends (sometimes until 8 if I am super tired or feeling under the weather), but I find myself waking up before 7 most weekend days. Today I woke up at 6:10am. No cats, no alarm to rouse me; just my overactive mind (and bladder) thinking about trips to the Badlands. We saw Marieke and Curt last night, and between Curt's sales pitch and Marieke's nearly-professional photos, I'm ready to book a flight and see them for myself. I've added South Dakota to my overwhelmingly long list of places to go. I had better start booking some of these trips or else I'll never get through my list.

I was able to scratch some things off of my to-do list this weekend, though, which is an advantage to getting up so early. I cut all the material for my quilt binding and made some great progress on this round of bib-making. These are the first two that I made today and I was pleased with how they came out, considering that I haven't made any bibs since last February (for my cousin's baby shower. Has it really been that long? I guess so!). I got ten done today, so only have six more (and all the snaps) to go. Should be able to finish next weekend, which will allow me to focus again on the quilt. It's my new goal to get the quilt done by the end of April, in time for the unearthing of the bed from the heavy wool blanket and down comforter. Having the quilt on the bed will be a great way to say good-bye to winter.

But, will winter ever end, really? It seems not this year. I was so thrilled on Saturday morning to see grass, actual grass, actual grass that had a slight green tint to it, that I had to take a picture. I had a feeling that it wouldn't last long, and I was right. This morning when I woke up we had four inches of fresh, heavy snow! Yay, shoveling! Doug looks thrilled, doesn't he? I decided to approach this snow with a different attitude, though. I could have, so easily, trudged outside to shovel off the driveway and clear off the cars with a very heavy heart and a very bad attitude, because, really, how much more can I take of this winter? Instead I decided to enjoy myself a little bit and I made myself a little snowperson. The snow was great for this, and who knows what kind of nasty weather we'll get next. I may not have another chance this winter to make a snowman. So, my little snowman watched me shovel from atop the recycling bin, and was soon joined by Doug's snowthing.

We had another visitor today, too - Max. Max lives next door. He stops by every once in a while and begs us to come out and play with him. We always put on our coats and go out to play with him, but he's never actually looking to play, that tricky Max. He's just looking for dog treats. The people who lived here before us used to feed Max cookies whenever he got out of his yard and wandered over into this yard, and we have kept up the tradition. Max must love getting loose, because I give him about ten doggie cookies at a time. He's such a bad begger, and I'm such a sucker. He does paw! I love paw. If the cats could do paw with me they'd be a lot more portly than they are now, that's for sure.

Okay, what else. Oh yeah. So after Max got his doggie treats I decided that it was time for me and Doug to have our human treats, and I made us some Belgian waffles. This was the first time that I ever made anything with yeast, and I was amazed by the stuff. The dry yeast looks like little worms, and what it does to the dough (makes it expand to about twice its original size) is pretty impressive. In true Rosanne fashion, the kitchen was a bit of a disaster zone while I was cooking the waffles but the end result was definitely worth it. I ate about eight of them. King Arthur makes a good Belgian waffle mix, that's for sure!

But I want you to notice in that last photo my hands. My red, scaly, scary looking hands. I have been having some real issues with my hands lately, or, more specifically, my fingers. They are either bright red or a strange purplish color, and my pinky and index finger on my right hand are swollen, with hard deposits under the skin at the tops. I tell you this because I've had this issue for a while (I'm becoming more and more convinced that I have Raynaud's, but the swollen, tender, hard deposits I can't account for.). I don't want to go to the doctor, because every time I go to the doctor I'm told to drink more water, eat more vegetables and get more sleep, and then I'll be as good as new, but I want someone to know in case I pass out from fever and infection what could be the problem. Maybe if I use lotion my scaly skin would be improved. Or maybe I just need spring to cure me. I think I prefer the latter.

Bibs and bobs.

Today's the kind of day for lists. I'm making lists. This one can be my list of notable, blog-worthy mentionables from the recent past. I won't publish my other lists. They'd bore you to tears.

* American Girl. As mentioned, we took another trip to American Girl, my sister, niece, mother, and I. Maria has been begging to go since November, so it was time to finally give in and go. She had birthday and Christmas (and grandma and mommy) money to burn! I got there about five minutes or so before the doors to the store opened, and you would not have believed the line to get inside. Girls from ages 4 through 12, either in groups or alone, with their parents, grandparents, or family, some dressed to the nines in their party best (likely to go to a birthday party inside in one of the party rooms), and some looking like they just rolled out of bed, but all so, so, so excited to be at American Girl. Many were being asked, "Can you believe you are actually here?" And many answering, "It's a dream come true!" All were in awe of the window display of Kanani, the 2011 girl of the year, who is Hawaiian and surfs with the dolphins, or some other such talent. Maria, who arrived with my mother and her mother a few minutes after the doors opened, did not have time to stop and stare at Kanani's window display; the excitement of getting in the store and getting her own Kanani in her own hands were just too much to bear. Maria had her Kanani fever satiated early into the visit with her bee-line to the Kanani display, but Lani, the one of Maria's American Girl dolls that she decided to bring with her that day, had her own needs to satisfy. Lani joined us because she had to get a pair of glasses (she's been having vision problems of late), and had to have her hair combed and styled (Maria can't get her to do anything with her hair). Plus, Lani had been begging, just begging, for her ears to be pierced like her mother's and her sister Kit's. And all of Lani's wishes came true - glasses to correct her vision, lovely hair, and a pair of earrings. American girl is truly a magical place.

* Quilt. I'm on the final phase of my quilt! My aunt and mother came up one Sunday to help me get more of my quilting done, but turns out that I had made more progress on quilting the squares than any of us had thought. Which meant that in no time my mother and aunt had quilted the final few of the squares and we were left to prep the quilt to be bound. Prepping it involved cutting off the excess material from the edges of the quilt and removing all 8,000 of the pins that we had used to keep it together. I bought the material I need for the binding, and now I just have to cut that, sew all of that together into one, long strip, and somehow figure out how to sew the strip on. In truth, the binding is the part of the quilt that I am looking forward to the least. I have this book that tells me how I should bind my quilt, but I had in my head a different way of doing it, something much less complicated, but also much less proper. I am currently debating (with myself) which way to do it, and I'm leaning towards the proper way, but that way involves more measuring, more advanced sewing techniques, and it makes me a little nervous. Which means I may procrastinate on this. Which means I may not get this done before summer like I had thought I could!

* Bibs. I'll be making more bibs soon. One of these days. I've got the material ready to be cut, so now I just have to sit down and cut it and sew it. Who are these bibs for, you may be wondering? Two girls I used to work with at Bain Capital. One is due the first week of April and the other is due the first week in June. I had planned to make them bibs when I first learned that they were pregnant, so I decided to not let something like me not working with them stop me from making them baby gifts. Plus, it gives me more practice. It's like riding a bike - if you haven't done it in a while you won't forget how to do it, necessarily, but you will certainly be rusty.

* Working overnight. I did it. I did my first overnight shift at Lamont, and I survived. I really had very little problem with staying awake while I was actually at work (only started to have the eyes get heavy around 7:20am, coincidentally while I was trying to work on an Excel spreadsheet), but the drive home was tough. I was fine until about Needham, about ten-fifteen minutes from home, but at that point I just started to fall asleep. Like, really fall asleep. Eyes closing, driving the car into the other lane or towards the curb... you know, those kinds of things. So that wasn't good. But the night itself was not bad at all. I got to watch the sunrise from the window in my office, and I was amazed at a) the number of people in the building, and b) how fast the time went by. I was able to sleep for about 5 hours after I finally got home, but definitely went to bed early that night. So even though it took me about a full day to recover, it was doable, and I might even do it again, voluntarily, before the end of the semester. It breaks up the routine, you know?

* Maine. Doug and I went to Maine on Saturday to celebrate our three-year anniversary (our actual anniversary day, the 16th, was pretty uneventful, as weekday anniversaries tend to be, it seems). We drove around some, and then stopped to get out of the car to enjoy the crisp, Maine winter scenery. We stopped at Back Cove in Portland to try to do the Back Cove Trail, but the trail was alternately a sheet of ice and a mud puddle, so we gave up after a short way around. But, I got a photo of Doug with a smile on his face, so that was a plus. (Yes, that was a smile.) After we gave up on Back Cove, we headed over to the Gilsland Farm in Falmouth, of the Main Audubon Society, which was more difficult walking conditions - again, either completely frozen over and a sheet of ice, or snow about a foot and a half deep. We were a little more successful here, but only marginally so, so we gave up after getting another photo of Doug with a smile. This time his smile is a little more recognizable.

After Gilsland Farm, we grabbed some food in downtown Portland and then just sort of meandered about. We found our way to the top of Portland, overlooking the airport, and I captured a nice shot of the Portland sunset. That would have been a great way to end our anniversary day, except that we had the privilege of eating Haggarty's with Chris, Chris and Ruby (and Lu and Stu), and realized, yet again, that there is nothing more satisfying than good company and good conversation. Not even beautiful sunsets.

I like this Hallmark holiday.

I was planning to write a post that caught you up on all the things that have been going on since I last wrote a post (such as our trip to American Girl, my addiction to Cap'n Crunch's Peanut Butter Crunch (but only in the retro packaging), my smarty-pants sister's momentous passing of her NCLEX, my first overnight shift at Lamont, etc., etc., etc.), but instead I'll write about Valentine's Day.

I don't know if I ever really cared for Valentine's Day before I was married. I think Doug and I gave each other cards each year, or maybe he got me flowers and chocolate and I gave him something meaningful and touching, like socks, or new Fruit of the Looms, or something like that. But because we married so close to Valentine's Day, I feel like Valentine's Day is a great way to get in some early celebrating of us. It's a great lead-in to our anniversary-celebrating, and plus I like the excuse to give cards. I don't think we give enough cards anymore. Real cards. With real hand-written messages and stamps and stuff. We as a society. I could be generalizing, but I rarely get cards in my mailbox; just solicitations from charities or credit card companies. Hallmark must not be pleased.

But Doug and I try to do our part for Hallmark on Valentine's Day, this year included. We started our celebrating on Saturday night, when we went to Modern Apizza on our way back from visiting Doug's grandfather at Bridgeport Hospital. Look at this thing: It's a gift from the gods, really.

On Sunday, Doug and I spent our morning at the grocery store, where I was faced with this as soon as I walked into the store: I am proud to say that I resisted all of those mesmerizing treats, because I planned to stuff myself silly at dinner later that day. We had a Valentine's meal with my mother and aunt planned, who were up helping me quilt (more on that to come - such progress has been made!). That's my mother's borsh-casserole (really borscht, but on her recipe it's called borsch, and I keep that spelling consistent because it's not true borscht; it's definitely modified) that's in my bowl, and I made it myself! How festive it is, with its hot-pink hue (it's from the beets, not from anything I did wrong, at least this time).

This brings us to actual Valentine's Day, which was yesterday. Doug and I celebrated by giving our usual Valentine's treats - flowers, chocolate, and greeting cards - and skipping the gym to watch Watson go head-to-head with Jeopardy's two all-time greatest champions. I admit to finding this competition fascinating, but also a little scary. Watson, so far, is a tough competitor, and Ken and Brad have to put a little more effort in if they are going to do we humans proud. I am waiting for Doug to get home from band practice so that we can watch the second round of competition that happened earlier tonight. And tomorrow, on our anniversary, we will watch the final round, when we learn the winner of this tournament, and learn just where man stands up versus the machine. I tell you, I'm a little nervous about this. Watson is a smart cookie. If I weren't still under the control of a chocolate-induced coma, I might blog more about what this could mean for mankind, but instead I'll just go have more chocolate. I have to get rid of yesterday's candy before I can make room for tomorrow's.

Hitting a little too close to home.

I just finished reading Lydia Davis's new translation of Madame Bovary. I had read the piece before; I think I read it, or at least in parts, in high school English class, and then I read it in one of my French classes in college (in French). Neither time did the book leave much of an impression on me. (I remember watching the film more than reading the book; I have images of Isabelle Huppert, as Emma, languishing on her deathbed, coughing up black bile. That doesn't happen in the book, as least in this latest translation.) Yet this time, with this reading, I am scarred by the book, or at least wounded. No, shamed. Shamed may be a better descriptor. Because I see a bit of me in Emma Bovary, and I'm distressed by this.

Maybe my link to Emma Bovary is tenuous, but, like her, I formed my vision of the world through books, not actual life experiences. She read the works of Sir Walter Scott and the tales of Arthur and his knights, and I read Sweet Valley High and Anne of Green Gables, but I think the effect was the same. We created these fabled and almost mythical images of what our futures - our grown-up worlds - would be like, and when they didn't turn out that way we became disappointed. Emma Bovary reacts quite forcefully and indulges in materialism and passions, and I have created a numbing, defensive barrier that protects myself and these childhood notions from the outer world. Emma is not successful in her coping, and I wonder how successful I am. When I sit with furrowed brow, silently fuming at yet again having to be the one to cook dinner even though I'm just as engaged in my activities as Doug, I think I'm not very successful at all.

Oh, good lord. This post risks becoming one of those introspective melodramas that I at times unleash on the poor, unsuspecting Internet. I guess all that I'm trying to say is that I realize that there is a difference between what I thought my adult life would be like when I was young and what it is actually like. My life is not terrible; on the contrary, there are many good things about my life. But there is a contrast in what I had envisioned and what is reality, and it would seem that I still have a difficult time coming to grips with this contrast.

Lest anyone think that as young Rosie I was wishing that a knight in shining armor would come to sweep me away, that my Prince would give me that fateful kiss or that glass slipper and I would be whisked away to a castle, horse-drawn carriages, dresses of silk and muslin with hoop skirts and poofed sleeves, let me set you straight. My one wish, my most pronounced and memorable wish, was to be old (old to me was somewhere between 35 and 40, by the way; I guess that was old to a 10 year-old). I wanted to be instantly old so that I could bypass adolescence, pimples, dating, college, finding a career, applying for jobs, finding a husband... all of those things that come along with what I thought of as "growing up." I wanted to bypass all of it, all of its decisions and uncertainty, and I wanted to simply be "grown up" - have a job, have a husband, have a house, have a car, and live that very suburban vision of happily ever after. My castle was one of the large colonial homes on Main Street in South Windsor, with maybe a sheep or a horse or two out back (not for my carriage, though), and my prince was nameless and faceless but someone who was stable and steady and always around. What's ironic is that I suppose I am in that place now, that place of my 10 year-old fantasy, and yet I still find myself wishing to be "grown up." To bypass my thirties and forties and to suddenly find myself retired, selling my house here to buy a condo somewhere near the water, downsizing and getting rid of all the worries and decisions that come with being where I am right now (mentally and geographically where I am). But because I am a "grown up," I know that I cannot bypass the next thirty-plus years of my life, I cannot be instantly retired, I cannot shed the anxieties and concerns of my life, not now and not really ever. So in a way I feel stuck. I shouldn't feel stuck but I do feel stuck. I've grown to think that being stuck is what being an adult is all about, and I am beginning to wish that I didn't spend my time as a kind wanting to be old. I wish I had enjoyed being a kid, when I wasn't stuck. At the time, though, I didn't know that I wasn't stuck, and I didn't know what being a kid really meant. That kind of carefree childhood wasn't in the cards for me.

So what's in the cards for me now? I hope acceptance. Understanding. And, if I'm lucky, at some point contentment. Because my grown-up life isn't so bad - isn't bad at all, actually - and before I know it I'll be 62, looking retirement and, if they haven't yet hit me, major health problems in the eye, and I'll be wishing that I hadn't spent my thirties wishing I were sixty and that I instead enjoyed the great things that I had before me. And I'm trying. Most days I do a good job of trying. But some days I don't, and the winter certainly doesn't help. If only I could see the grass... if only I could see a daffodil push up from the dirt. Maybe that's my new wish. Instead of wishing for the passing of life, I wish for the start of it. I wish for spring.