1 Point For It Being Dark

I just went out to walk the dogs, and didn't quite catch how I was attired until stepping out the door. Witness:

A red sweatshirt
Navy track pants with white piping
Powder blue down vest
Fabric flats in an orange/brown/green floral pattern

A vision, I assure you. A vision.

Possibly Taking This Back To School Thing Too Far

I recently (as in, last night) got this bug in my ass to learn Irish Gaelic and Welsh.

Yeah. The hell if I know either. Ok, well, in all fairness, I was dinking around online listening/watching various things on YouTube and it got me to remembering the five erstwhile weeks of taking Gaelic classes in middle school through the Toronto Board of Ed's "Saturday School" program (I'm sure many of you remember this - just about every language you could possibly think of and for the most part they were attended by kids actually of that cultural persuasion who were generally frogmarched there by Mom, Dad, Baba, Papou, whomever). My friend Catherine and I were somehow all fired up about this whole BEING CELTIC WOMENZ thing and so we made a pact to go together. And learn Gaelic. Yeah, so, five weeks. I do remember how to pronounce dubh and what it means (black, for the record). And that we ran into Kiefer Sutherland eating pizza by himself at a local cafe after class once.

The thing is - I'm starting grad school in the fall. None of my classes, as far as I can tell, will be in either Irish or Welsh. I started spinning this elaborate justification in today's runaround about how, well, I want to be an archivist and HEY who says there aren't any documents in Irish or Welsh that need, um, archiving. Yeah, maybe not so much in California, huh?

On the other hand, it's kind of nice to have a jonesing for something completely random and yet vaguely cerebral. Plus if I did make any headway whatsoever in either language, it's kind of like having a secret language. Sort of. I think I will also put forth the 'getting older, feeling it good to maintain a connection with whatever cultural heritage I have' as a rationale for this completely batshit idea. That being said, if you look at written Irish or Welsh as you are listening to it, it is a complete mindfuck - maybe I have this desire to challenge myself by breaking a 'code'. Honestly, I really have no idea, but I'll keep y'all posted. Because I know you're all dying to hear me count to ten and tell you the days of the week and "Padraig and Angharad go into the shops. They buy one (ten) cartons of milk (beer)"

If I Think Too Hard About This

My brain will explode, and I don't want to hear any commentary about how that is 'so mean' to that poor dog. If you own one (or two or ten) you know what little shits they are, and I defy you to deny that you haven't eyed a similar situation...theoretically. Yes. Theoretically.

From IHAHD

Yet Another Pretty Awesome Milestone

Bean was recently invited to her first birthday party (and the parents kindly included Peabo too, which was lovely and generous), so we are off to the Hillsdale Mall Build-A-Bear this afternoon to accumulate more stuffed animals.

The aide in her class is the mom in question, and her now-6-year-old daughter is in another of the kindergarten classes, but knows Bean from recess and lunch, and such. I do recognize that the invite comes from mom, but you know what? Who cares? We're going to a thoroughly typical childhood experience, with thoroughly typical children and probably the thoroughly typical result of utter and complete chaos.

ROCK ON. It was profoundly sweet to make the Target run this morning for a gift and card, along with everyone else and their brother. Seriously, I think half the people in there were trying to find birthday presents for parties later in the day, it was mad. As I was checking out, I thought 'here is yet one more milestone I was hesitant to let myself even hope would happen, even just once. And here I am, loaded up with gift and card and wrapping paper."

And for the record, yes, I bought Barbie crap. Of course.

Proof She's Mine

Bean is, or at least has been, pretty much 100% Hoffman, even down to the dead straight, super blond hair. However! Within the last few months, I've discovered a bit more of a curl to her hair when wet especially, and so I've been babying it as you would do to fine, curly tresses, and whaddaya know? She's mine.

It's sick hot here, which of course makes plenty of sense since we still had the heat on full blast this time last week. Above is what happens to curly heads in the humidity coupled with shvitzing.

Bah Humbug

This week has been a bit of a series of "watch Heather get old and fall apart", though I should look at most of it as a kind of preemptive strike, one better done in my early 30s rather than in my late 40s, but still. No fun.

So on the heels of the mild dental surgery came the report from my doctor re: my blood work for cholesterol, glucose, this that and the other - standard drill. It appears (and I sort of knew this anyway but was in a bit of denial) that my dad, lovely man though he is, has bequeathed to me curly hair, a large nose, and crap cholesterol. I'm certainly not in any imminent danger of a heart attack, and my blood pressure was fantastic, so that's something, but it was thoroughly depressing to see the check marks in the 'abnormal' box. I could certainly stand to lose about 10 lbs, and of course everyone needs a goodly amount of exercise in their day, but quite honestly, I just don't eat that poorly, and I really have been trying to cut out my downfall, i.e, dairy deliciousness (read: strong and rich cheeses). However, the numbers are the numbers, and so I have to gird my loins and eat revolting things like oatmeal. Fortunately I do like other things that are 'good' for you like blueberries and grapefruit and walnuts and edamame and such, but ... ew. Oatmeal. Aren't Cheerios supposed to do a similar job? I could handle Cheerios.

I'm trying to look at this never ending bowl of slop and remind myself of my grandfather and his making of 'porridge' every morning when they would stay with us, and the disallowing of sitting to table until your face was washed and teeth were brushed, and I have very fond memories of that but then again - this genetic component came from him, so...bah humbug.

An Offer I Could Not Refuse

Two upper root bondings, mandibular labial frenectomy, a goodly amount of Lidocaine: $926
Iced coffee because it comes with a straw: $2.20
Sounding rather like Marlon Brando in "The Godfather": Priceless

Half Fat Triple Caffe Extermilatte

Backstory: Heather the resolute city girl is quite willing to move to a huge ass ranch in Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, Texas, similar - it either has to be millions of people, or no people. I am a woman of extremes. Anyway, I was telling Gene that one summer when the girls are a bit older, it would be great fun to rent a house or something in Montana and see horses and elk and cattle, oh my. Happened across one in an apparently teeninecy town, or rather, 10 miles away that read, in part:

There are two towns nearby, Craig which is 10 miles upstream and has a great Flyshop and a small store with all the basics including a Starbucks for that morning wake up.

Ignoring the run on sentence, it is increasingly clear that Starbucks really IS everywhere. It is also increasingly clear that after the Apocalypse, the cockroaches will be pulling lattes (thanks to Gene for that image).

Buy! Sell! Buy, Buy, BUY!

Peabo is quite fond of pretending to drink out of our empty coffee cups, as well as 'talk' on the phone. Today she managed to do both simultaneously, and I nearly fell over with laughing too hard. The slightly shouted conversation into the phone while 'sipping' her coffee was just spot on.

One Of The Smartest Things I've Read In A While

Topical, too, since Peabo just got her first skinned knee the other day. She was fine within thirty seconds, by the way.

http://knoxvilletalks.com/2008/05/02/the-value-of-a-few-skinned-knees/