I'm all over the place today. Is it Monday? Is it Tuesday? When is it Friday again? Is Laura at school today, or at home with Grandma? Did I go to the gym? Is it lunch time yet? Where am I? Who am I? Does anyone know anything about anything?!
But really, my point is. I'm not sure. Do I have a point? Most Mondays of late, I have completely forgotten to post for McFatty Monday. Well, I didn't eat too very much this weekend, despite the holiday. Scratch that. I had quite a few beers and several ice creams. But I went to the gym today! And I plan to go on Thursday and probably Friday, too! And I looked great in my swimsuits all weekend! And feeling sexy is really all I'm going for here, so I think I count this past week as a win.
What about all those other memes out there? RemembeRED? This week, we are asked to write about a TV show from our past. Here's mine: Gilligan's Island. My mother has abhorred Mr. Rogers since 198-something when he did a week long special on divorce and convinced my older brother that at some point, all mommies and daddies get divorced. My parents will be celebrating their 36th year of marriage in a few weeks, thank you very much. But anyway, this meant that when Mr. Rogers came on after Sesame Street, my mother frantically grabbed for the remote to switch the channel to anything else. That anything happened to be Gilligan's Island. My brother and I l-o-v-e-d all the ridiculous stuff those people made out of coconuts, which turned into endless hours of imaginative play for us at the family's beach house. Is that a beach chair? No! It's a thatched hut! That's not a lobster pot - it's a treasure chest! I thought about how much fun we had playing Gilligan's Island this weekend as I watched Laura splash for hours on end in the pool. I can't wait for her to have siblings and cousins to play with during the summer. Note to self: buy Gilligan's Island on DVD.
Nate, Laura, Ries and I enjoyed a lovely 4th of July, complete with hammock naps, hours in the pool, Coronas, grilling, and fireworks. Lots of fireworks. I hope you had as wonderful a weekend as we did!
Showing posts with label RembeRED. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RembeRED. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
A Monday/Tuesday Potpourri
I'm all over the place today. Is it Monday? Is it Tuesday? When is it Friday again? Is Laura at school today, or at home with Grandma? Did I go to the gym? Is it lunch time yet? Where am I? Who am I? Does anyone know anything about anything?!
But really, my point is. I'm not sure. Do I have a point? Most Mondays of late, I have completely forgotten to post for McFatty Monday. Well, I didn't eat too very much this weekend, despite the holiday. Scratch that. I had quite a few beers and several ice creams. But I went to the gym today! And I plan to go on Thursday and probably Friday, too! And I looked great in my swimsuits all weekend! And feeling sexy is really all I'm going for here, so I think I count this past week as a win.
What about all those other memes out there? RemembeRED? This week, we are asked to write about a TV show from our past. Here's mine: Gilligan's Island. My mother has abhorred Mr. Rogers since 198-something when he did a week long special on divorce and convinced my older brother that at some point, all mommies and daddies get divorced. My parents will be celebrating their 36th year of marriage in a few weeks, thank you very much. But anyway, this meant that when Mr. Rogers came on after Sesame Street, my mother frantically grabbed for the remote to switch the channel to anything else. That anything happened to be Gilligan's Island. My brother and I l-o-v-e-d all the ridiculous stuff those people made out of coconuts, which turned into endless hours of imaginative play for us at the family's beach house. Is that a beach chair? No! It's a thatched hut! That's not a lobster pot - it's a treasure chest! I thought about how much fun we had playing Gilligan's Island this weekend as I watched Laura splash for hours on end in the pool. I can't wait for her to have siblings and cousins to play with during the summer. Note to self: buy Gilligan's Island on DVD.
Nate, Laura, Ries and I enjoyed a lovely 4th of July, complete with hammock naps, hours in the pool, Coronas, grilling, and fireworks. Lots of fireworks. I hope you had as wonderful a weekend as we did!
But really, my point is. I'm not sure. Do I have a point? Most Mondays of late, I have completely forgotten to post for McFatty Monday. Well, I didn't eat too very much this weekend, despite the holiday. Scratch that. I had quite a few beers and several ice creams. But I went to the gym today! And I plan to go on Thursday and probably Friday, too! And I looked great in my swimsuits all weekend! And feeling sexy is really all I'm going for here, so I think I count this past week as a win.
What about all those other memes out there? RemembeRED? This week, we are asked to write about a TV show from our past. Here's mine: Gilligan's Island. My mother has abhorred Mr. Rogers since 198-something when he did a week long special on divorce and convinced my older brother that at some point, all mommies and daddies get divorced. My parents will be celebrating their 36th year of marriage in a few weeks, thank you very much. But anyway, this meant that when Mr. Rogers came on after Sesame Street, my mother frantically grabbed for the remote to switch the channel to anything else. That anything happened to be Gilligan's Island. My brother and I l-o-v-e-d all the ridiculous stuff those people made out of coconuts, which turned into endless hours of imaginative play for us at the family's beach house. Is that a beach chair? No! It's a thatched hut! That's not a lobster pot - it's a treasure chest! I thought about how much fun we had playing Gilligan's Island this weekend as I watched Laura splash for hours on end in the pool. I can't wait for her to have siblings and cousins to play with during the summer. Note to self: buy Gilligan's Island on DVD.
Nate, Laura, Ries and I enjoyed a lovely 4th of July, complete with hammock naps, hours in the pool, Coronas, grilling, and fireworks. Lots of fireworks. I hope you had as wonderful a weekend as we did!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Summer
The first time I walked into the staff area of the Smithsonian Natural History Museum, I was overcome by a smell. The distinct smell of must and old. The smell of my great-grandmother's home. The smell of summer. The smell of moth balls. The museum hasn't used moth balls in years. But such is the nature of napthalene. The smell lingers on.
And so as I walked to class on that first day in the back rooms of the museum, I thought of my great-grandmother. My Grammy. The regal woman who never wore pants a day in her life. The proper woman who sipped a tiny glass of watered sherry every evening after dinner.
I remembered summers at her home on the Cape. A home sealed with moth balls for most of the year, opened only for a few brief months. I remembered arriving at the house and being overwhelmed by the smell. My mother would quarentine me and my brother in a "safe" room until she could go through the closets, sofas and drawers to remove the thousands of candy-like balls that had spent the winter in the house. Rain or shine, my mother opened every window and door to air out the toxic smell of the napthalene.
I remembered arriving at the house one summer, and asking my mother why it didn't smell. Don't you have to find all the little white balls before we can play? I remembered the triumphant smile on my mother's face as she told me that Grammy wasn't going to use moth balls anymore.
I walked through the back halls of the storied museums on that first day, and wondered at the millions of specimens that had been kept safe from infestation for over one hundred years by the presence of moth balls. The museum hasn't used moth balls in years, and yet the smell lingers on. My mother hasn't used moth balls since I was a child. And yet if I open the drawers of the sideboard in the dining room, I am overcome by the lingering smell of moth balls and summer.
And so as I walked to class on that first day in the back rooms of the museum, I thought of my great-grandmother. My Grammy. The regal woman who never wore pants a day in her life. The proper woman who sipped a tiny glass of watered sherry every evening after dinner.
I remembered summers at her home on the Cape. A home sealed with moth balls for most of the year, opened only for a few brief months. I remembered arriving at the house and being overwhelmed by the smell. My mother would quarentine me and my brother in a "safe" room until she could go through the closets, sofas and drawers to remove the thousands of candy-like balls that had spent the winter in the house. Rain or shine, my mother opened every window and door to air out the toxic smell of the napthalene.
I remembered arriving at the house one summer, and asking my mother why it didn't smell. Don't you have to find all the little white balls before we can play? I remembered the triumphant smile on my mother's face as she told me that Grammy wasn't going to use moth balls anymore.
I walked through the back halls of the storied museums on that first day, and wondered at the millions of specimens that had been kept safe from infestation for over one hundred years by the presence of moth balls. The museum hasn't used moth balls in years, and yet the smell lingers on. My mother hasn't used moth balls since I was a child. And yet if I open the drawers of the sideboard in the dining room, I am overcome by the lingering smell of moth balls and summer.
Summer
The first time I walked into the staff area of the Smithsonian Natural History Museum, I was overcome by a smell. The distinct smell of must and old. The smell of my great-grandmother's home. The smell of summer. The smell of moth balls. The museum hasn't used moth balls in years. But such is the nature of napthalene. The smell lingers on.
And so as I walked to class on that first day in the back rooms of the museum, I thought of my great-grandmother. My Grammy. The regal woman who never wore pants a day in her life. The proper woman who sipped a tiny glass of watered sherry every evening after dinner.
I remembered summers at her home on the Cape. A home sealed with moth balls for most of the year, opened only for a few brief months. I remembered arriving at the house and being overwhelmed by the smell. My mother would quarentine me and my brother in a "safe" room until she could go through the closets, sofas and drawers to remove the thousands of candy-like balls that had spent the winter in the house. Rain or shine, my mother opened every window and door to air out the toxic smell of the napthalene.
I remembered arriving at the house one summer, and asking my mother why it didn't smell. Don't you have to find all the little white balls before we can play? I remembered the triumphant smile on my mother's face as she told me that Grammy wasn't going to use moth balls anymore.
I walked through the back halls of the storied museums on that first day, and wondered at the millions of specimens that had been kept safe from infestation for over one hundred years by the presence of moth balls. The museum hasn't used moth balls in years, and yet the smell lingers on. My mother hasn't used moth balls since I was a child. And yet if I open the drawers of the sideboard in the dining room, I am overcome by the lingering smell of moth balls and summer.
And so as I walked to class on that first day in the back rooms of the museum, I thought of my great-grandmother. My Grammy. The regal woman who never wore pants a day in her life. The proper woman who sipped a tiny glass of watered sherry every evening after dinner.
I remembered summers at her home on the Cape. A home sealed with moth balls for most of the year, opened only for a few brief months. I remembered arriving at the house and being overwhelmed by the smell. My mother would quarentine me and my brother in a "safe" room until she could go through the closets, sofas and drawers to remove the thousands of candy-like balls that had spent the winter in the house. Rain or shine, my mother opened every window and door to air out the toxic smell of the napthalene.
I remembered arriving at the house one summer, and asking my mother why it didn't smell. Don't you have to find all the little white balls before we can play? I remembered the triumphant smile on my mother's face as she told me that Grammy wasn't going to use moth balls anymore.
I walked through the back halls of the storied museums on that first day, and wondered at the millions of specimens that had been kept safe from infestation for over one hundred years by the presence of moth balls. The museum hasn't used moth balls in years, and yet the smell lingers on. My mother hasn't used moth balls since I was a child. And yet if I open the drawers of the sideboard in the dining room, I am overcome by the lingering smell of moth balls and summer.
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