Reason #4751 why I love J.P.

Because when the dog started ‘woofing’ at 3:51 (and again at 4:09) this morning, he was willing to get up and let her out. Allowing me to stay in our cozy warm bed. And I bet he would’ve done it even if it hadn’t been my birthday.

Happy Birthday to me!

When I walked in the door after rehearsal last night, J.P. had this masterpiece waiting for me. Well, it wasn’t exactly waiting—he was still working on it, and I helped him finish. But still! J.P. does 99% of the cooking, but he’s not so into the baking. So it was really sweet of him to do this for me. There’s yellow cake under all that yummy frosting, and I can’t wait to taste it!

Birthdays are always a time of reflection. Am I where I want to be at this point in my life? (Does anyone EVER say yes to that question?) What are my goals for the next year? What do I want to be when I grow up?

While I’m not where I thought I would be, and I certainly wouldn’t have chosen the path that my life has taken, I have to say I’m in a pretty good place. I have a wonderful, loving, supportive husband, and we have a great life together.

Goals? Bleh . . . for better or worse, I’ve never been much of a goal-setter.

I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up (think that has something to do with the lack of goal setting?). I think I’m pretty good at my job, but I’m not sure I’d like to do it forever. I’m still learning new things, so I’ll stick with it until I get bored or something better presents itself. Plus, there’s the life insurance.

A lot of people get bummed out about being another year older. But for me, that all changed with my cancer diagnosis. Birthdays are no longer something to dread . . . they’re to be celebrated because it means I’m still here. Enjoy your birthdays and all the days in between. You don’t know how many more you’ll get.

Yes! I made it to 36!

Story of the Dot

I couldn’t be with my family in Minnesota for Easter, but a little piece of my family was here with us. When my grandma died ten years ago (I can’t believe it’s been ten years), I inherited her china and a tablecloth that she had crocheted. Of all the things that were in her house, I really wanted the tablecloth because it was something she’d made herself.

Today James Lileks wrote about his trip home for Easter, and he mentions some afghans that his grandmother knitted:

Because here I am in my father’s new house, staring at this letter my Grandma wrote in wool. You can run your hands along it and pretend you’re touching her; you can imagine the day at the farm, with Grandma knitting in the front room, Grandpa looking for the car keys so he can drive out and check the progress of the crops, Folger’s brewing in the kitchen, Eli loping off to the barn to change the oil in the tractor, worrried about a pain he’s been having. But you’ll get nothing out of them. Gnat has no idea of the blanket that kept her warm, just as Grandma had no idea there would ever be a Gnat. It can drive you nuts, the wishing. But what can you do? You remember, you pass it on, you let it go.

I love those images of the letter written in wool, and of pretending you’re touching Grandma when you touch the object she made. I had some of these same feelings yesterday, but I can’t express them as well as Lileks does.

The afghans and tablecloth are just objects, but it’s their stories that make them special. My tablecloth has a tiny dot in one of the corners. If you didn’t know the story, you’d think it’s just a stain. Every time the tablecloth was used, we’d all get into a big discussion about whether it was on the table with the wrong side out. Everyone would examine the stitches, then turn over a corner to peer at the other side. “Which way does it go?” “It’s upside down!” “Can’t you tell that this is the back?” “No it’s not!” The debate became as much a part of our holiday traditions as the Christmas tree or the Easter ham. Grandma ended the good-natured discussion once and for all by putting a dot of nail polish on the back.

Now when we set the table, the story isn’t really about the tablecloth itself. It’s about Grandma, her dry sense of humor, and the way she looked at life. Hmmm . . . it seems maybe I’ve inherited more than just the tablecloth.

The REAL reason for the new camera

Yes, that’s right. We bought the D70 so we could take pictures of meat. This little version of the photo doesn’t do it justice—click the image to see a larger pic (but don’t do it if you’re on a dial-up connection). Doesn’t that look good? Well, maybe you need the yummy aroma to fully appreciate it.

Last week we were watching Alton Brown make ham on Good Eats. This recipe was making our mouths water, so we decided to give it a try. The glaze is a combination of brown mustard, brown sugar, bourbon, and ground up gingersnaps. It sounded kind of weird, but Alton’s kind of weird and we like him. And we figured we couldn’t go wrong since the recipe involved bourbon. We weren’t disappointed, at least not until it was time to clean the pan. The ham was delicious, but the combination of caramelized sugar and ground cookies made for an inch-thick layer of gooey sludge that’s nearly impossible to remove. Note to self: next year, buy disposable aluminum pan. Happy Easter!

No such thing as anonymity

The other day I visited a blog that I’d been to once or twice in the past, and somehow I ended up reading through months of archives. I probably spent a couple hours, just reading and hitting the ‘next’ link (yeah, I know—probably not the best use of my day off). While I was reading, mrtl (the blogger) posted a new entry, and here’s part of what it said:

“If, as indicated by my stats, it looks like someone has taken the time to read every post in my blog, shouldn’t he or she post something? Is it wrong for me to even address this? It freaks me out that someone’s taken the time to read the whole thing and not say a word. Who are you and what do you think?“

I have to admit, I was a little freaked out too. She had to be talking about me. My palms even started to sweat! It was a weird reaction, but I really felt a little like I’d been caught somewhere I shouldn’t have been. I did end up commenting, and then we emailed a few times . . . until we both felt better, I think. But that odd feeling kind of stuck with me the rest of the day, and I’ve been trying to figure out why.

I think part of it is because I see/use this medium as one-way communication, like reading a newspaper column or watching someone on a TV talk show. The columnist and the celebrity don’t know that I personally am reading or watching—I’m just an anonymous reader/viewer along with everyone else. Because the internet also feels anonymous, on some level I tend to equate bloggers with celebrities. It’s easy to forget that they’re real people just like me, and they’re interested in who’s reading their work.

It’s also easy to forget that there’s someone watching, no matter where you go online. I was just so startled by the fact that someone noticed me and spoke up about it. Kind of like those people at live comedy shows who try and sneak out to pee. The comedian mentions it, and suddenly the spotlight’s on and everyone’s watching. I definitely felt like I was the one frozen in that spotlight, even though mrtl was the only person who could “see” me.

Lessons learned from this experience: 1.) You’re not as anonymous online as you think you are; 2.) Commenting on others’ sites every now and then isn’t such a bad thing; and 3.) Pee before the show starts.