tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67787333862469018692024-03-14T00:58:51.085-07:00GeauxBabya tale of two boysUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger564125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-56861570629310963112017-04-19T10:17:00.001-07:002017-04-19T10:17:36.472-07:00on langston
English majors may grow old, but they never stop being English majors.
You hear them say things like this.
"I am ALL ABOUT the Oxford comma. I mean, I was an English major."
"I haven't read The Decameron since college. I was an English major."
"S*Town is SO Faulknerian. I mean, it's Southern Gothic for the postmodern age."
"Two spaces after a period! Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-80799620150222397222016-12-20T09:37:00.000-08:002016-12-20T09:37:10.172-08:00the elf on the damn shelf
In the gritty hallways of Millington Elementary School, news started circulating when I was in second grade that Santa ISN'T REAL.
Snort, I thought. That's not true. No way. Nope. Dismiss.
By third grade, I realized that it *could be* true. Shitty if true, but possible. I chose to suspend my disbelief and pressed on with my bad self.
In fourth grade, Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-78023386522179789082016-07-31T08:57:00.000-07:002016-07-31T08:57:21.037-07:00on boat slips and time warps
I grew up on Maryland's Eastern Shore. Specifically, on the small, lazy, and peaceful Sassafras River. We were an hour and change from Washington, Baltimore, and DC, but felt a million miles away (mostly in a good way, except for when I was a teenager.)
Every summer morning from age 14-19. I walked across the street and down to the hill to my summer job at Georgetown Yacht Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-60948272143063334192016-06-07T09:12:00.001-07:002016-06-07T09:12:52.434-07:00on first grade and fritos
Charlotte Potts taught me first grade.
We started every day by writing in our notebooks. It looked like this:
Today is Tuesday, September 7, 1981. It is sunny. Today, we have Gym.
After carefully writing the day's details with our number 2 pencils, we had to write a sentence all of our own design. They looked like this:
This weekend, we are going to the Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-10059489232891674532016-05-26T10:03:00.000-07:002016-05-26T10:03:55.403-07:00on bonbons and half marathons
I am a super Type A perfectionist. (Newsflash, right?)
When I stopped working as an attorney, a friend supportively cautioned me that it might take about a year to adjust.
I scoffed. (I am also an occasional scoffer.)
"I'm sure I'll be fine," I thought. "I think it will take me about three weeks to adjust. Yup, three weeks."
That was a year ago.
* &Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-12984233464138674642016-03-30T09:54:00.004-07:002016-03-30T09:54:31.057-07:00The Right Time to Say Yay
Last weekend, Cristy and Dagwood drove to Austin from Albuquerque to become Sawyer's godparents. That was really cool.
We Davies are not overtly religious. So, I'll leave it at that.
But I will say this: No less than 5 times, during (intentionally) quiet moments in the service, which was candlelit and rich with significance, Sawyer shouted:
"YAY!"
Indeed.
Hope Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-46563776561765697992016-01-16T10:55:00.005-08:002016-01-16T10:55:40.077-08:00on firm kisses and unlikely comparisons
Durel and I were talking the other evening about how, even at our ripe old ages, our parents still kiss us firmly on the heads.
My family has always been pretty affectionate, so I never thought about it. Durel's family is less demonstrative, so he did.
Here is my operating theory: No matter how old you get, you are still your parents' baby. And they will kiss your Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-62030154664722273022016-01-06T20:38:00.000-08:002016-01-06T20:38:00.128-08:00the one about pie. and wine.
Christmas is an Olympic event to me.
I train for it. I plan for it. I make multiple lists. I mutter over cookbooks weeks in advance. I dance in my car to Christmas music in November. Early November.
I'm into it.
Normally, December 23rd (or Christmas Eve EVE, as I call it in my head), is Baking Day. If I have the great (biannual) luck of being with my Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-82957814375631510532015-12-13T09:11:00.000-08:002015-12-13T09:11:47.794-08:00the bearded man cometh
We are getting our holiday on over here.
I would like to say that I'm more prepared this year than I normally am. I would like to say I can make a perfect cheese souffle. I would like to say I've run a marathon. I would like to say a lot of things.
None of these things are true.
But. But! Here's what I can say: I am not stressed out about Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-59930603011058942012015-12-07T09:19:00.003-08:002015-12-07T09:19:21.601-08:00the relativity of time (in a car)
My senior year of college, I had a car on campus. Granted, it was one of my Dad's fleet, so it was ginormous and kind of slow. Also? I was damn glad to have it.
The drive from the Eastern Shore of Maryland to Lewiston, Maine is 500 miles. I averaged a ten hour journey, what with my Diet Coke habit and bladder size. With typical 20-something exuberance, I thought Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-7889032077478437482015-12-04T07:01:00.001-08:002015-12-04T07:01:57.523-08:00the lyrics we remember
Jack has inherited my deeply rooted love of Christmas.
Yes, I know that all almost six year olds freaking love Christmas. It's a temporal wonderland of cookies, special pajamas, staying up late, and Buddy the Elf -- all of which culminates in a visit from Santa and PRESENTS, GLORIOUS PRESENTS!
I get it.
But...I also love Christmas with my whole preppy, sappy, traditional heart. &Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-31723600472160080882015-11-23T05:10:00.000-08:002015-11-23T05:10:00.119-08:00worth at least a thousand wordsWithout further ado, Jack's kindergarten photo:
Of course, I think it's the cutest thing I've ever seen.
I also think about how, when he left the house, his hair was neatly combed and the plaid shirt was buttoned.
But that's life, isn't it? He's almost six. When he goes out into the world, to *his* world of kindergarten, his hair gets rumpled and he unbuttons his Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-60166873019103822162015-11-20T18:09:00.002-08:002015-11-20T18:09:39.832-08:00eleven hundred and six
Jack and I spent some quality afternoon time together earlier this week. We got him a much-needed (and very hip) haircut and then stopped by Soup Peddler to see what we might find delicious for dinner.
We ended up eating a super early dinner there, because Jack was adamant about having a grilled cheese sandwich IMMEDIATELY. I respect the urgency with which we sometimes need a Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-28976438465101313972015-11-16T07:30:00.000-08:002015-11-16T07:30:01.353-08:00decade
Love is being *this* happy in a windy ass parking structure in Oklahoma City.
Ten years ago, two kids hopped into a silver Jetta and zoomed away from the DC Beltway. They headed straight back to Austin. They didn't pass Go, but they did pass a few Stuckey's and a LOT of Cracker Barrels.
(I maintain: Cracker Barrel is a fantastic place to stop and go to the Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-61552443705609911182015-10-27T13:28:00.000-07:002015-10-27T13:36:28.426-07:00lasagna and salad
When I was a senior in college, I wrote an honors thesis to complete my major in English. My thesis was one hundred pages long and filled with enthusiastic interpretations of several schools of literary theory. My argument, as it were, was that the literary theory of feminism must make room for Romantic notions of subjectivity and self, even as it attempted not to due to its frequentUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-60412548559471263102015-10-18T17:17:00.001-07:002015-10-18T17:17:48.673-07:00my village
As I mentioned a few days ago, I have been recovering from an emergency surgery for the past 2 weeks. Everything about this experience has been challenging.
Physically, getting over a surgery stinks big time. Regrowing blood from lots of blood loss is more exhausting than I can describe.
For me, though, the biggest challenge is always asking for help. I am really, really Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-75652495689317368122015-10-14T07:25:00.000-07:002015-10-14T07:25:00.804-07:00steps
Sawyer is walking. Huzzah!
When he feels like it, that is.
Jack is in an after-school running club called the Stallion Stampede. The kids' miles are tallied annually and also linked with their membership to Marathon Kids, an AMAZING local charity that just received funding from Nike and is going BIG TIME!
He's pretty fast.
As for me, I am on the mend. Roughly Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-85524405273839918952015-09-11T06:36:00.000-07:002015-09-11T06:36:41.751-07:00oh say can you see
Last night, my parents came over for dinner. We had a great time. We ordered Chinese. Jack, in his inimitable style, ate seaweed and cucumber salad, shu mai, and a crab rangoon. We chatted and laughed, caught up on life, and enjoyed one another's company.
Jack finished his dinner before the rest of us and went to play in the living room until the (dreaded) announcementUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-76232905415226357712015-08-13T14:55:00.001-07:002015-08-13T14:55:26.731-07:00the state of the sawyer
With all the buzz about kinder in these parts, it's important to remember the other little dude who amazes and delights us on the daily. We are 17 months into life as a family of four, and there is no way our family would be complete without the mellow cuteness of Sawyer.
For Sawyer, a perfect day would be spent eating three or four breakfasts, unplugging some things, playing with Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-69870692420840588392015-08-09T06:51:00.001-07:002015-08-09T06:51:46.241-07:00the one where chickens are mentioned a lot
Back in the day, I was a big 10,000 Maniacs fan. Laura Werther and I went to see them at the University of Delaware when we were in high school. Natalie Merchant *spoke to me* you guys.
I am incapable of mentioning the University of Delaware without giving a proper shout out to their mascot, the Fightin' Blue Hen, known locally as the Ass Kickin' Chicken.
These are days you'llUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-47476625559096311472015-06-26T07:38:00.000-07:002015-06-26T07:38:08.511-07:00love winsApparently, five years old is when you start contemplating marriage.
Jack has informed Durel and I that he will be marrying his friend, Caitlyn. We are great with this. Caitlyn is smart and pretty. We are good friends with her parents. This is a solid choice.
And there's no stress. I mean,we don't even have to start planning the wedding for like 20 years.
* Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-53325430386690636252015-06-16T12:54:00.000-07:002015-06-16T12:54:11.002-07:00shot with iPhone pre-K
I hung onto my old iPhone "just in case."
On paper, I did that so I would have a backup phone in case of catastrophe.
In reality, I did that so Jack could play games on it sometimes. (Including very critical times, like road trips to New Orleans.)
Jack is good with an iPhone. He's been using iPads at school since he was 2 1/2. That is both awesome and totally insane toUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-37826037063785830142015-06-13T03:33:00.001-07:002015-06-13T03:33:58.446-07:00for the love of baseball
I can't pretend to like sports.
Durel and I have been married almost ten years and my favorite part of football season is game day cooking courtesy of Pinterest.
So, I also can't pretend to feel a pang as Jack develops what I assume will be a life-long love of the Houston Astros.
Do I have several Baltimore Orioles t-shirts waiting in Jack's closet for him to grow into? YesUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-19546541847209962412015-06-08T09:41:00.002-07:002015-06-08T09:41:43.032-07:00summer jam session
Durel and I were pretty self-congratulatory when we bought Jack a drum set. (And gave it to him six weeks before Christmas, I might add.)
Our smugness was kind of short-lived, though. Jack doesn't play the drums much. Durel likes to bang out a little "Paradise City" every now and then.
I don't have much rhythm. I can't even spell rhythm. I had to spell Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778733386246901869.post-53237499066216424832015-05-27T10:28:00.001-07:002015-05-27T10:28:29.233-07:00the bowling gene
I am a perfectionist.
I am also the world's worst bowler.
I'm not being self-deprecating to be cute or ironic. I am really bad.
I'm actually OK with this. Surprising, for a perfectionist. But I find that when you bowl like once a year, you can stink it up with impunity.
* * * * *
Durel has also accepted how Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0