So, this weekend we were without heat. It's been below freezing weather for twenty days in a row here in Salt Lake--from what the news reporters say, it's the second longest cold stretch in Utah history.
Saturday morning at about 6 a.m., we were all suddenly woken by the sound of what seemed like a hovering aircraft. It lasted for almost a minute, then the house went silent again. Bianca was up, Eric jumped up to see what was wrong, I tried to sleep to no avail.
As it turns out, our furnace completely died. We called the heating guy and he came out in the afternoon but told us that we either buy a new board (not sure why? but it would cost $400) or replace the entire furnace in our house (which would cost $1200). Neither of which could be replaced until Monday.
Our house is only six years old. The furnace shouldn't be going out. But there was no time to think of that, while we were shivering around the gas fireplace, our only viable heat option without the furnace running.
It was awful. I didn't want to walk in the kitchen, the ice cold tiles seeped right through my cashmere cozy socks. So I couldn't cook anything. I didn't want to get dressed, too cold to take off any clothes, so we just sat. And sat. And sat.
At least we had a laptop we could bring and use in front of the fireplace. Bianca and I created fairies on the Disney Fairies web site. Eric got so bored he even made a fairy, a butch one named Ash. (Right, I think I promised not to tell anyone about that, didn't I? Sorry.)
When the new furnace was finally up and running late Monday afternoon, I came back to a warm house. And I've been living blissfully since. It seems like such a luxury. But this got me thinking--what other necessities have you done without that have seemed like luxuries after the fact?
I'd love to hear your stories. The only other one I've done without happens everytime I go home to visit my parents, where the plumbing is sporatic--I know some of you can attest to that.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
And the diary lives on
When I was a kid, I kept a diary for every day of my life from the time I was about seven and used to write what I wore to school every day (which was usually the same rotation every third day) until about my freshman/sophomore year of college. It was something I started young and did like clockwork.
Now I have a cedar chest full of at least 12 to 15 completely full diaries/journals. I get them out sometimes and Bianca and I will go through them, looking at the pictures. After she goes to bed, I'll get caught on a particular name or subject I'm interested in and can't put the diary down until I finish the entire thing. Sure, I'm embarrassed about a lot of the things I put in there. Did I really talk like that? Did I really think that way? It's embarrassing, but I'm still glad I have them.
I guess the appeal of the diary is living on, because on Saturday, Bianca yanked a dollar bill out of her piggy bank and asked if we could go to the dollar store.
"Sure. Where'd you get that dollar?"
"It was in my piggy bank."
"But where did you find it before it wound up in your piggy bank?"
"I don't know." I figured she had probably plucked it from Eric's stash of small bills and change from his night stand. Nonetheless, I told her that we could go to the dollar store before doing the rest of our errands.
So, we went and walked through the aisles. Bianca was convinced she wanted a diary, complete with a lock and keys. Some of my first diaries—the ones she was most interested in—had little locks and keys. Even though I doubted she's actually ready for a diary—she just started reading and writing earlier this year—but she latched on to a couple diaries.
Well, all the diaries were marked with special orange stickers that said $1.50. What kind of dollar store is this? I told Bianca—unfortunately as an employee from the dollar store walked by—that this store should be called the $1.50 store, instead of the dollar store, since everything was more than a dollar. But I decided I could run out to the car and grab an extra fifty cents.
She picked a "Finding Nemo" diary with lock and keys, that also came with an address book.
Later that day, as we were waiting for our lunch at Iggy's, she pulled out her diary and said, "Mom, you cannot look." Much too adamantly. Every time my eyes were remotely close, she'd get frustrated and remind me that it's none of my business.
She was concentrating very hard. Then she asked, "Mom, how do you spell birthday?" Trying my best not to look over at her page, I spelled it out. Several moments later, she asked again, "How do you spell garage?"
I can respect her right to privacy. My mom never got into my diary when I was a kid. I knew she wouldn't because she repeatedly told us how her mother used to go through her purse, looking for letters and stuff, and how angry it used to make her. (On the other hand, I had several boyfriends who used to check on my loyalty by perusing the pages of my diary, which is ultimately why I stopped writing in one in college. Now the only diary I keep is my blogs, open to the world.)
I'll try to give Bianca the privacy she desires. But for now, because she doesn't know how to write most words on her own and she's asking me how to spell them, it's easy to deduce what she's writing about. Her age makes it hard to give her the privacy a diary requires.
Now I have a cedar chest full of at least 12 to 15 completely full diaries/journals. I get them out sometimes and Bianca and I will go through them, looking at the pictures. After she goes to bed, I'll get caught on a particular name or subject I'm interested in and can't put the diary down until I finish the entire thing. Sure, I'm embarrassed about a lot of the things I put in there. Did I really talk like that? Did I really think that way? It's embarrassing, but I'm still glad I have them.
I guess the appeal of the diary is living on, because on Saturday, Bianca yanked a dollar bill out of her piggy bank and asked if we could go to the dollar store.
"Sure. Where'd you get that dollar?"
"It was in my piggy bank."
"But where did you find it before it wound up in your piggy bank?"
"I don't know." I figured she had probably plucked it from Eric's stash of small bills and change from his night stand. Nonetheless, I told her that we could go to the dollar store before doing the rest of our errands.
So, we went and walked through the aisles. Bianca was convinced she wanted a diary, complete with a lock and keys. Some of my first diaries—the ones she was most interested in—had little locks and keys. Even though I doubted she's actually ready for a diary—she just started reading and writing earlier this year—but she latched on to a couple diaries.
Well, all the diaries were marked with special orange stickers that said $1.50. What kind of dollar store is this? I told Bianca—unfortunately as an employee from the dollar store walked by—that this store should be called the $1.50 store, instead of the dollar store, since everything was more than a dollar. But I decided I could run out to the car and grab an extra fifty cents.
She picked a "Finding Nemo" diary with lock and keys, that also came with an address book.
Later that day, as we were waiting for our lunch at Iggy's, she pulled out her diary and said, "Mom, you cannot look." Much too adamantly. Every time my eyes were remotely close, she'd get frustrated and remind me that it's none of my business.
She was concentrating very hard. Then she asked, "Mom, how do you spell birthday?" Trying my best not to look over at her page, I spelled it out. Several moments later, she asked again, "How do you spell garage?"
I can respect her right to privacy. My mom never got into my diary when I was a kid. I knew she wouldn't because she repeatedly told us how her mother used to go through her purse, looking for letters and stuff, and how angry it used to make her. (On the other hand, I had several boyfriends who used to check on my loyalty by perusing the pages of my diary, which is ultimately why I stopped writing in one in college. Now the only diary I keep is my blogs, open to the world.)
I'll try to give Bianca the privacy she desires. But for now, because she doesn't know how to write most words on her own and she's asking me how to spell them, it's easy to deduce what she's writing about. Her age makes it hard to give her the privacy a diary requires.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Just another ordinary miracle today
Okay, so you've probably heard me say that I don't believe in miracles anymore. Not that I ever had a real reason to before. But I guess that depends on your scope of what a miracle is.
Today I spent the day with Bianca. Eric's gone, so we're on our own. It's a miracle that I'm surviving this and not going out of my mind.
But we got in the car and did some shopping. It was nice. I found this pair of clogs from Target that had sold out several months ago in Bianca's size and they were marked down to $3--the only pair in the entire store. Why I care so much about Bianca's footwear and haven't bought a new pair of shoes for myself in two years is beyond me. But I was ecstatic to get them for such a good deal. I checked out a sectional Eric wanted me to look at from Macy's, then Bianca and I had lunch at Iggy's (sorry, hun, we did it in honor of you).
We went to see Charlotte's Web after that. The movie was really cute. I'm glad that the books of my childhood are still around today. I cried, of course, I'm pregnant. And it's a sweet story. And the movie ends with Wilbur getting to see a winter snow, when he thought he'd be butchered and smoked much before that could happen.
But the little miracle happened when we walked out of the theatre. It was snowing. Yeah, snow isn't a miracle, depending what your scope of a miracle, but this afternoon, it was for me. In fact, finding those brown clogs at Target was too.
I guess I'm redefining my scope of a miracle after all. I'm a believer once again.
Today I spent the day with Bianca. Eric's gone, so we're on our own. It's a miracle that I'm surviving this and not going out of my mind.
But we got in the car and did some shopping. It was nice. I found this pair of clogs from Target that had sold out several months ago in Bianca's size and they were marked down to $3--the only pair in the entire store. Why I care so much about Bianca's footwear and haven't bought a new pair of shoes for myself in two years is beyond me. But I was ecstatic to get them for such a good deal. I checked out a sectional Eric wanted me to look at from Macy's, then Bianca and I had lunch at Iggy's (sorry, hun, we did it in honor of you).
We went to see Charlotte's Web after that. The movie was really cute. I'm glad that the books of my childhood are still around today. I cried, of course, I'm pregnant. And it's a sweet story. And the movie ends with Wilbur getting to see a winter snow, when he thought he'd be butchered and smoked much before that could happen.
But the little miracle happened when we walked out of the theatre. It was snowing. Yeah, snow isn't a miracle, depending what your scope of a miracle, but this afternoon, it was for me. In fact, finding those brown clogs at Target was too.
I guess I'm redefining my scope of a miracle after all. I'm a believer once again.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
The State of Being Late
I try never to be late. And I'm usually not. Ever since I was a kid and we were late to everything. I remember everytime we walked into a family gathering for my dad's side of the family, they would either clap when we finally arrived or--on the rare occasion that we were not late--their mouths would drop in awe that we were actually on time. Either way, it was extremely embarassing. We could never win.
So, now that I'm more in charge of things, now that I'm a mom, I'm usually on time--if not early. It's okay. I like being this way. However, this usually means that I'm waiting for everyone else.
I have a couple theories on being late: First, I heard once--on Oprah, I think--that it's arrogant that people who are always late expect that others should wait for them. I'm not sure that I think that's always the case. But I have seen circumstances when it is.
My other theory is lateness is a lack of planning. You usually know approximately how long it's going to take you to get out of your house, into your car, how long it should take you to travel, all that. And one step ahead of that, you should plan for things that could come up--such as a daughter having to use the bathroom after she's buckled safely into her car seat.
Of course, there's always the chance that it's traffic or something like that. Totally not the person's fault.
And I don't blame anyone who's late. I just don't want to be late.
Well, I found out first-hand this weekend that my energy focused on NOT being late has turned my daughter into a monster.
We go to church every week. Well, recently our church was moved up to11 a.m. A weird time, especially since it covers the most usable lunch time. I decided to keep us from being hungry, I'd prepare a brunch right before church.
Well, I didn't plan it right. I decided to wait on the gravy (for the biscuits and gravy) until after the sausage was cooked, so that I could crumble sausage into the gravy. Trust me, the sausage in the gravy is well worth it. Well, at five minutes until eleven, I was madly washing dishes--I can't leave my house or go to bed at night until all dishes are out of the sink--in my pajamas still.
Bianca was ready to leave and was very irritated that I wasn't ready to leave at eleven o'clock. She put on her shoes, grabbed her backpack, and headed out the front door. I was brushing my teeth when I heard the front door shut. She wouldn't really leave, right? I spit out the toothpaste and ran to the door. There it was, size 9 foot prints in the snow all the way down my front walk and around the corner. I yelled to her, "Please, Bianca, come back. I promise we'll leave in five minutes."
"Mom, we're going to be late. I'll just walk."
I plead and plead. I know I can't let my five-year-old daughter walk in the icy sidewalks to church. She finally came back. We were about fifteen minutes late when we finally arrived. Next week, I'll plan better.
So, now that I'm more in charge of things, now that I'm a mom, I'm usually on time--if not early. It's okay. I like being this way. However, this usually means that I'm waiting for everyone else.
I have a couple theories on being late: First, I heard once--on Oprah, I think--that it's arrogant that people who are always late expect that others should wait for them. I'm not sure that I think that's always the case. But I have seen circumstances when it is.
My other theory is lateness is a lack of planning. You usually know approximately how long it's going to take you to get out of your house, into your car, how long it should take you to travel, all that. And one step ahead of that, you should plan for things that could come up--such as a daughter having to use the bathroom after she's buckled safely into her car seat.
Of course, there's always the chance that it's traffic or something like that. Totally not the person's fault.
And I don't blame anyone who's late. I just don't want to be late.
Well, I found out first-hand this weekend that my energy focused on NOT being late has turned my daughter into a monster.
We go to church every week. Well, recently our church was moved up to11 a.m. A weird time, especially since it covers the most usable lunch time. I decided to keep us from being hungry, I'd prepare a brunch right before church.
Well, I didn't plan it right. I decided to wait on the gravy (for the biscuits and gravy) until after the sausage was cooked, so that I could crumble sausage into the gravy. Trust me, the sausage in the gravy is well worth it. Well, at five minutes until eleven, I was madly washing dishes--I can't leave my house or go to bed at night until all dishes are out of the sink--in my pajamas still.
Bianca was ready to leave and was very irritated that I wasn't ready to leave at eleven o'clock. She put on her shoes, grabbed her backpack, and headed out the front door. I was brushing my teeth when I heard the front door shut. She wouldn't really leave, right? I spit out the toothpaste and ran to the door. There it was, size 9 foot prints in the snow all the way down my front walk and around the corner. I yelled to her, "Please, Bianca, come back. I promise we'll leave in five minutes."
"Mom, we're going to be late. I'll just walk."
I plead and plead. I know I can't let my five-year-old daughter walk in the icy sidewalks to church. She finally came back. We were about fifteen minutes late when we finally arrived. Next week, I'll plan better.
Monday, January 1, 2007
A new year
Last night, I stayed up till midnight. As Eric and I were going to bed, we made small talk about starting another year. I'd decided that I had no expectations in the year to come. He didn't believe me. Then I re-stated, "Well, except I do expect to have a baby in April." Other than that, an uneventful year will be a successful year.
No resolutions for me.
No resolutions for me.
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