Back in my own head

As of this past Saturday, Chris and I have been married for an entire year. Paper, baby! Yeah!

We went to Chattanooga and stayed in a suite and ordered room service and went to a white-table-cloth restaurant (which Chris assures me is a title of distinction). All this splurging might've been kept under tighter control if it hadn't been so damn hard to get there.

I went into work Friday morning hoping to make a few phone calls and be back home in an hour to pack and get out of Dodge. I'll spare you the hair-pulling details, but suffice it to say that at noon when I was finally pulling out of the lot, I had a feeling we would not be leaving on schedule.

I'd asked Chris to pick up the house a little and make babysitting arrangements for the kitties while I was gone to work. When I got home, this had not been done. It was no fault of his; he'd gone outside that morning to find that one of his tires was low and knew he had to do something about it before we left or it would be flat when we got back.

So we're trying to rush to get things cleaned up and Chris is like, "Look, Nibbler's the only cat we have who's even allowed to go out yet. We know how much they eat in a day. Let's just set 'em up and let 'em go."

And I said, "Doesn't that make us negligent parents?" And he said, "Not if we don't tell anyone."

Oops. Hee.

I went for it because that would mean we wouldn't have to clean the house up if we weren't expecting anybody to be there, and I tried to brush away the thought that most of the time people are at our house while we're on vacation, they're not expected. But I mean, come on, am I really going to clean my house so that when my friends come by to tie all the knick-knacks together with yarn, they won't think less of me?

So we left the kitties with plenty of food and water and cardboard boxes to discover, and we trucked it. Everything went smoothly until we were about 20 or 25 miles outside of Chattanooga. I started noticing a shimmy to the car that I've noticed before and idly mentioned to Chris that that's probably not a good sign. But it's an old car and I've had lots of old cars and they all shake. So mostly I ignore stuff like that, which is not a good habit, but what're you gonna do? They all shake.

Then the scary noises started, and about the time I got through saying, "That does not sound good," the car suddenly and violently dropped lower on one side and I cringed at the tell-tale thwapthwapthwapthwapthwap. Did I check before we left to see if the car had a spare? No. But Chris didn't either and isn't it the guy's job to think of shit like that? Anyway, we had one. One of those cute little toy ones, underinflated. Eh, it got us to the nearest gas station.

Long story short (don't say it), we got there and had a great time and we got to relax in a hot tub the size of our bedroom. I suppose it was worth the trouble, if you don't count the two hours we had to wait at the WalMart tire center on the way back. Have you ever tried to kill two hours at WalMart without buying something? We managed to spend less than $10.

Vengeance is a dish best served cold

Mom and Dad went to Chattanooga this weekend for their anniversary. Hey guys, which one by the way? Was it the big 2-5? Because I thought you were supposed to have a big blowout with other people for that one. Or maybe that's just if you're not having sex anymore. Hee. Don't hurt me.

Anyway, I find it mildly amusing that I seem to talk to my parents more when they're on vacation than I do when they're in town. Every half-hour or so I'll get a call from one of them which I can only assume serves to rub in my face how great a time they're having. How they manage to always catch me in the middle of doing laudry or watching a really bad SciFi movie because it's the only thing on or some other mundane thing that makes me wish I too was on vacation is a gift I shall never comprehend.

So intermittently over the weekend I'm getting calls saying various things like:

"This is a great hotel! If you can afford it, you should totally stay here sometime."

"Man, there's this great rib place you should really check out."

"We caught this live show on the riverfront. Boy did we pick a good weekend!"

I'm used to this. I just dream that one day, they'll be old and decrepid and Chris and I will be jetsetting and calling them in the middle of the latest episode of The Price is Right (which will still be featuring Bob Barker although perhaps without eyeballs or skin) and letting them know how great Venice is in the spring. Wish you were here! Kisskiss.

But this time? This time, they went too far. Perhaps had I been there to handle it myself, I could've maintained a semblance of control over the situation, but alas, I was working (working on a Saturday...brilliant...HOW DO THEY KNOW?) and Chris answered the phone. He called me at work and said simply, "I hate your parents."

"You hate my parents?"

"I hate your parents."

"What did they do?"

"They invited us to Chattanooga, to a brewer's festival."

"What?!"

"They said they'd pay for the hotel."

"WHAT?!?"

"...If we drop everything and come right now."

"But...you have to work today."

"I know."

"And I have to work today."

"I know."

"And you have to work tomorrow."

"I know."

"I hate my parents."

You guys just give us a few decades. Someday, one of you is going to break a hip and it will be on that day that we invite you to go hiking with us in Colorado.

In their defense, they brought us home some delicious dark brew, the kind that's so fresh and untainted by preservative that it has to be consumed within three days or it just won't be the same. Which was probably a selfish gesture, seeing as it was the only factor which saved them from the involvement of a lead pipe.

Damn

I want a dog. Jaimie gets a dog. Why can't I have a dog?

Well, you might say, because Liz darling, you don't have a yard.

Well then, I would respond, I want a yard too. And a fence.

But Liz, you would say, first you need a house.

Okay, fine, I reply, I want a house.

I want a house so that I can have a dog. Is that a bad reason to take out a loan?

Times of Crisis

I didn't realize it had been so long. It's been a hard, sad week for a lot of people. My husband is dealing directly with a lot of them who have filtered in this far north. He says it's heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time. They're so appreciative of every little thing we do to help.

I haven't been watching the news a lot in the last few days, mostly because I never do. NPR is my source of choice, but I've even been laying off of that. I don't know why. Maybe because it seems to be getting to that point where all our feathers have started to go down and the truth of what's happened has done all the sinking in it's going to do and now...now it's time to get angry. It's time to point fingers and lay blame. Some people are mad at the federal government for not acting quickly or forcefully enough. Some people are mad at those who stayed in the city. Some people are mad at their neighbors who aren't doing enough to help. There's reason enough to be mad at all of them. I myself am liking being angry at the thugs who took advantage of the darkness of the ruined streets of New Orleans by robbing, raping, and murdering fellow human beings who were just looking for a way out and thwarting the efforts of rescue workers who were trying to help. But even with the righteous and rather uncontroversial flavor of anger I've chosen, I still find myself exhausted, frustrated, and discouraged by the adolescent bickering we always seem to go back to in the face of tragedy and devestation.

A hurricane happened. Did everyone do all they could? Did anyone? No. We don't live in a perfect world. We live in a world where people in crisis succomb to their basest instincts, where governments are cumbersome and slow-witted, where friends and neighbors shut their eyes and ignore the pain and suffering of others. We live in a world where hurricanes happen.