a yellow bellied new england warbler*

Well, internet, how are you? I am good. Nothing new to report here at casa de Childbride and Spousetotheman.

Everyday I realize how much ego it takes for me to write this stuff and assume you want to read about it. Do you want to hear about our new house? It's awesome and we like it, and we will stick with home-owning. Do you really care to know more? Probably not.

Although, and this is a little bizarre, the move has made me strangely social. When we lived in the batcave,** I was always very anti have-people-over. Mostly, because, where the heck would I put them? When your living room is also your husband's business headquarters, (meaning we had at least 6 computers in said room at any given time,) your sewing room, the dining room, and also where-you-grade-papers whilst watching West Wing, the best you can offer the home-teachers is the tiny corner of couch not covered in crap. Or sometimes the floor. Oh! Oops! Watch out for that hard-drive there. Okay, carry on.

Anyway, since our move in, I've been basically inviting people off the street to come share a diet coke. Now that I know where to put you people, suddenly nothing sounds more awesome than sitting in my living room eating frozen twix bars and enabling my caffeine addiction. (Hey, I said I was social, not domestic. If you want refreshments, you'll have to befriend Dan.)

So if you are a relatively normal, (or if I happen to like your type of crazy,) e-friend, consider this your open invitation.



*Extra points if you place that reference.

**Only bummer about not living in a basement apartment is that suddenly windows serve more than one purpose: to see out. Now windows allow people to see OUT and IN. Which means my days of wandering around my home in various states of undress are officially over. You are welcome, new neighbors.

dias de los muertos

In honor of my favorite Holiday, I wore a fleece fest with dancing skeletons all over it. And shoes covered in glitter.






Actually, I lie. I didn't pick the ensemble in honor of the day of the dead. I wear that kind of crap all the time.













And yes, both my husband and dad have matching vests.

a short story about a thing I do

I like rituals and habits.

Last night I took the requisite night-time walk around the neighborhood. I do not consider myself a resident of any particular place until I have accomplished a night-time stroll. I believe this tradition started when I was very little, and my Dad would come get me out of bed and take me on long walks around the neighborhood. Sometimes we would even drive to other neighborhoods, just to see what they looked like at night. One time, after a huge snow-storm, we bundled up in all our snow clothes and walked through the cemetery by our house. I remember that the moon was very bright, and the snow glittered, and that we kept bumping into gravestones and memorial benches buried under the snow.

My mother knew nothing of this tradition until 3rd grade, when I wrote a short story about waiting for my mom to go to bed so my dad could come take me on a walk. I titled my short story "Moonshadow,"* and at the time, my mother was understandably annoyed with my father, having discovered both the cause of my early-morning grumpiness, and of my habit for my falling asleep in class.

Now I live in my own neighborhood, and take walks by myself. My father searched in vain for a replacement co-walker, but failed. My siblings are an unreliable bunch. ** Sometimes, we call each other around 11:00 pm and meet each other for walks. Sometimes, I will be walking, and a car will pull up next to me. It always freaks me out until I realize it is my Dad.



THE END.

























*After the Cat Stevens song, of course.

**Except for now, my youngest brother Clark goes with him. I think Clark, being the most intelligent of my siblings, realized that there may be a direct correlation between money left to children in wills, and the regularity that said children participate in walks. So well played, Clark. Your motives might not be pure, but your ambition is admirable.


























I am pleased to report that our neighborhood seems very night-time walk friendly.

sometimes

Teaching is just as fun as I thought it would be.

10 signs that indicate that you are not a real person, but an adorable zombie clone, who maybe needs a time-out from the internet.

1. You post an alarming number of shoe pictures. Extra points for bowed-in toes, grandma shoes, and if the angle allows us to see just the hem of your vintage dress.


2. Bright lipstick plays an unusually large role in your concept of self-identity.


3. You post more than 5 photos of nearly identical "self portraits" in each post.


4. Said photos are Polaroids, or have been altered to appear like Polaroids.


5. You are under age 90, but like to give "advice" on topics like marriage, happiness, or love.


6. You have "sponsors", not ads on the side of your three column blog.*


7. You need those columns to fit all your buttons, and "sponsors" for shabby apple and random etsy stores.


8. I can't tell you apart from any of your peers.



9. You say "vintage" and "thrifting" like some people say "the" or "and."



10. Ironic fake glasses play an important role in your life.**



There. I said it. Socialists are not going to take over the world. Neither are Communists. It won't be blood sucking vampires, or brain-hungry zombies. It will be adorable little clones with perky lipstick. Be on the wary, good citizens.

























*Can't take credit for this concept. As my friend Gurr would say, Causes (breast cancer, children in underdeveloped countries,) have sponsors. Bloggers have Ads.



** I know what I'm being for Halloween. Do you?

Dia de los Muertos (aka any holiday involving pregnant skeletons is okay with me.)

I don't think I have ever mentioned this before (along with my home address, where I work, and photos of my students, oh wait, that is NORMAL,) anyway, I don't think I have shared my deep and abiding love of skeletons with the internet.


I love skeletons. I am wearing skeletons pajama pants right now. (Don't judge me, I have the swine flu.)

I think my love started back in high school, on a family trip to Mexico. We went into town one evening, and I discovered entire shops filled with skeleton figures, skeleton shadow-box things, skeleton dishes.....and the list goes on. Even better, all of these skeletons were covered in glitter. GLITTER AND SKELETONS. BE STILL MY BEATING HEART.


Anyway, since then, I have been randomly collecting skeleton memorabilia, and an embarrassing amount of it ends up on my mantel. (Until Spouseman mysteriously finds a new home for them, and replaces my dead skeleton friends with a statue of Jesus. Hurmph.**)

My favorite piece of skeleton memorabilia looks somewhat like this:*



Except in my version, the girl skeleton is a bride, and she is PREGNANT. WHAT IS NOT TO LOVE????????????


Anyway, the point of the story is this:*** Yesterday, I went to work feeling like I had been run over by a tractor, and unusually grumpy.First period drags on for 3 years as I try to coax my students to please, please participate in a class discussion. Afterwards, I leave the classroom ask a teacher a question, and when I come back, most of my second period class is already seated, and they are freakishly quiet. Suddenly, one of them shouts "Mrs. L! GO LOOK ON YOUR DESK!"

And what to my wondering eyes should appear? A series of clay skeleton skulls, covered in glitter and paint.

My students had made them in art class, and gifted them to me. Including a skull that said "To Mrs. L" in GLITTER along the top.


Dear Students,

I totally forgive you for giving me the swine flu.





The End.





*Could I have taken a photo of my own skeletons myself, and posted it? Sure. But that would require way more time than I am willing to invest. Plus, this forces you to use your imagination.

** How exactly am I supposed to argue with that? Dear Spouseman, I believe my skeleton obsession is more worthy of mantle space than a statue of Jesus.

*** Yes. I went to work with the Swine Flu. I know. I know. Won't happen again.

and the party is over.

one of my idiot students gave me the swine flu.