(I just had one of those moments where you type an innocent, innocuous word then stare at it suspiciously: Is that really a word? Did I just make that up? "Good." Gooood." I kept pronouncing it like the first syllable in Gouda, as in the cheese, as in my brain is not to be trusted.)
- Yesterday marked eleven years of marriage for Derek and me. I like the thought of eleven years because it's not the show-off-y, obvious number that ten is, the number you use as an excuse to revisit Charleston (ah, Charleston. How I miss you.). If the ten year anniversary is the wedding, eleven is the marriage itself, the everyday celebrations and devotion. Hurrah for eleven years!
- I've spoken in the past about how I loathe certain magazines, "certain" being just about any of those targeted toward women, because apparently all women care about is losing weight and organization? (I just spent a solid minute debating whether to put a period or a question mark at the end of the previous sentence: I leaned toward a full stop because that really is what those magazines seem to believe, but went with the question mark because I don't understand why. Also, it would appear that this is one of those days that finds me incapable of editing; instead I'm just putting all my extraneous thoughts into parentheses. You have my condolences.) A magazine I don't loathe in the least? This Old House magazine. Oh my goodness. My word. There are no articles about losing weight by using your lungs to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide or the best way to clean the bottles that contain your cleaning products. People, the cover has zero, ZERO exclamation points on the cover. What it does have are articles on seed libraries (people bring in seeds they harvested from their plants to a central location- in the article's case, an old card catalog cabinet in an actual library- for other people to "check out" and take home to plant! It's revitalizing heirloom seeds! It builds up community! Aaaah!), a review of this new dry erase board paint (goes on clear and glossy over any existing wall color! It's a dry erase board painted anywhere you want! Aaaah!), and tips on planting your own tiny hellstrip garden (that struggling strip of grass between the sidewalk and curb apparently has a variety of names, which I did not know- but what a great idea! Fill it with low-maintenance flowers! Aaaah!). Adelaide, for her part, adores Smithsonian magazine, a copy of which my mom sent home with Daughter last month. She spent two solid days poring over it and hasn't stopped talking about pneumatic tubes ever since. Mom promised to send her back issues Adelaide's way soon. Hallelujah.
- It's the most wonderful tiiime of the yeeeeaaaarrr:
|Reason # 1,764 to live in Iowa|
The sweet corn stands are up, and the Angels of the Corn (that's my designation, I don't know what they call themselves. Farmers, maybe?) are out, selling their manna. Shucking corn is one activity I don't have to force upon Adelaide: Whatever gets it in her mouth the fastest, she will do. In this pic she's only four ears into the dozen she prepped for me, and of which I had one for supper that night, one as a bedtime snack the following day, and one each for breakfast the next two days. They say the first step is admitting you have a problem, so fine: My name is Kristy, and I am a sweet corn addict. I regret nothing.