What was this blog thing again?

Yesterday, I spent a good deal of time digging through old blog posts looking for something my father was quite certain that I'd written (a story about Brigit pretending to need to pee, only to yell "April Fool's!" - I'm sure she did it, because it is totally something that she'd do, but I never found it), and I was both saddened by the complete and utter dearth of writing in the previous weeks/months/shit, year, and surprised by some of the things that I have written over the past 2+ years.

It seems, from second reading, that this used to be easier. But perhaps that's because I was not rusty then, and oh am I rusty now.

And I don't want to be rusty. It is that time of year again, National Blog Posting Month, my old friend NaBloPoMo, and I have committed to (try to) post every day in November. So far, I'm batting 1000.

(Apologies for gratuitous post to post post. I choose to blame it on the midterms. Tune in tomorrow for more mindless drivel - I'll leave the light on for you.)

Rory, Age 7

"Here, Mom," Rory said, handing me a piece of red yarn. "I snuck this out of music class last year. I thought it would come in handy."
"What's it for?"
"So you can remember me when I'm grown up."

And here is the memory that will be forever contained in this piece of red string:

Me: Don't forget to put your tooth under your pillow.
Rory: I'm pretty sure there are three possibilities for the tooth fairy.
Me: [crap, crap, crap, childhood ending in 3-2-1.]
Me: Really?
Rory: Yes. One - she's real. Two - someone is sneaking into the house in the middle of the night and taking my tooth and leaving money.
Me: But not the tooth fairy?
Rory: [duh]
Me: What's the third option?
Rory: Three - magic.
Me: Isn't the tooth fairy magic?
Rory: [duh] She HAS magic, Mom.
Me: [whew]

It grows back, right? Right??

Became:

Lessons Learned, 7/4/2010

If you don't want to eat your bbq chicken and yet you still want to have the bribe dessert of ice cream, you would be better served feeding said chicken to the dog instead of dumping it in the garbage can. Because your mother is suspicious and will check. And it's not like she can check inside the dog, now is it?

Quotes from tonight

"Brigit, don't lick the cheese!"

"Brigit, don't lick that door!"

"Brigit, don't lick the doorknob!"

I sense a theme.

12

12 years and 4 days ago, Tyler and I bought a new car. It was a much needed purchase as we were about one week from moving to Texas, also known as the hottest place this side of the sun, and neither of our cars had air conditioning.

12 years and 4 days ago, Tyler and I went to the insurance office to update his policy to cover the new car. Turns out that we would save a bundle if only we were married.

12 years and 4 days ago, Tyler and I decided to get married. Right there in the insurance office in Tremonton, UT.

12 years and 1 day ago, we met our hastily informed and gathered family in the county courthouse.

We were married by a woman wearing a purple Utah Jazz t-shirt and a purple vest covered in pins. We were married by a woman who told me to be sure to sign my new married name on the marriage certficate. When I told her I was keeping my last name, thank you very much, she told me I couldn't. That it was, in fact, state law that I take my husband's name.

We were married by a woman who believed this so deeply that she took the marriage certificate to the county attorney and left our assembled group waiting for 10 minutes, while she checked.

We were married by a woman who, upon learning that while Utah is in fact often a backward place to live, it is in fact legal to not take your husband's last name, asked me, "If you weren't going to change your name, why did you even bother getting married?"

We were married by a woman who would have been deeply shocked had I answered as I wanted to, "You'd prefer we continue living in sin?" Alternate answer, "For the car insurance."

We were married.


11 years and 1 day ago, we did it all over, without the new car, the backward Jazz fan county clerk, and the moving to Texas. To celebrate our marriage the way we originally intended. With the church wedding, the big dress, the bagpipers. The friends and family, the beer and pizza reception (it was really good beer and pizza). The altitude sickness, the Williams & Sonoma glass bowls.


1 day ago, at 12:05:01 AM, I remembered it was our anniversary. 12:05:03 AM, Tyler remembered it was our anniversary. We kissed each other and went to bed. Later, I mowed the lawn.

12 years in, the need to celebrate has faded. But not the marriage.

Happy 12 years and 1 day.

Uniform

It began with a TV show, which led to a search, which led to a picture, which led to a memory, which led me here.

This is my grandfather's Marine Corps Dress Uniform from 1958. At the time, he was a Lieutenant Colonel in the 4th Battalion, 12th Marines.

I found this picture in a military collectibles forum where the uniform was being offered for sale. It appears to have been recycled to a Marine Corps Captain.

I do not know my grandfather, Big Lew, as a Marine. I know that he was a Marine in the abstract way that you know your parents went to college. For me, he is Grandpa Poge, who, on the way to Easter vigil when I was 10, taught me how to pronounce the name of his favorite Chinese restaurant, Ho Wah Ta Na Siam.

He is 93 now and is raising hell in a retirement home in Carlsbad, CA. When his doctor told him that he had to cut down to just one glass of wine a night, he asked how big the glass could be.

My grandfather fought in the Pacific during World War II. I knew this. I learned about the battles in AP History in high school, and I thought, "My grandfather made this history."

Several weeks ago, Grandpa was in the hospital, fighting pneumonia. He was given steroids to fight the inflammation in his lungs. The steroids caused hallucinations.

He called my father to tell him how to deploy his artillery for the invasion of Iwo Jima.

I have a thing for war movies, particularly WWII movies. Particularly those set in Europe. I have not watched any movies set in the Pacific theater. I have not watched "The Pacific," despite watching every episode of "Band of Brothers." Because I have not wanted to see what my grandfather lived. What he has not ever talked about, not to me.

And yet.