There’s a lot to be thankful for this year, but right now (in a manner of speaking) I’m up to my elbows in an 11-pound turkey. So I’ll just say thank you to everyone who made this the best year of my life. Now I have to go figure out what a giblet is. (shudder)
Archive for November, 2008
Oh sure, they’re plum adorable until they’re infusing
your delicates and investment pieces with their postmortem funk.
Before I get to cooing over the wedding pictures,
Before I get to waxing poetic about the honeymoon sights,
Before I get to the story about how I got our $10 back from the D.C. government yesterday (oh yes, that happened),
I must get to the moment that I realized that the honeymoon was over.
It came Monday morning, just a few hours after we returned from said honeymoon in Ireland. When, after opening my bedroom closet door, I was hit with a powerful stench. The source of that stench? After much hanger flipping, clothes flinging, and sniffing like a pig on the hunt for truffles, I located it. Nestled in the bottom of one of my handbags that hang on hooks on the inside of the closet door: a dead mouse.
Yes, apparently Fievel decided that the best place to shuffle off his tiny mortal coil was at the bottom of the most expensive accessory I own. Passing over the less-pricey offerings hanging immediately north, south, and west, he perched for a moment at the edge of the limited-edition, structured wool Kate Spade bag, squeaked out a “Goodbye cruel world,” and then swandived into the Great Beyond. My husband, observing all of this with amusement from the bed on Monday morning, helpfully offered that “At least he had good taste.” In the mouse’s defense, the bag is lined with a deep purple floral fabric and in his final seconds it likely appeared to be an appropriately funereal resting place.
This was no doubt the same rodent who skulked around uninvited in my kitchen in the run-up to the wedding, yet refused to help with the last-minute details. But with the traditions of the motherland still fresh in our minds, we generously sent him on his way with a proper wake, placing coins over his eyes, tucking a rosary into his paws clasped on his chest, and talking about what a wee, right jolly bugger he was. And by that I mean we flung him unceremoniously into the Dumpster. Godspeed, you stinky little stowaway. Godspeed.
Someone once sniped at me in the comments section after I’d done a political post, telling me I should stick with writing about my wedding. It’s a fair point. The world should not know the cold terror of a day in which I do not opine about Bridal Betty tinker dye. But it’s advice that I have been unable to heed at times throughout the primary and general election.
* I’ve flirted shamelessly with Texas, Ohio, and Pennsylvania.
* I’ve pointed my Strawberry Shortcake bike with the rad pink streamers hanging off the handles northward and hoped for the best. Then several months later, pedaled it south for two months with similar hopes.
* I’ve looked out as 75,000 people stood hushed so they wouldn’t miss anything when a man offered them not fear or prejudice or failed plans or folly, but instead, hope and change in their most figurative and concrete forms.
It comes down to this then. The last day of this protracted campaign season is upon us and here I am blogging not about cake fillings or first dance selections, but politics. With respect to my disgruntled commenter, tomorrow is very much about my marriage. It’s about the world that my husband and I stare out at with a week under our belts and a lifetime ahead. It’s about the world we would bring children into.
It’s about finally knowing that there need not be audacity in hope.