Most of you are aware that in 1998 the Husband cut the top off of my Volvo. He achieved international notoriety for this deed when I called Tom and Ray of "Car Talk," the weekly National Public Radio show. The Husband and I were debating the structural integrity of the car, post-crewcut. He insisted that it was sound, even as the middle of the car sagged to the ground. Tom and Ray overwhelmingly agreed with me, ha ha, and recommended I wear a helmet when riding in the vehicle. Friends from as far away as Germany recognized my voice* and many people congratulated me on the…caliber of the man I married.**
For an inkling of the steps involved in the process of cutting the roof off a car, go to Fishsuit (see the blogroll at right) and view the video he has posted in today's entry. Also note the maturity level of the men involved in this endeavor; you will have a good idea of what I experienced in the early years of my marriage.***
(Special note to Charles: The verbal contract regarding the roof of our current car is still binding.)
*In a fit of anxiety-prompted formality, I introduced myself as "Linda."
**I remember this day fondly because not only did I appear on the radio, thus achieving 15 minutes of fame, but later on the Husband and I rode our tandem bicycle in the Fremont Solstice Parade, dressed up as grapes. Ah, youth!
***I accept no responsibility for the beheading of anyone's vehicle as precipitated by the viewing of this video.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Monday, May 08, 2006
Still Nothing Going On
Really. But people are starting to ask why I haven't been posting and I'm afraid I'll get kicked off Fishsuit's blogroll, so here we are.
The Wee One is upstairs, gritching about having to take a nap. The dog is dozing on the couch, having been up since 4 am (with me—insomnia strikes again). Biggie is at school, having finally gotten over a mysterious fever. The Husband is at job #2 for the day (of three total; yes, he will be cutting down and working a relatively normal amount in a matter of weeks). My work has been slow lately and I have been consumed by utterly normal homemaker-type things: processing endless piles of laundry, tending the postage stamp-sized garden and learning the ins and outs of composting, identifying the species of turtle I found in the road and took in overnight before releasing her back into the depths of Cayuga (Eastern Painted Turtle, Chrysemys picta picta). The Excite-O-Meter is definitely reading LOW, ladies and gentlemen.
But it's bordering on summer in Ithaca, so there's always a hum in the air. The waterfalls are flowing high, the birds are back, and the trees are blooming. The farmer's market is bustling, and there's a great blue heron fishing in the creek outside my front door. The students are getting ready to leave, and we grownups will have the place to ourselves for the summer, yeeha!
Our little town just got named as one of Kiplinger's Top Ten "Smart Places to Live," which makes me proud but causes an inward groan. After watching what happened in Seattle when everyone and their brother moved there (including me, but not my brother), I'm holding my breath and wondering how Ithaca will be transformed in the upcoming years. Ithaca as it is right now feels like Fremont (a formerly funky neighborhood in Seattle) did when I moved there in 1996. I remember that my beat-up 1970 Volvo fit right in there when I moved in, but by the time I left three years later, it stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the shiny new cars of my upwardly mobile neighbors (this might have had something to do with the fact that the Husband had sawed the Volvo's roof off and painted the car purple). Don't get me wrong, I'm all for progress—Fremont looked gorgeous when I zoomed through there on my way to a wedding last summer—and I love watching my property value go up as I sit idly by, but small-town character is so fragile. I hope the local economy and housing market can absorb the influx of "new folks" we're currently experiencing-of which I am one, of course-without forcing the local color out.
Well that's the dispatch from Central New York, folks. I hope all is well wherever you are—keep on keeping on.
Really. But people are starting to ask why I haven't been posting and I'm afraid I'll get kicked off Fishsuit's blogroll, so here we are.
The Wee One is upstairs, gritching about having to take a nap. The dog is dozing on the couch, having been up since 4 am (with me—insomnia strikes again). Biggie is at school, having finally gotten over a mysterious fever. The Husband is at job #2 for the day (of three total; yes, he will be cutting down and working a relatively normal amount in a matter of weeks). My work has been slow lately and I have been consumed by utterly normal homemaker-type things: processing endless piles of laundry, tending the postage stamp-sized garden and learning the ins and outs of composting, identifying the species of turtle I found in the road and took in overnight before releasing her back into the depths of Cayuga (Eastern Painted Turtle, Chrysemys picta picta). The Excite-O-Meter is definitely reading LOW, ladies and gentlemen.
But it's bordering on summer in Ithaca, so there's always a hum in the air. The waterfalls are flowing high, the birds are back, and the trees are blooming. The farmer's market is bustling, and there's a great blue heron fishing in the creek outside my front door. The students are getting ready to leave, and we grownups will have the place to ourselves for the summer, yeeha!
Our little town just got named as one of Kiplinger's Top Ten "Smart Places to Live," which makes me proud but causes an inward groan. After watching what happened in Seattle when everyone and their brother moved there (including me, but not my brother), I'm holding my breath and wondering how Ithaca will be transformed in the upcoming years. Ithaca as it is right now feels like Fremont (a formerly funky neighborhood in Seattle) did when I moved there in 1996. I remember that my beat-up 1970 Volvo fit right in there when I moved in, but by the time I left three years later, it stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the shiny new cars of my upwardly mobile neighbors (this might have had something to do with the fact that the Husband had sawed the Volvo's roof off and painted the car purple). Don't get me wrong, I'm all for progress—Fremont looked gorgeous when I zoomed through there on my way to a wedding last summer—and I love watching my property value go up as I sit idly by, but small-town character is so fragile. I hope the local economy and housing market can absorb the influx of "new folks" we're currently experiencing-of which I am one, of course-without forcing the local color out.
Well that's the dispatch from Central New York, folks. I hope all is well wherever you are—keep on keeping on.
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