Marriage and a Happy Baby

To backtrack a bit, we went to New York and attended a beautiful wedding surrounded by friends that I love to see but so rarely do. The wedding was way up in the Adirondacks in a lodge equipped with old-timey, cozy things -- like huge fireplaces, and a "There Will Be Blood" style bowling alley. The ceremony was simple and sweet, and by God, parted the rain clouds, so you know it must've been special. Someone did the sweetest, off-key version of Hendrix's "Waterfall" that has been stuck in my head ever since. I talked and ate and drank and pretty much had a gay old time. Was I walking around worried over the well-being of my baby (which again reminds me of "TWBB" -- "I've abandoned my child.")? Not really -- Dave was feeling a bit guilty, worried that he wouldn't remember us. But, after a few phone calls back home, I realized he was fine. He had a dog to distract him with occasional licks to the face. The nicest part, I must say, was to be with people I know the best and who say things I understand and who understand me when I say things. And who like to laugh a lot. I miss that.

Two memories

D's been listening to a lot of "This American Life" and comes home from work full of stories about stories. One is about a British guy who has a distinct childhood memory of being thrown in a lake by his friends because he's fat. Turns out, after a series of reunion-related interviews, he jumped willingly into the lake because that was what they were doing, jumping in the lake. His plumpness, in the minds of his friends, had nothing to do with his ending up wet.
Which got me wondering if I have mis-remembered facts from the past, which I hardly seem to remember anyway. But the shocking moments, did they happen for the reasons I think they did?
-- In seventh grade, I surprisingly slapped my best friend out of total confusion when a bunch of people gathered around to tell me, teasingly but playfully, that Danny liked me. I guess I was super excited? (I remember, we "went together" for a total of 7 days.)
-- I distinctly remember my kindergarten teacher mocking me to the entire class because of a silly mistake I made on an assignment (I remember the assignment too). Can that be right? Kindergarten teachers don't ridicule 6-year olds, do they? Even elderly midwestern kindgarten teachers named Schultz -- it just can't be.

The Lost Weekend

We're heading for New York tomorrow night, jetblue red-eye then a six hour car trip upstate to attend a little wedding in the woods. I'm beyond excited, to witness the nuptials of dear friends in celebration with a whole bunch of other dear friends who I haven't seen in a while. I'll be surrounded by friends! A comforting thought to one lost in a strange city with a baby and a hubbie, neither of whom help fill my social calendar.
But our poor baby -- the thought has been eating at me for months -- will be spending the weekend at grandpa's. With his baby-loving ladyfriend and D's sister next door, there will be a community of loving arms for Desmond to cry into during our absence. But, cry I'm sure he will. He's a sensitive little one who jumps with delight everytime he sees his father enter a room, who pulls himself up to stand with a devious and proud grin on wobbly bookcases, who gets so tired he doesn't know what to do but cry and giggle at once, who shivers in anticipation whenever I pull out the box of Joe's O's. He's a (heavy! over 21 lbs!) handful. And I feel both guilty for putting my in-laws through three and a half days of back-breaking babysitting and worried worried worried that Desmond will be psychically scarred so thoroughly that all the analysis in Austria wouldn't be enough to cure him of the trauma of a weekend without mommy and daddy.
On the other (saner) hand, I have my dress at the cleaners and the long-lost friends in the wings gearing up the car to pick us up. I can't wait!

How to Write a Dissertation, pt 2

On my "days off," during Dave's furlough Fridays, or on a lazy Saturday or Sunday, I either head off to a nearby coffeshop or drive 20 minutes to UC Davis to use their library. I am supposed to be writing. Furiously. With passion and determination. With my eyes on the PhD prize.
Instead I flip through a biography or book of criticism. Underline a sentence or two. Open up my Word doc. Think about what word would be a good word to write. Write. Delete. Write. Then spend the next 10 - 15 minutes on facebook, thinking with much more concentration about how to appropriately word an update I'll never end up writing.
Right now I'm looking at the cutest little black chiuaua-type dog with toenails painted pink. She of course is owned by a tatted rock-abilly chick, the type of girl I used to think was badass when I first moved to northern California.