Happy Valentines Day - our home movie

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Love

Who loves you more--your husband or your dog? Here's a simple way to find out:

Lock your husband and your dog in the truck of your car, then leave them there for an hour. When you open the trunk, which one is really happy to see you?

Q & A

I can't believe a whole week has flown by without an update here. To answer your burning questions:

(1) No, it wasn't worth it. Taking off for a two week vacation is absolutely fabulous, but coming home to a two week backlog of reality and a desk covered with paperwork screaming for attention is brutal.

(2) Heck yeah, we'd do it again. Probably next year at the same time.

(3) The wedding in England was wonderful. Actually it was more intimate and sweet than the original, and getting hitched in a castle is romantic beyond words. Plus it was fun meeting all of Morley's old college buddies--I only wish we'd had more time with them.

(4) It was a blast. Hanging out with our pals Les and Roz was toooooo much fun. We stayed with them for two days and ate like pigs, had too much wine one night, and laughed our heads off the whole time we were there. We came home determined to trick out our backyard to look more like theirs, which looks like it ought to be the centerfold in an English gardening magazine. At this moment our garden definitely does not look like something out of an English gardening magazine--it looks like something out of a farming magazine, specifically the issue devoted to out of control weed infestations. We'll start whipping it into shape after we slay our desk dragons (see item #1 above), but by all means will have made progress with it before they come visit us this Fall.

(5) Yes, I have. My cellphone which wandered off into oblivion the week before we left for England has now been replaced with an identical model, except the new one is red so I can see it without my glasses on. I still believe with all of my heart the old one is lying around here somewhere and will someday be returned to me by the merciful angel of Lost Cellphones.

(6) (a) No, I haven't. I'm still missing about 200 telephone numbers (literally) that were stored in my old cellphone so I'm collecting phone numbers like crazy. Actually I'm a phone number ho. I'm jones'ing real bad for some phone numbers. See that? My hands are shaking--that's how bad I need a phone number fix. So sad.

(6) (b) Yes, I so totally agree that only a dumb ass would fail to keep a back-up of all the phone numbers stored in their cellphone.

(7) Well, yes and no. The Butt Ugly Boat is looking pretty good on the inside, but now that warm weather is here the outside demands some serious attention. A good buffing and waxing session--or two--or ten--is in order. Y'all come visit, okay? And don't forget to bring your buffer.

(8) No, not one ounce. My earlier resolve to weigh less than a Buick station wagon by the time swimsuit season arrived was temporarily put on hold so I could stuff as much English food as humanly possible down my throat enjoy our vacation without being picky about my diet. Thus, not only have I not lost weight I think may have gained about fifty pounds an ounce or two.

(9) Nunyer business, thank you very much. Didn't your mother tell you it wasn't nice to ask a lady's weight? Sheesh, the nerve of some people! And while we're at it: as a matter of fact this is my natural hair color. Sorta. Kinda.

(10) Yes, I will. Photos of England, Les' and Roz's garden, Kurt's wedding, our wedding, the Butt Ugly Boat, and our beautifully tended *ahem* England-inspired garden will be posted as soon as possible.

Consensus

Morley told me he wanted to have input on the choice of new chairs for the Butt Ugly Boat. So I woke him up about 4:00 AM one morning, shoved the laptop in his face, and asked him if he liked this chair. He mumbled something that sounded like "huh? wha? sure. nice. what time is it?" and then he rolled over and fell back asleep.

So I took that as his thumbs' up on the new direction for the boat's decor and ordered some. Is he ever going to be surprised when they get here.

Pushing up daisies

So. The reason I haven't posted an update recently is because last week my beloved computer--my main computer, the mothership computer, the one where all the good stuff lives--passed away peacefully in her sleep. I was with her at the end, gently stroking her mouse and assuring her it was okay to walk towards the light, and when her BIOS screen slowly faded to black and the monitor went dark for the last time I wept bitterly. And then I tried to reboot her sorry ass but this time she is good and truly gone. She's in a better place.

Anyway, my husband who is still hyperdiligient about gift opportunities following the regrettable forgotten birthday incident last month has generously offered to spring for a new one and I, who am still milking the situation for all its worth, graciously accepted.

The problem is I can't just get a new computer and immediately hunker down to computing on a newer, faster machine like normal people do. If only. First I will have to transfer over the three hard drives from my old machine.

Because I am too lazy concerned about losing vital data, I never got in the habit of transferring the contents of the old hard drive onto the new drive when I replaced my computer. I just added the old drive(s) as a slave(s) to the new one(s) and kept going. Over and over.

For example, I still have "Piglet", the 8 gig hard drive from my old ITMG computer in my current PC. It is so old it has dinosaur dookie on it but I cling to it because I just never know when I might need to refer to spam received in 1999, or like last week, want to take a trip down Memory Lane by reading websites I published on R&B in 2000. And I have "Good Stuff", the 40 gig hard drive from the PC I bought in 2001. It stores photos I took with my original digital camera in breathtaking 1 megapixel resolution which was amazing technology back in the day. Plus it archives my vast assortment of animated gifs that were lovingly collected back in the stone age when every website needed a moving cartoon character or two. And so on. Basically important, vital, irreplaceable, earth shatteringly critical stuff.

And so like the crazy cat lady who hoards old newspapers, cardboard boxes and plastic bags until she can no longer find her sofa under the piles of garbage, I kept adding hard drives, one after another, over and over, for a decade. And the last time I went computer shopping I found it very difficult to find a PC with enough slots to house all those hard drives along with the other peripherals which I must possess in order to live another day on this planet. And now I find it impossible to find a PC that will hold it all. Gah! So we're talking custom build here, plus a weekend or three peforming ten years' worth of deferred maintenance. Also, possibly some soul searching to decide if I really need to archive cigar jokes dating back to the Clinton administration.

Point is, until I get the new computer up and running I'll make do with my laptop and the data contained on Hard Drive #4 (codename "Rodney"), a 500 gig external hard drive with back up copies of my 2,000 MP3s, my stash of 50,000 or so photos, and most of my data.

What? You think I'm nuts? Of course I backed up all that stuff to an external drive. But it just isn't the same as having ancient hard drives running Windows 98 hanging around like little tiny time capsules of ten year old emails and useless software applications that you just can't find anymore. Sheesh.

Hello, my name is Susan and I am a geek.

English Tradition

Our marriage service at Banwell Castle in England is April 26th which means it is high time we get some things going on this side of the pond. You know, things like mailing invitations, making decisions about who is coming and what food will be served, firming up the ceremony details, figuring out what to wear...basically, pretty much everything.

You might assume that a planning a small wedding service would be a piece of cake after pulling off that shindig in September. But nay, you would be wrong.

American weddings and English weddings are two totally different cats. The customs and traditions are different, the legal processes are different, everything is different except the end result and English as the language of choice.

And since I've never even been a guest at a wedding in England, I am at a cultural disadvantage when it comes planning one. In other words, I don't have a clue what I'm doing.

The only information I have about English weddings comes from being glued to the TV set watching this one:

...which is a little over the top for what we have in mind.

Ours will be a civil service, a low key ceremony nicely suited to people who have previously been at bat, nuptially speaking, and would like a little hoopla around their latest and greatest marriage but not so much hoopla as to pretend it is anybody's first rodeo. In short, a wedding with a sheepish attitude.

Since the whole point of going to England is to have a traditional English service, I'm relying heavily on the advice of my mother-in-law and sister-in-law along with whatever information I can glean off the internet about civil services other couples have had.

And that means just this one time I am using as an example:


...the civil service of Prince Charles the pig who cheated on Diana from Day One, and Camilla Parker Bowles the lying, cheating, conniving, two faced hussey who fooled around with Diana's husband behind her back the Duchess of Cornwall.

Dear God.

(Forgive me, Diana--I promise to kick Camilla right back to the curb as soon as her usefulness is over. PS I hear there's trouble in paradise between hubby and his new wife. Just thought you'd like to know.)

Anyway--and I can't believe I'm saying this--I used Camilla as a fashion guide and bought a cream color dress with a matching cream overcoat sort of like the one she's wearing in that photo, and Morley is wearing a morning suit sort of like Chuck's. Kidding, kidding. He's wearing a velour jogging suit and tennis shoes. Kidding again. He's wearing a dark suit. All terribly British, you know.

But I totally draw the line at wearing anything like that wierd thing she had on her head.

Wtf is that thing? Seriously. Is that supposed to be a hat, or did a quail crash land into the back of her head?

Or maybe it is a vortex of really bad marriage karma forming around Mrs. Chuck The Second--a little wedding gift sent from above by the late Mrs. Chuck The First.

Wearing a hat that resembles a peacock in heat attached to the back of your head is not a good look for you, Camilla. Or for anyone.

Seriously.

And so that's where Camilla's role as a fashion inspiration comes to an end.

Instead, I've chosen classic accessories that are elegant and understated, yet pay subtle tribute to my American roots:

God save Diana the Queen.

Done Deal

Saturday morning bright and early we trekked 45 minutes across town to pick up my bargain UK phone booth purchased off craigslist. It fit--with half a centimeter to spare--in my SUV and caused only minor physical injuries when we lugged it into the house.

In fact, I've almost already regained full feeling in my legs.


Here you see Muffin stretched out in front of my new phonebooth, obviously admiring how the rich splash of red adds just the right note of whimsy to the room and marveling at how cleverly it displays the priceless object d' art such as my Precious Moments collection.

Just kidding on the Precious Moments collection. I just put the junk in there that used to sit on the table that occupied that spot. Note to self: acquire some priceless object d'art to display in big red phonebooth.


And here you see Shelby and Morley engaged in a conversation about the newly installed big red phonebooth:

Shelby: Uh, dad, the hell? Whattsup with a phonebooth in the house?

Morley: Ask your mum. Now go fetch me another Excedrin and an ice pack.

Recovery

So. Wednesday was my birthday. I turned fifty-freakin'-three which, I reminded myself, sucks but it sure beats never turning fifty three. It's all in how you look at it, a practice in rationalization that comes in handy as I age. My boobs sag like cannon balls in a gunny sack but at least I can stay out past 10 PM without asking for my parents' permission. Or, more accurately, I could stay out past 10 PM without permission if I could only stay awake that late.

Anyway, my beloved sister called me first thing to sing happy birthday and my friend Carol called next, and throughout the day I got birthday wishes from lots of family and friends.

My first hint that not everyone remembered my birthday came after lunch when my coworkers presented me with a cake and sang Happy Birthday to me (albeit in the key of "N"--you'll never see a barbershop quartet comprised of engineering types), and they gave me a birthday card they had circulated around the office for everyone to sign.

As I read the card my eyes were drawn to one particular entry: the one that was signed "oooops!". And that was my first clue that my husband had forgotten my birthday.

When I arrived home after work he looked like this, an expression not unlike the one prisoners have as they are led away to the electric chair.

He was so apologetic and remorseful about forgetting my birthday that I decided not to kill him after all. I ate the festive dinner of microwaved lasagne that he prepared all by himself with his own two hands, and I resisted the temptation to make him feel any worse than he already did--if such a thing was even possible. After dinner was over I gave him a wimpy goodnight kiss accompanied by a feeble "that's okay, honey" and went to bed.

The next day I worked from home on some year-end accounting stuff, and at 5:00 on the nose I heard my husband come in the back door. Normally I would rush to greet him with a kiss, but this time I stayed at my desk working because not only was I in the middle of a tricky calculation, but I was also in the middle of dishing out some apathetic treatment towards forgetful husbands.

After I finished the calculation I was working on I moseyed into the kitchen to greet him. And there he stood beside a bouquet of flowers as big as a Buick and a stash of gifts, each of which he had carefully and thoughtfully chosen (versus his normal selection process which revolves around whatever merchandise the store has displayed closest to the door).

And he gave me the sweetest birthday card ever produced by mankind then took me out for a wonderful dinner during which he said the nicest, sweetest things and made me feel like a million bucks.

And so I forgave him completely for forgetting my birthday and even secretly hoped he forgets again next year.