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Uh... Hi
This is one of those days when I have about 5 posts I can think of that I wouldn't mind writing down, just to get all this stuff out of my head, but I can't decide what would be most interesting to read.

I'll go backwards.

I found another treasured book at Mom's house on Sunday night. It's called A Tune for the Towpath, and it was a gift from katsensei's mother, many years ago when I was the right age for it (it's a children's book). I read it on the commuter train to D.C. on Monday morning, and it took me back. I thought I'd forgotten some of the story, but it turns out that's because the story ends just when things are getting interesting. Pity, that. It's a good book in the way that the Little House books are good; there's lots of interesting period detail, and the characters seem so unfailingly good and decent that you wish you could go live with them for a while. In books like that, the women all seem so cheerful as they go about their work that I become convinced they know something I don't and that there's something I'm missing by not spending as much time as they do on housework and putting the comforts of others before my own. I find myself resolving to spend more time making a happy home and less time on my more selfish pursuits. I resolve to find satisfaction in the scrubbing of a floor until the white tile gleams, and I picture myself serving meals with a smile, never tired or resentful, the reward of a clean house and my husband's clean plate my only reward.

I think, though, that the books must be leaving something out because when I try it, it's really not all that satisfying. Maybe it's because my house kind of sucks to begin with, but it seems to me that there are parts of it that just really don't get clean. I always felt that way about Mom's house growing up, too. Trying to clean my house feels like going into battle. My visions of myself humming cheerfully with a feather duster fade as I find myself scrubbing for what feels like hours at the same piece of scum that seems to have melded with the walls of the shower. As I think back on the chores I used to have at my dad's house and how silly it always felt to be cleaning things that were already perfectly clean, I realize that it is clearly my own fault. The women in the books fly through their housework with a smile because they did it yesterday and the day before, so they only have to touch up what's already been done, not try to bring order to rooms long abandoned.

I gave up on the housework pretty quickly when I got home yesterday, but I did make a nice big pot of creamy tomato soup. It's not as good as karmakeys's, but it was lowfat and hearty, and droid18's father, who is still recovering from his bout with tongue cancer, could eat it without chewing. I also finished watching Pride and Prejudice, jealous of Eliza and Jane, who call themselves "poor," yet who never have to cook or clean because even poor women of their class have servants. It was satisfying to feed the boys, and they all complimented the soup, but it wasn't as satisfying as goofing off, especially when dinner was over and there were all those dishes to wash. (Our dishwasher is broken.)

I still do think it's possible to do housework cheerfully, but I don't know how. I think it helps if you feel like it's inevitable and natural that housework should be your job, and I most certainly don't. The feminist in me doesn't understand why housework would fall automatically to me when droid18's hands can hold a scrub brush just as well. Normally, he's in charge of the cleaning, and that's the way I like it, but I still feel a twinge of regret that I never learned how to keep house properly. He's the one working two jobs right now, and I feel like I should be doing more around the house to balance it out, but I find it so tedious and yet so difficult at the same time that I can never quite bring myself to do it. Instead, I tell myself that it doesn't really matter because I don't care what the house looks like, anyway, and at least we seem to have gotten rid of the ants.

All in all, though, I feel very blessed right now, much like a character in a Jane Austen novel, actually. I have found my true love and am engaged to be married, while maintaining a flurry of social occasions and amassing housewares and new clothes for my new life as a married woman. My aunt Mary asked me to go through some of Memommie's things that they haven't been able to find uses for, and I came away with some really nice things. I have a relish tray, a large, wooden salad bowl with serving utensils, several nice sets of table linens (the linens seem especially Jane Austen-ish to me), and some other pretty serving pieces. The dining room table arrived today, too, but apparently there's a bit of an issue with it, and droid18 won't be able to get it into the house without help. I can just see it sitting in our front yard until next Monday. Oy.

The pearls are lovely. There are some additional pearls in a bag, in case I want to make it longer. I think I will wear them for the wedding, even though it messes up the "something borrowed" plot to borrow Allison's wedding jewelry. I like the idea of wearing something of Memommie's.

On Sunday, after church and a baby shower for my cousin Lynn, I begged Uncle Paul and Aunt Mary to take me out to Stoney's for crab cakes. I had only been to Stoney's once in my life; every time the Fletchers gather there, I can't attend because I'm too far away. They consented, and my aunt Chris joined us. We went to Solomon's Island and walked the pier for a bit, the smell of the salt water taking me back to my childhood summers at Tall Timbers. I love that smell. Mom and I started reminiscing about Brewster, the family dog, who loved Tall Timbers as much as we did and would tell us when we were almost there by poking his nose at the crack in the back window and sniffing frantically. He was a retriever and loved nothing more than to spend all day fetching tennis balls in the river. I thought about how many places there are in the world that I can call "home" and what a good feeling that is, and just as I thought that, Aunt Chris said she and Uncle Craig were moving to Gettysburg. What an adventure! I wonder where droid18 and I will settle, or even if we will. When we finally buy a house of our own, will it be in Atlanta, will it be closer to my hometown (and the neice or nephew I'm soon to have), will it be closer to his parents in Indiana, or will it be someplace completely new to us that we can't even predict with what little knowledge of the future we have now?

I'd gotten my craving for crab cakes at Margaret's wedding the day before, where the tray people had circulated with tiny little crab cakes that just made me long for the real thing. I don't like crab cakes as a general rule; there's too much mayonnaise and breading and, usually, suspicious red pepper-looking things. Just give me the crab, thanks. But I make an exception for the crab cakes at Stoney's because they are so perfectly made, mostly crab meat with just the smallest bit of breading possible to hold it all together. Uncle Craig had taunted me at the wedding, saying, "Now, you're not going to be a wuss and get the baby crab cake, are you? You're going to go for the big crab cake!" I told him he was darn tootin', so, even though Uncle Craig wasn't at the restaurant, I felt like I had to keep my word or lose the dare. I skipped the sides and just ate the two big crab cakes on my plate, and that was the most satisfying meal I'd had in a long time.

Cousin Margaret (Maggie, actually, is what she calls herself now) is my second cousin - my mother's cousin's daughter. Her middle name is Lindsay, after the same beloved uncle for whom I am named (grandfather, actually, in her case), Robert Lindsay Fletcher, who died in his 40's. We were never very close, and I only know her a little, but the fabric of the Fletchers is tight enough that it didn't feel at all weird to get an invitation to her wedding, and she and her new husband have already accepted their invitation to mine. The ceremony was lovely, and it was nice to attend St. Columba's for a wedding this time instead of a funeral. Maggie's dress was beautiful, and I especially loved the veil, a tasteful tiara with coffee-colored tulle that hung all the way to the floor. As I listened to the ceremony, I wished droid18 were there with me to hear the words we'd soon be saying to each other. I didn't even mind the length of the service or the fact that they celebrated Communion. I must be mellowing or something because I really don't mind church the way used to; even going on Sunday was OK.

The reception was held outdoors at Uncle Rob and Aunt Tina's house. They had rented a white tent and transformed their backyard into a wedding reception. It reminded me a little of Lee's wedding at the Pine Tavern, though it wasn't quite as nice as that. The dance floor was too small, but that was my only complaint. Even the bugs stayed away, only starting to bite me as we were leaving around 10:30 p.m. Mom and I sat at a table with Uncle Craig, Aunt Chris, Cousin Jim, Uncle Clarke, and Uncle Terry, with Paul and Mary and Uncle Johnny seated at the table right behind us. We had some lovely conversation and even danced, though I had to be the one to start it. My new glass slipper-type shoes held up remarkably well through it all, and I thank Payless again for carrying wide sizes.

I couldn't shut up about my own wedding, which is my only regret. Although, in my defense, people kept asking about it. "So, how's your wedding planning going?" was everyone's opening line, and I was all too happy to discuss it. So I didn't quite take a break from my own wedding planning, but I am happy to report that I nevertheless feel much less worried and stressed about it (for now). Maggie tried to throw me the bouquet, but it caught on an overhead beam and fell into the hands of a triumphant blonde. Even when brides throw it right to me, I miss! Ah, well. That truly was my last chance, too.

I wish I knew Maggie and Jeff's story. I don't know how they met or how he proposed or any of that stuff (like I said, we're not that close). Jeff seems much older than her (she's younger than me, about 26 or 27), and they're going to be living right down the street from her parents. "A neighbor, and that's how they met?" Mom wondered. A mystery to be solved later, hopefully by Maggie herself, but if not, I'm not too proud to rely on family gossip. He has a very interesting job in D.C., something to do with technology, but he has security clearance.

Speaking of family gossip, it sounds as though Bob and Marie might be getting married after all. That might sound obvious, given that they just had a baby, but apparently it's not in Sweden, where they live.

My least favorite experience of the trip was being singled out at Hartsfield for "additional special screening." I was running a bit later than I would have liked to begin with, so I wasn't thrilled when the nice Indian man at the security checkpoint (the same one who was there when droid18 and I were headed to pacotelic's wedding with the dholak drum in tow) told me to go all the way to the right and wait in line. I waited for a while, and I got more nervous the longer I waited. Something about my straight-A, brown-nosing past still stirs inside me when I feel like I might be "in trouble" for something, and I get all anxious. I found myself mentally going through my own bags, wondering if there was anything I'd forgotten about. Fingernail clippers? Eyeliner sharpener? Were those allowed? Would they take them away? By the time I (finally) got to the front of the line, I was a big of a wreck. My treatment at the hands of the airport employees did nothing to calm me down. No explanations were offered to us; we were just given orders to move forward, stand there, feet there, spread your arms. Meanwhile, the woman who was supposed to search my bags looked incredibly bored as she unzipped my suitcase, gave it a quick poke, and closed it again, while the woman who wanded me and patted me down never once spoke to me (except to say, "feet here," "right foot out," "left foot out," and "spread your arms") and never once looked me in the eye. Instead, she was gossipping with a co-worker about her son's soccer game the night before. I know she's a person with her own life, but it seemed inexcusably lazy to me to take a job that is supposed to insure airport security so casually. More to the point, she made me feel small and insignificant, and it added to my feeling of anxiety. I suppose it was nice of them to have a woman pat me down and put her hands between my legs, but I'd have preferred a polite man to a woman who didn't even acknowledge me as a human being.

This is always my experience at Hartsfield. I've never understood why the employees of that airport feel like they have to be rude in order to be efficient. People start screaming at you when you go through security ("Everybody have your boarding pass and photo ID out! Everybody have your boarding pass and photo ID out!") and keep screaming until you leave ("Keep it moving! No parking here! *blows very loud whistle* Keep it moving! No parking here!"). I personally think that people have enough anxiety over flying without adding to it that way.

I was selected again for additional screening on my way home, but that experience was perfectly pleasant. First of all, I was hours early to the airport, so I wasn't anxious to begin with. Secondly, the employees took the time to explain what they were doing. "Ma'am, if you'll follow me, I'm going to ask you to sit right over here. As soon as she's finished with this gentleman, she's going to search your bags, and then she'll come over to you." The woman who wanded me and patted me down looked me in the eye and told me everything she was going to do before she did it. "I'm going to put my hands on your stomach. Now I'm going to reach between your legs." Her search of my baggage was quick but thorough; she actually opened things that were inside my bag and looked through them. It made me feel like there was a point to what she was doing rather than that it was just some stupid procedure with no purpose other than to intimidate people. It didn't take any more time for the woman in D.C. to search me, and I came through the experience feeling like a human being and, what's more, like an American citizen. Oh, and if anyone's tempted to make it a racial thing, every single person I dealt with at both airports was African-American (except the Indian man at the beginning).

It's just not that hard to be polite to people. Why doesn't Hartsfield train their employees to be polite?

Tonight, laundry. Then pool. Then one more day of work, eye doctor, last-ditch trip to try to find a new outfit for the shower, and then droid18 and I leave town yet again for Fredericksburg. Poor Persephone; as soon as she gets used to having us both around again, we'll be leaving her once more. Hopefully she'll forgive us.