dynamic elf

I recently posted a bunch of old photos on molblog, and this reminded me of JUST HOW MUCH I love seeing people's old photos. Then, a few of us had a blast doing this last night. Now I want more! So, let's see 'em! Drag it out! I want to see you!

Me at ~6 months:


Kid me:


18-year-old me taking a girrrrrl to "senior banquet":


...and a boy to prom, because some things never change:

regyt asks why the world doesn't have a meme where everyone leaves screened comments with what they want to say to to the poster but haven't yet for whatever reason -- and I say, indeed, why not? So! Tell me anything you want me to know - about me, about you, about your mom, whatever you like.

Anonymous comments are enabled, and everything is screened. Tell me something you want to tell me, anonymously or not. If you say you want me to unscreen, I will, happily.

Then do the same, and I will tell you something!

I don't remember the last non-Burning-Man time I went for five days without internet access. I wrote some letters. It was nice. I just finished reading my email -- most people weren't expecting to hear from me, so it didn't take long or anything. So, all in all: internet hiatus successful. Vacation lovely. Natalie still perky, France still French, smelly cheese still fabulous. IR camera strongly imperfect in focus, but still entertaining.

Livejournal, though, is scary. Maybe later. (Maybe not.)

It is always a strange relief to me to discover that someone else has/does precisely the same weird brain tricks I do. Which is good, because I have a bunch of them.

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Our backyard holds quite a decent barbecue, even without midgets, stilts, costumes, or illicit fire. We should do that more often.

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If you're combining breastfeeding and bottlefeeding, how do you know when your child needs to go up to the faster-flow bottle nipples? Oh, YOU'LL know. Trust me.

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Natalie travels alarmingly well. I think she is most happy when being worn in a carrier, facing out, so that she can see lots of new people (who inevitably look her in the eyes and make big exciting faces). That said, damn, I am very happy to finally be home for a while after traveling for three weeks. Now I can finally start answering email again.

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Why is it that when I *don't* have my camera, beautiful photo opportunities keep cropping up?

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I have a good life with good people in it. The large ones are awesome, and even the very small ones are excellent. I wish I had more time to write about things I've been thinking, actually, but I suppose it could be worse.

When I was growing up, I always wanted to get snowed in. I lived in central Maine, so we got plenty of snow, but only people in Alaska and the Yukon got to be "snowed in". Them, and people at ski lodges in sitcoms. In my mind, in order to be snowed in, you had to see a wall of snow when you opened the door. Snow had to be piling up around your windows, making it impossible to see the world outside. If you were snowed in, you could make a snowfort in your front yard, and you wouldn't even need to use a snowbank to get enough height for the ceiling. It would be the kind of snow you could lose cars in, and not find them for weeks. We didn't get that kind of snow.

One year, my aunt and uncle came to visit us at Christmas from southern Virginia. We had a gigantic blizzard on the 26th, and so we all bundled into the car to go see a movie. My parents had both grown up in the south, and wanted to prove that dammit, in MAINE people didn't just roll over and play helpless when it snowed! The roads are mostly plowed, so what's a piddling little foot of snow? LIFE GOES ON, because we are TOUGH. Of course, we were the only people in the theater. My dad always used to grill steaks outside in the worst snowstorms, too. I learned that if you had wool socks on and it was cold enough, you could walk out to the end of the driveway and back in your sock feet: as long as you didn't dawdle, the snow wouldn't melt enough to get your feet wet. I never ever ever got to be snowed in.

Anyway, here I am, snowed in, and the snow probably doesn't even come to my knees. It's easy to shovel, too -- so light and powdery, it's the kind of snow that you have to be sure to throw downwind so it doesn't fly up in your face in a big puff. Shoveling snow like that is simple. It feels like cheating. The walkway is shoveled; maybe not masterfully, but it's walkable. We got a foot of snow, the roads look gross, and I just don't feel like bothering.

And so, in my dotage, it occurs to me that "snowed in" isn't just a phrase people use humorously when they really mean "I don't want to leave the house because it's gross out". It actually means that. It means "the roads are awful", or "I'm not going to shovel right now", or "I really don't want to lose my parking space to some yahoo". It means "there's so much snow that really, it's much more convenient to stay inside and watch a movie." The effort and preparation required to go out into the world just increased for everyone all at once; thus, we are all snowed in together. But, um, separately, and mostly just because we can't be bothered to go out, because if you think about it, when was the last time you curled up on your couch with a mug of cocoa and a comfort movie?