Anniversary weekend!

Scott and I spent the weekend living it up, fancy-style, as befits our 11-years-married status. (We were dating for four years before that. 15 years! I was dating my now-husband when some of you all were wearing short pants!) As I mentioned previously, I got us a room at the Ritz-Carlton for his 40th birthday, but scheduled it for our anniversary. See what I did, there? It’s a present for him that is also for me. Thus sparing him the need to buy me an anniversary gift. I am a giver!

When we checked in, the, uh, check-in guy informed us that, due to its being our anniversary and all (you bet your sweet patoot I told them when I reserved the room), we were being upgraded to a suite. My first thought was that I had already reserved a suite, but nice attempt to impress us, Ritz-Carlton. But then, in order that we may understand the true import of this upgrade, he confided that the suite we had been upgraded to normally costs about two grand a night.

Well.

I had reserved one of the lowest-tier suites, and the only reason I even bothered with the whole “suite” idea is because in these parts, hotels, even the glamorous ones, often have alarmingly teeny rooms. I figured if I got a suite, we could at least be sure that when we took a shower, the bed wouldn’t get wet. I didn’t really think we needed a galley, full living room, office, and dining/conference area. But we got it, and my god, we were going to use it.

Here’s Scott conducting a meeting.

Good point. Exactly.

Really? Are you clowns serious?

Hang on-- he has to take this.

Damn it!

NO! DAMN it!

OH, FOR THE LOVE OF—

HA! Good one, Johnson! (Johnson can always calm him down.)

At the end of a long day, nothing like a little telescope action to unwind.

Aw, Christ. What’s the point. What’s the goddamned point.

We did that for quite a while.

Then someone actually called on the actual phone; we missed it, because by then we were busy taking turns on the Toto Washlet. (Now, you may ask: does one need a warmed toilet seat that oscillates and/or pulsates and can direct jets of water and puffs of drying air to your various toilet-related areas? Turns out, yes.)

While we tried to figure out the voice mail, Scott excitedly called out “Maybe it’s something free!” and I observed that we were letting this enormous room go to our heads, with the crazy thought that more free things would simply be brought up to us. And then I listened to the message, which was that more free things were being brought up to us.

It turned out to be a complicated structure made entirely of chocolate-covered strawberries, and before the door was even closed we had crammed most of them into our mouths. I decided we should call room service and say “We eated the chocolates and they hurt our insides and now we need more chocolates.” And then answer the door with our mouths smeared with chocolate. Because the great thing is, you know they’d all just smile and agree to our insane requests! Yes yes and more yes! Fancy places put up with lunatics, and that’s what makes them fun!

I also wanted to call the concierge and ask to have our view changed (not our room—just our view) but Scott felt that both my ideas were strange and unnecessary. While I maintained that concierges enjoy a challenge. It’s this kind of conflict that keeps the marriage lively.

Then we went back to using the Washlet for a few hours. And not that I’m complaining, fancy hotel, but we couldn’t get two of those? You know what it’s like waiting for some refreshing bottom-cleansing? Wondering if you should oscillate or pulsate or both? What, was I supposed to use the other non-warmed seat, like some kind of primitive?

It was pretty fun.

Let's talk Grandmas! Okay!

All of this talk of elderly females got me thinking about grandmas.

I had two, which I believe is considered the norm. They are dead now.

My siblings and I used our grandparents' last names, so they were Grandma Mariano and Grandma Bradley. It still sounds weird to me when people call their grandparents by their first names, or even weirder, use some adorable made-up moniker, like Pop-ola or Grummsy. As if grandparents are figures of affection and warmth, and not forbidding matri-/patriarchs under whose shadow you must cower and throw offerings.

Actually Grandma Mariano was, by all accounts, the (much, much) less forbidding and stern of the two grandmothers, but she died when I was eight, so my memories of her are murky.

Wasn't she lovely? (That's my mom on the right.) I have many pictures of her, and she's gorgeous in all of them. ( have no pictures of Grandma Bradley, strangely. Although she didn't cast a reflection, so maybe that's why? And every time we tried to capture her image our camera burst into flames? I have to look into that.)

My most vivid memory of Grandma Mariano is sitting in the passenger seat of her car as she drove the wrong way down the one-way exit/entrance to my sister's high school. I remember a lot of people shouting and running out of the way. She seemed unconcerned.

I am told she did that sort of thing quite a bit.

I have also been told that instead of using the phrase, "I'll treat you," or "it's on me," she would say, "I'll blow you." Now, apparently this was some sort of vernacular in her day (I HOPE), but not the sort of thing you want to hear out of your grandma's mouth. My sister still talks about how mortifying it was to have her grandma utter the words "Let's go out for ice cream! I'll blow you!" in front of a whole bunch of teenagers who had wandered outside to see who had driven the wrong way into the parking lot and caused all the ensuing chaos.

Oh, how I wish I could remember that part.

We didn't die after all.

Us at the Louvre.
Originally uploaded by finslippy

Instead of dying, we just had an incredible time. Huh. Go here to see our complete Flickr set.

A brief, bewildering tour of where I spend most of my day.

Why hello! I've had too much coffee, and I've taken pictures of my workspace! Come along with me, won't you?

This is what my office looks like in the morning. Look how sunny! You'll notice there's no computer. That's because I compose my thoughts in a linen-bound journal, which I then read into a recording device, and send the digital voice files to a transcription service in Uruguay.

Actually the computer's just downstairs, and I'm too lazy to get it, so I was writing in my journal instead. I tend to write on whatever's handy. A journal, the side of a building, my son's forehead. Whatever.

Here you see the doodles I doodled at some point, I can't remember when. Doodling is essential to my thought process. I drew, as you can see, a heart, because love is very important to me. Then I drew the symbol for eternity, because I often ponder the big questions. Then there's a star and a star-like shape, and I don't have a reason for those. I like to practice the alphabet, because sometimes I forget what comes after what. The "catapult" note is about this deadly, enormous catapult that I'm designing… but I've said too much. Then there's a space for… for what? Who can say! You see how inspiring that is?

And here are the toys I play with, when I crave inspiration. Sometimes I like to take a break and go on a space mission. Or a "mission dans l'espace." It all depends. On what? Je ne sais quoi.

Here is my exercise ball. I have been known to use this for some forms of exercise. Usually I just leave it in that rattan basket, so I can pretend I am a bird, sitting on an enormous, bouncy egg. This amuses me.

This is my chalkboard easel, upon which I scribble angry notes to my inner critic. Here, as you can see, I have scrawled NONONO. This is because my inner critic told me to write something more worthwhile than this rambling mass of lies. Another day I might write POOP, or just draw a space man. I find this technique quite valuable, until my inner critic mocks my penmanship, and I cry.

Here is my cat. She likes to sit on this chair and stare at my back while I work. This keeps me awake, because if I nod off who knows what she'll do. She really cares about me, that cat.

In the adjoining bedroom is Charlie, who as you can see is lounging across our pillows. He does not care about my Art at all. All he cares about is himself. Himself, and his damned sleep.

Now he is pleading me with his eyes to go away, and leave him in peace. And so I shall.

The tour of my office is now finished. You are very welcome.