O happy, rainy day.
O blessed day of no fevers, and healthy children.
O pleasant offspring who go to school so that Mother can go to Costco!
Is it weird that I cry with joy a little when it rains? I guess it is odd, but unsurprising because I cry at everything. I am misting up a bit just thinking about how rain makes me cry. Today, Tommy, Sam and I got decked out in our winter coats (Old Navy-or as Sam calls it, Old Lady-sweatshirts) and we piled into the van and headed to Costco, listening to my Joshua Radin CD. I even went to the Williamsfield Costco so I could enjoy the rain and the music a little longer, and avoid mean, crotchety Superstition Springs Costco patrons. Was phenomenal, exhilerating experience. The sights and smells (from the tasty samples) were almost overwhelming. Costco is great, because you can see, say, a travelling pool table show on display, and think, wouldn't one of those be fun? But, no, I don't see that on my list, and I hadn't planned on spending an extra 1700 dollars this morning. Instead, I'll just get myself a new novel and a Sonicare toothbrush. I'm totally saving 1573 dollars. I am such a prudent and thrifty shopper. (Costco just got me to buy $124 toothbrush and more barbecue sauce than we can drink in a year, and I am thrilled about it. They are friggin geniuses.)
It is exciting to get out of the house. But this isn't my first field trip. Friday night I decided to go see 27 Dresses, so I called my regular movie date, my sister Jen, who's almost always up for a good time, and chatted her up a bit, before I asked her out. Turns out, she's lying out on her private, beach view veranda, in Cabo. Again. She has the audacity to be ticked off because I told her to read The Road, but didn't warn her that it is so depressing it might ruin her vacation. (What, no stomach for a little cannibalism?) I really didn't need to hear about her vacation woes. I was quite down myself, and self-sorry. So I called around some more, but then I stopped because I can't take very much rejection. So I headed out on my own. First I stopped at Steve's Krazy Sub and ordered an 8 inch turkey sub, light mayo, which I estimated would fit nicely into my coach purse. Except they accidently make me a 12 inch, and they can't understand why I seem perturbed. So I mutter that I should have brought the fake Chinatown Dolce and Gabana bag, which could easily accomodate an entire Thanksgiving turkey, probably with some of the trimmings and a pie.
So what could I do? Some of you who know me well have already guessed.
Dinner in your pants.
In college, my roommate Kari and I went to the Provo Movies 8 to see something that sounded like High in a Tree. This was when you had to call and listen to movie listings. (Turns out, it was Highlander 3. So when we got home we had to go rent the first two, just to figure out what had happened.) Anyway, we were hungry and only had a few dollars between us, so we decided to stop at the Albertsons across the street and get food before the show started. The fresh french bread was just out of the oven and the scent was intoxicating. This was also in the days when it was okay to eat anything that was low in fat, and we actually considered entire loaves of white bread diet food. It took daily step aerobics to undo the damage we were doing with pots of rice and gallons of frozen yogurt. Don't even get me started on all the disgusting fat free cookies we made with "fat free butter," a substance which looked and tasted remarkably like vaseline. The memory is making me cry a little, too, but not with joy.
Sorry, I can't seem to stay on task. The french bread went in the waistband of my pants. Please try to imagine the very high-waisted pants I had that began just under my still high and perky breasts. They were very, very tall pants. Z Cavaricci's, maybe. With today's low-rise style, I was barely able to accomodate the foot long sandwich. The french bread would not have worked at all.
Now, this dinner in my pants seemed more dangerous and sneaky than it did back in 1995. I mean, what if the theater employee asked me to open my coat, and confiscated my sandwich? I can imagine a patron behind me yelling, "Ah, come on! Give the poor, approaching-middle-age lady back her sandwich and leave her be. She's all alone and obviously hungry." Many things seem less spontaneous and quirky and more pathetic as I grow less young and less hot. (Just barely, but still...)
Is anyone else watching the Complete Jane Austen on Masterpiece (please don't try to tell your Tivo that it is Masterpiece Theater. It ain't, sister)? I am loving every moment of it. Last night was Jane Austen Regrets, which was good, but might have been better if Jake hadn't been parroting Jane in a mocking, pseudo-British falcetto. Fictionalized portrayals of Jane's barely-existant love life are serious business, husbands. Do not mock it, but allow your wife to revel in it. She might want to kiss you, later, if she has been allowed to watch, swoon, and pine, unmolested. Which I was not. I recognized some bits of Jane's letters from the Letters from Pemberley and More Letters from Pemberley that I read last week. Next week is the Pride and Prejudice with Collin Firth as Mr. Darcy. He is not so serious, dark, and handsomely brooding as most Mr. Darcys, but who doesn't love Mr. Firth? I totally heart Collin.
From last night's program:
"There are such beings in the World, perhaps, one in a Thousand, as the Creature You & I should think perfection, where Grace & Spirit are united to Worth, where the Manners are equal to the Heart & Understanding, but such a person may not come in your way, or if he does, he may not be the eldest son of a Man of Fortune, the Brother of your particular friend, & belonging to your own County."
letter to Fanny Knight. November 18, 1814 
I am afraid that the best part of my week could already be past! Jane Austen, rain, Costco, and In-n-Out. All before 12 o'clock Monday. Sigh.