It's only life, after all

First, I know it's belated, but Happy Rosh Hashanah to all of my Jewish friends out there.

I'm listening to the Indigo Girls in my office with my husband's wedding ring on my thumb, feeling it go clickity-clack when I type (he's making gnocchi in the kitchen) and waiting for our dinner company to arrive. Joel & Jaci, our erstwhile housemates, are now all married and living in their sweet little apartment in JP, and they have decided to join us for some Sunday evening food and festivity.

This was a good weekend for a number of reasons. First, the grandmother actually got up and walked a little with the help of her physical therapists. It's touch and go from day to day - when she's lucid, she's cooperative to a point. When she's not lucid, she's not cooperative at all. But I figure it like this - so long as she's fighting something from day to day, she's got a chance.

Second, the husband and I sang at a wedding yesterday. Two of our friends from Trinity got married and the groom (who is from Ocean Springs, MS) had a bleeding armadillo groom's cake. It was a moment for which I think I have waited my entire life. And I have to say, red velvet cake is only made better when baked in the shape of southern style road kill. After much kissing of the bride and groom and their entire extended family (once you tell someone who's from Mississippi that you went to Southern Miss, you're as good as family) we cleaned out the car and spent the evening at John Harvard's Brew Pub with our lovely friend Osnat on her birthday. The older I get, the more I realize how fantastic my friends really are. The ones who remember how silly and young I used to be (but don't bring it up) and the ones who just met me last year and sat through my constant bitching about the DMA program and the ones who even remember when my hair was red (and THANKFULLY don't bring it up) and didn't comment when I changed it back. Maybe it's the Indigo Girls making me prosaic, but this line has been in my head since I was in Germany:

"All the shiny little trinkets of temptation, something new instead of something old. But all you've got to do is scratch beneath the surface and it's fool's gold."

Even though they're from Georgia, it seemed very natural to listen to them when hiking the path in Ueberlingen, up and down the gorge and around the cow pasture and down the treacherous hill covered with overripe plums. And even though last year was hard for me in many ways, I'm so much happier because of these fantastic people who stood by me and kept pushing me forward. Good people, those crazy chicks from Georgia.

And finally, after two services in the incredible humidity this morning and brunch with the lovely folks from the choir and some homework in the library, I treated myself to getting my damned hair fixed. Apparently, when you say you want layers in Germany, you end up with something that resembles a fe-mullet. And though no one said so, that stupid bottom layer was about an inch and a half too long and I felt my redneck past nipping at my heels (find THAT song reference, why don't you) though I am proud to say that my mother never subjected me or my brother to the child mullet. Thanks mom. But lest you think that the mullet has gone the way of the dodo or stirrup pants, I am here to tell you that the mullet and its companion the fauxhawk are alive and well, flourishing even, among the metrosexual men of Europe. I was frightened by the number of German, Polish, and Italian men sporting one or both of these follicular faux-pas. It's just wrong I tell you.

Observations: almost everything is better with Hollandaise sauce, Labs only get sweeter with age, and even the thought of needles makes me squeamish. Who's not looking forward to bloodwork in the morning? THIS girl. I said to my dad, "You know Pop, I know that it doesn't hurt half as bad as I think it does, but I've just never gotten used to the feel of needles in my skin." And he says to me, "Honey, that's okay. It would be weird if you had." Reason #5079 why Emily will never get a tattoo. Because she's a BIG chicken for needles. Don't ask how the piercing ever happened. It was a moment that will never be duplicated.

Fun with words for today: The word 'schwuel' in German means 'humid.' The word 'schwul' in German means 'homosexual.' What a difference an umlaut makes.

I hope everyone has enjoyed this episode of non sequitor. I just felt like waxing lyrical for a while. Happy Sunday everyone!