Friday, February 18, 2005



This evening, while watching tv (after going a mile and a half on the treadmill!), George sashayed into the room to let me see his latest version of facial hair. Now, this is not a man who easily grows facial hair. When it grows it is slow and sparse (and really scratchy). But sometime last week he decided to grow a beard.

After a week's worth of growth his poor, tired face had managed a slight scruffy appearance that looked a bit like stubby dirt. Sure as anything, he has a business meeting tomorrow and can't take the new look with him. Poor guy. He's practically worn his face out trying to grow this scruffy stubble and now he has to shave it.

Well, George being George, it can't just be a clean shaving in one fell swoop. The first swath of the razor took away the beard and left him with just a moustache. But a creepy one. The kind that a make-up artist would put on a character called, "creepy guy," or "sex offender." It was the kind that showed skin between the hair and the lip. "Chester the molester" is our fond nickname for men with those 'staches.

We couldn't help but laugh (a lot) at his hideous facial hair and wonder why it is that some moustaches look okay and others make you feel all creepy and like you need to shower. He has an uncle, Uncle M., who is an Italian guy. This guy can grow a moustache. Damn. It's a wonder. And it looks good on him. It's longish and bushy and attractive on him. But George would never, ever in a million years look good in one. (Sorry, buddy, but it's true.)

He laughingly trudged back into the bathroom to get rid of the Freddy Mercury look only to emerge looking like Hitler, of all things. That only lasted long enough for a chuckle or two and now George has his nice, smooth face again. Mmm. Better. Tonight he might even get a kiss goodnight.

Monday, February 14, 2005

Mommy's in bed... let's eat Comet!


My George is one hell of a man. He is kind, thoughtful, and selfless beyond any person I've ever met. More times than I care to remember he has scooped me up from a heap on the floor and helped me to bed where I could cry out my sorrows. He's seen some rather ugly sides of my personality, but always shows me the best side of his. And (a few strange fettishes aside) is as perfect and unfettered now as he was when I fantasized about him before I got to know him.

Since leaving full-time work to become Mr. Mom, George has mastered the arts of child-rearing and house-cleaning all while managing, at some point in his day, to get some actual paid work done. I tell you, this man is amazing. In fact, at times I have thought that the house would run just as well without me.

Much to my shock, surprise, and delight, the world actually does stop without me. From my sick bed tonight (a perfectly timed flu, don'tcha think?) I heard piece-mealed conversations about mop water, comet, and poison control. It was only when George braved the realm of the dead (I'm pretty damned sure this is the worst any person has ever felt and survived) to actually ask me, "If Grant drank Comet should he have milk or ipecac?" that I realized just how bad the state of affairs had gotten.

Well, over an hour and a sippy cup of milk (as per the poison control center's instructions) later, Grant is just fine. But poor George. He cleaned the entire house--it looks great! He made dinner; he bought candy; he bought a gift--and all he gets is a shivering, sniveling, sneezing response of: "Bring me another blanket. It's too fucking cold."

Here comes my good sir knight with that blanket. Ah, but I am lucky. I love you George.

Saturday, February 05, 2005

The Personal Interweb Journal of Georgianna Popplewell


Debut! Debut!

I think we need to give George a big round of applause because this blog looks fabulous!

Apparently there are still some kinks to work out (I'm assuming that because he was still grumbling to himself just before he told me he was done working on it for the day and started to play Doom), but I don't know what they are.

Wow. I feel like I just had plastic surgery and the surgeon had all the pain instead of me. I just get all the glorious benefits of a beautiful makeover. Ahh. Breath of fresh air.

All this and it's a beautiful day outside.

Friday, February 04, 2005

┬┐Como se llama?


Maybe you noticed something different at the top of the screen? Um, yeah. I decided to get rid of that silly name. I don't know. At 2:00 in the morning on a weekend night in November, it sounded good. But it's also good to know when something doesn't fit.

We'll just call it a phase. Kind of like my Robert Smith-phase in high school. (It was more than Halloween dress-up for some of us.) Kind of like my I wanna be a veteranarian, chef, lawyer, translator for the UN, Spanish teacher, German teacher, graduate student in philosophy, graduate student in music, graduate student in linguistics, stay-at-home-mom phase. Eventually the right thing seems to find us.

Me llamo es Geogianna.

Ah, that feels better.

Of Zen and Washcloths


"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Make so many washcloths?"

Because I can? Hell, I don't really know. Come to think of it.

I know that knitting is all the rage right now. And people no less than Julia Roberts have made it cool, even. But I crochet. I knit, too, but my knitting is pretty... uh... rudimentary. So I stick mostly to crocheting. (And I am quite good at it, thank you very much.)

I have all of this cotton yarn from a phase I went through where I only made things in cotton because acrylic is so ghastly. (Pity me. I'm a yarn snob. This is what my life consists of.) Then I discovered all sorts of cool, fun yarns and screw the cotton. What's left for the cotton but a life of washcloths? There's no more future of possible afghans or sweaters. Nope. Why would I make something out of boring old cotton when there's "Fun Fur" or "Wool Ease" (which can be used for felting!)?

So here I sit. Crocheting. Wascloth after washcloth.

There's more to it, George thinks. George noticed that I seem to do it more when there's something on my mind. (He might be right.) So I've been pondering (as I crochet, of course) what it is I do while I make these damned washcloths.

I ruminate.

I don't just think. Thinking is that process that happens whether you mean for it to or not. I turn things over and over. I really give thoughts a workout. Hell, I practically wear them out. I fixate. This is when I do my figuring-out-of-stuff.

I tried to clear my mind and just be idle while I did a row... no luck. A problem found me--it needed solving. Who was I to tell it, "No, I'm being idle"? Which got me to thinking about the sorts of thoughts I focus on while washcloth-making.

I was thinking about my problems. My worries. Just mine. Not the family's or other people's, but my own. It's a totally selfish thing I'm enjoying here. It looks like I'm hard at work making something to clean with (that should read: "something for George to clean with," if you happen to be George), but really I'm using up yarn that I don't want to use for anything else, to make something we don't need, all so I can grab a few moments of selfish reflection.

Has it really come to this? Do I really have to make these damned washcloths to get enough peace so that I can just think?

Well... yes. It has.

Life's busy. Everything is frenetic these days. We move so quickly from one activity to the next: school to meeting to dinner to bedtime. Bam! The day is gone. I feel compelled, like so many women, I think, to fill my days. If there's free time, I've done something wrong. What didn't I do that I could have? Should have?

But crocheting is not fast. It's very much the opposite of fast. It is laborious and time-consuming. And unlike all of the other pieces of my life it is not thought-consuming. I can do these repetitive motions as much in a night as I have time for and it is relaxing. It affords me the opportunity to physically exert frustration from any thoughts that I might have as my rumination goes on endlessly. It, basically, is cheap therapy. Kind of band-aid therapy that works between sessions.

I am compelled to crochet. It isn't cool. It's grandmotherly and I usually admit it the same way I'd admit that I had gout or corns (neither of which I do, by the way). But I make beautiful afghans that always receive nice compliments (even before people know they are talking to the person who made the item). And I make a damned good washcloth. And lots of them. At last count we were up to around a dozen since Christmas.

So, George, I guess that's why I do it. (And I finished another while you were at the park with the kids.)