The builder called Friday to let me know that the city has requested some seismic calculations be done on our plans. Having no luck getting the information from the place where I bought the plans, he’s now trying to find an engineer who has the time to look at them. He’s not sure of how long this will take, and he worriedly quoted a price which was far lower than I’d anticipated. The ciy also had some vague mutterings about the placement of the furnace in the house – although when he told me that, I had to mentally give myself a swift kick in the rear to stop the automatic thoughts running through my head of ‘well if the furnace moves, that means we could make the pantry a walk-in-pantry, and…and…and… But the gist of it was that this might result in some delays, and it’s starting to look more and more that our whole plan to delay building til November actually was a good idea after all.

Richard and I have both been overwhelmed by this whole house-building thing, but so far (using the scientific method based on exactly two instances), we’ve managed to not be overwhelmed together. I had a small worry fit in an Orchard Supply Hardware one day while flipping through plumbing catalogs as it hit me just *what* we had signed on for. We walked through the aisles and I stared blankly at doorbells and chandeliers and cabinet handles and pondered the intelligence of building versus buying. Richard’s turn came this past weekend. On Saturday, we were given a two-hour break from the presentations, during which we were supposed to talk, or simply do something for our relationship. We did take a short walk, but then we decided to take a drive, and in doing so, we inadvertantly stumbled upon a Home Base, and off we went to pour over square after square of linoleum (hey. Picking out the floor of the house we’re building together is definitely something for our relationship!). This time it was he who was overwhelmed, and me who was doing the reassuring.

Despite the occasional ‘what the hell were we *thinking*?’ that runs through one or the other’s brain, we’ve actually managed to get a lot accomplished so far. It’s helped tremendously that we’re neither of us truly anal about any of the decorating. (I should probably insert a very big ‘yet’ in there….) We managed to find the patterns for three of the four rooms which will have linoleum during that brief stint (less than an hour!) at Home Depot this weekend – and still have time to purchase this truly incredible 12-hook plant stand that I saw as we were leaving the store (and then we had to hastily disassemble and figure out how to stuff into the car so we could get back in time for the next presentation). Heck, we’ve already figured out how all the bathrooms, dining room, and computer room will be decorated, and they’re all still squares on a piece of erasable velum; rooms built only of imagination and not yet real.

This weekend we’ve vowed to get the rest of the floor picked out. Considering we’re halfway there, I’m hoping we’ll also have time to delve into the murky world of front doors, but I’ll be happy if we just accomplish what we’d originally planned. I realize that it’s highly likely that a year or three down the road, we’ll be staring at that ‘perfect’ whatever it is that we spent so much time picking out, and wonder why we ever thought it would work, but for now, we’ve got to start *somewhere*.

And as for the possible delays. I heard from my builder again this afternoon. Despite the fact that it’ll take the engineer three weeks to do whatever calculations are required, it looks like we’ll still be on time (insert Jennifer heaving a *big* sigh of relief!). At least til the next set back…but I’m gonna be optimistic. The house will be done before the wedding, and we’ll have moved in. If I have to go out there with a hammer myself, it’ll be done. I hope. All fingers and toes crossed…..

This weekend was just for us, but we didn’t go anywhere romantic, although candles were involved. We attended an Engaged Encounter weekend, which is an event put together specifically for engaged couples to give them methods for open and honest communication to lay the groundwork for healthy and happy marriages.

There have been many questions asked this weekend – hard questions that might require soul searching; questions that require total honesty with your mate-to-be. But through it all there has been this overwhelming sense of bemusement and relief. Because we became engaged so soon after we started dating, we’ve had some gentle (and not-so-gentle) concerns expressed over whether we were rushing into this without giving it enough thought. He and I have tried to think of anything that might be an issue and we’ve spent hours over the past few months discussing them. So it was almost a relief this weekend that there were no new revelations, no shocking truths to uncover, no unnerving opinions that would generate conflict. We were already prepared for everything they mentioned.

Not to say that it wasn’t valuable – far from it. This weekend was one of the best things we could have done for our relationship and I honestly mean that. It gave us some tools with which to help strengthen our bond, and to ensure that our marriage is a solid one. Whenever it is that we finally do have an argument (and we *are* trying – we just haven’t managed to come up with something to fight about yet! But give us time. The house isn’t built and the wedding’s not planned), we’ve now got 9 rules for how to fight.

It’s rare that you see people in love who show it – not the embarrassingly cloying public displays of affection that make you want to suggest the two get a room, but the gentle touching, holding hands, the way gazes linger on each other as they talk. It was refreshing to see these signs in couples who’d been married over 30 years – somehow it made what they presented to us all that more relevant. If we were willing to invest the time and energy to build up the lines of honest communication, we could have a marriage solid enough to still be based on love so far down the road.

The catch phrase of the weekend was “The wedding is a day, but the marriage lasts a lifetime.” And I firmly believe in that. This is the man I want to marry. He is someone who will construct a bread pig with me out of the leftover loaf after dinner. He joins me in car dancing to The Nutcracker Suite as we are barreling down the freeway. I love finding ways to make him laugh, just as much as he enjoys getting me to dissolve into giggles.

And we’ve agreed that it’s our hope that years and years from now we’ll be one of those couples who are still gazing at each other, touching each other, and showing without words that we’re still in love, just enough to encourage some other young men and women that such things really do exist.

I’ve been looking to mid-October with growing anticipation, knowing that the end of full-stage development for this project was in sight and that afterwards maybe, just maybe, the work hours would decrease enough to give me the feeling that I could relax. This isn’t likely now, not when I’ve had hundreds of hours more development requirements dumped in my lap over the course of three weeks, without being given any extra time in which to accomplish them until recently. There’ll be at least another month of high-stress, insane hour days, at a minimum.

I miss having time. I used to read, to sew, to do logic puzzles and listen to music. I used to have time to bake. I have already had to give up all of my online role-playing commitments and am realizing that I won’t be able to get back into that venue until probably after the wedding. At least that loss isn’t so great – I was losing my enthusiasm lately anyway. But the rest is harder to give up for so long.

The frustration level at this project has running dangerously high for too long. We’re working toward a moving target – hard to determine an actual completion of effort when the design isn’t even frozen yet. It’s not just my group that’s in this situation though – everyone is similarly stressed, running on nerves gone ragged and very little else.

Wednesday night they had a team-building event. Dinner, followed by a team-building exercise guaranteed to get us to work together in a light-hearted and meaningful way. Or something like that. The exercise involved little circles of people who were given a bag of marshmallows. We were *supposed* to toss them back and forth to each other. In a way it was the fault of the woman who was trying hard to explain the rules over the noise of the crowd. She asked that we all show her our marshmallows – to make sure we had enough per team. Someone threw theirs, and then all was lost. Marshmallows flew thick through the air. Everyone was laughing, ducking behind chairs, diving to scoop up more ammunition as the tiny puffs skittered across the carpet. The restaurant had put us all in a separate room which, as it turned out, was a smart choice. As I was batting a deluge of marshmallows back at someone I happened to look toward the doors. A cluster of restaurant employees stood outside, laughing. I’m sure we looked a sight – an entire room full of adults engaged in something as childish as a food fight.

It wasn’t quite the team-building event they’d planned. But it accomplished something far more telling. We’ve all been pushed and pulled too thin in too many directions. At least this time we had marshmallows to throw to break the tension. I’m not so sure that will work much longer.

It started out innocently enough, so many years ago. My college roommate and I had three cats between us, and for whatever reason, we went to the local animal shelter to look at the kittens. Recognizing the giant neon flashing ‘Sucker!’ signs embedded in our foreheads, one of the SPCA volunteers who works out there talked us into trying foster care (not that it took much convincing – the chance to play with cute adorable kittens who wouldn’t *stay* – they’d get adopted by someone else, really!). Fast forward a bit of time and we’d become a major foster home – specializing in orphans to the point that for nearly four years straight she and I were on a two to six hour bottle feeding schedule, round the clock. At this point, sensing we were deeply embedded in the system, that same volunteer cajoled both of us onto the Board of Directors of the organization, and hence, it all began – my introduction to the murky world of volunteer politics, of management and policies, of personalities that should never have been put in positions of leadership, and to a side of my own personality that I’m not sure I ever wanted to discover.

I stayed for five or six years, but by the end it was painful. Like a bad marriage, we had all fallen into ruts impossible to escape from. When a board consists of people who are salaried, they can be, in a sense, policed by that fact. There is no way to police volunteers – there is very little you can do to control them, and goddess knows I fought as hard as I could to try to put into place at least some method of requiring the members to at least be responsible for their own actions. Finally, tired of the struggle, the petty fighting, the cliques and back stabbing and personal agendas, I resigned. I turned in the letter to the president of the board, and breathed a sigh of relief because I had finally taken back my life. The cause this organization supports is one that is very dear to me, and I could have put up with everything for that alone, but I left for one simple fact. I didn’t like what I became at those board meetings each month. I didn’t like what it did to me – and how I took those feelings out on the others. And so I left, before I became like some of the others who seem to be unable to escape. That was over a year ago.

As I write this, however, I am sitting in my car, outside the office where the board meetings are held. They haven’t changed much since I left – the still the same place, still mostly the same people. And when I finish with this, I’m going in – I’ll be voted back on, into my same position. The vote itself is formality – the outcome was assured the instant that I, in a moment of weakness, agreed to consider the possibility of going back. It’s not that I have forgotten what happened before – it’s foremost in my mind right now and there is a small part of me that is pondering just starting up this car and driving away, quickly, before it’s too late, but then I suppose the fact that I’m sitting here means it’s already too late. Because despite everything, despite what happened before, I miss it – the times when it was good, when it worked, when we all remembered why we were there and we all worked together.

So against my better judgement I will walk into that office, holding my breath and biting my tongue. And I will pray to whatever god might be listening that this is not as bad a choice as I’m afraid it will be.

I’m getting two new sisters out of this marriage thing, as is Richard. I had dinner with my soon-to-be almost-twin sister-in-law on Monday night (almost-twin because she’s only five days older than me). She and a handful of her coworkers were at UCDavis for training, so I left work early (funny how lately 6pm is leaving work early – sigh). We gathered together over pasta and garlic bread to laugh and talk, share stories about significant others (there was a brief conversation around one woman’s fiance and his socks which keeps running through my head and making me giggle), discuss their oh-so-fascinating training courses, and catch up on the wedding plans. His sister brought pictures of a swan float they’d seen on their recent trip to Disneyland, because she’d seen it and thought of me……the reason being that the latest addition to Wedding Plans by the Insane Parents (or – another good example of why it was perhaps a bad idea to introduce the parents *before* the wedding) was that I’d float down the aisle (which we would, of course, have to turn into some sort of watery road) in a swan boat, playing the lute.

The cats are quite fascinated with the new litter box. They are spending much more time in the room where it’s located, lounging nonchalantly on the floor or cat trees, pretending indifference until it actually starts, at which point at least four of them huddle, bodies tense and directed toward the source of the noise, eyes wide as they watch it rake itself clean. At least now they’ve graduated from peering around the doorjam from outside the room, to actually being in the same room with it, and even occasionally poking it with a paw. Now if I could just find out if the invisible cat wasn’t *too* terrified of it and would actually use it, I’d be all set….

Went to see a play tonight. We’ve signed up for season tickets at a local theater company, and since my parents have season tickets as well, we were able to get our seats right next to each other. The play this month is Chess, which was a bit hard to follow at times, although that was due more to the play itself than to the ability or talent of those acting in it. I was familiar with some of the songs (One Night in Bankok is the most well known, of course), but a few of the others sunk their way into my head and now I’ve had Someone Else’s Story swimming through my head nonstop. The season includes Brigadoon, which I’ve never see, West Side Story, which has some beautiful music, and several other plays. Somehow getting season tickets (even though it is just for community theater) seems so very adult. It keeps sneaking up on me – those little reminders.

In the past nearly-four years I’ve had the same office, and the same desk. However, my company name has changed three times, each time growing larger.

The first two names knew that we existed. Our little satellite office was never slighted, forgotten, or otherwise missing from any mass communications sent out – not, of course, that they sent out much of that type of stuff, but the point is, they knew we were there.

The current company, and the one before that seem to keep forgetting about us. Oh, they remember the employees, but for whatever reason, our office is one of those that’s been quite easy to forget. It got to the point of amusement to see people’s confusion when I told them where I worked. “What? We have an office out *there*?”. Uh yes. You’ve had one for over a year now. We’re even listed on the website. Honest. Look, I’ll show you!

But still, we get forgotten. When they sent out the email about the company picnic last summer, they forgot to include us. Company-wide newsletters would be circulated to all but us. It’s become a joke, although so far it’s only been amusing, if not occasionally slightly annoying. Until now.

With the company previous to the one we are now, all of us consultants possessed heavy, but marvelously loaded laptops, complete with SQL Server installed on NT server, all manner of software necessary for us to do our jobs, Jazz drive, and dual network cards. To sweeten the deal, we were also given docking stations and monitors, for those rare moments when we got to work from our own office instead of haring off hither thither and yon to wherever our latest project took us.

When we were swallowed, we were promptly issued new laptops, which possessed minimal software, didn’t have servers, or even the ability to add them, and didn’t even contain the latest version of the particular software our piece of the company sells and works with. Oh yeah, and to make it even more useful, it came fully loaded with Lotus Notes, an email program that I am convinced was developed by someone while he or she was either insane or just really, really angry. Basically, in order to do our work, we still had to cart along the old laptop, but in order to get our email, we had to now bring along the new one. Can we say ‘inconvenient and annoying as hell’?

It’s been months now – nearly a year, in fact, and we still have those old laptops, and there’s a number of us who’ve been wondering when, or if, they’d ever want them back. Apparently they did. Weeks and weeks ago. But – oops!

Yes, as usual, they neglected to include our office in the mass email that went out letting everyone know how to turn in the old machine. The other laptops were collected, given brain wipes, and then auctioned off to any employee that wanted them. The inventory of all the old consulting equipment was then promptly deleted. Poof. No more laptops. Um. Well, almost.

Suddenly, those of us in the my little office have the upper hand. We’ve now all suddenly become the owners of a rather expensive piece of equipment that technically, no longer exists. Our own company doesn’t want to deal with them because they’re not sure how to handle something they don’t recognize as theirs. Our office admin did some checking around for us and verified that yes, as far as the company was concerned, the laptops were no more, and it would be best for all concerned if they were to quietly disappear.

Something tells me that as work of this leaks out, they might become a bit more vigilant about making sure that our office is included in future emails, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. But in the meantime, you can bet that we’re all going to take advantage of this rather unexpected surprise. Laptops. Outdated, perhaps, but quite good still, and they’re free, and all because someone didn’t pay attention to their ‘cc’ list.

Next time they forget us, I’ll bet not a one of us will make a peep. Who knows what else they might neglect to collect from us next time. A few of us are eyeing some of the servers that are currently in ownership limbo at the same office – our older company never technically ‘owned’ them, and the new one doesn’t have them on their list, and, well, some of us have been thinking about web servers…..hmm….

You’ve been eyeing them for a while. You’ve seen the commercials and read the ads and even seen a few of them in acquaintances’ houses and you’ve been thinking about it for a while, but it has always seemed, well, so extravagant to spend all that money. But you’ve got all those cats and you’ve tried every type of litter there is – recycled newspaper that looked like rabbit pellets, scoopable litter that has a tendency to track *everywhere*, little silicon pearls that rolled all over the floor and felt oh-so-wonderful under the feet. And then one day you’re at the giant Pet Super Store and you see them on sale and you’ve got the money – it’s never been about the money, just the *concept* of the money – and you say what the hell and you buy it – the Super Deluxe Automatic Electric Self-Scooping Litter Pan.

You drive home, telling yourself alternately that this is the stupidest idea in the world and the cats will never use it, and then switching to dreamy thoughts of how nice it will be to never have to scoop a litter box again – never have to crouch over the pans, bleary eyed each morning, inhaling clay dust or sifting through pellets.

You get home and bring the box inside, along with the hefty sack of litter you bought special just for the occasion. The cats swarm you but that’s normal when you come home because they all wants pets and scritches and oh, you brought them a nice box to sit on.

You remove the Grouchy Tortie from the box and you drag your purchases down the hall, and because you’re so used to living alone you talk with the cats as you go, telling them that you have bought them a wonderful new present and that they had darn well better use it because it was expensive.

You deposit box and sack in the middle of the floor. ThreeBrainCelled WonderBoy and SqueakyPurred NoseLicker sit and stare pointedly into the food bowl because you have committed the grave sin of letting the level of kibble sink below the edge of the bowl. Invisible Cat peers around the corner, spots the box, which, he is sure, contains a device created solely for the purposes of torturing him (although to him, everything appears that way, including newspapers, cereal bowls, and paper bags) and disappears into the linen closet.

You open the box, rescuing the styrofoam inserts from SqueakyPurred NoseLicker. TrillCat and CuteEvilPuffball take turns chewing a hole in the bottom of the new sack of litter. You drag out the new litter box, and read through the manual, not because you couldn’t figure out how to put it all together by yourself, but because the fact that it says it’s only to be used by cats makes you giggle because then naturally you start to think about other things that could use it and…well…anyway, you assemble it and stuff all the stray wrapping bits back into the box, first removing CuteEvilPuffball and you fill it with litter and then you plug it in and sit back and marvel as it rakes itself clean and smooth.

The cats eye the new litter box warily. You tell them that you paid a lot of money. You point out to GrouchyTortie that she in particular should like it since she’s been the biggest stickler for keeping those pots scooped before. You tell SqueakyPurred NoseLicker that the ramp is not edible. You break down and pour more kibble into the food bowls if only to keep her from gnawing on the sides of the box.

The cats all make a show of using the old litter boxes, right at that moment, and ignoring the new one.

You reluctantly leave the room and go off to do other things around the house like maybe tackling that stack of dirty dishes in the sink, but you listen intently for that sound because they *will* use it, they will, you’re sure of it, because if they don’t you’re out that much money.

And then the sound of the box raking itself starts up and you tear down the hall and peer around the doorway and watch in fascination as it cleans itself without you doing *anything* and you excitedly tell your friends on Instant Messenger that it is just SO COOL and you are SO PSYCHED, and you’re so thrilled with the new heights to which your life is soaring that you even write a journal entry about it and then, you finally come to the inevitable conclusion that this is it, you’ve hit the big time, and the dream has finally happened – you have reached that level of luxury where you never have to scoop the litter box again, and you sit back and you think to yourself “Ah, this is the life.”

Friday night I flew up to Portland. I’d been looking forward to the trip, antsy all day, watching the clock as the hands slowly crept toward 4 pm when I could leave to go stand in the cattle line for Southwest and still get a decent seat because too many business trips have taught me why being near the front of the plane is better, much better. I showed the picture of my niece to anyone who would look, and when it was time I was practically running out the door.

As the plane came in to land I looked out the window – rolling hills, all green. Oregon has it all over the Sacramento Valley for scenery. I drove from the airport to Richard’s hotel in a ‘glad I rented because I’d never in a million years actually think about *buying* this’ car. We walked to dinner through a small section of Portland full of trendy shops, holding hands and laughing, talking, catching up. We ate at an upscale Italian restaurant, not thinking about needing reservations til we arrived, but luckily they had seats at the bar, and it turned out that was the best place to sit anyway, because we got to watch the cooks.

Most places don’t consider presentation of the food anymore. Or perhaps I should say most places we eat – considering that when we’re both in the same town, we often work til late and our choices of eating establishments are limited to those places open 24 hours, I may not have much to compare to, but each plate was a work of art. They drizzled raspberry sauce in patterns on plates and garnished servings of gelato with fresh blossoms. They tucked cloves of roasted garlic amid the vegetables and sauted the food with a flourish. Despite where we were seated – or maybe because of it – it was an incredibly romantic dinner too. We sat on high stools, eating our food, leaning toward each other, talking, touching shoulders, holding hands. When we had stuffed ourselves with as much as we could of the dinners, we savored bittersweet chocolate mousse with strips of biscotti that crumbled with each bite

The walk back to the hotel was much longer than the walk there – or perhaps it was simply that we were much slower, overfull from the dinner, enjoying the nighttime, the fresh air, the sights of a city foreign to both of us, and it didn’t help that we were laughing til sides hurt and we were weak from it.

We drove to my sister’s place in Washington, getting up early since the drive was several hours long. As we wove through trees and lush green, we both vocalized the regret that we’ve locked ourselves into the Sacramento Valley. Location isn’t everything I know – we’ve both got family we’re extremely close to and that’s far more important then beautiful surroundings, but oh, it’s lovely up there this time of year, and maybe someday.

The weekend passed too quickly. Fiona was on her best behavior, cooing and grinning easily. My younger sister and I caught up on family gossip while making cookies overloaded with chocolate chips and pecans. We reminisced, subsiding into laughter that made speech nearly impossible several times, while our patient SO’s waited for us to regain control and explain just why it was that a re-telling of how my mother used to give us directions to the school had us crying with laughter. She and her husband proudly gave us a tour of the new house and land and Richard and I pondered over how we would get their huge back deck onto the airplane with us. I teasingly begged my brother-in-law not to hack down all the ivy because next July he could rip off all he wanted and send it down to California for the wedding. I held Fiona as much as I could, delighting in how much she’s grown and changed since I last saw her – she can sit up now; she’s got two teeth and more on the way – and saddened by the fact that there will be even more changes I’ll only witness via email until I can see her again.

My parents got T-shirts while at the Scottish games. His read ‘Orthodox Druid’ and hers read ‘Reformed Druid’. They drew lots of attention when they wore them at the Renaissance Faire yesterday. One man pointed out that perhaps this meant that they got Arbor Day off from work. We joked about mom wearing it to the hospital when she went in later that day, but figured perhaps the patients might not have quite enough of a sense of humor to appreciate their chaplain wearing something like that. I dunno – seeing that would make me laugh, and they say laughter is the best medicine. Richard and I, lacking Druid shirts, wore our peasant garb instead. I can only go about half a day in a bodice before I’m scrambling to remove it. I don’t know quite *how* the women used to do it back then – I can never seem to breathe deep enough when it’s on!

The purpose of going to the Faire was to do some research for the wedding. My mom brought her camera and anytime we’d see an outfit that looked like what I was envisioning for the wedding, she’d corner the poor person and get them to pose for a picture.

The Faire is always a fun even to attend, although since they moved from their home down in Black Point, the size has lessened, and some of the familiar booths and such are no longer there. At least it was a lovely weekend to attend – we’re going through an unusual cold snap (it actually rained last week!) that’s been a welcome change from the more normal sweltering August heat.

It was a productive trip, I think. My mom and I got some good ideas, and some names and numbers for people who might be able to help us find some of what we’ll be looking for. I think my mom’s having fun – basically with this theme, I’ve given her a research project, and she dove right in. Ironic that I didn’t think my mom would go for the theme….and yet she’s the one who suggested it to *me*. In other words, in case you haven’t figured it out by now, the wedding will have a Renaissance theme. Me and my bridesmaids in Elizabethian gowns, and the men in appropriate garb as well. That includes tights. I sense blackmail opportunities from the wedding photos. Oh yes.

And now a more contemplative note…..

As we were perusing a selection of dragon puppets at one of the vendor tables at the Scottish games on Sunday, Richard pulled out his inhaler and medications. Seeing the inhaler, an older woman approached him, and before I knew it, they were in a friendly discussion about prescription drugs, why it was that adrenaline shots were better than the treatments offered now, etc. There is, she and Richard pointed out as I blinked in surprise, an entire subculture around asthma that I was unaware of. Her husband grinned at me and asked me if I’d taken Richard to the hospital yet. He’d taken his wife, he noted rather matter-of-factly, nearly once a month during their first few years of marriage. It was rather an odd question – something I hadn’t even thought about. I know Richard has asthma – I know he’s on a series of medications and will be for the rest of his life, and I’m used to his schedule. I even cleared out my purse so there’d be room in it for his meds when we go out. And it’s not like I don’t realize that asthma can be really severe. It’s just that I’ve never seen him ‘sick’ from it. I guess it’s something I’m going to learn to live with and deal with. In a way, the husband’s attitude helped tremendously. In a sense, his words indicated that well, it happens, but you deal with it, you go to the hospital, and you move on. It’s just a part of Richard’s life. He’s used to it – it’s no big deal to him. It’s just up to me to reach that same point.

They look like a telephone pole, except slightly thinner on one end, and they’re not exactly the first thing I’d think of for tossing through the air. But today we watched a handful of grown men dressed in an oddly amusing combination of T-shirt and kilt, heft those telephone poles into the air and flip them over. Amid the crowd of caber throwing athletes were women, one in particular who tossed it with such ease that it seemed she was only flipping a toothpick, not a pole several times as tall as herself and even more times as heavy.

The Scottish games in Pleasanton is the largest of its kind in the country. Naturally we had to go, since we were in the area anyway. Saturday, Richard and I drove down to have lunch with his family, and then we headed off to check out a fabulous little store in Campbell that sells gargoyles! Shelves and shelves of them! Richard and I wandered around, oohing at all the stone figurines inside. We (very reluctantly) limited ourselves to one each – he chose a guardian statuette, and I was drawn to a candle holder. Not necessarily a gargoyle, but the ring of seven stone cats couldn’t stay there. It needed to come home with me.

We were down in the area because we were going to go see a play that night, Godspell, which was being put on by a little theatre company his parents run. I’d never seen the play before, so I didn’t know quite what to expect, but I was quite pleasantly surprised. It was very enjoyable, and quite funny. My parents drove down that evening to attend the play as well, so afterwards both families gathered for desserts at Richard’s parents’ house before we all headed off to our hotel. Today we spent at the games.

When we arrived Saturday afternoon, his mom greeted us with a catalog and a gleeful discussion of these oh-so-lovely outdoor lights she’d found for us and our new house. They were statutes of angels, holding lamps, meant to be placed in the yard. Life-sized, no less. And ours for slightly over $1000. Uh. Not! They were hideous, and so not-us that I was practically crying I was laughing so hard. Of course, later on, we flipped through the catalog, and amid the items that fell under the category of ‘why on earth would anyone want to put *that* in their house/lawn/wherever”, we found – yes, I’m sure you’re surprised by now – more gargoyles. And I did make a point of pointing out those same oh-so-lovely statues to my mom when they came down later. She had just about the same reaction I did…

Then, at lunch, his dad suggested that we could call my parents Mumsy and Daddums. I’m not sure exactly what prompted the suggestion, but I replied that if we did that, we should call *his* parents Mamsy and PapPap. The look of sheer horror on his mom’s face was worth it as the rest of us subsided into laughter.

Anyway, back to the kilt-wearing people tossing trees, and the rest of the festivities at the Scottish games. Bagpipes are a rather unique instrument in that they only have one volume – and that is loud. My dad and I think that bagpipes would be fun to play but my mom, sensing the disaster of having one or more family members attempting to play what essentially sounds like someone is torturing the poor contraption, inside her house, declared years ago that bagpipes were an outside toy.

We had the opportunity to hear bagpipes. A lot of bagpipes. There were the bagpipe and drum competitions. There were lone bagpipers playing. And then for the closing ceremonies, over five hundred of them gathered in the stadium. That’s more bagpipes than I’ve ever seen in one place. Don’t get me wrong, I do like bagpipe music (in small quantities), but more than 500 of them in such a small area pushed the saturation level to the extreme. The amusing thing was – even with that many bagpipes, the volume was *still* the same. What other instrument can boast that?

As we wandered around the games, we saw a huge banner proclaiming ‘British Food Here!’ as if this was something exciting. That says more about Scottish food than anything else, considering that British food is not well known for much except its blandness. A Scottish friend of my father’s once joked that most of the typical ‘scottish’ dishes were the result of a dare. Somehow, considering haggis, I can almost believe that.

One would have to wonder if that is how their traditional sports came about too. One day a couple of brawny men were sitting around, and one bet the other he couldn’t flip that tree over through the air, and the next thing you know…. Hey, it was impressive. Amazingly so. I’m not knocking the games. It just makes one wonder exactly *how* they came up with this sort of thing in the first place, ya know?