I’m not exactly sure how we got on the topic. I think it may have started when I called him a worm (we come up with all sorts of fun names for each other when we’re joking around), and from there it degenerated rapidly to worm butts and whether or not worms were slimy. At some point I determined that the origin of all dirt was one extremely large and hungry worm with incredibly strong jaws who starting gnawing on rocks, but I digress. The point here is that I’m still not exactly sure how we ended up on the topic of worm sex (a phrase that I figure should generate some awfully amusing searches on this journal).

We both at least knew that worms were hermaphrodites (which means, for those of you eyeballing that word and saying “huh?”, that they don’t actually have a gender), so it shouldn’t surprise you that the conversation next slid down into some sarcastic snorting laughter regarding how they decided which one was male and which one was female. But then we got stumped trying to figure out what happens next, *after* the worm sex is over and the male-for-the-moment worm rolls over and starts snoring while the female-for-the moment worm complains that he never wants to just cuddle anymore. Do they lay eggs, or does the female-for-the-day worm suddenly get weird cravings for sardines and garlic ice cream and have to get a whole new wardrobe, and eventually spurt out a whole mess of wiggly little wormlets?

I’m sure I’m not the only one who has ever wondered about this sort of thing (Yes, you did too wonder. Quit snickering), so I figured it was important to find out. After all, what is this journal for but to share all the true excitement of my life with a few thousand of my nearest and dearest.

So I went searching today, for information about worm sex. I’m sure you’ll all be as thrilled as I was to find out that there are apparently lots of scientists in the world who have been plagued with the same questions about worm reproduction as I was, such as how the worms decide who gets to be the male and who gets to be the female, or even how worms signal each other to participate in worm sex in the first place. As fascinating as all of this was, however, my search ended when eventually I stumbled across a site called Worm World, which explained all the rest of those unanswered questions, such as…

Well, actually, I wouldn’t want to spoil the suspense for the rest of you. Go look for yourself. After all, I got you this far (ah, the things I do for this journal). Just think of what you’ll now be able to tell your friends that you learned today!

Today was free cone day for Ben & Jerry’s. I learned this from my mom-in-law, who unfortunately does not live or work near enough one of their scoop shops to take advantage of the situation. I immediately fired off a short list of e-mails and instant messages to notify my nearest and dearest. My coworker, upon receiving my little public service announcement (heh), immediately tracked down the nearest store, and before we knew it, there was a little group of us all set to head over during lunchtime.

Normally, Ben & Jerry’s ice cream doesn’t exactly fall into the points range for the day. The laws of nutritional physics, however, clearly state that food which is monetarily free (but normally *not* free) is also free of fat or calories, and in the case of Weight Watchers, free of points. Hey, all my coworkers and friends agree with me, so it must be true. I think it’s also in the constitution somewhere, right next to where it says that food eaten while taking part in any charitable function contains no calories.

Later this evening, round two of Free Cone Day commenced. Richard didn’t have coworkers who dragged him kicking and screaming to get ice cream during lunch (Well, okay, so I was the one who actually drove us there, if we’re going to get technical, but I like my version of the story better). So after dinner (chicken, grilled with potatoes, assorted vegetables and some randomly delicious mixture of herbs and spices, because Richard is having way too much fun playing with fire) we headed off to the nearest Ben & Jerry’s, which happens to be in Davis. After all, a good wife should accompany her husband when he goes to take advantage of free ice cream. I was only being polite, really I was, and besides, it’s against the law to turn down free ice cream. That’s in the constitution too, you know – the right to free ice cream. And if it’s not, it should be.

When I gave Richard a grill for Christmas, I didn’t anticipate what would happen once he got a chance to use it. I seem to have created a monster, but hey, I’m not complaining. Okay, so it’s kind of amusing that he has the Weber store on Amazon.com book marked, and how every time we walk into a store we have to take a stroll down the barbeque accessories aisle. But this all goes along with coming home to find my husband decked in his apron, coals heating up in the grill on the back porch, and some delicious concoction in progress for dinner.

So far he’s done salmon and chicken, and a whole collection of vegetables. He got himself a vegetable-grilling basket, which is probably the best investment so far into the whole world of grilling. Asparagus over an open flame is absolutely delicious, and yams are even better. And this evening he was mumbling something about chicken, asked me if I liked capers, and put apple juice on the grocery list on the refrigerator.

A gal could get used to this. Oh yes.

********

This afternoon we drove down to Berkeley for Beth‘s baby shower. I started on this a few months ago, sending out long e-mail messages to a huge list of addresses for people who had no idea who I was. Luckily, most of them decided I didn’t sound too scary and responded, so we managed to collect the small crowd who actually live in the area so we could collectively shower Beth and Sabs with gifts.

I got a list of recommendations for restaurants, but seeing as how I’m only vaguely familiar with Berkeley, I finally broke down and had Beth give me input on the location. We ended up at a little pub that reeked of atmosphere, and was cozy and quiet. The food was delicious – perfectly grilled burgers, huge mounds of french fries, coleslaw, or mashed potatoes. We talked and laughed, most of us having never met each other; our only connection being our friendship with Beth, and our combined excitement and anticipation for her soon-to-be born child.

We saw “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” Friday night, performed by the musical theater company in Davis. This season has been, hands down, their best so far since we started going, and this production was no exception. The entire thing was supercharged with energy, color, music, and enthusiasm. I’m not sure what the cast was on the whole time, but I want to know where I can get my hands on some, and is it legal?

Back when we were kids, my parents had the album (because this was an album before it ever was a play). I used to play that thing over and over, until I had most of the songs practically memorized. Then I got older and stopped listening to records and started listening to top 40 hits and forgot all about the album for a whole lot of years, until last night when the play started. They started the first few bars of music and it all came flooding back to me. I could probably have sung along with most of the tunes for the show. I had forgotten how much I loved that music. I’m such a sap for Andrew Lloyd Weber tunes.

Of course ever since last night, I’ve had “Close Every Door” and “Any Dream Will Do” cycling through my head. On the plus side, they are at least taking turns, one right after the other. On the minus side, I am currently battling the urge to leap to my feet and belt out “Give me my colored coat, my amazing colored coat!” at the top of my lungs. While this would only startle the cats if I did it at home, people tend to frown on you when you do this in public, like at restaurants, or at work.

I did manage to track down copies of those two songs, so now I can play the mp3’s on my computer at home and drive Richard crazy with them, or at least until he looks up from his computer across the room and says through gritted teeth “You know, I got you headphones for Christmas for a *reason*.”

Amusingly enough, by the way, these mp3’s are from the production that apparently involved Donny Osmond. I don’t know exactly why this cracks me up, but it does.

This week has been a good week for cheering in the car. In other words, on the way home from work the past few days there have been reports on the news programs that made me rather happy. So to fulfill my yearly quota of discussing volatile political and/or moral issues in this journal, I thought I’d share them with you.

The first cause for minor car-contained celebration was the notice that the federal judge has repealed Ashcroft’s block of the Death with Dignity act passed by Oregon. In fact, I got a bit of wicked glee out of the fact that the judge even gave Ashcroft a virtual slap on the hand for sticking his nose into the middle of it in the first place.

I realize that physician-assisted suicide is a topic that is about as volatile as abortion or the death penalty to some people. I realize that not everyone is comfortable with it. But the simple fact of the matter is that this is merely an extension of a DNR order (which some doctors ignore anyway). A person who is chronically ill should be allowed to choose how much suffering they wish to endure, and those physicians who are comfortable with taking part in this sort of thing should be allowed to assist if it comes to that. No one thinks that this gives people carte blanche to just commit suicide, of course. But the main thing is that it gives people a choice to end their lives with dignity.

The other cause for cheering was the announcement that the Shrub’s plan to drill for oil in Alaska was soundly defeated. I was happy to hear this for several reasons. The first is simply because I don’t like the Shrub’s energy policy, nor do I have much respect for all his big business Texan oil-drilling buddies. The second is that even the folks who were pushing for drilling couldn’t contest the reports that clearly showed that there was no way they could get much of anything in the area anyway, and that it was going to be one colossal waste of time and money, with the only end result being the negative impact on the Alaskan wilderness. I’ll admit that I am still insanely curious as to the real reason all of the Shrub’s little money-grubbing buddies wanted their hands on the land, but I’d be satisfied with never knowing merely because they’ve been thwarted at their own game.

The whole energy policy thing confuses me on a general basis, frankly. I know I may have a simplistic view on the topic, but it seems to me that the best way to handle the energy crisis – and our reliance on foreign oil – is to find alternative sources of energy. I realize that we may never make a transition to completely renewable energy sources. I realize that this country may always have a need for fossil fuels. But with the right incentives for energy companies and consumers, this country could do one heck of a lot toward improving the waste. As anyone with an ounce of brains has realized, the general public is not very bright, and easily manipulated. If you don’t believe me, wake up and start paying attention to how the media spins the news on a daily basis to coax their watchers and readers to think just the way they want them to think. So my point is that the right marketing spin would provide just the incentive necessary to convince Americans that recycling and conserving are patriotic things to do, and should be actively encouraged and pursued.

There are other sources of energy out there, but the folks in Washington, as a whole, seem strangely reluctant to pursue them. Perhaps it’s because initially this sort of thing tends to be a bit more expensive, and a lot of people have a very hard time looking past the short-term costs to the long-term benefits. Perhaps it’s because the average politician thinks that their constituents wouldn?t actually support such a policy. My cynical side, however, insists that the real reason is simply that the more environmentally friendly industries don’t have pockets as deep as the oil lobby.

I know that their desire to drill in the Alaskan wilderness hasn’t been stopped by this defeat, and that soon enough there will be another attempt – one that will most likely be much more devious and less straight forward. But as long as we have men like the Shrub in charge, who cozy up to big business without considering the environmental ramifications, the rest of us have to take whatever victory we can.

I got a letter in the mail yesterday, from the bank. They hadn’t been able to get a hold of me, the letter noted, and they needed me to call them as soon as possible. They needed to talk to me about possible fraud charges. Considering that our bank has actually been very good about paying attention to how the accounts are used, I figured they must have a good reason, so I called.

Turns out someone in Shanghai managed to get my credit card number and had tried to charge something costing a little over $500. This raised a few red flags at Wells Fargo, mainly because there wasn’t enough money in the account to cover the charge, but also because it came from a foreign country. So they denied it, slapped a notice on my account to deny any other charges until they could clear it up, and then did their best to get a hold of me.

They did this before, when Richard was in Ireland. I got a call from someone at the bank, extremely concerned because they’d noticed foreign charges to his account. They even gave me a number he could call, collect, so he could verify that they were from him, and not because his card had been stolen. A trifle inconvenient for him, perhaps, but neither of us minded, and I was able to get a hold of him to pass on the information so he could call before it caused him any problems.

Wells Fargo is sending me a new card, having stopped the old number so the fraud cannot continue. There are two other charges on the account which I verified as fraudulent, which means that over the next few weeks I imagine there will be more phone calls and letters and paperwork as they do whatever they need to do to track down the culprit.

With the incident from Richard’s trip last year (where it wasn’t a fraud, but it set off their flags), and this incident, where it really was fraud, we realize that before we go on our honeymoon trip to Ireland next year, we had better give the bank a call. Inconvenient, perhaps, but frankly, it’s worth it to know that they’ve got this system in place to protect us from losing our money.

I found it faintly amusing to note the number of people who were still hunched in front of their computers at work today as I was leaving, hurriedly punching numbers into a range of online tax preparation systems in an attempt to beat the deadline. The news reports on the radio as I drove home were full of little comments about how busy and crowded the post offices were as people raced in to drop off their completed forms, or pick up new ones.

Luckily, we weren’t part of the last-minute tax panic. This is because we got ours done back in March, going to an accountant to do them instead of trying to make sense of the myriad of rules and forms that have dogged me ever since my financial situation got too complicated for the 1040EZ form to handle. We owed a painfully high amount, mainly because I’d exercised all my stock options upon leaving the Big Fish, and Richard cashed out a retirement account for his trip, but at least it wasn’t unexpected. The checks went into the mail about a week ago, and have already been received and cashed by both federal and state.

I can’t be too smug about having ours done early, however. It wasn’t so many years ago I actually called in sick to work in order to muddle through my taxes on April 15th, one eye on the clock as I nervously sifted through a mess of paperwork to try to figure out which numbers went into which boxes on the forms. I don’t do that anymore, but I understand far too well the temptation to postpone something difficult.

Our taxes were done, true, but we still had another type of paperwork due today. Last week the HR department at The-Company-To-Be-Nicknamed-Later took us into a conference room in small groups to present the new insurance selections for open enrollment. And because they’re changing everything – vision, dental, life, and health – this meant that Richard and I had to go through a rather hefty stack of paperwork this weekend to figure out what would work best for us.

I’ve never really had to care one way or the other about health insurance plans. My primary care physician was, for years, simply the nearest hospital. I would go in once a year for the annual exam all women adore (ha!), and agree to see whoever had an opening. I rarely have a need to go see a doctor any other time of the year, with the exception of the occasional trip to the emergency room for doing things like breaking a bone or slicing myself open on something (the usual side effects of being incredibly clumsy). However, Richard – with his asthma and allergies and such – has to actually care whether we chose HMO or PPO or whatever other options were out there.

I sat down Sunday, after we’d both had a chance to go through everything, and filled out the forms to elect the types of coverage. The new insurance providers come with a few more benefits, but also a few more expenses; enough that we’ll need to figure out how to work them into the budget. I did a small bit of petty whining about the 100% increase in the prescription drug co-pay, but on the whole we’re both happier with what we’ll be getting. And if not, well, we’ll have an entire year to figure out what to do next time open enrollment rolls around.

There are tidbits of songs still chasing around in my head. If I close my eyes I can track down their melodies, and automatically hum the harmonies. I discovered during our final rehearsal that these songs have sunk inside me; that I can sing most of them with only a brief glance at the music and a few opening chords before my voice knows what notes to coax from my exhausted lungs.

The concert was last night – dinner followed by nearly two hours of music. Most of the choir members had a few chances to rest between songs, but those of us in the instrumental ensemble weren’t nearly as lucky. Encased in royal blue polyester robes, we were all far too warm, taking any chance we could to raise the robes and fan ourselves underneath. At one point during the intermission, as I walked rapidly through the social hall, robe bundled up around my waist in an attempt to at least cool off my lower half, one woman rushed up, eyes wide. Once we’d cleared up the laughing confusion, she realized I was wearing shorts underneath, not attempting to flash all those who’d stayed behind to clean up after the meal.

Dinner began at 5:30pm. The choir members were required to be there at 3:30 pm to begin the final dress rehearsal. The instrumental ensemble did their final practice at 2pm, which meant that I ended up spending most of my day at the church, singing or playing or else huddled in a pew trying to catch a quick nap along with the rest of the tired choir.

It went well. It passed quicker than any of us imagined it might. Despite the earlier confusion of where we were to go, and when we were to leave or return to the front of the sanctuary and in what order, somehow enough of us remembered each time to organize the others. No one set themselves on fire with the candlelit entrance. The readings blended easily with the music. The dinner was far better than many of us had expected for mass-produced church food, and we sang, oh how we sang. I have never understood before how singing could exhaust someone, but now I know.

Today is a slow and lazy day for Richard and I. The sun is shining and the breeze is perfect for drying laundry on the line outside. We’ve stripped the bed and gathered all the sheets and blankets and towels. There is nothing that has to be done today, except what we want to do, and we both need the rest.

But still, in my head, ghosts of last night, there is music. And there are songs.

This morning I woke slowly, and then rolled over to poke Richard. “Happy One Year in our house!” I said cheerfully. He mumbled something back, not quite awake yet, and then “oh yeah.”

There are times when it feels as if we have been here longer, just as there are times when it startles me that it has already been a year since we moved in. After one year we have finally managed to get everything unpacked, although the task of organizing promises to stretch for some time into the future. There are dozens of projects just waiting for us to garner our enthusiasm, and dollars in order to complete. For example, while Richard managed to get the house into the landscaping program and map out the dimensions of the lot, we haven’t even begun to start trying to lay out the back yard. We’ve got a lot of ideas, but it’s been a year now and the only headway done on the property was to put in the hedge bushes and the arbor. My hope is that in a year or two, the hedge bushes will be high enough to hide the fact that the backyard is still unfinished, and it’s a brighter and friendlier fence than the usual high wooden ones everyone around here has.

We have been here long enough now to have seen the leaves fall from the tiny, spindly trees in the front yard, and then watched them burst into brilliant white flowers before returning to leafy green. The tiny bushes next to the front porch are covered with pale pink flowers, and the Mexican poppies which are rapidly taking over one part of the yard (and unfortunately choking out all the ferns) are finally starting to open their buds, providing a small patch of soft pink against the dark green of their foliage. The bushes that line the driveway have sprouted tall and thin, an odd mix of rust and green colors in their leaves, and the star jasmine vines that line the division between our yard and the neighbors’ have grown long, tentative arms that occasionally put forth tiny white blooms.

Sometimes I go back through the pictures we took during those long five months of building, back when it seemed my every waking hour not consumed with work for the Big Fish, was filled with questions still to be answered for the house and wedding. We occasionally bounce a short list of things back and forth to each other; things we’d change if we ever build this house again. But all of those things are minor, really not worth fussing over. This is our house, our beautiful home. One year down; the rest of our lives to go.

Thursday night, at choir practice, I took my oboe out of its case and put it together, preparing to play along with one of the pieces. My oboe, however, had other plans. I took a deep breath, blew through the reed, and an ungodly squawk emerged. No matter what key I pressed, all notes (ha!) came out at the same pitch, and in fact at least one key didn’t seem to want to press at all.

Not one to panic immediately, I sat down on a pew while the choir milled anxiously, and began poking and prodding at the instrument. Normally this happens because one of the dozens of itty bitty little springs has sprung, and all I have to do is find it and pop it back into place. This time, however, I couldn’t find any sprung springs. The oboe had, quite dramatically, died.

Normally I could have had the luxury of a few weeks of time to track down a repair shop, send the oboe in, and let them take their time to do whatever magic was needed. Unfortunately, I was supposed to play in Saturday’s concert – not only as part of the instrumental group, but also as soloist for one of the choral pieces, and as half the flute and oboe accompanying duet for another piece. And, unlike players of the more common instruments such as flutes, clarinets, or trumpets, it wasn’t like they could call in a pinch hitter.

So this is about when panic hit. No one knew anyone who might have an instrument I could borrow. One of the other choir members contacted the band director of the local high school (at 9pm on a school night, no less), hoping to get a hold of the school’s oboe, but it was loaned out to someone who was trying to play it and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get it in time. They made arrangements to try to track down the instrument, but the outlook wasn’t good. I pondered my options, which were painfully few, and headed home to Richard, who had skipped choir practice due to a stuffed head and sore throat. “Guess what we get to do tomorrow?” I told him.

This morning, between the two of us, we managed to call pretty much every musical instrument store in Sacramento, Davis, Vacaville, and Fairfield. It wasn’t looking good – not only did no one actually do repairs on a Friday, but no one had any oboes to rent either. I did manage to find one store that had a used oboe we could purchase, but the thought of having to actually *buy* another instrument, just for a concert, made both of us cringe.

Finally, on the last call, they suggested someone else who rents band instruments. I called immediately, all fingers crossed. Did they have an oboe? No. My heart sank, and I babbled my sob story of desperation – dead instrument, concert the next day, and did they know anyone who –

He interrupted me and asked for more details on what the problem was, and then said the words that practically had me in tears with relief. “Oh sure, that sounds like a loose spring. Easy to fix. Bring it in, and I’ll see what I can do.” Two hours later, after a long car ride for Richard and my oboe, one bent key and a few broken springs were exchanged for $10 in cash and the instrument was repaired.

I took it out of the case when I got home from work and fumbled through my small pile of reeds until I found the one that’s the best. I blew a tentative note, half afraid that despite everything, that horrid squawk would still be present. The sound that emerged came easier and clearer than it has in a very long time, indicating in no uncertain terms that the problems had been slowly developing over a period of time.

The oboe is an extremely temperamental instrument, subject to the whims of heat and cold, the strength of the reed, the phases of the moon and tide (okay, not really, but there are times when it might as well be). It and its double-reed cousins (bassoon and English horn) are probably the most difficult woodwinds to play. The tone is piercing, even mournful at times, but has a quality that cannot be reproduced by any other instrument. And it has been my favorite instrument to play, second only to the piano, ever since the moment I was first handed the instrument in junior high and given a summer to learn its secrets.

I realized this week, with no small amount of shock, that my oboe is over 14 years old. In musical instrument terms, this means that it is getting pretty old – old enough that it’s long overdue for a full overhaul, more than just a new set of key pads and a few repaired springs. For the price the man quoted Richard, it’s a small amount of money to pay to have it back in perfect working order, beyond just the repairs he did today.

But that will have to wait, at least until after the concert.