(Written by hand on the road...)
This place is enormous. Big living room with a fireplace and secretary's desk, a dining room, kitchen, and three bedrooms with their own bathrooms. Each bedroom has its own little "quirk" to make it special; Rita and Ronnie's has the biggest walk-in closet, for example (really, a little room), and Bryan and Linda have a fireplace. Ours has a little dressing room with a vanity and folding single bed. Eric and I are thinking about starting Sam out on the little bed in there each night to give ourselves some much-needed "couple time." We'll see how it goes.
The kitchen, especially, is quite adorable. The whole cottage is really old, with antique wiring (hence the reason for the hand-written entries; Eric's upset enough about having to use an adapter for his apnea machine) and decor and furnishings. It looks like something out of Daddy Warbuck's mansion - real twenties' style authenticity. The kitchen, on the other hand, resembles something more out of a 1950's ladies' magazine. The flooring is black-and-white diamond tile, the walls are yellow and white lattice-style wallpaper, and the counters are red. There are cute little lace curtains and fuzzy red rugs on the floor. It's the most precious thing I've ever seen, and I've made up my mind that my someday kitchen will be just like it.
There's already some tension between family members. Eric's aunt and uncle are here, too, staying at the main hotel building, and Bryan's getting upset at his uncle for second-guessing him and giving unwanted advice. Eric's getting upset for the same reasons with Rita, who felt it necessary to remind him several times that "bellhops need to be tipped," for example. The aunt and uncle aren't used to children, so Sam and Hailey's joint boisterousness is making them edgy. (In fact, they each suggested to Linda, on separate occasions, that perhaps the children ought to be put in the resort's "really very nice" daycare while we're there. This, naturally, set up a bad tone between them and Linda, though she bit her cheek and held her tongue.) Eric's sick with what he thinks is a sinus infection now, which is making him short with me, which is making me tense. This ought to be good for some great famikly dynamics by the time we leave on Sunday.
On the other hand, the kids are in heaven. They are absolutely in love with each other (though it's a puppy-to-master kind of love, with Hailey being the far dominant of the pair), and the play never stops. When Hailey went down for a nap this afternoon, Sam spent the entire time chanting, "Where Hay-tie? I can't see Hay-tie!" Now they're running in circles around the living room, squealing and doing everything in their power to counteract the soporific effects of the huge dinner we had and the bath they just took.
Speaking of the dinner, it was divine. I had a lamb shank, after a big fruit plate and one of those horribly fancy salads that can actually make me forget that I'm basically eating no-op food. (In my next life, I think I really need to look into becoming a food critic; there's obviously a realm of untapped talent here.) There was wine, and then coffee, and bread pudding (oh, my Lord) for dessert. I was satisfied to the, well, teeth, and then Bryan informed us that the dinner meal could really be considered "just good" compared to the breakfast meals that await us. I can't fathom it.
Tomorrow, the men are going skeet-shooting, of all things, in the morning. After that, we're supposed to take the kids swimming. In the afternoon, Linda and I are hopefully hitting the spa. She's already made her own appointment for a thermastone massage and a pedicure, but I haven't yet decided what I want. I'm considering a body polish of some sort.
Anyway, I need to try to get Sam down for the night. As amped as he is, this should be no mean feat. What must be done must be done; wish me luck.
one year ago:
Lately I've been really, really missing my time singing in choirs in grad school; I miss the challenge of reading difficult new pieces, and I miss the thrill of hearing myself perform well.
two years ago:
He didn't propose again for another two years.
three years ago:
Both she and I bolted for the room and found him standing in the middle of the floor, surrounded by bottles of brightly-colored paints.
four years ago:
I didn't really start to panic until I got a good look at the car and realized exactly what I had just survived.
In the ears:|
On the Bookshelf:
You'll have to wait until we get back home, sadly.)