"Where are you two living?" It's a question I get at least 3 times a week. Now quite frankly, and perhaps for good reason, living in one's parent's basement is somewhat of a distasteful option for some folks. I am always quick to point out to these people that the basement apartment has its own kitchen and exit. I fail to mention that most of the time we keep the doors open from the downstairs to the upstairs, in fact we can't close one of them because Stephen has inserted some pull-up bar on the door frame to encourage spontaneous flexing of muscles as we enter and exit. Unfortunately, I am not encouraged, rather I just duck my head a little more unless I've been slouching and then I walk right under perfectly fine and almost forget it's there. I also fail to mention that we are usually invited to come up and eat when my parents have Grandpa or Aunt Becky over (which is about twice a week), or that when my mother has made too much food because she never really has gotten out of the habit of cooking for eight, leaves us a little something too. (Actually I think it's because she feels bad for Stephen whose previous eating habits of burritos and hot sauce, have not changed significantly with marriage). I keep silent every time about how, in my attempt to be domestic,when I have no idea what in the world I'm doing I always run upstairs and ask my mountain mama, or that it's she that tells us when we don't match and need to iron our clothes. I don't insert into the conversation, that for rent we do yard work (especially if they've seen our yard of late). Now there are the individuals who sympathize with my decision, and most hardly agree, that in this economic time of trouble, living with one's parents is the financially wise thing to do. I nod my head, and say that it sure is convenient. Yet, even to these people I don't tell that I quite enjoy remaining in my role as daughter as I take on the new role as wife. I find pleasure in knowing that, though I cling to my husband, I can still leave a few empty glasses around in the computer room so that my dad doesn't miss his mess-maker too much. In fact, I feel in a way that I am experiencing marriage with training wheels. I know, eventually my parents will kick us out, but in the mean time I don't mind the smooth ride.
Saturdays are special days, they're the days reserved for blogging.
Alright, so there haven't been too many updates in a while. We took off one of our more controversial blog posts so there wouldn't be any unintended offences. Which leaves us with our latest blog post being only narcissistic pictures from our wedding. Yikes, perhaps we ought to move on.
Our latest news? We're happy to announce a new addition to the Cranney family . . . I am . . . . . with . . . . a parasite!!! Okay, it might just be wishful thinking but a couple weeks ago I showed an odd red spot on my leg to Dr. Donaldson, that wonderful dermatologist of mine. He told me not to worry about it unless it’s changed; it did and is now a beautiful red circle. Well, it's not actually a circle, it just connects to itself, and rather it looks like a red stamp of a Christmas Wreath. Something we didn't have, and so I guess it's a way of remembering Christmas all year round? Only I don't know how much remembering it will be, because it will be remembering a Christmas we never had.
I thought this the most interesting thing to happen to me in the past 7.5 years since I thought I might have pink eye and got out of volleyball practice. So I thought, hey let's blog about it! Please do take serious alarm, all and send me lots and lots of casseroles. If anyone should take alarm, it should be to the fact that I have full fledged hypochondria and not that I might have a parasite that is probably dying this moment under the persecution on Brazilian worm medicine that I am finally taking a year after I should have. As for the weight loss, I think that had more to do with stress than the parasite, though I wish were the other. Luckily my appetite is such that Stephen and I are back to seeing who can out eat the other.
End: I finally officially changed my name and I am now . . . officially . . . a Cranney. So, perhaps you can say there is a new addition to the Cranney family, eh?
