A Merry Little Christmas for Me

Today, somebody posted a video preview on facebook for this movie, which (sadly) won't be in theaters for another twelve months. Until then, though, I can look out my living room window and imagine Gandalf knocking on Bilbo's door. Clint started building this hobbit house a few summers ago. He was hoping to use only natural materials, but then his clay mixture started to prove recalcitrant, so he had to reinforce it with some plastic-ish webbing. He also laid rolled roofing under the soil on the roof to make it less leaky. Still, it looks hobbit-ish enough for me. Maybe this summer, he'll finish it and we can sit in there and puff smoky ships and dragons with our hand-whittled pipes.

This is what it looks like outside right now. Down in that hollow is our neighbor Thelma's yard. There's an apple tree back there in the haze, and it is the favorite eating ground of a family of deer. We see them all the time, and sometimes they leave their tracks in the snow around our house. When we have snow, that is.

So, on to the main reason for my post: Yesterday after baking, Lauren and I went out hunting for a second-hand pea coat for Jonah. Don't you think he would look nice in one? I don't want to pay full price because the boy is bound to start growing soon, I think. He's been about the same height for over a year now, and all the other boys in his class have started to sprout up.

After a futile coat search, I asked Lauren where she wanted to go, and she suggested the Jackson Antique Mall (which, by the way, is haunted...the top floor...very spooky up there).

She took off on her own looking for vintage coats and gloves, and I wandered around the booths looking at who knows what. Have you ever taken note of the astonishing number of freaky antique figurines in shops like this? I think they are supposed to be cute, but who would want to purchase a leering lamb or a winking lion? That is not cute; that is pretty close to demonic.

Anyway, I found a couple of wonderful things. Clint has been looking for liquor decanters for a top-secret project I can't tell you about, and after shattering the stopper of a $99 one he saw at Home Goods (oh, I wasn't supposed to tell you about that either), I cut him off from handling the expensive ones.

And lo and behold, I found a whole stash of them in a dusty bottom shelf--FOR TWO DOLLARS APIECE! I just got two, that's how reserved I was.

And as I was carrying them around and basking in my antiquing genius, I turned a corner into the chilly back room (where I think the ghost might also visit, judging by temperature alone), I found this set! A Fontanini Nativity. Do you know how long I've wanted one of these? A long, long time. Ever since Jonah stole the cow and lamb from someone. (I don't know who it was; if it was you, I am really sorry. But I just want to let you know that I am not giving them back because the set I just bought didn't come with animals. So I need them. Plus, I've had them a long time, so I think they're mine now anyway.)

Also, I bought a pair of earrings for myself and a pair for Lauren. They have BIRDS on them. Yes, birds. I love birds very much, but not the swarming ones. When they all fly up suddenly from a tree and swoop and swarm around in a complicated twist, I don't like them at all. I fear them. But birds on jewelry? I love those birds very much. Lauren said we should save them for Christmas, but that resolve lasted only until we got home. Five days is too long to wait!

I'll post a picture of the earrings when she wakes up--and when I have better light for shooting.

Meanwhile, Merry Christmas to all!

40 before 40? Hmm...

Lately, I've been hearing lots of people talking about bucket lists and such (maybe I'm hanging out with too many oldies? don't know...), and the other evening when Clint and I went out on a date (he finally took me out...after much hinting and threatening), we both began to write our lists. Here's what we have so far. I'll start with Clint's (keep in mind, though, that the man either has to get really busy in the next 5 1/2 months or he'll have to re-title his list to 45 before 45 or something) (oh, and these aren't in any special order of to-do-ish-ness):
1. climb a 13-14,000 foot mountain (huh, that one's not on my list AT ALL)
2. stone the porch (not the lethal kind of stoning, mind you. I mean the sandstone around the pole thingies kind)
3. go on a mission trip and speak some Spanish to the natives (hopefully, they also speak Spanish)
4. brew beer
5. take an art class--maybe painting?
6. build a cool workshop
7. get a buck that has a nice rack (this is hunter lingo for antlers. What were you thinking?)
8. sell some of his woodcraft projects
9. go on monthly dates with me (this was his idea, I'm almost 86% sure)
10. go to Yosemite
11. visit the British Isles
12. eat horse (why??? I blame my dad for this idea) (I threw up a little bit just typing it)
13. visit Quebec
14. visit Nova Scotia
15. visit New Zealand and Australia
16. train to be a reserve police man
17. build a wood-fire oven for pizza and bread on the patio (yes, please!)
18. go to a Rush concert
19. go to a Bond/Riverdance/Opera Babes concert

Now for my list:
1. run a 5k
2. perfect the installation of a hidden zipper
3. learn a foreign language
4. take an art class
5. learn how to make chocolate like the lady in Chocolat
6. be more dedicated to my blog (it's been a long time!)
7. learn how to knit (if only I had a dear, sweet friend who could teach me)
8. sell some of my art
9. learn how to use photoshop
10. give Clint a cool-nerdy makeover (wouldn't he look sweet?)
11. learn how to felt wool and make cute little wooly animals with it
12. start a Christmas puzzle tradition at our house
13. go to an AWP conference (have I told you that it's in Chicago this year? And Margaret Atwood is the keynote speaker? that's what I'm saying)
14. learn how to make tiny animals out of clay and make a whole menagerie
15. visit the British Isles
16. eat my way through either France or Italy, consuming mainly bread, cheese, and wine
17. go to Maine
18. go to Boston
19. go to Florence and Rome
20. did I mention the British Isles?
21. see a famous person (I saw Sean Connery in a kilt once!)
22. finish writing another novel or two
23. design a dress and sew it
24. make a trench coat

Playing God

One of my favorite things about sunny, warm days is hanging clothes outside on the clothes line. Sure, my towels may be a little scratchy and my jeans may be a little stiff when I first put them on, but I like some crunch in my clothes and some backbone in my bedsheets.

So anyway, this morning--knowing it was going to be a bright and beautiful day--I strolled outside to the back yard and began hanging t-shirts and sheets on the clothes line. I got to the end of the line, the part near the boundary of our property where there is a thick line of bushes, and some movement caught my eye.

It was a white moth, and it was caught in a spider web. The moth was fluttering, flapping, trying desperately to free itself. I hung the sheet, smoothing its damp edges, and I began to turn away.

I have been reading Charlotte's Web to Jared, after all, and Charlotte has reminded us both that spiders are not bloodthirsty monsters but animals who need to eat just as much as pigs--or people--do.

Photo credit: John Shappell

Even though I had turned my back on the desperately struggling moth, I kept seeing its frantic struggle in my mind's eye. I hung another shirt and tried to close that inner eye. The moth had blundered into the spider's web. The spider needed to eat. I should let nature take its course. Who was I to try to free the moth? As I hung another shirt, I felt a glow of self-righteousness, thinking Charlotte would be proud of me. I was quite certain that if she were nearby, she would weave an adjective or two about me into her web.

I hung the last towel on the line and picked up the basket to go back inside. Then I hesitated. I had to look back one more time. The moth was still struggling, still fluttering, still hoping to live. I set the basket down and stepped closer, looking for the spider. I thought, maybe the spider is right there, watching its dinner lose its will to live and surrender to fate. But I couldn't see the spider at all, just the moth.

Then, without even really thinking about what I was doing, I stretched forth my godlike finger and tore at the net. I tore and tore around the moth, freeing it. Without one word of thanks, it fluttered away, and I stood up, staring at the devastation I had caused, brushing sticky shreds from my fingers.

And I thought, as I bent to pick up the empty laundry basket, of how easy that had been for me: how with a few strokes of my finger, I had saved a life and destroyed something beautiful. Would the spider snare another moth--or something less lovely, perhaps--later that day, or would it have to wait days before its next meal? Would it survive those hungry days, or had I doomed it to starvation--certainly, I had made a mess of its web, and it would have to repair it.

Photo credit: The Natural Stone (@blogspot.com)

As I stumbled through the rest of my day, I tried not to think too much about the divine power I had used, refusing to think about things like guilt or remorse or pride. These were a spider and a moth, and I had more important things to take care of, like feeding my children and paying bills, but now, as I sit in my quiet chair, my day's tasks nearly completed, I think again about the godlike action I took this morning, and I wonder whether I did the right thing.

Evil Genius

There is an insidious plot, I fear, afoot. It starts so innocently:


You walk down the driveway to your mailbox, skipping a little because it's such a nice day. The forsythia is a golden haze, and that bush you love--the one with the pink flowers--is bursting with color. You marvel at the variety of green God created: the bold green of grass, the dark green of lilac leaves, the tender green of new leaves. You want to roll around in all of that green, to breathe it in and absorb it, but then you remember you're on a mission: you're supposed to be getting the mail, not cavorting in the new grass like a winter-crazed wood-nymph. (Although, honestly, you do feel quite nymphish indeed.)

You open the mailbox, grateful that it is early spring and the ants have not yet begun to nest in it and produce their tiny, wriggling white larvae. When that happens, of course, it's time to send the children out for the mail, for no self-respecting nymph-like mother ever stretches her hand into dark depths crawling with maggots. Nymphs may love nature, but nobody loves maggots.

What you find in your mailbox sends all blissful thoughts of spring skittering from your brain. This thing you pull from the mailbox, innocently nestled between a bill for your daughter's braces and an envelope containing a plea for a charitable donation is the full-color, slippery-paged advertisement for That Store.

You know That Store, right? The one with unbelievable sale racks? The one where you can find a birdcage necklace--with a little twirling teal bird inside? Yes, that store. And of course, the advertisment has a sticker you can peel back to reveal your savings. Of course it's tantalizing. You just may be the lucky winner of a Thirty Percent Off Coupon.

You wait until you get into the house to peel back the sticker, with each step now blind to the glory around you as you think about your son's math homework from last night in which you helped him figure out questions about probability (okay, truth time: you told him to look back at the lesson and figure it out for himself. Teach a man to fish, right?) But you're thinking about probability nonetheless and wondering what might be the probability that you'll land the Big Three-Oh.

Inside your house, all is dim, the sunlight itself seeming to have hidden its eyes in anticipation. Slowly, you slip your fingernail under the edge and then begin to lift the sticker. Then you pause. Maybe you don't want the 30 after all. For if you get it, you'll feel obliged to at least go to the store and check the sale racks. 30% off something that's already marked down 70%? It's practically free! How can you not go? But if you only get a 15, then maybe you won't feel any compulsion at all. If you only get a 15, then you can stay home, oblivious to any possible sales, convincing yourself that they probably weren't that good anyway. You will save money! Saving money is good!

You lift the sticker, hoping now, desperately hoping not to get a 30. You're lifting from the right, so the first digit you spy is a "0." Could be a 20, you whisper. I can stay home with a 20. I won't get sucked in with a 20. You shut your eyes and tear off the rest of the sticker, a painless rip like your mother used to do with band-aids on your skinned knees.

What you see is not painless at all.

The little things

I have been thinking for awhile about what makes me happy, where I find joy. And I realized that it is the small things that please me. Check over my list and see if you agree:

-a quiet, comfortable place to read and drink my coffee in the morning, seeing the sun stretching bright across the floor when I look up

-snuggling my children fresh from bed in the morning when the sheet wrinkles are still deep on their faces

-getting into bed and streching my toes into the crisp fresh scent of sheets fresh from the clothesline

-the smell of homemade bread

-getting a nice latte from a coffee shop

-walking into a library and inhaling the scent of printed pages

-the smell of rain

-making something with my hands

-walking through a fabric store and rubbing the fabric between my thumb and forefinger

-cracking open a new book

-rubbing Clint's head after a haircut

-watching him with the kids--with any kids

I could go on and on...but I'm feeling maudlin now...

What a woman wants

Don't lie to me, guys: I know you spend countless sleepless nights wondering about it. You know your girl isn't always happy, but you don't know what the franchise you're supposed to be doing about it. Some guy in Hollywood tried to answer the question with that Mel Gibson movie from a few years ago. And maybe it helped--for awhile. But the dilemma is still plaguing you. Well finally, I have the help you've been looking for.
Here it is: we women, although we seem like selfless paragons of virtue (and in so many ways, we are) are still selfish beings. And this is what we really crave: the ability to choose. To choose without feeling guilty about it.
I realized this last night as I was snuggling up to my husband. He's leaving today for a week-long trip out to Oregon to see his brother. He asked if I'm going to miss him. Now this is a tough question. Not that I won't MISS him, but in some ways, it's a vacation for me too when he goes away. Here's why: at night, I get to decide when I want to go to bed. And when I do, I can read or I can go right to sleep, and I don't have to worry about what he would prefer. And this is what makes it beautiful: I get to choose. I decide when to close my sleepy little eyes, and there is no guilt about putting him out if he's not ready to sleep.
That's why ladies like Girls' Night Outs so much. There's something about going out for dinner or drinks and doing WHATEVER WE WANT! We don't need to wipe chins or consult on price limits; we order, we eat, and then we sit back and talk.
At this time, guys, you might be feeling a little put out. Maybe you don't like the idea that your girl wants to get away from you and hang out with other women. But really, you shouldn't think of it like that. Here's what I want you to think (and believe me: it will be good for you). When I get home from a GNO, I have spent a good two or three (or so) hours getting all the chatting done. I've talked about books I've read lately and the hottest guys on the silver screen; I've talked about what our kids are doing lately and what bugs me about parenting; I've talked about my hair and my flabby spots and I've gotten encouragement to keep working out; I've talked about trips I want to go on and places I want to see. In a few words: I've spilled out all that talking you tune out anyway.
When I come home, I don't need to rehash those things with you any more. You get to spend the rest of the evening with a quiet girl who is REALLY grateful that you let her spend a few hours with friends.
This is what your woman wants, guys. Time. Time to be young again with her girlfriends. To talk about food and kids and clothes and movies. Time to be selfish and crazy and laugh long and loud. Time to refresh so she can come back home and be a mom and wife. And in between those nights out with the girls, maybe an hour or two here and there by herself, an hour or two where she can do whatever she wants (selfishly) sans guilt.
Now, I'm not saying I have all the answers; I don't. But I'm pretty sure I've nailed this, for myself at least.

Summer thoughts

It seems that my motivation to get things done is indirectly related to the amount of time I have in which to do them. What I mean is this: during the school year, I have a limited amount of time in the evenings to keep up with housework, make dinner, and hang out with the family. But somehow, I get it all done and still have time to read, write and create.

So it would seem that during the summer, when I have all flipping day, I would be a dynamo of work. Right? Wouldn't that make sense? And in April and May, I always set goals for my summer vacation, goals which are really not beyond reach. However, despite my best intentions, I find myself frittering away my days, and by the time I go to bed each night, I am really not certain at all how I've spent my day.

Here is what I think happens:

1) Instead of waking up before six (like I do during the school year), I luxuriate in the bliss of summer and sleep till 8: two hours lost to snoozing.

2) Instead of showering, dressing, and drinking my coffee on the go, I leisurely sip my way through a cup or four whilst reading a book: two hours lost to sipping and reading.

3) Then I feel guilty about slobbing around in my PJs, so I take a shower and get dressed. By now, it's time for lunch.

4) Eat, do dishes, think about dinner, look at the dust on the piano and think about waiting one more day to tackle house cleaning. Now it's after one.

5) I look at the clock and spend maybe 1/2 an hour wondering where the day has gone, then check my email, facebook, think about whether anything interesting has happened that could be blog worthy. But nothing has because I'm not doing anything.

6) Spend the rest of the day reading guiltily, thinking about all those goals I created in the spring, deciding to get to them after I clean the house.

7) Stay up late because it's summer vacation and I think it's a little sinful to watch the hour hand tip past eleven. Result: sleeping later the next morning.

Well, I finished cleaning today, and I have taken a shower and gotten dressed (and I know, it's lunch time). So I'm going to look over those goals after I feed the masses. And I will start one of them today. Or maybe think about it while I'm baking outside watching Clint help Tony and Anne build a tree fort. Drrg.

Another goal

Here is what I am going to do this summer (and I WILL accomplish them all, bwah-ha-ha):

1) send out a query letter each week (or more) for A Minor Revolution
2) create, sign, and address birthday cards for everyone on my list--for the NEXT WHOLE YEAR
3) start my etsy shop FOR REAL
4) read at least 5 "literary" books, not just fun stuff (any suggestions?)
5) blog about every book I read from now on (maybe an online journal like this will be easier to keep)
6) work out at least 4 days each week
7) anything else?

Older and wiser

There is much widom that comes with age; I know that to be quite true. Learned it, in fact, today.
For the same reason that prompts wives to vainly hope that their husbands will read their minds and get them the lingerie/book/box of chocolate/dress/handbag they've been craving, in my foolish younger years (when I was but a wee lass of 32--and in many of the years before that) I did not tell anyone when my birthday was approaching. This year I tried a different tactic.
I have been reminding my friends and students for, oh, something like a month. For the last week, I have started each class with "Today is my last Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday(etc) of being 33." They caught on quickly.
And you know what? In terms of well wishing, today was the best birthday I've ever had. Check this out:
--by 7:00, I had hugs and kisses from my husband and children
--by 8:00, at least 30 teenagers had wished me a happy birthday
--by 9:00, I had opened a birthday card from my favorite English teacher (thanks, Amy)
--by 10:00, I had served chocolate cake, made by one of my students (thanks, KC) to surprise me, to my third hour class
--by 12:00, I had been visited by Gretchen (what a cool surprise!) with an iced coffee and biscotti
--by 12:15, I had been sung to by my homeroom class
--by 12:30, I had served brownies, made by another pair of students (thanks Myria and Kyle) (another surprise) to my homeroom class
--by 1:00, I had been serenaded by a student (thanks, Adam!) and gotten a birthday card signed by 15 students
--by 2:00, I had been sung to by another class of 20 students
--by 8:00, when I got home and checked facebook, I had 20 or so messages from friends and family

Note to self: don't let another birthday slip by, hoping someone will know and remember and pass the word on. Why waste a day full of so many hugs, chocolate opportunities, and full out glory?

Note to you: try it for your next birthday. It's way fun.

The Warning Signs

Fainting Couch photo courtesy DollsforDolls.com

In a way, I guess it paid off this morning, the fact that I have fainted so many times.
Let's see: my first time was during church and I woke up to dad flapping his hand in my face and Wayne Chaffee offering me a cup of water; then there was the time in Dr. Wulff's office when I watched him burning a wart off my finger; the time in Chicago when I got to ride in an ambulance; the other time in the shower just after I'd sprained my ankle; the time when I had the flu and wasn't sure whether I needed to hurl or put my head between my knees. Oh yeah, and this morning, in the shower again.
I'm not really sure what brought this one on; usually, they're triggered by a sudden burst of pain, but this time, I am afraid I may have brought it on myself. My doctor thinks I have suddenly developed an allergic reaction to something in the spring air, which might just be the case. For three weeks, I have been coughing and sniffling and muttering imprecations at Kleenex manufacturers. It hasn't gone away. At this point, I'd prefer to be allergic to something because being SICK for three weeks is an insult to my state of healthy living.
So yesterday, a helpful colleague, upon hearing my croaking voice, offered me a Claritin, saying it helps alleve her allergy symptoms and warning me not to take another for 24 hours. I downed it immediately, and I did feel somewhat better--although each class of students continued to chuckle at my raspy froggy voice (sigh: teenagers) (good thing I love attention and sympathy).
By the time evening came, I was feeling somewhat better, but very tired, and as soon as I laid my sleepy head down on my pillow, the irresistible tickle flared up in my throat. I picture it as a very small sentient white feather that is lodged down there--an evil, insidious feather that enjoys torture. I probably coughed for an hour straight before I stumbled out of bed and poked my head in the medicine cabinet.
A drink of water wasn't enough. I needed drugs. NyQuil did the trick. When I got back to bed, the coughing was finished and I don't really remember anything at all after that. The alarm woke me and, groggy, I stumbled into the bathroom for a shower. As I was waiting for the water to warm up, the lights still off, I had to lean against the wall. But I shrugged it off as allergic drowsiness.
Just as I was starting to get my hair wet, I felt them: the warning signs. My skin felt hot and prickly all over and I smelled that strange smell. It smells like warm silver, I think, or some kind of heated metal. Really, I don't know how I had enough sense to turn off the water and lie down in the tub, but I did. Next thing I knew, my thoughts were flickering in and out and I was making a very piggish grunting sound. Apparently, it wasn't loud enough to wake Clint up, but he was lucid enough to realize something was wrong when I stumbled back into our room and fell into bed, still soaking wet, with a towel wrapped around my head (not sure what I was thinking with that one).
Kindly, he deciphered my mumbles and called a sub for me. I spent the rest of the day finishing my book, watching a movie, and...hmm...not much else.
I still don't know what made me faint this time. Maybe I shouldn't have taken NyQuil 14 hours after a Claritin. Maybe I got out of bed too quickly. Maybe my ears are plugged from all the yucky stuff sloshing around inside my head. All I know is this: I'm glad I stayed home. Froggy voice plus woozy head is not a good combination for a girl who has to lecture on World War II and the Salem Witch Trials.
Here's to hoping for a cough-free night and fully-conscious (well, or nearly-conscious: let's not get too greedy) shower in the morning.

Just a minute or two

I remember when I started running, a friend told me if I could make it to my two mile goal, three miles wasn't going to be far behind. I thought he was crazy. Seriously, athletically crazy.
For a year, I've huffed and puffed my way--red of face and short of breath--around the two mile loop in the neighborhood behind our house. It had taken me five weeks to stretch my run from a quarter of a mile to two miles. It took me a year after that, a year of running about three days a week, to consider myself a runner.
But I wasn't seeing the results I wanted. My clothes still fit the same, and I was hovering at the same weight. Then that comment from Tony began to niggle away at me and a conversation with Ilona cemented the idea: I needed to run further.
So today, as I set out on my loop, I made the choice. I was going to stretch myself--not just up and down the next block, but much further. I was going to shoot for thirty minutes of running instead of about twenty.
When I got back to the house, the place where I usually begin a cool-down walk, I kept running. I turned around and took off down Ridgeway toward the condo subdivision at the end of the road. I ran for 5 minutes, which took me just to the beginning of the subdivision, then turned around and came back. 30 minutes really wasn't much harder than 20. Maybe Tony isn't as crazy as I thought.
I was breathing hard, sure, but not dead. And when I got into the house, I opened my computer and mapped out my route on MapMyFitness.com and guess what? 3.3 miles in 30 minutes. Woo-hoo! I'm pumped. And pretty sore. But very proud of myself.

Something strange is happening

And I don't quite know what to make of it. Last week, around this time, I would have been reading a book. This week, same time, I'm on the computer. And I was last night and the night before that and the night before that. Doing what? Blogging (a good thing). Checking my email and facebook every few seconds (not so good, in my opinion).
What is happening to me? Why am I suddenly more likely to open my laptop than open my book? Right now, Clint and I are sitting next to each other on the couch. He's catching up on Chuck (with headphones in) and I've just gotten done looking at beautiful fabrics I want to buy. Look at this from Anna Maria Horner or these really cool peacocks from Dena Designs.
Sewing is cool, and I feel good about myself when I create something, I feel like the internet has sucked me into its vortex lately, and I want to get out.
So I'm going to log off and go to bed and read until Clint finishes his show. G'night.

Why I admire Jesus, Gandhi, and many Catholics

Well, I admire Jesus especially for many other reasons, but the food. That's what gets me. How do they go without it? According to my extensive google research (accomplished in .21 seconds) most Catholics nowadays only fast on holy days like Ash Wednesday and Good Friday. But Gandhi, he fasted 17 times! And once he fasted for three weeks. And Jesus, 40 days. Seriously. 40 days without food is a very long time.
I found out a few weeks ago that I can last for about 60 hours. That's my limit. Why, you ask? Why did I ever test my limit? Well, I am victim to sudden whims of torture, and I thought this diet called THE MASTER CLEANSE sounded like a fun way to spend the last three days of spring break. Now I'm not sadistic enough to attempt a purging diet (read: lots of trips to the loo) while teaching, but I figured, 3 days--I could do that. And I would end right before I went back to school. Perfect. I was hoping to maybe drop some of the flab around my belt that JARED IS TOTALLY RESPONSIBLE FOR and maybe see a miraculous transformation in the spotty condition of my face. I want clear skin; is that so vain?
I won't nauseate you with the details, but this is what it was: steady diet of water liberally dosed with a cleansing potion of lemon juice, grade B maple syrup, and cayenne pepper. Oh, I almost forgot: I also drank an organic laxative tea at night and downed a 32 oz glass of warm salt water in the morning. Do you know what that much salt water does to your digestive system? You should try it some time. It's...interesting.
So, 2 1/2 days into my proposed 3 day fast, I was DYING. I made the mistake of taking Lauren shopping (and meeting up with the friend who had talked me into the whole thing--and who was doing the diet as well--we were hoping to morally support each other). And I had to go to the ladies' room 6 times in one hour. My stomach hurt and I felt dizzy. I was ready to be done.
And just like that, I was. We took the girls to Panera for lunch, and while Anne sipped away at her laxative tea, I resolutely bought a whole grain bagel and low fat strawberry smoothie. And guess what? My body, my mind, my whole spirit sighed.
And this is what I realized: fasting is all well and good for those who can stomach it, but I am a girl who needs food. I can't live without it. As I'm sitting here, I'm glancing at my bowl scraped clean of chocolate cake, sipping at a glass of red wine, and feeling desperately happy that I will never again have a glass of water with lemon, syrup, and pepper in my hand again.

What the rain does

Before I say anything else, I want to say this with great finality: I love the rain, storms especially. I love to ride in a car (not drive) when its raining and hear the rain pound on the roof and watch it roll down the windows. I love to sit on my couch in the living room and read and drink something either warm or soporific and hear it pattering on the window. And sometimes I look up and watch it as it falls. I love to lie in bed in the dark and hear it drum on the roof and smack the windows, to feel the boom of thunder in my bones, to feel the electric jolt that sends through me, not of fear exactly, but maybe of excitement. And Clint and I both chuckle a little then at the way we've jumped and move closer together.
I don't even mind a solid weekend of rain. I'd rather have it rain now when it's coldish out than on a nice warm spring weekend when we had planned to be outside. And a rainy day when I'm at school is just depressing.
But something about this weekend has made me lazy. I slept this afternoon, and I have totally trashed the intention I made on Thursday (that first really nice day of the season) to run every day for the next two weeks. That resolution lasted two days. But it's so much nicer to run outside now than in, especially since the possiblity of running outside is so tantalizingly...well, possible. But not when it's raining.
So don't think this is a post that is complaining about the rain. It's not. I have loved the rain this weekend. It is, though, maybe, my way of justifying to myself why I have been lazy. And read a book and a half. And cooked a great dinner last night. And fixed our secondary laptop so it can access the internet. And typed up a handout for my Creative Writing class.
Huh. Maybe I haven't been so lazy after all.

My Letter of Resignation

Dear Kir,
I know. I know. I'm supposed to give you two weeks notice, but sometimes it is sweet to be spontaneous, and I always try to be one or the other. Sweet or spontaneous, that is. Occasionally, I simultaneously succeed at both. Not often, though.

And now for the notice:

Despite my fervent and repeated assurances both to you, dear self, and to the world around me, I have succumbed to the worldly pressure and (sigh. gasp. horrified shaking of the head.) opened a facebook account.

I know. I know.

I never thought I would do it either. I thought my fortitude was...you know...more fortitudinal. But after a long conversation this afternoon with an erstwhile friend (who has just within the past ten hours reversed her state of erstwhile-ness to current-hood) (her name is Jennifer) (last name Jackson), I became convinced to recant my previously stated intent to never--not even if I faced a firing squad--join the legion of people who are addicted to this friend making/friend sharing device.

Which I consider to be merely one more ploy to distract me from reading.

As blogging is doing right now.

And so, dear self, I am finished talking to you. Which was weird and somewhat contrived anyway. And talk to my blog readers:

You can become my friend on facebook, if you're not already, and join the bevy of 13 whole friends I currently have. Without even really trying that hard.

Including one REALLY erstwhile friend, whom I am most pleased to have found again. Especially since she lives in Texas. And that is really far away.

I Still Exist

But barely.
Never have I been so busy with papers to grade. And I feel like I finish one set and go to bed at peace only to wake up the next morning and go to school and face the continued deluge.
But I have clawed my way to the top of the pile long enough to wave and say a strangled hello before I am pulled back under the surface.
Here are some thoughts I've had lately:
1) Diet and exercise plans are good and all, but when I can fit into just about all my clothes with marginal effort, maybe a cookie here and there is not such a bad thing. Neither is skipping exercising. Especially when I have discovered that the mysterious mark on my big toenail is probably a fading bruise owing to the too-small tennies I bought last spring because they didn't have my size in the same cute color.
2) When I am busy doing my job and grading papers, I don't have time to read, and a life without books pretty much sucks.
3) I miss blogging and feel slight periodic twinges of guilt for my negligence.
4) Winter is taking too blasted long and I'm tired of wearing sweaters and thick socks. I really want to break out my flip flops.
5) The next installment of "The Heart of the House" is coming soon. Maybe tomorrow. Unless the kiddos decide to turn in their papers early. If that's the case, maybe next week.
Love and thanks for your patience.

Bringin' back the cool

A great friend and mentor of mine, RON SAMUL, editor of Miranda Literary Magazine, has proposed a scheme that I can't say no to. I've long thought he was a genius and he's given me so many hours of his time listening to my ideas and honing my stories that I feel compelled to encourage his latest idea.

We were talking about words that have died out in the English language, words that have been recently replaced by more common words to the detriment of our vocabulary.

So we've decided to bring the most important word back. The word is RAD.

It is an important word. A word that evokes my teenage years, and maybe yours. I remember saying it when I heard the New Kids on the Block sing their crooning melodies, when I danced to Vanilla Ice, when I saw my best friend Amber's stylish hair swept back in a hot pink banana clip, and when my dad walked into the kitchen one morning dressed for work in white long johns, a dress shirt buttoned askew and mismatched socks. (That last RAD was uttered in the sarcastic voice only a teenager is allowed to use.)

Ron and I would like to see RAD revived coast to coast, so if you would just begin to use it regularly in your daily language, that would be great. You should not overuse it, however, for fear of turning people off to the wonder of the word. Don't kill it. Just gently toss it into maybe every other conversation, like you'd toss a young child onto a mattress. That should just about do it.

See how it catches on.

Resolutions

Clint has already promised to be my encouragement partner, but I want to get you guys in on it too.

I have decided that my belly has become too protuberant and other parts between my waist and my knees have become too jiggly. Mostly since the holidays, really. This summer, I was running regularly and pretty happy with my body. But alas, I can't say no to cookies and truffles. So to fend off the despair of having to buy a bigger size of jeans, I have decided to be more proactive than I have been this fall/winter and stop it before it happens.

Here is my plan:

1) Say no to dessert. Only allow myself one (small) dessert each week. (Killer, I know)

2) Work out REGULARLY (alternate running on treadmill and weights/lunges/crunches).

3) Cut down on cream/sugar in coffee--but don't get too drastic. It's not THAT jiggly.

4) Limit my portion size: say no to seconds.

5) Gift myself with 5 chocolate chips every day (dark chocolate doesn't count as dessert--it's medically proven to be good for me).

6) Keep written record of weight and workouts.

7) See (and feel) results by spring break.



If you see me, and I have cake in my mouth, please take it away. I don't need it. And ask me how my working out is going. And you can tell me I look GOOD if you want to--if I do. But you don't have to lie.

Also, I saw this picture of myself from Christmas time, and I'm starting to get the saggy stuff under my chin (I think) (or maybe I am holding my head weird and it was just a crazy double chin). Anybody know how to firm up the under-chin sag? Your help is desperately needed! Weigh in (no pun): tell me what you think.

Snow Day Adventures

So did you know that teachers LOVE to be awoken unexpectedly at 5:30 by a phone call? It can only mean one thing: snow day. I still don't know why I got the whole day off and Clint only got a two hour delay, but I am SO GLAD I got to stay home today.
I started my morning off right by sleeping in until the decadent hour of 8:30, then got up and made oatmeal with apples for Jared and myself (his request), drank a few cups of coffee and read for about an hour, and then tackled a job I was saving for the weekend--with dread. Taking down the Christmas decorations and doing a thorough cleaning. Usually the kids (and sometimes Clint) pitch in with cleaning and we get it done in about an hour, but, you know--they don't move things when they dust and sweep, they don't wash the floors on their hands and knees. I worked all day, finishing up maybe 15 minutes after they got home at 3:30, and now my legs are aching!
Who knew that a snow day would be so much work?
But I moved the kitchen table to Lauren's room for her to use as a vanity table and moved her chair up into the "library"--so now I have a cozy spot to sit and read while dinner bakes--which I did this evening. All very lovely. I like decorating the house for Christmas, but it's just so much more STUFF than I usually have sitting out. Now it looks less cluttered, less sparkly, and definitely less dusty.
I can't wait to go back to school tomorrow and RELAX! ;) But I'm rewarding myself with the thought that on Saturday, I WON'T be cleaning. That's something to be very happy about.

The Sicko

So what's up with getting sick on Christmas day (head cold) and still not being over it? Today, I slept in until 9:13, letting Clint get up with Jared, and snuggled back under the cozy blankets until that decadent hour. And after lunch, when Jared went down for his nap, guess what I did? Yup, I took a nap too. And now, at 6:40, I'm feeling tired enough to go to bed already. How am I going to accomplish my list of good intentions for the Christmas holiday if I can't get enough energy to change out of my pajamas?
I have done a few things: I finished grading my Creative Writing students' papers; I baked a ton of cookies (on 12/24, the day before I got sick), I read a few books, and I've sat around. Oh, and I've probably posted more regularly to this blog than I have in the last 2 months. But other than that, nothing.
So my revised resolution for tomorrow: get up early, meet E for breakfast, and keep non-lounge clothes on all day. Sit up in chair (no slouching or reclining), get up and move around, and try to speak with normal voice. Sounds doable. We'll see how it turns out.

Oh, and that essay I mentioned a week or so ago? The one I submitted to Miranda Magazine? It's on their website. Follow the link and read it, if you want to.