Life Is How You Describe It

Celebrating the New Year

2012-01-01T12:04:00.000-05:00

I have a friend who's rather cynical about the celebration of the New Year. "So what? The earth revolved around the sun again. Big deal." Ok, I can see the logic. It's something of an arbitrary holiday...and the corollary point that there are far more interesting date-based days (11-11-11! 12-12-12!!) to celebrate is well taken. Objectively, I suppose it's not a big deal.

But my experience of the New Year is different. Like so much of the minutia in my life, I've imbued the start of each year with meaning. I don't think I set out to make the calendar-flip a meaningful time. I've never been into resolutions and dramatic proclamations about life changes. I think it may have come from my habits.

The month-long gluttony of the holidays almost always sends me into a period of shedding. I declutter...I donate...I clear out closets and find places for all the new things that inevitably come into my life from Christmas. I wind up moving around more and eating less because a month of terribly indulgent treats make me feel sluggish and yucky. And, every January, somewhere between the piles of Goodwill donations and the hours on the treadmill, my head clears out enough to think about where I've been and where I want to go...

And so I find that in the middle of the holiday crush each year...in between presents and family and shopping and friends and parties...as the swirl begins to rise to a fevered pitch...I start to look forward to the New Year. It's not the ball dropping or the festivities...it's that I know what's coming next: the introspective lull of January. The crazy, frenetic end of each year finally (sometimes painfully) yields to the quiet start of the next....and I crave it. I look forward to the quiet and the head-space and the reflection and the clean closets and the time and energy to conceive new challenges.

You know how some people figure out their income tax withholding almost to the penny so that the government doesn't keep their money interest free during the year? Yeah, I'm not one of those people. I like the windfall of a refund. I enjoy the sudden boon. Maybe the New Year thing is the same way. Some people may be able to really take time out to take stock of themselves and their lives every day, so they have no need for a designated moment to do it. For me, it just doesn't work that way. Life is too busy and too crazy for too much of the year...so I use that mundane occasion of changing the calendar as my little life refund.

It's true, of course, that the windfall of time and presence of mind could come at any moment. And, believe it or not, I've been known to take stock of my life on a random Tuesday for no apparent reason at all. I appreciate all of those moments of reflection throughout the year. The New Year just happens to be a consistent moment. It's cyclical and predictable...so I look forward to it.

In fact, I celebrate it.

The Graduate

2011-12-20T23:29:00.000-05:00

I was ready to graduate.

I did the work. I put in the time. I studied and fretted and lived under the avalanche of guilt of never doing enough for anyone. I cheered for my teammates and rallied the troops. I engaged professors and asked a million questions and lived a life of heavily perforated boundaries.

I even began making lists of things I'd do after I graduated! I'll write more...learn my camera...tackle some of those house projects. I'll exercise and cook more and do more things with the Monkey. I'll renew friendships put on hold. I'll stop hiding behind the "oh, I'm in grad school" excuse.

I was ready to graduate.

I made the trip to Monterey. I made plans to visit with a memorable professor or two. I made plans to see my classmates. I made it to graduation rehearsal and I made it through the post-rehearsal reception....far too much of which put a focus on me. As proud as I was of my achievements, I'm never comfortable being the center of attention...and there was no escaping the poster-sized version of my head in the center of the room:

Awesome. My research partner and I are the center of attention and I look like a crazy lady.

Maybe I'm not ready for graduation.

And then it was suddenly graduation day and I was pretty sure I wasn't ready at all. My stomach threatened revolt. My clothes were all insufficient and weird. My stockings looked wrong. I suddenly couldn't bring myself to do basic things like make coffee or eat. Being there without a dedicated support system suddenly seemed like a terrible idea. Why hadn't I planned to have someone to talk to that morning?! Why hadn't I designated someone to be in charge of me? I'd gotten through grad school largely "on my own"...but graduating on my own was much, much more difficult than I expected.

Two years of work and all that was left was to walk across a stage. And I wasn't ready.

The ceremony was brief...but the name-calling took forever. I was seated approximately 315 out of 320 graduates....way up high in the last row of the auditorium. My classmates and I sat impatiently...marveling at the number of international students and the general restraint of the audience as they held their applause and cheers. An hour or so later, we finally made our way to the front for our turn. The moment had arrived, at last, and everything settled as I stepped up to the line as my name was called.

I'm totally ready to graduate.

I was, however, utterly unprepared for what would happen next. About the time I'd begun making my way back up the long aisle to my seat, the announcer called "And last, but certainly not least, Scott W..." The last name. The last graduate in the class. That was all of us.

I was still in the aisle when it happened. No sooner had the last syllable been spoken, but the audience erupted....exploded into thunderous applause and cheering and joy so large and so loud it was not unlike being suddenly overtaken by a tidal wave. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't feel my feet as I climbed the stairs back to my seat. And from that vantage point in the topmost row, I saw the most amazing spontaneous display of honor I've ever experienced: Every single person in those side sections stood up, and without planning or provocation, turned inward toward the middle, and presented a standing ovation.

I don't know if that's a normal audience response or not. I only know that I couldn't sit down. I nearly hyperventilated from the effort it took to not collapse into tears...and it took until today for me to be able to get through telling the story without getting overly emotional.

I'm still sorting out why it hit me so hard. I think maybe in that moment, I finally felt the full weight of it all...the tremendous import of this thing I'd done...the sacrifice...the struggle...the achievement...the things I lost along the way...and the things I gained. In that moment, I was ambushed by every single emotion I've been way too busy to properly acknowledge over the last two years. Until just then, I had no idea how much I was holding back.

Truthfully, I've felt a little untethered ever since...floating a little more freely than is comfortable in my well-ordered world. Graduation feels like a bit of a paradox this time around: the closing of one chapter and the prologue to a lot more unwritten ones. I'm staring at blank pages and wondering how to write the first line in the next part of my story. I haven't really figured it out yet, but I'm trying to be a little patient with that.

I just graduated, after all.

The Perils of Brand Loyalty

2011-10-17T22:14:00.000-05:00

I'm not a super brand-loyal consumer. Granted, I've been a Crest kid from way back (something about that ADA endorsement always made a difference to me)...and I'm very loyal to hair products (you just don't mess with a good thing!)...but outside of that, it's kind of whatever.

So I was surprised to fall in love with a fabric softener. Although, to be fair, it's not the fabric softener itself (they all work pretty much the same)...it's the scent! I finally found one that smells like...I don't know...like some exotic flower garden in the middle of India with cinnamon and cloves brewing somewhere nearby. It's spicy and it's awesome and the clothes smell good forever.

I'm in lurve.

And then, of course, the local grocery store stopped selling it. I thought it would be ok. I muddled through by using something inferior for awhile, but...goshdarnit...I really liked the other stuff! I started realizing that it was totally unacceptable to just "muddle through" when I'd found something I liked so much.

So rather than drive all around, I did what any self-respecting consumer would do: I checked online and discovered that yes! I could, in fact, find it there! And! I could buy a whole case! Of 64 oz bottles!! A case of the good stuff would last approximately until the Monkey hits high school! I pulled the trigger. YES! SEND ME THAT CASE!!

I came home earlier in the week to find a box at the front door! It arrived! Although...the box was...odd. There was a note on it that didn't make sense. And when I opened it, there were 4 bottles of the good stuff...not 6. Now the note made sense: 4/6 remain. Crap. Now I've paid for 6 bottles but only got 4. That's not ok. I hopped online and found the links to report my feedback. Two bottles were damaged in transit, but 4 arrived in tact. Could they please send me the two bottles?

I got the follow up email in about an hour (this company has great customer response time!): "Hi...I'm so sorry for the problem. I've already placed a $0 replacement order that will ship soon. Following are the instructions for returning the damaged pieces..." blah blah blah. Ok, that's cool of them! Rock on customer service dude! Except...wait..."replacement" order? Does that mean.....?

Yes. It does. I check and sure enough, there's a new zero-cost order for another 6-pack. Which is great! Except that fabric softener bottles in bulk are heavy! And I'm notoriously slow about getting to the mailbox (or the bank or the post office or...). The instructions say that if I don't ship back the original order within a certain time, I'm going to be charged and I don't want that...ugh. Yuck. Surely this isn't the very best solution, right?

I send another note back to customer service thanking them for the quick reply, but asking if there's any way to avoid the return. Couldn't they just send me the 2 bottles I'm missing instead?   The return reply was there by morning: "Hi there! I'm so sorry our last email was confusing... We cannot break up a case to only replace damaged pieces. Also, because you have ordered a health an beauty product, we cannot take a return for this item, so please disregard the return instructions in the last email. Please dispose of the damaged product at your earliest convenience."

Um. Sure! I'd be happy to "dispose" of the 4 bottles... (I think I'll do it a capfull at a time, btw, into my washing machine...) And now they're sending 6 more. Not only does that totally amortize the cost I paid over a larger number of bottles, but our laundry will now smell good right up until the apocalypse! Either that, or it's going to be a fabric softener Christmas this year! I'll be like Oprah!! (you get a bottle! and you get a bottle!)

But wait! There's more....

Friday, I come home to find a giant box on the front stoop with 6 bottles of good smelling fabric softener in them. Except I realized as I got closer that I could actually smell the fabric softener. Which is nice but....ugh...sure enough, there's a pink river on the stoop now. (Quick tip: fabric softener on smooth brick = super slippy!)

As I was getting everything cleaned up (I only lost about half of one of the six bottles), the Monkey asked if I was going to write them again to report the damaged bottle...

Uh...no. I think I'm all set.

The Love of a Tribe

2011-10-09T09:15:00.000-05:00

You are such an ocean of Love,
That you have no boundary.
~Rumi

It's been quite a week. While I could spend words upon words musing on the difficulties I've been sort of trudging through over the last five days, I think I won't. Ultimately, the realization I came to this week seems much more important than the circumstances that precipitated it. What I learned is simply this: It is impossible to stay in a place of sadness when you find yourself overwhelmed by gratitude.

I'm bad at being needy. I'm terrible at asking for help. I don't like to admit that there's ever a time I can't handle something entirely on my own. But the reality is that humans (yes, even me) were designed to depend on each other. We were built to love and to give support. We were created to bond. In tribes, in families, in packs or pairs...we are intended to rely on each other. And the simple truth is this: if I would be willing to drop everything to be there for a friend in need -- and I would, absolutely -- why would I ever have expected anything less from those who care about me?

This week, in the midst of an hour of darkness, I was so taken aback by the love I was shown that I couldn't linger in sadness or self-doubt. This week, I was forced to admit to myself that though my "tribe" may resemble more Picasso than Rembrandt, it is absolutely there...and its members are absolutely willing to mobilize...to support...to listen...to offer an overwhelming deluge of love. This week, I realized that it's difficult to mourn a loss when so much is there to be found.

Still Life with 9 Year Old Boy

2011-09-27T06:50:00.001-05:00

Him: So...on a scale of 1 to 10, how was that one?

Me: Dude, I am NOT going to rate your farts.

Photography Lessons: Louisville Zoo

2011-09-25T15:27:00.001-05:00

I need a zoom lens.

When I first mentioned that I was kind of interested in photography, the immediate response was "Really fun....expensive hobby, though." I deflected about being just starting out and I didn't know if I'd take that far and blah blah blah... But there I was at the Louisville Zoo -- my second big photo-excursion since I opened the box in June -- and I immediately realized I needed a zoom lens.

All the animals were further away than I wanted and it was nearly impossible to get an unobstructed view around the cages. I squatted...I tiptoed...I craned and leaned and waited. I barely saw the zoo except through the lens... And I came out of there with far too many barely-usable shots...or shots that were great, but required a lot of editing to get a decent photo out of it.

Looks like I know what's going on my Christmas list this year! (hint: zoom lens.)

This guy, on the other hand, was no trouble at all to shoot... He was behind glass, so he was much closer than the others. He also didn't seem to care much about going anywhere and was happy to just sit there and look like, at any moment, he might tell a HILARIOUS joke. Or, you know...not. Tough call.

Also, major kudos to the peacocks for being totally tame. I went sneaking up to grab shots of two of them in the middle of the road. They just gave me a pointed look that said "ugh...ridiculous tourist!" and went back to pecking around for bugs. Thanks, guys.

By far, the best pictures of the day were of my favorite animal: the Monkey.

Fortunately for me, I didn't need a zoom lens AND I got to bring him home with me! How often can you say THAT about a trip to the zoo?

Open

2011-09-24T14:16:00.000-05:00

I was working on this awesomely philosophical post that related open shelving to graduation. With graduation heavy on my mind lately (so....close!), I've kind of been relating everything to graduation. The logic went something like this:

You know what? I keep the insides of these cabinets really organized.
My dishware totally compliments the other colors in the kitchen.
Hmm... It's not all pretty in there, though.
I could probably get rid of the plastic containers that I rarely use.
The other stuff that isn't all that pretty could probably go in baskets.
Hey! I have baskets!!
Now it's pretty....I can take the doors off!
Yay! I've finally graduated to open shelving!
Ooh....graduation....

...and then it devolved into a lot of blather that wasn't nearly as interesting to read as it was in my head. So instead, I decided to just celebrate the fact that I took the doors off my cabinets:

Yay for graduating to open shelving!

The Hard Talk: Santa Claus

2011-08-23T21:32:00.000-05:00

"Mommy, tell me the truth."

At some point, the Monkey discovered an item in a shopping bag in the back of the car (some Harry Potter sorting thing). This item later ended up in his Christmas stocking. Of course, he's always thought that Santa stuffs the stockings. And suddenly the math no longer made sense. I don't know why it occurred to him earlier tonight...but his little brain wouldn't let go.

He came to me with this information...and I could tell that he wanted to talk. I let him drive the conversation as we stood there in the kitchen, doing my best not to react one way or the other. He finally talked it out enough that he got to the root of it: he believed in Santa, but seeing that toy opened the tiniest thread of doubt....and even though he wasn't sure he really wanted to know, he had to ask.

"Mommy, tell me the truth...does Santa stuff the stockings?"

So I told him the truth...in the kindest way I knew how. I told him that I believe Santa exists, but that I've never seen him. And I told him that grown ups help on Christmas morning.   He initially took that to mean that Santa delivered the presents and the grown ups just arranged them...and I suppose I could have let the mythology go on a little bit longer, but his face was so serious (and he was so nervous about even asking that he was playing with my hair nonstop -- his touchpoint for comfort)... So I set the record straight: it's the grown ups who take care of the Christmas gifts and the stockings. But that doesn't necessarily mean that Santa doesn't exist.

He thought it through for a moment...until he finally sorted out a way to mesh this new reality with what he believed: "I think I understand. The grown ups do the presents and the stockings...but Santa gives it magic. He makes the grown ups magical so that they can make the morning special....and he makes the kids magical so that the presents will seem like the best presents ever."   I told him I thought that was maybe the best explanation of it I'd ever heard. And I meant it.

His stomach was still in knots when he went to bed tonight...the sort of lingering sadness of an indescribable something lost. I spent some time telling him stories about a few of my memorable Christmases....and about how Christmas is still alive and magical for me even though I know what he now knows. We talked about giving....and I told him that seeing him surprised and excited on Christmas morning is one of my biggest joys. He paused and looked at me funny....and asked if that's why my stocking is never stuffed. I said yes...that I didn't need to buy presents for myself.

So he's decided that he's going to be in charge of stuffing my stocking this year...that he's looking forward to seeing the look of excitement on my face on Christmas morning. And that maybe he'll buy me a really awesome pair of shoes that won't be delivered until after Christmas...but he can put the receipt in the stocking so that I'll see what's coming and be surprised and happy. (You've got to give him credit....he knows me really well!)

Even with these thoughts and funny stories, he was still battling the sadness as he drifted off to sleep. Though he couldn't quite put his finger on why his belly hurt, I know all too well: he's beginning to molt. The stuff of his childhood is slowly beginning to shed, making room for a new reality to grow around him. The process is just beginning and will, I hope, take a long, long time to finish...but it's begun (which means I'd better get my A-game ready!).

I'm afraid that this is the first hard talk of many, many more to come...

Running Amok

2011-08-06T08:11:00.000-05:00

Monkey: The day that Ms. D took us to Yogi Castle, M almost put butter on the ceiling.

Me: Why would she put butter on the ceiling?

Monkey: (matter-of-factly) Because we didn't have any cheese dip.

Infinite Capacity

2011-07-30T21:02:00.000-05:00

The Monkey is getting older...and a little more amazing every day. He makes me laugh...genuinely (not just in that placating sort of way)...and his ability to reason through things impresses me all the time. Tonight we talked about the concept of the Trinity, and his response was "I think there's a little bit of God in everything." Yeah, kiddo...me too.

So, tonight, as I was putting him to bed, I told him that I was proud of him...and that I know I get frustrated with him sometimes, but that's just normal Mom-stuff. The important thing is that deep down, in all the important places, I'm really really proud. Every day.

Here's the conversation that followed:

Monkey: (holds up fist) Did you know your heart is shaped like this and is about this big?

Me: Yep. And I'm proud of you (pointing at places on his fist) here...and here...and down here...and totally over here...and here...and here...yep, pretty much everywhere in my heart.

Monkey: Wow...is there room for anything else in your heart?

Me: Sure...

Monkey: There's room for Reid in your heart...

Me: Oh yes...

Monkey: How about Daddy?

Me: Absolutely. Daddy is a great friend... And there's room for Marshall and Grammi and Grampi and (I rattled off a list of names of friends and family)...

Monkey: Wow... Impressive!

Me: That's the cool thing about hearts...there's always room to love...and the more love you give, the more you get back.

Monkey: (holds up fist again) You know, a heart is shaped like this...and is about this big. But! If you look inside, it has an infinite capacity for all the people you love.

And there it is....the paradox of love, explained perfectly by a 9-year-old.

Widget

2011-07-26T18:57:00.000-05:00

If you were thinking that finding code for a decent-looking countdown clock widget would be a fairly simple matter, you'd be wrong. The web is full of options, of course, but a lot of them are...kind of awful...and sadly, I'm not smart enough at HTML to make my own (or significantly modify an ugly one to make it pretty). I liked Andee and Heather's "Shopcott Clock"...and tried to create something similar, but the size wasn't customizable enough and it kind of hung off the end of my frame.

Never leave your widget dangling, friends!!

I finally found a perfect match at www.mycountdown.org. They have a whole range of customizable widgets that are super easy to use, fit just beautifully, and are F R E E (woot!). Just pick a widget style, set it up and get to counting!

Obviously, I'm looking forward to graduation... What are you looking forward to?

Competition

2011-07-12T13:19:00.001-05:00

Every year I face the dilemma of what to do with the planting area at the base of my driveway. The brick enclosure is so perfectly situated and sized for flowers, it would be a shame to leave it empty. That's not to say I've always filled it -- a year or two it sat fallow. In those times, my only achievement was keeping the weeds trimmed back. Sometimes, minimal maintenance is the best you can do.

This year, I took a radically different approach: I grew flowers from seeds. Starting with repurposed egg crates in the living room window, I carefully planted and tended some seeds I discovered in a drawer -- because, apparently, I am the sort of person who's likely to have random seed packets just lying about(?!?). The forget-me-nots grew very slowly and deliberately...they needed a lot of care and encouragement. Planting them outside so that they could take root and flourish was an exciting moment.

Then I came across some teddy-bear sunflower seeds and, since the forget-me-nots hadn't quite taken up all the space in the planter, I decided to give them a try. The sunflowers sprouted fast and grew quickly. I was able to transplant them in a fraction of the time it had taken the others. In a matter of weeks, they had grown strong and sturdy, with bright showy flowers that make the patient, steady forget-me-nots seem pale and spindly.

And so, as I've considered what to do about the planter next year, the temptation is to forgo the tiny buds of the forget-me-nots altogether and turn my full attention to the sunflowers. I could easily plant the whole container with them and revel in the fact that a thing of beauty grew so effortlessly.

But then, I catch sight of the striking blue color of the forget-me-nots...quietly, patiently, subtly contrasting the newly-grown sea of yellow with punctuations of blue. It's hard to choose.

These two flowers are competing for my attention, each in their own way. I've grown more accustomed to the forget-me-nots, so I sometimes forget to notice how intensely gorgeous their tiny blue buds are. The fuzzy yellow sunflowers are impossible to overlook...and I don't really want to. I heard recently that given the choice between two equally desirable alternatives, one should first look for a way to do both. My little planter is big enough for both of these flowers and they compliment each other beautifully.

I'm really not inclined to choose. Maybe I can learn a thing or two from the sunflowers. Maybe with the right amount of tending (and probably some fresher seeds that I didn't find in a drawer), I can help next year's forget-me-nots to flourish even more than these are now. And it's clear that the sunflowers are happy in this spot, so why not keep them around? Maybe, if I carefully tend to both, there won't be any competition at all.

Art

2011-07-10T09:27:00.001-05:00

The visual medium has always eluded me. I remember art class being a special kind of torture as my drawings never quite conveyed what I hoped they would...my screen print t-shirts fell short of the mark... my clay pots turned out wobbly and bent...and the seams in my hems never followed a straight line. My mind could see all sorts of possibilities, but my hands just seemed incapable of conveying it the same way I could see it in my head. Maybe I'm just wired wrong...

So, I effectively gave up on creating visual art favoring, instead, the use of words to creatively depict the world around me. It's a serviceable alternative that has worked for me for years...but I never fully shed the desire to communicate visually as well. I'm affected on an emotional level by the things I see...and it frustrates me to be unable to capture and share that reaction with others. My need to communicate tends to pervade everything else and, happily, will force me to overcome the obstacles in my path.

The computer turned out to be a bit of a saving grace. I began to learn a little about composition and visual communication through my publication work with the Chamber of Commerce in the late '90s. I wouldn't fare well in comparison to a trained professional, but I don't really have a need for that. I was able to create visually interesting designs that enhanced the message. Success! Even though I stopped doing publication work when I left to work for the government, I'm still able to let my visual composition side come out and play through the creation of (eleventy squillion) Power Point presentations. After more than a decade of sating the muse through these substitutions, however -- and particularly on the happy occasion of being "almost done" with graduate school -- I've found myself lately craving something more...

At some point in the "how do I want to fill my time after grad school" fantasizing, it occurred to me that I'd like to try photography. I spend a good deal of my free time on blogs like Apartment Therapy and Dooce and Mighty Girl and I realized that I love the photos on these sites because they make me feel something. I couldn't tell you a lot about composition or foreground vs. background interest or whether or not the midtone colors are balanced...but I know when a photo strikes an emotion. And I suddenly realized that I (very much!) wanted to be able to create those moments for myself and for others. I've always been able to see the beauty (and oddity and wonder and...) around me....and I can put the words around it to convey the moment to someone else...but maybe the camera would allow me to capture that moment and share it! So I spent some time taking stock of this notion (was I sure this was what I wanted to do?) and decided to take the plunge. For my birthday this year, I bought myself an entry level SLR and jumped in.

Photography, like any art form, is a craft that has to be honed...and I have a long way to go. I'm slowly learning (in between actual classes) about the technical details of the elements I only felt before... And I'm learning a LOT about culling and editing. I'm sharing my finished photos with friends who have photography experience and listening closely to their feedback. I'm told it can become an addictive and expensive hobby...and I have no idea yet how far I'll take it. For now, it's a rush of excitement to be able to see the first glimpses of effectively capturing and freezing a moment...and a bigger rush still to contemplate pairing my words with an apt photo. I can't do much with it for the next six months or so, but the dream is slowly taking hold.

Today I'm taking photos...hopefully some day soon, I'll make art.

Eye of the Beholder

2011-07-08T19:56:00.000-05:00

“Every girl, young and old, has to face her own reflection.
Twirl around, stare it down…what’s the mirror gonna say?”*

I was in third grade when I learned that there was something wrong with me. I’m not sure how I regarded myself before that point…whether or not I knew that I was damaged. I’d like to think that I was oblivious…that I went tearing through those first few years of my life happily unaware of my condition…blissful and content with myself. Unfortunately, I can’t recall.

My pediatrician was the one to give my parents the news. My memory of her is that she was a harsh woman, but what she lacked in bedside manner she compensated with expertise. When I was a baby, she got me through a close call with a strep-induced high fever; my parents trusted her completely. I remember her walking in the exam room after my third grade physical. She gravely told us that I was overweight for my height and that my mother needed to deal with it right away. She gave Mom a handful of literature…including a green book with meal plans and a graph in the back to record the changes in my weight. I was to be weighed weekly and my progress charted. She expected to see improvement by my next appointment.

My mother worked hard to implement the plan. I was no longer allowed to eat the plentiful cake and cookies that were always in the house. My meals were portioned and based the green book plan. I was banned from sweet tea and soda. I tried to do what the green book said, but I was miserable a lot. More than anything, I wanted to please my parents, but I didn’t seem to be shrinking like the book said I should. I became terrified of the weekly weigh-ins…afraid that I’d miss the mark and they’d be disappointed. The graph never seemed to go down very much. I’m not sure that my parents were ever really pleased.

And so began the war. I was eight years old.

“With some luck, you’ll measure up…
But you might not hold a candle to the rest.
“Is that your best?” says the Mirror to the Mess”*

I learned to compensate. It was clear in my adolescent mind that no one was ever going to want to be around me “as is” – I was broken, officially, on the outside and my efforts to fix the broken parts weren’t working. I took an accounting of my strengths and began emphasizing them. I was smart…so I took “good student” to the next level. I was nice…so I became a solidly reliable friend, no matter how I was treated in return. I was talented…so I sang in church and performed in plays. I never spoke out or stood up for myself for fear of losing the tenuous acceptance I’d gained. I couldn’t take too many risks for fear of disappointing the people around me. I never trusted that relationships would last unless I did everything just right. I learned to read the reactions of others to judge whether or not I was measuring up to their expectations…and I learned how to adjust.

But even as I rose to every occasion, I always felt as though I was faking it, somehow. Behind the outgoing, smart, funny face I showed to the world, my internal monologue reminded me that it was all tenuous…whispering in my ear that at any moment they could notice the horrible truth of my body and everything would crumble. Occasionally, this voice was validated. My best friend’s retort during a middle school argument was “Well, at least I can keep my weight down!” My mom’s words have echoed in my head since I was sixteen: “You know, if you’d lose some weight, you just might get a boyfriend…”

And there it was…the secret truth I’d always feared: without that measure of tangible beauty, my value was marginal.

“But there’s a whisper in the noise…
Can you hear a little voice?
It says ‘Has anybody told you you’re beautiful?’”*

It wasn’t until the year after I graduated college that I finally looked in the mirror and saw a legitimately beautiful woman staring back at me. I almost didn’t recognize her, even after I spent a long moment marveling at the reflection. I could still see all the flaws: I was still overweight…I was still single…I was still insecure and self-conscious. But in that moment, it didn’t quite matter. This person with my face was…lovely!

I saw myself for the first time that day. It had taken me sixteen years.

The years that followed were characterized by fits and starts in the journey to self-acceptance. I’d swing on the pendulum between confidence and terror, still warring with a body that was “too large” but slowly realizing that I had value anyway. I began to date…and I learned to be less hurt by the qualified compliments I was offered (“Actually, you’re really cute for a big girl!”)…and I fell in love a time or two. When I was in a relationship or things were going really well in my life, I could see and accept that I was beautiful. In the face of rejection, however, the old voice found its volume to remind me of everything that I wasn’t.

I was gaining ground, but the battle wasn’t won.

“Close your eyes…look inside
Let me see the you that you’ve been trying to hide”*

But after 33 years of fighting, I’m ready for the war to be over. I’ve been carrying this story…this pain…around with me for much too long. I decided this week that it’s time to set it free. It’s time to steal the power away from the naysayer in my head. It’s time to give my adolescent self a voice…and to let my beautiful, grown-up self give the adolescent-me the love and encouragement that she needed years ago. It’s time to reinterpret the hurtful parts of the story.

Did you know, for example, that children don’t grow proportionately? They grow out…and then up…fatter, then taller. I know this because my son’s pediatrician told me…and I know it because I’ve watched it happen with him. I’d be willing to bet that my parents didn’t know it at the time. And I’d be willing to bet that if they had, they would have reacted differently to the news that third-grade day. I know that my mom struggled with her own weight, so it had to have been painful and scary for her to hear that I might struggle too…and terrifying for her to consider that she would have to help me conquer something she’d not yet conquered herself.

And I’m sure it was frustrating to deal with an angst-ridden teenager carrying eight years of body-image insecurity around…and I’m certain I pushed my mom’s patience to the limit. As a parent, I know exactly how it feels to lash out at my child in frustration…then desperately wish, in the very same instant, that I could draw the words back in and un-say them. My mother’s words in my sixteenth year were painful, but I know that she didn’t mean to hurt me…nor did those who have qualified their compliments over the years. We sometimes open our mouths and get it all wrong…even when our hearts are in a place of good intention.

“If it’s true that beauty lies in the eye of the beholder,
I want my life and what’s inside to be something to behold.”*

The inner critic still tries, from time to time, to whisper these old stories…to make me feel bad about myself. I’m just growing less and less inclined to listen. Someone told me earlier in the week that my level of confidence and comfort with myself is impressive – and I didn’t even bother to argue. I’m growing more self-assured and relaxed with each passing moment…and ever more satisfied with the beautiful person I’ve become. These adolescent struggles ultimately allowed me to evolve into the woman I am today. For that, I will be grateful for every painful moment of growth that I’ve endured.

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then the most important eyes are our own. Beauty isn’t just an external validation…it is an internal state of acceptance that radiates outward. We all long for the unqualified compliment from others, but we have to start by being unqualified with ourselves. When I look in the mirror now, I see the deep-seated glow of a woman growing ever-more satisfied not only with her own beauty, but with the beauty of the life she’s created.

And that is truly something stunning to behold.

“Has anybody told you you’re beautiful?
You might agree if you could see what I see….
‘Cause everything about you is incredible!
You should have seen me smile, the day that I made you
beautiful for me.”*

*Accompaniment credit goes to Nichole Nordeman’s lovely ballad “Beautiful for Me”.

Just a Whisper

2011-07-05T07:40:00.000-05:00

My senior year in college I was selected to be on the Faculty Review Committee, the committee responsible for evaluating faculty performance and making tenure/promotion recommendations to the Dean. There were only two students selected to be on the committee each year, so the fact that I was chosen was a huge honor.

What made my service on this committee remarkable, however, was not my status as "one of two students"...it was my status as "only female...period."

Shortly after my initial meeting with the committee, one of the veteran committee members pulled me aside in the library to pass on some of the best advice I've received in my life. She said...

In the course of working with this group you're going to say something...and it will be smart and on-point and exactly right....and not one of those guys will acknowledge that you've spoken. Later, one of them will say the exact same thing that you said before, and everyone is going to react and agree. Please don't be upset by this! The role you're playing is very important and necessary for the group. Think of it as whispering in their ear... You may not get public credit for what you've said, but you need to know that you're absolutely making a difference.

In that committee, and in more than one of the many (many!!) committees that have followed since then, her advice saved me from frustration. Like anyone, I appreciate being acknowledged for the work that I'm doing, of course, but sometimes my job is to whisper....and wait.

Temporary

2011-06-27T20:08:00.000-05:00

It turns out that writer's block was only a passing phase... I've decided to enter an essay contest, and the urge to kick major ass has spurred me on! The prize is sweet....but the prospect of being published is much, much moreso.

Look out, world...this girl's on a mission!

The Most Frustrating Thing in the Whole Wide World...

2011-06-26T19:57:00.000-05:00

...is having a powerful, raging, inconsolable, screaming urge to write....and realizing that I have absolutely nothing, at all, to say. My soul is burning up with the urge to create and my brain can't see fit to give that energy an inch of direction. I'm all passion and no purpose.

It's maddening and unproductive.

I thought maybe if I just started writing something (anything!) that I'd find a direction and could edit my way toward it...but no. The engine is revving on a dark, dirt road and there's not a streetlight or a highway marker in sight...just dim, stuck metaphors...Twilight Zone doors to nowhere that I keep bursting through and landing right back where I started.

Frustrating.

I think I'll go clean something.

Eventualities

2011-04-25T05:09:00.000-05:00

Hello, little blog.... I miss you. I graduate from this life-sucking (but rewarding!) MBA program in something like 235 days and then you and I will have great adventures. Promise.

The Unspoken Cost of a Government Shutdown

2011-02-24T17:57:00.001-05:00

I don’t talk much about work on principle. Talking about work on the internet can be a quick way to get in a lot of trouble, and I’m not particularly interested in dealing with that. But, given the state of things lately, I’m going to break my silence for a minute. It turns out, I have something to say.

I work for an organization that supports scientific research that saves lives. I am surrounded, every day, by engineers, physicists, mathematicians, biologists, oceanographers and a bevy of other science-types who are absolutely passionate about the work that they are doing. These people work nonstop. Tethered to blackberries and laptops, they answer emails at all hours…tirelessly working even when they’re not working. Experts in their field, they could be making a tremendous salary elsewhere…but they’ve chosen to work for us because they believe deeply in the mission and are committed to advancing the cause.

In my department, we face the ongoing challenge of doing more with less. We are continuously on the lookout for new ways of doing business that will allow us to be more productive with fewer people. We translate complex scientific program explanations into plain English so that our financiers understand why the work of our organization is important. We are technically bean counters…analysts…but we are called upon daily to be diplomats, strategists, interpreters and writers.

We operate in an environment where savings are taken before they occur – and we are responsible for helping the organization figure out how to make it all balance after the fact. Whereas a corporation may have the luxury of doing “whatever needs to be done,” so long as it’s not specifically prohibited by law, we may only do those things that have been specifically authorized by law. We consistently plan five years ahead, all the while realizing that a decision made at 5:00 on a Friday night could change everything and leave us scrambling with a 24-hour deadline to fully catalog and report a new plan. And so we stay late…we call people at home…we work til midnight. We do what we must because we know what’s at stake…because we, too, believe strongly in the mission.

And so, when I consider the dedicated, passionate, creative, educated professionals that surround (and, in truth, inspire) me…when I think about my own level of dedication to my work and to the organization…I struggle to reconcile what I see every day with this widely-accepted image of the entitled, overpaid, lazy, irresponsible “Federal Worker.” I try not to take it personally. Many of those who perpetuate the stereotype have never met me or my colleagues. They have no idea what we do or how diligently we do it. Many simply haven’t experienced the D.C. dynamic first hand at all. They don’t know what the work environment is like. They only know us in an anonymous lump: we are an enormous, faceless, collective…easy to target as an impersonal mass in a quest to shrink the deficit. “Shut ‘em down!!” I keep reading in commentary...as though it were just a building with doors. It’s easy to say when it’s not personal.

So let me take just a minute to make it personal….to put a face to that collective: mine. I’m a Federal employee with almost 7 years of service – and I do consider it service. I grew up in a Midwestern community in the middle of the middle class. I was able to go to a private college because I busted my butt through high school and got an academic scholarship. I’m a single mother with a 3rd grader and a mortgage that would make your eyes bleed. I work hard. I’m committed to what I do. I never take my employment, or the responsibilities that come with it, for granted. In short, I’m pretty much just like every other employed person in the nation right now: grateful for what I have in an economy that is, at best, unstable.

Not every Federal employee is exactly like me, of course and I’d be naïve to suggest that there aren’t Federal employees who fit the negative stereotype…I’m sure there are. In any large organization, you can find bad employees…and good employees…and really exceptional employees. The Federal workforce is no different.

But I would ask you to bear in mind when you hear talks of a ‘government shutdown’ that it’s not just a political tactic for left or right to crow over…and remember that it’s not Congress that will be out of work. A government shutdown means that I, along with a couple million of our neighbors across the country, won’t be paid for awhile. It means millions more mortgages and utility bills and loans are in jeopardy. It means your income tax refund may be delayed or that museum you wanted to take the kids to might be closed. But maybe more importantly, it also means that the baby goes out with the bathwater as the non-stereotypes…the smart, dedicated, passionate professionals who have committed to being the hands and feet of our government…find themselves suddenly adrift, faced with the question of whether or not Federal employment is really the best career choice.

And that, in my estimation, is a tragedy. I believe we, as a nation, need smart, dedicated, passionate professionals in our Federal workforce. We need their commitment and their creativity and their willingness to work under crazy conditions. We need their exuberance and their unfailing belief in the mission. We need them to continue to look for ways to do more with less…and we need them to be willing and able to weather the ups and downs of the political dynamic. We need Federal employment to be an attractive option for these people because we need the behind-the-scenes operation of our country to be in the hands of those who will work tirelessly to run it as effectively as possible. Shutdowns, hiring freezes, and denial of pay associated with promotions put our nation at risk of losing the best minds in the Federal workforce to more lucrative positions in the private sector.

If, in the quest to fix our economy, we make Federal employment too unstable for the best and brightest to consider…if, in our rhetoric, we neglect to acknowledge that Federal employees often make things better, rather than worse…if, in our complacency, we continue to perpetuate the stereotype of the lazy, ineffective Federal employee, we will eventually create a Federal workforce that absolutely embodies that stereotype. We will reap what we sow…

…and I’m just not sure we can afford that.

The Tiara is Key

2011-02-21T17:55:00.000-05:00

Love this!

To-Do

2011-02-20T17:01:00.000-05:00

I'm sick. Again. Based on the raking feeling in my sternum every time I cough, I'd say it's bronchitis. Again. I've been sick more in the last three months than I've been well. Wherever my immune system is vacationing, I hope it's having a good time....and I really, really hope it gets back soon. We've got work to do!

Despite being forced to spend a particularly lovely weekend housebound, this bout of illness has been almost therapeutic. I've been forced to take care of myself...really take care of myself. I learned sometime between Friday night and yesterday that if I want to breathe without crippling pain, I have to slow down... There's no shortcut for healing. I need to sleep...a lot. I need to stay still so I don't cough. I need a near-constant intake of warm liquids. I need both pain medicine and sinus washes twice a day...and I have to choke down the horribly disgusting codeine cough syrup at least once a day.

In short, I've sat around for almost 48 hours now. I've done nothing on my to-do list for the weekend, although I have watched 2 movies, 4 episodes of Bones on Hulu, and have spent a LOT of time reading about how the bronchial system works. I'm starting to understand what I need to do to support my lungs to keep them functioning...I'm exploring my hot tea threshold...and I'm still rooting for Bones and Booth to get together (although they won't, because everyone learned that lesson from Moonlighting all those years ago)...

Admittedly, I'm going a little crazy....but the self-care is working. I'm slightly better today than I was yesterday...and, more importantly, I'm learning that taking care of myself really needs to always be at the top of the to-do list....not just when my body leaves me no other choice.

How Do I Love Thee? A retrospective...

2011-02-14T17:29:00.000-05:00

I hear the argument all the time: Valentine's Day is a lot like Christmas and Thanksgiving and Halloween: it's just another day with a lot of commercial pressure heaped on top of it. For a lot of people, maybe that's true. I see those that live with expectations of cards and flowers and candy and big romantic dinners...over-the-top gestures that signal how much they are loved. Maybe there are others who need a particular day to remember to actually do it...those who need a big, flashy reminder to show the significant person in their life that they care. Maybe there are others who need that validation...for whom a love isn't complete without something shiny or red and heart-covered that they can cling to.

Love and Cookies Venn Diagram (March, 2010)

And then there are those who view it as another day (in a long, long series of days) to spread a little love in the world. Maybe it's an expression of self-love...maybe it's turned outward...maybe it's for a stranger...or maybe it's for their "better half." For these, it doesn't so much matter the "what"...but the "whether." It matters that they're doing it. For these, love is a practice...and showing it is part of the day-to-day of their lives, on Valentine's Day and every day.

Reminder List for Beach Trip (April, 2010)

I'd like to think that Reid and I are in that latter category. Our Valentine's Day has not included roses or candy. Tonight's dinner will be whatever I fix for the Monkey and me (Reid will probably grab takeout). Do I fee slighted? Not in the least. I am blessed (truly) to be in a relationship that has goofy-sweet-silly-romantic days all the time. It's not the grand gestures that keep us making jokes about being "schmoopy"...it's the small stuff. It's the phone call at 5 a.m. because we missed a call the night before...a photo of a whole grocery store display of flowers at Easter...a text message (or, ok, a lot of text messages) just to say good morning...a card for no reason...folding the paper napkin ring into a heart over lunch...a handwritten note, photographed and delivered by phone because the mail is too slow...

Dead sharks are totally romantic...
...when you find them on a moonlit beach stroll (July, 2010)

Reid and I just rounded the corner on our first year together...and it's been 367 days of little gestures and incremental romance and long talks and laughter and shared imagining and thoughtfulness. My Valentine from him was, as everything else, just perfect:

Mirror Valentine (February, 2011)

These little things remind me how fortunate I am to be able to love this guy on Valentine's Day...and every day. And I'm constantly on the lookout for ways to remind him that I think he's friggin' awesome. From the schmoopy (*coughblogpostcough*) to the weird, I'm always on the hunt for something different or clever...none of which he needs, of course (he knows exactly how I feel), but I like to hope I at least amuse him...

One of my e-Valentines to Reid (February, 2011)

But that's me... As for you, I hope you're out there Valentining in whatever way best suits you today... Whether it's candlelit dinners with roses and chocolate-dipped strawberreis...or piled on the couch with your family...or just taking a moment to be really good to yourself, especially if no one else is. There's rarely a thing as "too much" love in the world...and I hope you're taking some time today (like every other day) to spread some around.

My Valentine celebration will be a dinner with my Monkeyboy (my smaller, and exceptionally cuddly Valentine delight) and maybe some Netflix Instant Queue...which is pretty much just like every other night at my house. Then, later, I'll be looking forward to a phone call tonight with a guy who's 2,342 miles away...which is just like pretty much every other night. And, in honor of the occasion, I'll be especially grateful to have had this first year with him...actually that, too, is just like every other night.

And so it began... (February, 2010)

For the grateful ones, I think every day is Valentine's Day.

Hole In The Wall

2011-02-13T09:40:00.000-05:00

I want to knock a hole in my wall. I don't remember when I first realized that the wall needed (in fact, was begging for) a hole....but I think I figured it couldn't have been too long after I moved in. The house has a pretty traditional 1950s floor plan (which means, for the most part, every room has its own separate and distinct purpose) with the exception of the fact that it's missing a dining room. Here's my original excel-based floor plan for the place:

Of course, the furniture isn't exactly like that now, so ignore that part. The key piece here is that stretch of wall from the left side of the kitchen doorway back to the wall where the stairwell is. That's where the hole needs to go. Opening up that 49"x42" space will flood the kitchen with light from the bay window on the front of the house, open up diagonal views between the two rooms, move the "eat in" peninsula out of the way of the back door and put it conveniently in the living room, and increase the size of the walkway into the kitchen (all of which will make the kitchen feel about 100x less claustrophobic). It is, by my estimation, exactly what the house needs to take it from 1950s layout to "open floor plan."

I've had this idea for several years now, but over the last few months, it's gone from idea to need.... While Reid was here a few weeks ago, I actually moved the living room furniture around a little bit and plotted out the space so I could get a better feel for it.

Before

After

Yes. That's a piece of cardboard as a stand-in for the would-be breakfast bar (genius, eh?). I felt like I needed to get a good sense of the traffic flow with the hole to make sure it wouldn't be too congested. It turns out that it's quite the opposite! There's actually MORE room in the walkways...and I think the traffic patterns will work even with the barstools in use. Yay!

On the kitchen side, there's not much to accommodate...just a big stretch of wall that needs to go away:

See the edge of the bay window just barely visible through the doorway? Imagine all that light coming into the room through the hole. Glorious!!

My problem, as always, is patience. I'm ready to get moving. I want to take out the drywall and peer through the studs for awhile. I'm trying to coordinate the handy people in my life to come help out with the construction bits, but that's going to take some time. Still....I could probably live with stud views as the next logical interim step...and I've got it in my head that I could probably do the demo part myself. The only thing keeping me from just jumping in and starting is the fact that I know it's going to be a HUGE mess. And also that I don't currently have a reciprocating saw (which would make the task a lot easier).

Next weekend, however, is a long weekend...which means I may well be in trouble (if I find a bunch of plastic sheeting and a reciprocating saw between now and then....)

Animal House

2011-02-02T06:39:00.000-05:00

The Monkey is playing Dionysus in a classroom play at school (does my motherly pride show? That's right...my kid's the god of wine!). He came home last night in a flurry over needing a sheet for his costume. I finally dug one out of the closet for him. His teacher apparently, had told them they would need safety pins and a belt. I told him I didn't think the pins would be necessary and got him toga'd-up in a minute or two.

He looked at me and said "wow...you must have studied ancient Greece!" I grinned and said "not really....but I did go to college."

Someday he'll understand.

Drive-By Organization

2011-01-09T21:31:00.001-05:00

I realized tonight that somewhere in the course of the day, I organized the house. I don't remember organizing the house. I had to do the usual weekend stuff: laundry and sheets and tidied the kitchen a few times...nothing terribly out of the ordinary. But now it's 9 p.m. and my bedroom is a far sight cleaner than it was this morning and the Monkey's room is completely tidied and a few areas that had been bugging me previously look clear and spacious.

As I look back over the day, I recall feeling like I was hopelessly scattered. I couldn't keep my focus on any one thing...and I remember thinking I was making a LOT of unnecessary trips to places To anyone watching, I probably just looked like I was trying to walk 10 miles without ever leaving the house. In reality, all that motion wound up being a series of drive-by organizing efforts that happened so erratically I barely noticed. I recall the thought process going something like this:

Ugh. I hate that pile of books and magazines on top of the pie safe...I should move the books so it stacks better. Hrm...no space for the books in the pie safe. But I've already read a bunch of the books that are in the pie safe. I'm heading downstairs in a bit to take the laundry basket down and there's space on the shelf down there. I bet I can fit some of the books down there. I'll dump them in the laundry basket before I go. There. Oh, I'd like to display these books, but they're the wrong size. I'll put them up here, and that just leaves a pile of magazines. They line up. Yay! Now that I think about it, there are two Netflix and some CDs in the kitchen that need to go downstairs too...I can throw those in as well and save a trip. Hmm, I should also check my room once more to make sure there's no more laundry that needs to go. Oh! THAT's where those pants have been...I should put them in the drawer so I can find them later... Eep! Gotta pee. You know, these buttons have been sitting here by the sink for weeks now...I should put them in the button bin in my armoire. Ohh...that fleece is kind of too big...I'll put it in the hall closet to wear for a layering piece outside. You know what? Those skeins of twine on top of the refrigerator would fit really well here in the closet on this shelf...I'll go grab those since I'm out here. Crap. I shouldn't have bought this Christmas plate...I totally didn't need it. I bet it will fit above the cabinets up here til next Christmas. Wait...what was I doing? Oh right...the laundry....

And that's how it goes. I think I spent all day doing that in one form or another and, like magic, all kinds of little stuff that wasn't organized before, suddenly is! The really cool part is that, because I did it in a totally organic (ok...fine...erratic!) manner, I don't even feel like I did that much out of the ordinary except to walk around the house a lot more than was, strictly speaking, necessary. I'd call it exercise if it got my heart rate up at all. In fact, it kind of had the opposite effect.

There are a lot of organizing theories that say short bursts of focused effort will get you to the point of having organized spaces...but my house is currently proof that there's something to be said for the drive-by, ADD method.

The Five Whys

2011-01-09T09:08:00.000-05:00

There is a technique in root cause analysis called "The Five Whys." It was pioneered by Taiichi Ohno for Toyota as a method of identifying the causes of manufacturing problems and engaging team members in developing solutions. The process itself is very simple and nicely illustrated by this example I found as I was researching the topic:

Problem: An Amazon.com employee injured his thumb.

Why did the associate damage his thumb?
Because his thumb got caught in the conveyor.
Why did his thumb get caught in the conveyor?
Because he was chasing his bag, which was on a running conveyor.
Why did he chase his bag?
Because he had placed his bag on the conveyor, which had then started unexpectedly.
Why was his bag on the conveyor?
Because he was using the conveyor as a table.
Why was he using the conveyor as a table?
Because he didn't have any other table to use.

There's the item that needs addressing. According to the documentation on the technique, the "root cause" (which may take 5 whys or 7 whys or 3 whys...the 5 is a somewhat arbitrary number) will be rather apparent when you run out of reasons why. The above example could possibly have gone a few more levels:

Why didn't he have another table to use?
Because the company didn't provide one.
Why didn't the company provide one?
Because management did not know that employees needed tables.
Why didn't they know?
Because there is no process for employees to identify needs.
*note: These are my suppositions and not part of the original example.

Typically the final "why" will point to a process that needs correcting...but even if it doesn't, the root cause will be evident when you run out of answers to why or reasons to ask it. As a technique, it's a very useful way to dig down below the surface and get to the root cause of an issue. It's been criticized for being overly simplistic, but I'd argue that it beats spending a lot of effort trying to fix a problem without fully understanding why it happened.

The Five Whys have been on my mind lately as I've contemplated the year ahead. I'm not much of a resolution maker, but I like to at least start the year on a thoughtful note. This is potentially a big year. I'll be finishing school. The Monkey will be finishing up his occupational therapy (I hope!). MonkeyDad is getting remarried. It feels like exactly the right time to do some examination of those things I need (or believe I need) and those things that I want (or think I want) and figure out why. I'm stewing over some significant decisions about my life (our lives) and I want to make sure that whatever I decide, it's for all the right reasons.

Do you have a technique that works well for sorting out decisions in your own life? I'd love to hear about it in the comments...

Bonding Patterns

2011-01-08T10:02:00.000-05:00

I fully support the practice of adopting rescue dogs. It's a philosophical no-brainer: give an unwanted animal a loving home and watch the blessings multiply for everyone.

It's just not always that easy.

Puppies, like babies, make it easy to form that connection. They're eager to please and funny as hell. They romp and flop and play nonstop. They're even cute when they pass out. I think puppies assimilate into the personality of the household easier, too. They grow up with their people, so they learn the family vibe: friendly or excitable or patient. Reid's dog Wyatt is absolutely a furry reflection of him: calm and relaxed...happy to do his own thing...sleeps like a stone.

Marshall came to me already well on his way to adulthood. He'd been in three different shelters and with a family for a short time, all before he was two years old. He's smart (very smart) and learns quickly...but his personality is all his and none of ours. He's assertive and fearful of new people. His protective instincts combined with the nose of a hunting dog make him a tremendous yard-barker. This is not exactly the combination of personality traits I might have chosen for us. I was looking for a dog that would become the Monkey's best friend and sidekick. Marshall is FAR too independent for that.

But...

Beneath the barking and the nervous shedding and the 5 a.m. Chewbacca-noise wake up calls, Marshall is actually a sweetheart. He'd happily stay put for hours if someone is offering ear-scritches. He's patient with baths...and swallowing pills...and being furminated. He's a perfect gentleman at the kennel and the doctor's office (well, once they get him away from me). He plays well with the neighbor dogs and, when he's pretty sure no one's looking, he'll stand very still so the little boy next door can reach over the fence and pet him. He's brimming over with awesome...but you have to look a lot deeper to find it.

Another dog got frustrated with Marshall at the kennel recently and went all Mike Tyson on him. He's been in the Cone of Shame all week while the stitches close the gash. It's been traumatic for him...and for me as I've watched him freak out and mope over the giant collar. But I realized this morning, as he was happily alternating between playing with a toy and resting his head on my lap for petting, that I've finally bonded with this dog. I understand his quirks and his graces... and I accept him for who he is.

It took a long time for a "no brainer" decision to actually feel like one. Marshall's been with us for two years now (I had to go look!) and I almost can't remember what it was like to not have him around. It was a long, slow process of bonding...but definitely worth it!

Problem

2011-01-04T19:40:00.000-05:00

Most of the time, my relationship with chocolate could be measured on a scale that runs from "ambivalent" to "uninterested." I like it. It's tasty. But most of the time, I'd prefer it as an accessory to something else (think: Cookies and Cream Ice Cream....or Double Stuf Oreos...or Reese Peanut Butter Cups). Hershey bars hold no sway over me. I can have whole bags of chocolate chips in my house for long periods of time. It's just not a big deal to me.

But one day out of 30, some sort of beast moves in, tosses aside my sanity and demands chocolate-covered fudge with chocolate sauce...molten chocolate chocolate cake with chocolate icing...half-baked brownies with fudge sauce... One day out of 30, I can't get enough.

Today, my friends, is that day. Yipe!

*Thanks to Cheeky Eats for the amazing brownie photo. I'd like 10, please.

Easy Christmas Light Storage

2010-12-22T22:28:00.000-05:00

We decorated the office this year. No, wait, that's a huge understatement. We totally transformed the office this year. My section was "Santa's Village"...complete with 3-D snowscape, a crushed velvet Santa chair, bakery, a fireplace that soared to the ceiling...not one, but TWO rooftops...and a live Santa and elf running around. Someone called it "overboard." I prefer to characterize it as "fully committed." Either way....

As I was starting to tidy up today, I made up a nifty trick for re-purposing some holiday scraps and storing Christmas lights that I thought I'd pass along. It looks like this:

I took a scrap piece of cardboard and notched one end of it to feed the cord through...wrapped the lights...cut another notch and pushed the other end of the cord through. I figured it would be smart to mark where to start the unrolling...so I labeled it. Annnnd done.

I hate unraveling the annual tangle of Christmas lights...and those silly light-holder things hurt my fingers and are way too cumbersome (every...bulb....gets....pushed....in.....blaaargh!). This was easy and super fast...and will keep the light strand straight. If you size your cardboard just right, you can put the whole she-bang into one of those leftover yellow padded envelopes that you got from Amazon when you ordered one of the eleventy-squillion video games your kid wanted for Christmas....

....oh. Maybe that's just me? Well, if you need some, let me know. I have a bunch....

So there you go: de-stress your un-decorating and reuse holiday scraps in the process. Merry Christmas!

The Choice

2010-11-29T23:25:00.004-05:00

Warning: This post is not cynic-approved.

In all the years I've been writing this blog, I've largely steered away from the topic of love. Too much of my history with the subject has been maudlin and narcissistic and nothing that I want to read about (so why would I write it?). In high school (ok, and college), I wrote truly terrible love songs that were much more about catharsis than making good music. In my adult years, I think I've been too much in the middle of everything happening to really reflect. And I'm not going to write about divorce. And I'm not going to write about the minutia of the rise and fall of adult dating (it's embarrassing enough to have lived it...much less to have it permanently preserved in a blog). But then November happened (and it's been a doozy of a November, friends)...and over the last week, I've come to some conclusions on the topic that are, I think, worth preserving.

I've always considered love as a "default" state for me. I've always assumed that I'll spend some portion of my life loving someone. A palm reader in Georgetown once told me that I would have great love in my lifetime...and that was easy to accept because it fit neatly within my default notion. I always expected that I'd fall in love and I'd get married. And then I did. And then it wasn't what I thought it would be. Then I had a child...which wasn't what I thought it would be either, but in a really good way... There's love in that relationship...lots and lots of love, in fact. But it's still a default. Of course I love my child...he's part of me. There's no decision about whether or not to love him....I just do.

And that was the revelation: In my whole life, I'd never considered the choice to love.

I've always known that attitude and perspective and reaction were choices. I'm accustomed to making those choices every day. I choose to view the world in an optimistic way. I choose the interpretations of my stories. I choose the way I show up for life. But in all these years of observation and self-reflection and dancing in and out and around love, I've never considered choosing to love. It's always seemed more like gravity: something I was pulled into and thrown out of...as much a mystery when it appeared as when it was gone.

Then, almost a year ago, I met someone remarkable (and funny and interesting and thoughtful and smart and handsome and kind and blah blah schmoopy blah...). And we talked (and we talked and we talked)...and in time, I realized quite clearly that I loved him. At some point in one of those long conversations, I remember saying that maybe a successful relationship was based on two people choosing each other...day after day...until they ran out of days. In typical fashion, I'm not sure I'd even given it much thought before I said it out loud. But now. all these months later, I find myself putting the concept of choice into practice. And day after day, I'm realizing that not only is love a choice, but it's even better that way.

Being in a long-distance relationship is challenging. We miss out on a lot of the day to day stuff. We're always in touch by phone...but it's not really complete. We don't have the benefit of facial expressions and non-verbal cues and all the little nuances of being there in person. We don't have the luxury of hugging it out after a tough conversation or ending a misunderstanding with a kiss. It's forced us to be constantly communicative and even more patient with each other. It's also given us a lot of opportunities to choose love over frustration...to choose trust over fear...to choose self-reliance over insecurity...to choose each other again and again.

This notion is probably a small thing to the long-marrieds of the world. They are the veterans. They know first-hand the reality of living out the same choice every day. For me, it was a brand new world. Once I started really considering it (and realized that I've been doing it for months now), I found myself having a-ha moments on everything from my parents 43-years marriage... to scripture (love is patient, love is kind...). Something clicked into place and I actually kind of get it: I can choose to love instead of whatever other option. This tiny, simple thing...this small but conscious act...this choice was the missing link in my understanding...a key board in the bridge I'm building over the chasm between where I've been and all the places that I'm going.

Even with this step forward, I would never be so brash as to say that I fully understand love... I'm still pretty sure it takes a lifetime of thought and growth and experience for that. And I think (or I hope, at least) that our understanding of love grows with us...so I've got miles still to go. I'm just grateful to have learned this lesson along the way...grateful that I'm still growing...and grateful that I have the chance to make this choice: that I can choose to love...(that we can choose each other)...day after day after day.

Slushie!

2010-09-23T09:29:00.001-05:00

The best part about having frozen blueberries on my cereal in the mornings is the way the milk (almond milk, in my case) freezes around them.

It's like having a slushie for breakfast...only with lots and lots of fiber and a whole lot more chewing. Mmm...

Now That's A Fire

2010-09-20T06:05:00.001-05:00

I've been fascinated with fire for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I lived for fall hayrides and the bonfire that followed. I'm an expert at roasting marshmallows to an ideal gooshy-but-not-burned state. I spent a long night in the Sigma Chi house one weekend in college talking with people and playing with various forms of fire. I was always the one tending the fire at our New Year's weekend getaway.

Fire is good therapy. Like a living thing with a mind of its own, fire does what it wants...but, like all mindful things, it can be influenced and molded. It can be coaxed back to life again: if you love it just right, you can recreate it from the embers. It's dangerous and beautiful and utterly fascinating.

It's also a lot of work. I have two fireplaces in my house and I've barely burned fires in either of them. I rarely build fires just for me (although the Monkey has requested that we have "warm and toasty fire nights" this winter). I think I have this notion of a burning hearth as something romantic...something to be shared under a blanket with a special someone. It also requires having some supply of wood handy....which can be a show-stopper.

I asked for a fire-pit for my birthday/Mother's Day, and the Monkey and his dad came through in fine fashion. Reid put it together for me while he was here in July...but, summer being sweltering enough on its own, I hadn't burned it until this past weekend. The Monkey spent a big part of Saturday "breaking up sticks" from our wood pile in the back...and we loaded it up Saturday night and watched it burn.

It was a clumsy attempt. The fire lacked any sizable logs to sustain it. I hadn't prepared the hot-dog skewer before I started the fire. The Monkey and I had to split duties to keep it going long enough to roast our dogs: me in the back trying to pull more wood out of the pile in the dark...him trying to navigate the dexterity required to hold two hot dogs evenly over the flames. It was his first time doing it, and I couldn't be there to coach. We had the experience...but it wasn't quite as enjoyable as it might have been.

Next time, we'll do it better. He's already starting to gather wood for our next go at it. I know now that I need to assemble the cooking things before I start the fire...and I need at least one big-ish, slow-burning log so that we can just sit and relax and watch the flames dance while we eat our dinner. I'll have the s'mores ready before we start...and maybe something hot to drink and a blanket nearby...just in case.

I think there are going to be some excellent fires in our future.

Just Visiting

2010-09-19T09:19:00.000-05:00

A few years ago, TOWWAS and I took one of those epic long walks all over DC. I don't even remember where we started...but I remember that we stopped to stretch periodically and that it ended with mini-burgers and girly drinks at Matchbox. Mmm... Anyway, at some point on the journey, she pulled me into this fabulous home decor shop to introduce me to a chair. I don't remember the specifics about the chair (are you sensing a theme? Memory by line drawings, I guess...), but I recall that it was ridiculously cool...and ridiculously comfy...and ridiculously expensive. She wasn't going to buy the chair, but she'd stop by whenever she was in the neighborhood to visit.

Since then, I've started my own practice of visiting. These days, since most of my free time is spent either studying for school or having phone chats with the Best Boyfriend Ever, my visiting tends to be internet-based. I'm sad I can't go visit my mini-obsessions in person. Although, given some of the things I'm visiting, maybe that's a good thing...

At the top of the list is Anne Turner Carroll's kitchen. I'm not sure that it's exactly my style...but I love the openness of it. One of the first things I noticed about my house is that there's a chunk of wall between the living room/dining nook and the kitchen that needs to be opened up. I love the idea of having the two rooms joined this way...

I'm also a little covetous of the open shelves below the cabinets. They raised their standard cabinets to almost ceiling height and then installed an 8 inch shelf underneath. Clearly, it looks fabulous and, being tall, I'm all in favor of using the height of the room. The thing I haven't quite figured out is whether or not I'd need a stool to reach the way-back of the top shelves. I think I would...which might make it too impractical to do in real life. Or maybe not. I'm on the fence...

There are lots of pictures of this beautiful restoration at this post on Apartment Therapy (another place I visit often!).

The kitchen remodel is probably a long-term goal, hence the visiting. In the shorter term, I'd like to find some really funky-cool pillows for the living room couch. The couch is a very respectable (read: boring neutral) beige-y tone, and it's currently being dressed up by a bright orange throw. I'm thinking that a pair of vintage-print (maybe something 1970s-ish?) orange pillows would be faboo to go with it.

The problem in this case is that I'm mired in indecision! There are a million wrong shades of orange...and way too many cute prints out there to choose from...and I refuse to get something until I'm sure of what I want. So I've become a frequent visitor of all of the orange retro print pillows on Etsy.

And just recently, I came across this gem (ohhh...the painful puns). I can't remember which series of internet links got me there...but dude, check out the shiny!! I'm not typically particularly moved by sapphires...but the design of this is so simple and the stone is so gorgeous, I almost literally can't stop looking at it. If it didn't live in New Jersey, I'd probably go visit it in person (come to think of it...New Jersey isn't really that far...).

Sadly, I can't justify $4k for a ring (see above re: kitchen remodel)...but if I could, 2 ct of sapphire and almost 1 ct of diamond would be well worth justifying. For now, I'm visiting all seven pictures of this ring on Amazon with a bit of lust in my not-independently-wealthy heart.

On some level, I feel a little bad about wanting material things. The world doesn't need me contributing to the propagation of stuff...and, at the moment, every cent of disposable income I can scrounge up goes directly to plane tickets to see Reid. I'm trying to look at it more as a practice of appreciation...and I'm consoling myself with the fact that I'm not actually running out and buying this stuff...I'm just visiting.

Healthy Chocolate Cake

2010-09-18T08:34:00.000-05:00

I love dessert...and I love dessert even more when it's delicious AND I can enjoy it with a sense of smug satisfaction that it's way healthier than it tastes. You won't believe me when you see the ingredient list, but I guarantee you that you can take this cake anywhere. Give it to your kids. Take it to work. Serve it at birthday parties (I totally have). Then sit back and feel extra smug when the masses rave and rave about how awesome it is...

Why yes. Yes it is. Thank you.
(bwahahahaha)

__________________________________________

Healthy Chocolate Cake

Ingredients:
3 eggs
1 can plain, unflavored black beans
1/4 c butter
1 1/2 c. high-quality semi-sweet chocolate chips
3/4 c. sugar
1 T pure vanilla extract
1/2 t. baking powder
1/4 t. baking soda

How To Make It:
Preheat oven to 350. Spray a glass (or Corelle -- whatever that's made of) casserole pan with cooking spray for nonsticky goodness. Get out your food processor. You'll need it in a minute.

Melt the chocolate and butter together and stir til completely blended. Drain and rinse the black beans, eradicating any trace of gooey can stuff. Dump all of the ingredients into a food processor, close the top, and turn it on until the batter has zero lumps in it.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for ~40ish minutes until the cake pulls away from the sides and the middle isn't runny anymore. It may crack a little on top...this is ok.

Let cool....serve...and try not to eat it all in one sitting. You can top it with a dollop of whipped cream if you're feeling fancy. Icing is optional, and pretty much totally unnecessary. These have the consistency of brownies...
__________________________________________

A few things I've learned along the way (subtitle: How to Avoid a Bean Cake Disaster):

1. You want plain...vegetarian...unflavored...whatever...black beans. It probably goes without saying that spicy onion black beans are going to suck in a cake, but still...pay attention to what you're buying!

2. Use real chocolate chocolate chips. If you're going to the trouble of trying to make a healthy cake, let's leave out the creepy chocolate liquor and partially hydrogenated weird stuff. Look at the ingredients. If the first ingredient isn't something recognizable like "unsweetened chocolate," carefully put down the bag and look for a different one. My favorite is Ghiradelli 60% cacao bittersweet chocolate baking chips. Your results may vary.

3. Pure vanilla extract > imitation vanilla alcohol stuff. (see note 2) Splurge for the good stuff. It's totally worth it.

4. If you don't have a food processor, you can use a blender...but it will take some extra work. The blades on most blenders are really small and pretty deep in the dish. You may have to stop and start (and maybe push it all around with a spoon) to get everything whirled around sufficiently. And, again it probably goes without saying, but you don't want stray lumps in your cake. It will make people suspicious (which seriously cuts into your sense of smug satisfaction at having gotten away with something).

5. Feel free to experiment with the recipe a little. I'm totally an approximator (and had to really think about how much I use of everything to even write this down). Maybe you'll like more vanilla (I haven't measured vanilla into anything since 1984). Maybe you'll want it a little more cake-like (add a few T of whole wheat flour)... Maybe you're part of the chia seed or flax revolution and looking for new places to hide them (add a few T before the whirling)... Maybe you don't mind your chocolate a little less sweet (decrease the sugar a bit).... Maybe you want something a little fancier (add in a few raspberries before the whirling)... This is a really versatile cake base....go nuts (ooh...nuts. I bet you could put nuts in it too, if you wanted...)

6. One final lesson I've learned the hard way: If you're going to spill the beans (get it? Har...) about the secret ingredient in this cake, do NOT tell people until after they've eaten some and are begging for more... I've found over the years that even a delicious cake can have a hard time standing up to philosophical objections...and that it's much harder for folks to object when there's a big bite of chocolaty deliciousness melting in their mouths.

Why is this cake healthy? Consider the three main ingredients: Black beans are full of fiber and protein...and eggs up the protein factor that much more. A high quality chocolate (the darker the better) provides some rockin' antioxidants. It's still a dessert, of course...but it's a dessert that packs a nutritional wallop that will totally offset your kid's affinity for the All Cheese Diet.

Enjoy dessert...and the smugness!

The Littlest Hipster

2010-07-16T07:51:00.000-05:00

The Monkey is cool, daddy-o.

Mysterious Ways

2010-07-15T18:51:00.000-05:00

Last Friday started off with some news at work that upset me on a personal level. I'd had a frustrating week anyway, so I wasn't really ready for what I heard. It knocked the wind out of me. I started questioning myself...the work I was doing...everything. I don't often let slip tears at the office, but this one got to me....and worse still, I couldn't even do anything about it for ten days. Powerlessness and frustration!

So I handled it, as I am prone to do, by cleaning. I sorted out my office, cleaned off my desk, filed things that were long overdue. I took care of a few nitpicky things that had been hanging over my head, and then went to lunch with a friend. Not only did we have a fabulous conversation, but I got a bit of counterbalancing news from her. By 1:00, I was feeling 90% better.

As a result of that Friday frenzy and the clutching-at-sanity organizing I did, this week has been amazingly calm and relaxed. I've gone from one task to the next with a sense of forward motion and relative control and have been mightily productive. And, tonight, I finally had the opportunity to follow up on last week's news and it turns out it was nothing but rumor and speculation!

I can officially breathe again!

When it's all said and done, I'm generally pretty ok with not knowing all the hows and whys of the mysterious ways in which things work in this life. I'm perfectly content hanging on to some basics: The world is round. It spins on an axis. Gravity generally pulls us in a downward direction. Fire: bad. Tree: pretty. Amen.

Now if only I could learn to remember, in the heat of the moment when things go wonky and oblong and floaty, that I don't have to let the emotion of the moment get the better of me and make me doubt myself. Maybe that's what I'll think about next time I'm organizing something...

Reasonablism

2010-07-14T20:19:00.000-05:00

I've been reading a lot about minimalism over the last six weeks (when I should be reading about school topics). Reading about minimalism is kind of like therapy...or maybe like walking through an Ikea showroom: you get this sense that serenity and order and contentment are completely attainable. It's inspiring.

Truth be told, I thought I was kind of well on my way to something like a less-extreme version of minimalism anyway. I'm already pretty organized. I prefer spaces with some breathing room. I eschew collections and doodads and tchochke. I make my Goodwill donations about twice a year. I'm not a cutting-edge-of-technology girl. Sure, I have the occasional shopping spree for clothes, but my intake isn't excessive.

...I thought.

In my browsings, I came across a blog about ways to control spending....an idea that seems pretty smart, really. I live in a ridiculously expensive part of the country. I have a mortgage that's more than a lot of people's monthly income. I knew my fixed expenses were high, but I hadn't really done the math in awhile to see how much "discretionary" spending I've got available to me each month. So, being an Excel aficionado, I pulled out a fresh workbook and got busy.

Bi-monthly income...check.
Fixed expenses...ok...
More fixed expenses...
(Whew! I've got a LOT of fixed expenses)
Oops...that's a fixed expense too...
(Dude, that's a big number!).

So, after some adjusting and averaging and double-checking, I discovered that my grand total discretionary income each month is $115. Yes, that's right: one hundred and fifteen whopping dollars every month for me to do with as I please. And, I should point out, that $115 assumes that our eating out balances within the limits of the grocery bill (it rarely does)...and that no one needs a hair cut (we do)...and it doesn't factor in doing anything remotely ~~fun~~ spendy with the Monkey (gah!).

I am considerably more out of balance than I thought.

Part of the problem is that the private Occupational Therapy that the Monkey needs is a large monthly expenditure that never factored into my original spend plan...but it's helping, so I'll make due. That bill notwithstanding, there's definitely fat that can be trimmed, so I've started noting places where I can make adjustments. I can easily switch my phone plan, because I don't need all the minutes I'm currently buying. I'm also seriously considering giving up cable. With the exception of a few shows that the Monkey likes and an occasional veg-out session for me, we rarely watch TV. I'm 99% positive that most of our "TV" needs could be met through Hulu (free) and Netflix (cheap). After the initial shock, I'm betting we don't miss it. My hope is that if I take a whack at these big ticket items, I can double that discretionary number -- and even doubled, that number still feels way too close for comfort.

The scary thing is that, frankly, those changes are the easy part. The trickier part is what comes next. After cutting back on what might be called "clear luxuries," I have to move on to fine tuning the spending on "somewhat-flexible necessities" like food, heat and air conditioning. It will be marginal improvements in those areas at best...so I'll be looking for a happy medium between comfort and excess.

Different people cite different reasons for minimalism and for me, what really makes sense is a happy medium. I'm not cut out for an acetic lifestyle. I don't do suffering well. I also have no interest in the trappings of the comparative, luxury lifestyle. I don't know who the Joneses are and I don't care if I keep up with them. I'm a somewhere-in-the-middle girl...aiming for a reasonable sweet spot between the two extremes.

That's it! Let's start a new niche for those who find the parameters of minimalism a little too confining and the excesses of our modern culture a lot too soul-sucking. Maybe a catchier title will follow, but for now, I'm calling that sweet spot Reasonablism.

The Ritual of Santa

2010-07-13T18:50:00.000-05:00

My Telling Friend is writing an essay about Santa and needs our memories...so these are mine.

I don't remember exactly what or when my parents told me about Santa Claus...but I always had a sense that he was "out there..." And he was watching to make sure I was being good. He was really, really watching from about October until December, but at any moment I might be reminded that he was watching. And if I'd been good, I could make a list for Santa. I remember the moment each year of sitting down in front of the newly-arrived JC Penney "Big Book" catalog and composing my list. With trembling hands, I'd quickly flip past the pages of clothes in the front until I got to the expanded toys section in the back. It was glorious! There were pictures of toys I'd never dreamed I might be able to own...but at Christmas, it was possible!

There were limits, of course. Growing up as a child in the economic recession of the 1970s, I had this sense that even Santa wasn't all powerful; I had to be selective about what I put on my list. I wasn't going to get a whole lot of "big" things. Still, the ritual was thrilling. The whole book seemed like page after beautiful page of exciting possibility. I could never get to sleep on Christmas eve.

Christmas morning had its own ritual. My sister and I would wake up early...too early, I'm sure...and my parents would drag themselves out of bed. We were forced to go into the kitchen and wait while Mom and Dad got coffee and brought themselves to life. Then, Mom would find the camera...and turn on the Christmas lights. Dad would walk into the living room and say something like "Ohh...looks like Santa forgot you girls this year!" And then (finally!!) we'd be allowed to go in and see the tree and the presents and the magic! Sure...there were a few presents under the tree on Christmas Eve...but Christmas morning, there was always more...different...brightly-wrapped boxes of possibility just waiting to be discovered. I don't know how often I got anything out of the JC Penney Big Book...but I know I was never truly disappointed on Christmas morning.

And that, for me, was Santa. My friends told me that there was no Santa, but I clung to the idea because I didn't want to let go of that Christmas-morning feeling. I never cared if Santa was a literal jolly old man in a red suit... I just wanted my Christmas morning to be a special occasion...with surprises...the unexpected. One year, I was home from college and I remember my parents laughing at me because I wanted to go to bed quickly "so I wouldn't be there when Santa came." I don't mind the ridicule...I like Christmas morning.

Now that I have a Monkey, we're forming our own traditions. We made Christmas decorating an event last year...with old Amy Grant Christmas music and lots of little lights. He loves the idea that the adults have to have a warm beverage before the present-opening can begin on Christmas morning. His friends are already showering him with cynicism, but it doesn't seem to matter to him very much either. We talk about Santa and I tell him truthfully: I don't know if "Santa" exists or not. I don't need Santa to guide his behavior; I do that every day. I think we're both perfectly content for Santa to be what Santa is: a ritual....a sense of wonderment and joy and possibility...wrapped in pretty bows in a softly lit room on a cold morning.

What more could we really ask of a benevolent Elf?

Oh, Baby We've Got It!

2010-07-09T22:31:00.002-05:00

I don't really know any relationship counselors...but I'm betting that if I did, and if I asked for free advice, my relationship-counselor-friend would tell me that it's important for couples to have substantial conversations about important matters. You've gotta really talk about stuff...not just assume you're on the same page. How will you handle the finances in your relationship? How do you feel about children? How will you divide up the household chores? Who's going to be the big spoon?

It's better not to leave these things to chance if you want a relationship to work in the long run...

That said, I'm pleased to report (to the internet and to my future-relationship-counselor-friend) that Reid and I had one of those substantial relationship talks tonight. We were rational. We discussed the pros and cons. We looked at the issue from every side and, through only the tiniest bit of negotiation, came to a mutually acceptable agreement:

We are not going to be evil slumlords.

Moreover, if we do decide at some future point, through a similar process of negotiation and mutual agreement, that we want to become evil slumlords, we've agreed that I'm going to handle all the administrative aspects...and Reid's going to fix stuff and loom menacingly behind me while I'm conducting business with our ~~minions~~ tenants.

Check! Done and done.

I'm pretty sure my future-relationship-counselor-friend would agree that Reid and I have totally got this relationship thing on lockdown!

How I Know

2010-07-09T20:28:00.000-05:00

I guess it's not particularly hard to know it's hot outside. The AC is running...all. the. time. There's no air in the air because the humidity level is 1238123791%. The rose bush in the back yard gave up and stopped blooming. The grass...and even the scrubby little clover...has stopped growing. The weatherman can't give a forecast without talking about "heatandhumidity." And my hair is curling like a crazy 80s perm. These things give me a pretty good idea that it's hot outside.

But here's how I really know it's hot: my dog has given up shedding in favor of....molting?!

He always sheds. I furminate him, on average, about once a week all year round...so I'm no stranger to the phenomenon. Even with all the furminating, I still manage to vacuum up a canister or two of rogue fur every week. Shedding is not news in my house.

But this is totally different. The fur is now coming off of him in great, huge tufts. I can almost see it working its way out of his hindquarters and a gentle tug will pull out a whole handful. His coat is still healthy and sleek; it's not like he's balding, so I'm not really worried. I guess his body is just getting rid of every bit of "extra" it can so he can make it through this summer without spontaneously combusting. Poor guy.

When your dog goes into survival mode, you just know it's hot.

Life Like Water

2010-07-07T20:34:00.000-05:00

I don't generally have much time to think about whether or not I'm being productive. I'm sure I'm violating some rule of productivity that demands attention to such things, but I'm frankly too busy most of the time to give it much thought. I do what I have to do...every day...one moment to the next...just like everyone else, I imagine. When things go well, I breathe a sigh of relief; when they crash spectacularly, I admit my part of the fault...and I do it quickly, because there's almost certainly something else I'm supposed to be doing while I'm standing there feeling yucky for messing something up.

I used to try to control my life a lot more when I was younger. I needed to be in charge...needed to always take the lead...needed to master my own destiny. I was, as my friend Adam describes it, "being epic." I can still see shadows of that girl from time to time...but most of the time she's kind of standing there in a blinking, bewildered state wondering how in the hell life got to be so complicated beyond her control. Meanwhile, I'm busy doing whatever's next on the list...tossing her pointed sideways glances and not-entirely-politely suggesting she get off her bewildered butt and lend a hand already!

(Yes. I have a lively internal monologue.)

I found a quote this week that I really like. It's attributed, best I can tell, to Bruce Lee and is probably fifty years old and has likely been all around the internet ten times and is totally "oh, that old thing." Whatever. I still like it.

Empty your mind, be formless. Shapeless, like water. If you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You put water into a bottle and it becomes the bottle. You put it in a teapot it becomes the teapot. Now, water can flow or it can crash. Be water my friend.

Water analogies always catch my eye because of some conversations Reid and I had early in our getting-to-know-you phase. This quote stood out to me, not because I've achieved a Zen-like state of acceptance...my mind is not by any stretch of the imagination "formless"...but because I realized that "control freak" inner voice has been growing increasingly faint. I'm more tolerant of the various shapes my life takes. I'm less concerned about the state of perfection I've always expected from myself. I'm learning to relax a little (maybe sometimes only a little). I'm learning to just...go with it.

(Side note: the word nerd in me loves the double-entendre of the last sentence: is it "Be water my friend" as in he's asking the water to be his friend and help him achieve this fluid state? Or is it a recommendation to the implied "you" of the sentence, only it's missing a comma: "Be water, my friend." Who knows? I think that's grand...)

I never figured myself as one who would take an interest in Bruce Lee, but it turns out there's a lot of overlap between what's required to master Jeet Kun Do and what's required to master the life of a busy parent/worker/student/partner/human:

Do not be tense, just be ready, not thinking but not dreaming, not being set but being flexible. It is being "wholly" and quietly alive, aware and alert, ready for whatever may come.

And that's really what it's about. Relax. Be ready. Be flexible. Be quietly open to whatever comes and be prepared to let yourself flow into the shape that you need to take to deal with the Next Big Thing(tm)....and then be ready to flow into the one after that...and the one after that. Have I mastered it? Not entirely...but, as it turns out, I no longer expect to.

Maybe a mind like water is the start...but a life like water is the result.

Friends in the Making

2010-07-05T20:57:00.001-05:00

I wrote a book in elementary school as part of a newspaper's Young Author program. In retrospect, I'm not sure it was much of a book...more like a short story about a scrappy, homeless dog that overcomes the odds (and the mean gang of other homeless dogs) and triumphs over adversity. We had to illustrate our own books, so I may have chosen that subject matter because about the only thing I could draw was a dog... Or maybe I identified with the central character somehow.... Or maybe I modeled it after an after-school special... Hard to say. But my little book, "Friends in the Making," was a regional winner and I got to go to a big ceremony and accept a plaque.

I was reminded of that book title during a great conversation with Lippy today. I've told him he's obliged to call me at least monthly and yammer at me because he makes me laugh (a lot)...and frankly, that's the only way I'm likely to get any sort of an ab workout given my current schedule. We occasionally, in between amusing anecdotes, circle around to the fact that we've known each other for 30 years...but it's only been in the last few years that we've really become friends. He told me tonight that he tried to write the brief history of our friendship on his blog and got stuck... So, in an effort to spur him along, here's my version...

It would be unfair to say I "knew" him back then. Though he lived down the street and I was hyper aware of him, I was mostly too shy to talk to him for more than a few minutes at a time. He'd show up to church youth group functions occasionally...and I recall thrilling at the bits of conversation we had...mostly because I couldn't believe he was talking to me! He'll scoff at that part ("why wouldn't I talk to you?")...but let's face it: it was the 80s...and we were pretty much characters out of a John Hughes movie.

I was, though I didn't realize it at the time, a total nerd: good at school and generally regarded as "the smart one." No matter how many plays I was in or groups I sang with, my prevailing trait...the thing that people knew about me...was that I was smart. And nice. My niceness was a close second to the smart thing. I was vanilla otherwise...fitting in on the fringes of a lot of social circles, and closely aligned with a few core friends. There was no particular reason that anyone wouldn't talk to me...but there was no particular reason that anyone, save that core group, would necessarily think to include me either.

He, by contrast, was all counter-culture...with dyed hair and a long black trench coat and eyeliner. He hung out with all the cool people. Everyone knew who he was. He knew about music I'd never heard of and could rock out to Billy Idol like something from a Friday Night Video. He was tight-lipped...mysterious. He spent some time making out with my best friend, which was how I would eventually learn enough about him to feel like I could speak to him. He was always nice, even if I didn't feel like I was cool enough to really talk to him for very long... Plus, you know, it was probably tough for him to respond with my friend's tongue down his throat...

And then he graduated and I graduated and we both got busy living life...and twenty years went by. Poof!

Like so many stories people tell these days, we wound up back in touch because of Facebook. He posted something one day that inspired me to tell him a story...and from there, twenty years of acquaintance turned into friendship. We've been trading emails and thoughts and advice and laughter and phone calls and conversation over drinks for a little over a year now. Our inauspicious beginnings are now a source of even more laughter. It's been fun for both of us to find another kindred spirit out there in the world...

What would he say about our friendship and those John Hughes beginnings? I'm not sure...although the phrase "NASA-smart" came up when we talked about it tonight (and I'm glad he couldn't hear my eye-roll. So. Not. True.). I'll link up his version if/when he ever posts it....

(See? He credits me with quantum physics. Ha! As if!!)

Bang

2010-07-01T21:07:00.000-05:00

The Monkey is now 8 years old. In celebration of the big day (which was actually Tuesday), we had a little ceremony tonight and moved his car seat to the trunk. Because if you're 8, you don't have to use a booster anymore. So he's not going to. I swear his beam made the sun look dull as he pulled the seatbelt across himself...

Being 8 also apparently means we can have even bigger, more interesting conversations. Tonight's post-ice-cream topic was The Big Bang Theory. We talked about what scientists believe...and we talked about the counterpoint of religious views. We talked about the fact that some people are firmly entrenched on either side of the debate about how the world began and completely unwilling to even listen to the other perspective. After a reasoned discussion, my great big eight year old came to the following conclusion:

"I think maybe they're both right: I think maybe God caused the Big Bang and that's what created the world."

And there it is. Without any particular effort...without discussing this topic before at all...my son is already starting to allow for the fact that there are many possibilities in the world ...that shades of gray are all around us...and that the insistence on either/or thinking isn't necessary. I'm increasingly of the belief that we need more of this kind of open thinking in the world if we're going to survive as a country....as a species. We need to be able to see past the finger-pointing and blame spirals and arbitrary lines in the sand. Until we can broaden our thought patterns, I'm not sure we'll be able to really solve the big problems that we're facing as a nation and as a world.

It's not about what caused the Big Bang...it's about the fact that there's room in the plurality...and value in the discussion. We need science AND belief to see us through. Here's hoping the Monkey holds on to both for the next 8...no, 80!, years.

Stuff

2010-06-27T21:52:00.000-05:00

Reid and I sat on a glider swing on the deck of a cabin for hours last weekend, perfectly content. The mountains in the distance were beyond beautiful...and the only noise that interrupted our conversation was the occasional bird call. The cabin itself was, by our estimation, approximately 600 square feet: a bathroom, a shower area, a bed, a small sitting area and a double sided gas fireplace in the center. It was a little light on storage, but we decided with a few minor modifications (a sleeping loft would let us trade that floor space for a small kitchen/eating area), it was really all we'd need.

I've never been much of a "stuff" person. The TV tells me that hoarding is totally fashionable right now, but I just don't get it. For me, I love the immediate gratification of clearing out a closet. I get tremendous satisfaction from my annual Goodwill donations. I literally sleep better when I've cleared the surfaces in the house and swept the floors. It's like my whole psyche breathes a sigh of relief when the clutter's gone. I live in a 1600 square foot house (a non-expanded 1950s ranch) and still worry that it's too much space because the basement is used somewhat sporadically. My last Goodwill donation was 4 months ago and I'm sitting here itchy, because I know that there's more that could go...and I know that I'd feel better if I let it.

After our conversation about living small, I sent Reid the link to The Story of Stuff. I watched it again myself tonight and was reminded just how much more I could be doing...how much more I should be doing. I remember to take reusable bags to the grocery store, but often forget about the one I carry in my purse when I need "just a few things" from the drugstore... I'm not making enough use of the weekend Farmer's Market up the street. I still don't have a garden planted at the house and I haven't started composting yet. I could be making so much more progress!!

All this simplicity takes effort...and time...and energy -- the very things I'm typically lacking. It's sad to me that we've developed a world that's designed to make sustainable, simplistic living more work than living irresponsibly. But that, I suppose, is my challenge: to figure out how to continue to simplify and improve as I go. Much like parenting (and everything else), I'm bound to get it wrong sometimes...but I'll get it right sometimes too.

I told Reid tonight about my renewed guilt over my "stuff" habits...and we talked awhile again about simplicity. I realized, though, as I looked back at the picture of the mountains...the picture I took from the deck of our cabin, wrapped up in a blanket in the early morning light...that despite my failings, I haven't lost sight of what matters: the simple enjoyment of a mountain view...a quiet night...a warm blanket...and a long talk with my favorite person. That is truly the good stuff.

Thanks, Brain...

2010-06-26T11:08:00.000-05:00

Conversations with the Monkey are always entertaining...and even moreso when he gets my silly cartoon references:

Monkey: Guess what we're going to do tomorrow?

Me: (with lots of bravado) Try to take over the WORLD!

Monkey: Uh...no...that's what we're going to do tonight...

Me: Oh....right... Narf!

Vacaversation

2010-06-24T15:59:00.000-05:00

Reid: My family is celebrating that my 31-year-old cousin has a girlfriend that he's serious about.

Me: That's awesome!

Reid: We asked him what he was looking for in a woman and he said "a good Christian girl who likes to cook and clean." I suggested that if that's how he sums up the women in his life, that might be part of why he's 31 and single.

Me: But...I mean...that's why you picked me isn't it?

Reid: Well, obviously.

...and also because of your badonkadonk.

Me: Obviously.

Genius!

2010-06-16T09:12:00.000-05:00

Last year for the Monkey's at-school birthday celebration, I made Cake Pops. Actually, I made "Cakesicles"...which are like cake popsicles, see, and NOT like penises on a stick. Because they're decorated! And colorful! And...stuff...

Yeah, I know...but marketing is a powerful thing . So the strategy is that you walk into the school announcing yourself: "See? I've got CAKESICLES here. Like cake-popsicles? Isn't that cool?!" and people almost forget that you've got a giant bowl of candy-sprinkled phallic objects that you're about to ask a group of kids to eat.

Anyway, they were a huge hit and the office ladies all ooh'd and ahh'd over them because they were totally creative and beautiful and all that. They were also a whole lot of work...and my house smelled like diabetes for a couple of days. So, despite the successful marketing effort, I decided that I would NOT be recreating the Cake-sicle experience again.

But then what to do? I mean, now that I've created cakesicles, I've kind of got this legacy to live up to. Plain ole regular cupcakes seem pretty pale in comparison to candy-coated, double sprinkled, cake-sicles. Unless...

Unless I rely on marketing again! So I suggested to the Monkey that THIS year, we re-create a scene from one of his favorite childhood books (that I'm pretty sure we got at the grocery store checkout line somewhere). In the story, Magnollia and Mondo Monster are throwing a Halloween party...only there's no super-fabulous Crazy Creature Cupcakes to be found in town! Oh no!! Their mom, being brilliant, has an idea. On the night of the party, the guests are surprised to find two of the coveted cupcakes on the table. But how can that be when the bakery has been out of them for days? Magnolia and Mondo proudly announce that they *made* them...and the monsterchildren party guests get to make their own too. And everyone in Monstertown agrees that it's the very best party that there ever was or could be! Huzzah!

So...the Monkey and I spent the morning carefully doling out various forms of decorations into individual plastic bags. I baked cupcakes (six at a time in my tiny-pseudo-oven because my real one has this nasty habit of catching on fire every time I turn it on) and iced them with plain, white (homemade -- I don't totally suck) icing. The Monkey is super excited and is sure his classmates will be too.

And me? I'm feeling like a genius...maybe only a genius at marketing...and maybe really fundamentally lazy underneath it all...but a genius nonetheless.

Have You Seen My Funny?

2010-06-03T21:07:00.000-05:00

I realized as I was reading Andee's blog that I haven't written anything funny in ages. I used to have funny thoughts about things... I used to write them down. Lately, I think the funny has been kind of masked by the nonstop mental gymnastics of trying to guide the little guy through this rough patch of adolescence, navigating the treacherous waters of doctors and insurance and treatments and 504 plans, kicking ass in school, and maintaining some semblance of productivity and relevance at work, all the while attempting to stave off a looming shame spiral over the fact that I've not been paying attention to either my eating habits or my fitness as I should. GAH!

The good news, despite my lack of humor and the protective layer of fatspackle that now needs to be forcibly beaten off my body, is that hey! I'm still here. I'm still writing every now and then. I'm still getting done what needs doing. I'm still keeping my head above water and all the balls in the air...at least mostly.

I have a four week break from school which feels like this HUGE luxury-filled bounty of possibility...except that the list of things I feel like I should cram into this four week period will make it not much of a break at all. I put "sleep" somewhere on the list...so maybe that will make it easier?

I saw this week that one of my friends is doing an audition for a circus as a juggler. As much juggling as I do all the time, I could maybe qualify for that job. Well, except that jugglers are probably supposed to also be funny. Drat.

Reasons to Celebrate

2010-05-26T21:39:00.000-05:00

There are pieces of paper hanging all over my house. Being opposed as I am to clutter, this is a huge step for me...and a necessary one to brighten up the Monkey's future. These pieces of paper aren't just clutter...they're stepping stones.

The Monkey has now been officially diagnosed with ADHD. When I say "officially," I mean after exhaustive testing, more than 360 degrees of observation in all of his environments, and six long hours with a neuropsychologist. Even I, with all my skepticism about the overdiagnosis of ADHD these days, have to agree that this is exactly the right conclusion. And, just to make the soup more interesting, the ADHD brought along some friends (executive skills development delays, dysgraphia, and the sensory integration issues we were already dealing with through occupational therapy). On the plus side, we also have concrete assessments that prove what I've known since he was little: this child is all kinds of brain-busting smart.

The encouraging thing is that we are now to the treatment phase!! Finally, there's no more waiting for test results or hoping to get in to the next doctor. It's go time! We can DO something! Like a cancerous cell in the middle of a lot of healthy cells, we're tackling the issue from all fronts. The school is being super-supportive...lauding every "good day" as though he'd just saved the world. On his second consecutive day of doing all his work during class, he got a trip to the principal's office to show off his "good work" post-it to the principal himself (and the vice principal, and the gym teacher, and anyone else they could pull in). At home, we have drafts up all over the house of "routines" for him to follow...so whenever he's gotten distracted by a shiny thing, I can just say "check the chart" and he'll go figure out where he is in his day so he'll know what's next (free time, yay!). The Occupational Therapist is making recommendations for movement exercises and "squishes" (a mini-massage with lotion that helps his body get used to varying degrees of pressure and sensation). I've got a tentative meeting with the school guidance counselor on Friday to talk about how to help a terribly sensitive kid deal with playground politics and the stress of feeling different.

But my favorite intervention so far stemmed from a moment of serendipity I had on Monday. Instead of making the "routines" charts that I knew I needed to make, I sat down with a piece of paper and wrote "Reasons to Celebrate" across the top in big black letters. This paper is slowly filling up with encouraging post-it notes from the school and quick reminders of the little victories the Monkey has had this week. We're celebrating the fact that he did a week's worth of homework at daycare on Monday...and that he woke up this morning, checked the "morning routine" chart, and emerged from his room dressed. He remembers to follow the steps to comb his hair? We write it on the chart. This way, when he starts feeling down about himself (which was starting to be a nightly thing), we grab the chart and remind ourselves that he's making progress...and that he's capable of doing little thing after little thing to get him where he needs to go. It's good for him and me both (mamas need encouragement too!).

Is it helping? It's too soon to really tell...routines take awhile to ingrain...and self-esteem is a slow-build. But already I'm starting to catch the occasional glimpse of what a life with a focused, empowered kid might be like...and it's a pretty sweet deal. More importantly, the Monkey is starting to see the shadow of it too...and I can tell that it makes him feel proud of himself. And that may be the biggest of reasons to celebrate.

Mars and Venus Collide

2010-05-20T19:25:00.000-05:00

I am going to see Reid tomorrow (squee!!). We've both been preparing for the trip...

I...got my hair done two weeks ago, tended my eyebrows, gave myself a manicure and pedicure, and whitened my teeth a bit...

He...got a haircut.

I...planned my wardrobe for each event of the weekend, tried all the outfits on to make sure they coordinated and flattered me, ironed everything and carefully packed, trying to minimize the number of shoes I needed.

He...remembered to throw in a shirt with a collar.

I...spent two days exfoliating in the shower, used extra lotion on the rough spots, used a facial mask and an extra conditioner for my hair.

He...will shave. Probably.

Gender differences mean very little...but they amuse me greatly.

Punk

2010-05-19T17:28:00.000-05:00

Dear Skaterdudes: You're right. It is absolutely unlikely that I'm going to mow your floppy-haired awesomeness down with my car while you ride your board in the middle of the road...

...but is it too much to ask that you at least acknowledge that you're heading RIGHT FOR ME by at least hurrying a little? I love an eye-to-eye challenge as much as the next girl, but some days, you might not want to tempt me...

What's In A Name?

2010-05-17T07:49:00.000-05:00

Laura Knoblock was my locker partner for all four years of High School. We agreed to this freshman year and never changed the arrangement. It was a good pairing: we were both tall...we were both pretty laid back...we had mutual friends, but didn't really hang out together all that much so there was never any teenaged angsty conflict between us.

But, I think the real reason we chose each other, though, is that we both had the same first name.

Laura isn't a terribly unique name, but there were a few of us in the school...and the fact that there were two of us in the same homeroom was noteworthy enough. One of the "Lauras" had actually shed the name. I happened to be sitting nearby the day that Paige railed about how she couldn't imagine going by Laura, even though that was her first name, because it was so horri....oh (she blushed and apologized before quickly changing the subject).

I wasn't terribly offended...I actually like my name.

I remember that Laura Knoblock (who will forever be "LauraKnoblock" -- it's a single entity in my mind to distinguish her from me) was particular about how her name was pronounced. She preferred /Lahh-ruh/ instead of /Loh-ruh/. Me? I never really cared if people were lazy with the vowel sound in the first syllable, as long as they spelled it correctly and didn't tack an "-ie" on at the end (I've found that old men, in particular, are fond of calling me Laurie...which is cute, but it's just not my name. I had a friend in school named Laurie. That's her name.).

The point is that we all had a preference. Laura Knoblock...Paige...me. We all knew what we did and did not want to be called as we walked through this life. We had an identity associated with our name and we all held fast to it: Paige is Paige...not Laura. Laura Knoblock is Lahh-ruh...not Loh-ruh. I am Laura...not Laurie.

Twice in the last few weeks I've encountered people who cannot (or will not) state a preference for their name. I find it terribly frustrating...particularly because they have names that could go in any number of directions (like Robert can be Rob, Bob, Robbie, Bobby...). I understand being relaxed and accommodating about it if someone slips up and calls you the wrong thing. I almost never correct people who call me Laurie by mistake. But if you are point-blank asked which name you prefer, I generally believe you should have an answer! That just doesn't seem hard to me...

Shakespeare minimized the convention of names in Romeo and Juliet for the sake of the plot: "What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet." And while I get that, I'm pretty sure that if the Bard couldn't tell me whether or not I should call him Will, William, Bill or Billy, I'd be sorely tempted to pick up that sweet-smelling flower (whatever it's called) and poke him with a thorn. Hard.

Do You Know What You Don't Know?

2010-05-07T20:13:00.000-05:00

Mrs. Zacham had to have been 100 years old when I was in middle school. Ok, probably not. More likely, she was somewhere in her mid to late sixties...but gosh she seemed old. Her hair was fully gray...and her shuffling walk was so pronounced, I remember being amazed to see her above the ground floor of the school. I didn't know she could pick up her feet.

Mrs. Zacham was particularly fond of starting off the school year with a single question...a question that was, I suspect, unfailingly laughed at...a question that, to a 13 year old, seems utterly ridiculous...particularly the way Mrs. Zacham screeched it:

Do you know what you don't know??

We all laughed uproariously, assuming it was a joke. She didn't find it funny for some reason (old people are so serious!!). She spent the rest of the year teaching us how to poke and prod our way through scientific inquiry. Or maybe she didn't. Honestly, the only thing I remember about her class is that single question bouncing off of our heads like an echo to nowhere....and I remember thinking it was the most silly question I'd ever heard. How could I possibly know what I didn't know? And why in the world should I care?

My 40th birthday has been following me around like a shadow...inescapable...stuck to my heels...and getting shorter by the day. Decade birthdays have always seemed symbolic to me. My 30th birthday was a bit of a spectacle... There were diamonds and balloons and hourly surprises and a whole community seemed to come together to celebrate with me. Ten years hence, my life is very different. I'm much more concerned with the responsibilities I've chosen: raising a child...being a good student...being a supportive boss...being a good partner and friend. I'll be gathering with people I love a little later in the month, and that will serve nicely as a birthday marker. But for right now, my only plans for my actual birthday are to chaperon a playdate for the Monkey and one of his friends. Given how the center of my universe has shifted over time, it almost seems fitting.

As I look back over four decades of life -- and forgetting for a moment that it feels impossible that I've lived that long -- I can see how often I didn't know what I didn't know. I can see mistake after mistake...and I can see how I learned from them. I can see how every choice I've made (the good and the bad) have led me to this point. I can see how fortunate I've been and how I've been so often looked after. I can see how I've grown and matured...how I've actually gotten a little bit wiser. I feel a little more weathered and a little more settled...more at ease with the world and with myself. And ever so slowly, I'm starting to understand more how to know what I don't know.

I would say that I wish I'd paid attention a little more in Mrs. Zacham's science class...that I'd taken her question a little more seriously so that it would stick with me...but I think maybe it did.

Quiet Time

2010-04-10T14:49:00.001-05:00

I get laryngitis once or twice a year, typically as a secondary complication to a sinus infection or ten rounds with allergies. Today is, apparently, that time. This particular round came on hard and fast. Two nights ago I was coughing. Last night, I was raspy at best. This morning, silence.

I have enough vocal experience to know that rest is absolutely required when laryngitis strikes -- whispering actually does more damage to the vocal chords that talking. And I'd really like to have my voice back tomorrow or Monday. So I resigned myself to hand gestures and text messages, speaking only when absolutely necessary until the damage abates and I'm back to something like normal.

I began the day frustrated at the situation. I couldn't call to the Monkey to get him ready for his piano lesson. Reid called and I could barely croak out a few sentences to let him know I was thinking about him and his family (he's attending a funeral for an uncle in Florida before he heads this way tomorrow). I wanted to ask him a million questions about the beach and the scenery and his family, but I could only listen and smile as he cheerfully worked to hold both ends of the conversation. I stopped at a store to buy a belt on the way home from piano and had to use improvised sign language with two clerks and a passing customer to get my point across. I'm supposed to drop by a friend's for a BBQ this afternoon, but given that no one can hear me -- and, worse, that I'd likely do more injury to myself by trying to talk -- that seems futile.

For a woman who prides herself on successful communication, this is a terribly frustrating situation.

But, my college friend Erica reminded me that I'd just been looking for a reason to write...and maybe this silence would force my hand. Shortly thereafter, I got a note from a former colleague of mine asking if we could talk over coffee Monday. Then my high school friend Rebecca reminded me that illness is often the body's way of communicating something...the unspoken question of which is, simply, "what?"

I don't quite have an answer yet....except that I believe the point may very well be to listen. Maybe this semi-annual malady is my body's way of shutting me up for a few days at a time and forcing me to listen...to watch...to notice things that I wouldn't otherwise: the joy and wonder on my son's face as we went through a car wash this morning...the opportunity to meditate in my world rather than going to a party in someone else's...the monumental and simple pleasure derived from a hot cup of water with fresh squeezed lemon and a bit of honey...the chance to be there for someone in need.

I spend a lot of time making a joyful noise in this world. Maybe this is my time to just relax and enjoy the sounds that I'm not making.

Boring, But True

2010-04-08T19:53:00.000-05:00

Blogging about the weather is boring. Weather happens everywhere and unless a person's got some massive poetry talent going on, pretty much everything that can be said about the weather has been said...and certainly better than I could say it.

I'm not sure that blogging about pollen is much more interesting than blogging about the weather, but I can assure you that pollen is the topic that has been on everyone's mind (and furniture and car and floor and windows...) lately. Every passing conversation includes some mention of clouds of yellow dust that puff at the slightest breeze and cars rendered unrecognizable from the film. The whole East Coast is a gasping, wheezing, headachey mess right now and everyone's cranky over it. I'm not usually terribly allergy-prone, but I'm definitely feeling the lung trauma from eleventy-squillion spores floating around in the air.

So when I write that (underneath the oh-god-want-to-die hacking) I'm positively giddy that it rained tonight, try to remember that I'm not blogging about the weather. Oh no! I'm blogging about 10 solid minutes of pollen-squashing drops of sinus salvation...with thunder! If this little storm had an ass, I'd totally give it a congratulatory smack. Way to go, fella!

One Car Accident

2010-04-07T20:06:00.001-05:00

On the drive in to work this morning, I passed a woman wearing a longish t-shirt that could have passed for a dress. Although, as I got closer, I began to worry that it was, in fact, a dress...a too short dress....a dress with a suspicious amount of pink showing in the lower-buttcheek area...oh dear lord, is she showing her...?!

No. In fact, this woman was wearing Flesh-Colored Leggings. Seriously? I didn't know you could even buy such a thing. Somewhere, a designer is laughing her fashionably-clad ass off at the fact that anyone in their right mind would purchase -- AND WEAR -- Flesh-Colored Leggings. They're a joke. You're supposed to mock them...not buy them. And for the love of all things decent, you aren't supposed to wear them with a barely-there t-shirt that will ultimately terrorize the helpless public into thinking they're seeing your peek-a-boo butt!!

Flesh-Colored Leggings are the fashion equivalent of the Chevy Corvaire: unsafe at any speed.

Litter

2010-04-05T08:08:00.000-05:00

The Monkey needed a photo of himself with "Flat T.J." to take in this morning for some representation of what he did over spring break. Since this wasn't a particularly adventuresome spring break for us (he spent the week hanging out at daycare having Pokemon battles and digging worm holes), we decided to mark the occasion of the tulip poplar blooming. Of course, being procrastinators, we didn't manage to take the picture til this morning...so he climbed into the tree and posed with the colored cut out.

I'm hoping his teacher won't notice that he's wearing the same outfit today as featured in the photo.

Making our way to the tree, however, was a little tricksy. Even though the tree just bloomed last week, the blossoms have already begun to fall...

In a few days, they'll be rotted mush that will have to be forcibly raked and removed. For now, though? I think that may be the nicest kind of litter ever...

Lists

2010-04-04T08:50:00.001-05:00

I made a chalkboard last summer. Inspired by the million cool chalkboards and chalkboard walls I saw on Apartment Therapy, I decided to make my own. I went to Home Depot and bought wood and chalkboard paint. I got ribbon to do...something...with. I brought it all home and set off to make. me. a. chalkboard. RAWR!

Turns out that having the idea of making a chalkboard and actually making a chalkboard are two different things. The biggest difference is that in my idea of making a chalkboard, I was able to cut things in straight lines. Actually? Not so much.

Fortunately, the ribbon I bought camouflaged the warbled edges nicely (nevermind the fact that I intended to use the ribbon to hang it...shh) and the tip on wet-sanding totally panned out. The surface feels smooth as slate without a trace of wood grain. It also looks as much like part of the decor as I would have hoped.

As an added bonus, it's right by the front door, so it's very handy for reminding me of things. Occasionally, I'll make notes about what needs doing on a particular day or places the Monkey is supposed to be. Currently, as you can see, it's holding my weekend To-Do list.

And currently, as you can see, I've done almost none of it. We're now at the Sunday morning portion of the weekend and all I've managed to do is read half of my homework for one class (I have 2) and mow the grass -- which was, at best, a half-hearted effort with the reel mower yesterday.

This weekend has just been so shockingly lovely that I've been stimulus bound...struck by the petals on the tulip poplar wafting to the ground and marveling that the sky looks like something out of a painting. I'm not typically skilled in the art of relaxation (probably because I always have so many lists around)...but if this is what it feels like, I can totally see what all the fuss is about. Now if only I could figure out how to relax without the guilt of the list...

Circuitous Logic

2010-04-02T22:52:00.000-05:00

I didn't realize when I created the web address that the blog would be aptly located. It's occurred to me recently, however, that parenthood has more than its share of circular logic. Even beyond my Dad's quizzically circular statements ("you can't drive a new car until it's got some miles on it!"), there's an inherent contradictory aspect to parenting that no one really talks about. The syllogism goes something like this:

The parent must take care of the child.
Taking care of the child will bring the parent great pleasure.
The ultimate goal of parenthood is to teach the child to take care of himself.
Therefore, the parent becomes obsolete, AND loses a source of great pleasure.

Why do we do this again?

It's a twenty-year exercise in restraint and self-denial...and it makes a great case for why parents should be PEOPLE as well as parents. It also makes a strong case for why parenthood shouldn't be taken on without a great deal of consideration. Doing it right (or mostly right...I don't think anyone does it "right") takes a monumental amount of maturity and selflessness. I'm not sure I've mastered either of those entirely, but I'm working on it...

Lately, I've been struggling with this "helicopter parent" conundrum with the Monkey and his handwriting. He writes better and more carefully when I'm nearby...and I want him to write better and more carefully...but I can't always be nearby, so he has to learn to write better and more carefully without me being there. But he doesn't write better and more carefully when I'm not nearby. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

The good news, I suppose, is that I'm never short of opportunities to think creatively. It's a constant quest to find the right combination of words or the right situation or the right game to get him engaged. My brain tends to run on high speed anyway...and thinking of new ways to approach the myriad of things he's dealing with keeps my neurons firing full speed.

MonkeyDad and I are meeting with the pediatrician today to find out the results of the survey data we (and his teacher) completed regarding his attention issues. We already have 14 pages of occupational therapy description for what's going on with him physically...now we'll find out of the doctor thinks there's a chemical component as well (my magic 8 ball says "signs point to yes"). All we need is a bit of talk-therapy and we'll have the trifecta of interventions...for a second grader.

I'd like to think that negotiating parenthood was this difficult for our parents, but in whole different ways. Maybe the primary difference is that they didn't have the resources or the terminology that we do: sensory-seeking, attention deficit hyperactive, low-tone, twice-exceptional (one of my favorites, actually -- the term for children who are both gifted and have some special need). I don't know if either "we" or "they" are really any better off than the other is/was. It's just different. And, despite a heap of frustration with the process, I feel fortunate to at least have a supportive school system and a battery of professionals willing to work with me through the mire of figuring it all out.

And the circular conclusion of all this effort and money and heartache and worry? If all goes as planned, there will eventually be a MonkeyMan...fully grown and able to negotiate his own way through the spiderweb of choices and distractions and possibilities in this rapidly changing world...who won't need me at all.

I think I'm ok with that logic.

Spring

2010-04-01T21:52:00.003-05:00

The (beautiful!) tree in my back yard has bloomed again this year, filling the neighborhood with the heady aroma of flowers. I've just spent the evening cleaning the house and getting a jump start on laundry so that I can do some yard work this weekend. I have lofty plans for a total front-of-house clean up that includes mulching the front bushes, but I may be overestimating the amount I can actually accomplish. I'm still going to try!

Spring is here...and so returns my motivation.

Most notably, I've decided to do a little interior house keeping on my longest-neglected space: my body. I've been decaffeinated for almost a week now (and the ensuing detox-headache has almost gone away...almost) and I'm returning to an emphasis on whole, raw foods. After a week of sleeping long and hard, I finally got some semblance of energy back tonight. Hello, productivity!

The complicating factor of spring (certainly this spring, but I suspect it hits me every spring) is the undercurrent of unrest in the transition between a winter of dormancy and the unbridled growth of summer. I feel a little disheveled...like I'm not sure really where I'm supposed to be or what I'm supposed to be doing. School is going incredibly well (bonus!)....work is moving forward at some regular pace, though its very different (and not quite as inspiring as my last job)....my happy heart is lodged approximately 2,432 miles away from here....and despite having to write a plan for how I intend to get there, I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up.

And 40 is a mere five weeks away. Yipe!

I'm all square pegs and round holes right now. It's an uncomfortable state, but not entirely unpleasant....and I'm reminding myself to just relax through it and let the discomfort -- and the growth that I'm trusting will arise from it -- just happen. Meanwhile...while I'm doing my deep let-it-be breathing....I think I'll stare at my tree in the back yard and remind myself how really great things can happen in the spring.

Act 2 Prologue: Success

2010-02-22T00:00:00.001-05:00

I wonder if I fear success as much as failure...and I wonder if I'm maybe not alone in that. Failure, after all, is familiar territory. I know what it's like to get the lower grade...to miss out on the promotion...to lose the guy. Failure is a little part of everyone's life and it stings...it sticks...it haunts us (or maybe just many of us) for long after the moment has passed. I have successes too, of course, but they are somehow easier to dismiss: Maybe it was just dumb luck...maybe I'm getting more than I deserve.

Even the metaphor suggests that failure is the natural state: the inevitable outcome of gravity. Success is attained, according to conventional wisdom, through "climbing" the ladder...by making the long, hard journey...always upward...always defying the downward pull of the odds to the contrary. Success is, by the description, a perilous perch...one that might yield at any moment, giving way to the jagged rocks of failure always waiting below.

By the way we talk about success, and I think the metaphors are widely-accepted enough that I can use "we" here, the idea seems to be that success isn't meant to be a comfortable state. We "earn" it...we "work" to maintain it...we strive to be ever-vigilant to hold on and not let it slip away...we have to always keep ahead so as to not let failure catch us.

That's an awful lot of work for something that, by its very nature, should be sweet and joyful.

My own views of success have historically been just these. I've never felt like I "deserved" to succeed...but that by sheer force of will and perseverance and determination, I have on occasion been able to grasp and appreciate it for a moment before the next long climb upward begins. Right now, the whole idea makes me tired. I'm three scant months away from my 40th birthday...at places for Act 2 of my life. I need a new metaphor.

I had a weekend full of fabulous conversation with Reid last weekend. He commented on the Buddhist idea that the suffering we experience is almost always the result of trying to hold on too long to happiness. He followed that thought with a bit of scripture that said (and I may be heavily paraphrasing here -- he can quote it more accurately than I) "every moment comes to pass."

I sat there struck for a moment -- partly over the fact that any person other than me could so seamlessly interweave Buddhism and Christianity -- but struck more so at the simple truth of it. These moments in our lives -- all of them -- will pass...and each moment shows up for the express purpose of happening...and then passing. This moment is here to move on...so that the next can come, full of promise and possibility and ripe with the certainty that it too shall pass...and so will the next and the next and the next.

So it seems to me that making the most of each moment...of doing what we must do....of appreciating the transience of time...should relieve the stress of success and failure. Maybe we don't need to fear either...or, specifically, maybe *I* don't need to fear either.

I've been back a week from a weekend that was, by my accounting, successful beyond measure and -- maybe for the first time -- I was neither sad for the end of the moment nor worried about what the next moment might bring. The success of the weekend wasn't "fleeting" because it already happened. It was, as Orson Scott Card's metaphor goes, a porcelain salamander -- perfectly still and content and unchanging in the beauty of its achievement.

And that feels like a much better metaphor -- one that fits with the philosophies I've been trying to implement in my life -- one that allows me to let go of the "failures" I've held on to -- one that lets me dream of a future without forcing it to happen. This metaphor allows me to live joyfully in the moment (and the next and the next and the next) for my next 40 (or 60 or 160) years without fear or regret.

That is the life I choose for my second Act.

Evolution

2010-02-21T12:02:00.000-05:00

I think it's possible that Facebook has made me brave.

I linked my blog on Facebook awhile ago. It was kind of a big decision, because I'd always sort of kept things somewhat anonymous on the blog. I wanted to be able to write what I wanted to write without having to worry about dealing with the backlash... Except here we are, well over four years later, and I haven't written anything that's particularly backlash-y. It turns out that I'm mature enough to know what to publish and what not to publish: I don't write about work, so I don't fear the Dooce-ing. I don't write inflammatory things about people. The blog has become, as the title suggests, a description of my life....a way for me to understand myself and to remember the fun (and frustration) of raising a particularly bright-eyed Monkey and to put words around some of the significant (and insignificant) things I experience and observe.

And I'm finding, as I continue to write, that I'm not particularly concerned with dissociating these descriptions from me as much as I was before.

I'm not sure I'm ready to trumpet my name in the header just yet. It's still easier to work forward (from knowing me to finding my blog) than backward (from stumbling upon the blog to finding me)...and I'm ok with that. But the artifice of character names (for those who have consented to being written about) feels like trying too hard. And maybe it would be ok, if it fits with the topic, to throw up the odd photo of me every now and then. I'm not prone to overnight change...but I see a path of evolution here for the blog...and for me.

So with that settled, I'll make a brief introduction to a new character in my life: say hello to Reid. Reid has been slowly working his way through reading the blog both back to front and front to back (talk about dedication!)...he's expecting to land somewhere in the middle before long. Given the amount of time I've spent in conversation with him over the last few months, it's impossible for me to continue writing here without his name coming up...so I thought it best to introduce him outright, before he just shows up somewhere. He is, to a degree, the reason I haven't published here in awhile (turns out that writing emails will sate my word-lust as much as blogging does) and will, I predict, factor into more than a few of the things I expect to write going forward.

Evolution. This began as a blog without a name. Then it became a blog with a name. Now it's *my* blog with a name. I'm looking forward to seeing what happens next!

Now With Your Reactions!

2010-01-14T10:18:00.006-05:00

I'm not sure that I actually think "funny, interesting, awesome" are the best categories to capture reactions to my blogs...but I like the idea of being able to click on a reaction when there's not a particular comment (or, if you're like me, when you just don't feel like clicking through a few times just to write "ha!" -- call me lazy if you want. I'm ok with that.)

If you have suggestions for more appropriate reactions, I'd welcome them in...well...the comments (which of course you'll have to be unlazy enough to click into...ahh, life's little catch-22s :).

----

Or not. Unless you folks can see the buttons at the bottom... I certainly can't. Boo/hiss. WHY DOES BLOGSPOT HATE ME!?

Confident Kid

2010-01-09T09:04:00.005-05:00

The Monkey is participating in Odyssey of the Mind this year. There's no real competition at the second grade level, but they go through the full process with the full rules as kind of a practice-run. It's a great program and he's all kinds of excited about it. His group's problem is to create a character and plan a surprise party for that character for an unusual reason. They decided on their theme ("Becoming a Wizard") and he was feeling a little down because the team didn't choose one of his play-on-words characters (I did hear that "Napkin Thunderglance" got big props though).

To help give his self-esteem a boost and get him back involved with the project, I turned him loose on Power Point to do some brainstorming. He loves making slide shows, so I suggested that he experiment with three different ways that someone might have become a wizard. He struggled with it a little and complained to me that google images didn't have a sufficient listing of photos for his search of "confident kid." When it was time for him to shut down, he had about 10 photos and three slides worth of a story.

But the story! I mean, I know the Monkey has a pretty large vocabulary...and the child reads all the time...but it wasn't until it was right there in front of me that I could see just how impressively wordy my son is. Bearing in mind that he's 7 and that this is just the start of the story, have a little look at Exhibit A (which I've copied and pasted exactly as it appeared in his Power Point):

•A little boy was walking and when he got home things looked very different a strange

•Person was there “hello” he said “h-he-hello”he stammered “the names merlin” he said”m-my n-name is g-george” he said why are you here!!!!!!!!”he said regaining all his confidence “calm down son” said merlin

•George tried and tried but could not calm down ” WHY ARE YOU HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” george yelled but then after merlin told him why he was there he started to calm down

I was, to put it bluntly, shocked. It's not just the fact that the vocabulary seems to be way outside the realm of your normal 7-year-old ("regained"...really??)...but the fact that, quite honestly, I want to know what happens next! What did Merlin say? I can hardly wait! Of course, me being me (and tending toward the dramatic, to put it mildly), I showered him with compliments and encouragement. He was all but floating when he went to bed that night.

This was my first week of grad school and the Monkey's first week of his Occupational Therapy program. My budget exhibits were due yesterday and I've got a presentation for a Career Day program at work Tuesday that I haven't started. The Monkey starts piano lessons this morning and he's asked to participate in a 6-week "Get Fit" conditioning program through the school. With so much going on, it's pretty easy (and some might say justifiable) to feel overwhelmed...

...but then these little moments show up to remind me that maybe things are going to be ok. Maybe we're actually better than we've given ourselves credit for. Maybe, even though we both feel like screaming sometimes, we'll both be able to face whatever is waiting for us by channeling our inner "confident kid."

The Monkey and Graduation School

2010-01-03T21:23:00.003-05:00

I put the Monkey down for bed tonight. He was so excited about school being back in session he could hardly contain himself. He's proclaimed Monday the "best day of the week" because it's when school happens. Apparently, two weeks out has been a little much for him...

Then, 15 minutes later, he came bounding through the house to tell me that he felt bad for me. I looked at him, clearly puzzled... He said, "I feel bad for you because I get to go to bed and you have to stay up doing graduation school homework."

See? *This* is why I love being a Mom so much!

Confession

2010-01-03T09:41:00.003-05:00

After about the second consecutive day without the Monkey, I have no idea what to do with myself. I wander around the house a little lost for purpose, even as I accomplish the things on the list I made. It's not a shortage of things to do...but definitely a lack of direction...like the whole world's gone out of focus and I can't see clearly anymore.

Apparently, I don't know how to not be a Mom.

Fifteen

2010-01-02T16:44:00.004-05:00

Cause when you're fifteen and somebody tells you they love you
You're gonna believe them.
And when you're fifteen and your first kiss
Makes your head spin round.
But in your life you'll do things greater than dating
The boy on the football team
But I didn't know it at fifteen

Taylor Swift sang some teenage angst at me on the way home from reading today. I've heard this song before in passing but I usually change the channel. Today, I actually listened. I blame my friends for this...they've been razzing me recently (or, rather, intermittently for the last YEAR) about my first high school boyfriend. The recurring question, posed so often it's almost become a chant, is simply "why??"

...so I gave it some thought.

My first actual "boyfriend" relationship lasted exactly one month in 6th grade. The 8th grade boy who ran the milkshake machine came up to me while I was working in the library (he was also on safety patrol and had hallway privileges) and asked me if I'd "go with him." I said yes. During our brief relationship we sat together in church...we went to a dance together...we saw each other while he was on safety patrol....he gave me killer milkshakes at lunch. He never kissed me. I broke up with him exactly one month after he'd asked me to go with him because I was a ridiculous girl with an overly dramatic tendency and thought it was "poignant" or something...

Fast forward to my sophomore year in high school (3 years later) and my interactions with the male of the species could be neatly sorted into two groups: those who were friends and those on whom I had a fairly obsessive crush.

Number of dates: 0.
Number of subsequent requests to "go with someone": 0.
Minutes spent in agony: 1,576,800.

By the start of sophomore year I was seriously beginning to think I was going to embody the "sweet 16 and never been kissed" mantra...and was convinced that I was, for reasons I couldn't quite pinpoint (except in too-frequent moments of hideous adolescent self-loathing), completely undesirable.

And then He took an interest. He was a year older than me and several inches taller (which was no small feat, given that I was just shy of 6' tall even then). He was talented and popular and handsome and confident (god, was he confident). He was in the band and that was the year I attended every home football game without fail. (Truthfully, it wasn't so much a school spirit thing as it was the fact that the senior boy who gave me a ride every week was absolutely awesome. I could have had a powerful crush on him too if I'd ever entertained the idea that he would in a million years deem me worthy. But that was too far-fetched a notion for me to comprehend...so I just enjoyed the chats in the car with him...and swooned a little in secret. But really all that's beside the point.)

I don't know when He started talking to me...or why (though he would tell me later that my height was the initial draw). I spent a lot of time in the band room before school with my friends (also band geeks)...so I know we saw each other there. At some point, I started sitting with the band at football games too. Then I was sitting with Him at football games. The details of what led up to the game-changing night are fuzzy now...but I remember when it shifted. We'd been chatting in between spirit songs that night. He gave me a quick kiss before he went down onto the field to march out...and said he'd see me afterward. I was shaking with some combination of cold, excitement, terror, and nervousness. After the game, in the alcove outside the bandroom, he pulled me in and kissed me. Had I had any time to think about it, I might have been too paralyzed by panic and neurotic-worrying for it to happen...but there was no time for rational thought. One minute he had my hand and the next he was kissing me.

After that, as if it were a foregone conclusion, we were dating. It was casual at first...then after he was in a wreck on the way to school, it got more serious. He gave me his senior ring. He introduced me to his mom (who actually liked me -- and she didn't really like anyone). He told me he loved me. He took me to prom. We gave each other ridiculous pet names and talked about our future. We took long drives and went to movies and shared ice cream. We dated through the middle of the following summer. And then, just before Band Camp his senior year, he dumped me. I forget the excuse he gave at the time, but really he dumped me because I wouldn't have sex with him...and there were more than enough girls who were going to be at Band Camp who would. He may well have been cheating on my prior to that...I don't really know.

I should have been outraged at how much of a jerk he was. I should have resolved to never speak to him again. I should have stood up for myself. I should have let go, good riddance'd, and moved on. I shouldn't have wasted one ounce of time or emotion on someone who was so selfishly callous. I should have realized that the group of guys I called friends were far superior to him in every way. But I was fifteen and he was my first taste of love and I couldn't let go.

I didn't let go...not really...for an embarrassingly long time.

So the question I've been posed is why...why did I choose him? And see? That's the point: I didn't "choose" him. He chose me. At fifteen, I didn't know how to make a choice. At fifteen, I didn't know I even had the power to choose. At fifteen, I had no idea that it could work differently than it had worked the one time for me. For all my book-smarts and open heart...for whatever confidence I may have displayed on stage or with my friends...I had no idea who I was.

And, more importantly, I had no idea what I might be worth...

...at fifteen.
When all you wanted was to be wanted
Wish you could go back and tell yourself what you know now
...
Cause when you're fifteen and somebody tells you they love you
You're gonna believe them.
And when you're fifteen, don't forget to look before you fall
I've found time can heal most anything
And you just might find who you're supposed to be
I didn't know who I was supposed to be
At fifteen.

Landslide

2009-11-08T09:04:00.003-05:00

I got some good advice from a friend recently. We were discussing the difference between having really good coping mechanisms for stress and actually reducing stress. She tackled the problem in her own life by developing a mission statement for herself...then evaluating everything that came up in her life against that mission statement. If it fit within the parameters of the mission, it merited her attention. If not, she let it go. She claims it's still a work in progress, but I can already see that it works. She is definitely one of the most at-ease, centered people I know.

My life has kicked into overdrive lately. I was accepted into a Leadership Development Program at work, which is a tremendous honor. I'm one of only two people at my level to ever be chosen for the program. The trade-off, of course, is that it comes with additional work (we have to do a class project for the Command). As planned, I took over a new branch at work about a month ago -- a good move for me developmentally, but it comes with a steep learning curve that I'm working to tackle. Not four days into the new job, I got word that I was accepted into the Master's program that I didn't get into over the summer. The news was excellent, but it came entirely out of the blue...and only three weeks before I had to be in California for orientation. Then, last Monday was the Monkey's parent-teacher conference. As expected, the Monkey is extremely academically talented...but his underdeveloped fine motor skills, inability to control his body, and dearth of focus renders him "unbalanced." She recommended a pediatric evaluation and an occupational therapy program as soon as possible so that the issues can be corrected before he starts third grade. My first big grad school paper was due four days later.

If anyone needs a poster child for a stress-reduction awareness campaign, let me know. I photograph well.

So I took my friend's advice to heart and put together two little philosophies for my own life, both of which will work together to (I hope) help me deal with the landslide:

I want a healthy life: physically, mentally and emotionally.

Enacting this one is as simple as asking what choice I can make to contribute to my health. Will eating the Halloween candy make me healthy? No. So I've skipped it. (ok, most of it) Will wondering about why I've been stood up twice in the last week contribute to my emotional health? Nope...it's not in my control, and thinking about it won't change anything. Let it go. Is spending 20 minutes tidying up the house more important than getting to bed 20 minutes earlier? Yes, actually...I'll sleep better and feel calmer when I wake up if it's not a mess. Ok, then...get busy. Almost every moment presents a choice...and consciously taking charge of those choices makes a huge difference in how I feel.

Focus on the process....not the outcome.

I think I've always been an outcome-based person. Did I get an "A" on the paper? Good, then I did well. Did the date turn into a relationship? No, so there must be something wrong with me. The problem is that an outcome-based evaluation of my life and the things in it just doesn't work. I can't really do anything about the outcome...I can only impact the way that I get there. So that's where my energy belongs -- on the road, not the destination. I can't control whether or not the Monkey will improve his handwriting...but I can help him practice every night. I have no say in what grade my professor assigns to my paper...but I can learn how to approach my next paper from the way that I went about writing this one. The outcome is out of my hands...and worrying about it won't make it any more in my control, so it doesn't merit -- or get -- my energy.

My commute to work is only about 15 minutes, so the fact that I heard two versions of "Landslide" on the radio in the same week was significant. With the Monkey growing up and changes happening in my life faster than I can catalog, I'm definitely feeling every one of the landslide moments. But maybe if I take my friend's advice...if I restructure the way that I look at my life and where I put my energy...maybe the landslide won't bring me down.

Beat

2009-10-07T20:50:00.004-05:00

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
            madness, starving hysterical naked,
     dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
            looking for an angry fix,
     angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
            connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
            ery of night,

Today marks the anniversary of the reading of Howl at the Six Gallery in San Francisco...the forming of the core of the Beat poets. They took up a collection from the 100 people who attended and Kerouac brought back jugs of red wine to pass around while the poets read. Ginsberg was doing his first public reading at age 29...as Kerouac chanted "go go go" in rhythm with the long lines Ginsberg read in a single breath. The crowd was frenzied by the end.

I may have written about Howl before. Ginsberg always makes me feel like I'm wasting my life, somehow... I don't know who the best minds of my generation are. And I should, shouldn't I? I mean, even if I don't know them personally, I should at least be able to say "oh yes...well these people are the best minds of my generation because..." So grr to that.

But, truthfully, it's the "angelheaded hipsters" notion that I love... I love the thought of sitting around some half-lit room talking long into the night. I love the idea of people debating ideas and wondering things and gesticulating wildly as they pontificate....smoking horrible cigarettes and downing shots of burning liquor and making music and poetry and ideas. Maybe nobody outside the room will ever hear any of them...but maybe that's not the point. And my part in this little fantasy? I mostly listen, I imagine...adding my thoughts to the melee when the time is right. I'm not really part of this group, and I know it...but in my imagining, they allow me. Somehow, that's enough.

"Peggy Sue Got Married" wasn't a fantastic movie by any means...but the character of Michael Fitzsimmons was endlessly fascinating to me. Even then (when I was much younger), the whole tortured-soul beat poet motif moved me. I'm far too practical to indulge the notion beyond the overly-romanticized ideas I cook up...but I like to dabble in the thought of it. And Howl, for me, is kind of the culmination of that whole oeuvre...a whiskey-burn of a toast to the heart and spirit and madness of all the best minds I've never known.

Well done, Allen. Well done.

Something Had To Go

2009-09-12T10:54:00.003-05:00

I spent over an hour the other day writing a 3-page email to the front office on the program requirements of the Government Commercial Purchase Card Program and Official Representation Funds...and, specifically, the special conditions that must be met when the Government Commercial Purchase Card Program is used to make a purchase of "command coins" using Official Representation Funds and, further, how to properly account for and plan for ordering such coins to maintain the appropriately low levels of inventory for both the Official Representation Funds funded coins and appropriated funds funded-coins.

This, my friends, is why I can no longer successfully name any of the square states west of the Mississippi.

Uncomfortable Conjugation

2009-09-10T19:53:00.002-05:00

Whoa.

In the space of a 5 minute conversation tonight, the Monkey managed to conjugate a noun (puberty) into two verb tenses (puberted, puberting), inquire about how puberty happens to girls (I would only tell him that "girls get breasts"...from which he concluded that "then they get married and get pregnant") AND ask more details about his birth.

So if this is what having a 7 year old is like...what are we going to be discussing when he's 13???

Two Minutes of Hope

2009-08-28T16:05:00.002-05:00

...because sometimes that's just what you need...

...or maybe the most you can get. Either way.

Dinner

2009-08-12T18:33:00.004-05:00

The dogs just barked so loudly at the pizza man that he wasn't sure if he was bringing dinner or if he WAS dinner. Poor guy. I tried to explain that they were just loud, but he was well past freaked and halfway out in the yard by that point.

I bet they draw straws at the local Papa Johns whenever my order pops up...short straw drops the 'za at the LoudDog House...and somebody's got a fiver on whether or not the loser needs to change his shorts when he gets back.

Petsat

2009-08-10T20:21:00.005-05:00

I'm a relatively new pet owner. Prior to Marshall, the last dog I had was in the mid-90s: a feisty little Yorkie dog named Buster. I only had Buster for a year or so before I lost him in the split with my then-boyfriend (classic case: he needed the dog...the dog needed me...I let him win). There wasn't really time for Buster to make any doggie-friends.

Marshall, on the other hand, already has his first dogbuddy. In addition to the menagerie of dogs he's getting to know in his obedience class, he's also bonding with Ellen's dog Duke. Duke is a hefty yellow lab type... with a giant head and a happy tail and a body mass that makes Marshall's 67lbs look like a gawky teenager mid-growth spurt. He's pretty mellow (until the leash comes out!) and accustomed to having other dogs around. When Ellen asked if Duke could come stay with us for the week, I was happy to say yes! (It didn't occur to me until much later that I've never petsat before...so I only knew conceptually what I'd be facing!)

Well, we've reached the end of day #1 of doggie sleepover camp and I'm happy to report that we're off to an awesome start. No one has peed inappropriately...most the wrestling has been in good fun (jealousy of toys, notwithstanding)...my arm is still in socket from the walks...everybody picked a dinner and ate it...and if the level of wrestling is any indication, I think both dogs will sleep soundly tonight.

It's been funny to see Marshall go from being the Only Dog to the LIttle Brother. He's struggling (sometimes loudly) with sharing his toys...and doesn't quite understand when Duke wants to just crash out. I'm happy, however, that he's letting Duke take the lead sometimes. He's still a little more protective and wary than I'd prefer, but he's doing pretty well for his first foray into having another dog in the house. And, best of all, they're both doing a decent job of minding me. They're sitting at crosswalks...and separating and chilling out when the good-natured wrestling has turned a bit angry.

MissShirley and I have noted over the years how awesome it is when you get two or more little people together because the Moms can sit back with a glass of wine and just referee while they entertain themselves. Turns out it's mostly like that with dogs too. I'm not uncorking my merlot just yet...but I'm feeling good about the petsitting possibilities.

Centered

2009-08-08T10:25:00.003-05:00

It always manages to start innocently enough... Today it was the microwave. I moved it an inch to the left in an effort to balance the coffee cups with the flower arrangement...and noticed that there was some sort of...schmootz...lurking under there...so I moved it some more and discovered that the schmootz started life as a liquid...then spilled and dribbled and dried into something black and sticky. Then, like Alice in the rabbit hole, cleaning the schmootz led to cleaning the whole counter top which led to cleaning the stove which led to cleaning the sink which led to cleaning all the little cracks and crevices of the faucet. And now my whole kitchen is shiny except for the floor...which I may not deal with until tomorrow.

People find their "center" in all sorts of ways. Some meditate...some do yoga...others walk the labrynth or drive fast or run for miles. Me? I clean.

Chocolate Chip Tequila

2009-08-07T20:48:00.002-05:00

The Monkey is home and it's been glorious reconnecting with him. He was gone three weeks and got three hundred years older somehow... He's all full of grown-up observations and thoughtful glances and big ideas. He credits Hawaii for this transformation...and for his frequent use of the word "anti-climatic"...which makes me think maybe I haven't gotten the whole story about Hawaii yet.

On two separate dinners out, now, we've had the chance to talk about alcohol. (and don't worry...despite the fact that he's practically an old man, I'm not allowing him to drink). He's been trying to wrap his head around what he knows about alcohol and the copious advertisements for it at places like TGIFridays (where we lunched on Wednesday). Tonight's Mexican dinner led us to another conversation...

Monkey: Mommy, are you going to have a Fresh Watermelon Margarita?

Me: Oh, no, sweetie...I don't want to have any alcohol tonight.

Monkey: (incredulous) You mean that has alcohol???

Me: Yes...it does.

Monkey: Man...why does everybody put up ads for alcohol?

Me: Well, restaurants make a lot of money from it. Alcohol is kind of expensive...

Monkey: And bad for you.

Me: Yeah...it can be if you have too much.

Monkey: It's like cookies.

Me: It's what?

Monkey: Alcohol is like cookies...it's fine for a treat every now and then, but you wouldn't want to have it all the time.

Well, for now, he gets it. I'll check back in when he hits high school...

So 2000 and Late

2009-08-02T08:55:00.005-05:00

You would think that, since music is kind of a huge part of my life, I would have been on the iPod bandwagon a long time ago. You'd be largely wrong.

It's true...I had a first-generation iPod and I used it from time to time when I took the train to work. It wasn't a big part of me, though... It always seemed a little heavy and weird. I couldn't remember to keep it charged. It just wasn't a priority by any means. When it eventually gave up and refused to sync with the iMac, I wasn't terribly upset. I really hadn't used it that much anyway.

I asked for an iPod nano for my birthday this year after seeing a friend's iPod car kit. I suddenly realized that I had the option to listen to a variety of music without having a million CDs floating around my car. This was a fanastic idea! The Monkey and MonkeyDad obliged and I'm now the owner of an adorable little hot pink Nano that fits perfectly (along with all of its accessories) in an adorable little hot pink eyeglasses case that I already owned.

See? So cute!

I'm already getting more use out of this little guy than I did from his big brother. A friend from college set me up with a brand new Klipsch iGroove for next to nothing. Now I can not only listen to the Nano in the house, but I can do it in a rather audiophile way. I still haven't mastered the iPod-in-the-car part of the plan, but I'll work on that. I've also used it on the treadmill a few times (Sarah MacLachlan is surprisingly nice to work out with!).

Yesterday, however, Matt Nathanson* inspired me to really put the little pink guy through his paces. I downloaded two of Matt's albums from iTunes and was dying to listen to them...but conflicted because I needed to stop procrastinating doing yard work. Hey! Why not do both? Earbuds plugged in...Nano in my pocket...and voila! Three hours of yard work flew by...as did another hour plus of cleaning the inside of the house...as did the 2 hour metro ride (there and back) to a friend's birthday soiree in DC. Dude, this iPod thing is outstanding!

I know...I know: Welcome to 2002. Maybe by the year 2015 I will have bought into the internet-on-the-cell-phone thing I keep hearing so much about...

___________________

*Do you know Matt Nathanson? You should. Miss Shirley and I saw him open up for the Indigo Girls this summer and he is phenomenal. He also does a fantastic Michael Stipe impersonation, but you don't need to see that to appreciate his music.

That's Swell

2009-07-29T19:31:00.002-05:00

I drink a lot of water. In an average work day, I'm likely to go through 32 ounces every hour - hour and a half. Drinking water is a good thing...and, as a bonus, I'm getting up and walking around fairly regularly to go visit the ladies' room. I pee a lot.

The problem comes when that schedule gets disrupted. After a week of drinking water "like I should," a sudden day of dehydration (from too many long meetings -- because you can't drink that much water during long meetings!) will completely upset the apparently delicate balance in my body. Not only am I liable to find myself wandering over to the candy dish more...but I'll also suddenly discover that I have disgustingly swollen ankles.

Today was that day. My first meeting of the day was 2.5 hours...followed by another hour+ of denouement with various meeting participants who stopped by to comment. I finally got my first thermos of water around 11:30...met briefly with one of my staff members...and then had lunch. I met with the remaining two staff members for the next 2 hours, and then had to leave to drive 40 minutes for a hair appointment that took 3 hours.

Someone do the math: how much sitting did I do today...in strappy sandals that might not have allowed amazing blood flow...with a single 32 ounces of water?

Nevermind, let me save you the trouble: Too much.

So now I've got ankle swelling that will almost certainly take well over a week to clear (it always does...grr). I took the dog on an enthusiastic walk tonight, hoping that would help (though it hasn't yet). I'm also going to hurl myself headlong at the treadmill in the next few minutes for added fluid movement action. I still anticipate a week of concerted effort before I see anklebone again. Frustrating.

I'm trying to be optimistic about it and think of it as "sympathy swelling." One of my friends from work had a minor operation today (and there can be no operation without swelling!). Also, MySister called yesterday to tell me that she's going in to the hospital tomorrow with the full intention of turning HER swelling into a cousin for the Monkey (excitement!!!).

It's still not swell to be swollen...but at least I'm in good company.

Homage

2009-07-28T18:54:00.006-05:00

I had hoped to post pictures of my new "Colonial Slate" roof here...but I don't yet have a new Colonial Slate roof. One of the roof guys called me this morning just before 9:30 a.m. to tell me that they would not, in fact, be doing the roof today. They got behind on a project the night before and since my job was an all-day job, they would need to postpone until tomorrow.

This wouldn't have been a particularly big deal except that one of the things I knew I needed to do to prepare for the roof guys is to get the dog out of the house. Marshall sounds the alarm when I unwittingly set my coffee cup down a little too hard...I can't imagine the torture of a full day of hammering and banging and people walking around. Ellen came to my rescue (for the 123219721th time) and agreed to host a little doggie play date day for her dog Duke, a visiting former-foster named Jenny, and Marshall.

Ellen is a goddess.

And clearly the dogs had a fun day...

He's been in this position since the minute we hit the house...completely exhausted and happy. Which, hopefully means he'll feel ok about doing it again tomorrow, since I will (hopefully) need him out of the house so that they can come and actually install the new roof. Fortunately, Ellen has agreed to host a second doggie play date day. Because why? That's right...

Ellen is a goddess.

(Thanks, Ellen! :)

Done

2009-07-27T18:16:00.003-05:00

I took Marshall for his first obedience class yesterday. I signed us up for the group classes at the local PetsMart because he needs the socialization (truthfully, I probably do too, but shh...we're talking about the dog).

The assembled group was...eclectic...to say the least. Of the five dogs in the class, two of them refused to stand up, try or otherwise engage...one was a loudmouth, assertive, full-of-energy MANLY boy-dog...one was a shy-turned-friendly girl (who remained easily spooked)...and then there was Marshall. Oh, and the trainer brought her dog: a floppy little corgi-shepherd puppy who shuffled around, sniffed at everything, and then, without warning, flopped flat on the floor....as if the exertion of covering so much ground on such short legs was really just way too much.

We were a motley crew.

The class was good. We learned about kinds of rewards...how to make the "angry duck" sound to get their attention and make them stop doing the wrong things...how to make a "hurt puppy" yelp anytime they lay so much as a single tooth on us...and how to do the "watch me" command. We finished the class by learning how to give the dog the equivalent of a full body massage...partly to help calm them (and us!) down and partly to provide touch therapy and get them accustomed to being handled. It was a solid 1.5 hours and very well worth it.

Marshall was a trooper. He started out energetic and interested with his tail-nub wagging...he made good effort at all the tricks...then he moved into wary and protective. The MANLY boy-dog was loud and...unpredictable...and even though he was way over there, Marshall could feel the threat. He positioned himself right in front of me (between me and the MANLY boy-dog) and kept close watch....letting out a low growl every now and then. After we passed the "let's everybody switch dogs now" part of the program, my poor guy was shutting down. He kept burying his face in my legs as the nervous shedding increased... By the time we got to the cool-down-massage part of class, Marshall was done. He laid down, back to the group, face pressed as far into my leg as it would go and gave up.

I'm really proud of him. He survived 90 minutes of class without really aggressing at anyone despite an obviously stressful situation for him. And then he came home and passed the hell out.

In other news, the Monkey is on round two of jetlag. They flew overnight from Honolulu to Houston last night/this morning. MonkeyDad reports that the Monkey only slept for about 4 hours of the 7 hour flight. Judging by the sobbing phone call I got before I left the office, I'd say that's an accurate estimation. The Monkey told me in big tearful gulps that he's done with his vacation and ready to come home. I told him to take some deep breaths and blow out all the bad....and then take a nice hot bath and get some sleep. He'll be done in a week.

(...and then I can be done worrying and waiting and wondering if he's ok. I'm ready to be done too.)

Blowin' In The Wind

2009-07-26T21:21:00.000-05:00

I have slightly crazy hair. To call it "curly" probably isn't quite fair, if only because that's an insult to all the curly-headed people out there. My hair looks curly...but we both know (my hair and I) that it's totally faking. Without the daily scrunching intervention, my hair would be slightly frizzy, completely unruly, and unevenly cowlicked...with, on a "good" day, those fancy flippy cowlicks at my temples that haven't been in vogue since 1973. I used to keep it really short so that it would be easier to manage...but, frankly, that made me look (even) older than I am... So I scrunch and product and fluff until it forms into something slightly crazy, but pretty ok.

We've had a rather tumultuous relationship, my hair and I. For a whole lot of years, my hair totally determined what kind of day I'd have. A good hair day meant confidence and take-on-the-world attitude. A bad hair day could leave me cranky and itching to get home from work so I could pull it out of my face and just be done with it. There's probably an actual psychological condition for letting one's hair have that much power...whatever it's called, I'm making good progress at working through it.

Every little now and then, however, I'm in love with the crazy that is my hair. Though it's most predictable in the winter, the winds of the other three seasons set it free...and I remember why I grew it out in the first place.

Tonight was one of those nights. I was dreading the long drive back home after a thoroughly lovely afternoon with Miss Shirley and her amazing cast of family and friends. It was rather muggy and I was very (very) well fed and I didn't want to leave (though I knew I needed to get home) and the prospect of being in the car for an hour was loathsome to say the least.

But then I hit the open road with the windows down and the music turned way up...and my hair began to blow around in a crazy tornado and I felt...free. Overwhelmingly, completely, utterly free. An hour of driving suddenly didn't seem nearly long enough...and I began to wonder if I could justify owning some sort of convertible...and I imagined scooping up my best friend and driving for awhile before we stopped somewhere and laid on top of the hood to stare up in the sky, talking til we ran out of words... I dreamed and I sang and I pushed the stray corkscrew curls out of my eyes and laughed.

It was fantastic: for an hour, I was graced with wide open thoughts racing through my mind...and the windows down and the air rushing past while the music played...and amazing, crazy freedom swirling around my head. This was definitely a good hair day.

Text You Later

2009-07-23T21:19:00.003-05:00

The Monkey has been on vacation for 10 days of his three-week whirlwind tour: Baltimore to Texas. Texas to Honolulu. Honolulu to Kawai. Kawai to Honolulu. Honolulu to the Big Island. Big Island to Honolulu. Honolulu to Texas. Texas to Baltimore.

I'm tired just typing it!

The first few days were rough. Jetlag and four cities in 36 hours were a bit rough on the little guy. He spent most of last weekend on the phone with me crying about wanting to come home. I actually started forming the contingency plan in my head for how I'd get there if I had to go rescue him... Fortunately, after the first few days, he settled in nicely...

"Settled in nicely" really only refers to the lack of sobbing phone calls. I'm still getting regular text, phone call and (most recently) email updates of their trip. The Monkey has become a Blackberry expert on this trip and is, best I can tell, playing it like a video game. The texts have been wonderful...from the standard "good morning mommy" to "i miss Marshall" to an early-morning emaili with the weather report for the Big Island. The Monkey has been entertaining from afar.

My favorite so far has been this: Going to a jagwar musam text you later.

As cute as this message was, it was alarming too. I knew I needed to be worried about the volcanoes...and big waves...and the helicopter ride he's taking with MonkeyDad tomorrow (happy birthday, MonkeyDad!!)...but I did NOT realize I needed to worry about him being mauled to death by jaguars!

I guess I'll know he's ok when he texts me later...

New Name

2009-07-21T05:28:00.004-05:00

I was never really happy with the choice of "I Blog, You Blog" for my profile name...but at the time I coudn't think of anything else. This morning, I officially gave it up. I'm currently favoring "MonkeyMom" but I'm feeling a little torn between that and "TallL." Both are reasonably descriptive and fairly accurate...both would identify me appropriately to the handful of folks who may read my blog and my comments on other blogs....and, yet, neither is perfect...

I'm trying to stave off the inevitable existential discussion here, but I'm pondering....who do I want to be? How do you identify me?

Wardrobe Malfunction

2009-07-20T11:24:00.002-05:00

I have three pair of black pants in heavy rotation in my wardrobe. As there are five days in the week (four, if you allow for the fact that Friday's are casual), you can quickly tell that I wear all three pair every week and one pair generally makes an encore appearance. The frequent recirculation isn't a particularly big deal because, of the three, two are twins and, let's face it, they're fairly unremarkable black pants...not like anyone can really tell.

Except me.

One of the matching pair has a zipper issue: the zipper won't consistently stay up when I sit down. I can't decide if it just won't lock anymore or if the effort of holding in my burgeoning belly has just become too great for it. Either way, it's like a day at the funhouse every time I wind up wearing them. Will I unzip suddenly in a meeting? Can I surreptitiously re-zip without anyone knowing? Oh, the joys of the unknown!!

Today, I am wearing those pants. I have paired them with a cute, fuschia cotton knotted-v-neck shirt and a modest black suit jacket. Throw in the coordinating pink-pearl-silver necklace and matching earrings and the outfit absolutely has the aura of "totally put together."

I do, however, habitually check the neckline of this shirt because it hits just a smidge lower than I'm comfortable with and I don't want to be indecent at work. A few moments ago during my routine check, I noticed that the underwire from my bra had worked its way free and had crept a solid 2" above the bra when I caught it. I quickly pushed it back down, in and around...and, hopefully, out of the way of the little escape hatch it saw fit to carve out of its casing. Crisis averted.

...and then my pants unzipped.

You know, if they do finally call me about performing at a Superbowl halftime show, I think I'm just going to go ahead and say "no."

Too Big

2009-07-11T16:34:00.005-05:00

The Monkey and I stopped by Target on the way home this afternoon. I was on a quest for a white t-shirt and tank (two staples my wardrobe is currently lacking). I gathered the contenders and went to the dressing room. After the attendant gave me my numbers, I suggested to the Monkey that he could wait in the chair out front. He said "actually, I'd rather go in with you." The attendant looked at him and said "actually, I think he's a little too big to go in the women's dressing room..."

WHAT?? My kid grew up and nobody told me?! Ack!!

(Oh no! I bet this applies to public restrooms too! Yipe!)

Bugged

2009-07-11T06:41:00.004-05:00

My childhood home was part of a subdivision built around the outer edges of a series of large, undeveloped fields. It was kind of the mullet of housing arrangements: serene, 1970s abodes in the front...farm-country wilds in the back. I can understand why my parents chose it; it was a little bit of the best of both worlds...and also Dad could practice his bow hunting without worrying about anything more than losing an arrow in the field if he overshot.

For me, however, the combination of fruit trees in the yard and tall, unkempt field weeds beyond the yard's edge really meant just one significant thing: BUGS! I lived for the bugs of summer: fat, erratic grasshoppers...butterflies of all colors and shapes and sizes...squirmy caterpillars...and the endlessly fascinating praying mantis. My Mom would save mayonnaise jars for me and poke holes in the top so I could catch and observe my quarry. We'd trek to the bookmobile once a week to check out more books on entomology and bug collecting. I shudder to think how many of them perished from my fascination.

The black and yellow butterfly was my holy grail of bugs. Though I'd try, summer after summer, they always eluded me. They were too fast and too smart...they flew too high and could sense when I was creeping up. I even resorted to a net for a few years (I was generally partial to just snatching up a butterfly with my fingers), but to no avail. Fortunately, I was always able to assuage my butterfly-bruised ego with lightning bugs....lots of them...easy to catch and mesmerizing as they blinked and winked their nighttime neon. There's no grand sense of victory with lightning bugs...they're just nice.

Last night, the Monkey and I were curled up on the deck enjoying an unseasonably cool evening when the lightning bugs in our back yard woke up. We ran around in the yard for a long time catching them and blowing them off our fingers. It would have been a flashback moment from my childhood, except that the Monkey, as always, has his own unique take on things...

...yes. "Psychotically still." I don't know why... Later, he explained his fascination with lightning bugs...

I don't know if they're good for the environment or just good for the soul. Either way, I'm happy that the Monkey and I get to share the things we're bugged by.

Why Aren't You Writing?

2009-07-10T08:21:00.003-05:00

I get this (very flattering) question from time to time from people who read me here...and I love that they ask...I love that whether or not I'm writing matters to someone other than me...I love that there are people who care enough about me to wonder what I'm up to when they can't read about it.

So thank you...to both of you.

And, truth be told, I've been feeling the pull of creativity lately. The weight of the words in my head has been bearing down without yielding. I want to write...to express...to play with words and phrases and tell stories and wonder out loud. I've always said that my writing comes by the grace of a fairly fickle Muse, but I actually think she's been nearby lately...

A newcomer to the blog asked me this morning: why haven't you been writing?

...and therein lies the betrayal: I have been writing. In some ways, I feel like I've been writing nonstop. I've bantered over email...initiated "get to know you" conversations...chatted with long lost friends...written notes...crafted issue papers and justifications and program plans for work...bantered some more...and written a long treatise on why I expect a potential date to see me for more than my outward appearance (in response to a friend who suggested that all anyone really wants is a hot bod).

I have been writing. I just haven't been writing with any direction. It turns out my Muse is a tramp who will be satisfied with any wordplay I offer...even soundbytes scattered here and there.

And THAT is why I think I'm terrified at the prospect of taking on a real writing challenge. I have no idea if I can toss the Muse in a box and make her dance when I command it...focus her attention on the One Big Thing that needs writing...coax her into performing when she's tired and sated. Maybe being able to control the Muse is what separates "real" writers from armchair scribblers. Maybe I'm more of a scribbler...

...or maybe all that is a fairly crappy excuse and I just haven't tried.

...and maybe I should.

No Wonder...

2009-06-05T13:21:00.002-05:00

The Monkey's birthday is coming up at the end of the month. MonkeyDad and I got an email from the Monkey's teacher to ask whether or not we'd like to bring in some kind of treat to celebrate. Of course I immediately said yes and we negotiated a date. I asked if there were any dietary restrictions that I needed to be aware of (maximizing cupcake/sugar consumption is critical in being a proper birthday-party menace to the other kids' parents!).

The email conversation that followed was... Well, here... See for yourself:

*****

Teacher: As far as special diets, we have 2 students with nut allergies. One of the two also has allergies to many other ingredients that are typically found in cookies and cupcakes...so we have popsicles for that particular child. So as long as you keep the nut allergy in mind, whatever you want to bake should be fine. :)

Me: Got it. Nutcakes with nutsauce for everyone!

Teacher: And crushed nut sprinkles.

MonkeyDad: I have nut-hing to add to this.

*****

The Monkey is clearly surrounded by nutters. :)

Crazy Kids

2009-06-04T20:55:00.002-05:00

Apparently someone slipped both the Monkey and the dog some kind of upper tonight because they were both unable to stop moving for hours. I took the Monkey to Target with me for a few clutch supplies and he flipped and flopped and wiggled and ran and shook his way through every aisle...feet flopping, body moving, mouth talking...and all I can think is "funny...I don't recall putting an epi of adrenaline in the meatloaf." He finally passed out around 9:40 p.m. after he'd spent every last ounce of energy playing chatty games with his (stuffed) "guys" and rearranging his bed 10,000 times and Mommy, guess what!? until I thought my head would explode...

The dog, who outweighs the Monkey by a solid 10 lbs, has also been in whirling dervish mode tonight. Apparently the walk-n-poo was not enough movement to expend his energy...neither was the big barking romp through the yard to warn off invisible intruders. He just spent the last 20 minutes bounding back and forth across the living room floor, chasing his chew toys...catching them...shaking them around until they were good and dead...then bounding off to do it all over again. Intermittently, he'd run up to me and crouch down with his ears raised....ready to pounce at my slightest movement. Arrrruff!

I had thought about hitting up the treadmill tonight, but I'm way too exhausted from dealing with their energy... Maybe tomorrow night will be my night for the magical adrenaline rush...

A Pox On Your Happy Meal!!

2009-06-03T20:07:00.005-05:00

Dear McDonalds,

I can accept your food for what it is: greasy, salt-laden, sugary awesomeness. We don't darken your doors all that often...and I appreciate that you've offered up the gesture of apple slices and white milk. It's a nice thought...honest!

No, as a parent, I can accept the food for what it is...and can regulate my Monkey accordingly. This missive is not about the food....it's about the toys.

In the last seven years we have acquired, broken, saved, and surreptitiously destroyed dozens of your Happy Meal toys. Most of them are worthless and uninteresting, but they're an effective bribe to get a kid to eat...so I'm cool with that...

...until now.

Now, you've crossed the line.

Seriously??? KidsBop?!? Thanks to you, I'm not just tripping over Mr. Incredible's speedy car on the living room floor...no...now I have to be subjected to a toneless nobody emulating Avril Lavigne with the kindergarten chorus belting "Chill out! Whatcha yelling for?" And how do I feel about my 7-year old knowing the words to Kryptonite? Not as awful as I feel having to hear some pre-pubescent schmo sing it! It's torture beyond the eventual obesity from your crispy little fries.

If this weren't a family show, I'd present you with some strongly-worded thoughts that accurately capture my feelings. As it is, I'm thinking I'll simply lock your CEO in a room with the pretend-Daughtry and his perky KidsBoppy minions and let them sing to you about Going Home until your ears bleed.

Hugs and schnoodles,
~me

Premonitions

2009-06-02T17:54:00.005-05:00

From dinner tonight...

Monkey: Who's Neil Diamond?
Me: He's cheesy.
Monkey: Really?
Me: Here...I'll prove it to you...
(10 seconds into youtube video of Cracklin Rose)
Monkey: Ok. You're right. He's cheesy.
------------
Monkey: I'm stretching.
Me: You're procrastinating eating your meatloaf.
Monkey: Nooo! I was tired of the pose I was in, so I straught.
(pause)
Monkey: Wait. Did I just say "straught"?
------------

He's only 27 days from his 7th birthday. Some days, it feels like I'm talking to a teenager...and I'm shocked when he whines about something trivial. Some days, he's still the little kid trying to make sense of the world and all the growing pains that come with it. We'll talk about the theory of relativity one minute and then, an hour later, he'll apologize for making me "fusstrated." He's not technically a 'tween, but already very much in between the child and the big boy...

And it's awesome, really...seeing him grow and mature and develop. I'm just starting to become acutely aware that the future isn't all that far away. We're fast approaching the time when he won't be all that interested in snuggling up when he's sad... He's slowly losing his lisp and his tendency toward mispronunciations ("callapiddar" has been replaced by the grown up "caterpillar" this summer)... He is...sooner than I'd like, I'll wager...likely to grow tired of me telling the internet about our little chats. He's also going to eventually figure out that he's supposed to be embarrassed of some of the pictures he asks me to take...

Meanwhile, there's not much to be done about it but enjoy the ride...and the conversations...and the snuggling...and the blog fodder. If I'm lucky, the transition will be a slow enough one that I'll have time to adjust. And when the day comes and he's older...and way too cool for me and all this nonsense...at least I'll have something to read!

Milestones

2009-05-04T05:29:00.003-05:00

The Monkey and I had a lovely conversation at dinner last night. He'd been feeling a little puny most of the weekend, so he had a lot of time to lie around on the couch under a blanket and think. He's now got the age thing figured out...

Monkey: I'm almost 7.

Me: Yep...that's right!

Monkey: So...in 3 years, I'll be able to play E-10 and up games.

Me: You will!

Monkey: And 3 years after that, I'll be able to watch PG-13 movies...AND play T-for Teen games!

Me: Hey, that's true!

Monkey: And (counting on fingers fourteen-fifteen-sixteen...) 7 years after that, I'll be able to play M for Mature games.

Me: Oh yeah?

Monkey: Yes. Because you have to be an adult.

Me: True. When does a person become and adult?

Monkey: Like...twenty or thirty or something.

....or something.

Color Correction

2009-05-02T14:45:00.007-05:00

One of the pieces of furniture I most cherish in my home is the armoire my father made for me almost 20 years ago. This poor thing has been through 10 moves (I counted!) and served as everything from media cabinet to extra kitchen storage. It's currently doing a tour in my bedroom as a home for foldy clothes.

I was fortunate, a year or so ago, to find an enormous mission-style mirror at a consignment shop for dirt cheap (given the size of the glass) that echoes the wood tone perfectly. The mirror creates almost a third window in the bedroom and opens everything up tremendously.

So that just leaves the bed. The incredibly useful, hideous, unfinished pine Ikea platform storage bed with the black(?!) drawers. I like the structure of the bed just fine...and the storage has been really useful...and the lack of headboard means it doesn't take up too much space. Clearly, it has some real positives...and one pronounced negative:

That is a serious jolt of ugly amid all those lovely wood tones in the room.

I decided when I got it that I'd make an effort to stain it to match the rest of the pieces in the room...and possibly replace the black(?!) plastic(???) drawer fronts with a nice wood that would take the new color and do something interesting with it. The only problem with this plan (other than the fact that I do not own, nor have ever used a jigsaw) is that I've never stained anything before...so I wasn't sure where to start.

My parents were here for the Monkey's Spring Break, so I thought I'd ask them to lend an assist. I figured since my dad built the armoire, he'd be perfectly qualified to help me pick out the matching stain. He couldn't remember the name of the color he originally used, but thought we could find it. We all studied the piece for a bit...my mom proclaimed it "kind of golden"...and off we went to Home Depot.

In the stain aisle, I was skeptical of their insistence that "golden oak" was the color we needed. Granted, the bed is pine and the armoire is maple and...something else...but as I looked at the sample of "golden oak" on pine, it just didn't seem like the same color. I kind of thought that "gunstock" seemed more appropriate...but Mom and Dad were pretty certain. Not knowing how intense stain will get on wood, I went along with them. We bought the $5 tester and came home to check it out on some scrap wood.

...not even close. My parents were sheepish and apologetic. It was really cute.

I was back at Home Depot last weekend with a friend (picking granite for her kitchen! Yay for new countertops!) and picked up a canister of the Gunstock on the way out. I finally got around to testing it today...

...turns out my visual memory isn't terrible after all! It's not exact, but it's reasonably close...and I don't need everything to be perfectly matchy-matchy in the room anyway. So now it's off to read a few articles on the internet about how to stain stuff and then look for a good opportunity to do the deed (probably this summer when the Monkey is off on his two week adventure).

I love it when a plan comes together!

Ode to a Skinned Knee

2009-04-29T15:03:00.003-05:00

Next time (assuming I can stomach the thought of a "next time"), I am getting a small, useless, perky, non-hunting-type, ridiculous fluffy lapdog. Go pound sand with your stigmas. I don't care.

Grr.

Rolling in poo at 6 a.m. is an injustice...but I can deal.
Pulling me to the ground to bark and lunge at two perfectly nice people 2 hours later is well over my limit for things I can reasonably be expected to handle in a day.

Clearly this was not a well-socialized animal prior to my getting him. Here's hoping he can be taught before my patience with his fear runs out....

Little Sponge

2009-04-27T08:37:00.002-05:00

Monkey: ...so Daddy put the movie in his instant queue and it sounds like so. much. awesome.

Me: Oh really? So much awesome, huh?

Monkey: Totally!

Me: Um...where'd you hear that expression?

Monkey: What?

Me: "so much awesome"

Monkey: Oh...last night in the car when you guys were talking about that movie "Kissy Kissy Bang Bang" and you said it was "so much awesome"...

Me: Ahh... Cool.

I swear...the kid doesn't miss a beat. Except thankfully he didn't seem to notice my description of Val Kilmer's character in that movie... which would have taken some explaining that I'm honestly not quite ready to do just yet!

The Nicest

2009-04-17T13:43:00.002-05:00

Though I rarely write much about my dating life, I'm making an exception here. I had a date on Wednesday. It was a really nice first date and I mentioned to him that it may have been easily among my Top Five First Dates ever (High Fidelity reference...check it!).

I got an exceptionally sweet, and funny!, response back from him that is so in-keeping with my sense of humor, I couldn't let it go unblogged:

"At this point, I remind you that I never dated a lot, period. So, you lapped the previous Top First Date about fifteen times, and I'm pretty sure that the fifth or sixth time you lapped it, you started taunting it and calling it names. Quite funny..."

Ha!

How To Eat

2009-04-06T14:14:00.002-05:00

While there is a certain novelty to going several days without food, it quickly wears off when you realize you're really freakin' HUNGRY! And yes, ok, it hurts to swallow the spit in my mouth...much less some food thing, but still... A girl's gotta eat!

So here, gentle readers, is my Girl's Guide To Getting Your Grub On With Strep...

1. Take 800 mg of ibuprofen. Do not worry: this is a legal dose! Theoretically, this legal dosage should only be taken 4 times a day...but where does a "day" really start and stop anyway?

2. Wait 20 minutes. This gives the ibuprofen time to work its magic of taking the swelling down by enough of a fractional increment that food might be able to pass without making you double over in regret.

3. Choose a food. DO NOT fall for the kid-trap of thinking ice cream will do. Ice cream will taste awesome going down...the smooth delicious coldness will make your tonsils orgasm in delight...but there is no amount of coyote ugly to fix the aftermath. That sweet nectar going down leaves an ooze trail of milky, syrupy goo that you will not be able to swallow and will later gag on...along with a whole lot of other stuff that shouldn't be mentioned in an article about food. Steer clear of the really sugary stuff and go for something at least a little cleaner. I personally recommend steel cut oats. Tons of fiber and protein, slow burning (because goodness knows you won't want to do this more times in a day than is absolutely necessary), and somewhat soft enough to choke through the teeny opening in the back of your throat.

4. Get a LARGE glass of cold water. The water will be critical in making those last little bits of whatever go down the hatch...and the coldness feels gooooood.

5. Chew. I know, this sounds like a foregone conclusion, but you gotta chew like you've never chewed before. Chew like your life depends on it! The more you chew, the less you'll have to worry about that one bit of thing that's stuck on the uvula. And yes, I know that's what the water's for, but still...chew it up and thank me later.

6. Alternate water and food. Take a bite...force it down...rinse it all the way through...then start again. It may take you an hour to get through that bowl of oatmeal but consider it a victory! That's an hour of being upright AND putting some little bit of nourishment in your body. If nothing else, the food will provide a little something for the massive cocktail of strep-fighting drugs to play with down there.

And now you can congratulate yourself! You just ate a meal. Sure, it hurt and it took forever and there was absolutely no pleasure derived from the experience...but it's progress. And let's face it: you've got absolutely nothing better to do. While you're sitting around doing nothing waiting for the namby-pamby penicillin to do it's thing, you can dream about all the amazing stuff you're going to cook when you feel slightly less like a knife-swallowing circus act.

See? Always a bright side...

Discovery

2009-04-05T07:58:00.002-05:00

I have strep throat. I can't remember the last time I had strep...but I will certainly remember THIS incident. I've slept only fitfully since Friday morning...my throat looks like something out of a biohazard horror movie...I can't really manage to eat...and the three doses of penicillin I've gulped down have only managed to stabilize my fever around 100. Oy vey.

I think there's a very good reason strep is predominantly a childhood disease: kids can bounce back from it much, much faster!

Clarification

2009-03-09T18:26:00.002-05:00

Monkey: Can I go downstairs?
Me: Yes...but only for a few minutes.
Monkey: Why?
Me: We're taking the dog for a walk.
Monkey: Ok.
Me: And no electronics.
Monkey: Why?
Me: Because we're taking the dog in just a minute.
Monkey: Not even research on my laptop?
Me: What laptop?
Monkey: My imaginary one.
Me: Oh. No... Imaginary electronics are fine.