Neurotic, Yet Classy

Our Alamo

2010-09-11T13:53:00.001-04:00

Growing up in Texas, I was taught the battle cry “Remember the Alamo” early. Texans take their state’s history very personally. In learning the story of the historical slaughter, I accepted my own tiny corner of the state’s painful memory. The package also contained a piece of the indignant rage, shameful pride, and even a desire to make good on the promises of the past to ensure that those lives were not lost in vain.

Today, my Facebook news feed is flooded with a more modern battle cry of sorts, “I remember.”

I wish I didn’t.

Of course I remember. How could any of us forget the day we heard the news? How could anyone forget the waves of confusion and disbelief? How will any of us ever forget the panic that sent us to the pumps, preparing to flee if necessary?

I’d rather not carry the memory of the missing faces papering the tall city we all knew. I’d love to forget the days of mourning, silent moments broken only by tolling bells. Families broken forever. Bodies. Wreckage. Tears.

Televisions on round the clock coverage. Flood lamps illuminating Ground Zero like day. Workers covered in soot and ash. Empty fire houses. Another building falls and the work begins all over again.

I remember sitting in a wooden pew on a Sunday in September, searching for peace and comfort in the words of a pastor. I knew we all were searching together. We wept together, sharing fear and sadness.

A year later, before the memory grew stale and quiet, I found myself standing beside a truck with my husband and his brothers in uniform. Above us, red, white and blue waved in the ocean air, atop an extended ladder. The dancers gave me a rose, a hug and a kiss on the cheek, despite my protests.

The next year, I sat with those men in a dark room. For days, they watched marathons of documentaries. They had read the reports. They knew the story like the back of their hands, and they relived it with faith and dedication.

With each year that passes, the memory retreats a little. But all we have to do is call its name and it appears again, filling our mind and heart with months we would rather never to have lived.

Last year, I taught this story to children who did not remember. In doing so, I passed them their own little piece of our pain. Those children, the ones that do not remember, will inherit this shared memory just as we inherited the memory of the Alamo, Pearl Harbor, or The War Between the States. They will carry this story in their hearts without ever completely knowing it.

Sadly, though, their day will come. One day, they will live through their own September 11th. Their own Alamo. Only on that day will they begin to understand.

Then they will learn what it means to remember, no matter how much you wish you could forget.

For Amelia

2010-08-11T07:54:00.001-04:00

Today was to be her day. We were counting down till today.

Today was the day for the baby girl that came not to be.

Sweet Amelia, I’m thinking of you. In my mind, you have bright strawberry blonde hair, like your Daddy’s, with big, soft, spontaneous curls. You have a smile as big as your heart and skin like cream, fresh and soft.

You would’ve toddled after my girlies, and happily endured their doting. They would’ve felt grown and responsible on some days, and pestered on others, but you would’ve been loved nonetheless. I would’ve stolen you from your Mommy and Daddy and tried to win your favor. We would’ve giggled and tickled, smiled and cooed, cuddled and loved till you fell in love with me merely half as much as I adored you.

I thought of you this morning as I lie in my bed, cozy, calm and safe. I think of you now as I sip my morning drink in the quiet of a sleepy morning. And I will continue to think of you today, and everyday.

When I feel little hands in mine, or feel a short squeeze around my knees. When I smile at the comfort of my own green grass. When I pause to take a deep breath and let gratitude rise in my heart. When I see the reflection of my own eyes in the rearview mirror and think, “I’m so lucky.” When I hear a song I love and feel it lift my spirits. When I push myself to do what I thought I could not. When I hear seagulls. When I tell my family I love them. When I laugh with friends. In these moments, I will think of you.

It isn’t fair that you didn’t get to feel the warmth of a fortunate life, nor weather the storms of a hard one. But, this is how it has come to be. And you, dear baby Amelia, are loved still.

Life is short. Life is delicate. Life is beautiful. For you – as for life itself – we are all grateful. Today, we will give thanks, smile, and remember you.

Sleep tight, sweet Amelia.

We love you.

Four-Legged Angels

2010-07-22T09:19:00.001-04:00

BabyGirl woke up in the night last night, not an unusual occurrence in my home. After tending to her and returning to bed, I found I couldn’t sleep…also not an unusual occurrence. As I lay in bed, listening to Big Boy Bo snore, I laughed to myself. He’s really good at snoring…even when he’s awake.

This morning, I awoke and listened to him in his usual routine of stretching, yawning, shaking, and jumping down from the bed and heading to the back door to check on his yard. I snuggled with Crazy Baby Daisy as she ran through her daily routine of yawning (with a quiet little girlie yelp to punctuate), stretching, shaking till her ears create a syncopated rhythm, and then trotting off after her Big Boy Bo before she misses out on some excitement.

I thought to myself, “People who don’t have pets are really missing out.”

My experiences with my doggies have run the gamut. I’ve paid hundreds of dollars to vets to fix problems and cure disease. Heck, even recently, I’ve paid hundreds of dollars to vets when nothing was wrong! I’ve attended obedience classes and nearly died of mortal embarrassment as my four-legged pupil made a fool of me and behaved as a saint for the teacher. I’ve read book after book on dog training, dog care, and dog language. I think I’ve grown to become quite a fair and just Alpha Dog, who can command the respect of many* dogs – even unfamiliar. I’ve been through groomers good and bad, vets good and bad, dog sitters good and bad, foods, treats, kennels, you name it. I’ve cried as we’ve rushed them to the pet ER. I’ve prayed that I won’t have to say good-bye just yet, not this time, I’m not ready yet. I’ve had sleepless nights with my dogs just as a young mommy does with her babies. My career as a Doggie Mommy has had it all.

I think all pet owners would agree, though, that there’s an intangible element of being an Alpha Dog (or cat? Do they have alpha cats?) that cannot be matched. Without pets, particularly dogs, you’re missing out on a very special guardian angel.

Recently, I was at my brother’s house. Ours plus theirs made three dogs together. As I took a phone call that brought me to tears, I no longer sat alone on the floor by the couch. My lap was warmed by a big, fluffy white head and floppy ears. Sweet Thomas, my nephew doggie, came to comfort me, just as a good friend would come put their hand on your back or give you a hug as you cried. Thomas curled up beside me and didn’t leave my side. He was sad for me, with me. He was there to comfort me, protect me, make things better in anyway he could. Thomas slept with me that night, after having barely acknowledged my presence in his home prior to that moment. (Like a child, he had been too busy hanging with his cousins.)

Years ago, I remember sitting on the floor of our apartment sobbing, my face buried in the guest bed. I’m not even sure what upset me so, perhaps a fight with FireDaddy…plus, I was very pregnant with BigGirl. Bo, at the time just a little adolescent doggie, still wild with energy and very vocal, gingerly crept towards my face. His front paws leading the way, tentative and cautious, demonstrating his submission and good intentions, Bo came to me to help. He licked my tears and stayed with me. Calmly. Patiently. He knew I needed him. He was still and quiet. He was loyal. He stayed with me through his dinner time without so much as a hungry rumble. I was never alone.

My mother tells of a time she was alone, recovering from surgery. She aw0ke from a nap feeling the presence of her loyal poodle, Hershey. She could feel him lying right up against her side, like he always did. Only, Hershey had grown old, blind, and feeble years before. His life had lost its quality and my parents had already made the hard decision to put him down. They had cried and said good-bye on a surreal day, weeks and weeks prior to this one. Mother had already grown used to his absence. On this day, though, she could swear he had been there, guarding her. Tending to her needs. Showing his love and loyalty, just as doggies do.

Pastor Frank, the man who married FireDaddy and I, once told us, “A woman is like a mirror. She will treat you the way you treat her.” I think this is true of women (at least myself), but even more so, I think it is true of dogs. I’m sure there are tons of people out there that would argue my points and say, “But I had a dog and it was nothing like that.” Just as they say dogs can smell fear, they know your heart. Nine times out of ten, if you love them, they will love you. If you open your heart and welcome them into your life as a true member of your family, not just an outside inhabitant of your yard, they will never let you be alone. It takes time, but it’s an investment that will pay you back tenfold.

This morning, as I do many days, I gave thanks for my little four-legged guardian angels on Earth.

(*Note: I did not say ALL, but many. Darn that little Teddy Dog. His brother wasn’t as stubborn, though.)

Lessons Learned

2010-07-18T17:59:00.001-04:00

Some days are more productive than others.

…Which is not to say that today I washed, dried, or folded the laundry giving me dirty looks throughout my house, weeded the flowerbeds that might soon climb up the walls, windows and doors of my home like a horror film, or cleaned the floors and bathrooms that I’m curse under my breath countless times a day. No, I did none of those. However, I learned a few things today.

For instance,

1. Those awesome squeezable mayonnaise containers that boast “none left in the bottle” are not lying. Be careful how much you squeeze, because you can’t take the mayo out of the chicken salad as easily as you can put it in.

2. I really must remember not to make chicken salad, prepare two girlies’ lunches, eat my own delicious chicken salad pita lunch, and clean the kitchen between showering and drying/styling my hair. It’s a recipe for a bad hair day.

3. Flies are much easier to swat the day after they sneak in through the sliding glass door. They’re hungry and weak…and more susceptible to my ninja-like swatting abilities.

3. The word is out about $5 movies on Sunday at our local theater. Get there early.

4. Teach your children about the value of siblings. Tell them, openly, that one day, they will be the closest person they have left. Remind them that siblings are a gift to be treasured, not an inconvenience and a hassle to be tolerated.

5. Never take your children’s words too seriously. One minute, they will swear they hate each other, vow that they will never forgive or play together again, and proclaim that they wish that evil sister had never been born…and the next minute you will find them cozied up together, “teaching” each other to read, giggling and cooing at pictures of baby animals.

6. Last, but not least, I’m reminded today, once again, that life is a fragile and fleeting miracle. We have no guarantees. Tomorrow could be stolen from us far faster than my ninja skills steal it from dehydrated flies in my kitchen.

In all seriousness, I told my girlies today, “You’ll never know when you’ll never see someone again. Tell them you love them and treat them like a gift you cherish every day.”

And never, ever lose sight of that truth.

Thinking of Baby Amelia and my long lost friend, Jen, today. I love you both.

Join me, won’t you?

2010-07-15T11:45:00.001-04:00

I’d really love it if you’d join me for a discussion over at my other little place today. I’ve got some questions buzzing around my mind, and I’d love to hear what your thoughts.

See you there!

Sleeping Single in a Double Bed

2010-06-27T01:21:00.001-04:00

Tomorrow, FireDaddy will return home after 11 days on the Appalachian Trail.

My intent for these eleven days was to have one fun, relaxing day after another with my girlies – visiting family, swimming, beaching, hitting the gym. Unfortunately, my hopes did not come true.

Instead, we spent our time taking doggies to the vet, getting eyes dilated, hairs trimmed, roots colored, and running other non-thrilling sorts of errands. I changed batteries in chirp-chirp-chirping smoke detectors, paid bills, anguished over budgets, made service calls, and scheduled appointments for still more doctors and dentists. I accumulated piles of books and various household items for an impending garage sale and piles of decorations for next year’s classroom, applied for a part-time job, washed/dried/folded/hung laundry, and washed/dried/put away dishes. I reserved hotel rooms for our upcoming road trip, had Big Boy microchipped, registered dog tags, reregistered car tags, and cleaned out my refrigerator. I rose around six with the doggies each day, while my girlies blissfully slept till nine or ten. I baked blueberry scones, Mediterranean chicken, and fresh pound cake. I filled the baby pool and emptied the trash. I’ve washed booboos and blankies, heads, hands & toes… and everything in between. I fussed when they bickered, and nagged when they destroyed the den and their room and my room and the office. I’ve answered countless times each day, “How many more days till Daddy gets home?” and “How many more days till our trip?” I hugged and held them as they cried, fed them when they were hungry, and reached the cups when their throats were dry.

All of this is not to imply that I’ve been entirely miserable…don’t get me wrong. During the past eleven days of uninterrupted girliness – I’ve introduced my girlies to the Bangles, Madonna, and Barbara Mandrell, as well as continued to expose them to pretty-much-inappropriate current tunes. We’ve kept up with the latest Disney Radio tunes, and counted down to the big Disney premiere of Sixteen Wishes. We’ve played games, held our breath under water and felt the wind in our hair as we sailed down the road with the sunroof open (ahem…in my brother-in-law’s truck). We’ve stayed up late and cuddled in the night. Together, we’ve danced the Cha Cha slide, the Chicken Dance, and our very best ballet and jazz.

Coming from a mother who prides herself on being able to do it alone, I’m POOPED. On nights like these, maybe a girl truly needs to stand in her kitchen with nothing but a glass of wine, a fresh slice of pound cake, and a Zune stocked with ridiculously old songs to keep her company. It’s nights like these that I close my eyes and see myself standing in front of my white whicker dresser, and look into my own eyes in that familiar whicker framed mirror – so vivid and real that I am positive the cold mirror would meet my hand if I were to reach my fingers out far enough.

It’s funny how some things have grown so much easier over the years – like skipping songs, once a careful lifting and lowering of a needle, now a simple click of a button. Yet, other things – like the long, hot days of summer “freedom” – have grown so much harder.

When I was little, I loved Barbara Mandrell. She was beautiful. She could sing, dance, and play more instruments than I could tally. I played her records over and over and over again in my room until I’d memorized all the lyrics. I was thrilled when Daddy took us to the Maude Cobb see Lee Greenwood --- because he had recorded a duet record with Barbara Mandrell. I was worried and afraid for her when she was badly injured in the car accident. I loved Barbara Mandrell.

It’s funny how songs can take you away to another place. Take you back in time. The familiar click-click, click-click of the needle passing over blank lines between songs is fresh in my ears. Where is that click-clicking now? We push a button to skip forward and skip backward…there is no waiting. No pauses. Like MP3 files, the hours, days, weeks all flow seamlessly together on autoplay.

It’s halfway through 2010 already. My babies are seven and four. My anniversary is next week and my birthday is close behind. I’m turning 33 and I’ve been married for ten years. FireDaddy and I’ve been together for 14. Where has my life gone??? Hell, where did these 11 days go??? Before I know it, I’ll be hunting down plastic duo-tang folders and sending my girlies off to 2nd grade and VPK.

My throat is tight and lumpy; my eyes sting.

I miss the soft, scratchy static and click-clicking between songs.

Mama

2010-06-21T09:30:00.001-04:00

I was raised by a near perfect mother. Our well decorated home was immaculately clean. Her checkbook was balanced the day the statement arrived, every single month. We ate home-cooked dinners FAR more often than not. She was Room Mother Extraordinaire and her banana bread could win awards.

We had homemade, expertly decorated birthday cakes in designs that reflected our personalities and interests – a Barbie cake for me, a pizza cake for my brother, even a brown sugar sand trap complimented the fresh from scratch buttercream icing rough, fairway and green on the golf course cake she made for my lady golfer 4th grade teacher. Our lunch bags were lovingly branded each morning with our names…in calligraphy. My dresses were smocked with care by my own mother’s hands. In fact, I even had a smocked nightgown with matching smocked barrettes.

We were well mannered, well behaved children growing up. We knew to say “ma’am” and “sir” to adults. When called upon, we were trained to reply not with a “Huh?” or “What?”, but a “Ma’am?” or “Sir?” We did not run in people’s living rooms or put our feet on their furniture; and if we did, we immediately stopped when corrected – sans sass talk.

We wrote thank you notes. Our table was properly set with placemats and cloth napkins for each meal. After dinner, as we cleared our own places, we thanked my mother for the delicious fare. My older brother and I attended Cotillion when we were ten, where we practiced introductions and dancing.

My mother was not a “stay at home” mom. She was a “work at home” mom. In addition to flawlessly running the household and raising children, she ran the family home building business from her desk - keeping books, helping Daddy manage contractors, and selecting flooring, wallpaper, lighting, and more. She taxied us to dance, Blue Birds, Boy Scouts, soccer, T-ball and more. She volunteered at the local hospital, served in the Junior League and occasionally worked in a friend’s gift shop.

This was my mother.

And today, as I sit in my pajamas, lazily letting my baby girlies sleep in on this summer morning, sipping a canned Diet Coke for breakfast, I marvel at the fact that she left dishes in her sink today when she left for work.

***

I remember sitting in my mother’s closet, in awe of her clothes. She had so many clothes. Clothes she’d hung onto for what, to my young mind, seemed like decades. In reality, most of them were only a few years or perhaps A decade, I suppose. She had a Real Wardrobe, not just a bunch of clothes. I remember wanting to one day have a closet like that. I remember wanting my closet to be organized and tidy like hers; everything in its own place with room to breathe.

I remember her long skirts, scarves, and jewelry. She had earrings upon earrings and all sorts of zippered silky bags tucked away with gold and jewels inside. Her shoes and her slips were so feminine and adult.

I would sit on the little stool and help her decide which outfit to wear and how to accessorize it. She asked my opinion and listened to my suggestions, almost as much then as she still does now. She would show me shiny treasures - some hers and some mine – and tell me their stories, surrounded by the quiet in her closet.

***

I am not my mother. And, I will never be her. My home will never be as clean as hers. My cakes will never be as good, my sewing never as perfect, and my daughters’ school lunches will never wear their names in calligraphy. My checkbook will forever envy the loving care hers receives, and my budget will never be so carefully balanced. My closet is a shameful mess right now, and my baby doggie is much more at home in there than my girlies.

The older I get, though, the more I am OK with this. I am me. This is me.

I love and treasure my mother. Her home is a comfort to me, as is my own. My mother gave me love and safety everyday, just as I do for my girlies. My mother was with me everyday; everyday she gave me herself. I am with my girlies everyday; everyday I give them myself. I kiss. I hug. I love. I laugh and fuss and teach. Just like Mama.

* It’s been a while, I know. I’m not entirely sure I’m back for good, but I thought I’d make an appearance. I’ve also made a few appearances here in during my hiatus. Hope to see you all again soon. *

Would anyone miss it when it was gone?

2010-03-26T23:58:00.001-04:00

The world has a way of sneaking up on you sometimes.

Today, I came inches from squishing this booger with my new springy pastel pink floral flops. That would’ve been a tragedy. (I’ll let you infer into that statement as you wish.)

Instead, I gasped and recovered quickly enough to grab my Nikon and paralyze him into a digital image…or 9. Which is really quite funny, because I really do not care for frogs or toads or, pretty much, any of the reptilian and/or amphibian classes or phylums or whatever you call it. But nearly smearing this ugly dude’s guts all over my coveted sandals was more than enough to merit a moment of inspection and pseudo-appreciation. I mean, he did just have a near miss with his chance to be reincarnated as something a little higher on the food chain, right?

After I satisfied my urge to photo document all of life’s little oddities and chance encounters, I packed up my camera and set off for the day. As I rambled through my usual routines of prepping a classroom, Friday spelling tests, giggles and gasps at our adored daily read aloud, spring recess (the very best kind), spinach salad eaten en route back to the dining room, raised hands, messy backpacks, and our beloved alma mater ceremoniously bringing our school day to a close via “all call”, that same ugly mug played chicken with me over and over again in my mind.

I thought about him (or her?) as I backed out of my driveway. I wondered where it would go. Was it already gone? What if it decided to escape and made the fatal mistake of hopping towards the driveway - rather than away from it – and I murdered it with my Firestone? I have to trust that, were that the case, it was just meant to be. His (or her) number was up. The universe has a way of making things happen, you know?

Sometimes, it’s just time. Sometimes, the jig is up. Obviously, this fellow (I’m just going to run with the guy option. Surely if it was a chick she would have some rosy cheeks or something, right? I mean, it’s hard to find a good man out there, right? If she ever wants to make some tadpoles with a nice, family sort of toad/frog/thing, then she’s got to strut her stuff… right?) has completed his cycle of life. I’ve seen the diagrams in our science labs at school. He’s at the top of the circle. All arrows lead to him.

And you know what else? I don’t believe in coincidences. I’m certain that things happen for a reason. I think little Tommy Toad was planted for me to write this post. It’s a post that I’ve been stewing on, sitting on, trying to squish down for a while.

Sometimes, I think I’m like that toad. (Except, I’d rather be a frog, thanks. Smoother skin.) Sometimes, all I can do is freeze. Hope I blend in. If I smile and stay really still, no one will notice my buggy eyes. Be veh-wee, veh-wee quiet.

I’m going into quiet mode for now. I’m going to try to blend into the scenery for a while and just watch the world around me. I’m not motivated to write what is appropriate to share, and not willing to share what I’m motivated to write. I going to lie still beneath that pink sandal hovering above my head, and hope the shoe doesn’t drop.

After all, a frog’s best defense from predators is it’s camouflage. Well, unless it’s a poisonous frog. Then it’s painted all sorts of pretty colors. While I do like pretty colors, I think I’ll save the poison for another fairy tale.

*****

Just a note…

Thanks for reading. I’m taking a break. There’s a lot bumping around in my head right now – about the blogging and internet world, friends, family, marriage, and boundaries. Lots and lots about boundaries. I am going to take a hiatus with my notebooks and freely express without hurting feelings, offending beliefs, or being judged.

Love to you all.

I’ll keep you posted on my impending return. I hope you’ll be open to the possibilities.

Jenny

Sunday in Snaps: Raining Cats and Dogs

2010-03-21T23:25:00.001-04:00

This morning, the girlies and I welcomed the rain from the comfort of my bed. We cuddled beneath the covers watching Barbie hang ten and save the mermaids from evil Eris. My sheets are littered with Pop-tart crumbs, but my heart was as warm as the coffee on my bedside table.

Meanwhile, out back….

Daisy rested against the glass door between mad dashes after silly squirrels. Bo lingered beneath the trees, patrolled the perimeter, and made laps through the wet grass. He was so filthy by the time I was finally able to lure him back inside, I banished him straight to the shower for a complete overhaul.

For the remainder of the day, my four-legged babies pouted and paced, scratched and begged to, once again, be granted their freedom out in the elements.

Mean Mommy that I am, their romp in the rain was over for the day.

They made the best of it, though. Bo in his red club chair…

and Daisy on a soft, faded quilt…

my little ones finally figured out the second best way to spend a rainy Sunday.

I sure do love rainy “stay-at-home days”.

P.S. My Big Boy sure does smell purrty tonight.

Motivate Me

2010-03-19T22:17:00.001-04:00

As you may recall, I’m currently in the midst of an intervention. And, as interventions may go, it’s moving along quite nicely, if I do say so myself. As with anything in life, finding the motivation was half the battle, really. You know, that whole mind over matter thing. To be quite frank, I tend to struggle with a little condition of “matter over mind”.

Recently, though, I’ve reacquainted myself with my inner strength and motivation. I thought perhaps you all might benefit from some of these highly technical tips and techniques, too.

Money. As you probably already know, money can be motivating. I encourage you to consider financial punishments and/or rewards when setting up a personal goal. If you’re like me though, this alone is easy to lose sight of…like the cost of my gym membership. The thought of wasting that auto-drafted chunk of change every month has never once been motivation enough for me to drag my lazy bootie to the treadmill.

Public humiliation. When in doubt, plan your own roast. I did and I really hope I get to cancel it. I REALLY hope I get to avoid that. Really. I don’t know if I can survive that.

Circle of friends. Peer pressure is a good thing…after about 21 or so. Get a partner – or more – and put them on speed dial. My partner in crime and I have talked each other down from the ledge more than once already. With her support, I was able to resist the temptation of the fresh, hot pizza calling my name. She, with the assistance of my psychological prowess, was able to throw away a completely untouched small fry from McDonald’s. Together, there is nothing we cannot resist. Last year, I had a workout partner…until that crazy chick moved without my permission. While we ran our mouths, and laughed till our sides ached, we worked our booties off multiple days a week – despite our busy schedules and irrational harassment from a tacky gym patron. Everything’s more fun with a friend.

Tunes. Not only does music keep your energy level up while your working, but it’s been known to keep me going a little longer, too. For instance, I may be in the last two tenths of a run when a favorite song comes on. All of the sudden, I go all music-Nazi-slave-driver on myself and make a rule that I can only listen as long as I’m running. If I quit, the music goes off. Usually, a great song will be worth another few minutes of weary muscles and chest pains for me. (Then again, I’ve often said I want to find a gym where it’s completely normal to bust out in song and dance while you’re on the treadmill.)

Open your eyes. If fitness is your goal, take a good hard look in the mirror. Naked. Recently, I started my own ritual. After arriving at the gym, I drop off the girlies in the play area and head straight for a private dressing room. Then, I strip. Nothin’ but skin, babe. I stand there in the obnoxiously poor lighting from the one pitiful 60-watt incandescent hanging overhead and try to disgust myself. I look at all the places I usually suck in and cover up. Then, I suit up and head to the torture chamber, ready to do battle.

Jealousy…I mean “role models”. Choose the treadmill, elliptical machine, or mat right next to the hot chick. Watch her. Get jealous. Really, really jealous. Like – bitter and mean jealous. Let the envy soak in deep until you feel like a fat pig. Then, push harder, run faster, lift stronger – because you can be that flaming hot, too. Show that biotch what you’ve got! Yeah!

An audience. Be aware of the men watching you. You may think you look awful – sweaty, stinky, ragged and pale. Apparently, they don’t agree. Either that or they just don’t care, because men watch women working out. That’s all there is to it. Married men, single men, old men, young men – they’re all looking at you. Feel the heat of their eyes boring holes into your arse. Imagine what they see. I don’t know about you, but if somebody’s going to be looking at my backside, I hope they see a nice, firm buttocks with just enough softness for a good pinch – not a bowl of jell-o and orange rinds. Somehow, I think you might agree.

Eye candy. Look right back at those men. Sometimes, you get lucky. Just today, this totally hunky Tim Tebow look-a-like pulled up to the elliptical right next to me. Wow. Not a minute before, I had begun to back down and woos out. Miraculously, I got my second (third?) wind, found a little more strength, and stuck it out through the remainder of my mission. And, as an added bonus, I also noticed a nice looking man downstairs who, through squinted eyes and the red metal handrails of the stairs, looked an awful lot like a scruffy Chris O’Donnell. I was thoroughly entertained.

Sweet success. As a friend of mine said recently, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. No pain is worse than the sting of defeat. The miles never look more doable than when you’re looking back over your shoulder. You never feel fat and lazy AFTER you work out. Focus on these things.

I don’t claim to be an expert – by any means. But, I’m pushing. I’m hurting, I’m sucking it up, and I’m trying everyday to do better than the day before. And, that’s all anyone can ever ask.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/d_vdm/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

Line, please.

2010-03-18T13:46:00.003-04:00

This feels foreign and uneasy. I've missed the success and escape, but stage fright can be crippling. These bucket loads of dry sand I've been trying to hold between two bare hands are beating me. Emotions, thoughts, memories and words run through me as long ribbons of blurred grains - smooth like silk, warm like the sun - leaving me hollow and limp.

I turn to my bed. The book on my nightstand, once filled with passion, adventure, images and culture, now lies silently beside my clock, resting beneath my mobile wake-up call, counting down boldly to 4 A.M. Reluctantly, 5. Regrettably, 6.

Each night, I turn off the day and blanket my soul with the safety of an old quilt, cushioning my nighttime thoughts with a pillow, sweet with the scent of home. This is my retreat.

I read my friends' lines and directions through the filter of distance - miles and years. I can hear through these flimsy walls the soundtracks of their own dramas, romantic comedies, documentaries, and musicals as their stories carry on. My own movie is paused like an old VHS. Someone needs to fix the tracking. It's shaky and wiggly.

I'm waiting for direction, the next pages of my screen play.

Improvisation is harder than it looks.

The show must go on. Put on a happy face.

How the hell did I get here?

Whose line is it anyway?

March 12x12

2010-03-13T08:59:00.001-05:00

The day started ridiculously early. When I took this picture, I was up and dressed, packed and almost ready to walk out the door. Coffee in hand.

It was all worth it, though. What a fabulous day.

Sitting in the airport, one my fellow travelers- after taking a Zantax for her fear of flying – noticed we were flying on a small, commuter jet and texted her last wishes to her mother from gate A7.

“Take a nice trip with my money and donate the rest to the ASPCA.”

Her mother’s reply: What’s the ASPCA?

After a cab ride of endless traffic, we hit the streets for some shopping. The cold and rain, along with an intense desire to find deals, steals, and irresistible finds, drove us into H&M for a thorough visit. We canvassed their three floors and emerged victorious.

At tiny tables wedged between the kitchen and the wall, we devoured a warm pizza lunch. We entertained ourselves watching the hopelessly unorganized supervisor try to communicate with his non-English speaking crew and observing the constant stream of locals pouring into the little pizza joint – ironically called Firehouse Pizza. It was a welcome break from the cold and wet.

Heading onto MoMA, I ooooohed and aaaaaaaahed at Monet’s Water Lilies. We laughed and marveled at Burton’s quirky perversions, questioned and stared at the performance art and all agreed that some art just isn’t for us…namely the scary stuff.

Afterwards, we ducked into the Magnolia Bakery for a sweet treat on the go, paired it with a glass of wine at a warm, dry pub before making our way back to the hotel to check in and freshen up. We were checking out our view of the Empire State Building and gray skies when room service surprised us with a gift from my brother Jethro – a yummy bottle of champagne to celebrate our retreat.

An old friend of mine (whom I hadn’t seen in too many years to count) met us at our hotel, guided this group of lovely bumbling tourists through town to a little dive for a drink and hailed us a taxi like a true gentleman. He sent us to the Coffee Shop for the most delicious fries and chive dressing….on the side of our burgers, of course. Girl talk poured all over the table like the little bottle of Heinz 57 and our energy finally began to wane.

Back in the room, Steph and I giggled like girlies playing with our cameras and smiling at faces and moments frozen in time on the digital display of our DSLRs. While our roommates slept, we shared one set of earbuds, Zuned some tunes and Googled craziness on my Blackberry. It was the adult version of hiding beneath the sheets with a flashlight past lights-out.

What a fabulous day.

Sunday in Snaps: Toy Story

2010-03-07T15:04:00.001-05:00

After a big day down in Riverside yesterday, we were beat today and hung close to home. Consequently, my house and yard is a trail of destruction.

Oh. There’s one more.

Hope you all have had fun makin’ messes this weekend, too.

permission to write junk: granted

2010-03-05T17:45:00.001-05:00

I’ve written about this before, but some things are worth revisiting.

When I first read Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones and saw how she emphasized the importance of writing with pen in hand, I scoffed. I can write best when I type. I can type faster than I write. I had a million thoughts about how this did not apply to me.

Now, after more than a year and a half, hundreds of pages and dozens of pens, I’ve reformed. In fact, you could say I’ve “converted”. I am a notebook junkie. Not in the sense that I buy notebooks everywhere and have pretty, fancy journals. Although there is some truth to that as well. But in the sense that I have at least four or five notebooks running at any given time. What’s more, they’re usually with me – wherever I am. In my car, in my work bag, in my purse, notebooks, notebooks, notebooks. I even keep a pad of paper in the pocket of my car door.

When I write at my keyboard, there is a pressure to publish. I need to do something with these words. Go somewhere with this message. A notebook does not impose itself on my mind in that way. Rather, it is a place for me to do with it what I choose. It is a dumping point and a blank canvas simultaneously.

I wish I could say all these notebooks are neatly tabbed and organized, categorized by writing purpose or topic. But, that would be a lie. No, my notebooks are very much a mess, somewhat of a stream of consciousness. Though, I don’t always work front to back or even chronologically. My topic or purpose may be a sharp contrast to the last piece I wrote, so I find myself skipping twenty pages or so to isolate the entry. At times, I open to the back page and start from there.

In effect, I’m burying treasures for myself. On many occasions, I’ve stumbled onto a forgotten page and thought, “Wow. I like that.” Other times I think, “Ugh.” But, more often than not, I find within those lost words a piece of something I can use – some line or paragraph I can lift and rework or build upon.

Many times, momentary regret leads me to feel I should be more organized and systematic with my spirals and pages. However, I always decide – no. That would take away the freedom of the page. I never want to find myself sitting before a page reserved for Hank and Ione. I don’t want to be faced with lines allocated to emotional tirades. There is not a humor and sarcasm tab in my mind, nor is there a specific time of day or chair in which I sit for motherhood reflections. I may dream in my bed, but perhaps I remember and ponder my dreams while pulling Pop-tarts or drying my hair. I need an outlet that goes with my flow, or my flow won’t go.

And there’s one more great thing about these crisp white pages. One day, when I’m good and ready, I’m going to burn them.

Nothing to lose.

2010-03-04T20:52:00.001-05:00

*** Let me just begin this post with a heads-up for any relatives of mine who might be reading. Today? Just stop here. Really. Come back and see me another day, please, but this post is not for you. I love you all dearly, but I don’t think you need to read this Girl Talk post.

For those of you who are not related by blood or law, carry on. Just bear in mind, this week, it’s all about FANTASY. ***

In a world with no consequences, you’ve got nothing to lose. What is your fantasy?

Wow. That’s pretty darn wide open, isn’t it? I mean, wow. You’ve got nothing to lose. Nothing.

That’s actually a large part of the fantasy for me – feeling you have nothing to lose. Just letting go and running with it. I melt at the thought of letting passion and desire swarm over you. Letting it rule your mind and dictate your actions completely. Just go for it. Do whatever you desire, however you choose, wherever, whenever.

Adding the risk of “getting caught” spices it up too, though I guess that sort of goes against the idea of a world without consequences. Perhaps I should explain.

I read an article recently about a restaurant somewhere in the U.S. that is notorious for having sexy bathrooms. And, by sexy bathrooms I mean – bathrooms people frequent to have sex. Yeah. They’re not popular for their cheesecake. Diners just want to do it in their bathrooms. So, for Valentine’s Day, restaurant management decided to play it up. They encouraged couples in a way that meant more than turning the other cheek.

While the thought of standing in line for a turn in a stall does not appeal to me in the least, doesn’t it sound wildly fun to sit across a table from your special someone in the middle of a crowded restaurant lost deep in your desire for each other as you sip your wine and bide your time - until you just can’t keep your hands off each other? Impulses sweep you away. Your judgment goes out the window with reality and you just succomb. Steal a moment, find a spot, and make a crazy, wonderful memory.

Imagine moonlight on the beach. You two are virtually alone, although you know that could change at any moment. And somewhere in time, in the air between you – the air that has lessened, and lessened still more, as you felt the pull of each other. Any sense of care about being seen, heard, or even stumbled upon slowly drifted away like a broken shell in the tide. You can hardly see each other in the darkness. The sand is wet and cool compared to your bodies. You are absolutely lost in passion. The world around you is muted by the sound of the ocean rolling in and out and in again.

It really could be most anywhere, because it’s not the time or the place but the pull. It’s the irresistibility. An urge that can’t be squelched. A want turned need. That “I don’t give a damn - I want you now,” feeling.

For me, it’s not about costumes or toys or role plays. It’s not even about far away romantic locations or bodies beautiful. My fantasy is the passion itself. A passion that is so magnetic and electric you lose sight of everything else and let it swallow you whole. You can’t help yourself. You just let go…like you’ve got nothing to lose.

My Private Tunnel

2010-03-04T19:51:00.001-05:00

It is dark and lonely and the wind is strong. The sunshine is beautiful on the other side, though. I know it’s warm there. The sky there will be a beautiful blue with only a few cottony white clouds floating high above me, just enough to make the blue all the bluer.

Some tunnels are so dark and so windingly long that they rob you of the sunshine peeking in from the other side. Not mine. My tunnel is mostly straight with an easy, gentle curve or two, but none so sharp and tangling as to blind my eyes to the relief that lies ahead of me.

Going into this tunnel, the face of the mountain was rocky, barren, jagged and threatening. But when I emerge, the peak above me will slope more smoothly. And it will be green and fertile and filled with signs of spring – rabbits, deer and fat little chipmunks will be busy around me as I squint in the glare.

When at first I feel that familiar warmth on my face again, I will pause in my tracks, my hand at my brow, filtering the stark rays from stinging my dark-weary eyes. Footsore and lonesome, I will rest for a moment and suck in the calm deeply. The relief. The gratitude. I will let the sounds of life, long muffled beneath this mountain I’ve been working through, fill my ears again. They will sound brand new and beautiful to me. Even the rustling of leaves as the wind tangles them against one another will feel like taffeta to my ears.

Across the way, just beyond the shoulder of the road, I will find a soft patch of fresh clover and wildflowers. There I’ll lie outstretched on my back, napping beneath the blanket of light. Time will stop as I close my eyes and breathe. And feel. And be.

Until that day, I will continue. I will hold tight to that feeling of peace and warmth and safety as a promise, stoking the fire in my engine. I will dig deeply and scrape the courage from the tips of my pinkie toes and elbows and wear it around my neck in a locket. When I feel myself growing tired, I’ll rub the small silver charm between my fingers and will my energy to renew, my fire to refuel, and I will start again.

Until that day, I will press on.

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/docman/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

Baby Claire

2010-03-02T22:36:00.001-05:00

Author’s note: Bear with me as I fast forward a bit, please.

* * * * * * * * * *

The little pink line, faint as it began to emerge, pushed tears through Ione’s eyes. It brought back too much. Memories of hospitals and bedrooms darkened by drawn curtains and days that made her heart claw ferociously stood before her mind, front and center.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. She needed Hank to be home. She wanted him there with her. She longed to curl up in their bed together, bury her face into his shoulder and cry again for Claire, before letting happy tears fall for this second chance baby.

This baby would help make losing sweet Claire a little more bearable. This baby would help heal the hole she carried.

Ione knew she would never entirely be free from this pain, but she hoped one day she might be able to look into a baby’s cheery little eyes and not see the daughter she’d lost. Perhaps one day she could hear a girly giggle or see a curly pigtail tied in a bow without feeling like she’d been robbed of her chance at motherhood.

Claire was like a porcelain doll. Her tiny round face strengthened by Hank’s square jaw. Perfect little cupid’s bow lips, smooth and pink, begged to be kissed. Eyelashes and fingers that stretched on and on gracefully. She was already a little lady at only less than a day, a beautiful little lady.

One day was not long enough. Ione remembered a time she had wished she would just die, too. Why not leave this world and be with Claire? Maybe there she could hold her baby again. She imagined sleeping next to her; watching those tiny lady fingers wrap around her own; feeling the smooth, soft roundness of Claire’s head as it fit in the palm of her hand.

Sweet, baby Claire. Your mommy loves you. I’ll love you forever. I’ll never forget you, baby. This one – this new baby – will not make me forget you. No one can do that. I’ll love you forever. We’ll be together one day, baby, I promise. Wait for me, Claire. Wait for Mommy. I promise I’ll come for you.

But now, she needed to stay for this baby.

What will Hank say? How will I tell him? Dear God, please God, keep this baby safe.

I can’t do this again.

* * *

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/clogwog/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

I need an intervention.

2010-03-01T14:23:00.001-05:00

I love food. I particularly love sweets, but I also LOVE cheese, and potatoes, and breads, and pastas, and vegetables, and FRUIT – oh, wonderful fruit, and pizza, and hamburgers and steaks and ALL red meat, and fish, and salads, and French fries dipped in ranch dressing, and nuts, and cookies, and chocolate, and vegetable omelets with turkey sausage on the side, and Wheat Thins, and sliced apples with peanut butter, and popcorn, and Diet Dr. Pepper, and wine, and just about anything with artichokes and/or mushrooms. Oh, and recently, I’ve fallen in love with French toast. I love food.

I love to cook. I love to try new recipes. Much like my outfits, I try new recipes more often than I repeat them – with the exception of a moderately sized repertoire of “cook by heart” dishes, of course. On the weekends, sometimes I like to bake. I absolutely love to slow cook things like roast or tenderloin all day long on a Saturday or Sunday. I wish I was better about using my slow cooker because I love that, too. I love to make a big pot of soup or chili – and I think there’s almost nothing better than a homemade salad. Yum. I love to make homemade pizza with spinach, fresh tomato, mushroom, and black olives. I love to poach an egg and serve it on an English muffin with fresh basil, a huge slice of tomato and melted Swiss cheese. I love to cook.

I love to watch cooking shows. In fact, Rachael Ray is on in the background as I type this. In those long ago days of my old life, when I was just the mommy of one, BigGirl and I used to lay around all day long on Sundays watching PBS cooking shows, one right after the other. (That was in the decade that I didn’t pay for cable….Darn it, Comcast. You’re evil.) Perhaps it was those early days of her life that firmed BigGirl’s own love of cooking shows. Just a moment ago, as she ran out of the room for a quick second, she instructed me “Tell me everything I miss! And don’t you forget a thing!” So, when she returned, I dutifully filled her in on the steps of hollowing out zucchinis, cleaning mushrooms and starting a saute skillet. We love to watch cooking shows.

Now, unfortunately, these three loves come at a price. Now, I need to lose weight…again.

Enter CBS Sunday Morning. This show has “been in the family” as long as I can remember. Growing up, the only Sunday mornings our home was not filled with the soothing sounds of Charles Kuralt’s voice were the days he was on vacation. Those final peaceful scenes in which the only soundtrack is that of crickets chirping, wind blowing, and geese honking were the Closing Ceremonies of our Sundays. This tradition has carried on into my own home. A few weekends ago, they featured a story on procrastinators, during which they highlighted a unique site called Stickk.com. It “stuck” with me as a unique concept. I intended on looking it up later.

Enter my sister-in-law. She, too, loves food. She, too, wants to lose weight.

Two heads are better than one.

Here’s the plan:

We’ve made a little challenge/wager of sorts.

The Plan: We’ve both committed to exercising at least 3-4 times per week each week until June 18th. At which date, we are aiming to have lost 20 pounds. (Each. Hee hee!) You can check on our progress here and here. Feel free to cheer us on…or heckle, I guess. That can be motivating, too.

Collateral: We will pay each other $5 every week that we do not meet our exercise goal. Our progress is being refereed by impartial parties.

End Results: If we do NOT reach our ultimate weight loss goal, the other will

(a) Do something with the other person’s money (which, depending upon our diligence, could reach a maximum of $80) that they would NEVER do.

And,

(b) UTTERLY AND COMPLETELY HUMILIATE THE OTHER ON OUR OWN BLOG. I mean, we’re going below the belt. We will leave out no detail. She gets to tell the world what a lazy bootie I’ve been. She gets to tell the world what a fat bootie I’ve become. She gets to tell the world everything I don’t even want to tell her. This part was her idea, by the way.

That, my dear, is an intervention. B. It’s all about (b) for me.

Well, that and the insults my Wii Fit threw at me yesterday as I climbed back on after months of neglecting it. Man. That thing really knows how to hold a grudge and smack on a guilt trip, doesn’t it? “Looks like you didn’t reach your goal. Humph. I could have told you that already. Do you want to try again, or are you done trying to keep up appearances for my sake???” “Oops. Looks like you’ve gained a few pounds, haven’t you? ***inflates Mii to five times its original size*** There. Now that’s more like it. Don’t you agree?” “Have you been participating in fitness activities away from the Wii Fit? Have you been cheating on me with the gym? Is that why you never come see me anymore?” And I love how it talks about everyone else, too. “You know, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Diego…Have YOU heard from him lately?” I do not always like my Wii.

Gotta go. Ina Garten is on.

Sunday in Snaps

2010-02-28T20:35:00.001-05:00

I woke up this morning feeling the pressure of a typical Sunday – too much to do, too little time. We made the best of it, and all in all, it was a pretty darn productive day.

BigGirl woke up early on the office floor. The girlies had decided to “camp out” on palettes. BigGirl was the only one to make it through the night.

I cooked breakfast…

and baked banana bread.

BabyGirl brushed the doggies for me,

and we headed out to run a few errands.

We shared a quick laugh and I stole a hug from some guys in uniform we happened to run into

as we were headed into the bookstore.

We grabbed a quick Italian lunch before picking up the last of our weekly necessities at the store and heading home.

And finally, after a successful, yet degrading, Wii Fit session and a walk around the short loop while the girlies rode their bikes,

we enjoyed a lovely meal of homemade chicken and dumplings and fresh salad.

And that was when we noticed BigGirl was sportin’ a fever….Who knew?….

Have some whine, won’t you?

2010-02-25T19:45:00.001-05:00

I think it’s necessary to introduce this week’s Girl Talk Thursday with a very suitable complaint – whiners. I really cannot stand whiners. I mean, everyone deserves and needs an opportunity to vent on occasion. And, it’s only natural to need to complain a little in life. But, whiners? They stand in a class of their own…and I hate them. (I can hear BigGirl in my mind right now saying, “ooooooh…you said Hhhhaaaaate…..” because in my house, that’s a dirty word.) But, I do. I hate them.

People, everyone’s life is hard from time to time. Everyone’s got something to complain about. My attitude is – if it’s really that bad, quit whining and get up off your bootie and do something about it.

That said, this week’s Girl Talk Thursday is all about complaining. Today we all get a free pass to let’er rip. So, please do not walk away from this post thinking, “Man…that chick is a whiner.” Really, I pledge to try my best to never achieve that status. And you all have permission to smack my face till the make-up comes off if I get that way. Please, do it.

Anyhow…what’s buggin’ you? Oh wait, it’s my turn first. Get ready, folks. Here we go…

1. It’s times like these when I feel like the demands of professionals in my line of business is absolutely completely humanly impossible. It is a joke. We are taken advantage of because the world - the government, the districts, the parents, everyone – knows most of us in this line of business will suck it up and get it done, even if it means sacrificing your sleep, your family, your home, your wallet, and your sanity. And I think that stinks. It’s times like these that I seriously consider a permanent career change. And that really stinks, too.

2. Money really should grow on trees. Don’t you agree? I mean, it’s kinda hard to come by sometimes. And it takes a lot of work to keep up with it. And everyone sure does want it once you’ve got it. That all stinks.

3. Time is ridiculously hard to come by, too.

4. I cannot seem to wake up in the mornings for the life of me!! Even when I actually have a sleep-filled night, and I go to bed at a decent hour, I just can’t get out of bed in the morning! This, I think is partially related to …..

5. The weather. I am completely DONE with winter for this year. I’m ready for spring to spring and stay sprung. I’m tired of layering, tired of jackets, tired of cold mornings (see #4), tired of it all. And, I’m ready to wear my flip flops and NOT watch my toes turn blue, thank you very much.

6. Speaking of weather, we’ve had some rainy days in my neck of the woods this week…which reminds me of something else I’m totally sick of – WET PANT LEG HEMS. Ugh. This has become a major pet peeve of mine, just this season. Wet pant legs are cold, dirty, and generally icky.

7. I want to play. I want to run away for a little bit and be footloose and fancy free. Being a grown-up really stinks sometimes.

8. I haven’t had the time and energy to do enough of the things I love lately – like read (still haven’t even gotten into the flashback chapters of Dragonfly in Amber yet), write (yes, I know, I’ve been writing some…but not as much as I’d like), cook (believe it or not, I actually enjoy this…but hate it when it feels more of a burden than a pleasure), and sew (ha! those were some high hopes I had for myself).

9. My house needs to be cleaned…like ALWAYS. I’m over it. I need a housekeeper.

10. My house is littered with laundry…like ALWAYS. I’m over it. I need a housekeeper.

11. Mean kids make me mad. This week, I’ve had to take time out of my day every freaking day to mend hurt feelings and dole out consequences and guidance because of someone’s unkindness. Can’t we all just get along, people? What makes people mean??? (Don’t answer that…I really do know the answer. Well, I know some of the answers.)

12. I need to lose weight and I hate myself for it. I hate when I go undoing good hard work that I’ve already done.

13. Forgive me, people…but I’m over the Olympics and American Idol. I’m completely over them. I do not care. At all.

14. I’m also over this freaking war. I don’t want to go getting all political on you, but I think I tend to be a pacifist for the most part. (See #11 – Can’t we all just get along?) I think there is a MAJOR shortage of tolerance all over the world – and a MAJOR amount of arrogance. (oooooh…I should put arrogance in this list somewhere….)

15. This week’s SeaWorld death really bummed me out. Ridiculously so…I have no personal affiliations or anything, but I am utterly saddened by this poor trainer’s death. That stinks.

16. My baby girl doggie needs a haircut. I don’t want to take her, though, until the weather warms up. She’s sensitive. She shivers when she’s cold, so she needs all the layers she can get. (Speaking of, see #6.)

17. I need to get to the gym more often, because I need to lose weight (see #12), but I can’t seem to get out of bed in the morning to go before work (see #4). Also, I really wish my gym had more locations with child care and more yoga classes during the hours that I am available and the child care center is open. (Why don’t they ask for my input when planning this stuff?)

18. My house needs the carpet ripped out…like 5 years ago. I hate it. We MUST do this ASAP.

19. For the past few days, my hip has been all funky when I wake up in the morning. I really dislike feeling like my body is letting me down. (This is another reason why I need to get to the gym and yoga. See #17)

And lastly -

20. The really cool games that are on my laptop (like Scrabble, Wheel of Fortune, Family Feud, and Jeopardy) are no longer free to play. They want me to pay to play the games and that is freaking ridiculous!!!! I refuse to sign up to purchase virtual game tokens so I can play a game on my own computer!!!!! (See #2) This especially stinks because my whole house was completely enjoying those games, even the girlies. :(

All righty then. I feel a bit better….I think. Actually, I think writing this post just got me all fired up…crap.

In order to cool us all off again, what do you say we have a little silliness? Shall we take a lesson from that baby girl doggie I mentioned up in #16? Let’s all just kiss and be merry.

Daisy's a lover from Jenny Nash on Vimeo.

***Yeah, that’s the real me. I’m all serious like that. All. The. Time. If you have no sense of humor, people, you’ve got NOTHIN’.***

My Little Meg(s)

2010-02-22T20:31:00.001-05:00

I laughed to myself today at the sight of BabyGirl in her sister’s outgrown dress under a red ruffled top with her brown suede boots on the wrong feet. The dress is really still too large for her, so even if the weather were, in fact, warm enough for spaghetti strap sundresses, the shirt would still be required to prevent flashing the world through the too low neckline and gaping armholes. As we headed towards the glass doors of her school, she confidently slung her lunchbox on her shoulder like a purse and sauntered towards the defunct green button marked “EXIT” that she insists on pushing daily before crossing the threshold.

She is quite a character.

Today, the spring in her step reminded me sharply of Meg Ryan’s quirky walk in You’ve Got Mail. Then, the more I thought of it, I realized she is Meg Ryan. Well, in a matter of speaking.

First off, let me point out: she’s a Gemini. The twins. Soooooo true.

Twin #1: Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail

Feminine, yet not overly prissy. She’s smart, quirky, spunky, and independent. She isn’t afraid to speak her mind – no matter how giant the foe….and all of this tucked neatly away beneath the exterior of sugar and spice and all things nice. She is just so “cute”.

BabyGirl has a side of her that is sweet as pure honey. “Esscuse me, Mommy. When djou are done can djou please get me som’mor golefish?” She loves and dotes on the doggies with the gentlest of hands, pulling them to her and kissing their cheeks. She holds me, kisses my face and rests her head on my shoulder and spontaneously says, “I love you.” She’s been a little cuddle bunny from her own very beginning, wanted to be held even more so than BigGirl (always described as a cuddly baby herself) ever did. Because of her sleep struggles, BabyGirl sweetly, pitifully asks us to “soffly” her (rub her face and arms softly) until she falls asleep.

Yet, she has that joyful quirkiness and independence to her spirit that tells her to wear a short-strapped purse across her body like a messenger bag and sport shoes on the wrong feet, despite repeated corrections. (She likes them that way.)

Twin #2: Meg Ryan in Addicted to Love

She’s a bit hard core. Do not cross her; she will come at you full throttle. She holds grudges and is smart enough, sly enough, and determined enough to see those grudges to the bitter end. Her emotions are raw and unfiltered. She is a force to be reckoned with….

I told you about her first cat fight at school, didn’t I? I’ve long thought it humorous that I am more often than not rescuing her older sister from her rather than the other way around. (In fact, I cannot think of a single time I’ve had to rescue her from her sister.) She does everything with a passion – all the way back to nursing and taking bottles. (That’s when FireDaddy and I started joking that we fully expect to walk into a party one day and find her upside-down beneath a funnel.)

She is just starting to give BigGirl a run for her money with the smarts. Just the other day I overheard her spouting off (with a tone of sass, might I add) in the backseat to her big sister about Pluto’s status as a dwarf planet.

And you know the old trick of promising dessert for those who finish their dinner? Forget it. If she doesn’t want it – she isn’t going to eat it. She’ll sooner pass on her favorite dessert than let you get your way. The end. No negotiating. “Akch-ually, I don’t want chocolate ice cream,” and she’s finished. For real. You may as well save your breath.

As for cleaning up toys? “BabyGirl, if you don’t help clean up I’m going to throw these toys away!”

“OK, Mommy. You can frow dem away.”

…and I do…..and she doesn’t care. The girl means what she says.

This BabyGirl of mine surprises me everyday. It is so amazing to watch her start to stretch out her legs as she is figures out which way those legs will take her. I have a feeling, no matter which way her road will lead, it’s going to be a wild ride. We are going to have some kind of fun.

Sunday in Snaps

2010-02-21T20:44:00.001-05:00

FireDaddy took the girlies to the zoo today. I felt more than a little under-the-weather this morning, so I stayed behind. Somewhere near mid-day, I felt up to getting dressed and hitting the market. Before I ran out, though, I decided to play a bit in the yard.

I’m planning a little family shoot in the backyard sometime soon. I especially want some Mommy and Me shots, since I’m rarely ever in the snaps I take of my girlies anymore. So, I took advantage of the uninterrupted silence and sunshiny day to practice a little bit of my self-timed photo skills.

And for future reference, I discovered this is waaaaaay harder than it looks.

(grrr….frizzy hair and ocean breeze…..)

That’s all for Sunday in Snaps this week. Next week, more of the other stuff. That’s enough of me for a while.

(Now I have to find the guts to push publish….oy……)

I’m such a follower.

2010-02-20T16:10:00.001-05:00

Have you ever done something and thought “Why am I doing this???” Yeah. Me too. Really recently, in fact.

A few weeks ago, I was teasing my friend Melanie about her online gaming. When I say “online gaming”, I am not referring to the “World of Warcraft” types of games that my darling brother plays. No, I’m talking about the far more pointless – albeit no less addicting - variety, like Farmville and 4Square.

Melanie’s (and at least half a dozen other folks’) Farmville updates clog up my Facebook newsfeed. This I find humorous because I have nothing to do with virtual agriculture or livestock. Nothing, I say. Nada. So, I couldn’t resist ribbing my dear friend when her little thumbnail Google maps started flooding in on top of her pleas for help with her manure shoveling duties…or whatever it is you people do in Farmville.

And then, in a moment I’m not proud of, I downloaded that silly app to my Blackberry, and now I’m checkin’ in all over town.

“Why on Earth am I playing this silly game?” I ask myself regularly.

Today alone was worth it. Now, I am truly hooked.

The Girlies and I had to make a quick run to Target for some eye make-up remover and a new water filter for my coffee maker. A trip, by the way, that AMAZINGLY cost me UNDER $30!!! I know you know why I’m celebrating that. And if you don’t know, keep it to yourself because I may begin to hate you. While I sat in the car, waiting for my little shoppers to finish chowing down on their pretzels and whales (imitation Goldfish) so we could shop without crumbs, I dutifully checked in on my 4 Square app.

SURPRISE!!!!! “You just ousted Melanie as the Mayor of Target!”

heh. heh. heh.

A sinister smile smeared across my face as I headed in for my necessities.

Later, as I unloaded in my driveway, The Pink Lady chirped.

“Mayor Nash…are you still here?”

Melanie was pulling into Target and must have just received the news of her displacement. We had a good laugh, and moved on with our day.

A short while later, I saw that she had ousted some Random Dude as the Mayor of Chick-Fil-A. This was even better….

Me: …and how do you think Random Dude feels about this?

Her: Same way I felt when you ousted me!

Me: heh heh. :) don't you know it's probably worse when it's someone you don't know? at least you can smile and laugh with me about it - he's probably all "that crazy Melanie, the bitch, I'll show her!!!! - I'll take a number one with a diet coke!" LOL

Yes, folks. This is what life is all about: ousting your friends for a good laugh, and ousting strangers for an even better one.

We’re kicking ass and taking names.

Now, who’s up for some 4 Square??? Anyone?

I'm Golden

2010-02-18T15:22:00.004-05:00

I'm going to be completely honest with you. I really don't care much about the Olympics.

I know. You're all probably gasping and slapping a hand over your now gaping mouth. Sorry.

When I was little, I enjoyed them....you know, figure skating, syncronized swimming, all that jazz. And, there for a while, a dozen or so years ago, I could get into them...but, now??? Not so much.

Perhaps it's the change in television coverage. Is it me or does it seem like the coverage is much choppier and lighter now? It feels like it has narrowed in variety, too. But then again, perhaps its just me.

And, I'm embarrassed to admit, I'm minorly annoyed by the commentators. And the cowbells. Don't get me wrong, cowbells have a place in the world. I just don't think that place is on the slope of a snow-covered mountain amongst a crowd of screaming fans, layered behind loudspeakers saying the same message over and over again in multiple languages AND annoying television commentators rambling on and on about crap I don't really care about.

Now, with that said, it's Girl Talk Thursday. This week, we're talking Olympics.

What would I medal in, were I to find myself in the Olympics???

Oh, the glory...I could be a double medalist.

1. Making new outfits out of the same old stuff.

I can remember standing in my mother's walk-in closet years ago thinking, "One day, I want to have this many clothes." Lofty goal, right? I think I've achieved that now.

However, before that goal was realized, I wanted to present the same effect. One summer, I challenged myself. Could I go to the entire summer term without ever repeating the same outfit? Of course, repeating individual items was permitted - but never used exactly the same way. Accessorize it differently, combine it with different pieces, change it up somehow.

I think I succeeded. If not, I came darn close.

I still rarely repeat exact outfits. I tend to think of my closet in sort of a "choose your own adventure" sort of way. In fact, just this week I repeated an exact outfit and, since I'm being honest, I felt like I was cheating. I don't want to bore anyone, you know? A girl's gotta keep'em guessing.

2. Falling down.

When I was pregnant with BigGirl, I had at least three nasty falls. I remember tumbling down a steep flight of stairs at my grandmother's house as a child. I have a pair of surely jinxed shoes (or two) that I fall in almost everytime I wear them.

A few years ago, I was at field day with my class when I playfully accepted a challenge from a student to race. I held my own very well until I "opened up" at the very end. I literally lost control and found myself rolling head over heels in the grass after skinning my knees, elbows and hands.

My first year of teaching, I walked over to my desk chair at the back of the classroom, sat down, and immediately toppled out of my chair onto the floor. To my embarrassment, I almost immediately had 17 startled and worried little first graders huddling around my desk, gingerly helping me up and timidly righting my chair.

Just a week or so ago, I was headed home from school when I hit a puddle with my foot and - schwoomp - thank goodness I'm flexible. I was in a half-split (in a dress, mind you) with a bruised and skinned knee. After I picked myself up and headed out the door to pick up BabyGirl from school, the custodian chased behind me saying, "You need to fill out a report!"

I waved my hand good-bye and called to her, without looking back, "I'm fine! I fall all the time!"

So girlfriends, let me know if you hear anything in the news about these two events being added to the Olympic roster. I can win these gold medals...and I can win them with style.

Counting Virtual Blessings

2010-02-18T07:40:00.008-05:00

No one understands exactly how amazing the internet is…until you’ve experienced it firsthand. I’m not talking about how fast it is, or how the information you need is always just on the other side of a Google search. I’m talking about the human element.

Many of us who’ve dared to venture into this flat world have tried to explain the circles of friends that exist within the blogosphere to those “on the outside”. No one really gets it…and, if you’re like me, you find yourself starting to question your own sanity as you try to explain it to others, struggling to make it sound un-freaky – even though you know fully well that it isn’t creepy at all.

The internet has blessed me with a circle of friends that I never would have met otherwise. It has blessed me by strengthening my connection with friends and family in ways that may have taken years – if it would have even happened at all. And, amazingly, the internet has allowed me – no, taught me – how to open myself unabashedly to accept love whole-heartedly.

One of these blessings that have fallen into my lap is Colleen (seated at right).

You may have read my Girl Talk Thursday posts before. Colleen is a part of the crew that organizes Girl Talk. As it so turns out – by the magic of the internet – she also happens to live in my town. So, recently, we had a “tweet up” and spent an afternoon together over delicious food and amazing Riesling. We hugged tightly and sincerely, with giddy smiles, the minute we recognized each other.

Colleen embraces the world with that same tenacity. She does not shy from affection – which makes me love her even more. She never tempers her kindness and support with cynicism. …but at the same time, she can drop an awesome f-bomb (or three) over lunch and you’ll laugh till your head hurts and your sides ache.

In short, I’m so thankful that I know her and I have her as a friend, an ear, and a shoulder. I know she will be there whenever I call.

Thank you, Colleen.

And, thank you for my award. :)

Now, for the nitty- gritty. Here’s how this works…

1. Thank the person who nominated you for the award.

2. Copy and paste the award on your blog.

3. Link to the person who nominated you for the award.

4. Share seven interesting things about yourself.

5. Nominate your own seven Beautiful Bloggers.

Now, I know you’re all itching to hear seven interesting things about me…and, quite honestly, I am too. I mean, seven???? Really people??? Wow…I’m hard-pressed to come up with two.

1. I live with my heart in the driver’s seat and my brain in the backseat, holding onto the “oh shit” bar and gritting its teeth (she’s not that great of a driver). I’ve tried it the other way around though, and it just isn’t for me. If you don’t like it, keep it to yourself. If you do, come on in. You’re welcome to ride with me. It is sure to be worth it in the end.

2. My only clear memories of recess are from my earliest school days, preschool or kindergarten, at Trinity Day School in Texas. I remember standing in our little navy jumpers at the back corner of a faded asphalt basketball court, out behind the bigger building on campus. There was a chain link fence covered in a vine. As a child, I was sure it was honeysuckle, though in retrospect, perhaps it was a variety of jasmine. I remember picking and sucking the blossoms with my friends. I also remember walking in the grass, picking buttercups and touching the pollen inside the petals with my little fingers, singing Mary Had a Little Lamb and playing London Bridge.

3. I can’t stand to have my mouth and nose covered up. I have this crazy fear of suffocating. Thankfully, it’s gotten a lot better over the past dozen or so years, but I still don’t like it.

5. I will turn 33 this summer. That number echoes and reverberates in my head like the calculator screen when you divide 100 by 3. 33.333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333………………

This is not to say that I’m troubled by this age; really, I’m fine with it. I actually rather like it. (Which is an improvement. I didn’t like 29 or 30 too much.) It just always produces that mental image of duplicity…or triplicity…or, so on… I think it must be something about the number three.

6. Ever since I visited my brother in Boston a few years ago, and spent the days and nights walking between Harvard Square and his apartment and all amongst the historic sites in downtown Boston, I’ve wanted to move into an urban-urban area and sell my car. I’m “over” driving half an hour to get anywhere in town (i.e. anywhere in Jacksonville). I think this goes along the lines of simplifying my life – shop at a corner store, walk to neighborhood restaurants, trade my backyard for a park, push a stroller vs. load up in car seats. I’m getting burnt out on suburbia.

7. I’m currently in the middle of a love affair with fresh mozzarella. I keep it in my bottom fridge drawer and have a hard time not eating large quantities of it at a time. I treat myself to it alone with a glass of wine, though sometimes I enjoy it beside sliced apples or Wheat Thins, before or after dinner. BigGirl calls it “squishy cheese” and complains when she sees the package because “it’s so juicy”. I think it’s a lot like being in love with a dork. “I know he’s kinda ugly, but he makes me happy…”

Now, for the fun part. I get to pass it on!

1. My sister-in-law, Steph, has really risen to the occasion. She’s been there – tried and true – for me like no other. She and I have laughed, cried, drank, texted, emailed, chatted, talked, you name it. We’ve even sent each other ecards of questionable taste. We have always had so much in common, but recently, she’s become so much more than a sister-in-law to me. And for that, I am so incredibly thankful….even if she is a little SWF sometimes and copies my every move while perched atop a burro. I mean, imitation is the highest form of flattery, right? (hee hee)

2. Nominating Cheryl is sort of like cheating, because Colleen nominated her, too…but she deserves it! Cheryl is a cheerleader like no other. She and I have a real world connection, but it is through the power of the twitterverse and the blogosphere that we have the relationship that we have today. Cher and I dug into the trenches together through NaBloPoMo until we came out alive. Cher and I have cried together over emails and I think both of us nearly crawled through the phone at the sound of each other’s voice recently. I, too, can’t wait to see her again and give her a huge hug – and let my mascara streak down my face with my tears of joy.

3. Another blessing brought to me by the internet is this lady. I really don’t know what to link to exactly, since she’s sort of stepped out of the comfort of this little bloggy world to which we belong…and into the slightly racier world of fanfic….but I love her. Scratch that - I should have written, "AND I love her." No buts. She, too, is a budding writer. And for all you Twilight lovers, look for her red-hot-Mac-wearing lips to grace the flaps of book jackets at stores near you someday in the future…you’ll find her in the vampire/werewolf/supernatural/romance/emo section. Anyhow, Meadow, stick this award wherever you find appropriate (since you’ve abandoned your old blog) and feel the love I’m sending with it.

4. I couldn’t do this without sending some love to my real world #1 bloggy/twitter companion, Melanie. I’ve mentioned her here before…she’s the one that started this snowball for me. She can be very persuasive. Melanie and I have so much in common…I am so thankful to have her as a friend, a confidant, and a colleague. She’s got my back, she’s in my corner, and I love her. She freaking rocks.

5. I have not been fortunate enough to meet this chick in person yet, but she truly inspires me. I mean, wow. Her writing is more honest than I thought humanly possible. Her blog tells all and then some about her journey as a recovering alcoholic, lover, and woman. She has gracefully read some of my more private writings – ones I’ve written in response to her own work – writing she has inspired. She may not agree with me, but I see her as an incredibly courageous and strong person and writer, I can only hope some of that rubs off on me. She is someone I admire.

6. My next honoree is my “cousin”, Sean. He probably doesn’t care about this at all – because he all big and bad like that. He runs with the cool crowd, you know. :) Can you remember how it felt to be a little kid and watch older kids & teenagers and think how cool it would be to be big and grown like them? That’s kind of how I feel about him. He’s madly in love with his wife and daughters, and I think that’s amazing. I’d love to meet him one day. I know we would hug and laugh and have a blast – and I’d love to meet his wife and babies, too. I’d hug them all and give squeezes to his baby girls (because all babies deserve squeezes, not because I’m a freaky stalker chick or anything). So, Sean, do with this what you will, and know it is sent with admiration.

7. And, for my last blogger, I’m going to bend the rules. I’m sending this Beautiful Blogger award to another of my kindred spirits, Jen Z. A colleague of mine, she’s been talking to me about starting her own blog – and I’m TOTALLY going to make that happen…NOW! She will be a favorite of yours, I just know it. She’s witty, intelligent, and a lot like me…what’s not to like? hee hee I can’t wait to start reading all that goes on in her head; I’m positive it will not disappoint. Stay tuned for a linky coming your way soon.

All righty, folks. We've finally reached the end of this uber-long awards post. I think I hear the music playing....

Beautiful Ione

2010-02-17T21:09:00.001-05:00

“It’s pronounced eye – own,” she explained when they were introduced.

After more than sixteen years of living with her name, she had finally come to love its uniqueness. But still, she tired of the polite corrections and grinning through butchered, failed attempts.

Her mother, Natalie, loved the name since she was a mere teen herself. Rider could not talk her out of it – and, quite frankly, he never tried too hard. He loved his wife’s flare and never really gave a damn what their small town Texas neighbors thought. It tickled him to see her happy and he couldn’t – he wouldn’t - imagine his life any other way…living in her rosy shadow, watching her shine, was always enough for him.

Ione had inherited her mother’s passionate dreams. She saw herself as a world traveler. Her eye for color, texture, form and style might just be what took her there. She had inherited enough of her father’s pragmatic side, though, to know better than to count on that alone. Her life so far revolved around her goals – everyday focused on furthering her studies and sharpening her talents.

She was a hard worker, but never felt it. These things fulfilled her. She was driven and strong – her dreams and goals were hers alone. The work she did each day was personal, right down to babysitting those little bratty boys and tutoring jocks and cheerleaders. Ione looked at Hank that day as just another jock.

Hank, however, saw her as someone like no one else. She had an inner strength and determination shining in her eyes he was far more accustomed to finding in mustang ponies than girls. Her fair skin and ebony hair held the same striking beauty of a paint’s coat. She had a God-given grace and composure that could not be taught or faked. She carriedwithin her a peace and calm he’d seen only within their gentle and loyal Appaloosas.

Yes, Ione was definitely different….and Hank liked that.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/laurabell/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Sweet, Elusive Sleep

2010-02-16T23:32:00.001-05:00

I never liked slumber parties. After the fun and games concluded, my peers drifted away as quickly as they had arrived. And I would lay wide-eyed, growing more homesick with each passing minute.

Dark nights are lonely. The quiet of a sleeping house grows loud in your ears as you try to tune out the world and turn down your thoughts. Being surrounded by strange breathing and the unfamiliar ticks, creaks, and sighs of a home that isn’t yours is alarming. Time stops as you resign yourself to a sleepless night.

Insomnia at home takes on a different form.

The tiny glow of an alarm clock squeezes beneath your eyelid and demands alertness. Your worries, hopes, lists of things you can’t forget and things you absolutely must do are amplified to the maximum level, like erratic drumming from your neighbor’s garage. You are helpless.

There are nights I find myself praying. I whisper The Lord’s Prayer and then I talk to God – heaven – my angels – myself.

There are nights I read. I toss and turn. I change my gown. I get up and watch a movie or do some work. I write.

Some nights I climb into bed with BigGirl and hold her like the teddy bear I had as a little girl – the one that wore a soft pink day gown from my days as a seven-pound infant.

And, there are nights I cry. There always have been, for as long as I can remember. I cry as I pray in the dark. I cry until my eyes are dry and burn.

Sweet sleep, why must you be so elusive? Why must we play these games – you play hard to get and I chase you until my frustration tells me to give up. Move on. It must not be meant to be.

Oh, sweet sleep. Why do you not favor me? Why must you tease me so? You fill the night with your lullaby – your sweet, siren song – and I jump ship, hoping to find you, hoping you will come looking for me. But, you remain just outside of my reach – evading my best tactics, once again.

And yet, each night, I try again. Like a foolish lover, I wait for you in the night.

Again and again.

Yesterday, tonight, and tomorrow.

I lay alone and I wait.

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/zamb0ni/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Dancing In the Kitchen

2010-02-15T21:36:00.001-05:00

I grew up watching My Mama dance.

Daddy still has the same turntable stereo on which we listened to records. Sometimes Mama and Daddy would dance together. Sometimes Mama would dance with us. And sometimes, Mama would dance alone while we watched, smiling and laughing.

Now, my girlies and I dance. We’ve done so for years. We’ll turn up the stereo till the neighbors can hear and dance till we sweat and our muscles are sore. We dance to anything – classical, rock, pop, Latino, you name it. We just dance.

We dance ballet, ballroom, interpretive, and group (think: Ring Around the Rosie). Sometimes I hold them in my arms with their cheek to mine and we spin in circles and dip deeply, smiles pressing into our cheeks. Sometimes we sautée and arabesque and practice graceful arms and fingers as we tendu or relevé.

Other times, I dance alone. I dance while I cook dinner, set the table, wash dishes. I dance while they bathe. I dance and I sing and I am happy.

I know one day my girlies will look at me and laugh, just like we laughed with My Mama. Then one day, I will dance alone, with no one there to see. And finally, there will come a day when they, too, will dance with their babies. Then, at last, they will know just how happy I was when I danced with them.

A Haunting Tune

2010-02-15T11:42:00.001-05:00

I’ve never liked K.D. Lang before. It’s not that I have disliked her or anything, I’ve just never “known” her as an artist at all.

Friday night I was on my bed, working on this and that and struggling to keep my eyelids from closing. My back grew weak from sitting up, and I found myself stretching out on my stomach, my head at the foot of the bed, with my laptop beside me. A fatal mistake.

I began drifting in and out of consciousness. My bedroom still warmly lit by the light of my bedside lamp, the television still broadcasting the opening ceremonies, my laptop still faithfully standing by with my work, and I still fully clothed.

I remember thinking, Who is that singing?

I remember feeling peaceful.

I couldn’t hear the words clearly in my sleep, but the song seemed to go on forever, in a good way…like it was in slow motion. It hovered in the room above my bed.

At some point the word hallelujah broke through to my mind. Soon afterwards, I pulled myself back, lifted my head and said aloud

K. D. Lang???

and then

wow.

Since then, this song has haunted me and I’m desperately searching for a copy of it for my Zune. No luck yet, but I’ll keep trying. In the meantime, enjoy this older version from YouTube on me.

By the way…Leonard Cohen’s version? Don’t bother. He sounds like he’s dying.

The lyrics to this song have also intrigued me…you can find them here.

***Addendum – I’m even more intrigued now that I’ve read this.***

Sunday in Snaps

2010-02-14T15:05:00.001-05:00

It’s been a lazy Sunday around here.

We’ve been “Scramble”-ing with family,

chasing balloons

picnicking in the den,

tending to babies and bears,

and snackin’ from sacks in our jammies.

Take a deep breath. Enjoy your babies. Have a wonderful weekend.

12 x 12 February 2010

2010-02-12T23:22:00.001-05:00

Today was quite a day…let’s take a look at the photographic recap.

#1. The day started off rainy and cold. What a yucky gray drive to school it was. I could have stayed in bed for another few hours at least.

#2. We started our day with a faculty breakfast celebrating my friend, our Employee of the Year. Our crew really knows how to throw a party – and, apparently, how to rap….and wear heels with tattoos….and order Starbucks….and take down folks in the car line.

#3. My students and I worked on nonfiction reading strategies with a very timely and integrated Weekly Reader article on about the war in Afghanistan. We had a wonderful open-minded discussion about the past 9 years of war. It was amazingly easy to explain some very complex topics, thanks to our collective literary memories. (I was able to explain the concept of Osama bin Laden and terrorists, for instance, by using Tony D. in Freak the Mighty. Sounds odd, but it was a powerful link for them.)

#4. As a stepping stone into responding to literature, students supported their thinking and opinions using details from the text and the smidge of research about the life of an Afghan as they responded to this question:

“Do you think the Afghan people are happy we are sending 30,000 more American soldiers? Why or why not?”

Again, ….wow. Powerful thinking from my little kiddos.

#5. Among an onslaught of chocolate roses, heart-shaped boxes, scented candles, teddy bears, and various other lovies, I received this poem from a student. It reads:

Rosies are red vilets are blue you are the best teacher so Happy v-day

I love it.

#6. Ooooooohhhh….yummy. We celebrated Valentine’s Day together as a class with an ice cream sundae party. TIP: Buy the cardboard 1/2 gallon boxes of ice cream, disassemble the boxes and CUT the ice cream into squares with a big knife. It is INCREDIBLY easier and faster than scoop, scoop, scooping from a bucket.

#7. My handsome Harrison stopped by to get some smooches from me. He’s another one of my boyfriends. Love that baby! He’s SO going to be a heart-breaker one day. Girls will be swooning for miles…

#8. One of my students took a picture of BigGirl and I today. We didn’t plan to be twins, but we were. :) We love pink.

#9. Even though the high was in the forties and it didn’t stop raining all day, when we finally got home, both of my girlies peeled off some layers and locked themselves in their room. They needed time to pull out, pick over, disassemble, and just be kids.

#10. After dinner it was time to hit Mommy’s bed for a bit of Disney channel. Apparently, Phineas and Ferb are so much better curled up on my pillows or beneath my covers.

#11. With the girlies chillin’ beside me, I snatched a few moments (ha!) to chat, write and attempt to make a dent in my Google Reader.

#12. A bittersweet closure to the day – the opening ceremony of the Olympics was overshadowed by the death of the Georgian luge athlete. So tragic. My heart goes out to his family, friends, and countrymen.

That about wraps it up for this month. You can find January’s 12x12 here, if you missed it.

Be sure to let me know if you’re participating in 12x12, too. I’d love to check it out!

Valentine’s Day Dilemma

2010-02-12T19:12:00.001-05:00

I’m late. What else is new?

I received my first heart-shaped box of chocolate of the season yesterday morning at about 9 AM. I ate the four yummy little confections enclosed inside by about 9:05.

I’ve written about this holiday before. But, this week, Girl Talk Thursday is all about the big V Day. So, here I go…

I really am a romantic at heart. It isn’t that I’m a cynic or cold-hearted. However, I believe that Valentine’s Day places undue stress on many relationships: budding, struggling, and even just busy. Not to mention the alienation of the entire world of singles….it’s like the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve and they’re left without anyone to kiss – except it lasts all…day…long. A full twenty……four……hours………..of awkwardness.

This holiday forces people to lump their relationships into silos and give gifts that are suitable to the status of their bonds. As I’ve mentioned before, I fear rejection desperately. In this, I know I am not alone. For those young and “it’s complicated” relationships, Valentine’s Day builds up even more hype and tension surrounding those electrical impulses that silently, invisibly dart through the air between our limbic lobes. And that hype and tension does nothing but congest the airways, making it difficult for emotion to navigate.

I will say, with certainty, that I love to watch little people practice the show of affection this time of year. There is a lesson integrated within this day of romance and emotion. I love to see their faces light up with pride, excitement and anticipation as they thrust at you their folded, stickered, commercial valentine with your name chicken-scratched onto the outside. I smile and oooooh and aaaaaah and hug them as though they’ve just presented me with a priceless diamond ring. Sometimes, they blush. Sometimes, they tentatively and oh-so-slightly step in closer as I read the silly message, eagerly awaiting my squeeze and squeals. This is my favorite part of the annual Valentine’s Day season. It is so good and pure I can’t help but grow more than a little sentimental.

I also have lovely visions in my future mind of little gray couples sitting sweetly at a breakfast table, sipping coffee and reading. Their movements much slower in this decade of their love story, one gingerly hands the other a card. It’s just a simple card, but the words inside tell a story that brings a smile to their faces. Their hearts are still the same young, frisky hearts that stood before the world and said “I do”. The same scared, hopeful hearts that kissed the soft little round head of an itty-bitty baby. The same proud, bittersweet hearts that stood together and clapped for their young graduate. Those two lovers, who now routinely remind each other of appointments and dietary guidelines and when to take their pills and what year they met, know Valentine’s Day as a sweet gift.

So, I guess in sum, I find Valentine’s Day is best for the very young and the very old. All the rest of us just need to take more care to live more lovingly everyday.

Work Space Confessions

2010-02-08T21:49:00.001-05:00

Mrs. Taggart told my mom that my desk was messy. She showed her all the incomplete worksheets, and complete worksheets, crammed into my pocket school desk. I don’t remember or not if she dug out the love notes from Christopher or not, but they were in there, too. I remember. That was first grade.

Today, for the umpteenth time, I reassured a concerned and embarrassed parent that their child - guilty of cramming study guides and other such paperwork in the bottom of backpacks, leaving them strewn and tucked about in a classroom, or “accidentally” throwing them away before they had a chance to make it home - would be OK. Once again today, I confessed my own history of congested administrative arteries. My own paperwork circulatory system has long been crippled.

This is not the first time I’ve confessed these office sins here. But, yet again, I feel the need to bare my truths.

Truths, like this…

Go ahead. Click on it to dig deeper. It’s quite revealing.

Just outside of this photo you might find other random items, such as: a used ink cartridge waiting for me to take to school for our corporate contributions drive, a spool of pink grosgrain ribbon, a bottle of nail polish, two bobby pins, two pen caps from the remaining MIA writing utensils after BabyGirl’s weekend round of oh-so-NOT-cute game of “Pen Bandit” (i.e. hiding uncapped pens all over the house, sending me into a mad panic as I franticly envisioning large pools of black ink on my upholstered furniture), a scratched pair of sunglasses I need to throw away (Never mind. Just checked that one off the list.), and – le pièce de résistance – a 3/4-inch plastic dog tail. Not the dog…just the tail.

While I am an extremely cyclic person and tend to have bouts of neat & tidy organization followed by stretches of “I’ll deal with this later – bigger fish to fry today,” disarray, I have come to accept my piles. It is a love-hate relationship I have with them. I hate the actual piles and feelings of dissatisfaction and frustration I get from them, but I love the processes from which they result.

1. Good intentions. Look – I buy a book about organizing my space and my life…I read some of it…I get overwhelmed by the first week checklist telling me to get a minimum of 7 hours of sleep per night (I wish), jot a To Do list each morning (Have you met my daughters?), start a journal (check), limit television (check), schedule 2-minute breaks two to three times a day to “just be” (whaaa???), practice meditating (I’d love to…), schedule time to exercise (I try), schedule more “me time” (more than the six minutes per day???), eliminate energy drains on your life (You want me to retire and move away?), and “take control” of your time (This lady’s an idiot.)…ALL IN THE FIRST WEEK!!! If I could do that in a week, why the heck did I need to buy this freaking 52-week guide to organizing my life???

2. Creative endeavors. Cooking, sewing, writing, photography…This is the good stuff. I love these things. If those parts of my life leave evidence on my surroundings, so be it. I will leave my mark happily.

3. Thrift. On second thought, perhaps this should go in the “good intentions” category.

4. Motherhood. Ask me why I have pink grosgrain ribbon, a crumpled-up-no-longer-sticky post-it note with a butterfly drawn on it, random pen caps floating, a funky popsicle stick flower stuck in a wooden pot, a Lois Lowry chapter book, a sea green crayon and a Hello Kitty digital camera on my desk. My babies. I love my babies. This is my life and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

One of my favorite quotes comes from an unlikely source.

“Homes are for free expression, not first impressions.”

My piles are not a problem, they are a side effect of an alive and wonderfully diverse mind.

Now, my desk at work is a whole different story…but that’s another post entirely.

This post was submitted as a part of the {W}rite-of-Passage: Challenge #9.

On Writing

2010-02-07T14:46:00.001-05:00

Right now, I’m on an excursion within myself that goes a lot deeper than I care to discuss here.

However, there are aspects of this quest – legs of this journey – that truly belong here. They unfold here. This blog, this collection of thoughts and emotions, this trail of bread crumbs, is my mirror. Sometimes it’s a rearview mirror, but a mirror nonetheless.

In particular, this piece of my life I share with you all here is my writing. The writer in me is an adolescent, itching to spread her wings and explore. She is passionate and wide-eyed. But, her youthful ignorance is tempered by respect for masters and teachers of the craft.

I read about writing. I practice in my notebooks daily. I journal privately, and have nearly as long as I can remember. I join communities of writers chasing down the ever elusive advice and feedback that will help me grow and learn. And sometimes, as I try to improve my skill, I find that I am really working on my soul.

Anne Lamott wrote in Bird by Bird, that in order to be a writer, you have to be reverent. This line made itself at home in my mind immediately. It is an observation I’ve noted many times before.

Writing comes from within. It is record of a journey. It is a trail of emotions, visions and experiences. Writers look at the world from outside their body. They are in tune with their sensory memory and can efficiently retrieve those moments in words.

I tell my students (at times, near daily) that writing occurs somewhere between your mind, your heart, and the page. Sounds obvious, but what I mean is – when you write, you do not look to the world for the words. You dig deeper. You turn your eyes, your focus, your energy inward and climb into the core of your gut and bury yourself in the tiny corner of your abdomen that holds it. The feeling. The moment. There, you will find the words.

Sometimes it is harder than others. Sometimes you really have to push. Like holding your breath under water, you have to resist the urge to pop up. Stay there through the burning, breathless sting. Let the tears flow. Laugh out loud. Feel the pain in your hand as the page and pen bruise its back.

Now, you’re getting to the good stuff.

To me, writing is quite personal and spiritual. This, I believe is why, as my friend noted, writers love and crave an audience, but do not require one. While, of course, some words are light-hearted and don’t really “rock the world”, if you will, much of it is an expression of an Achilles heel. Whether the words are fiction or fact, there is a sense of vulnerability that accompanies the click of the “publish” button. And, when you have the opportunity to read your writing aloud – no matter how good it might be – it is like standing naked before those listening. Breathing deeply is only a memory.

So today, dear readers – and I do mean dear readers – I want to say thank you. Thank you for embarking on this journey with me. Thank you for your company and your kind words. Know that, as my writing and I mature and change, I am extremely grateful to borrow your ear, if only on a rare occasion.

I will always welcome your comments, private or public. I am always open to discuss. And I will continue to stand before you – baring myself and my work – as long as you will have me.

Sometimes I remember…

2010-02-06T20:58:00.001-05:00

…standing with my Daddy and feeling awkward, like I wanted to be shy and avoid meeting his eyes with mine. He asked me how I felt as we stood in the foyer, a plush fringed rug beneath our feet. I guess I said “all right” and asked the same of him.

I can still see his pretty, wide smile and the lines in his olive skin spreading away from his happy blue eyes. He felt great, he reported, eyes looking ahead, genuinely excited. Then he confessed his spirits had been eased a bit with an early taste of brew. We laughed and I felt his presence begin to ease my own spirits.

Everyone looked so pretty and distant through the window of the door that separated us from them. The sheer white curtain added a softness to our view that matched the haze in my mind. I stood there with Daddy, forcing a few deep breaths through my lungs, willing the oxygen to help me center myself. Find the strength to hold myself together.

I heard Pachelbel Canon in D playing and I smiled. I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined flying over golden Canadian fields. I watched the beautiful scenes from the movie that first made me love those tender, sweet notes.

Daddy opened the door. We stepped out onto the wood floor of the long, covered porch. Then, beneath ancient oak trees standing grandly in the St. Augustine grass - vivid, green and lush from a week of persistent rain - My Daddy walked me towards the river and down the aisle.

There's someone I'd like you to meet...

2010-02-05T20:45:00.005-05:00

I’m working, in the very early stages, on a story. I woke up this morning with some of the characters bumping around in my head. I decided perhaps I should introduce you to Hank.

Hank had a natural strength and bulk to his tall frame that came not from pumping random dumbbells at the local gym, but from driving fence posts and manhandling livestock. His dark brown hair, in need of a trim, revealed its hidden tendency to curl. When he was a baby, his mama had let it grow until it tumbled over his ears and rested just above his eyelashes. He smiled at the world through clear blue eyes as deep as the dimples in his sun-baked cheeks.

That morning, like every other, he kissed his mama’s gently aging face and told her good-bye as he passed through the kitchen on his way to the truck waiting out front. Rhonda always tipped her head with a small smile and closed eyes, taking this moment to steal a glimpse in her memory of that sweet baby boy who years ago toddled around her feet as she fried the morning eggs and bacon.

When did her baby get so big? When did he quit digging in her kitchen cabinets, banging on her orange Tupperware bowls? What happened to her days of preparing after school snacks, kissing skinned knees and fussing at little boys for riding ottomans like miniature bronco-busters? Before long, this handsome man she’d raised would leave home and his dutiful morning kisses would be just another memory of her years with him. They would be just another page in the scrapbook in her mind.

Outside, Hank tossed his backpack into the bed of the Chevy and piled into the cab. The morning was damp, but the air went out years ago in this ol’ bucket of a farm truck he shared with his older brother, Vince. They didn’t mind the fresh air whipping between the seat and front dash, except for the occasional Saturday night date. Pretty girls tended not to appreciate being forced to wear a windblown look for the rest of the evening. On the rare occasion they thought this month’s girl was worth the trouble, they’d resort to borrowing their dad’s truck, though that really wasn’t much of an improvement.

He never really minded school. Hank was smart and most things had come easily for him. He enjoyed learning about history and reading literature. Math classes were none too entertaining, but not too much of a bother either. The sciences intrigued him, filling in blanks and answering questions he’d had since his boyhood. Watching his father and the other ranch hands right a poor cow’s prolapsed uterus and stab cattle with vaccine-filled syringes had inspired a whole line of questions his father wasn’t prepared to answer. He’d long ago developed a silent curiosity about nature and science and how those two worlds intertwined.

What he did mind was homework. When he left school each day, his work had only just begun. There were animals to be fed, fences to check, and always, always, always the horses. The horses were his domain, his specialty. “His gift,” Rhonda frequently remarked with pride. He never had the time or energy to waste on filling in blanks on study guides or completing pages of random, arbitrary calculations, especially if he could pass the test, often spoiling the curve, without all that nonsense.

This year, though, he found himself in a French class. Vince and Hunter, his best friend since their early days of kicking dirt and throwing rocks, had proposed they take French instead of Spanish to meet their foreign language requirements...and to meet girls. Apparently, some of the guys on campus were toying with the idea of this “back door” strategy. The three had completed their schedule requests together last spring. At the end of the summer when schedules were distributed, the guidance counselor explained with a sarcastic tone, “Due to a surprising influx of student interest in the French language, we were unable to honor all students’ foreign language requests.” Priority had been given based on class rankings.

This was one time Hank half-wished his academic aptitude was more like his brother’s. Vince had struggled to learn to read. Rhonda had wanted him to move on with his friends. She feared how this would affect his self-confidence, especially since it would place her two sons in the same grade. Her husband, Jack, had no such worries, nor did the deciding powers at the elementary school. In the end, Vince repeated the first grade, making the two boys more like twins than big and little brothers.

Hank would have survived French easily, were it not for his otherwise charming Texas twang that pervaded every sentence, every word, every syllable his lips uttered. Madame Russell winced with pain at his inadvertent slaughter of the French language. For the first few weeks, he tried with honest efforts to master the throaty, breathy French “r”. He struggled in vain to soften his “j” and push it forward, between his teeth, as Madame insisted. Eventually, though, the sight of veins in her neck flaring with frustration and her teeth gritting impatiently sent him into a spin of apathy.

He had lost what little motivation he had for mastering basic French vocabulary, when Madame Russell called him aside just as the bell rang and students began pouring into the halls. She had a plan. She knew exactly what he needed – a tutor. And, lucky for him, she had just one in mind. The tutor was an honor student, in French III, and a natural with the language. Only after Madame Russell made it clear that this was not a request, but a requirement if he hoped to pass her class, did he agree to come by after school for introductions.

That was when he met Ione.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jmtimages/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

‘Fraidy Cat

2010-02-04T20:03:00.001-05:00

It’s Thursday…so it’s time for Girl Talk. Although, if you ask me, this week’s Girl Talk Thursday topic really isn’t girlie at all, if you ask me. It’s actually rather gender neutral. This week, we’re talking about fears.

This post has been very personally revealing to work on. I always considered myself somewhat cowardly, but after thinking about my fears, my experiences, and what I’m sure I could probably be talked into doing…I’m realizing that I’m a little gutsier than I thought.

But, there are still some things of which I am very much afraid. For instance,

Cliff Diving

You know those beautiful, picturesque scenes in movies that highlight the graceful arc and fall of a beautiful, tan body, ending with a swooshing splash into the gorgeous water below? That will NEVER be me. Not only am I a bit chicken to dive at all – but I’m EXTREMELY terrified at the thought of diving into the ocean. And, diving right next to a rocky cliff??? Who are we kidding? I would be splattered on the rocks somewhere between here and there – and the word “graceful” would not enter anyone’s mind. I think the words “horrific trauma” would be a much better description.

Hurt Feelings

I never want to hurt other people’s feelings. Well, perhaps never is a strong word. Let me clarify…if you kick me when I’m down – I will snap. If you hurt my babies – I’ll hurt you back. But, until that point, I never intend on hurting anyone’s feelings. I am the person who replays conversations over and over again in my head asking myself, “Was I too rude? Do you think I shouldn’t have said that? Did they know I was only kidding?”…and so on.

In fact, tonight I considering this as my Facebook status:

The irony. On my way home this evening, I passed by a pack of Jehovah’s Witnesses on their bicycles stopped right beside a sign advertising concealed weapon classes. That gave me a chuckle. Guess I won’t make the cut, huh?

I deleted it before pressing that oh-so-final “share” button because I could just imagine one of my friends reading it and thinking, “Uh! I’m a Jehovah’s Witness! What is she saying?? What did she mean by that??” I meant nothing by it, other than it was funny to see them parked next to that sign….but I was so AFRAID that someone would misunderstand/misconstrue/misinterpret the way my little brain puts two things together, and get their feelings hurt, that I just couldn’t do it.

This is also what keeps me from making a stink (most of the time) to people about incompetence. And it is a chief reason for my avoiding conflict as long as possible. (That’s not to say I avoid it completely…just until I can’t stand it anymore.)

Scary Movies

They give me migraines and nightmares. I feel sick to my stomach. None of that is FUN. I watch movies for enjoyment – not torture. I have NO DESIRE to watch something that is intended to FREAK ME OUT. Thank you, but no thank you.

Rejection

Sad, but true. I am still afraid of being rejected…and I’m how old? Yep. Rejection is still below the belt.

As I mentioned earlier, preparing for this post made me realize that I’m braver than I think.

Things I considered listing, but then admitted that I could probably be talked into doing…

I could be talked into bungee jumping.

I could be convinced to try sky diving…I can reassure myself that it’s safe enough to try because I’ve known quite a few people who’ve done it.

I could muster up the bravery to do things (hold, let them crawl on me, etc.) involving bugs and weird animals…short of eating them…Although, I’m fairly willing to try eating new and “strange” foods, though I don’t necessarily think I will enjoy them. Like ants, for instance…I could eat ants. Roaches? No. Snake? Crickets? Worms? Sure. Tarantula? Absolutely not. (I love to watch Anthony Bourdain. I would LOVE to go on a trip with him somewhere.)

I guess the bottom line is, while I’m generally an apprehensive person, I will find courage and face obstacles and challenges when I need to…or when I’m pressured into it. :) I’ve learned through experiences that I can do WAAAAY more than I think I can. For instance,

I’ve learned to love roller coasters and I’ve always loved speed.

Heights don’t bother me at all. I was slow and careful this summer as I climbed a 20-foot ladder to clean my grandmother’s windows after soaking them with bug spray in a massive attempt to kill the 2 1/2-inch hornet that invaded her house and tried to kill us all. I was far more afraid of that nasty, (surely) deadly hornet than the rickety extension ladder held stable by a near 300-pound man at its base!

I earned my SCUBA certification, thanks to a very patient, gentlemanly UF instructor who was willing to meet me at the pool – at night (yeah, retrospect…???) - and help me conquer my crippling “nose breather” disability.

And, I’m sure many of you, my fellow ‘fraidy cats, have similar stories of achievement and conquered fears. It really is all mind over matter…right?

Cheating Death

2010-02-03T20:11:00.001-05:00

This week, my students asked if I would read some of my personal writing to them. I quickly and politely declined, but offered to write a story for them, at their request. One group of students asked me to write a story about a vacation. They specifically said, “Tell what went wrong…” as part of their request. This story immediately came to my mind. I can’t believe I haven’t written it before, as it is a story that has been told over and over again since that day. Here’s the story I wrote for them today…

The boat hovered heavily above my head as we trudged towards the river. My anxiety expanded like a balloon to fill my entire chest and gut.

When Daddy planned this little white water rafting vacation for us, I’d actually been excited. It sounded fun. After all, I love the water. I love boats. We would be in the capable hands of our river guides. I had envisioned a warm spring day and sunshine escorting us down along our gentle river ride, save for a few exciting twists and turns along the way. My sugar plum fairy fantasies faded when we arrived at the river outfitters headquarters, shivering in the forty degree gray morning, and heard the news about the body.

“Well, at least we don’t have to worry about the body washing up today,” the local river expert laughed in reply to my mother’s nervous questions. We paced the floor quietly, our eyes soaking up the images of inflatable boats hovering sideways above rocks and racing water, its inhabitants clad in helmets, life vests and full body wet suits. As it turns out, he wasn’t kidding. Earlier in the week, a young woman had drowned in the stretch of the river that we would attempt to navigate today. Fortunately for us, her body was recovered only a day or two prior to this frigid morning.**

“Well, isn’t that comforting...” I murmured sarcastically under my breath.

A young man led us downstairs to the basement room where they stored the wetsuits and other gear. After they sized us up with their experienced eyes and a few clarifying questions, our wardrobe for the day was rationed and we were off to squeeze our flesh into this neoprene second skin. We looked like a box of classic crayons once we were ready, only bumpier and wearing goofy, hesitant grins.

Our guide chatted away, making small talk with us and laughing at inside jokes with his fellow river men. It seemed oddly distant to think of my warm, safe life at home in Florida as I marched towards impending danger. The voices in my head were dying to blurt out, “I’ve changed my mind! I’ll stay here! You go and have fun without me!” I considered running across that two-lane bridge that led us to the log building on the hill. The walk back to the Hardee’s where we’d eaten biscuits and eggs for breakfast wouldn’t be difficult. Perhaps I could find a little corner store, stock up on magazines and make myself at home in a fast food booth for the day. The hours would crawl, I was sure, but that seemed far preferable to being pinned beneath a raft, sucking freezing cold water into my lungs. I felt like a lemming – deathly afraid to go, but too chicken to speak out against the herd.

As the men, both taller and stronger than us ladies, righted the raft and set it afloat, I listened to the last minute review of safety procedures. Stay out of the bottom of the raft. If you find yourself taking an accidental plunge, extend your paddle and never let it go – this is your lifeline. Keep your feet up so you don’t get snared on fallen trees or other dangers beneath the surface. Listen to your guide. Listen and follow instructions...for dear life.

I have never in my life felt so close to death. I’ve never been to war or in the presence of malicious gunfire. I’ve never felt like my life depended on the clarity of my thinking and my physical abilities, until that day.

As we overtook the first rapids, my apprehension would blur and sharpen like the manual focus of a lens. When he told us we were approaching “Decision” rapid, I yearned to raise my hand and give up. “I quit! I’m done! Call the helicopter and get me out of this canyon!” I imagined myself announcing to the world. But, again, I refrained.

With each rapid we conquered, I whole-heartedly participated in the traditional paddles up “YEEEEEHAAAAAAWWWW!!” celebration. I felt my spirit give thanks that I would live to see the next round of torture in the watery path between me and the rickety, powder blue school bus that would take us back to safety.

The “Big Nasty” lived up to its name. My mother, just as terrified as I, had been unable to heed our guide’s advice. She had fearfully wadded her body up between the inflatable bolsters that spanned the width of the raft. She felt, inaccurately, safer on the thin synthetic floor of the vessel...until she found herself in the 50-degree raging river. Mascara streaking down her face, her short hair plastered to her skin beneath her plastic helmet, she gasped for air as she surfaced. The life vest kept her afloat as our guide hollered for her to hold out her paddle. I barely saw her paddle, now dangerous extension of her arm, reaching towards our boat, just as my Marine brother, a trained and professional hero, toppled into the river. In a blur of wet faces and choppy water, I saw the knot welling up on my brother’s head. My mother’s attempt at rescue had smacked him forcefully just above his eye. With a surreal smoothness, our guide expertly plucked my mother’s vest from the water and deposited her exhausted, stunned body in the boat at his feet. As he gave my brother his arm, everyone’s breath escaped in relief. We were unaware that we’d even been holding it.

“HE SAID NOT TO SIT ON THE BOTTOM OF THE BOAT, MOTHER!” I scolded her, rage quickly responding to my overwhelming fear. I had been afraid my mother would suffer more than just a sharp splash into icy waters. Once I realized the danger had passed, I couldn’t help being mad at her for putting herself into such a dangerous predicament – she should have followed directions! I took this as a personal lesson and reinforced my thighs and rear with steely muscles. “I will NOT,” I silently pledged, “be bounced into that river,” and I would sooner cripple myself than risk suffocating beneath a boat.

At some point between a heartfelt YEEHAW and the relentless sprouting of a fresh batch of terror, I heard our guide hollering to his counterpart on another raft in the fleet. It was lunchtime. They were making plans for a cliffhanger picnic, literally.

The guides nimbly hopped from their respective boats onto a rocky ledge on the canyon wall. They were patient and gentle as they offered their strong, steady hold to each of us as we abandoned the familiarity of our air-filled seats for the questionable security of this spot of earth. We clustered around the tiny campfire, begging for warmth; not only was the river stealing our body heat with its persistent spray and splashes, but the wind and sprinkling rain worked to fill in the blanks between the river’s attacks. Our bodies ached with cold.

For just a moment, I allowed my mind to float away, escaping to the day years ago when we picnicked on the Hawaiian Island of Lanai. Our adventure of sailing and snorkeling had been unexpectedly punctuated by a delicious, luxurious teriyaki lunch. Perhaps these guides had a similar treat planned. Perhaps they’d serve up some “river cowboy” stew to nourish our fatigue and famine. Once again, my daydreams were cut short as I held out my hand to accept a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Lovely. This is even better,” I laughed at my own disappointment.

After an all too short relief from our mental and physical stress, we found ourselves piling back into the boats and launching for the remainder of the gorge. I was resigned to gut through the journey and eager for my next steps on solid ground.

After an irrelevant stretch of time, we heard the tone of our guide’s voice change as he refreshed our memory to the safety precautions outlined at the start of the trip. He spoke with no degree of humor, explaining the severity and danger of the rapid we would next attack. This rapid, the Coliseum, is categorized class IV+. A class VI rapid is often thought of as unnavigable, a class V is “expert”, requiring extensively practiced rescue skills. I must have worn the face of a prisoner standing before a firing squad. My life would surely end that day. I was positive I would not survive this obstacle.

Again, I hunkered down and stabbed my will to live into the water with my oar. I met every command with the strength of my bones. My jaw painfully clamped, as though trying to hoard air into my lungs, preparing for the worst-case scenario. I was so intently focused on my role in this unlikely crew, that I didn’t immediately notice the guide climbing out of his seat and onto the boulder in the river, the boulder on which our boat was now pinned. I also didn’t notice him pulling passengers out of the boat and onto the rock beside him, until I heard the shouts.

My mother and the other, now faceless, mariners were hollering to me. “Move! Get over here! Get up and move!”

I tried in my shock and confusion to move, but something was stopping me. There was a rope – nothing of consequence, just enough to fluster my blurred thinking, just enough to stun me into helplessness. In my memory, it feels like minutes; in actuality, I’m sure it wasn’t even seconds. Once again, Our Heroic Guide, employed his brute strength and quick thinking to snatch me up from my assigned seat. He pulled my body like a rag doll to the top of the boat, and I watched my seat flood before my eyes. I saw the ghost of my body as the water pulled it under and buried it in a watery grave.

The next few moments are lost to me. I do not remember returning to my seat. I do not remember freeing ourselves from the rock. I do not remember racing through the fall. What I do remember is my breath and blood flooding through my body finally as I heard Our Heroic Guide laugh in celebration with a fellow river runner. I do remember the oars up YEEHAW that I witnessed from above the boat, in an out of body moment. I do remember the numbness that protected me from the reality of the moment.

And, I’ll never, ever, as long as I live, forget the moment my feet finally touched that riverbank. I was alive. I climbed that sleek, muddy incline, thankful for the pain I felt in my thighs. I was thankful for the trees that canopied above me. I was thankful for the smelly exhaust from the pitiful bus in which we rode home. I was thankful for the silent, albeit fearful in its own narrow, winding, mountainside way, bus ride back to that log building on the Cheat River. I was thankful for my dry clothes and the rented mini-van waiting in the gravel parking lot. I was thankful for the hotel bed hours away that would later shelter my weary, empty body.

And, the next morning, I was mostly thankful for the strong arm that helped me lift my dilapidated body from its resting place, for without it, I could not have moved.

**As I was researching the Cheat River Canyon today, trying to remember the name of the fall that nearly got me, I stumbled on this link. Apparently, outdoorsmen have a way of playing with time. I found this report detailing the events of the woman’s death. However, it actually occurred a few years prior to our arrival…not a few days. But, the story is so much sweeter the way they told it. :)

This post was also submitted as a part of {W}rite-of Passage challenge #8: Plot.

Table Talk

2010-02-02T20:15:00.001-05:00

“So, tell me about your day,” I usually begin.

Inevitably, my initial maneuvers do not produce much chatter, leaving me to follow up with one of the many other questions I keep handy like the shiny, steel tools of a dentist. I am prepped to pull teeth at a moment’s notice.

What was the best part of your day today? Your least favorite part?

Did you ask any questions today?

What did you write about in writers’ workshop today?

Who did you play with on the playground?

How was tumbling?

What books did your teacher read to you?

How did you and [insert other half of recently unstable friendship] get along today?

Who did you sit next to at lunch?

On most evenings, I’ve usually cracked the safe after one or two questions. In fact, I often need to regroup and try to reel their focus back to the meal.

This evening, BigGirl’s topic of daily review focused around boys. (Like mother, like daughter!)

For a few months now, I’ve silently suspected that Boy #1 has a bit of a puppy crush on my girl. This is, of course, based in part on tales of playful teasing I’ve heard, but also on a few exchanges I’ve witnessed from across the room or playground. My girl rolls her eyes as she tells all about how he always sits next to her and has given her his own little nickname for her. I happen to believe he’s pulling her pigtails…if you know what I mean.

Boy #2 is new on the scene. I don’t know him, and I’m really pulling out all the stops to get any good leads on him…but by the sound of the preliminary intelligence I’ve gathered thus far, he too “could be a contender”.

Chiming in from the other side of the table, BabyGirl eagerly spent her precious “turn to talk” stringing together a long, drawn-out tale that could captivate the attention of a herd of cats. Tonight she told us all about playing on a bouncy house inside the gymnasium (“because it was too cold and windy to go out on the playground, Ms. Teacher said”) until the real live horse that was at her school ran away, but – luckily for us – the baby horse (Yeah, you didn’t know there was a baby horse, did ya?) stayed…well, that is, until Bad Boy in her class called it a poo-poo face and Ms. Teacher told the boys and girls a story about a baby alligator. “But, last night, when I was born, I read that book before,” she finally concluded.

Perplexed? So are we. Every. Single. Time.

Regardless of believability (or even coherence) of their dinner table tales, I love listening to their little memories (and fantasies) of the day.

Oh, and the sweetest part? Many nights, after BigGirl’s rattled on and on about her daily dose of drama for a while, she gets a little quiet before cheerily looking across the table at me and saying, “So, Mommy. How was your day?”

…deep breaths…deeeeeep breaths…

2010-02-01T20:18:00.001-05:00

Today got the best of me. Not even a good pair of boots, a gray pencil skirt, or a happy, springy coral beaded necklace could lift me out of my funk. I hate days like today. Days when you feel sticky. Days that feel like trying to open up Duck Tape that has folded closed on itself. Days when you just want to sit down and watch a bird nonchalantly pick at something on the ground near your feet, while the world speeds on and on around you in a blur, the people leaving colored trails in their wake. Days when you’d like nothing more than to draw your curtains, crawl back into bed, and let the cool, smooth softness of your favorite sheets envelope your toes, feet, legs. Let the gentle weight of the quilt cradle your bruised heart as you drift off to the place in your mind you can control, where you can feel smiles beneath your belly button and see love and happiness like an aura around you.

Your happy place.

As I was driving home tonight, feeling that awful ball of negativity welling up inside my chest, I decided I would play a game of reverse psychology with myself. This evening, rather than write all about how sad or miserable I can feel…I’ll write about what makes me happy. I’ll go to my happy place and bask in it for a moment…or two…or maybe more.

I’ll think about driving in a red car with all the windows rolled down. The music is loud and I sing with my companion at the top of our lungs. We feel the wind whip our hair around our faces and necks and we extend our hands out into the strong currents of wind pushing past the car. We smile and look towards the open road ahead. We feel free and young and alive and amazing.

I’ll think about sitting on the beach. I can feel the sand between my toes and in the cuticles next to my Marilyn Monroe Red toenails. The water washes up beneath my chair and laps up over my calves. I raise my book so it doesn’t get wet, and squeal with a start as the salt water chills my warm body. As the water recedes, I watch the wet sand run away into the surf with the last traces of water. My feet and heels sink deeper into the sandy earth, and I wiggle my toes like a little girl.

I’ll think about swinging at a park with my girls. We pump our legs high and hard, trying to touch the sky with the points of our toes. We giggle and shriek as our tummies flip flop and try to escape our bodies. We are sure our bottoms will lift from our seats at any moment, sending us sailing through the air. If only we had wings, we would take off and join the birds in the sky above us.

I’ll think about walking on a city street, alone. Smiling at people as they pass, slowing to look in windows whenever something pretty or shiny catches my eye. I have time to take, and I am calm and quiet amidst the chatty, busy herd of pedestrians. My skin is smooth and cool to the touch as I brush stray hairs from my face. I turn away from the display that caught my eye, towards the smiling face that called my name. My heart warms at the sight of an old friend as we hug, thankful for this unexpected treat.

I’ll think about laughing. A good, loud, down to my toes laugh. The kind that makes you throw your head back and laugh with your mouth wide open, almost as though trying to catch rain or snow on your tongue. The kind that makes your sides hurt and your cheeks cramp. A laugh that brings tears to your eyes and steals your breath. The kind of laugh that makes you want to touch someone – lean into them, share a hug, a smiling kiss.

These are my happy places. I’ll run away there and breath deeply.

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/alternatewords/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

My Little-Big BabyGirl

2010-01-31T11:38:00.001-05:00

I write here so often about BigGirl, and really quite rarely about BabyGirl. This, of course, has nothing to do with any discrepancies in my love for the two of them, but all to do with the nature of the relationship between a 6 1/2 year-old and her mommy, versus a 3 1/2 year-old and her mommy. However, I can honestly say that I can see this is all about to change.

BabyGirl is still my little Snuggle Bunny and Whiny Britches. She’s the youngest, she knows it, and she takes full advantage of that status. She still gets “free rides” whenever she wants them. She has her own little blue pillow for sleeping in my bed beside me. She is “scared” to be alone, even in her own room when it’s bright as day. She has a “woe is me, I’m so pitiful” face that could win academy awards…if it didn’t make you laugh. She can stick that lip out at least a mile.

But, everyday she’s growing up. She’s pushing and testing and sassing and declaring her independence – but only when she wants it.

“No – I do it!” as a two inch length of toothpaste falls into the sink.

“No – I can do it!” as she pours half a cup of parmesan cheese onto her plate, and then asks for a spoon.

“No – I don’t wanna wear dat. I look like a BOY!” as she sees me approach her only pair of jeans.

“No – I don’t want dessert!” as she climbs down from her chair, refusing to eat her meat. (Apparently, she’s interested in trying vegetarianism.)

All of this, and I can honestly say she’s actually getting better. This is NOTHING compared to her terrible two stage. My little Miss Thing has a temper and a will that cannot be broken.

Recently, she’s accomplished a few firsts for her baby book. It’s funny – as a mommy, at some point you quit tracking things like first tooth, first word, first steps, and start tracking other sorts of milestones…like, “first cat fight at school”.

“Picked BabyGirl up from school today. Was so excited to hear that she got in her first fight today!!! This little girl of mine, she’s a feisty one…she wouldn’t let that sassy little friend take HER swing. No, she let loose her fury and cat scratched that little girl’s neck before shoving her to the ground…oh, what a day it was today. *sniff, sniff* My baby is growing up…Wish I could claim credit for this achievement, but alas, she gets her ‘fightin’ skillz’ from her Daddy.”

Or, another example, “first trip to the ER”.

“It finally happened! We are so proud of our BabyGirl! I thought for sure BigGirl had her beat when she fell reaching for a CD player on the bar and pulled it down on top of her head, but I was mistaken. Tonight, BabyGirl actually made it happen!!! She took a lesson from BigGirl and, she too, fell from a stool. But, my little overachiever didn’t rely on something heavy to hit her just right in the head. No, she took matters into her own hands – or mouth, so to speak – and sent three teeth straight through her bottom lip. They actually went clear through to the other side! I’m so proud of my girl! Many kids try this, but it doesn’t always go all the way through. I always knew she could do anything she set her mind to!”

All joking aside, she is growing up every day. She pushes our buttons, but I know that is a sign of strength. And that strength will take her far one day. (She seriously did wow me with her bravery throughout the excitement of her fall and subsequent trip to the hospital.) So, look to hear more about her here soon. I expect she will bring her strength and courage to this venue just as intently as she brings it into my days.

Judge not, that ye be not judged.

2010-01-30T11:27:00.001-05:00

I was making my bed one morning when something came up about a crab. Without thinking too much, I made reference to my own association with a crab. This, most obviously, raised questions and eyebrows with BigGirl.

I don’t remember when I first learned about astrology. I suppose it was a piece-meal process found within the pages of Mama’s morning newspaper horoscope section and the back pages of Glamour magazines. Regardless of its origin, I’ve always been naturally drawn to astrology. I latched on and nursed it fervently, thirsty for more. It was sweet and familiar and comforting. I have returned to it time and time again throughout my adolescent and adult life.

On that morning with BigGirl, I stood at the edge of my bed, smoothing sheets. Pulling at the coverlet. Neatly piling pillows, European, standard, throw, bolster. I talked about stars and planets and symbols – crabs, twins, scales, fish, insects, lions. I spoke of constellations and personal traits. She listened, wide-eyed and fascinated. Until, as I finally draped the chocolate blanket gracefully at the foot of my side of the bed, we left our lesson and the Wedgewood blue walls of my bedroom behind us for the day.

The next night, questions arose again. I retrieved my trusty bank of astrological knowledge from the top shelf, and we poured through its pages together at the kitchen table. FireDaddy joined us and dove into the pages for a few moments before passing it back.

He remembered the many late nights I spent long ago on the floor of our office, leaning over my bulbous pregnant tummy, working on birth charts. Consulting the internet for latitude and longitude coordinates for our birth places – first mine, then his, and finally BigGirl’s. BabyGirl’s had yet to be determined.

I remembered the mess of numbers and charts that flooded my mind for weeks. I could see my yellow legal pad and scraps of paper with notes about days, times, places, and calculations. Long stretches of self-doubt had been broken by fleeting, yet glorious, moments of triumph and sure success.

I am aware that many people do not condone or believe in the mysterious knowledge revealed by the stars. But, that doesn’t really matter to me. I love watching BigGirl’s knowledge, theories, understanding of this universe grow and change everyday. She, a brilliant star somewhere within the Gemini constellation, will form her own beliefs and feelings about God, heaven, and our amazingly temporary existence on this plane of consciousness.

As her mother, I will open my heart, spirit, and beliefs for her to freely question and explore. She will know the word namaste and, I hope, believe it. I will tell her my stories of angels and baby Jesus and visits from souls of friends and family who’ve passed. I will listen as she asks why God makes things happen and what I believe lies in the darkness between the stars.

Until the day for which I’m anxious finally arrives, when I will hear from her lips how her intuitive little mind has explained the wonders of our world. And, on that day, I will be the wide-eyed student and she will teach me.

Someone mentioned foie gras.

2010-01-29T18:00:00.001-05:00

When BigGirl was 10 months old, I left her for the first time. I spent a week in Baltimore for corporate training. I sat in the airport, waiting for my plane, crying. The novel I had borrowed from a friend was unable to distract me or lift my spirits. I carried in my purse a piece of paper with four inkjet printed pictures of FireDaddy, BigGirl, Bo and I smiling together in the warm spring sunshine of my parents’ back porch.

My week in Baltimore was mentally exhausting and emotionally draining, but good, nonetheless. I met people from all over, laughed till my sides ached, collected expense receipts, explored the Inner Harbor area, shopped for souvenirs and frequented the hotel lounge with my new girlfriends. At night, I would call home and miss my baby more and more with each day that passed. I slept hard every night, a nice escape from the loneliness bottled up inside that hotel room.

That’s when I met Jane. Jane had just moved to the States from France, where she was formerly employed by the French division of our company. Amidst an international company conference, she met the American man who would be her husband. He quickly swept her off her feet and ushered her across the Atlantic to a new life as his wife.

Jane wore her French nationality like a feather in her bonnet. Her jet black eyeliner extended beyond the corner of her eye just slightly, and angled up towards her brow, à la Cleopatra. She kept her mocha hair neatly tied at the nape of her neck in a bun or simple ponytail. The way she wore her Land’s End company logo button-downs made them look not only feminine, but sexy. Her black heels flaunted toes that reached a sharp point and industrial-sized buckles and grommets. They looked like pure couture beside my Mossimo heeled sandals. Everything she said was music – a beautiful love song, whispered between sheets.

I suppose I had a bit of a “girl crush” on Jane. I was completely enamored with her. I hung onto her every word. I found myself wanting to ask her to tell me everything – tell me again how you met your husband, about your family, about school. What of the French division of the company? What does your home look like? I wanted to know it all.

At the time, my brother lived in Silver Spring and worked in Baltimore. Sometime midweek, after being dismissed for the day, I left my room at the Hilton Garden Inn, hopped into his Murano waiting at the curb, and headed to dinner. He took me to a French restaurant he and his wife enjoyed on occasion.

We sat at a cafe table outside, just within the low wrought iron fence. As my eyes surveyed the menu, early French vocabulary lessons replayed in my mind…poisson, haricots, les frites, jambon… Finally, I chose a lovely skate with capers and brown butter. It was magnifique.

The night was wonderfully delicious. The spring night air was cool and helped me stay awake, despite wine and fatigue. We laughed and had a wonderful visit before I collapsed in their downstairs guest bedroom.

The next day, surrounded once again by the neutral corporate classroom, I couldn’t wait to tell Jane about my dinner. I couldn’t remember the French word for skate, and the English name had no meaning to her….which is actually quite funny. A skate is closely related to a ray…and the French word for skate is “raie”. I struggled to define the fish with my words and hands until, finally, our minds connected again. She smiled and reminisced about her mother’s cooking and meals with her family at home. And, again, I listened with envy and admiration.

I never saw or spoke to Jane again after that week. But, I’ll never forget her. She is filed neatly away in a beautiful drawer in my mind marked “France” – alongside images of the Eiffel Tower, Le Louvre, L’Arc de Triomphe, fields of lavender in Provence, charming boulangeries, and bridges crossing the Seine.

I bought a French guidebook last week. It was on clearance at a bookstore going out of business. Someday, hopefully not too far away, that will come in handy.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/scpgt/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

It’s no secret…

2010-01-28T08:05:00.001-05:00

This week, Girl Talk Thursday asks us to spill the beans on beauty secrets. Apparently, I’m pretty above-board and traditional in my beauty regimens, because I can’t think of anything that’s really a “secret” per say. However, as always, I’ll be happy to share what comes to mind.

I remember sitting in an airport terminal one day, years ago, waiting for my brother’s flight to land and deplane. Sometimes, as you drift further away mentally from the real world in which you’re surrounded, your face starts to sag and look a bit mopey. This sweet, unnamed man walked by, with his carry on bag in hand, and beckoned me back from La La Land with the words,”You look much prettier when you smile.”

Wise words. I have remembered that moment on several occasions since then. I’m pleased to say that, as a general rule, I walk through the world with a smile on most days, most occasions. In fact, it’s a quality I’m actually proud of in myself. (Stop the presses – I’ve just publicly admitted something I like about myself!) That man was right – any and every face looks better with a smile.

I had this very conversation last spring with a coworker who – believe it or not – actually argued against me. She can’t stand her smile. She doesn’t like what her teeth look like and she doesn’t like what happens in the lines on her face. I say: bull honky. A smile makes eyes sparkle. It says, “I have good to bring into your life. Come, speak to me,” to those around you. That is beautiful.

I also have been trained (That word sounds much nicer than “brainwashed”, doesn’t it?) by My Mama in the importance of proper undergarments. Foundational pieces are essential in many ways. (1) Like Colleen, I cannot stand panty lines. They flatter NO behind. (2) Droopy boobs are not hot. Not even close. I don’t care how big they are. There are no excuses. (3) A slip IS important. Now, I will be the first to admit that there are SOME skirts with which you just cannot wear a slip…knit skirts with roll tops, for instance. But, in most cases, slips make a huge difference in creating a smooth, soft silhouette. It makes a difference. (4)I feel prettier when I look pretty UNDER my clothes, too. I look for a panty that flatters my own body. I want color, lace, pretty patterns. Hell, I want my bra and panties to coordinate! (Let’s get real, I want them to match my outfit, too, when the Laundry Fairies are cooperative.) All of this matters to me. I don’t want to feel like I’m hiding something ugly beneath the surface…beauty is subliminal.

Speaking of subliminal, good shoes are SO important. Not only because your feet need to look pretty…but it is important to wear shoes that are comfortable for you when you’re walking. By this, I mean if you cannot walk in those stilettos without relaxing your butt cheeks and thighs – do not wear them. A hobble is not an attractive gait, nor is a wobble. Watch beautiful women walk. They walk with a long, but not too long, relaxed stride. They stretch their legs and open their body, without looking like they’re jumping over puddles. If your toes are crunched and you’ve got blisters on your heels or you’re about to fall off the pedestal on which you’ve perched yourself for the day – it will show in your every move. That is not beautiful.

Related to walking, posture is SO important. One of my best friends used to carry herself tucked up like a little rolly-poley. Eyes downcast, shoulders slumped. Beauty (by my definition) is an invitation to the world to want you, to love you. Carry yourself with pride. Carry your body like you love it, even if you don’t. Stand tall and straight. Not only will your clothes look better, your boobs look better, you will look thinner, but (beauty is subliminal) you will shine to those who see you. If this is is a change for you, pay attention when people compliment you. Don’t be surprised if people smile bigger when they see you coming and, perhaps even, call you “Beautiful” or “Gorgeous”.

As far as wardrobe issues are concerned, choose clothes that make you feel like a million dollars. If you feel uncomfortable, if your waist is cinched too tight, if you keep tugging at the top of the dress, if you don’t LIKE the way you look – you will not be beautiful. Trust me. This is why (personal issue coming out now) I take FOREVER to get dressed in the morning. I insist on feeling “just right” everyday. If I leave the house in an outfit that makes me feel frumpy or itchy or fat or anything less than “I love myself today and I can’t wait to wear this outfit again soon” – I will be miserable all day long. I will think of nothing more than going home, putting on my pajamas, climbing back into bed, and hiding beneath my covers until I get a chance to try again the next day. Beauty is subliminal.

My last “secret” to beauty is to be a risk-taker. You only live once (that we know of for sure), and that life is all too short. Dare to think outside of your own box. Dare to try something new. If you’ve worn the same makeup since you were twelve, it’s time to break that mold. If you’ve worn the same style of jeans since you left high school, it’s time to hit the dressing rooms. If you’ve worn your hair the same way for as long as you can remember, call your stylist. Now. If you need one, call me and I’ll help you find one. If you can’t decide which necklace to wear because you love them both – ask yourself how it would look to wear them both. You never know till you try. Think you can’t wear green or yellow or red? Try a different shade…(Need help with color? Call me…I can help you. Or read this book. My Mama always had it in our house when I was growing up, and then it was a textbook for one of my fashion classes!) Wear the flower in your hair. Choose the red coat, not the black one. Try it with a hat. Wear boots with dresses. Hell, wear pirate boots! You will be glad you did. And, beauty is subliminal.

I suppose I could have written a post today listing all the products I use, my daily facial cleansing routine, how I style my hair, and revealing the secrets that unfold behind the doors of the salon. But, when I really thought about what made me feel pretty, that is not what really mattered.

A few months ago, FireDaddy and I were looking at old pictures. (By old, in this case, I’m referring to the beginning of our digital era.) He told me he’s always thought I was pretty, but he thinks I’m much prettier now than I was back then. What do I think has changed? Between those days and these, I’ve worn my hair many ways, my clothing styles have changed, my weight has gone up and down and up and down…but the biggest difference I can see is that I like myself better now. I really do. As I age, I am learning to be the person I want to be and love the person I am.

I am convinced, friends, that this is life’s real beauty secret.

Brothers

2010-01-24T10:31:00.001-05:00

I remember my brother saying once, about a boy I was madly in love with at the time, “He would be a great guy, if he wasn’t dating my sister.”

Brothers. They are quite a story.

Of course, my story about brothers is from the perspective of a sister. People talk so much about a girl’s relationship with her father and how important it is in her future relationships. I have no doubt that is true. But, in retrospect, I also know a girl’s relationship with her brothers can have just as powerful an influence on her relationships with men, too.

My brothers and I played cars in the den. We set up our own garages around the room – under the piano bench, under the skirts of chairs and sofas, beneath chests and coffee tables. We acted out scenes and stories with Corvettes and Firebirds and Lamborghinis in the lead roles.

My brothers and I played G. I. Joe. Well, they played G. I. Joe and I played Barbie and, at times, their two worlds mingled.

I remember playing spy. We’d load ourselves down with canteens and flashlights and assorted supplies before we crawled through air ducts (under and between furniture) and snuck into darkened offices to rifle through imaginary filing cabinets.

Riding together in the backseat on long road trips, we giggled till I nearly wet my pants, making up personalized license plates with potty puns. Mama and Daddy would fuss from the frontseat for us to quiet down. It’s not safe. We were distracting the driver. We’d bite our lips and whisper for a minute or two before our laughter roared all over again.

My brothers taught me to play and laugh. They taught me to appreciate boys for what they are.

I still learn from – and about – my brothers today. Brothers, be they old or young – want to fix things. They want to advise and counsel. It’s their way of protecting.

Brothers send friends to look out for you on dates. Brothers walk behind you and your friends to and from school. Brothers silently watch you do stupid things and, years later, tell you it hurt them – even though you thought they didn’t care.

Brothers look upon sisters like a big mess of tears and ribbons and puffy hearts and nonsense. But, that big mess is theirs for keeps.

I hope that brothers also look upon sisters as a soft heart that cares for them. The first girl that ever loved them and thought of them as their own. A girl that knows them to be a strong, capable man that carries inside him the heart of a baby boy. The boy who cried at the sight of his mama crying and when his beloved pet lizard died. Boys that suffered heartbreaks at the hands of girls like me.

Boys that hug their sister and make it feel like home.

Boys and girls are so different. But, on the inside – in the quiet little memories and spaces between their souls – brothers and sisters are really very much the same.

That really gets my goat.

2010-01-21T19:28:00.001-05:00

As much as the topic for this week’s Girl Talk Thursday excites me (Because who doesn’t enjoy a chance to gripe about the little things in life that send you to the brink?), I really don’t need something else to get me worked up right now…if you know what I mean.

However, I’m choosing to embrace this as a fun opportunity to let off a little steam. So, I invite you to pull up a keyboard and play along. This week, we’re talking about pet peeves. [Sound cue: nails on chalkboard]

BEING IGNORED. I HATE to be ignored. If I say something to you – do me the common courtesy of RESPONDING. Even if it is just a “hmmm” or “huh” or “uh-huh” – do something to acknowledge my existence, please. I cannot stand to be ignored.

BEING TOLD WHAT TO DO. I experience a physiological response to being told what to do – and it is not pretty. You can tell me to do something that I fully intended to do and blood rises in my body, making my face flush and my head throb. I nearly bite my tongue in two to stop the reflexive, “DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO,” from blurting out. I am more than happy to help you, cooperate with you, and pull my weight – but don’t - do not - TELL ME what to do. I will thank you for kindly phrasing your needs in the form of a request, and I will be eager to play along. Tell me what to do, though, and you are bound to see a bit of my ‘tude.

RUDENESS. Can’t we all just get along? Is it really necessary to snap at people? Lay on your horn when someone doesn’t take off like a bullet when the light turns green? Must you really treat others as though they are inferior to your supreme importance and awesomeness??? You really aren’t “all that”, you know.

DANGLING PREPOSITIONS. Yes, I did just say that. For those of you that may have unknowingly been violating my ears, dangling prepositions are not to be confused with dangling chads. I have not always suffered from this particular grammatical intolerance**, but it is strong, nonetheless. I cringe when I hear people say things like, “Where is the ______ at?” Habits are hard to break, I understand, but please acknowledge that it is a habit that needs to be broken and work on doing better. It is not uncommon that I, too, find myself stalling midsentence, realizing this string of words is not going to end well. At such times, I write and rewrite until I can avoid any linguistic disasters. I promise you, if you take the time to rephrase, you will sound a thousand times more educated and intelligent.

And, the final peeve I’ll allow myself to diverge today…

JEANS THAT ARE MOST OBVIOUSLY TOO LONG AND HAVE BEEN WORN WITH HEELS SO THAT NOW THEY HAVE FUNKED-UP-RIPPED-UP-TORN UP HEMS – AND YET THE CHICK STILL WEARS THEM.

Ladies, I totally get that longer is leaner. I’ve watched all the shows too that tell us that, in order to create a taller, thinner silhouette, only the tips of our toes and the very bottom of our heels should show from our pant legs. However, you can be drop dead gorgeous, and look perfect everywhere – smooth hair, impeccable make-up, to-die-for purse, luscious necklace, a blouse that flatters every curve, an oh-so-stylin’ faded look to your second-skin jeans – but the second I notice the hem of your jeans looks like someone’s rabid dog used it for as a teether, and I watch the streamers of your once intact denim hem trail after you, the image is ruined. Like throwing a stone at a mirror, the once perfect picture of modern beauty is shattered. Now, you just look like some girl who maxed out her Amex on her Coach bag and can’t afford a new pair of jeans. I’m sorry your friends haven’t told you this sooner, but it’s true.

**Please note that stringing together multiple descriptive phrases is nowhere on my list of pet peeves. Also, you will also not find inventive spelling, creative capitalization, or clever omission of spaces. These grammatical infractions are all perfectly acceptable. Well, at my discretion.**

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/zarprey/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Sisters

2010-01-20T21:24:00.001-05:00

I always wanted a sister. I still wish I had one. One that was really mine – not just obligated by marriage or some sort of Uber-Friend. I dreamt of a sister on whom I could stake my claim, in whom I could expect undying loyalty. A bond of blood, chromosomes, life and heart. A history filled with pinky-promises, tearful fights, side-splitting laughter, and whispers in the dark.

I love watching my girlies cuddle like kittens – in front of the TV, eating snacks, beneath quilts and sheets, even at the kitchen table. Everyday their closeness – or, rather, their absence of personal space and boundaries – amazes me. It is not the same with brothers.

Yet, I am surprised at how rough and tumble they can be. More and more, lately, I find them man-handling each other – wrestling around like hyper little puppies in a pen, knowing full well that Mama will snatch them up by the scruff of their neck any second. I’ll walk through the den and find them behind the couch, halfway beneath an end table – one sister pinned flat on her back as the other straddles her chest. Their giggles escalating uncontrollably like wild fires.

BabyGirl was less than a year old when we moved them into the same bedroom. At a routine well check-up, I hashed out some baby sleep questions with the pediatrician. At the time, he asked me if I wanted BabyGirl to be more reliant on me or her sister. Did I want her to learn to be comforted by BigGirl in the night, or me? I knew then that, while I did not wish to place a burden on BigGirl, I wanted them to share a close bond that would comfort them both throughout their nights – and days – forever.

A long time ago, My Daddy told my brothers and me that we were the closest thing in the world to each other. He spoke these words in a fit of frustration and heartbreak; we fought like cats and dogs. I’ve never forgotten that lecture. In fact, I’ve preached my own version of it a few times to my girlies.

On the last occasion I tried to impart that pearl of wisdom to my girls, I watched BigGirl’s eyes tearfully soak up my message. I explained to her that, one day, a long time away from today, Mommy and Daddy would be gone. We would be in heaven. But, they wouldn’t be alone because they would have each other. That is the best, most important gift Mommy and Daddy has ever given them – each other. They will be best friends, worst enemies, soul mates, teacher and student, companions, playmates, competition, and – one day – parents to each other. Over time, they will be everything to each other.

To each other, they will scream obscenities, hurl prized possessions, confide deepest secrets, and confess dreams and fears. Between them, they will protect each others’ stories. They will know each other better than FireDaddy and I will ever know either of them. A bittersweet thought.

I love my girlies. I love BigGirl and I love BabyGirl. I love them more than I know how to describe. But, what I love even more than either of them is their sisterhood. My love for them as a pair is exponentially larger and grander and more amazingly overwhelming than my love for either of them independently.

When I was pregnant with BabyGirl, I feared that this wonderful new addition would jeopardize my relationship with BigGirl. I worried that I could not possibly love another baby as much as I so obviously loved her. I worried about jealousy, sibling rivalry, perceived favoritism, and all sorts of potential threats. I sought the council of friends, my mother, and every mother of multiple children I knew.

One mother, I don’t remember who, finally spoke the words that settled the worry in my heart. “Don’t think of it as taking something away from her…you are giving her a gift no one else can, a gift like no other. You are giving her the best gift of all – a sister.”

12x12 January 2010

2010-01-12T20:31:00.001-05:00

I seem to be collecting projects lately. It’s really getting out of hand.

Cheryl invited me to join in on this project this year. I’ve watched her post her own 12x12 posts each month for a while, and always thought it seemed like fun.

Here’s the concept: On the 12th day of each (of 12 months) you take 12 pictures. Then, you do something a little like this…

You can click on the collage and it will open larger in a new window.

From the top left corner, working clockwise:

My breakfast this morning, unexpectedly provided by students. This is why I need to lose weight - my students love me and spoil me. Note to self: Be meaner.
My officemate and I chatted this morning about how wearing tights makes us feel spunky. Well, she likes tights; I like boots with tights. Either way, we laughed. Note to self: The pirate boots are soon to be retired.
One of the perks of teaching where my daughter goes to school: I love walking down the hall and smiling at her picture hanging outside her room. Even when I’m not running into her at lunch or in the hall, I get to see her smiling face.
When I picked up my class from media today, a student noticed an old typewriter on display among other tchotchkes. I overheard him marvel, “Woah…it’s a typewriter…” Obviously, I found this amusing. After polling my class, about half of my 26 4th graders had never seen a typewriter before. Note to self: I. Am. Old.
A coworker of mine just got a new baby dachshund, Ellie, to replace the one they lost recently. I couldn’t resist a little after school puppy playtime! Ellie is wrestling a friend’s glove while wearing a Build-A-Bear t-shirt.
That’s my Big Boy, my last picture taken today. Bo, I feel the same way, buddy.
Breakfast for dinner! The girlies set the table for me. Didn’t they do a good job?
I tutor after school for the “Extended Day” program at our school. It is the first job in my entire life for which I’ve ever had to actually use a time card! I think it’s pretty darn cool…I feel like Laverne and Shirley!
After school meeting amongst the teachers who tutor. Talking data, rituals & routines, tu-tus, talking bananas…you know, good stuff like that.
Where my bootie was planted for a decent chunk of the day today. We [my classes and I] are totally engrossed in this chapter book right now. We’re only a few chapters from the end – and you know what that means! We can’t put it down!!!!
Lunch. Mmmm, mmmm, good. Diet DP and Baked Ziti at my desk, laughing with my officemate, tweeting, and breathing.

And finally,

The center photo is the coaster on my desk at home. She’s my role model.

I can’t wait for February 12th! What a fun project!

PS – Do you or any bloggers you know participate in a 12x12 project? If so, leave me a comment with links. I’m looking forward to checking out other peoples’ pics!

Things I Take for Granted

2010-01-10T23:50:00.001-05:00

Every now and again, life smacks you across the face and says, “See how lucky you are?!? Now stop complaining!”

Over the holidays, I helped FireDaddy and his fellow firemen collect donations for a family who lost everything in a house fire a week or two before Christmas. This family was low income, to say the least, and had NO insurance. None. They lost it all and were on their own. American Red Cross is very helpful to families like these, but this is only a start. This single mother needed a lot to help give their family (her son and mother) a jumpstart.

As I drove around one afternoon, collecting items from friends and shopping for gift cards and such, I talked to my girlies about what I was doing. I want them to know what their Daddy and I believe is right – helping others.

Last night, it happened again. This time, it was an apartment building across the street from the school in which I teach. Six of our families are displaced from their homes and starting from scratch. They have the clothes on their backs and, gladly, an empty apartment, hastily made ready for them by complex management. The American Red Cross has them set up in a hotel for three nights and, at this I’m truly amazed, the local Ruby Tuesday has granted these families FREE MEALS for as long as they need it! The road ahead is still very long for these families, though.

But, that’s really just one thing I take for granted…

I also take for granted that my husband will go to work everyday and come home safely at the conclusion of each shift. I must admit that, fairly recently, haunting thoughts have run through my mind as I kiss him good-bye as he leaves for work. I always give him a big hug and tell him to be safe. There’s a little, frightened voice in my mind, only about an inch tall, that whispers to me, “What if this is the last time? What if today is the day something happens?”

Morbid, but true. It could happen.

Friends ask me how I stand it. How am I not worried ALL. THE. TIME?

I answer them honestly: I don’t think about it.

Until the nights when I stay up to watch the late news after his evening call home, recounting the excitement of a good fire. I proudly watch for his face on the television. And, then I hear the details he cleverly omitted from his reporting…

“…live rounds exploding…grenades found in the home…”

Or like the night I heard about the shooting turned car chase turned hostage stand-off. Yep. He was there for it all. What I found out later was that he was pulled by the SWAT team to go in closer with them as their medic…or something like that. I’ve blocked most of it out.

It is always after the fact that he reveals the true danger – and his fear.

Even simple, “innocent” stories he tells me remind me of how aware he is of the risks. I hear it when he tells me about arriving at a call, realizing “something isn’t right” and calling police to the scene. It’s not just the element of risk from accidents or fire – but the element of CRIME.

And then there’s the other thing…him. Even if he comes home alive and in one piece, he isn’t the same.

I asked him something recently. It occurred to me that when I see those “Drive Safely” signs on the side of the road, I think to myself, “Someone died there.” When HE sees those signs, does he remember the night they died? Does he still see the wreck?

Yes. He does.

Every time he drives past this corner or that pillar of an overpass or that tree, he relives that scene.

Every time he drives past that house, he remembers that call.

Every time he eats at that restaurant, he remembers the man that choked. He remembers working on him, spread out in the middle of the tables, as families and diners sat watching, stunned and helpless.

Every time he drives past that parking lot, he remembers the young man that died there, a bullet in his head.

Every time.

He told me this summer, “You’d think it would get easier.”

I think it’s rather the opposite, in fact.

I take for granted that, since he came home safely in one piece, life goes on as normal. And, since he doesn’t talk much about these things, especially right away, I often never know what is on his mind. I am thankful for the days he comes home and says, “We had a bad call.” At least then I know.

On September 11th of his first year on the department, FireDaddy was on duty. I met him at a local remembrance ceremony in which his department participated. I stood by the ladder truck with all the guys on his shift and watched interpretive dancers and other such performers take their turn on the stage of the amphitheater. We talked and joked and enjoyed the beautiful weather as the American flag, perched atop the erect ladder beside us, waved in the ocean air.

At the end of the night, the dancers brought roses over to the firefighters and shook their hands in thanks. They saw me standing amongst them and the lead dancer asked, “Are you a wife?” I replied with a smile and a nod. She hugged me tightly, presented a rose and thanked me, too.

At the time, I laughed and said, “Don’t thank me! I don’t do anything! They’re the heroes!”

I still think that, whole-heartedly. But, after being the wife of a firefighter for nearly a decade, I also realize I sacrifice more than I think about. More than I care to admit.

And then there are the good days.

“I saved a life today,” he texted me last week. CPR conversions are rare. When they happen, it is a celebration.

The call toned out CPR in progress at a doctor’s office. They arrive on scene and none of the three doctors in the room were touching the patient…and it was apparent they hadn’t yet. One of the three offered their help once the firefighters arrived, but it was refused.

FireDaddy and his guys got busy immediately. Thank God the woman let out a sudden gasp after a while and she, shockingly, “came to”. FireDaddy later told me that he’d never seen anything like it. In the case of those fortunate successful conversions, the patient is usually still very much altered. This woman, though, was fully alert. On this day, they walked in the office men and walked out heroes. They saved her life. They truly saved her life.

If there were only more days like those.

There is so much I take for granted.

Wouldn’t that be lovely?

2010-01-08T07:00:00.000-05:00

Last night, I cuddled next to BigGirl in a booth at Denny’s. I held her under my arm and rested my cheek on her familiar sandy blonde head. I told her that earlier, a friend of mine talked to me about her daughter that was all grown up. She’s in her twenties. And, I told her, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like when my baby was all grown up.

“It will be exactly the same, Mommy.”

“It will? I’ll still be able to hug you and squeeze you and kiss you and hold you whenever I want to?” I questioned.

“Yes. I promise. It will always be just like this.”

I wish she was right.

Today, I’m going to steal another bit of love while I can.

Cold.

2010-01-07T19:59:00.001-05:00

Even in Florida, it has been darn right cold outside this week. The kind of cold that makes you crave pajamas. Sweat pants. Big, squishy, crew socks. Hoodies. Blankets and quilts. Blazing fires in your fireplace and hot cocoa -- or the “grown-up” version of cocoa, hot lattes.

My bed has taken quite good care of me each night; a quilt, and sometimes a throw blanket, layered on top of my coverlet. Even with the assistance of a crow bar, I would still struggle to pry myself loose from its warm embrace. My personal bed heaters, Bo and Daisy, have risen to the occasion beautifully. Bo dutifully curls up by my feetsies, keeping my sock-clad toesies warm. Daisy wads her balled-up self under my arm and, on occasion, moves to my pillow in the night, molding to the top of my head like a canine stocking cap.

My kitchen, this week, has pumped out comfort food: crock-pot chicken with dressing, pork chops, chili, spaghetti, and, coming soon, asparagus & green pea risotto. For this weekend, I’m planning a roast, cooked over the course of the day. On Monday, we celebrated a successful first day back to “the grind” with a fresh batch of fudge brownies and tall glasses of skim milk.

Ironically, this week (by far the coldest week in recent memory) BigGirl’s homework included star gazing. Star gazing. In freezing temperatures. So, she and FireDaddy bundled up in their warmest winter gear, and spent time in the dark night yard, searching for constellations. Orion, Cassiopeia, Lepus… The Lollipop. They shivered as they came inside, sporting red noses, rosy cheeks, and excited smiles. They talked loudly and with renewed energy as they told BabyGirl and I their every observation.

Each night this week, the girlies have prayed for snow, wishing against all odds that the magic of inside-out jammies would bring a winter weather miracle to Florida. BigGirl has gone so far as wearing three layers inside out…an undershirt, and two layers of pajamas – all inside-out. Each morning, BabyGirl has crept straight from sleep, eyes filled with hope, to the sliding glass door to check for snow. Each day, these hopeful girlies have been disappointed only momentarily, realizing they can try again tonight, and maybe tomorrow will be different.

While much of me is tired of the frivolous annoyances brought on by the cold – covering plants, dripping faucets, the weight of extra coats, bundling up protesting children, searching closets, drawers and hampers for weather-appropriate clothes for the girlies, starting the car early each morning and carrying blankets to warm my Drama Princesses on the way to school – I must admit that much of me has enjoyed it. In some ways, it is a fun, refreshing change of pace. It’s fun to wear scarves and hats and gloves and tights and boots. Create a new look, a new “cold weather you”. It’s fun to cozy up in the big bed together, shivering between cold sheets. It’s such a treat to enjoy a warm fire (especially living with FireDaddy…but that’s another post) and feel your heart flutter at the prospect of future flurries.

The cold has returned pieces of my childhood to my mind. The smell of snow. Counting marshmallows in my hot chocolate. Watching the way those marshmallows slowly soften and get bubbly as they melt into my warm treat. My Mama relentlessly prodded and stoked the fire. Daddy, in his Wellington boots, stocking cap, brown jacket and gloves, replenished firewood from stacks out back. I remember how cold my feet were as they walked on the tile in our Texas home, and how, as I played outside, my fingers and face stung long before I confessed my chill to anyone. A gray winter sky hung low above brown, dormant yards. Barren gray trees stretching from cold red clay to touch heavy clouds. Freezing cold air carried the smell of burning wood to my nose. I hear the crunch of snow under my feet and remember stiffly walking in my heavy winter jacket and boots. One year, the lake froze and I stood fearful on the safety of the back law, watching in awe as my crazy uncles walked out onto the ice, playing and goofing around like a bunch of overgrown boys. One year, the unexpected sight of snow in the morning as I woke up at a friend’s house made me homesick. You should be at home when it snows, I thought. I missed My Mama and My Daddy and my brothers.

I’m a little homesick today at the thought of it all.

Hello there, Winter. I’ve missed you, too.

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/elifayse/ / CC BY 2.0

However….

2010-01-07T19:05:00.001-05:00

…What I DON’T like is being hollered at by two too-young-boys headed through the “out” door of Target as I race through the “in” door, “Hey girl!”

I turn my head to see if I recognize that voice. I don’t. Not having time or interest in this sort of nonsense, I nod and keep up my brisk pace.

“I like ya boots,” he called out behind me.

That sort of attention just doesn’t make me feel girlie. It makes me want to reply, “You do? So does my husband! And my six and three year-old daughters. …What’s the matter? Why are you in such a hurry, young man?”

Twerp.

I lied.

2010-01-04T23:48:00.001-05:00

I guess I lied.

I am making one New Year’s resolution. In 2010, I want to wear more lipstick.

You see, here’s the deal…

I like feeling girlie.

I like wearing boots with my dresses. I like wearing necklaces, especially long ones. I like my hair long and my mascara blackest black.

I have this dress that comes off the shoulder just a little bit and I love, love, love it.

I love hats, even if my brother says I look like Blossom.

I like dangly earrings, especially when my hair is pulled up so you can really see them.

I love a great pair of heels, especially strappy or open-toed ones. (Even though I can hardly last a whole day in them anymore.)

I love pearls. And recently, I’ve decided, the more the merrier. You only live once.

I love pretty red toenails and pink purses.

And, you know what? As much as men can annoy me, I really like men. More specifically, I like being a woman in the company of men. Especially well-behaved men – the ones who still have a shred of gentility.

I remember one day being in a meeting with my assistant principal (a man) and a deputy superintendent (a man). It was just the three of us. (Yeah, um, I was NOT the one in trouble, and we’ll leave it at that…because that’s another post entirely.) Both of them were probably old enough to be my father…at the very least, an uncle. The DeputySup was so kind and respectful. I remember him apologizing to me for mentioning something “in mixed company” – regardless of the fact he handled it extremely professionally and it was completely necessary to the business at hand.

Both of my brothers tower over me. And I love it. I stand about 5’6’’, so I’d hardly consider myself “petite”…but in the company of men, I feel like I am. I love that.

I love that there are still some men who hold doors open, insist you go before them, smile, call you by name, and ask you how your day is when you pick up your to go meal, and nickname you “Bautiful”, “Gorgeous”, or “Princess” – when they are truly, 100%, just being sweet – no ulterior motives at all. That is priceless.

And, you know what? I just eat that up.

Let them hold the door. Let them innocently flirt while I wait for my fries. Let them call me Gorgeous when they say hello each day. I just eat it right up.

I smile and make pleasantries and walk a little closer to 5’6 1/2’’.

Because I like feeling pretty. I like feeling girlie.

And tomorrow, I’m going to wear my pearls with my boots, paint on some smoky eyes and try a new shade of lipstick.

Maybe next year I’ll try out false eyelashes.

**To clarify – my assistant principal was not in trouble either. I don’t want to wrongly imply anything.

***Neither was the Deputy Superintendent.

It’s simple.

2010-01-02T11:02:00.001-05:00

My dear friend, Cher, wrote a New Year’s post yesterday. She was inspired by this post to choose One Little Word as a theme, if you will, for her 2010. I think that’s a fabulous way to avoid the dissolution of resolutions while still setting a goal.

So, here I go.

I want to focus on what is important: family, friends, health, and home.

I want to target my work as a mother, a wife, and a teacher.

I want to make choices that bring peace into my home. I want to give myself, my children, and my husband the gift of time, and I want to spend it, not money, to make us happy. I want to sit by the fire with cocoa and cookies more often. I want to dig in the dirt together. I want to party in our PJs. I want to take walks and ride bikes and blow bubbles and color. I want to smile at the sun and enjoy a cool, ocean breeze.

For the past week, ever since we’ve returned from our Hillbilly Holiday, my girlies and I have been a bit reclusive…and we’ve loved every minute of it. I’ve cooked and crafted and sewn. We’ve read and colored and played games. I’ve worn yoga pants, a bare face, and a ponytail for days at a time. It’s been marvelous.

In 2010, I’m not going to try to keep up with the Joneses – or, for that matter, the Millers, the Popes or the even the Nguyens. I will search for contentment with where I am in life.

I also want to CLEAN OUT. How much stuff does a person REALLY need?? I’m a sentimental kind of gal, so this can be hard for me…but I’d like to try traveling light for a while.

I will surround myself with things and people that make me happy.

I want to simplify my life.

My word for 2010 is SIMPLIFY.

What is your word?

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly of 2009

2009-12-31T13:36:00.001-05:00

I cannot remember feeling like this before. Ever.

I cannot wait for 2009 to be over.

Always before, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day meant very little to me. It was just another day. A new calendar. A new picture looking back at me from my wall. Another hash mark. Another year older – which was neither here, nor there to me.

This year is different. 2009 just feels sour.

In January 2009, my life was filled with highs and lows. My marriage was strained with tension while my professional life was demanding, yet successful. Over the course of this year, those highs and lows have traded places time and time again. Finances have been like a roller coaster, and the truth has hurt. I have shed many tears this year.

Yet, to put things in perspective, I really can’t complain. I’m coming out on the other side still in a warm home, in a stronger, happier marriage, and still the mother of two bright, talented, and beautiful daughters. Really, I have lost very little this year.

Surprisingly, when I try to put my finger on the single greatest gift 2009 has brought to my home this year, I have to say the newest addition to my little family, our dog Daisy, definitely takes the prize. She brought youth back to my Big Boy, Bo. She makes my girlies and I so happy, and has been a wonderful playmate to us all. I am so thankful for her.

Coming in a close second, the remodel of our front and back yards. We’ve already reaped the benefit of the time, effort, and dollars FireDaddy & I invested into our back yard, in particular, at least five times over. Both of us agree that watching the girlies run, laugh, sit, read, play, jump, chase, swing and otherwise revel in their childhood out back is one of our favorite pastimes. They’ve camped, picnicked, splashed, dug, bubbled, chalked, planted, and meandered to their heart’s content. It is truly a simple thing we treasure.

Unfortunately, 2009 is leaving me 10-15 pounds heavier than it found me. Lately, my own reflection has been a bit gruesome – my hair needs cutting (and coloring), my 30-something acne has returned (destined to be a seasonal burden), and my new muffin-top makes my wardrobe more than a little less than flattering (or comfortable). All of the above leave me unhappy with myself, in more than one way. I’m disappointed that I have done this to myself – again. I’m overwhelmed by the hard work that stands between “this me” and “the me I want to be” – again. And, as my girlies are growing older and becoming increasingly more aware of their Mommy’s struggles, I’m disappointed that I’m setting such a poor example for them. Pretty much, I suck.

I still don’t place too much stock in New Year’s Resolutions and other such short-lived delusions. But, everyone needs a kick in the rear at times, yes? Everyone needs a new beginning – if even just a symbolic one. Everyone deserves a second chance…or a third chance…or a thirty-third chance.

So there, 2009. Be gone with you. Don’t let the door hit you in the rear, bitch.

Serendipity Struck

2009-12-23T21:28:00.001-05:00

Snapfish and I go way back. I’ve used them for birthday party invitations, photo calendars, bound photo books, mouse pads and more. This year, though, they may have burned this bridge.

After compiling a photo mosaic of BigGirl and BabyGirl in Picasa and adding text, I sent it to be printed (via Snapfish) at a local store (so I could pick it up that day…yes, I need immediate gratification). I was incredibly disappointed to find that the text on my prints was partially cut off the print! As you can imagine, this just would not do as a holiday card.

However, I’m the wimp who doesn’t like to deal with stuff like that…unless otherwise provoked. So, what did I do? I made an all new (and improved) photo mosaic with one whole square in the print devoted to the holiday message, rather than overlaying the text on top of the pictures. And, I marched my bootie into Target and insta-printed it myself. (So long, Snapfish.)

Now…what to do with the botched prints I still have?

Don’t you just love those momentary, fleeting strokes of genius that occur in life? I just LOVE what I’ve done with these suckers! Check it out…

They are GIFT TAGS!!! I’ve been using a permanent marker to write a quick note to the recipient on the back, and sign the whole family’s name! I couldn’t be any happier with this idea! In years past, trying to write everyone’s name on a little gift tag always seemed irrationally frustrating to me. And, I love the opportunity to include a little personal note, since many of our family will receive their gifts without us present. PLUS, if they care to keep it, they get a bonus picture as part of their gift! I just LOVE this idea!

By the way, insert a little Green plug here, you may notice in the picture that I like to use gift bags whenever possible. This is not entirely out of laziness. I save gift bags and regift & reuse them for all occasions. I keep tons of white tissue paper on hand at all times (it goes with all bags) and often purchase the plain cheap bags and decorate them myself with stickers and fun bows (especially for birthday parties, when I’m only wrapping one present at a time).

Oh, and if you’re wondering about my NEW photo cards. I love them, too. This is one of those “it was meant to be” moments in life, because the second card is one hundred times better. See for yourself…

And, finally, some of you may remember that my girlies and I handmade cards earlier in the year and might be wondering what happened to those cards. Well, they went out, too! I know how much people LOVE photo cards (myself included), but I really miss the magic of opening a card and reading a note inside. So these were inserts in our homemade Christmas cards, and everyone received a personal note inside the card.

Here’s a smattering of our cards, prior to stamping and, in some cases, stickering. You’ll notice the styles and level of artistry varies greatly from card to card. I stamped each one with a “Handmade by…” stamp and wrote in “BigGirl” or “BabyGirl” and their age.

And with that, dear friends, I do believe I shall head back to my duties. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and my sewing machine is sick again…which is really putting a crimp on THIS branch of Santa’s Workshop. I came within inches of buying a new machine at Walmart today just to make it through the next few days….and trying to return it after Christmas.

Don’t worry. I didn’t.

Yet.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

2009-12-21T22:07:00.001-05:00

We made it home safely last night from our Hillbilly Holiday. Today, the girlies and I have done virtually nothing other than bask in the comfort of home, only venturing out to retrieve our loving and faithful pets from their “camp” and make a quick stop for Christmas card photos.

I promised my girlies an afternoon treat of cocoa and cookies. Today’s snack was made better by a special holiday serenade from Michael Buble. Later, we spent more than an hour gathered around the kitchen table, catching up on our advent coloring pages. (My hand has yet to fully recover from The Crayola Grip.)

My suitcase still lies in the floor of my office, waiting for me to properly unpack the clean shirts, socks, pants, and sweaters. Laundry from our journey, now washed, dried, and folded neatly, patiently awaits my attention. My guest bedroom remains a pile of projects to complete and gifts to prepare. My refrigerator and cupboards are nearly bare and I’ve no specific plans yet for holiday baking or special eats.

Today, the girlies focused their energy today on reuniting with their toys and various belongings. BabyGirl slept for hours this evening curled up in a chair like a kitten. I chatted with My Mama, FireDaddy’s Mama, and my girlies. I cuddled my puppies and kissed my babies. I talked with friends and gave thanks for our safe return.

My Blackberry is filled with notes on thoughts from my journey I’d like to share with you….but today is not the day, friends.

I am so glad to be home again.

It’s Safe to Share These With You

2009-12-13T09:59:00.001-05:00

The handmade holiday is in full swing this weekend. I’ve checked a few folks off my list and I couldn’t be happier with the finished products!

On Friday, I finished off a rousing game of Secret Santa at school with a handmade monogram tote. I knew my coworker’s favorite color was yellow, so I chose this cheery ribbon and fabric to embellish this handy white canvas tote bag. (A girl can never have too many tote bags, right? And who doesn’t love monogrammed items?) I love the tailored bow, and the white stitching along the edges of the ribbon compliments the medallions on the fabric nicely.

In preparation for our Kentucky trip, I made a larger, roomier tote bag for FireDaddy’s sister. This one also features a pocket on the outside, for easily accessing keys, cell phone, and other small items. (FireDaddy’s sister has a one year old baby, so I expect she often has her hands full and is still toting around diaper bag items, sippy cups, and more.) The monogram is made from an adorable fabric that is actually rows of brightly colored pears and apples. So fun! I finished this bag off with a ribbon tie closure that matches the ribbon trim along the straps. (I think I’m going to need one of these for myself.)

And, quite possibly my favorite projects so far, are my toddler t-shirts for our 12-month old niece. I am just in love with them! I cannot wait to make some for my own girlies. Two of the t-shirts were inspired by children’s rhymes: “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” and “Rain, Rain, Go Away”. I used a girlie striped fabric to monogram the third shirt, using a lowercase “b” instead of a capital to continue with the childhood theme. Each t-shirt is finished off with a little satin bow. Aren’t they just the sweetest things?

My kitchen sweat shop is just buzzing away with more gift items. I will take a break for our Hillbilly Holiday, but I’ll have it back up and running as soon as we get back into town. There’s still so much more to do!

Psst! I’m so bad – I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I can’t keep a secret. Keep your eye on Etsy in January. A little birdie told me a new store called Jenny Cricket will be opening. I’m sure their stuff will be SUPER cute! :) If you have any special requests or suggestions, let me know and I’ll tell the birdie.

The Men in the Shadows

2009-12-09T21:22:00.001-05:00

There is a man who is invisible.

It is amazing how someone can be so big. So black. So powerful. And, yet, move so quietly through the world, like a shadow. His eyes are deep. His silence, deeper. It is not hard to walk right past him without speaking. He will let you. Every time.

But, if you do choose to speak, smile, say hello, you will be surprised. From the shadows comes a ray of light that is his smile. His eyes twinkle and his soul shines with goodness and kindness. He is genuine. He is thankful.

I want to know what he thinks about. I wonder, and imagine, what his ol’Louisiana home was like.

Would he, like Johnny, and Little Johnny, and others beside them, have taken their lunch in my grandmother’s kitchen, while we dined in the other room? Might he have driven into town on errands for her? Could he too have moved furniture, cut grass, cleared plates, and loaded trucks and trailers to her order?

And, would he too have held and admired my babies? Smile at how they’ve grown? Felt the love of an entire family from arms length?

Would he, too, not believe his image in photos to be true?

Quiet. Loyal. Working. Proud.

These are the men in the shadows.

This is written as a part of the {W}rite-of-Passage Writing Well Challenge #1.

Find a person and study them. Build them into your own short piece.

**Note – Quite honestly, after reviewing more pieces in the challenge, I think I’ve done this wrong…but I’m posting this anyhow. I’ll take another stab at it this week…

What In the Name of Hee-Haw Junction Was I Thinking???

2009-12-09T14:01:00.003-05:00

FireDaddy and I have planned a Hillbilly Holiday trip.

What was I thinking?

The current plan is to shove off from Point A immediately after school on Tuesday of next week. We will drive to Atlanta and crash with some friends for the night before it’s on the road again in the morning to complete the long journey to the back hills of Kentucky.

And when I say “back hills”, I mean it.

No internet. No mall. The nearest Walmart is more than 30 minutes away – and you practically need a compass to find your way. Cracker Barrel is known as a “Big City Store”.

The last time I visited Kentucky (which was also my first) I realized near the end of the trip that I had not eaten fruit the entire time we were in Kentucky.

It is like travelling back in time.

Now, I need to clarify – these people are the sweetest, kindest, most loving people on the face of God’s great planet. They love, love, love you all like family – even before you’re family. On that trip, my girlies and I met for the first time FireDaddy’s eldest aunt (who still lives in the same house in which she was born – the home that did not have indoor plumbing until FireDaddy’s Daddy was grown, in the Army, and PAID for the plumbing to be installed in his Mammaw’s home), and she sent them both home with two 15-inch collectible dolls from her den just because. They just do that kind of stuff. FireDaddy’s uncle routinely takes him out to the shed, or hat closet, or wherever he keeps his crazy stash – and gives him a new Kentucky Wildcats hat every time he sees him. Every meal, when you visit, is like a feast, complete with pies and cakes and gravy and all the fixin’s. These people love my husband, they love my babies, and they love me. And, for that, I am immensely grateful and touched.

However, when we get right down to it – I AM A CITY GIRL. I am spoiled. And, to top it all off, I am a FLORIDA city girl. I don’t do cold very well at all. I’ve had trouble dressing my darling girlies this year on the few “cold” days we’ve had (high in 50s) so far – much less clothing them for a week of wet, cloudy days with temps in the 40s and 30s! So, that’s one panic…

Another is, OH. MY. GOSH! This is happening NEXT WEEK, PEOPLE!!! NEXT WEEK!!!!

My mind is racing with all the things I need to do before then – and only have one weekend left to accomplish. Things like:

1. Tear my house apart looking for the portable DVD player (which I haven’t seen since the summer months) that will prevent FireDaddy and I from strapping our girlies to the roof of our car all the way between Georgia and Kentucky.

2. Purchase and pack a week’s worth of chocolate pop-tarts, gummy snacks, apples, Wheat Thins, Diet Dr. Pepper, CapriSuns, Oreos, and other “survival basics” for the car ride (and sneaky snacks while we’ve there).

3. Refill every prescription known to man – Ibuprofen 800, Prozac Weekly, Prozac daily, muscle relaxers, and anything else you may be able to suggest - that will help me survive being trapped in a Pacifica with FireDaddy and my babies for like a gajillion miles. FireDaddy and BabyGirl don’t always see eye to eye…especially in the car.

4. Sew and wrap presents for the family we’re going to see there….because, have I mentioned? I’m doing a handmade Christmas this year…(i.e. more evidence supporting my claims to insanity)

5. Print photos to insert in my Christmas cards so I can mail them before we high-tail it off for a week.

6. Find a loving, temporary home for my two darling four-legged children….because if they were going too, I might elect to stay home.

7. Get those same darling four-legged children groomed so their winter camp counselors, whomever they wind up being, don’t think I’m a neglectful mother.

8. Wash the twenty-five loads of laundry that has accumulated in the last week at my house.

9. Find an adorable dress suitable for LittleGirl to wear to school all day and straight into her holiday program TOMORROW NIGHT.

10. Continue to plan for and survive the remaining 5 days of the 2009 school year, including (but not limited to) writing detailed sub plans for the last day of school prior to the holiday break (for which, I will not be present), feed my family, and generally go about my life as expected by the world around me.

11. Fight off this sinus infection that is threatening to attack me any moment.

12. Continue to work towards producing and packaging the other handmade gifts I’ve planned for my friends, family and my daughters’ teachers.

What was I thinking?

Scratch that. I know what I was thinking.

I was thinking that these people - this family - are important to FireDaddy and our girlies and I. These are people that aren’t getting any younger or healthier as time wears on, to say the least. These are people that are worth the hassle and heartache that accompanies traveling long distances in a car with short people. These people are part of my daughters’ heritage, whether they understand this or not, and they need to know them. They need to know where they came from. And so does FireDaddy. And so do I.

In the long run, these are small prices to pay for the memories that will be made.

Perhaps I should focus on the feeling that overwhelmed my whole being the moment I stepped foot in that 1920-something home that Auntie and Uncle have owned since their own youth. The feeling that brought tears to my eyes so boldly that I could not stop them from falling down my cheeks. The feeling that instantly, gently, amazingly carried my soul hundreds of miles away to a little home in Louisiana where my own family member had lived. The feeling that said “home”, even though it was all new to me.

Perhaps I should focus on the pictures of babies frozen in time. And brides blushing beside their grooms. And Olan Mills portraits of wrinkled eyes and smiles. The creak in the floorboards. The slow, soft sound of tired feet shuffling to the kitchen to set the morning pot to brew. The cheery yellow wall hangings in a tiny, tiny kitchen. The kitchen stove that doesn’t know the meaning of a day off.

Perhaps I will focus on these.

Oh, what a happy holiday it will be.

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/auvet/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

And, again my compulsion gets the best of me…

2009-12-07T19:40:00.000-05:00

You know, I was just thinking the other day, “I’m bored. There’s nothing to do this time of year…”

I know you were probably thinking the exact same thing, right?

Since my imperfect conclusion to NaBloPoMo back in September, I’ve been pondering the possibilities. Shall I have a “do-over”? Shall I leave well enough alone? If I were to do a “do-over”, when would be a good time? Now? Later? Never? I guess all I ultimately decided was that it’s rather like having another baby. For one, there is NEVER a perfect time. And two, if you can’t ever resolve that you’re done for good, you probably aren’t done.

Then, amidst my noncommittal self-talk, with a stroke of serendipity, I stumbled upon this lovely little project called Holidailies. It is a project I can’t refuse. So, lucky you, you’re in for a treat. The rules say I have to post a minimum of 20 times between December 7^th and January 6^th, with the goal of one post per day in mind. I think I can hack it, even given the possible trip to the hills FireDaddy and I are planning for the holidays.

I hope you’re ready for this…because December has already been a bit of a rocky ride for me, folks. Within the first week of December, I have already: sustained back pain that interfered with my ability to function in the world, nursed sick children with dangerously spiking fevers, decorated the interior of my home for the holiday season (and managed to drag it out over the course of a week), moved furniture, bought paint for FireDaddy to repaint my kitchen, began searching for new paint colors for my office and den, continued to very slowly create handmade gifts for family and friends, taken approximately 1000 pictures, watched my beloved Old Boys of Florida stumble in defeat, and eat my weight in banana pudding. Ladies and gentlemen, I’d say this should be an interesting month.

Wow. And I wondered why I was so cranky yesterday.

O’ Christmas Tree, O’ Christmas Tree

2009-12-06T17:19:00.001-05:00

The tree is finally up. Whew.

While this is definitely the most cumbersome of all decorating chores, it is also one of the most sentimental. Ornaments on our tree, like many of yours, tell the tale of who we are and where we’ve been.

There are faces on our tree. Lots of little smiling faces. Every year, we watch the faces grow older.

Ornaments mark milestones in our family’s story. Our first Christmas together and my babies’ first Christmases.

Some ornaments were handmade by family, friends, and even a few former students.

Of course, there are lots of firefighters and fire trucks, too.

Many ornaments came directly from the childhood trees of Little Girl Mommy and Little Boy FireDaddy.

Some of my newest favorites are more playful in spirit, reflecting my love of the beach and water.

Our ornaments represent our heritage,

the contents of our hearts,

and the child inside each of us.

And that sounds just about right to me. Isn’t that what Christmas is all about?

Christmas for My Girlies

2009-12-05T20:41:00.001-05:00

Christmas, if you ask me, is best seen through the eyes of a child. I love watching my little girlies experience the magic. So, naturally, some of my most favorite Christmas decorations are the ones centered around my babies.

One of the earliest traditions began as a gift from a secret Santa [My brother and sister-in-law]. Before BabyGirl was with us, a box containing this advent house appeared unexpectedly on our front porch. This beautiful house brings so much excitement to our family throughout the entire month of December. Every night, we open a door and discover the treasure is hiding inside. Hair bows, bath fizzies, candies, “grow me” pets, coin purses, stamps, stickers, play dough and more. As BabyGirl has grown and taken a more active role in holidays, they take turns opening doors each night. BigGirl opens all the odds, BabyGirl opens the evens. Some doors contain items to be shared, while others hold something for each of them. In years past, some treats have been a little larger than these little doors can handle. In those cases, our little elf has been known to leave clues guiding the way to their daily dose of Christmas cheer.

Last year, we welcomed a brand new tradition to our home: Elway, the Elf on the Shelf. Elway and his friends have become quite the rage all over the land of Christmas, it seems…but that doesn’t make him any less special to us. I laughed this year as BabyGirl said to me, “Mommy. He watching me. I don’t want him watching me.” (Guilty conscience, my dear??) This year, it was apparent that Elway brought the house with him on his long trek from the North Pole. And…he brought with him another mysterious box…with no return address.

Elway also brought with him this adorable pink tree. We found the perfect home for it on the tea table in the girlies’ room. We’ve begun slowly decorating it with knick-knacks and homemade ornaments. And (more evidence that the Big Man from the North had something to do with all this Christmas goodness), two consecutive doors in the advent house revealed supplies to make angel ornaments! Who else would have known but the Big Man himself?

There are also child-sized, unbreakable versions of Christmas favorites throughout my house. I fell in love with this children’s nativity set (seen here as arranged by BigGirl) from Bombay Kids, (R.I.P. Bombay Company & Bombay Kids. You are missed...)

… and this stuffed Hallmark Christmas tree with buttons for hanging felt ornament sets. (The ornament sets came with little board books telling holiday stories, too! Even better!)

And, this year, our traditions have even been enhanced by the blogosphere! Thanks to Elsie Marley, the girlies and I are making advent coloring books, one day at a time. Well, BigGirl wants to compile her art into a collection. BabyGirl wants to hang hers on the wall over her bed. (I think I’m going to hang a string and clip them, a la clothesline, as we go.) It’s amazing how much fun it has been…just simple paper and crayons! And, it’s free!

In the words of Maria from The Sound of Music, “These are a few of my favorite things.”

What are some of your favorite children’s Christmas traditions?

The Great Interview Experiment

2009-12-03T19:22:00.001-05:00

I stumbled upon this really great idea recently, via The Glamorous Life Association. And, you know me, I don’t like to be left out of good stuff. So, I signed up and happily accepted my assignment.

I was to interview Laura at Word Grrls. First, like any good reporter, I did my research…which was A LOT. Laura wears many different hats, ranging from advice guru, to writing “coach”, artist, explorer of rural lands, and more.

After writing my questions (which was tougher than I thought), I anxiously awaited her replies.

Today, they arrived!!! I am so pleased to share with you a little about Laura, in her own words.

1. Many of us are moving towards living more "greenly". What is the next big step you'd like to take to improve your mark on the Earth?

I'd like to do better with recycling, especially paper. It bothers me to have so much paper with everyday stuff. Funny how we thought having computers and the Internet would mean using less paper. I think it generates more in some ways. But, on a personal level, I could do better at recycling those poor ground up tree parts.

2. You wrote a post about "vacuuming out our brains". If I were to dump the bagless canister into the garbage, shortly after you vacuumed your brain, what might I see?

For my brain you would need to empty it a couple of times. I carry around a lot of clutter. There would be ideas for recipes, mostly holiday cookies at this time of year. There would be a lot of half formed ideas for blog posts. Ideas for starting my own blog network. Ideas for writing a paranormal romance book. A few dead batteries from brain cells that are just tired of listening to me. Diet coke cans, coffee cup circles on masses of paper I've written notes to myself on. A Raggedy Ann doll which is almost half way sewn up, her face nicely embroidered by hand (a few years ago). A pair of boots for mucking around at old houses which were only worn once cause I remember to bring my map but never actually change my footwear, it was a good idea at the time. Something sharp that broke and might be dangerous if it snags the vacuum hose. At the bottom of the canister would be a pile of sludge from guilt, hurt feelings and disappoints. In the light bits of dust flying around would be all kinds of good things I've thought of, experiences I've been proud of, happy with and people from my past who I was glad to know but don't think of very often.

3. Your blog, Word Grrls, is filled with advice on writing and blogging. Do you have a writing/blogging mentor? If so, what do you admire about them?

At first I thought no. But I do have a mentor, someone I look up to and think of as an ideal. Her name is Bev Walton-Porter. I admire her for doing. That sweet and simple. Things I want to do, she goes ahead and just does them. Makes it look easy. I also admire Deanna for the same reason, she is very accomplished in areas beyond writing too. I've known Bev longer though I've actually never met either of them face to face. Funny how that happens online.

4. I know that I, and a few of my "Bloggy Buddies", need to feel like I’m “in the mood" to blog or write. Some moods are more productive than others. What are some of your favorite moods for writing? And, tell me about when/where you write. Is it quiet, or do you prefer music or television on? Do you usually finish a post in one sitting, or save it to finish/review later?

I can write with the TV or radio on. But I can't write when someone else is in the house. Very odd. I love going out to a coffee shop and reading, making notes and sometimes even writing a few pages. But the people around are strangers and I almost feel like I am alone while being out. I fee refreshed from being out, even though I could become a hermit at times I love being out, talking to people too. It's complicated I guess. :)

My best mood for writing is being under a deadline. I tend to procrastinate and become distracted so having a deadline keeps me on track. It puts me in the mood to write.

5. I noticed on one of your other sites that you seem to have a "thing" for poppies...or maybe not. What's up with that? The flower projects are adorable. Is there meaning or a story behind them?

That is my personal blog which is a bit neglected. The poppies were posted for Remembrance Day. I really like flowers, especially crocheted flowers. It's one of the projects on my to-do list.

6. What's your sign? What aspects/traits of your sun sign do you feel most accurately describe you?

I am Sagittarius. In Chinese astrology I'm a Wood Dragon. Both fit me well. I do love to learn new things, though I am not good at sticking to any one thing. I also have the need to teach the world, even if they don't especially listen at the time. Someday they will!

7. If cost was of no concern, and the sky was the limit, but you had to choose TODAY, what would you dress up as for Halloween 2010?

I would be a Witch. Not a warty black witch but a modern witch with a flowing gown an a pointy hat in red. My witch might even have a ball gown and jewels.

8. Tell me about your favorite room. Anywhere.

Something I saw in a movie once had the kitchen kind of outside. They had an open fire pit and everyone was sitting around it. Yet it was open so smoke wasn't bothering anyone. Still it was inside so they weren't getting attacked by bugs either. You could read your book without being rained on and there was a huge window on the inside where you had a reading nook which looked out over the fire and gardens outside. I can't quite remember how it all fit together now. I liked the idea of being cosy and having the elements from outside around too.

So, there you have it! Laura in a nutshell…or something like that. :)

I rather like her! And, Laura, I have to tell you – you and I have more in common than it may appear on the surface!

Before I leave you, I thought it would be fun, since Laura is an artist and, on occasion, includes her drawings in her posts, to include a little drawing of my own.

(Drum roll, please…and no snide remarks. I teach elementary school, remember?)

Questions about my artwork and/or her responses? Leave a comment, or – better yet – visit her blog! It’s worth the trip!

Psst! Wondering about the flip side of this little project? You can check out my interview here. It’s my turn to be the “star”!

And, if you’re interested in participating, it’s not too late! Just hop on over to Neil’s blog and leave your “count me in” comment. He’ll contact you via email with YOUR assignment. And don’t forget to keep me posted!

Girl Talk Thursday: Heartbreak City

2009-12-03T11:22:00.001-05:00

Today’s Girl Talk Thursday topic is heartbreaks. Such a touchy topic…

As you may have gathered from previous posts, I’ve had my share of boyfriends. Which is not to say that this is a point of pride for me…

I can remember riding in the car with my mother on the way to the mall; I was in high school. My heart was freshly wounded by Some Dumb Guy. A sappy love song came on the radio and began rubbing salt in my wound. I was trying to be brave and keep my mind off the hurt and lonely feeling that comes with breakups, but this blasted song was knocking me down brick by brick. I remember softly, reluctantly asking my mother, “Can you please change the station?” She respectfully agreed, and silently honored my request. I wonder what it was like to be My Mama in that moment. Was she thinking, “I hate seeing her like this?” or “Such a drama queen…”. (Probably some of both.)

I did not choose my boys wisely, to say the least. I’ve alluded to my own issues with self-esteem here before. Here’s the bottom line: I didn’t like myself very much, so I liked just about anyone who liked me. The truth hurts, but doesn’t make it any less true.

As you can imagine, with little to no standards for Qualifying Candidates, I got burned quite a bit. Looking back, it seems like most guys dumped me when they had another waiting in the wings. (Perhaps they were smarter than I give them credit for…) That fact, of course, made it so much harder to accept. The jealousy. The betrayal.

And then, there was one guy that really was a jerk. In his defense, he had no good role models. His parents had split when he was young, young, young. His mother lived on other side of the country and he didn’t know her AT ALL until his father, who spent a lifetime freely sharing his own twisted version of love with his sons, died. So, along came the boy. He liked me. So, I considered and (of course) agreed to a date. All was hunky-dory for a while. I, in keeping with my own traditions, began allowing my entire life to revolve around Dumb Guy of the Moment.

A smart enough person learns to see this as a source of control and power…and get used to it. Often, they decide to keep things moving along the path of their choice, regardless of your thoughts. Bottom line, I got hurt. It hurt before it was over. It hurt because I let it. I was too stupid to see that I was worth more than that. I didn’t have the courage or perspective to realize I would be happier and better off without him. I was scared and didn’t want to be alone.

Then, one day, it clicked. I was done. It was over. I had had enough. I shed my fair share of tears and wallowed in my sorrow with a few supportive friends, and then, as quickly as a baby falls asleep in their pureed peas, I flushed it. Like a faucet, I turned it off.

A few days later, I met my husband. He was supposed to be a rebound. I just wanted a distraction to help me launch myself down a new road. Turns out that road was a interstate with no end in sight. Funny how things work out.

All of this “woe is me, innocent victim” talk is not, of course to say that I didn’t do my fair share of burning, as well. I never maliciously intended to hurt, but misunderstandings happen and people change. Girls are stupid in high school, as are boys. And, hindsight is 20-20. As it turns out, some girls – some “friends” – have ulterior motives behind their “advice”.

“I feel so conflicted…I ‘love’ (because, when you’re young you think it’s love) So-And-So, but I kind of like Other Dude, too. I don’t know what to do…”

“Oh, you should go for it…you and So-And-So are growing apart. Follow your heart. Go for Other Dude. Here, why don’t I help you write the break-up note…”

A few days later, guess who’s comforting So-And-So? Oh, look! Now they’re a couple! As for me and Other Dude? Yeah. That one will live in infamy forever among my family as the one to whom I said, “This isn’t going to last long.” I don’t know if I said that to him, or just to my family. But, it’s true. I said it to someone.

As an adult, I’ve decided that heartbreaks come as a result of personal expectations. (Wish I could claim credit for this profound statement, but a co-worker taught me this.) We all have expectations for the people in our lives. We have expectations for who and what boyfriends/husbands/lovers/friends/family members are and how they should behave. These expectations, though, are rarely, if ever, explicitly discussed, they are often vastly different from one person to the next. We get hurt when people don’t meet our unspoken expectations.

I expected boys would care about my feelings.

I expected they might “love” me forever - because, to me, love is forever.

I expected that they would be honorable and do the right thing.

I expected they would tell me the truth.

I expected that my girlfriends had my best interest in mind.

I expected they were being honorable, too.

I expected that, should someone truly care about me, they would fight for me. They would come to me and say, “I don’t want to lose you.”

I expected wrong.

Even today, I live with heartbreak from time to time. Who doesn’t? My husband breaks my heart. My children break my heart. My friends break my heart. My family breaks my heart. That’s life.

What I’m learning is that I must adjust my expectations. The only person I can truly EXPECT anything from, is myself, because that is the only person I can – or want to - control. I must expect more from myself than I do from others. I’ve learned that, while I continue to open my heart to the loving people around me – who, like me, are just doing the best they can everyday, I need to give myself the unconditional love that I cannot always expect from others.

And that, my friends, is harder than it seems.

I don’t like that this has been such a depressing post. So, to share a “feel good” with you…check out this video. You’ll like it, I promise!

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

Crackin’ Open a Can of Christmas

2009-12-02T08:30:00.001-05:00

The sun hadn’t even set on Thanksgiving Day and my “so-called friends” were posting pictures of their Christmas trees on Facebook, making me feel like a slacker.

Then, I went and hurt myself, somehow, and was incapacitated for a day and a half, in a house freshly cleaned from top to bottom in preparation for decorations.

Then, BigGirl woke up with a raging 104.4 fever, and another day was sidetracked.

Gosh darn it, I became hell-bent on putting out some flippin’ red and green already!!! In a typical neurotic fit, I began unloading the Rubbermaid tubs in the garage patiently awaiting my attention. One by one, we smiled at the pillows and cutsies and greeted them like old friends who’d come to visit. “Awww, I remember that…” BigGirl would say.

“Mommy, it’s not Christmas yet. I don’t want you to make dat,” BabyGirl chimed in.

As I, once again, found homes, some new and some the same, for all these familiar faces, I realized how many stories I pull out of the attic every year. (Well, more accurately, FireDaddy pulls them out of the attic…I pull them out of the tubs.)

Like the “crystal” candy dish my little old next door neighbor gave to us the year we were married, Mrs. Russell. I can see her face and remember the worry we had for her when she was hospitalized for a month or so. I remember her purple God awful reflecting ball she kept in her little courtyard by her front door, and her excitement as she called us over to look at her century plant in bloom. I never would have chosen this for myself, but it reminds me of friendship.

I have this crazy, random blue metal basket with Santa on it. Every year I pull it out and wonder exactly what I will do with it and where I will put it. But I don’t have the heart to give it away. It was given to me by a sweet, sweet friend I taught with in a past life. She was as country as country gets. And she would give you the shirt off her back, and the diesel dually she rode in on. The basket was filled with sausage (from their own pigs, I believe), corn bread, and bean soup mix. I miss her.

There’s the toy soldier my mother made, in her toll painting days. He’s so handsome. I have a thing for toy soldiers, I think. You know, being a man in uniform and all. I remember sitting in our kitchen watching her paint these projects. I was impressed with how easy she made it look, and how cool it was that water worked like an eraser when used correctly. I was thrilled when she said I could have it – for the girls, of course.

I love my green table runner with little red birds appliquéd on it. It’s cheery and looks semi-homemade. (Sometimes illusions are a good thing.) I love all the fabrics that come out of my tubs. Pillows, dolls, animals, stockings, napkins, runners, and more. Fabric has such a warming, inviting effect on a room. And what house doesn’t need a little more warmth in it for the holidays?

I love my basket of Christmas books, a second generation tradition. Since my girlies were so small when I started collecting, we have board books and everything beyond. As they mature and grow, so will this special collection. And, I’ll save the board books for friends’ babies and cousins and nieces and nephews and, one day, grandbabies. I love that it was the first item I pulled out of the garage. I presented it to BigGirl like her first gift of the season – and she received it as such. Both girlies immediately plunged into the basket of treasures, promptly browsing one after another after another. Quietly. Enjoying.

All of these stories and memories and thoughts fumble and bumble around my head like blind little mice. And we haven’t even touched the five (or more) tubs of ornaments yet. That’s another post entirely…

I love Christmas. I love that, like many things, no two are exactly alike. I love that with every little tchotchke I put out every year, I am surrounding myself with memories and faces. I love that decorating your home for Christmas each year is an act of creating. Creating memories. Creating a mood. Creating a backdrop for time spent with people you love.

Christmas is coming. Just you wait.

_____________________________________________________

Psst! Did you hear? Barking Mad is having a Crazy Christmas Giveaway! A $300 TARGET GIFT CARD!!! You know how I feel about Target, y'all...Anyhow, here's her link and all that jazz - go check it out!

A Season of Giving

2009-12-01T16:51:00.001-05:00

That is my all time favorite church song. As an adult, I attended a particular church for a while mostly because they sang this song every Sunday at the end of the service. And, I loved the pastor. He was like a loving grandfather, welcoming everyone into his humble home. Even heathens like me. :)

December first marks, for many, the beginning of the holiday season. The season of giving. But, sadly, I truly believe that this “season of giving” has become much more of a “season of shopping, stressing, and spending”. I’m trying so hard this year, as I watch my daughters grow, and pray they don’t get jaded to that “giving” part, to focus on the spirit and heart of the season.

Hell. When I think of it that way, who needs a season?

I want my girls to be givers. I want them to be filled with hearts overflowing with love for their family, friends, and fellow humans. I want them to care about the world and the people and the air, the water, the trees, the wind, the clouds in the sky, and butterflies and puppies and apples. I do not want them to wander lonely through this world with clear vision only as far as the end of their own nose. I do not want them to view their beliefs, their thoughts, their needs as supreme and righteous, but rather, as one of many valid perspectives.

Not only do I want them to love and care for others, but I want them to love and care for themselves. I want more for them than I have been able to give to myself. I see them through mother’s eyes: eyes that see clearly every fault and every virtue – and love them just the way that they are. They’re perfect, even their imperfections.

Over and over and over again I’ve preached to BigGirl, “All I expect is that you do the best you can do,” so much that she now cuts me off and finishes the sentence with that annoyed tone we’ve all used with our mothers. The one that sounds like the teachers and parents on Charlie Brown. The one that says, “Would you stop saying that already?” But it’s true. I expect her to do her best at everything. Everything. Not just school work and dance, but friendship. Sisterhood. Being a daughter and a dog owner. Being a citizen of the Earth.

I have a friend who told me once that when her daughters were young she told them, “When you lie to me, I can see crosses in the back of your eyes.” She also said, “Even when Mommy and Daddy can’t see you, God is always watching.” (No offense, folks…but see what I mean about being Catholic?)

I want them to carry God, Buddha, the Golden Rule, karma, whatever it is they decide to believe in one day, in their hearts always. I want them to be proud of their every decision – or at least 99% of them. I want them to sleep well at night knowing they gave to the world. They made a difference in someone’s life each day.

I read this article today that discussed the importance of giving. It’s important in ways you may not have suspected. I’d like to try this project, and I would love it if you would join me.

Give a “gift” everyday for a month.

Mind you, “gifts” aren’t always tied in pretty paper and ribbons. A gift, says the article, could be simply saving the last piece of cake for your husband. Or, perhaps you go out of your way to make your children their favorite meal one night. Perhaps you give your change to a neighbor’s or friend’s child. Perhaps you volunteer your time in a classroom – helping someone other than your own child. Maybe you bring your co-worker coffee unexpectedly one day. The bottom line is – do something thoughtful and nice for someone without expecting anything in return, other than perhaps a smile and a “thank you”.

I’m going to try it. I hope you will too.

Let there be peace on Earth, and let it begin with me.

I closed my eyes.

2009-11-30T20:08:00.001-05:00

I’m usually not concerned about germs when I visit a doctor’s office. Call it blissful ignorance or denial, but it isn’t usually something I worry about too much.

At recent visits to my girlies’ pediatrician, I’ve noticed the ginormous bottle of hand sanitizer sitting out at the sign-in sheet and again at the checkout window. I’ve taken advantage of those opportunities for added precaution. But, I didn’t really worry. Until today.

I visited my own doctor’s office for a back “injury”. (I say “injury” because, yet again, I have no idea what I’ve done to myself. When I think more about why I don’t know or remember anything I’ve done to hurt myself, I conclude that I injure myself so frequently that I just don’t even pay attention to them for long anymore. Except for when I cut off the top of my thumb…but that’s another post.)

I noticed the lady behind the glass window handing the little old lady signing in before me a mask. A mask. Then, my eyes caught sight of the sign sitting on the counter, “Our masks are for your protection.”

Eww! OK. Now, I’m completely creeped out.

As I step up to the clipboard, I glance down at the two pens on the counter. One attached by a short chain to the clipboard, the other, a black Paper Mate that has long ago lost its cap, lying nearby. A little voice in my head reminded me of a warning I’d heard on television, or from a friend, or passing someone in the hall…”Always use your own pens. Do you know how many people touch those pens?”

Then I heard my own voice reminding me to calm down. “I have a killer teacher/mom immune system and this is all just paranoid thinking.” Plus, I didn’t want to look like a jerk/idiot rifling through my purse that desperately needs to be cleaned out and reorganized looking for a black pen. Well, looking for any pen that isn’t pink, purple, lime green, or orange. Or a highlighter. Or a marker. (I’m always prepared.) So, I took a deep breath (and held it), chose a pen, and signed the board. It was like the office supply version of Russian Roulette.

As I took my place in the waiting crowd, strategically chosen to be equidistant from all the other waiters, I sank four inches into the seat of a chair that had obviously been a popular choice for a while. I scoped out my fellow waiters…and began to feel very young and very healthy. Every other person in there was well over 70, frail,…and wearing a mask. Well, with the exception of their caregivers. They might pass for mid-40s or greater. My eyes darted from mask to mask, sizing up the wearers. Were they sick? Did they think I was sick? Should I be worried about catching something, or should I stand up and announce, “Don’t worry. No germs on me! I’m just here for a bad back. You know how it is when you pass 30…it’s all downhill from there, right?? Ha, ha!”

I needed to consult an expert.

I texted FireDaddy.

Me: they have masks for u to wear in waiting room. it’s creepy.

FireDaddy: it’s going around.

Me: should i wear 1?

FireDaddy: it’s up 2 u

Me: what would u do?

FireDaddy: i’ve been vaccinated

And just like that, he left me high and dry. It was like the dream where you show up somewhere naked, or arrive at an event or work an hour early because you forgot to change your clocks, or when your friend gives you a gift even though you both agreed you wouldn’t exchange gifts! How could he do that to me? He scoffs at me for getting the flu shot every year – and then he goes and gets vaccinated for the swine flu? How selfish is he??? Doesn’t he care about his own wife? The mother of his children? THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE AND THE BEST FRIEND HE’S EVER HAD???

The blonde lady behind the glass called my name again. It was time for me to update my forms, so she handed me a *gasp!* clipboard and form to complete. This time, I dug into my purse and found my own germ-infested pen to use. (Let’s face it. Those pens are used frequently by my own nose-picking, finger-licking, germ-carrying kiddos.) After all, the germ you know is better than the germ you don’t know, right? I busied my mind as I completed the redundant form. Unfortunately, it was an unusually short form - front side only with only two signatures on the back. That’s it? When I don’t want to do this kind of stupid paperwork, there’s like five pages of it – asking me questions I practically have to call my mother’s mother to find out the answers to! Today I get one stinkin’ page – and like a third of the page was “N/A”!!!

I crossed the room carefully, holding my breath, to return my assignment. As I turned back towards the sinking chair, I noticed the end table with magazines. Ha! Not on your life, germie-poos! I’m not falling for THAT old trick! (Today…)

And so, I sat. I brought a book, but couldn’t bring myself to read it in that moment. I sat and held my purse in my lap, looking like a frightened little ol’woman, I’m sure. “Please call my name. Please call my name. Please call my name.”

Finally, they called my name. I moved as quickly as I could with this darn aching back. (Getting up is really hard these days.) As I came close to the door to the back of the office, I silently wished the nurse would open the door wider so I didn’t have to get so close to her to pass through the threshold. I followed her to the scale.

“Don’t you think we could just skip this part today? After all…it’s right after Thanksgiving…which came on the heels of a month or more of gluttony for me. Don’t you think? Please?”

“Ha. No.”

I shed my shoes, dropped my purse, opened my mouth for the thermometer (telling myself those flimsy plastic covers really can protect me from the creepy germs inside other people’s mouths), stepped on the scale, and I closed my eyes.

Photo Credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/julep67/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Weekend in the Kitchen

2009-11-29T10:46:00.001-05:00

Having spent virtually my entire long weekend in the kitchen, I have little to share other than the history of a meal. As I was slaving away over a hot stove, though, I fell in love with capturing the beauty of a working kitchen. Really, the colors and textures of food and kitchen prep are quite unique.

I thought I’d share with you a smidgeon of my photo journal from this weekend (because I’m sure you dying to see, right?). Some photos mark beginnings of the meal – dressing that begins with chopping vegetables, pies that are born from raw crusts, the baby white fluff of marshmallows before they’ve been baked to a golden brown. There are photos of the process. Mushrooms sizzling in a pan for the homemade mushroom gravy in the Best Ever Green Bean Casserole. Roasted pecans (the second batch – I got distracted and forgot about batch number one…fed them to le garbaage) for the sweet potato casserole. Wild rice for My Mama’s Dressing steeping on the stove next to the cooling iron skillet in which my sweet corn bread baked. And, finally, the reward. There are many more, of course, but I chose not to include faces in this collection. You may insert your own, if you wish.

Oh, yes. And, if you look closely, you’ll figure out my “oops” that happened on the day of our family meal…and have an idea for a Christmas present for yours truly.

I hope you all had a fabulous Thanksgiving weekend. ‘Tis the season for dishpan hands. :)

Neurotic, Yet Classy

Our Alamo

For Amelia

Four-Legged Angels

Lessons Learned

Join me, won’t you?

Sleeping Single in a Double Bed

Mama

***** It’s been a while, I know. I’m not entirely sure I’m back for good, but I thought I’d make an appearance. I’ve also made a few appearances here in during my hiatus. Hope to see you all again soon. *****

Would anyone miss it when it was gone?

Sunday in Snaps: Raining Cats and Dogs

Motivate Me

Line, please.

March 12x12

Sunday in Snaps: Toy Story

permission to write junk: granted

Nothing to lose.

My Private Tunnel

Baby Claire

I need an intervention.

Sunday in Snaps

Have some whine, won’t you?

My Little Meg(s)

Sunday in Snaps

I’m such a follower.

I'm Golden

Counting Virtual Blessings

Beautiful Ione

Sweet, Elusive Sleep

Dancing In the Kitchen

A Haunting Tune

Sunday in Snaps

12 x 12 February 2010

Valentine’s Day Dilemma

Work Space Confessions

On Writing

Sometimes I remember…

There's someone I'd like you to meet...

‘Fraidy Cat

Cheating Death

Table Talk

…deep breaths…deeeeeep breaths…

My Little-Big BabyGirl

Judge not, that ye be not judged.

Someone mentioned foie gras.

It’s no secret…

Brothers

That really gets my goat.

Sisters

12x12 January 2010

*You can click on the collage and it will open larger in a new window.*

From the top left corner, working clockwise:

Things I Take for Granted

Wouldn’t that be lovely?

Cold.

However….

I lied.

It’s simple.

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly of 2009

Serendipity Struck

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

It’s Safe to Share These With You

The Men in the Shadows

What In the Name of Hee-Haw Junction Was I Thinking???

And, again my compulsion gets the best of me…

O’ Christmas Tree, O’ Christmas Tree

Christmas for My Girlies

The Great Interview Experiment

Girl Talk Thursday: Heartbreak City

Crackin’ Open a Can of Christmas

A Season of Giving

I closed my eyes.

Weekend in the Kitchen

* It’s been a while, I know. I’m not entirely sure I’m back for good, but I thought I’d make an appearance. I’ve also made a few appearances here in during my hiatus. Hope to see you all again soon. *

You can click on the collage and it will open larger in a new window.