When did my kids learn to speak in complete sentences using phrases like "filled to the brim," "you just have to deal with it" and "tooth pickle"? Children should come with a notification sound, rather like when you receive a new email, to let us slow poke folk know that their Play Dough minds just learned a new bit of vocabulary. What a gift it is to this middling mama to hear those bits come from those erstwhile faces.
Our #1 is downright reading now, which [SPOILER: her Christmas gift to me] means that she can pass out all of the presents from under the tree this year. Allow me to connect the dots for you. She can do the grunt work and I can remain tucked under some luciously fuzzy blanket with a warm mug of coffee and something sticky sweet. 'Tis my ideal Christmas breakfast.
Today marks the first day of the next two weeks of the holiday break from the routine. A small part of me feels relieved that the boy is around for a few days and can help wrangle the crazy. An equally small part of me is hyperventilating a bit that the crazy dial will be set on "constant" until the routine kicks in again.
I just mapped out my week in the kitchen and, let me assure you, there will be an absurd amount of bread making involved in various guises. I'm thinking hard about capturing some of the anticipation of the season of Advent and revamping it for some of the doldrums weeks soon to come (I'm looking squarely at you, February); more on that will perhaps be forthcoming soon.
I just had my last class session for the year, and talk about a leap of faith when I left the full-time gig for the part-time anxiety, it worked. We figure that on average I need to teach some combination of 10 classes a year, and this year, my first full and purposeful year into this venture, I was blessed with 11. It was looking a bit questionable when I only had 4 completed through the first 1/2 of the year. But we have been provided with enough, and that is the warmest God hug of all. For all of my burgeoning anxieties, worry about money is far, far down the list. And I don't take that lightly, not even remotely.
Friends...blessings for each one of you this joyous week.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Genetics upheld
Hi, friends. Check this out:
Do you see what I see ('cause you're not draped over my arms like our fiesty cat currently is, so I doubt you can hear what I hear)? Yes, it's a Christmas tree decorated like a 2-year old. But more importantly, it's proof perfect that my genetic material lives on through my youngest progeny, the one who likes me better and who already shows definite signs of being exactly like me. Bless her unsuspecting heart.
This was my craft of the week that we put together after a quick visit to the dollar store for some sparkly stickers and a bit of painting on some extra butcher paper. With tree dry and hung, it was all toddler-time in the decorating avenue. I only offered a suggestion ONE time (obviously, I held back as I'm good at offering suggestions when things DON'T LINE UP JUST SO!), banishing myself across the house where I could watch her work and listen to her rendition of Away in a Manger (on a loop) while she stickered it up.
I abhor decorating for Christmas. Absolutely hate it. In part, the reason for this is that no matter what I do, everything turns out looking like this: toddler-esque. Adorable when #2 proudly works on it. Wretched when this is all I can produce.
I would be perfectly happy if this was the entirety of our Christmas decorating this year. And, as this is currently still affixed to the wee one's bedroom door, I'm sure she'd be cool with the efficiency of wrapped presents on her doorstep come December 25th.
In other Christmas news, #1 refuses to give up the magical notion of Santa Claus in favor of a more literal one. She understands that leprechauns, unicorns, the Easter Bunny, and elves are imaginary, but as she stated to me once recently "Nope, Santa Claus is still real." She obviously inherited her dreamer genes from the boy.
This was my craft of the week that we put together after a quick visit to the dollar store for some sparkly stickers and a bit of painting on some extra butcher paper. With tree dry and hung, it was all toddler-time in the decorating avenue. I only offered a suggestion ONE time (obviously, I held back as I'm good at offering suggestions when things DON'T LINE UP JUST SO!), banishing myself across the house where I could watch her work and listen to her rendition of Away in a Manger (on a loop) while she stickered it up.
I abhor decorating for Christmas. Absolutely hate it. In part, the reason for this is that no matter what I do, everything turns out looking like this: toddler-esque. Adorable when #2 proudly works on it. Wretched when this is all I can produce.
I would be perfectly happy if this was the entirety of our Christmas decorating this year. And, as this is currently still affixed to the wee one's bedroom door, I'm sure she'd be cool with the efficiency of wrapped presents on her doorstep come December 25th.
In other Christmas news, #1 refuses to give up the magical notion of Santa Claus in favor of a more literal one. She understands that leprechauns, unicorns, the Easter Bunny, and elves are imaginary, but as she stated to me once recently "Nope, Santa Claus is still real." She obviously inherited her dreamer genes from the boy.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
It's electric...boogie woogie woogie
Friends. My giddy-o-meter has been nearly off the charts just thinking about putting this post together. No matter what I tell you here, let it be know that I have never given anyone food poisoning, my children are thriving on what I feed them, and the boy never complains/often makes requests from my "greatest hits" collection. In other words, I can work my way around a kitchen comfortably and confidently so that all are fed, all are satisfied and all are welcome.
However. Some days the stars are aligned just so, and that 3/4 moon casts down some serious voodoo on me. In those moments, THINGS HAPPEN. This is one of those times. Before you read further, I suggest you step away for a moment, find some of your own cooking successes in your own normal kitchen, pillage the heck out of that container of your choice, and settle in for a good read.
Foreshadowing: The boy whispered sweet nothings in my ear afterwards along the lines of "Maybe you need some Culver's tonight..." This was quickly followed by "The flavor of the day is caramel fudge cookie dough." He knows how to make my knees weak.
It's all because of our ugly, outdated fluorescent light in the kitchen that has long over-stayed its welcome...
Our story begins on Black Friday when we made an impromptu swing through Lowe's for I-don't-even-remember-what and walked out 30 minutes later with rumbling bellies and 2 antsy girls $200 lighter in the pocket but lugging a new kitchen light. Of course we did our due diligence and polled the random Lowe's employee in a blue vest to ensure that we would be able to quickly and easily swap the ugly fixture for the new, somewhat better looking fixture. Is the new one scads better in the looks department than the old one? No. But, we're working with limited stock on the shelves (par for the course in this town), lunchtime (I was getting peckish), and 2 children in a store that interests them not at all at lunchtime (they were peckish as well), and really, it's nothing more than a bit of nail polish for what is our house, 'Ol Bessy (she is what she is). Bless his do-gooder soul, the boy has a highly aggravating tendency to want to read the box before purchasing something like a new light fixture. And then he wants to ask questions of people who might be able to help him. And then he wants to double check things on the box. I don't even understand. I walk into that store, see a pretty picture on the box, check the price, and hightail it toward food. Installation issues can be hashed out in the comfort of my own home with the comfort of a full belly. The boy has undoubtedly saved me from myself a few times over the course of the years.
Nine years of doing home improvement projects with the boy has finally sunk into my grey matter. We put the girls down for their respective napping/resting times in their respective corners of the house, and (I kid you not) I looked the boy square in the eyes and said "I'm going shopping for new boots. I do not want to be around you while you put up the new light." That's love. No, no...that's marriage. You learn your partner's strengths and glory in those side-by-side. You also learn your partner's weaknesses and hightail it for the hills in order to avoid divorce court. The boy is definitely capable of swapping out one light fixture for another, and since he things things like electrical circuits, I've no fears of him electrocuting himself and twitching on the kitchen floor in a pile of his own drool. In actuality, the boy is a perfectionist and doesn't take kindly to those unexpected bits that pop up in every project. I'm more of a realist in these situations and admittedly have no patience for temper flares.
One of us was successful in our endeavors, not to leave you all hanging about the state of my boots shopping. It was me. The unexpected happened with the light fixture to the extent that the boy wasn't 100% confident in his electrical skills, and I was 100% sure that I wasn't either. This put the project hold until the electrician could come in 4 days (holiday, shmoliday). But the boy had turned the power off on that circuit, which shockingly affects a vast quantity of our lighting needs. So we've been without a kitchen light for a week now. And we're also down two other lamps in the living room and the lights over the fireplace. In other words, we have a light over the sink, under the microwave, and a ceiling fan light to illuminate what is at least 50% of our house's square footage. It's been dim, friends. It adds a festive glow to mealtimes that's really more reminiscent of camping seeing as how the sun now goes down before our mealtime. But nary a complaint has crossed these lips as promised to the boy when this project began to unravel.
The proper electrical work has been installed, but now the ceiling has to be painted before the new fixture can be installed. Not that I'm keeping track of the days that are racking up (7, actually), but this further delay is what you might call an inconvenience. This has been a long story to get you to last night.
FIRST. This week has been one of those weeks where I've been scheduling down to the second, not just the minute, and that wears on a body (especially in the dark). Yesterday, I was supposed to get some electrical work done on my car (anyone else notice the theme here?) about 7 minutes after I get home from picking up #1 from Kindergarten. The mechanic is about 7 minutes away from our house. The boy was getting home around the same time I did to exchange kids. But walking-out-the-door shenanigans happened, and I switched to taking his car for some minor work. And when I say "shenanigans," I really mean yelling half-baked instructions at him about dinner that was still frozen and which I fully planned on fixing myself because I'm just better at it but I had to cede some of the prep work. Like any good spouse I shut the door on these words "I'll call you with specific instructions!" 1.) This isn't the best bit of advice on how to talk to your partner--you don't always have to be in control (yes, I do...it's my kitchen). 2.) Take your dang phone if you're going to be making such promises.
Suffice it to say that I never called him.
You know how as soon as you start frantically working in the kitchen in order to put together the steak & potatoes (literally, I was jonesing for some roasted potatoes big time and we have quite a bit-o-cow in the freezer right now) vision of a supper that you have in mind, suddenly the kitchen fills up with a boy leaning on the counter trying to help and two children flopping around on the floor because "we're cats--meow, meow"? Come to my house at dinner time. It looks like this a lot.
When working in the dark, it's best to work alone. It also means that you have to be the one responsible for everything. Including the knife set in the pre-heating oven. Yes, friend. Knives in the oven. If you ever come look at my house when it's on the market, you're likely to find all manner of weirdness in the empty appliances to clear off the counters. Yesterday, I pulled that old trick out of my back pocket when I began painting part of the ceiling. HOWEVER. The success of this plan is that you later remove said items out of said appliances once the coast is clear and the paint can has been put away. I did not.
Fear not! I caught my mistake on the random chance that I needed to adjust my oven rack, so those items (more than just knives, sadly) were only roasty toasty from a few minutes of pre-heating rather than the full on broiling that I was preparing for. But this led to fun moment #2--chopping potatoes with a hot knife. Picture this visual: I'm still wearing my old, stained sweatshirt from painting, hair a disaster, mood lighting, my knife block & knives (and griddle pan and spatula and spoon rest...) spread across my counters on cooling racks, and like a genius, I realize that my inherited Christmas-themed oven mitt shall help me overcome. Those potatoes quite literally started to roast before they even hit the pan what with a hot blade coming their way.
But then there was a fire in the oven, just to make dinner extra special. I just about lost it in giggling convulsions at that point. Come the heck on. I've broiled a slab-o-beast before and never have the fat drippings caught on fire. The boy starts in on the handy "Don't throw water on it!" (which I knew, thankyouverymuch)...science teachers, psshhh. Mercifully, no steak was harmed in this fiery debacle. And the oven came threw like a champ again. Two for two, yesterday.
You know what's better than eating in the dark with children? Eating in the dark and smoke with children and windows open...in winter-esque conditions. Come on kids, we're roughing it tonight.
There are days and then there are some days. "Maybe you need some Culver's tonight...it's caramel fudge cookie dough." Sold.
However. Some days the stars are aligned just so, and that 3/4 moon casts down some serious voodoo on me. In those moments, THINGS HAPPEN. This is one of those times. Before you read further, I suggest you step away for a moment, find some of your own cooking successes in your own normal kitchen, pillage the heck out of that container of your choice, and settle in for a good read.
Foreshadowing: The boy whispered sweet nothings in my ear afterwards along the lines of "Maybe you need some Culver's tonight..." This was quickly followed by "The flavor of the day is caramel fudge cookie dough." He knows how to make my knees weak.
It's all because of our ugly, outdated fluorescent light in the kitchen that has long over-stayed its welcome...
Our story begins on Black Friday when we made an impromptu swing through Lowe's for I-don't-even-remember-what and walked out 30 minutes later with rumbling bellies and 2 antsy girls $200 lighter in the pocket but lugging a new kitchen light. Of course we did our due diligence and polled the random Lowe's employee in a blue vest to ensure that we would be able to quickly and easily swap the ugly fixture for the new, somewhat better looking fixture. Is the new one scads better in the looks department than the old one? No. But, we're working with limited stock on the shelves (par for the course in this town), lunchtime (I was getting peckish), and 2 children in a store that interests them not at all at lunchtime (they were peckish as well), and really, it's nothing more than a bit of nail polish for what is our house, 'Ol Bessy (she is what she is). Bless his do-gooder soul, the boy has a highly aggravating tendency to want to read the box before purchasing something like a new light fixture. And then he wants to ask questions of people who might be able to help him. And then he wants to double check things on the box. I don't even understand. I walk into that store, see a pretty picture on the box, check the price, and hightail it toward food. Installation issues can be hashed out in the comfort of my own home with the comfort of a full belly. The boy has undoubtedly saved me from myself a few times over the course of the years.
Nine years of doing home improvement projects with the boy has finally sunk into my grey matter. We put the girls down for their respective napping/resting times in their respective corners of the house, and (I kid you not) I looked the boy square in the eyes and said "I'm going shopping for new boots. I do not want to be around you while you put up the new light." That's love. No, no...that's marriage. You learn your partner's strengths and glory in those side-by-side. You also learn your partner's weaknesses and hightail it for the hills in order to avoid divorce court. The boy is definitely capable of swapping out one light fixture for another, and since he things things like electrical circuits, I've no fears of him electrocuting himself and twitching on the kitchen floor in a pile of his own drool. In actuality, the boy is a perfectionist and doesn't take kindly to those unexpected bits that pop up in every project. I'm more of a realist in these situations and admittedly have no patience for temper flares.
One of us was successful in our endeavors, not to leave you all hanging about the state of my boots shopping. It was me. The unexpected happened with the light fixture to the extent that the boy wasn't 100% confident in his electrical skills, and I was 100% sure that I wasn't either. This put the project hold until the electrician could come in 4 days (holiday, shmoliday). But the boy had turned the power off on that circuit, which shockingly affects a vast quantity of our lighting needs. So we've been without a kitchen light for a week now. And we're also down two other lamps in the living room and the lights over the fireplace. In other words, we have a light over the sink, under the microwave, and a ceiling fan light to illuminate what is at least 50% of our house's square footage. It's been dim, friends. It adds a festive glow to mealtimes that's really more reminiscent of camping seeing as how the sun now goes down before our mealtime. But nary a complaint has crossed these lips as promised to the boy when this project began to unravel.
The proper electrical work has been installed, but now the ceiling has to be painted before the new fixture can be installed. Not that I'm keeping track of the days that are racking up (7, actually), but this further delay is what you might call an inconvenience. This has been a long story to get you to last night.
FIRST. This week has been one of those weeks where I've been scheduling down to the second, not just the minute, and that wears on a body (especially in the dark). Yesterday, I was supposed to get some electrical work done on my car (anyone else notice the theme here?) about 7 minutes after I get home from picking up #1 from Kindergarten. The mechanic is about 7 minutes away from our house. The boy was getting home around the same time I did to exchange kids. But walking-out-the-door shenanigans happened, and I switched to taking his car for some minor work. And when I say "shenanigans," I really mean yelling half-baked instructions at him about dinner that was still frozen and which I fully planned on fixing myself because I'm just better at it but I had to cede some of the prep work. Like any good spouse I shut the door on these words "I'll call you with specific instructions!" 1.) This isn't the best bit of advice on how to talk to your partner--you don't always have to be in control (yes, I do...it's my kitchen). 2.) Take your dang phone if you're going to be making such promises.
Suffice it to say that I never called him.
You know how as soon as you start frantically working in the kitchen in order to put together the steak & potatoes (literally, I was jonesing for some roasted potatoes big time and we have quite a bit-o-cow in the freezer right now) vision of a supper that you have in mind, suddenly the kitchen fills up with a boy leaning on the counter trying to help and two children flopping around on the floor because "we're cats--meow, meow"? Come to my house at dinner time. It looks like this a lot.
When working in the dark, it's best to work alone. It also means that you have to be the one responsible for everything. Including the knife set in the pre-heating oven. Yes, friend. Knives in the oven. If you ever come look at my house when it's on the market, you're likely to find all manner of weirdness in the empty appliances to clear off the counters. Yesterday, I pulled that old trick out of my back pocket when I began painting part of the ceiling. HOWEVER. The success of this plan is that you later remove said items out of said appliances once the coast is clear and the paint can has been put away. I did not.
Fear not! I caught my mistake on the random chance that I needed to adjust my oven rack, so those items (more than just knives, sadly) were only roasty toasty from a few minutes of pre-heating rather than the full on broiling that I was preparing for. But this led to fun moment #2--chopping potatoes with a hot knife. Picture this visual: I'm still wearing my old, stained sweatshirt from painting, hair a disaster, mood lighting, my knife block & knives (and griddle pan and spatula and spoon rest...) spread across my counters on cooling racks, and like a genius, I realize that my inherited Christmas-themed oven mitt shall help me overcome. Those potatoes quite literally started to roast before they even hit the pan what with a hot blade coming their way.
But then there was a fire in the oven, just to make dinner extra special. I just about lost it in giggling convulsions at that point. Come the heck on. I've broiled a slab-o-beast before and never have the fat drippings caught on fire. The boy starts in on the handy "Don't throw water on it!" (which I knew, thankyouverymuch)...science teachers, psshhh. Mercifully, no steak was harmed in this fiery debacle. And the oven came threw like a champ again. Two for two, yesterday.
You know what's better than eating in the dark with children? Eating in the dark and smoke with children and windows open...in winter-esque conditions. Come on kids, we're roughing it tonight.
There are days and then there are some days. "Maybe you need some Culver's tonight...it's caramel fudge cookie dough." Sold.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Making something interesting
I'm going to prove how my work life is nothing but giggles and grins. I get to read some humorous, satirical content now and again. If you don't...sorry, my friend. Your life is the worse without it. If, like me, you found yourself jumping into The Longman Reader in preparation for an upcoming class and ultimately landed on "How to Say Nothing in 500 Words" by Paul Roberts, then you may have also come across this bit: "Can you be expected to make a dull subject interesting? As a matter of fact, this is precisely what you are expected to do. This is the writer’s essential task. All subjects, except sex, are dull until somebody makes them interesting. The writer’s job is to find the argument, the approach, the angle, the wording that will take the reader with him. This is seldom easy, and it is particularly hard in subjects that have been much discussed: College Football, Fraternities, Popular Music, Is Chivalry Dead?, and the like. You will feel that there is nothing you can do with such subjects except repeat the old bromides. But there are some things you can do which will make your papers, if not throbbingly alive, at least less insufferably tedious than they might otherwise be" [bold font my own].
I didn't know what I was going to pound out here for my weekly Thursday morning coffee shop hour, and here it landed in my lap. Buckle in, dear reader, for while I'm not going to be talking about sex, I shall be wending my way through the finer points of a truly fascinating topic: someone's sitting in my seat. (But first, I need to finish re-reading that essay so that I can better lead my planned discussion.)
(I'm back briefly: Roberts' article uses a fictitious example of writing about college football for 500 words as the task exemplar to make his point. At one point, he writes that you [the college student struggling through the assignment] might develop your argument about why college football is no good for the school. One of your points might be that "...for most schools it is financially ruinous." Obviously, Roberts lived in a different day and age [upwards of 50 years ago] than what we currently enjoy. Financially ruinous no more, eh?)
Well, now. Thanks for waiting, and I'm back. On to the juicy guts of the matter: allow me the chance to state again (perhaps somewhat more emphatically now) that someone is sitting in my seat. Their bum is enjoying the cushy leather chair that is most undoubtedly mine when I stop by this little joint. What's more, he's ensconced there as if he means to stay. There can be no saltier salt to rub in my fresh wound.
Perhaps this is the climax for the series of events leading up to the moment I walked in those doors. #2 asked me, yet again, for a snack at 8:52 a.m. #1 asked me, yet again, if she was late at 9:00 when she was looking out the window watching the students get off the buses. #2 asked me, yet again, how long it would take to get to pre-school. I forgot #2's backpack for pre-school (read: no change of clothes in case she has an accident, and for some reason, pre-school is the only place where she does so anymore). I pumped gas in the delightfully crisp air (read: bone chilling wind). My parallel parking fiasco was exactly what it sounds like, and it involved the sidewalk.
I think that the pumping-o-the-gas made all of the difference. That 5 minutes that put me behind my otherwise strictly enforced time budget undoubtedly allowed Mr. Seat Usurper to swoop in and perform a coffee shop chair coup.
However, it's the season of thanks and sharing, so I will, for this day only, accede my rightful place in this socially accepted institution. But let it be understood that in so doing, I staked my claim to a tall cafe table right beside the door (cause I like 'dem small and high ones, too), and I'm not sure it's me or my high octane wit, but the large glass window right beside me is all steamy now. And I'm distractingly close to actual people (note that my preferred location is rather tucked away in a corner, which did lead to something of an awkward moment as I went barreling toward it with my large cup of Jamaican Me Crazy only to have to pretend that I wasn't trying to sit in someone's lap). But this place if full of interesting people with their interesting stories, so it's also a bit of an airport luxury getting to do a bit of people watching and eavesdropping. Shameless.
Twist in the plot! There's now a deaf, older gentleman sitting in the table beside me. It's hard to eavesdrop on that conversation.
This table is serving me well. Will it lead to a complete redux of my favorite spot? Just call me Dickins cause that was a cliff hanger.
I didn't know what I was going to pound out here for my weekly Thursday morning coffee shop hour, and here it landed in my lap. Buckle in, dear reader, for while I'm not going to be talking about sex, I shall be wending my way through the finer points of a truly fascinating topic: someone's sitting in my seat. (But first, I need to finish re-reading that essay so that I can better lead my planned discussion.)
(I'm back briefly: Roberts' article uses a fictitious example of writing about college football for 500 words as the task exemplar to make his point. At one point, he writes that you [the college student struggling through the assignment] might develop your argument about why college football is no good for the school. One of your points might be that "...for most schools it is financially ruinous." Obviously, Roberts lived in a different day and age [upwards of 50 years ago] than what we currently enjoy. Financially ruinous no more, eh?)
Well, now. Thanks for waiting, and I'm back. On to the juicy guts of the matter: allow me the chance to state again (perhaps somewhat more emphatically now) that someone is sitting in my seat. Their bum is enjoying the cushy leather chair that is most undoubtedly mine when I stop by this little joint. What's more, he's ensconced there as if he means to stay. There can be no saltier salt to rub in my fresh wound.
Perhaps this is the climax for the series of events leading up to the moment I walked in those doors. #2 asked me, yet again, for a snack at 8:52 a.m. #1 asked me, yet again, if she was late at 9:00 when she was looking out the window watching the students get off the buses. #2 asked me, yet again, how long it would take to get to pre-school. I forgot #2's backpack for pre-school (read: no change of clothes in case she has an accident, and for some reason, pre-school is the only place where she does so anymore). I pumped gas in the delightfully crisp air (read: bone chilling wind). My parallel parking fiasco was exactly what it sounds like, and it involved the sidewalk.
I think that the pumping-o-the-gas made all of the difference. That 5 minutes that put me behind my otherwise strictly enforced time budget undoubtedly allowed Mr. Seat Usurper to swoop in and perform a coffee shop chair coup.
However, it's the season of thanks and sharing, so I will, for this day only, accede my rightful place in this socially accepted institution. But let it be understood that in so doing, I staked my claim to a tall cafe table right beside the door (cause I like 'dem small and high ones, too), and I'm not sure it's me or my high octane wit, but the large glass window right beside me is all steamy now. And I'm distractingly close to actual people (note that my preferred location is rather tucked away in a corner, which did lead to something of an awkward moment as I went barreling toward it with my large cup of Jamaican Me Crazy only to have to pretend that I wasn't trying to sit in someone's lap). But this place if full of interesting people with their interesting stories, so it's also a bit of an airport luxury getting to do a bit of people watching and eavesdropping. Shameless.
Twist in the plot! There's now a deaf, older gentleman sitting in the table beside me. It's hard to eavesdrop on that conversation.
This table is serving me well. Will it lead to a complete redux of my favorite spot? Just call me Dickins cause that was a cliff hanger.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Georgia on my mind
I'm what you might call all caught up on my grading. This leads to all sorts of mumbo jumbo happening.
1. Did you know that Augusta, Georgia is in the top 10 list of most affordable housing (major) markets in the country? So says the boy who read it on one of those fab Yahoo stories that just cycle in some bewitching manner across my screen every time I check my email. There's just about any bit of the random and the arcane that you'd like to know that you can glean from those. Well. Augusta, Georgia roughly falls geographically in my "Yes, I think that I would live there someday" area of the country. This is to say that in my old (enough) age, I'm d-o-n-e with brutal cold, with puddles of slush smeared throughout my house, and with driving on black ice. I'm beyond irritated at marshmallow-y jackets and raw, irritated skin. I'm frustrated getting dressed in the morning when deciding what combination of layers to huddle in for the day and irritable at night when everything requires huddling under blankets until some warmth finds its way in again. No amount of snuggly images of roaring fires, mugs of hot chocolate, and bright sweaters will provide enough salve for this case of cold weather woes. Again, I say...well. Augusta, Georgia is somewhat warmer, I hear. Charleston, South Carolina has its moments of being downright balmy come the 6 months of the year that those of us call "winter." Savannah, Georgia would likely provide a bit of comfort for my prunish little soul. Well.
2. We love our fuzzy little boos, but they have moments where they just don't have anything going for them except their sweet little furry faces. "Hey, Mom-oo, glad to see you back tonight. I'm going to sit in your doorway and give you a sad little squeak that means, 'Give me a treat right now and maybe I'll say please with a little head-butt to emphasize my point.' Oh, BTW...I threw up on your comforter. And your sheets. But I was thinking about you, so I threw up between your pillows instead of on your pillows. Because...love you. And, I still would like a treat. Get working on that ASAP. Please (almost forgot to say that...here's another head-butt which will leave a flurry of white hairs on your black pants...welcome for that, too)." Me-ow. And now I am running yet another cycle on my dryer with tennis balls to help pound, fluff and what have you for our down comforter, which (hey hey, lucky us) doesn't have to be dry cleaned.
3. Fur ball #2, who was seemingly innocent in puke-gate on Mama's comforter, woke me up at 12:30 AM by retching ON ME. I've had cats for upwards of 20 years, and this was a first. Let's have a blanket-by-blanket update here. I'm now without my down comforter (hello friend, this is a must here...refer to #1 above) and weighed down by (count it) 4 new blankets. But this isn't good enough for el gatitos: let's take away 25% of my blanket replacements. At 12:30 AM just for meows and nibbles.
Maybe, I could move to Augusta, Georgia and set up shop as a cat wrangler. I've got some mad skills in CAT 101: Listening to what your cat tells you, even if you don't like the package that the message arrives in. And my chapped hands would thank me.
1. Did you know that Augusta, Georgia is in the top 10 list of most affordable housing (major) markets in the country? So says the boy who read it on one of those fab Yahoo stories that just cycle in some bewitching manner across my screen every time I check my email. There's just about any bit of the random and the arcane that you'd like to know that you can glean from those. Well. Augusta, Georgia roughly falls geographically in my "Yes, I think that I would live there someday" area of the country. This is to say that in my old (enough) age, I'm d-o-n-e with brutal cold, with puddles of slush smeared throughout my house, and with driving on black ice. I'm beyond irritated at marshmallow-y jackets and raw, irritated skin. I'm frustrated getting dressed in the morning when deciding what combination of layers to huddle in for the day and irritable at night when everything requires huddling under blankets until some warmth finds its way in again. No amount of snuggly images of roaring fires, mugs of hot chocolate, and bright sweaters will provide enough salve for this case of cold weather woes. Again, I say...well. Augusta, Georgia is somewhat warmer, I hear. Charleston, South Carolina has its moments of being downright balmy come the 6 months of the year that those of us call "winter." Savannah, Georgia would likely provide a bit of comfort for my prunish little soul. Well.
2. We love our fuzzy little boos, but they have moments where they just don't have anything going for them except their sweet little furry faces. "Hey, Mom-oo, glad to see you back tonight. I'm going to sit in your doorway and give you a sad little squeak that means, 'Give me a treat right now and maybe I'll say please with a little head-butt to emphasize my point.' Oh, BTW...I threw up on your comforter. And your sheets. But I was thinking about you, so I threw up between your pillows instead of on your pillows. Because...love you. And, I still would like a treat. Get working on that ASAP. Please (almost forgot to say that...here's another head-butt which will leave a flurry of white hairs on your black pants...welcome for that, too)." Me-ow. And now I am running yet another cycle on my dryer with tennis balls to help pound, fluff and what have you for our down comforter, which (hey hey, lucky us) doesn't have to be dry cleaned.
3. Fur ball #2, who was seemingly innocent in puke-gate on Mama's comforter, woke me up at 12:30 AM by retching ON ME. I've had cats for upwards of 20 years, and this was a first. Let's have a blanket-by-blanket update here. I'm now without my down comforter (hello friend, this is a must here...refer to #1 above) and weighed down by (count it) 4 new blankets. But this isn't good enough for el gatitos: let's take away 25% of my blanket replacements. At 12:30 AM just for meows and nibbles.
Maybe, I could move to Augusta, Georgia and set up shop as a cat wrangler. I've got some mad skills in CAT 101: Listening to what your cat tells you, even if you don't like the package that the message arrives in. And my chapped hands would thank me.
Sunday, November 16, 2014
Something interesting I read lately - 2 qualities of a successful relationship
I come across scads of "articles" about relationships--building strong foundations, knowing your partner, why you/your partner act as you/they do. Typically, I don't pay much attention to them. But sometimes, a legitimate bit of reading encourages me to take the time. It also helps when I come across one on a Sunday afternoon while little ones are put away in their respective corners of the house. This one was well worth the 10-minute read, no matter what stage of a relationship you are in (pre-relationship and I'm-not-expecting-to-ever-(again)-be-in-one both count because you never know).
Cheers to the boy who does many more things right than wrong, to friends who are entering developing moments in their relationships, and to loved ones who have shaped their own relationships and in so doing have shaped my own. Instead of reading my own lengthy blatherings about the article, just dig in to the good stuff. (Find a relatively uninterrupted spot, a chocolate chip-y cookie, and a beverage that suits. I highly recommend that part of the reading experience.)
And I'll tease you with this, my favorite line from the piece: "But among couples who not only endure, but live happily together for years and years, the spirit of kindness and generosity guides them forward." It matters how you argue, perhaps even more so than you act the rest of the time.
Cheers to the boy who does many more things right than wrong, to friends who are entering developing moments in their relationships, and to loved ones who have shaped their own relationships and in so doing have shaped my own. Instead of reading my own lengthy blatherings about the article, just dig in to the good stuff. (Find a relatively uninterrupted spot, a chocolate chip-y cookie, and a beverage that suits. I highly recommend that part of the reading experience.)
And I'll tease you with this, my favorite line from the piece: "But among couples who not only endure, but live happily together for years and years, the spirit of kindness and generosity guides them forward." It matters how you argue, perhaps even more so than you act the rest of the time.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Moments of realization (and cookies, just because)
I swung by the library because I was out of books at home to read, and that always puts me in an uncomfortable place, mentally. It's like having your kid spend a weekend at your parents: you wander around without purpose for a good 2 hours before you finally settle into something else, but it still just doesn't feel right. Even though you've been looking forward to this time alone, you can't wait to get them back. Being bookless is something like that for me. Newspapers are addictive and magazines are moments of fantasy and inspiration, but books ground me like nothing else.
Well, I got some books. I was skimming the non-fiction section looking for a new memoir, and I had my 1st epiphany of the morning: I really dig memoir in the same way that I ravenously follow certain bloggers. There's some amount of out-of-body decadence in it for me. I'm fantastically behind where I should be in my ability to understand other perspectives (I'm blaming you, small-town, Midwest, homogenous upbringing!). Throughout the course of the semester in one of the classes that I teach, I have my students complete a series of 10 personal responses based on specific topics located from short essays in a collective text. The latest response was a response to what each student believes about peace...doesn't an ability to understand others' positions, to truly listen to them and respect their own place, do much toward engendering a sense of peace and ability to thrive as a unit between us? I believe so. All of this is to say that I picked up a memoir by Wendy Davis, the politician from Texas, in large part because I just finished a similar book by Kirsten Gillibrand (New York's Senator), and I find myself compelled to refuel my perspective about women by women. But I bypassed a memoir by a Mormon in favor of Davis's book. Here's my pledge: I'm going back for that one next.
This somewhat leads into my 2nd epiphany of the day, which happened just before logging into this bit of a blog when I was thinking "What, oh what, shall I write about today?" or something like that. I had a common (of late) combination pity party/confessional/therapy session with myself in the car as I was dropping the young people at their respective schools. It wasn't a fabulous morning, it was totally my fault, and I hate that about myself. So I was sitting down here in my normal Thursday morning squishy chair, and (perhaps I'm just really dense not to have realized this before), but the times in my life when I have been most centered, most happy, and most purposeful have all been when I've been a student or in direct conversation about literature. There's some seismic shift in my self-monologue when I have been in this mental place, and I like it. No, that's not accurate. I need it. Here's my second pledge of the morning: in order for my life to make the most sense for me, I must be a participant in academic conversations and contributing to them; I will foster this ability more than I have been doing since my time as a student has ended. If I am to return to my healthiest self, I must do this for myself in some way. And I don't know how I'm going to get there, but I think that I have to try, somehow.
I'm counting on some measure of accountability in so submitting this here. Please, do check in on me if you want to in the future to see where I'm at on regaining my equilibrium.
In the meantime, I made brownie buckeye cookies after the girls went to bed last for no other reason than I know it would bring some measure of happiness to the boy, who is an in-the-flesh cookie monster. And that felt good. If you know of anyone who could use some cookies for no other reason than just because, let me know. Cookies for all--a pretty simple concept that makes me happy.
Well, I got some books. I was skimming the non-fiction section looking for a new memoir, and I had my 1st epiphany of the morning: I really dig memoir in the same way that I ravenously follow certain bloggers. There's some amount of out-of-body decadence in it for me. I'm fantastically behind where I should be in my ability to understand other perspectives (I'm blaming you, small-town, Midwest, homogenous upbringing!). Throughout the course of the semester in one of the classes that I teach, I have my students complete a series of 10 personal responses based on specific topics located from short essays in a collective text. The latest response was a response to what each student believes about peace...doesn't an ability to understand others' positions, to truly listen to them and respect their own place, do much toward engendering a sense of peace and ability to thrive as a unit between us? I believe so. All of this is to say that I picked up a memoir by Wendy Davis, the politician from Texas, in large part because I just finished a similar book by Kirsten Gillibrand (New York's Senator), and I find myself compelled to refuel my perspective about women by women. But I bypassed a memoir by a Mormon in favor of Davis's book. Here's my pledge: I'm going back for that one next.
This somewhat leads into my 2nd epiphany of the day, which happened just before logging into this bit of a blog when I was thinking "What, oh what, shall I write about today?" or something like that. I had a common (of late) combination pity party/confessional/therapy session with myself in the car as I was dropping the young people at their respective schools. It wasn't a fabulous morning, it was totally my fault, and I hate that about myself. So I was sitting down here in my normal Thursday morning squishy chair, and (perhaps I'm just really dense not to have realized this before), but the times in my life when I have been most centered, most happy, and most purposeful have all been when I've been a student or in direct conversation about literature. There's some seismic shift in my self-monologue when I have been in this mental place, and I like it. No, that's not accurate. I need it. Here's my second pledge of the morning: in order for my life to make the most sense for me, I must be a participant in academic conversations and contributing to them; I will foster this ability more than I have been doing since my time as a student has ended. If I am to return to my healthiest self, I must do this for myself in some way. And I don't know how I'm going to get there, but I think that I have to try, somehow.
I'm counting on some measure of accountability in so submitting this here. Please, do check in on me if you want to in the future to see where I'm at on regaining my equilibrium.
In the meantime, I made brownie buckeye cookies after the girls went to bed last for no other reason than I know it would bring some measure of happiness to the boy, who is an in-the-flesh cookie monster. And that felt good. If you know of anyone who could use some cookies for no other reason than just because, let me know. Cookies for all--a pretty simple concept that makes me happy.
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