The Trolley To Nowhere?!

Well, it appears that the Valdez Family will not be relocating to the great City by the Bay.  I realize this may come as a "what is she talking about?!" moment for most of you, so let me enlighten you.

We live in a nomadic society.  People rely less upon the traditional neighborhood model and more upon career opportunity when contemplating where to set up their tent.  Especially in the ultra modern technological world, where information and training cross paths with new developments at ever increasing speeds.

Unless one has a dream job, a position that rewards on all fronts -- challenge, growth, advancement, money, co-workers, location, you get me here -- one often posts a resume on any one or two or more Internet sites where prospective employment traffic intersects.  Headhunters filter and search.  E-mails and phone numbers are culled.  Contact is made.  Often, quite out of the blue.  Usually, nothing more than a nice ego stroke comes of it.  "Hey, I'm valid.  I've got the skills.  This other company knows it."  Rarely does one hear or read the magic combination of words and numbers which actually create a viable prospect.  Stimulate excitement.  Incite an entire family to discuss the Pros and Cons and options of a move, hours of discussion crammed within the space of a January weekend, before deciding to toss the ol' hat in the ring.  In fact, it's safe to assume that this type of post-and-fugettahboutit behavior actually places a person and his family in a position whereby they don't even realize they are open, even eager, to stride into a new and unknown arena until the proposition pops up.

But that's exactly what happened to us.  Suddenly, there's a tailored position which matches every point on paper, er, screen.  The only rub is that its halfway across the country on the West Coast.  But I think, "Wow!  Silicon Valley?  It doesn't get any closer than that!  If it opens up new horizons for my husband, cuts down on his late-night/early morning phone sessions, brings a smile to his face a bit more often, AND I could be near my brothers for the first time since high school," and I'm forty one, folks, "then who I am to say right out of the gate that we absolutely can't entertain this option?!"  After all, we are not ultra conservative in this department.  (Not really ANY department.)  A calculated risk with perceived benefits has moved us at least five times since we married almost twenty three years ago.  Without fail, it has always worked out.

SILICON VALLEY

We expected opposition from the minor ranks, but not one of the children protested.  In fact, our boy was beside himself, dreaming of the beach, his cousins, a chance to experience city life.  The girls had work and boyfriends and college and were unafraid to rely on the network of family and friends that would remain in our wake.  We checked real estate, crunched rudimentary numbers, decided living IN the city would be our direction, and we would not be afraid to rent.  Of course, there were still school districts to research and a dozen and a half other points to iron out, but this was only a preliminary phase.  The phone interview could reveal holes in his knowledge; the in-person interview might expose personality conflicts.  One step at a time.  And I won't bore you with the litany of home improvements I ticked off on that neverending mental list of mine: it makes preparing for my daughter's graduation party in May, with all of the out-of-town company we are expecting, seem like a delightful picnic.

So today, with butterflies fully activated in our tummies, we threw our hat out there via e-mail.  Only to have it handed back.  There was a miscommunication about salary.  We had prayed for doors to be resoundingly SHUT if this was not the situation best suited to our present needs and desires.  Unless we were a troupe of circus elephants, we could not live on peanuts!  Sounds like a SLAM! to me.  Sigh.
One by one, I responded to the multiple texts sent to me by each of the kids and the one person with whom we shared this information right from the inception, my brother, John.  (May I just say that in those three wonderful days of consideration, I received more calls and texts from that busy man than I have in the past three months!  He was as excited at the prospect of us being closer to him as we were.  Sad.)  My plans to tell my neighbor what we were trying for dried up.  Ditto for Laurie in Wyoming, Michelle in New Mexico, and Rebekah & Laurel in Colorado.  Not to mention the joy I would have experienced in telling Brother Gary that he would have family just hours away from him if everything went well.  (As for the loving relatives who would have thought, either outwardly or privately, that we'd lost our ever-loving minds?  We were ready for them, too!)

There's not one thing wrong with our current situation.  The security and comfort of our lives has been due in very large part to the hard work of my husband.  The company which employs him has been outstanding on all levels of provision -- from life insurance to health insurance, from salary to respect.  He's not complaining.  I'm not complaining.  It's just that for one brief and shining weekend, there was this tantalizing hook dangled out in front of us, with the promise of stimulation and life options that people just don't get all that often.  For my husband, it was the chance to fully utilize his education and training as opposed to stewing within the limitations of management.  For my son, it was beaches and bikinis and Cousin Isaac and change.  For me, it was Chinatown and sourdough and baby brothers.  (There are fleeting moments where thoughts of that dormant cancer lying in John's belly frighten me into realizing the fleeting nature of anyone's future.  Where Gary's physical and emotional limitations impose a reality in which he is never released and simply settles in without benefit of nurturing company.)  And less yard and house . . . translating into actual writing time . . . maybe I would improve and actually string together something more meaningful, intellectual, and bulkier than a blog entry at a time!

Therefore, I now 'undeliver' (it's a word tonight) the delivery of surprising and interesting family news I was set to post on that fantastic social playground, Facebook.  I'm still here in Tennessee.  WE are still here in Tennessee.  It's after midnight.  The kids and husband sleep.  The socks and underwear remain unfolded.  There's half a pan of dark chocolate and walnut brownies in need of covering.  My taxes are partially done.  And regardless of whether we move in the near future or not, there's a headache-starting list of fix-it chores for this house of ours.

Take care, streets of San Francisco.

Boiling Point

A person whom I admire in this ordinary life we often lead told me that when change is imminent, it's akin to a boiling pot which has been simmering for some time before reaching its hottest active point.  I do believe she is right.  (Okay.  It's my pastor's wife.  A lovely woman of the Lord with a truly unique personality and a dedication to being the best person she can be, beginning with her faith and resonating outward to family, friends, church, work, and hobbies.  She's a keeper!)

When an extraordinary event or opportunity pops up on the radar -- seemingly out of nowhere -- unless it's a UFO with beyond-our-ken travel capabilities (did I really just reference a spaceship for this entry?!), it has a point of entrance, an origin, a start.  Maybe a seed sown in the fertile mind, restless for change or growth, which then sends out shoots of thought in directions one might otherwise not entertain.  Perhaps a choice made rashly or in a hectic out-of-charcter moment.  My point is SOMEthing happens initially, setting off a chain of events . . . tumble, little dominoes . . . and, eventually, SOMEthing results.

Over the years, I've watched a steaming array of boiling pots on my  own stovetop.  Yes, they DO boil!  In fact, I've fogged a few pairs of glasses leaning over them.  Burnt a wrist or forearm removing their lids.  Lost the spoon attempting to stir them into submission.  But I've also timed an egg to perfection.  Blanched crisp produce to just-rightness.  Triumphed with oodles of noodles al dente.  I can pinpoint the instant at which I turned the dial and set the heat.  I know the juncture where still water became the tiniest of bubbles jumping from the bottom of the pan in a race for the surface.  And regardless of the outcome, the success or failure of that particular attempt, I was ready, each time, for the eruption of possibly scalding force which totally transforms the water and anything dropped into its depths.  Perhaps not ready in a 100% consciousness sense, but ready in a "when life gives you boiling water, make yourself a cup of strong tea" way.  Readiness is not always preparedness as much as it is willingness.

Tonight, I'm ready, willing . . . and able to prepare if the pot doesn't boil over.  Pasta anyone?

  

Mary Kay

No, not the Pink Cadillac icon of home-based order beauty products.  The other Mary Kay.  Remember?  A 34 year-old Seattle school teacher, married and mother of four, engages in a sexual relationship with one of her 13 year-old male students.  She is charged with second-degree rape of a child.  After professing the moral and legal wrongness of her actions before the court, she was found engaging in sexual acts with the boy in a car.  That earned her a 7-year prison sentence.  Upon her release in 2004, Mary Kay Letourneau proceeded to marry the "love of her life" and father to the two daughters they had while she was separated from society.  She has since reconciled with her four other children.  MK and her husband work, him as a DJ and her as a legal assistant, and live in the Seattle area.  I believe she is 48 and he is 27.  Their girls are 12 and 13.  That's 14 years of living that's flowed beneath the bridge since a once unknown authority figure allowed herself to develop sexual and romantic feelings for a kid in her care.

Another odd tragic life, several lives, in a nutshell.  But they have endeavored to move past the wreckage and tabloid headlines to lead a pretty unassuming life.  Except when they choose to give the occasional interview to 'People' magazine or 'The Today Show.'  Which is what they did this morning!  Meredith Vieira conducted the stumbling stop-start-stutter question-and-answer session.  It was one of those studio interviews, with one party ensconced in their local network studio and the major network news personality perched on the set couch with their query list.  Only no cheat sheet was going to improve this television moment.

It seems MK is a grandmother now.  Her son from her previous marriage, who is a full year younger than her husband,  is the proud new parent.  And that is a very lovely milestone for a family to experience.  But given the overall ick factor inherent in MK's story, the arrival of a grandbaby doesn't soften the edges of the gargantuan gray cloud which hangs over everything she does, and will ever do, in the public eye.  Family video of MK with her son, husband, and the baby only served to enhance the age differences between all parties and why that is so.

The producers of the famed morning show did nothing to aid in the rescue of the sinking interview: at one point, MK is asked a heavy question which required a reflective response, and as she attempted to give that reply, 'The Today Show' played old footage of MK in court, answering a similar question.  Her recorded voice rode over her real time voice and seemed to interrupt whenever she tried to reboot her answer.  I understand if the personal opinions of people, including staff on the show, lean toward the negative, the doubtful, the downright disgusted, but why let that bleed into your job?  People could possibly learn something here if the woman was allowed to speak.  The entire conduct of the episode was not indicative of quality programming nor did it adequately reflect the possible newsworthy items which could have been gleaned from this unique, if not infamous, couple and their latest sound byte.

Though I concur with the law and the moral high ground here, I do believe the woman has served her time and the young man had his time to reflect, hear what his own family had to say, and receive counseling.  After all of that, if they still desired a life together, then it's theirs to have.  If there was a repeat offense, I'd be the first to say send her back.  And like many folks, I wonder how she would have reacted had this happened with one of her own sons; she already expressed her opinion this morning concerning her daughters, stating there are differences between boys and girls, and it is certainly not okay for girls.  That simply sounds like someone who harbors a need to cast a subtle righteous light on her own actions despite what society says.


Meredith asked how MK's kids could possibly forgive her for what she did so many years ago when they most needed their mommy.  Now, maybe I'm cut from a different bolt of cloth, but I understand how they could and would forgive.  Human beings are capable of a great deal that seems unfathomable when contemplated by the everyday mind: only when we are presented with the extraordinary, can we begin to understand our capabilities.  Only then can we fully draw upon the potency and strength which exist behind those words which convey an idea, an attitude, a way of life.  Forgiveness is only one in a long line of such words.  What about honor, respect, love, compassion, integrity, and character?

This type of story probably reflects the true and difficult nature of real forgiveness more effectively than a good many examples I've seen in the lives of people around me.  The transgression is out there for all to see, it reflects a socially repulsive behavior, and it can not be swept under even the biggest and best of Persian rugs.  It is unusual.  Yes.  Most uncomfortable.  Yes.  100% corrupt in its inception.  Yes.  But these types of stories, with their possibilities of rebuilding an existence from a pile of bitter ashes, are far more abundant than you might think.  And if we can flex our brains beyond their trained limits, I am positive there are aspects of the unknown which can benefit us and even prepare us for the years yet stretching ahead.  You don't have to be MK's best friend, or god-parent to her grandbabies.  Just hear her out and read behind the words.

The Short of It

It was either blog or edit my short story entry.  I had to follow the urging to finish my project.  It needs to be submitted and thus relieve me of the stress involved in my desire to complete the unfinished.  I don't do well with piles of stacked 'to-do's' whether they exist in my head or in the living room.

This afternoon found me feeling a bit under the weather.  Low on energy.  Eyes hurting.  Chilled.  My son insisted I not take that second part of my daily walk in the overcast 29-degree weather.  Instead, he encouraged me to rest on the couch.  After a bit of intense battling with guilt -- always worried I might be creating excuses to become lazy or apathetic in life (I'm rolling my eyes at myself here) -- I settled under the leaf blanket, plopped the rice-filled microwave heating pad my mom gave me on my strangely aching shoulders, and proceeded to read the second half of Kathryn Stockett's novel, "The Help."  All I can say is you should do the same.  If ever I could write just one novel, I'd be happy with a book akin to this for the rest of my days.  There's my literary recommendation for the week.  Besides reading my blog, of course.

In the news this morning, there were several scraps of information which grabbed my attention.  I even fleshed out a few sentences on each one for today's blog entry.  However, in that general affliction of short-term memory that is now mine, I could not recall a single item an hour later.  No, of course I didn't take the time to write them down.  I was balancing the checkbook and a few other chores.  I thought for sure I could retain two or three ideas through the time it took to make the snowbound kids (again, but much less of the cold white stuff) homemade waffles!  Whatever . . .

But the short story is good.  Maybe I'll be able to share it at some point.  It must be sent in before March 1st.  One of the rules regards publication.  Does anyone know if posting an original short story on my blog site would be considered publication?  It's all rather vague to me.  Not my area of expertise.  Then again, do I even HAVE an area of expertise?

I leave you with several lovely images of the female cardinal which visits my feeder daily, puffed up in her winter finery, as interpreted through the lens of my new camera.  I find her to be at least as beautiful as her beau.

There was nothing I could do about the branches.

  

She seems to be watching me right back.

The detail in her tail feathers bowls me over!

Not Much Time Tonight

An hour prepping the Mexican casserole a'la Gloria for dinner.  An hour and a half at the football booster club election meeting for next school year's officers.  A half hour listening to my husband try and walk my mother-in-law through the set-up for her new laptop.  An hour playing an immensely satisfying nine rounds of Boggle (that would be a non-video/computer game) at my son's request!  An hour or more tinkering around with different layouts for my two blog sites.

That leaves less than an hour before midnight.  My windmill of a perpetual bedtime goal.

I have time to tell you with no small amount of despair that it appears my year of living caffeinated must come to a screeching halt.  It seems the large amounts of ibuprofen I've ingested over the past ten years to counteract the labor-like pains of my female cycle have caught up with my stomach.  Within the past few months, the discomfort of taking the OTC medication has begun to compete with what it so effectively wipes out with 800 mg doses every 4 to 6 hours.  Because of this, the acid in my lovely and euphoric coffee drinks is no longer harmless.  Alas, it now conspires with my ibuprofen, and I'm helpless against the power of two.  I tried cutting back.  Eating more before my drink.  Reducing my intake to once or twice a week.  But it's a no go.

There's only one reasonable choice to make here: experiencing the contractions meant for childbirth, with NO child at the end, more than once a month, causes even the trendy sophisticated fun of Starbucks to pale in comparison. And I really don't want to add another drug to the mix -- Pepto Bismol, Rolaids, Tagamet -- in order to keep coffee on board.  I'm not a Band-Aid kind of girl.  I like to let a wound heal, you know?  So, it's back to herbal teas.  For now.  So all you Gold Card members, have a tall soy latte for me if you can.  Send me a pic to prove and soothe.  Thanks.

I'm wrapped in a red plaid blanket my little sister made for Zachary many years back.  The computer room, which is intended to undergo a transformation into my study at some nebulous point in the future, is a chilly place these days.  So, in an impressive flash of parental manipulation, I cajoled my son into showing his deep love for his mama by bringing her one of the warm lap blankets from the living room.  Two minutes later he returns with this lightweight cover more suited to hanging over a nice chair or spreading out across the foot of a made bed.  It's too nice to use in my estimation.  There are beautiful pictures of my baby nephew and young niece, Gabriel and Grace, now deceased, stitched on the front of it.  One in particular of Zachary with Grace sits prominent and perfect.  I push it back, telling him to get an old one from downstairs.  "But mom," he says, handing it back to me, "snuggling up in THIS blanket is like having a hug from Grace and Gabriel.  Use it!"  Please refer to the opening sentence of this paragraph for my response.

What could I say to that?  Perspective.  Interpretation of a moment.  I think of that constantly.  How each of us looks at a thing, like the proverb of the blind men and the elephant, and sees something different but yet right because of who we are.  Even with that game, the Boggle dice game, where each player picks out connected letters to form words, both of us found common words, but each of us also discovered letter combinations that the other missed.  I love my son even more for bringing me his favorite blanket with his most beloved girl on it.  You can bet I'll find every excuse to wrap myself within it, too.

Good night.

Regis Philbin and Other Subjects

Hello, hello, hello-o-o!  I've been off the map for a few days, but I'm back.  Honestly -- and men, you may want to avert your eyes for the next sentence or two if you break into a cold sweat when 'female issues' are mentioned, because my neighbor's husband does . . . when he's harassing me, all I have to say is 'tampon' or 'period' and he runs far far away from me -- this monthly-cycle thing is wreaking havoc on my life, inside and out.  And it doesn't wait for a traditional month.  We're talkin' 21 to 23 days from the end of one and the start of another, and the lines are blurring.  Peri-menopause, I thumb my nose at you!  Grrrr.  I may not make it to actual menopause.  Because the mental fog has lifted, and my thoughts are able to somewhat break free of the quicksand which sucks my words down, down, down-n, I can joke a bit about this.  But only just.

I may feel the need to discuss this a bit more in-depth on THE RELUCTANT SUBURBANITE blog.  But let's move on for now.

I would like to reiterate my ongoing affection for the new Canon camera my family surprised me with for Christmas.  The thing is flippin' fantastic.  I pick it up constantly.  The camera and I may be actually carrying on a platonic affair of sorts.  It makes everything better: from the birds in the trees to the soft-boiled eggs Jimmy started eating for breakfast.  The kids will either revolt and clobber me with it or became inured to the family paparazzi and allow me to hound them endlessly. 

Fabio, the feline member in our ranks, is my new favorite subject.  (Though nothing is really exempt from my 35X optical zoom lens.)  Besides his obvious handsomeness, he's in constant motion, getting into all sorts of predicaments and trouble, and the lens bothers him not in the least. In fact, I think he rather enjoys the sustained attention.  Unless it's meal time and the camera makes him wait an extra minute past noon or 5PM.

 
 

On other fronts, Regis has announced his final season on his famous morning television show, LIVE WITH REGIS AND KELLY.  I'm not altogether surprised.  The man is an octogenarian; he's been in front of the camera for well over half his life! As I've said before, once he's outta there, TV will never be the same.  Out with the old school, and fully in with the new school.  He's the last of the gentlemen from the early days of television broadcasting.  


Tom Brokaw left his night job awhile back.  He was, and is, a class act.  Larry King retired just a bit ago.  He sure knew how to draw us in with those questions and that voice!   And there have been others.  These are guys who have witnessed the impact of decades of change in telecommunications over the course of their lives and been a part of that change within their own significant niches.  Men for whom the dress shirt and tie, or suspenders in Larry's case, seem to have been tailor made.  With their exit stage left, we lose an indefinable something that we'll never see again.  I've enjoyed spending many a mid-morning with Regis, and two early mornings in his audience, watching him mispronounce guest names, regale us with his stories of cronies like Don Rickles and Freakin' Franelli, and encourage opportunities for countless fits of laughter.  


In hindsight, with almost two years between me and the incident, I can also say I'm glad I had the chance to be embarrassed by Julia Roberts and heckled by Regis during that fateful anniversary trip to New York.  How many people can say that?  Thanks . . . for the memories, Regis Philbin. 

What I Know Before Bedtime On A Snowy Day

1.   Snow days are fun if you are a kid.  If you're an adult and able to see through the eyes of a kid, then snow days are fun for you, too.

2.   Oatmeal marries well with golden raisins, walnuts, and a healthy measure of flax seed.  Real maple syrup and a pat of butter finish it off.

3.   God must have known when He created orange kitties that they would provide a pleasing visual contrast against a snowy backdrop for the eye and camera, as well as invoke pleasant recollections of Dreamsicle bars.

4.   If you ask your son to throw a snowball at you in order to capture it through the lens of your new digital bells-n-whistles Canon, assume Murphy's Law per the final destination of said projectile!

5.   If your mother calls and reminds you to make an appointment for her and you take the call while simultaneously perusing your iPhoto library and uploading your favorite pics to Facebook, DO write down a reminder ASAP.

6.   When given the choice between work and play on that rare 'all the kids are home on account of the weather' day, remember the laundry, bedroom carpet, blog, and [yes, it's still UP!] Christmas tree will be around tomorrow.

7.   It would be most advantageous to record the dreamed-up recipe for that butternut squash sauce served over whole wheat gnocchi at Bunco before the ingredients list exits memory stage left.  Don't forget the guava jelly in the beginning and the chevre at the end.  Oh, and sauteed walnuts on top.

8.   Your children can still contract pinkeye long after the years of actual childhood have come and gone.  It starts with noting the red swollen eye on your young adult's face and hearing the words, "My eye!  It's itching really bad and it was stuck together this morning."

9.   It is ingrained into the brain every person on the face of the planet who knows what frozen precipitation is to say these words whenever faced with seeing someone ingesting it, "Don't eat the yellow snow!"

10.  There is nothing wrong with passing out the final round of belated Christmas cards with family photos to your Bunco pals on January 10th during the course of the evening's enjoyment.  Further, calling them 'New Year' cards is also acceptable.  Recommended, even.

11.  At 11:30 PM when the movie ends and the friends of your high school senior disperse for parts hither and yon, the ongoing purr of her boyfriend's car engine does NOT signal that he is warming up the vehicle before heading out into the wintry night.  Most likely, it signals he is warming something else up.

12.   Living in Tennessee is a bonus when your driveway begins to resemble a used car lot.  The neighbors generally expect it or have had past experience with the phenomenon.

13.  Because your husband heard your year-long grumblings and brilliantly executed a Christmas surprise whereby the requested hanging pot rack materialized instead as a versatile and researched Canon 14.1 Mega Pixel digital camera with the bonus mega-memory card, he should be adequately rewarded for his good behavior.

14.  If loving Facebook and the iPhone is wrong, you don't wanna be right!

15.  Just because you plunged into an icy outdoor pool in 20 degree weather this past Saturday does not mean you won't be cold emerging from the shower or when you remain outdoors in winter weather conditions too long with uninsulated cowgirl rainboots on.

16.  Blogging in the AM is superior to midnight blogging.  Far easier on the neck (the sudden sleep-jerk reaction brought on by utter exhaustion at the deep end of the day).

17.  A mildly OCD individual with a 'thing' for numbers divisible by three will feel the compunction to round out this list at 18 because 6 x 3 = 18, as does 9 x 2.

18.  Life as I know it . . . is rather good.

  

Fitness and Frittering on a Friday Morn

Good morning, y'all!  I must say that on Day 2 of my plan to arise early and write, I'm as happy as the proverbial clam.  Obviously, that would be the clam yet buried in the salty sand of a sunny beach somewhere on a lovely coast because methinks the mollusk immersed in boiling water or dropped in hot oil is not smiling.

The husband is up and at 'em, too.  He's back at the fitness grind.  Taking it one P90X workout at a time.  Cutting back on those empty calorie food items which tend to return, creeping their way, into the daily diet every time they find themselves deleted from the menu: pop, chips, candies.  That's not MY list, by the way, but his.  Whereas I tend to overeat in general, even healthy foods if its a particularly hormonal or emotional day, he simply leans toward edible crap which wouldn't titillate my palate in the least.  I.E.  soda pop.

I don't 'get' Pepsi or Coke.  Especially diet anything.  What is the point?  Nasty stuff.  Tastes like liquid chemicals with a dose of high fructose corns syrup thrown in.  And though I've heard it'll corrode acid build-up on car batteries or clean the ring right out of the toilet bowl, I'd be quite hesitant to throw even Dr. Pepper (which is what I would pour on a tall glass of ice or ice CREAM if I was of a mind to imbibe because at least it actually has a remnant of flavor) on either of them.  But I digress on this course concerning the nation's unspoken, but totally there, major food group.

There is no doubt in my mind that my man will, indeed, be successful in his weight loss endeavor.  This is the guy who decided to embark upon a new exercise and eating plan the day after Thanksgiving in 2008.  Can you BELIEVE that?  Who DOES that?  Through the entire Christmas season of parties and biscotti and warm plates of homemade egg rolls and cookies from kindly neighbors, not to mention having his mother with her cooking skills on board, Jimmy V. took off pounds and inches.  By the time our 20th anniversary trip to NYC came round, he was looking GOOD.  Perhaps a bit TOO slim, if the truth be told.  Nary does a woman say that she, herself, is TOO thin.  But she'll say it about her husband.  Or another woman.  Again, digressing.

Digress.  Congress.  Fortress.  Songstress.  Just plain old fun to say.  Fun to write.  Words are fun.

Well, my time has frittered away.  My original subject matter, mainly the homeless gentleman who became a literal overnight sensation with his golden radio voice, will have to wait for another day.  He's got my attention and my vote, much like the rest of the nation, but I have grave concerns about his addictions and the role they could play in his ever-expanding promising future.

Before I sign off -- there's a short story contest AND a movie review contest at which I'd like to take a stab -- a quick reminder that THIS SATURDAY, tomorrow, from 8:30am to 10:30am, is the great Polar Bear Plunge of 2011.  Jumping into an outdoor swimming pool of winter-chilled water with a few hundred of your fellow townsfolk is heads and shoulders above any resolution.  If you have access to such an event in YOUR locale, I suggest you join in the frigid merriment.  It stays with you all year.  In a good non-pneumonia sort of way!

And the photo opps are great.  Just be sure to change out of your wet bathing suit as opposed to layering dry clothes over it.  Let's just say blue lips and a challenged core body temp can be problems.

 

Vexed by the Junk Drawer

I think I'll start getting up earlier, but NOT for chores or exercise, but to surf the web a bit at my leisure.  Jimmy's iPhone jarred us awake before the alarm had a chance to perform its duties, so I headed upstairs to the Mac and hopped on board.  Clicked on Blogger to dash off an entry but glanced down at my list of fan blogs and noted an alluring opening line for "The Pioneer Woman" a.k.a. Bree Drummond.  I'm both immeasurably impressed and exhausted when I cruise her headings and pages.  Take a look for yourself.  I mean, good night, Irene!  Where does she find the time while homeschooling and living on that vast ranch?  Her camera is all over the place.  But I'm thinking her blog is an extension of her life.  Of her career.  And she knows somebody with top notch skills concerning the web and blog layout.  Hook a girl up, please, Bree?!


So, I've been thinking about my junk drawer.  (Yes, that is a significant aspect of my adventurous life.)  You know what I'm talking about?  The one drawer in your kitchen (or two, if you're me) where miscellany items make their way into perpetuity via a moment of random storage.  "Oh, not sure what, exactly, to do with these 15 extra packets of mild sauce from Taco Bell.  Don't want to waste.  Let's throw 'em in HERE!"  And there they drop, next to the empty mint tins and pre-packaged spork and napkin ensembles.  On top of the photo Christmas cards from last year that didn't make it in the box up in real storage.  (Real storage as opposed to 'random' storage.  Got it?)  But that's my junky junk drawer.  I may actually resolve to dissolve that drawer.  There are genuine bonafide kitchen accessories vying for that spot.  If you've never seen a tea bag squeezer compete for space against a high-temp rubber baster brush, you ain't seen nuthin!  "En garde!"

No, my other junk drawer is generally neater -- my bit of control in an environment of chaos.  Most of the time I can slide it open and exhale the stale air in my lungs as my eyes behold the orderliness of everything in its place and a place for everything.  Organized plastic lidded containers with rubberbands, paper clips, extra picture nails, and bag ties.  There's a niche for my collections of colored Sharpies and the dry erase pens.  A spot for scrap note paper and note pads.  For whatever reason, a deck of cards always seems to earn a corner of the drawer, too, right next to the Scotch tape.  But the go-to item would be the pens and pencils.  Only, no matter how often I replenish the stock or toss in the cool chunky pens Jimmy brings home from the office, it seems that there is a Bermuda Triangle effect going on.  Because whenever we go to actually USE these necessary writing utensils, THEY DON'T work!  Pencils refuse to sharpen and erasers either fall out or appear to have been chewed by a bored child or invisible No. 2 rodent.  Clear-barreled pens, sparkling cores of black, blue and red visually apparent, reveal nothing when pressed to page.  Grrr.  And I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW that these are the same pens which didn't do their jobs the last time someone dipped in the drawer.  So why are they not thrown out?  Why are they left to torture ME at a later, urgent, desperate, message-taking time?


At the moment, I do know of ONE pen, the lone ranger, that will copy a phone number or scrawl a note to be taped on the microwave door.  It boasts the Embassy Suites logo on its opaque side.  I grabbed it as we were leaving our New Year's weekend getaway because I knew we needed a pen for the drawer.  It's been three days and the thing has yet to fall prey to the virus which has sucked the life from its lesser companions.  Perhaps that's what I should do from here on out?  Request pens from my regular hotel-/motel-dwelling friends and relatives.  My sanity is at stake here, folks!


Having said all that, besides breaking down Christmas in the living room, can you guess what mundane chore will be executed by these rat-a-tat-tatting fingers on this overcast wintry Thursday morning?  (Is that fog out there?!)  Wish me well.  As for all of you, whatever range of ho-hum but vital tasks exist on your list this gray morning, I wish you success in conquering the marauding mole hills.

Save the mountains for this weekend.

Resolute

The third day of the new year.  What can I say that hasn't already been said?  I'm not a resolution maker, at least not in the "2010 is ending and 2011 is beginning so I'd better resolve to promise dramatic change on which I can't possibly deliver" sense.  Nope.  Not me.  No need.  Don't have to.  I DO IT ALL-L year!

Why wait for one night, one day, when I can launch into each morning with a countdown of the multiple areas in which I fail to measure up to real and imagined standards: those from church, those self-imposed, those intimated by relatives and friends, those which are hurled like darts with fishhook tips into the psyche courtesy of the myriad delivery systems of the mass media?  As these countless tiny ants crawl across my brain, threatening to overtake the fading vestiges of peace still clinging groggily to my waking self, overwhelming me with unreasonable expectations, I remind myself that perhaps --JUST perhaps -- there is do urgent need to change everything about me.  About my life.  About my family.  About anything and everything.

From those obsessive five pounds of unruly weight which seem to shout out just how out-of-control I must be because I didn't quit wheat, dairy, and sugar, AGAIN, to the tsk-tsking over the worst front lawn in the neighborhood (because my husband and I don't see eye to eye on the use, or non-use, of chemicals, and thus have arrived at a landscaping stalemate which has left us with 'mixed greens') to the disappointment that I can't memorize enough scripture to perfect a faith and prayer life which has actually managed to see me through a host of widely agreed upon trying times.  And let's not forget the burden of trying to figure out exactly where I inadvertently flubbed up in juggling all of my relationships and caused someone displeasure that is never actually spoken but sits, elephantine, between us.

Or figuring out how to make the math work concerning the great 'they say we need this' directives: eight hours of sleep, an hour of exercise with stretching, an hour to pray or meditate, eight hours to work, quality time with the kids, intimate time with the spouse, meal planning, house cleaning, grocery shopping, four steps to washing and moisturizing one's skin for a more youthful appearance, time just for ME, calls to friends and loved ones outside the family unit, charity work, balance the checkbook, reading the classics, catching a movie, doing what Jesus would do, emptying the inbox, recycling the junk mail, writing a blog, making appointments, keeping appointments, reducing stress, drinking six to eight cups of water a day, brushing the dog, taking vitamins, style one's hair, update one's wardrobe and make-up, refinance the house, go back to school, reinvent the wheel, put air in the tires and check window washer fluid, spellcheck, and BREATHE deeply.  (I quit breathing way back at the start of the previous sentence!)

There may be just cause for personal adjustments.  At times.  But what seems to be making its way to the front of the audience with me over the past year or two is that the old adage "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" might have merit.  Perhaps, in this change-obsessive culture where an iPod is obsolete before it's even out of the package, we peer far too closely at our molehills, psyching them into mountains far better suited to the locales of Colorado or Alaska than to our hearts and minds.  Far better to appreciate the land mass adjacent to the molehills for all the wide open space and panoramic views it presents if we but take a good long look.  (I'm not insinuating that me, or anyone else, has a butt comparable to a large land mass.)  That's what I'm working on in my non-resolution state of being.  Because I am NOT going to obsess over whether I mixed metaphors in this paragraph and insist to my self, "Self, you need to rewrite this and waste a possible hour of sleep trying to hone something that doesn't need honing, because it's the principle of the thing, and you resolved to work on your writing, didn't you . . . "  Blah, blah, blah.  Who's going to remember this the moment they click off?  Who actually cares out there if I DID mix my metaphors?  It's a blog.  Not a contest entry.  Not an honors English paper.  A blog.  It rhymes with frog.  Not with 'resolution!'