painting with mike

This is Mike. Mike is my dad. (Welcome to the Internet, Dad! No, this doesn’t really make you famous. Sorry...) Mike is a very useful person—he loves to help out whenever he can. Which is one of the many reasons he is awesome. So of course he offered to help me paint some rooms at our new house... even though he doesn’t totally love doing home improvement projects. He is a really good guy like that.

This should in theory be a perfect paint color.

A brief aside: I went down to the paint store to get some paint chips and I found one called—I am not making this up—Green Tea Latté. I was desperately hoping it would work somewhere, but it wasn’t quite right in any of the rooms which is weird because I can’t imagine a scenario in which green tea latté would not be perfect. I guess it’s a little different when it’s paint. But still. I truly thought such a thing could never happen.

So my dad and I set out to paint the bedrooms the week before we moved in. The walls had been covered with old, peeling wallpaper over horsehair plaster—all of which is a nightmare to remove. Then my mom discovered paintable wallpaper. Problem solved! You put it up right over the old paper then paint with regular old latex paint! (Such a miraculous product fully warrants—demands!—the use of the exclamation point.) So easy, right?

No, it was not.

My mom and dad were the lucky ones who put the paper up. (I intend “lucky” sarcastically, as you will see should you choose to read on.) They tell me it was an enormous pain in the ass. Seams wouldn’t stay glued down. Bubbles erupted. It tore easily. But they managed to remedy these issues. Painting would be a lot easier, they reasoned. Was it?

No, it was not.

This stuff is a paint sponge. We used twice as much paint as we would have on normal walls. And it took FORever to cover them. Also it is patterned vertically. See?

Try painting across those lines. Go ahead. Easy, right?

No. It is not.

Yes, my son DID insist on 3 different colors.

We had 2 days to paint 3 rooms. No problem—easy, right?

(What do you think?)

I fully encourage you to tell anyone you would enjoy seeing really pissed off and frustrated to run out and buy this wallpaper. (You shouldn’t really do that, though. It’s not very nice. But if there is someone you absolutely MUST see really pissed off and frustrated, this would be an excellent option.)

The girls chose pink. I know... shocking, right?

So I was totally freaking out and planning on painting through the night because it was taking twice as long to paint as normal walls. And this HAD to be done before we moved all the furniture in. Catastrophe would ensue otherwise. (What catastrophe? Just the regular kind. But still.) I am sure my response to this painting crisis comes as a surprise as I am usually so calm in general. And am never ever a total control freak.

(Steve [not his real name] please stop guffawing.)

In the middle of a panic attack, my dad said, “Just do what’s right in front of you.” Don’t look at the whole thing, he said. Just do the thing right there in front of you.

Brilliant.

If you were smart, you would apply this philosophy to other areas of your life. That’s my plan anyway.

(He’ll most likley need to remind me next time I am freaking out.)

In the end, we got it done in one and a half days. And it actually came out really nice. Especially in light of the fact that we fully expected it to come out really awful. Dad even took me and the kids to the beach on the second afternoon.

(Daddies are the best.)

goodbye leominster

We said goodbye to our home, our lovely neighbors, our sweet little city. (It’s “lemon-stir,” by the way. No one from out of state has the first idea how to pronounce it. And why would they?)

The rooms are cleared out. My kitchen counter has been reduced to a vast expanse of blue.

I’ve been putting off writing this post because I kept waiting for what I wanted to say to surface in my mind. But I think I simply don’t know what to say because this move was harder than I thought it would be. I was focused on prepping the house for sale and dealing with showings for months. Then when it sold, everything we’d be letting go suddenly hit me full-force.

This is a bittersweet move. While there are many, many positive reasons to make the change and I am certain we will be happy in our new home, there is so much we leave in our wake.

I think I am at a loss for the words that could capture how we feel.

We can take our stuff—our pots and bedclothes; our books and toys. But we can’t take the charm of this city and the places we love to go; the lovely neighborhood and wonderful people who fill it; the friends we have made. We can’t take the door jamb that has recorded our history through the growth of our children. We can’t take this house which we took from a shell and made into a real home.

All that remains on my counter is a welcome note for the new family.

I hope they are as happy here as we have been. I hope their tears are few and their laughter echoes through these rooms. I wish for my family the same in our new home—and I know in my heart we will have it. I mean, what is home after all but the people who live and love there?

it’s not what you thought

No, I’m not pregnant! (YAY!) But guess what?! SOLD!

The house, that is.

I’m not even kidding.

This is our adorable dog. She is smelly. Our smelly adorable dog. But isn’t she adorable? She can’t help being smelly. Or adorable.

(I have a point with this train of thought that does indeed connect with selling our house. I swear.)

Selling a house is a giant pain in the ass. People are so critical and it makes you go slightly nuts. Steve (not his real name) might debate my use of the word “slightly.” First we fixed the roof when people complained about it. Then we gave the kitchen a facelift when people described it as “dated.” I picked up stupid leaves off the front lawn with my bare hands so it would look Stepford-y, the grass was always mowed, the house was lick-ably clean (gross metaphor, sorry—but it totally was), it was "staged" and all personal offensive vestiges of our history and presence removed. It was pristinely tidy and the beds were always made (which is not the norm—I don’t give an everyday crap about making the beds). I seriously went slightly (or whatever word is more appropriate) nuts. We were a perfect family. I mean absently perfect—there was little evidence we lived in this house—at least I imagine from the perspective of the people coming through.

But for the “offensive dog odor.” It was most often described as a “turn-off.”

Seriously? Did these people miss that day in chemistry when they were supposed to learn about the volatility of odorous molecular compounds? (Maybe that is a little wrong—I suck at chemistry.) But I do know that smells dissipate since I am a human who has been on Earth for a while and have noticed that when you cook bacon your house doesn’t smell like bacon forever. Although it would be nice if your house did smell like bacon forever. Unless you don’t like bacon. Then also if you were trying to sell your house people who don’t like the way bacon smells would never buy your house. People don’t like the way my dog smells (it’s NOT like bacon or anything else that smells good) and I can't honestly hold that against them, but smells dissipate for those who missed that day in chemistry when they were supposed to learn about the volatility of odorous molecular compounds. Or something. I was there, I just don’t really understand chemistry.

At any rate, I bought crazy powerful candles and smelly laundry soap and expensive cleaning solutions. I washed the curtains. I washed the floors with vinegar and then Mrs. Meyers lavender. (I love that stuff. I was secretly pleased to have an excuse to buy it since I am usually too cheap to lay out the cash for it. But I have decided life is too short not to buy simple stuff that makes you happy—it’s Mrs. Meyers from now on! See how I share life lessons? You’re welcome.) I washed pretty much everything.

We washed the smelly couch and armchair—twice. Also an astonishing amount of Fabreze was absorbed into their smelly fibers. (It’s not their fault they’re smelly, either.) I hate artificial fragrance. I never use any product with fake odors. But fake smell is better than offensive dog odor. For most people, I imagine.

Then it happened. A couple with an extremely dulled sense of smell who didn’t miss that day in chemistry when they were supposed to learn about the volatility of odorous molecular compounds (or something) who also possess excellent taste decided to buy it! Which is exactly what I knew I had to wait for in spite of the fact that I was acting slightly nuts. Dog smells, dated kitchens, a few errant leaves on the lawn—none of that was at the heart of it. Someone needed to love this place like we do. Their feedback: “This house feels like it could be home.” It is and as much as I am excited for our move, I am sad to leave it.

They came here recently to take some measurements and I commented that what they witnessed in the house right then—the mess of toys and markers and the dish rack out and the smelly dog in her smelly bed—was what this place really looks like. The woman said it was refreshing to see everything more “real.” And she described my kitchen (her kitchen, I suppose) as “charming.” I am so happy she thinks so—that’s the word I always use to describe it.

Now we go make a new home. I can hang the kids’ art again and put out the family photos and let it all go to chaos as it will.

For now, I will enjoy every last moment here. Oh, and I am happy you tell you that my toaster is back on the counter—where it belongs.

what?!

I have been very busy lately and it has come to my attention that this blog has not been writing itself which is really very disappointing. Did you know that if you don't write your blog it won't do it for you? It’s totally selfish like that. You’ve been warned. It’s just like laundry. Jerks ...

So, I have BIG news to report this week! Come back tomorrow to find out what it is! What could it be? Aren't you just dying to know?

(You are. See you tomorrow.)

(This is obviously not a very good blog post. Sorry.)

vacation ends—what to do? more DIY!

Vacation is over.

Seriously?

Okay, fine. FINE. Back to normal life and blogging regularly and—to quote Louis CK—the whole “spectrum of responsibility” that comprises life.

Oh, how I miss the beach. Just look at these photos.

Don’t you miss it, too?

(You do.)

So, when one returns from vacation and successfully accomplishes the requisite 17 loads of laundry and misses the beach a little too acutely, the best thing to do is a project. Does one have time for this? No. Exactly.

Before vacation, I started to think about how I will manage storage in my grandmother’s—my new—kitchen. There is a lot less storage there than in my current beloved—dated-but-spotless—kitchen. I thought a nice little shabby-chic inspired shelf along the side of the refrigerator would be a good fit for mason jars and pretty serving dishes. I hit the consignment store and found nothing but bought 4 used books. In light of the fact that I already have so many to-be-read books did I need more books? Yes. I did. We need never question that. I found a bunch of totally cool but overpriced shelves. I mean, I am not spending $65 bucks on a shelf that is slightly but charmingly dilapidated and painted over with a pretty shade of paint. C’mon—what do I look like? So I dragged the kids around to some antiques shops and they LOVED it. No, they didn’t. They were just barely tolerably, as was I so it worked out perfectly. Also it was lunchtime. (I’m not a great mother.) But I suddenly was inspired by some old wooden crates. Wouldn’t they look lovely stacked together and lined with oil cloth? YES, THEY WOULD!

So, I found some old crates—for $45 bucks each. Are you kidding me? C’mon—what do I look like? Then at Jeffery’s Antique Co-op Mall I found a couple of crates for $5 bucks a piece! What?! Yes, I am totally serious. When I told Steve (not his real name) about my find, he said, “So, now you have 2 crappy crates you paid $10 dollars for.” He is just jealous of my expansive frugality and impressive originality with home decor. Also my vocabulary.

I already had a crate from Ocean Spray—Steve’s (not his real name) nonno owned cranberry bogs in Plymouth County and this was one of his boxes.

Although we have 27,000 boxes of nails, of course not one size was right. So, I took everyone down to Rocky’s Ace Hardware with the promise of squirt bottles all ‘round—because why wouldn’t that be an incentive?—and got me some nice little squat nails. (The second photo illustrates the use of the wrong sized nail. Don't do that. That is a cautionary pic.)

I nailed those crates together and voilà! Rustic shelf! And look how beautiful my green tea latté looks on there!

My local fabric store does not carry oil cloth, so I bought some pretty heavy cotton and whipped up some lovely shelf liners. This whole thing: less than $20 bucks!

Can you stand it?

(You can’t. That’s ok, though.)

Please share your (weird, or not) DIY projects. Maybe someday I will tell you about DIY sunscreen. (By the way, do NOT do DIY sunscreen.)

loved places

Things to count on.

Swimming in warm water as the sun goes down, sand pipers pecking the shore when beach-goers begin to leave for the day, dune grass yellow green flowing waves in the breeze, brilliant blue hydrangeas like soft jewels, footprints in the sand hinting their silent stories, sand arranged in intricate random patterns on ankles and toes like bridal henna, beach glass, the Point, riptides and undertows, seagulls fighting over leftovers in the sand late in the day, a warm shower after a day on the beach, seaweed and sand stuck to the white skin under your bathing suit.

We are on vacation—2 weeks at our favorite beach. We rent a big cottage. It has expansive views of the ocean. We share this vacation with my sister and her family and my parents. This cottage is really big. When people visit, they are impressed by its size and quality, its contemporary design and decor. But it used to be a tiny shack with faucets that were cold on one size and hot on the other, a very temperamental septic system and walls that didn’t reach the ceilings. And it was a third of its current size. We're New Englanders—we stuck it out. The footprint is the same, but not much else.

It did always have an outdoor shower and if you don’t know the glory of an outdoor shower, I simply don’t think I can do it justice here.

I possess an unending adoration for this place. I would say inexplicable, but I have no trouble explaining my love of this beach. I write it into my fiction over and over. I can think of countless ways to to describe it. I have visited beaches in Hawaii, Costa Rica, the Caribbean, the Pacific Northwest and up and down the East Coast from Maine to Florida and none compares to this one. I don’t expect everyone to share this opinion—it is a symptom of being in love with a certain piece of Earth.

If you are lucky, there is a place on Earth that says home to you. When your eyes are filled with this place, it is akin to religion. You get what they mean by Tao, by Nirvana, by Heaven. In this place, you are more you than you can understand or articulate. When the sun began setting and the beach clearing of people, the light at a particular slant, a particular butter color still sparkling on the waves, the air a touch cool, I’d put on a long-sleeve shirt, and be perfectly at peace. It was me. I was in it. My soul clean, my heart slow and steady. It was my place.

I harbor a secret sympathy for people who live inland. I harbor a secret pride that we are beach people. That my children can navigate the strong pull of the tides, that they are salty, that sand decorates their feet and knees and elbows. I know my arrogance is unfair—merely a circumstance of my birth. One I think of as lucky.

Loved things.

Should we go for a walk? was what Mom always said and stood up. She wore her long white button-down collared shirt. She reached into her little cloth bag and removed her coral lipstick, applied a coat to her lips. She didn’t need a mirror. Her hands pulled off the cap and swiveled the coral cylinder up. Mom’s hands were beautiful, delicate and seemingly fragile. When I learned about the hollowness of birds’ bones, I thought immediately of Mom’s hands. Light, like birds’ bones. Flying, touching, walking lightly on sand. Mom’s skin looked even more tan against the white of her shirt and the white of her teeth in her coral smile. We walked to the shore.

At the Point, the sand curved up to the right around some dunes. Tucked on the other side of the curve was the harbor. Sail and fishing boats and tiny dinghies were tied to the weathered gray of the docks.

Along the way, we watched sandpipers dart in and out of the surf on their fast little stick legs. We scanned the shore for interesting shells and beach glass. We watched the sun sparkle on the waves. Listened to the surf, regular and strong like a solid heartbeat. We talked or we didn’t. We laughed and splashed or we enjoyed the suspension of our voices. We didn’t notice the time pass. Every time, we turned and went back once we reached the Point.

When it first touched us, the water felt cold on our sun-warmed skin, but before we knew it our feet and shins became accustomed and the water felt comfortable and warm. The transition happened without making itself apparent; suddenly we’d simply be aware of the change. We never experienced the change itself.

Here, I am my most authentic self. I am inspired and relaxed. I am happy.

I hope you have a loved place, too.

All quotes are from my novel in progress, Talking Underwater.

i am tired of hiding my toaster

I think she likes hanging out with the wine.

Well, it’s been a while since you’ve heard from me. Are you okay? I’m really sorry. I once promised I would never do this to you again. But I did. Now when I repeat this promise you won’t believe me. But I swear—I am nothing like that lying college boyfriend. I wasn’t flirting with those girls. I swear. See, you don’t believe anything I say anymore.

It suddenly occurred to me one day a couple weeks ago that I had completely forgotten to blog for like 3 weeks. I’m serious. I totally forgot to blog. How does one forget something like that? Then I continued not to blog for a few more weeks. But that was more like blatant not doing it. In my defense, this house-selling business is awful.

AWFUL.

Did you know I have to put my toaster away every time someone wants to view this place? Also my dish drainer. If I don’t, the prospective buyers will not be able to imagine living here in a house where people actually toast things and wash their dishes. They don’t want to know we eat. Maybe it will make them buy this place if they think no one here ever eats.

Doesn’t this make perfect sense?

(It might have something to do with de-cluttering, but I can't remember anymore. It's probably about toast. I’m so tired.)

Additionally, this house-selling business is horribly time-consuming. And also stressful and distracting and rendering me incapable of thinking smartness. Or smartly. Or something.

I had a fleeting notion of writing a post about focus, but... Wait. What was I talking about?

Seriously. My brain is not able to hold coherent thought for any significant amount of time. Like around 2 minutes seems to be the max. Probably 2 minutes is a generous estimate.

This is what I am doing instead of thinking.

overly elaborate cross-stitching

No, I’m not 80. I just enjoy the simple motion—all those nice little x’s. They relax me.

One of the worst parts of this house-selling business is the utter lack of planning that I can do. I am NOTHING without my plans. I am actually pretty crazy without my plans. Steve (not his real name) might use some other words to describe what I am without my plans... I have no idea when we’re going to move, when I can begin packing, when I can start really planning our new life. I cannot control how things will fall out.

THIS DOES NOT WORK FOR ME, PEOPLE.

(Sorry... I’m not yelling at you. I swear. You don’t believe me, do you?)

I have also been on deadline to complete The Mosquito Hours edits, a task that requires a great deal focus. (My brain hurts.) In spite of my throbbing brain, I did get those edits done. I have one more little scene to write and I send it off to my publisher. Then I go on vacation for 2 weeks to the beach. I have a ton of organizing and packing to do for that, which is good—I am channeling all that (crazy) energy that needs to plan.

Life isn’t about waiting for the storms to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain. Vivian Greene

I saw that quote recently and even though it’s a little cheesy, I couldn’t deny the value in its sentiment. I have been trying to relax and remember I actually possess very little control—that idea is just a nice little notion we want to believe is true. But it really ain’t. And I can't forget to enjoy the journey—kick around in those puddles.

So, yes, I’ll keep hiding my toaster. And I’ll even try to smile while I do it knowing in the end this will all work out just fine. It’s only a move, after all. You hang in there and keep hiding your toaster, too.

And I’ll never not blog again—I really mean it.

cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudel...

I totally, totally want to complain about the insane and/or dopey comments prospective buyers make after they’ve viewed our house. I totally want to complain so much, you have no idea. But I won’t because Steve (not his real name) told me to do yoga instead and bought me an annual subscription to YogaDownload.com. FINE.

(But if you really want me to complain, I will totally unleash. Just leave your request in the comments. I am nothing if not accommodating to my readers.)

Carrying on...

...doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles!

No, it’s NOT a trip to the Austrian Alps—it’s a blog post of some of my favorite things!

(I can totally hear Julie Andrews’ voice in my head. If you read this with an English accent and I think it will enhance your experience.)

While Ms. Andrews liked some weird stuff—doorbells?—I, on the other hand, like only cool stuff! Come with me on this journey, won’t you?

These are my kitchen shelves of jarred non-perishables. No, I neither grew nor canned any of this stuff. (I’m much too afraid of botulism for such an endeavor as canning. Oh—that could be the seed of a fantastic post: “things of which I am afraid.”) I did buy these things in bags and empty them into the jars. It makes me feel like a pioneer woman when I look at them.

Here is my beloved green tea latté. My love of the green tea latté is not news here, but please allow me to expound. The green tea latté is not only delicious and refreshing AND a perfect mid-afternoon snack, but green tea is high in antioxidants. And honey (a crucial ingredient in my recipe) is a natural antibacterial, contains flavanoids, boosts the immune system, fights carcinogens in the body and can even contain probiotics! And I am ready to share my recipe. Once I hit 10,000 unique daily visitors! I average about 80 right now, so you should probably get to passing this blog around. I am terrible at math, but by my calculations this shouldn’t take long at all. You will be sipping this delicious nectar in no time. In the meanwhile, I will continue to enjoy them in great anticipation of sharing the joy with all who visit my blog.

(I cannot wait to tell you this recipe!)

NEW TECHNOLOGY ALERT!

(Well, new to me at least and all the people like me who figure stuff out way after everyone else does. If that describes you, then get ready for a new technology alert!)

This is Evernote. Evernote allows you to create “notebooks” in which you can stash individual notes. Instead of having bazillions of random documents cluttering your desktop lest you forget all the important crap you'd better NOT forget and then have your life fall apart as a result, you can save them all in this one easy place. You can sort and search and accumulate more information than you could ever put to use. But at least it will all be organized. Also, Evernote most likely does way more than I even know since I am not good at exploring technology. If you discover anything you think I might like, please let me know. (Above is my uncluttered desktop. If I planned anything well and had a little foresight, I would have taken a photo of my cluttered desktop to show you the difference. You’ll just have to take my word for it that it was a holy mess before Evernote.)

Target steno pads. Love ‘em. Love ‘em, love ‘em, love ‘em. Like most writers, I have my preferred pad and pen. The pen I use is fine point blue ink from Bic. I am immovable on this. You will not move me. Go ahead and try. For many years, I have used regluar old college ruled legal pads. ‘Cause the thing with those is that you are always working from a fresh sheet—tear the top written-upon sheet off and you are left with a brand new, clean, glistening page. Good energy, people. But with a legal pad, as you tear a sheet off, you have to put it somewhere and risk it being lost or going out of sequence and no writer enjoys losing work. Just ask one. S/he will agree, I promise you. I dealt with it. Then I found these steno pads at Target. Wire-bound, people! Just flip the sheet over, and voilà! Brand new, clean, glistening page! Brilliant. And $2.99. $2.99!

Cube bag. Do I even need to explain this one? It’s a cube. It holds its shape. Also it collapses down flat. Is there anything left to tell you? I really think I’ve said it all.

(And it was $4.99. $4.99!)

This is the new (again, I use that word loosely) Gmail “default” inbox. Holy crap, this is awesome. The inbox I have always wanted. I am beside myself with excitement. I’m not even exaggerating. It is comprised of tabs wherein you can teach Gmail where to direct your emails. What? Are you kidding me? Now as the emails flow in, they go to the tabs wherein I want them to go. (And I got to use the word "wherein" twice!) Seriously. This is almost too awesome. It not only creates less work, but keeps me organized. When I am organized, I feel sane. For me. Which might not be saying much, but it’s better than nothing.

So, these are a few of my favorite things. (You totally just sang that in your head. I know you did.) Please let me know if you want me to complain about the insane and/or dopey comments prospective buyers make after they’ve viewed our house. I am totally dying to do it.

(I'll just go do some yoga now.)

it wasn’t easy being a kid in the 80’s

I have been thinking for a while about the things my kids will never experience that were a normal part of my childhood. Because of modern technology, they will never know the difficulty of growing up in the near-Dark Ages. My mother tells me that she didn’t have running hot water when she was a kid, but at least she didn’t have to live through the humiliation of being one of the only kids without MTV. It's true—not everyone had cable in the 80's. It was really hard for some of us. Kids today aren’t even aware of the primitive times in which their parents grew up. seedless watermelon This one actually makes me feel sorry for them. Science has managed to genetically modify the seeds out of the watermelons, but remember how fun was it to spit the seeds? You were actually allowed—nay, ordered—to spit them out. Of your mouth. The adults told us to spit them out of our mouths. (I cannot stress this point strongly enough.) Man, that was fun. Now the seeds are all white and soft and edible. And yet my kids still complain about them. Grandfathers the world over (or at least in the parts where messing with the food supply is normal) cannot tell their grandkids to be careful not to swallow a seed lest a watermelon grow inside of them. All the grandfathers have had their fun taken away too.

old_tv

pre-cable TV programming We took the kids to breakfast recently and in the restaurant a giant television was playing cartoons. The children were, of course, mesmerized. Steve (not his real name) and I started to tell the tale of our own childhood cartoon experience in which cartoons were broadcast only on Saturday mornings and only until about noon. They each tore themselves away from the screen to give us expressions filled with a mixture of incredulity and abject sadness. Yes, there was a time when there did not exist numerous channels dedicated to children’s programming 24-hours a day. And that time was the early 1980’s, many a-year ago. I still shudder when I think of it.

...which leads us to...

Saturday morning cartoons Remember when your television had those metal antennae sticking out? Sometimes tipped off with balled-up aluminum foil, sometimes extended with a wire coat hanger? As if sketchy reception were not enough of a hardship, on a Saturday morning while experiencing your coveted and limited cartoon watching time—The Smurfs, The Snorks, a nice Muppet Babies episode, perhaps—your mother would decide that was the best time to whip up some cake batter or vacuum the carpet. Kids today can simply turn the volume up a level louder than the offending appliance which their mother is (inconsiderately) wielding and all will be well. But not when I was a kid. Not only could you not out-volume your mother’s efforts at torture, her electrical appliances made the screen go crazy-fuzzy and emit loud static sounds rendering it impossible to watch the Snorks execute their underwater escapades. Entire crucial plot points were obliterated. How dare she. That cake probably wasn’t even for us.

old_phone

caller id, call-waiting and cable television What ever did we do before caller id was invented? We answered the freakin’ phone, that’s what. You had no idea who was calling and yet you gathered all the courage in your good heart to answer the phone anyhow. It was a scary time—full of uncertainty. Would you have to talk to a telemarketer? Oh, yes, maybe you would. How about some relative when you just didn’t feel like it? Sadly, it was probable. When I was growing up, we didn’t have caller id, call-waiting OR cable television. Was caller id, call-waiting and cable television invented in the 80's? Yes. Did we have any of it? No. (I already said that.) What did my parents get as soon as we kids moved away to college? Yes—good guess: caller id, call-waiting and cable television. When my kids move away, I am going to get a robot. If robots for homemakers get invented before they leave, I will not get one and I will make them do the housework. What will my robot that I get after the kids move out do? EVERYTHING. Even get me juice. Even get me juice when I whine inexplicably and unnecessarily for the juice. And the robot will love me in spite of the inexplicable and unnecessary whining. That’s what good robots do.

It’s a miracle we made it into the new millennium, when phones developed efficient buttons and televisions shed their antennae, everyone got cable as a matter of course and all the phones told you who was calling whether you wanted to know or not. When my kids grow up, they’ll have to say things like, “When I was a kid, we had to wait 47 nanoseconds for a web page to load. It was excruciating.”

(I won’t feel sorry for them.)

i do not want to do it—just you try to make me

You know what would be fun? Adding all kinds of accents no one could possibly pronounce to your name. Then use that crazy business as your username on Facebook. Like "Mëĺĭşŝæ." Try to say it. Go ahead—see what it sounds like. I have no idea. You don’t even have to go as far as that—something simple like "Mèlissæ" would suffice. You could totally keep it simple. Then you can let people wonder if you’re being weird or ironic or if you’re one of those ones who takes things very seriously. (Sorry if I am being insensitive. I know some of you really do need an umlaut. Yes, I don’t really know what that is.) This has nothing to do with anything. I should be editing The Mosquito Hours but that’s hard and procrastinating is easy.

I went to my cousin’s 25th wedding anniversary party the other night, which was something of a family reunion, as not all of us are in the same room very often. I heard lots of great family history stories and I am blatantly stealing some of them for future novels. I texted them to myself from the bathroom so I wouldn’t forget. I have no shame. Don’t hang out with a writer if you don’t want to show up in some form in her work. We’re thieves, people. Unapologetic thieves.

This also has nothing to do with anything. I should be editing The Mosquito Hours but that’s hard.

And procrastinating is easy.

I should totally write a post about procrastinating. I have many good ways to do it. If you’re gonna do it, do it right, I always say. Oh, wait, that was Wham! (yes, you have to use the exclamation point—it’s their proper name... you need to take these things very seriously, people) and it was, “If you’re gonna do it do it right—do it with me.” My sister loved Wham! when we were in high school. We made up a dance to “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” I wish I could remember it. We could embarrass our kids so much by performing it at family parties, the beach, the playground, various parking lots. Anywhere really. Oh! Target! I would totally do that. Does that make me a so-so mother? I think it makes me awesome. Someday they will appreciate my high-jinks. And speak of them fondly at family reunions.

Edits... I just have to get the edits done. Blaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh... I feel very fussy. Talking about how fussy I feel is another means of procrastinating. Boring you to death with this train of thought is yet another.

(I’m sorry.)

Here’s the trouble. I want to self-publish so I can retain full creative control, earn higher royalties and plan publication on my own timetable. Also, philosophically, the bad-ass in me loves a spicy renegade method and the New England Yankee in me loves the DIY aspect of indie publishing. But I also want someone to tell me exactly when my novel is perfect and do everything for me so that I don’t mess up EVERYTHING and RUIN MY LIFE!

Also the snotty little English major and holder of MFA in me wants Random House to sweep me off my feet and tell me how much he loves me.

(Does anyone do angst better than I?)

UGH... must do edits...

I wonder what’s new on Netflix? Oooh! The L Word—I love that show!

(Don’t want to do whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing right now? Here—watch some Wham!) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6W0d9xMhZbo

(You’re welcome.)

thursday stew—a random collection of unrelated miscellany

This is Lego in the bathroom. (Yes, that’s what I said.) Sometimes when you innocently walk into the bathroom, you come across this kind of thing on the floor. (Don’t you?) I’m not sure if some terrible battle took place or if they’re here to protect anyone who has to pee. Either way, they’re pretty much heroes.

Don’t judge what I watch. If you think it’s dumb, it’s probably Steve’s (not his real name). He definitely watches dumb stuff. Like “Mistresses.” That’s totally his.

DVR is one of the best inventions. How else can you rack up more stuff to fit into your schedule that is supposed to help you unwind but then you have to try to find the time to watch all that stuff before you fill the capacity of your DVR at which time it deletes the programs at the bottom of the list which you don’t really want to see happen so you feel you must figure out a way to quickly watch them all so you can be relaxed. Wait... What? DVR is one of the best inventions.

Either jeans were waaaaaay better in the 90s or my ass and waist were. I think it’s the former. It’s a total mystery, because I weigh the same as I always have ever since I was 20 and yet things have shifted. Not in an improved way. In my own body, I am seeing echoes of my Grammie’s body. No slam on Grammie, but I am picturing her at 90. I am not 90. This is why I love yoga pants. They are comfortable AND they flatter. Even better, I recently found linen pants with the yoga fold-down waist. Seriously? Most brilliant pants craftsmanship ever, hands down.

I like to participate in contests on sales receipts. Hannaford Supermarket has one from which you can win $2000! I have never personally won. Target has one for $1500 and/or an instant $25 gift card. I have not won that, either. Home Depot, CVS—lots of places do it. Someday I am gonna win even though Steve (not his real name) mocks me for spending time doing these. I prefer to live with hope in my heart. When I win, I am not going to tell him and keep all the money for myself. Is that wrong? Probably not. Or probably. But that’s what he gets for choosing to live with cynicism in his heart.

Only one dollar for all these crappy band-aids! And they're "lucky!" That can't be a bad thing.

My kids fall down all the time. ALL THE TIME. But mostly they only think they hurt themselves. In other words, these wounds are pretty much invisible to the naked eye and even though they think they need a band-aid (or several), they really don’t. So rather than deny them, I buy dollar store band-aids for the imperceptible boo-boos and save the real band-aids for the real ones. (I give out hugs no matter the physical—or metaphysical—nature of the boo-boo.) My kids all have this band-aid thing in common. However when it comes to death, their positions vary. My son just doesn’t want to talk about it. One of my twins periodically whispers in my ear, “When am I gonna die?” and the other one says things like, “Well, I don’t even care when I die. Because I won’t even know I’m dead!” What do death and band-aids have to do with each other? I don’t know. I can’t make all these connections for you.

See how my old girl looks on sadly from the background? You have not been replaced! I am sending you out to pasture for a much-deserved rest!
I will always love you, first and most beloved Starbucks cold cup!

I bought a new reusable Starbucks cold cup. My old girl was just too damaged to keep on keepin’ on. This was not an easy decision, nor one upon which I endeavored lightly. I like my new cup, but I’m not in love with her yet. Give it a little time and I’m sure I will be. You can’t rush these things. I couldn’t bear to throw my old girl away, so she lives in the cabinet. Maybe someday I will be able to let her go.

Ever walk into the living room in your empty house and come across a thing like this? Something very serious is happening here. I don’t know what these ponies are up to, but if Rainbow Dash is in charge, you know it’s gonna be momentous.

Happy Thursday!

why do laundry when you can dream up more diy projects?

More DIY projects? YES! What in the world makes me think I have time for this? Exactly.

When my son was 2, he took a Sharpie and scribbled all over the sweet little table I liked to use in the dining room. Who gave the 2 year old a Sharpie? That was me. But in my defense, he is my first child and you always mess up the first kid and/or do the dumbest things with them. I feel sorry for him, but it’s not my fault he happens to be the first.

Apparently Sharpie ink bleeds deeply into wood so stripping it would do no good. So I put the table in the garage. Then I almost sold it at the tag sale we had last fall, then I remembered how sweet it was once it was sitting in my driveway, so I put it back in the garage. Then we put our house on the market and I needed a small table to use in the dining room to replace the useful but ugly one that was already in there. (Are you following this?) Then I threw a pretty table cloth over it to shield potential buyers’ delicate eyes from the horrors of Sharpie on a table.

This is a pic from the gallery for our MLS listing because I didn't think to take a "BEFORE" picture. Duh.

However, keeping a pretty tablecloth on your table is not a long-term solution when you have 3 kids who slobber everything (everything) they eat and also think a tablecloth doubles as a napkin. I thought maybe I ought to utilize a few tablecloths I could simply rotate through. But seriously, these children are SLOBS and I would have to wash tablecloths every single day and the thought of how that might make me behave did not fall in the good mother category.

Solution? Paint the table! But it was not enough to paint the table. I wanted to distress the table. Because I am always up for a challenge and titillated by learning new things! Or maybe because I can never leave well enough alone. It probably also has something to do with the general crazy. All of that. I’m very complex. At any rate, here’s how I distressed my table.

My method was to paint a festive color over the wood and then a couple of neutral coats over the brighter color. Then I used sandpaper to rub away some areas of the neutral color and expose the brighter color. (That might be some of the worst writing ever, but you get the idea.)

Here’s what I learned: the more sharp edges and details in a piece of furniture, the cooler the results will be. The areas where there are details on this table came out really well, but the smoother parts don’t really result in the same effect. Now I know how to choose my pieces! (Learning is fun!)

Overall I am pleased with how the table looks and and I won’t have as much laundry to do and that makes me very happy. It will give me more time to run around distressing more furniture in my house.

Next up: this chest! Stay tuned!

(You know you won’t be able not to.)

what’s ordinary about ordinary?

An update on my novel’s latest adventure! The Mosquito Hours has been with an editor for the last month and now has returned to me, full of fresh, new ideas. It is invigorated and excited (so to speak) and so am I! I had a terrific Skype meeting with my editor last evening. (How much do I love saying my editor?? A LOT!) I have some work do to, but I am getting very close to the final edit. Which means you (yes, lucky you!) are getting close to being able to read it!

I remember how I felt when this manuscript was in the early, dreamy time of the creation process—when the story is beginning to take shape, although very loosely. When characters are emerging as if from a steamy room into clear air. It’s a point when I don’t want to know too much, just enough to begin. Then I allow the momentum to carry me along, because the story knows best where it’s going.   One thing I am always pretty sure about is the likelihood that my characters will be ordinary people to whom pretty ordinary things will happen.   Does that seem dull?

Well, here it is: I am almost never interested in writing about the big things—horrific atrocities, murders, jilted brides, war, abducted children. I prefer to write the small, familiar ruptures, hurts and joys. I write about everyday people and everyday life. I can write pages and pages about the way a character thinks and feels about and reacts to ordinary life.

(The trick? I try to create characters people care about.)

Even when I choose a book to read, I shy away from those brimming and expansive plots and gravitate to the quiet stories.

Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to write the big stuff...

But whose life—even the most ordinary—is lacking in trajectory and meaning? I feel safe in saying these is no life with such lack.   I think there is an importance in moving focus to the lives of the people who seem commonplace, one of the masses, contributors to the stereotypes. Individuals, whose lives symbolize a wider significance in our history and can rise out of anonymity in being given a name and a place in the collective consciousness. The people I want to write about are the people who, in real life, would probably be ignored, but in the creation of whom readers will be able to connect with the everyday-ness of their stories. Find something of their own stories within.   I suppose I am much more interested in the “nothing” that happens. I am eager to witness what is revealed in the everyday. I believe authenticity surfaces from the details. Right now, everything that is ordinary is, well, ordinary. But as time passes, a picture is created. A history collects.   A curious thing happens when I set out to write the ordinary: anything but emerges. Vivian, Tania and Guin (the protagonists of The Mosquito Hours) are not ordinary whatsoever. And yet nothing particularly out of the ordinary comprises their lives. What happens are the things that do not possess the scope of power to reveal themselves as immediately life-altering, but with time prove out to be just that.   And so I wonder: is anything really ordinary?

Parts of this post originally appeared in a somewhat different incarnation on Her Circle Ezine.

some mindful thoughts for a friday

Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense. Ralph Waldo Emerson

As usual, I have a HUGE list of things that haven’t gotten done this week. I have an even longer list of things that have not gotten done in the last month. I can’t seem to carve out writing time, yoga has slipped out of my life lately (NOT good for anyone, at least in this domicile) and as I sit here attempting to write this post, I have been interrupted at least twenty times by my kids who needed: juice (my personal favorite), snack, water, red sharpie, snack, to show me a book that must be read right away, to inquire how Darth Vadar eats with that mask on all the time, snack, to discuss a story we need to write and illustrate immediately about the Little Ponies. ETC. (Did you actually think there wasn’t more?) And once I got to say “Don’t run with scissors!” which is always fun. For me.

As usual, I feel behind with my tasks and I cannot imagine how I am going to get caught up.

And I have been dreading sitting down to write this post because I simply had no ideas. Add lack of inspiration to absence of time to write and you can imagine what ends up. When there is so much going on, tapping into creativity is extremely difficult.

I started to think about the origin of creativity. From where do the new ideas emerge? In this hectic world filled with an overabundance of information and distractions and an endless list of work that needs to be done—the business of life—when is there time and space for replenishing? If creativity (whatever that might mean for you) is like water in the well, what happens if it runs dry?

I heard a story on NPR a while back in which a scientist spoke about water, its origins and supply and management. Apparently, all the water we have is all the water we’ve ever had—it cycles over and over again. Time and circumstances are irrelevant to its movement.

I’d like to think of creativity that way. Maybe I will take some time to wander slowly, allow that deep well to stir and ripen. Maybe practice some self-kindness and do some light contemplation about nourishing my creative self. Answer some questions: what is nourishing and what is robbing? I know that the act of creation is itself nourishing and that creativity is elusive—try to look at it too closely and it will slip away. Maybe I spend a little time on this rainy, dark day being quiet and idle and uninvolved and unconcerned with the workings inside. Perhaps creativity is nothing within my control and all I need do is wait patiently for it to come and flood the well inside me with inspiration.

I am publishing this early on this Friday morning; it is a new day. Time to carry on.

sometimes you just have to do it yourself

Sometimes you simply cannot find the stuff you want. It might be a natural food product or a weird pocketbook item that probably does not exist. So what do you do? Make it yourself! I promise—you can DO these crazy things. I know because I do them. You don’t even have to be crazy. Although I am.

Isn't she so slumpy?

For instance, I have an old, ugly bag I bought about 10 years ago. I am very attached to this bag. Yes, it’s rather unshapely and dingy, unstylish and lacking in anything couture-ish, but it has useful pockets all around the outside and can fit lots of junk in it. The only drawback is that it does not have inner pockets for all the little things that inevitably fall to the bottom and get lost and difficult to retrieve and then when in an emergency I need a band-aid or a nip of bourbon, I can never get my hands on the required item quickly enough. My solution? Weird but useful pocketbook organizing thingy!

Useful AND oddly shaped!!

One long mini-bag with separate areas for all those little things I need somewhere between always and never. But just because you never use something is not reason enough to stop carrying it around, right? Exactly.

Here’s the thing, if you have some need that must be fulfilled but you can’t conceive of its solution on your own, you can use the Google to find anything and then tweak it until it is perfectly your own. For me, that is quite often a food item because ingredients of a questionable origin or nature totally freak me out. So, the choice often boils down to eliminating certain foods from our diet or paying crazy high prices for the natural version. Then I figured out I could simply make those things myself! I know—brilliant! Here is a sampling for you.

What is this? WRONG! It's vanilla syrup!

vanilla and chocolate syrups For milk! Or whatever. I won’t restrict you. I am generally really stingy with sugar, but a little here and there in reasonable doses makes them stop bothering me. And then everyone is happy.

chocolate syrup ¾ cup cocoa powder ¾ cup sugar pinch salt ½ cup water ½ teaspoon vanilla

Boil it all up (except vanilla) together in a pan on the stove or over a fire in a cave, whatever, lower heat and let simmer for a few minutes. Turn off heat and stir in vanilla. Let cool, pour it into a jar and refrigerate.

vanilla syrup 1 cup sugar 1 cup of water ½ teaspoon vanilla

Boil it all up (except vanilla) together in a pan on the stove or over a fire in a cave, whatever, lower heat and let simmer for a few minutes. Turn off heat and stir in vanilla. Let cool, pour it into a jar and refrigerate.

waffles Yes, I could buy frozen waffles and save myself a lot of time and trouble. But why would I do that? Exactly. These are delicious and you can also make pancakes with the same batter. Make up a big batch of waffles, freeze then toast them for a quick breakfast. You can easily break this recipe in half for a smaller batch of batter.

2 cups whole wheat flour 1 teaspoon of baking powder ½ teaspoon of baking soda 1 cup of buttermilk 1½ cups of milk 2 tablespoons of salted butter, melted 2 eggs 2 teaspoons of vanilla

Whisk all the wet ingredients and add in the dry. Whisk until just blended. Make waffles and/or pancakes. (Did you really need this last bit?)

ranch dressing Have you read the back of a bottle of ranch dressing lately? Go ahead, I’ll wait... Can you believe what all is in there? You can make some yourself that will take minutes and be so much better.

¾ cup of all-natural mayonnaise (Doesn’t have to be fancy and expensive. Trader Joe’s sells one for cheap and Cain’s, found in any conventional grocery store, is all-natural.) ½ cup of sour cream dried dill, to taste celery salt, to taste black pepper, to taste 2-5 cloves of garlic, minced very finely milk or buttermilk to thin dressing to desired consistency

Mix it all together in whatever bowl you like with whatever implement you like. (You could get really creative here with such loose instructions.) Keeps nicely in a jar in the fridge for a long time. I mean not years, but lots of weeks. Just eat it up and don’t worry so much.

Obviously I need to make some more...

granola I’ve written about this before but it’s so good and an excellent example of the kind of thing you can make better yourself. And cheap, too! Here’s what you do: combine 3 cups of rolled oats, 3/4 cup of unsweetened coconut, a tablespoon of cinnamon and/or some raisins and almonds—toss the mixture with 3 ounces of olive oil and 3 ounces of maple syrup and bake at 250 degrees F for an hour. Throw in some flax seeds if you got ‘em. Or chia seeds. Or whatever you like. But not gummy bears or anything of that ilk—defeats the purpose of healthy recipes. Or maybe balances things out. I don’t claim to know everything. Do whatever you like—it’s a free country.

Obviously I need to make some more. Clearly I don't plan out my blog posts very well...

laundry soap powder (Don't eat this. While I'm sure most of you would have that figured out, one can never be too careful when posting stuff on the webs.)

Yes, I DO make my own laundry soap. That environmentally good stuff is expensive and I love a bargain! This has no harsh chemicals or artificial scents and is super-duper cheap!

1 cup Borax 1 cup Arm&Hammer Washing Soda 1 cup baking soda 1 bar of natural soap (I use Kirk’s Castile), grated (yeah, with a cheese grater)

Mix it all together and use 2-3 tablespoons per load. Crazy cheap! You have no idea! I have never calculated it because I am no good with math, but Steve (not his real name) figured it out once and even though I can’t remember what he said, I remember thinking, “Holy crap that is crazy cheap!” So it must be since I have a really good memory. Except for the part where he said the actual amount. But the other part is crystal clear as though it happened yesterday.

I'm not actually making this today. I am crocking (yes, that IS a verb) lasagna. Know what's going behind the crockpot? Homemade ricotta. No, that recipe is not included in this post.
I really don't plan well...

!!BONUS RECIPE!! honey garlic thighs This is not really in the same category of weird things I make myself or all-natural things I make myself, or non-food things I make myself, but it is tasty and my favorite new recipe. I am blatantly stealing this recipe from somewhere on the vast and great interwebs. I just don’t remember where and I truly apologize—it’s just so simple, I memorized it and now I can’t recall where I found it. Anyhow, make this in your slow cooker, boil up some soba noodles and some frozen broccoli, bung it all together and eat it. It’s delightful hot or cold.

2 lbs boneless, skinless chicken thighs 3 cloves garlic, minced 1 teaspoon dried basil ½ cup tamari (or soy sauce) ½ cup ketchup ⅓ cup honey

Mix all the ingredients but the chicken in your slow cooker (Don’t have a slow cooker? Come on! Why on Earth not? Go get one now, okay?) then add in the chicken, coat it all around with the sauce, cook on low for about 6 hours, walk away and live your life to its fullest while your supper cooks, come back and shred the chicken, throw it together with the noodles and veggies. DONE.

I hope you found this post useful. Every now and then I like to share some stuff that does not simply leave you wondering why the heck you just wasted your sweet precious time reading it.

(You’re welcome.)

my kitchen cabinet renovation project OR why dante should create a unique circle in hell for people who promote DIY projects

Cabinets BEFORE. I didn't think they were so bad, actually. I was WRONG!

The other day as the kids watched television, I tried to tell them something. (Yeah, I know... ) It was: “I’m painting cabinets in the garage and Daddy went out to get some food.” I said it twice and then paused the show and said, “What did I just say?” This was not a sociological experiment in child and television interactive behavior (Is that a thing?), it was simply me being deluded enough to imagine my words might have done anything but lap gently against the sides of their heads. Here is what they heard: the boy, “Huh?” Blank look from one twin and from the other, “Daddy went out for new shoes?” At least she gave it a shot. Once they understood what was actually happening, I returned to my cabinet painting.

So, this whole DIY ordeal blossomed out of a single word—the most highly utilized adjective prospective buyers use to describe my kitchen:

“DATED.”

My beloved kitchen! One person described it as “dated, but spotless.” That’s right. Spotless. That was nice.

Too bright! Oh, my blinded eyes!

So I decided that the least I could do to tone down the datedness was to spray paint the handles to take them from a glowing 80’s gold to a contemporary brushed nickel. Then Steve (not his real name) said, “Should we just paint the cabinets?” This would be unremarkable if I had not expressed this very idea—a near and dear desire—repeatedly over the years, at which he scoffed every time. Yes, scoffed.

(He will say this never happened. But it did. Repeatedly with repeated scoffing. You should see him scoff. It is something to see.)

Allow me to take a momentary aside from your mental image of Steve (not his real name) scoffing (I’m sorry) to clear some confusion. “Steve” is not the real name of my husband. It is a pseudonym I chose to use on this blog for his own protection. From what? Who knows, but most likely very bad things, which kind of makes me a superhero. You're welcome, Steve (not your real name). I wanted to mention this because several people have contacted me wondering what happened to the old guy I married and who was this “Steve?” Steve (not his real name) is the same old man I’ve been running with for the past 15 years. Confusion cleared.

Our exposed food.

Back to kitchen DIY. Here’s a super-fun project for you! (Just kidding. It’s not fun at all. AT ALL.) You can give your kitchen a nice little inexpensive facelift by painting the cabinets. For my dated kitchen, I was shooting for a shabby chic/countrified (wow, according to spell-check, that’s a real word) feel.

Painting cabinets is super-easy. Ha! Not true! Well, it’s not exactly hard, either, but statements such as that imply super-funness (not a real word according to spell check) when really what you are more likely to experience is super-pain-in-the assness. (I knew “assness” wasn’t a word. Spell check did not have to tell me that.) First, remove all the hardware, then take the cabinets off the hinges, then remove the hinges (DO NOT get them all mixed up)—this will take so much longer than you think it will. SO MUCH. Use wood putty to fill any errant holes. Next, figure out where the hell you are going to paint these damn things. Rearrange crap in the garage and if you have 1,000 cabinets like I do (it totally does not look like that many when they are installed in the kitchen), also the cellar. This will take so much longer than you think it will. SO MUCH. Scuff all of them with fine sandpaper, wipe them with a damp cloth, roll on paint then brush with a fine paint brush to give it a finished look. Repeat last 2 steps. In between coats, scuff the cabinet boxes and roll on paint then brush with a fine paint brush to give it a finished look. Repeat last 2 steps. Put the hinges and doors back on, which will take so much longer than you think it will. SO MUCH. Also don’t forget (and this is a crucial step) to inadvertently fill in the holes that are supposed to be for the handles with wood putty so that you have to go through the extra step of knocking hardened putty out of the holes to reinstall the handles. This will take so much longer than you think it will.

SO MUCH.

Here is me—unshowered day #3. Yes, I DID wear the same clothes for that amount of days, too.

You should definitely do this project (which is super-fun and easy) when under continued duress of possible house-showings and have 3 little kids you homeschool (they are always here—always). Don’t expect supper to make itself or the laundry fairy to make an appearance. She won’t. She is a selfish, selfish creature and I am starting to lose belief in her. So, all that regular crap will still need to get done—by you. (Don’t try to fool yourself.) Now (and this is another crucial step) go sew your own curtains. Go on now.

Now that the kitchen is finished, I really am happy with the result. It is just the feel for which I was going. So, would I do it again? You bet! Why? Exactly.

(How would you function without this blog guiding you with its bottomless well of logic and creativity? Tell me. You can’t, can you. I knew it.)

and no one asked me for juice even once

If you had to name the one thing that your kids do that makes you most likely to want to rip your own face off, what would it be? For me, it’s the daily morning whine for juice. And I have never once denied these people juice! Why fuss when there is no history of deprivation? I really, truly, deeply-in-my-bones despise juice.

(Or maybe it’s the whining. Maybe the whining about juice. I was never big on juice and now I don’t even like the word “juice” anymore. It’s just all of it. Mystery solved.)

My sister and I do a get-away every spring, just the two of us. It’s our Mother's Day gift to ourselves. No one makes me laugh as much as she does. Especially at stuff no one else understands or thinks is funny. The laughing often happens in places where hysterical laughter is either relatively uncommon (Home Depot) or entirely frowned-upon (a wake). But we’re never embarrassed which I think makes us completely normal. Or not. Who really knows. (And let it be known that we’ve never actually lost our composure at a wake, just always share the lurking potential of laughing inappropriately. That being said, we probably shouldn’t go to wakes together. Which is difficult to avoid when you’re in the same family...)

Anyway, every May, we rent a beach cottage for a weekend together and this is our favorite place—this beach, this town, this cottage.

Every year, we each bring along heavily stuffed bags of lofty goals. And yoga mats. (We’ve never once unrolled them.) It seems that 48 hours away from our little guys simply cannot be squandered and must be utilized fully. Those 48 hours swell in my mind as I imagine the multitude of tasks I will be able to accomplish in all that free time.

To realize the unimportance of time is the gate to wisdom. Bertrand Russell

But then the sun is always shining and the sky so blue and the ocean calls, the sand fine under our feet.

We relished the quiet and the freedom and got nothing done but some pleasure reading and (of course) a nearly endless stream of uninterrupted conversation. Thai food and several movies from start to finish. Many long walks on the beach. This year we made a list of home improvements she wants to tackle at her house, then we went to Home Depot to find some pretty paint chips.

Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time. Marthe Troly-Curtin

It was so delightfully indulgent to watch the time pass slowly and amply. Especially since I usually think of time as my nemesis. A thing of which there is never enough, that passes much too quickly, that gets devoured by the demands of home and children. And this is my biggest problem with the shape of time: it constantly evades me.

It’s being here now that’s important. There’s no past and there’s no future. Time is a very misleading thing. All there is ever, is the now. We can gain experience from the past, but we can’t relive it; and we can hope for the future, but we don’t know if there is one. George Harrison

But I know that all we can do is keep on with the business of life and the work of our hearts and make friends with the idea of time—even we never figure it all out.

(We won’t.)

As happens every year, the sisters’ weekend was over too soon. Inevitably, the following weekend as we washed clothes, made snacks and got back to business each in our own homes, one of us texted the other (we were too busy to make a phone call), “Wish I were doing this weekend what I was doing last weekend!”

Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today. Let us begin.
Mother Teresa

But we know our work is good and grounding and important. Work of the heart. It was another wonderful sisters’ weekend and now my sister and I possess more lovely shared memories. And she never once asked me for juice and she was really well-behaved in Home Depot. (At least as far as I’m concerned which most likely shouldn’t be trusted. Either way, she did not ask me for juice. Which is real love.)

There is no one with whom I’d rather waste time. I consider myself very lucky to have someone with whom time spent is never wasted.

where have i been?

You’ve been wondering, haven’t you? (You have. It’s okay.)

Well, here follows a pictorial explanation—accompanied by lively, quick-witted captions—of my absence along with a promise to once again grace this great cyberspace of ours with my presence twice weekly!

(You’re welcome.)

NOT the mascot of the service I used to create a newsletter service for this blog. But chimp-ish.

I have been attempting to understand and successfully implement Mail Chimp to this blog. It was slightly easier than labor without an epidural, which I've also done. If you've never endured labor without an epidural, go ahead and make the assumption that it's really hard and totally sucky.

I wore those clothes for 4 days straight. They also double as jammies. This was not HGTV, people.

I have been sewing curtains and painting cabinets. Because when your house is already on the market and you have 3 little kids who you homeschool, nothing makes more sense than taking on a huge DIY kitchen renovation project.

Is there any crime in BUYING curtains? Yes. You must do it all by yourself.
That's what the "Y" stands for. (Isn't that fabric pretty?)

I have been landscaping. Although I think actual landscapers might take umbrage at my generous use of that word... Nevertheless, my meager attempts sucked up a lot of time.

My new favorite writing pad. And, YES, I will tell you about it in a future post!

I have been getting ahead on blogging. I cannot continue to slide on through cyberspace by the seat of my pants. I am going to write 16 posts and then I can breathe a little easier instead of rushing to get everything done. Then when 2 months have passed, I'll freak out and do it again. Wait...

I have been playgrounding. We had some serious playground business to which to attend. Instead of blogging and worrying about Twitter (still don't really get tweeting...), we got in the car and went to the playground almost everyday. I don't regret those "lost" moments one bit.

Thanks for your patience and now that I have it all together again, you can look forward to enthralling posts detailing my kitchen renovation, my sisters' get-away, some new go-to recipes, updates on my novel, favorite things and random miscellany!

(I know—you can't wait.)

crap, i didn’t socialize the kids—i knew i was forgetting something...

a girl with all her colored pencils

The 2 questions I am asked most often once people discover we homeschool are:

1) What about socialization?

2) What about algebra?

Well, friends, I took 2 years of algebra and I don’t have the faintest idea how to do algebra. I have gone many years without knowing algebra and so far, so good. Maybe it would have come in handy for... I really have no idea. I’m sure someone out there finds it handy. But I personally do not. I wonder why don't people ask, “What about flower arranging? How will they get through life without knowing flower arranging?”

a rainbow girl

Allow me to relay another little math-y story.

I took honors chemistry in high school. Because I was a “smart kid” and “smart kids” take honors classes. I took honors Earth science and honors biology and earned A’s, so when it came time for chemistry, of course I signed up for honors chemistry. Turns out I totally SUCKED at chemistry. It is so freakin’ math-y. No one warned me that it would be so math-y. I understood what was going on for about the first 3 days of class. Although even that many days is in question. The highest test grade I earned was a 62 and that was on the first test before everything got completely, 100% confusing. The teacher used a grading curve to determine our grades and I didn’t even understand how that worked. We would get our tests back and the other kids would get out their calculators—the kind with all those extra buttons that do unspeakably, unknowable math-y things—and they would say, “If I get a 97 on my next lab and a 98 on my next quiz and a 95 on my next test, I’ll end up with a 97 for the whole semester!” Now, these different elements held different values, plus the curve that I didn’t understand in the least, so even figuring out my grade was more than I could calculate. I would get my test back and say, “I got a 34!” I ended up with C’s every semester. I have no idea how that was possible.

General Grievous and Captain Rex built from Lego Hero Factory parts

Here’s the deal: when (if) my kids want to learn algebra, they can go take a class at the community college or utilize one of the many online resources. Or a good old-fashioned textbook. And if they never want to learn algebra, that’s okay, too. Because it will mean they are engaging in something else that is of greater interest to them. And where there is interest there is passion and where there is passion there is learning. And then anything is possible.

Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.
Lewis Carroll

My kids never fail to amaze and surprise me with what they do when given the freedom and time to explore that which interests and excites them.

My Little Pony—friendship is magic!

And socialization? We live in a society. It’s pretty impossible not to get socialized if you leave the house. If your kids spend time with a variety of people—people of different ages and backgrounds with genuine qualities and histories to share—they will be socialized. If you model the behavior, qualities and values you hope your children will embrace and embody, it’s all good. They will be socialized. Will they think differently because their experience varies from the traditional school paradigm? Yes, probably. But the world is rarely ever worse off when creative thinking is employed.

And if they turn out to be a little weird, it will probably have more to do with the quirks of their mother than the influence of homeschooling. I'll try to watch myself...

mama and dada

violence is not the only thing from which we need to protect our kids

Today I intended to write about some homeschooling topics. (That post will publish next week.) I enjoy being funny on this blog and even though some of what I talk about (mindfulness, homeschooling, parenting, etc.) possesses a seriousness, I try to inject some humor into everyday experiences. But in light of the bombings in Boston, I feel a need to respond as a mother.

First, I must express my sincere and heartfelt condolences to all who have lost loved ones or sustained injuries. My thoughts join in with those from peoples all around the globe.

My children are still quite young and I can shield them from violence and its consequential senseless tragedy. My children aren’t aware of Aurora, Virginia Tech, Newtown and too many others—I turn off the TV and NPR (my constant companion) in the wake of these kinds of violent acts. If any of it were to enter their consciousness, we would conduct the necessary discussions. But thankfully, it hasn’t happened yet. As I wrote after the Newtown shootings, “I feel so grateful that my kids are little enough to be oblivious to this tragedy. I want to protect them from the knowledge that this kind of violence is possible in this world into which I’ve brought them. I know this kind of protection will not be possible forever.”

I love Boston. I called it home for nearly 10 years. I now live a mere 40 miles (give or take) from the finish line of the marathon. As you can imagine, this tragedy is the primary topic of conversation on local television and radio. On Tuesday, the day after the bombings, all major local news stations preempted regular programming to carry coverage of the tragedy. Hours and hours of terrible images, the same information rehashed over and over with very little new to add. This event—like all acts of violence—is terrible in and of itself, but the local media turned it into spectacle, as it does to everything from a Nor’easter to politicians’ naughty conduct. I want to be informed so I can form educated opinions and keep my family safe and healthy, and an event like this requires and merits extra attention. But the coverage verges on exploitation. And I think it is because it doesn’t feel as though it comes from a place of authenticity; a place of genuine concern for the tragedy itself, its victims and its implications. It feels sensationalized and serves not to inform, but to add to the general anxiety of our culture.

This latest act of violence has prompted me to wonder: from what exactly do we need to protect our kids?

We live in a culture of fear. We seem to have moved from the credo of there is nothing to fear but fear itself to adopting a better safe than sorry mentality. What are we sacrificing for our children when we live under the willingly assumed fear that there is no safety, no certainty, nothing to be trusted? When we perpetuate and fuel these fears with our beliefs and actions? Armed guards in schools, the tug-o-war between arms enthusiasts and those in support of tighter gun laws (which is the tug-o-war between the fear of being unarmed and the fear of those who are armed), the belief in the necessity of a highly-funded military. In some respects, I am a “just in case” kind of person myself, but the ways in which we respond to violence, fueled by the media frenzy, is polarizing us as a people rather than building community and solidarity—the real antidotes to that which can threaten us.

How will our children be shaped if led to believe such great fear is founded?

From bike helmets to “stranger danger,” ultra-safe playgrounds to media frenzy, I wonder how it will effect them to live with the assumption that there is something to fear in everything. Do we want our children to be safe? Of course. Are there good arguments for some of these things? Without doubt. But how do we protect them from fear itself and its limiting power? The idea that nothing is safe and everything requires precaution?

This is what I want to protect my kids from.

I want to honor the losses when acts of violence erupt. I want to grieve for those who lose their lives, their loved ones and those who are hurt and might spend months and maybe a lifetime in recovery. But I want my children to be free of unnecessary fear. I don’t want to live in a world where armed guards are a fact of life—a reminder and symbol of an unavoidable threat to be feared. I want to focus on the good, seek out hope, build community and in embracing these ideals and passing them to my children, free them.

...Imagine all the people sharing all the world... You, you may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one I hope some day you'll join us And the world will live as one John Lennon