3:25 p.m. This is as low as my energy level can go without me actually falling asleep. This is the time of day when I think that siestas are a really really good idea. I go for caffeine and chocolate and walks in the yard. I would do jumping jacks, but my bra wouldn't hold up and I might put an eye out or something.
I wonder (again) why I think doing taxes is a good idea. Why do I have the one job guaranteed to make me miss out on spring? Why can't I be Santa Claus and do the heavy lifting in the middle of winter when I don't want to go outside anyway? Why can't I be a lifeguard? Other than because I don't swim all that well, of course. Why can't I be independently wealthy?
Huh, I must have fallen asleep. Better take a jog around the yard and get back to work. Where did I put that stack of 1099s?
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Up for Air
It is sunny outside, as I can tell by peeking through the blinds. I think it's still cool, but the wisteria and forsythia have made their debuts. When I walk around the yard in the hope of clearing my tax-bogged mind, I can smell the wisteria wafting on the breeze.
Waft. I don't know what the word means, really, but it sounds like what wisteria's scent does. I'll walk across a yard and sense a light scent, a hint of licorice and sugar. I look around, but don't see anything until my mind remembers... look up. And there it is in the tops of the trees. Clusters of purple flowers, looking like extra bright grapes, high in the trees.
Sometimes the wisteria is too much for the tree, and the tree --- usually a pine --- will fall over, leaving the wisteria to hold it up until it snakes over to another tree or fence or house.
Once I decided to trim my wisteria so it would bloom closer to the ground. The main vine, which was about as large around as the pine tree, became infested with bugs and collapsed. I was sad, until a few weeks later, when wisteria started popping up everywhere. When the main vine collapsed, the little tendrils and underground root decided to seek revenge on my yard. Now the whole back yard has colonies of wisteria that won't go away. Of course, I like it, so I guess it wasn't so much revenge as rebirth.
My rebirth will have to wait another three weeks, until tax season is over and I can take my life off hold. In the mean time, I did manage to plant some seeds and root some African Violets, so maybe by the time I can look around again, I'll have some very nice things to see.
Waft. I don't know what the word means, really, but it sounds like what wisteria's scent does. I'll walk across a yard and sense a light scent, a hint of licorice and sugar. I look around, but don't see anything until my mind remembers... look up. And there it is in the tops of the trees. Clusters of purple flowers, looking like extra bright grapes, high in the trees.
Sometimes the wisteria is too much for the tree, and the tree --- usually a pine --- will fall over, leaving the wisteria to hold it up until it snakes over to another tree or fence or house.
Once I decided to trim my wisteria so it would bloom closer to the ground. The main vine, which was about as large around as the pine tree, became infested with bugs and collapsed. I was sad, until a few weeks later, when wisteria started popping up everywhere. When the main vine collapsed, the little tendrils and underground root decided to seek revenge on my yard. Now the whole back yard has colonies of wisteria that won't go away. Of course, I like it, so I guess it wasn't so much revenge as rebirth.
My rebirth will have to wait another three weeks, until tax season is over and I can take my life off hold. In the mean time, I did manage to plant some seeds and root some African Violets, so maybe by the time I can look around again, I'll have some very nice things to see.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
If you steal from many sources, it is called research
I have been reading other blogs, enjoying the writing, and stealing ideas. Well, maybe that's too harsh. I hope so. I am reading about things that are interesting and that I'd like to explore on my own? OK?
Annie at writers, witches and words (http://anniekelleher.blogspot.com/) wrote about journaling, and not being a journal writer. I thought that was interesting, and as always, amusing. For some perverse reason, I ended up buying a new journal that day.
I like to think of myself as a journal writer. I think I'm more of a blank book collector. I love the feel of a new blank book or even a plain old spiral notebook. Clean, clear, and ready for all of the ideas, hopes, angst and to do lists I can pour into it. I almost always buy a new pen when I buy a new journal. It just works that way for me. Some people match purse and shoes, I match pen and journal.
Most of my early journals begin: "This time I really am going to lose 10 lbs." My later journals begin: "My old journals began, 'this time I really am going to lose 10 lbs,' but this will begin with..." whatever.
I tried theme journals.
Journals of story ideas and poems.
A pregnancy journal. Unfortunately, that one ended prematurely along with the pregnancy. I decided not to do that again.
I found a journal I'd written when I was 20 and miserable. It was a bound book with a print of a lovely woman on the front which had been given to me by a very good friend. The book cover was red. For once, I wasn't trying to lose weight. I had copied poems I'd written earlier. They are not terrible at all. I had written about how desperately miserable I was, and how I felt that even when I was happy it was just a short phase. I ought to show that to my counselor, huh? Anyway, I gave it to my son, who at 19 or 20 seemed to have similar thoughts. I don't know if he read it, and if he did, whether it reached him. I don't know what helps us get through those times. I didn't have Prozac and the beer didn't really help that much. He seems better now, but if he's like me, the thoughts are there still, eating at his faith in himself and his life.
But that's a different subject, and not necessarily my story to tell.
The new book I bought is also red. Red faux suede --- that's what the label said. I bought ultra-fine Flair pens to go with it. I wrote for two pages about journals. This is when I remembered a distinct advantage of blogging over journal writing. My hands cramped and my handwriting started to look like the scribblings of an old drunk. Genteel and yet erratic. Sums up my life, really.
Most of my journals are four or five pages of writing and a whole lot of blank pages. Some books cover many years, with huge gaps in between. They are usually mundane, trite, and frankly boring.
But I keep writing. I picture my grandchildren reading the books and giggling. I wish I had journals written by my grandmothers. My notebooks will probably by tossed with the things that you can't even sell at a yard sale, but I'll still keep writing them and hoping there will be something for someone in there.
It's in my nature.
Annie at writers, witches and words (http://anniekelleher.blogspot.com/) wrote about journaling, and not being a journal writer. I thought that was interesting, and as always, amusing. For some perverse reason, I ended up buying a new journal that day.
I like to think of myself as a journal writer. I think I'm more of a blank book collector. I love the feel of a new blank book or even a plain old spiral notebook. Clean, clear, and ready for all of the ideas, hopes, angst and to do lists I can pour into it. I almost always buy a new pen when I buy a new journal. It just works that way for me. Some people match purse and shoes, I match pen and journal.
Most of my early journals begin: "This time I really am going to lose 10 lbs." My later journals begin: "My old journals began, 'this time I really am going to lose 10 lbs,' but this will begin with..." whatever.
I tried theme journals.
Journals of story ideas and poems.
A pregnancy journal. Unfortunately, that one ended prematurely along with the pregnancy. I decided not to do that again.
I found a journal I'd written when I was 20 and miserable. It was a bound book with a print of a lovely woman on the front which had been given to me by a very good friend. The book cover was red. For once, I wasn't trying to lose weight. I had copied poems I'd written earlier. They are not terrible at all. I had written about how desperately miserable I was, and how I felt that even when I was happy it was just a short phase. I ought to show that to my counselor, huh? Anyway, I gave it to my son, who at 19 or 20 seemed to have similar thoughts. I don't know if he read it, and if he did, whether it reached him. I don't know what helps us get through those times. I didn't have Prozac and the beer didn't really help that much. He seems better now, but if he's like me, the thoughts are there still, eating at his faith in himself and his life.
But that's a different subject, and not necessarily my story to tell.
The new book I bought is also red. Red faux suede --- that's what the label said. I bought ultra-fine Flair pens to go with it. I wrote for two pages about journals. This is when I remembered a distinct advantage of blogging over journal writing. My hands cramped and my handwriting started to look like the scribblings of an old drunk. Genteel and yet erratic. Sums up my life, really.
Most of my journals are four or five pages of writing and a whole lot of blank pages. Some books cover many years, with huge gaps in between. They are usually mundane, trite, and frankly boring.
But I keep writing. I picture my grandchildren reading the books and giggling. I wish I had journals written by my grandmothers. My notebooks will probably by tossed with the things that you can't even sell at a yard sale, but I'll still keep writing them and hoping there will be something for someone in there.
It's in my nature.
Friday, February 29, 2008
My Minivan is dead, and I'm not feeling so good myself
It would be wrong not to post on Leap Day. It's such an event.
The computers at the DMV went down, possibly because they couldn't deal with February 29. Maybe not. No one else seems to have a problem. Maybe they are down in sympathy to me.
My minivan died. Really and truly. The minivan that has carted my growing boys and their growing friends around Columbia for the past 10 years is dead. The minivan that carried me, Bob, and Mark to New Mexico and back is kaput.
That was really my car. I saw an Internet video --- probably you tube --- called "Mom my car." A group of people sat around and talked in great seriousness about how to "Mom" a car. Like some reality show I've never seen, I think. They strewed french fries under seats, sprayed juice over the seats, stuck little toys in the air conditioning vents. One guy threw a ball at the car until "something broke." It was a funny video, but maybe you have to have a Mommed out Minivan to appreciate it.
My van's left passenger door fell off after a few years of enthusiastic opening and closings at the hands of boys who became men. It was on and worked fine unless some innocent offered to get the door and pulled it open ... and off. It almost always happened in the rain. What's with that?
I say it's dead, but it can technically be fixed. A new engine would cost about 5 grand. I don't know what the new door, rear light (where the door hit it when it fell off in the rain one day), and faulty electric system would cost to repair. It's already had a transmission transplant.
On the trip back from New Mexico, the car died in 5:00 traffic in San Antonio on the Wednesday before the fourth of July weekend. In a series of fortunate events, a nice man helped us move out of the middle of the highway. A nice 911 operator called a nice tow-truck operator who took us to a nice garage next to a nice motel with Internet access. We rented a car and enjoyed several days in San Antonio while the nice garage folk fixed our car, repairing it in time for us to get to Houston, then Columbia by Monday.
Since then, the radiator system had to be repaired as well. The head lights went out far too often, probably water on the bulb. But basically, a nice minivan.
Now I'll go back to work to earn enough to buy myself a new minivan. Some people think I should downsize. An Escort has been suggested... as if I can fit a husband, three sons (two about 6 ft tall), a daughter-in-law, a grandson, a niece and a father in a subcompact. What are they thinking? Where would I keep the juice boxes and bottled water?
I'll look at it, but I'd be lying if I said I had an open mind. When I down size it will be to a Karmen Gia. Something for me and my case of water and no one else. I'm not there yet.
The computers at the DMV went down, possibly because they couldn't deal with February 29. Maybe not. No one else seems to have a problem. Maybe they are down in sympathy to me.
My minivan died. Really and truly. The minivan that has carted my growing boys and their growing friends around Columbia for the past 10 years is dead. The minivan that carried me, Bob, and Mark to New Mexico and back is kaput.
That was really my car. I saw an Internet video --- probably you tube --- called "Mom my car." A group of people sat around and talked in great seriousness about how to "Mom" a car. Like some reality show I've never seen, I think. They strewed french fries under seats, sprayed juice over the seats, stuck little toys in the air conditioning vents. One guy threw a ball at the car until "something broke." It was a funny video, but maybe you have to have a Mommed out Minivan to appreciate it.
My van's left passenger door fell off after a few years of enthusiastic opening and closings at the hands of boys who became men. It was on and worked fine unless some innocent offered to get the door and pulled it open ... and off. It almost always happened in the rain. What's with that?
I say it's dead, but it can technically be fixed. A new engine would cost about 5 grand. I don't know what the new door, rear light (where the door hit it when it fell off in the rain one day), and faulty electric system would cost to repair. It's already had a transmission transplant.
On the trip back from New Mexico, the car died in 5:00 traffic in San Antonio on the Wednesday before the fourth of July weekend. In a series of fortunate events, a nice man helped us move out of the middle of the highway. A nice 911 operator called a nice tow-truck operator who took us to a nice garage next to a nice motel with Internet access. We rented a car and enjoyed several days in San Antonio while the nice garage folk fixed our car, repairing it in time for us to get to Houston, then Columbia by Monday.
Since then, the radiator system had to be repaired as well. The head lights went out far too often, probably water on the bulb. But basically, a nice minivan.
Now I'll go back to work to earn enough to buy myself a new minivan. Some people think I should downsize. An Escort has been suggested... as if I can fit a husband, three sons (two about 6 ft tall), a daughter-in-law, a grandson, a niece and a father in a subcompact. What are they thinking? Where would I keep the juice boxes and bottled water?
I'll look at it, but I'd be lying if I said I had an open mind. When I down size it will be to a Karmen Gia. Something for me and my case of water and no one else. I'm not there yet.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
I have been tagged, which is something that hasn't happened to me since grade school. But Annie http://anniekelleher.blogspot.com/ has tagged me and I'm it.
This is how it works:
1) Find a book closest to me with at least 123 pages.
2) Turn to page 123 and go down five sentences.
3) Type the next three lines into my blog.
4) Tag five other bloggers.
I will start by admitting that the book closest to me is the 2008 World Almanac, and on page 123 is the US Military payscale. Although interesting, and perhaps profound, I'm not typing the chart. So the next book is: Indigo Dying by Susan Wittig Albert.
"You don't need Les to rescue you and take you away, like some fairy-tale knight rescuing a princess out of a tower. You're on you own now, which means you've got to learn to be independent and take care of yourself. That doesn't mean you have to stop seein' Les, if that's what you really want to do. "
I tag:
Karen http://rose-gamgee.blogspot.com/
Lydia http://lydiasbalance.blogspot.com/
Carolyn http://avoidingstasis.wordpress.com/
Now, look, I'm breaking another rule. Although I've read some blogs, I don't know anyone else well enough to tag them. Hmmm. Oh well. Here you go peeps.
This is how it works:
1) Find a book closest to me with at least 123 pages.
2) Turn to page 123 and go down five sentences.
3) Type the next three lines into my blog.
4) Tag five other bloggers.
I will start by admitting that the book closest to me is the 2008 World Almanac, and on page 123 is the US Military payscale. Although interesting, and perhaps profound, I'm not typing the chart. So the next book is: Indigo Dying by Susan Wittig Albert.
"You don't need Les to rescue you and take you away, like some fairy-tale knight rescuing a princess out of a tower. You're on you own now, which means you've got to learn to be independent and take care of yourself. That doesn't mean you have to stop seein' Les, if that's what you really want to do. "
I tag:
Karen http://rose-gamgee.blogspot.com/
Lydia http://lydiasbalance.blogspot.com/
Carolyn http://avoidingstasis.wordpress.com/
Now, look, I'm breaking another rule. Although I've read some blogs, I don't know anyone else well enough to tag them. Hmmm. Oh well. Here you go peeps.
Friday, February 22, 2008
A Day Older Than George Washington
My mother was born February 21, 1936. Since she died in October of 2006, you don't have to worry that she will be upset that I've told you her age. In fact, even if she were still alive, it wouldn't bother her. Not really. She always told everyone she was 99 and that was that.
I remember the time I sat with her in the new dentist's office. I read over her shoulder as she filled out the form. When she wrote her age, I shrieked, "I KNEW you weren't 99! You're TWENTY-NINE." She shushed me and later told me not to tell women's ages out loud in public in the biggest voice you have.
"Why not?" I asked, admiring the genuine glass ruby ring I'd gotten from the dentist.
"Because it's not polite."
"Why not?"
"Because some women think it's bad to be too old."
"But not you, you don't mind being old," I said in shock.
I must have been a truly obnoxious child.
I found out many many years later that Mom did have one of those "turning thirty" crises. Her good friend died of breast cancer that year. She tried to quit smoking because, she told me with a dry laugh, "I thought it looked tacky to see 'old women' smoking, and old was 30." We both laughed, since by then, I was celebrating the 13th anniversary of my 30th birthday. She was still 99.
It was important to my mother that we remember her birthday. After a few years, she got prickly if we asked her what the date was. She gave me a saving grace, though. She told me that she was one day older than George Washington. At first I argued that it couldn't be true, but she insisted, in the same way she insisted that Santa Claus brought presents, the Easter Bunny laid colored eggs, and Hubert Humphrey would be president of the United States. So I quit arguing. It took awhile. I really was an obnoxious child. I can't remember when I realized that if I forgot the date of her birthday, all I had to do was look at the calendar. George Washington's birthday, February 22. Mom's birthday, the day before.
This worked for several years before the federal government stepped in to make my life more difficult. And although GW always celebrated his birthday on a Monday, Mom wasn't ok with moving her birthday around. I thought it would be very convenient to always have her birthday on Sunday. But she was funny that way.
It was ok as long as most calendars still had "GW's birthday observed" and "GW's birthday." Then many quit including the real date. Once again, I was in trouble. Finally, I just learned the date of her birthday. February 21. Or was it the 22nd?
I remember the time I sat with her in the new dentist's office. I read over her shoulder as she filled out the form. When she wrote her age, I shrieked, "I KNEW you weren't 99! You're TWENTY-NINE." She shushed me and later told me not to tell women's ages out loud in public in the biggest voice you have.
"Why not?" I asked, admiring the genuine glass ruby ring I'd gotten from the dentist.
"Because it's not polite."
"Why not?"
"Because some women think it's bad to be too old."
"But not you, you don't mind being old," I said in shock.
I must have been a truly obnoxious child.
I found out many many years later that Mom did have one of those "turning thirty" crises. Her good friend died of breast cancer that year. She tried to quit smoking because, she told me with a dry laugh, "I thought it looked tacky to see 'old women' smoking, and old was 30." We both laughed, since by then, I was celebrating the 13th anniversary of my 30th birthday. She was still 99.
It was important to my mother that we remember her birthday. After a few years, she got prickly if we asked her what the date was. She gave me a saving grace, though. She told me that she was one day older than George Washington. At first I argued that it couldn't be true, but she insisted, in the same way she insisted that Santa Claus brought presents, the Easter Bunny laid colored eggs, and Hubert Humphrey would be president of the United States. So I quit arguing. It took awhile. I really was an obnoxious child. I can't remember when I realized that if I forgot the date of her birthday, all I had to do was look at the calendar. George Washington's birthday, February 22. Mom's birthday, the day before.
This worked for several years before the federal government stepped in to make my life more difficult. And although GW always celebrated his birthday on a Monday, Mom wasn't ok with moving her birthday around. I thought it would be very convenient to always have her birthday on Sunday. But she was funny that way.
It was ok as long as most calendars still had "GW's birthday observed" and "GW's birthday." Then many quit including the real date. Once again, I was in trouble. Finally, I just learned the date of her birthday. February 21. Or was it the 22nd?
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Best laid plans
Last weekend I hibernated. I read two books, soaked in the tub, rubbed on vanilla lotion. It was probably a good thing, because my week was terrible. One small crisis after another. Rather than get anything DONE, I put out fires, outlined regulations to prevent future fires, talked to a whole lot of people, researched minutia, and ran gratefully out the door at 5:00 Friday.
Saturday, I was sick. I thought was a hangover, even though I've had more to drink and felt better. But it was more than that. I had fever, chills, a headache so severe I couldn't lift my head, nausea. As I threw up the last bit of bile in my stomach, my kitten Taz gently put his paw on my arm. I took it as a sign of comfort, although I'm sure he was saying, "Please quit messing up my water bowl."
Today, I feel better but not great. I can move my head, I ate cereal, bananas and oranges. I still have chills and I think I'll crawl back to bed now. One more fire to put out, then off I go.
Saturday, I was sick. I thought was a hangover, even though I've had more to drink and felt better. But it was more than that. I had fever, chills, a headache so severe I couldn't lift my head, nausea. As I threw up the last bit of bile in my stomach, my kitten Taz gently put his paw on my arm. I took it as a sign of comfort, although I'm sure he was saying, "Please quit messing up my water bowl."
Today, I feel better but not great. I can move my head, I ate cereal, bananas and oranges. I still have chills and I think I'll crawl back to bed now. One more fire to put out, then off I go.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Hibernation
I am in dire need of a snow storm or a bad cold --- metaphorically, at least. I don't want the power to go out & I don't want to feel miserable. I want an excuse... no, an absolutely unquestionable essential need to take a couple of days off and do nothing.
I want to go to the library and check out a stack of books that have no socially redeeming quality other than entertainment. Nothing thought-provoking, heart-breaking, or life-altering. Nothing with big words I don't already know. Maybe even something I've read before a few dozen times.
I want to go to the grocery store and buy canned soup, cheddar cheese, and artisan bread. Maybe some apples and oranges. And green tea bags, bottles of diet Coke, and LIMES.
I want to get my lavendar sugar scrub,vanilla shea butter lotion, and ginger bath salts.
Then I am going to make some tea and soak in the tub until the water will no longer run hot, my feet are pruned, and my children are banging on the door yelling that they have to pee and Dad just used the downstairs bathroom, so it will be a long long time before they will go in there.
Then I am going to put on my fluffy robe that my mother in law gave me for Christmas and my wooly socks that I crocheted for myself when I got cold and crawl into bed. I will drink tea and diet Coke with lime, eat cheese sandwiches, canned soup, and oranges, and read books with no redeeming social value.
Then I will get up and go back to work, to family, to play. And I will be smiling.
I want to go to the library and check out a stack of books that have no socially redeeming quality other than entertainment. Nothing thought-provoking, heart-breaking, or life-altering. Nothing with big words I don't already know. Maybe even something I've read before a few dozen times.
I want to go to the grocery store and buy canned soup, cheddar cheese, and artisan bread. Maybe some apples and oranges. And green tea bags, bottles of diet Coke, and LIMES.
I want to get my lavendar sugar scrub,vanilla shea butter lotion, and ginger bath salts.
Then I am going to make some tea and soak in the tub until the water will no longer run hot, my feet are pruned, and my children are banging on the door yelling that they have to pee and Dad just used the downstairs bathroom, so it will be a long long time before they will go in there.
Then I am going to put on my fluffy robe that my mother in law gave me for Christmas and my wooly socks that I crocheted for myself when I got cold and crawl into bed. I will drink tea and diet Coke with lime, eat cheese sandwiches, canned soup, and oranges, and read books with no redeeming social value.
Then I will get up and go back to work, to family, to play. And I will be smiling.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Tax Season
When my youngest son was little he thought there were five seasons: winter, spring, summer, fall and tax season. He still gets a sort of sad look when I say it's almost tax season. It means I won't be at his school every Friday. Every other Saturday morning is shot (although I never do much on Saturday anyway.)
But I get excited. I start planning for tax season in November. OK, sometimes I start planning in May. We have a pretty good system set up, but I like to tweak it. I think about the process, the checks & balances, the filing system. Every year, we get better.
But with the other things that continue to go on in life --- love, children, housework, tax season leaves very little time for creative activity. All energy goes into living and taxes. I guess that's metaphorically true of everyone, huh?
But I get excited. I start planning for tax season in November. OK, sometimes I start planning in May. We have a pretty good system set up, but I like to tweak it. I think about the process, the checks & balances, the filing system. Every year, we get better.
But with the other things that continue to go on in life --- love, children, housework, tax season leaves very little time for creative activity. All energy goes into living and taxes. I guess that's metaphorically true of everyone, huh?
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Happy New Year
The temperature outside is 25 degrees, which is quite warm for some folk, but really really cold for us in South Carolina. I get to see if my "light" L. L. Bean coat is ready for this. I think it is. After all, people in Maine wear light cotton sweaters in the summer.
It is time to get back to work. A real routine times 10, since it is TAX SEASON. Before filing begins, we will be closing books, preparing W-2s, and making sure we are caught up with all non-Tax stuff. Our fear that the tax season would be seriously delayed has been calmed. Only a few forms are affected by the delay. The IRS, monolithic bureaucracy that it is, has worked harder than Congress deserved to make sure the filing system will be in place. Although I'm glad we will be able to file most returns on time (mid-January), I am not sure the IRS isn't enabling Congress and encouraging them to continue to refuse to face tough issues. But for now, I don't care.
This holiday season has been nice, but not restful. I haven't had more than two days off in a row, and usually those days were so filled with obligations that they can't count as a vacation. I got some things done, but not close to everything. Maybe I have to be busy to get things done. Or not.
It is time to get back to work. A real routine times 10, since it is TAX SEASON. Before filing begins, we will be closing books, preparing W-2s, and making sure we are caught up with all non-Tax stuff. Our fear that the tax season would be seriously delayed has been calmed. Only a few forms are affected by the delay. The IRS, monolithic bureaucracy that it is, has worked harder than Congress deserved to make sure the filing system will be in place. Although I'm glad we will be able to file most returns on time (mid-January), I am not sure the IRS isn't enabling Congress and encouraging them to continue to refuse to face tough issues. But for now, I don't care.
This holiday season has been nice, but not restful. I haven't had more than two days off in a row, and usually those days were so filled with obligations that they can't count as a vacation. I got some things done, but not close to everything. Maybe I have to be busy to get things done. Or not.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Christmas Eve
I just got back from finishing my shopping (I think.) It was pleasant, since there aren't many people brave enough to shop on Christmas Eve, but the merchants didn't know that. Lots of clerks, (relatively) few customers, and I am in hog heaven. The pickin's were slim, but I am a flexible shopper. And the Christmas ornaments at World Market were 50% off. I couldn't afford NOT to buy them! If I forgot anything, I'll wrap cash in Christmas crackers and let it go.
So now I am relaxing & thinking about wrapping. We'll go to my son's house and have a small family gathering with take out chicken and sides. They are going to Katy's family tomorrow, so we will just spread the season a little more.
Friends, family, and a paycheck that outlasted the giving. What more can we ask?
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
So now I am relaxing & thinking about wrapping. We'll go to my son's house and have a small family gathering with take out chicken and sides. They are going to Katy's family tomorrow, so we will just spread the season a little more.
Friends, family, and a paycheck that outlasted the giving. What more can we ask?
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Rainy days and Fridays
It is Friday morning. I hear the rain outside, but it is too dark to see. Since this is South Carolina, precipitation usually means it is warm. It may bring a cold front, but that will be crisp dry air that will make my hair stand up when I take off my hat. That's ok. It is Christmas, and it should be cold.
Yesterday, I went Christmas shopping. I've done it before, but it's always an adventure. My brother and I went to the Village at Sandhill, which as my son points out, is not really a village, even if it does have a horse and carriage ride. I've seen places like this in other cities, and it always makes me feel as if I am in Disney World, without the water rides. I expect to see Goofy and Cinderella. I don't. I do hear every version of little drummer boy ever made, but that's not necessarily a bad thing... once a year.
Two years ago, I was sick at Christmas time. Really sick. For two days before and two days after Christmas, I lay in bed and whimpered. Since I am a last minute Christmas person, many gifts went unwrapped if not unbought. Christmas eve, I arranged the presents, crying because I couldn't get it done. My husband didn't seem to see the problem, and that of course, made it worse. Christmas morning, I left the bed to watch my children open their gifts. Someone opened mine for me and I went back to bed while the rest of them went off to my parents' house and then to my husband's parents' house. I threw up and went to bed.
For a few weeks afterward, I found presents that had not been delivered. I handed them over with a shrug and an apology. "Sorry, I was sick. I lost 20 lbs." (Always looking on the bright side.) "There will always be next year."
It was my mother's last Christmas. She was sicker than I was. I couldn't see her, because I couldn't take the chance of infecting her in her weakened condition. And of course, we really didn't expect that to be her last Christmas.
Oh Well.
Today, I work, and get a paycheck to pay for some of my Christmas spirit. Then I go out again and shop some more. I am not sick; no one is, praise god. I will make my husband wrap presents or at least bring me rum-soaked eggnog as I wrap them. He may not see the point, but, god as my witness, he's going to pretend he does. I will see my father and siblings; think of my in-laws in Antarctica and Wild Dunes; and sing one more version of Little Drummer Boy.
Yesterday, I went Christmas shopping. I've done it before, but it's always an adventure. My brother and I went to the Village at Sandhill, which as my son points out, is not really a village, even if it does have a horse and carriage ride. I've seen places like this in other cities, and it always makes me feel as if I am in Disney World, without the water rides. I expect to see Goofy and Cinderella. I don't. I do hear every version of little drummer boy ever made, but that's not necessarily a bad thing... once a year.
Two years ago, I was sick at Christmas time. Really sick. For two days before and two days after Christmas, I lay in bed and whimpered. Since I am a last minute Christmas person, many gifts went unwrapped if not unbought. Christmas eve, I arranged the presents, crying because I couldn't get it done. My husband didn't seem to see the problem, and that of course, made it worse. Christmas morning, I left the bed to watch my children open their gifts. Someone opened mine for me and I went back to bed while the rest of them went off to my parents' house and then to my husband's parents' house. I threw up and went to bed.
For a few weeks afterward, I found presents that had not been delivered. I handed them over with a shrug and an apology. "Sorry, I was sick. I lost 20 lbs." (Always looking on the bright side.) "There will always be next year."
It was my mother's last Christmas. She was sicker than I was. I couldn't see her, because I couldn't take the chance of infecting her in her weakened condition. And of course, we really didn't expect that to be her last Christmas.
Oh Well.
Today, I work, and get a paycheck to pay for some of my Christmas spirit. Then I go out again and shop some more. I am not sick; no one is, praise god. I will make my husband wrap presents or at least bring me rum-soaked eggnog as I wrap them. He may not see the point, but, god as my witness, he's going to pretend he does. I will see my father and siblings; think of my in-laws in Antarctica and Wild Dunes; and sing one more version of Little Drummer Boy.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
bummer
Have I already named a post "bummer?" I really didn't plan to spend a lot of time whining. I know I said I would, but I didn't think I meant it.
I am having a lousy no good month. I am feeling sort of yucky... not really sick but with what my old doctor called "the grunge." A headache that comes and goes, sort of sore throat, no fever or anything that will help me garner any sympathy. Nothing that makes someone give me hot chocolate and say "You need to go to bed, honey."
I have been really irritable lately. Everything seems outrageously disproportionately unreasonably difficult. I can't get my e-mail to work, and somehow decided everyone was trying to cut me out of the conversation. No one loves me. I need to eat some worms.
I tried to do a job very quickly so I could get to a meeting, and there were so many additional things and I made so many mistakes that I had to fix that I pretty much decided I should resign and let them hire someone who knew her assets from a hole in the ground. I became convinced everyone wanted me to quit but was too nice to tell me.
I failed the business part of the enrolled agents exam for the fourth time, which means in reality, that I must start again next May, but meant to me that I am a moron who shouldn't be allowed near a balance sheet or a tax return and should consider mowing lawns other than the fact I'd probably break the mower. It doesn't matter that I passed the other two parts with relative ease and that most people say the exam, especially the business part, is brutal. I should be able to pass it.
And I have a zit.
I think I'll go to bed with some hot chocolate.
Oh look: "No misspellings found." Things are looking up.
I am having a lousy no good month. I am feeling sort of yucky... not really sick but with what my old doctor called "the grunge." A headache that comes and goes, sort of sore throat, no fever or anything that will help me garner any sympathy. Nothing that makes someone give me hot chocolate and say "You need to go to bed, honey."
I have been really irritable lately. Everything seems outrageously disproportionately unreasonably difficult. I can't get my e-mail to work, and somehow decided everyone was trying to cut me out of the conversation. No one loves me. I need to eat some worms.
I tried to do a job very quickly so I could get to a meeting, and there were so many additional things and I made so many mistakes that I had to fix that I pretty much decided I should resign and let them hire someone who knew her assets from a hole in the ground. I became convinced everyone wanted me to quit but was too nice to tell me.
I failed the business part of the enrolled agents exam for the fourth time, which means in reality, that I must start again next May, but meant to me that I am a moron who shouldn't be allowed near a balance sheet or a tax return and should consider mowing lawns other than the fact I'd probably break the mower. It doesn't matter that I passed the other two parts with relative ease and that most people say the exam, especially the business part, is brutal. I should be able to pass it.
And I have a zit.
I think I'll go to bed with some hot chocolate.
Oh look: "No misspellings found." Things are looking up.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Weathermen
Why do weathermen take credit or blame for the weather? Why do they say, "sorry, it's going to rain on Saturday, I hope that doesn't ruin your outdoor plans"?
Why do they use judgement words like "Good weather" or "Bad weather." OK, a hurricane is bad weather. I'll grant you that. But why do they call 81° in the second week in December "GOOD weather." It's not GOOD weather. Right now, I want rain, because of the continuing drought. And I want cold, because it's December, by god, and I want to wear my closet full of cute Christmas sweaters.
But no, the smarmy weather guy smiles and says, "I've ordered some spring weather for this Christmas." Oh please. Send it back. It's not my size.
Why do they use judgement words like "Good weather" or "Bad weather." OK, a hurricane is bad weather. I'll grant you that. But why do they call 81° in the second week in December "GOOD weather." It's not GOOD weather. Right now, I want rain, because of the continuing drought. And I want cold, because it's December, by god, and I want to wear my closet full of cute Christmas sweaters.
But no, the smarmy weather guy smiles and says, "I've ordered some spring weather for this Christmas." Oh please. Send it back. It's not my size.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Unitasking
In the week I have been without a computer except at work, where I had to work, I have been thinking about multi-tasking. I'm against it. If I multi-task, I become addled, foggy, and fragmented. I find myself making grocery lists while listening to Mark read to me, composing letters while reconciling an account, and mentally decorating while having sex. This is not good. All of these things require complete thereness. And I can't be in two places at once.
Even things that might seem made for multitasking, like planning a meeting while driving, can be fragmenting and even dangerous. I get to my destination, and I can't remember my trip. It's like drunk driving. You know you made it, but you check your bumper just in case. Not a good thing.
And so, I am trying to combat personal multi-tasking. Other people can do what they want. I am doing one thing at a time. I start with a to-do list that covers all areas of my life (and there are plenty.) Then, if I am working on something and an idea or rememory hits me, I jot it down on one of the notepads I keep nearby if it's something important. Often, it is just a flight, and I push it aside. It will come back if it is important. Then I move back into the moment and do a sort of focus exercise. BE the bank statement.
On the whole, it has been pretty successful. Fewer mistakes, better sex, happier people. I'll let you know how it goes.
Even things that might seem made for multitasking, like planning a meeting while driving, can be fragmenting and even dangerous. I get to my destination, and I can't remember my trip. It's like drunk driving. You know you made it, but you check your bumper just in case. Not a good thing.
And so, I am trying to combat personal multi-tasking. Other people can do what they want. I am doing one thing at a time. I start with a to-do list that covers all areas of my life (and there are plenty.) Then, if I am working on something and an idea or rememory hits me, I jot it down on one of the notepads I keep nearby if it's something important. Often, it is just a flight, and I push it aside. It will come back if it is important. Then I move back into the moment and do a sort of focus exercise. BE the bank statement.
On the whole, it has been pretty successful. Fewer mistakes, better sex, happier people. I'll let you know how it goes.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Happy Thanksgiving Recovery Weekend
After two days of wonderful overindulgence in food and family, I am ready for a two day fast. I'm thinking of nothing but cereal & soup and a long list of chores to do around the house.
I am sitting here now, writing a charter application for a middle school, with one cat on my lap and another eyeing my keyboard. He thinks it's the best place in the house to sleep. I disagree.
The angel Gabriel is sleeping upstairs with GrandBob. He awoke at 5:30 a.m., starving to death. I fed him and he fell right back to sleep. Not me. I'm up, drinking coffee and reading about best practices in middle school education. Trying to convince my cats that they don't like me that much.
By some miracle, my house is, for the most part, clean. The weather is mild. I guess I don't have any excuse not to tackle the storage shed. It is filled, not so much with twenty years of junk, but all of my neuroses, anxieties and big plans.
If I throw away the pieces of fabric I cut out 15 years ago when I decided to teach myself to quilt, am I admitting failure? And maybe I should give them to the art teacher. At least the pieces that don't have cat pee on them.
Do I really want to get rid of the size 6 jeans I was able to wear for one week in 1985? Jeans never go out of style, and I could very well lose 50 lbs...
Oh well, I guess I have to face the incomplete craft projects, the disorganized boxes of books, and the jumble sale of clothes I've managed to ignore for 10 months, plus twenty years.
Onward... wish me luck... oh wait, is that left over killer mashed potatoes?
I am sitting here now, writing a charter application for a middle school, with one cat on my lap and another eyeing my keyboard. He thinks it's the best place in the house to sleep. I disagree.
The angel Gabriel is sleeping upstairs with GrandBob. He awoke at 5:30 a.m., starving to death. I fed him and he fell right back to sleep. Not me. I'm up, drinking coffee and reading about best practices in middle school education. Trying to convince my cats that they don't like me that much.
By some miracle, my house is, for the most part, clean. The weather is mild. I guess I don't have any excuse not to tackle the storage shed. It is filled, not so much with twenty years of junk, but all of my neuroses, anxieties and big plans.
If I throw away the pieces of fabric I cut out 15 years ago when I decided to teach myself to quilt, am I admitting failure? And maybe I should give them to the art teacher. At least the pieces that don't have cat pee on them.
Do I really want to get rid of the size 6 jeans I was able to wear for one week in 1985? Jeans never go out of style, and I could very well lose 50 lbs...
Oh well, I guess I have to face the incomplete craft projects, the disorganized boxes of books, and the jumble sale of clothes I've managed to ignore for 10 months, plus twenty years.
Onward... wish me luck... oh wait, is that left over killer mashed potatoes?
Friday, November 23, 2007
Healthy Eating.. or not
The cooking sections of magazines and morning shows are full of helpful ways to make traditional foods more healthy. Use non-fat sour cream, apple sauce instead of sugar or oil, half the cheese.
I don't do that.
I don't eat mashed potatoes, cheese cake, stuffing, cookies, or any of these things every day or even every month. I do not want to make my traditional holiday fare healthier. I want it to be full fat, full sugar, full naughty.
This is my recipe for Thanksgiving Whipped Potatoes.
Beat one container of REAL cream cheese, one stick of REAL butter, two cups of shredded white cheddar cheese & one pint of REAL sour cream until fluffy. Add about 12 boiled potatoes. Beat until creamy.
I have ruined several beaters with the recipe, so you might have to let it rest between steps.
Eat no more than once a year. Take a long walk or play touch football with the kids afterwards. Enjoy the full naughty meal and remember the infamous admonition:
I don't do that.
I don't eat mashed potatoes, cheese cake, stuffing, cookies, or any of these things every day or even every month. I do not want to make my traditional holiday fare healthier. I want it to be full fat, full sugar, full naughty.
This is my recipe for Thanksgiving Whipped Potatoes.
Beat one container of REAL cream cheese, one stick of REAL butter, two cups of shredded white cheddar cheese & one pint of REAL sour cream until fluffy. Add about 12 boiled potatoes. Beat until creamy.
I have ruined several beaters with the recipe, so you might have to let it rest between steps.
Eat no more than once a year. Take a long walk or play touch football with the kids afterwards. Enjoy the full naughty meal and remember the infamous admonition:
Eat, drink, and be merry,for tomorrow we may Diet.
Thanksgiving part deux
Yesterday, we had a wonderful time with my in-laws. Bob's cousin, who we are just getting to know, came with his wife and two little children. My sister-in-law's first ex-husband was there along with his sister. Everyone was charming and fun.
Bob's family is very musical. His cousin played his CD. I am always amazed that people I actually know can sound like that --- like REAL musicians. Cousin Warren and Bob played the piano & every child who wasn't too shy showed off their musical skills. Later, Bob brought out his guitar and took requests while most of the family played pool. It was a great day.
The menu, for the record: Turkey, gravy, rice, sweet potato casserole (with marshmallows), green bean casserole, cabbage with apples, collards, creamed spinach, three kinds of cranberry relish (including one Mark made), heavenly hash (more marshmallows), apple, pumpkin, pecan pie, peach cobbler, & pumpkin cheesecake. I know I've forgotten something...
Bob's family is very musical. His cousin played his CD. I am always amazed that people I actually know can sound like that --- like REAL musicians. Cousin Warren and Bob played the piano & every child who wasn't too shy showed off their musical skills. Later, Bob brought out his guitar and took requests while most of the family played pool. It was a great day.
The menu, for the record: Turkey, gravy, rice, sweet potato casserole (with marshmallows), green bean casserole, cabbage with apples, collards, creamed spinach, three kinds of cranberry relish (including one Mark made), heavenly hash (more marshmallows), apple, pumpkin, pecan pie, peach cobbler, & pumpkin cheesecake. I know I've forgotten something...
I think that I was wrong about the family gathering thing. Well, not wrong for my family. They don't want to entertain on Thanksgiving or Christmas or whatever. They want to be. And that's OK.
But the new people at Bob's family's house made everything seem fresh and new. Having new people around allowed me a new look at the family, and I liked what I saw.
Today, I'll go to a quiet gathering of my side of the family, and it will be nice. We aren't all alike; I'm not even the same person every day. And that's OK.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Great Expectations
Many years ago, when Robert and Joseph were very young, we had our first and only Thanksgiving as a nuclear family.
Robert got chicken pox about a month before Thanksgiving. My brother and sister had never had chicken pox, and since they were adults, it would have been fairly dangerous for them to be infected. We waited for Joseph to show symptoms, but by Thanksgiving, he didn't have a bump. Still, we decided to forgo Thanksgiving with the family, just in case.
Bob and I took on the challenge with all of the enthusiasm and good sense one expects from a young couple. Lots of enthusiasm, little sense.
We planned our menu for four. We had to have turkey, and Bob prefers dark meat, so we couldn't have just the breast. We had to have ham. My brother gave us some of his extra special stuffing, and my sister donated her delicious sweet potato casserole. Bob made green bean casserole, I made creamed onions. These are all essential, of course. It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without them.
I had to have mashed potatoes --- the kind with sour cream, butter, cream cheese, and white cheddar. Bob needed white rice. I think we agreed to forgo the wild rice, but I'm not sure. And of course, we had pumpkin and pecan pies. And ice cream.
And of course, we had the relish tray. Sweet and dill pickles, black and green olives, pickled okra and cranberry sauce.
We set the table with wedding china and crystal that we hadn't seen since Robert was born. I made a centerpiece of pine cones and autumn leaves, with the help of 5 year old Robert and 2 year old Joseph.
While we waited for the meal to come together --- no mean feat to get all of that ready at the same time; I set out the relish tray. Bob and I fought with the turkey, and eventually, we were ready to set out the feast.
That's when we noticed the relish tray was empty. Robert and Joseph had eaten every pickle, every olive... OK, they left the okra.
Bob and I ate a little of our feast. Robert and Joseph had managed to save room for ice cream. We had lots and lots of left overs. And a great story to tell every single Thanksgiving since then. Forever and ever, amen.
Robert got chicken pox about a month before Thanksgiving. My brother and sister had never had chicken pox, and since they were adults, it would have been fairly dangerous for them to be infected. We waited for Joseph to show symptoms, but by Thanksgiving, he didn't have a bump. Still, we decided to forgo Thanksgiving with the family, just in case.
Bob and I took on the challenge with all of the enthusiasm and good sense one expects from a young couple. Lots of enthusiasm, little sense.
We planned our menu for four. We had to have turkey, and Bob prefers dark meat, so we couldn't have just the breast. We had to have ham. My brother gave us some of his extra special stuffing, and my sister donated her delicious sweet potato casserole. Bob made green bean casserole, I made creamed onions. These are all essential, of course. It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without them.
I had to have mashed potatoes --- the kind with sour cream, butter, cream cheese, and white cheddar. Bob needed white rice. I think we agreed to forgo the wild rice, but I'm not sure. And of course, we had pumpkin and pecan pies. And ice cream.
And of course, we had the relish tray. Sweet and dill pickles, black and green olives, pickled okra and cranberry sauce.
We set the table with wedding china and crystal that we hadn't seen since Robert was born. I made a centerpiece of pine cones and autumn leaves, with the help of 5 year old Robert and 2 year old Joseph.
While we waited for the meal to come together --- no mean feat to get all of that ready at the same time; I set out the relish tray. Bob and I fought with the turkey, and eventually, we were ready to set out the feast.
That's when we noticed the relish tray was empty. Robert and Joseph had eaten every pickle, every olive... OK, they left the okra.
Bob and I ate a little of our feast. Robert and Joseph had managed to save room for ice cream. We had lots and lots of left overs. And a great story to tell every single Thanksgiving since then. Forever and ever, amen.
Shopping
OK, I'm walking across the Food Lion parking lot along with a zillion other people who are buying stuff for Thanksgiving dinner. I look down at my feet to admire my embroidered clogs and I see:
something white hanging from my shoe. I reach down, thinking I am going to get a slightly embarrassing piece of toilet paper. I grab it, and it isn't toilet paper. It is cloth. It is substantial. It is my underwear.
I take it from my pants leg and stare at it, in the middle of the Food Lion parking lot, surrounded by a gazillion shoppers. It won't fit in my pocket. This isn't a flimsy bikini number. This is a super-duper support panty, size...never mind. It goes in my pocket book, where it stays safely, until I pull out my wallet to pay...
Ok, back to the pumpkin cheesecake.
something white hanging from my shoe. I reach down, thinking I am going to get a slightly embarrassing piece of toilet paper. I grab it, and it isn't toilet paper. It is cloth. It is substantial. It is my underwear.
I take it from my pants leg and stare at it, in the middle of the Food Lion parking lot, surrounded by a gazillion shoppers. It won't fit in my pocket. This isn't a flimsy bikini number. This is a super-duper support panty, size...never mind. It goes in my pocket book, where it stays safely, until I pull out my wallet to pay...
Ok, back to the pumpkin cheesecake.
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