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

a walk in the woods

When you can’t plan and you can’t make lists and the future is too hazy for comfort, go for a walk in the woods. When all the stuff of life is too much, do something that requires only presence. Go for a walk in the woods with the ones you love most. If you don’t like the woods, do the thing you like. (Even if you think you should stay home and worry some more.) Go for a walk in the woods. You will never be sorry you did.

thursday stew—a random collection of unrelated miscellany

I think some of my cleaning habits are pretty brilliant. Or maybe totally compulsive. But mostly brilliant. Such as separating the dirty cutlery in the dishwasher basket as you fill it. Do you know how much less time it takes to put it all away when you’ve already separated it?! At least 2 minutes less than when it hasn’t been. Imagine what you will be able to get accomplished now that I have shared this trick.

I happened to be at my sister’s when I was writing this so I snapped a photo of her basket of MIXED cutlery. That is one disgraceful mess. And she will be separating all that for at least 2 extra minutes once it’s washed. This kind of wasted time is why world peace gets back-burnered, people.

Here’s a laundry trick you’ll love. I used to just do the kids laundry together in one big load. But now they are getting bigger and so are their clothes (that will always happen) so I usually just combine mine in with theirs and make it a 2 load job. (Steve does his own laundry. I know, ladies... don’t even look at him—he’s MINE.) Now the problem, I soon learned, was that the first load was full of halves of sock and jammies sets, some of this and some of that and zero organization. I am nothing without my obsessive methodologies, people! You really want to know how I do it, don’t you? First load consists of pants and anything that goes on a hanger; second load is for undies, socks, shirts and jammies sets. Here’s the why part. Pants fold up quickly and I don’t even have to fold the hanger stuff. I carry it all up, hang up the dresses and shirts, stash the pants (super quick) and wait for load number 2 wherein all socks and jammies sets are conveniently together! Then I fold them and put them in neat little piles according to the individual to whom it belongs. Then I bring the basket upstairs and usually empty it out around 5 days later.

(Did you want to know this much about my laundry system?)

(Also, sorry if I just bored you to near-death.)

I’m scared to tweet. I’m supposed to start using Twitter to build my author platform. I don’t know what to tweet and I don’t really understand Twitter in the first place and hash-tags and re-tweeting and I don’t like learning new things. I am the type who keeps the same cell phone until it literally falls apart or is no longer compatible with contemporary technology simply because I don’t want to have to figure out a new phone. That’s where I’m at on tweeting. But FINE I will do it. (And then wonder where it has been my whole life. Like Facebook and Spotify. And wine.)

“Are you supposed to have that chicken?” This falls in the category of things you sometimes have to yell from the kitchen door out at kids in the yard. I would explain this one but would rather hear what you might be imagining. (Kindly leave your musings in the comments section below.)

Trader Joe’s is awesome and I already knew this but I forgot for a while and now just remembered again. I have been thinking about how my grocery shopping methodologies (yes, of course I have a methodology for that, too—did you really fathom that I didn’t?) will need to change when we move. I do not like the primary grocery store in the area to which we are moving, but there is a Trader Joe’s about 45 minutes away. I figure I can go there every 2 weeks and do some bulk shopping and fill in on alternating weeks at the stores closer to home. I was always concerned that buying my full shopping list at Trader Joe’s would blow the budget. But it really didn’t! And organic apples for .79 cents a pound! .79 cents! I am a total convert.

(I just read that back to myself and almost died of boredom. Do you still have a pulse? If not, get someone to hit you in the chest with those electrified paddles they use on Grey’s Anatomy until you hear a beep beep beep. That’ll be your heart coming back. And sorry about that.)

We received an ungodly amount of candy for Easter (which is kind of ironic). We ate some and saved some and some I had to put in the trash in order to stop eating it. This unfortunately did not entirely stop me from eating it until I threw something gross on top. Even then I considered just rinsing some peanut M&Ms off under the faucet. I am proud to say I didn’t. But mostly because Steve came home and I didn’t want to explain why I was rinsing peanut M&Ms off under the faucet.  (I should have waited until he was busy and then I might have gotten away with it. That’s what I’ll do next year.)

I wish you the happiest of Thursdays!

a stranger said my house stinks

Does one really need to empty out the bottom of the toaster oven? In theory, won’t it all eventually simply burn away? I would bet that lots of crumbs have already burned away without my explicit knowledge. It’s sort of a perfect system. I never clean it. This is not an act of will—more like unintentional neglect. Now and again, when I am toasting something (usually toast) Steve will holler from somewhere in the house, “Is something burning?”

“Just the 2 year old bread crumbs, honey!”

I think it smells pretty.

(Although apparently not everyone does...)

We had an open house the other day and one of the parties that came through said my house is smelly. (It is NOT.) This was the quote from their agent: The buyer really liked the area, the house showed pretty well, but it had a very strong odor, and that was a real turn off.

Seriously?

Was the odor akin to Fritos or raw sewage? Paint or athlete’s foot? A little specificity would be most appreciated. And I made mini muffins for these freakin’ people. With tiny and adorable mini chocolate chips.

Additionally, random people coming through my house is totally freaking me out. They are touching everything with their germiness and who all knows what. It has prompted us to wipe down the whole place with disinfectant wipes after every showing. Luckily Steve is crazy in many of the same ways I am which normalizes us. (I think.) We hide this activity from the kids just in case it’s actually crazy.

And I have to put away my dish rack every time we have a showing to make the counters appear more spacious and it’s a pain. I like my dish rack because it makes my life easier and all these shenanigans are not making my life easier.

(I’m a little fussy right now.)

Also, all this uncertainty is giving me a stomachache.

That, I suspect, is the root of the problem. I am no good with not knowing.

Flow with whatever may happen and let your mind be free. Stay centered by accepting whatever you are doing. Chuang Tzu

I bumped into that quote in Free Range Learning: How Homeschooling Changes Everything by Laura Grace Weldon. I love this book—its perspective is so refreshing and right-on. It’s helping me solidify my own homeschooling philosophy, which has evolved into more of a life-learning philosophy. Meaning we don’t think of learning or “education” as separate from life itself. We (meaning all people, not just my brood) are always learning—you just try to stop us! Case in point, this Chuang Tzu quote. Just when I was feeling as though the unknown were about to engulf me, this quote stops me in my tracks with its freakin’ logic and wisdom. How dare you, Chuang Tzu. Of course I don’t know what’s going to happen! No one ever knows what’s going to happen and any sense of that idea is an illusion. But I embrace that illusion! That is my happy illusion!

I think it’s funny how often little gems such as this fall into your path just when you need them. Or maybe we notice them more when they pertain to what’s happening in our lives. Who knows. Either way, it made me smile. And breathe.

Apparently this was my lesson for the day. Thank you, Chuang Tzu. I will try to stay centered and I will work on acceptance.

I will not accept, however, that my house is smelly. And if it is, it’s my stench and that of my most beloved. But I will consider cleaning out the bottom of the toaster oven—just in case.

clutter is not the worst thing that can happen

Not cleaning made my life better. That makes me sound gross which is not entirely accurate. Clean bathrooms, clean kitchen—totally. I HATE crumbs and sticky food messes—they seriously gross me out. And nasty stuff in the kitchen sink drain totally freaks me out. But that’s not what I’m talking about. What I’m talking about is your average, day-to-day crap pile. Mostly, this will be from the kids. If you don’t have kids, it will be from your husband. If you don’t have a husband, it will be from you. I haven’t really covered all the possible living-arrangement scenarios, and I strongly believe in being all-inclusive, so please simply insert your own configuration here, confident in the the knowledge that I embrace all of you.

That average, day-to-day crap pile used to make me raving nuts. Mean Mommy. Grouchy Wife. Seriously grumpy. I would reach the end of every single day and grudgingly, angrily, hostilely clean up that crap pile. Put everything back in its stinkin’ place, resenting every moment it took.

Then I chose not to do that anymore.

(You can do that, too, you know.)

Nothing bad will happen if you only clean that crap pile every 3 days or so. I swear—I totally ignore it most of the time. Trying to get the kids to help was more work than cleaning it myself. While I believe it’s important for kids to understand their responsibility to the home, I also believe that will naturally ripen as they develop. You live the behavior you want to nurture and you encourage them and you keep your expectations low when they are little, lest you find yourself wanting to toss them and their crap piles out the window.

“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. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

There is only so much you can achieve each day. And peace of mind and body should be one of those things. To give the best of ourselves to our kids we have to recharge. Better to ignore the crap pile and take some time to rejuvenate to ensure you have the best to give.

I did help myself out by cutting back on the clutter that I could—the knick-knacks, the amount of stuff out on the kitchen counter—and I seriously purged in general. I went rather cuckoo—stuff I didn’t really need or care about, duplicate items (do you really need 4,200 towels and 5,300 kitchen gadgets? No, you don’t), all that stuff you keep “just in case” (of what?)—GONE. And it worked—we have space and no more crammed closets and cabinets. That kind of simplifying makes day-to-day tidiness easier to maintain.

And the crap pile? You clean that every few days. You let it go. Someday the kids won’t drop everything on the floor and throw their stuff around as a matter of course. They will outgrow this behavior. You can let this one go. I swear, you really can.

Speaking of cleaning up, please tell me what the hell I am going to do with this enormous bowl of sugar? Seriously. This is the Easter haul. That is a large-ass bowl pictured right there. There is no way my kids are going to consume all that. Any takers? I will mail it to you. I could stretch this pile out all the way through June—I am notoriously chintzy on doling out the sugar to my little ones. Their idea of a “treat” might shock some in its skimpiness. (But—ssshhhh—they have no idea I’m a cheapie.)

Keep the bar low—it’s how I roll.

"A Cool Dry Place"—part 6

read part 1read part 2 read part 3 read part 4 read part 5

“Hi,” Mandy says softly. The tight smile she forces to her face gets stuck there. Her muscles work on their own, she needs to retain no consciousness of them.

“Hi, Nicole,” Mandy’s Mom says. “How are you?”

“Good, Mrs. Logan. Out for dinner with the family?” She is very sweet.

The food in Mandy’s mouth grinds to paste. She sips her orange soda, but everything inside her is thick and gluey.

“Yes. Every Friday unless there’s a game Mandy wants to go to.” Mom smiles. The things that are harmless for adults to say always astound Mandy. Something curls up inside her. The last thing she needs is for Nicole to know more than she already does.

“That’s nice.” She turns on Mandy. “Mandy, me and the other girls are over in the corner. You should come over to our table and say hi.”

“Go ahead, honey,” Mom says. “Not too long, though—your food will get cold.”

From the corner of her eye, Mandy sees Nicole smirk. Her mother would dismiss it as a simple smile if Mandy were to mention it later (not that she will). Mandy knows Nicole better. She slides out of the booth and follows Nicole. She is amazed she is able. Her body is so heavy.

She would rather stay with her family. She looks back; just a small glance. Lara looks into her eyes, watches as she walks away with Nicole. Lara knows. And that does not require words.

“Hey, guys! Look—Mandy’s here. With her family!”

Giggles. “Cool,” says Tara. Mandy knows it is not cool. But it’s not the validity of her family on the line here. It is uncool that she would rather be with them than with the girls. Not that she was invited. And she doesn’t want to be with them, so it’s a relief she wasn’t invited. But it’s not okay not to be chosen. There is a longing, mournful feeling that she is missing something. At the same time she knows she is missing nothing of which she wants to be a part. She has been included enough times to know.

But still.

“So, what’re your plans after this?” one of them asks Mandy.

“Um. Nothing really,” she shrugs. She’s going home and Dad will start a fire in the wood stove and she and Lara will have bowls of ice cream and Mom will make herself a cup of hot tea and they will watch Friday night TV. This is the kind of thing she likes. She knows it’s not the right thing. Liking your sister best of anyone, wanting to be with your Mom and Dad at Friendly’s and in front of the TV on a Friday night. None of this is right and she knows it. She also has a vague and undefined idea that she should not, at her age, be expected to have “plans.” It is an unnamed feeling I am too young, I am not ready for plans.

“Oh. We’re going to the Mall.” The Mall is adjacent to the restaurant. She says Mall with a weightiness she attempts to temper with nonchalance.

This is all new as far as Mandy knows. She knows they would have talked about it at school if they had done this before. She knows it will be the Big Topic on Monday.

“Cool,” Mandy says. All she can think of is getting away, back to her table. “Well, I should finish my food before it gets cold. And I’m really hungry. See you guys.” She turns back and adds, “Have fun at the Mall!” She hopes this comes off as breezy and I don’t care what you guys are doing! I’m really busy myself! But she hears a pinched tone in her voice and knows they, too, with their preternatural ability to hear things like that, to know what others are thinking, hear it. She knows they will talk about it later, as they paw through racks of clothes, through top-ten audio cassettes, through the latest teen magazine photos of heartthrobs over whom they will loudly exclaim. Ever eager to call attention to themselves, ever hungry for eyes to be upon them, ever needing to soak in all the available energy around them.

She won’t look back at them, even though her skin burns for a quick look. As she rounds the corner she risks a glimpse. Their heads are close together, they laugh loudly. Mandy walks faster to her table. She sees her family talking and smiling and Lara sips her root beer.

And she feels better.

She slides in next to Lara. The girls start to disappear a little, they start to fade around the edges. And they float on the air. Float off on the french fry and chocolate ice cream smelling air of Friendly’s. She watches as the faded color pieces of the girls float away. She looks out the smooth cool glass into the night. Watches the air clear of it until all that is in front of her is the black black sky with its sliver moon and pinpoint stars. The blackness stretches out and out.

She wonders where it all settles.

holy crap i almost bought a $50 trash bin

Holy crap I almost bought a $50 trash bin.

It never made it out of the van.

I woke one day and decided our white plastic Rubbermaid flip-open trash bin was too ugly to reside in my kitchen any longer. (That’s how it happens—I wake one day and certain things are no longer tolerable. Could happen to almost anything around here. I do suggest Steve watch himself. I mean, I can’t ditch the kids—you can’t just run around being a bad mother. No, I have to keep them. But bad wife really doesn’t carry the same stigma.)

(Steve knows I’m totally kidding. Or am I?)

I considered decoupaging the trash bin—even found instructions on Pinterest and bought a jar of Modge Podge. But then I thought that project might be too crazy even for me. At any rate, that ugly trash bin had to be relegated to some other, less visually obvious duty—such as laundry lint collection—and a new bin would have to be procured. But those stinkin’ fancy stainless trash bins are expensive. And their purpose is to collect trash—I am not immune to that irony, people.

Typically, I try to find fun, frugal ways to solve dilemmas such as suddenly hating a trash bin I’ve lived amongst for several years in perfect but suddenly defunct harmony. I am hesitant to declare that I’m cheap, but I’m kinda cheap. I like bargains, I like consignment shops, I like finding discarded items on the neighbors’ lawns. But that ugly white trash bin had to go and I happened to possess an expired Bed Bath and Beyond coupon! Pretty frugal right there! I called them up and Chantal, who answered the phone, promised to honor the expired coupon and I set off to peruse their glorious inventory of beautiful—not ugly—trash bins. Shiny and sleek, they seduced me, they beckoned with their come-hither loveliness and I chose a stainless beauty with rails to be secured inside the cabinet. That glorious trash bin would swoosh in and out and I could almost pretend there was no trash bin! (Except when I had trash to dump in it.) The measurements were perfect. Clearly, this was fate. I carried it to the counter, lovingly held it close, presented my expired coupon (which the good people at Bed Bath and Beyond did indeed honor) and $54.99 plus tax later, I placed my pretty trash bin in the back of my van and as I pulled away from the store, I suddenly thought Holy crap I just spent $54.99 plus tax on a freakin’ trash bin. Luckily, Target is in the same shopping plaza and I went right in there and bought a white plastic trash bin whose dimensions could be accommodated under the sink (that part of the idea was still good) for $4.97 plus tax (a lot less tax) and returned the shiny one the next day lest I seem nuts having just bought it. I prefer to exhibit my brand of crazy in more subtle, less conscious ways.

Look how gross the floor of my van is. Popcorn, anyone? It's covered in dirt and filth and dead bugs. Yum! Kids just have a knack of knowing how to enhance everything.

This trash bin triumph leads me to relay a less victorious moment. I mentioned a few weeks ago that I had entered my novel, The Mosquito Hours, into a writing contest—big prize, publication with Amazon, waves of accolades. The book made it through the first round, 2000 entrants down to 400—not too shabby.

But that was as far as I got.

I spent about a half hour telling myself it was all over, maybe I was simply no good, I should give up all aspirations and hopes. It was a pitiful 30 minutes.

Then I readjusted.

And that’s what I want to tell you, good people. There is no failure—there is only readjustment. I don’t intend to get all sickly sweet here on you, but one of the things I keep reading and thinking about in all my homeschooling learning and experiences is that there is no failure in homeschool. In homeschool, when you don’t yet know how to read at the age of 7 like you’re “supposed to,” there is not failure in it. There is no comparison. There is only tomorrow and tomorrow to keep on doing. Doing the things that will lead to the reading. There is doing, observing the outcome, doing more.

Do or do not. There is no try.

Where there are no expected outcomes, there can be no failure.

Failure is merely another word for fear. Master Yoda also said, Named must your fear be before banish it you can.

This writing life of mine—this life—is an adventure of doing. I cannot fail. I can make plans, execute them and observe the outcome. I can make adjustments. There is not one singular, right, exact way to do this. There is no try. There is do. I am doing! Look for The Mosquito Hours for your summer beach reading pleasure! It’s happening, people! Fear of failure, hereby banish you do I!

I don’t need the shiny bin, the flashy prize. All I need is to do, readjust, observe and do some more. Place trust in the power of doing.

And never, ever spend $50 on a trash bin.

Seriously.

"A Cool Dry Place"—part 5

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Mandy goes to the back door to shake out the dust mop.

It is winter.

The sky is already mostly dark although it is not quite four-thirty yet. It is Friday night.

Tonight they will go to Friendly’s for supper, once the house is clean, once Dad comes home.

There is no CYO basketball game tonight and Mandy is glad. She would not admit it, but it’s better to go to Friendly’s. She wouldn’t say that aloud, especially to the girls. Never never to the girls. Oh my God, never. But it’s so much better not to have to go to a basketball game. No one says she has to go to the basketball games. But she does have to go. The girls would notice. Mandy doesn’t suspect they’d miss her. Doesn’t think their fun would be in any way diminished by her absence. No. She goes to the games for the same reason she goes to the parties and sleepovers. She goes in order to keep up. Stay a part of things. This compulsion of hers, when she examines it closely and honestly, makes her angry with herself. That she needs—with such desperation—their approval, their attention, their inclusion. It leaves her feeling naked and breathless. But she can never say no. She begs for them while at the same time she is terrified of what they will give her. While she almost hates them, every now and then one of them tosses her something she can hold onto. Some kindness, a shared giggle, a party invitation, an afternoon together after school and she forgets the hard parts or it softens them enough so that the sharp edges don’t penetrate quite so deeply. She dismisses the worry, the fear, the humiliation. The unnameable longing.

But tonight there is no game. Only Friendly’s.

She shakes the dust from the dust mop. Her room is clean.

“Lara!” she calls down the hall.

“What?”

“You done yet?” She wants to start the bathroom, but wants to make sure Lara will join her soon from cleaning her own room. Otherwise Mandy will end up doing most of it herself.

“Nope!”

Mandy walks down the hall to Lara’s room, plunks down the dust mop.

“Come on. You’re going slow on purpose.”

“No I’m not!”

“Yeah, right. Just hurry.” She pauses in Lara’s doorway, watches her dust. She could not be moving more slowly. “How much more?”

“Just this,” she waves the dust rag around, “and dust mop.”

“Ok, I’ll go start the bathroom. But hurry.”

Mandy sprinkles powder cleanser in the tub, the toilet, the sink. She starts scrubbing. Soon, Lara joins her and they get the room done quickly. They move into the kitchen. Lara plugs the sink, runs water, squirts soap. Mandy turns the chairs upside-down on the table, gets the broom from the pantry. They move efficiently, old pros. They must be quick—Mom is running errands so they need to clean the living room, too.

Even though Mandy complains, there is something comforting about the Friday cleaning ritual. Partly because it starts with disorder and dirt and ends with an organized and perfected thing. But mostly it is comforting because they do it every week. One of those things on which she can depend.

When the work is all done, they bundle up and step outside. It is very dark. Black dark, milky stars sprinkled. A thin crescent of a moon.

Mandy and Lara run to the car. Laughing, they dive into the backseat. They huddle near each other, wait for the heater to kick in.

“How was your day, girls?” their Dad asks.

“Fine,” Mandy says right away.

“Mine was terrible!” Lara says, drawing out the word. “First of all, Mrs. Brown gave us a pop quiz in spelling. We didn’t even know she was going to give a quiz!”

“Well, duh. That’s why they call it ‘pop,’” says Mandy.

“Still. It was totally unfair. And then she gave us a ton of homework and it’s the weekend! Totally unfair. Plus I found out that Jenny Price is having a birthday party and she’s inviting boys. I am totally not going. They will ruin everything.”

Mandy feels envious of Lara’s problems. Her own life seems so much harder. So much more troubling and worrisome.

“What’s wrong with boys? I’m a boy,” Dad says.

“You’re a grown-up, Dad. Real boys are loud, they throw things, they tease all the girls. Forget it.”

“Fifth grade is a little young for a boy-girl party. What is Margie Price thinking?” Mom says.

“Oh, what’s the harm?” Dad says. “I’ll be more worried for eighth grade and ninth and tenth and until they’re thirty-five.”

“Thirty-five!” Lara says. “I’ll be old and married with kids by then, Dad!”

“Yeah. We’ll totally be married.”

“I’m not even going to let you start dating until you’re at least thirty-two!” he says.

“Dad!” both girls yell. Although neither is interested in dating boys yet, they are intrigued by the dark idea of them. A shadow that hovers in what they think of as their far, far future.

“Can we get sundaes?” Lara asks.

“We’ll see,” Mom says. Which usually means no, but I don’t want to deal with it right now.

It is six-thirty on a Friday and the restaurant is crowded. People in heavy coats cram the foyer. While they wait, shifting from foot to foot, Mandy and Lara debate what they will order, even though in the end they always get the same thing week after week. Mandy is caught up being happy, so giddy and pleased with the food they will eat soon and goofing around with Lara and in the aura of her parents quiet talking and smiling as they do with each other. She is caught up in contentment and a languid softness in her limbs, her easy breath, easy smile. She is so caught up in comfort, and ease in her own being, that when she sees the girls, their presence here—so out of place—confounds her. They sit at one of the big booths in a corner. Five of them. The core group of girls.

She looks away quickly. She hopes they have not seen her. Everything easy and soft has drained from inside her and she is now filled with a fluttering yet heavy feeling. She feels as though she might float away. She feels as though she will never be able to move because of her cinder block feet.

Her family’s table is ready. The hostess grabs four menus and leads them across the restaurant into the back. Far from the girls.

She relaxes. She orders grilled cheese, french fries and orange soda.

“You always get that,” Lara rolls her eyes but then orders the same thing she always orders.

And there in the back room of the restaurant, everything is good again. The drinks arrive and they talk about the day and wait for their supper—patiently, there is no rush—and Lara asks again about sundaes.

The food comes and Mandy is caught up in eating and talking and forgetting. When Nicole stands in front of their table, she wonders if she is a phantom.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Logan. Hi, Mandy.” She says this so evenly and her small white teeth line up perfectly in her mouth.

"A Cool Dry Place"—part 4

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She never has to see any of the girls during summer.

It is only Mandy, Lara and Mom on summer days. Mandy knows the other girls see each other during summer vacation. They have sleepovers and spend days together. Mandy is never upset when they don’t include her during the summer, even though she is during the school year. When it is summer it is as though they do not exist.

Because there is nothing better than summer at the beach as it has always been—Mandy, Lara and Mom. Nothing is missing.

At the beach, they follow the boardwalk over the rise of the dunes and as they descend, the ocean comes into view.

The first moment of a day on the beach is a good, hope-filled one.

She becomes unaware of time and unconscious of herself in a way that frees her.

And this day becomes some variation of all the days they have ever spent at the beach. Hours pass until the best part of the day arrives—the time when the light begins to slant.

The sun on the other side of its arc, angled across the surface of the water. Bright beads of light ride on top of the waves up to the shore. Fingers taste of salt.

Now they will walk down the shore in all that liminal light. This walk is like all the other walks of every summer day. And better, because it is this time.

It is summer, and summer is light.

The summer after seventh grade. In two weeks, Mandy will be back in school. In three, she will be thirteen.

***

It is winter.

During winter, the family goes out for supper every Friday night. Friendly's or pizza at one of the Italian places. Sometimes Chinese—fried butterfly shrimp dipped in sweet sauce.

In winter, Mandy, Lara and Mom clean the house when they get home from school on Friday afternoons. Friday cleaning is one of Mom's things.

"This way we can all just relax for the weekend," Mom says.

This has never made much sense to Mandy. For one thing, she herself would relax just fine if the house were dirty or not. And for the other thing, Mom never really seems to relax all that much ever.

Every Friday, the girls have a snack right after school, then they dawdle as much as possible to avoid cleaning. They poke around the idea of cleaning until Mom begins to lose her patience.

“Let’s get going, girls. The sooner we do it, the sooner it’ll be done. Then when Dad gets home, we can go out to eat.”

First, they each clean their own room. Tidy the clutter, dust the furniture, dust-mop the hardwood floor. Then they’re both supposed to clean either the kitchen or the bathroom, alternating weeks. But instead, they do the rooms together. Mom says it’s okay; she doesn’t care as long as it gets done.

As they clean, the winter sun lowers and the sky darkens. They finish just before Dad’s headlights turn into the driveway. Then they bundle up and go out to eat.

***

In the summer, they clean the house on Friday mornings.

“Before we can go to the beach, we’ve got to get this house cleaned,” Mom pronounces first thing every Friday morning. She folds clothes at the kitchen counter. Her back to the girls.

Lara rolls her eyes at Mandy across their French toast.

“Duh,” Mandy mouths.

They giggle.

“After breakfast, you girls get going on the cleaning. I have to run a couple errands. Then when we’re done, we’ll pack up and head to the beach.”

After Mom is gone, Lara begins to complain about cleaning.

“I am so sick of cleaning cleaning cleaning,” she says and flops onto Mandy’s bed.

“Me, too,” Mandy says as she clears clutter into its right places. She sprays furniture polish on a rag—one of Dad’s old undershirts. It’s the lemony kind of furniture polish, which is what the linen closet where they store it smells like. She runs the cloth over her furniture, moves items, lifts them and replaces them, runs the cloth over the dust. There’s not much dust to wipe up since Mom makes them do this every week. Sometimes Mandy thinks it’s kind of pointless, but suspects Mom would know if they skimped.

“I don’t want to clean!” Lara’s muffled voice comes from under the pillow.

Mandy swipes the pillow off Lara’s head. “Get up. I have to make my bed.”

“Fine.” Lara slaps her feet onto the floor, stands up heavily.

“Lara. Just get your room done so we can do the other rooms and get it over with. You know we have to.”

“I know.” She shuffles to her room. Her head hangs back, her mouth gaping, her shoulders pulled to her ears. Mandy sighs noisily.

Mandy makes her bed. She runs the dust mop over the floor quickly—under the bed, over the open areas around the bureau, nightstand, bookshelf—then goes to the back door to shake it out.

She watches big dust balls fly off the mop first then finer and finer particles float away on the breeze. She watches as they go floating away on the same air in which the sunbeams sit. Watches it all float away. Watches the air clear it until all that is in front of her, all that is left, is the blue blue blueness of the sky. The green lushness of the big old trees that line the back of the yard and stretch into woods up against the highway.

She is still and wonders where all that dust settles.

***