Tuesday, December 9, 2008

The Snarkiest Christmas Post Ever

It is early December and there is one song that is persistently swirling around inside my head so that it is dangerously close to boring a hole straight through: “I’m late. I’m late, for a very important date. No time to say, ‘Hello.’ Goodbye. I’m late. I’m late. I’m late.” (“I’m Late” from Alice in Wonderland {Disney, 1951} as sung by The White Rabbit. )

You’d think that the Mu-sak versions of Christmas carols lilting through my local grocery store since Halloween would have tipped me off that the “Most Wonderful Time of the Year” was upon us. But no. By Thanksgiving, my mind was numb to “Dreaming of a White Christmas.” It had all become white noise. The Christmas season seems to slip it’s shoes off at the door, creep ninja-style across the floor, hugging the walls so as not to give away its position, and then, just as I’m settling in for a well earned respite from all of the industrious gourd usage and adolescent sugar highs through November, *Thunk!* It’s Christmas.

I will admit, this year it has taken my mind a while to catch up with the eager, Elfin decorators at our local mall. We have had an unseasonably warm beginning to the holiday season (I’m sorry to say to those of you who have plans to visit our fair state for a bit of skiing and shenanigans in the snow.) Add to that the efforts of fat cat marketing directors to get tight-walleted consumers to fork over a percentage of their dwindling stock portfolios by going in for the big kill in mid October: Christmas shoppers. It’s been a little disorienting.

At first, I was shocked to see so much red and green, ruby and emerald, silver and gold, siiiilver and goooold…sorry, a vague reference to an even more vague “Christmas” story. What does a felt-pelted Rudolf have to do with Saint Nicholas or the Baby Jesus, anyway? Were there Caribou at the stable that night, somewhere in Iraq? Did Saint Nicholas discover a young deer at his local nuclear power plant and recruit him to a life of servitude? I think not. I’d rather have a root canal than watch claymation/stopmotion “Christmas” movies…

Where was I? Oh yes. Halloween. At first, it was hard to reconcile shrunken head door knockers next to Christmas cards and tree stands. But I became desensitized and quickly resolved myself to plastic evergreens and baubles as part of the evolving landscape. (I think this is not the outcome those fat cat marketing directors had in mind when they cooked up this cockamamie-early-start-Christmas-shopping-plan in mid September.)

My Father in Law says that the Christmas season does not officially begin until the Army/Navy game (which was this past Saturday), and flatly refuses to hang a Christmas ball or twinkle light before that day.

So, here we are. Army was smothered by Navy, those *vintage* Christmas specials have made a return to primetime, and now, just today, there is a white blanket draped over the world while the smallest, feathery snowflakes flutter lazily to the ground as if they've just been shuddered from the wings of angels.
*Thunk!* It’s Christmas.

Deadlines are approaching for shipping unfound gifts out of state to waiting nieces and nephews. Kennel reservations over the holiday are long filled with the names of dogs whose owners are more in tune with the calendar than me. And I am, once again, racing my way to the pathetic, frayed ends of my rope.

You’d never know it from the previous paragraphs, but I actually love this time of year. I love the smells—the way cinnamon seems to find its way into every recipe I make for a month or more. I love the music; the way that carols necessitate the use of previously-unheard-of horns and choirs by the multitude (Over the top? Nah. Needs more Flugel!) Or else the simple beauty of an acoustic guitar. I love bedecking my house with wreaths and wooden cranberries. Nothing goes untouched from candle sticks to mantle pieces to chandeliers. There are nine trees in my little house. Nine. One of them sits atop the guest toilet. I love {truly enjoy} wrapping presents. Wrapping has become a creative outlet for me and I’m always on the lookout for inventive uses of ribbon. I love the view from my living room window; the Spruces across the way dusted with white, the snowflakes drifting elegantly down so that I have the exact sensation of sitting inside a snow globe.

It is probably because I love this time of year so much that I find myself fumbling with those frayed ends, and trying harder than ever (and failing) to keep the expletives behind my teeth. During our annual screening of “National Lampoons: Christmas Vacation,” I actually felt twinges of jealousy at Clark’s mad cursing skills.

My patience, in this thin and unresponsive state, leaves little room for adolescent behavior in my general vicinity, even when that behavior is coming from actual adolescents (and particularly if those adolescents have, at one point, shared my vital organs.) I am short: on tolerance, on grace, on stature…I’ve become the Napoleon Bonaparte of Christmas. (There’s a claymation Christmas special waiting to be made.)

Ugh. Is this what Christmas has become? My children will one day leave my nest and try to recreate the magic of their childhood (*snort*…ahem) and find themselves scenting everything with cinnamon, burning Gingerbread cookies, and spewing vague, G-rated curse words while “Silver Bells” blares mockingly in the background. And they will have the inexplicable urge to call their mother.

…*sigh* The magic of Christmas!
Rant over check in later this week for a sincere Christmas post and the ways our family is giving back and spreading the TRUE Christmas spirit this year.

Friday, November 21, 2008

A Few of My Favorite Things

  • Outlines. Sometimes a bulleted list is all you can muster. And that's ok, right?
  • Yoga Pants. When one is feeling lazy due to the thick mucus lodged in her chest and the resulting fever, there is nothing better than Yoga pants to comfort her body and her mind. She is not a good for nothing camped out on the couch with no intention of leaving this house. She is wearing Yoga Pants. And Yoga Pants fairly scream activity/fitness/movement.
  • Warbling Cats. Last night was the much anticipated opening and closing night of the production The Aristocats. Even with all of the hype that has been buzzing around the Front Range and the interweb, those fifth graders DID NOT disappoint. I laughed. I cried. My Darling L put in a stirring performance as Georgie the Lawyer/An Alley Cat while our eldest daughter worked feverishly back stage. (Notably, my eldest daughter does not have a blog moniker. If she ever found out that I had called her "My Darling A" or anything along those sappy lines, she would likely slap my face and then DIE of embarassment on the spot. Any suggestions?)
  • Creamy, Fat-Filled Organic Yogurt. My sister introduced me to Brown Cow Yogurt this summer. I cannot get enough. Isn't it interesting how they can take a healthy, low fat snack like yogurt, infuse it with all natural flavors (like Maple Syrup), schmear it with a generous cream hat and sell it to unsuspecting housewives who think, "It's yogurt. It's organic. It's good for me. I can eat it by the bucket loads with no adverse affects on, say, the size of my thighs."
  • Sympathy Snuggles. I really don't like being sick. But I do enjoy the excuse to drink an extra gallon or two of hot tea each day. And I do enjoy the way each of my girls (there are 3, in case you're trying to keep up,) tuck their chin, look at my pale, feverish face through their eyebrows and then press their bodies up against mine as if to donate their body heat to the cause of getting well, sooner.
  • Herbal Remedies. And I do mean actual herbal remedies. I'm not slapping a mustache on some unfortunate Desperate Housewife jones. I've just put a few dropper fulls of wild cherry, clove, thyme, elderflower, and peppermint in my tea. Though I am also hopped up on Advil Cold. It's all about balance, right?
  • Holidays on the Horizon. Now, could we get some snow, already?
  • A Freshly Shampooed Corner of the Couch. And that's where I'll be for at least the next 48 hours, hoping my children stop by every once in a while with a snuggle, a throat losenge, and fresh mug of tea.

Happy Weekend.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

On writing

"Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go."
E.L. Doctorow (1931--)
A little inspiration for a Saturday, as I struggle to find the words inside myself to begin to tell my own story.
"Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards."
Robert Heinlein (1907-1988)
However messy and unflattering.
I think I've spent a lot of time in Hair and Make-Up: concealing, powdering, enhancing, costuming. Perhaps now is the time to tear open, to strip bare, to lie naked in the street while people walk by. Funny how hard it is to motivate oneself to lie naked in the street...
"Writing a book is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement, then it becomes a mistress, and then it becomes a master, and then a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster, and fling him out to the public."
Winston Churchill (1874-1965)
I am growing tired of the cumbersome dance; the waltz around my own experiences; the industrious twirls engineered to draw attention away from the rather depressing turns in my story. There comes a time for these feet to stand still in the moment and listen to the music.
When hope is not pinned wriggling onto a shiny image or expectation, it sometimes floats forth and opens."
Anne Lamott (1954--)
It is time to see what comes of it. It's time to ask the hard questions. Maybe it's time for The Moral of This Story. Maybe not...
"A hundred years from now? All new people."
Anne Lamott
So, really, why am I taking myself so seriously?
**Edited: There were a couple of glaring typos that have been driving me nuts. I couldn't stand it any longer, so I fixed them. Sorry if that messes with your reader. Run along now. Nothing (new) to see here.**

Friday, November 7, 2008


noun free indulgence in or enjoyment of comforts and pleasures in addition to those necessary for a reasonable standard of well-being; a pleasure out of the ordinary allowed to oneself.

Hallowe'en, only a week ago, may as well have been a month ago. The bird sihlouettes perched in my front window have lifted their wings. They're about to take flight, clearly embarrassed that they have overstayed their welcome. The 4 foot spider on the porch has begun to dismantle his 11 foot web (with help from the wind), all but begging me to pack him away as he shoots disapproving glances at the glittery BEWARE sign on the door.

My Hallowe'en decorations are so judgemental. But they're right. I am dragging my feet.

This first week in November nearly sparkles with all of the newness. A new month, a new season-the season of holidays- a shiny new niece who is the definition of Beautiful, a new writing project, a new president, a new era... And I am stuck in the past.

I left my camera with my brand new niece when I visited the week after she was born. I think I'm protesting the passage of time without it. Thankfully, I return to retrieve it next week.

In the meantime, I love having a blog that is My space. My virtual square footage to express myself in, to sit inside and brood, to neglect at will... Thanks for checking in here occassionally to see if my mind has dribbled anything .

Now, I will tell you of my greatest luxury. It occured to me last night, in the shower, where all of the greatest inspirations come from.

Last night, after dinner, The Producer had to return to work so the girls and I were on our own. Dishes were cleared from the table. My Darling L decided that she had a Dish-Washing-Itch that needed to be scratched by loading the dishwasher. And who am I to argue? So, a glass of wine was poured, Daily rations of Halloween candy dispensed, and The Coveted Corner of the couch reserved for one weary mother. Remote in hand, I was doing something I've never done before. I watched 30 Rock.

**You may be saying to yourself, "Oh yes, Emily, that is luxurious! Dishes done by someone other than you, a glass of wine, happy children, and half an hour to watch tv!" But wait, we have not reached the height of luxury just yet.**

Exactly 11 1/2 minutes into the show, my 2 year old scampered across the living room, nibbling her beloved Crunch bar to a nub. She curled up next to me in The Coveted Corner of the couch. I hardly noticed her little tiny body pressed next to mine. I was lost in Liz Lemon's Jury Selection Dilemnas, my feet tucked up under me, swirling my wine glass mindlessly...when suddenly, I had the sensation that I was sitting in a bathtub, fully clothed, as it filled up with warm water.

It took 27 seconds for my brain to register all that was going on.

"ARE YOU PEEING?!!!???!!!!!"

My two year old had scampered across the room to tell me that she needed to go potty but was so lost in savoring the crispy, chocolatieness at her fingertips forgot to let the words escape her mouth...and to control her bladder.

I sprung from the Warm, Wet Corner of the couch like a cork that had been held under water and lauched into crisis mode.

Mom needs a shower! ASAP.

"Girls, I need your help. The Babe needs a bath. The couch needs some attention. I need to get out of these WET SOCKS and jeans and SCRUB the HELL out of my backside."


So, while I was in the shower, it occured to me: THIS is luxury. This moment, where I am tending to my needs (read: scouring someone else's urine from my body before it has time to crystalize.) And not at the expense of the kitchen, the couch, or bathing The Babe.

What is your definition of luxury?

Monday, October 13, 2008

A day in the life::Morning edition

Today. Today, we are playing along with Mrs. G's Average Day.
My average day usually begins yesterday. Ever since The Babe was born 2 1/2 years ago, I have a super hard time falling asleep and staying that way. I am usually writing, reading, or flipping through infomercials in the wee hours.
Mornings are my favorite. I love the colors in my house bathed in the early morning light (So much so that I can overlook the fingerprinted windows, carpet crumbles, and the thin layer of dust that's inevitably illuminated.) Here are some hilights from this very morning. Notably not pictured are my 2 elder daughters. The first part of the morning is consumed with lunch making, teeth brushing, adolescent bathroom territory disputes and treaties (replete with thrown elbows), last minute parent signatures on school forms due last Thursday, etc... Photos were not taken until after they left for school. Whew.

Early morning snow melted on the petals of the roses leaving them jewel encrusted.

And the fog lent an appropriately October spooky air to the morning.

First breakfast She's very serious about Sesame Street.

Always waiting for me.

Thankfully so is this.

A little early morning channeling of one's inner Monet

Time for second breakfast...

Friday, October 10, 2008

Without Further Adieu

I give you Seth:


Howdy. I'm Sethy, Emily's younger brother. If you were to research my life and write a Wikipedia article about me, you'd most likely assert this: "Seth David McCarroll is a University of Oklahoma graduate with a film degree that he's not using, working instead as a printmaker and spending the rest of his time as: a musician to his bands, a boyfriend to his girlfriend, a brother to his sisters, a son to his mother and a mainstay at local bars, all while trying to live the funnest life possible."*

You'd be mostly right.

I also love to cook. Especially for (and with) friends and loved ones. Emily asked me to guest-spot on her blog, and I was quite honored / nervous / scared / excited / proud. In that order, too. Here's what baby brother came up with: a ramshackle recipe of awesome using foodstuffs found in my kitchen just; no grocery store runs, but a lot of ingredients that needed to get used before they went bad! So grab your silicon spatulas, and hold onto your butts — you're in for a wild time of good yums.

First, let's start with ingredients. Wait, no. First, let's start with what we're making. Right. Geez. Okay here we go.

Wine-Drunk Garlic Rosemary Chicken over Crushed Red Pepper and
Basil-Encrusted Polenta over Angel Hair Pasta with
Baby Spinach, Baby Carrot and Fried Polenta Salad in Oil and Balsamic Vinegar.
Yikes, that's a mouthful (Sure as hell will be, anyway).

Ingredients (separated by dish):

Wine-Drunk Garlic Rosemary Chicken
01 lb. chicken breasts, CUBED
08-10 cloves garlic, CHOPPED
01 palm of rosemary
02 glugs of olive oil
01 or 02 whoopsies of your favorite red wine
some pasta sauce (Cheap is so okay.)

Crushed Red Pepper and Basil-Encrusted Polenta
01 store-bought log of polenta, CUT INTO 1/2" DISKS
01/2 half palm of crushed red pepper
01/2 palm of dried basil (Though if you have fresh, that would be more badass. Crush it up!)

Baby Spinach, Baby Carrot and Fried Polenta Salad in Oil and Balsamic Vinegar
about 10 baby carrots, SLICED
about 03 handfuls of baby spinach, WASHED
olive oil
balsamic vinegar

Angel Hair Pasta
01 fist of angel hair pasta, UNBROKEN
01 palm of sea salt

You'll See
01 beer of your choice
01 frosted mug or pint glass

So after reading that completely unquantified list, you're probably thinking, Whaaa? Don't do that. Here's why.
An exceptional plate of food is all about how it is expressed; the spontaneity in approximation is where the soul of a dish lies. A painterly stroke and dash is what makes it taste fun and exciting. Also, I don't possess the constitution to take the time to actually measure out any of this stuff so just roll with it. Trust me, it works.

Okay, Step 01:
See the beer and mug there at the end of the list? Pour that beer into that frozen mug. Drink throughout preparation (audible exultation optional).

Step 02:
Mix your chopped garlic cloves, rosemary, two-ish glugs of extra virgin olive oil and a whammy of that red wine into a small bowl and let sit while you start Step 03, which is...

Step 03:
Pour some of that knock off olive oil you bought at Costco but keep in that long-ago-used bottle of expensive EVOO Raechel Ray inspired you to buy into a pan and bring to a simmering fry. CAREFULLY put your polenta disks in the oil and brown on both sides. This takes a little while, so use this time to prep the rest of your meal.

Step 04:
Pour the garlic, rosemary, wine and oil concoction over the cubed chicken. Keep drinking that beer.

Step 05:
Once the polenta has browned on both sides, remove disks and drain on a paper towel. Add your chicken and garlic / rosemary / oil and wine mixture to the already hot oil you used on the polenta. Dust the polenta disks with crushed red pepper and basil while they cool.

Step 06:
Start angel hair pasta. I like to use enough sea salt to make the water fuzzy. That seems to make the pasta both "taste" more and protects it from getting mushy.

Step 07:
Once chicken is cooked through, add pasta sauce and a few more chugs of wine to the pan and let simmer for about 2 minutes. Your pasta should be finished. Drain it!

Step 08 (Plating):
On a bed of angel hair, situate a few polenta rounds, creating a tectonic layer of fried corn meal. Seal the deal with the chicken and sauce on top. Due to the thinness of the sauce, the salad should be served in a different vessel altogether.

By this time I've finished my beer and poured a glass of the wine to complement the wine already in the dish. In film, this is called a motif. If you're with Sethy, and there's wine to be poured, it's called Business as Usual.

**A note about the salad**
I often like to theme my meals, so if I'm using a fun ingredient like polenta I like to see it saying ,"Hey dude!" on a few different places on my plate. This salad consists of the leftover polenta and some baby spinach and carrots that were in my fridge and absolutely needed to be used today. It turned out quite nicely. Both the subtle sweetness and crunch of the polenta and carrots were a nice balance to the vinegar and spinach. The colors also rounded out the mostly red hues in the entree.

So there you have it, folks. If you're a poor 20-something dude (who likes to get a little crazy in the kitchen sometimes), or you just want to eat like one, there's an easy recipe that doesn't take a whole lot of time or money. Maybe next time we'll do something with arugula and vodka tonics. mmmm...

Be well and stay well, I hope I wasn't boring!
Sethro Bodine.
*Also, "funnest" isn't a word, so some douchie wiki-nerd would probably edit that part out pretty quick.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Stay Tuned...

I'm really so excited. For you. For me.

My brother has agreed to do a guest post. With pics. He's an artist in so many ways.

While we wait for his Collecting Raindrops debut, check out his post, "Debtors Time Piece"

Friday, September 26, 2008

Of Dreams

"Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp-or what's a heaven for?"
-Robert Browning (1812-1889)

I was nine, living out the unfortunate fashion legacy of the 80's, on any given day sporting Jams and jellies or leg warmers and Keds, and devouring Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret when no one was looking. I was ugly and I knew it, like an English Bulldog puppy. The kind of ugly that tugs at heartstrings and causes onlookers to want to scoop her up, fix her a cup of cocoa, swipe the smudges from her pink plastic glasses, and entertain her wild ideas.

A fair amount of my time was spent watching surgeries/procedures, studying oddities that my Dad retrieved from the stomachs of his equine patients, and exploring the barns and acreage around his veterinary clinic. I enjoyed the dual citizenship extended in childhood, dividing my days between reality and imaginary worlds that spun themselves into convincing, more entertaining versions of the truth with colorful landscapes and curious culinary creations.

I was an odd little girl, (which may be the most redundant phrase ever uttered, following the previous paragraphs.) I wrote myself into mystery stories. I concocted ridiculous diary entries that chronicled the life of a more ordinary and attractive girl. (If someone were to find that little diary, some day, which is hopefully decomposing nicely in a landfill somewhere in Oklahoma, they'd be bored to tears and think I lived a very different life...with platinum blond braids.) That was the year I decided on my career path: I would attend Harvard Law School followed by a brief, but spectacular stint as a lawyer before being appointed to a judgeship which would of course, lead me directly to my seat as Chief Justice of The Supreme Court. I was nine--where are the dizzy daydreams of riding unicorns over rainbows (both of which enjoyed popularity in the 80's thanks to Rainbow Brite, The Care Bears, and Hippies having children) or wanting to be a Marine biologist and work at Sea World when I grew up?

My Mom and Dad encouraged this phantasmic life plan. I was really good at Memory so, you know, I was already qualified.

It never occurred to my adolescent self that I might not be the Chief Justice, or attend Harvard, for that matter. These things were guaranteed because in my other world, my imaginary world, I had already lived them.

My imaginary world was as easily accessible as my back yard. It wasn't until I was fourteen that it started to crumble. Reality came crashing down and the pillars of my youth showed deep and unsettling cracks. I began to question everything. Pragmatism emerged as an important ally in the days after my Dad left and my Mother couldn't stand up underneath the sadness that enveloped her. Dreaming, planning, writing, inventing, creating, were dismissed (by me) as childish and I no longer had the luxury of being a child. I locked the door to that world of dreams and tossed away the key.

A recent commenter on Jen Lemen's All That Glitters... post said this about dreams, "Perhaps the greatest threat to our dreams is what we do with them when they do not pan out..."

I have thought about this for a number of days now. I've thought about it in the context of my own life and how it applies to my daughters. I want my girls to wander through these adolescent years, unscathed by fear or pain.

But the idea that there is no pain and fear associated with dreaming is obviously absurd. Dreams and hope are as linked as fear and hope. Fear being a rope that binds, strangulates; dreams being the breath of inspiration; and hope the common ground between the two.

I want my girls to entertain dreams as possibilities. I want them to embrace potential and to understand that when a dream changes shape, it is not a death.

To reach, to dance, to follow the white rabbit, to collect keys to unknown doors, to dare, to imagine, to dig deep, to get dirty, to peel back,to question, to seek, to know...

And then I think of the odd little girl I once was, riding fences through a wilderness of infirmities, and I wonder why I did not volunteer those same ideals to her. Perhaps it was because she and I had not lived through the pain of hope differed. Perhaps she and I mistakenly thought that disappointment meant the blanket eviction of higher plans and not merely the restructuring of them. Perhaps she and I were naive in thinking that dreams are aspirations, goals to be attained, when perhaps they are meant to be forshadowing chapter titles in the unfolding story of who we are becoming.

I'm sick of following my dreams. I'm just going to ask them where they're going and hook up with them later.

-Mitch Hedberg (1968-2005)

Do you read Jen Lemen? No? Well, go and make yourself a cup of tea, cancel your lunch date, pull up the comfiest bit of couch you have and settle in. She is an amazing soul. And how very fortunate for the rest of us that she is also a gifted writer and artist, drawing pictures of life and purpose in our heads with her words.

She has been talking about dreams for the last little while on her blog. (Seriously, click over and read just a couple of her posts, today. It will change the way you look at the lady who just stole your parking place at the grocery store, and that annoying neighbor, and your mother in law, and that vaguely familiar face in the mirror...)

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Smelling Roses

All of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon - instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today.

-Dale Carnegie

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Wrath Revisited

My second entry on Collecting Raindrops...One year later. (Relevant because one year later, we are once again living in The House of the Communal Cold.) Enjoy.

The Wrath of August
“Summer’s almost over. Quick! Have Fun!” –Calvin and Hobbes

We are serving time in The House of the Communal Cold.

The girls are barely protesting their incarceration, their minds going numb from all of the exposure to music videos on the Disney Channel.

The baby is walking around with her face pinched like a cranky Kewpie doll. She sounds like a freight train when she sleeps. I’m thinking about submitting her to Guinness World Records for “Noisiest Sleeper-Under 20 Pounds.” If the category doesn’t exist, I bet they’ll consider creating it after experiencing her multi sensory rumble.

I don’t think we’re supposed to get sick in the summer. There should be legislation. These bright warm days are too valuable to be wasted on couch cushions and Sudafed.

But this has been my experience with August…the days of disenchantment.

I have a profound appreciation for the season changes.

I enjoy the deepening color palette of fall.

But these fairer days are the blue chip days. The sun and sky beckon me outside and encourage me to peel back layers of clothing so that I am far closer to naked than I ever ought to be in public. The intoxicating midday heat and thrill of the afternoon thunderstorm hypnotize me so that is hard to recall the snowstorms and thermometer readings below 80 from all those months ago. I become an irreverent, stoned hippie. I won’t be kept down by things like appointments and responsibilities. That’s for cold weather people, man.

But the heavy footsteps of August jar me out of my drunken stupor.

The ideal season of summer is coming to an end. It is in these days that I come eye to eye with the things I have not done, the closets I have not cleaned, the books I have not read or written, the trips I have not taken, the dentist appointments I have not rescheduled, the days wasted in the air conditioning, the tall, slender pepper plants who have yet to produce a pepper. Time is running out.

Day dreaming, June’s decadent abandon, becomes August’s nasty habit.

I find myself feverish, running task to task, half assing all of them in an attempt to check any of them off the list.

I suppose, if it were not for the colds in August, as unwelcome as the early morning alarm, I’d continue to dance in my dusky delusion, only to be slapped awake by September.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Prayers for Nie

I'm sure many of you read or have read Stephanie Nielson's blog.

She and her husband were in a plane crash over the weekend. Both were severely injured and a third passenger has passed away. Please remember them and their 4 children in your prayers. Nie's sister, CJane, will be posting updates on her blog.

Send them some love and positive energy.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Just Like That

Did you feel it? The shuddering pause followed by the bone crunching jerk to a halt?

One of my favorite bloggers has called it quits.
Her colorful blog replaced with an understated white page that simply reads:

I'm calling it quits. Thanks for reading.

Alpha Dogma, you will be missed. My laptop would wear a black arm band, if it had arms to band.

I suppose this means it's safe to peruse blogs whilst sipping on a beverage once again, as the blogosphere just got a little less funny and the likelihood that one will spew water (wine, milk, orange juice, and -once- hot tea) through one's nostrils has been diluted.

I can't bring myself to take down her link on my side bar, lest she come to her senses and realize that the world is a cold dark sink hole without her witty exegeses on celebrity baby names and her unapologetic crush on Colonel Brandon.

My favorite bit of AD witticism actually came on Christine's blog last November, during NaBloPoMo, when she had inadvertently pressed publish on a blank post. AD left a comment that said, "OK, I'm beginning to feel like we NaBloPoMo-ers are gang banging the rest of the blogosphere. I feel dirty."

And now I'm off to drown my sorrow.

P.S. My blog is officially one year old. Thank you to all of you who have stopped by periodically or click over every time your reader shows I have dribbled something new on my keyboard. I really do appreciate you all.

Monday, July 28, 2008

As Promised...

Have you noticed that news anchors everywhere have become very fond of the term, "Stay-cation" this summer, repeating it as many as 4 times per newscast, as if they had cleverly coined the term themselves just before coming on air. I'm willing to bet, however, there are documented cases of fathers in too tight shorts plying their children with "Stay-cations" consisting of haphazard, back yard tents and marshamallow roasting over the grill as far back as the 70's.

I suppose we just returned from our own "Stay-cation" since we were less than 2 hours from our house, but judging from the slow rev of my engine upon returning...vacation accomplished. I am renewed. (Or, I think I will be once I get back into some semblance of a routine.)

Some hilights.