New year, new look

As the saying goes, "Even an old barn looks better with a fresh coat of paint." After a couple years of the same look, I figured the ol' blog was due for a makeover.

Jim says my new banner and color scheme are a bit "bubblegum".

I say, for a gum-chewin' chicklegirl such as myself, that's just about right.

NaPoWriMo #21: alone

“To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance.”
—Oscar Wilde, An Ideal Husband


Alone

A love affair dies without
time alone together to blossom
and not just time but
time wisely chosen well spent
when every light is still out except
soft waxing glow of first twilight
when a knife scraping butter across toast
or a pencil’s deliberate scratch
echo across this house and no one hears
when I can run away from home
fly to the distant side of sawtoothed mountains
swim among corals at the bottom of some strange sea
bury myself among stalactites and stalagmites
wander thirsty deserts in search of myself
and still be back before breakfast.

Hodgepodge

Not to be confused with Mod Podge, because hodgepodge refers to a motley assortment of ideas or things, whereas Mod Podge is an abbreviation for the "Modern Decoupage" craft glue invented by Jan Whetstone in the 1960s.

I've been looking back at my blog and realizing it looks rather like I fell off the planet (other than writing a dumb post about J.Lo), and honestly I've felt that way lately. The last month has been a blur: sewing a baby quilt, taking dinner in to a friend who's a new mom, sewing a blouse, going to my 20 year reunion, teaching five pre-teen girls to make freezer jam, getting really sick during the same week Audrey cut four molars, writing an amazing poem, sewing a green and white polka-dot baby dress to enter in the the county fair, taking a mini-family-vacay to the Pacific Science Center, riding the ferris wheel at the fair, Audrey's first birthday, cleaning house to get ready for out-of-town company and a birthday party, baking two batches of cupcakes (because the first ones all collapsed flat right out of the oven) and finally, yesterday, Jimmy's first day of kindergarten.

Did I mention we're homeschooling? And Jimmy has his first soccer practice in less than an hour? And Audrey has not had (and probably at this point will not have) an afternoon nap? And even though according to the calendar we still have 18 days of summer, it's already fall here in Ellensburg but that's okay because fall is my favorite season? And yesterday I found out Jimmy has been peeing in the bathtub because he's afraid of the noise the toilet makes when it flushes? And I'm having a really excellent hair day?

It's all good. It's a hodge-podge and it's mine and I love life.

Forget those girls in white dresses (with blue satin sashes)

Just for fun (and because I'm up way past my bedtime), let's count down Jimmy's ten favorite things...

#10: "Tiger" cheese

#9: Trucks

#8: Scrambled Eggs Super! by Dr. Seuss

#7: Trains

#6: Spiderman

#5: Sprinklers

#4: Ice cream

#3: Kitties

#2: Anything Star Wars, but in particular Lego Star Wars for Wii

and finally, #1 ...

It's great to be four, to be young and easily satisfied. (Oh, and #7 may explain why Jimmy thinks "train" is the magic word, because "please" does not appear anywhere in his top ten.)

Sad but true

It's pathetic, I know: as of 7:50 a.m. today, I still have not taken down my Christmas tree. Unfortunately, I can no longer use the excuse of being too busy taking care of sick kids because neither of my kids have been sick for a few days now. Jimmy and I did get the ornaments put away on Thursday, and I promise I will get to the tree.

Today.

Addendum: style challenged

Baaa-aaa. Because I'm feeling a bit sheepish.

Here I was trying to have a little laugh at my own expense, but after reading my sister's comments on my "style challenged" post, clearly it backfired in a most unbecoming manner.

First, let me say that I in no way bear my stylish friends any ill will, nor do I covet their style. Maybe I covet the seeming effortlessness of their style, but I'm sure they actually put a lot of work into looking so great. I hope they will forgive me for being churlish.

Second, I'm deeply sorry for what appeared to be a blatant pity party. I'm not actually needing reassurance because I'm fully aware that the retro ghetto thing developed to serve certain needs: a) I'm a cheapskate with not a lot of time to shop; and b) what I do wear has to run the gamut from being spit up on to being covered in soot when I stoke the wood-burning stove. I think it's more what Dory said about changing things up: I see myself in the pajama pants and blah t-shirts or the gray sweatpants and sweatshirt that make me look like Rocky Balboa's less Italian twin and I'm hit with the realization that it's definitely time to change things up. Not to suit someone else's idea of style, per se, but to not feel so unfabulous because I'm making so little of an effort.

Does all that make sense?

Wax on, wax off

We're about fifteen minutes away from 2008 as I start typing this post, and in my mind I'm waxing philosophical about what the new year holds in store for me (a triathlon, no more sugar until the triathlon, other goals)... and then my mind wanders onto the topic of waxing in general, which is never going to happen to any part of my body or my hardwood floors... and waxing gets me to thinking specifically about "Wax on, wax off" from The Karate Kid... and I start to imagine, wouldn't it be cool to have my own personal Mr. Miyagi to teach me special moves to prepare for all those personal battles in my own life (and to give me a sweet old hotrod)? At which point I get way existential and realize all I truly need is the Mr. Miyagi within, that inner sensei who knows me best: me. And that's how I'm going to accomplish all the goals I have in mind for this coming year. Cool.

The moral of this story is: too much chocolate+late night+blogging=80s/90s cinematic flashbacks that make no sense to anyone but me.

Wax on, wax off. Oh, and happy new year!

Ten more minutes until Christmas...

...the presents are all wrapped, and so I'm cutting my losses and going to bed!

Sock monkey lovin’

It wouldn’t be Christmas for me without sock monkeys. My Aunty Joan gave me one on my sixth Christmas, an old-school long and skinny sock monkey (’cause this was about 1975) that I named Parachute Panatti. I would swing him around by the tail like some primate slingshot and then let go so he sailed triumphantly through the air. What can I say? I was six.

Oh, how I loved him. When I was eighteen and the time came to move out and pack or purge my treasures, Panatti was one of the few who made the cut. Currently he’s holed up in my shrine to childhood memorabilia, a Rubbermaid Roughneck storage tote down in my sewing room.

Mom remembers about me and Panatti, so when she found a sock monkey tree ornament a couple of years ago, she sent it my way. And then last year for Christmas she gave me pink flannel sock monkey pajamas. I had just gotten pregnant, so I couldn’t wear them more than a few times before my pregnant belly was too big, and they were some of the first pre-pregnancy clothes I couldn't wait to squeeze into when I lost all my baby weight.

Lately I’ve been thinking it’s time to expand my sock monkey wardrobe, perhaps add some matching slippers to go with my jammies. So when I saw the picture below on No Cool Story’s blog this morning, I knew it's time to start saving my pennies. Do you think that big red bow will make me look too busty?

Lucky number 8

I’m not superstitious, but if I believed I had a lucky number, it would be eight. Eight and I have a long history. I was born on the eighth day of October, the eighth month of the Roman calendar. Some of my most significant personal milestones have happened in years that end with eight (like graduating from the hell that was high school and starting my life as an adult).

It’s more than that, though: eight is pleasing to the eye. 8. Look at it. It’s the only number besides zero that’s symmetrical from side to side. And it has an alluring, curvaceous shape to it—a fertile form, ripe with possibilities.

I have this feeling that today is going to be a great day….

We are family

I have this fantasy. No, no—before you rush to get out the brain bleach and a scrub brush, it's not that kind of fantasy.

See, I was running on the treadmill the other night, and grooving to my workout tunes, and "We Are Family" by Sister Sledge started to play. I have always loved that song. And it reminded me that for a long time I've had a daydream about dressing up in a gold lamé disco jumpsuit and a 'fro and singing "We Are Family" with my sisters, all dressed in matching jumpsuits and wigs, and shaking our groove thangs. And here's the fantasy part: I look and sound totally fierce while doing this. We all do.

Yeah, I know. That's why it's called a fantasy.

Oh geez

Certain things come to you with greater clarity when you're not on painkillers. Like the ability to read the fine print on the little red sticker stuck to the bottle:

Use care when operating a car or dangerous machinery or when trying to compose poetry. May cause drowsiness or excessive schmoopiness.

Yeah. Whoops. Missed that one.

g.d.

I remember being a kid and my aunt, who didn't want to get chewed out for cussing in front of me and my siblings, using "g.d." as shorthand for a certain sacreligious expletive. As a rule I try to avoid profanity, expecially now that I have a child of my own (though I've been caught from time to time when I burn my hand on the cast-iron wood stove or in other similarly painful circumstances).

Certainly those two letters stand for a lot of good things such as garbage day (today, thank goodness), generic drugs, Gerber daisies (like the lovely pink specimen above), Golden Dynasty (a great little hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant in Seattle that Jim and I used to frequent), glazed donuts, Gunga Din, and great danes. They also stand for a few things which I could take or leave (depending on the day): the Grateful Dead, Green Day, grand dames, Gadolinium (chemical symbol: Gd), Gérard Depardieu, and Geena Davis. Of course, a few "g.d." things are never a good idea: the Great Depression, gastrointestinal distress, genetic determinism, global domination, gold diggers... and gestational diabetes.

However, after learning how to use my glucose meter, meeting with a diabetes training nurse, and having my consultation with a dietician, I'm starting to see that this is a unique opportunity to make some changes I've been wanting to make for a long time. And (dare I say it) I'm starting to feel cautiously hopeful that what I initially dreaded will actually be a catalyst for permanent change. That makes this a very good day!

On pins and needles (part 1)

"I hate waiting."

So says Inigo Montoya in The Princess Bride, as he languishes atop the Cliffs of Insanity, marking time while the Dread Pirate Roberts laboriously scales the precipice below. Like Inigo, I'm ill at ease when waiting. Thesaurus.com suggests some of the following synonyms for "ill at ease":

edgy, fidgety, on tenterhooks, on edge, overwrought, worried stiff, tormented, fretful, hung up, and (my favorite, which seems in this case to be particularly apt) on pins and needles

This morning I showed up at the lab at eight a.m. for my glucose screen, having fasted twelve hours, and feeling rather weak and cranky. The lab staff tried to pull up my record but couldn't find it until they noticed that I was actually scheduled for testing tomorrow. Looking back at my planner I realized that Nurse Debbie and I had in fact set the appointment for Tuesday (I had even written it down correctly), but for some reason my brain was set on Monday, and that's when I showed up. Those lovely lab ladies, who are so nice, rolled with it and decided to go ahead and do the test today since I was there and ready. Here's the catch: Debbie had scheduled me for Tuesday because she and Dr. Herman were going to be out of the office today. So even though I swilled the vile glucose beverage and subjected myself to needles and poking, I have to wait until Debbie is back tomorrow to find out if I've got the dreaded gestational diabetes.

Like Inigo, my suffering is of my own doing; he could have prevented having to wait so long if he hadn't allowed Vizzini to cut the rope at the top of the cliff, forcing the Dread Pirate Roberts to slowly climb with his bare hands.

And if I had just checked my planner... (to be continued)

My kitchen reeks

Pregnancy and cooking don't mix. At least not for me. I vaguely remember it being this way last time but specific incidents were so painful that I've permanently blocked them from recollection. Since January my poor family has witnessed (and sometimes eaten) a parade of bland soups, charbroiled rubbery meat, and assorted dinners with missing ingredients. Thank goodness for Quizno's.

Last night for dinner I decided to make a delicious sesame shrimp salad. It's light, savory and best of all, a fairly easy recipe; the only potentially tricky part calls for toasting noodles, sesame seeds and sliced almonds. Under normal circumstances, this would be so simple that I could do it without a thought. Under pregnant circumstances, I lost track of time while chopping green onions and tearing lettuce, and thereby incinerated one batch of sesame-almond-noodles, which had to be quickly evacuated from the oven and out the back door amid clouds of acrid smoke. I ruined all my almonds, but determined to get it right, I made a second attempt with just noodles and sesame seeds. Sadly, that got singed around the edges, but enough of the middle was edible that I gave up and used it. In the end the salad tasted fine, and by that point I was just relieved to be done with it.

Scorched sesame isn't my idea of aromatherapy.

Extreme makeover: chicklegirl edition

Or maybe I should call this "Sleep Deprivation, Again". Yeah, I decided it was time for a new look. I was thinking something a little cleaner, a little more playful, and above all, something visually representative of my chickliness. While I realize chicle tab gum is not the height of sophistication, those who know me also know I have no pretensions in that direction. And as the saying goes, "Even an old barn looks better with a fresh coat of paint."

Since I took a nap on Sunday afternoon and wasn't feeling tired come bedtime, the time was ripe to do all the requisite crazymaking tweaks in Paintshop and HTML. I've now effectively killed three hours of prime sleep time. What have I learned from this? Even when I'm sick, no naps for me! Suffering will follow in mere hours, I'm certain.

Adagio

Last week when I was getting my massage, I noticed some familiar music playing. I asked my massage therapist the name of the CD. It turned out to be "Classical Healing" by Tom Barabas, but the track I recognized was listed simply as "Adagio," with no composer credited. It started to bug me, like when I was obsessing about Katie the Cleaning Lady. But the more I thought about it, I knew that I had heard the music on a movie soundtrack and that it was playing during a tragic scene, maybe during a war. So I got on the internet and went to my trusty friend, IMDB. There I searched movie soundtracks for "Adagio" and amongst the many hits I found a movie that I had seen, "Gallipoli". Looking at the movie's soundtrack listing gave me the name of the composer, Tomaso Albinoni, and a more exact title of the piece of music, "Adagio in G minor for strings and organ."



I saw "Gallipoli" for the first time in a high school history class, when we were studying World War I. Directed by Peter Weir and starring a very young Mel Gibson, it was a scathing idictment of the British role in the loss of life of Australian soldiers, as well as a general anti-war piece. Weir is a great craftsman of film and one of the things that makes his movies even more compelling is his selection of music. I think that the music is what made this movie stay with me for so long, even though it isn't my favorite movie by Weir. "Adagio in G minor" is one of the most hauntingly beautiful pieces of music I've ever heard: aching, poignant and compelling.

Katie the Cleaning Lady

Do you ever have one of those days where something is stuck in your head and you can't get rid of it because you cannot to save your life remember where it came from? Well, I'm having that day.

It started out because I was thinking about how busy I've been cleaning house this week, between two birthday parties and out-of-town company—but then I realized that I'm always grateful to have people come over because that's when my house gets its tidiest. Sadly, the house has been even grungier than usual for the last couple months because I've been dealing with some seriously bone-crushing pregnancy fatigue, and I consider it a success just to have clean dishes for us to eat from and clean clothes for us to wear every day. After all, if we have freshly washed dishes, do my floors really need to be immaculate enough that I could eat off of them?

As I was contemplating the satisfaction of having a sparkling bathroom, and all the hard work I put in this past week, my mind wandered back to a name I used to get teased with in school when I was a kid: "Katie the Cleaning Lady". This was because at the time (late 1970s or early 1980s), a television commercial for some kind of cleaning product featured a character named Katie the Cleaning Lady. The fact that I remembered this was rather bizarre in and of itself, because while I'm pregnant, my short term memory is terrible, but somehow that portion of my brain devoted to the distant past dredged up the memory in conjunction with all my frantic bathroom and kitchen scrubbing. Now it's driving me insane because (and I know this is ridiculous) I cannot remember what product was being advertised! I even went out and googled it, with various spellings of Katie—and when Google failed me, I tried Yahoo and Altavista. No dice.

This must be my brain's idea of an April Fool's joke, but I'm not laughing. I know I'm going to lay awake tonight and not get any sleep because I can't remember . . .