Dish Duty

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In the interest of keeping it real, I'm writing about one of my most hated chores:  Doing the dishes.  Most of the time I have a lovely 14-year-old boy doing them for me but on the weekends I tend to give him a break as he's working his other job as a glorious bus boy/dishwasher at a local eatery.  You thought I was going to say that he was working as a mini-super hero, right?  Being a bus boy is just his cover story, but that's a tale for another time.

Now, a couple years ago when I was following several blogs about homesteading and keeping it simple, one of the first things they (the collective folks who are way more savvy about keeping a home and saving your pennies) say is to do the dishes by hand.  Not only does it save on money by not running your dishwasher but it's cathartic.

Yeah, I thought they were smoking crack, too. 

Come to find out that when I'm wrist deep in a sink full of suds and water, they're right.  There is something wholly relaxing about stopping and slowing down and concentrating on the task at hand and meandering over the day's events or clearing your mind all together. 

I mean besides saving on electricity and all of those important things, it's soothing. 


Plus, I love the tableau of my dishes stacked all nice and orderly in their vibrant fiesta colors in the cupboards when I'm done.  (it's part of my OCD, I'm sure....I love order)

So, I shall finish this cup of coffee and be off to wash those plates and silverware and color myself impressed with my amazing housewifely duties. 

And then, then it's play time at the beach hopefully. 

Pictures to follow. 

Inspiration?

So last night I went through three years worth of Country Living magazines.  I was not looking forward to any of this as I sat down looking over at the pile of magazines that were somehow mocking me.  I'd saved them because, like an idiot, I thought I would go through them page by page and take out what inspired me.  A few years ago I started a binder full of pictures that gave me inspiration for rooms in our home.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  Well, until I accumulated three years worth of Country Living magazines.

I love Country Living.

Truly, I do.

Their glossy pages are full of things that just make me swoon and my heart go pitter-pat.  There are pages of vintage cake carriers, painted chairs, checkerboard floors, textiles and fabrics that make me cry and long to make my home just like that picture right there.

And then reality sets in.

I'm the mother of four.  Three of my lovelies are still currently living at home and they are unrelenting in their pursuit to wear me the heck out every single day of my life.

Seriously.

My youngest - from the time I hit that back door at 5:37 - says "Momma, guess what?" about 87 times.  I wish I were exaggerating.

That's her.

I'll tell you more about her later.

But anyway, including the short one wearing red, there are two other people, including my hubby who bide for my time and in their effort to seek my attention first, they talk over one another, through each other, and more often than not someones butt is chapped inside of three minutes.

See what I mean?

They're exhausting.

And lovely.

Anyway, back to my magazines.  I love these things.  They're glossy and pretty and perfect.  In other words:  They are nothing like my life.

But, someday when I no longer have scrubby hand prints on every door jamb in my life, I, too, hope to have painted chairs, a mirror I've framed in myself, pillows I've sewn out of feed sacks, tile above my sink in my bathroom, a pretty/inspiring desk/computer area, and I hope to never see a Barbie tiara ever ever again.  (That's a lie.  I borrow 'em so I can feel pretty now and again)

Now, I've got pages upon pages of inspiration for my binder that I'll hopefully put together before the snow flies.

Here's hoping.

P.S.  My middle daughter has my sense of humor obviously (her latest creation on her computer art game):

There goes a fighter....

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Let me preface this post by saying I don't exercise.  I don't eat right.  The only time I run is when someone is bleeding and/or on fire. 

Now, I take that all back. 

A few months ago one of my best friends asked me to take part in a local 'boot camp'.  After much whining about how I don't exercise as it's not what I do, it's not who I am, I went ahead and went.  That first night I wanted to die.  I was drenched in sweat, huffing & puffing, and wanting to crawl in the nearest hole and die.  The next day I literally ached everywhere.  I can remember verbalizing to everyone within ear shot (and some that weren't) that I was in pain.  That I had muscles hurting that I wasn't even aware that I possessed. 

My ass hurt.

Yeah, this was the opposite of fun. 

But, what did I do?  I went back for more. 

Why?  Partly because I thought I should go for my friend's sake (she was and is going through a tough time in her life) and partly to see if I could do this thing.  If I could finish it out.  If I was tougher than I thought.  And maybe to see just what I'm made of. 

So, week after week, two sessions a week, I let our amazingly tough boot camp leader run me through the paces.  It was grueling some weeks (hello, planks anyone?) but more than anything I would walk out of there exhausted and prouder than hell of myself. 

In the midst of all of this, I quit my two pepsi-a-day habit.  I started taking a water bottle to work and actually using the damn thing.  I cut down on sweets.  I started to watch what I ate.  I took my lunch more often than not.  And I was going for evening walks with my gal pal around our local sand pits (for those of you not native to this area - there is an amazing walking trail around our old sand pits and I recommend them to any and every one - get out and enjoy your town) on purpose. 

It occurred to me as the pounds were coming off and so were the inches that I was slowly becoming one of 'those' people.  I was become someone who exercised on purpose.  I was becoming one of those annoying folks that I hated standing around in the copy room who discussed low cal recipes. 

But I also realized I felt better than I have in my entire life about myself, about my body, about who I am.  I smiled more, was more relaxed and looked forward to that hour to undo some of the things that goes along with a busy mom and wife.  As much as I loved/love those bootcamp classes there was something so fundamentally 'fun' to me about popping in my earbuds and jamming to my 'workout' playlists.  And the first time I literally jogged a stretch of that walking trail, I felt like Rocky running up the effing steps in Philly (albeit with Adam Levine in my ears versus Survivor - times they are a changing yo). 

I've got a goal of being able to jog that whole walking trail by the end of summer. 

I have work out clothes. 

I now own small hand weights.

I also walk a little bit taller than I did before because I'm proud as hell that I not only duked it out in bootcamp but I'm carrying on with it. 

So yeah, there goes a fighter.  That's me. 

A Mommy Mantra?

It's occurred to me today that I'm closing in on sixteen years of being a 'mom'.  My first experiences of mommy-hood included hanging out with my then boyfriend's six-year-old daughter watching Aristocats and shopping for Easter Basket prezzies for her.  Sixteen years later, in addition to my step-daughter, we added two more girls and a boy to our brood.  Life is never boring with this bunch and I've learned a few things along the way.  Not all of these are to do with being a mom as some of them have more to do with being a woman, but as so many of us are both, I thought I'd call it the mommy mantra.  So, whether you're mom to a brood of pups, cats, hamsters, fish, or live human folks, this might apply to you.  Randomly and in no order: 

1.  Read.
2.  Read things that are good for you.
3.  Read things that are bad for you.
4.  It's okay to like songs like P!nk's "F*ckin' Perfect."
5.  It's also okay to like the explicit lyrics to Maroon 5's "Payphone."
6.  Learn a couple clean jokes to make your kids laugh.
7.  Children's laughter heals practically any wound you have. 
8.  Be silly.  I think that's one of the most important lessons I've learned as a parent.  Being silly doesn't make you foolish.  It just lets your kiddos know that their parents have a sense of humor.
9.  Sing along to the radio.
10. Quiz the kids on current and past singers.  It's a fun game.
11. Share what you love.  If you love a book, a band, a food, a special brand of gum, share it.  If you share the things you love, then, maybe, your kiddos will share what they love with you.
12. Be human.  If you're hurt, say you're hurt.  No one likes a martyr and no one, but no one, is a mind-reader.
13. Be a good friend.  I think kids learn by example and if they see nothing but judgement and derision from you, how are they ever going to learn to forgive and enjoy and share things with other people?  Having friends and keeping them is one of life's best experiences.
14. Say I'm sorry and mean it.  Pretty self-explanatory there.
15. Smile.
16. Plant a garden and watch it grow.
17. Go swimming with your kids, build sandcastles, float on an inner-tube, find tadpoles, go fishing, pick up rocks that are smooth & warm, get muddy, stomp in puddles, laugh about it.  Trust me, the clothes that they ruin won't matter in a week.
18.  Be quiet.  Not everything is a circus.
19.  Listen.
20.  Either get a pedicure or learn how to do one at home.  Either way, you feel better and your toes are pretty.
21.  Wear a dress now and again.
22.  Wear funny hats.
23.  Play Mario Kart.  Seriously, it's fun.
24.  Try new foods.
25.  Drink lots of water.
26. Count the stars.
27.  Catch Fireflies.
28.  Breathe.
29.  Roast marshmallows.
30.  Pray.

Anything you all think I should add to this?  Lemme know.  <3 

Loving a music man ain't always what it's supposed to be...

Holy shit. It's been like four months since I've posted on here. In that short period of time, I've acquired an eight year old and a 14 year old. Birthdays, man. Those runts grow up way too fast. Don't even get me started. Urgh.

Either way, I'm taking a break from cleaning of all the things and listening to Jason Mraz's Sleeping to Dream. Which made me ponder the question about how music affects the writing process. When you're in the middle of a story/article/poem, how do the words of the artist singing shape the story you're writing? Sometimes I listen to the LOST soundtrack, to Michael Giacchino's instrumental works, and it helps block out the world and helps me concentrate on what the characters are trying to say to me or to the reader.

 Right now I'm working with a friend on a story about a band (rock, pop, whatevs) but finding the dynamics of four people who are making music together as something that binds them together and their words, songs, lyrics tie them to other people, their fans, and what's it like to fall in love with a band. Remember that? Falling in love for the first time with a band?

I mean as a kid it was New Kids on the Block for me, granted they didn't play instruments. I take that back. Oh god, I can't believe I forgot this. I fell in love with a country band that played our local area when I was about fifteen. Ripe age for that shit, yes? But the drummer had blonde curly hair, blue eyes and could hammer out a beat that matched the one of my heart beating in my little chest. His name was Matt and he had a killer, killer smile.

I can remember my small hometown was having some sorta huge centennial celebration with a street dance. This four man group had played earlier in the day and I'd gotten permission from my grandparents to go. The July sun was wicked hot and causing sweat to drip down the small of my back but it didn't matter because everything was 'Amarillo by Morning and up from San Antone...' and George Strait and Matt playing away on those drums. Sure, the lead singer was great and so was the lead guitarist and bassist. Someone broke out a fiddle now and again, too.  Do you ever forget the haunting melody of a fiddle?  Not really.

But, more often than not I was watching those sticks flying through the air as Matt drummed and twirled his way into my heart. 


My best friends and I sat out on my lawn that night hearing the music waft up the main drag in our small 'burg.  We sat on those lawn chairs and giggled like 15 year old girls do about boys, especially older boys.  Lisa, the boldest one of our bunch, probably brought up what it'd be like to kiss him.  Pretty sure I had a set of mini-palpitations with the thought of kissing Matt, let alone any boy back then.  (My first 'real' kiss would come at the end of the following school year on the last day of ninth grade courtesy of a boy who had a crush on me.  The only thing that sticks out in that memory was the watermelon gum he'd been chewing and how it might be really rad to French kiss, but it sure as hell wasn't with this kid.  Anyway, back to Matt.)  I talked to Matt a few times and we hit up a couple dance halls that Summer, following our band around and each time was just as magical as the first until we got up enough guts to go and talk to him. Bless Matt's seventeen year old self back then. He was kind, gracious, and funny. We teased him about getting his autograph - I think I still have this somewhere (I'm a Cancer. We hoard memories like some people hoard china dolls) - and he supplied each of us a rendering of his name on a cocktail napkin written cleanly and clearly with a sharpie.

He also winked a lot. I remember that pretty distinctly.

Matt faded away as first crushes often do and as Summer faded into Fall and we all got back to school, life, dreaming, and eating the small world we lived in then.

There's probably three things I took away from that Summer with that country band: 1. My on-again off-again love for Country Music (Seriously, I still have my George Strait's Greatest Hits Cassette somewhere and to this day I can't hear Amarillo by Morning without smiling). 2. My love for anything musical that 'speaks' to me in one way or another. 3. Loving music men.

Now, for the record, I didn't marry a music man. But in my mind there's nothing sexier than a guy and his guitar (or drums, or piano, or jeez even his cello). Talent is intoxicating. Otherwise, how else could anyone explain David Bowie and Iman. I digress. Either way, who speaks to you?

Knitting and Writing, two of these things are kind of the same...

So, here I am at the end of a finished product, finally. It took the better part of a year and I don't know how many episodes of LOST I've rewatched while knitting this thing (seriously, it should be dubbed The LOST scarf - LOL) but it's finally done.



Before I get to the thinky think portion of my post, I'll just share a few details for you knitters out there. The pattern for this lurvely thing is by the equally lurvely Stephanie Pearl-McPhee (aka The Yarn Harlot). It's called The One Row Handspun Scarf and I made it with two strands - held together - of Paton's Mulberry Stripes. I love, love, loooove self-striping yarn but let me tell you when I hit the end of the first two balls and had to add in the next, the striping was not working too well and had to disassemble and reconstruct.

(Now onto the Thinky Think portion of my post):

Which, of course, got me thinking about writing when it's compared to knitting. I mean, when you start out you're equipped with the tools of the trade (a pattern, your knitting needles, and your yarn)(for writing: a plot-bunny/outline, your laptop, and coffee) and things start off quite swimmingly. Things are fluid and linear and your stitches are fine and true. And your hands are literally flying and things are going quite smoothly. You want it to be beautiful and you're so proud of it and it's not even finished yet.

And then, then comes the seven-year itch.

You're halfway through.

You're not far enough to see the light at the end of the tunnel yet and worse yet, this yarn is making things crazy. It's supposed to self-stripe and it won't. So you tie things off and realign and realign again. You think you've got it only not. Again, you tie things off and restart. You're so frustrated even though you think you've lined it up that you put it down for a day, which turns into three, which turns into six months. And then when you're cleaning up the office and wanting to work on a small project, there it sits, waiting.

This scarf wants nothing more than to be finished, than to get to the end of the rows and to be bound off, and wound around someone's neck to keep them warm against the winter chill.

That's all it wants.

You pick up the needles again. You remind yourself of why you wanted this scarf in the first place other than it's very pretty and the pattern is relatively easy to commit to memory. It was the joy of finally finishing a lengthy project and to have something to show for it at the end. You grab your needles and start knitting. It's good, it's very good. You're flying along again, stitches true. And then you find yourself nearing the end at midnight on a Saturday - watching Lost or Sherlock. You've got little yarn left and it's time to bind off. You carefully take those last stitches and fold them over each other so everything will finish off neatly, tidily, and won't unravel for Pete's sake. There, there you are. You grab those loose ends and weave them seamlessly into the scarf itself so it won't show overmuch except for that tiny bulging in the middle but who will notice? Another knitter, that's who. But, you know what another knitter will notice? They'll recognize the yarn, the pattern, and the utter love for the time that it took to make that scarf and they'll compliment you on a job well done.

And there you are at 2:00 a.m. with a beautiful scarf around your neck and the glow of a project finished.

It's finally done. And you smile.

Mason Jar Memories

In an effort to cheer myself the eff up, I'm writing. SUCH FUN. But I was thinking about my mason jar fetish. I love 'em alot as previously evidenced.

So, here's the question for the day: If you wanted to tell me about you or the world around you by filling a mason jar of things from your life, what would fit in there? What would you put in there?

Me?

Laughingly, I'd put corn in there as Iowa is full of corn. I'd put a lilac bloom in there as they are one of my all time favorite things ever in the springtime here. I'd put in some dirt from the baseball diamond that's across the riverbed where Arik plays ever summer. I'd put in some sand from the beach that's on the lake north of town. My memories of playing there with my bestie and our girls are some of my favorite things ever. I'd throw in a pen to tell you that I love to write - whether it be a grocery list on the back of a deposit slip to an epic love letter to my fandom at the time, I love it. I'd take a leaf from the autumn trees that surrounded the river from teh day that kenny and I caught 22 fish and laughed more than I can remember in a long time. And lastly, maybe a cork from a bottle of wine from the first time my mom and I stayed up late drinking a bottle of wine and talking for the first time in a long time.

And then I'd put a zinc lid on it and twist it tight and put in a shelf so I could tell you about some of the best days I've ever spent, ever.

You?