NOT Everyone Is Beautiful At the Ballet

You know how you watch ballet and the ballerinas float ever so lightly across the floor, their legs lifting delicately before or behind them, their arms gently extended to the sides or raised above them? You know how lovely and fragile they look, almost as if they could be snapped like a twig?

That's bull. Those gals are solid steel. They are beautiful rhythmic muscle dressed up in sequins and lace. It's the most deceptive optical illusion of all time. There isn't a position their bodies contort into that is natural or easy and yet they look graceful and elegant, long and fluid.

After several weeks of adult beginner ballet classes, several weeks learning basic positions and turns, learning how to stretch (and how NOT to stretch), learning how to turn without vertigo and how to tendu without my tongue sticking out, I've discovered more about myself than about ballet in general.

I've learned that my muscles take longer to stretch out than they used to and that once I've done a forty-five minute class, I'll not be able to walk up my stairs to bed without wobbling halfway up. Plies are fine, demi-plies are even better, but grand plies make me fall down. I have terrific balance until someone else in the class giggles, at which point, all bets are off. My hips can hurt for weeks on end and it's possible to completely abuse thigh muscles you didn't know existed simply by stretching a little too far.

Also, and in the positive column, I've learned I have excellent turnout and a flat back at the barre. These are things you don't expect to find out about yourself in your mid-thirties. I've discovered that I'm okay with my fat jiggling as I chasse across the floor and that if I lock eyes with myself in the mirror, I can releve on both feet all day long. I've learned that I have no wish to go en point. Probably something that should NOT be attempted for the first time at this age anyway. My toes are flexing at me with relief this very moment.

The reason I am sharing all this via my blog is because I'm in too much pain to do anything but type. Only my fingers don't hurt. But you better believe I'm keeping this stretch now that I've got it back and Rich has promised to install a barre for me once we get into the new house. Ballet isn't easy and it isn't graceful for beginners. I wonder if it ever feels graceful to professionals or if it's just the way it looks to the audience? But the struggle to contain and control my body in this way makes me smile through my pain. There is something about the movement of it that soothes my soul, even as it wreaks havoc on my hips.

The Big Gulp

Like there isn't enough to do already. You all know about the nearly perfect manuscript that's going out any second now. But you don't know about the absolute insanity that's invaded our happy little household. Let me get you up to speed.

We've decided to sell the house. Partially this is due to in-laws moving to a town twenty minutes further north and we're going to move even closer to them. That was in the plans. But then partially this move is due to the Dave Ramsey money managing thing wherein we sell our house for a profit, pay off all debts with the proceeds, buy something smaller on a 15 year mortgage, and let all incoming salary work for us instead of vice versa. You know.

That was the ideal scenario anyway.

Tiny things make a big difference, though. Our house is in nearly great shape to show and should sell quickly (remember my optimistic spirit? Oh, yeah, it's still with me.) Landscaping is gorgeous, huge private fenced and shaded back yard, check. House with lots of room and neutral decor (gag), check. Reasonable price set.... mostly check. That's the hard one but you've got to take the big gulp and give in on that one to get what you want as soon as possible.

So that part of the plan is breezing along like a SpongeBob SquarePants kite at Nag's Head in March. (Yeah, I have a picture of that.)

The hitch in the works is the part about finding a place with a lower mortgage, blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda. Oh, we found a place. It's in a fantastic location. Even the boy is thrilled beyond measure. Easy walking distance to the high school. Quaint little old fashioned town in a not-too-far-from-a-Target kind of place. But the house. How can I say it?

The house is a hundred and seven years old.

It's a farmhouse-style house and it needs to have all the carpet ripped out so the smell will dissipate. It needs to have all the wood paneling taken out immediately. More than that, though? It needs a good re-wiring of electrical. It needs an HVAC installed. It needs insulation. It also needs things I know I can do on my own like painting the walls, refinishing the wood floors, taking down weird ceiling tiles, etcetera.

In short, it needs lots of stuff. Lots of time and, yep, you gussed it, lots of money.

But it's located on Main Street in a quiet town. Our next door neighbors are a little historical old church and a modern new post office. So, no neighbors. The lot is huge with huge old trees. The roof of the house is tin which I find fascinating for some reason. There is a lovely front porch with lots of azaleas blooming in front of it. So we're sunk. If we make an offer for this place we will end up with the 15 year mortgage, but we're also getting costly repairs right up front and a few years of constant renovations. And probably a ghost.

Isn't that just how it works? You make a plan and then someone throws a big old house at you and says you can fix it up for your own. So what can we do?

Take the big gulp and plung in -- one way or another, it's about to get interesting.

Distracted By a Shiny Red Ball

I have a story I can't shake out of my head. If you write, you know what I mean.
Here I am, rolling along working on the WIP and along comes this killer idea that is so different from what I'm doing. The new idea beckons with a grass-is-greener intensity and I long, passionately long to metaphorically get up and walk away from the characters I've been with for too long already in order to go play kickball next door with the cool new kids.

Don't get me wrong: I know the new kids are simply diversionary tactics my brain is employing to avoid the tedioius work on a manuscript that is already DONE but for the polishing. In other words, it doesn't need me anymore and why can't I go play over there with that shiny red ball?

Why, indeed. Because I don't have the editor yet. I have to pick up on and then correct all the little mistakes in that manuscript myself. And if I don't pick up on them, no editor is ever going to want to work with me. They'll see my pages and call me a slacker and pass the pages around the office and mock me and my stupid commas.

I assume.

Regardless, I'm working on making it perfect. And if I'm down to spelling and grammar, cliches and commas, it's just about there.

Blessings to everyone else struggling with character arcs and trying to ignore shiny red balls of their own making. My plan has me tackling those new characters inside a month. And a year from now, I'll hate them just as much as I hate the ones I have right now.

I assume.

You Bitter Vetch, You

Heath Pea. It doesn't sound like the next best thing, does it? Doesn't really ring in your ears with the promise of miracles and happiness. Apparently, though, it's the "magic bullet" that doctors keep telling us will never exist.

I've hit a plateau on my weight loss. Went back on the meds right after Christmas was over, dropped the two or three pounds I'd put on over the holiday season, lost two or three more pounds and then all weight loss ceased. It's a little alarming simply because the side affects of the pill are worrisome enough that you don't take it lightly and if it's no longer going to work, I have to give it up and go back to white-knuckling my way through every day of decent diet and exercise.

For actual weight loss, I need a little help, either in the form of a wildly unhealthy diet ala Atkins or in chemical assistance ala Meridia. I never expect miracles. I eat well and I work out. Cake doesn't make a regular appearance in my life and I had to ban ice cream altogether for its crack-like addictiveness. For years doctors have said (not specifically to me-- to everyone in general) that there is no magic bullet of a pill, no special thing that's going to come along and save us all from obesity. We lazy fat people have to do the work, knuckle down and pull our way back from the edge of sloth and McDonalds dollar menus. Too many people didn't really get that sometimes, for some people, it's more than a matter of willpower.

And today on the radio (Bob and Sheri, in case you're wondering) I heard the news about the innocuous little heath pea, also known as bitter vetch. Used by King Charles II to keep his mistress from an overly plump figure, this little tuber has been around for centuries. It was used to stop hunger pains when crops would fail and food was short. Used specifically to keep weight down.

Imagine that. Mother Nature strikes again. And apparently the trend toward obesity isn't news.

While the docs in Scotland are studying and growing more and more of this (easy to grow in poor soils without much help) herb, I'm going to love the weight I'm at, work at holding on to it and toning up, and pray that the pharmaceutical companies don't come in and quash all hope of wide-spread distribution.

An Argument for Universal Health Care, stolen from my brother-in-law

An Argument for Health Care, stolen from my brother-in-law
Current mood: busy
Category: News and Politics

So, I've blatantly copied the following from my brother-in-law's blog, but it's well written and pretty much the same opinion I hold so I was inspired to steal it and post it over here as well. Bear in mind while reading that he and his wife haven't yet had any children... you might want to add a tad more to his numbers to make them even with your own if you have procreated! I know our numbers are just the wee bit higher than his. Everyone take care. ~~Beki

The Universal Health Care Argument
Current mood: awake

A common argument that I hear against universal healthcare is that "Its just gonna be paid for with taxes"...

Well.. It has to be paid for somehow doesn't it?

Don't you already pay good money for your insurance premiums?

We're not gonna get it for free, stupid.

Here is how I see it from my experience:

Currently, I pay approx $3700/yr for health insurance for myself and my wife.

Our insurance has been OK so far. We have had a few issues with payment, but thats another story. For year 2007 our total health costs were nearly $10,000 including premiums. This is with no serious medical emergencies or health issues. Just routine visits, prescription costs and 2 minor emergency room visits.

With our current healthcare system, there is no guarantee of coverage. At any moment our insurance provider could decide that they no longer want to cover "X" issue. They could claim you have a pre-existing condition or that the treatment is 'experimental', so they won't pay even though it might actually help you get better. But, they want you to keep sending that sweet, sweet premium check anyway.

This is alot of money spent for no guarantee of service. At any time something could happen to any one of us and we could be left bankrupted with no help from our insurer.

So how much will Univ Health cost us? $4000/yr in taxes.. Maybe more.. Maybe less.. I don't know.

The family of Nataline Sarkisyan thought they had good health coverage. But, that did not save her when she was denied a liver transplant that the family could not afford on their own.

www.msnbc.msn.com/id/22357873/

So, Univ healthcare will be paid with taxes.. I would rather pay these taxes and receive guaranteed health coverage than to give my money to an anonymous person who makes life and death decisions that your doctor should be making and helps some CEO in a three-piece suit take home a cool 8-figure salary (thats $10,000,000 or more).

Remember, HMO's are out to make a profit. The more claims they deny, the more $$$ they make.

During the state of the union address, Bush said that we should support healthcare where "decisions about your medical care are made in the privacy of your doctor's office -- not in the halls of Congress."

Well, in the Nataline Sarkisyan situation, her medical decision was made in the cubical of an office park by CIGNA. Not in a Dr's office. Remember, Nataline died.

Universal Healthcare will free doctors to perform the procedures necessary to help their patients. Congress won't have a thing to say about it. You and your family will be covered. Period.

The United States is the only modern, industrialized nation without universal health care.

I guarantee that more people die in the Unites States for being denied health coverage than people do in Canada or France because "they have to wait for years to be treated". These are myths that benefit our current system. The longer you believe this crap, the less it will change. Ask Nataline's family if it doesn't happen here.

Look at all the heart problems that Dick Cheney has had over the years. If it were any one of us, we would have already been denied coverage or dropped buy an insurer due to previous conditions or whatever excuse they could find.. Bottom line: Anybody else would be dead already. But Cheney benefits from a publicly funded health system that guarantees that he is treated any time he has a problem.. All Americans should have this privilege. When Cheney or any member of congress has a health problem, they are covered and we fit the bill.

www.cheneycare.org

Do you like the system as it stands? If so, then you are the type of gambler who loves the fact that the house always wins. That is how our health system works now.

With or without universal healthcare, we are going to be paying good money for our health costs. One way offers us a guarantee. The other guarantees that a select few will make millions from our hard-earned money and we may or may not be covered in the end.

I know where I want my money to go. I want it to work for me.

What do you think?

How Long is Your Leg Hair?

From what I understand, it wasn't until WWII that women began to shave their legs. Underarm hair started slightly before that when sleeveless dresses came along in the 20s or so and the fashion mavens at 'Harpers' deemed underarm hair horrifying. But hairy legs until the 1940s?

The only reason I'm pondering such a thing is because Rich has been gone for a month now, it's been cold here, and a few days ago I noticed that my leg hair has grown out. Add to that all the bruises from klutziness, my legs again look the way they did when I was ten years old. Which I find amusing. Rich suggested I add a pic to the blog, maybe updating for each week he is away, but my legs are so blindingly white that the pictures won't come out in enough detail to make it worthwhile. For now, I'll tell you that I measured and the hair is roughly a quarter inch long and very soft again.

In other news: my goals are coming along nicely. My weight is dropping again, down four pounds in the month of January. My exercise regime is picking back up and with the nicer weather I can start walking the dogs through the neighborhood, an activity they will appreciate as well. Also, as of Feb 15 there will no longer be any cause for me to complain about my housecleaning job because I resigned. YAY!!!! Back to the legal transcription I used to and at least that job I can do from HOME and it will allow me to schedule plenty of writing time, workouts, and still leave time for me to aggravate my boy. What could be better?

I hope the first month of the year went as well for all of you as it did for me. I'm missing Rich pretty bad right now, but since I know he misses us too, I can live with it.

Smile and be happy. Tomorrow might be worse than today!

I Almost Forgot How Much I Love It

Yesterday was the best day I've had in a long, long time.

I've been working on my manuscript -- the one that's going back out agent-fishing at the end of the month -- and yesterday I had a breakthrough. I have always had these two scenes that didn't quite work. They imparted necessary information but didn't really seem to move the plot forward. They slowed the pacing, and you know that's really a deal-breaker.

So while I was trying to figure out if I could cut them entirely, maybe make up a whole new section to get that same information across to the reader, the idea occurred to me to combine the scenes. As soon as I thought it, I knew it would work. I put both scenes side-by-side, chopped out one location, lost one of the characters entirely (he was dull, no one will miss him) and from seventeen dragging pages of necessary information formed nine pages of good characterization, great pacing, and I think it might have even tightened the plot.

That's what I call a good day of work. I'd almost forgotten how fun it is to work at something you love to do.

This is Home

It's hard to parent. Especially difficult is when the child you are parenting is taller than you, totally entertaining, generally well-behaved, and yet shockingly irresponsible and/or thoughtless.

You may have noticed that I haven't posted for several days. It's been a rough week. Two of Kev's teachers contacted me to report odd behaviors. The second teacher was nearly in tears when I spoke to her. Kevin is now grounded to within an inch of his life. His wardrobe is pared down to six or seven "plain" shirts and four or five pairs of "plain" jeans/pants. No cool accessories sporting skulls and crossbones or deathbats. No checkerboard shoes. No fur-lined hoodies, or hoodies of any kind, actually.

Also, he is banned from the computer except for a (monitored) hour a week, split up into two sessions if he chooses. Banned from using his phone to have contact with anyone not a relative. And I instructed him as he cleared out his bedroom of all "stuff" except for his bed, a work table, and chair. No stereo, no games, no junk of any kind to fool with. Musical instruments stay available.

Now he has so much more time to study for the classes he apparently wasn't paying any attention to. And so much more time to hang out with his MOTHER who can further instruct him on proper human behavior since it appears I failed in my attempts to ingrain that knowledge in the first thirteen years. Respect for teachers, proper attitudes regarding school, treatment of females (whether they behave like ladies or not, you are to behave like a gentleman, duh) respect for self, love of learning, and even the excitement over everyday joys like playing with your dogs or watching the all new American Gladiators!!!

He's a good boy. He'll get back to where he needs to be. Everyone gets off the straight and narrow from time to time and I can only thank God that his wanderings don't yet include substance abuse or ANY KIND OF SEXUAL ACTIVITIES. Sorry. Had to be sure he heard me on that last point. Thirteen is a bit young for such things and since his birthday is rapidly approaching, FOURTEEN IS TOO YOUNG ALSO.

But back to the grown-up stuff.

Rich is happily working in Philadelphi for a few weeks (I say "happily" because it means he doesn't have to deal with all of the above, or at least not at too close a distance!) and while Kev and I hack our way through the jungle of mother/son angst, I'm the grown-up in charge.

So today while I was cleaning a house, a Sheryl Crow song came up on my mp3 player. It was an old favorite entitled "Home" and some of the lyrics say "I'm going crazy, a little everyday... everything I wanted is now driving me away..." Throw in the word "insane" in place of "away" and you'll see why such a melancholy song made me laugh as I vacuumed someone else's sofa. When I came home this afternoon, I was happy to see the boy. It's always good to find a reminder of your blessings.

I'm off to count mine right now so I don't forget some of the tiny, little ones that make all the big, troublesome ones come out all right in the end.

"Goals" Doesn't Sound As Breakable

I hate the word "resolution."

I've never made a resolution I didn't break. They seem to be made to be broken. Almost as if they are purposely fragile. I'm a clumsy sort of person and for that very reason, I don't have breakables sitting around my home. I'm certainly not going to CREATE something that is only MEANT to break.

Instead, I'm setting some goals. "Goals" can be reached for and missed, but you never break a goal. You never cheat on a goal. I'm going to share some of my goals for 2008 with you.

No matter how tired I am from working, I'm going to write a little (on my manuscripts.... this blog doesn't count, much as I love you all. This thing is not going to spring me toward my goals!!!) every day. Writing every day used to be a way of life for me and I'm hoping it's not too hard a habit to force myself back into.

Second, and still in vein of writing, I'm going to give myself one month to finish polishing this particular manuscript and get it back out there in the ether to collect either some more rejections or to find its home. So by February 1st Gwen and Will will be back out on the road, making the rounds at my favorite agents and my dream publishing house.

Financially, my goal this year is to raise enough money to pay off our credit card debts. We've been working this Dave Ramsey thing (well, working it kind of in a higgeldy-piggeldy fashion) and it's time to kick it into gear. Plus, once we get the credit cards paid off I might be able to stop working. And that's goal number four: no more complaining about my job. Everybody hates their job and until the moment when I can truthfully say, "I don't like my job and I don't think I'm going to go anymore," no more whining about it. It's tiresome. And I know when it's become tiresome to ME, it's got to be making you roll your eyes and call me pansy-type names.

And in THAT vein, back to the workouts. Yes, I've developed even more killer arm muscles from the scrubbing, but the regular workout has got to make a reappearance this year. My goal is to begin at three times a week. Twenty minutes of intervals on the elliptical followed by weights and some good yoga poses for the lengthening and calming effects.

And moving on in THAT same vein, the weight loss is about to kick back into gear (now that an un-named medicine has worked its evil way back out of my system with its weight GAINING tendencies!) and I'm setting the end goal of THAT at forty more pounds for a total of seventy pounds lost. I can possibly accomplish that by the end of the summer without either starving myself or killing myself in the process. We shall see. But, you see, the timing of the final amount is NOT the goal. The goal is simply the loss of forty more pounds. Since my body seems to have finally adjusted to the weight I've held onto for the past month and a half (no more cold feeling!!!) I think it's time to move on down again.

So that's it for me. No "resolutions" that are going to break by the end of the week. No deadlines for things I can't really control, enabling me to think of myself as a failure. I CAN do what I'm setting out for myself. And with my shiny new positive attitude thing (which seemed to kind of mystify my sister and my dad, too, when I was up for the holidays...) I won't allow myself to wallow if and when there are setbacks.

I'd love to know any of your own goals for the new year. I think this year is going to be a good one. I can just FEEL it inside me. Let's do what we can to share our goals and really support each other. Lift up your friends when they slip a bit, and allow someone to be a support for you. No man is an island. Or at least not a tropical, sunny island. A grouchy man without friends might be one of those scary, windswept Antarctic islands and why would he want to be that? Even there the penguins know they have to huddle together in masses to survive.

Happy New Year to you all! I'm off to write a scene.

A Few Actual Truths About Racism

An incredibly, incredibly confused person sent out a bulletin earlier today that I had to respond to. I've gotten one or two of these things before, but my response has been to delete the "friend" and try to damp down the sickening feeling that arose from reading their "thoughts." This time I had to protest. I had to take a stand over sheer, thoughtless ignorance. Because the people passing this hideous thing around are Christian parents raising children. They need to know that they are WRONG and since their pastor is evidently not getting through to them in church on Sunday, I'm going to attempt some tough love myself.

The title of the bulletin I received was "This may offend some, but it's the truth." I'm going to take issue with the very title in that it WILL offend MOST, and it's absolutely NOT the truth. I cannot reprint the entire thing here as it turns my stomach and makes me want to forget all about my optimism, but I'm taking excerpts about those "truths" and showing the fallacy for what it is. Here we go. The words in black are NOT mine. Pay attention, please.

There are African Americans, Mexican Americans, Asian Americans, Arab Americans,
Native Americans, etc. And then there are just Americans.

Kinda stupid already. The actual "Americans" ARE the Native Americans. Our European ancestors are the ones who shoved their way in here and forced out the natives. And has the writer never heard the term "European American" or another term known widely as "Caucasian?"

You pass me on the street and sneer in my direction. You Call me "White boy," "Cracker," "Honkey," "Whitey," "Caveman,"...And that's OK.

I'm whiter than paper. Whiter than flour, even. But I've never, ever had these terms applied to me, even in jest. Even by drunks. So I'm guessing the color of the boy's skin wasn't the reason he was being called names in the first place. As for it being OK? Um, not it's not. Name calling is stupid and childish for any reason, but name calling in order to denigrate a person by race is, indeed, racist and NOT okay. Didn't your mamma ever teach you that?


You say that whites commit a lot of violence against you, so why are the ghettos the most
dangerous places to live?

Interesting to note, in the list of the 25 most dangerous cities in the country, 20 of them are in the region designated as the south. Mississippi, Louisianna, Florida, South Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee, Texas....Though I'm sure no one can deny the terror of the ghettos of Pine Bluff, Arkansas. Apparently, if you want to be safe you must live in the midwest or the northeast. Or Wisconsin. (Sidebar here while I crack up about Fargo being twenty-five in the "safest" column. Watch out for those mulchers!!!)

You have the United Negro College Fund. You have Hispanic History Month. You have Martin Luther King Day. You have Asian History Month. You have Black History Month.
You have Cesar Chavez Day. You have Ma'uled Al-Nabi. You have Yom Hashoah. You have Kawanza. You have the NAACP. And you have BET.

That entire paragraph skeeves me out. The United Negro College Fund came into existence in 1943, long after whites had been going to college (Harvard, the first college in the US opened in 1638 and it only took six years before a scholarship fund appeared there when it became obvious that poor people can get ahead easier if they are given some help. Now, I didn't look it up, but I'm going to assume here that black people were not permitted to enter Harvard in the sixteen hundreds. It might be, just maybe, that white people have had some breaks for four hundred years. And someone is complaining because blacks have had a college scholarship for sixty-four years? Really?

The other attacks in the above paragraph of vitriole are equally ridiculous. Presidents's Day celebrates 43 white men in one day! Columbus Day, unless you want to argue that he is Italian and does not count regardless of having found the damn country for us. I'm betting there were more than a few white Puritans having Thanksgiving dinner with Squanto. Valentine, a Roman martyr. And what about Easter and Christmas? Perhaps we should no longer celebrate those holidays as they do originally hail from the Middle East and since Jesus wasn't really what you'd call a white guy.

There are over 60 openly-proclaimed Black-only Colleges in the US, yet if there were "White-only Colleges" ...THAT would be a racist college.

There is no such thing as a Black-Only College. There are 114 Historically Black Colleges (I attended one myself) but those schools do not prohibit other races from entering. And up until 1964, ALL other colleges in the US, WERE white-only colleges. Three hundred and twenty-six years of white-only colleges in this country. Is there a way you can look at that fact and NOT call that racism?

The negativity continues in a diatribe against the Million Man march, the anger that white people are not supposed to show pride in their culture, and on and on, ending with this line:

Why is it that only whites can be racists?

I suppose, again, that this question stems from the writer's inability to look up facts, to suss out the actual arguments in his statements. Perhaps if he did so, he would find his world view shattered as his illusions about "inequality" and the poor, unfairly treated white man crumbled around him.

There is nothing to be prideful about in defending statements (ahem, lies) such as those listed above. Anyone professing Christianity should be sorely, sorely ashamed if those remarks reflect their own beliefs, and should go spend some quiet time in the New Testament re-learning their Beattitudes.

For now, this is all I can manage on this topic. It's taken a good chunk of my evening, fact-checking so as not to be as dumb as the original writer and then the constant "forwarders" of that nonsense, but I feel cleaner now. Fresher and a little more hopeful that someday these people will realize how petty and small their viewpoint is. How they are suffocating themselves into a tiny cloistered little world of anger. How a person can never rise up while he is shoving someone else down.

Party Till the Chocolate Chips

The party last Friday night was a success. My outfit was suitable once I tied the waist as tightly as I could with a black scarf AND put on the highest heels I owned so as not to drag the pants on the ground. Here's a pic. Be sure to notice how Rich looks as if he's off to have the time of his life. It's because I and my sister-in-law had just been talking about dancing.



As it turned out, there was no dancing that evening, but we did have a wonderful time. The restaurant showed me why sometimes beef is actually worth $40 (but only if I'm not buying...) and that really good red wines even pair well with lobster. Basically, it was a killer restaurant. Yummy, even. The best mushrooms, spinach, and white au gratin potatoes in the world. Or at least in my relatively small realm of experience.

After dinner our group, which consisted of six couples and one single guy, walked across Glenwood to visit a private club called Havana's. It turned out to be a cigar bar (who'da guessed, right?) but it was cozy and comfy and had a dart board we monopolized for a couple hours. Damon beat the boss and the boss's wife was from Sweden so she kept saying "Hit the wall!" in a very dry wit which cracked me up. On the way home, Damon burst into a rendition of "The Greatest Love of All" by Ms. Whitney Houston. I did not know why he started it, but I joined in for all I was worth.

Basically, a very nice evening of luxury and good company that was fully funded by the company, liquor and all, or should I say "all the liquor?" Which was fine because Rich was the DD for me, Damon, and Angela. So it was a good night....

Followed by my Sunday morning plans to bake cookies. I've always baked chocolate chip cookies for Christmas season, often passing them out to neighbors and friends as I tend to bake way, way too many. I use the same recipe every year. The same recipe my own mother has used for years and years. (This year I even had a good oven instead of the horrible gas oven that came with the house. The door wouldn't even close on that monster. We pitched it last summer.) But the cookies. Oh, the cookies turned out badly and I cannot figure out why. I have a reputation for burning things and this batch of cookies isn't going to help. But because they turned out so ugly they are funny, I'm offering myself up for entertainment value. Observe, the scene of the crime.



How the poor things came out so FLAT, I cannot figure.



And how these came out both flat and BURNED is, again, a mystery.



Those of you who are married to people who can cook? Love them. Appreciate them. Eat THEIR cookies. And send me some, would you? I have none for my holidays now!

A Christmas Conundrum

Christmastime is here. My mood is cheerful. And yesterday Rich called with an interesting proposition. Did we want to attend his company's Christmas party? Now, usually we are not social people, choosing to hibernate a LOT, but this sounds like a good time with free food at a GREAT place. (http://www.sullivansteakhouse.com/)

So, we're in. I'm even looking forward to the rare possibility of dancing. Then it hit me. Quite literally, I have nothing to wear.

Today I worked my heinie off and booked it over to Goodwill to see if I could pick up something simple and easy. Um, nope. So I went into my guest room closet where my banished, too-large clothes live now until they all sell. It occurred to me that maybe, just maybe I could take something from my previous cocktail-type clothes and make it work. (In case you haven't guessed, I've been watching Project Runway....)

I pulled from my closet a knee-length black dress and a knee-length black skirt with black lace overlay. Simple, classy, I thought. And neither no longer hit me at the knee, falling instead all the way to that mid-calf length that turns even lovely legs into tree stumps. Hmm. But maybe the dress with a belt. Egad, even the belts are too big.

Let me take a little break here to say I realize it sounds like I'm bragging about the weight loss, but seriously? I have a closet of clothes that do fit me and every single piece is a t-shirt/tank top/capri pant/gym shorts/sweatshirt motif. Seriously. And we're in a financial crunch so no new clothes and especially no new clothes that I won't be able to wear ever again since I'm going to shrink even further before another "occassion" will arise. So back to the dressing room.

The black dress might work if I tie up the waist with a scarf, perhaps a solid black scarf if I can recall what I might have done with it. The lace skirt might do as well if I pin the waistband way up under my arms in order to keep the hem just above the knee. But then I don't have any tops that will fall correctly to camoflauge the fact that my skirt is masquerading as an empire waistline.

Then I saw something forgotten in the back of my regular closet. It was behind the few suit jackets that Rich owns, over in the rarely used section of clothes. It was a bunch of clothes covered in a dry-cleaning bag. They were things that belonged to my sister, Beth. Kristen and I divvied up the clothes after Beth passed and these few pieces were things she didn't think she would wear and things I can either recall Beth wearing or just looked like her to me. (One fine example is the pair of snakeskin printed pants. She was wearing those at karaoke singing "Good-bye Earl" and I'll never forget it. No way those things are ever leaving my closet.)

But also in that bag was a sweater she and I used to fight over. I'd steal it from her closet because it looked so good on me and she'd steal it back just to keep me from looking so good in it. (or because it actually belonged to her... you know.) I looked at it and remembered wearing it years ago, when Kevin was a baby, when Rich and I were newly dating. I put it on and it fit.


There is no better motivation for my positive attitude today. That sweater is hanging in the "wearable" section of my closet even now, victoriously signaling my return to a smaller size. There are so few items of clothes in there right now that it's a pretty clear signal and should be an effective one for me.

I can't wear it to the party, true. Not nearly dressy enough. But something will work out, or something will work just well enough to get me through for now. Besides which, it's a martini bar. After a couple drinks, no one is going to notice my safety-pinned waistline anyway.

I'm positive.

I hope you all have parties and good times with friends and family coming up soon. Enjoy them all and enjoy this Christmas season!

Optimism is Catching

It's been a weird year. Serious financial stress. The boy entered high school. I returned to the workforce. And more that I don't write about, though I know it must seem that I spill my guts entirely here in my blog. Any of these alone would be stressful but together they pack a whomping K.O. punch.

Luckily, I discovered the secret to survival. And not just survival, but a true, progressive survival. Enlightenment, perhaps. The secret is optimism.

Who knew?

Some of you are guffawing even as you read this. I'm so ordinarily full of snark but am now championing optimism? Oh, believe it, Friend. I have had too much proof in the here and now to be a doubter.

My job hurts me, physically. Though it's getting better all the time (due to callous development) there are still muscles making themselves known to me every day. Last week I had the utter joy of having two days off IN A ROW. What bliss! What utter wonderfulness!!! On the first day off I awoke with a serious sinus pressure headache and a scratchy throat of a cold. "Of course," my snarky self said inside my head. But instead of wallowing in my despair, I took some Alka-Seltzer Cold Plus and went about my day. And went about the next day, keeping myself drugged to the gills at all times. On the third day of the cold, the day I had to return to the workforce with TWO houses to clean, a total of seven hours of scrubbing mind you, I wo-manned up for it. As I drove my boy to school at seven a.m., mainlining coffee as we went, I said out loud: "I feel GREAT! I'm going to have a GREAT day."

Kevin, of course, thought I was joking. He had watched my cold progress and knew I was about to have a killer day. Plus, he's been raised to the ripe old age of thirteen by the Queen of Snark. He just knew I must be kidding.

But I wasn't. I was determined to mean it. Even as he laughed at me I repeated that mantra again. And I left for my workday with cold medicine in hand and a forced good attitude at heart. And it worked.

You could have knocked me over with a feather. Plus, when I woke Saturday morning, my cold was GONE. (let's have a brief commercial break here in honor of Alka-Seltzer Cold Plus. I highly recommend it.) But more than that, my optimism was still with me.

I've used that mantra, and the good attitude that accompanies it, several times over the last few days. It really works-- dulling a bad mood, shortening a dull chore, enhancing a short break. The optimism is even now slopping over into goodwill toward the world in general since I couldn't wait to share this information with all my friends.

It's my gift to you. Use it well and enjoy it. And though you may not believe it will work when you first try, just try it wholeheartedly.

Pure in heart would be great too, but only if you can manage it!

Enjoy the blessings of the holiday. (And no, I'm not still taking the cold medicine.)

The Icicles of My Guts

Sometimes it's possible to question a doctor's opinion. Those instances can lead to follow up questions, corrected miscommunications, a healthy and fun exchange of ideas, learning more than you thought possible about the topic at hand.

Today was not that experience for me.

See, my weight loss is going GREAT. I'm thirty freaking pounds lighter now, even after Great Gravy Day. My clothes are bagging off my body and I'm beginning to see the hourglass emerging from the snow globe. Problem is, I'm FREEZING all the time. Duh, symptom of big weight loss, right?

Sure. So I went researching online (because that's just what I do when I want to know stuff) and came across one of those sites where professionals volunteer their time to answer questions in their fields of expertise. I figures, Yay! Free info! And I typed in my question, full of detailed facts and all pertinent information.

My question was what to do about the internal cold stemming from my ongoing weight loss.

That's what I wanted to know. Are there supplements that might kick my internal thermostat back into gear or is my only recourse piling on more sweaters and socks? Simple, right?

The PA who answered me asked questions to find the source of my sudden coldness. Questions about cardiovascular exercise for circulation, if I am a smoker, or if it's possible I have hypothyroidism. That's fine, questions to rule out possibilities are great. Then she went on to say that my coldness is not caused by losing 30 pounds, especially since I still weigh 195 pounds. If I weighed only 100 pounds she could understand the cold and it would be due to malnutrition.

Anyone else just crinkle their brow and say, "Huh?"

So, okay, I filled her in on her questions: plenty of cardio, no smoking, no thyroid problems. Check. And then let her know that lots of women who lose a chunk of weight get cold. Even women who still aren't yet skinny. To which she took exception.

Apparently she is disappointed when clients don't like her answers and "argue" with her. She hopes I find the source of my problem with my own doctor and that I can manage to find a way to stay warm this winter. And then she blocked me from further follow up.

Hmm. Her suggestion to speak to my own doctor was good advice. I called her office, reported my weight loss and internal frozen temps and she said, "Of course it's because of the weight loss. Pile on the sweater and let's hope you adjust. You got forty pounds more to go!"

Why didn't I just think to speak to her in the first place? Updated pics coming soon.

The Sounds of Silence.... Or Not

While I'm enjoying my time off and lying around the house doing NOTHING (yay!) some thoughts passed through my mind and I thought I'd share.

I added a new song to my profile page. It is The Foo Fighters song "The Pretender," and it's awesome. Like, Captain Awesome. (Anyone else watch "How I Met Your Mother" and just saluted Captain Awesome just now? No? Just me, huh?)

So... The Pretender. The chorus throws me into Sesame Street in my head every single time I hear it. It cracks me up. As soon as that chorus powers up, here come Bert and Ernie and Mr. Snufalupagus wandering through, headbanging a little. I won't say exactly why so you can go listen and report back on your own findings.

In other music news, my son has started a band. Sigh. The boy is the guitar player, his Girl FRIEND (uh-huh, so he says) is drumming, his buddy Tyler is singing, and their buddy Hippie is playing something. Tonight Kevin and Tyler are banging around the house here and have created a song, written it down, and are upstairs right now with Rich getting it recorded.

I have to say how ambivalent I am about this, if only because of the number of musicians I dated in the past and how incredibly selfish and unaccountable they can be. My heart kind of freezes up when I think of Kevin playing in a band. But he's a good musician and it's all kinds off fun for them and as long as they don't mind the Mom Supervision, I'm all right with it. Mostly. They do have an incredibly good name for a first-time group of kids. Go check them out over on their myspace page:

www.myspace.com/fallingfaster911.com

Strange the things that make you feel older than you should.

May all your listening be easy... and enjoyable.

The UnMerry Maid

Housecleaning sucks. I know I signed on to do this voluntarily and I know it's for a good cause. Turns out, I'm pretty good at it, too, if a little slower than I should be, but I can work up the efficiency. Thing is: it hurts.

My feet hurt, my knees are bruised like I'm a five year old in the summertime, my right hip aches for reasons passing understanding, my lower back is about to revolt, and my right hand is demanding my left hand learn how to scrub. I have blisters on my palms and I smell all the time of bleach and lemon-scented PineSol.

Worse than this, though, is the continuing physical exhaustion. It's eight-fifteen right now and I'm pondering how soon I can logically go to sleep. This has been going on for weeks now and I'm tired of being tired.

Surely, my body will acclimate, right? I mean, I never considered that a forty-five minute daily workout might not have prepared me for eight hours of actual, physical labor. But the truth is irrefutable. I'm a weenie. And a whiney weenie at that. A weary whiney weenie.

And, sadly, that's the best writing I've done this week. Too tired to stay up till eleven is one thing, but too tired to WRITE is a problem.

Thank God for a five day weekend, starting NOW!!!

For this evening, I'm going to make popcorn (real popcorn, not that microwave stuff...) and read a Nora Roberts. Her heroines tend to make me feel more aggressive and capable. That can only be a good thing.

Happy Thanksgiving to all, and to all my English friends: enjoy Thursday!

Can't Life Always Be a Beach?

So the week at the beachhouse with twenty-five other women writers (and Roger)? Totally wonderful. The best thing I've done for my writing career to date. My hero, The Cherry, was charming and fabulous, just as reported. Each of the teachers gave out such good information that I've rushed right home to play with. Plans for next year are a go.

In short, there are no superlatives strong enough to say how fun and beneficial last week was. Who knew you could throw so many women together in a house and have them all come out friends? In the past, this has not been my experience. But last week, if three of us were gathered together, you could be sure there was a murder being plotted or some poor guy was being roped into fatherhood with his dead brother's baby. Fashion choices for our heroines were paramount, while our own clothes ran the gamut from cherry print pajama pants (me) to cute, girly tops with jeans (Allison) to lovely, long beach-walking skirts (Jenny). Food was good, margaritas were plentiful, Diet Coke flowed morning, noon, and night, and chocolate candy kept our blood sugar stabilized throughout the afternoon sessions. It was heaven.

At the end of the week, I returned home into a cloud of testosterone produced by the men in my household. Dog hair and dirt clots and ketchup stains, oh my. Halloween II on DVD, marching band competition, hot peppers, bicycle grease, skateboard tape, loud music, no conversation, hair products, dirty socks under my pillow (from Marlo, no less, the estrogen bond doesn't extend to dachshunds), hot dogs and tater tots, burping skills, Japanese movies, and video game stories.

The mild depression only grew with my return to my new housecleaning job. Bedmaking, vacuuming, streakless shines on mirrors, squeegie on shower doors, dust corralled and microwaves scrubbed clean. Suddenly, instead of simpatico storylines and genre-bending plot twists, my back ached, my feet hurt, and my fingernails began to break. Too tired to watch prime time and too addled to write, I started to wonder if I would ever snap out of the non-writer-crowd doldrums.

But last night as I was going up to bed at 9 pm, I heard guitars and poked my head into Rich's recording room. He and Kev were playing together, singing in harmony one of my favorite Concrete Blond songs, "The Darkening of the Light." My heart flipped over and I was at peace, back in Wife and MommyVille, and happy to be here.

Maybe it is possible to have everything. Each in its own time.

Oh, The Horror!

Sometimes I am dumb.

It's not a confession I make lightly, but this is one of those times I gotta fess up. I am dumb.

This is October, see. And starting a couple years back, Kevin and I began watching scary movies during the month of October, kind of gearing up for Halloween. The first year it was all about Psycho and The Sixth Sense. Both excellent and creepy, but basically non-gory and with little actual violence.

Last year was The Shining, both the Jack Nicholson and the Stephen King mini-series versions, and The Lost Boys. A little more psychological terror and a little more blood, albeit of the giggling, stupid, boy-wasn't-this-made-in-the-eighties variety.

Last night we kicked it up a notch. We watched the old, original Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Yep, I'm dumb.

Rich is out of town, Kevin and I both get scared of scary movies (I don't KNOW why we started doing this.....) so of course, the thing to do was to turn on the scariest of the slasher movies sporting the creepiest family that has ever lived on film.

Ten minutes in, we were sitting smack up against each other, feet up on the couch, eyes bulging in horror and vowing neither of us would ever, EVER pick up a hitchhiker. (So, maybe there is some redeeming value...) By the end of the film, Kevin and I are nearly inside each others skins, hanging on for dear life and trying not to scream louder than the poor, stupid heroine.

When it was over, we both sat gasping for breath, horrified at the idea that we were going to have to go upstairs and go to sleep within the next couple hours. Luckily, we had an episode of "Chuck" on the TiVo that cleansed our shaken spiritual palates and made it nearly okay to walk upstairs in the dark.

Oddly enough, we both slept without nightmares and Kevin says he never once peeked under his bed. I can't admit to the same, but I will make the excuse that my bed is on risers and old Leatherface might have been able to squeeze his bulk AND his creepy old Chain Saw under there.

Tomorrow we will be getting "The Silence of the Lambs" from Netflix. Some things never change.

Jumpstart, aka, Autumn on an Island

This Saturday I'm off to the Isle of Palms in South Carolina. I'm leaving home for a week-long master class on writing, staying in a beachside house with twenty-four other women writers, soaking up business and craft advice from the pros each day during the seminars. I'm thrilled beyond measure.

Preparing for a writing trip is an odd experience. Clothing is nowhere near the top of the list of things to be sorted and gathered and packed, which might mean I end up arriving there with plenty of notebooks and pens and my laptop but only one pair of socks and three t-shirts. I've been making sure my works in progress and completed manuscripts are in my laptop, saved in the proper format, not to mention in good enough shape to SHARE with other writers. That's stressful.

Also, I'm not experienced at critiquing others work and we'll be doing that in groups each evening. That's stressful.

I'm kind of anti-social and I'm going to be sharing a bedroom and bath with two other women, not to mention a whole house with LOTS of other women. That's kind of stressful until I think about the fact that we're all writers, mostly of romance and women's fiction, and seriously, how could that NOT be fun? Chances are good that I'm going to get spoiled to that atmosphere and have to seriously reacclimate upon returning to my man-filled home.

There might have been lots of problems with me taking off like that for a week of me-time, but lucky for me, I have a son who doesn't mind his mother leaving him for a week, a mother who doesn't mind coming down to babysit --ahem-- provide supervision for my son, and a husband who will be working in that direct area of South Carolina for the majority of that same week. Which is cool cause it means we can go on a date or two while I'm there and ride our bikes up and down the beach. Yay!

So while I'll be popping in and out of here all this week and while I WILL have access to the internet all of next week, you may not hear from me a lot while I'm gone. But I'll be gathering material and you can be sure it'll be put to good use when I return.

The Updated Life of Beki

The major changes going on in my life (and the lives of those in my immediate trajectory) have continued, sadly, leaving me physically exhausted and with little time for MySpace gossip, er, I mean NETWORKING. But I'm here with an update before I fall asleep again and before I get so into my day tomorrow morning that Friday suddenly appears out of nowhere.

The debt diet is working big time. Our credit cards are relegated to a big block of ice in the freezer and I've gotten a job. Yes, a job. Stop laughing. I know I've explained (in a much earlier blog) all the different jobs I have held along with several instances of firing. But this job might be different. For one thing I'm an independent contractor so I can claim business expenses on the income tax return (which is a BIG deal). It's also a job to which I can wear jeans and t-shirts, no make-up and can completely shun a hairstyle.
I'm a maid. I can hear my brother and sister laughing right now. We'll give them a few seconds to stop and come back.

So I'm a maid. Kind of like Merry Maids but without the good attitude. I'm doing residential housecleaning which means a different home each day of the week, roughly eighteen hours of work each week and it's a surprisingly good-paying job.

The physical labor is something else again. I had no idea how bad it would hurt to clean house. Go ahead and laugh, but I really didn't. I have never been what you'd call domestic. I don't cook well and as long as there is no visible dirt, I'm pretty happy. I have always been able to deal with a certain level of clutter in the house and I'm not ever in a hurry to clean a bathroom floor. Ah, those days are gone. I went out each day last week and cleaned a house and then came home and couldn't help but to clean somewhere in my own home. It's a sickness, it really is. But at least it's something that will help pay down debt, allow me to still be at home when my boy gets home from school, and leave plenty of writing time to boot. And if on top of all that I just happen to learn how to efficiently clean a house, well, I'm sure Rich won't turn up his nose at that skill.

Fall TV viewing has only gotten consistently better with "Chuck," "The Big Bang Theory," and "Private Practice" keeping me entertained. I'm also adding to the list "Dirty Sexy Money," a show which definitely suffers from stupid title disease, but which gave me goosebumps when ending a recent episode with a verse and chorus of Concrete Blonde's version of "Everybody Knows," which is a Leonard Cohen song not to be sniffed at. I'd be a fangirl for sure, if only for that, but the show really is cool. Tangled and dripping with diamonds for sure, but very cool at the same time. Not at all Paris Hilton-y. Besides, who doesn't like Peter Krause? If we could call him "Casey" and bring in Dan to be a partner in his lawfirm, I might be in heaven.

My own personal non-diet-lifestyle-change is still going well. I'm another four pounds down at the moment for a grand total of twenty-six. It's a noticeable difference now. The other day I stole back from my son my "Dragon's Last Roar" high school grad t-shirt when I realized it fit again. It's hanging gloriously in my closet since there's no way I'm going to wear in public a shirt which proclaims I graduated high school in 1990. Why advertise?

I hope all of you, my friends, are doing well and moving forward with your own personal goals. Each big goal is only a series of little steps and each can only be met one step at a time. Take your time on the journey, experience each step and when you reach your goal, embrace the joy that comes with your success. I'm waiting, excited, to do the same.