It's official: I'm home from my Christmas vacation. Well, actually, I was home last Thursday, but have not yet found opportunity to spend time with my neglected blog. For some reason, I had quite a bit of work piled on my desk when I returned to the office on Friday. Funny how that works.
It's still there, in fact, so I'd better make this brief. Very brief. In fact, I'm leaving now.
Ok, ok, I'll leave you with one more little bit o' stuff.
With the blanket of snow we have, the darkness of night isn't quite so dark. It can be a little spooky--it's so quiet; most of the birds and critters that usually provide background music are gone until spring. When I turn out the lights, the loudest noise I hear from my bed is the refrigerator on the other end of the house, or the furnace in the basement.
The other night, when I went to bed around twelve, I clicked off the lamp but left the radio on for a few minutes. My eyes adjusted to the dark. When I at last rolled over to turn off the radio, I automatically looked out the window at the head of my bed. I clearly saw the dark shape of maple tree that I usually see--and two shorter shapes that did not belong. It took me a moment to realize what I was seeing.
Deer. Two deer were grazing in my yard at midnight, on a lunar landscape of softly-glowing white. When I woke the next morning, I could see the little patches of ground that they had cleared of snow to reach the still-tender grass beneath. Crazy.
Happy New Year
Monday, December 31, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
sound forth the trumpets of yule!
Well, it's a good thing I'm firmly in the holiday spirit, for today I struggle through the joys of flying and make my way cross-country to the Seattle-Tacoma International airport, to be met by my parents and swept up into a joyful week of holiday gluttony. I love Christmas. No big surprise for anyone, I know. I love it all--the making presents, the baking--the eating of the baking--the music. Yes, I love Christmas music. But not all Christmas music, indiscriminately, never fear. I particularly dislike the modern pop songs that really don't have anything to do with the actual holiday.
There are way, way too many Christmas break-up songs.
I don't even know where to begin when criticizing that one. So I'll just say one thing: if your relationships hinge on Santa Claus, you're in big trouble. Get professional help.
Though the image of Santa bringing down an errant boyfriend with a tranquilizer dart and stuffing him into the big red sack is somewhat amusing.
But I'd rather sing songs about Jesus. And walking in my winter underwear.
Merry Christmas from the Wonderspools!
There are way, way too many Christmas break-up songs.
I don't even know where to begin when criticizing that one. So I'll just say one thing: if your relationships hinge on Santa Claus, you're in big trouble. Get professional help.
Though the image of Santa bringing down an errant boyfriend with a tranquilizer dart and stuffing him into the big red sack is somewhat amusing.
But I'd rather sing songs about Jesus. And walking in my winter underwear.
Merry Christmas from the Wonderspools!
Monday, December 17, 2007
supposition
So come on, then, and make love to me
the old-fashioned way,
with the flash of your eyes and the tender
press of your hand.
With really bad poetry, even.
As long as it’s from your heart,
and makes me laugh.
And we’re outdoors, in some suitably inspiring scene—
Beach, at a clear summer sunset.
Or moon rise over the darkened tree line, our breath misting the air.
In the fresh green grass, lying dizzy and stained from rolling downhill.
The sparkly creek, watching minnows explore our toes as we wade.
Snowball-fight aftermath, when we’re cold and wet and bedraggled
and laughing too hard to run anymore.
So come on, then, and make love to me
the old-fashioned way,
with a handful of forget-me-nots from the back woods
and sweet, sweet, tiny wild strawberries.
the old-fashioned way,
with the flash of your eyes and the tender
press of your hand.
With really bad poetry, even.
As long as it’s from your heart,
and makes me laugh.
And we’re outdoors, in some suitably inspiring scene—
Beach, at a clear summer sunset.
Or moon rise over the darkened tree line, our breath misting the air.
In the fresh green grass, lying dizzy and stained from rolling downhill.
The sparkly creek, watching minnows explore our toes as we wade.
Snowball-fight aftermath, when we’re cold and wet and bedraggled
and laughing too hard to run anymore.
So come on, then, and make love to me
the old-fashioned way,
with a handful of forget-me-nots from the back woods
and sweet, sweet, tiny wild strawberries.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
the great fork mystery, part one
Because they never should have quit making "choose your own adventure" stories...
Once upon a time, in the far, far away kingdom of Baker, a tiny tragedy plagued the lives of noble and peasant alike.
The forks in the kitchen were steadily and surely decreasing in number, and no one knew why. Castle folk found themselves forced to forego food requiring the use of the utensil. The ladies in waiting began a soup club. The stable hands learned how to spoon their steaks. The great king of all the land proclaimed that great reward for the missing utensil would be offered—a tower of books that reached high into the sky, high enough to loom over the castle and threaten to topple in stiff breezes and rain paper upon the whole land.
"Perhaps the forks have begun a southern migration." The steward hypothesized. "They prefer lots of sunshine."
"Or the heated dishwasher has fused them all into spoons—there are a plenteous quantity of spoons," answered the housekeeper.
"I think the blue dragon has been hoarding them in his cave," said the second squire. "He likes shiny things, you know."
But no matter where these good folk searched, the forks could not be found. The scribe circumspectly sent notice to the neighboring kingdoms, and secretly smuggled forks would pass the Baker borders and be sold covertly in the dead of night for absurd quantities of gold coin. These were kept securely hidden by their owners, whose began more and more frequently to lunch in their own private chambers, where none could see—and envy—the use of the rare utensil.
The king became more desperate. "Whatever shall we do?" He cried to his queen. "First we became unable to twirl our pasta, and now, our people grow unsociable and taciturn. And all because of these missing forks!"
The queen calmed him as best she could. "We must simply persevere, my good king," she said. "Perhaps there is a solution we have yet to discover that will solve our woes…"
What could the solution be? Send in your own conclusions!
Once upon a time, in the far, far away kingdom of Baker, a tiny tragedy plagued the lives of noble and peasant alike.
The forks in the kitchen were steadily and surely decreasing in number, and no one knew why. Castle folk found themselves forced to forego food requiring the use of the utensil. The ladies in waiting began a soup club. The stable hands learned how to spoon their steaks. The great king of all the land proclaimed that great reward for the missing utensil would be offered—a tower of books that reached high into the sky, high enough to loom over the castle and threaten to topple in stiff breezes and rain paper upon the whole land.
"Perhaps the forks have begun a southern migration." The steward hypothesized. "They prefer lots of sunshine."
"Or the heated dishwasher has fused them all into spoons—there are a plenteous quantity of spoons," answered the housekeeper.
"I think the blue dragon has been hoarding them in his cave," said the second squire. "He likes shiny things, you know."
But no matter where these good folk searched, the forks could not be found. The scribe circumspectly sent notice to the neighboring kingdoms, and secretly smuggled forks would pass the Baker borders and be sold covertly in the dead of night for absurd quantities of gold coin. These were kept securely hidden by their owners, whose began more and more frequently to lunch in their own private chambers, where none could see—and envy—the use of the rare utensil.
The king became more desperate. "Whatever shall we do?" He cried to his queen. "First we became unable to twirl our pasta, and now, our people grow unsociable and taciturn. And all because of these missing forks!"
The queen calmed him as best she could. "We must simply persevere, my good king," she said. "Perhaps there is a solution we have yet to discover that will solve our woes…"
What could the solution be? Send in your own conclusions!
Thursday, December 6, 2007
alternate reality
living on tootsie rolls and cream soda
continually intriguing myself with an acoustic guitar
doing push-ups until my arms give out
my cat coming to trek across my back
continually intriguing myself with an acoustic guitar
doing push-ups until my arms give out
my cat coming to trek across my back
Friday, November 30, 2007
first snow
Well, here it is. The first "real" snowfall of the year. We had some lovely soft "snow globe" snow yesterday, but no real accumulation. This morning, however, the world was covered in a blanket of white. About three inches, I should think. I turned on the radio to listen to the ridiculous quantity of accidents that had already happened by 7:15, and when it came my turn to brave the white stuff, I grandma-drove all the way to work. (This is an appropriate time to insert how grateful I am to have a garage. It makes me so happy!)
It always bemuses and frustrates me that people are so stupid when the drive on the first snow. Yes, you have to get used to it again. Hello! So drive slowly and cautiously until you get used to it. I'm always amazed how many people totally seem to forget what driving on snow requires--until they slide into a light pole or someone else's rear end. Yes, it was slippery last March, and its slippery again this November. Yes, you need to double your stopping distance.
And no, they don't plow my road. I was wondering about that. The first quarter mile out of my driveway is gravel--and mostly uphill. That last big hill before I reached the pavement--yeah, I was spinning out a little. I can't wait to see what happens when we get "real" amounts of snow. At least things were better once I got to pavement. That's where the plow stopped, see. Right at the edge. I don't know why. Perhaps they can't plow gravel. I've never asked.
So I think I need some chains for my tires. The little Cavalier is plucky, but not indefatigable. At least, I've noted, there is no big ditch for me to slide into. Even if I can't make it up the hill, I probably won't get stuck. I say "probably" to not jinx myself with overconfidence. Perhaps I shall finally get a big bag of cheap kitty litter for the trunk...and one of those emergency shovels.
Or a Land Rover. A Land Rover would work quite nicely. Or a woolly mammoth. I want to ride a woolly mammoth to work. Hm. But where would I park him?
It always bemuses and frustrates me that people are so stupid when the drive on the first snow. Yes, you have to get used to it again. Hello! So drive slowly and cautiously until you get used to it. I'm always amazed how many people totally seem to forget what driving on snow requires--until they slide into a light pole or someone else's rear end. Yes, it was slippery last March, and its slippery again this November. Yes, you need to double your stopping distance.
And no, they don't plow my road. I was wondering about that. The first quarter mile out of my driveway is gravel--and mostly uphill. That last big hill before I reached the pavement--yeah, I was spinning out a little. I can't wait to see what happens when we get "real" amounts of snow. At least things were better once I got to pavement. That's where the plow stopped, see. Right at the edge. I don't know why. Perhaps they can't plow gravel. I've never asked.
So I think I need some chains for my tires. The little Cavalier is plucky, but not indefatigable. At least, I've noted, there is no big ditch for me to slide into. Even if I can't make it up the hill, I probably won't get stuck. I say "probably" to not jinx myself with overconfidence. Perhaps I shall finally get a big bag of cheap kitty litter for the trunk...and one of those emergency shovels.
Or a Land Rover. A Land Rover would work quite nicely. Or a woolly mammoth. I want to ride a woolly mammoth to work. Hm. But where would I park him?
Thursday, November 29, 2007
night, driving through rain
You look out the window, smiling your secret smile.
I want to know why.
Is that smile for me? Am I truly in your thoughts,
as you are in mine?
I want to know I want to know I want to know.
I want truths to drop from your lips like pearls.
Your sweet, sweet lips.
Your funny, wry, intelligent lips.
It isn’t a question of clarity, you say. It is a question of…
Well, that’s something you won’t tell me.
I’m just supposed to know. I need to know.
And I am driven exquisitely mad.
I know that I only know enough to know that I don’t know.
Your confounding, sparkling eyes.
That smile again.
The rain like sharp-cut jewels in sound and sight
as headlights flash, wipers wave, tires go
shh shh shhhhhhhhh
I want to know why.
Is that smile for me? Am I truly in your thoughts,
as you are in mine?
I want to know I want to know I want to know.
I want truths to drop from your lips like pearls.
Your sweet, sweet lips.
Your funny, wry, intelligent lips.
It isn’t a question of clarity, you say. It is a question of…
Well, that’s something you won’t tell me.
I’m just supposed to know. I need to know.
And I am driven exquisitely mad.
I know that I only know enough to know that I don’t know.
Your confounding, sparkling eyes.
That smile again.
The rain like sharp-cut jewels in sound and sight
as headlights flash, wipers wave, tires go
shh shh shhhhhhhhh
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
things you’re never too old for, part 2
Things you're never too old for:
8. changing the words to familiar Christmas carols
"Later on, we'll perspire
as we dream by the fire
and face unafraid the plans that we made
walking in our winter underwear!"
8. changing the words to familiar Christmas carols
"Later on, we'll perspire
as we dream by the fire
and face unafraid the plans that we made
walking in our winter underwear!"
Monday, November 26, 2007
get back to where you once belonged
Well, the Thanksgiving holiday is over, and I'm back. Back to my alarm clock, back to my desk, back to my computer, back to my lime green travel mug of coffee.
And back to the Christmas season. Yes, we have eaten the turkey, which launches us firmly and legitimately into winter and the Christmas season. And I, for one, am very happy about that. I like the beginning of winter, as I like the beginning of every season. There's that sense of anticipation in the air, the knowledge that the weather is about to do something very interesting. This time of year, we watch the skies for that fluffy white stuff. When it does fall, there's soft, quiet magic. (For a couple weeks, anyway. After that, people get grumpy about it.)
And I love Christmas. I would love Christmas if I didn't get a darn thing, too. As long as I still was able to give, I'd be happy. Christmas is the time where you scatter joy around in as many ways possible. We sing it, shout it, bake it...roll it into snowmen, and coax other adults to snowball-fight it. We play outside until our ears tingle, then come in to curl up by fires with hot, steaming cups of cocoa or coffee or any number of magical winter elixirs; we feel warm, and safe, and very, very alive.
Mmmm. Just thinking about it makes me feel all cozy. But I suppose I'm still talking about winter, here, and not so much Christmas. I have much to say about Christmas. But we've got time. Four weeks and a day, to be precise. Man, I've got a lot of sewing to do before then....cookies and cheesecakes to bake...carols to sing...parties to attend...
And I love every minute of it.
And back to the Christmas season. Yes, we have eaten the turkey, which launches us firmly and legitimately into winter and the Christmas season. And I, for one, am very happy about that. I like the beginning of winter, as I like the beginning of every season. There's that sense of anticipation in the air, the knowledge that the weather is about to do something very interesting. This time of year, we watch the skies for that fluffy white stuff. When it does fall, there's soft, quiet magic. (For a couple weeks, anyway. After that, people get grumpy about it.)
And I love Christmas. I would love Christmas if I didn't get a darn thing, too. As long as I still was able to give, I'd be happy. Christmas is the time where you scatter joy around in as many ways possible. We sing it, shout it, bake it...roll it into snowmen, and coax other adults to snowball-fight it. We play outside until our ears tingle, then come in to curl up by fires with hot, steaming cups of cocoa or coffee or any number of magical winter elixirs; we feel warm, and safe, and very, very alive.
Mmmm. Just thinking about it makes me feel all cozy. But I suppose I'm still talking about winter, here, and not so much Christmas. I have much to say about Christmas. But we've got time. Four weeks and a day, to be precise. Man, I've got a lot of sewing to do before then....cookies and cheesecakes to bake...carols to sing...parties to attend...
And I love every minute of it.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
let the stuffing begin
I, personally, have no problem with eating as much as is humanly possible on Thanksgiving. Without feeling guilty. Especially since I'm cooking. Well, baking. I've made a strawberry swirl cheesecake and will make an apple pie tonight. Tomorrow I am just a humble kitchen lieutenant. Clearly, not partaking of the fruit of my labors would be a crime.
If it would make me feel fat and guilty, then I shouldn't do it, right? That is not a happy conclusion. I want to avoid that conclusion. Therefore, I have two choices: I don't eat as much, or I don't feel bad about it.
I'm going with option two: embrace my choice! Yes, I will revel in the food.
Feel the freedom! Eat the turkey! Overload the digestive system! Woohoo!
If it would make me feel fat and guilty, then I shouldn't do it, right? That is not a happy conclusion. I want to avoid that conclusion. Therefore, I have two choices: I don't eat as much, or I don't feel bad about it.
I'm going with option two: embrace my choice! Yes, I will revel in the food.
Feel the freedom! Eat the turkey! Overload the digestive system! Woohoo!
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Richard Simmons's Legs
At the office, some of the girls have started a sort of workout video co-op. We all brought in one or two exercise videos or DVDs and created a bit of a lending library of fitness. Pure genius. Who wants to spend the money on buying untried workouts, especially when so many of them stink? And it is hard to keep doing the same workout weeks on end. It gets boring. So we swap.
Yesterday, feeling a bit humorous, I took home Richard Simmons’s Sweatin’ to the Oldies 2. Oh, yes. I knew it would be terrifically bad. But wicked curiosity got the better of me. And I figured it might still be a worthy workout, even if he scared me.
Oh, he scared me. And the workout was not so good. Not for me. Now, if I were gratuitously out of shape and hadn’t worked out in years, it might be a good place to start. And Richard is so distracting that you might be able to forget about your physical discomfort. Let me put it this way: we did sizzling jazz fingers in the warm-up. ‘Nuff said.
One thing about Richard, though, that I did admire was his legs. I want his legs. They were smoothly shiny (definitely waxed) and gloriously tan. They were trimly muscled and very sleek. Yeah, they were chick legs. And I want them. I should get a picture of them and pin it up next to my workout chart. For motivational purposes. The rest of his body, of course, will be cut off. I just want the legs.
Yesterday, feeling a bit humorous, I took home Richard Simmons’s Sweatin’ to the Oldies 2. Oh, yes. I knew it would be terrifically bad. But wicked curiosity got the better of me. And I figured it might still be a worthy workout, even if he scared me.
Oh, he scared me. And the workout was not so good. Not for me. Now, if I were gratuitously out of shape and hadn’t worked out in years, it might be a good place to start. And Richard is so distracting that you might be able to forget about your physical discomfort. Let me put it this way: we did sizzling jazz fingers in the warm-up. ‘Nuff said.
One thing about Richard, though, that I did admire was his legs. I want his legs. They were smoothly shiny (definitely waxed) and gloriously tan. They were trimly muscled and very sleek. Yeah, they were chick legs. And I want them. I should get a picture of them and pin it up next to my workout chart. For motivational purposes. The rest of his body, of course, will be cut off. I just want the legs.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Christmas time is...near
This year, the holiday season has caught me up in its hands much earlier than usual. I’ve always scorned the idea of "overlapping holidays" as I call it, and would never start seriously thinking Christmas until after Thanksgiving. That meant no Christmas music, and very little if any gift preparation.
This year is different, somehow. Perhaps it is the fact that the weather has taken a colder turn, and has flirted with the idea of snow once or twice. The sky is that dim November iron today, the color that lets everyone know that the orange and yellow season of fall has passed into the browns and grays.
And now I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, to the silky sounds of Diana Krall. On my headphones, though, so no one else in the office is forced into a too-early inundation of Christmas carols. Don’t worry; I’m not wearing a sweatshirt decorated with miniature jingle bells (and God willing, I never will).
Perhaps this premature jaunt is because I’ve started my Christmas gifts earlier this year. Now that I’m flying out to visit the fam in Washington state for the holiday, I need everything done early—no spending the entire Christmas-Eve-Day finishing things up and doing all of my wrapping. And no long days of winter vacation in which to make my gifts. I need to fit it into nights and weekends around the regular bustle of life.
Yes, I said "make" my gifts. Welcome to the joy and beauty of the Spoolstra family Christmas. Perhaps I am a bit too burst-my-buttons proud of this tradition, but whenever I see or hear about people rushing around trying to buy this and that and stay within the budget and not get anyone the same thing they got last year and does uncle Jim like gift cards to Radio Shack or was it Circuit City…well, I feel pretty good about myself. Instead of spending hours fighting the crowds and racking up a credit card balance, I’m relaxing at home with my sewing machine—or happily up to my elbows in the fabric store bargain bin—creating simple, inexpensive gifts that show my family I am willing to give them the gift of time and the labors of my hands and brain—not just my pocketbook.
This began when I was old enough to actually contribute something both homemade and worthwhile—around sixth grade, I think. I’m the youngest of three, and as we started to grow up, our parents realized that Christmases around our house were getting…well…ridiculous. I still think the 14-foot trees were out-a-sight, but I highly agree that allowing Christmas to get materialistic is a grave mistake.
I remember being excited about the switchover. Strangely enough. My parents eased us into it by still giving us wonderfully stuffed stockings and one "big" store bought present for the first few years. And it definitely helped that my family is also ridiculously crafty (both meanings? hmm…) and creative. One year my dad made all three of us hope chests. And my mom is the super champ of fluffy flannel pajamas.
My own gifts have come a long way in the last decade or so—a fact for which I am sure the family is grateful. I’ve really progressed since getting my own sewing machine a few years ago. Lumpy crocheted scarves and glue-laden wooden picture frames that almost stood up have turned into clever microwavable mittens and (once, because I was temporarily insane and also because I found the perfect fabric) fitted three-quarter-length overcoats with detachable fur cuffs and collar.
You know, I had a point when I began writing this. I’m not sure what it was. I got caught up in thinking about Christmas and totally lost my way. Perhaps I’m just trying to convey something of the swell of happiness and anticipation that I feel when I launch out into the holiday season. Perhaps part of what I feel is best summed up by explaining this family tradition and letting you connect the dots yourself. Yes. I like that. The end.
This year is different, somehow. Perhaps it is the fact that the weather has taken a colder turn, and has flirted with the idea of snow once or twice. The sky is that dim November iron today, the color that lets everyone know that the orange and yellow season of fall has passed into the browns and grays.
And now I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, to the silky sounds of Diana Krall. On my headphones, though, so no one else in the office is forced into a too-early inundation of Christmas carols. Don’t worry; I’m not wearing a sweatshirt decorated with miniature jingle bells (and God willing, I never will).
Perhaps this premature jaunt is because I’ve started my Christmas gifts earlier this year. Now that I’m flying out to visit the fam in Washington state for the holiday, I need everything done early—no spending the entire Christmas-Eve-Day finishing things up and doing all of my wrapping. And no long days of winter vacation in which to make my gifts. I need to fit it into nights and weekends around the regular bustle of life.
Yes, I said "make" my gifts. Welcome to the joy and beauty of the Spoolstra family Christmas. Perhaps I am a bit too burst-my-buttons proud of this tradition, but whenever I see or hear about people rushing around trying to buy this and that and stay within the budget and not get anyone the same thing they got last year and does uncle Jim like gift cards to Radio Shack or was it Circuit City…well, I feel pretty good about myself. Instead of spending hours fighting the crowds and racking up a credit card balance, I’m relaxing at home with my sewing machine—or happily up to my elbows in the fabric store bargain bin—creating simple, inexpensive gifts that show my family I am willing to give them the gift of time and the labors of my hands and brain—not just my pocketbook.
This began when I was old enough to actually contribute something both homemade and worthwhile—around sixth grade, I think. I’m the youngest of three, and as we started to grow up, our parents realized that Christmases around our house were getting…well…ridiculous. I still think the 14-foot trees were out-a-sight, but I highly agree that allowing Christmas to get materialistic is a grave mistake.
I remember being excited about the switchover. Strangely enough. My parents eased us into it by still giving us wonderfully stuffed stockings and one "big" store bought present for the first few years. And it definitely helped that my family is also ridiculously crafty (both meanings? hmm…) and creative. One year my dad made all three of us hope chests. And my mom is the super champ of fluffy flannel pajamas.
My own gifts have come a long way in the last decade or so—a fact for which I am sure the family is grateful. I’ve really progressed since getting my own sewing machine a few years ago. Lumpy crocheted scarves and glue-laden wooden picture frames that almost stood up have turned into clever microwavable mittens and (once, because I was temporarily insane and also because I found the perfect fabric) fitted three-quarter-length overcoats with detachable fur cuffs and collar.
You know, I had a point when I began writing this. I’m not sure what it was. I got caught up in thinking about Christmas and totally lost my way. Perhaps I’m just trying to convey something of the swell of happiness and anticipation that I feel when I launch out into the holiday season. Perhaps part of what I feel is best summed up by explaining this family tradition and letting you connect the dots yourself. Yes. I like that. The end.
tea and sympathy
Poor neglected blog. Nobody loves you. Nobody thinks about you when you're not around. Nobody gives you a call to see if you're free on Friday night. Nobody asks you out for coffee. Sigh. Poor, poor blog.
Well, blog, you're just going to have to learn to entertain yourself, like the rest of us do. Get a hobby or two or three. Perhaps you should try needlepoint. Or tying flies. Join a gym and take yoga-kickboxing classes. Whatever. Just DO something. Don't keep sitting around waiting for someone else to jumpstart your life.
You know, blog, your ten-year high school reunion is coming up in a year or two. If you started now, you could have all your ducks in a row with plenty of time to spare. No need to do any last-minute crash dieting or futile job searching. Get a glamorous career started NOW. Make some interesting new friends and memories. And quit eating Almond Joys with your morning coffee.
Well, blog, you're just going to have to learn to entertain yourself, like the rest of us do. Get a hobby or two or three. Perhaps you should try needlepoint. Or tying flies. Join a gym and take yoga-kickboxing classes. Whatever. Just DO something. Don't keep sitting around waiting for someone else to jumpstart your life.
You know, blog, your ten-year high school reunion is coming up in a year or two. If you started now, you could have all your ducks in a row with plenty of time to spare. No need to do any last-minute crash dieting or futile job searching. Get a glamorous career started NOW. Make some interesting new friends and memories. And quit eating Almond Joys with your morning coffee.
Friday, November 2, 2007
guy-friends and boy-friends
I could use a few good men. Don’t mistake me; I’m not greedy—one or two would be just fine, I don’t need a whole platoon.
But I’d take one if you're offering…
Anyway, what on earth prompted this declaration? Lonely singleness rearing its maudlin head? No, not really. I ride the highs and lows of being single just like anyone else, but today equanimity dominates my thoughts of my love life (or lack thereof). Which is good for you—I’m not quite so pleasant to be around on the days I go around singing "I am a Rock, I am an Island" with Art and Paul. But I digress.
I’d like a few more man-friends in my repertoire. I have a few wonderful fellas, but most of them are married and so are not always available for the services I require. Case in point: I can ask a married man to come over and help me cut firewood, but I cannot ask him to be my date to a wedding—even if there’s going to be a kickin’ band that we would both enjoy. It just ain’t right, Myrtle.
There are a lot of varied opinions concerning the true feasibility of coed friendships. Some say that it can never work, that sexual attraction and romance will always interfere. Others believe that coed friendships are completely natural and are possible even after marriage. I’ve read that being "best friends" with a member of the opposite sex is a recipe for disaster unless you marry him. Then I turn to another book, and lo! A woman has a healthy, fulfilling, twenty-years-and-counting friendship with a man who, at some point, married another woman with no adverse effects.
Well, here’s what I think: I like to hike and climb and fish and play tackle football. And I’m very tired of going stag to weddings and swing dances and beach parties. I want to be able to ask a guy to accompany me without him automatically thinking I have romantic intentions. I want to be able to knock a guy down and land on him without him assuming I’m being flirtatious.
I fancy that I never presume a guy has romantic intentions toward me unless he explicitly conveys them. (That may be asking too much, but I am the queen of social oblivion and must occasionally be whapped the head to realize that something’s going on. This has its pros and cons—but that’s a story for another day.) And this is a trust issue. I trust that the guys I hang out with realize that I am counting on them to be honest with me. This can work very well.
Case in point: coed head and back massages may seem to be an automatic no-no. However if, as my case was, the gentleman and I had complete understanding of the platonic nature of our relationship, and if the setting is appropriately public, there is no problem. Nothing de-stresses like a good head massage. Would I ask a married man for one? Of course not—unless we were in the presence of his wife and formed a three-person massage train. Mmm. Arrrr. And if I broached the idea of a coed massage with a guy friend who was not comfortable with that—well, I sure hope he’d tell me, before I started purring! It’d save us both a lot of grief.
Would I have a coed sleepover? Umm…yes, in certain conditions. Three adults (and a large dog) in a small tent? Absolutely. If it were just one guy and me? No. I’m not stupidly ignorant of temptation.
I love outdoor activities, and oftentimes I have a hard time finding girl friends with the same interests. Would I spend an entire afternoon and evening in a secluded location, fishing, with a guy engaged to one of my best friends—who was out of town at the time? Yep. Did that. Would I do it with someone with whom the relationship was not absolutely and clearly platonically defined? No way.
Looking back on the fishing thing, I realized that outside appearances may have seemed a little odd—especially considering that we didn’t catch much the first day, and went out again for several hours the next morning. Alone. But outside appearances mean little to me when those inside the situation—me, him, my girl friend—know exactly what is happening and why. And in this case, we all got to eat some fresh fish.
Of course, this carefree approach to coed friendship is not perfect. I’m a fairly physical person; I enjoy roughhousing more than most of my girl friends, and I am occasionally not aware that my coed physicality is interpreted as inappropriate or even annoying. I’ve made mistakes in the past, and feelings have been hurt, but I think having guys to hang out with is worth the risk. And there are risks in any relationship—coed or not.
And to be fair to myself—I don’t limit my physical contact to the guys. And I don’t smack my guy friends on the bum, either, as per the occasionally-revived antics left over from college dorm days. I’m a little nuts, but I’m not that stupid. Most of the time.
But I’d take one if you're offering…
Anyway, what on earth prompted this declaration? Lonely singleness rearing its maudlin head? No, not really. I ride the highs and lows of being single just like anyone else, but today equanimity dominates my thoughts of my love life (or lack thereof). Which is good for you—I’m not quite so pleasant to be around on the days I go around singing "I am a Rock, I am an Island" with Art and Paul. But I digress.
I’d like a few more man-friends in my repertoire. I have a few wonderful fellas, but most of them are married and so are not always available for the services I require. Case in point: I can ask a married man to come over and help me cut firewood, but I cannot ask him to be my date to a wedding—even if there’s going to be a kickin’ band that we would both enjoy. It just ain’t right, Myrtle.
There are a lot of varied opinions concerning the true feasibility of coed friendships. Some say that it can never work, that sexual attraction and romance will always interfere. Others believe that coed friendships are completely natural and are possible even after marriage. I’ve read that being "best friends" with a member of the opposite sex is a recipe for disaster unless you marry him. Then I turn to another book, and lo! A woman has a healthy, fulfilling, twenty-years-and-counting friendship with a man who, at some point, married another woman with no adverse effects.
Well, here’s what I think: I like to hike and climb and fish and play tackle football. And I’m very tired of going stag to weddings and swing dances and beach parties. I want to be able to ask a guy to accompany me without him automatically thinking I have romantic intentions. I want to be able to knock a guy down and land on him without him assuming I’m being flirtatious.
I fancy that I never presume a guy has romantic intentions toward me unless he explicitly conveys them. (That may be asking too much, but I am the queen of social oblivion and must occasionally be whapped the head to realize that something’s going on. This has its pros and cons—but that’s a story for another day.) And this is a trust issue. I trust that the guys I hang out with realize that I am counting on them to be honest with me. This can work very well.
Case in point: coed head and back massages may seem to be an automatic no-no. However if, as my case was, the gentleman and I had complete understanding of the platonic nature of our relationship, and if the setting is appropriately public, there is no problem. Nothing de-stresses like a good head massage. Would I ask a married man for one? Of course not—unless we were in the presence of his wife and formed a three-person massage train. Mmm. Arrrr. And if I broached the idea of a coed massage with a guy friend who was not comfortable with that—well, I sure hope he’d tell me, before I started purring! It’d save us both a lot of grief.
Would I have a coed sleepover? Umm…yes, in certain conditions. Three adults (and a large dog) in a small tent? Absolutely. If it were just one guy and me? No. I’m not stupidly ignorant of temptation.
I love outdoor activities, and oftentimes I have a hard time finding girl friends with the same interests. Would I spend an entire afternoon and evening in a secluded location, fishing, with a guy engaged to one of my best friends—who was out of town at the time? Yep. Did that. Would I do it with someone with whom the relationship was not absolutely and clearly platonically defined? No way.
Looking back on the fishing thing, I realized that outside appearances may have seemed a little odd—especially considering that we didn’t catch much the first day, and went out again for several hours the next morning. Alone. But outside appearances mean little to me when those inside the situation—me, him, my girl friend—know exactly what is happening and why. And in this case, we all got to eat some fresh fish.
Of course, this carefree approach to coed friendship is not perfect. I’m a fairly physical person; I enjoy roughhousing more than most of my girl friends, and I am occasionally not aware that my coed physicality is interpreted as inappropriate or even annoying. I’ve made mistakes in the past, and feelings have been hurt, but I think having guys to hang out with is worth the risk. And there are risks in any relationship—coed or not.
And to be fair to myself—I don’t limit my physical contact to the guys. And I don’t smack my guy friends on the bum, either, as per the occasionally-revived antics left over from college dorm days. I’m a little nuts, but I’m not that stupid. Most of the time.
Friday, October 26, 2007
late afternoon run, October 25
I am more than this jumbling of scattered thought
more than the fresh cool breeze on my skin
more than this unnamable longing for something other,
more than what I see
when the last rays of bright sun light just the tops of the trees on the far hill—
Oh, surely God knew what he was doing to my heart when he made trees!
I am more than the contents of my skin
wonderful and mysterious though they are.
the sweet complexities of anatomy; the simple reality of lifting one foot after other as I jog down the gravel road, heart pumping, breath rhythmic, muscles flex-release,
flex-release flex-release
the signals from my brain coming so fast that I cannot even think of them,
cells and synapses and nerve endings and endless waves of neurotransmitters;
the way red blood cells work; the way my skin transfers heat.
That is wondrous.
As is the sound my feet make through the fallen leaves—
crunch crunch shush shush crunch shush swoosh crunch
I am more than this jumbling of scattered thought.
more than the fresh cool breeze on my skin
more than this unnamable longing for something other,
more than what I see
when the last rays of bright sun light just the tops of the trees on the far hill—
Oh, surely God knew what he was doing to my heart when he made trees!
I am more than the contents of my skin
wonderful and mysterious though they are.
the sweet complexities of anatomy; the simple reality of lifting one foot after other as I jog down the gravel road, heart pumping, breath rhythmic, muscles flex-release,
flex-release flex-release
the signals from my brain coming so fast that I cannot even think of them,
cells and synapses and nerve endings and endless waves of neurotransmitters;
the way red blood cells work; the way my skin transfers heat.
That is wondrous.
As is the sound my feet make through the fallen leaves—
crunch crunch shush shush crunch shush swoosh crunch
I am more than this jumbling of scattered thought.
Monday, October 22, 2007
things you’re never too old for
Well, I'm in a list-y mood today. Perhaps I'll keep adding to this from time to time--feel free to jump in! Here's what I've got so far.
Things you’re never too old for:
1. day of the week underwear
2. snowball fights
3. Velcro
4. ice cream
5. making your own sound effects
6. learning from your parents
7. singing along with the store music while shopping
Things you’re never too old for:
1. day of the week underwear
2. snowball fights
3. Velcro
4. ice cream
5. making your own sound effects
6. learning from your parents
7. singing along with the store music while shopping
Friday, October 19, 2007
Happy Fir Day!
I am sure this is a common problem: when I type, especially when I type quickly, I tend to transpose my letters. "And" becomes "nad," "captain" becomes "catpain" and so on and so forth. Sometimes Microsoft Word catches the mistake and fixes it for me (I had to insist that I wanted cat pain just now), which is convenient but fails to teach me my lesson. Or my elsson. What veer.
One of the words that I transpose most frequently, it seems, is "Friday." For some reason, I keep wanting to say "Firday." No reason for it…or is there?
Perhaps there should be a Fir Day. "Happy Fir Day!" It has a nice ring to it. We could do a kind of Palm Sunday deal, where we wave branches of coniferous trees around instead of palm fronds. We could wear little garlands of soft, short-needled Douglas fir…toss pinecones into the air and at each other…chew spruce gum…
And it would sure smell good. In fact, I think it would be the most pleasant-smelling holiday. And a whole less fattening than Thanksgiving.
One of the words that I transpose most frequently, it seems, is "Friday." For some reason, I keep wanting to say "Firday." No reason for it…or is there?
Perhaps there should be a Fir Day. "Happy Fir Day!" It has a nice ring to it. We could do a kind of Palm Sunday deal, where we wave branches of coniferous trees around instead of palm fronds. We could wear little garlands of soft, short-needled Douglas fir…toss pinecones into the air and at each other…chew spruce gum…
And it would sure smell good. In fact, I think it would be the most pleasant-smelling holiday. And a whole less fattening than Thanksgiving.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
dinner, anyone? or perhaps some unconsciousness?
I guess Juergen caught me on the way down, so I didn’t actually fall all the way—more of a gradual slump, which is good—but I don’t remember it. The last thing I remember, I was putting on my jacket while Juergen was telling me the great story of how he was bicycling through my neighborhood when he got hit by a deer, then we stood up and walked through the restaurant toward the door. I was warm, slightly nauseated, and dizzy.
Then I was looking up at the ceiling; one of the waitresses had her arm under my head, and Juergen was telling me just to breathe. Of course, with his accent, it sounded more like he was telling me to "breeze," but I knew what he meant. What I didn’t know was what on earth had happened. Apparently, I’d fainted. I’m not exactly a fainter, so this was something of a surprise. An unpleasant, annoying, embarrassing surprise. I’m supposed to be tough, after all. At least I wasn’t wearing my boots with the three-and-a-half-inch heels, like I almost did. I would’ve had that much farther to fall, and who knows what would have happened then.
And at least I bounced back quickly as blood came back into my brain, and stood up, and we went on our way. The dizziness passed after I spent a couple minutes in the fresh air. It was probably a combination of too much rich, unfamiliar food and wine and coffee and stuffy air. It was not simply alcohol; I didn’t feel the least bit tipsy. (I only had maybe a glass and a half, and I’m not that much of a lightweight.) Poor Juergen felt so sorry, as if it was his fault. I’m the one who’s sorry—and a little chagrined. I placed a horrible cap on a perfectly lovely evening.
Juergen is my landlord, by the way. He lives in Germany with his family, and twice a year he and his wife, Marlis, come out to visit this part of the world, catching up on business, old acquaintances, and the tenant living in their house—me. They are an older couple, probably in their sixties. He made a solo trip this fall, and has been very pleased with how the place looks, for which I’m very glad. They are quite particular people, and part of my rental agreement involves house and yard maintenance.
Juergen took me out to dinner at a lovely Italian restaurant that is way way way beyond the realm of my normal dutch-budget experiences. ("Don’t you dare look at the prices, Lindsey. I am treating you.") We were there for three (three!) hours, working our way through a lovely bottle of white wine (I got the wine lecture), an appetizer of very thinly shaved beef, parmesan cheese, and fresh spinach, a pear and arugula salad with toasted pecans, the main course, for which I had an exquisite rib eye steak and fancy potatoes, and finally…when I felt very, very full, a Crème Brule I couldn’t say no to (I got the Crème Brule lesson too; that man sure can talk) and a cup of decaf coffee (by now it was 9:00) that I hoped would jar my body out of food shock (which obviously didn’t work).
I’m not sure what the moral of the story is. Probably just to pay more attention to what my body is trying to tell me—and don’t let myself go in for too much of a good thing. Sigh. It’s not as though I have recurring problems with self-control. Really. I thought about not telling anyone about my embarrassment—but it’s really too good of a story to keep to myself. And I’ve decided that it’s nothing to worry about, really, unless I keep fainting every time I eat. Well, so far so good, today.
I’m tempted to send that restaurant a card or something, with an apology and/or a thank-you to the nice waitresses. I hope they’ve forgotten what I look like. Not that I’ll be eating there again any time soon. However, I must say—I’d love to go back for just coffee and Crème Brule. Mmm.
At least I didn’t fall onto anything or into anyone. That would have been fabulous: I hit a waitress carrying a tray, the tray flies through the air and hits a table, the people at that table jump back and knock over a candle…and the restaurant burns down because of me. Well, that would have given Juergen another good story to tell, anyway. Oh, Juergen. Now he probably thinks I’m delicate. Great.
Then I was looking up at the ceiling; one of the waitresses had her arm under my head, and Juergen was telling me just to breathe. Of course, with his accent, it sounded more like he was telling me to "breeze," but I knew what he meant. What I didn’t know was what on earth had happened. Apparently, I’d fainted. I’m not exactly a fainter, so this was something of a surprise. An unpleasant, annoying, embarrassing surprise. I’m supposed to be tough, after all. At least I wasn’t wearing my boots with the three-and-a-half-inch heels, like I almost did. I would’ve had that much farther to fall, and who knows what would have happened then.
And at least I bounced back quickly as blood came back into my brain, and stood up, and we went on our way. The dizziness passed after I spent a couple minutes in the fresh air. It was probably a combination of too much rich, unfamiliar food and wine and coffee and stuffy air. It was not simply alcohol; I didn’t feel the least bit tipsy. (I only had maybe a glass and a half, and I’m not that much of a lightweight.) Poor Juergen felt so sorry, as if it was his fault. I’m the one who’s sorry—and a little chagrined. I placed a horrible cap on a perfectly lovely evening.
Juergen is my landlord, by the way. He lives in Germany with his family, and twice a year he and his wife, Marlis, come out to visit this part of the world, catching up on business, old acquaintances, and the tenant living in their house—me. They are an older couple, probably in their sixties. He made a solo trip this fall, and has been very pleased with how the place looks, for which I’m very glad. They are quite particular people, and part of my rental agreement involves house and yard maintenance.
Juergen took me out to dinner at a lovely Italian restaurant that is way way way beyond the realm of my normal dutch-budget experiences. ("Don’t you dare look at the prices, Lindsey. I am treating you.") We were there for three (three!) hours, working our way through a lovely bottle of white wine (I got the wine lecture), an appetizer of very thinly shaved beef, parmesan cheese, and fresh spinach, a pear and arugula salad with toasted pecans, the main course, for which I had an exquisite rib eye steak and fancy potatoes, and finally…when I felt very, very full, a Crème Brule I couldn’t say no to (I got the Crème Brule lesson too; that man sure can talk) and a cup of decaf coffee (by now it was 9:00) that I hoped would jar my body out of food shock (which obviously didn’t work).
I’m not sure what the moral of the story is. Probably just to pay more attention to what my body is trying to tell me—and don’t let myself go in for too much of a good thing. Sigh. It’s not as though I have recurring problems with self-control. Really. I thought about not telling anyone about my embarrassment—but it’s really too good of a story to keep to myself. And I’ve decided that it’s nothing to worry about, really, unless I keep fainting every time I eat. Well, so far so good, today.
I’m tempted to send that restaurant a card or something, with an apology and/or a thank-you to the nice waitresses. I hope they’ve forgotten what I look like. Not that I’ll be eating there again any time soon. However, I must say—I’d love to go back for just coffee and Crème Brule. Mmm.
At least I didn’t fall onto anything or into anyone. That would have been fabulous: I hit a waitress carrying a tray, the tray flies through the air and hits a table, the people at that table jump back and knock over a candle…and the restaurant burns down because of me. Well, that would have given Juergen another good story to tell, anyway. Oh, Juergen. Now he probably thinks I’m delicate. Great.
Friday, October 12, 2007
bumper stickers
I'm not much of a fan of bumper stickers, really. They aren't very nice to the car, they usually look trashy, and half the time they are either just plain stupid, gag-reflex sentimental, downright offensive, or illegible.
If I did have a bumper sticker though, what would it say? Well, it is election season. How about "Didn't vote? Don't complain." Yes. I like that. Or how about what my father used to say: "Speed Kills." That's pretty good too. Simple.
I could get clever or witty, but what I have to say to other drivers usually isn't that funny. That would have to be stickers like "are you really that important?" or "no one else wants to hear your music." I doubt those would sell well in the bumper sticker market. I guess I'll have to just keep muttering them under my breath. Or yelling--if my windows are shut.
If I did have a bumper sticker though, what would it say? Well, it is election season. How about "Didn't vote? Don't complain." Yes. I like that. Or how about what my father used to say: "Speed Kills." That's pretty good too. Simple.
I could get clever or witty, but what I have to say to other drivers usually isn't that funny. That would have to be stickers like "are you really that important?" or "no one else wants to hear your music." I doubt those would sell well in the bumper sticker market. I guess I'll have to just keep muttering them under my breath. Or yelling--if my windows are shut.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
behold the power of hair
Last Friday, after a pleasant, slightly shortened work day, I headed down to my favorite barber shop for a much needed trim. As I had hoped, a friend of mine was working. She asked me what I wanted. About to say "Just trim it back up like before," I found myself saying. "I don't know. What do you think?" This was soon followed by the somewhat risky "Sure. Do whatever you want."
And the rock star haircut was born. Now, you've got to understand, this is big stuff for me. If it can't be done in less than ten minutes and/or doesn't involve a ponytail holder, I probably won't do it. I probably can't do it. In those crucial, formative junior high years when girls learn these skills, I was busy doing other things. Like reading. And archery. And getting grass stains on all my pants.
So when my friend styled my hair (It seemed like she used half a can of hairspray) and released me from the spinny-chair, I felt a little different. Stylish. Sassy. I went home and even snapped couple pics to show my family--who I think experienced a little private dismay during my archery and oversized clothing years.
Then I couldn't handle the hair in my face any longer and clipped a big piece of it back. Even rock stars have limitations.
Friday, October 5, 2007
weather or not
If you're wondering
what the weather's like here,
today I'm wearing
flip flops, cropped pants
and black, puffy, insulated vest.
The sun is shining, the
leaves are changing
and I'm
drinking
French-press
coffee.
what the weather's like here,
today I'm wearing
flip flops, cropped pants
and black, puffy, insulated vest.
The sun is shining, the
leaves are changing
and I'm
drinking
French-press
coffee.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
attention
Attention! Attention! Everywhere I look, there is someone who wants attention—someone getting too much attention—someone who needs attention—someone scared to death of attention—someone not paying attention. When did this concept of "attention" become such a big deal? Probably about the same time we figured out what high self-esteem was, but don’t quote me on that.
I have rather a love-hate relationship with attention, myself. I do not like to be ignored, to feel as though no one would care if I were absent. Nor do I like to be in the spotlight. I certainly don’t need or want all the attention. I do not expand in attention like a flower in the sun. Quite the opposite. I may be witty and bouncy and having fun, but the instant I feel all eyes on me, I start to shrink back. Words get hard to find. No matter how hyper I get, I’m still an introvert at heart.
I suppose I’m pretty normal in my need for a balanced amount of attention. If I were going to get all philosophical, I’d say that most things in life can be framed by the perspective of "a balanced amount of attention." Paying too much attention to work, or not enough attention…bad trouble. Paying too much attention or not enough to your personal hygiene…bad trouble.
I have rather a love-hate relationship with attention, myself. I do not like to be ignored, to feel as though no one would care if I were absent. Nor do I like to be in the spotlight. I certainly don’t need or want all the attention. I do not expand in attention like a flower in the sun. Quite the opposite. I may be witty and bouncy and having fun, but the instant I feel all eyes on me, I start to shrink back. Words get hard to find. No matter how hyper I get, I’m still an introvert at heart.
I suppose I’m pretty normal in my need for a balanced amount of attention. If I were going to get all philosophical, I’d say that most things in life can be framed by the perspective of "a balanced amount of attention." Paying too much attention to work, or not enough attention…bad trouble. Paying too much attention or not enough to your personal hygiene…bad trouble.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
I'm not dead yet...
Poor neglected blog! Alas! But be of good cheer, friends--the blog is not dead. It merely went on vacation and is a little slow at getting started again.
Sometime soon I'll hopefully have a few pics of last week's trip out to Tacoma to visit the fam. We had great fun. Time flew. And then I got home...and have been playing catch-up (not ketchup, silly!) at work and at home. So, you see, I'm full of very good excuses for my temporary blog desertion.
Another reason for my despondency is not quite so noble...
Hi, my name is Lindsey, and I've been writing really, really bad fiction. It is very nearly a guilty pleasure, just because it is so positively irredeemable. But it's been fun. And I did say I wanted to write more, right? Baby steps to good literature...baby steps...
What's that you say? Can you read some? No! I don't even read it, it's so bad.
Sometime soon I'll hopefully have a few pics of last week's trip out to Tacoma to visit the fam. We had great fun. Time flew. And then I got home...and have been playing catch-up (not ketchup, silly!) at work and at home. So, you see, I'm full of very good excuses for my temporary blog desertion.
Another reason for my despondency is not quite so noble...
Hi, my name is Lindsey, and I've been writing really, really bad fiction. It is very nearly a guilty pleasure, just because it is so positively irredeemable. But it's been fun. And I did say I wanted to write more, right? Baby steps to good literature...baby steps...
What's that you say? Can you read some? No! I don't even read it, it's so bad.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
the day of birth
Well, I've gone and gotten a year older. Again. This past Sunday marked my 26th year upon the earth. 26 isn't a particularly meaningful number to me, other than the fact that it doesn't divide nicely into 5s. I liked that part of 25. I'm riding the downward slope to 30, but I don't put much stock in that. It's not like I woke up on Sunday and felt any differently. Well, if I did--it was just because of the gratuitously large piece of chocolate cake I ate Saturday night.
I've had a few changes in my life over the last year. I've moved twice--and hopefully won't need to again any time soon. I've changed positions at work, for the better. I've become the only member of my immediate family in the state. I've finally realized that I really should be wearing my glasses. I've decided that I want a dog.
And I've noticed that my body is a lot less forgiving than it was back when I was in college. I do anything remotely interesting, and I'm bound to be sore the next day. Perhaps my body has always done that, and I just failed to notice? It's possible, but not likely. I think I've just finally lost the last of the childhood rubber--and realized it.
I'm going to miss it--hey, I already miss it. I did a little work last night on my winter woodpile, and I certainly don't think it was enough to feel it so emphatically this morning! Shoot, from the way my shoulders feel, I should have two or three cord stacked about now.
This isn't complaining. It's just stark disbelief.
I'll have to start stretching and things--the sort of things that I nag my parents to do. And I'll have to get to the eye doctor soon. Perhaps I'll just get my eyes lasered. Perhaps not. I'd rather spend my money on a woodcutting crew.
Well, actually, I'd rather not spend my money at all. Gotta save it for when my knees go.
So, now that my age is divisible by 13, are there any major changes looming on the horizon? Not that I know of. I guess only time will tell. Perhaps, in a year from now, I'll look back and think "Man, 26 was the year that my blog got really boring."
I hope not.
I've had a few changes in my life over the last year. I've moved twice--and hopefully won't need to again any time soon. I've changed positions at work, for the better. I've become the only member of my immediate family in the state. I've finally realized that I really should be wearing my glasses. I've decided that I want a dog.
And I've noticed that my body is a lot less forgiving than it was back when I was in college. I do anything remotely interesting, and I'm bound to be sore the next day. Perhaps my body has always done that, and I just failed to notice? It's possible, but not likely. I think I've just finally lost the last of the childhood rubber--and realized it.
I'm going to miss it--hey, I already miss it. I did a little work last night on my winter woodpile, and I certainly don't think it was enough to feel it so emphatically this morning! Shoot, from the way my shoulders feel, I should have two or three cord stacked about now.
This isn't complaining. It's just stark disbelief.
I'll have to start stretching and things--the sort of things that I nag my parents to do. And I'll have to get to the eye doctor soon. Perhaps I'll just get my eyes lasered. Perhaps not. I'd rather spend my money on a woodcutting crew.
Well, actually, I'd rather not spend my money at all. Gotta save it for when my knees go.
So, now that my age is divisible by 13, are there any major changes looming on the horizon? Not that I know of. I guess only time will tell. Perhaps, in a year from now, I'll look back and think "Man, 26 was the year that my blog got really boring."
I hope not.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
first fire
Well, okay...I know I tend to go on and on about the beauty of fall and the great outdoors, and I have an equally vocal affection for sharp tools and whatnot, and I'm sure you're ready for something new, but I just have to share last night's major event: the first indoor fire of the season. Isn't this a lovely fireplace? I'm enamored. Last night it was actually chilly enough for me to shut the windows, and about 8:00 I built a nice crispy fire and sat by it for the rest of the evening. Well, I didn't just sit. I brushed the cat and finished a sewing project and did some work-related reading--but it sure was nice and relaxing to have the sounds of fire as an accompaniment. At first, I felt the desire to turn on a radio or pop in a movie or something, but I was determined not to be so blastedly multi-media. And after about ten or fifteen minutes, I welcomed the quiet. Not to mention the warm glow of reflected heat. Ah, fire!
Monday, September 10, 2007
the great bedsheet mystery
Sunday was another gorgeous September day--sunny blue skies with a few of those puffy white clouds, a light breeze, and a temperature of about 76 degrees. Perfect.
I decided to make good use of the weather and hang some laundry out on the clothesline for the afternoon. Well, first I hung the clothesline, stringing the fresh white rope between two obliging trees in the backyard near the house, and then I loaded them down with just-washed sheets. There's nothing quite like sleeping between sun-dried sheets; they smell so fresh and clean.
While they flapped in the breeze, I puttered around the house for awhile, then took off on a brief pilgrimage to the grocery store. When I returned, it was early evening, and time to bring in my laundry and make my bed. Mmm. I was already relishing the prospect of sleep.
As I began to remove my dry laundry, I noticed something peculiar. The white mattress pad, which had been clean-looking to begin with, now bore an odd array of dirty light brown patches, scattered over several square feet of cloth. How on earth?...
I have no near neighbors, no road capable of flinging dust onto my sheets from a passing vehicle, no large, dirty dog running around the yard, no one trying to mow the lawn and riding through on the tractor, no small children ramming around. Had the mattress pad somehow gotten dirty on its journey from washer to line, and I just hadn't noticed? I wasn't sure how that would be possible.
As I (with a grumble or two) returned the mattress pad to the washing machine for another go-round, a possible cause struck me. Will I ever know for sure? Probably not, but it's my best theory to date.
I think it was a deer.
As I've noted, they've been particularly bold lately, feeding on my lawn at all hours of the day--even in the bright afternoon sun. They get quite close to the house, and the clothesline wasn't there before. Perhaps a perky faun had a surprise run-in with my laundry. Hmm. If so, it's too embarrassed to tell me.
I decided to make good use of the weather and hang some laundry out on the clothesline for the afternoon. Well, first I hung the clothesline, stringing the fresh white rope between two obliging trees in the backyard near the house, and then I loaded them down with just-washed sheets. There's nothing quite like sleeping between sun-dried sheets; they smell so fresh and clean.
While they flapped in the breeze, I puttered around the house for awhile, then took off on a brief pilgrimage to the grocery store. When I returned, it was early evening, and time to bring in my laundry and make my bed. Mmm. I was already relishing the prospect of sleep.
As I began to remove my dry laundry, I noticed something peculiar. The white mattress pad, which had been clean-looking to begin with, now bore an odd array of dirty light brown patches, scattered over several square feet of cloth. How on earth?...
I have no near neighbors, no road capable of flinging dust onto my sheets from a passing vehicle, no large, dirty dog running around the yard, no one trying to mow the lawn and riding through on the tractor, no small children ramming around. Had the mattress pad somehow gotten dirty on its journey from washer to line, and I just hadn't noticed? I wasn't sure how that would be possible.
As I (with a grumble or two) returned the mattress pad to the washing machine for another go-round, a possible cause struck me. Will I ever know for sure? Probably not, but it's my best theory to date.
I think it was a deer.
As I've noted, they've been particularly bold lately, feeding on my lawn at all hours of the day--even in the bright afternoon sun. They get quite close to the house, and the clothesline wasn't there before. Perhaps a perky faun had a surprise run-in with my laundry. Hmm. If so, it's too embarrassed to tell me.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Barometer
Autumn comes
the upturned bowl of brassy sky
lifts, releases
the hot, sticky air; cool winds scour the earth
clean, wipe away damp blotches of humidity.
The neighborhoods grow quiet;
daytime echoes of children
replaced with an increased rustle of leaves--
trees changing costume
the pliant susurration of green
replaced with crackling golden brown orange
bonfire red.
September deer, grown fat and sassy,
boldly stare me down from ten paces off
before leisurely fleeing the open yard,
not even bothering with silence.
Soon enough this will change;
despite the ever-crackling leaves
they will bound and leap like ghosts,
wary and nervous,
as the rustling of painted forest
becomes punctuated with rifle report;
the smell of woodsmoke
wafts though the cooling evening air
and the sky is
blue blue blue blue
the upturned bowl of brassy sky
lifts, releases
the hot, sticky air; cool winds scour the earth
clean, wipe away damp blotches of humidity.
The neighborhoods grow quiet;
daytime echoes of children
replaced with an increased rustle of leaves--
trees changing costume
the pliant susurration of green
replaced with crackling golden brown orange
bonfire red.
September deer, grown fat and sassy,
boldly stare me down from ten paces off
before leisurely fleeing the open yard,
not even bothering with silence.
Soon enough this will change;
despite the ever-crackling leaves
they will bound and leap like ghosts,
wary and nervous,
as the rustling of painted forest
becomes punctuated with rifle report;
the smell of woodsmoke
wafts though the cooling evening air
and the sky is
blue blue blue blue
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Power tools
You would think, with the nice, long holiday weekend, I would have made time to post once or twice. But no, sir. It was Labor Day, and I was laboring! Outside! We’ve had fabulous weather here on the western edge of the big mitten, and I’ve been taking advantage of it as much as possible. I wanted to catch up on some yard work, and get going on cutting wood for the fireplace.
Which brings me to the absolute highlight of the holiday: on Monday, I graduated from my friend John’s chainsaw "school" and was granted a long-time loan of a fabulous Stihl 020T arborist’s chainsaw. And chaps. Safety orange Kevlar chaps.
Even new shoes can hardly compare to the joys of chainsaw independence. No longer do I have to call in a favor and/or wait until a manly friend can drop by and cut up some of the dead timber I’ve dragged from the woods. Nope. I can do it myself. And, I may add, with great attention to safety and proper chainsaw etiquette. Chainsaws are dangerous tools. I know, I know. Geez! I’m a girl, after all. I’m not about to ram around holding the running saw over my head while talking on my Nextel and trying to muscle through a giant branch in a thunderstorm. Alone. While eating a tuna sandwich. And wearing no shirt or shoes.
I leave that sort of irresponsible power tool behavior to the guys. (Note: I do differentiate between "guys" and "men." Posting on this topic will follow.) It is my belief that, contrary to popular opinion, women in general are actually better power tool operators than guys. There are exceptions, of course, but I’m talking in generalities here, so don’t get your knickers in a twist. Let me expound.
Let’s start with defining what makes a "good" power tool operator: 1) safe operating, 2) safe operating, and 3) safe operating. A good operator will always stay within the tool’s intended limits, for safety reasons and because it just makes sense. You don’t cut dovetails with a table saw. You shouldn’t reach up one-handed with a chainsaw and try to cut branches with the tip of the bar. I think guys expect the tool to work for them in the manner they desire. It’s the "get a bigger hammer" mentality. If they just stretch a little further and push the envelope just enough…they will either cut more wood than their older brother did, or they’ll swing the blade around and bury it in their leg.
Women, on the other hand, understand the value of finesse, and are more apt to retain a healthy fear of the tool and work with the tool according to the tool’s rules. Women will use guards and follow safety precautions, perhaps in part because they are less inclined to solely depend upon their own physical strength. Also, I think that women tend to underestimate their own strength, while men will overestimate. Women are less likely to try to chainsaw once they reach physical fatigue—which is when most chainsaw accidents occur. Guys just don’t seem to know when to quit. True, by pushing themselves they often accomplish more, but is it really worth the risk?
Perhaps guys just don’t know they’ve reached an unsafe physical state. It’s been my experience that women are more in tune with their bodies. We know when we’re dehydrated—so we put the saw down and get some water. Right away. When we’re in the woods, we don’t try for "just one more" when it’s really too dark to see. When my wrist starts to shake, I know it’s time to put the saw down.
Women may also be a little less "mechanically inclined," which makes us think through tool use with less haste and more caution. I don’t count on my instincts when operating machinery. Before I put the tractor in gear, I want to know what every lever and button and pedal does. I want to get used to driving the mower in "turtle" speed before I push the speed to "rabbit."
Perhaps that makes me a bit of a pansy. Overcautious. Scaredy-cat. Take your pick.
Threatening my manhood, however, won’t get me to try to take my twelve-inch-bar chainsaw through a thirty-inch oak tree trunk half-buried in muck. Sorry.
Which brings me to the absolute highlight of the holiday: on Monday, I graduated from my friend John’s chainsaw "school" and was granted a long-time loan of a fabulous Stihl 020T arborist’s chainsaw. And chaps. Safety orange Kevlar chaps.
Even new shoes can hardly compare to the joys of chainsaw independence. No longer do I have to call in a favor and/or wait until a manly friend can drop by and cut up some of the dead timber I’ve dragged from the woods. Nope. I can do it myself. And, I may add, with great attention to safety and proper chainsaw etiquette. Chainsaws are dangerous tools. I know, I know. Geez! I’m a girl, after all. I’m not about to ram around holding the running saw over my head while talking on my Nextel and trying to muscle through a giant branch in a thunderstorm. Alone. While eating a tuna sandwich. And wearing no shirt or shoes.
I leave that sort of irresponsible power tool behavior to the guys. (Note: I do differentiate between "guys" and "men." Posting on this topic will follow.) It is my belief that, contrary to popular opinion, women in general are actually better power tool operators than guys. There are exceptions, of course, but I’m talking in generalities here, so don’t get your knickers in a twist. Let me expound.
Let’s start with defining what makes a "good" power tool operator: 1) safe operating, 2) safe operating, and 3) safe operating. A good operator will always stay within the tool’s intended limits, for safety reasons and because it just makes sense. You don’t cut dovetails with a table saw. You shouldn’t reach up one-handed with a chainsaw and try to cut branches with the tip of the bar. I think guys expect the tool to work for them in the manner they desire. It’s the "get a bigger hammer" mentality. If they just stretch a little further and push the envelope just enough…they will either cut more wood than their older brother did, or they’ll swing the blade around and bury it in their leg.
Women, on the other hand, understand the value of finesse, and are more apt to retain a healthy fear of the tool and work with the tool according to the tool’s rules. Women will use guards and follow safety precautions, perhaps in part because they are less inclined to solely depend upon their own physical strength. Also, I think that women tend to underestimate their own strength, while men will overestimate. Women are less likely to try to chainsaw once they reach physical fatigue—which is when most chainsaw accidents occur. Guys just don’t seem to know when to quit. True, by pushing themselves they often accomplish more, but is it really worth the risk?
Perhaps guys just don’t know they’ve reached an unsafe physical state. It’s been my experience that women are more in tune with their bodies. We know when we’re dehydrated—so we put the saw down and get some water. Right away. When we’re in the woods, we don’t try for "just one more" when it’s really too dark to see. When my wrist starts to shake, I know it’s time to put the saw down.
Women may also be a little less "mechanically inclined," which makes us think through tool use with less haste and more caution. I don’t count on my instincts when operating machinery. Before I put the tractor in gear, I want to know what every lever and button and pedal does. I want to get used to driving the mower in "turtle" speed before I push the speed to "rabbit."
Perhaps that makes me a bit of a pansy. Overcautious. Scaredy-cat. Take your pick.
Threatening my manhood, however, won’t get me to try to take my twelve-inch-bar chainsaw through a thirty-inch oak tree trunk half-buried in muck. Sorry.
Friday, August 31, 2007
snippet
Well, here it is Friday already, and time for the poem of the week. Instead, however, I offer a snippet of narrative from one of my stories in progress. The (yet untitled) story is total crap right now, of course, but I think it's got good bones. Perhaps, someday, I'll like it well enough to let you read the whole thing. Today you just get one of the opening scenes. I'm not blog-savvy enough to create paragraph indents, so bear with the flush left text, if you would. And have a long, happy Labor Day weekend! ****
Danny consulted the hand-scrawled directions one more time. Yep, this was the right building. He walked up the well-worn sandstone steps to the double doors and let himself in. Now, he just had to go up to the third floor. It must have been time for class to let out, for suddenly doors along the corridor opened, and he found himself in a sea of students. Finding the stairs, he pushed along with the herd to the second floor. More students. But on his trip up to the third story, he found the stairs nearly deserted. It figured. It was unlikely that any professor would consent to having an office in a classroom wing.
At the top of the stairs, he found another pair of double doors, the glass panels bearing the name of the university publisher. Danny hoped he was in the right place, and stepped through into a small reception area; there were three hallways, none were labeled. There was, however, a girl at a small desk typing busily at a computer.
"Hello," he said.
She did not look up. "Hi. Just a sec."
At that moment, another woman was crossing from one hallway to another, her shoes click-clacking the tile floor. She paused, one arm full of papers.
"Good morning, Alice." She said.
She looked to be in her thirties, with small, half-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, dark hair caught firmly back in a pencil-threaded bun, and an aura of efficiency running from her navy blazer to her demure brown heels. The girl straightened up like a shot.
"Good morning, Miss Bard."
The woman smiled gently, nodded, and continued on her way.
"How may I help you this morning, sir?" The girl asked Danny, her hands politely folded in front of her as she met his eye.
He fought down the urge to comment on the change of manner. "Dr.VanFeilde’s office, please."
Her eyes widened slightly at his accent. "Is he expecting you?" She asked.
"Yes. Dan Welkin."
She consulted her computer—confirming his appointment, probably—then pointed to the hall on her left hand, the one the older woman had emerged from. "That way. The door at the end of the hall on the right. You can’t miss it."
He followed her directions, passing a small, jam-packed library with a large printer and several office doors, mostly closed. He heard the low murmur of one or two conversations, the clack of a keyboard, the perk of a coffee maker coming from a small kitchenette. The last door on the right, also closed, had "James D. VanFeilde, PhD" blazoned across the semi-transparent glass panel.
Its end of the hall contained a small window with a deep sill, a black radiator squatting along the floor beneath it; the morning sun shone in, fortifying the lively, red-bloomed flower growing in a broad terra cotta container upon the ledge. Danny gave himself a moment to look at the plant, readying himself for the next moment, when he would see his father for the first time in twenty years. He took a deep breath, and another, steadying himself as he would before a difficult climb. Then he reached out, and knocked on the door.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
summer slacking
So, barely two weeks into this blogging adventure of mine, and already I've slacked off considerably. I've not posted at all this week. Remember what I said in my first posting about using this as a means of becoming a more disciplined writer? Ha. Guess I'm still working on that one.
Well, I sit at a desk all day. Most of the time, when I get home in the evening, the last thing I want to do is sit back down at another desk in front of another computer. There are so many other things to do, inside and out. Especially out, this time of year, when summer makes it plain she's not sticking around for much longer.
I tranquilized the type-A in my personality this Tuesday to take advantage of what may have been the last 85 degree day, leaving work at 1:00 to go jump in the lake and soak up some sun--and sand. I came home with a lot of sand. It was a nice, hot, windy day on the beach. I laid back in the water, enjoying the contrast between what I was doing and what I should have been doing. And then I had ice cream. Not because I wanted to, you understand, but because that's how you cap off a beach day. Of course. One does not mess with these traditions lightly, or without good reason.
Making up the time I missed at work is a bit of a hassle, but worth it. I am very thankful to work at a place that allows the occasional afternoon of playing hooky. And the occasional afternoon of playing pirates. But that's another story...
Well, I sit at a desk all day. Most of the time, when I get home in the evening, the last thing I want to do is sit back down at another desk in front of another computer. There are so many other things to do, inside and out. Especially out, this time of year, when summer makes it plain she's not sticking around for much longer.
I tranquilized the type-A in my personality this Tuesday to take advantage of what may have been the last 85 degree day, leaving work at 1:00 to go jump in the lake and soak up some sun--and sand. I came home with a lot of sand. It was a nice, hot, windy day on the beach. I laid back in the water, enjoying the contrast between what I was doing and what I should have been doing. And then I had ice cream. Not because I wanted to, you understand, but because that's how you cap off a beach day. Of course. One does not mess with these traditions lightly, or without good reason.
Making up the time I missed at work is a bit of a hassle, but worth it. I am very thankful to work at a place that allows the occasional afternoon of playing hooky. And the occasional afternoon of playing pirates. But that's another story...
Friday, August 24, 2007
Innocence
Ok, this week's poem is a bit of a cop-out; I didn't write this one. But hey--at least I didn't pretend that I had written it. It's quite lovely. Enjoy!
Innocence
Innocence sees that this it is, and finds it world enough. Annie Dillard
At some point you make peace with it
Your life as it is, with all it offers you
Like an early evening walk, half moon
Hung on the tiger lily sky
Black cows heading to the barn
Bemoaning the end of day
Hundreds of blackbirds screeching
Live as the wire they perch upon
My long-time friend zipping by in her van
Waving. It’s after all the whining
And stomping of feet, of course. After dreams
Blur with life. After the pin-pricked
Pop of the inflated ego. A joy
Mysterious. A humble innocence.
~Julie L. Moore
Innocence
Innocence sees that this it is, and finds it world enough. Annie Dillard
At some point you make peace with it
Your life as it is, with all it offers you
Like an early evening walk, half moon
Hung on the tiger lily sky
Black cows heading to the barn
Bemoaning the end of day
Hundreds of blackbirds screeching
Live as the wire they perch upon
My long-time friend zipping by in her van
Waving. It’s after all the whining
And stomping of feet, of course. After dreams
Blur with life. After the pin-pricked
Pop of the inflated ego. A joy
Mysterious. A humble innocence.
~Julie L. Moore
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Country Living
I have the good fortune to live a little farther out in the country—or rather, it’s a 70-acre oasis of woods and hay field, somewhat close to a bustling little town, that has escaped being part and parceled into yet another sub division—but that’s another story. The point today is that my home feels nice, quiet, and pleasantly secluded. It also helps that the pavement on my road ends about a quarter mile before my ridiculously long driveway. Not much through traffic; I hear more airplanes than cars. And I cannot see any other houses from mine—just one yard light twinkling through the trees to the west, reminding me cheerily that someone would probably hear me if I screamed loud enough.
This seclusion means that I can do many things I could not do in my previous home in the city: leave windows open when I’m not home, mow the large lawn with the large tractor, go for a jog without locking up and carrying my keys tucked in my waistband, and (one of my favorites) walk around in various stages of nakedness without having to shut the blinds, especially in daylight. I like not shutting the bathroom door when I shower. It keeps the mirrors from getting all steamy. When I get ridiculously dirty from working outside, I can drop my clothes at the door instead of trailing mess through my tidy home.
I’ve never had a moment of worry that someone might be spying on me; shoot, in the month and a half that I’ve lived there, I’ve only had one stranger knock on my door, and he was an animal control officer. My long gravel driveway provides ample, audible warning of anyone driving up, so I have no fear of being caught by surprise. And with as hot and sticky as it’s been this week, I’ve been shucking clothes as soon as I walk in the door after work, with no worries that I'd be providing anyone with a free show. Last night, however, was different.
I stepped out of my pants and tossed them on the bed, and was removing my shirt when I looked out my bedroom window and saw…a Peeping Tom! Looking right at me, bold as brass! His head shot up when he saw that I noticed him, but his eyes remained fixed on me.
What did I do? Did I scream? Did I chase after him with my stick of justice? Did I call 911?
Nope. See, it really was a tom—a tom turkey. Ha. Gotcha. Every day or so, I see three or four wild turkeys make their bobbing way across bits of my yard. They don’t seem to notice that I’m walking around in a sports bra. Neither does the herd of seven deer that regularly visits my backyard at dawn and dusk.
Ah, country!
This seclusion means that I can do many things I could not do in my previous home in the city: leave windows open when I’m not home, mow the large lawn with the large tractor, go for a jog without locking up and carrying my keys tucked in my waistband, and (one of my favorites) walk around in various stages of nakedness without having to shut the blinds, especially in daylight. I like not shutting the bathroom door when I shower. It keeps the mirrors from getting all steamy. When I get ridiculously dirty from working outside, I can drop my clothes at the door instead of trailing mess through my tidy home.
I’ve never had a moment of worry that someone might be spying on me; shoot, in the month and a half that I’ve lived there, I’ve only had one stranger knock on my door, and he was an animal control officer. My long gravel driveway provides ample, audible warning of anyone driving up, so I have no fear of being caught by surprise. And with as hot and sticky as it’s been this week, I’ve been shucking clothes as soon as I walk in the door after work, with no worries that I'd be providing anyone with a free show. Last night, however, was different.
I stepped out of my pants and tossed them on the bed, and was removing my shirt when I looked out my bedroom window and saw…a Peeping Tom! Looking right at me, bold as brass! His head shot up when he saw that I noticed him, but his eyes remained fixed on me.
What did I do? Did I scream? Did I chase after him with my stick of justice? Did I call 911?
Nope. See, it really was a tom—a tom turkey. Ha. Gotcha. Every day or so, I see three or four wild turkeys make their bobbing way across bits of my yard. They don’t seem to notice that I’m walking around in a sports bra. Neither does the herd of seven deer that regularly visits my backyard at dawn and dusk.
Ah, country!
Friday, August 17, 2007
Late Summer
When the sun reaches that certain point in the sky,
and tints the blue toward twilight a little--just a little,
just enough that I look over my eastern shoulder
for the arrival of the moon--
then I settle in, and wait for the magic.
But sobriety will not come;
my soul tastes adventure in the cooling air
and my heart is beating louder
and harder
and stronger
until I fear it will shake itself loose and
send me dancing across the sharp stubble of hayfield
and out into the wide, wide world
with no protection
no shield of space or time or
trees that rustle and sway in the sundown breeze—
leaves shivering like they, too, have
other places to be.
As if they are aware that soon autumn will come
and they will dance upon the bough no longer
but will skitter in their muted tones of bonfire
across the open ground and
pile, brown and quiet,
to sleep out the winter in the shelter of hollows.
and tints the blue toward twilight a little--just a little,
just enough that I look over my eastern shoulder
for the arrival of the moon--
then I settle in, and wait for the magic.
But sobriety will not come;
my soul tastes adventure in the cooling air
and my heart is beating louder
and harder
and stronger
until I fear it will shake itself loose and
send me dancing across the sharp stubble of hayfield
and out into the wide, wide world
with no protection
no shield of space or time or
trees that rustle and sway in the sundown breeze—
leaves shivering like they, too, have
other places to be.
As if they are aware that soon autumn will come
and they will dance upon the bough no longer
but will skitter in their muted tones of bonfire
across the open ground and
pile, brown and quiet,
to sleep out the winter in the shelter of hollows.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
The Queen of Rejection
As the editorial assistant at a book publishing company—or, as I’d been dubbed by a friend, the office monkey—a key part of my job consisted of rejecting. Reject, reject, reject. By phone and by mail. By email and by fax. Everyone (and their mother) has written a book, it seems, and our company would be missing out on a great opportunity if we didn’t snap up their manuscript.
Armed with a firm "no unsolicited proposals or manuscripts" policy, I shot down countless hopefuls like skeet. Pull. BAM. Pull. BAM. As a novice writer myself, I felt sympathetic…for about the first two months. Then I moved on to slightly sadistic pleasure, and the Queen of Rejection was born. She was helped along by the sad fact that any manuscripts she bothered to peruse were, well, simply awful. She especially loved proposals written on notebook paper, or that began with something like "I ain’t no good writer, but…"
Fortunately for our company image and reputation, the Queen of Rejection has a pleasant, polite phone voice and an unyielding well of resolve.
Now, as I wave goodbye to my time as office monkey, I leave the pile of rejects with very little feeling. They have, in turn, offended, amused, and irritated me until all sensitivity was gone. I can tear through a pile of proposals in about five minutes, mostly because it takes me that long to tear open the envelopes, chuck the material in the recycling bin, and keep one piece of paper with the author’s address on it. I let the envelopes and letters pile for a couple weeks, and have a grand day of form-letter rejections.
If I’m lucky, the hopeful author sent me a SASE. If I’m unlucky, they send in their project, call two or three times, lose the rejection letter I’ve sent them, call again six months later, and then demand I return their manuscript because it was their only copy. Some even darkly hint that I’ve kept their material for my own use. That is when the Queen really struggles not to roar.
So, kids, what’s the moral of the story? Well, there really isn’t one, I suppose. Mostly because the worst cases dealt with by the Queen seemed to involve people who had never used a computer and had no idea what a blog is. They won't be reading this--and therefore won't learn from my experience. It’s awful hard to edjumacate them there folks what don’t use the web-net thingy.
I guess there are one or two or three things you can learn from the Queen: 1) PLEASE PLEASE research the publishing company’s policy before sending in your wondrous creations, 2) it’s perfectly acceptable to make stabbing motions with your pen while you’re on the phone, as long as you don’t make any noise, and 3) callously sharing snippets of someone’s creative endeavor with your friends to make them laugh is probably the most use anyone will every get out of that sad material, so make sure you’ve taken the author’s name off, and go for it.
Armed with a firm "no unsolicited proposals or manuscripts" policy, I shot down countless hopefuls like skeet. Pull. BAM. Pull. BAM. As a novice writer myself, I felt sympathetic…for about the first two months. Then I moved on to slightly sadistic pleasure, and the Queen of Rejection was born. She was helped along by the sad fact that any manuscripts she bothered to peruse were, well, simply awful. She especially loved proposals written on notebook paper, or that began with something like "I ain’t no good writer, but…"
Fortunately for our company image and reputation, the Queen of Rejection has a pleasant, polite phone voice and an unyielding well of resolve.
Now, as I wave goodbye to my time as office monkey, I leave the pile of rejects with very little feeling. They have, in turn, offended, amused, and irritated me until all sensitivity was gone. I can tear through a pile of proposals in about five minutes, mostly because it takes me that long to tear open the envelopes, chuck the material in the recycling bin, and keep one piece of paper with the author’s address on it. I let the envelopes and letters pile for a couple weeks, and have a grand day of form-letter rejections.
If I’m lucky, the hopeful author sent me a SASE. If I’m unlucky, they send in their project, call two or three times, lose the rejection letter I’ve sent them, call again six months later, and then demand I return their manuscript because it was their only copy. Some even darkly hint that I’ve kept their material for my own use. That is when the Queen really struggles not to roar.
So, kids, what’s the moral of the story? Well, there really isn’t one, I suppose. Mostly because the worst cases dealt with by the Queen seemed to involve people who had never used a computer and had no idea what a blog is. They won't be reading this--and therefore won't learn from my experience. It’s awful hard to edjumacate them there folks what don’t use the web-net thingy.
I guess there are one or two or three things you can learn from the Queen: 1) PLEASE PLEASE research the publishing company’s policy before sending in your wondrous creations, 2) it’s perfectly acceptable to make stabbing motions with your pen while you’re on the phone, as long as you don’t make any noise, and 3) callously sharing snippets of someone’s creative endeavor with your friends to make them laugh is probably the most use anyone will every get out of that sad material, so make sure you’ve taken the author’s name off, and go for it.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Welcome, innocent bystanders!
Sweet mercy help us, I’ve started a blog! Great word, "blog." The word associations are endless. Glob. Blob. Slog. A bog full of logs. I know what you’re thinking—thank the stars she doesn’t try to write children’s books. There would be preschoolers jumping into the muck all across America. And we just can’t have that, can we? Well…maybe just this once…
Remember, kids—always bog jump with a partner big enough to pull you out when (not if) you get stuck. And wear shoes that lace really tight. Because I’m not going in to find your shoe, understand? Missy, you’ll walk home barefoot! Take your consequences! Ah, consequences. There’s another fantastic word. But you’ve got brains; associate for yourself and leave me alone!
No, wait. I didn’t entirely mean that. Come back. We still haven’t talked about why Miss Semi-allergic-to-pop-culture started this silly ol’ blog. And you want to know, ey? Of course you do. So do I, point of fact. The reasons, like reasons often are, are varied and differ in degrees of legitimacy and quality.
Firstly (which is a word you hardly ever get to use, so answer that door when opportunity knocks!), I thought it’d be a great way to force myself to write on a regular basis. I’m not very disciplined, see, and need the occasional kick in the pants to get going. Which is silly; I like to write, after all. Whether I’m good at it or not is open for discussion. By the way, your opinion only counts if I like it. Or if you slip in several fantastic words like "dialectical" and mean it.
Secondly, I thought this would be a fun way for my many no-longer-local friends and family to keep an eye on what’s rattling around in my brain. I have also had a request or two to restart the old Lichty Hall Poem of the Week. We’ll see what I can do, 206. This links back to the kick-in-the-pants motivator of reason one. Though this reason is suspect overall, as I have no intention of making this a personal journal. If I start to write about myself too much, feel free to slap me silly. Figuratively, of course. [And—while I’m thinking of it—no stalking allowed! There. I’m glad I got that out in the open. Hopefully, I’m fishing with the wrong kind of bait for that kind of catch, anyway, but a girl can’t be too careful.] I’m not a facebook type, and I’m lousy at letter writing so…blog!
Thirdly…well, I haven’t thought of a thirdly yet. Other than the fact that I’m not entirely immune to narcissism…Hey! I resemble that remark! Yep. Nothing like a good malapropism to kill a conversation. And I was just on a roll, too. Well, I’d better quit anyway, whether I’m ahead or behind or stuck in the middle with you. So, welcome to the adventures of the Wonderspools. I’m somewhat addicted to ellipses and em-dashes, but I’ll try to behave, and to keep things interesting. And I’ll try not to self-edit too much, if you promise never to write without capitalization or punctuation. Gar! Urg! It pains me, Daisy, it really does.
Toodle-doo!
Remember, kids—always bog jump with a partner big enough to pull you out when (not if) you get stuck. And wear shoes that lace really tight. Because I’m not going in to find your shoe, understand? Missy, you’ll walk home barefoot! Take your consequences! Ah, consequences. There’s another fantastic word. But you’ve got brains; associate for yourself and leave me alone!
No, wait. I didn’t entirely mean that. Come back. We still haven’t talked about why Miss Semi-allergic-to-pop-culture started this silly ol’ blog. And you want to know, ey? Of course you do. So do I, point of fact. The reasons, like reasons often are, are varied and differ in degrees of legitimacy and quality.
Firstly (which is a word you hardly ever get to use, so answer that door when opportunity knocks!), I thought it’d be a great way to force myself to write on a regular basis. I’m not very disciplined, see, and need the occasional kick in the pants to get going. Which is silly; I like to write, after all. Whether I’m good at it or not is open for discussion. By the way, your opinion only counts if I like it. Or if you slip in several fantastic words like "dialectical" and mean it.
Secondly, I thought this would be a fun way for my many no-longer-local friends and family to keep an eye on what’s rattling around in my brain. I have also had a request or two to restart the old Lichty Hall Poem of the Week. We’ll see what I can do, 206. This links back to the kick-in-the-pants motivator of reason one. Though this reason is suspect overall, as I have no intention of making this a personal journal. If I start to write about myself too much, feel free to slap me silly. Figuratively, of course. [And—while I’m thinking of it—no stalking allowed! There. I’m glad I got that out in the open. Hopefully, I’m fishing with the wrong kind of bait for that kind of catch, anyway, but a girl can’t be too careful.] I’m not a facebook type, and I’m lousy at letter writing so…blog!
Thirdly…well, I haven’t thought of a thirdly yet. Other than the fact that I’m not entirely immune to narcissism…Hey! I resemble that remark! Yep. Nothing like a good malapropism to kill a conversation. And I was just on a roll, too. Well, I’d better quit anyway, whether I’m ahead or behind or stuck in the middle with you. So, welcome to the adventures of the Wonderspools. I’m somewhat addicted to ellipses and em-dashes, but I’ll try to behave, and to keep things interesting. And I’ll try not to self-edit too much, if you promise never to write without capitalization or punctuation. Gar! Urg! It pains me, Daisy, it really does.
Toodle-doo!
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