One of my sons has a girlfriend. I don’t think I’m allowed to say which one, but he’ll be easily identifiable by the giant scarlet letter I plan on forcing him to wear.
I just found out the other day. Facebook was kind enough to inform me. A little tip for parents of younger kids…if your kids get Facebook, force them to add you to their friends list. It’s been a veritable font of information for me. Once a few years back, one of my sons was planning on going to an all day party at the beach B.Y.O.B.. There was a group on Facebook giddily giving out all the details about the B.Y.O.B.. My response? O.M.D.B. (over my dead body. Yeah, he didn’t think it was clever either.). I caught my son lol’ing at a mildly homophobic comment on Facebook and let him have it via his inbox. If it’s in his inbox, he’ll read it apparently. Even when it’s from me.
And now…a recent status update letting me know that my Man Cub is being lured out of the jungle to live in the village by one of those girls who can carry a jug of water on her head. How dare he? I’m not even going to delve into the fact that he has been able to use the ‘in a relationship’ option before his own mother. I’ll brood over that one later. With wine and left over Miss Vickie’s chips. Sea salt and malt vinegar should do the trick.
That isn’t what this is about. It’s about…loyalty. I thought he and I were close. I make him all his favourite foods. I watch College Humour skits on Youtube with him and pretend to laugh even though it’s only mildly funny. I buy him cool shirts. What the hell? What does he need HER for?
Oh God…I can’t breathe. She’s going to poison him against me, isn’t she? It’s like that old saying that haunts me every day of my life. ‘A son is a son ‘til he takes a wife, a daughter is a daughter the rest of her life.’ Well that’s bullshit, I tell ya. BULLSHIT! I’m the one that buys him the really good, hypo-allergenic anti-acne cream with a faint hint of green tea. I could have just gotten him the cheap stuff. Maybe I should have gotten him the cheap stuff. Curse me for making him so appealing to the opposite sex.
Suddenly those ‘how to treat girls’ lessons seem ill-advised. What was I thinking? I taught him to hold doors open for girls, to offer to pay for dinner and offer his coat if she’s cold and really listen to her when she talks about her day. It’s like giving plutonium to the Unibomber. What an idiot.
Well, enough of that. I’m about to employ one of the oldest, best gifts my Irish Catholic mother ever passed on to me (besides this new bra she got me…it makes my cleavage look awesome!). Guilt. Good old-fashioned ‘You’re going out again? Oh…I’ll just lie on the couch and let old age kick in.’ guilt. It always worked like a charm on me. It still works like a charm on me.
Oddly, I don’t remember it ever working on my brothers…which could spell bad news for me. Sigh…I’ll keep you posted.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Remembrance Day
(Lots of updates. New movie, The Men Who Stare At Goats reviewed in Small Town Movies. Wendi talk about sex as an Olympic sport - curse you, Russian judges! - in her recent blog. Laura and her family have 'it'. The flu. Exactly what she's been dreading. Check them out!)
Every Remembrance Day chokes me up. Like clock work. I try to hold it together...after all, who am I to cry? I've never lost someone to a war. I've never had to say goodbye to a son, sending him off to something braver and bigger and more frightening than anything I will ever know. I've been blessed.
But I guess that's probably why I get choked up.
I just got back from a Remembrance Day assembly at the kids' school. It's one of those gorgeous November days that almost never happens. Sunny and clear and the exact right amount of coolness. I walked to the school and thought 'This is perfect'. The river runs under the bridge at my feet. Traffic is fairly light. Two police men stand in full dress uniform at the stop lights looking smart and serious. Everywhere I look - poppies.
I held it together through the assembly, despite the fact that the teachers let the grade fives run the show and they were so solemn and sincere. Despite the fact that Jack's favourite all time teacher came back from her retirement just to play the piano while the entire school sang 'Where Have All The Flowers Gone?' Despite the fact that each and every one of them, right down to fidgety little kindergartners, observed their moment of silence. It was as lovely as it is every year.
So what made me finally break down? The same thing that gets to me every year. Old soldiers in uniforms they've kept in pristine condition despite the fifty years or so. Standing erect, hand over heart, voices still strong. Singing O Canada. Saluting the cenotaph standing watch over the river. Proud and sad and strong and careful. It gets me every time.
And it makes me think of my grandfather. The way he would keep the television on all day to watch Remembrance Day services all over the world. How he would read the paper in his armchair then fold it carefully, rise and recite 'Flanders Fields' with his hand over his heart. His eyes closed to prove he still remembered every word. He died ten years ago tomorrow. He waited until Remembrance Day was over.
Lest We Forget.
Every Remembrance Day chokes me up. Like clock work. I try to hold it together...after all, who am I to cry? I've never lost someone to a war. I've never had to say goodbye to a son, sending him off to something braver and bigger and more frightening than anything I will ever know. I've been blessed.
But I guess that's probably why I get choked up.
I just got back from a Remembrance Day assembly at the kids' school. It's one of those gorgeous November days that almost never happens. Sunny and clear and the exact right amount of coolness. I walked to the school and thought 'This is perfect'. The river runs under the bridge at my feet. Traffic is fairly light. Two police men stand in full dress uniform at the stop lights looking smart and serious. Everywhere I look - poppies.
I held it together through the assembly, despite the fact that the teachers let the grade fives run the show and they were so solemn and sincere. Despite the fact that Jack's favourite all time teacher came back from her retirement just to play the piano while the entire school sang 'Where Have All The Flowers Gone?' Despite the fact that each and every one of them, right down to fidgety little kindergartners, observed their moment of silence. It was as lovely as it is every year.
So what made me finally break down? The same thing that gets to me every year. Old soldiers in uniforms they've kept in pristine condition despite the fifty years or so. Standing erect, hand over heart, voices still strong. Singing O Canada. Saluting the cenotaph standing watch over the river. Proud and sad and strong and careful. It gets me every time.
And it makes me think of my grandfather. The way he would keep the television on all day to watch Remembrance Day services all over the world. How he would read the paper in his armchair then fold it carefully, rise and recite 'Flanders Fields' with his hand over his heart. His eyes closed to prove he still remembered every word. He died ten years ago tomorrow. He waited until Remembrance Day was over.
Lest We Forget.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Happy
I have two sorts of happiness in my life. Mutually exclusive and equally perfect to me for different reasons.
The first one has to do with productivity. This one I don’t feel much really. But every once in a while, when I’ve made the beds and put away the laundry and started a roast pork for dinner in a delicious marinade…when I’ve volunteered at the school, played basketball before dinner, read to Jack and Nathan by their night light, talked to the older boys in that new commiserating tone we’re getting used to over popcorn and chocolate milk.
I fall into a deep sleep on nights like those, the sort that you get when you’re full of a kind of satisfaction at how you’re finally getting it done. On those days I feel like I’ve lived up to an ideal. On those days I feel like a Good Mother. I might even feel like a Good Woman.
Then there are days like today. When I give in to this cocoon I always want to build around myself. This selfish little space that’s only about me. When I sit in my favourite chair for the entire day drinking tea and writing every shitty little thought that pops into my head. I write in my journal and dig down deeper into myself so that when the phone rings it sounds like it’s in someone else’s house, it’s so far away. From nine until three I’ll be here, and when the boys come home it will confuse me a little. They will wake me up. And I feel more like myself the way I was probably supposed to, the way I was built.
I’m giving in to days like these more and more lately, despite the fact that they’re not doing a hell of a lot for my bank account. It’s one of the joys/dangers of being single. The lines I used to draw through my days - the half-pasts and quarter-afters and ten-tos- are dissipating. Which is frightening in it’s own way I suppose. No one is here to remind me to get off my rump and clean the bathroom or start dinner or make my bed. No one is here to say ‘What exactly did you DO all day?’ I still can’t decide if that’s good or bad.
It’s just…it feels like there’s a clock ticking. All the time. A clock that started up in my mid-thirties. A clock with no hands but with pictures of all the things I should be seeing, doing. A clock that gongs every hour or so that if I don’t figure out how to be happy soon, I never will. And I need, need, NEED to be happy. I do. We all do, really, but I think some of us are mature enough to understand that you don’t always get to be happy. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices so that you end up being happy. Eventually.
I’m not that mature. And I’m not that happy all the time,. I think. But here, in my little cocoon where everything I do is on the inside…here is where I’ll find it I think.
Because if I don’t find it…Jesus, what’s the point?
The first one has to do with productivity. This one I don’t feel much really. But every once in a while, when I’ve made the beds and put away the laundry and started a roast pork for dinner in a delicious marinade…when I’ve volunteered at the school, played basketball before dinner, read to Jack and Nathan by their night light, talked to the older boys in that new commiserating tone we’re getting used to over popcorn and chocolate milk.
I fall into a deep sleep on nights like those, the sort that you get when you’re full of a kind of satisfaction at how you’re finally getting it done. On those days I feel like I’ve lived up to an ideal. On those days I feel like a Good Mother. I might even feel like a Good Woman.
Then there are days like today. When I give in to this cocoon I always want to build around myself. This selfish little space that’s only about me. When I sit in my favourite chair for the entire day drinking tea and writing every shitty little thought that pops into my head. I write in my journal and dig down deeper into myself so that when the phone rings it sounds like it’s in someone else’s house, it’s so far away. From nine until three I’ll be here, and when the boys come home it will confuse me a little. They will wake me up. And I feel more like myself the way I was probably supposed to, the way I was built.
I’m giving in to days like these more and more lately, despite the fact that they’re not doing a hell of a lot for my bank account. It’s one of the joys/dangers of being single. The lines I used to draw through my days - the half-pasts and quarter-afters and ten-tos- are dissipating. Which is frightening in it’s own way I suppose. No one is here to remind me to get off my rump and clean the bathroom or start dinner or make my bed. No one is here to say ‘What exactly did you DO all day?’ I still can’t decide if that’s good or bad.
It’s just…it feels like there’s a clock ticking. All the time. A clock that started up in my mid-thirties. A clock with no hands but with pictures of all the things I should be seeing, doing. A clock that gongs every hour or so that if I don’t figure out how to be happy soon, I never will. And I need, need, NEED to be happy. I do. We all do, really, but I think some of us are mature enough to understand that you don’t always get to be happy. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices so that you end up being happy. Eventually.
I’m not that mature. And I’m not that happy all the time,. I think. But here, in my little cocoon where everything I do is on the inside…here is where I’ll find it I think.
Because if I don’t find it…Jesus, what’s the point?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Take Your Kid To Work Day
Yesterday was take your kid to work day here in Owen Sound. I figure my kids get off pretty easy for this one...after all, what do I really do? Not much.
Ben was my helper yesterday. Here's a rundown of what we actually did
- Went to the Rocking Horse to pick up our toy of the month for November.
- Went to the Downtown Bookstore to pick out a book for November (it's for teenaged boys and it's about zombies! Stay tuned...)
- Drank coffee at the Bean Cellar while trying to get some writing done on my laptop (me)
- Ate a brownie at the Bean Cellar while playing guitar (Ben)
- Groceries and pizza for lunch.
A pretty easy gig, eh? So let's here what Ben has to say about it (Editor's note : Despite my reservations I've decided not to edit a word of Ben's blog...just so you know)
Ben- Today I looked forward to one thing and one thing only - sleeping in. I couldn't wait to wake up feeling completely refreshed for once. To actually wake up and not still be tired is a personal goal of mine. But unfortunately my Mom had other plans. She knocked on my door at eight o'clock, breaking my deep slumber and bringing me back to reality.
The reality is today is take your kid to work day. A day loved by children across the country. All they have to do is go to their parents' work for an hour or two. Maybe spend the rest of the day sleeping. Me?
I got to spend the entire day gallivanting around town helping my mother. Enthralling, isn't it? Well, to be completely honest, it wasn't all bad. I got a brownie out of it. And any day that includes a delicious brownie from the Bean Cellar is a good day in my books. Plus, I got pizza. And I'm reading a pretty decent book to review for this very site. Zombies...awesome.
I aslo got the extreme privilege of writing this blog. Although I would love to go into a fifty page long pros and cons list of my day, I'm running out of room.
That brownie was pretty good though. So not a bad day.
Ben was my helper yesterday. Here's a rundown of what we actually did
- Went to the Rocking Horse to pick up our toy of the month for November.
- Went to the Downtown Bookstore to pick out a book for November (it's for teenaged boys and it's about zombies! Stay tuned...)
- Drank coffee at the Bean Cellar while trying to get some writing done on my laptop (me)
- Ate a brownie at the Bean Cellar while playing guitar (Ben)
- Groceries and pizza for lunch.
A pretty easy gig, eh? So let's here what Ben has to say about it (Editor's note : Despite my reservations I've decided not to edit a word of Ben's blog...just so you know)
Ben- Today I looked forward to one thing and one thing only - sleeping in. I couldn't wait to wake up feeling completely refreshed for once. To actually wake up and not still be tired is a personal goal of mine. But unfortunately my Mom had other plans. She knocked on my door at eight o'clock, breaking my deep slumber and bringing me back to reality.
The reality is today is take your kid to work day. A day loved by children across the country. All they have to do is go to their parents' work for an hour or two. Maybe spend the rest of the day sleeping. Me?
I got to spend the entire day gallivanting around town helping my mother. Enthralling, isn't it? Well, to be completely honest, it wasn't all bad. I got a brownie out of it. And any day that includes a delicious brownie from the Bean Cellar is a good day in my books. Plus, I got pizza. And I'm reading a pretty decent book to review for this very site. Zombies...awesome.
I aslo got the extreme privilege of writing this blog. Although I would love to go into a fifty page long pros and cons list of my day, I'm running out of room.
That brownie was pretty good though. So not a bad day.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Zombie Victim #1
If there ever is a zombie attack, I'll be the first one to go.
That's what I've learned today. After laying on the couch for hours watching bad nineties horror flicks. I had never made the connection between the nineties and terrible horror movies, but there is one. I think we were all wrapped up in Y2K terror so at the time we were all thinking, "Hey, this could actually happen. Aliens could invade a high school and take over the faculty, their only will being to win the big state championship football game...you just never know, do you?" I watched three or four relatively similar horror movies today with the same heavy thought weighing down on me - I'm a prime candidate to either a) become a host body for some alien organism or b) die in the first wave of zombie attacks. I would never be one of the chosen few to make it into the safety of the mall, hospital or grocery store to map out my escape.
Here's why - I never have gas in my car. Think about it. Zombies come after you, your only real option is to hop in your car and get the hell out of Dodge. Try to make your way to the next town over, hope to God they haven't infiltrated Meaford or Port Elgin (my next towns over...thankfully they both have Tim Horton's) and try to warn the general public about the imminent zombies. Nobody will believe you, of course, but at least you'll have a head start.
If and when zombies make it to Owen Sound, I would probably make it to my car despite the fact that I have a perpetual thirty second delay in literally every crisis situation. Maybe a zombie would trip over my Swiffer Wet Jet or something. So I would get in my car, start up the engine and back out of the driveway. I would probably feel really smug too, maybe flash my highbeams at the zombies to mock them. They would start chasing me and I would make it about three bocks away before my car would crap out. And then...oh Nelly.
Another reason zombies would get me first? Location. Zombies love small towns. I think it's all the cute little cafes and boutique shops myself, our homespun friendly natures. They seem to always start out in a sleepy little town a few hours from the city. And I tend to do alot of hanging around in town...plus I'm just really absent-minded alot of the time. I can't remember how many times I've been sitting in a cafe, reading or writing and had someone come up to me and say, "Jen? Jesus, I said your name about five times!"
So if I were in a zombie movie I would be billed as 'Zombie victim #1', which is a place of distinction, I guess. I'd be the girl who is in the shower when her boyfriend comes in behind her, blood dripping from his mouth, skin melting off, black eyes rolling. And I would say something like,"Bill! What's wrong with you? Why are you looking at me like....aargh!! Choke! Sputter! Die..."
Happy Halloween all. And if I'm turned into a zombie this year...I'm coming after one of you...
That's what I've learned today. After laying on the couch for hours watching bad nineties horror flicks. I had never made the connection between the nineties and terrible horror movies, but there is one. I think we were all wrapped up in Y2K terror so at the time we were all thinking, "Hey, this could actually happen. Aliens could invade a high school and take over the faculty, their only will being to win the big state championship football game...you just never know, do you?" I watched three or four relatively similar horror movies today with the same heavy thought weighing down on me - I'm a prime candidate to either a) become a host body for some alien organism or b) die in the first wave of zombie attacks. I would never be one of the chosen few to make it into the safety of the mall, hospital or grocery store to map out my escape.
Here's why - I never have gas in my car. Think about it. Zombies come after you, your only real option is to hop in your car and get the hell out of Dodge. Try to make your way to the next town over, hope to God they haven't infiltrated Meaford or Port Elgin (my next towns over...thankfully they both have Tim Horton's) and try to warn the general public about the imminent zombies. Nobody will believe you, of course, but at least you'll have a head start.
If and when zombies make it to Owen Sound, I would probably make it to my car despite the fact that I have a perpetual thirty second delay in literally every crisis situation. Maybe a zombie would trip over my Swiffer Wet Jet or something. So I would get in my car, start up the engine and back out of the driveway. I would probably feel really smug too, maybe flash my highbeams at the zombies to mock them. They would start chasing me and I would make it about three bocks away before my car would crap out. And then...oh Nelly.
Another reason zombies would get me first? Location. Zombies love small towns. I think it's all the cute little cafes and boutique shops myself, our homespun friendly natures. They seem to always start out in a sleepy little town a few hours from the city. And I tend to do alot of hanging around in town...plus I'm just really absent-minded alot of the time. I can't remember how many times I've been sitting in a cafe, reading or writing and had someone come up to me and say, "Jen? Jesus, I said your name about five times!"
So if I were in a zombie movie I would be billed as 'Zombie victim #1', which is a place of distinction, I guess. I'd be the girl who is in the shower when her boyfriend comes in behind her, blood dripping from his mouth, skin melting off, black eyes rolling. And I would say something like,"Bill! What's wrong with you? Why are you looking at me like....aargh!! Choke! Sputter! Die..."
Happy Halloween all. And if I'm turned into a zombie this year...I'm coming after one of you...
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The Jen Show
(Wendi has lady bug issues, Laura is all over H1N1, Kate wants an invisibilty cloak and Bonnie hit a deer. Check them out.)
Do you ever feel like your life is a sit-com? Not like 'Friends' with their fancy apartments and designer clothes, but more like something on HBO...gritty, darkly funny and rather unbelievable?
I do. There isn't a day that goes by in my life without incident. A friend of mine said to me the other day 'You know what I like best about being your friend? It's never boring.' See, for the people around me it's a blast. They make themselves a little snack, curl up in front of my life and let the hilarity ensue. What will I do this episode? Will I fall down the front steps of a church, bringing an old lady - and her cane - with me? Done. Will I have too much to drink and 'drunken dial' an old boyfriend, maybe cry a little and tell him things I never, ever should tell anyone? Maybe. Will I go out on a first date with a lovely boy and snap a bra strap on the way to dinner? I mean, what the hell does one do in that situation? Say, 'Must go, I've just lost half my bra and I don't want the girls swimming in my soup.' No. Just hold tight to the half you've still got and pray for the date to be over. Which was a shame...he seemed lovely.
The thing is, regular sitcoms only last half an hour or so, which is why they're funny. My sitcome never, ever ends. Ever. It's like I'm Lucy, and Ethel and I are running around town causing mayhem but Ricky never jumps in to save me before I fall flat on my ass. We're at the chocolate factory, stuffing our faces with chocolates but the damn conveyor belt never stops. Ricky never asks me to 'splain anything. He just lets me screw up over and over and over again.
And it's not just always me screwing up. Things always seem to happen to me. Or around me. I'm a bad omen. I was in a friend's car recently - a car that seems to work just fine on a regular basis - and her hood came flying up in our window while we were doing, like, 80 clicks. She says she doesn't blame me...
Then there was my wedding dress, the Mother of all Bad Omens. When I was going through some things years ago, I came across my dress. I have to tell you - my dress was kick-ass. Gorgeous. This filmy sort of thing that was as comfortable as a nightgown and made me look a billion times better than I've looked since. I was looking at my dress and thinking, What do I do with this? It's not like I want to keep it- once you've gotten rid of the husband, you probably shouldn't keep the dress. So, in a moment of pure selflessness, I donated my dress to a local not-for-profit second hand store. Filled my head with dreams of some woman finding that dress for fifty bucks and weeping with gratitude. Sigh.
The building burned to the ground the next day. Seriously. I still wonder if I should write them some sort of formal apology.
Well, that's all for now. Off I go out into the world...gulp. What the hell will happen today? And when does this show end? I'd even settle for a commercial break, honestly.
Do you ever feel like your life is a sit-com? Not like 'Friends' with their fancy apartments and designer clothes, but more like something on HBO...gritty, darkly funny and rather unbelievable?
I do. There isn't a day that goes by in my life without incident. A friend of mine said to me the other day 'You know what I like best about being your friend? It's never boring.' See, for the people around me it's a blast. They make themselves a little snack, curl up in front of my life and let the hilarity ensue. What will I do this episode? Will I fall down the front steps of a church, bringing an old lady - and her cane - with me? Done. Will I have too much to drink and 'drunken dial' an old boyfriend, maybe cry a little and tell him things I never, ever should tell anyone? Maybe. Will I go out on a first date with a lovely boy and snap a bra strap on the way to dinner? I mean, what the hell does one do in that situation? Say, 'Must go, I've just lost half my bra and I don't want the girls swimming in my soup.' No. Just hold tight to the half you've still got and pray for the date to be over. Which was a shame...he seemed lovely.
The thing is, regular sitcoms only last half an hour or so, which is why they're funny. My sitcome never, ever ends. Ever. It's like I'm Lucy, and Ethel and I are running around town causing mayhem but Ricky never jumps in to save me before I fall flat on my ass. We're at the chocolate factory, stuffing our faces with chocolates but the damn conveyor belt never stops. Ricky never asks me to 'splain anything. He just lets me screw up over and over and over again.
And it's not just always me screwing up. Things always seem to happen to me. Or around me. I'm a bad omen. I was in a friend's car recently - a car that seems to work just fine on a regular basis - and her hood came flying up in our window while we were doing, like, 80 clicks. She says she doesn't blame me...
Then there was my wedding dress, the Mother of all Bad Omens. When I was going through some things years ago, I came across my dress. I have to tell you - my dress was kick-ass. Gorgeous. This filmy sort of thing that was as comfortable as a nightgown and made me look a billion times better than I've looked since. I was looking at my dress and thinking, What do I do with this? It's not like I want to keep it- once you've gotten rid of the husband, you probably shouldn't keep the dress. So, in a moment of pure selflessness, I donated my dress to a local not-for-profit second hand store. Filled my head with dreams of some woman finding that dress for fifty bucks and weeping with gratitude. Sigh.
The building burned to the ground the next day. Seriously. I still wonder if I should write them some sort of formal apology.
Well, that's all for now. Off I go out into the world...gulp. What the hell will happen today? And when does this show end? I'd even settle for a commercial break, honestly.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Lazy
I’m a big fan of checking out mom blogs, particularly fancy-pants mom blogs as I obviously dream of some day becoming a fancy pants. And I notice that the longer you have a successful blog, the more entries you have that start with things like “Sorry it’s been so long since my last blog” or “Just back from Spain – thanks (place sponsor name here)!” That sort of thing. Which means that if I play my cards right and work really hard and toil as best I can, someday I will be able to write to you all about how I am too busy.
That day has come, though without the fame and wealth unfortunately. I’m sure some of you have noticed that I haven’t been updating my blog as frequently as I should. In fact, I’ve even recycled a column here and there to supplement my meagre entries. Is it because I’ve gotten too big for my britches? After all, I am a whopping seven weeks into the blog...I guess it is time I take a rest, right? I mean who the heck do I think I am?
Here it is - we’re moving this weekend. I am right now sitting in my office surrounded by desk drawers and boxes and a load of junk to take to the dump. My car is out of commission for mysterious-yet-frustrating reasons. And I can barely look around my little house, my adorable little teeny tiny house without bursting into tears. Because I know this place is way too small for us. I know we’ve worn out our welcome. But...it’s pretty! It’s a girl house! And I’m a girl!
We’ve lived here for almost five years – which for me, a natural nomad who doesn’t like to stay in place for too long, is considerable. I started and finished the first draft of my book here. I’ve hosted Thanksgivings and Christmas and the odd girl’s night here...though not in ages. This place is pretty freaking small. And two of my sons are six feet tall, which means they take up half the space.
This new place is going to be great. We will have two – TWO! – bathrooms with actual showers. I have a separate living room for reading and such that I will probably never use but will decorate with pretty pillows just the same.
And I will get more writing done. I promise. On the off chance that there is a single reader out there who is waiting to hear what I will say next...just give me a week. Next week, I’ll do better (why does that sound so familiar?)
That day has come, though without the fame and wealth unfortunately. I’m sure some of you have noticed that I haven’t been updating my blog as frequently as I should. In fact, I’ve even recycled a column here and there to supplement my meagre entries. Is it because I’ve gotten too big for my britches? After all, I am a whopping seven weeks into the blog...I guess it is time I take a rest, right? I mean who the heck do I think I am?
Here it is - we’re moving this weekend. I am right now sitting in my office surrounded by desk drawers and boxes and a load of junk to take to the dump. My car is out of commission for mysterious-yet-frustrating reasons. And I can barely look around my little house, my adorable little teeny tiny house without bursting into tears. Because I know this place is way too small for us. I know we’ve worn out our welcome. But...it’s pretty! It’s a girl house! And I’m a girl!
We’ve lived here for almost five years – which for me, a natural nomad who doesn’t like to stay in place for too long, is considerable. I started and finished the first draft of my book here. I’ve hosted Thanksgivings and Christmas and the odd girl’s night here...though not in ages. This place is pretty freaking small. And two of my sons are six feet tall, which means they take up half the space.
This new place is going to be great. We will have two – TWO! – bathrooms with actual showers. I have a separate living room for reading and such that I will probably never use but will decorate with pretty pillows just the same.
And I will get more writing done. I promise. On the off chance that there is a single reader out there who is waiting to hear what I will say next...just give me a week. Next week, I’ll do better (why does that sound so familiar?)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Blog Archive