Green Girl in Wisconsin

if you give a green girl a paint chip

2012-02-15T08:05:00.001-08:00

She'll decide to paint her living room walls.

The point where two colors meet is where a giant shark bares its teeth.

Which will in turn make the kitchen walls look shabby. So she'll get those painted, too. And she'll add in new hardware, rugs and a picture.

New rug on super-clean floor. She might eat off of that floor later.

Then she'll notice how grungy her floors look against the freshly painted walls, so she'll begin scrubbing the grout (on her hands and knees like a scullery maid from Downton Abbey) with a bucket of soapy water and a brush. Her shoulders will ache but her heart will swell with pride as her efforts make the floor look brand new once more. But now the bathroom tiles look grungy, so the Green Girl feels compelled to scrub that grout as well.

Damn, that's some clean grout. Damn, do her shoulders ache.

Does it stop here?

No, it does not.

The door of her freshly painted kitchen leads to the laundry room. Now the Green Girl realizes that her laundry room looks dismal--it needs another coat of paint, the edge by the ceiling was never done properly, really the whole room should get emptied out and re-set.

She ran out of paint and quit mid-project about 2 years ago. The shame of it.

She'll need more hooks.

Estimated Dust Bunny Population: 4,243

And maybe a bench with storage.

All she thinks is "What a mess" every time she walks through this room.

Some of this stuff needs to disappear. She wonders if there's a hitman service for clutter--some kind of mafia that could come in and clean house--eliminate this for a fee so she doesn't have to get her hands dirty.

The grout and the rugs are crying out for soap and water.

And she wonders, if she finishes the laundry room, where will it lead her next?
Spill it, reader. What project did you start only to find it never seemed to end?

my choice

2012-02-14T05:51:00.000-08:00

The other day a woman mentioned to me in passing that it was her anniversary. "Congratulations!" I replied. "How many years?" "Twenty," she answered. "Well, that's something," I told her, "it's a heck of a lot easier to get married than it is to stay married. Good for you!"

A week later I ran into her again and she asked me how things were going. "Fine. You?"
"Well," she began hesitantly, "the other day you said something and I feel funny bringing it up. You said something about marriage being hard. Are things going okay?"

I laughed. "Things are great. I was only observing the hard truth about being married. Sticking it out takes a lot of effort. Way more effort than planning a big party and choosing a dress. When you stay married, it's work. Mr. D and I have had our share of rough patches. Too many people bail when it gets difficult. I think the folks who make marriages work for decades should get some sort of award."

You see, reader, it's a gross misconception that we fall in love. We choose to love, and while some people are easier to love than others, love's an active kind of behavior. True love has little to do with candlelight dinners or hot air balloon rides. Those early feelings of mad attraction fade, how can they last forever? It would be exhausting. As we become intimate with someone, we see more of them--eventually the unattractive bits peek out--they have gas, they use antacids, they wake up with foul breath, they get angry and say cruel things. Sometimes the unattractive bits provide fair warning, and it's legit to jump ship. But most of the time, us old married couples hunker down and weather storms together, passing the Tums across the bed in the middle of the night, kindly reminding our mate to "don't say that word."

Mr. D's on his last day of vacation--poor man is golfing in Arizona with some buddies. I've had time to be alone here without him, commandeer the TV remote, tend to the children as I see fit. I've also had time to appreciate him. We've reached an easy patch in life, but we still find opportunities to compromise. It's easy to be honest with someone who's been around as long as Mr. D--I can say little to shock him. I know he's not packing his bags and leaving me over something petty. There's great comfort in the little things, you don't get those habits gluing you together when you're in brand new relationships. When you've been sharing space with someone for so long, you get that different kind of intimacy, a really relaxed kind, where you know how they'll sit on the couch (always reclined with their feet up), how you're done impressing each other, how that person becomes your sanctuary. Mr. D doesn't send me flowers or play me love songs, but I know he'll make coffee on Saturday morning and bring me a cup.

It's kind of incredible that we can still sit and talk over coffee a few mornings a week and not run out of things to say. We don't share opinions on all things, but that makes things interesting. He really listens to my perspective and values my opinion. He thinks I'm smarter than the average bear (and trust me, if you want to appeal to my vanity, that's how to do it). He makes the coffee really strong (the way I like it) and waters his cup down so he can drink it. He cannot bear raw egg yolks, but if he's making scrambled eggs for the gang on a Sunday morning, he'll make a couple eggs over-easy for me. Mr. D appreciates my sense of humor, my need to keep moving, my ridiculous organization and my affection for Jane Austen.

I am thankful to be in a relationship where we both have plenty of space and security. I do karate and write, he does baseball and sells. We can go days with barely any conversation because we're headed in different directions, but we can spend a whole week together in the OBX and still talk to each other on the drive home. I love that when I say, "Hey! You're taking me for granted!" Mr. D will step up. Mr. D provides exceptionally well for our family. He backs me up with parenting stuff, and he knows I've got his back in turn. I can ask him anything and he won't make fun of my questions, he'll explain things again and again (like investments and those goofy end-zone rules in football). He gets my insecurities, forgives my incessant knuckle-cracking, endures my ranting over political issues.

We push each other, but we also pull each other along. We ebb and flow. I don't wake up every morning in love, but I wake up and see what there is to love with Mr. D.

We're not a mushy couple--there won't be cards exchanged or a late Valentine's dinner. Heck, I won't even see him until tomorrow. In spite of these things, Mr. D, I love you. I choose you. On this day and all the other days of the year.

anglophiled out

2012-02-13T07:04:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning yearning to tell Carson I'd take my tea on the terrace. I desperately wished for cook to whip up a healthy breakfast while an upstairs maid got my children ready for school. I felt so tired this morning--that second hour of Downton Abbey wore me out. It's exhausting to sit at the edge of one's bed, hands clenched, breath held, eyes bugged out while those characters die, marry, fall ill, vow, lie and confess. I cheered for Sybil. I wept for Anna and Mr. Bates. I felt SO DAMN CONFLICTED towards Cora. I wanted to bitch-slap Mary.

This came on the tails of a weekend marathon entrenched in the War of the Roses as I wrapped up reading The Lady of the Rivers by Philippa Gregory--which of course meant I had to skip through The White Queen because I can't read historical fiction out of chronological order. WHYWHYWHY did you write this trilogy in such weird order, Ms. Gregory? And how does the House of Lancaster turn from York to Tudor? I forget. My mind is bogged down with details. And it doesn't help that all these characters share the same name (I swear, the women are all named Anne, Mary, Elizabeth, Catherine or Margaret. And the men are either John, Edward, Richard, George or Henry). And title. When one Duke of York dies, another character gets named Duke of York and is referenced as such. One wishes Ms. Gregory would notate her novels-- (Duke of York: Richard, the one whose brother Edward became king, son of Richard Duke of York, Grandson of Richard Duke of York, AKA the evil brother with aspirations to usurp his brother's crown and kill his 2 nephews in the Tower, given humpback in Shakespeare play.)--that would help so much. Simon & Schuster could publish an entire line of Philippa Gregory books, the British History Annotated for Idiots Edition.

And the hours I've spent poring over pictures of the castles, manors, palaces referenced in these books to get a stronger sense of place. I would dearly love to make another trip back to England just to see some of these historic spots.

This behavior requires gallons of tea. And a long hike with a dog at my heels before returning home to slippers and scones fresh from the oven.

Spill it, reader. Did you spend your weekend as an Anglophile?

you wanna build a what?

2012-02-10T08:39:00.001-08:00

Early this morning Mr. D took off for 5 days of golf in Arizona. It's been a mild winter, hardly any snow. Naturally, the morning he leaves the snow began falling and blowing. It's also the morning of "Donuts with Dad" at the ol' PS, and the boys seemed despondent not to have a special man in their life attend. Dad en route to his golf trip, one grandpa too far away, another grandpa too ill (plus the roads are crap), the neighborhood surrogate grandpa in Florida. Team Testosterone couldn't agree among themselves on who to invite, so this morning we did "Donuts with Dad at Rico's with Mom." I treated them to breakfast and brought them 45 minutes late to school so they missed most of the event. I generally don't promote skipping school, but in this case I think we made the right call.

Yesterday I mentioned a new project around here. As you know, I'm kind of a nut about my gardens and I really want some fencing--more to add structure than for any other purpose. Among my favorite gardens in the Whole Wide World is Anne Hathaway's garden in Stratford-on-Avon, England. It's rustic and charming, full of pretty flowers and practical vegetables and a small orchard. Sweet little paths wind through the property and occasional benches and trellises provide cozy spots for reading a book or watching the birds.

I've studied many books about garden design to try to figure out how to flesh out the bare bones of my own garden. I keep coming back to those English Cottage Gardens, and even with my informal styles, I need some fencing. I've been hankering for the white picket kind of fence, but I have a lot of garden to fence around, so the price tag on such a project would be substantial.

I kicked around the idea of planting hedgerows, but they take eons to grow, and while I think I may plant some, I want more immediate gratification. Like the kind that happens this summer.

And then I remembered (reminded by Jen on the Edge's recent post) how Anne Hathway's garden was framed out by very rustic-looking fencing and edging. Since Medieval times, gardeners have constructed wattle fences to provide structure, shelter and support for their plants.
I did some research and learned that to build a wattle you need a lot of "green" sticks, preferably live willows since they are flexible, durable, straight and don't have too many excess branches to clip off. As it happens, we have a prodigious amount of willows growing on our property. To build a wattle you need sturdy branches for posts. As it happens, we have enough fallen branches to heat an entire European village for two years.

So, the materials to build a wattle are plentiful and free. I can build any size of wattle to suit my needs. All I need is time--to gather the sticks and branches and pound/weave/shove/tie them all together. We've hardly any snow on the ground and there aren't any bugs or stinging nettle at this time of year, so yesterday I began Project Wattle. Armed with a pruner, Jax and I attacked a berm of willows and dragged several loads up to the garden. Then we scavenged the woods and found a good supply of sturdy, straight branches and logs measuring at least 3 1/2 inches in diameter.

For the next month or so I'll continue to cut willows and find fallen trees for posts. It's great exercise tromping around back in the woods and dragging loads back up to the house. Then, when the ground thaws, I'll be ready to pound in my stakes and begin weaving the willows between them.

Project Wattle. It's the perfect solution for this dry winter weather. Besides, I've always wanted to say "I'm going to get all Medieval on your asses" in a meaningful way, so now I can while I wield my pruner at those willows encroaching on our fields. Plus it's a unique conversation starter--"What've you been up to this winter?" "Me? Oh, I'm building a wattle."

sweetness

2012-02-09T05:58:00.000-08:00

* Mr. D switched our TV set to split-screen during the last quarter of the Super Bowl so I could watch Downton Abbey. With sound.
* Mr. B and I woke up early this morning and admired the moon. It made us both think of Star Wars.

* Last night I couldn't sleep, so I took to the couch and read a book. While I was reading, Mr. G woke up with a nightmare and stumbled downstairs clutching a teddy bear and his soft blankey. "I had a bad dream." I asked him to tell me about it. "A bear," said the boy wearing bear jammy pants and clutching a large stuffed bear. "I see. I think you should lay down by me." We slept the rest of the night together in the living room, Mr. G comforted by me being near while I occasionally looked down at his peaceful face as he slept.
* Quiet evenings since Mr. D's been engrossed in good books. I love no TV at night.
* Meeting the PS librarian, who made it a point to tell me how much she enjoys my sons.
* Receiving a letter in the mail. A written letter.
* Going to a basketball game and the boys saw Speedy (last summer's "Manny") across the gym. They waved and waved and finally Speedy spotted us and came right over to watch the rest of the game with us. The boys were over the moon (because Speedy is so cool) and I thought it was so kind of him to join my sons in the bleachers and chat with us.
* Finding the perfect project to embark upon during this dry, snow-less, soulless winter. More on this tomorrow.

Spill it, reader. What has made life sweeter for you lately?

tales of a fifth grade surprise

2012-02-08T11:02:00.000-08:00

You know that little substitute teaching gig I agreed to? I've logged 16 hours this week alone--silly me! I totally thought it would be a once a week thing TOPS. As of this morning I've worked with grades 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7 and 8 (and, consequently, all 3 of my own children). I've taught division with two digits, conjunctive adverbs (with a bonus lesson on semicolons!), the "dropping rule" in phonics (involving that pesky silent "e"), a couple chapters out of The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe, passive voice, diagramming compound sentences and supervised book report compositions in the computer lab. (Yes, I know I totally needed semicolons in that last sentence.)

Whew!

Surprisingly, 5th grade has been a real treat. When I was in college, I deliberately did NOT get certified to teach 6-12 grade English. I feared/dreaded/loathed the very IDEA of middle school kids--what with all their weird hormonal issues and emotions and icky smells. I hated middle school as a middle school kid, I was positive I had no love for them once I grew up. If a teacher got certified to teach a grade level or subject area, a district can assign the to teach it--whether they want to teach it or not, so by only obtaining certification to teach English 9-12, I was guaranteed only high school jobs. I feared a middle school assignment more than I feared not getting a job--and that's saying something.

It was with some hesitation that I agreed to sub in the Parochial School, but I figured with grades PK-8 represented, I had a greater shot at hanging out in grades PK-4.

I've spent the bulk of my time in middle school. And you know what I've discovered? It's a lot of fun.

Maybe it's because it's a Parochial School and the kids wear uniforms (khaki bottoms, blue polo shirts) and the class sizes are small (20 tops) and respect is totally drilled into these kids--but they were quite delightful. Especially 5th grade.

And you know what else? They smelled just fine.

They're energetic, funny, curious, talkative, hard-working and interesting. They help each other. They remind each other. They forget to follow instructions. They're easily distracted. They read a lot. They are happy to try new things. They admire their older classmates and look out for the younger classmates at the school. They love a corny joke and they look sideways at me but don't say a word when I don't make the sign of the cross at prayer time. They accept others with very open hearts.

There's one girl with gorgeous shiny blonde curly hair and hipster glasses who always always always had her nose in a book, oblivious to the world. She's polite and cooperative, but the moment she has a chance, she's got the pages open again. There's another girl with freckles and a huge grin, quick to lavish complements on her peers. I don't sense the back-biting and bullying typical in most middle schools. There's a boy who races through his work so he can have free time--and then when I ask him what he plans to do (instead of distracting his friends with his chatter), he volunteers to help a classmate finish a missed assignment.

I really like helping these kids with their work and easing the lives of teachers who are stressed out with having to miss class--I remember well what a huge blessing a competent sub was when I had to miss school. And because I taught school for 10 years, I inherently know stuff, like classroom management skills and where to look for the vocabulary lists and how to efficiently transition from one activity to the next. It's kind of a bonus that I get paid.

Spill it, reader. What have you tried lately that surprised you?

of giants

2012-02-07T03:31:00.000-08:00

I felt like one all day yesterday--the PS called me in to cover 3rd grade and I was the tallest person in the room--looming over the students. I've never taught 3rd grade before. About 15 minutes into it, I'd had it up to my neck (what is that? about 4'8" off the ground?) with the tattling. Good golly they like to narc each other out. I live with all boys and they don't tell on each other very often. So I laid out the Law of Ms. W #1: Unless there is blood or police involvement, don't tell me about it.

All told, they were a funny bunch of goobers, more energy than a case of Red Bull and sincerely concerned about every detail of the day. (Mrs. X doesn't do it like that!) I'm convinced that 3rd grade alone keeps most of the pencil eraser industry afloat. They erase often in their commitment to precision.

Those other Giants won--wasn't that nice? The game action started out good, lagged a bit toward the middle, but a satisfying ending for everyone at Chez Green Girl. And now we lay to rest the NFL season until the end of August.

We also rented Real Steel over the weekend. Boxing, robots, Hugh Jackman, the redemption of a father/son relationship--what's not to love? And what kid would NOT want a remote-controlled boxing robot? I knew the gang would enjoy it, I got a huge whiff of sweat, mud and testosterone when I opened the DVD case and extracted the disc.

All this movie needed was a chase scene with monster trucks and it would have been epic. It was rated PG-13, which kind of confused me--clearly this movie is marketed towards boys younger than 13. I found very little in the film disturbing enough to merit that rating. Perhaps the language in a few scenes and the violence of the robots boxing--I don't see why the filmmakers couldn't have toned it down to get that PG rating.

But if the PG-13 rating gives you pause, I need to steer you towards my family's favorite giant movie of all-time:

The Iron Giant.
Written and directed by Brad Bird of Pixar fame (in the days before he made it HUGE with movies like The Incredibles and Up, this movie is layered, charming and lovely. It's a smart movie, not the brain-dead crap served up by Cartoon Network. The characters get fleshed out, the setting is during the Cold War, and the story is engrossing. A boy find a giant robot from outer space and they become best friends. A government agent wants to destroy the "alien life form" and the boy and robot team up to protect each other and their town.

Plus, the ending totally makes me tear up--I full-on cried the first time we watched it.

Haven't seen it yet? Get thee to a video store and rent it. Or "Netflix it." Or whatever the cool kids are doing these days.

funny, funny, football

2012-02-03T07:28:00.000-08:00

Funny story: we've been working on a bo staff module in karate. Pretty tame stuff, so I've tried to run a bit on the side just to keep fit. I ran yesterday, felt a bit breathless afterwards, but didn't use my inhaler (Yo! Mikey! A shout-out to all my asthmatic cronies!) figuring I'd get my wind back later.

asthma icon Mikey from "The Goonies"

Wouldn't you know we deviated from the regular bo staff routine and had a hard class. Many kicks, elbow strikes, leg throws and knee strikes later, I wheezed my way back home with my boys. Regrettably I'd opted to wear a "nice" bra to class, and now it was covered in sweat and stench. I spent the evening "feeling the burn" in my legs and puffing on my inhaler.

Next Funny: In the last month I've filled out the paper work to run for public office and to work as a substitute teacher. I've had to fill out FOUR TIMES the paperwork, establish my citizenship, get a background check and provide references to substitute teach. I had to provide my name and address to run for public office. People working with children are screened much more thoroughly than people wanting to run our government, which might explain why our government is filled with crooks. Maybe this isn't funny.

Football: A casual survey over breakfast showed all 5 of us will cheer for New York on Sunday. Unparalleled consensus. Heck, even last year we had a traitor in our midst. I know a fair number of my readers glaze over when I mention pigskins. For those of you who care, Green Girl Football Fun Facts:
1. I live near an NFL team--so near that when the plans fly over Lambeau, they fly over my back yard seconds later
2. I live with all men
3. Football (unlike politics) is a safe conversational piece in most circles around here--especially for men
4. Football is like chess and war, full of strategy and opportunity, brutality and power
5. I give a crap about college football
6. I care slightly more about high school football
7. I adore professional football because it's played at such a refined level--there's a reason why players do not leap from high school to the NFL.
8. It's complicated. The more you watch it, the more you realize this.
9. As you begin to understand the complexity of the game, you begin to appreciate it even more
10. I care madly and deeply about the Packers.
11. I am a selective NFL fan. I care about Detroit, Indianapolis, New York, New Orleans and Pittsburgh. Frankly, if any other teams are playing in the Super Bowl, I'd half-watch it. If Dallas or Cincinnati or St. Louis were playing, I wouldn't even turn on my TV. Swear to God.
12. The excitement of the game aside, I also enjoy the camaraderie of the fans. Any time you bring together people sharing a passion, whether it's music, literature, politics or sports, it's powerful.
13. It's the only sport I watch. I take in baseball because that's the law around my house. I think basketball is full of thugs and don't spare any time for the NBA or NCAA. I'd rather bowl or golf than watch them on TV. I really don't understand soccer. I have no interest in car or horse races. I ignore figure skating, gymnastic, swimming and skiing unless they're part of the Olympics.
14. There's something so jaw-dropping about that perfectly placed pass, that perfectly timed reception, that perfectly coordinated tackle. Sure, you'll have fumbles, penalty flags and interceptions, but when football is played flawlessly, it's artistic and moving and inspiring.
15. There's also something pretty cool about generations of fans watching their sport together.

I hope your Sunday is super, reader, however you spend it. Go Giants!

about the girls, groundhogs & giants

2012-02-02T05:45:00.000-08:00

not those girls, Stacy and Clinton. Though, were I to write about my girls today, I'd tell everyone I'd prefer Planned Parenthood's help over Susan G. Komen's if I needed to screen them for cancer. But don't fret, those girls are fine--I had them grammed a few months ago and according to the radiologist, they looked normal. Normal in a non-surgically enhanced way. Normal-normal, not Hollywood normal.

But I digress.

I want to tell you about the girls. A few months ago Mr. D bought a couple dozen pheasants to plant on our land. A couple weeks ago I began seeing tracks in the snow--all around the house, on the front porch, behind Jax's kennel, through the fence and out the other side. Thanks to my extensive tracking experience, I knew the tracks were pheasant, not turkey or morning dove, grouse or goldfinch. And the tracks were side-by-side--two pheasants were strolling around our property. A couple days later I started to see them quite regularly:

Hanging out beneath the bird feeder, eating whatever the cardinals, jays, sparrows and wrens knocked down. These two dames are back there all the time. Once in a while Jax passes by and they notice him (who can't--big black shaggy beast on white snow)--they eyeball him and take a few steps in the opposite direction.

What kills us is that Jax has never gone after them. Not sure if he sees them (his eyesight isn't what it could be--if I had a buck for every time he came running towards me and slammed into my legs...) or if they're just not interesting to him. But he ignores them and these two broads waddle around our yard, park beneath the feeder and I imagine their chatter. In my mind the two girls have British accents (no reason for this--they're birds raised on a pheasant farm twenty miles north) and they say things like, "You know, love, I'd sure enjoy a nice pile of cracked corn." "Did you see what he was wearing?" "Lovely day, isn't it? Let's take a stroll past the propane tank." "That cardinal--flitting about all day while his wife has to stay home and watch the nest. What a rogue!"

I tell you, nature is so entertaining.

And today it's sunny, so the groundhog saw his shadow. Which means 6 more weeks of winter as opposed to 6 more weeks until spring. You can see from the photos above how our winter has been--mild, dry and warm. Just melting snow clumps and temps in the high 30's all weekend. Under these circumstances, I think I can make it 6 more weeks.

In other news, I bought beer for Sunday's game. Since the Packers choked, I'm cheering for the Giants. My rationale is simple: I cannot stand Tom Brady, I think Peyton Manning is awesome and little brother Eli takes after him, the Giants played with heart and their defense has been phenomenal in the last few games. I think they're going to bring it Sunday.

Spill it, reader. Who will you root for during the SuperBowl?

aw gee...

2012-02-01T11:59:00.000-08:00

Mrs. G listed Whipped, Not Beaten as Good Shit.

Seriously. Go to Derfwad Manor and see!

of subs

2012-01-31T08:13:00.000-08:00

Oh, you are all so sweet to worry about me, but I'm fine. No spitballs in my hair. No sore throat from yelling. No new wrinkles, grey hairs or nervous break downs. My subbing gig is in a small town parochial school--with a correspondingly tiny staff I'll probably only get called a few times a month. I know all the students from serving in the cafeteria, I know many of their parents. As a former teacher I don't want to be their new best friend nor do I feel the need to enter the room as a rigid authoritarian, ready to write up and dress down any kid who drops a pencil. I come in striking that good balance of "let's get your work done" mixed in with a few lame jokes because I never met a pun I didn't like. Subbing at the PS is a cherry gig--almost as sweet as my BFF's son's babysitting job--except he gets paid the same as me to play video games during his shift.

One of my informal references for this gig turned out to be a former student of mine whose kids attend this school. I don't believe they even called the people I listed on the job application. The paperwork has been more overwhelming than the actual subbing job--you'd think in the land of the free a girl could just work, but I have to prove my citizenship, fill out tax forms, establish my criminal record is nonexistent and all other manner of frittery. It's more work to WORK than to actually work, you know?

The whole filling out paperwork made me think of back when I applied to graduate school. I loathe red tape. One of the many forms I had to fill out was one establishing residency. I could either establish my residency based on where my parents lived or based on where my husband lived back in the day. Yep, those were the only two options on the form. I remember being so annoyed that I couldn't just establish my own damn residency, why did I have to adhere to the patriarchal rules dictated by a husband or a father? What was this--1708? I hope things have changed since then. I have no plans to return to graduate school, but I hope women can establish their residency based on their own merit.

Now, for my fellow Downton Abbey Fans, I leave you with this link.

more new stuff

2012-01-30T10:58:00.000-08:00

It's good to know most of you are dedicated tire-well-snowpack kickers. Here's another one for you to chew on: wtf was Target thinking when it added on a pharmacy without adjusting the store layout? Instead of bumping out some room, they slammed an entire pharmacy counter right against the regular-spaced aisle, which already is too small to accommodate two passing shopping carts. Bad enough to be wedged up against all and sundry when the pharmacist is asking about your digestion tract/itchy rash/contraceptive needs. But you're also stuffed against the Cold and Flu/Pain Relief aisle, so everyone walking past is oozing contagion. Only a real moron would design a store that way. (Writes the girl who prefers the drive-thru window at Walgreen's because FAST! CONVENIENT! NO IMPULSE PURCHASES! PRIVATE!) Target, you're making it awfully easy to quit you.

On the "new experiences" front, I took Mr. T to see a local high school production Saturday night. It was charming. I was glad to introduce him to some straight drama (actually, a comedy, but no songs). The performances were quite good for high school and we both enjoyed the night out. And cheap--even with a treat afterwards, I spent less than $20.

Today I got called in for my first shift as a substitute teacher. A couple weeks ago the school secretary at PS told me how difficult it's been to find subs. I asked what the requirements were--only a bachelor's degree. Well, with my Masters in Curriculum and Instruction and nearly a decade of teaching experience, I might be able to help you out... My application hasn't even been fully processed and my phone rang at 6:15 this morning. I got the gravy shift--middle school language arts. A morning of mostly vocab review, a little C.S. Lewis, and some grammar instruction, which I was fully equipped to teach. Go ahead--ask me anything about adverb phrases or adjective phrases.
The bonus is that this particular teacher only works until noon. It's a particular sort of person (me) who wants temporary work (me) on a part-time basis (me) with kids (me) without having to work in the summer (me). (Pop quiz: how many prepositional phrases were in that last sentence?)

Spill it, reader. Your thoughts on the Target pharmacy, high school theater or substitute teaching.

the most satisfying thing about winter driving

2012-01-27T07:14:00.000-08:00

Last night at the Bumble Book Club we discussed Helen Schulman's This Beautiful Life which was brilliant. It's a fast read--about 250 pages--and just excellent. It's about how a family frays and falls to pieces--the inciting incident is when the 15-year-old son receives a pornographic email and sends to to a friend--the email goes viral and everything goes to hell. All the characters are flawed (a tricky thing to pull off as a writer) and we had a great discussion.

Conversation rolled around to other things--technology, politics, other books, blog posts, food, kids, dogs, winter driving.

Which brings me to Pearl's post yesterday.

You know how sometimes people write about things that everyone does, but no one ever talks about? Pearl does that--rather often, really. But yesterday she struck a nerve.

Go read her post.

Back to me.

(You totally had the Old Spice dude's voice in your head, didn't you?)

Anyway, I LOVE kicking the snowpack out of the wheel wells in the Momvan. But I only do it in parking lots, never in my own garage or driveway where I'd have to shovel it away. It is the most satisfying thing to kick that packed snow free and watch it fall in a THUD to the ground. The more snow, the better. Packed in tight and need to give it a few knocks? All the more fun.

I learned that one of my Bumble pals likes to do this so much, she'll even do it to other people's cars/trucks/vans.

It's the little things, people.

Spill it, reader. Are you a wheel-well-snowpack-kicker?

pandora's box

2012-01-26T08:08:00.000-08:00

It's been opened, I fear. Monday Mr. T had a friend over, a nice kid who we really like. He brought his new ipod touch and the boys swapped recommendations for game downloads, songs, etc. Then the friend showed Mr. T a texting app. I had no idea that you could text using an ipod touch. I actually thought the app wouldn't work, but Mr. T downloaded it, and the boy told him, "I'll text you when I get home." Since Monday night, Mr. T has entered a whole new society.

Cut to last night: I sat playing mahjong on his toy while the boys finished watching a TV show. Twice I got a little message on the screen--two texts from a girl. I ignored them and when the boys' show was over, I called Mr. T over to hand back the ipod. "By the way," I said, "you got 2 messages from someone named Ava."

Silence.

"Who is she?"

"Nobody."

"I'm just curious--do you know her from school?"

"Yeah."

"Your class?"

"Yeah."

"Hm."

"She spends 24/7 at her computer, Mom. I swear, she has no life."

"What does she text you about?"

Then he showed me--I skimmed the texts that he'd exchanged (I had no idea!) since Monday--mostly about school assignments, a few photos of people's dogs, nothing of great importance.

My mind processed this new situation.

On one hand, my slightly antisocial kid has a new way to interact with more people. Good. This might help inspire better spelling (I noticed one girl pointed out his errors in spelling "stoopid"). Good. I have no qualm about him interacting with kids his age about dogs and school assignments.

On the other hand, I'm well aware of the danger (Danger, Will Robinson!) associated with kids and technology. (It doesn't help at all that at tonight's Bumble Book Club meeting we're discussing This Beautiful Life by Helen Schulman.)

I don't want to eavesdrop, read every text, hover and smother my son.

But I'm smart. Our laptop is in a public zone in our house--the boys do not have their own computers, game systems or televisions in their rooms. Mr. T bought his own ipod touch and I control the password so I can control what he downloads--he doesn't mind and so far it's not been a hassle. Mr. T borrows my cell phone as needed, none of them play online games (except for Lego Universe which will disappear at the end of this week), none of them are on Facebook, I'm aware of the sites they visit online and the media they ingest.

I want Mr. T to have independent relationships and evidently if he owns an ipod touch, he has access to texting.

How does a parent monitor this silent, private world of communication? It's so different than the days of passing notes (written on looseleaf paper folded into clever triangular shapes and covered with letters like "BFF" and "SWAK") between desks at school or talking on a telephone (connected by a twirly cord to the kitchen wall) where your entire family walked past as you chatted about boys and parties and who said what where, when and how.

We talked about this New-Fangled Texting Stuff and I told him that I trust him. He's a good kid with good judgment for his age. But I'm the parent, so as long as he's under my roof, I need to have a baseline knowledge of what's going on in his world. I told him I would occasionally check his texts--just skim through them from time to time to make sure the tone and topics are appropriate. "I won't tease you," I promised, "and I won't ask you tons of questions unless I think it's important. I don't care that Mary likes Nick or any of that stuff. I respect your privacy, but I need to make sure you're safe and stuff. Because I'm your mom and I love you."

Spill it, reader. I'm feeling my way through the dark, here (as often happens with your firstborn child). How do you handle kids and texting? Do you have rules? Boundaries? Checkpoints?

bucket list item: roller derby

2012-01-25T06:26:00.000-08:00

I never watched a roller derby growing up. In fact, they weren't even on the periphery of my horizon until about 5 years ago and I cannot recall when or where or how I first heard of it. But the idea of a bunch of women getting down with their bad-ass-roller-skating-shoving-racing selves naturally appealed to my gentle Downton Abbey viewing/baroque music listening/Jane Austen reading sensibilities. The thought lingered: I need to go watch a roller derby.

You know how life rolls--dentist appointments, Boy Scout meetings, church night, karate classes, book club meeting--we keep that schedule so full anymore that there's barely a free night for spontaneous TV viewing or attending random civic events. That all changes this year. I'm navigating the time/space continuum more thoughtfully, leaving room in my schedule to DO MORE STUFF. Stuff I've never done before, like going to see a roller derby.

I know the local derby women practice at a sports complex about 10 minutes away from my house. I've seen them there--larger than life in their tattered tights and punked out hair. While skimming the newspaper last week, I read that the Fox Cityz Foxz (roller derby folks seem inordinately fond of invented spelling--part of the whole "rebel" thing they've got going) had their season opener at that location Saturday night. A night wide open on my calendar.

My last-minute query to girlfriends either ignored or denied, I was left with two choices: attend alone or bring my sons. And why hadn't I thought to bring my boys to a women's sporting event? I hung my feminist head in shame. Of course they would come along--Mr. G had perked up when I mentioned slushies and popcorn.

Whenever you're out of your element--as I was at the roller derby--your senses are heightened. I knew one person there--the guy who runs the sports complex--he's a baseball guy who goes way back with Mr. D. He greeted me right away but from that point on, my boys and I were on our own.

The woman ahead of us handed me an extra ticket, so I wound up paying for only one person's admission--a fortuitous beginning. We held out our hands for the skull-and-crossbones stamp and passed through the gates.

It was a mixed crowd. The biker crowd showed up, leather and patches declaring their various alliances. The hipster crowd was out in force. There were families, old people, young people, men, women, granola-crunching types, beer-swilling types. One woman sat on the sidelines in her wheelchair, a sign taped on the back proclaiming "I raised a Socio SMASH"--the proud mother of a skater, no doubt.

We passed a series of booths--a silent auction, a bake sale, even a kid's corner with coloring pages. Take away the skulls & leather, crazy hair, tattoo parlor sponsorships and Planned Parenthood booth and I could have been walking through any church picnic or community festival. (Although those church ladies do rock some crazy hair...)

We perched on the bleachers and took in the scene. Four teams would compete, the skaters rolled around the rink and the sidelines in ripped tights and inked arms. There were cheerleaders, referees and team managers. My learning curve was steep--I had to figure out that each "bout" lasts 40 minutes, a "grand slam" is worth 4 points, the bigger skaters are usually "blockers" and the faster skaters are generally "jammers." It was a lot to take in. I wished I was there with someone experienced, I had so many questions.

The event kicked off with a horrible electric guitar rendition of The Star Spangled Banner. Then the first bout got under way. The gregarious announcer kept talking while the women raced around the track, knocking/shoving/falling/sliding past us. The stand-out skaters became evident: Tootsie Rollher, Derrieress, Killer Doom Kitty, and Socio Smash. Fun fact: roller derby names are registered, so only ONE skater in the entire world of roller derbies has her very own unique name.

The scoring was confusing, for the longest time the score was a patriotic 17-76. In the second half I had a better sense of who to watch and began to ascertain the skill and technique required to score. It seemed crucial that a jammer stay low while moving through the blockers and the blockers definitely have a tough job, blocking out their opponent's jammer while facilitating the path for their own.

At the game's end, people rose from their seats and I watched them line up along the circumference of the track. The tradition appeared to be for both teams to skate around the track and high-five all of the supporters, friends and family from both teams. Hands down the coolest finish to any sporting event I've ever seen.

The boys and I left after one bout, though I'd have liked to stay for the second. A smart mom knows her boys' limit for estrogen-loaded fun.

What did I gain from this experience?
1. I found something truly entertaining and fun--I will go watch another match. In fact, their next home bout is on my birthday...
2. Next time I go, I'm bringing other grown ups.
3. I rediscovered my long-ago-buried rebel self at this event. While I have no plans to get inked anytime soon, I'm inspired to sharpen my edge. I used to be a girl who wore long underwear as leggings beneath a skirt and leather jacket. Where did she go? It's time to find what's left of her.
4. For my karate form I've decided to use a piece by The Donnas. Because chick-power rules.

it's easy to see how you'd be confused

2012-01-23T12:19:00.001-08:00

by the photo recently published in People. That could be me--I look just like Kate Middleton--right down to the soles of my muddy Wellies, except I'm a bit shorter, my thighs are a big thicker, my dog is a lot bigger and my prince charming would be wearing a baseball cap.

(It helps if you squint and tilt your head. Then the resemblance is positively uncanny.)

kitchen reveal!

2012-01-20T07:30:00.001-08:00

I feel a bit like Paige Davis, all bouncy in my blue jeans and grinning and eager to show you MY NEW KITCHEN! It's not new-new, really, more a matter of paint and accessories; no walls, cabinets or appliances were altered in this redecoration project.

But first, the back story. When we moved it, I had the kitchen walls painted a very neutral taupe-y shade. My library is painted burgundy, the downstairs bathroom peach, the laundry room a bright green, the upstairs rooms are blue and yellow. But the kitchen was just drab and bleh.

It wasn't until I spotted some photos on Pinterest (oh, Pinterest, you time-sucking devil!) that I began to explore a specific color scheme. I found these sites that cemented my decision to move ahead:

Aqua and Red

House of Turquoise

Let the AQUA and RED kitchen begin

This:

became this:

(same cluttered fridge, but look at the WALLS!)

I went from this (note the black rug beneath the stove--BOR-ING):

to:
Look how that punch of bright blue makes the room cheerful. Inspired by the aqua and touches of red/coral, I painted my recipe box and the basket o' potholders. (New red and turquoise potholders.)

The five new knobs and rugs look grand, too.

I like how the shot of color catches my eye when I come around the corner in our living room.

All new dishtowels in bright red!

Everyone seems happier in my new kitchen. Team Testosterone like that it's cheerful and bright. I like that it's fresh and decluttered (because there's no way you can clear off all your counter tops for the painter and not feel compelled to rid yourself of some of it). I even scrubbed the grout between the floor tiles. My happy new kitchen has inspired me to bake 2 batches of brownies, a blueberry muffin cake, 4 loaves of banana bread and a batch of chocolate chip cookies. I want to be in my kitchen, and that's sayin' something.

It's true that color can change your mood. If a space makes you crabby, a bucket of paint might make all the difference.

Spill it, reader. What space have you improved upon with a gallon of paint?

wtf, anthropologie?

2012-01-19T07:16:00.001-08:00

While looking for some new hardware for my kitchen, I ended up at Anthropologie. The cyber version, not the brick-and-mortar one because all the neat stores are not HERE (yes, I'm talking to YOU, Title Nine, IKEA, Trader Joe's and Whole Foods). Before checking out with my five new knobs, I trolled through the clearance bin and found the most twee butter dish. We eat butter at Chez Green Girl. Margarine is for sickos. In the Dairy State we're all about the real deal. We eat butter to the tune of at least a pound or more a week. I always keep a stick of better on the counter, nice and soft for spreading on toast, bread, English muffins--Paula Deen would feel right at home here. For $12 I could buy this adorable stoneware butter dish with a cover in a color that would match my redecorating.

Of course I clicked "Buy now."

No, I did not read the fine print. It's a freaking butter dish, right?

Then the UPS guy brought it to my front door a week later and I tore into the box, delighted with my five new knobs and perplexed by the butter dish.

Behold:
That, friends, is my new butter dish. Next to the butter dish is a stick of butter. In Wisconsin all butter comes packaged in sticks measuring a half-cup each. I've never seen it any other size or shape--except packaged as a whole pound block.

See how the butter is way too big for the butter dish?

Why would you design a butter dish perfectly sized for a half stick of butter?

And yet they did:

DETAILS

One pat or two? This festive stoneware container holds a half-stick of butter beneath its lid.

Stoneware
Dishwasher and microwave safe
2.5"H, 6"W, 4"D
Imported

Had I bothered to read the fine print and not made my decision based solely on the picture, I wouldn't be stuck with this ridiculous version of a butter dish.

Half stick indeed. A pox on you, Anthropologie, and all of your silly proportions. Us real girls need actual sized kitchenware, not the diet-sized crap. (Or spinster-sized, come to think of it--this would be perfect for my grandma...)

goodness

2012-01-18T08:00:00.001-08:00

* clean, crisp, clear day outside--I do love a sunny winter day.
* at last some snow cover! (my perennials are safe)
* a huge pot of pea soup
* a happy dog gnawing on the ham bone
* a blueberry muffin cake!
* the finishing touches on my kitchen
* awesome volunteers working with me on Tuesday nights at church
* funny children
* Mr. B's obsession with the Vietnam War--he keeps bringing home books and regaling me with a myriad of facts like how many people died in the NRV in 1968 and so forth
* Mr. G vacuuming his crumbs, then going on to vacuum the entire room!
* a dentist visit where he tells me, "everything looks great"
* drivers who let you merge in traffic
* starting the day with a cup of coffee and Mr. D
* all 3 boys making it to the bus stop on time

Spill it, reader. What's good in your world today?

the good writers

2012-01-17T08:34:00.000-08:00

I read this wonderful post today and have to share the link. Many people have asked how long it took to write Whipped, Not Beaten (in fact, my hygienist asked me that very question this morning as she scraped away at my teeth). Shaunta Grimes speaks the truth about how writing a GOOD book is a process. I began Whipped ten years ago. I revised it several times over the course of years. It was under revision until the minute it went to the book printer.

It grates me when people say, "Oh, I've always wanted to write a book. I have an idea for one." There's this perception that writing is easy, just takes a little time and effort, right? No tougher than watching a film or trying a new recipe, right? Actual writers know better. They understand that declaring "I've always wanted to write a book" is as presumptuous as saying "I've always wanted to climb Mt. Everest" or "I've always wanted to run a marathon." Writing a good book isn't the same as learning now to knit or taking a zumba class. The commitment involved requires effort, training, time and other people helping you along the way.

Good writers read. A LOT. Good writers write. A LOT. Good writers throw out a lot of pages, decent ones even. (A fine example: an entire chapter about Sadie and a flirtation with a coffee house piano player got tossed out--it was perfectly good writing and kind of cute.) Good writers listen to other people's advice and criticism (see: "deep six the chapter with the piano player"). Good writers get rejected. A LOT. And good writers learn to manage those hard, bitter feelings after being rejected. Good writers don't quit writing.

I'm working on what I hope is a final revision of my latest manuscript--my final revision before my agent hopefully sells it and then the editors at a publishing house request more changes. The manuscript I'm revising is in it's 5th beginning-to-end revision, I've been working on it for a few years now. I've tended to point of view, verb tense, character development, setting and plot. I've fussed with word choice and sentence structure. I've fiddled with the dialogue and futzed around with motive and cause-and-effect. I'm still pulling through a few threads about the main character's financial situation and her fear of failure. I've still got to work in a sort of major plot line about a main character--he needs a misunderstanding with another character, I don't know who yet and this may require writing in a whole new character, but it's an important conflict because it ups the ante for the ending.

Good writing is hard work. Even the crappy books took a lot of effort to produce. (I could go on a tangent here about how little writing a book pays, how most authors reap 15% of the book's profits, which at $15 a paperback is reallynotmuch ($2.25/copy) so when people kvetch about the cost of buying a book I want to slug them, but I won't go there.)

I'm not writing this post out of self-pity or to convince you to buy my book (though if it does, I won't complain). I'm writing it to explain where books come from, how authors develop, how the difference between good writing and bad writing develops. I feel incredibly lucky to have a book published. It's thrilling to hear people's feedback and to see people reading it and laughing. I still smile when I see the cover and can't believe how great the whole thing turned out. Having the time and resources to write about something I invented in my head is a luxury, no question about it. But make no mistake, it's not easy. It's more hard work than luck.

why do green girl's teeth hurt today?

2012-01-15T18:32:00.000-08:00

a) the New York Giants kicked them in during the 4th quarter
b) the Packers consistently fumbled, dropped and whiffed on offense, causing her to grind them in frustration
c) the Packers' sloppy defense made her grit them
d) 7 hours of tailgating and sitting in the fresh air at Lambeau made everything from her neck up feel a little sensitive
e) all of the above

She does take exception to the Packer fans who yelled that the Giants suck, because clearly they did NOT. They made a winning team go out looking like losers. Green Girl plans to spend Monday curled up in the fetal position, hugging her Charles Woodson jersey and eating the leftover Christmas chocolates.

She'll see you Tuesday.

The Photo Project

2012-01-13T06:56:00.000-08:00

So that Jen on the Edge challenged us to a Photo Project. The upshot: post pictures of ourselves without apology. For some folks this meant getting on the other side of the camera (because if your family is anything like mine, your photo album makes your family look like mom never went on a single family vacation, never had a birthday and missed all the Major Holidays). For others this meant stifling their urge to point out their flaws (There I am at the beach with all the hairs on my chin highlighted by the sun in the background and my pudgy thighs showing!).

Now I had the distinct advantage of some Book Launch Events for which I made the effort to look nice, so most of my pictures are from that. To be fair, I threw in a couple others that reveal a less polished side. I got a new camera for Christmas and haven't got it set up to download photos yet from the holidays so here's what I managed to obtain:

Second row, far left, looking weary of all the karate hoopla. This was taken after I earned my 2nd degree black belt. Note my partner has a similar expression on his face.

Self-portrait while driving.

At the Appleton book launch describing my work to the assembled crowd (I'm wearing a headset).
Me on the right in pink sweater---closest to a full-body shot that I could find.

Here I am posing, and thanks to my Bumble Book Club pal, Robin, for taking lots of pictures for me!

Reader, even if you didn't take Jen's challenge, I hope you put your best face forward in 2012. We're all beautiful and we owe it to our families and loved ones to document our own lives--even through pictures. Jen's challenge really made me think about what my kids will have left of me someday when I'm dead. I want them to have pictures to remember me by, to show to their children and grandchildren. To that end, I'm passing the camera to other people and getting in the shot more often!

Spill it, reader. Are you with me?

still more fabulous this week!

2012-01-12T11:05:00.000-08:00

The painter is in my kitchen (I totally wanted to make you all think I'm painting my own kitchen, but there's this wicked high ceiling and let's face it, some rooms require professional work--see: any room with vaulted/cathedral ceilings) and a blizzard is upon us. Last night J, our painter, called and told me "I'll be there tomorrow morning at 7:30." In the last 12 hours I've rushed and bought the paint, tore apart my kitchen, unscrewed about 70-zillion switchplate/outlet covers and assured Mr. G that no, we're not moving. We're only painting the kitchen. This, on top of our regularly scheduled programming.

Meanwhile, the comment box cracked me up--but you all mostly knew my fave BFF's from fiction:

Tacy
Diana

Bess

And many of you have dropped by Jen's to enter her book giveaway.

But WAIT! There's MORE!

Kat over at Seeking Sanity--Brave, Fellow Cheesehead, Fellow Packer-loving, Kat who has 3 gorgeous boys and an adorable little girl, Kat who Jayne (my neighbor gal) and I would lovelovelove to meet (seriously, I need to host a Wisconsin blogger get-together, one with brats, beer, cheese and some kringle...), Kat whose blog I've been reading for years now--you know, that Kat, is giving away a copy of Whipped, Not Beaten.

I feel so darn lucky to have such sweet friends.

And I'm floating on all the lovely reviews people are giving Whipped, Not Beaten.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a hot date with a snow shovel.

that kind of friend

2012-01-10T07:57:00.000-08:00

You know how you meet someone and immediately you think, "I love them. They are my Tacy/Diana/Bess." (bonus points for recognizing those children's classics) That happened to me when I interviewed for a teaching job--a woman about my age with long brown hair and a confident air walked past while I waited on a bench in the high school office and I immediately thought, "Please God, let me get this job and let her become my best friend." The man sitting beside me in the office leaned over and told me her name and that "she's one of the coolest teachers here." I got the job, she became my mentor and all these years later I still consider Nicole to be one of my best friends.

I have a few of these soul sisters in real life, but in the Blogosphere I lurked around a few blogs before starting my own. One of those blogs was Jen on the Edge and each time I read her posts I'd think, "If I knew Jen IRL, she'd be the perfect best friend." (I actually harbored some jealousy each time Jen posted about her shoe-shopping pal, Melissa--I know, my name--even though I don't like to shop for shoes.)

You can imagine my glee when Jen left me a comment on my blog asking for my phone number. MY NUMBER. This was bigger than big. Of course I called my BFF Sarah to tell her and together we tried to think of what this might mean.

Long story short: Eco Women was born. And I met my Bloggy BFF kind of IRL.

It's funny how in sync we are. We'll post about the exact same topic on the same day--even though we live half a continent and one time zone away from each other. We both love Colin Firth, all things British, 80's music and many of the same books. Our politics, parenting (even though she has daughters and I have sons--and I AM trying to arrange a marriage between our families because who wouldn't want Grace or Ellie as a daughter-in-law?) and environmental passions are muy simpatico.

But what's really cool is that Jen feels the same way as me (which is good because otherwise I'd come off as sort of creepy and desperate right now, wouldn't I?) and in the spirit of our friendship, she's giving away THREE COPIES OF Whipped, Not Beaten.

So, quit reading this post and click on the link to read her review and enter her drawing.

And take a moment to raise your coffee mug/beer can/Klean Kanteen water bottle to those Tacy/Diana/Bess friends.

things that make me peevish (in run-on sentences)

2012-01-09T06:59:00.000-08:00

Saturday I was flipping through TV stations and got briefly sucked into Braveheart on Bravo and I found myself really pissed off at Mel Gibson for wrecking some great movies because now every time I see him I don't see a former sexiest man alive/awesome actor, I see CRAZYCRAZYLUNATICMAN and it makes me a little sad, too.

Twice in a month I've gone to church (and to appreciate this story you must know the average service holds 800 people), I've sat on both sides of the sanctuary in front of the exact same two women who carry on a conversation in regular volume--all through the worship, all through the offering, all through communion, up until the sermon begins and I think they're mother/daughter and I'm trying not to be distracted by them but I am and then the one lady chews gum with her mouth open as soon as the preaching starts (after taking 5 minutes to unwrap it from endless layers of cellophane) and I want to turn around and punch them both for not taking a social cue from the rest of the 778 people sitting quietly or singing (including small children, for Pete's sake)--it took all my willpower not to turn around and ask them to exchange phone numbers so they could talk as they wish in a more appropriate place.

Once a week I want to watch TV, just one show, never twice a week or more, Sons of Anarchy is over for now and last night Downton Abbey started up again and I had Team Testosterone tucked in well before 8:00 and besides it's a school night, so I'm trying to kick it in my living room and watch this glorious Public Television programming and don't you know all three of the little twerps are popping out of bed and fighting and generally driving me up a wall and Mr. D's hidden away in our room watching football so I had to deal with them (he had offered to watch football in the living room but I chose the spot--comfy chair, you know) and for the love of all things holy, can't a lady just watch a freaking 2 hours of uninterrupted TV once a week when she lets you play hours of video games and watch hours of Disney Channel/Animal Planet/PBS Kids and hardly gets in your face except to call you to supper?

Spill it, reader. You can run on and on in the comment box. What makes you peevish?

(seriously, try the run-on sentences. it feels exhilarating to rant that way.)

all the news that's fit to print

2012-01-06T07:22:00.001-08:00

The last bits of snow will melt today and it felt like spring last night when I stepped outside. I don't recall ever having such a dry winter. Perhaps this will help ease the flooding in our woods.
Speaking of our woods, because of a highway project way over in Green Bay, about 60 acres of wetlands will be re-created in the farm field adjacent to our property. I can hardly wait--the wildlife will be wonderful! There is some speculation that it will create more flooding, but I don't see how--the field had drain tile and pumps forcing acres of water to flow to the creek behind our house. If you remove the drain tile and pumps, the water won't flow to the creek at the same speed and actually seep into this low-lying area the way God and nature intended. Now, this doesn't mean I fully approve of "wetland mitigation" projects, but I'm happy to benefit from some state money over in my end of Wisconsin.
On the wildlife front, I watched a small flock of turkeys this morning out of my back window while doing yoga. At first glance they looked like stumps or small trees, but they began moving. With the right rubber boots, it's a glorious time to tromp around out there.
In the dojo we've got a new assignment: create an original form. I confess to being kind of geeked out by this. I have my song selection narrowed down and I'm going to do a bo staff/open hand combo. It has to be 2 minutes minimum, but I figure with the light show and pyrotechnics mine will go closer to 4. KIDDING! Though it is tempting to incorporate as many elements as possible to distract from myself. I've been watching You Tube videos of bo staff forms and taught myself a couple nifty new tricks.
I also rolled my damn ankle again last night while sparring AND took a blasting kick to my face. Fortunately my face mask blocked most of the impact, but my chin is still tender--like a zit about to pop. I think a bit of make up will cover up the redness all right.
Book sales continue to be steady and yesterday I got to look at the press release from UWSP. They're kicking off an alumni book club and Whipped, Not Beaten is their first read. Among the events, a "Meet the Author" at the University book store. I haven't had so many excuses to dress up since I was interviewing for jobs after college!
Last night Mr. T told me I didn't need to tuck him in anymore. My role is reduced to opening his door and saying "good night." This means poor Mr. G gets doted on more than ever with hugs and cuddling and stories. Somewhere in the middle Mr. B takes a hug or two. Sunrise, sunset...
Speaking of sunrises, the days are lengthening and we have a little peek of sunshine by 7:00 now. The longer days boost my spirits.
I'm halfway through The Heart is a Lonely Hunter and it's making me melancholy. I need to find something else to temper it--but what?
Spill it, reader. What happy/funny/light reading can you recommend?

book giveaway at Jenn's place!

2012-01-05T08:28:00.000-08:00

Oh my! Jenn at Juggling Life has just posted a very, very sweet review--and she's giving away a copy of Whipped, Not Beaten--head on over and check out her site!

I must confess, that's a fear of mine as well--to read a book for someone and have nothing nice to say about it.

I chuckled at some of the comments she received about home parties, too. I've been to so many--a Passion Play (which I had first thought was Easter decorations) party that made me laugh so very hard, Pampered Chef (where I picked up the best spatulas in the world), Tupperware (that hostess was really good) and Mary Kay (I left that one looking a bit whore-ish). I'm still partial to Pampered Chef and Silpada after all these years...

Do tell, reader. What home party line are you partial to?

Now head over to Jenn's!

signed, sealed (by a notary public), delivered

2012-01-04T06:20:00.000-08:00

True story: until about 8 years ago I thought "notary public" was a "note republic," which made sense in my mind since it involved stamping written documents, i.e. "notes" and we do live in a "republic" of sorts, according to my son's social studies textbook. If you ask me, "notary public" is a dumb looking phrase anyway. But I'm also someone who sung the lyrics to "Blinded by the Light" in a douche-y kind of way, so there you go.

What did I get stamped/sealed/authorized by a notary public? My paperwork making me an official candidate for school board. I'm making a run for public office this spring. I've put my money where my big mouth is. Well, actually I haven't put down any money. In fact, I left the form about campaign finance blank because will not accept any PAC contributions (unless Mr. Colbert wants to spring for some 7-course meals for my supporters). I won't be the candidate who sells out to special interests. I plan to run a clean campaign, no smearing the opposition, no mudslinging, just plain old stating my position on the issues so people know I'm really the best person for the job. (Actually, I barely know the 2 guys running for the seat, so I'd be hard pressed to say ANYTHING about them at all, other than one seems nice and helps coach...)

"All in," that's my motto for 2012. No more fretting and sweating on the sidelines (except at baseball games--I have no business rushing out on the field OR into the dugout. They can hear me fine from my spot in the bleachers). I'm not going to wish and kvetch this year, I'm going to push up my sleeves and twist back my hair and GET THINGS DONE. Our school district needs a little (okay, A LOT) of redirection. I'll get a seat on the board so I can spread around my awesome ideas.

That new motto also means my kitchen is about to get a makeover. It's blah and depressing. Not by the end of this month though! Stay tuned for a BIG REVEAL at the end of January.

I've got books to edit, a garden to fence, trees to plant, children to nurture and recipes to try. "All in" means less thinking and more doing. This means I'll need lot of energy to live up to 2012's motto, so I'm ramping up my cardio and spending more time praying. And I might start drinking more coffee, too.

"All in." Spill it, reader. What's 2012 going to look like for you?

just the nicest review!

2012-01-03T09:21:00.000-08:00

Green Eyed Mom posted the nicest review of my book over at her blog Always Something. Go! Check it out!

(She gave me FIVE margaritas!)

sorting

2012-01-03T06:39:00.000-08:00

School's back in session and I'm sorting and filing and tidying and folding. I kept thinking I should make some goals for 2012, but three kids plus buddies made things so loud hectic around here that I didn't get around to anything requiring thought or reflection. The past week was mostly reflexive effort--feeding, refereeing, shoveling paths so I could walk through Chez Green Girl without crippling myself on Lego pieces.

Today the carpet cleaner is here to remove the remnants of Mr. G's stomach flu. I filled the pantry, washed the dishes, caught up with the laundry and emptied a full inbox thanks to yesterday's Eco Women post getting Fresh Pressed. I've still got a karate school newsletter to finish, dinner to plan and A Very Important Errand to Run.

Tomorrow I will make goals. That's a noble goal. Today I'll sort myself out so I can think with a clear head.

low tech fun

2011-12-27T07:59:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I finished Louise Penny's Bury Your Dead and now I'm longing to go to Montreal. She's a sublime writer and I'm 70 pages deep into her latest book. If you haven't read her books yet, get cracking because you are missing out.

It's incredibly quiet around here, despite a steady influx of kids coming over. The only battery operated toy Team Testosterone received was a Lazer Tag set that's really not so loud. They're reading, building Legos, occasionally playing the Wii, but I haven't had to bust out my Mom Yell at all. Is this heaven? No, it's NOT having little kids--and man, do I love it.

Mr. D gave me a French oven for Christmas and I'm busy acquiring recipes for stovetop goodness. If you have any suggestions, I'm happy to take them.

I'm musing, at the fringe of my thoughts, on making a list of plans for 2012. I'm also steeped in disappointment that we're NOT living like the Jetsons, with individual jet packs zipping us all over the place. As a child I had such high hopes for 2012. I blame our dependency on fossil fuels for our unimaginative transportation. Though I am glad metallic skintight jumpsuits never caught on.

In other news, Mr. B and Mr. T claim to have seen a baby Ewok in the woods yesterday. A bear? Possibly. I don't think they were kidding because I grilled each of them in isolation and their story checked out... Consequently, they head into the woods more than ever now.

a dry Christmas break

2011-12-26T05:30:00.000-08:00

We have no snow and Team Testosterone has brand new snow shoes. No sledding. No snow forts. No snow people in the yard. Just cold out there and very dry. And, speaking of dry, I discovered last night (before the Packers beat the Bears) that I've no beer, either.

Thank goodness they also have a brand new lazer tag set (for 4 players) and a plethora of boxes to build a maze with. And thank goodness we have a basement.

And Dance Party 3, which is the most sweaty, gut-busting fun we've had in ages.

Spill it, reader. What's the forecast for your break?

humble love and awesomeness--it's really what Christmas is about

2011-12-23T02:00:00.000-08:00

A lot of people misunderstand God, generally because they don't bother to listen to what He has to say about Himself. We like to think we've got God all figured out--and usually we've got Him figured all wrong because we're too busy listening to what other people have to say about God and Jesus and faith instead of seeking Him out for ourselves firsthand. Consequently, many Christians get a horrible rap because they're misrepresented or they're misrepresenting. Steven Colbert sums it up brilliantly in this quote:

I have regular conversations with people who have preconceived ideas about God that don't match up to solid logic or to Biblical truth. I'm well aware of the horrible and disturbing things people have done in the name of religion--including and in particular my favorite Christmas baby. History provides a great case against the belief that people are basically good and badness is an anomaly. Still, every year when I read the Christmas story in Luke 1-2, the part that amazes me is how God chose to come to earth.

I mean, come on, the God of the Universe. Creator of all things. Divine, holy, righteous, perfect, omniscient and all-powerful. If it were me, I'd have chosen a more comfortable route-- descending from the clouds and immediately reclining on the nearest jewel-encrusted throne. My entrance would've been flashy--with an entourage of heavenly host and lots of human genuflecting in my direction. That's what humans expect out of greatness--an impressive show of power and strength.

But God chooses a young teenager from a podunk no-name farm town to carry His son to term. He antes up a step-dad who is a carpenter by trade, the original Joe Six-Pack.

Grand entrance? Before going into labor, Mary schleps to Bethlehem for some stupid government census (and if she hadn't have gotten knocked up by the Holy Spirit, she could've stayed home, but because of her condition and saving social face she has to accompany her intended to his ancestral home). The town is packed out with people obeying Cesar's command and Joseph gets turned away--no place to stay. (Remember, this is Joseph's ancestral home--were the relatives too shocked by his pregnant teenaged fiancee to let them sleep in the back room? I always wonder...) I read Luke 2 and picture how miserable I'd be--9 months pregnant, swollen feet, tired and crabby--and no place to stay. I imagine standing in the street watching my fiancee try to find us shelter for the night--and get denied over and over again.

But! There's a barn, says the guy running the local brothel (an "inn" in Biblical times is NOT the modern-day equivalent of a Best Western). Go out back and take that empty stall. Luke doesn't tell us, but I bet the guy charged Joseph anyway--that's human nature, isn't it?

While Mary is pushing and straining to get the Lord of the Universe through her birth canal, angels are gearing up overhead. Angels must look like something humans cannot fathom--every time they show up, the first thing they always have to tell people is Don't be afraid. Jesus comes forth--Joseph wipes his brow with relief and Mary leans back exhausted and sweaty against a pile of straw.

And a heavenly host descends.

Here's my absolute favorite part of the story: the angels don't show up in Herod's throne room or scare the crap out of Cesar Augustus while he's feasting in Rome. They don't announce the birth of the Lord of the Universe to rich people or powerful people, temple scholars or the High Priest in Jerusalem. Nope, they present the big birth announcement to shepherds, working in the fields that night. All of God's glorious bragging about the birth of His only son is sung out to a bunch of guys working third shift on the outskirts of town. The Good News for All People is first shared with shepherds--whose job incidentally is to raise the sheep slaughtered as sin offerings. Back in this time laws prohibited shepherds to work near town, so scholars guess these guys were a good 10 miles away from the city limits.

Why choose the shepherds?

We know from reading on that Herod goes mad with jealousy when he later hears of prophecy fulfilled via the wise men and a bunch of baby boys under the age of 3 get whacked. I imagine the rich and powerful person would've felt threatened or defensive by God's coming. But it's GOD, so conceivably He could just fill the palaces and temples with His glory and bring the world's leaders to their knees with earthquakes and hurricanes and plague. But it's GOD, the God of the Bible, not the God of human imagination, and He brings His son to common, ordinary people, humble people at the bottom of the social order for a specific reason.

And these ordinary folk, the farmhands in the hillside of Bethlehem react quite differently. They immediately rush to the barn behind the brothel and find Jesus--I like to imagine their appearance.

Quietly and awkwardly they enter the stall and inquire--was a baby just born? A boy? Is it the Christ? Mary holds out the bundle of red-faced infant wrapped in rags, Joe Six-Pack steps aside and lets them take turns holding the baby, marveling in turn as we all do at a newborn's tiny perfection. A baby. A simple human baby. That's how God enters the world. As a baby with no place to lay His sweet head except a feeding trough for animals.

When the shepherds leave, they head straight into town to tell everyone they could find of what they saw and heard. The reaction on the streets was "amazement."

God reveals himself to ordinary people, folks literally on the fringe of society. This happens over and over again in the Bible. The scholars, the pious leaders, the rich and powerful are too hampered by pride or greed to acknowledge His gift. God knows who needs His promise and He sent Jesus for exactly those people--people with nothing to offer, nothing to lose. Christmas is essentially about humility and goodwill. It's about love--the hard kind of love to folks who don't return it in kind and often don't deserve it in the first place. Religion hasn't always remained true to these ideals, but if you read the Bible closely you'll find the truth in the Christmas. Only God overflowing with divine love would set aside all their power and glory to save lost souls and love them no matter what--present their only son as a gift--no working for it, no earning it, no ritual, no sacrifice--just believing. If I was God, I'd work it a whole lot differently--and that's what makes the Christmas story awesome. Christmas is about love for all of us, no matter what, humble love that takes us as we are and makes us whole again.

a short post

2011-12-22T06:32:00.000-08:00

to wish you all a Happy Solstice!
We got SNOW last night--two boys looked out the window and sighed "Finally." It's pretty and by golly, tomorrow the days get LONGER!

4th Annual Holiday Homes Tour

2011-12-21T01:45:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the 2011 Holiday Homes Tour (coordinated by Jen on the Edge). It's that time of year and things are jolly at Chez Green Girl, though not snowy yet. We decked the halls, hung some stockings and trimmed a nice tree. We like a mix of old, handmade and fresh picked around here.

Still my favorite Nativity of all time--I've never seen one I like as much as this plain one carved out of olive wood.

The tree has a mix of homemade and store bought--a hodge-podge of memories hanging from the branches. I confess to being partial to the ones the boys made through the years.

They just make our tree more special.

I never met a kid-crafted ornament that I could leave in storage. In fact, when I kick them out someday, the boys can take the "Baby's 1st Christmas" ornaments from Hallmark and I'll keep the ones they made out of yarn and construction paper and glue.

Speaking of kid stuff, I hang up their old Christmas art work, too. Right above the door to my library--two rows of reindeer, stockings, Santas, wreaths, trees, even a menorah!

Most of the decorations in the library came from outside--pinecones in little clay pots,

berries and greens.

Mr. D still isn't a fan of my paper wreaths hanging here and there, but everybody likes looking at the Christmas cards hanging on that door.

Next to the Door O' Cards--Sarah made the "W" for us and I love plugging it in--what a perfect spot for it!

Sarah also made the JOY on my kitchen sink window.

Hanneke from Northwoods Adventures made me this wonderful garland! Isn't it just terrific? Mr. B's camera doesn't do it justice, though I tried several angles and settings. Maybe I should get a new camera for Christmas (HINT).

That's a slightly better shot--grey felted hearts with red and white balls threaded through. I wish I was as skilled as Hanneke! And it came wrapped so pretty, too!

One last look at the tree (now plugged in) before you go--off to the next spot on the 2011 Holiday Homes Tour!

for grins

2011-12-20T07:04:00.001-08:00

Your comments have been so sweet--and I've already received the best feedback on Whipped, Not Beaten--people are LAUGHING. That pleases me to no end! My neighbor gal just sent this to me:

You NAILED a scrapbooking party....they are so obnoxious, and I'm a dedicated scrapbooker! ;) Also, the horrors of the kids at a home party, coupled with the dog, are writing perfection. I've experienced both issues, along with pet fur in the food, and so I was laughing thru the entire chapter. :) I never understand why parents let their kids run like crazy people at a home party like that...it annoys everyone, except, of course, that one strange mom who dotes on little Junior. :)

I'm loving the book! LOVE IT! :) I'm so proud of you!

(However, I'll be mopey at you in the morning....I'm going to spend alot of time into the wee hours reading and be tired all day tomorrow.....but it's all good!)

Since it's been all book-book-book (say that fast and you sound like a chicken) around here, I feel like we should take a breather and look around at the other stuff.

Outside, Jax is currently hauling out the recycling, one piece at a time, to various spots around the yard. Helpful dog.

Team Testosterone had their Christmas concert at school--it went predictably well. Adorable little kids, incredibly resentful bigger boys, self-important bigger girls all sang familiar songs with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Mr. G decided such an Important Event required neckware, so he borrowed a tie from Mr. D:

Funny boy.

We received some steaks in the mail from my folks and Team Testosterone enjoyed An Afternoon with Dry Ice:

Kitchen science.

I've only seen ONE Christmas movie so far--Friday night Team Testosterone and I nestled into my bed and watched Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, which remains one of the worst movies with some of the catchiest tunes. Upon this viewing I noticed the cozy cottage on the Island of Misfit Toys was tricked out with window boxes--with blooming flowers in them.

Tonight Mr. D and I are going to shop for gifts and I have Grand Ambitions of watching a few holiday flicks before the end of the week. Tomorrow is Jen on the Edge's Annual Holiday Home Tour, so I better grab a dust rag and a camera.

Spill it, reader. What's making you grin?

launched! part II

2011-12-19T08:26:00.000-08:00

Saturday was the Appleton book launch for Whipped, Not Beaten--the one I helped coordinate and to which I invited all of my friends & family & the hygienist who cleans my teeth. We had door prizes from home party lines, recipes from the book and chocolate treats to eat and drink at Atlas Coffee Mill--just the cutest place on the river. Behold:

Cornerstone Press sent a contingent to handle all book sales, publicity and other stuff I'm not privy to knowing about:

Can you tell they were a creative and fun staff to work with?

My fellow writers, you should be so lucky as me to work with people this enthusiastic about your work.

They set up a lovely display of books.

And then my peeps came and filled the room with good wishes and glad tidings.

I wanted to talk to everyone. PTA moms, dear friends, karate co-kickers, former colleagues, Cubbie leaders, bloggy pals, family, even Kristy who does my hair (and who told me my hair looked fabulous and she'd even thought of calling me that morning to offer to blow it out for me).

The Bumble Book Club was well represented, naturally.

After an hour of signing books and talking to people, Per gave a little introduction and I started to speak. And I looked out at the room FULL of people who had been so generous and supportive to me, all of that LOVE and I immediately choked up and got tears in my eyes and I swear if I hadn't pulled it together I'd have launched into a 5-minute sobfest. Thankfully I got a grip and proceeded to speechify.

With my hands, because that's how I talk. I use a hybrid sign/slang language to get my point across.

I talked about the journey from conceiving the book to writing it to getting rejected a gazillion times to finally getting published. I talked about the people who made it possible, especially grateful to these guys:

And then I read a little and wrapped it up so I could get back to mingling and doling out door prizes

and signing more books.

It was memorable and perfect and awesome. I'm thankful to everyone who came, to everyone who helped make the event run so well, and to everyone who bought my book for themselves or as a gift to someone else.

Now, to answer your questions:

1) I wore a Title Nine shirt, an Eddie Bauer skirt from a zillion years ago when I was still teaching, Target tights, a Vintage Pearl necklace, Lori Anderson earrings and a bracelet I bought in Ireland years ago. Oh, the shoes are Clarks and ADORABLE, trust me.

2) You can still buy books. Online at Cornerstone Press or locally at the Atlas Coffee Mill, the Freedom Pursuit store and Book Worlds all over the area. It will be at Pages & Pipes after the holidays. The B&N corporate office in New York did not choose to carry this book, nor hundreds of other titles published by independent and small presses. I have no further comment on the politics of publishing at this time. No e-book is currently available.

3) Sure, I'd LOVE it if you review my book on your blog, at GoodReads or anyplace else that seems appropriate to review a comic novel about home parties and romance and public radio. Let me know what you need and I'll gladly supply it for you!

And to all of you who have bought copies already, thank you THANK YOU for the support.

launched!

2011-12-16T10:00:00.001-08:00

And I tell you, it feels like I AM in midair right now. I don't believe my feet have touched the ground yet.

My dear Bumble pals Char & Robin drove me to Stevens Point and we located the DUC without incident. Then we tried to locate the room when I spotted the posters promoting the book on walls! Oh my!

The staff at Cornerstone was lovely. The venue was gorgeous. The home party ladies lining the room were sweet. There were door prizes and of course THE BOOK!

What a thrill to actually hold it and thumb through the pages!

There was mingling and then some speechifying. Steve Zahurones , Cornerstone's President, gave a phenomenal introduction. I'm telling you, look out for this guy--he's going places. Just warning you. Per Henningsgaard said the most flattering things about me. And then I sat up on the stage under a spotlight and perspired (or did I glow? who am I kidding--I was sweating) through my little rambling speech about the book and where it started and how it ended up at this point. I read my 3 pages.

When I finished, a line formed of people wanting ME to sign their book. The kindest, sweetest, nicest people. A lovely woman from Italy who asked me to unpack the title's meaning. A tall, slim woman who wants the dress I wore and knew it was from Title Nine and she would look better in it than I do. A blonde woman who bought the book for her adorable 9 month daughter (who promptly began chewing on the corner of the cover after I handed it back). Gorgeous twins who bought the book for their mom. A man who bought the book for his grandma, but he sure liked it, too! A woman who writes history, a woman who writes poetry, the Mary Kay rep (who wore the most fabulous red coat), the Lia Sophia rep (who I'm totally calling to collaborate with should I ever write a sequel to Whipped, Not Beaten), the Cutco Cutlery man (who had the biggest smile) and the Pure Romance woman (who I want to host a party because it would be a blast). People from the Alumni office working to launch my book for an alumni book club this spring. The people from the press to whom I am so thankful--all they've done, how hard they've worked on my behalf. Wives, roommates, co-workers and interested citizens. It was a blast meeting all of them!

It still makes me dizzy to think of it--all those books sold, the charming people who wanted to meet me--even going to Char and Robin to ask if I'm really "like that in real life" (they assured people that I am "like that"). Heck, even a radio ad that they replayed for me to hear since I live out of the listening area.

It was positively glorious.

I feel so blessed.

building a case for Legos

2011-12-15T07:28:00.000-08:00

Tonight is the boys' Christmas concert at school--Mr. D will attend since I'll be AT MY BOOK LAUNCH PARTY IN STEVENS POINT. Anyway, I'll sit in on the dress rehearsal, which, as my sons helpfully pointed out, is NOT the same thing as the evening performance, but there you have it. They don't seem terribly impressed by my reason for missing the concert.

It's all about LEGOS here lately. By lately I mean for the past year. My children have almost exclusively asked for Lego kits for Christmas. Mr. T has a hankering for the Old School Star Wars kits which are wicked pricey and hard to find, Mr. B and Mr. G are kicking it Clone Wars and Ninjago-style. Mr. D and I think we should buy stock in Lego Corp. because Lord knows we spend enough on their products. Star Wars! Ninjago! Pirates!

This morning we rehashed that conversation and I mused yet again to Mr. D, "And they haven't even begun to effectively tap the GIRL market yet. I mean, it's all for boys, their product lines. But Legos are huge and believe me, there are plenty of girls who like them now, but imagine if they developed lines exclusively for girls."

Mr. D looked at me like I'm crazy (which happens more often than you might imagine) and said, "They're BUILDING toys. Girls don't like to BUILD."

I replied, "Baloney-Salami. I was a girl and I loved to build. In fact, I spent more time BUILDING houses and mansions and towns for my Barbie dolls than I spent actually PLAYING dolls. I loved building toys--this old farm set my dad had as a kid, tinker toys, blocks, dollhouses. Sadly, most building toys are geared to boys, but I'm telling you, girls like to build."

It's true. Look at all the women you know who like to make things--crafting is a form of building. It's creative but it's also productive. Knitting a sweater, stamping an album, nailing together a birdhouse--the beauty of BUILDING is the satisfaction of looking at your final product. I truly believe girls both need and would enjoy toys that incorporate both.

Look at the wild success of Webkins. How many of those beanbag critters were sold because of the code that gained access to a virtual world where kids could build their own house and manage their own affairs? A form of building. My kids' favorite thing to play lately is Lego Universe because it's a virtual world where they BUILD their properties, create their characters, and design their characters' paths.

Kids want to interact with their toys and the lamest toys are the ones with a limited script (I'm talking to the likes of you, Tickle Me Elmo). The best toys are the ones that work at the mercy of a kid's imagination. Now these Lego kits the boys want for Christmas come with instructions, but once they're built, they get shuffled around and engage in all kinds of dramatic warfare. And then the boys build NEW space shuttles and rockets and weapons using random Lego parts, constantly interchanging the dynamics of their play.

More importantly, kids enjoy feeling the pride of looking at a finished product that they assembled themselves. So many toys rob them of this experience--what pride is there in dressing a doll? Almost none. What pride is there in rolling a car? Almost none. But building a track? Assembling a house/castle/spaceship? Creating a city? Piecing together an outfit/weapon/vehicle from scratch? Significantly more. I've got 3 kids who'd prefer to have blank paper and markers than a coloring page because they have Big Ideas to express. I don't think my kids are unique--I truly believe every kid has the potential to imagine and create--IF they're given the right toys and tools to employ their imagination and creativity.

For all these reasons I believe there is huge untapped potential for the girl market in Legos. Then I went online this morning to read the news and found this. Which I immediately sent to Mr. D with a request that I get stock in Lego Corp. for Christmas because by golly, it's about to happen! For all of the money Lego poured in to gaining the rights to and developing product lines for Pirates of the Caribbean and Harry Potter and Star Wars, I argue they can spend a pittance on some of the popular girl brands and gain traction. Imagine an American Girl-themed Lego world. Think of it! The perfect trifecta of education, creativity and positive identity development in a single toy line!

Spill it, reader. Are you with me? Do girls like to build? And more importantly, do you see a market for girl-themed Legos*?

I'm off to practice my reading for tonight.

* I know there's a missed opportunity here for exploring the whole gender dynamic of toys and branding and so forth, but for Pete's sake, people, I have 3 boys and a BOOK LAUNCH PARTY TONIGHT, so we're just not going there, okay?

intermission

2011-12-14T06:43:00.001-08:00

I confess to be nervous and consequently a tad (okay, Mr. D, MORE than a tad) bitchy this morning as I fretted over a radio interview about my book. Happily, it turned out okay and now I'm my regular pleasant self once more. Now I can focus my fretting on tomorrow night's book launch party. (7:00 Encore Room, UWSP)

The whole experience so far has been great--the people at Cornerstone are lovely to work with, supportive and creative. Tomorrow I'll actually hold the book in my hands. People will get to read my work and react to it. Today is like intermission for me, before the second half begins. I think I'll go hang out in the lobby and eat Dots and drink cherry Coke.

Two of the Bumble Book Club gals are coming to Stevens Point with me tomorrow night--my very own posse, my homegirls. I'm glad to have company on the ride, really glad. Buried inside of me is a shy girl who flinches at the very suggestion of going it alone in a room full of strangers. Oh, and just like the main character in Whipped, Not Beaten, my face is breaking out in honor of this special occasion.

I spent yesterday churning out baked goods in my kitchen and tonight Mr. B and I have a karate test--self defense for both of us, an open hand complex for me. I'm reading a book by James Brady, who is like a more modern PG Wodehouse--how have I not heard of him before? And why aren't you all reading him?

In other news, my good bloggy pal and co-Eco-Warrior Jen on the Edge is launching her own huge writing career--check it out! Tell me, does she NOT look adorable next to Bubbles in that picture???

in the air, on the air

2011-12-13T07:36:00.000-08:00

It was a romantically inauspicious start to my run this morning--huge crows in the trees along our driveway. The air is briny, heavy and chilly and damp. I smelled paper mill, manure and that moldering greenish stench from the creek and some animal corpse rotting. The trouble with temps slightly above freezing is the sick dankness--add a cloudy haze and you can imagine the Black Plague spreading. It's positively medieval.

Glad to be back inside where I'm back in the throes of baking holiday treats. Something snapped inside me yesterday--perhaps it was finally finishing the Christmas cards that triggered it. This year was a bit of a struggle--the card concept did not go as planned. The photo is meh. Mr. D nixed the original Christmas card and I pondered--I'd spent almost 8 hours--how to use what I'd come up with? And then a ginormous lightbulb appeared above my head and I shouted Aha! (while wiggling my eyebrows and raising my right index finger into the air). Then I spent another 3 hours redoing the card that will go out in today's mail.

Trouble is, I've raised the bar unbelievably high for the annual Christmas card. No regulation form letter of the family's accomplishments (GPA, sports records, activities, vacations) for me. Oh no. It's got to be themed or cleverly formatted. Heck, one year I even sent out a one act play. The pressure is on and I've got nobody to blame but myself.

So, the card is done and I headed to the grocery store last night feeling all kinds of merry and joyful. I loaded the cart with butter, sprinkles, nuts and sugar and good golly if I haven't begun a frenzy of baking not seen since 2005. I kind of gave up cookie trays a few years back since we received so many, but now they've fallen out of fashion and I do like the variety on a pretty platter of sweets. Consequently, the recipes are all over the kitchen alongside the proper ingredients--I'm making fudge and caramel corn, cheesecake bars and Norwegian cookies, sugar cookie cut outs and almond thumbprints. Crank the stereo (Andy Williams, Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby of course) and slap a Santa hat on my head. Christmas is IN THE AIR.

And I'll be ON THE AIR tomorrow morning at 7:45--over at 1010 AM with Scott Krueger. I've never talked on the radio before--well, except for calling in a couple times over at WPR. Happily, I only have to worry about what to say, not what to wear.

Spill it, reader. What's the mood in the air at your place today?

Sons, into exile, I must go. Failed, I have.

2011-12-09T06:45:00.000-08:00

Scene: Green Girl arrives home after her evening out at book club, full of residual good vibes from fun conversation, Korean food and a couple of chocolate martinis. She walks through the kitchen and sees dishes stacked beside the sink. Crumbs all over the counter and table.

Another dish lies directly above...

that damn household appliance no one else in the household seems to be able to master. Green Girl opens the door and sure enough, there is plenty of room. She has tried to train them, teach them the secrets, unlock the mystery of its power. She bows her head and concedes failure.

Team Testosterone: But tell us why we can't...
Green Girl: No, no, there is no why. Nothing more will I teach you today. Clear your mind of questions.

Her disappointment in the young Jedi overwhelms her.

(with special thanks to George Lucas)

riddle me this

2011-12-08T06:52:00.000-08:00

Monday night Mr. B and I rolled in from karate class. Mr. D was at a (very long and politically charged athletic association) meeting, Mr. G and Mr. T were home hanging out. When we pulled into the garage and exited the Momvan, we were assaulted by the most terrible odor imaginable. It took me a while to figure it out, but eventually I determined it was burning rubber. This led me to pop the hood on the Momvan and check all of the tires. You see, I was convinced the Momvan was about the spontaneously combust. It was definitely something burning. And this is just the sort of thing that would happen right after we decided to replace Mr. D's car with a salvaged hybrid. Right?

But the Momvan checked out. I went inside and kept getting hits of the odor. Basement? Everything was fine. I checked the tree, all the electrical outlets. We seemed safe from a house fire. I went back outside and kept getting the scent. I checked the electric Christmas lights and extension cords. There seemed no rhyme or reason for the cause or source, but I definitely smelled that burning blacktoppy-tar-rubber-plastic smell.

Mr. D came home an hour later and smelled it, too. We examined garage door openers, his car (about to get traded in the next morning), I even walked up the driveway to ascertain whether the stench was blowing in from somewhere else. I tore apart the laundry room adjacent to the garage--checked the dryer vent, the wiring, even pulled the dryer out from the wall and ended up vacuuming up a half pound of lint and dust bunnies. I confess I went to bed that night certain we'd be woken up by the screech of smoke detectors. I knew I'd missed something smoking, burning, combusting. What was that horrible smell? Where was it coming from?

Sure enough, the next morning we could still smell it. Strongest in the garage. Mr. D warily drove to his office and returned, checking his car once again and coming into the house exclaiming, "Smell my hand! I can even smell it on my hand!"

Reader, at this point I was certain the Apocalypse was upon us. My overactive imagination deducted that all plastics made in oh, say 1995, was melting and turning toxic right before us, creating a swamp of deadly chemicals that we'd inhale and die from--or cause electrical fires and we'd be caught up in the resulting inferno. Silly, but the smell was coming from all kinds of odd spots--Mr. D's phone, the laundry room, the garage, the Momvan, Mr. D's hand.

Tuesday, about 10:00 Mr. D calls me from work. "Jax got sprayed by a skunk!"

I gasped, "How do you know?" and run to the window to look outside at the dog who is sitting in his little house.

"I was thinking about it and you know every where we smelled that smell? Jax was right there. In fact, I even told him to move his head when I looked under my car, and that's when it smelled the strongest. I petted him--that's why my hand smelled. It all adds up, my dear Watson."

I walk outside and sniff. Now the top notes of burning blacktoppy-tar-rubber-plastic smell had worn off and sure enough, there was that sour, musky, raw skunk spray aroma. Jax trots up to me and I take another breath. Yep. Who knew? I guess the first blast of skunk smells nothing like the lingering odor we're all more familiar with.

So. We have a smelly dog, below freezing temperatures, a new car in which we will not put the dog, a house in which we will not bring the dog and a Momvan which I refuse to contaminate with skunk smell. We can't bathe him outside, it's too cold. We won't bring him inside, it's too cold to ventilate properly. Everyone's avoiding Jax like the Black Plague and I read on the internet that skunk smell lasts up to 6 weeks.

SIX WEEKS!

After reading the suggested remedies (none included, "let the dumb dog suffer and the smell will naturally fade and all will return to normal without any dire consequence"--and trust me, I searched hard for that advice) I finally suggested to Mr. D that he borrow a work truck with a metal cab (less likely to absorb the odor) to transport the mutt to a dog groomer's.

In other news, Mr. G woke up the other morning and went outside in 23 degree weather to take his morning constitutional off the edge of the front porch in bare feet. WHY? you may well ask.

I went into the boys' bathroom of preference to figure it out. He won't go upstairs because that bathroom is disgusting, even right after I clean it he won't use it--and it's his fault because he won't aim. Downstairs someone hadn't flushed properly (you have to hold the handle down for a couple seconds) and a pile of brown poo lay marinating in the bottom of the toilet. Of course it's easier to step outside and pee in bare feet while freezing to death than to just flush the toilet. Right???

Straight from stinky dog to funky bathroom. Which explains why I'm dressed like this lately:

anarchy club

2011-12-07T07:42:00.000-08:00

Lincoln Potter gives his team a pep talk just before they bust up the 3:00 meeting. And then--and I swear when the truck pulled in bullets would fly--but BADGES. Turns out Romeo and Luis and their cartel are backed by American CIA and 2 other agencies--their mission? To destroy another cartel. "For the greater good," Potter explains to Roosevelt.

It's anticlimactic to watch Potter pack his bags and leave. His conversation with Roosevelt was pretty good, though.

The Irish arrive and Jax tries to deal with them. No deal. They don't trust him--only Clay. After they leave, Romeo and Luis privately flash their badges and tell Jax the truth. The look on his face when he registers exactly how hard he's pinned against the wall: Continue the cartel OR every single person associated with SAMCRO goes down. Clay has to live in order to broker deals with the Irish. The Sons have to continue muling drugs and guns. Jax has to lead the charge.

The rest of this season finale parses this game-changer out relationally, which is exactly why this show kicks ass. It's about the characters. When the game changes, where do they land? How does it affect them?

First, Jax. He has to make peace with his dad, knowing he's got to go down the road his father wanted to avoid. He's got to let his dad's death go unavenged. He's got to deal with Clay (and when he does, it's almost worse than if he'd killed him). He's got to deal with Tara, Gemma and Opie.

Then there's other fallout. Juice gets released and there's a touching moment between him and Roosevelt when new lines get drawn in the sand. Back at his house, Juice sets a photo of his father on his nightstand, tears the file in half and grabs his leather to head to Church.

Other noteworthy moments:

Opie's reaction to Jax asking him to be VP. On one hand, Opie will take a while to come around. He has strict moral rules about wrong and right and he's unconvinced. Plus he's got vengeance in his heart, so leaving him renegade outside the club is dicey and full of possibilities. That said, he could just as easily take the seat to Jax's left. Spoiler: he never arrives--two people walk in late to Church, but Ope's not one of them. Jax has promised to tell him--and the club--everything when the time is right. The big question is: does Opie trust Jax?

Happy seems happy Jax is president.

Tig gets pushed aside and Chibs takes his place. I predict Tig will be around, though his loyalties might shift. Or not. I'm glad to see Chibs taking a spot beside Jax and I do think aside from Tig's stronger alliance with Clay, the remaining SAMCRO members will support Jax heart and soul.

Gemma realizes Jax has NOT killed Clay. She also realizes she is NOT Jax's first lady. She's destroyed all evidence of her part in JT's death, but Tara lording knowledge over her is a dangerous thing (for Tara). Things have shifted in a major way for her, but I doubt shell end up on the sidelines knitting sweaters for her grandsons.

Tara learns the truth from Jax and he tells her to take the boys and go to Oregon. She's one of the people showing up late to Church. Which I didn't like, because even though this show does involve the women to a large degree, Tara's not a club member and did not belong at the table. It was a contrived moment to stage her and Jax like Gemma and JT in that old photograph (with Gemma watching from the door).

We learn that the woman killed by Tig is the daughter of a 'major player.' Bet on the Oakland gang being a major storyline at the start of season 5. We learn this through Sheriff Roosevelt, which tells me he'll be around next season--yay!

Bobby's in prison, strumming his guitar.

Wayne is sitting at the head of Gemma and Clay's dining room table.

There are a lot of empty chairs around that table at the Clubhouse.

Oh, and Potter shows up at the Charming city council meeting and outs Hale's investor as a porn/pedophilia manufacturer. It's an awesome scene only because Potter is such a strange and quirky character (I will miss him. Wish I could fathom how he'd return, but I cannot.). He walks out, saying "Good day" and Hale chases him to the door demanding "Why did you do this?" Potter replies, ""Because I don't like you. And the good guys need a win." For now Charming Heights is not going to happen. Long term? The storyline with Hale is not over.

So. Jax is following in the path cut for him by both father and stepfather. Circumstance determines the destiny everyone wants for him and there is a change in his demeanor as well. Watch an episode from Season 1 and his metamorphosis is startling. Well played, Kurt Sutter. Well played.

it's not all sunshine and roses here

2011-12-06T10:26:00.001-08:00

Jax found the skunk.

holiday chores

2011-12-06T07:11:00.000-08:00

I'm wicked late for this year's Christmas card. There are issues with content. There are issues with format. And then the camera batteries died. Above is one of the rejects from this year's session. Team Testosterone looks festive, don't you think?

There's been much talk about Advent calendars. Behind them you'll see a calendar my mom made for me. I grew up with a similar one. You velcro the ornaments to the tree and are supposed to put the star on top Christmas Eve. Try telling that to Mr. G. I keep reading about people putting together Advent calendars that involve opening wee gifts and trinkets and treats. The whole logistics of putting such a thing together (times THREE, natch) blows my mind. So reader, let's make a deal. I'll never tell your kids our kid-sized four-wheeler, pool and the boys' man-fort out back if you never speak of Advent calendars with daily gifts to mine, okay?

Blue jays and cardinals are hitting the bird feeder.

Had lunch with J and her darling baby T yesterday. I will so miss her when she returns to work after Christmas. Seriously, girlfriend makes me laugh so hard.

I awoke this morning to the sound of an ornament hitting the floor, but the tree still stands upright.

St. Nicholas filled stockings with tiny Lego kits and chocolates last night. This morning Mr. G informed me that "St. Nicholas gave me a Ninjago set, but it's okay because he'll tell Santa because they live together." It slays me how kids makes sense of these things in their own way. I guess I always thought St. Nicholas was Santa, on a teaser run to let you know where you stood on his Naughty or Nice List.

The hybrid is a GO! Squee! We don't do new cars around here, the hybrid is barely used, and the first new vehicle for probably 6 years. In our discussions about whether to buy this car, we realized that the Momvan is over 8 years old. That startled me for some reason.

Tonight is the season finale of Sons of Anarchy.

Nine days until the Stevens Point book launch party, when I hold a copy of Whipped, Not Beaten in my hands.

So much to look forward to. Spill it, reader. What are you anticipating?

many good things

2011-12-05T07:19:00.001-08:00

We got a tree--not the biggest tree, not the most expensive tree, but a fragrant, tall-ish, full tree that hasn't tipped over. Without a single curse word or snappish tone the tree got lit and decorated. Bing Crosby and Andy Williams crooned over the stereo, we sang along (in our tuneless way) and hung ornaments. The children discussed how excited they were for Christmas. All the lights worked when we plugged them in. Nothing broke. No one fought. When we finished, I realized that with the help of my entire family the ornaments were decently spaced. I didn't feel the urge to reorganize the boys' decorating. It couldn't have gone more smoothly and I am thankful for that. Christmas is so much better when kids are older.

Mr. T is playing basketball. Mr. T is playing basketball. That's such a strange thing that I must type it twice. He's loath to play team sports and quit YMCA league in 1st grade. This year he was again invited to play for his school's team and he agreed. Poor boy doesn't have much of a clue about the game, looks pretty dazed out there during games, but he's gradually catching on and gaining confidence. He loves going to practice, really tries hard. Well, this week he made his first basket during a game AND got his first foul. He rebounds pretty well and his team took first in a local tournament. He's never won anything before. The triumphant feeling still lingers. Also? He keeps talking about going out for track in the spring because he really likes to run and has good speed.

Mr. T and I went to the town's Christmas parade Saturday night after the basketball tournament. It was a nice parade, full of happy people, clever floats and lots of fire trucks. We greeted many people by name, a good, friendly evening. And the rain stopped for the parade.

The boys are revved up for St. Nicholas Eve, which is tonight. Because we live in a heavily Dutch-populated area, we participate in the tradition of setting out stockings for treats. Little treats. Mostly chocolate-flavored treats.

Because of this, that and the other we haven't been going to karate classes. I was very thankful to hit mitts with a tough partner Saturday and work up a sweat.

Mr. B started basketball, which is totally within character for him, so I shall only type it once. He's always happiest when his day involves other guys and a ball of any sort.

Mr. G went to a fantastic birthday party for a friend who is an only child and therefore gets to have the sort of party that no one with siblings would get to have.

The Packers are still on their streak.

The Badgers got retribution.

I saw a skunk by our driveway and Jax never tangled with it.

There are leftovers in the fridge for tonight's supper.

I'm finally reading The Help and it's pretty good.

Spill it, reader. What good things happened over your weekend?

so close to being rednecks around here

2011-12-02T06:52:00.000-08:00

Feeling like I'm all that with a brilliantly conceived mantel and all the rest of the Christmas frou-frou set out. Mr. B and I cut a wheelbarrow full of boughs, branches and berries and they're all strategically hung, wired, laid and placed. Let the festivities begin!

I thought I'd get the Momvan washed today. My MIL lives on a dirt road, so that Thanksgiving trip to Iowa left it extra-dirty. Then I remembered we're stuffing a tree into the back of the Momvan tonight. Probably best to wait until after that, no?

Smashed a bunch of my best gourds and pumpkins so I could harvest the seeds and dry them out for next spring's planting. I labeled each pile with really precise descriptions. "Small White Bumpy Gourd." "Orange Yellow Striped Gourd. Some Bumps." My favorite pumpkin, a gorgeous bumpy one with great color had a super-thick shell. I ended up banging it against the floor, muttering Give up your seeds, bitch. It took a lot of tries and coercing (cursing), but I finally cracked her open.

Mr. D let loose about 20 pheasants on our property last night. We'll see how they do. This is our 4th attempt at planting pheasants around here. One year we got so hopeful, a couple made it through the winter and had babies. Then they all disappeared. Eaten by foxes? Hit by cars? We'll never know. The first time we let pheasants go, one flew directly into the side of our neighbor's shed and killed itself. I swear, pheasants are about the dumbest birds ever (and that's saying something, because really? We're talking birds.) Within days we found 2 more dead in the road. Mind you, we live on 60 acres with a bit of development to the south and nothing but wetlands, woods and farm fields to the north for over a mile between us and the next intersection. Turkeys do really well out here, we have a huge flock thriving on the other side of the creek. Hopefully these pheasants are smarter than the last few batches, but I doubt it. I didn't take photos of the release because it was too dark.

Anyway, the master plan is for Mr. D and Team Testosterone to be able to hunt pheasants some day--they'll be that prolific around here. I despise pheasant. It's too gamey, a heavy tasting meat that grosses me out. I confess to not minding if the pheasants never get to huntable numbers around here, but it is cool to watch them fly up when you're walking around the field and prairie.

Still no sign of that cat.

Birdfeeders are full, but we haven't had any visitors yet.

Snow is in the forecast.

nooks & crannies

2011-12-01T06:04:00.000-08:00

Yesterday Jax and I tooled around the yard, scooping up the rotten pumpkins and jack o' lanterns and piling them in the field. One benefit of waiting until after it gets cold out is that the puddles of pumpkin mush freezes into easy-to-pick-up patties. Pumpkinsicles if you will. So now we have only Christmas greenery and lights decorating Chez Green Girl.

Inside Chez Green Girl is another story. Team Testosterone woke up today wondering where the advent calendars were. I had one hanging and made promises to get in the basement today and dig out other holiday things. And now I feel compelled to collect the gourds and squashes and pumpkins inside the house, too. I like to strip (the shelves, not myself) and dust well before putting out Christmas things. Time to get ready, no more putting it off.

In other news, the Underwear Superheroes have been duking it out in our living room.

Yes, he's wearing underpants on his head. I wouldn't mess with him, either.

Mr. D is test driving a hybrid. I cannot get over how quiet it is.

Last night when we returned home from karate class/baseball clinic, a cat ran out of our garage. A tiger-striped cat with the cutest white paws. My heart leapt with hope and I realized at that moment how much I'd like another cat. Jax either wasn't aware of the cat or didn't mind it, because he just ran up to us, tongue out and happy. Mr. T and Mr. G chased around the corner of the house to try to find the cat, but it was dark and we couldn't call it back. I'm keeping my eyes open, though.

The library is still clean and tidy.

Look--bare corners!

Books in order, each where they belong according to Dewey's classification and alphabetical order.

You bet I'm a bit Type A.

The damn piano is still here. Mr. G brought home a Christmas song (The Christmas Beasts, Old French Melody) he's learning for his school concert. He asked me to teach him how to play the notes, so I wrote the letters on strips of masking tape and stuck them to the keys. Then I labeled the notes with the letters and Mr. G plays the piano in a tuneful way. Makes it tough to unload this albatross when someone's finally learning how to play it.

I love these chairs. My grandma bought them shortly before she died, so they were practically new when I got them. No one else wanted them, this house hadn't been built yet, but I took the chairs because it made me sad to think of them abandoned and they turned out perfect for this spot. The hutch in the background was also hers, she and grandpa bought it on their first anniversary. No one wanted that, either, and my father strong-armed me into taking it. I'm glad I did. This room is mostly full of the old things, the clock above the hutch belonged to Mr. D's mother, the Wedgwood to my other grandma, and, of course, Jan (the retired bowling ball) rests peacefully, keeping me company.

Just that one corner and my desk are messy. I'm not going to lie to you, the desk will never get cleaned up. But there it is, my library. My sacred space.

Spill it, reader. What nook & cranny looks tidy in your world?

anarchy club

2011-11-30T07:14:00.000-08:00

I took last week off, but let's hash both out, shall we?

Opie shot Clay. Opie, who has no stomach for death or any of it anymore. Jax, who never did either, takes control of the situation, bundling Opie off with a promise to find the truth (to which Opie replies in stoic resignation, "Just what I need. Another promise.") and propping up Clay so it looks like an outside hit. And Clay, conscious enough to tell Jax to pin it on "the blacks." Really?

Trouble is, the one person buying this line, hook, line and sinker, is Tig, who translates it to mean the Niners and takes terrible (and implausible) revenge. (Mr. D asked me if I'd keep watching if Tig got killed. After deep consideration, I said that I would. Jax is enough to keep me coming back now.) Even when pushed by the police, Wayne and Jax are loath to drag another gang into their problems, which are mounting as they realize Bobby and Juice are MIA.

In one scene Jax tells Tara they're leaving town tomorrow. She's packing the bags while a New Patch feeds a baby and Gemma trots in wanting those letters. Those same letters Clay wants. In another scene Jax is taking control of every situation: the meet with the Cartel, the meet with the Irish, tracking down his MIA members, even going to prison to ask Lenny what he knows. (How does he have enough time in the day?) And then Tig needs an escort out of O-town because he's just knocked Laroy's girlfriend through a window and killed her. Of course they're on his tail--they don't know who Tig is until he leaves his car and jumps on his motorcycle and then in a high speed chase Jax shoots one of the Niners, leaving Laroy swearing the revenge due in next week's final episode of the season.

Wisely, Jax talks to Romeo, who insists they're a GO for the meet with the Irish at 3:00. Against Jax's better judgment. Jax tells Chibs and Happy that Opie's at the cabin, Piney's death isn't widely known yet.

And Tara, Tara gives the keys to the storage unit and Gemma gets the packet of letters--which she browses through before bringing to Jax. As if he doesn't have enough on his plate. Gemma's plan is for Jax to kill Clay and take the gavel. Tara's plan is for Jax to kill Clay and get the hell out of Charming. Tara hands Jax a syringe and explains how to do it so it looks accidental. Gemma realizes that Tara really IS smarter than her, a frightening thought.

For one week we hang in the balance. My predictions? Clay's dead next episode, but not by Jax's hand. Opie will not excuse Jax, the meeting with the Cartel and the Irish will be wicked bloody, Jax will not be able to leave Charming, Tara will not be happy and either will Gemma be pleased with Jax, the Niners will execute vengeance, and what remains of the SAMCRO boils down to: Jax, Opie, Happy, Chibs and Tig. The only thing that makes me a little happy is the possibility of seeing more of Happy next season because as I type this, I realize he's the only character Kurt Sutter has left unexplored and underdeveloped.

Fellow Anarchists, what say you?

bookin' it

2011-11-29T07:27:00.000-08:00

Up to my EYEBALLS in editing final proofs of Whipped, Not Beaten (debut fiction about home parties, cooking and love) (would make excellent Christmas gift alongside cooking gadget/utensil or nice box of chocolates) and plan to rest my eyes this afternoon by catching up with my bloggy pals and seeing how everyone spent Thanksgiving.

You can now pre-order copies of Whipped, Not Beaten HERE (just click) for $12 each plus S/H.

And I thought you'd also like to know the author photo on the back cover is cropped from this picture of me meeting Jenn at Juggling Life and Deb at San Diego Mama when I went to California in February. What a small world, right? We sure did take a great photo together, but the book designers didn't want to include Jenn and Deb on the back cover, something about it would confuse readers about who wrote the book...

Back to the proofs for now!

one last serving of gratitude

2011-11-24T06:22:00.000-08:00

81. Bacon! (Thanks, Small Town Mom for reminding me--what a thing to overlook!)
82. Which brings me to bloggy friends who give me the best links, belly laughs, insights and fellowship. Some folks complain about all the hate in the world, but the blogosphere is generally one of the most positive, loving places to hang out. I'm grateful to be part of that community.
83. My kids all have nice friends from families I like and trust.
84. We have good babysitters as needed, and nice teenage baseball players to help with the heavy lifting around here.
85. Ruth and Carl, such good mentors.
86. Cheese.
87. Forgiveness.
88. The way people smile at you when they catch your eye--people you don't know and people you do know.
89. Plenty of hot water in the morning and good water pressure.
90. The color green.
91. The sound of crickets in summertime, the glimmer of fireflies, the hum of bees.
92. Orchards. There is something so special about an orchard.
93. Poetry.
94. The miracle of the composting process.
95. My sister is doing OK.
96. My marriage is good, the foundation solid.
97. I have kids who love me, still need me to a large degree, and show every sign of developing into good and decent men one day.
98. We have awesome home teams to cheer for, in particular, the Packers, who are great athletes and men of sound characters, just the sort of role models I'm glad for Team Testosterone to admire.
99. I've inherited some great genetic qualities.
100. I took typing, which has facilitated my life in so many ways I never dreamed possible when I was a junior in high school.

Happy Thanksgiving.
I hope you all have a day filled with things you feel grateful for and people who make you feel loved.

and still more gratitude

2011-11-23T05:28:00.001-08:00

51. School secretaries. Especially the ones willing to forge signatures to expedite things. (not naming any names, Ms. W over at PI who ROCKS.)
52. Bus drivers. Especially the ones who play the "cool radio stations" and wait at the end of the driveway for stragglers.
53. Cafeteria workers.
54. Imagination. I cannot imagine life without it.
55. Creativity. (I should give Pinterest its own spot now, shouldn't I?)
56. Pinterest.
57. In that event, Tom and Lorenzo, because they crack me up.
58. Patience. In particular, the patience other people extend towards me.
59. Self-control. It's underrated in a world full of explosive personalities and viral YouTube videos.
60. Kindness. It's everywhere in big and small ways and finding it leads to
61. Hope.
62. Along this list of intangibles, faithfulness and here's a special shout-out to Mr. D. (Yo! Babe!) (And God, of course. Yo! God!)
63. Peace. I find myself sitting back more and more often, keeping my peace, maintaining peace, reluctant to stir pots. (I hope this is the result of age and not apathy.)
64. Generosity. I'm on the receiving end of it so often.
65. Order. I remember when I began teaching high school just being in awe that traffic in hallways flowed; all of the "wild teenagers" stayed on their right, nobody shoved or pushed, people got to class on time. I love it when I see order, and I'm thankful when people respect one another enough to keep order.
66. Solitude. Space and silence to reflect without interruption.
67. Contentment. I am thankful I feel this far more than the sting of envy.
68. Butter.
69. I get to grow fruit in my own yard. Raspberries, pears, strawberries, apples. Such luck!
70. I know someone who cuts hair really well. (A shout out to Kristy! Yo! Kristy!)
71. Humor.
72. Sons of Anarchy for reminding me how good it is to be married to someone who does not run drugs and guns for a living because that seems pretty stressful.
73. How I Met Your Mother, Modern Family, The Middle for genuine belly laughs.
74. Great movies. The chance to escape visually--with a box of Dots at hand.
75. My family is healthy. Our biggest concern these days is my asthma, for which there are adequate medications.
76. Reliable electricity.
77. The Momvan. You bet she's the ugliest thing in any parking lot, but she never has a hiccup.
78. Time. Even when I don't have it enough, lack of time prompts me to remember what's really important to me and that's worth noting, too.
79. Porch swings and hammocks.
80. That huge basket of blankets in the living room, perfect for cozying up with on the couch for late night reading or warming a bare-chested boy eating his breakfast.

more grateful

2011-11-22T04:50:00.000-08:00

21. Flowers--all of them--lilacs and daffodils in spring, asters and coneflowers in fall, tulips and petunias, phlox and bee balm, daisies and sunflowers and begonias.
22. The crisp taste of peas and beans eaten while standing in the garden.
23. The smell of tomato plants.
24. The sound of the boys landing perfect cannonballs in the pool and cheering each other on.
25. Creative sons who think outside the box.
26. My writing group--Marni, Lauren, Nina and Mariana give the best feedback and advice.
27. Living close enough to grocery shop inside of an hour, but far enough away to wander the back yard in my pajamas without shame.
28. Frost, especially when it covers bare branches, highlighting the intricate design of trees and shrubs.
29. Birds. The flash of a red cardinal on the tree outside always makes me smile and their chatter wakes me up in the morning. Everything is made more pleasant with birds singing in the background.
30. Getting to bring my family to the OBX this summer and experience the most glorious summer beach vacation.
31. The Bumble Book Club--a great group of women who choose awesome reads month after month.
32. The parents who invest themselves in our community; those people who coach, volunteer, sell concessions, organize school dances, lead Boy Scouts and run the PTA.
33. The old man who picks up the litter along our county road this spring. Every day I saw him out there after the snow melted, every day he'd fill a plastic shopping bag with trash. When I run along our road, I don't see everyone's garbage and it's thanks to him.
34. My friend Sarah who is honest and funny and true.
35. My girlfriends, Nicole, Maggie, Cindy, Kara, Stacy, Mary and Kari--even if I only see them once a year or once a month, getting together with them is like slipping into my most comfy sweatpants.
36. Farmers. They work long hours in all kinds of conditions to feed us.
37. Public libraries.
38. Starry skies at night. No matter how many times I look up, the view still amazes me.
39. A phenomenal church where I can go and grow and raise Team Testosterone in good faith.
40. The Cubbie leaders serving with me on Tuesday nights. Their dedication and enthusiasm is a blessing.
41. Jax, who is a sweet companion as I putter around outside.
42. Because it's Tuesday, sanitation workers because even though we don't generate a lot of trash, I'm thankful they deal with it for me.
43. Wool. Really miraculous stuff.
44. Daily newspapers.
45. Royal weddings, because they're quite fantastic.
46. For that matter, all of England.
47. Rico's Family Restaurant.
48. Alice and Bud, who are such generous friends.
49. The smell of line dried laundry, and clotheslines made by my grandpa.
50. Yoga.

really, really thankful

2011-11-21T06:04:00.000-08:00

For the past week I've spent a lot of time reflecting on what I'm thankful for this year. I've asked Team Testosterone to give it some thought, too. Their list is actually pretty good: "My family," "My toys," "Our dog," and "When I flush the toilet, all the water goes down." I agreed with them that these are all good things--even that last one, as recently I walked into a bathroom and had to give it a pre-flush just to watch the water level rise (as well as gobs of toilet paper) to a mildly terrifying level. I recall well how grateful I felt when on the (very risky) second flush, something deep in the bowels of our home unplugged and the water vanished with a satisfying GLUG!

But I digress.

In the spirit of the season, I'm posting 100 Things I'm Thankful For--all week (because long lists give me a headache). I did this last year, too, but I'm not going back to look. There might be repeats, but I'm laying out here what's on my heart. You're invited to join me this week in doing the same...

1. Mr. T's seizures are gone.
2. Mr. D has a great job and enormous security in it.
3. My boys are at a fine school that challenges them and encourages higher-level thinking.
4. We live in the most beautiful place, every morning I wake up and look outside and deeply appreciate how blessed we are to have this property.
5. Books. And time to read them.
6. Finding a home for my book, a publisher to broaden the audience from 5 to 1,000!
7. Awesome neighbors who lend cups of sugar, receive my kids' affection with good humor and look out for one another.
8. NPR Morning Edition.
9. Staying healthy and strong enough to earn my 2nd degree black belt.
10. My kids are good friends and my house rings with more laughter than tears.
11. A safe community. We might not have a post office or a public library, but crime is low and there's much to recommend knowing almost everyone by name and stopping for a chit-chat when popping into the grocery store for a dozen eggs.
12. Clean air.
13. Clean water.
14. Good food--from our own back yard and from local producers.
15. Of course coffee makes this list.
16. And beer.
17. And wine.
18. The quiet time at night after the boys are tucked in and I can read and pray and rest.
19. God's grace, undeserved but always ample.
20. Music. The soothing notes of classical, the rev-you-up clatter of punk, the sophisticated crooning from jazz singers, the steady twang of country.

Spill it, reader. In long or short lists--your gratitude.

second promise kept

2011-11-18T06:41:00.000-08:00

Voila!

There have been snafus. Mainly, the printer is behind schedule, which meant rescheduling my local book launch party to the weekend before Christmas. Because life is getting hectic, I have taken a page out of my bloggy pal Jen's book: I began Christmas shopping this week. I know! But we artists, we must suffer for our work, right?

Available December 12th--$12 a copy! (And you know I'll post every possible link to help you acquire a copy just as soon as I can.)

And here

is

the

(drumroll)

COVER!

In a nod to theme and cover art, we'll be noshing chocolate chip cookies (and other stuff) at the book launch party. (Local bloggy pals, send along your email info and I'll give you the specifics if you'd like to attend.)

Spill it, reader. What's got you grinning this weekend?

first of three promises

2011-11-17T08:36:00.000-08:00

I did promise you video proof of the infamous throwing and catching of a sword.

I'm a woman of my word.

Voila!

(And you're welcome--I managed to edit the thing so you wouldn't be subjected to the entire demo.)

(Good golly did I need a haircut.)

(I bounce a LOT when I walk. Note to self: work on that, eh?)

(Yes, those karate pants are the least flattering things in the world to wear.)

But. The important thing here is the CATCHING, right?

anarchy club

2011-11-16T08:33:00.000-08:00

Well. There was gratuitous violence (RPGs--how much you want to bet the IRA gets irritated that the Sons used their weapons in a cartel war?) that culminated with Kozik stepping on a land mine and getting blown up. That kind of sucked. I remarked to Mr. D during a commercial break that at this rate, there won't be anybody left for the next season.

We get various reactions to Gemma's face--Margaret is concerned, Jax wants to retaliate and tells Clay as much. Wendy shows up--she's clean and functioning and wants to get to know Abel. She visits Tara first--whose reaction is to smash her hand back to smithereens. Not sure where they're going with Tara's storyline, but I'm finding it hard to believe she's going THAT crazy. Especially when Jax is committed to getting her and the boys the heck out of Charming. Gemma's response is to lure Wendy back to the house to "talk." I kind of loved the performance in that scene--a sober Wendy is a much better storyline. Gemma tells her "now is not a good time, I'll be in touch." Uh-huh.

Great scene between Chibs (who I am loving more and more this season) and Juice--Juice confesses half the truth to Chibs who tells him all that matters is paperwork--what's on your birth certificate? Hispanic. Well, there you go. They hug, Juice's phone rings--guess who's checking in? So that's left open, but Chibs thinks all is okay.

Bobby, Opie and Tig visit Georgie because the Asian investors actually put money down on Hale's investment. He claims he had no control over that--Bobby presses him for the skinny on Luann's death and it turns out that the thugs he sent to rough her up got out of control. Bobby slams the trunk shut and nods to Tig and Opie who then blast through it with their guns. So now Georgie's dead. Mashed in there is a little farewell scene between Opie and Lila. A shame, really, but that's over.

Tara's sedated, Clay gets confronted by Tig, Jax and Wayne throughout this episode--his reaction is to slam the door on each of them. And he's still maintaining that one last big deal will go down with the cartel and THEN they'll go back to business as usual. As if anyone, even Clay, believes that's possible.

Potter shows up to negotiate with Otto in prison and Otto agrees to talk--for a price. His price includes his assets sent to Luann's sister, more privileges for Lenny and a face-to-face with Bobby, where he'll tell him HE sold him out. Oh, and a bumped-up execution date and new glasses. This scene was one of my favorites--two of the weirdest characters on TV alone in a room--quite compelling.

Jax is conned by the cartel into thinking he's got the men who hurt Tara, but of course Romeo still has her targeted.

Opie heads out to check on Piney and Wayne follows him--and tries to play him. I think Wayne's an idiot--Opie is NOT the one you want taking down Clay, he's just too fragile and not smart enough. But he's emotional enough to be manipulated. Next week everyone will know that Piney's dead and we'll watch that play out, I'm sure.

Then Gemma shows up at the clubhouse and Tig sees her face. There's a long silence as Clay and Gemma stand across the yard from one another. And Tig hands over his patch to Clay and rides off.

NOOOO! TIG!

busy and blessed

2011-11-15T06:40:00.001-08:00

With the help of my two girlfriends Sarah and Jayne, I've devised neat things for the book launch. Soon I'll be off to the store for supplies...I'm a horrible party planner, but I'm bright enough to consult creative people and use their ideas! "Coddled Cuisine" recipe cards with the recipes from Sadie's first home party, chocolates wrapped in labels with the book cover and purchasing information, door prizes...so many details to take care of.

I've got my hair freshly cut and that pleases me.

I've got TWO new outfits ordered. The dress I fell in love with at Title Nine was OUT OF STOCK when I finally went to order it after drooling over it for three months. How frustrating. But then I went back a day later and found it "available after November 16" in one color. I went ahead and ordered it and can hardly wait to wear it. (And today when I went to set up the link, I see my first choice of color is now available after November 16th. GAH!)

9 and 0! Go Pack Go!

Last weekend I had NO black belt stuff which meant I had all kinds of extra time. About 6 hours' worth. I can get used to that. Combined with no more flag football and I had 9 hours of freed up time I haven't enjoyed on weekends since September.

Our woods are flooded like last year. This means it'll freeze like a giant ice rink, which is kind of cool, but I worry about how this might be hard on our trees. I cleared a path through one section for cross-country skiing and those wonderful green boots you see in the header kept my feet dry while I worked in 8 inches of water.

We had parent/teacher conferences last week and heard all kinds of nice things about our boys. They're a "pleasure to have in class" and "participate often" and "add personality." Mr. T's got a good handle on things and is demonstrating responsibility by getting help on his own in Spanish, his hardest class. He's taking care of his school work without prodding from me. Mr. G has merged into 1st grade and is reading at a 2nd grade level, little show-off. Mr. B took a MAPS test and when faced with a division problem (The red car gets 12 mpg and travels 60 miles, how many gallons did it need?) figured it out by using subtraction. He's never seen division or multiplication before, but understood the concept enough to reach the right answer the slow way. I love a kid who thinks outside the box and solves problems.

Reading Service with a Smile by PG Wodehouse, which makes me smile and chuckle every night.

Am knitting this while I watch the Packers. Cute, no?

Still working on getting a video of my sword mastery.

Mr. D surprised us by bringing home take-out for supper last night. What a lovely thing! All I had to do was set out plates, get drinks and slice apples.

Spill it, reader. What's got you feeling busy and blessed?

cover story

2011-11-14T06:40:00.001-08:00

Finally got to see the cover of Whipped, Not Beaten. I have to confess I could hardly wait--and when it arrived in my inbox Saturday afternoon, I actually closed my eyes when I clicked the PDF open to see it for the first time. Nervous? Totally. I wanted to love it--I was terrified I'd hate it.

Let's unpack that terrified bit. You see, a book cover is usually another reader's visual impression of your work. Sometimes a writer designs their own book cover, has strong opinions on what it should look like. More often, the design is in the hands of another person--someone they've never met. Such was the case with Whipped, Not Beaten. Some person named Cassandra Kollock was reading my book this fall and designing a cover that reflected the words I'd written.

Until Cornerstone Press got involved, the only people who had seen Whipped, Not Beaten know me, so there's this expectation and inherent kindness and generosity as they read it. I imagine it's tough to separate the writer from the writing, even when it is fiction. When I met the crew at Cornerstone, I was so flattered that they found the book funny, current, relevant and likable. They laughed out loud while reading it! That's high praise.

But the cover--the "face" of the book--it represents so much--how would the designer conceptualize it? Would they go for something photographic? Something symbolic, like a wire whisk and a mixing bowl? Would the cover look cheap and self-published? I hoped they'd stick to something minimal--too fussy would not appeal to me. Would they fixate on some odd, insignificant detail and pull it to the cover? I so wanted a particular shade of blue, not royal, not dark, not light, but a turquoisey-robin's egg blue--but I never gave any input on the cover design.

Book covers are designed to lure a reader--they're intended to grab your attention and I think of the book covers I love. Particularly, Jen Lancaster's, Wendy Holden's, Tiffany Baker's and Lauren Groff's.

The cover can make all the difference for a prospective reader. Plus, the cover designates a book as funny, serious, tragic, light, compelling or creative. It reveals the theme, the genre, the general storyline, the author's intent. How did the book designer see this book? How did Cornerstone Press want to represent my work?

I opened my eyes and gasped.

They'd chosen the exact right color of BLUE! The font was a brilliant mix of frothy and fun, cursive-y for "Whipped" and bubbly for "Beaten." The cover image was exactly funny and feminine and incorporated a mixing bowl and rolling pin.

I. Loved. It.

It's a book I'd pick up to read the back cover of while standing in a bookstore.

It's a book I'll be proud to hold up and own. This book cover, attributed to my work, makes me appear more stylish and comical and funky than I am in real life.

I showed it to my husband and he said, "It looks kind of like a comic."

I told him, "That's because my book is funny. See? The cover tells you that my book is funny." (I thought to myself, If you'd read it, you'd know.)

And then I got all Sally Field for the rest of the weekend. They think I'm funny! They really think I'm funny. You like me. You really like me!

Are you dying to see it now? They have to make one small change and then I'll post it here. Meanwhile, spill it, reader. The best complement someone's given you lately.

head to toe and in between

2011-11-11T05:50:00.000-08:00

A full-blown head cold has taken over just in time for the weekend. Since I've decided to divulge fun facts about my health in today's post, I've included a list of true facts about my body:

1. I do not require eyeglasses or contacts. Aren't I lucky?

2. My left thumb is double-jointed.

3. I am a devoted knuckle-cracker.

4. When I was pregnant with Mr. T, a lump started to grow on the right side of my neck. After determining that it was benign, it sort of shrunk after he was born. Then we had a tough time getting pregnant again (see: miscarriage, pre-cancer cells in a pap smear) and it grew again. (I wore a lot of turtlenecks, scarves and long hair during these years.) Finally, I'd given up hope of being pregnant and scheduled surgery to remove it. I went in for my presurgical exam and the nurse asked if there was any chance I was pregnant. I told him no. He had me take a blood test anyway. A few hours later this ENT nurse called to tell me I was pregnant (with Mr. B!--I asked the nurse if he was absolutely certain I was pregnant and he assured me that yes, I was--no shit!). As it happened, I didn't have the tumor removed until Mr. G was about 3 months old. When they finally took it out, it was the size of a grapefruit. All that remains is a scar on my neck that sort of blends in with the lines on my neck and it's a lot less embarrassing than a huge goiter.

5. I have chronic tailor's bunions on both feet because of the way my bones push my little toes inward, pushing the edge of my feet outward. Once I saw a podiatrist who recommended breaking my feet and resetting the bones to make the bunions go away. I got a second opinion from a doctor who recommended wearing wide shoes. Guess which opinion I ran with.

6. My fingernails grow freakishly long and strong, which I hate, so I'm always having to cut them.

7. My calves are bigger than Mr. D's. I know this because we measured them once. I come from hearty German ancestry.

8. My right kneecap kept popping off when I was young, so I had it reattached to pull the opposite way when I was 14 years old. I have a screw holding my right knee together and a big smiley-face scar running beneath it. It never bothers me except when I have to kneel on it, then it hurts.

9. I have mild scoliosis, one of my hips is a half inch higher than the other. I used to think hemlines were crooked, it wasn't until I saw a chiropractor in my 20's for back pain that I learned it was me who was off-kilter.

10. I have had asthma forever, compounded by allergies to animals, mold, dust and tobacco smoke.

Spill it, reader. Fun facts about your body!

anarchy club

2011-11-09T07:15:00.000-08:00

A number of you have asked to see pictures of my library. I didn't take any "before," but as soon as I find our camera (which has disappeared into thin air), I'll take some "after" to give you the gist of where things now stand.

At the very beginning we see Jax and Tara every bit the happy couple, singing to the boys in the car, carefree and happy. Back at the clubhouse, Gemma tells Clay that Jax has gone with Tara to Oregon and he freezes for a half-second before walking on. En route to Oregon, there's this stunning little scene where they stop to get gas and you see Jax trying on the lifestyle when a police officer makes small talk with him. I honestly believe he wants this, a guilt-free existence where you can talk bikes and engines without checking over your shoulder. It's heartbreaking because you know their happiness is going to get cut short.

Clay tries to stop the hit, but Romeo tells him his "independent contractor" won't be in contact until the job's done. He's also busy keeping Opie away from the cabin--another episode goes by and no one knows he's dead yet. Clay, Tig (sigh) and Bobby head to talk to Romeo in person.

The van pulls along side Tara as she's buckling the boys into the car and Jax is tossing their trash into a bin a little distance away. She fights back, hard. He runs--takes a second to check on his sons and shoots at the van. She gets out--but not until after the door slams on her hand. HER HAND. Brilliant plotting--her death would be too easy a resolution, there's much more drama in a surgeon losing her right hand.

She's taken back to Charming while the friendly police officer pieces together their identity and Jax resigns himself to being who he is--SAMCRO. At the hospital everyone gathers and shows their support. Even Sheriff Roosevelt (who has two good scenes, one where he confronts Lincoln and another where he apologizes to Juice--I really like his character) tries to lend sympathy to their group.

Tara unleashes all her fear and fury on Jax--I think some of the best performances of the season come in this episode. She's calling it fate, he can't leave, won't leave, and losing her hand means she's stuck, too. An Old Lady for life. Her rage hurts Jax worse than anything and he is in the waiting area shaken when SAMCRO comes by to see him. When they leave, he pulls Opie aside and tells him "one more deal and I'm getting out." Opie's pissed, Jax made him stay when he wanted to leave. Jax gets it, he knows he's betraying his best friend, but his family means more.

There's a muddied scene where SAMCRO heads to the Niners clubhouse and bullets fly. I didn't follow all of it, except to gather that tensions between all the factions are rising. Clay, Bobby and Tig visit Romeo--Clay gets a refund for the botched hit and Romeo promises he'll take care of Tara personally. Clay asks him to just call it off, Jax will keep close to her. Oh, Clay, you started something you can't stop--a seasoned cartel leader won't let you have a change of heart, especially not when you've told him Tara knows all about their business. Romeo promises he'll have her killed and Clay is finally faced with the reality that he's not pulling any strings.

Back home, he finds Gemma who has done the math and knows Clay arranged the hit on Tara. The ensuing scene is so shocking, really beyond what I expected. Clay is a wounded animal and he strikes out at Gemma with ferocity. I honestly expected him to appeal to her, I thought she was his only truth left, too, but this scene reveals that Clay's only truth is himself. Interesting to learn his perspective on JT--he feels that Gemma pulled his strings and is ultimately responsible for killing JT.

The episode ends with Clay walking into the clubhouse with his duffel bag and everyone's watching and wondering. Gemma's at the house with Wayne, telling him that Jax will destroy Clay. Even when she's been pummeled to a new low, Gemma's conniving and scheming, and she's deluded enough to believe she's still pulling strings, too.

Predictions anyone? Just four episodes left this season.

reset to fabulous

2011-11-08T08:33:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I emptied my library. Well, I left the books on the shelves and a few ginormous pieces of furniture (I'm talking to you, piano, you albatross around my neck) in place, but Jan the bowling ball, piles of papers, stacks of books, chairs, even my beautiful rug got moved out.

When we built our house, the room that I call "my library" was originally a formal dining room with a doorway to the kitchen. I read and write more than I host diner parties, so we kept a solid wall of cupboards between the kitchen and this room and Mr. D's friend custom built an entire wall of bookshelves for me. It's a glorious room, really. The walls are a deep red, the carpet forest green. The three windows are super-deep, just 6 inches from the floor, and look out onto the front porch of our house.

It's sacred space. Only my things (and a few of Mr. D's) are allowed here--music boxes from my childhood, Wedgwood plates, my dainty and fragile belongings--and of course, my books.

Because it's sacred space, it's also where projects go--safe from Nerf bullets and racing boys, protected from curious fingers and crumbs. Photos that need albums, gifts that need wrapping, pictures that need framing, papers that need tending. The piles have grown, so have the stacks of books.

Nine years ago I shelved my collection on my bookshelves, but nine years of acquiring new titles meant a space crunch. Because I used to work in a library, I organized my book according to Dewey's System, business and biography don't get shelved with fiction. Duh.

And I got a piano (because I'm not terribly bright sometimes), a desk and a chair. As the stuff encroached on my space, my mind felt cluttered and the distractions mounted.

Obviously things had gotten out of hand and there's only one way to tackle that kind of a problem. I emptied the room and reset it yesterday. Mind you, I'm not finished yet, but Big Decisions were made. The rug has been rolled up and will get stored in the basement for now. The piano was granted clemency. For now. A basket of gift tags and ribbons got moved to the closet where gift wrap gets stored. The book collection got shifted to make room for new titles and to accommodate nine years of growth and acquisition. Fiction has an entire 5 shelf section to itself, unread books are not on a separate shelf and no longer teetering in piles beside the piano. The tchotckes and knick-knacks that had no sentimental value to me got boxed up for the thrift shop--as well as some books I had no stomach to keep. I divested myself of two old laptops, children's art projects and several piles of random junk, like half-empty bottles of hand lotion and dried up pens.

The top of the piano is cleared off and looks tidy. The bookshelves make sense. The corners are empty of clutter and cobwebs (and a half-sucked throat lozenge). My mind feels at peace even though I've still got a few stacks of papers to sort/toss/file/deal with. I needed the serenity and clarity that comes from space and order.

It's been annoying me that all this junk piled up in my room, but it was my own fault for letting it get out of hand. I determine what I keep and if I want less crap in my life, well, it's up to me to let it go. (Yes, piano, you should feel nervous. Relax, Jan, you get to stay.)

Spill it, reader. What space in your life have you totally cleared out and reset lately?

happy ending

2011-11-07T05:47:00.000-08:00

I caught the sword.

My relief made me giddy.

Now I'm free to concentrate on a few other things, like a book launch party, wrapping up revisions on my other manuscript and clearing a path through the Back 40 so I can cross country ski this winter without getting snagged on branches and dead trees. My desk is buried in paperwork, the boys have play dates planned, there are dentist appointments and haircuts to orchestrate. I've also asked Mr. K, XMA Guru, to teach me the rest of the sword form because I'm feeling up to the challenge. Maybe the sword is my weapon.

I will post a video of the catch as soon as I can get my hands on one, pinky-promise.

Meanwhile, spill it, reader. What's making you giddy this morning?

she slices, she dices

2011-11-03T07:44:00.001-07:00

One of the worst parts about getting a black belt of any degree is the Demonstration. It's not enough just to perform the required moves and show your instructor you've mastered the knowledge. No, you have to DEMONSTRATE your skills in front of a live audience. To music. In public. Did I mention that this demonstration is performed to music? It's like some kind of sharp-edged pom and dance routine executed in snazzy karate uniforms instead of the more Fredrick's of Hollywood-inspired dance team uniforms. Oh the horror.

We'll agree right now that the latter uniform would make this experience even more humiliating for me, so I am thankful to wear the former.

Let's dig into the psychology behind why I dread Saturday night when I'll finally FINALLY get my brand new 2nd degree black belt: I am the only adult in my group. I hate performing in public. I feel stupid. I know I'll look like a total dweeb. It's one thing to do karate in the dojo for fun and fitness, it's another to do it in sync with a tune by Big Time Rush. Yet the Demonstration is part of the karate world in which I circulate.

As it happens, I'm also a bit quiet about the karate stuff IRL. Let's face it, the geek factor is pretty huge and while I'm not normally prone to giving a crap what other people think about me or my interests, I also don't go grocery shopping wearing a t-shirt that says "Ninja Princess."

I'm supposed to be a good face for the school, for martial arts. As the only adult in this graduation, I'm supposed to inspire other grown ups, be a great role model for the kids, promote the school, be proud of my own achievements. Mr. O expressed a bit of disappointment when he learned that I haven't invited all my friends and family to come watch me. This also made me feel a little bad, but it doesn't erase the fact that I don't want to do the Demonstration.

Here's where the funny part comes in. I'm in the back of the stage for most of this business, I planned to blend in and keep a low profile. This is mostly working out except for in Weapons Demonstration where I am to begin the whole thing solo, doing some XMA stuff with a sword.

Solo. Sword. Performance.

But wait! There's more!

As the grand finale to this little XMA combo, I have to THROW the sword into the AIR and then CATCH IT.

To this end I've been tutored by Mr. K, the XMA guru at the school. He's loaned me his gorgeous sword (so light! shiny! sharp!) to use. I brought it home Saturday and Team Testosterone went wild with weapon lust, each taking a turn holding it and admiring its beauty.
Then I began practicing. Throw. Catch. Throw. Catch. Throw. Drop. Curse. Throw. Throw. Catch. Throw. Drop. Curse.

Reader, one of two things is going to happen Saturday night. Either I will look like a bitchin' karate goddess, slicing, dicing, spinning, throwing and catching the sword OR I will look like a complete moron slicing, dicing, spinning, throwing and dropping the sword.

I keep telling myself, Chin up, buttercup. Just do your best.

And now, dear reader, I'm off to throw a sword into the air 100 times.

On a bright note, the weapons demo is to a song of my choosing: Fly Away by Lenny Kravitz.

anarchy club

2011-11-02T07:33:00.000-07:00

Before we recap last night's episode, I want to remind you to head over to Eco Women and enter to win a 5-pack of VZWraps we're giving away!

This episode focused mainly on Gemma, which I liked, even though it wasn't the strongest episode of the season. We see her serving SAMCRO breakfast in her kitchen, then asking Opie if he's heard from his dad. Eventually she ends up at Piney's cabin and discovers his corpse. She knows everything, but mostly she's so, so sad because she does believe if he'd have kept his mouth shut, he'd still be alive. It's funny at the end of this episode because I'm thinking if she'd just keep HER mouth shut, Tara would still be alive at the end of the season, but I'm getting ahead of myself here. I was disappointed we don't see the club learn about Piney's death in this episode.

Gemma brings Wayne in to "cover up" and deflect blame from Clay. Wayne's smart and tries to warn Gemma off, telling her Clay's a "wounded animal" and it would be best for everyone to pin this on him, but she loves Clay too much. Their scene together ends with a really REALLY weird kiss. It was almost like she was trying to seduce him into helping her, but it seemed out of context.

Meanwhile, Tara's planning to head to Oregon and discovers JT's letters are missing. She and Gemma have a good conversation about it, but ultimately Gemma fails to see anyone's point of view besides her own (she's more like Clay than I'd first thought--but it makes sense).

Great scene between Chibs and Jax when Chibs discusses Juice's suicide attempt. Later, Roosevelt brings Juice in and Potter reveals ALL to him. Juice is furious, understands just how bad things are. Interesting how Potter tries to play the same card Stahl did. I don't think deals will get made here. Potter also tries to deal with Otto by telling him that Bobby lied to him, who calls bull to his sh*t. Otto's no dummy, that's pretty clear here. We also learn that while bringing in a drug cartel is a nice coup, the real prize is the IRA.

There's more really confusing cartel violence. I'm not up on my Mexican Drug Cartel Facts, but from how it's portrayed, they just kill and kill and kill. Is this stereotypical? I don't know. Until they arrived on the scene, there seemed to be a lot more negotiation and a lot less mass killing. From what I gather, the Galindo Cartel is pissy because another rival cartel is honing in on their turf and the Niners are in bed with them. Per their request, Clay and Jax call in the Niners and the Galindo guys gets ready to shoot them. Clay steps back to the let the bullets fly, but Jax jumps in the middle to let the Niners speak their piece. The Niners agree to shift alliances to Galindo, call in the other cartel to "meet them" and when they arrive, Galindo and SAMCRO are waiting in ambush to take them all down.

What they didn't expect was how well armed the other cartel would be for a casual meeting with the Niners. After the other cartel leaves, Galindo gets ready to execute the Niners standing beside them. Jax jumps in between them again--he's made a promise to protect them and his fear and rage are palpable in this scene. He stands down Galindo--"This isn't Mexico!" He uses diplomacy and logic to argue that if they start shooting everyone around them, SAMCRO becomes even more endangered and they have to protect their alliances and previous agreements. It's a freaking scary scene, but Galindo agrees to let the Niners go--provided they "don't make another bad decision" (like agreeing to mule drugs for the first cartel offering them cash, in this case). This scene demonstrates how Jax really IS the crown prince of SAMCRO--it IS his destiny to take over the club, but it's also clear how he's conflicted about taking on the job. It's interesting to see BOBBY is the one getting the others to untie the Niners who are on their knees waiting for the bullets to enter the backs of their heads. Clay's off getting a cell phone that has one number on it--the phone number of the hit man the cartel has hired to kill Tara. He's such a bastard at this point. Unbelievable.

Good scene between Bobby and Jax, where Bobby kind of begs him not to leave. He tells Jax that Clay offered him the gavel. Jax confronts Clay and says he's working on an exit strategy. The cartel is a huge mistake, he's leaving sooner, not later. Clay makes a nasty remark about Tara when Jax turns to leave and Jax delivers a threat to hammer his half-dead hands so they'll never be able to hold a gavel again if he ever says anything bad about Tara. I think Clay is afraid of him at this point.

There's some stuff with the IRA and the cartel--I did not follow it at ALL.

Finally, Jax goes home to tell Tara (who is packing to leave) that he'll drive her down. Gemma and Clay have a quiet moment where she says she understands she lives with a lot of secrets. But Clay is the only truth in her life. She says she knows about Piney. She tells Clay (SHUT UP, GEMMA! SHUT UP!!!) to leave Tara alone--she's going to Oregon and won't be a problem. OF COURSE as she's walking away he's hitting speed dial on that phone. The only thing that makes this interesting is that Jax will be with her when the hit man arrives.

another big holiday

2011-11-01T08:17:00.000-07:00

I've given my staff the day off in honor of Mr. D's birthday. Kind of a bummer that it's a week day, but we'll have a proper birthday supper with CAKE! this weekend. He did open his presents this morning and felt sufficiently honored with new neckties, a few new dress shirts and a couple DVDs. I don't discuss Mr. D much in this space, but since it is his special day, I'll share a few of my favorite things about him:

1. His dancing. If you've seen him dance, you know he is enthusiastic, inventive, energetic and entertaining as hell. Most men his age would throw their back out doing the moves he does, but Mr. D's a natural athlete and can really shake down the house.
2. His coaching. He's the assistant coach because he likes being "the fun one" and not "the hard ass." His players LOVE him. The parents respect and adore him. The thing is, Mr. D gives really good advice, he's got a keen eye and can pick apart motion and teach a person how to do (or not to do) something better. It's pretty phenomenal to watch him enjoy something he's passionate about and quite skilled at.
3. His loyalty. While he does lay on the false flattery a little thick at times, Mr. D is one of the most fundamentally loyal people I know. If he's in your camp, you can count on him 100%. He'll level with you, too, which is a tough thing most people aren't willing to do.
4. His sense of humor. (True story: I could never live this long with someone who couldn't make me laugh almost every day.)
5. His energy. Occasionally you'll find someone appalled by how Mr. D can dominate a room, but the man is the life of any party and can really get a crowd going. He expects a lot of people, but he gives a lot. This makes him good at his job and in social situations.
6. His generosity. It truly inspires me.
7. Our conversations--we really can talk about almost everything under the sun. A couple times a week he'll come back from work in the morning and we'll enjoy coffee and a chit-chat. Even though we disagree on some of the big issues (politics, faith), there's enough intelligence and creativity between us to enjoy the similarities and differences.
8. His fearlessness. He was the one person in his family to fly farthest from the coop. He'll try anything once (with a few culinary exceptions). When his buddies were settling down and marrying their high school sweethearts, Mr. D left the safety of a small Iowa town for Chicago, with nothing but his car and what he could fit inside of it to Make His Way in the Windy City. His considerable success is the result of the personal and professional risks he is willing to take. He doesn't really fear much and when he considers the possibility of failure, he shrugs and figures it's nothing he can't overcome.

Happy Birthday, Big Daddy. Here's to YOU, since you're kind of a big deal to me.

of a handyman and ceiling fans

2011-10-31T07:16:00.001-07:00

First, I told you all a big lie Friday. I have no photographs of my Halloween costume to show you. As lame as it sounds to say I forgot the camera, it's the truth. (Yes, I know there's a camera on my phone, but I have a crappy flip phone and don't know what to do with the photo after I take it.) People took pictures of me and Mr. D but none have sent those images along to me. It's okay, though. Our costume stunk. I'm not terribly creative and Mr. D doesn't like to dress up so we went as ceiling fans. I painted t-shirts that said clever things like "Go Ceiling" and "Gimme A C" and added beads, face paint and pom-poms in coordinating colors (green and gold--of course! Conveniently the same colors as our local school district AND the Packers).

Coincidentally, my bowling stunk as bad as my costume. But that's behind us now, so I shan't dwell on it.

I handed Mr. D's big fake fur coat over to Mr. T and told him to go scare the children back in the woods. He gave Mr. B and Mr. G's buddies a little thrill, but I think they were too primed (see: Oooh--I bet we see the yeti today! Wait--is that the yeti over there?) to be truly terrified by Mr. T's growls. Drat.

But all is not lost. Mr. B wanted to go as a werewolf and when he puts on that huge coat with his mask, he looks totally beastly. Plus he'll be plenty warm wearing that thing while he canvases the old neighborhood tonight.

It's a dank day, Team Testosterone woke up irritated that school didn't get canceled for a major holiday like Halloween. I'm trapped at home with our handyman all morning (who I love-- he's a stout Dutchman who laughs after every other sentence and smells like Swisher Sweets--and he plays catch with Team Testosterone when he sees them at the park). On today's agenda:

1) Fix the broken window which resulted when Mr. D drove over Jax's bone with the lawnmower.
2) Fix the doorbell.
3) Fix broken closet doors upstairs.
4) Put a flap over the entrance to Jax's doghouse.
5) Prepare a plan to install a wood-burning stove on the back screen porch (we have two dust-covered wood-burning stoves in a corner of our garage right now, a strange but potentially useful inheritance from my grandma).
6) Balance the ceiling fan in the boys' bedroom (broken because they launch stuff through the air).

Happy Halloween! Spill it, reader. What candy do you reach for first out of the pile?

kind of a big deal

2011-10-28T07:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I spent my morning at Cornerstone Press's Stevens Point Office (actually, their only office, but it sounded cool to write it that way). I cannot tell you what a thrill it was to meet 20 strangers enthusiastic about my work. The ideas they're bringing to the project, the various networks and resources, the energy is really validating. A few things occurred to me as I drove home:

1) How cool for college students to bite off and chew a big, meaningful project. When I was at college, the only outlet for English students was contributing or running the campus newspaper--as you know, a newspaper is temporary--the news is constantly replaced with new news, so there's not a permanent "feel" to newspaper work. Compared to the people at the College of Natural Resources, who were busy saving species from extinction, improving the local wildlife refuge, creating boardwalks, studying Asian carp; liberal arts majors didn't have many opportunities to do much aside from writing essays and reading books. Important projects. I never had that experience. It's neat to see students get to own and manage a Big Project of Substance, like publishing and marketing a book.

2) The student editors BLOW ME AWAY. Besides being super nice, they have read my work with such close attention to all kinds of details that I know I'd never have caught at their age. Their professional ability is impressive as hell.

3) The marketing ideas they're tossing around are so INSPIRED! Everything I heard made me more thankful for this opportunity.

4) Whipped, Not Beaten will be available before Christmas. Just in case you were like Jen on the Edge and buying gifts for all your favorite aunts and girlfriends ahead of time.

5) Listening to people talk about my writing, how they related to it, how it affected them, made me believe in my work a little bit more. What a confidence-builder.

In short: I learned a lot, it was a good use of my day.

In other news, I'd sent this image to a few of my friends because it's kind of what I suspect about myself:

You know how you think you're really graceful and athletic, but in real life you're a flat-footed putz just clodding around and all that dexterity is in your head? (Maybe that's just me.) I've long suspected my running and my karate is like that. Not too pretty.

So the other day one of the karate dads sent me some photos he'd taken during our Black Belt test. Suddenly I feel less afraid of what I really look like--by some miracle (not photoshop), you can see in the image below that I'm actually OFF THE GROUND and the guy behind me? He's one of the brothers testing for his 3rd degree and we look a little alike. Except I don't have sideburns. Heh.

That's me in front, with the taped foot.

Thus I conclude based on the photographic evidence presented that maybe Mr. O hasn't been kissing my butt all this time and maybe I am qualified to go on to a 3rd degree. Huh.

Happy Weekend, all. I'll be back Monday with the latest news about yeti sightings in the Back 40 and pictures of my Halloween Costume.

anarchy club

2011-10-26T07:50:00.001-07:00

First, a little business. I threw on the comment moderator because the spam in the comment box has gotten out of hand. The doctor told me I have tennis elbow and a sprained ankle. I now have a brace for my arm, advice to take Alleve for the next 10 days, and an appointment with a sports medicine doctor which will likely lead to physical therapy for my foot/ankle.

Now, on to our show:

This episode was considerably less bloody--more focus on the relationships with some key scenes between characters. The performances were all so compelling--honestly, if you're not watching SOA, you're missing some of the best television around these days. These characters are so conflicted (except for Clay, who I now believe has zero conscience left in his soul) and their reality has become so warped, yet they remain human in the midst of it.

No big shock that Juice fell out of the tree. He untangles himself from the chain in time to find Chibs and Tig rounding him up for the Big Vote. There's also a nice scene between Opie and Piney. Piney and Opie will vote together, Opie is disillusioned with the club. Also good conversation between Opie and Jax who share their concerns. At the table, we get to hear Tig's vote (to stay with Clay--I admit to being a bit surprised). Before Chibs can declare a vote for Clay or Bobby as club president, a hailstorm of bullets rains down on the compound.

The prospects take out one of the shooters, the rest flee and the Sons discover a bunch of heads have been tossed into their laps--including Armando's. WHO is Armando? No clue. Suspect he's one of the Mayans. Anyway, the Sons finally comprehend they're in the middle of a full-blown drug war and try to lure the other cartel into a trap. They come to a temporary understanding. Meanwhile, there's a bit of humor with some chili (kind of like in Fried Green Tomatoes--"the secret's in the sauce." Only in this case it's an "old family recipe"). Tara, Clay, Gemma & Tig attend the Garden Benefit that Sheriff Roosevelt's wife is throwing. Clay makes a huge show of "saving the town" with his donation--along with Oswald. It's kind of a lame scene, the poor sheriff's caught in the middle of saving old Charming and Hale, Gemma seems to think everything's just dandy.

KILLER scene between Jax and Piney--Jax goes by to check on him while Opie checks on his kids. Piney talks to him about JT, Jax declares his loyalty at the end of the day is ONLY to his family, NOT the club. This was about the best acting I've seen in ages on TV. A necessary and cathartic scene played out quite well.

The trap doesn't go down as the Sons plan--instead they end up with the bodies that go with the heads tossed in their laps.

Back at home, Tara tells Jax she's O-U-T. He agrees that's best for now. Another great performance at their kitchen table. Two exhausted people with few options and little hope. She'll take the kids and the job offer in Washington. He'll remain in Charming and try to clean up the big mess that SAMCRO's in.

Chibs realizes that Juice is suicidal. All along he's been worried about him. Their scene together is pretty powerful. Gemma and Tig share a scene where she confesses some of her doubts, too. (I do think they'll end up together again here--anyone else?)

Finally, Clay drops by Piney's cabin. Piney knows it's coming, and even though he's got his guns loaded and cocked, the conclusion is forgone, right? (another terrific scene, I held my breath the entire time--for a brief moment I even believed Clay would walk away and Piney would give him more time.) It wasn't going to end any other way, except there is a painful realization on Piney's part that now Tara is next on Clay's hit list. I also think Gemma's going to know Clay killed Piney--I bet she tries to hide that realization from him out of fear She and Unser will get dragged in deeper, even though Clay's secret is safe (for now), one wonders how much intimidation factor will come out of Piney's death. Or will the most loyal Sons crave justice?

devious plans

2011-10-25T07:32:00.001-07:00

Your comments were SO funny yesterday--honestly, people. And now I'm sorely tempted to get this summer's manny to dress up in a big furry costume and scare the begeezus out of a pack of little boys this Saturday morning. Mr. D has a huge fake fur coat from way back in the day--it would work to great effect on overactive imaginations. Or I could just go out in the woods wearing my bathing suit--I have't grown a full winter coat of hair on my legs yet, but if I don't shave for the rest of the week I would resemble my Sasquatchian ancestry from a distance ... Thanks for the brilliant idea, Shelly!

Today I'm off to the doctor's office to finally get these injuries checked out. It's probably a bad thing when the pain begins radiating to areas outside of the original injury. Plus, I like to make sure I have full prescriptions for my asthma meds before all the holiday traveling. Heck, if I can get my pap smeared and my mammos grammed while I'm there, I should be good to go for another 7,000 miles.

In other news, I'm continuing to whittle away at the stuff bogging me down. On the physical end, I have a goal of culling one pile of stuff per week. We have all these random corners filled with things of no use or value. Old catalogs, books I've read but will never read again, missing parts to defunct toys and games--the kind of clutter that impairs my quest for serenity. Today I dug around the edges of our bedroom and chucked a good-sized pile of junk. I know I go through life unaware of these things, they aren't pressing matters, but I do believe they subconsciously register as "One More Thing To Do." By clearing those piles and putting things where they belong (gone, in drawers, wherever), I get more mental clarity.

I've also deleted a few websites that I used to read daily. Eliminating that sort of mental clutter is good--it gives me more quality time and reduces the amount of negative or useless information I'm packing into my brain.

I went grocery shopping without the boys yesterday and bought a lot of good, healthy food. I'm making an honest attempt at eating more vegetables and fruits, more whole grains, less dairy and meat. Not a radical change, but if I eat better, I tend to feel less sluggish and more positive.

Spill it, reader. What devious plans do you have up your sleeve today?

a tale of yeti sightings in the back 40

2011-10-24T07:31:00.000-07:00

Long-time readers know two facts about life at Chez Green Girl:
1) we live on about 60 acres, mostly uncultivated space for running wild and free in nature
2) we have imaginations that also run wild and free.

Bearing these facts in mind, none of you should be too shocked by the story I'm about to divulge.

Mr. B and Mr. G are in a Saturday morning flag football league that takes place on Happyland Elementary's playground, adjacent to our property. Mr. G's league plays first, and afterwards he and a bunch of his cronies amuse themselves running around the trails and in the woods on our property while their older brothers play in Mr. B's league. Mr. T participates, but his main job is to keep a bunch of 1st grade boys out of my house while I watch Mr. B play. There's really nothing to get hurt on or get in trouble with--it's nature. They shout, run and shoot Nerf guns, general boy fun.The worst thing I've seen come out of their Saturday morning romps is their clothes--muddy and full of brambles and burrs. In my world, that's okay because Saturdays are for getting messed up while playing outside. I don't ask too many questions because I feel pretty strongly about letting kids have freedom to creatively play without a bunch of nosy grown ups bugging them about it.

Cue to a couple weekends ago when a buddy asked Mr. G to go home with him for a play date after flag football. Off he went, I returned home to finish washing dishes for 10 minutes before returning to the field to watch Mr. B play his game. The doorbell rang and I answered it--to discover a posse of boys on my front porch wanting Mr. G.

Aw, guys, I'm sorry--he went over to M's today after the game. You'll have to come over and play next week.

What about your other son?

He's busy playing football right now.

What about your other son--the oldest?

He's got some Boy Scout stuff going on today. Gosh, guys, I'm really sorry.

But we want to hunt for the yeti in your woods.

Ah. The yeti. That's trademark Team Testosterone--making up a storyline to add to their adventures in the woods. And that explains what they're doing every Saturday--and why the ranks of boys back there each week keeps increasing.

Yeah, we need to hunt for him and Mr. G knows where to go. We've seen his tracks.

Really?

Is it true that Mr. B has seen the yeti 10 times?

Ummm...is that what they told you? These kids know my sons are making this up, right?

Is it true that he's been living back there for a hundred years?

That seems to be the story... Part of me wants to perpetuate the myth and verify Team Testosterone's story, but I'm starting to worry that these kids are pretty gullible.

Is it true there was once a bear back in your woods?

Well, our neighbor thought so--he saw some scat.

Is there really a secret hideout where the yeti lives?

Is it true that the yeti is 8 feet tall?

Then one boy lowers his voice and looks at me with solemn eyes. Is it true that you had another son and when he was a baby he wandered into the woods and the yeti ate him?

I can't help laughing. Oh, honey, you know my boys are just making that up. Right? RIGHT?

We'll be back next week. Mr. G will be here, right? Then we can hunt for the yeti again.

And they were.

What really tickled me is when another mother told me how much fun her kids have at our place, hunting for a yeti. I didn't think I needed to tell her the yeti was only a legend ...

But still, I can't help asking her, "Did your sons tell you how the yeti ate my other son?"

we'll save the yeti for monday and discuss circumsicion today

2011-10-21T06:31:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: I was ambivalent on the decision to circumcise our sons, but Mr. D had strong feelings on the topic. Evidently boys' locker rooms are hostile places and a little nip/roll goes a long way in protecting male self-esteem in American culture. Because I wasn't born with a foreskin, I deferred to my male compatriot in this matter.

About a week ago Mr. O showed us this huge, sharp, metal-bladed sword. His brother had bought it. For his sister's new baby. A little baby and Mr. O's brother's idea of a great gift is this swashbuckling weapon. Mr. O thought it was funny and showed the sword to the class (sister had given it to him, wisely believing a baby had no business with a sword, but a 3rd degree black belt might know how to handle it appropriately). I cracked, "Did it arrive in time for the bris?

Cue the laughter and a lot of confused looks from the rest of the room. What's a bris? one kid asks.

It's a name for the Jewish circumcision ritual, I explained.

Did I have one? Mr. B asked.

Yep, you did. In fact, most of this room had one I bet.

More laughter and then we moved on to practice our sword form.

A week later...

Mr. B and I are at karate where we worked on our sword form during class. After class ends, Mr. B asks me where his sword is. What sword? You have it in your hand.

No, that other sword you got me.

What other sword?

The one you said you got me last week.

Buddy, I have no idea what you're talking about. You have a sword. It's in terrible shape because you don't take care of it and leave it outside. I'm not buying you another one until you're older and show more responsibility.

No, Mom! You said in class last week that I had another sword. Just like the one Mr. O's brother bought for the new baby.

OH! No, sweetie. I was referring to your circumcision. You had a circumcision, not a new sword.

What's a circumcision?

You know how you plan those "talks" with your children? I always felt I'd gotten off the hook having boys instead of girls--no menstruation conversation, no breast buds, instructions on inserting tampons, etc. I sort of figured that little cut when they were a day old would never come up because all the other boys had it done and they'd assume that was the norm and never question it.

Well, it's a thing most people in Western cultures do to their baby boys. You know how your penis looks kind of like a mushroom at the end? Well, there's this bit of skin--it's called a foreskin--and the doctor snips it and pushes it back and that's what a circumcision is. Just cutting and rolling back that foreskin.

Reader, if I could describe the look of horrified betrayal that kid gave me.

You did WHAT?

Yeah, it sounds bad when you say it out loud like that.

Did it hurt? Mr. B's brow is furrowed with concern.

I imagine it did. I wasn't there. They took you to another room and Dr. K did it. When they brought you back in, there was a little blood.

I remember Mr. T's indignation when we changed Mr. B's diaper the next day and he saw the blood. He was furious that we'd cut a baby. And concerned about how it felt. And mad that we did it to him without his permission.

Why? Why did you do that to me? I was a baby!

This is the point of the conversation where I totally threw Mr. D under the bus. Guy stuff, not my turf.

I can't believe you guys did that to me.

Honey, everyone does it. It's just something parents do to boys.

Well, I'm sure glad I had it done when I was a baby instead of as an adult. If you were an adult it would really hurt.

That happened a week ago. Last night we discussed apocalyptic events on the ride home, like zombies taking over, or apes taking over, or the world turning into a giant fireball that no water could extinguish, but then we'll all be with Jesus. And how do zombies become zombies, how could apes take over humans, did I ever see a movie about haunted houses, how many haunted house movies have ever been made and what's the scariest. Important stuff that weighs on the mind of a nine-year-old boy clearly not traumatized in any way by last week's conversation.

anarchy club

2011-10-20T08:22:00.000-07:00

I'm conflicted about how much to spoil for this episode, so I'll stay on the conservative side. Gemma finds Wayne's letter for Tara and tells her immediately. SAMCRO goes into lockdown mode, all the women and children go to the compound and speculate. This is how Tara learns that the Sons are dealing in MORE guns and now drugs. (I predict she tries to skip town with the kids, potentially saving her hide while also increasing her risk of getting killed, but I think the drugs are the final straw for her and she'll want O-U-T.) General consensus is that it's a cartel threat, Tara does not trust Clay and tells Jax as much.

Opie and Bobby find Lila at work and Opie tries to convince her to head to the compound. Instead, she skips town even though he sends someone after her when she gets done filming. Meanwhile, Bobby notices the Porn Star's face and asks her about it. She's terrified, but says to ask the V.P. Bobby lays into her about making the death threat to Tara, but she denies it and scurries off.

While this goes down, the Sons are visiting Alvarez & Co. for a lesson in how coke gets cut and dealt (I had no idea either, but evidently it involves basements, women in thongs and bikinis, plastic baggies and tortillas. Who knew?) They leave because of Gemma's phone call re: Tara's death threat. On their way out, a car drives in shooting at all and sundry. Jax takes off to follow the car, takes out one of the two men and trails them to an apartment building. He calls in Tig, Clay, Opie, Chibs and Bobby to help launch a surprise assault. Meanwhile, Alvarez has been deposited into Tara's care at the compound where she's stitching up his bullet wound. (Her scenes in this episode are really well played, and Chibs is by her side lending a hand, lighting smokes for Alvarez while she's digging around his shoulder for lead.)

The guys bust into the apartment and find women and children and somebody's grandma. Confusion ensues, this is not what they expected to discover. When one women gets shot, you can see on especially Tig and Bobby's faces that this is not what they signed on for. They learn that the attack on Alvarez & Co. is a rival cartel with ties down in Mexico, threatening family members of these poor people in the apartment, hence the drive-by. The duffel bag Jax empties contains nothing but bags of diapers, lending even more poignancy to the scene.

Back at the compound, Sheriff Roosevelt shows up to question Tara and offer her his protection and any help she needs. She insists she's fine, he gives her the stink eye but leaves her alone and pulls Juice down to the station for his regularly scheduled piss test. Clay tells Tara she's a "good old lady." Later he lays into Wayne and threatens him to stay out of Club business. I'm going to believe Wayne will continue to try to help Tara.

Juice gets hustled for the coke sample. There's a brief scene between Lincoln and the sheriff, Lincoln wants him to nab Juice with a possession charge during the hand-off. Sheriff Roosevelt feels like that's entrapment, but seems to go along with it. When Juice later hands over the sample, he does cuff and stuff him, but in his office Sheriff Roosevelt lets him go free again. Juice seems to understand he's screwed either way now and this is when both Mr. D and I think he's going to kill himself. When he returns to the clubhouse, Chibs tells Clay he's concerned about Juice, Clay gives Juice a new patch and a big hug and tells him he's a "valuable member of the organization."

So. Back at the compound everything is compounded by the strong possibility of being caught between cartels at war and the death threat on Tara is just the beginning. They're at the table and Bobby (BOBBY!) faces down Clay and demands what essentially amounts to a no-confidence vote on Clay's leadership of the club. Right. Now.

(I so cannot wait to see how the vote comes down--my prediction? A close split, keeping Clay at the helm.)

The episode ends with trademark cuts from person to person as the phones ring, calling everyone in to vote while Billie Holliday's classic "Strange Fruit" plays as background music. (The music choices in SOA continue to kick serious ass, and I read today that it was Katey Sagal singing that version of the song. Dang.) Pine's loading a shotgun while his phone rings. Tara and Gemma are shown at their respective homes under guard by new patches. Juice's phone rings while he's climbing up a tree to hang himself. (See what I mean about song selection?)

Fade to black and we hear a branch falling.

Who else is on the edge of their seat until next Tuesday night?

There definitely seems to be a shift between Clay and Gemma, I fear Jax is siding more with Clay without questioning him--he's living up to his end of the bargain too well. Opie just breaks my heart. So does Bobby. I can't help cheering for the sheriff.

nine

2011-10-19T12:25:00.000-07:00

Mr. B, God's special gift to me, turns nine at exactly 11:59 tonight. That funny time sort of sums up the particular kind of kid he is. In honor of my middle son, nine reasons why he's special to me:

1. Perfectionist. He'll always erase and do things over again, no quick fixes, no halfway job for this kid. His handwriting is neat, his math precise, he's a stickler for accuracy and having things just so. He's also a procrastinator, a deadly combination sometimes, but I appreciate his zeal for details.

2. Big-hearted. There's a reason he's beloved by everyone he meets--he treats everyone with kindness and thoughtfulness. Whoever you are, he'll give you the same big smile and remember your name. He'll even remember details about you--if you like pancakes or went to the Dells last weekend or enjoy movies about horses. His circle of friends is always widening.

3. Sloppy. He can't help it, he's a slob at heart. I can follow his tracks by the trail of clothes, granola bar wrappers, sports equipment and toys left in his wake throughout the day. He's the one who can't get dirty socks into the laundry basket and loses his baseball mitt. I like to attribute this to his zeal for life, he's too busy going on to the next big thing to pick up after himself (yet).

4. Diligent. This is my son who will practice until he gets things right. If his teacher tells him to fix his handwriting, she tells him once and he'll always write correctly. If his coach tells him to scoop up the ball, he'll consistently scoop. If Mr. O tells him not to hop during a sword form, that kid will hit the mark steady and strong each time. He listens, he's coachable, he practices and he constantly improves.

5. Funny. I had the hardest time yelling at him when he was little because he'd giggle and laugh all the time, never taking things too seriously. His good nature infects entire rooms full of people. He smiles with his whole face, he tells a good joke, he sees the humor in almost every situation.

6. Passionate. Mr. B's got specific interests: sharks, space, baseball, basketball, the Packers, video games and building stuff. He reads almost exclusively nonfiction. He can tell you a million details about ocean life but never tire of asking questions so he can learn more. His curiosity, once he's keen on a subject, is insatiable.

7. Dapper. The kid is a dandy--since he could dress himself, he's done so with flair and pizazz. He accessorizes with hats, gloves, jewelry--certainly not a trait he picked up from his fashion-flawed parents, Mr. B has style.

8. Creative. Whether wielding magic markers or Legos, his imagination knows no bounds. Each thing he draws/builds/creates comes with a back story. He won't just design a castle--his castle will have water slides, secret passageways, canons built into fireplaces and automatic lasers. He imagines a lot, keeping pace with his two creative brothers, injecting his spin on their games and fun. And like the rest of his family, Mr. B thinks outside of the box, which is the best place to find new ideas.

9. Adaptable. Probably because he's in the middle, but Mr. B gets along with everybody. He'll play Bey Blades with Mr. G, play Little People with our little neighbor gal, carry on conversations with kids twice his age at karate and hang in with his older brother. He can be sophisticated or silly, quiet or loud, depending on the situation. Both brothers seem a little at loose ends when he's gone, he's that flexible piece that bridges the gap between people.

Happy Birthday, Mr. B. I love you more than cookies and books.

add 2nd degree black belt to Green Girl's official title

2011-10-18T08:55:00.000-07:00

I passed my difficult test. Friday involved a lot of getting tossed to the mat unceremoniously while reviewing self-defense. (LI has a penchant for throws.) Then I bowled a 409, not bad for starting the season. I had two crappy games and ended with a 179 which salvaged my average for the night--including a Turkey!

Saturday was blustery, and after sitting outside watching Mr. B and Mr. G play flag football (2 touchdowns for Mr. G--the first two times he had his hands on the ball!), I geared up to run my final 3 miles. You could blame the chill in the air or the wind for dragging down run times, but I feel okay about my 26:47. Not bad for a gal who was never built for speed. I'd have liked to run more in the 26:30 range, but you can't have everything.

The test was long and reasonably difficult. My basic combos were good, but the spinning/jumping ones were crap. I pounded the mitt work, felt good about my open hand forms and LI and I rocked the escrima form. In fact, we walked off the floor after finishing, causing Mr. O to laugh at our confidence that we passed it on the first try. Our bo staff form looked pretty decent, too. He limited our weapons self-defense to just the gun, which was a bummer since we had our moves all planned out for each one--and I feel best about my self-defense with a stick. I wasn't sad, though. Getting tossed on the ground again wasn't real high on my list. In general self-defense the black belt instructors could attack us any way. People always seem to prefer to do a bear hug grab on me from behind--and lift me off the ground. It may have something to do with my size (or lack of--I'm only 5'3"). Anyway, Mr. O grabbed me first and when he lifted me up, I heard everything along my spinal column crackle and pop. Later, Mr. P Sr. grabbed me with such force he nearly knocked the wind out of me. That portion of the test contributed to my overall soreness through today. The good news is I finally got my wind back and used my inhaler for the last time on Monday--I was starting to feel like Mikey in The Goonies, puffing away on it every couple hours.

We ended with the usual fitness test stuff, including a pyramid drill involving 1:15 of jumping jacks, then dips, then push ups, then mountain climbers, then sit ups, repeated again for 45 seconds each. It looks like nothing much when you type it out like this, but my shoulders were burning. At the end of the test it's tradition for parents to come out on the floor and cheer their candidates on during the pyramid drill. My friend Nicole's husband stood in for me, shouting out encouragement so I wasn't all alone in a sea of people. It was sweet--and another mom occasionally called over to me, "You can do it, Ms. W!" Mr. O presented me with my final star (you get stars to sew on your pants--the karate equivalent of merit badges in Scouts) while the parents handed stars to the kids.

I drove home tested and passed, tired and wired. Naturally, after all that excitement and exertion I slept like crap and Sunday was another Very Long Day out in the wind in the south end zone at Lambeau. What I wanted was to drink a lot of ale, take a hot shower and laze about in bed watching nothingmuch on TV. What really happened: I drank 2 pints of ale, spent quality time with Team Testosterone after returning home, stayed dressed and headed out at 8:00 Sunday night to teach some people how to manage/use a website.

So, except for the Brewers, we're all winners after the weekend in Wisconsin.

I'm going to try and score a video of that escrima form so you can check out my legendary awesomeness. Until then, stay tuned all week for Anarchy Club, A Tale of Yeti Sightings in the Back 40 and A Funny Conversation About Circumcision.

asian influence

2011-10-14T07:51:00.001-07:00

Last night the Bumble Book Club met at a Chinese restaurant to discuss Sarah Rose's book For All The Tea in China. First, the book. If you are a history buff, tea buff, gardening/botany buff, China buff, India buff, Anglophile or even crave a fascinating read about the greatest act of corporate espionage in history, you want to get this book.

After our meal and discussion, I cracked open my fortune cookie (which is funny, since For All The Tea in China is about Robert Fortune, who we stumbled upon in Bill Bryson's book At Home which led to choosing Sarah Rose's book for October's read). I chuckled as I read my fortune:

You are going to pass a difficult test.

It is Friday. Tonight is my final training session before my 2nd degree black belt test. After training I will fly through the shower and go to bowling league. After bowling I'll un-tape my ankle and sleep. At 8:30 Saturday morning I'll watch Mr. G at flag football, followed by Mr. B at 10:00. At 1:30 my difficult test begins. My final 3 miles of running. My final strikes, hits, kicks, jumps and spins. (You better believe I'm putting dinner in a crock pot--no way am I cooking after I get home.) I foresee no problems passing.

On Sunday Mr. D and I will go to the Packer game with friends, M and V. M is a relative of Mr. D's, he stood up in our wedding and he and Mr. D were (are?) Ghost Players together. M was in the movie Field of Dreams, the catcher with the handlebar mustache. Baseball guys at a football game, which Green Bay will win because this state is on a roll. They've never been to Lambeau and I always get a kick out of bringing people there for their first time. (I'll wear my Greg Jennings jersey and sit in the south end zone, just in case you're looking for me.)

Naturally my baseball husband will watch the Brewers play Sunday night, hoping Our Fair State will continue to dominate. I'll curl up beside him with an ice pack on my ankle and a cup of hot tea in my hand. Tea. From seeds stolen out of China, transplanted on mountainsides in India, shipped to America and steeped in a mug also imported from China.

a short list of delightful things

2011-10-13T08:29:00.001-07:00

* while sitting by the rain barrel and filling a watering can, a tiny garden snake, about the thickness of a Ticonderoga No. 2 pencil slowly crept past my boots and burrowed into the retaining wall.

* Bach on NPR's Morning Classics

* convincing Mr. B to try the trail mix and his discovery that he does like sunflower seeds and peanuts and raisins when they're all mixed together

* the flock of tiny birds on the coneflower heads by the front porch, gorging themselves on seeds

* the huge full moon suspended above a wisp of clouds just after dusk

* purchasing 3 things for a birthday gift, and at the check-out discovering two of them were deeply discounted

* a carpool arrangement that gives me Wednesdays off

Spill it, reader--little delights.

anarchy club

2011-10-12T08:07:00.000-07:00

Season 4, Episode 6

This episode reminded me how it's the little things that make this show so awesome--the complexities.

We open with the discovery of the porn star at the clubhouse. Gemma and Tara are PISSED and she gets cocky (pun intended, people). What struck me was how Piney takes the baby and shelters him when the gun gets pulled. And how Tig immediately interferes on Gemma & Tara's behalf. And how Gemma instinctively tries to protect Lila and Tara plays along. And the sheer grief when Lila realizes it was Opie that screwed the porn star.

And then--when Opie returns to the clubhouse, Piney decks him with so much authority. Damn. Tara kindly patches him up, Gemma explains to Jax how she's experiencing his betrayal all over again and he tries to make amends. And just when you think it's calm--a taxi drops off Margox (with an X) and Gemma tries to keep her at bay--we learn this is Tig's daughter. (She calls Gemma "Momma"--this episode really played up Gemma's maternal role in this club.) (Awesome dialogue here between Tig and Gemma: "Which one?" "Crazy one" "Which one?" "Yeah, I know.") We learn a bit more about Tig's past--he's got an ex and two daughters--and even though he learns via Bobby and Gemma that she's scamming him for money ($12K!), he pays out just to be able to see her again. Totally sweet. (Final note on Gemma moments--she puts clean sheets on Opie's bed and stops short of giving him a lecture for his bad behavior.)

I predict an unhappy ending for Opie and Lila. Neither seems to care enough now, she fesses up to the abortion and he moves into the clubhouse.

Wayne's following Tara and Clay confronts him--it won't be enough, Wayne knows Tara's in trouble and personally delivers this news to Sheriff Roosevelt. He's such a good guy at heart, he wants her to be safe and he knows Clay is Up To No Good, too. At the end of the show we see him go even further to try to protect her. I think if it came down to it, he'd take a bullet to keep her safe and be willing to defy Clay. Gemma knows nothing--she thinks Clay knows squat and that Tara's safe.

Far away, on the reservation, the new patches get grilled and drilled by Happy, Chibs and Jax about the missing brick of coke. Juice is sweating this out--the new patches protest their innocence but somebody took it. Jax vouches for Juice, so nobody questions him further--Clay's convinced it's a new patch and they should die--the cartel will want a body. While the new patches (both of whom I kind of like) are sweating it out, Juice and Chibs talk a bit--Juice brings up the "black thing" in the charter's rules (which I didn't know but explains a little of the whole Juice storyline) and asks Chibs if he ever wants to push back. (Chibs's old lady is black, and he seems like one of the more thoughtful members of SAMCRO). Chibs replies that if you start questioning rules, when do you start? Besides, start picking and choosing which rules to follow and the whole thing falls apart. Juice nods--he's jumpy as hell and Chibs is totally noticing. He doesn't say a word, but you can see the cogs moving.

Right before everyone convenes at the reservation, Juice is in the woods trying to grab the brick of coke, with the intention it seems of slipping it back into place. Miles catches him in the act and in a horribly graphic and violent moment, Juice dodges a bullet and Miles dies. Naturally Juice pegs the whole thing on him, but he's wounded in the leg. Clay and company take this in and assign the new patches the dirty work of burying Miles. (Poor Miles! Wrong spot at the wrong time and now he's buried in disgrace.)

The cartel collects all of its coke, Clay privately asks Romeo to have Tara whacked (bastard!) and a moment later is hugging Jax, all buddy-buddy. Oh the turmoil!

The closing sequence was really excellent--Jax heads over to pay the porn star a visit and I thought he was cheating on Tara--who is busy stitching up Juice on her kitchen table while Chibs watches. Piney's looking at old photographs, Tig's saying goodbye to his daughter, the new patches are burying Miles and we cut back to Jax who enters the dressing room behind the porn star and then he slams her into the table and mirror, tells her to keep her rancid ***** away from his club and hocks a lugie into her face. Total awesomeness.

And now we wait another week with everybody even more knotted up than before. I remain firmly on Team Tara/Jax and would love to see Wayne bring Clay down before Tara gets killed, but I don't think he's got the finesse. Big heart, yes, but not sure he's got the brains to outsmart Clay and stay alive. I wonder how tragically this season can end. Right now the only people who seem safe (in the sense that members of a biker club running drugs and guns) are Bobby, Gemma, Tig, Chibs and Happy.

meaty issues

2011-10-11T10:36:00.000-07:00

Mr. T got his very first gun Sunday. This is the year he gets to shoot deer (or turkeys or pheasants or ducks). He's Hunter Safety approved and so excited.

Speaking of meat, I'm off to grill 80 hamburger patties for the concessions stand at tonight's football game.

weekend warrior

2011-10-10T19:07:00.000-07:00

I did not beat my run time Saturday--it was hot, so darn hot. I clocked 15 seconds slower, 26:57. Oy. But I'll back the truck up. Friday night we trained and reviewed our weapons self defense. I'm ashamed to admit that when my partner slapped the rubber gun out of my hand, it actually flew up, bounced off my forehead and banged into the wall. My feeble attempts at disarming LI were laughable. I keep forgetting you grab with the same side for guns and do a wrist lock. Yikes. Our forms look okay, though and LI and I do a phenomenal escrima form. It's wrong, apparently. We forget to reset our feet between the first and second half and have ended up practicing and perfecting it all wrong. No matter, Mr. O says keep it like it is because we look great.

So, Saturday we started with the run. It was brutal in the heat--the only really hot day we've run and even with Team Testosterone cheering me on I couldn't get my wind. I thought my head would melt off and breathing was awful--no one ran well, it wasn't just me. Cut to the dojo--on Extreme Day you do all the forms, a lot of mitt/pad work and combos. Our combos looked rotten. My pants were so damp with sweat, sticking to me, that I struggled to get my legs up for kicks. I held the body shield exactly twice for LI before passing it off to someone bigger to take his kicks. Both times he kicked me I flew back a good six feet--a concussion waiting to happen. Extreme Day ends with combat sparring, which means a no-holds-barred style. It's really hard to switch off the mental rules that accompany regular sparring: control your power and only hit target areas on your opponent's body. I had a rough time remembering I could hit anywhere as strong as I wanted. I began to remember after getting punched in the head (I wear gear--don't worry!) a few times--when my neck snapped back I took courage and hit harder. I went four rounds and trust me, after about 30 seconds of full-out brawling, your arms and legs feel like Jell-o. It's hard to calm down after an experience like combat sparring. The adrenaline shakes everything from fingertips to brain cells--not unlike giving birth. Watching the sparring is entertainment in itself. I saw LI choke out his opponent in at least two of his rounds and one of the 3rd degree candidates and his opponent rammed into the heat register along the front of the room and tore it off the wall. Ouch.

I didn't get injured (yay!) and afterwards Chez Green Girl hosted a Kids Night Out for the dojo--a bonfire in my back yard. Literally a school bus pulled into our driveway at 7:15 and out poured 70 kids plus another 8 instructors for hot dogs, pudgie pies, s'mores and games in the dark. The moon was full, the weather unbelievably mild. Everyone had a good time and I went to bed extraordinarily tired but wired.

At one o'clock I woke up with such a horrible ache in my left ankle. Icing helped, but something is definitely wrong down there--Mr. D's speculating it could be somehow fractured. I'm fine when it's taped, but the minute I cut the tape off things feel pretty tender. Because I am a responsible adult I will wait until I'm officially a 2nd degree black belt and the testing is done--then I'll make a doctor's appointment to get things checked out. Might as well have them explore my elbow, too, right?

So. Sunday I staggered around, trying to keep moving so the blood would keep flowing and things wouldn't cramp up and get more sore. Then I stayed up too late watching the Packers win again.

Three more miles, one more weekend of training and testing ahead.

thinking deep thoughts

2011-10-06T07:58:00.001-07:00

I've felt like I've stood at a crossroads for a long time, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to be doing with my life. "The season of my discontent." I've fallen into a pattern of living the way others expect me to, a strange conformity to unspoken rules and unwritten laws. Strange fears govern my behavior and choices, and I don't understand how this has evolved. (I don't mean like I'm suffering mental illness, really. This includes how I dress the way "women my age in my town should dress" but who really dictates my dress code? Clothes are a small, silly example of what I mean, but it's the most tangible example I could come up with today.) Recently I read a quote that suggested one should live the life they imagine--I'd seen that quote before, but it struck a nerve this time. What's stopping me? I'm starting to ask myself this and I'm stepping back to examine my life. Is it possible to purge what I don't like and fill it up with what I want to do?

I'm considering my habits, my diet, my appearance, my activities, the way my house looks and the way my family interacts with each other and with our community. Everything is on the table right now and I suddenly feel like I've taken a step in the right direction.

What will remain of this life? What will change?

What does the life I want to live look like?

Spill it, reader. Are you living the life you want to be living?

anarchy club

2011-10-05T07:21:00.001-07:00

This episode was really about the women, don't you think? We've got Opie, feeling betrayed because Lila won't quit being a porn star until she's pregnant and he finds her birth control pills. His solution? Boff another porn star. (I loved the turn-around when Jax walks in on HIM and gives him a dressing down.)

Jax returns from the "bike show" and gives Tara a souvenir: two huge stacks of money. Oh yeah, I totally nudged Mr. D and asked why he only brings home coffee mugs when he's on a trip. His answer? "Because I don't trust you." Ha! He instructs her to talk to Gemma about how to deposit it. Back at the clubhouse, everyone gets their cut and Piney remains behind to confront Clay. He tells him he's read JT's letters and knows he had JT killed. He offers Clay this deal: get out of the drug business with the cartel or he's bringing the letters to the club. I totally adore Piney, I loved how he stuck to his guns in this scene. It was definitely a different side of him--convicted and tough, not the "old man" he's been in previous episodes.

Naturally Clay doesn't want to let go of the drug deal, but Gemma doesn't want Tara hurt. Gemma says she'll get the letters. Separately the two go to Wayne and they each take a turn double-crossing the other. I think the only one who really believes they're doing the right thing is Gemma, Wayne's stuck in the middle and Clay's pissing me off with his greed. I understand his motives, but he's not thinking about anyone else. By the end, they've all read the letters, though they believe no one else has and it looks like Clay's convinced Wayne to do something to Tara as he's tailing her. On a side note, Clay and Gemma's house is gorgeous, no?

Gemma visits Otto in prison and learns about the "sheriff's visit" (neither knows it's not really Roosevelt who visited Otto) and the accusation against Bobby. Without telling the rest of the club, Jax and Clay agree to bring in the man they believe killed Luann. This leads us to a pretty funny scene in a porn warehouse with David Hasselhoff as a former porn star now running the show. He's all for avenging Luann's death (seriously--she was his mentor, he says). They bring in a guy played by Tom Arnold and just before they whack him, he leaks that he's got rich Japanese connections. In a far-fetched conclusion, Clay and Jax decide to let him live so they can use the Japanese to create puppet investors for Hale's properties and then pull the rug out at the last minute, destroying Hale. Seems too easy, right?

Bobby visits Otto in jail, confesses to having an affair with Luann, but lies about Tom Arnold's character being taken care of. I don't know why he lied, it bothered me. Now no one in this show is without secrets it seems. Except maybe Chibs, Tig and Kozik.

Roosevelt leans on Juice, I don't know why Juice is buying his line, but he steals a bag of the cartel's coke with the intention of taking a sample for Roosevelt to "trace back to the source." In reality, it's a test to see if Juice will be an informant, big shocker here--Lincoln's double-dealing Juice AND Roosevelt. Juice can't get the sample out, takes an entire package and ends up sleeping in the woods. The next morning the cartel shows up for their drugs and everyone discovers a package is missing. Draw your own conclusions about this, right? I have no idea why Juice is being so stupid--there is no good end to this storyline--he ends up dead however it plays out.

My prediction? The body count is going to rise in the next two episodes--and my money's on Piney, Juice and/or Tara being in the count.

sometimes you need to hire a professional

2011-10-04T08:41:00.000-07:00

First up, our neighbors had their third child yesterday--a boy to add to the fray! We're so happy for everyone, mom and son are healthy and we can't wait to meet the new kid on the block.

For several months now I get the occasional whiff--more of a "whaft" of something foul and rotten. I have an exceptionally sensitive nose, so I ignored it for a while. It wasn't until Mr. D began complaining that I became concerned. Initially there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the smell, but after further sniffing around, I determined it was definitely coming from upstairs, more precisely, somewhere around two bedrooms and in my library.

Now you and I both realize Team Testosterone's capacity for mess-making, forbidden snacking in restricted areas and inventive chemistry experiments (most notably one involving a test tube and samples of pee and what might happen if you added various foodstuffs to it and let it sit for a long, long time. At least it sits until Mom discovers it in the corner of the bedroom and dumps the works into the nearest toilet while doling out a lecture on Gross! Unhygienic! Smells! Freaking DISGUSTING!). Naturally I blamed the Team and did a thorough cleaning of every nook and cranny to find the cause. I came up with a huge load of random crappe to drag to the dumpster or the thrift shop and I found several missing items of clothing, but nothing smelled unusually bad.

The smell continued to linger, sometimes a faint scent like that of phlox brought across the yard on a summer breeze, sometimes an overpowering stench like a room full of sweaty seventh graders. I kept the windows open to ventilate after ruling out the possibility of the garbage dumpster beside the garage being the root of the odor.

I then ascertained that the smell seemed prevalent in carpeted rooms--the rooms with tile floor seemed fine. It occurred to me that when I cleaned the carpets this summer, perhaps I had inadvertently created the smell--had I used too much soap? Maybe I should've hired professionals to clean the rugs. I considered calling a cleaning service, but on a whim opened the closet containing the furnace upstairs (we have a small furnace, an auxiliary heat source to assist our radiant heating system). PHEW!

I'd already made an appointment for a guy to come check the thermostats before it gets super-cold and decided I'd consult with him first before hiring carpet cleaners. Yesterday he arrived, agreed that we need to replace 2 thermostats and then I opened the closet door for him.

"Dead mouse," he proclaimed after inhaling once.

"Can you do anything about it?" I prodded.

"Nope. You gotta call somebody who cleans ducts."

Now it makes sense--all that odor is getting vented through the ducts that coincidentally lead to rooms with carpet. Somewhere inside the duct work some varmint is decaying and decomposing. I unscrewed a few vent grills to poke around but found nothing. The verdict is in: I need professional help.

(And I'm secretly glad I didn't find the varmint when I unscrewed those grills.)