Come On, Baby, I'm Not Serious (nictitate, nictitate)

In telling you all that February was a giant joke and that the snow and below zero temps at night were just an illusion, I nictitate. And then I nictitate again, like a robin with a secret.

Yesterday, I told Martin that when he reached home, I would look saucily across the room and nictitate at him. "Then I will turn my head," I said, "And nictitate again." (HINT: I could be hanging upside down, playing the accordion, or skiing, and still I could nictitate at you in a variety of different manners. Martin said it sounded like something an animal, possibly of avian persuasion, might do, and he was one the right track.) When Martin came home, I nictitated at him, and sadly, I think he was underwhelmed, maybe even a wee bit disappointed. But, really, what does he expect at the end of the day?

Sal and I are trying out one new word per week in order to furrow some new paths in our winter-weary brains. Kevin, Sal's husband, who can recite pi, chose this one out of the dictionary. I nictitated at another woman today, and she responded, "Oh! I nictitate all the time!"

At whom will YOU nictitate today?

Zen Rocks

Those of you who have had the great privilege of sitting in our kitchen among the crumbs and chaos with a glass of red wine know all about my zen rocks. Four stones from the Puget Sound, resting one on the other in a perfect stack, reside always on my windowsill, reflecting the balance I would looove to achieve (as long as there's still room for neurotic outbursts, which I also loooove). Am I just in a fairly good place in my life, with wonderful friends, a supportive community, sweet children who are growing more and more independent, a husband who likes to cook and edit, and low-stress, high-rewards, work--OR is it the zen rocks?

I brought a few extra home with me, and the beach behind the last-day Seattle/Edmonds photo shoot was the setting where I picked them up and slipped them into my pocket. My friend Sal has a tiny stack on her windowsill, and woe to the woman whose zen stack slips (see her post here).

Look at the girls. The beach full of zen rocks seem to have had little effect on them.

My parents need no zen rock stack, apparently. They are joyful/grateful/at peace even when vomiting. . .

and. . .here are the king and queen of zen. Drum roll, please.
Helps to achieve zen include a our favorite new wine, Malbec, from Argentina, a loaf of fresh bread, and some gooey brie. Not sure this is what the zen-masters had in mind, but it works.