Sunday Add-A-Caption Game: Superbowl Tribute!

In the spirit of male aggression, here's this Sunday's photo. Add your caption and WIN!!!

Superbowl and My Dad

My Dad came back from a trip to Haiti just in time for the Superbowl, and I chatted with him today about many things, including the illness he picked up in the Miami airport, the cholera epidemic in Haiti, and family news. And the Superbowl. Even the most globally minded American gets pretty excited about football. As we spoke, my mother returned from Trader Joe's, where she'd been stocking up on Superbowl fare.

One of Martin's favorite parts about being at my parents' house this past Christmas was watching football, Sunday and Monday, with my father. My Dad's the calmest man I know (he reprimanded my sister after she almost broke a plate glass window by folding his newspaper, leisurely getting out of his chair, and telling her, 'Not smart'), but even he gets somewhat excited over a really good run or an excellent pass. And after my parents' stint in Baltimore, he's suddenly a Ravens fan, which colors his opinion of the Steelers.

You can't live in my town without being a fan of the Steelers, at least by appearance. I'd probably be beaten to West Virginia if I were stupid enough to slap a Packers sticker on my window. But it does make the game tomorrow more exciting to know that up in Washington State, my Dad, purely from bitterness over the Ravens game, will be rooting for the Packers.

And for the first time in my entire life, I will actually make a cake with the name of a football team written out in black icing. The background will be gold, and maybe I'll even watch more than the advertisements this year.

Excitement Out the Wazoo

Last night, the girls were exhausted, so Martin and I plunked them into bed early and settled down for a "Psych" marathon, a big laundry fold, and ironing fest. We consumed cookies, tortilla chips, and multiple cups of tea. It was a party of sorts--tomorrow was Friday, an easy day for both of us, and we were going to have a great night's sleep. We finished watching a third episode of "Psych" at around 11 and dragged ourselves up to put the house to bed before heading up for toothbrushes. I tidied and started the dishwasher, and Martin, feeling tired and a bit grumpy, headed down to the basement to start the dryer.

It was after he came upstairs and shut the door that I heard a dull thunk, thunk, thunk sound, followed by the click of the door reopening and Martin groaning in disbelief, "Oh, NO."

I had a pretty good guess as to what had just happened. I hoped I wasn't right, and so I said pleasantly, "What happened? Is everything okay?"

Martin confirmed my fear. Now, before I describe what happened and admit that the blame lay mostly at my feet, let me just point out: the accident involved Martin's big feet, and the existence for months of two paint cans at the top of our basement stairs, one with the lid not quite tamped down, is indicative of a larger, more widespread problem at Wazoo Farm, which is not putting hardware-type things away properly.

If you'd been at our house last night just after 11:00, this is what you would have seen (and smelled): thick, exterior-semigloss blue splattered down our basement stairs and across the carpet at the bottom landing; Martin heading toward the epic mess with two measly paper towel squares, and me, (trying to see the humor in the situation while not setting off Martin, who is feeling grumpier than ever), looking in the refrigerator for my blue-paintbrush (yes, I'd wrapped it instead of cleaning it, knowing I'd need it again--and see, I did).

I encouraged us to count our blessings: what were the chances that Martin would have kicked down a can of paint in exactly the same shade as the stairs? Instead of cleaning it up, I explained, trying not to scoff at Martin's paper towels, let's just give those stairs a new coat of paint! This sounds easier than it actually was, since the paint was glopped all down one side of each stair, rendering the space where we could balance to paint very small and awkward, especially in our big furry slippers and jammies. Martin took the bottom landing and I took the stairs, carefully painting just half of each stair so Martin wouldn't be stranded, until I forgot and painted two whole stairs in a row. My careful resistance to laughter began to waver when Martin, paintbrush in hand, had to heave-ho up the flight of stairs with only four inches to rest his right foot at the top. At one point toward the end of the escapade he squatted like a frog, grasped the railing, and leaned down several stairs to finish painting the stair I'd also forgotten in what I'd mistakenly thought was fairly good logistical planning. Then he squatted for a while longer, as if meditating. "You're making me nervous," I said finally--I'd struggled against the urge to leave him for a moment to retrieve the camera, and now I stood behind him, ready to grab his p.j. shirt in case he suddenly lost balance and careened into the abyss.

"I'm not going to fall down the stairs," he assured me, and then he performed yet another yoga-like balancing trick to even out the paint several steps down. The fact that we weren't both covered in blue ("lupine" is the shade, by the way, and a very nice one) was miraculous.

That night in bed, Martin sat there reading (he'd gotten a second wind with all the painting). He was beyond accusations ("How long have those paint cans been at the top of the stairs?") and past grumpiness, and could finally see the humor in such a momentous accident. He stroked my shoulder lovingly and said, "I guess, considering we painted a flight of stairs tonight, that going to bed at midnight is pretty remarkable." And I concurred--it could have been so much worse--the ceiling could have fallen in, a pipe could have burst, our stove could have exploded. We'd gotten a little exercise to even out the cheesy tortilla chip consumption, too, and we wouldn't have to do laundry for another few days while the stairs dried. All in all, the great paint spill of 2011 turned out for the best.

Writing, Reality, and the Whole *&%$ Process

I finished tinkering with my essay yesterday--this is the second stage of a writing process I've fallen into. First, I sort of vomit words for a hours (this used to take one big block of time for a first draft but now takes several days or weeks, depending on children), and then I leave it for a while to cure. . .I return to find it stinks far worse than I thought it did initially, and then I begin cleaning. I clean, clean, clean again. I chop it up and add things and throw pieces in the garbage, and then I step back. This takes me through multiple drafts. At this point, I either think it's pretty good and am proud of myself, or (what is more likely), I'm completely bewildered, lost in a familiar neighborhood. Then I pass it on to readers.

There are two sorts of readers: readers who give me fairly minimal but important feedback, questions or points of confusion or overall impressions. My mother, for instance, either announces that she likes something or doesn't, though she gives me more specific details if I ask for them (she was very helpful in one of my last short stories). The second sort of reader is Martin. He is a sort and he is an individual. He reads something as objectively as he can and then he gives me an honest critique, which usually involves heavy scissoring, tiny, painful tweezering, and maybe an explosion or two. And while this process in particular can be a little wearying, it is so vital to the life of whatever I've written. I produce the body, Martin's the surgeon, I'm the stitcher-upper. After years of repeating this process, Martin will often point to something and I'll sigh and say, "Yes, I know you were going to pick that out. I knew it shouldn't stay but I kind of liked it and I thought, just maybe. . ." and then we'll blow it to smithereens and I feel better afterward. Writing is a good exercise in radical letting-go: releasing yourself, your expectations, your most treasured sentences and descriptions, the parts that you wished were beautiful but, in the sunlight, are flat and one-dimensional.

And then I do several more rewrites and by the end of the entire process I'm so sick of the piece I want to stitch it up, package it in ice, and send it on its way. The reality is, of course, that it mostly gets returned-to-sender and I have to open it up for more surgery again.

The children are restless at the moment and they're driving me a bit crazy. Altered voices, sudden lurches, repeated movements, pounding footfalls, spontaneous crying and begs for attention--all these charming things abound. Beatrix peed in her crib, cried, and wouldn't go back to sleep, and there's been no settling and silence of any one body in the house. Looks like the next step of the writing process will have to wait. I'll gladly trade it in for an hour of peace and quiet.

Winds from the Midwest

I'm listening to the sweet strains of a child sleeping, the rhythm of intake and expelling of breath. My occasional charge, little E, seemed to have been waiting for me to come down and take my accustomed spot on the flowered chair, whispering my regular lines: "I'll just sit here until you fall asleep." And then, five, four, three. . .he was out, just like that. Bea is still chatting to herself up in her crib--she's got some habitual alternate world going these days at nap time, launched today by the exclamation, "Oh, no, someone is in trouble!" (She's waaay into animal rescue shows).

The little ones should be exhausted. Personally, I'm struggling to keep my own eyelids at the alert at the moment. We had a big morning, delivering homework to the elementary school through warm gusts of wind that made us so happy we danced in the car, followed by library time, capped off by a brisk run through the park and pbjs back in the library. My intent in packing a lunch had been that we'd settle down in the unseasonably balmy sunshine on a park bench to chomp our food, but that was not to be. The lovely spring-like morning gusted into a zephyrous, snow-blowing monster that sent us scattering for shelter and pulling our collars up around our ears.

The harrowing wind from the midwest is finally reaching us, but the sight of trashcans and empty sleds blowing across streets is marked by intermittent shafts of warm sunshine, so welcome and unusual in early February. In fact, this morning, little E looked up, surprised, when the sun burst from behind a cloud, and asked, "Who turned the lights on?" And I found myself double-checking bedrooms for burning light bulbs before I left this morning, so blinded are we by natural light.

Upstairs, Bea's game has suddenly escalated into a shouting match. Perhaps a baby hippo is in distress, or a goose has a pot on her head, and Bea's coming to the rescue just in time. As long as she does it all in her crib, I'm happy.

Images of Texas: Can You Guess?

Since this post got buried a bit in the Sunday festivities, I wanted to give people--especially the kiddos--a chance to check out the Texas wildlife.

All right, detectives. Can anyone guess what the girls (our girls and their cousin, Isabella in Brookshire, TX) are studying. . .

in this picture?

And here?
This sleek green fellow actually changes colors like his African cousin (I'm not sure about the actual connection as far as genus or whatever goes, but they have the same common name).

Now, what about this handsome devil?

Thing, thing! What IS that thing? (Here's a hint: in this pic, it's dead.)

It actually belongs here in the waters of Iron's Creek, but an animal had decided it would make a tasty snack.

Probably not Nino, the cat, who hunts more for birds and snakes--and there are plenty of the reptilian family in this part of Texas. If only I'd captured a picture of the nutria (think Rodent of Unusual Size) this Christmas, too!

WINNER: Sunday Add-A-Caption Game

The Birthday Boy has chosen from all your excellent captions. . .

Congratulations, "It's more fun to stay anonymous!"

A therapist observes a patient undergoing Stage 3 of treatment at the region's controversial new clinic, Caligula's Cure for Claustrophobia. Patients who endure 8 hours under the bed progress to Stage 4: a night alone in the clinic's unlit crawl space, accompanied by a variety of spiders and rodents.

From the b'day boy, you get:
a maplewood dinette set
a trip for two to beautiful Baffin Bay, off the coast of Greenland, way north above the Arctic Circle,
and a Hot Pocket.
Enjoy them in your dreams, "it's more fun to stay anonymous"

All right, Wazooers, a few more hours and Martin, newly 35, who made fried rice and dim sum-style dumplings (with handmade dumpling dough) last night for 29 people to celebrate his own birthday (I did make a complicated, many-step black-out cake, and while I was grumpy about it, it was rich and delicious)--anyway, THAT Martin is going to vote on the Sunday-Add-A-Caption Game. So get your last entries in for possible consideration and questionable virtual prizes!

And don't forget to say Happy Birthday to my gal Sal, wonderful friend, indispensable auntie to my children, and an uncommonly strong ray of sunshine in my daily existence.

Sunday Add-A-Caption Game: Birthday Special

Go to it, ladies and gents! And don't forget to send happy thoughts to Martin, who is 35 today!

Just an FYI: I was pleased to find out that a poem of mine that appeared recently in The Christian Century is now available online--you can access it by clicking on the link in this post or the link on the right. And if you're feeling peaky, read my story in the O-R this Sunday--hopefully it will make you count your blessings :). . .I'm full of steak and happiness; I got to go out tonight to celebrate Martin's Birthday while good friends took care of the brood. Lovely.

Winter Exercise

We've all been doing what we can to get a little exercise around here. By virtue of her size and determination, Bea's been fitting quite a bit of cycling into her winter schedule.



Today I clocked thirty minutes on friend Sal's treadmill, followed by a spinach salad. Despite Elspeth's observation that "Mommy, it looks like you're going to have another baby," I feel virtuous. Now, if I can only keep it up. Since most of my non-parenting work requires me to sit at a computer and bury myself in the rapid fire of keys (at least my fingers get some exercise), I must find a way to get my legs moving and my heart rate up--I mean, not by hyperventilating or throwing nervous fits, but by beneficial, orderly exercise. And a steady diet of bonbons. My mother just sent some to Martin for his upcoming birthday and so I had to sample, just to make sure they were good enough for him. They aren't--they're good enough for me, me, me!

I'm working on an essay right now, my first essay in quite a while since I turned my attention to other things, like poetry, newspaper columns, fiction and bonbons. The personal essay is perhaps the trickiest genre for me, and brings up many questions, such as how much artistic license I can take for the sake of coherence and flow, while still at least lurking in the doorway of nonfiction. I think I outwitted the genre this time by braiding reflections about my grandmother with a story based on the legends and tales of my Finnish ancestry, all mashed about in my imagination. It's been a lovely bit of diversion during the last couple days of steady snow and cold that grips my fingers when I work upstairs in our freezing bedrooms. Now, for instance, I am dressed in layers with a blanket wrapped about my shoulders and a warm cup of tea on my desk--and my hands are still as cold as if I'd been storing them in the refrigerator. Ah, the charms of an old, beautiful house.

Friday night. More bonbons in my future, I think. Happy weekend, dearies.

Lessons From Grassy Sam

Sonya-on-the-ridge apparently got much more snow than we did down here in town. In fact, it dumped so much wet, slushy snow that her father, snaking around in a tractor trying to pull her husband's truck up their driveway, almost slipped into the next world. That's a high price to pay for the beauty of the ridge, but at least Sonya seems to be strapping and muscular from shoveling, walking the dog, and whacking night creatures with a big flashlight (I just cannot let that last one go). She looks more fit every time I see her.

I, on the other hand, waited until I was in the comfort and privacy of my own house today to unbutton my jeans and let the winter happiness free (the winter happiness is my ever-growing gut, I'm afraid). I got some exercise by baking banana bread with two sticks of butter, which I will consume during the next two days. Things are not looking good for me; in fact, they're looking a bit Winnie-the-Poohish. Elevenses, here we come, and tut, tut, it feels time for a little something to quench the rumblies in the tumblies.

Friend Sal told me that I've been indoors so much lately that when I finally do emerge, everyone will be watching to see if I spot my shadow or disappear again. Sounds about right. Grassy Sam, Wazoo Farm's resident groundhog, is smarter than he looks. Right now he's curled up in a warm nest somewhere under our shed, dreaming of eating our spring garden.

Oh, looks like it's time to put the kids to bed, which means I must walk up the stairs. Don't. know. if. I. can. endure. that. much. exercise.

Slushy Snow

I keep glancing outside to check for more snow. Today the sky spit and glopped down a great big mess on us. No feathery, light snowflakes dancing and spinning like fairies to glaze our gardens. Nope. Big shovelfuls of wet stuff that proved almost lethal for pedestrians (I watched my friend Michelle dance the watootsi on her way across the street in her Just-Come-From-Work pretty red toe shoes.) With slush in my wheelwells, blocked breaks and a lot of luck, I slipped into the intersection from the grocery store (yes, the classical music was blaring, so we were absorbing a little culture at least) into an unusually empty street. "Well, I guess I'm going," I said as we slipped down the road. I've had this experience several times in the past on icy roads, and I've felt that same mixture of dull panic and resignation--probably, ironically, the closest I'll ever get to zen ever. I'm out of control! So be it!

I'm happy to report that the sky has stopped dumping, I imagine much to the relief of my friend Sonya-up-on-the-ridge, who was talking crazy earlier, all panicked about stocking up on water and the generator still wrapped and in the garage and how her husband had to be pulled up their endless slushy driveway by a tractor. There was no resignation for her--no, siree, not after last year when they were without power, water, or heat for two weeks in the middle of a blizzard. I'm glad to think she must be feeling a bit better--and now she's all clean, too, since she thought ahead to impending disaster and grabbed a hot shower while she still could, picturing herself possibly without water for the next fortnight.

But, look, no snow! And though we had an early dismissal today, I do believe the children will be disappointed tomorrow. School looks likely, blizzards unlikely. And now Martin is ready to ditch all our work for the evening to eat cupcakes and watch TV, and I'm more than ready to join him. It's hard to feel like working in the face of a vanilla cupcake with chocolate icing, wouldn't you agree?

Just Another Exciting Grey Day

More snow, light but it comes steadily.
On the agenda today: get off another column, stay sane, stay happy, keep the kids happy, make a big outing to store to pick up diapers, milk, and kleenex. Just another exciting morning for Wazoo. I think we'll play classical music in the car for a little bit of culture, and then we'll eat chili for the third time in a row for lunch, and then we'll take a nap. Perhaps somewhere during that time someone will rent the clouds asunder and send down a blast of sunshine, in which case we'll be so confused and excited we'll dump our plans and go to our central park, strip down to our skivvies, and perform a wild dance of gratitude. But I have a funny feeling it will be the former agenda we'll be pacing ourselves through, finding reasons to grin, like a big kleenex sale or extra-wet disinfecting cart wipes.