All I Want Is To Be Next To You

From Yahoo news:

January 30, 2007
NEW YORK (Reuters) - The Police will reunite to open the 49th Annual Grammy Awards in Los Angeles on February 11, The Recording Academy said on Tuesday, fueling speculation that the hit 1980s band is planning a reunion tour.

The five-time Grammy-winning band, led by frontman Sting, with Stewart Copeland and Andy Summers, split up in 1984 and was last seen playing together in 2003 to commemorate their induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

The band, known for such hits as "Roxanne," "Message in a Bottle" and "Every Breath You Take," has never performed at the annual telecast for the music industry's most prestigious awards that are given by The Recording Academy.

"The Police join a stellar list of past Grammy Awards opening acts, which includes reunions and once-in-a-lifetime performances," said a statement from the academy.

Members of The Police have so far refused to confirm rumors that the band is planning to reunite in 2007 for dates in Britain and the United States, with this year marking the 30th anniversary of the release of "Roxanne."

Last month the band's label A&M Records, which is owned by Universal Music, said in a statement that they would mark the year somehow.

"It is our intention to mark the anniversary by doing something special with the band's catalog of songs. Needless to say, everyone is hopeful the band will support our plans and while early discussions have taken place, nothing has been decided," said the statement.

I'm so fucking jazzed about this, I can hardly stand it. EEEEEEEE!

And that's just a small mini-squee to represent my immense excitement. You should hear me in real life.

Long Day's Journey. It's Night.

I'm tired tonight. Unusually so.

Long day. Sick little boy home from school. Again.

Winter cold. Runny nose. Cough. I can tell he doesn't feel great but he doesn't feel totally yucky either.

All up in my business today. Nary a moment alone. That's part of the mama job description, I suppose.

I cannot remember if I ate dinner. At this hour, it's a non-issue. Sleep beats hunger right now.

This writing thing is a developed discipline. One which I've not adhered to very well over the past week, as other pulls and pushes took priority. Because they simply squeaked louder. Overshadowing my internal muse.

I thought I might have some sort of divine creative inspritation if I just started randomly talking on paper.

Not to be.

My lids are heavy. My body is losing steam. And my feet are cold. Making it hard to concentrate. (It's 48 degrees here now. Never reached 60 all day. And I'm barefoot. As usual.)

Maybe tomorrow I'll be better equipped to say something worthwhile. Hope springs eternal.

Random Ramblings du Jour

Pet peeve of the day: Adults who sell Girl Scout cookies for their daughters/granddaughters/nieces/sisters. I've been hit up at least a half dozen times in the past week by friends and acquaintances, waving that ubiquitous lined sheet in one hand and waving at me with the other. I've got nothing against the Girl Scouts or their cookies. I was a Girl Scout myself once upon a time -- did my own cookie hawking too, going door to door in my neighborhood and asking people myself if they would be interested in buying some. My dad never took my cookie sales sheet to work with him with the intent of asking people to buy from me. My mom never took the sheet with her to any of her meetings or functions. My activity. My responsibility. I don't really remember all the detail of how the other girls in my troop did with their sales; I do recall, though, that there were some who sold A LOT more than others. I'm thinking they had a little parental assist.

I'm also trying really diligently to stick to TDD (The Damn Diet) and Girl Scout cookies aren't delicious or tempting enough for me to squander valuable WW points on. One ambitious grandmother-seller (from Will's school) actually called me on my cell phone this afternoon to remind me that the cookie order was going in tonight and did I want to order any. After I had told her more than once thanks, but no thanks. I'm all about supporting your children or grandchildren in their endeavors. But there comes a point when the kids need to figure out how to do things on their own, without the complete assist or enabling of the grown-ups in their lives.

And I just re-read that rant. Boy, do I sound crabby. Blame it on the diet. And the fleeting thoughts of frozen Thin Mints that dance in my head.

_________________________________________

I am now jealous of my son. Because, as I noticed today for the very first time, he has a skill that I would kill to have.

He can raise only one eyebrow at a time. I, no matter how hard I try, cannot. And oh, how I try. I've got a couple of wrinkles that were accelerated thanks to my futile attempts. But Will, while cutting up in therapy today on the swing, looked at his OT mischievously and raised one eyebrow in sly salute. I don't think he yet realizes the power of that skill. I'm not going to tell him either -- not for a while anyway.

_________________________________________

My across-the-street neighbors had an all-day yard sale yesterday. And when I say all-day, I mean all-day: shit was up and on tables before 7 am and didn't come down until after 6 pm. I got a little excited when I went out to get the morning paper and saw the activity, thinking that it was the crazy merchant marine guy across the street who was hosting the sale. But it was the couple who live next door to him -- he's obviously out on the high seas at the moment, so they were using his yard and driveway as a staging area. Pity. If it was his sale, I would have gone over to nose around for sure -- maybe picked up a slightly used bong or a hammock or some Deep Purple on vinyl. Drat.

_________________________________________

This happy-homemaker/I'm-on-a-diet kick is giving me all kinds of ideas and motivation. I found a recipe for chai mix, which includes the tea and all the spices. So tomorrow I'm going to whip up a batch. I also picked up, from the hardware store of all places, a home canning kit, with the plan to make some strawberry preserves next month when the strawberry crop comes in from Plant City. I made homemade whole wheat pizza dough and homemade turkey sausage for calzones last night.

I feel slightly like Sue Ann Nivens, only not quite as acerbic. Where's Lou Grant when you need him.

_________________________________________

This made me laugh and laugh when I read it in the 1/15/07 edition of New York magazine...
From the Approval Matrix page, way down in the Despicable/Lowbrow corner:
A Kentucky Fried Chicken owner in the Bronx sets fire to a neighboring Twin Donuts after it starts selling chicken.

For some reason, that's just hilarious to me.

Giving Inner Peace a Chance

I love New York.

I love everything about New York. The people. The energy. The opportunities. The feel of it. The everything.

I wish that at sometime in my life I would have jumped off the cliff and just moved there. Call me chicken.

I've always loved New York. In my high school study hall, which was held in the library, I would hunt down all the copies I could find of the New York Times Magazine. I'd read the articles, peruse the ads and dream about owning one of the houses featured in the real estate section at the very back. Sigh.

And so, in my ongoing passion for the city, I currently have a subscription to New York magazine. It's not the same thing as actually living there, but it's as close as I can get for the moment. The cover story of the latest issue really caught my attention: Achieving Inner Peace. The primary gist of the articles regarding it are centered in and about places and activities in NYC, natch. But... there is a list of things one can do to Get That Inner Peace, regardless of your locale, that both made me think and made me laugh:

Believe.
Outsmart your bad habits.
Detox your house.
Forgive a cabdriver.
Shut up now and then.
Drink Barolo.
Pick up a screwdriver.
Do some good.
Cheat death.
Contort. Lengthen. Exhale.
Take advice from felons.
Make a mess.
Stop.


Unplugging.

Red wine.

Dinner at home.

Quit smoking.

Group prayer.

Fixing a car. HA! Maybe in my next life... that’s what AAA and a good mechanic are for.

Xanax.

Praising others.

Sleeping late.

Lollipops. A cherry Tootsie Roll Pop can cure a lot of what ails ya... and it’s only 1 WW point!

A martini. Vodka. Always vodka. Gin is of the debil.

Isolation.

Ogling boys. Oh yeah. Most excellent. I’d also add Ogling Men to that list. The late 40s crowd, with a touch of gray is really appealing these days...

Writing a card. So true. I used to do much more of this in the days before e-mail. Might need to revisit...

Law & Order.

Meditating.

Acupuncture. Ouch. I’ll pass.

Pickup hoops. I’d be content to be a round ball spectator as my pick & roll ain’t what it used to be.

Crossword. Should add this to my NYR list. Maybe someday I’ll have the confidence to do one in pen.

Biking.

Shrink.

Loud music. Add “singing along” and I’m your girl.

Soft music. My favorite decompression accompaniment.

More red wine.

Steam shower. Mmmmmmmmm. Heavenly.

Dressing a dog. Again, I’d rather be a spectator. But a cute pooch dressed up = adorable and heart-melty.

Selflessness.

Not talking. Is this even possible?

Moving to Maui.

A slice of pizza. Cheese or sausage. No olives or anchovies.

Maybe I’ll just print out this list, close my eyes and pick one or two of these to try and achieve on days when my inner peace is in turmoil.

It’s nice to think about, anyway. Peaceful, actually.

My New Pastime

The world I inhabit as a mom is a topsy-turvy one, where what is legitimately not standard is the rule. The classroom my son calls home is not a typical one; the activities in which my son participates aren’t familiar to most kids his age.

Will’s classmates -- his buddies and pals -- are truly his peers in every possible way, each with his own health issues and diagnoses. I say “his” exclusively, because there are no girls currently in Will’s class. It’s a man’s world in the Sexton Elementary Pre-K, baby.

I spend a lot of time in the classroom, lending a periodic hand to the educational entourage, which includes teachers, classroom assistants, therapists and aides. I dig interacting with the kids, who are almost always ready with a smile and a big hug. And a laugh, usually unintentional.

My favorite recent story: As would be expected, these little dudes have developmental delays, which are usually most obvious in their communication skills. As it’s hard for them to express their needs, they find creative ways to let you know what they want. One of Will’s classmates walked up to his teacher the other day and very matter-of-factly asked her “Do you have to poop?” Trying not to laugh, she answered, “Why no, I don’t.” It then occurred to her what he was trying to express, and she asked “Do you?” The answer was yes, and off they marched to the bathroom.

It’s a similar case with the community of the out-patient therapies at our childrens’ hospital, where Will’s been a “patient” literally since he was discharged from the NICU. There you get a wider spectrum of kids with “stuff:” some with only physical issues; some, like Will, with a handful of them. The common thread is that everyone there has something he or she is dealing with that’s a hindrance. Something that makes their “normal” different.

That’s the predominant section of my world at the moment. It defines my perception and how I approach things. So imagine my culture shock when I volunteered to direct the pre-school choir (ages three - five) at church this year. And was faced with 13 standard issue kiddos. The same age as Will. But with a completely different skill set.

What I soon came to realize, though, was that while Will is behind his age peers in basic developmental areas, he’s not unlike them in other ways. He’s silly, his attention span isn’t much bigger than a gnat sometimes, when he’s participating in an activity that he enjoys, there is no bigger joy -- and it’s evident. And frankly, he’s more musically talented than many of my choir urchins. Not that I’m biased or anything. But kid can carry a tune, riff on a melody and has rhythm out the wazoo. He gets it from me, you know.

And while we have our routine and scheduled activities, our regular days don’t look like that of parents of standard issue kids. We’re not involved with gymnastics or dance or soccer or music lessons (although I’m looking into that for Will -- American Idol 2019, watch out!). I’m a Road Warrior Mom, sure -- but we head to school and therapy appointments and doctors’ visits. Not most people's first choice of activities.

But today, for the very first time, I walked in the Chuck Taylors of a standard issue mom when my friend and I went to register our guys for baseball. Now, it’s what they call the Challenger League, and it’s designed for kids like Will and his pal, with a specially-designed field to accommodate wheelchairs and walkers and kids with other physical concerns. And the teams feature buddies who help the players hit, run and field. But the kids get to play baseball. For real. Wearing uniforms, wielding gloves, holding bats. The whole nine yards. (Yuck. Mixed sports metaphor. But it works. So it stays.) I filled out the paperwork, showed the birth certificate, signed up to be a Team Mom.

And it felt great. So great. Awesome.

I have no idea if Will is even going to like this, although I suspect he will, as he really enjoys being outside and being active. Regardless, it’s going to be good for the whole family, as I’ll have the chance to cheer for my son’s team (and very likely, all the other teams as well), get bleacher bum from sitting in the stands, work in the concession stands and make new friends. Of all ages. But of common experience. In a standard issue surrounding.

What could be better?

Let’s... PLAY BALL!

But what will Betty and Veronica say...

From today's TheOnion.com:

New Archie Graphic Novel Explores Rich Inner Life Of Jughead
January 19, 2007 | Issue 43•03

NEW YORK—Publisher Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. released a new Archie Comics graphic novel Tuesday, Heavy Is The Head That Wears The Crown, an examination of the complex inner workings of longtime Archie compatriot Forsythe "Jughead" Jones. "Readers will be fascinated by Forsythe's agonizing realization that his love of food was really just a substitute for loving himself, something he deems impossible due to his guilt over the premature death of his baby sister, Forsythia, and the predatory sexual overtures he suffers at the hands of Mr. Flutesnoot," author and cartoonist Adrian Tomine said. "The poignancy is further emphasized by the glimpses of Forsythe's future, as a divorced, self-doubting, alcoholic psychiatrist with an uncontrollable weight problem." A Knopf spokesman rejected allegations that the novel is nothing more than an apologia for the character's misogyny, saying that readers "will find the truth is rather more complicated.


I spent more of my allowance money when I was a youngster on Archie comics than just about anything else. Little did I know about all this subtext.

Hilarious.

The Book's The Thing

In the case of good books, the point is not to see how many of them you can get through, but rather how many can get through to you.
~ Mortimer Adler

True confession time: I am the equivalent of a literary junk food junkie. I read stuff with no socially redeeming value at all. Either the cliche-dly(Is that a word? It is now.) named “chick lit” or more recently, the wretchedly titled “cozy” murder mysteries. (I have no damn idea why those things are called "cozies." 'Tain't nothing cozy about damsels finding dead bodies on a regular basis.) All disposable, all readily available (there’s a reason I’m an Amazon Prime member) and all imminently forgettable. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you the plot or title of the last ten books I’ve read. They provide me with a nice simple uncomplicated way to slip into that bedtime/sleep mode. The chick lit leaves me with that “aw” feeling one gets at a happy, romantic ending. And the murder mysteries always wrap up nicely, with the detective/snoop always identifying the culprit before she herself ends up in too much peril. Hooray.

While my current literary choices are nothing to be proud of, at least they’re a step better than that of my good friend, who reads what I call “bodice rippers” and what her husband calls “women porn.” I draw the line at reading stereotypical romance novels with heroines named Destiny and heroes who must spend more time on their hair than I do and medieval settings and supernatural shit and other equally irritating nonsense.

I do have standards, you know. You’d never find such ridiculousness in a Jackie Collins novel.

I think you are all going to have fun with the characters -- especially my Russian hookers, who I had so much fun writing!
~ Jackie Collins

Realizing that the ingestion of such literary tripe is probably turning my brain into a vast wasteland, I made a New Year’s resolution to Read Better Quality Books. Sure, it takes a bit more effort to process something of substance than something of fluff -- but just as fiber is better for you than cotton candy, so are books with a point of view and purpose.

I’m starting off by reading Barack Obama’s The Audacity of Hope. And midway through the first chapter, I can tell that this was a good place for me to begin. Not only is it well-written and entertaining, it has something to say. The author has points he’s making, opinions he’s sharing. And, as a lovely serendipity, I happen to share, at least from what I’ve read, those same perspectives. So this should prove to be good for me on a lot of levels.

I’ve also just picked up A Royal Affair: George III and His Scandalous Siblings, which looks to be a bit of a real life historical soap opera. I figure I can get my fill of the zesty stuff and learn a bit about history in the process. Yay!

Also on my nightstand are L.A. Confidential and The Black Dahlia, both of which came highly recommended to me. I’m kind of working up to reading them, because I want to cleanse my palette from all the fictional junk I’ve been reading so I can fully appreciate the writing, story and nuances of Mr. Ellroy. I’m rather excited about these two, because it’s been a while since I’ve read what could be considered good literature.

And my dog-eared copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude sits patiently on my bookshelf, complete with markings from both undergrad and graduate school classes. Might wait until the weather’s a bit more balmy to indulge in that symbolic treasure of magic realism.

The great thing about a resolution like this is not only is it attainable, it’s painless, entertaining and actually good for me. I’m not sure, though, if I’ll be able to find people in my regular everyday life with whom I can discuss Senator Obama’s book. I was reading it at the hair salon today, and got some really interesting looks as people tried to figure out what the book jacket was representing. Oh well. That’s not going to be a deterrent. If anything, it’s an incentive to keep on reading.

I can feel my brain thanking me already.

Read the best books first, or you may not have a chance to read them at all.
~ Henry David Thoreau 

Kodachromin'

And it chars my heart to always hear you calling
Calling for the good old days
Because there were no good old days
These are the good old days
~ The Libertines “The Good Old Days”

For reasons that I still don’t quite understand, I have been deemed the defacto family historian. I’ve somehow ended up with every family photo, newspaper clipping and letter that still exist from my mother’s side of my family. For the past umpteen years, they’ve been stored ridiculously poorly, particularly for humid, mold-friendly Florida. So I’ve been trying to consolidate things into more friendly temporary storage. Partly because of my New Year’s declaration of a War On Clutter at my house, but also as a precursor to some bigger genealogy and scrapbooking projects. I’m sorting things out of cardboard boxes that date back to the Truman Administration into a big-ass container from the post office that our held mail was kept in while we were away on the Alaska cruise. I keep thinking that I’m probably committing some sort of felony by holding onto it, but it’s really perfect for this project. It’s not like those folks at my post office are keeping strict track of their container count. They have other things to worry about. Like ejaculating customers.

Anyway.

I’m taking just a cursory look at these pictures, as I’m trying to stay focused on the objective at hand and not be distracted by other things. Such as reading every single newspaper clipping my nana ever, well, clipped. What I am doing, though, is taking note of the gist of each photo. The mood that’s prevalent. The scene that’s set.

Picture book, pictures of your mama, taken by your papa a long time ago.
Picture book, of people with each other, to prove they love each other a long ago.

The formality of so many of the shots featuring my nana and her contemporaries is striking. Women dressed to the nines to board a plane, hard-sided train case in hand, hat perched on freshly coifed hair. Men in skinny ties and gray flannel suits, attired nearly identically, regardless of the occasion. People looked nice. All the time. Candid shots were few and far between. Everything seemed planned. Calculated. Organized.

Things got slightly less staid by the time the pictures started to feature my mother and really looked loose and funky (in comparison to earlier days) when my brother and I started becoming the photograph subjects. However, even in the candid shots of my childhood, the feeling was still more structured than the shots I take today of Will. Check out this picture of my Uncle Al, Aunt Munch (real name: Evelyn. No idea why she was called Munch. But she was.) and me. At the zoo. That's right. The zoo. Lions and tigers and bears and linen dresses and skinny ties. Oh my!



A picture of you in your birthday suit,
You sat in the sun on a hot afternoon.
Picture book, your mama and your papa, and fat old Uncle Charlie out boozing with their friends.
Picture book, a holiday in August, outside a bed and breakfast in sunny Southend.
Picture book, when you were just a baby, those days when you were happy, a long time ago.

It was indeed a different time, that era reflected in pieces of paper stacked in a post office container on the floor of my office. A time when tea was served out of silver vessels, rather than a contraption operated by a barista. When a dinner party meant getting out the good stuff -- china, crystal, silver; dressing up in a hostess gown if you were the party giver; having ashtrays available for guests since smoking was not yet verboten; serving a menu of Baked chicken breasts supreme, savory stuffed mushrooms, peach Waldorf salad, hot cheese biscuits, creme-de-menthe parfait (in special parfait glasses), coffee served in demitasse cups. And dinner was followed by a game of bridge. Every home had at least one card table, which was used to actually play cards upon.

This is a picture of a bridal tea hosted by my nana and mother, held at my childhood home. I love the lady seated at the head of the table whose job it was to pour the tea for the guests. She was a friend of my nana’s and I suppose volunteered to lend a hand. (That’s Nana in the teal dress and Mother’s head at the very right of the frame.)



Sure, time marches on, as they say. And cultural norms change and adapt to the times. But there’s just something about the lost arts of civility I see represented in those photos that makes me a bit wistful. I myself have many of the accouterments used for entertaining that my nana and mother had. Where their silver was polished and gleaming (thanks to a once-a-week housekeeper who came in to handle chores like that), mine is reflective gray with tarnish. The “good china” sits pristinely in the china hutch, used only on certain occasions like Christmas and Easter dinners. I’d honestly use it more, but it’s the sort of dinnerware that needs to be handwashed. And that’s not my scene if I can help it.

Here’s a glimpse at my dining room, set for an Easter Day meal. Looks a little different than the scene at my parents’ house, doesn’t it? (That’s my hand and glasses to the right of the frame.) This is as close to a classic dinner party as I've gotten. Yet.



Might be time to revive the Lost Art of the Dinner Party. But not anytime soon. Really don't want to host such a momentous event while being obsessed with Weight Watchers points. That would take all the fun out of things.

I’m looking forward to spending more time with my relatives as I look at and absorb the pictures for which I am the caretaker. Not only will it give me some perspective on where I came from, but I hope to find a connection with the past that goes a bit more global than the details of my family life.

And maybe I’ll hunt down a recipe for Baked Chicken Breasts Supreme and pick up a bottle of creme-de-menthe. Just in case.

Remember the good old days.
Remember the good old days.
They were good...
They were old...
They were days...
~ "Good Old Days," Carlene Frazier, Designing Women

I think that I shall never see a Twinkie quite as lovely as thee

Health food may be good for the conscience but Oreos taste a hell of a lot better. ~ Robert Redford

So I’m on This Damn Diet (heretofore known as TDD) -- more commonly known as the Weight Watchers program. It’s not a crazy eating plan, it promotes healthy food choices while providing a sensible, workable, dare I say flexible plan which is very conducive to the way people live today.

And two weeks into this thing, I have to say that it’s good. And it seems to be working. I’ve got more energy, the jeans I wore today hung a little looser than usual and I just generally feel good.

But... that’s not to say that things are all happy-happy-joy-joy. Surprise surprise surprise. [/Gomer Pyle]

It’s bad at breakfast. My favorite meal of the day. I love breakfast food -- eggs, bacon, cheese grits, hash browns, sausage, pancakes, muffins, toast with jelly -- all washed down with a big old glass of milk. Kashi Go Lean Twigs, Bark and Berries just isn’t the same thing. Not that I ate all those things for breakfast before TDD. But now that I’m more disciplined (heh heh heh -- I figure if I keep telling myself that, it will finally come true), all those delights just seem that much more tantalizing.

But here’s the biggest problem so far.

I have a MAJOR sweet tooth, one that frequently craves the delights of processed food delicacies, such as Ho-Hos, Ding-Dongs and Twinkies. The more unpronounceable the ingredients, the better. The best part of said foodstuffs is, for me, the yummy creme filling. Mmmmm.

My all-time favorite though, was the Dolly Madison-produced snack cakes known as Zingers. Mmmmmm. They featured the Peanuts gang in their advertising and often sported a character on the packaging. Look at this vintage ad:



See how happy Lucy is, all smiling and relaxed, having undoubtedly just consumed a delicious chocolate Zinger (with creme filling!) for an after-school snack. Who wouldn’t love something that could make crabby old Lucy so delightful.

Needless to say, here in WW land, such pleasures as Zingers come at a price -- I haven’t looked it up in my handy-dandy WW Food Information Book, but I suspect that a Zinger is worth at least double-digit WW points. But I’m not without options in this arena. The good people in R&D at WW have created a treat for people just like me. I give you

The Weight Watchers Twinkie



Here it is, fresh out of its cute little wrapper, placed next to my ever-present Mac Lipglass, so you can get an idea of the scale and size of the thing. It's like two bites, three max.





And... here is that same WW Twinkie, cut open. Do you see any delicious creme filling? I think not. Fat Free Reddi Whip isn’t bad -- you think the WW people could have sprung for even just a schmear for the center. But no.

The saving grace of this item is that it's only ONE WW point. It doesn't taste all that bad. And there's icing on top. There's just not a lot of it to enable me to savor the flavor. Even after trying to take my time biting and slowing chewing said bite, that sucker’s down the hatch in under a minute. Tops.

Did I mention there’s no creme filling?

But it beats the hell out of some other one point options: a complete package of celery. Three hundred and fifty-seven mushroom caps. A head of cauliflower, steamed, no cheese sauce. So I’ll stop kvetching and count my blessings that someone took the time to make these little gems for junk food junkies like myself.

I honestly think I’ve gone round the bend a bit here, waxing poetical and ranting methodically about a damn diet snack cake. Maybe because I’m denying my physical body the wondrous taste sensations that are junk food products, my mind is picking up the slack and bordering on the obsessive. It doesn’t help that I’m sitting in my office, writing this, surrounded by at least 100 cookbooks and can look to my left into my kitchen where my chrome Kitchenaid mixer beckons me to knead some bread dough in its shiny metal belly.

I’m not going to worry about this just yet. When I start writing Odes to Wasa Multi-Grain Crispbread -- then it’ll be time to call the mental health authorities.

Red Letter Day

Fed himself lunch. All by himself. With most of it ending up in his mouth.

Walked from the playground to his classroom to his chair for Circle Time and sat down in the chair of his choosing. By himself.

Got up from the table at lunchtime to throw his napkin away. By himself.

Had a couple of successful missions in Operation: Potty Training.

It was a good day to be Will.

And to be Will's mama.

Let the games begin!

Just saw on Yahoo! News that Senator Barack Obama is forming a presidential exploratory committee. How serendipitous that I just picked up his book on Amazon. This. Is good stuff.

http://www.barackobama.com/

Makin' a list, checkin' it twice

New Year's:  Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions.  Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual.  ~Mark Twain

Does it count as spring cleaning if technically it’s still January, but the temperature is oh-so-springlike?

Is it slightly obsessive that I count Weight Watchers points instead of sheep when trying to drift off to sleep?

How sad is it that I’ve already misplaced the list I was using to get myself organized once and for all.

It’s that time of year again -- the time for resolutions and self-improvement and goals and objectives and blah blah blah. My list of To-Dos for the new year is extensive. And slightly ambitious.

Hone those organizational skills.

Develop better eating and dietary habits.

Write more on a consistent basis (I’m trying to crank something out every day. Might be good. Might be shit on a stick. But at least it’s me putting effort into getting words on paper.)

Get out and exercise (This is still in the planning stages. Although I have a nifty new pair of walking shoes, a re-vamped bicycle, complete with a cute basket with flowers on the front handlebars and a newly-assembled Ab-Doer. I’m ready to huff and puff and schvitz.)

Broaden my horizons by listening to new music, reading books out of my preferred genres, taking in more movies. It’s good to have attainable, pleasant goals on one’s list. I’m currently digging Belle & Sebastian (recommended to me by a hipster buddy whose taste I respect and admire) and Mose Allison (a recommendation from a person I adore whose taste is so similar to mine, it’s scary. No wonder I'm loving it.)

I've been on a diet for two weeks and all I've lost is fourteen days.  ~Totie Fields

I’m determined to either prove or disprove that crap about doing something for 21 days and it have it morph into a habit -- as of today, I’m two-thirds of the way there. My organizational skills still have a lot to be desired. (Although I consider my Piling System to be an outstanding one. Even though my desk has been taken over by all my piles of paper and such, I still pretty much know where everything is. Kinda.)

But... my taste buds are getting retrained to appreciate the healthy side of the dining spectrum. It’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve had a soda of any kind. Or even had a fleeting thought about McDonald’s french fries. And I have decided that non-fat iced chai lattes are just as satisfying as the leaded version. However, I’m still not reconciled to the fact that even though it’s basically manufactured chain food, the stuff that’s featured on Olive Garden commercials looks damn good. Especially compared to the Lean Cuisine tv dinner I tried to eat sensibly but ended up inhaling at the speed of light. No way does the low-fat cheese on my Chicken Cutlet Parmesan drip and meld off the fork like it does at the Olive Garden. But my mantra is thin feels better than fat tastes. Lather, rinse, repeat.

There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.  ~Mark Twain

There is much to anticipate already in the coming year. Will enters kindergarten in the fall. I’ve already been to check out a potential classroom for him -- and liked it, and the teacher, very much. He’s doing so much more independent walking and really appropriate talking. And potty training is in progress. There will be a great parade and fiesta the day I change my last diaper. Look for your invitation in the mail.

A trip to Vegas with friends (from all over the place -- internet buddies are we!) in the early spring is in the works -- a getaway, with mirth, merriment and Tom Jones on the agenda. And the very possible birth of a band, with me as a singer. Turns out that there are a couple of other middle-aged knuckleheads around who have always wanted to sing in a band -- and we found each other at a New Year’s Eve party. How’s that for serendipity. Or mutual insanity. Can’t wait to see how this one plays out.

A lot can happen in a year. Sometimes it feels like forever and sometimes it feels like you were ripping off that calendar page just yesterday. Two weeks into it and I’d have to say things are going well. *knock on wood*

And that’s not such a bad thing at all.

Character is the ability to carry out a good resolution long after the excitement of the moment has passed. ~Cavett Robert

... Of the Day

Phrase...
Oh, how I love Urban Dictionary.
shop naked: to shop for items online; to buy things from an online store.
I think I'm going to save myself a lot of holiday shopping hassles and just shop naked.
Heh. I do believe I am the Queen of shopping naked. At least that's what the good people at Amazon.com tell me.

Songs...
An oldie but a goodie: "I Hate Myself for Loving You" by Joan Jett. Good for singing along with very loudly. Actually, I think that's a pre-requisite for singing that song.

And "Gold Lion" by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Also good for singing along with. Which I'll do as soon as I learn all the words. Hate singing along and then "mumble mumble mumble" because I don't know the lyrics.

Pastime...
Watching some really good football. Great NFL playoff games this weekend, with three out of the four the teams I wanted to win coming out on top. That San Diego loss was painful, as I think that LT is a class act. Tough end to a stellar year. Go Colts. Go Saints.

Accomplishment...
Day 14 of TDD (That Damn Diet) and still going strong. Not ready to celebrate just yet (my tuchus is still the poster child for the maximus part of gluteus maximus -- I love Wikipedia's definition: The gluteus maximus is the largest and most superficial of the three gluteal muscles. No shit.) but progress is being made. And I've even learned to love my antioxident energy drink. Who says you can't retrain taste buds -- it's frankly no mocha shake from Steak & Shake, but it's not half bad. I am one with my WW points calculator. And it is one with me. We are simpatico.

At least for the moment.

Speaks For Itself!

Thank You...

... to whoever sent this card into Post Secret.



For it is my goal too.

Creative Endeavours

I made myself an Inspiration Board, to give me a boost for the new year.

Wanna see it?



It's got some familiar quotes (a couple that I've posted here) but some not-so-familiar ones that speak to me and where I am these days.

Here's one that hits really close to home (it's in the center, all the way at the bottom):
"Have you ever noticed how many women are held down before 40? They're having children and serving husbands. Find creativity that's not necessarily connected to being a wife or mother."

Whoo doggies. I'm grabbing that one and holding on, as it's something that I need to hear regularly.

And I like these two, together, yet separate:
"The work of your life is to discover your purpose and get on with the business of living it out."

"Success is keeping an even keel -- being confident about who you are and what you're doing."

This one was written just for me, I think:
"It's a messy sloppy world out there, and the single most important quality you have to have is monomania. A monomaniac is someone whose every mistake has originality."

Finally, smack dab in the middle, is this gem:
"It's OK to admit that you can't do everything."

My quest to figure out who I am in the midst of the labels and responsibilities of life is still in progress. It's a slow process -- slower than I anticipated. But that's OK. Self-discovery is something that shouldn't be rushed, I don't think. And I've learned a lot -- more surprising things than I initially anticipated. Isn't that what a quest is all about, though? If you knew what to expect, then the journey wouldn't be nearly as interesting and the desitination not as sweet.

And so, I continue. Moving forward. Such a ride.