The road to hell is paved with dust bunnies

I decided to clean my house the other morning, after determining that it would be marginally less trouble than setting it on fire and finding a new place to live. I'll just finish this coffee, I thought, and then I'll get started. In the meantime, what would it hurt to google housecleaning? It's possible great strides have been made in dusting techniques since I last picked up a Swiffer.

Indeed, there were many techniques, technologies, and suggested schedules to be considered and compared. Daily cleaning routines. Weekly cleaning routines. Seasonal cleaning routines. Those ones always make me feel guilty. Does anyone really do spring cleaning, where you wash all the windows and flip the mattresses and descale the coffeemaker and beat all the rugs? Or is it like flossing--something most people just pretend they do regularly?

By lunch time I was thoroughly up to speed, and ready to get started. I'll just make a list of supplies, I thought. This, too, required exhaustive online research. I better see what I have on hand before I go running off to buy new cleaners, I decided, emptying both bathroom closets and the kitchen sink cabinet of various chemicals. After another hour of consolidating half-empty bottles of window spray and carefully hand labeling everything with a permanent marker as to its purpose (in case I forget the bottle with the Glass Plus label on the front is for "FOR GLASS"), I was ready to go to the store to fill in the inventory gaps. Better check to see if I have coupons for any of this, I thought, going to the drawer where I keep the Sunday paper supplements going back to last spring. Thirty minutes later, potential savings of $1.50 in hand, I checked the time. I had an hour before it was time to pick up the kids. No problem.

In the cleaning products aisle, I was torn between feelings of self-satisfaction at the idea of saving a few dollars, and self-satisfaction at the idea of saving the planet. After a long struggle, I up-sold my motives, and left with fifty bucks worth of disinfecting wipes made with herbal oils, and scandinavian hardwood floor cleaner made from the happy, ph neutral tears of grateful reindeers.

I glanced at the clock on my phone. Holy crap. No time to go by the house now--school was out already.

"What's in the bags?" my son asked, climbing into the van.

Mommy's good intentions, I thought about saying. On the sliding scale where cleanliness is next to Godliness, you'll find them and me on the opposite end.

this post lives all by itself here

iPod in Beta

this post lives all by itself here

How to Do the Oscars in (my) Style

If someone should offer you tickets to a $150-a-head, black tie, Oscar watch party, you say yes first, and worry about what to wear after. Then you consult with your stylist:

Naturally, you will pay a visit to one of the major design houses:

You'll know The Dress when you see it...

...because it will seem like it was made just for you.



Choose an escort who brings an appropriate sense of dignity and decorum to such events:



Be prepared for wardrobe malfunctions:

Be thankful that you can count on your "people" to make you look good:

Be discreet when using your phone to snap photos of celebrities:



Consider keeping the program as a souvenir. The duck-shaped butter pat, while unique, may not hold up as well over the years.



Finally, savor your moment in the spotlight...



...but never lose sight of the bigger picture:

this post lives all by itself here

Couple things

First thing:

I'll be on a "Best Blogging Practices" panel tomorrow with Max Brantley of The Arkansas Times at the Blogging Academy presented by the Society of Professional Journalists at the University of Arkansas School of Law. Max is a seasoned, old-school print journalist, David Kinkade who writes about the burning political, social and economic issues of our time.

And I blog about my bangs.

It will either be very interesting or incredibly awkward. Either way, well worth seeing. Come down.

Second thing: There's a nice giveaway on Noteworthy, my review blog, this week. You can win a shiny new wedding ring. Mate not included.

Third thing: I forgot. But here's a dancing baby.

this post lives all by itself here

"Does this dress make me look fat?"

A portrait of a man, walking into a trap. The socks signify whatever you want them to.

this post lives all by itself here

Analog

How much do I love this wall clock my husband picked out for me this Christmas?

A lot.

Though I have no idea what time it is by looking at it, do you?

this post lives all by itself here

None the Wiser

I have a thing for owls, did I mention? I started bringing them home last year, and well, they've multiplied. You can see a few of them here in my WOL flickr set.

Every new owl that comes home to roost is my favorite. This custom printed scarf arrived today from Pretty Raccoon's etsy shop (I also bought her smokin' hot chandelier screen-printed LBD).

If I mention a product here on Notes, you can be assured it is for love, not money, by the way. I have turned down some great swag because it came with strings attached, including a $300 printer offer the very same week my own printer sputtered, choked and died. Stupid integrity.

So if any of you ever wanted to send me something—say, oh, I don't know, AN OWL, maybe— just know that I couldn't promise I would post about it. Though I might anyway. And that I would make out with you shamelessly in my mind.

this post lives all by itself here

Fluff

The hostess-y arts come easily and naturally to some, and not to others. If you have to wonder on which side of the comma I fall, here's a hint: I went through a whole deck of 3 X 5 index cards between the day I marked my calendar "bday party" and the hour the first guests walked through the door.

For those of you who are similarily impaired, here's the playsheet.

Two weeks before:

Sent out invitations. I actually put the party on the calendar and started working on a guest list about a month in advance. I had to really work at not going overboard with it. Our house is small and my affections are wide. To keep myself from going crazy, I wrote myself a lot of rainchecks for future dinner guests.

I also had to keep from overthinking it. My criteria was simple: to spend my birthday with people who delight me. The minute I veered over into worrying if so-and-so would have anything to say to so-and-so, I shut it down. I think weddings and certain kinds of funeral gatherings are so memorable and special precisely because they throw unlikely people together.

If you can arrange to be married to a graphic designer in time for your party, I recommend it. Patrick is too modest to let me post the illustration he did of us for the invitations, but it was a hoot.

One week before:

I started making and hanging these pom poms. They are just giant Mexican paper flowers, layers and layers of tissue paper folded up like a fan and then trimmed and fluffed. If you grew up in the 70s, like me, you probably remember fluffing the Kleenex version of these for some older cousin's wedding or graduation.

The day before:

Cooked. In the past when we've staged large gatherings, they've always been potluck, b.y.o.b. This time, I really wanted to let everyone off the hook. I looked for finger-friendly recipes, and came up with this menu:

Romas and Goats. New favorite appetizer recipe. I made these with miniature Romas, halved and stuffed with the chevre and panko mixtures.

Onion Frittata Bites from Cooking Light (which I didn't—I used whole eggs instead of egg substitute, and there may have been heavy cream involved, but there are no witnesses)

Bloody Marys from Martha Stewart (as a rough guide —toward the end, I was just tossing a shake of this and a dash of that in a pitcher)

I did everything in batches of four dozen. The brunch menu was filled out with a spiral ham, fruit salad and miniature biscuits baked from frozen. And, of course, the birthday tower of five dozen Shipley's Do-nuts, chocolate glaze with sprinkles.

The night before:

I hung the rest of the poms, boxed the favors, arranged the furniture and put out all the serving platters and barware on the table and sidebar with sticky notes reminding me what food went with what piece. It was kind of Rainman-meets-Martha Stewart.

The morning of:

Everyone pitched in with cleaning house. Patrick picked up the donuts (ordered a few days in advance), and I stacked them on a big foil-covered cake decorators' platter with ribbon hot-glued around the edge. I had already worked out at what times and in what order everything needed to be heated (yes, there was actually a chart —my non-linearly inclined brain was stretched to its outermost limit), so from 9 am to 11 am, the oven was in steady service.

In between, I got dressed and finished decorating. All hands were on deck, except the Littlest Who, who slept late. When he woke up, he wandered through the rearranged furniture, flowers and poms-poms to find me outside, wrapping crepe streamers around the porch pillars.

"Mom!" he said, eyes wide. "Is all this for me?"

Of course I told him it was.

this post lives all by itself here

Maverick-y

I have to say, this look didn't cost anywhere near $150K. But it did take a heck of a lot of hairspray.

this post lives all by itself here

Take My Advice; I'm Not Using It

So the reason I didn't post today is because I spent all afternoon writing a pitch for a paying blogging gig on a style site.

That's not a smudge on your computer screen. That's flour on my yoga pants. The yoga pants I am wearing with an equally pristine and sophisticated grey hooded sweatshirt. The Polartech heartrate monitor wristwatch with the broken vinyl strap is what pulls it all together, I think.

Why wouldn't you pay me to tell you how to achieve this look?

I'll let you know if they bite.

this post lives all by itself here

I'm in UR Mind, Stealing UR Ideas

I am working on a post about blogging as a legitimate art form, so we had best get this out of the way:



Patrick wants a Lolcat caption for it. Suggestions?

this post lives all by itself here

Before I get too deep.

One of the things I liked about doing NaBloPoMo last year, was the feeling that I had a license to natter on about nothing. I could write pure fluff & drivel and chalk it up as filler. It was refreshing, and it was good for my writing. I had forgotten about that leavening effect until I got to reading everybody's first two days worth of BloPos. There's a throwaway tone to them that's just plain fun. Want to write about the stinky catbox? Yesterday's trip to the mall? Well, whyever the heck not? There doesn't have to be a point or a moral. It's deliciously decadent, and sort of naughty to someone like me, whose feet are still firmly planted (& sometimes mired) in print.

NaBloPoMo, itself a spin-off, keeps spinning out new spin-offs. Like NaBloShoeMo, in which you post a photo of your shoes every day. Now, for some, shoes are sacrosanct. And I respect that. But it doesn't get much more frivolous for me. Still, Susan Wagner is the ringleader, and ever since Susan walked up to me in Chicago with a drink in her hand & said something nice to me, I am her handmaiden. That's how easy I am.

So when the invite came round from Susan to join in, I kind of wished I could, in hopes that she might whisper more sweet nothings in my ear. But I didn't see how, given that I have about three pairs of shoes & a pair of boots that I wear. Hardly a month's worth.

Then yesterday, as I was getting dressed, I looked at the cardboard box hidden behind my dresser where I throw my shoes (I know, I know, I don't deserve to own shoes). I thought what I always thought when I see that box, which is, "I really need to do something about this. Sometime." The box is overflowing with shoes that are worn out, outdated, or just plain forgotten. I don't know if there are thirty pairs, but I bet I could get to Thanksgiving. It would force me to make some decisions, and those of you who are better with dressing your feet could help me.

So although I am three days behind, I have decided to make NaBloShoeMo my way of lightening up through the dark days of November. Yes, given that I have been complaining about fetishists, this is patentedly insane. But my skin grew three layers this week, so bring 'em on!

---

p.s. those of you who want to follow will have to look in my flickr set daily. That way, the rest of you don't have to suffer through 27 pairs of stinky shoes.

this post lives all by itself here

Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

Grimly resigned to going to the gym. Right after my coffee.

So, I woke up on opening day of the pool with the panic of a kid on the first day of finals who hasn't cracked a book all year (and I was that kid). I have been working out five days a week, eating 1600 calories a day ever since. Three days of weights, two of my Kathy Smith step video. The other night, I went online shopping for a new swimsuit and behold, two visions of the future were laid out before me. On the browser tab on the right was the Victoria's Secret site; on the left was Land's End. Both suits lovely and well-made. One sexy. One appropriate.

Oh, Spirit, why show me this, if I am past all hope? I repent, I repent.*

---

What the male readers just read:

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah Victoria's Secret blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

*See previous post Gone, Baby, Gone for backstory.

this post lives all by itself here

Gone, Baby, Gone

There was a time when all that it took for me to drop five pounds was to think about it. Going to a party on the weekend? Swimsuit season coming up? Getting married in a half a yard of charmeuse and no panties ( a story I am saving for our tenth anniversary, this fall)? No problem. I would just decide to be thin, and electrical signals would run from my brain to my fat cells and zap them.

Then I went and had three children, and sometime while my back was turned to change one of 6,570 diapers, my metabolism went out for cigarettes and never came back.

I mentioned last month that I was going on my annual spring diet, in anticipation of swimsuit season. I also mentioned that I hate to bring up dieting, because a) is there anything more boring, and b) I don't want to insult people who have serious weight/food issues with my whining about five or ten pounds. No matter how much I insist I have more energy when I don't eat sugar, or affirm that I needed to eat more raw vegetables anyway, you and I both know the distinction between a size 4 and a size 6 is one of vanity, not health. (What if I point out that five extra pounds have nowhere to hide on a short-waisted, 5'4" frame? Crying me a river yet?)

I did the two-week, no-sugar, no-starch, no-joy, "purgation" phase of Dr. Arthur Agaston's South Beach diet, and quickly shed about half of the part of myself I was wanting to ditch. But then I hit a wall. And now I am leaning up against it defiantly, with a chocolate bar tucked under my rolled up t-shirt sleeve and a soft breadstick dangling from my lip. Bring it, Agaston.

It has dawned on me that watching what I eat is no longer something I only have to do in between having babies. It has been nine years since my first pregnancy began. My youngest and last child just turned three. I thought I had gotten over this, but guess there is residual part of me that still believes things will soon return to "normal," including my body. That indefatigable spirit watched me light the third candle on the baby's birthday cake a couple of weeks ago, turned around and said, "Whew. Okay, now where was I?", expecting to just pick up where she left off at 29. Like a coma patient who wakes up and learns her true love didn't wait around.

It isn't just the old metabolism that's gone MIA, either. It ran off with my sleep cycle, my hormones, and my sex drive, and before they all split, they stuffed their pockets with collagen and hair pigment.

If you see them, call me. I am offering a sizable reward for information leading to their capture and return:

1-800-WHT-THFK

In the meantime, I am contemplating my options. For a dire moment it was looking like I might have to pick up the pace on the elliptical trainer, which would make it hard to read magazines and talk on the phone, but then Lesley ran this item at Fashiontribes, which hails the revival of old-timey bathing suits (I want the kelly green one). Some of them have more coverage than my wedding dress did. And why tone your belly only to cover it with ruching? In fact, some of us can just wear our regular one-pieces and say that the ripples are ruching.

It's a positive trend, and I hope it's the beginning of a long one. Perhaps by the time I am forty, they will have rediscovered the allure of the Edwardian "bathing costume". Then I could dispense with sunscreen and waxing, as well as dieting. I'll want the one with really deep pockets for soft breadsticks and magazines.

this post lives all by itself here

Miscellany

Just in

This is the kind of breaking news the world is missing out on by my conscientious objection to Twitter: I just came back from the library! My requests were in! (Yes, that is the DVD of The Secret. I know, I know.)

This Cheese Stands Alone

I am so far holding out on the Twitter front. It's not easy. All the cool kids are doing it. People I like and follow around bleatingly.

But in this, I just can't. Look, if things get to point where I am compelled to update you hourly on my comings and goings and you are compelled to keep track of them, well, we probably both need to start seeing other people. Like licensed therapists.

Besides, I like to think I have cornered the market for people who can follow blog posts that exceed 1,000 words. All five of you.

That's my stance today, anyhow. Considering that I recently did That Which I Said I Would Never Do, and consented to (alright, suggested) putting a television set in our bedroom, I'm not sure I can claim to be principled on any front.

And Now, Some Woo-Woo

So anyway, when I am not giving my husband a lapdance to Kellis at backyard Cinco de Mayo parties, or watching tv IN BED, I have been going around giving talks about dream interpretation as a spiritual practice. This is part of my life I have hitherto kept on the down-low around here, but Jungian-oriented dreamwork has been a big part of my life for nearly six years. It is part of my paid work, and I am enrolled in a certification program to lead dream groups, something I have been doing off and on for a while anyway.

I took a break from teaching about dreams for a little while, because as with anything spiritual, there's a time to talk about it and a time to shut up about it, but I guess my quiet time is up, because I am suddenly getting invitations to teach again. It's good, because it forces me to work with my own dreams in a more focussed and disciplined way than I have been doing. It's putting me in touch with some internal conflicts that are lately heating up. A dream of a few nights ago epitomizes this:

A friend of mine who I think of as a very protective and devoted mother calls me up to say I can't be around her child anymore unless I cut off my hair. I am very upset, as the child and mother are very dear to me, but I don't understand why I should have to cut my hair.

I go into a diner, where I am seated across from a funky artist woman. She is with a male partner. I tell her about the ultimatum and she gives me a look like, "that's bullshit" and tells me I don't need to cut my hair. I like her energy. She seems carefree and confident.

That, in a nutshell, reflects the war within. The creative part of me that wants to let her hair down, and the mothering part of me that worries it's not good for the children. Annette Bening gave an interview with Teri Gross a few years ago where she articulated this divide beautifully: the mother needs things to be safe and stable; the artist needs risk and change. My dreams show that this is never going to be a winner-take-all proposition— both aspects are too vital and too strong. It's more like an ongoing set of negotiations, at times more intense than others. I'm just glad both sides are talking.

Other dreams are hinting at conflict about where my creative focus is. This blog is fun, and freeing, but it is getting the biggest piece of the pie right now, and I have nagging doubts about how it fits into the whole picture. It's not clear yet to me whether the dreams are saying, go with it for now and don't overthink it, or if I'm being nudged toward something less instantly gratifying. More will be revealed.

If you haven't fallen asleep, and are actually interested in learning about working with your own dreams, from either a spiritual or a psychological angle, here are some books and websites I recommend as starting points:

• International Association for the Study of Dreams
  
• Inner Work, by Robert Johnson Excellent for people of all (and no) faiths.
  
• Natural Spirituality by my friend, Joyce Rockwood Hudson. This is directed particularly at mainline Protestants, although it could be adapted for secular use and other faiths.
  
• Avoid like disease any book or anyone who tries to tell you "x always means y" in a dream, or that they know what your dream means, or worse, that they had a dream that was meant for you.

In the words of my mentor, Dr. Lucy Van Pelt, Thank you. That will be five cents.

this post lives all by itself here

Following the Crucifixion, Brunch Will Be Served

Nothing to add here. Just wanted to show off my vintage Easter frock. Because like a swimming pool, I am both shallow and deep. The conversation in the comments section of the previous post continues apace. Dive in.

this post lives all by itself here

Mangabeys:the E! True Hollywood Story

Actual sign posted at the Little Rock Zoo:

"Why aren't any of the Mangabeys together? There are several reasons. Holly has very bad arthritis and her backbone is fused so she can't bend her back. Moses is very rough on Holly and injured her bad enough we had to separate them. Susie (gray one on the other side of Holly) was sent here to be a friend for Holly. At first they were best buddies, but when they went into Estrus (heat) that changed. They started fighting over Moses. They injured each other enough that we had to separate them. They did not calm down while apart so our vet just put birth control implants in them. This should even out their hormones, and hopefully they won't fight anymore. We still hope to get them together and with lots of luck we hope to get Moses in with them too."

Can anyone now doubt the origin of our species?

this post lives all by itself here

Ground control to Major Tom

My mom sent us a webcam this week. I set it up Friday night, and we spent most of yesterday standing around it like it was the very first television. Only, the first television probably had better image quality. Patrick and I both live off Macs, and the cam is for PCs, so the only place to run it is off the old desktop we keep around for the kids.

First I configured it to run with MSN messenger, but couldn't get the audio activated. My mom hasn't figured that part out yet either. For the first half of the day we watched each other looking down at our keyboards, typing. Every so often, one of the kids would wander by and stick his face in the camera (in the baby's case, his naked bum) and my mother would mutely and frantically wave like she was on Super 8.

I managed to send mute video to my cousin Erika, who was snowed in, and typed plaintiffly that she felt like we were visiting through plexigas, in prison.

erika says:
I can see you.

erika says:
I can't touch you or hear you.

erika says:
but I love you.

I imagined her pressing her palm to the screen.

Later in the day, I figured out how to get Skype up and running. Sorry to be such a geek, but Skype has to be one of the seven wonders of the modern world. Unfortunately, being a geek does not necessarily mean one is technically proficient. So it took a while for my mother and I to get sound and vision working together. We spent the evening having a long conversation that went like this:

"Can you see me? Are you there?

"I can see you. Can you see me?"

"What? I can't hear you. Are you there? Wait, you froze."

It was like talking to someone on the space station. My girlfriend Heather came by, to drop her son off at my eight year-old's birthday slumber party (more on that later). I made her sit down and talk to my mother while I poured us a glass of wine (more on that, over here).

"How are you?" she said to my mother, "You look great. Are you still doing the Buddhist retreats?"

"What? Are you there, Heather? Can you see me?"

"How's retirement?"

"What? Can you hear me? Hi, Heather!"

I stepped in to help. "No, no, not like that. You can't have an actual conversation. Just smile and wave."

Finally, this morning, we downloaded Skype onto Patrick's mac, with its built-in iSight camera. He and my mother have been chatting for the last 45 minutes. We have paraded every child in the house in front of her, including the four that don't live here. It should be interesting when they mention to their parents that we made them talk to some strange lady in Canada on the computer.

this post lives all by itself here

Hardly Asked Questions

Because I have less than six weeks to prepare for my poetry readings in Ireland, and because I swore last night that from here on out, I would Get Down to Business, I am suddenly awash with nifty ideas for the blog.

One of these is to start a H.A.Q. file. For Hardly Asked Questions. Things hardly anyone is dying to know.

Here's how it works: you post your question in the comments section here, where you can choose anonymity if you like. In a day or two, I will build a link in the sidebar to the H.A.Q. and we can keep adding to it.

I will do my best to answer all relevant questions. Like, "Newfoundland— isn't that near Latvia?" and "My uncle works at the William Morris Agency. Do you mind if I send him a few chapters of your book?" or "Where can I get a Rottschund?" Questions along the lines of "Do you want these incriminating pictures back?" should be directed to my personal email.

You can ask serious questions, too. If they aren't too personal. For a blog. Which gives you pretty much carte blanche.

Please try and avoid life's big imponderables, like, "Why should I care?" or "Don't you have something better to do?" and "My God, woman, what could there possibly be left that you haven't told us?" Those are beyond the scope of the H.A.Q. or my ability to answer.

As for the person who came here wondering about "extramarital sex without ejaculation" while staying at the Hilton: yes, sweetheart, it's still cheating.

---

My blogging brethren, feel free to develop your own HAQs. It would be fun to see it go meta.

this post lives all by itself here

Breeched, yet unshod.




I went shopping today for back-to-school clothes for the kids. (Ouch! I thought uniforms were supposed to save money?). Passing the juniors section, I saw some of the trendy stovepipe jeans on display, and thought, oh, what the hell. I mean, I haven't eaten a carbohydrate in months. And for what, if not for the right to rehash styles from junior high?

In the dressing room mirror, I hestitated. They looked pretty good in the leg, and from what I could tell, not bad in the rear. But some things have changed since grade nine. I put in a call to my fashionista pal:

"About the new skinny jeans, I was just wondering, are there any out there that will hold in our tummies? Or, should asking that question automatically disqualify me from wearing them?"

I had to leave a message. But just as I was putting them back on the rack, I noticed all the long, blousy, tunics also on display. Long and blousy enough to drape over the low-rise waistband of a pair of skinny jeans. I chose a steely gray one.

I was feeling proudly with-it until I got home and realized I have absolutely no shoes to go with my ensemble (or anywhere to wear it, in 100 degree-plus weather, but that's beside the point). Like Edward Scissorhands, I am unfinished. What I think they need are candy-apple red pumps. Or silver pointy-toe stilletos. What I have are flip-flops. Let's not even go into the state of my feet, except to plead that I grew up in a place where you wear boots ten months of the year. Putting makeup on my toes is not something that naturally occurs to me to do.

My girlfriends try to help me, and I owe any accidental hipness factor entirely to my association with them. But really, I'm doing well if my clothes are on right side out before I leave the house. Accessorizing is beyond me. Also, I have anaphylactic sticker shock when it comes to fashion. Deep down inside, I believe I alone will be responsible for the starving of millions if I spend more than forty dollars at a time decorating myself.

So, feel free to intervene here...shoe suggestions, anyone?

filed under: money, fluffdrivel
Technorati Tags:
cheapskate, skinny jeans, postpartum abdominals, shoes

this post lives all by itself here