Here are some pictures from around the house earlier today. They’re saying snow is coming next. This little accumulation, about a quarter to half inch of ice, is from freezing rain. The roads in the neighborhood are impassable, so we’re pretty stuck here til the thaw.
Look. This is a serious weather threat for our area, in spite of all the mockery given the disaster that was Atlanta a couple of weeks ago. An ice storm is not good news, ever. I can predict, without a meteorology degree, that we’re going to lose power, and that it will be an unfortunate thing for many people.
In our case, we’ve got a fireplace, a gas stove, plenty of food. And we’re inside, so no matter how cold it gets, we’ll have blankets and whatever we need to be fine. I know this may not be the case for many families. I am fearful for the homeless.
But look at this tweet, please. How can we possibly take storms seriously with this kind of crazy hyperbole? Makes me want to NEVER take this guy seriously ever again.
I’m consoling myself with some bourbon. Over ice. It’s going to be a long week.
Totally enjoyed laughing at the absurdity of this Singer Sewing Machine advice posted above. And then I started thinking about that. What if I substituted “writing” for sewing? Would it make a difference in my writing output? I have three writing projects, two with deadlines. I’m ready to have fun writing in a worry-free, clean environment.
I was ready. I got up, made a pot of coffee, dashed through the house organizing, dusting, and overall making it look presentable! Yes! I didn’t do any heavy duty cleaning, just decluttering and putting things away. I wanted to leave myself plenty of time to write, doncha know!
Satisfied with having a home ready to accept visitors or a husband coming home early, I jumped in the shower and made myself pretty! I powdered my nose! I wore my pearls!
I wore a smile! Amazing what that can do. Just as I was settling down to write, guess what? My husband came home early. He was delighted to see me smiling, and was happy to come home to a welcoming, warm home.
I didn’t get to do any writing. He was too busy wanting to spend time with me, this unusual creature with a smile who smelled good and was wearing real clothes instead of sweats.
I sent the following text message to a friend, not so much to console her, as to console myself:
Julian of Norwich said, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”
She responded with the following:
“Julian of Norwich was hallucinating in her tiny cell and anorexic probably. But if that is what it takes to have a good attitude….”
This is why one must have friends. She knows what I need.
I came home from an afternoon of errands and some quiet time writing when it suddenly hit me: it’s January 31st.
I lost my mind, in that crazy psychotic way that I tend to lose my mind when I do, and since there were no witnesses (having my children witness this kind of meltdown in the past has sent them whispering about me to each other, and possibly, if they read this, to a group message on their phones).
Today’s meltdown happened because I was sick of looking at the stupid tree, and, not having any other recourse, attempted to pull it out by myself.
What was I thinking? It’s an 8 foot dried up tree. I’m a 5″7 chubby middle-aged momma.
Tree 1 — Momma 0
I was not going to have that. No. No way. So I took matters into my own hands. There’s a small chainsaw in the garage. How hard could it be to use? I’ve seen my husband and my son wave it around and bring down trees.
I can do that. I’m sure Helen Reddy was singing a chorus or two in my mind when I had that bright idea. The plan was to hack the tree in half, and haul off two manageable sections. That didn’t happen.
Tree 2 — Momma 0
What did happen was slightly reminiscent of that time I went skiing down the Zugspitze on my face. Then, I had snow in my underwear from sliding about 100 feet, face first, after taking a tumble.
Today, I ended up with pine needles in my underwear, hair, and, inexplicably since I was wearing boots, the inside of my socks. It was probably because I learned my technique from Leatherface.
Nevertheless, I’m a pretty resourceful broad and I took care of business.
Just don’t ask Otis.
This is Otis. He’s a funny dog — likes to have his picture taken. Seriously.
Anyway, we’ve always thought he was a mutt with a lot of lab mixed in there, but he has such a charming demeanor and personality that we decided to have that DNA test done to discover what kinds of breeds contribute to his sweet gentle nature.
The results are back, and here’s the scoop:
Lab mix with American Stafford Terrier mix
also in his parentage: Kerry Blue, Border Terrier, Dogue de Bordeaux, Pharaoh and American Eskimo Dog
Guys! You have to watch this documentary. It’s an amazing story that goes behind the scenes of that crazy, dare I say it, insane period of time when Jeremy Lin was burning up the basketball court and helping the New York Knicks break out of a losing streak.
I review it over at CatholicMom.com today. Here’s an excerpt:
Jeremy Lin’s story inspires. He overcomes failure, racial stereotypes, and the insecurity that leads to poor performance on the court. Although an excellent player, he misses opportunities to play on powerhouse teams in college, and then, when he does get picked up by an Ivy League school, gets passed over in the NBA draft.
Director Leong takes us behind the scenes to his childhood, interviews family and friends, former coaches, and Lin himself. The result is a beautiful story of multigenerational dreams, persistence, and ultimately, a trust in God’s perfect plan. We’re treated to Lin singing his favorite Disney tunes along the way, and a self-deprecating humor that reveals a great deal about his character.
We also see him hit a low point, as he fails to make his mark on two professional teams before being given one last, desperate, chance for success with the New York Knicks. He questions himself, “How am I going to be myself with everyone looking?” It emboldens him to play with abandon — to play for God, not himself.
I hope you go on over and read the rest here.
Dawn’s first light shivers
through half-opened blinds,
creating new patterns
on our old blanket.
The rise and fall of your chest
tethers me to the moment
tighter than the memory
of your warm embrace.
I get up anyway
and make the coffee.
An aubade is a morning love song when lovers part…this isn’t strictly an aubade, but it’ll do. I wanted to capture the ordinariness of a longtime marriage in the old blanket, the warmth of physical intimacy, the sacrifice of loving service. I’ll try a few more in the coming weeks.