Wednesday, June 30, 2010


I don't know when it happened. Around the time we got married, I guess. When was it that I stopped being "one of the boys"? I used to get invited along to sports bars and casinos and coerced into chugging contests. Before legal age, I would build bike ramps and play baseball and trade basketball cards. I've never been a true tomboy, but I've preferred the company of testosterone to estrogen. And testosterone liked me back. Before. But it stopped. I am now one of the girls. Meaning, of course, uninvited.

Maybe now that we're all paired off and the chasing stopped, the novelty has worn off. Now, instead of trying to get with the girls, the boys are desperately trying to get rid of them. If only for a night. To drink cheap beer and talk shit and act like if they were single again there was a shot in hell of getting the hot girl in the corner booth's phone number. I can do all those things. I like all those things. Boy, it's lonely on the outside.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

names in a hat is so old-fashioned

I meant to blog sooner, but after Saturday's post, I was so motivated to clean myself up. I just now finished shaving.

Today was my annual doctor's visit. It is a bit disturbing how the more you read my blog, the more sordid details you find out about me. But you've come this far, no sense in turning back now.

With each new year comes a new job, Steve jokes. But it's true. Which means new insurance. And much to my dismay, my old gynecologist is not in my new network. Not that I was particularly fond of him: anyone who shoves cold metal objects inside of me and makes cervix jokes is no friend of mine. But I was fond of his age.

I've shopped around for ob-gyns. When I was pregnant with Gracie, I went to the women's center which meant whoever was around popped in to have a look. I quickly learned how to sum up doctors in a stereotyped nanosecond.

I don't like the women. They talk to you forever like since they have the same equipment we should be buddies. Also, I am uncomfortable when I am asked too many times how I feel or if everything is OK. I always assume the young men got into the practice for the wrong reasons. I like the old men. Hopefully old enough that they're going blind but are not yet senile.

Have you seen the Sex and the City episode where Charlotte gets back from the doctor and her vagina is depressed? She says: "I don't want to look. I think it's ugly." Then Miranda says, "Well maybe, that's why it's depressed!" I agree with Charlotte: if it's out of eyesight, it's for a reason. Since I'm not looking closely, I'm hoping no one else is, either.

Shopping for an older doctor is not an easy task. You can search by location and accepted insurance and specialties and licenses, but not date of birth. Luckily for me, I am very good at stereotyping based on names, too (Seriously: ask me what I think about Bruces and Ursulas: you'll get an earful). Stereotyping is a skill I have not only acquired, but also finely tuned.

When I found a doctor named "Terrance," I knew I had hit the jackpot. Terrance is the name of a boss, not an intern. Have you seen "Entourage"? Ari's boss was named "Terrance" and he's old. (Secret to stereotyping: word/name association). But even the mostly finely tuned skills can go awry. Stereotyping is based on generalized rules, but every now and again, there's an exception.

The true test came today. I waited in the waiting room. I waited in the examination room. I was weighed, gave a urine sample, got my finger poked and my blood pressure taken. I stripped out of my clothes and waited to see who I had selected. The door opened. I smiled in spite of myself at the sight of a bald head and white sides, George Costanza style. I've still got it: I know how to pick 'em.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Let it go, bring it back

Year's flossing compacted into two hours

One of the many perks of having a bona fide job (rather than being a contractor) is having health and dental insurance again. I enjoy both discounts on birth control and my teeth feeling clean. Yesterday was my first time in a dentist chair in the past year. And let me just tell you, it took a hygienist who was extremely passionate about her job to make me realize how much I've let myself go over this past year.

I've never been high-maintenance by any standards: I've never laid in a tanning bed or had a manicure or a pedicure. But up until lately I've been able to keep my body maintained. I don't know what's changed: maybe I'm just getting too comfortable. But there are nights when I'm reading in bed and I know I'm about to fall asleep, but I'm too lazy to go brush my teeth and turn off the light. I'm lucky my leg hair is blond or I would be scaring off other pedestrians on our walks. My roots have outgrown my highlights. I don't think I've painted my toenails since Hurricane Katrina.

I've gotten so run down that I can actually relate to Steve not trimming his toenails more than once a decade.

That's rock bottom. I know it's time for a change.

So today, I'm shaving. And flossing. And painting my toenails. And once I finish up on myself, I might just start in on Steve's feet.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Thank God they were converted to DVDs

Steve and I share an appreciation for older movies. Not the black and whites, but the movies from the sixties to early nineties that were all the rage during our childhoods. Tonight, we were watching Mr. Mom for the umpteenth time (it really is that good). We talked about how the movies from back then seemed so much more authentic: you really believe Michael Keaton and Teri Garr are a family, rather than celebrities playing a role.

Maybe that's because being in movies didn't just require being genetically blessed back then (it also required knowing Aaron Spelling or John Hughes). Or maybe it's because we weren't so involved in the actors' personal lives. I never heard of Hayley Mills snorting coke in a bathroom stall or Rick Moranis going to rehab for sex addiction (shivers).

Here are some of my favorite non-animated movies from pre-Y2K and pre-Us Weekly subscription (or as some call it, "the good old days"):

1. Mr. Mom
2. Multiplicity
3. Groundhog Day
4. Rookie of the Year
5. Houseguest
6. Sister Act II
7. Home Alone
8. Uncle Buck
9. Freaky Friday
10. Parent Trap
11. Hook
12. Old Yeller
13. The Swiss Family Robinson
14. The Absent-minded Professor
15. The Love Bug
16. The Mighty Ducks
17. Parenthood
18. The Goodbye Girl
19. The Sound of Music
20. The Burbs

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Stupid questions

"There are no stupid questions."
I hate that quote. Because people believe it. It's erroneous.

I crossed state lines today to attend the closest thing to education I've had in the last five years. OK, so crossing state lines doesn't mean much since I live on a border town, so minus a point for that, but the plus a point that we have the College World Series going on and then plus another point for me driving in a black car without air conditioning. Oh and then plus another point for me being at a casino but not being able to drink or gamble. And add yet another point for the stupid questions I had to listen to.

I was expecting to learn something today. But an unemployment seminar is nothing like a college course. It was a bunch of uneducated HR people asking pointless questions that only related to them. I just wanted them to shut up so the Chief Judge could tell us about what was important. But they didn't. It was four hours of Q&A and about one hour of useful information.

"We had someone text 'I quit,' is that as a resignation letter?"
"Can our policy supersede state law?"
"Should I fire someone who steals from me?"
"A girl failed a drug test for taking Trimspa." (yeah, I still don't know how that was a question, either).

Seriously people. Perhaps you're in the wrong field. Maybe you should go into something simple that doesn't require adhering to laws or even common sense. I filled out my questionnaire idly while listening to these stupid questions. I wrote, "Judge was great, questions were stupid." Maybe next time the eight people up front with all the questions can be sequestered into their own room so the rest of us can actually learn something.

Sunday, June 20, 2010


Often I say out loud, "what should I blog about?" to whoever is around (strangers included). Now that I've blogged for well over a year, I've said most of what I imagined saying in my blog. But I still want to write something. And I have eight whole readers who I would hate to leave high and dry. So today, my friend Tracey was the one who inspired my post. She's so logical. I hadn't even put Father's Day and blog together. I'm a bit slow.

My dad is a man of routine. Each morning he wakes up and runs. He is very fit. He has been a school teacher for over thirty years. He teaches fifth grade. For awhile there in the nineties, he was in state politics. I used to sign wave and canvas and fund raise for him. After sign waving, he would take me out to breakfast at Ma's Place, his favorite spot. I would order a hot chocolate with extra whip cream.

Then, when he was elected into office, I would love to come to the Capitol to see him. During that time, he drove a red VW Karmann Ghia. The speedometer was broken on it, so it always said you were driving 15 mph less than you really were. I remember him flying down I-5 at 90 miles an hour. I was excited and scared at the same time so I said, "wow, you're going really fast." Dad replied, "I'm only going 75, see? The speedometer says 75."

We all loved that car. Dad let Chad borrow it when he took a girl to the school banquet (we didn't have dances - that's very un-Baptist).

My dad loves to play games he's good at. He will play you in croquet, marbles, ping pong, chess, or Carroms anytime you'd like. The only one of these I ever had a chance at was marbles since it has the most luck involved. When we were kids, he offered any of us $100 if we could beat him at chess (back then, that was a small fortune). For awhile, we were all intent on winning that money. We spent hours practicing with each other, then trying our hand against dad. He could get my king into checkmate within seven turns. Amber is the only one who ever beat him. We all asked her how she did it and she didn't remember. She said she just moved some pieces around and didn't know what she was doing.

My dad always told me I was smart. He would read my short stories and tell me I was a great writer. He would marvel at words I knew at a young age and would quiz me on spelling, always trying to stump me. I still use his old trick of Lie-u-ten-ant on the rare occasions when it comes up.

My dad has had the same style as long as I remember. He's a man who knows what he wants. You will never see my dad in a t-shirt: he only wears button-downs. Long sleeved in the winter, short sleeved in the summer. If he finds something he likes, he buys multiples. His hair only changes when the wind blows. He is consistent in everything: including always loving his four children, no matter what.

Happy Father's Day, dad. I love you too. Then, now, and always.

Saturday, June 19, 2010


Not as bad as it looks

I hate condiments. I always have. Ketchup, mustard, barbecue sauce, soy sauce, even salad dressing. Basically, if it comes in a bottle and sits on the fridge door shelf, I hate it.

However, if it comes in a jar, it could be a different story (I know, I'm complicated). Mayonnaise has always been an in-between. I think it's a condiment. Or maybe it's a spread. Whichever, I've always lumped it as a hate since it's next to ketchup and mustard.

But not too long ago, work (I love how it's a place and a verb) catered in lunch and I was forced into eating a sandwich that already had mayonnaise on it. And I didn't hate it. Actually, it really added a little something to the sandwich.

So today, I went to Jimmy John's and, for the first time ever, I ordered a sandwich without adding, "no mayonnaise." I felt so low-maintenance, ordering straight off the menu, not requiring any special stipulations.

And again, I didn't hate it. I could even go as far as saying I liked it.

This makes me question what else in life I've been missing out on that I've already dismissed away.

But I still hate people who say, "you haven't even tried it yet!"

Thursday, June 17, 2010

outrunning nature

I love to run between 8pm & 9pm. I like racing the darkness home. With every flicker from a lazy streetlight, my pace quickens. When headlight beams illuminate, I break into my sprint.

Tonight I started late: 8:45. But considering this is one of the longest days of the year, it still wasn't too late. My eyes were glued to the sky tonight.

In Nebraska, summer means intense heat and thunderstorms that sneak right up on you. Nearly every day there's a thunderstorm in the forecast and you can never be sure if that means one is really coming or not. Jim Flowers is like our boy who cried wolf. Allegedly, tonight it is going to storm.

The sky was completely blue to the south and east of me. There was an angry swirl of gray to the west. It didn't look too threatening. Then I saw flashes of lightening. I kept my left ear bud dangling so I could hear the thunder growl. Tonight I am racing both darkness and a storm.

Suddenly, that angry gray swirl stretched all in front of me, turning the once blue sky shades of purple and yellow. The clouds forced me south, then east. Then threatened to envelop me altogether.

I ran. I ran faster than I thought I could. My ponytail was too airborne to slap against my shoulders. My legs felt like Roadrunners'. I glided over the sidewalks without even noticing that my breath was quickening and my heart was racing. I was too ambitious to notice something like exhaustion.

As I approached our house, I noticed Steve had left the front porch light on for me. I grinned. I quickly pulled open our storm door, and then thick raindrops plummeted to the ground.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Must read list

I was perusing through books at Half Price Books, one of my favorite places, when I happened upon a book of books to read (how many times can I use "book" in one sentence?). It had 500 books that will supposedly change your life. Or flatten a spider, seeing some of them to be huge 800 pagers. I don't read over 400 pages. Life's too short to spend that much time on one book. I also don't continue reading after page 50 if I'm not into the book yet (this rule came after finally finishing Huck Finn). A lot of the books on the lists of books you absolutely must read are boring, outdated, and much too long. So I'm making my own very short list of great books to read if you have a short attention span and don't like anything with the word "thou" involved.

1. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
2. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
3. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
4. Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
5. Piece of Cake by Cupcake Brown
6. The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls
7. No Promises in the Wind by Irene Hunt
8. The Giver by Lois Lowry
9. Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson
10. A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle
11. Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls
12. Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery
13. Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt
14. Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank
15. The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck

You'll notice many of the these books to be children's books. I have a weakness for them (I already mentioned my short attention span, didn't I?). In college, I read half of the Newberry Award winners. Perhaps I will finish those up next. I'll make a spreadsheet out of it and then I'm sure I'd whip through them.

There are too many books in the world for me to be working a full-time job. I found this site that had too many great suggestions; I'd like to make sure I'm not wasting my time. What should I put to the top of my reading list? Tell me: quick! Before I start reserving Newberry Award winners from the 1920s on my library card.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

missing links

Sometimes it's hard to believe that all these memories I have are my own. That I lived this much of life. I've been a child, and adolescent, an adult. I've been single, I've dated, and I'm married. I've had roommates and lived alone. Jobs have come and gone as my interest ebbed and flowed. I've been pregnant. I've looked like I was pregnant when I wasn't. And then I've spent months being dedicated to becoming fit again.

And if the general life expectancy statistics are realistic for me and no freak accident occurs, I can expect quite a bit more life still to come. Hell, I'm only 27. Hopefully I still have time, a lot more time (but not too much time) to get into all sorts of other things I haven't touched yet. Time to raise children and write books and get my Masters degree and become a professor. I'm pretty content with knowing who I am right now, so with all my other time, I can evolve into someone better (hard to imagine, right?)

Sometimes I look at my own memories like an outsider hearing the stories from another person. I am there watching the memories replay, but not there reliving them. It's as if I've been six different people, rather than one person. That's what I like most about people: we can change. We can evolve and learn and grow from mistakes; we aren't always destined to be trapped in the same mindset, the same place, or even the same body. And sometimes in the process of evolving, we forget that we were ever someone so different.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

one year later

A year ago today we moved into our first home.

It's been the best year of my life.

Turning these other people's home into our own.

Having a piece of land to call our's.

No more fighting for a decent parking spot or scraping my windshield.

Now I'm growing tomatoes and Steve mows the lawn.

We've turned even more boring with the purchase of a house (and you didn't think it was possible).

But sometimes boring isn't such a bad thing. It means we're not getting into any trouble.

Just 29 more years or mortgage payments until it's all our's.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Pandora's Box

I tried Pandora today for the first time.

This should be a required rite of passage for all people.

All I did was typed in “Adele,” and it started playing songs I love. Sure, there were a couple wrong turns (John Legend and that stupid “Halo” song), but other than that, I’ve been listening to my favorite songs and some new favorite songs I had not yet discovered.

In two short hours, this website has figured me out. It’s creepy, really: it’s managed to do what no ex-boyfriends or past best friends have managed. Is this a website or a mind reader?

Who knows what intimate details of my life this site has deciphered already. I better check my bank account and make sure my credit is still in order.

P.S. I told my middle-aged male co-worker to try it and Pandora gave him Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA."

Thursday, June 10, 2010

I'm so vein

You probably think this post is about me.

I've been showing some leg lately. Steve and I walk or run four miles each night, so I've been wearing my short running shorts. And it was while wearing these shorts that I saw some unsightly veins on the back of my leg (I will refrain from inserting a picture here to ensure I don't lose any readers). What are these things? I mean, I've always had extraordinarily light skin, but this isn't all my veins being visible: just select few.

I don't think it has anything to do with my lack of pigment. I think it's my first sign of getting old.

Few people ever see my legs anyway because of their ghastliness, my hatred of skirts, and my aversion to shaving. But now I have one more reason to keep my legs cased in pants.

I'm too young to feel this old.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010


You know what fictional character I'd hate to be (besides Pollyanna)?


She slaves away all day mopping floors and the little free time she has she spends making clothes and hats for the mice that live in her room. You know your life has hit rock bottom when you're knitting for rodents.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010


I wonder if I'd be this cynical if I didn't work.

If I hadn't worked for a staffing agency and heard people make up the most rare diseases to get out of going to work, which always miraculously healed when it was time to pick up their checks. If I hadn't seen four counts of child abuse and three assaults and a false imprisonment on the same background check that the applicant swears he knows nothing about.

If I hadn't been a recruiter and heard every possible excuse for rescheduling an interview six times. If I hadn't heard people lie to my face in interviews every day in hopes of getting a job they were going to end up quitting soon anyway.

If I hadn't worked in unemployment and heard people say they didn't quit, they were discharged for performance. Even though they signed a resignation letter. But of course we forced them to do it.

If I hadn't worked in corporate environments where people lie and cheat and kiss ass and back-stab each other all in hopes of getting a promotion or not getting the pink slip they deserve.

If I had a sugar daddy and stayed home and wrote under the pseudo-occupation of aspiring writer, would I be this jaded? Or would I be a girl with even a shred of naivety and innocence left? Who knows, I could be Polly-f***ing-anna without the experience I have today.

My resume would look like shit, but maybe I'd still believe in the good in people. Maybe I wouldn't always assume I was being lied to and the everyone was looking for a handout. Aw shit, who am I kidding? Pollyanna? I thought her Glad Game was a crock of shit by age ten. Both your parents died! You're staying at your wicked aunt's house confined to the attic! What the hell are you smiling about?

I guess I've always been cynical. Now I just have proof that there's reason to be outside of the movies.

Monday, June 7, 2010

do-it-yourself BS

Until I'm offered a book deal, Steve and I have a budget. And that budget forces us to do a lot of hard work ourselves. Hard work that I desperately wish I could pay someone else to do, but supposedly it's teaching me the value of a dollar or some bullshit our dads would say. Our latest project required ripping out four bushes, raking up the ground cover rocks, leveling out the dirt, laying the bricks, and assembling the chairs.

Ta da! Our do-it-yourself, rickety, wobbly, rundown, homemade front porch.

It looks better from afar.

And somehow, a day after finishing the project, we're still married. No one filed divorce papers, which seems inevitable every time we attempt assembling something together. Somehow we always let enough time pass between each purchase that requires assembly that we forget what hell it is and decide to try it again. I guess that's the secret to a successful marriage: amnesia.

Stay tuned for when we attempt to hang a hammock with just one tree.

Saturday, June 5, 2010


Right before graduating college and the summer thereafter, I worked as a waitress/barista at a little cafe in University Place called Affairs. Affairs is the most quaint place you could visit. It has hand-painted tables, mismatched chairs. They put fresh flowers in vases every day. They use real Farberware plates and mugs. They polish silverware and dry wipe wine glasses to make sure there aren't any water spots.

They make a quiche du jour, brew their own iced tea. They don't sell alcohol save for mimosas. In fact, it was while working there that I decided mimosas were going to be my drink of choice. I had some regular customers who would come in-two elderly women-and they'd each ask for a mimosa, but with a bit more champagne than is customary, one would say with a wink.

The owner makes wedding cakes and truffles and cookies and fresh scones. She is there every morning baking. Sometimes I would help out on the easy things: like taking scones off cookie sheets, but mostly I stayed in the restaurant. People would come up to the counter and stare at all the different truffles, then finally pick the four they wanted. I'd box them up and ask them what color of ribbon they wanted.

I started out working only the weekends, when people loved to come in for brunch. We would make meals like Eggs Benedict and made-to-order omelets, which came with a scone of your choice. People would sip lattes while they ate, then usually buy a cookie on their way out for later on. This morning is exactly the kind of morning where I wish I was brunching at this quaint little place. I'd sip a mimosa, then buy my mom some truffles on my way out.

Friday, June 4, 2010

Dear So and So

Dear Aksarben Heating & Air,

When you give people a time range of when you plan to arrive, you're supposed to arrive in that range. That's why you get a whole range rather than a specific time! You said you'd be here between 4p-6p. Then you called at 5:23p and said you were running a little late but would be here by 6p. You arrived at 7:02p. Just what I wanted to do on a Friday night, wait around for a chubby unpunctual man to charge us money. Eff off. And your business name is stupid. I wonder what I'd get if I spelled your name backwards. Moron? Well, yes: I would if your name was Norom.

* * *

Dear claimants who think they deserve unemployment,

Get a job. If you put half the effort into applying for work that you put into appealing your unemployment case, you'd have six jobs by now. I'm sick of seeing nine claims come through for you from three different states. Hope you're ready to see this tornado tear through your unemployment hearing. You get what you ask for. In the meantime, keep going on your job searches. And no, watching court TV does not count as a job search even though they play that Kaplan University commercial repeatedly.

* * *

Dear Scale,

This isn't mean for once: I don't hate you (right now). I wanted to publicly apologize for when I said you didn't know what you were talking about and couldn't get your facts straight and have only one job and can't even do that right. I like what you told me this morning. Keep those sweet nothings coming and I'll stop making you groan when I step on you.

* * *

Dear Bitchy Girl at Ace checkout register last weekend,

Remember when we ordered 24 large patio bricks last weekend and you were a total bitch and said someone would be out to help us load them and you didn't send anyone out? Well guess what? We overbought. So I'm bringing them back in for a refund. One at a time. And I'm going to stack them on your register so you can take them out to the lumber yard yourself. Two can play your game. And I happen to be pretty good at it, so wear your sweatband tomorrow.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

birthday girls

Today is my sister's 25th birthday. Allow me to correct myself: today is my sisters' 25th birthday. Oddly enough, my brother married a woman who was born on the same day of the same year as my sister. I envy their birthday. This is the time of year when I think of all these things I want. My birthday is two months after the Christmas hullaballoo winds down, so usually I just ask for whatever I didn't get. Now, the ideas are fresh.

Anyway, having a birthday as an unspoiled Pelesky kid truely was something to look forward to all year. Mom would take the birthday kid to Top Foods where we could pick out whatever we wanted to eat for the day. Not just breakfast: also lunch. Not just breakfast and lunch: also dinner. And dessert. I would be sure to consume a week's worth of calories in a day anytime a birthday rolled around. I always ordered the same foods:

Breakfast: Honey Bunches of Oats, chocolate milk, chocolate donnettes.
Lunch: Cheetos, string cheese, sandwiches, Swiss cake rolls
Dinner: Stroganoff, green beans, garlic bread
Dessert: chocolate cake and ice cream

And on our plate, for each of those meals, mom would place the "You're Special" bear. It sounds stupid, but that stupid bear really did make the day more special.

Mom would make us save all our birthday cards until our actual birthday: taunting us with them propped on the mantel. Finally, after birthday dinner, envelopes were torn open, wrapping paper strewn across the carpet until all our treasures had been unwrapped (and hopefully none of them would be ugly clothes of more Avon roll-a-soaps). And then I had over nine months until I was the recipient of gifts again.

This is exactly why today is the perfect birthday. Because you never have to wait too long to see your name on a gift tag. And because summer is a time to want, while winter is a time to hibernate. All this to say, "happy birthday, sisters." Even though as adults, we don't get as many gifts and most of our Birthday wishes come in the form of Facebook comments rather than cards with money. Hopefully your man spoils you rotten. Because once we're out of our parents' house, we have to guilt rely on them to be the birthday coordinators. If only everyone thought as much of our birthdays as we do.

P.S. I find it ironic that I corrected myself in this first paragraph, because earlier at work I said that I don't bother correcting people's English, "because I've come to realize over half the people on earth are imbeciles."

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

this place

The last night I partied too hard was in December of 2005. I partied so hard that I ended up with only one flip flop and no keys. I spent the next day calling friends: begging for a ride to work or clues on where my keys were. That day, I was so frazzled and frusterated that I quit my job: walked out and gave my boss my receipts the second the large group of high school kids she had seated in my section left.

That night, I went home to my apartment, invited Steve over. I threw away my one remaining flip flop. I located my keys. Steve got me an interview at an 8-5 job that had nothing to do with high schoolers. Within six months, Steve proposed and I paid off my credit card debt. And we've partied plenty since, but never again with reckless abandon. Never without having someone lined up to watch over me when I start becoming irresponsible. That part of me is as lost as my flip flop (although I have a sneaking suspicion if you looked in that "lake" behind Opperman's on 144th, you could still find it).

I figured out what people mean when they say, "I'm in a good place right now." It means that you actually learned from mistakes. I am in a good place right now: I'm not stressed at work, I'm not overdrafting my banking account, I'm not having family drama. And all these nots equal an "am:" I am happy. I'm satisfied and content. And if I don't have anything to complain about, this is a moment we should freeze in time and publish on the internet.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

cool breeze

Tonight, the air was thick with an impending storm. I hurried about the little chores that had to be done beforehand frantically. I brought in the waste cans, retrieved the mail, forced Tucker to hurry up outside. I started the dinner and called to make sure Steve was over halfway home. Then the gray sky turned black. Rain and hail pounded our little house while thunder and lightening chimed in. The wind blew the rainwater off the street in gusts as if it were snow in a blizzard. Tucker buried his head underneath a blanket. Steve worried about our window well flooding. And I agonized over my two boys being worried.

Our work out was postponed. Our yard work got a rain check. Our night instead was spent watching TV and flipping through magazines. The storm passed. Steve opened the window, and a cool breeze wafted in, replacing the sticky air that had been there. The stuffy, hurried, chaotic evening blew east with the clouds, and our house was turned into a quiet one instead: without a list of dos - without duties or lists at all.

Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn't people feel as free to delight in whatever remains to them?
- Rose Kennedy