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A Life in Fifths

It appears that Harper Rose will be embarking on a kindergarten adventure one week from today. I’m not going to be one of those lachrymose moms who puts her hand on her bosom and sings minor-keyed songs about saving time in a bottle and is this the little girl I carried and something about the moon and how I hope you dance. I’m not. However, I *have* been thinking about time and what this whole Starting Kindergarten thing means to me. (Never mind what it means to Harper, right? This is MY personal blog! Introspection!)

For the past eight years, I have devoted my entire life to pregnancy, nursing, (knitting), diapering, and general baby/little people maintenance. Eight years. That’s one fifth of my life.

When it occurred to me that one fifth of my existence has been devoted to the girls, I starting thinking about my other fifths. (I once shared a fifth of Southern Comfort with a friend of mine. That was not a good night, for it also included my very first (and final) fraternity party. No. I do NOT want to dance with you. However, Southern Comfort!)

The first fifth of my life (Years 1-8) was devoted to little things like walking, talking, losing most of my teeth, learning multiplication tables, and figuring out that it’s quite alright to become friends with people who don’t necessarily share your love for Jan and Dean.

The second fifth (Years 9-16) was spent studying the mathematics behind Bach inventions, figuring out where to purchase the “correct” rainbow sweatshirts, learning how to stroll with my head down without running into a wall, and creating a list of excuses involving me, the gymnasium, and why I wouldn’t be able to exercise on that particular day. It was a very socially awkward and physically clumsy existence. Also, for whatever reason, I often wore fake reading glasses, which really did nothing to boost my status.

The third fifth (Years 17-24) included my time spent at the university. It was there where I discovered that I love hanging out with musicians and crappy poets and that it’s alright to spend several months searching for The Perfect Club Sandwich. I read books with Sad Artist margin notes written by a few of my Sad Artist friends. I drank coffee on the roof of my house and in the basement of a local church. (Does The Chez still exist?) I eventually graduated and spent nearly twelve months giving baths to the comatose and putting dead people in bags. It was during the final year of my third fifth that I scored my first (terrible) full-time job which involved me moving back home and sitting in a gray cube where I spent my day fighting for companies so their ex-employees would not receive unemployment benefits. I wore awkward business suits that were too big for me, and I started buying books that asked questions like “What Color is Your Parachute?”

The fourth fifth (Years 25-32) saw me being rescued from my terrible job and delivered to my first publishing gig. (It also included the years spent at my second and third publishing gigs! Desultory?! Yes!) I met Jeff during my fourth fifth, I bought a bunch of skirts, moved to Nashville, spent a few years seeing shows and eating sweet potato pancakes, I wore entirely too much dark lipstick, I got married, moved back to St. Louis, decided I couldn’t handle another office job, went to London, started a family (aka Got Pregnant), moved into a house, and met Meredith.

Fifth fifth? Hanging out with Meredith, pregnancy with Harper, meeting Harper, nursing, hanging out, carting the girls back and forth to doctor appointments and doughnut joints, getting Meredith ready for pre-school, patching, more pre-school, celebrating milestones, getting Harper geared for pre-school as Meredith started kindergarten, running back and forth to school for drop-offs and pick-ups, kicking off first grade for Meredith as Harper started pre-K, drop off, drop off, pick up, and Summer.

And here we are. As of next Monday, both girls will spend more awake time at school than they spend at home. And that will never be reversed, which is a crazy thought. And I know they’re totally ready for second grade and kindergarten, but I must ask myself “What’s Next for Me?” (Me!)

So now I’m faced with my sixth fifth. (I know. You don’t have to call me on it.) And I can’t really think in terms of years at the moment, so I’m focusing more on the next eight months. While Harper is in kindergarten and Meredith is in the second grade, I’m going to be doing the freelance editing thing. (I’ve already scheduled a few projects through the end of September, and that’s nothing but good.) I’m going to try to volunteer at the school. I’m going to get our house in shape so we can try to sell it in 2012.

Most importantly, I’m going to learn how to make cake pops.
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I’m going to have a Laughing Cow in my side bar for six months, and you know what that means. I’m giving money away! Come over here, tell me a funny workout story, and you could win $150! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Thus it is, and so it goes.

This morning Harper and I dropped Meredith off at her Oil Pastels class and then headed over to Hobby Lobby to buy sketch books, colored pencils, and rubber bands. It seems that the girls are suddenly itching to spend all of their free time drawing fruits and animals, and I’m totally buying into it. (They’re also intrigued with the idea of rubber band balls. We’re going to make one. A big one. Suddenly, the summer break is ending, and we’re coming up with terrific ideas! Rubber band ball!)

This afternoon I went to the headache clinic for my annual follow-up. My migraines are totally under control, but that didn’t stop my doctor from asking me to pull down my skirt and show her my hip (??? !!!). Do you remember that whole cellulitis thing from nearly two stinking months ago? The migraine doc asked if it was gone. (Epic integrated software strikes again!) I answered with, “Mostly.” She answered with, “Mostly?” Blah, blah, blah, she says it’s not as Gone as it should be. (It LOOKS like a CATERPILLAR!) BUT, my blood pressure is 98/64, even with my skirt pulled down to my knees in the headache clinic! In other words, I win. Rubber band ball!

This is what I’m into right now:
1. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest—I’m hooked and completely bummed that the author is dead.

2. Fresh mozzarella with tomatoes from my Dad’s garden, basil from my front porch, and balsamic vinegar and sea salt from Trader Joe’s. “This combination is the only thing I’ll miss about the summer,” said the girl who will actually miss LOTS of things about the summer. Scattered pictures of the smiles we left behind and so forth! Sing it!

3. Crocheted food. Dear Lord. I really need to learn how to read a crochet pattern. You see, I have a funny feeling that at least one of you would totally dig a plate of crocheted breakfast food. And if I could be your supplier? Oh, happy day!

4. Smoked almonds. They provide the taste of bacon when I am Without. (I’ve been meat free for a total of 36 days, give or take one terribly cunning pulled pork sandwich.)

5. Meaghan Smith. Who knew scratching could be so lovely?
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I’m going to have a Laughing Cow in my side bar for six months, and you know what that means. I’m giving money away! Come over here, tell me a funny workout story, and you could win $150! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I want to be a part of it.

I woke up with a sore throat this morning, and honestly? I’ve never been so happy to have a sore throat. Because this is the week of BlogHer, and I’m telling myself that I *can’t* go—what with the sore throat and all. I do hope to go next year, because BlogHer is Good. If you’re going, I’m thrilled for you, because: BlogHer. In New York. If you’re not going, you can join me as I sit in the corner of my house and F5 my Flickr account every few minutes. (You can’t really come to my house.)

Meredith is taking an oil pastel class this week and during the first day she drew a pear that really looks like a pear complete with highlights and texture and it makes me want to pull out all of my old art supplies and take myself back in time to the days during which I painted post cards with acrylic paints and actually mailed them to people I didn’t know very well. I discovered that I was pregnant with Meredith while taking a watercolor class nearly eight years ago, and when the class was over I boxed up all of my supplies for our move into the house, and sadly, those boxes remain taped and stacked in the basement.

And then a seven year old created a pear.

I just drank an Earl Grey latte sweetened with Truvia, and as I type this line, it’s changing my life for the better. (Harper’s karate instructor sang the praises of Truvia/Stevia/Zevia/IKnowVia to me last week, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make our house aspartame free, so: Truvia! Despite appearances, this parenthetical thought has not been brought to you by the makers of Truvia, who, incidentally, do not reside in Latvia! Synovia! Effluvia!)

I want to go to BlogHer next year. I want to go to BlogHer *this* year. Girl, you know it’s Truvia.
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I’m going to have a Laughing Cow in my side bar for six months, and you know what that means. I’m giving money away! Come over here, tell me a funny workout story, and you could win $150! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Waffles and Lace and Lace and Waffles

So, ten weeks ago (give or take several days), I received a lovely rose bush from my parents, Harper fell in love with karate, and I began knitting my summer project. The Bad News: I’m afraid the rose bush has died (I took it out of the pot and replanted it in our front yard. More sun than shade, good soil, I water it often, what could have happened?! I haven’t yet had the heart to remove and dispose.). The Good News: Harper is now a yellow belt, and as of this morning, my summer shawl is completed, blocked, and sort of lovely. (You obviously cannot tell this from the photo, but the shawl extends below my butt! Vital.)

I firmly believe if you can follow a recipe, you can knit a shawl. Similarly, if you can follow a recipe, you can make OSM waffles.

The waffles are definitely not lovely. In fact, they look sort of spongy and inedible, don’t they? Ah, but I promise you: They are delicious and full of millet and cracked wheat and sunflower seeds and oats, and they speed up the hair growth under your arms and make you want to put on bulky shoes and go on stinky hikes for hours.

One more quick thing! Because I know some of you have absolutely zero interest when it comes to reading my product/event reviews, I tend to throw all of the links under the cute little dotted line that I’ve placed below this paragraph. I just want to mention that I have three very good giveaways going on below, and I absolutely LOVE it when one of my Fluid Pudding friends win. (Don’t get me wrong, I also love the people who simply jump from contest to contest, but they’re not FAMILY, you know?!) Anyway, you are cordially invited to follow the links below. Thanks for your time!
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The kids and I went to The GAP, indulged in a bit of character reflection, and scored some awesome jeans. Come on over for a chance to win a $100 GAP gift card!

I went to the bathroom at Lilith Fair. (Believe me, it’s much better than it sounds!) Follow the link for the chance to win a $100 Visa gift card from BlogHer!

Who could ever love a girl named Beezus? Jesus?

A few years back I watched “Parallel Worlds, Parallel Lives” mainly because I like Mark Everett. (If I remember correctly, I posted the link here shortly after I watched it. Didn’t I? Do I tend to repeat myself often? Anyway, if you’re interested, you can catch it over here. It’s worth the time. I promise.) Anyway, long story short: Everett’s dad was the first to propose the Many Worlds Interpretation of quantum physics and no! Don’t start yawning! (Actually, I believe I would be 38% more intelligent if more documentaries somehow included music/musicians that I enjoy. Learn the ins and outs of the metric system with Metric! Let’s study eye anatomy (or manic depression!) with The Weepies! Global warming with Sleigh Bells! I could go on for days. This is my best idea yet, if you don’t count adding green peppers to that pasta salad I made last summer.)

All of this to say: Although many of you swear that this summer has flown by (and I sort of agree with you), I’m here to tell you that last week was one of my longest weeks. Lots of self-imposed deadlines (some related to knitting, some not so much), a crazy amount of reflection on relationships and bitten tongues, looking ahead to creative endeavors, and so forth. I’ll spare you the details, because this isn’t that kind of website. Funny how every single week has 168 hours regardless of how you choose to spend it, no? Morris Day and The Time!

Yesterday afternoon the girls and I saw Ramona and Beezus, and although both girls loved it, they did NOT love the fact that it didn’t really seem to be based on the book. “Ramona was only FOUR in the book! Not NINE! And nothing happened to Picky Picky!” Meredith listed at least twenty differences between the book and the movie, including the fact that the book has pages and the movie was on film. (That was my favorite comparison.) Personally? I couldn’t quite get past how much Ramona looks like Lolita.

This is Ramona, also known as Joey King.

This is Lolita, also known as Sue Lyon.

And when you’re trying to be Beverly Clearyesque, but you can’t help toying with Nabokov, thoughts tend to get more twisted than a soggy kneecap. Thank God for Swedish Fish.

EDITED TO ADD: The bloody guy in the photo of Ramona? I’m assuming he’s an actor from another film that also featured Joey King. I can assure you that no blood was shed in Ramona and Beezus, although there was QUITE an accident involving peanut butter.

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He was indeed a hunk, a hunk of burning love.

So, you know I went to Graceland last week. What I neglected to tell you is that I freaked out with all of the “Do Not Bring Blah, Blah, Blah into the Park” signs and left my camera in the car.

Luckily, my mom had more sense than I did, and she allowed me to use her camera.

I am about to give you a mini-tour of Graceland.

“Hello there! I’m Big Noggin Angela with the nostrils that might eat you! I’m wearing headphones that have been sprayed with Lysol! I’m your purple dressed tour guide who can’t figure out how to get the date to NOT appear on the photos! You look pretty today!”

When you enter the Graceland Mansion and look to the right, you see this room. This is where guests would sit and wait for Elvis to walk down the stairs. I’m thinking about having one of those peacocks tattooed up the entire left side of my body so that it looks as if I’m being pecked on the ear. Welcome to my mid-life crisis!

This is the kitchen, and I loved it because it looks like my parents’ kitchen in the 70s. It also looks like YOUR parents’ kitchen in the 70s. We are the world!

This is the lounge where Elvis played the piano on the morning of his death. According to the Lysol scented voices in my head, he loved to gather friends in this room to sing gospel tunes. It’s 07/10/2010!

This is Lisa Marie’s swing set, and I love knowing that she probably burned her butt going down her slide just like I burned my butt going down my slide. Once again, we’re all more alike than we are different, don’t you think?

This is not a great photograph, but I had to add it, because it’s right around the corner from Elvis’s grave, and when I first saw it I thought it said, “Thank you for not smiling.” and I immediately smiled because it’s sort of like “Don’t picture a pink elephant in your head.” isn’t it?

My mom saw this and wondered why the album at position (2,2) is crooked.

Similarly, Mom wondered why the left side of this vest is a bit shorter than the right. Mom has quite an eye for detail. I have quite an eye for tear duct infections. But, with a few drops of antibiotics, it cleared right up! See how I’m tying this post together with the post from last week? By the way: I need glasses!

I loved this suit so much that I’m now thinking of designing a white knitted shawl with cascading blue and silver beads. And I know I’ll never get to it, but it does seem like a lovely idea.

These are Elvis’s shoes as seen on Elvis’s plane. When I saw these shoes, I just knew that Elvis and I could have been great friends.

Ah, yes. There’s one (or sixteen) in every crowd, no?

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Don’t go chasing waterfalls.

This afternoon at 1:00, I will be seeing an ophthalmologist for the first time. Oddly enough, despite everything we’ve been through with Meredith’s eyes, the word ophthalmologist is still very difficult for me to spell. Because it’s 194 degrees outside and I’m choosing to live simply this morning, I shall from here on out refer to my o-p-h-t-h-a-l-m-o-l-o-g-i-s-t as an Eye Doctor.

I’ve noticed some twitching in my right eye over the past few weeks, and I’ve decided to not complain about it because 1) Complaining isn’t an attractive verb; and, 2) My sister’s eye has been twitching for a few YEARS, and she may have to see a specialist in a different town from where she lives to investigate her twitching. So, really, why in the hell would I bellyache about an infrequent twitch?! (I’m using twitch entirely too much. Time to pull out a grab bag of synonyms: Tic, Spasm, Vellication, Quiver, Paroxysm, Convulsion! I choose Vellication!)

Yesterday, along with the vellication, I discovered that my right eye was crying. Every time I tipped my head, actual tears poured out and ran down my face. I was a little tea pot, short and stout! This actually came in handy when I took my car to the service station. As the mechanic and I reviewed his invoice, a huge tear jumped out of my eye, rolled down my nose, and dripped onto the paper.

Mechanic: …so, there might be wattage issues, but it’s nothing we’re concerned about.

My eye: (Drip, roll, drop, SPLASH!)

Mechanic: Dude. Is everything okay?

Me: I’m good. I might have wattage issues, but it’s nothing I’m concerned about.

Mechanic: There’s no charge for today’s visit.

My right eye cried all through Harper’s karate class last night. It cried as I made my friend Mitzi’s cucumber salad. It cried as I went deeper into The Girl Who Played with Fire. I have to wonder if perhaps the right side of my body is feeling sort of sad for reasons beyond my understanding. (Perhaps yesterday was a special anniversary for my appendix, and Right Side is mourning her loss. Of course, that doesn’t explain the vellicative behavior. Vellicative! Say it out loud and notice how it gives your tongue a workout! I love that!)

This morning, Old Rightie is no longer weeping and she hasn’t yet vellicated, meaning the Eye Doctor is probably going to stamp my file with the words Wooden Nickel as I leave his office. (Grab Bag: Two-Dollar Bill, Charlatan, Bunyip!)

I miss my appendix. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Today’s heat index is 115.

I have returned home from Memphis. Actually, I returned three days ago, and have been spending the past 72 hours in an Elvis haze. I’ll just say this: If Elvis was still around and I wasn’t married with children, I would consider being his girlfriend if he would have me. Even with the 35 year age difference. As long as he stayed away from booze and junk. (I think we can all agree that a narcotized/sauced 75-year-old guy does not earn many kisses.)

Anyway. While in Memphis, we did that thing where you watch ducks walk from an elevator to a fountain.

We ate cupcakes.

(Twice.)

We went to a bad yarn store and a good yarn store.

We ate at a restaurant where the employees throw rolls at the customers.

Best of all, I am now the proud owner of a Graceland spoon rest.

ETA: Psst! CrazyMomTats!
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My lip is still quivering.

So, I’m about 16 hours out from the Memphis trip, and the only thing I’ve done to get ready is swallow a bunch of migraine pills. Because I’m a menstrual migraineur. And that’s all you need to know. Anyway, I was going to let myself get all stressed out about it, and then I went over to The BHJ and saw this. Suddenly, nothing seems more important to me than rallying behind the man who wants to run 5K after 5K to honor a little boy whose muscles are giving out. I’ve placed a widget thinger dinger in my sidebar (under the VIB head) and another one right below this post so you can donate if you feel inclined. If you can’t donate, please keep The BHJ in your thoughts on August 6th, and please keep Tanner’s family in your thoughts today and always.

Enjoy your weekend.

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Waffling! Constantly waffling! Itchy!

Anyone who knows me at all will find it hard to believe that I have spent the past five days attending outdoor gatherings like Barbecues and Lunches and Celebrations and Events During Which Fireworks Explode. When I woke up this morning with about 754 (give or take 742) fresh bug bites, I rolled over, raised my right hand, and vowed to never leave my house again. Sadly, I will be breaking this vow in about twenty minutes when the girls and I comb the area for cracked wheat and millet. You see, the very first thing I ate in Jackson Hole, Wyoming was an OSM waffle at The Bunnery. That waffle has been on my mind for 24 days, which happens to be the gestation period of a pheasant. I was able to find the recipe last weekend, and yesterday I found a waffle iron for seven dollars, meaning OSM Waffles are Meant to Be. (I’m not quite sure what millet is, but keep your fingers crossed that it stops the bug bites from itching, because right now my synapses are firing simple messages of “Waffles!” and “Itchy!”, and it’s becoming impossible to steer my waves toward things like “Laundry!” and “Take care of the children!”)

In about six hours, Harper will be testing for her yellow belt, which means in about six hours I will be crying at a martial arts center. (Perhaps I’ll bring an onion to chop so I don’t appear to be quite so emotionally unstable. I should have brought an onion to Toy Story 3. I’ll be bringing lots of onions to Harper first day of kindergarten…)

In less than 48 hours, I will be on the road to Memphis, where my road trip buddies and I will be touring Graceland, eating at a hotel that boasts of parading ducks, visiting a few yarn stores, and drinking sweet tea. Any other suggestions would be appreciated! Obviously, with less than 48 hours in Memphis, time is a consideration. (Time, time, time. See what’s become of me while I looked around for my possibilities?!) Waffles. Itchy. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>