Tag Archives: life

A day in the life

I don’t know what the weather’s like where you are, but here it’s lovely.

Much has been accomplished. My garden got the bejeezus weeded out of it, and I planted some more radish & carrot & spinach seeds, and re-routed some strawberry runners. Everything got a good watering.  I ate my first salad from it.

Frank tried to fix our attic fan, but discovered that instead of a bum thermostat as we originally suspected, the motor is blown. The standard home improvement stores did not carry a replacement. Bah.

I had my neighbor friend over for margaritas on my deck, which thanks to a bunch of potting and a few purchased accessories feels very homey now.

Jake took a three hour nap.

Lane’s been playing at the neighbor’s for the past two or three hours.

I’m still buzzed from the margaritas.

Life is good.


Historical repository

I bought a new purse today.

I do that about once a year, though I think it’s been about 18 months since my current pink number hit the scene.  The new one is a rich brown crocodile bag, a little bigger and definitely more sophisticated than Mr. Pink.

I both look forward to and dread migrating my life from the old purse to the new one.  On the negative side, it’s never just a dump-and-go job… it takes FOREVER.  My purse, near the end of its useful life (meaning near when I’m just dead sick of looking at it, since I’m not a change my purse with my outfit type; I carry one purse until I’m ready to burn it) has usually accumulated a veritable smörgåsbord of an historical record of the life the purse has joined me through.  There are papers of all sorts to sift through; 95% of them will hit the recycling bin or shredder but I’ll look at every one and remember when I acquired it, and what I was doing, and who I was with.  Oh, sure, the more mundane ones, like the gas receipts, tend to melt together into a general memory of standing there pumping and making goofy faces at the kids through the car window, but they often have dates and locations printed on them that remind me of road trips taken.   There will be tons of other receipts in there, too, many with specific memories represented.  And all the odd crayons I’ve collected off restaurant tables after boisterous meals with my kids, those will be deposited in the miscellaneous crayon bin for further enjoyment and artful purposes.  All this stuff, these remnants, sort of get bound together by time in my purse, and to go through it the whole thing must nearly be peeled apart, like peeling away the rings of a tree and seeing the history written inside.  Granted, my purse barely rivals the remaining Civil War-era trees at Gettysburg in the historical significance of the events unfolded in their presence (yet), but it’s still pretty historical in the grand scheme of me.

Future purses will yield unto me yet untold treasures: movie stubs, graduation programs, used tissues, unused coupons for products not yet even dreamed up, business cards of people who will come and go, invitations for parties yet attended, doctor’s appointment reminder cards for pregnancies and babies yet conceived.  I’ll hopefully find it all… and with any luck, many times over.

And yet, it’s just a purse.  A vessel for carrying the sundry things that life sometimes necessitates.  When Frank realizes I’ve bought a new purse, he will roll his eyes at my frivolity… because, spending $27 (thank you Marshall’s!) to replace something I bought for $24 a year and a half ago (thank you, TJ Maxx!) is naturally frivolous in his eyes.  (I cannot get him to grasp that a purse is more than functional.  He seems to compare it to his wallet, which since it’s not falling apart at the seams he sees no logical reason to replace it.)  So, yeah, he’ll roll his eyes and question what is wrong with the dozen other purses accumulated in my closet, and I’ll just roll my eyes right back at him and tell him he just doesn’t get it… just like I do when he mentions the mess in my purse.

Life at its awesomest

Everyone has the cliché best-moment-of-their-life stories.  The day they got married, the birth of their babies, stuff like that.

I was reminded recently of a moment that I have, an awesome, top of the world moment that is completely not run-of-the-mill.

My best friends and I went to see The Complete Works of Shakespeare (Abridged) off-Broadway, maybe six or seven years ago.  (Which, if you ever have the opportunity to see this show, do it.  It’s hilarious.)  The show is very audience-participation-heavy with the actors in the aisles of the theater as much as they are onstage, and since Amanda and Cari and I are a bit, well, let’s call it feisty when we’re together, and we were sitting right on an aisle, we got a lot of attention from the actors.  They talked to us during the show and sat on us and laid across us and it was very funny.  Well, a part came in the show where they pulled a bunch of people on-stage to re-enact Ophelia’s inner angst at all the crap going on in her life, and I was one of the people pulled on-stage.  Some of the other people ‘volunteered’ were supposed to do stuff to just generally create a cacophony of noise and chaos, to duplicate everything going on in Ophelia’s brain and life, and then I was Ophelia.  At the apex of the mayhem, I was just supposed to scream.  So I did – and not one to shirk a responsibility, I screamed.  Oh, did I scream.  As long and loud and powerfully as I could.  To my complete surprise, my scream roused a standing ovation from the entire theater.  And this wasn’t a small theater, it was nearly the size of a regular Broadway theater.  I’d never really been the personal target of such applause before.  In sixth grade I won the school-wide spelling bee, and got a bit of lackluster sixth-grade applause for that, but I’d never just stood on a stage and had a wave of clapping and hollers and a sea of people on their feet cheering for *me*.   It was, in a word, exhilarating.  It created a wave of euphoria and adrenaline that only giving birth to my kids has duplicated.  And as such, it stands out as one of the more awesome moments of my life.

Do you have a moment like that?  I would love to hear about it!


I have what might be an abnormally conscious fear of death.

It’s sort of hard for me to describe.  There is more than one facet to it.

First of all, I simply do not want to die, and I fear dying young.  I don’t want to abandon my children before they are old enough to know I loved them with all my being, and before they are mature enough to not be psychologically scarred by my absence.  I love life, I love being alive, and I don’t want it to end any time soon.

Then, there’s the fear of dying itself.  I am a secular humanist so I don’t believe in heaven or hell, or limbo, or reincarnation, or any other sort of existence beyond life as we know it here.  I believe that life just ends, that consciousness just ends, and that’s it.  Part of me really wishes I didn’t; if I could believe that when I died, I’d be reunited with my mother and grandparents and all my other loved ones, it would be so much more comforting.  I wish I could find something about death that I could look forward to.  I suppose it is fortunate that I have no reason to believe that death would be better than the life I’m living now.  Still, I dwell on it occasionally, and quite honestly, it terrifies me.  What will it feel like, to slip out of consciousness like that, never to return?  Will I know it’s happening?  Am I going to spend the last few moments of my life scared out of my mind because my greatest fear is happening to me?

I got wrapped up in all those thoughts last night, as I laid with Lane trying to get her to fall asleep.  Oh man, it is not a good or comforting thing to be so aware of one’s own mortality sometimes.

Life happens, sometimes

I haven’t been writing the last couple (few?) days, and it’s not from lack of desire.  Life has just been busy!  There’s been lots of running around and playing with offspring and dinners at the in-laws’ and Frank and I actually went on a date on Friday.  It’s been months.

And, to my amazement, I went on a run Saturday morning and didn’t die.  Now, please keep in mind that for me, running is not “running”.  Running is intermittent jogging and walking.  But I like doing it and it makes me dodge that feeling of inertia you get when you don’t exercise for awhile.  I prefer to do it outside, but I’m sort of wussy when it comes to weather, so if it’s too cold, or too wet, or too windy, I won’t be out there.  I totally enjoy running on a treadmill but since right now I don’t have a gym membership, and don’t have a treadmill, that hasn’t happened since October when I did have a gym membership.  We have a gym picked out, and/or once we’re in a house we’ll probably buy a treadmill.  But I ran, honestly for the first time since October.  Egads.  I’ve started the last couple springs with the idea that I want to be able to run a 5K.  Three springs ago, I started out decently enough, and then got three different really bad colds right in a row and that sort of took the wind out of my sails.  Two springs ago, I ran for a couple weeks and couldn’t figure out why I was sucking wind so badly… and then I took a pregnancy test.  Jacob’s pregnancy had me sucking wind if I just looked at a flight of stairs, so any sort of serious working out made me feel lightheaded and ill so that didn’t happen.  Last spring I did pretty well.  I didn’t get to 5K levels, but I was able to increase the jogging intervals from 30 seconds apiece at the start of the spring to 5 minutes at a stretch by the time October and the total life upheaval came about.  Hopefully, I’ll find a way to stick with it again, and maybe push myself even more.  Again, I’d love to run in an honest-to-goodness 5K race, and actually run the whole thing.  Someday!!!

The running got started with me when I stumbled across this training plan, called the Couch-to-5K plan.  It is sooo for me.  I did find that I needed more than a week at each level, so I spent 2-3 weeks at each “week” until I was doing 5 minutes at a time.  Hopefully with a gym membership here, and/or a treadmill, plus the resolve to get outside to run whenever I can, I can get to a point where the idea of running in an actual race won’t seem so daunting.

In other news, Jake’s language has started happening.  Up until now, his communication has pretty much centered around our dog.  He would say “Duh” for dog, and if he saw a dog, or heard a dog, or played with a stuffed dog, he would go “woo woo” which was him barking like a dog.  In the last couple of days he’s gotten the hang of signing “milk” when he wants to nurse, and has also started saying “mum mum” for me, and “ba” for ball.  He may have also said “car” too but it only happened once and I couldn’t get him to repeat it.

Never the twain shall meet

Kate got me thinking today, with this morning’s post.  Mostly about life experiences and expectations, and how much they can vary from one person to the next.  How things that are ‘normal’ for one person can be so alien to the next.

Knowing what I’ve heard of the relationships my mom had before my dad (mostly from stories she told me), and knowing that she married my dad, it is safe to say she was drawn to the bad-boy type.  Maybe she liked the drama, maybe she thought she could change them.  I dunno.

Frank is, simply, NOT the bad boy type.  He does not swear beyond an occasional “dammit” and he gives me dirty looks if I do.  He’s quiet and introspective and just generally nice and well-intentioned.  I’ve had to do a lot of training in the ways of chivalry and courtesy because that is apparently not something that thrives in his family, but my touches have stuck and he’s definitely a keeper.

Once my mom realized our relationship was serious — like going on our third year serious — she asked me if I was sure I wanted to be with him.  Her reason?  “Well, he just doesn’t seem all that…. well… exciting.”  I responded, “You know Mom, he doesn’t do drugs, he doesn’t swear, he barely drinks, and I don’t think I ever have to worry about him cheating on me or physically hurting me or any kids we have.  We get along really well and have shared interests and have fun.  He’s exactly the type of person I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

At first it seemed weird to have to justify a relationship with such a nice guy to my mom.  But over time, as I’ve thought about that conversation, that one question has more and more shone a revealing light on many of the choices she’d made in her life.

Plumbing God, why hast thou forsaken me?

Yes, it is true.  I am foresook.

A couple weeks ago we had a water outage, and it wasn’t fun.  And I am pretty sure I never bored you with it then, but we were on a boil-water-order for four days after the water came back on.  Couldn’t use tap water to cook, do many grooming tasks, wash dishes, etc.  Fun times all around.

Yesterday I discovered water in our basement.  Long story short, it was because The Schmekl‘s toilet line was overflowing.  Ewww.  A plumber has been here, and he surmises that the problem seems to have corrected itself.  I hope so.  I have laundry stranded in the washing machine and dryer below, which will all get re-washed since it shared the same air with The Schmekl’s poop.