10.14.14
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If You Give a Mom a Dustrag

This is in no way inspired by my actual table which is only 4 years old.

This is in no way inspired by my actual table which is only 4 years old.

If you give a Mom a dustrag, she’s going to want to clean the windows.
When she cleans the windows, the sun is going to shine on the table.
Mom will see that the table needs a good going over.
She might get carried away, and decide to clean the whole table.
When she’s under the table, she’s going to see the stickers you put there.
While she’s peeling off the stickers, she’s going to notice that the finish on the table is a little worn.
She’ll want to refinish the table, so she’ll need to go to the store.
While Mom is at the store, she’ll buy a refinishing kit, a gallon of milk, something for dinner, and some cookies.
When Mom gets home, she’s going to refinish the table. The table will look so good, Mom will want to redecorate the whole house!
Dad will say no.
By this time, you will be hungry. You will whine to Mom that you need a snack.
Mom will give you a cookie and some milk.
If Mom gives you some milk and a cookie, you will sit at the newly refinished table to eat it.  Chances are…you will spill your milk all over the &^*% place, and Mom will need to find her dustrag.

 

(My hat-tip is to Laura Numeroff for such a signature rhythm.  If you have little people, the “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” series books are very cute and good at bedtime.  Pretty sure Felicia Bond will not be contacting me to illustrate.)

09.19.14
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Regretfully, I Am Not Qualified For Your Position

I spent a lot of time yesterday cleaning up dog vomit. The dog has bad ears and they get infected without my noticing because I am a terrible dog owner.  Since she is twelve, and blind, she doesn’t do much normally—so “lethargy” and “inactivity” are sort of her natural states.  Hard to notice when her activity level goes from .5 to .2.  Antibiotics to cure the disgusting ears have all kinds of other disgusting side effects.  Poor doggy.  Anyway…  I don’t often think, “I have a college degree and 15 years of experience, and I am doing THIS,” but it crossed my mind more than once during Festival de Papertowel and Rugcleaner.  Let’s stipulate that I am slightly overqualified to clean up dog vomit.  There are, however, a list of things in the world that I am not qualified, nor will ever be qualified to do.

 

  • Consignment Boutique Fashionista: This was what started the whole thing. A consignment shop had a “Fashionista Wanted” sign up, and I thought, “Well, they don’t want me.” I treat my clothes and my cars the same way. I find something reliable and use it until every single last drop of goody has been wrung from its sad, tattered carcass. My 2007 Honda has 125,000 miles on it and I’m hoping for at least two more years. Some of my shirts probably have almost that many miles on them. It’s not a successful garment experience unless you’re too ashamed to give it to Goodwill. If an actual “Fashionista” went through my closet, I’d probably have to foot some therapy bills or call the police.
I put this on right after I took the picture because it was slightly chilly.

I put this on right after I took the picture because I was slightly chilly and it’s still perfectly functional.

  • Hoarder: Now you’re probably imagining that my closet is just one massive pile of rags. NOT SO. I am not constitutionally capable of hoarding stuff. I also lack the mental self-trickery to think that I will need *that* someday, or that I won’t ever have another one of *those* again, or that I can fix *this* up and it will be worth something on eBay. No, no, and NO. It’s all just crap. Throw it away. If you need all those things to preserve every precious memory, then maybe a couple of them aren’t as precious as you think.  I get mental when the trash can is full and the possibility of throwing something away doesn’t exist. Really mental. Like…if we forget trash day, Mr. YSBH has to take to can to the transfer station or it ruins my week. My career as a professional hoarder would be cut short about three times a year when I looked around and said, “What is all this junk??? Gah! Get me a shovel!”
We keep moving this box of unopened organizers because we don't have anything to put in them.

We keep moving this box of unopened organizers because we don’t have anything to put in them.

  • Physics Instructor: I’m a smart gal[i]. I learned and learned when I was in school, and I embraced all the learny things. Except trigonometry and wave theory. To be honest, I decided not to. I am certain that I am fully capable of learning those two things (really, they are sort of the same thing, you can’t get one without the other), but I would have to memorize it. It doesn’t make logical sense to me. Trading in financial derivative futures, and the required reporting? SURE. Light waves bouncing all over my room? Nope. I decided that it’s MAGIC. The idea of things bouncing all over my room all the time makes me uncomfortably crawly. Just writing about it now is making me restless. Magic in the air (which is also not moving unless there is a breeze, thank you very much) allows the sounds and sights to enter my head as needed. This also explains why Mr. YSBH has “selective hearing.” HE’S IMPERVIOUS TO MAGIC, YOU GUYS. While this theory works really well for me, I betcha it wouldn’t go over that well in a high school science class. Then again… kids today, they might not know the difference.
I don't even really understand this, and I made it up myself.

I don’t even really understand this, and I made it up myself.

  • Parent: Speaking of kids, I am completely unqualified to be a parent. This is the one job on the list that I actually have, and I can’t even quit. “Sorry, kids, but this gig isn’t working out for either of us. I’m just going to move on so you can hire somebody who is a better fit.” I took Child Development in high school. For the assignment where you were to come up with fun games for preschoolers using household objects, I turned in “Look at the Man in the Sun,” which you were supposed to do with binoculars. I was the one person the preschoolers did *not* want to read to them during the field trip to the day school. Somehow, they let me bring two of the little snowflakes home from the hospital, though. Amazing. I’m setting the bar pretty low on this one, honestly. Were they clothed and sort of fed when I dropped them at preschool with their buckets? YES. Gold star for me, because they both had buckets and snacks and shoes on the correct feet. As for the more advanced parts of this job, I’m totally winging it until I get my performance review. Which I am still waiting for, BY THE WAY—do you know when those come out again?
Run away! Run away!

Run away! Run away!

[i] Yes.  I said “gal.”  I’m taking back “gal.”  I don’t actually know what’s wrong with “gal,” except maybe it’s a little familiar.  In the wrong context, sure, that would be offensive, just like a man can be called “buddy” in an aggressive way.  I’m a gal, she’s a gal, wouldn’t you like to be a gal, too?

09.12.14
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Public Art Feeds {on} Your Soul

Creepy face

happy face sculpture
unfortunate chainsaw ads
run away from art

This beauty is in front of the stadium where the Portland Timbers play.  I have read much, too much, Stephen King to ever think this sculpture was doing anything except biding its time.  The chainsaw eyes just expose it for what it really is.  I’m on to YOU, creepy happy face.  I’ve got your number now.

07.11.14
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Getting a PhD in Biochemistry Is a Lot Harder Than Running a 5K

We went to a wedding this weekend for one of my husband’s coworkers. I had met the affianced on a couple of occasions, and some people from the office were there, but otherwise I was swimming in a sea of strangers. Since I am naturally inclined to pop under the table when confronted with a Mass of Humanity[1], I had my best “executive wife” game face on. I was charming and engaged, offered a witty riposte when appropriate, listened with rapt attention when spoken to. (My rapt attention is a force of nature. Think of it like having Counselor Troi look deeply into your eyes and ask how you’re feeling. People spill.) I was using up my reserve of social interaction points, but not so quickly that I was worried about it.

Can you show me how to get...away from all these people? Gah. I can't breathe.

Can you show me how to get…away from all these people? Gah. I can’t breathe.

We watched the lovely couple say their vows and moved to tables to wait for the buffet line to open. After round seventy gazillion of pictures was done, the emcee introduced the wedding party with a few personal tidbits and seated them at the head table. It turns out, the sister of the groom has a PhD in biochemistry. This is a great and wonderful thing. Lady scientists are a huge intellectual turn-on for me. It’s knowing someone’s brain size before you even have to talk to her .

Now…maybe I’ve been hanging out in the running community too much lately. Certain behaviors are more accepted there than in regular society. For example, biochemists appear not to be used to getting a “high-five for science.” When I introduced myself to the lady scientist, she was quite taken aback to have someone fangirling her over her PhD. Since there was no alcohol at this wedding (gasp!), she spent a moment evaluating whether my apparent social and/or mental deficit was dangerous or just awkward. I did get my high-five, but I also got the question, “Why?”

I confess, I didn’t have a very good explanation. I hadn’t exactly thought out what I was going to say, well, because of running. If you slap palms with someone who just finished a race, they don’t stop and say, “Why did you do that?” They say, “Woooooo!!! Damn right I’m awesome!!! Wooooo!!!” So… I probably sounded sort of stupid, which was embarrassing and confusing. “Because SCIENCE!” wasn’t an adequate answer for an actual scientist. I have a college degree and a lettery credential of my own, but I couldn’t come up with anything convincing enough to stop her from asking who had invited me and how I was related to the wedding and did I really know her brother all that well?

She was quiet and sort of kept to herself. - All the Neighbors After They Found the Bodies

She was quiet and sort of kept to herself.  She didn’t look crazy.          – All the Neighbors After They Found the Bodies

I’ve had time to think about it a little more. Here’s what I wanted the science lady to know: Science is something that I am personally very grateful for. Science has not only saved my life, but improved the quality of my life in ways that I don’t explain to most people, because science made it so I don’t have to. I was born with a cleft lip/cleft palate. I have had five reconstructive surgeries. In the 1800’s, my chances of surviving infancy would have been very bad. Instead, I had two surgeries, and my mom fed me using specialized equipment made of those space-age plastics that were so popular in the mid-twentieth century. Then, like all cleft palate kids, I had about 471 ear infections, several of which were bad enough to have cooked my brain without antibiotics. At the very least, I would be deaf for all intents and purposes. Then, in high school, I had three reconstructive surgeries to make my appearance more symmetrical and close my palate. Oh, and ten years of orthodontia, because I had a seriously messed up snaggletooth thing going on.

There are countless ways that science touches everything we do—but science touches a lot of what I am. I do not have to explain to people what is “wrong” with my face. Sometimes people see it (generally they have a close relative with a cleft lip), but mostly they see a little scar. My speech doesn’t have the nasal echo that a cleft palate often causes. I have never thought of it as a handicap. I have, however, said many grateful prayers that I was born when and where I was (and for parents who sought out the best doctors with the best possible approach). The medical skill and technique was available. I not only survived, but thrived. I feel grateful to those scientists—the doctors, the researchers, the chemical engineers—because without their discoveries and techniques, I would be a completely different person. Science saved my life, and gave me more of a life than I could have ever hoped for 100 years before.

On top of that, when a woman goes into a field that is traditionally dominated by men, as most of STEM is—she deserves a little extra support from the rest of us. I worked at a large semiconductor company, and I’ve seen what it’s like to be the only technical woman in the room. I have an Up With Women campaign going, where I support women I know individually. It’s my own brand of microfeminism[2]. See a woman doing something cool? Run over and tell her you think it’s cool. Here’s the template: “Hey, insert name, I just wanted to tell you that I really admire how you _______________. It’s something that makes the world a better place.” End of story. Don’t add “because I can’t do that” or “I wish I could do that” or “but your shoes are atrocious.” Don’t make it about you. If women could be supportive of women in an unqualified way…maybe the opinions of all those men in those male-dominated STEM fields would be easier to navigate. Be in someone’s corner. Tell her that bread is delicious. Tell her that PhD looks really fine on her. Tell her that the screaming tantrum her toddler threw is not a sign of failure, it’s normal, and you appreciate how she handled it. Be her fan, even when it’s awkward and makes you feel slightly silly.

You may want to put more thought and effort into your supportive actions.

You may want to put more thought and effort into your supportive actions.

I’m not sorry I went over and did my fangirl routine at the smart lady scientist. Sure, it was sort of awkward at first, but by the time I got to my little “Yeah, Science!” hoppy cheer[3], she had pretty much decided I was just a harmless nutter. I’m going to work on my technique and do it again the next chance I get. Maybe I will start carrying an autograph book with me and collect signatures–because getting a doctorate full of sciency goodness is a hell of a lot harder than running a 5K. Women of STEM, I am unabashedly a fan. Give me an S! Give me a C! Give me an I….
image

[1] A Mass of Humanity is any group of people over six, whether I know them all or not.

[2] I made up this word, as far as I know. It’s far more than just being nice and giving an occasional compliment. I probably should write a whole “thing” about it. It means ditching your own insecurities and competitive judginess, and just helping another woman see something about herself that she desperately needs to. For example—fighting for your employee to get the raise she deserves, so you can tell her that she kicks ass tangibly. Or telling a woman who is habitually thoughtful that you admire that, and want to be her when you grow up. TELL them. It’s a personal touch. It’s someone you know, or someone you would like to know.  I have mixed feelings about “FEMINISM,” but that doesn’t mean I’m not into women.  Wait… um.  …  I have no graceful exit from that.

[3] Yes, I really did a little cheer and hopped up and down. This is the part of the routine that needs the most work. The French judge didn’t deign to score it, and the Russian….yeesh. Ouch.

06.04.14
by

Distance Running Is for Delicate Flowers

I haven’t had much time to write lately, because I am training for a half-marathon. I’m not going to tell you all about how life-changing it is, and how blah blah blah miraculous blah blah blah. Truth is, it’s miserable, and I’m never doing it again. Never. My poor old bad-backed body is not mechanically capable of this on a recurring basis. It is sucking all the joy out of running, and I hate it. Will I put a 13.1 sticker on my car? Abso-damn-lutely. And then, I will go back to running 5K and 10K distances, being happy, and not being in pain most of the time. I am looking forward to this “after party” of sloth in a way that I am not looking forward to a medal or a shirt or bragging rights. I might just be still going because the medal is a combo medal and bottle opener.

Workout Selfie! Boo-ya!

Workout Selfie! Boo-ya!

I’m running this half with an old friend and someone I don’t really know, on a course of my own devising. The main features of the course are as follows:

  1. A death-defying mile and a half down “EOL Corridor,” a busy rural highway with no shoulders.
  2. Miles and miles of gravelly paradise, as you avoid potholes and the occasional roadkill.
  3. A finish across the road from the one stoplight that we will probably have to wait 90 seconds at, because it crosses the aforementioned busy rural highway.

It’s a dream course. The only thing that would make it better would be 3000 feet of elevation, but I decided I still wanted to have my friend after it was done. Aid stations will be staffed by my 2 and 5-year-old urchins. Kool-aid and marshmallows? Awesome. Do I need to high-five Doc McStuffins again? Let me just turn around and run back to do that. Honestly, the race itself promises to be a blast. It’s the training that makes me cranky and unpopular.

I will absolutely run 13.1 miles to take advantage of a bad pun

I will absolutely run 13.1 miles to take advantage of a bad pun.

I have to admit, though, I’m a little nervous about running with someone I don’t know very well. Because of my mechanical limitations, I’ll be setting the pace, and I’m not sure he’s used to rogging speeds. And…well. Distance running is not exactly the most elegant way to interact with someone. So, acquaintance and friend of my friend, here’s fair warning about what to expect during our otherwise completely proper 13.1 miles.

  • I will blow my nose on my shirt. I have no place to carry dry tissues, and given the choice between pulling sweaty tissues out of my bra and just doing the farmer blow, I will probably choose my shirt. After a mile or so, you won’t be able to distinguish it from the sweat. It’s fine.
  • I will breathe a bit like a charging rhinoceros, with my mouth hanging open and the approximate air exchange rate of an Intel cleanroom. I have read that runners should breathe through both nose and mouth. This is a good thing, because my ability to run while yoga breathing is comparable to my ability to do yoga. Corpse pose, anyone?
  • My husband has described my eau de runner as “ripe.” When he did this, it made me giggle and try to give him a big, long hug. I honestly consider it a badge of honor that I can, at 40 and with my particular mechanical limits, work hard enough to get “ripe.”   Yeah for me! There is nothing I can or will do about this. I have offered showers at my house afterwards, and I promise I will take one.
  • Because this is 13.1 miles, I’m going to need to fuel my Shetland physique.[1] This means I’m going to stuff some sort of chewable glucose mess in my mouth and attempt to masticate it while I am doing my “yoga breathing.” This is going to be a lot like watching a camel chew a giant wad of Hubba-Bubba. This would be a good time to look at a non-existent text on your phone.
I'm going to fill my handheld bottle with THIS.

I’m going to fill my handheld bottle with THIS.

  • I will be listening to my old lady music in one of my ears. I might even start to sing something, or break into some dance moves. Please just copy the choreography as best you can. If you need to eight-count under your breath, that’s fine. We’re all friends on the racecourse, no judgment.

I suppose those are the main things. I don’t expect to cry or fall over or anything really dramatic. I’d like to finish under three hours, but I’m not going to fire anyone if we don’t. I have never had a bathroom related issue, so I don’t think we will have to deal with that, and there’s a convenient construction site around mile 10 anyway. My mom is going to be at the finish line with chocolate milk and a fruit tray, probably on a doily. It should be a hell of a day, let’s go get it. Who knows? Maybe after all is said and done, I’ll change “NEVER EVER AGAIN” to “I currently have no plans to repeat this experience.”

I have more important things to do than run all over the county.

I have more important things to do than run all over the county.

[1] Male runners who are blessed with large frames are called “Clydesdales,” which I honestly think is kind of cool. If you have ever seen a Clydesdale up close (I have), they are enormous, strong horses. They are beautiful animals and blessed with an incredible work ethic. Female runners of size are called “Athenas.” Athena, as I’m sure you remember, is the Greek goddess of arts and crafts. (Yeah, I know, also of intellect and heroes, but still.) Since I have short legs and a sturdy…erhmmm…”constitution,” I decided I’d rather be a Shetland.

04.04.14
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Mommy Is Relaxing … Her Standards

Burning question of the day: Why wasn’t my house always spotless before I had kids? Seriously, there was, in hindsight, no legitimate reason why it couldn’t have been clean all the time. I guess I was just really lazy. And happy. I was lazy, and happy, and I played video games and worked a lot.  Now, when I talk about what I’ve been doing all day, or better yet, what I got DONE, I find that I’m … fudging it a little? What I say…doesn’t seem to mean what I used to think it meant.

“I cleaned the floor.”
Used to mean: I picked up every single thing and vacuumed and mopped the entire house.
Now: I picked up most of the things, and kicked the others around the carpet so I could vacuum. Then I squinted my eyes to simulate an older person who doesn’t see well, and paper towel spot-cleaned anything on the laminate that was glowing green or creating texture.

This is where they live, because they are mine and I clean the floor. Put yours away.

This is where they live, because they are mine and I clean the floor. Put yours away.

“I cooked dinner.”
Used to mean: I spent at least 45 minutes cooking some spicy, complicated creation from scratch, using every pan and spoon I owned.
Now: We are eating anything besides take and bake pizza.

So, 45 minutes to make the meal, and an hour to wash every dish in the kitchen? *does math, frowns*

So, 45 minutes to make the meal, and an hour to wash every dish in the kitchen? *does math, frowns*

“I did laundry.”
Used to mean: I spent all day Sunday washing and drying all the things, so that I could spend my time watching X-Files, folding the laundry, and putting it away during commercial breaks. Voila! All the clothes clean for Monday morning.
Now: I washed and dried some clothes, many of which are small and annoying to fold. They are sitting on the bed RIGHT NOW. If I can sneak off after dinner, I will fold a few of them, then the rest will get smashed into the giant pile of wrinkles in our bedroom. Sorry, dear.
“I cleaned the bathroom.”
Used to mean: The bathroom was ready for a picnic. You could eat off any surface you desired. Everything was sanitized, shiny, and the end of the toilet paper was folded into a little triangle just to make you feel fancy on the john.
Now: Visible signs of the small people have been hurriedly scrubbed off with a disinfecting wipe, and a flushable brush has been swished around the toilet to remove whatever it will remove. Notice I didn’t mention the tub. That’s what shower curtains are for. If you look, it is your problem—why are you looking in my shower? Weirdo.

Pin This! Effort-free growth chart for the little ones! Smear their hands with a different color of sidewalk chalk for each year.

Pin This! Effort-free growth chart for the little ones! Smear their hands with a different color of sidewalk chalk for each year.

“I’m ready to go.”
Used to mean: I’m ready to go, except I need one more thing that I forgot. There, now I’m ready.
Now: I might be ready to go in about 15 minutes, after I get the other 17 things the children *need* to be happy, find the other shoe, tie them into the carseats and then run upstairs and “fix” my hair. That is conditional. If anyone needs to use the potty, flips out over a sibling saying the wrong thing, or comes down with a flash virus, all guarantees, implied or otherwise, are forever cancelled.
“I did the dishes.”
Used to mean: Who are we kidding? I never kept up with the damn dishes. It pretty much means the same exact thing now as it always did: We’re expecting company.

03.25.14
by

Rigate Regalia

My Macaroni Necklace

I like my macaroni,

Better than a pony.

I don’t have to feed it,

In fact, I can eat it.

 

I have a preschooler, therefore I get all kinds of gifts made of various things that are inexpensive and hard to break.  This was a special “surprise,” and I proudly wore it the entire day.  It has a magical power.  It makes me remember how very small they still are.

03.09.14
by

The Uslurper

image

I add things, I admit,
To my coffee every day.
But when You decided to add You,
Well…You got carried away.

A tiny exoskeletoned expropriator landed in my morning coffee.  Happily, I noticed the interloper before he drank too much.  Then we followed the rules for the insect kindom:  Is it small?  Yes.  Is it slimy? No. Does it like to hang around on something disgusting? No.  OK.  Fish him out and finish your sorely needed coffee.

03.06.14
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Facebook: More Like Christmas, Less Like Oxygen

I have a new Power Pose now.  I usually just go for the “Top of the Hill,” which I do…at the top of a hill, after I run up it.  It involves looking out over the horizon, hands on hips, while desperately attempting to control my breathing so I don’t die.  It is full of awesome.  Today I added “Noticing Reality” to my repertoire.  To do this Power Pose, open Facebook on your phone.  Then set the phone on the counter and turn your back on it for two minutes.  You will be filled with either a gripping panic that you might have missed something, or you will realize that the front of the refrigerator is so covered with face-shaped smudges that you’re not sure if it’s white or stainless.  You may even realize that it looks this crappy because you have been looking at funny cat pictures and haven’t cleaned the house in three weeks.

I'm really glad I Liked that comment before anyone else did. Priorities intact.

I’m really glad I Liked that comment before anyone else did. Priorities intact.

I have a Facebook problem.  I actually wear out the protective screen on my iPhone over the Facebook app before anywhere else.  It has become such a reflex that I sometimes open Facebook when I mean to open something else.  I only have 91 Facebook friends, because I sort of insist on only connecting with people I would actually meet for coffee, and how much can they really be up to since three minutes ago?  Often…nothing, despite the fact that I am checking once a day for each of them.  All I’m getting is updates from the Pages I’ve liked.  I am rubbing a hole in my phone to see that some guy I’ve never met just ran 100 miles in a tutu.  Good for him, but that floor isn’t vacuuming itself, even if I told the kids that was what I was going to do upstairs.

Why do I check it so often?  Read: Why am I so pathetic?  Well, I am an introvert and a mom who stays home.  Some days, especially if Mr. YSBH is traveling, Facebook is the bulk of my adult interaction.  There are days when it is ALL of my adult interaction.  I could go join a group of moms to drink coffee and talk about nothing but our kids.  I could get involved in something.  I could do a lot of things.  I don’t, because I don’t have the social energy right now.  An introverted person who stays at home all day with small children is borrowing social energy from the atmosphere already.  Real actual people, I think you’re great, but you exhaust me.  Facebook gives me a way to spy on keep in touch with you, without having to interact with you.

BUT THEN….there is that beautiful thing that happens in the morning.  I wake up, stretch my arms over my head, and reach for my phone to check Facebook.  NOTIFICATION TIME!  How many will I have this morning?  2? 6?  Because my phone gets in my face so much during the day, I rarely have more than a couple of notifications.  But every morning, it’s like Christmas.  Except I guess some days I was bad, because I don’t get anything, but that doesn’t really help my story along here….so….anyway…  Anytime I am able to ignore my Facebook for a few hours, I get an armload of comments to enjoy.  I keep my posts sort of light-hearted and entertaining most of the time, and I like to know that I’ve made someone laugh or think.  Having a pile of notifications to sort through is fun and gives me a chance to think about what I wrote and who was interested or amused.

OMAGHERD! LOOK AT ALL THE PRESENTS!!!

OMAGHERD! LOOK AT ALL THE PRESENTS!!!

What would happen if I started treating Facebook like this all the time?  What if I took it off my phone and checked a few times a day on the computer?  I’d miss some things.  I wouldn’t be in the middle of some conversations that I currently enjoy.  The world might miss out on some of my funny.  Rather than breathing Facebook interaction like oxygen, I would open it up like a special package.  It would take a smaller place in my life.  I might not be in the cool kids of Facebook club anymore, because timing really is everything.  The pace of my life might slow down just a little bit.

This picture, while chock-full of oxygen, does not quite have the same magic.

This picture, while chock-full of oxygen, does not quite have the same magic.

Can I do this, this “slow living” experiment?  Can I post my updates a couple of times a day, read what my friends have written, and let the rest of the world pass me by?  I tried it the other day.  I spent a Sunday doing other things, and left my phone on the charger, partly because a friend and I had agreed to do it together.  I cleaned stuff.  I finished up the macaroni thing and posted it.  I did a lot of stuff.  I didn’t feel like I missed much.  The next day, I was right back to whanging away at the Facebook app like it controls the very beating of my heart.  It’s fun to have Christmas, but not *every day*.  That would get old.

02.22.14
by

Distress or Dye

Pants

my legs are corpse blue
NO! don’t sit on the white couch
in your new denim

I looked down in the shower today and noticed, somewhat alarmingly, that my legs were an oxygen-deprived shade of blue.  I immediately started thinking that I had done something terrible to myself on my run a couple of days ago, something that was cutting off the blood supply to my legs, or maybe the virus I caught from my husband was some horrible Ebola-like… oh.  New jeans.  I’m cool.