The Edge of Empress

The Voices in My Head

2009-09-30T14:14:00.000-05:00

Don’t worry, I’m a writer: We’re supposed to hear voices. The trouble comes when there are just so many of them. I am to the point of actually plotting out a career path for myself. Sure, luck will have a big say in it, probably a bigger say than even I have, but there are a few decisions I can make. Most notably, what kind of writer do I want to be? What kind of stories do I want to tell? Because really, there are lots of different kinds of stories floating around in my head. My novel, the completed and polished one that has my heart all over its pages, is a fantasy romance. And even that label isn’t sufficient, but labels never are, so that one is close enough. But I also have a straight contemporary romance that is completed but not polished. And there’s a paranormal time travel romance (whew, talk about your layered plot) that won’t get out of my head. So now I am faced with the decision of where to focus. I suppose I could take the approach of just throwing stuff at a wall and seeing what sticks, but my time is limited. Right now, I’m working on the business end of my fantasy romance, which is tentatively titled Star of Prophecy. I’m doing the query, agent and editor research, and proposal work for that one, and that takes a different part of my brain than straight creative work. So even though the business work on Star is my top priority, I have a need to create as well, and have to make time for that. So the big question is … which story do I tell? I suspect lots of writers have this problem, and maybe lots of them write many different kinds of stories. But I also know that readers get used to certain types of stories from authors and get frustrated when authors go off on what readers perceive to be tangents. As a reader, I’m the same way. I want Patricia Cornwell to stick to Scarpeta novels, Janet Evanovich to stay firmly in Stephanie Plum’s head, and I want Diana Gabaldon to be the scribe for Jamie and Claire exclusively. No, this isn’t fair, to expect writers to limit themselves, but hey, life is not fair. So, that leaves me with the question, now what? Do I draw characters from a hat? Try to write a little on everything? Go ahead and have that nervous breakdown I so richly deserve?

Finished-- Again!

2009-09-14T15:11:00.000-05:00

How many times now have I gleefully announced that my manuscript is finished? Many, many times. And likely, this isn’t the last time, but once again, hurray! The book is finished! Any excuse for a margarita, right? Honestly, I am so sick of this manuscript this time, I have no desire to go back to tweak story or grammar. It’s all done except for formatting and printing, which I’ll need Michael’s help with and which probably won’t get done until the weekend.
And I’m taking some online advice from published writers and researching editors based on the works of other authors whose books I have really liked and which can sort of be considered to be in a category with my own book. I’m sure I’ll manage to drag this process out well into next year because the whole idea of the business side of writing is just so dreadful a thought to me, but I do have a game plan for how to proceed. That counts for something, right?
So now, I must put in a new Baby Einstein movie and get back to procrastinating.

Enough Already!

2009-08-27T13:49:00.001-05:00

I am officially tired of my manuscript. Not surprising, since I’ve been working on it for about four years now. I’m just about to finish my final read through, then it’s on to the query, synopsis, and other torments. I have so many ideas for books, and a few that have a good chance of actually being written, but I can’t write when I only get a random hour here or there. Unfortunately, I need a bit more structure than that. Structure with a toddler is impossible. I’m looking into hiring a babysitter to come here one day a week while I get some writing done.
Believe it or not, I’m actually looking forward to writing the query and getting this manuscript on its way to publication. I’m terrified, sure, but ready. And despite my being tired of this story, it is still a damn good story.
I’ve read many books that I wonder how they ever got published. I console myself by realizing that an editor somewhere liked this book and no doubt a lot of readers did to. What makes the author of those books worthy of publication is that they stuck with it. They overcame the fear and they sent out their manuscript. Even if I didn’t like their books, I admire the writers for that. So, that’s my plan. Just keep at it until somebody sees the value in my story. And in the meantime, I’ll write other things. Assuming I find a babysitter.

I'm Ba-ack

2009-08-18T10:49:00.001-05:00

I have been woefully neglectful of this blog, but I’m okay with that. What with having my first baby and all, things have been a little busy around here. But Sprout is fourteen months old now, and I get a little (and I mean little) more time at the computer these days. Most of that time, I have been spending on my manuscript, which is now completely edited and in one document. Now all I have to do is check the formatting, add page numbers, and do one more final beginning-to-end read through and I’ll consider it ready to go. Go where? Well, that’s a hairy question. As I work on my query and synopsis—odious tasks indeed—I’ll also be researching agents and editors. This is the business part of writing, which I hate. Actually, everybody hates it, so I take some sick solace in that. If every other writer manages to overcome the synopsis-induced Malays and actually get published then surely I can too. So I’m taking over this blog again with a few goals in mind.
First, I want to keep an accounting of my writing. I suspect nobody is reading this blog, so it’s not like there’s any pressure. Second, I’d like to connect with a community of writers, so I’m gearing up to do NaBloPoMo this year, which I believe is in November. And finally, I’m warming up to the idea of letting the world know that I am a romance writer, and this is a very low-key, the-pressure’s-off way of doing that. I suppose that once I actually get an editor and a contract, I’ll do a different blog that’s heavy on promotion. All in good time. Right now, it’s time for me to reclaim that writer part of myself and this blog is one of the ways I’ll do that.

Puzzling

2008-07-17T11:03:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, while we were on one of our first outings with Sprout, Michael spotted a motorcycle with a handicap license plate. Hmmm. What disability would allow a person to both qualify for a handicap plate and drive a motorcycle? Really, I’ve thought and thought about this but can’t come up with anything. Michael said it’s like those old women who park in the handicap spaces at the mall and then go in to power walk. I’m sorry, but that’s just wrong.

Anticipation

2008-06-18T09:19:00.000-05:00

I realize this blog has been a little all-baby all-the-time lately, and to my five loyal readers, I apologize for that. Michael and I have embarked on a joint blogging venture called Adventures in Sprouting. If you aren’t sick of the baby stuff and want to check it out, go here.
I will blog about other things soon, but right now, there is nothing else on my mind as the C-section is scheduled for tomorrow. Tomorrow! Can you believe it? This time tomorrow, I will be a mommy. Just pick an adjective, that’s how I feel; overwhelmed, excited, terrified, unprepared, you name it. So, I likely won’t be blogging here for a week or so. Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me on this blog for the last few months. We will return to regularly scheduled programming soon, I promise.

Sibling Rivalry

2008-06-12T09:11:00.000-05:00

The following is a discussion Michael and I had last night on the topic of sibling rivalry:

Michael (about his younger brother): “Nobody ever remembers the stuff he did to provoke me. Every time I’d finally had enough and threw a rock at him or something, that’s when the bus would come and there he’d be with blood dripping down his face. That’s the part everybody remembers.”
Me (sarcastically): “Who could blame you? I mean, you were provoked.”
Michael (in all seriousness): “It wasn’t that I was violent, I was just really accurate.”

This has got me thinking maybe just the one kid is enough.

Book Review: "Sepulchre" by Kate Mosse

2008-06-11T13:14:00.002-05:00

“Sepulchre” is the second offering by British author Kate Mosse. The book parallels the lives of Leonie, a young French woman living in 1891 Paris, and Meredith Martin, a young American woman visiting France in the early 21st century to research a biography she is writing about composer Claude Debussy, as well as her own mysterious family heritage.
I should have loved this book. Setting is almost as important to me as character, and in “Sepulchre,” Mosse revisits Carcassonne, territory she first trod in “Labyrinth,” now in paperback. Both books weave together two time periods to great effect. Like setting, the device of parallel characters in different time periods, known as time-slip, is a favorite of mine. Another favorite thing of mine is the Tarot cards (the Empress in this blog title refers to the Empress card in the Tarot.), which are featured prominently in “Sepulchre,” adding to the reasons I should have really loved this book. And yet …
Let’s begin in 1891. “Sepulchre” begins in a cemetery following the supposed death of the mistress of Anatole, Leonie’s brother. It takes a while into the book before that scene makes sense as the starting point of the book, but the death of Anatole’s lover is at the heart of the drama. It takes a while for the action of the book to get moving, which doesn’t really find its feet until an invitation arrives for Anatole and Leonie to visit their late uncle’s widow, Isolde, at her estate, Domain de la Cade, near the spa town of Rennes-les-Bains in southwest France. Leonie notices strange behavior on the part of her brother, who leaves a trail of misinformation and makes switchbacks on their journey out of Paris. We know he is being pursued, but we don’t know why or by whom. When the pair finally arrives safely at Domain de la Cade, we know too that Anatole’s relationship with their widowed aunt is more than familial. The reader surmises this, but it takes Leonie a ridiculous amount of time to catch on. Actually, she never does, but instead has to have the nature of the relationship spelled out for her by Anatole. Don’t be thinking incest here though: Aunt Isolde is the much younger wife of Leonie and Anatole’s uncle. Isolde’s relationship to her late husband was one of convenience and companionship rather than love and adoration.
While Meredith Martin is visiting Paris in the present day, a chance Tarot reading reveals more about herself than about her research subject, Claude Debussy, and firms her resolve to visit Rennes-les-Bains and research the unknown history of her birth family. With the deck of Tarot cards in hand, Meredith leaves Paris and becomes a guest at the Hotel Domain de la Cade. She immediately begins seeing strange visions of a young, copper-haired woman with green eyes who appears to be urging her to act. She later learns the woman’s identity—Leonie Vernier. She comes to realize that uncovering the mystery of Leonie might well answer Meredith’s own questions about her family.
Mosse’s descriptions of the town and countryside surroundings of Rennes-les-Bains are amazingly vivid, capturing the feel of the place as well as its beauty. The region should hire her as head of its tourism division, because I want nothing so much now as to visit the area. This setting and Mosse’s descriptions of it are what kept me reading the book. I must say here that of course, I listened to the unabridged audio version of the book. I found the narrator’s voice captivating, both in “Sepulchre” and in “Labyrinth,” and now I want to learn to speak French. A few characters from the earlier book make an appearance in “Sepulchre,” though it isn’t necessary to have read “Labyrinth” first. It’s just a nice spark of recognition when you remember that you’ve met this or that character before.
The book’s troubles begin when while visiting Carcassonne for a concert, Leonie defies her brother’s strict entreaty that she remain nearby. In a turn all too common for Mosse’s heroines, and all too infuriating for Mosse’s readers, Leonie ignores her brother’s warnings. For what purpose? So that she can be the feisty young heroine I suppose. She gets caught in a storm and takes shelter in a church, where the charming yet dangerous Victor, who we learn is the book’s villain, finds her and gleans from her information that will lead him to Isolde, with whom he had a previous affair, an affair so horrific and devastating that Isolde and Anatole saw no escape except to fake Isolde’s death—the opening scene in the cemetery.
I can think of at least five other plot devices, all of them less contrived and more believable, to get Victor to the Domain De La Cade and thereby heighten the tension, that don’t leave Leonie looking like an irredeemable ditz. I recalled this same plot device being employed in Labyrinth, and it nearly ruined that story for me as well. In my opinion, the character of Leonie never recovered from the author’s mishandling of her in that scene. Contrivances abound in this book, both in character motivation and in dialogue.
The sepulchre that gives the book its title is an ancient Visigoth sepulchre on the grounds of the Domain de la Cade that is rumored to have housed a demon that was once released into the countryside by Isolde’s late husband. The sepulchre is the stage for the final showdown between Leonie and Victor, a showdown that occurs after nearly everything is lost to Leonie. In Meredith’s time, the current owner of the Hotel Domain De La Cade, Julian Lawrence, has spent his fortune searching for the original Tarot cards that will lead him to the Visigoth treasure that is thought to be buried on the hotel grounds. He is an evil, twisted man as well, the modern incarnation of Victor.
Meredith must race against time to find the cards before Julian does. It is the only way she can save herself and free Leonie from her ghostly existence.
“Sepulchre” held my interest, albeit with no small amount of eye rolling. In the end, my recommendation is that if you like France as a setting, haunting ghost stories, and epic tales of intrigue, you will like this book. Just don’t let your expectations run away with you. I suggest getting it in paperback though or borrowing it from the library. Its shortcomings make it unlikely to be a favorite reread.

What we said we wouldn't do

2008-06-04T12:09:00.000-05:00

I am in the throws of pregnancy. What’s more, I now get to really indulge myself in it. My doctor, due to some very low-level concerns about my elevated blood pressure, has called a halt to me working. Fine by me. Working all day long, day after day, was starting to get difficult. So now I’m at home all day and find myself wandering into the nursery, petting baby clothes, sniffing baby lotion, and practicing raising and lowering the rails on the crib. As I walk around the room, I realize that what Michael and I swore wouldn’t happen, has indeed happened. We have fallen prey to the baby industrial complex.
We promised ourselves we wouldn’t. We scoffed—actually scoffed—at people who by at least one of absolutely every product marketed for babies. I mean really-- did we need a bouncy seat, swing, and a bassinette? No, we did not. But that’s what we’ve got. I try to console myself that two of those three things were gifts, but we did register for them. Once the doctor told us Sprout might come early, we sort of freaked a little. We went to Nashville to Babies R Us (it’s like they knew we were coming, probably the overwhelming smell of sucker, A.K.A. new parents) and bought anything and everything that we could ever maybe possibly need. We got the afore mentioned bassinette (we did have a coupon), a rocking chair (it was 20% off), a sling, and a crib set. Okay, I’ve got no justification for those last two. I know the sling makes us look like those overprotective attachment parent types, but I really think it is the safest way for me to carry the baby. And we got one that Michael and I both can wear. Honestly, I’m sort of jazzed about the sling. Maybe it stems from my love of bags and purses. What is a sling after all but a bag to carry a baby in? Plus, it’ll make me feel more confident carrying Sprout. I have nightmares about bumping his soft, not-completely-formed head on the corner going from the living room into the hallway.
The crib set though … $179 for a crib set? Yeah, we were over the top on that one. Even if it did come with curtains, that was too much money for what amounts to decoration. It is a beautiful crib set though. It has a great big moon and stars and it goes perfect with the paint and carpet. But $179? I know, I know. I managed to live most of my life without even knowing what a diaper stacker was, then suddenly, I just have to have one? It’s insanity I tell you, there’s no other explanation for it.
The upside of all this is that we are now ready for the baby to come. The furniture is all put together, the room is decorated, the rocking chair is ready and waiting. And though perhaps not priceless, the sense of relief I feel at that is worth a lot. Given the insane temperatures lately, it isn’t like I’ll be going out to do more shopping. I’ll just set the rocking chair by an air-conditioning vent, sip lemonade, and wait for motherhood to find me.

Whining

2008-05-29T08:40:00.001-05:00

Did you miss me? I haven't blogged in a while. On Friday, Michael and I both took off work to get some things done around the house, and good thing we did. I also had my baby doctor appointment that day, where my doctor, after examining me, said that he felt sure I would go into labor earlier than expected, substantially earlier. Yeah, I know, doctors say that all the time and it often doesn't happen. But for a psycho planner like me, that was chilling news indeed. Due to my medical history, we have decided on a planned C-section, which we have already scheduled. It is in three weeks. Three weeks, I said. But according to my doctor, Sprout didn't get the memo about the schedule. I just knew this kid was going to turn my life upside down. So needless to say, Michael and I spent the weekend doing all the things that we thought we have plenty of time to do. The nursery is now ready, except for a few decorative touches that I'm very little concerned with just now. I have packed my hospital bag, mostly, and I washed the five million baby outfits and blankies that we have gotten. Certainly, there is still stuff to be done, but I've made a list and schedule for those things.
In addition to the frantic activity over the past week, I have just become downright huge. Well maybe not huge, but my belly definitely precedes me when I enter a room. And my feet are swelling. I know it happens to every pregnant woman, but I'm not every pregnant woman, I'm me and I'm just going to whine about it for a minute. Okay. All done. Thanks for indulging me. Thus far, I have been consoling myself with ice cream, which has been surprisingly helpful. It's supposed to hit ninety degrees here tomorrow, which means I should probably stock up on more ice cream.
Thanks to some budget-based restructuring fallout at work, I have a new boss. I think this will work out fine, although the timing certainly could have been better. I had rather hoped just to coast until going on maternity leave, but the new boss has given me a big, research-intensive assignment. And this at a time where I can't manage to wrangle and hold one single thought in my head. So yeah, there's a little stress there too. Just when I get the stress under control, another Braxton-Hicks contraction will hit, sending me into super panic mode again.
So really, I'm sorry for all the whining I'm doing here, but I felt like getting all these fears down and out would be beneficial. We'll see. But make no mistake, I am absolutely thrilled at the prospect of meeting my baby boy. I'm just a little terrified too.

Momentous

2008-05-20T10:06:00.000-05:00

May marks the one-year anniversary of this blog. Not that, you know, that's such a huge deal, but I thought it warranted a mention. What is a huge deal is that today, I got to cast my vote for a woman for President of the United States. I know that Hillary's chances look slim, but I can't tell you how much I appreciate her staying in the race long enough for me to have the opportunity to vote for her. A lot of people say she's hurting the party by remaining in the race. Let me tell you something: If the democratic process hurts the party, then it isn't much of a party to begin with. Politics is changing, and the old farts and the media need to accept that. I think the country is better for having had a real, honest-to-goodness primary race. No matter how you voted, if you live in Kentucky and voted today, then your vote was a momentous one. Well, if you're a Democrat anyway. If you're a Republican, then congratulations, you got to vote for another old white guy. Don't you feel just grand?
Kentuckians almost never get a say in Presidential nominees, but voting in this primary was particularly gratifying. Actually, I am always gratified by getting to vote. I am a blind woman. For most of this country's history, I would have been denied the right to vote, but not anymore. Today, I went to my polling place, chatted with the nice poll workers, and was shown to a talking voting booth that I could use independently. Independently! There is much wrong with our country, much that I hope our next President will work to fix, but today, I voted. Independently! Even ten years ago, that was not a possibility. It's proof that things can change. Think about this: A blind woman voted at a talking voting machine and had the option to cast her ballot for a woman or for an African American. How can you read that sentence and not feel a sense of national pride? It isn't often that I feel optimistic about the United States, but I absolutely did this morning.
If you live in Kentucky, please get out and vote today. And no matter where you live, if your reason for not voting has to do with your registration or some such technicality, please make it a point to rectify the situation by November. We have all heard time and time again that people fought and died for our right to vote. I think we hear it so much it's a cliché, meaningless. But I know the meaning. Today, I voted independently, and it meant a hell of a lot to me.

Another Random Friday

2008-05-16T10:52:00.001-05:00

I have very little in the way of interesting stuff to write about today, but Michael said he likes to read my blog while he's eating his lunch, so I'm feeling some pressure here to make my husband happy. He is after all, about 20% of my regular readership. Sweetie, be warned: Keep your expectations low.
Michael's 8-month-old niece had to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance yesterday after she fell off the bed onto the hardwood floor. Thankfully, she is fine. A CT scan showed nothing out of the ordinary, but what a terrifying few hours. I know her mother is feeling a great deal of guilt, but seriously, this kind of thing could happen to anybody, and frequently does. I wake up at night in a cold sweat that I will do something that will end up harming my baby. Mostly I worry about this because I am blind, but I realize accidents happen to children of all kinds of parents. What I learned from this is to never put my baby on the bed. No doubt, that is the point at which Sprout will decide it's time to learn to roll over or crawl. I'm only setting my kid down in things that have safety straps or side rails.
The other night, between the time I got home and the time I went to bed, I ate a slice of Black Forest cake that my mother made me for Mother's Day, a double cheeseburger and fries from Sonic, and a pint of butter pecan ice cream. No kidding, I am now officially huge.
I have never seen an Indiana Jones movie. I think we might rent at least the first one this weekend. I won/t be seeing the new movie at the theater because I hate movie theaters (too cold and too loud), but a favorite author of mine, James Rollins, has been commissioned to write the novelization of the upcoming Indiana Jones movie. I generally think making a book out of a movie is stupid, but it kind of works for me. I'll get far more out of that than today's special effects-heavy blockbusters. And I think the book comes out next week, so I guess I need to figure out what this Indiana Jones business is about. Yes, I am an old person.
Tuesday is Kentucky's Presidential primary. For the first time in a long time, my state will actually have a say in who gets elected. I can't wait to vote!
This month marks the one year anniversary of this blog. As this post will attest, this blog is somewhat directionless. I've kicked around the idea of starting another blog, one that would have a narrower focus, but as I'm not sure what that focus would be, I'll probably just stick to spewing out disconnected thoughts here. I hope that's okay with my five readers. How does one increase one's blog readership anyway? And do I really even care? Yes, it's life's big questions that I'm pondering today folks.
Well, that's it for this Friday's edition of mind-numbing boredom. Join me back here next week when I explore the question: "Why do I have even five readers?"

Thursday Thirteen: Things that Really Annoy Me

2008-05-15T09:57:00.001-05:00

1. Diane Sawyer-- Really, I cannot stand her. She asks questions like, "So how did you feel when your child was violently murdered?" Well gee Diane, I bet it put something of a damper on her day. Good grief woman, quit fishing for melodrama already. You are just such an after school special.
2. When people tell me how incredibly busy they are-- If you have the time to tell me how busy you are, you probably aren't that busy.
3. Getting coupons in the mail the day before they expire-- This has been happening to us a lot lately, and really, I would have like that 10% off a breast pump.
4. Rap music blaring from a piece-of-shit car with rattley speakers-- Admittedly, I don't like being forced to listen to the musical selections of others while waiting at stoplights, no matter what the music is, but really, it does tend to be rap an overwhelming percentage of the time. And that rattley speaker noise just makes the roots of my hair hurt.
5. When people that I have not spoken to or thought about in more than a decade come up to me and say "Hey, I bet you don't know who I am, do you?" Well, you're an asshole, and that's pretty much all I need to know.
6. Disney-- I have adopted Molly's stand on Disney. Michael has been reading a story to the baby every night, and unfortunately the majority of the books we have so far are Disney. First, Bambi's mother got killed, then there was Pinocchio, then last night was the cruelty heaped on poor little Dumbo. I just couldn't handle it and we had to stop reading only a few pages in. I just can't take it when people are mean to babies right now. I'm very emotional just now. Disney, I hate you.
7. When our entire neighborhood decides to mow their lawns on Sunday morning-- It's loud, it stirs up my allergies, and it makes us feel guilty about the unruly weed field that is our yard.
8. Wow, looks like I've got some aggression issues today, huh?
9. When my local Barnes and Noble doesn't have a book I've been waiting for on the day of its release. Or worse, when they have the print book, but not the audio book. Or worse still, when the only audio book edition they have is abridged. I swear off our local Barnes and Noble on a monthly basis.
10. When it's cold and rainy in May-- We've been getting a lot of this lately.
11. When people offer to help with something and then seem surprised or even affronted when you actually give them something to do.
12. When visitors drop in without calling. I am likely to mistake you for a Jehovah's Witness if you visit without calling on a Saturday morning, and let me assure you, the ensuing scene will not be pretty.
13. Jehovah's Witnesses-- Really, does this one require an explanation?

Baked Orzo

2008-05-12T09:42:00.001-05:00

Here’s a recipe that we tried for the first time last night. I got it off Food Network's “Everyday Italian.” Here’s a link to the recipe online. It was a hearty pasta dish that was made interesting by peas and mushrooms. NOTE: Next time, I’ll probably double the amount of mushrooms because they really make the dish. If you do that, I assume you’d have to adjust the butter and Marsala wine accordingly. Also, it calls for fresh mozzarella and fontina cheeses. Doubtless, it would be better that way, but groceries are wicked expensive right now, and this being my first time with this recipe, I opted for the substantially cheaper Italian blend of shredded cheeses. If I were making this for company, I’d definitely get the better cheese.

Baked Orzo with Fontina and Peas

4 cups chicken broth
1 pound orzo pasta
3 tablespoons butter, plus more to grease the baking dish
1 onion, chopped
8 ounces mushrooms, sliced
1 cup Marsala wine
1/2 cup heavy cream
4 ounces shredded fontina cheese (about 1 cup)
4 ounces diced fresh mozzarella cheese (about 1 cup)
1 cup frozen peas, thawed
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
1/2 cup bread crumbs
1/4 cup grated Parmesan
1 teaspoon dried thyme
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Butter a 9 by 13-inch baking dish. Bring the chicken broth to a boil over medium-high heat in a medium saucepan. Add the orzo and cook until almost tender, about 7 minutes. Pour the orzo and the broth into a large bowl. Set aside. Meanwhile, melt the butter over medium heat in a medium skillet. Add the onions and sauté until tender, about 3 minutes. Add the mushrooms and continue to saute until the mushrooms are beginning to turn golden around the edges, about 7 minutes. Add the Marsala. Scrape the brown bits off the bottom of the pan and cook until the Marsala has reduced by half, about 5 minutes. Add the mushroom mixture to the orzo in the large bowl. Add the cream, fontina, mozzarella, peas, salt, and pepper. Stir to combine. Pour the mixture into the prepared baking dish. In a small bowl combine the bread crumbs, Parmesan, and dried thyme. Sprinkle the bread crumb mixture on top of the pasta. Bake until golden, about 25 minutes. Enjoy.

I am about to begin cooking and freezing meals for Michael and me to eat after the baby comes. If I don't do this, the temptation to just order pizza or run out for fast food will be too overwhelming. Even with a store of healthy meals, there will probably be a lot of fast food consumed. So if anyone has any recipes, cookbooks, or websites that contain freezer-friendly recipes, I'd appreciate the suggestion. You know what that means: It's time to pull out those casserole recipes. Thanks.

A Bad Week, Cholesterol, and Cell Phone Etiquette

2008-05-09T10:28:00.000-05:00

So here's another collection of random thoughts from me. Actually, most of my thoughts of late have been of the random variety because this has been the week from hell. Hell, I tell you! There is a pretty nasty budget cut situation going on at work that directly impacted my department but thankfully, not my job. Not yet anyway. That situation brought on one screamer of a headache that kept me down for about two days, two days that I really did not have to spare. Because we are not mentally sound people, Michael and I are involved in a home upgrade project, right here when we're six weeks away from having a baby. This week was the worst of it though, which I'm pretty sure I have been saying every week for two months now. But the carpet layers came this week and that part of the nightmare is over. for now. That finishes up all the indoor work except for the nursery. The backyard is still a giant mud pit, but we're getting to that.
We got Garnet, my 13-year-old black Lab, a new collar. It's pink with silver reflective paw prints on it. It is too precious and she loves it. She's always worn the training collar, standard apparel for a service dog, but she's started using the jingling sound that collar makes to her advantage. My dog has a very devious mind. When she doesn't think we are attending to her needs fast enough-- say, in the middle of the night-- she does that flappy head and ear thing usually reserved for shaking off water. The end result is that she wakes me up several times a night with the collar jingling. So we're putting this new canvass collar on her at night, but putting the training collar back on her during the day. Like I said, she's devious, and knows that I can't hear her without the jingle jingle of the training collar, so she uses this to her advantage. "Garnet, come. Garnet, come! Garnet, get over here damn it!!!" All the while, she's sitting about five feet from me, smirking. Really, she smirks. But she really does love her new collar, so much so that I have trouble getting the old training collar back on her in the mornings. Anyway, so I want to take a picture of Garnet with her snazzy new collar, but as you might imagine, Blinkie here ain't so good with the picture takin'. So I'm going to see if Michael can get to that this weekend, you know, in between the pressing yard work, nursery readying, and Mother's Day. I told you this was the week from hell.
We have not been grocery shopping in ten days. Now, I realize that that's standard for some people, but not for us. We don't eat out a lot, preferring to cook at home and take our lunches to work. We just haven't had time for grocery shopping this week. Well, we probably did but I had that killer headache I mentioned, and then last night, well it was raining, and who wants to go grocery shopping in the rain. Anyway, so for breakfast this morning, instead of our usual healthy whole grain bagel or cereal, we went through the drive-thru at Hardee's. I got a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit and a large order of hash rounds. Yikes! But really, a cholesterol overdose was just the way to end this week, trust me. There is also the incredibly weird situation going on with my weight. I'm pregnant, as you might recall from my relentless mentioning of that fact, and I had my Ob appointment yesterday. I lost a fourth of a pound. What! Now, I am more conscious of what I eat right now than I ever have been at any point in my life, but I don't think you could say I'm really sacrificing. If I want ice cream (and I want it a lot let me assure you) then I have ice cream. Mmmmm, ice cream. Michael, maybe you had better pick up some ice cream on your way home. I'm pretty sure we're out. Wait, where was I? Right, my weight. So I lost eleven pounds early on in my pregnancy from the morning sickness, and since then have been gaining and losing in turn. Taken from my weight at my first appointment, I have gained a total of less than ten pounds during my pregnancy. Not bad. But I have also lost more weight overall than I have in a very long time. How fair is that? Some sick joke from the diet fairy? So, I figured that lost fourth of a pound entitled me to a sausage biscuit. Ah, I think we might have just hit on why diets never work for me.
One more thing, at the Ob's office yesterday, there were two people in the waiting room talking on cell phones at the same time. They kept getting louder and louder in an effort to talk over each other. Actually, there were way more than two people talking on cell phones, but these two were particularly annoying. It was like listening to Dueling Rednecks. Here's the thing people: No matter how far away the person you're talking to on the phone is, they can still hear you. It's sort of the point of a telephone. There is no need to shout! Really. Honestly. I'm sure about this. I realize the topic of cell phone etiquette is overdone and largely ignored, but let me say anyway that when you can leave the room to talk on your cell phone, then please do so. Your fellow doctor's office waiters will thank you.
So I hope everyone has a great weekend. Don't forget, it's Mother's Day on Sunday. If you forget, you'll never hear the end of it. Not officially a mom yet, I'm only asking for a cake. And really, I'd be asking for that cake regardless of it being Mother's Day. It's that fourth of a pound, you understand.

Derby Day Part II

2008-05-06T07:37:00.000-05:00

I blogged on Friday about Derby Day. Little did I know tragedy would befall the race. The only filly in the race, Eight Belles ran impressively, ultimately finishing second to Big Brown. To recap, after crossing the finish line, eight Belles collapsed. I'm not sure how much of it the camera and thus the television audience saw, but the other horses made enough of a commotion to alert the commentators and announcers that something was amiss. Michael and I, like everybody I suspect, watched without a clue that what was going on would be as bad as it was. Announcers were cutting from one to another in attempt to keep coverage rolling while trying to find out what happened. Somebody snagged the veterinarian and they instantly cut to him. And this is when things really got horrific.
The vet said, live and on the air, that Eight Belles had suffered compound fractures to both front ankles, an extremely painful injury, and so had been euthanized on the track.
What?!? Did he just say euthanized? OMG! He did. He said euthanized.
I have to tell you, after just watching such a beautiful horse run like a champion, this was sad and jarring news indeed. In a horserace, you almost expect to see a horse get bumped and go down during a race, or even to see a jokey get thrown. It isn't pretty, but it happens. Horses, after all, are massive and powerful animals. But this? This news after the race is over? No, you don't expect that.
Naturally, the speculation started instantly. There have been calls for an investigation, as their should be, into the jockey, the race, the horse, the trainer, the health of the horse, etc. When something like this happens, no stone should be left unturned. Bring it on, I say. Except to those people who say a filly should not have been in the race. Um, hello. She finished second! If you want to question whether a horse should have been in the race, ask the question of the horse who came in last. I'm an equine feminist as well I suppose.
I must admit, this Derby made me regret my enthusiasm for horseracing. I felt a little ashamed that my interest might have somehow contributed to this tragedy. It is undeniably one of the saddest things I have seen in sports.
I do want to make one point, not about the race or the horse, but about public relations, being a pr practitioner myself. To the vet: doc, you do not announce the death of a horse five minutes after the Kentucky Derby. There is just no way to recover the festive atmosphere after that. If you are forced to make any statement at all, you just say that track officials are looking into the situation. True, but vague enough to keep the program moving along. Let me repeat: You do not announce the death of a horse immediately following the Kentucky Derby. I feel sure Churchill Downs will have just such a policy in place, oh, probably by yesterday.
For my part, this will forever color how I view horseracing and the Kentucky Derby.

Derby Day

2008-05-02T14:30:00.000-05:00

As a Kentuckian, I feel a responsibility to mention Derby Day. To be honest, I have never been to the Derby, most Kentuckians haven't. We either can't afford it or choose to avoid the insane crowds. I live in the southern part of the Commonwealth, and am actually closer to Nashville, Tennessee than to Louisville. I think of Louisville as more of a Midwestern type city than a Southern one, except, of course, on Derby Day. On Derby Day, Louisville brings out its decorous sunhats, it's deceptively dainty-looking mint juleps, and puts on the Southern charm. This is not, in my experience, the Louisville of say, the first Saturday in October.
It is something to have such an international sporting event so close to where I live, I must admit. The Queen of England and several Arab princes, not to mention countless millionaires and celebrities, have come to Kentucky just because of our reputation for superior horses and for the spectacle that is Derby Day. I believe Hillary Clinton is due to be in attendance this year, with Eight Belles being her pick. The filly in the race is a good choice for the first woman to run for President. (Three fillies have previously won the Kentucky Derby.)
My family has honored a few Derby Day traditions, but they have been largely abandoned in recent years. We used to always have a cookout before the race and share in a pool to pick the winning horse. I am not bad at picking a good horse, which is owing to nothing more than sheer dumb luck, let me assure you. This year, I'm letting Hillary lead the way, and I'm going with Eight Belles. Probably, Michael and I will stop our Saturday chores (working in the yard and readying the nursery) long enough to watch some of the pre-race coverage and the three minutes of the actual race. And like always, I'll get a little misty when the University of Louisville Marching Band plays "My Old Kentucky Home" because how can you not? The state of my birth doesn't offer up very many points of pride: We are routinely near the bottom in things like funding for education and healthcare and near the top in things like smoking and drug use, but one thing we do know about is spectacle. Much of Derby Day is sickeningly sentimental, but I'd put money on mine not being the only teary eyes tomorrow as those magnificent horses parade proudly to the gate in their quest for immortal glory.

Thursday Thirteen: Thirteen Things about Me

2008-05-01T15:58:00.001-05:00

1. I always hit elevator buttons twice. Maybe it's a trust issue.
2. I love movie soundtracks and movie trailers but rarely ever watch movies.
3. I have a love/hate relationship with socks. I love big warm woolly socks in winter, but can't wait to free my toes in spring.
4. Before leaving the house, I always check to see that the toaster is unplugged, even if nobody used the toaster that day.
5. I cannot judge amounts. Michael has to pour our morning breakfast cereal because I usually pour enough for six people. And I don't just do this with the cereals I like. I even do it with Michael's crappy healthy cereal.
6. I love purses, the cheaper the better. The less they cost the more of them I can buy.
7. My husband has exactly seven letters in all three of his names-- first, middle, and last. Who else but me would have bothered to count?
8. I am addicted to Chap Stick.
9. In knitting, I knit extremely loose with circulars and extremely tight with double pointed needles. I have to buy circulars at least one size smaller than a pattern calls for and dpn's at least one size larger.
10. I drink at least a liter of water everyday.
11. I have never had a cavity.
12. I am mortally, horrifically afraid of grasshoppers. Shiver.
13. I am a chronic station flipper when it comes to the car radio, and we have XM satellite radio, so this can get pretty annoying.
So that's thirteen random, quirky things about me. If you'd like to play Thursday Thirteen, just leave me a link to your list in the comments.

Adventures in Grocery Shopping

2008-04-30T11:09:00.000-05:00

Grocery shopping is a weekly chore that neither Michael nor I particularly enjoy, but it must be done, so why belly ache about it. We try to make it interesting. For example, when I'm starting to get tired and frustrated, which usually happens somewhere around the cereal isle because I want Cookie Crisp or Cap'n Crunch and he insists on getting something healthy like Cheerios, he will often break the tension by countering some smart ass remark of mine by saying, too loudly, "Okay, we'll get Cap'n Crunch. Just don't hit me again!" That's really funny if you don't happen to be an elderly woman passing us in the isle who doesn't know us and only sees a frightened man and a pissed off looking blind woman.
So anyway, we were at the grocery store last night, and before we even got inside, we saw two ducks playing in a puddle in the parking lot. It really was precious. Precious too were the two toddlers yelling "Ducky!" and clapping and laughing as they watched them. Really sweet. It became less sweet however as they remained two isles behind us during the entire time we shopped, still shouting, "Ducky!"
Then Michael saw a really, really pregnant woman (he notices them now) and said, "Wow, she's really huge. And she's Indian. And she's in the ice cream isle. I guess that transcends cultures."
Ice cream, the great unifier.
Then as we were leaving the store, he saw another pregnant woman and said, "They're everywhere."
"Yes," I said, "we're multiplying."

Fair Weather Randomness

2008-04-25T15:37:00.001-05:00

Michael and I were out together at midday yesterday, something that almost never happens through the week. I talked him into staying home and we went out to lunch and enjoyed the humidity-free warm day. We had a great time and made some interesting discoveries.
1. It takes less time to buy a car than to renew a cell phone contract. Seriously, we spent more time, went to more places, and got more sales person Bullshit while getting Michael a new cell phone than we endured when we bought our last car.
2. Women drive the economy. Almost everywhere we went, Michael was the only man in the place. There was one student on a laptop taking advantage of the free wifi at the cafe where we had lunch, but other than him, Michael was it. It leads me to the conclusion that in a lot of cases, stay-at-home moms do not stay at home. They are at BN or Kohl's or Target. I must admit that I am fascinated by stay-at-home moms. I don't know why, but I wonder about them-- what they do, how they live, etc. I wonder if there is some SAHM code of conduct to follow. The cafe we had lunch at has an indoor playground for kids, so we expected to see lots of moms there, and we did. One woman was in sweat pants and flip flops and her daughter was in shorts and sandals. That makes perfect sense to me. Then another woman, dressed in a pant suit, came in with her little girl in a sun dress and floppy hat-- to have lunch and slide on the slide. I don't get it. I realize that what I am trying to do is generalize a very diverse group, but they puzzle me.
3. This was just funny. Michael said, "I just don't understand people." I inquired what he was referring to and he said there was a woman sitting on the curb in front of her car outside the AT&T store, and clipping her toenails. WTF! I cannot think of a situation that would necessitate this action, but whatever.
So that's just a bit of Friday randomness from me. Have a good weekend.

Happy Earth Day!

2008-04-22T11:45:00.000-05:00

I'm sure everyone has big Earth Day celebrations planned for the day. No? I'm shocked. No, not really. Thanks to news stories, most people will probably at least here that today is earth day though, which is more than can be said of years past. That makes me wonder if we are reaching a dangerous saturation point where "green" and "environmental" messages are concerned.
I remember years ago when bottled water first started appearing on shelves. Remember? Before Coca-Cola and Pepsi even got in on the action with Dasani and Aquafina? I heard a lot of people making fun of us bottled water drinkers. After all, water was free right from the tap. What kind of moron would go to the store and pay for water? Now, just ten years or so later, how many people don't buy bottled water? I'm sure there are a few people who still step up to the faucet with a glass in hand and drink straight from the tap, but I can't think it's very many people. Even people who do drink tap water probably have a filter pitcher or a filtration system on the refrigerator. What happened? Did we just get used to questioning the safety of our water supply rather than demanding cleaner water?
The same kind of thing is true for sun block. I can remember when I was little, my mom and her sisters used "tanning oil" and in the absence of store-bought tanning oil, they'd just use baby oil. Then we started hearing that maybe the sun wasn't the warm happy ball in the sky we thought it was, and we started seeing sunscreen popping up on store shelves. Even then, most people only used sunscreen if they were fair skinned or tended to get sunburned noses or shoulders. And a few hours playing in the yard? Well that was no reason for protection from the sun. Now, I'm not sure you can even find sunscreen, it's all sun block, and almost nobody goes out for a day in the sun without it. For that matter, many people limit their outdoor activities to the early morning and evening hours to decrease their exposure to the sun's harmful rays.
These changes in our behavior and our thinking seemed to have happened gradually, but the evolution was complete in under a decade. We just take bottled water and sun block for granted, and I have to tell you, that concerns me. I heard a news story recently that spoke of global climate change as if it was an inevitability, something that could be wrestled to the ground and defeated with the right ideas and investment. I believe global climate change is an inevitability, eventually. But I do think the rate of change is directly proportionate to humankind's impact on the earth. Rather than give us more stuff to buy in response to the problem, I would rather we be encouraged to help slow, if not prevent, the problem. I'm not saying air conditioning or swimming pools should be banned, heavens no, but there are things that individuals, businesses, and governments can all do. It is unfortunate that for the most part, businesses and governments (at least American ones) have chosen to ignore and deny the problem, and now I fear their strategy is just to pretend that global climate change is an unavoidable steamroller heading right for us, so why alter our lifestyles? What's next? We passively accept it when we all have to wear oxygen masks because of poor air quality?
I realize this post is something of a rant, and I'd say I'm sorry except that I'm not. So let me just offer my thanks for the things, big and small, that individuals are doing to at least keep the spirit of Earth Day in mind. In the comments, I'd love it if people would let me know what those things are. Sharing ideas is an important weapon in this fight for our planet. For my part, we use reusable grocery bags, reduce our consumption, drive a low-emission vehicle, buy organic most of the time, buy locally when we can, and make use of our local Goodwill store rather than contributing to crowded landfills. See, it's small stuff, but it's something. So what about you?

The Ritual of Drink

2008-04-17T16:46:00.000-05:00

After a cold snap over the weekend that brought frost and flurries to Kentucky, spring, the fickle bitch, has decided to once again grace us with her presence. Yesterday, Michael had an early morning appointment to check into finishing up his degree, and I went with him. There is simply nothing like spring on a college campus, and our alma mater is especially beautiful. It was nice to be doing something outside our normal morning routine. In the struggle to get ready and get to work on time everyday, much of the beginning of the day around me gets lost in routine. But yesterday was a wonderful morning and we got lucky by being in a position to appreciate it.
We stepped into the student center, and instantly the smell of coffee hit me. I have returned to drinking coffee now, but only decaf, which really, that's hardly coffee at all. We had to get to the appointment and so couldn't linger, but I would have given anything to buy a cafe mocha, a real cafe mocha, and sit outside at a table and just enjoy the morning. Alas, it was not to be. We finished Michael's appointment and he dropped me off at work. I sat down at my desk and took the lid off my travel mug of decaf. How disappointing. It wasn't just the absence of caffeine. No, it was more than that. I have to admit that there is just something about purchasing a cup of coffee and having it presented to me, all steamy and yummy smelling and topped with whipped cream, in a paper cup. Most things I think are better done at home-- pizza, grilled hamburgers, cookies-- but I am a sucker for coffee in a paper cup with a plastic lid on top. This is not something I'm proud of, but there it is. If I could drive, I'm sure I would go through the Starbucks drive-thru every morning. As it is, I fix coffee at home and we carry our travel mugs to work with us. I don't know what makes coffee different, but I just really prefer it when somebody else makes it for me. I think it's the experience of smelling the coffee shop, or maybe it's a sense of camaraderie with the other caffeine junkies in line.
Asian cultures have long ritualized the art of the beverage, and I can totally understand why. Taking the time to drink something frivolous is one of life's great pleasures. Naturally, in the U.S., we turned that simple ritual into a corporate giant complete with merchandising, accessories, and a drive-thru lane. We are what we are, I suppose.
One of these mornings, I am going to take the time to enjoy a calorie-loaded cup of coffee that somebody else made for me on a sunny spring morning. See, I don't ask for much. It's the simple things.

No Groups Please

2008-04-10T16:50:00.000-05:00

This week, Michael and I attended our fifth childbirth class given by the hospital where I will deliver. If I hadn't taken these classes, I'm sure I would always worry that I missed something, but so far I haven't learned anything that I hadn't already found out from books or the internet. I suppose the videos are helpful for the people who can see them, but for me, not so much. during the second half of last' night's class, the fathers left to attend a fatherhood class and the mothers stayed to have what spiraled into a "Seventeen" magazine style discussion of "female stuff," the stuff that women won't talk about in front of the men who got them pregnant. Whatever. I expected this from a set-up that thinks men and women can't discuss things together without fainting or breaking into giggles, so I sat calmly, trying to remember not to roll my eyes. People can see it when you do that, I reminded myself. When the women finished up our portion of the class, we sat around and waited for the men to finish. As usually happens, women began breaking up into groups of twos and threes. Except for me. I sat alone. Probably, I wasn't the only one sitting alone. Some people are just shy, some of the preggies were likely too uncomfortable to chit chat, and then there's me. Me, I simply don't do group stuff. Raised an only child, I guess I never really learned to play well with others. Or maybe as a writer, I'd just really rather be alone in my head, watching what my characters are up to. Whatever the reason, I do not function well in a group. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I'm a loner, because Michael and I do almost everything together. He's not a group person either. When I was younger, I used to feel the need to constantly challenge my own comfort zones, but now ... now I just don't care that much. Michael doesn't challenge my comfort zones and that works out just perfect for us. Actually, our comfort zones are the same, so we live in them quite happily.
I have been in several formal groups, and I always end up dissatisfied or disillusioned. Take now for instance: I am in a nonprofit group that ostensibly promotes the rights and independence of blind and visually impaired individuals in my community. That's what it's supposed to do. What it really does is promote the agenda of one person for his own self-serving purposes. I find that most groups, even those that begin with good intentions, end up being the fan clubs of people with their own motives. I can't tolerate this, and so often end up bucking the power structure with the end result being that I feel frustrated and beaten down. What can I say, I'm a Democrat and a Cubs fan. Rooting for the underdog against all reason is just what I do.
I want to be involved in community groups. I want to be active. But I can't just show up and follow blindly (pardon the pun) and go along with the machinations of a leader who doesn't have the group's best interest at heart. Seeking a leadership position for myself is the natural answer, but I'm hesitant to commit to something like that at a time when my life will soon be so drastically changed. See, I really take this stuff seriously.
I hope Sprout will understand this about his parents and not be resentful that we aren't eager to show up at class parties or chaperone school trips. Possibly, motherhood will be the ultimate challenge of my comfort zones, but I have to tell you, the thought of being at a playground and chit-chatting with a group of other moms makes me break out in a cold sweat. I have no problem addressing a group of hundreds, but put me in a small-talk, mingle type situation and I totally freeze up. No, my people skills are not the best. I have not joined professional writers organizations, specifically the Romance Writers of America because the major benefit of membership seems to be the networking opportunities available at the annual national convention. Well, that and their regular publication, which is not available in an accessible format-- I checked. I'm still waiting for a call-back on that one. No, I am not holding my breath.
I do wonder sometimes if I might be missing out on things, information or relationships, by keeping mostly to myself, but the older I get, the more I'm coming to accept this about myself. I simply am not a group person. In the end, when it's all said and done, I'd really just rather be at home, reading and knitting.

Idiots

2008-04-06T13:36:00.001-05:00

I have long believed that America is suffering from a plague of stupidity, and last week proved it to me. Although whether it's a plague of stupidity or self centeredness is hard to determine. First let's start close to home. Kentucky, my beloved yet perplexing state, is in the throws of a major budget crisis, not unlike many states right now. If state government is having a budget shortfall, it stands to reason that citizens of that state are also feeling the pinch, right? Kentucky also has one of the lowest cigarette taxes in the country. Not surprisingly, we also have one of the highest rates of smoking. I don't think it takes a genius to take a passing glance at this situation and say, "Ah-hah! Let's raise the cigarette tax to offset the budget shortfall." I mean, the absolute worst thing that could happen is that people would quit smoking. Oh, what a shame. I realize that if you increase the cigarette tax to such a degree that people can't afford to smoke, then your revenue will suffer, but the cost savings in terms of public health would make up any loss. That's assuming that people actually would stop smoking if the cost of cigarettes got too high, something I'm not entirely convinced of. I have an aunt who has asthma and no health insurance, and she smokes two packs a day. Here's an idea: Stop smoking and you could breathe AND afford health insurance!
Let me say again that Kentucky has one of the lowest cigarette taxes in the country. If I were a legislator in Frankfort, I think the way to proceed in these lean budget times would be a no brainer. But enter the tobacco lobby. Legislators in Kentucky did not choose to increase revenue in the form of a cigarette tax, noooo. They opted to doll out severe funding cuts to education and health and human services. Now there's some fine long-term thinking for ya. Let's make it harder for people to get an education, thereby increasing their earning potential, and let's take away their much needed services at a time when they are most likely to be down on their luck and need them. Frankfort legislators, you're bringing down the curve for the rest of us.
In other idiocy news, Chelsea Clinton was giving a speech on behalf of her mother's candidacy in North Carolina when a student asked a question about her father's affair with Monica Lewinsky. It always irritates me to see college-age students acting like children, probably because I have such faith in their potential. I was once a politically active student, so I know the energy that group has and can create and the force for change they can be. I remember cringing when during Bill Clinton's run for President, someone on MTV asked him the critical question, "Boxers or briefs?" Come on people! You can't spit right now without hitting an issue of critical national or international importance, and this is what are youth choose to ask about? Sex and underwear? Really, I thought better of you. This student in North Carolina, he had to be, what, 10 years old, maybe 12 when the Monica scandal broke? I hardly think it's an issue that has been keeping him up nights. He simply wanted to show off and get attention, which he did. Our national media does love it when people behave badly or in poor taste. The national media, now there's some idiocy for you. I think the student who asked that question of Chelsea needs to go back to high school until he gets this juvenile behavior out of his system. Go put gum in the teacher's seat or a kick me sign on her back if you want that kind of attention.
The last item on Kimberly's Idiot Report is our U.S. Congress, which once again called oil executives on the carpet to account for their obscene profits during this time of skyrocketing fuel prices for average Americans. In theory, this is a good idea, but we all see it for the dog and pony show it is, just a way to prove to the American people that they are aware and are doing something about the problem while really doing nothing and probably passing notes scheduling appointments between Congressional campaign fund raisers and the big oil lobbyists. I would very much like to come back in a few weeks or months and apologize for slamming our Congress in light of them actually doing something about this instance of corporate gluttony, but the thought of being wrong on this isn't something that's got me worried.
so, you handful of faithful readers of my blog, go forth and feel smugly superior in your intellect today, secure in the knowledge that you are far smarter than many, especially those in power.

Pull your head out of ... the sand.

2008-04-01T07:55:00.000-05:00

My best friend Molly used to remark that I had ostrich tendencies. Because I couldn't see other people, I sort of assumed they couldn't see me. It's the "head in the sand" principle, but without the sand. More times than I cared to count, I learned the hard way that indeed, people could see me. And hear me. Make note: If you roll your eyes and say something unflattering about somebody, that person will inevitably be standing right next to you. At least, if you are me, that's how it happens.
The ostrich effect also does not extend to my pregnant belly. For the first six months of my pregnancy, I didn't show at all. This is partly due to the fact that I don't like wearing tight fitting clothes, so most of my wardrobe is loose fitting. The better to conceal a baby bump. About three weeks ago though, that all changed. All of a sudden, I looked like a pregnant person. I could feel the gradual changes of course, but as long as my pants still fit, I figured no one else knew. And it isn't as though my pregnancy was a secret, it's more like it was a joke that I didn't think the rest of the world was in on yet. Turns out, they were. This was made clear to me when a maintenance worker in my building brought me some of his wife's maternity clothes. Apparently, they needed the room, she was done with them, and they didn't know anyone else to give them to. I think that is incredibly kind, and I am grateful, but I hardly know our maintenance guy. I have certainly never conversed with him about my pregnancy. Is it that obvious? I am moved by the number of people who have offered to give or let me borrow their maternity clothes, baby clothes, or other baby gear. It's like I've been given a key to the employee lounge where all the nice people hang out. It has perhaps been the best thing about being pregnant so far.
No strange people have put their hands on my belly yet the way I've been warned they will do. For that, I am also grateful because I won't be putting up with any of that, no matter how well meaning and innocent the gesture. The only person allowed to touch my belly unannounced is Michael, which he does pretty much every time I am within reach of him. I'm not able to stand sideways in front of a mirror and gauge my pregnant progress, but counting the number of times Michael touches my belly is probably just as accurate, not to mention sweeter. Everyday now, I feel bigger and bigger, convinced that if I could look at myself sideways in a mirror, the effect would be carnival like. Maybe not, but it sure feels that way.

Independence, the Irony

2008-03-25T10:58:00.000-05:00

I live in a big town. It isn't big enough to be called a city, but it's not a small town either. We have a shopping mall, two movie theaters, every chain restaurant known to humankind, and two Starbucks. What we don't have is public transportation of any form. No Subway, no buses, no passenger rail system, not even reliable cab service. In most places, sidewalks are nonexistent. Where sidewalks do exist, they are often broken or crumbled and lead pretty much to nowhere, dead ending abruptly at a parking lot or street crossing. In short, this is not a blind friendly town.
I have a job, a good job. It's by no means my dream job, but it's good, reliable work for which I am well paid. According to the disability advocates, I have reached the pinnacle of disabled life-- gainful employment. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful, but the independence that was supposed to come with gainful employment ... well, I'm not living that dream. Transportation is a big part of it. My only reliable form of transportation is Michael, and that's fine. I like to think we carpool as a show of environmentalism. The problem is that Michael works in a town about 25 minutes from where we live and where I work. For him to both take me to and bring me home from work would mean I work a ten hour day. During my pregnancy, this hasn't been an option. My other form of transportation is unreliable at best, meaning that I am often the last person in my building to leave. Any plans I make for the evenings are often disrupted due to a snafu with my ride home. For an organized, schedule-driven planner like me, this goes beyond irritating.
Then there are the other things about a job that come up, things that barely register as a blip on the radar for nondisabled people, but which leave me feeling helpless and frustrated. A change in a meeting location for example. I show up at the designated meeting place and wait around wondering where everybody is, only to learn later that a note had been posted on the door alerting everyone of the meeting location change. Well, not alerting everyone. Or I get an Email fifteen minutes before a scheduled meeting saying that the meeting has been moved to some building that I have no idea how to get to. When new people start working here, I am routinely skipped when my boss does the traditional walk-around introductions. I guess it's just too difficult to explain a gainfully employed blind woman. I have worked here for nine years, but yes, these kinds of things happen frequently. The worst are the all-day meetings such as our annual retreat. These are inevitably held at some out of the way location that I have never been to before and don't have a ride to. Assuming I get there, I don't know where the bathrooms are, where the water fountain is, and can't get my own food at lunchtime. I usually end up trying not to drink anything all day so I don't have to use the bathroom, and snacking on peanut butter crackers brought from home while everyone else eats their buffet style lunch. Oh yes, the glory of independence. I do have a secretary, but it is awkward to ask the person who you have to evaluate annually and who you have to scold regularly for tardiness to help you get to the bathroom or get your lunch. That isn't really part of her job description.
I am by far not the only person dealing with these or similar issues, but several such things have conspired in the last few weeks that have got me asking: Is this worth it? Is this feeling of helplessness really the reward for independence?

The Spring Cometh: A Retelling

2008-03-20T12:27:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, there was a mother who loved her daughter very very much, so much in fact that she failed to see that her daughter had grown up and needed more from life than her mother could give her. Or perhaps this mother was so fearful of having to share her beloved daughter with another that she refused to see the woman her young daughter had become and so hid her away from the eyes of men. But one man saw her, saw her and braved the mother's wrath to have her. Some say he abducted her, but others say that the maiden went willingly, charmed and awed by the dark stranger in black who lived on the wild side. Following her heart, or perhaps just her hormones, she fled her mother's loving tyranny to be with this stranger who promised her a taste of life. When the mother found out, she sank into a deeply, self-absorbed depression from which she could not be roused. She lived for her daughter, and without her had lost her own will to live. That others depended on her for their own wellbeing and that she was responsible for helping to care for the children of others did not matter to her. All that mattered was her daughter and getting her back. As it happened, this mother had very powerful friends, friends who intervened on the mother's behalf, either from sympathy for her plight, concern for the daughter, or impatience with the mother's nagging and manipulation. In any case, these powerful friends found and returned the maiden to her mother. But the maiden had eaten of the fruit, that forbidden fruit, and could never again be content to be just her mother's little darling; thus an understanding was reached by which the maiden would spend a portion of each year with her darkly handsome stranger and the rest with her mother. And so it has been since time out of mind. Today, on the spring equinox, the maiden climbs out of the depths of satiation and returns to her mother.
You probably all recognize this as the story of Persephone, queen of the underworld; Hades, her abductor; and Demeter, goddess of the earth. I think Persephone grew tired of simply being the adored pet of her mother and so went willingly with the alluring Hades. Think about it girls, when you were a teenager, would you rather have been the apple of your mother's eye or the prom date of the bad boy? Yeah, we all know the answer to that. Hades, in addition to being the god of the Underworld is also the god of sex, luck, and money. Is it any wonder our girl Persephone fled Mommy Dearest and ran away with him? But today, on this first day of spring, she returns, because a mother's guilt is a mighty powerful thing. So as we look at the calendar and rest assured that warmer days are ahead and enjoy the lengthening sunlight, remember Persephone, putting on her brave face while she thinks of her lover and counts the days until she can return to him. So if you can find some time today, have a drink and maybe a smoke and offer up a toast to Persephone for being the good daughter that none of us wants to be.

derailment

2008-03-19T14:02:00.000-05:00

I have not been able to hold onto a single thought since ... well, not since September. Unfortunately, life has not stopped or even slowed down to gawk at the derailment that is my mind. No, everything just keeps on going, and I'm left at the end of every day wondering where the hell the time went and making promises not to squander the next 24 hours, which I invariably do. I'm trying to go easy on myself, I am pregnant after all. It just feels like the pregnancy is something my body should do while my mind is busy with other things. Not so, apparently. So what follows in this entry is an accounting of the things that have been contributing to my mental paralysis. A laundry list of excuses, if you will.
Because apparently Michael and I are hell-bent on taking stupidity to new levels, we have embarked on a home upgrade project. It isn't a lot, but it's stuff that has high life-disruption potential. Our house has needed new paint and carpet ever since we bought it. What's in there now, both the paint and carpet, is just boring grey that the builders no doubt chose for its complete neutrality and cheapness. You might wonder why I care what color the walls and floors are, and I have no real good answer for that except that I want to make the house nice before the baby comes because after he's here, this kind of thing will be virtually impossible to do. So the painting, that is done. Yay! Cheer with me. Yay! You have no idea how difficult it was for a blind woman and a black lab to navigate through a house with wet paint on the walls. I am not graceful, people. Add moved furniture and paint cans in the floor, and we're talking disaster soup here. Fortunately though, or maybe thanks to some divine intervention from the home décor gods, there were no mishaps and the kitchen, dining room, utility room, living room, living room ceiling, hallway, and guest bathroom all look wonderful. Or so I'm told. I did tell people to lie to me if it looked terrible, so who knows, but it's done and I'm happy.
The next thing on the insane agenda is carpet for the living room, hallway, and nursery. This is both an expense and a hassle, and the potential to get taken is astronomical. I know nothing about carpet except what the people at the store tell me. Michael has done some internet research on the subject, which has basically informed us that we can't afford the top-of-the-line carpet. But we have to choose a carpet store, the carpet itself, and have it installed fairly quickly. The clock is ticking on D-Day (delivery day). We have put off buying baby furniture until we get new carpet in the nursery. Possibly, this was an ill-conceivd plan, but we're in too deep to turn back now.
Then there's the baby furniture, which again, Michael is researching online. The difficulty we're having here is that most stores only have one display model assembled, and they have pictures of the rest. I think this is probably less than helpful for most people, but particularly for me since I need a hands-on look at the crib I'm going to trust my infant to every night. Then there is my ongoing internal debate about whether or not to use a bassinette and a changing table. I have given serious consideration to buying a dog bed for the floor and using it as a changing table. Really, I have. Don't laugh. It's washable, I'm familiar with dog beds, it's low to the ground-- the benefits far outweigh the cons, the primary one being that well, it's a dog bed.
My writing and writing goals have suffered the most throughout this pregnancy. I haven't neglected my writing dream entirely, but almost. I did get that query letter finished so I can begin submitting my completed manuscript. The next step was to move onto the synopsis. Michael, knowing I need motivation, gave me a deadline of March 24 to complete the dreaded beast. Sweetie, you know I love you, and I hate to disappoint you, but it ain't happening. Sorry, but there is just no way. I have begun working on the second book in my fantasy romance series, but I am convinced it is total crap. That is normal, but usually hits much later than chapter two, so I'm left wondering if it's really crap or just a projection of how I'm feeling lately. If it's really crap, I don't want to waste anymore time on it, but if it's just part of the process, the best thing to do is soldier on and muddle through and hope that the magic catches. And oh yeah, there's working full time and juggling life's other responsibilities. Planning the baby shower, that deserves a post all its own. For now, let's just say that the major planning progress has been convincing my mother not to throw me a Texas Hold 'em poker tournament / baby shower. No, I am not kidding. I could not make this up.
And because I apparently do not have the good sense god gave a goose, I am actually considering launching another blog, this one focused exclusively on parenting, specifically blind parenting because there are shockingly few resources available for blind parents. Not that I consider myself a resource, but I could at least be a starting point, a voice on the internet where other blind parents can know they aren't going it alone. Is this a crazy idea? Probably.
So there it is, my list of excuses. It was somewhat therapeutic for me to get them all down in one place. Here's hoping it's enough to get the train back on the tracks.

Snow Days

2008-03-09T12:22:00.000-05:00

We have snow! In Kentucky! Real snow! Probably, my Michigan-born readers would laugh at what a Kentuckian considers real snow, but it’s the most snow we’ve had here at one time in several years. So what did I do to commemorate this rarity? Did I bundle up, go outside, and build a snowman? Did I throw snowballs at my husband? Did I sled? Heavens no. I did none of those things. As with most things in nature, I am a passive admirer, an indoor observer. I like the thought of a cold snowy day far more than I enjoy the actual physical experience of it. The way Michael and I chose to honor this momentous occasion was to stay inside, watch TV, and bake a cake. But it was snow day TV and a snow day cake, and that’s different somehow. I imagined our five inches of snow as a raging blizzard, Michael and I inside making the best of the hardship, consoling ourselves with mindless entertainment and chocolate. I imagine this is how our ancestors withstood the brutal conditions that were their daily lives. Minus the History Channel and Duncan Hines of course, but you get the picture.
If it wasn’t for the snow, then we’d just be lazy, gluttonous slobs. Thanks to the snow though, we’re soldiering on, keeping our spirits up in the face of a bleak late-winter storm, and being good citizens by staying off the roads. There are few things that a creative mind can’t justify into a noble sacrifice.

Outraged

2008-03-05T11:40:00.000-06:00

I am endlessly amazed by the stupidity and callousness of the American employer. I work for a quasi government entity, and am pretty fortunate to be treated fairly and with respect. This is not so with Michael's employer. He works for a Japanese-owned automotive supplier, like so many in the South. I find their treatment of their employees appalling on a good day, and yesterday was not a good day. Michael got to work early yesterday, knowing he would have to leave early to make it to our first childbirth class on time. Let me revise that. Michael got to work "earlier" yesterday. He regularly gets to work half an hour early, arriving before his boss. Michael is an IT network specialist. In that line of work, things come up. Viruses, crashes, glitches, and outages all can alter the regular eight hour work day. It's the nature of the beast. It just happens. That's why there are three people in his department, so that somebody can always be there when problems arise. Like Monday for example, when Michael's boss (let's call her the Frozen Tundra because it fits, is mean, and makes me feel better) and his other coworker had to miss for illness. Michael picked up the slack because that is just what you do for coworkers. But when the server crashed yesterday at 3 p.m., an hour before Michael had to leave, could he count on the same courtesy from his boss? Noooo. That ice cold shithead made him stay later and later, forcing him to ask, then practically beg her to pick up the slack so he could leave. And then do you know what she said, what she had the nerve to say?
"Can't somebody else take her to the class?"
Okay, listen here you barely human, heartless piece of corporate shit, it is not only my class. It is Michael's class also because it is his baby also. Unlike you, he understands the importance of relationships and values his family and his role in that family. You humiliated him by making him ask, and then you insulted him by expecting him to drop his familial obligations for your convenience and for a company that has never shown an ounce of loyalty to any of its employees. And do not think that we missed your implication that it was my blindness that necessitated him taking me to the class. We know your type. We are well versed in the subtle jab, the sly discrimination. You are not coy. You are simple and petty. You make $30,000 more a year than Michael does. You'd think you could find your way around a server. Just in case you can't though, let me tell you what you can do with it. Why don't you take that server and shove it up your ass, and then sit and spin, bitch. Sit and spin.
Okay. I feel better now.

Hippie Mom Wannabe

2008-02-28T16:39:00.000-06:00

I have been thinking a lot about what kind of mother I will be, or rather what kind of mother I want to be. As with any new journey, the first step is often to look to those who have traveled the same road. Certainly, there is some wisdom to be gleaned from this, but mothers are as varied and individual as... well, as individuals. So I moved on to magazines and websites, and those that I gravitated toward have been telling me a lot about what I value and possibly what I aspire to. My favorite magazine so far is Mothering and others like it. These magazines are for what might be described as the all-natural, granola, hippie moms. And yes, I realized, that is the kind of mom I'd like to be. I want to use cloth diapers. I want to make my own organic baby food. I want to home school. But the thing is, I just don't know how feasible a goal such a lifestyle is for me.
Let me tell you what I mean. Michael and I have definite all-natural, granola, hippie tendencies. We are well informed on the green movement, and we consider ourselves environmentalists, albeit ones who stop well short of the composting toilet. A few years ago, we decided to become more educated about our food supply and decided that simply buying organic was not enough. We decided to plant a garden. But we couldn't just plant any seeds in this garden because we had done our research and learned all about genetic modification and the evil that is Monsanto. So we researched some more, and eventually purchased our seeds from Seed Savers Exchange. Except that by the time we had done all this researching and the seeds arrived in the mail, prime planting season had passed us by. The only thing that grew in our backyard that year was grass. Burned by our own ambition, we have not attempted our gardening experiment again. I wonder how long seeds keep anyway.
I can see me doing the very same thing with parenting. What if I buy a bunch of cloth diapers and find out that they are really more trouble than I care to go to? Will a daycare even accept cloth diapers? Can you even be a hippie mom if you also work a full time job? Do I really want to cook and grind carrots when I can buy organic baby food so much more easily in the grocery store? And how in the world can a blind woman home school a child? These are the questions that have been keeping me up nights. Because I worry, see. It's what I do. I plan and I worry, then I change my plan and worry some more.
And I have started to wonder about the hippie moms as portrayed in Mothering Magazine. How can they afford to buy the expensive, all-natural products if they are staying at home with their kids? Maybe they make everything themselves, in which case, how do they have the time to spend time with their kids if their days are full of carrot grinding and soap making? I have begun to suspect that the hippie moms, the ones targeted by the magazines at least, are married to corporate executives who drive Cadillac SUVs to work, and not in the HOV lane. And if that is the case, that's fine, I have no problem with that. I only have a problem reconciling that family dynamic in my mind.
Nobody is pressuring me to be this kind of mother, nobody but myself. Even after an honest assessment of the difficulties, I have decided I do want to breastfeed; I do want to make baby food, though maybe not everyday; I do want to grow a garden, but only if it's something I can enjoy later with Sprout. This is nothing new. Mothers forever have always tried to balance what is best for their kids with the rest of their world and the many demands made on their time. There is no universal answer, and comparing myself to some perfect ideal of mother is only setting myself up for failure, or at least for disappointment and frustration. I am coming to understand this, but what this all means at a fundamental level is that I am about to embark on the most important thing I will ever do, and I can't plan for it. I think I'm breaking out in hives. Excuse me while I hyperventilate.

A Bad Hair Day, with Love

2008-02-19T08:17:00.001-06:00

I believe that I have solved the mystery of why women do not rule the world. It is because we are at the mercy of our hairdressers, those fickle, forgetful, easily distracted creatures who with one slice of the trimming shears can shape destinies, or destroy them. Melodrama? I assure you not. On Saturday, I got the worst haircut I have gotten since high school. I have naturally curly hair. When cut properly, it cascades down my back in lustrous waves and curls. When my haircut is not good, I get a swollen mass of frizz with a few feisty tendrils that leap outward, flame like. And this haircut is so bad, I'd actually love to have that mass of frizz. It would be an improvement. Currently, my hair is hanging in three very distinct, not at all blended, sections. Think 1992 grunge fallen on hard times. It is just hair, I know. It will grow back. Don't sweat the small stuff. This is what I keep telling myself, but so far, self is not buying it. I was in such misery last night that I was going to try cutting on my hair myself. I did not expect to do any real good, but at least the attempt would alleviate my feeling of helplessness.
Michael must have seen some gleam in my eye, because he very valiantly offered to do the cutting instead. Poor Michael. He really is a saint. A few years ago after my spinal cord surgery, he waxed my legs for me because I couldn't bend over to shave them. He regularly waxes my eyebrows now after seeing me suffer several hot wax burns from beauticians who were either incompetent or sadistic. And last night, with me standing naked in the shower, he cut my hair. Not drastically, just an attempt to undo the worst of the damage. I will still have to go somewhere, hopefully today, to get the layers shaped up properly, but at least I could come to work today without a hat.
So I'm trying to look on the bright side of this hair nightmare. This is just one more opportunity for me to realize and appreciate just how incredibly wonderful my husband is. And not a half bad hairdresser, come to that. So, I sure don't look like it just now, but I am a very lucky woman. Thanks Sweetie. What a trooper you are.

It's a boy!!!

2008-02-15T08:03:00.000-06:00

It's official, Sprout is a boy!!! I must admit, this came as some surprise since both Michael and I had convinced ourselves Sprout was a girl. Likely, this is the first of many surprises this baby has in store for us. He is a healthy baby boy. Everything that could be checked, measured, or examined turned out to be completely normal. He has a good, strong heartbeat, swims like a fish, and has one heck of a kickboxing move. I am thinking this kid will be a triathlete.
I did not get to see the screen of course, but Michael and the technician did an excellent job of telling me what they saw. Their descriptions, coupled with the placement of the ultrasound thingy and the baby's movements told me all I needed to know about what my little boy was up to. Turns out, he is awfully busy in there.
Topping off the perfect day were the beautiful Valentine's Day flowers I got from Michael-- two bouquets, one big bouquet of Stargazer lilies (my favorites) in honor of V-Day, and a small bouquet of baby roses and baby's breath in honor of our first look at our son. We had lunch at a local Greek restaurant, and the day was just wonderful. Here's to a lifetime of wonderful days.

A Good Day

2008-02-14T09:44:00.000-06:00

Happy Valentine's Day to everyone who is celebrating. If you don't have a sweetheart, then by all means, get yourself a truly decadent dessert at the very least. Hell, I suggest you do that even if you do have a sweetheart. Today has just been a wonderful day so far. A coworker in our office got a ... well, I don't know what you call it, but her sweetie sent her a singing barber shop quartet as a Valentine, which was just great because the whole office got to enjoy it. How creative and sweet of him. After that, another coworker offered to make a breakfast run for the office, so a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel sandwich should be even now heading my way.
What else is surely heading my way is a lovely bouquet of Valentine's Day flowers. Michael always does a wonderful job of getting me the perfect bouquet, a different kind every time. I'm always surprised, even though I know they are coming. See, I don't leave such matters to chance. I know that a lot of women wait in eager anticipation to see if their sweetheart will send them flowers. That is so not my style. I know Michael will send me flowers because he is just perfect and thoughtful that way, but I also know that he doesn't always have the firmest grasp on what day of the month, or even day of the week it is. He relies on me for that kind of thing, and I oblige, even in matters of holidays. I told him two weeks ago that Valentine's Day was coming up and exactly what day it was on. Since then, I have given him two reminders-- at least. It's a system that works for us. Some might say that takes the romance out of it, but I say wait until you see my flowers.
Of course, the main event for today is my ultrasound, which should tell us whether we are having a boy or a girl. I am excited beyond belief about this, and I am not by nature an easily excitable person. I can count on one hand the number of times in my life I have jumped up and down in glee. That's not to say that I don't get extremely happy about things, just that I'm not what you'd call an outward emotion kind of girl. I feel awkward at ballgames or concerts because while the rest of the crowd is on its feet, yelling wildly, I sit there and smile, and I might clap softly. But this, this ultrasound, has got me grinning like an idiot and telling everybody I pass, "I get to find out what kind of Sprout I'm having today." It's very thrilling, our first look at our baby. Just wonderful.
So Happy Valentine's Day! And keep your fingers crossed that we get a good report on a healthy baby and get to find out whether it's a boy or a girl.

Pink or Blue

2008-02-11T12:42:00.000-06:00

In three days, I will have the ultrasound that can tell whether I am carrying a boy or a girl. Yes, I am going to find out. I am a planner. I know lots of people say they want it to be a surprise. It will be a surprise. It'll be a surprise on Thursday when I find out. That's enough surprise for me. I never even entertained the idea of not finding out. There have been several mini-milestones during my twenty weeks of pregnancy-- feeling the baby move, having to buy new blue jeans, and passing into my second trimester come to mine-- but this, finding out the baby's sex, is by far the biggest milestone so far. On Thursday, the baby will stop being "he or she" or as we have come to refer to it, "Sprout." On Thursday, the beginnings of an identity will form, at least in our minds. I hear many women say that they bonded more easily with the baby once they knew its gender, and I can certainly understand how that could be true. I think knowing a gender, and thereby a name, will make the baby less of a stranger to me on the day it is born.
As much as I am looking forward to some clarity on this matter, I find that I have enjoyed the ambiguity, much to my surprise. Michael and I have looked at little girl clothes and little boy clothes, we've talked endlessly about boy names and girl names, and we've looked at color schemes for both. On Thursday, half of the conjecturing will end. On Thursday, we will begin the real decision making work of preparing for this baby. We will no longer consider every color of the rainbow, but will eliminate either blue or pink in favor of one or the other-- metaphorically speaking. I find that I am unexpectedly sad that the time has come to say good-bye to "Sprout."
Michael and I realize that we have become somewhat conflicted these last few days. When people ask us what we want, naturally, we say it doesn't matter. That's what you're supposed to say. And we had convinced ourselves that it really didn't matter. But now, as the date to know draws nearer, we have come to realize that we do indeed have a preference, and we find ourselves feeling sort of guilty about that. It feels like we've chosen one child over another. Even though there is only one child, there are two potentialities, and we feel like we've done wrong by one of them. I will not go so far as to say that we could be disappointed with one or another outcome-- we absolutely will not be. We will not mourn or bemoan the way it might have turned out. In the end, we will get what we wanted so very much, a baby. Still, there is no denying that Thursday will bring the beginning of one identity, and at the same time an ending to another one, if only in theory. So yes, I am excited about finding out what kind of Sprout I'm having, but there is a bittersweet hint to it as well. These first twenty weeks, though not always pleasant, have been amazing. It has been fun to wonder and speculate on whether I'm carrying a boy or a girl. We've enjoyed doing all the old wives tales, the results of which were inconclusive, split 50/50. Only one thing is certain at this point, and that is that we will be immensely happy on Thursday. How's that for a Valentine's Day gift?

I am not making this up

2008-02-08T14:39:00.000-06:00

My employer recently released our crisis procedures manual. Among other things, the manual outlines a list of questions one should ask in the event of a telephone bomb threat. No, I'm not joking.
Where is the bomb?
What does the bomb look like?
What kind of bomb is it?
When will the bomb go off?
How will the bomb be detonated?
Where are you?
Where do you live?
What is your name?
Right. Because naturally, the threatener is going to readily supply identifying information. And wouldn't it be prudent to get off the phone and call the authorities? Just, you know, a thought.

Barefoot and Pregnant

2008-02-05T11:54:00.000-06:00

What image does that phrase, "barefoot and pregnant," bring to mind? Let me guess. A pained looking woman wearing a sack dress, probably with coal-rich mountains rising in the background? Or maybe you think of a woman wearing her boyfriend's blue jean cut-offs and a tank top, posing in front of a 1972 Camaro, maybe with a Camel Light dangling from her lip? I have begun to wonder what it is about that phrase that evokes such hard luck images. I mean, I bet nobody thinks of a pregnant woman with bejeweled fingers and Versace sunglasses lounging, pedicured feet outstretched, beside the pool at the country club. Why is this, I wonder?
I have started to understand barefoot and pregnant. I'm not even on my feet that much, but they get sore. Two days of swollen ankles was enough to make me long for springtime sandal weather. Here's a secret: On my lunch break, I take off my socks and shoes and sit with my feet propped up in a chair. The first thing I do when I get home is remove socks and shoes. Last night, I changed the sheets on the bed, and thoroughly enjoyed sliding my bare feet over the cool, clean sheets. When I can get her to cooperate, I have my dog lie down in front of the couch so that I can pet her with my bare feet. Seriously people, shoes have become my enemy.
Today, here in my part of Kentucky, it is seventy degrees out, a warm indulgence that we will likely pay for with wicked storms later this evening. Standing in my closet this morning, I longingly fondled my strappy pink Birkenstocks. Oh, how much I wanted to wear them, but I know the cruelty that would come tomorrow, after the storms, when the temperature is back down to normal February levels, and I'll be forced to coax my feet into socks and real shoes again. I know that I am not up for that kind of disappointment, so I turned my back on the pink sandals, and chose instead my trusty black suede Bostons.
I realize of course that there is an entire anti-feminism connotation at the core of the phrase, the origins and history of which can be found in this article. I am a nerd for useless information. Read the article if you have the stomach for that kind of gender politics debate, which I do not. Because let me just tell you, if you are pregnant, then barefoot is the way to be.

Traditions

2008-02-01T07:51:00.000-06:00

Michael and I are not what you’d call traditional people. We each have something of a rebellious spirit, and that makes us bristle at anything that so much as hints at being told what to do. And what is tradition but a dictate on your time? That said, now that we are about to be parents, I have started to wonder if maybe establishing some traditions might serve to give our kid some roots. I’m not talking about anything elaborate, just maybe sitting down at the dining room table for dinner on, say, Thursday nights, instead of eating at the breakfast bar, our usual evening habit. Or maybe Sunday dinner with the grandparents. Or maybe we have movie night on Fridays. I just want to give our kid something reliable, something he or she can count on no matter how busy the week was. There aren’t really any traditions that Michael and I grew up with that we can pass on. Oh sure, we had the annual traditions that revolved around holidays, but those aren’t unique to our family. This lack of experience in creating and maintaining traditions means I’m at something of a loss as to how to start one now. I suppose a tradition is anything you make of it. I guess Michael and I have a tradition of grocery shopping on Tuesday nights. But wouldn’t that fall under the heading of routine rather than tradition? See what I mean? I am no good at this tradition thing. I wonder too if when our kid gets older they will roll their eyes and grumble about whatever weekly tradition we thrust upon them. Is tradition with flexibility the key? I wonder.
Wait, now that I think about it, Michael and I did have a tradition when we first got married. We used to have pizza night. We were pretty poor back then see, and we didn’t get to eat out much. But once a week, we would order pizza (coupons were a God send) and watch TV. I believe back then it was the ABC Wednesday Night line-up, which if I recall correctly was “Dharma and Greg, “”Home Improvement,” and “The Drew Carey Show.” I think maybe “Ellen” was still on then too, back before she was a talk show host. That those simple Wednesday nights still stand out in my mind ten years later attests to the power of tradition, no matter how simple or seemingly insignificant. I bet Michael is reading this and grinning at the memory. You have to understand, this man really loves his pizza. And no, reviving pizza night is not an option, Sweetie. I’m pretty sure pizza night is responsible for the fifteen pounds I put on during our first year of marriage. Pizza night was nothing fancy, it was just us and Papa John’s and a blanket spread out on our tiny living room floor, but it was something we looked forward too, something to break up the boredom of the weekly grind. Given that I’d like to instill healthier habits in my offspring, maybe pizza night could be make-your-own-granola night. Maybe? Or possibly a weekly walk in one of my town’s several public parks would be the thing.
So suggestions would be appreciated. Anybody out there want to share your traditions? What is it that you look forward to every week? What traditions do you remember from your childhood?

Was that a trend that just went by?

2008-01-29T11:16:00.000-06:00

I am not a trendsetter. I am not even a trend follower. Truth be told, I probably couldn't recognize a trend if one landed on me. I hear people constantly bemoaning the writers strike and complaining about how this is impacting their lives. Except for the news coverage of the strike, I probably would not have even noticed it. My TV viewing habits consist of the Weather Channel, the Food Network, and syndicated re-runs of older TV shows that I watch in the afternoons. As I already mentioned in a previous post, the newest TV show I got interested in was Firefly, which I started watching on DVD after it had already gone off the air. In the pop culture community, I am the village idiot-- This cluelessness is not limited to TV. It pervades every part of my life. My favorite music is the Beatles, Elton John, Bruce Springsteen, and U2. Radio stations might as well be broadcasting from Pluto for all the attention I give new music. And yes, unfortunately, my fashion sense is equally behind the times. I long for the 80's days of tight rolled blue jeans. Hey, I'm short; it's a matter of practicality. I maintained that Crocs were the ugliest, most useless shoes ever made until about six months ago. Let me guess, nobody is wearing Crocs now that I'm a convert?
I guess it is a sign of what an adult I have become that this tendency of mine to be out of style bothers me not in the least. I love my life, I love my husband, I love my home, and I love me most days-- so what if I wear Birkenstocks and listen to the Boss? I don't have the time, patience, or money to be trendy. And it just isn't that important to me. I feel sure that when my kid is thirteen, she will be completely mortified by Michael and me, but that's okay. If she can convince others that she was left on the doorstep by gypsies, then I'll applaud her storytelling and powers of persuasion during commercial breaks of "Everybody Loves Raymond."

The joy of cooking?

2008-01-23T09:47:00.000-06:00

I have something of a love/hate relationship with cooking. I absolutely loathe the regular weeknight drudgery of meal preparation, but I love planning meals, searching out recipes, and cooking for special occasions. I suppose it's fair to say that I enjoy the cerebral aspects of cooking far more than the practical. You can't coat your kitchen in flour by just researching the perfect recipe. I'm fairly certain I have never met the perfect recipe; rather, I have never met a recipe I didn't tinker with in some manner. I just can't help myself. Double the amount of cinnamon? Why not? Maybe this would be better with mushrooms? Sure.
I was raised to view cooking as a chore, something one did because it had to be done. The idea of finding enjoyment from the exercise would have been a foreign concept to my mother and my aunts. Mom once told me that the greatest gift she ever gave me was not teaching me to cook. But as I got older, I began to view the kitchen as a mystical realm where ingredients were stirred together and became something else entirely by the simple addition of heat. It was spell casting at its finest, and I wanted to learn to do it. Keep in mind, I had very little to work with. In my house as a kid, vegetables came from a can, spices were dried and never thrown out, and Crisco was a staple.
I doubt I am the only thirty-something who embarked on a cooking journey hampered by these preconceived ideas. Because of this, I am profoundly grateful to the Food Network. Say what you will about Rachael Ray with her "Delish" and "Yummo," but she makes meals for the masses, and uses simple, fresh ingredients. I must admit, she got on my nerves in the beginning, but she's grown on me. Rachael doesn't tell you to peal a pound of potatoes, and then edit so that in the next frame, a perfect pile of pealed potatoes (Say that three times fast) is sitting in front of her. Sure, her recipes take me longer than thirty minutes to make, but I bet I can groom a Labrador or knit a scarf faster than she can. It's all about your experience. Most of the Food Network hosts present down-to-earth recipes designed to Alay the fears of the novice. Let me just say that my admiration stops at Semi-Homemade. No, Sandra Lee, you cannot add Shake 'N Bake to everything and it turn out wonderful. I ain't buying it. I don't care how "super simple" it is. Paula Deen is another one of my favorites, but I recently saw Paula make "ox tails" so I'm having to rethink her.
I don't ask a lot from my kitchen. I want hearty, filling meals when it's cold outside and light, refreshing fair during the summer. I am not likely to challenge myself far beyond my culinary limits, but I have managed to find the enjoyment of cooking, mainly on leisurely Sundays when Michael and I can be in the kitchen together. He's way better than me with a knife or hot skillet, and we all rest easier that way. One of my favorite things is to find a recipe, tinker with it, and have Michael say that it goes in our keeper pile.
My best friend, Molly, has a food blog called a Year in the Kitchen. Molly's kitchen year would look vastly different from mine. She isn't daunted by ingredients that put up a fight or narrow margins of error. Check her out for a real ode to food.

Surprise Surprise

2008-01-14T10:45:00.000-06:00

On Saturday, Michael and I were about running our usual weekend errands. On that list was to pick up one of those elevated dog bowls for Garnet and the new Janet Evanovich Plum novel for me. Fortunately, PETCO and Barnes and Noble are in the same shopping center. In the car on the way there, I was engrossed in listening to A Prairie Home Companion. Some other time, I must blog about my love of public radio. From Car Talk to thistle & Shamrock to Garrison Keillor, I love them all. But that isn't the point of this entry. So we pulled into the shopping center parking lot and Michael asked me, "Where to first?"
"PETCO," I said, probably because it was shorter than saying Barnes and Noble and because he had interrupted Garrison. So we waited in the car for Garrison's story to finish, then we got out, laughing and commenting on what we'd just listened to on the radio. We walked into PETCO, except by this time, I had forgotten that I had told him to go there first, and I had it in my head that we were going into Barnes and Noble. At Barnes and Noble, the smell of freshly brewed coffee greets you at the door. I have cut out coffee in deference to the growing-a-baby thing, but that doesn't mean I'm happy about it. Walking through the doors, I inhaled deeply, ready to savor the rich smell of my old friend, Java. What greeted my nose instead was the smell of dog food and ferret poop. I sputtered and gagged a little, and was forced to tell Michael why. He is accustomed to such blind-induced gaffs, but he still doubled over laughing. I'm really glad somebody enjoyed it.
For the blind, life is just full of surprises.
Completely unrelatedly, I had the best ice cream of my entire life Friday night. I am past the pregnancy sickness for the most part (I won't call it morning sickness because mine always hit in the evening) and my appetite has returned. Michael brought home some Haagen-Dazs Mayan Chocolate ice cream. If bliss had a flavor, this is what it would taste like. It's chocolate ice cream with fudge swirls and a hint of cinnamon. I generally think of ice cream as simply a delivery system for hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry, but the Mayan Chocolate had my attention all on its own. I strongly encourage you to try it, even if it is 30 degrees and snowing outside.
Still more unrelatedly, I think I felt the baby move on Friday. It was hard to tell for sure. It felt like a little goldfish was swimming around below my belly button. I am sixteen weeks pregnant, which is when I've read you can first feel the baby, but they say it's usually a few weeks later if it's your first child. Maybe the semi-regular meditation I do, along with my lack of visual stimulus and years of listening to my body have made me more likely to notice it earlier.
The baby moving, the incredible ice cream, and the ferret poop combined for a weekend full of surprises, some better than others.

So much more than a best friend

2008-01-10T09:47:00.000-06:00

Recently, I started reading this blog. It's written by Stephen Kuusisto, poet and author of the memoir Planet of the Blind. Steve's life journey is a moving one, but it is his present journey that I am most interested in just now.
I met Steve in 1996. He was employed at Guiding Eyes for the Blind, and I was a student there in training for my guide dog, Garnet. Back then, Steve was working with his first dog, Corky. This week, he begins training with his third dog. I know that much about the facilities and the training method at G.E.B. has changed in the almost twelve years since I was there, but my memories of the place are fond ones.
Back then, you learned the name, gender, and breed of your dog the evening before you got to meet the dog. On meeting day, the dogs were given baths and groomed so they would be at their best. On that day, May 7, 1996, I went into the large carpeted training room and was told to call Garnet to me. She ran to me, tail wagging, sniffed my shoes, then ran back to Lynn, her trainer. I did not know then that such would be the pattern of our next few days together. Garnet does not give away her affection easily, and she was very attached to Lynn. Throughout the next week, during our "bonding time" with our dogs in our dormitory style rooms, Garnet would allow me to pet her, then she'd hear Lynn in the hall and would bolt for the door, scratching and whining to be let out. To say that this made it difficult for me to trust her when we were, say, crossing a busy intersection, is a gross understatement. I guess I had been at G.E.B. for nearly half of the four-week training when I awoke in the early morning to an altogether strange sensation. I was not alone in my bed. Curled up at the foot of the bed was a very warm, very content black Lab. In that moment, I knew Garnet and I would be okay.
1996 was a very important year in my life. In March, I received an official diagnoses of Von Hipple-Lindau and was introduced firsthand to what that would mean for my life. In April, I had the first of what would be several brain operations. It would have been easy after that to view myself as a sick person with insurmountable struggles ahead of me, but I did not, and Garnet is part of the reason for that. She allowed me to fearlessly go places I never would have attempted before. With Garnet, I felt confident enough to accept my first real job, which was in state government in Frankfort, Kentucky, three hours from the familiar comfort that was home. Then in August, I met Michael, and we all became a family together the following year. I tease Michael that Garnet has seniority over him.
Reading about Steve Kuusisto's latest adventure has me thinking a lot about my early days and years with Garnet. In the beginning, we were as likely to go chasing butterflies as to class, and the appearance of a squirrel on the sidewalk was a rip-roaring adventure rather than the quaint moment that it is now. In 2005, Garnet retired from being a working dog. Now she is a very spoiled, highly educated house pet living a life of leisure. She is no longer able to jump on the bed and needs a boost to get into the car, circumstances that break my heart a little bit every day. But her health is good and her mind is still sharp. I am anxious about how she will react when the new baby comes. I'm sure she will be jealous in the beginning because she is used to being the baby herself, but Michael and I will make an extra effort to make her feel just as loved as ever. We figure that once the baby is old enough to start acquiring crumbs, the baby will be Garnet's new best friend. Then I'll be the one who will need some consoling and extra attention.

Thursday Thirteen: Things I want in 2008

2008-01-03T09:05:00.000-06:00

Another year has come and gone. Probably, I should look back over 2007 and assess my accomplishments, my failures, my strengths, my weaknesses, my missed opportunities, and my lessons learned. In the interest of closure and self growth, surely I should do this. Trouble is, I just don't feel like it. In the calendar of my life, 2007 just wasn't that memorable. Oh there were high points: I got pregnant, and I finished my manuscript. And there were low points: I had yet another brain surgery. One would have to flip all the way back to 2004 to find a year when I didn't have a brain surgery, so if not exactly hum-drum, it wasn't a life-defining moment. It's hard to dwell long on 2007 when 2008 looks so full of promise. Here are the thirteen things I hope 2008 will bring me.
1. A healthy baby-- I know, but it's worth repeating, don't you think?
2. A publishing contract
3. The ability to stick to a regular and productive writing schedule. I realize this is asking a lot of a year, what with my addiction to distraction and total abhorrence of goal setting.
4. A "go with the flow attitude," one that will allow me to just let things roll right off my back. Again, a lot to ask of a year, I realize.
5. A nice backyard-- We had a nice big swimming pool that we hardly used and so got rid of and ever since then our backyard has been a great big grass encircled mud pit. I want a nice green backyard, preferably with a garden. I wonder if 2008 could possibly bring me a gardener as well.
6. The means to either quit my job and be a full time mommy and writer, or some new challenge in my job that stops me from yawning incessantly and rolling my eyes at the absurdity of my employer.
7. Self acceptance-- I question nothing so much as myself and my actions, often second guessing to the point of dizzy hysteria. It's not from a lack of confidence or self esteem, I'm just generally unsure of myself, even after I've acted. I think perhaps it's a classic over achiever symptom. In many things, striving for perfection with the expectation of reaching it will leave you constantly short of your goal, forever falling back to regroup in an absurd quest for an illusive prize.
8. Something good to watch on TV-- Michael and I spent New Year's Day watching episodes of Firefly. Naturally, a smart, funny show only lasted one season. Is there anything else this good on now?
9. Time to cook healthy, tasty meals using fresh, preferably local, ingredients.
10. Patience-- I know, might as well wish for wings.
11. A year without neurosurgery.
12. A year without family drama and turmoil.
13. An abundance of good books to read.

Holiday Domesticity

2007-12-21T10:18:00.000-06:00

I am on holiday break and am having a blast. I have been knitting, baking, gift wrapping, and organizing stuff here at home. It amazes me just how much I enjoy doing domestic kinds of things. This is not how I once imagined my life at thirty-two years old, but I could not be happier.
The baking: Michael and I made a batch of peanut butter fudge (my favorite) that just turned out beautifully. Peanut butter fudge, because of the high oil content in the peanut butter, can be sort of hit and miss. We used the recipe on the label of the Kraft marshmallow cream jar, but made a few changes. We substituted one cup of peanut butter for the chocolate, and we boiled for five minutes instead of four. We didn't measure out the marshmallow cream, just used half of the big jar. If you have the small jar, use all or very nearly all of it. I think one key to this recipe is not to make it in a kitchen that's already heated from other baking. Possibly, this doesn't matter, but I think a cooler area to let the fudge cool in helps it set up better. I have decided that this is why in the past, my second batch has never turned out as good as my first batch.
The knitting: I picked out a beautiful cotton fleece yarn (80% cotton and 20% wool) worsted weight yarn for a baby blanket. It's made by Brown Sheep Company, which is my absolute favorite yarn company. If I never used anything but Brown Sheep, I could be completely content. I got the yarn in a pale green that's perfect for babies. My only problem is that I'm having trouble coming up with a pattern that I like. I am still suffering from pregnancy brain, so I don't think I'm up for anything too complex. I thought of doing cables, but can't really find a pattern I like. I'm kicking around this pattern for a garter stitch ruffles blanket. I just have to work out what size needles would create the best effect. This means the dreaded S-word. Swatching. Still, it is a blanket, so I'd rather do a few inches of twenty stitches and decide I don't like the pattern than go to the trouble of casting on 135 stitches. Here's a website with lots of free patterns. Consider it my holiday gift to you. And if you have other free pattern sites, please share them with me in the comments.
http://www.knittingpatterncentral.com/directory.php
The organizing: This project is well underway, with the knitting stuff very nearly organized, although not yet in its new permanent location. I had a bit of a slow down because I lost my needle gauge, then found it—broken. Don't ask me how I managed to break a metal needle gauge, but trust me, it can be done.
I've been out a few times to do last minute errands. People are really sort of bitchy this time of year, huh? I've witnessed a server getting cussed out, an ambulance getting cut off by some asshole driver, and other drivers screaming at cops who were working a rainy Friday night accident. What the hell! Chill out people. I know it's a stressful time of year. Newsflash—it's stressful on everybody. you acting like a jerk is only adding to the collective stress. Get over yourself. So what if Wal-Mart just sold out of the very last Skydiving Elmo and now you have to sell a kidney to buy one for your already spoiled rotten, ungrateful kid just so little Timmy won't be devastated on Christmas morning because after all, children really should rate their self worth by the loot they take in at Christmas, right? Here's an idea Jackass, how about teaching your kid that it isn't about the stuff and that poor kids who get nothing for Christmas are just as worthy of love, affection, and gifts as is your little darling. Teach him that Christmas can be wonderful no matter what presents he gets, and then make it wonderful by spending that precious Wal-Mart time with him. Take him to the Humane Society to adopt an animal, or just let him see you giving a donation. Better yet, let him make the donation. Why not try putting the caring and creativity back into Christmas in place of the commercialization. This has been a public service announcement from Kimberly.
I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday with family, friends, food, and joy.

Holiday Break

2007-12-18T15:32:00.000-06:00

Today is my last day before I begin a two-week holiday vacation. We aren't going anywhere, just staying home and making the usual holiday rounds. I will do some shopping, first for last minute gifts, and then for maternity clothes. Tops on the agenda is doing my usual home organization tasks. I always put this off until my December break. Foremost on that list is organizing my yarn and associated knitting crap. It has really gotten out of hand. My knitting stuff is currently in what will be the nursery, so we have to move it out of there and into the office, which will cease being an office and will become more of a catch-all room. I wish we had a bonus room or a den, but we don't. We just have a gigantic living room that despite its size, I try to keep clutter free. I have yarn for a baby blanket that I'm doing, but I can't in good conscience start the blanket until I get all my other unfinished projects wrangled into some kind of order. The new blanket will be done in a pale green cotton fleece yarn. It's a seashells and scallops pattern. I substituted for the yarn, so here's hoping it works out.
I'm looking forward to this break. I have so much on my mind lately-- pregnancy, the baby, and what life will be like after having the baby-- it will be good to be able to focus on those things without work. One thing I likely won't be doing much of over the break is blogging, but I'll try to post from time to time.
During my various family functions, I am going to listen closely to the conversations around me in hopes of being able to recount to you more like this one from Michael's family's Thanksgiving dinner:
Brother in law: "You might as well leave the drinks on the table. We have to keep refilling these fancy glasses that Mom likes to use."
Sister in law: "These glasses came from Arby's."

Thursday Thirteen: Things I Wish I Could Do

2007-12-13T16:19:00.000-06:00

1. Play a musical instrument-- Well, I used to play the flute, but the flute doesn't lend itself to being an adult hobby. I wish I could play the piano, the guitar, the bagpipes, and the mandolin.
2. Speak French-- I have tried to learn a couple of times, but not planning on going to France anytime soon, I lack the motivation.
3. Knit lace-- I have tried this, but I simply don't have the patience for it. I'm not really a lace kind of person, but it would be nice for doing edgings on sleeves and towels and stuff.
4. Garden-- I'm actually going to give this one another try this spring. It just looks like so much fun, and it is extremely practical to grow your own vegetables, but I am such a girl when it comes to dirt and worms. Oooh, gross.
5. Pottery-- It's the start-up expense that keeps me from doing this one.
6. Touch my tongue to my nose.
7. Make wine-- This is something I always wanted to try. Wine can be made from lots of things, but I honestly don't know how it's done. I think it would be great for gifts or just to have for yourself.
8. Run-- It's good exercise, and it's faster than walking. But blind people don't make really good runners. The laws of physics are against us: The faster you're going, the harder the impact when you meet something.
9. Braid my own hair-- It's getting long now, and it's limp and lifeless from pregnancy. It would be nice to be able to wear it braided so it would be off my face and not look like I'm going to the gym.
10. Drive
11. Plan, cook, and eat healthy meals every night for dinner, even when I'm really tired.
12. Be easy going and free spirited and just let things roll off my back. This one is so beyond me, I don't really even try, I just dream about being this way.
13. Write in public places, like bookstores and coffee shops-- I'm too easily distracted.

Bah, Humbug!

2007-12-13T10:06:00.000-06:00

I used to love Christmas. I would start playing Christmas music right after Halloween, and the tree was always up and decorated by Thanksgiving. In recent years though, I have gone from loving Christmas, to being apathetic, then to downright dreading it. I'm pretty sure it started a few years back. Michael and I spent all of Christmas Eve and Christmas day traveling between a three-county area in an attempt to be everywhere we were supposed to be and see everybody we were supposed to see. I remember that Christmas. We had done such a whirlwind tour of family events, that we never stayed at one place long enough to enjoy ourselves, or even eat a meal. At 6 p.m. that Christmas Day, we were driving around town looking for an open restaurant because we were starving. I think we ended up going home and having cheese and crackers. That year, we vowed we'd never let that happen again. The following year, we enforced our vow, which led to a huge Jerry Springer style redneck throw-down with Michael's family in the driveway of his grandparents house on Christmas Eve. Boy, wasn't that fun. Then last year, we knew we just couldn't put up with anymore Christmas shit, so we went away for Christmas. We rented a cabin in the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee and that was the best Christmas ever. This year though, we're trying to save money for the baby that's on the way, so we opted not to go away. No doubt, this will be cheaper, but it will cost me in sanity. What is up with family being so everloving demanding during the holidays? I mean, seriously, Christmas happens every freaking year! Do we really have to do the same thing year after year after year? I think it stems from some morbid fear that every Christmas might be Granny What's-her-butt's last, so we all get guilted into the same Christmas crap again and again.
Well, so my attitude has been less than festive so far this year. The ghosts of Christmas past, coupled with my constant nausea and morning sickness are making me really look forward to December 26th. Realizing that my attitude is at least partly to blame for this holiday funk, I went home yesterday evening fully intending to get in the damn Christmas spirit. I planned to bake Christmas cookies, listen to Christmas music, and decorate our Christmas tree. You know what they say about where good intentions can lead you, right? I knew I was doomed when I was refilling a canister with sugar, and turns out, I was refilling the coffee canister with sugar, not the sugar canister. Then, I realized we were out of Christmas tins, so Michael had to go to the Dollar Store to get some. Michael has a head cold and it was raining outside, so this was a pretty substantial inconvenience, but he went without complaint. Then we baked the cookies. Christmas butter cookies that we were going to adorn with sprinkles and cut into festive shapes with cookie cutters. A grand idea, don't you think? What we ended up with were little cookie dog biscuit looking things that were still doughy on the inside. So, we tossed them. I was being a trooper, so just decided to ditch the cookies and move on to decorating the tree. And that's when I threw up.
We finished out the evening with a smattering of ornaments on the tree and Michael and I comatose on the couch, him from NyQuill and me from Phenergan. Christmas, it seems, has defeated me after all.

The Same Old Terror

2007-12-10T11:37:00.000-06:00

I am twelve weeks pregnant today. From the beginning of this journey, twelve weeks was a sort of milestone that I was striving for. At twelve weeks, I would start telling people at work. At twelve weeks, I could start buying baby things in earnest. At twelve weeks, I would start buying maternity clothes. So now I am twelve weeks pregnant, and suddenly, I am terrified. As a milestone, twelve weeks signifies both a point of progression and a change in direction. Perhaps not a literal direction, but there is a change in my thinking. Until now, I have been fixated on the baby inside me. Now, I'm suddenly thinking about the baby coming out, and people, let me just tell you, this is terrifying.
I have had much (too much) experience with the medical establishment. I began having surgeries when I was ten years old. By the time I lost my sight at fourteen, I had gone through upwards of twenty operations on my eyes. We lost count somewhere along the way. I have had six brain operations and one on my spinal cord. Yes, I know about the medical establishment. And now, I face yet another encounter with that cold-hearted beast. If I could choose, I would give birth at a birthing center. I would much prefer a nurse midwife to an obstetrician and labor and delivery "team." But because of my medical history, that isn't an option. Due to the trauma my brain has already endured, there is a risk of a rise in my intracranial pressure during delivery. I have to think about my health and the welfare of my family. Because of the unique risks that I face, I will have a scheduled C-section. In essence, another operation. Certainly, this is not how I would choose to bring my baby into the world, but I knew going into this that I did not have the luxury of choice.
Now, twelve weeks in, I have started to think about what the birth will be like. Will it be cold and clinical like my other medical procedures? Will I be as afraid? Will I experience that familiar yet terrifying sensation of having no control over what is done to my body? I expected morning sickness. I expected discomfort. I expected weight gain and mood shifts. But this fear, this old fear that I have experienced so many times, this I did not expect. I did not want these specters of past terrors to intrude on what should be the most wonderful experience of my life. This fear is not welcome, and it has no place here. Except that it does. This fear is always with me, ready to tap me on the shoulder at the slightest provocation: a medical drama on TV, a routine check-up, the smell of rubbing alcohol. Even this most wanted and hoped for event is not immune from its familiar yet chilling grip.
Logically, I know that there are things I can do to combat this fear. I will learn more about C-sections. I will tour the hospital birthing rooms. I will explain this situation to my doctor and continue to explain until he finally understands that I insist on having control of this process. And I think he will understand. He seems very compassionate and open to hearing about the concerns and fears of his patients. And most important of all, I must remember that this time, unlike all the other times, I will not be alone. Michael will be with me. Through all of this, he will be there. This time, I do not have to face the terror alone.

Thirteen Things I want from Santa

2007-11-29T14:21:00.000-06:00

1. New carpet and paint for my house-- This is on our to-do list, but Michael and I both are dreading it. He's dreading it more than me. Blind people are not often asked to paint, so the bulk of that job will fall to Michael. As for the new carpet, I know that somehow, we will get screwed on this and end up paying too much money for something we'll end up not being very happy with. How I wish Santa would come, and we would wake up on Christmas morning to find beautiful new flooring and freshly painted walls, done in the perfect color and with no fumes so I wouldn't have to spend a few nights at my parents house.
2. A publishing contract-- If Santa could get me a lucrative publishing contract for my manuscript, then I wouldn't have to write that damned query letter and synopsis. More to the point, I could stop feeling guilty about procrastinating so vigorously on the query letter and synopsis.
3. A fully decorated nursery-- That way, I wouldn't have to research safe, durable cribs, or shop for any of the thousands of things that babies require, but that I have absolutely no clue about. Santa, after all, would know which cribs had been recalled by the Consumer Products Safety Commission. Santa would never accidentally buy a crib that was covered in lead paint.
4. A backbone for my boss-- I want to share Santa's bounty with others. Yeah, that's it.
5. The ability to knit faster-- There is so much great yarn in the world, and I want it all, but it won't do me any good if I don't learn to knit faster.
6. An intelligent President in 2008
7. An end to my nausea.
8. Whole grain pasta that actually tastes good.
9. An end to reality television
10. The ability to bake cakes-- I can bake cookies and candy that turn out perfect, but I have burned every cake I have ever attempted.
11. A way to light a candle without burning myself.
12. The time to make Christmas stockings for my family.
13. Another wonderful series like Harry Potter

James Carville You Are Not

2007-11-28T11:52:00.000-06:00

As usual, Michael and I were listening to NPR's Morning Edition on the way to work. They were doing a story about Bill Clinton campaigning for Hillary, acting like it was some big deal. Duh! The big deal would be if he wasn't campaigning for her. Spouses always campaign for their candidate spouses. This is not news. But I get it-- anything that features Bill Clinton in a clip gets attention. I don't blame you. Hell, as far as I'm concerned you can devote half the show to Bill Clinton. Fine by me. And fine by a lot of people I suspect. Bill Clinton's approval ratings have skyrocketed since he left office, which is why I found the next part of the NPR segment puzzling if not outright ridiculous. The host was getting comments from Donna Brazile, head of Al Gore's 2000 Presidential campaign, on the Hillary Clinton campaign. She said that (I'm paraphrasing) there is a downside to having Bill Clinton campaigning for Hillary because it makes people think of the past, and people vote based on the future, not the past.
I have long believe that Donna Brazile has the political instincts of toast, and this morning she confirmed my suspicion. People don't vote based on the past? Where have you been? At least half of the time, people are voting against something, rather than for it. That's called voting based on the past. It is an ages-old ploy of politicians to get people thinking about a former, better, simpler time-- the implication being that the politician in question will bring back those former, better, simpler times. That's called voting based on the past. I'm not advocating it, just pointing out that it happens and the strategy is effective. Donna Brazile, I encourage you to watch the last fifteen minutes of The American President. Listen carefully to Michael Douglas's speech. I believe this might help you to more clearly understand why people vote based on the past. Another suggestion that I have for you is to go rub up against James Carville, or maybe just ride in an elevator with him and hope breathing the same air as him might help you improve your game. If, as it seems, you are going to continue to be considered a strategist for the Democratic Party, you really do need to work on those instincts. In 2000, you advised Al Gore to distance himself from Bill Clinton. That was a fatal mistake in that campaign, and now it appears you are saying that Hillary should follow the same strategy that I believe cost your man the Presidency. Will you never learn?
Here's the link to the American President speech. Enjoy.

Best Buy? Yeah right.

2007-11-26T10:58:00.001-06:00

On Saturday, Michael and I went to Best Buy to purchase a big screen TV. We have been wanting a new TV for a while, and Michael saw that this one, a Panasonic 42-inch plasma, was on sale for $899. Figuring that we aren't likely to have a lot of spare money in the future, we decided to go ahead and buy it. This is Michael's Christmas gift, birthday gift, and anniversary gift all in one. We spent all day Sunday rearranging furniture to accommodate the new TV, which is fine since we had been talking about rearranging furniture for a while. Trust me when I tell you that for a blind person, this rearranging furniture business is a big deal. It will leave me bruised for the next week until I finally remember that the coffee table is in a different place. So with furniture rearranged and living room tidied up, we set about hooking up the TV.
We had purchased a wall mounting kit to hang the TV on the wall. Shortly after opening said wall mounting kit, Michael read-- very near the top of the instructions-- that if this kit doesn't work, it isn't necessary to return it to the store where it was purchased, simply call the company and they will send an adaptor for $9.99. Oh hell no! Oh hell fucking no! We spent $79 on this particular wall mount, and I thought that was very near outrageous. Had I wanted to spend more money on a wall mount, I would have done so, but I did not wish to spend more money and I continue not to wish to spend more money. Cynic that I am, I suspect this is a scam this particular company is running to get people to pay more money for a thing they think they have to have. Um, no. Our cable company has us by the balls. Our insurance company has us by the balls. AT&T has us by the balls. But you, Television Wall Mount Kit Company, can get your hands off my balls!
Naturally, this is going to necessitate a trip to Best Buy to return the wall mount kit-- the universal wall mount kit that Best Buy assured us would work with our TV, but that does not. If you've ever tried to return anything to Best Buy, you're shaking your head and bemoaning the futility of the attempt, but rest assured, I am an expert in making a scene. Raising nine kinds of hell is an inherent talent of mine. I have been known to throw hissy fits of epic proportions. This used to embarrass Michael, but now he is resigned to it and has even learned to appreciate it.
So Best Buy, consider yourself warned. My capacity for volume and endurance is unparalleled.

Gobble Gobble

2007-11-21T10:24:00.000-06:00

I like a lot of traditional Thanksgiving foods. I realized from reading Molly's and Trina's blogs that I might be in the minority on that one. I'm making a turkey. I am a vegetarian, but since I'm preggers, I've been relaxing on that lately. At this point, I'll eat anything that doesn't make me sick. Also, my mother cannot cook a turkey. Well, bless her heart, there is a lot that my mother can't cook, but turkey ranks at the top of the list. I cook my turkey with cinnamon, ginger, apples, oranges, and butter. Knock on wood-- it usually turns out moist and flavorful. One of the few things Mom can make is dressing, so she'll be bringing that along with her hot potato salad. Michael cannot abide a Thanksgiving without mashed potatoes, so he'll be making those. We will also be contributing glazed carrots and a broccoli casserole. The broccoli casserole, if not a uniquely Southern thing is a typical Southern thing. Every casserole constructed in the South contains a can of cream of mushroom soup, a lot of butter and cheese, and Ritz crackers. It might even be a law. Had I not been raised on such fare, I might turn my nose up at it, but as it is, my family has designated me the official broccoli casserole fixer. For Christmas, Thanksgiving, picnics, whatever-- I'm expected to show up with a broccoli casserole. For dessert, Mom is bringing a banana pudding and I'm making a pumpkin cheesecake. Somehow, something chocolate will find its way onto the table. It always does. This is a very traditional meal, but Michael and I do need a little variety, so we're making sausage balls and hot artichoke and sundried tomato dip, and this will likely be our favorite part of the meal. Sausage balls, in case you don't know, are a construction of spicy pork sausage, sharp cheddar cheese, and Bisquik, rolled into acorn-sized balls. Molly thinks "sausage balls" sound like a porcine version of mountain oysters, so we're trying to think of an alternate name. Sausage poppers anybody? Southern pork circles?
Oh, and one more thing. Ginger has long been a home remedy for pregnancy sickness, and I find that it works better than anything, so I'll be munching on bits of candied ginger throughout the day.
On Black Friday, Michael and I will do nothing. We'll lie around watching TV and movies, and I'll knit on a pair of socks that have been languishing since last November. We do not shop on the weekend after Thanksgiving. It's our way of protesting our culture of consumerism. It's a small statement, but it's important to us. Inevitably, news reports on Monday will say how this year's after-Thanksgiving sales figures were lower than expected. They say that every year, and here's why: The people who make the projections are greedy bastards! A 100% profit just isn't enough for them. Cry me a river, assholes.
The true origins of Thanksgiving are lost, hidden, and/or twisted to suit multiple agendas. This is true of most holidays. For my part, I like Thanksgiving, which is perhaps strange coming from someone with a strong Native American heritage, but I am in favor of continuing and honoring traditions that bring families together, give us a day off work, and encourage individuals to be grateful for the things they have, if only for one day. Regardless of how or to whom you give thanks, or how you choose to observe or ignore Thanksgiving, I wish you health and abundance.

A Public Service Announcement

2007-11-19T11:21:00.000-06:00

Calling all bloggers. If you have word verification enabled on your blog, I cannot comment. Yes, there is a link to listen and type, and yes, in theory that should work, but it doesn't. It's a matter of switching from navigation mode to typing mode, and apparently Blogger.com, A.K.A. Google, didn't consult the makers of any popular screenreaders before programming their "listen and type" word verification feature, because-- let me repeat-- it doesn't work! Blogger.com, if you're paying attention out there, you've got a problem, and it makes you look like an idiot. When people comment on my blog, I very much want to reciprocate by commenting on theirs. It's blog etiquette, right? So this word verification crap is making me appear unmannered and impolite, and I really don't like that. For those of you who have word verification enabled, why? Do you have so much spam traffic that it's necessary? Did you even know you had it enabled? Have you got a fear of blind commenters? So I'm asking you, if you don't need it, turn it off.
Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
I actually got some of my holiday shopping done this weekend. Trust me, this is not like me, but thanks to a serendipitous trip to Kohl's, where there happened to be a killer sale, I got lots of my list knocked out. It also helped that Michael's siblings decided not to exchange gifts. Woo Hoo! That's four people off my list with one phone call. And I got cheap gifts for some of the other people who fall into the "obligatory" category. Now, I can shop for the people I genuinely want to buy gifts for.
So I'm interested, who's on your obligatory list? Those people you'd really rather not have to spend time and money on? Don't worry, I won't tell.

Thursday Thirteen: Guilty Pleasures

2007-11-15T13:04:00.000-06:00

I don't really have guilty pleasures, mainly because I think guilt is a fairly useless emotion, so I work hard to squash it down if it ever shows itself. When people talk about guilty pleasures, I think they are talking about their own indulgences or things that society as a whole or more likely their own peer group would not approve of. So keeping with that definition, here are my thirteen guilty pleasures.
1. Purses-- I have tons of them. Beaded, leather, hand knitted, felted, sequined, quilted, you name it, I have a purse made of it. My very first knitting project was a simple felted bag, and I've made three more since. Generally, I never carry the same purse for more than a month or so. I love to buy purses and switch them out. I am about purses the way TV show women are about shoes.
2. Romance novels-- Most women my age don't read romance novels and even look down on other women who do. Whatever. I like emotional stories and I like happy endings. I read widely, in almost all genres. I read fiction primarily, but I like some nonfiction as well. I don't get why people have no problem telling others that they watched a romantic comedy starring Meg Ryan, but won't go near a romance novel. Is it the covers? Most of the books I read, I get from the public Talking Book Library, so I am never exposed to the covers, but I guess I can understand how those might put a person off. I like good writing that tells a compelling story. I'll read that book regardless of its genre or cover.
3. Telling people off-- I must admit, I get a twisted pleasure from putting the smackdown on some asshole who really deserves it either because of his/her attitude, behavior, or general stupidity.
4. Bloghopping
5. Sappy Christmas movies-- I already mentioned here that It's A Wonderful Life and A Christmas Carol are my favorites. I also like 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, the cartoon with the mice, and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
6. Classic country music-- It's awful, I know, but I love Patsy Cline, Hank Williams, Sr., George Jones, and Loretta Lynn. I think that since I'm from Kentucky, this is acceptable.
7. Yarn-- The only kind of yarn I like is expensive, relatively speaking. I don't buy from the giant crafts stores, I prefer smaller, locally owned yarn shops that sell quality yarn. I take it by turns to by novelty yarns, 100% wool, specialty blends, and sometimes just whatever strikes my fancy. I am something of a penny pincher by nature, but when it comes to yarn, I know no limits. Fortunately, most of my family gets me gift certificates to my local yarn store for my birthday and for Christmas. That's how I support my habit.
8. Kid's sugar cereals-- I know that I should be eating total or Special K or something equally flavorless and fiber filled, but I just can't stomach it. When it's my turn to pick out the cereal, we are coming home with Cocoa Puffs, Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, Fruity Pebbles, Lucky Charms, or Fruit Loops. It's immature, but I can't help myself. Well, I probably could, but I don't.
9. I have a housekeeper-- Society tells me I should feel guilty about this, even though I don't. Michael and I both work full time, and vacuuming isn't tops on the list of things we want to do in our free time. I love my housekeeper. She is perhaps my favorite person in the world.
10. Cheese fries-- I know, I know, but yum!
11. Napping on the couch-- There is always something I could be doing, but sometimes there is just nothing like a cozy nap. This is perhaps my only truly guilty pleasure. I'm an overachiever, and there's just always some task to be conquered. I sometimes really do feel guilty about lying around on the couch for an entire evening, especially if Michael cooked dinner all by himself. He says he doesn't mind it though-- one more reason I love him.
12. Just now, I am seriously craving a chili dog, and I don't even think I like chili dogs. If I do have a chili dog, you can bet I will feel guilty about it.
13. Blogging at work-- Obviously, this isn't stopping me.

My Imaginary Family

2007-11-14T15:29:00.000-06:00

I love my family. But my family is small, at least my immediate family is. It's me and Michael and the dog and my mom and her husband, and I love us, but about this time every year, I start wishing that I wasn't an only child and that my aunts and uncles did more than just bicker with each other and that I was part of one of those great big Hallmark commercial families. Probably, I only think I want a large family. I have what I term a low chaos threshold, and large families are inherently chaotic. So most likely, a large family would make me crazy. What I guess I'm saying is I want to have been raised in a large family so that it wouldn't make me crazy. I'd keep Michael and the dog and Mom and even her husband because he handles her better than anyone ever has-- ever! But it would be nice if there were more of us. Of course this time next year there will be more of us and I'll have all the chaos I can handle.
So I was thinking about what my perfect imaginary family would look like, and it's something like this:
I think Arthur and Molly Weasley are the perfect parents, so I'd pick them to be my mom and dad. I guess a benefit of that is that I'd get all seven Weasley children too, and Harry Potter to boot. Instant family.
I have a half sister and a stepsister, but I'm not really close to either of them, and I always thought having a sister would be great. I want Luna Lovegood as my sister. Luna is my hero. She is everything that I am not-- free spirited, not the slightest bit self-conscious, optimistic, dreamy, and unconditionally kind. I love tacky, gaudy jewelry, and if Luna was my sister, I could borrow her radish earrings. Other sisters I'd like are Bridget Jones, Zena Warrior Princess, Julia Butterfly Hill, and Paris Hilton-- everybody has one, right? And she would take the pressure off the rest of us. We'd look like angels by comparison. For brothers I think I'd like Emeril Lagasse, Bruce Springsteen, Indiana Jones, and Mark Twain. I think they'd all be interesting at the dinner table.
I already have tons of cousins who I don't see very much, and they are plenty entertaining without having to imagine anything. There's my cousin Scott who got drunk at a Memorial Day picnic and did the Hula Hoop, and my cousin Calvin, whose idea of a Christmas carol is a song about John Wayne Bobbitt's difficulties sung to the tune of the Beverly Hillbillies theme song. Once the feasting is over, all of my family piles up in my Aunt Loretta's garage to drink beer and play poker. I haven't seen most of them in three years, but I will be there this year on Christmas Eve, and I'm looking forward to it. If only Luna Lovegood could somehow get there.

The Body and the Blood

2007-11-12T08:52:00.000-06:00

In deference to my pregnancy, I have given up coffee in favor of Saltines. As soon as I got to work this morning, I opened up some crackers and a bottle of grape juice, and it occurred to me: if I was still a Baptist, this would be Communion. Since I'm not a Baptist any longer though, it's just grape juice and Saltines.
Unrelatedly, quite possibly some or all of this post is in all caps. My apologies, and be assured I am not screaming at you. One of the perils of being blind is that you never can be sure until it's too late that you've hit that pesky all caps key. Another peril of being blind is that it takes both hands to shave your legs. Having years of experience at this blind, two-handed shaving thing, I am sometimes a bit less cautious than I should be seeing as how there's a razorblade involved, and last night, I sliced off about half of my middle fingernail on my left hand. Youch! So now I've got two big Band-Aids on that finger which make it difficult to type and make me look like some obscene E.T. without the heart light.
Here's hoping your Monday is off to a better start than mine.

Thursday Thirteen: Things I am Grateful for

2007-11-08T09:53:00.000-06:00

Yes, Thanksgiving is closer than you think. Look at a calendar if you don't believe me, but be prepared for a shock.
I have a lot to be grateful for. I know because every morning while I'm brushing my teeth or washing my face, I go over a list of five things that I am grateful for each day. Some mornings, I'm just grateful that I had the strength or courage to get out of bed and some mornings I'm just grateful for my good night's sleep. Those days when I'm feeling less than grateful, I find that those are the days that I benefit most from listing things I'm grateful for, because it's easy to forget, to get caught up in what's not right in our lives rather than focus on what is. So now, before this gets too Dr. Philish, here are thirteen of the things I am grateful for.

1. Michael-- This is always #1 on my list. I am grateful everyday that he is safe and healthy and that he loves me. Not a bad way to start off one's day, huh?
2. Garnet-- She is my retired guide dog, so our bond goes beyond the human/pet relationship. She is thirteen years old, and I am grateful everyday that she is still in good health and wants to play. She's gotten somewhat surly in her old age, but she'd probably say the same of me.
3. That I am pregnant-- This is a quite recent addition to the list.
4. Running water-- Like I said, I often run through this list while I'm brushing my teeth. Indoor plumbing, when you think about it, is really something to be glad about. I realize it's not a necessity, but ... well okay, I'm a sissy, so yes, it is a necessity for me. I don't think I could live if I had to pee outside.
5. The internet-- It's maybe not as critical to my existence as indoor plumbing, but it's pretty close.
6. Chocolate
7. My house-- It's a good, sturdy house, one that our growing family will fit into just fine. It's nothing fancy or extravagant, but it's home.
8. Authors who tell stories that take me places.
9. Friends-- I have some very good ones and they keep me sane, which Molly will tell you is a thankless job.
10. My imagination-- It keeps me entertained.
11. Wall-to-wall carpeting-- I'm clumsy, you see.
12. Laughing out loud-- I hardly ever laugh at things that are designed to make me laugh, slapstick comedy for example, but I really love it when somebody says something completely random and everybody just sort of looks at each other and then the group as a whole just breaks into hysterics that go on and on for so long that when the laughter finally tapers off, nobody remembers why they were laughing in the first place, which makes you start laughing all over again. I love moments like that because you can carry them with you the rest of the day, and no matter what happens, you can pull up that memory and you can't help but smile.
13. I am grateful that Thanksgiving is coming soon because it is one of my favorite holidays. There is no pressure to buy anything, and Michael and I really like to cook for people. Some of our favorite memories are from Thanksgivings spent in the kitchen, cooking and making fun of the commentators for the Macy's parade. And when the parade is off, we'll flip through the channels until we (Okay, until I) find It's a Wonderful Life, which I force Michael to watch, which he grumbles about, but he's as happy as I am by the end.

Slacking

2007-11-07T10:32:00.000-06:00

I have not been attending to my blog lately, and Molly is making me look bad because she is blogging everyday. My problem is that there is just so much to do right now, and the only thing I'm up for is napping. I need to be writing. I need to be knitting both holiday gifts and baby stuff. I need to be bargain shopping for Christmas. I need to be planning events and menus. I need to be working on some upgrades to the house, which need to get done fairly soon. And now I need a nap from making this list of all the things I need to do.
Do you ever get so overwhelmed with stuff that you become capable of nothing but sitting trance-like and staring into nothingness? That's me right now, and it is a particularly bad time for me to go all spacey. I know that more than anything, I just need to get into a habit of getting stuff done, but it's that first step that is the hardest. But now that I have sufficiently moaned about my state of slackerdom, then perhaps I can put the slacking behind me. The first step is to admit you have a problem, right?

Thursday Thirteen: Places I'd like to visit.

2007-11-01T11:59:00.000-05:00

1. Cornwall-- Specifically the ruins of Tintagel, the Cornish castle that legend has it is where King Arthur was conceived.
2. Ireland-- My family comes from County Tyrone, so I'd like to visit there.
3. Scotland-- Since I'll already be in England and Ireland, why not visit Scotland too? And let's throw in Wales while we're at it.
4. The Languedoc region of France-- Because of its link to Templar history. And from what I've read, it is a truly beautiful part of the world.
5. Turkey
6. The Swiss Alps
7. Iceland-- I have friends who are from there and it sounds fascinating- the history, the landscape, the folklore, just all of it.
8. Swaziland-- I had a friend in college who was a prince in Swaziland. No really, he was. He had a diplomatic immunity plate on his car and everything. He also had two wives and a girlfriend.
9. Chile-- My every reason for wanting to visit Chile has to do with Isabel Allende novels.
10. Northern California-- To see the Redwoods.
11. Nova Scotia-- So I can wear all the warm sweaters I've knitted.
12. Japan-- I love sushi!
13. The Moon-- I couldn't think of another one, so this was as good as any.

The Turning of the Wheel

2007-10-31T08:07:00.000-05:00

Happy Halloween! Or Happy Samhain for those followers of the old ways. In Celtic lore, this is the time of year when the veil between the worlds is thinnest, allowing spirits to cross into this world and allowing us to get a glimpse into the other world. I realize a lot of people think things like scrying and Tarot are a bunch of mumbo jumbo, hocus pocus, or whatever, and that's fine that they think that. As for me, I do believe this day is one of mystery and magic. On this day last year, I did a Tarot reading to show me the upcoming year. That reading supplied the name for this blog, because in the outcome position of the Celtic cross spread, I drew the Empress card, which wasn't a card I identified much with at that time. A lot of the other cards could be read as baby, mothering, or birth cards. At that time, a baby was the last thing I wanted. My, how things change. I don't know if that Tarot reading was predicting the future or helping me to realize my hidden desire. Either way, there was magic and mystery in that reading because here I am, one year later, pregnant with my first child. Since this night is traditionally a time to honor those who have passed over, I will be honoring my grandmother, who died in 1996. She gave birth to eleven healthy children, so I think this is a good time to reconnect with her.
However you choose to celebrate this day, I wish you all the magic in all the worlds.

Dream Big and Live Large

2007-10-30T08:48:00.001-05:00

For a while, I had those words at the top of my daily planner. Then my planner got full of other things-- tasks for work, dental appointments, birthday reminders, etc. -- and I deleted those words in the interest of space. That and I had read them so often they had lost their meaning, falling into bad cliché territory. Turns out, I should have left them where they were because I have certainly not been taking my own advice.
I have been struggling with my writing lately. I have a good reason. As I already announced here, I'm pregnant, so in terms of my thought processes, all roads lead to baby shoes and curtains for the nursery. But if I was honest with myself, truly honest with myself-- which I try never to be-- I knew there was something more, something specific to my writing, and I think I've figured out what it is. I have been lowballing my dream.
I have a completed, polished manuscript, and it's damn good if I do say so myself, which obviously, I do, but because I was afraid to dream big, I have been willing to sell out my dream and my manuscript for published mediocrity rather than hold out for that high profile agent or the big contract. Success scares me, you see. As much as I strive for it and work toward it, the idea of actually getting it terrifies me. Maybe it's a fear of the unknown. Maybe it's a fear of change. I really don't know. What I do know is that I had become willing to settle. Settling and quitting are the only things that can absolutely, 100% keep you from reaching your goals or getting your dream.
I came to believe one had to put out a book a year in order to be successful. There are some writers who can turn out quality work annually, but I am not one of them. I write slowly, but the end product is quality. In recalling my favorite authors, they aren't the prolific ones, they are the ones who take a while to do their thing, but in the end their thing is magical. They are the authors whose websites I check to see when their next release is projected to hit the shelves. They are the ones whose books I absolutely must have, the ones that I set aside entire weekends to read-- phone unplugged except to order out for pizza. J.K. Rowling, Diana Gabaldon, and Robert Jordan spring immediately to mind. I never walk through my local BN and say, "Oh look, Diana Gabaldon has another book out." No, I know when her books are coming out. Usually I've been counting the days.
And this, I have come to realize, is the writer I want to be. Such are the stories I want to tell. It's going to mean doing some serious work on an actual career plan (shiver) and research to find just the right agents to query, but it's my dream. It's my dream and it's worth the effort to make it big.

Thursday Thirteen: Things you wouldn't know by looking at me

2007-10-24T16:09:00.000-05:00

Be sure to check out Molly and Trina's blogs on the same topic.

1. I love all things British: The literature, the accent, the BBC America station, the Beatles, Collin Firth, you name it.
2. Steel Magnolias and Gone with the Wind are two of my favorite movies-- To look at me, you'd never think I was such a sap.
3. I'm a vegetarian
4. My family is extremely rednecc-- The Coors Light, monster truck, piss out the backdoor of the trailer kind of redneck. You could say I'm the white sheep of the family.
5. I love Duran Duran-- dorky, I know. Maybe it's the British thing again.
6. I can recite the alphabet backwards.
7. My husband and I have grandparents named exactly the same thing-- We both have a set of grandparents named Hurbert and Delphie. Don't worry, they're not the same people.
8. My mother wanted to name me Bobbi-- Thank heavens my father refused.
9. I was in marching band all four years of high school-- I played the flute, piccolo, and xylophone. Hey, no bashing the band! My high school was so backward, band members were the cool kids. No kidding.
10. I love animals-- I worry about them obsessively. If a dog barks in the neighborhood, I beg Michael to go check on it. I once pleaded with him to rescue a duck we saw in the parking lot of Lowe's. We had a pool see, so we had the perfect habitat for a duck.
11. I am an only child and I have two sisters-- it's a step/half thing. I am my mother's only child, but my father has a daughter by his second marriage, and his wife has a daughter from her first marriage. Confused yet?
12. I have a tattoo-- It's covered by my clothes, but I'm really proud of it. It's a triple moon symbol, and I got it after my fifth brain surgery. I felt strongly that I wanted to do something permanent to my body that was by my choice, not by necessity. And it's much prettier than the scar on the back of my head. Getting the tattoo was about feeling like I was in control of something. It took courage, and I try to remember that act of courage whenever I feel weak or cowardly or scared.
13. I'm pregnant! You wouldn't know it to look at me yet because I'm only a little pregnant, but I am most certainly pregnant!

The Plumbing Nightmare

2007-10-23T09:55:00.001-05:00

A while back, I said I would recount our adventures in plumbing. I have waited so long because it is a truly painful memory. Even now, I have trouble telling the story without feeling my blood pressure rise. don't get me wrong, I know there are some honest, hard-working, knowledgeable plumbers out there. Those weren't the plumbers we hired. The problem began as a leaky bathtub faucet. Sounds simple enough, right? Wrong. We had to replace the cartridge (whatever that is) which can be a very easy job or a very difficult job. Ours fell into the latter category, which Michael deduced after assessing the situation and researching plumbing fixes on the internet. Believing it beyond his skill to repair, we hired a plumber. Looking back, I could have lived with that leaky faucet for a long time. But there was a drought see, and we didn't want to waste the water. Probably we should have just put a bucket under the faucet and used it to water the plants, but we were well intentioned. No good deed goes unpunished, right?
We have learned a lot from this experience. Primarily what we learned is that all plumbers should be women. Here are my reasons why:
Because a woman would not show up at your house, take a look at the problem, which you already described in detail over the phone, and say she has to go out for a part. No, a woman would have that part with her, most likely in her purse.
A woman would not crawl around under the house and think nothing of coming in and tracking the mud and muck through your entire house. No, a woman would carry a roll of plastic or newspapers just for that purpose.
A woman would not leave the job unfinished only to return not once, but twice-- that's three total visits-- because women know that evenings are important and busy family times.
And a woman, I think, would feel at least some shame in charging you $330 for the pleasure of inconveniencing you beyond all comprehension.
I don't know what they're teaching in plumber school, but I know it isn't best business practices, manners, timeliness, or efficiency. The next time we have a leak, we'll just sell the house.

Thursday Thirteen: Alternate Careers

2007-10-18T10:40:00.000-05:00

I've always known I would be a writer. When I was a little girl, I used to lie awake at night making up stories in my head. I still do that. In the second grade, I won an award from the Young Authors contest. The book was called The Lost Angel. I don't remember how the angel came to be lost or if she ever got found, but I do remember that I enjoyed making up the story. Books and stories have always fascinated me. They are right of there with Michael and chocolate in terms of the things that make life good. Still, as much as I love writing, there are other careers that I think would be fun. Here are thirteen of them:

1. Racecar driver-- Obviously this is pure fantasy, but I do think it would be cool. Probably because I never got to drive-- well, not legally-- the idea fascinates me. However, I'm pretty sure they don't let blind women drive racecars. Or stationwagons. Or go-karts. Or pretty much anything with a motor. I did hear about a blind woman who was a Monster Truck driver. You know, the ones that get to drive over rows of cars and stuff? That would be cool too. I guess you don't need eyesight to drive a great big truck over a bunch of much smaller cars.
2. Speechwriter for the President of the United States-- This was actually my goal during college. But Clinton was President then, and I admit to having a teensy bit of Monica envy. Once Bush was elected, the dream died.
3. Bartender-- Really, who wouldn't want to be a bartender? You get to talk to all kinds of people, and by the end of your shift, you'd probably feel a lot better about your own life after listening to the problems of a bunch of drunks. Plus, there's the tequila.
4. Chef-- I like to cook, but more than that, I like the idea of cooking. And even more than that, I like eating.
5. Crofter in the Scottish Highlands-- I think it would be such a quaint existence. Naturally, I'm romanticizing what is probably a tough life, but that's what alternate realities are for.
6. Organic farmer-- This is a dream that Michael and I have, to live on a big expanse of land and raise sheep and goats and grow organic vegetables and spin our own wool and get our electricity from a windmill. It's a wonderful dream, but it'll never happen because as it turns out, we aren't real into hard work. Maybe I'll write about an organic farmer instead.
7. Fashion designer-- So I could make clothes for real-sized women and get to fondle expensive fabrics.
8. Veterinarian-- I love animals. I am a sucker for a sad-eyed puppy dog, and my black Lab knows this and uses it against me.
9. Herbalist-- I'd like to see a return to some of the old ways of doing things and a trend away from a modern pharmacological fix for everything.
10. Minister-- Essentially, you get to tell people how to live and how to be happy. Way cool. The only problem is that I'm not real on board with Christian dogma or practices. Probably, that's a deal breaker.
11. Taster for Hershey's-- because as referenced above, I like to eat, and mostly what I like to eat is chocolate.
12. Archaeologist-- Traveling all over the world and uncovering the mysteries of the past has to be exciting and rewarding. I love history. Michael and I watch the History Channel and History International religiously-- right up until that Egyptologist guy shows up. What's his name? If you've ever watched a show about Egypt or tombs, you've seen him. What a camera whore.
13. Published author-- Not there yet, but I'm working hard and I'm confident.

Sweating

2007-10-17T09:43:00.000-05:00

And not from the freakish eighty degree weather in mid October. I've got an excellent start on my 70-day writing challenge. I've got 3,000 words. Not all of it is new though. Some of it is revision work. My inner editor is a demon and will not be ignored no matter how much I try. So, I'm thrilled with my progress and hope I can keep up the momentum.

Shopping and Other Tortures

2007-10-15T11:14:00.001-05:00

I went shopping with my mother yesterday. Shopping is tops on my "things I desperately loathe" list. For starters, I am extremely hard to fit. I hear a lot of women saying that, so I'm starting to think that most of us aren't so very hard to fit, we just don't fit into the fashion industry's narrow ()literally and figuratively) idea of what a woman's body is like. I mean, women have boobs and hips. It's natural. It isn't something we should be ashamed of or work endlessly and tirelessly to change. Boobs and hips serve a purpose. I'd really love to get some acknowledgement of that fact from fashion designers. Personally, I am short and curvy. Yeah, let's go with curvy. I like my curves. I really do have an hourglass figure—it's just that I've got way too much sand in the bottom. I have what my Aunt Alice calls "birthing hips." Lucky me. I also have legs like tree trunks. Is it any wonder I hate shopping? But I have two weddings coming up, my sister's and Michael's sisters, so new clothes were a necessity.
There are certain obvious pitfalls to clothes shopping with one's mother. If we were shopping for furniture or curtains or home decor, she is the go-to woman, but clothes? Not so much. Mom shows me things like denim skirts, and says "But you love denim skirts." Yeah, when I was thirteen maybe. And she shows me pink, ruffley things, and skirts with floral prints. She means well, but ... Well, I'm not really a floral print kind of woman. That's hard to explain to the person who refuses to think of you as anything other than her little girl. And since I'm blind, I have to rely on the opinions of others to a fairly alarming degree. Also because I'm blind, texture matters, and let me just tell you, I have expensive taste in texture.
Fortunately, I did end up finding something that will work for both weddings. I found a nicely tailored black skirt, and a fine-gauge cardigan sweater with bell sleeves and lace trim. It is okay to wear black to weddings these days, isn't it? No wait, don't tell me. I already bought the outfit, so I don't want to know.
Now I just have to find some kind of top to go under the sweater, preferably something in a bright color like red or pink, and some shoes. Oh and pantyhose. Ugh, pantyhose.
In other, totally unrelated news, Saturday was the 700th anniversary of the Vatican's purge of the Knights Templar. I believe the Vatican has since decided that the Templar's weren't heretics after all. Oops. I'm sure that's real comforting to all those who were roasted alive or drawn and quartered. The Vatican, you gotta love 'em.
I gotta tell you, I do love Templar history. I admit to being a sucker for the current Templar action/suspense subgenre spawned by the success of the DaVinci Code. If it says secret society, Holy Grail, or papal history, you can bet it's going home with me.
Today, I begin my 70 Days of Sweat writing Challenge. It will be grueling because I am a slow writer, but it will teach me about time management and effective scheduling. I know, that's a lot to ask of 70 days.

Thursday Thirteen-- Favorite Books

2007-10-10T15:34:00.000-05:00

I realize that I am posting this on Wednesday, but there's a reason, and it's a tale of two computers, one of which hates Blogger.
I have always been a reader. By the time I was four years old, I had Alice in Wonderland (the Little Golden Book version) memorized cover to cover, and still, I demanded that it be read to me every night at bedtime. That love of books has never waned. I have always understood the power of a good story. Many books have touched me, but the ones listed below are the ones that set up shop and will live with me forever.

1. A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
2. The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy
3. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
4. The Harry Potter series by J.K. rowling
5. Persuasion by Jane Austen
6. Bridget Jones's diary by Helen fielding
7. Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason by Helen Fielding
8. Outlander by Diana Gabaldon-- but only the first three quarters. Dragonfly in Amber and Voyager, the next two books in the series, are also excellent.
9. The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley
10. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
11. The Lords of Discipline by Pat Conroy
12. The Stephanie Plum novels by Janet Evanovich
13. Ahab's Wife by Sena Jeter Naslund

Red Bean and Cauliflower Salad

2007-10-09T09:19:00.000-05:00

Last night, Michael and I had a red bean and cauliflower salad, which is a recipe that I created and that turned out so yummy, I thought I'd share it here, because I have a very giving heart. Here is the recipe. Precise measurement isn't something I have a good grasp of, so just assume that amounts are all "to taste."

1 can red beans, drained and rinsed
1 small head of cauliflower, chopped pretty small
Morning Star bacon-- because we are vegetarian. Use regular bacon if you prefer
chopped green onion
blue cheese crumbles
Dressing is a balsamic glaze. 1 cup balsamic vinegar and 1 tablespoon sugar. Bring to a boil. Turn down heat to a simmer until liquid reduces to a syrup.
Enjoy.

Knitting Nesting

2007-10-08T08:54:00.001-05:00

We went to our local yarn store this weekend, and I had to fight the urge to purchase skein after skein of pastel colored yarn, perfect for baby things. I must say, I did prevail. I only got one pattern book of baby blankets, most of which are well beyond my skill level. Michael though, he succumbed to the temptation and bought yarn and a pattern for a little baby outfit. It's mostly a baby snuggly sack, which will just be adorable. The yarn is yellow Plymouth Encore, which is a very practical wool acrylic blend that we have each done socks in. Michael is working some up now for a hooded sweater for himself.
Here's the thing about me and knitting. I am slooooow. I still have to do the sleeves on a sweater that I started working on in May. The yarn is made of bamboo and wool, and it is wonderful to work with, otherwise I'd probably have moved onto something else by now. I love knitting, I really do. But once you've worked on a project for several months, the romance is sort of gone. Knowing this, I resisted falling in love with new, perfect-for-baby yarns, and precious little patterns. If autumn weather ever gets here, I'm sure my resolve will crumble and I'll find myself knitting up a baby afghan and sipping hot tea.

Thursday Thirteen: The Soundtrack of My Life

2007-10-04T15:36:00.000-05:00

Yarf on the cheezy title, I know. Molly is doing her Thursday Thirteen on what's playing on her Ipod. I don't have an Ipod, because I'm just not cool that way. I have a handy dandy gadget called a Book Courier, which is designed for blind people, and can play MP3s, Audible.com books, and has its own internal voice so it can read text files, which-- let me just tell you-- is cooler than the other side of the pillow. Last week, Amazon.com launched its own digital download site. The list that follows are the songs that I either have downloaded or have put on my list to download in the near future, in addition to songs that I've just been listening to or that have been going through my head.

1. Anything by Patsy Cline-- My current WIP is about a country music singer, and Patsy is the gold standard. If heartache had a voice, it would be hers.
2. Songs of Mass Destruction, Annie Lennox's newest effort
3. Magic, by Bruce Springsteen-- because I can never get enough of the Boss. Dancing in the Dark really should be my anthem.
4. Maggie MacInnes-- She's a Scottish artist with a beautifully haunting voice.
5. "Wild Horses" by the Rolling Stones
6. "Restless" by Alison Krauss and Union Station
7. "Take me out to the Ballgame"-- Because, as I have mentioned at least twice already-- the Cubs are in the play-offs!
8. "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield
9. "Nashville" by the Indigo girls
10. "Wreck of the Day" by Anna Nilak
11. "Hard Luck woman"-- the Garth Brooks version because yes, I admit it, I do love the Garth man.
12. "Waitress" by Tori Amos-- because I really do believe in peace, bitch!
13. "Hedwig's Theme" from the Harry Potter movies, because Michael made it my ringtone.

The Green Light

2007-10-01T10:43:00.000-05:00

Yes, it seems I did vanish from the blogosphere, but I am back. My initial absence had to do with a plumbing nightmare at our house, which is not the topic of this entry, but certainly will be in the future because seriously, I have much to say on the state of plumbing in America. Then I was incommunicado because of a wicked bug I must have picked up somewhere. Let's just say "projectile vomiting" and leave it at that. And then there was my scheduled absence, which I was unable to announce to my maybe three regular readers because of said plumbing and vomiting issues. So after much ramble and preamble, here's the point of this entry.
"Go ahead and get pregnant." Those were the words of my neurosurgeon-- let's just call him Dr. Overly Cautious. This is an extremely big deal. It's the equivalent of him throwing us a baby shower. Everything that could have gone right during my week of appointments at the National Institutes of Health did. My hearing has improved to pre-E.L.S.T. surgery levels, the top-notch urology radiologist confirmed that my abdominal CT scan showed perfectly healthy kidneys, adrenals, pancreas, and liver, and of course there's the neuro appointment wherein I got those famous words: "Go ahead and get pregnant."
Michael and I had been withholding any excitement about procreating until after this appointment. And now, I'm sort of terrified because holy crap—we really can do this thing. I guess I never really thought we could, and so wouldn't let myself get too excited about it. A couple of things helped me realize that yes, we really can do this. First, Molly and Dan are the absolute best friends that anybody could ever have—ever! We went to a baby store in Bethesda, and Molly very patiently showed me all the cool baby gadgets that proved to me that the chances of me accidentally drowning my baby in the bathtub are pretty slim. Like, they make tubs and things to prevent it! Who knew? Well yeah, probably everybody, but I didn't. Molly, I love you. And then there's Dan. Dan talks fairly constantly. I'm sure he says lots of profound things, but they sort of get lost in the static, but he happened to have been profound at a time when I must have been paying attention. He told me about this blind couple (both parents were blind) in Kalamazoo who had three kids and how well they managed. Sure, I knew blind people had kids and did it just fine. I even know some of them, but Dan managed to say just the right thing at just the right time, and I hope he knows how much I appreciate it. And then, driving back home to Kentucky, we were listening to the Cubs game on XM radio. The Cubs became the first National League team to clinch a play-off spot. That's the Chicago Cubs, people, the ones who haven't won a World Series since 1908.
A clean bill of health, the green light from my doctors, and the Cubs are in the play-offs-- that's just about all I need in the way of signs from the universe.

R.I.P. Robert Jordan

2007-09-18T08:59:00.000-05:00

In his bestselling Wheel of Time series, Robert Jordan proved that the imagination is limitless. In spite of that, he fearlessly probed its edges and sought its boundaries. He refused to be shackled by the confines of history or convention. Through his books, I spent countless hours in exotic places with people who were both real and yet far more than real. The best authors have that ability to distort your perception of time and place, making you come out of their books dazed and blinking, wondering where that world you were just in had vanished to. The best stories are the ones that become, at least for a time, more real than your living room. Those are the stories Robert Jordan wrote, the stories that find a place inside you where they stay forever.
The Wheel of Time series is unfinished, and will remain so-- at least by the man who created it. Internet rumor is that he left notes for its completion, and I hope that is the case. He died on Sunday in South Carolina.
Farewell Robert Jordan, and thank you. May you always find water and shade.

Thursday Thirteen

2007-09-13T07:57:00.000-05:00

I see a lot of other bloggers doing these sorts of lists about themselves, so I thought I'd join the party. If you read this and want to join in too, then go ahead and do your own Thursday Thirteen, and please link back to me, or link to yours in my comments. Oh, and since this isn't for assignment or anything, it might end up being a Thursday Eleven or something, but that just doesn't have the same ring, so we'll stick with a Thursday Thirteen list that may have eleven items. Or ten. Or fifteen.

Thirteen things I love about fall:
The smell of the air-- I love that clean, crisp smell, which is both a smell and a feel at the same time.
Warm socks-- Socks are my most favorite things in the world. I have tons of them. My favorite pair is pink and grey and I love them best because Michael knitted them for me last year. Yes, my husband knits. When I started learning, he joined in too because he is just supercool that way.
Pumpkin bread-- Or pumpkin anything really: Pumpkin muffins, pumpkin soup, pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin cookies, pumpkin spice latte, pumpkin pie, pumpkin pudding (Insert Bubba Gump voice here.)
Knitting-- I knit year round, but it just feels all cozy and homey to knit when it's colder.
Hot chocolate
Football games
Halloween, also known as Samhain in the old Celtic tradition.
Walking in a nearby nature park
Major League Baseball play-offs-- The Cubs just might be there this time.
The season's first pot of chili-- Autumn isn't officially here until Michael fixes that first pot of chili. Though we are vegetarian, chili just isn't chili without ground beef, so we break our no-meat rule for chili. Mmmmm, can't wait.
Sleeping with the windows open-- It's hell on my allergies, but I love it.
I have never had surgery during the fall. Every other season, sure. Practically every other month, but never September-December.
Fleece pajamas

Find an original way to insult me, would you?

2007-09-10T13:04:00.000-05:00

I had a CT scan of my abdomen on Friday. It's just routine for people with VHL and I don't expect any problems. It's part of my getting healthy in preparation for pregnancy plan. I figure if I'm going to share a body with another person, it's best to make sure everything is in as good a condition as I can get it. So, the radiology tech, Jill, her name was, was very nice and helpful. Michael stayed in with me as long as he could because he knows I'm something of a baby when it comes to these sorts of things, but he couldn't stay in the room once the actual test started.
Once he left, Jill said, "How long have you two been married?"
"Ten years," I answered.
"He seems very nice."
"He's wonderful."
"Did you know you had this disease when you got married?"
"Yes," I said, barely suppressing a groan, knowing where this was going. I have had this conversation with countless people.
"Are you blind because of this disease?"
VHL is very rare, so I understand that people, especially those in the medical field, are interested, so I try to be polite and patient and answer their questions. "Yes."
"Were you blind when you met your husband?"
There it was, the question I knew was coming. "Yes," I said, and I think I gave a resigned sigh.
"Oh! What a sweetheart he is!" Jill gushed.
Okay, I know he's a sweetheart. What I find interesting is that he was previously just "very nice," up until Jill found out I was already blind when he married me. Then, all of a sudden he's "a sweetheart." What went unspoken but that I know she was thinking, was: Isn't it nice of him to have married you and you being blind and all! Yes, yes, I was selling pencils on a street corner, and he took pity on me and married me. Sheesh. I mean really, the things people will say. What would she have said if I'd said I lost my sight after we married? Oh, he's such a sweetheart to have stayed with you? Oh, that poor man? I held my tongue though, and just agreed, yes, Michael is certainly a sweetheart, because it's true, he is a wonderful man. But he's a wonderful man because he's patient, compassionate, hard working, funny, and a million other things—not because he married a blind woman. I'm sure Jill thinks Michael has to dress and feed me in the mornings. he doesn't, of course, and the truth is that we take care of each other about equally. In every relationship, home duties and responsibilities get divided up on the basis of likes, dislikes, strengths and weaknesses. Naturally, I don't do any of the driving for our household. Michael doesn't do the laundry-- not unless itty bitty and pink becomes a fashion trend. he balances the checkbook, and I maintain our family calendar of events. It isn't a 50/50 split, the scales tip in either direction from time to time, but I don't think a good marriage is about equality. It's about doing what you do with love and respect, and sight is not required to love and respect someone.
But I didn't tell any of this to Jill because it was none of her business, and-- more importantly-- because she was about to inject me with x-ray dye.

Strunk and White

2007-09-06T11:16:00.001-05:00

My writing process is messy. In every other aspect of my life, I am almost maniacally organized. I formulate plans and I adhere rigidly to those plans. I'm really out of control when it comes to planning. for example, if I have three tasks: fold and put away laundry, make a phone call and pee, I will determine the most efficient, time-saving way to accomplish all these tasks before I even get up from the couch. Most times, I end up talking on the phone while folding laundry and jumping up and down with my legs crossed, but damn it-- it's efficient. If you know me, then you know the sad truth is that I am not exaggerating in the slightest. so you'd naturally assume that when I write, I write out character sketches and detailed plot outlines. Oh, if only. My creative writing process seems inexplicably to require chaos. Set me down with a laptop and an idea for a story, and I'm like a Boston terrier on crack. The process is anything but efficient. I have accepted this. Admitted defeat is probably more accurate, because I have tried and tried to change the way I write, but I end up with flat characters who go through contrived motions. Granted, they do so in a very streamlined manner, but the writing isn't fun, and if I wanted to sit at a computer and do stuff that wasn't fun... well, I have a day job for that.
So I'm in the very last stage of editing my manuscript, the polish it up all nice and perfect stage, and it's a little like wrestling an octopus. Well, I've got it mostly subdued, with only the occasional stray fly-out tentacle, but it occurred to me that after all the cutting and rewriting and moving and shuffling and point of view shifting, that I might have lost sight of the basics a ways back. You guessed it, I need to "Omit unnecessary words!"
I was trained as a journalist, so there were two books that I was taught to revere as though they were holy scripture. The first was the Associated Press Style Book, which changes with each new edition for reasons that I can only determine are monetary, because the last really substantive changes came as a result of the fall of Communism, yet they keep cranking out new editions year after year. Still, the A.P. Style guide is the journalist's definitive handbook, even if it seems to be definitive only on ambiguity. Word usage that would have instantly revealed you to be an amateur to the upper classmen when I was in college is now somehow the divinely decreed "right way." We have one handy office copy of it here. We use it to swat flies. The other book, which isn't big enough to give a fly so much as a mild concussion, is "The Elements of Style" by Strunk and White. Reading it is like a no-nonsense boot camp on grammar. It is perhaps a bit rigid and can be heavy handed, but there's a reason it has withstood the test of time with hardly a change and it is just what I need as I embark on my final manuscript polish. Saint Strunk? Maybe.

Big life changes, none of them mine

2007-08-30T10:22:00.001-05:00

Two of my friends are in the middle of major life events today. One friend is in labor with her first baby right now-- a particularly blessed event since she tried for two years and had been given a normal infertile diagnosis before finally getting pregnant, and Molly is buying a house. I've never been in labor but I have gone through the home buying process, and I imagine they are just about equally painful. All this joy for my friends is making it hard to sit at my desk and work when what I really want to do is run outside and dance, which given the way I dance would help spread the joy of the day as anyone happening buy would certainly find cause to laugh.

My Husband's Zucchini

2007-08-27T10:38:00.000-05:00

No really—I mean the vegetable.
Michael and I have a system when it comes to meal preparation: I plan our weekly menu and make the grocery list. We go to the grocery store together and both do the shopping. One or the other of us (usually Michael) does the cooking and we do the cleaning up together. It's a system necessitated by my blindness, but we like the extra time spent together, so it works for us. Friday evening however, we hit a SNAFU in the system.
We had both had horrific weeks at our respective jobs and so decided to go out to the movies to take our minds off work. We saw Becoming Jane, which is an incredibly beautiful and brilliant movie that I highly recommend even if you aren't a true Austen fan. But for those, like Michael and me, who really love Austen, you're in for a real treat, as scenes from Austen's novels are woven expertly through the plot of Becoming Jane. Anyway, you should go see it, but I digress. Movie times never seem to be when I want them, and Becoming Jane was on at 6:50 p.m. and 9:30 p.m., when what I really wanted was a good 7:30 show. We decided on the earlier showing since I'd likely be asleep by 9:30, and since Friday evening traffic is always a bitch here I decided that since I was home a little early, I'd make dinner. Dinner was veggie wraps. Seriously, there is very little room for screw ups with veggie wraps. It's simply red onion, spinach, mushrooms, black olives, and cucumber wrapped in a tortilla, and we make a spread of cream cheese and Italian dressing. Sounds like the easiest thing in the world, doesn't it? And it is, when you have the right ingredients. The right ingredients being a cucumber, which—though admittedly similar—is a very different vegetable from a zucchini.
I thought the cucumber felt strange, but as I was in a hurry, and it was the only thing that even remotely felt like a cucumber in the vegetable crisper, I didn't ponder the matter over much. I love the smell of cucumbers, so once I pealed it and cut it in half, I took a big whiff. Nothing. No nice fresh clean cucumbery smell. No smell at all. Hmmmm. That's odd. So I again check the vegetable crisper. Nope, that has to be the cucumber. So I chop it up becoming ever more convinced that this is not a cucumber. Ahhh the joys of blindness, where all of life is a surprise. So finally I taste of the darn thing. Mystery solved. The non-cucumber like vegetable is absolutely not a cucumber and is most certainly a zucchini. I stood in the kitchen for a while trying to figure out if Michael was just fucking with me or if my husband in fact does not know the difference between a cucumber and a zucchini. So when he got home, I said, "Would you mind taking a look in that bowl and tell me what that looks like to you?""
"hmmmm."
"Does that look like a cucumber to you?"
Long pause. "It could be a cucumber."
"Uh-huh." So we go about finishing up dinner, minus the bowl of what could be a cucumber. Finally, I said, "You know that's a zucchini, don't you?"
Silence.
"You just aren't going to admit it's a zucchini because then you'll have to explain how you managed to confuse a cucumber with a zucchini, right?"
"Pretty much."
So we had a good laugh about it (I laughed more than Michael) and it sort of took the tension off the rough week. However, if you plan on making the above recipe for veggie wraps, I do not recommend zucchini as a substitute for cucumber.

Productivity Breeds Productivity

2007-08-21T10:38:00.001-05:00

I have been absolutely swamped with work for my day job, the J.O.B. I knew it was coming-- this is the busy time of year where I work. I have been dreading these few weeks since early July, but I find there is a curious phenomenon at work here. The busier I am in one area of life, the more I get done in the other areas as well. This completely defies logic, but it seems to be true. When I am swamped at work, I find that I make the most of the limited time I have for my writing and for home stuff, and more gets done in all areas. Conversely, when I set aside an entire day for writing, my subconscious seems to say, "Well, since we've got the whole day, why not go ahead and check our favorite blogs. Oh, and let's do some knitting. And how about we spend just an hour or so reading." Next thing I know, it's 5 p.m., and the only writing I got done was a frantic paragraph-- guilt inspired-- begun upon realizing it was 4:50. What up with that?
One of the things that most concerned me about having a baby was that I might not have the time to write. Getting published has been a dream of mine for so long, I feared it being backburnered for anything, even for a baby. But now, I feel sure I'll be okay. I'll learn to use my time more efficiently, and make those fifteen minutes of free time really count.
I'm researching agents now. I think the process of getting published is as much about endurance and perseverance as anything. If you are talented and dedicated, you can write a book. and if you're determined enough (or crazy enough) to jump through the hoops that lead to publication, you can get your book on the bookstore shelves.
What I wouldn't give for a writing partner or a critique group right now, but there really isn't one to be found where I live.

Words

2007-08-20T13:23:00.001-05:00

I like words. I am a writer. Playing with words is both my job and my passion. I like to turn words around in my mouth, experiencing the taste and feel of them the way other people do with good wine or chocolate. Writers are sometimes called wordsmiths, and I very much like that term, because wordsmithing is a good way to describe what we writers do. Words are our raw materials. We take the best ones, the strongest ones, the right ones, and we put them together with other words, and we forge sentences, paragraphs, entire books, and-- if we're good enough at it-- careers. On a day when the writing isn't going well, my mantra is "Keep putting one word in front of the other," and that gets me through the rough patches.
Despite this, I do have some words that I seriously hate, words that act on me like fingernails on a chalkboard. And they aren't the words you might imagine. I have a potty mouth of epic proportions. Hey, if you're good at a thing, right? I think one of the reasons swear words are so taboo (if you believe that they still are) is because they are very powerful words, among the most powerful in the English language. Or maybe any language for that matter, but I don't know how to cuss in, say, Mandarin Chinese-- but how cool would that be if I could! So anyway, here are some of the words that I really hate:
Moneys. Is $2 money and $3 moneys? Where does "money" end and "moneys" begin?
signage. I can't think of a grammatical situation where just plain "signs" wouldn't suffice. Signage is possibly the most pretentious of words.
Edgy. I don't really know why I dislike this one so much. Actually, I like the sound of it. Maybe it's the overdone nature of the word that I'm rebelling against, and the subjective nature of it. Maybe one person's edgy is another person's bid for attention. I mean really, what does this word mean?
I have other words that I simply don't use or will wrinkle my nose up at, but these three in particular produce a disproportionately violent reaction. What about you? any words that get under your skin? What about words you really like and have to exercise great restraint to keep from overusing?

My muse, the little bitch,

2007-08-17T09:43:00.001-05:00

has extremely bad timing. I have been doggedly working on my fantasy romance exclusively for some time now. Let me just say that I am a distraction junkie. But for the past six months at least, I have fought my junkie urges and focused my attention almost laser-like on finishing this book. And then it was done. And while I was still on the wagon, I jumped write into writing a query letter and a synopsis. I am such a good girl. Sure, I was tempted. Other characters and plots flitted at the edge of consciousness or broke down the door of my defenses from time to time, but for the most part, I kept them at bay, having learned already the hard way that any detour makes it way, way more difficult to get yourself back on track. I was going to see this one book through before I ran off chasing the shiny new story.
And then yesterday, it all fell apart. Apparently my muse-- in the manner of an all out, PMS, pay attention to me damn it, hissy fit, set before me something that I could not resist. I am an addict, you see, and my muse knows this. She knows I am a whore for following links to new music or movie trailers. I don't even really like movies, and I don't buy much music, but dangle a link to a Youtube live performance in front of me and baby, will I dance.
I already knew that my next project would be to revisit that failed mystery novel, my learning book, because it had well-developed, compelling characters and an interesting setting that was a character all its own. I knew that if I combined those elements with a different plot, I'd have something that could sell and that I would enjoy writing. I already new that my heroine was going to get a complete makeover— new name, new job, new past-- but all I know about her so far is that she's going to be returning home to Kentucky after a failed attempt to make it big in Nashville. All these threads, I would weave together after-- and only after-- I had queried agents and editors and was on my way to getting a contract for my book—the one that I already finished! This was the right way, the logical way.
But when I came across this link, a cover of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" by Allison Crowe, logic went flying out the window as though born on the wings of an acid trip. the pieces of this new story started to fit together and a theme emerged, and theme is usually the very last thing to come to me. I can't explain how it happened, but the story is clear to me now and is demanding my attention. I know other writers say they create playlists to accompany each of their works in progress, to help them get back to that mental place where their story lives and to get into the minds of their characters, but for me it just seemed like a procrastination device and a time leach, but obviously, there is something more to it.
Inspiration is a funny thing. Trying to describe it is like trying to nail Jell-O to a wall. It's an "Ah-hah!" moment that's more about feeling than explaining. It shifts and drifts like potsmoke.
So here I am, stoned, in the middle of the road, watching the ass end of that wagon get smaller and smaller as I bask in this new story glow.
NOTE: Blogger hates me today, so if the link doesn't work and you want to visit the clip that sent me over the edge, the url is
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vIMOdVXAPJ0
yes, I am a pusher now.

Blushing

2007-08-14T13:20:00.001-05:00

I have just finished writing a novel. I think I'll write that sentence again because it just felt so darned good. I have just finished writing a novel.
I want to scream it to the world, to tell everyone just how very much I rock. Yet I say nothing. Why? Because when I tell people that I have just finished writing a novel, I will have to answer the inevitable next question-- what's it about? I could tap dance around the fact that what I have written is a romance, but doing so would feel like a cop out because ... well, it is a cop out. I should be blushing with pride at my achievement. Instead I am blushing with embarrassment. And it isn't that I'm not proud of what I've written-- I'm hugely, amazingly, extraordinarily proud of it. It is one hell of a book and when I reread it I can hardly believe that it came from me-- from my imagination, from my mind, from my heart, from my hands. It was a labor of love, and let me just say again-- I am extremely proud of it. But I am worried about how people will react when I tell them I have written a romance novel, and this worrying about what people think business is kind of new territory for me.
When I first started writing fiction, I wanted to write a mystery, something along the order of the Stephanie Plum books by Janet Evanovich. I finished (for the most part) that book and it will never see the light of day. That was my learning book, and what I learned was: A. I'm not so good when it comes to plotting-- sort of a deal breaker for writing a mystery, and B. What I really enjoyed was writing the interaction between the two main characters. In short, I learned that what I liked to write is romance. I like the emotional conflict, the sexual tension, the idea that the reader is in on the secret-- that these two characters are destined to be together in spite of themselves and the world that I created for them.
But in my world, the real world where I have a job in public relations and where I have a reputation as a no nonsense whip cracker, I admit that I am reluctant to share the true nature of what I write. I have friends here, good friends, and they know I'm writing a book, but they don't know what it's about. They still think I'm writing a mystery, and I have said nothing to make them think otherwise.
I am not ashamed of what I write. I am however ashamed of my reluctance to own up to it. I know what a lot of people say about romances. I know because before I started reading and writing it, I said the same things. Well, maybe I didn't say them, but I thought them. Romance is fluffy bunny women's stuff. Why would women want to read about sex. Romances are nothing more than escapism.
Let me start with the fluffy bunny thing. We live in a time when women are awfully hard on other women and where "professionalism" is code for-- Act like a man. I guess the thinking is that to be successful, women have to distance themselves from anything soft or emotional. But here's the thing: Women are emotional. I don't mean dissolve into hysterics at the slightest provocation emotional, I mean that we have emotional responses to situations that are on the whole more powerful than our male counterparts, which is not in any way meant to imply that men aren't emotional or have no feelings. Not at all. I believe the science of brain chemistry will back me up on this, and if I wasn't so lazy I'd research it. suffice it to say, I think I read an article once that supported my theory. Probably it was somebody else's theory first though. I'm almost certain it was. And given how little we actually know about the brain, I think you're safe in just trusting that I'm correct. So let's go with that and move on.
Now the sex thing. Yes, there is sex in romance, sometimes a lot of it. But there is sex in everything. It's in movies, on TV, in music, not to mention pornography of all kinds-- hell, it's practically the god of our collective consciousness. In romances at least, the sex is more than just sex. It is almost always portrayed as part of a, if not loving relationship, than at least one based in respect that has the potential to grow into love. and in romances, sex has consequences, even if they are simply emotional consequences. Society has claimed sex for entertainment value, and I think it's an act of liberation for women to reclaim it as their own, and if they do so by reading and/or writing romances, then all the better.
escapism. Isn't all entertainment escapism? Isn't the highest compliment one can pay a book or movie, "I got so involved that I lost track of time or even where I was." That's powerful, and if my book can do that for somebody, then I will feel like the Queen of the freakin' universe. I get just as wrapped up in action adventure novels, or mysteries, or even the Harry Potter books, as I do in romances. Because that is what good books do. They pick you up, carry you off, and drop you down in another place and another time and make you never want to leave. Escapism? yes please
Women have been defending their choice to read and write romance ever since Jane Austen, and her arguments were far more eloquent and pithy than mine. Pick up a copy of Northanger Abby if you don't believe me. So if it was good enough for Austen, shouldn't it be good enough for me?

More on epilogues

2007-08-06T10:36:00.001-05:00

I finished the epilogue! Well, the first draft of it anyway, which of course means that I've really finished nothing because there is lots of revising and editing to do, but at least I have something that resembles the final product completely written down. I thought finishing it would feel ... bigger somehow. Like the heavens would part and I'd hear angels singing the hallelujah chorus, but alas, no. Only silence. The whole thing was kind of anticlimactic, truth be told. Rather than smoking a cigarette or having a drink, I watered the plants and cooked dinner. Still, there is a certain sense of accomplishment. Right up until I shutdown the laptop knowing that a file named "Epilogue" rested snuggly inside, I remained a little unsure of whether I could do it, whether I could really put an end to something that I had given so much too for so long. Maybe the Hallelujah angels are waiting for me to get a publishing contract. I'm sure that's it.

The Perfect Storm

2007-08-03T12:52:00.000-05:00

Yesterday got up to 150 degrees here in Kentucky. Well, almost. It's August, so the heat and humidity build throughout the day, getting slowly worse with each intake of muggy air, like slow torture. But it was all worth it around 7 o'clock last night. We heard something BOOM! outside, and Michael went to the door to look out because it sounded like something blew up. It had-- the heat. It had finally reached the boiling point and a wonderful storm blew in. It wasn't a scary, "turn on the radio for tornado warnings" kind of storm. It was just a nice summertime evening storm with wind and rain and enough cloud to ground lightening and loud thunder to be respectable. We listened to it while we ate chocolate fudge brownies that Michael made because I'm premenstrual and he loves me and values his life. He didn't toss them to me like raw meat through a lion's cage, but almost. Then the storm passed, the brownie was gone, and I fell asleep on the couch while Michael watched some boy movie on TV, which is pretty much my idea of a perfect evening.

The End ... maybe

2007-08-01T11:28:00.000-05:00

With the end of the Harry Potter series, there is much talk of epilogues lately. as it happens, I am working on an epilogue of my own and am finding that it ain't so very easy. I have been writing on my fantasy romance for almost three (gulp) years now. I could say much about my creative process, but it can best be described as "slow." I'm cutting myself some slack though since I have had three brain operations during those almost three years. yes, possibly that is an excuse but really, can you think of a better one? So anyway, the book is finished (I'll wait while you cheer) except for the epilogue, which I thought I'd just crank out in a day or two. I'm slow, but hopeful, you see. But now it's been almost three weeks and still no epilogue, and I know exactly what the problem is. Oh yes, I know.
Once I get this book well and truly done, epilogue and all, then I have to begin the business of writing, and it really is a business. I have to write a summary, a synopsis, query agents, query more agents, and do countless other things that I probably don't even yet know that I have to do. I am not good with businessy stuff. Evaluating my day job's benefits package makes me twitch. Assessing retirement options gives me a rash. Just say "insurance form" to me and I start to hyperventilate. No, I am not good with business kinds of stuff, but if I ever want to be a full-time, published author-- and that is very much what I want-- then I'm just going to have to buck up and learn to deal with this stuff. The point is that it is just so much easier and so much less scary to keep rewriting this darned epilogue!

My Contribution to the Harry Potter Lovefest

2007-07-26T09:04:00.000-05:00

Michael and I finished reading the seventh and final Harry Potter book (on audio of course) late Sunday night. If you are an HP fan, then you've already finished it and I don't have to tell you how amazing it was. It was everything we fans thought it would be, and more than we ever even knew we could hope for. Sure, we want to know more, but we will always want more. The Potter books are the foundation for an entertainment empire. They added countless words to our language in a way that hasn't been done since William Shakespeare. They brought millions of completely different people-- different in belief, age, culture, etc.-- together and gave them something to talk about. The books gave us a world to visit again and again and know that we can escape our own world and be completely immersed in the magical one. All of this sharing and bringing together and outpouring of the full spectrum of emotions is the result of one thing-- one woman's imagination. And therein lies the magic, the most amazing and powerful magic. Thank you J.K. Rowling.

What Kind of Question is That?

2007-07-25T08:40:00.000-05:00

I haven't told a lot of people about my newly acquired urge to procreate, but the few I have told have been more than a little shocked. It seems I have acquired a reputation as a "baby hater" to use one friend's words, and that simply is not the case, although I get how people might think that-- "Baby Shower Hell" post below, for example. I have always been very pro-children, just more from a social policy standpoint than from a "pass me the precious bundle" standpoint. Well okay damn it! Can't a woman change her mind? So now people keep asking me why I want to have a baby. What the hell kind of question is that anyway? I am not often left stuttering, searching for words, but this question does it to me every time. Is there a right answer? I'm a straight A overachiever type, so if this is some kind of test, then I seriously have to get it right. It's what I do.
I do not need a baby to make my life complete. I do not need a baby to fill some gaping void in my life. My happiness does not depend entirely on my ability to reproduce. Do such admissions somehow make me bad mommy material? Is there some sort of maternal test that I have failed? Seriously, I want to know. I have to know!

Baby Shower hell

2007-07-16T14:45:00.000-05:00

I went to a baby shower yesterday. as a rule, I don't attend baby showers. I beg off, politely decline, or just plain lie-- whatever is required to get out of them. This one, however, was for a very good friend who tried to get pregnant for two years and was declared infertile by her doctors before she did finally get knocked up. I'm extremely thrilled for her, so I sucked it up and went. It was a typical baby shower. they are all the same, I have learned, which is why I generally avoid them.
Upon entering the home of pregnant friend's mom, I was handed a teensy folded baby diaper and a straight pin and given instructions to pin the diaper to my shirt. People, I am all about accessories, but seriously now. and the thing is, I have yet to attend a baby shower where I was not so decorated. I tried to casually drop the thing in my attempt to pin it on, but some helpful soul spotted my difficulty and rushed right over to my aid. Gee, thanks.
Then we moved on to the games, which I won't bore you with-- partly because I wasn't paying real close attention myself, but I did manage to win a game that involved unrolling a length of toilet paper that most closely matched the circumference of the prego belly of the mother to be. The (A-hem) prize was a lovely little ceramic pig figurine. and gosh darn it all, I forgot and left that gift under my chair when I left. Shoot.
then came the gift opening portion of the afternoon's entertainment, which involved lots of oohing and ahing over things like frilly outfits and breast pumps and the like. and of course, that one woman who knows absolutely everything about all things baby was there. She comes in different disguises, but if you've ever been to a baby shower, you know the woman I'm talking about. She's the one who says things like, "Now those nipples are okay, but you know you really ought to get this other kind because they more closely simulate an actual nipple." and, "Now those pacifiers are the only ones to have. You'll be glad you got those. They are the best for oral motor development. Of course, you know not to let the baby have a pacifier until she's three months old, don't you?"
The United States government should arrange to have this woman sent to developing nations because she is apparently single handedly responsible for our country's low infant mortality rate. without her, no child could possibly reach adulthood. Absolutely not. Unthinkable.
But I went to the baby shower, did my duty as a good friend, and am allowing myself to feel all smug and saintly about it. But seriously, never again.

Excitement is overrated

2007-07-02T09:19:00.001-05:00

I haven't blogged in a while. The reason being that the most interesting thing I have done lately is unload the dishwasher, and really, that wasn't all that exciting. Oh wait, now that I think about it, there was some dishwasher drama. Michael hates the way I load the dishwasher, which is a kind of chaos theory to clean dishes, so he usually starts the dishwasher and then I unload it, which is what happened this time. Except that he didn't start it. Or he didn't put in dishwasher detergent. We really aren't sure which one. either way, I was merrily going about unloading the dishwasher-- mugs and glasses first, then bowls, plates, and finally silverware. I was halfway through the plates before I realized we had a problem. We pre-rinse, so I just thought it was one or two plates that hadn't gotten clean, but further investigation showed me the magnitude of the situation.
"What the fuck?" I said, which miraculously tore Michael's attention away from the Sci-Fi channel. "What is the deal here?" I asked, holding up dirty silverware.
he said nothing, but peered inside the dishwasher, now mostly empty, for answers.
"You started the dishwasher, right?"
"I thought I did," he answered, and I knew we had trouble. I thought I did, is Michael's defense mechanism. he thinks that if he says "I thought I did" that somehow a spell of stupidity will be cast over me and I will naturally assume that the problem must lie with whatever inanimate object is in question, in this case-- the dishwasher. Because, he thought he started it, right? I mean, if he thought he did, then he really can't be blamed for any malfunction, right?
It's been a stressful time for us both. I understand that. So I opted to let the matter drop, but I told him there were now dirty dishes stowed where only clean dishes should be, and probably he should deal with that, which he did without argument. If dishwasher mishaps are the only excitement I'm to have just now, I should probably be grateful for my boredom.
I am back at work today. The return to pre-surgery normality is good for me. Plus it keeps me from having the time to think too much. I am a notorious think-too-mucher, and postsurgical thoughts are rarely pleasant. So I'm back at work, easing back into my ho-hum routine.

Another Badge of Courage

2007-06-19T15:28:00.000-05:00

The surgery is over. My world-class neurosurgeon did it again, which makes it hard to dislike the sonuvabitch. The man will never be accused of being too compassionate toward his patients, but he sure can remove a tumor, and since that's pretty much the foundation of our relationship, I find it annoyingly difficult to hold a grudge. There is little to say about the past two weeks that won't sound like whining. Brain surgery is hard, as taxing emotionally as it is physically. If you can avoid having it, then I strongly suggest that you do so.
I had a lumbar drain, which is a tube inserted into the lower spinal area that drains off a controlled amount of cerebral spinal fluid, which I either produce too much of or am unable to absorb normally. The lumbar drain is supposed to guard against a spinal fluid leak, but it is it's own brand of torture. For four days, I was confined to bed, unable to raise above 30 degrees. As with the brain surgery advice above, if you can avoid having a lumbar drain, I suggest that you do so. It makes recovery a lot longer and a lot slower.
I realize I am bitching and moaning, and even I am tiring of my own surliness, so I do think it's important to look for the positives in a thing. The past two weeks, as bad as they were, did serve to remind me that I have been gifted with the most wonderful husband a woman could ever hope for. He stayed by my side the entire time—sleeping sitting up in chairs, eating nothing but cafeteria food, running for days with only hospital coffee for fuel. He reminds me every day that even though life is hard—sometimes painfully, unbearably hard-- it's worth it. Thanks, Michael—again. I love you.

One Month on Blogger, Is Anybody out There?

2007-06-01T15:54:00.000-05:00

today, I am a blogger for a month! Go me! Well okay, it isn't really a month yet, but I go to the "view my profile" link on my blog and it tells me that I have been on Blogger since may 2007. and now it's June. so for all blogger cares, I've been blogging for a month. Why, you might ask, do I visit the "view my profile" section of my blog? Presumably, I know me, right? well, that is where I find out how many people have viewed my profile, which is just now the only indicator I have that anyone is reading my blog, and frankly, that isn't going so well. 11 people have viewed my profile, and I'm pretty sure I'm nine of them. Why, you might wonder, don't I just get one of those site statistic program deals to tell me with far greater accuracy how many people have visited my blog? As it happens, I'm not what you'd call techno savvy. There is a reason I fell in love with a computer science major in college. the way to a man's heart might be through his stomach, but the way to mine was through my hard drive. (You there, out of the gutter!) So I haven't exactly figured out the whole website statistics game. Until I do, I'll just keep viewing my profile. If you're reading this now and that page says that 100 or more people have viewed my profile, it means that I all of a sudden got very popular-- or more likely, very bored.

Spiderwoman I ain't

2007-05-30T13:14:00.000-05:00

Today, my secretary was in my office reading me an article she found on the internet about caffeine withdrawal. Thanks Joy, but it might have been more helpful to know that caffeine withdrawal can cause flu-like symptoms before a week ago when I was curled in the fetal position on the couch, but better late than never, right? Hmmm. Now that i think about it, "Better late than never" could be Joy's philosophy about a lot of things, specifically the carrying out of instructions, meeting reminders, deadlines ... you get the picture. But anyway, Joy was reading me this article. and well, I guess I had better throw this in now as it is sort of germane to the story of what happened during Joy's reading of said caffeine withdrawal article-- I am blind. totally. as a bat. Can't see my hand in front of my face. Not just any half-assed legally blind kind of blind, no. I'm the real deal, which should explain why Joy was reading me the article. Sweet girl, Joy. World's worst secretary, but nice.
Okay, so she's reading: yadda, yadda, yadda, yadda-- pause-- gasp of horror ... and nothing. I'm thinking ... some horrible side effect of caffeine withdrawal that doesn't manifest for a week after resumption of caffeine intake? She had an asthma attack? The Swamp Thing just crept up behind me? What? what, damn it, what! And then she says, "Do not move," and runs from my office.
What is the first thing you do when someone says "don't move?" You move, right? "don't look," and of course, you look. People should know this. It is unalterable human behavior at work here. So I push back from my desk, spin around in my chair, and punch fists in the air to fend off Swamp thing. Then Joy runs back in my office, hyperventilating, and tells me that a spider webbed down from the ceiling, horror flick fashion, and landed right on my desk. Okay, seriously, I would rather have had Swamp thing. so I jump up and squeal like a girl while Joy courageously tackles and kills the spider. wonderful woman, that Joy.
Joy disposed of the spider corpse and came back in my office, whereupon we both proceeded to make eebby-jeebby noises and pat down hair and clothes for spiders.
And now it's lunchtime, and I'm all by myself. and it's quiet. If another spider dropped down from the ceiling, there'd be no Joy. No Swamp thing. Nobody here to save me. so I'm wondering, if a spider lands on the desk of a blind woman, is it really there at all?

It Depends on Which End You're Standing at.

2007-05-25T14:27:00.000-05:00

The Kentucky heat and humidity arrived just in time for Memorial Day, summer's traditional kick-off. Yesterday, Michael and I went out to get ice cream, which we brought back home and ate in rocking chairs on the front porch. it was a beautiful summertime evening. Yes, it was hot and humid, but it's May, so the heat and humidity are new and they are accompanied by the sounds of baby birds chirping in the bush at the corner of the house. How can it be miserable when there are baby birds, I ask you?
Fast forward to august. In August, I will not be waxing poetic about the heat and humidity. I will not be eating ice cream on the front porch. In August, I will be lying in the living room floor in front of an a.c. vent or standing with my head in the freezer because August is hot and humid and gross. And hot. The ability to appreciate heat and humidity depends entirely on which end of summer you're standing at. This weekend, I'll be at the end that has cookouts with friends, very few mosquitoes, happy-colored frozen drinks, and even a cool breeze or two.
Happy memorial Day to all.

A Beautiful Risk

2007-05-22T15:25:00.000-05:00

On June 6th, I will undergo my fifth neurosurgery in four years. I will do this because I have VHL, a genetic, highly hereditary disease that neither of my parents has. Lucky me. I am what is considered a new mutation. I recently read that the odds of getting VHL as a new mutation are something like one in 4.4 million. What are the odds of my offspring having it? 50/50.
My husband, Michael, and I have options. We could choose to adopt. We could choose to undergo PGT, pre-implantation genetic testing, wherein fertilized eggs are tested for the VHL gene, and two or three of those without the defect are implanted in the womb. Or we could roll the dice and take our chances.
It seemed an impossible decision, and one that we struggled with mightily. After much talking, research, worrying, and more discussing, a final decision emerged. I see now that the choice was made from the start. it was the only real choice for us. It was the right answer, the only answer for us, from the moment my doctor said that we could start trying to get pregnant later this year. We would roll the dice.
We weighed all the other options because we are thorough, responsible people, and okay, because I am an obsessive worrier, but the answer was there all along.
My best friend Molly has a blog. Every month, she writes a letter to her son, Max, who gives the absolute bestest hugs of any almost-two-year-old ever. In her latest letter to Max, Molly hit on why our choice was the right one for us. She wrote, "... you never love anybody like I love you without the realization that people are vulnerable, and loving them makes you vulnerable too."
That line reminded me of another doctors appointment. this one ten years ago. It was the first appointment that Michael attended with me, and it was a month before we were to be married. I was told that I had a spinal cord tumor that was showing signs of growing and might need to be removed soon. I was devastated. How could I subject Michael to that? To the symptoms, the surgery, the worries? I loved him, so I was willing to spare him all that, and I gave him the option to back out of the relationship. Needless to say, he did not take me up on the offer. He loved me enough to go through the symptoms, the surgeries, and the worries. I learned that day, and was reminded again after reading Molly's letter to Max, that unconditional love, at its core, is about risk. It is a willingness to risk the lows for a chance at the highs, to brave the darkness to have a shot at the sunshine. I have been blessed with much unconditional love in my life. My own mother did not have VHL, had never even heard of it in fact. She has sat beside me through countless surgeries, has watched me get sick, get mad, get frustrated, and then get better time and time again. I asked her if she had known I would have VHL, if some divine being could have told her about the person I would become and the trials I would have to endure, would she have done it differently? Would she have made a different choice? her answer was emphatically and constantly, no. She loves me unconditionally, and unconditional love involves risk.
this Friday night, my cousin will be attending the graduation of his daughter's high school class. but his daughter won't be there. She was killed in a car accident almost a year ago. He lost his wonderful, smart, loving, angel-voiced daughter. Would he trade those seventeen years to make his unimaginable pain go away? No. Unconditional love involves risk.
So Michael and I have decided to take our chances. Naturally, we hope our offspring will not inherit the VHL gene. We hope he or she will be bright, compassionate, independent, have Michael's dimples and twinkling brown eyes and my hair-- Oh please, my hair. But regardless, we will love her or him unconditionally. To love anyone is a risk, it's true, but what a beautiful risk.

Caffeine Withdrawal

2007-05-20T15:51:00.000-05:00

In preparation for surgery, I have to test for a pheochromocytoma, which is a tumor on the adrenal gland. From all accounts, it's a nasty little thing to have. I wouldn't know. Fortunately, I have never had one. But I hear it can be just terrible if left untreated. Recently, evidence has come to light that indicates the McCoys of Hatfield and McCoy feud fame suffered from VHL, and most likely from pheos. The national media (in its never-ending quest for accuracy) has labeled VHL the "mystery rage disease." Read the story about the McCoy's and VHL here.
I had a pretty fun time with the mystery rage disease thing, Emailing my coworkers and warning them not to set me off and such, but having a test for a pheo is simply nothing to joke about. You can't have caffeine for 72 hours prior to the test. 72 hours! Okay, I decided, I'm a trooper. So I squared my shoulders, gathered my resolve, and marched bravely on. That was Friday. Now it's Sunday, and I've pretty much resorted to crawling from room to room, whimpering, and moaning about Starbucks. I'd console myself with one of my other favorite things-- sex or chocolate—but those are both on the forbidden list too. My husband has promised to take me out later for an oatmeal raisin cookie. Oh yum. Oatmeal and raisins. Sounds more like an old person's breakfast than a treat if you ask me.
Somehow, I managed a few moments of lucidity yesterday and finished the book I have been working on since December 2004. It's a fantasy romance, and to be honest, it isn't exactly finished. I still have to edit the last three chapters and write the epilogue, but the story itself is finished and on paper. yay me! Once I get the blurb written, I'll post it here. Then I'll write a synopsis, query agents, and move on to my next writing project. None of this should be attempted, however, until tomorrow, blessed tomorrow, when I can have coffee again. A cafe mocha and all will be right with the world.

Blog Therapy

2007-05-18T10:04:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I was out of town, at the hospital having my regular six-month scans. I already knew that surgery was imminent, it was only a matter of how soon. It was early in the morning, 3 a.m. I didn't want to wake my husband, but I could not continue to lie in bed, alone with my thoughts and the too familiar specters of fear and anxiety. I got up and logged onto the internet. I surfed my usual blogs-- those of people I know outside of the blogosphere, and those of people whose writing voices and willingness to share their day-to-day with me makes them people that I enjoy having a visit with. And suddenly, I was home. I might as well have been sitting on my couch with my laptop, which is my usual Sunday morning routine. The dread was gone. It had slipped out, defeated, without me noticing. What the future held for me got lost in the mundane details and sometimes profound musings of the strangers I know so well.
Now, I have joined the ranks of the bloggers (somewhat belatedly, I realize) because their is power in the written word, no matter how it's written or how it's delivered. Power for both writer and reader. Power to touch, comfort, move, amuse, and to both provoke thought and to hold thought at bay. Not one to regularly leave comments to my blogging friends, may this serve as my thank you.

Approaching the First Hurdle

2007-05-16T19:34:00.000-05:00

Getting pregnant, as any woman suffering through infertility issues can tell you, is not always a simple bing-bang proposition. There is often a certain amount of prep work that has to be done first. In my case, that prep work involves surgery on my endolymphatic sack. What's that, you ask? Where's that located? It's in the inner ear. Yes, that's right, the inner ear, and yes, I do know where babies come from.
I have a disease called Von Hippel-Lindau, which causes hemangio blastomas (a type of tumor) in various parts of the body, one such part being the endolymphatic sack. It is advisable for any woman with VHL who is planning on becoming pregnant to get any actively growing tumors removed beforehand. So, that's what we'll do on June 6. The kicker is that I had this same procedure before, on the same endolymphatic sack tumor (ELST), and the little bugger came back. This is not at all a pleasant procedure. It requires two surgeons, an ear surgeon, who will do the drilling—most head surgery requires drilling) and a neurosurgeon, who will actually handle the tumor removal. My most valiant attempts at positive thinking and humor could not make this procedure sound fun. It's not. And the recovery is a bitch. But there's one thing that does make this time a little easier than last time: If I view this surgery as the first step to getting our son or daughter, then I can blink back the tears, swallow the frustration, squash the fear, and look past this first hurdle to the future that lays beyond, a future full of bedtime stories, baby booties, and teddy bears.

The Empress card and wanting it all

2007-05-11T11:31:00.000-05:00

It all started on October 31, last year. All Hallows Eve, Halloween, Samhain, whatever you want to call it. It is historically the Celtic New Year, and the time to divine for the upcoming year. As an amateur Tarot reader, I always do a reading at this time. I wouldn't call myself amazingly gifted with the Tarot, but I have had readings of uncanny accuracy, and Samhain has proven to be a particularly effective time for a reading. Last October 31st, what I got was a reading full of baby cards, at least, cards that could be interpreted that way; three of cups, nine of cups, princess of cups, the Sun, the Star, and in the outcome position of the Celtic cross spread, the Empress, symbol of feminine creation. I am an aspiring author, so convinced myself these cards indicated achievement in my creative endeavors—not a baby! Definitely not a baby! It isn't that I didn't like babies, babies are great—other people's babies. For short periods of time. While they're sleeping. It's more that I just never have been what you'd call maternal. My husband and I have been married for almost ten years, and have been—and are—perfectly content without a baby.
But something seemed to happen in my mind after that Tarot reading. I'd hear a crying baby in a restaurant, and wasn't so much annoyed by it as ... well, moved. Interested. Curious. Suddenly something I had never considered became something I desperately wanted. So that's where I am now—31 years old and for the first time wanting a baby. Oh I still want the career as a writer, most definitely I do. I guess I don't want anything more than a lot of women want. I want it all. This blog is my attempt to figure out how the hell that happened and what the fuck to do about it.