Under the Weather

And suddenly, I'm sick.

Not just sick. Sick. Ear-popping, nostril-oozing, chest-rattling sick. We've gone from minor inconvenience(but a good excuse to sleep a lot) to "my God, there's an elephant sitting on my ribs." Part of me wants to believe that the plugged-up ear is finally draining, that the cold is finally passing. I should be well in no time. See that light at the end of the tunnel?

The other part of me is fairly certain that it's no light -- it's the headlamp of the Misery Express, which is currently barreling my way. I'll gift you with one last rational thought before I claw my way up the stairs and crawl under my covers to hibernate for the rest of December (and possibly into March). It's not a very nice thought. I'm not particularly proud of this thought. But the fact that I'm this sick has to be blamed upon someone, and I can only crook my tired, aching finger (yes, even my digits ache) at one person. She alone shall shoulder the guilt. She alone must bear the responsibility of contaminating me. Yes, she's just a toddler, but that's life.

Nadia, you are in BIG trouble. When I get up there, I'm going to give you what-for. What for? For getting me sick, twerp!

The Long Haul

Well, it took nearly a week, but our Christmas has finally ended. We scarfed up some very good loot. Almost worth the thousands of dollars I spent on family and friends (because, as you know, it's only Christmas if you also bought something for me. It's not the thought that counts, dammit. It's the PRESENT!).

Today I went out in my exceptionally warm insulated winter-gear (Rider) and new jacket (pockets stuffed with cash courtesy of Mum and Da). As I schlepped along with my new tack trunk (Rider), I reflected on the knowledge I'd absorbed in reading my two new horse books (Rider). I watered and vittled the equines, then returned to the house to eat some candy (Family), popcorn (Family) and shrimp (Da-- who else would give shrimp for Christmas!). Later today, I plan to read a chapter each of the following books: The Speckled Monster (Cindy); The Talisman (Scholar); Eats, Shoots and Leaves (Mother-in-law); and James and the Giant Peach (Sister-in-law). If time permits, I'll also spend a gift certificate (my extended family) and listen to some CD's (Scholar). I may cut some vegetables for stir-fry on my mandoline slicer (Mother-in-law), and place the scalding plate of stir-fry on one of my new trivets (Mother-in-law) while looking at the Fairies calendar (Sister-in-law) and thinking, "My, where has the time gone?"

I'd list more, but I'm tired now. Think I'll go take a hot bubble bath and slather myself with lotion from Bath and Body Works (Nussie).

Of Shadbellies and Stars

Hola, everyone! I am writing this from the fabulous home of Math Scholar's momma. We have ensconced ourselves in the "cave," as Nussie (a friend) likes to call it. Soon I will be devouring Michigans and playing Yahtzee with Scholar's family. It feels good to be visiting.

But...

On the drive up, Scholar and I made our plans for 2005, and they are -- how shall I phrase this? -- AMBITIOUS. To the point where, as nice as a vacation is, I'm itching to get it over so I can get to work. 2004 was a transitional year. Scholar and I were on the move, making decisions about the future and resting, preparing. Prep time is over; now we haul ass.

Sis (I think I'll start calling her Rider) and I were talking about our dreams. She went out and bought a Shadbelly with her PetsMart gift certificate. This is a dresscoat that equestrians wear when they are competing (I include a link so you can see what I mean: http://www.equestriancollections.com/eq/editBag.do?s=-445122565&productId=255). Shads are expensive -- we're talking over $700 bucks -- but Rider found herself one on mark-down for $80 (where it was worth nearly $300). And she bought it. And then spent the afternoon with a bad case of buyer's remorse, because her gift certificate could also have purchased blankets, bridles, and a host of other, more practical items that she could use immediately. "Should I have gotten this?" She asked me. "I can't use it now; I'm not ready for it. I really didn't need it."

Of course, the whole time she was arguing with herself, she had the coat on. She was fingering the gold stitching at the hem, looking at herself in the mirror, and smiling. The stars in her eyes were blinding. She was like a kid at Christmas (how appropriate). She cut such a fine figure in that coat, and I told her to shut up about it already. It was a good purchase. A necessary one. I told her to take it back with her, wrap it in tissue and place it in a secure drawer, or maybe a chest. Every once in a while, she should dig it out and put it on. It's a reminder of her Big Dream, and she needs that coat on the rare occasions that she doubts the truth of it.

Same reason Scholar put a picture of Mag above my side of the bed. To remind me who I am. To show me I should trust. Rider spent every penny of that gift certificate on exactly what she should have. She invested in her Stars.

Me too.

Who I Really Am

I don't know why I do it to myself. Every few months or so, I am compelled to Google the names of singers with whom I went to school -- the ones who have gone on to achieve Great Things. The ones who are singing at the Met, and La Scala, and premiering operas and raising thousands of dollars for our alma mater (not to mention for themselves). One has been compared to Julianne Moore (does she sing?) and another is "well on her way to being one of the great voices of her generation."

Wait! Hear that? That sound -- what could it be? Oh, of course. It's Tierant's teeth gnashing together whilst the foam drips from her mouth.

Silly, isn't it? After all, it's not as if I looked back (much) after my unceremonious dismissal from music school. It's not as if I appeared on stage with these people, and it's not as if I ever heard that I was destined for Great Things myself. I'm not jealous. No, no.

Or maybe just a little...

But not because of them. The truth, as I have come to understand it, is that singing was something I did. Writing is something I am. Does that make sense? I could never stop writing. Even though I know there is very possibly no money in it, that this idea I have may never be a Real Story, and I may never be a Really and Truly Published Author, it doesn't matter. I can't stop telling stories. I'm in love with words. Cut off my hands and I'd learn to write with my toes.

I remember the day I got kicked out of music school. I was upset for a good twenty minutes, but behind it was a feeling of sweet, blessed relief. I didn't have to perform. I was never convinced I was any good anyway. I could do something else -- and it took only seconds for me to navigate to the English Department, where I finally felt at home. I met some good people. We drank wine at the Grown-Up bar and made obscure literary jokes. I smoked a lot of cigarettes. I got taken advantage of. I got taken seriously. And as time went on, I ventured out into the real world, made a whole lot of stupid career choices, healed myself of some very deep wounds and came out with the determination to call myself what I really am:

Writer.

No, you haven't seen any of my books yet, but you will. Google on my name in a couple of years; see what turns up. Maybe I won't be singing Menotti for Menotti himself. Maybe I won't be hailed as a diva. Yes, now I'm green with envy, but it's mainly because these people have always known who they were. They didn't spend years figuring it out.

But do I want what they have? Would I trade who I've become now for who I could have been? The funny thing about it is that the music was the lie. I chose music because I was afraid to do what I really wanted. And when I discovered that I had some talent, I got confused about my path. Took several wrong turns. Ended up here.

I went the roundabout way, but now I'm not scared of the destination. It feels right and good and real. Turns out, I still have a voice.

Different key.

Silly Sister

She missed her flight. Wanna hear the LMAO reason why? Because she had to do the dishes and take out the trash before she could leave for the airport!

Ha ha ha ha ha. Holding sides in. Hurts to breathe.

She's obviously adopted.

Let's get ready to Rum Ball!

Just made nearly six dozen rum balls for the holiday. Okay, okay... I made seven dozen. But I had to make sure they were edible, didn't I? They are. MMMMMmmmm.

And now, strangely enough, am in a rather festive mood. Got carols on the tele-o-vision, was dancing in the living room. Dogs seemed to like my moves. The sky is gray (go figure) but the air is crisp and the rum is flowing. I'm thinking about Christmas carols. Do you have a favorite or two?

Nothing gets me in the mood to be merry like holiday songs (and rum balls, of course). In my last incarnation as a music major, I sang in many concerts; the best by far was the annual Candlelight Concert. So many beautiful carols -- many I'd never heard before. Naturally we did the traditional fare -- your Silent Nights, Jingle Bells, and the like. But for variety, the choir director invariably threw in some lesser knowns, and some of them have become my favorites. Have you heard "Infant Holy, Infant Lowly?" Or "In the Bleak Mid-winter?" Or "The Oxen," which is a Hardy poem set to voices. So beautiful. I tend to prefer the melancholy ones, like "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" (especially in Latin). Something sweet and sad about them. More in keeping with my mood this time of year, but then, I've always preferred the dark to the syrupy.

In honor of the day, and the mood I'm in (bittersweet chocolate rum ball buzz), I give you that Hardy poem. Enjoy.

The Oxen

(Thomas Hardy)

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
"Now they are all on their knees,"
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! And yet I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
"Come! See the oxen kneel

In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,"
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.

The transformative power of a good pair of shoes

Got to thinking last night while I stared at the ceiling and listened to the Math Scholar snore. First thought was, if I smother him with a pillow, would that be considered spousal abuse? Second thought was, if I smother myself with a pillow, will I at least get some rest? Third thought was, what is that dark spot on the wall? Fourth thought was, why does the water pump sound so loud at 3:30 in the morning?

At last thoughts settled down into some semblance of rationality, and I got to musing about shoes. As we know, shoes are vital to the mental health of some women. I have no good shoes, mostly because I have bad feet. They are very hard to fit comfortably, mostly because they are small and wide -- like short blocks of wood. I'm quite sure that being XXX pounds overweight doesn't help the situation. So my current shoe wardrobe is woefully unsexy: sneakers and muck boots. And I'm not kidding -- that's it. I have no other shoes.

I dream of someday owning a pair of kick-ass high heels or those awesome thigh-high leather jobs that are just Made For Walking All Over You. I'd like stilettos, although I know they take a certain panache to pull off. I believe that with time and many crunches, I will have that panache.

But I was thinking about shoes. They are Important. I hope my extensive blog-readership will forgive me if I channel Clarissa Pinkola-Estes for a moment and start talking about fairy tales. So many, many feature shoes. Cinderella, of course. The shoes were the central element there. And then there's Gerda and her red boots in "The Snow Queen." The boots in "East of the Sun and West of the Moon." And the demon shoes in "The Red Shoes." Not to mention, if we're going to expand our definition of fairy tale, Dorothy's Ruby Slippers (yes, I know that MGM was responsible for that, and I still don't care).

Guys get magic swords. We get magic shoes. Why is that? I don't believe it has anything to do with sexism or misogyny; these tales have been around for too long. They were passed from grandmother to granddaughter. I think of those venerable old women who knew so much; I think of them sitting by the hearth with their daughters at their sides. Maybe they were knitting. Maybe they were rocking. But surely they were sharing a secret:

There's power in a good pair of shoes.

So glad I didn't waste the buck

I bought a VHS tape for $1 at the grocery store, with the intention of taping the Earthsea mini-series. I thought it might be something for sis and I to enjoy when she gets home. But I missed the first twenty minutes and ultimately decided that I'd catch it when they re-aired it (which they will, I'm sure, again and again and again).

Now, as it turns out, I won't bother. Seems the mini-series was crap, the noble LeGuin is ticked off, and I saved myself a buck for a better purpose. Sigh.

Here's the link to LeGuin's comments: http://www.ursulakleguin.com/earthsea.html and further ranting here: http://trashotron.com/agony/columns/2004/12-15-04.htm.

I know I don't have anything to worry about at this point, seeing as how not even one chapter of my book is written, but I just want to go on record saying that I won't pimp my baby. No way, no how.

How Christmas Was Saved

Once upon a time, there lived a poor scholar and his hard-working, manure-forking wife. Through the whims of fate and some bad decisions about credit cards, they found themselves living in a cottage by the edge of the woods. They had lots of animals to feed and bills to pay, but their pockets contained little more than lint. They were a happy family nonetheless.

One day, the wife glanced at a calendar and realized that only a few days remained until Christmas Eve. That same day, the cruel mailman brought a sheaf of letters that might be described as "dunning." With a tear in her eye, the manure-forking wife opened the letters. "Oh dear," she thought as she read the various threats from each company. "Not only can we not pay our bills, but Christmas is coming. However will we celebrate Christmas with no money?"

"Silly wife," the scholar said lovingly as he looked up from his books. "Christmas is not about presents. It's about love and family, and we have those."

But the wife would not be comforted. Perhaps I can make Christmas presents, she thought. For days she searched through recipe books and decorating magazines, hoping to find some homemade gifts that were not beyond her meager creative skills. But everywhere she looked, she found complicated directions, exotic ingredients and time-consuming projects. "What is a water canner?" She asked herself. "And why is Saffron so damn expensive? Is it made from diamonds?"

Hope faded as Christmas drew closer. The phone calls from credit companies began. "Can I do an automatic payment over the phone for you, Manure-forking Wife?" "Will you have the money by December 20th?" "Do you realize that we could take your first-born child?"

The wife sighed as she talked to these people. In her heart, she knew that she should be scrambling to find money to pay them, but her priorities had always been a little skewed. One night, as she struggled to find sleep, she looked over on the endtable at a packet of unopened mail. "Bills, bills, bills," she thought, "and book club mailings..." Book club mailings. Book club mailings?

Her heart racing, she sat up in bed and fumbled for the envelopes. Slipping them open, she discovered that her memory was true -- one could buy now and pay later with these book clubs. And better yet, one could order on-line, before December 17th, with guaranteed Christmas delivery! And free shipping and handling! FREE SHIPPING AND HANDLING!

Clutching the envelopes against her ample bosom, the wife swiftly descended the stairs and snuck into the computer room. A few minutes later, she had negotiated the log-in screen and was happily ordering appropriate gifts for everyone on her list.

It was a Christmas miracle! No canning! No cookies! No hastily crocheted towels or pot holders! Christmas was saved!

Merry Christmas to all, and to Mastercard too
(although you must wait until I can pay you).
For Christmas is coming. It's practically here
and Discover and Visa can wait till next year.
To my friends and my family, the message is sweet:
You won't have to choke down a desperate treat.
Christmas is saved; there'll be presents a-plenty.
Mom will get ten; Dad might get twenty.
No rock-hard pan cookies, no chalk-like mint candy.
I paid off my clubs, and they came in quite handy.
So, smile and be merry. No dark, tragic looks.
You're safe from my cooking. You're all getting books.

Snow in Siberia

A light dusting of snow has covered all the houses, trees, cars... and the foot or so of mud we've already got going on here. When I was researching my book, I came across some information about Siberia and the way the permafrost thaws just slightly in the spring, giving rise to some serious mud (as opposed to the comic kind). I now understand of what the guidebook speaketh.

Apparently there are some man-sized mosquitoes over there as well -- the kind that carry you off before they suck the life-force out of you. I'd be interested to know if we have anything similar here. (I'm playing straight man for you, Cin. Don't let me down).

Some cheese with my whine

OWWWW. Ear hurts. Throat hurts. Muscles hurt. OWWWW.

The worst thing about plugged ears is the fact that you can hear your heartbeat all the time. Ever since I got up this morning, I've been listening to this relentless rhythmic pounding. Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-booom, all day long. I guess that's why it's called... are you ready?...

an

EAR DRUM.

There. Now you're in as much pain as I am.

Perfect Love

Yesterday's general malaise has a trite explanation: it seems I was coming down with a cold. I felt like the inside of a garbage can this morning. Chills, aches, sore throat, P-N drip, ears popping like bubble wrap. I tossed and turned all night, and finally came downstairs at about 5:30 a.m. I wrapped myself in a pink blanket, crawled onto the couch and watched the cobwebs shimmy in time to the ceiling fan. Tegan jumped onto my legs and rested her snuffly nose on my belly. I'd like to know who gave her the idea that a 40-pound sheltie/shepherd mix is a suitable lap dog! At first I thought she was trying to make me feel better, but I soon figured out she was there to let me pet her. Man's best friend, my ass.

Anyway, Mom came out and told me to take the day off from the stables. As if that wasn't blessing enough, Dad went to the store and got me my comfort foods: ginger ale and chicken noodle soup. I went back upstairs to rest. Andy kissed me good-bye and wished me better before he left for class. He turned the vaporizer on. Mom came up later to check on me. She tucked me in all fluffy and stroked my hair until I fell asleep again. I woke up feeling a little less garbage can and a little more human.

Yes, I'm almost thirty-five. I know I'm too old to let a cold knock me out like that. I'm an adult, right? Man up and soldier on, as my sister would say! And I know that when we have kids of our own we won't get a break to be sick, and god help us if we're ill at the same time. I know all that, and I'm still not ashamed to be babied when I feel crappy. I love that it happens. The little girl in me still craves being tucked in up to her chin and given Campbell's MMM-MMM Good and ginger ale with a bendy straw. I'll be eighty, and I'll still want that.

The moments are few when you can actually surrender to sickness, pain or despair, knowing that you will be cared for. The last time it happened, I'd just lost a baby and was facing emergency surgery. It was such a relief to not be in control, to let others handle the details. At these moments, I recognize how blessed I am. I have people in my life -- not just a few, but many -- who love me with Perfect Love. I call and they answer. Always. No mere cold could be a match for that.

Ebola, however...

Anyone for mud angels?

It is December, isn't it? Shouldn't the world be filled with white, downy flakes that stay on one's nose and eyelashes? Oh, wait. I forgot. I'm in Gray-chester.

Here, we have five seasons: Mud, Blizzard, Slush, Rain and September. The standard joke is "if you don't like the weather here, wait five minutes." I find this joke particularly amusing, because the weather never changes. The sky is always gray. The birds sing, the sky is gray. The leaves change, the sky is gray. Is it any wonder that this place has the highest per capita murder rate in our state? Keep in mind, when you consider this, that I live in a state that has another city with millions of people. But we're number one. Go us.

So it's December and the sky is gray. I had myself all set to have a rotten day. I yelled at my mother for no good reason. I beat up a horse (she didn't really fight back). And then, just as I was all set to have a major tantrum, I fell.

I was standing stock still in the middle of the pasture. It was dark, but honest to god, I wasn't moving. And I fell. On my back. In the mud. My mother, who was holding a rather excitable horse (Lucky again -- doesn't it figure?) turned around to look at me. She told me later she thought I had flopped down to do snow angels.

But it's Gray-chester. There is no snow. There is mud. I should know, because I just reclined in it. Oddly enough, it lightened my mood. I laughed my muddy butt off all the way back to the barn.

My day off

I have a day off! Mom is doing the barn chores today, and I just printed out a handy internet coupon that will allow 50% off one overpriced cup of coffee at Border's. I am going to write. For hours. Uninterrupted. YAY!

I am also going to the Community Center tonight and I remembered to take a multi-vitamin. What a luxurious thing a day off can be.

BTW, Lenka -- thank you for the welcome. Sorry it took me so long to say "hi" back. You should know that I am the Procrastinating Princess (I'd be the Queen, but I don't want to dethrone Cindy).

A Tragic Day

Today was heartwrenching and painful. I hesitate to share, because the internet leaves one so vulnerable, and yet I feel compelled to write it all down. Maybe writing will prove cathartic. So here goes:

I woke up this morning. This proved to be my first and most critical error, because it was only 1:30 a.m. and I could have slept another...oh, I don't know... seven hours or so. But the alarm went off. Some people have a snooze alarm. I have a snore alarm. If you despise sleep and want to break free from its evil power, you might consider investing in a husband. I got mine cheap and he works great. This morning, the noise was a cross between a snowblower and a jackhammer. Sometimes rolling him over on his side helps, but there was only so much bed left for that sort of thing, and I didn't have the heart to roll him onto the floor. So I packed up my pillow and went to sleep in the guest room (Yes, there is a guest room, currently occupied by two cats and a very large spider).

When I woke up the second time, I found I had overslept and I had to literally haul my ass to the barn. It was dragging behind me, begging for another cup of coffee, but I told it to shut up and move. I should have listened. Because in the four hours it took me to do my barn chores, I got zapped in the thumb by the electric fence (no, Cindy, I did not grab on to the fence. I was holding onto the plastic handle, which by rights should have made me exempt from zapping. No deal), and stuck to my boot-top in mud. Of course, mud doesn't accurately describe the substance in which I was trapped. It looked like mud. It did not smell like mud. But I will continue to tell myself that it was mud, because the alternative is unthinkable.

But whatever it was, it held me securely and what with the horse barreling down on me, I decided it would be more prudent to save myself than to retrieve my boot. So you must imagine me, clinging for dear life to the green metal gate whilst Lucky the horse (yes, that's her name. Go ahead and laugh) circled around me shark-like, waiting for the other boot to drop. I channeled the spirit of McGyver as I rescued myself. I hauled myself free by grabbing Lucky's lead rope and letting her pull me out. If that hadn't worked, I would have made a crane from duct tape and feed buckets. Luckily, I can save that experiment for another day.

And speaking of experiments, let me digress for a moment and tell the world (or the two of you who might be reading this) that my mother is a genius. A mad genius. Today, when I shlopped myself back to the barn, whining and complaining bitterly, I discovered that she was building an oven out of an old trough and a discarded stove pipe. Talk about McGyver! But when Pops got home, he gently reminded her that perhaps fires should not be built next to hay barns. No, she really is a genius. Just one of those people who don't live in the real world with the rest of us.

Finally, to cap off this tragic day, the dog puked on the carpet and the toilet overflowed while I was on it. How, you ask? No clue. What I do know is that I am actually more limber than I thought, because I jumped over the gushing flood and landed neatly on the rim of the bathtub, where I perched precariously until Noah could bring the ark.

Yup. Today I dealt with electricity, poop, pee, vomit and fire. I'm ready for kids.

I will love it and hug it and call it Blog.

At last! After months of skulking around blogland, reading the posts of friends and complete strangers, I have decided to take action. No more pressing my nose against the computer screen, wishing Momma had the money to buy me a blog of my very own. I have created my site, and it is good.

Let there be posts. Let them be fruitful and multiply. And let thousands flock to this site to gather the pearls of wisdom which I will string together like a fine but surprisingly inexpensive necklace.

And let there be no trolls.