You Say It's Your Birthday?

In honor of Dr. SmartyPants' 74th birthday, I got him this.

Picture.

I got him this picture. Of a Ferrari. Not the actual Ferrari.

 Just the picture.

And he's not really 74. Because that's older than my dad. (Hi, Dad.) I just like to transpose his age because it makes him seem a lot older than I am.

Like right now - I can transpose my age, and I become 44. Yay me! After August, there will be no more transposing. Until I turn 05.

Anyway - however old you are, my wicked smart love - I'm glad you're spending it at home with us.
I love you more than words can say...

Swing Away

This is one of my darling children. He's the oldest. He's the sweetest (sorry, Joshua.) He's the weirdest. But I mean that in a good way. No, really. He's unlike any other child I've ever met.

Some days, that brings me great joy.

Some days, that brings me great angst.

We've been having a battle of wills over the past few months. Derek tests me far more often than Joshua does. He always has. When he was about three and realized that he could start making some decisions on his own, he started fighting me for control.

It's been a long decade.

I can remember when Dr. SmartyPants and I were celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary, and we decided to hold a vow renewal service. I wore my wedding dress and we decided that all the boys would get matching tuxes, ohmygoshwon'tthatbesocute.

We were at the church, getting dressed and beautiful, when my monther-in-law came in.

"We have a little problem. Derek won't get dressed in his tux," she told me.

I went to the room where he and Joshua and Dr. SmartyPants were getting ready. Derek was sitting in his skivvies, refusing to budge.

"What's up, bud?" I asked.

"I'm not wearing that. I don't like those shoes. Those aren't my shoes."

"But these shoes go with the suit! It's okay that they aren't your shoes - we're just borrowing them for a little while. You never have to wear them again after tonight. And they match Daddy's and Joshua's!" I explained in my happy happy cheerleader voice.

"No. I don't like those shoes."

He had tears in his eyes, and his sweet little mouth was puckered up and his hands were clenched. It was very important to him to have some control over this outfit, I could see.

"How about you wear the suit, but you wear your own shoes? Would that work?" We were on a timeline, after all.

His eyes lit up. "I can do that?"

"Yes. If it is really important to you to wear your own shoes, that's fine. It's really important to me that you wear the suit."

"Okay!"

It was, all in all, a fair compromise. I got what I wanted - two adorable little monkeys in their monkey suits. He got to wear his sneakers. (Please note, for the record, that Joshua is wearing the rental shoes.) I think you can see, in this picture, how he feels about the whole thing.

And so, nearly a decade later, it continues...I press - he pushes back. I insist...he digs in. I talk...he stares.

But sometimes - every now and again - we reach this place where it works for us both. He gets enough of his way and I get enough of mine that we can live together and not be angry all the time. In those moments, I believe we're going to make it. 

Honestly, when it's not completely infuriating, I find myself a little envious of his individuality. When I step back and look with dispassionate eyes, I wonder what I would have been able to do had I been so self-possessed at his age. It's taken me over 40 years to get to the point where I almost don't care what everyone else is doing and saying and wearing. If my mother had told me to put on the shoes, I wouldn't have even considered that there might have been other options.

He figured it out before he was four. He's still got it. 

And I hope that never changes.

Hallelujah, Amen.

It's SPRING, people!

Honey Bear

This face - there's a story behind this face...

When Dr. SmartyPants and I first got married, we lived in a nice apartment complex near The University of Alabama. We were on the second floor and the guy who never woke up to his alarm clock lived directly underneath us, but that's not relevant to this story. We're still traumatized by him, though - just so you know.

Anyhow - in the next building over, just across a small green space - was a student who had an ancient Yorkshire Terrier by the name of Honey Bear. Honey Bear, as his name indicates, was a mean, mean whirling dervish of a dog with three teeth and the attitude of a wolverine. 

We had a dog, as well - a strange little thing I brought into the marriage. Her name was Molly and she was completely and utterly insane, which is also not relevant to the story. We're still traumatized by her, as well.

So - in the mornings, we would hook Molly up to her leash (because we are law-abiding citizens) and head down the stairs to take her for a walk. It never failed that as soon as we got to the bottom of the stairs, the girl with the Yorkie would open her door and let out her little devil dog...no leash...no owner...just go do your business...

So Honey Bear would come careening down the stairs, full-tilt, barking his fool head off at Molly, who would cower and wimper and whine and refuse to do anything. Honey Bear's owner (funny how I can remember the dog's name, but not hers, isn't it?) would go back inside and do whatever she was doing while we tried to extract ourselves from evil incarnate. A few minutes later, she'd reappear, wondering where her precious shmoopsie was.

She would walk out into the open stairwell and (being in Alabama) holler in the most amazingly shrill voice I've ever heard, "HONEY BAAAAAAAAAAAAYERRRRRRRR! HONEY BAAAAAAAAAYERRRRRR!

HUUUUUUUUUUUNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYEEERRRRRRRR!"

And eventually, Honey Bear would tire of tormenting Molly and go flying back up the stairs and into his owner's loving arms. His owner would wave and say something like, "HEY Y'ALL! AH AYUM SO SORRY. HE'S ONLY GOT THREE TEETH IN HIS WHOLE HEY-ED." Because apparently that was just her speaking voice.

Honestly.

Fourteen years later, and we still laugh about that girl and her evil dog. We wonder if she got married. We wonder if her husband went deaf. We figure a dog that mean is probably still alive, even though he'd be about 25 by now.

What is the point of this story, again? Oh. Yes. Jasper. Up there - that adorable face?

That's what he looks like when we say (very quietly) "Honey Bear" to him.

Halfway

There are days I question my sanity. Yesterday was one of those days.

See - here's the thing...I homeschool my darling dears, and the money I could be using to place them in a very nice private school all goes toward paying for their tennis lessons and tournaments. 

Which is fine. No problem. They have a dream, and all that. Whatever.

So, on days when they stare out the window and only get 1/3 of the work done for school that they were supposed to get done, I find myself quaking with irritation or, as it probably should be called, rage. And that's when I find myself struggling to deal with the best way to deal with impressionable children without using any actual curse words or phrases. Because that kind of rage irritation just brings out the drill sergeant in me.

I find myself saying things like, "If you insist on doing things in such a...ah...errr...well, as Papa Ray would say, 'half-assed' way, then I have no choice but to..." 

Yes. You heard it here first - yesterday, I actually used my dad's poor word choices to mask my own. Sorry, Dad - but thanks. I would have used my mom's instead, but she just removed all the vowels from her curse words to make them appropriate, and it kind of made her sound like she was having some sort of aphasic episode..."Ddhhmmmmmt!" "Shhhhhhhhhht!"

My dad, on the other hand was more likely to throw the full word out there, vowels and all, and then punctuate it by throwing a hammer. You know the dad in A Christmas Story? When he works on the furnace? Yeah.

I ended up with something that falls in between my parents. Back in the day, before I had children, my language was quite...well...colorful. I could string together a series of curses that were so unique that entire dictionaries were written in order to contain them. Once faced with the prospect of hearing my children quote them back to me, however, I straightened up and tried the vowelectomy that got my mother through child-rearing.

It lacks a certain, how do you say, je ne sais quoi...

So now, I shall blame all my curse words upon my father. I will preface each one with "As Papa Ray would say," and then my children will rise up and praise my ingenuity tact and deviousness respect of the English language.

I think it's going to work great - "What do you mean, you didn't pass your history test? As Papa Ray would say, 'Dammit, son!' Sit your, as Papa Ray would say, 'ass' down in that chair and redo the whole, as Papa Ray would say, 'damn' thing!"

Situation...solved.

That Gun is Loaded

If you do not know about Walk Off the Earth, you've either been living under a rock, or you just hate music. Honestly - I haven't had so much fun listening to music since I fell in love with The Police in 1984. I love how creative they are - watch the video, and then watch the video afterward on how they made the video. Then, go to their YouTube channel and watch all their other videos. Then come back here and thank me for making your day so very wonderful. You're welcome.

Very cool stuff. I also adore that Sarah rocks the uke. She inspires me to keep playing.

The bad news is that they haven't yet released a full length album.

(Does anyone say album anymore? I realize it won't be on vinyl, but what else do you call it? A full length recording of multiple songs that can be downloaded on iTunes?)

I have their EP, which is fantastic, but it only has four songs on it, and as much as I love them, listening to the same four songs on repeat does get a little old after a bit.

The good news is...the full length album is due out in a week! That's right - next Tuesday, there will be more original, fresh WOTE goodness for the whole world to enjoy.

And just because I love you, here's my current favorite song that I've been working on playing on my own uke...puts me in the mood for my summer vacay a little early...

Red Means Go

I've been trying very hard to stop neglecting this part of my life, and for some reason, I found that I was getting all tense and weird every time I tried to draw directly into my sketchbook. (That's as opposed to just being all tense and weird all the time. Yes - I know I am. Shut up.) So I ripped a page out of a scrapbook kit I had lying around and drew a cardinal on it. I painted it in gouache and then stuck it into my sketchbook with some washi tape, also from my scrapbook kit. 

Once I had done that, it suddenly freed me up to do something with the rest of the spread, and I ended up painting the apple on the facing page. A few days later, I drew the tree frog and glued it in and then needed to do something to fill that last remaining space at the top of the apple page. A little typography later, and I had a completed sketchbook spread. 

Sometimes, I act as if it matters if I mess something up in a sketchbook - like it's some sort of precious thing (my preeeeshussss) that is going to be curated into the Louvre one day. In reality, it supposed to be a messy sort of laboratory, where I experiment with things. Experiments have a way of going desperately wrong, which is fantastic, because that's how you learn what you're really supposed to be doing.

None of these drawings is going to become anything more than what they are - space fillers in an overpriced bit of paper and binding. And that's perfectly fine. They don't need to be. Because they taught me something. They taught me to just scribble something on a piece of paper and stick it in a book. They taught me to stop over-thinking every single mark I make and just draw something.

How about you - what areas of your life are you neglecting because you just can't find a way to get over the hurdle of perfection? How do you jump over that hurdle? I'd love to hear!

Color Inspiration

There are days (weeks, months, years) when everywhere I turn I see the same color over and over. In stores, online, in my own house - maybe it's a seasonal thing, and my brain wants particular colors at particular times. I'm not sure, but right now, turquoise and citrine are front and center.

The fact that both of these pieces have birds on them shouldn't surprise anyone who has been here more than a couple of times. I'm clearly bird-obsessed. I found both of them at the local Carolina Pottery store, and they begged me to take them home, so I did.

Because who can resist a bird?

I think it's so interesting how our color desires change over time. When I bought the mango leather chairs you can see in the background, about 7 years ago, all of my color choices were on the warm side. My living room was a deep yellow, my dining room was cranberry. I loved orange as an accent everywhere. Even my wardrobe was warmer.

Now I'm all grey and blue and green - cool and watery colors. Is it just environmental? Is it just because stores are showing cooler colors right now, or is there some fundamental change that goes on in our brains over time that insists we change?

Whatever it is, I'm enjoying the colors for now. They remind me of the beach and of summer and warm temperatures, all of which I sorely need.

What colors are inspiring you right now?

I'm So Jaded

When I first purchased my jade plant it looked like it does in the photograph on the left.

The photo on the right shows what it looks like now.

I'm the worst indoor plant grower on the planet.  (And not at all fond of hyperbole.) Look at that sad, pitiful thing. Have you ever seen a more neglected, scrawny, ugly specimen?

Honestly. I can raise children. I can raise dogs. I cannot keep a plant alive inside my house.

I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I don't overwater it and it stays in a sunny spot all the time. Maybe I need to move it to a south facing window, instead of the east and north windows where it generally lives. My office window faces south - perhaps it needs to live in there for a while.

Are there any expert indoor plant growers out there that can give me some tips? Typically, at this stage, I throw it away and start over, but that just seems silly. It's supposed to be one of those plants that anyone can grow, and I hate to feel like it's beaten me...

Paving the Way

Life with boys...

Conversation after supper last night:

Joshua (on the left): You know, when someone farts, they should just tell people it was because of the concrete, or you know, the stuff they pave roads with.

Me: What? What does that even mean?

Joshua: Well...you know...asphalt? Ass-fault! HAHAHAHAHAHA

Derek: HAHAHAHA...wait. Asphalt?

Me: (laughing uncontrollably. horrified, and yet proud.) C'mon, D. Whose fault? Asphalt!

Derek: HAHAHAHHAHA...

Dr. SmartyPants: (facepalm) Oh, dear Lord.

Nose to the Grindstone

It's March! Yippee! It's the first indication that winter may soon be over and I can once again join the land of the living. Days are getting longer...even if not warmer...which means my brain tends to wake from its long winter nap and resume living and working.

This blog needs a boost - my creative life need a boost - my motivation needs a boost, so I decided to stop my whining about how cold and dark and miserable winter is and do something about it. I'll be finding my way and reconnecting to my blogging mojo along with an international assortment of like minded people via Holly Becker's Blogging Your Way class. If you aren't familiar with Holly's blog, Decor8, you either a) have been living under a plain and undecorated rock, or b) actually leave your house and don't spend all your time reading other people's blogs and pinning amazing things on Pinterest.

In either case, stop doing that.

So - I'll be up to my eyeballs in information and blogging homework, and I hope that a few of you lovely people come by and say hello. I'm looking forward to getting inspired and turning this blog back into the creative space it once was.

Happy March, peeps!

Photographic

A certain young man has taken up a new hobby...I'm hopeful he'll let me post some of his photos at some point.

Mindful

Have you ever noticed how much your attention is splintered into bits over the course of a day? I sometimes feel like I'm under attack by raging hordes of Orcs masquerading as cell phones and barking dogs and "Hey, Moms!" It's become so common, that when things are quiet and still, I'm restless and anxious because the barrage has ceased and it feels completely foreign to me. In those moments, I find myself turning on the television - not to actually watch the television, but so that I have the comfort of white noise in the background. It feels like home.

The unfortunate thing is that when your mind is constantly fractured by all those little interruptions and sounds, it can't focus and regroup and heal from a day's worth of trivialities and stresses. The brain, I've learned, doesn't know the difference between common stressors and attacking goblins - it reacts in the same way regardless of the level of threat. That's why sometimes I hear Joshua humming the same four bars of "Don't Stop Believing" over and over and over again, and it makes me want to drop-kick a puppy.

I would never actually act on that impulse. I love puppies.

So, we've been working on focus and quieting the mind lately, here in Casa de Ott. We've been practicing mindful attention - focusing on one thing at a time and letting go of those things we can't control any longer. You double faulted that last point? Okay. It's over. Let it go - focus on this point. Someone is speaking to you? Your entire focus should be on them.

The house is quiet? Let it be quiet.

It seems so easy, and yet it is one of the most difficult things for me to do really well. Too often, I find myself worrying over mistakes that I can't change, or looking ahead to potential stresses that haven't even happened yet, and the present simply passes me by without my noticing. How much more relaxed and stress-free would I be if I could simply master the joy of living every moment as it happened.

And so.
I'm trying.
I'm breathing.
I'm focusing.
I'm putting my phone down and forgetting where I put it for a little while.
I'm listening.
I'm watching.
I'm just being.

I'm just being.

Sunday Scribblings

Have a favorite quote you want to see on a chalkboard? Send me a message, and I'll scribble it up!

Get Your Read On

I love to read. LOVE to read. I spent all day yesterday finishing up a series of six books about alchemy and magic, and now I'm a little depressed. The series is over, the story is done. I loved the ending, but I hated that it ended.

For me, reading is a journey - an escape. To lose myself in a book is to find myself. When I don't take the time to read, I find myself becoming a little lost - a little hopeless - a little cranky. This just means it's time to hit up Goodreads for some more suggestions, and spend some time in the library perusing the shelves. It's a super-rainy day today, so I'm guessing I'll be heading to the library in just a bit.

I don't understand people who don't like reading. Honestly. I've tried. Yes, I get that sometimes it's difficult. I can see where you can get bogged down in a book and really start disliking it for a little while. I understand that sitting and watching a movie is much easier.

But there's no movie crew that has ever topped my imagination. Some have come close - Peter Jackson has worked near miracles on J.R.R. Tolkien, but it still isn't the same. I have a hard time even going to see movies made from books that I loved. I've still not seen The Help.  I think I bought it, but I've just not been able to make myself watch it, because I'm afraid of what it will do to my memory of the book.

So here's the irony. My kids don't like to read. Really. I've introduced them to every series, style, concept and author I can think of. I've read to them. Constantly. They love for me to read TO them. They say, "More! Don't stop now!" So, I'll hand them the book and tell them to finish reading it and they say, "Meh." Maybe later.

Joshua loves Calvin and Hobbes and has read all of them, so that's at least something.

But for them, reading is a chore. A necessity to get through literature class. A dreaded task.

And it breaks my heart. It shatters my soul. Nothing makes me feel like more of a failure as a mother than the fact that my children don't love to read.

I still hope. I still introduce new books to them regularly. I still read with joy in front of them, laughing and crying openly at what I'm discovering. Maybe one day they'll get the spark that leaps up from between the page covers and turns them on.

If not...I'll just blame it on Dr. SmartyPants.

The End.

Over... Everything.

I was talking with a dear friend last night who is going through some major changes in her life. She's starting a new career, her husband is starting his own business. Her kids are going through some things. She's juggling 900 things and she let a couple of them fall (shocker!) and she said to me, "I'm just overwhelmed. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be, but I am."

And the moment she said it, I thought about how often over the past couple of weeks I've said, or thought the same thing. My husband is living in DC, my boys have just started a new virtual academy and right now my work load with that is HUGE and I have to do everything - EVERYTHING - by myself right now. And I'm overwhelmed.

Now. Why the hell should we be sorry about it? It's truth. We are overwhelmed. Our lives are full to overflowing with craziness and greatness and nonsense and dammit, we're overwhelmed.

So here's what I told her...

You are overwhelmed. Of course you are - anyone would be. There's nothing wrong or bad about it. In no way does it make you some kind of failure. It doesn't define you as a person, it's simply what is.

People - how often do we beat ourselves up for being where we are? I do it all the time, and I'm sick of it. I don't know why we feel the need to do it, and I really don't care. I just want to stop.

I just want to be.

Life is not perfect. Life is not always calm and serene and smooth sailing and well-decorated. Sometimes, life is just a god-awful mess and we are along for the ride. I'm not talking about the times when you are making choices that cause chaos. I'm talking about times when, completely outside of your control, everything around you threatens to rise up and suffocate you. How do you handle it?

Honestly - I don't have any answers. I'm not a therapist. But here's what I suggested, and here's what we are both going to try.

Find 30 minutes. If that's too much, make it 15, 20, whatever. Go somewhere if you can. If you can't go somewhere, find a place with a lock and threaten anyone who comes near you during that time. Get a cup of coffee if that soothes you; a milkshake if that works better. It doesn't matter. It just needs to be quiet and calm and away.

Away.

Cell phones off. iPad powered down. TV off. Disconnected from every thing and person and beep and vibration. The world will not end if you check out for 30 minutes. As a matter of fact, someone may realize they can solve a problem if they can't find you to solve it for them.

Sit. Listen. Be quiet. This is not prayer time, study time, list-planning time. This is quiet, peaceful relaxation. This is getting your head above water and floating on your back while you stare up at the blue, blue sky time.

This is breathing time. Be still.

When you come back, the circumstances will not have changed a bit.  In my case, Dr. SmartyPants will still be in DC. My boys will still be trying to wrap their minds around virtual school and my dogs will still be chewing up my furniture. More than likely, the laundry will not have done itself.

But you can face it. You'll still be overwhelmed by circumstances, but maybe your mind will be able to process them differently. Your list will not have decreased by one thing, but maybe your stress levels will have.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Unconventional

Today is my 14th anniversary.

Dr. SmartyPants and I have never had what some would call a conventional relationship. It started unconventionally, it's continued unconventionally to this day.

We met on September 24, 1998, at a drinking eating establishment popular for their pitchers of beer burritos amongst the scholars of The University of Alabama. I was there with a group of likely all-male geology graduate students. He was there with a couple of engineering friends.

A week later, we had our first date, which ended in an awkward kiss and a promise of seeing more of each other. Very few days have passed since then that I've not seen him. If you're doing the math, we got married a few short months later. Three and a half months isn't exactly a conventional courtship-engagement period, apparently.

Our engagement was a bit odd, too. We were actually going over the budget so we could see if we could afford to move in together, and we were all, dude - why don't we just get married?

Crazy. I know.

We got married at the beach - Destin, Florida, to be exact. We had about 25 people there - close friends and family only. The caterer was a notary public, so she performed the ceremony for us. We didn't have any bridesmaids or groomsmen. When we got started, I asked one of my friends to stand with me and be a witness, and he asked one of his. They didn't know they were going to be asked. After the vows, we all ate brunch together and laughed and had a wonderful time. It was kind of a strange wedding, I think. We loved it. But it wasn't exactly conventional.

Our first year together, we got pregnant, started a new job, moved to a new city, and had a baby. So, out of the top five stressors in people's lives, we accomplished three. Within another half a year, we'd bought a house, so that made four. Somehow, we made it work. Somehow we stayed the course.

Another baby, three more houses, unless you count the one we rented in Arlington for two years, but we didn't actually buy that one - I guess we should just count it as two moves.

Homeschooling. Well - that just gets its own subcategory. Because who the heck would do that? And now, we've added competitive tennis training to the mix. Sure - we could have done soccer, baseball, basketball or football, but why be normal?

This year may take the cake as far as unconventional goes, though. He's off working in DC again. The boys and I decided to stay here. He'll come home every other weekend or so. We'll go up and spend a week here and there. It will be, well, unconventional.

And Skype-y. Very, very Skype-y.

But, we'll make it work. How do I know? Because I just do. Because he's the first person I think about when I wake up in the morning, and the last person I think about when I go to bed at night. Because I'm as madly in love with him - no...MORE madly in love with him - as I was when we sat in DePalma's Restaurant in Tuscaloosa and planned out the number of children we would have.

And so we won't be together on this anniversary, no. I've had friends question how we can handle such a stress. And I'll tell you how...

Because this is only one anniversary.

And I plan to have at least 75. Depending on medical technology, I might even push that to 100. Because living to 130 years old seems totally doable, as long as he's in it.

Happy Anniversary, my one true love. Thanks for being so weird with me these last 14 years...

Roar.

It's Monday. How about a list of awesome things? 13, you say? Okey dokey. 13 it is.

1. I woke up 5 minutes before my alarm today.
2. The boys woke up with their own alarms, meaning I didn't have to yell up the stairs at them.
3. Derek was studying interjections today. Every time he read the word, "Interjection," I felt compelled to sing the song from Schoolhouse Rock. "IN-TER-JEC-TION, shows EXCITEMENT or EMOTION. HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HA-LAYYYYY-LUUUUUU-JAAAAAHHHH - YEA!!!"
4. I refrained from doing it out loud.
5. You just totally sang that song in your head.
6. Our third day of virtual school has not killed any of us. Yet.
7. Joshua is taking earth science, so there's a world tectonic map hanging on the wall of the office.
8. I made this last night. Delicious. I used spaghetti squash instead of rice. Super good.
9. Skype. It's what is going to make this year work.
10. It's 234 days until my birthday.
11. My pantry is organized, my closet is organized, my office is organized.
12. I re-caulked my kitchen countertops today. I'm a caulking prodigy. Except that I'm 44 years old, which likely negates the prodigy part. I'm a caulking genius.
13. My library is holding numerous books for me to pick up today. Like, right now. I love my library.

And that is all. Actually, there's a whole lot more awesome out there, but I have to go to the library, so it will have to wait!

Once Upon a Bad Disposition

I once knew a girl.

She drew. She painted. She wrote. She played a guitar.

She crafted and sang and drove a fast car
to the mountains and back just for fun.

To the beach and back just for sun.

This girl was the author of her own destiny.
She listened to few and followed whims as if they were
winding country roads begging to be explored.

She read five books at once and loved them all so much
she slept with them in her bed like secret lovers
tucked under her arms and legs. Like lovers,
some were fiction, some history, some self-help and discovery.
Some were empty and she poured herself into them and got back nothing
but a case of writer's cramp and a bad disposition.

Some were just about
cars.

Then one morning, she woke up and realized she'd spent
then entire previous day without one creative thought outside of how to
turn half a chicken breast and an old bag of salad into a
meal for four.

And even that wasn't terribly creative.

She wondered when it had happened - the leaking away of her spirit - the slow, steady drain of such a full cask of creativity.

She thought about blaming others for it. They sucked it out of me, she thought. They drained me on a daily basis. They...they...they...

That's when it occurred to her. They hadn't done anything. As a matter of fact,
those around her had done
nothing but pour
themselves
into
her
and had
gotten back nothing
but a case of writer's cramp and a bad disposition.

It wasn't their fault. It was her own.

Her creativity wasn't drained at all - only siphoned away and hidden deep beneath the floorboards of her overly anxious and
misdirected heart.

Why - there it is, right there. Full as ever
and just as ridiculous.

Waiting.

Waiting for that girl to come and pick it up and dust it off. To tap it
once again and let it flood out all over in
great sticky clumps of sparkle
and goo.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Too...sday

It's Tuesday, that sadly neglected, easy to forget, non-important day of the week. It's the day that doesn't make the songs, doesn't merit the Facebook gripes or someecard taunts. What to do with Tuesday?

How 'bout a list?

But a list of what? What's worthy of a Tuesday list?

Hmm. Well. Uhhhhm.

How about a list of other sadly neglected and overlooked things in my life?

1. My bell pepper plant. I planted it too closely to the zucchini, which has grown into a gargantuan, mutant plant and has overtaken my little raised garden to the exclusion of almost everything else. The tomatoes and squash and cucumber are holding their own, but the bell pepper is lost amongst the giant zucchini leaves. Zucchini is a Monday, for sure.
2. This blog. Crimeny. I posted once in January, once in May and now twice in June. Sad. Sad, neglected little space. Dr. SmartyPants texted me yesterday and told me that he missed reading my blog. "It warms my heart," he said. (I am not neglected and overlooked by my sweetheart.) 
3. Housekeeping. Good lord - who can blame me. But it's grossing me out. Just the sheer volume of canine hair alone is disgusting. Send help. And a dumpster.
4. The backsplash tiling project in my kitchen. I started with a bang and it's currently at sizzle levels. I look at it often. I sigh. I turn my back and go do something else. I put up one 12x12 section of pretty glass and onyx tiles. I repeat that a week later. I should be done by Thanksgiving.
5. Artistic endeavors, although I did pick up my guitar and play a little last night. My fingers remember what to do, but they've grown soft and I couldn't play very long. I took a few photos, but then remembered that I hadn't processed them. My sketchbook is very dusty and probably misplaced.
6. My friends. Cyndi and I keep talking about having a girls night out, but we haven't managed to actually schedule one. Linda and I saw each other for about 30 minutes so I could borrow her 100mm camera lens, which I still have. Girls - it's time.
7. Exercise. My foot surgery in March has derailed anything like healthy activity, but I'm over it. Dr. SmartyPants and I played tennis on Saturday, and it hurt and felt great at the same time, so I'm hopeful that this is one area that is going to get un-neglectified. I can too totally use that word, as I just made it up, thank you very much.
8. My children. HA. Just kidding. Mostly. Kind of. Wait - where are they?
9. Reading other people's blogs. Not sure what happened, but I've let my whole bloglist get backlogged. I love reading your blogs. I've missed you all. I'm coming back...
10. Laundry. There's just no excuse for this one. I'm just too lazy to deal with it.

I think that's enough. Now, I'm getting depressed about my lack of order and serenity. But wait! Tomorrow is Wednesday! Hump Day! Top o'the week - downhill to the weekend!

Poor little Tuesday...