I'm back and I'm supersized!

This neglected blog of mine has been trying to coax me back into the writer's seat. I've gotten pretty bummed out by Facebook and internet haps in general, and think I need to revisit my own little corner of the web, dust off the ol' keyboard and make this place habitable again. 

I've got a backlog of subjects to explore, but the sunshine's so beautiful and I've been indoors too much lately, so a bike ride seems like the thing. What I will do is share a quick recipe before I pedal off into the morning light. 

I made this up last week as a survival technique, following an enlightening allergy test which left me—a long-time smoothie lover—dairy-less, banana-less and sugarless (among other things). This smoothie is not as sweet as you might be accustomed to, so you may wish to add some kind of sugar. I've noticed that when I'm off sugars for a while I rediscover the more subtle flavors of foods, so I actually like not sweeting everything up, but hey, no judgement. Do what ya gotta do to make your breakfast work.

Talk to you again when the sun's finished with me. 

BRIGHT STREET SUPERSIZE SMOOTHIE

1 cup frozen peaches, berries or other fruit

2 small handfuls almonds
1/4 cup coconut flour
1/2 tsp chia seeds
rice milk, or any milk you prefer
optional ingredients: vanilla, pinch of spice (cardamon is the bomb), a splash of rosewater, sweetener

Put frozen fruit, almonds, coconut flour and chia seeds into your blender. Add enough milk to bring the level of the mixture to 3 cups. Add optional items to taste. Pour smoothie into a ridiculously large glass mug from the dollar store and enjoy. Serves 1 to overflowing.

Giving Thanks, Day 17390

Well, shucks, I got off-track with my blogging earlier this month. I've kept up a steady pace with my thanks-giving, I just haven't documented my adventures here. Too bad. But kudos to all my friends who have faithfully shared their own warm November fuzzies on Facebook and elsewhere. I've wondered, Should I do penance? Should I backtrack, do make-up homework? But nah. The sweetest thing I can think to do is to continue spending some daily gratitude, wherever I find myself, till I spend my thankful pockets empty. But it doesn't work like that, does it? Gratitude pockets are magic and never come up short. The more you spend, the more you find to spend when you dig down deep. 

Tomorrow's Thanksgiving. So is today, and every day. I love my life, and I'm glad it's mine, come what may.

Here's a little gift from me to start the holidays out right, a song I've loved since I was small. Enjoy it. Enjoy your feasting tomorrow and an endless spending of gratitude.

Giving Thanks, Day 6

Most of what I'm thankful for today goes beyond my words, but here are some of the beautiful parts I know how to say in English:

•prayer
•perspective
•wool, wool, wool, and wool tweed
•terrific teaching resources
•fasting
•renewal
•people who say yes because they want to
•people who aren't hesitant to express affection
•sacrament
•a day of worship and service
•when a community becomes like a family
•sincere and purposeful self-disclosure
•sharing spiritual experiences
•the little girl who snorted super loudly behind me in church when everybody else said, "Amen"
•good hearts
•good intentions (that even occasionally produce good results)
•honesty
•the constant need for change
•forgiveness
•teaching
•learning
•listening before speaking, sometimes without speaking
•dependability
•letting go of the need to be perfect
•introducing a roomful of women to our Good Riddance tradition with a mini-bonfire
•making healthy commitments
•the thrill of discovering something true
•giving openly in a new friendship
•intuition
•inspiration
•laughter
•responsibility
•delegation
•cooperation
•big plans
•little plans
•kindnesses, anonymous and not
•respect
•patience
•compassion
•Rob's salad
•in-laws
•watching a friend dress to impress a girl and be on his best behavior during our family dinner
•thinking I had lost this draft and then finding it

Thirty Days of Thanksgiving

When I woke up this morning, it was unmistakably November. The weather was grey and wet and blowy, as if it just had to distinguish itself from October. It's funny how often this kind of big announcement seems to come on the first day of month anymore.

But despite its dismal halloo, I am committed to loving November. It's good, this advent of Thanksgiving. I think I'll join the ranks of bloggers who'll spend the month pouring out some gratitude and celebrating the cup that runs over with blessings.

Simple tonight—an attempt at a list, since I'm not feeling my best today (I'm looking at you, moon), but nevertheless a decent start. I'm thankful for:

• a near-perfect breakfast smoothie
• Ibuprofen (always and forever, always and forever)
• Mirjam's hot water bottle
• horizontalilty + cushions + gravity
• the digital projector we're babysitting for the next few weeks + a white wall + decent speakers
• Napoleon Dynamite for bazillionth time
• baked winter squash
• Mexican chocolate brownies
• a kind housemate, husband, and friend (rolled into one)
• lonely train whistles
• remote control
• answering machine
• Debby showing up with a rented DVD (Thor), fried potatoes, and fresh pineapple
• a clean bathroom
• quiet
• a working furnace
• learning that friends in dire straits are being helped and supported
• understanding that it's not the end of the world to lose a day to illness
• one of my new blog ideas becoming a reality
• sharing good things
• chasing after change (a right healthy sport)
• evening chapter of The Hobbit

Stuff I Bought + a Giveaway

So to follow up on this week's thrift store tour of duty, here are the few items I did bring home. Mirjam, this is at your request.

I can never stay away from the books section. Here's a great find—some terrific patterns at a nice price.

This one was more or less a blind grab, but so far it's been a fun read.

Ethnic weaving. Resistance is futile.

So, that's it. For the hundred things I snickered at and rejected, I brought three treasures home. I definitely get my money's worth of entertainment on these occasional trips to Secondhandland.

To give you a chance to enjoy recycled treasures also, I am hosting a giveaway. Do you recall the fabulous collage I blogged about in my first Stuff I Didn't Buy post? Well, the next time I visited D.I. it was still there! I figured it was meant to be, so I didn't pass it up that time. And now I want to share the love. Feast your eyes again on this beauty and tell me you wouldn't love to see it hanging on your lonesome wall.

So here's how it works. You've got until next Saturday, September 24th, at midnight, Mountain time, to enter the giveaway.  Leave a comment below and you'll be part of the random drawing. If you would like to be entered additional times, you can subscribe to my blog, make a noise about this post elsewhere, or do something else outlandish to squawk about this giveaway. When you do something extra, leave another comment and let me know, and you'll be entered again for this exquisite piece of fine art.

Good luck!

P.S. I will mail anywhere on Planet Earth.

P.P.S. You will never be able to fully appreciate how fabulous this collage is until you see it in person and play Where's Waldo, hunting for robots, cowboys, ninjas, Cheryl Crowe and Lance Armstrong!

Keeping Words in Perspective

I'm hard at work, revising my guts out, trying to put together a clean, compact post which I was invited to contribute to a friend's blog. It's one thing to muck around here, but I don't want to leave a mess if I can help it over at her place. Ugh, editing is hard. Let's go to the mall.

Here are some diverting quotes I found on the subject of edits and revisions. They're keeping me going, and from taking myself too seriously. Slash and burn! Oh, that's my motto now!

Writing is 1 percent inspiration, and 99 percent elimination.
—Louise Brooks

Short stories are designed to deliver their impact in as few pages as possible. A tremendous amount is left out, and a good short story writer learns to include only the most essential information.
—Orson Scott Card

I believe more in the scissors than I do in the pencil.
—Truman Capote

It is perfectly okay to write garbage – as long as you edit brilliantly.
—C. J. Cherryh

Half of being smart is knowing what you're dumb at.
—David Gerrold

The most valuable of all talents is that of never using two words when one will do.
—Thomas Jefferson

The moment of recognizing your own lack of talent is a flash of genius.
—Stanislaw Jerzy Lec

I have made this letter longer, because I have not had the time to make it shorter.
—Blaise Pascal

Everything that is written merely to please the author is worthless.
—Blaise Pascal

One extends one's limits only by exceeding them.
—M. Scott Peck

It is better to write a bad first draft than to write no first draft at all.
—Will Shetterly

The wastepaper basket is the writer's best friend.
—Isaac Bashevis Singer

You never learn how to write a novel. You just learn how to write the novel that you're writing.
—Gene Wolfe

It is my contention that a really great novel is made with a knife and not a pen. A novelist must have the intestinal fortitude to cut out even the most brilliant passage so long as it doesn't advance the story.
—Frank Yerby

A young musician plays scales in his room and only bores his family. A beginning writer, on the other hand, sometimes has the misfortune of getting into print.
—Marguerite Yourcenar

Inside every fat book is a thin book trying to get out.
—Unknown

Eat and Sleep

New month, new challenges. I've signed up for a month of detoxing as well as a September-long blog-run. I made one of the best and simplest soups today and so far am feeling very enthused about my fruit and veg regimen. I'm off to a good start with that so now it's time to answer the NaNoBloMo daily prompt...

"What magical creature would you love to meet?"

The magical creatures I would most dearly love to meet are the two beautiful hummingbirds I dreamed of some years ago, the ones I am always thinking of, the ones that keep me looking to the future with hope. If you don't know what I'm talking about I'll tell you. I'll be guest posting for a friend soon and these birds are part of a bigger story that wants to be told.

For now, goodnight.

Why I'm Here, Today, Blogging

Heather. Heather, you're the reason. Because it's your birthday, and because you are moving to my old home state long before I'm ready for you to go (which would be: never) and because you said something by way of sad goodbyes like: "We can still be friends!" and "I love you!" and "I'll read your blog!" Yep, that did it. You'll read my blog? That means I need to post something for you to read, right? Write?

Since I'm not a stellar communicator when it comes to telephones and letters and such, keeping in contact with people I love was probably the main reason I started this blog anyhow. That, and exhibitionism (the inhibited kind). We won't talk about which of the two reasons exerted the stronger pull on my psyche. 

I'm determined not to go all navel-gazey over this question of why I've been blog-ditching, or why I've considered so often pulling the plug for good. I'll just start blogging again. Write more, pre-edit less. Easy, right? Write? Keep in touch. Keep. Touch.

Okay, so today I got to hang out with Heather. For two hours! Who gets to do that, waltz in on somebody's birthday and steal their time? It was pretty presumptuous of me to just barge into her big day and ask for a chunk of visiting. I love it when I'm presumptuous. I love it more when there's no objection. Thanks for reinforcing my bad manners, Heather. And thanks for the bagel date. I had fun even though there was that sad thing happening in my heart every time I looked at you and thought about how you'll soon turn into a Tar Heel, many miles from here. *sniff*

So I guess I'm lucky I was here to crash Heather's birthday today. I had a bad mushroom experience last night. No, not that kind of mushroom. It wasn't a magic mushroom. It was a soccer ball-sized brain, I tell you, a western giant puffball. Leland and Charla hunted it down over the weekend in the wilds of the Alpine Loop and brought it to us as a Love Gift of Pure Intentions. I've never seen anything like it. Rob has been saying for years that he used to find and eat puffballs back east when he was a kid. So he was our veteran. And Leland and Charla did their homework, to make sure it wasn't a dangerous kind of fungus. It was 100% edible, this fungus, their reference books and expert sources agreed. Apparently, their sources didn't mention that western giant puffballs need to be 100% white inside when you eat them, not ivory, not pearl, not eggshell, not beige, not even the teensiest bit antiqued, in order to avoid stomach upset. (Thank you for the belated clarification, Wikipedia.) You can, of course, see where this is going?

Anyway, it was fun to have the fungus hunters come over yesterday, watch Rob and Leland slice up this amazing soccer brain into sticks, egg it, bread it, fry it with green onions and garlic, and then eat the finished product in good company. Leland said, "I don't taste anything. I don't like it." (But know this about our friends the fungus hunters: they never want to eat the mushrooms. They hunt for sport.) Rob said, "It tastes like it's a little past its prime." The menfolk put their noses up at our puffball. Charla was more open, and had a few pieces: "It's not my favorite, but it's alright." I said, "Sure it has a taste! It tastes like mushroom!" It wasn't bad. I generally approve of mushrooms and harbor kind of a weird affection for them, so of course I wanted to like this one. I practically proselyted for the fungus. Give it a chance, I wanted to say. Come on, people, it's Found Food, wild and wonderful. I think I mentally rolled my eyes—just a tad, and with all the love in my heart—at the pickiness of the fellows. Add to my enthusiasm the fact that I was pretty hungry. Sunday afternoon post-church is generally a busy time at my house, and not the most well-fed stretch of hours in our week. Remember that: empty stomach + slightly antiqued western giant puffball interior. A forest growth that came with no cooking or eating instructions. Fungus gusto. 

When we all went over later to join Rob's folks for dinner at Tribal Headquarters, my stomach was aching. Pretty soon Charla was saying she needed to go home and lie down. My mum-in-law asked repeatedly, "Are you poisoned? Do we need to take you to the E.R.?" No, no, just to the Home for Careless Fungus Eaters.

It took me till this morning, about the time that Heather and I went out for bagels, to feel normalish. I hope Charla's doing better; last I heard she was still with us.

I would eat another puffball, yes, I would. But the next time that soccer brain's gonna have to be pristine inside. White as angel food cake, and a perfect texture to match.

Okay, that's it. One profound post. Still want to read my blog, Heather?

I have to say that when I opened up Blogger to write this post, there were close to a dozen wonderful comments waiting for me to moderate and publish. I never received any notification about them, so they've been piled up for weeks, waiting around to jump out at me and yell, "Surprise!" But how did that happen? My blog settings don't require comment moderation, at least not at my command. Huh. I guess that proves my blog and I need to get reacquainted.

And Heather, you and I must always stay acquainted. Happy birthday!

(And thanks, friends, for the kind comments you left for me on earlier posts. Wish I'd seen them when you left them so I could've responded right away.)

Skin and Bones

Strange. I've been working outside, spring cleaning our clutter-challenged back patio. Wearing my big leather gloves. Hauling, sweeping, scrubbing, hefting, burning off an afternoon funk. That worked pretty well; I'm feeling better. The strange part happened when I came in just now for a drink of water and to write myself a note about things to pick up from Home Depot (hose reel, gas can). I slipped out of my work gloves and in the kitchen sink lathered up with dishsoap. My hands felt shockingly tiny, the merest most delicate bones. So insubstantial, fragile. I don't recall having that sort of feeling before. I felt as if I were washing a child's hands. Even now, as I sit here, typing, I stop and rub my hands and they seem so very small. They look fine. It's only how they feel. I'm trying to take it in. I'm sure I'm about to wax philosophical. But these hands have other work this evening besides blogging, so I guess I'll keep these ruminations to myself.

Good Chaps, Good Gaffes

Here's a question: Do angels read blogs?

I woke up from a dream this morning in which Rob told me off-handedly that Leslie (Norris, a favorite friend and poet, deceased now) had recommended a piece from my blog—was it a review?—to a couple of men, somebody named Dan and a fellow whose name escapes me now.

"REALLY?! What did he say? What was it he read?" I cried.

Though I begged to know more, Rob wouldn't answer. He was busy with his own projects, his day.

Still, I was thrilled and shocked. Leslie reads my blog? And he found something he considered worth sharing?

So now I'm wondering about angels and if they read over our shoulders. I'm thinking yes, of course. Seems it would only make their ministering jobs easier and more interesting.

If that is the case, dear Leslie, and you should happen to one day scan my blog, I hope you will find this message: We miss you and Kitty so.

As for the rest of you reading over my shoulder, I hope you explored the above links, particularly the ones that will take you to audiopest, Rob's blog. Lots of fun sound files and good words there to enjoy. You're welcome.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Here's a statement: I love KBYU-FM. I love its music, programs, news, music hosts, and announcers. You might remember a few days ago I blogged about a young woman who tripped over her tongue while reading the morning headlines and telling Classical 89 listeners about the world's largest living organism. She said something so tragicomically inappropriate that it changed the course of my entire day, which had been dragging to that point. Thank you, thank you, belly laughter.

I was so inspired by that great ab workout that I sent a message to the station, offering my hilarity, gratitude, and condolences. I got a a very pleasant form letter back which struck me funny as well given its tone:

Dear Georgia, Thank you for taking the time to write. We always appreciate hearing from those interested in our station and its programs. Thank you for writing to Classical 89. We appreciate hearing from supporters and are happy to hear how much you enjoy our programs. Those of us who work at this station truly appreciate the kind words of encouragement from you and other viewers. It affirms that our efforts are having an affect -- that our programs are being enjoyed and making a difference. This is a big part of our mission, and we're glad to hear we are reaching you. Thank you again for writing. We hope you continue to enjoy and support Classical.

You certainly are reaching me, but it doesn't sound like I really reached you. Did any human being read my email? Oh, well. Ha.

Ah, but then yesterday I got a message from Program Director Eric Glissmeyer:

Dear Georgia: I also heard the newscast that morning. It was kind of horrific, and kind of funny at the same time. Glad you got a kick out of it!

What a good sport. His note tickled me, but then this morning I got another message, this time from News Director Wes Sims: 

Georgia, Thanks for your encouraging comments about our student newscaster’s gaffe on the air. I’ve had my own embarrassing moments in broadcasting, so I was understandably sympathetic. (My personal best was a statement that a gunman was charged with assault with a deadly woman.) We’re glad you listen to Classical 89 … hopefully not just for our mistakes.

Tell me—how could I not love this station? I recommend you give it a listen too. Best classical music anywhere, and great people tending it.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

By the way, I made a new audio discovery yesterday. I found out one of my pet A/V sites has an internet radio station. I listened for a while as I did some plodding work and was "excessively diverted." An entertaining mix of sound captures—music, voices, odd gleaned stuff—all very random tracks. Some of it you'll love, I'm guessing. Some of it may get too weird for your taste. Let me know how you fare.

I think I'll blog now

Rolling around in my head tonight: I'm not who I was but I'm exactly the same person I've always been. 

To misquote performance artist Laurie Anderson, "Paradox is exactly like where you are right now, only much much better."

Hey, wasn't that some kind of magic on the calendar yesterday? 10-10-10. Whoever dreamed such a date? It would have been the perfect time, I guess, to make a fresh start on something—in my case maybe a neglected blog (ahem). But last night after getting the urge to hang around again here On Bright Street, I decided to wait for today to come and break the spell—today, the 11th, a day old donut, the morning after, when the count went all awkward again with that extra 1. However you choose to write the date—a la American 10-11-10 or European 11-10-10—there was no parade to welcome it. Nobody I know of gleefully Facebooked about it or ever stared at a wall clock for a full 60 seconds, celebrating the special minute that added the maximum amount of perfect numbers to an already flawless lineup. Nah, this day's just been one homely Monday with not a single mystical power to recommend it. 

It's been exactly two months since I last wrote here. That's pure coincidence, nothing intentional, I assure you. I'm simply ready to break the long silence and abandon my latest round of notions about pulling the plug on this blog. Might as well leave it be. It's not bothering anyone that I know of. 

I'm back for more and I'm glad it's a plain ol' awkward day. 

Hi.

Beautiful Blogger Award

Thank you, thank you, thank you, my darling and best beloved Erika, for awarding me this badge of honor. I blush. I swoon. I crave a toasted coconut donut. This certainly gives me something to live up to with my blog posts. 

Now. As per Erika's instructions, I will post the "rules" of this award-meme, which I am trying very obediently to follow. (Just so you know, it's very hard. I find it challenging not to rewrite arbitrary rules, but for Erika I'd do most anything. Even mind my manners.)

BEAUTIFUL BLOGGER AWARD RULES (ahem)

If you choose to accept the award you must:

1. Thank the person who nominated you and link to their blog.
2. Copy the award and paste it to your blog.
3. Tell us seven interesting facts about yourself.
4. Pass this award on to 15 fantastic bloggers you have discovered.
5. Contact your nominations and let them know they’ve won.

Alright then. Here I go. In perfect compliance—

1. Gratitude and thanks I have taken care of. Permanently. In my side bar. Go ahead. Try the link. Erika's the most. You must love her.
2. Done and done.
3. Seven interesting facts about me? Since Erika didn't quantify "interesting," how about:
• The last new friend I made was on Monday, a beautiful intelligent little black cat which I named Thatch and claimed for my familiar. Not that I'm a witch.
• I have a brand new set of false eyelashes. Do you?
• Sometimes I just have to kiss flowers. And I often compliment trees.
• I am within easy walking distance of fresh toasted coconut donuts.
• I am keeping two secrets with expiration dates: April 30th and May 17th. I am keeping a much bigger secret that I may never be at liberty to blab. 
• I am supposed to be writing a short play right now. Rehearsal is tomorrow, at my house.
• I have two superpowers: my sense of smell and my fantastic peripheral vision. I have used one of these to fight crime. The other just keeps me out of trouble.
4. 15 Beautiful Bloggers I have discovered—PLEASE NOTE: This is in no way an exhaustive list of my favorites but a mere sampling (alphabetically arranged!) of the blogs which consistently make me glad to be alive. I have intentionally left off links to the "Provo All-Stars" (who may or may not all live in Provo) with whom I am ever and always in love, because there are more than 15 of them I would wish to mention, and so I think they deserve a list of their own at some future date):
• AudioPest (here is the best discovery of my life)
• Becoming Something (calls it like she sees it)
• C Jane Enjoy It (arguably a Provo All-Star, but she's really global property by now, ain't she?)
• Elsa Mora (positive, bright, creative, loving, happy energy—such a gift)
• Evening at the Authors' Table (mmmwah!)
• Hawaiian Magpie (mmmwah!)
• Jenny's Journal (mothering as art, art as mothering)
• Justin Hackworth (always reminds me how much I love people)
• Opacity (an eye for beauty that I understand all the way down to my cells)
• People Running, People Walking (my word sister)
• Resurrection Fern (there is beauty all around)
• Sweets (a beautiful classmate of yesteryear, rediscovered)
• Tollipop (just plain stuck on you)
• Tropical Velvet (mmmwah!)
• Wish Jar  (I want to be like Keri Smith whether or not I grow up)
5. And now I must make contact with these heroes of beautiful blogging....

Recycled: "We Are Not Amused"

I've been neglecting my blog home On Bright Street for a long time and I know it. I've nearly pulled it down a few times in the past several months, but can't quite seem to make my peace with that choice. I've finally come around again to the point where I began—plain and simple, this started out and continues to be a good way for me to be in touch with a few very significant people in my life, since I stink with telephones and hardly anybody gets into writing real letters anymore (although thankfully, Becca still does). But if I'm going to use Bright Street as that kind of communication tool then I've got to write here more than I have been. Imagine! Posting on one's blog! Novelty, indeed.

I have been doing a lot of writing lately—stories, journals, illegibly scribbled notes on pieces of napkins and scraps that sometimes enter another dimension through pockets and purses and laundry piles. I've been stringing words together, just not too much here.

But I will repent of my mum ways. In good faith, I will this very moment pull out for your inspection, like a rabbit from a hat, my latest contribution to a private blog generally written for two exclusive readers: myself and Rob. I'll give you this little peek into the state of our union before it's even a day old. Then hopefully I'll find something more to share here very soon.

Dear you—

I let myself check the calendar today, crunched some growing numbers, and decided that I really must be pregnant again. And guess what—I was not terrified by the prospect of a number five. I was thrilled.

I prayed. I asked for help. I eagerly shot one of those fridge-chilly, messy, still-ahead-of-expiration-date progesterone bullets up thataway, carefully adhering to last year's prescription label's strict directive: "1 per vagina." I studied scriptures. I thought secret things. My hands trembled. I simultaneously read and listened to an old recording of Genesis 1, the creation story, cried with happiness, and pled with the Lord to Let there be light in my womb. I borrowed a great line from a real Biblical trooper: "Is anything too hard for the Lord?" and gave a good Sarah-worthy bellylaugh. I felt that sure of the situation.

I hopped on your bike because mine has a flat and put your seat down a little too far and pedaled like a low rider down to the dollar store for a dollar test, then I laid down not one but seven dollars, splurging on a silly color riot: sparkles for my eyes, bright nail polish, false eyelashes that would make a drag queen envious. I smiled my face off at everyone and nearly kissed the cashier but she had a goth's manicure and didn't look interested.

I hurried next door to The Good Earth to pee, which seemed appropriate. On my way in I picked up a sample of agave nectar and drank it down, saving the cup for my golden specimen. (I really went deluxe this time, yes?) Freddy Mercury was singing, "Aw, you're my best friend," and I thought of you and agreed. Locked in the public potty, I washed out my agave cup and then filled it again with something I thought might prove even sweeter, but . . . when I carefully wielded the plastic eyedropper and put four drops of my own nectar to the test only one pink stripe appeared, not two. I couldn't believe my eyes. I was so sure I wold see a positive reading. So. Sure.

Should I even be telling you this?

I think so. Because I know you would want to share this with me. Even if it makes you sad.

Because you are my best friend.

I had been planning to go to yoga class this afternoon, but now I all I want is you and a toasted coconut donut. Anyway, I'm leaking progesterone now, and it makes me uncomfortable.

You should feel very proud of me. I never said the d-word or any other regrettable word even once and don't think I will this time. But I shall here and now make a rude and Queenly noise to express my vast displeasure and provocation whilst simultaneously keeping my clenching fists occupied and affirming the great and constant blessing of my life (to wit, you). Feel free to join in.

xoinfinity

Spring Chicken

This is the eve of the end of a curse. Not The Curse, as in: lady business, the pip, uterine jihad, the monthly statement, rejoicing in my womanhood, moon-time, flying Bravo, Miss Scarlett's comin' home to Tara, Aunt Flo's in town from Red River—no, not that. But The Curse certainly does have something to do with this other curse I'm thinking of. This curse, from my gram, wasn't likely something she knowingly put upon me; it was more like an inheritance. Maybe that's too strong a word. Did I win it at her estate auction? I don't know.

It's not my intention right here and right now to spell out the terms of the curse—I'm actually in the process of trying to write a screenplay, a fiction which is loosely based on this mysterious alleged hex, and so, muse willing, I will have that to share at some point. Might be good for a few laughs. We'll see.

But tomorrow is my birthday, and as it comes and goes, I will at last be beyond the cursed familial power of 45. That's right. My clock is about to strike 46. F-o-r-t-y-s-i-x. Gasp if you must. Today was the first day I have not gasped myself. In fact, today I actually warmed to the number, and warmed to concept of... are you sitting down? (I am.) MIDDLE AGE. I admit it. I'm there. And I feel it, but guess what? It feels lovely and alive, and not in the least decrepit. Today "middle age" did not seem like the bugaboo I have previously believed it to be. Hey, I've lived a long time! And I'm going to live a lot longer! Where's the problem in that? Would you rather I stayed 21 forever? Would I rather? No, surprisingly, I wouldn't. Or maybe not so surprisingly; I was kind of a dumbbell at 21, although I think a right lovable one.

Today I actually felt like an adult and enjoyed it—now, there's an oddity!—and I felt like a happy, productive one. A young one too; I believe and have seen ample proof in remarkable friends that youth and age/experience can and should coexist harmoniously in one person. (Somebody please remind me to talk about my 98-year-old role model Maureen Bullock later.) It requires effort to keep the two forces in balance, but I'm not opposed to work, and I do appreciate a challenge. All day today I worked on a happy home-fix-up project and dwelt on the question, "What could possibly be repugnant about living and enjoying every single age?" Every moment I am moving forward is a good moment. Who wants to stay in the same spot forever? Sounds repulsively stagnant, and boring on top of it. You should try to get over your 21 Forever fixation, people. It's not healthy. I don't care if you live in a college town or a military town or a hip young urban thing town. I am surrounded by perpetually 20something university students and it looks as though I am finally old enough to be everyone's mother. I like people of all ages, so that's okay. Sadly though, sometimes young friends weed themselves out when they don't enjoy befriending the "elderly." But the ones who stay? Solid gold grasshoppers.

Excuse me while I embrace my season. That's Mrs. Summer to you, spring chicken.

Two more items of business:

• My darling friend Erika (who is boldly unafraid of her elders) honored me with a special award which I will post about after my birthday. Meanwhile, why not visit her blog? Thank you, Erika! I think you are beautiful too. So very.

• I have a special request of you, in case you're interested. As I begin my birthday celebrations I'm trolling for presents. But the gift I would ask you for is to tell me a story about yourself. It can be birthday-related or not. One year I asked the people who love me to send me photos of themselves (and I'm still collecting these, if that heartfelt emotion applies to you), and this year's storytelling is just another way for me to enjoy a snapshot of you. Doesn't have to be long, though it certainly doesn't have to be short. If you want to email it to me my address is: pogofig at gmail dot com

E.A.T. v.2

Heidi's posted another writing prompt: this time, a six-word memoir, a la Smith Magazine (via Talk of the Nation). I can't stop thinking about it. The fingers of my left hand are continually counting the words I'm stringing together in my head. Five? Out. Seven? Out. Six? Yeah, but is it a true six? Here's the first memoirette I feel pretty sure about. Yeah, I'm looking into the future here, but why not hope for the best? My life in six words:

Slow germination. Late bloomer. Good fruit.

So, what do you have to say for yourself? I'd like to read your life story in six words. So would Heidi. Go on, I dare you.

Evening at the Authors' Table

My lovely and enthusiastic sister-in-law Heidi has started a new blog that seems like fun. It's called Evening at the Authors' Table. When Rob and I first got married we made a trip to Canada to visit his folks (parents and six younger sibs still living at home). It was there that I was first introduced to this tradition of family flash fiction, so to speak. We sat around the table after dinner and, to the ticking of a timer, we all milked our brains and wrote whatever dripped out, and then we had an impromptu reading. Very entertaining. I loved it. And I loved it every time the family had occasion, once people relocated to Utah, to play this literary(?) game.

So, now Heidi's set up an online version of E.A.T. (something I've thought about repeatedly, but never quite turned thought into action) and I've had my first go with her first prompt. I won't call it a great result, but honestly, it never is. That's not the point, at least not for me. It's an exercise in fun.

Would you like to play too? Why not give it a go? Go and have a look at Heidi's blog to read the "rules," such as they are.

Prompt: Write about the meeting of an imaginary creature and an ordinary citizen.

I found my answer in the classifieds, actually. I’d been having trouble with my dog—he’s getting old, you know, and like some unlucky people experiencing their “golden” geriatric years, Blackie seemed to reach critical mass with his aging process, and sort of checked out of the norm. It seemed almost overnight that our rapport vanished. Used to be we could read each other’s minds. I knew when he was bored and just how to coax him into the right kind of play to slap a toothy grin over his dog breath. He could sense when I was sad and those were the only times when he (sweetly) would bring his typical ripsnort speed down to a slow crawl and would eventually curl up quietly beside me on the couch. He obeyed my commands, for the most part. And we shared an occasional joke together. Truly! Dogs were built with a sense of humor! Some of them, at least. 

But as I was saying, Blackie rounded some dreadful corner. I think some of his brain must have shut down. Did he have a stroke? He was always willful, but this was something different, though it took me some time to understand that. It was like I couldn’t get through to him. I’d tell him something once. I’d tell him twice. I’d tell him again and again and again. Nothing. He’d only stare at me blankly. Occasionally he’d submit and then five seconds later he’d be back, staring blankly again. We lost the ability to communicate. It was as if I was speaking cat to him—no connection.

But then one weekend I was thumbing through the classifieds of one of those free papers I get from the health food store. Why do I always pick those up? Some strange fascination on my part, because I’m sure I have no need for a tarot reading or an aura colonic. Something bold among the rainbow-colored ads caught my eye—Woofspeak Translation Services, sporting a great black paw print logo. I picked up the phone and called the number. 

Sheesh, my timer went off and I'd barely got the door open to introduce my imaginary creature. Oh, well!

Fortunate 500

Well, here's a milestone—my 500th published Bright Street post. What a lot of words! Pictures too though, and here's another, hot off the flash card, a picture of some of the sweetest and dearest blessings in my life—a beautiful husband I'm completely smitten with and a tribe of in-laws I love so very much. Nearly all of us gathered this weekend; everyone was present except for our New Yorkers. After a rowdy supper those of us with cameras handed them over to our friend, Gary of the Tiaras. He was such a gracious photographer; we weren't easy subjects. Though I suspect Becca may have more frame-worthy ones on hers, this image was my favorite from my camera—seems like it's always the in between and off-center pictures I like best. It's not a perfect shot, but hey, it's the only one of the bunch where you can see everyone's face, the image isn't blurred or blown out, and there's no stink-eye passing between children.

Egans, we all wish you were here with us. You need to know that.

I don't have anything grandiose to say in honor of my #500, only that I am blessed and grateful. Blessed and grateful times 500. Rather, blessed and grateful to the 500th power. Then multiply that by eternity.

There really is no place like home.

As an extra celebratory treat, here is a rare recording by the Von Trapp Family Singers the Tribe, performing a rousing rendition of "Happy Unbirthday to Us," captured onsite this very evening at Tribal Headquarters. Please enjoy!

P.S. This was our third and final round of the song as kids took turns blowing out unbirthday candles. Mart was totally falsetto by this point.

P.P.S. Click to enlarge!

Blogtoberfest

I think I'll give it a go—a month of daily posts in celebration of October. Sometimes just a list maybe, like today's inventory of gratitude:

• starting the day with a clean kitchen (thanks, Rob)
• resurrecting my best recipe for freshly-ground whole wheat pancakes (thanks, cookbook shelf)
• then fancying them up with chunky plum syrup made by the lovely and talented Shakes (thanks, Emily)
• receiving a sweet visit from my favorite Jehovah's Witness girl (thanks anyway)
• after a couple days of stress, finally prying the Hi, Tony! website from the dysfunctional clutches of MobileMe and transferring services to Bluehost (thanks, online support team—I'm especially talking to you, EricW)
• beginning a new class, the Master Gardener Program (thanks USU Cooperative Extension)
• learning from two knowledgeable teachers, not just one (thanks, Larry and Adrian)
• coming home with two unexpected sacks of vegies—pumpkin, tomatoes, hot peppers—from the local "jail garden" (thanks, inmates)
• leftover love note (thanks again, Rob)
• still loving the care package our friends in Seattle sent (thanks, John and Mary)
• especially cooking to their mix CDs (thanks, John and Mary and iTunes)
• dropping dinner plans in the middle of boiling pasta water, throwing on shoes, and racing to Taco Time so we could make it into the dollar theater in 15 minutes (thank you, spontaneity)
• sneaking two vegie burritos and salsa into the movie—yes, I know they say "no outside food or drink" but it was that or starve (thank you, deep fleece pockets)
• finally getting to see Up and crying over a good story (thanks, Pixar)
• priming the baseboards while Rob installed hardware for hanging curtains (thanks, teamwork)
• reading great essays to Rob when his job took longer than mine (thanks, M. F. K. Fisher)
• remembering what I learned this morning while reading scriptures (thanks, Friend)
• looking forward to beating the chill by borrowing some warmth from my sleeping bedmate (thanks, my radiator)

Welcome, October!

Elevator music

I promise, a real blog post is on its way soon, and it will be dedicated to you. Meanwhile, enjoy this uplifting little ditty—

What's on the horizon?

I've taken to staring off into the distance, hoping for some sign of an approaching blog post, but I can't make out a thing. I'm pretty sure I need glasses. Whassat, we're in the mountains? I thought I was looking out over the ocean!