Bring Me the Head of Frosty!

On my way back to bed just now I looked out the kitchen window and realized that the freshly-made snowcouple in my next-door neighbors' front yard are now missing their heads as of sundown. Is this some kind of Solstice prank? Is it a mischief to satisfy the twisted cravings of some resentful Utahn who missed the full moon/lunar eclipse last night, thanks to cloud cover? When I get up in the morning and look at the rest of the snowfolk on my block, will they have also lost their noggins? What gives, thieves?

These aren't the first heads to disappear from our 'hood this week. Two Sundays ago, I was leaving the house very late for church, and happened to witness the surprise delivery of a beast of a Christmas ornament to my other next-door neighbors (also my friends). Picture a delivery truck and a scramble of everyday-looking people, mostly grumping at each other (a couple of them shirking their duty and singing silly carols at the others from across the street) while they unloaded something large which at first resembled a blowup lawn decoration in the shape of a snowman. As the layers of plastic wrap(!) began to be peeled away, I saw that it was a giant tree with a stupidly happy and top-hatted Frosty head in place of a star, and long arms sleeved in festive Christmas plaid with which to hug itself and possibly grab children. Tell you what, it was really hard to tear myself away and drive to church with that kind of show going on.

Later that evening, I knocked on my neighbors' door, eager to inspect the holiday damage. Mom, Dad, and kids were all sitting in their now-crowded living room in chairs lined up in a row, staring slack-jawed at the Frosty tree (whose neck looked a little uncomfortable, what with his being so tall and trying not to scrape his top hat on the not-quite-high-enough ceiling) and the landslide of other large and unexpected gifts that had also been grumpily delivered: entertainment center, enormous flatscreen TV, blue-ray, and a giant inflatable for the front yard—three snowmen in a snow globe.

Frosty struck me as full of silly goodwill and Christmas cheer, a soul whose spirit could never be dampened nor defeated. He seemed not to care (or even notice) that he was out of place in their quiet, understated home. "OH, BY GOSH, BY GOLLY, FOLKS, HOPE YA HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS!" What made the situation even more comical was Frosty's improbable mass, which seemed all the more exaggerated by the diminutive size of his new housemates; we're talking about tiny people who live next to me. People frighteningly dwarfed by an enthusiastic tree-man.

When I visited a couple days later, there was something distressing happening to Frosty. The young daughter of the family was up on a chair, and appeared to be giving Frosty some kind of chiropractic adjustment. I heard a clear Crack! as she grabbed his (fake) carrot nose for better leverage. Crack! again, and Frosty got a hitch in his sniffy-up.

Next time I stopped in, Frosty was gone. Oh, the glittering tree that once was his body was still there, and its silvery ornaments gleamed with pride, having been stripped of goofiness, as Frosty's keepers had wrenched the head free, and removed the appendages, which once had been so eager to embrace the season. I was told: "J. came by today and wanted the head for a costume. But she wouldn't take the arms." The tree did look pretty after having received such intimate alterations—who would have ever noticed those fancy baubles with such a friendly bumpkin forever introducing himself and stealing the show? I never did. I can't exactly  say I blame my friends for deconstructing Frosty's personality, but oh, by gosh, by golly, I do kinda miss him. I cannot see a tree when I look at their renovated (fake) tannenbaum; for me, it will remain a headless snowman.

And now this, this rash of lost heads. I don't suspect J. Nope, somebody must have watched Frosty's beheading through my neighbors' front window; this is a copycat crime. Or maybe this is someone's idea of a protest against the mistreatment of snowmen in captivity. I guess it could be the local snowpeople's own demonstration of solidarity: We will all lay down our heads until Frosty again wears his own (fake) smile. 

Bundesarchiv, Bild 102-12806 / CC-BY-SA [CC-BY-SA-3.0-de 

(www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/de/deed.en)], via Wikimedia Commons

Day Four Through Day Umpteen

Here's the latest Adoption Progress Report from Bright Street:

• Got a replacement Social Security card and copied it for the agency so now my background can be checked for criminal activity. (Glad to know this will not include reports from the Fashion Police.)
• Have heard from a few people that requests for character referencs and official inquiries are being made about us.
• We've been given the key to the front door of the LDS Family Services adoption site. The key won't turn in the lock yet (some strange password issue we're waiting to have resolved), but soon we'll be working our way through the next round of paperwork, online this time.
• We have been assigned an actual case worker. Her name is Paige. We have our first meeting with her this Tuesday. Every time I think of it my stomach does tuck and roll.
• My mum-in-law gave me a beautiful black mantilla which belonged to Rob's great-grandmother, Josie. Josie wore it while she was pregnant with Rob's maternal grandmother, Daphne. I love Grandma Daphne very much, and was privileged to live near her in the last years of her long good life. She once made a present of a piano to me, her mother Josie's. I was shocked, and still am. But there it stands, in the living room of a novice pianist, adored. Now I feel really honored to have this mantilla, especially as we try to move through this journey of growing our family. I wore it on Friday to the temple. It felt beautiful around my shoulders, like support, like protection, like knowing, like grace.
• It seems that I've been given a magic looking-glass. It's no circus mirror like the one I've made a long habit of staring at; this new glass shows accurate dimensions. Each time my attention's been directed to peer into it these past couple weeks, I've been shown something important about myself. None of it's been pretty, which is to say that this is not a mirror invested in flattery or petting; I see the shape of things now and what's possible (that's the more appealing part which keeps me willing to continue studying). The first good look I took made me go quiet, stopped me cold. I've got a blog post that ventured halfway into that particular vision; I really meant to write it all, but it got too intense to publish and I had to let it go. I do take comfort in the fact that something in me is apparently ready to receive such information and not bolt. Anyway, each look has been different; one that happened on Friday night was really fascinating. I got to observe and help someone else going through a personal crisis, and got all sorts of understanding. I got my lesson and a satisfying twist of irony. I don't mean to skip over stories here, but it doesn't feel right to elaborate further. I'll just say the glass and I had an eventful weekend. 
• (And just in case you're wondering, I do equate the last bullet point with adoption progress.)
• On the 17th I decided to start a scripture-reading program. Five chapters a day will see me through the entire Standard Works  in a year's time. For me, an important aspect of parenting is being able to teach from the scriptures as well as from life and nature and all good sources. That means I gotta know my stuff. Or at least be better acquainted with my stuff. Or simply be in the habit of finding my stuff. So, I downloaded some handy-dandy bookmarks to track my reading, and right now I'm working on the Book of Mormon and the Old Testament. I'm enjoying the time, and it goes by quickly. To keep myself moving forward—march, march, march—I'm simultaneously reading and listening. Makes for an interesting experience. Sometimes it's useful to hear a different delivery than the one that speaks out in my own head. Also, with two senses engaged at once it's easier to keep my mind focused. I've had a tough time with that lately—a result of anxiousness, I'm sure. 
• I'm de-hoarding the basement. Construction will soon follow. 
• We had our dandelions treated. Obliterated. So our neighbors will be like us better and not hold our future children for ransom (their single demand: "Kill the weeds!"). Mind you, I'm a great believer in dandelions as a concept (and they make excellent tea), but I'm not as recklessly anti-social as one might think. I do love my neighbors. And their tidy nice-people lawns. 
• I'm dusting off a colorful blankey project I started last time I was pregnant. Man, is it pretty. And I find I can look at it again now without too much emotional kickback. I'm going to finish the thing, whatever happens.
• I'm gearing up to become an early morning person, as of tomorrow. Wish me luck. Now, goodnight.

Pinch a Few Pennies, Build Community, Through Seed Exchange

Well, wouldja look at this. UPP is helping me promote the Seed Exchange. Saturday afternoon. Be there and be square.

Peas out.

Pinch a Few Pennies, Build Community, Through Seed Exchange

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!

Brown is the new lawn sign repellant

Tomorrow's the Provo City Municipal Primary Election, so if you live anywhere near my 'hood, don't forget to visit the voting polls and punch your conscience. Not literally, of course—you should always listen to your conscience and not fight against it—but do take up that stylus and poke a hole by the name of each of your favorite candidates.

My favorites are listed to the right. That's correct; I am wearing my local politics on my sleeve. These people are good for our city and especially for the neighborhoods that make up that city. Cindy asked Rob and me to write a letter of recommendation for her, knowing that we are on her team, and this is the closest I've come. It's probably as close as I'll get this election. But here's the bottom line: Cindy is a good idea, and manages to stay freshly so, after more than a decade of seasoned service. She moves with the times, moves with our needs. I have the utmost confidence in her. That's also how I feel about Steve Clark. I already see him as mayor. I think he is the perfect choice for Provo right now. I find all of these people inspiring, trustworthy, disciplined, and very capable.

As long as I'm on this subject, however briefly, I feel I must advise those of you seeking to adorn your lawns with signs to help campaign for your picks during future election seasons. If you want to get involved, you have got to water your grass! And pull your weeds! Sweep your steps! Don't let the cats use your flower beds as kitty litter stations! Pick up your unread Wall Street Journals so they don't get rained on and turn into gooey grey blobs on your sidewalk! Take it from me, queen of the dying green, no candidate (apparently) wants to advertise on an unkempt 1/8th acre. Think about it—who's the true trendsetter on your block—the guy with the lush lawn and tidy hedge, or the one who dreams at night of automatic watering systems and is ever at the ready to harvest dandelion fluff and puncture vine? I don't care if you put one of those "I'm gorgeous inside!" signs in front of your house; nobody's going to believe you. There is no Brown Party. It's all about green, comrade. We have learned by sad experience that even if a candidate courts you via phone or email for free campaign space, one in-person glance at your dirt-colored digs will send them running.

Today it stormed, but the rain came too late to save my suffering yard from political muteness. Standing proudly in lawns all over the 'hood now are Cindy signs and scattered Steves and conscientious Coys. Nobody wants my yard. But you know what? I'm gorgeous inside. And I vote!

Go, Steve!

Go, Cindy!

Go, Coy!

Go, Provo!

(Go vote!)

That's how it happens? Oh, now you tell me!

Sheesh, we've really been overthinking the process. We could have made a whole houseful already! And a few for our friends! Why do we always have to make things so complicated?

GOSH!

Well, rest assured, Rob and I are two old dogs that CAN be taught new tricks. Stand by for offspring.

Dandelion Girl's lovely weekend

Here is my young weed-picking friend I mentioned in yesterday's post, standing with her lovely mum. Can you imagine the impact of such a weekend as Dandelion Girl is having? Yesterday was her 8th birthday. Today she was baptized. Tomorrow is Easter. Her best-beloved grandparents have come all the way from the UK to be with her, and her granddad even baptized and confirmed her. That's a lot of sweetness and a lot of happy memories. They're having a party next door—it's rocking right through the afternoon. I can hear the voices of squealing, running, excited children outside—the grey sky and the drizzling rain can't stop them. For DG and her tagalong troupe it's a sunshiny day.

Sick day action shots

Rats! I was down for the count on what is typically one of my best days. But I wouldn't say my Friday the 13th was a total bust. I mean I did get to catch up a little on three of my favorite things:


SLEEP


STARGATE


and SEGULLAH.

Better luck next time, eh? (That would be in November.)

To all the friends I've loved (and neglected) before

Maybe in part because I'm a pretty hardcore introvert by nature, I wrestle with a chronic character flaw which some of you may be able to relate to, one that most of my loved ones have already taken me to task for, repeatedly—namely, my tendency to lapse in communications. See, it isn't just my blog that sports big gaps—you should take a look at my Gmail inbox, the stack of unanswered letters on my desk (thank heaven for auto-pay, because I have had this same dumb trouble with bills for years), and probably most regrettable of all, the old messages on my answering machine. I'm better than I used to be—now and then I catch up and stay that way for a minute—but I am always struggling to discipline this part of myself. Why? Is it ADD? Adult-onset autism? Narcolepsy?

One thing's sure—it's not because I don't have excellent friends. Since I was just a tiny almost anybody's who's been willing to take me on has proven to be remarkable, the best of the best. Funny, intelligent, kind people are almost without exception the sort I've been lucky enough to connect with. Even my pets. I mean, really, I have one of the dearest, truest, hairiest little comedians on the planet eating from a dog bowl and sleeping on a ratty pillow on my back porch. I am also related to great people by blood and marriage. My neighbors are even decent folks.

So, when Lisa Jones left a plaintive comment on my last blog post because I've been off exploring another black hole of non-communication, I thought I'd better review the situation. Again.

Frankly, I've grown bored with beating myself up and since it's never done much to advance my evolution anyway, I'm going to simply say, YES, Lisa, I do remember you . . . with love. I appreciated being your friend back in the days we were neighbors. You're still on my list, and always will be. I hope you'll try me again, if you dare, for I'd like to be in touch.

Same goes for you, Amy O. Same goes for you too, Melissa O. and Liz C. and Miki S. The list seems crazy endless, and chances are, your name is already on my Great List of the Madly Neglected.

I love you, friends. Honest, I do. This won't probably won't do much to change my socially wayward nature, but here's something I thunk up that sounds fun. If you know me, and I don't care how well—that means if you just know me from reading this blog—and you want to play along, here's how. I recently inherited about a brazillion blank postcards and notecards from a friend (the irony is killing me), and also, while cleaning my basement I found more than one set (won't confess how many) of Christmas stamps from previous years (you guessed it—my great intentions never materialized into holiday mailings). This means I'm all set up to correspond. I actually really love old-fashioned handwritten mail, the kind that travels from my front stoop to your mailbox (and vice versa), via friendly blue-clad postal workers (just count all the human hands involved!). Here's the game: If you will email me your snail mail address I will happily sit down and send you that very day a love note. I might even refill my fountain pen for the occasion, if it still works. Who knows, maybe this will be the beginning of reform for me. (Let's not hold our breath though.) Anyway, it sounds like fun and something I can handle. I'll even send a note to somebody else you care about if you'll tell me who needs a postcard and share the addy. By the way, my email address can be found in the top right corner of this page. My Nativity stamps and I will be ready and waiting for you.

This will hopefully help me get warmed up for celebrating my special holiday in a few weeks—March Forth. I thought this year I would celebrate by . . . are you sitting down? . . . catching up on some phone calls. The purely recreational kind, not business. I know, unheard of, huh?

I'm off now to do some Bollywood with Hemalayaa, but first here's a song I want to dedicate to you, my friends, who mean much more to me and have more of my gratitude and love trailing after you than you're likely to ever know. xo

Money (That's What I Want for NieNie Day)

Hey, I ain't too proud to beg.



So, here's what I'm auctioning, a limited-edition letterpress/woodcut broadside:



Here's a description of the piece and why you'll love it.

And here's where the bidding is happening, from now till Saturday night.

Don't forget the other great auctions happening this weekend. You can find the master list of offerings here. Maybe it's time for you to consider taking out a second mortgage.

Listing to the right

This morning I checked in on a friend's private blog and found she'd posted a list of books, reportedly circulated by the NEA, of their Top 100 Books . . . of all time? of readers' choice? of modern culture? Not sure about that part. I searched the NEA site to try and find the answer, plus #99 and #100 on the list, since my friend had inherited a truncated one from another blogger. I didn't find what I was looking for, but spotted several other similar Top 100 Books lists from other groups as I was Googling about. There's a healthy overlap among these, as might be expected. I'll share a few links with you, in case you like to peruse lists like I do.

Harvard
Radcliffe
Guardian UK
Us and Them
Jackpot!
Waterstone
An illustrated guide—page one—page two—page three—page four
Project Gutenberg
NY Times Notable Books of the Year
College Board
Banned Books
Entertainment Weekly's "The New Classics"
100 Best Children's Books

And so it goes on for 22,100,000 results.

So I had lists and 100s and books on my brain first thing today, and I was immediately primed and ready to obsess over reading—you know, get busy absorbing and check all those neglected books offa those lists. But I had a workday laid out before me that wouldn't allow for the leisure of sitting down with any book, good or bad, so I decided to strap on my iPod and let my ears do the page-turning for me while I painted. I looked over the NEA list and sort of did an eeny-meeny-miney-mo; the first title for which I could quickly find a free audio recording would be my listen du jour. Whaddya know? I came up with Dumas' The Three Musketeers, thanks to Librivox, my old haunt. So much for random selection. But okay, I thought, at least that will provide me with some light entertainment.

Trouble was, it took a while to download the TWENTY-FOUR PLUS HOURS of recorded readings (ack, what an investment!), so while I waited for the main event I thought I'd give a new podcast a try. Last week I subscribed to the New Yorker: Fiction podcast, and was eager to see what it was like. Oddly enough, I was surprised that the very first episode I listened to was A List of Books, featuring a terrific short story by Bernard Malamud called A Summer’s Reading, about a young man who, in order to make a good impression, claims he is spending his summer reading through a list of 100 books recommended by the library. Perfect! That's what I call happy synchronicity.

I took it as my sign to forge ahead with a serious reading/listening plan. Today while working I enjoyed several amazing short stories (thanks to the New Yorker), all I could handle of The Three Musketeers, several chapters from The Book of Mormon, and an episode of This American Life.

I highly recommend reading . . . and iPods . . . as work and mental health helpers.

What are you reading with your eyes or ears right now?

Striking a chord

Billy copied it from Digby, and now I'm copying it from Billy (my darling). If this ain't a blast from one of the best parts of my past, I'll hush. (That's Southernspeak, in case you didn't recognize it.) Have some old punk on me, and enjoy.

Music Video:4TH OF JULY (by X)

Music Video Code provided by Video Code Zone

Taking a pulse

It's time again for me to dump my collection of blog referrals onto the table and count up what I've got. I find it no end of fun to see how random people doing internet searches find their way to Bright Street. Do any of them stick around? Who knows? Here are some of the roads that led them here:

dalai lama and miscarriage
Pattycake Kiss Me
"yurt" + "boulder, UT"
melody husband tucson
my very dear sarah, the indications are very strong that we shall leave in a few days, perhaps tomorrow
byu broadcast grandson ghandi
vintage blues blogspot
snow globes moroni
"collard poems"
Memory is the thing you forget with
agnes boy's name
interview, President Monson, yesterday
"who hurt you who hurt you" family guy
"massage table" sketch or drawing
zina
making fabric fortune cookies
Passage to Zarahernia
giving you another chance poem
"georgia on my mind"
lortab on the street
i'm manic
"More Fours" - North Carolina
How melt silver in home therapy

And here are some topics that recently pointed to Bright Street as the #1 choice on Google:

"multiple splits" on one hair
Name matchmaker laura wattenberg
spanky ward crossroads
strawberry baby agnes
Little Sister Izzy Dr. Seuss

Me, my phone, and I, pt. 1

When I was a little girl my family moved to the country, a good fifteen minutes' drive from town. The only telephone service available to us and all our interrelated Missionary Baptist neighbors was the party line. We shared a wire with nosy folks up and down our road. Have any of the rest of you ever experienced a party line? It was, by turns, great entertainment and great vexation.

The way it worked was simple: Each household sharing the wire had its own distinctive ring. When our ring sounded, either my mother or I would answer (I don't remember my father ever voluntarily picking up a phone). Usually, in those days, I was more eager to be the one to pick up the receiver. Mama didn't mind. She already dealt with too many phones at night in her dreams—rotary dials that wouldn't stop spinning around, busy signals, dialing wrong numbers repeatedly, not being able to connect, uncooperative operators, malfunctioning mouthpieces—all these she brought to me for interpretation. I was her personal Daniel.

Riiiiiiiiing! That's our call! "Hello, Bowen residence, Georgia speaking."

"Honey, is your mama home?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'll get her."

Later on in the day: Ring-ring-riiiiiiiiing! The Hendersons' line! Don't pick it up. Wait'll the ringing stops. Ring-ring-riiiiiiiiing! Ring-ring-riiiiiiiiing! Ring-- Now! Quietly . . .

I would ease the receiver off its hook s-l-o-w-l-y so as not to be noticed. Molasses in winter. Over time I learned to unscrew the mouthpiece and take out the talking chip before I joined the conversation, in case I needed to cough, or giggle, or breathe. Sometimes the rural ladies would gossip with their friends, or complain about their husbands and children. Most of the time their calls were pretty dull and their voices flat, but to me it was still thrilling to listen in. I felt grown-up, adventurous. I was working undercover. I was an only child, and the phone was an excellent playmate.

"Is somebody there? Hang up."

Snicker, wheeze. They can't hear me!

"I know you're listening. Hang up!"

I would wait it out until they either decided I really wasn't there, or stopped caring.

I was making calls of my own before private lines came to Kellum Loop Road. I would be on the phone with a friend and hear a click! That's when the sound of our voices over the wire would alter slightly, as if the room suddenly got bigger.

"Hello? Did somebody pick up? I'm on the line. Would you please hang up?"

Muffled silence would come from the eavesdropper's end. I guess word never made it around about removing the talking chip. I'm sure I never told.

"I know you're there. I can hear you breathing! Would you please hang up the phone!"

My friend and I would exchange disgruntlements and then fall hotly silent till the listener lost interest and hung up.

Sometimes I would be in the middle of a call and someone wanting the phone would pick up—click!—pause—then slam down the line, pick up—click!—pause—then slam down the line, and so on. It was a very annoying, very anti-social way of getting a point across. Why not do what a dream neighbor would do—pick up the line quietly, and politely ask for a chance to make a quick call. I remember needing to do that a time or two. But did I ever passive-aggressively pick up, pause, and slam first? Truly, I don't recall!

I was in heaven when we finally had our own private line. I got very carried away at times with uninterrupted talking. I remember I was on the phone a very long time one evening. My dad was working late at the newspaper office, and apparently wanted to talk to my mother, who was probably in her room, reading. He called and called and called, and every time got a busy signal. I don't know what oaths he uttered to the operator, but when her mechanical monotone broke into my conversation and instructed me to hang up because there was an emergency call trying to come through, I knew I was in big trouble. I got quite the tongue-lashing for that.

I never could understand what made adult conversations so much more important than kids'.

The truth is

I've fallen and I can't get up! I mean, I am so far behind in reading my favorite bloggers that I'm afraid I may never catch up again. That possibility depresses me. What sort of phase is this I'm going through?

A while back I started wondering, as most bloggers do from time to time, if I ought to shut down my spot—move away from Bright Street. As 2007 reached its conclusion I received some strong impressions about the new year, and so I entered 2008 fully expecting that it would become a revelation of creativity and a year of at least a few long sought after hopes reaching fruition. Not that I know what any of that means yet; I'm still just going on feelings.

My energy is different this year. Sometimes it crosses the line into seriously manic territory, and that's not so good for me, but when I'm not at that agitated extreme, I am filled with ideas and feel a huge sense of urgency about a number of projects, a few of which are necessarily time-sensitive because they are for the press, and we have some deadlines. Others are just pressing down on me because I'm crazy, I guess. Or possibly inspired. But probably just crazy.

So in this flurry of aught-eight activity, my connection with the beloved blog world seems to be weakening. I said I had new energy, but the trouble is I'm no more fast or efficient because of it. I've run on one speed all my life: S-L-O-W. It's true. I was usually the kid in P.E. finishing up laps around the track in the highly uncoveted position of last. I type slowly. I read slowly. I don't think slowly—my brain moves recklessly fast at times—and sometimes my heart races when I'm stressed, but really, that's about it for me and speed. It takes forever to write one measly blog post, and it takes me longer to mull over what friends write and formulate my comments. I could be a gold medalist in the Slow Olympics. I do housework (if at all) slowly. I walk slowly. Give me any job to do; I can make it stretch beyond the limits of good judgement. I used to want to beat myself up for this kind of pokiness; I thought I should force myself to change and keep up with the world. Then I made friends with a woman from Jamaica who made me look like Speedy Gonzalez and eventually I realized that some folks just naturally move in their own separate time, and that's okay.

But. Warm fuzzy self-acceptance aside, sometimes I get so aggravated with the restraints of my own inborn speed, of time and energy reserves, and of the need for sleep. After the introduction of a bundle of new projects and ideas, my life has begun playing out like Rock, Scissors, Paper; something significant gets trumped in every round. Blargh!

I'm not going to abandon Bright Street and I'm also not going to abandon reading other blogs, but my habits have to change. They've already had to. Thank heaven for Google Reader; it keeps me in the know about just how far behind I really am. That's painful but helpful. For example, I see that I am now 36 posts behind on i i eee's blog. And the rest of you are also in that sad queue. Can you feel my pain?

(By the way, I just went to i i eee's place to nab that URL, and found she's posted one of my favorite giddy Bjork videos. To my great amusement, it pretty well sums up my gut feelings about 2008—"Something important is about to happen" and "It takes courage to enjoy it.")

Oof.

Well, enough of that. Here's something else. I am still using Sitemeter to track some of the ways random people are finding my blog. This is called Free Entertainment. Here are some of the roads that apparently intersect with Bright Street:

how much is lortab on the street [this came from someone in a neighboring town]
lionel you have been hurt that much is clear who hurt you
surviving the applewhites:about the book [Korea]
"annual history" ward lds
talking to my friend about his terminal cancer
can you grow avocados in georgia
nigel wadner
Living Snow Globe
names for Grandmamas
foot pedal transcription+honolulu
The Proclaimers
zina.nibley.petersen
wgbh
back on the change gang lyrics [Peru]
Camp Mia Shalom
agnes mae [Netherlands]
praised redemmer bring welcome lyrics
brian kershisnik woman walking dog
bright street pictures
"zone 3" "gang"
Miss you love letters to husband [UK]
when the earth begins to tremble
chair chicken wire paper mache [UK]

I am also keeping a tally of the special areas where Bright Street ranks #1 in the search engines:

"UNFINISHED BUSINESS "" OUT OF MY HAND" blogspot [Japan]
epiphany snow globe
"hudson's geese" recording [the ONLY result on Google]
bed bath and beyond azucar
goofy sweater
What is Yammit?
daffodils safe sheep

And what would this list be without the perennial global favorites:

street pee
street thong

(I kid you not, these two referrals turn up all the time on Sitemeter, from a dozen and a half different countries. I am convinced there is some kind of club out there that I don't want to know about.)

And to clear that pleasant thought from the air, I will give you a quick list of 3 Beautiful Things and then wish you a grand day of finding your own small beauties.

1. I looked out the kitchen window this morning and saw shining fairy dust floating slowly downward all around the fig tree. I called Rob to come and look and he said, "This only happens when it's very very very cold." I'm not the princess sort, but I swear the stuff was magical and I was completely enchanted. I stood at the window and watched it sparkle and float till the sun shifted and stopped making the wet air gleam.

2. Yesterday in the doctor's office, another woman and I were waiting for our appointments. A third woman who'd just finished with the doctor unsteadily joined us on the couches while her able-bodied daughter paid her bill at the counter and made follow-up arrangements for her ailing mother. A young nurse stepped into the room and called, "Donna?" And the third woman responded with surprise while the one who was still waiting for her appointment caught her breath and looked up, also puzzled. Turns out both the women were Donnas. We all shared a laugh and Donna Ready for Attention went back to the examination room with the nurse. Donna Finished turned to me and asked, "Are you a Donna too?" I answered regretfully that I wasn't, but wouldn't it be perfect if I was? "It would be perfect!" the cheerful but very uncomfortable Donna Finished replied. When she left, I said, "Goodbye, Donna!" With a beaming smile, she asked me my name and said, "Goodbye, Georgia!"

3. I was at Macey's buying groceries two mornings ago. While I was unloading my cart, the bagger walked all the way up the counter to quietly slip in behind me and ask, "Paper or plastic?" "Paper, please," I said. I didn't see her name tag, but I recognized her. She is a thin, pale, older middle-aged lady who seems very shy, even mousy. She was slow with her work, but was painstakingly careful about the way she bagged my food; I noticed the way she deliberated and rearranged. I thought to myself, I could be here a while, but at least I won't go home with banged-up produce, as I sometimes do. (This is one of my pet peeves.) She seems like a person who feels embarrassed as a rule, and to let her know I was okay with her pace and style, I said, "I'm so glad you're being so careful with your bagging. I appreciate that." She stopped and looked up at me with a shocked face and went back to work, muttering a little self-consciously about the cheese and the eggs. A bag or two later, she looked up at me again and said with what seemed like a little unaccustomed pride wobbling in her voice, "Well, I've had this job for nine years. I guess I ought to know how to do it by now!" and she smiled like it was a new experience. We passed a few small pleasantries, I promised to look for her next time I came shopping, and as I left the store I was overcome with unexpected emotion and a sense of that woman's worth. Several phrases turned around and around in my mind: "A daughter of God just bagged my groceries!" "Someone very important just bagged by groceries!" "Someone noble, someone royal, someone divine just bagged my groceries!" It was astonishing. The feeling stayed with me a long while.

Will work for links

In case you haven't yet noticed the recent changes on Bright Street, let me point out a few home improvements I've made. I've moved the furniture around a bit and added a little paint. I've also installed something you probably thought you'd never see here—the long-awaited, much-debated, ultra-modern, somewhat controversial, who's-who and so-and-so element that every socially-connective blogger feels is a must-have: a blogroll. And even better, it's a blogroll in two parts. I don't know what finally inspired me, after all this time in my no-linky state. It must have been the paint fumes talking.

Most of you already know most of you, but maybe there's somebody new on the list you'll meet and enjoy.

Thanks for being people I wish were in my IRL neighborhood. This list will undoubtedly grow, so keep your eyes peeled for updates. And if you're linked and don't want to be, please let me know.

Monkeying around

In preparation for little Sophie Mustard, I've decided it's time to start the nesting process early. My furniture's looking awfully tired, so I'm thinking of starting with a few reupholstery projects. First, I'd like to get some input. How do you feel about this look?