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Besotted

Some things I am currently loving:

Pictures drawn by my kids. Especially when they illustrate their love for me.

 

Shopping carts with cup holders. It's the only thing that makes fetching groceries endurable.

 

The holds section at the library. Seriously, I'm hardly spending money on books at all anymore.

 

Matches. My big, plastic candle lighter ran out of juice, and I've rediscovered the simple pleasure of lighting a match. The scratch, snap, and sizzle.

 

My new slippers. I finally had to trash my beloved old standbys, which were embarrassingly ratty.

Short list

• I think this is a spectacular article about marriage and fidelity. Or lack thereof. Go forth and read. Read! You won't regret it.

• Yesterday, I received an email about a new conference called BlogHer Writers and I got myself seriously worked up about going. Texted J. at the office, looked at airfares and hotels. Then I came to my senses. Flying across the country for a single day of information that doesn't include one-on-ones with agents or editors. Mmm. Probably not. But I do love the fact that it'll be swarming with Penguin people.

Although this is probably what they'd do to me the first time I tried to corner one of them to pitch my manuscript:

• This makes me stupidly happy. Goats in trees.

What's making you happy right now?

Saved

My friend Stacy came from Portland to Seattle to save me this weekend.

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I don't know what to write in this space at this moment. None of my stories seem quite worthy enough to share. And, though that hasn't stopped me in the past, it's stopping me now.

So, here are my favorite photos from this summer. It was a good one.

 

  

  

 

Forgive me, for I have Flipped (again)

I don't know how to explain my recent fascination with this little gadget we've had sitting around our house for quite a while now. I'm completely into this little Flip and I think the Flip people should pay me for extolling their ease of use and funness and compactness and all around adorableness.

But I won't hold my breath.

Here's a short of my beloved Seattle. I've been here 10 years now and can't, at the moment, imagine living anywhere else. I think I'm a lifer. I only wish I were actually from Seattle so my parents and sister and aunt Betsy would be here too.

Shallow

I could blog about Tiger Woods, who disgusts me now. Who (Whom? Whom cares?) I never thought much about before a few days ago. But who has clearly been seriously power tripping these last few years or living out some teenage boys' fantasy.

I could blog about how Obama is sending more troops to Afghanistan, and how weird I feel about that, but how I'm trying to believe in him because I think he's trying his best.

I could blog about red wine, and how the only way I differentiate vintages is bitey and smooth. And how much I love smooth, but won't pay more than seven dollars for it. I'm cheap that way.

What I really wanted to do today, though, was play with my Flip.

Detritus

A storm that wasn't dramatic so much as persistent rose up from behind the Olympic Mountains a few days ago and buffeted Seattle with its winds and rain and knocked over the two shopping carts. Their contents now lay, sodden, across the sidewalk. No one seems to care.

*****

I am tired of hearing my bloggy voice and have been having a hard time hitting that green COMPOSE button lately. What more can I say about being a stay-at-home mom who simultaneously adores her children but would like them to move out? It's the same old see-saw. Marriage, too. Up and down and sometimes round and round. So, if I'm posting more photos and fiction than usual, please know I'm looking for my voice, trying to figure out where to take this site next.

*****

I have made the monumental and expensive decision to hire an independent editor for my manuscript. I believe I've found a good one, an honest one, a thoughtful one, and I'm excited to learn what she says about the flaws in my narrative. I hope I'm up to the task of fixing them.

On the writing front, I'm also polishing up a short story I've been working on for a few months now, have passed it to a friend to critique (anyone else want a shot?) and like it quite a bit. Soon I will send it out, releasing it to anonymous slush piles and waiting for bites.

*****

Re: Knitting. I gravitate toward the yarny looping and weaving the colder it gets. It's one of the most meditative things I do. And, though partaking makes me feel about 82, it's lovely. Fruit Bat, more than anyone, is interested, asking if he can help, watching intently as the needles slip and click, often proclaiming, "Mom, you're good! You're a GOOD knitter." In reality, I'm mediocre. But I like it. And I like that he likes it.

Waxed

I make my call. Covert. Standing in the laundry room with the dryer doing its airy spin, muffling my voice.

Later that afternoon I glance over both shoulders, then hop quickly into the car. I drive south, find the building along old railroad tracks that don’t get used much anymore.

Head bowed, I stride inside and give my name.

A woman named Tara greets me. She tells me to remove my coat and lie down on a cot, face up.

I do.

She shines a hot light in my face and proceeds to slather wax over the edges of my eyebrows. She yanks hard. I grin. I love the whole process. The warm paraffin, the sting, the cool lotion they rub in afterward. 

But I feel guilty too. The shameful waste of money. The gross connotation of a richy woman with so much time on her hands she can engage in such things. What’s so wrong with tweezers, after all?

Except, with tweezers, there’s no warmed bed, no soothing music or efficient ripping out of all the little hairs I hate. There’s only me, hunched over the sink, plucking under an insufficient bulb.

So I suffer the guilt. Pay with cash. Skulk out, large sunglasses covering my reddened skin, hoping the next six weeks pass quickly so I can do it all again.

Friday

The word desserts is cast from the window, onto the floor near my feet.

The green tea is hot and bitter, just how I like it.

The music, it is moody and thumping. Also how I like it.

The chocolate lab is staring again, it's sad, sweet eyes twitching.

The ideas, they fill my head. A clutter. Too much I want to do in this modest space of time I'm allotted.

The weekend is upon me. I do not wait and cheer for Saturdays and Sundays.

The signs, they are askew.

The longing is always there.

The boy, he woke me by rubbing his small hand gently over my hip.

The strand of blond hair that I twist in front of my nose is frayed from too much dye.

The boat has capsized.

The horses are dead.

The young eagle soars over Ballard, wondering where all his fish have gone.

The pastry is tempting.

The deadlines are looming.

The dreams lately are anxious and strange, especially toward morning.

The plastic bag is stuck in the branches of a tree. Ugly neglect. 

Or oddly beautiful.

Pink

Clearly I'm calling out for help as I lurch my way through this, my 40th year. I went and put a pink stripe in my hair. Against the better judgment of my friend, Heather. Despite that J. was shaking his head at me as I did it. Regardless of the fact that my parents are coming to Seattle next week. (Hi Mom).

But I don't care. I don't care! I like it. For now.