We baked, we ate, we visited, and now we’re taking hints from Henry.
Here’s hoping your day was a good one. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
Wednesday, Actually
Thanks to all for your comments yesterday. You’re appreciated more than you’ll ever know.
Today I met my freelance deadline, I shopped for the ingredients to make green bean casserole and roasted veggies, and I sat on the couch and watched Love, Actually. (I always fall asleep during the same part of the movie. Today was no exception. I still have no idea if the married guy cheated on his wife with his cute-haired co-worker.)
This scene gets me every time.
And this scene destroys me.
And although I know I’ve shared this before, I just sort of need you to know that it’s one of my favorite movie scenes from all time. (You may want to switch it to full screen so you can read the subtitles. If you’re anything like me, you won’t be able to see them properly here.)
I hope your Wednesday has been a good one. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
Before you read this, I want you to know that All’s Well That Ends Well. All is well.
Do you remember a few years back when I explained the whole mammogram thing to you? In a nutshell (in a nutshell?), you go to a place like Metro Imaging, you fill out some paperwork, you take off your shirt, you get smooshed four times, and then five minutes later you’re walking out the door with a smile on your face and a certificate that says, “Clear!”
This morning I went in for my mammogram. I filled out the questionnaire, I pulled off my shirt, I got smooshed four times, and then the tech came back into the room and said, “The doctor wants me to take a few more shots. We’re seeing something on your right breast.”
Me: What are you seeing?
Tech: It’s a mass. If you want, I can show it to you on the screen.
So, I walked over (with shaky legs because I’m no superhero) and checked out my mass. It’s a big white thing that sort of looks like an embryonic foot.
She took four more x-rays, but this time with really crazy smooshing. Like, borderline painful smooshing. (Actually, take out the word Borderline in that last sentence.)
Tech: Go ahead and wait in here in case he needs more images.
I sat in the chair and thought to myself, “This is how it starts for people who are about to be told that they have cancer.”
I then thought about Virginia. I thought about Virginia a lot.
Pretty soon the doctor came in and shook my hand and told me that he doesn’t really like what he’s seeing, and was wondering if we could do two more shots. If he doesn’t like how they look, he would like me to have an ultrasound.
Doctor: Your breasts are very dense.
Me: That’s probably the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day.
(I tend to ramble semi-inappropriately when I’m going through the whole rush of adrenaline thing. It’s either lift a Subaru Forester with one hand or ramble. There was no Forester in sight.)
So, they did the shots, and I was once again left in the room by myself.
That’s when I started thinking that we should probably make this Christmas really great because you never know what’s going to happen in the next year and I should probably write some letters to the girls to be opened on their prom nights and their graduation nights and their wedding nights and when/if they have babies. (I know. Do you have any idea how much of a fatalist I can be? I can definitely be a fatalist.)
The tech returned.
“He wants us to do the ultrasound.”
So, five minutes later found me lying on a table with gel squirted on my bare chest (cue the raunchy music) and I was all shaky and feeling sick and the ultrasound tech was young and pretty and wanted to talk about Black Friday.
Tech: Do you shop on Black Friday?
Me: I don’t really shop, but I like to drink coffee and watch the people. But I can’t really think about that right now.
Tech: Well, I know I won’t be going to Best Buy or any of those places where fights could break out and blah blah blah blah blah…
(I honestly couldn’t focus on a thing she was saying, because I was thinking about the knitting projects that I would like to finish and the books I need to read and the freelance chapters I want to turn in and the letters I should write and last April I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in 12 years and we’ve spent some time getting to know each other again and wondering why we’re back in each other’s lives now. Like, what is the meaning of this? Did our paths cross at that coffee place just because we were both craving cookies at the same time (I tend to not believe in coincidence), or is there a reason that goes a little bit deeper and is THIS the reason? Me on this table with ten bad x-rays and some sloppy goop on my chest and a not very positive attitude?)
((Please know that I know how DRAMATIC I am. I’m honestly the luckiest person I know, so when the system hiccups, I tend to fuhreak out. I may be charming from a distance. Close up? Beady-eyed and jittery. Think about a wet Chihuahua. That’s me, but bipedal. (Although, I run like a cheetah in my dreams.)))
Ten minutes after the ultrasound, the doctor came in.
Doctor: Are you tired of seeing me yet?
Me: Heh. Yes. No?
Doctor: I just wanted to tell you that it’s a cyst. Just a big fluid-filled cyst. Nothing to worry about.
Me: Nothing to worry about?
Doctor: Nope. Put your shirt on, and we’ll see you in a year.
I put my shirt on, walked out to my car, and numbly drove to Trader Joe’s where I purchased every single item in the store that has anything at all to do with stir frying vegetables. (Don’t ask questions. I don’t know the answers to your questions.) I also bought myself a tiny gift box of dark chocolate sea salted caramels, because my breasts are very dense and I’ll use just about anything as an excuse to treat myself to sea salted caramels.
I didn’t get the certificate this time around, and that’s okay. I have no space on my wall for certificates, and no more time to waste, and that sounds like a big profound statement, but I didn’t mean for it to be. I actually have a freelance deadline tomorrow, and my final spreadsheet is big and spooky. Like my breasts. I have no idea how to end this entry. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
Mondays with Meredith
This afternoon during the drive from the grocery store to piano lessons, I tuned the radio to one of the two channels currently devoting all of their time to Christmas music. Sadly, instead of Christmas music, they were playing some sort of commercial for a product that helps one deal with bowel incontinence.
Me (changing the station): You know, when I’m in the mood for Christmas music, the last thing I want to hear is a story about bowel incontinence.
Meredith: It IS the oldies channel. And sometimes old people have those problems.
Harper: I don’t even know what bowel incontinence IS!
Me: It’s when you go to the bathroom in your pants, but you’re not peeing.
Meredith: You know, life is full of surprises, and sometimes those surprises are in your pants.
A few minutes later, Meredith remembered that a woman at the grocery store almost hit her with a cart.
Meredith: Did you hear her tell me that she almost rammed my bum?
Me: I did. Yipes.
Meredith: Why is it called a bum?
Me: I think different people call it different things. When I was a kid, everyone in my family called it a bom bom.
Harper: Are you kidding me?
Me: I’m not kidding. Aunt Boogie says we called it a bom bom because Grandma D called it a bom bom. BUT, I have no idea why Grandma called it a bom bom.
Meredith: Why don’t you ask her?
Me: Because she died.
Meredith: Oh. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Sunday!
Woke up.
Ate two pancakes.
Went to church where the pastor referenced Katy Perry and Hunger Games, and I took that as a sign that I’m exactly where I need to be.
Joined a friend for a nose ring, vegan biscuits and gravy (I know!), perfume oil mixing (Indica! Earth! Black Pepper!), and a soy chai.
Came home and accidentally fell asleep on the couch.
This is what’s happening right now.
No complaints. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
I did not make the bread pudding.
After spending the morning dancing through a disappointing Fandango debacle, Meredith and I were able to see Catching Fire with a few friends. (Meredith wore her District 12 Tribute shirt and her Mockingjay pin, which means she’s now one of those people who dresses up for movies. I love that so much.)
After the movie, we went home where the coat I ordered a few days back had been delivered! (This is exciting to no one but me: Eddie Bauer told me that the coat wouldn’t be delivered until December 2nd. Because they were able to beat that day by nine days, I’m suddenly full of Eddie Bauer love. That’s how they get you.) ((Also, I feel the weird need to tell you that I did NOT pay anywhere NEAR $159 for that coat. Huge sale earlier in the week and I had a coupon code for free shipping, and I AM TRYING TO BE FRUGAL, DAVE RAMSEY!!!))
Next up? Jeff built a fire and the girls and I went on a soft boot adventure. We had no luck, although Kohl’s DID have a green screen and a downloadable app, so we were able to mess around with that for about three minutes or so.
After returning home, Meredith and I had bean soup leftovers, Harper had peanut butter and toast, and Jeff ate a salad.
I just described our entire day to you. I’m currently sitting here drinking hot tea and thinking about pajamas. Harper is practicing the piano, Meredith is reading, Jeff is watching the Mizzou game downstairs, the dogs are sleeping on the couch, and the fire smells amazing. (I’ll be in bed by 9:30.)
Tomorrow I’ll be returning to church for the first time in a long time. Afterwards? Brunch and browsing things that smell like the way I might want to smell followed by walking through a Christmas light display before it’s opened to automobile traffic. It’s the most wonderful time of the year, you know.
Twenty three down and seven to go, and I’m really not minding NaBloPoMo at all. Here’s hoping you’re not minding it, either. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
Talk, talk, talk: the utter and heartbreaking stupidity of words, William Faulkner.
This evening after Meredith’s volleyball game, the four of us went out for dinner with my mom and dad to celebrate my dad’s 71st birthday. (Feel free to wish him a happy birthday. 71 is a big thing. 71 means that you pay for dinner and deliver rice krispy treats to the granddaughters, even though it’s your birthday. 71 means that even if you hurt your back earlier in the day, you still venture out to watch a bunch of fifth graders play volleyball. 71 is good.)
As we were eating our salads, my mom looked at me and said, “You’re showing a lot of Cleveland.”
Me: What?!
Mom: Cleavage!!!
Me: Oh! Yikes!
Mom: Yep. You’ve been showing cleavage all night.
Me: Sorry about that. I haven’t worn this shirt in over a year, but since it’s getting cold outside, this afternoon I decided to pull out my shirt and my boots.
Mom: Boobs?
Me: Yep. Boobs.
Mom: Hey! Yesterday I went to the makeup store, and when I put my stuff on the counter, the girl working the register said, “Nice bras.”
Me: What?!
Mom: Brows. Like, eyebrows.
Earlier this week, I told Meredith to drink water with her soup so she doesn’t get aphrodisiac. (Clearly, I meant Dehydrated.) A few years ago, I spent five minutes telling a story about a woodpecker, and throughout the entire story I referred to that bird as a peckerhead. On accident.
Apparently, my baking skills and sense of humor came from my dad, and my craftiness and inability to speak coherently came from my mom.
(Maybe someday I’ll tell you the story about that peckerhead and how he kept me up all night.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
Bread pudding? Yes? Yes.
In 2009, we made bread pudding together.
We did it again back in March.
A dear friend of mine mentioned bread pudding yesterday, and: Saturday. Let’s put some time aside on Saturday for bread pudding. I’ll be taking Meredith to see Catching Fire with some friends that morning, and baking in the afternoon. Join me.
This is what I’m thinking about:
1. Christmas cards. (I know. 17 of you are SO ANGRY THAT I MENTIONED CHRISTMAS BEFORE THANKSGIVING!!!)
2. The latest Bridget Jones book isn’t sparking me the way I had hoped. It’s a bummer, because the latest Dave Eggers book didn’t spark me, either. I have high hopes for you, Still Life With Woodpecker. Don’t let me down.
3. My immersion blender saved my soup last night. I soaked the beans, I boiled the beans, I put the beans (and potatoes and onions and vegetable broth) in the Crock pot all day, yet they were still too firm at dinner time. Immersion blender. Bang.
4. I ran to Teavana last night while Harp was at Matilda practice. Two pounds of German rock sugar and four ounces of White Ayurvedic Chai. 30% off coupon. It really doesn’t get much better than that. (The 30% Friends and Family sale ends today. If you need tea, get out there!)
5. Freelance deadline. Seven chapters in six days if I don’t want to work over Thanksgiving. Challenge accepted. Reluctantly.
6. Meredith is really getting into the rainbow loom thing. I love when my kids get sparked, even if the spark is fueled by tiny rubber bands.
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I wanna feel the heat with somebody. In my parka.
Thanks for yesterday. Many of you validated how I was feeling, and many of you admired the knitting, and all of you are appreciated.
Today I finished a few freelance chapters, made navy bean soup for dinner, and shopped for a warm coat.
I currently have two coats. I really like both of them, but neither of them are very warm.
After much searching, I chose a parka that I really like. (I don’t believe I’ve ever owned a parka, nor have I ever used the word parka.)
Because Jeff and I are in the middle of getting into Dave Ramsey, I decided to turn the parka into my Christmas gift. He agreed that a parka would be perfect.
And after I cried about Siri’s use of whack, I thought of Whitney Houston.
And then I ate some bean soup. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
Stitches In Time
I haven’t spent much time knitting lately, and it’s sort of a bummer because knitting is to me what running or reading or drinking vodka is to many. I’m heavy in freelance work right now, and my only complaint is that a lot of people think Working From Home is the same as Doesn’t Work. Also, I am a Freelance Editor, which many people think means Lady Who Lunches.
I used to set goals with knitting. Knitting goals are safe because missed deadlines affect no one. What I would LIKE to do more often in the next few months (or years) is to knit with my handspun. I finished these handspun mitts last week.
(Please trust me that there are two mitts. The other one is warming the hand that was holding the camera.)
This sock has been without a partner for five years. Five years is enough time to figure out who you are (a sock) and what you enjoy doing with yourself (hanging out in a shoe). It’s now time to find someone with whom to share your joy, Sock. (I’m within four inches of finishing the second sock. I’m also within fourteen days of missing a big deadline with my freelance job. The job will get done before the sock.)
People want nice things. They want tiny celebrations and they want to see fireworks every now and then and they want to hear music and they want to feel special.
This is the cuff of a mohair blend laceweight sweater that I wanted to finish before Thanksgiving. Sadly, there is no chance that I’ll be wearing this thing next week. (I’m fine with that. There will be more cold days, and I will never not love orange sweaters.)
I’m slowly starting to realize that although people want a parade, it seems that not many people are willing to put on marching shoes or paint a float. People want to go to a party, but not many are willing to make sure there is enough food for everyone who attends. Only 10% of people tend to step up and make things happen behind the scenes. (Eventually, those 10% get to know each other pretty well. Because they see each other during the planning stages of Every Parade. Every Party. Every Everything. Some of my favorite people in the world are part of the 10%.)
I’m making an infinity scarf out of some yarn that I spun over the summer. It may or not be a really great scarf. I won’t know until I graft the ends together and see how the stripes work with one another. (I need to spend more time spinning so I can figure out how to make my yarn consistent.)
I’ve been part of the 10% in many areas of my life, and it has always worked out because I’m pretty good at juggling. Figuratively. (Reluctant Tooting of the Horn: I used to be a pretty good bean bag juggler when I was 12, which is a very uncool time of life to be pretty good at juggling bags of beans.) Lately, it’s becoming a bit more tricky to juggle (figuratively and literally), and I’m finding that my 10% time occurs in unpredictable fits and spurts.
This will someday be a beautiful silk blend shawl. I started it four years ago, and I picture myself wearing it on a spring day when it’s still too cool for short sleeves, but much too warm for a coat. There will be tulips. Perhaps an Easter brunch.
Please know that I completely understand that some people in this world feel as if they have no time. None. To me, it’s sort of a Working Mom vs. Stay At Home Mom vs. Conservative vs. Liberal vs. Vegan vs. Omnivore sort of thing. I’m convinced that everyone is doing their best with what time or information they’re willing to give up or buy into. I also know that when you (I) spread yourself (myself) too thinly, the results aren’t good.
This wool has been sitting on my wheel for three months.
A friend of mine once created an amazing sculpture out of fruit, and she posted a photo of it on Facebook. The very first comment she received was from a woman who said, “You have too much time on your hands.”
I started this cardigan over a year ago. When it’s finished, it will be my favorite cardigan ever.
We all have 43 days until January 1, 2014. All of us have 43 days (unless some of us don’t, but I don’t want to think about that). Some people will spend time baking, and some will spend time eating. Some will spend time working in an office. Some will work from home. Some will create amazing sculptures out of fruit or concrete or wood. Some will read a few books. Some will go to concerts and some will perform in concerts. Some will plan an amazing holiday party. Some will get all dressed up and go to that party. (Some will complain that the food at the party wasn’t so great, and some will try really hard to not say, “Oh! The food wasn’t great? Did you offer to HELP WITH THE FOOD?!”)
We all have 43 days. My goal is to do what I can, try not to create work for others, try not to complain when I’m feeling inconvenienced or overwhelmed, try not to take criticism personally, and let others know when I appreciate what they’re doing or how they’re helping.
My goal is to meet my freelance deadline without losing my sanity.
My goal is to finish these mittens. (I meant what I said and I said what I meant. There WILL be tulips.)
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