Danger, Danger

For Christmas this year, we are trying to think of things Liam cannot use to kill himself flying 60 mph down our driveway. The other day, I looked outside and had one of those loving moments...there was my dad walking down the hill to pick up the newspaper at 8 am and there was little Liam trundling behind. Dad wasn't even aware that he was being followed. So, there was one big, tall man silhouette and one tiny little boy silhouette. Very cute.

Then Liam hopped on his tricycle and started riding instead of walking. I was at the window watching as he caught the hill and started flying with his feet up. He started doing that thing where bike tips up on one wheel and then on the other
as he attempted to steer gently, but he is two so he does not really understand gentle.

And then...snowball of Liam and bike...That was when my dad finally noticed Liam was following him. I stood at the window, mouth agape as my father went and scooped up my little sobbing boy and comforted him. It's good to live here with my mom and dad. This communal living...it's good for my kids.

Would Ya Believe??

In the midst of getting my computer fixed by HP/Compaq and this exact thing is happening again...Shipping stuff to an address at which I haven't lived for three years. GRRRRRRRRR....

Suzy Chapstick in Action...

To please my handful of readers....



Suzy Chapstick

There is a Balm...

Have you ever taken your two-year-old out to eat at a restaurant? If your answer is yes, you will immediately know what I mean when I say there are certain behaviors that you will do almost anything to stop in a restaurant environment: nose picking, fighting, kicking, throwing food, and using non-indoor voices are some of my kids' favorites. Liam HAS to be strapped in. So much so, that if a restaurant doesn't have an appropriate tether on its high chair, I have been known to whip off my belt, sweatshirt or sock to tie him to his seat. He is really pretty good when restrained, when not restrained, all bets are off.

Last night, at our local burger joint he was restrained and actually fairly well behaved. He was loud, but so was the place. He was crazy, but so were all of the other kids in the frenetic atmostphere. He was not using his indoor voice, but neither were most of the men watching the Jets game. We sort of blended in. It was nice.

We had to wait forty minutes or so for a table and used up most of our energy running around on the outside patio in the cold. I had taken the kids hiking earlier in the day, also serving to tire them out. This worked well for my daughter who calmly colored her horse-themed placemat. Liam, however, is like me. When he gets more and more tired, he gets more and more hyper.

It wasn't until our meal came (WAYYYY after the kids had eaten most of and grown tired of their chicken tenders) that I realized we were going to have to come up with a new diversion for (now) shrieking Liam. I rummaged in my purse to see if I had anything of interest. I noticed Liam's lips looked a bit chapped and figured I could donate a fruit-flavored Chapstick to the cause. I pulled out the tube, took off the cap, cranked it up a teensy bit (without him seeing how I did it) and handed it to him.

He gave it a sniff. He gave it a lick. He started applying the stick. It was a bit of a tinted variety, so within a minute or two, he was sporting rosy cheeks, lips and chin. He wasn't exactly able to keep within the lines, nor did he want to. What he DID want to do was NEVER EVER let that tube of Chapstick go. For, I kid you not, the next half hour, he was silent. Silently applying his balm. He had the most serious face on, like it was his job. Fish lips, tongue and teeth all got into the act. We left the restaurant happy and well-fed...me without indigestion and Liam without a hint of chapped skin anywhere on the top half of his body and a fruity-smelling, waxy, pink clown face.

Quick Halloween Funny

Elena spent yesterday morning working on a little "project" with a napkin, a stuffed zebra and some scotch tape. This was, coincidentally, right after we had been talking about her fawn costume and how we were going to make it for Halloween. Apparently, this conversation inspired her. She produced this:



So, this morning she asked me if I saw how her zebra was dressed up for trick-or-treating. I said yes. She smiled. Realizing her mood was right for me to ask, and yes I have to take a mood reading often with her, I asked her, "What is the zebra's costume?" She looked at me like I had two and a half heads and said condescendingly, "Mommmmmmmmmmmmm!! A napkin!" (which, to make it even cuter she pronouced nakkin).

I just love how literal she is. I mean, the zebra was clearly covered in pasted on napkin pieces...Mom, how dumb are you that you don't know a napkin costume when you see one?

Christmas Card Season

I have to confess to being a weirdo on many counts. This particular fall season I have created is no exception. Starting as soon as the leaves begin to fall off their branches, it becomes Christmas Card Season around here. Since Elena was born, I have started planning outfits and backdrops at the very instant the weather changes. Since I now have two subjects, I have to take hundreds of photos before I catch the ONE.

The ONE where everyone is not looking away, running away or fighting. The ONE where all the photographic elements are balanced: composition, contrast, focus and color. The ONE where the lighting is just right, smiles dawn across both angelic faces and the venue, well, perfect. Perhaps I aim too high...Below are the actual cards over the years and some outakes of the, literally, HUNDREDS of photos dedicated to this cause.






And here are some of my favorites from the kick off of the 2008 season:

Diet Coke

My son has a new love. I regret the day I ever gave him a tiny sip of my Diet Coke, because now no one within a ten mile radius opening a soda is safe. He will come running, tongue wagging to beg like a dog at your side, "Diet Coke! Diet Coke! Diet Coke! Sip! Sip! Sip!" The first few sips seemed harmless enough. And then there were the times when we were travelling in the car and had no other toy, but a near empty Diet Coke can. Did you know this is a great toy for a two-year-old? They love to eat the pull tab, cut their lip on the opening and spill soda all over themselves...it's really great.

The obsession has started to pervade all aspects of our life. He often rejects water, sobbing for Diet Coke. When we go walking we pass numerous streams and brooks that have dark-looking water...you guessed it, he thinks these are streams of Diet Coke. Just yesterday, he woke me up in the morning by calling Diet Coke pathetically (and loudly) over the monitor. Guess he was thirsty. Weird kid...

The TV is Skipping

This little story gives a little bit of visibility into the relationship between my children. Although, over the last year, it has greatly improved, my two children are not the most compatible or happiest of siblings. My dreams of hand-holding lovebugs flew out the window a long time ago. I live in a more realistic world now. Anyhow, on to the story...

For the last few weeks, the cable has been skipping. There seems to be some minor, intermittent interference with certain channels, Sprout being one of them. When it first happened, it disturbed Elena immensely and she made me explain all about satellite transmission and cable reception. Finally, I just summed it up by saying, "The TV is skipping." She would then announce loudly that the TV was, AGAIN, skipping all the time.

A week or so later, Liam had picked up on this. Now, when the TV skipped, the scene unfolded like this:

TV: skip skip skip

Liam: tee-bee skip-ping, tee-bee skip-ping (I haven't mentioned this before, but he does repeat everything twice, which is a bit odd)

Elena [flying in from other room]: NO WEEUM! DON'T TELL ME IT'S SKIPPING! STOP IT!!! (no clue why it bugs her so, but it REALLY bugs her, sometimes she would even smack him or shove him...sigh)

Liam [looking shocked and trailing off]: skipppp...

Mommy [entering room, looking perturbed]: What is the problem? Why can't he say what he wants? Why can't you let him notice that the TV is skipping? [then she walks out muttering and berating herself for getting involved when she knows she shouldn't]

So, that scene has repeated dozens of times in the last month, with me becoming more numb to it and getting less and less involved and Liam getting smart enough to keep his mouth shut about the TV skipping...

This morning, Elena was upstairs and no where near. The TV skipped and I watched Liam, alone in the room, to see him react to it. I waited through about four skips before I said to him, "Hey, is that TV skipping?" (am I an instigator? maybe...) What was his reaction?

"NO MOMMY!!!! STOP IT!!! NO! STOP IT!"
Guess he's picked up a little something from his sister, huh?

More on Mailboxes

Well, we all know about about Liam's mailbox obsession. It's still going strong. When we walk, we pass a cricket mailbox (crooked mailbox) and a beebee mailbox (baby mailbox, which is just one that is shorter than the one beside it, which of course is the momma mailbox), there are many broken mailboxes, any empty post is a goggone mailbox (all gone mailbox) and mailboxes of various colors. It's like a mailbox expo.

This past week, he cracked me up with his latest mailbox descriptor. We walked by a birdhouse on a post. This was one of those little houses that was quite elaborate and looked like a small Victorian house. He spied it and got excitedly shrill. "CUCKOO MAILBOX!!!!!!! CUCKOO MAILBOX!!!!" I had to think about that one for a minute. What the heck was he talking about? AH HA! Any box on a post was a mailbox and since this one was a cute little house, it looked like a cuckoo clock to him...hence CUCKOO MAILBOX...I explained that that was not a mailbox, but a birdhouse. So, he amended, in his cute way (interspersing the word hess (yes) into the sentence), "Hess, cuckoo birdhouse, hess."

Liam's Language

I just adore some of the language interpretations of the toddler stage. Liam is at that stage now. Here are some of my favorites:

dipprent = different - When we are walking, Liam will talk about going the wong way, the wight way, this way or a dipprent way.

wainboat = rainbow - Interesting story about this one, last week I was putting Liam down for his nap and Liam was talking about the "wainboat in sky"...there was a CD positioned so it was refracting a rainbow on his ceiling. I pulled down the shade and still the rainbow remained. It was being created by the sliver of light that was sneaking in from the side of the shade and creating a beautiful wainboat on his ceiling!

twactu = tractor - Liam has a book about Tractor Mac who holds a starring role in Liam's life as of late. He is OBSESSED!

beabs = beads - Mommy is obsessed with beading and Liam likes to help. "Help beabing...do beabing?"

He's also passing into that lovely age of specificity...moving from just car, to race car, Jeep, Mini Cooper, Bolbo (Volvo - SOOO cute) or from all construction vehicles being "tractus" to back hoes, diggers, steamwollers, et al.

It's just so neat to watch them acquire language!

Highly Sensitive

So, when Patrick and I first started dating, he was reading a book called The Highly Sensitive Person. This was a prophetic moment for my relationship with him. He was, indeed, highly sensitive (in temperament). I should have read that book cover to cover, but I didn't. I skimmed. Now, I have had his children and it appears our daughter favors his temperament.



So, I went to the Highly Sensitive Child Website and took the Highly Sensitive Child inventory. I had to practically RUN out and buy the book. Holy crap. This child is highly, highly sensitive. On the inventory and she scored a twenty-two out of twenty-three possible! So, what does this mean for parenting her? For raising her? For her challenges in life? I think this excerpt from the website sums it up best:

So, what now?
First, appreciate that this is a wonderful trait. It is no illness or syndrome. Nor is it something new I made up or "just discovered." It is an inborn temperament or style that is found in about twenty percent of children and of nearly all animals. Anything so persistent is not abnormal. It represents a strategy of taking everything into account before acting (the other, more common innate strategy is to act quickly and be first, then think later). The trait serves an important purpose for the individual sensitive person and for the larger society--for example, sensitive persons sense danger and see the consequences of an action before others do.

Unfortunately, the trait has been somewhat misunderstood in our culture, so that most psychologists and parents tend to see only one aspect of some sensitive children and call this trait shyness, inhibitedness, fearfulness, fussiness, or "hyper" sensitivity. If one could see inside the mind of a sensitive child, however, one would learn the whole story of what is going on--creativity, intuition, surprising wisdom, empathy for others...

But, for all of that to blossom, they absolutely must be raised with understanding. Otherwise, as adults they are prone to depression, anxiety, and shyness.

So, the second "what now" might be to read The Highly Sensitive Child. I wrote this book because so many adults were telling me that their childhoods were excruciatingly difficult, even when their parents had the best intentions, because no one knew how to raise them. Parents and teachers told them there were "too sensitive" or "too shy" or "too intense." They tried to change and could not, and so felt increasingly isolated or ashamed. My hope is to spare some children such unnecessary suffering and the world the waste of so much talent, because HSCs have a tremendous amount to offer the world. But they do need special handling. They need to be appreciated, to have their special needs and sometimes intense reactions and behaviors understood, and, when correction is needed, they need to be handled with special care so that they do not become anxious or ashamed of their failure.

This book is rooted in years of my experience as a psychotherapist and consultant to HSPs and parents of HSCs, plus interviews with parents, teachers, and HSCs themselves for the book. Then there are my experiences from my fumbling efforts to raise an HSC before I knew what that was. And there's what I know from having been an HSC myself.

Again, few parents and teachers understand this trait-–and as a result, HSCs are often mislabeled as "problem children" (and in some cases, misdiagnosed with disorders such as Attention Deficit Disorder). But raised with proper understanding and care, HSCs are no more prone to problems than nonsensitive children and can grow up to be happy, healthy, unusually well-adjusted and creative adults.

I Drink Alone

So, last night over dinner, my family had an interesting discussion about "drinking alone" vs. "drinking socially." A lot of people maintain that drinking alone is not a good sign, that it points to some sort of alcohol problem. After having lived with an alcoholic for years who drank alone for reasons foreign to me (and all of the non-alcoholics I know), I think drinking alone is not always a bad sign.

My sister brought up the point that being single women, as we both are, drinking a glass or two of wine at night alone should be fine. I mean, should we have to wait to be in a relationship to be able to have a relaxing glass of wine at the end of the day? If a married couple wants to share a glass or two of wine over dinner, it's completely accepted. However, if a single woman wants to sit by herself and drink a glass or two of wine, it's vilified, or a sign of a real problem. Consider the alternative, spending four times as much a glass for wine, risking driving while (even slightly) impaired, and drinking alone at a bar.

Weigh in...what do you think?

Skidding Out

Sometimes, when parenting, I feel like I am skidding. I think skidding is the perfect analogy because it connotes the lack of control I feel. I like to remind myself that, like a skid, it is a temporary situation. When the kids are horrid, or I cannot deal, or I want to lock them (or me) in a room in time-out...those situations are temporary. After a short period of time, things right themselves again and straighten out.

Citizen's Arrest

On Wednesday when I was out walking, I saw a suspicious van on a dead end street with out-of-state plates, and I thought...hmmmmmmm, that's a bit odd and seems out of place, and walked on. But, then saw it again on another circular street. So I called 911 from my cell....I was thinking of myself of a sort of neighborhood watch, even though it was not technically my neighborhood.

So, the police told me they were sending over a cruiser. They called me back when they had found the vehicle and pulled them over and so I walked on my merry way. All of a sudden I noticed there had been a phonebook delivery, all along my walking route, since I had first walked by. So, I felt like a total idiot for getting these poor, pathetic souls in trouble.

I got home and was making a hamburger dinner and the police called me again to thank me for calling in and to tell me that the guys were unlicensed drivers and they had to tow the vehicle. Now, who the hell takes a job delivering phone books with NO LICENSE? I feel bad, because they looked like (as much as one can look like one) immigrants...now, they will probably be deported and all they wanted to do was take care of their little kids by delivering phone books!!!! Argh!

Costco Ridiculousness

Those of you who have read my blog for years, know my dyspepsia for all things poor in customer service. This week, it is Costco's turn. The other day, my friend Ketra and I took the kids to Costco on her membership. When we were ringing out, she attempted to use her debit card. The debit card has a Visa logo on it, which Costco doesn't take, but they do take debit cards...so, she swiped her card. Now, for the last week or so, she has been dealing with the fact that her debit card has lost its mojo...its swipe is gone.

She thinks it had a run-in with a magnet somewhere, but it no longer works as a convenient method of payment. Stores across Connecticut have been forced to retreat to 1988 to process her card, pulling out carbon impression machines and typing in numbers by hand. It's been a real pain. The bank, Bank of America of course, is very in tune with her challenge and is only making her wait TEN days for a new card, but that's neither here nor there, this is not a blog about BofA (been there done that). This is about Costco.

So, there we are at the check-out at Costco, we explain that the strip is defunct on the card we want to use and ask if they can simply type the numbers in. In a word, "no." No, we cannot type the numbers in...which wouldn't have peeved us if it hadn't been for the reasoning. No, we cannot enter the numbers manually on this card because we do not take Visa. Um...whaaaaaat???? It's a debit card! It just has a dead strip. Instead of inputting the data via a magnetic kiss with a swipe machine, we want you to enter the code. Escalation occurs to the managers and it is confirmed. Nope. Cannot do it. That Visa logo, which usually serves to make the debit card more useful, has in this case, rendered it useless.

The explanation centered around a specific exclusivity agreement with American Express. I understand that Marketing and Business Development are important pursuits, but to the exclusion of customer service and satisfaction? In my world, that's not right.

So, I write this blog, specifically addressing it to James D. Sinegal and Joseph P. Portera of Costco to ask their help in fixing this problem. In this day and age, when we have learned to rely on our plastic debit cards, there has to be another alternative for situations like this. Please?

Redhaired Challenges

Capricious.
Petulant.
Easily upset.
Sensitive.
Creative.
Messy.
Articulate.
Precocious.
Inquisitive (to a fault).
Advanced.
Snotty.
These are some of the words I would use to describe my sweet little Laney Lou. As you can see, they run the gamut. Some days, it's "Mommy, I love you so, so much and I love spending time with you!!" Minutes later it's, "Mommy. I. WANT. TO. BE. BY. MYSELF. WITHOUT. YOU. GO. AWAY!" It's exhausting and scary.

Tonight, she said from the back of the car, "Mommy, who was that on the phone, was it Grammy?"

I said, "Yes, how did you know?"

She said, "I could tell by that bossy little voice."

I said (snickering), "Grammy's?"

She said, "No yours..."

She does crack us up regularly! Last week she told my mother who is early childhood educated, in a voice that appeared to be without emotion, "Grammy. I don't think you're very good at taking care of children." HAHAHAHA!! All because my mother had lost her temper, ever so briefly, with Elena.

It's just very hard to be the mother, and grandmother, and brother, and grandfather, and father of a spirited little redheaded four-year-old.

Wish us luck.

Send us prayers.

I Love Two-Year-Olds

I love it when my kids are starting to cobble together language. Liam is starting to migrate from a noun-only vocabulary to one that leapfrogs from adjective to verb to noun. An example?

Where he used to say: truck, truck! beep! beep!
He now says: beeping sound! truck backing up?

Where he used to say: mailbox! mailbox!
He now says: uh oh! broken mailbox! oh! another one mailbox!

It's so cute!

Broken Mailbox, Wrong Way, Beeping, Pees Car, Fire Tuck, Trash, Yick...

My walks with Liam continue to be punctuated by his observations. All things wheeled or mechanical are of particular interest. We think he has a career in civil engineering. Seems the mailbox obsession has morphed into his recently accepting a position as a mailbox inspector.

Black maillllllbox
White mailllllbox
Green maillllbox
Grey mailllbox
Uh oh....broken mailbox...

A broken mailbox is any mailbox not in pristine shape, rusty, crooked, bent, dinged, or (and this was funny) just a 4x4 sticking out of the ground is a broken mailbox. Apparently any post must have HAD a mailbox on it in Liam's world.

New to the vocab is the phrase "wrong way" (thank you, Ketra). So now, when we are walking, if we turn off the straightaway, I hear a nervous voice from behind me, "Uh oh...wong way...wong way..." Very cute (for now).

I Undo

The lovely State of Connecticut was kind enough to grant me dissolution of my marriage today. Yikes! Who ever thinks that just two days after their five year anniversary, they will be celebrating their divorce. I always knew the statistics, but somehow felt impervious to them. To get unmarried is a surreal experience. You arrive at the courthouse and with no pomp or fancy dress, you sign your rights away. You release all your claims on each other, sign collaborative childcare and custodial documents and walk out thirty minutes or so later, free.

The proceedings almost felt staged. The questions, when asked by my lawyer, seemed a touch on the ridiculous side. I mean, she knew the answers to all these questions, I had given her all this information many times. But, it's all part of the laying down of logic. A court case is an iterative form of communication with questions and answers being the method by which new information is disclosed. You are asked questions by friendlies and unfriendlies...although, in this case, there was only the one litigator, mine. Patrick self-represented. The judge was fair (big surprise) and had a sense of humor, which I always appreciate. We managed to walk away owing each other nothing, paying each other nothing and with joint custody. Perfect for our situation.

My only disappointment was that I wasn't divorcing the gentleman before me on the docket who was paying his wife $2500 a month in support and an additional $2500 in support while she has to pay for her big ol' house in New Canaan. Additionally, they had liquidated all their "stuff" which was resulting in him writing her a check for $327,000. Wow, I thought to myself, I really should've married and divorced for the money! Mr. Sykes, I may not have wanted to marry you, but man, your divorce terms sound lovely. I do.

Ite Mail Box

Leave it to quirky little Liam to be the subject of a blog again. He's just so funny! He is currently completely obsessed with mailboxes. He finally learned to call them "mail box" (I leave a space intentionally because he says them with a big pause and breath in between the two words) and not just "mail, mail, mail, mail" as he was in the last blog.

One day, recently, he saw a white mail box, got super excited and shouted out a three-word description (before this was unheard of as he was single word kind of boy), "ITE MAIL BOX!" Well, partially on account of the three words, and partially because it WAS indeed a white mailbox, I went a little crazy with the praise. "YES LIAM! That IS a white mail box! Nice work! Good noticing! (etc...)" Now, in his little brain, ALL mail boxes are white mail boxes. It's a single concept, "ITE MAIL BOX," repeated ad infinitum on our daily walks. Elena and I are slowly breaking him of the habit of saying "ITE" by pointing out all the other lovely colors of mailboxes that exist. Green mailbox, black mailbox, silver mailbox...he tries, but sometimes he just can't help himself. It's branded in his little gray matter. The highlight of the walk for him is when we pass the one actually white mailbox. His little face lights up, he points, he gestures, he shouts, "ITE!! ITE!!! ITE MAIL......BOX!" It's really so cute.

Tonight, as we came to the end of the road and thus the end of the string of mailboxes, he started asking for more mailboxes. "Mo mail box? Mo mail box?" And, my little boy, who NEVER uses sign language to communicate, signed more....awwwwwwwwww....

Strapped In

There is something so comforting about driving when you have kids who are almost 2 and 4 years old. They are safe. They cannot reach each other. You have a task, mindlessly driving. You can listen to music and buzz along fielding questions from the back of the car. It's a wonderful, freeing feeling. Imposed immobility. Sometimes, I get lucky and one of them falls asleep. Once in a blue moon, both of them fall asleep (it has happened once in the last six months, I think).

Yesterday, I was driving with both kids and Patrick. We were trying to go to a restaurant which was under renovation (don't try and hit up the Sesame Seed in Danbury just now). I took back roads and the long way to the second choice restaurant. He was annoyed, "Why on earth are you going this way?" Because they are quiet, happy and strapped in. Therefore, I am happy. I think I could drive to Maine and be happy right now.

Divorce, Amicable Style

Last week, as we prepared for the tag sale, Patrick and I got to that lovely, cathartic point where you will pitch anything, have lost all attachment to stuff and are free to purge. Yesterday, I threw out wedding albums, my wedding planning book (to which I was attached at the hip for a full year), photos and memories. It's sometimes nice to throw out memories, especially when it's a joint decision.

Tag Sales Bite

Apparently, the world does not buy stuff through tag sales anymore. I didn't do the best job advertising, but wow. We made all of $21, which means we did not even break even on the cost of the signage. Makes me want to cry. I am stymied by the amount of crap I now have to deal with. Craigslist and ebay, here I come.

Entropy and the Four-Year-Old

...or three-year-old, or two-year-old, or any child for that matter! You can count on a lot of things when you have a child: late nights, diapers, sickness, hugs, messes etc., but one thing I did not count on was the complete and utter derangement which children bring to the physical household. It's almost laughable.

I have to start by saying, I was not born a neat person. There is a photograph from when I was about eight, where I am lying flopped on a mattress on my floor, looking completely crestfallen. The source of my upset is not, as you might guess, something traumatic or sad, but instead merely that I had to clean my room. If you expand your attention beyond the girl on the bed, you will see that she is floating on the aforementioned mattress, surrounded by a foot high sea of debris. Sigh...I have not been neat, no. When I was pregnant with Elena, I prayed for an anal rententive child. In short, I DID NOT GET MY WISH.

Elena is a lot of wonderful things: creative, bright, interesting, articulate and energetic. The problem is that she likes to explode all over the house. All the explosions have some meaning to her, and on my more magnanimous days, I have fun trying to discern the meaning. On my less amused days, I feel overwhelmed and discomfited. This morning, I must be in a more generous mood. I captured some of this little outcroppings on film. This exercise of photographing some of the odder combinations was inspired by a game a friend of mine used to play in college. Silly, half-drunk college kids that we were, would walk to the grocery store and roam around looking for acts of the supermarket vandal. We would look for items furthest from their home, or in the funniest location. The fungal cream in the ice cream freezer, or the side of meat nestled among the fresh flowers...these things would crack us up!

The juxtaposition of ball and unicorn don't make me laugh on their own, but it's the addition of the potato masher that really gets me going.

Tupperware should be outlawed in our house as containers become tidal pools, collecting random bits.

Tim Russert

There are some people you just don't get an opportunity to meet until it's too late. Life can be filled with missed opportunities. I hate missed opportunities. I am living a missed opportunity right now in Tim Russert's death. Maybe it's because I am only thirty-eight and he was a bit ahead of my time? Maybe it's because I avoid the news due it's graphic and negative nature? Maybe it's because I have never been inclined towards politics? For whatever reason, I didn't get to know Tim Russert until this latest chapter in his life...his death. What a tragedy! His funeral service was so moving. The stories and eulogies enlightening and engaging. I totally missed out. I miss you, Tim Russert...and I didn't even really get to know you.

Just a Bunch of Stuff

Today was an exhausting day. The POD people (as I affectionately call them, and I'm sure they adore) dropped off Patrick's and my storage POD holding all our (remaining) worldly possessions. I would say we reduced our 1100 sq. ft. house's worth of "stuff" by two-thirds when we got the POD and now, after having paid $2995 over the last year and a half to house said worldly belongings, we are putting this expense to an end.

I started out the day by making a punch list. For those of you not in construction or project management, which I also am not, but like to sound cool and talk about such things as punch lists, is a list of tasks and subtasks broken down to "bite-sized" chunks. Basically, my punch list ordered the POD activities. First empty the garage, then empty the POD into the garage, then take all garbage to the dump and then sell all worldly possessions at tag sales, sit back count money and move on with divorce and life. Really, not that big of deal, right?

And, I am surprisingly unattached to the items in the POD at this point. Most of the really important stuff came with me when I moved into my parents' house. The really sentimental stuff is hiding in boxes. No big deal. I was most moved by the greyhound collar that belonged to my sweet girl, Athena that, when jingled, did sound EXACTLY like she was alive and bouncing around the POD. Awwwww...Poor Thene girl! Who knows what the other end of the POD may hold, but for now, there have been no real big shockers. Just a bunch of stuff.

Stuff that holds the promise of selling, though! I think everyone should have a tag sale at least once in their lives, preferably BEFORE accumulating a houseful of trinkets and crap. I have started to think of my "stuff" priced and arrayed. I am already arranging it in my mind on shelf space. I am so excited for the opportunity it provides to bring me a few bucks. Not because I am poor (for once), but because it allows me to lighten my load even more. Somehow, I spent all this time out there hunting for, buying, accumulating and storing this junk and now, "Good riddance!" I say. It's value has completely inverted. I don't want to horde it, I am ready to set it free. Good bye my big ole POD-ful of stuff!

Missed it, Dangit!

Apparently, as part of an enticement to film here, the State of Connecticut has been offering some tax breaks and incentives to Hollywood. So, this new movie, All Good Things starring Kirsten Dunst and Ryan Gosling is being filmed here. And, not just here in Connecticut, but here in my town. They are also shooting on Lake Lillinonah tomorrow. My dad was in the music store this evening getting his bass fixed when a props guy was in there getting a guitar for Kirsten Dunst set up for the film. Apparently, she plays the guitar and would like to perform this stunt herself in the movie. All exciting things.

I am only sorry I missed their set-up in town. Would have been pretty cool to have seen our entire community center draped in blackout cloth. Such are the challenges of shooting night scenes without the assistance of actual night. I am still kicking myself for not popping on my sneakers and hoofing it downtown to check it out. I keep racking my brain to figure out why I didn't? I suppose it could have been because it was over 100 degrees that day. Maybe that's why?

Well, that's about all from this sleepy town reporter.


Details on the Lake Lillinonah shooting, so you don't miss it. Click to enlarge.

The Power of Archive

This is pretty amazing! I googled "heat insanity" today, since it's 99 degrees and I feel as though I am melting, and I got this headline:

HEAT CAUSES INSANITY.; Serious Results of Continues High Temperatures in Rhode Island.

It's a New York Times article, I think to myself, it's got to be reliable. Then I look at the date to see if it's outdated...Guess what that date was?

August 2, 1898, Wednesday

Holy crap...I never expected that!

Berry Picking Season

Those who read the blog last year, will remember my obsession with picking raspberries from our front yard. Every day, for the short-lived raspberry season, my daughter and I could be found at the foot of the hill gathering juicy, ripe berries in stained fingertips. I think I also said this in last year's blog, but it makes me feel like a pioneer housewife, living off the land, gathering the fruits of the season.

Since raspberry season is pretty much the month of July, I feel the need to extend the berry picking by at least another month or two. This year, I am waiting with bated breath for the local strawberry season to start, which should be mid-June at the latest. I cannot wait. Strawberries, fresh plucked from the vine are like a whole different fruit! Modern, grocery store strawberries come from South America and other points far away. This means they are bred for hardy travel. Their skin and fruit made to withstand conveyer belts, picking machines and trucking, is tough and solid. You could probably drop a strawberry from the grocery store on the ground and it would bounce.

Strawberries fresh picked are delicate, sensitive things. They are as thin-skinned as a new baby. So, in two weeks or so, expect a blog of succulent berry pictures.

Above is a picture of the raspberries at harvest time last year.

Know Thyself

And it is only in knowing thyself that I realize what my freaking problem is! Here I am making a go of it on my own. I have a new, pretty successful business. It covers the bills. It's fun. It's different everyday (something I always consider a prerequesite for a good job). And yet, I face these wonderful periods of disenchantment. Why?

Well, first of all, I am a person who needs and wants to be engaged by my work to truly enjoy it. In fact, if I am engaged, nothing can stop me from finding my work exciting and entertaining and fun at anytime of the day or night. I can spend hours and hours at it and never tire. However, then there are the fallow periods. The troughs alongside those peaks. These are the times when I have to do the less engaging work and immerse myself in dullness. It's enough to depress me and sometimes even immobilize me. The longer I am frozen by the ennui the longer it takes to get through the rote stuff and get back to the exciting part.

Secondly, I am sensitive to praise. I think I have mentioned on here before my mercurial reaction to praise, have I not? Let's face it, I'm a praise junkie. When I don't get the positive feedback I so dearly crave, I start to lose my mojo. The color fades from my personality. To quote the Beatles, "I need a fix cause I'm going down."

I do know thyself and I do know this will all clear when I can finally shrug off my fears, move forward boldly and get some damn work accomplished.