Time, warped

In Facebook form: “Grace has that unsettled, yet-to-find-her-groove feeling of being in a new job, a new office, a new routine that’s not yet routine.”

Schedules really do seem to affect my psyche. For example, in the weeks when there’s a Monday holiday and my first work day is Tuesday, the rest of the week feels disjointed. Same goes for Sundays: On the rare Sabbath when I miss church, my inner clock gets confused. I know I’m not the only one who experiences this phenomenon; I’m just a little surprised I’m not more adaptable. I generally like “the spontaneous.”

Is it possible to be a creative artist-type person and still crave routine? I am and I do! So this week was both: A Monday-off week and a new job to boot. I’m flummoxed.

P.S. The stray still needs a home. Will doesn’t want to take him in, and I’m more interested in marital harmony than Washington’s welfare. I think I mentioned before that his name before he found us was Washington. And he lived in the town of Derby. And now we call him Ginger. So, I muse, his name is now Mr. Derby G. Washington. Who wouldn’t want to welcome such a distinguished gentleman into their home?

How do you spell re-leaf?

With the exception of a few minor details, the magazine is D-O-N-E. (The writing and editing of it, anyway. The design work is “not my problem.”)

RT is almost entirely out of my hair—I mean, my hands—now. I feel as if I should feel something more, but no wave of relief has washed over me…yet. I don’t know whether it will until this last edition is “bedded down” at the printer’s—and that won’t be ’til July. In the meantime, I will go about my everyday life—my new life as “boss lady” at work. Someday, will I pine to write news briefs and alum notes?

(‘Boss lady’—ha! It’ll be up to me to make some of the decisions and sign the paychecks, but I know Who’s really in charge. And I’m glad—truly glad.)

End-of-week, out-of-steam, stream of consciousness

Busy week, hardly any blogging. Forcing self to sit and spew onto this blank page.

Drove to Maryland and back—7 hours each way through rural rolling hills with my new right-hand woman at work. Very good training, but draining. Weighty (WAIT-y) topic: S-E-X. Found out a few morsels of modern morality I’d rather not know. Duty trumps naivete.

Speaking of work, I’m promoted—“in charge” now! Watch out—Grace takes over the world! Just joking, of course. But wouldn’t it be great if Grace did take over the world?! Oh, wait—it did!! Hallelujah!!

The mice are away,* the cat still stays. He’s homeless—rejected by original owners. For now, I foster. Do I hear a “Here, kitty, kitty…” Anyone? Anyone? (Bueller? Bueller?)

My magazine contemplates completion. (“I’m Waiting!!!!!”) When I finish, I’ll see 10 stress pounds melt from my frame. Sounds good. Gonna get on that.



*I don’t know what mice.

Much to-do about everything

Much to be done at home

Much to be done at work

What must be done?

What must be ‘un’done?

Not Me!!!

Much to be done in the world

Much to be done in my heart

What should be done?

What should be undone?

It’s Up to Me?!?

Wonder Woman Making a Splash (2008)

Artist: Leslie Lew (www.leslielew.com)

Sculpted acrylic and oil paint on canvas, 48" x 72"

Fourth-Grade Concert Quips

Vi’s spring concert happened last Wednesday. She sang in the chorus and played in the band.

Several blogworthy observations:

• The choral director was also my choral director. She’s been teaching for 28 years. This fact made me feel…well, seasoned myself. Along these lines…


• I’m pretty sure the band director is younger than I am. (How can that be?) He bought his navy blue concert suit at Target. I know this from Facebook. It’s a good suit. I never would have guessed it came from a box store.


• The chorus was ginormous—130 kids, I think the director said. My favorites (in addition to my own, of course) were:


• The pixy of a girl in the front row, stage left—she wore a light blue dress, dark tights, and white shoes, a sweet fashion faux pas made even sweeter by her earnest singing.


• The hearty boy in the red polo shirt, front row, stage right—he became visibly bored by the fourth song and kept rolling his freshly buzzed head around, admiring the ornate auditorium ceiling.


• They sang a song called “Build Me a World” that brought tears to my eyes (it’s by Ginger Littleton—I couldn’t find the lyrics online, but I found a sound snippet here).


• The band kids were also amusing to watch. They tapped their toes conspicuously and mouthed their rest measures openly: “1-2-3-4 2-2-3-4 3-2-3-4…” Again, the word “earnest” comes to mind. This sincerity will likely be lost in a year or two, avalanched by adolescence. Their apparent unaffectedness delighted me.


• The chorus sang very well. The director sang a solo—a first, she said, in 80-some concerts in her career to this point. That was a treat.


• The band played miraculously. I mean, sure—if blindfolded, I’d have guessed they were beginners. But to think that 8 months ago none of these kids had even touched their instruments, and here they were playing music that sounded intentional, even tolerable to the ears—amazing!

Kudos to the music teachers. My retired-band-director dad might say, of working with such inexperienced musicians (read: squawkers), “Your reward is not on this earth.” But I hope they experience at least part of the reward in the here-and-now.

“If music be the food of love, play on.”—Shakespeare

Sister-Twin Powers—Activate!

My sister is almost 7 years older than I am, so, growing up, we were on different wavelengths. When she was experimenting with blue eyeshadow, designer jeans, and Tickle deodorant, I was still learning to tie shoes and string words together on a page. I was the annoying little sister, often in the way, usually getting more than my fair share of attention—definitely “spoiled.”

(Providentially, I had my own playmate next door who helped me through my markedly mild childhood trials. And she’s still a source of solace and inspiration!)

Coming into adulthood, my sister and I began to bond…or maybe we simply started discovering the bond that was already there, innately, almost eerily connecting us, even though we had experienced life a third of a generation apart. My freshman year at Big Scary State U., she sent me mail—not deep, soul-baring letters, just friendly notes telling me about her life as a young, married professional and asking how college was going. (That was a little while before email and a long while before texting.) Those letters were a lifeline to me in a lonely place.

She also sent me music, in the form of cassette tapes. Marvelous, melancholy jazz I’d never heard before, skillfully mixed with hip, upbeat metro tunes, and classical music—the “comfort food” of our family of origin. I played the tapes over and over again on my bright-yellow Sony Walkman while riding the bus between Big Scary U’s campuses. Listening, I felt less alone.

That was the start of our relationship as adult siblings. And, like I said, we’ve found out we’re more alike than we might have expected to turn out. Odd coincidences happen to us—things that seem like a Luke and Leia cosmic connection. Independent of one another, on different occasions, we have bought the same dress, the same shoes, the same wall calendar, the same Christmas cards (out of allll the designs on the market)! Once, a few years ago, I called her at work and got her voicemail. I listened in astonishment, acknowledging that, not only are our voices remarkably similar in sound, but also our word choice and phrasing—our v-mail “spiel”—was almost identical.

Last night, I realized another “Huh—weird!” correlation between my big sis and me: We’re both starting new jobs next week. Both are promotions, of sorts, and both are…well, pretty big deals (bigger visibility, bigger responsibilities, bigger paychecks). This is good stress, but it’s stress nonetheless, and it’s good to draw strength from my sibling-turned-lifelong friend:

Sister-Twin Powers—Activate!

I know I've got too much going on in my life when...

...five minutes into my shower, I can't remember whether or not I've washed my hair yet.

…fishing for matching or near-matching socks in the clean clothes pile begins to become part of my morning routine.

...

Go ahead—add your evidence of excessive busyness/mental overload in the Comment section of this post.

Snap judgments made while running through an American village in the springtime

Lilacs are lovely.
Apple blossoms are magnificent.
Tulips are too short-lived.
Small houses are sweet.
Tall trees are regal.
Riding mowers on little lawns are silly.
The smell of just-cut grass should be a controlled substance.
Running is my kind of high.

Cat Quandary Continues

Here’s the latest on the stray cat situation:

Since my last post about our fluffy feline friend, I discovered that his ‘M’ tattoo stands for ‘microchip.’ I took him to a local vet’s office, where they scanned him and—neat-o, presto—his number popped up on the little scanner screen. I called the 24-hour pet service that manages the chips from afar and found out the owner had not registered ‘our’ tabby. However, the chip did trace to nearby E-County SPCA. So I called that number and got redirected to a different cat rescue place, which I called 3-4 times over the course of a day-and-a-half before reaching an actual person. When I did reach a real, live cat rescuer, she told me that the chip number was meaningless to their organization and ‘would (I) please call the SPCA back and find out the cat’s first name?’

I did. I called. I found out. It’s not Marmalade, not Ginger, not even ‘Yellow Cat,’ as Pearl seems inclined to call him. (Will: Remind me to request a color-blindness test at her next doctor’s appointment.) It’s Washington—as in our nation’s capital, the surname of our first president, the street around the corner from the house where I grew up—Washington!

This came as a giggle-worthy surprise to me. Partly because it’s such a markedly different name than any of the ones we’ve tried on him. Partly because my own bias is for keeping pet names, pet names—not names that could be given to humans. My personal pet history defies this principle: Fred, Ernie, Barney, Beauford (although ‘Beauford’ regrettably didn’t stick, and that cat ended up being called ‘black kitty’)… But the ones I’ve named myself—even the strays of which we’ve been temporary guardians—have borne proper ‘pet names.’

(By the by, for you picky punctuation police-types, I’m using the British quotation marks method with all these ‘single quotes’—is it driving you batty, or what? My BFF who is studying in England this year explains: for my academic writing they have us do " " if we’re directly quoting something and ' ' for scare quotes when we’re distancing ourselves from something.)

Of course, now that we know Washington’s real name, I feel much more attached to him than I did before. It’s oh-so-true, that naming principle: name it, own it, give it credence. Still, I don’t intend to take him in. I called and left a message (two messages, actually) for the cat rescue people, sharing this new bit of information. I’m willing to nag them for a few days in my attempt to track down Washington’s ‘rightful’ owner. But if I exhaust what I consider to be reasonable efforts to do so, I will then try to place him in a good home here or near A-Town. And I might even visit the little fella—he’s awful sweet.

Ben’s 7-Minute Confession

Friday is “Mail Day” in the A-Town Elementary Pre-K program. Normally, if I’m home when Ben’s bus arrives (or later, after work, if I’m not), we go through Ben’s backpack and he shows me all the crafts and worksheets he’s completed throughout the week. They’re cute. He’s cute. I find it difficult to part with any of his handiwork, but I do eventually recycle all but the most significant masterpieces.

Yesterday I was denied access to Ben’s backpack. “Mommy, no peeking! There are special treats in there for Mother’s Day.”

“OK,” I said, resuming my ennnnndless work on the computer. (No, I’m not done yet. But I will be—soon and very soon. And, “Thank you so much for bringing up such a painful subject. While you're at it, why don't you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?”—TPB)

Ben dashed upstairs with his bag, ostensibly in search of a super-secret hiding spot for my precious gifts, to be ceremoniously presented on Sunday. While I continued writing, I envisioned the before-church scenario two days hence: Vi bringing me breakfast in bed, consisting of lukewarm herbal tea, toast with a smidgen of strawberry jam, and a few just-washed (still-wet) green grapes rolling around on the plate; Ben and Pearl getting into the action, hopping onto the bed, spilling the tea, smearing the jam, squashing the grapes, permanently staining the blankets... My boisterous, beloved children—all bearing gifts.

Seven minutes went by. Ben came back downstairs and approached the desk (ratta-tatta-tap-tap-tap). I stopped typing momentarily when I felt him at my elbow:

“Mommy,” he confessed, matter-of-factly, “I just ate your Mother’s Day treats upstairs.”

LOL! I wonder if this means Ben would flunk the famous EQ test given to preschoolers—those kids’ goodies are withheld for 20 whole minutes. Then again, the EQ kids are promised their own treats—more if they wait than if they don't. Oh, well. In this case, I think “less is more.” Who needs all that sugar? (I’m assuming it was something sweet. Since Ben refused to divulge that part of the confession, I guess I’ll never know.)

Concentration-Procrastination Explanation

This week I am slogging through a large writing-editing project I shoulda-coulda-woulda started long ago. As I have crammed the work into the nooks and crannies of the usual juggling act that is my life—get up, get the kids to school, get to work, get some exercise, somehow get supper, get the kids to do what they’re supposed to (practice/pick up/play nicely/what-have-you), etc… whew!—I have realized the “why” of my project’s postponement (right now is a good example): It’s easier (much easier) to steal a few minutes of concentration, tip-tap-typing out these random thoughts, than to delve into 1- or 2- or 5-hour writing-editing endeavor. And it’s more fun. So no wonder I put it off! This week, I’m suffering. But I can see the light in the distance. ‘Miles to go before I sleep,’ but I will sleep again—I will! (Darcy: ‘I shall conquer this—I shall!’)

“Time in a Bottle,” by Jim Croce

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day
Till Eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you

If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
I'd save every day like a treasure and then,
Again, I would spend them with you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them

I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with

If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come true
The box would be empty
Except for the memory
Of how they were answered by you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them

I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with

Git'r'done, Grace

Grace has that zombie-like feeling
of someone who stumbled out of bed at 4 a.m.
to try to undo months of procrastination
in one desperate morning,
messily making up for lost time
by searching, skimming,
clicking, copying,
pasting, page by page,
‘Bird By Bird’...
Git’r’done, Grace,
Git’r’done!

Ironies and Inaccuracies

An update on the cat called Marmalade: It’s a he (not a she), and he’s not declawed. Also, the mark in the cat’s left ear that I read as “M” is more likely an “N” standing for Neutered, according to my new cat-expert friend Bud. Bud’s wife is a former co-worker of mine who saw my plea for pity on misplaced Marmie and drove about a half-hour from her house to come look at the kitty. Mr. and Mrs. Bud pointed out the inaccuracies of my “advertisement.” (Sorry, guys—I’m not a vet, just a sucker for strays.) I have one more possible taker before I deliver this poor wandering one to a shelter (the no-kill kind if they’ll take him).

In other news, the Waters fam ran in a local 5k race today. Will and Vi finished third in their respective age groups, and I, Grace, took the top prize for 30-34-year-old females! This accomplishment would be a great deal more impressive had I not been the only runner in my category. Ah, well. It’s just another instance confirming my dad’s oft-quoted adage: “80% of life is showing up!”

One ironic twist of the race was that the prizes were, instead of trophies or ribbons or plaques—cookies! That’s right, run 3.1 miles, burn a few hundred calories, then chow ’em right back down. These were rather large sugar cookies, liberally slathered with bright-colored frosting and icing-piped words corresponding with the recipient’s achievement. I came home and cut mine into pie-shaped wedges, yielding about a half-dozen. Yes, I shared.

Mini-Me Bad Breath

Huge event for work last night. A smash-ing success…I think. We’ll see how the numbers turn out. It was a fundraising banquet, and this morning the counting commences. But not until 10:30.

For now, I have a few minutes of quiet before waking and readying my big kids for school and spending some quality, totally in-my-face time with my preschooler. I love it that children have little sense of personal space with their parents. There’s something inexplicably precious about nose-to-nose encounters with a 3-year-old who has morning breath. When I became pregnant with our second child, our oldest was—well, not 3, but 4. I vividly remember juggling the early-morning queasiness of pregnancy with my fierce enjoyment of first-thing cuddle sessions with Vi. I couldn’t dispense with the former, and I didn’t want to give up the latter. So I simply turned my face away from the straight-on assault of pre-breakfast Chatty Cathy.

And here comes her little sister right now, ready to hit me with her halitosis. Bring it on!