and so.

A few years later, a million changes later . . .

Our oldest is now in college. He packs his bags every fall and travels too many states away, where he sleeps in a tiny and moderately grungy room, eats three well-balanced meals a day, does his own laundry, and generally manages just fine without me, thankyouverymuch.

And because I'm me, I worry pretty much the whole time. When he tells me he's going to Alcatraz to watch a performance of Hamlet, I check the clock all night long and try to estimate where he is at what point in time, and I don't breathe easily, not truly, until I'm certain he's back in that tiny and moderately grungy room. When he travels with the archery team to Southern California, I'm grateful that he doesn't mention it to me until it's already over, so I don't spend the whole weekend holding my breath. And the weird thing is I want him to have fun. I want college to be an amazing and wonderful time of his life. But more than that? I want him safe. Period.

And the youngest. The youngest begins eighth grade this coming fall. I do not know how this happened. He should still be spinning in circles on the swing in our old yard, his mouth a perfect O of pure delight. In the past couple of years, he's developed a strong interest in guitar and art, for which I am grateful. I love nothing more than listening to him play guitar with his brother when he's home on break -- the two of them playing old blues tunes and laughing. He's faced and continues to face more challenges than anyone his age should have to endure, but in my heart I believe he'll be okay. Because I have to.

I am older, obviously. Creakier. Trying to push myself back into writing after a three-year-long dry spell and feeling as if the rust will never flake off. But pressing forward. Most days.

And I have a new favorite thing. A space. A tiny writing studio with incredible lighting, a gorgeous stone wall, a cushy chair, funky rug, and no Internet distractions. And it's in my favorite spot in all of Helena: Reeder's Alley. I'm hoping it works out, trying to trust in the process, and see what shakes out. The linky: Mad Muse Writing Studio

Freaks and Geeks and Clunky Guitar Squeaks

• I squeezed in my vote for the Million Writers Award literally at the last minute and nominated "The Story of My Life (So Far)" by Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz, which appeared in FRiGG. If you haven't read this yet ~ well, you should.
  



• The whole family has been addicted to watching Freaks and Geeks. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard at a t.v. show as when Bill dressed up as the Bionic Woman. Seriously. How did this show get canceled??
  



• A friend from my writing group has a story in the new issue of Storyglossia. Check out Sorry Kid by Virginia Reeves. Also, the new issue of ghoti is up, with my piece, "Cutting Corners," included.
  



• This afternoon, I'm attending a reading at the library given by writers who have contributed to MO: Writings from the River, a newish lit journal headquartered in Great Falls. 'Twill include a reading from event organizer, Ms. Anne Bauer. 'Twill be good, no doubt.
  


• And tomorrow, well tomorrow, I get to hear this guy read. In Helena!! And I can't wait. I'm also oddly nervous. I'm also wondering why this event is taking place at the Red Lion Colonial Inn, the odd-looking, sorta bland hotel near the highway and not far from the Wal-Mart. eh.
  



• B bought me a guitar for Christmas (b/c Learn To Play Guitar was on my short list of things I want to do before I die, a list I mention frequently to anyone who will listen) and I've been trying to teach myself to play. I've trimmed my fingernails to little nubs, which has turned out to be pretty strong proof of my commitment to learn, since it turns out I'm a fairly itchy person and I actually could really use those fingernails. But anyway, B's money would have been better spent saving up for another item from my before-I-die list, like Visit England. Because evidently I am not a very musical person. But I will keep clunking away. I guess. And I have revised my list slightly and now wish to learn to play only one song, Bowie's "Queen Bitch," before I die. There's a slight chance I just might reach that goal. In 30-40 years. . .
  

breaking away from the bullets now, back to the homeschool, back to the wishing-for-summer . . .

I'm ready (more than) for spring. For summer, even. For open windows, Red Stripe beer, barbecues, flotation devices, and reggae. I want to slather myself in suntan lotion that smells like coconut, I want to wear sandals and flimsy skirts.

I'm tired of firing up our little pellet stove. Tired of dipping my fingers into hot running water to thaw them out. Tired of sleeping in sweatshirts, socks, and mittens. Tired, I say. wah, wah, and all that. It's March, the in-between month, the month that brings a warm 70-ish sunshiney day and then rips it away again. Can't it be June already?
~ ~
In other, less whiny parts of the world . . . It's nomination time again for storySouth's Million Writers Award. I probably take the whole thing a little too seriously, but I spend a lot of time reading favorite stories and re-reading them, and then making sure someone else hasn't already nominated the story I select.

Already, some of my favorites (Kristen Tsetsi's They Three At Once Were One and Katrina Denza's Snake Dreams and Nathan Leslie's Olives) have been nominated. I'm so freaking indecisive that by the time I settle on something, there's a good chance someone else has already voted for it. Then I start all over again, which I don't really mind because hey, there are a lot of good stories out there.
~ ~
The inimitable Robin Slick posted this amazing video of Project Object (including her son, Eric, on drums) playing one of my all-time favorite FZ tunes, Cosmik Debris. INcredible.

Incidentally, one of Robin's favorite obsessions is visiting Helena soon. . .
Gotta save my pennies up.

Current fiction read: The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy
Current nonfic read: Delivered from Distraction, Edward M. Hallowell

I'm almost scared to say it out loud, because what if Kristy changes her mind or maybe she made a mistake and sent me the wrong letter, but I'll take a deep breath and whooosh it out: Dancing Girl Press has accepted my chapbook, Kitchen Witch, for publication in September of 2007. And to say I'm over the moon about it is the understatement of the year. I have so much respect for this press and the thought of being a tiny part of it is humbling (and a little terrifying!).

In other news: I am being steamrollered by Christmas. Cards are going out late. Gifts are still unpurchased. The cookie list needs to be wheedled down from 46 different cookies to something a wee bit more manageable. And our tree is still naked. Sad little nude Christmas tree.

B has been traveling for work a TON lately and the kids' activities have seemingly switched into high gear. Band concerts, aikido classes, robotics courses, speech team meetings. I've been having a CALGON, TAKE ME AWAY sort of few weeks. And I just found out B will be gone a lot next week too. I've gotta say, I'm starting to feel a little grinchy.

My one respite from the insanity has been the discovery of an online sudoku game at BlogExplosion. I spend 30 minutes before bedtime, filling numbers in the clean little grid and forgetting momentarily about all the items still unstricken from my to-do-list. It helps me unwind, helps me sleep. And when I'm sudoku-ing, my favorite expression is, "not now."

The kids come in to tell me one of them has bopped the other over the head with the Christmas band sausage and I say, "Not now."

Keegan complains that Tristan is dressed as the "British tax man" and is sticking labels that say "Tax: $10.00" on all the snack foods in our pantry, and I say, "Not now."

It's thirty minutes. I figure they'll manage.

And then yesterday, T's counselor asks him how things are going and he responds, "My mom has been on the computer all the time because she's addicted to sudoku and she doesn't listen to me when she's playing it. Which is all the time, like five thousand times a day. And she tells me not to talk to her because she's too busy."

And where, I ask you, is a good rock to crawl under when you need it?

My short story, "Waxing Razal," is up at Storyglossia, as are the stories of the other finalists. I plan on wrapping myself in a blanket tonight, pouring a big hot mug of tea, and settling in for a nice long read.

Steven McDermott is a big sparkly gem of an editor and I'm thrilled to be a part of his journal. The news that the story received a Pushcart nom. has pretty much made my year.
~ ~
Candy update:Convinced that 11 bags of sweets might not be adequate for the hoards of trick-or-treaters I was expecting, I went shopping yesterday and picked up an additional 7 bags.

The weather last night was miserable. Bitterly cold, windy, icy. The low was something like 11 degrees.

My doorbell rang a total of four times.

I am going to lose every tooth in my big fat candy-eating head.

I have a cold.

Not a death-grip cold, but rather an amusing little cold. I'm all stuffed up and my head feels packed with cotton. But I can get around fine, can do whatever ~ just slowly.

This means I can get away with lingering in bed all day. Which I did yesterday. With a big pile of catalogues that I've been meaning to peruse for the past four months.

I drank Diet Snapple, took a Nyquil at 4pm that failed to knock me out, took another around 9pm that didn't. And I spent all day yesterday looking at every freaking catalogue you can imagine.

Hammacher Schlemmer. Victoria's Secret. eToys. Spillsbury. Office Depot. Legos. Young Explorers. LL Bean.

I marked pages and took notes, because this year, THIS YEAR, I will finish my Christmas shopping before December 24. I'm a woman with a plan.Watch out.

The other thing I did yesterday was eat Halloween candy. This is not a good thing. I went a little wacky at Target a few days ago and walked out with eleven gigantic bags of candy. Even I can see that this is excessive.

And so in between sneezing and moaning (the moaning helped in the sympathy department and I'm pretty sure it was solely responsible for B. volunteering to both do the grocery shopping and make a yummy lentil dish), I ate SpongeBob Gummy Krabby Patties (these were my downfall last year) and Razzles and Swedish Fish and Tootsie Rolls and Crunch bars and Sour Cherry Airheads.

I admit it. I have a problem.

But isn't this the perfect weather in which to have a cold & read catalogues & eat candy?

Am still wavering between keeping my livejournal account and moving over here. Suggestions? Warnings? anythings?

Ever notice how Nyquil gelcaps are the same color as those little mermaids that bartenders sometimes attach to the rim of your glass? And when the medicine hits you, it’s kinda like being plowed under by a wave ~ a big old comfortable tingly sort of wave.

I’ve spent the past several days swimming in oceans of Nyquil. Once in a while, not always ~ actually, almost never ~ but once in a while, it can be pleasant to be sick.

It happens when there are plenty of Puffs Plus, a neverending supply of Nyquil, your good clean pillow and warm blanket, and a little stack of books you’ve had on your to-read pile for a while. The kids are healthy, but fearful enough of catching whatever you have that they suddenly discover the phrase, "Never mind. I’ll get it myself." And if you have a craving ~ say your heart’s desire is a potato of the sea from Staggering Ox ~ all you have to do is voice that craving and it magically appears before you (following, of course, the 5-min. round trip drive time).

A person could get used to that kind of sickness.

If only the person’s to-read pile did not include The Mermaid Chair by Sue Monk Kidd.

I had heard so many good things about The Secret Life of Bees from people whose opinions I respect tremendously. So why didn’t I pick The Secret Life of Bees instead? Well, quite simply because it wasn’t one of my options when I signed up for yet another book-of-the-month club (with free tote!). Anyway, given the raves about SMK’s brilliance, I figured I was safe with TMC.

Nope.

It’s been a while since I actually screamed, "NO!" at a book. I think I may have actually spanked the text at one point, but that may have been part of a Nyquil-induced dream.

The thing is, I almost *never* dislike books. I can get into almost anything. I really can. I’m gullible ~ I’ll believe anything I read without asking questions. And I’ll always be able to find something to enjoy in almost every story.

But this book just made me angry. It made me cringe. The main character was pathetic, the dialogue was clunky, and by page 10, I was tired of hearing the phrase, "I thought about. . ." Ugh. And so many things were simply glossed over, in a la-di-dah, la-di-dah way.

But I kept reading.

Because you know how they say that the character traits that bother you the most in other people are the ones that you probably suffer from yourself? Like if your mother-in-law’s passive aggressive nature makes you want to peel your fingernails off, then you might want to gaze a little deeper into the mirror, senorita, because you’ve probably got a little passive-aggressive going on yourself?

Well, I admit it: I’m guilty of doing almost everything in my own fiction that drove me crazy about TMC. I’ve written clunky dialogue, I’ve had pathetic, unappealing characters, I"ve glossed over, and Lord knows I’ve typed that dreaded "I thought about" phrase more times than I care to remember.

So thank you, Ms. Kidd (Ms. Monk Kidd?) for that little awakening.

And thank you, Mr. Irving, for writing A Prayer for Owen Meany, which I’m just diving into and am loving on a whole new level of love.

And thank you, Jesus, for the Nyquil.

Cross-posted on my livejournal, b/c I'm bored & felt like fiddling around over here. . .

Divining the future
This has been the longest B and I have been separated from the boys (they're in Yellowstone, with the in-laws), other than my trip to Rochester, MN a few years back, which was different because we were the ones leaving. And it makes a difference, a huge difference, whether you’re the one leaving or the one who is left.

We’ve had, in this small space of time, a glimpse of what retired life couldmightmaybe be like for us. What I predict:

I will not spend much time cooking, I don’t think. We’ve enjoyed tiny simple delicacies for dinner. Tuscan tomato-basil soup and brie with warm bread last night.

We might very well become alcoholics ~ Saturday was Harvey Wallbanger night and Sunday was (because I was curious and they looked so good on Sex and the City and I had to try it) Cosmopolitan night. We will not have the cosmos again.

We will still laugh and find each other nerdily, endearingly funny.

He will still rush me through the grocery store, asking every five seconds if we’re almost done, almost done, while I linger in the candy aisle, the bakery section, the produce department.

We will still talk, still hold hands in parking lots.


The Honky Car and the Evil Car-Lady

And this weekend was the weekend we needed to look at getting a new (used) car. Our lease is expiring and we did not, not, not want to lease again. Not now, not ever.

At the first place we visited, the saleslady kept nudging us toward this god-awful Buick, pimp-ugly, cheesy, behemoth-mobile. She sneered at us both when I told her that I wasn’t all that fond of the fake glossy woodgrain interior. It was a what-do-they-know sneer, a clearly-I’m-a-better-person sneer. B asked about a couple of Accords they had on the lot and she (almost reluctantly, it seemed) drove along with us. We liked what we saw and said we’d talk it over and so she gave us her card and we left.

Back at home, I looked at the card, recognized the woman’s name, and googled it to make sure. The evil car lady who tried to sell us the UG-mobile was none other than the woman at the head of the organization listed as Number 8 on the Democratic Underground’s Top Ten Conservative Idiots of 2003. The woman who said, of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, “that's not a reality show about gay people. A really good reality show for gay people would be five gay men dying of AIDS.”

Uh-huh. She’s the same woman who was responsible for my morning skin-crawl session when she went on a letter-to-the-editor rampage a couple years ago.

Needless to say, we did NOT return to that car lot.

We went elsewhere, test-drove elsewhere, and in the end we bought what we are now calling The Honky Car. I don’t much care about cars, as long as it can get me from Point A to Point B without problems. But this car we bought is lovely. Glossy black. An Accord. Comfy and smooth and quiet.

It only has one teensy problem, which we discovered when B ran into Safeway to purchase orange juice (for above-mentioned H. Wallbangers) and I waited in the car. When I saw B coming back out of the store, I flipped the switch to unlock the doors and it was at that point that our lovely new car began to emit the most horrendous, most ear-scrambling, blaring HONK that you can imagine. It was painful and brutal and we could not, for the life of us, figure out how to shut it off.

Nothing helped. Sticking the keys in the ignition did nothing. Pressing every button in sight did nothing. It just HONKED and HONKED and HONKED, until everyone in the Safeway parking lot was staring and glaring at us. Some yelled at us. We had to drive away, down the street, ashamed and humiliated, past a police car, with the damned thing still honking. It finally, blissfully stopped when we turned down our street.

And we were grateful for the quiet, so completely grateful, until we opened the doors and the HONK commenced yet again. We slammed the car shut and ran inside the house. Truly, we couldn’t have run any faster had the car suddenly revved up and gone Christine on us. The noise lasted for three minutes, which felt like three hours, and I’m sure more than ever that our neighbors hate us.

Theresa doesn't live here anymore.
She lives here.

(but she's keeping this page too so she doesn't come across as an anonymous creepie when posting on friends' blogs in blogger-world.)
(no. now she'll be a named creepie.)