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Sunday, October 30, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
Bursting the Bubble
Thursday, 11:33 pm.
I've just munched, sparingly, on a few cheetos puffs. Yes, cheetos for dinner.
Why, you ask?
Because I didn't get home until 11:00 pm and I, even with a growling belly, resisted the temptation to 'swing thru the drive-thru' (if you know me, you know how I feel about whole foods vs processed foods) for a dinner on the way home...
I (same person, same ideals as mentioned above) just didn't anticipate a bag of processed cheesy puffs to be sitting on the kitchen counter when I walked in the door (evidence of a daddy-on-duty dinner of cheetos, toasted turkey & cheese sandwiches, and tomato soup).
But why was I out so late, you ask?
Because after a day spent on Girl Scout prep AND a 2 hour Girl Scout meeting, I had to attend a 3 hour Girl Scout TRAINING...
Yes, it is an all-consuming activity. Or, rather, I turn it into an all-consuming activity. I put thought and intentional effort into leading my 10 little Daisies (K-1st), 6 Brownies (2nd), and 1 sibling. (More on that pursuit, later, when I'm not so eager to get out of the corderoys I've -tragically- gained too much weight to wear while sitting yoga-style and which are no longer comfortable to wear while I lengthen this already very lengthy monologue...)
Hey, need I refer you back to title of my Blog? "...My Monologues AND Imperfections." Yes, I'm likely to ramble. And yes, I've gained more weight than I'd like to acknowledge. Funny thing about procrastination. Either it hits you with guilt. Or in how you are built. Need I go on? (More on that, later, too... < refer to above rant >.)
Ok, back to the subject... Go back 2 paragraphs... And now, continue:
BUT, tomorrow, oh tomorrow... you're all mine.
Well, after Saint Roger comes home from work.
And, well, after the girls come home from school.
And, ok, after I get the girls dressed in their costumes so they're ready for the school Carnival.
THEN, then you are all mine.
Well, what's left of you, anyway.
Which means, what... ?
3 hours?
I guess that's not such an impressive declaration (see previous 'There's a First Time for Everything' post) after all, now is it?
But that is pretty much how to sum up my life as a M-O-M.
ps: Just add sleepless nights and 3 kids + white carpets to that mix.. now that will burst anyone's bubble in no-time-flat. (Did I hear anyone else say 'Amen'...?)
pps: Seriously, though, if you're 'hearing me' right now... wanna go get some Thai food? (*wink*)
I've just munched, sparingly, on a few cheetos puffs. Yes, cheetos for dinner.
Why, you ask?
Because I didn't get home until 11:00 pm and I, even with a growling belly, resisted the temptation to 'swing thru the drive-thru' (if you know me, you know how I feel about whole foods vs processed foods) for a dinner on the way home...
I (same person, same ideals as mentioned above) just didn't anticipate a bag of processed cheesy puffs to be sitting on the kitchen counter when I walked in the door (evidence of a daddy-on-duty dinner of cheetos, toasted turkey & cheese sandwiches, and tomato soup).
But why was I out so late, you ask?
Because after a day spent on Girl Scout prep AND a 2 hour Girl Scout meeting, I had to attend a 3 hour Girl Scout TRAINING...
Yes, it is an all-consuming activity. Or, rather, I turn it into an all-consuming activity. I put thought and intentional effort into leading my 10 little Daisies (K-1st), 6 Brownies (2nd), and 1 sibling. (More on that pursuit, later, when I'm not so eager to get out of the corderoys I've -tragically- gained too much weight to wear while sitting yoga-style and which are no longer comfortable to wear while I lengthen this already very lengthy monologue...)
Hey, need I refer you back to title of my Blog? "...My Monologues AND Imperfections." Yes, I'm likely to ramble. And yes, I've gained more weight than I'd like to acknowledge. Funny thing about procrastination. Either it hits you with guilt. Or in how you are built. Need I go on? (More on that, later, too... < refer to above rant >.)
Ok, back to the subject... Go back 2 paragraphs... And now, continue:
BUT, tomorrow, oh tomorrow... you're all mine.
Well, after Saint Roger comes home from work.
And, well, after the girls come home from school.
And, ok, after I get the girls dressed in their costumes so they're ready for the school Carnival.
THEN, then you are all mine.
Well, what's left of you, anyway.
Which means, what... ?
3 hours?
I guess that's not such an impressive declaration (see previous 'There's a First Time for Everything' post) after all, now is it?
But that is pretty much how to sum up my life as a M-O-M.
ps: Just add sleepless nights and 3 kids + white carpets to that mix.. now that will burst anyone's bubble in no-time-flat. (Did I hear anyone else say 'Amen'...?)
pps: Seriously, though, if you're 'hearing me' right now... wanna go get some Thai food? (*wink*)
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
There's a First Time for Everything
I am about to do something I have NEVER done before and might not survive to do again...
I have convinced my husband, "Saint Roger" (thank God he'll never read this post and won't ever know I referred to him as such), to take our 3 little girls -the youngest of whom is just under 1 year old- to the big girls' School Carnival.
Yes, I am leaving my husband in charge of 3 costumed-creatures; in the jungle of hallways, classrooms and gymnasiums; amidst the chaos of carnival games and junk-food booths.
No, I do not have a pr-made dinner planned for them. (gasp!)
And I? Well, here's the best part (are you ready for this?)
I am going out with some lady-friends (aka: desperately deprived M-O-M friends) for Thai food. Glorious Thai food... spicy, noodly, with lots of visible vegetables. And then, maybe to a movie.
And the choir sings "Hallelujah!"
I have convinced my husband, "Saint Roger" (thank God he'll never read this post and won't ever know I referred to him as such), to take our 3 little girls -the youngest of whom is just under 1 year old- to the big girls' School Carnival.
Yes, I am leaving my husband in charge of 3 costumed-creatures; in the jungle of hallways, classrooms and gymnasiums; amidst the chaos of carnival games and junk-food booths.
No, I do not have a pr-made dinner planned for them. (gasp!)
And I? Well, here's the best part (are you ready for this?)
I am going out with some lady-friends (aka: desperately deprived M-O-M friends) for Thai food. Glorious Thai food... spicy, noodly, with lots of visible vegetables. And then, maybe to a movie.
And the choir sings "Hallelujah!"
Monday, October 24, 2011
A Case of Mistaken Identity
Cowgirl.
** defined as: "a hired hand (in this case, female) who tends cattle and performs other duties on horseback". **
I guess you could say I qualify (or qualifi-ed) by definition.
I was raised on a ranch. Or... well, not technically 'on' that ranch, but 3 miles away from it.
And I was a hand - although not a hand hired in a paid sense, a hand hired in the birthed-to-be-raised sense - who tended cattle and performed other duties on horseback (and sometimes, not).
Yes, I know how to ride a horse. I know how to saddle and bridle a horse. I even know how to clean a horse's hooves.
Yes, I had my own horse. And yes, I even had green pastures to ride that horse in.
Yes, I've ridden in a rodeo, a few rodeos.
Yes, I know how to ride a horse and rope a cow.
Yes, I can herd cows - at a walk and at a gallop, thru small pastures and large expanses.
I can heel a cow and drag it to the 'fire' - the branding fire.
\
I can inoculate a cow.
I could probably even castrate a bull calf (I've been nose to 'toes' with that process more than just a handful of times, and so, in the case of an emergency - ie: someone hands me the knife and clamp OR for self-defense! - I could walk myself through it).
I've bottle-fed newborn calves, dumped buckets of slop out for fattening pigs, even held the head of a horned-sheep while it was being slaughtered. (yes, it's true)
I've drug logs around an arena - both to 'grade' the dirt and to 'toughen up' my legs.
I've dug post holes and tampered down fence posts.
I've strung barbed-wire fencing - 30 acres worth. I was 9 years old.
I've pulled weeds, more weeds, pastures of weeds.
And on rainy days, I've oiled saddles, coiled ropes, and sharpened knives.
BUT...
I do not identify myself as a "cowgirl". Why?
Because every time I read a story about cowgirls, or see a movie portraying cowgirls (or cowboys, for that matter), or hear the tales of other cowgirls I know or have met... they are happy tales.
Happy trails, happy tales.
BUT
Mine are neither happy trails or happy tales.
Yes, I realize I am fortunate to have had the chance to grow up 'on' the ranch, in the country, with wide-open spaces, green pastures, and around animals.
And yes, I like to ride horses - for leisure.
BUT
I would rather have been gathering eggs, picking vegetables and tending the garden.
I would rather have been learning to crochet, knit, or sew; to bake cookies, pies, or bread; to cook hot, comforting, stick-to-your-ribs meals.
AND
Maybe it's more the truth that I would rather have been lounging in the bay window of a townhouse reading a good book (ok, maybe not even a good book, just a book - ink on paper).
I would rather have been sitting in a theatre watching a play (musical theatre or opera, at that).
I would rather have been strolling thru a museum (art, science, living history).
SO
Yes, when I hear the word 'cowgirl', I get nostalgic for the storybook version. Yes, I could be happy to live that version. And yes, I will gladly continue to read my daughters happy tales about happy trails.
But in the light of reality, I guess you could say I'm really just a city girl.
It's a tragic case of mistaken identity. One that my parents, I can guarentee, are mourning - maybe more so than even me.
** defined as: "a hired hand (in this case, female) who tends cattle and performs other duties on horseback". **
I guess you could say I qualify (or qualifi-ed) by definition.
I was raised on a ranch. Or... well, not technically 'on' that ranch, but 3 miles away from it.
And I was a hand - although not a hand hired in a paid sense, a hand hired in the birthed-to-be-raised sense - who tended cattle and performed other duties on horseback (and sometimes, not).
Yes, I know how to ride a horse. I know how to saddle and bridle a horse. I even know how to clean a horse's hooves.
Yes, I had my own horse. And yes, I even had green pastures to ride that horse in.
Yes, I've ridden in a rodeo, a few rodeos.
Yes, I know how to ride a horse and rope a cow.
Yes, I can herd cows - at a walk and at a gallop, thru small pastures and large expanses.
I can heel a cow and drag it to the 'fire' - the branding fire.
\
I can inoculate a cow.
I could probably even castrate a bull calf (I've been nose to 'toes' with that process more than just a handful of times, and so, in the case of an emergency - ie: someone hands me the knife and clamp OR for self-defense! - I could walk myself through it).
I've bottle-fed newborn calves, dumped buckets of slop out for fattening pigs, even held the head of a horned-sheep while it was being slaughtered. (yes, it's true)
I've drug logs around an arena - both to 'grade' the dirt and to 'toughen up' my legs.
I've dug post holes and tampered down fence posts.
I've strung barbed-wire fencing - 30 acres worth. I was 9 years old.
I've pulled weeds, more weeds, pastures of weeds.
And on rainy days, I've oiled saddles, coiled ropes, and sharpened knives.
BUT...
I do not identify myself as a "cowgirl". Why?
Because every time I read a story about cowgirls, or see a movie portraying cowgirls (or cowboys, for that matter), or hear the tales of other cowgirls I know or have met... they are happy tales.
Happy trails, happy tales.
BUT
Mine are neither happy trails or happy tales.
Yes, I realize I am fortunate to have had the chance to grow up 'on' the ranch, in the country, with wide-open spaces, green pastures, and around animals.
And yes, I like to ride horses - for leisure.
BUT
I would rather have been gathering eggs, picking vegetables and tending the garden.
I would rather have been learning to crochet, knit, or sew; to bake cookies, pies, or bread; to cook hot, comforting, stick-to-your-ribs meals.
AND
Maybe it's more the truth that I would rather have been lounging in the bay window of a townhouse reading a good book (ok, maybe not even a good book, just a book - ink on paper).
I would rather have been sitting in a theatre watching a play (musical theatre or opera, at that).
I would rather have been strolling thru a museum (art, science, living history).
SO
Yes, when I hear the word 'cowgirl', I get nostalgic for the storybook version. Yes, I could be happy to live that version. And yes, I will gladly continue to read my daughters happy tales about happy trails.
But in the light of reality, I guess you could say I'm really just a city girl.
It's a tragic case of mistaken identity. One that my parents, I can guarentee, are mourning - maybe more so than even me.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Square One
Blogging...
A brilliant idea. As illustrated by so many talented (and not so) bloggers out there. And, of course, I'm just catching that wave now - catching... riding... whatever. I'm late to the dance. (and I've gone from surfing to ballet in my analogies, terrific start, eh?)
It's true when they say: "I read her blog and I thought to myself, 'I can do that'..." and so, as I'm jumping on the bandwagon halfway along the trail (now I'm playing the banjo on a moving bale of hay?), I've found myself saying that very phrase... only, it's not quite that easy
Because I'm a writer. A real writer. Or, well, I used to be. Ok, well, maybe not in a long-standing, super-successful, career-woman kind of way. In a more I got free tickets-people read my articles-and I got a seriously-starving-artist paycheck kind of way. That is, until I lost my mojo (aka: self-esteem) to a failed attempt at getting on with The Seattle Times (aka: a real writing job).
And so... 10 years later (literally), I'm attempting to scour the depths of the faaaaar recesses of my soul to find a little piece of that looooong lost self.
Or, so I thought. Tried.
And then reality hit me right between the eyes.
Blogging > Writing > Brainwaves > Sleep.
No sleep with 'lil Willa still waking 2, 3, sometimes 4 times a night.
No brainwaves - all I've got between the ears seems to be a running tally of the fridge and pantry stock, or how much longer will the diaper stash hold out, or where did I put that receipt?
No writing... that one's simple. What could I possibly have to say that anyone would want to read/hear?
No blogging.
I tried. I did.
I stayed up late one night (about a month ago... how's that for consistency?), milking myself (yes, you read that right, milking myself.... breast is best, people, and god-forbid I leave the baby without a liquid food supply for 2 hrs 2x/week - ok, I succummed, it's now just 2 hrs 1x/week), and decided to try my hand at a "New Post"... I started typing. Erased. Started typing. Erased.
What happened? I don't know. It took me a few weeks to realize that my writer's instinct, the one that says 'you edit before you submit'... well, it took over. I wanted to 'get it right' before I 'turned it in'... so I didn't hit "Publish Post."
26 days later, I've turned a corner.
I've clicked on "New Post" again.
And I've written this... yes, this. 'Square One'.
"Publish Post"
A brilliant idea. As illustrated by so many talented (and not so) bloggers out there. And, of course, I'm just catching that wave now - catching... riding... whatever. I'm late to the dance. (and I've gone from surfing to ballet in my analogies, terrific start, eh?)
It's true when they say: "I read her blog and I thought to myself, 'I can do that'..." and so, as I'm jumping on the bandwagon halfway along the trail (now I'm playing the banjo on a moving bale of hay?), I've found myself saying that very phrase... only, it's not quite that easy
Because I'm a writer. A real writer. Or, well, I used to be. Ok, well, maybe not in a long-standing, super-successful, career-woman kind of way. In a more I got free tickets-people read my articles-and I got a seriously-starving-artist paycheck kind of way. That is, until I lost my mojo (aka: self-esteem) to a failed attempt at getting on with The Seattle Times (aka: a real writing job).
And so... 10 years later (literally), I'm attempting to scour the depths of the faaaaar recesses of my soul to find a little piece of that looooong lost self.
Or, so I thought. Tried.
And then reality hit me right between the eyes.
Blogging > Writing > Brainwaves > Sleep.
No sleep with 'lil Willa still waking 2, 3, sometimes 4 times a night.
No brainwaves - all I've got between the ears seems to be a running tally of the fridge and pantry stock, or how much longer will the diaper stash hold out, or where did I put that receipt?
No writing... that one's simple. What could I possibly have to say that anyone would want to read/hear?
No blogging.
I tried. I did.
I stayed up late one night (about a month ago... how's that for consistency?), milking myself (yes, you read that right, milking myself.... breast is best, people, and god-forbid I leave the baby without a liquid food supply for 2 hrs 2x/week - ok, I succummed, it's now just 2 hrs 1x/week), and decided to try my hand at a "New Post"... I started typing. Erased. Started typing. Erased.
What happened? I don't know. It took me a few weeks to realize that my writer's instinct, the one that says 'you edit before you submit'... well, it took over. I wanted to 'get it right' before I 'turned it in'... so I didn't hit "Publish Post."
26 days later, I've turned a corner.
I've clicked on "New Post" again.
And I've written this... yes, this. 'Square One'.
"Publish Post"
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