Did you notice, two days ago, that I was still 9.7 miles away from my running goal for the month of January? Considering that I had never before in my life run more than, say 3.5 miles at a time, it was looking pretty bleak.
Well, look again, friends, because not only did I reach my goal, I went 1.1 miles extra! That's right, I did it. 4.6 miles yesterday, and 6.2 miles tonight. I think I'm going to be awake until 4 AM. Unless I die of a heart attack before then. 10.8 MILES! 10.8 MILES!
PS The first virtual meeting of the new religious cult I'm starting, The International Church of the Holy List, will be held sometime on Monday, whenever I have time to post. Be on the lookout!
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Listmakers Anonymous
My name is InkMom and I am a listmaker.
It's been . . . 14 hours since my last list.
My first list was in kindergarten. I got a new box of 64 Crayola crayons -- you know, the box with the sharpener in the front? I scavenged a big piece of poster board from my mom's church stuff, and used all 64 of those crayons to make a list of . . . all 64 crayon colors. I was so proud that I took it to school for show and tell.
I am jealous of the kids whose schools give them agendas to help them keep track of their assignments. They didn't do that stuff *GASP* 20 years ago when I was in junior high. I wish they had. I would have loved it.
I even make lists late at night, in bed, alphabetically, when suffering from insomnia. Like: list a Disney movie starting with every letter of the alphabet. I've done countries, world capitals, bodies of water (that's a tough one), authors, flowers, vegetables (also hard), fruits, names I could actually live with, scriptural figures, painters, great works of art, composers, car models . . . uh, oh. Looks like I've already fallen off the wagon.
Right after MayDay was born, I had a hard time getting a handle on all the housework with the added stress of a third child under 2 years old. (Go figure.) I found myself making the same list every single day: dishes, laundry, vacuum, etc. It's frustrating to make yourself a to-do list and cross off what you've done only to write it all on there again the next morning. So. My solution was to LIST every single household chore that needed to be done around here by frequency. I typed them all up and then posted them on my kitchen cabinet: a daily list, a weekly list, a biweekly list, and a monthly list. Oh, the satisfaction.
The daily list has stayed up as a reminder . . . in case I really need one to tell me to do the dishes. (Total honesty here: it's really there for CPod. Because sometimes he does need a reminder. Or an idea of what to do with his spare time. Ha, ha.) But the other lists fell out of use for a while.
I can live in squalor no more. Somehow, if it's not on the list to clean out the refrigerator every two weeks, I'll go months without doing it . . . and by then, I guarantee I've got something in there that would qualify as an antibiotic, and all my leftover containers are full of what was once spaghetti sauce but is no longer recognizable. I confess, I have thrown out containers full of . . . growth, because I was too grossed out to clean them.
So this week, I reworked the lists a little. I made some permanent assignments to CPod, like wheeling the garbage out to the curb, and toilets, and sweeping out the garage. (He's totally on board with this. Since he's the one in charge of teaching our kids how to aim that thing, he's also totally responsible for the aftermath when their aim is off.) And I printed them again, and taped them to my kitchen cabinet. Scour sink? Check. Clean kitchen floor? Check. Pay bills and reconcile on-line statement? Check. Update menu and grocery list? Check. Check. Check. Check. Check!
And . . . if you really want me to, I will publish the lists. But only if you ask, because they're boring and I don't want to make you read something that's uninteresting. Maybe I have no idea what you think is interesting. If so, just ask.
(Now that I'm rereading this . . . I sound totally uptight and rigid, and I'm beginning to question my own creativity! It's really not that bad -- no one gets in trouble if the list isn't completed. CPod does not suffer if the toilets are not spic and span every week. Seriously, I think this drive for organization is a function of my need for order, which implies a great need for control . . . which is absolutely true. And closely tied to that crazed look in my eyes when I can't take the clutter any more. I think my creativity is stifled by the distraction of a disorderly environment. And my sanity is eroded by an inability to find what I need when I need it. And if it's written on the list, it's something my brain no longer has to keep track of. I may have to change the title of my blog, because I don't think I can even imply the (not) anymore!)
It's been . . . 14 hours since my last list.
My first list was in kindergarten. I got a new box of 64 Crayola crayons -- you know, the box with the sharpener in the front? I scavenged a big piece of poster board from my mom's church stuff, and used all 64 of those crayons to make a list of . . . all 64 crayon colors. I was so proud that I took it to school for show and tell.
I am jealous of the kids whose schools give them agendas to help them keep track of their assignments. They didn't do that stuff *GASP* 20 years ago when I was in junior high. I wish they had. I would have loved it.
I even make lists late at night, in bed, alphabetically, when suffering from insomnia. Like: list a Disney movie starting with every letter of the alphabet. I've done countries, world capitals, bodies of water (that's a tough one), authors, flowers, vegetables (also hard), fruits, names I could actually live with, scriptural figures, painters, great works of art, composers, car models . . . uh, oh. Looks like I've already fallen off the wagon.
Right after MayDay was born, I had a hard time getting a handle on all the housework with the added stress of a third child under 2 years old. (Go figure.) I found myself making the same list every single day: dishes, laundry, vacuum, etc. It's frustrating to make yourself a to-do list and cross off what you've done only to write it all on there again the next morning. So. My solution was to LIST every single household chore that needed to be done around here by frequency. I typed them all up and then posted them on my kitchen cabinet: a daily list, a weekly list, a biweekly list, and a monthly list. Oh, the satisfaction.
The daily list has stayed up as a reminder . . . in case I really need one to tell me to do the dishes. (Total honesty here: it's really there for CPod. Because sometimes he does need a reminder. Or an idea of what to do with his spare time. Ha, ha.) But the other lists fell out of use for a while.
I can live in squalor no more. Somehow, if it's not on the list to clean out the refrigerator every two weeks, I'll go months without doing it . . . and by then, I guarantee I've got something in there that would qualify as an antibiotic, and all my leftover containers are full of what was once spaghetti sauce but is no longer recognizable. I confess, I have thrown out containers full of . . . growth, because I was too grossed out to clean them.
So this week, I reworked the lists a little. I made some permanent assignments to CPod, like wheeling the garbage out to the curb, and toilets, and sweeping out the garage. (He's totally on board with this. Since he's the one in charge of teaching our kids how to aim that thing, he's also totally responsible for the aftermath when their aim is off.) And I printed them again, and taped them to my kitchen cabinet. Scour sink? Check. Clean kitchen floor? Check. Pay bills and reconcile on-line statement? Check. Update menu and grocery list? Check. Check. Check. Check. Check!
And . . . if you really want me to, I will publish the lists. But only if you ask, because they're boring and I don't want to make you read something that's uninteresting. Maybe I have no idea what you think is interesting. If so, just ask.
(Now that I'm rereading this . . . I sound totally uptight and rigid, and I'm beginning to question my own creativity! It's really not that bad -- no one gets in trouble if the list isn't completed. CPod does not suffer if the toilets are not spic and span every week. Seriously, I think this drive for organization is a function of my need for order, which implies a great need for control . . . which is absolutely true. And closely tied to that crazed look in my eyes when I can't take the clutter any more. I think my creativity is stifled by the distraction of a disorderly environment. And my sanity is eroded by an inability to find what I need when I need it. And if it's written on the list, it's something my brain no longer has to keep track of. I may have to change the title of my blog, because I don't think I can even imply the (not) anymore!)
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Epiphany
I spent my seventeenth summer playing viola at a world-renowned music festival. Each day was filled with practices and performances, theory lessons and master classes, orchestras, opera pits, string quartets, private practices and sectionals.
I toted my viola and a foldable wire music stand all through the mountains for group rehearsals, and, when it came time to practice on my own, in search of a vacant tin-roofed cabin so I could add my strains of Bloch and Schubert to the symphony of sound carried on the breeze. The hills rang from Reveille to Taps, and the almost daily thunderstorms did little to dampen the song.
That summer I dyed my hair a rich, dark auburn (because I could), I ate only carrots and peanut butter (because they were the only edible things at the dining hall), and I had a crush on Glen Cortese (look him up . . . and don't hold the beard against me).
It's not what you think. It was totally unrequited and I was okay with that -- in fact, I would have been surprised if he had known my full name. You see, Dr. Cortese was my conductor. I arrived at rehearsals early just for the chance to say hello before we began to play. I listened intently to every word he said and gleaned every possible scrap of musical wisdom from his erudite musings about form. I nodded in agreement to every suggestion of dynamic change and nearly applauded his brilliant analysis of the composer's intent. I worked hard to hold onto first chair not only so I could lead my section, but so I could stay near Dr. Cortese.
And this is why I was so absolutely mortified the first time we read through Dvorak's Symphony No. 7 in d Minor. I had always loved Dvorak -- he was sassy, and he wrote fantastic viola parts -- and the first two movements were great fun to play -- but the third movement, the Scherzo, hit me with something I had never before felt.
My musical experiences thus far had been varied, and I certainly had pieces I loved that evoked intense emotional responses. This piece was different. It filled me up from the heart out and before we were 20 measures in, I was openly weeping -- nose running, eyes tearing, chest heaving, desperately trying not to audibly sob during the quiet parts. It was cathartic -- and still is, every time I listen to it. I don't know if Dr. Cortese even noticed -- then, I prayed he hadn't -- but it didn't matter. My crush on my conductor faded, but the song I discovered under his tutelage became the background music of my life.
Fastforward 15 years. A friend asks to borrow my recording of the Dvorak 8, which is on the same CD as the 7th. On the way to a rehearsal where she will also be I slip the disk into the player in the car and listen. It's so familiar, so lovely, so much still my favorite -- and then the Scherzo. Still, tears sting my eyes as the lush melodies wash over me. I feel like someone has unexpectedly dumped out my bucket of soul and I struggle to clean up the spill. My throat tightens, and I wonder -- why this piece? I listen over and over and over, and then I see -- it is me.
The first time you hear it, it's lovely, but something harsh and contrary bubbles under the surface, struggling to be heard over the mainstream melody above. It changes rapidly back and forth between duple and triple time, an internal battle so at odds that at times they are expressed simultaneously and you can't figure out which one is winning. It is a study in contrasts: the Slovak peasant melodies over skillfully composed counters; the serene calm of wind solos and the intense bombast of the brass choir; the gritty low open strings hit so hard you can hear the sticks, then exultant soaring upper registers that are so pure they seem to resonate with the very elements.
The more you listen and discover the depth and complication of the melody and counterpoint, the more unsettling it becomes. Dark but still playful, turbulent, complicated, disarmingly brash, sometimes too harsh for the average listener, thoroughly and engagingly composed, but unsettling -- this is the Scherzo.
This is me. We are alike: simple folk songs layered over complicated rhythms, struggling within to balance a complex structure. More than we were before being refined at the hands of a skilled creator and master. Straining upwards, ever upwards, to find that perfect resonant place where everything works in perfect harmony. Rough edges waiting -- wanting -- to be polished.
Polish me.
---------------
(I wrote this last year as a response to a writing prompt: if you were a piece of music, what would you be? It has been nagging at the edges of my consciousness ever since and I can't usually get rid of the nagging until I finish a piece. After some fine tuning and tweaking, this is the reincarnation. You're all going to think I'm loony after you read it, but so be it. Criticism is not just welcome on this post . . . it's encouraged. After all, I'm here, to a degree, to become better at my craft.)
And I'll put the same question to you, dear readers: if you were a piece of music, what would you be?
I toted my viola and a foldable wire music stand all through the mountains for group rehearsals, and, when it came time to practice on my own, in search of a vacant tin-roofed cabin so I could add my strains of Bloch and Schubert to the symphony of sound carried on the breeze. The hills rang from Reveille to Taps, and the almost daily thunderstorms did little to dampen the song.
That summer I dyed my hair a rich, dark auburn (because I could), I ate only carrots and peanut butter (because they were the only edible things at the dining hall), and I had a crush on Glen Cortese (look him up . . . and don't hold the beard against me).
It's not what you think. It was totally unrequited and I was okay with that -- in fact, I would have been surprised if he had known my full name. You see, Dr. Cortese was my conductor. I arrived at rehearsals early just for the chance to say hello before we began to play. I listened intently to every word he said and gleaned every possible scrap of musical wisdom from his erudite musings about form. I nodded in agreement to every suggestion of dynamic change and nearly applauded his brilliant analysis of the composer's intent. I worked hard to hold onto first chair not only so I could lead my section, but so I could stay near Dr. Cortese.
And this is why I was so absolutely mortified the first time we read through Dvorak's Symphony No. 7 in d Minor. I had always loved Dvorak -- he was sassy, and he wrote fantastic viola parts -- and the first two movements were great fun to play -- but the third movement, the Scherzo, hit me with something I had never before felt.
My musical experiences thus far had been varied, and I certainly had pieces I loved that evoked intense emotional responses. This piece was different. It filled me up from the heart out and before we were 20 measures in, I was openly weeping -- nose running, eyes tearing, chest heaving, desperately trying not to audibly sob during the quiet parts. It was cathartic -- and still is, every time I listen to it. I don't know if Dr. Cortese even noticed -- then, I prayed he hadn't -- but it didn't matter. My crush on my conductor faded, but the song I discovered under his tutelage became the background music of my life.
Fastforward 15 years. A friend asks to borrow my recording of the Dvorak 8, which is on the same CD as the 7th. On the way to a rehearsal where she will also be I slip the disk into the player in the car and listen. It's so familiar, so lovely, so much still my favorite -- and then the Scherzo. Still, tears sting my eyes as the lush melodies wash over me. I feel like someone has unexpectedly dumped out my bucket of soul and I struggle to clean up the spill. My throat tightens, and I wonder -- why this piece? I listen over and over and over, and then I see -- it is me.
The first time you hear it, it's lovely, but something harsh and contrary bubbles under the surface, struggling to be heard over the mainstream melody above. It changes rapidly back and forth between duple and triple time, an internal battle so at odds that at times they are expressed simultaneously and you can't figure out which one is winning. It is a study in contrasts: the Slovak peasant melodies over skillfully composed counters; the serene calm of wind solos and the intense bombast of the brass choir; the gritty low open strings hit so hard you can hear the sticks, then exultant soaring upper registers that are so pure they seem to resonate with the very elements.
The more you listen and discover the depth and complication of the melody and counterpoint, the more unsettling it becomes. Dark but still playful, turbulent, complicated, disarmingly brash, sometimes too harsh for the average listener, thoroughly and engagingly composed, but unsettling -- this is the Scherzo.
This is me. We are alike: simple folk songs layered over complicated rhythms, struggling within to balance a complex structure. More than we were before being refined at the hands of a skilled creator and master. Straining upwards, ever upwards, to find that perfect resonant place where everything works in perfect harmony. Rough edges waiting -- wanting -- to be polished.
Polish me.
---------------
(I wrote this last year as a response to a writing prompt: if you were a piece of music, what would you be? It has been nagging at the edges of my consciousness ever since and I can't usually get rid of the nagging until I finish a piece. After some fine tuning and tweaking, this is the reincarnation. You're all going to think I'm loony after you read it, but so be it. Criticism is not just welcome on this post . . . it's encouraged. After all, I'm here, to a degree, to become better at my craft.)
And I'll put the same question to you, dear readers: if you were a piece of music, what would you be?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Baby Geniuses
Or at least super-smart cookies. Here's the set-up. As we were eating dinner tonight, G-Dog informed us all that he had invented something.
And then, this:
Yes, yes, I know -- we've been compromised. Now you know my kids' first names. Bonus points if you caught all three of them.
In other news, this is what I woke up to on our snow day:
And this is how ConMan (old habits die hard -- I'll still be using the aliases) looked the entire 15 minutes he spent outside in the "snow":
And I love my boys. And I love their Daddy. You can't really see it in this picture, so let me explain: little boys are following the big one around the yard. He's just moved the Christmas tree into the burn pile, and they are connected to him as if tied to an invisible tether. I love it.
And this is from a quiet moment we had a few nights ago when the big boys fell asleep on the way home, but since MayDay had had a 3 hour nap earlier in the day, he did not. So he got to be the only kid for about 45 minutes and he chose to snuggle with Daddy for all of it.
A picture is worth a thousand words, right? HA! Try five: The Bane of My Existence! This is what I've been doing instead of blogging for the past four days:
The other day, ConMan said a blessing on our lunch. In it, he made sure to be thankful for flying carpets.
My couch smells like peanut butter. I'm a little concerned.
Thats all.
PS It has been a thoroughly unpleasant experience waiting for that second stupid video to upload to Blogger. MommyJ told me to use PhotoBucket because Blogger would take so long . . . I thought she meant, like, 45 minutes. But no. Try FOUR HOURS! On the bright side, I've folded almost all of the laundry. And did you know The Golden Girls comes on at 1AM? Who watches The Golden Girls at 1AM? I mean, most old people have been in bed for 6 hours or so, and won't wake up for another 3, and what other audience is there? Besides myself, of course. Those ladies were SASSY!
Man, I hope someone thinks that video is funny other than those people required to by a blood relationship. At least now I've figured out how to do it the fast(er) and easy way.
And then, this:
Yes, yes, I know -- we've been compromised. Now you know my kids' first names. Bonus points if you caught all three of them.
In other news, this is what I woke up to on our snow day:
And this is how ConMan (old habits die hard -- I'll still be using the aliases) looked the entire 15 minutes he spent outside in the "snow":
And I love my boys. And I love their Daddy. You can't really see it in this picture, so let me explain: little boys are following the big one around the yard. He's just moved the Christmas tree into the burn pile, and they are connected to him as if tied to an invisible tether. I love it.
And this is from a quiet moment we had a few nights ago when the big boys fell asleep on the way home, but since MayDay had had a 3 hour nap earlier in the day, he did not. So he got to be the only kid for about 45 minutes and he chose to snuggle with Daddy for all of it.
A picture is worth a thousand words, right? HA! Try five: The Bane of My Existence! This is what I've been doing instead of blogging for the past four days:
The other day, ConMan said a blessing on our lunch. In it, he made sure to be thankful for flying carpets.
My couch smells like peanut butter. I'm a little concerned.
Thats all.
PS It has been a thoroughly unpleasant experience waiting for that second stupid video to upload to Blogger. MommyJ told me to use PhotoBucket because Blogger would take so long . . . I thought she meant, like, 45 minutes. But no. Try FOUR HOURS! On the bright side, I've folded almost all of the laundry. And did you know The Golden Girls comes on at 1AM? Who watches The Golden Girls at 1AM? I mean, most old people have been in bed for 6 hours or so, and won't wake up for another 3, and what other audience is there? Besides myself, of course. Those ladies were SASSY!
Man, I hope someone thinks that video is funny other than those people required to by a blood relationship. At least now I've figured out how to do it the fast(er) and easy way.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
My (Al)most Embarrassing Moment
Two-thirds of my children have been sick this week, which means I've been housebound since Tuesday. Yesterday, body temperatures were manageable, if not normal, and we were all headed for stir-craziness if we didn't get out of the house. So CPod and I bundled up our younguns, piled them in the car and went to run some errands.
We stopped at a few places, meandering up to a certain purveyor of rotisserie chickens and yummy side dishes. We ordered our food, got the kids corralled into a booth and sat down to eat.
It was at this point that I realized I had an urgent need to use the facilities. I scooted on over to the bathroom, did what I had to, and then washed my hands. As I turned to leave, another person came in . . . a little boy, about 10 years old or so. Who looked at me kind of strangely. I smiled and reached for the door handle, and then, glancing to my right, noticed . . . a urinal. Which they don't usually install in women's bathrooms, right? Right.
Come to think of it, I had wondered why the restroom only had one stall.
I wasn't really embarrassed, just a little alarmed that I hadn't noticed something so basic. CPod sure had a good chuckle, though.
But can you imagine how it could have gone? It could have been OH so much worse.
Imagine if I'd been in the stall and seen some manly shoes under the door waiting their turn. I'm sure I would have thought he was the one who had made the mistake -- especially since I didn't see the urinal until I was on my way out. And I would have said something . . . like, "Hey, um, I think you're in the ladies room." And he would have glanced significantly at the urinal and I would have averted my eyes lest he do something, you know, totally expected in a men's washroom, and slunk back to my table.
I shudder to think what wold have happened had I walked in on someone in midstream.
And worst of all, I'm having nightmares now about being accidentally stranded in the men's room stall, trapped by an endless stream (couldn't resist) of urinal users with no opportunity to escape from under cover without being noticed. Oh, the horror.
Next time, I'll pay closer attention. I'm the bald one in the ugly A-line dress, with cankles and absolutely no boobs, right?
We stopped at a few places, meandering up to a certain purveyor of rotisserie chickens and yummy side dishes. We ordered our food, got the kids corralled into a booth and sat down to eat.
It was at this point that I realized I had an urgent need to use the facilities. I scooted on over to the bathroom, did what I had to, and then washed my hands. As I turned to leave, another person came in . . . a little boy, about 10 years old or so. Who looked at me kind of strangely. I smiled and reached for the door handle, and then, glancing to my right, noticed . . . a urinal. Which they don't usually install in women's bathrooms, right? Right.
Come to think of it, I had wondered why the restroom only had one stall.
I wasn't really embarrassed, just a little alarmed that I hadn't noticed something so basic. CPod sure had a good chuckle, though.
But can you imagine how it could have gone? It could have been OH so much worse.
Imagine if I'd been in the stall and seen some manly shoes under the door waiting their turn. I'm sure I would have thought he was the one who had made the mistake -- especially since I didn't see the urinal until I was on my way out. And I would have said something . . . like, "Hey, um, I think you're in the ladies room." And he would have glanced significantly at the urinal and I would have averted my eyes lest he do something, you know, totally expected in a men's washroom, and slunk back to my table.
I shudder to think what wold have happened had I walked in on someone in midstream.
And worst of all, I'm having nightmares now about being accidentally stranded in the men's room stall, trapped by an endless stream (couldn't resist) of urinal users with no opportunity to escape from under cover without being noticed. Oh, the horror.
Next time, I'll pay closer attention. I'm the bald one in the ugly A-line dress, with cankles and absolutely no boobs, right?
Saturday, January 17, 2009
A Shout Out to the Lurkers
A couple of weeks ago I received a message on Facebook from a friend of mine, one I went to school with from kindergarten all the way through to high school graduation. During that time, we went through varying degrees of closeness, but we were always amicable and friendly. One of the reasons I have enjoyed Facebook (at least some aspects of it) is because it has given me the opportunity to reconnect with people like her.
Anyway.
In her message, she mentioned how much she loves my blog, and that she and her sister read regularly. She said they talk about my family like they're her own. I was immensely flattered by this. I mean, my little family is interesting enough for people to want to read about it? I am still amazed every time I log onto Sitemeter and watch the dots appear on my little world map. I am excited every time I receive comments from friends old and new, and even from strangers (who still feel like friends.)
I read (too) many blogs myself and feel strangely close to these people whom I have never met. I feel reconnected to those with whom I was once close. And I feel enriched and uplifted by the experiences of others, and by the kinship of shared experience. We are all in this together, after all, and if we will buoy one another up, we have a better chance of getting through it in one piece.
Do I comment on those blogs? Usually, I do . . . but not always. Sometimes, I am a lurker. Sometimes, I reeeeallly want to comment, but I can't think of anything worthwhile to say. (You will never catch me writing something just to fill space . . . or just to get on the comment roll.) Sometimes, I am unmoved by what someone has written, and I don't feel like commenting. Sometimes, I'm just catching a quick read while I wait for the pasta to boil and I don't have time to leave a comment.
What I'm saying is: I know you read. And many of you don't comment. And it's totally okay. If I wanted to know about absolutely every person out there who passed through the I'm (not) Crazy Mommy portals, this blog would be closed, and I would have to invite you in. But I don't really care (in a good way) who visits.
Do I like comments? Sure! Who doesn't? Do I need comments to spur me on in my writing pursuits? Absolutely not. My fingers will continue to itch whether you read me or not, whether you like me or hate me or, even worse, are ambivalent. I will still have words swimming around in my head dying to be committed to the (virtual) page long after my last reader has clicked on the close button.
So, comment, or don't comment. Lurk or don't lurk. But I will not be trying to guilt you into leaving your mark on my blog.
So there.
Anyway.
In her message, she mentioned how much she loves my blog, and that she and her sister read regularly. She said they talk about my family like they're her own. I was immensely flattered by this. I mean, my little family is interesting enough for people to want to read about it? I am still amazed every time I log onto Sitemeter and watch the dots appear on my little world map. I am excited every time I receive comments from friends old and new, and even from strangers (who still feel like friends.)
I read (too) many blogs myself and feel strangely close to these people whom I have never met. I feel reconnected to those with whom I was once close. And I feel enriched and uplifted by the experiences of others, and by the kinship of shared experience. We are all in this together, after all, and if we will buoy one another up, we have a better chance of getting through it in one piece.
Do I comment on those blogs? Usually, I do . . . but not always. Sometimes, I am a lurker. Sometimes, I reeeeallly want to comment, but I can't think of anything worthwhile to say. (You will never catch me writing something just to fill space . . . or just to get on the comment roll.) Sometimes, I am unmoved by what someone has written, and I don't feel like commenting. Sometimes, I'm just catching a quick read while I wait for the pasta to boil and I don't have time to leave a comment.
What I'm saying is: I know you read. And many of you don't comment. And it's totally okay. If I wanted to know about absolutely every person out there who passed through the I'm (not) Crazy Mommy portals, this blog would be closed, and I would have to invite you in. But I don't really care (in a good way) who visits.
Do I like comments? Sure! Who doesn't? Do I need comments to spur me on in my writing pursuits? Absolutely not. My fingers will continue to itch whether you read me or not, whether you like me or hate me or, even worse, are ambivalent. I will still have words swimming around in my head dying to be committed to the (virtual) page long after my last reader has clicked on the close button.
So, comment, or don't comment. Lurk or don't lurk. But I will not be trying to guilt you into leaving your mark on my blog.
So there.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Here's how it really happened . . .
MommyJ and I are posting our own versions of this story concurrently. If you haven't already read her side, click here. And since this is about our childhood, MommyJ will henceforth be referred to as ChickyJ, and myself as InkChick.
When I was in the eleventh grade and ChickyJ in seventh, we got our first home computer that had a color screen and a non-dot matrix printer. It was great . . . way better than the green-on-black dinosaur we were used to using at home. I remember being so thrilled with myself because I used the computer to type up Advanced Biology assignments in various fonts. (Don't say it . . . I know what you're thinking. Did this girl actually have any friends?!? Yes, and some of them were even boys.)
We didn't have any fancy games, but we still managed to become obsessed with beating each other's high scores on the ones that came with the computer: Pinball, Solitaire, Minesweeper, and, best of all, Pyramid.
Do you know the game I'm talking about? All the cards are laid out in a pyramid shape, and you have to match up pairs that add up to thirteen until you clear the board. Not all of these games are solvable, but ChickyJ and I played it enough that we began to learn which ones were the easiest to complete and then race against each other's best times.
We would spend HOURS doing this -- hours of, I would argue, quality time because up to this point, ChickyJ and I had not exactly gotten along very well. I guess Mom didn't limit our play because at least we were doing something together, which was uncommon.
We whittled our times down second by second, one besting the other until, finally, I achieved what I believed to be the fastest time possible: 9 seconds. I was looking forward to serious bragging rights because, of course, you could record your name in the high scores, indelibly stored (not really . . . you could reset them) on the hard drive for all posterity to see. But rather than simply inputting my name, I decided instead to humiliate my sister, and I typed, "I love you, ChickyJ!" Or at least, I though that's what I keyed. What I actually typed was, "I loce you, ChickyJ!" I didn't notice the typo before ChickyJ who, quick as ever, hit "Enter", indelibly storing evidence of my imperfection instead of a record of my superiority.
Now that I remember all this, I wonder why I've kept saying "I loce you" all these years. It wasn't exactly my best moment, but it just sort of stuck.
That year of computer novelty appreciation was the beginning of the turning point in the relationship between InkChick and ChickyJ. She moved into my room, and we started having conversations that didn't start with, "I didn't say you could borrow that!" We began the VERY long journey of sisterly appreciation -- one that didn't fully come to fruition until years later when ChickyJ got married and we began to have something besides genetics in common.
That year, we started other strange traditions, like every time I would come home from a date or a rehearsal (oh, yes, the rehearsals) or whatever, I would lurk at the door to our room and, breathing through my teeth in my deepest James Earl Jones-esque voice, say, "Luuuuke . . . I am yohr fah-thuh"; and dramatic scripture reading that would have entertained all of you, I guarantee. We were only an orchestra short of a full on oratorio.
Now, ChickyJ is MommyJ and she is my very best friend. (Don't read this, CPod. Or InkySnark, who is our mother. No offense intended, but nothing beats a sister!) I cannot imagine my life without her friendship. On vacation last week, I didn't even talk to her once and I thought I might go through withdrawal.
So, here's to MommyJ, who I will, forever and ever, LOCE!
When I was in the eleventh grade and ChickyJ in seventh, we got our first home computer that had a color screen and a non-dot matrix printer. It was great . . . way better than the green-on-black dinosaur we were used to using at home. I remember being so thrilled with myself because I used the computer to type up Advanced Biology assignments in various fonts. (Don't say it . . . I know what you're thinking. Did this girl actually have any friends?!? Yes, and some of them were even boys.)
We didn't have any fancy games, but we still managed to become obsessed with beating each other's high scores on the ones that came with the computer: Pinball, Solitaire, Minesweeper, and, best of all, Pyramid.
Do you know the game I'm talking about? All the cards are laid out in a pyramid shape, and you have to match up pairs that add up to thirteen until you clear the board. Not all of these games are solvable, but ChickyJ and I played it enough that we began to learn which ones were the easiest to complete and then race against each other's best times.
We would spend HOURS doing this -- hours of, I would argue, quality time because up to this point, ChickyJ and I had not exactly gotten along very well. I guess Mom didn't limit our play because at least we were doing something together, which was uncommon.
We whittled our times down second by second, one besting the other until, finally, I achieved what I believed to be the fastest time possible: 9 seconds. I was looking forward to serious bragging rights because, of course, you could record your name in the high scores, indelibly stored (not really . . . you could reset them) on the hard drive for all posterity to see. But rather than simply inputting my name, I decided instead to humiliate my sister, and I typed, "I love you, ChickyJ!" Or at least, I though that's what I keyed. What I actually typed was, "I loce you, ChickyJ!" I didn't notice the typo before ChickyJ who, quick as ever, hit "Enter", indelibly storing evidence of my imperfection instead of a record of my superiority.
Now that I remember all this, I wonder why I've kept saying "I loce you" all these years. It wasn't exactly my best moment, but it just sort of stuck.
That year of computer novelty appreciation was the beginning of the turning point in the relationship between InkChick and ChickyJ. She moved into my room, and we started having conversations that didn't start with, "I didn't say you could borrow that!" We began the VERY long journey of sisterly appreciation -- one that didn't fully come to fruition until years later when ChickyJ got married and we began to have something besides genetics in common.
That year, we started other strange traditions, like every time I would come home from a date or a rehearsal (oh, yes, the rehearsals) or whatever, I would lurk at the door to our room and, breathing through my teeth in my deepest James Earl Jones-esque voice, say, "Luuuuke . . . I am yohr fah-thuh"; and dramatic scripture reading that would have entertained all of you, I guarantee. We were only an orchestra short of a full on oratorio.
Now, ChickyJ is MommyJ and she is my very best friend. (Don't read this, CPod. Or InkySnark, who is our mother. No offense intended, but nothing beats a sister!) I cannot imagine my life without her friendship. On vacation last week, I didn't even talk to her once and I thought I might go through withdrawal.
So, here's to MommyJ, who I will, forever and ever, LOCE!
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