the glowing edge

This blog has moved!

2009-03-06T19:32:00.003-05:00

And here's the new address: http://theglowingedge.com

Over Christmas break of 2006 I set up the Blogspot blog that became The Glowing Edge. There were a few blog stutter-starts before it, all now thankfully laid to rest, but TGE kept my interest.

I had wanted to make the shift from journaling privately on paper, which I've done all my life, to writing in a public forum. It seemed easy enough, and it certainly was enjoyable to learn to work the new online tools. I didn't have great ambitions for the blog, and I still don't. I write (and now create videos, upload photos, and so on), first and foremost because I just like it, and secondly with the thought that maybe someone else (my kids someday?) would also enjoy reading.

And that's it. Really nothing spectacular, nothing poetic or grand.

Blogging has surprised me, however -- I've started to follow and get to know other bloggers and I've even met quite a few of you; that's a tremendous gift I never expected to receive. Today I find blogging even more compelling than ever, mostly because of the feeling of community. You guys have been awesome and I am very much looking forward to continuing this journey with you.

In fact, part of the reason for moving The Glowing Edge from Blogspot to WordPress was not just so that I could have more control over pages, layout, and other options, but also because I wanted to employ better tools for exchange and engagement. I'm testing out Google Friend Connect at the new TGE, and of course eventually I'll have a blogroll with all of your sites on it (if yours is missing, message me or leave a comment on the new TGE so I can add it). And I'll continue to read your blogs and leave comments and enjoy the comaraderie, the interesting points of view, photos, and other unique projects and experiences that each of you have.

This feed will no longer be refreshing, but a new feed is set up over at the new place; Blogspot gives me no way (that I know of) to transfer these feeds so you'll have to meander over and connect again when you get a chance.

And there's still a lot to be done at the WordPress site. Most of the links still lead back here (I'm working on it), there's category and tag mess to clean up (ditto), and endless tinkering to enjoy. The WP theme "Thesis" is fabulous, by the way, and of all the themes I've messed about with, it's by far the best and the most flexible. Incredibly well-supported, too. I ponied up for the developer's license, and I highly recommend it if you're rolling your own, too.

But here's to the best part: sharing the journey. Thanks for being a part of it up to this point; I hope you'll come along for the next bit, too.

A beautiful snow

2009-03-02T08:06:00.006-05:00

Last year we didn't get any snow at all in Raleigh, so I really hoped for at least one or two this year. My wish has been granted: the last snow kept me home with the boys, but this one I could drive to work in and really enjoy in a different way. It was beautiful; I could see the line of the storm front and the blue sky beyond our clouds -- the quality of light was astonishing and I wished I had my camera. Local Dave Johnson, known on Twitter as @snoopdave, did have his camera this morning:
Incidentally, it's supposed to be 70 degrees by Saturday. I love North Carolina.

The Pie Cheese Story

2009-02-28T14:56:00.001-05:00

The Pie Cheese Story from Lisa Creech Bledsoe on Vimeo.

One of our family's favorite stories of mistaken food identity, as only the Maker can tell it.

Google poetry

2009-02-20T13:50:00.005-05:00

I'm sick of the Facebook tagging stuff, I tell you, sick and perishing. Okay, just one more: this time, I'm typing random stuff into Google and letting it forecast what I am about to say.

Lisa is

cooking
your birthday
awesome
cooking your birthday happy birthday Lisa
no longer attending the metuchen congregation of jehovah's witnesses

I’m thinking

tonight of my blue eyes
its a sign that the freckles in our eyes are mirror images
about my doorbell
of a master plan lil wayne
arbys costume
about getting metal legs
about suicide
of a master plan cause ain't nothing but sweat inside my hand
of a master plan snoop

Careful

with that axe Eugene

Enough with your

god damn pancakes
your magical riddles

I though those last two were particularly succinct. Now I'll put money on the fact that you're gonna go over there to Google and do it too. Money.

Who is the JokeMaster?

2009-02-12T09:18:00.001-05:00

The Jokemaster from Lisa Creech Bledsoe on Vimeo.

I interviewed the boys about jokes they'd heard lately, then they turned the tables and interviewed me. I think we'll all agree who wins this little exercise.

Leave us a comment and share your jokes!

Running out of bad words

2009-02-11T11:01:00.004-05:00

Warning: Boxing is a contact sport. Users of this gear are subject to personal injury. These products offer a degree of protection but are not warranted to protect the user from injury.

Every piece of boxing gear I own says this, and you can trust the author: it’s perfectly true. I have had a sprained wrist (training for boxing), injured shoulder (training for boxing), and now a busted rib (boxing). The first two I whined about, but with this one I have run slap out of bad words and need to borrow some, if you have any extras lying about.

The biggest fattest butt-pain about this is trying to get in bed at night, attempting sleep movements (just don’t), and trying to get out of bed in the morning. If we could dispense with the whole “people should rest at night” thing I’d probably be just fine. Although that may be taking it a bit far.

The doctor was all nonchalant: “Yeah, I see this ALL the time, football players with rib injuries,” then, belatedly, “How did you get this injury again?”

He flattered me out of the meds I wanted, though. He said, “Most of the guys who come in here are moaning and can’t breathe, all hunched over…” He eyed me standing there calmly, and considered his hunchbacks of Notre Dame football. “You seem to be doing pretty well,” he concluded, “You’re in pretty good shape.”

Things I wish I’d said at that point:

“Boxer chicks are tuff.”
“I had natural childbirth three times.”
“You should see me skip rope.”
“I have a tattoo.”

What I actually did was stand there and nod my head stupidly when he said he thought I could probably get by on ibuprofen. He did tell me he would write a prescription “if you really think you need it,” but I was enamored with the idea of being tuff and lost my chance. Crap. (See what I mean about the bad words?)

He also told me that the football players wear a piece of gear that protects their ribs, and he dashed out of the examining room, then came back to tell me the name of the supplier. I started to remind him that I wasn’t a football player, but opted out in the end. I’ll bet the football gear says the same thing the boxing gear says anyway.

So. I’m out of the game for a couple of months, and the main reason I’m grouchy is that it is just so hard to get in condition. Getting in condition is harder than getting in the ring and you spend more time and energy doing it. Given how horrifying the thought of getting hit in the ribs is right now, I feel a fair amount of trepidation about getting in the ring, but I’m guessing that will fade as I heal. And I have to start with conditioning anyway, so my main focus will be on figuring out how to do that. Again. Damnit.

Click here to read more incredibly fascinating boxing posts.

Violet Vector and the Lovely Lovelies!

2009-02-06T13:04:00.005-05:00

I wanna go see these fabulous people, live, Now. I also wanna be as adorable as Amanda is. (Patience! Open a new tab and do something else for a sec and let it load, you won't be sorry you did.)

Note: I did end up making it to their show at the Pour House in downtown Raleigh and they were incredible. I expect to see them go far!

The Shame Line is Open

2009-01-29T16:20:00.004-05:00

Three months ago I picked up a jump rope for the first time since I was eight years old. Watching me try to manage a few hops was probably like watching a drunk steer stagger around a corral, except with cursing. I couldn’t believe something so simple, so universal, so obvious could be so impossible. Elementary age girls all over the world do this!

But that’s how it was, and there was no getting around the fact that if you are a boxer, you also will jump rope. There’s a good reason for this correlation. Jumping rope incinerates calories (up to 1000 an hour); improves your posture, timing, and coordination; powers up your heart even better than running does with less impact on your knees; and costs ~~nearly nothing~~ fifty dollars. I should say more about that I guess.

After three or four humiliating sessions of attempting to jump rope, I did what any middle-class American woman would do. I tried to purchase my way out. I watched my trainer and several other team mates effortlessly skip their way – without misses – through round after round of jump rope drills. Their ropes had shiny silver handles and whistling clear tubes for the “rope”. I could tell something was helping the rope swivel without twisting. I decided that if I had one of those jump ropes, I would be graceful and skilled, too. Har.

So like many others before me, I got sent to the Buddy Lee Jump Rope website, and I paid my (cough) fifty dollars, and my path to success arrived in the mail about a week later. During the intervening time I did my best to convince my husband that fifty dollars was a reasonable price to pay for a glorified string with handles. It didn’t go well.

And I learned what everyone learns. Jumping rope skills take time and practice to build, no matter how awesome and ridiculously expensive your jump rope is.

Eventually my drunken, cursing steer act evolved into a mildly irritated and slightly graceless steer act. Then, in the space of a week or so, I left behind the bovine analogy all together. I am now a pretty good jump roper. In fact, I can jump rope for half an hour straight with a few misses, throwing in the occasional twist-the-rope-in-front trick, a running sprint, and the standard pogo. I’m not yet as graceful on the “boxer shuffle” but I’m gaining ground daily.

So. When I’m not at the boxing gym I go to a regular fitness center, and for two months or so I’ve been taking my diamond-studded jump rope with me and doing my thing. Until I started jumping rope at that gym, I NEVER ONCE saw anyone jumping rope. After a couple of weeks I noticed I had set off a trend of guys (and guys only) who suddenly decided to do so. And now there’s an interesting pattern that I bear witness to nearly every single time I go.

It goes like this.

I get to the gym and post, in ink that only guys can read, a sign that only guys can see, on the front of the huge glass-walled aerobics room where I typically jump. The sign says: “The Shame Line is Open.” This draws them in, one at a time, for a whuppin. During the 30 minutes or so that I'm calmly jumping rope and making it look easy, they come in, pick out one of the barely-used jump ropes hanging on the rack, flex their muscles a bit (neck rolls are a favorite, I’ve noticed), then proceed to whip it for about eight jumps.

Whereupon they invariably miss, glance over to where I’m serenely running my routine, and start again. They NEVER try to Just Jump Rope. They have to throw a trick, or sprint, or double jump, and they fail. This is frustrating to them because they remember in high school how they could do this, at least a little bit. And they were cool, yes they were. And darn it, they still are.
They never last an entire minute. And honestly, I never lasted at the beginning either. But jumping rope is absolutely nothing like riding a bike; it’s a skill you have to develop and maintain.

I feel some sympathy, in an amused 43-year-old woman kind of way. But I’m not closing down shop or anything. Somebody’s gotta run the Shame Line. Might as well be me.

The Pink Pantsuit

2009-01-24T15:32:00.003-05:00

When I was about eight years old my great-grandmother gave me a pink pantsuit that she had lovingly sewn by hand just for me; it was a cotton-synthetic mix, required no ironing, and was precisely the color of a cat's tongue.

I was in a private elementary school and in some odd twist of religious reasoning, girls weren't allowed to wear pants to school unless they were part of a pantsuit. This meant that in addition to the pants, you had a matching jacket and often a vest as well, the addition of which somehow transformed the pants – in themselves a tool of masculinity and possibly immodesty and the devil – into an honorable part of schoolday attire for a second-grade suburban girl. I was violently opposed to dresses, which I considered highly impractical for dodgeball and kickball, my two favorite activities during recess; pantsuits met school requirements and allowed me to maintain my ferociously defended and regularly challenged position as queen of the asphalt.

My family lived carefully, in those years, on the lower edge of the middle class; paying for a private school for me required sacrifice. Gifts were carefully considered and occasioned a fair amount of celebration, perhaps because of their rarity and thoughtfulness. Interestingly, gifts were also often extravagant. A basketball goal. A Raleigh road bike. A trip to not one, but two movies. I was thrilled at the indication of love that the carefully hand-sewn pink pantsuit represented. I was a cherished great-granddaughter; a child over whom much care had been taken. It wasn’t that I liked pink (I didn't particularly) or thought I would look attractive (I had never considered such a thing); in my mind and heart the physical outfit itself was minor compared to the rush of gratitude I experienced at being the object of such devotion.

My favorite outfit from the year previous was a three-piece purple paisley corduroy pantsuit (with bell bottoms!) and I'd loved it so well that my mother had taken me to Olan Mills to pose on their white shag carpet for a portrait. I had just outgrown that outfit when the pink pantsuit arrived in a cardboard shirt box with white tissue paper folded around it.

I had no idea, until I got to school, that clothes made by hand (and one could tell!) occupied the absolute lowest rung on the social status ladder. I had not even been aware that there was such a ladder. To this day I'm not sure how it was communicated. Was I sneered at? Were my sleepover invitations declined? Did I get picked last for kickball? Nonetheless, it was communicated, and I silently, shamefully, pushed the pink pantsuit to the back of my closet.

From that point I began to cultivate a carefully edgy "I don't have to follow the rules if I don't want to" approach. When with great ceremony I was inducted into the National Honor Society, I horrified my parents and extended family by choosing to wear sloppy overalls and leaving my sneakers unlaced. I wore cowboy boots to our very traditional church on Sundays. I reluctantly purchased one dress for my high-school graduation, and later refused to attend my college or graduate school graduation ceremonies. My wedding dress was a white cotton everyday garment; it was the first dress I saw when I walked into Goldsmith's on the day I could no longer put off finding something in which to get married.

Mussie, wherever you are, thank you for your unreserved love. I didn't wear your pantsuit much, but it helped me become the slightly out-of-the-mainstream, fiercely determined, and sometimes relentless woman I am today. Maybe there were days when I took it too far. But you know what? It felt good to be a woman who made my own way. I cherished your gift, and I loved you. You shaped me more than you knew, and I'm glad to be the woman I am.

Does it hurt?

2009-01-22T20:24:00.005-05:00

It's funny how many people ask me this about boxing. Short answer: yes. If that's all you need to hear, that's cool, but it's one of those simple questions (like "Is there really a Santa Claus?" and "What does Paris Hilton do?") that perhaps calls for a more complex answer. Lucky you! I'm here to elaborate.

Beginning with the obvious, it hurts to get punched in the face. Ditto ribs, gut, and ears. Even with big, puffy boxing gloves and headgear on, it hurts. One's nose, particularly, stings quite a bit when you get popped there. Teary eyes and bloody noses are not uncommon. But here's the cool thing: when you learn that you can actually take a punch, that's pretty awesome. And when you learn you can last an entire round, that's even more incredible.

But the simplest fact of the matter is that in boxing, you don't spend most of your time being punched in the face (ribs, gut, ears). You spend most of your time training and conditioning.

And that's what hurts.

To really bring this home for you, let me give you the list of the top five tortures a boxing trainer inflicts upon her willing (yea, even eager) pupils. And I won't even include the things you can't eat any more.

1. Neck snaps. Heh. An accurate name if there ever was one. Lay on your back in the ring with your shoulders and head suspended over the edge. On the trainers count, snap your head quickly to the right three times like so: One, two, three, ONE. One, two, three, TWO. And so on to ten. You should be completing the ten snaps in about fifteen seconds total. Then you do ten to the left. Double time, now, and keep your eyes open. Now that your neck is starting to seize up, do ten to the front, really lifting your head as high and a quickly as you can. When your trainer finishes that set and starts everyone over again from the beginning, you may feel as if you are going to pass out or die. You should be so lucky; this is only the second set, and there's still one more to go.

2. Ring slides. These sound and look innocuous, but they're deadly. A group of five gets in the boxing ring and forms a circle, facing in. Aaaaaall you have to do is glide sideways, as fast as you can, in that circle with your teammates, for as long as the trainer says. She who holds the stopwatch is your master, and you are the slave. Now move it. At first it's okay, but after about 2.5 minutes the bottoms of your feet start to burn. Periodically the coach will shout, "Switch!" and you change directions, but it doesn't help. After several three-minute rounds of this, you will sob with relief when the trainer calls time. The next day you will have massive, slidey blisters on the bottoms of your feet. You will moan a lot and annoy all the people around you. You will avoid the gym like the Black Death.

3. Arm circles. When the trainer tells you to purchase a couple of two- or three-pound weights, do so immediately. Because if you fail to show with your little weights, they will punish you by making you use the five-pound or heavier weights, and you will experience serious agony in short order. Stick your thus-laden hands straight out in front of you and begin to make little tiny circles. Again, the count is One, two, three, ONE, and you'll do 25 in the front, then without dropping your arms do 25 straight up above your head, then 25 behind your back (you gotta hunch over for those), then 25 with your arms extended out to your sides. Whatever you do, don't drop your arms or the whole team will suffer for it. For the cherry on top, extend your arms out to the front again and Just. Hold. It gets worse. Because that's only the first set.

4. Mountain climbers. Push-up position. Pull your feet, one at a time, up to your chest, as if the floor were a vertical wall and you were Spiderman climbing it. Pretend Dr. Octopus is chasing you and you have to go really fast. Do ten million repetitions, and keep your butt down. This is why it sucks to be a superhero.

5. Duck walks. Squat all the way – I said ALL the way down, until your behind is hanging an inch or two from the floor. Now walk. Quickly. While carrying a 12-pound medicine ball at the back of your neck, lifting it straight up in the air, then returning it as you duck walk. Do laps. This is the only exercise I simply can not do (although all my in-their-20's teammates can). I'm guessing it's the over-40 factor, along with the rice krispies I have in my knees.

There are more tortures, but I think you get the idea. Strangely, my boxing team meets twice each week for a two-hour session of this sort of thing, and generally speaking those of us who are on the team also commit to three other gym sessions on our own every week as well. Go figure.

So yes, Virginia. Boxing hurts. But for some reason, we do it anyway.

Click here to read more of the boxing posts.

Snodude

2009-01-22T18:16:00.007-05:00

In which Mom comes out to photograph the snodude and its creators... (that's the Maker in yellow)

In which the Ice (pink hair, background) launches a snowball toward an unsuspecting target as the snodude creators nap...

In which the Ice unleashes a snowball at ME!

In which everyone wants to get in the picture.

Wow. Just look at that green NC grass...

Inauguration Central

2009-01-22T17:53:00.003-05:00

Who needs a TV when you have Teh Internets (a dusty series of tubes). We watched the inauguration on CNN, and when their servers bailed (c'mon, CNN, did you not KNOW people would be logging on??), we switched over to Joost, which didn't have a single hiccup.

Leave me a comment telling me how often you dust.

The Ice's SnObama Pix

2009-01-22T17:40:00.004-05:00

Finally! We got a lovely great snow (I'm inclined to call it a snobama) on the day of the inauguration. The Ice was up before dawn, thrilled to catch the first downy layer. He ended his picture taking with a happy self-portrait:

Eyes on the prize: beating back the flight impulse (again)

2009-01-11T20:45:00.007-05:00

A good workout and five decent rounds in the ring today. It was the first time I ever came away with a headache, mild though it was. My trainer's been letting me take more frequent and intense punches, I think, and she's also set off my flight reflex again. It's unbelievable how strong the desire to step backward and turn away is.

Today she pointed out how, after I take a jab or a hook to the head, I am (belatedly) throwing my guard up and physically turning my head away so that I can't see her, thus allowing her the chance to reset and prepare her next move. By the time I turn my head back into position she's already launching her next attack. It's amazing how dramatically your boxing game can improve if you can take a punch and continue to stare straight ahead at your opponent, while also keeping your (ringing, buzzing, just clocked) head clear enough to plan and release an offensive. Aaargh. Who knew boxers had to think and work so hard?

It sounds incredibly simple, doesn't it? Keep your eyes on your target. Sharpshooters do it. Ballplayers do it. Even guys tossing darts in a bar do it. And boxers absolutely have to do it, yet over and over again we fail to do it. It would seem to be natural and obvious. Yet so often I hear our coaches tell us, "Open your eyes! Keep your eyes on your opponent." Why would we have to be told that?

The difference for boxers has to do not only with the flight impulse, but also with cultural notions of appropriate space and aggression. Basketball players may get in each other's personal space, and even look at each other intently, but the basketball and the goal are the real focal points, and the visual interactions between players are rapid-fire rather than prolonged. Runners look toward the next hurdle, the horizon, or the finish line, not at another runner's eyes. Football players, particularly linemen, probably come closer to understanding this issue than any other I can think of, but even they don't continue to stare down the opposing lineman after the block. It's incredibly hard to be that close to an obvious and understood aggressor and watch them intensely, even after getting hit. It feels completely unnatural.

Some parts of the complex interactions in boxing can be practiced. Obviously we train for power and endurance. Our coaches also work hard to prepare us to overcome or be resistant to dizziness and head shock (spin training, neck exercises, etc.), and to increase our ability to react quickly (speed and timing drills). But there's not a single exercise I know of that can help you learn to keep your eyes on your opponent after they rock you a good one to the head; it just takes experience in the ring.

And it's just plain crazy how happy I was today to not only get some of that experience, but also to begin to tease out the reasons for what makes it so difficult. Now. Somebody please pass the ibuprofen.

If fascinated, click here to see previous boxing posts.

A break-up post

2009-01-09T11:57:00.006-05:00

Sigh. I once loved making playlists. I carefully chose themes, burned discs, and kept the glove compartment in my car full. I posted lots of my playlists here. But then I met Paste. They carefully chose themes, burned discs, and kept my glove compartment full for me. I felt cared for.
Then I met Pandora for iPhone. If you love free, uninterrupted, picked-just-for-you, fully customizable music and haven't been over to Pandora in a while, it's worth a trip. They have added some great features, like bookmarking and sharing. For a while there were rumors of Pandora's demise, but so far they are still going strong.

Now when I'm in the car, I just plug in my iPhone and have all the custom music I could ever want pouring out of my speakers. I can change genres on the fly, discover new artists, and mark (and/or purchase -- they give you the option of course) notable songs or recording artists. I get smooth, ad-free music all the way home. I would pay a subscription fee for this, but so far, they haven't asked for it.

Dear Pandora: You are so much better than all those others! I don't even think about them any more. I hope we'll be together for a good long while.

Engine goosing for geeks

2009-01-09T11:04:00.005-05:00

So, the Husband is working on refinancing our house, mortgage rates being so low and all, and that is just a genuine thrill to start with. Really, he's read multiple books, cruised websites, asked for recommendations, the whole deal. I more or less ignored the whole thing until it came time to unfreeze my credit file. Since he was in charge of the bigger refinancing project, I asked him to be on standby through Skype, where we had a chat box open, in case I had any questions during my phone conversation with the Equifax people. This is a screenshot of our conversation. Now there's an excited man.

Lesson learned, girls: when you're looking to get your guy's engine going, call Equifax and unlock your credit so he can refinance your house! Works every time for me!

click to enlarge image

Beating the clinch

2009-01-05T05:54:00.008-05:00

I'm about 155 pounds and 5'8". Thomas is 180 pounds of solid muscle, and perhaps an inch shy of my height. A triathlete for the past ten years and a competitive wrestler as well, he moves with lightning speed and power. And as is more common with highly experienced athletes, all of his movements are carefully controlled. Which is why, after seeing him spar with my trainer, I was perfectly willing to get in the ring with him, and learn what he had to teach me.

Beyond his punching power and speed, I knew he would be incredibly savvy in slipping my jabs, ducking, and getting in low. Although we are both over 40, he seems to have knees that will do anything for him. I would have to protect my stomach, ribs, and kidneys. Sometimes that feels like a catch-22: if my gloves are in front of my face (where they are needed!), my gut is exposed regardless of how well my elbows are tucked in. This is partly why boxers sometimes look a bit hunched over; they are protecting more of their body. Me, I don't hunch very well. A lifetime of good posture makes me box like a plank. Think Pinocchio with poorly-oiled joints. The Tin Man, pre-Dorothy. It's pathetic.

But I do have long arms, which means an opposing boxer wants to get inside my reach in order to deliver the body blows, which is where the clinch comes in. When someone comes close in with a flurry of blows I simply can. not. think. anymore. I'm exhausted, and the only response I've been able to muster up is a hunched (hey, finally!) clinch. Plus begging for mercy, which isn't pretty.

Over and over again in the ring with Thomas I'd find myself there, being relentlessly pummeled from a clinch. He controlled his punches, but my ribs were taking a beating. "What do I do??" I finally huffed, the third or fourteenth time. "I don't know what to do when I get in this position!"

That seemed to flick a switch in Thomas (who is truly a very nice guy), who backed up and said, "Oh. You start throwing your uppercut at me. Really lean in to it, and if one doesn't work, throw another. Shove me off and land your right as soon as I'm back in range. That oughta help."

And darned if it didn't.

I've never landed an uppercut on my trainer before, but Thomas politely enjoyed several and came back for more, making me repel the clinch and shove him away again and again. It was a little like punching and shoving a slow-moving train, but it marks the first time I've felt able to do something about being utterly under siege.

Here's to ring time, where learning meets motivation.

Click here to read previous boxing posts.

I'm looking for a fight

2009-01-04T21:49:00.004-05:00

I didn't start out that way, honest. I started out just looking for a way to stay in shape despite a crunchy knee that prevented me doing distance runs. And there was that heavy bag that the Husband carted home for the boys that piqued my interest. But even when I shifted gears from regular boxing classes to joining the boxing team, I told everyone that I just wanted to learn technique.

Hello, have I met me? I'm frankly embarrassed at this flagrant show of self-ignorance. I'm competitive and athletic. I love a challenge that engages mind and body. I'm bossy and overbearing (truly pummel-worthy).

The fact is that no matter how slowly the ride began, the minute I climbed into an actual boxing ring and had a go at the sweet science, I was hooked. It was exactly like my first roller coaster ride: all the watching and studying just can't compare to the incredible thrill of a single three-minute round. The need to focus, respond, endure, and deliver with power and speed is a competitive athletic person's elixir of life.

So I shamefacedly went to my trainer and began my long speech in which I intended to admit that I would be utterly grateful to her if she could please get me a fight. This year. The sooner the better. Despite what I told her earlier. But first of course I needed to justify my changed position and include some stuff about how dedicated I would be. I had pirated parts of the "Mom, can we keep him, he'll be real quiet and I promise I'll feed him every day" speech and re-worked it for my purpose.

She let me begin without laughing in my face, but as I floundered around with my build-up, she shifted her feet and began looking around the gym for a distraction that might prove more interesting. I relented. "You know what I'm going to say, don't you?" I asked, embarrassed.

"Well, yeah," she told me, kindly not smacking her forehead. Or mine. She waited.

"I want to fight!" I exclaimed.

"Well, yeah," she responded calmly.

"Can you get me a fight?" I asked, puppy dog hopeful.

"I can try," she promised.

And thus began my fascinating indoctrination into the ways of competitive amateur boxing. Weight classes and rules have changed this year; I have to lose a few pounds in order to be at the top of my weight class (142-152 lbs) rather than the bottom. I have to start saving money because I'll almost certainly have to travel out of state to get a match, given the dearth of female boxers in the Masters (i.e., old people – 35 and above) class. I need to get very serious about sparring time, conditioning, and training with the team.

And I can hardly wait.

Click here to read previous boxing posts.

What I use my lingerie bags for

2009-01-04T16:50:00.002-05:00

Calm down, I'm not posting about lingerie. But you know those nifty little mesh lingerie bags that you are supposed to use in order to keep your delicate lacy whatevers from getting torn up and damaged by the big bad washing machine? Yeah, I use them not for lingerie (I've been into "nots" today), but for my boxing hand wraps.

Wraps are about 15 feet long each. Throw two (or worse, four or six) of them in the washing machine with all your other laundry and you have a recipe for wet, irritating, knotted hell. Which I believe is why many boxers don't wash them. Ever. Which is part of the reason boxing gyms have such an incredible, dog-you-in-your-dreams, worse-than-high-school stink. WASH your wraps, boys. But I digress.

This little conundrum is easily solved: when you get back from the gym, toss your nasty, stinky, smelly, sweaty hand wraps in a lingerie bag and leave said bag and its vile cargo in the laundry hamper. When your husband is moving clean wash from the washer to the dryer, he finds a tidy little lingerie bag (which gives him a warm feeling) and sees that you have thoughtfully made his job just that much easier. He removes the (not tangled! fresh-smelling!) wet wraps from the lingerie bag and hangs them over the pull-up bar where someone will find and roll them up for you later (your kids will like this job).

LeSigh. Housekeeping made painless. Boxing made fragrant. And you thought it couldn't be done.

"Did not" Christmas Vacation

2009-01-04T16:40:00.004-05:00

I'm trying to recall if I've ever had two weeks and three weekends off in a row. I don't think I have, and this one was incredible. Here's the short list of what I did not do:

did not travel
did not cook or eat any huge meals
did not box for a week
did not go to any Aftershock gigs
did not send out Christmas cards
did not get a Christmas tree
did not spend too much for Christmas
did not drink much alcohol
did not make New Year's resolutions
did not send or answer email
did not blog
did not do (or stress over) any work-related stuff

For contrast, here's what this freed me up for:

learned to sew
sent my first mail art
enjoyed oceans of hot tea
read eight or ten novels
rented five movies
drew, cut, and pulled prints for two linocuts
re-read Zone Perfect Meals in Minutes; began shifting my diet
enjoyed my family
averaged 10 hours of sleep a night

I have to say, it was awesome and I highly recommend the "nots" in particular. What did you not do this year?

What "going steady" used to look like

2008-12-10T15:38:00.007-05:00

Nearly 50 years ago, when my mother was in high school, every girl had a set of these two pins. When they were "going steady" with a guy, girls wore the whale pin. The duck was reserved to mark availability. Why whale and duck?? Where did they get them? And why does the whale look so... dismal? My mother doesn't know; please leave me a comment below to inform or speculate.

When I was in high school we either wore a guy's jacket (for me, this was the Husband's maroon nylon windbreaker with elastic wrists and aluminum snaps up the front, oooh wee) or their class ring. Guys' moms hated the latter, I'm sure; after shelling out $300 for a Balfour that said "Craigmont Chiefs" on one side and "Class of '84" on the other, some fritzy-headed teenage girl leaves it in the school bathroom and it's gone forever.

I didn't do that, I swear.

I mean, I did do it, but I remembered and ran back to the restroom (risking a detention slip) and found one of the nice cleaning ladies just then picking it up.

I never told.

PS: Thanks, Alex, for taking the macro photo : )

My Shoes Sparklez!

2008-12-09T20:07:00.006-05:00

So November was my birthday month, all Lisa, all month, it was awesome and I highly recommend it. Especially if you can score summa these.

My friend (also named Lisa, it's kismet) had listened to me exclaim whenever I saw the elementary school girls at church with those awesome red glitter Dorothy shoes, or anything else remotely sparkly, which of course they didn't make when I was a kid, and which I never see in Target or Shoe Show in my size. So! She got on the ol' interweb and got me my very own disco ball shoes and as soon as I ripped open the box I kicked off my boring but beloved Sauconys and determined to never let the sparklies leave my feet. Except that they were bunching up the sheets, so...

Still. Hat tip and heel click goin' out to Lisa Shelden, the Rockin-est!

Why I box

2008-11-29T13:44:00.006-05:00

I box in a suburban gym. Everything is branded "LA Boxing" in chirpy red and blue. The branding makes me think Hollywood weight loss, and in fact, most people are here to lose weight or get fit. It's clean, carpeted, and full of sunshine most days. There are no cement floors, wooden pallets, musty lockers. The lockers are tidy cubbyholes like you would see in an elementary school. The only difference is that these are guarded by a video camera; the equipment people have here does not come cheap, and it is like as not to be stolen without such precautions.

None of this fits with my fantasy of being part of a dark, cramped boxing gym with big, quiet Rocky types or ropy bantamweights and their arthritic old-man trainers. But it's certainly reflective of my life, none of which ever took place in New York or inner-city Chicago. I've lived most of my life in the suburbs of Memphis, Tennessee or North Carolina. Mine is a universe of shopping malls and bedroom communities, two car garages and Saturdays mowing the lawn.

Contrary to my initial experience at LA Boxing, there are actually plenty of women at the gym, I just never see most of them. It seems like most of the women go to kickboxing classes and rarely come to a boxing class. It reminds me of the seventies, when great waves of women suddenly decided to sign up for jazzercise and self-defense classes. I never did that, not because I thought anything was wrong with it, but because I was motivated by different things.

I hate kickboxing. There are no rules, no boundaries. Almost anything goes in kickboxing. In boxing you have a stance, there are ways you move and duck and punch that remain the same, no matter what. There's a purity about boxing that I love, as well as a sense of history and tradition. I can't name one kickboxer, but I know Muhammad Ali, George Foreman, Sugar Ray Leonard, Joe Frazier, and Leon Spinks. There's a lot of theater and drama here, but also a lot of incredibly difficult work, endurance, pain, and even legend associated with boxing.

Boxing engages my competitive spirit, my desire to be good at something that not everybody wants to do, and my desire to learn from masters. The sport demands my strength, my intellect, my focus, and my patience. I train in a suburban gym, but I'm a part of something with history and heart. I don't box to lose weight. I don't box in order to be able to defend myself. I box because boxing is beautiful, difficult, and inspiring. There are heroes here, and I want to know and be a part of their greatness.

The other boxing posts:
I'm Learning to Box
Boxing Update: Curiosity killed the cat
Mike V: 12 blazing seconds on the heavy bag
Getting in Boxing Shape: How many ice packs does one need?
I got my first boxing trophy

Happier than a bird with a french fry

2008-11-21T09:56:00.005-05:00

I totally couldn't resist reposting this fabulous Etsy find. Perfect, isn't it?

Playing the banana lottery

2008-11-18T12:19:00.004-05:00

I have four guys in my family. Nobody really cooks much, so I try to keep reasonably healthy and easy-to-eat (read: no actual cooks are used in the making of this item) foods around for them. Bananas are on the list.

But my family is funny about bananas. They will love them, devour them, never let them go bad some of the time. I may pick up bananas twice, or even three times in a given week because they are eating so many of them. But sometimes I buy a bunch of bananas and… they sit there. Growing their inevitable brown spots. And I will say brightly to my boys at every new opportunity, "Banana for your cereal, hmm?" or "How about a peanut butter and banana sandwich tonight?" or "Would you like to take a nice banana for your lunch/snack/friend today?"

I am a terrible banana salesperson. They never go for this.

I am slowly coming to grips with the fact that my family has a collective banana toggle switch and it's either on or it's off. There's no place I can check on this switch, either. The only way to know if everyone is "banana on" is to actually purchase some and see. It's exactly like playing the lottery. Insert money, receive bananas. Sorry, you're a big banana loser today. Please buy again!

I used to have a fantasy about making banana bread after losing the banana lottery. I would in complete good faith tuck my bananas into the freezer beside the pot pies, pizza, burritos, and the few other "instant" freezer foods I stock. "Sleep well, little bananas," I would whisper, "I'll be back for you!" Six months later one of the boys would drag them out and shout (because they always shout) for someone (who, do you think?) to throw them out to make room for more pizzas, a science experiment, or even (this is a true story) six Tupperware containers full of rare North Carolina snow.

So now the losing bananas feed our worms. Which, by the way, are now free range worms. Of course I feel guilty, starving children in Haiti and so forth.

But three times in a row now I've brought home bananas and they've all been eaten. I'm on a lucky streak, and I really feel like I can win. I plan to play again.

I got my first boxing trophy

2008-11-17T16:42:00.004-05:00

and it's purple. Yesterday it was reddish purple, but it's trending darker today and headed to black, I suppose, then the normal green and yellow. I'm feeling all Fight Club. I've been tilting my chin up and doing show and tell with my "I've been eating uppercuts" bruise for anyone who will listen; I don't know why I'm so proud, but I am. Probably because I blocked more uppercuts than I took on the chin. You gotta let somebody throw 'em before you can learn to block 'em.

This was about my fifth time in the ring, and I'm finally – finally! – beginning to understand a few things. I blocked a significant number of punches, for the first time seeing that you don't have to swat or shove a jab away – which takes too much energy – but simply catch or capture it between your gloves. I'm also learning to keep my right glove higher and my right elbow tucked in to my ribs against Bonnie's wicked double left hook. In fact, several times I defended against that fast and nasty punch and countered with a left jab of my own, and I felt like cheering every time. I did shout and dance a little at the end of the second round. Before she took me to the shed for a serious whuppin.

Here's how my ringtime – during which I earned my trophy, yay! – went.

Anticipating the jabs
My first round I'm feeling great; light on my feet even though I just trained hard for the hour previous. This time I don't even feel the nerves, I'm just ready to get to it. So we go in, she's easy on me, we're both seeing what the other has in store today. After a minute or so I'm suddenly aware that I am anticipating and therefore blocking some of her punches! I stop right in the middle, put my hands on my hips and demand, "Are you 'letting' me see, or can I just… see these coming??" She gives the kind (and possibly truthful) answer that I'm starting to get a feel for being in the ring. I let out a "Hollaaa!" and drop back into my stance, feeling all bouncy and grinning like an idiot. And I eat a few punches 'cause I'm too busy celebrating and not paying attention. My trophy is being constructed. I settle in and she throws a dozen in quick succession and I get better at blocking them. Some of them. These are jabs, though, not her meanest punch. By the final bell I'm pretty full of myself.

From flight to fight, thinking ability returning
The next round I have combos in my head for the first time ever. I'm amazed for the second time in six minutes! Up until now I've been so overwhelmed in the ring that I just can't think. It's been all I could do to… well, to be blunt, to not run away. I know it sounds funny but there it is. You've heard of fight or flight? It's true. And my "flight" siren seems to get tripped far more than my "fight" indicator. So one of my major battles in the ring has been to toggle that switch over to the other side. And today I'm not only blocking punches (and not running away) but I have combos in my head and can throw them! I spend enough time marveling over this minor miracle that I eat more yummy punches. This is gonna be a great trophy when it gets here.

Surviving
The third round is the kicker. Between bells Bonnie waves me over. School is in session, she says, and it's time to Bring It. She tells me to not hold back, to throw what I have, that we're gonna do this thing. I'm breathing hard but still excited. That only lasts for another minute. I don't know it yet, but I'm about to wish I had an oxygen mask and an ice pack. And possibly a bucket to puke in. Trophy time, coming right up!

It's just amazing how hard you can work in three teensy minutes. I mainly remember the sound of her punches, the way the air hisses between her teeth when she gets rolling. I move quickly from attack mode to defend mode to please-God-let-the-bell-ring mode. In boxing there's a warning bell 30 seconds before the round actually ends. It can either be a signal for your final sprint, or it can make you think that if you had enough air you could break into great heaving sobs. You might be able to guess which it is for me. Once, only once, Bonnie gives me an out: "You okay?" she asks, no hint of a grin on her face. "Come on," I tell her, like Rocky to Apollo Creed in the twelfth.

I make it, crawl out of the ring, wrench off my headgear and spit out my mouthguard. The single imperative of my body is to breathe. Oxygen is wonderful. I don't even feel the purple spread of the trophy bruise on my chin.

I can hardly wait to do it again.

The other boxing posts:
I'm Learning to Box
Boxing Update: Curiosity killed the cat
Mike V: 12 blazing seconds on the heavy bag
Getting in Boxing Shape: How many ice packs does one need?

Getting in Boxing Shape: How many ice packs does one need?

2008-11-14T21:56:00.008-05:00

I would like to pretend otherwise, but after my first boxing class I hurt so badly I could not sleep soundly for about five nights in succession. I would wake up in tears just trying to roll over in bed. I did that thing where you hook some part of your body that isn't in severe pain (foot? elbow? fingers?) over the edge of the mattress and try to haul the rest of your body into a less agonizing position before falling back into an exhausted half-sleep. And it isn't like I wasn't in reasonable shape, either. I could easily run a 5k and I went to the gym two or three times a week.

I've given birth three times at home with no drugs; it hurt. Getting over my first boxing class was worse.

After the initial shock I began to adjust. I was able to go to one class a week, then two. For the first three months or so I needed an icepack pretty nearly every time I came home. Since I have three boys, we already had one standard-grade icepack in the freezer. It stays cool-ish for about 15 minutes and has soothed many a contusion and more than a few sprains, strains, and black eyes over the years, but I had no idea just how small and inadequate it was until I started boxing.

My local drugstore got me the hookup, though. I gratefully and without whining paid fifteen dollars for a Serious Icepack, the kind that is wretchedly, blissfully, miserably ice-freaking-cold for a good 80 minutes or so; nothing namby-pamby about that bad girl. You can do unanesthetized surgery on yourself after using that thing for a half hour. It has one slick and exposed-to-the glacial-ice side, and one covered-by-fabric but still arctic side, plus a looong industrial-grade four-inch-wide strap with Velcro and a buckle so that you can affix that mother to your dying flesh and still be able to mix a Bloody Mary.

Problem was, the Serious Icepack was frequently a great boon to my shoulder, but my wrist or elbow or knee would still be crying silently in the waiting room, begging to be moved out of triage and into the trauma room where people were paying attention.

So I went back to the drugstore and got a second Serious Icepack.

And truth be told, there were times when I wasn't ashamed to have three ice packs on various parts of my body doing their stop-the-pain routine. But I was actually too much of a weenie to return to the drugstore (although on reflection, I could have gone to a different drugstore) for another ice pack so I just used peas. Peas are great. Not arctic circle great, but still pretty decent little helpers. I kept some at work too. No one notices that you're defrosting dinner on your knee if you roll your chair up close to your desk.

The other boxing posts:
I'm Learning to Box
Boxing Update: Curiosity killed the cat
Mike V: 12 blazing seconds on the heavy bag

Happy Halloween

2008-11-01T10:36:00.003-05:00

Halloween Central was at Meme and Papa's house; the First and the Ice handed out candy while the Maker (dressed as an "army guy") trick-or-treated around our block. You can see the Jack carving pics on my Flickr.

The Maker's Pocket Contents

2008-10-26T14:13:00.003-05:00

Singing with James Taylor on my lunch break

2008-10-21T15:31:00.005-05:00

It doesn't get any better than this. A free concert / Obama rally downtown in Raleigh at Moore Square. It was a gorgeous day, and James Taylor can still deliver. He was funny, engaging, and just as wonderful to listen to today as he was years ago when I first heard him on the radio. He even brought his wife on stage to sing back up with him toward the end.

I was standing about six "rows" back, but pushed forward once to get some close-ups. Wasn't sure how well the shots would turn out with the strong sunshine / shade contrast.

Special thanks to Ginny Skalski for snapping a couple of photos for me (and for shooting this video) from her priviledged spot on the press risers, and thanks to my awesome co-workers Jeff Tippett and Alex Ford for being my James Taylor rally buddies.

Eat Free Every Night

2008-10-14T10:02:00.002-05:00

I wasn't terribly surprised by the content of this video. I've known a few people (who were not homeless) who regularly eat the food our country throws away. I've been a part of the system that tries to reclaim some of it by taking it to shelters and even sending it to (yep) pig farms. I can also remember waiting tables as a teenager in high school, and being astonished that the same restaurant where the wait staff was not allowed to get any of the food at a discount (on our loooong 8-10 hour shifts) required us, at the end of the night, to throw out the all-you-can-eat buffet leftovers into the dumpsters and hose down the remains so that no one else could eat it, either.

While it's scary for me to think about eating out of dumpsters, our wasteful practices also concern me. What do you think?

Hat tip to Twitterfriend Jeremy Allen; I originally found this on his blog.

12 seconds is perfect for haiku

2008-09-25T18:11:00.000-05:00

Moon Haiku on 12seconds.tv

More Zombies Than Usual

2008-09-25T15:26:00.001-05:00

Boxing update: Curiosity killed the cat

2008-09-25T14:46:00.006-05:00

Ok, when I first posted about learning to box, I promised to keep you up to date. Those of you who see me regularly in real life (Hi, Mom) have trouble getting me to Shut. Up. about it already. I even convinced one of my instructors to let me film him for 12seconds.tv (he's a machine).

Up until now I've been working on a heavy bag, the focus mitts (a little) and that's about it. So yesterday I stepped in to talk to the woman who runs LA Boxing here in Cary, Bonnie "Queen B" Mann, professional boxer for 13 years and world championship title holder -- the first woman from NC to take home the Big Belt. And it IS a Big mamma-jamma Belt. I actually stepped in to talk to Bonnie about coming with me to a networking event for which I was the keynote speaker; I planned to use boxing as an illustration for how to get started with social media (another story for another day).

As we were chatting, I mentioned my intense curiosity about what it would be like to actually get in the ring and throw a punch at a real person.

You know what they say about curiosity and the cat? Now it's on, baby. I'm getting special dispensation to miss church on Sunday (gasp!) in order to show up for her class, after which she's gonna gear up and put me in the ring with her. Understand, now -- Bonnie will not be throwing any punches. I'm supposed to punch her. Never fear, there's no actual chance that she will be injured in any way. Please worry about me, however.

I was fine fine fine on the heavy bag. Fine, I tell you. Aaargh.

It gets worse. Remember the speech about boxing and social media? Well, Bonnie DID come, and she brought the giant belt, too, and I politely introduced her, raved about boxing, told everyone I was having my debut with Bonnie in the ring on Sunday, ha ha, ended my happy little speech, and started Q & A.

And a woman in the back raised her hand and asked if my bout with Bonnie was going to be broadcast on video. I may have reacted somewhat strongly with my "Absolutely not!" because I saw a dozen sneaky grins light up in the room.

People, this is NOT something you want to see. If you've gone out clubbing with me, and a lot of you have (not you, Mom), you know how dorky and ridiculous I look when I dance. It's not like Elaine bad, but it's bad. I'm probably at least that dorky looking when I box.

I hope for your sake that it's not bad enough to be viral.

Why We Don't Have a TV

2008-09-17T08:20:00.001-05:00

Four dead people I'd like to meet

2008-09-08T15:16:00.002-05:00

4 dead people I'd like to meet on 12seconds.tv

I love 12seconds.tv, and I'll be SO happy when the site is more stable and doesn't crash my browser every time I use it. Of course, it could be user error as well. Nah. Anyway, if you have a webcam or video-enabled smartphone (I so want to jailbreak my iPhone) and, um, twelve seconds, you too can tell the world all kinds of important things. Just not for very long.

GraphJam, how I love thee

2008-09-05T20:03:00.002-05:00

more music charts

Ice solves his hair color quandary

2008-09-05T15:07:00.003-05:00

You too can vote. But it looks like he's going to go with purple.

Rain walk at Hemlock Bluffs

2008-08-26T15:06:00.002-05:00

How long is a moment?

2008-08-26T11:22:00.005-05:00

This reads like it was a short conversation, but there were long (5-10 second) pauses between each question and response.

* * *

The Maker: A moment is a space of time.

Dad: How big a space of time?

TM: As big as you want.

D: Is a year a moment?

TM: Yeah. It's possible to be a moment, yeah. Well, a moment is a short thing of time, I think, a short space of time.

D: How short?

TM: At least a minute. Two minutes is probably the maximum of a moment.

D: So a moment can't be longer than two minutes?

TM: Well, I don't know. I'm guessing two minutes is probably the max.

[Pause]

TM [contemplatively]: "A moment is a short period of time."

Math and Jello

2008-08-26T09:16:00.002-05:00

The Husband just sent me this fabulous email:

* * *
A couple of weeks ago, The Maker asked me if we could make some Jello. This morning I asked him if he'd rather read or make Jello and he said make Jello, so I said as soon as he cleaned up his breakfast mess and put away all the clean dishes we'd make Jello.

So I have him read the directions on the back (the word gelatin was challenging), and get out all the stuff we need, including the measuring cup, and as he's getting out the measuring cup he asks if he can do all the measuring because he likes to measure stuff, and then he says, seemingly out of nowhere, "I like numbers."

I asked him why he liked numbers and he said, "Cause you can do so many different things with them. You can measure stuff, you can multiply them, you can add and subtract them, you can count with them. Also, they make patterns." I said I liked the patterns that numbers make, too. Then I said numbers can also be used to predict things, and he asked what that meant and before I could tell him my example of a graph that kept going up so you could predict what the next number was going to be, he said, "Oh, I know!" and proceeded to explain how if you were counting by fours, you'd go 4, 8, 12, 16, 20, etc. and then you'd know the next number would be 24.

Then we made the Jello. Actually he made it, I just sat and typed this email.

* * *

Happy sigh.

First Dance

2008-08-26T09:03:00.005-05:00

The Ice has just started public school and his first school dance was a week or so ago. In order to get ready, he got his ear pierced, then we had to shop for the perfect shade of green hair dye (Green Grind, by Color Fiend, available at Hot Topic).

When I asked him if he was going to ask a girl to the dance, he sighed and explained his problem. Apparently there are (were -- this was more than a week ago, and things move quickly in middle school land) FIVE girls who like him, and he didn't want to risk offending any of them.

"So what are you gonna do??" I inquired.
"I'm just gonna go by myself and talk to all of them," he told me.
"Okay, but I don't know if that will work. You may be in for a rough day after," I said.

But he seemed willing to take the risk.

And it worked! They all came, they all loved his hair (don't think they noticed his earring), and he talked with each of them. He even danced the Cupid Shuffle, he said, and it went great.

I can't tell you how relieved I feel.

The clarity you gain after a close call

2008-08-18T15:08:00.003-05:00

When I hear the thunder I call his name.
I hear something bumping in the garage; the rain comes in sheets.
Opening the front door, I see him in the yard, carefully arranging white metal folding chairs behind a pitching net. Is it raining?

What are you doing? I call.
I'm doing this, he replies.

I stand on the front porch, thinking how green the grass looks, how the rain has flattened it, and I have slipped through a veil. I take everything in and catalog it.
He smiles crookedly: one front tooth.

I'm going to take a shower, I tell him.
Okay, he says, giving me a small nod to add importance to my actions.
I am the stranger here.

* * *

It's been a long time since I wrote a poem.

Last week the Husband had a close call when he was helping with some demolition at the new facility our church is moving into. He was carrying a large mirror out to the trash when it shattered, fell, and sliced his forearm open to the bone. He was high on the triage list, and got into the ER, sewn up (deep sutures for the muscles, "mattress sutures" for the surface, it was awful -- for me, maybe for him too), and was discharged within two hours, a record in our family. Friends helped me with the boys and transportation, and I have said thank you to God and the connected forces of friendship, medical science, and healing a million times this week. When we got home I felt as if the world had suddenly resolved into high definition, crystal clear focus, and it was beautiful. From the cracked pavement to the unmade bed, beautiful.

The next day, Sunday, I woke up to a heavy rain. The Husband and the Ice had already headed out to church and my oldest was still asleep. The Maker, true to his name, was bumping about in the garage, ferrying equipment through the rain and into the front yard for... a construction of sorts. Like everything else, to my renewed senses it seemed incredible. An act from a play on another planet. I turned around and scribbled the poem on a scrap of paper.

A few days later in the week I emailed local artist Ruffin Hobbs who was going to do a commission for our company. Minutes later I received a reply from his wife, who reported briefly and movingly that her husband had suffered a terrible accident and died two weeks previously. I stopped everything to phone my husband, hug my children, and ache for a woman I've never met.

I have appreciated the intense clarity of focus, but even a middling-proximity to the suffering and pain of the world can become excruciating.

Finally! Clarity about BBQ

2008-08-08T11:24:00.002-05:00

Just to recap for you:

1. BBQ does not mean cookout.
2. BBQ is not a verb.
3. BBQ is not a grill.

BBQ is meat prepared in a special way, which varies depending on where you go. I feel so much better, having straightened all that out. I'm headed to lunch now.

it's not looking so good for me

2008-08-05T15:31:00.006-05:00

Ok, I had a lot of fun doing this 15 question quiz, which I found on Lyell Peterson's blog (he's got a 48% chance of survival and I only have a 16% chance to make it out alive), BUT I have a few comments I need to make:

1. On question #7, where they asked if I owned a sharp or blunt weapon like a crowbar, baseball bat or machete, I had to admit that I didn't (although there may be one in the garage?). However, I own boxing gloves and I really wanted at least a half point for that. Please up my percentage slightly.

2. On question #13, which wanted to know if I knew how to make molotov cocktails, I decided to say "I could probably figure out how to blow something up" simply because I have three sons, who are all pyros. That counts, right?

You people need to take the quiz. If you score higher, I'll stick with you. But mostly I'm counting on us NOT having a Zombie Apocalypse.

(I'm kinda digging the fact that I'll have the tags "zombies, death, boxing, and explosives" on this post.)

r boyz rock

2008-08-05T10:30:00.004-05:00

I've been thinking about needing a new playlist for my boys (ages 13, nearly 11, and freshly 8) who are constantly hungry for rock and roll. I'm trying to give them a rock education as well as entertain. They'll thank me later, won't they? Of course they will, or I will refuse to send them to college or be nice to their girlfriends.

The most frustrating thing about this particular list, btw, is that I couldn't get Eruption and You Really Got Me together, as God intended, on one uninterrupted digital strip. Yes, I could take them into Garage Band and fix it, but they faded Eruption off for iTunes and it can't really BE fixed. Sigh. Also, I probably should have given them Rush's Tom Sawyer rather than Anthem.

Without further whining, here's my latest effort (and no, I didn't take the time to make you guys a muxtape, sorry):

Immigrant Song, Led Zeppelin
Still of the Night, Whitesnake
Crazy Train, Ozzy Osbourne
Easy Livin', Uriah Heep
Heavy Metal, Sammy Hagar
Speed Metal Messiah, Joe Stump
Anthem, Rush
Youth Gone Wild, Skid Row
Turn the Page, Metallica
Love, Reign O'er Me, Pearl Jam
Rock and Roll, Hootchie Koo, Rick Derringer
Eruption, Van Halen
You Really Got Me, Van Halen
I Want It All, Queen
Rock of Ages, Def Leppard
(Leopard spelling re-screwed-up, thank you lyell)
YYZ, Rush

Okay, rockers. Please weigh in.

Joy to share

2008-07-25T10:02:00.002-05:00

Take a moment out of your day for this guy. It gives me so many smiles to watch him dance his simple (kinda goofy) dance all over the world. I love seeing the interaction he attracts and the impromptu micro-communities he joins or creates. If I saw him, I would totally get out and dance my own little (really goofy) dance.
Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

Second day of school

2008-07-25T08:01:00.004-05:00

And this is what comes downstairs in the morning, "ready" to go. I said, "Dude. Your head."

Sinking the 3-pointer

2008-07-22T08:35:00.002-05:00

I enjoyed this video way more than any political commercial. Maybe it's just American to love the perfect 3-pointer. Now can we see him box? I think that would be instructive, too.

What the Maker brought to work

2008-07-15T10:53:00.004-05:00

I had to bring the Maker, age 7, to work with me today. He packed a bag and this is what he brought:

DVD player, headphones, and two movies, Tron and Shrek 2
Yo-yo
Gameboy and two games, Rayman and Pirates of the Caribbean
The Declaration of Independence

When I commented (same as you just did), "The Declaration of Independence?" he responded, "Yeah, in case I want something to read."

I'm learning to box

2008-07-14T14:59:00.003-05:00

It sounded good at the time, anyway. This summer I decided to shift away from running as my main aerobic exercise since I felt like I was always complaining about how many miles I wasn't able to do. My right knee has that distinctive Rice Krispies sound that tells me I may have to schedule a doctor's visit in a few years and I probably won't like what I hear when I do it. So, in classic avoidance technique I decided I should shift to boxing. Me smart.

Me hurt now. After a month of anticipation, phone calls, and research (I watched Rocky and browsed fashionable boxing accessories), I had my first boxing class today. Apparently boxing is like church: no one arrives until after everything begins. But I was there, and after the instructor helped me wrap my hands, he tossed me a pair of gloves, put me front and center and we were off and running. People drifted in while he put us through a basic full-body callisthenic routine, and once we began punching combinations on the heavy bags the serious sweat began to flow. The words "speed rounds" may give me nightmares tonight. I kept my feet moving (boxing is more like running than I knew) and my hands up (mostly). Who knew two 14 oz. gloves could weigh as much as anvils? Or – and let me say this is the worst part of boxing so far, worse even than the pain I feel right now before the aspirin kicks in – stink so horribly?? Next order of business: get my own gloves. Which I'm sure will always emit the fragrance of fresh and dewy roses.

Speaking of roses, I was the only woman in my class today. And it could be that I wasn't dressed appropriately, but I won't know that until I see what other women wear. The standard outfit I saw on the guys consisted of ginormous baggy shorts, skull motif tee shirts, and ragged sneakers. Scruffy is presumably the way to go, and my trim aerobics shorts and cheery sport tank were decidedly out of place. Also, today I noticed that I'm really tall. Everyone else is crouched down, hunched into their punching bags. I move less like Mohommad Ali and more like Gumby. Maybe later I'll get the gist of that "float like a butterfly" thing.

Overall, I kept up. I was in better aerobic shape than most of the guys there, although I'm sure my punches are about as hard as room temperature butter, and I just laughed and laid on the floor when the instructor called for (and snapped off) fifty push-ups during the "cool down." Riiiight.

My shoulders, upper back, and neck are all crying for a three-day vacation in Maui with complimentary Mai Tai's now, but I'm mentally psyched, and I find myself saying "Yo, Adrian!" when I see someone in the hall. I'll let you know how it goes.

Worm babies, maps, and vending machines

2008-07-09T15:01:00.003-05:00

Our new worms are faring well, I think, although as the Husband quipped recently, "they don't talk much." But we have nonetheless learned quite a bit about them, and we're here to pass this valuable knowledge on to you.

Where worm babies come from
Believe it or not, actress Isabella Rossellini (remember that freaky David Lynch film Blue Velvet?) dressed up in pink taffeta to show us how worms excrete and how they make babies. No lie. You have to see it to believe it.

The worm map of the universe
Free-range worms live everywhere, presumably. But 15 gallon Rubbermaid bin worms live in air-conditioned comfort in homes across the world. After I posted my worm pictures on Flickr, I received a very polite message from Steven Chow -- known as Mushroom on Flickr --who saw my pictures and not only sent me a picture o f his worms, but also invited me to add our Fellas to the interactive, um, Worm Map that he made. So we did! He also taught me the word "vermicomposter" which is what one becomes, when one keeps bins of compost-eating worms in the house. There's an entire Ning group of such persons, if you can believe that.

Worm vending machines
On a related note, I took the family to the lake for a picnic after church on Sunday and was stunned to see a worm vending machine there. Such a machine does not in fact provide worm Nip-Chee's, or worm Moon Pies, or even worm Wrigley's (I thought of that my very own self!). No, but it does provide worms AS snacks… for fish. I'm a city girl, I thought I knew about vending machines. I am now much smarter than before. Did you know that such a machine sells not only redworms (30 count) and nightcrawlers (12 count), but also floats, split-shot sinkers, barrel swivels (size 5 and 7), and fishing hooks in four sizes?

I decided not to tell our Fellas about the vending machine. Don't want to give them nightmares.

Our new pets are worms

2008-07-05T10:05:00.003-05:00

We recently acquired a pound of worms to eat our garbage and teach us something. The Maker, age 7, is the boss of all these worms and the font of all the following information.

1. We have one pound of worms.
Are they a herd? A warren? A flotilla? Unknown at this time. We also don't know how many worms are in a pound. We would open a betting pool, but then we'd have to count them.

2. Our worms are vegan!
They don't eat meat or dairy, and they don't want any cooked food. Who knew? I wonder if all worms are vegan (The Maker doesn't know).

3. Our worms are shy.
We aren't allowed to look at our worms for one entire week. They apparently get upset and need time to adjust to their new home, our Worm Coach tells us. However, we looked at them a couple of times (we even took their photo and published it on the internet) and they didn't holler or anything.

4. What are our new pets named?
One wise-cracking geek friend (Hi, Bob!) suggested we name them using a hexidecimal system, but he didn't have any ideas about tagging for identification. The Husband says he's just gonna call them all "Fellas" which aroused a debate about the gender of our worms. The Maker assures us they are all boys.

5. Worm marriage
The Maker explains: "How they get married is, um, they find a partner – it doesn't have to be a boy and it doesn't have to be a girl – then they stick their bodies together for a couple of minutes or a couple of hours, and then the sticky stuff goes away and they're married." We tried to find out about worm babies but both The Maker and Wikipedia were unclear.

6. Worms want a quiet, stable environment
Without lots of loud noises, vibrations, excessive thumping down the stairs, hollering, fart jokes, rudeness, or bad smells. If our worms are this uptight they may not make it in this house. Sometimes we like to pogo to Led Zep.

7. Holding our new pets
If you want to hold a worm, says the Maker, you are supposed to spritz your hand with water first. He was the one who was hot to hold one, but since we have to leave them alone in a quiet environment for an entire week I told him he can hold one next week after they are all dead.

pocket contents, the Maker

2008-07-01T08:48:00.003-05:00

5 paper clips
1 pirate tattoo
11 plastic test tubes
2 interesting rocks
2 rolls of caps
1 American Express card magnet
5 can tabs
1 cardboard disk

(What, no amphibians?)

How eBay solves sibling rivalry, eliminates need for parenting!

2008-06-25T15:04:00.006-05:00

This week the Husband emailed me an update on his productivity:

So far this morning:

Finished reviewing two reports, sent final versions to Bob
Called two piano teachers I found online, left messages
Sold "Blue Eyes White Dragon" card to the Ice for $3.66 (my cost)

To which I responded:

I'm baffled by #3. WT..?
Otherwise, uRock.

And he elaborated:

You may (or may not) recall a scene a few years ago in which the First and the Ice decided to purchase and share a set of 40 or so YuGiOh cards. I was concerned that they'd fight over who got which cards, but they assured me they had a system by which this would be avoided.

As soon as they bought and opened the cards, they began fighting over who got which cards, and the fighting centered on one particular card, the famous "Blue Eyes White Dragon" card, which is apparently the greatest YGO card ever created. After much yelling, accusations, and tears, I took the card away from them and said neither one of them could have it (and made a note to myself to never let them do that again).

Rather than tearing up the card and throwing it in the trash, I put it in our closet thinking at some point in the future, everyone would calm down and maybe they'd figure out a way to share it or something. YGO eventually fell out of favor as an activity, so the problem went away.

Recently, however, YGO resurfaced as a cool thing to do, and the Ice and the First began playing YGO duels, gaping at each other's cards, and, eventually, arguing over ownership of particular cards. One such argument erupted over a BEWD card which the First claims to have bought from a friend at school (I can't find the one in our closet, however, so I remain suspicious.). The Ice came to me in tears a few weeks ago, claiming that his big brother actually had not one but two BEWD cards and had promised to give one to him but later reneged. The First apparently offered to sell it to him for $20.

Tamping down both fury at the First and annoyance at the Ice, I went on eBay, immediately found several BEWD cards for sale, and purchased a total of five, average price $4.00. I walked the Ice through the process with me and explained to him that it probably wasn't a good thing for his big brother to be his only source of information on YGO cards, much less his only source of the cards themselves, and that if it was really important to him to own one of these cards, he should find out how much they cost and buy one from someone who is not his older brother, and that eBay was a good place to do this.

Anyway, after I bought the 5 cards online, I told the Ice he could buy one from me if he wanted, and he had told me a few days ago that he was thinking about it, and today we finally got around to it.

******

Lord have mercy and thank you eBay. (Plus, if I can get the Husband to buy some stuff I want there, then sell it to me for even less than he paid for it...)

You may bow to me

2008-06-24T19:41:00.005-05:00

Tonight I made fresh blueberry pancakes, link sausages, and sliced cantaloupe. Served with chilled champagne. That's almost better than birthday cake.

Washington DC and The Glowing Edge

2008-06-22T13:46:00.006-05:00

Our family spent the last week in Washington DC. The Husband had a work-related conference so the boys and I tagged along. The boys learned very quickly how to navigate the city on the Metro, and we saw nearly everything on our list and then some.

One of the highlights for me (although no one else in my family had any interest in this whatsoever and will not even recall my excited gestures and hopping around in glee) was seeing one of Aaron Arrowsmith's maps framed and hanging in Thomas Jefferson's home, Monticello, which we visited on our way home from DC. No photos are allowed in Monticello, but in the age of the internet, I bring you this map, so pivotal in the lives of Lewis & Clark, whom Jefferson commissioned to find a water route to the Pacific and explore the uncharted West.

In 1803 this map was the most accurate map of its day. East of the Mississippi River, from Lake Superior to the Gulf coast, cities and towns dotted the landscape. The California coast was likewise known and mapped. Both the mighty Mississipi and the west coast were carefully inked in vibrant greens and yellows, the glowing edge of known territory, a threshold between worlds. Between the Mississippi and the Pacific Ocean stretched a vast expanse of uncharted territory; God’s country waiting to be explored by the newest Americans. It was speculated that the Corps of Discovery (as Lewis and Clark's group styled themselves) would find woolly mammoths, skirt active volcanoes, and encounter numerous tribes of native people. In actuality, the unmapped territory was home to more than 300 species previously unknown to science, the magnificent mountain range known as the Rockies, and almost 50 different tribes of First Americans.

I'm certainly no Meriwether Lewis or William Clark (my family and friends will quickly tell you how much I hate to go without a shower), but when I first saw Aaron Arrowsmith's map, I immediately understood that call of the unmarked map, the desire to be the first across a boundary and into the new. The phrase "the glowing edge" was not Arrowsmith's, or Jefferson's, or anyone else's from the Corps of Discovery, but it was the phrase that repeated itself in my mind and heart after I first saw that wavy green line of the Mississippi river on this iconic map, beyond which lay the uncharted terrritory of so many people's lives and dreams.

Other new DC finds for me included Mt. St. Sepulchre, the Franciscan monastery just a six block hike from the Brookland-CUA Metro stop. I decided to pass on the Exorcist Stairs (too creepy), but we did manage to find the less-well-known Einstein memorial at the National Academy of the Sciences. And of course, all the standard stops and sights (which you can view in exhaustive detail -- repeatedly -- on my Flickr slideshow) were new to the boys, and that made it fun for me.

fame and glory

2008-05-25T07:51:00.005-05:00

You might think that because The Husband gigs regularly with a rock and roll band that he has as many admiring fans as a forty-something guy with a groupie wife and three raised-on-rock sons could desire.

Yesterday we were walking around the block and he began talking about a book he was going to write. Actually I was the one who said something like "Wow, you're planning to write a book??" and he patiently corrected me, saying, "No, I'm planning to write a series." Well, of course he is. Who would stop at one book if you could write a series?

So we were having a lot of humorous fun talking about the boo-, er, series, which incidentally will be kind of like Robert B. Parker's (only better, of course) or Ed McBain's (see previous parenthetical comment). There can be no more enjoyable thing that TALKING about the book, sorry, series, you are planning to write.

Unless you want to talk about the interviews you'll give. Because why write a plain ol' normal series? Go ahead and write bestsellers.

haiku kid

2008-05-14T13:14:00.002-05:00

I finally figured out that if I don't have time to write a blog post, I can get my seven-year-old to do it for me. Here are three haikus he wrote for me:

I go down the hill
Feeling the wind on my face.
Flying on my skates.

Inside when it's cool
Playing on the computer
Freeonlinegames

Riding on my bike
I like skidmarks and wheelies
I ride with my friends.

Lucky Number Philosophy

2008-05-10T13:29:00.002-05:00

The Maker: I have 11 lucky numbers: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, and 5632.
Dad: Hm. Is someone who has eleven lucky numbers luckier than someone who has ten lucky numbers?
The Maker: No.
Dad:Is someone who has eleven lucky numbers luckier than someone who only has one lucky number?
The Maker: No.
Dad: Is someone who has eleven lucky numbers luckier than someone who has no lucky numbers?
The Maker: Well, if you have ANY lucky numbers, you're luckier than someone who has zero lucky numbers. But as long as you have SOME lucky numbers, you're going to have as much luck as anyone else who has lucky numbers.

board game hell

2008-04-19T09:56:00.007-05:00

I hated board games when I was growing up. If I could toy with the gadgety stuff alone (Mousetrap or Operation, even the nifty dice popper on Trouble), that was fine, but when played with others board games seemed designed to ratchet up my stress level and proclaim to the world I was a loser and stupid to boot. Anything with a timer or a buzzer was the worst.

I had a handful of games, listed here in order of the magnitude of the misery they could evoke for me: Perfection (timer, buzzer, and explosion: horrors!), Don't Spill the Beans, Operation, Mastermind, Twixt, Boggle, Scrabble, Monopoly, and Yahtzee. My parents' favorites were the ones they thought would help me be even more brainy than I already was (Boggle and Scrabble were and still are most highly revered). I've never understood that: for me games should be fun, not work; I've encountered few that were actually entertaining or relaxing. Of course on the opposite extreme, the brainless banality of Chutes and Ladders was demonic. Before people inquired about my babysitting rate I wanted to ask: "Do your kids own Chutes and Ladders? Because if they do, it's double my normal fee."

In order to repair the perceived imbalance in my upbringing, I have, of course, purchased only the most fun stuff for my own kids. Most recently it was this absurdly humongous box filled with plastic tracks and modular posts called Skyrail Roller Coaster. The boys engineered living-room-sized track layouts with loop-de-loops, crossovers and twists, and put their marbles through the paces. They also used the flexible track segments to whack each other in the happy tradition Hot Wheels established long ago.

But last week, the Husband brought home Monopoly, and now that's all they want to play. I'm thinking about getting me a Hot Wheels set.

stork lol

2008-04-19T09:51:00.002-05:00

see more crazy cat pics

pogo boy

2008-04-14T19:25:00.007-05:00

Yep, that's a pogo ramp. And after he pwn3d that, he aerated the lawn for us.

trying out mixwit

2008-04-14T15:22:00.002-05:00

Oh, my heavens. I may be in love. So, do I go back and do all my mixes this way? Or just start from here?

how to save money on groceries

2008-04-13T12:32:00.008-05:00

The Husband and I went grocery shopping together earlier this week. That's a fairly unusual thing, since somebody has to be on parent duty. But we asked the First to look after the others, and tested our homeowner's and family heath insurance policies to have a mini-date at the corner grocery store.

I'm pretty sure we won't do this again.

Now I understand why, when HE's on grocery duty, he comes home with so few groceries, and I'm the one who runs our bill up so badly.

The Husband figures that the best way to save money is to go really fast through the store. I mean, he books on through there. If I wander over to pick out pasta and sauce, you can bet he'll be in dairy by the time I turn around. And he won't get cheese or eggs while he's there. So I have to traipse down the aisles, arms full of groceries (adding more as I go), looking for our cart.

I thought it might work better if I controlled the cart. So I commandeered it briefly, but I didn't keep my hands on it at all times. I spent a minute looking for the Magic Stars and when I turned around he was at the other end of the aisle with our/MY cart, turning the corner and leaving me with two arms full of cereal boxes and no possible way to grab toilet paper (Yes, we have plenty, but t.p. is important!) as I ran up the paper aisle.

The frozen aisle was the worst, and since it's also the last aisle in the store, our marriage was in dire straits by then. So I showed him: I quit shopping! Now what do you think will happen when he opens the freezer hoping for a pot pie or a burrito, hmm?

What will happen is he'll be glad we saved the money and he'll happily settle for pizza. He got plenty of those.

Sigh. I know when I'm bested. He's a smart man, if a bit hasty. Next time he can do the shopping and we'll spend the extra time and money on a real date.

bookstack

2008-04-13T12:31:00.001-05:00

Nothing very exciting from this one; try again later. (Sometimes it's like that.)

favorite quote from LOTR

2008-04-13T12:20:00.004-05:00

"We have followed you this far; you have not led us astray. Forgive me, I was wrong to despair." Legolas (to Aragorn)

Magic Star marshmallow shape voting

2008-04-13T08:41:00.005-05:00

The Marshmallow Mateys thing has got me going. I have GOT to quit buying these terribly sugary wonderful cereals. These are Magic Stars, as you can see. What I'm trying to figure out is WHAT on earth the marshmallow shapes represent. Here's The Husband's guesses (from left to right) and my own. Please feel free to comment and enter your vote.

1. The white thing with orangey splotch on one end
TH: A bell, candy corn, or a saltshaker.
Me: A bloody molar. Clearly.

2. The blue swirly thing with red part
TH: A fish.
Me: That's a crystal ball, dopey!

3. The yellow circle
TH: Easy. A yellow circle.
Me: Full moon. Try to think "magic," hon.

4. Yellow star in a blue circle
TH: Duh!
Me: Yeah, the Donkey Kong symbol.

5. Purple squiggle
TH: The letter "E," "M," or "W."
Me: I'm gonna go with "M" for Magic.

6. Yellow moon
TH: We're gonna agree on this one, I think.
Me: We are. But is it waxing or waning?

7. Green triangular thing
TH: Duck foot, bell, or leaf.
Me: Given the magic theme, I'm gonna say frog foot as stew ingredient. Or possibly a magic arrowhead. Tough one.

8. Pink amorphous item
TH: Wizard hat?
Me: I think it was just left over after they cut out all the other shapes.

recent bookstack

2008-04-13T08:37:00.003-05:00

Of these, I most enjoyed Luanne Rice's Light of the Moon. Katherine Sutcliffe's Fever was okay, but I would read more of Rice.

my tweetcloud

2008-04-07T15:39:00.004-05:00

This was an interesting beta find at TweetCloud.com. I seem to be thankful...!

(That's because Twitterers, or Tweeple, are very helpful.)

Hawaii Elvis meets Deep Purple

2008-04-01T10:14:00.005-05:00

I woke up this morning to the sound of the Ice patiently teaching the Maker to play the opening notes of "Smoke on the Water" on a ukelele. There was relentless practicing involved.

It's hard to know what else to say about this, although the Husband did get out of bed, go on the internet, figure out how to tune a ukelele (it's different than a guitar's tuning), and get the thing in tune so that we weren't wincing so painfully during the second hour in which they pursued perfection.

Thankfully, that's all over now.

marshmallow mateys

2008-04-01T10:04:00.003-05:00

It seems like the last time I bought the kids fake Lucky Charms (which I do periodically, ever since this fateful post), they were called Lucky Stars. As in, "Oh, my..."

Now, however, they are called Marshmallow Mateys, which doesn't have quiiiiite the same appeal. But they still taste delicious, if you can get someone else to eat all the non-marshmallow bits.

sleep fort

2008-04-01T09:57:00.004-05:00

Sunday night the Maker had a friend over to spend the night. The Ice decided to strike out on his own, and built this fort in his Dad's office in order to have his own space. In the forground you can see a DVD player (he watched "Enchanted" and the husband and I listened to him laughing and giggling late into the night as he replayed his favorite parts), and an empty Smarties wrapper. The Ice was SET, man. The cat liked it, and so did the Maker, who asked to pose for the camera.

the Maker likes the "cool" photo best

2008-04-01T09:53:00.002-05:00

Locked & Loaded gig

2008-04-01T09:10:00.006-05:00

The boys had their Saturday night gig at Locked & Loaded with a full house. When I got there at 9:30 pm, the lot was completely full and I had to park next door at the bank; I counted myself lucky to get a table at all. The band was debuting Dave Hardman as their new lead guitar guy (he did great!) and lots of their regular followers were there. People were dancing on the bar by the middle of the first set, which is fairly unusual. The Husband has two new pieces on which he sings lead -- My Sharona (The Knack) and Any Way You Want It (Journey). Of course, I still love I Want You to Want Me (Cheap Trick). And darn near everything else I heard and danced to. I didn't "Make it to Paradise City with Aftershock" but I stayed into the third set; The Husband said they had vociferous and unrelenting demands for an encore so they did Pour Some Sugar on Me (Def Leppard), which always satisfies. My leather jacket is stilllll airing out, but my hearing has returned. Mostly.

Come over to my Flickr and see the slideshow, including the fabled and much-sought-after set lists. (Someday I'll figure out how to set up my laptop to capture the band live and I'll post a video.)

improv everywhere

2008-03-28T10:16:00.001-05:00

Best thing I've seen all year:

boys are easy

2008-03-26T14:15:00.002-05:00

Me: Boys are easy. If it can be eaten, built, exploded, or thrown, they like it.
The Husband: When they were little I used to think: Boys like to eat, scream, and run, preferably all at the same time.

Easter!!

2008-03-23T07:34:00.004-05:00

Yesterday we dyed our eggs and this morning at 7:15 am we released the screaming hordes into our chilly Easter backyard to hunt down 39 eggs. They were stuck to the side of the house, hanging from trees, camouflaged in the gravel or garden, and (a couple) in plain sight. I hope we didn't wake the neighbors, but I'm pretty sure we were loud enough to do the job. In the end, they only found 38 eggs. Hm. Well, we'll get back to it after church.

great mileage

2008-03-22T12:33:00.004-05:00

About ten years ago the Husband bought this waffle iron from a yard sale for $1. It was ancient when he bought it. But they must not make 'em like this anymore; this thing has LEGS, I'm telling you. I can't count how many times we've made waffles with it and it's still going strong. Looks like hell, but works great.

Today's breakfast included fabu waffles (thanks Honey), sausages, and OJ. Would have had fried apples, but forgot to buy apples. None of the five boys (The First had a guest who slept over) seemed to mind.

runner lisa vs. bad lisa

2008-03-22T12:15:00.003-05:00

Runner Lisa: It's a gorgeous morning for a run!
Bad Lisa: We haven't run for over a week. This is gonna hurt.
RL: We'll get back in the swing.
BL: I need to pee.
RL: You just went!
BL: It's freezing.
RL: That's what this nice jacket is for.
BL: What if a neighbor sees us? We will be ashamed of how ridiculously slow we look.
RL: If a neighbor sees us THEY will be ashamed that we're out here running and they aren't.

RL: Okay, we'll start with walking up the hill. At the top, we'll move into a nice slow jog.
BL: That first downhill is terrible on the knees.
RL: So we'll shorten stride.
BL: I might need a tissue.
RL: You're sounding pretty weak.
BL: I feel pretty puny.
RL: Maybe you should shut up and run.

BL: OMG, the Husband is coming up behind us. He's gonna PASS us. Or dog our heels. This is terrible.
RL: Hm, let's see if we can do some intervals, move further ahead, then we can turn off the straightaway and get on a different route.
BL: I may perish in the attempt.
RL: I'll come back for you later.

BL: It's not working. I can hear him schlepping along behind us again. Listen to that! Why does he scrape his feet like that? It can't be aerodynamic.
RL: He appears to have a higher pace than we can do, even with the schlepping.
BL: We're silent but slow.
RL: At least we're moving.
BL: THAT man is moving. He's on like a 9 minute mile pace. We're on, like, a 30 minute mile pace.
RL: Sometimes it feels that way.

RL: Look at us! We're past thirty minutes. We met our goal. Next run will be better.
BL: What's my reward? A donut?
RL: Nice try. How about a walk around the block?
BL: More exercise is not considered a reward.
RL: Yes, I'd love to have you join me on a walk. It will be a pleasure.

day two, still hard

2008-03-22T12:06:00.002-05:00

You Can't Always Get What You Want / The Rolling Stones
Low Down Man / Squirrel Nut Zippers
Walk Away / Ben Harper
Rain Song / Day Of Fire
We Never Change / Coldplay
First Day of My Life / Bright Eyes
Normal Like You / Everclear
Little Things / Good Charlotte
Killing the Thing that You Love / Styx
Teo Torriatte (Let Us All Cling Together) / Queen

song of the week

2008-03-22T12:00:00.006-05:00

The whole family has been singing this song, called "First Day of My Life" by Bright Eyes all week. It was featured on my Day Two, Still Hard playlist that I made several months ago (and forgot to blog; now corrected). The video is wonderful, too!

signs of maturation

2008-03-22T11:51:00.002-05:00

This morning the Maker took a bath in my bathroom. Normally this means that not only do I have to harry him to get clean in a reasonably conservative fashion ("Get your hair wet." "Wash your feet." "Turn off the water." "Have you washed your feet?" "Rinse your hair." "Honey, stop letting the water out and filling it back up." "Did you use soap?") but I also have to remind him to go through each of the cleaning-up-afterward stages.

So I was rather astonished, when I reminded him to hang up his towel and put his dirty clothes in the hamper, that he smiled and said "Already did."

SO astonished that I got up and went in to see this miracle. Sure enough, it was all clean and tidy, except for a wingnut and a can tab, which presumably fell out of his pockets during the process. Only a wingnut and can tab! I think he's reached some sort of milestone in his development.

breadhead

2008-03-22T11:47:00.003-05:00

breakfast of champions

2008-03-22T11:40:00.002-05:00

This was the Maker's version of breakfast earlier this week. Cinnamon toast (which I didn't know could be improved upon) with sprinkles.

the Husband's categories

2008-03-22T11:13:00.003-05:00

The Husband recently organized his life into categories. I love this; he's so organized! I know I'm category number seven, but I'm forever asking him what category something fits into. The other night I made him tell me again so I could write it down:

1. Non-billable work
2. Billable work
3. Aftershock (his rock band)
4. Connections (his church band)
5. House/chores
6. Kids/parenting
7. ME!
8. Himself

I told him he really only has four categories (work, music, home, us), but I feel comfortable allowing him to subdivide to his heart's content.

ten sentences in 24 hours

2008-03-22T10:54:00.004-05:00

The Maker created a bit of a stir this week. He had a homeschool assignment to copy ten sentences of his choice from the book of his choice as a writing exercise. One might think, since he's done this routinely before, that this would be a non-remarkable thing. One would be wrong.

Book: The Great Illustrated Classics version (the kids all loved these) of Robert Louis Stevenson's Kidnapped. (Pirates rock.)
Starting time: Monday, 1 pm.
Finish time: Tuesday, 1 pm.

I can't even begin to list the excuses that were offered on a regular basis during that twenty-four hour period, but the Maker was not allowed to leave his room -- except for meals -- until he finished, and honestly I had NO IDEA he had this kind of stamina! I'm wondering if he could be, like, an ultra-runner in the making. Something that takes extraordinary perseverance and willpower for an extended period of time. I mean, my estimation of him skyrocketed.

Truly, if as a parent you are going to have to endure a tantrum, this is the kind you want. Very low maintenance for the parent, big impact on the kid. On Tuesday shortly after noon he had completed two of the sentences, but the sun was shining, the basketball goal was waiting, and he'd presumably gone through all the toys available to him in his tiny domain. So the last eight sentences were zipped off in short order.

Here they are, precisely as they were recorded by the Maker, just for posterity:

1. Some seamen were asleep in it.
2. Ransom told me this was the brigs boat waiting for the capiten.
3. He turned away quickly crying goodbye and set off at a jogging run.
4. I watched him as long as I could.
5. He nevre stopped hurrying nor once looked back.
6. He ternd away quickly crying goodbye and set of at gogging run.
7. I wached him as long as I cood.
8. he never sttoped hurrying nor once lookd Back.
9. ther were ships in the inlet and a flage up on the casele at edinburgh.
10. It was my first vyou of the sea and I stood in the wonder for som time.

I dunno, Mom. Who do YOU think broke it?

2008-03-18T18:55:00.002-05:00

Found this in the attic yesterday. I think it must have been shot when the Ice was about three years old (c. 2000). What a great expression!

godzilla's battle plans

2008-03-18T09:44:00.003-05:00

Nice goin' darkMonkey!

hummingbird feeder

2008-03-16T16:35:00.007-05:00

Hummers migrate back to NC from Mexico and Central America about this time of year. So I went out to the hardware store and came back and hung a feeder for the first time at this house. It's lovely and looks like a little multicolored hot-air balloon.

We used to live further east, and a friend of ours had six cherry trees in his back yard. When we would go over to visit or pick cherries we would dodge dozens of the little creatures as they dove and buzzed from tree to tree. We've always loved watching them but it's been several years since I tried to attract them myself. If they find my feeder they may stay all season, and even return here next year.

I know it may take a few weeks for them to get here, but I've spent nearly the entire weekend glancing out the kitchen window, hoping to see one arrive. Bienvenidos, little travelers!

breakfast curiosity

2008-03-16T16:16:00.004-05:00

Saturday morning I got up to make sausages and pancakes for me and the five guys in my house (ages 41, 14, 13, 10, and 7). I set out six napkins with six forks on top. At the end of the meal, one fork remained untouched (??) and five napkins had never been used. I counted myself fortunate that no one had said, "What are these for?"

I sleep like a hotdog

2008-03-16T16:05:00.002-05:00

I roll back and forth, all night long.
The Husband sleeps like a hamburger. Flip once onto each side.

current bookstack

2008-03-16T15:39:00.003-05:00

1. The Farseekers, Obernewtyn, and Ashling, a series by Isobelle Carmody (I read the first one not too long ago and it was okay but not great. Next one might be better...)
2. Everything He Hasn't Told You Yet, by Burton Silver and Martin O'Connor (The Husband and I didn't find this to be very good; although the assumptions the authors make provided a diversion one evening. Someone in a new relationship might get something out of it. Maybe.)
3. The Bone Doll's Twin, by Lynn Flewelling (Very dark; if you like gothic and disturbing you might enjoy it. I read the first third and the end and don't plan to pick up the next in the series. Toni Morrison's Beloved was a million times better, and actually more disturbing.)
4. Brightness Reef, by David Brinn (I loved Brinn's first Uplift Saga, all three books of it. This new Uplift trilogy moves much more slowly and I may never finish it.)
5. Buy, Buy Baby: How Consumer Culture Manipulates Parents and Harms Young Minds, by Susan G. Thomas. (I hardly even have to read this one to know I will probably agree completely with it. I'm the parent who only allows her homeschooled kids to "do" school three hours a day, and no homework allowed. No presents at birthdays (although we throw great parties). No tv, no computer time during the week and only one hour on weekends. Let your kids get out and play, America! Quit buying all that plastic crap, too. Ok, more rant later.)
6. Consider the Source: A Critical Guide to 100 Prominent News and Information Sites on the Web, by James F. Broderick and Darren Miller.
7. My Mistress's Sparrow is Dead: Great Love Stories from Chekhov to Munro, edited by Jeffrey Eugenides

action hero screen test

2008-03-16T15:13:00.005-05:00

The Husband (as I'm watching the trailer for Stardust - scroll to 2.00 to see the goods): Yeah, the ol' "swing from a chandelier" schtick. Standard.
Me: You have to have a sword to make it work right.
TH: And you have to grab the rope before you slash, otherwise the chandelier crashes to the ground and you can't get up to the balcony across the room full of bad guys.
Me: That's always a bummer. I like it better when the guy pulls the trick off while holding a woman clothed in a long skinny gown of white silk. A Fay Wray kind of outfit. With strappy high-heeled sandals.
TH: I'm pretty sure the chandelier dealie is part of the screen test for any action hero.
Me: Like they hand you a sword, point to the chandelier, and say "Do your stuff, hotshot. Roll 'em!"
TH: If you can't do it, you're out of the running. Simple as that.
Me: You could do it. You're my hero.
TH: You should get you one of those white silk dresses.
Me: Maybe I will. But I'm going to wear tennis shoes underneath. Or Doc Martins, possibly.

found in the laundry

2008-03-16T14:13:00.003-05:00

1. Five hand-written notes, scribbled and folded. One is from a girl. Some words are in (bad) Spanish.
2. One hand-made $5 bill.
3. Six candy wrappers, including Snickers fun-size, Three Musketeers, Hershey Kissed, and Reeses Peanut Butter Minis. (Where do they get all this candy?)
4. One key ring with ten old keys on it.

feeling safe, now that the code is restored

2008-03-07T21:58:00.004-05:00

Whew. That whole code-snipping operation had me scared. I filled 12 pages of Word doc with the template to my blog before nervously watching the Husband successfully excise and replace the comment-breaking piece of code. Then I skipped over to xkcd to enjoy some jokes at my own expense. Thanks, xkcd.

comments are back!

2008-03-07T21:39:00.003-05:00

At loooong last comments have been re-enabled! Now both of you, Dear Readers, must leave me one! Just because you can. A shout-out and my heartfelt thanks go to Bonnie Calhoun over at How Can I Do That. I've combed the forums a million times on this one and finally found the solution. Well, ok, the Husband finally found the solution. A shout-out to him, too. Yay for comments restored.

happy mom/son moment

2008-03-07T14:54:00.007-05:00

Recently I commiserated with the Maker over his lost wallet, which housed his carefully hoarded $16. That's a veritable fortune in seven-year-old-land. We had been explaining the concept of our Dad Bank, where the Husband keeps track of the boys' money for them -- and pays them interest on their deposits -- in a simple checking account kind of database we have on the family computer. The Maker had been too excited about having actual dollar bills to surrender any of his loot to the Dad Bank, and so was trying to keep up with his money by transferring it endlessly from vest to pocket to private shelf in room, to Mom, and so on. We warned him he might lose it, given that he was prone to take it out at friends' houses, then forget to put it back in his pocket.

Grandparents visited, birthdays passed, and the dollars accumulated. And the inevitable happened. He came to me tearfully to announce it, and I hugged and commiserated without getting preachy. It was heartwrenching to see him dragging about, miserable.

Then today the Husband discovered the lost money in a forgotten-for-a-few-weeks, finally-found-and-deposited-in-laundry pair of the Maker's pants. It was a joyous reunion and I feel ridiculously happy for him.

so engage me

2008-03-07T14:41:00.005-05:00

Feeling just a wee bit grouchy and ready for my weekend to begin NOW, so I pulled a few songs together (several free iTunes downloads, plus some I just haven't listened to much yet) and created a fresh playlist. In a fit of pique, I named it "So Engage Me." You may notice a slight monster-y theme in sections...

The Guide / Borne
Pieces of the Sun / Test Your Reflex
Callin' Me / Consequence
Kiss the Sky / Shawn Lee's Ping Pong Orchestra
A Strange Education / The Cinematics
Heal Yourself / Ruthie Foster
Beautiful / Borne
Glad / The Wood Brothers
Pictures of You / The Last Goodnight
Icky Thump / The White Stripes
Godzilla / Blue Öyster Cult
Shout at the Devil / Mötley Crüe
Sleep On It / Borne
Atlas / The Wood Brothers
Take Me Out / Franz Ferdinand