Finding Joy in Snarkville

I used to think that I lived in the middle of Wild Kingdom in Frankenhouse.  In addition to our personal zoo, there were regular sightings of deer and turkey and few animals I’m not sure I want to remember.  Anyway, Frankenhouse has nothing on our new digs.

Like Frankenhouse, we basically back-up to woods — which is awesome for private park-like setting in our back yard; but it also makes for easy get aways for all of the forest creatures who like to say hi.  We have a lot of deer — BIG deer.  Deer the size of Mac trucks.  I often can sit at my desk and look out to see deer raiding my neighbor’s birdfeeder — which is fun and funny at the same time.  We have a family of bunnies who in the fall visited our yard every afternoon to munch.  (In case you were wondering, my very dumb dog has yet to see deer or bunny — he is really only interested in those things that don’t move — like leaves.)  I’ve seen raccoons, other peoples’ cats, and a metric ton of birds.  One afternoon, I even had a hawk land on my deck rail and stare into my house at me.

So, last night, as we settled into watch the closing ceremonies, one of the cats was curiously looking out our patio doors.  We look up to see a little pointy white face looking back in at us.  I should pause that I am not sure that I’ve ever seen an opossum alive.  I may have seen one scurry across a yard, but NEVER one a few feet away.  I got up, I turned on the lights outside, I stood on the other side of the glass  and we watched each other.  He/She was not bothered by the movement inside or the lights coming on outside.  The opossum walked back and forth on my deck looking in curious about the cat on the other side.

Once the little creature left, I began to think about this incident. First, they are not nature’s most beautiful creatures – one might call them a wee bit ugly, with the white faces and their beady eyes.  Second, I know next to nothing about them (except they (and armadillos) make fine roadkill) so I couldn’t help but wonder if it was trying to get inside to rip my face off in the middle of the night.  Finally, why the heck was it not afraid of me inches away from it (safely behind glass)??

So, of course I consulted Google and answered most of my questions — it will not dig; it can’t jump (though can climb) so it is unlikely to get on my roof and try to get in; it will eat things I don’t like more (snakes, rats/mice, and random backyard garbage.  But the one thing Google was unable to answer for me — was it visiting a human zoo and thus not afraid of the giant behind the glass? Was it trying to get into my house to rip my face off? Should I be worried that one of the things it hunts was also up on my deck or close to?

and sometimes that season is change.

Wow, that sentence only took me months to really be able to type fully out without stopping to over think it all.  Over thinking can be a bit of a problem for me — along with perfection, sarcasm, follow through, mailing stuff, and vacuuming — but I digress.  The reality is that I had once made a promise that I was going to blog more, return to a place where I talked about stuff again and then I kept getting caught in the what to share/what not to share/what makes me happy trap.

You see what would make me happy is share everything there is to know about what is going on in my world.  I’m the sharey sort of person. The problem is that this is sort of public and not everyone who would come here is as kind and pretty and nice and human as you.  Shockingly, there are rather nasty people in this world, so I try to do things that make sense — you know like not publishing my home address or real name (though, I know you are all shocked to know that no one calls me Queen in my real life).  Those things seem obvious.  I don’t put pictures up of Duke, more for his future privacy than much else.  But I’ve never figured out where to draw a real line beyond that.  When my life gets to the point (and you know it does), that I have to make hard decisions about it, I tend to run away from my blog and then I wonder if I’ve done the right thing.

Let’s face it, if we are being completely honest, there are thousands of blogs in this world and 99% of them aren’t worth the bandwidth they are written on.  (No, your blog is completely in the 1%, I read it all the time — who are you again?) But truthfully, I’m pretty sure that my little corner of the blogsphere (SO 2007 of me to use that word), isn’t in the 1%.  I’d love to be the person who writes so well that people follow me and move through life with me.  However, I fear that both my life just isn’t that interesting and that I’m not that good of a writer.

So, I’ve been thinking lately about changes.  Changes in my life, changes in my blog, changes in me as a person.  Those are huge thoughts, by the way, and I often have to stop and get a cookie while I move through it all.  I’ve been thinking this through in my head and it is beginning to need to bubble up and come out.  I don’t even really know where to begin — but I’m moving to a new place in my brain and beginning to wonder if I’ve outgrown Snarkville.  (No, this is not a post about how I’m leaving the blog, silly, that would seem odd wouldn’t it?)

I named this blog long ago, “Join Me in Snarkville” thinking that someone out there might want to join in with my insanity, my snark, my nasty view on life.  I’ve waned from blogging because my snark began to die, my nasty view on life began to break, and I began to see light again.  I want to do more than just complain about my life, to look into the glass darkly, to see things in terms of pure snark.  That begins to weigh a person down and makes hope and joy hard to see.  (Wow, that just got deep.)  So, with a lighter heart, I’ve decided to name my little corner to —-

Finding Joy in Snarkville

My goal is changing, as it appears all things around me are —- I no longer wish to make fun of others to make myself feel better (was once my tagline, thanks), but I want to seek the joy in my daily life.  I want to share the finding of my happy once again.  And stop it, this is no pop culture, feel good, peace, love and joy schick.  Nope, not at all.  It is an honest recognition that the days truly “In Snarkville” are behind me. The days that Frankenhouse got me down are long gone.  That I’m having a harder and harder time to find constant snark in the world around me, because of no other reason than I have a hard time finding snark within me.

So, I do hope that you find this change in season a good thing. I hope that I am still up to the task of finding the funny on occasions (I seriously am not intending on being all sappy sweet all the time — that makes me gag).  But I think there is a time for Joy here.

While I try to think that I’m pretty normal most of the time, I think when I’m alone and quiet that I may be forced to admit, I’m a wee bit crazy.  One writer I adore writes of her Mental Health number and rates any given moment on a scale of insanity.  I like this measure because it admits up front that we are merely measuring the level of crazy, not determining *IF* there’s crazy.  Perhaps it is a Southern thing — long ago those of us Southerners came to terms with our crazy (called it eccentric, but still) — I wonder when the Yankees will catch up?

So, while I freely admit that I’m crazy, I think I’d be remiss if I don’t explain why I have a perfectly valid reason to be crazy.  It isn’t like I paved the road to the nuthouse all by myself — I was pushed, pulled, and dragged down to Insanity Land with help — MUCH help.

1. Our dog.  He is the dumbest ball of fluffy fur that exists.  Yes, he is a Cocker Spaniel, which by defination makes him swim in the swallow end of the IQ pool.  In fact, if there is a breed dumber than cockers, then our dog would make that breed look like MENSA dogs.  Case in point, we have no fence (see fences are expensive, our dog is dumb, we like our neighbors, fences are expensive), so when I let the dog out, we have a long lead for him — so he can be outside without me (see there may be snow here at some point and the neighbors don’t need to see me in my PJs every morning) and have ‘private time.’  He HATES this lead — but he doesn’t dwaddle outside because of it — so I declare a win-win.  This morning I let him out, I come back inside make my coffee, feed Duke, sit down and begin to wonder if I’m ever going to see dog face at the door to come back in.  I go outside and there is NO dog to be seen.  The lead is not long enough for him to wander too far and I can’t figure out where he’d get off too.  So, I pull on the lead from the stake in the ground and find that it is leading UNDER the deck (a rocky area full of weeds that we need to get to at some point).  I find the dog laying under the deck.  I call him, he looks pitiful (he always looks pitiful).  I pull on the lead a little.  He does NOT move.  I go in get shoes, walk to the edge of the deck closest to him and call him over.  He slowly comes and I unhook him and he BOLTS for the back door.  I pull the lead back to where it belongs and realize that he’d either gotten lost under the deck and couldn’t figure out how to get out because the lead isn’t long enough for him to wrap it all through the deck OR he was afraid of a weed and wouldn’t go back the way he came.  I think the latter.  I’ve got a dollar on he’ll go under the deck the next time I let him out.
2. Labor Day weekend saw us (I mean Prince) laboring on our deck outside.  He cleaned it.  He stained it.  Then we waited for it to dry.  And waited and waited and waited.  While waiting, I looked out and saw what looked like paw prints.  Oh great, an animal got up on our deck while it was wet — lovely.  I go off on a rant about how we live in a zoo and never can have anything nice and how this deck will never dry and this is why don’t do home improvement, when Prince says, “Um, Honey, those aren’t paw prints.  They are knots from the wood.”  Apparently the deck was so dirty and yucky looking that I never noticed how many knots were in the boards.  Opps.  That rant was fun while it lasted.
3. Patio Chair Cushions.  We threw out the old, icky, GROSS cushions before we moved.  I have lovely chairs without cushions, but my deck is pretty and I want to finish with new cushions so we might be able to eat outside ONCE before the snow arrives (which given the talk around here, might be next week).  However, I am loathe to spend an arm and a leg on cushions (why I’ve been cushionless for nearly a year) and want them to be on sale.  I found sale cushions I like, but then I found cushions for HALF the price that might not be bad — but there 12 colors to pick from AND I can’t decide.  URGH.  Oh and Prince and I totally differ on which ones to pick — so he’s no help.
4. It took us longer to decide on which snow blower to buy than it did to pick out the house we live in.  I wish I was kidding.  I’ve never owned a snow blower before — heck, I’ve never lived anywhere that needed a blower for snow.  I researched.  I asked tons of stupid questions.  Prince reminded me that HE had actually lived in snow and used a snow blower in the past.  I fretted.  I learned a lot.  We happened to be somewhere where the snow blowers were just being put out and we looked.  Prince marveled at something and I said offhandedly, “Oh, well, there’s this one I saw at Sears that adjusts the chute with a joystick.”  (If that sentence makes no sense to you, then you have not spent the past month worried about snow that might not be here until January.)  Prince just stared at me and wondered aloud who I was and what happened to his wife.  So we go to Sears.  We look.  We talk.  I show off all my new knowledge of snow blowers (do you realize it is possible to know so much about them without ever having seen one move? Oh, yes, it is possible.)  I had basically picked one out and Prince talked me into a SMALLER, LESS powerful machine.  Now, I’m forced to wonder who he is and what happened to my “Tim, the Tool Man, Taylor” husband.
5. Home Depot is offering to install carpet for a whole house for pocket lint (or something so little).  I want desperately to re-carpet my whole house.  I think about it constantly, even though I totally agreed to wait until spring (hello snow covered paws and new carpet — and tax refund).  So, now I’m forced to pet carpet samples where ever I go.  And I have issues — I don’t know WHAT I want in carpet.  I know what I don’t want — but seriously, that isn’t helping me pick.  And I’m not looking forward to the prospect of having to move my stuff to get the carpet in here.  However, I found the plaid carpet I NEED in my basement — I *NEED* it.  Maybe I should just carpet the basement for now — and Duke’s room — and our room — and the hallway — and Prince’s office — and the  — and –  and –

Yes, I know I’m nuts — but I seem to be getting it from everyone around me.  So, when you see my sitting in the corner twitching and muttering to myself — you will know….it is not *MY* fault.

Alternative title: How to waste an hour and half trying to pay a bill

Alternative title the second: Really, I have money, you want money, why is this so hard?

So, you remember how I moved?  Remember how when you move you have things to change, like phone numbers, addresses, and various bills?  You all know how when you say “Moving is a pain in the butt” — you aren’t really talking about the packing and unpacking part, because the real pain is all the dang paperwork.

First, there was the post office.  I filled out the paperwork for my change of address.  I filled out the paperwork to hold my mail for the transit time.  I did everything I was supposed to do.  The post office LOST all of my mail from the time I left the Snark State until after I arrived in Mid-Snark.  Oh, yes, that was fun.  Now my postman regularly gives my mail to my neighbors — Perhaps he is doing his duty to have us all meet and exchange letters.

Second, there was turning off everything in Snark State and turning on in Mid-Snark.  My personal favorite was the cable company who sent me a final bill that was FOUR times higher than my monthly bill.  Why you might ask?  Because they didn’t show that we’d turned in the equiptment.  Good thing I have the receipt for it.  Then they ‘found’ the equiptment and gave us a credit — but not before I spent hours on the phone tracking it down, then waiting for the check to arrive.  URGH.

Finally, there was our cell phones.  After moving here and finally settling in, we changed our numbers.  So, we spent an hour at the local cell store changing our numbers making sure the plans didn’t extend and such.  Then I got the bill.  I got a bill that when I went to pay it, my bank flags as I’ve paid this within 30 days.  (I need to stop and say, I PINK, Puffy heart my bank.)  So, I go digging.  I realize that this is a new account number and I call.  Sure enough, the new phone number changes my account number — which means that I have a credit balance on my old account.  HOWEVER, that credit can not be applied because the old bill hasn’t closed and the new bill is due.  Forty-five minutes later, I finally had it worked out that would not be writing a check only to wait for a check back from them.  Shocking, I know, but I was pretty sure that the miracle of computers was such that it would allow a transfer of the funds from one account to another without wasting my time or any paper.  Idealist I know.

Well, today, I get the bill from the old account and I call.  I had to call, because it is not automatic to do this, and they could not set it up ahead of time.  So, I called.  I explained what I wanted to do to the first person.  She had to get someone to help me.  On hold.  She comes back and says, “We can’t move the balance because the two accounts are in two different states.”  UM, NO.  I wish to speak to someone else.  I get the guy who wouldn’t move the money — says something about policy about the two different states or something.  I explained, this is NOT what I was told; please read the notes in the system; and wasting my time would not make me happy.  On hold again.  He comes back and says, “Oh, the policy changed and I wasn’t aware.”  So, I said, “That means you didn’t try and said ‘No’ before you knew the facts — way to go for customer service.”

So, he moves the money around.  And he says, “Ok, the balance on the new account is $XX.XX”  Um, no.  I wrote a check, based on exactly what the last person told me do for $YY.YY.  The difference between $XX.XX and $YY.YY is $6.  Yes, I totally fought for $6.  I got it.  I got off the phone and looked at the timer — 45 minutes.

I’m glad that is done and didn’t waste anything like paper — apparently my TIME is fine though.  URGH.

Now, I’m off to Old Navy to buy my child much needed pants (why does he have to keep growing) and hope that some retail therapy will take the edge off.

You know there are times in your life that are frozen.  The people associated with them will never age.  The memory is like yesterday — though you have lived a lifetime since?

We tend to think of our school years that way.  I changed schools a total of five times (including going to college) and thus, I have frozen those people in my life at those ages.  My apologies to the folks I went to elementary school with, but you are frozen in your 7th grade selves in my mind — as are our teachers who seemed so old then.  I am stunned that any of them have children — though I have one of my own.  It doesn’t seem possible that my closest friend from junior high and high school has a girl child just three.  I can’t imagine the boys I dated to have grown up and been married with kids of their own.  But most shocking of all are the teachers.  I still expect to see some of them walking halls I never enter anymore.  They were part of the buildings themselves and thus should never have left.

I don’t expect them to have moved on; gotten married (who knew our kindergarten teacher married AND is now a grandmother to triplets?); or worse, they just aren’t allowed to die.

Perhaps I am so self-centered that I think that if I’m not in the room time for the rest of the world ought to stop; that people shouldn’t grow-up, grow older, grow on, without my presence.  I don’t really think that is it though.  This isn’t some warped Twilight Zone thing happening in my head.  It is the realization that our memories of people stop the minute they stop being in our lives.  Forever will they be in 7th grade, high school, or college.

And thus, I am rather stunned that the President of my university died today.  Oh, yes, I was stunned this May when he retired — because in my mind he ought not retire — was he even old enough?  But this morning, he died.  It was sudden and he was young.  But I remember him.

One winter term I took a class where we were asked to shadow someone we admired.  The Winter Term was a one class month long elective term where we encouraged (no, forced) to step out of our majors and do something different.  It had its roots in the 60’s, I’m sure, and has since gone the way of the dinosaurs.  Anyway, back to my class.  My classmates took on the ‘captains’ of industry (in DeLand) or various people in power — but none sought out anyone connected with the school.  I picked up my dorm room phone and called the President’s office.

It was a fabulous week.  I went to meetings that no student gets to see.  I peeked at the business of the university.  I did an alumni meet and greet (at which I met a couple who had met and married at Stetson and came back for their 60th reunion!)  I was in the paper.  Oh, it was a big deal.  I once asked Dr. Lee why he said yes and his answer was so simple, “You were the first person who ever asked.”

Years later, I met him again (he was unchanged I might add) in DC at an alumni function on Capitol Hill (which sounds cool, and was — though the cake was dry).  He remembered me on sight (nearly 10 years later) and spoke highly of our week together.  He told me that began a time when they invited students to meet him and shadow him.  More students learned there was more going on at college than the classrooms — because I asked.

His son is my age (or a year or two younger) and I hurt for him — because this is no time to lose a father.  And I’m sad.  But mostly, I’m hurt because my world view cracked a little today — people aren’t frozen in time.  And there’s one less person to visit at my university.

I doubt it will come as any great shock that I have a love of the theater.  If I ever thought I could have made a living, or somehow liked to eat less, I would have majored in Theater in college and run away to become an Equity actor long, long ago.  Shocked, right?  I always seemed so sensible, right?  Well, it all goes out the window when I walk into the theater.

I think the first time I ever was on stage (that I remember) was my Kindergarten graduation.  I really don’t count that, as I don’t think I had a special part.  By 4th grade, I appeared as a cow — shut up, I was one awesome cow.  But my peak in performing in elementary school was as a bell in the Christmas play.  I was Beautiful Bell, I think — I know I wore royal blue tights and leotard, something that was a pain for my mom to find at Christmas time.  I had lines and I rocked the part.  My big line had something to do with telling another bell that he ‘had bats in his belfry.’ I digress.

Anyway, I performed as much as a small high school without a real drama program would allow.  I auditioned for a production my freshman year of college and while I didn’t get the part, I was pass on to the community theater for a part in ‘A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum’  — I wore a red wig and some peacock feathers.  After that production, I started to do far more work behind the scenes.  I stage managed, I painted, I helped with costumes, I helped.  I appeared on stage once more after that — a bit part, where I played a god in a production that was so not noteable that I do not recall the name of it.  But for most of college I spent a fair bit of time in a small theater.

Then I graduated and moved on to real life, thinking I’d return to theater at some point.  Oh, sure I’ve gone to see many plays, but I always thought sitting the audience was a poor substitute to being ‘involved.’  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen shows that have moved me to tears and some had me weak with laughter.  I love to attend, and don’t turn down chances — but if you asked me my preference, I’d be on stage or behind it over in the audience every single days (and twice on Sunday).  To me there is magic in the producing, not just the performing.  But I put that in the someday category….someday…

Well, it just so happened that with a certain child’s birthday, there was a production of Mary Poppins in the area.  With great joy the Queen Mum, Duke, and one (overly excited) Queen went to enjoy the theater.  I can’t tell you the thrill of watching something you love being loved by your child. It took every once of my mommy will not to get sucked into the play myself to watch my child get the same look in his eyes that I once got.

He was enchanted and thrilled.  We spoke of the sets moving and changing afterwards.  He was (like I have been so many times) literally a part of the play.

I remember the high and mighty theater classes I’ve taken.  They speak of the audience as part of the show.  They speak how the audience reacts as being a character itself and changing nightly.  I always thought that was weird.  I always thought the idea was just trying to make something so special have meaning it didn’t have.  Yes, as the audience you are asked to suspend disbelief. You are asked to react and engage — but you are not truly part of the experience.  From my point of view, the play is built in the weeks and months of work to get it ready for the audience.  It is in the blood, sweat, and tears of the those who work, not those who just show up and watch.  What did they bring to the table?  What work did they do?  Why are they elevated to participant when truly they are merely observers.

But then I watched my son.  I watched him not just suspend disbelief, but become part of the story.  He played with the children.  He ran away from nannies.  He flew a kite with Michael and fed birds with Jane.  He danced with statues and shook hands with Sweeps.  He was there and LIVED it all for those hours.

So, for a few hours the theory of theater was correct.  We played a key role in the production of this single performance.  And it was good.  It was really good.  Not because the singing was above par or that the dancing would put the Lord of the Dance to shame — but solely because we were there and we were enchanted.

For the first time in years, I’ve started to hear the sirens’ call of the theater again.  I just checked out an audition (and a few tech positions) and I may or may not pursue it.  I see volunteering again as a possibility.  But I might start exploring that new role I just found as audience with my son.  I wonder what worlds we will conquer together and where we might go.  But mostly, I wonder if he will love it like I do — and thus far, my magic 8-ball says — YES.

[I know it has been a long time, things have been happening -- but something happened tonight that reminded me why I did this once.  While this may be disjointed (and perhaps not funny), sometimes there is a new beginning inside a goodbye.]

About 7 years ago, I left a job to go to a new job.  The old job was one I’d grown to hate and the new job held a little excitement and a HUGE pay increase.  So, at my required farewell lunch (required because I’m not sure the people at my old job liked me anymore than I’d come to like them), one of the girls I did happen to like said something truly odd.  Despite the fact we’d hardly ever been social outside of work and there seemed to be no reason to believe what she was saying, she said, “I refuse to say goodbye.  I just have this feeling that we will see each other again.”  I have no idea why that stuck with me.  I can say that the lunch we had was the very last time I ever saw her — in fact, I can not remember her name. Maybe I liked her hope or her lack of experience, since I knew I would never look back and move on without regret.

At one time that story would not have phased me.  I would have felt sorrow for the young woman so mis-guided to not understand that saying goodbye is just a part of life.  At one time in my life I said goodbye with ease.  I’d change jobs and never look back.  I’d move across the country without a thought to the people I left behind.  I once giggled how I knew no one from high school anymore or really even college.  I kept no long term connections with anyone.  I would just pick-up and move on to the next spot and start anew.  At this point in my life, other than my family, I have ONE long distance friend — that I keep up with regularly.  I don’t know exactly how I pulled that off, but weekly phone calls helps — along with her understanding that my gifts will arrive at some point.  You’d think with my abilities to be hyper-connected on the net, I’d be better at it — but sadly, I’m not.

Then, I pulled my head out of my butt and saw that I was not in fact the center of the universe.  I know, I was shocked too.

Less than a year ago, I walked to pick Duke up from school with the Queen Mum.  We spoke of moving and changes and I said something I never thought I’d say, “I’m tried of being temporary.”  I moved to the District of Snark (DoS) knowing that I would move.  Six years later I moved to the Snark state.  Now, I face another move, but this is the first time I’m feeling both the excitement of the move and the loss of the people I’m leaving behind.  You see, this was the move I did something radical — I made friends.

This wasn’t the move that all was permenant from the beginning, I live in a temporary home (Frankenhouse) and I live with half my stuff packed (thanks, Frankenhouse), but I had something that would get me out of the house and bring me to be around people, good people.  Months before we left DoS, I learned to knit.  As a baby knitter, I moved 3,000 miles away from the only yarn store I’d been to and found people — People I like.  People who at least act like they like me.

I often say that I’m not like the people here, but in a shop filled with yarn, projects in our laps, we were all the same and yet vastly different.  I met women who are the type of people you want to just hang out with.  I have been in awe that these women even speak to me.  They are the biggest hearted group (you know the type — they knit for other people); they make the world a better place.  I don’t think they even know how much they inspire me.

So, the long way around this is that it is time I say goodbye again.  Tonight I was at knit night and there was cake (which was BEAUTIFUL) and laughter and teasing and everything I could have wanted in a goodbye — except that it had to end.  I held it together and didn’t cry, until I sat alone in my car on the way home.  For the first time in my life, I’ve been inspired to do something I’ve never been good at, keep my long distance friends.

The thing is this group of women gave me the one thing I never thought I’d find here in Snarkville — something that wasn’t temporary.  I know they will help me as I forge new ground in this — heck, there’s already talk of video during knit night.  So, as hard as this is to admit and harder knowing that I’m going to be doing it — for the first time in my life, I said exactly what I mean:  “I *WILL* keep in touch.  I want to be a part of your lives more.  I want you to be a part of mine.  I will miss you.  You have been the highlight of this part of my journey.  And thank you — for the laughs, the tears, and the constant encouragement for me to be better: a better person, a better knitter, a better friend.”

And with that, I bring you a return of Snarkville.

Or alternatively, Bah-Humbug!

First, it appears I only can post these days on holidays, for this I’m sorry.  I have something highly stressful going on and rarely can vent without a massive need to talk about it — which doesn’t make me good to be around.  Until this passes (and it will SOON), I’ll look forward to the day when I’m back with you all more often and more snark. Anyway, greener thoughts…right?

Now, I’m going to admit something here that I’ve never said out loud.  As much as I dislike the Hallmark holiday of Valentine’s Day and it’s forced love, I don’t care for St. Patrick’s Day more.  I know that the vast majority of people think this is a happy go lucky little day in which you wear bright green and drink oddly colored beer.  I however do not.  Allow me to outline (in my favorite form) the reasons.

1. I wear a lot of green.  It happens to be my favorite color.  I believe it to be nature’s neutral (look outside — nature uses green as much if not more than browns) and there is a shade of green that looks good on everyone.  Yes, even you in the back row who is scrunching your face up and declaring that green looks horrible on you — you just haven’t found the RIGHT green.  But despite the fact I can be found wearing green most days, it appears that I’m hardwired to be contray and always want to wear red on St. Patrick’s Day.  I also forget this odd rule about wearing green until someone happens to mention to me that I’m not in fact wearing green.  Oh, well.
2. I do not get the point.  Is the point to go on a pub crawl, get incredibly drunk, and act stupid?  Well, then I’ve celebrated a lifetime of St. Patrick’s Days in college (Sorry, Daddy), and I grew up (a little) and don’t find it much fun anymore.  Is the point to celebrate some connection to our Irish heritage, then why is it that I rarely seem to find actual Irish celebrating?
3. What’s the deal with the leprechauns?  When I was younger and learning about these little guys, we were taught how they were tricky and mean.  Why are they now suddenly leaving candy and goodies for kids?  Don’t we really have enough holidays where we hype our kids up on sugary goodness.  Pots of gold are all nice and all, but I’m not building a trap any time soon.
4. So little is actually known about St. Patrick, the man, that we end up celebrating horrible stereotypes and cute cartoon of the Irish people.  On one level it is mildly annoying, on another, it is downright offensive.  At least some part of me is Irish, and I’m not a drunk, a cartoon, or cheap — I do however, really like potatoes — so that’s something, right?
5. Finally, all this craziness means that much of the US is missing the real holiday that is occurring today.  Today is the Queen Mum’s birthday!  She has been forced to endure countless combo birthday/St. Patrick’s day cards, green cakes/pies, and perhaps a pint of beer or two.  The poor woman has suffered enough.  I declare the silliness with a St. Patrick’s Day to end and the celebration of a birthday to begin!!!  Happy Birthday, Mum. We all love you and this afternoon we will have cupcakes together!

Now, in other thought provoking radical ideas.  I’d just like to mention that I happen to hold on of Time Magazine’s “10 Ideas Changing the World” — Idea number three in fact.  In the words of the article: “Calvinism is back.”  Who would have thought that 50 is the new 30; Pink is the new Black; and Calvinism is the radical idea??  (I do love being ahead of the bandwagon.)

You know when you may have lost your mind a bit, you get upset, you move on, then realize that it is kinda funny and you want to share it on your blog, then you write it all out (honestly believing that you have taken the insanity label), and then you get a call that you hurt someone else? Oh, wait, is that just me?

Blogs are funny things. On one hand the blogs I love to read the most are witty and fun loving and well, self-deprecating. Since my own personal sense of humor is rather sarcastic and self-deprecating, I try my best to do the same. The problem is that sometimes I am not all that good at it. On the other hand, blogs are windows into our lives and perhaps pulls back the curtain on how less than perfect we all are.

I’m normally ok with people knowing how not perfect I am. I know this is utterly shocking, but I’m not perfect and I’m pretty ok with sharing my weaknesses and failings — provided two wee points: 1. I’m the one sharing; I doubt anyone appreciates being told what their shortcomings are* 2. I’m ready to laugh at myself a bit.

I write this blog for lots of reasons, only one of which is to laugh at myself a bit. I’m willing to let you laugh at me too while I’m laughing — but I find more often that I’m told “you aren’t the only one” or “that’s not so bad” — so maybe I’m more normal than I thought. The bigger reasons I write is because I love the attention — hey, I’m honest; occasionally I think I have something to say; and perhaps, just perhaps, I’ll find something meaningful in it all.

The final problem is the blogs are public. Blogs are open to people we may not want to know that we are human and have faults. Done right the blog is the window into what someone is truly thinking or feeling when the public world they’d never show it. This is truly sad since we know in our hearts that all are human, but horribly some people in this use our own faults against us (can we say grade school?). Perhaps they think that pushing others down they lift themselves up — but you know someone who is like this. They may not be the top of your party invite list, but you avoid sharing anything that would make you seem less than perfect with this person.

A great case in point is that in a former life I used to work with a woman who I nicknamed “WonderMommy.” She was that mom — her pregnancy was perfect (often speaking of the glories of a life growing inside her); her baby was perfect (smarter than average, better than others, most assuredly better than your child…whatever), and her life was perfect. Well, the thing is after talking to her twice, I began to want to chip away at her all too rosey view of mommyhood. I firmly believe that parts of being a mom suck and her “everything is perfect” attitude made me sick. It became a game and frankly the only way I could speak to her and not want to run away screaming. After some time, I was talking to another co-worker and she summed it simply, “Wow, she must be really miserable to want to make us think everything is so great.”

That stuck. It dawned on me then and I still have to remind myself, that it is because I’m not a miserable person that I can bring up the negative bits of myself. Oh, you could talk about being secure in your own skin (something I really don’t think of myself as being), but I think it is more that I don’t have to convince myself everyday that this is ok; that life is ok. I have found in the years since dealing with WM that red flags go off when I hear someone being too positive or too rosey — even when that person is me. When I’m stressed or things look gloomy, I get in that mode of reminding myself (and those unfortunately around me) how good it is.

So alas, this is a long way around saying I was ok with telling the world that I have a pet peeve or nine, this either makes be highly comfortable in my own skin or totally in denial.  I’m going with the former — since if it is the latter, I’ll never admit it.  Ah, finally a Win-Win.

I missed the class in girlhood where I was supposed to be able to pull together dinner on a nightly basis without wanting to pluck my own eyeballs out with a spoon (perhaps a slotted spoon).  As the Queen Mum says, there is not an instrument created that can measure how little I care about what we have for dinner.  Truly, if it were up to me (and I didn’t have two boys who’d complain) I’d be happy to eat cereal for dinner most nights.  Alas, since Prince thinks his dinner skills are limited to boiling water or microwaving something, I was elected to make dinner.

But, ladies (or chef in your house), you know that ‘making dinner’ is never as simple as ‘making dinner.’  Let’s be honest, it is planning dinner, shopping for dinner, prepping dinner, making dinner, cleaning up the kitchen, setting the table, serving dinner, loading the dishwasher, unloading the dishwasher, cussing….maybe that last one is just me.  But for some of us, who have no talent for turning loaves and fishes into a meal, we lather, rinse and repeat this every single night.  After way too many years of this, I have gone on strike.

I no longer want to keep doing something I started out disliking and ultimately have come to hate.  I do not want to make dinner ever again.  But again, I fear that the demanding people in my house will not handle the cereal dinner or you make it yourself plan.  Until I can teach Duke to cook dinner for me, I’ve been forced to find another plan.

After a wee bit of search on the net (oh, interwebs, how I love thee) I’ve found that there are other people out there who are like me.  They too hate to open a cabinet and produce dinner.  They too seem to have demanding people in their house who like eating and thus, they have begun a trend of ‘Cooking Once a Month.’

At first the thought of standing in my kitchen all day from morning until dusk cooking was like trying to imagine water torture or bamboo shoots under my nails.  I could not wrap my head around it — until I heard that magical phrase, ‘the rest of the month is ‘THAW and REHEAT”  Wait, no 30 minutes of prep daily after I spend a  day in the kitchen?  Why, no, why do you ask?  Well, I’d tried the Dream Dinners concept where you prep your food ahead, but you still have to cook it — which was often a multi-step process of dinner making.  The good thing was that at least the meal was chosen.

Well, in my research, I found a step-by-step manual in cooking this way for 2 weeks worth of chicken.  In theory this plan was designed for finding chicken REALLY on sale.  But I wanted to give it a try to see if I could actually do it and if this would work for us.  And yes, I’m aware of the fact, we will be eating a ton of chicken for the next two weeks.

Yesterday, I went grocery shopping.  I had a big list, but with careful shopping I spent less than my normal weekly shopping on what should be about 2 weeks of meals.  I’m excited as I lay everything out last night and note that I’ve bought good for us things I’ve never bought before — like 5 pounds a fresh carrots or fresh veggies at all.  I had 26 POUNDS of chicken in the fridge ready for a big day of cooking.

This morning I woke made coffee and breakfast.  I took a good shower and even put on my tennis shoes for my day at the stove.  I kicked the boys out for a day of fun while I cooked.  I cooked solidly from 10am to 4pm.  While one dish was being made, I prepped the next.  I made my own chicken stock that I turned into soup, I roasted chicken and turned it into burritos, I baked 4 dishes in my oven at once.  I made notes, know what I’d change if I do this set of recipes again — but mostly, I’m sure with some tweeking, I’ve found my answer.

I loved this big cook and while I’m truly bone deep tired, I’m thrilled to know that my freezer and fridge are stuffed with good foods.  I don’t know if we will love all the recipes as none of them are tried and true for us…but it was a proof of concept and a start.  Now I know this is getting long, but I wanted to share a few things I learned today:

1. I don’t mind cutting up large amounts of veggies if I can do it all at once.
2. I need bigger pots.  (In prep, for today, I bought an 8 qt and a 12 qt stock pot.)  But I need to look into larger skillet and saucepans.
3. I have two large sets of large bowls — and I used all of them at the same time.  I know I was shocked too.
4. I need to figure out freezer storage solutions.  Still working on that.
5. An empty dishwasher AND a sink of warm soapy water keeps me sane.  I ran the dishwasher only once WHILE cooking and it is running now for the second time.  Otherwise I handwashed the pots and such as I used them — this really means that other than the fact I’m too tired to put all the stuff away, my kitchen is as clean now as it was when I began.
6. My hands are SO dry from the hot soapy water.
7. Despite careful planning and large amounts of chicken later — I have two leftover chicken breasts that I did not use.  I’ve bagged them and frozen them for next time — but I’ve not a clue what I’m going to do with them.

Now to plan a few meals that have beef, just to stop us all from clucking.  Also, wondering how to tell Prince (who I’ve already told not to buy me anything for Christmas) that I think we NEED a freezer.