Podcast-A-Palooza (Part 1)

There's been less writing this week because, well, life.  On the upside, my house is relatively clean, and the laundry is mostly done.  We're still one-car-ing it, but that just means more time for podcasts! If you didn't know already, I'm obsessed with podcasts (especially book-related ones), and some weeks there are so many good ones to listen to that if I don't keep my head in the game, I fall behind. So today I'm going to share some of my favorite podcast recommendations with you (complete with my opinion on whether or not they are kid-in-the-car-friendly.)

***This is only part one. There will be a part two with even more podcast-y goodness.



Storytelling Podcasts

Before I completely nerd-out with all my favorite bookish listens, I'll share a few of my favorite storytelling podcasts.  (Spoiler alert: They're mostly NPR related.  BIG SHOCK, I know.)

This American Life

Yeah, you've probably heard of this one.  A lot.  But ubiquity does not equal obsolescence.  This long-running radio program is long-running for a reason.  Amazing stories full of diverse voices and experiences.  Plus, freaking Ira Glass.  I can't get by without my weekly TAL fix.

**Safe with kids in the car unless they warn you in-episode (which they are really good about.)

Snap Judgment

So maybe TAL is too bland for you.  Maybe you need a little music (that doesn't always sound like it came straight off the latest indie-hipster movie soundtrack. Sorry TAL.)  Maybe you want a story that's been shaped and produced (and maybe even voice-acted) to give it more pop (or should I say, "Snap"?).  They don't call this program, "Storytelling with a beat" for nothing.  LOVE this podcast!

**Safe with older kids in the car (mostly.)

Death, Sex & Money

**Usually not a kid-friendly podcast.


More storytelling, only with a bit more of a thematic focus on, well, you guessed it.  I heart Anna Sale.

The Moth

The ultimate storytelling podcast.  They play recorded-live storytelling events from all over the world.  If you saw the season finale of HBO's Girls this season, you saw Hannah (Lena Dunham) perform at a fictional Moth event.  (Listen to this podcast anyway.)

**Generally not a kid-friendly podcast. 

Uncategorizable Podcasts

I'm just going to list a couple here that are either outside of a set category, aren't currently releasing new episodes (on hiatus), or are a bit more uneven as far as their "favorite" status goes.

Mystery Show

I love this super-quirky podcast with so many freaking loves.  Unfortunately, the second season has been really slow in coming out.  But in the meantime, listen to season one where Starlee Kine (a TAL alum) solves mysteries so personal and banal that you'll be left scratching your head as to why you-can't-get-out-of-the-car-until-it's-over.

**Probably older-kid safe.

The Longest Shortest Time

This program recently changed distributors, and with that change came a TON of ads.  If you don't mind (or can tolerate) the frequent (and sometimes lengthy) interruptions, however, this is a great podcast on parenting and what it looks like for all kinds of families.  A great place to start is the "Accidental Gay Parents" series of episodes, which will break your heart and make you laugh and feel all the feels.

**Varies, but usually it's good to be wary with this one while kids are in the car.


Book-related Podcasts!!!! (Why we're all here, let's be honest.)

All the Books

This is my GO-TO podcast for new book recommendations.  Hosted by Liberty Hardy and Rebecca Schinsky from Book Riot, an online community for book enthusiasm, this show comes out every Tuesday and features some of the new books being released on that day.  These two women have excellent taste, and they cover a wide range of genres (not just my standard lit-fic and literary memoir.)  Listen at your own risk, however, because you're Amazon account may never recover.

**Safe with kids in the car.

Get Booked

This is a fun write-in show for book recommendations (and another Book Riot podcast.)  Can't decide what to buy for your uncle who only reads books about the Vietnam War written prior to 1999?  They got you covered.  Need a title to scratch that tear-jerker itch?  They can hook you up.  Fun to listen to even if you don't write in recommendation requests.

**Safe with kids in the car.


Well, that's all for today.  I'll make some more podcast recommendations (bookish and otherwise) in my next post.  Until then, happy listening!


*Quick Note:  All of these can found on any of the big podcast catchers--including iTunes--for free.

Read Less, Write More (a Mid-Year Resolution)

Day Two of my new summer writing regimen, and I'm back in the B&N cafe with a London Fog and my laptop.  While I certainly don't plan to work from here every day this summer, I find that when I'm trying to reboot my discipline, knowing I can go somewhere I enjoy and get a drink that gives me a caffeine boost (and tastes delicious) gives me a little extra incentive to get moving when that hateful alarm goes off at six thirty (one of the parts of Kiddo being in school that I won't miss.)  Also, it can be helpful (when my discipline/attention span are struggling) to work in a space with no distractions. Sure there are people milling around and chatting (well, not this early, but they're coming), but at home it can be difficult to resist the call of the laundry or the cat or -- let's be honest -- the sofa.  Here, there's nothing to do but keep my butt in the (very uncomfortable) chair and write.  So until I get back in a rhythm, I'll be here trying to stretch out one tall London Fog and make myself invisible.  Like Friday, I am using my blog post as a way to write my way into my work for the day. Fingers crossed that I'm soon at the point where I can do my fiction writing first and use my (fun...well, fun for me, anyway) blog stuff as a reward for my hard work.  But I'm not there yet, and that's okay for now.

Enjoy this image because the wifi here is dragging this morning.  It's all your getting.

As often happens when I sit down to blog on a semi-regular basis (as opposed to when I have a specific bone to pick), I don't have a specific topic in mind when I break out my laptop -- unless it's to puzzle over why Google Play is so convinced I need to listen to Saint Saens' Bacchanale EVERY time I use it.  I'm seriously having youth orchestra flashbacks.  So today, let's talk about writing, my writing (or lack thereof.)  It may not be the most riveting topic, but if it helps with my accountability, then I'm willing to let you suffer through.  (Aren't I a sweetheart?)

Five years ago this summer (how is that possible?) I completed my MFA program after a consecutive six-year run of college (undergrad + grad).  It was with a strange combination of triumph and profound sadness that I attended my final commencement.  I'm one of those weirdos who likes to be in school.  Nay, I love it.  If I were rich, I would be student for the rest of my life, taking tests, writing papers, meeting deadlines, reading dense prose, and turning in creative work with pride and trepidation.  Alas, I am decidedly not rich.  And so I exited the academic world (as a student, anyway) and returned to normal life.  It is also worth noting that during my MFA I had Kiddo, who was eighteen months old when I graduated.

For six years, I read and I wrote constantly.  I was disciplined.  I was focused.  I was so very happy. Of course, there was a part of me that was relieved about the end of deadlines and class schedules (mostly the parent of a toddler part, I'm sure), but  I was totally blindsided by the writing paralysis that struck me almost the moment I was handed that diploma.  For at least six months, I couldn't write.  I was sad, bone-deep sad, about not being in school.  I was terrified to write without the safety net of my brilliant faculty mentors.  There were no more deadlines beyond those I set for myself.  And on top of everything else, my brain felt like it was slowly turning to sludge as I cared for my toddler (the preschool programming on tv probably didn't help that.)

I did manage to eventually shake free of the paralysis (mostly anyway), and I've had spurts of productivity (though that productivity has not included sending out my work.)  I'm blessed with writing friends and mentors nearby, and toddlers do eventually become preschoolers that allow for more free time (Preschool FTW!).  There is no way to plan, however, for the time-wrecker that is illness.  Nothing can make you feel defeated (and totally brainless) quite like being laid up in bed and heavily drugged.  I've yet to figure out a way to work through that fog.  And don't even get me started on motivation when you're life is constantly interrupted by illness.  It can all feel so pointless as you work/live with the constant fear of sickness lurking just around the corner.  It all becomes a bit of a self-defeating circle.

But, this summer I am trying to put all of this out of mind (hoping this post serves as a bit of a mind/memory cleanse) and start yet again.  Ass-in-seat every day (or least every week day.)  Never mind the times Ive tried this and been defeated.  I can't think about that.  It just leads to more paralysis, more guilt, more feelings of worthlessness.  Basically, an environment completely unconducive to writing.  Hence the whole B&N habit and my long post about nothing. (On an unrelated note, Google Play just gave me yet another youth orchestra flashback with Capriccio Espanol.  What's going on today?)

Lest you think that I've been sitting around feeling sorry for myself the past few years, au contraire.  I may not have been writing with anything that resembles regularity, but I've been reading the hell out of some books.  And not just any books.  I like to have a plan (no surprise there.)  There's the Books You Should've Read in School category.  Also, there was #readwomen2014 and an overall conscious effort to read more diversely in general.  I read with a purpose, an eye to the writing, dissecting the work to see what makes it work (and doesn't.)  A couple of years ago, I even started keepimg track of the books I read.  No idea why I wasn't doing that before; it's such a me, achievement-oriented thing.

In addition to my ongoing reading plans, I have a writing plan for this summer.  I should have three stories ready to start sending out by the end of summer (if I stick to it.)  One story has been in editing stages for somewhere in the neighborhood of three years (so very sick of this story), one is an old story I want to overhaul and make something of, and the third is a new piece that I'm working on right now (well, when I'm not writing this blog entry.)

So that's where I am with my writing just now.  It remains to be seen how many London Fogs and Kind bars will have to give their lives in aid of my goal.  Now, it's time to get to some fiction writing, and when I just can't write anymore (or they throw me out of the cafe), I'm prepared for that too.  I've got Ellison's Invisible Man in my bag (another check off my missed classics list) with only 130 pages to go.

That's My Girl

Class starts Wednesday, and I have a mountain of lesson prep to do (not sped along by the hour and a half I spent on the phone with Mom this morning, something we almost never do), so this will be a short entry.  Just wanted to share a quick Kiddo anecdote for your Monday morning.

As you know, I love books.  I love the written word.  And we have worked hard to make Kiddo a voracious reader.  She was reading on her own at four, and she is quite unstoppable now, reading anything you put in front of her.  She loves books, and I couldn't be happier.  Today, her appetite for reading netted her some recognition on the morning school tv broadcast, and I got to see her accept the AR (Accelerated Reader) trophy on behalf of her class.  Needless to say, she was incredibly excited.  (She was also the only girl top-reader.  Way to represent, Kiddo!)

But as proud as I am of her love and skill for reading, I think my heart swells even more for her obsession with writing/creating stories.  This girl loves to tell a story and has a story for every occasion.  She writes them, illustrates them, and then demands staples or binder clips to hold together her latest work of genius.  I deeply admire her complete lack of inhibitions with regard to her writing, and her assumption that everything she writes and illustrates is a masterpiece that will garner accolades from everyone who encounters it.

So here's the story with all the feels:

The other day when I picked her up from school, I was listening to one of my bookish podcasts, a recommendation request show called, Get Booked, from Book Riot.  The hosts were talking about a fantasy series author who used to write straight literary fiction but switched to fantasy after a request from his little girl to write "a book about a little girl who saves the world."  I don't remember the book or the author.  I probably wouldn't have remembered what they said at all if not for what happened next.

We got home and after the usual homework and settling in, Kiddo disappeared to her room to work on something that involved copious amounts of printer paper and markers.  I happened to walk past later, and she called me in.  Waving a page she was still writing on and illustrating she said, "I'm writing a book about an ordinary girl who saves the world.  Your podcast inspired me."

Have you ever just wanted to squeeze your kid until their little eyeballs bugged out?  It was one of those moments where you look at your child and think, Yep, she's mine.  She elaborated, "I was listening to you podcast, and when they said that about the book about the girl who saves the world, I just loved it.  So, of course, that meant I had to write about it.

Well, obviously.

That's Perfectly Normal

I have never been normal (an admission that is shocking to exactly no one.)  When I was a small child, my family moved.  A lot.  Whether it was school (when I was even in an actual brick-and-mortar school) or church or ballet class, I was generally the odd man out.  Children are not known for their immediate acceptance of the new and/or different, and I was both of those things on a regular basis.

In junior high, I stepped up my weirdo game when I developed a skin condition that prevented me from getting any sun exposure.  Did I mention that we lived in Myrtle Beach at the time?  The land of sand, surf, and swimming pools is not exactly the ideal spot for a budding heliophobe (look it up, people, I did.)  There I was at the ripe old age of thirteen and no longer allowed to go swimming or to the water park.  I couldn't even play kickball in PE (admittedly, not a great loss.)

In addition to these relatively minor physical limitations, I also set about making sure I was viewed as a complete weirdo by deciding to make my life a never-ending Anne of Green Gable cosplay.  (No, there will be no pictures of that in my post.)  While I did attend an ultra-conservative Christian school at the time (you know, the kind where it's a big secret that girls have knees and shoulders), I still didn't exactly blend in with my petticoats and lace-up boots.  But the pretending got me through, and I regret nothing.

One of out two ain't bad.  Right? Anyone?

I managed.  Though I continued to get less normal, especially health-wise.  Mumps at eighteen?  Absolutely. (And yes, I had been vaccinated.  See? I told you I was weird.) Chronic sinus issues that ended up in surgery?  Why not?  By the age of twenty-five, I was in less than stellar physical condition and was diagnosed with systemic Lupus and Sjogren's Syndrome shortly before I got married. I had required corrective lenses since I was twelve, but would have to wear glasses for the rest of my life because of the severe dry eye.  (I would also never be far from my artificial tears bottle.)  I was easily tired and often in pain.  Still it was comforting having a diagnosis.  (And I'd given up on the 19th century garb by then, so that was a bonus.)

Fast forward to two and a half years ago.  I was married with a small child, and I'd never felt worse.  Enter a new diagnosis: Celiac Disease.  What is that, you ask?  Well, the short version is that my gut doesn't like gluten.  No, it actually hates gluten.  Like get-those-kids-off-my-lawn-before-I-call-the-cops kind of hates gluten.  And every time I ate it, my intestines would call the cops, and the party was definitely over.  It got ugly.

Just for fun, try going a day without any gluten.  Trying going a meal.  It's tougher than you think.  Then, just to make things super-challenging, try to go a meal without eating anything that has even touched gluten.

And that's my life.

So here's the thing.  There's good and bad about always being that kid.  It definitely made me into a bit of a non-conformist.  I don't want to like the same things as everybody else.  And I don't feel the need to adjust my opinions/tastes/etc. to match those of the prevailing crowd.  Being an introvert, however, I do tire quickly of any attention my differences might draw (19th century cosplay notwithstanding. It's about forced differences.)

I like to be normal. (Not to be confused with conventional.)

I revel in routine.  It is a point of pride that I have lived in my house for nine years.  (A record for me by quite a few years.)  My little girl came home from the hospital to this house and knows no other home.  She went to the same preschool for three years and (I hope) will go to the same elementary school all the way through.  We have Taco Tuesday.  Every Tuesday.  We are incredibly boring.  And I LOVE it.

Kiddo and I started baking together when she was still in diapers.  One of my favorite videos is of her attempting to add chocolate chips to cookies only to miss the bowl entirely and dump them on the floor.  (Not included in the video is how sick the Big Dog got from eating just one of those tiny chocolate chips, but I digress.)  Every special occasion in our home included a heaping plate of my pan-fried chicken.  And my fried chicken fingers were a favorite at gatherings and parties.  I had a specialty.

But all of this ended with my Celiac diagnosis.  Our love of trying out trendy, high-end(ish) restaurants?  Over.  Baking anything we want in the cookbook with my assistant?  Over.  Having dinner with friends in restaurants and their homes?  Really over.  Being able to blend into invisibility at group functions that involve food?  So over.

Much like the condition that kept me from sun exposure in the land of the sun, Celiac keeps me from food in a time of my life when food is central to most social interactions.  When you have a severe food allergy or sensitivity, you become a problem to be solved, an inconvenience to be overcome.  Well-intentioned and kind people flock to your aid, only to be hurt and abashed (and sometimes flat-out offended) by your unwillingness to risk your health and sanity on their "gluten-free" offerings.  It's messy.

Still, I treasure routine and sameness.  Normalcy.  Celiac may have killed my love for cooking and baking much like my sun issue ended my enjoyment of swimming.  But there are bright spots that I treasure.

I found a way (through MUCH experimentation) to make gluten-free fried chicken and pan gravy that is comparable to my old glory.

There are a few restaurants where I can safely eat, but far better is the gluten-free restaurant in Asheville, Posana, where I can order anything I want off the menu.  Until that choice is taken away from you, there is just no way to appreciate how intoxicating that freedom really is.  Bread? Biscuits? Cheesecake?  It's all safe.  And in a gluten-free establishment there is no worry about cross-contamination.  It is, in a word, glorious.

The worst part of all of this (for me) is how it affects Kiddo.  While I understand that I can't protect her from everything, I desperately want for her to have the option to be normal.  I want her to have the same bedroom year after year.  I want her to know the same friends for as long as she chooses.  I want her to go to birthday parties and sleepovers and not to have to say, "I can't eat that, do that, etc." And most important to me, I never want my limitations and weirdnesses to affect her (an impossible dream, I know.)  If she wants to grow up to be a rebel, a non-conformist woman with a bit of an exhibitionist streak, so be it.  I just never want that label, that burden, placed on her shoulders by me.

So these are some of the things I treasure:

My little cookie-cutter house that looks exactly like at least three other houses in our neighborhood.

My church, where I've attended for nearly seven years, where the people and the place are beautifully familiar, and where Kiddo feels safe and loved.

My gloriously boring little family.

Taco Tuesday.

Kiddo's gymnastics class where all her little friends from preschool go.

Knowing my way around, not one, but two towns.

Having a specific doctor for every illness, having our dry cleaner, after-church restaurant, dentist, etc.

Friends that I've known and loved for nearly my entire adult life.

Some of these things may seem trivial, but I've made this sameness, this routine a priority for my own happiness and sanity.  I've made sacrifices for it, and I'm going to revel in it for as long as it lasts.


**My original intention when I started this particular post was to also talk about the beautiful normalcy that General Mills has given back to me with the addition of their gluten-free Cheerios and Honey Nut Cheerios (my go-to childhood breakfast.)  Since that time, however, General Mills has issued a recall on nearly two million boxes of Cheerios, due to incorrect labeling of "Gluten Free" on boxes that weren't.  When we're talking about people's trust and health, that kind of mistake is inexcusable. When the gluten-free boxes were released, Twitter was lit up with Celiac patients celebrating this bit of old-school normalcy (and safety) in their lives.  We could finally have something other than Chex for breakfast (don't get me wrong, I love Chex.)  Here was a cereal that wasn't a special variation on the gluten-filled version.  This cereal could be purchased in any grocery store and for the same price as other General Mills cereals.  And now we're told that General Mills was extremely careless with the health of its customers.  It's disappointing in a way that is difficult to articulate. 

Kindergarten, Blessed Kindergarten

We are nearly through the first week of kindergarten.  One more early morning until I can tell my alarm clock where it can stick that beep.  And no, six thirty won't ever get any easier.  I worked for years at a job that required me to be up between 5:45 and six, and it NEVER was anything less than a soul-sucking drag.  But I digress.

On Tuesday morning, we embarked on that new journey of kindergarten (and new for me, public school kindergarten.)  After five and a half years of being at Kiddo's constant beck and call, I am a free woman every weekday between 7:30 and 2:45.  And it is glorious.  Next week, my school starts back, and I'll be teaching three days a week, but that'll be great, too.  I can still eat my lunch in peace and quiet, and nobody will ask me why my shoes are that color red or whether or not they will be allowed to watch TV next Thursday at 4:15.  (Admittedly, freshmen questions aren't always a vast improvement, but at least they won't be touching me while they ask.)  It's a grand time to be alive.

Now before you write me off as the worst parent ever, no wait, just go ahead and write me off because if you don't get this, then you either don't have kids, or we are very different people who may never completely understand one another.  (That's okay.  Just don't touch me.)  Back to my K-5 narrative...

Kiddo was so massively excited about Tuesday, that I've been considering sedation for the past two weeks (for one of us, not saying which.)  So Tuesday morning dawned bright and bouncy and with new clothes and shoes.  We managed to get out the door with everything (including Kiddo) and made it to the madhouse that is first day at an elementary school.  EVERYONE was walking their kids inside, and the halls were like a VR simulation of a salmon swimming upstream.  The thought of my petite five year old finding her way through that madness every morning gave me the vapors, and I pushed the thought to the back of my mind.

In the classroom, the parentals instantly ceased to exist as Kiddo marched in and up to her teacher like a boss.  I don't think she acknowledged us once after she crossed the classroom threshold.  She's awesome like that.  We hightailed it (well, a squeeze between a million people version of hightailing it) out of there and on with our days.  There were no tears on anyone's part, and I got so much done on my first day of school that I should probably get some kind of award or something.  Maybe a statue on the front lawn.  Or a song.  Yeah, write me a song and make it sound like Billy Joel.

After navigating the carline, I managed to pick-up my newly-minted kindergartener and head to Barnes & Noble for her post-first-day-of-school treat.  Sometime between eight o'clock and the moment when she lugged her new tote bag to the car, Kiddo had morphed into this kindergarten old-hand who spoke of her day's activities with a jaded nonchalance.  She has started using terms like "first bell" and lamenting too-short recess breaks.  Dinner conversations will never be the same.

This morning was a bit different than Tuesday morning.  Yes, I still had everything out and ready to go the night before (this is a necessity for non-morning people like me.)  But Kiddo dragged and dallied, and I nearly lost my mind.  (I didn't even manage to get a picture of her in her adorable new school dress.) But you know what?  She and her daddy still walked out that door at 7:22, and I was alone with my Earl Grey and laptop from that point on.  Ah the life of the introverted mom of a school-aged child.  (And no one is touching me till at least 2:45!)

All joking and rejoicing aside, however, this hasn't been a simple journey/decision.  I never attended public school, and in fact, didn't even attend a kind of brick-and-mortar school half of the time.  I knew we didn't want to homeschool, but beyond that we were a bit at sea regarding the where-do-we-send-her question.  There was the more liberal side of me that was leaning toward the whole public-schools-won't-improve-if-we-don't-send-our-kids-there argument, but then there was the less attractive side of me whispering, "She's smart.  She's reading already.  She's advanced.  Send her to private for a better education."  Of course, money played into the decision as well.  Do we make the massive financial sacrifice that is tuition, or do we send her to public so that we can afford things like dance/music/art lessons and a new car sometime in the next thirteen years?

We debated/prayed over these questions for a long time.  Ultimately, however, we decided to go with our local, zoned-for public school.  Kiddo's education is extremely important to us.  We both went to college, and I went to grad school, and we have similar ambitions for her.  But. And it's a big but.  We also want other things for her.  We want her to know that she's special, yes, but never to think she's better.  We want her to value diversity and equality.  We want her to learn kindness and tolerance.  Not that you can't learn those things when you're homeschooled or attend private school, but in our relatively small circle, school seems like the best place (or at least one of the first places) to encounter people who look and think differently than you.  As tempting as it is to protect and shelter our precious girl, it is imperative to us (and especially meaningful to me) that I stay focused on our primary goal: preparing Kiddo to live and function without us.  That is our job as parents.  It's not a pretty or a particularly happy thought, but it remains true.  One day, we won't be here to take her to church or read her books or help her navigate the world and its bureaucracy (incidentally, I totally had to look up how to spell that word.  I just couldn't get it right.)  She might as well jump right in and start learning how to manage now while we're still here to help.

 So that's our first day of school experience.  No tears from anyone.  All smiles.  Now it's time for me to get back to work on lesson plans and trying to stay awake.  Six-thirty is killing me, and the old Earl of Grey isn't holding up his end of the caffeine bargain.  Until next time.

Edit/clarification: This is a post about our personal decision/thoughts regarding school.  It is not meant to reflect on anyone else's choices for their children/families.  We're all just doing what we think is best for our particular child/family.  Unless you're sending your kid to Nazi Dictator Day School, I'm not judging your choices.

What I'm Reading: 1st Day of Kindergarten Edition

Today is the day -- the day I've waited five and a half years for: KINDERGARTEN!  Yes, folks, we made it.  And I am totally rocking staying awake and staying in my chair working.  (Mostly, anyway.)  But enough about school; I'll write more on that once we've made it through an entire day.  Instead, let's talk about BOOKS!

I've been reading so many good books lately.  And really much of this is due to some really amazing suggestions from one of my favorite podcasts, All the Books, a Book Riot podcast.  They cover everything from literary fiction to YA to memoir to romance, so regardless of your reading habits, they've got you covered.  Here are some of my favorite recent reads:

Saint Maize, by Jami Attenberg

I am so in love with this book.  It's difficult to put my finger on why I loved it so much, but I just didn't want the story to end.  Great female protagonist who is beautifully flawed, set in one of my favorite time periods/places to read about, and the story is revealed though various "historical documents" (such as diaries, news clippings, interviews), which is a conceit that I love.  Can't say enough good things about this one.

The Fishermen, by Chigozie Obioma

This one has made the Man Booker long list, and it's obvious why.  Though it is set in modern Nigeria, something about this story feels almost fable-like, and I loved the voice of the narrator.  While this is a tragic story of family love and loss, I never felt depressed or manipulated.  Just a really beautiful story.

Music for Wartime, by Rebecca Makkai

This is probably the best short story collection I've read in a year or two.  Could not put this down.  Never have I read such an eclectic group of stories that maintain such unity of theme. These were beautiful (and sometimes heartbreaking) stories with just the right amount of whimsy thrown in (mini-Bach crawling out of a piano, anyone?) for the perfect balance.  Read this even if you don't usually like short stories.  Actually, read this especially if you don't like short stories.  It just may change how you feel about short fiction.

In the Country, by Mia Alvar

This is what I'm reading right now, and so far I'm loving it.  I've read some comparisons of this to Jhumpa Lahiri's short fiction, and while I hesitate to label her book as the Filipina version of Lahiri, I will admit to parallels in theme and style.  This is a collection about being in the margins, an outsider, sometimes even in the main character's own country.  The settings are modern and recognizable and the characters are real and surprising.  Can't wait to finish this one.

So, that's all I've got for today.  Of course, I've been reading lots of other stuff, but these are the current standouts.  Now back to lesson plans and reveling in the perfect silence of my house.

Mommy Doesn't Feel Like Crying

So many things to write about, so little time.  What an excellent problem to have!  It's been a crazy few weeks, and a few even crazier ones are ahead, but I'm feeling positive.  Why this sudden burst of rose-tinted perspective, you ask?  Because of two things on the near horizon: #1 Classes will be starting back in less that two weeks for me, which means lots of teaching and writing.  I can hardly wait.  #2 KINDERGARTEN BEGINS IN LESS THAN A WEEK!  (I'm sorry.  Was I shouting?)  Seriously folks, I'm going to sucker punch the next well-meaning head tilter who speaks to me in the third person: "How is Mommy handling kindergarten coming up?  I bet she wants to cry."  Just stop.  The only crying I feel coming on is for joy at all the extra time that is opening up for writing and work.  Also, my sweet little, high-energy, chatterbox will have a new outlet for all her high-energy chattering.  Hallelujah for silence.  Quiet, how I have missed you.  Think I'm terrible yet?  Too bad.  This mama is ready for kindergarten (both literally and figuratively) and proud of it.

In upcoming blogs? (If I can ever get these freaking lesson plans done.)  Our new family member, Margot.  (A kitten.  NOT a baby.)  My annual pilgrimage to Frederick (and of course, Wonder Book.  Can't wait to tell you about one of my super-cool finds.)  My current favorite reads (there have been some doozies, let me tell you.)  And an update on how the first days of school (Kiddo's and mine) turned out.  In the meantime, talk amongst yourselves....I'll give you a topic: Parliamentary Procedure -- Aye? or Nay?

Random pic of me attempting to work with help from the Big Dog.

Things That Are Making Me Happy

In lieu of another rant on what's making me grumpy today (and there's plenty), here are some of the things that are making me happy (in between the grumpiness):

My little workspace

Yes, that's my dog.  Yes, he looks like a rug.  Ha, ha.  Never heard that before.

While I do sometimes pine for my bigger desk upstairs (if you could see my other desk, you'd get that pun), I am so grateful for my sweet, little workspace that's been squeezed into the guest room.  I can be near Kiddo while still being tucked away.  And that makes me happy.

Weird Stories

This book opens with a story about a woman who dresses us as Bigfoot so people can "hunt" her.  And that kind of weirdness makes me happy.  Also, I met Ms. van den Berg when she came to Converse a few years ago (okay, more than a few years ago), and she was talented and gracious. Somehow this book sat on my shelf, untouched until now.  (Blame grad school.)  Anyway, I read her latest, Find Me, earlier this year and COULD NOT put it down.  Really enjoying her short stories as well.

Perler Beads

Kiddo has discovered the magic of placing tiny little beads on a tiny little pegboard and then melting them to smithereens with an iron (I do that part, obvs.)  While all those itty-bitty holes do make my scalp crawl just a bit (that's a thing, actually, called trypophobia.  Don't Google it.  The images are terrifying), I'm loving the free work time I get while she carefully makes two-dimensional cats and turtles.  

Book Riot Podcasts and YouTube Videos

Okay, I'm pretty sure I mentioned this in an earlier post, but I am just so obsessed with my new bookish "friends."  I've also found at least one other bookish YouTuber that I'm enjoying called, "climbthestacks."  Check them all out!

Gluten-Free Truffles

L to R: Lemon Heaven, Triple Mocha, Hazelnut Gianduia, and Chai Something-I-Can't-Remember

The days of Godiva boxes for Valentine's Day may have ended with my Celiac diagnosis, but the chocolate goodness is back (and actually MUCH better) at The Chocolate Fetish in downtown Asheville.  Such a beautiful shop, with helpful staff, and a really lovely selection of GF truffles!  Yum!

And last, but not LEAST...

My Tiny Empty Picture Frame

No, I haven't lost my mind.  Well, maybe I have, but this isn't evidence of it.

I believe I mentioned in a previous post that I am reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird.  If you've read this amazing book on the writing craft, you'll know why I now have an itty-bitty picture frame on my desk.  If not, drop everything and go read it.  I'm not doing the work for you!

Invasion of the Body [Parts] Snatchers

It was the first hot and sunny Saturday, and I was a free woman.  The Kiddo and her daddy were off doing something fun, and I headed downtown for tea and a massive slab of gluten free cake with a friend.  And to top it all off, I was wearing my new shorts.  My new, favorite, perfect fit, so comfortable, just the right length shorts.  And my new gray imitation Chucks.  I was feeling free and relaxed and totally put together.  So imagine my shock as I stood waiting for my friend in front of a glass door when I saw someone else's legs attached to my body's reflection.  Yes, that's right, just underneath those super cool khakis were two very familiar legs.  Familiar, yes. Mine? Not so much.  Just below those transplanted legs?  Two similarly recognizable feet.  Also not mine.

You know those spinny things they have on kids' playground and on those expensive wooden toys like they have at doctor's offices?  The ones where you can create a person/animal/monster by turning the pieces to different heads, legs, and torsos?  Mix and match!  It's an alligator head with a flamingo middle, and don't forget the duck feet!  Well, turns out I'm a walking, talking version of one of those toys.  See the amazing woman walking around on her MOTHER'S LEGS AND FEET!

I am not exaggerating.  The face and body looked like me (though, who knows who will appear as the years go by), but the legs were definitely exact replicas of my mom's (well, to be fair, they were significantly smaller, mom has five inches on me).  The way the high arches force the laces wide at the top, that slope that results from wedging an arched foot into a flat shoe.  This was beyond eerie.  What about my poor mother?  How was she getting around without her lower half?  For years, I'd seen those knees and ankles on somebody else, not in my own reflection.

Don't misunderstand me.  There is nothing wrong with my mom's legs. They're lovely.  It was just disconcerting to suddenly find them at the end of my own body.  Which leaves me wondering which body parts will morph next?  Because of a procedure I had done in my teens, my nose will forever be mine, but what about my chin?  My hands (admittedly, already quite a bit like my mom's, though not as exactly the same as the legs)?  Will a grandmother's forehead or grandfather's neck soon appear in the mirror?  I feel like a ticking time bomb of features.  What about Lucy Addison?  I find myself watching her closely, looking for emerging similarities, body parts she will steal in 30+ years, leaving me limbless or worse.

Seriously, though.  It was a strange moment, seeing a part of me looking exactly like I remember my mother looking when I was small, and I walked a bit more carefully as I wandered around downtown, hoping to take care of my mother's feet.

The legs in question.

Guilty as Charged

I like to believe that I went into this whole parenting thing about as open-eyed as an introverted only child can be.  It wasn't something we rushed into.  We dated for two years before we got married and then waited seven more years before having a child.  In that span of time, we settled into marriage, built a house, switched jobs, lost jobs, left jobs, finished a bachelor's degree and started an MFA.  We worked out kinks in communication and developed a comfortable daily shorthand that required little talking.  I was prepared for (or at least knew to expect) sleep loss, chaotic and sporadic housekeeping, new schedules, tantrums, extra laundry.  But there was one thing that nobody prepares you for; nobody even mentions it.  Guilt.  So.  Much.  Guilt.

It starts almost immediately.  Yes, I was the lunatic who decided to get pregnant while completing my MFA.  This meant hours of writing and reading and apart from my (mostly sleeping) newborn.  My husband took a shift in the night feedings so that I could be alert enough to work after the six am feeding.  I was letting my sweet baby down.  I was letting my hard-working husband down.  I was writing really awful stuff.  Talk about jack-of-all trades, master of none.  I was doing exactly nothing well.  But all I had to do was get through the program, and then I would be free to be mother of the year.  Or at least, a guilt-free mom.  Ha.

Then I graduate.  I had a master's of fine arts degree and an online journal to birth and a writing camp to plan.  And while my Little Bit was sleeping through the night, there was still that push/pull of guilt if I'm not writing/working and guilt if I am.  Enter preschool.  After two years, I had finally had enough.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd written, and I felt like I was quickly losing touch with my sense of self or even the ability to have a coherent, cohesive thought.  I told myself that preschool was vital for her social skills (and it was), but there was still that underlying guilt about the relief I felt when I dropped off Kiddo twice a week.

Still I limp along.  Writing and working one week, buried in housework or sickness or appointments the next.  4K meant four mornings a week were my own, which seemed an embarrassment of riches at the beginning of the school year, and nowhere near enough by the end.  My work was sporadic at best and non-existent most days.  Teaching comp at my alma mater is a welcome break from the mommy identity, but mostly it just serves as a reminder of what I'm not doing.

Preschool ends.  There is an adorable program and celebration and new bike with training wheels and a flashy helmet.  A week into summer break, and I'm already losing my mind.  So many words, and none of them on my MacBook.  My five year old does not believe in unexpressed thoughts.  I can barely manage to wade through the deep torrent of words that obliterate even the memory of quiet.  Week Two is just as bad.  I want/need to escape.  Trapped doesn't begin to explain my feelings.  I know I need do something or I'm going to lose my mind.  And making all of this worse?  The deep-seated guilt that washes over me every time I look longingly at the clock or calendar and wish for school to start or at least a weekend.

In case, you didn't already know, I like writer, Sarah Bessey.  A lot.  She has so many wise and beautiful things to say about God and family and life.  This post in particular has stuck with me lately, reminding me of the importance of doing good work, of allowing our children to see us doing said work.  Sure, I am Kiddo's mom, but I am also a writer, a teacher, a reader, and a whole lot of other things outside of Chief Maid, Cook, and Entertainer.  As I clack away on my laptop today (and have been doing nearly daily for the past two weeks), I am nowhere near guilt-free.  Kiddo still comes in my office and pleads for me to play with her every few minutes, and when that doesn't work, she gets crazy-inventive with excuses to poke her funny face in my door.  I tell myself that this time every morning won't kill her, might even be good for her.  I remind myself of the resentment I feel when I'm not able to work and counter-productive feelings of frustration and guilt that follow.  And I keep typing.  Or try to.

I finished another draft (#5) of my most recent story today.  Even as I typed the final words, part of me was feeling guilty that it took so long to get it done.  See?  The guilt is everywhere.  Even the dog likes to lay it on thick when I'm chained to my desk.

Sad dog looks sad.

Unfortunately, guilt isn't limited to the self-inflicted kind either.  Every day as I scroll through my Facebook feed, I am awash in articles reminding me (and all parents) that time is short, kids grow alarmingly quickly, and everything must be homemade, amazing, and entirely kid-focused.  (And organic.)  Because we can't feel bad about our parenting skills all on our own.  Needless to say, I skip right over those internet gems now.

And that was Kiddo Hug Attempt #543.  That's her lowest blow, I think.  I'm just interrupting you for the thousandth time because I wanted to give you a hug.  Who am I kidding?  While no one may have warned me about parental guilt, Kiddo definitely got the memo.  I am so screwed.

Mommy's Little Girl Friday

Kiddo desperately wanted to help me today with my all my work.  Unfortunately, it was all school stuff on my MacBook, so helping wasn't really an option.  So I told her she could make a picture, and I would post it on my blog.  This turned out to actually be quite a help since I decided not to post today's really long blog entry (it got a little too personal and requires some distance.)  So without further ado, I present, Kiddo's ART:

Update, or Back From the Dead

So I'm not dead...though a few days I considered it.  More sickness, well, my eyes are sick anyway.  Went to the dermatologist for a recurring rash around my eyes.  Following his advice, and now I look like I'm somewhere between a bender, pink eye, and leprosy.  And have for a month.  Because it's not enough to be perpetually sick, losing my hair, and taking more pills in a day than most people take in a month.  I have to also have red, flaking lizard skin around my eyes.  That hurt.  A lot.

In between frightening small children and strangers with a glance and applying moisturizer by the quart, I've also been finishing up my first full semester of teaching.  It's been such a great experience (glitches and resistant freshmen notwithstanding), and it feels so so good to have all of those essays graded.  And the most exciting news (and that's saying something because having seventy five essays graded and done is pretty exciting) is that I get to teach Intro to Creative Writing in the fall! This is such a great opportunity, and I have to confess that I had trouble sleeping the night after I found out because I couldn't stop planning my syllabus.  I'll be teaching another section of Comp as well, so that'll keep me busy during my first school year with Kiddo gone full time.

Yep, I said full-time.  Kiddo is starting Kindergarten in the fall.  We went to the orientation at her school, and she is so excited (in between her bouts of mourning for her preschool teacher and friends.)  I too am very excited about all the alone time I will gain the fall, but I'm not going to lie: That school seemed so big, which made Kiddo seem that much smaller.  I have to keep reminding myself who we're talking about here.  Kiddo is unstoppable.  A school full of kids twice her size won't daunt her.  

Today is her last day of preschool, and I'm trying to crank out some work at BN before the summer of together begins.  Kiddo will be going to day camp a bit over the summer, but mostly she'll be home with me.  I'm not teaching over the summer, so I'm determined to get lots of writing done and stop being such a slack ass.  I've even given up teaching the kiddos at church on Wednesday nights in hopes of limiting my exposure to germs.  Let this be the summer of writing and writing some more and NOT GETTING SICK!

So Over It (or Everyone Should Just Shut Up and Eat Their Own Burger)

This is me being so over talking about women's bodies.  About my body.  This is me begging you to wear whatever it is you want to wear without worrying about sagging skin or cellulite or knobby knees.  This is me after a harrowing weekend of clothes shopping (one of my least favorite things ever) and that fresh hell they call the ladies' fitting room.  After two years of nearly constant sickness and a year of significant weight loss, this is me being over the way almost-strangers feel entitled to pass judgment on other women's health, weight, eating habits, or medical treatments.  Right now, I am closing the curtains, shutting the door, locking it down.  I can't change others, but I can make sure that I never again make those kinds of statements or judgments.

It starts nearly at birth.  Of course, I don't remember those days, but I have a little girl now.  I've seen it in action.  The comments about her appearance above all else, her "prettiness."  I know I've done it myself to others.  To her.  I find myself looking at her and thinking, "I hope she doesn't inherit my pancake butt" or "I'm so glad she got her daddy's nose."  And then I catch myself and feel a little sick. This is a child who was reading at age four, who never meets a stranger, who has the biggest heart.  So what does it matter if she has two heads and a prehensile tail?

Except it does.  It matters when you start school and your body isn't shaped exactly like the majority of the other little girls.  It matters when clothes aren't made or marketed for petite/tall/skinny/fat girls or women, and you're left facing that fluorescent-lit dressing room mirror in ill-fitting clothes that make you feel isolated and different and not at all like the happy-looking women plastered all over the shop walls.  It matters when puberty hits and you're the only one who gains fifty pounds or still looks like a nine-year old.  Girls get labeled "late bloomers" or "very developed." Boys get called, uh, wait a minute.  They don't get labeled anything.

If only it were a matter of getting through childhood and adolescence, it might be manageable.  But it doesn't get better.  Finish college -- hell, be the valedictorian -- what's the next question? When are you getting married?  And this from people who don't know your telephone number or your taste in movies.  When are you "starting a family"? (Because you can't call two people a family, apparently.) When are you having another?  You're too thin.  You look anorexic.  You should eat more.  You're doing too much.  STOP!

I am married to kind, loving, attractive man.  We are the same age, have similar levels of education, similar temperaments, etc.  I have never once heard him debate a piece of clothing because he didn't like a certain part of his body.  Nobody cares what he eats.  No relative strangers ever suggest that any of his problems might be a result of his own ignorance, neglect, or inability to care for himself.  Doctors and other professionals never treat him like he's hysterical or over-wrought.  In fact, most doctors and the like are the same gender as he, so he isn't some mysterious other to them.  People don't suggest that he should do less before he wrecks his health. When we were expecting our daughter, no one felt entitled to touch him or ask personal questions and offer comments about our chosen delivery method or feeding choices.

So what does all this rambling rage have to do with anything?  Simply this.  It doesn't matter to me what your "body-type" is.  I couldn't care less if you are a vegetarian, a paleo devotee, or die-hard burger aficionado.  I don't care what you choose to wear.  If it makes you feel strong and confident, you should be able to wear it.  Whatever it is.  Regardless of whether or not you have breasts and hips.  I want you to be in charge of your own health and well-being, communicating with your doctors and ignoring the incessant babble of pseudo-medical advice that is constantly on offer from every talk-show-watching, internet browsing, random person you meet.  Make retailers offer women's clothes that are sized by actual measurements, not arbitrary number sizes meant to inflate the egos of upper-middle class women facing the middle age spread.  Refuse to answer probing questions about your relationship status or procreative plans.  Praise your little girls for their brains, their kindness, their ability to climb or dance.  But most of all, just stop talking about weight, about most hated body parts, about genetic "flaws."  Stop analyzing the bodies of celebrity women, or even women who pass you in the street.  There are so many more interesting (and important) things out there to discuss.  This little rant is for me too.  I'm just as guilty as everyone else of obsessing about my appearance and making mindless comments to others.  So, here's what I'm going to try.  If I wouldn't say it to (or about) a man (or a boy), I shouldn't say it.

And also, the next person who tells me to eat something, is getting force-fed my copy of The Feminine Mystique.

R & R (Reading and Resting)

It's happened again.  I've lost more than a week of my life to serious illness.  I can't understand how a span of time can progress at such a tortuously slow pace, only to seem like a blink of an eye has skipped you ahead days or weeks from where you left off.  Now, I'm left limping and wheezing my way back to normal life and trying to find order amidst the chaos that sickness has made of my schedule and plans.  Papers all graded?  Lessons planned out?  Laundry caught up?  Ha. ha. ha.

The good news is that I've had help -- dear friends to care for my child while I was carted off to the hospital via rickety ambulance, parents who fly great distances to do my laundry and chauffeur me to doctor's appointments.  Of course, the appointments lead nowhere, as is too often the case.  More pokes, more blood, more meds, but no answers.

I am looking forward to getting back to my class.  We lost a whole week due to my illness, and I'm anxious to make up for lost time.  I'm especially looking forward to the following week when I have spring break and Kiddo goes back to school (her spring break is this week.)  That means a whole week where she goes off to pre-school every morning, and I can finally get some writing (and let's be realistic) some grading done. I'm less excited about the grading.  Mostly, though, it will just be a lovely time of being alone in my own house every morning.  I'm really excited about that.

One of the worst parts of being really sick is that you can reach a point where you're too sick to read. (Hard to imagine, but it happens.)  So, I started Kazuo Ishiguro's The Buried Giant just as I was coming down with this loveliness, and then I stalled out on a slow start that wasn't helped by my slowly simmering brain.  I'm glad to say, though, that as I have started to feel better and picked the book back up, it has gotten better.  It's definitely different from anything else he's ever written (understatement), but so far, it doesn't seem to be that revolutionary a fantasy novel, with its Arthurian quest storyline and slightly removed, nearly comical narration (think Princess Bride's narrator, only more serious.)  So, I'm enjoying it, but mostly I'm excited about finishing it so I can read All the Light We Cannot See, by Anthony Doerr, which is burning a hole in my bookshelf.

Well, that's all I've got for now.  I've got a book to read and a bed to hold down.  Tomorrow it's back to serious class prep, and Tuesday, it's back to work.  You'll know me when you see me.  I'll be the girl in the bubble.  Seriously, please don't breathe on me.  Just don't.

How to Stay Married Forever While Maintaining That Spark While Parenting and Balancing Your Work/Home Life While Reciting the Alphabet Backwards on One Foot.

Lately, I've been seeing another burst of marriage related posts/blog on Facebook.  Everyone, it seems, has the perfect advice on how to choose a mate, divorce-proof your marriage, and keep that spark while raising a herd of children, all full of absurd generalizations and ridiculously impractical tips.  Well, I've been married twice, the second time for 12+ years, and I think I'm a bit of a marriage expert.  Yes, I know all the ins and outs of being (and staying) married...to me.


Top Ten Things You Need to Know to Stay Married to ME:

#1 - Separate sinks.  I am an only child.  For my entire school career, no teacher ever wrote, "Plays well with others," on my report card.  And also, people are gross.  Husbands are no exception.  Spit on the mirror, water stains on the faucet, toothpaste in the sink.  Whether it be bathrooms on opposite ends of the apartment or dual sinks in the same master bath, this little bit of porcelain and pipe is all it takes to keep me happy in the bathroom.  That and don't ever use my towel.  Ever.

#2 - Separate sides of the bed.  Beds may be for more than sleeping, but once it's time to go to dreamland, you better not cross that invisible line that divides his from hers.  There is nothing that cools my ardor faster than your hot, hairy arm draped over my side.  And don't ever put your head on my pillow.  Just don't.

But if you ever bring home these pillowcases, I'm out.

#3 - Shoes and clothes live in the closet/drawers.  I cannot live in chaos.  And I'm not the maid.  If it's not on your body, it better be put away or in the hamper.  (And lest anyone feel too terribly sorry for my better half, it's worth nothing that I do ALL the laundry, including folding and putting the clean stuff away. So this is not a terrible burden I am demanding.)

#4 - There will be many books in the house.  And I will spend significant amounts of time reading them.  And I don't look kindly on people who come into the room where I am lost in a book and ask me if I'm reading.  I will answer said inquiries in the manner which they deserve.

#5 - Don't channel surf while I'm in the room.  Fortunately, our relatively recent decision to "cut the cord" has mostly eliminated this issue.  Though technically, I could probably write a whole blog post about the endless Netflix speed surfing that goes on in our house.

#6 - Separate TVs.  I'm all for togetherness and bonding over an episode of The Walking Dead and a bowl of popcorn (actually, I don't share bowls of popcorn well either), but there are times when I need to watch Downton Abbey without your mocking comments, or to have a 100th viewing of Bringing Up Baby.  In those times, I will retreat to the bedroom and indulge in this fine programming.  Husbands must not be offended, and in fact, are encouraged to use said free time to indulge in all the sports programming they can, as I also do not watch sports.

#7 - There will be cats.  Always.

Hopefully, these dueling kittens.

#8 - I don't do outdoors.  This applies to picnics, camping, hiking, and/or any other activity that might involve sweating, bugs, or peeing anywhere other than a bathroom.  If there are any questions on this item, just ask my husband about the picnic or the camping trip.  There was only one of each.

#9 - I love it when a plan comes together.  I'm not a fly-by-seat-of-my-pants kind of gal (in case this list didn't already make that clear.)  I like to know what to expect and make preparations accordingly. Having a child and adjusting to severe diet restrictions have not lessened this trait.  I need to know that there will be a (safe) place to eat and clean bathroom nearby.  Where I'll be sleeping and when also need to be established early on.  I'm super fun on trips.

#10 - I need my space.  The good news is that after you're good and sick of my all requirements, you can simmer in solitude because I like to be alone.  A lot.  I may love you with every fiber of my being, but those fibers needs a little breathing room on a daily basis or they get cranky.  I hate cranky fibers.

Books, Bugs, and a Busted Weekend

Greetings on a Wednesday, aka the first time this week I've had any one-on-one time with my MacBook in a week.  Life has been hairy the past week or two, and I am ready for a breather that's probably not on the horizon.  I've really been feeling the mommy squeeze lately.  Apparently, Kiddo's fifth birthday flipped some sort of I-need-your-undivided-attention-ever-waking-moment switch that has left me feeling frayed and frazzled, and I've lost some of my downtime/writing time to my class schedule (not that I'm complaining about teaching, but more about that later.)  So the weekend was looking promising with a church-planned Daddy-Daughter Dance on Friday evening, a lie-in on Saturday morning, and drinks and books with my best friend on Saturday night.  The solitude and adult companionship was soothing, but I was still feeling overwhelmed and overstimulated come Sunday morning.  A quiet morning alone was required if my sanity was to remain intact, and my husband was very accommodating, not returning from church and lunch and shopping until late, but any ground I might have gained in the sanity department was about to slip away come evening.

We are officially the scourge of preschool.  Kiddo got lice somewhere, and we discovered this lovely fact Sunday night.  Cue hours of frantic cleaning, laundry, treating, and combing.  Somehow, my husband and I managed to avoid the infestation, but Kiddo was not so lucky.  She's been a trooper through all the bad smelling shampoo and hours of combing, but I am so totally over the whole drama.  I did somewhere between eight and ten loads of laundry in twenty-four hours, all while still running the household, making meals, and helping Kiddo handmake fifteen Valentine's for her preschool party.  I am so over being Mommy at this point that after one too many pokes and prods and tugs Monday afternoon, something snapped and I actually said, "Stop touching me!"  Of course, Kiddo thought this was hilarious and a game of Poke Mommy ensued.

Okay, not really, but it felt good to say it.

Not all is bleak and buggy, however.  I am now halfway through week two of my Comp 101 class, and it is going so well.  I have eighteen wonderfully smart and engaged students that make me happy every class period.  Their first outlines were due yesterday, and I was so pleased with their work that I feel nothing but anticipation for reading their first papers (due tomorrow.)  I imagine this enthusiasm will flag a few papers in as nobody WANTS to grade eighteen freshman comp essays, but nevertheless I remain optimistic and grateful for such a respectful, well-prepared class.

Gold stars for everyone! (Except you.)

All of this drama and hard work has seriously cut into my reading time.  I'm still only, like 300 pages into 1Q84 despite it being an amazing read.  I did, however, manage to finish A Year of Biblical Womanhood: How a Liberated Woman Found Herself Sitting on Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband Master.  (As a library book, it got priority.  It's .20 a DAY now for late charges. Yikes.)  I really, really loved this book.  I recommend this book.  Read this book.

Rachel Held Evans writes books about faith and doubts and women and equality and all those things I find so important and interesting and some other "i" words that I haven't thought of yet.  She does write from a progressive perspective, so don't go into her work expecting Donna-Reed-Joins-the-Women's-Ministry.  I love what she has to say about so many things (here's her blog) but I have to admit that after reading the introduction to this book, I was a little skeptical.  Sure I agree with what she has say and how she views women and their roles in the Church, but that doesn't mean I want to read an entire book mocking the beliefs of more conservative women.  The idea of someone outside of the evangelical tradition (though she grew up in it) participating in all of kinds of ultra-conservative practices and roles seemed problematic at best, and cruel and mean-spirited at its worst. Yet, she somehow manages to avoid having any of those issues.  She honestly and openly explores fundamentalist (and even some Orthodox Jewish, Mormon, and Catholic) definitions of "Biblical Womanhood" and spent a year trying to live these different principles, whether she agreed with them or not.

Honestly, I'm not sure how she managed to write about calling her husband, "Master," or refusing speaking engagements, or many of the other things she tried while still managing a mostly neutral (and definitely respectful) tone.  The book was definitely funny as she attempts things like cooking her way through a Martha Stewart cookbook and making her own clothes, but her humor is always self-directed.  With the exception of the cooking, she's just so bad at most of the things she tries.  Her self-deprecating tone lightens what would otherwise be a very serious book.  (If you are a fan of Half the Sky -- the book or the film series -- this book is for you, as well.)  Women are suffering.  Women are being told they are second-class citizens.  Women are being kept out of positions of leadership in the church and undervalued.  Women are being abused and killed and sold.  But throughout the book, Evans just keeps emphasizing that women are not the problem.  Women are the solution.  How can you not love that?  

So, overall, I'd put this title right up there with my favorite, Jesus Feminist.  Okay, Jesus Feminist is still my favorite, but this one is a close second.  Now, I just have to find copies of some of Evans' other books as our library system only has this one book.  In the county-wide whole system.  Don't get me started.

Here's hoping this week calms down and gets better (and quieter.)  I've managed to get caught up on my Downton episodes (I was two behind), and we watched the new The Walking Dead last night, so I should be free to read my little heart out tonight after Kiddo goes down.  Tomorrow is going to be a big day, so I must rest up for the sugar-induced frenzy that Kiddo will be in when I pick her up from her Valentine's Day party at preschool in the afternoon.  But for now, my dryer has beeped, which means Kiddo's sheets are clean and ready to be put back on her bed (again.)  After that it's on to lesson plans, errands, and just being mom.  If you need me, just DON'T.

Good News, Bad News #LikeaWriter

Good news first, okay?  Yesterday was my first meeting with my new class of freshman comp, and it was great.  Sixteen really wonderful ladies who seemed engaged and eager.  What more could I ask for?  Also on the good news front, I got two more sections lined up for the fall semester.  Really excited about all the time to work once Kiddo is doing the kindergarten thing.  Just have to get her registered on Friday (also exciting.)

On the not-exactly-bad-news-but-not-so-great-either side of things?  I got my hair trimmed yesterday.  (Yay!) Unfortunately, I wasn't very specific about how much I wanted off, and it came out a little shorter than I imagined.  (Bummer.)  Oh, well.  Hair grows.  At least she cut it the way that I like it.

This is as much of my face as anyone is allowed to see today.  Made for an awkward morning.

Now for the actual bad news.  Like much of the bad news out there, this little doozie started as good news.  Sunday night on the testosterone fest that is the SuperBowl, Always aired a shortened version of their #likeagirl campaign commercial.  One commercial about the female empowerment in a sea of beer, trucks, and sex.  One.  Now, allow me to preface my impending rant with this little qualification: I am not a fan of retail companies using things like feminism/girl power/whatever-you-want-to-call-it to shill a product.  (I'm looking at you, Dove.)  But as far as girl power commercials go, this one was pretty good.  The only reference to the brand at all was at the very end of the spot and was simply a flash of the name Always.  And the message was spot on.  From doing things "like a girl" to more R-rated insults like, "pussy," being told you do things like you have two X chromosomes is almost never intended as a compliment.  Where as phrases like, "Man up" and "Grow a pair" imply a need for testicles in order to be brave or assertive, or even skilled.

So what I'm about to say now, is nothing that you can't read elsewhere.  There are lots of writers/reporters/bloggers/pissed-off-women out there writing their fingers to the bone about the Twitter backlash to Sunday night's commercial, the super-original #likeaboy.  Yes, from sofas and recliners everywhere, hordes of brave men went online to demand a menstrual product commercial of their own, one that demands that we all stop using the insult "like a boy."  Oh wait.  You've never heard anyone say that in a derogatory fashion? (Or seen a man menstruate for that matter.)  The closest you've ever come is the old chestnut, "Boys will be boys," always said with a wink and a nod to their charming rascality?  Yeah, me too.

Here's the thing.  There is nothing I can do about the basement dwellers and frat bros who participate in Twitter trends like, #likeaboy and #NotAllMen.  Arguing with them, pointing out the inequities between men and women's status in this country is an exercise in futility.  What I can do is plead with the men I know and love to stop and think before posting another mindless rejoinder to Twitter with one of these hashtags.  Does what you're about to type build up women?  (Or humans in general, for that matter.)  If not, then don't post it.  A television commercial that celebrates being female is not an assault on men or manhood.  In fact, it has NOTHING to do with manhood, and until men start making less than women for the same work, struggling with advancement because they are perceived as baby machines, objectified in every form of media (including ads for products marketed to them), harassed on the street and told to smile about it, published less, had their bodies criticized and analyzed more, mocked by pundits for their hairstyle and makeup, and basically told to go home where they belong, I'm not worried about you being marginalized by some smart little girls with confidence.

My suggestion to all the men out there who have amazing girls and women in their lives?  Go to Twitter and post about that.  Tell the world how your daughter won the science fair #likeagirl.  Your wife kicked ass in a marathon #likeagirl.  Your mother fought cancer valiantly #likeagirl.  If you don't know any women or girls out there doing things #likeagirl, then I suggest you leave your house/office/men's-only-club/panic room/fallout bunker and mingle with the other half of the world's population.  But be warned.  We take no prisoners, just #likeagirl.