Where the stories begin

Me: That house needs to be a story.

Rebecca: Why?

Me: Because it's run-down, only it's not really run-down. 

Rebecca: No, it's not really run-down. Why is it like that?

Me: I don't know. I think it's a family bit of land.

Rebecca: Where is this house's story?

Me: In southern Indiana, in the woodsy parts. Yeah, it's been in the family for generations and it's got so many happy memories that no one can bear to part with it. It's run-down because they don't have a lot of money to keep it up but they are doing the best they can. They sold off most of the land for the neighborhood that built up around it. I think. 

And this is how stories begin.

Flash Fiction

I love writing short, quirky stories that sort of drop you into the middle of something and then leave the rest unfinished.  I only recently learned that this is known as "flash fiction." My most recent bit was inspired by a random tweet that showed up in my twitter feed. So, for your enjoyment or time wasting or whatever you deem it to be when you finish, here it is. (There is a typo in it somewhere, but I can't remember where it was.)

(Inspired by a random tweet by @Marlebean)

I know so many people who met their soulmates at the dog park that it’s not even a realistic number anymore.  Well, that may be an exaggeration, but not by much.  Jodi met Darryl; Theo met Jessica. Honore’ met Justina and Chrissie met Justin. Friends, family, co-workers—yes, so many of them met at the dog park.

Then here I am. I have met exactly zero interesting people. I’ve had plenty that I thought could be interesting but none turned out to more than passing thoughts. Then I came up with the greatest of plans.

“Kellie, I’m going to start going to the dog parks,” I announced to my sister-turned-roommate one morning over coffee.

“What?” she responded dully. She wasn’t a morning person. She wasn’t exactly a person before, say, lunch.

“Everyone I know has met their soulmate at the dog park. I’m going to give it a shot.”

“You don’t have a dog.” She rubbed her face with both hands. Then she gave me the rolly-eyes.

“I don’t have to have a dog. I can get a leash and some doggy doo bags and go looking for my lost dog. Then when I meet someone that doesn’t fit the soulmate hole in my psyche, I just pretend my phone buzzed and it’s you telling me Zipper has returned.”

Kellie stood up, picked up her coffee mug, and shot me a withering glare. “We will discuss your stupidity at dinner, Kim.  I have to get ready for work.”

Truth be told, I had to get ready for work too. I didn’t pay too much attention to anything I was doing because I was planning my scheme. I got a ticket on the way to work because I neglected to yield right of way to a rather handsome officer. I stood at an out-of-order elevator for fifteen minutes while co-workers giggled at me. That cute security guard was on duty and he was nice enough to point it out to me. There is a distinct possibility that I neglected to respond promptly to emails as well. This became problematic when Dustin from accounts receivable came to my desk and hit me on the head with his rather well-chewed pencil. He’s kind of cute, too. He gets these dimples when he’s angry.

Anyway, five o’clock finally came and I really did attempt to be more cautious on my journey home. I will admit, though, that I rather hoped to run into that officer again. Well, not literally run in to, but more like wave to him at the next stoplight.

When Kellie and I sat down for dinner, I picked up my fork and eagerly began eating. She sat across the table and glared me.

“Do I have sauce on my chin?” I asked warily.

“You are an idiot, Kimmy. You are a certifiable idiot. Your plan is hatched from the brain of a moron.”

I stopped mid-chew and looked at her blankly for a moment. With a mouth half-full of spaghetti, I managed to garble out, “No, it’s genius really.”

“How so?” she demanded.

“Well, I’m going to dog parks looking for Zipper. He’s really good at running out an open door.”

“And what does Zipper look like?”

I hadn’t thought about that. I’d have to be more creative than just a name.

But she wasn’t finished with me yet.  “And how old is Zipper? And where did you get him? And how long have you had him? And who’s his vet?”

I was nonplussed. “Okay, Kel. It’s obvious I’ve never owned a dog before. In my life. That’s not my fault. I wanted a dog but you were allergic. So, I’ll have to put more thought into this before I act on it.”

She looked ready to scream. “And.” She threw a napkin at me.  “When you meet this soulmate you dream of and invite him home and there’s no sign of a dog anywhere?”

“I’ll just tell him Zipper got hit by a car.”

Odds and Ends

So, when I first started Trim Healthy Mama, I hoped to reach 20 pounds by Christmas.  The beautiful thing is that I actually should be down a full 30 pounds by then. The loss has slowed, but that's okay. I've been a bit sloppy in following the routine. If I can be sloppy and still be losing, this is a miracle.  

I've discovered that I am allergic to stevia which is a sadness. I haven't figured out how I'm going to replace it exactly. Erythritol is expensive. I could use xylitol, but it is also expensive and it requires a lot to reach desired sweetness.  I can occasionally substitute some coconut sugar, but that's higher carb, so I have to be careful.

I am fitting comfortably in size 12s. I think I've cleaned out my last size 16s. My rings fit again and I zipped a pair of regular calf boots over my jeans. Me. I did that. 

I frequently read A Tale of Two Cities. Why have I  never owned my own copy before last night? The excitement I felt knowing a copy was finally going to be mine was nearly overwhelming. I was vaguely disappointed to find there were no hardback copies but I decided to ask. He led me to one in the bargain section. To complete my joy, I purchased a Doctor Who bookmark. 

Becca got an official job offer from Master Marius. He's going to give her four hours a week through December to see how it's going to work out. She's over the moon. So am I. I think it's rare to have jobs land in your lap and in my house, it's happened twice. Unfortunately, Hannah has to go searching. 

I'm certain there are a lot of other little things that no one cares about, but tomorrow is Thanksgiving and food must be prepared. 

Measuring life in bags of potatoes

I have officially lost 20 pounds.  That's 2-10 pound bags of potatoes. Looking at it that way, that's a lot of weight. The strange thing is that I don't feel like it's gone. I guess I don't even miss it.  The thought that I even had that much to lose is almost ludicrous to me. But I did. And I have at least 2 more bags of potatoes to go. Maybe 3.

I had a reward for my first 2 bags--I bought a tall non-fat chai latte from Starbucks. It was satisfying; but it seemed to bring my cravings back. I fought it off with fat. Bacon, eggs, butter, cream--and I didn't cave to the crave. I was going to get a manicure, but I think I'll wait until I either hit the next size down or until I've lost the next bag, whichever event comes first. The Trim Healthy Mama way of life can be difficult to measure in pounds.

I seem to have a slight stevia intolerance which showed up when fall allergy season hit. This is putting a damper on my sweetener. I'll work it through and figure out if it's only seasonal or if I can get away with a few days with it and a few days without it.

Leading the victims in grace

Blaming the victim for the crime is a very real issue. I have been guilty of casting doubt upon victims myself and that has been a shameful thing on my part.  That indicates that the victimizer had no control over his/her actions.  This attitude pretty much absolves the victimizer and pummels the victim into terrified silence.

I don't do that anymore. The victim is just that: a victim who deserves compassion and warmth. The victimizer is a sinner who deserves to be brought to justice.  (This part is not within my power because I am not law. The former part is absolutely within my power because I myself am a recipient of grace.)

I have seen for myself how often the victimizer receives the grace and continues to perform his nefarious deeds. I have seen victims fall into obscure oblivion or become angry and destructive themselves. 

I ran across an excellent treatise on the matter of not further driving these wounded into darker holes and of not allowing the wounders to continue digging the holes in the first place. 

You can download the PDF here. It's about 42 pages but it's easy to read. I know my blog doesn't get huge traffic and traffic has never really been my goal. But, if you've just wandered by, go ahead and read it. 

Once we become aware of the victimizer's methods, we can better look out for our weak and our wounded. 

The Worst Sort of People

 There are people who are merely annoying. They are mostly harmless. They just don't know when to stop. Then, there are people who are dangerous. 

The dangerous ones are the manipulators who almost effortlessly go through so many contortions in a situation that you are amazed that they got to where they are. But they have to do this. They have to twist and turn in order to make the situation be all about YOU. They don't mind ignoring plain truths. This situation must not be about them. 

Sometimes we get trapped by these manipulators. I mean, they can seem to be the nicest of people.  But sometimes we catch on; or we catch them at it one too many times and we put an end to it. They can't stand that. They have to maintain control and when you have them figured out, they've lost control. So, you walk away and they don't. They continue to beat it about. They malign you; they mock you. 

Yet, you are are relieved. The strangest sort of relief comes when you call the wickedness by name. The wickedness loses power. 

Others may seem to go along with the manipulator; but don't worry. Pray for the followers, actually. You see, the followers will be eaten up as well. Once the manipulator has gone through everyone else, his little circle of followers is all he has left.  

As you suffer this maligning, just remember that Creator of all sees this too. He knows where the wicked dwells and He knows who is righteous.

Because it was there

I sometimes look at the titles I choose to read and question my sanity. Then, in a moment of clarity, I realize that books are meant to be read. If I don't read them, maybe no one will. I shall consider myself the Pitier of Lonely Books.

I sometimes think that I will be judged a book snob. Then, in a moment of clarity, I realize that I don't read for anyone but myself. 

If you were to ask me why I chose to read some dusty old thing long forgotten, I suppose that in most cases my only answer could be, "Because it was there."

Well, there is a feeling that comes over me when I touch one of those long-forgotten tomes but any attempt to describe the feeling would be lost on the average reader. (Not that I am above average, no. I just read differently from most people I know.)  There is also a feeling that overtakes me when I touch the cover of some old book. Yes, I will raise my hand here and admit that I read Lucile and I would likely read it again.

So, if you find me reading something weird or unique, just remember that more than likely it was there.

Random writing prompt

The air was gray with the smoke from a dozen forest fires. Pedestrians hurried with cloths covering their noses to find the easier air of indoors.

A Different take on Fat Shaming, or I think I can.

I looked at myself in the mirror and the image that stared back at me wasn't me.  It wasn't the me that God created; it was the me that I'd created in darkness. When my heart ached, I turned to food. When I needed a nap and felt like I just didn't have time to take one, I turned to food. When I was bored, I turned to food. I was turning to food to satisfy all of my needs.  The only thing is that it didn't solve anything. It hurt everything. I gained 20 pounds in a year.

There's all this talk about "fat shaming." Well, blah. If you are fat and ashamed, that merely means you know something needs to change. That's where I was.  I tried the gym. I worked out until I was exhausted and unable to get out of bed for a couple of weeks. I went for 3 months and lost 6 whopping pounds. That wasn't good enough. In the exhaustion, I gained it all back and then some.

(If you are fat and don't care, no one can shame you because you don't care. So, either you care or don't. If you care, do something. Change it because you know that isn't the real you.)

Over time, I began to accept that I was fat. That's when it dawned on me that the person in my reflection wasn't who I really was. That's when I began to know something would change. I just had to find what.

From previous posts, you know how I deal with constant exhaustion. You know I don't want to be this sick person that I always am. I want to be vibrant; I want to healthy. 

Enter Trim Healthy Mama. I had a friend mention it to me once. It was planted in the back of my brain. But then another friend announced that she'd lost a great amount of weight and all along she'd been talking about how well she was eating. Then I began to see that I had other friends who were on the plan. I began chatting with them. I asked questions. 

And then I did it. I ordered the monster book. (There's a new edition coming out so I'm not going to post a link.) And while I waited for my book to arrive, I stopped all sugar and overly-refined foods.  And I lost 2 pounds immediately. Then I lost 4. And now I'm sitting at 10 pounds down.

Mind you, 6 pounds was the most I'd ever lost on any diet. But this isn't really a diet. I'm eating so much good food and I get to eat until I'm satisfied. 

But there's more. With this weight loss, I'm seeing other things happen. I don't need two cups of coffee to get going in the  morning. I might only want half a cup. The constant pain in my shins has lessened to a very great degree.  My constant sore throat is gone. I have been able to plan chores and do them (without my supplement, mind you). I survived VBS week which was immediately followed by grocery shopping. The tired I felt was an honest tired and not the embarrassing sort of tired. My skin has cleared up. 

My weight loss is slow compared to some who started about the same time I did. I tend to get a little jealous. But look, my body has a lot of healing it needs to do. Things I didn't know were wrong are changing. My spirits have lifted. I'm listening to sermons online again as opposed to drowning my fog in Farmville. (Trust me, THAT one is huge.)

Now, I'm not saying Trim Healthy Mama is a cure-all. I may still need the supplement at times. I am saying that eating well is sort of amazing. For once, I am encouraged in a "diet." And for once, I am seeing glimpses of who God created me to be and not this me that I created.

When the memories began

I looked at the map. I found the school. I didn't look for the market; I forgot. I changed the map settings and I saw the images. Real images of things I both remembered and forgot.

It's a parking lot. There used to be a small playground with a glorious little sandbox. Not as though we didn't have enough dirt, because we did. We lived int he desert and there was dirt. But there wasn't sand. And I was small. Maybe the sandbox wasn't really as large as I recall. Yet, where's the harm in a child's memory?

I moved the map, panned a bit west. I saw the cattle guard. And the church. And a concrete pad that would have been a bit larger than the now missing trailer.

In my wild imaginations, I have a car and I pull up outside the cattle guard. I'm little again. My lunch box is metal with a red plaid design and I'm terrified that my little feet will slip between the rails as though they were hooves. I draw my hand across the concrete barrier--there's one on either side of the guard--and I recall how I scooted across it every morning, scraping my lunch box. I give a sad little laugh at those days when my fears were so small and no less real.

I now look into the property and wonder if it's still a church. I see the shed is gone. The mesquite tree stands though. 

I can't help but giggle as I remember the races after church to see who could stomp the most loco weed pods. I can still hear them popping. 

I can see where one of the ranchers pulled up in his truck one day to introduce his new dogs. One was named Blue. I remember Blue because she had two different colored eyes. I was amazed.

I see the porch where the fellow brought a tarantula in a jar that we all hovered around after church. Some of the kids held it, but I was too wise. I watched from a distance.

Then, in my dreaming, a woman comes out and calls to me. "Can I help you?"

"My dad was the pastor here when I was young," I answer. "Is this still a church?"

She smiles but doesn't answer. She cannot because she isn't real and doesn't know the answer. But she bids me come and see. I pull the car in and feel the tears.

~~I remember, I remember/ The house where I was born~~

No, not born, but most of my memories begin here.

She leads me into the church and I laugh.

"Pretty much as I remember it, "I say. "I had to come over to practice piano and I hated it. It was so big and so lonely. And dark. I left the door open one day a bird flew in. That's the only thing I remember about piano practice.

"We would walk back through this hallway to the kids' rooms for service, Junior church. My mom taught. They numbered the chairs and chose a quiet seat prize that way. One morning, I saw the number they drew and it was my chair. I was extra good that day.

"Then for business meetings, if there were no kids to play with outside, my brother and I would go back into the trailer. And play Lava. But Jack, one of the ranchers, was smarter than we were. He came in and caught us running on the furniture and he got after us.

"Jack is a pastor now. In Nevada, I think I heard."

We go back outside and I show her where the chicken coop was. I tell her how careful I was gathering the eggs; but it was hard because I had to climb up to get out while holding the basket. I point out where the cows were gathered when my brother preached to them. I pointed the opposite direction and told her that's the way my dad and I were walking home when I was attacked by fire ants.

I share with her local stories, like the one about the  rancher who was struck by lightning on mulitple occasions. I tell her of the girl who collected rattles from the snakes her dad killed.  I tell her of the prison escapee who ended the days of my walking to school. I ask if there's still a prison there.

But she doesn't answer. Of course she can't answer because she isn't real and doesn't know.  But she manages to enjoy my memories.

Handling the hurting

We are supposed to be able to comfort others with the same comfort we were given. We were supposed to learn from the journey through the valley of the shadow of death when we felt like we were losing everything.  

But sometimes, our comfort seems small in the face of someone's hurt. It's not that we don't understand where they are  because we have been in a situation so similar that it might as well be the same.

But we remember how lost we were. We remember how the pangs of death had seized us so tightly that we thought there was no hope. And we remember how hard it was to comfort us.

That doesn't absolve us from sharing the rays of hope we received.  We just need to share with wisdom. We need to listen. We need to be gentle with our hope.  As the wounds begin to heal, there is room for other sorts of comfort. But maybe today there is only room for handing the hurting a box of tissues.

Just a poem I ran across

The Tuft of Flowers

BY ROBERT FROST

I went to turn the grass once after one

Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen

Before I came to view the levelled scene.

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;

I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,

And I must be, as he had been,—alone,

As all must be,' I said within my heart,

Whether they work together or apart.'

But as I said it, swift there passed me by

On noiseless wing a 'wildered butterfly,

Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night

Some resting flower of yesterday's delight.

And once I marked his flight go round and round,

As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

And then he flew as far as eye could see,

And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

I thought of questions that have no reply,

And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;

But he turned first, and led my eye to look

At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared

Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

I left my place to know them by their name,

Finding them butterfly weed when I came.

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,

By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.

But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.

The butterfly and I had lit upon,

Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

That made me hear the wakening birds around,

And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;

So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,

And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech

With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

Men work together,' I told him from the heart,

Whether they work together or apart.'

People watching

I  am an introvert. This means that I like to be without people. No one should be offended by this. It's nothing personal. So, when I take Rebecca to tae kwon do, I sit out in the van where I can be unmolested. Think about it, I homeschool five children. I have two large dogs. I don't get much time alone.

Tonight, as I sat out reading The Innocents Abroad, I happened to glance up.

I saw a slight, black man with both ears pierced. He was, perhaps,, the dapperest man I've seen in real life. Oh, he was not Hercule Poirot dapper; no, he was his own sort.

He was in his early to mid-50's. He wore dark jeans, a nice button down blue shirt, and a chipper sort of tie. He carried papers in his back pocket. In his hands he carried a plastic grocery sack of goods, two Slurpees, and black cane lovely in its simplicity. His smallish hands were bedecked with rings. 

He wore a pair of cowboy boots which gave him a sprightly walk so that I wondered at the cane.

Other than what I saw, I can say nothing about the man. I can only say he amused enough to write of him. I believe he might make a good character in a book.

The Gift of the Crow

Have you heard about the little girl that feeds the crows? She feeds them and they bring her little trinkets of tradsies or thanks.  Rod and I decided to feed the crows. We put out fine quality unsalted peanuts in the shell. The crows, jays, and squirrels are all very adamant that they get a share. We even had a little female duck come and give it shot. 

Our crows either hate us or else they think they are very funny.

Gift 1: a piece of concrete from someone else's sidewalk or driveway. 

Gift 2: an empty chocolate pudding container replete with ants.

Maybe they are just new to the whole tradsies thing. Maybe they will improve.

Rita Moffat Died

My mom messaged on facebook a couple of days ago. She told me that my uncle thinks I need to see a neurosurgeon because I have some symptoms very similar to my cousins--and their thing is a hereditary thing from our grandma. Then, in the middle of that discussion, she typed this: Rita Moffat died.  That's nothing to anyone who may read this blog. That's not the point.

Rita Moffat--the girl with a mental age of 7 or maybe 8 years old. Shy, very quiet, speech impediment of some sort, incredibly poor, clothes very old and clearly worn out, and overweight.  As if a mental deficiency wasn't enough, she was overweight. 

Bear with me.

I knew Rita for about 3 years. Three school years. In the entire scheme of life, three school years is nothing, barely a blip.  For poor Rita, every school year must have been an eternity.

She was the butt of too many jokes for the reasons I listed above. I remember watching and seeing that no one seemed to recognize her as a human being. Our small school had several of those, but Rita especially caught my eye.  And my pity. 

Then, one day, stuff fell out of her locker. People walked by like it was a non-event.  And to them that's exactly what it was because they had failed to notice that, for all of her issues, she was a human being. But in that moment, she looked lost. And my pity changed. I stopped and helped her.  It was one moment.

I didn't know what that moment meant to her.  It didn't occur to me that she should have been passed by or mocked.  In that moment, she was a girl who needed a friend.  

This is not an epistle about how great I am.  I am nothing. I am, and I have always been, that temp from Chiswick. But that day I was the most fabulous person in the universe.  From then on, she would give me little waves in the hallway.  I could see she hoped I wouldn't ignore her now that the crisis was over.  I didn't. I waved. I smiled.  

And then, one day after school, I was heading out the door to walk home and she was on her bus.  I saw her. And she smiled at me.  That was the first time I'd ever seen Rita Moffat smile. And she smiled at me.  

I only knew her three years. After 9th grade, I changed schools and I never saw Rita again. I thought of her often. I hoped she was okay. I hoped someone else had bothered to notice she was a real live human being, but I don't know.

And in the end, her eulogy is mine. "She always ask[ed] about you because you would talk to her and be friendly" Mom typed. Oh, Lord, I hope I wasn't the only one who was that person for her. I hope someone else came along.
But there are thousands of Rita Moffats surrounding us every day. Think. Can you see their humanity? Can you care for just a moment?

When Reading Leads to Learning

I was recently feeling curious about the Potato Famine and so began to read about it. One name kept appearing, Charles Trevelyan. I couldn't decide whether he was a good guy or a bad guy or whether he fell somewhere else along the line. He could have been misguided or he may have been utterly self-seeking. I began looking for information about him. What I found was precious little. I had to settle on a biographical account written by a Trevelyan. I guess William Manchester didn't feel that this family was worth noting.

Now, I'm not too far in to the biography but it's caused me to research other aspects like, for instance, The Clapham Sect. I've also got written down to read about Malthus. I think that I may not need to finish the biography because after I research those two aspects, I'll have an extremely fair ruler by which to judge the way he handled the famine. At least, I believe so because from what little I've read about both at this point can only merge into the reasoning behind his actions.

Reading non-fiction isn't easy; it always leads to needing to read about something else. Reading fiction is easy. But, reading non-fiction can be highly rewarding and it doesn't have to be school, either.  It can just be fun to learn something new. Or to remember what you once knew.

The Supplement Continues

Okay, I started taking Nature's Sunshine Master Gland Formula. It's helping.

Yesterday was grocery day. I usually need to lie down and sleep after I finish which means the  groceries don't get put away since grocery day is also church night. Yesterday, I didn't need to sleep. I needed to get off my feet for a bit, but I made it through. I got most of the groceries put away before time for church. I slept well and have energy to finish what needs done this morning. Also, Wednesday I did a lot of painting around the house--which is a funny thing anyway since I hadn't planned on painting much more than some letters for a craft. (My paint lid wouldn't come off and I had to mutilate it beyond reuse to get it off, so I had to use as much paint as I could.) So, Wednesday was very active and Thursday was very active and I still have motivation today. 

I feel that, overall, my sleep has improved. I'm waking with a brighter outlook. I even feel like I might start walking again. 

The only negative I have about it is that I cannot take it too close to bedtime or I won't sleep. 

Supplement update 1

So, things get a little rough when Rod gets home after a business trip because he doesn't sleep well the first couple of nights which means I don't sleep either. That said, there were a couple of naps.

But, there's a sunny spot. My typical feeling on overcast days is one of a thick, cobwebby something behind my eyes. I feel like I should be able to scrape the cobwebs away and have clear thinking abilities.  Through the past few overcast days, I've not had that feeling so much. This is lovely. 

Again, I know that it may not mean much to the average person who hasn't struggled; and that's okay. It means a lot to me. It means a lot to my family because I can do more and engage more with them.

Fingers crossed.

Just the Same Old

Did you ever go along feeling the same old way for so long that you forgot that you ever felt any other way?  Apparently I have been.  I've not felt alive or healthy or energetic or anything for so long. I've gone to doctors who've told me I'm not sick enough to treat--almost, but not quite.  So I've sucked it up. And sucked it up. And sucked it up. I've learned to make feeling like crap normal.  Is that wrong? I mean, I've tried and I can't get better. 

So, out of a vague memory of an herbal supplement from 20 years ago that helped me feel better than I'd felt in years (yeah, it's odd to say that when 20 years ago I was a 20-something wandering around feeling like crap all the time), I picked some up again. I've been on it for 4 or 5 days. And I'm going to say that the strangest thing is happening. I've been able to function without a nap for 2 days. Now, you may not think that's much, but to me it's huge.  You may say, "It's only 4 or 5 days so you can't know for sure." Yeah, I'm not getting my hopes up; but I'm hopeful. I'm hopeful because I woke up on time feeling like I'd slept last night. I'm hopeful because I did multiple errands without any dread. I'm hopeful because I still felt like I had life left in me after the errands and I made meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner. And I swept floors and did laundry and dishes. And I cleaned my bathroom. And it's almost 9:30 pm and I'm doing okay. I'm tired but not the usual exhausted. Just tired. 

So, maybe I can learn to have a new normal where I can think clearly and process things that need to be done and then be able to accomplish those things.  If things are still chugging along nicely in a week, I'll spill the beans on the supplement.

I'm just a temp from Chiswick

If you  know me, you know I love Doctor Who. It doesn't matter if it's classic or new Who because I love it. I love the cheesy drama. I love the fanciful. I love the dream.

The Doctor always has his companions. He needs his companions. They are important to him. They help keep him sane. 

I feel like I'm often Rose or Donna from new Who. My life is mundane.  It's getting up every morning and doing the same.old.thing. I'm nothing special. I'm just a wife and mom. I get buried in the routine.

I sweep the same floors every day and yet they never look clean. Kids, dogs, and life in general come right behind me and muck them all up. I can never have an empty sink. As soon as I dry my hands and turn off the kitchen light, someone comes behind me and creates more work. I clean up clutter piles and then turn around to find them all right back where I cleaned them.  

I donate about 15-15 gallon trash bags of stuff to charity every year. Some years more, depending on how much the kids have grown.  And yet there's always more stuff to replace what I took out.  

This is my every day. This is my all week.  This is all year. Mundane. Routine. Rut.

It's nothing to write about. "I'm just a temp from Chiswick. I'm nothing special."  

Except that writing is supposed to help me break out of my rut; maybe it's supposed to simply help me see beyond my rut. This is a bit of a quandry because how is writing about the same old thing every day for 365 days going to help me see things better?

On the other hand, I am an introvert. I don't need new and exciting things. That sort of thing just wears me out.

Maybe next year's resolution will be 365 days of reading.

Are you well read?

I saw a post on Book Riot about being well read.  I think it was a very good article because it addressed the fact that there are various notions about what being well read looks like. The article, which I will link at the end nailed it perfectly.  And I feel better about myself now.

Being well read isn't based upon someone's list of requirements.  You know. those lists of books that come flooding by telling you 17 books that should be read by the time you are 16; 20 books to read in your 20's; 12 books to read to your 2 year old. Yeah, those.  And every time you look at those lists, you see how you failed to be well read.

Well, it's time to take heart.  Just because you didn't read that author's/blogger's/editor's picks doesn't mean you failed.  It means that maybe you've enjoyed a lot of things others missed.  

I mean, if your list includes The Odyssey, The Inferno, The Brothers Karamazov, Little Dorrit, a Jonathan Winters biography, a few other obscure biographies, and a mish-mash of non-fiction, vs. The Bell Jar, A Passage to India, Frankenstein, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and biographies about JFK, MLK, and Harry Truman, how are you any less well read than the if the list were switched? 

The point of being well read is to read.  Just read.  Pick up a book and devour it. Let the fictional characters beat you up; live life with those in the biographies; learn something useful from the non-fiction.

Isn't that the point of reading? Variety is the spice of life. Being well read means you read things that aren't by your favorite author. It means picking up things that might be a little hard and persevering through them and being richer at the end. 

And if you and I cannot discuss what books we have in common, we can still converse about books we don't have in common because we will share recommendations. 

Go forth and read, Friends!

Are you well read?