the would-be writers guild

I’ve never been drunk, but I’ve watched enough TV to understand the idea of a hangover—a nauseating headache mixed with cloudy memories of the previous days’ merry-making. After three straight days of GRADUATIONPALOOZA, I think I can diagnose myself as sufficiently hung-over.

And now for the highlight reel:

It started with this on Friday afternoon. (Why is it blurry? Because I had tears in my eyes. Duh.)

We brought Christian with us because we thought it might mean a lot to him to be there. Ryan’s brother, Val, asked him, “Are you excited?” to which Christian replied, “Oh yeah!” And then to clarify things a little, Val said, “For what?” to which Christian replied, “The Jazz game.”

At one point in the ceremony, someone came up from behind Ryan and tried to strangle him. Wait. No. This is actually when Ryan was “hooded” by his mentor.

My gosh. And all this time I thought he’d never look sexier than when does the dishes.

After the graduation, we drove around and found a walking trail and took a walk. I took his picture under this tree, because I’ve heard that taking your picture under a big tree after graduating will bring you a long and prosperous life. (OK, actually I made that up.)

Then we headed to our dinner reservation at fancy-schmancy La Caille. We walked around the grounds before dinner and I took his picture under this fancy-schmancy tree because I’ve heard that taking your picture under such a tree will bring you monogrammed bath towels and I’ve always wanted those.

The restaurant was elegant and charming and the perfect spot to celebrate. If Ryan looks a little bedazzled here, it’s either because he has just read the price of the shrimp cocktail that we ordered; or because the tight-corset-clad water girl came dangerously close to bumping into my fork, which would have likely caused her to whiz around the dining room until finally deflating in a heap on the floor. Or so it seemed.

That’s my wallet on the table. It looks thick and robust, doesn’t it? Obviously, this photo was taken before we paid. (Sigh.)

After dinner, we stole away up the canyon to stay at The Blue Boar Inn. Ryan sacrificed his Jazz playoff tickets to accommodate all of my elaborate plans. We arrived at the inn during the first quarter, and quickly ran up to the room to see the rest of the game. Within a minute of turning on the TV, the satellite went out. It came back on twenty seconds later. And then went back out two minutes later. Then on. Then off. We called the front desk to see if there was an issue with the dish or something. Within five minutes an employee was at our door to let us know that there was nothing wrong with the satellite, it was just our particular receiver that had been having problems. Soooo, she said that if it was alright with us, she’d just move us to the vacant room next door that just happened to be the executive suite. Alright. I guess if there’s no other alternative, we’ll just have to move over to the executive suite. The moral of the story: being a supportive wife of an avid Jazz fan will eventually pay off.

We came home Saturday afternoon to relieve DeDe (and later, James) of their babysitting duties. (Thanks, DeDe and James!) It was time to surprise Ryan with some more good news—I was planning a surprise graduation party for him Sunday night. What’s that you say? You say that people don’t normally inform the guest of honor about their surprise party ahead of time? Whatev. I was running out of ways to explain why I needed to be gone for undisclosed periods of time, why there were fifty votive candles in my trunk, and why I needed to pick up twenty pounds of turkey from the grocery store. Surprise, honey, we’re having a surprise party for you tomorrow! It’s been said before, the truth shall set you free.

And what a relief! I’ve been planning this party for about two months and it has caused me much insomnia. Finally, Sunday arrived and it was time to fill this lovely hall.

With food and family and friends…

…and party favors. Don’t forget the party favors.

Here is my mom. She worked her tail off all night preparing food and making things look nice. (Thanks, Mom!) My dad is not featured in this photo because he was outside grilling all the delicious meat. (Thanks, Dad!) In the background of the photo are Ryan’s sisters, Alison and Andrea. They helped a lot, too.

After all the eating, we had a short program. I asked some of our friends and family to share some words in honor of Ryan.
There was laughing. There was crying. There was reminiscing.

I’m not sure what’s happening with my eyes in this picture, but please don’t make fun of me. I’m sensitive. That’s my little brother Jesse hooking up the sound system. (Thanks, Jess!) He and I wore coordinating plaid outfits, as we do every day.

Speaking of sensitive, every time I thought about this party in the weeks preceding it, I had an emotional meltdown. Which led me to think of an alternative method for sharing my thoughts. The following is a reenactment of my speech for your viewing pleasure. If I hadn’t spent so much on party favors and turkey meat, I was hoping to hire James Earl Jones to read it aloud at the party. Try to imagine is velvety voice as you read/watch this.

And finally, here is the guest of honor thanking us all for humiliating him. You’re welcome. Anytime.

Thanks to everyone who helped us celebrate, and thanks to all of you who left such nice comments last week.

Congratulations, Ryan! And watch out, Dr. Phil!

I’m sorry I’m too busy to post today because MY HUSBAND IS GRADUATING! I have to get all gussied up and adorable to sit in attendance at HIS GRADUATION! And I also offered to iron his incredibly funky GRADUATION ROBES (seriously, the higher the degree, the more bizarre the outfit gets) so I will be too busy to write, because we are going to get ready to go to MY HUSBAND’S GRADUATION! I will share more details with you later, but right now I have to go because THERE IS A GRADUATION TODAY! For MY HUSBAND, THE GRADUATE!

Oh my gosh, it’s like I have GRADUATION TOURETTE’S SYNDROME!

I got an e-mail this morning from my friend Rhonda with a link to this video. And when I watched it, I thought Finally! Somebody has come up with an illustration of what it’s like to be a mother!

“Motherhood is a constant, perpetual pursuit of the most intangible things: creating happy, well-adjusted, responsible, caring, honest children. Accompanied by the nagging feeling that you might not be getting it right. At all.”

I’m quoting myself there (it’s the only thing I’ve ever written that I think bears repeating, so I’m bringing it back—with italics!) because it’s still how I feel. And probably how I’ll feel next year and the next and the next. Until my kids come to visit old, toothless me in the nursing home someday after my brain has become stringy and I’ve forgotten everything. They’ll visit for a while and spoon-feed me some Jell-O and pat my hands, and after they leave, I’ll say, “I don’t know who the hell they were, but weren’t they WONDERFUL!”

Happy Early Mother’s Day to all you moms out there! Keep walking the trail and don’t look down!

I had a great time last night chatting and eating with Becky, Kami, Shauna, and Tiburon at our special Blogger Home Evening last night. My favorite moment arrived after we had all eaten our monstrous Cafe Rio salads and burritos and one of them (was it Kami?) said, “Now let’s go next door to Leatherby’s.” And I was all like, “Ha, ha, ha! That’s so funny!” (Leatherby’s is a specialty ice cream shop here in the valley that serves ice cream sundaes in two sizes—GINORMOUS and PRACTICALLY ILLEGAL.) And when they were all like, “No, we’re serious.” I was as sure as a girl could be that these friendships we are forming will last forever and ever.

I arrived home late, all rejuvenated and refreshed. I busied myself for a while putting new sheets on my bed and folding laundry. When Ryan and I finally went to bed around 11:30, I pulled the nice clean sheets and blanket up around my shoulders and waited for sleep to come.

But it didn’t.

So I started thinking about things, which is a practice that most people discourage at bedtime. My mind started on a path and gained momentum and ho-boy! the last time I checked my clock in frustration, it was 3:47 a.m..

Not good.

I actually did drift off to sleep sometime after that, slightly panicked that my energy level today would be ruined. However, I woke up to birds chirping and a gentle breeze coming in through the window and I’m happy to report that I am experiencing no sluggishness whatsoever.

But that doesn’t mean that my sleepless night didn’t cost me. I walked past a mirror and glanced at my reflection and gasped. Now what I’m about to share with you may be disturbing to those with sensitive stomachs, but I think it’s my responsibility to raise awareness about the effects of late-night chatting and sleeplessness. This is how I look this morning:

That’s right. I have unlocked the mystery behind Donald Trump’s hairdo. Unbeknownst to me, my tossing and turning all night was creating a serious case of the messy comb-over made famous by one of America’s wealthiest men.

And it makes me think, you know, about how I’ve misjudged the man behind that tough “You’re fired!” exterior. He will no longer fool me, for now I simply see a man in need of a good night’s sleep.

As for the rest of you, take heed. Get to bed early. Practice deep breathing and relaxation techniques. Count sheep. Do whatever you need to do to make sure that you get your recommended amount of sleep, or you too may find yourself suffering from Insomnia Induced Bad Hair most commonly known as “The Donald.”

And if, by chance, my hanging out with bloggers had anything to do with this, then I have only one thing to say: IT WAS TOTALLY WORTH IT! Thanks, gals!

Have I got fun news for you!

My friend Emily is launching a company that should have all of you mamas drooling. It’s called BabySteals.com (It’s not just a deal, it’s a steal!). Every day will feature a new steal—a fantastic, stylish product for you or your kiddos at a rock-bottom price.

Check it out (including the Blog page) and add it to your Google Reader. The site launches this morning, so you can be among the first to take advantage of my knowing such cool people.

(And feel free to spread the word on your own sites!)

I don’t know why, but the song “Spice Up Your Life” by the Spice Girls has become a very important song to me of late. (More about my mental decline later…) Anyhoo, just wanted to send out a friendly reminder about the Blogger Dinner at the Taylorsville Cafe Rio tonight at 7:00. I can’t wait!

If you’re a blogger, come and join us. If you’re a creepy onlooker, please note that the large, intimidating Samoan man wearing dark glasses in the corner is with us.

I’ve mentioned Max’s artistic flare before. The kid is pretty talented in my opinion, and if I thought that all of you readers (who are not related to him) could stomach my incessant gushing over his creations, I’d probably post about it daily.

One of my favorite things about his passion for art is that he is constantly creating things—pictures, puzzles, games, letters, books—for his loved ones. He truly has a generous little soul.

Tonight Max and I are alone. Ryan and Christian are cheering the Jazz and I am forcing myself to knuckle-down, buckle-down and work my hiney off. Max has been keeping himself busy in the kitchen with his favorite channel (Noggin) and all his art supplies. Minutes ago he walked in where I’m working and announced that he had a surprise for me. I was directed to close my eyes while he walked to my side.

“OK. You can open your eyes.”

“Wow! Is that for me?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I love it! It’s very neat! Tell me about it.”

{Quick interjection—”Tell me about it” is a very good way to talk to kids about their art. This keeps the shame/embarrassment/confusion that is sometimes associated with interpreting their art the wrong way. For example, you might think you are looking at a picture of your child on a horse in front of a rainbow, when in fact he/she has drawn Hannah Montana fighting an army of angry squids on the back of a Great Dane. The point: you’ll NEVER guess right, so don’t guess. How do I know this? MANY. WRONG. GUESSES.}

So, when I invite him to tell me about it, he simply says, “It’s Happy Napkin Legs.”

Yes, of course, our old friend Happy Napkin Legs. He’s married to Dirty Dishrag Elbows. How could I forget?

“Knock! Knock!”
{Who’s there?}
“Easily distracted”
{Easily distracted who?}
“………………….”
{Easily distracted WHO?}
“What? Huh? Why are you yelling?”

The most amazing thing happens when I have copywriter’s block. I become empowered with a super-human awareness of the most wonderful, intriguing, time-consuming distractions in the world. Last night I worked on tweezing out a speck of dirt from a tiny skin pinhole on Max’s ear. Tonight? Well, tonight is even more special.

I’ve got the Jazz game on mute (you know, because I’m WORKING) and then for some reason, I clicked on one of the suggested blogs from my Google Reader and hey, whaddya know, I have just learned how to french braid, twist, puff, curl, and immaculately style hair for little girls. Seriously, check out this site Hair Today and lose yourself in the magic.

What’s that you say? You say I don’t have daughters? Why should that keep me from learning this incredibly artistic and important trade? What if I am called upon during a natural disaster to attend to the hairstyling needs of the young girls in my community? Knowledge is power, that’s what I say.

And if I have to practice a little on Max, well then, so be it. I think he’d look amazing with this or this. And—if I wait long enough before having his hair cut—this.

OK, back to work. You know, probably. Right after this commercial.

March 21, the first day of spring, was MANY days ago.

So, tell me please, why is it SNOWING outside my window?

A Utah spring is just like those claw machines with all the toys inside. No matter how many times it screws us over, we keep believing that this time our luck will change, that we might end up with something more than a whole lotta empty-handed disappointment.

You’re a fraud, Utah spring, a FRAUD!

A quick side note: It’s 76 degrees in Delaware right now. That’s right, 76 degrees. And sunny.

All I’m saying is that I’m raising these kids right. Almost every day they ask to go to Target, and just this morning pajama-clad Christian wandered in my bedroom and said, “I don’t know why, but I feel like going to IKEA today.”

Happy Earth Day, everyone! I hope you are reading this on an energy efficient computer monitor, in the light of natural sun or those funny looking twelve-dollar light bulbs!

It’s been about a year or so since I decided to start doing my part to take care of our planet. I started with many small and easy changes, because I am lazy by nature and I always attack problems from the easy and most convenient avenue. Here’s what I’ve done so far:

I replaced my garbage can with two matching containers, one for regular garbage and one for recyclables. (I know you just had a stroke because I hadn’t already done that, but we all have to start somewhere.) I thought I was a fair recycler before doing this, but this one step has made recycling so much easier for me. Before doing this, I would have to walk the recyclable item out into the garage, around the car and put it in the blue recycling bin. Which is why, on many occasions, I accidentally just threw the item into the regular garbage because I hate going into the garage with no shoes on and in the dark.

I have purchased cloth shopping bags that I keep with me at all times. I use them anytime I shop, and especially for grocery shopping. I’m not sure if grocery stores are on a mission to suffocate the planet, but have you noticed how they put about two things in every plastic bag? What gives, grocery stores? I can usually fit all of my groceries in my five reusable bags. I am looking forward to the day when the grocery checker doesn’t seem totally baffled when I say that I have my own bags.

I turn the water off while brushing my teeth, and you have no idea how hard that is for me. I love the sound of rushing water while scrubbing my molars.

I try to consolidate errands. When I get in the car to go somewhere, I try to think of anywhere else I might need to go while I’m on the way. Thankfully, Target is almost always on the way.

I have slowly been replacing our regular bulbs with energy efficient bulbs, even though they take a while to light up and give off a strange color. That’s how much I love my planet–I’m willing to appear ashen and gray just for her!

I wash all my laundry in cold, and I wear all of my jeans twice before throwing them in the hamper. If my butt looks big it’s just because the fabric is stretched out. I’m helping the planet, people!

OK, those were the easy ones. I’m ready to add some slightly more difficult changes to my life. For one thing, I have been noticing the recent information about water bottles and the crazy wastefulness of them. I usually have a nice stash of (flavored) water bottles in my fridge, and letting them go will be difficult, but I can probably do it. With the help of some processed snacks in heavy plastic packaging.

I also have decided that I will install a clothesline at my new home because it is a better way to dry our clothes. And also because I have a romantic fantasy about hanging white sheets on a clothesline in a healthy breeze while my dear husband shows up unexpectedly home from the war. (Or the university.)

I also have a commitment to local food. I am going to make a goal of patronizing local farmer’s markets. Is there a better way to spend a Saturday morning?

I am going to live on less. Even though Oprah told me to do it and she is a big fat hypocrite, I am going to do more with less. (And if I wasn’t moving across the country, I would also do more with Les, my sister.)

And finally, I am going to take the creative challenge of the second of the three Rs—reuse. Before disposing of anything, I am going to ask myself if it could be used for any other purpose. Why buy tupperware when a cool whip container can do the same thing? And why throw away Happy Meal toys when they can be launched over the fence to maim the neighbor’s chickens?

I was watching me some Oprah the other day, because I can’t get over my love/hate relationship with her. I’m drawn to her show like a moth to the flame, while complaining the whole way, “You’re no Larry King. You talk over people and constantly repeat the last few words they say as if it makes it more profound.”

So why do I keep turning it on, you ask? Clearly I’ve been hypnotized by her amazing hair and that adorable Nate Berkus.

Back to the story. Recently Oprah has been doing some shows about living with less, and they have been fascinating. It seems as though people all over the country are being inspired to downsize their lives, their spending, and their strain on the planet. (And you should see Madame Oprah’s utter disdain at every example of her guests’ excessive ways.) It’s a timely subject for me. Nobody has become more keenly aware of how much less they could be living with than I. In fact, the next time I drive a car load full of stuff to the local thrift store, I swear they are going to say, “Lady, you don’t have to give it ALL away.” And I’ll be like, “Tip of the iceberg, guys. Tip of the iceberg.”

So I’m watching the show the other day and getting pretty annoyed with myself, examining all the ways in which I exploit this life of excess and I get stopped in my tracks because I have suddenly realized the most obvious irony—

Um, hey, Oprah? I can see you’re into this Living on Less Philosophy, and I’m just curious—did you come up with it in your Chicago penthouse, your Santa Barbara mansion, or your Hawaiian plantation vacation home? Were you nibbling on a snack prepared by your personal chef? Or did it come up in a discussion with your live-in personal trainer, Bob Greene? Was it an AHA! Moment when you were purchasing your bu-jillionth pair of Christian Louboutin, red-bottomed shoes? Or when you were switching from your Prada handbag to your Louis Vuitton?

Here’s the deal, O: Let’s all live on less. You first.

I’m about to contact the Center for Missing and Exploited Bloggers to look for myself.

I pledge to be a better blogger, just in case you’re still coming around.

Your patience is very much appreciated. (And so are your lavish gifts.)

Friday is our eleventh anniversary. I always struggle to come up with good anniversary presents. Usually we end up getting cards for each other and going out for a nice dinner. But this year it’s been easy to come up with a gift idea.

A week ago, I met with an accountant and handed him my highly-sophisticated 2007 tax filing system—a giant Ziploc bag filled with a bunch of papers. We ran some preliminary numbers and he gave me a preliminary total. After he revived me with smelling salts and brought in a grief counselor to aid me, he reassured me that this preliminary number was just that—preliminary. He recommended that I should not flip out yet.

Today when he called me with the calculated total, I was given permission to flip out. He began rattling off a list of numbers and every time he mentioned one, I felt a pang of panic in my belly—is that the total? Is that? I don’t care what my Gross Adjusted Income is, just tell me how much I owe! When he finally got to the number I care about, it was quite a bit less than our “preliminary” number, but still a small fortune in my opinion.

Which leads me to this point—Honey, I’d like to wish you a very happy anniversary. I’ve loved (almost) every minute of the last eleven years and my gift to you this year is a very special one: Freedom of speech. Freedom of religion. The Declaration of Independence, the entire Constitution, every single amendment, a public education system, thousands of miles of interstate, national parks, local parks, the judicial system, the postal system, clean water and a local garbage landfill. And just to add a little “bang” I’m throwing in a trillion(s)-dollar war.

I know it seems like a lot, but what can I say? I’m the generous type. I’m sure you’re wondering how I’m possibly going to top this next year, but don’t worry—we’ll be paying for it then, too. Through. The. Nose.

What I am doing: Baking pumpkin cookies
What I’m proud of today: Mopping the floor
What I’m thinking about: My next cookie
Who is home: Me, Max, Lucy
Plans tonight: Yogurt with DeDe
My weekend was: Short and busy
What’s for dinner: Narrowing down possibilities
Feelings about love: Everybody needs more
Feelings about life: Enjoy the ride
What I need: My own advice
What I want: A crystal ball
What I have: Probably an ulcer
My pet peeve: Know It Alls
My guilty pleasure: My local Target
What you don’t know about me: Mountain Man Phobia
What I can hear: Oprah’s distant yakking
What I can smell: Stinky self-tanning lotion
My style: Little of everything
My hairdo: Curly and wild
My outfit: Shabby meets patriotic
My mood: Angry watching snowfall
The weather today: See earlier question
Thoughts on parenting: Warm, firm, consistent
Thoughts on marriage: Love, laugh, validate
Thoughts on politics: Read, watch, listen
Thoughts on celebrity gossip: Mesmerizing train wreck
Thoughts on beauty: Kindness is beautiful
Thoughts on sleep: A welcome friend
Thoughts on writing: Keeps me sane
My favorite appliance: Hands down—vacuum
My favorite car: I drive it
My favorite splurge: Travel with family
My favorite beauty secret: Lots of lotion
My favorite treat: Key lime pie
My favorite everyday pleasure: Sunlight, sweet sunlight
Ten years ago: Nearing first anniversary
Five years ago: Nearing second birth
One year ago: Home from Boston
One year from now: East coast spring
Five years from now: Christian a teenager?!
Ten years from now: National book tour?
I’m famous for: Writing great obituaries
I’ll never be famous for: My dancing skills
Who I am: Temporarily stressed out
Who I hope to be: Angelina’s body double
What I’m thankful for: My loved ones

OK, enough about me. What are your three-word answers?

I’m a broken record lately. Most of my thoughts during any given day are related in one way or another to our inevitable move across the country. Things to do, stuff to chuck, arrangements to make, etc.. (This is a real change of pace for my brain, which used to devote most of its thoughts to my next meal.) In my effort to document and process all that’s going on between my ears, I’m going to write a series of letters to the things I love here. It’s my way of saying goodbye.

Dear House,

After we wrote the check, putting down a small amount of money to show our intention of owning you, we stood in front of the muddy November ground that would eventually hold your sturdy foundation. I tried to imagine what you would look like. All we had was an artist’s sketch; there were no others like you.

It seemed like forever, but eventually you were done. Everything was more lovely and cozy than I could have imagined and I believed that I would never tire of standing in the front doorway, peering down the long hall and taking in your charm. I would lie on my back at night for the first several weeks and think, I can’t believe I get to live here. In my opinion, you were a perfect representation of us, only WAY more distinguished. My hope was always to grow up to seem like the person who should live within your walls.

You really came alive in the summers. Every Saturday morning Ryan was mowing, trimming, spraying Miracle Grow and manicuring your flower beds. You’re a real looker in the summer time, and we’d secretly smile from behind your windows when we’d notice another car slowing down to stare at you.

Aside from your good looks, the real value to me was your ability to be the one place we always wanted to return to each night. You’re the place where Max learned to walk, where Christian learned to ride a two-wheeler, where I began my new career, and where Ryan coded tapes to prepare his dissertation. Being inside during a storm was the coziest feeling in the world.

Putting you up for sale is a strange experience. I knew when we moved in that we wouldn’t be with you forever. It was never the plan to stay. I thought that I had kept myself from becoming too attached, but the truth is that I’m smitten. I’m equally afraid of two situations–handing you over to someone who will not appreciate you as much as I, or someone who will come in and change you.

In no particular order, I will miss the following things: your majestic-yet-cozy fireplace, your warm wood floors, your swimming pool of a bathtub, the way you look like a storybook cottage to me, the way you look in lamplight, your countertops that served food at our parties, your playhouse filled with my kids’ toys, your porch steps that served as the perfect perch on summer nights and where we always waved goodbye to friends and family, your bonus room above the garage—the perfect home theatre and meeting place for my writing group, your archways and overall charm.

I can’t decide if I’ll be coming by to visit after I’ve left you. I’m not sure I can handle looking at you from the street without a key to open your door. If I don’t, you’ll always be perfectly preserved in my heart. Maybe that’s the way it should be.

Love,
Tiffany

Good morning, everyone, and thanks for coming. It’s been a while since we’ve met, so I’ll try to be concise as I address several items of business.

First of all, I’d like to congratulate our junior associate Lucy on her graduation into full security clearance here at the office. I’ll admit that I was wrongly skeptical of her ability to reach a goal that had been otherwise unattainable for employees of her distinct…..ethnicity. I’d like to publicly apologize. Congratulations to you, Lucy. We’re all very proud of your work. You have been rewarded with a modest pay raise, although you probably won’t notice it for a while as we are still garnishing your wages from the couch incident. And the carpet incident. And the other couch incident. And the lip gloss incident. And the other carpet incident.

In the spirit of honoring our employees, I’d like to recognize Max for his excellence in the graphic arts department. While I was hesitant to embrace his artwork on some of the cafeteria supplies and serving dishes, I realize that many artists are unappreciated for their cutting-edge vision and choice of mediums. However, I appreciate your willingness, Max, to agree to use lead-free materials. We don’t want another run-in with OSHA.

Many of you have been asking about the relocation project and I’m happy to tell you what I know. Preparations are in the early stages, although we as your management are confident that everything is on schedule. Our major priority has been a thorough search of the company archives and some executive decision-making about what archives are important for keeping and which can be disposed of. Mostly, we’re beating ourselves over the head for having so many damn archives in the first place. It is somewhat of a painstaking process, but absolutely necessary before our relocation. While management has had differing opinions about how to approach the issue, we are moving forward. If, by chance, the office is burned to the ground, you will know that there has been a decided change of course for the project.

In other news, there has been a recommendation that we begin implementing an employee fitness program to promote healthy lifestyles. It seems as if some of our employees have been facing the upcoming company changes with a spoonful of peanut butter and an empty bag of potato chips. (Why are you all staring at me that way?) As you know, our country is facing a healthcare crisis, and it is important that we do our part to focus on prevention through diet and exercise. Of course, this is only a suggestion. We can’t force you to do anything, but I think we can inspire each other as we strive to be our best selves. I, for example, am having my jaw wired shut for the next three years. My understanding is that peanut butter cannot travel through a straw.

On a related note, I’d like to speak briefly about vacation time. While it is rarely the desire of an employer to encourage employees to take vacations, I have come to realize the importance of vacation time and I’d like to challenge all of us to make use of the time that is allotted to us in the coming months. We have to pace ourselves, and part of pacing ourselves is taking time to breathe deeply and enjoy life outside the office. Office morale is important to us as management and the recent crankiness of some employees is probably what propelled the anonymous graffiti written in deodorant on the co-ed lavatory mirror: “U r grumpee. P.S. Can we go 2 targit pleez?” Though it is unsubstantiated, I know there are rumors that the message was directed toward me, and I will note the concern and take some of my own advice. But, I encourage all of you to seek out more direct and forthright modes of communication. I like to think of myself as approachable and empathetic toward my employees, except for those few days every month when I spend time in my office listening to depressing music and plotting ways to have some of you transferred offshore. For your convenience, I have marked those days on the calendar in the break room so that we can all work around them. OK, that was a bit of a tangent. What were we talking about? …..Oh yes, vacations. Take them.

I think that is all for now. I know there are several items in the company suggestion box, which I hope to be able to address in our next meeting. I thank you for your patience. Your suggestions are important to us and will be addressed in the order they were received.

Now get out there and have a successful day!

Max: I’m thinking of an animal that lives in the jungle, has black spots like polka-dots, and has VERY sharp teeth…

Ryan: A leapord?

Max: Nope.

Ryan: A cheetah?

Max: Nope.

Ryan: A tiger?

Max: Nope.

Ryan: I don’t know. Give me one more clue.

Max: It says, “Moooo!”

Ryan: A cow?

Max: Yes! A cow!

Hi there,

Just wanted to drop a note and let you know that I’m enjoying my break and rediscovering the world outside of Bloggerville. However, as is usually the case with me on vacations, I find myself anxious to return. Which is exactly what a good vacation should do for you, right? Bloggerville is a charming town, filled with nice people, and I hope that my little corner cafe with the comfy old chairs will be filled once again with your friendly faces when I get back.

Thanks for all of your kind words in the mean time, and thanks for being patient with me. Truly, thank you. I know some of you were worried about my mental health after my last post, so I want to assure you that I am not writing this from within the brightly lit walls of the mental hospital. This break was a good thing and is giving me what I hoped it would.

See you April 1! (Which is not an April Fool’s prank, by the way.)

Love,
Tiff

I’ve given this a lot of thought and I have decided to excuse myself out of the blogosphere for a while. I feel as though my life is beginning to tip out of balance and in order to regain control, I need to focus my time and energy on some other areas.

Don’t worry, nothing bad is going on. It’s just that I really, really like writing and reading blogs. And you know what happens with true love, it just grows and grows. I feel that if I don’t change something soon, I’ll end up the Amy Winehouse of Bloggerville, strung out on reading about somebody’s friend’s sister’s aunt’s cousin’s dog-trainer’s boyfriend and his pet hamster (do you read that one, too?) while my children starve to death and my vacuum becomes a coat rack. So, I’m cutting myself off right now cold turkey. Because I’ve always enjoyed cold turkey. With cranberry sauce.

I’m going to get a little distance, rub my eyes, breathe some fresh air and then nibble on a cookie while I figure out where/if this should fit in my life. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I’m not sure if I’ve graduated from blogging, having learned and gained everything I can from it; or if I’m headed on a sabbatical, to learn and grow in other areas, only to return a better blogger/writer. From where I stand right now I can’t tell, so I’ll ask you to be patient. And if I never come back, I’ll ask you to be understanding.

But I think I’ll be back.

If I semi-frequently left comments on your own blog, please accept my sincere thanks for brightening my life and allowing a peek into your world. And please don’t take it personally when I don’t comment. It’s not personal, not at all.

So, this is the part where we’re both standing here and I’ve said all I had to say, and you’re staring at me with a completely confused look. I’m going to tell myself that your confused look is because you care and not because you’ve zoned out and begun thinking about that episode of Project Runway when they made costumes for the lady wrestlers.

This is the part where I hug you and thank you for coming, and especially for caring. And if you’ve been coming for a long time, I’m holding both of your hands and reassuring you that there are plenty of other (and frankly, better) places to visit on the Internet and waste your employer’s time.

Thank you and so long………for now.

[Comments closed.]

After sending out all of my anti-winter CD mixes, I realized that one of the tracks has a certain four-letter word in it. I realized this as I was listening to my own copy in the car. And oddly enough, upon this realization, I uttered a four-letter word to express my embarrassment. Sorry everybody. May I offer a suggestion? If you choose to listen to the song, simply clear your throat or cough at the exact moment the word is sung. This is a little trick I learned from my older siblings who listened to a lot of raunchy rock music when I was little, like Dan Fogelberg and Air Supply.

I have thought about Leap Year a lot today and decided two things: first of all, it would be a good day to die. That way, your loved ones would only have to dwell on the anniversary every four years. Secondly, I’m thinking that there are probably some sneaky crimes that could be committed using Leap Day, like in the banking and money laundering sense. Are you following me? I think it would make a really cool movie starring Matt Damon.

For two days in a row, we have had actual sunshine producing actual heat. Yesterday I opened the windows and let the house breathe. And when I closed them at night, the house was all like, “You have no idea how much I needed that.”

I am sitting next to Ryan and Christian while they watch the Jazz game. I don’t do this very often because listening to my husband scream violently at the TV makes me nervous.

The dog ate another hole in the couch cushion. I really thought I had clearly conveyed my feelings about this to her the last time it happened. Somebody hide the steak knives and the sewing machine. Seriously.

Sleepy now. Goodnight.

If you haven’t already, you need to read my friend Alyssa’s blog. She’s been giving us serial installments of the story of her marriage and divorce that happened over ten years ago. Not only is it written beautifully, but I am also loving the mix of perspectives she shares from then and now.

I admire her for many reasons, but I especially admire her ability to share this story with such honesty and poise. Here are links to the story up to this point:

Part I: The Beginning
Part II: The Pressure
Part III: Ending the Courtship Phase
Part IV: The Proposal
Part V: The Engagement
Part VI: Wedding Eve
Part VII: Wedding Day

This will bring you up to speed, although I’m a little jealous that you’ll get to read it in one continuous flow instead of waiting semi-patiently for each installment and occasionally writing threatening letters demanding to know what happened next. In fact, that reminds me—time to write another threatening letter!

In general, I avoid my local post office. First of all, when we built our house we didn’t have postal service for a few months while we waited for our community mailbox to be installed. Which meant that all of our mail was held at the post office. Which meant that we had to go at least a few times a week to pick it up. Which meant that there were several other people in the same boat. Which meant that there were always long lines. Which meant that I always left there feeling kind of homicidal.

Perhaps I was spoiled by my last local post office. It was charming and efficient all at once. I don’t remember standing in line for more than a few minutes. Ever.

But those days were over once I moved. The line at my post office is always long. Always. And it never moves. I have actually attended three impromptu birthday parties and one funeral in that line.

There was only one time I went to the post office and the line was short. Two customers were being helped at the two open registers and there was only one(!) person in line in front of me. I was there to mail my brother-in-law’s Christmas present in mid-December and when I walked in and saw the lack of crowd, I nearly declared it a Christmas miracle. As it turned out, I was in that line for over thirty minutes. More than a half-hour. Behind one person. Listening to one of the cashiers discuss with his customer how the boundaries of the postal offices had changed over the last couple of years. Fascinating. I thought I might slam my head in the letter drop to relieve my frustration.

So, today, when I went to the post office to mail off the anti-winter CD mixes, I had low expectations. I took three ibuprofen and an entire bottle of St. John’s Wort before I left. When I got there, I worked as quickly as I could to pack and address my small mountain of padded envelopes before I got in line. When I saw two old ladies enter the doors, I grabbed my unfinished pile and ran to the line to make sure I had a place before them. I didn’t have time to give them CPR or dialysis if I got stuck behind them for three weeks.

By the time I was done addressing and stuffing, I was called to an open register. So far, so gooooood!

I made small talk with the cashier as he printed postage for each of my packages.

“Photos in these?” he asked.

“CDs actually,” I said.

“CDs,” he said.

“Yep,” I said.

“CDs are almost extinct, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, probably not too long.”

“I can’t stand the way technology works today. Everything is outdated within a year or two. Pretty soon I won’t be able to watch my old black-and-white TV. Everything is digital and there won’t be anymore analog.”

I had no idea if this was true, but I nodded and said, “Yeah, it’s pretty crazy.”

“It’s like the government has a conspiracy. We’re all forced to go out and buy the newest TVs just to get reception. And those new TVs,” he said as he peered over his reading glasses at me, “I bet they have cameras in them.”

Oh dear.

I gave a polite chuckle, just in case my postal worker friend was exhibiting his extremely dry sense of humor.

“I’m serious,” he said.

Of course he was.

He still had two envelopes to stamp, so I kept my cool and did my best to validate him. After all, if there’s anything I understand about postal employees, it’s this—keep them happy. I agreed that it was highly likely that there are cameras installed in all new TVs, that I’d heard it was true from several of the voices in my head and that I’d also read about it in the hidden code on the overhead menu at Wendy’s. (Sometimes living with a psychologist comes in SO handy. I speak pretty fluent paranoid schizophrenia.)

I walked out a few minutes later without incident, shaking my head at yet another local post office adventure. I mean, really! Hidden cameras in the TVs? Some people are so crazy!

I unlocked my door, checked under the car for any men with knives waiting to slice my ankles, got in, inspected the backseat for bombs, drove off, ran only two red lights to lose the car that was following me, and managed to show up right in time for my secret Sisters of the Protective Order meeting. I ran inside to avoid being noticed by the suspicious old woman across the street and to tell everybody about the crazy guy at the post office. I knew the gals would love that story!

For those of you who entered my Winter Angst Poetry Contest, I have finally(!) created the Anti-Winter CD mix I promised for the honorable mention poets! If you haven’t already, e-mail me your address and I’ll send these out right away.

And—AND—just because I’m having a good hair day, I’ll send out five extra CDs to anybody who’d like one. Be one of the first five to e-mail me at tiffany[at]wouldbewritersguild[dot]com and you’ll get your own without having to write one word of poetry!