Six Days Later

When six days have passed since my last post about having nothing to say, and I have nothing to add...you know it's bad.

I must recommend a movie I saw on Friday night - "The Bucket List" with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman. Very, very fun and quite touching. Almost any adult would enjoy it, I'm sure. The scenery alone makes it worth going to see on the 'big screen.'

It's my week to run the carpool, and it's been unusually snowy. Brrrrr. I'm cold pretty much all of the time - could be an iron deficiency, I'm thinking. I am shivering as I type this! And I'm even wearing a sweater.

My man Mitt lost Florida tonight to John McCain, whose appeal is inexplicable to me. If we Republicans nominate McCain and the Democrats nominate Obama, it will look like "Weekend at Bernies" during the debates. We may even have to prop him up. I don't get it. But I do have faith in the process and I suppose everything will work out all right, no matter how it ends. (At times like this, I have to remind myself that it is NOT the end of the world, and, anyway, it's out of my control.)

I have done two things consistently since January 1st: 1) I have avoided drinking Coca-Cola entirely, and 2) I have written a brief summary of the day's events in my journal each day. Scott gave me an appointment book for Christmas because I liked the artwork in it, and since I had already printed my own 2008 planner, I decided I would use it as a journal. The daily space is not large enough to intimidate me, so I jot down a few lines each night before I turn out the light. It's quite satisfying. I suppose I'm just the nostalgic, sentimental type.

Goodnight.

I Have Nothing to Say

It's frightening to sit down at the computer, ready and willing to blog about SOMEthing, and realize...I have nothing to say.

I suppose I could comment on the weather: cold, gray tundra.

The tiger moon last night: huge, round, and orange, rising from the cleft between two mountains, striped with thin clouds.

The calm expertise of my dentist, who quietly regards my decaying mouth as a professional challenge, patiently repairing all its potholes.

The popularity contest that has replaced the political process. I heard recently that we will never have a president again who is not attractive enough for television. Anderson Cooper indicates that my candidate, Mitt Romney (Yes, I am a Mitten), is not hip enough to be president. He and others liken Mitt to a character from "Leave It to Beaver" -- Ward Cleaver or Eddie Haskel, take your pick. And Tucker Carlson says that no one, NO ONE, in the press corps following Mitt Romney likes him.

Could the press dislike Romney for one of the following reasons:

1) As journalists, the press corps is comprised primarily of democrats. They are pre-disposed not to like any Republican, and Mitt is the quentessential Republican.

2) Mitt doesn't give his press detail enough breaks. He is on the move, working much harder than they'd like to be working. It's hard for them to keep up with all of his campaign appearances; they can't even sleep in.

3) The press corps does not understand the concept of public service. They are suspicious: Why does Mitt Romney want to be president so badly that he contributes much of his own money and all of his time? There must be something in it for him - at the very least, power and ego-gratification.

4) Mitt's press detail does not have enough opportunities to party. They do not travel in a Straight Talk Express bus with open access to the mini bar. It's bores-ville.

5) Mitt's press detail has little hope of uncovering anything juicy or controversial. Mitt is happy, successful, and squeaky clean. The worst dirt Edward Kennedy could find on him during his senatorial campaign was that he and Ann had never had to struggle financially like most Americans. (Of course neither had the Kennedys, but, hey, they were the Kennedys, and anyway, it worked.)

Maybe I shouldn't have gotten started on politics. I do try to avoid politics on my blog.

Maybe I should write about laundry (I could make my whole blog about laundry) or writing (and how to avoid working on actual writing projects) or how much my dog dislikes the groomer or how much I'm looking forward to spring or how great it is to be a mom.

I could write about any of those subjects, but I won't -- not this time. Thanks for checking in.

On Dogs

I dedicate this blog entry to our sweet-as-pie dog, Sherpa, who was on my lap just a few minutes ago. A few thoughts about dogs...

Dogs boost our self-esteem; cats make us feel inadequate. They sit in judgment. A dog finds us innocent until proven guilty - and even then treats us as though we were innocent. A cat, on the other hand, finds us guilty until proven innocent - and even then treats us as if we were guilty. - George Howe Colt

A dog, like a human being, is a flawed and messy creature, an amiable galumpher that cleans your coffee table with one sweep of its tail. Grace rarely ranks high among its virtues. Who ever heard of a dog burglar? A cat, on the other hand, is the closest thing to perfection we are likely to encounter in our imperfect lives....Owning a cat, unlike owning a dog, it has been said, is not a utilitarian pleasure; it is an aesthetic one. A dog...is prose. A cat is poetry. -- Anne Fadiman

Epitaph: Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all of the virtues of man without his vices. This phrase, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Boatswain, a dog, who was born at Newfoundland May 1803 and died at Newstead Abbey November 18, 1808. -- George Gordon Lord Byron 1788-1824

A Post-Holiday Mood Swing

I am basically an even-keeled person, one who is optimistic most of the time. I generally believe that life is progressing as it should and that things will turn out okay, despite occasional negative thoughts and minor setbacks, but lately I’ve been experiencing mood swings – the slow moving kind of mood swings. Picture a schoolyard swing blowing in the wind, whining, like schoolyard swings do.

The night before my son was to return to school after New Year’s I made a general apology to our ‘nuclear family’ for complaining my way through the holidays. The apology was quickly accepted – Abby even gave me a warm hug – but no one denied very convincingly that I had been a grouch. I’d had moments of good cheer and laughter, of course, but almost everything about the holidays this year had seemed like an uphill battle. One event done, no time to rest, now onto the next. And I found myself falling short over and over again, arriving late, forgetting this or that, failing to send out Christmas cards, and not making many of my usual phone calls. Was it passive-aggressive behavior or human behavior? Was I overwhelmed by outside forces beyond my control, or did I bring all of the stress and malaise upon myself? Surely it was the latter, but why?

Who was I trying to impress? Everyone, I guess (especially myself, the hardest to impress of all).

First there was decorating the house for Christmas: a dozen boxes came out of the woodwork (quite literally) into a home already brimming with people and their people things. Then there was list-making, then shopping, then ‘preparing’ in all other ways to keep up with the traditions we’ve accumulated over the years: a company front of nutcrackers (one for each year), a large village on top the piano, recitals, parties, a mother-daughter book club, an all-women’s book club, St. Niklaus Day, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir Christmas Concert, gifts to be shipped, neighbor gifts, teacher gifts, office gifts, a family dinner Christmas Eve, Danish elf porridge, a nice breakfast Christmas morning, carefully selected presents under the tree, Christmas Day at Grandpa’s house toting presents to and fro, and a family party Christmas night. Throw in a few houseguests and some out-of-town relatives that I wanted to spend time with and you begin to sense my growing dissatisfaction. In my book it’s a good thing that ‘Christmas comes but once a year’ as much as we may think we’d like to have it semi-annually.

In between events I intercepted Christmas cards from the mailbox full of lovely letters and pictures of friends and college roommates and their families, all looking balanced and serene (probably taken in July), while I felt frantic, even robotic at times. Maybe it just wasn’t my year this year for Christmas. Maybe it was hormones or sun spots or politics.

I went into the season with a determined attitude and plenty of lists to see me through, but I knew going in that the holidays would be bittersweet at best. My oldest son will be leaving this spring on a two-year mission, and soon after he comes back, my second son will be going. This Christmas, in a practical sense, was to be quite possibly our last as one little family without in-laws or grandchildren or separation. And now it’s January and Christmas is gone.

I feel another mood swing coming on.

And now I’ve complained my way through an entire post on top of an entire Christmas season. I hope I’m not depressing anyone.

Maybe the whole premise of my desire to have ‘one last’ perfect Christmas was awry from the beginning. No one can bottle this year’s Christmas magic as a hedge against future Christmases that might not deliver. Maybe Christmas ought to come with a window sticker like a used car: as is. Take it or leave it. Celebrant beware.

Maybe in 2008 I will learn to take each Christmas as it comes. And maybe, now that it’s January 14th (!!!), I will just allow myself to quietly move on.

Another Poem...in a Poetry Phase, I suppose

In searching my quote collection for a new email signature, I re-encountered this lovely poem. The author is unknown, but some experts think it may have been written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

It probably appealed to me today because it hints at spring...and all around me everything is covered in snow and ice.

This poem reminds me that as much as I admire nature, I do not experience it in a quiet, personal way enough.


The little cares that fretted me
I lost them yesterday
Among the fields, above the sea,
Among the winds at play,
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees,
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.

The foolish fears of what might happen,
I cast them all away,
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new-mown hay,
Among the husking of the corn,
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born--
Out in the fields with God.

Emerging from the Fog

I am emerging from the fog that is the holidays. Christmas is slowly coming down, even more slowly than it went up. The pantry and refrigerator have been restored to operational order. I am almost caught up with laundry. My husband, in desparation, cleaned the master bathroom yesterday, but I should be on top of things soon. (Not that there's anything out of the ordinary about Scott helping out -- he just usually has more patience.)

I find that I can only 'blog' in earnest when most of the systems of my life are working. They have been idle lately, but I have a great hope that this week everything will get 'back to normal.'

So, readers, if you are out there, thank you for checking in. I will reward your attentiveness with a pretty picture for your viewing pleasure (taken in Columbus, Indiana on a family vacation in 2005), but check back soon for actual commentary.