Giggles

This picture made me chuckle today.
As today's reading is all about the Inca and the Aztecs, I needed a chuckle.

gorillas, peanut butter, and sex--oh my!

It has been a fascinating 24 hours in my house.

Scene: dinner table. Mom, dad, seven-year-old, and four-year-old are sitting around the table. In between fighting over bites of vegetables and impending dessert arrival time, four-year-old asks:

FYO: Who were the first people?
SYO: Adam and Eve! Duh!
FYO: So everyone comes from Adam and Eve?
D: Sure. Eat your cucumber.
FYO: I don't want to eat my cucumber.
D: Eat your cucumber.
(beat)
FYO: So who created Adam and Eve?
(beat)
SYO: God did.
FYO: Okay. Did God create everyone?
SYO: No. God created Adam and Eve, and then they created people, and those people created Moses and other people from the Bible. Right Daddy?
D: Sure. Eat your cucumber.
SYO: I ate my cucumber. I want dessert.
M: So, kiddos, that's one way of looking at it--God creating Adam and Eve and so on. But other people believe that we all come from apes. And gorillas.
(silence)
FYO: Really? Our great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandparents were gorillas?
M: That's what some people think.
SYO: So who's right?
(silence)
D: No one knows. Scientists are still trying to figure it out. Now eat your cucumber.

(12 hours later, at the same table, SYO is eating a waffle and M is making a peanut butter sandwich)
SYO (picking up a baby toy lying on the table): I thought we were giving this away.
M: I wanted to save it. My mom bought me one when I was a baby, and I bought you one when you were a baby, and I want to save it to give to you when you have a baby--if you choose to have a baby.
SYO: Choose?
M: (closing peanut butter jar) Yes.
SYO: You can choose to have a baby?
M: Yes. Not everyone has babies.
SYO: Really? How do you choose?
M: Some people decide they want to have children, and other people decide they don't.
SYO: Yes, but how do you choose to have one?
M: You just do.
SYO: You're not answering my question.
(beat)
M: Oh. You want to know how it happens.
SYO: Yes.
M: Ummm, okay, well, let me see (nervous giggle).
SYO: It's okay Mom, if you don't know the answer.
M: I know the answer! I'm just trying to think of the best way to answer the question without giving you too much information that you don't need.
SYO: It's okay if you don't want to answer it.
M: I do. Okay, so when two people love each other very much, they decide to have a baby.
SYO: How?
M: Well, a woman has an egg inside her and a man has sperm inside him. And the egg and the sperm get together, and the baby grows inside the woman's tummy for nine months.
SYO: (sighing loudly) Mom, you aren't hearing my question. You aren't answering my question.
M: You want to know how the egg and the sperm get together?
SYO: Yes!
(long beat)
M: The man puts his penis inside the woman's vagina and the sperm goes to find the egg. Okay?
SYO: Okay.
(silence)
M: Do you have any other questions?
SYO: No.
(silence)
M: Because if you do you can ask me. I'd rather give you the information than you learning it from your friends at school... or a book.
SYO (rolling her eyes): Mom.
(long beat)
M: So, do you want applesauce or oranges in your lunch today?

Fin

I can't make this stuff up. Really.

Now I'm Hungry

Just finished watching Julie and Julia, the movie from the memoir by Julie Powell about cooking 524 of Child's recipes in one year. I loved it! I thought it would be slow and boring but it was charming. I did not realize that Nora Ephron wrote the screenplay. I should have known I would love it just from that--she wrote When Harry Met Sally..., one of my favorite movies of all time (yes, I'm a sap).

I think my favorite scene is at the end, when an image of Child's kitchen at the Smithsonian Institute (I have seen this, but now feel like I need to go back and view it again) dissolves into a scene with Child receiving her published book in the mail. Unless the production company was able to film on location at the Smithsonian, their set dressers did an outstanding job. I haven't researched enough to know where they filmed.

Streep was a class act (big surprise). And Amy Adams was wonderful--no trace of Giselle from Enchantment anywhere. What a sweet film, and a great way to start a long weekend.

Annette's Life Work

Well, one of many of her life's work. She has a husband, a son, three stepdaughters, has published a memoir, writes on a regular basis, maintains a yoga practice, and volunteers with too many organizations to list. I miss her!
Read about her latest venture--touching the lives of those with Alzheimers through the power of writing--and throw some positive vibes her way. Not that she needs them, but they're always good to have!

My Yoga Experiment

Everyday, I pass by a yoga studio called Down Dog Yoga. The sign for the studio has a cute puppy on it. As an on-again, off-again yoga-doer (yogi?), I was happy to see a yoga studio within walking distance of work. I checked out the studio online for class offerings and pricing, ventured in the doors to observe the facility itself, and ultimately decided to enroll in a one-week free trial session.

That cute puppy is very, very deceiving.

That cute puppy is a devil dog in disguise.

I left my office fifteen minutes before class was scheduled to start. It was raining, I was walking. I lugged my gym bag, yoga mat, and ashtanga mat through the rain to the studio, filled out the requisite paperwork, and headed to the changing room. That was somewhat of a misnomer--the site claimed the studio had changing facilities and showers. The studio had, in fact, what amounted to one oversized bathroom designed to handle someone in a wheelchair, with cubbies attached to one wall. There was one toilet stall, and one shower tucked into the corner. At least it was clean, if not private.

Normally, I wouldn't care about the shower situation, but I was heading back to work after my "power hour" class.

I should have stopped myself at the words "power hour." I should know better than to try anything that mixes power and yoga. But I couldn't help it. I took Jennifer Gleason's yoga class at the YMCA in Dayton twice a week for almost a year, and Jen had the mix of power and yoga down to a science. There was enough vinyasa, or flow, to make it count for a cardio workout and enough ashtanga options to keep it interesting and keep me working. But the core of yoga--the idea of moving with breath and intention, becoming mindful--was still front and center in Jen's class. I keep trying to find a replica in this area and I keep coming up short.

I should add here that I have been practicing yoga for more than nine years off and on. I would hardly consider myself an expert, but I have been through my fair share of teachers and styles. My introduction to yoga was via VHS tape: Patricia Walden's Yoga for Beginners produced by Gaiam. My foray into yoga was solid, and I recommend the tape and all of its offspring for anyone looking to begin a yoga practice. Walden is a follower of Iyengar yoga, which focuses on making sure you understand the pose, how to get into it, how to get out of it, and most importantly, how to align your body correctly and use props if you need to.

After countless hours working on poses in my family room, and kicking the couch over and over again, I decided to try a class at a now-defunct studio in Cincinnati. I cannot remember the instructor's name, but I remember being floored that the doughy woman in front of me had the strength and flexibility to wrap her body in specific ways and complete advanced poses. The classes were not expensive, but they weren't very convenient.

The second class I attended was at my high school alma mater. It was taught in the old wrestling room by a woman that was probably as old as the mats that cushioned our bodies beneath the poses. Her name was Winnie, and she was wiry. I think I found the class through the continuing education program at the school; it regularly drew more than fifty participants, which could have been because Winnie was a great teacher, but was probably most likely due to the fact that she never took attendance, and thus we were never charged for her class. We were supposed to be on the honor system, signing up on some website, paying by the quarter. I don't think many people did.

I was probably my most flexible under Winnie's tutelage. She pushed us gently but firmly to find our edges and roll through them if we could. She also believed that all of life's ailments were due to the body's basic elements being out of whack. She regularly said to her students: "That belly? That's because you have too much fire in your being." She was older so people let it slide. It was in Winnie's class that I learned that farting can be a big part of yoga. The smells of the old wrestling room and its mats, with years of high school boys' sweat ground into their fibers, along with the sweating and occasionally farting bodies of the fifty plus people in the class, made for a mix I won't forget in a hurry.

I wanted more so I attended a class at Winnie's condo, but the experience creeped me out. Around that time, I became pregnant with my first child, and decided that rolling over my edges probably wasn't such a great idea.

I found Cincinnati Yoga School (which appears to have changed hands since I attended classes there) across from my gym at the time. The classes weren't cheap, but I wasn't sure how to go about exercising while pregnant, and the prenatal yoga class instructor seemed to have it all figured out. I loved my prenatal yoga, with all its props and gentle stretches. It was the only time in nine months that I got to lie on my back, and it was heaven. Unfortunately, the advice I got while practicing there was not to do any cardio--that yoga would be enough to keep me in shape while I was pregnant. Um, not if you have oreo cravings. I continued throughout my pregnancy and even took my infant daughter to postnatal, Mommy and Me, yoga classes, but I found that I really wanted the time I spent on the mat to focus inward, not to glance over my shoulder from triangle pose and wonder if my infant was about to wake up or needed a diaper change.

I continued to try to take classes at CYS when I could find the time. I also tried other classes, including power yoga at Bally Total Fitness (the gym I was a member from about 1990 to 200something). I hated the power yoga at the gym because it was more like an exercise class with yoga poses thrown in once in a while for strength training. It wasn't yoga. I tried a pilates mat class there too, and I felt too uncoordinated to do my body any good.

I started running, and yoga fell by the wayside. I would occasionally practice a little to relieve aching, but I didn't make it a regular thing. I got pregnant with my second child and kept doing as much cardio as I could, determined not to gain as much weight as I did with my first. I dropped into the occasional prenatal yoga class at CYS, hoping to regain my bliss, but it was hard to find the time to do it, what with writing and parenting my two-and-a-half-year-old.

Then we moved to Dayton, and I found Jen and the right balance between running and yoga. And writing. I was writing a ton. All was well in my world (as well as could be expected with two children under the age of three).

Then we moved to Fairfax.

I tried to find a  yoga studio that would give me an experience like Jen's class. Fortunately, there was one a few minutes down the road from my house: Sun and Moon Yoga Studio. They also had a work-exchange program, which fit right into my lifestyle at the time. I worked a shift on Sunday night, from 5:45 to 8 or so, and in exchange, I earned two hours of class time. I dropped into different classes, trying to find one that fit. Sun and Moon is a Hatha studio--it is more like Iyengar than anything else I've seen, so I thought it might be a good fit and bring me back to my roots. The first class I tried was just boring--I almost fell asleep. I clearly needed something more challenging. I ramped up to a higher-level class and found the arm balances and held inversion poses to be too much. I wanted to be challenged but not feel like I was completely out of my depth.

I found Audra's class--a Vinyasa class that was a good fit, providing me the flow I wanted with the stillness and introspection I needed. Unfortunately, her schedule changed and I was no longer able to make her class. I decided to throw myself into an adult tap dancing class instead, but my husband's schedule made regular attendance next to impossible. And I was the most advanced student in the class, which is really saying something (not a positive something either).

To sum up, Down Dog appeared and I walked around the idea for several months, wondering if I was ready to get back to the mat. Some days, by the luck of the schedule, the only time I have to work out is actually during work. So I haul my bag into work, change, and do a couple of laps outside around the building complex. How cool would it be, I thought to myself, to be able to fill in with a yoga class on nonrunning days? And a yoga class that's across from work, that I could walk to, and not have to schedule a babysitter or make sure that my husband was available to watch the kids.

I squared my shoulders and entered the studio. And was hit with a blast of hot air. Not warm air--hot air. Apparently, this trend--adding heat to exercise to make it cleansing--it not new. I have several Facebook friends who practice Bikram yoga and profess to love it. Bikram is hot yoga. In this case, the studio was between 90 and 95 degrees. I took a few minutes to try to acclimate myself to the heat, wondering if it was dry or wet heat, wondering if I would be able to do regular yoga breathing in the room.

I decided to give myself over to the practice and not judge. I would adapt. I'd been with enough instructors, tried enough classes and styles--whatever it was, I would be fine.

Not so in evil Down devil Dog world.

The tiny blonde teacher, Alison, entered the room with a smile on her face. Her lean body didn't betray a wiggle as she lowered herself to her mat and turned off the music. "Why so serious?" she questioned the woman next to me, who had clearly been through this before. There was no centering, no cleansing breath. In a word, we were up on our feet and reaching for the sky.

Alison looked small and mighty but sounded like Jack Kerouac teaching yoga:
"Go with it, man."
"Just dig where you are."
"Open your body. Feel the flow."
"It's now. It's right here, in this room."

If you haven't already, go back and reread those lines in a surfer/stoner voice in your head. For sixty minutes.

She alternated this monologue with calling out poses, rapid-fire. "Bend and fold. Back to plank. Lower to shattaranga, hold, BREATHE. Up dog. Inhale. Exhale. Down dog."

"Five!" she would bark. "Lift the right leg and roll the hip open. Four! Open your body to the breath flowing through it. Three! Feel the stretch between your two legs, grinding into the floor, man. TWO! Feel it, feel it... ONE! Release your leg back to the mat." Her voice deepened with each descending number.

On and on it went, through vinyasa after vinyasa. Sweat poured off my head, and rolled down into my eyes or onto my ashtanga mat. We covered sun salutations and the warrior series. We moved from triangle to chair to high and low lunges, side angle to revolved triangle, eagle and tree. Seated poses provided no relief--bow, pigeon, wheel, bridge--each pose four times or more. Alison's voice droning, counting off, pushing us to find more stretch in our bodies, reminding us to breathe.

Finally, after a series of core strengthening crunches that had nothing to do with yoga, alternated with progressive bridge and wheel poses, and an inversion thrown in for good measure, it was time for savasana--corpse pose. Aptly named. Five minutes of silence, five minutes of breathing. Five minutes of wondering why in the hell I walked through the door of the studio in the first place.

And then it was over, as quickly as it began. Students were clapping, applauding the torture. The woman behind me told me that she taught classes there on Tuesdays and Thursdays, that the "Power Hour" I had just finished was a 90-minute class crammed into 60 minutes. The instructor wandered over to me and told me that I did a great job, and then held my gaze. "And you're coming back on Wednesday, right? And Friday?"

I entertained the notion. After all, I had a free week. Despite the sweat and the grunting and the general insanity of the class, I felt pretty good. I was a survivor.

And then I woke up the next morning (yesterday). When the alarm went off at 6:20, I decided to go for a quick run--again, the only time during the day I could squeeze it in--and I failed. A mile and a half in, I bagged it completely and crawled over to the bike, hoping to finish my cardio there. Just getting on the bike hurt. It hurt to lift my towel and dry my hair. It hurt to sit, it hurt to stand. Even my feet hurt, begging to be released from the confines of my shoes (as I write this, my sandals are under my desk and my feet are reveling in their open-air freedom).

Today, I gave myself a pass. As it stands, my triceps are rebelling against the length of this entry. I am "resting," hoping my body comes back for my run tomorrow. Saturday is my first race in almost 18 months. I figured a quick yoga class on Monday wouldn't interfere. How wrong I was....

What have I learned? "Power" and "yoga" do not belong in the same sentence if I am going to be a happy camper. Tiny people can have huge, army drill-sergeant voices. And never, never, ever trust a cute dog on a logo.

That is all.

Award Finalist!

The book I helped edit is up for an award!

Sure it would be nice to win, but as heard ad infinitum during Oscar week, "it's a honor to be nominated."

Why I Love My Son

We spent all day Sunday together, which hasn't happened in a very long time, and I had a great time with him and his sister (shout out to the friends we hung out with all day, ensuring the kiddos had buddies to play with).

My favorite moment? My son is getting out of the backseat of the car and leans over, holding a pose similar to Warrior 3, but with his standing leg bent and his arms out to the sides instead of over his head. He then says, "Mom, look! I'm a fossil!"

"A fossil?" I query, trying hard not to laugh.

"Yes," he replies. "A deinonychus fossil."

Priceless.

Then, five minutes later.

"Mom, do you know what I want to be when I grow up?"

"What?"

"A praying mantis."

Even now, I'm laughing. Oh, to be four and believe that you could grow up to be an insect! :)

I am so over pollen

In honor of being home sick with some sort of sinus almost-infection, I am going to indulge in a rant. If you don't care to read, you can hit "Next Blog" at the top of the page, and I won't be offended. I promise.

You have been warned.

I am so over pollen.
I am so over mold that grows inside and outside.
I am so over everything that makes me sneeze and makes me feel like I am hearing/seeing/feeling things in a tunnel.

I am so over my closer-to-five-than-four-year-old not pooping on the potty. And my husband's attitude toward it, which will probably send my son to therapy and me back to therapy with him. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I was hoping not to fuck my kids up this early on.

I am so over my job and the silent treatment from certain members of my team, who would prefer that I find commas and misplaced modifiers and leave the thinking to them, since they are so superior and learned and have been at the company so much longer than me. Know what? Just because it's the way it's always been doesn't mean it's right.

I am so over QCing test migrations, which is even more brainless than finding comma faults.

And I am ETERNALLY over the pimp getting $13 for every hour I work, for doing nothing except getting me the job nearly two years ago.

I am over the politicking that permeates this city, the people who don't want to look at you if you don't have a master's degree or top-secret security clearance.

I miss my writing circle and having the time to write. It is unbelievably frustrating to be stuck at a desk for seven hours a day, keys under your fingers, and not write.

I am over the dirty-borderline-disgusting bathrooms in our house that no one will clean except for me. Hint: wiping down the vanity with a baby wipe does not count as cleaning.

I am so over my hip and my body not letting me run the distances I used to be able to run.

I am so over hipsters who come up with new words like "fupa," giving me yet another thing to obsess over.

I am over soccer practice, dance recitals, and dinosaur songs. I'm over cooking things within my points allowance, eating lettuce twice a day, and getting my 60 minutes in because the ACE says I should.

I am over American Idol running long and my DVR cutting off the end of Glee,
Assholes in pick-up trucks in Reston who curse at me for accidentally rolling forward while trying to reverse up a hill,
Dreams where I have to watch my mother die again,
Stupid kids' shows
dirty laundry
punctuation
diet soda
grass clippings
people who jet to italy for business meetings
taking vacations that aren't vacations
and this rant.

Now why don't I feel better?

Craptastic

From the Washington Post Politics newsletter (cited as the quote of the day):

Sarah Palin, speaking at a tea party rally in Boston:

"Is this what their change is all about? We'll tell 'em, 'Nah, we'll keep clinging to our Constitution and our guns and our religion. You can keep the change."

Don'tcha just love her?

Now, Now Mr. Biden

QUOTE OF THE DAY

Vice President Joe Biden to President Obama, shortly before the president signed the health-care bill into law: "This is a big f**kin' deal."

This is from the Washington Post: Politics newsletter. It just makes me smile.

Obama to speak at George Mason University

A progression of thoughts flew through my head this morning as I headed to work down Braddock Rd. In some semblance of an order they were:
1. Man, it's gorgeous out and it sucks that I have to be in the office today (I normally work from home on Fridays and can escape during the noon hour for a bit of sunshine).
2. Man, it sucks that I have to fight rush hour traffic on a Friday morning full of sunshine.
3. Why in the hell is rush hour traffic this stacked on Braddock Rd.?
4. Oh yeah, didn't I see something about a discussion of health care at George Mason this week?
5. Today? That's today? I wanted to tune into that. Crap. I have to work.
6. Wait, Obama is actually going to be at George Mason this morning?

Numerous signs posted around the entrance to campus reminded people of "heavy event traffic" in the area. The ginormous electronic billboard outside GMU somehow managed to capture the president's likeness, and the words "9 a.m. Health Care" loomed somewhere in the text below the image. I glanced at the dash. 8:28 a.m. Sigh. Sigh for forgetting that the discussion was happening (and thus planning accordingly, as it was open to the public and it would have been nice to have been there, as it was a Friday, and I don't usually go into the office on Fridays (see #1 above)) and for forgetting to take an alternate route to work.

7. Why are there people holding signs on the street corner outside GMU?
8. Oh yeah, there are people who don't like the legislation that is being debated.
9. Dear god, I hope they're not birthers. Are there any birthers out there still? I read a headline about Hawaii having new stringent rules about birth certificates because of the birthers.
10. Hawaii. That would be a nice place to visit sometime. But it's way expensive. And I don't snorkel.
11. Oh, it's only a few people--no massive protest. People in this area are relatively bright and understand that health care needs to be reformed.

I watch the succession of lights turn green, inch the car forward, turn red, and stop the car.

12. A few more inches and I will actually be able to read these hand-letter signs.
13. "Gerry + Pelosi = Conspiracy" What? Gerry? Oh, Connolly. Conspiracy? Seriously? Dude, whatever.
14. "Bigger government means smaller Americans." Okay, if you say so. These aren't...
15. Wait a minute. Holy crap. What is that?

Three people, one clearly a just-graduated or fairly young college student, presumably with his parents, come around the corner holding posterboards with a face on them. At first glance, it appears the face is that of Obama in white face.

16. Well, that's offensive. Can you imagine if someone put Bush in black face? I can't believe that they would... oh wait. That's supposed to be the Joker. As in, Heath Ledger's Joker. I can tell by the different-colored mouth. That's kind of stupid. Insulting, yes, but stupid. What if people read this as Obama in white face? And he's being called a cracker or an oreo or something?
17. Why am I spending so much time on these damn signs?
18. This traffic sucks.
19. [on sign with Obama as Joker] "Health care is not a right."

I slam on the brakes, narrowly missing the car in front of me.

20. What? What?! I'm sorry, what? Do you not have a grown child standing next to you? Is that child alive and well because you probably have health insurance and were able to take him to the doctor for preventive care and as well as when he got sick? What? Health care is not a right?!!!!
21. Let me out of this car. I will give this idiot a piece of my mind.
22. Damn, green light.
23. Damn, I'm so pissed, I could spit nails. Literally. Spit nails.
24. Health care is not a right? Seriously?

I drive for ten minutes, half-listening to NPR.

25. Since when is health care not a right?

Another ten minutes. Steve Inskeep is on assignment. Renee Montaigne is taking his spot.

26. Every person in this country has a right to be healthy. It's up to them whether or not they make healthy choices. And thus, every person a right to health care.

I pull into the parking lot at work, gather my computer, purse, lunch bag, and sanity.

27. I hope this bill passes. I hope we can move forward. I hope the man who thinks that health care is not a right never finds himself on the opposite side of the fence, being denied services in a timely manner because his insurance has lapsed or he can no longer afford the premiums.
28. Let's end this endless debate and move the HELL on.

Edited to add: Apparently, the image is old news and I am not at the cutting edge of the blogosphere. Now there's a surprise.

Why I love woot.com

Who else would write this stuff?

Egyptian Cotton 800 Thread Count Sateen Sheet Set

$74.99

• + shipping

Cover your bed in Egyptian cotton! Warning: if you’ve got an Israeli mattress, they’ll be thrown off in about about six days.

Best thing I found on the internet today

Okay, now I have to go reread Book 7.

March 1st, 2010

Staffer 1: So after surviving five heart attacks we’ve realized that Dick Cheney is immortal, correct?
Staffer 2: No, we’ve decided that there are only two horcruxes left.
Staffer 1: Where’s Neville when you need him?
–DC Think Tank

I love Eavesdrop DC.

Today, I was her

Today I was "her" at the gym.
You know.
The one who sweats and stinks.
You can see her clammy skin.
The beads of sweat on her bare shoulders,
Taunting you on your treadmill,
Saying "You should be working harder--
Like her."

Today I was her.
In sweat, if not in body or in glances.
Inside, I was a lithe ironwoman
with 10% bodyfat,
racing in the wind,
perfect stride,
hair billowing freely behind me,
muscles glistening.

britelite 6

So my SIL (love ya!) told me about this cool SAD-busting light. I ordered it and was so excited when it came. When I took it out of the box, however, only one side worked. I paid for 10,000 lux and I only got 5000. So I am sending it back to Philips. I hope it won't take them two weeks to send me a replacement. It might be my imagination but I did have slightly more energy last night after two 30-minute bouts with 5000 lux.

my favorite thing of the day

Tooth fairy fail

Funny because we too have dropped the ball when it comes to retrieving the teeth. The backpedaling when you forget is tough, believe me. I have even had to email the tooth fairy to ask her to come.

Welcome to the Jungle

Photos from DCist show just how nuts everyone in the Washington Metropolitan area has become.

We hit the Burke Target today on the way home (around 11:30 a.m., when the snow was just starting to stick) and found plenty on the shelves. Granted, it doesn't have a full grocery section, but still. Plenty of chocolate and other necessities for three days of being shut in.

No show shovels, winter boots, or sleds to be had, however. DS will have to cope with rain boots if he chooses to play in the snow. If we choose to sled, it might be on a trash can lid, which isn't very smooth (handle). Thankfully, I have two shovels in the garage, ready to go tomorrow.

Staying warm, calm, playing games, and hoping the power stays on....

Has he been watching Grey's Anatomy?

Akio Toyoda apologizes....

fighting

I am fighting a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and in my heart. I don't know why--nothing specific has happened other than the snow. Today was very gray and that never helps. We are supposed to get more than a foot more snow this weekend. It's DH's birthday on Saturday and he doesn't want to do anything special. We looked for a play or musical to go see and couldn't find anything we both liked. Since he has to be so careful with diet and exercise, he doesn't want a cake or a special meal. How are we supposed to celebrate?

I didn't sleep well, which never helps. DS crawled into bed with us at some untold hour in the early morning, and from 6 a.m. on, he tossed and turned and kept his toes in the waistband of my pajamas, right in my butt crack. What a lovely way to wake up. When he finally left, DH rolled over and pinned me on my quarter of the bed. No sleep for me. And since there was no school, and there was shoveling, and daycare, and shorter daycare hours, there was no workout today, which also never helps.

I know, there are legions of people who regularly rise before 6 a.m. and don't want to hear my bitching. I am not one of those people. I have trouble functioning on less than eight hours of sleep. I have had all sorts of body chemistry tests done to make sure that hormones and other physical issues are not to blame for my lack of functioning on less than 8 hours of sleep. They aren't. It's all good. I'm just quirky and weird.

I hate winter.

The kids whined when they had to go to daycare this morning. DS said, "But I want to stay home with you!" So I worked and ran errands quickly to try to pick them up a little early. I figure, I listened, right? They requested and I tried to oblige. When I picked them up, all I got were complaints about having picked them up early. "I didn't get a snack." "I didn't get to finish my game," etc. Sod it. I'm tired of trying to cater to everyone else in the family.

And I am sick to death of cleaning up other people's messes. At what age are people capable of learning to pick up after themselves? Reason #12,481 why I would never get a dog or a cat....

One more lesson to edit and then I can go make dinner. Yippee.

Maybe this feeling will go away with sleep.Or yoga. Or deep breathing. Or a good, rattle my bones cry.

I wish I knew the answer.

Catching Rye in the Sky

J.D. Salinger has left the building. The Catcher in the Rye had a profound effect on me when I read it in high school. I'm sure there are millions of others around the world saying the same thing. It was one of the first pieces of literature I really "clicked" with, and Salinger's use of Holden's voice made me realize on some level that it was okay for me to write, to narrate. Like Holden, I wanted to save my younger sibling from the bad words and the scary rides on the carousel. Like Holden, life got in the way and we all grew up.

According to the article, Salinger has 12 novels locked up in a box in N.H. Wonder if we'll ever get to read them?

In related news, Nicholas Sarkozy and the French are arguing over whether or not to move Albert Camus' grave from Provence to the Pantheon in Paris. Academics want him to stay in his grave in the small town where he was buried, as they say those were his wishes. Sarkozy wants to bring him up to the big leagues and inter him with Victor Hugo et al. Critics are calling foul, saying Sarkozy is using the 50th anniversary of Camus' death (Jan. 2010) to generate political capital.

I didn't realize he died at 46 in a car wreck. Makes me want to reread The Stranger, for some reason.