Heptadecagon

I caved. I told Tim that I thought it would be okay to get a Wii. In my head, when I told Tim that, I had visions of the kids doing something more active than Minecraft. Like Wii bowling or skiing or even cow racing. We don't have those games yet, but we do at least have the controllers so that all the kids can have a hand in their Super Mario game that came with the Wii. (They are standing and moving, slightly, so for right now, it is somewhat more active than Minecraft.) It's vacation, so after breakfast, I said, "Sure you can play. But you all play, or you don't play at all." So far, this is what I've heard from the family room: Wait, I need that other flower! Yellow toad! Who is yellow toad??? I'm going to be in a bubble. Pop me, please. Go. Go. GO! and then Don't go so fast! A collective NO! and then We were so close. Stop, you're killing Melina! And the best one of all (next to that last one) since it teaches a lesson: We ha

Two years ago, a friend said to me, "Have you read Ender's game? It's a classic. I read it when I was a kid and I re-read it a month ago. You should try it." I'm always up for a good recommendation, so try it I did. I can't remember why, but I had trouble with the first couple of chapters. I didn't feel compelled to continue, so I didn't. Two months ago, another friend of mine said to me, "Have you read Ender's game? It's really good. Odd, but good. But you get to the end and..." Well, when that same friend brought the book to writing group and said, "Have at it!" I thought I might as well. This time, I read it. It held my attention quite well, but there are certain things I noticed that bothered me, and I wondered if anyone else had the same problem. 1. The book switches back and forth between 3rd and 1st person. It looks like the 1st person is meant to be the internal thoughts of Andrew "Ender" Wiggin.

What would you do if you woke up to this message? ONLY ❶ DAY left of Service. I've had reason enough lately to think of that message, the one I received from the cell phone company. It was reminding me to activate my phone for three more months and add more minutes. If I didn't, I'd lose service. But it wasn't the phone I was thinking of when I saw that message. It was the lives that have been lost that came to the forefront of my mind. A friend of mine lost her husband on Christmas Eve; another woman I know through Tim's mom lost her mother; a third lost her grandfather-in-law just yesterday. Had they known that they had only one day left of service, what would they have done on that day? What would you do? 

As I sit at the library and work on my manuscript (thank you, Tim, for giving me two hours away), I just need to remind everyone of one thing: When you use the restroom, please remember to wash your hands. (I'm sitting across from the restroom and there is no way some of these people can be washing their hands. There isn't enough time between the sound of the flush and the opening of the door.) And now, back to what I came here to do.

I have, for the past 20 years or so, thought I might make a good Dear Abby or Dear Prudence .  When we still received the newspaper, I'd read through the Dear Abby column, and think that some of the advice I'd give would be the same as, or better than, that given by the columnist.  I don't keep up on Dear Prudence , but Tim likes to read her from time to time, and when I check out the columns, I think she uses common sense a lot when she responds to queries.  I can do that, I think.  But would I want to? I doubt it.  Listening to friends and family and trying to help is enough for me.  Don't get me wrong, you can still call and I will listen.  In fact, I enjoy listening.  I will still try to give advice, too, if you want it.  But my advice might not be what you want to hear. This week, if I were going to write a column about anything, I'd write it about acceptance .  Not the type you get when you apply to college, but the kind you do every day with your spouse

While I was convinced that some sort of virus would keep us from gathering, the whole family managed to descend on my parents' house on December 23rd. This Christmas, I've been reminded to try to keep everything in perspective, and to remember to count our blessings. I think we have many of those. May the New Year keep us happy and healthy, and the same to you and yours.

We've had rain, rain, and more rain here. Last night, a nearby town was worried that the banks of the river were going to overflow. People were on  alert, and as of this morning, I've read about flooding, submerged cars, road closures, and the collapse of a restaurant ceiling. And what do some locals complain about? The fact that a business, who has been in our city for 15 years, was flying its American flag after dark without the proper illumination. Sure, I can appreciate the flag and all it stands for. It should always be treated with the respect it deserves. But come on. Let's concentrate on what's really important, TODAY.

Make vanilla pizelles, and while still warm, curve them into a burrito-like shape. Then, fill it with this lovely frosting, which you should have made previously with a mixer and stored in your refrigerator: 1/2 cup sugar 1/2 cup cocoa 2 1/4 cups whipping cream 2 1/3 tsp vanilla That's a little slice of Heaven, right in your own kitchen. You can thank me later. (If you don't have a pizelle maker, let me know. I will make you a batch and try to get them to you. Seriously.)  

I know I'm going to get a lot of flack for saying this, but I just have to say it: I absolutely loathe The Elf on the Shelf. In past years, he has simply been a minor annoyance. I don't have one in my home, so I tolerated the stories and pictures that other people had told me or posted. I listened to the kids at school tell how their Elf "had moved from the piano to the dining room table" and they hadn't seen it do so at all! "Well okay then!" I wanted to say. I held my snark in check. But this year, I've had it. I can't really say why, but I'll try to explain anyway. Here it goes. 1. He's creepy looking. His fans say he's cute, charming, and that we should all love him, as is . Okay, well, I will love all people, as is ; all animals, as is . Heck, I even bought a house, as is (Well, the real estate agent didn't say we were doing that, but thousands of dollars later, I would say the house listing should have said, as is. )

Every once in a while I need to call on the whole of the internet (or at least the few that read my blog) for a favor. Right now, I have a friend whose husband can use our prayers. Their story isn't mine to tell, so I won't give details, but please, if you get a second, say a little prayer that my friend's husband recovers quickly, with few repercussions.

Most of you now know this, but last night, Zoe finished up a poem for an extra credit assignment, and when I told her she should submit it to a local literary magazine, she said yes! When we clicked that button to submit, I felt like a mama bird watching her baby bird fly for the first time. The smile that passed across Zoe's face was huge, and the same one I feel when I get a great idea into my head for a story. I have no idea if the magazine will print her poem. I have no idea if she will submit any more work anywhere else. I don't care. I'm just proud. P.S. I can't post the poem here, as a post is considered published , and I don't know how the literary magazine would feel about that (because, you know, I have so many readers!). However, if you want me to send it to you via email, feel free to contact me.

My book club meets at the local Starbucks once a month. I often don't buy anything, but sometimes, I do. Today, I simply felt like coffee. Starbucks' barista (SB) : How can I help you? Me : May I please have a tall coffee. I'd like 2/3 of it decaf, 1/3 of it regular, and enough room for cream, please. About an inch of room. [I held up my fingers to show her the space, just in case she didn't know what an inch actually was. Although the baristas at our local Starbucks seem to be pretty up on their math. Or so I thought.] SB : Sure, that's not a problem. Why don't I put it into a grande cup and you'll have plenty of room for coffee and cream. If you're paying for the coffee, you might as well get it. Me : That would be great, thank you. I never thought to ask for it like that. The barista turns to grap a paper cup. She fills it part-way with either decaf or regular, I'm not sure, and then turns back to me. SB : That's 2/3 decaf, right? I wo

Every once in a while, I don't see things correctly. Recently, these three instances popped up. On the Huffington post website: Lorde Calls Himself 'A Hugely Sex-Positive Person' What I really saw: Lorde Calls Herself 'A Hugely Sex-Positive Person' (Thank  goodness about this one; I have nothing against transsexuals, but I was certain that Lorde was a woman.) In my contacts section of my Gmail account: John Green (Wouldn't that just be awesome?) What I really saw: John G***n (I need to keep my friends anonymous,  but I can tell you that his last name is not and never has been Green.) On an Advent Jeopardy Game: O Holy Shit! What I really saw: O Holy Night! God help me, with that last one.

As you all know, I have dreams of someday publishing a book that I have written. I've put that into the five year plan, and in the meantime, I continue to write many things, such as these blog postings, more manuscripts, and short stories. Because of my dream, I don't usually do anything with my short stories, but I received an email awhile back from the community college at which I teach. They have a literary magazine that was open for submissions. I had a short story that could possibly be sent there. I needed to make the connection between the two. So I just submitted my short story to the literary magazine. Even if my story is included, I won't get paid for it, but I would at least be able to say that one of my stories was published in a literary magazine. Perhaps it would help with credibility. Which gets me to my point for the day. A few moments after I emailed my submission, I received an email confirming that my story had been received. This is what it said:

Saturday afternoon, as I was dipping pretzels into chocolate, Talia approached me. Talia: Hey, Mom. Can you help me with my math homework? Me: Sure, what is it? Talia: We need to figure out some Pythagorean Triples. Me: I know who Pythagoras was and what the Pythagorean Theorem is, but let me see your paper. I don't know what the triple means. Talia gave me her paper, and I read the definition of a Pythagorean Triple: "Any set of three whole numbers that satisfies the Pythagorean theorem. Examples include (5, 12, 13) and (7, 24, 25)." For those of you who don't remember, the Pythagorean Theorem states: "That the square of the hypotenuse (the side opposite the right angle) is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. The theorem can be written as an equation relating the lengths of the sides a , b and c , often called the Pythagorean equation : where c represents the length of the hypotenuse, and a and b represent the lengths of the oth

There was enough snow this morning that my long run, much like last Saturday, was somewhat difficult. There were slippery spots on roads that had been plowed; there were unshoveled sidewalks and sidewalks full of slush; there were also streets full of snow, except for the tracks made by the cars that had already traveled the roads. Those tracks saved me this morning. They gave me a little respite from having to hop from place to place to find a spot to put my feet. I ran down the tracks thinking that I was grateful to have them, because even though the run was hard, at least I was running. And I realized something, with respect to running and to life. Sometimes, you have to follow the tracks made by others and simply trust that when the seasons change, you'll be able to make your own tracks.

On Thursdays, I head to the elementary school to read with the kindergarteners. Actually, they read to me, and if they need help, I walk them through sounding out the word or recognizing sight words. I enjoy spending this time with each of the children, sitting on a folding chair in the hallway. I can see when the light turns on in their head or when a burst of confidence surges through them. I hope that they will remember the lady who took the time to help them learn to read, and then, when they are older, do the same thing for someone else. Another cool thing about being with the kindergarteners each week is seeing how the teacher interacts with them, and what her teaching methods are. Melina is the first of our children to have Mrs. R., but her reputation precedes her. In fact, I will admit to hoping that we be put in her room (and let me also admit that we loved the other option; she was a good teacher for our other kids). I had my reasons, only one of which is that Melina had ju

Melina was working on her math today, on a computer program called Dreambox. Melina: This is easy. Me: It's not always easy, Melina. As you keep going, it will get more difficult. Melina: It's easy! (She sang this, which should be no surprise, considering her normal behavior.) Me: Okay, but it will get harder. Melina: It's easy! (Again, singing the words.) Me: Okay. Melina: I'm easy! (Third time singing.) Me: I hope not.

I was born responsible. And logical. And trustworthy, full of common sense, competent. However you want to say it, with life's day to day events, I can get it done. (I would not use those words when it comes to me and say, Differential Equations, or Analytical Chemistry, or Latin, to name a few subjects that probably confound me.) So you know where this post is going, don't you? Well, let me recount a little story, exactly as it happened. Yesterday, 4 pm. I had just gotten back from picking Aaron up from piano. I collected my things from the car and looked at my purse, which sat in the bin between the two front seats. You should get that , I thought. But then I second guessed myself. Nah, leave it there. You need to drive to library tomorrow morning. And it's completely safe in the car . I paused, but then said to myself, Your extra key to the car is still in your purse, though. What if you lose your keys? YES, WHAT IF THE COMPETENT LADY WHO KNOWS WHERE HER THINGS BEL

I had planned to do some baking with a few friends today. Thankfully, that's all I had scheduled, as the kids had an unplanned day off (two inches of the white stuff, not enough to call off school, except for here, in the South, although we aren't really in the South), which meant I'd have four children inside the house (they didn't feel like heading out). After a few emails back and forth between my friends and me, we decided to go ahead with baking day as previously scheduled. What was on the docket? A recipe we found on the one and only Facebook. You can find that recipe here . But the real question to ask is this: did the recipe turn out as great as everyone hyped it up to be? Don't get me wrong, the cookies were good. But I wasn't entirely blown away by them. I wanted to be, really I did, and I loved the flavor that the browned butter brought out, but were these fantastic? Eh. Would I make them again? Yes, I would. Now what was great was the company.

I found out this weekend that my level of being a bad Catholic has escalated. I am so bad, I'm likely going to hell because I can't say I'm sorry. What did I do? Have you ever heard of a mortal sin? I'm sure many of you have. I found several definitions of a mortal sin, one of which comes from EWTN: "A serious, grave or mortal sin is the knowing and willful violation of God's law in a serious matter, for example, idolatry, adultery, murder, slander." That's heavy stuff, you know? Well, according to the Catholic Church, birth control (including sterilization) is also a mortal sin. I knew this and I'm pretty sure you all knew this, too. So really it's no surprise and I'm just telling you something that you already know. And if you read this blog, you know that Tim went to have a vasectomy a couple of weeks ago. Also, I tried birth control pills for 3 months way back at the start of our marriage. The little buggers gave me headach

About ten minutes ago, my friend Barbara helped me realize something about the holiday cards I probably won't be writing out this year. "I only do photos, no writing," she said. "I don't have time." She's right. We don't have time, unless we start writing the cards in July, which I have said I'd do before, but I didn't do this year. And while I LOVE photo cards (which means, keep them coming...I am not lying when I say this; in fact, I've blogged about it before), I cannot give them. Because when I send holiday cards, I must WRITE in them. And not just a simple Happy Holidays , or Merry Christmas , or Happy Hanukkah , or whatever it is you celebrate. I need to ask how the family is doing and tell you that we are fine; I need to find out how your jobs are treating you and tell you whether or not we'll be visiting your neck of the woods any time soon. AND, I need to personalize it. So I can't do an all-in-one letter (again, I

Melina: Aaron, do you want to watch Epic with lunch? Aaron: We watched it yesterday, Melina. Melina: I know, but I like it. Aaron: Well, Melina. I like it, too, but it's kinda, not really, like, epic anymore. In my opinion, it never was.  So glad the kids are starting to realize it!

There are many things I said I'd never do when I was a mom. One of these things was to wear underwear with holes in them. As a kid, I remember folding the clothes, carefully placing my mother's underwear into a pile. There were very few intact pairs. On most of them, the elastic was worn or the back had a hole in it. Yet still, she wore those panties. What in the heck? I used to think. Why doesn't mom get new underwear? Last night, I confirmed that I am, indeed, my mother's child and that apparently, I will wear underwear with holes in them. While folding my own clothes, I stumbled upon a pair of polka dot bikinis (I'm not so much like my mother; I refuse to wear briefs.) that had seen better days, for sure. The underwear had lost its luster, along with its elasticity and a few threads. While I should have thrown out the pair, I didn't. I folded it up and it's sitting, right now, in its home in my drawer. I get it now. Why mom didn't buy new und

Two little owls, sitting side by side. Looking forward, but always knowing that the other one is there. Two little owls.

It's almost that time of the year where people being putting together holiday cards and sending out long notices of how the year went for them. With the cost of stamps, the number of cards we get each year has dwindled, and since I'm not the best person to send cards (we've had this conversation before), they don't always get out. This year, will I be sending cards? I'm not sure. Instead, I might be sending personalized emails. I hear you, FRN, laughing in your chair. But I'm serious. I can do so much more with a personalized email than I can with pen and card right now. I'm so busy with everything, as we all are, that finding the time to choose a card, write the card, and get the stamps...well...none of that is likely to happen. However, getting up and sending out an email or two or three each day CAN occur; it's part of my life now . Would I be starting a trend? Should I try it? I guess as long as I have the email addresses, why not. I think everyo

Thursday dinner: Turkey Friday dinner: Leftover turkey Saturday dinner: Turkey soup Sunday dinner: Veggie chili with turkey Monday dinner: Anything that doesn't involve turkey