Heptadecagon

I recently hurt myself. Not bad, but enough that I went to see an orthopedist. I knew what he'd say: that I had an issue with my pubic symphysis and possibly my IT band. Sure enough, that's what he said. Now, I need to do stretches every day. Plus, I need to ice my hip after my long run. I don't have time for this nonsense. Part of the reason I run is that I can strap my shoes on and be out the door in no time at all. I get my therapy session in and over with and then move on to whatever else my day will bring. Now, I'm slowed down a bit. Which I guess just means I'm getting older. Well, I was at the pool today, and I found myself recounting this little story about how I injured myself and what parts of me are hurting. To my surprise and delight, a new friend of mine (yes, I'm looking at you, Nikki) giggled after I spoke. "You just said pubic," she said, a huge smile pasted to her face. And then another giggle. Apparently, not everyone is getti

Death isn't a subject that we avoid around here, but we don't always bring it up, either. And when we do approach the subject, it's usually because one of the little ones has asked about death and dying, or they've mentioned how much they don't want to die. My standard response is to tell my child that usually, people don't want to die, but that everyone will at some point. Which of course, takes us to talking about Doctor Who and the power of regeneration and then, the deep moment has passed and we're on to the awesomeness that is science fiction. However, after a trip to a small town in southern Illinois for a family reunion, my mind wandered to memories of my grandparents, who are buried there, and to my parents, who want to be buried there. All sorts of questions popped into my head: Where do I want to be buried? Do I want to be buried? Is cremation a better option? Or should I donate my body to science, like Tim wants to? "I think I'll be b

I bought three cans of black beans at the grocery store today. I'm sure that's not very interesting to you, at all. And I agree, that in and of itself, the simple act of placing three cans of black (not even seasoned) beans into my grocery cart holds nothing of interest. What I find so interesting (or not), is why I did it and what will happen because I chose to do so. We eat beans around here several times a week. But usually, I buy dried beans, soak said legumes, and then cook them. I do this because dried beans are cheaper, I like their consistency better, and they have less sodium, something I'm aware of because of Tim's predilection toward migraines. Today, though, something was different. I decided on a whim to buy canned beans (gasp!). And I still haven't answered why I did what I did. I bought the canned beans so that my afternoon would be easier. So that I didn't have to check on beans when I was having a few free hours to myself. (Brooke was schedu

I took the kids shoe shopping today. And on the way back to the exit doors of the mall, the girls asked about bras. "Can we stop at Justice and get some more bras?" Talia asked. (She's okay with me posting about this. She knows that you all know she'll be thirteen in January and that normal female development has started. And with the things I discuss about myself, she's not embarrassed. Just thought I'd tell you.) "Do you need more?" I said. "One or two will do it," Zoe replied. So into Justice we went. And when I touched their soft bras, I thought to myself, Heck, I should try these. Sure enough, I bought two bras for myself. From Justice. My least favorite tween store. At least they're a step-up from Band-aids.

I have a new fascination -- with the loris. If you're not sure what a loris is, look it up on the computer (or keep reading, of course). This weekend, at the St. Louis Science Center , I viewed the skeleton of a loris, and since then, I've been enamored. And if you don't know why, then let me show you something. I mean, look at this picture of the slow loris (borrowed from Parade ): It's the eyes, people. THE EYES! And imagine those eyes without all the fur and skin. If you do, the slow loris skeleton looks a little like this (courtesy Flickr and Kevin Walsh ): Which, to a woman who loves skeletons, is a dream come true. Plus, I can't help giggling about those orbital bones.

My kids, the twins especially, are on a quest to acquire something . Of course, that something is something specific, and our conversations usually go like this: Kid 1: Mom, can we get a kitten? Me: A kitten? Are you kidding? I said no more cats. Kid 2: Not a cat. A kitten. Me: Same thing. Kid 1: Well, how about a puppy? Me: I'm all for another dog, but I'd like to get one that's already house-trained. Kid 2: How about a puppy that's house-trained? Me: That might be difficult to find, you know. Kid 1: All right...another baby? Kid 2: Two babies? Me: No, and no. I'm done. Kid 1: How do you know you're done? Kid 2: We'll help with the babies! Me: No, it's not happening. And isn't it time for bed? Kid 1: Okay. I love you, Mommy. Kid 2: I love you, Mommy. Me: I love you both, very much. Kids 1 and 2: What about an iPhone? They leave the room with a wicked gleam in their eyes and a spring in their steps. They're smart and cunning,

I'm getting to be very predictable. How so, you ask? In terms of recipes. I've begun (if you haven't noticed) to post my very favorite ones. Lest you think it is simply because I love to share the wealth, I am here to correct you. It's not. I'm forgetful and dare I say, lazy? If I have the recipes here, then I have my own personal cookbook. In honor of Ruthann's birthday, I'm making Raspberry-Lemon Shortbread Tart. This is a fantastic summer recipe that I found years ago in one of my MIL's Rachael Ray magazines, which can be found here . I've tried it with frozen or fresh berries -- both work wonderfully. The best part? It's another easy dessert to whip up. Okay, here we go! Raspberry-Lemon Shortbread Tart 1 pound raspberries (fresh or frozen) 1 stick + 6 tablespoons cold unsalted butter cut into pieces 1 1/4 cups granulated sugar 1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour 3 large eggs Zest and juice of 2 lemons (about 1/4 cup juice) Powdered su

I'm sorry, Buzzfeed , but you got it wrong. Really wrong. I know you readers aren't surprised by that statement. All those quizzes you take each day really are just for fun. I mean, how can answering a question about how long it takes you to get ready in the morning indicate which color hair you have? But this wasn't a quiz. This morning, I sat down to read 22 Thoughts You Have While You're Ovulating: The most fertile week of the month can also be the most miserable . It took me 30 seconds to read the article and call it rubbish. Sorry, Tracy Clayton and the Buzzfeed Staff. I'll say it again: you got it wrong. And you could have gotten it so right. It wouldn't take much. The female body is ripe with symptoms that indicate a woman is ovulating or has just ovulated. You had 22 opportunities to enlighten and amuse everyone. Instead, you repeated your reasons, giving us only a few original thoughts. For example, reasons 1-3 were sex, reasons 5-7 had to do w

1 hour. 60 minutes. 3600 seconds. It took that long (despite the fact that I had the letter, synopsis, AND chapters ready and at hand) to put together a query file for an agent who will, most likely, take less than a second to say no. (Or not, because many agents don't even bother to send a form rejection. Their rule? If you don't hear from us, then it's a no. Why thank you, agent. I wish I could use that one in class. Sorry, students, if you don't hear back from me, well, I guess you're shit out of luck. Here's to hoping someone else answers that question for you! ) I can't blame anyone other than Microsoft for the time I wasted, considering the formatting issues took up the largest chunk of my time. I could have been reading. Or better yet, writing. I could have decided not to bother sending the letter at all. And yet, I HAD to send it. Because if I just spent that long putting together the file, you can darn well bet I was going to at least sen

It's been so long since I've taken a Buzzfeed quiz (I guess that's a perk of being on hiatus from Facebook) that when I saw the latest one that a friend took, What is Your Old Person Name? I knew I had to do it. Had to. Simply because I wanted to waste the two minutes it took to answer the questions and click on the buttons? I don't know, really. I just felt compelled. It might be because a few friends of mine and I talk about this topic often -- the name we'll take when we're old and rocking on the porch of the old folks' home. With great anticipation I took the quiz. I thought I answered each question to the best of my ability, and that maybe this time, I'd find out something about myself that I never knew. (Yeah, right. Best way to do that is with a Buzzfeed quiz?!? Didn't I already say this same thing in some other post?) So when the result popped up on the screen, I squinted at the words with excitement. Gladys , the quiz told me. Gladys . Hu

Back in February, Sarah Fader wrote a post for Huff Post Parents entitled, 3-Year-Olds Are A**holes . Why am I just getting to read this post? I'm not sure, although it was only brought to my attention yesterday, by a FB friend with a set of three-year-old twins. My first thought? That twelve-year-olds can be a**holes, too, and I've got two of them. My second thought? Age three wasn't that bad. My third thought? That most likely twelve won't look so bad at some point in the near future. To catch anyone up that might be reading, I have four children: a set of twelve-year old identical twin girls, a hot-headed, red-haired son, who is nine, and a just-turned-six little lady. Before I had children, people warned me about everything: colic, then weaning, then sleep issues, then the terrible twos, threes, and fours. "Just wait until they're teenagers," they all said. So many people mentioned issues they had with different stages of childhood and adolescence,

I hesitate to take on the subject of today's post because I'm afraid you loyal readers might think I'm talking about you . And maybe I am, but not a single one of you is the inspiration for this post, just so you know. Seriously. Not that the subject is bad, either. What I'm talking about is follow through . You know, the ability to make sure you see something to completion. Finding the time to do what you say you will. Showing up when you have an appointment or sending out the mail when you say you will. I could go on, but I won't, because each and every one of us has a list of items scrolling through our heads, right now, of the things we haven't followed through on. Like the fact that I have thank yous sitting on the desk that the kids wrote for their fundraiser. Or that I said I'd go through Aaron's dresser and find out what clothes he doesn't need. Or that I was supposed to call about a possible swim lesson for Melina. If you want me to go o

"Sometimes you step through a door thinking it'll take you one place, and then find yourself somewhere completely different -- and yet, that's the right place to be." ~ Susan Fox, Yours, Unexpectedly

Dear Agent: With as many rejections as I've gotten now (and it could be so many more...I realize this), I wanted to tell you a few things, in case you didn't know these tidbits already. I know you know that rejections are always going to hurt, even if you word them kindly. So even if you say something akin to, Your writing is unique and you have a fresh perspective on a classic story... (no one has said that to me, but the sentence sounds so amicable, doesn't it?), the rejection still feels like tiny knives pricking the skin -- every time the writer goes back and reads the offending email. I'm just reminding you of that fact: Rejection hurts. So what doesn't hurt as much? How could you make our lives, as writers, just a little bit easier? Shoot, we're not asking for much. One idea, and wow, I have to say, I'm going out on a limb here because if I want my kids to change something about their behavior I'd never even think about this (wink, wink, nudge

As I've gotten older, I've learned to listen to myself and what my inner me is saying. However, way back when, even during college and slightly beyond, I didn't know how to heed the call within me. I spent more time worrying about what other people would think of my decisions, instead of concentrating on what the decision was and how it would affect me. Had I actually listened to the voices in my head, my path today might be very different. Then again, it might not. I have no way of knowing. A friend sent this lovely little throwback from 1995 (I think). She found it in our college yearbook, and yes, there's me, on the far right, in the front row. ( I must be in the front row! Thanks, Bob Uecker!) I remember that sweater well...it was a perfect mix of neutrals, blues, and reds, but the thread was quite scratchy, and the fit? It didn't fit well. At all. Of course, nothing in college fit me well. It was a time of wearing too-big clothing and hiding every curve

There was a point in my life, almost twenty years ago now, where I felt that I was no longer in control of my life. I didn't feel as though someone else was running it, but I veered toward the notion that no matter what I did, I couldn't quite come up with a way to keep my life on the path I'd chosen. I kicked, I yelled, I groaned, and I complained. Nothing helped. Until I realized, that sometimes, you need to relax and become peaceful before you can move forward. That until you're willing to shut up and listen, you hear nothing. That sometimes, you can't do anything about what's happening to you and your life EXCEPT choose which reaction you're going to have. That's where I'm at with this writing gig. I can only do so much: write what I think is the best piece I can write; query the agents that I think might like said piece; attend the proper workshops to meet people and learn the craft. After that, there's nothing I can do. So, I'm givi

"There is a voice that doesn't use words. Listen." ~Rumi

Six years ago today, I was in my hospital room, holding onto a little peanut of a baby, all while wondering if Tim had gotten the three older children to dinosaur class at the rec center. I remember thinking how easy it all was (aside from a good dose of fatigue): to push out my fourth child, to look at her sweet face, to put her to my breast, to be a mother. It's not that mothering is easy (parenting is by far the most difficult job I've encountered). It's that Melina makes mothering easy. She's the sort of child who accepts what is thrown at her, who is happy with sloppy seconds if need be, and who loves life to the fullest and simply wants to have fun. How she has that fun, she sometimes doesn't care. Melina is also one of the most outgoing of any child that I know. She makes friends at the pool, at the grocery store, and at the bank. She pushes me to be more outgoing, to accept the challenges life hands me, and to roll with the punches. She is a course in bein

I'm not sure what to say about these sandals, other than this -- there is a story prompt in this picture somewhere.

Eating gluten-free can be a life changing event for some. While we aren't gluten-free in this house, we do have friends and family who have taken on the challenge of eating gluten-free not because of some fad, but because their health and livelihood depend on it. And when said family comes to visit and wants to take part in a birthday celebration (of a little girl who will turn six this Thursday), I want to make sure that family member can eat cake. But life has been so busy around here, I didn't find a good homemade gluten-free recipe that I was willing to try. Enter Hodgson Mill . They've been around forever and make a ton of offbeat healthier (or not) items as well as sell oodles of oddball grains and flours that no one (until now) has heard of. I plucked a gluten-free chocolate cake mix off the shelf and hoped for the best. Of course, if you know me, I can't use a cake mix without adding something to it. But I didn't know how gluten-free mixes worked with a

Two days without posting, and I'm sure you missed me. (Go ahead and admit it, I know you did. Except for FRN, because I was actually in the same state that she was, having fun at her wedding shower. And probably not Ben, either, who I have found out is just as loyal as FRN or LRN, and so I must -- I MUST -- find another acronym for him. But we had fun at his house, too, so I know he wasn't missing us. In fact, he was probably trying to find ways to get six people out of his house a little sooner. How's that for what was supposed to be ONE parenthetical phrase??) Well sadly, the time has come (as it has for a few summers now), where my ability to post and write dwindles because of the invasion. I might have a lot to say, but little time to write it down. Or, I might be so busy because of the invasion, that I won't even have anything to say. What invasion, you ask? The invasion of my house. By my sister and her kids. I probably shouldn't use the word invasion , be

Just in case you were wondering what's happening in my Catholic life lately, I have news. No, I'm not switching to the conservative side or asking Tim to reverse his vasectomy. I'm contemplating joining the Parish Council. SCREECH. I know, I know. The lady who claims to want more (or less, depending on the day) from Catholicism is contemplating becoming a part of the team? Let me briefly explain. A friend asked if I'd be a part of the council. I like said friend and so I said I'd consider it. Now since the meetings conflict with my writing group, I won't be considering it that strongly, but I found it somewhat laughable when he asked if I would have interest in becoming a member of the council. "You don't want me," I said. "I don't even get to church each week." "Yes, we do. You're exactly the demographic we need." Hmm. Interesting. It could be a case of the blind leading the blind. Or the moral minority ta

DISCLAIMER: BARBARA H. STOP READING NOW. YES, THAT MEANS YOU, OR THE STORY WILL BE SPOILED. UNLESS YOU WANT IT TO BE SPOILED. AND THANKS FOR READING, BARBARA, BECAUSE REALLY, IT MEANS SO MUCH TO ME. I SHOULD ALSO SAY THAT ANYONE ELSE WHO'D LIKE TO READ THIS MANUSCRIPT (KELSEY -- IF YOU HAVE TIME, BECAUSE I APPRECIATE YOU, TOO) AND LET ME KNOW WHAT THEY THINK, THEY SHOULD STOP NOW AS WELL. WAIT, THAT MIGHT BE MY WHOLE READERSHIP. AH SHOOT, GO AHEAD, IF YOU DARE. An author once told me that "publishing is a capricious business" and when she made the statement, I thought to myself, Then why in the hell am I even trying? Will I be a success? And by success, I simply mean will I ever get published, traditionally, so that I can see my book on a store shelf? Who knows -- the business changes with the tides, and one agent's idea of what they are looking for is different from the agent in the next cubicle. Yet, I keep trying. Three novels finished (two of which are polish

Like many things in life, I prefer my pancakes a certain way. I've talked about this before , long ago, on a Saturday morning when I ran by a house that smelled just like Saturday morning did at my house as a kid. I told you then about the pancakes my dad made almost every weekend. Because I run on Saturdays, I tend to cook pancakes during the week. And because we consume far healthier fare now than we did when I was a child, I don't load them with butter, like my dad did. Instead, I prefer to have a tender pancake, not too dry, not too sweet. One that hits the spot in terms of carbohydrates, but doesn't induce a sugar coma. Have I actually achieved that goal? Not when I use a pre-made mix. But in a pinch, my pancakes pass muster. And of course, as I am wont to do, thinking of pancakes and how I prefer them made me think of so many other things -- more profound things (if the word thing can be thought of as profound). Is the way I prefer my pancakes indicative of who I am

Speaking of the body -- and I love that I can do this with you all, just continue the conversation as if you're hanging on every word -- I've recently picked up a trashy book (well, actually, it's a trilogy). Don't gasp. I've read quite a bit of trash over the years, and I think I've said before that I learn just as much from the bad as I do the good. As long as I balance what I read, I'm a happy camper. Back to the body, though -- of the characters in this book. The bodies showcase themselves in this trashy novel I'm reading. I don't want to say what the book is called because truly, I've read worse. (Of course, I've read better, much better, but I digress.) And I know how difficult it is to actually write a novel. But I think, if I had any guts, I'd write to the author with an honest critique. I'd tell her several items that come up repeatedly on my list of annoyances as I read her work. Namely: It is okay to mention the first f