Heptadecagon

Worship not shadows but a goddess who sleeps in peace above death himself. That poem is by Zoe. I told her I thought she had an inner writer inside. She, as twelve-year-old girls are wont to do, rolled her eyes. I'll take what I can get, and in this case, it's a poem.

I've gone off the deep end, I tell you. Every book I read, I access the punctuation. And lately, I'm fixated on the colon. When is the proper time to use it? And how should it be used? Furthermore, is the author's usage consistent? I'm so caught up in the punctuation, I'm not holding onto the stories these days. Argh. It's enough to make me go batty, right? (And didn't I just imply that with my first sentence? It's worse than I thought!) So what are the rules on colon usage? It depends. Are you following the Chicago Manual of Style? Or the Associate Press Style Guidelines? Or maybe you use the Modern Language Association Style? I'm not going to bore you on those rules because you might as well just look them up. Find out which style you are supposed to use and then use it. Consistently, please, so I can go back to enjoying the story.

Tim had a birthday last week. Even though it went unnoticed on the blog, it did not at home. In fact, I made gnocchi from scratch for dinner and a lovely ganache pie for dessert. That's what I'm here to talk about. THAT PIE. You just have to try it. Here's what you need and what you need to do: For the crumb crust: 1 and 1/2 cups finely ground chocolate graham cracker crumbs 1/3 cup white sugar 6 Tbsp butter, melted Mix the ingredients until well blended and press into a 9 inch pie pan. For the pie: 3 packages (4 ounces each) semi-sweet baking chocolate 1 and 1/2 cups whipping cream Microwave the chocolate and cream in a microwavable bowl on high for 2 minutes or until the chocolate is almost melted. Check on it and stir after the first minute. Beat with a whisk or fork until the chocolate is melted and the mixture is well-blended. Stir in 1 Tbsp (more or less) honey or brown sugar to help sweeten the chocolate (see note below). Pour the mixture into the cr

I love my family. I really do. Oh snap, didn't I say that already this week? Yes, yes, I did. But this time, I'm not talking about my parents. This time, I'm thinking of the four chatty kids, one forgetful husband, the whiny cat and the needy dog. I love these guys; I can't imagine life without them. They are fodder for good stories and the inspiration for this blog. But by golly, I need a break, a vacation if you will, from them. From all of them. (Tim will balk at that statement and inquire whether or not he can go with me if, indeed, I were to schedule a vacation. And Tim? I'd normally say yes, but this time honey, I have to say no. Because I'm not really scheduling a vacation anywhere but in my mind. Because it is the beginning of a new quarter. Not a good time to go anywhere. And where would you all be without me?) So my mind is open to jetting away, but my body can't quite do it. Instead, I say to myself, let's see about a "virtual vacatio

I've got my eyes set on a few new items these days. Let me show you: Exhibit 1: Exhibit 2: And the pièce de résistance, Exhibit 3:

I love my family. I really do. But there are certain topics we just don't see eye to eye on--at all. I find these topics to crop up when I speak to my parents. They live in a conservative town and have very conservative views. I don't mind that they have more "right-wing" ideals than I do, except when they tell me that my own, more liberal views, are wrong. Sadly, that happens often. Maybe it has to do with them being parents--they feel as though they can tell me what to think. Or maybe that's just how they are. Yet they're the only parents I have, so no matter what their views, I love them. And I try to accept them as they are. (That's very hard, don't you know?) Sometimes, though, I find myself rolling my eyes at some of the gems that come out of their mouths. I guess that is my way of saying I don't agree with what they say. Perhaps I should try a less judgmental way of saying it, considering I always say that I'm not one to judge. But I&#

I sat down this morning to read a nice little article on twins . It gave a few facts that some people might not realize about people who came from the same womb. Twelve years and some change into being the mother of identical twins--coupled with my science background--I already knew many of these facts. But the article, of course, got me thinking. About all the things other people might not realize, unless you're the mom of twins. 1. People will look at you with pity when they say, "Boy you've got your hands full!" 2. Other people will exclaim, "I've always wanted twins! Aren't you lucky!" 3. Identical twins can look a lot alike. 4. Identical twins can look completely different. 5. People will assume, incorrectly, that you underwent IVF. 6. With twins, it is always a party. ALWAYS. 7. Twins often eat together, sleep together, and poop together. (I stole that from the receptionist at the Multiples Clinic back in 2002). 8. You often speak in t

O nce upon a time, not so long ago, Elsa from Arendelle came to visit our fair city. And someone pissed her off. The end. (To be fair, I'm not sure if I read this somewhere or made it up, but by golly, I'm done with winter. Aren't you?)

I haven't posted a picture of my older sister and I ever. At least I don't think so. And since I finally have one, here were are. That's a glass of water in my hand, by the way, but yes, we were on the way to the hotel bar. At 4:30 pm on a Saturday afternoon. Good times. The only way this picture could be better is if Gina's long, dark hair was real (sorry, but this is a tell-all blog you know) and if instead of the gray sweater, I had on my lovely, striped, currently-kidnapped pullover fleece. And I guess I should post a picture of the three sisters, mid-drinking. We've got (left to right) a chocolate martini, red wine, and (for me, of course) a frozen margarita. We must do this more often, ladies.

A few days ago, an author I've had the pleasure to meet wrote a post about a dress that she found. It was a sleeveless dress, and she wasn't sure if she should buy it because, to paraphrase her own words, she has chubby arms. Chubby arms be damned, she thankfully decides to buy the dress. I can imagine her saying Take that! in the direction of all the people who think arms should be skinny every time she wears the dress. And when I see her, should she be wearing that dress, I think I'll give her a round of applause and a giant hug. We should all have the courage to wear what we want, especially the items of clothing that make us feel empowered. But her post also brought me back home. (Sorry, mom, but here comes some revelation . Stop reading now.) Because my mother has never liked her arms. I can't tell you how many times over the 18 years I lived at home, and then again if we'd go shopping when I no longer lived there, that I heard the sentence: I can't wear

I'm pretty certain that I'm the only one that dislikes Pharrell Williams' song, Happy . It ain't that I'm not happy. I'm just not happy about that tune. So sue me.

This was shot almost two years ago, but Aaron resurrected it the other day, and I thought, heck, why not post it? We need a good laugh from time to time, right? This sort of thing happens a lot around our house. (And I think I'm glad about that.)

I just graded the lab exam I gave today. Let me start by saying that I do not make the exams (I've probably told you that countless times, and if I have, I'm sorry). I wish I did, but for lab, the individual lab instructors are not allowed to write the questions. Instead, one full-time faculty member makes the exam that everyone is to give to the students. But I've been teaching at this place long enough to give hints of what is to come when I teach. Yes, you heard me, I almost teach to the test. But not quite. Because sometimes, like today, the exam can surprise you. However, even though some of the questions were surprising, I did go over the material at the appropriate lab time-- all the material . It was apparent from the exam scores that the students did not have one single clue of what to do with all that material, for the average grade on this second lab exam was a whopping 51.83%. Yep, it was that low. Furthermore, the students couldn't even use what they mi

I just finished reading Divergent , by Veronica Roth. (I probably didn't need to add the author there, as many of you might also have read the book.) It was my second attempt at finishing the novel: the first time around, the story didn't hold my interest. But this piece isn't about the book. It's about the fact that no matter what else I might think about Divergent , Roth was successful at keeping the story relatively clean. Tris and Four, two of the main characters, hold hands, kiss, and, at one point, manage to grope one another, but for the most part, I didn't find much that was inappropriate about the book. Oh wait , there is that one section where Tris is in the midst of an induced hallucination, one in which she must face her fears. Yep, you guessed it, one of her fears is basically...intimacy. Tris says, " This is the fear I have no solutions for--a boy I like, who wants to...have sex with me?" Tris goes on to take control of the situation, in a

Don't you wish you all had a new friend like this? (Sorry, Sandra...I had to steal the picture!) Her name is Ginger, and if we're lucky, we'll get to babysit someday.

You know what? I learned something yesterday. Most of my days, I learn something, so I really shouldn't be surprised. But most of the time, that something that I learn comes from one of the children, and it involves Minecraft trivia or Wii information or facts they learned in school. This time, I read a book and came away with a new appreciation for my one intact uterus and one vagina. Because, and I probably always realized this could be true, it is possible to have two of each of them. Now, I'd already heard of what is called a bicornuate uterus . This is a condition in which the uterus is "horned" and the two horns are separated by a septum. Just as with a normal uterus, if one travels south, the bicornuate structure leads to one cervix. With the uterus didelphys , though, the uterus and the vagina can be paired so that there are, essentially, two of each. Sadly, the twin uteri tend to be smaller, so that the possibility of carrying a fetus to term is slim for wo

PMS, for many women, is never fun. I'm lucky, though, because PMS for me means very little. In fact, the only symptom I do get is a craving for junk food that extends into an intense eating binge the night before my period starts. I usually reach for chocolate, cookies, or ice cream, but I've been known to push large amounts of fatty foods (cheese puffs, for example) into my mouth as well. Usually after I'm full, I sit back and smile. No feeling guilty about my once-a-month binge because, heck, eating that much makes me feel, psychologically, better. This month, however, I can't reach for the baked goods and sugary foods I'm craving, because by golly, I gave them up for Lent. Doh! So for me, last night, I ambled around the kitchen with a look of complete scorn on my face. I grumbled and moaned as I peeked into the cabinets and closed them again, without extracting anything. I even went so far as to open the lid of the ice cream container just so I could get a wh

It's a striped fleece kind of day today. Too bad I don't have it. Update: I just received a replacement garment in the mail from FRN. I'm sorry to report that it is black and gray nylon and spandex, not cozy fleece. However, I will give the new pullover a chance tomorrow, and of course, I'll report to you. Just to give you an image to compare, though, remember the picture of the fish and my fleece? This new one would be well hidden on a shark.

As most of you regulars know, I have a fleece I like to wear. I've described it in another post . It's a Goodwill find that I love, a garment that originally came from Old Navy. Would I have paid full price for it? Probably not. But I didn't have to, it's warm, and ever since I found out that Tara didn't like it, I've worn it more often. Not that she can see me or anything. It's the principle: she doesn't like the fleece, therefore I wear it. Well, late last week, as I looked for something to put on one morning, I realized that I couldn't find my fleece. I knew that I had washed it, but also knew that I had scads of other sweaters I could use. I thought nothing of the missing fleece and went on my way. But I thought of it again, yesterday morning, when I wrote my oh-so-lovely poem. That poem might not be a prize winner, but writing it proved to be very useful. After reading it, my lovely sister, Tara, sent me a message. Apparently, she had hijack

Because I love you and you are my sister, I live to bother you. You knew that was true, didn't you? That one day, after I'd gone away, somehow, we'd stay connected. So I can play the role of the older sibling, the one that teases the younger. Despite the miles that stretch between, clearly, the bothering ceases not. Because this blog is it, sister. It is the smirk that crosses my face, the roll of my eyes, the finger poking you in the ribs, all done with words. Carefully, I can speak in circles, or throw out terms like subtrahend and minuend ; ask you to perform some addition in your head. Or I can attempt to get literary on you, just to make your day. But I won't, because literary isn't my bag. What is? My striped fleece. Yes, that striped fleece. Enough said. (Just because FRN inspires me, doesn't mean I am a poet. This has to be one of the least classy things I've written in a very long time. I think I prefer Melina's A Frog f

I had the opportunity to read my fairy tale again recently because I toyed with the idea of making it a middle grade novel. Right now, it walks the line between middle grade and young adult and I'm not entirely sure where it should end up. I know some nine-year-olds will enjoy it, but I also know some 15-year-olds that might, too. Sigh. Anyway, the crazy thing is that over the last half year or so, while I've been doing other things and writing other novels, I forgot how much I like my story. How much I believe in that story. So my rediscovery of the manuscript has given me new energy and purpose to get the doggone thing out there, to the masses. And I simply felt like sharing. Thanks.

The Frog for Lunch by Melina and Aaron* There was an old lady who found a frog and dressed him up in green. She brought him home to have some lunch. They ate some tasty beans. This is Melina's first attempt at poetry. She pretty much wrote the entire piece herself, except for the last line. We told her it might be good to do some rhyming and Aaron piped up, "beans!" and then added the last line.

As most of you are aware, we here in Southern Ohio have had a very cold winter. In fact, those words really don't do justice to the level of cold that we've seen here. The temperatures were the worst I've experienced here, and while I've only lived in this area for ten years, I come from MICHIGAN. Some of the temperatures were cold even for the region of that lovely state from which I come. Well, because I like to dress appropriately for running, I listen to and/or check the weather forecast each morning. Twice in the past two weeks, by one meteorologist in particular, I've heard something similar to this on the radio: Partly cloudy in the morning, full sun by the afternoon. Chilly, with a high of 40. What the heck? Chilly? After we've crawled out of the depths of despair, where we hovered at -19 degrees, you dare to call a high of 40 chilly ? I thought it was a one-time deal, but she did it again, yesterday. Has she already forgotten how gosh-darn frigid

I'm pretty sure I left off on my reasons to be happy with #110. If I'm wrong, feel free to correct me. It's also been a while, and I have many more reasons to be happy. So here we go. 111. Warm peanut butter toast with nutella. 112. Walking down the laundry detergent aisle and smelling each and every choice. 113. Questions about the earth from a kindergartener. 114. The ability to edit an article and make it better. 115. Knowing someone who believes in X-ray vision. 116. The early morning tweet of birds, the ones I hope will signal the start of spring. 117. My striped fleece. 118. Friends. (I can't stress the importance of that one.) 119. The feel of a completed manuscript in my hands. 120. The exhilaration of dropping off the manuscript to my evaluator. That last one will only be made better by the actual acquisition of an agent. I need to believe that this latest manuscript is going to be the one that opens doors. I'd take almost any door, mind you. W

A couple of years back, I received a box of clothes from FRN. Apparently, she'd gotten them from a friend, who admitted that they were his girlfriend's. Well, they were his ex-girlfriend's clothes. She moved out and left much of her clothes; he attempted to a find good home for them. I scored on that day. I found a sweater and some shirts, as well as a few pairs of jeans. One pair in particular I really like. In fact, I like this pair of jeans so much, I have thought about finding them and buying a pair at full-price. That fact is big. I don't usually buy anything full-price, except for running shoes. And, I mainly head to Goodwill for my everyday clothes. So finding out where the jeans are sold and thinking about buying them? For more than the everyday Goodwill price of $3.99? Huge, I tell you. Well, I'm not stupid. I know that jeans, for whatever reason, can be pricey. I have another pair of jeans (yes, from Goodwill) that originally came from the Gap. When

I am consistently astounded by how much blame one can transfer to another person. (Why? I should know this happens by now. And obviously, quite a bit.) If you repeatedly need to tell yourself that you must forgive another person, then have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, there is something within yourself that might need to be addressed? To be changed? Let's not blame one another. Let's take responsibility for our thoughts, our actions, and our inactions. Let's march on in peace.

It's not summer (heck, we haven't even seen a bit of spring yet) and somehow, the bananas went bad. Not a problem, as we all love banana oatmeal bars. I don't know what it is about this recipe in particular, but I have to share it. I originally found it years ago on Food.com, so it isn't my own recipe, but I'll take credit for making a good bar when it comes out of my oven. 1 and 1/2 cups flour 1 tsp salt 1/2 tsp baking soda 1/4 tsp nutmeg 1 tsp cinnamon 1/2 cup soft butter 1 cup brown sugar 1 large egg 3-4 ripe bananas, mashed 1 tsp vanilla 1 and 1/2 cups raw oats 3/4 cup nuts, dried fruit, or chocolate chips (optional) Directions (after you preheat to 425 degrees) 1. Combine flour, salt, soda, and spices and set aside (I've also added about 2 Tbsp unsweetened cocoa to this mixture, and it is yummy.) 2. In a large bowl, beat butter, sugar, and egg until fluffy. 3. Add bananas and vanilla and beat until smooth. 4. Gradually stir in flour mixtu

Every once in awhile, usually when the girls sleep elsewhere, I do the unthinkable. I ask Tim to sleep with Aaron, in Aaron's room. So that I can be alone. ALONE. I choose the dates that the girls are gone simply because I will have fewer responsibilities when I awaken. So that, should I choose to sleep in, I can do so because instead of four sweet beasts to fend for, I only have two. And in order to actually sleep in, say, get up at 7 a.m. instead of 5:30 a.m., I need to oust Tim from the bed. Why? Because the man can snore. And when I say snore, I mean SNORE. I mean freight train, Mack truck, thunder-booming snoring that wakes me up, but apparently, not the man who produces it. Even after I poke his shoulder and ask him to roll over, in an instant, he's on his back, whistling that ear-splitting cacophony. Last night was one of those nights. I sweetly asked Tim to sleep with Aaron and drifted off to the land of slumber. The cat woke me at 5 a.m. but I rolled over, spread