Heptadecagon

(Are you humming the tune to Katy Perry's Last Friday Night ? I know I am. I even thought about writing a little parody of that song, but here it is, almost the evening of New Year's Eve, and I have things to do. So I won't.) Last Monday night, I found myself scrubbing dishes after dinner. Of course, I couldn't find anything abnormal in those actions, considering I'm the certified dish person in this house. But something about the whole mom-doing-dishes was different that night, and it had to do with the addition of a colander that perched on my head. Why did I have a colander on my head? Those of you who've known me for over 20 years might think I was channeling Harvey, my hippo character. But no, my hat of choice that night was because Melina asked me to wear it. I can't remember why, or what we were pretending, but I do hope that I'll remember (and I hope she does, too) the night that we had fun in the kitchen with colanders on our heads. And be

Even at the end of the year, I manage to learn something on each day of my existence. Yesterday, the lesson involved a subject most people avoid: hemorrhoids. You see, despite my belief that my hemorrhoid had disappeared, I found out yesterday that it hadn't. (TMI? Too bad.) So what's the lesson for today? What have I managed to learn between the time I awoke at 6:15 a.m. and now? That this date, December 30, is not only Bacon Day (something I don't care that much about, but a subject that will be endlessly fascinating for the kids) but also National Bicarbonate of Soda Day. What? You're not thrilled with knowing that today is basically celebrating the wonders of baking soda? I am. I am absolutely ecstatic that the cleaning and baking wonder has its own day. I use baking soda so often, Tim teases me about wanting to use it for everything. Well, in case you didn't know all the uses of baking soda, I'm including a link to a pretty comprehensive list . Most of

I've been thinking, lately, of so many things. Too many really, for my brain to deal with on a daily basis. I think that maybe I should seek out full-time employment. Not that I don't work full-time already, as you know we mostly SAHMs do. But away from this house, in an office or cubicle (if I'm lucky). A job with many hours, which would take me away from the kids. Something I really don't want to do yet. But then I think that I don't want Tim to have to work until he is 80. And at this rate, with four kids and four college tuitions, he's on track to keep bringing home a paycheck until he's at least 85. I've also been thinking that writing isn't much of a career when you don't get pieces published. How do people do this all day? Pretending that what they have to say matters to at least one person? I know that my words do matter to a few, and it's not that you few aren't significant to me (because you ARE, more

It's that time of the year again--the one where I make the decision to cut my hair (or not). Today, I'm not sure what to do. I like having long hair for many reasons, the most important of which is because pulling hair into a ponytail is one of the easiest things in life to do. Plus, if I want to hide, I can leave the hair down that day and use it as a curtain. But the ends of my hair are pretty dry and brittle, and I certainly don't want to be mistaken for a forty-something who wishes she were twenty-something. (Truth be told, sometimes I still feel like I'm in my twenties, but I don't need to relive those times. I'm good with being 41 years old.) So, I'm turning to you, faithful readers. The question isn't whether or not I'll color my hair again (I think a new stripe will be forthcoming, soon), but should I cut it? Thoughts? Thank you in advance.

I swear to you that this blog will not be a recipe blog. However, I NEED to share two very tasty recipes I encountered this week. Because all four kids are still here and will be for the next week, I don't have the time to write out the recipes. Plus, you can find them here and here . What are they? A recipe for Cherry Pie Bars , and Italian Mini Frittatas . We had the former on Christmas for dessert and the latter this morning at a lovely brunch (if I do say so myself) with our wonderful friends. Enjoy! And if you do make them, let me know how you like them.

Scents have a way of taking us back to moments in our past. So do recipes. The following sugar cookie recipe is the one that does it for me. They aren't named for my mom, Mary, but we did make this cookie when I was younger, usually around Christmas. I fell in love with them then, and fall in love again, every time I eat one of these. Mary's Sugar Cookies* 1 cup softened butter 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar 1 egg 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1/2 teaspoon almond extract 2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon cream of tartar granulated sugar/frosting for decorating In a large bowl, mix together the powdered sugar and butter. Add the egg, vanilla extract, and almond extract, and mix well. Blend in the flour, baking soda, and cream of tartar. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 to 3 hours. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Divide the dough in half. Roll each half 3/16 of an inch thick on lightly floured surface. Cut into desired shapes a

Dear Friend, Can I still call you that? We haven't spoken all year, and yet, I'm sending this letter out to you. I know you ripped open the envelope (or clicked on the link, in this case) with haste. Maybe your heartbeat increased when you saw our names splayed across the top of your inbox. Then again, maybe you didn't care one single bit that we had, in fact, thought of you when we asked ourselves, To whom should we send our holiday letter? If you fall into the latter category, you are more than welcome to write to us and let us know that next year, you'd rather not be included on the holiday greetings list. (In fact, why don't you do just that. If enough of you do, then we won't feel compelled to write up the drivel you know is sure to follow. Because really, ain't nobody got time for that.) So what to say, other than what a superb year we've had? I'll probably have to think about the entire year for a few moments...to figure out what you

Yesterday morning, I decided it was time to try and take a walk. Not a run, mind you, but a relatively easy, not-too-long walk. One that I hoped wouldn't cause any flare-up within my body. The moment I slipped on my running bra, I felt as though I had come home. By the time I laced up my shoes, I'd only confirmed how much I missed the feel of their embrace. The crisp, December air brushed my cheeks and tickled my nose, and the call of the birds energized me. I won't bore you about the fine details of my walk--like how far I went and how fast--but I'm so grateful I went out. I'm also hopeful that I'm healing well. I can't wait until I'm ready to run, instead of walk.

I received a rejection the other day that I feel compelled to share with you. It's beautiful in its simplicity, really. Somehow, the brevity of the message takes my breath away. The effect of the message is similar to when you take off a band-aid quickly: the less time it takes, the less pain one will feel. That's right, this message inflicted no pain, and it's not because it said yes. Not for nus. Thanks. Yep, that's it...that's all. The literary agent sent a quick message, with a typo, and no signature. She couldn't bother to spend the time to write out even a slightly less perfunctory but feel good rejection. Not even a "Thank you for your submission, but it's not right for us," which would have been more appropriate, I think. (And something you could simply plug in as an automatic signature line.) I won't incriminate the guilty, but if an agent can't even take the time of day to make a polite reply, then I'd say just don't re

Know anyone who needs to move? Feeling like you want to visit us? We've got a lovely little guesthouse, directly across from our garage. Courtesy of Little Red. "It's got a roof and everything!" Aaron said. An enormous smile filled his freckled face. "That's the only thing it has!" I said, but only in my head. (See, I'm learning to use that filter from time to time.) I'm proud of that boy.  Gosh darn, am I proud.

I executed a grave parenting error on Sunday afternoon, and I'm hoping you can learn from my mistakes. Let me set the stage. That afternoon, I had wandered into the twins' room to find something. I can't remember what that something was, because as soon as I placed one foot in the room, a wave of disgust rolled over me. Their room rivaled a disaster site: dirty socks hid under the bed, clean clothes lounged on the chair, wrappers stuck to the corners, and toys...well, those toys lay just about everywhere. "My goodness," I said. "This is bad. Really bad," Melina said. She'd followed me up the stairs because whatever it was I needed to find just happened to be hers. "You're telling me." I pushed a few items around in an effort to out the piece I was looking for. No such luck. "Zoe and Talia sure are messy, Mom." Melina stated the obvious in her usual style: hands on hips, eyebrows cocked, with all the wisdom of an adul

I called her because I was worried. She had just visited me a few weeks prior, and I couldn't determine whether the memory loss I thought she had experienced resulted from years of depression, aging, or something worse--such as Alzheimer's. In the time since I'd seen her, I had written her a letter and sent it to her. The letter served as an outline of sorts, the symptoms I watched creep up on her like a stealthy cat: the repetition of stories, the look of confusion when I asked if she knew how to get to the store, the jumbled conversations that held no meaning. I refused to believe that these changes simply hitched a ride with the passing years and I felt compelled to plead my case. "I don't have a memory problem," she said into the phone. I would have liked to have been in the room with her when we spoke instead of 200 miles away. I imagined her knuckles, white as copy paper as she gripped the receiver, and the lines of her lips thin from the pressure of

Our friends over at Buzzfeed Books published a list of the most beautiful sentences in literature . I think they might be missing a few really fantastic sentences, but considering the list was compiled from Buzzfeed readers, I think they did all right. I found myself nodding my head and whispering yes to many of them. Those I really liked? “She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.” —J. D. Salinger, “A Girl I Knew” “Sometimes I can feel my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.” —Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close “‘Dear God,’ she prayed, ‘let me be something every minute of every hour of my life.’” —Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn “Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.” —Nicole Krauss, The History of Love and finally “In spite of everythi

If your idea of happiness does not match up with your partner's idea of happiness, it might be a good idea to reconsider if we shouldn't really be I .

Last week on a Korean Air flight headed from New York to Seoul, a problem occurred. I'm sure you have heard of this situation already...it's been all over the news. If you haven't read about this yet, simply Google Korean Air and nuts...you'll find several pertinent articles. Apparently (and I hope to get most of the facts, as reported, correct here), Cho Hyun-ah, who is a vice president in charge of Korean Air's in-flight services (and daughter of the company's chairman), was on that flight. Of course, she sat in first class. Of course, first class customers have come to expect certain perks. When a flight member served her macadamia nuts in a bag--as opposed to on a plate--Cho Hyun-ah decided to ah, go a little nuts. (Sorry, other people have said the same thing, and really, it's an appropriate pun here.) Her actions that day led to a delay in departure of the flight, and eventually the ejection of a crew member. Wondering why? Supposedly, flight membe

I open the right cabinet door, and reach for a plate. The small plates lay stacked on the wire shelf, the larger ones rest beneath. I hesitate, wondering which plate will be necessary. In that moment of hesitation, I realize that it has been months since I've taken a plastic plate from the cabinet. They live in the same space as the ceramic plates, but to the left of the divider. We have a set of five matching plastic plates in pink, green, purple, blue, and orange, as well as tiny, saucer-sized plates in the primary colors. Years ago, the kids used these plates at every meal and snack. And now, my fingers haven't touched one in a very long time. I stop myself and think about the importance of this moment. How when I bought those plates--the set of five, especially--I thought of the fact that all of my children could eat from them, plus a friend. Those plates have seen tea parties with homemade cookies, leftover pizza, spinach enchiladas, and too many sandwiches.We've use

About a week ago, we welcomed a new animal into our lives. His name is Heathcliff and he's an orange tiger cat. If you're not sure about what an orange tiger cat looks like, imagine Daniel Tiger on Mr. Rogers, or better yet, the cat named Heathcliff . (We didn't choose the name Heathcliff, but I'm guessing whoever did thought he looked like that cartoon cat.) At the time that I stumbled across Heathcliff (and his brother, Chester), I had no intention of allowing another cat into our house. But there they were, playing in a cage at our local pet store, with a paper that said the Humane Society was hoping to find forever homes for them. I'd been in that store many times, I'd seen many cats, none of them drew me in. Except these two. At first glance, they reminded me of Lucy and Ferdinand when they were kittens. My two original babies, the ones I'd scurry home to after a long day at the lab. Something about the stripes or the set of their eyes maybe. I'

I really hope this is the last of my posts on my oven. I'm sure you feel the same. And because of those feelings, I'm keeping this post short. The repairman arrived this morning, bright and early. I let him into the house, showed him to the kitchen, and left him to work his magic. In a few minutes, he had replaced the temperature sensor, heated the oven, and deemed the whole repair a success. After I signed the receipt, which acknowledged that he had performed the work and that I didn't pay for it (since we had a warranty), I thanked him. Him: You're welcome. Me: I hope this works. Seems like this was a tough repair. Him: Huh. An error of F10 means temperature sensor. It should have been the first item they replaced. As I said back in the third installment of this saga, the problem here wasn't with the parts. It was with the repairmen. Or I'll believe that statement until the error occurs again. When that happens, I'm asking for a new oven.

Over at Rant Chic , Kallie Provencher talks about what women shouldn't wear after 30. I Googled Kallie, because I wanted to know just how old she is. From her photo, it's hard to tell. She could be in her mid-twenties, but she could also be in her early forties. But Kallie's age isn't my point. What is? That we should be able to wear whatever we want, when we want. And if that means I'm going to wear a graphic T-Shirt and my sparkly boots, then so be it. Or maybe I'll put on a leopard print scarf and socks that don't match. Or maybe, just maybe, I'll wear my infamous striped fleece. Who's with me?

Have you ever heard of #PitMad? Don't worry, I hadn't either until my friend Cindy poked around for ways to catch literary agents' eyes. If you go here , the entire #PitMadness will be explained. In short, you create a pitch for your book (in 140 characters or less). You tweet that pitch, along with the hashtag #PitMad, on a certain day of the year (today would be one of those), and you hope that an agent finds interest in your pitch. If he or she does, that person can request pages, a partial, maybe a full manuscript. The whole process is similar to pitching to an agent in person, but on a quicker and grader scale, and with a little less fear involved. Well guess what? Cindy convinced me to try my hand at this #PitMad thing, and so I've got a few pitches ready and two manuscripts that are prepped. Will I get any bites? (This whole scenario seems like fishing to me.) I have no clue. But there's nothing, and I mean nothing, to lose. Fingers crossed.

For two years, I've been wedded to a first chapter. Over the course of several revisions, said chapter changed very little until my writing group said, "Have you thought about..." I trust The Plot Sisters' intuition and experience, so I hunkered down and hoped to pull out some magic. I'm not sure if I found any magic, but I do know that yesterday, I sat back (literally) and said, "That's a damn fine first chapter." A euphoric feeling bounced through me for a few moments. I brushed the scone crumbs off my chest and took a long sip of coffee. I mentally patted myself on the back. Then, the world screeched to a halt when I realized that yes, I should redo the last chapter. I know it will benefit the story. I know I will feel better about the whole manuscript when it's completely done. I know this, I know this. So, here we go again...

Four months ago today was the last time I strapped on my running shoes. Four months. That means, I haven't felt the wind in my hair or the beads of sweat on my back since August 2. Since the drops of sun rained down and the grass laid on the ground like a carpet of green velvet. Since the blue sky above me and the humid air hugged me with their comforting arms. Four months. One hundred twenty-two days. One-third of a year. I thought when I first considered a running hiatus that I'd never make it through whatever magical number of days it took for me to heal. That I'd pull my hair out and morph into a crabby witch of a person and most people who called themselves my friends would claim to no longer know me. Shoot, I thought my family would no longer want to admit they were mine, although they'd be forced to suffer through living with a new, non-running me. I've always held to the belief that running serves as therapy for me, and that the action itself combats my ge

The days crept by and here we are, at December 1. I can't believe it. The whole of 2014 is almost over, and what do I have to show for it? Quite a bit, thank you very much. I hope you do, too. Just in case you weren't aware, December 1 is: the 335th day of the year the day the government reinstated the draft lottery (for Vietnam, the first since WWII) the birthday of Jan Brett, author of The Mitten and many other lovable picture books the day I start to worry that I'm not ready for Christmas You can find an entire list of what has occurred on December 1 on the internet, of course, so I'll stop there. If you find something exciting and want to share, please do.