Heptadecagon

Dear Zoe and Talia, Over the past several weeks, I've been working on a blog post that I hope to submit to The Huffington Post . The piece revolves around you (this isn't it) so my brain has been working overtime thinking of you wee beasts. And then, I realized that your birthday was approaching, and that fact, of course, threw you both front and center in my mind. (Not that you aren't always front and center, but sometimes, I do think about other facets of my life!) Each time I stopped to think about you both, I felt paralyzed by the fact that you would be turning 14 years old. FOURTEEN! Or as Daddy would like to say, 2x7, 3+3+4+2+2, 17-3, or even that it is the base of the tetradecimal notation. I should also add, since you've been using the periodic table of elements this past year, that the atomic number of silicon is 14 and it's the approximate atomic weight of nitrogen. Fourteen is also a number that seems too little and yet too big all at the same

Aaron's a great artist. Last year, he had a piece in the local art show, and this year, he has another piece headed to the same show as well. Wait a minute, you say. Who is this lady bragging about her child? Well, I'm not bragging, per se, I'm just trying to help you recognize the complexities of Little Red. For I came home the other night to find this lovely piece of art sitting on my counter (this is not the piece that will be at the show, I should add): What is it you ask? Does anyone want to hazard any guesses? (Get your mind out of the gutter at least partially, FRN.) It's a tampon ghost, of course. I guess I'm quite proud that my 11-year-old son is comfortable holding a tampon. On the other hand... well, I'm not sure there is another hand.

Mom used to be a reader—a voracious one. Stack upon stack of books littered our house. Even now, the family room is lined with books, many of which are from my childhood, others that have come in since I left the family home. Mom wasn't partial to one genre in particular, either, so the books that exist in the home now are as varied as they used to be. I remember looking at all the books—from encyclopedias to classic fiction to her beloved Ayn Rand and the Childcraft series. Many of those books, she'd take off the shelf and read a little piece to us. One book had the classic poem, "The Highwayman." I remember Mom reading the poem aloud, her voice long and low, her eyes bright. And after she was done, I'd take the book from her hands and stare at the pictures. I think the green cast of the woman's skin both entranced and horrified me such that I remember spending many moments with the accompanying illustrations. The entire poem is illustrated and can be f

It's been a long week and I've been thinking of a certain set of twins who will turn 14 (!) at the end of this month. And because of that momentous occasion, I just had to include a picture I've been looking at lately. Who is up for a game of which kid is which? (If you know their personalities, you'll be able to figure it out easily!)

It's sometimes difficult being the person to whom everyone confides . It's not that I don't want to listen to friends and family. It's more a matter of being inundated with feeling because once someone opens up to me, then I know too much. One day late in 2015, as I drove home from work, Sara Bareilles' song "She Used to be Mine" came on the radio. Earlier that week, I'd had a conversation with a person I've known for a while. The conversation ran the gamut: from kids to spouses to jobs to fears to hopes and dreams. But as much good as came out of that conversation, I hung up feeling quite raw and exposed, without truly understanding why. In the car that day, as I sat and listened to Bareilles' lyrics, I understood. I don't know if you've seen the movie Waitress or not. I enjoyed it, but it's been some time since it came out (2007, I think). Bareilles wrote "She Used to Be Mine" for the musical that comes out in Apri

Many of you probably know that Lucy has been with us since July 1999. Yes, that's a long time. For those of you who don't like math, that birth date means he will turn 17 this year. (Yowzers!) He doesn't do much these days besides sit on the recliner, an action that reminds me very much of my grandfather. Hmmm. Anyway, I thought this episode of kitty cuteness could be dedicated to the oldest four-legged mammal in the house. He happens to be looking at Melina in this picture... She didn't hold his attention long. He's trying to use a Jedi mind trick to get me to leave him alone. Really? He says. Why isn't she leaving? And if that's not proof that he doesn't do much, here's a little video to enjoy (I should mention there's nothing to hear on this. Melina was whispering something for a bit, but those words are not necessary for the video):

Today's installment of Lyric Lover doesn't provide an entire set of lyrics for any particular song. Because here's what I find: that many of Taylor Swift's lyrics are stories, and that one could, if one wanted, go in a different direction than she does, if one chooses to use her lyrics as writing prompts. So who is up for a little bit of on-the-fly writing? ( S. B. House tends to post prompts on Mondays, and since I follow her so much, I thought these would be appropriate today.) Note: due to copyright issues, I cannot print lyrics here. But I'll post the links to videos and a few words for you to focus on with each video screaming color (Out of the Woods) Burning red (Red) light up this whole town (You Belong with Me) one-hand feel  (Our Song)

I took a day off yesterday--an FRN-approved day off. However, I didn't think to consider LRN's feelings. I should have. I was wrong. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... However, I feel rejuvenated by the break. Somehow, one little day of not posting has given me the courage to not post more often. I've broken the posting cycle! I've freed myself! (You laugh, but really, there's something to the words I speak. It's called OCD.) But I want LRN and all you other very loyal and faithful readers to know that I appreciate your friendship, so very much. You are these people. Thank you.

This photo can be found all over the internet (I copied it from this place ), but what I find interesting is that the words, while thoughtful, probably aren't those of Buddha. Yes, a fingernail's worth of digging found an article on where and how these words came to be. They are, in effect, an interpretation of Buddha's teaching. No matter, because these words make me think about many things in my life. And as I like to say, anything that makes me think is worth posting.

If there's one thing I can say about FRN, it's that she is persistent. And great about guilting (is that a word?) me into posting. Again, I had plans to skip a day of blog posting. I've been editing other people's writing, submitting my own pieces, and actually spending some time on my teaching. (The heart dissection went well yesterday, thank you.) And as I said, the cats are getting bigger, so I don't have as many pictures to post of those creatures to close the gap that not-writing would cause. The kids are also getting bigger, so I don't have as many cute pictures or anecdotes to share about them, either. But sometimes, the kids still surprise me in ways that I should anticipate, but don't. Take yesterday, for example... The school district had a two-hour delay due to the below zero wind chills. I, however, did not. I woke Tim up, asked if he could stay to take the older two children over to the their school and then be back to get the younger two on

Kitties turn into cats. People around here don't take as many pictures of cats as they do kitties. But I needed to have a Kitty Cuteness Day. I just needed it. And so here we are... Benedict is on the right. He's going to be 1 year old very soon. Lucy is on the left; he turns 17 in July! How did Arnold get on my back? He flung himself at me, clawed his way up my back, and decided to stay a while.   Benedict really doesn't want to be photographed... He'd rather hang out here.  Now, it's on to a full day of teaching, heart dissection (YES!), and writing. Happy Tuesday to you!

A person I've known for a long time has always said, "Trying is a noisy way of doing nothing." I've never agreed with that decree. It's not so easy to disprove when you're ten years old, but as an adult, I have looked around my home life, my work life, my friend life, and especially my writing life, and I see people putting forth herculean efforts. Doesn't that spirit of constantly attempting to bring a task to fruition constitute the word trying ? Sure enough, the simple definition of try over at Merriam Webster states: to make an effort to do something : to attempt to accomplish or complete something to do or use (something) in order to see if it works or will be successful to do or use (something) in order to find out if you like it Let's concentrate on that second bullet point for a minute, shall we? (Yes, that means go back and read it, please.) That second point implies that the outcome of our attempts is never guaranteed to be successfu

Find this and more like it here .

The kids wanted bagels, so bagels, they would get... I stood in front of the case that held the bagels, donuts, and muffins. My hand reached in to grab the plain and sesame bagels that sat there, lined up like tires behind the plastic door. Covered in tissue, my fingers grazed the side of a muffin as I picked up the last of the dozen bagels I planned on purchasing. The muffin, green as the spring grass, called to me, so I squinted to look at the name: Pistachio Muffin . Well that explained the green. I took the muffin home, set it on the counter, and realized, just how green the muffin was. No way on God's green earth this green came from natural sources. I felt the urge to cut it open... Despite the color, I also felt the urge to eat it... I'm not sure how many chemicals would have constituted the list of ingredients, but I can tell you this: of the three people in our household who tried this muffin, all of them found it tasty. But I have to say that I wouldn

Picnics are fun , she thought as she threw on a shirt and pair of shorts. She'd have to come back up to brush her teeth and hair, but she couldn't wait to get downstairs, eat some breakfast, and get ready for the picnic. The whole family planned to go-- a small trip to the lake 30 minutes away. They didn't go often and of course, Mom and Dad had promised. A picnic. But at the kitchen table she saw the forlorn look of her usually effervescent sister. Head in hands, scowl pasted on. It's raining, her sister said, and pointed out the window. The image of her day smashed into a thousand pieces and hung in the air, bits so concrete she thought she'd be able to hold them in her hand. She wanted to brush them away, tell them to come again another day. But then, Mom appeared with a picnic basket and Dad pulled out a blanket. They set the floor like they would a table. The sun never arrived that day, and someho

The New Year card they sent spoke of nothing but merriment and bright tidings. I looked at the rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes of the children in the picture: identical twins holding onto the leashes of identical puppies. I wondered how she could send this card to me. Didn't she know that I knew? That I'd heard about everything that had happened in the past year? That I was privy to information that only a select few were? What was she trying to pull? *** He leaned back in his chair and gazed at the woman in front of him. Lines traversed her face and hollows gathered in her cheeks. Fine wisps of gray-brown hair pulled away from the messy ponytail she kept at the back of her head. Her hands worked to scrub the coffee stain out of the floor and an image of his mother floated into his mind. His mother on her hands and knees as she mercilessly attacked the round, red blood that had seeped into the tile. The whispers. The shouts. The shackles that gripped his wrists. *** It a

I prepared my coffee, opened up my lap top, and sat down to write. Well, I wasn't going to write, I was going to revise . But as I sat and looked at the words on the page, they--I kid you not--looked like they were dancing. I watched as the e floated by and the i leaped over the m and the n .They didn't feel like stopping, no matter what I did or what page I was on. And in that single moment--I have a lot of single moments where I realize sooo much--I knew what the problem was. I didn't want to revise yet. I wanted to write. (Much to my children's dismay, I did not make this image. But you can find it just about anywhere online.) So The Chocolate Garden is on the back burner for a bit. I need to step away and let the story simmer a bit more, I think. Fill in the plot holes in my head but not on paper yet. And my plan? I always have one of those, you know. My plan is to take After We've Fallen chapter by chapter, tweak each word if I have to, polish it until

I had no plans to post today...too much to do and too little time in which to get it all accomplished. Then, I received this: And so, thanks to that good old Catholic (or not) guilt, I'm now saying hello to FRN. Like I just couldn't have texted or called her. Happy now, FRN?

A goal of mine for the new year is to write more loving, kind memories of those who surround me. I haven't yet attempted a post like that this year (it is, after all, less than two weeks in), but I thought I'd introduce the title of this new series. I've decided to call it Into the Pensieve . All the Harry Potter fans will know exactly what I'm talking about with the word, pensieve. But if you haven't read the books or seen the movies, I might have to help you out a bit. According to the Language Realm , a pensieve "is a magical repository for memories" that first appears in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire . We see it again later, in other books, and realize what an important tool it can be. (I don't want to spoil how it is used.) But what is it? In most technical terms, the pensieve "is a stone bowl with runes on it, filled with a silvery white gaseous liquid (or viscous gas). The user extracts a memory from himself or someone else

Want to know what my novel, After We've Fallen , is about? Well here you go:

Filed under the things you didn't need to know but I'll tell you anyway file: I had my yearly mammogram the other day. Apparently, I don't have much of a rack, as evidenced by my less than B cups, but what tissue I have is very dense. Not much can be done about that, but it means that the mammogram technician had to work hard to get my measly breast tissue between the plates so that all tissue could be imaged. Filed under the things you might need to know so I'll tell you file: Not sure what constitutes dense breast tissue? Let me remind you that breasts are composed mostly of glandular tissue (lobules and ducts that produce and carry milk, respectively), fatty tissue, and connective tissue. If glandular and connective tissue make up the majority of the breast, that breast is categorized as dense. The denser the breast, the greater risk for cancer (slightly higher risk, most sites claim, and I'm not going to look up the statistics to prove it) and the more d

Dear Old Navy , I remember the first time I heard of you. I think it was back in 1995 when I met my friend, Jess. She always dressed nice, casual yet not messy, and I asked her where she found her clothes. "Lot's of different places," she said. "But I do like Old Navy. They're relatively new and they might not have a store here yet." Up until that time, I had no idea you existed (of course not, as you had only been established one year earlier). And since that time, I've found a few items of yours that I love: a pair of pants here, a sweater there, and that fleece of mine that some of my readers detest. Usually, I find your items at Goodwill or online because I'm not a big fan of shopping at all and anything I can do from the comfort of my own home, well, sign me up. However, the other day I decided that I just needed to go shopping for pants . The act of shopping wasn't a time waster. It's winter and I'm teaching more this year. I

The other day, when trying to print a file, this happened: It's a little difficult to read the small printing, but the window says, "Previously, the power cord may have been unplugged while the printer was still on. When turning off the printer, follow the correct procedure." Bam! Well the computer told me, didn't it? To be fair, the cord had been unplugged--inadvertently. Normally I do follow the correct procedure .

I find myself whispering as I lay in the darkness of my bedroom, "It's not about the grade...it's not about the grade." And it's not, really. In essence I should not be worried about my child's grade on a middle school semester exam. It's not my grade and I know--as an adult--that learning is more important than what grade shows up on a piece of paper 1/4 of the way through someone's life. No one is going to say to my child down the road, That middle school grade is what did you in . Had it not been for that, you'd have become a brain surgeon, or singer-songwriter, or a lawyer, or a veterinarian. Had you just done better on that math exam... That's just not going to happen. But what I fear is that the dismal grade on the math exam is a product of not studying, of being lazy--not the result of not understanding the material. I think she had the chance over the last two quarters to put the information into her head and she simply chose not to

Heard on the radio while driving to Marshall's yesterday (yes, I treated myself to a few items of clothing, none of which have pastel/rainbow colors in them): ... The Forest is the most highly anticipated movie of the season. Look for it in movie theaters near you soon. It has a great twist ending... I had no plans to see The Forest, but now that I know a twist ending exists, I will not make plans to go see the movie. Same thing goes for books that reveal a plot twist on the dust jacket. Does no one respect the element of surprise anymore? (If my slight complaint has caused you to consider seeing the movie, check out this site here for more information. The above pictures were taken from that site.)

If you Google, How long does it take for something to become a habit ?, you will find differing responses. People used to think it took about 21 days for a new action to stick (that misconception was partly due to a statement by Maxwell Maltz in the 1950s). But as of a few years ago, science supposedly stated that it takes 66 days--not 21--for something to become a habit. Which means that 300 or so days ago, blogging each and every day became a habit of mine. A habit I'm having trouble breaking. Some would not find a blogging habit to be much of a problem. I mean, it's not that I'm out there bingeing on alcohol or recreational drugs, nor am I hurting anyone (or myself ) with such a habit. (Remember this habit ? Yeah, it's still a part of me.) And truthfully, sitting down in front of my computer, if I have a moment of time, isn't all that bad. However, if I sit in front of the computer and write to you instead of revising what I've written? Well then, I'm p

From The Tao of Spirit, p. 91

I thought about not writing today, but realized that on a day when my responsibilities are fewer, that I should take the time to put some words down somewhere. I truly believe that blogging as much as I have has made me a better writer, so why ignore the pull when I have the time? It's good I have the time because I've been doing a lot of thinking about 2016 lately. I can't be sure what it will bring--for me, my family, my folks, or my students. I don't possess a crystal ball after all (and I wouldn't want one anyway). But over the last several days I realized that 2015 was the year that I needed to purge myself of some very negative feelings that had managed to take root and fester for years. (If you go back and look at my blog, or if you've been following my year, you know exactly what I mean.) And while I tried to be somewhat diplomatic in my writing, so as not to specifically call out certain people in particular, it was very apparent in some cases who I w

For both 2014 and 2015 , I started off the year with some words that meant something to me. The cool thing is, for both of those years, those quotes truly did hold a special meaning. In 2014 I saw several goals achieved...those that excited and inspired me. And in 2015, I added a few amazing people to the cast of characters I surround myself with (and I mean the people I can touch and people see--not the characters in my head who are also real.) Of course, I'm a creature of habit, so I intend to keep the ball rolling with another small quote for us all to ponder. Remember one thing only: that it’s you – nobody else – who determines your destiny and decides your fate. Nobody else can be alive for you; nor can you be alive for anybody else. ~e.e. cummings Happy New Year and here's to much happiness to you all!