GREEN GLASS

I haven't been feeling well, so maybe the tendrils of that sluggish ague that lands when something's a little off is what led me here. But here I am. I sit in the kitchen, stirring my lentil soup, and inspect my surroundings with an introspective uncertainty.

This is my life right now, I think. Not before now. Right now. All that's here is new.

The print above the cupboard was inspired by a someone only two years my friend. The birdcages nearby I brought home a few months ago. The prints to the left are recently framed. And the shelf they're sitting on, well, we hung that last week. I look around noticing that the walls of my little dwelling reflect the walls of my little mind. I like to do away with the old and replace it with the now.

I'm not interested in old pictures of me. I see them as lies. That's not who I am now. I don't even know who that was then. Now is honest. The past just isn't true anymore.

It seems that I have a puny respect for my history. I don't venerate it the way some do. I decorate my days with little philosophies, and one of them is that each stage of life is one to be overcome. Conquer high school and don't bother looking back. Plow through college, forging yourself into something better, and be done with it. Move away from a place and never visit. Unintentionally lose touch with the friends you left behind; they are the past. Without aiming to be, I'm forward-thinking and only interested in what's next. Who am I working on becoming? Each phase is a precursor to the next and so much less noteworthy than where I am right now.

But here in my kitchen where everything is new, I still display my collection of green glass. It started with a bulbous green vase from my brother-in-law and sprouted, bloomed, grew into enough pieces to scatter throughout the house. My accumulation is varied shades of green--translucent and luminous all--a candle stick, vases, goblets, carafes, bottles, whatever I come across in a verdant hue that strikes me. I love my glass. I love collecting it and mixing the new pieces with the ones I already have. But as time passes, the pieces become old. They aren't a part of Now anymore. They're shards of Then.

Each piece didn't come with meaning, but somehow each earned it. Not a meaning I can give words to. Just meaning in that they are still here. They're the bits of before that I don't mind displaying, that I don't tire of or use as a marker for what needs improvement. I suppose they might signify the few memories that I don't shun and endeavor to overcome.

I'm here in the kitchen, looking at so much new, sprinkled with just a bit of old and find a curious solace in considering that it's not all of the past I disdain, just some--just most. It must be that in bumbling through living we amass our own bits of green glass, and we don't mind keeping them around; they do a good job of accenting what's new.

LITE BUDDHISM

Ever walk through a store and stop dead in your tracks when you see something truly incredible, something so seemingly once-in-a-lifetime? That happens to me sometimes. Mostly with shoes. I'll halt and emit a little gasp of awe. Seriously. I think there's something innate in the way some women feel about shoes. I see the great ones as wearable art.

This stop-and-awe happened a couple months ago when I was walking through a home decor store and laid eyes on a chartreuse ceramic Buddha figure (that Jessica picked up on in my Special Delivery post).

Oh my gosh. I have to have this. And for six bucks, I'd have been a fool not to buy it.

When my sister, Mal, was visiting a while back with the purpose of helping me do some house dejunking and reorganizing and restyling, I was taking her through the house telling her what I liked and didn't like. When we reached my office door I stopped before opening it and said, Ever purchase a piece so spectacular that you can hardly believe it's yours? She said she did. Well, when I open this door you're going to just die over how great something is.

I opened the door, she looked in, and she cried out, Oh please tell me you mean the Buddha!

Well, of course.

When the husband was doing my bidding last night with the hanging and such, we placed a shelf sconce thinger just inside the front entryway very near my Fam Proc poster. I'd designated something very special for that little shelf. Upon it I placed my perfect purchase.

•••

As a side note, in a few minutes our doorbell is going to ring. It will be my coworker and her two teenaged kids. I've invited them over for dinner. To you that might seem ordinary, but here, in this house, it's momentous.

When I tell you that I'm not at all social, I am not exaggerating. Illustration: we have lived in this house for a bit over three years now and these are the first non-visiting-from-out-of-town family (or Rabid) that we've invited to our home for a meal. A meal I made. Just before moving here we bought a terrific dining table--solid wood, round, seats eight--and I sat down at it for the first time ever today when I was putting out the plates and such.

I'm so defunct in the cooking for company department that I had to talk with Whitney about just what I was going to feed these friends of mine.

Here's what we'll be eating:

• pesto pasta with cherry tomatoes and olives

• Whit's Summer Fruit Salad

• Italian white bean salad that I found online

• roasted garlic peasant bread with a lemon-sage butter I made (whoa)

• and an Apple Betty (sort of like an apple crumble only way better) for dessert

I am excited to have them come over to hang out (and it was terrific incentive to finally get all that stuff up on the walls). We have a nice and good sized house that gets absolutely no play from anyone that isn't me and el husband.

However, I can't believe that I had the outlandish idea to actually cook. I was on my feet for four hours, chopping, mixing, peeling, blending, and on. I spent most of that time thinking that my cooking sister is a complete idiot to make this cooking nonsense her hobby--and I didn't even have her chaotic environment while I did my thing. The Rookie's insane.

SPECIAL DELIVERY

Had I paid for shipping it would have cost me 300 bones.

When they finally got to our house I saw why.

The two packages—each about 5" taller than my 5' 2" frame—were secured with 2X4s and Romo had to use a drill to free the contents.

When he revealed the goods, I made us sit on the stairs for 15 minutes to gaze at them and discuss just how incredible I am.

FLICK SHTICK

I talk to movies. Or rather, I yell at them.

We don't watch sports in our house, but I completely understand dudes who watch football and such and holler at the screen throughout a game. I myself have a proclivity for getting fired up in general, and when I'm in my own home watching a show and don't need to worry about interrupting other folks' day, I let it all loose. I make movie watching a loud, interactive experience rife with critique, incredulity, sarcasm, and, well, regrettable curse words.

I call characters morons, a$$es, bitches, jerks, and I tell them a better way to handle whatever situation they're going through.

• Oh, you've got to be kidding me!

• What an idiot!

• Oh yeah, that's a terrific idea.

• Way to pay attention there, you dope.

• As if. Like that's going to work.

• Gee, what a great way to treat another human being.

• Oh, you are so going to hell you sonofabitch.

• Well aren't you just a wizard?

• Gimme a friggin' break.

I'm a never ending barrel of laughs because I don't just yell at flicks that are new to me; no, I scream at movies I've seen before. I know what the actor is going to do next, but I still deliver instructions and berate them for a job dumbly done. (And from time to time I congratulate on a job well done and coo at a sweet moment.)

Last night we watched Capitalism: A Love Story.

Goodness me, I have a patient and mostly sainted husband. He sits through my ranting at the screen. He doesn't tell me to shut up or even roll his eyes. And sometimes he will even pause the show we're watching so that I can rave without interfering with rhythm of his enjoyment. And, boy oh boy, that Mikey Moore movie merited so much ranting that I had to give up, leave, and just go to bed. (If you've paid attention to this blog you know which side I come down on and can guess who I was screaming at.)

Right now this long-suffering man I'm married to is sitting next to me working on a spreadsheet and—courtesy of instant Netflix—has elected to watch Annie. So I'm patient and mostly sainted too—and going on and on about what a poorly executed and anachronistic stereotype the Punjab character is and wondering just where in the world this Annie creature plans to get all the gifts that she spontaneous promised all her fellow orphanites on her way to a week in the lap of luxury and wondering where Annie learned to swim and commenting on how freaky and creepy Tim Curry is.

Oh, and you might like to know that I have a print of Andy Warhol's Double Mona Lisa in the half bath downstairs; see Señior Warbucks indicated that a lavatory is the appropriate place for her famous smile.

A RECEPTIVE AUDIENCE

Of course I haven't figured it out completely, but I've got the beginnings of an answer.

I have never liked babies, O Best Beloved. And I can name the basic reasons—the stuff that no one really falls for—they smell bad, they're needy, they are noisy, and such. And additionally, for me, it's probably my lack of overall patience. However, I have just now figured out what I think the unique root of my distaste might be.

Yesterday morning while I was getting ready for the day I was thinking about my sister, Haley's, kiddo Addison. Ladies and germs, this miniature human is absurdly cute.

She's so cute that it makes me want to tie off the ole fallopians; 'cause no matter what—I mean really, no matter what—whatever Romo and I spawn in escapades producin' fruit o' the loins couldn't possibly be that adorable. And we wouldn't want our little thing to feel bad about itself from day one, now would we? (Even if no one tells you, you know if someone's 10 levels better looking that you are; it's innate methinks.) We could't produce anything to parallel that kid's adorableness, so why even try? Addie mastered cute in the Peterson gene pool. We Romos may as well try to do something else of note. (Leave me all the way alone on my logic here, okay?)

Something that may be key in all this: that adorable piece of flesh is the spitting image of her mother as a little 'un.

Anyway, back to the original thought: I was thinking about my sister's kid, and here's what I was thinking . . . I talked with Haley a couple days ago, and when we were getting off the phone I said, Kiss your kid hello for me. And we hung up. And then I thought, What the hell? I've never said that before. And, weird of all weirdness, I meant it. What's the deal? 'Cause, let's be honest here, though at the heart of my soul I love Addison because she's my blood, by no fault of hers I've never been all that interested in her.

Wait, don't go! I have to explain—

My life's experiences so far have shaped me into someone who coos like a maniac over dogs, but nods politely (mostly) when someone displays their newly-produced baby. Whatever. Seen one, seen 'em all.

I realize that it can be off-putting, but like I said, this is the result of my life's experiences. I own the world's most attractive dog. No, again—really! this is God's honest truth. I have no idea how we got so lucky and landed the most adorable animal ever created, but because Sophelia is so damned cute we can never get her a Yorkie companion. We wouldn't want the addition to have poor self esteem, but it would be bound to happen, for though we'd never tell her, this new Yorkie would be "the ugly one." No matter how adorable the new dog might appear next to other canines, she'd be ugly compared to Soph. It's a sad truth that we've come to face. I mean, good grief, look:

So thanks to my baby beastie's good looks and her spunky personality, I am a dog person. She has enchanted me.

Babies, they haven't enchanted me, O Best Beloved. They're just something that everyone seems to be able to have (for the most part). Unique? Hardly.

And it has occurred to me just now what the root of my lack of interest in babies might be. They kill my self-esteem.

People, I'm funny. It's true. In real life, in person, I am funny. Quick-witted and silly, I can make just about anyone laugh. But babies, they don't fall for my act. They just sit there staring. They don't get me. Toddlers, however—which Addie has been blossoming into—they are moving into the beginnings of responsiveness. No, they don't get my joke about the NASA administrator, but if I play around with a toddler on a toddler-like level, they respond. We can interact. They're seated in a pleasant in-between stage—just starting to become interesting and not quite to that 8-year-old-so-annoying-that-I-wish-it-weren't-frowned-upon-to-stuff-you-in-my-car's-trunk stage.

Babies don't thrill me because presently I require a certain kind of interaction and they just aren't pickin' up what I'm layin' down. I need an engaged audience. And now that Haley's child is becoming someone who can do a better job of feeding my ego, I have more interest than just staring and wondering how anything human could be so good looking. (Not enough interest to want to go buy one of my own or kidnap her, mind you, but this is progress—and not feeling compelled to kidnap her is probably a good thing, yes?)

It's sick. It's sad. It's pathetic. It's whatever adjective you'd like to apply to it, but it's also what came from some serious introspection while I primped and flat-ironed my hair.

(If you caught on to the irony in that last bit there you'll see just how funny I really am. And if the irony floated right past you, remind me to interact with you on a toddler level. I can charm you that way too.)

AT THE TWILIGHT'S LAST GLEAMING . . .

My life isn't made of traditional Americana moments. We don't barbecue. I don't know my neighbors. We don't camp or head to the lake on weekends. We don't frequent WalMart. We don't bake goods for the folks next door or even send over that extra loaf of bread we made. We don't make bread. We don't hang out on the porch or even walk to the mailbox. We don't tend to and take pride in our front yard.

My brother-in-law, Ethan, would be horrified if he saw our lawn. It's brown in spots, weedy on the sides, dandelion afflicted, and, although it's mostly green and looks healthy from a distance, our weed whacker thingamajig and the edges of our grass have been legally separated for, well, forever. Our priorities just lie elsewhere. (Where I'm not sure, but they've gotta be someplace. I suspect they have something to do with yoga, technology, and chocolate.)

It stands to reason that with a less-loved lawn comes foliage interlopers. Folks call 'em weeds. And thanks to hate mail from our Home Owner's Association bitching about the flora non grata on the right side of our dwelling, after I got home from yoga and Romo got home from work, we found ourselves using twilight to yank squatters from their dirty homes and relegate 'em to the black bag of death. (Here's what I can't figure out: why don't we just change our thinking and make weeds socially acceptable and convince ourselves that they're beautiful, and, think Wow, we get greens for free, how neato? They are plants, after all.)

I looped a retractable leash around my wrist so that Soph could join us, and we three spent some quality time in the front yard. Being Americans n' all.

We was pullin' and pullin' and then we done heard the man next call out, 'Scuse me—

We looked up from our dirty little project, Yes?

He walked over to our driveway. I wanted to apologize, he said.

Oh?

Those brown spots in your lawn, he pointed, They're my fault.

Impossible. We're the ones who forget that spring and summer come after winter and neglect to turn on the sprinklers. What could this mister have to do with that?

Well, we got a note from the HOA about our brown lawn and I grabbed some fertilizer stuff after work to fix it and while I was spraying our yard I thought I'd be neighborly and take care of a couple brown spots on your lawn. And, well, it turns out that I grabbed the wrong stuff at the store. It wasn't fertilizer. It was weed killer.

Spectacular. A darn good story. Made my evening. We assured him that it was no big deal, seein' as we too were frequent recipients of nasty letters from the sweetly anonymous busy bodies regarding the state of our yard. (Here's what I think, with all this free time those neighbors seem to have, cruisin' our neighborhood, takin' notes, and mailing reprimands and threats, how 'bout instead of them doin' all that they instead pull the damn weeds themselves? Hell, I'll even pay the louses.)

He went his way. We kept pullin'.

After a spell, a little 'un with red hair toddled up the street aiming' to meet the fuzzy thing tied to my arm.

Well, hi, I said. Do you want to meet her?

He nodded.

This is Sophie. My puppy was all too eager to taste his little legs. What's your name?

Yaycub.

Oh good grief. I suck at interpreting Childspeak. Jacob?

Mmmhum.

I looked around for his Daikinis. None to be found. Jacob, where are your mommy and daddy? Where do you live?

He gestured down the street, Down dare. Dat house and den dat house and dat one.

Well why don't we walk down there and make sure that they know where you are?

But I don't want to go home.

Let's just walk down that way. Sophie can come with us. And we'll make sure that everything is okay. I don't want them to miss you and wonder where you are.

Because, c'mon, the kid couldn't be more than three-years-old. I have an escape artist for a nephew and I think his mama might appreciate a well-meaning neighbor returning her young.

Sho 'nuff Yaycub had executed his very first escape from Grandma's backyard. He wasn't too thrilled that I returned him home, but hey, kiddo, it's a hard knock life, and it's about time you get yerself an edjumacation 'bout the way things are. Sooner than later yer gonna need to get yerself a job n' such. Life's tough.

Tonight we was 'Mericuns. We spent some time time in the yard with our dog. We talked to some neighbors. We returned a kid to his family. We pulled some weeds and got nailed by some thistle stickers. I even finished my day with a Milky Way candy bar, hydrogenated oils and all.

God bless.

•••

Oh, and because I told you that I was finally working on my version of Violet's birth I have been jinxed and am having troubles getting the details to line up right. So don't hold your breath . . .

DESIGNIN' & CERTIFYIN'

Don't think I've forgotten about the birth story. It just got shoved on the back burner immediately after I posted that I was finally working on it. Irony thinks she so funny.

I signed on as a designer to do one of the 90 pieces for the BlogHer Voices of the Year Gala. After an email from one of the savvy organizers, I agreed to participate and was assigned one of BlogHer's selected blog posts and told to make a poster or whatever inspired by the post. I can't tell you what the post was or show you the design, as all of this is to remain a secret until BlogHer announces which posts were selected. But, in case you were wondering, that's what I've been working on this week instead of remembering and writing. I uploaded my piece tonight and did so with a sigh of relief.

In other news, my husband is home from his week geeking out at Apple Camp (which is what I've been calling his week-long training and certification to be a Apple Certified Somethingorother). Means he's the real deal and will soon embark on a whole new phase of our Apple Adventure. Apple now endorses my man as an independent Apple Wizard. One down, and there are more certifications to come and more tests required whenever Apple releases a new OS. (Leopards and Jaguars and Tigers, oh my! I wonder what animal will have the honor of being Snow Leopard's successor . . . )

I am an enthusiastic proponent of Apple's legendary user-friendliness, but let me tell you, that ostensibly easy surface is supported by a whole lotta complicated whatnot. I was helping to make his flashcards a couple weeks ago, and though I'd consider myself pretty computer savvy and all-around bright, I understood exactly none of what I was pasting on 3x5 cards. No, really: none. 200 cards and I couldn't answer a single question.

So let me say this, if you have to hire yourself an Apple dude to come work through something at your house or your office, do yourself a favor and make sure that they have passed the brutal tests to become a part of the Apple certified network (only 50% of the self-proclaimed Apple smarties out there have gone to the trouble to actually take the exams). It means that your dude absolutely knows the ins and outs of the complex procedures lurking beneath your beloved Mac's simple exterior. Apple says so.

He's home. He's bona fide. And I'm ever so pleased to have him back.

MAKES A FRIDAY HAPPY

Perfection, yes?

Yes.

WHY SO TWITSY

I don't blog all that often these days. I don't know if it's because I don't have much to say or because I don't want to take the time to post or because I forget or because I'm bored with it. (It's probably all of those things because they came to my noggin as reasons.) Whatever my whys, though I'm not writin' reg'lur-like posts much, I am into frequently preparing these mock tweet posts. The little blurbs are easy to sieze and are illustrative; they're the small thoughts that truly do pop up throughout the day, the things that could do with more explanation but can be more interesting--or not--when they stand alone.

In the movie The Informant with Matt Damon you spend 2 hours or so listening to the mind wanderings of an average sort of guy (well, average if you exclude the part where he illegally squirreled away 5 million--no wait, 7 million, er, I mean 9 million, but was really 11 million (whoops! Did I just say that out loud?--dollars). His thoughts meander from one subject to the next; they're the endearing part of the movie, the part that helps you to sit through what's not a very compelling bit of cinema.

As Señior Romo and I were watching the show and laughing aloud at Mark Whitacre's sometimes bizarre thoughts, I said, Really that's what all of our thoughts look like. He's not so unique. We all ramble along in our brains while we're supposed to be doing or thinking about something else. All of us. Only I write mine down.

And I do.

Whenever I have a thought that I find strange or interesting or out-of-the-ordinary or poignant or perhaps the beginning of a larger thought I write it down--on my phone or on a little notepad I carry around.

Who knows, maybe one of those random bits will be helpful in pulling me out of a writing rut when I'm working on an essay for school (or therapeutic purposes)?

Some of these disjointed pieces of me that I capture throughout the day end up here as my Tweetables--which are really my cop-out posts.

•••

• I have a short sternum area. All shirts--really: all--look lower on me and always have. A hassle with yoga tops, as I'm constantly pulling at 'em.

• I think self-help books are a boring waste of time.

• Will write more on this later--but for now: Having size 5.5 feet is cute but hard. Finding that size is near to impossible these days.

• I want the game Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego as an app for my phone. Someone please make it.

• Smoking: not cool. Hate how Garance Doré and Scott Schumann's blogs look to make it hip. Don't care if you're French; smoking still blackens lungs.

• Ever use as little toilet paper as is possible so that you can put off changing the roll, even when it's easily within reach?

• Annoyed with clothing websites that don't show the clothes actually on a person. How am I supposed to gauge the length of things?

• Riddle me this: why does my make-up brush smell like A1 sauce?

• Riddle me this: why does my make-up brush now smell like cotton candy?

• The 80s weren't as cute as you think they were. Please stop making and buying clothes that showcase early Generation Me's poor taste.

• Why do all maternity wards seem to have light colored wood and sea foam green decor? Did someone do a study on how that ugliness soothes babies?

• You can't tell me that every single hospital maternity ward was either built or redecorated in the early 90s.

• Fed up with all sale stuff online--and off, for that matter--being size XL and XXL. Stop making so much bigger stuff and make more XS.

• Is stupid sexy?

• See, with the way that so many models demo sexy--mouth agape and look vacant--I'm inclined to think that someone believes that dudes are hot for idiocy.

• However, 41% of men say that they find a woman's intellect a turn on.

• (Okay I made up that statistic.)

• Not a joke: we don't own a vacuum.

• I've become a caffeine lightweight. Since killing my perpetual diet soda habit, a mere 8 oz. of Diet Dr. Pepper after 5PM keeps me up all night.

WOMEN RULE

Mom, I learned a new word this week and I just knew you'd love it.

Gynecocracy.

What you raised us in, yes? And not something it appears Provo High was keen to teach me about. Humph.

(Oh! Humph! Humph reminds me of what I've been reading a bit of lately: Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling. Humph is a major part of how the camel got his hump, O Best Beloved. If you haven't read those jewels in a while I strongly urge you to dig in. When I was a kid and liked to read before bed I would pad out to the bookshelves looking for something to entertain me. Sometimes I'd have my dad come downstairs and choose a book for me. Unfortunately, the pickings were slim for a ten-year-old. Jesus the Christ and The Egyptian among other bulky texts didn't appeal to me. So I went back to Just So Stories again and again. Mom's copy had an illustration for each chapter, and I remember the elephant one to be especially cute. It's been, gosh, about 15 years at least since I've read this bit of Kipling, and I'm glad that it's been that long. Now I'm old enough to appreciate what a terrific writer he is, er, was. Back then I liked the creative stories and the fact that there was a picture now and then (I'm a very visual creature, O Best Beloved.) But the writing in this book is dazzling.)

Cheers.

MELANCHOLERA

I'm not sure. Are there thoughts roiling in this head? For a reason I can't quite pinpoint I've got the melancholies. However, everything is the same. My job is busy, tiring, and overwhelming. My husband is hardworking and loving. My house is clean. My yoga is daily. It isn't a fat day.

But there are the little off things that just might be what's tipping the scales. A weighty conference call for work. One contact lens seemingly the wrong prescription. An inability to decide what to do for master bedroom bedding. A husband that snores. Frames full of my own design work leaning against walls throughout the house, unhung and going on their third week of waiting for wall space. A work project that's going to require research and creativity at once. A yorkie that I adore but want to throttle because she's totally house trained and still surreptitiously pees in the house. Bits and pieces of Not Quite Right.

Thing is, there are always bits and pieces of Not Quite Right; that's what life's made of, yes? Even the best of days have loose ends, but on those days the loose ends don't seem to matter. Maybe they matter right now.

Perhaps I'm trying to give this lugubriousness meaning by attributing it to loose ends that are easily rectified, making the gloom something I can fix. Granted, one particular loose end took the cake this week, but whenever I go thorough a similar experience it doesn't seem to affect me. I'm not thrilled about this go 'round being an exception. My motivation is nil. My ambition is dead. My apathy is thriving.

I'm glad that right now the feeling I've got is just a gentle melancholy. Earlier this week I was tossed about in a bout of Fire and Brimstone. I hated everything. Everyone. When at a lunch meeting with a coworker I was pining for a machine gun to eradicate the loud volleyball team at a nearby table. Normally, I'd just shake my head or roll my eyes. This time I was out for blood.

No, I'm not like a duck, letting it all roll of my back without a quack, but I'm usually much better at living than I am right now.

Feeling all hateful like this encourages me to dwell on epiphanies that I'd commonly grimace at and let pass or purge through writing out. Instead they run rampant in my head . . . It occurs to me that most people with wildly popular design blogs are actually ugly in person. It occurs to me that desperately seeking meaning in every moment of every day defeats the whole idea of happy happenstance. It occurs to me that people who boast a lot need electroshock therapy for their dearth of self-esteem. It occurs to me that I'm smarter than you are. And cuter. It occurs to me that I just don't care.

I do a lot of driving and that means that I've acquired a certain superhuman patience with the roads. I don't freak out about construction. I don't get riled up when someone cuts me off. I know that it's the nature of the beast, and I put up with it--calmly. Not this week. People who made dumb driving decisions are fortunate that they were in their own car, shut off from me; otherwise, they'd have been assaulted with a string of obscenities and insults that would tear a hole through the most confident of individuals.

I'm simply not myself.