Blog
Not that I needed justification or anything. (Thanks, Dad!)
Clocks
The time off was too short to be therapeutic. But I did walk away from my blog, my email, even my camera for a week. Other than Thrifty Goodness photos yesterday, I’ve not shot a single photo since Boy Wonder’s birthday on the 22nd. Other than a few emails to people who were owed, nary a word was typed. No photos on Christmas (apostasy!), no photos on New Years (that’s for your benefit!), no words, no thoughts, no nothing, baby. Clear minds. Silence.
I’m willing to let that be it.
IZ is not. Any suggestion I might take an indefinite hiatus is met with arched eyebrows, “Uh, that’s not a good idea.” Apparently, some of you aren’t willing to let me quit either. Nudge, nudge, ouch! I have to tell you though, a week away doesn’t seem long enough. But a month wouldn’t seem long enough either; the difference being that if I took a month I wouldn’t come back at all. So, here I am. One foot forward.
What I did do was a whole lot of nothing. I tried to sew once. But the sound of my sewing machine is an alarm going off in the head of Boy Wonder. There is some psychic connection between that machine and my child’s need to barrel up the stairs and ask me a million questions. Questions I can’t answer. Questions that leave me frustrated. Questions that lead to me being a melty mess and wondering exactly where his father might be at this precise moment. I threw in the towel, cleaned up my space, and plopped down in front of etsy. Etsy is my new best friend, just so you know.
I did get some sleep. Considering the days leading up to the holiday this is a good thing. IZ and I also listened to an inordinate amount of back episodes of Law and Order, Cold Case, and Without a Trace. All of which aren’t really shows we regularly watch, so most of it seemed new to us. Occasionally, we would look up from our computers when the voice-over narrator would say, “these are their stories. . .”
IZ: “Have you seen this one?”
Me: “Uh, nope!”
And back to looking at etsy we’d go, listening to the TV in the background. You avoid an amazing amount of gore that way, just sayin’. Ok, so, I went back to etsy. What IZ was looking at, I don’t know—except every once in awhile he’d send me a link to property in Santa Barbara. Like a motion picture with a soundtrack, my mind would go whirling to a moment when I was happy, to a place that keeps me sane. And nothing else compares. Home, home, where I wanted to go.** And these are my stories. Click, click, click, into the wee hours. No words, no pictures. Me and etsy, we’re BFF.
Over coffee one morning, IZ and I had the following conversation:
Me: And while I’m on the subject, can I just say that I hold an unhealthy hatred for those celebrities that have babies and then have perfect bodies 6 weeks later. Hatred I tell you.
IZ: Yeah, well, you need to remember those women spend an inordinate amount of time, not to mention money, in the gym and on “procedures” to get those bodies.
Me: Who has that kind of time???
IZ: Yeah, well, they also don’t have etsy.
Wonder what his point is exactly, she thought sarcastically.
These are my stories. No more, no less. I’m back. I’m putting one size 8.5 foot in front of the other. No promises one of them won’t end up in my mouth, though.
The Year In Photos: 2007
Joyeux Noël
It’s officially Christmas Eve. I’ve wrapped no gifts. Done no baking, unless you count the kiddo’s birthday cake. Haven’t grocery shopped. Still need to make the switch from birthday tree to Christmas tree. IZ is miserable with a sinus infection (and now no doctor to see!) and the boy woke up with 102 temp accompanied by vomiting. Oh and our cat decided to sneak outside for a walk about the neighborhood this evening, which means I’m still waiting for her naughty self to saunter back home so I can go to bed.
I’m ready for December to end.
On that note, I am officially calling the year over on this blog. I’ll be back in January, which sounds like an eternity but is really only a week away. It’s difficult for me to leave this week, it’s probably my favorite time of year to write. But this December has not been kind: hurricanes and flus and crazy encounters! Oh My! I’m ready to leave this retched month behind. I can’t quite bring my self to “feel it” this year and there is little point in forcing myself to smile like I mean it. What I am feeling is the urge to hibernate, hang out with my boys, and collect my thoughts a bit. Maybe actually sew something. . . craft a little, sleep a little, eat a lot! I think I’ll run with that for a week—a wee bit of self care goes a long way. Might I suggest some of you consider some self care too?
I hope that this holiday brings you peace and you face this New Year with a sense of hope. Thank you all for your love and presence this year. You’ve made writing this “little blog” so worthwhile. For your comments and laughter, friendship and support, I am eternally grateful. I couldn’t have a better community of readers.
Hark! I hear the tinkling of little bells on my porch. Unless Santa is a day early, that will be Snickers wanting in and my signal to say good night and au revoir. Until the New Year, I am wishing all of you a lovely holiday.
Joyeux Noël ,
Wendelynn
Never Saw It Coming
The list of lies I’ve told my child in the last few days would surely get me in trouble with Santa. But, it was for a good cause… and I have to say, worth the expression on his face when he walked through the door. My photos of the event are all wonky, much like the candles on the cake—someone played with my camera settings and I didn’t catch it until too late! Somehow, I don’t think we’ll need photos to remember this birthday.
Beyond all the turmoil in my life this week (and boy did that NOT help!) it’s been really difficult to watch Boy Wonder mourn. We told him that we would do things as a family on his birthday, but that parties with friends and gifts just couldn’t happen this year. He understood, but it didn’t make it any easier. Listening to him on the phone with his uncle, (thank you for calling, Mark!!) this morning would have broken my heart, except I was laughing so hard. Is it evil to torture your child so? He simply had no clue what was in store for him.
To his credit, he tried really hard not to mope. He didn’t succeed. This morning I found him curled up in front of his Birthday Tree in a quasi-fetal position. “Why so glum, chum?”
“Oh, no reason,” he said with tears in his eyes. And I felt like the worst mother on the planet. And so he sighed the afternoon away.
I won’t forget the look on his face—simple glee. He spent the entire time thanking everyone over and over. I’ve lost count how many times he’s told me, “I just need to say thank you!” He’s over the moon… a bit teary-eyed for all the right reasons. When his grandparents called to sing Happy Birthday to him they asked if the party was worth all the suffering.
“It was worth it, five times over!”
He never saw it coming. And sometimes, that’s a good thing!
Unhinged and a Little Punchy
First, I want to thank all of you who sent email or called. Your support means a lot to me. What I appreciate about each of you, is that to the one you didn’t sugar coat my stupidity—but loved me just the same.
We’ve all had those moments where we’ve metaphorically found ourselves strolling down the aisle of Safeway with the back of our skirt tucked up into our waistbands. In a hurried attempt to salvage our pride, we glance around to see just how exposed we are. Tugging down our skirt, rearranging ourselves in an attempt to restore our composure, we discover that we were alone in the aisle. Whew. That was close. Oh, sure, there is a nagging thought about who might have seen us before we discovered our stupidity. I mean, how many times has our mother told us to always check the mirror before going out the door?
My mom’s best friend in her young adult hood found herself in an desperate need of a bathroom while driving on the freeway with her husband. Central California is full of tumble weeds and acres of alfalfa, but certain stretches of highway are devoid of facilities. Her husband pulled their car over and she promptly jumped out, put her head in a bush, and squatted to pee—fully exposed to oncoming traffic.
I know! Her husband was just as shocked, “Why didn’t you turn the other direction?” It’s here that I ruin the story. Because, this woman was witty and smart and on her toes and had a very clever comeback. I’m far too punchy today to remember it correctly (forgive me mom, I’m failing all over the place here!) but the implication was that she couldn’t see passing cars and they couldn’t see her. They weren’t likely to remember her backside either.
Me? I’m in the aisle next to you, the aisle that features a BOGO deal on humility and a 50cent coupon off on shame featured in the weekly flier. It’s packed over here—half the town is crammed in witnessing my demise. Their making an awful mess, munching on cheetos. . . because of course my fate would play out in the chip aisle. (Ok, that’s damn clever, and you’d better appreciate it! The lengths I go, people!) It’s a real temptation to pull the skirt over my head and pretend that they are not there.
But they are. And, in processing this most of the night (there’s a reason I’m punchy, sleep deprivation is an acquired taste.) that is probably what gets me most. I am completely cognizant that my blog is read by locals. Locals who lurk. Locals who may or may not have my best interests at heart. I’m paranoid enough to assign ill-intent. This is not news, we’ve established I’m unhinged. But my reasons for thinking so, are not entirely unfounded. I’ve just not bothered to catalog the splinters in the eyes of my neighbor—there’s a damn log in mine!
And then I go zen, breathing grace into the universe, hoping it will breath life back to me.
I cannot control these people. I can’t assume intentions either. Although, to quote a famous Dane, “It reeks in here, I suspect fish.” I can only try to protect myself. I have no doubt there is more processing I must do. IZ has spent hours extolling the logic—long time readers will know that I am heart centered, and logic only goes so far with a person working from that space. But beyond my grief I have words to say about Grace and our ability to see it. About Reconciliation and our ability to offer it. Words that would ordinarily be meant for open consumption. Words that would not be censored. Words that would be offered with good will, in hopes of changing just a small part of the world. Words hard earned and laboriously honed.
Words that are muffled by the skirt over my head. Bottom line, the presence of ill-intentioned people has me running scared, questioning my every move. Re-evaluating every glance, every conversation—seeking meaning in pointlessness.
I don’t know if I will write these words. I do know, that if I do, they will be password protected. I know, I’m sorry. It’s a PITA, but please bear with my wounded soul. When confronted with your transgressions, the wisest most honorable thing to do at the time is to bear that pain. But there is more, more that I am attempting to work out off line, but I know me. . . vestiges of it are going to leach into my work. It’s inevitable. And I want the freedom to say what I need to say, without looking over my shoulder worried some person with an agenda might seek to use it against me.
And long time readers know, that if I threatened to write on a particular subject that I probably won’t follow through. That being said, should I actually write a password protected piece, the password is freely offered to those of you who have commented and been a part of this community. If you are a lurker, don’t bother asking. I’m sorry, but there is a price to be paid for not being a contributing part of this world. You were sold out by another one of your own—and I have zero compassion.
Ask any blogger what they hate most about blogging—the ones with sophisticated stats packages will tell you “Lurkers.” I’ve long held that I’d prefer people to participate, I would! But I understand reading without being a part. I’ve not hidden who I am, boils and all! If anything, this has firmly established that I am human—and I try really hard to be honest about my own limitations. If only as a cautionary tale. People, don’t do as Wende does, m’kay? Lurkers are as much a part of the fabric of blogging as the next reader. It’s when they step into my personal life, even by my own fault, that I draw the line.
As for the rest of you… I adore you. Please know that I’ve read your emails and I appreciate your feedback. I will be getting to them, I will… but this is Friday and I am painfully, woefully behind in all that I must do. The photo above is the vintage fabric I found to make a banner for a surprise party planned tomorrow. Uh. yeah. So not happening. Sadly, the Strawberry cake he requested, his mother will be purchasing at Safeway this year… there is no time to bake it, and considering how punchy I am, it’s probably a good idea for me to stay away from things that could blow up! My most urgent prayer request is that Safeway actually has enough of the cake he wants. Because otherwise, I’m screwed. Joy, joy… guess who didn’t have Strawberry Cake? I can sleep when I’m dead, right?
And don’t worry about my skirt, mom. I’m wearing pants.
Unobstructed
Now, if only my view to the holiday was as unobstructed!
Family
Now that Thrifty Goodness is over on etsy, I spend way too much time on the site. I can’t help it, the gizmo on the front page that loads the newest listings is captivating. It’s become my favorite new pastime to sit and watch those listings scroll by when listening to TV.** Consequently, my favorites list reads like a novel. Pages and pages of handmade goodness.
Mostly, my list is full of lovely jewelry and scarves and hats and all things girly and wearable. But every now and again I bump into an artist who takes me by surprise in a good way. I can’t help but gasp and then go running to wherever IZ might be, “You’ve got to see this!” computer in hand, bouncing up and down. Most recently, it’s the work of Cat Bishop that has me (and the rest of the craft community!) raving.
Of all Cat’s work, I adore this espresso family best. (although Brownie the Camera Dog would be close second if it was still available!) Nothing says family like fresh brewed java. I certainly can’t imagine a better representation of my family than a group of espresso pots, can you?
Made for me, I tell you.
**That sentence makes it sound like I only look at etsy when I’m also listening to TV… um. . . not exactly. See, I don’t watch all that much TV but sadly, the same cannot be said of etsy. The point I think I was trying to make, poorly, is “Look, I’m multi-tasking.” Or, maybe, “See, I’ve redeemed the habit of viewing TV, since I’m only listening to it!” Or something else that I’m sure you’d be happy to interpret for me.
Gleaming
These are my boys and I have to tell you, I’m fiercely proud of both of them. Yesterday, our church held their Christmas pageant. Boy Wonder was cast in the leading role and poor IZ got roped into being a part of it as well. There was a half-hearted attempt to get me involved, but I demurred, “You have both of my boys, someone in my family needs to take photos!”
Our church habitually does things without much forethought—and usually very last minute. Drives me insane. As much at the photo taking excuse was the truth, I didn’t trust myself not to lose it with rehearsals. I had a year of nuttiness, and I think that exempts me for awhile. I hope. From the tales IZ came home telling, yeah, it was best he was involved not me.
So, this hour long play was thrown together in 4 rehearsals–and had my child on stage for the entire time. He was in every scene. Oh. My. To his credit, he memorized all his lines and delivered them with such style, he had the entire congregation waiting for every line. I know this, because every last one made sure to tell me they thought he had a future on stage. I’m sure he’ll scoop up his Oscar right after he blows up some State University’s Chem Lab. As for the drama, I didn’t tell them he was working under the weather. He spiked a fever the night before and woke up with gastro-intestinal trouble. Still, there he was performing his mighty heart out, and I’m his mother so I’m entitled to be proud.
Some how, and I suspect the work of the Great Spirit as the “how”, they pulled it off. IZ, showing more grace than I’ll ever muster, prompted small children through their lines as part of the cast. There’s my big man, bent over a mike whispering lines to tiny little angels. Who in turn would intently look at him for their lines, and then would turn to the audience to repeat them–gleaming all the way.
And they did gleam. Every last one of them.
Me, I floated around the sanctuary taking photos with a flash. Oh, the atrocity! I’m not a fan of the flash, but that space leaves you little choice. Beep, beep, FLASH! 80 or so times. I thought I was reserved, candidly. I’m sure I annoyed the congregation, but ask me if I care.
Now, looking at this photo of my boys, all I can say is, “Ridiculous!” This child is turning 11 on Saturday and won’t stop this growing thing he insists on doing. IZ is 6’3″ and look at my child. RIDICULOUS.
Flash or no, these two make my heart sing.
Sunday Sermon
I walk slowly, but I never walk backwards. ~Abraham Lincoln
Hello ~ Welcome to Evidently
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