Deadlines - with the operative word being...well, you know

I'm sitting at my desk in my upstairs study, and I feel the panic. Just over a week until I must get my next packet in the mail, and I have two pages of one story written, one book read, another half-read, and no exercies or papers written. So why am I writing this blog entry instead of pounding away on my laptop?

I'm stuck.

It seems that I have been rescued from the clutches of pregnancy brain, only to be delivered into the hands of some sort of postpartum mind mush that has no name. I have my story in my head. I know what I want to do. So why the heck can't I just sit down and do it? Even doing my reading has become a challenge. Of course, it probably doesn't help that the book I'm trying to wade my way through is Faulkner's As I Lay Dying. Seriously, I want to lay down and die (or at least sleep) every time I pick it up. The crazy POV shifts, wildy varying voices, and intermittent sections of stream-of-conciousness are making me crazy...that is, when I can stay awake long enough to read it.

I can't blame this on the baby.

She's a good girl. Most days, she sleeps like a little lamb between her feedings. So what is my problem? Why do I suddenly feel far more drawn to reading Dr. Seuss and Curious George? Why is every word I type on my story dredged up with great pain and deliberation? Why do people watch Lost? (Okay, that question isn't related. Just something I wonder about.)

I've tried the If-I-Get-Myself-Made-Up-In-The-Morning-I'll-Feel-More-Productive method. Didn't work. Today, I didn't even make the effort. I'm wearing a sweatshirt and black yoga pants that are covered in Abby Tabby hair. My hair is pulled back, and makeup is the farthest thing from my mind. I thought that maybe the I'm-Too-Wrapped-Up-In-My-Work-To-Wear-Makeup method might get me inspired. Instead, I'm just the grungy looking chick with only 2 crummy pages to her story, baby clothes that need to be put in the dryer, and raw chicken breasts lying in the sink and serving as a partially frozen reminder of the dinner I need to start.

Baby and Books Blog Break

As anyone who has been on my Facebook page is acutely aware, Lucy Addison has arrived...six weeks early. After a weeklong stay in the NICU, she is home and ruling from her throne...I mean, crib. Actually, she's a very good baby, and we're so grateful that she's healthy and easy going. Of course, her early arrival has played havoc with all my schoolwork plans (I had 2 deadlines scheduled before her predicted delivery date.) So, after a quick shuffle (thanks to my understanding professor), I have a new schedule and a new looming deadline. It's back to work now, baby or not. This means that my blogging will suffer for a while as it takes a backseat to my mounting pile of writing, reading, and laundry. Never fear, however, I will return...possibly a little sleep deprived and incoherent, but won't that be entertaining?

"When I Get A Little Money I Buy Books" Erasmus - Winter Residency Part II

Perhaps I should begin this the second installment on my winter residency with an explanation of the low-residency program. I had no idea when I entered this program how many times I would have to explain it to people. Sometimes the listener looks at me like I'm making it up. So allow me to assure you that these low-residency programs exist across the country and that we actually have several nearby (Queens College and Warren Wilson, both in NC.) The purpose of the low-residency program is to offer an MFA degree to the student who is unable to relocate to a city whose university or college offers a residential MFA program. It also allows the student to continue to hold down a real job. This is accomplished through two 10-day residencies that are held on campus, followed by a semester-long study and writing plan coordinated with a faculty mentor. Packets of the student's work are sent in to the faculty mentor throughout the semester. The workload is fairly extensive, but the student is free to schedule their semester work around their lives. Acceptance into these programs is based on the quality of the manuscript submitted. Because many potential MFAers are grown-ups with jobs and families, the low-residency program is increasing in popularity.

With that bit of housekeeping out of the way, I feel more free to share the rest of my week with you, the well-informed reader. As you can imagine, winter residency (and summer, too, for that matter) is an intense week of workshops, lectures, and writing with little time for sleeping or resting. As I mentioned in my previous blog entry, however, our benevolent leader did schedule a bit of a break for us on Wednesday that was much appreciated (especially by the 8 months pregnant lady with puffy feet!) Wednesday night I did return to school for a screening of the film, New York in the 50's, a documentary based on Dan Wakefield's book by the same name. Though the film did have the misfortune of being shown in the scorchingly overheated Hartness Auditorium, it managed to rise above the steamy circumstances to entertain and charm. The only downside was that Mr. Wakefield was ill and unable to be at the screening. So we're all saving our questions for the summer residency when we hope to see him again.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday went by in a haze of workshops, lectures, and vain attempts to find a comfortable chair and a place to prop up my feet. There were a few standouts, however. R.T. Smith's (yes, he's my mentor!) lecture on place in short fiction was amazing. Who else could read their lecture and still be so interesting and enlightening? Plus, he brought his Edgar Allen Poe action figure! Albert Goldbarth also made a last minute appearance in both a reading and lecture. On Thursday night he read with the always brilliant (and funny) Susan Tekulve, who read an essay on Scottish food and beverage. I also picked up a copy of her new book, Savage Pilgrims, which I can't wait to read. Albert Goldbarth's reading and lecture were both mind-blowing (and as always, entertaining.) My only regret was that the reading had to be held in Cleveland Hall, which managed to be both cold and uncomfortable. At least I got to sit next to the charming Peter Meinke and his wife during the reading. I can't remember the last time I met two kinder or more friendly people. (He's an amazing poet, too.) I can't wait to go to his reading at Converse at the end of the month (January 26.)

So, now it's all over. It's just me and my computer and a UPS guy loaded down with a massive book order. I have two deadlines before the baby gets here (let's hope she's not an early bird, which doesn't seem too likely considering her parents), not to mention the deadlines and work I'll have to do after she gets here. Here's hoping the muse does not forsake me. I've certainly been given more than enough practical advice and inspiring speeches to carry me through. I guess, now, it's up to me.

For those interested, here is a list of the books I purchased during Winter Residency and also my Reading List for the semester. Feel free to read along with any of these and let me know what you think!

Books I purchased:
Savage Pilgrims, Susan Tekulve (fiction)
Uke Rivers Delivers and The Calaboose Epistles, RT Smith (fiction)
To Be Read in 500 Years, Albert Goldbarth (poetry)

Winter 2010 Reading List:
Fiction 100 (anthology)
Lie That Tells The Truth, John Dufresne (craft book)
On Writing, Eudora Welty (craft book) *
Naming The World, Bret Anthony Johnston (craft book/exercises)
As I Lay Dying, William Faulkner (fiction)
The Member of the Wedding, Carson McCullers (fiction)
The Optimist's Daughter, Eudora Welty (fiction) *
I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down, William Gay (short fiction)
The Art of Fiction, John Gardner (craft book)

* It's like Rod read my mind! I was so wanting to reading some Eudora Welty this term. I mean, I did go Flannery O'Connor mad last term, so it's only fair.

Tight Schedules and Tighter Shoes: MFA Winter Residency Part One

I realized this morning that I have been missing from blogland for nearly a month, and what a month it has been. I went to Maryland for a week to visit family and just missed their record-breaking Christmas blizzard. I celebrated Christmas with Steve in a very quiet, laid-back way, and that was followed by a less than stellar new year as we lost our precious cat, Hobson to cancer and congestive heart failure. So while champagne was already off the menu for the New Year celebrations this year, it wasn't exactly with sparkling grape juice and noisemakers that we welcomed in 2010.

On a happier note, January 2nd meant the return to school as the Winter Residency began. Since Saturday (Jan 2), I haven't stopped. My life has been a whirlwind of lectures, readings, workshops, and traipsing across campus in the coldest weather Spartanburg has seen in a decade. A fine time to have ridiculously cold weather - when I'm too big to button my coat! The good news is that the program director has worked in a nice little break into the middle of all this craziness, so today I can (quite literally) put my feet up for a few hours, do some writing assignments, and just enjoy my home furnace and humidifier. I even have a nice, warm cat (Abby Tabby) cuddled beside me to keep me warm. Of course, I'll be back at school tonight for a showing of the film adaptation of Dan Wakefield's New York in the Fifties, but I'll be refreshed and ready to go by then. Besides, I'm really looking forward to the film, and Steve has promised to go with me.

Being pregnant during the residency has certainly made it more challenging, but I don't mean to imply that it's been 5 days of torture. The lectures have been great, and the faculty and fellow students are amazing. There have been plenty of highlights (or hi-lites, as I saw on a beauty shop sign near my house yesterday) to celebrate.

• RT Smith, editor of Shenandoah (and my mentor this semester!) gave a reading of his new fiction on Saturday night, including a Southern re-telling of Rumplestiltskin.


• Sarah Kennedy's lecture on the prosy poem. I will now think of her at every poetry reading I attend, wondering if the next poem will "outstrip" me or simply take me along for the ride. Here's hoping for the former rather than the latter.


• Leslie Pietrzyk's (my fantastic former mentor) lecture on finding the story in your novel or short story. I love the practical way in which Leslie approaches writing. She always has such amazing tips and tricks to suggest, and it's so comforting to know that a writer of her caliber has to work hard and use tips and tricks, too.


• Having a 3 hour gab session with my favorite fellow student at Jason's Deli. I think we solved the problems of the world and completely dissembled each other's workshop pieces. Good times!


• Peter Meinke's reading of his poem about the undercover poetry reader.


• Tim McKee's (editor of Sun Magazine) lecture on "Surfacing Pearls" where he actually gave us lists of what he looks for as an editor and what not to do in your stories. Way to be the first editor/speaker we've had that was willing to be that specific!


• C. Michael Curtis' reading of some of the crazy cover letters he's received as editor of the Atlantic Monthly.


• Looking at really, really old issues of Concept while taking a workshop break in the Coker Room.

Today, I enjoyed a bit of a lie-in and a little blogging time, and this afternoon I have lots of writing to do after my weekly doctor's appointment. Here's hoping I'm able to write my re-imagining of "Hills Like White Elephants" and my point-of-view switch exercises before heading to the movie. Tomorrow it's back to the insanity, and Friday I get workshopped. I better start psyching myself up now.

A Room of One's Own

The final deadline for the final packet of semester is quickly approaching (I need to get it mailed by Wednesday...in 2 days.) I'm slowly plugging away at the work - slowly being the operative word. The new room/desk is helping. I may have waited 7 years to have my own desk again, but it was worth the wait (nevermind that I had to get pregnant in order to get it.) What's not helping? The large, purring cat dancing around in my lap, the doctor's appointments, the dinner that needs to be fixed, and that ongoing struggle to keep what's left of my brain from leaking out my ear. I think I know what I want to do with my story now (which helps), and I've gotten some more reading done while waiting at the doctor's office (so that's something.) Looks like a couple of days' cramming is now in order.

I am reading Best American Short Stories 2009 for part of my packet. I have to write 2 to 4 pages about current trends in short stories. So far I'm struggling to find a common thread/element between the stories I've read, but I still have one and a half more to go. That's not to say that the stories aren't wonderful. It was such a smart move on my part to take a break from Charles Baxter to read a few of the stories from this book. I was starting to get bogged down in writing theory. I have found, however, that when one is not running on all eight cylinders (is that how that saying goes? Not a car person...it is a car metaphor, right?), it can be paralyzing to your writing to read a lot of theory and rules. I'm not saying that Baxter isn't brilliant or that I don't love the book, just that my confidence is barely hanging on by a thread. I need to steer clear of sharp object, writers, and observations to avoid it being severed.

Hobson (my cat) must have sensed my need to buckle down and get things done. She came upstairs for moral support. Despite her brief attempts at distraction, she has now curled up happily on my lap and is purring loudly. Nothing quite so soothing (and potentially literary) as that!

Under Construction

I've been absent from blogland for a little while. Between the chest cold that wouldn't die, my inability to keep a clear thought in my head, and my newly shortened attention span (is there such a thing as pregnancy ADD?), I haven't been doing much writing lately. Perhaps you would assume that I've been immersed in all things baby, and I guess that's partly true. Mostly, however, I've just been in this haze of stupidity that has left me useless for much beyond staring at a TV screen, surfing the internet, and the inescapable housework. I feel like I'm turning into one of my cats, just sitting around, blinking and taking up oxygen. (No offense, Hobson and Abby.)

Alas, I must end my personal inertia and get busy if I'm going to meet my final deadline for the semester. So I think I've got a start on a story (knock on wood.) And I'm trying desperately to plow through Charles Baxter's Burning Down the House, a book which I can tell that normally I would really enjoy, but now with my brain working at half-capacity, I'm struggling with just a bit. If any of you out there have ever been the victim of my vicious trivia game playing, now would be the time for revenge. I'm liable to forget just about anything these days, and I'm certain that you could mop the floor with me (metaphorically speaking.)

On the exciting news side of things (okay, exciting for me, anyway), the workers are diligently toiling away upstairs on the bonus room. Soon all of the office stuff will be stowed away upstairs, and I can get to work on the baby's room. I'm not sure whether I'm more excited about "doing the baby's room" or just excited about having it done and off the list. Right now, everything is in turmoil and chaos with boxes and furniture stashed haphazardly in the office and guest room. I don't function well in chaos (it probably isn't helping my writing any knowing that mess is in there behind closed doors.) So, yes, I'm looking forward to a cute little girl's room all ready to go, but mostly I think I'm just looking forward to an orderly house...at least until February.

Liquid Memory

Today, I indulged in one of my favorite cool weather comforts: a giant, steaming pot of Slumgoyan. Sure, the thermometer is pushing 70 degrees outside, but that's positively brisk for September in South Carolina, and quite frankly, I couldn't wait any longer. There's nothing like the comfort of a bowl of Slumgoyan and all the memories that entails.

What is Slumgoyan, you ask? Well, I don't think my description of the soup is going to help your understanding any. It's basically a big, boiling pot of water, ground beef, onion flakes, salt, and the oh-so-crucial potpie bows (called "bowties" by the folks at Muellers.) Not flipping your culinary wig? Never heard of such a dish? And where did that ridiculous name come from?

Slumgoyan is my grandmother's creation. I have no idea where she got the name. I doubt she does either. Not certain when exactly its origins were, but I feel fairly sure that it somehow evolved around a need for simplicity and frugality. It is, after all, cheap and easy. She made it for my mother, who in turn, made it for me. It is comfort food in its highest form: simple, fairly plain, and familiar.

I never really comprehended how personal my love for this dish is until I made it for my husband. Steve, who will try anything once and is not one to criticize my cooking, did the unthinkable...he didn't like it. I was devastated. How could this man whom I love more than life and with whom I have such a connection dislike this food of my soul? He called it tasteless and bland, and even worse, he offered suggestions on how to improve it. I began to wonder how this marriage would ever work with two people who are so different. Okay, I'm exaggerating, but I really was shaken by his rejection of my favorite soup.

Now I'm reduced to clandestine affairs with my stock pot. I have Slumgoyan on nights when Steve has to work late or goes out with the guys. I even fixed it once when my parents visited, just so I could have that shared experience again. Don't misunderstand me. I love eating my Slumgoyan any way I can get it, but there's still nothing like digging into a piping hot bowl with your family yumming and eye-rolling their way through bowl after bowl with you. Slumgoyan is about cold, winter nights and being all bundled inside your home with your family. It's about old movies and lunches in front of the TV. It's leftovers reheated on Sunday after church and trying not to let the noodles get too mushy the next day.

Right now, it's just me and my bowties and ground beef. I spooned my way through three bowls today at lunch. I was so full I could hardly move, but it was a sweet discomfort. I was full of warm, nostalgic goodness. It's like memories in soup form.


In honor of my celebration of this family tradition, I am including a poem I wrote a couple of years ago about this wonderful soup. Please remember that I am a fiction writer, NOT A POET, and judge accordingly.

Slumgoyan

Made up name, made up soup.
Grammy's masterpiece of potpie bows
swim with ground beef and
that onion smell fills up every corner of the house.
Only allowed to have it in winter
no matter how much you might crave it come June.
The bigger the pot, the more leftovers
to heat up the next day and the day after
until the noodles are so soft they just fall apart.
Opposite of Mom's vegetable soup
that you eat in tiny spoonfuls
and chase with sweet tea and dirty looks.
Hot, liquid memory slides down your throat.

I still only have it in winter.

Bon Appetit

It's Tuesday, and I feel like I'm still recovering from a very busy weekend. The craziness started on Friday and didn't really let up until Sunday night (late), and yesterday wasn't exactly relaxing. So here I am, days away from my next deadline (I really need to send out packet #3 on Friday), and I'm in no condition to write...anything. I suppose this blog entry will have to serve as my warm up, and then it's down to business, regardless of how I feel.

Friday was one of those days that started out one place and ended somewhere completely different. The first part of the day was devoted to my usual Friday pastime...cleaning the house. Unfortunately, I didn't get finished before I had to meet a friend at Starbucks for coffee (or in my case, tea.) I planned to finish my neglected housework after a quick sip and chat, but instead, we camped out in overstuffed chairs in Starbucks for three hours. Who knew we had that much to say? I think we covered every topic and solved most of the world's problems in that amount of time. Perhaps someone should have been there recording our wisdom. I suppose it's lost forever.

While the Starbucks sit-in was fun, it didn't leave much time for me to run home and get ready for girls' night out, a rare but much anticipated event that, of course, involved food. We hit Takosushi in downtown Greenville. Though I had a little trouble getting the waitress to understand my inability to consume spicy food, we eventually ended up with delicious dinners. As usual, I was the least cool person there. My friend munched her veggies, shrimp, and rice with her expertly held chopsticks. I used a fork. I'm not Chinese. Why pretend? I appreciate their food, but lack the coordination to appreciate their utensils.

Dinner was, of course, followed by a movie. I agreed to a chick-flick (a rarity for me), and we saw Julie and Julia. I won't do an extensive review. I lack the energy for such things today. I will say that it was fun. Meryl Streep was quite convincing as Julia Child, and if you like Nora Ephron's usual fare, you'll enjoy the film. There's nothing surprising or particularly original about the movie, but it's mostly charming. Some of the "drama" felt a little forced, and I wasn't sold on all the choices they made for scene selection (especially in the Julia Child portions), but overall, I'd say it was a rental. Put it on your Netflix and skip the trip to the theater. Oh, and don't watch it if you're hungry. There are too many scenes of gorgeous food to count. You'll be gnawing on your arm before it's over unless you're well-fed beforehand.

Saturday and Sunday didn't prove to be much of a break either. Poor Steve had to work non-stop all weekend, and I was left to my own devices. There were lots of events with church, and I managed to make them all. To be honest, by the end of the weekend I was in social overload. Mixing and fellowshipping is always a bit of an effort for me, and so much crammed into such a short time period was exhausting. My friends are wonderful, though, and I'm glad I got to spend so much time with them. It's just that now I'm going to enjoy missing everyone for a while. Does that make me a terrible person? Probably.

Hello Goodbye

I am wondering where September is going. Things are going crazy fast, and this is a short month. I feel like I just turned in MFA packet #2, and I'm already worrying about the next one due September 25th! The scariest thing about time flying is that the faster it goes, the more pregnant I get. I'll be 16 weeks on Friday! That's freaking me out just a bit. At this rate, February will be here in the blink of an eye (pardon my cliche.) Lots of schoolwork to do between now and then, so it's a little scary.

On the upside, I finally finished all my Flannery O'Connor reading today (FINALLY!) Don't get me wrong...I love her. I was just in O'Connor overload. Now, I'm finally getting to the part of my reading list that I've been waiting to read. First on the agenda? Amy Tan's Joy Luck Club. I love Amy Tan, so I'm very excited about this book. I started today after I finished with O'Connor, and I've already soared through a big chunk of the book. After that it's Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried and Jhumpa Lahiri's Unaccustomed Earth (thanks to Leslie for letting me put that one on my reading list.) I'm so excited about all three, so knocking them out before the October deadline should be a breeze.

On a completely unrelated note, today (technically yesterday according to the clock) marks the release of all things Beatles. Beatles Rock Band is being released, and in conjunction with that, they are also releasing remastered versions of all their albums. Being Rock Band junkies, we already had our copy of Beatles Rock Band on reserve, and Steve picked it up on his way home from work. He then proceeded to play like a man possessed. He didn't even stop for dinner. Now that's devotion. The game was great, though. The songs are divided up into the years in which they were released, and the venues coincide with the years. For example, the early songs are performed in The Cavern, and the two American venues are Shea Stadium and the Ed Sullivan Show. We played drums, we sang, and we strummed on our fake plastic guitars. John Lennon is probably rolling over in his grave after my performance of "Twist and Shout," but hey, it was fun.

As with all our previous Rock Band fests, the cats remained unmoved as the music blared through the living room, rattling both furniture and bones. It doesn't faze them anymore. I'd like to think they were just chilling out to the mellow notes of "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," but I think it's more likely that they've just grown numb. Good thing. We've got a Beatles party coming up, and they need to be ready.

Confessions of a Baby-Hater

I know I have 30 more weeks of this insanity to go, but I have to let a little of the crazy out or I'll never make it. After ten weeks of being pregnant, I have come to the comforting realization that pregnancy didn't magically turn me into that girl. (What a relief.) Wondering who that person is that I dread morphing into? Allow me to elaborate.

The other day, Steve and I were watching a Married With Children marathon. One of the episodes was from the season where Katey Sagal was pregnant. It began with the family gathered around the kitchen dinette set having a "baby meeting." Peg is massively pregnant, and the rest of the Bundys are less than thrilled with the prospect of competition for the scant nutrition of toaster leavin's. Each time their lack of enthusiasm leaks out, Peggy insists that they do penance with a chanted "Hail Baby." After a particularly anti-baby comment, Kelly is told that she must say multiple "hail baby's in the privacy of your own room."

On the opposite end of the spectrum, there are the belly rubbers. I actually read today where some woman said that she enjoyed having people rub her pregnant stomach. I think she should have her head examined. I have to come to terms with the fact that friends and family are going to be coming at me soon, hands first. (Actually, it's already started.) What I refuse to accept as inevitable are the curious hands of strangers groping my mid-section. I have never in my life felt the compulsion to touch a total stranger's belly, and I am completely mystified by others' desire to do so. As I told a friend the other day, I'm never going to be that person.

Of course, I've been painted as a baby-hater in the past. After I wrote a short story about a woman who fakes a pregnancy and miscarriage to stop her co-workers from hassling her about not wanting children, people assumed that I was opposed to even the idea of babies. Apparently being inspired to write a story after years of harassment about my procreative plans made me an evil, neo-natal nazi.

I like to think I fall somewhere between the pie-eyed baby enthusiast and the hardcore DINK (that's Double Income No Kids.) I like the idea of babies. I've decided to have a child. Therefore, pregnancy is just kind of means to an end. I don't like baby shower games, and I'll never see the point of gruesomely detailed birthing stories relived over lunch. Does that make me a terrible person? I don't think so.

The worst is being judged by the pregnancy romantics. After my first doctor's visit, the nurse stopped me as I walked away from the lab station of the doctor's office. Didn't I want to keep my pregnancy test? Was she kidding? Why would I want to keep something soaked in...well, you know. Did she think I'd forget the result? I smiled and said no thank you, but I could feel her judgement all the way to the waiting room.

Then there was the ultrasound. I'll admit that it was pretty cool to see the baby's heartbeat. I still felt like my response was somehow less than what the technician expected, though. My one concession to the traditional prenatal excitement? I posted the ultrasound pictures on Facebook. Okay, so they were kind of amazing.

So to summarize? I feared that the day I got pregnant I would change into somebody completely different. I guess I'll have to save that experience for when the baby actually gets here (as everyone I meet likes to warn me.) As for all my other anti-baby rants? Well, I guess I'll just have to do a little prenatal penance. Hail Baby.

The Dog Days of Summer

I've been MIA from blogland for over a week, so it feels like time to check in. I'd love to say that I've been off working away on some new story. Truth is, it's taken everything I have to finish my draft of my current one. Apparently, nausea and fatigue don't mix well with great writing. It's not easy to come up with new material when all you want to do is lie down (or barf.) I'm still plugging away, though.

While I haven't been as prolific with the writing as I would have liked, I have been reading, chipping away at my MFA reading list. Currently, I'm reading Flannery O'Connor's The Complete Stories and her collection of essays on writing, Mystery and Manners. Her short fiction is, as always, amazing, but what has been really been blowing me away is her writing about writing. She is so plain spoken and wise. Every time I read something that I think will be the most insightful thing ever, I go on to the next chapter and find something else. If my first 9-day residency wasn't enough to make me think twice about writing anything, Miss O'Connor's hold-nothing-back advice would make me tremble in my flip-flops all by itself.

On the lighter side, I've had some fun on the days when I don't feel like yuck personified. Last weekend, Steve and I went to the Greenville dog show. It was so much fun to see the breeders that we've befriended over the past year or two. I got to love on/hang out with Cash, the super-amazing Pointer with whom I am desperately in love. We got to hold a baby Min Pin, and we also got to see lots of gorgeous Komondors. After the show, all the Komondor people came over for a cookout at our house, and a Komondor came over, too! Ella, a beautiful little girl who's just starting to cord, stayed in her portable crate most of the visit, but when she came out, she was little-miss-friendly. She even jumped up on the couch and sat on Steve's lap! (Please keep in mind that is a huge dog,) It was the cutest thing EVER, and Steve was extremely pleased with himself. I just wish I had gotten a picture of Steve pinned to the couch by a giant ball of white fur, all while grinning like an idiot.

Unfortunately, this weekend hasn't been quite as fun-filled. I cleaned the house all by myself yesterday (a first in recent weeks), and I definitely paid for it today with lots of fatigue and nausea and loitering in a horizontal position. Big moment for the day? A trip to Bloom for groceries. Tomorrow is church, though I'm still not quite up to Sunday School yet. Seems I can't be separated from food for that long. Hopefully, I'll feel well enough tomorrow to be able to enjoy church.

On the update front, I have a couple of doctor's appointments coming up over the next two weeks. Maybe there will be new ultrasound photos forthcoming. I must admit that while I don't go in for a lot of this pregnancy stuff that other women seem to go nuts for, the ultrasound experience is pretty exciting. It certainly lends a reality to the whole affair that my puking hasn't quite given me. It's nice to have a tangible reminder of why I intentionally made myself feel this crappy.

It's The "Cold" War - Put On Some Underwear: A Review of The Watchmen

Last night, we had a tacos and movie night. Steve picked up The Watchmen on Blu-Ray, and we watched (I watched, he re-watched) it during and after dinner. While I'm always excited about a new Blu-Ray to test the limits of our HD television and rocking surround sound, I must admit that I was less excited about this film than I might have been about others. For one thing, Steve had warned me that it was quite long, and for some reason that will remain a mystery, this "director's cut" version was significantly longer. I tried to keep an open mind, however, and we settled in for some extended movie watching.

The Watchmen is based on a comic book/graphic novel of the same name. It follows several unorthodox and slightly unsavory superheroes as they try to maintain peace and order in an America gone wrong. The story is set in 1985 (mostly) and follows an American history slightly different from what we all read in high school. Nixon has been re-elected multiple times. We won the Vietnam War (thanks to superhero assistance.) But the Cold War still rages on, and people live in constant fear of nuclear holocaust.

As a writer, I am always intrigued by alternative structures for a story. I love it when someone finds a way to top "Once Upon A Time..." followed by a chronological telling. Perhaps, I should rephrase. I am always intrigued by effective alternative structures for a story. The Watchmen was a harrowing hash of flashbacks that kept the story from moving forward for at least an hour.

An hour of flashbacks, you ask? Wondering how there was any room left for the story? Don't worry. There was plenty of room in the 3 hour film. Of course, there are stories that can support 3 three hours of movie. This wasn't one of those. It's one thing for a film to be preachy or heavy-handed. It's quite another when it's preachy and heavy-handed for 3 hours. By the end, I was hoping that Dr. Manhattan (a glowing, blue, naked, know-it-all) would die just so he would shut up.

Then there were the characters. This can't all be blamed on the filmmakers, however. According to my source for all things comic book, Steve, the film characters stuck pretty close to their book counterparts. The problem was, most of them were boring. Dr. Manhattan was a blow-hard, know-it-all. The Night Owl served no purpose in the story whatsoever, and as for the girl, well, her purpose was mostly to run around in latex. Hardly a compelling reason to exist in a story. The only character I found remotely interesting was Rorschach, a no-compromise idealist with a penchant for violence.

I know that I am probably signing off on my own hit by nerd assassins for knocking this film, but I can't endorse such a manipulative, over-wrought piece of drivel. I quickly got tired of the hand-wringing and posturing. Nothing in this movie felt timely for me. Even though V for Vendetta shares a lot of the same warnings against heavy-handed government, this film lacked any believable link to today. The Cold War is over. Perhaps the filmmakers or the writers were hoping to draw a parallel between America's past obsession with Communism and their current focus on Islamic extremism. If that was their aim, however, they missed the mark. Instead, the story felt dated and ridiculous. Nixon as the ultimate evil, re-elected year after year, grinding our country into the ground? I was more frightened by the actor's prosthetic nose.

So if you read The Watchmen and thought it was brilliant (though I'm really having trouble with that idea), go rent/buy/see the movie. From what I've been told by my resident expert, it sticks fairly close to the original (at least for a movie adaptation.) If you're hoping for another V For Vendetta, skip it. Better yet, get out your old copy of V and have a re-watch. Neither film is particularly subtle, but at least V's clever, something that The Watchmen certainly can't claim.

Oh, well, at least the tacos were good.

Pampered, Petted, and Possibly Spoiled

What a weekend! After two to three weeks of misery, I had such a lovely weekend. All this loveliness was thanks in part to not feeling like death for a change, but mostly, it was due to Steve. Apparently, this pregnancy had turned him from attentive husband to doting crazy man. I have only to think something, and my wish materializes before my eyes. I can't imagine he'll be able to keep this up until February. What a sweetheart.

Friday afternoon I was able to get most of the housework done before I gave out. Saturday morning after he mowed the grass, Steve did the vacuuming that I didn't get to the night before while I mopped the kitchen. Then we decided to take advantage of the unseasonably gorgeous weather and went shopping. After lunch and quick trips to Home Depot and Sam's, we headed to Fresh Market where Steve bought our groceries for the week. So much nicer than shopping at our usual Bloom. I got olives at the olive bar, my favorite Imperial nut mix, and a loaf of fresh-baked sourdough bread. Steve bought some gorgeous meat, including some amazing filets which he grilled for dinner, along with some peppers and zucchini. Then after dinner, we did something we haven't done in AGES...played Rock Band. I scored two 100%s on the drums in one night. Must have been all the good eats fueling my drumming fury.

Sunday was church, of course, and Steve had to work for a while in the afternoon. After work, he went to the driving range, but he made up for his absence later by making his delicious lasagna for dinner. I ate a massive slab that tasted even better than I remembered. I even got to pick the movie we watched. I must admit, I was sorry to see the weekend end.

Lest you think I'm letting all this pampering go to my head, however, I'm making Steve his favorite risotto for dinner tonight - risotto with gorgonzola, apples, and walnuts. I'm even going to watch Band of Brothers with him during dinner.

On an unrelated note, the writing is going better (finally.) I hope to have the first draft done within a day or two, and I already have a pretty good idea of what I plann to do with the next draft. I'm actually looking forward to writing again. That's a nice change.

High-Heat Hiatus

The past three weeks have been three of the most surreal, exciting, and miserable I've experienced in a very long time. Of course, there's been the air-conditioning saga (henceforth to be known as the A/C Debacle of 2009.) The extreme temperatures inside my house meant no writing. When your house is already hot, you avoid electronic (heat-producing) appliances like the plague. So, no laptop. My struggling story stalled under the high-heat hiatus. Then there were other distractions. Early morning queasiness, dizzy spells, and fatigue always point to one thing in the movies, and turns out real-life isn't all that different. So a doctor's visit confirmed that I will be suffering through an additional nine months of queasiness, dizziness, and fatigue accompanied by weight gain. May I take this moment to say that there is nothing like a hot, sticky, air-conditioningless house to turn queasiness to full-on nausea?

We finally have cool air circulating through our rooms again, though, and I'm hoping to soon feel like a human being (or at least something close) and get some schoolwork done. Thanks to my faithful writing buddy, I have some ideas of how I want to shave down my story and get to the meat sooner. Deadlines that seemed so far away in June now are looming hot on my neck. So tomorrow I've got to get busy regardless of how I feel.

Last night, Steve was out, and I was left to my own devices. So I headed to Ingles for some Big Red Soup (Lipton's = comfort food) and some DVD's. I ended up renting Last Chance Harvey and Changeling. Both were on my list of "Must See But Steve Won't Want To." Unfortunately, one of my other list picks Mrs. Pettigrew Lives For A Day was no longer at Ingles, so I guess that'll have to wait until sometime when Steve is out and I feel like driving to Blockbuster. Since I watched two relatively recent movies, you know I've got to give my two cents worth on my blog. Here goes...

Last Chance Harvey was charming. I mostly wanted to see this film because I loved Hoffman and Thompson together in Stranger Than Fiction, and funnily enough, that is also why this movie got made (at least according to the Bonus Featurette.) If you're looking for a touching love story without all the saccharine and sap, then this is your flick. The characters were quirky and real, and the dialogue was simple and true. If there was a weakness in the film, it was the writer/director's one concession of the romantic comedy formula - someone promises someone else that they will meet somewhere at a certain time, and you know something's going to happen to keep one of the someones from making it on time. The film does resolve this one annoying tic fairly quickly, however, and the end of the film is lovely. Of particular note in the acting department is Dustin Hoffman's father-of-the-bride speech about halfway through the film. Even I got a little choked up.

Changeling was a very dark mystery/true story directed by Clint Eastwood. I had high expectations for this film (because of Eastwood), and I was not disappointed. The acting was superb. The period set and costumes were perfect. I was immediately drawn into the suspense and tension surrounding this woman's (Angelina Jolie) injustice. At well over two hours, the film was long, but I was so wrapped up in the movie that I didn't mind. While I certainly shouldn't have been surprised based on Eastwood's other films, the movie was even a bit darker than I expected. The disturbing violence was more often implied than shown, however, which made it far more effective than some over-the-top bloodbath. Overall, Jolie's character helped the film maintain its humanity despite its inhuman circumstances. Jolie was compelling as the wronged mother of a missing boy, and even if you're usually a fan of her work, I would encourage you to give her one more chance.

On a completely unrelated note, I want to give a plug for something else that gives me viewing pleasure and a recent find. Though a friend had recommended this show to me quite a while ago, school, work, and other programs kept my viewing schedule a bit too booked to check it out. This weekend as I rested up in my cool living room, however, Sci-Fi (or SyFy as they are now known) ran a marathon of Eureka, and I checked it out. What fun! If you're a nerd (like me), then this is definitely a show for you. While it doesn't pay to ask too many questions while watching it, it is definitely pure fun. So if the summer re-runs have you craving something new, check out Eureka on Friday nights at 9 on SyFy. It's a show about a hidden town full of geniuses working on secret government projects. What's not to like?

Kissing, Crying, and Other Crimes: A Review of Public Enemies

In an effort to beat the heat of our air-conditioning-free house, Steve and I headed to the movies this weekend to check out the latest Johnny Depp offering, Public Enemies. We enjoyed the abundance of cool, flowing air, and I was grateful for the two-plus hours without sticky skin or wayward, bloodthirsty mosquitoes. It seemed apt that, like the characters in the 1930's set film, we were using the movie theater as an escape from the summer heat. Steve and I were kicking it old school. The only thing we lacked were the newsreels before the movie.

Public Enemies is a Michael Mann film that follows the career of the infamous John Dillinger. The film is based on a book of the same name by Bryan Burrough. I can only guess that the film is based very loosely on the book, which is published as history/non-fiction, since the movie takes great liberties with the facts. Johnny Depp plays Public Enemy Number One, John Dillinger, the bank robber/folk hero who robbed, charmed, and murdered his way across the Midwest in the 1930's. Christian Bale plays Melvin Purvis, an overzealous FBI agent hot on Dillinger's trail.

I had high hopes for this film. Johnny Depp is one of my favorite actors, and I was fully prepared to enjoy his usual quirky, edgy acting and a unique interpretation of a criminal legend. Unfortunately, Public Enemies misses the mark. It's not Depp's fault, of course. His acting is always solid, and he is lovely to look at. Once again, however, Hollywood has underestimated the intelligence of the American viewer. Dillinger's folk hero status and the complications and implications of his Robin Hood persona are dumbed down to a nauseating degree. Rather than showing the poverty of the time and, therefore, the appeal of Dillinger, the film tries to make him likable by turning him into a sensitive, romantic, weepy girl. If one is to believe this film, Dillinger's actions were determined by a desire to be with the woman he loved - a woman he loved at first sight. There are way too many scenes featuring long stares and passionate embraces, at least as many as there are of gun battles and car chases. If Dillinger was really that bad of a tactician, being led solely by his overly mushy heart, then surely he would have been caught long before the famous Biograph Theater trap.

Perhaps unrelated or perhaps symptomatic of the above complaint, the movie was boring. That's it. No fancy word for it. The film was over 2 hours long, and I found myself checking my watch early on. There was no getting lost in this film, losing track of time as you live the lives of the characters. Rather, there were too many characters, too many shootouts, and lots of muddled confusion. Most of the criminals were too similar in appearance and mannerism to be differentiated one from another, with the possible exception of Baby Face Nelson who was actually the only character I found remotely interesting. Crazy is always interesting.

As for shootouts, well, there were plenty. Almost every corpse in the movie got that way from acute lead poisoning. While machine guns and car chases were certainly an important part of Dillinger's crime spree, I was able to grasp that after a couple battles. I didn't need one every five minutes to remind me of his violent lifestyle. In fact, it felt like the writer/director/whoever's making these choices overused shootouts in an attempt to build suspense and excitement in an otherwise directionless film. They seemed unaware of the adage that more is sometimes much, much less. Any power these violent scenes might have given the film were weakened by their ubiquity. As the film neared its end, I started hoping that a stray bullet would hit Dillinger so I wouldn't have to sit there and wait for the Biograph shooting.

Not everything about the film was bad. The look of the piece was right, and the acting was solid. If only the dialogue written had been worthy of the actors' skills. The music was mostly of the period so it was evocative. There was one exception of the fine acting assessment, however. Christian Bale. Though the audience was spared the gravelly voiced growl that he featured in The Dark Knight, they weren't exactly treated to an Oscar-worthy performance. Bale's portrayal of G-Man, Melvin Purvis, was one-dimensional at best as he followed the Keanu Reeves school of acting: monotone delivery sans any sort of facial expression. While the filmmakers were obviously pushing the idea of Purvis as a soulless puppet of J. Edgar Hoover, Bale failed to pursue any opportunities to give Purvis any sort of depth.

So if you're a screenwriter, director, or producer who's always dreamed of making the ultimate 1930's crime drama, the slot is still wide open. Give America a Dillinger they can sink their teeth into, not some modern, misunderstood guy who's not afraid to cry and spoon. Give me Robin Hood in a suit, tie, vest, and overcoat. I want a chain-smoking, skirt-chasing, devil-may-care, Clark Gable-meets-Errol Flynn-meets-Jack Nicholson guy. I don't go to a gangster movie to feel warm fuzzies, so please, keep the canoodling to a minimum.

If You Can't Take The Heat...

This past week and weekend had a theme: heat. Wednesday dawned bright and humid, and I began the day quite innocently expecting that my air conditioning would continue functioning as it always did. While the compressor was replaced on Friday afternoon, it was nighttime before the house truly cooled down to its usual temperature. The theme was by then well-established. Sweat, sweat, and more sweat. Even with the somewhat cooler house, there was much sweat-inducing work to do on Friday to rid the house of it's open window and fan induced grime in time for my dad's arrival on Saturday afternoon.

On Saturday morning, I was repaid for all those times I've moved in the worst heat of summer and asked friends to lend a hand. Steve and I helped some friends move into their third floor apartment in some of the worst heat we've had all summer. Boy, am I glad I started working out the other week. I may not be Jane Fonda yet, but I'm certain it helped me through innumerable trips up three flights of stairs. The downside of helping non-family members move in the extreme heat? I had to keep reminding myself not to lift up my t-shirt to wipe my face!

Sunday meant church and returning the much appreciated fans to our friends. I can't remember when I've ever felt such a fondness for an electrical appliance as I did for those two white plastic fans. In the afternoon, I headed back over to my friends' house for the fun part of moving...unpacking, hanging pictures, and making things homey. Like the grunt work of moving, this is an area in which I am very experienced (as is my friend), and we powered through all kinds of jobs like a well-oiled machine. Okay, maybe the well-oiled machine analogy is a bit strong. Too bad there wasn't video of us hanging pictures. Two crazy women beating on the apartment wall trying to find the stud while her husband wanders by making a well-worn stud finder joke. Is there really a man alive who can walk by someone looking for a stud and not say, "Here I am"?

When I got home, Steve grilled hamburgers for dinner. They were amazing. Nothing tastes like summer like hamburgers on a charcoal grill. Maybe that's what prompted Steve to suggest we go get some ice cream. I must say I nearly fainted when he mentioned it. It very well might be the first time in our 9 years together that he has made such a suggestion. Sort of an Invasion of the Body Snatchers: Greer Edition.

Of course, there have been upsides to my drama-filled week of heat. First and foremost, I was reminded of the kindness and generosity of the people at Holland Park Church. In addition to the fans, we had offers of hotel rooms and guest bedrooms. It's such a blessing to be surrounded by such wonderful people. Another upside? People share their no-air-conditioning horror stories. As a writer, this is a gold mine. My aunt even sent me a massive post on Facebook that included not only her air-conditioning history, but also linked everything back to my own. I'm going to chalk it all up to future material. After all, isn't that the cliche: suffering for your art? I certainly felt I was suffering as I sat between the two fans, grateful that I had lost my sense of smell. Perhaps one day I'll write a story about someone sweltering away or about a family getting their first air conditioner or about....never mind. It's time for me to step away from the blog and get some serious writing done. I think I know where my main character would probably get a little overheated and need to sit in front of a white plastic fan that makes a vibrating hum when it oscillates to the right.

Trapped On The Set Of A Time To Kill

Welcome to Day 2 of "Sarah Goes Back to the Dark Ages Before There Was A/C!" Yesterday started out innocently enough. I got up and ate my customary oatmeal, worked out (yes, I'm still doing that), and then took a shower and headed to my dentist appointment. I probably should have taken the dentist appointment as an omen of bad things to come. It took my dentist (whom I absolutely love) 3 separate attempts to get my tooth numb enough to pull of the temporary crown and glue in the permanent one. Good times. 2 hours later, I headed for home, my drooping lip dragging behind the car. As I walked into the house from the garage, I thought, Wow, it doesn't feel much cooler in there than in the garage...what's up with that? A quick check of the thermostat revealed that it was 83 degrees in the living room, and it was even hotter in the back of the house.

Fast forward to last night. I went to church for drama practice. I threatened to extend practice several hours so that I could remain in the lovely air conditioned building. Unfortunately, no one went for my suggestion. As I was reluctantly dragging myself out to the car, I ran into a friend whom I told about my a/c woes. This lovely person offered us the use of 2 wonderful, glorious, beautiful fans and even offered to meet me somewhere halfway between her house and mine. May I take this moment to say that these 2 fans are quite possibly the most innovative inventions ever conceived by man? They saved us last night. After a few miserable hours together in the living room (heat does little to improve my mood or geniality), Steve and I headed back to our sweat lodge, I mean, bedroom to pretend to sleep for a few hours. Mostly I watched TV until the wee hours, and poor Steve cuddled with his cool, wet cloth. You just can't buy memories like that.

The a/c repair guy came bright and early this morning. (Was it my heat-addled brain or was he the kindest man and did he not have a glow about his angelic face?) He informed me that our compressor had gone to that great air conditioning in the sky and that he would have to order us a new one. I wanted to cry. Not because of the money. Not because the air conditioner is only 3 years old. I wanted to cry because he couldn't fix it today.

After he left and I called to break the news to Steve (who was sleep deprived and less that cheery), I headed back to my bedroom and laid on the bed between the two fans to try to get a little sleep. I did manage a couple hours before the sun started doing her worst. Now, I'm holed up in the cavelike house with all the blinds and window closed, strategically poised between the really exquisite fans. Did I mention that I love the fans?

The good news is that the a/c people called, and the compressor will be here tomorrow. So only one more night of sweaty misery. Of course, the kitties don't have a great grasp of time, and so they suffer on in the heat, wearing their fur coats and looking at me reproachfully from time to time. At least, my dad is still in Spartanburg, and I can go meet up with him later in some well air-conditioned place. I"m thinking some ice cream may be in order.

My I-Don't-Have-To-Run-Day(s)

After a long and less-productive-than-I-had-hoped-for week, the weekend did finally arrive. Friday dawned hot and muggy with a side of ick. That's when the phone rang. It was my friend, Martha (or Bess, depending on where you meet her), wanting to meet for lunch. Usually, Friday is my housecleaning/laundry day, but I threw my plans to the wind and decided to spend a few hours with one of my favorite people instead. I was feeling kind of blue anyway, and it seemed like the right choice. So, off for pizza and laughs with Martha. Lunch turned into late afternoon as we sat and talked for 3 hours. It was a marathon of catching up, deep discussion, and bizarre stories. Good times.

After finishing up with Martha, I headed to the grocery store and then home. My journey into the so-thick-you-could-cut-it summer air left me feeling a little snoozy, so I stretched out on the couch until Steve got home. Then it was off to the Barkery Bistro for doggie treats. Downtown Greenville was a madhouse (as usual), so Steve just slowed down and pushed me out of the car when we got near the store. (Okay, I'm exaggerating a little, but not much.) Inside, the lady behind the bakery display case asked me if the dog I was purchasing the treats for was a girl or boy. (Steve later suggested that I should have said, "I hope so.") After I told her my purchases were for a little girl dog, the woman filled a bag with doggy treats shaped and decorated like butterflies and flip-flops. Then she put bright pink tissue paper in for a final touch. Is that classy or what? I hope the dog appreciates it!

After a pit stop at Best Buy (Steve's suggestion for killing 30 minutes), we headed over to a friend's house for dinner. Did I mention that my friend has a Golden Retriever named Molly, and that I LOVE Golden Retrievers? No? Well, now you know. Though the food and wine were wonderful that night (and the company wasn't bad, either), I was pretty psyched about getting to hang with a Golden. Oh, and for the record, she loved the treats. She didn't say anything about the tissue paper, but I'm interpreting all the licking as her doggy endorsement of its pinkness.

We didn't get home until very late Friday night. (I'm certain that most everyone had turned into pumpkins, except for us.) So, Saturday was good for a lie-in, and then we got to work. Mostly, I got to work. You want to see the list? I cleaned the house, did the laundry, reorganized the pantry, and cooked a giant pot of spaghetti. (Steve mowed the grass.) That's okay. Steve had a hard week, and he needed some rest. He had special permission from me to be a vegetable for the entire weekend. (You notice I said be a vegetable, not eat one. He didn't do much of that.)

Sunday involved lots of relaxing, after church and a Sam's trip, that is. I took an epic 3 hour nap, and Steve played video games with a friend. The evening wrapped up with a little movie watching. Steve rented Capote for me, and he watched it with me - even though I'm certain that he couldn't care less about Truman Capote or anything discussed in the film. Such a good sport. It was an amazing film, however, and I'm glad I got to watch it.

Now, it's Monday, and it's back to work. Last week, I struggled as I worked on my story. I'm praying that this week will be better. I'm also hoping that my weekend of rest and doing anything but writing (I did, at least, read) will aid my attempts this week. So, enough rattling on. Here goes.

Wide Open Spaces

I'm coming out of stealth mode to do a little warm-up writing. I've a rewrite of a short story to work on, and I need some "narrative calasthenics" (I stole that phrase from some guy in Poets and Writers mag) to get my fiction juices flowing. It's such a irony that the same house-cleaning frenzy that frees up my mind so that I can write also makes me to tired to want to do anything.

So this week in Domesticity class we've been talking about the open floor plan and its many evils. It's so weird how everything we've talked about in that class keeps popping up at random moments in my "real", non-school life. This week we read about how the advent of the open floor plan placed so much more responsibility on already overworked women. With all that visually pleasing open space comes the ability/expectation to multi-task. Mother has to be everywhere at once, and she can be if she can see everywhere. Plus, there is no front room that you can keep clean for company. Now, everything has to be presentable all the time because it's all visible to visitors. At Bible study last night, one of my friends was lamenting that fact that she spends so much of her time chasing her 2-year-old son. When I mentioned what we read in class about Betty Friedan's maligning of the open floor plan in The Feminine Mystique, my friend couldn't help but agree. (Though she seemed almost too tired to so much as nod.)

Are we (and by "we," I mean women) creating more work for ourselves by selecting those oh-so-popular open floor plan houses? Just because HGTV says we need all that open space and "flow," does it really make it true? As I've read so much about domestic advice and its history over this semester of Domesticity class, I've become aware of how transient domestic advice really is....fluid and rarely reflective of the society it is meant to represent/guide. So much of the advice is never followed, but we are left with this guilt that we aren't doing the "right" thing by our homes and families.

Don't get me wrong, I am in no way suggesting that HGTV is evil or that I will never again flip hungrily through a decorating mag. I simply submit to you, dear reader, that when making house/decorating/cooking decisions, we women should start basing it on our own convenience/comfort/taste rather than on something that the "experts" tell us we should like. It is important to remember that so much of the modern domestic advice is driven by consumerism and marketing. Product placement almost overwhelms some of those HGTV decorating shows. 100 years ago, women couldn't even vote. Now we have a female Secretary of State. Women have not come this far to be controlled by a clever jingle or compelling commercial.

Of course, if we're talking about convenience, there are some inventions/innovations that do make our jobs easier. I have a couple of items, like my Kitchen Aid Mixer and my insanely wonderful laundry cart, that make my domestic tasks so much simpler. But even my household tools deserve a second look. So many of the tools that we use to make our jobs easier/faster, really just isolate us more and raise the standards by which we measure our housework.

Okay, enough of my housework rant. I'm still seeking the title of Domestic Goddess. That didn't change. I do, however, have a different understang/perspective when it come to my role as wife/cook/laundress/housekeeper. But I suppose I should use some of my mad multi-tasking skills to get some serious writing done. Thanks to the inventor of the open floor plan for giving me that oh-so-useful skill!