Delighted. Really.

Have I mentioned the upcoming family reunion yet? It's worthy of mention.

The good news is that my secret plan to shanghai my favorite cousins from the airport, and deliver them to the reunion location several hours later has been officialized by the committee in charge of officializing things.

The bad news is that in those several hours between airport and reunion location, I have now got to cris-cross a major city in search of passengers, find parking at the airport at rush hour on a Friday afternoon, drive a full car load of cousins and baggage to another town an hour or more away, in serious rush hour traffic, on a Friday, in order to celebrate another incoming family member's birthday with the WHOLE FRIGGEN CROWD at our usual celebratory restaurant. And then we drive to the reunion.

I hope they give us a private room at the restaurant. One with padded walls. We're going to be loud, crazy, totally disorganized, loud, and insanely hungry. All twenty or thirty of us. Just think-- my mom, and four of her siblings, and like seven mostly-adult female cousins who GREW UP IN THIS FAMILY TRADITION-- plus kids, boyfriends, husbands, and well, whoever else we accidentally sweep along in our rambunctious and way-too-friendly wake.

I'm sure I'll be keeping you posted on the reunion. OH, and did I mention that my mom's broken hand is healing okay? It is. Really.

Convergence

So I've been going through a month-long five-step interview process with a company I'd like to work for. They help new college students handle the challenges of school, balance other demands on their time and energy, and access resources that will ultimately help those students stay in school, graduate, and meet their personal goals.

I'm also having this interesting awareness that I thought I'd share--

I was writing my book, and writing about the "standard solgdier" lifestyle. How he usually has a buzz-cut and a big-ass man-truck with a killer stereo. How he loves to eat beef, and prays to God before dinner every night. How nearly everyone who populates his world is physically fit, heterosexual, and between the ages of 18-45. And I got to "talking" about how different Agrmy social norms are from Civilian ones. Here's a piece of what I wrote:

In many ways, I still haven’t finished assimilating into this larger and more diverse civil society. For example, an Agrmy Wife could not be friends with a man who was not her husband. It raised eyebrows. Just being seen riding in a car with a man who was not your husband was enough to make you a hot topic at the next FRG potluck. Is she having an affair? Does her husband know? Is her husband away on a mission right now? Does anybody here have a husband who knows the poor bastard well enough to tell him about his wife’s affair when he gets home?

I met a married friend for dinner at a noisy sushi restaurant the other day. We were discussing his research and my job search, so he suggested sitting beside me at the oversized table, instead of across from me. It’d be easier to hear without spitting at each other and yelling out about this book he’s writing about a lesbian love affair in the 12th century. Already nervous about having dinner with my friend, and not his wife (to whom I know he is totally devoted), I had to stop and think about what it means to sit on the same side of the table as a married man in a civilian context. I only knew what it meant in the mgilitary one. Of course, in the mgilitary, we wouldn’t have been eating a meal together, or discussing lesbian love affairs and 12th century politics, at all.

Of course, in this new context, and with this particular person, it didn't mean anything at all, except that the restaurant was noisy! It's just interesting to realize that I became an adult while inside the mgilitary arena, and that I've had to learn to be an adult all over again as a civilian.

And there are still occasionally situations that I haven't dealt with in a civilian context. When they come up, I'm reminded all over again of this clash between what I originally learned, and what is appropriate/real now. I guess I'm a life-long-learner on many different fronts indeed.

Another facet of this process occurred in my "job-shadow" interview yesterday. I was talking with one of the Student Coaches, and she told me that part of her strategy for working with these college students is to realize that nobody makes huge life-altering changes. To be realistic in helping them set goals, and in recognizing that "success" and "progress" for a student with poor study skills and a terrible GPA is different than for a prize pupil. According to her experience, after working with hundreds of new students, the goal is to help these students see their current situation clearly, and then take baby steps forward from there. And I don't know that I particularly disagree...

But I had to realize that part of what sets me apart from general society is the fact that I've made huge life-altering changes in who I am and how I operate and process new information and make decisions MANY TIMES. That I'm not afraid of learning new and better ways to be. (Though LB can tell you just how stubborn I am about asking for help-- I'm still working on that one.)

I've had a lot of fear and challenges in the past few years. But in the past few months, since I got serious about writing this book that remembers my life in the Argmy, I've also had a lot of examples presented to me of just what seriously tough shit I've lived through, what unfair or unexpected challenges I've overcome, and how strong and neat of a person I really am now, on the far side of those major life- and self-changes. I'm proud of who I am now, and I'm learning to appreciate just how awesome my accomplishments in this lifetime are. It's heartening, when so many other things seem to be falling apart.

Hide and Seek

So there's a button on blogger that lets you "hide" your blog listing. And apparently I accidentally pushed that button sometime since my last post.

I've been going crazy this morning trying to track down the access point to this blog, with very little success. It doesn't help that my connection has been getting progressively slower over the last three months, either. All that logging in and out and in and out took time. grrrrrr

Until I finally and for no reason I can fathom decided I must have "hidden" that blog. Then it took me another little while to figure out how to UNHIDE it. And that term does not appear in the google/blogger help directory. So don't bother.

The good news is that there's a little button down at the bottom of the page that says "show all blogs," and when I finally found that button, and selected it, all was again right with my world.

Why are there always prologues to my stories??

Also, apparently due to the amazing levels of unexpected and prolonged gorgeous snow in December, the gas bill was an estimate. Based on earlier times when my housemate didn't actually have the heat on. So this month, we received a bill for what didn't show up last month, and this month's expense. And I guess we have to turn the heat back off now. Because I can't afford to pay her $150 a month to have heat.

So I guess I'll be closing the bedroom door and turning on my space heater. A lot. Because I suspect that the overage I'll pay for the electricity I use is NOTHING compared to this bill. Which actually scares me. A lot.

Besides hunting around for a way to access my own blog, how did I spend the morning? So glad you asked.

I spent this morning writing about my early attempts at marriage counseling, and the last pre-deployment briefing I attended before my X left for Iraq back in 2004. Oh, Joy. That gas bill was really NOT the cap I'd have chosen for my morning of woe.

It was interesting to remember back to the hole in the bedroom door, the Argmy Chaplain who first appeared angry on my behalf, and then when he actually met my X, was angry at me for not doing a better job of supporting such a fine outstanding and upstanding soldgier. It was interesting to remember both the hope I suddenly felt to have an authority figure on my side in my attempts to get marriage counseling and salvage our relationship-- and the utter desolation and isolation that ultimately came of the attempt.

Interesting to remember how life had to keep on keeping on around all that personal pain. We went out to dinner, we said how our day went, we acted like nothing was wrong when other people were around, and I worried about his well-being as he geared up for that deplogyment. And yet, looking back, I realize how absolutely everything had already fallen apart. Long before I actually was ready or willing or able to walk away.

I'm so glad to be here, and not there, now. Even with frozen fingers and a dwindling bank account and a crick in my neck from sitting at the computer too long. I think my story is an important one to tell-- the family side of Argmy Life, but more than that. I'm also telling how-- maybe eventually even WHY-- a marriage can fall apart, and a wife can decide to stay long past all reason. And, hopefully, I can tell a little bit of how to get out of a marriage like that.

I am hopeful. Hopeful for my own life, and for the lives of other women-- argmy or civilian, happy or desperate, married or divorced-- and for the possibility for positive change in every situation. Hopefully, telling my story will make a difference, too.

So I keep writing, and forcing myself to remember those painful, fearful, uncertain times. Times when I hid, or wanted to hide. Times I really don't want to remember anymore. And, hopefully, when it's all done, the results will be worth the journey I took to get them.

In the meantime, anybody know a good (and fairly recently published) memoir I should read? I'm looking for a good editor, and a well-written book might just be the place to start.

The French Translation

Things that mean something, a biographical list of one-liners from breakfast with Big D:

• It'd be nice to date someone intelligent AND funny, you know?
  
• So, how long have you been a looser?
• Um, no. Actually, I didn't learn that from my grandmother. It's all me.
  
• Well, I'm just known as "That guy who eats salad for lunch," so they don't think I'm a homo at work-- but there's this other guy who started trying to eat healthy lunches after he'd been there for a while, and it was like, "Man let me show you some tits so you can get over this and eat man-food again."
• Actually, nobody takes you seriously because we know you really DO mean the outrageous things you say.
• God, this sounds retarded; I met her on Facebook.
• Liquid chalk? Actually, I think pole dancers WANT to be able to slide around some...
• He's an ambulance driver with a Master's Degree in Art Criticism. And he eats salads for lunch, too. I just feel compelled to call him my partner-- but only at work!
  
• Well, actually, I AM a librarian. Explains the ice cube in my hot coco, doesn't it?
• Boy, watching you eat takes me right back to when we were kids.
• I meant to do that.
• When is your Christmas Present officially "late" this year?
• It's like free therapy. Especially when I tell them stories about my marriage. And they tell me, "Gosh. I always wondered how somebody could be stupid enough to end up in that situation. Now I know." At least I get to hear it from my editors before I hear it from everybody else.
• Imagine Jean Claud Van Dam playing himself. He's actually a sad, gentle little man.
• They don't look like cookie rejects to you? Well, taste one. Then you'll understand why I gave them to you.
• Boil down all the wisdom I wish I could go back and give my younger self, and you get this: Eat salad and lift weights-- the rest will take care of itself.
• You have a studded tire for your BICYCLE??
• You've just created another Vin Diesel fan, haven't you.
• Yeah, I know I need some sort of mal-practice insurance for all the great advice I keep giving everybody.
• I think Nateuropathic Medicine is when you're allergic to cats, so they make you eat cat to solve the problem.
• No, really, you WANT to hear this story about eating cat faces in China!
• Dude, people puke on me at work. You spitting when you talk is like NOTHING in comparison. Really. And then there was this guy with a dead mouse on his belly.
• Maybe I need to work on my compassion for fat people.
  
• ...And then I get the munchies and play stupid video games all day. What side effects do YOU get?
• "Friends with Benefits." That means "free fugck" in french, doesn't it?

PT for Writers

Every Wednesday night, I attend a writing group. I look forward all week to this event, excited to read my pages and hear the feedback from my peers and advisers. Every week, I am nearly late, frantically pulling together my pages, my final edits, my nerve-- and heading off to work.

And it is work. I am writing down some difficult memories, to be picked over as a stranger might do a cold plate of french fries after lunch. It is hard for me to visualize some past events with enough clarity to write them down so others can vicariously experience those events, too. Hard because I don't want to relive those times. Hard because old wounds heal slowly, and my flesh is still tender. The critiques are always helpful-- but sometimes they still hurt.

Driving home tonight, I realized I was shaking with the after-effects of fight-or-flight adrenaline. That primed response of our bodies in a state of sudden fear. It is scary to remember a time we never want to repeat. It is exhausting, and emotionally draining, too.

Why do I do this? Why do I keep writing, editing, returning every Wednesday night for another dose of dread? Well... I thought about that on my way home. I realized that the truth I share with my clients also applies to me. If I want to find the lessons that will help me move beyond a bad memory or experience, I have to work through the experience. I have to be willing to go piece-by-piece through my past, and throw out what isn't useful. Claim the lessons. Claim my inner strength, my integrity, my changes and the personal growth that I've experienced since those events occurred.

I am lucky. Writing is, for me, cleansing. Putting down on a page all the things I didn't want to forget, but hate to remember-- It lets me rest from the burden of remembering. It lets me put down the memory without fear of losing or repeating the lesson-- I can re-read it any time I feel a need. I am literally lightening my load at each Wednesday night Writer's Group. Freeing up mental and emotional space one jaw-clenching page at a time. Making room for something new.

Just after a car accident, we are in trauma. When the danger has past, and the person stabilized, there is often a long and painful period of physical therapy. A time when we re-learn how to inhabit our bodies, and work through the pain of healing. And so I look forward to these sessions, knowing I'll be exhausted and in pain at the end. Knowing that it's a good kind of pain, and not a punishment. Knowing that I am re-learning how to inhabit my emotional landscape, learning how best to lean forward into my life.

I have seen friends in crisis who were so scared of the pain they might feel if they acknowledged the hurtful situation they were in-- that they simply refused to get therapy. The fear of the healing process was bigger than the ugly situation they were actually living in. We seem, intuitively, to know just how painful it will be to work through our injuries and our traumas. And yet, so often, we turn a blind eye to the trauma or the situation that we live through every day instead.

Getting help, asking for someone to hold your hand and help you move through the pain toward a healthier life, it's a big deal. I have great respect for anyone who can battle their fear enough to ask for help-- to keep asking for help until they are well. Who uses that extra bit of energy that allows us to learn from old hurts, and old patterns, so that we don't repeat them. So that we understand our own personal process of healing, and are able to fully embrace our individual presence in the world.

Driving home from my Writer's Group tonight, I appreciated all over again the courage and the energy my clients put into their own healing process. I honor their victory and their commitment to becoming fully themselves. Their willingness to come back to the table every couple of weeks, ready for more hard work. And then I sit at my computer, and write another chapter in my own story, getting ready for next week's healing critique.

In the Spirit of Christmas

I recently began to reminisce about Christmases past. I do that in the summer. Goes well with my habit of singing Christmas Carols in July. And that other habit I have of standing on one foot while doing the dishes. Anyway, here's what I wrote about what I remember:

Before I ever met him, he hated Christmas. Hated it for the same reason he hated his birthday-- they were too close together. They were fake. The attention wasn't really on him, and the gifts for the two were often combined into one bigger gift-- It made him bitter to be so short-changed. Isn't that strange?

It was a victory-- the buzz of war’s end and the fear-stench of D-day rolled into one-- the first time I brought a Christmas Tree into our house. Not our first year there, but our second. Such a little thing, a tree.

We negotiated back and forth, just a suggestion gently interposed here or there when he wasn't struggling with other aspects of our life together... Finally we agreed. A live tree, no more than three feet tall, no ornaments, one strand of lights-- white lights only. He'd help me carry it into the house no sooner than the 23rd of December, and it had to be planted in the back yard no later than December 29th. It had to be under $25... And I couldn't mention Christmas or trees at all for the month between now and then. Certainly not on his birthday!

But it was a TREE! Something to reflect the seasonal glory I feel every time the Earth cleans her slate to begin anew. Something to connect our home with the homes of other families throughout the community to which I so desperately wanted to belong. Something friendly and healthy and clean in our married world. Something that wasn't a secret.

I laugh now to remember how he broke out in hives wherever the needles of that feathery little aromatic desert cedar pricked him. How angry he was when he finally planted it in January, and entered the sliding glass door on our little almost-A-frame house, strangling the earth beneath his feet with every twist of those mud-glazed black boots. Arms covered in little red welts. Of course, it wasn't funny at the time-- it was my fault, this crawling pain he felt in waves across his skin. My fault that he was allergic to Christmas. To the only tree on the lot I could find that was more than a seedling and less than $25, two days before Christmas.

I guess life is full of little victories like this. I guess it's hard to admit that I was part of the problem, too, but I know now that I was. I didn't hold him accountable for his choices, didn't put up boundaries between his problems and mine. I just checked to be sure the shovel was no longer in his hands, and then went forward to apologize for the tree, and offer what comforts I could to the places where his skin was broken and angry. After all, they were only little scratches on the surface, nothing deeper than that. They could be soothed, and given time, they would mend. Right?

The F.R.G. meets once a month on post, and the women who attend speak of seemingly innocent things between items of business on the agenda. Officers to officers, enlisted to enlisted, sergeants' wives straddling the emptiness between. The Captain's wife leads the meeting, and reports back to the General's wife, who also sometimes attends. They say a wife has no rank... I understand how easy it is to lie with integrity.

"Oh, yes-- we're putting our decorations up a little closer to Christmas," I tell them. "You know, we usually get a live tree, and we want it to survive the move back outside..." I no longer remember what "truth" I told about the total dearth of Christmas spirit in our home the first winter of our married life... Probably the same thing I said about the fact that he hated roses, cats, the color pink, home improvement shows on TV, and the time I spent talking with old friends on the phone-- that there were more important things in life than what kind of flowers I got on my birthday.

Some pieces of the people you spend your energy on get stuck in your psyche... The way the trapezius muscle rested under sun-spotted skin with a certain luscious convex curve that's missing on other men, the elephant stench of the bathroom after he ate ice cream or cheese, that tightness around his nostrils that said he was hiding something again-- something that was, in his words, "easier to ask forgiveness than permission" for having done. The sweet smell of the cologne he wore before we were married.

I remember the first week we lived together in the house I found. It was November, maybe December. We'd been married for six months, engaged for three years before that, and now finally, we could be alone together in our own space. We'd bought our own home, weathered our wedding on the coast, his four months of Training in Kentucky, my car accident in St. Louis. Things were finally going to be better for both of us.

I remember looking around at the end of that first week, noting the week's worth of discarded socks, scattered like so many crumpled gold-toed snowballs around our new king-sized bed. His OD green bath towel from our wedding, still so wet from yesterday's 5am shower that it dripped as I gingerly carried it the last two feet from the carpeted floor to the hamper in the corner.

I remember the moment I finally understood that the slovenly disregard he'd shown every hotel room, every quaint B&B of our courtship-- it was how he treated all the objects in his life. That my carefully hoarded life treasures would get no better treatment from him. That one more of my "it'll be better when" dreams was not coming true as planned.

And that knowledge sits in my psyche, making me cold and withdrawn around men with similar strengths and propensities. Men with birthdays in December, and allergies to milk. Men who wear that particular cologne. Now that my life is under my direction, it is like skulking around a sanitarium after dark to return to these memories, these rules, these smells and most of all, these complex truths. I am haunted by the ghosts of Christmases past.

I am no longer willing to give up the celebrations of my life. I am uncomfortable knowing that I did give them up-- many times, and to many people. Uncomfortable knowing how easy it always was to find a reason to stay behind, helping someone else’s dreams come true. The good little Wife, supporting my husband's career, depending on him for security and friendship and even identity at times. Learning to celebrate the small things, learning what it takes to survive in a world where soldiers are treated like machines, with no control over their lives and no way to guess at their future. Learning not to plan too far ahead, as a buffer to disappointment. Living in a community where belonging and blending in is everything, and you-- the wife-- can never be a priority. You have no rank, remember?

Why Certainly?

p.s. CatMan proved yet again what a really quality person he is. We had our honest communication about my realization that I'd really like to be his friend... but I don't want to date him. And he was great about it. Really.

The Beginning:
Every once in a while, I get this feeling of certainty. I know that I just need to go here or do this-- and I'll get a very specific and much-desired result. I had that feeling when I decided to buy a CR-V about five years ago. I told my dad we just needed to go to this one town about 45 minutes away, and I'd like to stop in at XYZ Honda. At his insistence, I looked up other Honda dealers in town, and called all over the more local area in search of something good. Finally, dragging his feet and reeking of disbelief, he got into my "trade vehicle" and I drove us down to the XYZ Honda dealership. There were only two parking places in the lot-- and I chose the one next to the blue CR-V. It was for sale. On special. It was about a year old. It was perfect. And I got a really great deal on it. I had no doubts. This was the vehicle I was going to get, and I was going to get it on my terms. That's one example.

I haven't had this feeling often, but often enough to recognize it. An unshakable certainty-- a strength of purpose in my gut and my heart. The feeling has been building over the past day or two. Something good is coming. And I know the job I'm planning to get is right around the corner. What I don't know is if it's one I've already applied for, or one I just saw and need to apply for NOW, or one I'll find in the next few days. Usually, my path is a little clearer than this... or at least, I keep putting one steady foot in front of the other, and I arrive at the right place at the right time.

So that's what I'm going to do. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. I'm going to grab my opportunity with both hands, and awe my interview team with my strength of purpose, calm intelligence, friendly accessibility, and most of all-- they'll realize that I've got a lot more to offer than what they see on paper. I'm a good person to have on your team, and I'll grow into and enhance beyond expectation any position I'm invited to accept. It's coming. I can feel it.

... I'm reminded of that old song "I WAAAANT you to want me. I NEEED you to need me! I'd Loooove you to love me..." Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go find a cat-claw-proof container for the new bag of cat food I just bought. Bubba has already made a hole in the bag, and keeps trying to come back for more. The bottom of the bag. The bag that is supposed to keep the cat food fresh, and the smell inside. The one I bought this morning, and haven't opened yet. THAT bag.

Chaos, and the Rules that Cause It:

I have been walking around with a list in my head. Well, okay-- I walk around with a LOT of lists in my head... but THIS ONE was the list of "how it's supposed to be." You'd think I'd have learned my lesson about demanding that the universe conform to my plans, but no.

I once thought that happiness was caused by doing what you're "supposed to do." So I went to college, and then I got married, and I had a job, and we bought a house, ... and I wasn't really very happy most of the time.

When I refused to be a part of that train wreck any longer, and started over with the "go to college" bit, I realized that there isn't really a tangible recipe for happiness. There isn't a check-list to success. Not in the way you check off the steps of a home renovation, for example.

Then, I created a new plan. I'd get my new degree, and that would lead to my new career. Once I had a new career, I could finally pay off my debts and have health care, thus leading to a healthy healed body, and building a solid foundation for me to finally start looking for new relationships. And all of this would have to happen "somewhere else." Somewhere with no old patterns to contend with as I fought to create new and healthy ways of being.

It's only been in the past month that I finally realized that maybe, even if I wasn't getting that career job in library world, maybe I COULD be working on other goals. And then things started to fall into place. Serendipity, I think it's called.

I found an awesome house-mate. I moved into her house, and felt at home. She introduced me to a friend of hers who gives great massage (for free, until he gains his certification), and happens to also be a very wellness-oriented Yoga Master. And I called up my Uncle Rod's Acupuncturist, and discovered that she would do a straight trade with me-- one of my skills in exchange for one of hers. So, for no money, I suddenly find my body healing. I even played three consecutive rounds of a great bean-bag-toss game called "Corn Hole." I swear, it's true. There's a whole league of semi-serious players here-- and there are official rules, and everything! I played this game with only some temporary discomfort in my shoulder, where I'd once have been in agony for days after. This is an improvement I'd like to facilitate! It's EXCITING!!!

Now, I'm meeting other great people, and I've also developed a supportive and growing friendship with someone I knew in high school. Not the boy-- it's been three weeks since I last heard from him. I'm not holding my breath. And it's okay. I feel no personal insult or loss from it, though I still think he'd have made an interesting and appealing friend. No, this one is my friend, DS. She's personally funding and creating a really amazing non-profit that supports the cultural historians and artists in Guinea, in Africa. Her dedication, knowledge, and the need for her work are just amazing.

Oddly enough, my Personal & Professional Life Coaching business has picked up, too. Out of rather humid summer air have appeared five paying clients. WOW!!! I look forward to more as the year progresses.

And suddenly, I realize: Here I am. My body is healing, and I'm growing a great community of friends. I have a wonderful place to live, and the beginnings of a career (even if it stays part-time for a while) I love. I've started to incorporate healthy new patterns to my life, and I've done it all RIGHT HERE. So, I've started looking around for a job that might let me stay local for a while longer. And there is one. Don't know if I'll get it, but I plan to do everything in my power to promote that possibility. I'd be doing research, and collection development for a vendor who works with academic libraries. My two favorite aspects of being a librarian-- combined-- and I'd get to do them for more than one library at once. Talk about service opportunities!!

On top of all that, I just met someone wonderful. I don't know if we'll be friends or if there'll be more to it than that... but I'm definitely looking forward to getting to know this man better. He's mature, and thoughtful, and I really enjoyed talking/listening with him, and he has two cats-- who he spoils rotten. It's a good start.

It's so exciting for life to feel good right now!

Cows and Yearlings

Well, I'm doing it. I'm finally starting to write down some of the stories I remember from my time at Wgest Pgoint. And I'm writing some from being an Agrmy wife, too-- and probably another bunch about divorce and what came after, at least for me. I realized that I always think of these as individual stories, not as one long saga... so maybe instead of my past fizzled attempt to write A BOOK, (remember "the girlfriend's guide to Wgest Pgoint" from about five years ago?) I can just write each story as it occurs to me, and then put them in groups. And maybe it's better that my memories aren't all that accurate after all this time-- because it's a collection of MY MEMORIES, and so it's okay if it isn't a perfect record of the exact rules. Makes it that much easier to agree with any Mgilitary critic who claims gross inaccuracies, you know?

This morning I wrote about Ring Weekend. It was on my mind when I woke up for some reason. I find myself hoping that writing it out will also help me move away from those experiences a bit more. Since I realized that I had more information than 99% of the girlfriends around me at the time, I've been burdened by this sort of moral obligation to explain things to them. To make it clear what they can expect, and to expose what's really going on under the shiny surface of that little enclave on the Hudson.

After realizing how few wives understand what they are committing to when they marry into the Mgilitary, I've felt a similar sense of responsibility there. It isn't fair to the wife or to the soldier if she's expecting someone else to take care of her for the rest of her life when she marries a well-filled uniform. I also feel that anyone who is still related to the mgilitary can't (for the sake of her husband's career, among other things) tell the true story of her experiences, and those who've gotten away from it don't usually want to remember.

Similarly, it was recently pointed out to me that there are a lot of aspects of divorce that people don't really talk about, and that it's helpful to know. Divorce is a horrible experience for the vast majority. I think that's actually fairly appropriate. But I also think that there are ways to make it more manageable, and that it'd be nice if someone could tell you what to expect outside of the legalities. Although I recognize that each person's experience is unique, I think it'd be helpful to ME, if to no one else, to tell about my experience. And maybe, if I'm lucky, it'll make some other person's life a little easier, too.

Life is a process. I've certainly been in on some very intense scenarios. And being a student who really likes to observe and consider the social and human interactions around me, I may have noticed some patterns or stories that others do not. I may also be in a unique position of being able to talk about them clearly and without an ulterior motive, per se. We'll see.

As I said, it's a process.

The Phonebook Incident

So... One of my best friends is getting married soon, and we just had her bachelorette party. Excellent naughty cupcakes, let me tell you! Made me think back to some of the events surrounding my own wedding (back before the divorce and all)... Things that were crazy-making at the time, but are just so FUNNY now that so much time has passed!

Like when they forgot to deliver the wedding cake on the morning of, or when all the guys in the wedding party got drunk and shaved their heads the night before, or those hikers who got locked out of their car and wanted to make that phone call in the middle of the ceremony... Or the pie-eating incident...

The one that really made me laugh, though, was the memory of my leg waxing. Now, normally, a leg-wax is more of a scream than a laugh, but this was different. Well, not that different. I think there was actually a lot of screaming going on at the time. You see-- my mom made the appointment for me about two weeks before I got into town-- and didn't write it down anywhere. So there we were-- me and three frantic bride's maids-- trying to jog my mom's erstwhile memory, hunting for clues about who she might have called for my leg wax, and hoping I wasn't already late. I think we called two or three places in town and asked if they had an appointment for me on their books before I found the pencil dot next to one in particular in the phonebook she'd used.

That may have been the most stressful fifteen minutes of the whole weekend. Thank goodness she had remembered the time wrong, too! Man, is that a funny memory now. Adventures with mom. I tell you, there is nothing like laughing at old and now irrelevant memories to remind me how good it is to be single ... and independent.

... and how lucky I am to have such good friends to laugh and remember with...

Babe, I'm wishing you a beautiful wedding, to go with your beautiful relationship. One full of happy calm moments, and free from all those unexpected memories that are only funny a few years after the fact. Love you both.

oh, and by the way, thank you all for NOT telling me those stories until after the wedding was over and the guests had gone home. I'm not sure I could have handled the pressure as well as you all did, under the circumstances.

Crazy Aunt Purl Lives!!!

Okay, so this is post 104... Life happened again, what can I say?

Here, finally, are some photos and a short clip (don't worry, Laurie-- no incriminating evidence here!) from Laurie's recent book signing. Can I just tell you that I felt SO WRONG at this event because I didn't bring anything creative to do with yarn while we waited for things to get going?! Everybody knitted. Everybody. See those empty chairs? One of them is mine, and the others were soon filled with more women. Knitting.

Here is Laurie, answering a question about her back yard Zucchini Monster. We all laughed WAY more than you're imagining we did. She is even funnier in person than on her blog. Probably because there is no edit button in a public speaking event. Whoopsy! On the up side, it is amazing how at-home you can feel in such a public place, when you know that everyone there likes yarn and cats, too, and hey-- they're probably also divorced-- just like you.

I even took a very short video of her toward the beginning of the reading, when she was still settling in. SLM, this is for you. Thank you for forcing me to go in your place. THANK YOU!!

We Know What THAT Means

Recent additions to the list of phrases, and their history:

"Somebody oughta just pee on his shoes."
Folks, we were all sitting at my favorite Chinese Cuisine Restaurant, all twelve of us, and we were talking about that poor senator with the wide potty stance. R said (pointing out how totally NOT news-worthy the whole issue was) that if some strange guy had put his foot into R's stall, that looser would have walked away with a bloody stump. That's when I chimed in: "Or at least wet shoes!" It was a wild night, really.

"Anybody got a ziplock baggie? We could neutralize that (insert problem here) real quick!"
Now, as much as I think I'll probably say this to someone someday, it actually has to do with Crazy Aunt Purl. THIS ENTRY HERE. You gotta love the quick-thinking of the FAA when it comes to neutralizing threats to the American Public. I tell you, I'm going to carry a baggie like that with me from now on-- just in case! (You also gotta honestly appreciate that supervisor who managed to find a way to allow her to keep the offending mascara, but still meet regulation requirements in this obviously inapplicable situation.)

"He's the kind of person who'd hand in a poem for grading."
This one is a bit more obscure, but it did come up recently, for my mom. Basically, she went to a two-day workshop with a Nationally Acclaimed Poet (I think he won the Nobel prize for Poetry or something). On the first day, he asked folks to write a poem about their town. On the second day, he (being a free spirit and poet) forgot about the poems until folks asked if he could look at them after the workshop ended. And a few people actually handed their poems to him for "grading" like it had been an assignment and not an opportunity! And he did it!

Then other folks started reading their poems to him before handing them over-- which is how poetry is meant to be presented, by the way. And later that week my mom was confronted by a guy who obviously cared more about regulations and lines in the sand than about people and creative thinking. She described him to a friend from the workshop as "He's the kind of person who'd hand in a poem for grading." And now we all know what THAT means! (I enjoyed the story, but I think it took my mom a good 45 minutes on the clock to tell it, because she tells a story with such detail that you could actually have attended it yourself, whether you need those details to appreciate the punchline or not!)

Now, this list doesn't mention old favorites, because it's the NEW PHRASES list... but I'd just like to give honorable mention to "tweezers and a lemon," and omg-- I just tried to spell cuisine with a Q and a z!!! I need help. kthxbai.

Just Awesome

So today, I went straight from work to the Crazy Aunt Purl "Drunk Divorced and Covered in Cat Hair" book signing. It totally rocked. I was asked to notice if she's really as cute in person as she is in her blog photos-- the answer is yes. She also talks with a really sweet accent and a killer sense of humor, and she does get calmer as the event gets going. She's one of those people that it is IMPOSSIBLE not to love.

Oh, and did I mention that I did in fact show up divorced, and covered in cat hair? And baby goo... but not exactly what you'd call DRUNK. I don't drink and drive. Although after work, sometimes I wish I could...

I think we also all got our endorphin fix from laughing at all the awesome stories and funny moments Laurie shared with us. And we all recognized in meeting her (as her blog has helped us see so many times before) that we really are not alone, and that we are definitely NOT the only person to go through what we've gone through. Be it divorce, knitting frenzies, awkward social situations, talking to cute guys after too much wine has been drunk, or failing to ever use our oven as an oven. Like for cooking, as opposed to storing other kitchen things. Which reminds me that I should probably make sure I did get all the hidden stuff emptied out of it last week...

After I get some much-needed food and sleep, I will upload my photos and post them-- It'll be my official 100'th post. Very appropriate, I believe. Oh, and even more cool-- she totally talks the exact same way she blogs. And she was HUMAN!!! I've never met an author who was human before. Her biggest piece of advice about writing your first book? Write Fiction! Understandably, touring the country and answering all sorts of personal questions about her life has been a bit uncomfortable at times. Apparently, she always thought her first book would be a steamy romance (fiction) anyway... And the second book we all want to read when it gets written has an awesome fried chicken recipe in it already.

Oh, and Firefox is her browser of choice. GO FIREFOX, we love you!

Dinner....

By the way-- did I mention that she promised to take a picture of her still-insane zucchini plants just for one of the people in the audience who asked about them? I'm looking forward to that. Rogue Zucchini Runs Amok!!

YAY!

So I did my first official library event today-- my first all by myself not at the library event, that is. And I think it was a success. I feel good. And thank goodness a couple of volunteers showed up to help! I hope I didn't take over too much, because I was SO glad to have more than just me at that table. Especially with all the little kids using glue at the same time!

We made puppets. We colored in big bubble letters. We stuck stickers everywhere. And we handed out info on age-appropriate books and the Unknown Public Library. We also got to pet a turtle and a hedgehog, watch the hula dancers, and stay dry in the rain while the orchestra performed. Free face painting, too. What could be better on a Sunday afternoon?!

Oh, and I even got to read one of the storytime stories I'd brought-- to an audience of one freaked out little kindergartener, and his grateful teenage cousin. It was a definite success.

Now I just have to muster enough energy to do my homework. Riiiight.

The Ono Fish

Ummm... so, yeah, it was my birthday yesterday. My goal was to spend a few hours in meditation, thinking about who I am and what I'm doing. It felt like an appropriate time to be doing that. Instead, what seems to have happened, is that I was aware of the way I spent my time during the day. I really thought about what I'm doing with my life in a more "here and now" sense-- because "what I'm doing with my life" isn't about my goals-- it's about each day lived.

And I realized that I get to read books to little kids who smile at me and like to hold conversations with me-- and who are already learning (at the age of 2) how cool the "libbery" can be. I'm very proud of that. I feel it's time well-spent, for all my complaining about the long hours. I realized that filling and emptying the dishwasher is a fact of life, and I posted a quote from one of my favorite blogs--

"Cleaning isn't just an obligation. It's also a way to honor your life, a way to show yourself you're worth that much effort. ...I'm working on that one."

It made me stop and think about all the ways you can honor your life, and how I'm not doing any of them right now. And I decided that I actually am worth the effort, and I actually do want to honor my life. And if that means putting the dirty dishes in the dishwasher every day, then I can do that. And if that means running the a/c for a few minutes so I can brew a cup of tea on a hot day, then I can do that.

And if that means taking the time to finally look up the name/location of a women's shelter so I can donate the rest of the stuff I've decided to get rid of to them instead of Goodwill, and TAKING THE TIME TO DROP THE STUFF OFF THERE, then I can do that, too. I want the file cabinet out of my entry way. I deserve to walk into my apartment without running into things, tripping on things, or knocking things over.

And then I went to one of my favorite stores to meet my family for dinner. I found out that my all-time favorite candle that only they carry and that lasts 50 hours, and has never dripped and made a wax puddle on my floor or my table, and that doesn't smoke, and doesn't tip over, and is just PERFECT because it only costs $5... well, they've discontinued making it. But the nice helper-lady looked at other stores and found 15 of them for me at other stores, and they're being shipped to my home. I figured if this is my last chance to get ahold of my favorite candle, I'm not messing around. Of all the candles I've ever bought, this is the one I keep lighting.

And dinner with my mom, papa, and aunt was great. I had the opportunity to realize that where I come from is a part of who I am. And I finally had a group of people who all go whole-hog with Ottohumor and there was no one there to roll their eyes and be disgusted with us for deciding that hero-ono fish was a super hero who changed his mind, fell (o-no!), and sorta splatted into the water... well, you get the picture. It was fun to be a family for a bit.

And then I got home and had time for myself. That was interesting, too. I was so tired after working ten hours and having quality social time for two hours after that... the one thing that really rose out of my quiet time is that I'm about to be done with school. I'm about to emerge into the world of self-supporting professionals. And in many ways, it will be a rebirth for me. A whole new start in the world, with new goals and new priorities and new lessons to learn. I'm really looking forward to that.

For now, though, I'm going to move through my day with joy, and spend time with good friends. I can't think of a better gift to start my new year than that.

Eat a Lime!

I'm not always a fan of following fads-- I mean, let's face it. I waited two years to get my first stretch pants in middle school, and by then they were going out of style. Of course, mine were yellow with leopard print on them, so if I'd held on to them for another decade or two, I'd actually have been in style again... And I can't honestly tell if that's sorta cool, or really really scary.

But anyway, this post is about Pirates. I definitely loved Johnny Depp's performance in Pirates of the Caribbean. And when I heard about "Talk Like a Pirate Day" on the radio, I thought that was pretty cool, and I laughed about it quite a bit, too. But there is a house on my street that has enclosed the front porch with large pirate flags, posted a sign across the front of the house proclaiming it a Pirate's Nest, and they use this as an excuse not to mow the weeds in the front lawn. They also don't shave much, and BO is, of course, a natural part of a pirate's life, so to be authentic, they don't seem to shower much. That's a bit too much pirate for me. That's when the term "fad" starts to mean "foolish and dumb" in my little book of words. And I wasn't so keen on the sequel and prequel movies, either. One good pirate movie was enough.

So I'd sorta decided the whole Pirate thing just wasn't for me. And then there was the Pirate Car, with the drunk and half-naked copilot wearing ratty breaches, an eye patch and a sword... ran into them one day getting gas for my car. They were trying to have a deep philosophical conversation about discrimination against pirates, but the drunk guy kept losing track of his sentences and hiccuping and stuff.
Yeah... No.

But that was before I discovered Captain Bogg and Salty. Now, I crave a bumper sticker, a t-shirt, and a CD. In that order. Just listen to the song about Scurvy! and I think maybe you'll be a convert, too. And even if you're not in on this particular local fad... I guarantee you'll smile about the limes, the bunny rabbit, and the rum. Don't ask. Just visit the website, and click on "Warm Up Podcast" on the far right in the middle, scroll down to Scurvy! and turn up the volume. Aarrrrr!

Course Number 5603

Okay. Life is GOOD. I just got back from my local library (okay, from the big library in the sky that isn't so local but has a whole 50-foot room dedicated to children's books).

I was there borrowing books for my first few modules of class. Children's and Young Adult Literature. AKA LS 5603-20. Or, as the professor has titled it on the Blackboard program, "The Best Children's Lit Class EVER." So I just got to go to the library, and spend legitimate time in the Children's Library Section-- browsing children's books. I think I just died and went to heaven. Do you KNOW how much I love children's books??? I love them all the way to the moon, and back! (See Guess How Much I Love You by Sam McBratney).

And then it hit me-- I get to do this EVERY THREE WEEKS or so for the whole summer!! I tell you, I haven't felt this level of excitement since before I went back to school.
...is that wrong?

Blink Blink

Okay, so the title is cool, but the entry here is actually about Blog Links I love and follow. They're a weird assortment. You might not like and follow them with me. But at least you'll know what I'm talking about if they come up. I love keeping people informed that way.

Absolute Favorite:
Crazy Aunt Purl. See, this young 30's-ish woman and her three cats are learning to be adults, and she's from the south but she lives in CA, she's hilarious, and she grew an onion in her kitchen by mistake. It's name is Victor. Oh, and sometimes she knits.

The Other Official Blogs:
This Fish Needs a Bicycle. Wherein someone about my age and single deals with her life, and uses a dry sense of humor and a red hot poker to do it. Oh, and she just moved from NY to Texas with her cat, and had a wisdom tooth out. Graphically. But don't worry, folks-- she's a professional!

Dooce. Wherein a really not-quite-right-in-the-head woman lives with her husband and young daughter (who once stared straight at the conservative grandfather over dinner and yelled "SHIGT" at the top of her lungs for no apparent reason, and then went back to dinner while everyone else recovered) and says totally irreverent things about her life choices and life experiences.

Feel-Good Librarian. Wherein a reference desk librarian occasionally shares the experiences that make her world turn, to our great delight. Like when her coworker was asked to locate a photo of God for a young boy, or when she painted her fingernails cool colors to help her through a cancer surgery, and the nurses all practiced little acts of kindness that also made a big difference, thus reminding her how important good customer service can be.

A Librarian's Guide to Etiquette. Wherein a librarian unleashes his pithy observations in short, infrequent, and well-catalogued entries. My favorite to date was the one about getting caught playing Justin Timberlake music on your computer at work. See "Sexy Back, Bringing."

My Friends Have Blogs Too:
The Randomness That is Life. Shana likes NIN, her dog, and cooking. In that order. She's my costar in a really freaky sitcom comedy wherein they tape our lives, and then broadcast little bits of them so other people can laugh at the insanity. We've been trying to find the cameras for years, and we'd really like to see the editor about the script.

Pens and Needles. Wherein I led a really young old lady down the garden path of blogs, but she's walking slowly, so there are only a few great entries so far, but the list is growing, and she's a really great artist, too. And her cats like you.

There are other blogs, and I have other friends, but I really should be working on one of those five projects just about now for school... so I bid you adieu.

And by the way, if you haven't watched the Mummy movie series, you're missing out on some great corny action with a hot babe, a hot dude, a couple of really comedic idiots, and some gross mummies wandering about terrorizing things, only with no blood and very little gore. I just got the Mummy Returns from Netflix, and I've only procrastinated a LITTLE bit to watch it. =) But don't believe what they tell you about the Scorpion King. His story is really quite different. Those silly Bembridge Scholars! Always getting stories mixed up and all that rot. Hmmm... I hear a fresh bowl of popcorn calling my name...

Can you believe it? The spellchecker says I got the "hmmm" wrong. Oh, and can I just tell you how sad I think it is (in a silly smirky kind of way) that my entry about strawberries and dockers pants was somehow shorter than my entry about other peoples' entries?! Well, at least there's always the flaming pizza box to keep me amused. Sigh.

On Smoke Alarms

Okay. They are a requirement for buying or selling a home in some states. They are supposed to keep us safe and alert us if there IS a fire in our home, with enough time to get ourselves out safely. They are usually round, and attached to an ugly hole in the ceiling, usually one for each room or area of the home. They require batteries, they have little lights that stay on at all times, and when they go off, they are REALLY LOUD. They are called Smoke Alarms.

When I was very little, we had a smoke alarm in the the 2 foot square "hallway" between bedroom and bathroom doors in my house. It was around a corner from the kitchen. And without fail, every time mom tried to bake or broil a chicken, the fire alarm went off. Loudly. Before the chicken was done cooking. And my dad would haul out the step ladder, do a lot of swearing, and pull the batteries out of the fire alarm because THERE WAS NO FIRE. There wasn't even any smoke.

When I was in high school, my mom came into my room one night. She was really worried that I somehow had a candle burning in my bedroom. I was dead asleep, and had never even considered that it would be okay to light one of the candles in my bedroom-- let alone leave it lit after I went to sleep for the night. Of course, as I WAS asleep, it took a while for the question to percolate. The conversation (in my vague memory) went like this:

shake shake
Mom, frantic: DO YOU HAVE A CANDLE BURNING??
Me: ...huh?
Mom, still frantic: DO YOU HAVE A CANDLE BURNING??
Me: ...yeah- I think there's a candle on the dresser...
Mom goes to check it, and I go back to sleep. Of course, I've never burned a candle in my bedroom, so what she found was an unlit candle.
shake shake... shake shake shake
Mom, very worried now: Honey, DO YOU HAVE A CANDLE BURNING??
Me: ...what?
Mom, getting louder, still shaking me: DO YOU HAVE A CANDLE BURNING??
Me: What candle?
Mom, full volume, agonized: DO-YOU-HAVE-A-LIT-CANDLE-BURNING-IN-YOUR-ROOM??
Me: NO!
I roll over grumbling about dumb questions and go back to sleep, mom leaves.

The next morning, I was informed that they'd found the source of the fire alarm. Fire alarm? Yeah. It was apparently going off in the background of our middle-of-the-night conversation-- and for a few minutes before and after, as well. The source? A yogurt lid had fallen out of the dishwasher rack and onto the element, where it melted into a funny shape, and let off some sort of chemical gas that could not be seen, but did set off the fire alarm quite efficiently. There was no fire.

Later, when I'd gotten married and bought a home of my own (well, a home of my husband's own), we had a wood stove. One night when he was off on a practice deployment, I'd had myself a nice fire in our old and slightly misshapen wood stove, and since the wood coals in it were still smoking when I went to bed, I left the flu open. So the smoke from the fire could continue to go out of the house via the chimney, as usual.

I woke up around 3am needing to pee, looked around, and the whole house (my bedroom was at the very back far end of the house from the wood stove) was blue with smoke-- inside. The air was chokingly thick with it. The cat and dog were still sleeping, drugged with the smoke just like I was. I crawled to a window, opened it, and took a few breaths until I could figure out what was going on. Then I panicked. THERE WAS A FIRE IN THE HOUSE SOMEWHERE!! THERE WAS A TON OF SMOKE IN HERE!! WHY DIDN'T THE SMOKE ALARM GO OFF???

Well, no. Technically, the fire was still in the wood stove. But the fast-falling cold temperatures that night had forced all the barely-warm smoke back down the chimney, and pumped it out one of the weird holes in the back of the stove, into the house, where it had been collecting and swirling for ... about five hours... undetected by the smoke/fire alarms in every room of the house, until I believe I was fairly close to being asphyxiated by it. You could barely see through all the blue-grey smokey air in the house by the time I woke up-- and I didn't wake because I smelled smoke. There was a fire, and a dangerous level of smoke in the house... and there WAS NO SMOKE ALARM. NO FIRE ALARM. NO.

This is not to say that I think an alarm that lets you know when there is a dangerous level of smoke in the house is a bad idea. On the contrary-- I think it's a great idea. I've just never owned one. Instead, I've had a chicken alarm, a plastics alarm, and a spring roll alarm. Yay. My friend, Shana, tells me it's all a racket to get us to buy 9Volt batteries (size E)... which are not good for any other purpose that we've found, besides replacing them once or twice a year in every 'smoke' alarm in every room of every house. Hey. Free Money. No advertising needed. Most people I know will do ANYTHING to stop the frantically repeated beeep beeep beeep of a smoke alarm with a low battery in it. Including spend a lot of money on a 9V battery. Hmm...

I should create a safety appliance that every household will require, and patent the energy source for it! I'd be rich in no time. It's probably even more effective than buying lottery tickets!

Last night, I got home late from an event that was supposed to include dinner. It was a fun event, but half a helping of caesar salad does not a dinner make. So I rummaged in the freezer, and pulled out some pre-cooked frozen spring rolls. I think parts of it were even organic to make me feel better about not cooking. Bake them at 450 for 15 minutes, and you have a meal with veggies, and meat. I could handle that. It was almost 11pm. I was starved. Right up until the smoke alarm started to go off. There were five minutes to go on the spring rolls, and the bubbling oil in the oven was apparently too much for the smoke alarm's delicate system. Which has withstood over five candles simultaneously burning in the same room as the smoke alarm, multiple times.

So I got to wake up all the neighbors, deposit my not-quite-cooked spring rolls on the front porch, open the whole place up for air circulation, and scare the shigt out of the cat. Luckily, the alarm was pacified after only about five minutes. At 11pm at night. People came to their doors to ask if all was well-- which I appreciate-- and so I yelled at about the same decibel level as the alarm that all was well, and I was sorry to disturb. Then I brought my cold not-quite-cooked spring rolls back into the house, closed the doors and left the windows carefully open for a bit longer, and started looking around for hidden cameras. Somebody has to be filming this stuff. It's just too ridiculous to be happening in real life.

And, as another Catachresis blogging first... I'm giving you homework.
Yes. YOU.
Please write into the comments your own experiences with the smoke/fire alarms in your lifetime. I'll bet you know of some real winners, too. And just maybe, someone will be able to give me a VALID reason for those silly little round food-alarms in our every home. Please?

Circles and Arrows, and a Paragraph on the Back of Each One

Went to my dad's 60th "Old Guys" party today. His label, not mine. He and mom invited everyone they could locate (or were actually still in contact with) from their days living and teaching in a town long ago and far away. And, as a nod to who they used to be, and what they all used to do together, they made it a potluck (like the ones I vaguely remember from my pre-school days) and Dad baked his famous oatmeal cookies with the Secret Ingredient.

Seeing those cookies on the counter when I arrived let me know just HOW IMPORTANT this event was for him-- because the combined efforts of the entire extended family have only convinced him to make these cookies about three times in the past 15 years. Yeah.

When you think about it, turning 60 is the new turning 50, really. Life perspective and life goals change. Talk of latest medical procedures or tests escalates. You start to think that maybe it's time to hire that kid down the street to mow the back yard. You take up yoga or biking. You eat less and take vacations more. If you're my Dad, you take Mom kayaking and finally buy a bigger TV. In your free time, you give detailed lectures to anyone who will listen about exactly what you plan to do with that brown spot in the grass that never goes away.

Seeing those oatmeal cookies today, I realized that those specific cookies are a symbol of comfort and of family continuity for me. They are a symbol of my childhood and my dad's love for the people around him. He only made cookies when there were people he loved to share them with- a lot of people. And when I was little, the coolest part was when he'd tell us he ALMOST FORGOT to put the Secret Ingredient in this time, but he remembered at the last minute, and that's why the cookies turned out so good. Again.

Actually, a lot of my family celebration/familial love memories center around cookies. Like the first time I actually one-up'd my dad, the quintessential one-upper. I was two. It was awesome.

So there we were, making cookies together-- me and my Dad! He'd rolled out the dough, and gotten the baking sheet greased, and there were the two cookie cutter shapes he'd picked out for us to work with, and I actually was going to HELP COOK. He set me up on the counter by the dough, and gave me the circle cookie cutter. Then he explained the general idea of using a cookie cutter to make shapes in the dough. Fair enough. WHOP! I thumped that circle down in the MIDDLE OF THE DOUGH. He almost had a heart attack right there in front of me. I remember-- very clearly-- that he actually shoved his fingernails into his mouth to keep from screaming.

So then he gently and carefully explained about fitting as many circles into the rolled-out dough as you could-- very carefully-- because you didn't want to RE-roll it out too many times. It made the cookies rise funny or something. Fair enough. WHOP! WHOP! WHOP!!

It was about then that his face turned purple, and his eyes got about as big as his glasses-frames. Ay-Yi-YIE! Then he actually looked at the circles I'd cut in the dough. With fear. He really thought that little 2-year-old me (who was being trusted to help Dad Cook for the first time ever) had just completely ignored his careful directions. Silly Daddy.

I'd placed those three circles right on the edge of the rolled-out dough, so close together that the edges just touched, in about half a second. Papa blinked a few times, and then handed me the other cookie cutter to try out, and got busy putting my perfect circles onto the tray to bake.

There's even a picture that my mom took around that time in my life-- of me and my Dad, covered in flour, hunched together over a rolled out piece of cookie dough. I'm sitting on the counter on the left, he's leaning against the counter on the right, and the cookie cutter is flying.