A little-known secret, even to my closest friends:
This morning, at precisely 5:45am, I began writing my novel.
I'll admit, I'm a three-time-Nano-dropout. Chris Baty and the gang could probably write a book based off the excuses I've come up with each year in order not to finish. Things like, "November sucks. The pacing of my novel sucks. My idea sucks. This bagel sucks."
Or, the ever-important "bathroom break," where I hide for three hours so as not have to face the disgusting jumble of mishmash I just spent the last two hours trying to get down on my computer, standing in the corner near the towels playing Angry Birds on my phone.
I can't Nano. It's just not my style. I've tried it--three times I've tried it--but the intensity and the pressure of the whole thing just doesn't work for me. The problem, My Problem, isn't that Nano doesn't work for me. My Problem lies in the fact that I have let the idea of National Novel Writing Month turn me into an "all or nothing" writer and that, my true writing friends, is where the failure comes in.
Mid-November, when I shut the lid on my laptop for the final time and walk away, I begin strategizing for next year's Nano. "Next year, I'll make an outline. Next year, I'll slow things down a bit. Next year, I'll wake up even earlier. Next year, I pinky-swear I will not get on Facebook."
So there becomes a void, the chasm I've created, in which I promise that I'll simply fix everything next year. In the meantime, I spend the next roughly 365 non-leap-year days in suspended procrastination. I call it "planning." I call it "revising my strategy."
It boils down to "I'm not doing shit along the lines of a novel, thanks for asking."
All that has changed.
Rather than reliving the frenzy associated with November, I spoke yesterday with a friend regarding pacing. Pacing seems to be the subset of writing that gives me the greatest concern. I still haven't reread the hodgepodge I so-delicately sloughed from grey matter to keystroke during last year's regal attempt, but I do remember having some concerned moments where I would be thinking, "Goodness gracious," except that's not really the term I conjured at the time, "I'm 27,000 words in and nothing has happened yet! They aren't doing anything!" This can be a rather frightful realization. Talking about needing to get to the point: I was sitting at my workstation while The Point was off on some Pacific Island getaway. The Point was more elusive than the Jersey Devil.
I was searching for The Point, or even its second cousin, The Action, but they were no where to be found.
I stood yesterday under a covered awning, discussing writing with my all-time mentor and amicus in scripto as a new name was brought to light: John Dufrense. Not a new name for my former Creative Writing professor, but a new name to me.
As I rushed home to my Nook Color, my handy credit card billing information stored safely within the confines of its little Nook walls, I began the planning stages of My New Novel. Oh yes, I imagined myself sitting at my workstation (this is the glamorous interpretation: in real life, I slouch over my laptop a la Quasimodo), steam rising from the coffee cup within reach of my left hand (another interpretation, as my coffee does not "steam" considering I get by on reheating yesterday's leftovers), cigarette dangling from my lip (this is true), pounding away at the ol' non-ivories. I imagine my characters suddenly coming to life, revealing previously unknown tidbits about their lives, all while I'm following along from the plush confines of my "I-bought-it-at-Target" grey fluffy bathrobe. Oh, in my mind's eye I'm gloriously laboring over the "tick tick tick" of the keyboard...
And then I read ol' John Dufrense's advice.
I'm not sure where John Dufrense lives in relation to my house, but it feels like he just kicked me in the head and took off running faster than I can catch him.
But he's right. From my Nook to your ears, John Dufrense wants me to start slow. He wants me to write my novel, oh yes indeed he does, but he wants me to write my novel in six months.
"Six months?" I holler to no one in particular. "Six months? Well shit, Mister Dufrense," (and I say it all snobby like that), "why don't I just go ahead and plan a vacation or something? If you give me six months to write my novel, I guarantee I'm going to use the first month finishing my hardwood floors and baseboards. The second month you can look for me outside the perimeter of the fence line, rehammering those pesky boards that have started to come loose. Around month three, Mr. Fancypants, I'll be caulking the panels in Aidan's room, getting ready to paint. Grab a brush, John. You can help me out. You do know how to cut in, don't you?"
Mr. Dufrense just stood there all akimbo, his French eyes waiting for me to shut up.
It was a Mexican stand-off right there in my bedroom. For every excuse I shot at John Dufrense, he just stood there, taking it. It felt like me against Sparta: I could sense John Dufrense and his band of writers increasing the tension of their bowstrings, on the cusp of releasing those arrows that would eventually block out the sun.
Or, in last night's case, the lamp on the nightstand.
So I stood there, John Dufrense and I, and finally I ran out of things to say. I picked the Nook up again and I started doing everything that John Dufrense told me to do. I sulked about it for a while, mumbling about how I just wanted to write, I didn't want to do any of this stupid planning, but ol' Dufrense just gave me that shifty Dufrense smile, put his hand on my head, tousling my hair, and walked away.
This morning, I woke to the sound of the alarm after giving myself two extra "snoozes." I picked up my notebook, came out to the porch, and began getting to know my characters.
I'm finding them pretty interesting. :-)
Much love,
Cherstin
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Monday, April 2, 2012
Day Two: B is for The Behbeh.
There was a commercial a few years back--a set of commercials, really. Tear jerkers, brought to you by Johnson & Johnson. The catch-phrase was something like, "Having a baby changes everything." Most of the commercials were filmed in a black and white filtered lens, so full of estrogen you'd almost feel like you needed a cold shower and a drink before whatever prime-time crap you'd been watching came back on.
I shuddered at the thought of ever having another baby.
Aidan was "a good baby."
The first few times people asked me that while I was plowing my buggy through the grocery store, I really didn't know what they meant. "Of course, he's a good baby," I'd think. "He's two months old, for Frith's sake. He doesn't even do anything yet. How could he be anything but good?"
As I became more a part of the Secret Underground Motherhood Club, I began to understand the meaning behind the question. Asking if a baby is "good" is some sort of code for the following:
It's like a goddamn job interview.
"Yes," I'd reply, finally a part of the club, "he is a good baby." And he was.
But that didn't mean I'd ever want to have another one.
Fast-forward to another sunshiney day, six years later. The garage has been cleaned out, every single baby-related item sent to the local Goodwill. I'm back in school, thinking about my career. My Future, a proper noun, is simply waiting for me at the end of my own personal Yellow Brick Road. All I need to do is follow the path and whatever I wish for will be waiting for me at the end. I know this. I am that certain.
No one told me about the tricky little fork at the end of the Yellow Brick Road.
No one told me to zag left.
No one told me to watch out for "the road less-traveled."
Oh, there was something waiting for me at the end, alright, but it sure as hell didn't look like Kansas. It looked like, well, like this.
Babies. They aren't for everyone. They shouldn't be. But if you should happen to find yourself carrying one--one you never knew you wanted--be happy you chose the path you never meant to choose.
The ruby slippers? Oh, they still fit. They're somewhere in the back of the closet. Sometimes I pull them out, dust them off, and try them on, but I realize they aren't for me anymore. Not right now. I haven't given up, per se. I'm still in school, still chasing the dream of getting paid to write terrific novels until my fingers bleed, but I'm not quite there yet.
And we're all okay with that.
Much love,
Cherstin
I shuddered at the thought of ever having another baby.
Aidan was "a good baby."
The first few times people asked me that while I was plowing my buggy through the grocery store, I really didn't know what they meant. "Of course, he's a good baby," I'd think. "He's two months old, for Frith's sake. He doesn't even do anything yet. How could he be anything but good?"
As I became more a part of the Secret Underground Motherhood Club, I began to understand the meaning behind the question. Asking if a baby is "good" is some sort of code for the following:
- Is he/she colicky?
- Does he/she sleep through the night?
- Is he/she on a schedule?
- Is he/she cutting teeth?
- Is he/she doing all the things the doctors tell you that he/she should be doing at this age?
- Does he/she give you hell if you put him/her down and walk away?
It's like a goddamn job interview.
"Yes," I'd reply, finally a part of the club, "he is a good baby." And he was.
But that didn't mean I'd ever want to have another one.
Fast-forward to another sunshiney day, six years later. The garage has been cleaned out, every single baby-related item sent to the local Goodwill. I'm back in school, thinking about my career. My Future, a proper noun, is simply waiting for me at the end of my own personal Yellow Brick Road. All I need to do is follow the path and whatever I wish for will be waiting for me at the end. I know this. I am that certain.
No one told me about the tricky little fork at the end of the Yellow Brick Road.
No one told me to zag left.
No one told me to watch out for "the road less-traveled."
Oh, there was something waiting for me at the end, alright, but it sure as hell didn't look like Kansas. It looked like, well, like this.
Sorry to bother you, but can you tell me if I'm still wearing ruby slippers?
And so it was.
But the thing is, the whole "baby" thing, the whole purpose of today's B word, is that my life is a zillion times better than I ever thought it would be. I thought I'd met the perfect guy for me in Richard, because I'd been told he'd had a vasectomy. And as crazy as it is when I look back on it now, I believed it like it was just a part of him. It would be like me questioning the fact that he worked in air conditioning, or that he was from Alabama. It had been an off-handed remark he made to one of the ladies he worked with and it just sort of snowballed from there, landing in my ear for the final resting place. I thought he was, well, "fixed."
And when I see my life now, with two boys and a husband, I guess he was.
Babies. They aren't for everyone. They shouldn't be. But if you should happen to find yourself carrying one--one you never knew you wanted--be happy you chose the path you never meant to choose.
The ruby slippers? Oh, they still fit. They're somewhere in the back of the closet. Sometimes I pull them out, dust them off, and try them on, but I realize they aren't for me anymore. Not right now. I haven't given up, per se. I'm still in school, still chasing the dream of getting paid to write terrific novels until my fingers bleed, but I'm not quite there yet.
And we're all okay with that.
Much love,
Cherstin
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Day One: Alarm Clocks, Accountability, and April Fools
It happened again, as it happened last year and quite possibly the year before that.
My automatic alarm clock reset itself for some time change that no longer exists.
I'm laying in bed this morning in suspended animation, wrapped in my some-Kelvin-degree blanket, when I decide to peek one eye at the clock. Of the three numbers from which to choose, I'm really only concerned with the first: a 7.
"Bullshit," I mutter. There is no way it is in the sevens. I'm an idiot before my coffee, but even I can figure that out. While one eye is on the clock, the other is now glancing toward the curtained windows. (I can do this because I'm a mom. We all know how to do this. Something loosens up during delivery, affording us the ability to look in all directions at once.)
Consider this: A scene from Friday night's dinner.
4 children and 2 adults sit on various chairs throughout the house, eating pizza off of paper plates left over from Caleb's baby shower ("It's a Boy!"). I'm in the house, knocking heads and taking names, when my best pal hollers out from the back porch something to the effect of, "How come you kids are so good for everyone else, but you don't ever listen to me?"
(My best pal, Becky, is the owner of two of the pizza-eating children.)
I decide to get to the bottom of this. She is absolutely correct. Why don't they listen?
I start with the 5-year-old girl. Being the only girl-child in residence, I figure she is going to be the easiest to break. Like dominoes, I imagine that once she crumbles, everyone else will follow suit.
From my invisible pocket I slip my invisible Drill Sergeant Mask.
(In addition to the wandering eye, this is another component to parenting that one absolutely must pick up. They are hard to come by new, but you can usually find them at garage sales, dusty and forgotten. You'll notice at these garage sales that the children of the house are usually around 8 or 9 years old and are running around spitting on the shoppers, trying to steal the change from their pockets. Their parents obviously still need these masks, but have given up wearing them, so you can get them at a pretty good price.)
I look her right in the eye. "Why don't you listen your mother?" I ask her in my most threatening tone.
She thinks about it for a second, pizza frozen halfway to her mouth. "Uhmm, I don't know?" She says it in the form of a question, like a Jeopardy! contestant.
Okay, okay. I messed up my strategy. Let me begin with my own oldest child, age 7. Once he breaks, surely the others are going to be easy.
"Aidan," I say, pulling his attention away from his feet, on which he's been focused since this conversation began. "Why don't you listen to Aunt Becky?"
He hems and haws, adjusting the pizza from his left hand to his right hand, then back to his left hand again.
"Well," he says, thoughtfully. "I guess it's because...," he adds. I'm thinking this is really going to go somewhere.
"Well, uh, can you just pass me? I'm going to pass. I pass. Just come back to me." Hmph. Like he's the host or something and can just call the shots. Whatever.
I try the third child. In response to my question, I get another "I don't know" answer. I point to Caleb, 14-months-old, sitting in his high chair. Oblivious.
"Listen, you guys. 'I don't know' is not an answer. If I were to ask Caleb that question, he'd just sit and smile at me like a doofus. He wouldn't answer me, either. If I ask you guys a question and you tell me 'I don't know,' it amounts to the same thing. 'I don't know' is not an answer! You haven't told me anything."
The only sound in the room is the chewing of their pizza.
Where is the accountability? Children don't have it. Alarm clocks don't have it. Ebay doesn't have it. Does anyone have it anymore?
I have it. I do. I get a rush out of telling the truth. Especially when it's difficult. Saying to someone, "Listen. I'm sorry I broke your face. I was upset with you, I just reached out, and bam! It wasn't the best decision and I realize that now. I, errr, oh boy. I hope you can get that straightened out, especially that crazy eye you have. What's that? Oh, you're a mom? Oh, then I didn't do that crazy thing to your eye? Oh, okay. Whew!" I throw in a chuckle for good measure. "So, can I ask you a question? What time did you get up this morning?"
My automatic alarm clock reset itself for some time change that no longer exists.
I'm laying in bed this morning in suspended animation, wrapped in my some-Kelvin-degree blanket, when I decide to peek one eye at the clock. Of the three numbers from which to choose, I'm really only concerned with the first: a 7.
"Bullshit," I mutter. There is no way it is in the sevens. I'm an idiot before my coffee, but even I can figure that out. While one eye is on the clock, the other is now glancing toward the curtained windows. (I can do this because I'm a mom. We all know how to do this. Something loosens up during delivery, affording us the ability to look in all directions at once.)
That wandering eye is going to make her a terrific mother someday.
Behind the curtains, the sun tells a different story: something along the lines of, "Kiss my ass, even I'm not awake yet."
The eye on the clock is certain that the first number is indeed a seven.
Eventually, I get out of bed, throw on my robe, and mosey to the kitchen. As if to quell my fears, the kitchen clock decides to tell me the truth. "Lady," I hear it whisper, "your alarm clock has lied to you."
I answer something unintelligible back to the stove, taking a cup of yesterday's reheated coffee out to the porch. Why? Why? Why do people lie?
4 children and 2 adults sit on various chairs throughout the house, eating pizza off of paper plates left over from Caleb's baby shower ("It's a Boy!"). I'm in the house, knocking heads and taking names, when my best pal hollers out from the back porch something to the effect of, "How come you kids are so good for everyone else, but you don't ever listen to me?"
(My best pal, Becky, is the owner of two of the pizza-eating children.)
I decide to get to the bottom of this. She is absolutely correct. Why don't they listen?
I start with the 5-year-old girl. Being the only girl-child in residence, I figure she is going to be the easiest to break. Like dominoes, I imagine that once she crumbles, everyone else will follow suit.
From my invisible pocket I slip my invisible Drill Sergeant Mask.
(In addition to the wandering eye, this is another component to parenting that one absolutely must pick up. They are hard to come by new, but you can usually find them at garage sales, dusty and forgotten. You'll notice at these garage sales that the children of the house are usually around 8 or 9 years old and are running around spitting on the shoppers, trying to steal the change from their pockets. Their parents obviously still need these masks, but have given up wearing them, so you can get them at a pretty good price.)
I look her right in the eye. "Why don't you listen your mother?" I ask her in my most threatening tone.
She thinks about it for a second, pizza frozen halfway to her mouth. "Uhmm, I don't know?" She says it in the form of a question, like a Jeopardy! contestant.
Okay, okay. I messed up my strategy. Let me begin with my own oldest child, age 7. Once he breaks, surely the others are going to be easy.
"Aidan," I say, pulling his attention away from his feet, on which he's been focused since this conversation began. "Why don't you listen to Aunt Becky?"
He hems and haws, adjusting the pizza from his left hand to his right hand, then back to his left hand again.
"Well," he says, thoughtfully. "I guess it's because...," he adds. I'm thinking this is really going to go somewhere.
"Well, uh, can you just pass me? I'm going to pass. I pass. Just come back to me." Hmph. Like he's the host or something and can just call the shots. Whatever.
I try the third child. In response to my question, I get another "I don't know" answer. I point to Caleb, 14-months-old, sitting in his high chair. Oblivious.
"Listen, you guys. 'I don't know' is not an answer. If I were to ask Caleb that question, he'd just sit and smile at me like a doofus. He wouldn't answer me, either. If I ask you guys a question and you tell me 'I don't know,' it amounts to the same thing. 'I don't know' is not an answer! You haven't told me anything."
The only sound in the room is the chewing of their pizza.
Where is the accountability? Children don't have it. Alarm clocks don't have it. Ebay doesn't have it. Does anyone have it anymore?
I have it. I do. I get a rush out of telling the truth. Especially when it's difficult. Saying to someone, "Listen. I'm sorry I broke your face. I was upset with you, I just reached out, and bam! It wasn't the best decision and I realize that now. I, errr, oh boy. I hope you can get that straightened out, especially that crazy eye you have. What's that? Oh, you're a mom? Oh, then I didn't do that crazy thing to your eye? Oh, okay. Whew!" I throw in a chuckle for good measure. "So, can I ask you a question? What time did you get up this morning?"
Friday, March 30, 2012
I need a new blanket.
I'm often intrigued by the number of Dr. Scholl's Arch Support Testing machines that have popped up around town. Similar to the "in the grocery store, while you wait" blood pressure machines, the Dr. Scholl's Arch Support Testing machines allow you, the grocery shopper, to remove your shoes right there in the store and allow the machine to test the bottom of your feet for arch issues. This brings to mind two things:
A.) There are always exceptions to the "No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service" rule, and
B.) We are a nation of "do-it-yourselfers."
The whole concept is great. Remove your shoes, step on the foamy pad, the machine counts down, and--wah-lah!--in thirty seconds or less, you can purchase your new insoles with confidence, because the machine told you exactly what to purchase.
I need one of these machines that helps with blankets.
When Richard moved in, he brought with him his king-sized bed. Being a bachelor, however, he also brought with him ONE set of sheets, and no blanket. Not to worry, as those of you who know me also know that bedding sets happen to be one of myvices weaknesses. Thomas O'Brian for Target? Sure. Ralph Lauren bedding? Check, please. We were really in no danger of sleeping in the cold. Of that, I can assure you.
Although I'd slept the majority of my nights away on a queen-sized bed, I had plenty of king-sized sheet sets. The main reason for this was the fact that I fell for so many of those memory foam topper commercials. At one point, I had a four-inch memory foam topper underneath a feathered mattress pad. Clearly my bed became one of the tallest places in Florida. GPS locators had to suspend disbelief when I used my phone on my bed. Many an app lost their minds trying to figure out how I could be hovering 75 feet in the air while checking Facebook, dozing coins, or sling-shooting a bunch of pissed-off birds.
True story.
But, as is always the case in good writing, there was a problem. My comforter, my duvet covers, the works: everything was queen-sized. The top of the bed didn't matter, you see. I only purchased big sheets to get around the additional shit on top of the bed. Houston, we have a problem.
In our early days, the short comforter was a blessing. Remember in the beginning, before you held your partner's snoring against them, when going to bed for the night meant waking up in the morning looking like you'd both fallen asleep in the middle of a game of Twister? Spooning all night long, sleeping with your head on his chest (or, gentlemen, if you prefer), holding your partner in the crook of your arm as if to protect him or her from all things rotten and evil lurking just outside the safe confines of the bed? The days you could have shared a twin blanket and been none the wiser? Ahhh. Budding romance.
Then come the children. The reality of the fact that you have a scant five hours of YOU TIME in the period of each 24-hour day suddenly takes its toll, and you and your partner gladly begin sleeping for comfort, not style. Waking up in the mornings becomes reaching fifteen meters over dogs and pillows and the e-reader from last night's pre-sleep marathon book-reading session in order to shove your beloved out of bed before the alarm clock wakes the snoring scavengers on the other side of the house.
Your feet are hanging out of the covers, and now you realize the time has come for a bigger blanket.
I often shop at Target. (If you need proof, follow me on Foursquare.) While browsing the bedding section a few weeks ago, I had the sudden feeling that now was the time to purchase a king-sized comforter. I voyeured my way toward the aptly-titled "Home" section, marveling at the landscape. Plush mountains of comforters lined the aisle. Minus a walking stick, I felt like a sherpa navigating the deep and fluffy terrain.
I settled on a king-sized, moderately-priced, thin down comforter. I started fantasizing about having my own portion of a blanket. I imagined how good it would feel, its thin weight settling over me to blanket my body away from the intruding night.
Then I got home.
Then I went to sleep.
You know how this blanket should've been marketed? As a weight-loss blanket, that's how. Sometimes, I hear a Willy Mays voice-over disturb my restful slumber. I roll my sweat-soaked body over to a dry part of the mattress and attempt to block him from my mind.
"And you, yes you, can lose inches while you sleep! You've heard other products make a similar claim, but NO ONE backs it up like we do! Ten pounds, twenty pounds, THIRTY POUNDS of sweat in one week! But wait! That's not all! Watch this time-lapse demonstration and you can actually SEE the unwanted fat and water weight SOAKING RIGHT INTO THE MATTRESS! WHILE SHE SLEEPS!"
This is the worst blanket I've ever owned.
I'd like to see a machine like the Dr. Scholl's Arch Reader, but for blankets. I want to take my shoes off and stand on a foamy platform while computer programs, thermometers, and scales weigh and measure every last inch of me. At the end, I want the machine to spit out a tiny slip of paper, directing me to the aisles where the good blankets are. No more lunatic fringe. No more down or down alternatives. Get me to a blanket that comforts me, not this pseudo-piece of Saran Wrap that treats me like a Thanksgiving leftover.
Where is the machine that does all of that for me? Where is the "try it before you buy it" blanket store? Where is the heat-rating? Who uses this in Florida, for Frith's sake?
I need a nap.
Cherstin, the New Goddess of Night-Sweats.
I'm often intrigued by the number of Dr. Scholl's Arch Support Testing machines that have popped up around town. Similar to the "in the grocery store, while you wait" blood pressure machines, the Dr. Scholl's Arch Support Testing machines allow you, the grocery shopper, to remove your shoes right there in the store and allow the machine to test the bottom of your feet for arch issues. This brings to mind two things:
A.) There are always exceptions to the "No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service" rule, and
B.) We are a nation of "do-it-yourselfers."
The whole concept is great. Remove your shoes, step on the foamy pad, the machine counts down, and--wah-lah!--in thirty seconds or less, you can purchase your new insoles with confidence, because the machine told you exactly what to purchase.
I need one of these machines that helps with blankets.
When Richard moved in, he brought with him his king-sized bed. Being a bachelor, however, he also brought with him ONE set of sheets, and no blanket. Not to worry, as those of you who know me also know that bedding sets happen to be one of my
Although I'd slept the majority of my nights away on a queen-sized bed, I had plenty of king-sized sheet sets. The main reason for this was the fact that I fell for so many of those memory foam topper commercials. At one point, I had a four-inch memory foam topper underneath a feathered mattress pad. Clearly my bed became one of the tallest places in Florida. GPS locators had to suspend disbelief when I used my phone on my bed. Many an app lost their minds trying to figure out how I could be hovering 75 feet in the air while checking Facebook, dozing coins, or sling-shooting a bunch of pissed-off birds.
True story.
But, as is always the case in good writing, there was a problem. My comforter, my duvet covers, the works: everything was queen-sized. The top of the bed didn't matter, you see. I only purchased big sheets to get around the additional shit on top of the bed. Houston, we have a problem.
In our early days, the short comforter was a blessing. Remember in the beginning, before you held your partner's snoring against them, when going to bed for the night meant waking up in the morning looking like you'd both fallen asleep in the middle of a game of Twister? Spooning all night long, sleeping with your head on his chest (or, gentlemen, if you prefer), holding your partner in the crook of your arm as if to protect him or her from all things rotten and evil lurking just outside the safe confines of the bed? The days you could have shared a twin blanket and been none the wiser? Ahhh. Budding romance.
Then come the children. The reality of the fact that you have a scant five hours of YOU TIME in the period of each 24-hour day suddenly takes its toll, and you and your partner gladly begin sleeping for comfort, not style. Waking up in the mornings becomes reaching fifteen meters over dogs and pillows and the e-reader from last night's pre-sleep marathon book-reading session in order to shove your beloved out of bed before the alarm clock wakes the snoring scavengers on the other side of the house.
Your feet are hanging out of the covers, and now you realize the time has come for a bigger blanket.
I often shop at Target. (If you need proof, follow me on Foursquare.) While browsing the bedding section a few weeks ago, I had the sudden feeling that now was the time to purchase a king-sized comforter. I voyeured my way toward the aptly-titled "Home" section, marveling at the landscape. Plush mountains of comforters lined the aisle. Minus a walking stick, I felt like a sherpa navigating the deep and fluffy terrain.
I settled on a king-sized, moderately-priced, thin down comforter. I started fantasizing about having my own portion of a blanket. I imagined how good it would feel, its thin weight settling over me to blanket my body away from the intruding night.
Then I got home.
Then I went to sleep.
You know how this blanket should've been marketed? As a weight-loss blanket, that's how. Sometimes, I hear a Willy Mays voice-over disturb my restful slumber. I roll my sweat-soaked body over to a dry part of the mattress and attempt to block him from my mind.
"And you, yes you, can lose inches while you sleep! You've heard other products make a similar claim, but NO ONE backs it up like we do! Ten pounds, twenty pounds, THIRTY POUNDS of sweat in one week! But wait! That's not all! Watch this time-lapse demonstration and you can actually SEE the unwanted fat and water weight SOAKING RIGHT INTO THE MATTRESS! WHILE SHE SLEEPS!"
This is the worst blanket I've ever owned.
I'd like to see a machine like the Dr. Scholl's Arch Reader, but for blankets. I want to take my shoes off and stand on a foamy platform while computer programs, thermometers, and scales weigh and measure every last inch of me. At the end, I want the machine to spit out a tiny slip of paper, directing me to the aisles where the good blankets are. No more lunatic fringe. No more down or down alternatives. Get me to a blanket that comforts me, not this pseudo-piece of Saran Wrap that treats me like a Thanksgiving leftover.
Where is the machine that does all of that for me? Where is the "try it before you buy it" blanket store? Where is the heat-rating? Who uses this in Florida, for Frith's sake?
I need a nap.
Cherstin, the New Goddess of Night-Sweats.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Typhoid Mary.
As many of you well-know, I've been plagued of late with a toothache. It all started with the stupid anti-anti-depressants, as bruxism happens to be a common side effect. After the first few days, I was pretty certain that by the end of this six-month-trip, my jaw muscles were going to rival Schwarzenegger's biceps.
(Not his old-man governor biceps, but the 25-years-ago biceps we all once knew.)
One night, I asked Richard if he could stop at CVS or Walgreens and grab me one of those night guards that just need to be boiled in water and then fit to the new owner's mouth. My jaw and teeth were killing me. Shopping by phone (as in, one clueless person is in the store while the other clueless person is at home) is a lot like playing that old game "Operator." Remember the one that involves sitting in a circle and whispering what is supposed to be the same sentence to your neighbor and seeing how the message actually compares when it makes it all the way around the circle? Yeah, it's like that.
I'm looking online to see what they've got, Richard is in the store staring at the small selection.
"Okay, Richard, do they have the one in the BLUE BOX with the WHITE STRIPE ACROSS THE TOP and the BLACK LETTERING?"
"No, I don't see that one. They do have one in a PURPLE BOX with a YELLOW STRIPE ACROSS THE BOTTOM with WHITE LETTERING. Do you see that one online? It looks good, it's $44."
"Richard, I don't see that one online. What about the SMALL ONE in the CLEAR BOX?"
"Uhmmm, let me see,...SMALL ONE, CLEAR BOX, SMALL ONE, CLEAR BOX. No, babe, I don't see that one."
We may as well have ended each of those volleys with "GO FISH." Maybe someone would've won something.
Fast-forward now to my sexy self sleeping next to my husband every night with this stupid mouthguard in. It kind of defeats the whole "Afternoon Delight" idea, doesn't it? Mouth wide open, blue mouthguard showing, snoring. I shouldn't even bother with lingerie at this point. The best part is that sometimes, when I put my head on the pillow and Richard is already laying down next to me, I hear him softly say, "BLUE, 32! BLUE, 32! HIKE!" It never fails to crack me up though. ;-)
But this damn nightguard ... it HURTS. My theory is that ordinary jaw-clenching doesn't put pressure on ALL of my teeth; I only clench at the points where my teeth actually connect. With the mouthguard in, however, when I clench, each individual tooth is biting down on that plastic mold. Although I'm saving my teeth, I'm killing my mouth in the process.
I know I have a fractured root on one of my teeth. It wouldn't be a big deal, except it's a tooth that happens to be holding a bridge in place. (Yes, I have a bridge. I broke a tooth eating a bagel when I worked at the coffee shop. Overtoasted, anyone?) To fix this problem, I need to see an Endodontist. Do you want me to tell you what this Endodontist (with a capital E) is going to charge to do a root canal on this tooth? Eight-hundred dollars.
800.
500+300.
That is two car payments. I tell myself, like Gloria Gaynor, "I Will Survive."
When I do a lot of clenching, however, it gets all sore and usually some pocket of infection begins to form. Pocket of infection? How about a pocket of money, huh? Wouldn't that be a lot more beneficial?
Now I've got this "pocket of" whatever, but no dentist. No Endodontist, either, since I shirked my $800 appointment a few months ago because the day before, a Sunday, the well pump happened to go out on us, costing roughly one-and-a-half Endodontist root canals, so I no longer felt like blowing another $800 for an hour's worth of work.
Yesterday I had the most brilliant idea: I'll just take the dog's antibiotics.
I'm fairly certain, if this works, it will go into one of the Top Ten Greatest Alternative Ideas I've Ever Had.
When I looked up the antibiotic to see how many milligrams I'd need (being human, not dog), I found a great list of ailments that this medicine is prescribed to cure. I'd like to take a moment to share them with you, if that's okay.
I'm going to be honest: some of these, I've only heard of on "House."
I don't see anything about toothache, but I'm not about to let that stop me.
(Not his old-man governor biceps, but the 25-years-ago biceps we all once knew.)
One night, I asked Richard if he could stop at CVS or Walgreens and grab me one of those night guards that just need to be boiled in water and then fit to the new owner's mouth. My jaw and teeth were killing me. Shopping by phone (as in, one clueless person is in the store while the other clueless person is at home) is a lot like playing that old game "Operator." Remember the one that involves sitting in a circle and whispering what is supposed to be the same sentence to your neighbor and seeing how the message actually compares when it makes it all the way around the circle? Yeah, it's like that.
I'm looking online to see what they've got, Richard is in the store staring at the small selection.
"Okay, Richard, do they have the one in the BLUE BOX with the WHITE STRIPE ACROSS THE TOP and the BLACK LETTERING?"
"No, I don't see that one. They do have one in a PURPLE BOX with a YELLOW STRIPE ACROSS THE BOTTOM with WHITE LETTERING. Do you see that one online? It looks good, it's $44."
"Richard, I don't see that one online. What about the SMALL ONE in the CLEAR BOX?"
"Uhmmm, let me see,...SMALL ONE, CLEAR BOX, SMALL ONE, CLEAR BOX. No, babe, I don't see that one."
We may as well have ended each of those volleys with "GO FISH." Maybe someone would've won something.
Fast-forward now to my sexy self sleeping next to my husband every night with this stupid mouthguard in. It kind of defeats the whole "Afternoon Delight" idea, doesn't it? Mouth wide open, blue mouthguard showing, snoring. I shouldn't even bother with lingerie at this point. The best part is that sometimes, when I put my head on the pillow and Richard is already laying down next to me, I hear him softly say, "BLUE, 32! BLUE, 32! HIKE!" It never fails to crack me up though. ;-)
But this damn nightguard ... it HURTS. My theory is that ordinary jaw-clenching doesn't put pressure on ALL of my teeth; I only clench at the points where my teeth actually connect. With the mouthguard in, however, when I clench, each individual tooth is biting down on that plastic mold. Although I'm saving my teeth, I'm killing my mouth in the process.
I know I have a fractured root on one of my teeth. It wouldn't be a big deal, except it's a tooth that happens to be holding a bridge in place. (Yes, I have a bridge. I broke a tooth eating a bagel when I worked at the coffee shop. Overtoasted, anyone?) To fix this problem, I need to see an Endodontist. Do you want me to tell you what this Endodontist (with a capital E) is going to charge to do a root canal on this tooth? Eight-hundred dollars.
800.
500+300.
That is two car payments. I tell myself, like Gloria Gaynor, "I Will Survive."
When I do a lot of clenching, however, it gets all sore and usually some pocket of infection begins to form. Pocket of infection? How about a pocket of money, huh? Wouldn't that be a lot more beneficial?
Now I've got this "pocket of" whatever, but no dentist. No Endodontist, either, since I shirked my $800 appointment a few months ago because the day before, a Sunday, the well pump happened to go out on us, costing roughly one-and-a-half Endodontist root canals, so I no longer felt like blowing another $800 for an hour's worth of work.
Yesterday I had the most brilliant idea: I'll just take the dog's antibiotics.
I'm fairly certain, if this works, it will go into one of the Top Ten Greatest Alternative Ideas I've Ever Had.
When I looked up the antibiotic to see how many milligrams I'd need (being human, not dog), I found a great list of ailments that this medicine is prescribed to cure. I'd like to take a moment to share them with you, if that's okay.
- Acne
- Acne Rosacea
- Actinomycosis
- Amebiasis
- Anthrax Prophylaxis
- Cutaneous Bacillus anthracis
- Inhalation Bacillus anthracis
- Bartonellosis
- Upper Respiratory Tract Infection
- Bronchitis
- Brucellosis
- Chlamydia Infection
- Cholera
- Epididymitis - Sexually Transmitted
- Gastroenteritis
- Granuloma Inguinale
- Inclusion Conjunctivitis
- Lyme Disease - Arthritis
- Lyme Disease - Carditis
- Lyme Disease - Erythema Chronicum Migrans
- Lyme Disease - Neurologic
- Lymphogranuloma Venereum
- Malaria
- Malaria Prophylaxis
- Melioidosis
- Nongonococcal Urethritis
- Periodontitis
- Pelvic Inflammatory Disease
- Plague
- Pleural Effusion
- Mycoplasma Pneumonia
- Pneumonia
- Psittacosis
- Ornithosis
- Proctitis
- Enterocolitis
- Rickettsial Infection
- Skin or Soft Tissue Infection
- STD Prophylaxis
- Syphilis - Early
- Syphilis - Latent
- Tertiary Syphilis
- Trachoma
- Tularemia
- Urinary Tract Infection
I'm going to be honest: some of these, I've only heard of on "House."
I don't see anything about toothache, but I'm not about to let that stop me.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Starts at Point A, Ends at Point Something Else.
My big guy is sick. :(
Remember when staying home sick from school used to be the coolest thing ever? I'm pretty sure one of the best times from my childhood occurred when I had chicken pox in 8th grade. I can't believe I waited until 8th grade to get them, but I did. The thing that made it so awesome was that 1.) I was actually old enough to stay home by myself, and 2.) I was actually old enough to enjoy it.
Friends from the neighborhood would come by after school, bringing me homework (blah) and all sorts of other amazing things. At the time, we were getting ready to move out of our house, so we had let our above-ground pool in the backyard turn sort of green. A couple of the guys who lived behind me went cast-netting off one of the bridges and brought me a ton of fish to put in the pool. The next day, they delivered me a bunch of canal turtles. I would take bread outside during the day and sit on the diving board, feeding the fish and turtles. I'd write fabulous notes and love letters, full of 8th grade angst and hearts in red marker and leave them outside for my friends. I'd watch tv all day, eat macaroni and cheese, play Ms. Pac Man. It was seriously awesome.
Aidan is home from school today with a fever. He just finished a plate of waffles and is now relaxing in bed on the internet with the Military channel on his flat screen tv. Despite the 15'x33' backyard aquarium and the red markered love letters, I'm fairly certain he's got it better than I did.
Yesterday marked the 2-year anniversary of "Poker Night," aka the night I met Richard. We both can't help but get all sappy and sentimental as we reminisce about what might have been, or if we'd ever met if it wasn't for that fateful night. I'm so happy to say that I've truly married my best friend. People say that, but they don't really mean it. I've seen friends of mine, the "compulsive break-up artists," I'll call them, who change their relationship statuses on Facebook once a week, and the next thing you know, they're "engaged." What the blank, people?
I've heard my friends say that "not-fighting" is unhealthy in a relationship. People can't believe that Richard and I don't fight. When you have a totally open line of communication, what is there to fight about? Because we know each other so well, we each know what the other will do in a given situation. I don't worry that he's going to be out "doing me wrong." If I did, I wouldn't be with him. We don't fight about money, because everything is out in the open. We don't fight about child-rearing, because we're both completely compatible in that aspect. If I am disappointed in him or he in me, we immediately talk about it and get it worked out, as it can only be chalked up to a miscommunication or an error in judgment on either of our parts, but these things are completely minute.
For me, it could be something like, "Ohhh, I had a rough day with the kids and I thought you were going to call me before you came home so I'd know to put dinner on." And he might reply with, "Oh babe, I'm sorry, I totally spaced it and then my dad called and then I called my brother and my last call was only 15 minutes from home, I'm sorry!" And then I might say, "Well, please try to remember next time because I really wanted you to stop at the store and grab formula." And he'll say, "Okay, babe. I'm sorry. Do you want me to go get it now or do you want to take a break from the kids and go to the store?" And that's that. Maybe it sounds boring to some people, but at this age, do you really still "fight" with your best friends? You don't, because you realize that they have their lives and you have yours, and it's no different in a marriage.
Ugh, look what I went and did? Someone call "Posts Gone Wild," because this one is out of control.
You've lucked out: it's just about time for me to head to school where I'll be discussing "The Short, Happy Life of Francis Macomber."
Getting the funk out,
Cherstin
Remember when staying home sick from school used to be the coolest thing ever? I'm pretty sure one of the best times from my childhood occurred when I had chicken pox in 8th grade. I can't believe I waited until 8th grade to get them, but I did. The thing that made it so awesome was that 1.) I was actually old enough to stay home by myself, and 2.) I was actually old enough to enjoy it.
Friends from the neighborhood would come by after school, bringing me homework (blah) and all sorts of other amazing things. At the time, we were getting ready to move out of our house, so we had let our above-ground pool in the backyard turn sort of green. A couple of the guys who lived behind me went cast-netting off one of the bridges and brought me a ton of fish to put in the pool. The next day, they delivered me a bunch of canal turtles. I would take bread outside during the day and sit on the diving board, feeding the fish and turtles. I'd write fabulous notes and love letters, full of 8th grade angst and hearts in red marker and leave them outside for my friends. I'd watch tv all day, eat macaroni and cheese, play Ms. Pac Man. It was seriously awesome.
Aidan is home from school today with a fever. He just finished a plate of waffles and is now relaxing in bed on the internet with the Military channel on his flat screen tv. Despite the 15'x33' backyard aquarium and the red markered love letters, I'm fairly certain he's got it better than I did.
Yesterday marked the 2-year anniversary of "Poker Night," aka the night I met Richard. We both can't help but get all sappy and sentimental as we reminisce about what might have been, or if we'd ever met if it wasn't for that fateful night. I'm so happy to say that I've truly married my best friend. People say that, but they don't really mean it. I've seen friends of mine, the "compulsive break-up artists," I'll call them, who change their relationship statuses on Facebook once a week, and the next thing you know, they're "engaged." What the blank, people?
I've heard my friends say that "not-fighting" is unhealthy in a relationship. People can't believe that Richard and I don't fight. When you have a totally open line of communication, what is there to fight about? Because we know each other so well, we each know what the other will do in a given situation. I don't worry that he's going to be out "doing me wrong." If I did, I wouldn't be with him. We don't fight about money, because everything is out in the open. We don't fight about child-rearing, because we're both completely compatible in that aspect. If I am disappointed in him or he in me, we immediately talk about it and get it worked out, as it can only be chalked up to a miscommunication or an error in judgment on either of our parts, but these things are completely minute.
For me, it could be something like, "Ohhh, I had a rough day with the kids and I thought you were going to call me before you came home so I'd know to put dinner on." And he might reply with, "Oh babe, I'm sorry, I totally spaced it and then my dad called and then I called my brother and my last call was only 15 minutes from home, I'm sorry!" And then I might say, "Well, please try to remember next time because I really wanted you to stop at the store and grab formula." And he'll say, "Okay, babe. I'm sorry. Do you want me to go get it now or do you want to take a break from the kids and go to the store?" And that's that. Maybe it sounds boring to some people, but at this age, do you really still "fight" with your best friends? You don't, because you realize that they have their lives and you have yours, and it's no different in a marriage.
Ugh, look what I went and did? Someone call "Posts Gone Wild," because this one is out of control.
You've lucked out: it's just about time for me to head to school where I'll be discussing "The Short, Happy Life of Francis Macomber."
Getting the funk out,
Cherstin
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
My Anti-Anti-Depressants.
According to recent polls, roughly 85% of statistics are made up on the spot, and this one is no different. If I had to guess, I'd surmise that roughly 60% of my friends are on some sort of anti-depressant, myself included. Why, you might ask? Well, I'm glad you brought that up.
I'm not sure if this has been some sort of "postpartum" thing, but that's how my Doctor (with a capital D) diagnosed it after Aidan was born, and I found myself going through the same feelings this time around. Not the super-depressed, cry my eyes out, why is this happening to me type of depression, but rather the feeling of looking around one's self and realizing it's been roughly 4 days since my last shower, my leg hairs could be shaved off and sold as a fake beard (Halloween?), I can't find the floor of the laundry room, my youngest child is only happy when playing the "up/down" game (or maybe its cruel cousin, the "Mommy, Fetch!" game), and I have no idea what day of the week it is, much less the actual date.
I travel the roughly 5 miles to the Big D Doctor's office and complain about my woes, so he says he's got the perfect pharmaceutical dream for me. Generic Celexa. Citalopram. At the time, I told him, "Whoa, Doc. I thought Celexa was for people with joint pain." He kindly informed me the joint pain one was Celebrex. "Dammit!" I thought. "Curse those stupid television commercials!" How do the Doctors keep this shit straight? I looked around the office for his crib sheet, but couldn't see one readily available. Damn him. In hindsight, I'm betting it's all encoded in the fancy calligraphy of his wall-hanging-diplomas. How many diplomas does one even need, anyway? Three exam rooms times three or four diplomas hanging in each room, glass picture frames for each...I'm beginning to think this guy is either a sham or a brilliant sham. I decide to take his handy-dandy prescription and give it a shot.
Now that I'm taking this stuff, shit just doesn't bother me anymore. AT ALL. As in, "Homework deadline? Fuck it! I'm rereading the 'Dark Tower' series and CAN'T BE BOTHERED RIGHT NOW." Doesn't that sound much better than being all Type-A and constantly worried about homework and bills and cleaning and diapers and grocery store lists? Hell yes. Yes it does.
Except this one part. There's this small little thing that bothers me. Minute, really. Actually, it's quite minuscule when you really think about it. It's just...okay. Sometimes, I forget where I put the baby.
Listen, it's nothing to be ashamed about. I'm sure a LOT of people have forgotten where they've placed their child. I'm sure it happens ALL THE TIME. I mean, one minute I'm sitting there enjoying myself, reading, the next minute I stand at attention with my arms out at my sides, drop down into a middle stance like a WBA basketball player, and I think, "Holy shit! Where is Caleb?" I try to go through the past few minutes in my mind, but I draw an absolute blank. Then I start looking. Nine times out of ten, he's in his high chair eating lunch, and I smile and think, "Oh, Cherstin. You're so silly. Don't lose the baby again." And then I usually won't lose him for the rest of that day.
Another thing about my anti-depressant? Sometimes, when I'm in the car driving to school, I think, "Man, now would be a good time for a nap." I don't TAKE a nap, I follow that initial thought up with, "That's a stupid idea!" but I still do think I could just take a nap right then and there. Going to school equals NO KIDS. The car becomes my personal bedroom. Plus the car is usually nice and toasty from sitting in the driveway. Is there a more sleep-conducive location than that long stretch of Ponce de Leon Blvd.? I think NOT. Anyway, I'm sure plenty of people feel like napping in the car. Why else did they invent cruise control? Just to let you know, I have never napped in the car, and I will continue to not nap in the car, but how bizarre is that? I don't even feel like I need a blanket when I'm in the car, and who naps without a blanket?
Time to run. I'm fairly certain I forgot to eat breakfast this morning. Also, did I take my pill?
Hasta la vista,
Cherstin
I'm not sure if this has been some sort of "postpartum" thing, but that's how my Doctor (with a capital D) diagnosed it after Aidan was born, and I found myself going through the same feelings this time around. Not the super-depressed, cry my eyes out, why is this happening to me type of depression, but rather the feeling of looking around one's self and realizing it's been roughly 4 days since my last shower, my leg hairs could be shaved off and sold as a fake beard (Halloween?), I can't find the floor of the laundry room, my youngest child is only happy when playing the "up/down" game (or maybe its cruel cousin, the "Mommy, Fetch!" game), and I have no idea what day of the week it is, much less the actual date.
I travel the roughly 5 miles to the Big D Doctor's office and complain about my woes, so he says he's got the perfect pharmaceutical dream for me. Generic Celexa. Citalopram. At the time, I told him, "Whoa, Doc. I thought Celexa was for people with joint pain." He kindly informed me the joint pain one was Celebrex. "Dammit!" I thought. "Curse those stupid television commercials!" How do the Doctors keep this shit straight? I looked around the office for his crib sheet, but couldn't see one readily available. Damn him. In hindsight, I'm betting it's all encoded in the fancy calligraphy of his wall-hanging-diplomas. How many diplomas does one even need, anyway? Three exam rooms times three or four diplomas hanging in each room, glass picture frames for each...I'm beginning to think this guy is either a sham or a brilliant sham. I decide to take his handy-dandy prescription and give it a shot.
Now that I'm taking this stuff, shit just doesn't bother me anymore. AT ALL. As in, "Homework deadline? Fuck it! I'm rereading the 'Dark Tower' series and CAN'T BE BOTHERED RIGHT NOW." Doesn't that sound much better than being all Type-A and constantly worried about homework and bills and cleaning and diapers and grocery store lists? Hell yes. Yes it does.
Except this one part. There's this small little thing that bothers me. Minute, really. Actually, it's quite minuscule when you really think about it. It's just...okay. Sometimes, I forget where I put the baby.
Listen, it's nothing to be ashamed about. I'm sure a LOT of people have forgotten where they've placed their child. I'm sure it happens ALL THE TIME. I mean, one minute I'm sitting there enjoying myself, reading, the next minute I stand at attention with my arms out at my sides, drop down into a middle stance like a WBA basketball player, and I think, "Holy shit! Where is Caleb?" I try to go through the past few minutes in my mind, but I draw an absolute blank. Then I start looking. Nine times out of ten, he's in his high chair eating lunch, and I smile and think, "Oh, Cherstin. You're so silly. Don't lose the baby again." And then I usually won't lose him for the rest of that day.
Another thing about my anti-depressant? Sometimes, when I'm in the car driving to school, I think, "Man, now would be a good time for a nap." I don't TAKE a nap, I follow that initial thought up with, "That's a stupid idea!" but I still do think I could just take a nap right then and there. Going to school equals NO KIDS. The car becomes my personal bedroom. Plus the car is usually nice and toasty from sitting in the driveway. Is there a more sleep-conducive location than that long stretch of Ponce de Leon Blvd.? I think NOT. Anyway, I'm sure plenty of people feel like napping in the car. Why else did they invent cruise control? Just to let you know, I have never napped in the car, and I will continue to not nap in the car, but how bizarre is that? I don't even feel like I need a blanket when I'm in the car, and who naps without a blanket?
Time to run. I'm fairly certain I forgot to eat breakfast this morning. Also, did I take my pill?
Hasta la vista,
Cherstin
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