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Showing posts from January, 2011

All Shades of Brilliant White

Snow pants. Boots. Coat. Hat. Mittens.


The gingerbread boys are building a snow fort, complete with spy holes, so she decides to walk down to the pond to visit the fish. She doesn't know if there are even any fish in there still, but she wants to walk, so down the path she goes.

Last year, they moved their poor lone fish, Angst, inside for the winter. His fishy antics kept her company while she tippety-tap typed on her laptop. When spring came, they returned him to the pond, along with several other new fishy friends.

Sadly, Angst didn't make it through the summer. At least she thinks he didn't. She hasn't seen him in a long time. Maybe he made a break for freedom through the trench leading from the pond to the stream. She doesn't know. He could be hiding under the lily pad, though his bright orange bulk would be hard to disguise.

This year, disheartened by the fate of Angst, they didn't collect Cardinal, Goldene, Blackie, and the rest. Survival of the fitte…

A Happy Friday

And even though this week ended in much the same way it began (no school), it was a happy Friday. Why? Because I remembered to turn off the phones last night, so the blasted 5:30 am phone alert system wouldn't pull me from my happy place, like it did on Wednesday, when not only did I stumble across the room to the phone in a bleary, blurry lurch, I also fell into the drying rack (curse those all-cotton shrinkables!), as well as the laundry basket. Ok, I didn't actually fall into the laundry basket; I keeled over it and fell into the side of the bed. Ow.

But that was Wednesday.

I think.

Monday was, of course, a national holiday, so naturally we went sledding, cheering for civil rights each time we went down the hill.

On Tuesday, I fully expected a snow day, but the call never came. The email never came. So gingerbread boy #1 got ready, lugged his trombone up the driveway and waited for the bus. And waited. And waited some more. Then he came inside. The gingerbread man drove him to …

Lines and Circles

In some strange synesthesia-thing, she sees the year as a line stretching from January to December, which means that January always comes as a surprise. The line of each year stretches far, far out--way down the block--and then suddenly it stops. Ah. January. Here you are. Time for resolutions. Time for resolve.

Well. She can make a goal to finish a draft of the next novel. That's an easy goal to set. Not to achieve, but to set. And, um, hrm. There was that goal last year of taking vitamins and calcium that got side-swiped by all the medical tests at the beginning of the year. She figured back then that she should have her blood and urine unadulterated by even over-the-counter vitamins. And somehow, she never returned to it, even after all the testing was done. Then there was that goal about posture. Too much time spent huddling over the computer, huddling over babies, huddling over her books. Posture. She goes to yoga class--does that count? She decides it does. Good. Career goals…