Lately...

The Dark Side

He stands on his imaginary cliff staring out onto the opening skies, filling his vast oceans and seas of dark purple velvet, until turning deep blue. Seagulls laugh at the drops as sea turtles swell to the shores. In the distance a dolphin breaks the surface. Brilliant and gloriously graceful as it turns back to the waters. Thunder in the distance is only mirrored by the deep calling of the mother whale... "Will. WILL. W I LL." He pulls his collar up against the drops, now reaching his neck. "EXCUSE ME, Mr. Will-I-AM." And as he breaks from the ledge to peer back at reality. He questions. Why does it always rain on Thursday? "Will, finish your breakfast -- the bus might be on time today."

It's over. Don't they get that? All schools should just stop at Memorial Day. Some do -- and I see you out there, bragging on Facebook etc.... I mean really. WHAT IS THE POINT? Aside from the weather today -- gloomy, rainy. He only gets depressed when it rains AND he has school. Rain when there isn't school -- totally acceptable. We need summer, and not just to the chagrin of winter... School = Germs = SICK... IN SPRING. Which is just what happened here to us. All of us. Clinging to each other until every possible disgustingly transferable germ had landed accordingly. Yuck. No one is happy. Everyone wants to run wild—AS THEY SHOULD... But we can't do it with coughs, fevers and crazy whims about being mother whales, So let's just end it.

As he walked out to meet the bus I caught a glimpse. That look in his eyes that silenced my urge to tell him to hurry up. Crazed yet determined. There was no way out. Only a few weeks to go until the last call of freedom. Hold on Will, come back. STEP AWAY FROM THE DARK SIDE. HOLD ON—I was reminded of a post that I thought I had meant to write and then forgot about but, as I just realized, I actually did write...

In Defiance of the English TYRANNY! May 29, 2012

I was pleasantly surprised as I'm sure you've seen this look before too...



Concious Filtering.

I could hear her over the monitor.
Playing. Not Sleeping.
I entered with caution.
Standing with a school bus in one hand and a penguin in the other, donning sunglasses in the dark—she giggled. I sat down to read another book while the energy built up from this never-ending winter slowly gave way to snooze. I kissed her sweet forehead, smelling like maple syrup despite the past eleven hours and a bath time full of suds. We did it, I thought. We moved into a strange home and settled in quickly. Very quickly. And despite the occasional "I HATE IT HERE" outburst by the six year old, we have maintained continuum. Even the fourteen year old hound is likening our new digs to a loungeful retirement community. Proof that everything can change while, at the same time, everything stays the same.

I didn't know what to expect. Packing. Putting things in storage. Was everyone going to freak out? I still wake panicking. Did I forget anything? Did I throw something away that they are going to remember 4 years from now and never speak to me again? Should I have been more organized? What if I end up needing that lingering sole flip flop I blatantly ignored as the walls came down on the old house. Laying there in the mudroom area -- alone. Did it scream?

I don't think I was in this new house for less than an hour before I wigged out about not having any post-it notes. A complete and total OCD moment as I drove myself in freakish twitches to CVS to replenish my bizarre addiction. It only took a few words from Mr. Sal -- "Do everyone who loves you a favor, go buy some post-its" to make me realize that the need to stick my thoughts and lists everywhere has become a problem. He rarely speaks, and that's what he said. And that's okay.

Because I've been in this state of filtering myself. Not really on purpose, but totally looking at the world with silence. Quietly judging all of you. Moving can be really traumatic, and I was totally expecting a revolt that never happened...  to which I have reacted with unreserved calm and patience. Part of me feels like everything I've ever said here on this blog is all about me running outside and shouting at the rain. Meanwhile, I think of things to say and, instead of coming back to this place, I've been writing them down (yes, on post-its) and then telling myself that I take myself way too seriously. Bringing it all full circle back to me. But filtered. Like super black coffee... yum.

Add to that the fact that Gwyneth Paltrow is TRYING to make people mad, and I have the perfect example of someone that should just turn it off. How egos this big are so unkempt and unrealistic that they don't even realize that they are telling people how to live their lives. I mean, who knew. AND, she's a tiny person. One tiny person with a forum that can only make one realize (again) the pomp and circumstance of celebrity. She also eats (sometimes, maybe) and probably poops on occasion... which you might think is gross, but is actually a HUGE subject in our house lately. Poop. Not Gwyneth's poop (but don't tell her that). Statements about working in an office vs. the film set -- convenient  uncoupling or whatever dirty laundry she is trying to wipe off on the rest of us. I mean WHY? How is splitting up the new married? What is wrong with the word Divorce? Is it a BOSSY word that Mrs. Obams and Beyonce are going to throw under the bus? IT IS WHAT IT IS. But most of us really didn't need it smeared all over our daywear. At least I didn't and I'm wearing black—Very bossy.

ME. I don't want to drive angry. I'd like to say more, and I'm thinking that I might just do that. We made it through the worst wintah evah. We moved. Tore our house down with our bare hands, AND managed to smile through most of it. Now if the rest of the world could manage to keep their hairy conscious "I'm telling you but I'm not" ways of life out of the road, I might be inclined to say more... more often.

Twenty Fourteen.

This past week, being the start to a new year, I published a post over on The Nice Niche about a friend of a friend that completely changed her life by moving to rural Vermont...

"During the spring of 2012, Claire and her husband made the decision take their lives in a different direction. Over a few month period, they got engaged, quit their cushy jobs in Boston, bought a house in Vermont without knowing a soul in the state, and moved to the country to see about a more peaceful, sustainable life."

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The post was something that I've been looking forward to... Lately it seems that my interests have become more "organic" than ever before -- Not only did I spend the later part of 2013 recovering from an unexpected back injury, I learned how to knit (and I'm a total snob about it), became kind of obsessed with the trend of salvaged materials and furniture, and I also worked with an architect on the redesign of our Long Island home, which is going to be rebuilt over the next couple of months. On the HELM of major changes, and yes, I do realize that most if not all injuries come in unexpected packages --- I looked North to Claire and her Little Dog Blog and Vintage Etsy store -- how do we make major life decisions without upsetting the balance of power that is our everyday reality? I still have questionable eating habits, fyi, You don't have to ask. But how fabulous is the idea of leaving it all behind? Or at least simplifying things... We'd have to take the kids with us, I suppose.

2013 was a really good year. I'm not going to sugar coat that statement with any big "BUTS" although I could have done without Bill De Blasio.... I don't suppose there's anything you can do about that for me, is there?

Even my back injury had me singing 'Even STE--EE--V-EENNN' in my best Steven Tyler moment... Because it forced me to get into shape. Okay. Whatever. Try to get into shape... Or at least go to the gym and a class or two.. Or, Okay, Have my ass handed to me a few days per week while the 2 year old pretended to hate her playgroup. At least I found my abs. How about that? Other things notable that didn't suck were the beach, the beach and oh, that other beach... The adoption of a beach buggy which should be making it's debut later on in 2014 and the consideration that uniforms and Catholic school rock the proverbial Casbah (sorry -- just heard an amazing interview with remaining Clash members—a caller weighed in on how kids these days only associate The Clash with 'Rock the Casbah' and was then obliterated and beheaded as I nearly drove off the rode "oh go blow over and kiss that Justin Bieber's arse would ya!?!"). Yes. It was a good year.

2014 holds more for us than a new beach buggy, new HOUSE, potty training and other fun times like my 39th year... For example, you won't catch me saying Two Thousand Fourteen. Nope -- I'm going old school with "Twenty Fourteen". We didn't say One Thousand Nine Hundred and Ninety Nine, did we? Aren't we tired of wasting our time? I also recently read that 2014 is going to be the year that everyone notices that Blogs are dead....

Sometime in the past few years, the blog died. In 2014, people will finally notice. —Jason Kottke
— http://www.niemanlab.org/2013/12/the-blog-is-dead/

DEAD. As in.. cease to exist. Well, maybe. Isn't associating a falling trend with DEATH a little harsh? And while I've always liked the veteran blogger, Kottke -- I think he might be taking things a little too seriously. They might be going away, slooooowly, but can't we give them some props?

This is the internet, peeps. A place where sharing is the MOST POPULAR THING TO DO. I mean WHATEVS, even my parents joined Facebook this year (don't deny it Dad). It's this amazing place where we can say and share (almost) anything you want. You can even take pictures while lying blindly on your side at 6am when you should still be asleep, not consider the fabulousness of your actions, and then post them for the world to see, INSTANTLY.... Only to be reminded of such post later in the day by KELLY, who shines the light of great in your direction to which you can only boldly exclaim "I WIN!". The POWER of REALIZATION.

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And you know what, I wouldn't be so in tune with my sharing self had it not be for the mighty BLOG and the power of SHARING. Twenty Fourteen my friends. The time has come to talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax...deserted blogs and enviable barns in rural Vermont...  But before I get ahead of myself... Happy New Year.... Hopefully we'll have more time this year to prolong the life of blogs and the more interesting people of the world that drop it all to seek out their dreams... If you need me, I'll be finding time to blog... while filming the next great Hitchcock in my living room and knitting like a Mother F***er. ... Peace.

Today is Dave Sage's Birthday....

So I thought I'd write a blog post.

When I woke up this morning, I had a feeling that there was a reason that I needed to think of something to write about. Having had both kids greet me as I stepped out of the shower was an option, but I've been naked here before, which is not only boring but rather tedious. Other annoying things that have been on my mind, aside from things beneath my neck include, the downfall of The Food Network -- telling me that it's okay to pour a bottle of pre-made ranch dressing into my taco chicken salad and then serve it to my children. Thanks REE DRUMMOND, but if the Pioneers saw what you were doing to their fresh ingredients, they might make you eat that GMO-filled dried soup mix that you just suggested makes a Great Dip.

Dave Sage has been reading my blog for years. YEARS. Just as a reminder to note how long I have been shouting at the rain—When I started blogging, my almost six year old was almost two. Now there are TWO of them -- and they need to be fed, bathed on a regular basis AND entertained EVERYDAY. Realization of this came somewhere amid my 37th year as an almost 40 year old. No one tells you that you're still going to question when you should feel like an adult when you're on the other side of 35. I'm waiting.

I then thought about all of the posts that I've written. Some good, some ugly and others downright awful. I don't post a few times a week like I used to, and I've walked away threatening to quit and blow the whole thing up more than once. There's nothing like getting mad about your own blog. It's like yelling at yourself in the mirror, publicly... Naked. Which brings us full circle.

Interesting, although he doesn't visit the blog as much as he used to, Dave Sage is a big reason that I keep coming back to it.

And I have no explanation for that.

Happy Birthday Mr. Sage....