Busy, busy, busy and then there is deal with my ears...

I just wanted to pop in here and let you know that I haven't forgotten about this blog at all.

That's not true.

Yes I did.

Well, partially.

I'm currently living in a whirlwind, which is interesting, because I have had absolutely NO prior training for such a phenomenon.

As I type this Zack is going through and double checking everything he has to pack for Dubai. He leaves tomorrow. Ugh. He'll be gone until the 7th of April and I am going to miss him like...like...someone would miss someone they loved dearly who was on the other side of the world.

I have 4 weeks and 5 days left until this boy in my belly is due to arrive. This is not a lot of time. I have a lot to do. I'm having him at home and there is a bit of preperation necessary beforehand to make sure it goes smoothly. For instance, I still have some drop cloths to buy from Home Depot!

Then there is this other something that has been weighing on me so very, very heavily. It is the slow degeneration of my hearing. I haven't wanted to talk about it, or write about it, or think about it or deal with it at all. I've had ear problems my whole life, since I was very young. I had more ruptured ear drums than I can count. According to my dad my mother had bad ears, too. So, add that to the list of things my mother gave me. Muscular calves that do not play well with cute boots, a wrinkle in between my eyebrows, pale skin that does the burny thing in the sun, a ridiculously horrible temper, and bad ears among other things.

I finally broke down a couple of weeks ago, crying and producing all kinds of fun mucousy moments and told Zack that I thought I might have lost the hearing in my right ear completely. He demanded that I go to the doctor. NOW.

So on Monday I finally went to the ENT. I almost turned around 3 times. I was that scared. I was that willing to maintain my willing suspension of disbelief.

My fears were confirmed that things weren't getting better. They were getting worse.

I've lost pretty much all of the hearing in my right ear and have to get fitted for a hearing aid. And not even the kind that fits discreetly in my ear. No, I'll get the kind that hangs out on the outside of my ear in order to get the best...reception? Sound quality?

It'll look a little something like this.

I still can't believe that this is real.

After the baby is born I'll have to have surgery on my left ear to see if they can save the hearing in that ear as I have already started to lose hearing there as well.

I cannot begin to express how much this terrifies me.

Typing all of this feels surreal and terrible because it means that it IS REAL.

I have always said that I would rather be blind than deaf. I would rather have no limbs. I would rather not be able to speak. As long as I could HEAR.

If you pray I could use it.

When I was 12 years old I was cast in a play with Stage Door Players called Stone Soup. I was the youngest member of the cast playing the oldest character in the play.

Why?

I could do the best old lady voice. Playing a woman who was hard of hearing.

How ironic.

Free form thoughts and stuff to check out...

It's been one of those days where any attempt that I've made to make sense to myself has been rendered futile by outside circumstances. I feel the only way to remedy this is to make no attempt to make sense at all and merely rattle off everything that is bouncing around in my jumpy castle of a head at the moment.

: The picture on the wall is crooked.

: I can't breathe. This man cub is treating my right ribcage like it's a couch cushion he wants to warm his cold feet with.

: I am worried about Phoenix and what to do with him and how to handle him and Oh LORD just this thought alone makes me tear up. His teachers say his intelligence is so off the charts that it's almost a handicap and that he thinks about and is dealing with emotions and anxieties normally reserved for adults and he's SO SENSITIVE. He is paralyzed by his need to be perfect in everything, which, to the outside world, comes off as laziness. I am scared at how much he is like me. So much like me. Heaven help my sweet boy.

: I can't wear my wedding rings anymore 'cause of swelling and I find myself obessively rubbing my thumb against my finger out of habit, momentarily freaking out and then realising why they aren't there.

: Zack is still smoking. This scares me and makes me sad and I wish he would stop. We buried his father because of his father's years of smoking.

: I bought a lovely rug from CB2 and Gracie promptly threw up on it the first night.

: Zack's video "Transform" has had close to 90,000 views in 3 weeks or so now and the response from those who have watched it have been truly overwhelming. This has been on my mind a lot lately as I realise just how many of us long for authenticity so much, but rarely know what to do with it when it's right in front of them.

: Getting excited over the lunch meeting that Zack and I have coming up with the guy that came up with this. His name is Brandon McCormick and we're hoping to help him with whatever he needs. Just to be a part of something so, so good.

: I would give anything for some homestyle hush puppies right now. Seriously. I'm drooling.

: My ex-husband is engaged! I'm wondering if I'm weird because I am SO STINKING HAPPY FOR HIM? Truly!

: Watched this YouTube video today that my step-son, Caleb, wanted to show us and flipped out. I had never heard of Stevie before. It's really cool, albeit from a while ago.

This isn't everything I've been mulling over but enough to make me feel a little more sane.

AND OH!

Jennifer wanted to see a picture of my big ol' blackboard that I keep in my kitchen. It's how the Arias household manages to have a modicum of organisation. Jennifer, this is for you, friend.

Must.

Do.

Laundry.

Ugh.

Plastic Forks and Me.

I found this bit of writing from last year.

I struggle with feeling
That all my parts
Were the ones leftover,
In the back of some heavenly stock room,
On the highest shelf,
Sandwiched between the plastic forks and some angelic decorations;
Angelic decorations used for some angelic theme party in some angelic anteroom
And then promptly forgotten.

I stare in the mirror
And try to recognise
What I wish wasn't mine
And yes,
I know,
The Almighty doesn't make junk
And who am I to say He was wrong?
But Dear Lord,
Is it ever hard to be a girl these days.
Dear Lord
Is it ever hard to be me these days.

That longing in me,
To be a beautiful creature,
That wish in me,
To be a graceful measure
Of womanhood in blossom,
Is squelched when I find myself
Tripping-falling-stumbling-crashing-slipping
Into everything literal and figurative.
And brushing my hair back,
Trying to recover,
I catch sight of myself,
In the random windows of eyes
And blush at the picture
Of such a silly,
oddly made
woman.

"Said Goodbye to Dad today"

My husband, Zack, wrote this blog post just a bit ago and I decided to repost it here.

I'm going to go play the piano for a bit and work some of my grief out through my fingers.

So many of you have written, called, and commented I feel the need to let you know that Dad passed on from this life and into the next one this morning. I was very fortunate to have been by his side. My father was strong. He fought the good fight and the doctors and staff at Emory University Hospital could not have given him any better care.

The hero in all of this is my step-mother Elaine. She stood by her man. She loved my father so deeply and so passionately. She is strong and beautiful and is going to miss my father so much. They had such a beautiful life. She adored my father.

Thank you to all of you who have been thinking of us and praying for us. Thank you for all the support all of you, known and unknown, have given to us. My entire family appreciates all of your emails, comments, and messages. Dad is in heaven. The rest of us are still paying rent.

And to find a smile in all of this….

Let the southern good ol’ fashioned church lady casserole pot luck begin. I don’t know what ya’ll do elsewhere in the country, but when we die in the south, we make some damn good food.

Now, go love on your family while you still have them and while they still have you.

Cheers,
Zack

Again…. Thank you everyone.

Kathleen

(That's my sister, Erin, on the left and me, on the right. My mother, of course, is the one in the middle.)

My mother, Theresa Kathleen Brett, was born on July 17th, 1955 in Saint Augustine, Florida. The irony that such a pale, red headed creature was to be born in the hot, humid, freckle producing state of Florida is rather interesting to me. Irish skin is not well suited for bright sun light. We like clouds. And moors. I digress.

Upon the news that his new sibling was a girl, my Uncle John threw up his hands in exasperation but my mom's sister, my Aunt Linda, was beyond thrilled. They had been told by my Grandma Polly, their mother, that if the baby was a boy that John could name it and if it was a girl Linda could name it.

Linda "won".

The sticking out of tongues insued I'm sure.

John was eleven and Linda was nine when my mother was born and so the arrival of such a tiny person was perfectly wonderful and they could not wait to see her. When they were finally ushered into the hospital room with their mother and new baby sister the suspense was killing them. Polly eagerly held up the most darling little red headed baby they had ever seen and said,

"Here is your sister!" and she smiled at Linda. "Well? What are you going to name her?"

Linda, eyes wide, gazed up at her sister and proudly said,

"Her name is Theresa! For Saint Theresa!"

(Now there are several Saint Theresas'. I am not quite sure to which one she was referring. If she were around right now I'm sure she could tell me. She would, too, along with a whole lot of other stuff that I DIDN'T ask about but that she would volunteer anyway. She's in California, however, most likely having a very deep conversation with her dog. I'm not kidding.)

From across the room a voice growled,

"No. Her name is Kathleen. Not Theresa."

My grandfather, Brendan, sat in a chair next to the window and as he said this he stood up and put his hands in his pockets.

"Kathleen is a good Irish name and I'll not have my newest daughter named anything else."

My grandmother seeing the inevitable tears and sobbing that were about to emerge from Linda smiled tensely at her husband,

"Brendan, I made a promise to the children that they could name the baby. You were there. You agreed." Her teeth were clinched. She didn't want to ruin this lovely, little moment. Polly was just glad that Brendan didn't stink of alcohol.

"I know what you said, and I know what I said. But we're not calling her Theresa. Her name is Kathleen."

Linda burst into tears again and Polly reached out to her and said,

"Listen, her first name will be Theresa, but we'll call her Kathleen, alright?", and with that she looked back and forth from her sobbing daughter to her glowering husband and again made an attempt at a smile, "Her birth certificate will officially say, Theresa Kathleen Brett. That way everyone is happy."

My grandfather huffed and shrugged and nodded his head and Linda smiled wanly at her mother and wiped her face with the backs of her hands. My Uncle John sat in a chair, swinging his legs. He had really wanted a brother.

That is, I'm told, how my mother was named.

I never knew my Grandfather. And, when I think about it, neither did my mom really. He was an alcoholic and he and my grandmother divorced when my mom was still a baby. My grandma remarried Harry Paeglow, our beloved Papa Harry, when my mother was around 3 or 4 and he was the only "dad" she ever knew.

For all that, though, her father, Brendan, gave her her name. Her real name. She always hated the name Theresa. But she lost him. The last time she saw her father was when she was six years old and that was only in a car as he slowly drove down the street past her house. It didn't dawn on her who it was until the car had turned the bend. That would be the last time she saw him.

Thrity-six years later, another Brendan would play a huge role in her life as the other Brendan she lost. My brother, the baby boy she was carrying, would be stillborn. She named him Brendan Joseph and then, thirteen days later, she would, as I was told repeatedly by well meaning people, "Your mom went to heaven to be with Jesus and that baby boy...."

I don't know how heaven works. I have, like I assume most people do, a very hazy conception of it despite the books I've read and the accounts I've heard.

It's UNKNOWN.

I don't know if Brendan is up there, perpetually in a newborn like state or if he's...grown up, moving from infancy and into boyhood, skipping the awkward pimply, sqwaking, hormone driven pre-teens and is now an almost eighteen year old young man preparing to take his heavenly SAT's. I do like to think that when my mom "arrived" she was greeted by a large, buxom angel with rosy cheeks and bifocals who then handed over my brother Brendan with much oohing and aahing and a, "He's such a joy but I'll bet he's glad to see his momma!"

I like that idea.

---

I don't have many stories of my mother's childhood. Most of my stories of my mother are based from my childhood. There are a few, however, that stand out. Ones that I've heard my grandma Polly tell over and over and a few I remember my mom telling me herself; in those rare moments when she would share about herself and I was, by the grace of God, cognizant enough to pay attention.

One of my grandma's favourite stories to tell about my mom goes something like this:

"Everyday, around 4 o'clock, the neighbourhood ladies would gather in our backyard in the space between our yard and the neighbour's house behind us and we would have afternoon tea. Kathy was around two years old and was the cutest little thing you ever did see. I had just made a brand new little frock for her to wear and Linda convinced me to let her dress Kathy up in the new dress along with a frilly pair of socks and little, white patent leather shoes. Linda has always loved dolls just like I do, you know. She collects dolls just like me. See all of my dolls? This one looks just like Kathy, see her red hair? Your Uncle John gets so mad at me when I buy dolls but I can't help myself. I even have 'em under my bed...where was I?"

"You were saying that Aunt Linda has always loved dolls..."

"Oh, right. Well, Kathy was just like a little living doll to Linda, she had so much fun dressing that baby up and playing with her hair. She got Kathy all dressed up for tea and then led her outside. Kathy had a stubborn streak, even at two, she never grew out of it. You have it too, you know. Your mother would call me in tears because she would spank you and you wouldn't cry! You're the most stubborn girl! Why you were so rotten I'll never know. (and here she squints at me) What did you go and get a tattoo for anyway?"

"I like them, Grandma. In fact, I have two of them."

"What are you going to do when you're old, though? You'll be an old lady with tattoos?"

"Grandma, if you think about it, when it comes to my generation all of our grandkids will grow up thinking that grandmas and grandpas with tattoos are NORMAL. There are going to be DROVES of old people with wiggly, wrinkly tattoos! You were talking about mom, remember? Linda was leading her outside?"

Grandma then waves her hand as if to erase my words out of the air.

"Yes, yes. Humph. You are the craziest girl. So anyway. Kathy didn't want Linda to hold her hand, she wanted to walk by herself. All the ladies were just squealing with delight over how darling she looked as she toddled across the grass but then, all of a sudden, Kathy stopped and looked down at the gorund. Then she raised her foot, wearing those little, white patent leather shoes and said,

'Awwwwww, shiiiiit.'

She had stepped in some doggie doo doo! I was mortified but the rest of the ladies started laughing till they cried and then I did, too. Kathy knew she had done something funny and she laughed, too, and it was just the funniest thing you ever saw. Don't you think that's funny?"

I always nod my head. It IS funny. What's NOT funny are all of the dolls that are staring me down while she tells this story. I love my grandma, I do. She is spunky and kooky and adorable. She just has WAY TOO MANY DOLLS. It breaks her heart that I don't like dolls. Erin, my sister, she likes dolls and so I can only imagine, upon the deaths of my grandma and Aunt Linda, the copious amounts of glassy-eyed, silken haired, weird dolls that Erin will have to contend with.

---

It's now 2:08am and I was already exhausted when I started this. But, I have words running around in my brain these days that are quite determined to get out and so here I am. And here I go.

To bed.

Night.

2:57

I should not be awake. I should be asleep.

I can't sleep.

I am going to hate life in the morning.

My brain, as per usual, has started a mutiny against me and simply refused to stop whirling and twirling.

I am missing my mother. Spending the yesterday and today in the hospital with Zack watching his father fade away has brought the loss of my mother to the forefront of my thoughts. What I wouldn't give to talk to her face to face, woman to woman, adult to adult.

---

I suppose I am writing just to write. Even this drivel here is just a way to get myself started, to get all of these thoughts out of my head. Blank pages are scary. I am not good at starting things. Or finishing them. How telling. My gravestone shall perhaps read,

“Here lies a woman who hated beginnings and was horrible at endings but was very, very good in the middle.”

Where to start?

My mother was a shoeshiner and my father was a stripper.

I had a mother once. My whole life is now divided into when I used to have a mother and then the time after I didn’t. It is the Grand Canyon of my life. It is the Continental Divide.

There were already four of us when my mom and dad announced that they were pregnant again. We were on our way to church and we stopped at a fast food restaurant, one involving Kings and Burgers, for breakfast. This was a treat as breakfast usually consisted of cereal and milk or oatmeal. I remember so clearly the way the restaurant looked. I remember the way the sun came in the windows. It was late February, I think, maybe early March so the sun wasn’t the robust sun of summer, it was thin and wan, it was almost gloomy in the restaurant that morning.

I don’t remember how it was told to us, the news of the impending arrival of another sibling, I just remember our reaction, all of us whooping and hollering and making a racket. What didn’t register then, but registers now, were the knowing looks between my parents. My mother’s face, smiling and yet so tired. I didn’t know yet that my mother had started to fade away from herself. To children all mothers are tired, they don’t know yet there are places in mothers that are still young and hopeful, places that still feel beautiful and long for adventure. If your mother is still alive and you are reading this, put this away immediately and go to your mother. Look her in the face long and longer and ask her,

“Who are you when you are not being mom? Tell me about who you are.”

It’s not that mothers don’t love being mothers, no, ( I am a mother and count it the highest calling in my life), but there is more to them than the honour of having YOU. Their purpose in life isn’t simply to function as YOUR mother. If you think that then you are very selfish and ought to be ashamed of yourself.

I never got to find out who my mom was when she wasn’t being mom. I was too late. Or she left too early.

The baby was due in November. November 9th, to be exact. My mother was miserable that summer. She had to wear support hose because her legs were swelling. She turned 36 that summer, on the 17th of July. I can remember her belly and the swelling under her swimsuit, the freckles on her thighs as she waded into the pool at the athletic club by our house. She was taking water aerobics, the lone pregnant woman amongst the elderly, all moving their limbs in a graceful, albeit with pruny fingers and toes, strokes about the pool.

That was the summer my body blew up. The summer I was twelve about to be thirteen. My chest and hips started expanding rapidly. I wasn’t skinny and scrawny anymore. I was awkward and chubby and my body was determined to betray me in every way. It was horrifying. My mother took me bathing suit shopping. She picked out different styles, stood in the room with me as I struggled into and out of that array of torturous lycra humiliations, ( which, may I add, hasn't gotten any better ). We finally settled on a black and white striped one with a polka dotted little skirt on it. I thought it looked like an old lady swimsuit. Mom informed that it was “flattering”. I didn't want flattering. I wanted the old me back, the one who ran without bouncing; the one who didn't have to deal with menstruation and the idea that I could now have offspring if my "garden" was "watered".

But, "flattering". I can see now that my mom was very aware of how clumsily I was lurching into my teenage years. I can see how she was trying to help me learn to make sense of myself. I don’t know that she ever knew that every time I dove headfirst into the water that summer the top of my suit would flip down over my breasts and I would have to hike it back up before surfacing. This made it very difficult to pretend to be a mermaid. Mermaids do not hike, mermaids effortlessly EXIST while moving BEAUTIFULLY. They do not scramble about with their hands in order to yank up an offending bit of old lady suit that has escaped to their waist. I can only imagine the eyefuls that the boys with goggles (no pun intended) were privy to that summer. Flattering yes, good for diving and actual SWIMMING? No.

---

This has helped.

I think the notion of sleep has wooed my mutinous brain.

I might write more about this.

But then again, I might not.

---

Good Nighting.

Good Mornight.

Window

Well Ladies and Gentlemen, here is the song that Zack used for his short film, "Edit::Transform"...

You can only get it via podcast here as I intend to use this blog as a place to share new songs as I write them. You can give me feedback and then they might make onto an actual record. (I'm working on another right now...)

Under the Advanced tab in iTunes click on "Subscribe to podcast" the URL is --http://meghanarias.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default

You should be able to download it that way...

The song itself is only 5 minutes or so long and was recorded on a whim one night with my bandmates about a year and half ago. I found it not too long ago and shared it with Zack and he flipped out and asked me to email it to him.

The next thing I know he's made a film. ;-) I didn't know how or what he was going to use the song for. I was blown away.

If you'd like more info on my music you can visit my Website.

Edit :: Transform

Some of you may remember this post where I mentioned that Zack wanted to create something. And he wouldn't really tell me about it. I just knew he was working away on it, specifically something for Scott Kelby.

Who is Scott Kelby?

Scott Kelby is an Adobe Photohop guru who has written several bestselling books on Photoshop and has a very popular blog. He asked Zack to be the "Guest Blogger" for today.

He showed me what he was up to last night. And it blew me away. I wept as I watched it.

I.

AM.

SO.

PROUD.

OF.

HIM.

And other words, too. Just...he's just so...dang it. He's so great. I am so lucky to be married to someone where we each inspire the other, you know?

PLEASE TAKE THE TIME TO WATCH WHAT HE MADE.

You can go to Zack's blog, read his thoughts and follow the link there to Scott's blog to watch it.

I think you'll like it.

Letterboxing

I am always looking for things to do to get our boys OUTSIDE.

I stumbled across this website for Letterboxing quite by accident. And was immediately intrigued. And then I got excited.

Here's the back story, if you're interested.

Letterboxing, bascially, is a like a treasure hunt type game. Small boxes are hidden in various locations—usually outdoors, though many are planted indoors as well—and the creator of the box will release clues so others can go out and find them later. The box is expected to have a logbook that finders can log into and a unique stamp, usually hand-carved, that the finder can stamp into their own personal logbook as a record of all the letterboxes they've found. Most letterboxers have a unique stamp to represent themselves, called a signature stamp, that they stamp into the logbooks found inside letterboxes so others who find the letterbox later know they found it.

Make sense?

The first thing I did was to tell Caleb and Phoenix the whole concept and they loved it. So, we went to the bookstore to find the, and here I quote Phoenix,

"The most perfectly perfect logbook goodness that exists in the world."

We all decided on this one:

Then we had to come up with our "team" name, something appropriately cool enough and then come up with an image to go along with it. Caleb and I came up with the name, "The Bedhead Spies" and Zack came up with the stamp image. I bought a make your own rubber stamp kit and Zack created this:

We then decorated the inside cover of our Perfectly Perfect Logbook:

So, our total Letterboxing supplies consist of a homemade rubber stamp, an ink pad, a compass, a pen and our logbook. Using the letterboxing website I located a series of letterboxes that were hidden in the Decatur Cemetary not far from our house. On Saturday Zack and I took the boys, even Joshua, and starting from the main entrance gate, proceeded to follow the clues given to find the letterboxes.

IT WAS SO MUCH FUN.

Even Zack and I were getting into it, a lot, actually. The boys would run ahead, yelling and freaking out and having a blast and Zack and I would look at each other and just start giggling hysterically.

"This is AWESOME."

Here are some pictures from Saturday:

You can see in the first picture one of the stamps from another "team" that had last found that particular box before us.

We went out again on Sunday (yesterday) to find a few more and, once again, it was great. We're looking forward to finding some all over the country. I've told the boys that when Zack and I are in San Francisco this weekend that I'll do my best to find one while I'm there.

Speaking of boys, we have some serious hamster cage cleaning that needs to take place. Walking into their rooms is something akin to walking into a cesspool when it comes to the...pungent smells their hamsters create.

;-)

Joshua and the Terrifically Terrible Threes.

This is my three year old step-son, Joshua.

As is this.

And here is a picture of him sans any kind of crazy get up. He was getting his hairscut.

This child is one of the cutest human beings on the face of this earth. He is his father in miniature, without the goatee, and he MELTS ME.

Lately, however, he has been pushing everyone's buttons. He has turned into the most defiant, snotty, strong-willed little BOOGER you can imagine. Also, Zack and I have decided that he has the DNA of an ant somewhere in his body as he can smell sugar in it's smallest minutiae and find it. This morning Zack came downstairs to get the boys up and ready for school and when he went into Joshua's room he found him, in bed, without pajama pants or underwear on, a bottle of Gatorade, and the floor of his room littered with candy wrappers that he had stolen from Phoenix's room in the middle of the night. When Zack gave him a spanking (it's the only thing that SEEMS to work, anything else and he just laughs at you) he yelled at his father. And other things. Zack told me all about it, but I've forgotten the rest of it. It was bad.

I am learning how to be a step-mom. Caleb is a cinch. He's actually thanked me for loving his dad so well. He tells me he loves me and we talk and he's really a great kid. Joshua, on the other hand, will not listen to me when I ask him to do things and while he says, "I love you!", when I tuck him in at night, he's hit some kind of defiant, EVIL stage.

I know that I am not his mother, but I worry about him and Caleb both. I do not want to steal their affections or anything like that at all. But I do want to make sure that what's best for them is being done and Zack does, too. I am trying to find the line of what I think is best and where I need to just realise that they aren't my boys to parent in the way I think they should be.

I need prayer on how to best love and parent these boys and provide them with consistency. But to do it in a way that isn't overbearing. And with love.

How to do this?

Anyone have any insight?

Grown-ups and other various sundry of thoughts...

"Grown-ups love figures. When you tell them that you have made a new friend, they never ask you any questions about essential matters. They never say to you, "What does his voice sound like? What games does he love best? Does he collect butterflies?" Instead, they demand: "How old is he? How many brothers has he? How much does he weigh? How much money does his father make?" Only from these figures do they think they have learned anything about him."

~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince, 1943, translated from French

Blech.

I want to be a grown up without being so grownuppish.

I fear, however, that my hands have forgotten the feel of bark against their palms and my feet have forgotten the way mud feels between their toes and my head has forgotten the way grass feels against my hair.

My piano looks like it has missing teeth. My 3 year old step-son, Joshua, broke a few of the piano keys tonight by banging on it with our dog, Gracie's, bone. I almost lost it right there. But I did a very grown-up thing and gently picked him up and told him to never do that again. Caleb, my other step-son, had already broken a couple of the black keys a while back, and so now my poor piano looks absolutely wretched. I never had to deal with this with Phoenix. He's grown up, from in utero till now, knowing, without me having to tell him, just how important my piano is to me.

It's a hard thing not having a safe place to play.

Now I can't play it at all. Well, I can, but "key" keys are broken and it's a bit like having your heart beat but skipping every few beats. It's weird and feels funny. There are holes in the colours in my head that I notice aren't THERE.

I am tired of feeling like I'm all crinkly and crackly. Brittle. With a double chin.

Damn double chin. Of all of the things my mother could have given me genetically did she give me her teeth? Her smile? Her hair? Her narrow waist? No, these things my sister, Erin, recieved. With the exception of her red hair. No, I recieved the Brett family double chin, her temper, the line between the eyebrows from when I furrow it, her choleric nature and thick calf muscles.

It's 12:38am and I am off to bed where my husband has already been for the past hour. Being responsbily grown-up and going to bed at a decent hour. Good for him.

Cutie pie.

I suppose I shall try to get some sleep, too.

P.S. If you read this blog, I'd love to know who you are. I've got a little "Follower" thingy over there ------> somewhere. Would you be so kind as to utilize that? That way I then can read YOUR blog, too! MUAHAHAHAHAHA.

The Best and Worst Week Ever

I am not a fan of the hip-hop.

Currently this genre is what is blasting in my husband's studio at this moment.

"What, or rather who, are we listening to right now?"

"Mars Ill."

Oh. I know enough to know that they are nice dudes who didn't make it in the "Christian" music industry. Most likely because they were a bit too edgy.

I would be at home right now, due to the illness that struck me down with such fury on Tuesday, but I simply had to get out of the house. I'm hanging out at the studio while Zack works.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

Where to start?

My sweet husband has been in a FUNK.

Since...November? I dunno exactly when it started although we suspect that his slow downward spiral is directly due to the smoking cessation drug he was on, Chantix. It worked like a charm, he was actually hating smoking which was GREAT, but he was also starting to hate everything else, which was NOT great.

Christmas came and went and he was having a harder and harder time getting out of bed. My sweet, funny, laughing, darling husband was very, very, very sad.

Then his dad went into hospital at the beginning of the year. On New Years Eve Eve, to be precise. That made things worse.

And on top of that he was starting to "forget" to take the Chantix. This was making me angry at him. Well, not at HIM per se, but at the addiction he couldn't shake.

"How can you do that?", I would cry, "When your dad is lying in the hospital DYING from the very thing you're willingly doing?"

(Now, I was a smoker there, too, for a while. But I was able to quit cold turkey, the addiction wasn't so much an addiction for me as much as it was a social thing.)

Zack's face would fall, he would turn away mumbling about how he was failing at everything. Which wasn't true, but he felt it keenly, and nothing I said could convince him otherwise.

At night I would pull him close and say,

"I miss you."

"I miss me, too."

After awhile he stopped taking the Chantix altogether and slowly bits of him started to come back. So did the smoking. I shrugged my shoulders. I was frustrated but, I rationalized, better to have him here and present with me than distant and far away.

Last week, at the studio, Erik (our studio manager) and I were sitting by the computers when Zack walked around the corner and announced,

"For the next week and a half neither one of you are allowed to ask me for ANYTHING. You can't request anything of me, I'm not going to do ANYTHING but what I want to do. I have got to start shooting again and next week I'm going to bury myself in the work I feel I need to do. I'm about to crawl out of my skin."

Erik tentatively started to ask,

"But what about the invoices..."

"NOPE. Don't ask."

Erik and I exchanged glances, my face surely showing signs of curiosity mixed with frustration and a bit of relief.

Zack was back.

Monday came around and he was "busy" working on a secret project. And lining up photoshoots. And laughing. This was a relief! It was so good to know that he was feeling motivated to go to work, to get out of bed, to do LIFE. I had contacted Elite Modeling Agency on his behalf the week before hoping that a positive response from them would help to give him the boost of confidence he needed to get started shooting again. They had contacted him back, liked what they saw, and were sending him three models to work with. He was stoked.

Later on that night he disappeared for a bit and came back to the house with a brand new acoustic guitar, a ProTools Audio rig and all the necessary assortment of accessories to go along with it. (Necessary assortment of accessories. I like that. It's fun to say.)

He grinned at me, "If I'm going to be creative this week, so are you. The boys aren't here, you have the house to yourself, so dive in."

I was blown away. I cried. It was perfect. I haven't had my OWN acoustic guitar since I was 15. I was overwhelmed. I couldn't WAIT to get started.

Then Tuesday hit.

Me.

Hard.

I couldn't keep anything down. The first time I vomited it was so awful I broke what looked like all of the blood vessels in my face. Looking in the mirror at myself I managed to joke,

"This is what alien freckles would look like."

As one friend commented on Facebook,

"Ah, but the aubergine brings out your eyes."

Wednesday, same thing. By that evening, around 6pm, I had gone through a bottle of Gatorade, about a gallon and a half of water, countless glasses of juice, a sleeve of saltines and nothing was....staying with me. I had lost all energy. It was all I could do to pull myself off of the couch to make it to the bathroom in time. I didn't want to call Zack, knowing he was working away, happily, at the studio on a photoshoot. ( I was supposed to have been there to do the hair and make-up...oh well ) By 6:30pm I was on the couch, wrapped in blankets, and feeling worse than I ever have in my life.

How to describe it?

My head felt so heavy that every time I tried to move it the room would start to spin violently. Ever been so dizzy your head felt made out of lead? Then the shaking started. I could not get warm. The heat in the house was 72 degrees, I was covered in blankets on a couch that holds more heat than is normally comfortable and still I was shaking so hard I was biting my tongue to keep my teeth from chattering, and drawing blood in the process. I couldn't feel my hands anymore. Not in the, "Oh they fell asleep" kind of way, no. This was different. I pulled them out from under the covers and they had a mottled blue and purple appearance. I was freaked out.

I crawled my way to the boys bathroom and, still shaking, managed to get the hot water turned on in the bath tub. As soon as it was a little way full I threw the blankets off and got my pajama bottoms off and then my shirt but then said, "Eff it" and got in with my underwear on. I was crying, and shaking and SO COLD.

I was scared.

Things start to get hazy for me around this point. I know that I was able to get Zack on the phone from the tub.

He told me that I scared the pee out of him. He ran through 2 red lights and a stop sign trying to get home to me. Fortunately we only live about a mile and half from the studio. My poor husband came home to find me crying and shaking in the tub, a mess everywhere, and so dizzy I couldn't even stand up. I don't even know if I was answering him coherently. He called 911 and I proceeded to start vomiting again.

Zack managed to get me out of the tub, my shirt and pajama bottoms back on, and onto the couch just in time for the paramedics to arrive. They loaded me up onto a stretcher after taking my vitals.

"Her blood pressure is 97 over 43. We need to get her on the drip right away."

In the ambulance, they inserted an IV into my arm. It took a few tries as I was so dehydrated my veins wouldn't cooperate.

"Hand me a 4 x 4.", I heard one of them say.

I managed to croak out my idea of a joke,

"Please. Don't beat me with a board."

Once in the hospital, and in a room, the hospital staff waited until enough of the saline drip had gone through me so that I could give them a urine sample. They knew that my blood sugar and blood pressure were low and they knew that I was dehydrated but they needed to check for other stuff. I dunno what really. The point is that I wasn't peeing when they thought I would be. 3/4 of the way through the first bag the nurse was looking at me incredulously.

"You still don't have to go yet?"

Through my haze I said,

"Nope. Sorry."

I often joke that I have a bladder the size of a thimble. I pee a lot even when I'm not pregnant. Even I was surprised.

At some point in all of this my dear friend, Jenny Runkel, took it upon herself to come to the hospital. I'm so glad she did. She is SO DEAR to me! I think, upon entering, she said,

"Meghan...what did you DO?", in a way that only she can. Made me laugh.

She visited with me a little bit, making sure I was warm, checking the fetal monitor that they had wrapped around me. Which was good to have on by the way. By that first bag of fluids, my baby boy was back to kicking up a storm, as per usual and by the time Jenny was praying for me, had started a rhythmic round of hiccups. It was comforting to hear his heartbeat steadily thumping away. Zack was bobbing his head in time to it,

"My little techno boy."

By the second bag of saline, the nurse had given up asking me about my potential for filling a cup. Finally, towards the end of that second bag, I felt the familiar twinge.

I also felt like a new human being. I could see the relief on Zack's face when I started to crack jokes from the toilet,

"Hi, are you Zack Arias, the UsedFilm guy?", I started to re-inact the day we met, then I pretended to be him,

"Yeah, are you Meghan Coffee?"

"Yep! Nice to meet you!"

"Nice to meet you, too!"

"So...I know this is crazy but in about 6 years you and I will be married, I'll be carrying your child and we'll be in the ER of DeKalb Medical while you hold my fluid bag for me while I struggle to get to the toilet to pee in a small cup."

A couple of hours later I was allowed to go home. The nurses informed me that, based on the amount of fluids I had taken in, I must have been close to losing 10% of the fluids in my body. 2%, they told me, is when a person FEELS thirst. That's not good. At 5% a person needs to go to the hospital immediately an by 10% it's life threatening.

Wow.

That was sobering.

At least it wasn't because I wasn't TRYING to keep fluids in me.

Thursday Zack didn't leave my side except for a doctor's appointment he had made 3 weeks prior to talk about the Chantix and what it had done to him. It was a good visit, the doctor listened to him, told him to stay away from the Chantix, and gave him some advice on what to do next. All good things. I was so pleased for him.

Today I was stuck at the house again, because I still haven't beaten this thing. Zack was in the studio all day working with the three male models that Elite had sent to him for testing.

I was going STIR CRAZY. I was still too weak to do anything constructive, like clean my house, do laundry. There sat my brand new recording gear, untouched, although I was playing the heck out my guitar. But still. I hate feeling helpless. Hate it.

When Zack came home he informed me that he still had to go BACK to the studio to get some more work done and so I asked to come with him. Just to get out of the house.

And so, here I am, in his pajama bottoms, a ratty ol' shirt and a hoody, glasses, my hair wild, no make-up. Seriously I could pass for a bag lady.

But I'm so happy because, well, I'm sitting next to my man. Side by side. Working away. And HE'S happy. And the stuff he's shot over the past few days is SICK. In a good way.

And, I'm okay. And the baby is okay.

Everything is good and lovely.

Every good and perfect gift comes from the Father.

Thank you, Jesus.

I'm hoping by tomorrow I'll feel even MORE normal.

And dangit all...I want a DAMN SANDWICH OR SOMETHING.

Homeless

Ever since I left Trinity Vineyard I have been searching for a new place to call "home". Zack has, too. The reasons that we stopped going are too long to explain here (one day I shall) but let's just say for now that it was to prevent potential awkwardness and ill-will.

Nevertheless to leave a place that I had helped to START was hard. And painful. I lost a lot of friends and people I considered family. Thus the feeling of homelessness when it came to trying to find a spiritual community and a place where life could be walked out with a group of people who know me well.

Zack and I have both struggled with finding this place. We've visited several churches, Buckhead Church being the one place we would go to most often, because of my involvement with their music department. I have been "hired" several times to close out their service with music and, by default, have beome friends with the staff at Buckhead like Carlos and Rachel. And I love them there. But Zack and I really don't feel called there at all.

I also have to mention that it was because of Buckhead Church and my playing there that led Scott and Jenny Runkel, a couple who are quickly becoming Zack and I's favourite people in the world, to buy my CD in the church bookstore; for Jenny to call out to me on the escalator that she liked my music; and then running into them in the parking garage one Sunday, that, in an indirect way, has led to this post.

Did that make sense at all?

We had dinner with Scott and Jenny the other night and were talking about the need to find community and how we don't feel connected or called to Buckhead. Scott and Jenny feel the same way and Scott told us of a pastor he met at a Wovenhand concert (David Eugene Edwards of previous 16 Horsepower fame, I was at that show too!) and how this fellow, also named Scott, was starting a church on the Eastside. We checked out the website and, this morning, did the thing that so many others do every Sunday. We showed up as visitors.

Immediately when we entered I felt at home. It was familiar in a strange way and there was the palpable sense of LIFE and joy. They don't have their own building, they meet in the community center of Studioplex (ironically Zack's 1st studio was in Studioplex a few years ago) and have the classic church plant feel of the set up chairs, small sound system, slight disarray, etc. Everything that feels normal to me having been a part of a few church plants now!

Scott Armstrong, the pastor, gave a great sermon on beauty, touching on a subject that I feel quite passionately about but I have to say, that the thing that was the most amazing about this morning was that Zack and I both felt peace and the presence of the Lord. It's been a long time. To take communion, to worship with people who were singing from their hearts, to hear the sound of babies fussing in the back... I dunno. It was just...refreshing.

Zack and I spoke to Scott afterwards and he thanked us for coming and asked if we could have coffee sometime this week. That was encouraging. We have a lot of questions for him and, Zack and I agree, we need to tell him our story and where we come from and all that.

I know that this blog doesn't make a lot of sense but I am just so thrilled that the potential of finally having a "home" is a very real possibility. It's a new sensation for me to be the visitor. I was raised in the Atlanta Vineyard and then got involved with VSN that became Trinity. I never had deal with this. It gives me a new appreciation for what it's like to walk into a place for the first time.

I'm thankful for today. I'm thankful for new beginnings. I'm thankful for so much.

Here's hoping this is the start of a VERY long chapter of our life. Or, dare I say, a whole 'nother book.

The Will to Live and Living Wills

It's noon o'clock and yet I am still groggily ensconced in my owl print pajama bottoms, a sleeve of fig newtons to my left, grey skies up above and a labradoodle puppy lovingly licking my right foot. I wish I could find a way to justify staying this way all day. To not leave the house. To remain in a blissfully irresponsible and lazy state. Play the piano, have some hot tea, let my fingers trail over the spines of my books until one of them catches me by the hand and asks to be read. My house is quiet.

Listen.

The click clack of Gracie's nails across the floor and the lapping, nay...the sloshing of her drinking water. The sound of my heartbeat in my ears. My breath going out and coming in again. ( So grateful for breathing now knowing what Martin is going though) The slight high ringing noise, a case of tinnitus I have, in my right ear. That's it.

It's glorious.

Oh 2009. What will you bring? 2008 was fraught with all manner of amazing, stressful, overwhelming moments. 10 years of living, it felt like, packed into one year. A lot of travel, marriage, moving into a new house, more traveling, pregnancy, the loss of Craig, blending a family, trying to find a church, severe illness in Zack's dad, getting a new dog, selling and buying a car, being newlyweds.

I'm exhausted.

Zack and I stayed up way too late last night discussing, and then starting, our living wills and last will and testament. Really uplifting and fun stuff to talk about. We found out that there are still double lots available in the northeast corner of the historic Decatur cemetary where we live and that we can get a pair for 3K each. So 6K for the two of us to be buried side by side in the city we call home. Zack made the morbid joke of, "Gosh, in the meantime, for six grand can we have parties there? And picnics?" Seeing his dad, Martin, in ICU has had a huge impact on Zack. Thus one of the reasons he's become obsessed with making his will. Talking about what each of us would want should we end up in the hosptial and beyond hope of recovery.

Zack just brought me a Nutty Irishman coffee drink from Chocolaté. And a ham and cheese croissant.

I am loved.

(sigh)

Finally.

Martin Arias...

Right now, in the G wing of Emory University Hospital, my father-in-law is fighting for his life. He is 78. My brother-in-law, Chris, sent out an email yesterday that I thought was wonderful and so I am going to copy his words here.

"Hello all-

I'm kind of just getting my day started. My brother called at 12:30 this morning to let me know that our dad had been admitted to the ER at Emory and had nearly gone into cardiac arrest when he arrived.

We got there about 2:00 and didn't meet with a doctor until 6:30. He has been stabilized and is on a ventilator. They have him heavily sedated so he won't try to remove the tube.

Dad is 78 and has had COPD for several years but is in generally robust health, so he has that in his favor. As of this afternoon, his blood gasses are improving steadily and the prognosis seems generally hopeful.

The main reason for his distress is that he would not go to the doctor at the first signs of trouble. He thought he was experiencing a passing episode and would shake it off in a few hours. By the time he decided to go, he was in more trouble than he realized.

I add this detail for all those of us who are medical procrastinators - myself included. Whatever you've been putting off till later, make the appointment today, okay? May a word to the wise be sufficient.

Please pray that his lungs will continue to improve and remember how to do their job so he can been weaned from the ventilator. And please pray that once he pulls through - Lord willing - the conga line of friends and family who are ready to smack him for being obstinate with his health will err on the side of being gracious and loving and remember how grateful we are to have him.

He and my stepmom are planning for their full retirement at the end of '09 and we'd be very grateful to the Lord if he allows them the opportunity to have their romp around the country together. Still, this is a timely reminder that while we may make our plans but the outcome is ultimately in our Father's hands.

Assuming I'm like most people, we tend not to number our days, or better put, we tend to over-number them in our minds. If we're honest with ourselves, we take for granted that we have 70, 80, 90 years. Against that backdrop, a few days of workaholism, a few moments of procrastination or inertia don't seem too sinister. But our culture, our flesh and our enemy conspire to help us turn those moments and days into weeks and months and years before we even know what has happened.

A single day out of ten or twenty thousand available in the future is cheap. A single day out of your last seven is beyond value. We usually assume the 20,000 until someone tells us it's less - assuming we're even given the luxury of a warning. Maybe we work a few too many hours and call it wise planning for future security. Maybe we take a few too many naps and tell opurselves there's plenty of time before the harvest. Whatever future our minds are fixed on while our tomorrows become yesterdays, it is astonishingly simple to lose the reality and beauty of today, no matter what it holds.

We often hear people lament the things they never did or said, relationships they chose not to pursue, missed opportunities. It seems like all of these are symptoms of not being present at the moment of choice. "Should I tell her how I feel right now?" Our minds jump to the future, no matter how near or far wondering what she "will" think. And in those brief moments of considering the ramifications on an imagined future, we miss the moment, and it passes un-experienced and un-lived. An un-lived moment is an incredible waste.

To be sure, we each have a list - maybe a long one - of things we wish we hadn't done or said. Speaking for myself, when I make a quick inventory of regrets and break them up into "Wish I Had" and "Wish I Hadn't" lists, I realize that they carry very different weights. Most of the things I wish I hadn't done or said have, in the long run, led to opportunities for understanding, healing or forgiveness that would not likely have happened without some seminal moment or event.

Indeed, the one consistent characteristic is that they were things I actually did, that I actually said. For better or for worse, they were nonetheless moments that I actually lived, spoke and acted. And while there are a few that will forever remain dark and sordid pictures in my past, the great majority taught me something valuable about myself, about God, about others or the world around me that I may not have learned otherwise.

In contrast the "Wish I Had" list holds a surprising number of items that still haunt me, that still leave me wondering what would've happened, what could've happened. There is no recourse for the things that never actually happened. Only a foggy hole in my memory with nothing to fill it.

The other distinction is that those items on the "Wish I Hadn't" list propel me to live differently and live in the moment. Most of the "Wish I Had's" pull me into longer periods of lingering in the past - stealing even more moments from the present. It's like they're doubly destructive.

Truth is, I have missed lots and lots of todays with my dad, always assuming that I could have another one tomorrow if I wanted to. Many of those tomorrows became yesterdays before I even realized it. I hope I have more opportunities to be present with him in the truest sense of the word. But not knowing whether I will or not casts that pile of un-lived yesterdays in sharp relief. It's staggering.

I am filled with the same desire to truly be present with my wife and kids, my mom, brothers, nieces and nephews, friends and cowworkers. In short, I'd like to actually be present in the moments that make up a lifetime, not straining to focus on tomorrow's goals or future fears or obsessed with some triumph, hurt or sorrow from the past.

No new or original thoughts here...They're just real and personal in a way that's new for me. Sometimes it takes a shock to the system to see things with clarity if only for a moment. This is my feeble attempt to share my shock with you in the hopes that it might help you actually experience the gift that is this very day.

Be goofy. Be sappy. Be corny. Be honest. Be fearlessly yourself.

Sorry for the long note. Didn't have time for a short one.

Freedom-

chris"

Strangely enough, in the E wing of Emory University Hospital, a friend of mine,
Stuart Smartt, is also fighting for his life. He's 31. He has cancer. A form of Lymphoma.

If you have read this, please pray for Martin and for Stuart. Both of these men, 47 years apart in age, are remarkably wonderful, engaging, inspring men to be around and we want them with us as long as possible.

My Husband

This will not be a very long post, merely because I do not want to bore and/or nauseate any of my readers...

BUT.

I have such overwhelming gratitude and love and joy and respect for my husband, Zachary Brandon Arias.

My heavenly Father loved me enough to bless me with an amazing man. He is everything I ever wanted and then some. He has shown me Jesus more than anyone else ever has. The way he treats me and loves me and cares for me and covers me...I am humbled by it all.

Right now Zack isn't doing anything terribly remarkable. He's sitting across from me, typing away on his computer, looking adorable and muttering to himself about the woes and trials of Facebook. From my vantage point I can clearly see the tattoo on his right forearm, of the eagle rising up from bones, and the words from my song, "Made For Glory".

I was reading a blog post earlier that Kris McDaniel, a man I highly respect and love, wrote where he was talking about how one can have a romantic love, but it's only after a long time, the settling in, that that love becomes deep and true. I agree with this. It's a wonderful post, you should go and read it.

But it got me to thinking, I wonder if some people, because of past experiences, are more able to love deeply and truly because of the gratitude for what they have now? When one has been through hell and back, been through the wringer and then is blessed to come to a place where they are unconditionally and irrevocably loved, the gratefulness, the humility, is indescribable. A bit like being forever thirsty and finally having water. A bit like never having warmth and finally having a fire. I doubt that those who longed for water or warmth will ever take it for granted again.

I say this because it is true for me. Whenever I get pissy or moody or downright WRETCHED, which happens, suprsingly ;-) I remind myself that when I was undeserving, when I thought that I was damaged goods because I couldn't hold on any longer, when I thought that I was doomed to be an outsider the Lord redeemed me and loved me and restored my heart and gave me a man who is absolutely the most wonderful person in the world for me. I pray that I have as many years as I can with this man to be able to love him in the best way that I can.

The End

A Peacock Blue Glass Bottle With Pattern

I must have sat here for a full 120 seconds staring at the title section trying to come up with something to put there. I don't have anything truly definite to write. It's just that it's been a while since I've written here and the other day I was talking with my friend Cindy and she said, "I'll have to read your blog...." and I was thinking, "Good Lord. I have nothing on there of merit to READ."

I find that I am in a bit of a strange predictament. I have loads of things I'd love to write about but I'm never in the right spot to write them down. And why is it that I can compose seemingly brilliant observations in my head, paragraphs of perfectly pleasing pontification on something extraordinarily interesting but then, when I go to write it down, everything scurries off into the corners of my brain ( The proverbial corners. Everyone knows brains don't have corners. ) and refuses to come out?

This Man-Cub is moving. He is fond of my bladder and the top of my cervix. He pummels away on them, with much vim and vigor and pays no attention whatsoever to my protests and jumping jacks to get him to stop. My sister, Erin, just last night showed me what she did when her babies did the same to her. "Like this," she said, "you've got to do this." She then proceeded to kneel down, place her cheek on the floor and then raised her derriere in the air and in a muffled voice said, "Then the baby will slide toward your front." I'll tell you it looked like a particularly odd yoga move or something one would do to alleviate gas. I'll try it soon, when no one is looking. It's not the most flattering position.

We are getting Zack's studio ready for the opening party tomorrow night. I am also getting ready for a long weekend as I am a part of Married Life Live again this year. I had forgotten how stressed out it makes me. When I'm singing my songs, I'm fine. It's when I'm having to learn and sing other's songs that I freak a little bit. I've never liked learning how to play things note by note. Plus, two whole days completely surrounded by people and being on stage leaves me in a zombie like state for a week. A wander around and stare at things without reason and eventually, four bubble baths, two books and five good sleeps later I have recovered. But I love working with Rachel and Danny and that is really the only reason I do it. I'm craving friendship, of which I have very little in the real life day to day form. It sucks.

I love flowers. Caleb, my oldest step-son asked me one day, "Why do you always have to buy flowers?" I said, "Well, flowers make a house a home. They make everything happier."

It's true. Even my modest little Alstromerias are doing their best to perk up my dining room.

I'm in a bit of a creative dry spell. This does not scare me as I have been through countless others, but I do wish it would hurry up and get over itself. My newest project, The Vitreous Humour, is still percolating in my heart and in my head but isn't pouring out yet, just letting out sweet aromas and I smell the air and think, "Soon. Soon I'll be able to drink out of this deeply."

There's a basket of laundry that has been mocking me since yesterday so I shall go attack it, put it into submission, show it who's boss.

Funny how once I start writing here, it starts to make more sense as I go along. Oh yes, my fingers seem to say, your thoughts and us, your fingers. We should get together more. I shall try to arrange more play dates for them. I always feel a bit better after.

Cindy Stephens posted this on her blog today and I thought it looked like fun so I tried it.

Grab the nearest book.
* open the book to page 56.
* find the fifth sentence.
* post the text of the next two to five sentences in your blog along with these instructions.
* don't dig for your favorite book, the cool book, or the intellectual one: pick the CLOSEST.

So.

The closest book to me was "English Prose and Poetry". Zack found it for me in an antique shop.

"And poured it into his wounde;
That made his veynes full and sounde.
And tho sche made his wounde clos,
And tok his hand, and up he ros."

There you have it. A little poetry from Geoffrey Chaucer. Poor fellow. He must have made VERY poor marks on his spelling test. ;-)

I've been tagged...

by my good friend, Kara Sutton. The other day, when she and I were hanging out, she mentioned that I should write on here more, and I've been meaning to. Truly. It's just that...I haven't. So, this is an excuse to re-introduce myself to this blog. And try to actually use it.

Okay, here we go. Seven random and/or weird facts about yours truly:

1. I have sat here for about 15 minutes trying to think of seven things to mention and instead became mezmerized by the way the sunlight was flickering on the leaves of the tree outside my living room wndow. Which led me to think of the word "dappled", which led me to think of the etymology of that word, which led me to look it up. And now I am back.

dap·pled (dāp'əld) Pronunciation Key
adj. Spotted; mottled.

[Middle English, probably from Old Norse depill, spot, splash, diminutive of dapi, pool.]

I guess this can be used to demonstrate that I have an insatiable desire to know WHY all the time.

2. According to my husband, Zack, the question I ask the most, and often is, "Why?". It drives him crazy. I don't even realise that I'm doing it. But, see #1 above. It makes sense that I do. Zack now satiates this desire in me by buying me random books like, "Why Do Men Have Nipples? Hundreds of Questions You'd Only Ask Your Doctor After Your Third Martini". Zack knows me really well.

3. I, too, like Kara, love to make lists. I have them everywhere. I find that I can't sleep at night with everything that's racing around in my brain and when I write it down, I feel better.

4. I ADORE GARLIC. Anything with garlic in it makes me happy. I used to make garlic toast so much as a kid and teenager that I have now ruined my sister, Erin, for life. She can't stand the smell of it because of me. But I LOVE IT SO.

5. I used to think, when I was a little girl, that my guardian angel was french. Now I know that she is a large black woman named, Mimosa. Which, incidentally, has nothing to do with the book "The Shack" in which God is portrayed as a large, black woman. I had a dream about Mimosa years ago. Actually, I've had two dreams about her. In the first, I was me, only as an old woman, and Mimosa told me some amazing things and then I played with my grandkids in the snow. The second dream I had, Mimosa held me in her lap and hummed a song while I wept and wept. It was intense.

6. I hear colour. Some of you already know this. For me, every note and tone I hear has a different colour. I tend to base everything off of my piano, though. To me it's the only place where the colour is the best. If that makes sense. For instance, the yellow of the Middle C of my piano is better than the yellow of other Middle C notes that I hear. Every piano and instrument makes the same colours for me in the sounds but the...saturation? is different. I assumed that everyone heard music this way. It's only in the past couple of years that I finally found out that this isn't so. Werid for me though. It's like trying to understand that no one else can smell anything, or something.

7. I miss acting. I used to love to act when my mom was alive. And then, after she died, I stopped. Mostly because there was no one to take me to auditions, but also because I didn't have the heart to do so. I sometimes look at the audition section in the Creative Loafing just to see what's out there. I don't think I'll ever do it again, because, weirdly, despite what people seem to believe about me in DROVES, I don't like being on stage. But, I love the theatre so much!

And there you have it.

I don't think that I know seven people who blog who will actually DO this but I'll try.

Well, here goes...

Kara Pecknold

Rachel Bos

Kelle Ortiz

Cindy Stephens

Heather Whittaker

Jennifer Carr

Jayna Christopher

Beer

I miss it.

I will start my own beer brewing company.

Too much to do today to start on the actual writings I have been writing that I am planning on writing about.

Soon.

On a side note, for some reason, this pregnancy has caused my body to create copious amounts of mucous which congregates in my sinuses and face. I'm going through tissue paper (the nose kind, not the gift kind) in mass quantities. As in I am taking out whole TREES here.

I need to get up and get dressed.

Zack just walked through the room and informed me that my boobs are looking exceptionally beautiful this morning.

I have just looked at them long and hard and from this angle there doesn't seem to be all that much of the beautiful about them. They look predictably mammary-ish to me. And sore.

The day looks pleased with itself. Looking out the window it seems to have a smug quality, as in,

"Yesh. I know. I AM lovely."

Alright.

Must.

Pull.

Myself.

Together.

Stuff.

To.

Do.