2 month 2019 resolution check-in

Let's see how I'm doing two months in on the resolutions. I rate myself with numbers from 1-10. Always working to have a total 50-50 by the end of the year. Hasn't happened yet, but one never knows...

1. Tackle a project once a month - First, glad I didn't say finish, although I did mention it in my synopsis of this resolution. But it isn't in the heading. Second, I didn't say a new project, so January and February were spent working on the same project. Which still isn't completed. But...I worked like a fiend on my project both months, so that counts big time. Score - 7 
2. Finish my book by the end of January, begin editing it, and start writing book #2 - Okay, Madison was right. I spent way too much time tackling the January project alongside the book writing and got too caught up. How well that kid knows her mother, huh? I'm taking out by the end of January FYI. Because it's my resolution and I can. However, I'm only 5 chapters away from the finish. Feeling pretty good about having it all mapped out, so there is that. Plus, I've written over 20,000 words in the last two months. So there! Score: 7
3. Learn the next step in the writing career (i.e., writing a synopsis, querying an agent, etc.). - Hmmm...well haven't necessarily started this one yet although I did have an agent read my first page of the book and give her opinion. (She was interested and said she'd at this point quickly turn to the synopsis because I'd hooked her with my twist) The agent was our February speaker at my writer's group, and she discussed how to query an agent, so BOOM I have worked on it. Score: 5
4. Adopt a healthier lifestyle (including eating, exercising, sleeping, and vitamins) - I have done really well on eating. I'm proud of this one. I've also begun walking on the beach. I started out maintaining a sleep schedule which somehow fell to the wayside in the past two weeks. Gotta get back on that. Keep forgetting the vitamins. Score: 6
5. Use more Wyndham points this year than last year - I did sell some points for February, and I'm looking to use points in the next two weeks, so I'm working well on this one too. Score: 5

Total: 30 out of 50. Hey! Not bad. Not bad at all for the first two months. I'll take it!

February 2019 project

Each month I'm to tackle a project for my 2019 New Year's Resolutions. I did not, however, say it had to be a different project, so February was still a carryover on January's project, which was to edit and tighten this blog. Whoa. Big job. I have 95 pages of this blog. Each page has 25 entries. I've completed 10 pages in two months, editing 250 blog entries. Not a mean fete considering all the other nonsense I'm doing--like writing that damn book.

With the help of my handy dandy Grammarly account, I've seen the mistakes that made my mother cringe. Those are being corrected. I've added photos to accompany blog entries, and I've laughed and lamented the loss of friends. I've remembered life occurrences I've forgotten. I've decided to repost some good posts, and I can't wait to have it all done so that I can make a book.

Maybe, and I can hear Madison's lecture now, I'll just add each project to the next project. At some point, one of them is bound to be completed, right? In the meantime, enjoy this little gem--my very first Out of the Mouths of My Babes. It's my favorite label in the entire blog and will probably just get its own book when the time comes. My kids say the darndest things...

From the Archives - January 4, 2005

Sarina: "Miss Cara, Darcy just ate something and then wiped her hands on her pants."

Me: "Well, Sarina, I suppose I could make my kids do their own laundry. Make both girls carry their laundry down to the river where they will have to wash their clothes with rocks."

Sarina: "Poor people have to wash their clothes in the river."

Darcy: "Why?"

Sarina: "Poor people don't have any washing machines."

Me: "Well, Kelly doesn't have a washing machine. But then again, she thinks she is poor."

Darcy: "Kelly isn't poor."

Sarina: "How do you know that?"

Darcy: "Because she has a purse."

Kill the mustard algae

This past summer pool care became my chore. Before then, it belonged to my husband--that whole indoors/outdoors pact I insisted we make and I hold him to it, so he takes care of what is outside the house and I the inside. To be fair, I think he enjoyed maintaining the pool. He found it relaxing after a long day indoors at a desk. But this summer, I took over due to time constraints and my own search for relaxation or maybe an escape from something indoors. I.E., writing the book?

It kicked my ass. Maintaining the pool against Florida's summer weather and yellow mustard algae sneaking in overnight to cover the sides of my pool even though I'D JUST VACUUMED IT SEVERAL HOURS PRIOR, was a nightmare. It was a tiny war I would never become victorious in, and it was a constant fight. If prepping to vacuum wasn't such a chore, I might have won at least once a day, but getting out the vacuum and hooking it up is worse than the task itself!

Our vacuum is coiled inside a plastic bin on the outside of our screened in patio. It has to be uncoiled, brought through the propped open door, attached to the vacuum, and then filled with water. It sounds easy, but believe me, it isn't. 

First, there is the issue of the coiling that has to be done when putting the vacuum hose back into the bin. It doesn't tuck in nicely. Oh, no. It has to be twisted and twisted into various positions, and that means the process has to be reversed when getting the hose out for vacuuming. Secondly, once the hose and vacuum are ready and in the pool, I have to make sure the pole is secure enough that when I leave it to turn on the pump, the damn thing won't slip to the bottom. If it does, I have to enter the pool to retrieve it.

It's a terrible job.

By the time I'm ready to vacuum the pool, which takes all of fifteen minutes, seeing that our pool is small and made of fiberglass, I'm soaking wet. SOPPING WET. Drenched in sweat from the 100% humidity and 95-degree weather and blaring sun we get in the summer. I'm blind in both eyes from salty sweat, and I have a disposition that matches the heat of the sun. It isn't pretty. The only good side is I get to jump into the water when the pool is finally vacuumed. If I don't have somewhere else that I need to be.

By early September of last summer, I decided we needed a creeping vacuum. Last weekend I researched them, so I'd have plenty of time to prep the husband toward this purchase and be ready for summer, which is arriving sooner than last year if heat is any indication. My husband is big into researching any big-ticket items, and thus, I began by Googling the top automatic pool vacuum cleaners.

It wasn't difficult. There were plenty of sites where experts and everyday people tried out several brands of such vacuums and shared their knowledge and wisdom. Most all of the sites listed one vacuum in each category, including the best vacuum for an economical price. This is the one I wanted because not only would it convince the husband, but my pool is not a large hole with a capacity to hold a hydrant of water. It is small. It doesn't need some crazy expensive roving vacuum that licks the sides and bottoms of my pool with a tongue.

I read the comments on Amazon, where I could purchase the vacuum, doing so aloud so the husband could hear. I spent most of Sunday morning researching. By the time I was finished I had decided on this vacuum:

I announced my decision, put it into my Amazon wish list for later, and closed the computer to move on to my writing.

Tom: "Wait, what did you decide? Did you find a vacuum?"

Bottom line? He conducted his own research. He does this often. He tells me to research something, doesn't believe me when I offer the results, and does it himself. I should be used to this by now, yet it annoys me every time. I left him to it, and in the end, he agreed that for less than a hundred dollars, we should buy the vacuum, and he did. Ordered it right up. In February.

It arrived two days later. Saturday, we tackled installation.

He has a system. He likes to take everything out of the box and lay it out to make sure all of the pieces have come in the box. Me? I cut to the chase, read the directions, and pull out the parts when needed. I did that earlier in the day just to be sure we had everything. This way, I was prepared for his nonsense.

It didn't seem that complicated. I read the directions, and he listened. Then he asked questions, and I reread the instructions. From there, he took the manual, read the directions, and did what it said. We should have our own YouTube channel.

It was a quick installation, although there was more horsing around than constructing, and eventually, the vacuum was ready to go. We powered it on, made a few minor adjustments that required my entering the water to knee level, but for the most part, it worked like every vacuum I've ever encountered in my visits to a vast amount of different pools over the years as a swimming instructor. 

If it cleans even half the amount of mustard algae this summer, I will have gotten my money's worth. Fingers crossed. 

Disinfecting the germs

I'm a believer in signs. Some call it fate. Others, divine intervention. It's been a long week. I learned something that upset me, and since it isn't mine to share, I won't, but know that it brought me to my knees. 

That happens ever so often. I tootle along, content in the way I've handled life, and BAM, like walking into a wall, reality hits. I usually know beforehand, odd as that might seem, but there is a feeling, almost a sense of dread. I'm never truly prepared. BAM!

The first few days following, I didn't sleep. I existed because I had to. I sought counsel, met things straight on, researched, and talked my way through moving forward. As I struggled, I found signs--dialogue from a book I read. Words from strangers. Lyrics in songs. Things that said to me, blame yourself, absolve, make plans, keep trucking.

Midway through the week, our weather in one night went from the seventies to the forties. When I first moved to Florida, someone told me that the reason why I was sick often was the state rarely got cold enough to clear out the germs. Wednesday, the bacteria were cleared, and I managed to stand--tip-toeing, but upright.

Damn. Life is hard, isn't it? There is the good, the bad, the ugly, and, hopefully, much more good. It's hard not to want to solve everything, to erase the bad and the ugly, but slowly, this week, I've had the wake-up call. It's easy to be judgmental. Not so easy when the tables are turned.

Life.

I'll learn from it. Already, I'm listening more. I've readjusted things. I'm protecting better, loving greater. I'm grateful to you who've helped, who've reached out and especially to you who haven't run. Thank you, my peeps.

Through the storm

My dog is not one for affection. Elliot doesn't seek out the humans for petting or lap sitting unless you have food. He'll then put up with anything in the off chance you'll take pity on him and offer a morsel delight.

He prefers to come to humans when he wants a belly scratch, pounding his paw on the floor or couch until he gets it. But a human attempting to do that without permission? You'll get the look, and he'll move away. 

Up until two years ago, he never cared one iota about storms. Sometimes he'd bark at thunder, but that was it until our new neighbors next door set off fireworks when Tom and I weren't home. They did this directly outside our house for hours. The girls said it was what they imagined of a war zone under attack. The result--my dog is terrified of anything involving loud popping, grumbling, sparking noises like storms.

A few weeks ago, we had one in the night. I awoke with the feeling that something wasn't right. Sure enough, I found myself staring straight into the eyes of Elliot, who stood at my bedside like Darcy used to do after a nightmare--not speaking, just staring. As soon as he saw me awake, he began these pitiful little whines. I put him on the bed and spent the next twenty minutes comforting him.

It happened again last night. We hadn't been in bed long, maybe fifteen minutes, and I was in that period of wakefulness and sleep, drifting slowly toward the sleep portion when a rash of acorns hit our roof, the wind howled, and suddenly our room was lit up as if Alexa had turned on our bedroom light. Within seconds we had the BOOM. I could hear Elliot pacing from his sleep spot under the window to my side of the bed and back again. I got up to use the bathroom before tending to him.

FYI--I don't use lights at night. So, I sat on the toilet to do my thing in the dark, and suddenly there was my dog intertwined in my legs, nose on my thigh, whining. What the what? I pushed him gently away, and gently he returned. 

He ended up in our bed.

He rarely sleeps in our bed. At least not when we are in it. He has a spot at the end of the bed by the window where he sits during the day to keep an eye on the hood, and occasionally I've found him napping.

But when we are in bed? Yeah, rarely his thing. Sometimes on the weekends, he'll jump up to check on why Tom hasn't awakened, standing over him, pawing him to make sure he's alive, and if Tom responds sleepily, Elliot will lie down at the foot of the bed. Other times, he'll be on the bed before we crawl in, and we try to keep him with us, but he doesn't like the idea of getting in between us. In fact, if I face him, Elliot will turn around and offer me his rear. If I face away from him, he'll turn back around. Not a dog that loves attention.

But last night? Last night that dog was practically on top of me. For an hour, I had to keep my arm around him while the thunder howled, the lightning roared, and Tom snored, oblivious to it all. Elliot began at my feet for all of one minute before he was standing over me. I finally got him to lie down between us, and Elliot settled in under my armpit, keeping an eye on the window, his distress in his panting, his yawning, and his sad little whines. I lay awake until almost one o'clock, petting him and speaking reassurances in a low volume. He has never let me pet him and love on him this long in the nine years we've had him.

Despite the late hour and the stress he was under, I will admit to a tiny piece of joy. I was needed again. By a child frightened and seeking maternal comfort. Elliot didn't go to his father, and make no mistake, this dog is my husband's dog, but as did my children, Elliot knew.

He knew who would give him soothing, reassurance, and loving attention. I did as I'd done with my girls, and as I did then, I lay quietly offering the dog what he needed, pushing aside my own sleep, secretly enjoying the little bit of time I got to spend loving on my child.

Ah, the good old days. Only seriously, just like my children, this dog needs to brush his teeth.

Soft irony

There is soft piped music in the food court of the mall. The place is buzzing with activity; workers on their dinner breaks, shoppers relaxing, their purchases in slick bags with handles and bouche names like Gucci, Boss, and Klein. 

I'm watching a couple with two small girls across from me at a table pushed against a wall. They're young; both the parents and the girls. The youngest child is not quite two, the top of her diaper peeking out of her pants at the waist. The other child is a toddler, old enough to hold a slice of pizza but young enough to want to eat it under two chairs she's pushed together at a bar top behind her parents' table.

They're weary, the couple. The youngest child is not happy. Earlier, while mother and toddler were off purchasing the food, she refused to sit and struggled in her father's arms when he corraled her, tiny whines slowly growing in volume until he set her back on her feet and off she went. He carries a backpack full, I'm sure, of the items parents need--diapers, wipes, changes of clothing, snacks. Two sippy cups are tucked neatly into pouches on either side of the bag, and he removes them in hopes the child will want liquid. She doesn't. She wants to roam freely, preferably away from her parents and her sister.

Hopes for a sit-down dinner lasted five minutes before the eldest left to build her eating area, and to pacify the youngest, mother has plopped the child into a chair across from me. They are cushioned, rattan chairs, four of them gathered around a white coffee table. I suppose for people like myself who need a place to sit for some reason or another. I am waiting for my youngest daughter, whose earlier cryptic text has brought me here after my writers' group. I have time to kill before she gets off work.

The parents want the girls to eat. Dad tries to tempt the older one with a slice of pizza, kneeling at her level, hand reaching between the two chairs, and he smiles in relief when she bites. Mother has a piece of pizza at the end of a fork. She approaches the youngest, Nora, I've learned is her name, with trepidation. Nora is happily sitting in the chair, babbling to herself and studying me and her surroundings. She isn't interested in the fork full of doughy cheesy goodness offered by mother who waves the fork and speaks in a sing-song baby voice to convince Nora that pizza is oh, so fantastic. The child shoves away mother's hand, shaking her head and letting it be known she's not buying that crap. Sister arrives to force the issue, her method cooing and shoving her head into her sister's belly. 

Of course, her way has the opposite effect. Nora erupts, squawking loudly, banging her feet against the cushion. Sister is directed back to her fort.

The parents' food is cold. They've given up, crushing the uneaten food in wrappers to be tossed in a nearby trash can. I recognize the familiar dark circles under their eyes, the wary look in their eyes, and I want to enfold them in my arms, pat their backs, and whisper, "There, there."

I want them to see these two as I do--happy tykes with a healthy dose of curiosity. Who cares if they aren't eating? They'll be fine for some time. Laugh and enjoy these moments, I want to say as others used to tell me. Even in this blip of craziness that has caused them to second guess their reasoning for mall shopping with their girls, I want to say--don't sweat these antics.

In a blink of an eye, they will be grown, off on their own adventures, and you will be me sitting in a chair at the mall worrying about why the youngest needs her mother. 

Oh, how I long for those days, and yes, I remember being stressed and unhinged as these parents are now.

Nora has moved. She's retrieved her sister's cup with the straw and removed the lid. Her little hand reaches inside and swirls. She removes it, dripping with liquid, to swipe it over the cushion on the chair next to me. She's so happy, talking aloud, reaching in for more liquid to swipe across the chair in circular motions. 

"Ceaning!" she shrieks when her mother notices, horrified, her brain already flipping through its files. Do I have something to clean this? I need napkins. Where are they? Is it easier to get those or to get wipes out of the backpack? Mother opts for the napkins, scolding Nora for making more of a mess.

Oh, lady, I think the messes have only just begun, and the weariness won't fade, but it will change over time, and the messes will be bigger than water on a chair. 

Parenthood never ends. 

But I don't say this aloud. Instead, I smile at Nora as she uses the napkins to clean up her own mess, thinking of how my youngest would've had her pacifier in her mouth while she worked, Molly held tightly against her chest, feet dangling at her side. 

I'm content to watch and write about these strangers, half of me excited to see my daughter, the other half full of apprehension. A mother's intuition, I suppose. I've had the feeling for a couple of days now.

The chair is clean to the mother's satisfaction, but not Nora's. They struggle over that, and the wet napkins breaking apart as her mother tries to remove them from tiny clenched fists. 

Father has gathered up the backpack and the toddler and hands the latter over so that he can take charge of Nora, hefting her high into his arms even as she protests. 

Off they go--mother with her shoulders sagging against the weight and embarrassment of a shrieking child, and father struggling once again with Nora in tantrum mode.

In the blink of my eye, they round the corner and disappear. 

A tap hits my shoulder. 

My own daughter has arrived.

Why I have unexplained bruises

I can tell everywhere my husband has been in our house. Anyone notice a theme?

Okay, I found that funny

I'm at my friend Jim's house after breakfast one morning to help him with computer-related things.

Me: "Ugh, Jim, you left the toilet seat up in your bathroom. Now I have to touch it to put it down. That's gross."

Jim: "Just make sure that when you're finished that you put it back up. This is a guy's house."

Super Bowl snooze

I picked the Patriots to win. I went 174-91 for the year in picks. The leaders had 179 correct, so I'd say I did well. Enough to earn a pat on the back. As for the big game? If I hadn't been at someone else's house, I'd have fallen asleep. Worst game ever, honestly. A real snooze fest.

The game:

• For all of the hype this year that defense was gone from the NFL, the big game of the year proved otherwise. Punt, punt, punt, punt. That was the word of the Bowl.
• Sean McVay and Jared Goff have a lot of work to do offseason. McVay's coaching skills were absent and perplexing at best. The Rams punted on their first 8 possessions! Gone was McVay's exciting play-calling and trickery we've come to love. And Goff? He made questionable throws, looked scared to death, and had absolutely no help from his offensive line, which was named the Offensive Line of the year award. The Rams were as lackluster as they'd been during the playoffs. 
• The Rams' offensive line garnered the significant award of the year. While I argue that choice, hello, the Steelers O-line is one of the few things we rock at, the rest of the nation also watched that game and collectively scratched its head. That O-line should be embarrassed.
• Then there was Rams' Aaron Donald, who was awarded the Defensive Player of the Year title. He had 20 and a half sacks this year. The most by any defensive tackle. In the Super Bowl? He had one tackle, assisted on four tackles, and had ZERO sacks. 
• Where was Todd Gurley? The Rams running back has been mysteriously underutilized during the playoffs and now the SB. Injury? Attitude? Who knows? We certainly don't. His 34 yards on 11 carries in the SB are as nuts as Seattle not giving the ball to Marshawn Lynch in SB XLIX.
• The media makes comments about how teams were looking for the new McVay this year when searching for coaches and how they won't be now. Uh, ok, well, it was one game. One game. Yes, it was the granddaddy of all sports, but still, one game. I'd take McVay over many coaches in the NFL. Let's not forget what the Rams were two years ago before McVay came along. Settle down, and find something else to grouse about.
• To win against Tom Brady, a team has to have a defense that attacks. Brady doesn't like to be touched, so that's the key. Touch the hell out of him, nicely, of course. To keep that from happening, the Patriots mainly ran the ball. One up for Belichick.
• Neither quarterback put up big numbers. Neither had an excellent rating. Neither looked good, although at least Brady made some catchable throws and first downs. I'm not a fan, will always believe at least two of Brady's SB wins deserve an asterisk, but the man knows how to get the damn job done. Leaves a sour taste in the mouth for the rest of the country that isn't a New England fan to see the bad guys come out on top, but no other teams have put on the white hats to take them down.

Commercials - Tons of celebrities. Truly. Do the A-list actors not have enough to do? Now they have to take small jobs from the little people too?

• Christine Applegate in the M&M chocolate bar was funny.
• Jason Bateman, as the elevator operator, was awesome. Love him.
• Sarah Michelle Geller in Oil of Olay. Cute.
• I laughed at Amazon, although I was horrified at how old Harrison Ford looked.
• Michael Buble for Bubbly Water? Loved it. Love him. Sexy. Funny.
• Serena Williams and Antoinette Harris in separate commercials but delivering the same powerful, we-are-women-we-rock speeches? Yes, please.
• Car commercials not with Harris? Sucked. All of them.
• Avocados? I like them. The commercial for them? Yuck.
• Beers? Please. Just stop.
• Best Commercial? The NFL 100th Gala dinner. All those players at the awards banquet? Fumble! So many great Steelers. How could it not be great?

Half time - Oh, my. Adam Levine is sexy but not without his shirt. Please. Stripping on national television? Sorry, Janet Jackson--double standard there. Twitter was awash with humor over the show and was way more entertaining than Maroon 5. Heck, we didn't even get to hear Travis Scott's lousy rapping since it was not PG and was bleeped. Seriously? You know the rules. Please.