As you may or may not know I began the first day of the rest of my life yesterday. After months (years?) of bemoaning my lack of a firm schedule and feeling inefficient and unproductive (or at least not as productive as I could be) I finally said to myself, “Self, you need to get your ass to the gym pronto!” Enough complaining. Make yourself a schedule already and stick to it. So I did.
I resolved to go to the gym Monday mornings. Mondays will be my designated gym and laundry day (among others – I just haven’t figured them all out yet). It would also be my designated shower day. It’s a start.
But I just had to check in on Twitter first.
And I did. If only I could find a way to tweet while working out, I think I’d be more motivated to go to the gym, you know? But I can’t even talk while working out. Yesterday I tried to talk to the woman on the eliptical next to me because I just so happened to go to the gym for the first time in 50 years on the very same day as my talented and funny friend Tracy Beckerman was on Today with Hoda and Kathie Lee (if I did it right this is the link to the clip – not promising anything), which had been her dream in life and which I never would have seen come true since I don’t watch morning television except when I’m at the gym, and I’m never at the gym, but since I was finally at the gym after hitting the reset button on my life, yesterday I was, and I did. It was like a little mini miracle. Like God was telling me, “Yes, Motha, you should work out. Good things will happen if you get up off your ballooning tuckus and exercise. It is good and right to work out.”
I never said what kind of picture, and anyway I feel this calendar best represents my life.
It’s not imperative you be able to read everything on the calendar. What is important is that you’re able to view the calendar. Do a double take, perhaps, because that’s a lot of writing. For one month. And I didn’t even fill out the last week (I haven’t gotten that far).
This calendar is ridiculous, and yet it’s my life. That can only mean one thing. My life is ridiculous. I suppose I’ve always known that, but when you see it in stark black and white scribbled furiously across nearly every single one of those little squares, you suddenly realize just how ridiculous your life really is.
While I’ve never sought a ridiculous life and while I’ve done everything in my power to contain the ridiculousness, somehow I can never get away from it. The world keeps creeping in and ruining things for me. The world for some bizarre reason I’ll never understand is perfectly fine with this schedule.
What’s even more insane is that my kids aren’t signed up for a million and one activities. They’re involved in one or two a piece, but with two kids, a traveling husband, school commitments, holiday gatherings, social engagements, birthday parties, doctor’s appointments, and random miscelaneous stuff kids force you to do like take them to the school carnival in order to feel like a “good” mom this is what you get.
Then, a few days ago I was prompted to take a cold, hard look at my calendar and my life and seriously reconsider the type of mom I wanted to be ( BI think I’d prefer to be a bad mom – it’s a lot easier) when this happened.
I have returned to “f” words this week for your reading and speaking pleasure. And I really think you’re gonna like what I’ve come up with today so let’s get to it.
Fuliginous – (Not to be confused with polygamous because it has that sort of ring to it) adj. 1. Sooty; smoky. 2. Of the color of soot as dark grey, dull brown, black, ect. Pronounced like fyoo lij a nus, but I like pronouncing it exactly how it looks because that makes it sound profane.
Use in a sentence according to how it sounds: “That lying, scheming, fuliginous jerk. I knew I couldn’t trust him, and now he’s got the boss thinking he did all the work on the project when I was the one up half the night working on it. How fuliginous can you be?”
Use in a sentence according to its actual definition: “We stood alone together on the corner. The sun had not yet risen, and when I turned to him, looking into his dark, intense, fuliginous eyes, I felt as if I could see into the depths of his soul. Of course, he’d just raced out of a burning building so it may have been actual soot I was staring at, I don’t know, but those brooding eyes will haunt my consciousness forever.”
That’s all I got. What does fuliginous sound like to you?
From now on I think the only way I am going to communicate is through tweets. They’re fast, efficient and effective. If you can’t express what you want to say in 140 characters or less, I don’t want to hear it.
My husband and I have already contained all our communications to email. It works for us. He doesn’t have to talk to me, and I’m guaranteed acknowledgement. Everybody’s happy.
Email just may have saved our marriage since Kevin’s not really into talking or any other form of communication but can usually muster a “yes” or “no” or “OK” to whatever question, comment, observation, tirade, lament, dilema, or emotional anguish I happent to be undergoing at any given moment.
I have to say, though, he can pick out a card with the best of them, and that carries a lot of weight in my book. Not only did he express his love and gratitude through a beautifully written sentiment in a card, but he also converted an old VHS tape of our kids to a DVD for me. That’s love.
You know what else is love? When I said this:
And my family listened.
I just wanted to leave you with one final Mother’s Day post to round out Mother’s Day week unless I decide to write another post although that’s not very likely because I’m a mother, which means I’m incredibly sedulous and pretty darn tired.
Anyway, since we’ve been celebrating you and me all week over here in anticipation of the big day when we get to cook and clean and entertain a house full of people, I wanted to write one more little post.
Mother’s day actually came early for me this year. The other day I found out the good people over at the pregnancy and parenting website, What to Expect, liked one of my posts so much they included it in their What’s Buzzing Today section. I’m buzzing! And with any luck I will be on Mother’s Day and so should you.
The article titled, 5 Things to Do on May 7, listed 5 things to do on May 7th (it wasn’t lying), and I was one of them. See?
Story of my life.
Today I wanted to do a very special Mother’s Day edition of Word to Your Motha Wednesday to go along with Mother’s Day Week, which is kind of like Shark Week only without the sharks, which I launched yesterday with tips from twitter on how to make your special day tolerable if not entirely enjoyable. I’m calling it Word to Your Motha’s Day.
For about five minutes I thought long and hard regarding the meaning of the word motha. What singular word can best describe it? What word encompasses the enormity of the job? Then I scoured the dictionary starting with “f” word as I know how fond you all are of those. But I couldn’t find an adequate “f” word. So I said to myself, “Self, when you think of mother what word pops into your head?” Immediately I had it. Hard working. But I need one word not two. I then turned to my thesaurus, who is always there for me in times of need (of words that are synonyms for other words), and found the perfect word, a word I’d not only never heard of before but also a word befitting a mother.
Today I thought I’d bring you a special Mother’s Day edition of Tweetpeat Tuesday. It all started when I tweeted this tweet last week. It really seemed to speak to people.
It’s a dumb question. Obviously, I’m going to need a flask. Too bad I don’t own one. I would have filled it with something particularly potent like straight gin before leaving the house. I survived nonetheless, and I also came up with a fantastic Mother’s Day gift idea. The gift on every mother’s wish list. A flask – for all the times you’re stuck with the kids also known as your life.
It’s the gift I want. Too bad Mr. Potato Head doesn’t read my blog. I guess I’ll just have to tell him point blank, which is no different from the way we do everything else really. It takes all the mystery out of it, but my husband never really coped well with mystery. It took me nearly two decades, but I learned it was best just to be blunt.
I have absolutely no idea how I am going to tie these random tweets together into one coherent story, but I’m gonna try, dammit.
First I have a funny tweet by Alicia.
I know the feeling. It’s the same way I feel whenever my husband forces me watch his shows.
Actually I do. It’s Naked Castaway. Believe me, I’m surprised too. I didn’t think was possible to produce a show more asinine than one about a mythical creature full-grown adults not only believe in but also devote a significant portion of their lives chasing after as if they are conducting serious research, but Discovery Channel has succeeded in doing so. I guess you gotta give them credit for that.
As infuriating as he can be, every now and then Crazy gives me cause to love him. The Kid sometimes does, too, but not in the same way. Crazy, unwittingly, leaves extra little reasons to love him lying around. He’s not trying to. It just happens. Like the list I found in his school writing journal.
He didn’t show me the list. I just happened upon it one day as I was going through his backpack. Crazy’s school has a truly superb reading and writing program. It’s the one thing his public school got right. But they only got it right a few years ago, and unfortunately the program isn’t implemented in all the grades. Why use an effective program throughout the district?
I’m glad he at least got the benefit of the program for a couple of years. My daughter never did. As a writer I can say it is the absolute best way of teaching writing I’ve ever seen. In fact, some of the writing prompts and instructions to expand and improve students’ work I do myself in the writing workshop I take now with a published novelist. And I only learned them as an adult. I marvel at the jump start Crazy is getting and lament the poor writing instruction throughout the history of formal schooling prior to this program. Previously, no one ever actually taught writing. We were told to write, but we were never taught how to write.