There is a light

There's a light at the end of the tunnel; however, every time I hear the phrase "there's a light," my mind automatically goes to Rocky Horror Picture Show and the light over at the Frankenstein place, and then eventually I'm singing Janet's part in "Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me" and thinking how weird it is that Rocky went on to be that guy in Coach.

The previous paragraph is fairly representative of the state of my mind over the past few weeks.  After a year of working and worrying over the yearbook, the distribution/dedication ceremony came and went, and it feels strange to come home at night with no major event to plan.  Not that I'm saying that I'm ready to start all over--trust me, I'll very much enjoy my break--but after so many months of insanity, I'm not sure I remember how to function normally.  There are still things to take care of (grading, money issues, etc...), but the bulk of the work is done, and I couldn't be prouder of what my staff accomplished this year. 

I'm in a holding pattern for grad school right now  and am waiting for the summer semester to begin.  My Capstone is officially underway, and while I should have spent the past few months outlining my novel, I've only managed to write three quarters of the second draft of a short story.  I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that by this December, I should have the majority of a novel written.  It's daunting to think of the amount of work to be accomplished within the coming months, but while I have major butterflies in my tummy, there's a larger part of me that's fairly panting after the opportunity to get this thing started.

Looks like I'll be participating in NaNoWriMo's Summer Camp as a method of motivation and support.  If you've never heard of NaNo, and you're an aspiring writer, you should check it out. 

Now, I'm off to read the newest novel I downloaded to my brand new Kindle.

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Under Pressure

When I was little, a go-to staple in our house was chicken and dumplings.  There were no cutting corners according to my mother, so she would haul out the pressure cooker in preparation of cooking the chicken to just the right degree of fall apart when it hits your fork.  She would keep that pressure cooker going all day; the silver and black knob at the top destined to start its rattling and hissing at any given second, indicating the time to pull the chicken for shredding and drop the dumplings for stewing in the broth.  My mouth waters just thinking about it. 

But I'm not here to talk about food.  All around me, there are babies.  Babies galore.  Friends, acquaintances, people I just met in line at Dunkin' Donuts have all had the their lives graced by the blessed presence of an infant.  In perfect honesty, I'm the odd woman out. 

While I feel, nor do I wish to impart, any pressure to get a little one cooking inside of me, there is a distinct feeling of being inside of that pressure cooker my momma loved.  Only instead of dumplings, the desired product is an equally squishable baby.  There are far too many people out there who will tell me that I'm still a baby myself and that I ought to learn more of the world before bringing more life into it, but as thirty marches ever closer, I find myself sweating in the presence of what I can only describe is baby fever. 

I want kids.  My husband wants kids.  Some may call us equally matched on that front, but as the "right time" comes for scores of other couples, I can't help but feel the proverbial clock ticking, and it's not such a distant clock anymore.  I'm watching people younger than me by significant leaps announce the sex of their babies as I type this, and in the face of the pressure, I'm sweating.  Just like those dumplings my momma dumped inside of that bath of broth so many years ago. 

Have I accomplished all I wanted to accomplish by this time in my life?  Can we afford this?  How will this change me?  Change us? 

It's exhilirating.  It's scary.  The realm of emotions coursing through me right now is hard to describe.  There hasn't been much else in life that has been so confusing, frightening, and exciting simultaneously.  Unless you count the first time I rode a roller coaster.  What a terrible comparison.  That alone shows my ignorance. 

Right now I'm deep inside that pressure cooker, and David Bowie and Queen are crooning in my ear.  It's hot in here. 

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An Insight Into The Shining

I'm starting to understand Jack Torrance's--you know "All Work and No Play Makes Jack a Dull Boy, The Shining, etc...--little side trip to crazy town.  Excessive amounts of snow will do that to a person. 

On Sunday night, 6 inches of snow fell.  In Georgia.  Where the most snow we ever see is a powder sugar like dusting of flurries that are gone the next day.  And we all ooh and ahh over how pretty it is, and the neighborhood kids go out and destroy the beauty while trying take pack together the saddest little snowman you have ever seen. 

But Snowmageddon 2011 was different.  We knew it was coming.  It was all the local weather stations could talk about for a week in advance.  Justin and I ventured out to Wal-Mart on Saturday, and it was the biggest mistake of my life.  Have you ever been charged by a veritable wildebeest of a woman because she thinks you are grabbing the very last package of powdered donuts, when actually you are grabbing a loaf of Sara Lee's 45 Calories and Delightful Multigrain Bread?  The vision still haunts me. 

Anyway, we have been stuck in the house for the past four days, and there is no end/thaw in sight.  If I don't get out of this house soon, there is guaranteed to be an absolute storm of hormonal shouting, crying, and whining.  If I have to eat ONE more sandwich, I might have a little come to Jesus up at Hillshire Farms.  Of course they would put just the right amount of meat in the container that guarantees if I don't consume it in three-four days, it WILL go bad, and I'll curse myself for wasting money.  You remember that massive comissary in The Shining?  I feel like that's the only type of food I have in my house.  That of the canned and frozen variety.  I DESIRE FRESH VEGETABLES!!  And a hamburger from Five Guys. 

Thank GOD there was enough coffee and creamer and Sweet N' Low to get us through. 

All in all, I'm feeling rather dour.  My students are almost a week behind, and while sleeping in is great, making up for lost time is not so great.  Every time I look at the vast expanse of white outside of my window,  I feel like crying.  This Georgia girl is not equipped to handle the winter months.  Period.   Actual accumulated snow and ice-coated roads that stick around for a few days are another story.  Peaches don't thrive in ice, ya'll. 

Let's not even get started on my motivation.  I started out strong.  I finished a short story and submitted it to Glimmer Train.  Hooray!  But after a winter walk with my husband, a fantastic new story idea came to me, and instead of rushing right into the house and getting to work, I've done everything but work on it.  Maybe today??  Doubtful. 

Oh. My. God.  I just looked out the window.  It's snowing again.  Thank goodness we don't keep an axe in the house.  And if I start seeing creepy little twin girls, I promise to call someone.

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Eating Like a Lady

It's almost the New Year, and ya'll know what that means.  Time to turn over a new leaf and swear up and down that I'm going to do all of the things that I was supposed to do this year.  Namely, that means taking care of my body. 

I used to be so good about this.  Anal retentive in fact.  In early college, my glory days, I worked out like a maniac and got myself down to a size THREE.  I'll repeat that for posterity.  A SIZE THREE.  And guess how many pictures I have of that period of my life.  O.  Because my mother never got that film developed, and who knows where it is now. 

Eventually, time to work out grew thinner (no pun intended), and I still maintained a decent exercise and eating routine, but when I started working, the spread began.  And then when I started grad school it got almost unmanageable. 

So when I was flipping through some old photos and ran across this one, I almost spit out my coffee. 

This photo was taken almost four years ago, and this was not the thinnest I've ever been, but when I saw it, my jaw hit the floor.  I cannot believe that I was ever this person, and then I realized that I need to make more of an effort towards physical health not only for personal reasons but also so that when Justin and I eventually do start a family, my body will be a temple of health for a baby. 

So I've been thinking about eating habits and observing the plates of women around me, and a thought struck me.  I need to get back to eating like a lady.  Avoiding portions intended for lumberjacks or construction workers.  Asking myself as I load my plate, "Would a LADY eat this?  Would a LADY eat this MUCH of this?" 

This may seem horribly stereotypical to envision a delicate Southern Belle complete with hat and gloves, but it just may be the ticket to retrieving my body from the dumpster to which I've relegated it.  

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In Which I Ride a Freight Train to Hell

I'm worried that any type of following I may have gathered has drifted off into the great unknown. 

It's that time of year, folks, and for the past month, I've found myself choking on insane amounts of paper, whether that be in terms of grading or in grad school work.  Even though the end is in sight and the light at the proverbial end of the tunnel looms, this train just isn't moving quickly enough for my tastes.

I'm certain that once the semester has reached its end and I have time to reflect on my year, I'll have much to give thanks for, but for the moment, I want to bury my head in the sand and either scream or sleep for the next week and a half. 

I graded ten essays tonight to bring today's grand total to fifteen.  I should feel proud, but when I consider that I have two more class sets of analytical essays, a class set of definition essays, a class set of definition essay timed writings, a class set of personal narratives, three class sets of poetry anthology projects, one class set of a cumulative portfolio, and four sets of final exams to grade, my brain gives this weird little flutter, and I begin to wonder if I've just had a slight anuerism. 

I'm having nightmares about human-sized green ink pens chasing me through a cemetery in which staplers and calculators burst through cracked earth in some type of zombie blossoming.  I wish I was kidding. 

This is the part where I praise my wonderful husband for the vast amounts of help he has given me in the past three weeks as I've ran around the house babbling about where I left that one sheet of paper with the marks on it?  You know... the one with the red ink that says something about the due date of a manuscript?  To which he has cleaned house, helped me retrieve and wrap a bridal shower gift, helped me clean out my car, and brought me lunch.  So sweetie, thank you for the Subway and the dishes. 

Needless to say, my own work has fallen to the wayside, and now I have two short stories floating in my head (one of which is halfway finished) and the novel to complete as well.  I'm wondering exactly how much writing one can fit into a week and a half long period.  I can imagine that it's not enough. 

In incredibly exciting news, my article, which was published in Free Inquiry magazine is out!  You can read it here.  Wow.  That's my name up there. 

And on a final note, a rant towards Atlanta.  My dear city, YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE CULTURALLY RELEVANT!! YOU KNOW.... HIP AND ALL THAT JAZZ!!  HOW IS IT REMOTELY POSSIBLE THAT YOU ARE NOT INCLUDED IN THE LINE UP FOR LIMITED RELEASE FILMS THAT I'M DYING TO SEE????  Could we do something about that? 



Missed you guys.  Promise I'll be better.  Promise.

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The Black Cat

*This is an exercise in creative nonfiction*

On the day my grandmother died, there appeared a black cat, darting to and fro among the fall leaves without regard for the life extinguished just inside.  My brother sat on the ground, picking at his cuticles, lost in his own thoughts, his hat pulled low over his eyes  The cat made its way to him, roping around his crossed legs, its meow echoing through the empty fall air. 

He patted the cat, and it rolled onto its back in ecstasy.  While we waited for the funeral home to come for the body, we all watched the cat in silence and wondered "What do we do?  Who can answer all of the questions?  How should we feel?" and the cat chased a leaf down the small driveway, the answers to his own questions out there somewhere in the infinite. 

"They must be lost," we said as we waited, the sun dipping behind the trees and casting our faces in shadow, the tears growing cold on our cheeks and surprising me.  I hadn't realized I was still crying. 

"They must be lost," we said not wanting to admit that we were the ones who were lost; "We don't know what to do," we told the officer who responded, but his shift change had come and passed, and he grew impatient, his indifference hardening around him. 

And the black cat continued to play around our grieving family unaware of the thoughts flittering through us, the things we should have said, the things we should have done scattered in the atmosphere like many seeds, floating and displaced, never to take root. 

"It's not her," we told ourselves, "That isn't her lying in there.  It's just a body." these words we feed ourselves in these moments, hoping that they will provide comfort, sustenance in our time of need, but outside, the world moves forward, and the black cat continued to move about, slinking among our legs as some beast. 

"It's not her," we said.  "It's just a body." 

My mother repeating to herself, "I can't feel her here.  She isn't here; I would feel her if she was."

She is not here.  The black cat continues to roam; he will grow cold as winter creeps upon us.  But she is not here, and she will not be cold.

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The Power of Radio & NaNoWriMo

An enormous thank you to Cocktails with Patrick for pimping my blog yesterday.  My lil' ole blog got close to three hundred hits in the span of three hours!  To those of you who visited yesterday, I hope that you enjoyed reading! 
NaNoWriMo is fully underway (if you don't know what that is, check it out here), and I spent a good chunk of my night in front of my computer furiously typing the mandatory 1,667 daily word count.  I was excited about the entire writing process for about fifteen minutes, and then that witch of an internal critic kicked in with things like, "Whom do you think you're kidding writing a novel?  Read over what you just wrote.  Seriously, who would EVER want to read that?"  and I promptly broke into the cold sweats of a recovering alcoholic, shut my computer, and cried for awhile.  This is what she looks like in my head. 

And she speaks in a horrifically elevated form of the Queen's English and smells like a combination of death and Chanel No. 5.  I'm hoping that since she's so old that at some point she'll finally keel over...maybe choke on a scone or something.  


I know that the entire NaNoWriMo process is supposed to be about shutting off the critic and not constantly judging what you've written.  "It's about quantity, not quality," they say, but since I actually want to DO something with this manuscript (you know like sell the thing when it's finished), I can't bring myself to let go of the quantity over quality ideaology. 

And it's just day two of the month long process.

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