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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Bob Barker Would be so Proud

I love the month of October.  Now, I know that plenty of people say things like, "Oh, October is so great!  I just really love fall!  Or "Autumn is my favorite season!" 

I respond to these people by punching them in the stomach all while screaming, "TAKE IT BACK!!! NO ONE LOVES OCTOBER AS MUCH AS MEEEE!!" 

Don't ever tell me you love October because I WILL challenge you to a fight to the death, and have I ever mentioned that I don't lose?  Because I don't.  I win at life, and that includes your measley sense of affection for my beloved month.  Just kidding.  Sort of.

Because ohmygod, what could be better than the profusion of pumpkin-flavored stuff available in October?  I MEAN EVERYTHING! FLAVOR EVERYTHING WITH PUMPKIN!!  And don't even get me started on the weather, and the color, and the breeze, and the crazy blue sky that makes me think God must have done a ton of hallucinogens and is going nuts with some finger paint in heaven, and the smell of smoke in the air, which doesn't smell good any other time of year, but for some reason is making you hot for your husband.  Like you look at your significant other and want to tear him right out of that college hoodie he is wearing.  Or the perfection that is CHILI and APPLE CIDER and RED WINE. 

You know what else is in October?  The best holiday of the year.  My countdown to Halloween starts on the 1st, and I faithfully watch every horror film on television in preperation.  And on the actual glorious night, I pray that It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!  will be on t.v. and then I pass out in a glorious sugar- induced coma. 

But this October is a little different because Ms. Savannah hit the six month mark and since we are conscientous citizens, we knew that this was the month she would need to be fixed.  I plead ignorance here because our other two dogs came to us pre-sterilized with no worries of crazy dog humping and bastard litters of puppies to be handed out for free at the local supermarket.

I had no clue exactly what the process was, but when we picked her up yesterday, I was reading through the paperwork they gave us and, ya'll.....they take out EVERYTHING.  It's a puppy hysterectomy, and while I was reading, my insides were literally squirming with a level of uncomfortable I had never experienced before.

So the past day has been an adventure in "No, don't run.  No, don't jump.  No, don't play.  No, dont bark too hard, or walk too fast, or do anything that might remotely lead to tearing your sutures because I think I might possibly come unglued and then cry so please, please, please just stay still and be quiet until everything is healed and that weird mark on your abdomen is gone because every time I look at it I get roller coaster style queasy." 

Thank goodness there is still a week till Halloween.  I don't think my love for October has been tainted....much.

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The Return

This was the weekend that my husband and I have been waiting for.  After a year of living apart and scheduling phone conversations to catch up, he finally made the sixteen hour drive from Odessa back to Atlanta permenantly.  (Or semi-permemantly.  Who knows what could happen in six months?)

And so this weekend has been strange because the past weekends when he has been home, we've raced around feverishly trying to fit in every moment of fun and necessity we could before the Monday deadline when he had to get back on a plane and fly back. 

But it's Sunday now, and I'm still trying to quell that intense desire to rush, to hurry, to get in everything we can before he leaves again.  Because tomorrow, he doesn't have to leave.  Tomorrow, he will still be here when I wake up and get ready for work.  Tomorrow, we can have our coffee together, talk while we are in the shower. 

Tomorrow, I will have help taking care of the dogs before leaving.  For that alone, I could cry from sheer relief. 

And then he will be home Monday night, and Tuesday night, and Wednesday night..., and when I think about that, I just don't know what to do with myself. 

There is a degree of sadness that I feel so overwhelmed by the fact that I get to actually live with my husband.  I don't feel that I should be in so much shock that he will physically be here when I get home, and my heart still breaks for those wives who go even longer than I have with even less communication.  I cannot say that the reasons for these absences are not worth it, but the entire situation strikes me as strangely inappropriate. 

But as I sit here typing this while he is in our driveway washing his car, I'm still marveling over the fact that he will physically be here in the coming weeks, and I'm incredibly thankful.   Thankful to have had this man by my side for the past ten years without wanting to dismember him.  Thankful for our home, which we thought would never be possible.  Thankful for our friends who have kept us sane throughout this ordeal, and whom we will repay in November with quite possibly the biggest party this house has ever seen. 

This is a rambling post, I know.  But I'm too full right now to not let some of it out. 

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