In all its wonder and glory

That's what I have planned for this weekend.

No. Thing. NOTHING.

I'm so excited I could cry. Or squeal most unattractively. Accompanied by an equally unattractive interpretive dance depicting my excitement about said nothingness.

I'd never complain about the time I spend with friends and family and volunteer organizations and the like. I LOVE those times.

But sometimes, it just feels GREAT to look at the ol' planner and see nothing but blank space. With endless opportunity to fill it up with whatever I want. Or...not.

To look around my house, see what needs to be done and think, "I could do any or all of these things this weekend. Or, I could do NONE of them."

It feels like I just took a huge breath of crisp, autumn air, and then nestled into a warm blanket.

(Ooh -- maybe THAT'S what I'll do this weekend.)

Whatever I do, I fully intend to enjoy my nothing time. Please enjoy yours!

Unsolicited advice: Once you slide the lock...

Things to do while in a bathroom stall:

1. Go to the bathroom.
2. Change your clothes (with your shoes on, because: ew).
   

Things not to do while in a bathroom stall:

1. Breathe heavily.
2. Have a phone conversation.
3. Grunt.
4. Talk to yourself or others.
5. Sing and/or rap to yourself.
6. Tap your foot (we’ve all seen where that can get you).
7. Catch up on work (no one wants to be handed a document you were holding while making wee-wee).
8. Play games on your cell phone, muttering expletives when you lose points. Or drop your phone in the toilet.
9. Do anything except go to the bathroom or change your clothes. With your shoes on.

This has been a public service announcement, courtesy of the person in the next stall over.

Thanks ever so.

The Reveal (and Some Revelations)

So, before you scroll down (or just look down, depending on how big your monitor/phone screen is) to see the glorious new 'do, please allow me to share a few revelations with you:

1. I don't know how it happens, but every time I get a haircut and I think this is going to be THE greatest haircut ever because the stylist did something completely different this time, and wow, is my life going to be different... Yeah. It somehow ends up looking like the same hair I had before, only shorter. So the impact is kind of...wanting.
2. It's apparently really hard for me to take a picture of myself that A) isn't from a weird angle, B) shows the actual thing I'm trying to show (in this case, the hair), and C) doesn't make me look like an absolute weirdo. The faces below would seem to range from "bewildered surprise/bemusement" to "mugshot." And these were the GOOD ones.
3. I...like my haircut. :) Even though the stylist was an absolute lunatic with only a tenuous grasp on reality, miracle of miracles, she did a good job. I think the straight (which I did for the wedding) looks better than the curly (which I do for the everyday, since I don't like spending 45 minutes with a flatiron), but overall, I'm pleased.

So now that I've placed way more importance on this than could ever be warranted, I give you:

"Yes, I will give you my kidney, kind sir!
As soon as I remember how to blink."

"I'm ready to serve my time, warden.
With strength, and quiet dignity. And frizz.
Amen."

(A side shot of the curls.)

On the road (again)

"Are we there yet?"

"Funny, Grandpa."

We're five minutes into the trip, and we're just settling in. Mom's at the wheel, Dad, Grandma and Grandpa are sitting semi-comfortably in the back. I'm riding shotgun. From the mirror in my visor, I can see the back-seat occupants shifting to find a comfy butt-groove.

Since we're stopping for breakfast in 15 minutes, it hardly seems worth the effort at this point.

Gone are the days of my youth, when a family road trip meant logging as many miles as possible at a clip, and stopping to go to the bathroom was considered a sign of weakness (something I'm still trying to train out of my husband). Now? We're relaxed! There's time to spare if we need. Because the wedding we're traveling to is three hours away, and it starts at 4:00...

...and it is now 9:30 a.m. There's no sense rushing, after all.

After a leisurely breakfast at Cracker Barrel with enough sodium to kill an ox (say what you will, though -- there's something about a table piled high with biscuits, gravy, bacon, sausage, eggs and grits; it just feels homey), we...don't hit the road. I emerge from the bathroom to find the other four members of my party in different corners of the gift shop, browsing for cheesy merchandise.

But once everyone's satisfied with their purchases (and I've misread a label and therefore purchased Garlic Dill-flavored pretzels), we're off! Same seats as before, five happy bandits (now with full bellies and an armload of over-priced crap) hitting the open road!

If you're confused, it's OK. I did tell you on Friday that we were driving two cars on this trip. Friday evening, my mom called and said, "Grandma said she's sad that we're taking two cars. She thinks we won't get to talk if we do that. So we're all driving in their Lincoln Town Car. I told her you get carsick, so she and Grandpa and Dad volunteered to sit in the back so you could ride up front."

Now, hopefully in the time we've spent getting to know one another, one thing has become clear: I am sarcastic and, at times, mean. And the idea of being sandwiched in a car with four other people does NOT sound like my idea of a great weekend.

But I'm not a robot, people! I'll be damned if I'm complicit in making my tiny, adorable grandmother SAD, of all things! And the fact that she volunteered to ride in the back -- because I do get extremely carsick -- well... I'm powerless against that, OK?

As we jump on I-71, though, one thing becomes apparent: Grandma is not only generous and adorable, she's now also extremely hard of hearing. "Conversation" involves repeating things multiple times and/or turning around in my seat and shouting in her direction.

"WHAT? Shark bites?"

"No, no -- they put up new lights."

"Mark Price?"

"NEW LIGHTS!!"

Bless her heart, she eventually gets tired of the whole thing, and the back seat occupants turn to their newspapers while Mom and I chat.

When we near the hotel, though, she perks back up -- and all of a sudden I remember why this trip may make me insane.

DAD: (talking to my mom, who's driving) G, you have to watch for 275.

GRANDMA: (yelling) 75? Doesn't that go to Florida?

DAD: No, TWO-seventy-five, Mom. It goes around Cincinnati.

GRANDMA: (now appointing herself junior navigator, since apparently one isn't enough) OK, G, you're going to be looking for 275. North.

DAD: No, South!

GRANDMA: What? Pouch? What?

EVERYONE ELSE IN THE CAR: SOUTH!!!

GRANDMA: OK, G, what you're looking for is 75 South.

I realize I may not make it to the wedding, because I may have to throw myself out the window before we even get to the hotel.

On the way to the wedding, it's even worse. The map provided by the couple isn't proportional, and we're WAY out in rural Indiana, and we quickly have no idea where we are. I try to take advantage of the GPS in my phone and punch in the address of the family farm where the wedding is taking place; GPS's official position is "Huh?"

We stop in front of a one-room house with an open door that has a sign reading "Mike's Palace. Back Off!" Miraculously, Mike of said palace knows the farm we're heading toward and gets us on the right road...which leads us through a town called Friendship, which sounds lovely but which today is hosting the most bizarre flea market/festival/campsite I've ever seen. We pass by a giant banner that says "Body Piercing: Half Off!" next to the largest display of cow skulls in the history of time, and I hysterically think we may have passed into another dimension from which we can never return.

All four members of my party are alternately reading signs from Bizarro Flea Market out loud, yelling at people in the road, shouting directions at one another or trying to call someone from the wedding party. I consider making a break for it, but I'm too scared to get out of the car.

But then: We've made it. We're there. And the farm is nothing short of amazing: Acres and acres of land several miles from any other home, with a breathtaking view of rolling, plush, wooded hills. The house was built in 1848 and is simply exquisite. The driveway is lined with lights and tulle and flowers and greenery. Our family is there to greet us, and are simply thrilled to pieces that we've made it, and hug us extra tight to prove it. My dad checks out my mom's wedding duds and tells her she looks cute.

It's a wedding!

And my cousin S faces the love of her life under a beautiful trellis, and they take their vows:

Her son and daughter are junior attendants, and the newlyweds' three-month-old son serves as "Little Groomsman":

And S is more radiant than I've ever seen her:

And as we're listening to a reading from Anne Morrow Lindbergh's "A Gift from the Sea," I can't even remember feeling irritated before. The couple is standing before us, so in love, and every member of my family is crying with happiness, including yours truly.

And then, of course, it's time to party -- in the decked-out, AMAZING-looking barn the groom's father constructed just for the occasion:

When it's time to go, I offer to drive. I hear my grandma whisper to my dad, "Is Shannon a good driver?" Sigh.

The next day, after another long family breakfast, we hit the open road once more. This time, all of us are exhausted, but we can't stop talking: about the wedding, how beautiful S looked, how much fun breakfast was, how happy we are that we came.

And we sing: You Are My Sunshine, Amazing Grace, K-k-k-katy, I've Been Working on the Railroad, hymns we remember from church, songs we made up.

And my heart just overflows.

(Here's where I was planning to post the video I have of us singing, which my phone just steadfastly REFUSES to give up. You'll just have to take my word for it -- we're a family of pretty good singers.)

I can't believe I ever balked at taking this road trip, smooshed into a car with these people I adore. It's something I'll always remember.

Then, around the midway point in our journey home, my 64-year-old father gets antsy in the backseat and turns into a four-year-old:

When they drop me off at home, my grandma hugs me tight, grabs my face with both hands and says, "I like you. You know that?" Then she hugs me again and says, "Oh, I'm just so glad you came!"

Oh, me too.

While we're waiting...

I'm having some trouble getting the video/photos of my weekend -- which was awesome -- and the hair -- which was...hair-like -- off my phone. The issues will be resolved, for better or for worse, tomorrow, and I'll deliver the goods.

In the meantime, I thought I'd show you this:


No, it isn't poo in a bowl with a raspberry garnish. (Ew.)

It's dark chocolate sorbet that I made with my ice cream maker!! With a raspberry garnish!

My best friend B and I rocked this out on Friday night, and let me tell you friends: If tastebuds have their own heaven, it could easily be within this bowl.

It's essentially just frozen sugar, vanilla, cocoa powder and water, but somehow it came out...creamy. And smooth. And dark chocolatey. And absolutely, ridiculously delicious. Like angels dancing. In my mouth.

After taking the first bite, I'm fairly certain I sang an aria.

See you tomorrow!

A request and a promise

First, the request:

Tomorrow, my cousin S is getting married. Yay, S! I couldn't be more thrilled for her, so of course I will be there with bells on! However, it's in Indiana, so T will be on Bubba duty while I attend stag. (Zero problem with this, as the T is not so much a wedding person, anyway; I barely managed to get him to agree to attend a non-Elvis-officiated wedding for US.)

Plus my parents and grandparents are going, so it'll be some good, quality family time.

The wedding's being held at the groom's family farm somewhere smack-dab in the middle of rural Indiana. Since it's a bit of a haul, the wedding isn't until 4:00 and it's literally in the middle of nowhere, the plan is to drive out tomorrow, attend said festivities, stay the night and return Sunday.

See where this is going?

ROAD TRIP! With my parents. And grandparents. And NOT with my husband or my brother or his wife.

In other words: I'm 10 years old again.

The original plan, God help us all, was for all five of us to drive in one car. I had visions of myself on the dreaded b-tch seat in the back, sandwiched between my (perfectly lovely) grandparents, singing 500 choruses of "I've Been Working on the Railroad" and "You Are My Sunshine" like the family road trips of my youth, only this time peppered with long stretches of conversations that begin with, "So, why haven't you had any babies yet?"

I started panicking.

So I casually suggested to my mother that PERHAPS we could caravan -- I'll drive my nice, roomy car, she can drive her equally roomy car, and we can swap passengers. You know, to maximize the family fun.

Is it the greenest solution? Perhaps not. But is it the sanest? Hoo-yes.

(Incidentally, when my mom pitched the idea to Grandma, here was her response: "Oh. Hm. Um...is Shannon a good driver?" My mother's response, God love her: "No, she's awful. We're all going to crash in a ditch and go up in a ball of flames." Clearly I've taught her well.)

So the request? Say a prayer for us and/or me. For as much as I love and adore my family (and I do, I really REALLY do), I fear this may be a true test of my sanity. When you're a kid, a road trip is A) kind of an adventure and B) not exactly something you can opt of out because, well, you're 10 and your parents kind of rule your life. At 33, I can barely tolerate a road trip with MYSELF. To KROGER.

And now, the promise:

I realize it was WHOLLY unfair of me to post the reenactment of my bizarre salon encounter without saying how I felt about the actual haircut or ponying up some pics. Please accept my apology.

So let me tell you:

1. Against all odds and the laws of nature and/or reason, Little Miss Cuckoopants somehow managed to turn out a decent haircut. I KNOW! I was as surprised as you are. As baffled as she appeared to be throughout the entirety of the process, somehow my instructions soaked in amid the lack of understanding of what holiday it actually was, and she did a good job. (And I tipped her accordingly, even after she implied I might be old enough to receive Social Security benefits. I'm not made of stone, people.)
2. As with any new cut I get, I've spent the better part of this week trying to figure out how best to style it, which is my excuse for not showing you any pictures up to this point. This weekend, however, I'm snap some glamour shots and on Monday, I'll give you the goods. I may even try a few different styles just for funsies.

But you have to hold up your end of the bargain. And if you aren't the praying or meditating type, just hum a few choruses of "The Wheels on the Bus" in your head and have a little chuckle at my expense. Either/or.

Best. Fortune. Ever.

Heehee.

"No Appointment (or Personality) Necessary": A Play in One Act

SCENE 1

T's car, en route to the nearest largish town. It's the Sunday before Labor Day. My objective is singular in nature. It's been a long time coming, and, with an afternoon free, at long last I'm out of excuses.

And it's not as though I had to make an appointment or anything.

ME: (inner monologue whilst driving) I'm just going to pull up to the first one I see and go in. Enough already.

In less than five seconds, I spot one surrounded by familiar neighbors: Game Stop, Starbucks, a Verizon store. I park in front of the plate glass windows.

ME: (still with the inner monologue; I know it seems weird, but just go with it) It's going to be fine. Just because you ended up with a head that looked like one of those orange traffic cones last time, it doesn't mean something bad will happen THIS time. I'm sure the people here are extremely talented.

And anyway, you aren't asking for much. A quick cut. No frills. No 30-minute blow-dry. No overpriced products. Easy peasy. (Exits car, walks hesitantly across the sidewalk and grips the door handle, steels self, then goes inside.)

~*~*~

SCENE 2

Best Cuts. With the exception of its name, it's virtually interchangeable with all the other walk-in hair salons: Great Clips, Fiesta Hair, Fantastic Sam's -- who is in charge of choosing the horrible names for these establishments?
Then again, no one's going here for the name.

In fact, I'm here for one reason and one reason only: I'm cheap. I'm buying what they're selling: No frills and no perks. Unfortunately, in my experience, that tends to extend to the stylists themselves, at least in terms of personality. Well, you know. Generally. Today I'm greeted by...we'll call her Confused-Looking Spiky Bob. Much like her predecessors, she does not disappoint.

CONFUSED-LOOKING SPIKY BOB: (Seating me in the washing-hair station chair, for which there's probably a technical name but which I'm too lazy to look up, and beginning to wash my hair) Is that too hot?

ME: (Unable to hear as scalding water is thundering around my ear holes) I'm sorry?

CLSB: WA-TER. TOO. HOT?

ME: (Slightly taken aback at being spoken to like a two-year-old) Uh...no. No, it's fine.

Silence.

Washing.

Washing, washing, washing.

More silence.

Odd hair flicking for undetermined reason.

CLSB: (Abruptly) Got kids?

ME: (Tearing focus away from odd hair flicking) Um...no. Not yet. We have dogs. You know, for now. They're like our practice babies. And we think of them as our kids, so...

CLSB: Oh.

Silence.

Conditioning.

ME: So...do you? Uh, have kids?

CLSB launches into a long explanation of each of her three children, their ages, the origins of their names, what they are best at in school and what their hair looks like, during which my responses of "Oh?" and "Uh-huh" are completely ignored.

As my eyes are hitting full-glaze mode, she leads me to her styling chair, capes me and gets down to business.

CLSB: So, what are we looking to do here today?

ME: Well, I want to get rid of some of this length--

CLSB: So you want to chop it all off, huh?

ME: ...n...no. I'd like to cut it shorter, but I still want to be able to pull it back. And still have some layers--

CLSB: So shorter layers all around the crown of your head, yeah?

ME: (Breathing deeply and trying to avoid rolling eyes) ...uh...no. Long layers. And some pieces around my face that are sort of bang-like, but not really bangs--

CLSB: So short with layers and bangs. Got it.

ME: Wait. Not bangs. just a few shorter pieces around my face. LONG layers. Still long enough to pull back. And I'd like it to be sort of choppy. Not all one length and flat or blunt or whatever.

Silence.

More silence during which CLSB looks even more confused than ever.

CLSB: ...what?

After repeating my description of my desired haircut, this time with fewer interruptions, she appears to understand. A few snipperoos later, the floor is littered with dark brown hair, my head feels about three pounds lighter and I'm politely refusing her offer to style my hair before I leave.

"No, thank you," I only think and don't say out loud, "I've seen your colleagues' attempts at 'styling' before, and while you may be the exception, I'd prefer to go through the rest of the day NOT coaxing a big brown, hairy football helmet through every doorway I encounter."

~*~*~

On the way to settle my bill, the subject of Labor Day weekend plans is broached. After listening to her perfectly lovely plans of pizza and the Wii with the kids, I mention that we'd just attended a party the day before and were still recovering.

ME: Yeah, we just need some rest. I retired early, but my husband stayed out pretty late, and we're both exhausted--

CLSB: Wow, you're retired? You don't look THAT old.

Silence.

ME: ...right. No. I'm not retired. I just went to bed early.

Silence, during which CLSB appears to be thinking really, really hard.

CLSB: ...right. OK. I'm, like, not good with ages. But you look really young and stuff. And, well, anyway, thanks for coming! And have a happy Memorial Day!


Exactly.

FIN

Happily not a pro. Or an amateur. Or...whatever's even less skilled than an amateur.

It starts the day before, when I get this text from my neighbor: "Could we store 100 Jell-O shots in your fridge?"

After I hesitantly reply that, yes, I can probably make room, her return text offers even less comfort: "Oh, good. We have the other 200 over here, and we're out of space."

And thus, the dread begins. Why? Four words:

The 2010 Beer Olympics.

Full disclosure right up front: I'm not much of a drinker. Scratch that: I just don't drink. I don't have a problem with drinking or with being around people who do; I just...never do. It just isn't my thing. Water and Diet Coke taste better, alcohol makes me sleepy and gives me a headache -- the reasons are many and varied.

Plus, the rest of the attendees? Well, let's put it this way: They don't call these the Beer Olympics for nothing. These people have been in hardcore training since high school and are ready to compete on a moment's notice. To carry the analogy a little further, I'm the delegate from Luxembourg who was chosen by default because everyone else in my country was on vacation the week of the qualifiers, and I'm going up against China, the U.S. and Russia. I'm picturing a combination of a male rugby team, an MMA fighter and a frat party at OSU.

(Oh, and did I mention most of them will be in their 20s, making me the grandmother of the competition at 33? Am I too old for this stuff? OMG, I'm way too old for this stuff.)

Also: I don't drink beer, which seems like it could be an issue since, you know, it factors heavily in the title of the event.

But this hallowed event is hosted annually by our next-door neighbors (and good friends), and since we literally live within shouting distance, it seems poor form to pretend to be out of town. (Not least because our garage is a disaster, and hiding our cars would require a tarp-and-foliage feat of engineering that I just don't have time to construct.) It becomes clear that my only option is to suck it up and put on mah drankin' shoes.

On the day of the event, speaking of drinking duds, a surprising amount of thought goes into wardrobe. This year there are team colors, and therefore I need to find a shirt that's red and nice enough to wear in public but not so nice that I also don't mind potentially ruining it with copious amounts of spilled alcohol. Also, it's freezing outside, so my standard summer uniform of comfy shorts and sandals just isn't going to work.

At 2:00, it's time to stop dreading and just dive headlong into the wild. We fuel up first with a potluck-style lunch that, apparently, is governed by the rule of "Snoozers are Losers": We almost immediately run out of potatoes, baked beans, macaroni salad and nearly everything else except for meat, buns and Doritos. I'm also tricked into eating some kind of homemade chocolate bark that turns out to be chocolate, almonds and...BACON. (I'm distressed to report that it is both chewy and...kind of good.)

I'm not even done eating yet when the team "captains" start debating about how today's festivities are going to work. Apparently, we're eschewing the running of the torch and the opening ceremonies and getting right down to brass tacks. I immediately know I'm out of my league when I see one of the other teams doing calisthenics and creating a team handshake in a corner of the yard. Our team is warming up by...eating more Doritos.

This seems like the best time to level with my team captain: Anything that involves hand-eye coordination is NOT going to be my strong suit and oh, by the way, I'll be drinking my own girly drinks tonight instead of beer. He eyes me suspiciously, probably wondering both why I'm here and what he did to get stuck with me, but then shrugs and leads the way to our first effort: Flip Cup.

Some games are individual or two-person events, but since Flip Cup is a team effort, I have no choice but to participate. I put in an OK showing, although I instantly spill my drink all over my carefully-selected red shirt. And then I'm promptly eliminated. By my own teammates. Please keep in mind this is approximately five and a half minutes into the Olympics at large.

But, to my surprise, the rest of the afternoon is both fairly benign and kind of fun. I wisely steer clear of Beer Pong and Hillbilly (aka Ladder) Golf. I play a few games of cornhole and DU Ball (a game invented by the host that involves throwing a ping-pong ball at your opponent's can/bottle/glass, then chugging your own drink while he or she scrambles to grab the ball). There are more girls than anticipated, and everyone is nicer and more supportive toward this uncoordinated novice drinker than I expected. No one seems to care that A) I really, really suck at these games, and B) I'm not really drinking all that much. And/or at all.

(However, this lack of caring is partially due to the fact that most of the 12 or so couples who arrived together are now in different pockets of the yard in varying stages of fighting, and are therefore too distracted to care what anyone else is doing. At one point, we have yelling, crying, pointed-cold-shouldering and "I'm sorry" making-out-ing happening simultaneously. Entertainment, thy name is Other People Who Are Not Me Getting Into Stupid Fights.)

In the end, it's a pretty fun day, despite my total lack of skill and the fact that I choose to beg off at 11 p.m. rather than party 'til dawn with the rest of them. I have ZERO idea who "won" or how my team fared, and I'm choosing to think that's a good thing.

A few other highlights:

• While no one seemed to be taking things too seriously, one good-natured trash-talking episode somehow escalated into our host's brother jumping the host and hogtying him with duct tape. In his front yard. At 5:00 in the afternoon. Rather than help, we all stood around laughing and took pictures with our phones.* As you do.
• After a certain point, it got dark. Silly me, I thought this was my cue to go sit by the enormous (awesome) bonfire in the backyard and relax after a hard day of drinking and sport. Then they brought out the 5,000-watt utility light and parked it in the front yard so the festivities could continue unabated. I had a brief fantasy involving our other neighbors calling the police, thinking we were landing planes across the street. You know, if the earlier hogtying episode didn't have them worried enough.
• All night, we'd heard at least 15 of the 35 people boasting that they planned to pitch tents and sleep outside. The next morning, after a frosty night in the vicinity of 40 degrees, I got a text from my neighbor: "30 people sleeping in our house. Couldn't get to the bathroom even if I wanted to." I've never been so happy to live next door.
• Remember those 300 Jell-O shots? Gone. All of 'em. I had two. SO out of my league.
• If nothing else, I will take this away from the experience: Testosterone is predictable. Get a bunch of men out in a yard, give them alcohol, and eventually you WILL have wrestling. Conducted, monitored and refereed by other drunk men. Armed only with the vaguest understanding of MMA terminology, and a complete lack of reserve about throwing it around. Loudly.

But my favorite highlight of the night? My husband (who knew I was nervous about the whole thing) shouting, "That's my baby!" across the yard when I (finally) scored a point in cornhole. Embarrassing, yes, but also...kind of cute.

In the end? Yes, I'm too old for this. But I don't think I'll ever be too old to laugh at others doing this. :)

*Apologies for the lack of photographic evidence of...any of this stuff. None of my pictures turned out, and, after awhile, I just gave up trying to find anything usable. So you'll just have to take my word for it. :)

Protected

Every morning when I step out of the shower...




It's entirely possible he just likes the warmth of the steam. Or the sound of the water running. Or the fresh, clean smell of my shampoo. Or the caress of the fuzzy green bathmat.

But I choose to think he's guarding his mama.

And yes, I have to step over him, precariously, every time I exit said shower. Which would be awkward even if I weren't wearing a towel, balancing on wet toes and squinting to try to see without my glasses.

And yes, it's entirely possible that I have, more than once, slipped and nearly fallen headfirst into the linen closet. And/or out the window.

Do I mind?



Nope.

Have a wonderful long weekend, y'all. And please say a prayer for me, as I'm attending an event that has the word "beer" in the TITLE, and I am not much of a drinker. Also I'm 33 now, and thus a little old for all drinking games that don't involve how many times someone says "Woohoo! Big balls!" on Wipeout. In other news: ...help?

Reality

This is my clever way of acknowledging that my posting record on this blog has been somewhat patchy, spotty and/or intermittent of late.

Do you ever find yourself thinking, "OK, things are crazy now. I can hardly even hear myself think over the din of all my to-dos clattering around in my brain. But as soon as _____ is over, I'll have much more time to myself, to do the things *I* want to do"?

Because I swear I have that conversation in my head every day of my life.

And the reality is, there will always, ALWAYS be another _____ to take the place of whatever ____ I'm referring to that day. Always.

As one of my favorite sayings goes, "It's like trying to dig a hole in a bucket of water."

As I was telling a good friend recently, I find myself STRESSING about what I'm not getting done. Working on my children's books. Making gifts. Doing more volunteer work. Fixing up my house. Spending more time with family. Spending more time with friends. Working on about 50 other creative projects I have swirling around in my head somewhere. And devoting more time to this beloved blog, which you'd never know was beloved from the way I've been neglecting it.

And when there's no time for those things, because my career and the rest of my life get in the way? I get stressed. I can't sleep. My stomach actually churns. As though I'm missing some kind of deadline. As though all of those things aren't things I LIKE to do, but things I'm SUPPOSED to be doing. Like I'm falling behind. Letting people down.

The reality: All of that is self-inflicted.

The only one losing sleep (although, sadly, never appetite) over all of the above is me.

And by doing this, I'm not only creating a giant mental block when it comes to actually DOING those things, I'm cheating myself out of the most important part: enjoying the process. Enjoying the getting-there part. Enjoying the DOING, rather than just thinking about the end goal.

So, in the spirit with which this blog is named, I'm trying something new: I'm giving myself permission to just loosen the hell up.

I still want to do all those things.

But I'm no longer going to mentally flog myself for not posting something here every day.

I'm no longer going to inwardly scream "Bad Shannon!" when I spend a Saturday afternoon watching a movie or hugging my dogs instead of cleaning out my refrigerator.

When someone asks me how the books are coming, and I have to say, AGAIN, "I haven't had much time to work on them lately," I'm going to unplug the inner flashing marquee sign that reads "Coming soon to a town near you: Shannon! Is! A! Failure!"

Because the other reality is, while some other, better women than I can surely handle all of this and more without needing a mental break?

I can't.

And I think -- at least I'm trying to think -- that that's OK.

Birthday traditions and delayed gratification (One of these things is vastly overrated)

Every family has birthday traditions.

When I was growing up, the birthday honoree got to choose the entire dinner menu; surprisingly, we ate very few green vegetables on birthdays. In my husband's family, his mother baked his favorite cake: white cake, chocolate frosting, whole walnuts.

(I know one family where every person, adult and child alike, gets breakfast in bed on their birthday. And while I would appreciate the gesture, the thought of eating scrambled eggs immediately upon waking makes me slightly queasy.)

In our little family of me, T and the dogs, we have this:

The top is just a regular old candle. The bottom piece, though, sings "Happy Birthday" in ridiculously-high-pitched tones that most human ears cannot process. Over and over and over and over. Until someone finally turns it off.

I don't remember anymore who purchased this treasure, but it's so obnoxiously loud and silly that we can't help but haul it out year after year.

Another birthday tradition? (And, actually, Christmas and Valentine's Day and any other holiday, real or Hallmark-driven, where gifts are traditionally exchanged?)

T cannot--CANNOT--wait until the actual day to give me a present.

He gets all antsy and little-kid-excited to the point where I can SEE how he must have been as a little boy, all anxious to give someone he loves something he thinks they'll love.

Typically (particularly with Christmas presents, which are often of the movie or video game variety) he lasts until about a week before the day. Then he starts asking. "Do you want to open your present?"

Since I tend to prefer delayed gratification, I always say "No" (if only because I know this drives him NUTS; mwah ha ha).

And so the games begin. At least once a day (and sometimes multiple times per minute): "Do you want to open your present? How about now? Now? Now now now?? OPEN IT!!!!!"

This year, he made it to two days before my birthday. Since I'm pretty sure that's a new record, and since the next two days were going to be pretty busy, I gave in.

And ohhhhhh, are my tastebuds glad I did.


Friends, let me tell you something about me and ice cream.

You've heard tell of the love that dare not speak its name?

This is a love that is told not in words but by the inches of my butt, the smear of chocolate across my cheek and the almond stuck to my eyebrow.

I loves me some frozen treats.

Since the ice cream recipe in the handy-dandy accompanying booklet called not only for whole milk (which our non-child house never sees) but heavy cream and refined white sugar, a Kroger sojourn was necessary. But a quick grocery-store-grab-and-a-few-pulses-of-ye-olde-food-processer-to-chop-up-fresh-strawberries later and we were...waiting. For it to freeze.

But friends? When it did? And I took it out to taste-test it and only the outside of the container was frozen and the inside was still sort of mushy and a little runny? And I didn't care and I just dove in and ate it anyway?

Oh. My. Goodness.

Strawberries mixed with fatty milk products and huge amounts of refined sugar and then frozen are SO UNBELIEVABLY GOOD.

So good, in fact, that we finished the batch before I thought to take a picture of it to share with all of you.

Thankfully, for both humanity and my butt, the booklet also includes recipes for fro-yo and sorbet, the latter of which seems to call for not much more than water and flavoring and the occasional fruit.

(And if you think I'm not making dark chocolate sorbet with raspberries this weekend, YOU DON'T KNOW ME AT ALL and we should probably just break up now.)

Fairy dust and (sort of) fast cars

It's been a looong time since I attended a two-year-old's birthday party.

So I'd sort of forgotten how, because EVERYTHING is a toy to them, the whole "ooh, LOTS of shiny!" aspect of present-getting hasn't quite sunk in yet.

This weekend was my niece's birthday party. First thing you need to know: Girlfriend is ALL about the Tinker Bell. According to her mother, she watches a Tinker Bell DVD approximately 47 times a day.

By chance, she happened to open our gift first. A gift that included a Tinker Bell doll.

I call this picture "OMGz Tinker Bell droooooool...."


She stayed like that in the middle of the room for five minutes and REFUSED to open any of her other presents. I felt sort of bad (but also secretly kind of giddy that I'd hit the two-year-old jackpot).

Thankfully, my brother (who has somehow made the transition from a reckless 20-something to father of one with a wife, a house and three dogs) coaxed her back to the pile of waiting gifts.

And a good thing, too, because otherwise she would've missed out on this:



Her very own car! Complete with Flintstones motor (aka: her feet) and pimped out with a door that opens, a gas tank flap and a shelf in the back.

The girl was excited.

My other little gift, I'm happy to say, was also a hit. And it cost less than $3. (Again: LOVE buying for a two-year-old!) Fresh from the Wal-Mart checkout line: A plastic pink "camera," covered with decals of Disney princesses, that says things like "You're pretty!" and "Say 'Princess'!" when you click the shutter button.

We "took pictures" of each other for about half an hour after the party was over:

Bonus: After we returned to my parents' house, she and I spent another 30 minutes throwing an old-school Koosh ball back and forth. For some reason, it was HYSTERICALLY funny to yell "Kooooooooooooosh BALL!" as we threw it. And by that I mean we both laughed hysterically EVERY time we did it.

Mid-"Koosh" declaration:

Being an aunt is totally the coolest.

Oh, just hanging out

Thank you for all your well wishes. Belly rubs and snuggles are being administered in earnest, and we now own stock in Pupperoni. :)

One day at a time.

Reason #402

T and I have different sleep schedules.

I go to bed before he does, and I get up before he does. It has been this way from time immemorial. It isn't a big deal to us.

But, as a result, we find ourselves leaving each other a lot of notes, reminding each other about errands we have to run, asking each other to feed the dogs, scolding each other for failing to get gas for the mower (I forgot to do that last one a record eight days in a row; oopsie).

And while I love these little notes, there are very few that warrant saving for the scrapbook. (We are, after all, usually writing them either as we're going to bed or immediately after waking up -- not the best time for wit.)

Last week, the ice maker in our fridge just...stopped working. And started making a scary-sounding clicking noise. We were without ice for about a week, debating the possible causes and theorizing about who one calls for a busted ice maker (plumber? electrician? Home Depot?) before it occurred to us that...maybe we just needed to change the filter.

(We aren't what you'd call savvy in the way of home appliance repair.)

Friday night, T was changing the filter as I headed to bed.

Saturday morning, I woke up to this note:

"Baby,

Fed and watered and walked the dogs. Can you PLEASE get gas for the mower today?

Love you.

T

P.S.: We now have more ice than King Tut!"

...

I love that man. :)

A very special birthday today!

Smart.

Hilarious.

Amazing hair.

Great sense of style.

Fantastic listener.

Talented writer.

Incredibly centered sense of being.

These are things I knew about my friend Two Pretzels within hours of meeting her my junior year of college.

Something I've discovered over the past 13 years?

She still possesses all those things. And she's also one of the best friends a girl could ask for.

K, our all-nighters in the Wit office (brandishing a giant umbrella for protection when we had to go to the bathroom in the basement, eating Taco Bell at three in the morning (delivered by fire escape), sweating at the very tippity top of the oldest building on campus, defending ourselves against a bat with a broom) will always be some of my favorites of that entire phase of my life. I'm so thankful for them, and so thankful you were there for it.

But I'm even more thankful that you're my friend today. Your friendship, support and encouragement ("You should start a blog, Shannon!" "Seriously, have you started a blog YET?") has meant more to me than you'll probably ever know. I LOVE seeing how your life has grown with each new addition (starting with Nattie and Craig)! :) You, my friend, are nothing short of amazing.

I absolutely love you to PIECES. And I hope today is one of your favorite birthdays yet. :)

Curse: Broken!

When last we left my green stuff, I was beating the curse...but one little thing was mocking my attempt at total victory:

That was the beginning of July. We suffered through a long, hot month, I got out my pruning shears and hacked the dead stuff to pieces, and now in August we have...

...this!

OK, so I cheated a little and threw away the truly dead stuff around the edges. But look! The snapdragons (the white flowers) are blooming again! The geraniums are STILL blooming!

IT'S ALIVE!!

And so is this stuff:

And even my herbs have survived! Well, most of them:

AND. Remember the sad, sad story of my dill, that was being drowned by the uncharacteristic amount of rain we had in Ohio this summer, so I had to transplant it, and then it ended up looking like this?

Turns out, there's a reason dill was named the herb of the year. See that giant green thing in the corner with the yellowish flowery type things on top?

Resilient little booger started growing all on its own after I moved its parent plant to its eventual death.

And it even has a little brother that somehow made it over to the geraniums!

Curse: Broken! I am the champion! Weeds, fear me! Potted plants, revere me!

Maybe next year I'll try something harder. Like perennials.

I take it back, Hollywood

For the past few years, I've been ragging on Hollywood for having NO original ideas.

Honestly -- it seems like nearly every movie I've seen or heard about in the past three years was a remake (and sometimes of an original that wasn't very good in the first place) or the movie version of a book (ditto).

For the past three weeks, whenever I turn on my TV, it's resting on Showtime -- which is INEVITABLY playing this movie:


I'm not kidding. At least eight times in the last three weeks, I wake up, turn on the TV and am greeted with this:

Here's the synopsis of the movie: An evil business executive {ooooh!} (played by George Lazenby) {...who?}, is releasing dangerous toxins {just...randomly?} and the Barbarian Brothers {...} set out to stop his evil work {presumably with their synchronized hair-and-pec-flipping routine}.

After its fourth surprise appearance, I decided the fates apparently wanted me to check out this movie. Thirty seconds in, I decided the fates apparently hate me. Oafish, non-acting twins? Check. Annoying, wish-they-were-Macaulay-Culkin, non-acting younger twins? Got it. AMAZINGLY bad early-90s clothing and hairstyles? Quadruple check. Plotline that makes ABSOLUTELY no sense, and yet somehow is featured constantly on one of the supposedly "premier" movie channels? OH heavens yes.

If this is what Hollywood does when left to its own devices, I owe it a giant apology. Remake The Honeymooners 'til the cows come home. Do a new, preachy version of The Goonies where a gang of kids fights Corporate America and saves the dung beetle. Make a new Pretty Woman for the geriatric set starring Gene Hackman and Dame Judy Dench.

There's no use thinking for yourselves, Hollywood. I see now what can come of it. Just go back over there, stay pretty, and keep churning out those Twilight movies.

:)

And now for something completely shallow...

My hair looks absolutely nothing like this.

Well, unless it counts that my hair is long, dark and wavy.

(In truth, I only chose this picture because I think the model's expression is HILARIOUS. She either looks completely void of thought, or just really, really hungry. I'm going to say it's a little from Column A, a little from Column B...) (Also, I'm pretty sure that's a wig.)

So. Anyway.

Aside from a brief, year-long flirtation with a short, stacked, highlighted-beyond-all-reason bob shortly after I got married in 2002, my hair has been basically the same since 1993.

Long. Dark brown. All one length or with LONG layers (I could never pull off The Rachel).

In short: B.O.R.I.N.G.

But when I actually do try something new, like cutting it all off or dyeing it orange (the latter of which was unintentional, and has scared me away from those "no need to make an appointment we are always here and have sometimes sketchy qualifications" salons), I hate it.

If it's too short or too layered, I can't pull it back, which infuriates me. 99 percent of the time, I just want my hair out of my face. And it requires too much styling, whereas I'm from the school of "throw some product in my hair, scrunch and leave."

If it's some wonky color (read: orange; and I'm talking traffic-cone orange), I feel like it clashes with everything I wear, and it just doesn't feel like me.

Which is why I always end up...here.

Long, dark and wavy.

At this point in my life, I'm feeling OK about embracing my hair the way *I* feel comfortable with it. I'm into long, dark and wavy.

But the "long" part...well, it's getting out of hand. When it gets this long (halfway down my back), I shed like CRAZY. And it's becoming a problem.

Places I have found one or more strands of my hair JUST today:

1. Under my mousepad
2. In my pocket
3. Woven between the keys of my keyboard
4. In my dog's mouth
5. At the bottom of my lunch bag
6. Tangled in my husband's beard
7. Hanging from a lamp
8. Wound around my necklace
9. (I'm not even counting the carpet, my clothes or the shower drain. EW.)
   

So I'm thinking it's time to do some chopping. And I need opinions. And possibly links to photos. (Note: I would LOVE to do Locks of Love or something similar, but my hair breaks off at a certain point, and I'd have to literally shave my head to get the required number of inches. I know I probably should do it anyway, but I work in a professional office and...yeah.)

Here's what I'm thinking:

• Cut off about 4 inches
• Choppy layers, possibly longer in the front, but still long enough in the back that I can pull it back (the idea of an asymmetrical cut appeals to me, but I'm not sure if I can pull off something super weird, and again: I don't want anything that needs a lot of styling)
• Shorter layers right by my face (not really bangs, but kind of)

Thoughts? Advice? Cautionary tales? Cautionary photos?

Bring it.

Pupdate: If rollercoasters were peppered with occasional bouts of snuggling

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you know that my dogs are my babies.

T and I adore them. We talk to them as if they're people. Assign them real or imagined personality traits. Make up songs about how fat they are.

Dress them up for our own amusement.

As I mentioned about a month ago, we got some news about the babiest of our babies, Bubba, that pretty much rocked us. And not in a good way.

During the week preceding the Fourth of July, we found a little lump under his chin. A few days later, we found another, much larger one on his collarbone. And we started to get scared.

Our vet was out of town for the holiday weekend, so we took him to our backup vet. In the waiting room, Bubba was the only dog who felt he had to sit on the bench next to me instead of on the floor with the other dogs, drawing smiles from the other owners in the room. Personally, I felt this was completely appropriate -- he's family, not just a "pet." (And when he got scared -- by a smaller dog -- and climbed his 80-pound self into my lap, I didn't mind a bit.)

The backup vet felt the lumps, stood up slowly and looked at me. Her face confirmed my fears.

"Lymphoma. Let's get him started on Prednisone right away."

Tears. Instantly. Bubba sniffed the bottom of her examining table, oblivious, and looked up at me, all "Uh, Mom, can we go home now? It's time for my mid-mid-late-morning nap. Thankssomuchlet'sgo."

On the vet's advice, we waited an interminable WEEK to get tests done by our own vet.

Tests? Done.
Results? Positive for lymphoma.
Next step? Decide if we want to do chemo.

We battled and battled and battled over this one.

It would mean three trips to Columbus each week for 6-8 weeks, one hour each way, but we could make that work. It was expensive, but cost wasn't the issue.

Was it worth putting our baby through all that? Feeling sick, stressful car rides, getting poked and prodded...and not understanding that he's going through all this stress and pain and sickness...for his own good?

We read everything we could find online, trying to find success stories (there weren't many). We asked our friends who have dogs, my friends at the dog shelter, our parents, our neighbors -- we wanted every opinion we could find.

Finally, we asked our vet.

(I can't tell you how much we think of and value our vet. Unlike a lot of "country" vets, he doesn't treat all animals like faceless livestock. He definitely knows his stuff, but he'll still get down on the floor and play with a dog like a little boy. That's the kind of person I want taking care of my baby.)

After discussing what it would entail, T finally just asked, "If this was your dog, would you do it?"

He answered instantly. "No. I'd just try to love on him as much as possible and enjoy him with the time you have left."

Bubba enjoying one of his favorite things:
sleeping on his brother (in our bed)

How much time do we have left?

The simple answer is: We don't know.

When we had the above conversation with the vet, he laid it out for us:

• We'll keep him on steroids and antibiotics indefinitely.
• If he responds to the medication, he could go into a temporary remission and stay with us for another 2-3 months. Maybe up to 6 months, but probably not.
• If he doesn't respond to the medication...we could lose him anytime.

For the past month, we've been going on this way. Meds every 12 hours. Healthy appetite. Days-long stretches of lethargy and sad-face punctuated with short bursts of playfulness, after which he's exhausted. Looooooong snuggle sessions.

Oh, how I love that he's a snuggler.

We settled into a routine. We could almost forget for stretches of time.

Then, this weekend, he threw up everything he tried to eat for 36 hours. Even the special boiled-meat-and-rice concoction that always settles their tummies.

We were panic-stricken. We thought we were ready for this.

We aren't. Now I don't think we ever really will be.

Thankfully, he started being able to keep food down again yesterday, and seems to be back to his new/normal routine. But we know now, for sure, that an awful, horrible decision is coming, however many weeks or months in the future.

When the time comes, I'm just praying I'm unselfish enough to make it.