For Your Reading Pleasure

Last year during the blogathon, there were just over 100 bloggers signed up to write every day for the month of May. This year over 191 bloggers will be swearing, sweating, and stressing about posting everyday. The list is so long, I only included A-K below. I'll post the others tomorrow. The links should take you directly to their page. There were many great blogs last year and I desperatley tried to read everybody's at least once, but I didn't get all the way to the end of the list. With 191 bloggers, I'm sure to fail. But I'm going to try and visit as many as I can. If you click on the links below and find a blog that you loved, please comment and let me know!
A

Ahil Amar - Ahil Amar - Thoughts from Ahil Amar
Alana Mautone - Ramblin’ With AM, Living in upstate New York
Alexandra Grabbe - Chezsven Blog, What it is like to be a green innkeeper and live on Cape Cod year round
Alison Law - Lawthenticity, Personal and professional stories and observations
Alison Preston - LadyMoxie, Relationships with an added pinch of food, music, and bacon in the dish
Amanda Steinhaus - Ms. Panda’s Blog, Writing because I love to write!
Ana Gonzalez Ribelro - Our New Casa, Purchasing and remodeling a home; Live, Love, Laugh, Travel, tales of a traveling family; Ace the Journey, Making decisions about life and money
Andrea Parker - Autism Fundraising Guide, Advice from the trenches
Angela - Baby Hellfire has a Blog, Peace and Tofu Chicken Grease!
Annie Daniels – Aniel Daniel, Random occurrences and my ever-changing interests as college student
Anjuli - Unbirthday Escapades, Blog of memories past and present
Anne Wainscott-Sargent – The Writing Well, Mastering the power of prose in business and in life
Annette Gendler - Memoir, Writing & Life, Writing, teaching and publishing memoir, and creative nonfiction
Anyes - Far Away in the Sunshine, A woman pursuing her creative dreams
Arial - Contrapunto, Happenings in Panama
Ashley Lyon - You know I love You More, Book reviews and fandom excitement!
B
Barb Freda - Babette Feasts, I write about cooking and I stew about writing
Barb G - Never Another Diet, Finding Enough, the Quest for a Diet-Free Life
Bebe Bahnsen - Bebe’s Blog, Politics, religion, life in the South and general musings
Becky Leung - Tummy Time, Fixing digestive issues with a healthy lifestyle and good nutrition and exercise
Betty Draper - BettsDraper, Applying Jack Canfield’s success principles one step at a time
Bill Lascher – Lascher @ Large, Travels of a freelance journalist raised by a pack of lawyers
Billie Noakes - Billie Noakes, General musings (usually light-hearted)
Bree Hays - PenSlave, My move to Guam
C
Cara Law – Cake Me Home, Because life tastes better with cake
Carrie - Random Girl Geek, Reviews of things that catch my eye
Catherine Canaceli - Periwinkle Confessions, Finding God in Everything
Christina Leach – Chris Scraps, A blog about my life and crafts
Christianne - Cyanne99, Inner Thoughts and Ramblings
Christine Calvin - Inspired Life, Current events, women’s issues, randomness, sometimes silliness
Christine Evans - 52 Crafts in 52 Weeks, Exploring a new craft every week for a year
Claudine M. Jalajas - Belle Designs, Jewelry-making resources
Connie - bhulbhulaiyan, Travel and memories
Conrad Zero - Conrad Zero, Tips, tricks and resources for authors of all genres
Craig Motlong - Pacific Writing Company, Writing for writers
Cynthia Rosi - Simply Hug Yourself – Enjoy your whole self in Columbus, Ohio
D
Daisy - Compost Happens, Family, garden, crunchy green eco-writer
Dawndela Webb - Insomniac Imaginings, Musings and rambles of a stay-at-home mother of three; Erotic Images, Erotic fiction
David Allen - Amazing iPad, All things iPad
Dayle Fraschilla - I Shall Be a Toad, Passions, both big and small
Deb Wolf - Counting My Blessings, Gratitude at God’s amazing grace
Denae Darcy - Denae D’Arcy – TV journalist, freelance writer, social media enthusiast living near the Great Smoky Mountains
Don Gonzalez - Gonzo’s Gab, Pontificating on Catholicism, technology, politics, cigars, writing, homerdogs and teaching
Dylan Fogle - DiscordianZen – Dark and it’s different
E F
Elizabeth Humphrey - The Write Elizabeth, Writing. creativity. play. life.
Elizabeth - Amnesia Lane, Journey through the shows, books and characters that inspired my love of writing
Estelle Sobel Erasmus - Musings On Motherhood, Midlife and Other Forms of Madness, A Running Commentary On My Transformative Journey Through Motherhood
Esther Rumfelt - Health and Wellness Coaching, Helping you live well, be healthy and enjoy life
Frances Barker - Felting Needle, City and Guilds felt-making student, textiles and Suffolk living
G
Georgia Fogle - Got P.M.A.? – Positive Mental Attitude. Get Some.
Gerri Curless - 50 Is the New 40 – Wife, mother, grandmother trying blogging, crafting and sharing what I’ve learned with others
Ginnie - Nua Feileacan, 30-something woman on a journey of discovery
Glenneth - Let’s Talk and Walk, Getting healthy through walking, eating better, and having fun
Gloria Marie - GloriaMarie.com, Personal blog, mostly about photography.
H
Haley Shapley - Girl About the World, Travel writer’s tales of wanderlust
Harry Marks - Curious Rat, Chewing on the tech industry’s wires
Heather - Discover Washington State, Life in the Evergreen State
Heather Brooks - Serve One Another in Love, An online ministry for Christians of all ages
Heather Williams - This Blog Will Give You Cancer, Talking about nothing
Holly Green - WithoutAdo, Bible and secular articles
Hope - The Life of a Daydreaming Mommy, Mommy blogger
J
Jackie Dishner - Bike with Jackie, Turn obstacles into opportunities and other self-development lessons
Jan Culpepper - Life and Times of a Preacher Mom, Juggling life, ministry, parenting, a relationship and whatever else life throws my way
Jan Udlock – Imperfect Mom, Professional writer, parenting expert, mom of five
Jane Boursaw - Reel Life with Jane, Home to Jane Boursaw’s syndicated family movie and TV reviews
Janis Price - Whispers & Roars, Life of a writer when your full-time job is not writing
Jenn - Kepkanation, Politics and pop culture
Jenni Derryberry Mann - Mamahhh, Navigating the labyrinth of motherhood one breath at a time
Jennie Phipps - Freelance Success Blog, Freelance Success outtakes
Jennifer Walker - My Morning Chocolate, Delicious inspiration for people who wake up thinking about food
Jennifer Willis - Jennifer Willis, Journalist, writer and editor.
Jennifer Woodard - Wordzopolis, DIY marketing and public relations
Jenny Beikes - Out of My Head, Musings on life events
Jessica Braun - Pink Rose, Blooming in Generation Y, I write about me, my life, my VISTA experience
Joan Lambert Bailey - Popcorn Homestead, Gardening and living in Tokyo
Joanna - My Daily Mooosings, Simplifying life and culture in the Netherlands
Joanne Mason - About English Idioms, What they mean, how we use them, where they came from
John P. Jones - Writing at Gunpoint, When writing is not a comfortable experience.
Jon Bell - On Mount Hood, All things Mount Hood
Judy Downing - Customer Approach, Connect with customers to grow your business
Julia B. - Aunty JuJu’s Perspective, Thoughts on subjects that come up in daily life
Julia Munroe Martin - WordsXO – Words, writing, and life!
Julie – The Write Place to Be, Being a freelance writer
Julie Sturgeon - KnowledgeWebb, Don’t Sweat the Tech, The quirky, fun, interesting and very useful in social media technology.
Julie Tolbert - Culturally Speaking, Through technology the world is getting smaller; Today’s Tea, About tea in 2011
K
Karen Bannan - Natural as Possible Mom, Because being natural isn’t always possible – or easy!
Kari Wolfe - Imperfect Clarity, Literature and the writing and editing life
Kate Megill - Teaching what is Good – Teaching younger women according to the Titus 2 model
Kate Reilly - Polka Dot Suitcase, Family fun through creative living
Kathy Murray - That China Girl, A reluctant teen expat’s life in Beijing
Katie Jett Walls - One/Week, Blogging, finding my voice, and identifying my passions
Katy Manck - Books YA Love, Recommending standout young adult books, especially from first-time authors and small publishers
Kelly Morga - My Little Silly Life, The silly things, situations and people that make my life special
Khadijah M. Britton - BetterBio, Journalism that explores the intimate connection between life and science
Kris Bordessa – Attainable Sustainable, Reviving the lost art of self-sufficiency, one small change at a time
Kristi Bernard - Kristi Bernard, Information for new writers

Mediocre as usual

So. This year I joined the blogathon again, vowing to post everyday for the month of May. Today I woke up and realized it was the first day of May.

Damn. It's been a busy weekend. Wasn't it just April, like, yesterday?

So here I am, posting at the eleventh hour om my iPad of all stupid things, because my husband is sitting here in be next to me with my computer writing emails. This handy little gadget isn't exactly a productive tool for lengthy typing..unless you have the additional keyboard attachment, which I don't.

But I was extremely busy today, even if it wasn't writing a hysterical first blog, or adding to the family income with my labor, or cleaning my house, or doing laundry. Here's just a snapshot of the last 15 hours of my life.

Things I did today:
-went to 8:30 am mass
-took my son to baseball pictures
-frosted cookies for my daughter's bake sale in front of our house
-helped set up bake sale for daughter
-helped my son with his school project
-went to Lowes with my neighbor and bought herbs for my planters and a really cool ornamental grass. I have no idea where I'm going to plant it, but I bought it anyway.
-took my son to his baseball game. Even brought my daughters so my husband could have a few hours to work on the chicken coop. I am so selfless.
-forced my son to finish his school project
-bathed my youngest and told my middle daughter to get in the shower
-argued some more with son about his school project
-went to my monthly book club, where we discussed "The Paris Wife." Loved the book and had a very enlightening discussion at book club.
-came home, showered, put away all the remaining baked goods fromearlieer sale, still sitting on the counter
-got in bed and wrote a log on the iPad after having three (small) glasses of wine at book club

If you ever decide to tune back in after reading this pathetic first blogathon post, I promise it will be worth your time. Unless you don't like reading about chickens. I plan on posting a lot about them.

Decidedly, The Chick Came First

Meet Julia. She belongs to my three-year-old.

Last week while the kids were on vacation, I picked up six new chicks and brought them home.

No, not that kind of chick. (My husband would have reacted much differently if I brought home those kind of chicks.) Chick, as in baby chicken. Six of ‘em. Cute as can be.

Currently these little balls of fluff are living next to my washing machine in an old Pack n’ Play on loan from my chicken-owning-guru-and-friend, Kristi. We’re into week one of chicken ownership and I must say, it’s been enlightening.

I’ve been wanting my own laying hens for over a year now and started working on my husband long ago because I knew that having chickens catapulted me into a different category altogether. No longer content to grow my own vegetables or make jam from my own blackberries, now I wanted food producing animals. What was I anyway? A closet farmer? And what would I ask for next? A milking cow or grass grazing goat?

His first response over a year ago was, “Hell no.” (Or something to that effect.)

Next came, “We are NOT having chickens in the yard.” (Again, I’m paraphrasing.)

I’d make a comment to him and let it simmer. Try again a few weeks or months later. Finally one night after more chicken talk, he tried a different tactic and said, “When you publish your book you can get chickens.” I know he meant it to motivate me to get off my arse and publish my book (or at least work on it) but the comment felt more like what we say to our children about their grades… “You can get a cell phone when you earn all A’s…”

“Look,” I said to my husband. “I’m a grown woman with a Masters degree. If I want to get chickens, then I’m going to get chickens. I’m asking you out of respect. I’d like you to be on board with me.” I knew I would need his help with the coop and set-up, in addition to how much easier it would be to have his support. After that we shelved the chicken conversation for quite some time.

Fast forward a few months and while he may not be all the way on board (as in, I’ll never ask or expect him to clean or muck the coop) he is being extremely supportive. He’s already built me four nesting boxes and is going to trick-out the coop for me, even making sure the thing has a sun porch. Gosh I love that man.

I’ve also gotten a pretty mixed review from my neighbors, who think I’ve all but gone mad and perhaps over-the-top with this sustainable-eating-fresh-food thing. Worried that I’m going to turn this neighborhood into a live-action set from “Beverly Hillbillies,” the comments I’ve gotten are:

“You’re what?”

“Why?”

“Have you ever been around chickens?” (This is coupled with an incredulous, dumbfounded look.)

“Do you know how much they poop?” (Add curled lip in disgust.)

“Tell me why you’re doing this again?” (Tilt head, add above.)

“Are they going to be just roaming around your yard, or what’s the deal?” (Peer at me over bifocals.)

And the best from my sister-in-law: “Rachel wants chickens? Is this the same Rachel that doesn’t like germs? Is this my sister-in-law we’re talking about?”

While their response doesn’t shock me much, it certainly isn’t the egg-colored-glasses perspective that I’ve been reading about in my chicken bible. Yes, while Jesus is present in this one, albeit omnisciently (seriously, how does chicken mash and a worm turn into something I eat for breakfast with toast? Amazing!) Mathew, Mark, Luke, and John have nothing to say about the matter. My chicken bible, The Joy of Keeping Chickens, by Jennifer Megyesi was a gift from a neighbor’s daughter who knew I was interested in having laying hens. Her mother (my neighbor)—while she admires my chickens currently because they are palm sized and therefore not loud or smelly—can’t quite be labeled “enthusiastic” yet about my new adventure, and I secretly wonder if she’d like to kick her daughter for getting me my poultry bible to begin with. But that’s all water under the feeder now.

Everything I’ve read online and in my book (and I’ve done a lot of research) paints this lovely, picturesque painting of hen owning, one that is not only filled with emerald green meadows, bird chirp, and a fresh spring breeze, but also touts the myriad benefits of owning chickens. They eat ticks. They eat worms. They are fabulous for your garden. Their poop is great fertilizer. They are docile, loving, and smarter than people give them credit for. They are easy to maintain. They are maternal. Oh, and their eggs are pretty good too. Full of vitamins and nutrients. With yolks the color of the setting sun. You’ll never find a yolk like that in the grocery store.

And then there were my neighbors and anyone who ever owned a chicken or lived near people who owned chickens who cock their head to the side (much like a chicken, I might add) and inquire as to what exactly I’ve been drinking or smoking lately to make me want chickens. For a moment I was confused that there seemed to be two completely opposite camps: haters and lovers. Haters were real people. Lovers were published. Hmmm.

I suppose a book titled, “Why Keeping Chickens is a Pain in the Ass,” wouldn’t sell very well. Or, “Shit That Makes You Gag: 1001 Reasons Not to Own Chickens.” That probably wouldn’t be a very good title either.

In fact, this epiphany reminds me a lot of a conversation I had with my priest-friend some years back on the subject of birth control, specifically vasectomies. “Most of the married people I talk to say that having a vasectomy was the worse thing that happened to their marriage,” he told me. It didn’t occur to me until later that people who invited vasectomy into their marriage and loved it wouldn’t exactly go running to their neighborhood priest to tell him about it, would they? “Hey Father, just so you know, you were wrong about the vasectomy thing. We should’a done it years ago.”

It’s all about the audience really.

So the truth about owning chickens resides somewhere in the middle grey area of my happy-go-lucky book and my neighbors’ aghast astonishment. While I’m not regretting my decision, it would have been good for me to have this awakening before I actually bought the chicks.

But there they are, regardless. Six little balls of molting fluff and feathers living in a Pack n’ Play in my laundry room. My neighbors ask me frequently how it’s going and how the chicks are. I know that silently they are biding their time, knowing at some point I’m going to complain about the chicken poop smell, the frequent cage cleaning, the messy, grossness of it all, which will open the doors for them to nod their head with that I-told-you-so look on their face. I say bring it. Of course I’m going to complain. What’s a good blog without complaining? But I also have the final product in mind: fresh eggs, with deep sunny yolks, from chickens who lived a happy life.

And while I promise my intention isn’t to ruin the neighborhood with my bohemian tendencies and free-range birds (c’mon; my children are almost always clothed and we don’t hang our underwear on a clothesline yet), I am keeping chickens and a garden in the south part of Easton; once known for its peasant and archaic traditions such as farming food and raising animals. I mean, it’s not like I’m out of my element or anything.

And you, my dear readers, get to be with me all the way. You can live vicariously through my foibles. Lucky ducks chickens.

Meet the girls! From Top to bottom, clockwise: Molly, Giraffe, May, Blackie, Milly, and Julia.

Coming out of the fog



I'm finally coming out of a long winter's fog;
 the sunrise slowly lighting the road ahead of me.
My cousin Jared White took this picture. He's a brilliant photographer. Check out more of his stuff on his blog, Photology: Project 365.



Fortunately & Unfortunately…March pretty much sucked.

Quit looking at me like that. Rolling your eyes in disappointed-mother fashion. I know you tune in here for your daily (well, maybe monthly) laugh and I’ve been absent. Well, if you don’t know by now that us humorists are really just normal, occasionally depressed people who may have trouble dealing with crap in their lives from time to time, wearing clown costumes and face paint to make you laugh, well then, you’ve never heard of Richard Lewis. Or Richard Jeni. Or Richard Pryor. Or any comedian that’s had a stint on SNL. Two things you clearly want to avoid: naming your child Richard or having them work on SNL. My name’s not Richard, but it starts with R. Close enough.

To recap my life since my last post in….February (has it really been that long?), I’m going to do it in child-story format. We’ll ease back into this blog writing/reading thing together in 10-15 minute increments.

 My Life Since February

Unfortunately, after a really long winter, a huge snowstorm, and a few issues with my husband, I woke up one morning at the beginning of March with a headache.

Fortunately, I was still breathing and I had plenty of Ibuprofen in the house.

Unfortunately, the Ibuprofen didn’t work.

Fortunately, I had made plans to go to Arizona (and escape the grey New England winter) to visit my grandparents and family. Unfortunately my original flight was cancelled because of snow, but fortunately I rescheduled my trip for the beginning of March.

Unfortunately, my grandfather died before I got to Arizona. Fortunately, I was able to attend his service during my rescheduled trip as well as visit with my two grandmothers.

Unfortunately, my headaches continued during my trip, despite good weather, supportive family, and lack of snow.

Fortunately, I returned back home safely.

Unfortunately, my headaches decided to hang out with me twenty-four hours a day. And ibuprofen wasn’t working.

Fortunately, I went to see my Primary Care doctor, who was concerned about my  specific head pain and told me to get an MRI.

Unfortunately, I have a problem feeling trapped, but fortunately my husband came with me. Using the black eye mask I made it through the hour and a half MRI without freaking out. Bonus.

Unfortunately, I was expecting the worse possible outcome. MS. Brain tumor. Acoustic Neuroma. (I looked that one up online. It’s amazing what you can find when you google “head pain.”)

Fortunately, my MRI was clear.  I had nothing wrong with my brain. No lesions. No tumor. I was normal, normal, normal. “Are you under any stress?” my PC asked me. “Yes,” I replied. “A tad.” Hmmmmm, she said, jotting down notes in her notepad.

Unfortunately, the headaches, ear ringing, pain, and general malaise continued. I didn’t clean. I didn’t do errands. I didn’t do anything but want to stay in my pajamas and sleep, sleep, sleep.

Fortunately, I made an appointment with an ENT to have a hearing test and figure out what the ringing in my ears was all about.

Unfortunately, I was worried that my hearing test would hurt my already hurting ears.

Fortunately, my hearing tests were normal. My ears were not infected. They looked beautiful. My inner ear was fine. I was pronounced, normal, normal, normal. “Are you under any stress?” the ENT asked me. “Well, yes,” I replied. “A bit.” His professional suggestion was to do nothing. Wait it out. But just in case, I should see a neurologist because of all my headaches.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t see the neurologist for two weeks. I made the appointment anyway.

Fortunately, I woke up one Saturday morning two weeks ago and my headache was gone. Gone, just like that. As quick as a sneeze or a fart, they were gone. Five weeks of wanting to sever my head vanished like an apparition.

Unfortunately, I still didn’t know what caused them. What triggered them. What cheapy-plastic part in my brain snapped to make them last so long.

Fortunately, I still had my appointment with the neurologist who I hoped would have some answers.

Unfortunately, my appointment with the neurologist lasted two hours, during school vacation, and my children were home alone. Thankfully the doctor’s office wasn’t far away.

Fortunately, he gave me a complete exam. I answered a million questions about the life of my headaches. When they started (in college). Do I feel nauseous? (yes). Do I have urinary track problems? (what?)

Unfortunately, after reading my file and visiting with me, the neurologist told me...wait for it….that I was normal, normal, normal. Yes, I had migraines. I also had tension headaches caused by….tension. Was I under any stress lately? Ummmm,.... Try acupuncture, he said. Take magnesium oxide (but don’t confuse it with magnesium hydroxide, which is used to treat constipation. These are not interchangeable). Use a heating pad on your neck for 35-40 minutes to try and release the knots that are your shoulder and neck muscles. And stretch.

Fortunately, I am normal, normal, normal.

Unfortunately, the five weeks of headaches were apparently triggered by stress. Stress, that abstract noun without form or personality—you can’t feel it, touch, taste it, or put it in a paper sack, and yet, it can make you feel like a tumor is growing in your head. It tightens your muscles and fills your feet with cement. Covers your eyes so you stumble.

Fortunately, I’m in a better place now. The sun has actually come out (literally) and I’ve been able to prune my fruit trees, plant my sugar snap and shelling peas, and rake up the lawn debris from the winter. I’m back to doing laundry and picking up the house and occasionally preparing a meal. (Or ordering pizza.)

Unfortunately, there is a part of me that worries I’m going to wake up with another five weeks of headaches; or that the tiny headaches I feel everyday will morph into something larger. And of course I worry that all those many specialists missed something. But my husband would tell me that’s my worse-case-scenario-personality talking. Our counselor would agree.

Fortunately, I’m back. And not only am I back, but I also just signed up to do the monthly blogathon again this year, starting in May. And spring is here. Mostly.

That’s been my life in a nutshell, at least as much as I’m willing to divulge on the internet. I hope I haven’t lost you and you join me back here on Musings. I have a lot of stories to tell you when you return. Like I’m getting chickens. And my three-year-old told me she likes to eat boogers. And my son brought home THREE C’s on his last report card. And my husband built and installed a bat house. You’ll have to tune back in to get the juicy scoop on everything.

Happy spring!

Signs that you know winter has gone on too damed long.

• Sleeping in a snow hat is now part of your nighttime wardrobe.
• When you witness the ever-so-small patch of green beneath the snow you think its mold.
• You tell the kids they don’t really need their jackets because it’s over 40 degrees outside.
• Hauling wood from the wood pile has become a daily chore for your children.
• Chopping wood will now be a daily spring, summer, and fall chore for your children.
• You consider selling your lawnmower on eBay because you don’t think you’ll need it anymore.
• The thought of stew, soup, and anything from a crock pot makes your family want to hurl.
• No one wants to drink hot chocolate anymore. Even with extra marshmallows.
• When you see more snow in the forecast, you get emotional and angry.
• You can’t remember ever having experienced a time when you weren’t cold.
• You start googling recipes where the main ingredient is snow.
• You begin to cut down greet trees in your backyard because you’ve already used the seasoned firewood. And it’s only February.
• Somehow you ended up homeschooling the kids because they don’t seem to be in public school that often anymore.
• But unfortunately, though you are homeschooling your children, they will in fact be legally obliged to keep attending school past July 4^th to make up for days when they were being homeschooled.
• You consider knocking off that huge icicle hanging from the ice dam in your gutter and stabbing Mother Nature with it.
• You ran out of heating oil twice in one month.
• You begin any sentence about the weather, ice, or snow with the “F” word.
• You send away for “Make your Own Mukluk” kits.
• You decide that being pen pals with a family living on the Arctic tundra might be a good idea.
• You have a layer of permafrost in your living room; mostly from the soot and grit from the bottom of everyone’s snow boots. And the fact that you are out of heating oil. Again. 
• You’ve lost four snow shovels this season and there is a good chance that each one is buried in a different layer of ice and snow within five feet of your front door.
• You start rationalizing the weight you’ve put on by claiming you’re working on your insulation.
• You got the idea to insulate yourself with body fat by watching March of the Penguins.
• You have the girls at your daughter's sleep over fill sandbags as an activity--in preparation for the flooding you anticipate if the snow ever melts come spring.
• You actually make a list of signs when you know that winter has gone on too damned long.

Can you think of anything else? Please add to my list! 

Picking Battles

I decided to break my almost-two-month silence here with a guest post from Ted. After reading this you'll be laughing too hard to be mad at me for my ridiculously long hiatus. When you're finished, leave a comment letting us know if you are or aren't one. I can tell you right now, I'm a card carrying member of this club, right along with Ted's wife. 

Shortly after graduating from college, my friends and I were nursing our hangovers in the front yard of my parents’ house. While we were busily recounting the antics of the previous evening, my father pulled up in his freshly washed and vacuumed Mercury Marquis and immediately asked me in front of my friends:  “What happened to the lawn?”

 “I mowed it.” I replied. “Doesn’t it look good?” Even if I didn’t have wet-brain, I should have known that there was 0% chance my father would have answered in the affirmative.  

No, he did not think the lawn looked good. Perhaps that was because one of the wheels on the mower was apparently at a different setting than the other three while I mowed the entire lawn. As a result, each strip of the lawn was cut at an ever-so-slight angle that only the most obsessive of obsessive lawn owners would ever notice. Unfortunately for me, my father just happens to be one of these individuals. Not believing him initially, my father then requested that I join him on all fours so that we could both gain a better view of my horticultural faux pas. Please keep in mind that my friends were present for this entire exchange. Luckily, my recently-earned undergraduate degree was in neither landscape architecture or pride.

I do not bring up this story just so I can poke fun at my father’s anal-retentive lawn care tendencies. (But if that were indeed my intention, I would inevitably use that as the lead-in to the story of my father standing on the roof of our two-story house using the electric leaf blower to rid the roof of all debris. I am pretty sure he must have had to plug two extension cords together to be able to gingerly operate the equipment that far removed from anything resembling an electrical outlet.) Rather, I bring up this anecdote to illustrate how some people have an amazing ability to see things that most other (read: normal) people are completely oblivious to. With that, I resort to the analogy section of the SAT’s to drive home my main point:  

Lawn imperfections are to my father as pimples are to my wife.  

Just as I would most likely not have noticed if my father’s lawn mower’s blade was temporarily replaced with two plastic knives lifted from Dairy Queen, I am not someone who really pays attention to pimples, either mine or those of others. Yes, I will pop my own pimples; I consider it to be good hygiene, just like making sure I don’t have any stray nose hairs or kale stuck in my teeth. However, I don’t get enjoyment out of any of these acts. They are just things I do if I want to have people willingly interact with me.  

This is all very different for my wife. (Let’s call her Pam, which seems pretty appropriate considering that is indeed her name) For Pam, the act of picking satisfies a burning need that one usually only sees when watching a tweeker light up on an episode of “Intervention.” And without the aide of rehab or twelve step programs, Pam has learned how to effectively manage most of her impulses to pick. Impressive, eh?

Pam is not alone in this obsession; by my unofficial count, approximately half of all Americans are “pickers.” My non-scientific studies have further concluded that there is absolutely no grey area between the two camps; either you’re a picker or you aren’t. That’s it. Just as you either love the show “Glee” or you despise it. (I am in the latter camp. So for those of you keeping track, that makes me a “Glee”-hating-non-picker.) And my doctoral thesis in the psychology of picking concluded that although it is satisfying for a picker to pick something on their own body, it is that much more satisfying to pick something on someone else’s body. And whose body is better to pick (and more socially appropriate) than your spouse’s.  

If Pam were actually a junkie and in need of a fix, I would do what all good enabling spouses do, which is pawn the baby’s crib and score her some dope. Done and done. If only my life were that easy. Unfortunately for me, my wife is not hooked on crack or meth; her vice is white-heads. And on those occasions where she gives in to her temptations, I can’t just go out and score Pam something to pick; rather, I have to organically grow something that will satisfy her burning need. And considering that I am six foot six, there is a pretty good potential at any given moment that there is something somewhere on my body that is in need of picking. (I now question if she married me because I am truly her soul-mate or because I provide more surface area than all of her other prospective suitors.)

But here’s the kicker: I am not a fan of her picking my pimples. I enjoy her picking at my skin about as much as I enjoy her picking on my character flaws. After twelve years of marriage, Pam is now usually able to overlook most of my numerous shortcomings as a husband. However, she has a more difficult time attempting to overlook the tiniest of pimples growing on my forehead. And I know the moment when she spots something new on my skin. She tries to be really discreet about it. But I know her all too well. And I know what I am in for when I see her gaze shift ever-so-slightly from my piercing hazel eyes to my forehead. That is when my own version of homeland-security-against-unwanted-picking escalates to the dreaded “code red” level. 

“Stop it.”

“What???”

“You know what you’re doing. Stop it.”

“But I’m not doing anything.”

Both Pam and I know to what I am referring, and we both know that she is trying not to be obvious in her quest to pinpoint the black head she just spotted on my skin. She is like a four year old with her mouth covered in chocolate desperately trying to convince me that she didn’t sneak a piece of left-over Halloween candy. But she will eventually confess to seeing something. And then I can see her having an internal debate as to whether or not she should proceed by asking if she can pick away.  

She inevitably has a far more difficult time gaining my permission to pick when the pimple is on my back. Mainly because it’s on my back, and I know that nobody is ever going to see it. Hell, Pam doesn’t even see my back. And if she knows that there is something on my back to pick, that means that she discovered it when we were enjoying a little “adult time” together. What usually happens is she will be gingerly stroking my back, and then she will pause ever so slightly. And I know that that means that she felt something. “Pam, stop it!” And once again, she knows exactly what I’m talking about. 

At times, Pam will ask me to pop something for her, and that is only because she is not able to reach said offender. I then attempt to muster up a modicum of enthusiasm for the task. This amount is equivalent to how much I would have if someone asked me to be a groomsman in their Star-Trek themed wedding party. I fumble around for a minute, pretending like I’m doing something substantial. But I’m not. And she knows it. She eventually walks away with her original not-popped pimple, and although she won’t admit, I know that she is judging me. Harshly. Judging me the way she did (rightfully so) when I flailed my arms and screeched like a little girl when the vacuum that I was using caught on fire.  

There was actually one time when I went at one of her pimples with genuine vigor and vim. I knew this would be my chance to prove to her that I was a man of honor, and not just a man who was incapable of thinking on my own to unplug a smoking vacuum. I discovered the pimple in the middle of the night. I rolled over, put my hand on Pam’s back, and felt something. Something big. Something big enough that it woke me from my sleep. So I poked and prodded over and over, trying to fully wrap my mind around this crazy growth on her back. And then Pam, herself half asleep, barked:  “Ow!  What are you doing to my nipple???”

Dear Santa (2010) Part I:

Finally, a Santa after my own heart. 

Must be the mediocre version.

I know it’s a little late to be writing you, but I figure with all your magic you won’t have any problem getting this by December 24^th—your busiest workday of the year (unlike my life, which is hectic everyday). I want you to know that I do love you, in all your happy splendor, even if we do have a slightly contentious relationship.

Honestly, Santa, I’m a little annoyed with you. Every year my children sit down to write their Christmas wish list, with their biggest, most expensive request going to you. Why is this? Because you are Santa and you have no budget constraints since your indentured servants elves make all your toys (and electronic gadgets) there in your toasty sweatshop workshop. 

This is a problem for me fat man, because my husband and I don’t get to take credit for scrimping and saving for the “big gifts.” After ripping open their American Girl Dolls, or Nintendo Game Systems, or POOL TABLES for heaven’s sake, our children are shouting, “Thanks Santa!” into the air, (like you can even hear them) while we take credit for the underwear, socks, and functionally warm Christmas sweatshirts. It’s like thanking a Unicorn for knocking out the mortgage. I’m getting tired of letting you take all the credit for my husband’s paycheck and my shopping efforts. Thankfully, you don’t wrap your presents (at least at our house) so I don’t have to do that for you too. (Because finding a wrapping paper that only you have, is getting to be a little difficult too.)

But worse than that Santa, I find myself doing all kinds of things to keep my children believing in you and the magic of the season. How’s that for crazy? I want my children to believe the impossibility that all things are possible. That anything can happen. Paper gingerbread men really can turn into REAL gingerbread cookies on Christmas morning, simply because you willed it. That you can always find us, even if we travel on Christmas Eve, lock all the doors and window tight, or have a fire raging in the fireplace. I perpetuate the myths of the season because seeing that sparkle of hope in my children’s eyes is worth not getting credit for having to take a second mortgage out on the house to pay for “your” gifts. Because Santa…

I lost two believers this year. I know my son knows because now he always refers to you in “air quotes” when others aren’t around. My middle daughter knows too, but she hasn’t come right out and admitted it. We dance around the topic with our usual lies; she’s waiting for me to slip and out you as a farce. But I won’t do it. I won’t say those words until she asks me point blank, and even then I’ll give her another chance by asking, “Are you sure you really want to know?” Of course by that time, they already do know. It’s a little sad for me to know my kids are getting older and skeptical now; a step away from the jaded adults we all become when we know how Christmas really works. 

The good news is that I still have one believer left in the house…my three-year-old daughter who barely understands your story and shtick. We’re all starting to fill her in now on how you work, and I can see the excitement budding in her eyes. So when I asked her what she wanted you to bring her, do you know what she said?

“Coloring books. The big kind.”

Yes. Isn’t that beautiful!? She hasn’t figured out to ask for a TV or a cell phone or a convertible Volkswagen Bug yet (the newly designed 2012 version), taking cues from her big brother and sister. She asked for floor-sized coloring books. And do you know what you are bringing her? Well, of course you do. You’re Santa. I’m betting you’re going to throw in a pack of her own mini markers too, because you are good like that and think of everything.

So I’m focusing on that this year Santa. That my youngest believer-in-you still wants the little things, and is happy with big white pages with dark black lines that she can color. I’m happy to let you take credit for this one. I didn’t have to get a holiday paper route to pay for this gift.

What do my son and daughter want for Christmas, you ask? Or me or my husband? Well, it’s not a very long list Santa, but the items are pricey. I’ll be getting back to you with those items in the next day or two. Right now I have to work on writing more website copy so I can invoice my client and have money to make the higher payments on my credit card. Until you get my next installment letter, continue enjoying your steaming lattes and packing on the pounds while Mrs. Clause waits on you hand and foot. One of these days I'm going to have to write her a letter too...

Sincerely,

Rachel G.