one lump, or two?

Wow, it's been a long time between updates. I'd like to say we've been busy, but really....we're just lazy. Well, we've actually been busy, but we could've stopped by once in a while.

All apologies, darlings.

In any case, I'm stopping by today to wish Christine a belated happy birthday. Last Thursday was her actual birthday, and we did some minor celebrating that day, but the majority of our revelry was on Saturday. When we had tea.

Since we're not in England that probably sounds weird. But Christine and I both enjoy the pomp and formality of an English afternoon tea. For some reason the idea of sitting down to tiny cucumber sandwiches and scones with clotted cream and a pot of Earl Grey (well, Christine prefers English Breakfast, but whatever) makes us both giddy with nerdy delight.

One of the reasons I adore this is because it gives me an excuse to cook. I enjoy cooking when there's an occasion, though I can often get a little carried away. But this time Christine was right there overachieving with me. We planned a menu that was a little extreme, to say the least:

• mini quiches
• cream scones with Double Devon cream and raspberry jam
• cucumber, roast beef, and ham sandwiches
• meat pies
• creamed mushrooms on chive butter toast (recipe courteous of Smitten Kitchen)
  
• fresh strawberries & grapes
• petit fours with buttercream and chocolate ganache
• cream puffs - both regular and chocolate dipped
• tea and champagne
  

The only thing we didn't actually make from scratch were the cream puffs, because there are limits to even my culinary ambition. And some of the preparations were made ahead of time (the petit fours were made the night before, as was the rabbit mushroom stew that I used for the meat pies), but we were hustling on Saturday morning to pull it all together. But pull it together we did.


And to complete the tea like ambiance, we plugged in Christine's favorite DVD: the BBC miniseries version of Pride & Prejudice. The six hour version with Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy, and Jennifer Ehle as Elizabeth Bennett (don't ever suggest to Christine that she should watch the Keira Knightley version, or if you do, stand back to avoid the blast).

It was a delightful afternoon.

March Mania

There we sit, two highly educated, highly articulate, cultured women of great taste and refinement, shouting at the television:

“What the hell do you mean, tripping? That wasn’t a trip, that was a Greg Louganis impersonation!”

“Did you see that move? Holy shit…I want to have his babies.”

“Kerry FUCKING Frasier.”

“Oh yes! Oh, come on, Helmer, go go go….YES! God, I love that kid.”

Ah, to be a hockey fan.

It’s actually my fault, this whole atmosphere of hockey mania that takes over our house this time of year. Having grown up in Michigan, I’ve been a hockey fan – more specifically a Detroit Red Wings fan – for years. Christine had always been interested in learning more about it, but had never really had the opportunity to get into it, until we became roommates.

When that happened, she got swept along in the tide of playoff hockey, and the Red Wings Stanley Cup win in 2008. Mostly because I’m selfish with the remote, but she also really dug it. In fact, in some ways it would appear that she digs it more than I do. She watches more regular season games, follows the stats pretty closely, and hangs on nearly every single drop of the puck. Me? I’ve been around long enough to realize that sweating every puck drop is a good way to give yourself an ulcer, so I save my energies for March. March is when the drive to the playoffs begins in earnest. March is when teams vying for those last few spots kick it up a notch, and the ones at the top of the board fight to hold onto their position.

March is when it all starts to happen. And in our house, it’s when the shouting begins. Really, when you think about it, it’s kind of cute. At least, that’s what we’ve chosen to believe.

Still alive!

What can I say? We’re lazy bitches around here.

I have not forgotten about this blog, though it may certainly seem like it. I just find myself with very few things to say that don’t sound exactly like the last thing I said here. I mean, how many times can I talk about doggedly churning out my 5 daily pages, or the odd conversation about plot or character that I have with Christine or with my boyfriend? I think that stuff gets old pretty fast, and while I want this blog to be primarily about my life as a writer, it’s obvious that I need to come up with other stuff to talk about. Because right now? My life as a writer is pretty boring.

(Christine’s life is a bit more exciting in that regard, but she’s pretty sure y’all will find it boring, too. Different writer, same problem.)

So I’ll be trying to find a way to make this blog more of a daily part of my life from now on. I do have a few ideas percolating for posts. Some of them are book related (My Favorite Lines in My Favorite Books), some of them are life related (Why 6:00 AM Yoga Is Saving My Life), and some are sports related (The Shootout - NHL Experiment Gone Wrong, or Definitive Evidence of Evil on Earth?).

And I'm sure I'll get to those soon. Really, I promise!

Blog for Choice Day 2010 - Why I am Pro Choice

I don't usually get political....and this is not political. Why I am pro choice has nothing to do with politics, and everything, EVERYTHING to do with the fundamental right I believe all women have - to control not only their own bodies, but their own destinies.

If I must have a political stance on abortion, it's this: what I do with my body is none of the govenment's business. What the college student in Iowa, the young mother in Indiana, the professor in New York, the rape victim in Florida...what they do is none of the government's business either.

But recognizing that there are those who think it is, that there are those who seek to take away the fragile autonomy that we have over our bodies, our lives, our futures...that is our business.

Use your voice. Or lose your choice.

She's alive!

We both are, actually - just incredibly, insanely busy.

Me, I'm busy with my job, which since our fiscal year ends a full three months behind the calendar year, gets a little crazy right about now. The last couple of weeks have been chock full of my regular work duties, special projects requiring me to work some overtime, and last minute "oh my gosh this has to happen now!" emergencies.

Oh, and I'm also trying to work on my manuscript every night. Twenty-five pages a week is my goal every week, and there are nights when I don't close the laptop until close to midnight. I'm staying on track, but some nights it's a close thing.

Christine is on deadline. She's due to turn her current manuscript in to her editor on Monday and yesterday she realized she's writing the wrong book. When you look at the outline, realize you're on plot point #12 and nothing has actually happened yet, well, that's not a good thing. Today she told me she pretty much scrapped everything and started over. With three days to go.

I guess she thought she didn't have enough challenges.

So that's what's going on around here. How are y'all?

a letter to my nephew

Dear Kid,

As I write this, your mother has been in the hospital for ten hours. Ten hours, and nothing. What’s with you?

Look, I know it’s warm and cozy in there, and technically you’ve still got three weeks left on your lease. But your little nature provided airbag (amniotic sac) is gone now, and that’s kind of the point of no return. You don’t want to get an infection, do you? Of course you don’t. You’re a good boy, and I know you want to do the right thing. So come on out, already.

It’s not so bad out here, really. Sure it’s noisy, and bright, and you’ll have to wear clothes (and that’s a drag, really), but there’s a lot of good stuff too. Your mom is really anxious to meet you, and so is your dad. They’ve been waiting a long time for you. Someone who’s been waiting even longer is your Grandma - she’s crazy about you already, and I bet if you play your cards right, she’ll spoil you rotten.

I want to meet you too, of course, and I can teach you all kinds of neat stuff. How to play baseball, all about hockey (you WILL be a Red Wings fan, of course), and most useful of all, how to REALLY get on your mom’s nerves. I’ve been doing it for a long time, and I know all the tricks. Anytime you want to get one over on her, you just call Auntie Hannah and we’ll get it done.

If you come out you’ll get to meet King, too. He’s your doggie, and he’s very sweet. When you’re old enough he’ll snuggle up on your bed with you, even though Mom will tell him not to.

Best of all, Kid? Everybody – I mean EVERYBODY, from the nurses to the doctors to Mom & Dad, Grandma & Grandpa and all their friends – are going to be at your beck and call for the foreseeable future. They’ll do everything for you, day or night – you won’t have to lift a finger. Which let me tell you, is a pretty sweet deal.

So come on out, okay Kid? We’re ready to meet you.

ode to exercise

Since the middle of November I’ve been having some problems with my knees. First it was the left, then the right one, then I pulled/strained/just plain fucked up something in my right calf so walking was painful. Then once that was under control my left knee started up again…I swear, I turned thirty-six and my body somehow got the memo to start falling apart.

It’s only been the last couple of weeks that I’ve been feeling at or around one hundred percent healthy, so it’s only been the last couple of weeks that I’ve been able to return to my normal gym routine. And it makes me so happy to be able to exercise again I could cry.

Seriously. I love the muscle quivers that follow a heavy weightlifting workout, the flushed cheeks and dripping sweat that accompany me on my morning run. Heavy breathing, pounding pulse, the taste of salt on my lips…it’s a drug, and I’m addicted.

But I was not always an exerciser, oh no. Most of my twenties were spent in studious avoidance of any sort of physical exertion, and still, I do enjoy a good sloth (defined as being as inert as possible for as long as possible, with the goal of accomplishing absolutely nothing at all) from time to time. But everything just seems to run so much more smoothly if I manage to make it to the gym at least three (five is ideal) times a week. I sleep better, eat better, I’m more alert during the day, my skin is clearer…life is just easier if I can get an hour on the elliptical or a session with the kettlebell in the morning.

Christine thinks this makes me a mutant, and looks at me with fear and trepidation when I announce that I ran five miles that morning. As though this affliction is communicable, and might take hold in her (she’s a little paranoid that way). And I freely admit that not everyone feels this way. Even people who get up and do it every day might not love it.

But I do. I love it. And as long as my body holds out, I shall never leave it.