. . . except for the knitting

The Rejectionist asked us yesterday how our pre-resolutions are going. I left a brief comment over there, but needed a post today, so here’s the expanded version:

My tires are new, balanced, and actually grip the road—what a peculiar sensation it is not to skid to a stop.  As mentioned in a previous post, I spent a little extra to get them done quickly and conveniently, but prefer to view it as spending five years worth of tire money all at once.

I took the kids (and my husband) to see Tangled on Saturday. Everyone liked it, even Janie, who spent about three-fourths of it hiding behind me in case something scary happened. She loved Maximus, though, and the faire dance—which in my opinion was set to the best music of the movie.

It’s a good story with amazing animation—though, as my husband said, if the eyes were any bigger, it would be a Bug’s Life. Regardless, we both thought that the style would be perfect for Terry Pratchett’s Discworld. Especially for Nanny Ogg. I would also swear that the design of the biggest thug was based on Clancy Brown’s Kurgan from Highlander—a movie dear to my heart and an actor dearer. I may have to go back and see both movies again to be sure . . .

The only part of this resolution I missed was the popcorn part—the kids turned me down, because they were full of shoestring French fries from the restaurant. I didn’t think that was possible. Afterwards, though, my husband took them for blizzards at the DQ while I collected my newly-shod car and hoped my credit card wouldn’t melt.

I’m pretty much meeting my daily two hour writing goal, though I’ve learned to plug in the tunes and shut off the WiFi. I write before the kids get up, at work before I clock in, on breaks or lunch, and after the kids go to bed. I’m budgeting time, too, if there’s something I want to do with the family.

That almost seems . . . responsible. Weird.

I’m also more aware of free floating minutes that might be used for writing and the consequences of using those minutes for Youtubing or channel flipping. Though sometimes, the consequences are a more relaxed writer with a better handle on what might come next . . . it’s a balance, surprise, surprise.

So my pre-Resolutions are going pretty well.  Except for one thing:

My mother’s handknitted-with-love-and-cat hair Christmas socks remain untouched. 
Because I still can’t find them.


Random Thursday: Sheep, Salad, and Silent Hallelujahs

The coordinator of the church Christmas Pageant e-mailed the cast list this morning.  Janie is a shepherd, which is a pretty good gig for someone who was the donkey last year* . . .  except Sunny is the sheep.

This was done on purpose—last year’s coordinator wanted Sunny to walk down the aisle with Zoe, another curly blonde child, in matching angel costumes.  Sunny declined, at the top of her voice, to be haloed, robed, or go anywhere near Zoe, who is a sweet kid but tends to ignore the personal space of smaller children until they fall over.

So it was hoped that being close to her sister this year would make Sunny more comfortable.  It seems to have worked—Sunny is very excited about being Janie’s sheep.  As her mother, though, I can’t help but think that my curly-headed little lamb is probably going to keep her shepherd on her toes . . .


I’ve been humming the Hallelujah Chorus all day.  I could say it’s because I finally finished that stinkin’ chapter of my WIP and sent it off to First Reader last night—and this afternoon, she sent it back with a lot of lovely comments** that had me breathing a sigh of relief.

But really, it’s because my friend the Earworm King suggested that this might be a good way for librarians to bring a little holiday music into the workplace:

Since the library has always been my haven against the relentless, repetitive cheer that is Winter Holiday Music™, I’m gonna pass, thanks.   But if we ever have a talent show, I’m there with the signs!


I just tucked Sunny into bed.  There’s nothing like a snuggle-hug from a warm, recently-bathed and shampooed kid in fleece footie jammies.

I said, “You smell really good.”

She said, “Like salad?”

I blinked. ” Salad?  you think salad smells good?”   I’ve never thought about salad smelling like anything much, except maybe green.  She didn’t smell green—her soap-paint is violently strawberry and purple grape, and her shampoo is orange cremesicle.

She nodded.  “I like salad.”

This is patently untrue.  She likes the idea of salad, since it’s a grown up food and she is determined to be a Big Girl.  But carrots and cucumbers are as far as she’s been willing to go, and even then you have to match her bite for bite in a crunch contest.  “You like salad?  Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

So I gave up and sang a song, for which she forgave me,  kissed her, kissed her bear, cocooned her in her quilt and afghan and left.  Then I turned around and came back.  “What kind of salad?”

Who knew a half-asleep three-year old could make the same tsk sound as her older sister?  “Fruit salad, Mommy.”

I’m not bright.  But I mean well.


I have an hour and ten minutes left to make the writing goal part of my pre-resolutions today.

I think the extra chapter of Clementine with Janie and the extra snuggle with the fruit salad was well worth the time—but now it’s a wastin’.

Ciao, y’all.


*And who stole the show with her single line, which she projected at exactly the wrong time to great comedic effect:

Zoe, around her favorite thumb: “Feaw not! For I bing you glad tide-lings of gweat joy!”

Janie: “HEE-HAW!!!!!”

**And, yes, a few that made my slap my forehead and wonder why I cling to the notion that English is my native tongue.   And why I still try to have my characters handle guns when it has been made very clear to me that I have some kind of natural anti-talent in this area . . .  But she always phrases things in a way that never makes me wonder why I’m still writing.  That, my friends, is why she’s First Reader and I’m damned lucky.

The Pre-Resolutions Uncontest: Tires, Time, Tangled . . . and Socks (maybe)

The Rejectionist has provided us with yet another Participatory Self-Actualization Opportunity because that’s just the kind of person she is.

This time, she’s asked her loyal readers to join her in her tradition of making pre-Resolutions.  Unlike the usual January ones which are meant to be kept all year, and which I generally kick into the cat box around March 3rd, pre-Resolutions are  to be kept for the month—or any part of the month, no matter how small—of December. 

Here are my pre-Resolutions for December 2010:

1. I will buy new tires for my car before the end of the month, as I am still driving on the 2005 originals.  Not only can I see all of Mr. Lincoln when I try the penny test on what can no longer truthfully be called the treads, but the bridge I use to pass over the mighty Mississippi at least twice a day—with kids—is starting to develop that icy sheen.* 

 And it $&#@ snowed yesterday. 

2. I will write at least two hours a day during the month of December.  Words on paper, pixels on screen. To save my sanity, the time will be cumulative, not sequential, but there will be no carryover or make-up minutes. I will write every day.

Blogging doesn’t count, so expect shorter posts, y’all.  You can thank me later.

3. I will finish the socks I started in May for Mom’s June birthday—all the way up, none of this “Mom prefers anklets” business—and send them  to her in time for Christmas. 

If I can remember where I put them.

4.  I will take my kids to see Tangled the very first chance I get and buy them too much popcorn and not worry about how much gets inside the kids or outside the containers.  And I might even take them twice.

So that’s the plan for December.

With perseverance and a little luck—I seriously have no idea where those socks are—I might even make it past Hanukkah!


* ‘Cause the mighty Mississip goes all the way up, that’s why.   The sultry deltas get all the press, so people tend to forget the ice floes at the other end.