• Follow On Twitter

    • Just because gay marriage is legal now in Maine, doesn't mean gay couples should rush to get married on the first day. 5 years ago
  • Archives

  • Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

    Join 590 other followers

  • Advertisements

Am I Ready?

This morning, the cat looked up at me, flicked his tail and let out a meeeoweer when the cold air hit his whiskers. Yeh, I know he’s just a cat, but I was pretty certain that was his equivalent to WTF. He turned and walked back over to his food bowl, also exactly what I want to do …French toast would be just fine with me.

I didn’t need snow this morning, and frankly it surprised the hell out of me. Sure, I heard “winter storm” on the news, at least I think I did, but who really listens to that shit mid-November. Last night, I took it as meteorologists looking for a little evening wood over the potential of bad weather. I was not ready to wake up and actually see the shit.

I’m not sure why the wintery mix makes me so mad. Would I feel differently if it weren’t Monday, if I knew there wouldn’t be a stupid-ass long commute or if there was going to be a crack of sunshine today? The husband will wake up this morning and check the snow report for Mad River before grabbing a shovel to clear the driveway. I’ll look at him and grumble something about picking up his gloves off the kitchen floor.

What if we have another winter like last year? I’ve heard mumbling. Yes, I’ve chosen to ignore it, but what if it’s true? I sit in my cozy chair with a soft, fuzzy blanket wrapped around my shoulders with the SAD light beaming in my face. Can I make it through another Polar Vortex?

During periods of snow last year, I vaguely remember saying, “Well, at least it’s not rain.” No sir-ee, and it might be here a while. That doesn’t really help my half-full outlook, but it also doesn’t change reality.

Am I ready? The cat sucked it up and went outside. Unlike my cat’s furry wardrobe, neither the ass of my pants nor my head can handle four or five months of total hibernation. So, what’s next?

Maybe I need to grab the snow shovel and begin my morning with a little brisk activity. Maybe I could learn to love the snow like the husband. Maybe I could lie down in the front yard and catch snowflakes on my tongue and swish my arms up and down in the fluffy white stuff until my snow angel appears.



IMG_7660Our house was outta control this weekend.

I’m not talking a little clutter. We got a new computer hutch. I get it… everything needs to be taken out of the old one and put in the new one. I knew the process would be an ordeal given the fact Lyle is very particular about his computer stuff, and when I say “particular,” I really mean he’s a fucking nut job. But I get it. Computers are his livelihood and his passion.

What I don’t get is why he needs to save the plastic, bubble packaging from SD cards purchased three years ago or a huge bag of plastic bags or 20 years of paystubs or eight boxes of staples or an entire drawer of those little square computer disks that are as useful as floppy disks, which we also probably have.

I questioned. Poked. Prodded. His eyes grew wide, really wide. His lips tightened.  He sucked in short, jagged breaths. “I mean it, Melissa, don’t throw (fill in the blank) away. I need it.”

“I won’t.”  But he knew I looked away too quick.

On a calm day, he and I can talk about his hidden stash. I counter ‘You never know when you are going to need it’ with ‘We only have so much space’. ‘It’s wasteful to throw it out’ balances with ‘used wrapping paper has a shelf life’.

The thing is though, I’ve seen his parents’ house. After his mom died, we helped go through a few closets. It took four people all day to go through three closets and a little crawl space. We found broken toys from the 1960s, worn out bath mats from the 70s, stacks of flattened out “gently used” gift wrap, piles of moth-eaten blankets, and one burlap sack from a grain elevator where Lyle’s mom worked before she got married.

I’m pretty sure if it weren’t for me, our house would be a labyrinth of computer magazines, paper grocery sacks, cables (he really loves stray cables), boxes of to-be recycled batteries, old shoes, and stacks of old-shirt-turned rags.

He says I pitch everything, just like my mom. Now, my mom has been known to ‘start fresh’ from time to time. When I was younger, I watched her ditch entire living room sets for something new. I never thought much about it then. I just accepted the cast offs.

I keep some stuff that has sentimental value. Stashed here and there, I have all of Russell’s baby teeth (I know that’s creepy) and love letters Lyle wrote when we dated. But now closets are jam packed, cabinets are overloaded, and the garage is stacked with crates.

When the house gets too messy, I grouch, pitch shit, and then eat chocolate chip cookies (or whatever else is close by).

Well, the house is sorta back together, but now I’ve had five days of eating crap, sugar cravings are back, and my joints are all swollen. The mess that was on the floor 24 hours ago pales to the clutter in my head. Now, I’ve got to really figure out what needs pitched.

Thumbs Up

I’ve got a confession.

For the last three weeks, I’ve been taking a Zumba class.

You don’t understand. I am not Zumba. I am not Latiny dance, I am not pop music, and I am not cute aerobics outfits.

But I needed something to help me get back on track and put myself at the top of the to-do list. A friend and I agreed to give it a shot after another friend who mainlines Zumba said, Oh you gotta come. It’s so fun. I looked at her ass and legs that she had whittled down to tiny, muscular rocks over the last year with Zumba.

A week before I went to Australia, my friend and I took the pinky swear. Well, it was actually a “cheers” during a glass of wine, but I’m pretty sure that is more binding.

I returned from Australia and dragged my uncoordinated self to class. So far, so good, I told myself. No 20-something perky bitches who look my way and say to themselves, I will NEVER let myself get like that.

Mostly, it was just a bunch of people in varying sizes and shapes and ages walking around in sweat pants or yoga tights before class. You can do this, Melissa.

The first three weeks, I moved and I watched. The old lady, two rows in front of me, gyrated through the hour of the peppy, Latin-inspired music. If she can do it, I can do it.

Move. Move. Move.

I could follow the warm up and the cool down just fine, but those 55 minutes in between were filled with grand mal seizures, sans the loss of consciousness.

But last night, for the first time, I followed the music (okay, some of it). I still feel like Elaine from Seinfeld in the dance scene, and I’m confident that won’t go away, but for now Zumba offers an hour of activity that goes by pretty fast. So, unlike Elaine, I give it two thumbs up knowing full well there is someone definitely laughing at my antics, but I don’t care.



Fall Back



The sunshine yesterday was good, really good. Lyle and I took a walk at one of the Metro Parks not too far from where we live. We soaked up golden, sunny rays, watched the birds, ruffled through fallen leaves, and listened to gurgling waters of the Big Darby Creek.

But I don’t want to fall back. I don’t want less light. I don’t want more cold.

I am not happy about Daylight Savings Time, and the fact that it’s coal black outside for 12 hours a day, and it’s only going to get worse. I try to do the on-the-bright-side routine that my mom pounded into my head when I was a kid. All I came up with was it was easier to go to sleep last night and a little easier to wake up on a Monday morning.

Long hours of darkness (and the freaking cloudy days of Ohio) can play bad music in my head so I’ve learned to take a couple precautions. I started taking a routine dose of Vitamin D, and I purchased a light therapy floor lamp. I’m not sure about the Vitamin D, but the light works. I sit under it for 30 minutes every morning while I defog my brain with coffee and write a few lines in my journal.

Before I purchased the lamp, I researched and researched and researched. That was a pain in the ass, and quite frankly pretty intimidating because there are tons of products out there that will do the trick.  There are blue lights, white lights, lights for the desk, floor lamps, lamps you can strap onto exercise equipment, or lights that set on your desk.

After two dark winters of research, I finally decided on one, and I love it. Others often ask me about it. So, on the first day of Daylight Savings, I thought I’d share what I found. First, you need to know that I do not get any kickbacks or anything from anybody. This is strictly my opinion about my purchase.

I purchased a floor lamp from Full Spectrum. I like it because I can sit under it while I do other things, and it has a 10,000 lux rating at 18 inches. What the hell does that mean? Well, I can sit 18 inches away from it for 30 minutes and get the full effect of the light therapy. During my research phase, I didn’t know if that feature was really be worth the money because I could get a much cheaper light if I was willing to sit a little closer or sit in front of it for longer periods of time. What I found is I really don’t want to sit under the light for extended periods of time. It’s bright. I mean it’s really freaking bright. If I use it while I’m doing something else, the time I spend under it goes by pretty fast. After a while, it just seems like my writing lamp.

I’ve blathered enough about the light. If you want more info, I’m happy to chat about it. For those of you in the cloudy Midwest, hang in there. Spring will be here again, some day. I hope.  And for the rest of you, savor the sunshine.

%d bloggers like this: