why I freelance

It's very cold outside.

My fat little beagle is warm and likes to cuddle. Under a blanket.

My laptop fascinates her.

My notebook fits just so in between the couch cushions.

And so it goes on a snowy winter night.

10 15 things I want to do in the next 100 years

In no particular order -- except for #1, which is, well, #1:

1. Live, someday, on or very near a beach, and grow geraniums in pots on my beachside deck.
   
2. Learn to like running -- and get really addicted to it.
3. Visit all the U.S. coasts (except Alaska's). I've seen the mid-Atlantic, the Southeast, the Gulf Coast. Still to see: the Pacific Northwest, the West, the Virgin Islands, Puerto Rico and Hawaii.
4. Become a neat freak.
5. Learn to draw and paint.
6. Write a book...maybe.
7. Get more involved with volunteer opportunities.
8. Do at least one good deed without fail every single day.
9. Learn more about working with databases, XML, Flash and other Web technologies.
10. Take up kayaking.
11. Make wine.
12. Get up the guts to let my hair go silver and keep it long.
13. Own and run an online business selling...what?
14. Trace my genealogy.
15. Visit Greece and Sicily, if I can get past the flying part.
    

Okay, wait. Now that I've gotten started, I see that I have a lot more to list and to do. And ever-less time to do it.

So what's on your list?

Six weird things

So here are six weird things about me:

1) My favorite place is on or near the water. But I came as close as humanly possible to drowning in an Oneida Lake boathouse when I was a little girl.
2) I love people, but I hate the phone. Despise it. I don't know why, and I wish it were different.
3) I love mornings but I hate to get up early. "So go to bed sooner," you say. But I love the nighttime!
4) I wanted to be a nun when I was growing up. Now, I am not religious in the traditional sense, but spirituality is very important to me.
5) Thunderstorms terrified me as a kid. Now I love them. They completely intrigue me. And they still terrify me.
6) I love liver, onions and bacon.
7) There are a lot more weird things about me, and I never know when to stop writing.

About this post
I was tagged for this "six weird things about me" post by Lisa. Each person who gets tagged then posts their own six weird things and clearly states how this works. And after posting, the person "tags" other people.

When you tag someone, don't forget leave a comment in his or her 's blog that says "you're tagged" -- and tell your friend to read your blog for information as to what it means.

I'm not sure yet who I will tag...not many of my friends have blogs. But most of them are delightfully weird.

It came from the swamp

I woke with horror this morning to find that a horrible creature had taken up residence on TH's* face while I slept in. A long, hairy, bristly creature that is scaring my kids and making the dogs howl.

Oh, I'd seen it before. It comes around when TH relents to pressure, shaves his winter beard and, um, gets a wild hair to do something goofy.

Family-wide panic ensues. We avoid the Swamp Thing at all cost. We refuse to go into public places with it. We don't feed or eat near it. Kisses are out of the question.

Tonight, we resorted to whatever means we had at hand to eradicate the rodent-beast.

We tried shouting it off TH's face.

My little girl tried to pluck its spiny tentacles one by one as TH napped, but TH defended it with halfhearted swats. He was possessed!

In desperation, my oldest son chased it around the house with duct tape. Swamp Thing merely laughed in defiance.

Finally, we realized it was time for the big guns: We took a photo.

Hey! Could it be? Is that the trimmer I hear up in the bathroom?

For the sake of all humanity, we can only hope.


*TH = The Husband

Pity Party (BYOWhine)

Oh, lots of people warned me about lots of things when I became pregnant with my first child. But the one detail they left out was that, sometimes, the whole dang deal hurts.

Fair warning: I'm throwing a pity party. If you've had a great weekend full of parenting reward and triumph, I'll understand if you head for the door. That's a whole different kind of party, and invitations are few -- so grab one if it's handed to you, and by God, get good and drunk on all that good feeling over there.

Anyway: See, I want to do this right. I want to teach my kids that goodness is its own reward. That patience brings peace. So does forgiveness, of others and of oneself. I want them to know that we can't place expectations on others without first placing them on ourselves. That self respect (and all that it entails) keeps us alive. That love takes many more forms that we ever imagine, but never dies. And that, still, sometimes bad stuff happens that we can do little more about than accept, and for those times, the very best place to head is home. That "home" will always have an open door, no matter where that is. That...well, I could go on and on, and I only hope I have enough time to tell them what little I know.

That's the easy part.

But then these loin-fruits watch. Criticize. Blame. They shine a vivid, harsh light on all the ways in which I screw up. Sure, it's all part of the natural, healthful and necessary process of separating from one's parents. They yell their apartness, scream their independence -- sometimes deafeningly, sometimes so quietly I can't hear it. Sometimes I listen for a pin to drop and am startled by the boulder that lands too close for comfort. And in the aftermath are the questions that haunt me. Am I understanding enough? Am I too understanding? Am I letting go fast enough? Am I hanging on too tightly? I love them. I would do anything to keep them safe, happy, healthy. No question there. Do I show them in the right ways? Do they see it? Am I strict enough? Too lenient? Am I close enough? Am I too close? Am I too into this? Do I love them too much? Is that even possible?

I know it's all part of the plan, but does it have to hurt so much?

Nobody told me I'd feel so misunderstood. Nobody warned me I'd feel unappreciated. That the people I love most could, at times, be so cruel when I try so hard. That I would feel inexcusably, ridiculously, annoyingly sorry for myself.

Nobody, perhaps, except my own parents, in their own way -- but I was too young to listen.

Yet as I was writing this, the voice of someone who looks like me delivered a sudden, funny story about Something That Happened. And then, another, deeper voice drifted down the stairs: "'Night, Mom. Love you."

Nothing could ever sound sweeter. And gratitude works better than morphine.