giggles

I took exactly two photos in Jersey this trip. This is one of them.

The other one you probably would be even less interested in because it's of my niece and the family dog. Both with Phillies hats. (I call Brandy the family dog because though she belongs to my parents, we've all adopted her. All except for my husband, who in general is not a fan of dogs. Unless they're the dogs that lie around all day with no energy.)

To sum up: beach, greasy foods, a winning Phillies game (with a walk-off homerun--we ordered that in advance). Exciting stuff.

The good news is my travels are over. Which means a return to routine. Which, oddly enough, means a return to interesting things to say.

Isn't that paradoxical? It seems when my life is more interesting, I have less to say. When life settles into the mundane, I become Chatty Chatterbox once again. I think it has something to do with the posture of contemplation. (In fact, I already have some thoughts churning regarding this. You could say I'm contemplating contemplation. Don't worry. You know I'll share.)

So until churned contemplation becomes solidified into something resembling butter, I'm signing off.

A short essay to my fourth-grade teacher about what I did on my summer vacation*:

This summer, we went to Long Island (population 3,000), an out island in the Bahamas. We discovered many beautiful and sacluded sicluded empty beaches. Sometimes we would play on the beach without seeing anybody! We spent most of our time at Dean's Blue Hole, a sink hole that dips 633 feet a couple of meters off the beach. The man who holds the world record for the deepest free dive achieved that here.

Dean's Blue Hole

Here are some things I did at Long Island:

• ate fish I caught (namely tuna, grunt, and bonita)

Yes, that's fish blood on my shoulder. I wore that sucker's blood on my ankles, legs, and shirt. I am conqueror!

• played hide-and-go-seek with pilot, parrot, tang, yellowtail, trigger, and other random assortment of fish
• made friends with one particular fish--Danny--who liked to swim circles around me when I was still and tucked himself under me when I swam (if you're reading this, Danny--hi!)
• saw fish fly (also fish fry, but we covered that)
• survived an incident with the reptile that shall not be named (hint: it tempted Adam and Eve and God foretold that there would be animosity between it and women forever; my fears are biblical)
• tasted the best mango in the world (delivered to us by some locals from their trees on almost a daily basis; if you're ever in Long Island, I recommend the kidney mangoes)
• encountered several barracuda and lived to sing about it (All that night and all the next / Swam without looking back) 

Here I am, relaxing nonchalantly on my raft above the blue hole (you can see by the color change where it drops off into never-never land). Notice the barracuda (which I conveniently circled for you) about five feet from me. This was not the scary encounter because (1) I did not know at the time that he swam nearby (my husband neglected to mention it to me while he photographed us) and (2) I was out of the water--not snorkeling mere feet from him.

• read several books on my Kindle since the Calvin Festival (can I say how much I love Niall, my Kindle? I didn't have to cart tons--and when I say "tons," I almost mean it literally--books; watch Shelfari for upcoming reviews of my favorites)

*I wonder what Ms. Harle is doing these days? 

In one M*A*S*H episode, B.J. bets Hawkeye that Hawkeye can't go an entire day without cracking a joke. Hawkeye nearly falters numerous times throughout the day, especially with the comedy of errors going on between Winchester, Margaret, and Winchester's old commanding officer, but he makes it. And at exactly midnight, he picks up the PA mike and lets loose on all the jokes he'd held inside during the day.

I'm picking up the PA mike and letting loose.

Beginning with Ash Wednesday, I abandoned my blog, as well as Facebook and Twitter. The journey since then has been unexpected.

When I told my mom I was giving up social networking for Lent, her first response was laughter. "That's not much of a sacrifice!" she said. Of course, offended and defensive of my cyber peeps, I asked what she meant. "You rarely go out as it is," she said.

Turns out, she thought I meant all social interaction. She has these crazy fears that I'll end up some writing hermit on some deserted beach. (There are worse things I could do.)

The first week, I'd awaken with something I just had to blog about. Then I'd remember. I can't blog. I should blog about not blogging, I'd think (true story).

After that first week, I found joy in personal journaling (something I hadn't done since blogging) and the extra time I had to read. Confession: this tempted me to give up social media for good. Perhaps my mom was right. I could be a hermit.

Now comes the unexpected part. About two weeks ago, I began to unravel. Emotionally speaking. Things had gotten a little stressful at the Goodman house, and I wasn't handling the stress as well as I normally do. What was wrong with me?

Then it occurred to me: I'd lost part of my support system. Social networking isn't about being a celebrity. It isn't splatting my opinions for all the world to see. And it isn't, as Coupland claims in Generation A, about finding a way to make my otherwise boring life into a story. At least it isn't for me.

It truly is about community. You guys know me, and I know you. I pray for you and count on you. I'm the last person to argue that social networking replaces human touch and face-to-face community (rather than Facebook-to-Facebook), but that doesn't negate the reality of the true friends I've made here.

As someone who works from home, you guys ground me, keep me in touch with some semblance of reality (remember this post from four years ago [four years ago? Have I been online that long?] about my penchant for other realities?). I discovered that without the interaction I have on Twitter and Facebook, my writing suffered. It got too stodgy. I lost some humor in it.

So I'm back with a new appreciation for the role of social media in my life, with a new appreciation for all of you and your roles in my life. I thought I'd be raring to talk about the books I've read, the music I've discovered, the stories I've lived, and to some extent, I am. But I'm more anxious to hear your voices, to read your blogs, to see you in our shared studios.

Winter is vulnerable and naked. It has not the flourish and feast of spring nor the childhood fun of summer. It has not the vibrant colors of autumn. And in Texas, it usually has not the brilliance of a fresh snow.

But this year, Mother Nature took pity on us. She adorned us with jewels I haven't seen since moving to this state.

The Trees' Fashion Show

Shivering Gnome

Frosty's Lair

A Dog's Dream

Today, I received one of those treats born on fairy wings.

It happened on my way to yoga--an ordinary day in an ordinary car taking my ordinary route. The classical radio station started playing Lehar's Gold and Silver Waltz. For those unfamiliar with the piece, it's sprightly, delicate, and at times, mischievous. In other words, the perfect soundtrack.

At an ordinary light at an ordinary, albeit busy, intersection, something had gone awry (the work of Puck, perhaps?). The light had stopped working. Cars, most on their way to work, some to drop off kids at school, treated the six-lane intersection like a stop sign.

And that's when I noticed it.

All of these cars, normally infused with Dallas impatience and road rage, waltzed, a sprightly, delicate waltz.

The intersection became the ballroom, and cars lined up and took their turns. One, two, three, one, two, three. Light, on your toes. One, two, three. Not a misstep.

We danced to Lehar's Gold and Silver Waltz.

And then I came to the other side of the intersection, and the moment had ended. For me, at least. The dance continued behind me.

I suppose if it had not been an ordinary day, I wouldn't have noticed the fairies making mischief. 

And so the tragedy must begin.

Soon, I'll strip my living room of its holiday clothes.

Every year, I pull out my Christmas decorations from the attic. (Technically, Chris pulls them out, but potato, potato.) My living room prances in excitement. We're changing from the Sunday dress into our comfy clothes. 

You see, my house's natural state is Christmas: the trees, the nativities, the Dicken's Village (I got a new figurine of a book signing this year), the snowmen, more snowmen (it looks like Frosty threw-up in here), the lights, the decked halls. This is how it's meant to be. So when the twelve days of Christmas are up and Epiphany season begins, changing out of this attire is like convincing a toddler that she needs to remove her favorite pink princess shirt and red polka dot pants because of some crazy fashion notions Mommy has.

I'll have to say goodbye to Theresa. I'll have to put away Maggie, Rose, and Henry (the three small artificial trees). I'll have to pack our nativities and snowmen and Christmas music boxes that sing "O Come, All Ye Faithful" and "Joy to the World." And I'll pull out the Sunday clothes.

At my hairdresser's yesterday, I picked up a Women's Day magazine. Between pages of how to make the best chicken soup and Halloween cupcakes, I found an article on 10 ways to give yourself mini-spa treatments at home. Who could resist that?

The third tip said to do something you loved as a girl. According to this writer and the studies she read (or he read, perhaps), girls ages ten to twelve are most connected with things that make them happy. 

In light of this tidbit, I've decided to compare the 10-year-old me with the I'm-sorry-we-must-be-cutting-out-year-old me.

1. I choreographed and performed dances in the living room with my sister and friends. (And, yes, my parents own video-taped evidence.) Check. With the exception that I no longer perform to Debbie Gibson nor to an audience of my stuffed animals. (And, yes, filmed evidence may exist from last Christmas when I taught my nieces a dance to the themes of the Miser Brothers [Snow and Heat, for those of you who aren't familiar with them].)
2. My mom was teaching me to knit. Check. I've recently rediscovered this love. A couple years ago, when attempting to reteach myself this skill, I couldn't figure out what the heck the book (entitled A Single-Cell's Guide to Knitting: Baby Steps or something to that effect) was doing. I had to call my mom. She taught me over the phone.
3. I started a writer's group called Writer's Block (being blissfully ignorant as to the true meaning of that phrase), enlisted (drafted?) a few friends (and my sister because we needed a secretary), and wrote short stories to sell in our neighborhood. One of my friends decided to illustrate our stories. She's now a graphic artist. Check. As I said on Facebook yesterday, I have the tinselest job in the world.
4. I spent nights reading one last chapter of a book until no more chapters existed; I finished the stack of books I got for Christmas by the end of Christmas break; I fell in love with Anne of Green Gables. Check. Check. Check.
5. I sewed a dress for my Barbie, though I didn't particularly want to play with my Barbie much anymore. Work on this one.
6. I played school with my sister. (My mom found old school textbooks including--oh, the excitement--teacher's editions. I still remember Roman city-states from teaching her about them.) Check. I teach flute and piano lessons and have opportunities to teach in different church venues. 
7. I played piano and, toward the end of my tenth year, began learning flute. Check. Though I haven't played flute in months.
8. Every night, I slept with Big Foot, a stuffed bear my grandparents gave me before I was born. Check. No comment.
9. And in honor of Christmas, I watched White Christmas and Rudolph a dozen times this time of year. Check. Or at least I'm on my way.

Last night, before watching the latest episode of Flash Forward, Chris said, "Remind me how the last one ended."

My reply: "The guy from Coupling who was in the girl from Lost's flash forward got a call from Charlie from Lost saying something about them being responsible, and the Shakespeare guy told his coworker to call the hacker."

Oddly enough, he understood me.

A young man takes up the quest to save the maiden fair (or her job) as well as health and dental plans for the office. Chivalry is still alive.

I wrote the screenplay for a short film entered in a film festival: The Adventures of Don and Cho. 

(Sorry about the audio--sometimes the lines are hard to understand.) I had such fun working on this one. I have to be honest--I crack myself up.

***

Fun things to do with a jump rope.

(Seriously, I can barely skip over mine more than ten times in a row.)

Can you make a career of this?