For fifteen minutes I have sat in my thrift store chair (that I still haven’t recovered–it is, as ever, a horrific faded pink with out of fashion stripes, and it has a twin sister to double the grisly impact)— fifteen minutest in this chair, straining my brain to think of how to start this entry, and how on earth to justify its title. And its picture. And its theme song. I feel them all–the title, the song, the picture—they are a deep gut feeling, a basement feeling– even, perhaps… a final straw. How do I explain this?
Maurya has a party in the house, and her younger siblings have cousins over. I don’t want corn chips scattered from the front door through all the hallways in my house, but the reality is, I do. Plus four little girls parading up and down stairs in princess dresses (that means that the little girls bedroom will be knee deep in all the clothes they’ve ever owned or ever will own). Wait, no, three girls in princess attire; I just spotted Nora rounding the corner of the house in nothing but a leotard. And now a neighbor girl rings the doorbell and runs through my flowerbeds-in-embryo to hide. Like I can’t see her crouching just beneath the living room window.
Lynaea and I were e-mailing a while back, and she was writing about her pleasure in jogging. I was envious, somewhat. Jogging was my preferred exercise. But my middle-aged knees and feet cannot jog on pavement anymore. Fortunately, I live by a beach, where I slog. What’s slogging you say? Well, it is the art of jogging very slowly, so slow, in fact, that it cannot be called a jog. It can only be called a slog, which is short for slo-jog. I had my first child at 35. After she was born, my body was a mess. Really. I hobbled around, could only do three pushups a day, and my aching knees and hips meant that my usual path to health—jogging—was out. I was stymied in how to regain health and energy. One day my husband suggested that I try jogging on the beach on the upper level where the sand was soft instead of on the hard sand by the water. He chose the beach for my initiation run carefully. It offered lots of flat, deep sand. So we started jogging. I mentioned I was out of shape, right? I went about 25 yards and was breathing so heavy, I just couldn’t go on. I choked out in a pathetic, gaspy voice: “I can’t go on; we’ll have to stop.” My husband looked at me in astonishment. “Stop!” He said. “We don’t stop, we just slow down!” At that moment, for me, the universe exquisitely slowed down. It was like a slow-motion scene in a Kung-Fu movie. 
This is just to say, Cynthia Compton wrote more (
Ever see “Joe Vs. The Volcano” with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan? Tom Hanks plays Joe, a depressed hypochondriac with a miserable factory job. Joe goes to the doctor and learns that he has a “brain cloud”. “I knew it!” Joe says, almost jubilant. The brain cloud is terminal. He’s going to die, soon, painlessly. So when Lloyd Bridges shows up at his apartment the morning after, to recruit Joe to take a luxury cruise ending with a self-sacrificing leap into a volcano, the idea is an easy sell. Joe hates his job, and he’s got a brain cloud anyway.
This picture isn’t awful. I should have chosen awful for this blog entry, but I couldn’t quite make myself. Still, I’m stirring raw hamburger, my gaze is askance and rueful, and notice how my Colossal Cupcake Flop has edged its way into the scene (can you see that the cupcakes are in fact craters? I tweaked the recipe with buttermilk). Nevertheless. I held my breath, flared my nostrils, and went for it. Click, drag. Edgy living, totally. I was resolved to take measures (if not extreme, at least salutory). An email from a dear but distanced-over-the-years friend convinced me that I needed to adjust the tone of my blog, possibly even my entire website, if only with disclaimers. Disclaimers with a less-than-flattering picture.
I’m registered as a participant in the North Ogden Art Festival on July 31st. Since I’m committed, I need to look online to see exactly where it is being held– some park somewhere in North Ogden I’m sure. Kind of exciting; I’ve never shown my art publicly before. I think the venue will be smallish, based on what I saw at the Ogden art show a few weeks ago. I’m ok with that. We went to the Salt Lake Art Festival today; it was big and busy and fun and we saw lots of interesting (and some good) stuff. Took my Grandma Wilson, so our pace was slow enough to take it all in (more about Grandma later). I noticed artists in their booths, watching people measuring and weighing and discussing their art, and I thought hmm. Could be painful; could be uncomfortable. Might be validating, might be fun. I’m up for it. I think I’m up for it. I’m working at being up for it. 
Don’t start what you can’t finish. I know. Currently, I am in the throes of three sewing projects, and not feeling particularly earnest about any of them, because…I’ve invested myself in all of them. The butter spread thin over too much bread. I bought this jacket at a thrift store, and decided once it was home that it looked matronly on me. I’ll whack off sleeves and collar, and make it into a vest Bohemian and Blowsy. But now, it’s late night—definitely not an ideal time for sewing. So I’ll talk about Opera. A natural turn in conversation.
Some days, I am queen of The House of Chaos. A figurehead, really. Even—even on occasion— a lame duck. Queen Lame Duck. My children listen politely as I outline terms and conditions and parameters and guidelines, and as I elaborate on appropriate protocol, and then… they do their own thing, under advisement. I’ve adjusted to this, mostly. Recognizing that not every moment has to be controlled by me, and that when a particular moment is important, I can find ways to influence (that doesn’t mean I always do; it just means I’m aware of the possibilities).