Not A Creature Was Stirring

I have insomnia.  A few of my European Facebook friends know this, as I greet them at 8:00 am often, their time.  This morning I woke up at 2:30.  I wake up completely alert, ready to go, fully able to complete any task.  I put on a cup of coffee, and begin writing.  I write some of my short stories, my book, or more often than naught, postcards for Postcrossing.

It's not like I go to bed at six or anything like that!  When I tell people I wake up at 2:30, they often ask that. Um, yeah.  I go to bed at six?!  I go to bed at 9:30, and then wake up at 2:30.  It stinks.  I know today I'll need a nap, as it's almost 4:00 am and I haven't fallen back asleep yet.  I usually get up at this time.

Sometimes I do crazy (oh yeah, MausiGal, real crazy!) things like bake.  This is one of my recent creations:

Baked French Toast, complete with praline topping.  Yum, yum, yummie!

I dated someone who also had the odd sleeping hours bug.  That was convenient.  Watching movies at 3:00 am is always fun to do, especially with someone else.

So now I'm debating, at 4:00 am, whether to write more postcards, embark on Mexican Piggy Cookies (where is that piggy cookie cutter from Williams Sonoma that I bought just for this purpose?!), or work on the novel.  Perhaps I could try going back to bed before the supermarket opens at 7am.  But alas, I have just made a cup of coffee.  What a waste that would be!

Avi Kitten is looking to be fed.  He's my morning buddy, always awake when I am.  Thank gosh for companionship, of any kind.

Game Day!

I have a son who is a jock.  Let's just get that out there.  Kidlet B loves sports.  He stays after school to play intramurals, whereas I was the kid staying after hours to work on poetry for the literary magazine.  I even tried the Math Club in middle school, but was so lame that I was designated the runner with all the completed sheets.  Go, team!

I wasn't surprised when last summer Kidlet B made the comment that he wanted to take up football.  Did it scare me?  Most definitely.  The words, "head injury" kept going through my mind.  This was the kidlet who fractured his arm - twice - in the same place in one summer.  I discussed the idea of his participation with the pediatrician.  I talked to other parents.  And I wondered where my once little six pound kidlet found the desire to go bang heads and smash other beings.

I run and work out on the treadmill.  That's the height of my athletic ability.  My family tells me I run like a duck, so that should give an indication as to how I may appear should I one day make it to the Boston Marathon.  Quack, quack, quack.  I don't have to look far to know where Kidlet B gets his inspiration.  His father and his uncle are both athletic.  His dad played multiple sports and continued to do so until a few years ago, and his uncle...well, Sprout is Mr. Baseball.  After playing on the high school's state winning team, his legacy goes on in the family as the SuperJock.  FocusMan, my other brother, and I, pale in comparison.  Kidlet B wants that experience, I can feel it.

I agreed this year to football, despite thinking of the little Rice Crispy guys and hearing, "Snap, Crackle, Pop!" on my son as he hit the field.  The sound of helmets banging makes me ill.  At the last game I shouted out, without thinking, "Don't hit my son!" as other dads were screaming, "Get him!  Kill him!"  I had better get used to this, though, because at age thirteen he is already 160 pounds and over 5'5".  He's a big kid, made for the sport.

Today is his first game for the playoffs.  I am going to wear the same outfit I wore for when they clenched the game for entry.  Faded jeans, black sweater, black clogs.  Am I being superstitious?  Anything for my son.  Kidlet A and I, along with Auntie C, will stand on the sidelines (I'm too nervous to sit) and watch.  Kidlet A will ponder, like I so often do, why people want to go and smack each other around.  It's a paradigm in which we don't belong.

Kidlet A has not yet joined the Math Club. He's not making his mother's mistakes, and is venturing out on his own, like his brother.  He wants to go to Sweden as an exchange student.  Sweden!  I can't yell from the sidelines across the ocean.  I will simply have to put on my jeans, black sweater, and clogs, smile, hug, and send him off into success, just as I am with Kidlet B.  This is their time.

Maus in the Volvo Haus

The mighty Volvo is dead.  Yes, the 2012 S60 Turbo which I adore and worship wouldn't start one day after school.  I approached the vehicle after working with eight, middle school knitters for an hour during a post-day program.  Knit purl knit purl cast on cast off, I was ready for a break.

Key in ignition, no go.

Foot on pedal to start.  No go.

I pray, yet still no miracle.  I watch the track team run buy and wonders if this is some sort of penance for me not running, or perhaps not buying a Kia, as my brother suggested.  Of course exercise and owning a car are in no way related, but at the moment MausiGal is not thinking clearly.

Damn Volvo.  This happened about a month and a half ago as well.  Two times in two months.  No go.

Re-evaluate.  I love my car.  Volvo has become so much of my identity that my screen name on various websites across the Internet involves the word Volvo.  My students at school can identify me on the street.  My dream car is a P1800 - the original Bond mobile.

I sit in the parking lot on this eighty degree autumn day and wonder if I've just become too materialistic with my obsession with the Swede mobiles.  Is it a fetish?  Can one have a Volvo fetish?  Let's face it, anyone who walks up to people with old Volvos and asks them about their mileage is obviously hooked.  No matter what the condition of the Volvo - old, new, broken, used, brand new - I am attracted.  I'm like a kid on Halloween when going up to the car dealership - no house will be left unvisited for candy, and I want to see each vehicle.  I stop at every car, browse the interior, sit inside, imagine myself driving the machine.  I am intoxicated by the feel of the steering wheel, opening the sun roof, heck, even imagining placing my venti salted caramel mocha in the cup holder.  New or used, each Volvo for me is a gem.  Am I materialistic?  I think again.  No, I reckon.  Even has their quirks, and mine just has to be with a car that's foreign.

And a car that is now dead in a middle school parking lot.

The tow truck comes and of course, once the driver sits in it, the engine turns.  Miracles never cease.  Yet still, the dashboard is lit up like a Christmas tree, lights aglow with everything that could possibly be wrong with a car - CHECK ENGINE - that's a scary one - so off I drive (I know, idiotic) to the dealer for repairs.

One week later I am told the prognosis.  Ready for this?  Oh, the irony!

Mice.

Mice living under the hood ate through wires in my beloved car.  The insurance company even checked out the claim, and found it to be true.  The car is kept in a garage, fairly warm, where I have found no evidence of mice, but such is my fate.

So for the past three weeks I have been driving an XC60.

It's a cross-over between an SUV and a wagon.  Yummy.  The Volvomom/MausiGal is addicted, and wonders what it will be like when she is finally forced to give it back and return to her sporty, little S60.  Zip zip zoom.  

Yes, I am so lucky to own what I have.  I have been blessed with material things, but above all people in my life who are amazing and love me more than the material things could ever account for.  I'm one lucky MausiGal.  That's another blog post in and of itself.  

Now, if only to find that little family of mice in the garage and set them on a relocation program...

The Bloggie Is Back

The Bloggie is back, after about a month hiatus.  Whoa, what a time it's been.  I've truly missed writing, but every time I went to sit down at the beloved Chromebook Baby I was pulled away for one reason or another.  So tonight, a Friday night completely free, I am able to compose.

I miss summer.  Let me just start off with that.  I miss days in the sun at York Beach and the awesome times in Vermont, of which I'm already counting down until next year.  However, summer was kind enough to leave me with ten pounds extra from its iced mochas shared with Dads at Starbucks.  No amount of running seemed to keep the pounds at bay.  Egads.  Pass the elastic waistband, please...FAST!  I'm debating starting a secret weight loss blog, because I'm too embarrassed to post my own weight loss crapola on MausiGal.  Blah blah blah.  Been there, done that.  Who hasn't?  Why live in shame?  I'm back to working out every day on that treadmill, with the incline of ten (tell it to the mountain!) at four miles an hour.  I know I can lose it all, it's just a matter of sticking with it, and staying away from iced mochas.  And caramel macchiatos.  And scones.  And fettuccine.  Do we sense a problem?

Being alone on a Friday night has a stigma in our society, doesn't it?  I was speaking with someone recently and they were really curious as to what my weekend without kids would be like.  "So, what ARE you doing?!" was his question.  I'm vegging out.  Seriously.  With over 130 students to teach this year, I'm exhausted by the time i get home.  Combine that with two extremely active thirteen year old boys of my own, and I'm ready to throw in the towel.  My car has become the Mom Taxi, as much as I lament to say this.  I tell people I own a "sporty Volvo."  Who am I kidding?  I own a kid totting mobile!  This afternoon's kid pickup (four thirteen year old boys from the ice cream stand) held a lively conversation on the benefits of AXE deodorant.  This continued into how one may shower twice a day and still smell.  I teach middle school.  I feel their pain.  I live their pain on a daily basis!

I'm really content - honestly - to be here without an agenda - at the computer, jamming out to Tom Petty, and writing on the Chromebook.  Am I a hermit?  I don't think so.  I do like spending time with people, but I don't think I'm the type that honestly looks to go clubbing or out to bars on a Friday or Saturday night.  No, gracias.  I'm totally happy at home cooking my new specialty - clover bread!

I recently gave this to someone, and he told me how yummy it was.  He then proceeded to tell me they used it for French toast.  Um...French toast?  My awesome bread?!  Cut up and soaked in batter?  Should I be insulted or honored?  I'm a bit bewildered.  Isn't crappy bread suppose to be used for French toast?  Someone help me out here!  I've made a few loaves of this, and it's just delish.  Plus, it looks so pretty.  And who can say no to pretty? (Wasn't that the most shallow thing you've ever heard in this blog?)

So what's gone on in the past month?  I went on an IKEA binge, during which I had my left boob smashed by an IKEA worker who tried to help us load a mattress.  Ouch!  Love IKEA, hate their customer service.  I'll admit, I'm addicted.

My awesome grandmother had a stroke last Saturday, which is incredibly sad.  She's in her early nineties.  How can you express the thoughts you have when you see someone you adore go through such pain and confusion?  And then see her son, my Dads, go through such anguish over his mother?  it's awful.

I am falling asleep.  My days run from 4:00 am to 10:00 pm, so one can imagine way.  More later.  Hopefully I'll be able to pbdate before October!

Time To Start Running!

Before I married twenty years ago I ran every day after work.  I hated it.  Why?  Because I thought it would get me ultra-skinny before the wedding and allow me to continuously eat Heath Bars.  Fast forward, and I'm hoping to get ultra-skinny once again, but there's a story behind putting my feet to the pavement.

The second week of July I could hardly jog one forth of the track.  Why was I even trying?  Because of this guy:

Yes, my son completed Clemsville's Fourth of July run, turned to me, and said, "So, Mom, are you going to do it with me?"  In his hand was information about a 5K in October.  My brothers, sister-in-law, and other kidlet had run this race.  Far be it for me to say no to a kidlet's request.  The training was on.

So during the week we were in Vermont my personal trainers became my brother, Dude,  and sister-in-law, MaineGirl.  MaineGirl had found information on what was titled "Couch to 5k," which she changed to "Laptop to 5K" in my honor.  

I've known lots of runners, and I've been impressed with each of them.  I've always seen running, especially long distances, such an unachievable goal of mine.  I could hardly run down the street, for fear that my neighbors would think that I was being robbed.  No, I'm not a louse.  I power walk on the treadmill at four miles an hour at a nine incline.  But run?  Forget it.  So to hear about people running - I was in awe.  

My roommate in college, RunnerGirl, would just take off and go.  "I went for a long run!" she would come back to room and declare.  I would look up from a book and smile.  Um, yeah.  My fat arse was so envious that she could run, run, run.  At times I snuck off to the indoor track on campus and tried to run to no avail.  I hated it.  I couldn't breathe.  RunnerGirl enjoyed it!  And to this day she has Facebook posts about herself and kids enjoying the sport of running.  Yet more inspiration for me to move forward with this.

Uncle runs marathons.  He's diabetic.  He was once hit by a bus while running.  He has a toe problem (as in he can't find it).  He still runs.  Go figure.  If I had all those issues I'd be at home hiding in a closet with my cat.  His running stories crack me up.  The texts of support from him are keeping me going in this endeavor as I've encountered shin splints, weird knee problems, and the idiocy known as "Why is Kristin wearing walking shoes as she tries to run?"  My first mini-marathon truly is for him.  I'll get there.

Vermont's runs were amazing.  With vistas of the mountains (see above, which doesn't even begin to do it justice) and a country landscape, pounding the pavement in eighty-five degree heat wasn't as bad as it should be.  Dude and MaineGirl paced me at minute intervals to build up my endurance.  If Dude could do this with a pace maker, I guess I could, too.  Well, maybe...  So we ran.  Me, kidlet, MaineGirl, and Dude.  Each day.  Dude pushed me at times where I started spouting obscenities when I couldn't go on any more.  Uphill can be a killer, especially when it's nearly ninety degrees.  The former quaint scenes of wildflowers and Green Mountain farms don't look as pretty when one is breathing like Luke Skywalker's father.  

Back home I'm keeping up, running farther each day.  I've changed to my brother, Sprout's, training advice of, "Run 'til you puke."  Granted, I'm not vomiting after running, but I am running as far as I possibly can.  I'm now up to about two miles.  When I run around the track I'm amazed that I used to only be able to jog a quarter of it.  Proud?  Most definitely.  

Off I go.  Rewarding myself with a caramel macchiato more often than not when I'm done.  

Some things never change.  Yes, I do follow up with water.  I down lots of Pelligrino.  Far be it for me to drink ordinary water, right?  

What's different from twenty years ago?  I'm actually enjoying the runs this time. I plug in my music, jamming out to either Nicki Minaj or The Beatles, depending on my mood.  I compose blog posts (like this one) in my head.  I come up with new short story ideas.  I think about how cool it will be to one day get that 13.1 sticker and put it on my desk at school.  Oh yeah.  And even better?  How amazing it will be to see the look on Kidlet B's face when I finish that 5K with him.

Filter This!

As I am determined to not become the Cat Lady of Clemsville, I continue to go out on dates.  Am I happy with myself and just being alone?  Yes, that too, but I do enjoy time with someone else.  So hence, as Dads says, there's a chair with my name on it at the The Java Room.  Mr. Right is quite elusive.

I've learned to filter what I say on these excursions.  The good dates have lasted a few hours.  The bad ones?  Yikes - one lasted a painful half hour.  I haven't encountered any bad people, it's just, as we say in the dating world, "that we're not a match."  What a catch phrase!  Thank you for your application, but at this time we cannot offer you a position.  Dating is a lot like interviewing for a job.  Hence why I have to filter what I say.

I talk a lot.  Combine that with the fact that I am a bit goofy and it can be a lethal combination.  My crazy imagination comes up with all sorts of funny ideas, and on a first date zingers could fly out of my mouth that would make even the bravest guy say, "What?"

Examples of first date questions, what is said, and what actually goes on in MausiGal's head:
Mr. Date - So, you like Volvos?
MausiGal - Love them!  I'm on Volvo Number Six.  My newest is a turbo.  Great car.
MG's Head - I actually name my cars.  My last car, even though it was a wagon, had a sporty, Italian name. I think my car is sexy.  And you should, too, if you're going to date me.  Volvos rock.

Mr. Date - You're a writer?  What's your book about?
MausiGal - The main character is a teen dealing with OCD.
Mr. Date - Oh.  Interesting.  Do you have OCD?
MausiGal - (brief little chuckle) Oh no!  I've had numerous students with this disorder, and done research.
MG's Head - Why are you asking something like that on a first date?  Nosy much?  Do you have any disorders?  It's called fiction, dude, and that's why I write it.  I don't have OCD.  Now I will play with the napkin and rip it into little pieces, and arrange them in neat piles, all organized.  And make you wonder!

Mr. Date - Do you have any pets?
MausiGal - I have a funny cat named Avi.  He's so goofy.  He actually bounces off of walls!
MG's Head - STOP THERE!  Do not talk about Avi sleeping in an old box that oranges came in, or how you talk to him in the morning.  Do not talk about how you're still in mourning for LilyCat, whom you had to put to sleep less than a month ago, and referred to yourself as "Cat Killer" for days after.  Please, please do not confess that your students love the shirt you own that has cats all over it.  Men do not find future cat ladies attractive.

Mr. Date - Are you close to your family?
MausiGal - Most definitely!  I've got the greatest parents, and brothers and sisters-in law that are just the best.  My niece and nephew mean the world to me.  I see them all the time.
MG's Head - My brother insists that I once tried to kill him with a jug of clothes detergent my chasing him and whipping it at his head.  He still holds a grudge from when I flushed his toothbrush down the toilet.  My other brother?  He and I love the movie The Boondock Saints.  The scene with the cat?  I won't confess that Dads and I can never find my car in the supermarket parking lot (oh wait - I did that yesterday on a date. Oops.)

Mr. Date - What are you looking for in a guy?
MausiGal - Someone who's optimistic, fun, spontaneous, smart...
MG's Head - Didn't you read that freakin' profile I wrote?  Do I need to inflate your ego more that you may get the job?  Guess so.

I want someone who doesn't ask me the usual dumb questions.  I want someone who asks me why I loved Ecuador.  I want a guy to find out why I write postcards each morning, and love going to the post office.  Someone who would like to know why I'm on a kick of listening to 1960's music.  I know, my standards seem incredibly high.  But why shouldn't they be?

Forget the filters.  I need to be goofy me.  Let it all out.  Then I'll find that hard to get, hard to find person.  If they can handle a MausiGal's mouth, then they will be the right one.

I Get Around: Driving, Dating, and Dying Cats

Ah, summer fun!  I mentioned before that I would have quite the summer, and 2013 is no exception.  

It started off with a bang.

A car accident.  The mighty, mighty Volvo was rear-ended by a young girl texting.  Ouch!  I was in Nashua sitting in traffic when I was hit.  I was ok, the Volvo was not.  Luckily it was just bumper damage, but I was angry.  Get off your phone!  As I stepped in the ambulance to have my neck and back checked, I hoped those driving by noticed that I was wearing what my mom refers to as my "Wizard of Oz" shoes - bright red with gold heels.  

What did I learn from this?  My novel deals with a girl in a car accident, and my own memories of being hit when I was younger came back quickly.  The sound of metal.  That fear as my head went forward at the steering wheel.  The anger.  The fear that I was really hurt as my whole body ached right after the accident.  But above all, the thankfulness that I was ok.  

So life goes on... And back in the Volvo I hop!

What have I been up to?  I'm back on the dating scene.  I few years ago I read a book titled 51/50, a book in which a woman goes on fifty-one dates in fifty weeks.  I thought that would be an admirable thing when I first hit the dating scene years ago, and like the author, I could find out a lot about myself.  No thanks.  Yes, I've met some nice people (doesn't everyone say that when they're dating?).  But shall I tell you about the guy whose photo was a blond, blue-eyed dude, described as tall and who showed up?  A George Costanza look-alike.  He downed five beers in less than two hours.  Hop in the Volvo and drive!  

OK, ok.  I won't be negative about the experience after that one odd one.  I am meeting very cool people who are extremely interesting.  Like Kristen McGuiness in 51/50, am I learning more about myself?  Of course.  Don't we learn more about ourselves with each and every person we meet?  

LilyCat.  My beloved, sweet Lily.  I learned from her that you can sit on a bed all day and do nothing and still be happy.  That may sound trite, but I don't think so at all.  Lily was eleven years old, and was diagnosed with diabetes.  For a week I tried to give her insulin shots twice a day.  She had special food.  Yet still Lily was drinking so much water and ruining my house.  At the end she had a reaction to the insulin, and I made the most difficult of decisions to put her down.  I hated being an adult at that moment.  Dads went with me, and Lily went to...sleep.  I would like to think of it that way, instead of referring to myself as the "cat killer" as I did at Starbucks afterwards with Dads.  I'm trying to still justify it in so many ways - her reaction to the diabetes, how awful she looked, and her fear when I gave her the shots.  Lily began to run each time she saw me.  I will remember her purr, as she curled up with me on my bad during my saddest of moments.  Love you, LilyCat.

Three different experiences, one summer.  And it's only mid-July.