A year ago, I was telling myself that I was a 14, and while I might aspire to a 12 or even a 10, I had to be realistic – I was over 30. The days of being skinny, slim and twiggy were in my past.

Instead, one year later, I’m trimmer and fitter than I’ve been since I was in my early 20s.

Still, I fear jinxing my weight loss. Buying the sixers almost felt like tempting fate. Will I wake up pudgy on the morrow? Will my stomach spy the label on my nouveau, $12.99 Old Navy clearance rack cords and decide to inflate like a beach ball?

Probably not. But it’s still hard to believe that these are my thighs.

Yours,
Vee

I invited my friend, S., who had her 9 month old daughter in tow. Truth told, I just kind of love the NMWA on an emotional level and don’t give a whole lot of thought to what they put on exhibit.

Duh. Feminist art. Revolution. From the 1970s.

Borderline pornography, baby.

Fortunately, I’ve known S. long enough that we could look at the warnings about graphic imagery not suitable for younger audiences and agree that we now really NEEDED to see what was behind that sign.

If I were born in, say, the 1940s or 1950s, I’ll betcha that I’d get more of the symbolism. But I’ve been a denim-and-sneaker-clad daughter of a feminist my whole life. My first packet of birth control pills was issued at the ripe old age of 15. Don’t get me wrong – I think that feminism is perfectly relevant to modern women, and I plan to raise my son to be a feminist, too. But it’s not the same battle, and the flags we fly are changing.

And that’s just it: ultimately, I think the most interesting thing about the show wasn’t how shockingly sexual and physical much of the imagery was – it was how very hard it is for art to transcend its moment.

Some of it still gripped me. One artist twinned photos of herself with advertisements from magazines, raising the question of whether models pose’s resemble our natural stances, or whether we’ve started to change our behavior to mimic commercial images.

But I think there’s a meter running on how long even *that* will resonate.

It’s a funny thing, the way that a compelling, arresting image mellows to just everyday in a generation or two. That’s not wack, exactly, it’s just the way.

The website can’t do the show justice, but if you’re curious, check out www.wackatnmwa.org. And I believe the show is going on tour, too, so check and see if it’s coming soon to a museum near you.

Yours,
Vee

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Now I am one. And while I hate admitting it – I tend to tell people that I do a little freelancing work from home, even though this is a lie – I also grudgingly concede that it is a huge and thankless job, or really a series of huge and thankless jobs. Now that I’m at home, I can’t figure out how I managed to work.

Then I glance back and remember. Laundry piled up until our basement floor looked like the surface of the moon. Takeout every night. And every morning. And every lunchtime, too. Crazed trips to the 24-hour drugstore for any number of things a household should have, but ours didn’t – lightbulbs, deodorant, glue. Birthdays forgotten, or willingly ignored through an exhausted haze. Deferred maintenance on our home from the rafters on down, because who can take a day off to scheduled service call? Heck, who can find time to set up the appointment in the first place? Gyms joined but unused; dentist appointments months overdue.

We were achieving, but we were falling apart.

At one point, I remember contemplating visiting my doctor to ask for a prescription for an anti-depressant. Except that I had valid reasons to feel anxious, stressed and unhappy. Did it make sense to take a drug to help me accept my chaotic existence? Would she give me the medication, or tell me to re-evaluate my life? For fear that she’d suggest the latter, I never went in.

Then a few months ago, my husband accepted a big shot job in another city, and we moved. I gave up my career – it would be next to impossible to imagine working while he’s at his current place of employment – and became a hausfrau. Um, make that hausfraud, because I’m still really spectacularly unsuited to this gig.

Fraud or not, I must say that our lives are far more orderly now. We eat out once a week, usually lunch on Saturday, because we *want* to. I’ve lost more than 35 pounds. Our house is neat, or at least reasonably orderly, most of the time. I clip coupons and shop sales, and there are no more last minute dashes to buy things. My dental work is up-to-date. Waiting for service providers is a drag, but at least I’m not looking at mysterious leaks and hoping they’ll faith-heal.

And yet, no one believes that my job is demanding, especially now that my son attends nursery school three days a week. For my own sanity, here is a record of where those 24 hours go:

Tuesday

7 a.m. Make two lunches, dress self, gather up supplies for child’s day. Wake child. Put child on potty. Wash and dress child. Comb child’s hair. Consider getting child buzzcut. Force child to brush teeth and put away his stuffed animals. Walk child the ten blocks or so to school, rain or shine. Wave to the guys at the car wash who are so nice to my fascinated kiddo. Wonder why no one stops for the clearly marked crosswalks. Rush child across intersection while he sings the ABC song.

9 a.m. Return home from dropping off child at school. Bus breakfast dishes left scattered about by husband. Have quick breakfast. Throw in first load of laundry. Grab shopping bags, circulars, coupons. Head to drugstore. Pick up razors for husband, search for exact kind of nuts he likes, buy Pull-Ups for son. Stop for coffee on the way home. Have perhaps 20 minutes of peace and quiet, the first since last Thursday.

11 a.m. Toss laundry in dryer, start second load. May involve removal of mysterious stains from toddler’s clothing. Head downstairs to unload dishwasher, go over groceries needed. Plan dinners for the week. If anything is urgent, plan to head to grocery store that afternoon; if not, postpone. Wipe down counters/appliances neglected all weekend.

Noon: Fold and put away first load; toss second load in dryer; soak son’s favorite stuffed bear to later wash with towels. Gather up garbage from all over the house, hurry to get out before afternoon pick-up.

1 p.m.: Lunch, at home, usually in front of my laptop. 40 minutes or so of adult conversation with total strangers on the internet and the odd friend from my old life.

2 p.m.: Finish putting away laundry. If other errands need to be run, run them now. Can include picking up beer for husband, heading to post office, getting car inspected, going to the dentist, getting laptop repaired, picking up dry cleaning. On the rare day I’m errand-free, actually attack a part of the house that’s still neglected and needs to be sorted since our move-in three months earlier. Often generates fodder for yet another errand – taking things to Goodwill.

4 p.m.: Realize I’m in the final minutes of solitude. Debate showering and decide against it. I did on Sunday, right? Settle for checking my email, tidying up any random flotsam, making sure things are ready for dinner. By 4:50 p.m., be ready to head out the door to collect son.

5 p.m.: Walk home with child. Best part of my day. Get him in, de-shod and unjacketed. Place on potty. Applaud wildly if anything happens. Cook dinner. Feed child, usually before husband comes home.

6:30 p.m. to ????: If lucky, husband comes home by 7 and can handle bedtime. If unlucky, husband comes home well after 8 and I’m on the hook for baths, stories and night-night songs. Then again, this usually means I fall asleep around 8:30 myself, and that can be blissful, even if I wake up to a messy kitchen and have to clean it before I …

Wednesday

7 a.m. Make two lunches …

There’s some variation. Some days I don’t do any laundry. Some days I spend a lot of time trying to figure out our household budget, paying bills online, dealing with forms for school or other routine but necessary things. I’ve spent an entire day waiting for our car to be serviced; another trapped at home waiting for the HVAC guy to show. (Only to have them try to reschedule at the last minute, and have to fuss until they agreed to honor their original appointment.)

But the thing here is that it’s quite tedious, and repetitive, and never-ending. And almost completely invisible.

My husband says he’s willing to help, but it’s sporadic and inadequate. (He will put laundry in the machine, but leaves it in unfolded heaps on the guest room bed. If he cooks dinner on the weekend, he can’t watch our son at the same time.) He is a great father, but it’s pretty clear that he thinks I’ve got a sweet gig here, popping bon-bons and watching daytime television while he slaves away for the big bucks.

This is infuriating. Especially because this was not my idea in the first place.

Harumph.

True, there is a sort of Zen-like peace that settles over me when I know the laundry is done, dinner is cooking, and I’m finally putting to rights all the tragically neglected parts of our lives. But it’s fleeting, and there will be more mess to handle tomorrow. If I’m really lucky, I’ll get to, oh say, scrape dog poop off my son’s sneakers, or spend an hour shredding ancient utility bills for a house we no longer own.

And in the midst of this, I feel my own identity shrinking. I may have more control over my calendar than the regular working stiff, but I don’t have a lot of freedom in my days. It’s also true that most of the irritations and obligations of modern life – dealing with, say, the cable company or the taxes, picking out a gift for my mother-in-law or finding out what my son needs for his Christmas pageant – are all on my shoulders. There’s joy in these things, to be sure, but I still have deadlines and expectations to satisfy. And some of these are now sky high, because, after all, what else does she do all day?

Tomorrow is Monday. Because of Thanksgiving, my son has just *one* day of school this week, a day on which I must pick up our turkey and ready our home for guests.

It feels like there’s no place to end this post, and that’s because there’s no place to end this work. My life is a treadmill, and while the scenery changes, the terrain is flat. The pace may be steady, but the pause button is busted. I am running, and no one is on the sidelines to cheer me on.

Yours,
Vee

Not that I’m some neurotic, Type-A, control-freak neatnik who alphabetizes her spices for a good time. I’m a neurotic, Type-A, control-freak slob who reads Real Simple the way adolescent boys pour over Penthouse. It’s a fantasy, an aspiration, a life I will never attain.

Or is it? I recently bought a tiny little work called Organizing Magic. The author, one Sandra Felton, goes by the nickname “The Organizing Lady.” In the midst of NaNoWriMo, multiple fanfics in progress, a kid, a house, a Thanksgiving dinner to host and so much more, I decided to work my way through her 40 day plan.

I’ve flirted with Felton for years now, but had never bought the book because she’s published by a Christian press. I kept thinking her advice would run towards the preachy. But she’s remarkably down-to-Earth and honest. If I didn’t know, I wouldn’t know, you know?

Anyway, now that I’ve skimmed through the 40 days – yes, Sandra, I cheated, I’m bad like that – and put several of her tips into practice, I must say that changing my life is an act of faith.

For so many years, our life has tilted towards chaos. A morass of unmade beds, towers of laundry, empty take-out containers, missed opportunities and unmet needs. She makes the case that it isn’t about having a beautiful life … it’s about having one that works.

And so lately, I find myself able to cope just a little bit better. To make tiny improvements in the way our lives work and be content with that.

So if you come ’round my place right now, you might find me gazing at my newly organized office as if it’s a religious pilgrimmage site. And if you see my new white board calendar in the kitchen? I imagine that you, too, might feel peace and serenity.

We still have clutter. But much of it has been relocated to the back of the Jeep for delivery to the Salvation Army on Tuesday.

Salvation … that’s the right word.

For the past three weeks, I’d been putting my shoulders into an original story that I was sure and certain would be easy to write. There’s this class I’m taking, see, and I figured that I should write the simplest, most straightforward tale I could imagine.

While my instructor didn’t come right out and say, “Verity, I’m not sure ’bout this plot,” it wasn’t knocking anyone’s socks off. In fact, my socks were firmly in place.

So I scrapped it, and went with something that’s been burning in my brain for a few weeks. I had the intro already sketched out, and some vague idea of what might happen.

Much to my astonishment, this new story poured from my fingertips like water from a pitcher. It was easily done. Or perhaps not easily done, because writing is always an act of will. But it was possible and logical in a way that my so-called simple effort simply was not.

Day One of NaNoWriMo: 5,592 words. 11.18% of the way to the 50,000 word goal.

I’d call that smokin’.

Yours,
Vee

It’s another one of the quirks of living in Tyvekville, a community that is most bustling when all the construction crews are on site around 7 a.m. on a weekday. Eventually, 500 families will live here. Right now, it’s a mere 25 or 30.

For the most part, I’m rolling with the quirks of being among the first to move on in. They’re not so bad – random road closings, the odd crane blocking you from leaving your driveway, lots of dust, and dirt and mud. It’s offset by the feeling of being in early days, and watching the community build around us.

But tonight, I would really like a few trick-or-treaters.

Especially because I can’t co-exist with that many Reese’s peanut butter cups without adverse consequences.

Yours,
Vee

Anyway, you’re here looking for fic, aren’t you? I mentioned in an earlier post that I write fanficiton, and since I’m outing myself as Crazy Fangirl Extraordinaire, I’ll mention that I write Spuffy fanfic.

If you can decode that, hey! You’re one of us.

You’ve also probably scanned this blog and realized that the good stuff isn’t here, and it’s not. It’s all over at The Bloodshedverse. (www.bloodshedverse.com)

I haven’t ruled out posting here, but I don’t enough about how WordPress really works yet. And after the whole Live Journal kerfuffle, I’m not sure if I want to post there, either.

Which means that, at present, my only alternative is to clean it up enough to post it online at the BSV.

But I’ll let you know when that changes.

Wink,
Vee

The best part is that there’s been no starvation, no strange eating habits to get here. None. And no dangerous drugs that will lead to a tabloid-worthy death, either.

In fact, the funny thing is that I didn’t try to get skinny, as much as I tried to get healthy. Turns out that does the trick, far better than any fad diet ever.

For the curious, here’s what I did:

1. Cut out anything with trans fats. These are the worst kinds of fats, once found in almost all baked goods and fast food fries. Today, they’ve been taken out of lots of crackers, muffins and the like that once had them. The important thing about skipping trans fats is that you avoid the biggest diet busters – doughnuts, those heavenly drive-thru fries and so on.

2. Switch to whole grain everything. I’ve always been a hater about wheat bread, but it turns out that my friends rye and pumpernickel are better than white, too. Plus, there are tons of pastas and crackers on the market with more grainy goodness than ever before.

3. Swap chicken for beef. This has been so easy I can’t believe I didn’t do it before. Turkey meatballs, chicken tacos … cheaper, tastier and better for you.

4. Eat your veggies. Okay, this one was hard. Still is, as I’m not a Green Giant kind of girl. Fortunately, there are tons of vegetables out there, and frozen is nearly as good as fresh. So I’m slowly making friends with the produce aisle, beginning with the old familiar (carrots, broccoli) and working up the nerve to try brussel sprouts.

5. Everyone goes on the diet. My husband isn’t overly thrilled about some of my new tendencies, and the fact that I no longer bring home Klondike bars from the grocery store. But if it isn’t in the house, I can’t eat it … and my husband is slimming down, too.

6. Get moving! If you work in an office, this is almost impossible some days. But now that I’m out here on my own, I walk everywhere. Grocery store, coffee shop. It’s a 1.6 mile jaunt to the Metro station, so even if I hop on a train, I’ve gotten a workout en route.

7. The daily weight. Now this sounds really neurotic, but I’ve found that weighing myself daily helps. I don’t expect to see downward progress every day – though when I reach a new low, like this morning, it’s hard not to rejoice. What I do expect is to remember my daily weigh-in when I make eating decisions. So yes, I had cheese enchiladas this weekend, but two, not three.

I’m at least 20 pounds skinnier than I was at the beginning of the year, and I’m not hungry.

Hallelujah!

Yours,
Vee

While I’m new to writing original fiction, I’ve been writing fanfiction for a while now, and posting it for more than a year. So I know something about pounding about 1600 words in a day, and I even know a little something about plowing forward even when you have your doubts about that last scene.

What’s scary is sharing it with the whole wide world.

I used to stay that I’d love to run a marathon. There’s still a kernel of truth in that statement, but what I mostly mean is that I’d like to have a snapshot of me, with a number pinned to my tanktop and long, lean greyhound thighs, triumphantly crossing a finish line before chugging a gallon of Gatorade. I do not actually wish to endure such grueling pain to earn that picture.

So NaNoWriMo is my mental marathon. I’ve never done anything like this before. But it’s better than running, especially because if I do finish, I intend to sip champagne.

Want to test your mettle? Check out www.nanowrimo.org.

See you at the finish line!

Best,
Vee

This is truly sad.

And yet – the artist Thorton Dial once said, “Art ain’t about paint, it ain’t about canvas. It’s about ideas. Too many people died without ever getting their mind out to the world.”

Of course, the dear Mr. Dial said that in 1993, before everyone had a blog.

I’m not giving up the writing life. I mean – it would be like quitting before I even began. But I’m wondering about this split, and what it means. If I had 40 hours a week to write, would I be able to turn it off and be a decent person off hours? If I actually sold a novel would my work suddenly garner enough respect to buy me time?

Part of this drama, of course, is that no one knows that I’ve taken to scribbling. Well, a handful of people know that I write. Half of that handful know that I’m trying to write a romance novel. Or, at least, fumbling in the dark with my laptop and a few poorly fleshed out ideas.

So I’m really disappearing for no good reason.

But there’s something embarassing about trying to write. I know a woman who’s been working on her novel for a decade. She complains about the publishing industry, and maybe she’s right. But I kind of think that she’s really feeling the weight of telling too many people about her novel, and then having to backpedal when it never appears in print.

So for now, I’ll quietly stick with my class. And my isolation. And my rudeness. And my occassional selfishness.

Because it ain’t about paint, it ain’t about canvas. It’s about getting ideas out into the world, ideas that threaten to make my head explode (ker-plow!) if left to their own devices.

Best,
Vee