Sunnyside Up

It started yesterday with a jade plant.

Happy little jade.

When I look directly to my left from my desk, this is what I see, EJ's happy little jade plant. Yesterday, it sat in a pool of sunlight, sunlight that shone its way right over to me. The sun on my face made me turn, then see that plant, then smile and take a photo.

It is bitter cold outside, some 20-30 degrees colder than average. Even if we'd not had eight straight weeks of this weather, we'd be psychologically ready for spring by the end of February. Given the temps and snow, we were ready three weeks ago. That's not happening, though. The cold isn't just cold, it's frigid, and those spring showers we hear about—well, they'll be spring snow showers, with the chance that by Tuesday, we'll have another fresh foot of the white stuff on the ground.

Still, though, it has been sunny. It is an odd thing for the sun not to make you feel warmer—the cognitive dissonance on that is high—but according to the news, it has been the sunniest February in eight years. I have said many times that the hardest thing about moving back to the Great Lakes was the loss of sunlight, a loss that has led to me getting a small seasonal affective disorder light to help trick my body into feeling awake during the worst of the winter. As miserable as our weather situation has been, the extra sunlight has improved my mood—how on earth would any of us have endured this atypically harsh season without bright light to carry us through?

So yesterday, when I saw that jade plant, and realized that it had no idea that the outdoors would kill it, it just soaked up the sunlight in our indoor radiator heat and kept on trucking, I decided that was going to be my approach for whatever extended weeks of winter we have left.

Let's be real, Midwesterners (and all who love us), Mother Nature has forsaken us. Don't bother calling her, she's not picking up. The good news, though, is that we have had ample time to go through the stages of grief, and we are ready to move forward. I'm done being depressed—I am exhausted hearing myself say how much I hate the weather, I can't imagine what all you lovely readers think. I don't have the energy left to be angry—cold temps and car-window ice-scraping sap the energy for righteous ire right out of you. I used to think bargaining might help, but who am I kidding? Denial doesn't work, either: every time we leave our homes, we know the horrible truth. It all comes back to acceptance—eight+ unrelenting weeks in, and there is nowhere else to go.

Yes, tomorrow it will be March. No, it isn't going to be nice out. It just isn't. But it might sometimes be sunny, and I'm going to will some springtime energy into my mind and my space no matter what it takes.

Last night, I attended an event about Provencal food and wine, and just like always, thinking of my time in Aix, looking at pictures of that remarkably blue Southern France sky, getting to speak French, and drinking lovely warm weather-friendly rosés, brought me to my happy place. By tasting-glass number three—oh, there were so many glasses, bless the wonderful Alliance Francaise—I declared in my own mind, "Winter, I have no more time for you. In my mind, I'm living the good life. I'm living SPRING."

The colors of French rosé. They all tasted delicious, I promise.

So far today, while doing some grocery shopping, I purchased hydrangeas and clementines, then set them out to enjoy in front of Cézanne's St. Victoire. 

Les fleurs et les fruits.

Setting out beautiful, fresh things always necessitates picking up those last little items left on the table: the homework scratch paper, the errant envelope from the mail hastily opened, the cup of tea that didn't make it to the dishwasher. Willing in spring feelings is willing in spring cleaning, too, and I'm all the better for it.

Adding to the party is the chicken stock I'm making. Leek tops, carrots, celery, onions, garlic, parsley, peppercorns, bay leaf, and the saved remains of our roast chicken from Tuesday's dinner look like springtime in a pot. All. That. Color. The smell of this bubbling away all day has been heaven, and I am banking on a supply of this stock in the freezer to fortify us for any freakish springtime snowstorms or arctic blasts. Springtime, I'm willing you into being with chicken elixir, used equally well in rib-sticking winter braises as in light, spring-vegetable soups and risottos. 

The greenest things around these days are celery and leek tops.
I'll take 'em.

So join me, Polar Vortex Survivors*, and those springtime lovers who empathize with us, as we will the power of SPRING into our homes. It isn't happening outside, and we don't need a meteorologist to tell us that. Who knows when "outdoor spring," as I'm now calling it, will actually arrive? We must take things into our own hands. Twenty-four hours into my personal, "indoor spring" campaign, and I haven't felt this sunny for months.

*Yesterday, I signed up to attend BlogHer 2014—hope to see you there, too! When asked what I wanted on my name-badge, I chose: Writer, Polar Vortex Survivor. Wouldn't you have done the same?

Remember Me Honestly

The longer I live with my family, the more convinced I am that my obituary will read,

"Throughout her life, Ms. Lusignan picked up tens of thousands of socks."

Another key point might be,

"When faced with a difficult situation, her first response was always the same: coffee."

As for the heroic, idealized finish, how about this:

"Kori Lusignan was a courageous woman, as evidenced by her survival of the Chicago winter of 2013-2014, known to us metaphorically as the 'first horseman' of the catastrophic climate change we now experience. As a response to that winter, Ms. Lusignan showed tremendous fortitude and creativity, spending the rest of her life moving from place to place to capture the best weather conditions, while pioneering innovative virtual working practices with each relocation. She never missed an opportunity to share a loving word of caution about snow and ice with young people."

This stuff writes itself, I swear. Let's put it in the vault for another 60 years, give or take a few, and we'll be all set.

Thumbs Up

On Friday evening, I went to bed with my right thumb aching slightly, a little big swollen, a little bit tender at the spot where it reaches the inside of my wrist. When I woke up Saturday morning, it was three-times its normal size, I could barely touch the tender part, and I soon discovered that you can't do much when the thumb on your dominant hand is hurt.

This was one of those weird injuries that I could tell wasn't really serious—it has gotten better, progressively, every day—but would make daily tasks really irritating. Stranger still, I had no idea how I had gotten it—when had I bumped it, twisted it, wrenched it, or bruised it, to cause so much inflammation?

Now, as my thumb is back at 80%, I look around our house, and realize that without me noticing an injury taking place, a sliver of chaos is starting to take hold. Sometime in the last few weeks, our neat, organized house stubbed its thumb, and it is becoming cluttered. Given that it looks 150 times better than it did last year, why am I only drawn to noticing the small stuff, the stuff out of place?

Later this week, a realtor is coming to assess our condo, and talk through what we need to get done (quickly) to get it up on the spring market.

Like the thumb that kept smarting whenever I would forget it was hurt and would try to do something silly, like grab a glass of water, I keep looking around and noticing all the stuff that now seems out of place, cluttered, etc. We have spent close to a year purging, sorting, and organizing, and the house really works well now, but as the realtor is coming in just a few days, all I can see are the file boxes out of place, random pieces of kid clothing left in different rooms (did you know that dirty socks belong wherever you choose to take them off?), and pantry items that don't quite fit.

A house never seems messier than right before guests are coming over, but this is especially true when the guest is a realtor.

Here's hoping someone who wants a fourth-story gem in Hyde Park is thinking, "Maybe I'll start looking next month." Here's also hoping that no more hidden house injuries are uncovered in the final prep stages before market. The mad final cleaning dash begins...NOW.

Give It Up

Next Wednesday, Lent begins, but discussions around our house about what to give up for the season have already begun.

EJ suggested yesterday that she thinks she might give up after-dinner treats, but "only those, because that is enough, and a few treats during the day aren't a problem."

Uh-huh.

I suggested we may want to rethink her plan if she would like to fully participate in Lent without little-kid dispensation this year.

I'm no shining example of Catholic self-sacrifice when it comes to Lent. I understand the meaning behind it—fast to draw closer to God, to understand suffering, to release yourself from "idols" in your life, to seek out prayer each day—but practically speaking, this sacrifice can all too quickly become self-improvement, or "Revenge of the New Year's Resolution." I don't think that is the point at all—"Follow Jesus' walk through the desert, and in just three EASY steps, lose 15 pounds by Easter Sunday!" If God were choosing an informercial script for this season, I don't think that would be the winner.

Should Lent be a way in which, through daily piety and prayer, we establish habits that last the rest of the year?

I don't think God has a problem with anyone starting to go to the gym regularly; at the same time, are squats and lunges something that draw folks closer to God?

It gets even more complicated, though, when you peel back the onion a bit. If the Lenten commitment is to make time every day for focused piety and prayer, well, I think you've got yourself a sure-fire winner. But what about if you just spend less time on your phone each day? That is trickier, because without the business of mind and disconnection from the present that phone time creates, an individual might immediately feel more peaceful, more present, and more mindful. Isn't that a form of prayer, to be truly present with those around you, or thoughtful when alone?

Only the people making Lenten sacrifices can really know what they mean, and to me, the profoundness of this season never seems to be adequately acknowledged by giving up chocolate, or going on a daily walk. I'm not saying that those types of sacrifices aren't spiritual—I can easily imagine turning to God in prayer every time you wanted (but did not have) coffee, for instance—I'm just saying that they don't ring the spiritual bell for me.

As for Mike and me, I think this year might mark a new kind of spiritual/practical hybrid in our Lenten devotion, as we are (GULP) going to cut out television all but on Sundays. I'm truly anxious about this, as I love television—I really, really, love television—which makes me know that I should give it a try. I also know that I am going to need serious divine intervention in my life to help me to do this, so that's not a bad sign, either. Practically, though, we are concerned that we waste too much time on shows, we stay up too late when we don't need to do so, and we pay too much for the television access that we have. If we can forgo television for six weeks, can we make long-term changes that give us more peace, more time together, better health, and more resources?

I hope that the fruits of the sacrifice are primarily spiritual, but even I must admit, without a hint of blasphemy intended, I think the entire Holy Trinity would be pleased if, this April, we ended our relationship with Comcast.

Publishing, Time-Travel Edition

Yesterday, at school pick-up, I had a moment to make small talk with EJ's teacher. I asked her if she'd had a good day, and she lit up as she discussed how the class had just started a new magazine project. Apparently, four classrooms at the school were picked to participate—this must be funded or sponsored in some special way, but as this was small talk, I didn't get the details—and hers was one of them. The classes participating in the project are broken into teams of three students apiece, each with a different job (writer and editor were mentioned, I'm not sure if she said the third), then they create their own magazines, and learn how to launch them into market.

It sounded like a blast, and given all the time spent on test prep these days, I could tell she was excited about it. I didn't mention what I'd heard about the project on the ride home, but EJ did, describing the tasks, then listing her assigned teammates. According to her, her teacher tried to pick groups with kids that don't normally pair up, as that is what working in a magazine is really like—you must work with a variety of new people from different departments all of the time. She was excited about the whole thing.

Now, I'm totally in support of this endeavor. The kid is interested, she loves her job on the team (writer), and she likes the kids in her group a lot, so that makes it even more fun. I love the fact that this is creative, and different from their everyday work that. I have no complaints.

What struck me, though, was while I was talking to EJ's teacher, I commented, "How entrepreneurial!" to which she replied that this project is a form of college-preparedness training. Last year, eight graders in the school completed this; this year, several grades are, including EJ's third-grade class.

College preparedness? MY KID IS EIGHT. Everything we do here, including teaching her to fold her laundry, or challenging her to make good food choices, is eventually going to prepare her for college. Everything in school prepares kids for college, in a building block/making connections/"you don't start with calculus" kind of way. It strikes me as interesting that, in order for these special programs to get put in place, they must tick off boxes like "college preparedness." It also strikes me as sad that not every classroom can do something like this, given the enthusiastic response, just because it is FUN.

In the moment, I joked with her teacher, "Of course third graders are doing it this year—third grade is the new eighth grade!" but I think my humor fell flat. It isn't actually that funny, especially since it is becoming increasingly more true. I'm waiting to see if, in two years, my ten-year old will be taking the PSAT.

I like EJ's teacher, and I love that this project is on deck for all of them. A good thing for my kid is a good thing, period. I imagine, though, that making a magazine, with all of the creative/organizational/teamwork/writing/thoughtfulness/critical thinking it provides, would likely make the eight and nine-year olds happy, college-bound or not.

No Talky-Talk

I woke up this morning with almost no voice, and a dry, horrible cough. You know those nifty neck pillows, the kind you can heat up in the microwave and wear to make you feel less tense? I felt like I had one of those inside my neck, encasing my lymph nodes and throat, a much less relaxing reality. 

My plans for the day, aside from the mandatory parenting tasks that do not get eliminated for something as trivial as illness, were immediately scrapped in favor of resting and hot beverages. I was supposed to make trip #4 to the dentist to get a porcelain crown placed on the tooth I broke a few weeks ago, but figured that the coughing and limited ability to breathe would make holding still while they cemented pretty impossible.

The whole family has been fighting off the crud for at least a week—this weekend, we made grand plans to do all kinds of family fun, but then mostly lazed about because we were all feeling subpar, at best. Last week, the kiddo got the cold full-on, even requesting that she miss piano (her favorite) in favor of resting. I thought that I had beaten it before it really got ugly, but I was wrong.

Whenever I get a hint of laryngitis, the first thing I think of is my mom, in her speech therapist voice, saying, "Total vocal rest." Drink hot drinks with honey and lemon, take medicine, rest if you can—all these things are good—but the number one piece of advice from mom has always been the same, "Total vocal rest."

Of course, the first person I really spoke to today was my mom, who called to check in but got off the phone pretty quickly, lest she sabotage her own recommendation. She doesn't even need to say it anymore, I know what to do: stop talking, and stop whispering, too. Explore ridiculous hand gestures and/or not answering anyone's questions as new forms of communication. For me, "total vocal rest" = be completely the opposite of your normal self.

The really funny thing, though, was that the less I spoke, the less I could imagine writing. I rarely talk about what I am writing out loud, and obviously, typing requires no use of the vocal chords. Why would an absence of talking lead to an absence of talking points? This made me consider the recent studies that suggest that being able to make facial expressions allows us to feel empathy, as we match the expressions of those with whom we are speaking, then are more able to feel what they are feeling. Folks with Botox injections, the control group for these studies, were much less likely to be able to empathize—if you can't make the face, you can't read the face, essentially.

We also know that the act of smiling, even smiling so slightly that others can't really notice it, can make individuals feel happier. The expression isn't always a result of the feeling, it can actually make the feeling, too. Embodied cognition is some cool stuff.

Could it be possible then, that when making a conscious effort not to talk, I send a signal to my mind to have nothing worth discussing cued up? Not moving my mouth says "don't think of things to say?"

Whatever the case, consider this near-midnight blog post as current for at least two days, unless I have a miraculous recovery tomorrow morning. I'll be here, trying not to think of anything worth saying.

Hat Trick

Happy Tuesday, everyone! It was President's Day here yesterday, so I took a day off of blogging to celebrate. By celebrate, I mean to say that I spent the bulk of the afternoon extricating my daughter from her school during the worst snowstorm-related driving conditions we've had all year. Ah, thundersnow, thanks for adding to "Killer Winter 2014: This Season Will Not Die, But You Might, Silly Midwesterner!"

I'm not sure what snow-hell had to do with Washington or Lincoln, but despite the scary drive, I did enjoy the day off, especially the part where we got home safely after turning the car into a bobsled on unplowed Lakeshore Drive.

It is actually a miracle that I could operate a vehicle at all yesterday, given how tired I was. On Sunday evening around 9:00 p.m., two hours into Olympics coverage and chilled out for the night, I thought I'd do a quick check of the Erma Bombeck writing competition website. I knew that the deadline was the next day, and I had anticipated spending most of my morning finishing up my piece and submitting it. I wouldn't call this procrastination, I'd call it "maximizing my time."

I wasn't worried, as I had been ruminating on an idea for the 450-word piece for a few weeks. I started a blog with the thought early in February, then stopped myself, knowing that the subject might be perfect for this competition, and one of the rules was that submissions be previously unpublished. I hadn't written much down since that moment, but I had 90% of the work written in my head. I was actually looking forward to morning coffee and story-from-brain extraction as my Monday start to the week.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I noticed (for the first time, shame on me) that the competition closed at 8:00 a.m. EST on Monday morning. Drat.

I'd love to say that I jumped to the computer to work on the piece right then and there, but I didn't. I sat, watched the Olympics, and thought about this new time constraint. I was in slow-motion Sunday mode, and to shift gears needed additional energy. By the time I sat down to the computer and really got at it, it was late, later than it should have been.

The good news is that writing the piece, a tale of housework and the modern conundrum of "equitably splitting the work" among spouses, took less than thirty minutes. Like I said, it was really all in my head, and aside from some transitions and some additional (hopefully) funny pieces, it really just needed to be put down on paper. The longer part of the process involved surgical cutting to ensure the piece was 450 words or less, while still making sense. I had Mike take a read, and he laughed, so I called that a good sign. I checked it for spelling, proofed it to remove double spaces, and got online to submit.

Two new challenges then faced me: giving the piece a title (I had never even thought about this), and writing a biography of myself. Ugh. I have a work bio, but that wouldn't work for this. This is where waiting until I was tired made simple tasks seem harder than usual. The title I arrived at was impulsive but decent, and after about fifteen minutes, the bio seemed done, which was all I really needed in the moment. Once I hit "submit," I felt absolutely high, so pleased that I had gotten this done, a little buzzy in my head and hands. I figured that falling asleep might be tough, but my eyes were tired enough that I thought they might even out my adrenaline.

I walked into our dark bedroom, and started groping along the dresser to find my phone, so I could turn the sound off. As my shaky fingers felt around, I heard a "ping," just the softest of noises, really, with no thud to the ground. What could I have hit? As soon as I felt my husband's glasses, I knew: I had knocked his wedding ring off of the dresser.

I didn't want to wake him, but I started to panic. I turned on the lights. It turns out he hadn't fallen asleep yet, so it wasn't too horrible of a wake-up.

"Honey, I bumped your wedding ring. I can't find it."

"What?"

"I lost your ring. I was searching around in the dark, then I heard a ping..."

"Hang on."

Mike got up and we started to look. It wasn't on the floor, but I hadn't heard anything roll, so I wasn't surprised. It wasn't on the soft rug. It wasn't in the two drawers that were slightly ajar, allowing the ring to fall on soft clothes. We shook out and refolded everything. We opened drawers that weren't open before. It was gone, just gone.

That's one of my things: when something goes missing, I declare it gone, gone forever, irretrievably gone. It makes no sense: in this case, the ring couldn't have left our room, but in my mind, it was now lost for the ages. This is not one of my finer qualities.

All of that chemical energy wrapped up in my writing happiness was quickly converted into panic. Where could it be? Where was the ring? Why did I have to do this, now, so late at night?

Mike told me that I shouldn't worry. "The ring is just a thing, just a symbol, not the marriage, itself." It was all okay, he wasn't mad. He was going to go to bed and look for it the next day, and I should, too. He gave me a hug, and was so sweet.

I returned this kindness by practically screaming at him that this was not nothing, there was no way ON EARTH I could get any sleep now, that I needed to have all the lights on to look more thoroughly, and if he wanted to rest he should probably go to the guest room. Oh, and why did he put his ring somewhere so unprotected, anyway, since it may be "just a thing," but it is certainly special, and didn't he even care enough about this ring to keep it safe?

For those keeping score, I messed up and accidentally lost his ring, then I blamed him for putting it where I would accidentally lose it, then told him to leave our room so I could stay up like some half-deranged sleuth with all the lights on and a flashlight.

Ahem. He (very rightly) let me know that my thoughts were not appreciated, then turned off the lights and started to go to sleep.

I left the room, crying. I was really tired, really amped up, and really unable to make sense of things. I paced around. I grabbed all the clothes from the drawers, and searched through them again on the couch. I was no Erma Bombeck, and I was about three universes away from the pithy, "Isn't it silly how we families approach chores!" lady I was a few minutes before.

As I walked back into our room to put the refolded clothes away, flashlight in hand, I wasn't sure what to do. I couldn't possibly sleep, but I couldn't do anything else. I couldn't give up the hunt, but looking made no sense. Mike was right, Mike was right, Mike was right, so why didn't my anxious body agree?

It was as I spun around to leave again, so as not to disturb Mike, that the flashlight reflected back to me a pinpoint of gold. There, in the goofy-cool hat that Mike bought on our honeymoon, hanging on our bedroom doorknob, was Mike's wedding band. The ping I had heard happened as it bounced off the dresser, the lack of any other noise was because it fell softly into the hat. It all made sense. I gasped loudly as I grabbed it, but Mike thought I sounded hurt, so he startled up.

"Are you okay?"

"I FOUND IT! It was in the honeymoon hat!"

"Oh, that is great."

"Where can we put it so that I don't bump it again? I'm so sorry, so so sorry."

"Shhh...it's okay...I get it. I couldn't sleep anyway."

Monday morning came early, with the headache that accompanies not enough rest, amplified by the hormonal marathon my brain had run through before sleeping. I thought about how silly I had acted the night before, and I told Mike I was sorry again...and again...and again. This lady he married, the same gal who can smoothly and efficiently write a whole story in her head, can be so erratic when overtired and overly sentimental—how does he put up with her?

When I saw the big smile on his face as he slipped his ring back on, I didn't worry. I took some Advil, drank some coffee, and remembered that this is the real equitable breakdown of household life: we will switch back and forth in the roll of "calm and patient" spouse roughly a million more times, get the best night's sleep we can, then put our rings on and smile.