>Not Watching

I’ve always meant to watch “The Biggest Loser”. Over all the seasons it’s been on television, I may have seen one and one-half episodes. Many of my friends find the program inspiring and motivating, and it’s not that I don’t like it. It’s just that I had to choose between that and writing. And, writing won.

I’m not sure I’ve ever watched an entire episode of “Grey’s Anatomy” even though I’m a sucker for medical dramas and found myself falling for Kate Walsh, in a big way, while watching her in stilettos, pressing the accelerator in a Cadillac commercial. The ad came on during football time-outs. I always make time for college football. But it’s difficult to fit in other television programs, and still find time to write a blog post that must then be submitted to three different websites.

I did watch the first installment of “Downton Abbey”. I tend to forget how much I enjoy Masterpiece Theatre. Of course, I had to reschedule my manicure. I wonder if I can fit that in while watching “The Biggest Loser”?

I have, of late, listened to interviews with Jon Stewart that convinced me I am truly missing out by not being able to stay awake past 10 pm. I’ve considered recording the show, but that would engender watching and when would I? I’m committed to posting one photograph every day for a year. And I have to actually take a photograph first.

My son and I love tennis. John Isner’s marathon performance at Wimbledon last year placed him atop my son’s list of favorite players. I like Rafael Nadal for obvious reasons. It doesn’t hurt that he’s a great tennis player, too. The Australian Open opened on Monday. So far, we haven’t watched a set, but they’re still in the early rounds. The important matches will be played next week, and I’ll watch some of those when I’m not watching my son play basketball or trying to fit in an extra thirty minutes on the treadmill or catching up on emails I should have been answering when I was watching Denis Leary’s latest stand up routine, which I recorded last week while I was completing my profile on yet another blogging website. This one is aimed at recipe hounds.

I’ve watched American Idol with my children since the very first season. I took my son to the live show the year that the pudgy, gray-haired guy won when everyone knew Daughtry should have won. We have never, and will never, do that again.

I was very excited to hear that Steven Tyler and Jennifer Lopez are joining Randy Jackson at the judge’s table. While not attractive in the traditional sense, Steven Tyler is one of those men who grew into his unattractiveness. Kind of like a Shar Pei puppy, he’s so ugly he’s cute. And, of course, he’s got mad skills….

Jennifer Lopez, on the other hand, is like Paula Abdul 2.0. She’s beautiful, she’s sweet, she’s talented, she’s experienced…she’s younger, she’s relevant, she’s someone the contestants’ Moms don’t have to explain.

We don’t usually bother with the first few weeks. I get no kicks out of sharps and flats, and the segments appear contrived. Last year, they allowed a contestant who is old enough to be my father to try out. I couldn’t tell you what he sang or even if he was on key. All I could think was “What is he doing here? Whatever happened to the age limit? Why aren’t they following the rules?” Of course, next day “Pants on the Ground” was an internet sensation. That guy got his fifteen minutes of fame…and yours…and mine…

I had hoped to catch the premier performance of Tyler and Lopez, but last week’s record snowfall left a pile of white stuff on my desk…paper, lots and lots of paper, paper that must be looked at. Some of it actually requires reading. All of it requires shuffling. I worked late that night…

I’ve taken steps to simply my life. I’ve ended time-stealing toxic relationships, I’ve downloaded scheduling software. I meditate. I sacrifice. I sift through the unimportant in the interest of “being there”. And still, there just isn’t enough time in the day to catch up with “Brothers and Sisters”.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way. The seasons of our lives are fleeting. The day will come when I’ll have more than enough time and I’ll remember my season of chaos as some of the best years of my life. For now, I’ll take solace in the knowledge that as long as I have a DVR, there’s a chance I’ll get to see an episode of “Glee”.

>The Forecast: Rain

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It rained today. As often happens, the storm coincided with rush hour. A colleague wished me luck as I left the office since it’s a well known fact that people in Atlanta don’t know how to drive in rain, or snow, or ice, or at night, or any time except daytime as long as the sun is bright and traffic light.

Other than the obvious road hazards, I don’t mind rain. I’m an avid gardener, and even though I am not actively gardening, I think of water soaking the ground and I know we’re putting in reserves for next summer, when all the hand-wringing in the world won’t make it rain.

I’m not crazy about the old adage “raining cats and dogs”. I’m a visual person and this is not a pretty picture. It doesn’t make sense. Who decided domesticated pets best describe heavy rainfall? Wouldn’t it be more descriptive to evoke elephants and hippos? Couldn’t we could just say, “Wow! It sure is raining.”?

I remember the first time I heard “It’s Raining Men”. I loved it immediately. It is a big song, sung by big women, with big voices and even bigger personalities. The song skidded in on the last lap of the disco era and hearing it today reminds me why we all loved disco; even those of us who won’t admit it.

On Monday, it rained birds in Arkansas. On Tuesday, it rained birds in Louisiana, and today Sweden reported the same. Some scientists are explaining the deaths by speculating that large flocks, alarmed by New Year’s Eve fireworks, might have flown into each other.

Call me cynical, but I don’t think so.

>Cookies for Breakfast

I just washed an entire load of pajamas. Just pajamas; flannel pants, t-shirts, and even one pair of actual pajamas, the old fashioned kind. They are black fleece and have polka dots. As my friend exclaimed when I unwrapped them, they are “me”.

That’s the kind of week it’s been, a pajamaed week; a week spent, for the most part, inside the flannel-lined cocoon that is my home. I’ve eaten cookies for breakfast. I’ve mastered most levels of my son’s new fishing game. Spear-fishing and bow-fishing are easy. It’s the rod-fishing that’s given me a little trouble.

I’ve watched hours and hours of college football between frequent, sometimes tiny, naps. I love the way that happens. The feeling creeps in like a cozy fog and I realize that if I close my eyes and tilt my head ever so slightly to one side, sleep will come. I’ve learned to embrace the feeling. And, I’m reaping benefits. Yesterday, the face that met me in the bathroom mirror was clearer, less lined, more relaxed, content.

We did go out on Tuesday. We had gift cards to redeem and Christmas money to spend. Shane bought a pair of Sperry Topsiders. Counting out seventy five dollars, he laid it on the counter taking great pains not to touch the hand of the clerk who congratulated him, repeatedly, for being a “good boy” and “saving” his money. I tried, once, to correct her.

“It’s Christmas money.”

She either didn’t hear me or didn’t care, and continued to voice her approval.

Of course, my son believes he and his friends practically invented Sperry Topsiders. He winced just slightly when the clerk called out his total, but I’m sure he would have paid whatever it cost. The only thing of which he was not certain was the color. You see, it’s very important that one’s Topsiders are the proper color. I started to tell him that when I wore them we favored the darker brown. I started to tell him I could show him a photograph that hadn’t even had time to fade. But I didn’t.

While we were out, I was delighted to discover that Sirius radio continues to play Christmas music right up until New Year’s Day. I don’t understand why our local station doesn’t do that. They begin playing carols a week before Thanksgiving when people are mainly just thinking about food, and if they are thinking about Christmas it’s because they’re hoping that this year the family will draw names. Then, at midnight on the day after Christmas, the carols end. Sometimes right in the middle of a song! Okay, so they might not change formats in the middle of a song but it is abrupt. And, it does come before I am ready. It’s good to know Sirius “gets” me.

I take vacation the week after Christmas. I do this for a number of reasons. I do this because Shane’s Dad takes vacation the week before. I do this because I enjoy watching college football. And, as I recently came to realize while sitting in a tub of warm water after an emotional day during which I almost cried while watching a car commercial, I do this because I don’t want my holiday to end in a pile of torn wrapping paper and dirty dishes. Especially this year, I don’t want Christmas to end.

I don’t want to go back out there. I don’t want to work, or pay bills, or worry about children, or plan meals, or work out, or clean the bathroom. I want to wear pajamas and eat cookies for breakfast. I’ve still got one level of that fishing game to conquer. I want to stay up as late as I like, secure in the knowledge that there will be more than enough time for a nap tomorrow.

But there won’t…

So, I will.