Twas Brillig

And what better format than a list?

1. I’m listening to INXS’s “Never Tear Us Apart” and laughing about how when I was a kid I thought the song said, “they could never tell us apart.”

2. We close on our house in Denver (Highland’s Ranch, to be specific— a delightful little suburb in the southern metro area) on Wednesday. We picked the one with the deck, view, and yard. All the T’s are crossed, the I’s are dotted, it appears that this is actually going to happen. I know! It only took, oh, TWO MONTHS LONGER than it was supposed to. But I’m grateful.

3. I was able to actually SEE said house last weekend. Yup. I loaded four kiddos into the minivan and drove the eight hours on narrow, winding roads across the Rockies… on three hours of sleep, no less. Possibly not the smartest thing I ever did, but hey! I lived! We met up with that hot hubby of mine that night and stayed with him at my brother’s house– my brother and his fam were in Hawaii, so they offered to let us crash there in the meantime. It was wonderful, though a bit hectic since Chris’s house is SPOTLESS and my children are… um… not good at spotless. Neither am I, for that matter. Anyway, we saw the house (and the others that we passed up on… or lost to the STUPID FRICKIN’ BRACKIN’ BRACKIN’ FRICKEN’ STUPID Federal Government— but I’m over it, can’t you tell?) and I was almost surprised that I actually LIKED it! Some things will have to be dealt with, of course. A loft will have to be converted into a bedroom (by simply adding a wall)— apparently we’re not in Utah anymore, and they don’t make houses (in my meager price range) with enough bedrooms for families like mine. Also, the cabinetry in the house is a gorgeous cherry wood, but the previous owners painted the kitchen red. Now, I really have no problem with a red kitchen—I’ve done that myself in the past. But this makes the cabinets blend right into the walls and therefore the beautiful woodwork is entirely lost. And we can’t have that. No, we can’t. So, I shall wield a mighty paint brush and transform it to a rich buttermilk color… or something. Okay, I’m rambling. Done now. But besides those little tiny changes that will need to be made, it’s the perfect house for our little clan and I’m excited.

4. While in Colorado, I went to church in what will be my new ward (congregation). When I got to Relief Society (the women’s group), I was asked to introduce myself. “I’m a writer,” I said. I think it may be the first time I’ve ever actually said that out loud in public. I felt like such a poser. I mean, I AM a writer, right? And yet… what exactly have I written? I don’t know. It just feels wrong to claim a particular talent that I may or may not have. Still, maybe if I say it out loud in the mirror every day— like a daily affirmation— then it will be true. In the meantime, though, you may call me Brilli-Vanilli. A total poser, who doesn’t deserve the title I apparently claim.

In fairness, though, I’ve been working on my book a lot, despite the mass chaos in my life. I have a story I like, characters that I care about (or hate, in a few cases). I’m still trying to find my voice— that’s been an interesting process. I went through a mind-shift, like, “I must put away the blogger in me and be the YA fiction-er.” I was working that way for a while, but I didn’t like it. It’s not me. Last night I thought, “I was told to write a book because people like my blogging. What if I can’t actually write a book? Or… maybe I should write a book with the same voice that I write my blog!” So I’m working on that angle now. I’ve re-vamped everything and made my voice sound a little more like my voice sounds here. I’m not sure it’s working. How on earth would I know? I mean, it’s not like I’m a writer or anything, right? Wait…

5. I then drove home from Denver. By myself. With four kids. Four very young kids.

6. …And I arrived home to an excessively messy house, full of half-packed boxes. Everyone’s belongings are strewn all over the house, including mine. I have less than a week to get this stuff in order. I know, I know. I’ve had two months to get all of this done. But keep in mind that I’ve been Single Mother to four little tiny ones with very big needs. Plus, I haven’t had an exit date until now, and how could I possibly have known what to pack if I didn’t know when I was leaving? But now. Oh now. The mind-bloggling insanity begins. I have no idea—NONE— how I’m going to do this. If you looked at my house right now, you’d think that a burglar came in and ransacked the place, desperately searching for some hidden treasure, and when no treasure was found (unless you count the endless supply of hotwheels…) he trashed the place out of anger. Can you picture it? Really, I’m afraid that my neighbors are about to call the police. It will be embarrassing to have to explain that actually it was just me.
*I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…*

7. My husband just hung up on me. I’m pretty sure it was an accident. Then again, I was being REALLY obnoxious. Then again, he was laughing his head off. That’s one of the things I love most about that man— he thinks I’m hilarious. Wait. Perhaps he really DID laugh his head all the way off, and his ridiculous bluetooth ear piece fell to the ground and hung up on me. Seriously, though, people. What is UP with the freakiliciousness of those bluetooth ear pieces? It turns my hot hubby into an icky-looking sci-fi creature.

I don’t like icky-looking sci-fi creatures.

All sci-fi creatures are icky looking.

Not a fan of sci-fi.

Moving on…

8. He hasn’t called me back yet.

9. My angelic mother-in-law is taking the kids all day tomorrow. Wow. Now I can sit around and watch The N all day. Yeah…

10. I’ve been nominated for a few awards. I know. How crazy is that? I’d be honored if you’d vote for me… (Meaning, I will hunt you down and attack you with a plastic butter knife if I don’t see your name next to the list of people who’ve voted for me. Don’t think that I won’t.) Just click the little image and it will take you there:

This is the one I like the sound of the best:

Or, though I don’t call myself a “mommy blogger” I’d be okay if YOU call me one:

11. Now I have Milli Vanilli songs stuck in my head. “It’s… a… tragedy for me to see-ee the dream is over! And I never will forget… the day we met. Girl, I’m gonna miss you!” Haha! Now YOU have Milli Vanilli songs stuck in YOUR head!

Oh my gosh, this is a YouTube moment if I ever heard one. Go on. Click play and remember how much you liked these guys…

Sigh. I’ll admit it. I still love them.

12. Going now. Thanks for staying with me. Remember that Soap Opera Sunday is over at Kate’s for “the duration.” And thanks again to my awesome guest-posters, every one of whom as come through for me in a huge way these last couple of weeks. We’ve got just a few more for you this week! And then I’ll have to go back to actually blogging MYSELF! What the…?

Hi everyone. My name is Karlene and I live over on Inksplasher. [link: www.inksplasher.blogspot.com] I’ve been blogging since January 2006. I met Brillig at a blogger luncheon several months ago. I guess that makes me one of the few who’ve actually seen Brillig’s gorgeous eyes and eyebrows in person. Brillig is just as fun and entertaining in real life as she is here on her blog. I’m excited to have the wonderful opportunity to be a guest blogger here—my only claim to fame.

A little history about me: I’ve worked as a writer, editor and publisher at various times in my life. Now I’m taking it a little easy and doing freelance copy editing and book design, layout and other pre-press work. I also blog a lot. The coolest thing in my life, however, is that I became a grandmother last year. Grandson #1 just turned 1 year old; grandson #2 is almost 7 months. I’ll be gaining a granddaughter in August when my son marries a sweet girl with a 2 year old. I do “Grandma Day” once a week when I tend my two grandsons all day. It’s tiring, but lots of fun. It’s with this in mind that I wrote the following post.

Grandmother’s Hands

I don’t know why the image of your hands comes to me this morning, but I see them, folded together, resting on your kitchen table, right-hand fingers embracing the left hand, slowly rubbing, stroking, kneading. Do they hurt? Is it arthritis, that dull cold ache of bone against bone that I sometimes feel in my own hands?

You open your hands, stretching your fingers out flat, pressing them onto the tablecloth. I can see little ribbed drawings of apples and oranges playing peek-a-boo with me between your fingers—the pattern of the plastic tablecloth.

Your hands are bare but for the single, thin, gold band on your left hand—the symbol of your love for Pappaw, your commitment to the eternal family, your devotion to the family the two of you created that grew from two, to six, to sixteen, to thirty-seven and 7/8ths.

Are you proud of that? As you look down at us from heaven, are you pleased with who we have become, who we are becoming? Or does your heart ache over our weaknesses?

Your nails are short, but not too short. They stop just at the tips of your fingers, a thin white crescent at both top and bottom. They are smooth but unpolished, unbuffed. No pretensions here. They are working hands, practical hands.

Your hands are creamy tan, covered with the darker spots of age. Liver spots, some call them. I prefer to think of them as medals of honor, hard won through life’s trials, markers of wisdom gained, experiences shared; the many wrinkles that criss-cross the back of your hand and gather in clumps around your knuckles are ribbons awarded for effort and endurance.

Your hands reach across the table, across the worlds between us, and clasp mine. They are softened by love and warm with courage and strength. Your hands give mine a squeeze that says everything—how much you love me, how you’re there for me even when you’re so far away, how you’re proud of me no matter what I’ve done, or do. You give my hands another squeeze and a pat, glad that I understand. Your hands grip my fingers tight, as if by force of will alone you could push all the wisdom and knowledge and experience from your hands into mine, to make them stronger, warmer, softer.

The pressure of your hands begins to lessen as they gradually fade away. My hands are all alone now, folded together on your table, right-hand fingers embracing the left, stroking, kneading, as if to convince myself that it is okay, that my hands are up to the task ahead, whatever it may be.

My hands are not as bare as hers. I wear two rings, symbols of my family—all nine and 7/8ths of them—and my faith in the God she taught me to love. My nails are short, but not too short. They fit well on practical hands, working hands. I have a few wrinkles and medals of honor of my own. A few scars, each with a memory of experience archived, lessons learned.

My grandson cries out as he wakes from his nap. I spread my hands out on the table, fingers wide as I push myself up to go get him. I watch my hands reach into his crib, pick him up, gently stroke the damp hair away from his face. His smooth and chubby hands reach up to grab my older spotted ones. He chews my knuckle. I feel the wrinkles move and the loose skin provides padding between his gums, soothing the pain of teething.

This is not a conscious act on my part, nor his. It is automatic, instinctual, bonding the hearts between the generations. I am glad for the hands I have, so much like my grandmother’s, yet still my own. I am proud of each spot, each scar, each wrinkle.

I look at my grandson, still biting at my fingers. He smiles at me and in the moment of that smile I know that I will always love him, always be proud of him despite the challenges and weaknesses he might face in his future. That is a grandmother’s job. That is my job—to reach across the table and give his hands a squeeze and a pat as they earn the scars and the spots and the wrinkles that will define him, that are his very own.