Okay. Sorry. I got carried away.

But it IS, in fact, the sort-of-beginning of a new year, the Kids are back at school, the Fat Loss Program is two weeks underway, the halls are bare of vinyl-pine needles, and we don’t have a lick of snow on the ground. In fact, the average afternoon temps from the last week hover right around 50 degrees. So, what I’m telling you is, Spring is Coming.

Oh, wait. That’s not what I’m telling you.

It’s the New Year. That’s what I’m telling you. And new things are good things.

Also, I am a terrible resolution-keeper. I think some of you knew that. But this year, I decided not to wait for January to set goals which I probably could not keep. So I started in December, and so far, so good.

Pound a week. Check. (Only through April. Not forever. Neither of us needs to worry.)

Speak and behave more kindly to my Kids (and other people, but somehow that’s just naturally easier, because I am wicked or something). Check.

Remember how to Get Over It. Check-ish.

Write. Wellllll… Um. It will come. I’ve been on vacation, remember? Vacation from my PROBLEMS.

Also, I’m Taking Back the Budget. I’ve always been a pretty good budgeter, but lately, I’ve been lazy with the grocery budget in particular. So, starting today, the weekly Wilhite grocery budget is $60. Plus a once-a-month trip to Costco, coming in under $150. Look at me go, putting it all in writing and stuff.

—

So, what’s new with you?

I feel like I’m falling behind a little right now.

I’ve been doing a lot of subbing. I think it becomes 8 or 9 days in a row by the time I’m done. All for the same teacher, who is a good friend and an absolute CYCLONE. She is remarkable in her ability to retain seven thousand pieces of information in her head at any one time. (I do not, in any way, share this ability.) She is also amazing in her manner of coaching young actors. (Likewise, I share very, very little of this ability. I’m pretty good at compliments, though.) Also she just might assume that I’m good at / proficient / capable of comprehending a whole lot of stuff that is, in fact, a mystery to me. But I’m teaching Tale of Two Cities to the cutest AP English class, and when I come right out and ask them, “Who hates this book after the introductory first 6 chapters?” they actually tell me, and I tell them to hold on, because although Mr. Dickens isn’t going to get any less wordy, he is going to get a whole lot more character-driven in the very near future. And then, when I ask, “Who hasn’t been bothered to read this yet?” and they actually admit it, I tell them to get on it, because there’s something coming up that they really DO NOT want to miss. And then we read about Sydney and I sniffle a little in preparation for that which is to come. Oh, Sydney.

*sniffle*

Also, I play. As in, Drama. Teaching drama is a riot of Biblical proportions. Dogs and cats living together, I’m telling you. Oh, so fun. So, so fun. There are some clever and lovely kids I’m getting a chance to know, and I really do like this gig.

And I’m seriously grateful to have it.

Meanwhile, laundry? No. Reading any of the several library books on the nightstand? No. Making delicious, well-thought-out meals? Sorry. Planning / prepping / wrapping gifts (Christmas ones or Kid 4 birthday ones)? Oh. Not so much. Critiquing manuscripts? Don’t make me laugh. And just trust me on this: You do not want to take a close look at my kitchen floor.

Here’s how much I’m not doing: I have a manuscript (possibly finished [for this round]) and a finished query letter. How many agents have I sent it to? Zero. I decided that I need to give this my whole brain, and that means it will happen sometime after the NYC Publishing Industry Month-Long Shutdown.

WHAT? Becca, you ask. What are you thinking?

Well, I answer, I want it to be just right.

How much time do you really think it takes to fire off a bunch of emails? you want to know.

See, I reply, there’s more to it. I need to personalize each letter to each agent. I need to double check submission guidelines and statuses. (Also, I should find out if Statuses is a plural, or if there’s some sort of Latin -i ending. But not right now.) I need to send each agent what he or she wants, like the correct number of pages pasted into my cleverly written and totally not misspelled email. Also, I need to build in time to sweat and grow a few ulcers. Because, well, you know.

And I don’t have to be in a hurry right now. Lots of people do. It’s one of the downsides of having an actual contract. Deadlines. All my lines are currently alive, and I like them that way.

Carrying on. And trying to not forget to be awesome now and then. You, too, I hope.

(*Deep breath. Repeat.*)

(For instance, I hear some talk that boys will only read a “realistic contemporary” book if it’s “realistic enough” — meaning, at least to the author of this argument, full of sex and language that makes me blush. I choose not to link to that particular post, but if you need to know about it, contact me. His main argument is this: I know boys. They think about sex constantly. They swear like soldiers. So must my characters, if I want them to be readable. My rebuttal/justification is this: People also use the toilet. Frequently.  Must I write that in if I want my characters to ring true? Choose your truth, sir, and I will choose mine.)

Anyway. Here’s what I think. (Hello? What are you here for? Oh. Recipes? Maybe tomorrow.) Try this experiment:

WARNING: ENORMOUS GENDER-BASED GENERALIZATIONS AHEAD.

Ask a man or a guy or a boy to tell you about his day. Chances are that he’ll tell you nothing. But if you’re a good communicator, maybe he’ll tell you how many points he scored in basketball, or who got punched/grounded/fired/in a car accident. He might tell you what exploded. Or that a dog defecated on the playground. Or that his computer froze for several hours, which is why he is now grand champion at Angry Birds on his phone.

Ask a girl, or a woman, or a lady even, and chances are pretty fair that you’ll hear about food. And relationships. And how the food and the relationships make her feel.

YES. I KNOW. ENORMOUS GENERALIZATIONS. I WARNED YOU.

And the books that guys will choose to read reflect this stuff-based communication path. In “guy” books, stuff happens. People get dirty. They get chased. Killed. Stuff explodes. Oftener the better. Action happens. Plot is king. Long live the King.

And lots of girls like those books too, because (MORE GENERALIZATIONS HERE) good writers will fill a plot-driven book with RELATIONSHIPS, too. Shall I name some? Clancy. Dan Brown. Rick Riordan. Louis Sachar. Maybe even Louis L’amour, but I’ve never actually read him. But do you see what I mean? In those books, what happens is what matters.

A typical girl (remember, this is Completely Scientific, based on my years of sitting around watching people and listening to them talk) might not care so much about what happens as she cares about WHO IT HAPPENS TO. In fact, some books have very little happening, and a whole lot of people not-happening. Grapes of Wrath. I love it. Love. But really, nothing happens. I love it because I care about the characters. Or, girls/women read not to find out what happens, but HOW it unfolds. A typical “romance” has a meet, a separation, and a reconciliation, right? You can be pretty sure that in a “romance” you know how it’s going to end (which is why Mr. Sparks says he doesn’t write “Romance” – to-may-to, to-mah-to, whatever.) But zillions of people (MOSTLY FEMALES) read zillions of romances. Over and over. Because they want to read the relationship. (And the food.)

—

Remember that Husband takes photos? Here’s a thing. He likes to photograph one person at a time. And the thought of photographing food would never enter his brilliant, artistic mind. And I (NOT A PHOTOGRAPHER, just a WOMAN) want pictures of my kids interacting with each other. And pictures of the bread I made. And the brownie trifle for dessert last night. Am I wrong? Is he?

Or not?

Can we both be right?

Um, yes. And this is why we’re still happily married after very nearly seventeen years.

—

What is my point, you ask?

Oh, heck. I don’t know. Just that there are different kinds of readers. And different kinds of books for them all to jump into. And if we hate a book, it doesn’t mean it was bad, just maybe not for us. See how I can Rodney King like the best of them? Why can’t we just all get along, indeed?

(FINAL WARNING: REMEMBER THAT THIS IS A PLACE FOR ME TO SPOUT OFF ALL MY BRILLIANT AND BIZARRE OPINIONS. PLEASE DON’T QUOTE ME AS AN EXPERT IN ANY MATTERS. WELL, MAYBE THE BROWNIE TRIFLE…)

* My computer desk would be holding none of the following: Kid 2′s pink iPod, with headphones; six sticky notes; the “On Line for Graduation?” flyer from the high school; my copy of “To Kill a Mockingbird” that Kid 1 is supposed to be reporting on; grading rubric for Mr. S’s science class; Kid 4′s camera, in the case; and the house phone. (It would probably still be holding: the pad the aforementioned sticky notes came from, two packages of pretty stationery, a Godiva chocolate bar (thanks, DeNae!), my cell phone, a receipt from Smith’s, a coupon for Propel Zero “fitness water” – what a racket, and a goodly amount of dust, seeing as moving all of that would require me also to like cleaning up after myself.)

* The inevitable bend-over-and-pick-up-junk-from-the-church-floor would end in a smile. A sincere one.

* The upstairs bathroom would have no towels or fleece blankets on the floor. In fact, no, I cannot explain the fleece blankets on the floor. Apologies.

* I could get a job as a busboy. Busgirl? Buswoman? Buslady? Whatever. Like it matters. I’m not about to be one.

* The basement would resemble living space instead of the back room at a thrift-shop donation center.

* I could begin a lucrative and fulfilling career in the wate management field.

* The ottoman in the family room would be used for holding feet instead of storing stacks of clean and folded laundry. (I know. At least it’s clean and folded, right?)

* There would be somewhat less griping (at least about the state of my house) going on here on this blog. (You’d miss it, wouldn’t you?)

Snow total (can I call it that, when it’s nowhere near being finished?) approaching 20 inches for today. Canyon closed. Husband worked at home (in the quiet). Kind of awesome.

I’m looking at the Christmas tree, wanting someone to come over and take it all down for me. It’s not Scrooge-y of me, I just want my sunspot back. The tree is a west-window sun hog.

Thinking about goals. I like to start them a little before the new year. That way, things are already a habit by the Big Day. Or something.

Planning some bribes reinforcements for myself. Fifteen of them. One for each of the fifteen, um, things I need to, um, lose. I’ll post them when I figure out what they are.

I want to start a gratitude journal. I want to do it on paper. I need a little notebook, to dedicate just to that. Sally gave me one in September. I’ll tear out the pages I’ve already written on and use that one. It is very cute, with a flower on it, and it will sleep beside my bed. Then I can write first thing in the morning (except that first thing in the morning, I’m generally most grateful for indoor plumbing, if you follow me…) or right before I fall asleep, or at nap time, or when I climb into my bed to hide from the doorbell. Or whenever I feel grateful.

We’ve been passing around a scratchy sore throat. I took a sick day yesterday (the kind where I tell the Kids to parent each other) and I’m back to about 90%. Can’t complain about 90%.

I’m going to start doing an end-of-month post about what books I read every month. Then you will know just how much work I do not do around here. I read a lot of books. As you will soon see. To prevent jealous fits, I’ll only post the PUBLISHED books I read, not the sneak-peeks that will make some of you pull your hair, or the hair of your nearest neighbor. I’ll start this weekend, but the list will only include this last week of December. Because I’m too old to remember farther back without notes, and I didn’t take any. Notes, I mean.

I can’t see out one of the windows in my bedroom. Well, I can, but only straight out, not down. Because the snow is tall there, on the roof gable thingy.

I made truly excellent peppermint ice cream. Perfect consistency. If raw eggs gross you out, don’t ask me how I achieved it.

Happiness = World Market’s Hazelnut Vanilla Spread. “Spread” sort of implies that I should put it on something other than a spoon…

(Did I mention those fifteen things I need to lose? Yeah. Not easy today.)

I love Christmas vacation when there’s nothing to do, and nobody expects much. And the snow blows in, thick and strong. And the fireplaces all work, and the Kids got a fat stack of great new books that I can steal share.

I have some things I want to talk to you guys about. Stay tuned.

But right now, I should turn on those pretty plug-in candles in all my windows (at least the ones that will still show in all the snow) because it’s my second-favorite way to see my house, with all the front-facing windows winking fake light at the neighbors. (Favorite? With busting-out hanging flower baskets and a porch you have to inch your way through for all the pots of green and growing things. But that will have to wait six months. I’ll take what I can get right now.)

Today, it’s the vacation rental adverts.

They’re all over my blog comments. Husband said to me the other day, “Wow. Your blog is getting really popular.” I sort of looked at him with that “duh, huh?” questioning look on my face, and he said, “You have fifty comments waiting for approval.”

Oh.

That.

Yeah, well, I only have to translate their comments into rudimentary English before I can understand what the commenter meant,  for real. Like so:

“Unsecured finance such, media or sales?Are impermanent in, there This has.People are buying, reviews These will.The God-Spark within Long Lets in Javea  Long term rentals in Javea  Villas for Rent in Javea  Letting Agents in Javea, fluctuations Then understand So even if.Vendor is my, if they breach.,”

Okay, so if I change every mis-applied capital letter to the words “awesome books” (which is clearly what the commenter had in mind) we get this:

Unsecured finance such, media or sales?Are impermanent in, there awesome books has.People are buying, reviews awesome books will.The God-Spark within Long Lets in Javea  Long term rentals in awesome books in Javea  awesome books in Javea, fluctuations awesome books understand awesome books even if.Vendor is my, if they breach.,

Then, if we change “Javea” to “Becca” (which, obviously…)

Unsecured finance such, media or sales?Are impermanent in, there awesome books has.People are buying, reviews awesome books will.The God-Spark within Long Lets in Becca  Long term rentals in awesome books in Becca  awesome books in Becca, fluctuations awesome books understand awesome books even if.Vendor is my, if they breach.,

Misused punctuation switches out to a totally realistic compliment, such as:

Unsecured finance such, media or just found your website, and I am thrilled to be here. impermanent in, there awesome books has. People are buying, reviews awesome books will.The God-Spark within Long Lets in Becca When I discovered your books, I found a place that I could escape – to laugh, cry, explore, and love. Long term rentals in awesome books in Becca  awesome books in Becca, fluctuations awesome books understand awesome books even if.Vendor is my, if they breach and I will be visiting your site often, and buy your books as gifts for all my friends.

Then we take out all the totally worthless stupid parts, and voila! We have a comment to be proud of:

While I was waiting for my online donation to a worthy charity organization to go through, I just found your website, and I am thrilled to be here. I am so glad I can find a way to tell you how much I adore your awesome books. People are buying them, and leaving reviews all over the web – they’re offering reasons for conversation, as awesome books will.The God-Spark within your stories speaks to my soul, Becca. When I discovered your books, I found a place that I could escape – to laugh, cry, explore, and love. Diving in to awesome books in your style, Becca, is my greatest joy. I love to tell my friends about  awesome books in Becca’s voice, awesome books we can relate to, understand even if our usual favorites contain undead boyfriends. Yours are awesome books even if we only like kleptomaniac zombie mermaids of the apocalypse.This is my point, if you keep writing such delightful words and sentences, I will be visiting your site often, and buy your books as gifts for all my friends.

See how easy it is to fool myself?

I know what they MEANT to say.

Obviously.

Hi. I’m Becca. And I’m a Slackaholic.

(Parenthetical side note: Do you find it odd – or am I alone on this – that we add the whole “-oholic” ending to everything we consider a bad habit. Are you really addicted to choc-ohol? Really? And I clearly revel in Slack-ohol. Whatever that may be. End of parenthetical side note.)

So here I am, a full week after finishing a draft. Have I revised? Nope. Have I re-read? Psht. Have I written anything new? Um, no. Thanks for asking. Sort of.

Here’s what I have done. I have napped. I have read by the fire. I have played music theory games with Kids 3 and 4. I have run errands. I have wrapped Christmas and birthday gifts. I have had great phone conversations with people I love. I have done school visits. I have baked bread. I have refrained from eating sugared foods (except for the Progresso Creamy Tomato Basil soup, which I am convinced the Good Lord put on this earth just for my happiness). I have taken my family to see an excellent musical, “The Drowsy Chaperone” – which I wholeheartedly recommend. “Unless you find dancers disturbing, which I do, for reasons it would be inappropriate to relate.” (The Man In The Chair says that.) (I don’t.) I have lifted weights every day. I have organized meetings. I have taught. I have ellipticalled. I have verbed a word. Ellipticalled. I like it. I have chased Kids around town, to lessons, to activities, to church, to school. I have read a REALLY GOOD draft of someone else’s book. I have re-watched MURDER BY DEATH, which I also encourage those of you with a sense of humor to try. (It streams instantly on Netflix, but just finish reading the post first, please.) I have listened to Kid 2′s violin practicing. If the words “7th Position” mean anything musical to you, you understand that this is a pretty big deal. I have bought cheese at Costco. Did you know that I love the cheese at Costco? It’s worth the trip through the winding mountain canyons to get this cheese.* I have cleaned. I have cooked. I have laughed. I have sung. I have played.

But I feel like a slacker anyway.

Because I have not written.

And here lies my personality, here on this virtual plate. See it? Here’s what it looks like: I can do lots of creative things, and still manage to smack myself around a little for Not Doing that one thing that I think I should be doing. Isn’t that so weird? Because, do you know what? It’s only part of me, this writing part. A small part. A good part. I like it. But it doesn’t define me. It might complete me (hello, Tom Cruise called, he wants his line back).

But the slacker part? That might define me best. Sigh. Breathe it all in. And love it.

*Manchego, Brie, fresh Mozzarella, and Gruyere this time

He’s actually a good shopper. He has patience, for a while. He generally knows exactly what he wants. (And then maybe he finds it and buys it twice. Or three times. Maybe…) He’s got an artist’s eye, and can tell me if he thinks something looks good.

But know what looks good to him? Synthetics.

Husband loves fleece.

I love cotton.

He loves fleece so much that I wonder if he really knows that he’s wearing someone’s recycled plastic beverage bottles. I’m not telling him. It might burst the bubble. But as we were at the Columbia store this weekend, looking for a sweatshirt, he tried on seventeen (or so) things, and I didn’t even find one single thing that I wanted to put my arms into. I certainly found things I wanted to pet. And pet I did. Mmm. Soft. But not particularly wearable (for me).

I want cotton. I want a sweater. Or a thick, heavy hoodie. Or another sweater. With a cotton T-shirt under it.

Snuggling on the couch, I want my red cotton woven blanket – the one that plays a little pink these days. (*Disclaimer: I just got the softest, most pettable white fleece blanket from my sweet SIL for my birthday. It is so awesome. It is called the Baby Seal, and everyone in the house covets it. It lives on my bed and I will not share. Because I don’t want to ever have to wash away its perfection.)

And please, for the love of all that is holy, will someone tell towel manufacturers that we hate fleece towels? Why, why, why would anyone want to get out of the shower and wrap up in a water-resistant towel? I understand softness. I do. But a towel should be absorbant. Is this so much to ask? Cotton towels. Big ones. And we can learn to dry them on low heat. We can. If we do this, they will stay soft longer. And they will still be made of cotton.

Cotton yoga pants. Jeans made of denim (no thank you to spandex). T-shirts. Lots and lots of T-shirts. Good old-fashioned cotton hoodies. And sweaters.

This is the fabric of my life.

I hate Halloween.

I know. They should just blacklist me from Mom of the Year forever and in perpetuity. It’s not going to happen. Not to someone who hates Halloween.

But I do. Hate it. I hate the decorations, the bloody things and the crawling things and the creepy things and the dirty things and the undead things. It’s like Satan has his own holiday, and it’s bigger than Christmas. Also I hate the candy overload, but that is more related to my complete lack of self-control than to any moral objection.

My Kids love it. When Kid 3 was three years old, I got all the girls witch costumes and taught them some Macbeth lines. Want to see?

(I’m trying. I have video. It’s adorable. You might have to trust me. It’s a techno thing.)

shakespearean

So I get the cuteness, when it’s cute. I do. But I still hate it.

You know how some people think it’s some kind of brilliant to hate things just because everyone else loves them? Like Elmo, or kittens, or cake? It’s not like that. I love Elmo. And, well, it’s not that I hate kittens because I think it’s a “spur to one’s genius”*  to hate them – but they grow into cats. And cake? Well, I’m happy to make it, I just don’t want to eat it. So I’m not really like that. I am not. I just don’t want to do Halloween.

So I tried to bribe the Kids out of it. With the promise of going out to dinner and a movie instead. Guess what? They all said no.

*sigh*

But I control the decorations around here, or the complete lack thereof. So, maybe I can still win.

Ha.

Let’s be honest: It’s too much phone for me.

But I’ve decided to love it anyway.

I even got a cool, easy-to-remember phone number, which was an unexpected bonus.

So here’s what I can do on my phone: Check my email. Check my Kids’ email. Answer email. Text message. (This is my new favorite thing. My old phone had text capacity, but I never used it because it was Terrible. Like texts with a 24-hour lag time. Not kidding. But now? Texting makes my life one big delight.) Read blogs. But it’s impossible for me to comment on blogs when I read on my phone (for the most part) because my phone doesn’t recognize those word-verification thingies. But I can read. Also read books. But I have the eyesight of a seventy-year-old cave-dweller, so that hasn’t happened yet. But it can.

Also on my phone, I can find out things. Like the nearest, cheapest gas station. The weather in Puerta Vallarta (just in case). Who played opposite Laurence Olivier in Hitchcock’s 1940 classic “Rebecca” (it was Joan Fontaine). What was the funniest thing said on late night television  last night (hours after I went to bed). How to find a friend’s house. How many times the word “forsake” is used in the book of Lamentations. What’s happening in the lives of my Friends on Facebook, if I ever dreamed of getting on there more than once a month. How many miles to the nearest Cafe Rio restaurant (16.61). How to say “Chinese takeout” in Afrikaans (“Sjinese meenemen”). What’s in my Netflix queue (except I’d need to use a password, and I make it a point never to remember my passwords).

I can look at pictures. I can play games. I can learn to play drums. I can explore the internet. I can take video. I can talk to the phone, and it will a) hear and understand me, and b) remember what I say. I can write lists. I can find myself. I can study for the drivers’ test. I can doodle pictures.

Oh – And I can make and receive telephone calls.

And that’s what really matters.

(But all the rest of it? I’m getting used to that, too.)