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?

We’re not actually pagans at our house.

(Surprised?)

In fact, we think ourselves rather committed to all things Godly. But today, on this Winter Solstice, we have a little bit of a heathen celebration. Every year. Because, you know, this is an important day. It’s the shortest day of the year. Meaning (by logical extension – see if you can follow me) that tomorrow will be a little bit longer than today. There will be more theoretical sun time (even if it keeps snowing until our house is buried*). And days will continue to stretch a little longer every single day until Spring comes, and beyond.

And that feels good. Spring, I mean. And also longer days.

When I was in college, I took an American Folklore class, which was a perfect combination of cool and ridiculous. One day, our teacher (he was a grad student who always needed a haircut, and I regularly had to resist the urge to fix his tie) invited in a pair of witches to guest lecture.

They were weird, I’m not going to lie to you.

They explained Wicca business, and it was strange and earthy and slightly unwashed. But then they said this. “When we see the first crocus of Spring, we kneel down and say a prayer to Mother Earth, thanking her for the world’s rebirth.”

And I got simultaneous chills and shivers. Like, “Yes! I do that, too!” and also, “Wow. That is truly strange.” CLARIFICATION: I don’t pray to Mother Earth. If you do, right on. I’m partial to praying to God, myself, but I respect your right to go your own way. But I do say a little prayer of thanks when I see shoots and blooms popping up through the muddy springtime ground. I get wet knees and possibly a smudge of mud on my nose from exploring REALLY closely.

And it’s coming. Closer every day, starting today.

So we’ll celebrate with our tomato-basil soup and our homemade bread, and our shoveling and our slipping around. We’ll enjoy this last darkest day, and we’ll look forward to what is to come — today, this weekend, and several months in the future.

But if we go without showering for more than 24 hours, please send help.

*8.5 inches between last night and 6:0 a.m.

It’s a lot like that now, except that we haven’t had any real snow yet. I know, weird. But it’s good and cold. (That’s just a phrase. There’s not that much good about single digit temperatures when you measure in Fahrenheit. But we did wake this morning knowing that it all gets a little brighter from this day on. And that feels pretty awesome to me.) Happy winter. For a minute.

Ha ha.

Ha ha ha.

Mother Nature is absolutely having a joke with me.

It is snowing. Right now. Big, fat, wet flakes that are covering my tulips like white stocking caps. Isn’t that hysterical?

Snow is sticking to the grass. And the sidewalk. And the road. And the roofs.

And my soul.

(Just a little drama, so you didn’t forget who you were dealing with here.)

It IS May 19th, right?

I haven’t turned a few extra calendar pages by mistake, right?

Remember the groundhog? The one in Pennsylvania? The one who predicted an early spring? Remember him?

You’ll never see him again. I’ve taken care of that.*

—

I’m off to enjoy the snowy day with a class full of clever and delightful fourth-graders. Which, if you can manage it, is the best way to work through Mother Nature’s particular brand of silliness.

—

*Dear ASPCA: That was a joke. I don’t even KNOW anyone who would take a hit job like that. Phil is fine. Really. Thank you.

That’s right, friends. I have a skunk. It’s decided that it wants to live here. At my home. Behind/beneath my little shed, to be exact. I have a tenant, except it doesn’t pay rent. I guess that means I have a squatter.

I’m a little afraid of my squatter.

Or of ever, ever retrieving my lawnmower. Ever again.

Here’s how it happened. So I was chatting with my cute family in the pre-soccer-game morning, and I looked out the glass door and saw a really fat cat. Or not. I said, “Hey, guys. Look at that. Please don’t bang on the glass, because there’s a skunk traveling through our backyard.” (See what an optimist I am?) I told them this was pretty cool, because all my scientific research points to skunks being nocturnal. (All that research based on me thinking I’ve probably never hit one crossing the road during the day.) We watched it scratch at some dead grassy weeds that grew up a lilac bush, and I said, hey, isn’t that nice, since I’m so bad at weeding that patch. Then we watched it sort of curl the dry weeds under its chin parts and scoot backwards along the line of lilacs. About this point, knowledge started to dawn. The kind of knowledge that says, “if that thing doesn’t reemerge on the other side of your shed, you’ve got some issues on your hands.”

It didn’t reemerge on the other side of the shed. In fact, it twiddled its thumbs for a few seconds and then came back from the same side of the shed, did its little scratch-and-drag dance again, and scooted back to the shed.

NOTE: I’m watching this all from the kitchen and mudroom windows, because it would take some kind of serious to get me outside at this point.

I called animal control. Want to know how that turned out? I got a recording. For the Police Station. Saying, “If you’ve called us during our regular office hours, seven a.m. through seven p.m. Monday through Thursday, we’re either helping someone else or on our lunch break.” 7 to 7? At the police station? Monday through Thursday?

Um, okay. Do you know what I’m dealing with here?

So we just watched some more.

As it rolled its little snuggly bed parts under my shed. And called the moving van over and unloaded its furniture.

And then that other kind of knowledge started to dawn. The kind of knowledge that says, “if it’s spring and that guy is moving in, chances are it’s not a guy at all. Pretty soon you’re going to have a whole skunky family on your hands.”

Oh, goody. I’ve got a pregnant squatter with a loaded gun sleeping under my shed. Kid 4 has named her “El Mustachio Grande.” Because, why not? Welcome, Spring. I’ve been skunked.

(All images from Google. Because if you think I’m going out there and aiming any kind of electronics at that thing, you don’t know me at ALL.)

Is thirty-seven really that old? My Kids think so. They’re quick to reassure me – “You’re cool, Mom.” But it’s the following eye-roll that sort of negates the compliment, you know? My knowledge of obscure eighties music might win me points with some of the Kids’ friends, but it always comes back to “Wow. You’ve been around here a while, haven’t you?”

Yes. Yes I have.

I recently reported that I’m annoyed with my old-lady eyesight. Update on that: I was waiting for Husband to meet me for lunch last week. I went into a bookstore and browsed through a section of biographies and memoirs, which I don’t read enough of these days. I would read a back jacket copy, put the book down, and read another jacket cover. After seven or eight of them, I looked up toward the exit door. And I couldn’t find it. I knew it was roughly that-a-way (the shafts of sunlight were a pretty good clue) but I couldn’t see the door. At all. I stood staring at it for a while, and it gradually came into focus. Whew. I was simultaneously relieved and annoyed. Which is pretty much where I live these days.

And then there’s movies. I love movies, remember that? I love going to the movies. I love watching films at home. I love it. Really. But why is almost everything c-r-a-p now? I think it’s because I’m old. My Dad said once (or maybe a thousand times) that a PG-13 rating translates to “Guaranteed to offend your mother.” Oh, shoot. I’m that mother. But I have to say, as offended as I’m likely to get by a PG-13 rated film, I stay far away from anything R-rated. It’s one of those commitments I made a long, long time ago that has proved itself useful to me. And now that I have teenaged daughters, I am glad I’ve stayed true to my commitment. Glad, that is, until “The King’s Speech” came out. I pounded my fists and whined. I moaned. I may have even cried. I got on every one of those websites for parents that tell you precisely which material you might find objectionable and why. I shook my head at ratings people. I moaned some more. But when it came right down to it, I said, “Here is my choice. It’s a movie that is – by all reports – stunning and uplifting and spirit-building. Except for that one scene. And even then, it’s only language. But there’s the principle of the thing.”

Principles.

Sheesh.

And so I didn’t see it.

UNTIL… the film company re-released it with some comically non-creative dubbing in That One Scene, which brought the rating down to a solid PG-13. (Which, under the circumstances, totally did NOT offend this mother.)

I went. I saw. I cringed for poor Bertie. I shook my head in wonder and awe at Mr. Firth. And Mr. Rush (oh, my). And Ms. Bonham-Carter. I cheered (inside). I adored this story and this film and the acting and the historicity. (I think that is a real word. Even though I might have made it up if it’s not.) I wasn’t even tempted to reach up and pull the camera down to actors’ head-level (like maybe Husband was).

And I was glad I’d seen it. And I was more glad that I’d waited.

Is that a sign of being comfortable in my old skin?

Speaking of my old skin… Oh, must we? No. We needn’t. So let’s move on.

For most days in the past several months I’ve replaced 2 meals with green smoothies. Want to know how much weight I’ve lost?

None.

Not a bit.

It kind of makes a girl crave some caramel popcorn, if you want to know the truth.

—

Question of the day? How can you tell he’s a King? (If you choose to answer, keep it PG-rated, will you?)

–

Also it’s raining. Not snowing. And daffodils are coming. I see yellow parts. Yipee.

Sleeping until seven every morning.

(Except I didn’t quite make it.)

Yep. That’s it. Big dreams, that’s what we’re made of around here.

Want to hear about my Big Date with Husband on Saturday? I thought so. We went to see a play. A musical. (I know. Husband of the Year. Again.) It was an adaptation of A Tale of Two Cities, which is my favorite Dickens novel (what’s yours?). I have me a little crush on the drunken lout Sydney C. What can I say? It’s my weakness for redemption figures. And he was wonderful in this show. The show played on Broadway for a while, then sort of did the Broadway equivalent of going out of print. (Poor little writer.) But it’s been “recalled to life” (get it?) in a run at Salt Lake City’s Hale Center Theatre. The writer/composer Jill Santorelli was there at the performance, sitting in the tech booth (she got an intro and a large ovation), and I wish that I could have gone over and given her a squeeze. But by the time the show ended, I was melted into a sobby puddle (yes, really) and I just sniffled my way to the car. If you care to get your hands on a terrifically moving and powerful song, find Madame LeFarge’s “Out of Sight, Out of Mind.” I wanted to take that woman home with me and reform her (and let her sing at me all day) – she was spectacular. My mom would have loved it. I’m sorry to tell you that  Saturday was closing night. I wish I’d seen the show at the beginning of the run, so everyone who lives within a couple hundred miles could have heeded my invitation and seen it.

It was good, okay?

Then yesterday! Yesterday, our cute friends-who-were-neighbors came for a visit. We ate yumminess and talked for several hours and giggled at their cute children and had pie. Don’t you love reconnecting with friends? Especially the kind who want to move back close? And eat together again and again? And also, pie? Me, too.

WRITING ACCOUNTABILITY TIME: I got more than 1,000 words in this morning before I had to be all done (read: Husband and Kids wanted to TALK to me). I liked my scene. I hope you will, too. Someday.

The sun is sparkling on the new mountain snow. I have crocuses, and tulips are coming. Nobody goes to school for five whole days. Remember that I love spring? I remember.

* I made banana and apple muffin batter this morning. For the next few breakfasts. (That’s banana muffins. And then apple muffins. Lest we get carried away and try banana apple muffins. Which we will not.)

* 1,000 words a day so far this week. Take that, laziness gene.

* The teacher I’m subbing for tomorrow left me a message with his parking stall number (and general directions on how to find it – by the pine tree and the light pole). Isn’t that thoughtful? I thought so.

* The lovely and talented Josi Kilpack was in my town yesterday. We had a fun couple of hours together “not-shopping” because, you know, we’re not really shoppers, and eating frozen yogurt that tasted very much like ice cream. And those pink and white Mother’s brand frosted animal cookies. Big yum.

* I can make chicken enchiladas without using either cream-of-something soup or flour tortillas. Want me to prove it? Come on over for dinner. But, hey – call first, will you? Because between muffin making and enchilada making and 1,000 words a day and a lot of clean laundry, the house is less than pristine. (Less than Pristine would be a good band name. Also, it’s the Understatement that Ate Chicago. Which, likewise, would be an excellent band name.)

* New favorite exercise program: Just Dance 2 on the wii, with Kids 3 and 4, between the end of the piano practicing and time to leave for school. Also, I kicked their chicken. Yup. That’s right. This girl without a sense of grace or balance WON EVERY SONG. End of gloat.

* It was my MIL’s birthday yesterday. I love my MIL, remember that? She got an iPad. Because she wanted one, and my BIL is the king of great gifts. And I loved the thought of her, taking it easy, kicking back on the couch, feet up and iPad in hand. Isn’t that a great image?

* And speaking of iPads, the Apple company is taking their returns pretty seriously (as I imagine most companies do) and Husband sent me this article yesterday, which tells the story that a man brought his brand new iPad 2  back to the shop, the customer service peeps asked him why he returned it, he told them, and then they put a sticky note on it that said, “Wife said No.” Which make the store guys laugh, natch. And the story ran around Apple until it reached a couple of VPs, who put another sticky note on a new iPad and mailed it to the guy. New note? “Apple said Yes.” Um, why didn’t we think of that?

* Also? I just accidentally found a long-lost friend. On Facebook, of all things. (Yes, I’m aware that this is why we HAVE Facebook, but it rarely works this way for me, and today I am glad.)

* The snow pile in front of our house (the one on the street, that the plow man pushes there) has melted to the size of a medium-sized dog. A little over a week ago, it could hide a car. In related news, I can see many tulip tips poking up out of the ground. Come on, Spring. You can do it.

* Okay, then. Time for another thousand words.

But hey, when you’re on a roll, even if it’s terribly weird, maybe you (you= me) should just go with it. So, in honor of Going With It, here is a small sampling of the haiku that I can write in 5 minutes while sitting right here in this un-comfy chair.

Appliance Love

I have 4 children.
So glad to have a dryer
In the winter time.

About the Green Smoothies

A liquid diet -
Veggies and fruit all blended…
Where’s the fun in that?

Table Envy

Piney dining set,
You were our first furniture,
But I want you gone.

But wait: There’s more.

Music to My Ears?

Playing or list’ning,
Practicing the violin
Brings joy and headache.

Dilema

If I buy red shoes,
Will Spring show up around here?
Or will I shelve them?

Stay tuned. I think there will be more fabulous poetry on the way.

(I know. We’re all holding our breath.)

And that is the Baby Taylor guitar that Husband bought when he was driving a Miata, because a regular-sized (read: CHEAP) guitar would not fit in his trunk. But it’s a nice guitar, and occasionally one of us strums around on it.

I can play something in the neighborhood of seven songs, all in the same key.

Proficient, I am.

(Also, I’m working really hard here to be positive, and looking at the eyes, which look great thanks to the awesome rental lens, and the lipstick, which is precisely the right color, and the hair, which is fun. So I will say only this: if you’re in your 20s – or even less – appreciate your beautiful neck.)

—

I hope the sun shines in your windows today.

Oh. Too bad for you. I’ve never had a day like that.

I jest.

Sometimes I LIVE there. Except not now. Right now, as soon as I’m done with my blog-warm-up writing, I’m off to do a little more Real People Writing. But I have learned this about me (again – why do I keep learning the same things about me? Shouldn’t I know me better by now?) — that I do my best writing when it’s First Thing. But now that I live in the First Year of the Rest of My Life (when all the Kids are in school all day) I don’t get up at the crack of before dawn to write in a hurry when it’s all quiet. I sleep when it’s all quiet and wait until near 5:45 to get out of the bed. Then I do all manner of parenting until my darlings go away. Then I write.

(Or else I pay bills. Or have a meeting. Or grade papers for my dad. Or clean something. Or obsessively check email to see who wants to be my new best friend and to love at least 15% of all my words. Or get a little lost in blog land. Or read something that reminds me why I write, and why I wish I wrote more, and then I have guilt and then I eat something or take a nap. Then the Kids come home.)

So it’s time to write. And I’m  going to. Write.

Right now.

—

After I tell you this: Spring is coming early. Does that make anyone else laugh with joy? Or do you find it sad that I put my faith in a large rat who predicts the weather? Well, to justify myself (like you need another example of THAT) I will have you know that I don’t actually trust the rodent weatherman, unless he tells me that spring is coming.

—

(bye)