You may or may not know this about me, but I love “The View”.  I remember watching it when it first aired.  My son (who turns 12 next week) was a baby and so I would be awake in the dark hours of the super early morning (like 3 a.m.) with a newborn when “The View” appeared on television in northern Michigan.  I loved it from the start and I have been a loyal watcher through all the changes throughout the years.  (Even the Rosie years, when to watch was to cringe.)

I haven’t watched every episode, but now that I have a DVR, I record them and watch when I can.  Which rocks.  Because, honestly, I love to be in the loop.  I love to watch celebrities (and people whose main claim to fame is reality television or tabloids) interact with the women on The View.  I love Hot Topics.

So, somehow, I’ve found myself acting as an Ambassador for The View (thanks, MomCentral!).  I entered a sweepstakes to win a trip to NYC and you can enter, too.  (Go here to MomCentral and enter.)   From time to time, I’ll be talking about The View.  (I’ll be totally watching on February 23.  The Octomom will be on . . . and mainly, I will watch because I love to see Whoopi’s face when she has to talk to various people and discuss topics she finds pointless.  Oh!  She makes me laugh!)

And now, for the disclaimer:

“I am a participant in a Mom Central campaign for ABC Daytime and will receive a tote bag or other The View branded items to facilitate my review.”

Watching the Olympic games leads me to believe that I could totally land a triple toe loop.  I could glide around that short track without crashing into the cushioned walls.  But my real strength would be snowboarding the half-pipe.  How do I know?  I have snowboarding hair, that’s how.  Plus, I could never appear in public wearing a white shiny skin-tight leotard, but the snowboarding baggy outfits would be perfect for me.

In other news, I believe I have caught the cold my two youngest children have been harboring under their grimy fingernails.  Why?  Why on a Thursday night, only a day away from some blessed time off?

*

I have never been a morning person.  Never.  Even though once in college I registered for a 7:30 a.m. class (Old Testament–and believe me, if you are going to take an early morning class, I do not recommend Old Testament . . . a better choice would be, oh, Coffee Drinking 101 or Advanced Square Dancing).

Even when my infant twins insisted on a morning wake-up call of 5:30 a.m., I was not a morning person.  My husband–my hero–would get up early with them so I could sleep a little longer and then shower before facing a long day of baby care.

Somehow, I’ve reached that lovely time of life when all the children in my house understand “sleeping in.”  (In fact, the twins, now teenagers, have turned “sleeping” into an all-day sport.  They do school at home, lucky for them.)

And now, I’ve truly turned into a night-owl with a job that ends at midnight.  I can easily stay awake until 2:30 a.m., sleep a few hours, wake up to take my daughter to school and then go right back to sleep.  I basically nap in the morning, just like the babies used to do.

But yesterday, I showered and left my house by 9:30 a.m., because at 7:30 a.m. I received a text message announcing the birth of a baby girl.  We hadn’t known if it would be a boy or girl, so I had to shop for girl clothes.  After the girl-clothes shopping frenzy, I stopped at Target for wrapping paper and then dropped by Barnes & Noble to buy some algebra study helps.  (Because, lucky me, I am revisiting algebra all over again as my teenagers take it.)

All of this and I was early to meet my friend at her apartment.  We then went together to meet our friend’s new baby–she’d been almost two weeks past her due date and the very night before she was to be induced, she went into labor.  And seven hours later, her baby daughter was born.  Perfection.

Is there anything more lovely then a brand new human being?  (I am torn whether it is more lovely if the newborn belongs to someone else or if it’s more lovely if the newborn is yours . . . because I have grown very fond of sleep.  I have had my own newborns . . . and now they fight with each other and tattle on each other.)

Anyway, I did all that and was at my computer ready to work by 1 p.m.

Today, however, all I did was take my daughter to school, take a morning nap, and work.

Then I realized I am getting a cold.  Fun.  But not as much fun as landing a triple toe loop.

Reading now:  Eat, Pray Love
Listening to:  Television late-night Olympic coverage

*

Every night when I clock out from the website where I work, I think, “Oh, I should blog.”  That is immediately followed by, “Oh, I’ll blog tomorrow.”

And tomorrow?  No time.  I sleep.  I run errands.  I start working.  Split shifts kind of manage to make you feel like you’re working all the time.  I start at noon, I end at midnight . . . and the hours between shifts are consumed by cooking dinner, cleaning the kitchen, exercising (on very disciplined days), hanging out with my husband, reading and that sort of thing.  Never blogging though.

So tonight, I’m here even though it’s 1:30 a.m.  For your reading pleasure, I offer a haphazard  bunch of paragraphs.

My husband didn’t work today and the kids were home.  We slept in, then he stayed home with the kids while I went shopping.  I went in this order to my favorite stores:  Bed, Bath & Beyond (to see if Yankee candles were put on 75% clearance–they were not), Marshall’s (to buy a cheap Yankee candle for the master bathroom), Target (to buy a cable for my new computer and  a bunch of other stuff I didn’t know I needed until I saw it) and then Fred Meyer (only the Best Grocery Store Ever).

At Fred Meyer, I picked up eight pansies, a lupine, a columbine, mini-daffodils about to bloom and four “Steppables”, some kind of plant resistant to kids stepping on them.  After I put the groceries away, my daughter and I ripped the dead petunias from the pots and replaced them with the assortment of new flowers.

While this sounded  like a fun project, it wasn’t all that much fun because I realized that most of my garden tools have disappeared yet again.  It’s a seasonable problem I have.  I buy hand-tools and rakes and shovels and by the next season, they have vanished.  My husband suggested that perhaps the raccoons are to blame.  Maybe they have a well-stocked tool-shed somewhere nearby.

Soon, I will new tools because it’s practically spring!   The big question is this:  will my lilacs bloom this year?  I pruned them last spring and then some guys we hired to clean up our yard pruned them again.  A little too viciously, if you ask me.  I’m just hoping for blooms this year.

*

Yesterday, my husband and I went to the local independent theater to see a movie.  I worried out loud that we were running late and he said, “It’s Valentine’s Day.  Who’s going to be seeing a depressing movie like ‘The Messenger’ today?”   Well, I’d tell you but I am busy snagging the only two adjacent seats left in the theater.

The movie itself was good–rated R for good reason though (sex, nudity, language).  It’s about the men in the military who notify the next of kin that their soldier has been killed in action.  (I liked “The Hurt Locker” more, but that’s neither here nor there.)  This movie’s screenplay was nominated for Best Screenplay and Woody Harrelson was nominated for Best Supporting Actor.

And the popcorn at this independent theater has real butter.  I know.  I KNOW!

*

On Saturday, my 11-year old participated in lacrosse  camp all day.  While he and my husband were gone I decided to clean the 11-year old’s room.  While he has “cleaned” it himself recently, it had been awhile since I’d sorted through his clothes and toys and books.  It was time to purge, sort and organize.  Bonus:  I found several missing teaspoons covered in lint.

I worked for three grueling hours.  I was grimy and exhausted when I finished.

He came home from the camp, appeared in his doorway and said, “Did I give you permission to clean my room?”

Now that is gratitude.

Fortunately for him, I cleaned it for my own sake and not his.  Plus, I think he was kidding.  I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt because he’s such a good kid.

*

Do you ever wish you could give unsolicited advice to people who need to hear what you think?  But it would be completely inappropriate so you can’t say anything?

*

When I watch the Olympics, I am pretty sure I could do that.  I could totally skate the short track.  And a triple toe loop?  No problem.  What is it about the Olympics that makes me utterly delusional?  My back is sore from planting flowers in a few pots.

*

I haven’t forgotten that I promised to talk memoirs.  That will involve a lot of links, so maybe tomorrow.  (Ha ha!  See how I lie to myself?)  Really, though, maybe tomorrow I’ll get to that.

In the meantime, tell me this.

Do you read memoirs?

If so, what’s your favorite?

p.s.  We had only a light dusting of snow this year.  Some blame a particular weather pattern but I know the real reason.  For the first year in our twelve years here, I bought two snow shovels.  Sorry.  And you’re welcome.

On Saturday, I saw two movies.

Crazy Heart is the story of a washed up country star played by Jeff Bridges.  He is nominated for an Academy Award.  It was not showing in the regular theater, but at the downtown independent theater.

It was well-worth seeking out.  I like a story of a character who finds redemption.

Then, I watched a movie at home on DVD.   I saw The Hurt Locker. Now, unlike Crazy Heart, The Hurt Locker did appear at the local multiplex last summer.  In fact, I suggested it to my husband, telling him it was getting really good reviews.  He rejected my suggestion and we saw some other forgettable film.  I have been mocking his choice in movies and harassing him about this ever since.

But now The Hurt Locker has been nominated for a bunch of Academy Awards.  So, I rented it to watch at home.

I hate watching movies on DVD at home.  Some people prefer watching movies at home, but those people apparently do not have teenagers prowling the house all night in search of snacks.  Those people do not have a 7-year old who gets out of bed to ask some inane question you’ve already answered three times.  Those people are not interrupted four or five times while watching a movie at home.

Or maybe they are but they just don’t mind.

I mind.  I mind a lot.

But I suffered through the experience because I just had to see this movie before the Academy Awards.  And it was excellent, I’m happy to report.  While rated R for violence (hello, it’s a war movie) and language (very strong, not appropriate for my teenagers, at least), it was a gripping, non-partisan depiction of a soldier who loves his job defusing bombs.  Great movie.  I’ll even go see it in the theater if it appears there again (sometimes movies open again in theaters after Academy Award nominations or awards).

I’m on my quest to see all the movies nominated for Best Picture (I’ve seen almost all of them) and the performances by actors nominated for Best Actor and Best Actress.

Hey, a girl’s got to have a hobby.

Tomorrow (or maybe the next day), I’m going to tell you about some memoirs I’ve been reading.  I know.  You can hardly wait.

Calm down.  I’ll be back.

Yesterday I went to Costco.  I had only a few things to pick up, only a vague idea, really, of what I needed to buy.  That’s how I ended up with a fancy-schmancy showerhead, among other things.

After I’d wandered the store, I pushed my heavy cart into line.  That’s when I spotted a lady I used to chat with at the pool when I was pregnant with Grace eight years ago.  She was so nice.  She had two sons about the age of my youngest son.  When my daughter was born, she presented me with a hand-painted watercolor of a bear with balloons spelling out Grace’s name.  It’s adorable and hangs on Grace’s bedroom wall.

I can’t remember the lady’s name.

But that’s not why I turned my head and angled my body away from hers so she wouldn’t be able to tell it was me.  I wasn’t sure she’d recognize me anyway–I feel like a completely different person than I was eight years ago.  I probably don’t look much different, though.  It’s not like I’ve grown a full beard and and dyed my hair black or anything crazy.  So I hid behind my hair, head down, face blocked by the curtain of hair.

I have an aversion to making small talk with people in public.  I hate to run into people I know.  Every molecule of my introversion stands up to form a wall to protect me from unwanted conversation and attention.

It’s bizarre, inexplicable to those of you who scan a room for people you might know as my husband does.  He will seek out people he recognizes while I actively avoid looking around just in case I might catch the eye of someone who might know me.  I will dart down aisles in the grocery store to avoid running into someone I saw by the dairy case.  It’s like I’m suddenly a spy, trying to avoid capture by the enemy.

So, at Costco, I successfully avoided notice while paying for my items.  She was still in line, so I looked to the wall as I hurried past.

However, when I parked my cart so I could buy two salads and a turkey wrap and a Diet Coke at the snack bar, she appeared.  Luckily, I remained undetected and scrammed out of there.

The moral of this story?  If you ever see me, I’ll pretend I don’t see you just so I don’t have to say an awkward hello and pretend that I’m friendly in public.  If I don’t see you first, though, and you sneak up on me, I’ll pretend that I’m extroverted and happy to see you and then afterward, I’ll review all the stupid things I said and did and wonder if you thought my hair looked terrible and if you’ve noticed that I gained weight.

But if I see you first, that will never happen.  Especially if I can’t remember your name.

I rush to the school to pick her up at 3:30 p.m.  She bounces out of the school and climbs into the car, words rushing out of her before the door even closes.

“I was just talking to my friend.  We have so much in common!  We both like the color purple.  My favorite number is eighty-eight.  Her favorite number is eighty-eight.  I like polka dots.  She likes polka dots!  I have a brother.  She has a brother!   I’m getting a dog in one year . . . she already has a dog!”

Is there anything more delightful than a daughter in the first grade?

(I ask you because you will smile and agree that, yes, she is a delight.  If I ask my sixth-grade son, he will make a throwing up noise and express disgust aimed in his sister’s general direction.  I hope he outgrows this generalized hatred of his sister.)

My life is out of sync.  Here’s why:

I work until midnight five nights a week.  Sunday nights, I work until 1 a.m.  Saturday night, I’m off.

When I finish work, it’s usually later than my official quitting time.  If I blog or do anything else on the computer, suddenly it’s late.  For instance, right now, it’s 2:00 a.m.

So I will trudge upstairs and slip into bed, trying not to wake my slumbering husband.  If I’m lucky, my brain will turn off and I’ll be asleep within thirty minutes.

At 6 a.m., my husband leaves for work.  I usually sleep through his morning routine and departure.

At 6:30 a.m., my son showers and gets ready for school.  He leaves at 7:30 a.m.  Sometimes I don’t hear any of this.  (He’s such a responsible boy for an almost-12-year old.)

At 7:30 a.m. or 8:00 a.m., my daughter wakes up.  She appears at my bedside to talk.  She showers.  I crawl from bed and pull on a sweatshirt and yoga pants that never match.  I give her breakfast and drive her to school before 9 a.m.

Then I return home and sometimes crawl back under the covers, telling myself that I can sleep just one more hour to bring my total hours of sleep to seven.  And then I fall into a crazy sleep full of hallucinatory dreams.  I sleep longer than just one hour and wake up with enough time to shower and get dressed and start working at noon.

I rebuke myself for wasting my mornings.  Shouldn’t I be cleaning or grocery shopping or cooking or hand-sewing outfits for my children?  But no.  I sleep.  I sleep because I cannot function on six hours of sleep a night.

I work until 5 p.m., interrupting my five hours at the computer only long enough to pick up my daughter at school–it’s a 10 minute round-trip.

I finish work and head to the kitchen.  I clean it up and then cook dinner.  I might do some housework, get laundry going.

At 6 p.m., my husband is home, usually.

We spend some time together.  I exercise.  Sometimes I read.  At 8 p.m. or 9 p.m., it’s time to work again until midnight.

And the cycle begins again.

Do all working moms feel like they just don’t have any time?  I am so grateful for my job.  I work 40+ hours a week (at home, on my computer!) and have full medical and dental and vision benefits for my whole family.  I have vacation time and sick time and occasionally, I fly to New York for meetings in the main office.

This week, just for kicks, I have to renew my driver’s license in person (so I can get an enhanced license that will get me across the border if I ever want to visit Canada).  Yeah, that will be fun and will take all Wednesday morning.

(Now, it’s 2:15 a.m.  This is ridiculous!)

Here’s how it works.

I write a post.

A few kind souls leave comments.

Those comments appear in my email box where I read them and then fail to respond to them, but NEVER delete them, just in case one day I”ll find time to email a note back.  Occasionally, I answer my comments.

But for the past few days, no comments appeared in my email box.  I puzzled over this, but didn’t have a chance to investigate. But it was sad.

Then late tonight, comments from the last three posts appeared in my box.  Some needed moderation.  (I have no idea why.)  Cyberspace must have held my comments in limbo.  Weird.

The belated appearance of those comments made me SO HAPPY.  So, thank you, kind commenters and hearty band of readers.  I really appreciate it.

In other news, today I did not grate off my thumb at the knuckle.  (I did that yesterday.  Almost.)

You are lucky that I am utterly unable to post photos on this blog because otherwise, I’d be tempted to post a picture of my grated thumb knuckle and my very bruised purple and blue foot.  (I fell the other day in my boys’ room.  I hope I tripped.  Otherwise, such a tumble is inexplicable.  I thought I broke my foot–that’s how much it hurt.)

And now, happy Wednesday!

Time to share:  What’s the worst injury you’ve ever accidentally inflicted upon yourself?

I go to sleep each night thinking of all the ways I’ve failed.  I failed to get my kitchen spic and span.  I failed to match all the socks and get all the clean clothes into their drawers.  I failed to write any more on my neglected creative projects.  I failed to eat enough vegetables.  I failed to do push-ups and bicep curls and sit-ups.  I failed to read my Bible and I failed to write in my flowered journal.  I failed to clean off the cluttered cabinet behind my desk.  I failed to floss.  I failed my kids in visible and invisible ways.

Is this normal?  Is it normal to measure your life by all the ways you fail yourself and your family each day?  Is it normal to count the passing of the days by the missed opportunities and the broken promises, big and small?

I begin each day already buried under the pile of expectations I failed to meet the day before.  I’m already behind before I begin.  The race begins and I have to detour around obstacles to even get to the course.

I can’t catch up.

I can’t recognize any successes in my life.  I’m blind to the good, deaf to the music.  All I can feel is the thrumming bass of all the urgent demands that I can’t ever meet.

And so tonight, I’ll crawl into bed, trying not to wake my husband, and think that tomorrow, maybe tomorrow, I’ll get something done.  I’ll achieve something that might last until darkness falls again.  But probably not.  And then I’ll think of all the things I wish I’d done, all the things I would have done if only I could get myself together, if only I had time.

Some people have a mental “To Do” list but I have this other list, this horrible list of “Things I Didn’t Get Done” and every day the list grows longer and I feel more desperation and despair.

This can’t be normal.

* * *

(Please, please who know me in real life, I’m just venting.  It’s okay.  This is what we writing types do from time to time.  It helps us think through things.)

No, seriously, I know there’s no such thing as a lurk.  But there are lurkERS and I think that there may be some lurkers on this blog.

Ha ha ha.  Really, I know I used to have a lot of readers and lurkers and now I’m just shouting into the universe–okay, just shouting into the backyard into the shadows where the raccoons lurk.  It makes me kind of sad because I used to feel surrounded by people who understood me or who empathized or who laughed at my lame jokes.  Now?  Just standing in my pajama pants shouting into the backyard.

As I said, sad.

So, what are you reading these days, Mel?

Oh, I’m reading Donald Miller’s Searching for God Knows What.  Whenever I read Donald Miller I always wonder what it would be like to be a single guy gallivanting around the country.  Then I’m sort of jealous and think that I could write books, too, if only I had time to gallivant instead of making dinner every single night and making sure everyone has clean underpants.  Oh, to have time to think!  The luxury!   I doubt he even has an inkling what a luxury it is to think and write and sleep.  (I know.  I sound rather bitter.)

Before that, I read Mary Karr’s Cherry, which I did not love, but I wanted to read because it bridges the gap between her first memoir (The Liar’s Club) and her most recent (Lit).

Before that, Jeannette Walls’ The Glass Castle.  I loved that story.

(Interesting tidbit:  Both Mary Karr and Jeannette Walls first memoirs were edited by Nan Graham.)

What are you reading?

And are you lurking?

Will you speak up?

And now, off to bed I go.  And it’s not even 2 a.m. yet.  My job is depriving me of sleep.

But I did send off all my Christmas letters, so there’s that.