empty lip balm appreciation day

I'm one of those people who needs to join Lip Balm Anonymous. I keep a tube of lip balm (or three) in my car, a tube (or two) in my purse, a tube in my desk, a tube in my jeans pocket, and an ever-changing number of tubes in my kitchen medicine cabinet depending on how many of my kids nab one as they leave for school.

The tube in car door well is nearly empty. Or empty to the point where I can no longer swipe my lips across the top and get comfortably balmed. Instead I have to use the tip of my pinky finger to dip, swipe and wipe. This isn't a very satisfying experience but it beats scraping my lips across the top of the plastic rim to the point of chafing my already chapped lips.

You might think an empty tube of lip balm is something to feel sad about. Or bereft, depending on the state of your chapped lips. But not for me.

I am thrilled.

Damn close to deliriously happy.

Why?

Because it means

Same goes for an empty container of

This past summer I emptied one. I'm pretty sure it was the first bottle of sunscreen I managed to hang onto the entire summer and not lose it to someone else's beach bag.

Here are a few more things I haven't emptied but look forward to celebrating when I do:

Because it dries up to a petrified crust after the fourth use.

Because I mainly keep this around for my Louisiana native friends.

And,

Because when I change purses, I always manage to leave a few loose pennies, a wadded up tissue, a stick of gum that's dried-stuck to it's foil wrapper, and a stray tube of

This post is dedicated to the real Aunt Bee in my life. Love you Aunt Bee!

some mornings are sheer poetry

Belinda Del Pesco

Watercolor: Saturday Morning Sleep-in

I don't think of myself as someone who likes poetry. I don't usually seek poems. I've been known to run from them on occasion. At a fast gallop.

I might have taken a book of poetry out of the library once or twice, Erica Jong comes to mind. But I don't think I've ever read more than a few lines before I put the book down and then forgot where I put it and then it was time to take it back to the library.

I do, however, love to listen to The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor. I catch it some mornings when I'm getting dressed for work. Often hoping the timing of the blow drying of my hair will not coincide with Garrison's reading of his selected poem of the day.

Below is one such poem I managed to catch.

This poem has stuck with me. Some mornings it is consoling. Some mornings it saves my marriage, maybe.

After a Noisy Night

by Laure-Anne Bosselaar

The man I love enters the kitchen

with a groan, he just

woke up, his hair a Rorschach test.

A minty kiss, a hand

on my neck, coffee, two percent milk,

microwave. He collapses

on a chair, stunned with sleep,

yawns, groans again, complains

about his dry sinuses and crusted nose.

I want to tell him how

much he slept, how well,

the cacophony of his snoring

pumping in long wheezes

and throttles—the debacle

of rhythm—hours erratic

with staccato of pants and puffs,

crescendi of gulps, chokes,

pectoral sputters and spits.

But the microwave goes ding!

A short little ding! – sharp

as a guillotine—loud enough to stop

my words from killing the moment.

And during the few seconds

it takes the man I love

to open the microwave, stir,

sip and sit there staring

at his mug, I remember the vows

I made to my pillows, to fate

and God: I'll stop eating licorice,

become a blonde, a lumberjack,

a Catholic, anything,

but bring a man to me:

so I go to him: Sorry, honey,

sorry you had such a rough night,

hold his gray head against my heart

and kiss him, kiss him.

"After a Noisy Night" by Laure-Anne Bosselaar, from The Hour Between Dog and Wolf. © BOA Editions, Ltd., 1997. Reprinted with permission (on the Writer's Almanac but not here on CoffeeYogurt)

stuck in marriage?

Or marriage struck?

After my last post on temporary divorce I worried that some of my readers might question my committment to married life, or at least those who do not get my pathetic attempt at droll wit.

So worried was I, in fact, that I scoured back to the sad beginnings of my blog for an old post, one of my earliest, in order to camouflage my blogger's block shore up any doubts. Because the fact of the matter is, I'm about as emotionally dependent on committed to my husband as I am to inhaling the air around me.

And so here is my repeat post, which, for the record, enjoyed zero comments two years ago. Needless to say, I am hoping for a better comment showing the second time around.

---

For the past several years at Edge, John Brockman has asked scientists and philosophers a provocative question and then posts their answers.

The 2008 question was "What have you changed your mind about?"

One psychology professor's reply reflected on his research. Daniel Gilbert suggested that the decisions which leave us with the ability to change our minds are less satisfying than decisions which are irrevocable.

Not long after he reached this conclusion he went home to propose to his girlfriend. After several years of marriage, he believes he loves her more as his wife than he loved her as his girlfriend.

For me, a longtime married person, its refreshing to learn there are theories out there that support the notion that love can grow precisely because of options lost.

Or make that, the choice to love only one.

---

Because my own personal case study in marriage, my n=1, no double-blind-placebo experiment, has led me to the same conclusion. I felt stark panic considerable uncertainty about the decision to get married. I love him but is he the right man for me? Will it last? Do I really want to make Texas my home?

But once he put the golden band around my finger all doubts fell away. Uncertainty was replaced by a more complete depth of knowing than I ever thought possible.

The divorce rate tells me this isn't everyone's experience. But I do wonder about the satisfaction levels of other irrevocable decisions.

Having a child comes to mind. We all know how powerfully satisfying parenthood can be. I know in my case, I am always awed into silence when an indecisive childfree person asks me whether she should have children or not. My first instinct as a Mom, though not as a psychologist, is to say "You will not regret it. Not even for a half of a trillionenth of a nanosecond. It is the single most life changing and rewarding experience you will ever know."

How about you, reader. Once you put a sealed decision behind you, did your satisfaction grow?

cold sung blues

I'm down with a cold. Or at least I'm pretty sure it's a cold, as opposed to an acute case of allergies.

Did I catch it from my husband, who had laryngitis two weeks ago, followed by persistent stuffy nose and cough?

Did I catch it from my neighbor, who had an upper respiratory infection, coughing next to me in my car, reassuring me she was no longer infectious?

Did I catch it from my client, who, just last week, wondered aloud if her symptoms were due to allergies or a cold?

No matter, right? It's got me, whatever it is. Whomever it's from.

I opted to cancel several appointments. Today was a long, full day of too many clients back-to-back. I kept three appointments in the middle of the day. And then, as luck would have it, one of the three kept appointments called to cancel, leaving a voice message, "I've got a cold." Of course, it had to be the middle appointment.

So I ended up seeing two patients. One who was kind enough to come in early. I headed to the office with relief. Two appointments sounded entirely doable. Or so I thought.

Everyone knows my job involves listening. But it also involves talking, in between listening. It was in the middle of one of these, my-turn-to-talk turns, that I found out that my cold is much easier to abide when I keep my mouth shut.

Talking brought on fierce bouts of coughing, sputtering, eye-watering and nose running. Where the intake of breath between coughs brought on even more severe fits of coughing. Undignified and unprofessional slobberring attacks.

Do you know the kind of hacking, tickling, choking cough I mean? The only thing that prevents these cough attacks is to (1) drink one cup of hot tea after another, or (2) continously suck on Moutain Herb Reeeeee-Co-Laaaas.

Fortunately, the cough attacks occurred during my second appointment. Meaning, soon after, I was able to pack up and head home. Very relieved that I hadn't pressed my luck.

So now I'm home, alone in my room, comfortably blogging and blowing my nose and puffing,

gleefully allowing the husband to deal with dinner prep and the kids: their homework, after school pick-ups, their squabbles.

All was well and good until Sam was off playing Taxi-Cab Dad. When I heard this urgent shout,

"Mo-Ommmmmmmmmmm!"

I jumped up, heart racing, laptop-sy-turvy,

"What is it?!" I yelled back.

"Oh, nothing. I just wondered where you were."

Argh.

But other than the one panic inducing interruption? I have to say?

I rather like my quiet exile.

Cold or no.

"Leave Mom alone," I hear Sam telling one of the kids.

(Who among us doesn't liken these words to the sound of heavenly choirs of angels singing?)

"Leave Mom alone. She's not feeling good."

Ahhhhhhhh.

Little do they know my well-kept secret.

That right now?

I'm feeling damned good.

edward swooners, hearken

If you are, or ever were, a fan of Edward, of Twilight fame, and are in need of a fix, pay heed.

Just recently we joined Netflix. ('bout time, right?)

My son quickly put in his picks:

Survivor: Season Two, Disc 1

Survivor: Season Two, Disc 2

Survivor: Season Two, Disc 3

Survivor: Season Two, Disc 4

Survivor: Season Two, Disc 5

Survivor: Season Two, Disc 6

Not a big Survivor fan, I realized I'd better get in queue or throttle my son, one.

Going through the ratings, Netflix generated Mira Nair's film adaptation of Vanity Fair. Reese Witherspoon as the formidable Becky Sharp.

There's nothing I love more in life on screen than classic period films.

Vanity Fair arrived in my mailbox two days later.

Only after it was playing did I realize I had already seen it. Argh. This middle-aged memory loss is a mo-fo. But I enjoyed every minute of it. Watched most of it Friday night. Turned it off midway due to a camping trip next day. Watched the remainder Sunday evening.

Yeah, that's right. A camping trip bookended by Vanity Fair. Life is fucking awesome good.

So fucking awesome good was the movie, this second time around, I didn't want it to end. I closed my bedroom door and indulged in post movie play the director-narrated version. All the way baby through.

And when that wasn't enough, I selected Deleted Scenes.

The Alternate Ending clip delivered quite the unexpected denouement: Master Edward.

And here it is. (I just love youtube, don't you?)

Potential spoiler alert, sort of, if you haven't seen Vanity Fair. This scene reveals previous plot developments.

For the sad lot those of you looking for a quickie, fast forward to 48 seconds; 3:07; 4:27.

now haiku yo selves off to school

Saved by the bell.

Jenn's haiku bell @ you know ... that blog ?

See, I'm due for a post and feeling, uhh, uninspired. Tapped out. In a funk. Wondering who out there in the internets really gives a crap hoot what I have to say because I'm pretty sure I don't give a crap hoot what I have to say.

But then? An invite from Jenn to ring her bell with an education theme on ...

rise up, kids, school's on
morning coffee awaits mom
and sounds of silence

Ahhhhhhhhhh.

A big thanks to all the teachers out there who show up every morning to inspire my kids. I am in awe of you. And I appreciate you.

everybody go, pet scan, cat scan, hospital inn

say if your girl

starts actin up,

then you take

her friend.

Or make that, then you take her to the children's hospital.

What a shocker of a weekend.

One minute I was on my way out to play tennis, keys in hand, the next I'm rushing my daughter to an urgent care center with severe abdominal pain and vomiting.

A few hours and a myriad of uncertain diagnoses later, we're at a radiological center for a CAT scan of her abdomen.

By the end of the day we were told to rush her to the children's hospital for emergency surgery. As much as one can rush while crossing town during Friday rush hour.

By evening she was recovering in her hospital room, two small incisions and a heart shaped bandaid on her belly button, quietly but happily in control of the remote, eating graham crackers and apple juice.

By bedtime, chocolate pudding. (That's my girl!)

By lunchtime the following day, discharged. The family in the car, taking her home.

Finally, a stop off at Sandy's for an ice cream cone.

I said a hip hop the hippie to the hippie

the hip hop, a you don't stop the rock it

to the bang bang boogie say up jumped the boogie

to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat

skiddlee beebob a we rock

a scoobie doo

and guess what america we love you

Especially when you provide surgeons and hospitals who return my daughter to good health.

And that's this Rapper's Delight: