a night owl and the theory of time

i've realized why i love being awake at night after everyone else has gone to bed. it's probably the same reason why some people love mornings ...
quietness, solitude, and freedom.
late at night, when patrick leaves for work (my equivalent of people going to bed, i guess!), i lock the door behind him and start setting up. lately i've been setting up the livingroom as a giant craftsroom - breaking out the christmas supplies, tape, and wrapping paper. i put on a christmas movie, or maybe an episode of "how clean is your house" or "supernanny" - anything really - and listen to the show while i putter away at making things.
before christmas, it was schoolwork that kept me busy (although i usually just turned on the radio while i worked on that!). sometimes it's housework. whatever it is, it's nice to work at my own pace as long as i want, without anything else demanding my time. now that i'm out of school and working evenings, i don't have to worry about waking up at a certain time. i can sleep in if i happen to stay up too late. i can nap. i can have a bath in the middle of the day.
at night, it's like space and time spread outward instead of tunneling forward. time stretches, expands, and grows quiet.
owls are wise ... nighttime is a good time to be awake.

typewrecks: pique

i am a blog addict. i love to prowl from blog to blog to blog, reading, looking at pictures, laughing, crying, bookmarking recipes ...
however, my blog-reading is continually interrupted by the unpleasant presence of typos, bad spelling, and poor grammar.
spellcheck has done a lot to alleviate the pandemic of bad spelling. however, homonyms are toxic for spellcheck.
today's typewrecker is guilty of an all-too-common wreck:
"I decided to post a few pictures to peek your interest."
are you planning on peering through my computer screen to take a look at my face when i see your pictures, typewrecker?
peek - a quick or furtive look or glance; peep
peak - the pointed top of anything. - or - the highest or most important point or level.
pique - to affect with sharp irritation and resentment - or - to excite (interest, curiosity, etc.)

giving myself slack

ever since i lost the baby, i've had waves of craziness. i know this is probably mostly hormone induced, but sometimes the smallest things seem like the BIGGEST ISSUES - and vice versa. i get it - i understand that my perspective is awry just now - and i know i need to cut myself some slack. but listening to your reasonable inner voice is pretty hard when you're swamped with stormy hormones and legitimate difficulties.
so this note is my reminder to myself to cut myself some slack.

dear janelle:
sometimes you're going to react in weird ways to things and your friends will be astonished. sometimes the 'you' that shows up on the outside will not be a good translation of the 'you' you were intending on the inside. sometimes you'll miss opportunities you wanted to take, and sometimes you'll make choices you'll regret and sometimes you'll just be lame. it's okay. life is hard and no one is perfect and it's even okay if you don't try to be perfect.
(for now. later, i'm going to kick your butt and motivate you into trying to be the best person you can be. these days, though, i just want you to know that surviving is enough).
there's lots of time to work on improvement. that can come later. today is just about putting one hour after another and making it to the end of the day.
put your unreasonable expectations on the back shelf. who you are is okay. the world will keep spinning, just as it is.
with love and mercifully low expectations,
your self.

now get back to class ...

Before You Call, I Will Answer

Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask You to stay
Close by me forever, and love me, I pray
Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care,
And take us to Heaven to live with Thee there.
Away in a Manger

Listen to Me, O house of Jacob,
And all the remnant of the house of Israel,
You who have been borne by Me from birth
And have been carried from the womb;
Even to your old age I will be the same,
And even to your graying years I will bear you!
I have done it, and I will carry you;
And I will bear you and I will deliver you.
Isaiah 46

where's the salt?!?!

*with apologies to robb, for still being the same

it's 1:33 am. i can't sleep. the delectable smell of fresh, hot, buttery popcorn is wafting through my apartment and torturing me.
one of my neighbours apparently has a thing for aromatic&salty midnight snacks. if it keeps up, i'll find myself knocking on their door in my pjs with eyes as big as saucers (going round and round), holding out a bowl.
please sir, may i have a little more?
this is the third night in a row. i'm hoping they only bought a box of three packages, otherwise, i'm in for another agonizing night tomorrow.
i'll be lying in bed, trying (somewhat successfully) to get comfortable and (less successfully) to forget about the mound of assignments weighing me down. then, as the first shades of sleep begin to close in on me ... the golden aroma will hover on the air. at first, it will just be a hint of thought of popcorn. what's that? sleep will ask, and fly out the door. you know i brook no rivals, she'll shrug, and disappear.
i'll bury my head under the pillows, and try to smell the laundry soap, the scent of patrick's aftershave on the pillowcase ...
but the hot buttery goodness will not be so easily deterred.
i'll count sheep. i'll try to name a place starting with every letter of the alphabet. i'll close my eyes and think of rose gardens in the sunshine. i'll try to recite all the verses i've got memorized. but it will fail! it will fail!
i'll forget everything and find myself sitting upright, smiling dreamily, breathing in the tantalizing scent of popcorn.
desperate, i'll launch myself out of bed and rummage through the cupboard. but my rational self from daylight hours has forseen this midnight scrounging, and there is nothing aromatic or salty to be found. herbal tea, stray packages of jello, and pancake mix will stare blandly back at me.
i'll turn to the fridge. yogurt, smug in its saltless state, will sit benignly on the shelf. pickles will whisper, we're good enough. but they won't be. toast will suggest, try me with butter. but it's all hollow, compared with the poppylicious butteriffic finger-licking saltiness of popcorn.
i'll drift mournfully to my blog, to console myself with the slight comfort of shared misery. then i'll go back to bed, and lie mournfully awake, until the fragrance of popcorn settles for the night.