And the responses, the comments, the e-mails and the willingness of those who I’ve known in this space for a few years now to offer me their personal time, to offer a phone call, an objective ear and the symbolic shoulder of quiet support, has been an overwhelming boost to me. I know that like minded people gravitate toward one another, like kindred souls who end up in the same book stores, who frequent the same restaurants because they both adore the french onion soup, the blogosphere acts as a much more infectious and effective facilitator. We end up at each others’ blogs nodding our heads in sympathetic recognition, laughing, sharing, weeping through the complexities of this collective life.

It’s a humbling experience to be able to emote in this forum and to have that emotional outlay met with infinite understanding and little bits of wisdom. It’s as if a dear friend hears your call, your plea, even your quiet little whimpers and comes rushing over with a pint of ice cream and The English Patient on DVD and you sit side by side watching one of the greatest love stories of all time while eating Chunky Monkey from carton and wiping your noses on your shirt sleeves – that’s what this blogging thing is for me – comfort and acceptance and the knowledge that others, others with wisdom and intellect and darn good stories to tell, have also endured all manner of shit and lived to tell about it (unless of course your the husband in the English Patient who decided to fly his plane into a sand dune instead of doing the hard work which is required to achieve “lived to tell about it” status).

And while no one can say a damn thing that makes it all better, there is something very powerful in your verbal acuity, your willingness to recognize and acknowledge my situation as familiar or acceptable and to even share your personal anecdotes about your own marital difficulties. I am forever grateful for your cyber-companionship. I see people on a daily basis who do not know me anywhere near as well as you all know me because they do not know my mind.

This blogging thing makes for odd and unorthodox friendships but they are real and important connections that deserve to be acknowledged.

And so I leave you with some wise words I found in my in-box earlier this week as an example of the very thing that gets me through the day,

CCE, Your situation has been brewing for some time and has had a million tiny moments and choices to get you here. It is going to take time to deconstruct the myriad rudders to find which one, or which combination, will turn things again. I still maintain that you’ll inevitably find yourself doing the slow work of constructing a narrative for your life that’s going to put everything else in perspective. I don’t know what that is but I know it’s bigger than you and more than now. And I still say that faith that things will work out may well be the thing that, in the end, makes things work out.

Tiny moments, choices, slow construction, perspective, faith, bigger than you, more than now…all good things to ponder at this juncture. Thank you.

And, as an aside, I told you the peonies were primed to bloom. The picture included here is just a sample of what’s exploding in my garden this week. For that and for all of you, I am thankful.

Apparently Mark and his wife have found some sort of connubial equilibrium by,

“each keeping a notebook in which we record all the things the other does that are wrong. They plan to compare notebooks on their deathbeds to determine who was the better person.

But in the meantime, they’ve realized that they haven’t had an effective way of handing out both praise and criticism. That is, until now. From here on out, they’ve decided to issue annual spousal performance reviews.”

Hopefully Mark won’t mind that I’ve put the Madmarriage through the same corporate stress test and come up with the following performance review for myself and My Better Half:

CCE’s 2008 Spousal Performance Review

DOMESTIC SKILLS
Rating: Over Achiever.
Comments: CCE has been known to spend whole evenings organizing shoes in the mudroom and vacuuming the dog. There is no question that she sets exacting and impossible standards, unafraid to work overtime in the pursuit of cleanliness and the perfect pie crust. She must, however, continue to try and manage her own frustration that other team members often fail to reach projected cleanliness goals and will continue to incite her wrath over black finger print smudges on the door jambs and dirty socks on the bedroom floors. CCE needs to work on delegation skills, leaving at least a few household chores for Her Better Half seeing as there are only twenty four hours in a day, eight of which should be spent sleeping. She needs to trust that he can, indeed, manage to do a load of laundry without causing second floor flooding or an incremental bleed of red towels on white t-shirts.

BEDROOM ACUMEN
Rating: Meets standards.
Comments: CCE is a fit and attractive 30-ish female who strives to meet deadlines, milestones and objectives in the bedroom when she’s not too exhausted, drunk or impossibly irritated with her BH. She has recognizable trouble switching between housekeeper, mother and sex goddess roles and often fails to apply her imagination in thinking outside the 11-years-of-monogamy-box. This being said, we think that CCE’s bedroom acumen could be improved by her BH’s attentive fawning to include fresh cut flowers and the simple purchase of a some edible chocolate body paint, a swing and a healthy dose of Xanax. CCE has great potential in this department. We hate to see her fall short of her obvious ability to reign supreme and excellent in all things bedroom.

PARENTING
Rating: Achieves standards.
Comments: CCE successfully straddles the line between knowing when to be supportive and encouraging (when youngest child is streaking towards the goal in last week’s soccer game) or downright neglectful (when American Idol or tournament tennis is on television). She is not afraid to administer punishments for failure to replace the cap on the toothpaste and is not above eliciting peak performance from her children by withholding dessert for minor offenses. While subordinates complain that she can be a real “ball-buster”, we think CCE epitomizes perfection in the parental management department and has even been known to show her soft side every now and again by planning impromptu trips to the playground or the bowling alley.

PUNCTUALITY
Rating: Over Achiever.
Comments: While CCE is never ever late for anything, there is such a thing as pathologically punctual. We appreciate the inner and exacting clock by which CCE operates but would caution her that it is really not necessary to proceed scheduled play date times by twenty minutes. And we reiterate our belief that no matter how anxious she is to make a good impression, no dinner party hostess really wants her invited guests to arrive “right on time”. A fifteen minute lag is expected and appreciated and often means the difference between said hostess finishing her shower and blow drying her hair. Because the attention to detail in the punctuality department borders on excessive perhaps CCE could go and hang out for a week with her mother-in-law who has never been on-time for anything and the two could sort of rub up against each other and moderate the other’s tendencies into something more decent and acceptable.

OVERALL RATING/GOALS
Rating: Achieves or exceeds standards.
Comments: CCE continues to lead by example in all household matters (even making beds while occupants are still dozing and frequently considering driving the cats to the nearest quarry for possible abandonment if that’s what is necessary to cut down on excessive pet hair on the couch). In the coming year, she should consider cloning herself in order to save her sanity. Overall, CCE is a good wife when not being a complete “ball buster”.

CCE’s Better Half 2008 Spousal Performance Review

DOMESTIC SKILLS
Rating: Needs improvement.
Comments: CCE’s Better Half, here on in referred to as BH is still learning how to be an asset rather than a detriment to the household management program. While his instincts in this arena are good, (who doesn’t love a guy who likes to play video games and board games and allow children to play in the mud on the way to the bus stop), BH needs to commit more time to the more banal aspects of the job (i.e., dog walking, cat litter changing, planning for business trips rather than panicking the night before heading out to Cincinnati when he realizes that all his dress shirts are still in a wad at the bottom of the suitcase in the spare bedroom since his last trip to Grand Rapids0. BH could also use a week’s worth of continuing education classes on topics such as preparing healthy family meals outside of his current comfort zone which includes fried pizza and the drive-thru at BK, how to romance one’s business partner with simple gestures like spontaneous phone calls, appreciative notes and the ability to discuss financial matters without exploding into a rage.

BEDROOM ACUMEN
Rating: Satisfactory.
Comments: While BH claims to consistently meets his own deadlines, milestones and objectives, he isn’t always a team player and consistently misses obvious ways to establish bedroom business relationships such as actually entering the bedroom when CCE is still awake, sometime before 1 a.m., which would require deliberately skipping a three-hour web surfing session which seems to occupy his evening hours on most occasions.

PARENTING
Rating: Achieves standards on occasion.
Comments: BH often meets his six year old’s expectations playing court jester to her queen. She favorably and affectionately refers to her father as “a big child” and therefore expects little but laughter and unconditional love. BH’s eight year old son is a little more demanding and suffers the internet obsession acutely, often commenting on BH’s inability to peel himself away from he lure of the computer during non-business hours. BH is often unavailable for discipline, hygiene, safety, scheduling, education and appropriate outerwear selection routines and prefers to delegate these responsibilities to partners and sub-ordinates. “BH is an exceedingly loving parent, when he remembers he is one.”

PUNCTUALITY
Rating: Questionable.
Comments: Yes, BH is always on time but only because CCE is a worthy task-master.

OVERALL RATING/GOALS
Rating: Achieves standards.
Comments: BH is part of the marriage. In the coming year, he should strive to replace rotting wood on the exterior of the house, remember to call his mother and father who live in Florida on occasion, like on their birthdays, and put away the growing stack of clean clothes CCE has efficiently washed and folded and placed smack in front of his bureau. If household budget allows, he also should take a course in how to endure television programming that he may find insanely boring, (i.e., Hell’s Kitchen and pre-recorded French Open matches) in order to better spend time with his wife and appreciate just being close to her and holding her hand.

I have really, really liked his cool factor from the beginning. But last night stunned me. This guy is the real deal. I love it. I love that show for introducing us to talent like his. And I just hope that the ten year olds propping up David Archuleta will somehow grow the hell up and recognize the true rock star in the bunch.

For those of you that are not Idol fans just tune in here for a second and see what I’m talking about.

Admittedly, even without Mother Nature’s cruel withholding, I’d still be feeling pretty bleak today. Probably a culmination of two whole weeks of miserable insomnia. I can feel the fatigue wrecking havoc on my general outlook, my patience, my ability to write anything good or meaningful. My brain feels like hash. And when I find myself at the bottom of the tank like this, I begin to weep along to pop ballads. I start feeling hyperbolic, exceptionally self-centered. My skewed perspective contributes to the under-pinings of anxiety that prevent my sleep. A predictable cycle. Round and round, chasing my own mangy tail.

I contemplate phoning a therapist because clearly that which plagues my night-time self may need professional attendance. But then I worry that it’s just my exhaustion talking and one good night’s sleep later, a trip to a therapist will seem ludicrous, indulgent even. I can’t even plan the next minute forget about the next week. Who knows where five days will find me if this insomnia thing keeps up.

As is typical of someone stuck in the spin cycle of a depression, I feel like I’m just barely keeping it all together. That one mild set back will set it all to tumble.

In spells like these, I suffer intensely about my writing. Because I’ve been almost ill with sleeplessness, I’ve been remarkably unproductive in the past two weeks which should just be fine, really okay. There’s no deadline, no pressing need to finish anything. But there is the persistent idea that to call oneself a writer, a person has to have actually produced a complete written work. Something worthy of shopping around. I have a few short stories finished and don’t know what the hell to do with them. My novel languishes just at the point where I abandoned it in February. No more no less. What am I waiting for? Maybe I’m not a writer at all. Maybe I’m just what My Better Half suspects I am – a housewife with a hobby fooling herself in the pursuit of some far off dream. And there’s a sort of pressure in all that, the need to prove him wrong which makes me less lenient with myself, less able to accept that there will be times when life and obligations and just plain mental health will affect the quality of my writing.

So this brings me to the point of today’s post which is to say thank you to all of you who read Gardenias and left supportive comments. I really, really needed to hear the praise this week. A piece of me wants to believe you all, wants to lap up the accolades and go forward, bolstered by your audience. But then there is the doubting writer in me that is slowly working against you all, wanting honest support and encouragement and then not believing a word of it upon receipt.

I’m reminded of a passage in Writing Down the Bones…”As writers we are always seeking support…But when we receive it, we don’t believe it, but we are quick to accept criticism, reinforce our deepest beliefs that, in truth, we are no good and not really writers…Really stop when someone is complimenting you . Even if it’s painful and you are not used to it, just keep breathing, listen, let yourself take it in. Feel how good it is. Build up a tolerance for positive, honest support.”

So this is me today trying to inhale your kind words and absorb the praise. Thank you guys for being the light and the drive and the confirmation that what I’m working at it is meaningful and good. Forgive my reluctance to hear you. I’m trying to tune in to my own worthiness. Really I am. Just this week, it feels hard.

Mizmell has tagged me and I am supposed to grab the book nearest to my left elbow and open to page 123. I am to find the fifth sentence on the page and copy the next three sentences after the fifth here in this blog. And while three sentences in the middle of a book aren’t usually all that telling or descriptive of a novel or a writer’s talent as a whole, when I selected the book nearest me and opened to the designated page, I liked what I found. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Amy Hempel is a wizard with words and even the sixth, seventh and eighth sentences of the 123rd page do her justice. I keep her compilation of short stories on my desk beside the laptop. I begin my day with her. Opening the book at random and finding inspiration in the way she strings a sentence together.

This is how it looked: a car in the driveway, a light on upstairs. But nobody answers the door. I know what I would have done as a child if there was somebody home on Halloween night who did not bother to answer the door. I would have come back with shaving cream and eggs, with toilet paper and friends.
~Amy Hempel, The Collected Stories

She’s nailed it. It’s a simple thing but she has conjured memory: me and Megan Cisneros tormenting the neighbors who failed to produce adequate loot on Halloween night with mailbox pranks and doorbell ditching and all manner of obnoxiousness well into November. Now, twenty year’s later, I can only think that the citizens of Fredrickson Road can thank their lucky stars that paint ball had not been invented in 1983.

But there are other books here in the stack beside my laptop and I can’t resist the urge to see if these authors, the ones I begin my day with, like stretching my calve muscles or exhaling deep breathes, the ones who help me prepare to write, will they manage the same brilliance on a random page, mid-story?

Next in the stack is Lorrie Moore’s Birds of America.

“Bill, divorced only once, is here tonight with Debbie, a woman who is too young for him: at least that is what he knows is said, thought the next time it is said to his face, Bill will shout, “I beg your pardon!” Maybe not shout. Maybe squeak. Squeak with a dash of begging.”

Okay, I allowed for four sentences but they were short and the fourth really just modified the third and seemed too brilliant and utterly necessary to Bill’s character and predicament to have left it out.

I could go on like this forever. The stack of books beside me is rather monumental. I could open each at random and see what wordy treasure lies within. It’s an enticing way to spend a weekend, but, in the interest of time and because memes are supposed to be short, slap dash, even whimsical, I’ll just do one more. It’s here and it’s handy: A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers.

“I have donated to the couple from the women’s shelter, and to the little boy from the youth group, to the woman from the Green Party, the kids from the Boy’s Club, the pair of solemn teenagers from SANE/FREEZE. The Berkeley-ness of Berkeley, so charming at first, is getting old. The bell rings.”

The bell rings. Did you read that? Of course the bell rings and Eggers has me reading on to see who will answer the bell, to find out which needy pan handler is on the doorstep. This is the beauty of Eggers, I think I’ll read three sentences and a half hour elapses and I’m well into page 150 when I remember that I’ve got a post to finish.

And just for kicks, I want to see how I stand up to the professionals. So I randomly select a page from my own story, Habeas. Since I have not written 123 pages, I settle for page 43, five sentences in:

“The interior of my mother’s car her true reflection, a jumble of paper coffee cups, packages of wasabi peas and soy nuts, a full ashtray, discarded tank tops and blousy skirts, windows clouded with road salt and the dingy filth of cigarette smoke, the windshield hazy and opaque with neglect. She bends forward over the steering wheel and her arm shoots out in front of me at every stop as if to stall my possible trajectory through the front windshield. I am forever ten year’s old in her mind.”

There’s my shameless pitch for my own writing and for that of Hempel and Moore and Eggers and of course for Amazon book sellers and all things reading related. Go forth and be literate. (I’m supposed to tag some others, so Jennifer, Slouchy, Xsd and Ron, if you’re having a slow week and feel like sharing a passage from the book beside your left elbow, please play along.

First, I feel somewhat responsible for this lovely thing blooming in the dining room. One thing I miss about South Florida is the easy cultivation of an astonishing array of orchids: phalenopsis, vandas, oncidiums, rhynostachys. I carried all these complicated lady friends with them with me to Massachusetts and watched all but two shrivel up and die. But here in New England I can grow Cymbidium orchids which shun the humidity of the tropics. Every February I am glad for this consolation.

Next, I finalized my Ben Franklin Presentation Board for the third grade history class I am taking right along with my eight year old son.

As evidenced by the expressions in the photograph, I seem to glean greater pleasure from the end product than does my son. He is slightly embarrassed and confused by my obvious pride only because he has yet to become a parent charged with seeing that his third grader read books, take notes and produce a visual presentation on an eminent person of whom the child has never heard, all while explaining the complicated historical significance of the Revolutionary War, the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.

Finally, we made snow people. Okay, I made a snow seductress with her ample bosom and her flowing skirts and the kids rebelled against such liberties taken with what was supposed to be a very basic, male snowman and created a snow child minus the realistic anatomy.

In the evenings I read or watched movies. Three films later, there’s only one I can recommend. Half Nelson, starring Ryan Gosling is definitely worth the rental. I loved this film for its lack of simplistic Hollywood-style messaging. It does tackle the popular mega-flick concept of redemption but in a manner so ambiguous and conflicted that the viewer can’t decide whether to hate the protagonist or envelop him in a huge hug and take him to bed. By degrees, you’ll love him and loathe him and feel like this guy is someone you know, someone possessing charm and intelligence and a disgusting drug habit – a combination of good and bad that makes him human and vulnerable and all together believable. Gosling nails the performance. The director, Ryan Fleck resists the urge to throw in voice overs or obvious narrative tricks. He allows the viewer to manage their own feelings about the characters and their plight. No stirring sappy scores or soft focus imagery. It’s all just harshly illuminated and begs the question, can a person save another if he cannot save himself? Both Gosling and his co-star, Shareeka Epps were nominated for academy awards for their performance in the film. And the soundtrack is pretty solid as well, featuring two tracks by Broken Social Scene.

Well, those are the good things. And there’s just one more. A completely wonderful post was written last week highlighting the emerging role of blogging in a modern day mother’s life. I am mentioned in the post and am most grateful to have been recognized for my contributions to the new art form. But mostly I’m just excited for all of us Moms and writers and bloggers to whom this post pays tribute. It’s all of us. Three cheers for Ron at RWorld. Your recognition of the thing we do here, and at sites all over the blogosphere, day after day, is much appreciated.

I just love a happy coincidence and, today, I learned of one that makes me inordinately glad. Last night My Better Half and I watched Once on our DVD player and both fell in love with this simple, sweet and beautiful story told almost entirely in song. This morning I received an e-mail from My Better Half’s uncle saying he had sent me the very same film for X-mas and, in the shuffle of the holidays, the gift had gone to the wrong address. It will be here soon. And though I can’t quite break it to him that we’ve already watched the film, just last night, because I know how much he wants to be the one who gives us the gift of this movie and its music, my heart still bounded just a little upon learning that I would soon own a copy. Placing the Netflix version in our mailbox this morning felt like a sorrowful parting. I will be overjoyed when it crosses our threshold again.

Without giving too much away, I need to mention that most of the film is a sort of music video. I guess one could call it a musical. But I loathe most musicals and found this one completely worthwhile, from start to finish. If your heart doesn’t just brim and over flow to the poignant strains of Falling Slowly as the two main leads play together for the first time in the back of an abandoned music shop then you are dead to me, someone I can share nothing with in the future.

I have already downloaded the MP3 version of the song released by The Frames, an Irish band whose lead-man Glen Hasard plays the main character in the film, and have been looping it non-stop all morning. Damn it makes me want to be a musician, to pick up the guitar and strum a sorrowful ballad. Fortunately, for my immediate family, we have no stringed instruments in near proximity. Otherwise I’d be fully engaged in making an complete asshole of myself right now.

Instead I urge you all to go get this movie or, at the very least, watch this clip of the two leads performing the song as part of the film’s promotional tour. Though story doesn’t end the way I really, really hoped it would, it’s the best thing I’ve seen in a few years. I shed a few tears at the end but that’s the way I like ‘em, with a slow poignant burn.

Yesterday, 7:30 a.m., I received a call from my son’s teacher – Mr.S. There are few people I care to talk to at such an early hour. He is an exception, an affable, boyish, disorganized exception. He was calling to say that the party I had planned for the class will have to be rescheduled due to his forgetfulness. It appears the children have a school sponsored sing-a-along, the timing of which completely conflicts with our holiday fete. Usually such a snafu would have me cursing the ineptitude of the teacher at fault but this is Mr. S, so I calmly said, “It’s not a big deal that I now I have to call 25 parents and beg their forgiveness for changing the party time just two days in advance. Actually, it’ll give me a chance to connect with other Mom’s and Dad’s. It’s a blessing, a total blessing.”

With my forgiveness apparent, I could sense his relief. He explained that he has been tired and less than productive lately. He has had trouble keeping appointments and remembering scheduled events. A few months ago, he and his wife purchased their first home. And have spent every minute of their free time and every spare penny renovating the top floor as an apartment. They need to take on a tenant who will pay rent and help them pay their mortgage. The renovations have been costly and excruciatingly slow as they have only weekends to devote to laying new floors and replacing windows. He and his wife are exhausted and broke and losing faith in their ability to get the project done before the holidays. His despair, when he mentioned that he had little to give his most deserving wife this holiday season, was palpable and true.

He explained, rather sheepishly, that his plans for a X-mas gift for her are, in fact, a little home spun. He floated his idea out there as if hoping I wouldn’t laugh or scoff or otherwise deem it foolish and pathetic. Instead, hearing the earnestness in his voice, I wanted to sing out – “Oh, young love, Oh, the Spirit of Christmas. I am restored.”

Without a penny in his pocket, he will develop and draft a blue print for an artist’s studio. He will build this little space entirely devoted to his wife’s artistic gifts in the basement of their new home. He will deliver the scrolled plans, all bows and promises, with an IOU to begin work on it as soon as their tenant is installed in the upstairs apartment. I said, “This, Mr. S, is an excellent plan.” It’s so Gift of the Magi, so perfect with the spirit of Christmas. And like the character in the O’Henry story, his name is Jim. And his wife is Julie which isn’t exactly Della but has the same number of letters. I am so happy for this Julie who has a husband who gets it. And, simultaneously, I could die, pining away with wishing for someone to make ME a writer’s studio in the empty upstairs bedroom that has been home to only the cat litter-box for two years.

I can only hope that his wife has not sold her paint brushes on Ebay in order to purchase him a new belt sander of nail gun. Because, let it be said, “…that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.” (O’ Henry)

Always at the ready, on call, coiled and tense
Available for car rides and quick romps
Down deserted lanes early Sunday morning.
Charging ahead with the determination
You frighten the geese, snap bees from the air
And stop to defecate right in the middle of the steepest slog
To challenge my grit and endurance.

May your third birthday be filled with warm naps in spots of sunshine,
Dribbles of popcorn, M&M’s and Goldfish from a child’s hand,
Squirrels and chipmunks and a few wandering cats
To chase across a wide green lawn dotted with tennis balls and marrow bones.
Happy, happy day to she who loves me best.

I know, I know, I’ve fallen off the grid and who could blame you loyal fans, all twelve of you, for going elsewhere? Five days with nothing new to say is a long, long time in the blogosphere.
But I have just one thing to share today, one glimmer of profundity that has made its way to the forefront of my spring addled brain and its actually not my genius that I have to share but that of my five year old.

The whole thing went down like this…
Me: “Hey, O; what do you want for breakfast?”
O: “I think I’ll have Life.”
Me: “Life it is. I have Life. I’ve got a whole box of Life right here in the cabinet.”
Me (calling upstairs to G who was deciding which iteration of pink she should wear to school. Pink t-shirt? Pink pants? The cute velour skirt in magenta that has a tiny tortoiseshell belt buckle?): “Hey, G; O wants Life. What do you want?”
There was a prolonged pause, silence indicating great contemplation. I was thinking, what can be so thought provoking about this question? At our house it’s Life, Cheerios or Cornflakes every single day. It all became clear when she blurted out her answer with great satisfaction.
G: “Peace, Mom. I want peace.”
Me (shaking my head with wonder. So smugly satisfied that I gave birth to this lovely little creature with global philosophies): “Well actually I was talking about breakfast cereal not your hopes for the Middle East, Iraq and the continent of Africa. But oh how I wish I could serve up a little peace with a teaspoon of sugar and a cup of milk. Alas, dear daughter, I’m not in charge of such things. If only I was, if only I was.”