As a teacher of writing, I caution my students against using cliches in their writing. Cliches are hackneyed and trite and require no thought on the part of the writer. For example, I point out to my young charges, the phrases it was raining cats and dogs and I was up at the crack of dawn are empty and hollow–they are dead to me. Please, I beseech my tuition-paying pupils, don’t use the phrase sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll in your essay entitled “The Meaning of College Life.” If you must use a cute little phrase, try reworking the cliche a bit, to freshen it up; give me, at the very least, free love, Yellow Submarines, and Janis Joplin. Go for some gusto, O College Writers of the World!
In the face of my exhortations, they yawn a lot, send a few text messages, and then start zipping and unzipping their backpacks loudly.
Clearly, the cliche battle is mine alone to wage, and, therefore, I do my best to uphold my No Cliches, Especially on Sundays, policy. So I trot through life, whistling to myself: to convey a sentiment with precision in writing, the last thing a writer should use is a worn-out, overused cliche.
But you know what? Right now I need one. Because? The weather this week, here in Minnesota? There’s only one way to tell you: it’s not the heat; it’s the humidity.
It’s so humid, friends, that our toilet is literally wrapped in a bath towel right now; it’s sweating so much condensation that the bathroom floor was becoming slick with toilet sweat puddles. So we wrapped it.
It’s so humid that, during yoga class the other day, I was dripping with sweat to the point that, when I lowered myself from a Downward Dog into a Child’s Pose, my dripping legs failed to actually stop when they made contact with the mat, and I slid right through, off the mat, thereby losing my, um, connection with the center of the earth and, er, all my chakras went out of alignment. And I said a bad word, too.
It’s so humid that, I kid you not, I washed my hair before bed the other night, and 18 hours later it was still wet. YES, I’ve heard of the modern invention called hair dryer, but the idea of willfully and purposefully applying heat–even a dry heat–to any part of this body when temperatures are almost 90 degrees is anathema. Thus, my follicles remain moist. (How’s that for a pick-up line?)
Suffice it to say, this week is not breezing by for me. In fact, my naturally-buoyant spirits have felt oppressed, suppressed, by the thick air and the ongoing sensation that I’m breathing through a wet washcloth. Even staying up until 2 a.m. each night, reading the new Harry Potter, hasn’t gotten my mojo rising (but nice job, Ms. Rowling! I can’t believe you killed off the entire cast of characters on the last page like that!!).
So what, gentle readers, can do the trick for me during this challenging week?
Fortunately, I can answer that question thanks to Jazz , who tagged me some time ago with just the meme I need: to list five things that raise my vibrations. Thinking of these things has provided exactly the counterpoint that my soggy spirit needs:
1. The nightly date with my beau. Quite unconsciously, we fell, a few years ago, into the pattern of tucking in kidlets, having a drink, and plugging the DVD of our tv-show-of-the-moment into the player, which we watch, rapt, while we eat a delicious dinner (tonight: cold sesame noodles with chicken and sugar snap peas). While our days consist of the chaos that can accompany parenting young children, my groom and I have a protected hour or two each night, a time of focus and shared experience, that keeps us, if not on the same page, at least on the same episode. Result? The the love remains in its groove.
2. Speaking of food, there is one meal in particular that is guaranteed to turn my frown, how you say, upside down: a fried egg sandwich
. The sheer simple elegance of this dish gives me a big ole case of The Happies. There is butter, egg, toasted bread; toss on some salt and pepper, and I suddenly feel nestled to the bosom of a loving world. Yes, steak rocks. Sure, chocolate saves. But the fried egg sandwich is my ultimate comfort food.
3. My Teva flip-flops
. Last weekend, I attended a farewell party for a good friend. While I was grateful for the chance to pay tribute to how much I like this guy, I was put off by the invitation, which asked guests to bring an appetizer (no problem) and their own drinks (what the hell? This is something I’ve experienced several times now in Minnesota, and it just peeves me. I mean, are you hosting the party or not? If you are, howzabout you put out some food and, if you can’t do that, at least provide some drinks? If you don’t want to do that, howzabout you go to a movie that afternoon instead of pretending at some kind of faux hospitality? I was glad, however, that guests weren’t also asked in the invite to come over the day before the party and clean the host’s house. Hmmmmm. As it turns out, I am digressing. None of this has anything to do with my flip-flops, really. Gotcha!). Okay, so at this party, we were asked to leave our shoes by the door, so as to not track Nature into the house. Then we were lead out the back door of the house to a patio. After standing, barefoot, on that patio for a couple hours, it was pure, rabid bliss to get home and slip my aching dogs into my soft, accommodating, saucy little Teva flip-flops. Even if the blood of small hamsters is the highly-guarded secret
of Teva’s manufacturing design, I don’t care. These things are that good. Power to the bloodsuckers!
4. My afternoon coffee
. Before the age of 35, I had only ever had one cup of coffee in my life (at Mardi Gras in 1991, when I hadn’t slept for some days). But when I hit 35, Groom took a job as a barrista, and I learned the beauties of showing up at opportune times to kipe his free “shift drink,” so long as it was sweet and frothy and basically a dessert in a cup. All of this occurred when I’d just had Kid #2, so once again coffee was used to get me over the hump of not having slept for some days…or some months. Now, even when relatively well rested, I rely upon my 3 p.m. mocha or latte to get me through the mid-afternoon dozies. I also am very good at making the case that a mocha is nothing–nothing!–without a little biscotti sidecar.
. It’s the best of all addictions, this need to raise my heart rate every day. And, like coffee, my devotion to exercise only started in my 30′s. And, like coffee, exercise has been essential to making me a better parent. When I go for an hour run every day, I actually think, reflect, and plan. If I didn’t run, we’d never have a shopping list or take a trip or enroll the kids in camp. I needs me thinkin’ time, and I love seeing the world by foot, up close and smelly. And on those days when I hit the gym instead of the trails, I love reading my celebrity gossip while ticking the minutes by on the treadmill. And at the end of my exercise, I’m all sweaty, which is…
…em…just what humidity does to me, too. So now I’m back where I started. I was feeling better there for my first four vibration raisers, but now I’m just back to sweaty. Dag. What to do?
The good news is that that blogging, as well, inflates my spiritual balloons. And right now, today, my ballooons are blowing in the breeze for my fellow blogger, Diesel, who, as you read, is hosting a little party over at his crib. His Media Office has sent out this press release:
Diesel, the twisted genius behind the humor blog MattressPolice.com, has announced the publication date for his first book! Antisocial Commentary: From the Secret Files of the Mattress Police, is a hilarious excursion through the mind of Diesel. From topics as varied as James Blunt and the Incredible Hulk to global politics and perpetual motion machines, Antisocial Commentary is a tour de force of satire, sarcasm, and just plain silliness. Savor such essays as “The Force is Middling in this One,” which answers the question “What happens to someone in the Star Wars universe who isn’t quite Jedi material?” and “Harry Potter and the Inevitable Slide into Satanism,” which explores the nefarious connection between the works of J.K. Rowling and the minions of the Devil.
Diesel’s book will be published on August 15, but for a limited time we fellow bloggers can pre-order a signed copy at a discounted price, so if you’re a fan of Diesel’s and have ten bucks burning a hole in your birkin, head on over to MattressPolice.com
and give him a big ole virtual (and financial) hug. The book is guaranteed to raise your vibrations.