Update

Earlier I groused about how I felt I was drowning in monotony, longing for an inner fire to be lit that would put color, vitality, and passion into my life.

I remember when I wrote those lines. It was grey outside. Which consequently made me feel grey inside. I am solar powered, and if kept overcast for longer than a day I begin to wither.

BUT. I discovered THIS:

And my eyes were opened.

It is up to ME to discover what moves me. I do not have the time to lose waiting for something outside of me to knock softly on the door. Rather, I must go outside of my narrow comfort zone, think, experience, ACT.

Because I spent my entire life getting to where and who I am today, and I want it to be worth it.

Minor Personal Epiphany

I have come to the conclusion a common trait is desiring to be a part of something larger than yourself...but if I am to be completely honest, what I really want is to be a big fish in a little pond.

Being a big fish in a big pond is being a celebrity. And although I am sure I would enjoy the novelty of it, I am certain that it would wear on me quickly. I am a fairly quiet person and while I trust people at large, do not give up my personal trust easily. So I do not think I would enjoy being constantly followed. Frankly, I have enough of that at home with four children and two dogs. (But if Ellen DeGeneres would ever like to interview me about anything, I'd free my calendar immediately.)

But being a big fish in a small pond is being recognized in your personal niche. I value words, both written and spoken, so it should come as no surprise that I look up to authors. I follow lesser known writers on Twitter and long to see them gain professional success beyond what they have already achieved. All of this is a fancy way of saying I'm a fangirl. Yes, I love John Green with a crazy passion and have dreamed, yes, REM-style dreamed, of him giving me a hug. Not that Mrs. Green or my husband has any cause for concern. I long to have Maureen Johnson to my home for supper. If I could lure Jenny Lawson into my kitchen, I'd basely feed her brownies and bribe her with any treats I could concoct for her company.

Because I am so private, I am humbled and awed by the written novel. To have created something so personal, created solely by imagination and determination, inspires me. Holding a book in my hand that is personally signed by the author is like touching them for the briefest moment.

I am enjoying watching the The Fault in Our Stars excitement on Twitter today as the book releases. John has worked incredibly hard to create this world contained by two covers. We his fans have watched and read and listened and laughed as he's shared about it on You Tube, Twitter, and Tumblr. We have preordered our copies so we might have a signed edition, and all wonder if we will be lucky enough to receive one that has been further personalized by a drawing of a Yeti by his wife, or a fish by his brother.

When my copy is in my eager troll paws at last, I will gently run my finger over the Jscrawl and wish I could shake John's hand in person. But alas, I am but a tiny fish in a pond.

I have nothing to say

Yet I wish to write so much.

I have been reading a delightfully pedestrian Cinderella-story that is so ordinary and yet just vibrates with intensity. Pathos, angst, true love...everything short of pirates. No I will not share it unless specifically requested, simply because I wish to tempt fate and see if anyone reads me. Which I doubt. And I'm ok with that.

I should be grateful for the boredom because usually when things are not boring they are very, very bad.

I do so want something to spice up my life in a non tragic fashion. And with today's headlines I feel like I am tempting fate and setting indiscretions in digital print.

But to feel...anything, really, besides the grim slog and toil of daily monotony. To feel passionate about something again. I swear I wouldn't take it for granted.

Bring me to life. I dare you.

ah, God

This is it, the last humiliation: the recognition that I am, in fact, that worst of all stereotypes--the bored housewife. The shame, the ignomy.

Copy of a letter, verbatim

Dear Virgina Public School of Middleness:

Please excuse the absence of my daughter, INSERT NAME HERE, from her absence from school yesterday. She and I both suffered a relapse from the same vicious stomach bug that kept her from school last week. I have sternly instructed her to: bathe in hand sanitizer between classes; not touch anything; not breathe on anyone; and in general do whatever possible to contain this plague from leaving our house.

If you have any questions, please feel free to call me at home ((757)LVA-MSSG) or use my cell number ((757-ATT-SUXX.) It will be welcome break from pickling myself in Lysol while sterilizing the house, the car, and the family dogs.

Sincerely yours,
A VIRGINIAN HOUSEWIFE.

*** *** *** ***

I figure the admins must read dozens of these letters daily. They deserve to be either entertained or shocked out of their complacency every now and again.

~AVH~

Royalty is Nothing But Care

The title is a quote ascribed to Henry VI who spent a great deal of his kingship in captivity, and was in fact executed after his deposition.

Across the land, maids and maidens awoke early to watch the royal wedding of the now Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. And across the land, men moaned in sympathy for one Virginian Husband, who incorrectly likened the Duchess's wedding gown to the one his own bride wore, when in fact it was more like his brother's wife's gown.

Aw, that's gonna cost ya, mate.

Marital faux pas aside, this Virginian Housewife wishes all blessings and happiness on the new couple. May their relationship be more stable than the last pair that were wed so auspiciously but ended so sordidly.

Stormy Weather

Cloudy, cranky skies in my corner of Virginia today.

And it's looking like it might rain outside as well.

I have four children. Four, because my husband and I only have two hands a piece so any more offspring and we'd have some free-ranging, which doesn't make me very comfortable.  They are stair steppers, as the saying goes. This is nice because we got the diaper business over all at once.

However, it does make for a protracted slog through adolescence. Three daughters, one son. that means out of every month, only one week has the potential (and only the potential) of not being driven by hormones. As I am the mother, I have reserved the right to be as hormonal as I like, when I like. I keep it together admirably well, except for when I don't.

The ten-year-old daughter is my current headache. She is, ah, a sensitive child. "Sensitive," of course, is code for "being apt to cry, be moody, and sulk when the urge strikes." She doesn't throw scenes as much as have three-act plays, all created and directed by the leading diva, herself. This is compounded by the fact that she can be hyper-responsible for her age, so the yawings of her emotional barometer can give all of us whiplash.