i'll never be sick of photo booth. ever.

happy blog day to me

i started my family's blog a year ago today.  now excuse me while i do 1 round of the macarena in celebration.

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

thank you. 

i've blogged almost every day in the last year.  my friend lindsey once sent me a link to take a quiz that ascertains a person's addiction level to blogging.  i snorted and thought about how unpleasant it would be to have a computer tell me, "sheesh.  you are 103.4% addicted to blogging.  you should take up chess for some balance.  moderation in all things, girlfriend."  some might consider my prolific blogging pathetic, some heroic, and most people probably don't consider it at all.  as my grandmammy often said, "you won't worry about what people think about you when you realize they don't."

it sounds silly, but blogging has taught me a lot about myself.  how vain and yet self-deprecating i am.  how much i love to talk about my family.  what great friends i've got.  how antsy i was in vegas.  

i know it's like a "join the club" break down, but there were blips of time in the last 365 days that were extremely difficult for me, as in, before i was born, maybe someone said up above, "2008 is going to pulverize you into graham cracker crumbs.  don't worry, it won't last forever."  when i read back on some old posts my stomach ties in knots because i can hear the struggle in my voice that i was trying so hard to ignore.  i can read how much i was trying to distract myself with anything, and a big distraction was... (you guessed it) blogging.  google has supplied a fountain of therapy even more effective than baking artery clogging brownie concoctions.  

one nice thing about blogging is it's a grand old time whether you're good, bad, happy or sad.  i have to say that right now, life is about as perfect as i'd ever want it to be.  (ijustneedajobbeforeihavetostartplayingmykazooonthestreetsoflagunabeachwith mynewsiescapinfrontofmetocollectcharityshillings.)  i'm healthy, having a ball, my family is doing well, i frequently think to sing a song of redeemed cheer.  without being sure if i'd ever deserve it, so many stress suitcases that had strapped themselves to my ankles (either for myself or for loved ones) have dissipated.  i appreciate that.  i am grateful for so many blessings, for this phase of my life.  there i go being religious.  i'll say it again: i am grateful for the overwhelming plethora of blessings which are mine, mine, mine, for whatever reason.  

and so, here's to another year of blogging, and for the therapy, the record keeping, the narcissism that it shall be!

i want this shirt for christmas.

single mormon aunties

the other day i read this article entitled the profile of an LDS twentysomething. it plucked my chortle strings and i'm happy for him for him and the witty dude that he is. but he forgot one thing:

single mormon girls (hereafter referred to as SMGs) love being aunties. they love being aunties with such fervor, to the immediate family it's admirable, and to everyone outside of this group, it's obnoxious. when a SMG learns she is about to be aunted for the first or seventeenth time, she shares the joyous news with everyone from the mailman to the costco sample hostess, absolutely certain that this will be something upon which they will reflect again and again, just as it is for her. every co-worker, due to frequent spirited reminders, knows how many days remain until the sex of the baby is determined. SMG aunties' friends and associates don't get a break after the water does. after the preg-o-nancy is over, SMG aunties will gush about every stage of the ripened cashew's life, from the first spit up to the thirty-second gurgle to the seventh demonstration of gross and/or fine motor skills. at times you can't tell a difference between the parent blog and the auntie SMG blog.

it's not that SMG aunties are the only people on earth who love their siblings' reproductions, or that MMGs (married mormon girls) don't feel strongly for their nieces and nephews. but SMG aunties really work hard to corner the market. maybe it's because they're in college and small things are scarce. maybe it's because these aunties had at one time expected to have their own muffins baked and ready by then and their maternal instincts are all dressed up with nowhere to go. maybe it's because a SMG auntie knows if she never marries she'll probably be the aunt with the most discretionary income, and therefore, through the remorseless spoiling potential, has an advantageous lead in the race for "favorite." maybe it's because a child's cute-o-meter is on a constant high when you're not the one who must discipline or feed it at 3 am.

k fine, i know, it's probably because we know families are forever.

whatever the reason, auntie SMGs stare in awe at these new members of their family, sure that these nieces and nephews are the most beautiful, smart, and uncommonly talented. they choke themselves up wondering how they could ever find words sufficient to tell these children how much their hearts spontaneously combust with love for them.

i would know, i am one of those. in the club. which is why you can expect no fewer than 29 posts in the next month about the niece or nephew which is about to be mine.

i'm sorry, but it had me snorting for laughing so hard.

*if it says the video is no longer available, look up "hitler yes on prop 8" or something similar on www.youtube.com.*

prop 8 calls and wahOOOOOs

chatting up registered voters regarding traditional marriage has been food for many a grandchildren story. i think i'm most excited for halloween because it means only 4 freaking days remain to us until this election basura is OVER. as the end is not exactly within spitting distance yet, it's at the very least been interesting to make the calls, and it makes me feel more jubilantly AMERICANA.  the calling is even more enjoyable when done in a group; then you can overhear bits of others' conversations. you know when someone was gifted with an f-bomb, when they got to sell traditional marriage, or when they spoke with someone of the YES persuasion, etc. etc. etc..

em is hard core. actually, unbelievably hard core, and very genuine and most weedly. she could convert rufus wainwright to heterosexualism.


here i am working on my multi-tasking. laptop open to inform me of the name of the person into whose life i would be prying. phone cradled betwixt shoulder and ear, thus viciously kinking my neck and doing my part to support the chiropractic world. fabulicious scarf in the making. you can't see it, but there's a can of TAB, the original calorie-free soda, at my feet.  as cameron would say, shiz.

it's friday, it's friday, time to go to lunch. (i think i just wrote a song.)

the wahoos on bristol spurs some interesting behaviors from andrea maria filio, dutchess of grown-out locks, and james michael cunningham, head ambassador of the inter-office crush department.

it started out so sweetly.

then it turned competetive. "how much taller am i than you?!?!?"


goosed. goosed rotton.

who has to go looking all gorgeous when she's about to squeeeeeze out her third baby?

oh right, right, my sister.
i don't have baggage or anything.

irvinites unite

i know what you're all thinking.

-brad, you sly dog, how did you weasle your way into the middle of a picture with 4 bodacious babes?
-martha, did you get your hair did recently? it looks even more fantastic than usual.
-2 lillywhites?! 2??? merzy, we all knew your life was beyond charmed, but 2 lillywhites in one block of sunday meetings is pushing your luck a little bit too far. please tell me they were photoshopped in, or you are officially the most fortunate lass this side of the hudson. there will be nowhere for you to go but down.
-wait a minute...that looks very much like an LDS chapel...is is kosher to snap photos in a chapel?

what we've got here is proof that the pierside ward was the best place for me to go upon returning to orange county. an abundance of new people, new streets to get lost on until they're burned on my brain, yogurtland, and one of those new targets, and yet, somethings (or people) to remind me from where i've sprung. people that know well the sleepy town approximately 25 minutes south of our huntington abodes. IRVINITES. our common bond of growing up drowning ourselves in golden spoon, getting our flirt on at the "woodsy" youth conference locales, and getting our stake dance on at the red brick lake building...ah this common bond shines through clearer and brighter than ever in our twenty-something huntington lives.

once an irvinite, always an irvinite.

thanks to jeff brown for sacrificing decorum and honor in snapping this picture in the chapel.

ahem

in august 2005 i flew with mom and sarah to meet dad and cameron in the windy city. we had a layover in salt lake city, one long enough to allow a rendezvous from the airport with aunt kahthryn. we were bound for a wee lunch at california pizza kitchen, a true mcomber restaurant if ever i saw one. as we waited for her at the roundabout, a luxurious coach pulled up. from the passenger side, out stepped a leggy, busty, platinum blonde. the scantily clad factor was exceedingly great. from the driver's side emerged a well-dressed man who looked to be in his late 40s. the receding hairline factor was exceedingly great. the two met in front of the car, and i noticed his wedding ring, then her blank fingers, and her lack of luggage. she kissed him goodbye, and started to move her electric hips toward the terminal. after a few steps she swiveled around, and casually said to the man, "don't forget to erase me from your phone."

oh my heck, what could that have possibly been?

cry, baby, cry.

it is my considered opinion that sometimes, not often, just sometimes, you are in desperate need of some good, old fashioned, cathartic crying. maybe a semi-annual cry-out. if you don't, you might find yourself emotionally clogged and disastrous things can happen.

maybe you disagree with my crying-is-cheaper-than-a-shrink theory, but maybe someday you will see that, as with pretty much everything else, i'm right. whether you're ready for it now, or need it in about 6 months, this post will be here for you (unless google goes up in flames). i think i'll be due for a good sob in about 3 months, so i'll definitely not be deleting this post. these are scenes from movies you should watch; unless you're a total robot they will make you cry like a baby.

1. blood diamonds (peace, mom, i saw it edited.)
Solomon Vandy: [trying to talk the gun out of his kidnapped, warped son's hands, trying to jug his memory to better days] Dia, What are you doing? Dia! Look at me, look at me. What are you doing? You are Dia Vendy, of the proud Mende tribe. You are a good boy who loves soccer and school. Your mother loves you so much. She waits by the fire making plantains, and red palm oil stew with your sister N'Yanda and the new baby. The cows wait for you. And Babu, the wild dog who minds no one but you. I know they made you do bad things, but you are not a bad boy. I am your father who loves you. And you will come home with me and be my son again.

2. finding neverland
J.M. Barrie: [discussing Sylvia's reluctance to accept her illness] They can see it, you know. You can't go on just pretending.
Sylvia Llewelyn Davies: Just pretending? You brought pretending into this family, James. You showed us we can change things by simply believing them to be different.
J.M. Barrie: A lot of things, Sylvia. Not everything.
Sylvia Llewelyn Davies: But the things that matter. We've pretended for some time now that you're a part of this family, haven't we? You've come to mean so much to us all that now, it doesn't matter if it's true. And even if it isn't true, even if that can never be... I need to go on pretending... until the end... with you.

3. free willy
Jesse: I love you, Willy.

(just kidding)

happy crying!

confession:

rather than from pulpit, i choose to divulge from the blog:

[deep breath]

my name is meredith, and i have gray hairs.

17 in my last count.

whew, that feels much better.

my hair has been highlighted or dyed back to its natural color for the last year, so they've been nearly impossible to catch, but since i'm miss thrifty buns these days, i had let my roots grow a snitch, just avoiding the purchase of anything.  the roots of all but these 17 little devils are unnoticeable.  17.  gray.  hairs.

i choose to open this up now because last week someone was giving me a back scratch, they on the couch, i on the floor.  suddenly this person was combing through my hair with his fingers.  he said he was "checking for lice," you know, routine thing, but i'm suspicious, most suspicious that he had discovered the 17 gray hair roots, and was getting a kick out of it.

it started with 1 when i was 12.  i thought it was a blonde hair.  i got all excited, thinking maybe puberty, instead of handing me zits and other horrors, was going to just turn my hair from nearly black to a vibrant blonde.  after some careful analysis from female family members and girlfriends (boys still had cooties in them days), it was decidedly gray.  weird,  but whatever.  i didn't pluck it out because it was a good conversation topic in random times when it was noticeable.  

by the time i was 18 the gray hair had immaculately conceived 4 more little ones.  and then, at last count, it's a full blown polygamist family of 17.

this never bothered me, because a) obviously i wasn't old then, i'm not old now, even if my hair color juices have run dry in 17 little deposits, and b) my mom had the same thing happen so it must be something i inherited from her, and as long as i can blame my misfortunes on other people, i'm happy.

and
c) she won an academy award in all her grayness.  so although it's veiled by some feria, it's probably those 17 hairs that are awarding me ridiculous amounts of success.

What it Means to be an Eaton

One of the topics I sit on a lot on this blog is my phamilee.  They are my favorite things, and I'd have to say we have a pretty good thing going. 

In my own branch of Eaton, we're all pretty different.  We don't really believe we look or act alike.  Dad's the high-octane genius, Mom's the voice of self-control and sophistication, Elizabeth's the boss, I'm the ragamuffin, Sarah's the spitfire, Cameron's the saint.  Somehow we all hang out and have a great time.

I can say that being an Eaton means:

• you laugh hard at your own jokes.
• you lace that which you say and write with a ribbon of flair at all times, and in all things, and in all places, or die trying.
• you know almost every Hitchcock movie ever made.  I think Marnie is the only one I haven't seen; it was decidedly waaay too scandalous for those little 10 year old eyes of mine.
• you have eaten more broccoli than any one else.  Ever.
• you have Steve Martin's Father of the Bride memorized.  Once I went running 6 miles with a friend and she didn't believe me so I recited the movie the entire work out.  Yep.
• if you're an Eaton girl you have a thing for stacking rings.  The boys never caught the fever.
• you can eat Indian food until you're blue in the face.
• you have South Coast Plaza's lay-out burned on your brain due to millions of hours of window shopping.
• you have started to read Little Women but dropped out because it is so freaking boring.  Christian Bale is so much better to watch than read.  Maybe that's an Eaton girl thing too.
• you watched ER when George Clooney was a part of the cast.
• you choose Letterman over Leno, dogs over cats, but there can be found both macs and PCs in the house.
• you play the card game "spit" with indecent fervor and skill.
• you're familiar with Muddy Waters, B.B. King (all blues musicians), The Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, Miles Davis, and Leann Rimes (Cam's first heart throb).

I know it means more than that, but it's time for lunch and I'm done posting for now.  In short, I love being a Fab Eaton.

oprah

this is what i know of oprah:

obviously she has more money than the queen of england, (although i think i remember reading in forbes that she has less money than j.k. rowling, which gave me great satisfaction), obviously she's all about the power to the women, obviously she isn't bothered by the subzero qualities of chicago to such an extent that she'd transplant her thang to a warmer climate, and that's about as far as she and i go.  ah yes, and my mother was once gifted with a year's subscription to her magazine, which basically means lying around my parents' house there were 12 chunks of her adverts for high priced home appliances, working mom/cushy clothing stores, and the final article always entitled something like "one thing of which i know," which was basically a new way to say each time, "be your authentic self, there are no rules, and have joy."  it made me feel very "at-one-ish" with  myself.  did i mention each cover shot was of her in some flowy skirt laughing gayly?  (according to my former roommate whose PR firm does regular work with her empire, there may or may not be a double meaning in the preceding sentence's last word, but that's another story for another time.)  

so even though my relationship with oprah is of rather a surface quality, i will say that i've happened upon a few of her shows that i've actually thought of several times.  

• during the summer of 2005 sarah and i got sucked into the show featuring a self made millionaire with a set of cheap-skate rules that enabled him to afford his wife's 5 karat diamond ring.  i remember he saved every other pay check.  he only bought furniture from foreclosed homes, and only shopped warehouse style (that 5 karat ring was from costco). in time that added up (with some very wise investments, i'm sure) and now he's sittin pretty.  everyone better get a costco card or else no one will ever retire, saith he.
  
• rudy giuliani may have guided NYC through 9/11 with courage and strengf, but he also was a cheating idiot back in the 80s.  his scorned wife lost her heart, but not her self-control, and faded with dignity into the divorce shadows.  shortly thereafter she was reunited with her high school/college love, the OTHER one who'd broken her heart, and with years of wisdom behind them, they joined hands, blended families, and both enjoy saint rudy's alimony.  it was cute.
• and yes.  i did watch the tom cruise couch jumping phenomenon, and am grateful to know for myself that he is a bit loony.  this bit of info has enriched my life greatly.  
• i watched an ex-polygamist compound child bride cry and cry about her decision to escape her texan prison; i did get sucked into that vortex of information.

so oprah, even though i get the sneaking suspicion you think you're the alpha and the omega, although you have seduced millions, and they look at you in your studio audience the way nazi youth looked at hitler, i thank you for your contributions to my little eaton life, and wish you joy in being your authentic self.

the end.

how's this for the best story you've ever heard?

read it here.

to all viewers of 24:

am i the only one who's bothered by the fact that president palmer has been so shamefully reduced to appear in the the occasional AllState Insurance commercial?

he's the former PRESIDENT of the UNITED STATES, close friends with lone wolf JACK BAUER, and now all he can do is awkwardly stand there and pose the not-so-penetrating question, "can you afford not to be in good hands?"

someone, PLEASE get him a nice, cushy role on some law and order-ish tv drama.

so what does meredith do when she's unemployed and of compromised health?

• knit.  scarf coming soon.
• watch newsies and the rainmaker and grey's anatomy
• reading the books that i never finished...of which there is a shamefully high number.  closure is good.
• make cookies and brownies.  don't eat them because i have germs.
• sleep.
• fluids.
• fluids.
• sleep.
• make single words into sentences on lists on a friday blog post.

Espeenach Esmoody

This is the infamous Spinach Smoothie. My darling friend Erin requested the recipe this morning, and I thought while I was writing it up, I might share the green lovin with everyone.

Step A: You must have a blender. This is not an option. If you have a clean blender on hand, you may proceed to Step B. If you have no blender, well then, as Wesley once said, "We are at an impasse."

Step B: Chuck into the clean blender:

• 2 handfuls of spinach (Which is why, for the love of all that is good on this earth, wash your hands before you start this.)


• 1 banana


• 1/2 cup to 1 cup fresh orange juice


• 1/8 cup coconut or soy milk (You get to choose! This smoothie is all about the free agency!)


• 1 handful of ice


• 1 cup water


• 2 tablespoons MILLED/GROUND/GRAINY/SAND-esque flax seed. Works wonders for your cardiovascular health, not to mention your skin will GLOW and SHIMMER upon consumption.


• After this, folks, you get to take creative control. You are the arteests. If you want to throw in some strawberries, room temperature or frozen, be my guest. If you like a good mango now and again, knock your socks off. go wild.

Step C: Guzzle, slurp, and bottoms up.

I promise, while this thing looks irrevocably green, it does not taste at all like spinach. It takes on more the flavor of the fruits and the orange juice. And it is THE BIZZLE, I assure you. This has been an Eaton Family Favorite since Christmas morning 2007 (see proof above), when it was taste tested and emphatically endorsed. I promise there was no double dipping involved.

October 4, 2006

This past weekend not only did I score a 99% on Rock Band vocals, I saw come and go the 2 year anniversary of my MTC REPORT DATE. I remember opening my mission call all alone in our garden, with eyes averted, my shaky hand feeling around inside that infamous white envelope, locating the single sheet of paper, and then locating the booklet which I knew would contain pages and pages of wardrobe ideas (i.e. depressing jumpers and loafers). I thought the neighbors would hear my heart pound while pulling out both so I could cover the letter with the booklet and read line by line. I knew if I didn't, my disobedient eyes would dart straight to the location, and I wanted the proper crescendo of anticipation. As I did this, however, my eyes' willpower faltered and I saw somewhere in the 2nd paragraph, "October 4th". As it was JUNE, I groaned within myself, but then excitedly allowed myself to read about how I was thereby called to serve in Costa Rica.

I thought this occasion warranted a mission story, and not one that will make you feel warm and fuzzy inside. I spent enough time with RMs before becoming one to know that those should only be told upon request, or you start and then you don’t stop, and it’s a great way to ruin a good friendship.

In my last area, I was as far south as they’ll allow the sisters to go. It was rural with so much lush greenery it almost seemed unfair. The attitude is a bit more “que sera sera” in the “campo,” which I loved, and which also made me seem even more high strung than I already did to those chillaxed Ticos.

There is one pista, or highway, that runs through the entire country. We spent a lot of time walking up and down the pista, as all our neighborhoods branched off from it. With the cars whizzing past us, conversation was usually dealt with in yells. If it were raining as well, conversation was futile. We would walk in silence with the rain beating holes in our umbrellas.

We often saw an old, skinny hobo, who would always pass us and yell, “Que Dios les bendiga!” or “God bless you!” We’d always smile and say “Igualmente!”

One afternoon we were walking/swimming down the pista, and I looked off in the distance ahead and saw our old hobo amigo coming toward us at a soggy run. I didn’t think much of it, and made a comment to my companion, who was looking at the ground. I looked up again and old hobo amigo was getting closer. I could see he was barefooted, wearing an open trench coat, and….huh? I felt it was like watching a bad car accident, there wasn’t enough time to react, (and how would I react?) as the otherwise buck naked old hobo amigo ran right in between my companion and I, yelling as usual, and for what would be the last time, “Que Dios les bendiga!”

i stand corrected.

yesterday i was at lunch with a couple of chums, and a young man present named occunningham said who knows what, and i misused the words sympathize and empathize in my reply. occunningham called me out on it. i argued the point for a minute, then retraced my verbal steps, and ceded. i know, riveting. he demanded that i blog about it and expose my folly, because he, the accountant, thinks that i, the former english major, am supposed to have perfect grammar every waking moment. ok, maybe i often do, but as yoda would say, "human i am." or that's what yoda would say a) if he were real, and b) if he were human.

occunningham, here is your big, fat, freaking blog post about my guffaw and your victory.

a smattering of things:

- i moved into my new crib o' crib 2 nights ago, and all's well in my little sphere of zion. parking is a total fiasco, there was the distinct odor of regurgitated food particles in the courtyard last night, but hey! it's home! someone should write a country song about it. my apartment is 1 mile from the beach, which i have yet to exploit, my roommates are terrific, and it must be meant to be, because they shower at night, i shower in the morning. and they have their surfboards hanging in the family room, and there are about 40 of them, so it gives the impression that at least one of them has got to be mine, and i'm totally hard core.

- my little brother turned 20 on tuesday. he's been gone on his mission for over 4 months now, and up until recently i've been very proud of him and kept the separation anxiety to a minimum. i think i was just riding high on the wave of relief that he wanted to go of his own fruition. now i'm taking all that mature selflessness and shoving it out the window into the smelly courtyard. who cares if it's his duty? what about ME?! 20 months? 20 months? he's got 20 months left on his mission. father time will not be rushed, and i really would just love to sit and have a chat with my big little brother. now i'm turning all soft and fragile, but ladies and gents, my brother is one of those things in life that are seemingly too good to be true, but cameron is, in fact, "a truth" (in paula abdul terms). when he was 2 he'd come wake me up onsaturday mornings and would be so squishy and snuggly, and elizabean and i would each hold a hand and walk him downstairs, fill up his bottle with some m-i-l-k and wrap him in a blanket like the burrito he would one day scarf in record time, sarah would trail behind, and we'd sink into saturday morning cartoons. his "good egg" factor has been loud and clear from the very first.

now i've gone all soft. i need to regroup.

- last night i made some prop 8 calls. my two favorites:

me: hi, my name's meredith, and i'm calling tonight in support of proposition 8; are you familiar with this proposition?
him: no, but i just watched sarah palin kick joe biden's a_ _!!

that one ended with a very enthusiastic plan to vote Y on 8.

next one...

me: hi, my name's meredith, and i'm calling tonight in support of proposition 8; are you familiar with this proposition?
him: no. (latino accent)
me: well, prop 8, if passed, will preserve the definition of marriage as being between a man and a woman.
him: yeah, but they're all getting married anyway!
me: well, those marriages won't be legalized unless prop 8 doesn't go through. the supreme court doesn't have the final say on it. are you registered to vote?
him: yeah, but i don't vote for nobody.
me: why not?
him: because they're all LIARS!
me: well i don't know about that, but--
him: and my vote doesn't count anyway, with all that electoral basura
*please note: this is the moment when i'm not confident in my political savvy to object to this, so i say,
me: one second.... [i mute it, and yell into the house where there are scattered 1 lawyer, 2 accountants, and an operational engineer...i was pretty sure one of them would be able to answer my question, "IS THIS ELECTORAL OR MAJORITY?" i hear about 3.4 yells back, "MAJORITY!" yes, now in hindsight i realize that was maybe a dumb question, but as denise kaa used to say in high school, "whatevs with THAT sitch!"

in the end, mr. latino said he would go and vote.

i don't have anything really fun or interesting to say today. if you were bored enough to read this post, you would find out that:

whenever i come around the corner toward the front desk at work, i can see plain as day that the receptionist has been playing solitaire or is on facebook. she quickly minimizes the screen, swings her chair around, and smiles nervously at me. i wonder whether or not i should tell her that i don't care what she does at work all day, if i should tell her about my blogging, blog reading, g-chat, and email addiction. i consider informing her that in the mornings, when my swash-buckling co-worker who sits 5 feet away from me is in the office, i have to be careful to not laugh out loud at my escapist internet dealings so that i don't get caught.

nah, let her sweat it out.

lindsey said it best.

from september: first attempt at surfing since a freckled brace face 12 year old at girl's camp.  click here to share the moment.

inferior particles

i wrote this a few weeks ago for my creative writing grad school app portfolio. i may be applying to a different program now, and in any case, i started this blog to get the stuff i write out there, and i like this one enough to put it out into the open internet. thar she blows:

inferior particles
by meredith eaton

beth's feet barely knew the floor as she entered her pristine kitchen, the garage closing behind her. almost pristine. oops, those shouldn't be there, she thought, as she spotted the trail of crumbs on the chalk white tile floor. proof that danny was still the same danny he'd been since kindergarten, and had chosen the same grilled cheese sandwich to eat while he toiled over his honors studies. in a time not so long before, this imperfection would have meant a spike in her heart rate; any trace of disorder would have been erased completely before greg could have walked from car door to garage door. she only recently had the wherewithal to remember that crumbs are, in fact, not cause for crisis. beth sighed, lifted a blithe eyebrow to the rogue crumbs and said to herself, "not today!"

this foreign concept of not caring was becoming more and more natural and welcome. callie and danny didn't even exchange confused glances anymore; this serene, glowing person was indeed a new version of their old mother. admittedly, at the very first she wrestled with this freedom of feeling, the freedom from the contradictory emotional drag of the man with whom she'd exchanged vows years before.

but now...blithe eyebrow lift, blithe stroll through the crumb violated kitchen, blithe twirl through the back door to smell her azaleas. in the clay pot next to her planted mint leaves they smelled like a kind of toothpaste only a fairy godmother could provide. maybe she'd provide it. why not? beth peterson - toothpaste flavor inventor. her list of talents and range of potential had flourished ever since paul had become her secret -- her paul. he was the only thing she'd ever really had, the only thing that had ever chosen her in the way she wanted to be chosen. now she could see. greg owned her, but just that. paul chose her because he loved her. and after over a decade of feeling wrong for trying to do everything exactly right, she had found love. how could that be wrong? easy answer, paul told her, and she told herself -- it's not wrong.

back in the house she picked up callie's sweater that lay draped over the arm of the bonus room couch. a small stack of flashcards underneath the sweater were knocked to the ground. scooping them up, she sat on the couch to straighten the stack. callie's flashcards for the advanced placement english exam; she wondered how many words she'd still know...

abate...to lessen? the flashcard congratulated her. abate: to reduce in amount, degree, intensity, etc.; lessen; diminish.

abhor...to dislike bitterly. again, she was right: abhor: to regard with extreme repugnance or aversion; detest utterly; loathe; abominate.

wow, she thought, i'm good at this.

adulterous. she looked at the card again. she chuckled, but her eyebrows curled up and her jaw clenched tight. then she read on, adulterous: polluted with inferior particles.

polluted with inferior particles. her body was a ton of bricks, dragging her deep into the cushions of the couch.

she jumped slightly as the garage door opened beneath her, announcing greg's return home from work.