Because Getting Up Early is Not Fun

Dear friends, family, fellow commiserators:

I love being up early. I love the freshness of the morning, the peacefulness that prevails when only a few other souls are out and about; I love accomplishing major tasks before the sun even rises, I love SEEING the sun rise, and I deeply enjoy the general good feeling that seems to bless me when I rise up early.

But...

I do not like getting up. I do not like trying to drag myself out from under the heavy, soft, warm blankets that are swathed about me. I do not like the racous and irreverent screech of my phone alarm. I do not appreciate the cold blast of air that hits me when I venture from under the covers. It is not pleasing to me when the laser beam of a light is flicked on and my pupils shrink so fast it gives me a headache.

Every other morning, I attend a "master swim" class at the YMCA at 5:00. This necessitates a 4:00 AM wake-up. I know few others who are up at this hour (Heather...), and the only comfort to me is that they, too, are miserably beginning the process of emerging from the cocoon of sleep, and out into the harsh and unforgiving morn.

Is that how a baby feels when it is born, I thought? Leave me in here, I am so cozy, so warm! But really, you can only be there, in bed, in the womb, for so long before it becomes unhealthy. Your life really can only progress so far, you can only accomplish so much, you can only grow to a certain extent. You need that time of respite, of recovery, of growth, but you need the cold morning to wake you up and get you moving, too. You need the stern decision that you WILL do something with your life, that you ARE going somewhere, that you CAN achieve your goals for the day.

The wisest sage who ever lived, King Solomon, addressed this common problem directly in the Sixth Proverb:

How long will you lie there, you sluggard?
When will you get up from your sleep?

10 A little sleep, a little slumber,
a little folding of the hands to rest-

11 and poverty will come on you like a bandit
and scarcity like an armed man.

Do not lie abed too long and do not mourn the coming of dawn, dear friends, for life waits for no man and it will surely pass you by!

With love,


Mrs H
tweet us @_mrs_h
Follow us on Facebook!

Who Roasts Chestnuts On an Open Fire, Anyway?

Dear Reader,

Fall has only just arrived, but I can barely contain myself with the thought of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and all of the glorious winter-related joys - including the delicious foods that come with the season!

What is your favorite Christmas treat? Fruitcake ... a certain cookie ... pull-apart buns ... cinnamon rolls ... striped candy ... glazed ham ...

Leave us a comment describing your favorite Christmastime food (or maybe a couple favorites!).

Tastefully yours,


Mrs H
tweet us @_mrs_h
Follow us on Facebook!

Idle Hands Are the Devil's Workshop, So Why Not Build a Church While You're Laid Off to Annoy the Devil?

Dear gentle and kind reader,

Let me tell you how to shake up a boring afternoon. Hint: it might include a visit to your local nursing home. Surprised? Read on.

Note: It really has very little to do with the title of this blog.

Between school quarters, I had some spare time (hence the Idle Hands allusion, and the end of our connection with said title) and availed myself of the opportunity to drive up to my maternal grandmother's house in Marysville. I've called her "Grandma Oregon" my entire life because she lived in Oregon when I was growing up, and somehow we started calling her that - who knows why ... it's irrelevant.

Allow me to proceed, lest I lose your interest; I drove to her house during the heat wave and enjoyed some grapes and plums while we sat in her relaxingly cool living room and chatted (these are additional irrelevant facts, but English teachers alway say that mundane and realistic facts help to create a more realistic story, hence the inclusion of mundane and realistic facts in my very real story).

"I sure was ornery back then," Grandma Oregon said. She chuckled as she remembered her orneriness. "I was riding a bike with my friend, I think I was on the handlebars. She was going on and on about the Catholics, how awful they were, when I just up and said, 'I'm Catholic!' She sure hushed up right then! Then I told her, 'No, I'm not Catholic, I'm Christian,' he he!" My ornery little grandma laughed. I loved it.

She went on: "I always went to those prank stores, you know. I bought one of those cushions... Oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself! A salesman came to the door once, I don't know if he was the Fuller Brush man or an insurance salesman - I think he was an insurance salesman [note the irrelevant, but realistic fact]. Anyway, he knocked and I said, 'Come in if your nose is clean!' And I had put one of those cushions, you know, the kind you blow, they go Pthhh!! I put one on the couch and he sat down on it, and PGHTPHBLPPPP!!! His face got so red!! He was so embarrassed!" She could hardly continue on she was laughing so hard. "Bernice, my older sister was so angry, but he was so embarrassed!"

It took a moment to recover from the memory, and she continued: "I got one of those cups, it looks like crystal with a pattern on it; but in the pattern there is a tiny hole. I served some wine or something, oh and I was old enough to know better! They got it all over themselves and they were so angry, they said 'This is a new shirt!'"

She recalled a moment of humor with my older cousin, Chris. "When Christopher was just a little kid, he hid those jelly snakes (you know, the candy ones), in between the tissues in my box of Kleenex. I was dusting one day, I dusted just one room a day you know, and I must have been going to sneeze because I reached for a tissue and I felt something there and I just jumped!! I called Christopher and said, 'I found a jelly snake in my Kleenex!' He just said-" and her voice got very serious, "'I wondered when you were going to find those.'"

So, dear reader, go visit your Grandma.

Who knows what you'll learn?

Truly,

Mrs H
tweet us @_mrs_h
Follow us on Facebook!

With Her Tail Cut Short & Her Ears Cut Long...

Oh where, oh where can she be?

Mrs. H has been studying - and studying a lot!

Dearest, faithful readers,

As you may have noticed, my technical skills (!) are such that I have learned how to allow Facebook to automatically update when I post a new blog. Isn't that amazing? This is the space age, my friends, and if we can put a man on the moon, only think the wonderous intricacies that our online networks can encompass.

You may have also noticed that I have been remiss in keeping you current on the whimsies of life. This is primarily due to two things: (1) My education, (2) the allure of two new seasons of The Office being posted to Netflix.

You may sympathize with me on the latter point.

Mr. H is watching the football game and simultaneously napping (many of you wives may be familiar with this manly ritual), and I must move on from the glorious realm of blogging and Facebook, to completing my study guide for a Research Methods in Psychology class tomorrow afternoon.

Yours truly until Michael Scott returns to the glowing screen,


Mrs H
tweet us @_mrs_h
Follow us on Facebook!

I Tried To Wash the Rest of the Blood Out of My Hair

Dear avid readers and sporadic guests alike,

How exactly does one go about sustaining a minor head injury while running? If this is a question you have often wondered, let me help you out here. The following story illustrates my own personal experience with the matter.

I was going for an average run yesterday, and I decided to take my run to the gritty streets of Everett and Mill Creek, instead of the placid curves of the interurban trail. (I prefer street running, to be honest.) The only downfall is the occasional stoplight; when I hit one that does not signal me forward with the little White Man Walking sign, I pound the button energetically and jog in circles until the light changes for me.

Upon this significant day in my life, I was a mere quarter mile from home, with eleven and three-quarter miles under my belt. The sun was just coming out, and I was thirsty, sweaty, dirty, and a bit tired. The light was not changing. I had pounded the button numerous times, and to keep my heart rate up and my legs moving, I did my usual Let's Jog Around the Light Pole dance (this is not a pole dance).

Unfortunately, this is where I made my tactical blunder. If you drive past a stoplight pole, glance at it and notice that, on the back side of the pole, there is an electrical box - usually about seven feet up the pole.

This one was at head height.

I leave the reader to draw their own conclusions. It didn't hurt too bad, and did not seem to affect me necessarily, but the passengers of the cars at the stoplight were getting a good chuckle. It was not until the next morning (and after a long hot shower right after the run) when I reached up to comb my hair back with my hand that I realized there was blood beneath my hair. In the YMCA showers later, I tried to gently soak it - but I confess I was hesitant to scrub too hard because I thought I might open the jagged, spurting wound back up.

If the dear reader ever ventures to run on the street and decides to jog around the light pole, they should follow one of several courses: (a) Give the pole a wide berth. (b) Crouch down low as they jog. (c) DO NOT JOG AROUND LIGHT POLES.

With affection and bandages for all,


Mrs H
tweet us @_mrs_h
Follow us on Facebook!

Those Who Don't Have Enough Time are Often Procrastinators

To my dear and prudent readers, who themselves have probably never dreamed of procrastinating on anything,

It is not actually an issue of not having the time of day to do something; rather it is the issue of dawdling so much along the way, that prevents me from accomplishing my intended tasks.

This odd disease of which I speak is, of course, procrastination...

When a distasteful task is set before me, it is as though a celestial coin-toss takes place and there are 50/50 odds of me either rolling up my metaphorical sleeves and digging in with gritty determination, or else pathetically concoting a thousand excuses and rationalizations to delay the beginning of the task.

Case in point #1: Scrubbing the back bathroom. For some mysterious reason, I dislike doing this. I am fine with scrubbing the front bathroom, but literally for two months (or was it two and a half months?) I put off scrubbing the back bathroom. I usually clean the house starting from the front (living room, kitchen, foyer), and work my way back through the hallway, office, guest bathroom, and then the bedroom, and by the time I reach the back bathroom I have rationalized to myself that I need to start homework or go to the grocery store, or sift flour or surf facebook.com, or do some activity other than the heinous one at hand.

Editor's note: I eventually ended up scrubbing the bathroom, but this was only when I decided to start cleaning the house from the back, and work my way forward. One could say I had determined to face my fears in a manner that would make it more difficult for me to escape them.

Case in point #2: Just a mere two weeks ago, I had a short run I needed to accomplish (3 miles). This can be done in about half an hour and truly is not that painful! However, I drove to the appointed spot where I intended to begin, and sat in my car listening to the radio and organizing my purse for half an hour, dawdling, lollygagging, boondoggling, frittering time away ... whatever moniker is affixed to my activity, it all came down to the same thing: procrastination.

Editor's note: I did eventually go on the run, and enjoyed it immensely, and felt good once I finished. Why didn't I just start earlier and save myself the mental anguish of anticipation?

It is far nicer to just skip past all of the pre-activity anxiety and just engage immediately in the task; oftentimes it is not that bad once I begin, and sometimes (such as with running) it is enjoyable and even fun once I begin.

Logically, I know this to be true;

but, dear reader, in my closing remarks I have no sage aphorisms for you and no moral truths to divulge because I feel myself unfit to guide on a path which I have not yet traveled without considerable error. I have no compass with which you can guide yourself unequivocally away from the dark forest of procrastination (although I could suggest you find a coin and toss it to determine whether or not you should dally before an activity). In the world of literature, I understand that all are imperfect and the half-blind are supposed to lead the blind, and that often the "secret" truth is just a trite saying ("Find yourself!") that carries little weight and no meaning past the intitial rush of adrenaline. However, I have no trite sayings, but I could appropriately quote a familiar marketer who is known for their motivational slogans and equipment.

Just do it, people.

With a spirit of encouragement,


Mrs H
tweet us @_mrs_h
Follow us on Facebook!