- I’ve been working on a spoken word poetry piece about the origin of my interest in spoken word poetry. Most people in the Atlanta spoken word scene started with rap. I started with “Anne of Green Gables.” (Remember Anne’s recitation of “The Highwayman”—how could you not be moved?)
- I’ve been learning how to listen to my body. Mostly my body says things like, “You’re going to pay for this!” especially when I sit in the car for hours and hours driving up and down the East Coast week after week to accompany Trent on his interviews. Sometimes, my body says things like, “EAT THIS ENTIRE CARAMEL APPLE RIGHT THIS SECOND.” I respectfully listen to that, too.
- I’ve been working to get ahead on writing deadlines, often while watching the Olympics, often while listening to Morning Edition. Often, these distractions lead to me getting nothing accomplished.
- I’ve been reading a lot, polishing of this and this and this and this and this. If you want to know which ones I’d recommend, you’ll have to ask me privately. Disliking books written by admirable kidnapping victims makes me feel like I’m a terrible person. I probably am.
- I’ve been thinking about my future daughter very little and myself very much, something I’m trying to correct before it’s too late. Meeting my friend Danielle’s new addition, Olivia Marie, via Google Hangout last week gave me a wave of excitement again. It comes in waves. Danielle said she was nervous about how she and Olivia would get along. “We totally hit it off,” she assured me. I’m praying for the same.
- I’ve been brainstorming street names for my parents who just closed on a beautiful five-acre lot near Deer Creek Reservoir. Before they build their house, they get to name their street. They’re offering a $50 prize for the winning name. So far, I’ve got Hyper Drive and Justin Timber Lane. My dad gave me an A for creativity, but an F for likelihood of winning. Like most things, my street names won’t be lauded for their greatness until after my death—the tragedy of true creative genius. I’m used to it. I think I’d be better at naming nail polish colors anyway.
- I’ve been on a quest to find the perfect macaroni and cheese recipe. Trent and I recently got carded while trying to buy white wine for one … except Trent didn’t have an ID on him. The dutiful 17-year-old grocery clerk was convinced that the pregnant 26-year-old Mormon was trying to buy alcohol for the bearded 28-year-old “minor” with proof of his own health insurance policy, fishing license and credit cards. We bullied him until he let us buy the bottle, first making Trent promise he wasn’t a law enforcement officer in disguise.
- I’ve started to learn French. So far, my favorite word is “blasé” which means apathetic or unimpressed. Mostly, I love this word because of how snooty it sounds when thrown into an English sentence. “I was so blasé about that last episode of American Idol. How many times are we going to hear ‘Radioactive’ this season? Think outside the box, people.” See? I’m basically French already.
Listening to: Bob Costas. Love that man. So happy he’s back.