Amorphous blob'ism of a week

Y'all, January is hard enough without accusations of "shithole" (or, as it wasn't but was suggested/lied about, "shithouse") countries and assertions of people we do and don't want anytime but sort of especially MERE DAYS BEFORE we celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King Day in the year that IS ALSO the 50th year since his assassination. 

January is cold enough that we can really do without continued sexual impropriety on a grand scale, including multiple and fairly credible tales of porn stars having had affairs with the Evil Yam just after Melania gave birth and then being paid hush money to shut up about it all.

January is screwy enough in terms of snow days and, thusly, parental schedules, that I hardly think we also need a desperate mother paying a large sum to largely untrained Container Store people for a "sleek and Swedish" organizational system that promises to solve a hoarder son's closet issues. Said mother averred that a cyclonically-inspired closet could be tamed in 60-90 minutes on an early-dismissal Tuesday. Said mother was, four hours, no lunch, and extreme body and foot odor later, chastened by said sleek and Swedish org system that is now a permanent part of a closet due to a mallet, chisel, hammer, and wild-eyed determination to make that fucker fit. Do not tell said mother's husband just what lengths she went to via the baseboard just inside the closet doors.

My dear housekeeper, Imelda, ventured in two hours in: "Emily, I am hearing the hammer. Is everything going ok? I want to offer my help."

"Imelda, I will win in this closet. I will make this organizer fit."

"Ok, Emily, it's just, I'm hearing the hammer" -read: "I should not be hearing a hammer," which was an accurate perspective from anyone but especially Imelda who can fix and solve and do anything- "and I want to offer my services."

I'm pretty sure my scent and the state of my hair and eyes caused her quick departure from the room. 

The Container Store is really the devil. No wonder it partners with Real Simple magazine which is the lyingest name of a magazine ever. Real Stressful would be infinitely more accurate. Sweet baby jesus in the skies, RS editors. Back your trains up. No one can cover even 80% of the advice you offer on one page must less on 200 of them. 

Meanwhile, the children appear to be suffering January-induced meltdowns and loss of senses of humor. Mary mother of moody boys. Get it together. Tonight, Tom's 40th birthday incidentally, found me with a brand new Keratin treatment in my hair -which means it's straight as a board and CANNOT, under penalty of death, be tucked in a rubber band, hair band, or even behind an ear- peeling and deveining shrimp, making biscuits, preparing a cocktail, making the kids' dinner, AND alternately tending to and ignoring pitiful whimpering from Oliver because he had to copy previously written persuasive letter text onto a new sheet of paper. The trials of being a privileged youth today.

My eyes just fell out I rolled them so hard.

Have you ever tried to peel and devein shrimp without being able to move your hair out of your face or even really touch it? Such is not an optimal scenario. And the wailing child is the cream. 

But I'm a perseverant gal, and damn you shithole president and persuasive letter writing and Keratin, I will make my husband a delicious meal. And I did.

barbecue shrimp

biscuits!

kale salad

And the boys calmed down and got their homework done, and dinner was good, and then T and I watched Get Out which is hands down the best social commentary film I've seen in a while, and now we're two forty-somethings off to bed. Happy Birthday, honey.

My newest venture

I am so, so excited to share that I have opened an editing business, Elucido: Make Your Written Work Shine. As you know, I love to write. Perhaps even more, I love to edit, and for years and years now, I have joyfully helped students and professionals polish application essays and cover letters, strengthen resumes, and tighten literary essays. Last year, I had the remarkable experience of helping edit the soon-to-be published memoir of a Civil Rights journalist.

As I look ahead, to the near future of sons who are going to sleepaway camp this summer for six weeks (gasp!) and to the longer-term future of boys continuing to grow up and out, I want more for me as Emily. I think it's wise, and I think it's time. This blog sustains me deeply, but Elucido is a thrilling venture beyond that, and there is something about a paycheck that feels awfully rewarding.

I had my first Elucido client over winter break, and friends, I was a new woman. I adore college-age students. Remembering what a crucial time my undergraduate years for me, in SO many ways, I love experiencing some of that excitement again. The electric jolt of opportunity that a good undergraduate or graduate fit can give young people. 

Likewise, the thrill of seeing people of all ages get to reinvent themselves professionally is such a gift. If I can help them make that leap with even an iota of greater confidence, well, wow. 

It would be impossible to adequately articulate the ways in which writing has changed and improved my life. I believe deeply that any sort of writing, especially if creative and/or personal, is a portal into parts of ourselves that might otherwise remain unknown. Whether telling a college more about who you are as a young adult or a potential boss about why you are the perfect candidate for the job or your readers about why you're worried or gleeful, you're coming to better understand and know yourself, and that is never a bad thing. To partner with others as they travel these roads is an honor.

So, thank you to everyone who has already expressed such generous support for me and my writing and Elucido. Please feel free to spread the word. 

The 2017 Burn Board and my beloved fat cat

So, come New Year's Eve, my foursome was pretty done. Well done. Put a fork in all of us; we'd spent enough vacation time together. However, stuck together for another 36 hours and in need of an activity, I recalled that at a party on NYE 2016, our delightful hosts had a Burn Board on offer. Guests were invited to add via sticky note all the shit from 2016 they might wish to see burned at the stroke of midnight. And then, at midnight, we burned it all. Fun.

I don't know that anyone actually thought 2017 would be better than 2016. I mean, crap, the Evil Yam hadn't even been inaugurated yet. Oh, the good old days. But despondency over November 8th had taken root, and so we tried to burn, burn it out.

This past Sunday, I suggested to the children and Tom, all pyromaniacs to varying degrees, that we make our own such burn pile. It was all too easy to create a dissertation-length text of 2017 horribleness. In fact, we stopped ourselves halfway through a ream of paper out of eco-guilt. But it was fun and a bit liberating and a nice bonding experience, and heck, the pictures are great for posterity and all.

Lest you pine for my beloved Nutmeg, my tubby kitty, here are a few recent pictures of his magnificent self.