And sometimes, they eat lots and lots and lots of chocolate cake. They’re just smart enough to not photograph any of the evidence.

Life got tough in December. And when life gets tough, the tough, well, they  drink tea.  And they cry a lot. Because tough people stay tough by recognizing that sometimes you have to let the tears eek out.

You know what else? Tough people surround themselves with really amazing people. Who can hold them in thoughts and prayers and say, “There, there, it’s hard being tough, now. . . isn’t it?”  And sometimes those people send packages of sympathy and tea. And sometimes they send you bright little emails of them hugging Palm trees in Hawaii or post snarky love notes on facebook. And these people, they may not know that life got really tough in December. Or that life hasn’t stopped being tough for 5 months.  But they are there just the same, because they are your tribe. And you can’t be tough without a tribe.

And if a tough person is lucky, she will not have to be tough alone. She will have an amazing family who loves her. She will return that love with abandon, despite fearing the loss of everything. And she will hold her child’s fears in her heart, and tell him, “There, there, it’s ok. We’re ok, because we have each other.” Because deep in her heart, where the fear piles up and forces tears out, deep down she knows this is true. Life is amazing! And she is blessed.

In the dead of night when it all becomes too much, she will pray. For life to be easier. For answers to questions and help so badly needed. And for all the people she doesn’t know, but who she is certain are out there being just as tough as she is. Because a tough person prays.

And she will let her husband feed her chocolate cake, because she thinks and he knows that cake makes it better. Chocolate cake, bought one piece at a time in some silent agreement that she’s on a diet after all;  mountains of plastic containers piling up in the recycling bag. One bite at a time towards OK. with tea. With lots and lots and lots of tea.

Because. When life gets tough, the tough—she drinks tea.

I am dead on my feet from deep cleaning our pitiful house all day. I have scrubbed and organized and sorted and done more laundry than I think we actually have. Even the dog is clean. And the refrigerator. Poor Iz, I think he’s in a state of shock.

So, I’m posting this little video. Because it kinda sums up our day relationship on so many levels.

Easter candy I stole borrowed from the boy.

Did you have an amazing holiday weekend? It was wet here and dark and gloomy and basically Oregon in April.

As most of you know, Iz and I sit down and have mochas together every morning. It’s a way of touching bases. You would think two people who both work from home already spend enough time together, but we really cherish our ritual. We talk about last night’s dreams (he has apocalyptic dreams, I have sex dreams. We might need therapy!) and our plans for the upcoming day. We review what happened while I slept (he’s up early, early for work. I sleep best alone) and sometimes we just savor each other’s company in silence.

If it’s a weekend, our coffee time tends to stretch out across the morning. And on those days I have time to wake up and wind up and oh boy. IZ gets treated to all the sermons on my mind. I stand in the kitchen trying to talk over the espresso machine—I get a little angsty. He listens with that bemused smile on his face—and I’ll give him credit, he multi-tasks well. “You know, here’s what I’m thinking I should blog about today. . . ” and I’m off!

Problem is, if IZ endures a sermon blog post from me then it’s highly unlikely that I’ll actually blog on the topic. Despite my orally crafting sentences and themes and putting it all together in a logical fashion. Sometimes these little rants of mine come out completely formed and sometimes, I stand there sifting through the mire chucking  boulders for the splash,

“I’m thinking about “unfriending” half the people I know on Facebook. That’s a good hook, right?”

“What do you mean I’m being hyperbolic? I do too think it should be illegal for 20 somethings to give  marriage advice.”

“What? I can’t say that on the blog? IT’S MY BLOG and I don’t think Jesus would mind.”

“What readers? I can’t alienate readers I don’t have.”

“If you didn’t want me to blog about how you used the force to remove my bra, you shouldn’t have done it. There should be some compensation for living with a man who thinks he has jedi powers.”

And that’s all before I get my cofffee! It’s not that he talks me out of anything. It’s more like I talk myself into boredom on the topic (or in the  case of the jedi mind tricks, laugh myself into an asthma fit!). But it does make me wonder if I’d blog more if we didn’t have coffee together on the weekends.

That’s a lot of ifs.

He’s stylish and talks in code

Today’s much anticipated wind storm turned out to be milder than Monday’s gale. It’s blowing, but it’s not urgent. It’s the kind of weather that says, “Stay at home, your house is a pit and needs cleaning anyhow.” Yes, there is that kind of weather and it sounds just like your mother.

So,  I spent the afternoon straightening up my studio and making room for this kid.  He’s taken up residence on the far end of my working table. I now have vacuumed floors, relatively clean surfaces,  and I understand that in php real numbers can be substituted by text. I’m using “understand” loosely here because I really have no idea what that means.

He’s stylish. And he talks in code. Just like his father.

Before the wind blows . . .

I’m waiting for the wind to blow down my house. Bad wolf! So, I snuck outside and took a photo of my lovely crabapple trees while they’re still in bloom. Because come this time tomorrow, my lawn is likely to be sprinkled with the carnage of sweet white blossoms and pink buds. BAD WOLF!

I should write more here. And I might, later. But until then, you can suffer through another pretty flower picture. My blog.

I’ve managed to condense the last 2 weeks of my life into 2.5 minutes. I know that’s an eternity in the video world; but, I have to tell you, it represents so much more. And I’m really proud of it! This is just phase one of Mireio’s Spring line and I promise not to bug you with any more commercials after this one. But go look, ok? And listen. And click the last button when the video is done because technology is really  cool. And so is hard work.

The ironing board in my studio piled up with fabric for the spring/summer line and neglected camellias from yesterday’s photo-shoot.

This week has felt like a “moment”… passing with far more speed than I expected. Why is that? All I know is that I when I logged onto this blog today, I was a bit shocked at how long it’s been since I last posted. And that seems to happen more and more lately.

So, what have you been up to? As you can see from the photo above, I’m attempting to ramp up for the Spring/Summer line. It’s going slower than I expected. (Sensing  a trend yet?) Of course, I compound matters when I decide last minute (today!) to add a Liberty of London line. Oh. My. For those of you who aren’t addicted to fabric, Liberty is a feast for the eyes and a big old drain on the pocket book. But, they just screamed “Mireio” and honestly, if Target can do it, so can I. Right?

Anyhow, I ordered yet more fabric this morning with the help of IZ (you have no idea how hard it is to choose!!), which means the shop update will be a bit prolonged. Not what I expected, but I’m learning to adapt my rhythms to this ever so cranky muse of mine. She’s a handful, people. I think she might need medication. Just sayin’.

(more…)

I’m such a lucky girl!!

Sunshine arrived on my porch today in the form of a box crammed full of these amazing jewels. Because isn’t  that what citrus is, bright, shiny orbs of amazing?  Much love to the fabulous Ms. Suzy Lorenzen for sending a piece of California to me for my birthday. How did you know? It’s just what I needed!

And to the rest of you, who have left such funny and endearing comments wishing me well as I enter this new decade: Thank you! From the bottom of my heart, I adore you all. I’m very fortunate to have such amazing friends and readers.

(and for those of you who have been betting against me on Facebook, HELLO! Day Nine and I’m still breathing!)

Let’s call this the BEFORE photo.

Dang, it’s been a week. I’ve been adjusting—sitting in bed, eating Sees Candy, and wishing Jillian Michaels laryngitis.

Ok, only part of that last sentence is true.

I’ve been meaning to come back and write the truth of turning forty, but you know how it goes. Right? And really, what do I know? Forty isn’t that much different from 39, it just sounds older. Although, I’m convinced there is a time-bomb in my DNA that alerted my system: HEY! She’s OLDer, go on the fritz and screw with her psyche a bit. I mean, seriously? Acne? And I don’t even want to talk about the 13 lb weight gain.

Ok, I don’t want to talk about it, but I will. I posted the photo to give you some idea. A close observer will notice I look a bit sleep deprived. I’m not. I just put on weight in my face. My chin and eyelids apparently have room for more fat. Who knew?  You’ll also notice the, uh, boobage (as the ever so articulate men in my family call it.) Oh yeah, when Wende gains weight she gains it EVERYWHERE. Her face, her ass, her ankels (WTF?) and damn, girl, you’ve got boobs!

That should make me happy, right? And it would, if I didn’t bump into a third chin looking down to admire my new cleavage. You can’t win them all.

So, despite the great rack I’m sporting and exaggerating about, I’ve decided that it’s time. Time to really look over my habits and fix the problem. I had the great misfortune to visit the Doctor’s office the day after my birthday and well, that’s all I’m going to say about it. But it did convince me that if I want to get this weight off, I’m on my own and it’s time to call in qualified reinforcements.

Enter Jillian Michaels. I hate her.

Ok, that’s too strong, but really—she’s getting on my nerves. So, while I’ve been remiss at blogging, I have been  jumping jacking my newly acquired boobage right out of its exercise bra. Observant readers  and people on facebook who I’m spamming with updates will notice the new page (way up there, up, up, see it?) called “Dear Jillian“.  I’m keeping track of all my grievances against the ridiculously in shape Ms. Jillian. You know, in case I ever meet her. (Dear  Jillian, you might want to be thinking about a restraining order now. My name is spelled with 2 “e”s)

I’ve heard from a few of you that you have this stupid exercise tape and haven’t bothered to even take the shrink wrap off the darn thing. Um. If I’m suffering, you should be too. Consider this a kick in the pants to get moving. See, this way you can be snarky on your blog too. Write a Dear Jillian page and I promise to come and commiserate. We’ll start a revolution.

And speaking of commiseration, I apologize that the page won’t let you leave comments. It’s a template thing. And, sadly, my darling IZ is too flooded with real work to fix it. So, if you have something pithy to say or add well, write your own damn blog, er email me or comment anywhere.

So, summing up: Forty isn’t bad. Wende has boobs and a new-found nemesis and is flaming a revolution.

I’d say that’s a very good start to a new decade. Fan any flames, pour kerosine on any fires lately? Dish in the comments already!

I’ve been reading the biography of Anne Sexton this week. And after a little online research, bumped into this recording that I can’t stop playing. Anne’s All My Pretty Ones is blended beautifully with Peter Gabriel’s Mercy Street, which was inspired by Anne. It’s worth a listen to if you’re a fan of either poet.