Blood Moon and Palindromes

Palindrome: a word, phrase, sentence, or number that reads or means the same thing forwards or backwards.

Blood Moon: a moniker for a lunar eclipse that gives the moon a warm red appearance.

http://i.space.com/images/i/000/005/941/i02/reddened-moon-lunar-eclipse-101221-02.jpg?1292951155

     On 4-14-14 my student blurted out, “Mrs. H, did you know that the dates this week are all palindromes?  

    To which I responded with kind euphemism, “Tucker, please raise your hand if you have something to share and let’s keep our discussions relevant to the novel,” code for shut your mouth, that was random, and don’t interrupt me!  (NEVER would I say aloud.) However, as all good educators know, our students teach us, too.  Intrigued, I casually meandered to his table, and quietly asked him to explain more.

      “Tucker, when I write out the date, 04-14-2014, I don’t end up with a palindrome.  

       He responded, “No, you have to write the dates like this, 4-14-14, 4-15-14,… See? Now you have a set of palindromes."

     “Cool,” I replied, and nodded my head while muttering, “How interesting.”  

      The next day, inspired by palindrome dates and apocalyptic eclipses, I told my students to write a poem over the “blood moon” using 8 palindrome words.  If you missed all the moon hype, here is a link to witness the spectacular sight.

 http://www.cnn.com/2014/04/15/tech/innovation/blood-moon/index.html?hpt=hp_c4

     Figuring I ought to implement what I instruct, I wrote a poem using palindrome phrases. 

Murder for a jar of red rum
Now do I repay a period won?
Was it a bat I saw?
Nurse, I spy gypsies, run!
Too hot to hoot,
Too far, Edna, wander afoot.
Was it a cat I saw?
Toot! Toot!
Mad? Am I madam?
4-16-14
No omelet did tele moon! 

    A poem devised of palindromic phrases proved harder than I thought, thus I borrowed heavily from: http://www.cs.arizona.edu/icon/oddsends/palinsen.htm

  

  Anyway, next time you trip acid, while watching the moon eclipse red, feel free to recite my cryptic poem, shouting it into a vast black interminable sky! (Disclaimer:  JUST SAY NO!  I do not condone the use of illegal drugs nor does this blog.) 

Let the ever eclectic fairytale continue...

~Truly, Cinderella

Southern Living

http://www.southernliving.com/

 Do you think Cinderella read Southern Living?  After she took back her slipper, planned her dream wedding, and married Prince Charming, did she melt into her comfy chair, the one with a gorgeous view of the hydrangeas, to sip steaming Chai tea and read her newest issue?  I think so.  I believe Cinde was the ultimate Southern belle.  Think about it: She demonstrated resourcefulness; after crafting three ballgowns for her evil steps, she found the energy to hop into a vegetable carriage pulled by mutant mice, attend a pretentious gala, and captivate an entire room with her beauty.  She wooed the boy by showcasing her graceful dance moves while wearing a knock-out dress!  She was polite when facing her adversaries but destroyed them with a fabulous pair of heels.  Sounds like a southern woman to me.
   Well, this modern day, middle-aged-ish working mom reads Southern Living religiously.  Like, it's the Southern woman's Bible and Lindsay Bierman is my prophet.

-

SouthernLiving.com

(Seeing how I'm a fine Christian woman, I don't mean that literally, as I'd never say something so sacrilegious.  But if I ever form a SL cult, the aforementioned would definitely apply.)  Each and every issue transports me inside the pages where I'm inspired to create, design, travel, cook, and reside within a charming southern home.  
   Just last night I baked a delicious strawberry cream sheet cake, a recipe taken straight from April's issue, for a baby shower our team hosted at work today.  The scrumptious indulgent delight received numerous accolades.  Thank you Southern Living. In fact, never have I made an SL dish that wasn't tasty.  Not only am I a better cook per my subscription, I'm a better person.

Delicious Crowd-Pleaser! 
 http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/strawberries-cream-sheet-cake-50400000134445/

   Southern Living is an aphrodisiac. Last week when my husband and I were bickering over absolutely NOTHING (yes, even Prince Charming and Cinderella speak in "loud voices"), Southern Living brought peace and solace to our marriage.  Mid dispute, frustrated and feeling defeated, I picked up my magazine, headed to the recliner, and lost myself within the pages.  Call me old school, but I prefer the hard copies.  I enjoy flipping crisp, glossy paper, turning down edges to mark favorite articles.  After reading the Grumpy Gardner's tips, Allison Glock's whimsy, and Rick Bragg's wit I didn't care if Matt agreed to de-clutter the garage or not.  Dreaming of front porches and garden parties, I walked into his office and smothered him in kisses. I professed my unyielding love and appreciation for such a wonderful, hard-working husband.  Those beautiful pages possess the power to heal.
   Southern Living speaks to the soul.  When the academic year began, Rick Bragg understood my plight...and wrote about it.  What happened to yesteryear?  Fireflies and streetlamps, swimming pools and picnics, and summers that ended AFTER labor day? He gets it.  During the holiday season when Allison Glock wrote Taking Sides and described her family's traditional Cranberry Salad served without fail EVERY Thanksgiving, my heart leapt!

http://thedailysouth.southernliving.com/2013/07/30/10-tips-for-building-the-quintessential-southern-home/

I recognized the dish, kin to my Nana's Green Jello Salad.  I carry on the yearly tradition, making the tedious traditional salad, not because anyone eats the darn thing but because we'd be committing a cardinal sin without it.  And when Lindsay Bierman published his Ten Commandments for Southern Style Design, I applauded and said aloud, "Finally, a Southerner who understands the importance of preserving the land and the integrity of historical authenticity!"

http://thedailysouth.southernliving.com/2013/07/30/10-tips-for-building-the-quintessential-southern-home/

Concrete boxes erected atop exposed earth, cheap land purchased by voracious consumers does not build a community.  Thoughtful design does. Bierman also lends his expert advice on interiors. For decorating tips visit his 10 Tried and True Decorating Rules.
   I could babble on endlessly about the divine Southern Living.  Ramble on about my secret plans to visit each unique restaurant, stylish boutique, trendy bar, and classy hotel in the southernmost part of the US of A every time I read the travel guide.  However, my chores are calling much like yours.  After all, I have a castle that needs tending to; albeit considered most likely a "before" castle in the Southern home design section but with each SL idea my home is transforming into an "after. "  Thank you, Southern Living.  Looking forward to May's issue!

~Truly, Cinderella

Kate and I are close in age!

     Over the weekend Madilyn and I saw Divergent.  We have read the series and were eager to see the film. Kate Winslet plays the austere intellectual leader, Jeanine Matthews. Through expression and diction Winslet brings to life her character in full verisimilitude.  With steely eyes and set jaw she portrays a middle aged bureaucrat.  Wait... middle-aged bureaucrat? Kate Winslet isn't old enough to play the part of said character, is she?

    During my young adult years, I remember going with my bestie to watch Titanic on the big screen. We all knew the ending but I still found myself hoping the ship wouldn't sink! Mascara smeared and napkins damp with tears at show's end, my friend and I decided we had to see it again--immediately. Yes, back then I had the time to sit for over 6 hours during the course of a Saturday afternoon and evening to ride on an emotional roller coaster, rocked to crocodile tears by Celine Dion's haunting voice.  Climbing to the top when Rose and Jack found love and plummeting to sobs when Jack eerily descended into the cold abyss of the deep sea. WHY COULDN'T ROSE JUST MOVE OVER?  Why didn't Leo crawl on top the makeshift raft?  I wanted to plunge in after him as he sunk off screen.

http://marquee.blogs.cnn.com

    Upon leaving the theater, I said to Kristi, "I have to meet them!  I'm in love with Leo!" And within hours epiphany struck!  I called her up, "I could move to Hollywood and style hair for the stars!" Kristi met my enthusiasm with tepid agreement.  She politely applauded my new destiny.  Months passed, as did my fervor, and my obsession with both Kate and Leo (mainly Leo) dwindled.  

     Still a fan today, I was thrilled when I heard Winslet would play the role of Jeanine. I sat mesmerized by her performance. While watching her, the evil antagonist, casually order the death of Tris, my movie-watching trance was broken. I noticed something.  Fine, very fine, lines around her stern facial expression. Kate is glamorous and elegant and classy, so it is with the utmost sincerity that I say she is aging beautifully. And barely--she doesn't look much older than she did seventeen years ago. However, I did notice that she is no longer that girl that played in Titanic.  And then came the realization that I too, am aging!

http://starryeyedglamour.blogspot.com/

    Of course, age is relative, right? My Nana who is 104 years young says that I'm a "spring chicken." My thirteen-year-old daughter tells me I'm old and my sixty plus year-old father says to "get over it" and "quit worrying about age."  He has said before, "Beats the alternative!"  I guess he's right--AGE BEATS GRAVE!
    Over margaritas and chips and salsa, Kristi and I discussed growing older at length one afternoon during happy hour. She and I will have been friends for twenty years this coming September.  After taking a sip from the salt rimmed glass, she said, "I still feel and think the same way I did in my early twenties.  In my head nothing has changed."
    "Would you like to hear something really depressing?" I retort, "My Nana said the same thing not too long ago, you know, back when she was younger....around 100!  She said inside her mind her perception was not unlike when she was twenty-two!" (Taylor Swift said it best.  #feelingtwentytwo)
    "Oh my gosh!  That is depressing," Kristi remarked.

Myself and Kristi-twenty years and counting!

   If you're wondering if you are on the other side of the journey, ask yourself if the following applies:

1. A teenager you know rattles off the names of their favorite bands and you have NO idea who they are! (The Neighborhood is the community in which you live, right?)
2. You put on an article of clothing only to realize that you bought it over five years ago!  (Your stylish, younger friend stands beside you wearing a fashionable piko shirt and gold wedges creating the foil character to your bland, boring ensemble.)
3. You use a phrase and your child tells you not to say it.  (Either because they don't want an old fogy like yourself using their expressions or because the word "rad" has been missing from common vernacular since the early nineties!)
4. You begin the latest fad diet and lose 1-2 pounds instead of the 5 you would have lost ten years ago. 
5. Chin hair.  Even worse--grey chin hair!
6. The lady at the make-up counter tells you to try full coverage foundation.
7. You go out with friends and the D.J. calls a Nelly song an oldie!  He later calls Salt-n-Peppa's  "Push It" a classic!
8. You walk into a bar and overhear a younger guy say that the place has turned into Courgarville.  
9.  At the same bar you begin giving unsolicited advice to a twenty-something whose boyfriend just broke up with her.
10. You begin asking yourself if THIS is all there is. You realize your grandiose dreams are slipping further away and the life you live, the life you've chosen, may be all you ever know.

How do you resolve the sinking feeling that waking up to a cup of coffee and the Today show, going through the daily chores of a mundane routine, driving in stop-and-go traffic, watching an episode of Modern Family, and if your lucky--attending your child's after school extracurricular activity might be it? 
   You live with gratitude.  You thank the good Lord for your abundant blessings.  You thank God for that steaming cup of java because some living in this world consider coffee a luxury.  You laugh at Al Roker's corny jokes and appreciate Matt Lauer's dedication.  You thank your co-workers for their kindness.  You hug your child because you get to witness their triumphs. You live for the moments: The snapshots that inspire, the scenes that play on once the reel has stopped. You hope that you age half as well as Kate Winslet and you acknowledge that although the number climbs, although the grey hair multiplies, and although the fine lines turn to wrinkles, you were given a part to play.  When the Director calls it a wrap, you know that you did your best; that you loved your children, spouse, and family; you served your community; you were a friend; you danced; you celebrated; you sang; you smiled; you lived.

~Truly, Cinderella

  

The Fixer-Upper?

Home Sweet Home Repair-- Our new place

 Anyone who has purchased a home knows that existing homes are like people--they have their quirks. Cousin Letty clips his toe nails and scatters them on the living room floor; the kitchen faucet drips incessantly.  Uncle Joe clucks his tongue while watching football; the garage door groans its complaints when closing.  A forgetful child refuses to pick up dirty clothing left on the bathroom floor; the stained grout between kitchen tiles defies extra-strength cleaning solution.  Our new house, like our family, is brimming with potential.
  The problem is that I didn't realize just how much "potential" my new home possessed.  While listening to a energized rendition of "Signed, Sealed, Delivered..." on The Voice, I reached for the remote to turn up the already blaring television.  "I can't hear over the sound of the dishwasher," I said to Matt.

http://www.quickmeme.com/meme/35dk9y

   "Preparing for take-off.  All systems ready," he quipped minutes later.  We chuckled, both picturing the noisy dishwasher sprouting wings, soaring above the house because the damn thing actually sounds like a roaring engine.  Call it first-world problems, but when my dishwasher gets in the way of Adam Levine's articulate critique of the battle-rounds, then we might as well be starving in Africa.

   Speaking of developing countries, check out this pic:

   This is where our double oven should be.  Instead, we have a weird gaping cut-out above the microwave.  "Seriously?" I said aloud when removing the rigged casing around it.  Opposite the oven are the cabinets, which were that terrible orange oak color until we had them painted a crisp, clean Dover white.  With the updated color palette, the kitchen looks much nicer now. But that doesn't cure the incurable disease, I want.   I want custom-made cabinets with patterned glass doors.  I want marble counter-tops, a gas stove instead of electric, and refinished island with pendant lights hanging above oh-so elegantly.  Like this dream kitchen!

Transitional Kitchen by Toronto Interior Designers & Decorators Cheryl Scrymgeour Designs
 

Someday, someday but for now:

The banister is wobbly,
the fence is worn,
the sprinklers are wonky,
and the grass has thorns!

Now, don't get me wrong--our new home is charming and before long the light switch to nowhere will become a forgotten wall fixture.  We are blessed and pleased to finally have a permanent address.  Idiosyncrasies establish character, and currently we are brimming with it!  Pictures of our improvements soon to follow.

Dear Afternoon Jogger

Dear Afternoon Jogger, 

   While peering out my sunny classroom window today, I noticed you bounding down the sidewalk in aerobic stride.  Like the ubiquitous paintings placed in a physician's waiting room you, the jogger, coalesced into the peaceful suburban setting.  But then your presence in the scene caught my attention.  Maybe it was the neon orange shoes you wore, but I noticed you, really noticed you. 
   I glanced at my red and white clock hanging on the opposite wall, and took note of the time: 1:52 pm.  So here is my question: How exactly do you earn a living?  Are you self-employed with flexible hours?  Are you a stay at home parent with a live-in nanny or school-aged children?  Do you work nights?  Are you a trust fund baby?  Was today your day off?
   Please forgive my nosiness, but I simply must ask because if seized by the urge to partake in some early afternoon exercise, I'd like to know the accompanying profession. Most days after work I'm exhausted and can't find the energy to workout. Maybe if I jogged earlier in the day, then I would have plenty of strength! Please, please enlighten me to your bourgeoisie way. 
    Held captive to scheduled hours of my day, I first felt envious of your liberated calendar.  However, on second thought, the idea of pounding pavement while dripping sweat on such a glorious day appeals to me not.  If given the chance of freedom on a blissful bright afternoon, I would find a million other things to do besides run.  So, tomorrow if I happen to catch sight of you again, I will salute you in wave for your dedicated effort.  Carpe Diem. 

~Truly, Cinderella (the working class Cinde, of course)

P.S.  But really, what do you do?

Photo courtesy of activerain.com

In Memory of a Sunset

Originally, I'd planned a lighthearted post for this week; however, after tragic loss, I've chosen a more somber tone.  A dear friend of mine unexpectedly lost her husband a few days ago and my heart breaks for her.  
Therefore, in honor of my friend:

~May your strength in spirit allow you to find peace, and someday, once the dust has settled, may you witness the beauty of a West Texas sunset again.

In Memory of a Sunset
The sun shines on her face, illuminating truth.

Before.  The inscrutable darkness, which consumed his conscious approached like rumbling clouds in a black, violent dirt storm. The air smelled of clay and the impending sand storm approached.  Mercurial moods orchestrated the production, indifferent to those who stood below.  Earth mother, the playwright, wrote the script long ago and the gods directed the actors: wind, sky and sand. Peering out onto that untamed stage, the woman noticed the trees shimmy and writhe, shaking their nerves before the play began.  They stretched and warmed their muscles diligently preparing for their mimes.  The clay and sky clasped hands, for on this day their characters aligned in quiet indignation and united in muddy colors of muted red and gray.  The trees angrily cried out to the sands, who nod and began their ascension to the sky.

The dust builds in prolific grandeur, producing a prodigious dark cloud of dirt.  Ominous and unyielding, the callous storm blocks the pleasant sun.  Onlookers grieve the sight and scurry inside to find shelter.  But shelter cannot be found, for the dirt creeps through crevices and settles on still surfaces.  If only all would rest atop a surface; instead particles crash and collide against the air, suffocating those who desperately desire the calming rays of sun.  Rain will not come.  The sun will not shine.  Blue skies remain at bay, blocked by cruel winds who pull from the desert floor and thrash grit across the landscape. Relief will not come.

Eventually the wind tires, eventually the haze of dust falls.  Vivid memories return like happiness in a jar released by the musty scent of dancing sprinklers, the distinct cool fragrance of earth covered by water.  Laughing children echo in a distant past.  Soft whispers are heard, whispers exchanged by lovers on back porches; lovers who know and keep shared secrets.  Time heals all hurts, so they say; gratefully, memories remain. The air is still now, the sun is setting.  And softly, the sun peeks over the earth's horizon to whisper goodnight, and with sincerest apology he offers his condolences.  "You see," he says, "the remnants of clay make for beautiful sunsets."  Shades of gold and burgundy fill the sky in monumental farewell, reminding us that the peace is found at dusk and the sun will brighten the Eastern sky in the morning.

Inspired by:
From In Memory of W.B. Yeats by W.H. Auden: 

  In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
 In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.

In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15544#sthash.DPIdoL6P.dpuf

In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15544#sthash.DPIdoL6P.dpuf

In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15544#sthash.DPIdoL6P.dpuf

Olympic Dreams with a dash of Twizzle

Photo courtesy of CBS

 Breathtaking, passionate, awe-inspiring.

If you watched the skating performance of Meryl Davis and Charlie White last night, then you probably were moved to emotion.  Maybe you watched out of obligation (like my husband) but found yourself entranced by the raw talent and magnificent beauty.  Just in case you missed it, here is a quick recap:

AMAZING!

The pair appeared ethereal, gliding in fluid motion across stark silver ice. Their luxurious purple costumes likened them to royalty and the two definitely reigned as king and queen on Sochi ice. Their moves were intricate and elegant.  White effortlessly lifted Davis across his body in seamless transition, "a curved lift," the announcer said, "practiced for over three years."  Led by musical crescendo, the dancers moved urgently across the frosty stage building up to a grand spin in which White swept Davis off the ice in exquisite beauty.  The crowd exploded in applause.  "A masterpiece" the announcer said while the other explained the routine had been "four to five years in the making." Flawless. They made it look easy.  The reward for all of their hard work?  Gold. First ever for the U.S. in Ice Dancing. 

 As a young girl I'd watch, mesmerized by the skaters lifts and spins.  Impacted by the scene, I asked my dad if I could learn to skate.  His reply, sound and practical, "We live in small town Texas.  There aren't any skating rinks around here."  Small problem for someone with my imagination.  The next time I went to the roll arena, I was Katarina Witt.  I figured I had time, and someday I too would become an ice princess.

I finally got to ice skate when the girls were small.  While visiting family in Lafayette, Indiana we stopped at a quaint outdoor park in late December.  We tied on bulky skates and fumbled our way onto the ice.  I took each of the girls around the rink, holding onto the side rail, afraid that I might fall and take a daughter with me. Far from the grace and poise of Katarina, I still treasure the memory.  I might not have become an Olympic ice skater, but I experienced the same beginning, just a little bit later.   

While I celebrated victory for the acclaimed medalists, I did what I always do.  I felt a tinge of nostalgia for years passed.  I longed for bright eyes eager to chase after empty dreams.  I missed the days filled with youthful creations when I'd mumble quietly,  "I can do it" and actually believed that I could become the next greatest Olympic athlete.

No longer disillusioned, I now know that I won't compete in the Olympics, EVER.  And that's okay, because the tremendous individuals who are competing did much more than dream.  They dreamed with intention, which makes all the difference in the world.  The rest of us who dreamed other dreams watch from home, applauding their accomplishments.  We are grateful to climb the peak and share the summit with them. 

When the dance was over, I stood up, turned on tiptoe, and told Matt that we should twizzle.  (I simply couldn't help myself--who doesn't love a good twizzle?)

Truly, Cinderella