I am being entirely decadent by opening the windows (for fresh air) while simultaneously turning on the heater (for comfort) and lighting candles (for scent and ambiance – if you can find ambiance in a hideously messy bedroom.) It is Friday and my house is trashed from stern to bow. I haven’t 1) brushed my teeth, 2) brushed my hair or 3)put away the breakfast dishes. (Why bother when the dinner dishes are still out?) I have, however, dropped the kids off at school, where once again I was tempted to worship the vice-principal who was standing at the drop-off zone in a floor length yellow mackintosh and a fisherman’s oilcloth hat herding the kids into the library and out of the rain.

Today I need to write a chapter about centering prayer for children. I’ve decided to try my hand at a book of spiritual practices for kids. My long-awaiting book about rites and rituals for the Christian and seasonal year is proving to be too daunting so, I’m trying a different tact and working on twelve soulcare practices for the little ones. The working title is: A Month of Sundays: 12 soulful practices for spiritual kids. Pretty clever, eh? I’m sure the title will change—especially since Sundays implies Christianity and this will be for no-faith or all-faithers– but right now it sounds pretty spiffy to me.

Anyhow, I have to get that done today because it’s two days past due for my writing group. I also have to write a cover letter to an actual editor or agent for the writing class I’m taking this weekend at the Hugo House. Luckily I know a couple of editors that might be interested in this book, and I have a clear enough concept of the book that I can knock back that letter fairly quickly. (Knock on wood.)

After I write there really MUST be a shower and the brushing of teeth. Normally I’m a big proponent of Fly Lady’s dictum to be dressed to the shoes (or in my case, to the mascara) before the children take over your world, But on Fridays I throw it all in a heap and wallow in slovenliness. After I brush and polish, there MUST be extensive housekeeping on all three levels of the house. One would think that with two adult housemates and a spouse there really wouldn’t be all that much housekeeping. But, with two kiddos in tow we make most of the mess, so Momma cleans most of it up. I’m trying to teach the kids to clean up after themselves more, but every once in awhile I just have to go in and do the Big Dig and get things back in order.

Somewhere in there I have to get my fat ass on the treadmill and find out what Buffy’s going to do about those demon visions she’s been having since she slayed the evil dude with no mouth and a bad skin. I know it’s not very feminista of me to continue an inner dialogue about how fat my ass is, but sometimes the woman who has been soaked in American commercialism all her life wins out over the enlightened PC Bitch-reading empowerment gal. Usually the America’s Next Top Model watching version of me gets the upper hand when it comes to observing my ass. Also, my housemate, who has recently triumphed over divorce, has lost all her unhappy marriage weight and looks fantastic in her black jeans. This makes me insanely jealous and incredibly petty. But she’s jealous of the two cute kids and the wolfpup, so we’ve decided we’re still even enough in the neuroses department to remain friends.

Also, she had to go teach ten pre-kindergarteners today and I get to lie around typing with my teeth all fuzzy, so I win. (Again, the feminista in me dies a slow and torturous death. I’m very good at being petty. It’s the one thing that requires no self-discipline on my part whatsoever.)

Okay, time to write.