Sorry if you've come across my blog while it's being revamped. The construction work is pretty much done and hopefully my new, clean, streamlined layout will give me the clarity of mind I'm always wishing I had. Well, it's a start . . .

So the fam (down to husband, me and Wee One at home) is talking big about going vegetarian. Mostly it's husband and Wee One doing the talking. We don't eat much meat in the first place and many of our meals are already vegetarian. But I find it funny when they say they'll start, "as soon as this Canadian bacon's gone" or "when I'm done with the package of beef jerky" or some such thing. I don't know if they have it in them when faced with temptation.

I was vegetarian for a couple of years in my late teens. Then I met my husband and even as in love as he was, pastaroni and canned pears weren't going to cut it (I was yet to discover my inner gourmet). Needless to say it's difficult to cook meals that would satisfy both.

But the talk has been going on for some time now and Wee One really wants to do it. Even if it means giving up her shrimp-flavored cup-o-noodles (sometimes the inner gourmet takes a break). Lettuce see what happens : )

P.S. Pop over to my friend Megan's relaunching of her fun and informative blog Orange Peanut. You might just see someone you know . . .

I wouldn't say my daughter is taking ballet lessons so much as joining a culture. I had no idea that was going to happen when we signed her up at age six, all the way back when it was still okay to wear unds under your baby-blue leotard. No, the assimilation slowly crept up on me.

Beyond increasingly bigger parts in performances, taking more classes, going en point and being asked to join the company, there is a lifestyle that sucks the dancer into the ballet culture. It's one of buns and hair pins, toe shoes and leotards, sweat and sore feet, and car rides . . . lots and lots of car rides. I think Wee One loves life at the studio off the floor as much as on. I see her giggle with her friends, fix the newest bow in her hair and survey what the others have brought for snack. They appraise new skirts or tops and share tips on wearing hair nets, all while in the splits, bonding as only ballerinas can.

As the years go by, everything increases: the costs, the time commitment, the responsibility ("did you wash my tights?"). I know we're no different than other families who get wrapped up in soccer or swimming or the such. If I had to choose, I'd rather watch Wee One twirl in the family room while humming the Dance of the Sugarplum than have shin guards laying around the house or endure the constant smell of chlorine. For an obsession, at least it's a lovely one.

At the grocery store yesterday the bagger asked if I needed help out to my car. I meant to say, "No, I'm good." Instead, what came out was,

"No, I'm God."

And of course, if God can create heaven and earth, he can handle pushing a cart into the parking lot. But thanks for asking.

In the past week I've bought two new purses and a wallet. Yes, purses are my weakness, as shoes are my husband's. And when Darling Daughter reads this I know I'm going to hear about it. Let me just say now, they were all good deals.

I search endlessly for the bag that will have the right number and size of zippered sections for all my stuff; be not too deep, not too shallow, not too floppy, not too rigid, lightweight and comfortable, with pockets that allow for easy access of phone and chapstick . . . and be cute to boot.

My obsession with the perfect handbag goes beyond fashion, though. Don't mistake me, I love admiring the shapes, materials and adornments of new clutches and hobo bags. But beyond that, I've always had this sense that finding the perfect purse will somehow make everything in my life fall into place. I guess it has something to do with my quest to be organized. I periodically start new systems, buy new gadgets, in an attempt to manage my time and keep life running smoothly.

As a writer, and a muddled person in general, I have frequent brain lapses. I am always preoccupied; more so as the years go on. It's to the point where I don't even listen to the radio in the car anymore - I just have too much whizzing around in my brain. I once dropped my daughter off at a friend's house all day, only to learn it was a different Rebekah who had called and invited her over. There were lots of reasons I should have caught that, the mom looking totally baffled as I breezily thanked her for having Wee One over being one of them. That's when I seriously began worrying that I wasn't allowing enough brain space to think clearly.

And what helps me think clearly? Organization. Clearing out the clutter and unnecessary distractions. Hence a need for notebooks, calendars, PDAs and sticky notes always within reach. And something to keep them all in.

So there's a little thrill I get when I transfer stuff from my old purse to my new one, compartmentalizing every little thing, noting how perfect this or that aspect of my new handbag is, ignoring the things that aren't. With every spot I slip my sunglasses or keys in, every card I slide into place in my new wallet, I gain a sense of control of my destiny, ready to take on the world with my new animal print bag, enjoying the confidence I suddenly have in my ability to conquer all that comes my way . . . and life is good - until all that comes my way begins collecting in the depths of my prized purse, tumbling around with mints, pens and old receipts, and the search begins again.

In the past couple of months I have read this:
and this (different annotations):
and saw this in San Diego on opening night:
watched this twice:
and I've lost count how many times I've watched this:
Next up - Mansfield Park.