In 2010 I will try to accept what I can and can't do.
I can't change the past.
I can't change the extended family I was born into.
I can't change the choices others have made.
I can't break down the wall of futility by beating my head against it.
I can't please everyone.
I can choose who I keep in touch with and the family build for myself.
I can let go of people who are willfully self-destructing.
I can see there are other things out there for me and pursue them.
I can clean out things that are unnecessary clutter.
I can stop listening/promoting/being a part of the drama.
I can love greatly, widely and deeply.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Episode 33: Without the Sob Story...
Periodically I like to go through my closets and get rid of things. I used to be so much better at this when I was moving at least once every twelve months. There's nothing like the prospect of having to haul all that you own up and down stairs to make you wonder if it's really worth keeping. I'm trying to clear out some things preemptively to make my next move easier--whenever that may be and well knowing that I'll still get rid of cases of stuff then.
One of the easiest ways to not have to carry things around in my trunk and make dedicated runs to Goodwill is to put things on Craigslist for free. I've given away zip disk drives, brand new small appliances that no one I knew wanted (trust me--I tried), etc., usually with a maximum of three emails and general ease for all concerned. One of my roomies and I listed a whole ton of stuff for very nominal prices once and did a lot of cleaning out one Saturday.
Two things about this process annoy me
1) People who turn it into the drama.
2) People who try to negotiate price when they've already committed to buying it.
I ran into the drama recently. I was giving away a widget*. Nice quality, not very big, and I'd never used it. It lived at Mum's for a number of years and when it showed up at my place (she keeps sending "my stuff" home with me), it was immediately shoved in a closet.
Within a few hours of the posting I had multiple sob stories about how this widget would mean so much to the emailer, how they would give it a good home and use it every day. Was I now supposed to feel guilty that this was cluttering up a shelf when someone else would dearly adore it? Which sob story was I supposed to believe more? I don't mind a line of explanation as to why you want said widget but the woe-is-me stuff got a bit much considering we're talking about a widget--not a pet or something where I particularly care about how well you'll treat it five minutes after it leaves my presence.
There were several other emails of interest. I'd apparently had too much eggnog because the person I selected was one of those who I could see going down Drama Lane at high speed. Which it promptly did as we tried to arrange pick up. Despite clear instructions in the original posting, or so I thought, the emailer couldn't grasp the concept of today evening or tomorrow evening as being the options. The "it's not safe to drive after dark" pretty much tipped the scales--have you noticed that we're in the part of the year where it seriously starts to get dark at 4 p.m.? If you can't come over in the evening when it's dark because that's when I'm home....why did you respond?
I was tempted, sorely tempted, to cancel and say look, I've got other people, you're taking up waaaaay more of my time than this is worth. If you can't get here, I'll just move on. But that would have just quintupled the drama and I really had other things I needed to do.
And other than the fact that then we'd have to talk about money changing hands, I'd consider putting a nominal fee on it. Certainly my time is worth some recompense. But the price thing, while not an issue this round, drove me batty when roomie and I were clearing out. People would agree to the price, show up, and then try to pay less. Umm...seriously dude? You AGREED to the price. This is not a yard sale where there might be some expectation of willingness to bargain.
I'm seriously considering putting "No sob stories, massive date/time pick up negotiations, or price waffling after you've agreed to come get it" in all of my future postings.
*type of widget immaterial but distinctive...bear with me.
One of the easiest ways to not have to carry things around in my trunk and make dedicated runs to Goodwill is to put things on Craigslist for free. I've given away zip disk drives, brand new small appliances that no one I knew wanted (trust me--I tried), etc., usually with a maximum of three emails and general ease for all concerned. One of my roomies and I listed a whole ton of stuff for very nominal prices once and did a lot of cleaning out one Saturday.
Two things about this process annoy me
1) People who turn it into the drama.
2) People who try to negotiate price when they've already committed to buying it.
I ran into the drama recently. I was giving away a widget*. Nice quality, not very big, and I'd never used it. It lived at Mum's for a number of years and when it showed up at my place (she keeps sending "my stuff" home with me), it was immediately shoved in a closet.
Within a few hours of the posting I had multiple sob stories about how this widget would mean so much to the emailer, how they would give it a good home and use it every day. Was I now supposed to feel guilty that this was cluttering up a shelf when someone else would dearly adore it? Which sob story was I supposed to believe more? I don't mind a line of explanation as to why you want said widget but the woe-is-me stuff got a bit much considering we're talking about a widget--not a pet or something where I particularly care about how well you'll treat it five minutes after it leaves my presence.
There were several other emails of interest. I'd apparently had too much eggnog because the person I selected was one of those who I could see going down Drama Lane at high speed. Which it promptly did as we tried to arrange pick up. Despite clear instructions in the original posting, or so I thought, the emailer couldn't grasp the concept of today evening or tomorrow evening as being the options. The "it's not safe to drive after dark" pretty much tipped the scales--have you noticed that we're in the part of the year where it seriously starts to get dark at 4 p.m.? If you can't come over in the evening when it's dark because that's when I'm home....why did you respond?
I was tempted, sorely tempted, to cancel and say look, I've got other people, you're taking up waaaaay more of my time than this is worth. If you can't get here, I'll just move on. But that would have just quintupled the drama and I really had other things I needed to do.
And other than the fact that then we'd have to talk about money changing hands, I'd consider putting a nominal fee on it. Certainly my time is worth some recompense. But the price thing, while not an issue this round, drove me batty when roomie and I were clearing out. People would agree to the price, show up, and then try to pay less. Umm...seriously dude? You AGREED to the price. This is not a yard sale where there might be some expectation of willingness to bargain.
I'm seriously considering putting "No sob stories, massive date/time pick up negotiations, or price waffling after you've agreed to come get it" in all of my future postings.
*type of widget immaterial but distinctive...bear with me.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Episode 32: Brave the Shopping....
I had to brave the mall last night to finish some Christmas shopping. I don't go there on a regular basis, perhaps three times a year, and Christmas is always a visit faced with dread. I know there will be a lot of people there; I know sales people will be stressed and tired; I know that I'll want to be just about anywhere but there.
Surprisingly I found a parking spot right away outside of Macy's. I don't mind walking a little ways but when a corner spot presents itself, I'm not (like some) going to sit in my car wasting time and gas hovering for a spot three feet closer to the door. I did enough hovering for ANY parking in graduate school.
Once inside I headed for a perfume counter. Though the girls who were designated to work at that particular counter were apparently not interested in acknowledging a girl still bundling out of her marshmallow down coat, an older woman who said she used to work with the product stepped up and helped me wade through some options. Of course, I smelled like a fragrance I'll never wear for the next few hours but hey--what we do for family.
Then there was some aimless wandering while I tried to figure out what I wanted to purchase. Call it being picky or prudent, mostly I was underwhelmed. No one I know needs more knick-knacks, I seem to be mostly between specialty clothing stores (out of tween/teen, not yet into matron). I managed to avoid the "hair product" kiosk---they were trying hard to grab just about anyone. Considering my hair won't hold curl to save itself and I'm happy with the straightening iron I break out four times a year, I was probably not the best option as a potential client.
I wandered into Bath and Body Works and was stunned how much had changed. I used to know 90% of the fragrances, had an opinion on each, knew what was new. Now I don't recognize the bottles other than recognizing that they've gotten smaller. As I'm the only one in the family with a B&B problem (trust me--I still have WAY too much lotion in the bathroom than any person in her right mind needs), I couldn't really see purchasing more. I made myself leave before succumbing to the lure of scented anti-bacterial soap.
I purchased some gift candles. If I have a general sense of someone else's nose, candles are a good option. They burn down, are used up and then they're gone.
Then to the jewelry store for ring cleaning. I was happy to see that they were busy and was amused to listen to a girl picking out her engagement ring with her friend (not the boy). She had a setting in mind, a specific diamond cut and color that she wanted, I'm not really sure her soon to be fiance would have any input on it other than handing over his paycheck. Other than a pin I received from (and returned to) a boy in middle school, I don't have a lot of experience getting jewelry from men so perhaps that's the usual thing to do now. I would hope any guy I actually became engaged to would have the presence of mind to rifle through my jewelry box and beg assistance from a couple of my friends and relatives. (For future reference, I like Marquis cut and I don't really like diamonds--but you knew that.)
My final mall stop was Hallmark for some gift wrap. The bags and things I'd purchased were already digging in my hands and carrying my coat, while a necessity, was making things that much more difficult. As I went to hand over my card a passerby asked if I'd like her $5 coupon, saying she'd not use it before expiration. Of course! It was a nice gesture and one I absolutely appreciated.
Back to the parking lot to dodge cars expelling passengers and hovering in wait of the spot nearest the crosswalk (despite there being another spot 5 ft away, yes, literally). Then a quick pass through Kohl's and home, where I was greeted by an annoyed tabby who was trying to figure out if she could guilt trip me into more eggnog.
I'm just grateful I don't need to go back to the mall for a few months.
Surprisingly I found a parking spot right away outside of Macy's. I don't mind walking a little ways but when a corner spot presents itself, I'm not (like some) going to sit in my car wasting time and gas hovering for a spot three feet closer to the door. I did enough hovering for ANY parking in graduate school.
Once inside I headed for a perfume counter. Though the girls who were designated to work at that particular counter were apparently not interested in acknowledging a girl still bundling out of her marshmallow down coat, an older woman who said she used to work with the product stepped up and helped me wade through some options. Of course, I smelled like a fragrance I'll never wear for the next few hours but hey--what we do for family.
Then there was some aimless wandering while I tried to figure out what I wanted to purchase. Call it being picky or prudent, mostly I was underwhelmed. No one I know needs more knick-knacks, I seem to be mostly between specialty clothing stores (out of tween/teen, not yet into matron). I managed to avoid the "hair product" kiosk---they were trying hard to grab just about anyone. Considering my hair won't hold curl to save itself and I'm happy with the straightening iron I break out four times a year, I was probably not the best option as a potential client.
I wandered into Bath and Body Works and was stunned how much had changed. I used to know 90% of the fragrances, had an opinion on each, knew what was new. Now I don't recognize the bottles other than recognizing that they've gotten smaller. As I'm the only one in the family with a B&B problem (trust me--I still have WAY too much lotion in the bathroom than any person in her right mind needs), I couldn't really see purchasing more. I made myself leave before succumbing to the lure of scented anti-bacterial soap.
I purchased some gift candles. If I have a general sense of someone else's nose, candles are a good option. They burn down, are used up and then they're gone.
Then to the jewelry store for ring cleaning. I was happy to see that they were busy and was amused to listen to a girl picking out her engagement ring with her friend (not the boy). She had a setting in mind, a specific diamond cut and color that she wanted, I'm not really sure her soon to be fiance would have any input on it other than handing over his paycheck. Other than a pin I received from (and returned to) a boy in middle school, I don't have a lot of experience getting jewelry from men so perhaps that's the usual thing to do now. I would hope any guy I actually became engaged to would have the presence of mind to rifle through my jewelry box and beg assistance from a couple of my friends and relatives. (For future reference, I like Marquis cut and I don't really like diamonds--but you knew that.)
My final mall stop was Hallmark for some gift wrap. The bags and things I'd purchased were already digging in my hands and carrying my coat, while a necessity, was making things that much more difficult. As I went to hand over my card a passerby asked if I'd like her $5 coupon, saying she'd not use it before expiration. Of course! It was a nice gesture and one I absolutely appreciated.
Back to the parking lot to dodge cars expelling passengers and hovering in wait of the spot nearest the crosswalk (despite there being another spot 5 ft away, yes, literally). Then a quick pass through Kohl's and home, where I was greeted by an annoyed tabby who was trying to figure out if she could guilt trip me into more eggnog.
I'm just grateful I don't need to go back to the mall for a few months.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Episode 31: Where The Funds Go...
I'm looking into budget software. Exciting no? Sis has recommended YNAB or Snowmint in conjunction with GNU Cash. A coworker has been cheering the Dave Ramsey way. And since it certainly seems that there's no hope for Social Security, one does have to start thinking towards retirement.
I'm skeptical though, as I read through the budget stories online. Most of them start out with "we cut out eating out every night and look how much money we saved" and other such broad sweeping statements. Well, what a surprise! I tried reading a budget book last spring and was kind of sickened by the suggestions that one "cut out weekly trips to the mall" or "get a new job that pays much more than you were previously making." Umm, yeah no. I was last in the mall in June to get my rings cleaned and changing jobs in my field in this economy and making more money has "pipe dream" written all over it.
I'm not bad with money-- but I want to get more in savings and plan a little better for all those trips home, rather than putting all the plane tickets on the credit card and then chunking away at them each paycheck. And now that the braces are clear--the student loan debt really needs to go.
What I know?
I spend too much money on yarn and coffee. Yes, I said it. I'm doing a lot better than last year with the wool account but I've up'd the number of trips to the local coffee shop. Good for their bottom line but not so much for me.
I've stopped bringing lunch. There's a quiet desperation of wanting to get out of the building. Part of that will fade as the nice weather does, but I need to get back to going out to lunch being an occasional treat rather than a constant.
I spend too much when I'm traveling, because I turn off most internal limits. Generally speaking this hasn't caused any huge problems (I'm not going for Prada or Gucci, as we both know) but I know that an average trip home will set me back the better part of a thousand dollars. And while $500 of that is plane ticket and paying for parking and taxis, the other half isn't. I keep telling myself this is cheaper than therapy though ;) (And since I've discovered that for my own peace of mind/well-being, I need to leave the state once a month-six weeks....it adds up).
So...I'm tackling the finances. Maybe even venturing further into investments.
Call me out on it occasionally, would you?
I'm skeptical though, as I read through the budget stories online. Most of them start out with "we cut out eating out every night and look how much money we saved" and other such broad sweeping statements. Well, what a surprise! I tried reading a budget book last spring and was kind of sickened by the suggestions that one "cut out weekly trips to the mall" or "get a new job that pays much more than you were previously making." Umm, yeah no. I was last in the mall in June to get my rings cleaned and changing jobs in my field in this economy and making more money has "pipe dream" written all over it.
I'm not bad with money-- but I want to get more in savings and plan a little better for all those trips home, rather than putting all the plane tickets on the credit card and then chunking away at them each paycheck. And now that the braces are clear--the student loan debt really needs to go.
What I know?
I spend too much money on yarn and coffee. Yes, I said it. I'm doing a lot better than last year with the wool account but I've up'd the number of trips to the local coffee shop. Good for their bottom line but not so much for me.
I've stopped bringing lunch. There's a quiet desperation of wanting to get out of the building. Part of that will fade as the nice weather does, but I need to get back to going out to lunch being an occasional treat rather than a constant.
I spend too much when I'm traveling, because I turn off most internal limits. Generally speaking this hasn't caused any huge problems (I'm not going for Prada or Gucci, as we both know) but I know that an average trip home will set me back the better part of a thousand dollars. And while $500 of that is plane ticket and paying for parking and taxis, the other half isn't. I keep telling myself this is cheaper than therapy though ;) (And since I've discovered that for my own peace of mind/well-being, I need to leave the state once a month-six weeks....it adds up).
So...I'm tackling the finances. Maybe even venturing further into investments.
Call me out on it occasionally, would you?
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Episode 30: Accepting the Not-Happy State
The more people I talk to, and there are a ridiculous amount of ways I communicate with people these days, the more I find that we all seem to be in a state of coping. There's a strained sense of hope/fear: hope that we'll rebound, re-energize, and bounce into a positive future and a fear that the floor is going to fall out from underneath us, landing us all on our faces. I sort of wish I knew what it would be, as I'm sure many of us to, in order to plan, but instead we all seem to just be clinging on by our fingernails.
I'm hesitant to admit to being sad, lethargic, apathetic, or just not feeling myself or at a hundred percent. Not to my immediately family and a couple of closest friends: they've had to hear the bitter details as I try and convince myself that's there is meaning and worth to me, to what I'm doing at work, to my freelance work, to the thousands (literally) of stitches that come off of my knitting needles. I'm hesitant to embrace it publicly, even as I know I could use a bigger support network.
Why? Mostly because I don't want to be told I a) need therapy or b) need to start living through drugs. There are very excellent therapists out there and there are certainly good medications that help people who are suffering from clinical depression. A mild case of the fall blues compounded by inadvertently absorbing stress at work from worried patrons and the not-so-abnormal concerns about budget concerns in the coming year is not, in my personal opinion, worthy of assigning me another pill I'll forget to take. (I'm bad with the vitamins.)
As we are all constantly sharing ourselves with others, the tendency comes to only share the good. And if sharing "bad" to make it amusing, funny, something that doesn't display a human weakness. By saying I'm in a bad mood or don't feel good or think the subject of an interview displays a little too much holier than thou, condescending out of touch with reality, then I'm at fault, I'm bad, I'm weak. In this time of economic fraility, job hunting/keeping uncertainty, etc etc...we can't be weak. Only the strong survive, right? When we're all scrambling to prove ourselves superhuman all the time, it's hard to allow for some human frailties.
I grabbed a book from library: Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Underminded America" by Barbara Ehrenrich (BN link, no financial affiliation). It might just reaffirm my own latest bout of cynicism, but I'm looking forward to reading it.
I tend to crawl into books and yarn as escape techniques, though those aren't helping much of late as when I come out it is to deadlines that are looming ever nearer. This has changed somewhat from former coping techniques, which primarily included voice lessons and the phrase "get a cup of coffee?" Introverted vs. Extroverted techniques and yes, I know I need to start exercising more.
Still, I'm swinging back out of the funk; I've actually felt pretty civilized this week. Now I'm hoping, as I think may of us are, that the "holiday spirit" kicks in and tensions ease. As demands rise exponentially though for contribution of goods and service as we head towards the end of the year, when I have personal and family concerns that, to me, often seem more pressing, I continue to wonder when the tightwire is going to snap.
I'm hesitant to admit to being sad, lethargic, apathetic, or just not feeling myself or at a hundred percent. Not to my immediately family and a couple of closest friends: they've had to hear the bitter details as I try and convince myself that's there is meaning and worth to me, to what I'm doing at work, to my freelance work, to the thousands (literally) of stitches that come off of my knitting needles. I'm hesitant to embrace it publicly, even as I know I could use a bigger support network.
Why? Mostly because I don't want to be told I a) need therapy or b) need to start living through drugs. There are very excellent therapists out there and there are certainly good medications that help people who are suffering from clinical depression. A mild case of the fall blues compounded by inadvertently absorbing stress at work from worried patrons and the not-so-abnormal concerns about budget concerns in the coming year is not, in my personal opinion, worthy of assigning me another pill I'll forget to take. (I'm bad with the vitamins.)
As we are all constantly sharing ourselves with others, the tendency comes to only share the good. And if sharing "bad" to make it amusing, funny, something that doesn't display a human weakness. By saying I'm in a bad mood or don't feel good or think the subject of an interview displays a little too much holier than thou, condescending out of touch with reality, then I'm at fault, I'm bad, I'm weak. In this time of economic fraility, job hunting/keeping uncertainty, etc etc...we can't be weak. Only the strong survive, right? When we're all scrambling to prove ourselves superhuman all the time, it's hard to allow for some human frailties.
I grabbed a book from library: Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Underminded America" by Barbara Ehrenrich (BN link, no financial affiliation). It might just reaffirm my own latest bout of cynicism, but I'm looking forward to reading it.
I tend to crawl into books and yarn as escape techniques, though those aren't helping much of late as when I come out it is to deadlines that are looming ever nearer. This has changed somewhat from former coping techniques, which primarily included voice lessons and the phrase "get a cup of coffee?" Introverted vs. Extroverted techniques and yes, I know I need to start exercising more.
Still, I'm swinging back out of the funk; I've actually felt pretty civilized this week. Now I'm hoping, as I think may of us are, that the "holiday spirit" kicks in and tensions ease. As demands rise exponentially though for contribution of goods and service as we head towards the end of the year, when I have personal and family concerns that, to me, often seem more pressing, I continue to wonder when the tightwire is going to snap.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Episode 29: My Life According to Books
I've seen this at a couple other blogger's houses....pull in answers based on titles I've read so far this year. (Yes, I keep a spreadsheet that covers about 1/2 - 2/3 of my reading material) Let's see...
Describe yourself:
Freakin' Fabulous
How do you feel?
Sworn to Silence
Describe where you currently live:
Dark Hills Divide
If you could go anywhere, where would you go?
The Locked Garden
Your favorite form of transport:
Phantom in the Night
Your best friend is . . . ?
Too Precious to Lose
You and your friends are . . .?
Upon a Wicked Time
What’s the weather like?
Icebound Land
Favourite time of day?
At the Bride Hunt Ball
What is life to you?
So Enchanting
Your fear?
Wintergirls
What is the best advice you have to give?
What Happens in London
Thought for the Day?
Don't Tempt Me
How I would like to die:
Dead Until Dark
My soul’s present condition?
10 Things Your Minister Wants to Tell You But Can't because he needs the job
Describe yourself:
Freakin' Fabulous
How do you feel?
Sworn to Silence
Describe where you currently live:
Dark Hills Divide
If you could go anywhere, where would you go?
The Locked Garden
Your favorite form of transport:
Phantom in the Night
Your best friend is . . . ?
Too Precious to Lose
You and your friends are . . .?
Upon a Wicked Time
What’s the weather like?
Icebound Land
Favourite time of day?
At the Bride Hunt Ball
What is life to you?
So Enchanting
Your fear?
Wintergirls
What is the best advice you have to give?
What Happens in London
Thought for the Day?
Don't Tempt Me
How I would like to die:
Dead Until Dark
My soul’s present condition?
10 Things Your Minister Wants to Tell You But Can't because he needs the job
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Episode 28: Tongue between the Teeth
ETA: Surprisingly, it went well. I definitely had a different health reviewer than last year and this one managed to use the word "underweight" only once and more in passing than in judgment. It's something.
Tomorrow is going to be a bit of a challenge for me. I'm going in for a "Health Risk Assessment Follow-up" that the city I work for is running.
It's not a stretch for me to say that someone, probably a woman who is overweight, will sit down with me to tell me in the most condescending of polite tones that really, I should put on some weight.
If I advise this person that I'm under the direct supervision of two medical professionals, neither of whom are concerned about my weight, I'll be referred to a piece of paper that shows BMI and how I don't meet it--even though BMI was never intended to be used that way.
If I try to politely point out that I have a high metabolism and the braces are the only thing keeping me from going nose-first into a Snickers bar every afternoon around 3, I'll get the "look" that implies that obviously I'm in denial about whatever eating disorder I'm assumed to have.
My nation is epidemically overweight and it's killing us. And yet, apparently not being overweight, being in that minority, is the bigger sin.
But perhaps Lisa O'Neill Harris says it better than I. (And no, I don't have a disease or medical condition, just a very happy metabolism. I'm advised that'll change in the next decade.)
Off to practice biting my tongue.
Tomorrow is going to be a bit of a challenge for me. I'm going in for a "Health Risk Assessment Follow-up" that the city I work for is running.
It's not a stretch for me to say that someone, probably a woman who is overweight, will sit down with me to tell me in the most condescending of polite tones that really, I should put on some weight.
If I advise this person that I'm under the direct supervision of two medical professionals, neither of whom are concerned about my weight, I'll be referred to a piece of paper that shows BMI and how I don't meet it--even though BMI was never intended to be used that way.
If I try to politely point out that I have a high metabolism and the braces are the only thing keeping me from going nose-first into a Snickers bar every afternoon around 3, I'll get the "look" that implies that obviously I'm in denial about whatever eating disorder I'm assumed to have.
My nation is epidemically overweight and it's killing us. And yet, apparently not being overweight, being in that minority, is the bigger sin.
But perhaps Lisa O'Neill Harris says it better than I. (And no, I don't have a disease or medical condition, just a very happy metabolism. I'm advised that'll change in the next decade.)
Off to practice biting my tongue.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Episode 27: Old Papers
Mum sent boxes of my old papers. She'd kept a lot of my paperwork from my elementary school years; she had to with us being home schooled. There had to be proof that we were doing the work the state believed was important for our education.
There are papers from my second grade year, the one year I was in public school before middle school, handwriting samples of a barely six year old attempting to master cursive writing. It was possible, though in retrospect my manual dexterity surprises me.
I wrote constantly as a child. Obviously this has not changed as I have become an adult. My desire to illustrate my own work seems to have lessened a little.
I found the one act play from eighth grade and stories from high school; there's a lot of wishful thinking contained in those words and it's pretty apparent who I had a crush on despite the restrictions on my dating life.
Last night, I reread one of my comp books from college. Just flipping through it, it's mostly drafts of papers and some class notes. Then, when you actually start examining pages, most of the left hand pages are journal entries.
The raw emotions of a child, teenager and eventually young adult, poured out without reservation, are daunting, even knowing they were my own emotions. There was a lot of anger and a lot of loneliness. There was a lot of confusion; I was constantly changing directions, changing focus, changing people. Friendships appear and disappear, names are mentioned once--and at least in one example I've had to ask someone else about a real name, because even within the journal entry itself I acknowledge I'm not sure.
The honesty with which I wrote always strikes me. No matter how much I attempt to hide things from others and myself, no matter the sugar coating, there's usually at least one sentence in a journal entry from the appropriate time that clearly states what was actually going on, rather that what I was pretending was happening or would happen. I'll admit it on paper, turn the page, and keep attempting to maintain whatever status quo I sought.
There are periods where I don't write, usually short ones. Sometimes the writing has moved to different places, like my blogs, but the majority of it is longhand somewhere. The most notable absence of journaling was during a period I was in a relationship. At the beginning of the relationship I wrote--mostly worrying about how I wasn't writing about the relationship, the guy, and my feelings. Should have been the first clue to run, right? I wrote tomes about my crushes, the boys I dated for a second, friends, dates. There are bad poems all over the place while I was trying to break down my thoughts to manageable bite sizes. My best friend and my first love both take up page after page of text, despite that I never truly dated either one. My boyfriend of two years? No poems, few pages, and ultimately, fewer memories.
Re-reading brings the past sharply back into focus, triggering other memories, other days. It also brings into clear focus that at the end of my junior year of college, I was only nineteen. Less than a decade later I'm amazed at what has changed and what is still exactly the same.
I haven't gone through all of my journals, doing so would take a lot longer than a weekends read. Many of the blank books are still half to three quarters blank. I've considered cutting out the pages and putting them in page holders and trying to create some kind of progressive timeline, something orderly. But as I'm the only one allowed back through those pages, I'm not sure it's worth it. Still, the amount of stuff that's gone into the shredder and needs to make it's way to a recycling bin is impressive. So perhaps I'll revisit more. After my head stops spinning from all the memories.
There are papers from my second grade year, the one year I was in public school before middle school, handwriting samples of a barely six year old attempting to master cursive writing. It was possible, though in retrospect my manual dexterity surprises me.
I wrote constantly as a child. Obviously this has not changed as I have become an adult. My desire to illustrate my own work seems to have lessened a little.
I found the one act play from eighth grade and stories from high school; there's a lot of wishful thinking contained in those words and it's pretty apparent who I had a crush on despite the restrictions on my dating life.
Last night, I reread one of my comp books from college. Just flipping through it, it's mostly drafts of papers and some class notes. Then, when you actually start examining pages, most of the left hand pages are journal entries.
The raw emotions of a child, teenager and eventually young adult, poured out without reservation, are daunting, even knowing they were my own emotions. There was a lot of anger and a lot of loneliness. There was a lot of confusion; I was constantly changing directions, changing focus, changing people. Friendships appear and disappear, names are mentioned once--and at least in one example I've had to ask someone else about a real name, because even within the journal entry itself I acknowledge I'm not sure.
The honesty with which I wrote always strikes me. No matter how much I attempt to hide things from others and myself, no matter the sugar coating, there's usually at least one sentence in a journal entry from the appropriate time that clearly states what was actually going on, rather that what I was pretending was happening or would happen. I'll admit it on paper, turn the page, and keep attempting to maintain whatever status quo I sought.
There are periods where I don't write, usually short ones. Sometimes the writing has moved to different places, like my blogs, but the majority of it is longhand somewhere. The most notable absence of journaling was during a period I was in a relationship. At the beginning of the relationship I wrote--mostly worrying about how I wasn't writing about the relationship, the guy, and my feelings. Should have been the first clue to run, right? I wrote tomes about my crushes, the boys I dated for a second, friends, dates. There are bad poems all over the place while I was trying to break down my thoughts to manageable bite sizes. My best friend and my first love both take up page after page of text, despite that I never truly dated either one. My boyfriend of two years? No poems, few pages, and ultimately, fewer memories.
Re-reading brings the past sharply back into focus, triggering other memories, other days. It also brings into clear focus that at the end of my junior year of college, I was only nineteen. Less than a decade later I'm amazed at what has changed and what is still exactly the same.
I haven't gone through all of my journals, doing so would take a lot longer than a weekends read. Many of the blank books are still half to three quarters blank. I've considered cutting out the pages and putting them in page holders and trying to create some kind of progressive timeline, something orderly. But as I'm the only one allowed back through those pages, I'm not sure it's worth it. Still, the amount of stuff that's gone into the shredder and needs to make it's way to a recycling bin is impressive. So perhaps I'll revisit more. After my head stops spinning from all the memories.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Episode 26: Being "Theater"
A friend was inquiring about my interest in doing some project management work for her.
"I need someone like you, you've stage managed."
"Technically, yes, but I'm primarily a costumer."
"Same thing, you're theater."
In a conversation with one of my guys during a marathon night out.
"You're theater, you don't count."
An unusual bond forms when people work together in theater and performing arts. There is an intense relationship formed and held, sometimes for only a few weeks, sometimes much longer. You grow used to friends coming and going, people you shared celebrations, tragedy, and chaos with fading away after only a short tenure, remembered but passing. And there are a select few you hold onto with both hands.
There is a shared work flow and a creative team that, ultimately, we hope the audience never really has to think about. Carpenters, directors, coaches, voice teachers, lighting, sound, stage hands, costumers, dressers, stage managers, props people, house managers, ushers--all coordinating, preparing, and working towards the deadline of the curtain rising each night and ultimately the curtain falling. And yes, there are the performers too. I've worked in both roles, though primarily backstage outside of singing.
In performing arts, as in all fields, I've met the prima donnas barely willing to acknowledge me: the girl mending wardrobe, loading the trucks, working as an usher, or just singing second soprano. But more often I've met good people, dedicated to their craft, ready to share the work, a snack, a hug, and stories. And at the end of the night, there's a round of goodnights, sometimes hugs and drinks, and good times.
There's a physical comfort among most of the "theater" people I've known and worked with. In high school we gave a set number of hugs each night, one of the seniors calling out the number at the end of rehearsal. With a small cast, this could mean one embraced nearly everyone before heading home. In college, we sat on each other's laps, gave backrubs, squashed into cars to head out for the post-rehearsal or show meal or drink. At a performance Mum attended a few years ago, I forewarned that at least one actor would squash me into an off-the-floor-full-body-post- show hug and, no, nothing was going on--he's just a theater friend.
Knowing someone has worked in a theater, though, particularly backstage or with a healthy respect and awareness of backstage, is informative. Often, they've had to manage people and projects, usually simultaneously. They've put in long hours getting ready for a single show, performance, and moment. They've worked with diverse teams, pulling together even when they don't like their fellow performers. For me, it meant that I was identified by a former coworker as competent and perfect to assist on a project because I was theater. Though the two don't always go together--competency and theater, but it provides a common background between people who may be otherwise unrelated.
They know the rush of getting ready, wondering if you'll make the deadline, learn it all, make it all, find all the things you need. They've stood in utter darkness and had someone suddenly appear at their shoulder, scaring the living daylights out of them even as it's just someone waiting for their cue, they've stuffed people into strange but necessary clothes, swallowed the laughter of a joke during a performance, rolled out of the building late, waited for the cue to begin, and finished a night with the knowledge of having brought words and music to life.
Though the memories and abilties remain, I miss being theater. Thankfully, the friendships also remain. Being able to prepare together, perform together and work together in an effort to create art lays a sturdy foundation. Such it is that it doesn't surprise me that the majority of my closest friends from the last dozen years are ones I would describe as being "theater."
"I need someone like you, you've stage managed."
"Technically, yes, but I'm primarily a costumer."
"Same thing, you're theater."
In a conversation with one of my guys during a marathon night out.
"You're theater, you don't count."
An unusual bond forms when people work together in theater and performing arts. There is an intense relationship formed and held, sometimes for only a few weeks, sometimes much longer. You grow used to friends coming and going, people you shared celebrations, tragedy, and chaos with fading away after only a short tenure, remembered but passing. And there are a select few you hold onto with both hands.
There is a shared work flow and a creative team that, ultimately, we hope the audience never really has to think about. Carpenters, directors, coaches, voice teachers, lighting, sound, stage hands, costumers, dressers, stage managers, props people, house managers, ushers--all coordinating, preparing, and working towards the deadline of the curtain rising each night and ultimately the curtain falling. And yes, there are the performers too. I've worked in both roles, though primarily backstage outside of singing.
In performing arts, as in all fields, I've met the prima donnas barely willing to acknowledge me: the girl mending wardrobe, loading the trucks, working as an usher, or just singing second soprano. But more often I've met good people, dedicated to their craft, ready to share the work, a snack, a hug, and stories. And at the end of the night, there's a round of goodnights, sometimes hugs and drinks, and good times.
There's a physical comfort among most of the "theater" people I've known and worked with. In high school we gave a set number of hugs each night, one of the seniors calling out the number at the end of rehearsal. With a small cast, this could mean one embraced nearly everyone before heading home. In college, we sat on each other's laps, gave backrubs, squashed into cars to head out for the post-rehearsal or show meal or drink. At a performance Mum attended a few years ago, I forewarned that at least one actor would squash me into an off-the-floor-full-body-post- show hug and, no, nothing was going on--he's just a theater friend.
Knowing someone has worked in a theater, though, particularly backstage or with a healthy respect and awareness of backstage, is informative. Often, they've had to manage people and projects, usually simultaneously. They've put in long hours getting ready for a single show, performance, and moment. They've worked with diverse teams, pulling together even when they don't like their fellow performers. For me, it meant that I was identified by a former coworker as competent and perfect to assist on a project because I was theater. Though the two don't always go together--competency and theater, but it provides a common background between people who may be otherwise unrelated.
They know the rush of getting ready, wondering if you'll make the deadline, learn it all, make it all, find all the things you need. They've stood in utter darkness and had someone suddenly appear at their shoulder, scaring the living daylights out of them even as it's just someone waiting for their cue, they've stuffed people into strange but necessary clothes, swallowed the laughter of a joke during a performance, rolled out of the building late, waited for the cue to begin, and finished a night with the knowledge of having brought words and music to life.
Though the memories and abilties remain, I miss being theater. Thankfully, the friendships also remain. Being able to prepare together, perform together and work together in an effort to create art lays a sturdy foundation. Such it is that it doesn't surprise me that the majority of my closest friends from the last dozen years are ones I would describe as being "theater."
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Episode 25: Summer Skirt
When I went to Chicago recently, I was surprised how differently the clothing seemed. Summer clothing in Chicago, for women at least, was very different from what I saw at home.
This small town I inhabit is Wholesome-with-a-capital-W with our usual share of crazy. Summer clothing here involves a lot of shorts or capris. I own and wear capris, though I really only have one pair that I'll wear out of the house. They make me look a lot shorter than I actually am and most of the time, that's not a good thing. Also, I wear them with flats, which means I'm two inches shorter than usual. So with the exception of the denim capris with sparkly flowers down one leg (yes, juniors dept, I'm skinny--get over it), I stick to pants and skirts. Mostly pants. Mostly linen.
As I packed for Chicago though, I knew that along with tank tops, I needed to throw in a skirt. I had the perfect skirt to bring: a black knee length that I'd just gotten in New York. It's fitted around the hips, then flares out nicely to the knee. Mostly cotton with some spandex-y type stuff. It goes with anything. Dress it up with a nice blouse, dress it down with a tank top. Pair it with heels, pair it with flats. It's machine washable, requires no ironing, and will keep forever, as long as I remember to pour in some "Woolite Dark" in the wash every now and again. It's the perfect summer skirt.
And there, on a warm Monday in July, I sat in a park with a girl friend and we watched as numerous other skirted young ladies passed by. Skirts were a given, part of summer. Infinitely more flattering, a little hint of feminine. Flowered skirts and ruffled skirts, dark and bright colors, mostly knee-length just to be functional but hemlines varied. The skirts were whatever the wearers wanted, tossed on with a casual air I see often reserved for denim.
My friend challenged me to start a revolution. The skirt revolution!! I don't think it'll quite work here--mostly because I had to go to New York just to FIND an appropriate skirt in a size that fit. But now that I have my favorite pair of ballet flats back from the cobbler (new lining on the inside), perhaps I can demonstrate the cuteness of the skirt.
This small town I inhabit is Wholesome-with-a-capital-W with our usual share of crazy. Summer clothing here involves a lot of shorts or capris. I own and wear capris, though I really only have one pair that I'll wear out of the house. They make me look a lot shorter than I actually am and most of the time, that's not a good thing. Also, I wear them with flats, which means I'm two inches shorter than usual. So with the exception of the denim capris with sparkly flowers down one leg (yes, juniors dept, I'm skinny--get over it), I stick to pants and skirts. Mostly pants. Mostly linen.
As I packed for Chicago though, I knew that along with tank tops, I needed to throw in a skirt. I had the perfect skirt to bring: a black knee length that I'd just gotten in New York. It's fitted around the hips, then flares out nicely to the knee. Mostly cotton with some spandex-y type stuff. It goes with anything. Dress it up with a nice blouse, dress it down with a tank top. Pair it with heels, pair it with flats. It's machine washable, requires no ironing, and will keep forever, as long as I remember to pour in some "Woolite Dark" in the wash every now and again. It's the perfect summer skirt.
And there, on a warm Monday in July, I sat in a park with a girl friend and we watched as numerous other skirted young ladies passed by. Skirts were a given, part of summer. Infinitely more flattering, a little hint of feminine. Flowered skirts and ruffled skirts, dark and bright colors, mostly knee-length just to be functional but hemlines varied. The skirts were whatever the wearers wanted, tossed on with a casual air I see often reserved for denim.
My friend challenged me to start a revolution. The skirt revolution!! I don't think it'll quite work here--mostly because I had to go to New York just to FIND an appropriate skirt in a size that fit. But now that I have my favorite pair of ballet flats back from the cobbler (new lining on the inside), perhaps I can demonstrate the cuteness of the skirt.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Episode 24: Old School
We're assaulted with new technology, new ways to communicate, new people to reach out to across time zones and geographic barriers. There is no reason not to start chatting with someone in Australia on Plurk and trade Flickr streams and YouTube clips so we have some inclination of sound and image. Assuming we don't go straight for Skype.
But, I will argue, there's nothing quite like a conversation with a friend who knows all of my weird phrases, knows I stick my tongue out when I giggle, and knows I'm going to need real half-and-half not that "coffee's best mate" stuff. So when my cell phone beeped a quiet question, was I around for a long distance phone call?, I went scrambling for my ear piece.
We've learned to connect with people in myriad ways. Shortly, I'll be posting elsewhere about how I walked into a room full of people and "knew" half of them, without having ever encountered them in person before. A room where a conversation went from shaking hands to picking up where we left off two days ago online. A room where your online handle was as important an identifier as your real name.
Still, having a voice on the other end of the line, and having a well remembered face and expressions to put with that voice, it's important. I know how he sits, how he stacks up the creamers like lego blocks, and what it feels like to stand in a parking lot at wee hours, hugging away our early adulthood insecurities before heading home. We remember sitting in the same class together for hours, living through relationships and performances, and trading confidences in hushed tones, while we hesitantly peer around to make sure no one is around who might know the players in this particular game.
And when the confusion is at its worst, we go back. We reach back for the familiar, the comfortable, the experienced. In this case, though I couldn't go back to the diner or the Starbucks where these conversations all began, that long standing bond formed over endless cups of coffee wiped away the distance. Even when I didn't have the words, I could honestly say that, and know I didn't know what was best but affirming, once again, that I'd be there. No matter what. Always.
I'm blessed with a multitude of friends, many of whom I've met through online social networks, professional development opportunities, chat rooms, and twitter feeds. I have friends I can text at 3 a.m. and know they'll shoot me back a message, or tell me a story 160 characters at a time until my vision finally goes blurry with sleep.
Yet, just as we are encouraged to get back to basics with our material possessions, too, I think we at times must go back to the basics of friendship. We take away the more modern technologies and rely on the emotions expressed only through the voice. We recapture the awkwardness of adults still struggling to figure out the next step, how the last one went awry, and why we don't have the answers. We sit silently, hearing only each other breathing, as we stare at two different floors and know that we might not be able to fix it, but at least we're not alone.
I'm told telephone conversations are passe. I disagree.
But, I will argue, there's nothing quite like a conversation with a friend who knows all of my weird phrases, knows I stick my tongue out when I giggle, and knows I'm going to need real half-and-half not that "coffee's best mate" stuff. So when my cell phone beeped a quiet question, was I around for a long distance phone call?, I went scrambling for my ear piece.
We've learned to connect with people in myriad ways. Shortly, I'll be posting elsewhere about how I walked into a room full of people and "knew" half of them, without having ever encountered them in person before. A room where a conversation went from shaking hands to picking up where we left off two days ago online. A room where your online handle was as important an identifier as your real name.
Still, having a voice on the other end of the line, and having a well remembered face and expressions to put with that voice, it's important. I know how he sits, how he stacks up the creamers like lego blocks, and what it feels like to stand in a parking lot at wee hours, hugging away our early adulthood insecurities before heading home. We remember sitting in the same class together for hours, living through relationships and performances, and trading confidences in hushed tones, while we hesitantly peer around to make sure no one is around who might know the players in this particular game.
And when the confusion is at its worst, we go back. We reach back for the familiar, the comfortable, the experienced. In this case, though I couldn't go back to the diner or the Starbucks where these conversations all began, that long standing bond formed over endless cups of coffee wiped away the distance. Even when I didn't have the words, I could honestly say that, and know I didn't know what was best but affirming, once again, that I'd be there. No matter what. Always.
I'm blessed with a multitude of friends, many of whom I've met through online social networks, professional development opportunities, chat rooms, and twitter feeds. I have friends I can text at 3 a.m. and know they'll shoot me back a message, or tell me a story 160 characters at a time until my vision finally goes blurry with sleep.
Yet, just as we are encouraged to get back to basics with our material possessions, too, I think we at times must go back to the basics of friendship. We take away the more modern technologies and rely on the emotions expressed only through the voice. We recapture the awkwardness of adults still struggling to figure out the next step, how the last one went awry, and why we don't have the answers. We sit silently, hearing only each other breathing, as we stare at two different floors and know that we might not be able to fix it, but at least we're not alone.
I'm told telephone conversations are passe. I disagree.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Episode 23: I Do Not Romp
I will skip. I will, reluctantly, jog. On occasion I have been seen running. Those occasions are usually when I have to catch the 8:22 out of Penn. Inevitably I'm wearing 3" heels. But if you can't run in your heels, what's the point?
There are myriad ways to frolic and enjoy the world.
But I will pass on romping. (Unless it's like the Animaniacs version in their Billy Goats Gruff episode)
Especially if it means I can skip wearing a romper.
You'll still love me if I don't wear one, won't you?
There are myriad ways to frolic and enjoy the world.
But I will pass on romping. (Unless it's like the Animaniacs version in their Billy Goats Gruff episode)
Especially if it means I can skip wearing a romper.
You'll still love me if I don't wear one, won't you?
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Episode 22: Hugs are Good for Them
Somewhere probably around the time I left for college, though quite possibly a year or two before, I started requiring hugs from the two male cousins closest in age to me. They're three and four years younger than I am, respectively, a set of very intelligent brothers. And for years this was done with gnashing of teeth and whining of how they didn't waaaaant to hug a) family and b) a girl. (Being female meant I definitely still had cooties, even though I was a cousin.) But they put up with it. It helped that after I left for college we only saw each other a couple times a year.
We're all technically adults now. One is out of college, living on his own in a relatively large metropolitan area outside of the state we grew up in, and the other just graduated and is headed for the Master program. But it's become the standard for when we're all home together--at least one hug during a family get together. We joke about it even-- "It's the obligatory hug" on the way either in or out of the party, and I think we'd all miss it were it something that passed away. And I have to say, they give pretty awesome hugs.
I can't take all the credit, but at least I did try to instill in them from a young age the appropriateness of the occasional good hug. Their girlfriends are welcome to thank me.
We're all technically adults now. One is out of college, living on his own in a relatively large metropolitan area outside of the state we grew up in, and the other just graduated and is headed for the Master program. But it's become the standard for when we're all home together--at least one hug during a family get together. We joke about it even-- "It's the obligatory hug" on the way either in or out of the party, and I think we'd all miss it were it something that passed away. And I have to say, they give pretty awesome hugs.
I can't take all the credit, but at least I did try to instill in them from a young age the appropriateness of the occasional good hug. Their girlfriends are welcome to thank me.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Episode 21: Don't Wake Me
I'm feeling a bit of a pruny old maid recently.
I was pulled out of dreams by what sounded like car doors slamming. Somehow my sleep addled mind put together that children were being dropped off for day care, explaining the high voices and car doors. Unfortunately, as I started to be come more lucid, this proved to be far from the case.
My hair was still soaking wet and it was dark, not even pre-dawn light, so when I finally pulled my glasses on I was irritated to see it nearly three a.m. Having been short on sleep and shorter on feeling well, uninterrupted sleep of several hours is a necessity to get me through the day.
The noises continued. Whack, thonk, scrape, and two voices. This might not be so bad in an area where there was more grass or ambient noise (and trust me, I've slept through "ambient noise"), but I'm currently in a valley where they've set up the buildings in a circle with parking lot in between. It has horrific acoustics but sounds are certainly enhanced by all the hard surfaces.
Stumbling out of bed and peering out the window, I saw two young men, one with a skateboard. And I felt a twinge of regret that I'm past the rebel age of sticking up for the rights of the skaters. Of course, rights after three a.m. are a little more negotiable.
I headed out to the balcony, hair still soaked, and heaven only knows my jammies weren't the sexiest things but I was decent. It took a couple of tries to get their attention, finally calling "Hey!" I suggested that maybe rather than having one of the neighbors call the cops they head in, it was three a.m. and they'd gotten me out of bed. They apologized, apparently it was news that it was so late, and went in.
And promptly, with noisy girls, headed out to their own balcony. I crawled back into bed and tried to sleep. One of the other neighbors, a guy, took a more direct and profane approach. This managed to turn the volume down so at least I couldn't understand what was being said, which did, after about twenty minutes, allow me to relegate it to ambient noise enough to get some sleep. (At least two of the girls leaving to noisy goodbyes assisted with that too.)
I've certainly gone out late, been up late, hosted parties late, had to deal with drunken friends who didn't want to go to bed, or inside. And I've done that on Thursday nights, as this was. But come on people, recognize that you're in a noisy fishbowl--take it down a notch, take it inside...and put the skateboard away. Some day you too will have to work on Friday.
I was pulled out of dreams by what sounded like car doors slamming. Somehow my sleep addled mind put together that children were being dropped off for day care, explaining the high voices and car doors. Unfortunately, as I started to be come more lucid, this proved to be far from the case.
My hair was still soaking wet and it was dark, not even pre-dawn light, so when I finally pulled my glasses on I was irritated to see it nearly three a.m. Having been short on sleep and shorter on feeling well, uninterrupted sleep of several hours is a necessity to get me through the day.
The noises continued. Whack, thonk, scrape, and two voices. This might not be so bad in an area where there was more grass or ambient noise (and trust me, I've slept through "ambient noise"), but I'm currently in a valley where they've set up the buildings in a circle with parking lot in between. It has horrific acoustics but sounds are certainly enhanced by all the hard surfaces.
Stumbling out of bed and peering out the window, I saw two young men, one with a skateboard. And I felt a twinge of regret that I'm past the rebel age of sticking up for the rights of the skaters. Of course, rights after three a.m. are a little more negotiable.
I headed out to the balcony, hair still soaked, and heaven only knows my jammies weren't the sexiest things but I was decent. It took a couple of tries to get their attention, finally calling "Hey!" I suggested that maybe rather than having one of the neighbors call the cops they head in, it was three a.m. and they'd gotten me out of bed. They apologized, apparently it was news that it was so late, and went in.
And promptly, with noisy girls, headed out to their own balcony. I crawled back into bed and tried to sleep. One of the other neighbors, a guy, took a more direct and profane approach. This managed to turn the volume down so at least I couldn't understand what was being said, which did, after about twenty minutes, allow me to relegate it to ambient noise enough to get some sleep. (At least two of the girls leaving to noisy goodbyes assisted with that too.)
I've certainly gone out late, been up late, hosted parties late, had to deal with drunken friends who didn't want to go to bed, or inside. And I've done that on Thursday nights, as this was. But come on people, recognize that you're in a noisy fishbowl--take it down a notch, take it inside...and put the skateboard away. Some day you too will have to work on Friday.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Episode 20:
Have you ever considered the act of hand holding?
As children we hold hands with our parents or in lines at school. With our parents and other trusted adults, it is a loving connection, most of the time, giving us a sense of protection. It is also how they haul us about when we're misbehaving or loathe to leave our play date. Then there were the times of holding hands so everyone was together and no one was misplaced in a long queue of children. That seems to have gone by the wayside of everyone holding onto a colorful rope, if the local preschool visits are anything to go by. One can't require children to join hands these days I suppose. Too much hamthrax about?
We hold hands in prayer, at a church or prayer circle. A bond between two or more people, united together both by their faith and by the simple connection of hands. The warmth of our hands coming together, and our voices joined....or just our minds.
And we hold hands with our friends and significant others. In high school, at least where I went, holding hands was a sign that you liked someone, that you were dating, something of that nature. It had connotations and those were not boundaries lightly crossed. As I moved into college years it became less a bond of romance and more a bond of friendship. It became comfortable and familiar to reach for the hand of a friend as we walked--finding that ease of touch between two people. Granted, it was mostly with close friends, but trust and friendship can be much stronger than the fleeting initial romances, and should they not therefore be entitled to such a bond?
Therefore, I'm used to holding hands with the boys I'm dating, or the friends that I'm dragging about or who are hauling me somewhere. I have lots of practice at it, and no, that's not a euphemism for anything else. So it surprised me to notice the difference and the intimacy of holding hands with my best friend recently. Think about holding my hand. Our fingers are interlocked and our hands are touching from the wrist down, right? (Had to think about that, didn't you?) Now, imagine a slight shift, so the majority of our lower arms were also touching. And stayed that way. We held hands like that for three days.
It was much more personal, certainly it meant we stayed closer together physically, and I was intrigued. A thousand ways, no doubt, to hold hands, and here was one I hadn't noticed before.
And this is what occupies my mind when I attempt to sleep and find, for neither the first nor last time, that sleep is going to be elusive until I wear myself out. They actually don't recommend exercise--apparently it stimulates the muscles and blood flow.
But my neighbors continue to yak at each other and while they either have amazing ears and can't sleep because I'm typing (doubtful---I figure he would have come over by now) or they never sleep. Either way, I don't feel like listening to his muted mutterings.
As children we hold hands with our parents or in lines at school. With our parents and other trusted adults, it is a loving connection, most of the time, giving us a sense of protection. It is also how they haul us about when we're misbehaving or loathe to leave our play date. Then there were the times of holding hands so everyone was together and no one was misplaced in a long queue of children. That seems to have gone by the wayside of everyone holding onto a colorful rope, if the local preschool visits are anything to go by. One can't require children to join hands these days I suppose. Too much hamthrax about?
We hold hands in prayer, at a church or prayer circle. A bond between two or more people, united together both by their faith and by the simple connection of hands. The warmth of our hands coming together, and our voices joined....or just our minds.
And we hold hands with our friends and significant others. In high school, at least where I went, holding hands was a sign that you liked someone, that you were dating, something of that nature. It had connotations and those were not boundaries lightly crossed. As I moved into college years it became less a bond of romance and more a bond of friendship. It became comfortable and familiar to reach for the hand of a friend as we walked--finding that ease of touch between two people. Granted, it was mostly with close friends, but trust and friendship can be much stronger than the fleeting initial romances, and should they not therefore be entitled to such a bond?
Therefore, I'm used to holding hands with the boys I'm dating, or the friends that I'm dragging about or who are hauling me somewhere. I have lots of practice at it, and no, that's not a euphemism for anything else. So it surprised me to notice the difference and the intimacy of holding hands with my best friend recently. Think about holding my hand. Our fingers are interlocked and our hands are touching from the wrist down, right? (Had to think about that, didn't you?) Now, imagine a slight shift, so the majority of our lower arms were also touching. And stayed that way. We held hands like that for three days.
It was much more personal, certainly it meant we stayed closer together physically, and I was intrigued. A thousand ways, no doubt, to hold hands, and here was one I hadn't noticed before.
And this is what occupies my mind when I attempt to sleep and find, for neither the first nor last time, that sleep is going to be elusive until I wear myself out. They actually don't recommend exercise--apparently it stimulates the muscles and blood flow.
But my neighbors continue to yak at each other and while they either have amazing ears and can't sleep because I'm typing (doubtful---I figure he would have come over by now) or they never sleep. Either way, I don't feel like listening to his muted mutterings.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Episode 19: Frilly Underthings
It's a toss up. On one hand, I'd love to share with you how wonderful my recent shopping experience was, how I waded through pages online, placed an order and was amazed at the fast shipping. On the other hand it's a girl's undergarment website.
Well, you'll just have to suck it up, it's my blog and think of it as edification for when next your girls are carping about VS and all it's 'angelic' clothing. Uh-huh, angels. Right.
I found La Senza during college and was thrilled. Here was no nauseatingly pink boutique that told me I had to overly enhance the naturally given assets. So you can imagine how frustrated I was first when that store closed and later, when I discovered they no longer have any locations in the United States.
Fortunately, they are in Canada and are believers in the mail order business.
Why am I so enthralled? Four reasons:
1) Cute stuff-- I'm a magpie, as is any shopper, and there's stuff for those of us not so prurient of nature without falling asleep from sheer boredom every time I open the top dresser drawer. So yes, I clicked through to see many options of cuteness and had to hone down the cart to a reasonable amount.
2) Good pricing -- Yes, those items of clothing are a necessity, but they're not gold plated. At least, not the ones in my wardrobe.
3) Great Customer Service-- I ordered things late Sunday night and by Tuesday at 2 p.m. it was on my desk. They send out prompt shipping emails and are very straightforward about things like return policies.
4) Stuff fits --I complain about the difficulty of finding clothing to fit often, which is part of the reason I buy as much as I do online. Knowing I can log on, make some purchases, have it arrive quickly and be able to wear things without having to spend 45 minutes in a dressing room trying to guess what size I am in this brand is wonderful.
So yes, I recommend them, and if you go over now (after my order is already here of course) they are having their big sale.
And no, they didn't pay me to write this for them. Though I would be amenable to a gift certificate or something.
Well, you'll just have to suck it up, it's my blog and think of it as edification for when next your girls are carping about VS and all it's 'angelic' clothing. Uh-huh, angels. Right.
I found La Senza during college and was thrilled. Here was no nauseatingly pink boutique that told me I had to overly enhance the naturally given assets. So you can imagine how frustrated I was first when that store closed and later, when I discovered they no longer have any locations in the United States.
Fortunately, they are in Canada and are believers in the mail order business.
Why am I so enthralled? Four reasons:
1) Cute stuff-- I'm a magpie, as is any shopper, and there's stuff for those of us not so prurient of nature without falling asleep from sheer boredom every time I open the top dresser drawer. So yes, I clicked through to see many options of cuteness and had to hone down the cart to a reasonable amount.
2) Good pricing -- Yes, those items of clothing are a necessity, but they're not gold plated. At least, not the ones in my wardrobe.
3) Great Customer Service-- I ordered things late Sunday night and by Tuesday at 2 p.m. it was on my desk. They send out prompt shipping emails and are very straightforward about things like return policies.
4) Stuff fits --I complain about the difficulty of finding clothing to fit often, which is part of the reason I buy as much as I do online. Knowing I can log on, make some purchases, have it arrive quickly and be able to wear things without having to spend 45 minutes in a dressing room trying to guess what size I am in this brand is wonderful.
So yes, I recommend them, and if you go over now (after my order is already here of course) they are having their big sale.
And no, they didn't pay me to write this for them. Though I would be amenable to a gift certificate or something.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Episode 18: Declare the Day Broken
Every now and again I find myself in need to declare the day broken. Today, is one of those days.
Broken doesn't necessarily mean a bad day, though the two go hand in hand. One just seems to be hitting brick walls, fail whales, and new problems everywhere.
In the space of an hour:
1) I learned that the first bagel I'd permitted myself to eat in MONTHS (braces) had loosened one of the brackets, turning a 20 minute check up into a 40 minute ordeal including getting those lip stretchers stuffed in my cheeks. Not fun. I used to eat 3-4 bagels a week. Whine.
2) I walked out of that appointment to verify that yes, my car was making a really odd shuddering/squeak--but only on right turns. Left turns seem to be fine. Called and scheduled an appointment with my resident car doctor on Friday morning.
3) Which meant my optometrist had to be changed. TG for day planners and cell phones. Got that moved in the space of time it took to wait on my coffee.
4) Arriving back at work, a coworker fussing with a pump bottle of lotion splutted all over me.
Today is broken. And it's nowhere near over yet.
I swear as soon as the braces are off it's going to be all bagels all the time. Now, if you'll excuse me, my peppermint scented self has to try and get a few things done without breaking them.
Broken doesn't necessarily mean a bad day, though the two go hand in hand. One just seems to be hitting brick walls, fail whales, and new problems everywhere.
In the space of an hour:
1) I learned that the first bagel I'd permitted myself to eat in MONTHS (braces) had loosened one of the brackets, turning a 20 minute check up into a 40 minute ordeal including getting those lip stretchers stuffed in my cheeks. Not fun. I used to eat 3-4 bagels a week. Whine.
2) I walked out of that appointment to verify that yes, my car was making a really odd shuddering/squeak--but only on right turns. Left turns seem to be fine. Called and scheduled an appointment with my resident car doctor on Friday morning.
3) Which meant my optometrist had to be changed. TG for day planners and cell phones. Got that moved in the space of time it took to wait on my coffee.
4) Arriving back at work, a coworker fussing with a pump bottle of lotion splutted all over me.
Today is broken. And it's nowhere near over yet.
I swear as soon as the braces are off it's going to be all bagels all the time. Now, if you'll excuse me, my peppermint scented self has to try and get a few things done without breaking them.
Episode 17: The Two Walking Arm in Arm
Spent the weekend with my best friend and was amused to see various assumptions made about us.
Most interestingly came the first night at the bar. We were sitting at the bar, our body language fully towards each other, focused on nothing but catching up. But the guy who kept trying to crouch in over my shoulder apparently missed that. I kept scooting closer, shifting my shoulders, and this guy wouldn't back off. Even a slight elbowing seemed to not deter him. I wasn't up for making a scene so I didn't condone any particular action from my male counterpart but we both had some serious comments to make when he decided to go drool on some other chick.
Seriously, sweetheart, I ask you, in whose world is that kind of behavior suddenly going to elicit a female to turn around and say "oh, where have you been all my life? I love you!" Sorry Mr. Middle Aged Dude Whose Had a Few Too Many, I'm already with someone.
When you're out together, people address you as a couple, no matter what kind of relationship you really have. I'd forgotten about this. Certainly I noticed it when we went out with Mom and Dad ( but there waiters and passersby couldn't decide if we were two married couples or mom/dad and the kids. But put a male and female out together and poof, practically a married couple, minus the rings. I only actually was asked about "my husband" twice, however that's a high number in my book when I had no jewelry on either hand.
It was a split between being the old married couple (added to by the fact, he pointed out that we both have "old" hobbies) and being "kids" out and about. I caught some glances wondering what we were up to, not so much out past curfew but seeming more carefree and youthfully bouncing from activity to activity. And coming back to the hotel soaking wet because we got caught in a rainstorm between here and there. That, of course, was the day I was wearing capris and a white shirt.
And for the weekend, I didn't mind being "married."
Most interestingly came the first night at the bar. We were sitting at the bar, our body language fully towards each other, focused on nothing but catching up. But the guy who kept trying to crouch in over my shoulder apparently missed that. I kept scooting closer, shifting my shoulders, and this guy wouldn't back off. Even a slight elbowing seemed to not deter him. I wasn't up for making a scene so I didn't condone any particular action from my male counterpart but we both had some serious comments to make when he decided to go drool on some other chick.
Seriously, sweetheart, I ask you, in whose world is that kind of behavior suddenly going to elicit a female to turn around and say "oh, where have you been all my life? I love you!" Sorry Mr. Middle Aged Dude Whose Had a Few Too Many, I'm already with someone.
When you're out together, people address you as a couple, no matter what kind of relationship you really have. I'd forgotten about this. Certainly I noticed it when we went out with Mom and Dad ( but there waiters and passersby couldn't decide if we were two married couples or mom/dad and the kids. But put a male and female out together and poof, practically a married couple, minus the rings. I only actually was asked about "my husband" twice, however that's a high number in my book when I had no jewelry on either hand.
It was a split between being the old married couple (added to by the fact, he pointed out that we both have "old" hobbies) and being "kids" out and about. I caught some glances wondering what we were up to, not so much out past curfew but seeming more carefree and youthfully bouncing from activity to activity. And coming back to the hotel soaking wet because we got caught in a rainstorm between here and there. That, of course, was the day I was wearing capris and a white shirt.
And for the weekend, I didn't mind being "married."
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Episode 16: Wardrobe Awareness
I have just pleasantly come to the realization that there is an entire section of my wardrobe devoted to the exclamation "Damn!"
And I will definitely be fabulous all weekend. Now we just pray for a little sunshine.
And I will definitely be fabulous all weekend. Now we just pray for a little sunshine.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Episode 15: Only Women Wait?
I've managed to achieve my late twenties with a healthy dose of cynicism.
And I have to wonder, how is it that so many men I meet, of similar age to myself or within a comfortable dating bracket (-2/+7 years) have a) already been married and divorced, b) already had children, c) had at least one fruitless engagement.
Did these men not get the memo about being yourself and living your own life before you joined yours to another person's? Was that a females only memo? I know a number of women who have managed to reach the end of their third decade without anyone falling to one knee, wearing a white dress, or creating new life.
So many sour grapes you say? Perhaps. It just seems such a disappointment to know that while I could find more to life than self-identification in a relationship and that I chose not to settle because "time was running out," apparently the men were all running out.(1)
I'm not saying other long term relationships aren't a part of growing and maturing. Certainly it's not all been first dates on the search for Mr. Right. Assuming I ever find him or decide that marriage is my briefcase, baby. But should I expect, at this spinsterish age of mine, that the best I can do is someone who already picked someone else for life long commitment? And now is no longer with that person?
One of my oldest and dearest friends, a guy, is a lot like me in the dating life respect--we've both had relationships that were serious and where the idea of marriage might have been a little more concrete than usual, but far from anything involving shiny jewelry. And I would say we both have full lives with strong family and friend connections, accomplishments personally and professionally, and adventures enough to make for a few stories that need to be edited depending on who is in the room.
Mayhap I should just marry him, he seems to be one of the last of an elusive breed: the un-previously-committed male over 25. But why spoil a good friendship with marriage. :-p
(1) Of course, I remember the young man I was not-dating at the end of college. Maybe it's a not such a surprise I didn't head right for wedding bells. My first love, but not the one.
And I have to wonder, how is it that so many men I meet, of similar age to myself or within a comfortable dating bracket (-2/+7 years) have a) already been married and divorced, b) already had children, c) had at least one fruitless engagement.
Did these men not get the memo about being yourself and living your own life before you joined yours to another person's? Was that a females only memo? I know a number of women who have managed to reach the end of their third decade without anyone falling to one knee, wearing a white dress, or creating new life.
So many sour grapes you say? Perhaps. It just seems such a disappointment to know that while I could find more to life than self-identification in a relationship and that I chose not to settle because "time was running out," apparently the men were all running out.(1)
I'm not saying other long term relationships aren't a part of growing and maturing. Certainly it's not all been first dates on the search for Mr. Right. Assuming I ever find him or decide that marriage is my briefcase, baby. But should I expect, at this spinsterish age of mine, that the best I can do is someone who already picked someone else for life long commitment? And now is no longer with that person?
One of my oldest and dearest friends, a guy, is a lot like me in the dating life respect--we've both had relationships that were serious and where the idea of marriage might have been a little more concrete than usual, but far from anything involving shiny jewelry. And I would say we both have full lives with strong family and friend connections, accomplishments personally and professionally, and adventures enough to make for a few stories that need to be edited depending on who is in the room.
Mayhap I should just marry him, he seems to be one of the last of an elusive breed: the un-previously-committed male over 25. But why spoil a good friendship with marriage. :-p
(1) Of course, I remember the young man I was not-dating at the end of college. Maybe it's a not such a surprise I didn't head right for wedding bells. My first love, but not the one.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Episode 14: Plain Eyes
I was diagnosed with visual impairment around the age of six, though they missed the astigmatism the first time. I've been regularly in glasses and contacts ever since. My first pair of glasses were big round pink frames. At the time, the optometry assistants tried in vain to talk Mum out of them--too big for my face, they argued. And when you look at pictures from those days, you see a little girl with BIG glasses. But they were pink, my then favorite color, and I thought they were pretty. Mum chose to err on the side of getting something I would wear as opposed to forcing me into smaller frames.
I went through many pair of frames, including silver ones with ripples in junior high at some point, and somewhere around/during college moved into brown cat's eye frames. I wanted black, but the ever wise optometry assistant Catherine pointed out that brown would be a little less likely to show the bags under the eyes. Considering that was the point I was sleeping an average of 3-4 hours a night, brown it was.
When those frames died the death of snapping in half, I moved into the current frames. Dark-torti cat's eyes. Never quite as extreme as the 1950s look, just a gentle homage the the shape. The eyes have been changing again though and I've bent these frames to heck and back--I fall asleep in my glasses pretty often.
At the recommendation of a coworker, I made an appointment and duly rendered myself up to three ladies for eye examination. This was at least one more person than I was used to, and I'm not counting the receptionist.
First was the optometry assistant who did all sorts of tests, some of which I knew (follow my pen with your eyes) and some I did not (watch the white light and press the buzzer when you see the blurs). The latter test, by the way, totally works on a rhythm that I figured out about halfway through the first eye. I could have just followed the rhythm and scored perfectly but as it is my eyes, I just felt I had the advantage of knowing at when the best point to blink was.
I was handed off then to the optometrist, a young woman close to my own age. She was pretty awesome, I have to say. We joked about people with slight prescriptions and our jealousy of them and she didn't require eye dilation. Considering it was a sunny day and I had to drive home, I was grateful. Next time we'll probably need to and I'll try to remember to pack an extra person in the car. Blasted lack of decent public transportation.
Finally I was handed off to someone to help me pick out frames. Seriously, this woman's entire job yesterday was to help me find frames and tell me how much it would be for everything once I had. I'm used to smaller shops where that person is also doing the phones and other tasks, this was a little overwhelming. But as it meant she would also go look and bring me frames to try while I peered myopically at myself, it was kind of handy.
And it was an experience:
First, as I mingled amongst the eye pieces, she came out and called for me by a permutation of my name that I abhor. I didn't realize she was talking to me--I never answer to that. It was only the second time that I turned around and asked (in the "do you mean REAL NAME?" sort of way) if she meant me. On this auspicious footing we began.
They had a wide, lovely selection of frames in various shades, shapes, sizes, colors and decor. You could see she was ready to show me blue, super-square, Swarovski crystal laden, thick and heavily floral templed frames. And then I probably really destroyed her day: I told her what I wanted. I indicated my face and said "I want a new version of these."
I then further disillusioned her, telling her I seriously disliked the heavy decorated temple look and that I wasn't up for bling. All this in that blithe no-nonsense voice that indicated handing me the 'fabulous' orange frames with just two crystals in each corner would be a bad idea.
Ultimately I ended up with slightly smaller, slightly more square, dark brown torti frames that have a slight homage to cat's eyes. Final results in 7-10 days.
I went through many pair of frames, including silver ones with ripples in junior high at some point, and somewhere around/during college moved into brown cat's eye frames. I wanted black, but the ever wise optometry assistant Catherine pointed out that brown would be a little less likely to show the bags under the eyes. Considering that was the point I was sleeping an average of 3-4 hours a night, brown it was.
When those frames died the death of snapping in half, I moved into the current frames. Dark-torti cat's eyes. Never quite as extreme as the 1950s look, just a gentle homage the the shape. The eyes have been changing again though and I've bent these frames to heck and back--I fall asleep in my glasses pretty often.
At the recommendation of a coworker, I made an appointment and duly rendered myself up to three ladies for eye examination. This was at least one more person than I was used to, and I'm not counting the receptionist.
First was the optometry assistant who did all sorts of tests, some of which I knew (follow my pen with your eyes) and some I did not (watch the white light and press the buzzer when you see the blurs). The latter test, by the way, totally works on a rhythm that I figured out about halfway through the first eye. I could have just followed the rhythm and scored perfectly but as it is my eyes, I just felt I had the advantage of knowing at when the best point to blink was.
I was handed off then to the optometrist, a young woman close to my own age. She was pretty awesome, I have to say. We joked about people with slight prescriptions and our jealousy of them and she didn't require eye dilation. Considering it was a sunny day and I had to drive home, I was grateful. Next time we'll probably need to and I'll try to remember to pack an extra person in the car. Blasted lack of decent public transportation.
Finally I was handed off to someone to help me pick out frames. Seriously, this woman's entire job yesterday was to help me find frames and tell me how much it would be for everything once I had. I'm used to smaller shops where that person is also doing the phones and other tasks, this was a little overwhelming. But as it meant she would also go look and bring me frames to try while I peered myopically at myself, it was kind of handy.
And it was an experience:
First, as I mingled amongst the eye pieces, she came out and called for me by a permutation of my name that I abhor. I didn't realize she was talking to me--I never answer to that. It was only the second time that I turned around and asked (in the "do you mean REAL NAME?" sort of way) if she meant me. On this auspicious footing we began.
They had a wide, lovely selection of frames in various shades, shapes, sizes, colors and decor. You could see she was ready to show me blue, super-square, Swarovski crystal laden, thick and heavily floral templed frames. And then I probably really destroyed her day: I told her what I wanted. I indicated my face and said "I want a new version of these."
I then further disillusioned her, telling her I seriously disliked the heavy decorated temple look and that I wasn't up for bling. All this in that blithe no-nonsense voice that indicated handing me the 'fabulous' orange frames with just two crystals in each corner would be a bad idea.
Ultimately I ended up with slightly smaller, slightly more square, dark brown torti frames that have a slight homage to cat's eyes. Final results in 7-10 days.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Episode 13: Keeping on That Learning Curve
Some lessons, it seems, come with a little pain. Things I've learned of late:
Off to work on my to do list.
- It's a bad idea to do yoga in the morning and then go dancing in 3" heels that night. Apparently doing squats in those heels means your quads suddenly have a wrenching pain that makes it difficult to continue dancing.
- If you don't stretch every hour or two over the weekend following said quad pain incident, the muscles tighten up and it really hurts to move.
- I have to write out more comprehensive to do lists and add stuff to them regularly. Otherwise I realize at 8:30 p.m. on Sunday that I have something due Monday morning that isn't started yet.
- My pangs of homesickness are cyclical. If I can make it a week productively working towards my future, I can settle back into the here and present well enough to not resent having to get out of bed every day.
Off to work on my to do list.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Episode 12: Can't Say What I Want to Say
This is the fourth time I've tried to write this blog post.
The essentials?
A. Emails and blog posts don't take physical space in our homes to save them, allowing us to save more of them.
B. It is easier to read, find and save my online words or find them easily through an online search.
A + B = I feel like my hands are tied and my voice is muted. There are times I can't say what I really want to say--I'm self editing on the off chance that what I type will come back to haunt me in the future. It's not just professional, usually it's personal. Cards and stationary end up in the recycling bin--the thought retained but the object passed on and the exact phrases often forgotten. But online words can last and are so much more searchable. Do I anticipate my words being thrown back in my face? No, but I am more inclined to take out and save for phone or in person something edgier. I know, I might be being recorded then too. If y'all are really that focused on getting me on record, I'm not sure of a good way around that.
But, ultimately, this is why I still keep an offline journal and am considering a codicil to my will that says those have to be taken out and burned.
The essentials?
A. Emails and blog posts don't take physical space in our homes to save them, allowing us to save more of them.
B. It is easier to read, find and save my online words or find them easily through an online search.
A + B = I feel like my hands are tied and my voice is muted. There are times I can't say what I really want to say--I'm self editing on the off chance that what I type will come back to haunt me in the future. It's not just professional, usually it's personal. Cards and stationary end up in the recycling bin--the thought retained but the object passed on and the exact phrases often forgotten. But online words can last and are so much more searchable. Do I anticipate my words being thrown back in my face? No, but I am more inclined to take out and save for phone or in person something edgier. I know, I might be being recorded then too. If y'all are really that focused on getting me on record, I'm not sure of a good way around that.
But, ultimately, this is why I still keep an offline journal and am considering a codicil to my will that says those have to be taken out and burned.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Episode 11: Ask for Help
It's one of those paradigms that I'm in a profession that is very much query based--and yet I have a difficult time asking for assistance.
Some things are easy: I've often asked male roommates to open jars or reach something up high if I didn't feel like climbing on the counters. I have a selection of people who are often asked to edit and review pieces for me. One of my best friends is a nurse and I solicit her opinion frequently on health news I see and discussions on good health in general for me. (Note--eat more vegetables)
Others, not so much. I have a strong sense, for whatever reason, of "you should be able to figure this out for yourself." It crosses into my most active hobby and especially my work. Even when I know I need help, and know help is available, there are times I try to be a wonder woman. I'm working on getting better at figuring out when to ask for help, but it's a slow process.
I reached out to a friend today, asking for help. We're going on 5 years of knowing each other, and even once have met in person, and he was the right person to ask. I'm undertaking a new project and it's in an area he knows. But writing that email was hard. Not because I didn't think he'd help--I had a response in nearly seconds offering full and cheerful assistance--but because it's me and I feel like I should be able to do this on my own.
Silly me. Vaa reminded me this morning that I can't do it alone, that I'm supposed to reach out to others. Sharing burdens and helping is part of friendship. And part of what I do is knowing where to get answers, rather than what answers are. Asking for help to get from where to what, that too is a part of friendship and self-development.
So now I charge forth, trying to figure out who best to ask and trying to get over the ridiculous stigma that friends and professional contacts will look down on me for asking questions.
Some things are easy: I've often asked male roommates to open jars or reach something up high if I didn't feel like climbing on the counters. I have a selection of people who are often asked to edit and review pieces for me. One of my best friends is a nurse and I solicit her opinion frequently on health news I see and discussions on good health in general for me. (Note--eat more vegetables)
Others, not so much. I have a strong sense, for whatever reason, of "you should be able to figure this out for yourself." It crosses into my most active hobby and especially my work. Even when I know I need help, and know help is available, there are times I try to be a wonder woman. I'm working on getting better at figuring out when to ask for help, but it's a slow process.
I reached out to a friend today, asking for help. We're going on 5 years of knowing each other, and even once have met in person, and he was the right person to ask. I'm undertaking a new project and it's in an area he knows. But writing that email was hard. Not because I didn't think he'd help--I had a response in nearly seconds offering full and cheerful assistance--but because it's me and I feel like I should be able to do this on my own.
Silly me. Vaa reminded me this morning that I can't do it alone, that I'm supposed to reach out to others. Sharing burdens and helping is part of friendship. And part of what I do is knowing where to get answers, rather than what answers are. Asking for help to get from where to what, that too is a part of friendship and self-development.
So now I charge forth, trying to figure out who best to ask and trying to get over the ridiculous stigma that friends and professional contacts will look down on me for asking questions.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Episode 10: Rocking Out in My Chair
It's taken a while, but my coworkers have started to figure out that if I'm unresponsive I'm not ignoring them, I just have headphones in. The shared office space is pretty noisy and if I need to concentrate, it's time to zone out. It was a lot easier a couple of jobs ago. There, my manager (next cube behind me) just chucked soft stuff at me to get my attention. When a foam heart goes flying past your range of vision....
I have a playlist on YouTube and a reasonably well honed library at Last.fm for when I'm tuning in, zoning out, and rocking on. A fair amount of it is top 40, scoffed upon by "real music lovers" but Beyonce is good for wiggling through an afternoon of data entry. Dance music in particular helps me concentrate, something about a nice steady bass beat. I'm sure it looks odd from the back--chair dancing usually does when you can't hear the music.
Which is probably why people stare at me strangely when I'm driving, isn't it?
I have a playlist on YouTube and a reasonably well honed library at Last.fm for when I'm tuning in, zoning out, and rocking on. A fair amount of it is top 40, scoffed upon by "real music lovers" but Beyonce is good for wiggling through an afternoon of data entry. Dance music in particular helps me concentrate, something about a nice steady bass beat. I'm sure it looks odd from the back--chair dancing usually does when you can't hear the music.
Which is probably why people stare at me strangely when I'm driving, isn't it?
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Episode 8: The Mirror
My bathroom has a huge mirror in it. Over the vanity, it's about five feet wide and three feet tall. The corners are a bit of a nuisance to clean but it's nice having a large mirror. The only other mirror in my apartment is a small (one foot w by two feet tall) face mirror in my bedroom that I rarely use besides when fussing with my jewelry.
My personal self image each day is therefore dependent on this bathroom mirror. I may glance in the mirror at work while washing my hands, but that's primarily to see if anything is out of place or if my hair has decided to take on a life of it's own. Occasionally it has. But my bathroom mirror is where I preen, look at my body critically, and remind myself that more yoga and pilates would be a good idea. Maybe some aerobics too.
I'd lived in this apartment for about six months before I went home for a visit. I stayed with my sister, who, at the time, had a similarly large mirror in her bathroom (and a window---jealousy of that natural daylight in the bath). As I got ready to hop in the shower I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
It was a surprise. I looked a lot thinner in her mirror. I also knew she had a new mirror--which meant my bathroom mirror was warped. (And no, siblings don't like it when you pop out of the shower, towel wrapped asking "Do I really look this thin?")
Visitors to my apartment have agreed that the bathroom mirror is slightly warped. A couple suggested I replace it, something I don't plan to do as I'm renting here and that's a BIG chunk of mirror.
What surprised me the most was how much it had affected my self perceived body image. I saw myself as heavier and a little shorter every morning, and without thinking about it had changed my idea about myself. I was surprised to find out I weighed the same, surely I'd put on weight, I looked heavier, right? No, clothes weren't fitting too differently but the image was there in my head. I don't own a bathroom scale, so I couldn't verify the image with a number.
I need to get another mirror, something full length so I can see my shoes and lower limbs, but until I get myself over to Lowes or Home Depot or Wal-mart, I have my bathroom mirror. And I have to keep reminding myself that what's in the mirror isn't 100% correct. It's harder to shake than I'd like, especially when there's not immediate comparison to show a proper body image.
You and I've spoken about moving forward and changing our images (professionally, personally, etc). I challenge you this week to consider if your mirror is warped and if you need a new mirror in your bathroom--physical or mental.
Maybe that will give us the new/correct/refreshed perspective we're looking for.
My personal self image each day is therefore dependent on this bathroom mirror. I may glance in the mirror at work while washing my hands, but that's primarily to see if anything is out of place or if my hair has decided to take on a life of it's own. Occasionally it has. But my bathroom mirror is where I preen, look at my body critically, and remind myself that more yoga and pilates would be a good idea. Maybe some aerobics too.
I'd lived in this apartment for about six months before I went home for a visit. I stayed with my sister, who, at the time, had a similarly large mirror in her bathroom (and a window---jealousy of that natural daylight in the bath). As I got ready to hop in the shower I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
It was a surprise. I looked a lot thinner in her mirror. I also knew she had a new mirror--which meant my bathroom mirror was warped. (And no, siblings don't like it when you pop out of the shower, towel wrapped asking "Do I really look this thin?")
Visitors to my apartment have agreed that the bathroom mirror is slightly warped. A couple suggested I replace it, something I don't plan to do as I'm renting here and that's a BIG chunk of mirror.
What surprised me the most was how much it had affected my self perceived body image. I saw myself as heavier and a little shorter every morning, and without thinking about it had changed my idea about myself. I was surprised to find out I weighed the same, surely I'd put on weight, I looked heavier, right? No, clothes weren't fitting too differently but the image was there in my head. I don't own a bathroom scale, so I couldn't verify the image with a number.
I need to get another mirror, something full length so I can see my shoes and lower limbs, but until I get myself over to Lowes or Home Depot or Wal-mart, I have my bathroom mirror. And I have to keep reminding myself that what's in the mirror isn't 100% correct. It's harder to shake than I'd like, especially when there's not immediate comparison to show a proper body image.
You and I've spoken about moving forward and changing our images (professionally, personally, etc). I challenge you this week to consider if your mirror is warped and if you need a new mirror in your bathroom--physical or mental.
Maybe that will give us the new/correct/refreshed perspective we're looking for.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Episode 7: Nature Sparkles
I'm finishing up my taxes, which has almost as much appeal as the dentist appointment did last week. Granted, no one is shoving sharp objects in and around my teeth with the guarantee of drawing blood and the strong possibility of me gagging, but it's a close second.
I did my taxes in late February once I got the paperwork from all the necessary places (the list just keeps growing!). But I owe money this year, which hurts even as it is a good sign that I'm doing well with my freelance work. So today I'm reading through the numbers again and prepping the checks to go into the mail. Yippee.
Just now though I stopped for a minute to take a look at my amaryllis. A gift from a woman whose twins I taught as infants, she probably doesn't remember me. I remember only that her first name was unusual and that we only used part of it, calling her Belle.
The amaryllis has been a stubborn plant. It didn't like the house I was living it at the time, refusing to bloom because of the smokers that were polluting it's lungs and mine. It objected to my next apartment for reasons unknown. Then I moved again and it got a place of, not honor, but at least lots of sunlight in the big front window. Finally, it condescended to bloom with rich salmon-colored flowers.
Promptly thereafter it went back to growing nice lush leaves and ignoring my entreaties to bloom again. It survived, with much complaining, the most recent move and sulked in a corner of the living room. No, it didn't want to go outside; no, it didn't want to live in the bedroom. I had every intention of dragging the bulb out of the dirt and leaving it in the hall closet over the winter, but ultimately just hacked the leaves off and stopped watering for a few months.
Now, it's spring again and I started watering. Leaves started coming up. It was nice to see green but I wasn't optimistic. We'd been this leafy route before. And then---a bud. Two actually. I had to turn the amaryllis daily as it leaned towards the sun, trying to keep it from veering too strongly one way or another.
And the salmon colored flowers returned. Two of them, rich and vibrant in hue, soft in texture. And a third bud appeared, an extra credit perhaps for giving the amaryllis some time to rest over the winter?
I stepped away from my computer to admire the third flower, the last remaining as the others have shriveled and been consigned to the garbage can. And then I noticed. The flower petals sparkle. With the rich morning sun, there's a glow of glitter far more delicate than any artifice can create, glistening over the colors. It will be futile, I know, to try and capture it on camera, though I'll try, at least for the flower's sake.
It's amazing what display nature puts on for us and I remind you today to look around.
Nature sparkles!
I did my taxes in late February once I got the paperwork from all the necessary places (the list just keeps growing!). But I owe money this year, which hurts even as it is a good sign that I'm doing well with my freelance work. So today I'm reading through the numbers again and prepping the checks to go into the mail. Yippee.
Just now though I stopped for a minute to take a look at my amaryllis. A gift from a woman whose twins I taught as infants, she probably doesn't remember me. I remember only that her first name was unusual and that we only used part of it, calling her Belle.
The amaryllis has been a stubborn plant. It didn't like the house I was living it at the time, refusing to bloom because of the smokers that were polluting it's lungs and mine. It objected to my next apartment for reasons unknown. Then I moved again and it got a place of, not honor, but at least lots of sunlight in the big front window. Finally, it condescended to bloom with rich salmon-colored flowers.
Promptly thereafter it went back to growing nice lush leaves and ignoring my entreaties to bloom again. It survived, with much complaining, the most recent move and sulked in a corner of the living room. No, it didn't want to go outside; no, it didn't want to live in the bedroom. I had every intention of dragging the bulb out of the dirt and leaving it in the hall closet over the winter, but ultimately just hacked the leaves off and stopped watering for a few months.
Now, it's spring again and I started watering. Leaves started coming up. It was nice to see green but I wasn't optimistic. We'd been this leafy route before. And then---a bud. Two actually. I had to turn the amaryllis daily as it leaned towards the sun, trying to keep it from veering too strongly one way or another.
And the salmon colored flowers returned. Two of them, rich and vibrant in hue, soft in texture. And a third bud appeared, an extra credit perhaps for giving the amaryllis some time to rest over the winter?I stepped away from my computer to admire the third flower, the last remaining as the others have shriveled and been consigned to the garbage can. And then I noticed. The flower petals sparkle. With the rich morning sun, there's a glow of glitter far more delicate than any artifice can create, glistening over the colors. It will be futile, I know, to try and capture it on camera, though I'll try, at least for the flower's sake.
It's amazing what display nature puts on for us and I remind you today to look around.
Nature sparkles!
Monday, March 30, 2009
Episode 6: Things I Learned This Weekend
- Really great Brussels sprouts can be devoured at Wildwood BBQ on Park and 18th.
- The blueberry beer isn't bad either.
- School Products on Broadway is way too dangerous for me to go to with a credit card.
- Apparently I can do the full dance break in Beyonce's "Get Me Bodied" in 4" heels
- It takes approximately 12 hours to change my entire body language to adapt to the location I'm in. I walk differently when I'm home in NY.
- A foot of my hair weighs about a pound. (Cut a foot off and my weight is down a little)
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Episode 5: Ruffle Coup
Clothes shopping today was less than exciting. Trying to find things that flatter my figure and are remotely appropriate for me to wear has always been a challenge but this season looks like it will be particularly difficult.
Let us set aside for the moment the fact that the long, "romantic," batik/creatively dyed cotton dresses look like something out of my aunt's vintage late 70s closet. We'll move past the horrific number of tops that deserve a place only in mid-80s movies. I'll even suppress my shudders at the massive amount of yellow and all the neon shades I saw, despite the fact that absolutely none of those colors look remotely attractive on me.
No, darling, we're going to talk about the ruffles. The ruffles that are EVERYWHERE. 70% of the shirts I picked up were layered with pleats and tucks to be more feminine. I even tried one dress with only one row of ruffles around the neckline. That I hung it politely again on the hanger is a sign of being brought up right, not of my respect for the garment. But these ruffles cling to the skirts, shirts, dresses and I shudder, because it's just too much going on for me on the clothing. Ruffles for the sake of ruffles is just a bad idea. And many fabrics just shouldn't be ruffles. I could live with it when it was only a few skirts and some crisp white cotton blouses, but now, they're everywhere.
Even tank tops, that last bastion of pull the shirt over my head and walk out the door don't seem to be safe. Along side with choosing length (regular or tunic), picking between a plethora of straps, none of which look like they'll do their job to begin with, and trying to find a color and size remotely functional with my current wardrobe: now they're layered with lace and ruffles. Regular, cotton tank tops. I shudder to think how many girls whose extra weight, squeezed up and out of the top of their skinny jeans and shorts this summer, will be enhanced by lace around the midriff. Somehow, I just don't find it cute.
And don't get me started on the black jumpsuit under which there is no hope of wearing a bra. I'm not that endowed, but seriously.
5 Reasons to Appreciate that You Are Male:
1) Jeans come with measurements on them. You might have to look a while for your particular measurements but you never need guess what size you are in this store.
2) You don't need to try and wade through juniors, misses and petites in search of something that might fit and look appropriate.
3) You aren't facing the wonderful spring trend of ruffles.
4) No bra straps to coordinate with all of your outfits.
5) You're not expected to dress up in colors mostly appropriate for sorbet every spring.
Let us set aside for the moment the fact that the long, "romantic," batik/creatively dyed cotton dresses look like something out of my aunt's vintage late 70s closet. We'll move past the horrific number of tops that deserve a place only in mid-80s movies. I'll even suppress my shudders at the massive amount of yellow and all the neon shades I saw, despite the fact that absolutely none of those colors look remotely attractive on me.
No, darling, we're going to talk about the ruffles. The ruffles that are EVERYWHERE. 70% of the shirts I picked up were layered with pleats and tucks to be more feminine. I even tried one dress with only one row of ruffles around the neckline. That I hung it politely again on the hanger is a sign of being brought up right, not of my respect for the garment. But these ruffles cling to the skirts, shirts, dresses and I shudder, because it's just too much going on for me on the clothing. Ruffles for the sake of ruffles is just a bad idea. And many fabrics just shouldn't be ruffles. I could live with it when it was only a few skirts and some crisp white cotton blouses, but now, they're everywhere.
Even tank tops, that last bastion of pull the shirt over my head and walk out the door don't seem to be safe. Along side with choosing length (regular or tunic), picking between a plethora of straps, none of which look like they'll do their job to begin with, and trying to find a color and size remotely functional with my current wardrobe: now they're layered with lace and ruffles. Regular, cotton tank tops. I shudder to think how many girls whose extra weight, squeezed up and out of the top of their skinny jeans and shorts this summer, will be enhanced by lace around the midriff. Somehow, I just don't find it cute.
And don't get me started on the black jumpsuit under which there is no hope of wearing a bra. I'm not that endowed, but seriously.
5 Reasons to Appreciate that You Are Male:
1) Jeans come with measurements on them. You might have to look a while for your particular measurements but you never need guess what size you are in this store.
2) You don't need to try and wade through juniors, misses and petites in search of something that might fit and look appropriate.
3) You aren't facing the wonderful spring trend of ruffles.
4) No bra straps to coordinate with all of your outfits.
5) You're not expected to dress up in colors mostly appropriate for sorbet every spring.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Episode 4: A Peek in the Closet 1
Did you know, in my wardrobe, I've only one pair of sweatpants?
The pants are from H&M circa 2005, the Manhattan store, late summer. They are boot cut/bell bottom, fitted at the hips with a drawstring for extra snugness and a cute bow. And they're the color of oatmeal. A number that means nothing too me, outside of randomly being the year of my birth, is appliqued onto one hip.
If you've made it this far into the description, I'm impressed. Relegated now to the pajama/work out clothing drawer, these pants were bought with an actual intent. Headed out to Suffolk County to meet up with a girl friend of mine and two guys we barely knew, I needed something that would fit the scene. Something a little different from my regular clothes, which were far more business casual than this outing called for.
Armed with these sweatpants and a white hoodie, I ventured forth. I berated myself for buying white, who wears a white hoodie and who can keep it clean? Might I just add that it has been one of my favorite articles of clothing for nearly four years and is only on its way out because there are a couple of holes in it?
The boys are long gone (probably for the best, we think at least one of them had "connections"); the girl is still a friend, though it's a bit longer between nights out dancing these days. But that pants are in my bureau. Comfy and slouchy with a tank top and fleece hoodie.
And the fitted thing does so much more for the hips than the 80s-style matching set with an elastic waistband type ever did.
The pants are from H&M circa 2005, the Manhattan store, late summer. They are boot cut/bell bottom, fitted at the hips with a drawstring for extra snugness and a cute bow. And they're the color of oatmeal. A number that means nothing too me, outside of randomly being the year of my birth, is appliqued onto one hip.
If you've made it this far into the description, I'm impressed. Relegated now to the pajama/work out clothing drawer, these pants were bought with an actual intent. Headed out to Suffolk County to meet up with a girl friend of mine and two guys we barely knew, I needed something that would fit the scene. Something a little different from my regular clothes, which were far more business casual than this outing called for.
Armed with these sweatpants and a white hoodie, I ventured forth. I berated myself for buying white, who wears a white hoodie and who can keep it clean? Might I just add that it has been one of my favorite articles of clothing for nearly four years and is only on its way out because there are a couple of holes in it?
The boys are long gone (probably for the best, we think at least one of them had "connections"); the girl is still a friend, though it's a bit longer between nights out dancing these days. But that pants are in my bureau. Comfy and slouchy with a tank top and fleece hoodie.
And the fitted thing does so much more for the hips than the 80s-style matching set with an elastic waistband type ever did.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Episode 3: Age: A Number or a Category....
Apparently it's acceptable these days to ask a lady her age. Is it one of those things they only stop asking once you have a certain number of gray hairs? It's come up a number of times over the past couple of weeks: a lady at work, a couple of kids I know and then there was that most recent one.
It was a guy and of the people who have asked me in the past six months or so, he was the most surprised. And his response "wow, you're really young" was a bright red flag that I must be more than a decade younger than he. It turns out I'm fourteen years younger to be exact. I was a little surprised at the age difference myself, I'd assumed a seven or eight year split and that might have been agreeable for coffee and perhaps dinner. But as I confirmed with Vaa this morning, 14 years is just a little too far apart. I'm open minded but I do put my foot down around the decade difference between a guy's age and mine. I tend to find that after a decade, we're at different life places. Not always, but generally speaking.
But isn't it interesting how a number that no one can seem to figure out on first glance puts us in categories?
I've been written off in stores because I was "obviously too young" to know what I was doing/buying. I thought that would fade once I was post college, but I've been out over five years and apparently I've not quite reached it yet. Some retailers just can't seem to figure out that once you reach 21, the idea of doing what the "older crowd does" loses something and if you write off a young adult, we won't be back.
In my places of work, I'm at least a decade younger than my professional coworkers. They have far more life experience, and experience in the field in general--but I'm more open to new tools and my typing speed boggles many of them.
As a child, I grouped adults into one of three age brackets: young adults, adults my parents' age, adults my grandparents' age. Now I'm what I would consider a young adult (less than a full decade since I legally became one), and the brackets have become all too wonky.
But at least I retain the manners not to say "so...how old are you?" to an adult I barely know.
It was a guy and of the people who have asked me in the past six months or so, he was the most surprised. And his response "wow, you're really young" was a bright red flag that I must be more than a decade younger than he. It turns out I'm fourteen years younger to be exact. I was a little surprised at the age difference myself, I'd assumed a seven or eight year split and that might have been agreeable for coffee and perhaps dinner. But as I confirmed with Vaa this morning, 14 years is just a little too far apart. I'm open minded but I do put my foot down around the decade difference between a guy's age and mine. I tend to find that after a decade, we're at different life places. Not always, but generally speaking.
But isn't it interesting how a number that no one can seem to figure out on first glance puts us in categories?
I've been written off in stores because I was "obviously too young" to know what I was doing/buying. I thought that would fade once I was post college, but I've been out over five years and apparently I've not quite reached it yet. Some retailers just can't seem to figure out that once you reach 21, the idea of doing what the "older crowd does" loses something and if you write off a young adult, we won't be back.
In my places of work, I'm at least a decade younger than my professional coworkers. They have far more life experience, and experience in the field in general--but I'm more open to new tools and my typing speed boggles many of them.
As a child, I grouped adults into one of three age brackets: young adults, adults my parents' age, adults my grandparents' age. Now I'm what I would consider a young adult (less than a full decade since I legally became one), and the brackets have become all too wonky.
But at least I retain the manners not to say "so...how old are you?" to an adult I barely know.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Episode 2: Polish and Peach Jam
I need to polish my pots...
Somehow that sounds vaguely inappropriate, but unfortunately no double entendre is meant. I have matching silver tea and coffee pots and a gold-hued tarnish reminds me that I've not polished them of late.
When I acquired them, I was given a detailed instruction about the care and use of silver tea pots. This particular pattern is SDN9--that was determined by someone far more knowledgeable of silver stamps than I. I have what was probably a grandmother's good silver. Only it wasn't to the taste of the heirs, or perhaps there were no heirs. Having purchased it at an antique market to which I seem to be making an annual visit, I can make up whatever back story I like.
So why do I need a silver tea and coffee pot? Why--for when next I have company. Or perhaps just a day I'm feeling a little more Regency/Victorian Era. Bring the teapot down, rinse carefully, and pour boiling hot water (prepared on the gas stove) over the shell shaped tea strainer. I'll get a package of crumpets out of the ice box (Did you know they can be found in the refrigerated section at the grocery? Check by the English Muffins), and hopefully by then the next jar of Mum's peach jam will have appeared. I ran out yesterday halfway through an English Muffin and was forced to make do with peach butter.
Tea and warm crumpets with lots of butter and jam. And napkins. Trust me, we'll need napkins.
But if that's going to happen, I need to get out the silver polish.
Somehow that sounds vaguely inappropriate, but unfortunately no double entendre is meant. I have matching silver tea and coffee pots and a gold-hued tarnish reminds me that I've not polished them of late.
When I acquired them, I was given a detailed instruction about the care and use of silver tea pots. This particular pattern is SDN9--that was determined by someone far more knowledgeable of silver stamps than I. I have what was probably a grandmother's good silver. Only it wasn't to the taste of the heirs, or perhaps there were no heirs. Having purchased it at an antique market to which I seem to be making an annual visit, I can make up whatever back story I like.
So why do I need a silver tea and coffee pot? Why--for when next I have company. Or perhaps just a day I'm feeling a little more Regency/Victorian Era. Bring the teapot down, rinse carefully, and pour boiling hot water (prepared on the gas stove) over the shell shaped tea strainer. I'll get a package of crumpets out of the ice box (Did you know they can be found in the refrigerated section at the grocery? Check by the English Muffins), and hopefully by then the next jar of Mum's peach jam will have appeared. I ran out yesterday halfway through an English Muffin and was forced to make do with peach butter.
Tea and warm crumpets with lots of butter and jam. And napkins. Trust me, we'll need napkins.
But if that's going to happen, I need to get out the silver polish.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Issue 1: Shamrocks as Harbinger of Spring
A comment C made this morning, on the efficacy of galoshes in inspiring one to skip and splash in puddles, hauled me back in memories to P and I skipping down Ashland after breakfast one morning. P said something about it being a memory I would retain, and obviously it worked--though I have given up those particular brown boots.
Despite the temperature only being 3 degrees this morning and the utter joy of chiseling ice off the windshield yet again before leaving for work, I am starting to have hopes and thoughts of spring. I think it's because of my shamrocks. In the fall my mum brought me a flat of shamrocks she'd split out from hers. Mum has a green thumb like no one else. While I certainly welcomed some shamrocks--10 new plants were a bit much, so I sent out an email at work and most of them went to a new home. Three stayed with me though and were re-potted.
Now they're big, flourishing with three leaf stalks and many little white flowers. Because they lived right by the balcony they got tons of sunshine but also a little chill, which meant some of the leaves took on a purple tinge.
It's still dark by the time I get home most nights so the shamrocks have put themselves to bed, leaves folded down and tucked in. It is only on the weekends and Tuesday mornings that I get to see the plants with leaves fully flared and reaching for the sun. The bright greens and flared leaves creates a welcoming bubble that suggests that even though we may still have a little while longer--spring is coming. We will have grass once more and trees with leaves, rather than their stark spare branches.
Despite the temperature only being 3 degrees this morning and the utter joy of chiseling ice off the windshield yet again before leaving for work, I am starting to have hopes and thoughts of spring. I think it's because of my shamrocks. In the fall my mum brought me a flat of shamrocks she'd split out from hers. Mum has a green thumb like no one else. While I certainly welcomed some shamrocks--10 new plants were a bit much, so I sent out an email at work and most of them went to a new home. Three stayed with me though and were re-potted.
Now they're big, flourishing with three leaf stalks and many little white flowers. Because they lived right by the balcony they got tons of sunshine but also a little chill, which meant some of the leaves took on a purple tinge.
It's still dark by the time I get home most nights so the shamrocks have put themselves to bed, leaves folded down and tucked in. It is only on the weekends and Tuesday mornings that I get to see the plants with leaves fully flared and reaching for the sun. The bright greens and flared leaves creates a welcoming bubble that suggests that even though we may still have a little while longer--spring is coming. We will have grass once more and trees with leaves, rather than their stark spare branches.
Introductorily
Following the termination of a relationship, I recaptured my words, my self really, which had been rather muted for the better part of two years.
I found most joy in writing pieces to a friend often on the road--to ensure that at least once a week he had a bit of an update on my life, and a little touch of sanity in a world that was anything but.
While most of these are new pieces, some may include some reworks.
Get out your can opener, dinner tonight is Canned Sanity.
I found most joy in writing pieces to a friend often on the road--to ensure that at least once a week he had a bit of an update on my life, and a little touch of sanity in a world that was anything but.
While most of these are new pieces, some may include some reworks.
Get out your can opener, dinner tonight is Canned Sanity.
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