Today I was "her" at the gym.
You know.
The one who sweats and stinks.
You can see her clammy skin.
The beads of sweat on her bare shoulders,
Taunting you on your treadmill,
Saying "You should be working harder--
Like her."
Today I was her.
In sweat, if not in body or in glances.
Inside, I was a lithe ironwoman
with 10% bodyfat,
racing in the wind,
perfect stride,
hair billowing freely behind me,
muscles glistening.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
britelite 6
So my SIL (love ya!) told me about this cool SAD-busting light. I ordered it and was so excited when it came. When I took it out of the box, however, only one side worked. I paid for 10,000 lux and I only got 5000. So I am sending it back to Philips. I hope it won't take them two weeks to send me a replacement. It might be my imagination but I did have slightly more energy last night after two 30-minute bouts with 5000 lux.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
my favorite thing of the day
Tooth fairy fail
Funny because we too have dropped the ball when it comes to retrieving the teeth. The backpedaling when you forget is tough, believe me. I have even had to email the tooth fairy to ask her to come.
Funny because we too have dropped the ball when it comes to retrieving the teeth. The backpedaling when you forget is tough, believe me. I have even had to email the tooth fairy to ask her to come.
Friday, February 05, 2010
Welcome to the Jungle
Photos from DCist show just how nuts everyone in the Washington Metropolitan area has become.
We hit the Burke Target today on the way home (around 11:30 a.m., when the snow was just starting to stick) and found plenty on the shelves. Granted, it doesn't have a full grocery section, but still. Plenty of chocolate and other necessities for three days of being shut in.
No show shovels, winter boots, or sleds to be had, however. DS will have to cope with rain boots if he chooses to play in the snow. If we choose to sled, it might be on a trash can lid, which isn't very smooth (handle). Thankfully, I have two shovels in the garage, ready to go tomorrow.
Staying warm, calm, playing games, and hoping the power stays on....
We hit the Burke Target today on the way home (around 11:30 a.m., when the snow was just starting to stick) and found plenty on the shelves. Granted, it doesn't have a full grocery section, but still. Plenty of chocolate and other necessities for three days of being shut in.
No show shovels, winter boots, or sleds to be had, however. DS will have to cope with rain boots if he chooses to play in the snow. If we choose to sled, it might be on a trash can lid, which isn't very smooth (handle). Thankfully, I have two shovels in the garage, ready to go tomorrow.
Staying warm, calm, playing games, and hoping the power stays on....
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
fighting
I am fighting a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and in my heart. I don't know why--nothing specific has happened other than the snow. Today was very gray and that never helps. We are supposed to get more than a foot more snow this weekend. It's DH's birthday on Saturday and he doesn't want to do anything special. We looked for a play or musical to go see and couldn't find anything we both liked. Since he has to be so careful with diet and exercise, he doesn't want a cake or a special meal. How are we supposed to celebrate?
I didn't sleep well, which never helps. DS crawled into bed with us at some untold hour in the early morning, and from 6 a.m. on, he tossed and turned and kept his toes in the waistband of my pajamas, right in my butt crack. What a lovely way to wake up. When he finally left, DH rolled over and pinned me on my quarter of the bed. No sleep for me. And since there was no school, and there was shoveling, and daycare, and shorter daycare hours, there was no workout today, which also never helps.
I know, there are legions of people who regularly rise before 6 a.m. and don't want to hear my bitching. I am not one of those people. I have trouble functioning on less than eight hours of sleep. I have had all sorts of body chemistry tests done to make sure that hormones and other physical issues are not to blame for my lack of functioning on less than 8 hours of sleep. They aren't. It's all good. I'm just quirky and weird.
I hate winter.
The kids whined when they had to go to daycare this morning. DS said, "But I want to stay home with you!" So I worked and ran errands quickly to try to pick them up a little early. I figure, I listened, right? They requested and I tried to oblige. When I picked them up, all I got were complaints about having picked them up early. "I didn't get a snack." "I didn't get to finish my game," etc. Sod it. I'm tired of trying to cater to everyone else in the family.
And I am sick to death of cleaning up other people's messes. At what age are people capable of learning to pick up after themselves? Reason #12,481 why I would never get a dog or a cat....
One more lesson to edit and then I can go make dinner. Yippee.
Maybe this feeling will go away with sleep.Or yoga. Or deep breathing. Or a good, rattle my bones cry.
I wish I knew the answer.
I didn't sleep well, which never helps. DS crawled into bed with us at some untold hour in the early morning, and from 6 a.m. on, he tossed and turned and kept his toes in the waistband of my pajamas, right in my butt crack. What a lovely way to wake up. When he finally left, DH rolled over and pinned me on my quarter of the bed. No sleep for me. And since there was no school, and there was shoveling, and daycare, and shorter daycare hours, there was no workout today, which also never helps.
I know, there are legions of people who regularly rise before 6 a.m. and don't want to hear my bitching. I am not one of those people. I have trouble functioning on less than eight hours of sleep. I have had all sorts of body chemistry tests done to make sure that hormones and other physical issues are not to blame for my lack of functioning on less than 8 hours of sleep. They aren't. It's all good. I'm just quirky and weird.
I hate winter.
The kids whined when they had to go to daycare this morning. DS said, "But I want to stay home with you!" So I worked and ran errands quickly to try to pick them up a little early. I figure, I listened, right? They requested and I tried to oblige. When I picked them up, all I got were complaints about having picked them up early. "I didn't get a snack." "I didn't get to finish my game," etc. Sod it. I'm tired of trying to cater to everyone else in the family.
And I am sick to death of cleaning up other people's messes. At what age are people capable of learning to pick up after themselves? Reason #12,481 why I would never get a dog or a cat....
One more lesson to edit and then I can go make dinner. Yippee.
Maybe this feeling will go away with sleep.Or yoga. Or deep breathing. Or a good, rattle my bones cry.
I wish I knew the answer.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Catching Rye in the Sky
J.D. Salinger has left the building. The Catcher in the Rye had a profound effect on me when I read it in high school. I'm sure there are millions of others around the world saying the same thing. It was one of the first pieces of literature I really "clicked" with, and Salinger's use of Holden's voice made me realize on some level that it was okay for me to write, to narrate. Like Holden, I wanted to save my younger sibling from the bad words and the scary rides on the carousel. Like Holden, life got in the way and we all grew up.
According to the article, Salinger has 12 novels locked up in a box in N.H. Wonder if we'll ever get to read them?
In related news, Nicholas Sarkozy and the French are arguing over whether or not to move Albert Camus' grave from Provence to the Pantheon in Paris. Academics want him to stay in his grave in the small town where he was buried, as they say those were his wishes. Sarkozy wants to bring him up to the big leagues and inter him with Victor Hugo et al. Critics are calling foul, saying Sarkozy is using the 50th anniversary of Camus' death (Jan. 2010) to generate political capital.
I didn't realize he died at 46 in a car wreck. Makes me want to reread The Stranger, for some reason.
According to the article, Salinger has 12 novels locked up in a box in N.H. Wonder if we'll ever get to read them?
In related news, Nicholas Sarkozy and the French are arguing over whether or not to move Albert Camus' grave from Provence to the Pantheon in Paris. Academics want him to stay in his grave in the small town where he was buried, as they say those were his wishes. Sarkozy wants to bring him up to the big leagues and inter him with Victor Hugo et al. Critics are calling foul, saying Sarkozy is using the 50th anniversary of Camus' death (Jan. 2010) to generate political capital.
I didn't realize he died at 46 in a car wreck. Makes me want to reread The Stranger, for some reason.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
One look I will be avoiding for spring
I'm hardly a fashion maven, but even I know to avoid pleats if you have a stomach. This model clearly, while admittedly not having a stomach, does not. I can't believe that this "look" is considered hot for spring. Please, please... let's avoid cropped, pleated, tapered pants at ALL costs.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
I am a machine
According to someone at work.
She probably thought she was giving me a compliment--saying that I work hard, fast, and reliably. That has translated into project managers giving me lots of tasks outside of my "typical" editing work. It's nice to know that someone appreciates my speed and accuracy; being called a "machine" is probably not the best way to acknowledge that. But the woman in question is not an editor and probably doesn't choose her words as carefully as I choose mine.
I know--shut up and take the compliment, right?
Some days I wish I could be a machine and get by on less sleep. These days, I find that I am at my best after nine hours, which isn't always practical with my life and schedule. I was asleep by 10:30 last night and I woke up on my own, without an alarm at 5:15 this morning. It was too early to really be cognizant of anything, so I rolled up and was rudely awakened by the beeping of my alarm at 6:45. I was so groggy! That leads me to believe that perhaps I slept too much--my circadian rhythms are off. Maybe they will reset when we stop saving daylight.
Enough navel-gazing.
My children have two completely different noses. Neither nose is one to be envied. I don't recognize either one as being mine. My son's looks a bit like my husband's. Maybe he'll grow into his nose. I suppose there is always rhinoplasty, if it bothers him. I think it's cute--now. Trying to imagine my four-year-old at 12, or even 10, is tough.
The machine has had its break and must now resume operations.
She probably thought she was giving me a compliment--saying that I work hard, fast, and reliably. That has translated into project managers giving me lots of tasks outside of my "typical" editing work. It's nice to know that someone appreciates my speed and accuracy; being called a "machine" is probably not the best way to acknowledge that. But the woman in question is not an editor and probably doesn't choose her words as carefully as I choose mine.
I know--shut up and take the compliment, right?
Some days I wish I could be a machine and get by on less sleep. These days, I find that I am at my best after nine hours, which isn't always practical with my life and schedule. I was asleep by 10:30 last night and I woke up on my own, without an alarm at 5:15 this morning. It was too early to really be cognizant of anything, so I rolled up and was rudely awakened by the beeping of my alarm at 6:45. I was so groggy! That leads me to believe that perhaps I slept too much--my circadian rhythms are off. Maybe they will reset when we stop saving daylight.
Enough navel-gazing.
My children have two completely different noses. Neither nose is one to be envied. I don't recognize either one as being mine. My son's looks a bit like my husband's. Maybe he'll grow into his nose. I suppose there is always rhinoplasty, if it bothers him. I think it's cute--now. Trying to imagine my four-year-old at 12, or even 10, is tough.
The machine has had its break and must now resume operations.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
timoune from the tree
"Oh, Gods
Oh, Gods
Are you there?
What can I do to get you to look down
And give in?
Oh, Gods
Oh, Gods
Hear my prayer
I'm here in the field
With my feet on the ground
And my fate in the air
Waiting for life to begin"
Oh, Gods
Are you there?
What can I do to get you to look down
And give in?
Oh, Gods
Oh, Gods
Hear my prayer
I'm here in the field
With my feet on the ground
And my fate in the air
Waiting for life to begin"
How did I get from waiting for my life to begin to spending Sunday evenings playing bejeweled blitz on facebook and doing laundry, planning menus for the week, figuring out when to schedule workouts, and wondering just how much longer I can put in at this contract position before my brain starts to go and I start to actually care about shit like serial commas, correct capitalization, and fuck-it-all hyphenation?
I miss writing. Or maybe I miss the idea of writing. But the mere thought of starting to wade back through files of crap, fastwrites, my novella, my performance pieces... I shiver. So amateur. It's just bad, right? It's been so so long, and I feel completely invalidated about the whole process. I miss Women Writing and the openness and support of the circle.
I listened to an interview, or a piece of one, today on my way back from the gym, with Tracy Chevalier, who wrote, among other things, Girl with the Pearl Earring. It was somewhat fated, as I was looking for something else to read--I was biking today and biking=boredom unless there is something entertaining to read--and I picked up Chevalier's book off my shelf, and thought, "Hmmm... this looks light and easy for stationary bike fodder." And it was. And some higher force must have been in action since I randomly chose the book, and the author was on NPR. Granted, it was a Diane Rehm clip show from the week, but still, I was in the car for all of five minutes in driving between the J and my house, and there she was, talking about her process.
It seems Chevalier likes the research part of writing better than the actual writing. She said that once she starts drafting, she has to make decisions such as "Will she be blonde or brunette? What kinds of clothes will she wear? What kind of job will he have?" In the research phase, for her, all of that is wide-open. Well, I suppose as wide open as it can be when you're writing historical fiction. Griete is hardly going to sport skinny jeans and an ipod in 1665. But still, she sees all of that as "open" when she starts to draft.
Me, I'm the opposite. My characters are mostly formed in my head before they ever hit the page. They "tell" me what they look like, in the nonverbal, noninsane way that characters talk to their authors. They yell at me when I force their hand in the desperate attempt at plot construction--always my downfall. Maya, the main character from one of my pieces actually stopped me cold in my head and said, "I would never, and I mean never, ever, do something as stupid as that. I might be forgetful and I might have ADD, but I would never lock my keys and my cell phone in my car." I had to disagree with her because it was a key plot point for her to do so. I think she eventually forgave me, but last I wrote, she is languishing in a female jail, trying to figure out where she went wrong, if she still has a marriage, and who is picking up her 22-month-old daughter from the sitter. And she's going through caffeine withdrawl with a cellmate who runs some organization called "PUTAIN," which is a joke so far inside that I'm going to have to cut it and rewrite because the only people who will get it will be the ones I explain it to, and where's the fun in that?
But maybe that's the key. Maybe I've been too linear (now, there's a surprise. I'm always linear in narrative and nonlinear in drama, and I write drama much better than I write narrative. Hmmm.) and maybe the plot should start in jail, and the central conflict is how to get out, and it's only by looking backward that she can begin to move forward. Trite, maybe, but as a character, Maya is anything but. She's completely wacked out and insane, but in a loveable way. I initially modeled her after Leopold Bloom but decided I liked her too much to go that route. Bloom jangles keys. He's a little boring. And he's stuck in his own head. And she can be too, but she dialogues outwardly to her BFF in the way that Bloom stays inside. And instead of alcohol, she's always looking for the next caffeine hit.
Okay, maybe I'm unstuck now. Maybe, for the first time since the whole "moving to D.C." process began, my life is settled enough to write. Maybe I can carve out an hour or two between workouts, preschool and school commitments, errands, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and work (I shouldn't have listed it all out) I can do this. Maybe this "settling" into the groove, where I'm processing subconsciously by playing this dumbass game, is just what I've needed to acclimate and to get ready for my next big step.
What I Read in 2009
I wish I had kept a list during the year, but it became too tedious to do so. I will try to recreate, just to get an idea for myself. These are in no particular order. I may add annotations later.
Sellevision by Augusten Burroughs--bizarre fiction. Definitely like his memoir stuff better.
The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown--predictable, inhalable, forgettable
I, Alex Cross by James Patterson--Cross becomes human. It was nice to see.
The Big Over Easy by Jasper Fforde--love his stuff. Prefer the other series (Thursday Next) but he's so damned clever it doesn't seem to make a difference.
The Well of Lost Plots by Jasper Fforde--read this out of order but still liked it.
Couples by John Updike (didn't finish)--couldn't finish. too boring
Swimsuit by James Patterson
Alex Cross's Trial by James Patterson
Lost in a Good Book by Jasper Fforde
The 8th Confession by James Patterson
Almost French: Love and a New Life in Paris by Sarah Turnbull--so good. I could really relate.
The Dud Avocado by Elaine Dundy--indulgent and fun.
The Know-It-All : One Man's Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World by A.J. Jacobs--loved it. He is so freaking funny. Can't wait to read the rest of his stuff.
Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout--weird story but I like the style and the set-up. That's why she won the prize--not because of the content.
The Shadow in the North by Philip Pullman--I liked this series better than the Golden Compass series.
The Tiger in the Well by Philip Pullman
Secret Lives Of The First Ladies: What Your Teachers Never Told You About The Women of The White House by Cormac O'Brien--the book on the presidents was better
American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld--poor Laura Bush!
The Ruby in the Smoke by Philip Pullman
Run for Your Life by James Patterson
Something Rotten by Jasper Fforde--loved this one. It had Hamlet as a major character, which is always a plus in my book.
Why I'm Like This: True Stories by Cynthia Kaplan--meh. just okay.
Son of a Witch by Gregory Maguire--felt like filler between Wicked and the next one, which I have yet to read. Kinda like the second Matrix movie.
To My Dearest Friends by Patricia Volk--I should read it again in 30 years. I was too young this time.
The Rule of Four by Ian Caldwell--second time I read it. Didn't remember reading it. There's a reason for that.
The Night Villa by Carol Goodman--beautiful
The Rossetti Letter by Christi Phillips
The Gate House by Nelson DeMille
Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs--funny
Wicked: the Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West by Gregory Maguire
Wild Fire by Nelson DeMille
When You are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris--I love him. Everything he touches turns to funny.
I'm sure there are others, but this is a start. Thirty-two. I expected more. But again, I might be missing some.
Sellevision by Augusten Burroughs--bizarre fiction. Definitely like his memoir stuff better.
The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown--predictable, inhalable, forgettable
I, Alex Cross by James Patterson--Cross becomes human. It was nice to see.
The Big Over Easy by Jasper Fforde--love his stuff. Prefer the other series (Thursday Next) but he's so damned clever it doesn't seem to make a difference.
The Well of Lost Plots by Jasper Fforde--read this out of order but still liked it.
Couples by John Updike (didn't finish)--couldn't finish. too boring
Swimsuit by James Patterson
Alex Cross's Trial by James Patterson
Lost in a Good Book by Jasper Fforde
The 8th Confession by James Patterson
Almost French: Love and a New Life in Paris by Sarah Turnbull--so good. I could really relate.
The Dud Avocado by Elaine Dundy--indulgent and fun.
The Know-It-All : One Man's Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World by A.J. Jacobs--loved it. He is so freaking funny. Can't wait to read the rest of his stuff.
Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout--weird story but I like the style and the set-up. That's why she won the prize--not because of the content.
The Shadow in the North by Philip Pullman--I liked this series better than the Golden Compass series.
The Tiger in the Well by Philip Pullman
Secret Lives Of The First Ladies: What Your Teachers Never Told You About The Women of The White House by Cormac O'Brien--the book on the presidents was better
American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld--poor Laura Bush!
The Ruby in the Smoke by Philip Pullman
Run for Your Life by James Patterson
Something Rotten by Jasper Fforde--loved this one. It had Hamlet as a major character, which is always a plus in my book.
Why I'm Like This: True Stories by Cynthia Kaplan--meh. just okay.
Son of a Witch by Gregory Maguire--felt like filler between Wicked and the next one, which I have yet to read. Kinda like the second Matrix movie.
To My Dearest Friends by Patricia Volk--I should read it again in 30 years. I was too young this time.
The Rule of Four by Ian Caldwell--second time I read it. Didn't remember reading it. There's a reason for that.
The Night Villa by Carol Goodman--beautiful
The Rossetti Letter by Christi Phillips
The Gate House by Nelson DeMille
Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs--funny
Wicked: the Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West by Gregory Maguire
Wild Fire by Nelson DeMille
When You are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris--I love him. Everything he touches turns to funny.
I'm sure there are others, but this is a start. Thirty-two. I expected more. But again, I might be missing some.
Sunday, January 03, 2010
37-0
can't believe we're heading into the playoffs with a 37-0 loss (and wait, it's not over yet!). and it's going to be the same team. in less than a week.
ran tonight. only marginal stiffness. put together kitchen pantry-like cabinety things. yeay. logged more than 14,000 steps today. drove to ikea for the second weekend in a row to get pieces that were missing for the new bed.
oh, and found this pic of the fam while i was browsing for pics for dd's time line assignment:
ran tonight. only marginal stiffness. put together kitchen pantry-like cabinety things. yeay. logged more than 14,000 steps today. drove to ikea for the second weekend in a row to get pieces that were missing for the new bed.
oh, and found this pic of the fam while i was browsing for pics for dd's time line assignment:
it's from last summer but still cute, i think. we all look shiny and happy. i wish it were beach weather here. it hasn't gotten above 30 in days!
and this one of me and my dad:
happy times all around!
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
pre-New Year's Resolutions
Why wait, right? Friday is just another day in the grand scheme of things.
1. I resolve to count to ten more often before flying off the handle. Assuming I can remember to count to ten instead of flying off the handle.
2. I resolve to enjoy the food I put in my mouth, rather than inhaling it.
3. I resolve to increase my activity level to 45 min/day minimum, even if it means walking or biking after a run. I recognize that I will not be able to workout every day this year and I accept that limitation. I resolve to listen to my body and be sensible about running and all of the other activities I do, so that I am not sidelined by unnecessary injury.
4. I resolve to take more photos and upload them on a semi-regular basis.
5. I resolve to find one hour/week to write for me.
I think that's enough for now. These will be challenging, but not impossible. Most are measurable in some fashion, so that I can tell if I am successful.
Anyone else have resolutions to share?
I hate New Year's resolutions, by the way, which is why I'm resolving BEFORE the ball drops. It feels more authentic that way. Does that make me a fraud? I don't care if it does.
Counting to ten....
1. I resolve to count to ten more often before flying off the handle. Assuming I can remember to count to ten instead of flying off the handle.
2. I resolve to enjoy the food I put in my mouth, rather than inhaling it.
3. I resolve to increase my activity level to 45 min/day minimum, even if it means walking or biking after a run. I recognize that I will not be able to workout every day this year and I accept that limitation. I resolve to listen to my body and be sensible about running and all of the other activities I do, so that I am not sidelined by unnecessary injury.
4. I resolve to take more photos and upload them on a semi-regular basis.
5. I resolve to find one hour/week to write for me.
I think that's enough for now. These will be challenging, but not impossible. Most are measurable in some fashion, so that I can tell if I am successful.
Anyone else have resolutions to share?
I hate New Year's resolutions, by the way, which is why I'm resolving BEFORE the ball drops. It feels more authentic that way. Does that make me a fraud? I don't care if it does.
Counting to ten....
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
taylor swiftly tilting planet
never heard of her until the kanye thing at the AMAs. i know, i live under a music rock. now i can't get "it's a love story..." out of my freakin head.
syd and i like the other one "you belong with me." we regularly finish each other's lyrics around the house. dh looks at us as though we are crazy.
syd and i like the other one "you belong with me." we regularly finish each other's lyrics around the house. dh looks at us as though we are crazy.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
many the miles
"how far do i have to go to get to you?
many the miles...
many the miles..."
good friends feel far away.
the internet is supposed to make us feel closer, but even if the cyberdistance is nil, the physical distance still exists, and nothing with an 'e' prefix is going to change that.
i am fighting the seasonal-affective (undiagnosed but present) sadness and disarray. lots of forces have teamed up to throw me random curve balls. i try to hit them all out of the park, but once in a while (to continue the beleaguered metaphor), i have to take one for the team and get beaned on the head.
snow. too much effing snow. i've never been a snow lover, despite growing up and residing in ohio for much of my life. i certainly don't love snow now that i live in a city that is ill-equipped to handle it. i haven't seen mail since friday. the recycling truck came this morning but we had no place to put the detrius thanks to the snow. not sure when trash guys are coming. roads are icy in the neighborhood; driveway was slick despite my shoveling. i should post pictures soon.
the move happened. we have too much stuff and too many boxes. i wonder if i will ever see the floors in any of the rooms.
health crap still exists for dh and me.
work is a dead zone. had to come into the office this morning because the cable (internet and phone too) went out yesterday afternoon. no telecommuting for me. one hour in traffic, even though i left at 9 a.m., which is supposed to be the end of rushhour. guess all had the same idea. there is alleged work to be done, although my inbox has been empty for several hours.
sick of holiday ads and sales and crap. we don't need more stuff. we need to fix what's broken in the government and society. a kindle isn't going to do that. sorry.
don't know what to get my dad for hanukkah. it's over, but i didn't buy for him. he doesn't need anything. he doesn't want anything that i know of (except for obama to be out of office, but that's something i don't care to participate in).
i don't know what's for dinner, where my hairbrush is, why i'm still at work with nothing to do, or what i'm going to do with the kids on friday. movie? there is that new princess and the frog thing, i guess. that could be fun.
dh told me to smile on the way out the door this morning. "eff you" i whispered under my breath. i don't feel like smiling. i'll smile when the sun comes out, when it doesn't get dark at 4 p.m., when the snow is gone and the ground has dried, when i can eat more than 1200 calories a day and not feel guilty, when i can sleep past 6:45 a.m., when politicians stop effing around with healthcare, when we get out of wars we shouldn't be in, when the boxes are unpacked, when i find a therapist and up my medicine....
it feels like january. or february. we're still in december?
it's dark out. must be time to head home.
many the miles...
many the miles..."
good friends feel far away.
the internet is supposed to make us feel closer, but even if the cyberdistance is nil, the physical distance still exists, and nothing with an 'e' prefix is going to change that.
i am fighting the seasonal-affective (undiagnosed but present) sadness and disarray. lots of forces have teamed up to throw me random curve balls. i try to hit them all out of the park, but once in a while (to continue the beleaguered metaphor), i have to take one for the team and get beaned on the head.
snow. too much effing snow. i've never been a snow lover, despite growing up and residing in ohio for much of my life. i certainly don't love snow now that i live in a city that is ill-equipped to handle it. i haven't seen mail since friday. the recycling truck came this morning but we had no place to put the detrius thanks to the snow. not sure when trash guys are coming. roads are icy in the neighborhood; driveway was slick despite my shoveling. i should post pictures soon.
the move happened. we have too much stuff and too many boxes. i wonder if i will ever see the floors in any of the rooms.
health crap still exists for dh and me.
work is a dead zone. had to come into the office this morning because the cable (internet and phone too) went out yesterday afternoon. no telecommuting for me. one hour in traffic, even though i left at 9 a.m., which is supposed to be the end of rushhour. guess all had the same idea. there is alleged work to be done, although my inbox has been empty for several hours.
sick of holiday ads and sales and crap. we don't need more stuff. we need to fix what's broken in the government and society. a kindle isn't going to do that. sorry.
don't know what to get my dad for hanukkah. it's over, but i didn't buy for him. he doesn't need anything. he doesn't want anything that i know of (except for obama to be out of office, but that's something i don't care to participate in).
i don't know what's for dinner, where my hairbrush is, why i'm still at work with nothing to do, or what i'm going to do with the kids on friday. movie? there is that new princess and the frog thing, i guess. that could be fun.
dh told me to smile on the way out the door this morning. "eff you" i whispered under my breath. i don't feel like smiling. i'll smile when the sun comes out, when it doesn't get dark at 4 p.m., when the snow is gone and the ground has dried, when i can eat more than 1200 calories a day and not feel guilty, when i can sleep past 6:45 a.m., when politicians stop effing around with healthcare, when we get out of wars we shouldn't be in, when the boxes are unpacked, when i find a therapist and up my medicine....
it feels like january. or february. we're still in december?
it's dark out. must be time to head home.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
I think, therefore I blog
I have not clogged the blogosphere with my random thoughts in quite some time. The universe is apparently unhappy with this, so I am posting random thoughts in the order in which they come.
My children have too much Halloween candy and too much of it is ending up in my mouth instead of theirs.
I was hounded at work to log 40 hours a week, but now that I am asking for 40 hours' worth of work, there isn't enough for me to do. Hello? Couldn't we have left well enough alone?
I edited two lessons on Hamlet today and realized how much I miss reading and studying literature for the joy of doing so.
I ate soup from a can and it wasn't bad.
My brother and sister-in-law are at a challenging point and if I were a praying person, I would pray. Instead, even thinking about praying for something makes me feel weird inside, so I will ask the universe and the primary unmoved mover (hello Aristotle) to cut them some slack.
I ran for 25 minutes today and it felt great. Take that, stupid hip and piriformis.
The house needs a new furnace and I don't want to make the calls to get the contractors to come out and estimate. It is all so much work. I wish I could delegate it. But if I do it won't get done. And we will be cold. And I don't like being cold.
I don't know what I'm fixing for dinner tonight. My children probably won't eat it anyway.
Glee is on tonight. Yeay! Jane Lynch was on Fresh Air this afternoon and she was candid and funny and generally a pleasure to listen to. And she didn't come out to her parents until she was 31. I can't imagine.
Heroes is getting worse. End it already, people.
It's dark in my corner of the office and I can't be bothered to turn on the light.
I'm feeling lazy.
I don't want to pack. Can't someone else do it for me?
I didn't vote yesterday. I know that I will be vilified for this, so I'm keeping mum to the outside world. I didn't know enough about the candidates and so I didn't make time. A Republican won the governor's race in VA, but with term limits, I don't see how it matters so much. Maybe I'm wrong. We'll see.
I blew and bagged leaves for nearly three hours this weekend before taking the kids out to trick or treat. The ache in my biceps has finally gone away. Guess it's time to do it again.
Our credit card bill was way way way too much this month, thanks to plane tickets to England for three, a root canal, a crown insertion, dentist visits for the kids, groceries, gas, and some random shopping. I'm starting to wonder if I swear off buying anything except foodstuffs and replacement articles of clothing, if that would be a good thing. Could I do it? Retail therapy has been helpful for me, since it keeps me from stuffing my face. But I need to find another outlet. Already running... can't do more of that yet. Writing! Ah yes, the forgotten art for which I have no time. It's NaNoWriMo and I haven't even thought about it. Has it really been two years since I wrote my novel? It's languishing in a drawer somewhere.
Legion is filming, doing what he has wanted to do his entire teenage and adult life (other than marry his beloved). Curbgirl is trying to make sense of the economic situation we all struggle with. JR is out of prison, thankfully, but can't seem to get herself back into society. My Facebook chums are alternately dealing with flu, behaviorally-challenged children, reductions in the workforce, bliss in religious life, and wonder at the comings of the natural world (high temps in Puerto Rico and Florida, low temps in Northern Ohio, snow in the upper Midwest, and ever-changing temps on the eastern seaboard--see above note re: flu).
I have to make arrangements to get the chimney inspected in the new house.
I wish I had a patron so I could write and not worry about money.
I aspire to Joyce's stream-of-consciousness writing, even though it is daunting for others to insert themselves into. I just ended a sentence with a preposition--bad, bad me.
Time to go make the donuts. I mean dinner.
My children have too much Halloween candy and too much of it is ending up in my mouth instead of theirs.
I was hounded at work to log 40 hours a week, but now that I am asking for 40 hours' worth of work, there isn't enough for me to do. Hello? Couldn't we have left well enough alone?
I edited two lessons on Hamlet today and realized how much I miss reading and studying literature for the joy of doing so.
I ate soup from a can and it wasn't bad.
My brother and sister-in-law are at a challenging point and if I were a praying person, I would pray. Instead, even thinking about praying for something makes me feel weird inside, so I will ask the universe and the primary unmoved mover (hello Aristotle) to cut them some slack.
I ran for 25 minutes today and it felt great. Take that, stupid hip and piriformis.
The house needs a new furnace and I don't want to make the calls to get the contractors to come out and estimate. It is all so much work. I wish I could delegate it. But if I do it won't get done. And we will be cold. And I don't like being cold.
I don't know what I'm fixing for dinner tonight. My children probably won't eat it anyway.
Glee is on tonight. Yeay! Jane Lynch was on Fresh Air this afternoon and she was candid and funny and generally a pleasure to listen to. And she didn't come out to her parents until she was 31. I can't imagine.
Heroes is getting worse. End it already, people.
It's dark in my corner of the office and I can't be bothered to turn on the light.
I'm feeling lazy.
I don't want to pack. Can't someone else do it for me?
I didn't vote yesterday. I know that I will be vilified for this, so I'm keeping mum to the outside world. I didn't know enough about the candidates and so I didn't make time. A Republican won the governor's race in VA, but with term limits, I don't see how it matters so much. Maybe I'm wrong. We'll see.
I blew and bagged leaves for nearly three hours this weekend before taking the kids out to trick or treat. The ache in my biceps has finally gone away. Guess it's time to do it again.
Our credit card bill was way way way too much this month, thanks to plane tickets to England for three, a root canal, a crown insertion, dentist visits for the kids, groceries, gas, and some random shopping. I'm starting to wonder if I swear off buying anything except foodstuffs and replacement articles of clothing, if that would be a good thing. Could I do it? Retail therapy has been helpful for me, since it keeps me from stuffing my face. But I need to find another outlet. Already running... can't do more of that yet. Writing! Ah yes, the forgotten art for which I have no time. It's NaNoWriMo and I haven't even thought about it. Has it really been two years since I wrote my novel? It's languishing in a drawer somewhere.
Legion is filming, doing what he has wanted to do his entire teenage and adult life (other than marry his beloved). Curbgirl is trying to make sense of the economic situation we all struggle with. JR is out of prison, thankfully, but can't seem to get herself back into society. My Facebook chums are alternately dealing with flu, behaviorally-challenged children, reductions in the workforce, bliss in religious life, and wonder at the comings of the natural world (high temps in Puerto Rico and Florida, low temps in Northern Ohio, snow in the upper Midwest, and ever-changing temps on the eastern seaboard--see above note re: flu).
I have to make arrangements to get the chimney inspected in the new house.
I wish I had a patron so I could write and not worry about money.
I aspire to Joyce's stream-of-consciousness writing, even though it is daunting for others to insert themselves into. I just ended a sentence with a preposition--bad, bad me.
Time to go make the donuts. I mean dinner.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Songs for the Butcher's Daughter
This was a phenomenal read. Written by Peter Manseau, a Georgetown professor who knows his way around the balance of narrative and description, the book intersperses the lifestory of Itsik Malpesh, an unwilling immigrant to the United States from his native Russia, with that of a young man in the present charged with translating the former's memoirs.
The characters are recognizable but not "stock." Malpesh is blown, as the feathers in the town's goosedown factory are, across the ocean into a sweatshop. He remains a poet at heart and in mind, scribbling rhymed verses at will on whatever he can find, pining for a lost love and ignoring the reality of the world around him. He stubbornly clings to his native Yiddish instead of learning Hebrew or English as the world around him dictates.
Several times, I had to look at the jacket to verify that this was indeed fiction and not a memoir. The story, while incredulous, is realistic. The plot moves--not at breakneck speed, as in so many of today's "thrillers"--allowing you to stop along the way to savor a bit of description, a paragraph of philosophy, or a historical incident that lingers in the collective memory of most tribal members.
Highly recommend this one--check it out!
The characters are recognizable but not "stock." Malpesh is blown, as the feathers in the town's goosedown factory are, across the ocean into a sweatshop. He remains a poet at heart and in mind, scribbling rhymed verses at will on whatever he can find, pining for a lost love and ignoring the reality of the world around him. He stubbornly clings to his native Yiddish instead of learning Hebrew or English as the world around him dictates.
Several times, I had to look at the jacket to verify that this was indeed fiction and not a memoir. The story, while incredulous, is realistic. The plot moves--not at breakneck speed, as in so many of today's "thrillers"--allowing you to stop along the way to savor a bit of description, a paragraph of philosophy, or a historical incident that lingers in the collective memory of most tribal members.
Highly recommend this one--check it out!
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
La France, vous me manquez
Just finished Almost French by Sarah Turnbull. I can relate so well to the memoir of being an outsider in France (although in Lyon, not Paris) and feeling clueless as to why the French would stare in the street if I laughed too loud, or talked too much, or didn't iron my jeans.
Turnbull's experiences, to be sure, are uniquely hers, as she moves through a relationship with a Frenchman that ultimately leads to marriage. But anyone who has marveled at French women's relationship with their tiny dogs, dinner parties where people talk endlessly about esoteric topics and don't care who you are, why clochards are part of the national brick and mortar, and how bureaucratic red tape is enough to make even the most patient Francophone lose their cool will enjoy Turnbull's memoir. It makes me want to return to France; yet at the same time, I thank my stars I'm not navigating cool Parisian social customs on a daily basis.
Turnbull's experiences, to be sure, are uniquely hers, as she moves through a relationship with a Frenchman that ultimately leads to marriage. But anyone who has marveled at French women's relationship with their tiny dogs, dinner parties where people talk endlessly about esoteric topics and don't care who you are, why clochards are part of the national brick and mortar, and how bureaucratic red tape is enough to make even the most patient Francophone lose their cool will enjoy Turnbull's memoir. It makes me want to return to France; yet at the same time, I thank my stars I'm not navigating cool Parisian social customs on a daily basis.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Balloons
At 5:47 a.m. I discovered our son in our bed, tossing and turning and crying about "balloons."
"Balloons, balloons, balloons!" he cried, with increasing intensity.
My husband and I tried to rouse him from the semi-sleep state to find out what was causing his chagrin.
No avail.
In my half-aware dreamless haze, a variety of scenarios bubbled to surface.
Was he trapped inside a giant balloon, unable to speak or get our attention?
Perhaps a giant balloon was taking him away from us, basket or not, and the separation was killing us both.
Maybe a balloon popped, suddenly, shattering the silence of his otherwise peaceful Nod.
Finally, he fell back to sleep, face down, sprawled with his lovey, snoring loudly, back heaving slightly.
I relaxed and slipped back below the surface of consciousness.
Later, after showers and breakfasts and fights over televisions being on or off, I managed to grasp him in my arms.
"What was that all about?" I asked. "The balloons."
He looked quizzically at my face, sheepishly cast his glance aside, and then smiled.
"My balloon," he said, pronouncing its sentence, "was missing."
I stroked his thick brown hair and played with the cowlick that had arisen from sleeping so hard. "What balloon?"
"My balloon!" he insisted.
"It was a dream, sweetheart," I said, readying myself to explain the difference between the dreams we have while we are awake and those that plague us while asleep.
"I had a balloon," he said, "at Gramma and Poppy's."
In mid-August.
A balloon from a burger joint (in which neither child opted for a burger, of course) that had lingered in the house until we caught our plane back to our new city. It didn't make the trip with us. To me--one less object to pack. To him--a treasured possession left behind.
I suppressed a laugh. "Oh, that balloon."
"Yes. Where is it?" He really wanted to know.
In a landfill somewhere. Or shriveled to a quarter of its size, stuck behind a shelf in a forgotten nook in his ersatz-bedroom. Or passed along to another child.
I didn't know what to say, any more than I knew why the missing balloon had caused him so much angst. The sunny yellow sphere entered and exited his life within 48 hours, yet he asks after it, with the same intention that I email an old friend whose husband just had a stroke--checking in, taking a pulse, ensuring that she's still there on the fringes of my life.
"Um... probably in the trash," I said, trying to make my voice carefree. "Balloons don't last forever."
My husband entered the kitchen and heard the last line or two of our rushed interaction before heading out the door to school. "Yes, and Mommy and Daddy need to sleep tonight. So you need to sleep in your own bed tonight and stay there all night."
I nodded in assent before giving him a last squeeze and sending him out the door to preschool. As I watched him go, I added one last thing to my backpack before heading out the door myself and resolved to remember the balloon, the difference it made to him, and how thoughts on the edges of our consciousness can have such an enormous impact.
"Balloons, balloons, balloons!" he cried, with increasing intensity.
My husband and I tried to rouse him from the semi-sleep state to find out what was causing his chagrin.
No avail.
In my half-aware dreamless haze, a variety of scenarios bubbled to surface.
Was he trapped inside a giant balloon, unable to speak or get our attention?
Perhaps a giant balloon was taking him away from us, basket or not, and the separation was killing us both.
Maybe a balloon popped, suddenly, shattering the silence of his otherwise peaceful Nod.
Finally, he fell back to sleep, face down, sprawled with his lovey, snoring loudly, back heaving slightly.
I relaxed and slipped back below the surface of consciousness.
Later, after showers and breakfasts and fights over televisions being on or off, I managed to grasp him in my arms.
"What was that all about?" I asked. "The balloons."
He looked quizzically at my face, sheepishly cast his glance aside, and then smiled.
"My balloon," he said, pronouncing its sentence, "was missing."
I stroked his thick brown hair and played with the cowlick that had arisen from sleeping so hard. "What balloon?"
"My balloon!" he insisted.
"It was a dream, sweetheart," I said, readying myself to explain the difference between the dreams we have while we are awake and those that plague us while asleep.
"I had a balloon," he said, "at Gramma and Poppy's."
In mid-August.
A balloon from a burger joint (in which neither child opted for a burger, of course) that had lingered in the house until we caught our plane back to our new city. It didn't make the trip with us. To me--one less object to pack. To him--a treasured possession left behind.
I suppressed a laugh. "Oh, that balloon."
"Yes. Where is it?" He really wanted to know.
In a landfill somewhere. Or shriveled to a quarter of its size, stuck behind a shelf in a forgotten nook in his ersatz-bedroom. Or passed along to another child.
I didn't know what to say, any more than I knew why the missing balloon had caused him so much angst. The sunny yellow sphere entered and exited his life within 48 hours, yet he asks after it, with the same intention that I email an old friend whose husband just had a stroke--checking in, taking a pulse, ensuring that she's still there on the fringes of my life.
"Um... probably in the trash," I said, trying to make my voice carefree. "Balloons don't last forever."
My husband entered the kitchen and heard the last line or two of our rushed interaction before heading out the door to school. "Yes, and Mommy and Daddy need to sleep tonight. So you need to sleep in your own bed tonight and stay there all night."
I nodded in assent before giving him a last squeeze and sending him out the door to preschool. As I watched him go, I added one last thing to my backpack before heading out the door myself and resolved to remember the balloon, the difference it made to him, and how thoughts on the edges of our consciousness can have such an enormous impact.
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