It's said that Facebook isn't your diary, and it's directed at people who incessantly update their statuses.
So, Facebook might not be my diary, but this is. Sort of. It's one of many, anyway.
...buying TP makes me feel like an adult.
...I walked in my bathroom, looked in the mirror and cursed.
...my dog prefers drinking out of the toilet.
...it's creepy when you live alone and you see something somewhere that you swear you didn't touch. Who else is in the Cottage?!
...yes, I know my hair is green and blue. I did it on purpose.
...I'm glad to work in a place where I have a friend who will hug me good night.
...sometimes, I walk out of the bathroom without my bra or shirt on and then realize the front windows are open. And then I'm thankful those windows face an open field.
...the lip that I hit with a hammer is swollen five days later.
...scraping ice off my windshield with a CD is not what I'd like to do.
...does discussing your life insurance policies with a couple siblings make you an adult?
...has moments when the thought of selling my dog on Craigslist makes me very, very happy. We had one of those moments tonight.
...breathes a sigh of relief every time I come home and see that the crockpot has indeed NOT burned the Cottage down.
...
Friday, December 2, 2011
a picture of me in my arms
I had an armload of crap this morning as I was busting ass to leave the Cottage to go to work.
And the crap, I later realized, represented a lot of who I am.
On one arm was slung my purse, which is an oversized bag, basically. It's got important stuff in it like a journal, notebook, calendar and random bosslike stuff.
Over that was my lunch bag, but not my regular green one, which I couldn't find and then later found under my desk. I packed my usuall - soup, some veggies and 60 cents. Yep, 60 cents loose in the bottom of my lunch bag. For one diet soda at lunch.
I was carrying my keys and phone in one hand. In my other hand was my dog's water dish. In her water dish was a Tupperware container of water. Uh-huh, she went to work with me for the second day in a row. Her leash was looped over my shoulder.
And tacky glue was in my other hand.
Because, as luck would have it, in the state's worst one-year drought, we had rain yesterday. And the rain dampened the duct tape that's holding one of my mirrors on and it had fallen off. My fortune worsened when the roll of duct tape in my car ran out. So I was left with packing tape. There was no way it was holding in the misty rain.
Tacky glue did not work.
But there you have it. My important things.
Phone = lifeline to people I love and ones I don't, but are necessary. Dog paraphenalia. Calendar. Keys. Food. Glue.
What else do you need?
I was thinking about this last night when, shortly after I'd gone to bed and cocooned myself in the covers, I smelled smoke.
I had even started closing my eyes and then, it was there. Smoke.
You know how it is - you're warm, you're cozy, you're sleepy. Your house could be burning down.
If you're like me, you're cursing under your breath and threatening, as you get out of bed out of obligation to check it out.
"I just got the covers warm, there better be flames."
"If I get outside and I don't see a forest fire, I'm going to be effing pissed."
But then, counter arguments start:
"Damn. A fire would be so much work and I'm tiiiirreeddd."
"That means I'd have to figure out what I'd want to take with me and I don't have the energy for that. But wait, what would I take?"
"If I ignore the smell of smoke, I could die. I could lay here in my bed, all warm and snuggly, and then the flames could overtake me."
My last thought before falling asleep was something along the lines of: smoke means there's fire, which means there's a fire somewhere in the wind vicinity of me. Who would be burning anything at 11 p.m.? Maybe I should just call the fire department and report the smell of smoke....
This morning, I think I answered my own question of what I would take. I had everything I needed in my arms. Basically.
And the crap, I later realized, represented a lot of who I am.
On one arm was slung my purse, which is an oversized bag, basically. It's got important stuff in it like a journal, notebook, calendar and random bosslike stuff.
Over that was my lunch bag, but not my regular green one, which I couldn't find and then later found under my desk. I packed my usuall - soup, some veggies and 60 cents. Yep, 60 cents loose in the bottom of my lunch bag. For one diet soda at lunch.
I was carrying my keys and phone in one hand. In my other hand was my dog's water dish. In her water dish was a Tupperware container of water. Uh-huh, she went to work with me for the second day in a row. Her leash was looped over my shoulder.
And tacky glue was in my other hand.
Because, as luck would have it, in the state's worst one-year drought, we had rain yesterday. And the rain dampened the duct tape that's holding one of my mirrors on and it had fallen off. My fortune worsened when the roll of duct tape in my car ran out. So I was left with packing tape. There was no way it was holding in the misty rain.
Tacky glue did not work.
But there you have it. My important things.
Phone = lifeline to people I love and ones I don't, but are necessary. Dog paraphenalia. Calendar. Keys. Food. Glue.
What else do you need?
I was thinking about this last night when, shortly after I'd gone to bed and cocooned myself in the covers, I smelled smoke.
I had even started closing my eyes and then, it was there. Smoke.
You know how it is - you're warm, you're cozy, you're sleepy. Your house could be burning down.
If you're like me, you're cursing under your breath and threatening, as you get out of bed out of obligation to check it out.
"I just got the covers warm, there better be flames."
"If I get outside and I don't see a forest fire, I'm going to be effing pissed."
But then, counter arguments start:
"Damn. A fire would be so much work and I'm tiiiirreeddd."
"That means I'd have to figure out what I'd want to take with me and I don't have the energy for that. But wait, what would I take?"
"If I ignore the smell of smoke, I could die. I could lay here in my bed, all warm and snuggly, and then the flames could overtake me."
My last thought before falling asleep was something along the lines of: smoke means there's fire, which means there's a fire somewhere in the wind vicinity of me. Who would be burning anything at 11 p.m.? Maybe I should just call the fire department and report the smell of smoke....
This morning, I think I answered my own question of what I would take. I had everything I needed in my arms. Basically.
I might remember your name. Other things, maybe not
I don't have a good memory.
I know that I know things that could relate to a myriad of conversations that would validate my opinion, make me sound smarter, perhaps give the people around me confidence in the adamant dispensation of my words.
But more often than not, I don't interject my opinion, because what's an opinion that you can't back up? And when the questions start rolling in about why I think the way I'm thinking, I don't want to have to say, "I can't remember."
My short term memory sucks.
It's evidenced in many ways, but the biggest one is that I'm always writing stuff down. Always. By the end of the week, my desk is littered with Post-it notes and scrap pieces of paper with random messages, to-do things, key points from conversations and things I must not forget.
Friends and observant people I work with know this. When I say, in answer to a question, "To be honest with you..."
..."you don't remember," a good friend finishes my sentence.
I sigh. "No, I don't. But I have it in an email, I'll forward it to you ASAP."
The longer a conversation, a scenario, a meeting or an interaction marinates in my head, the better chance I have of recounting each detail.
It's something in my life I have to deal with on a conscious level. I can't pretend it doesn't exist, because it does. It means I have to circumvent its impact on my life. I have to be proactive.
So I'm armed with clearly labeled notebooks to coordinate with each title I have and my calendar. And any other documentation I might need to rely on.
What's tricky is when I have to remember what direction I entered the gas station from while traveling. That always gets me. Did I turn right to get in here or left? Bceause that's going to tell me how to get out and in what direction I need to head on the interstate/highway.
I've had to sit and think about it awhile.
I know that I know things that could relate to a myriad of conversations that would validate my opinion, make me sound smarter, perhaps give the people around me confidence in the adamant dispensation of my words.
But more often than not, I don't interject my opinion, because what's an opinion that you can't back up? And when the questions start rolling in about why I think the way I'm thinking, I don't want to have to say, "I can't remember."
My short term memory sucks.
It's evidenced in many ways, but the biggest one is that I'm always writing stuff down. Always. By the end of the week, my desk is littered with Post-it notes and scrap pieces of paper with random messages, to-do things, key points from conversations and things I must not forget.
Friends and observant people I work with know this. When I say, in answer to a question, "To be honest with you..."
..."you don't remember," a good friend finishes my sentence.
I sigh. "No, I don't. But I have it in an email, I'll forward it to you ASAP."
The longer a conversation, a scenario, a meeting or an interaction marinates in my head, the better chance I have of recounting each detail.
It's something in my life I have to deal with on a conscious level. I can't pretend it doesn't exist, because it does. It means I have to circumvent its impact on my life. I have to be proactive.
So I'm armed with clearly labeled notebooks to coordinate with each title I have and my calendar. And any other documentation I might need to rely on.
What's tricky is when I have to remember what direction I entered the gas station from while traveling. That always gets me. Did I turn right to get in here or left? Bceause that's going to tell me how to get out and in what direction I need to head on the interstate/highway.
I've had to sit and think about it awhile.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
me.
A friend texted me tonight:"Remember that time we ran into you in the parking garage at Western and you ended up sitting with us at the game?"
My first reaction: I was weird then.
I was awkward and self-conscious. I felt inferior to everyone, shy and a little (okay, maybe a lot) introverted.
This was a memory I had completely forgotten about.
I've been thinking a lot about this recently - memories. They've been invading my mental private space and temporarily taking my breath away in a grimacing sort of way. For me, memories bring back a feeling, the feeling I was feeling at the time, and in some instances, it's a painful blip on the mental radar.
Despite my propensity to short-term memory loss, I have chosen to not forget. I made this decision subconsciously one day while I was driving home from a college course in the spring of 2003 or 2004. I remember my hands on the wheel, and I remember a memory. I don't recall which one, but it hurt.
I welcomed it. Everything. The memory, the loss, and the pain. Its heaviness lasted for just a moment and then it was gone.
And I lived, stronger than before.
It's an internal choice I made at that moment, at moments before and certainly moments after - I'm not defined by badness. I'm characterized by how I respond, how I react, what I learn and by how I navigate these murky waters.
The bad memories don't offer a re-do, but they do grant an opportunity to analyze, assess, taste it, ask questions (how did that affect me? what did that do to my heart? what, if anything, could I have done differently?), and then move on.
Moving on...forward motion...the mistakes of today, sure, they're there. But how can tomorrow be better?
So, back to the shy and awkward girl...
...I don't know if I was actually shy or awkward. My damaged soul was in a lot of ways. I was fighting against myself in many instances, learning how to be normal, trying to figure out what normal was and estimating that I never would be completely normal by normal standards. I don't think I was okay with that at the time.
My perception of myself has changed since running into people I barely knew in a parking garage.
Today, I love myself. That's probably the biggest difference, and what a difference a difference makes!
My core feels robust, my soul alive, and when all sorts of memories come piling in, I can wince a little and acknowledge that yeah, I was weird back then.
But I kinda still am.
My first reaction: I was weird then.
I was awkward and self-conscious. I felt inferior to everyone, shy and a little (okay, maybe a lot) introverted.
This was a memory I had completely forgotten about.
I've been thinking a lot about this recently - memories. They've been invading my mental private space and temporarily taking my breath away in a grimacing sort of way. For me, memories bring back a feeling, the feeling I was feeling at the time, and in some instances, it's a painful blip on the mental radar.
Despite my propensity to short-term memory loss, I have chosen to not forget. I made this decision subconsciously one day while I was driving home from a college course in the spring of 2003 or 2004. I remember my hands on the wheel, and I remember a memory. I don't recall which one, but it hurt.
I welcomed it. Everything. The memory, the loss, and the pain. Its heaviness lasted for just a moment and then it was gone.
And I lived, stronger than before.
It's an internal choice I made at that moment, at moments before and certainly moments after - I'm not defined by badness. I'm characterized by how I respond, how I react, what I learn and by how I navigate these murky waters.
The bad memories don't offer a re-do, but they do grant an opportunity to analyze, assess, taste it, ask questions (how did that affect me? what did that do to my heart? what, if anything, could I have done differently?), and then move on.
Moving on...forward motion...the mistakes of today, sure, they're there. But how can tomorrow be better?
So, back to the shy and awkward girl...
...I don't know if I was actually shy or awkward. My damaged soul was in a lot of ways. I was fighting against myself in many instances, learning how to be normal, trying to figure out what normal was and estimating that I never would be completely normal by normal standards. I don't think I was okay with that at the time.
My perception of myself has changed since running into people I barely knew in a parking garage.
Today, I love myself. That's probably the biggest difference, and what a difference a difference makes!
My core feels robust, my soul alive, and when all sorts of memories come piling in, I can wince a little and acknowledge that yeah, I was weird back then.
But I kinda still am.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
freshness
I've been eating a lot, a lot of unhealthy things, and my body started begging me for freshness.
Listening to my body is lifesaving, so I paid attention and yesterday I bought as many fresh fruits and veggies as I could.
Last night, I steamed cabbage, onions, mushrooms and 93/7 lean ground beef in the crockpot. I also combined a ginormous amount of fresh greens (and reds and yellows) and steamed them. Today I steamed apples and cinnamon, and ate a dinner of veggies in a variety of forms.
It's my way of giving back to myself.
Listening to my body is lifesaving, so I paid attention and yesterday I bought as many fresh fruits and veggies as I could.
Last night, I steamed cabbage, onions, mushrooms and 93/7 lean ground beef in the crockpot. I also combined a ginormous amount of fresh greens (and reds and yellows) and steamed them. Today I steamed apples and cinnamon, and ate a dinner of veggies in a variety of forms.
It's my way of giving back to myself.
Monday, November 28, 2011
pure spirituality
Pure religion is, according to the Bible, taking care of the fatherless and the widows.
Pure spirituality is, according to me, the enriching current of conversation that flows between friends.
It's discourse, exchange of information and ideas, melding passions and differing opinions without the threat of domination. It's laughing, and drinking coffee in a cafe unfamiliar to both of us. It's spending five hours there, poring over maps and calendars and notepads.
Seven years and six months ago, I met Christina during a journalism training course in Washington, D.C. We were young and ambitious and we stayed friends.
(I'm in the purple shirt standing in the back row; Christina is third from the left sitting down)
Seven and a half years later, we've traversed a lot of life (physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually) as we've journeyed from our barely-twenties through our early twenties, and now mid-to-late twenties.
When she told me last week she was in Dallas for the week, it wasn't a question of if we would see each other, it was what day, and am I going there or are you coming here?
I went there yesterday, an 8-hour road trip, and there was this great moment of me in my car texting her to tell her I was there, and then she was ripping open my door and I couldn't get out fast enough.
Who cares that it'd been 2,737.5 days since our last meeting.
"This just feels natural," is what she said as we were driving in an unknown Texas town. True to form, for both of us, we got lost, turned around and back tracked a couple times, but we made it to our destination - not that we really cared where we were going. We just wanted a space to talk for as long as we wanted, face-to-face.
We holed up in a booth in a far back corner and we stayed there for a long time...women, friends, dreamers, planners, adventurers.
I'm thankful for her friendship, for her inspiration, for her life that scarily parallels mine, for her perspective, for her infectious desire to change the world, and our shared belief that we still can.
Pure spirituality is, according to me, the enriching current of conversation that flows between friends.
It's discourse, exchange of information and ideas, melding passions and differing opinions without the threat of domination. It's laughing, and drinking coffee in a cafe unfamiliar to both of us. It's spending five hours there, poring over maps and calendars and notepads.
Seven years and six months ago, I met Christina during a journalism training course in Washington, D.C. We were young and ambitious and we stayed friends.
(I'm in the purple shirt standing in the back row; Christina is third from the left sitting down)
Seven and a half years later, we've traversed a lot of life (physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually) as we've journeyed from our barely-twenties through our early twenties, and now mid-to-late twenties.
When she told me last week she was in Dallas for the week, it wasn't a question of if we would see each other, it was what day, and am I going there or are you coming here?
I went there yesterday, an 8-hour road trip, and there was this great moment of me in my car texting her to tell her I was there, and then she was ripping open my door and I couldn't get out fast enough.
Who cares that it'd been 2,737.5 days since our last meeting.
"This just feels natural," is what she said as we were driving in an unknown Texas town. True to form, for both of us, we got lost, turned around and back tracked a couple times, but we made it to our destination - not that we really cared where we were going. We just wanted a space to talk for as long as we wanted, face-to-face.
We holed up in a booth in a far back corner and we stayed there for a long time...women, friends, dreamers, planners, adventurers.
I'm thankful for her friendship, for her inspiration, for her life that scarily parallels mine, for her perspective, for her infectious desire to change the world, and our shared belief that we still can.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
because one streak is just not enough.
You just can't get away from the coloration journey of my hair, can you?
It started with Pinterest, so if blame has to be laid somewhere, we can lay it there.
Tonight, I wanted another streak. A blue one, to be exact.
So I did.
To be honest, I temporarily freaked out when I first applied the cobalt blue oil pastel. It was very blue. But I took deep breaths and repeated, "It's just hair; it'll grow out," and then continued applying.
I'm happy with the results.
Oh, and the green isn't going anywhere. I showered tonight. It's still here.
So, if you're interested, here's how I did it:
I separated a strand of hair, chose the oil pastel paint I wanted, and then thoroughly applied it. I would advise using gloves; the paint inevitably gets everywhere. Or maybe that's just because I'm *slightly* clumsy.
The paint goes on a little thick so take your time in making sure each hair is covered. From there, I took a comb (my now special oil pastel paint comb) and combed through the painted strands while blow drying it. For the blue, I also took a paper towel and wiped the strands through the towel just to get the heavy excess paint off.
I let it air dry for awhile and then went back to combing and blow drying it. This seemed to help it appear more natural when it fell with the rest of my hair.
And that's it.
Now you can have streaks and smell like an oil painting.
It started with Pinterest, so if blame has to be laid somewhere, we can lay it there.
Tonight, I wanted another streak. A blue one, to be exact.
So I did.
To be honest, I temporarily freaked out when I first applied the cobalt blue oil pastel. It was very blue. But I took deep breaths and repeated, "It's just hair; it'll grow out," and then continued applying.
I'm happy with the results.
Oh, and the green isn't going anywhere. I showered tonight. It's still here.
So, if you're interested, here's how I did it:
I separated a strand of hair, chose the oil pastel paint I wanted, and then thoroughly applied it. I would advise using gloves; the paint inevitably gets everywhere. Or maybe that's just because I'm *slightly* clumsy.
The paint goes on a little thick so take your time in making sure each hair is covered. From there, I took a comb (my now special oil pastel paint comb) and combed through the painted strands while blow drying it. For the blue, I also took a paper towel and wiped the strands through the towel just to get the heavy excess paint off.
I let it air dry for awhile and then went back to combing and blow drying it. This seemed to help it appear more natural when it fell with the rest of my hair.
And that's it.
Now you can have streaks and smell like an oil painting.
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