I signed on with Weight Watchers last month. When I've done it properly, I've lost over 70 lbs in the past. When I've not done it properly, I've just paid a lot of money to feel guilty. I'm trying to do it properly this time. So far, I'm down 12 lbs. (Two rounds of steroids plus a hormone war in my body has slowed it down a bit, but down 12 is down 12. Only about 300 to go.) I qualify for bariatric surgery given my physical limitations, but I don't think I want it. So I'll Take Two of these.
While we're at it, how about the FDA in their boundless wisdom stop allowing crap like this in our food supply? And how about stopping all that GMO business? And why in the name of all that is holy is High Fructose Corn Syrup still permitted to be used in our food supply?
Look. I can't afford to buy all organic, though I would like to. I like McDonalds sometimes and I like Coca Cola and Mac&Cheese from the blue box and M&Ms and all that stuff. But the truth is terrifying and you can't un-ring a bell and now that I know all this - -well.
I've switched to organic iced tea from Diet Pepsi. We buy organic pretzels and lemonade mix which, while less than healthy, is at least not so much a chemical science project as the diet stuff we were drinking before. The bread has no HFCS in it, nor does the yogurt. I'm trying. And hoping the little steps in the right direction will have a big impact later.
If you aren't furious that the USDA / FDA are content to use you and your children as guinea pigs with little regard for the long term health of either of you, I'm not sure you clicked on or read through those links.
Listen to Robyn. Girlfriend knows her stuff.
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Careless Whisper?
Somehow this is when the voices are the loudest.
(Not voices a la "wrap your head in tinfoil, mortals, lest they hear you" or "drown the cat, it's the devil" variety. Just to be clear.)
No. I mean the voices who whisper constantly, but almost in another language, or on another frequency. The ones like a crossed line in your own mind, the ones who you can't ever quite make out clearly. The nudgy little asides, impotent shouting, like someone in a foreign language trying to make you understand by raising the metaphorical volume, and the cacophonous whispers from deep within your mind which resemble nothing else so much as wind, whipping around your head, lapping at your hair, buffeting your ears, perfectly audible but incomprehensible.
Those voices.
Once the children have stilled for the night, slumbering in their beds, and the telephone lies dark and dormant, the television has been clicked into silence and the birds retreat to their arboreal rest - I find I am left with these swirling, wispy remnants of a thousand dreams, a lifetime of echoes, an eternity of concepts dancing through my poor, beleaguered thinking apparatus.
Is it any wonder sleep doesn't come easily or that I have busy dreams? I personally don't find any mystery in it but then again, I don't know anything about it really, and the voices, for all their persistence, aren't telling me.
(Not voices a la "wrap your head in tinfoil, mortals, lest they hear you" or "drown the cat, it's the devil" variety. Just to be clear.)
No. I mean the voices who whisper constantly, but almost in another language, or on another frequency. The ones like a crossed line in your own mind, the ones who you can't ever quite make out clearly. The nudgy little asides, impotent shouting, like someone in a foreign language trying to make you understand by raising the metaphorical volume, and the cacophonous whispers from deep within your mind which resemble nothing else so much as wind, whipping around your head, lapping at your hair, buffeting your ears, perfectly audible but incomprehensible.
Those voices.
Once the children have stilled for the night, slumbering in their beds, and the telephone lies dark and dormant, the television has been clicked into silence and the birds retreat to their arboreal rest - I find I am left with these swirling, wispy remnants of a thousand dreams, a lifetime of echoes, an eternity of concepts dancing through my poor, beleaguered thinking apparatus.
Is it any wonder sleep doesn't come easily or that I have busy dreams? I personally don't find any mystery in it but then again, I don't know anything about it really, and the voices, for all their persistence, aren't telling me.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
So Much To Say
My father is a long time dead.
He died the day before my birthday nearly 20 years ago.
It's ok. He was gravely ill, for a long time and it was a torturous existence with no quality of life and it was horrible for everyone to watch and endure. Things like that leave an indelible mark and you take it with you, everywhere, forever. While the end was terrible, it was also a relief - and that resulted in guilt, which was also terrible.
Also, it kind of resulted in a lengthy series of really crappy birthdays. I'm hopeful that I'll break the trend one day, but so far, no dice.
Then you have the anniversaries. The first year was the worst. Every first event , holiday, marker, signpost - everyone was like a fresh bludgeoning with a limb from the Harsh Reality Tree. I don't like that tree.
After that...it did get ... not better, exactly, certainly not nicer or more pleasant, but easier insofar as we'd learned to adapt to life without him and the sting lessened over time.
My father was not what you would call an easygoing man. He was not easy to get along with. He was not easy to please. He was not easily placated or accommodated or anything else, but he was my father, and what you realize as you get older is that you only ever get one and even if they didn't do the award-winning job they (probably) tried and (probably) wanted to do, it is likely that they did the best they could. Forgiveness lies at our feet; waiting to be picked up and bestowed upon them when we can, for whatever wrongs were committed.
And there were plenty of those. But I'm not going to discuss the specifics because those are between him and me, or between him and others, or between him and G-d, and that's where they are going to stay.
I'll tell you this; I know some people whose fathers are saintly, pillars of the community, about whom nobody can find a bad word to say, but friends, that was not my dad. My father took great pride in pissing people off, stirring the pot, causing trouble, disagreeing - loudly and in the most unconventional way possible - as often as possible. I'm not sure where my tendency to avoid confrontation comes from.
But he was funny. He fought for me to get the best orthopedic doctor in the best hospital in Boston when I came into the world with a pretty raging structural birth defect, and got me mostly put back together the right way. He put me on to the Three Stooges and Paul Simon. He let me watch Eddie Murphy movies when I really shouldn't have been allowed to, and let me practice driving far before I was ready (legally, mentally, emotionally) and went to school and yelled at a teacher who gave me a ration of crap on a regular basis for having the temerity to be alive and not up to snuff in her view. Regrettably, he took me with him to witness this, which resulted in a totally traumatic experience for me the following day. Hi.
It wasn't all bad.
It's almost easier to remember the bad things though, because I don't miss those. And when I'm thinking about them, I don't miss him either.
When I think about the good things - when I think about how he did his best and succeeded, when he tried and hit the mark, I do miss him. And it hurts all over again.
I don't have a dad.
I don't have a grandfather.
My one remaining paternal uncle and Godfather lives far away and has his own kids, and in laws and grandchildren.
My other two unles; one is far flung and not overly interested, and one is closer but still not overly interested. I mean granted, he has two small granddaughters and I'm fo- um...I'm old enough that I shouldn't be on his mind as someone who needs looking after.
My marriage - kaboom, flames, debris - I'm glad we can get along for the most part now, and I always make sure to honor the day with the boys for him - we make breakfast or dinner and make sure he has a gift or some little treats.a
And my boyfriend lives 3,270 miles away. Not that he's a father figure to me or my boys, but he is that piece - that adult male figure we can rely on and lean against, because he is a rock. A really far away rock.
Father's Day is tomorrow and it's really kicking me in the pants. Everybody is uploading snaps of their dad or pictures of them with their spouse and their kids, or what-have-you... and I'm over here... hi... I have a rabbit...and the Autistics and I are hanging out eating Cheez-Its (because we're on a Cheez-it kick) trying to get some mulch spread before winter comes around again, and I'm trying to call it a successful day if nobody fights too much and no blood is shed and everybody wears pants. Yay, parenting. But I'm not a dad. I can buy the mulch, point to where the mulch goes, but I can't spread it. (Physical limitations.)
I can tell them how to use the grill but I can't tell them how to build a fire.
I can't tell them how to bravely kill a bug.
I can't tell them how to change the oil.
I can't tell them how to pee in the damn bowl.
I can't tell them how to be a guy.
I can't even show them how to be a guy.
I can kind of tell them what I know about being a decent person, regardless of gender.
And whatever limited technical stuff I know, I can teach them.
So. Limited.
But I can't stop kicking myself for not surrounding them with better role models, or more role models or role models who have better longevity. I don't feel up to the task of being both or filling in the gaps their dad leaves, due to his own condition. You want to know about ancient history? He's your man. Japanese culture? All day. Comic books? Yes. Carpentry? Sure.
I just feel like I can never be, or give, enough to those children.
Maybe my dad felt like that too.
Maybe his departure was a relief for him too.
Anyway, this has got a bit rambly.
My point is, it's Father's Day tomorrow and I'd really just rather pretend it weren't, because I don't care if it is the 21st century and if I'm a largely independent, competent woman, sometimes you just miss having a father, or the idea of one.
He died the day before my birthday nearly 20 years ago.
It's ok. He was gravely ill, for a long time and it was a torturous existence with no quality of life and it was horrible for everyone to watch and endure. Things like that leave an indelible mark and you take it with you, everywhere, forever. While the end was terrible, it was also a relief - and that resulted in guilt, which was also terrible.
Also, it kind of resulted in a lengthy series of really crappy birthdays. I'm hopeful that I'll break the trend one day, but so far, no dice.
Then you have the anniversaries. The first year was the worst. Every first event , holiday, marker, signpost - everyone was like a fresh bludgeoning with a limb from the Harsh Reality Tree. I don't like that tree.
After that...it did get ... not better, exactly, certainly not nicer or more pleasant, but easier insofar as we'd learned to adapt to life without him and the sting lessened over time.
My father was not what you would call an easygoing man. He was not easy to get along with. He was not easy to please. He was not easily placated or accommodated or anything else, but he was my father, and what you realize as you get older is that you only ever get one and even if they didn't do the award-winning job they (probably) tried and (probably) wanted to do, it is likely that they did the best they could. Forgiveness lies at our feet; waiting to be picked up and bestowed upon them when we can, for whatever wrongs were committed.
And there were plenty of those. But I'm not going to discuss the specifics because those are between him and me, or between him and others, or between him and G-d, and that's where they are going to stay.
I'll tell you this; I know some people whose fathers are saintly, pillars of the community, about whom nobody can find a bad word to say, but friends, that was not my dad. My father took great pride in pissing people off, stirring the pot, causing trouble, disagreeing - loudly and in the most unconventional way possible - as often as possible. I'm not sure where my tendency to avoid confrontation comes from.
But he was funny. He fought for me to get the best orthopedic doctor in the best hospital in Boston when I came into the world with a pretty raging structural birth defect, and got me mostly put back together the right way. He put me on to the Three Stooges and Paul Simon. He let me watch Eddie Murphy movies when I really shouldn't have been allowed to, and let me practice driving far before I was ready (legally, mentally, emotionally) and went to school and yelled at a teacher who gave me a ration of crap on a regular basis for having the temerity to be alive and not up to snuff in her view. Regrettably, he took me with him to witness this, which resulted in a totally traumatic experience for me the following day. Hi.
It wasn't all bad.
It's almost easier to remember the bad things though, because I don't miss those. And when I'm thinking about them, I don't miss him either.
When I think about the good things - when I think about how he did his best and succeeded, when he tried and hit the mark, I do miss him. And it hurts all over again.
I don't have a dad.
I don't have a grandfather.
My one remaining paternal uncle and Godfather lives far away and has his own kids, and in laws and grandchildren.
My other two unles; one is far flung and not overly interested, and one is closer but still not overly interested. I mean granted, he has two small granddaughters and I'm fo- um...I'm old enough that I shouldn't be on his mind as someone who needs looking after.
My marriage - kaboom, flames, debris - I'm glad we can get along for the most part now, and I always make sure to honor the day with the boys for him - we make breakfast or dinner and make sure he has a gift or some little treats.a
And my boyfriend lives 3,270 miles away. Not that he's a father figure to me or my boys, but he is that piece - that adult male figure we can rely on and lean against, because he is a rock. A really far away rock.
Father's Day is tomorrow and it's really kicking me in the pants. Everybody is uploading snaps of their dad or pictures of them with their spouse and their kids, or what-have-you... and I'm over here... hi... I have a rabbit...and the Autistics and I are hanging out eating Cheez-Its (because we're on a Cheez-it kick) trying to get some mulch spread before winter comes around again, and I'm trying to call it a successful day if nobody fights too much and no blood is shed and everybody wears pants. Yay, parenting. But I'm not a dad. I can buy the mulch, point to where the mulch goes, but I can't spread it. (Physical limitations.)
I can tell them how to use the grill but I can't tell them how to build a fire.
I can't tell them how to bravely kill a bug.
I can't tell them how to change the oil.
I can't tell them how to pee in the damn bowl.
I can't tell them how to be a guy.
I can't even show them how to be a guy.
I can kind of tell them what I know about being a decent person, regardless of gender.
And whatever limited technical stuff I know, I can teach them.
So. Limited.
But I can't stop kicking myself for not surrounding them with better role models, or more role models or role models who have better longevity. I don't feel up to the task of being both or filling in the gaps their dad leaves, due to his own condition. You want to know about ancient history? He's your man. Japanese culture? All day. Comic books? Yes. Carpentry? Sure.
I just feel like I can never be, or give, enough to those children.
Maybe my dad felt like that too.
Maybe his departure was a relief for him too.
Anyway, this has got a bit rambly.
My point is, it's Father's Day tomorrow and I'd really just rather pretend it weren't, because I don't care if it is the 21st century and if I'm a largely independent, competent woman, sometimes you just miss having a father, or the idea of one.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
I Want It All (And I Want It Now)
Where are the comments??? Is this because nobody's reading, despite the page views and number of dots being on a steady increase? Or is it because of the word verification issue? Or the fact you need to sign in? Tell me. Because the newspaper column I write is wonderful and I get fan mail. Sometimes it's actual mail - on paper and everything. More often by far, it's an email. And I really like that. Probably too much.
Blogging is like that, or it used to be, but with the little treat at the end of instant gratification.
Let me say this about that: Gratification is a little freaking thin on the ground around here.
So while nobody is compelled to comment and say things good, bad, or otherwise - I suppose I'd prefer silence to banalities - I'm curious why people aren't commenting when, on my last several blogs, the comments came thick and fast.
What's the haps, people? (As my 12 year old would say - what's the haps...seriously...wth...)
Blogging is like that, or it used to be, but with the little treat at the end of instant gratification.
Let me say this about that: Gratification is a little freaking thin on the ground around here.
So while nobody is compelled to comment and say things good, bad, or otherwise - I suppose I'd prefer silence to banalities - I'm curious why people aren't commenting when, on my last several blogs, the comments came thick and fast.
What's the haps, people? (As my 12 year old would say - what's the haps...seriously...wth...)
Monday, June 9, 2014
Ring of Fire
A strange thing happened today.
Whilst perusing the aisles of the supermarket with two poorly children in tow - because we were out of crackers, and popsicles and gingerale, due to their mother's rampant slackerism - I ran into someone from a previous life...my life B.C.. Before Children.
I ran into my former boss. We didn't used to get along at all, and I mean at all, but over time, he softened and I matured and proved how good and reliable and smart and loyal I was, and we became friends. The time I worked for him was difficult for a lot of reasons - it was during that season of my life where you learn a lot of lessons about loss and disappointment and disillusionment and grief and shock and a whole bunch of really crappy stuff. Some of it did help forge a bond between us, because honestly, when you go through a significant volume of ...stuff... with someone, you can't help it. It's just the nature of things. He saw me through my father's death, my marriage (start to finish), three pregnancies, two births, and a scorching case of postpartum depression. I saw him through empty nestism, the loss of a parent, a friend, and a host of medical issues and illnesses. We went through an awful lot of stuff related to work - not typical stuff, either, but CSI / Law & Order stuff - and it's just how it is. Throw some metal in the fire and it somehow solders itself together. Even after time, when the metal cools, weakens and separates, there's always a little lip or notch where the break took place and those two pieces, when rejoined, will fit back together just so.
And so it was.
I didn't have my glasses on as I trudged through the market with my sulky brood, but I saw him from about a hundred yards away. I recognized his pace immediately, his loping gait, his posture. It had been a couple years since I'd seen him and I found my heart fluttered delightedly to encounter this familiar figure from my past. With him, I'd done a very Bostonian thing and gone from worst to first in the pecking order of office favor. Well. If not first, I made the top three. (I always found ways to get on his very last nerve and aggravate the ever loving monkey crap out of him. As one does.) Also, with him was the last time I felt like The Golden Girl on a daily basis. It was a good feeling and I miss it. The children aren't keen on pumping up parental self regard, and it isn't their job to do so, but dang, what a letdown.
He stopped when he saw me, and it took a moment for it to register - the passage of time, the absence of context - and then we both smiled broadly as the pieces of snapped metal slid back into alignment.
We hugged hello and chatted briefly about each other's health, the children - his, mine - work, hobbies, family well being. The children have a vague memory of him and shook his hand, all smiles - resentment over the lack of appropriate snack food for boys with turbulent tummies now long forgotten. They danced around performing a little bit, telling him about their favorite foods, telling him what grade they're in, how old they are now, what they get up to, how much one of them likes being taller than me, how one of them aspires to be taller than me, and how I am mean and won't buy them Oreos. (Because, child, I will eat them. ALL. OF. THEM. I can't have them in the house. I'm an Oreoaholic. And I'm not proud of that.)
Bossman beamed at me, rested his hand on my shoulder, drew me in for a sideways hug, congratulated me on producing such attractive, clever, amusing children, and said my care and nurturing had paid off, was evident in spades. I choked up quite a bit and got slightly teary. He laughed, which made me laugh, and we lapsed back into talk about The Good Old Days (which most certainly were not always , or even usually, good).
And then it happened.
He said, "So! It's been a lot of years! Got a new ring on that finger by now?"
And then, without waiting, he added, "Well, I have to figure you must have one by now."
A whole different brand of tears welled up inside. Hot, prickly, shameful tears. I couldn't even make a real sentence. I just shook my head, no, and muttered, "No, sorry.".
Sorry? Wait, what?
Why am I sorry?
Then he was sorry!
"Oh, I'm sorry about that. It didn't work out with that guy?"
Um...well, yes, it did. Is. Does. It's working. Mostly. Apart from that whole monumentally bereft thing and the lack of a scheduling framework and the protracted periods of separation. I'm not sure what I mumbled, but it was something like that.
He stared at me, incredulous, and shook his head a little. "I can't believe that."
Well, believe it, Bossman.
Thankfully, Door #2 picked that moment to tug Bossman's elbow and show him that he had a blue tongue and was insisting on being referred to as a Blue Tongued Skink for the rest of the day.
We got back to ogling and admiring my delightful specimens and hugged goodbye and that was that.
I left the store $180 poorer and still forgot the damn gingerale.
So no matter that I have sustained a creative position for seven years in an industry and setting where layoffs come thick and fast, or that I'm parenting a uniquely challenging duo here, or that I've maintained an LDR under what can only be described as difficult circumstances or that I haven't wrinkled up much or any of that. What still matters at the end of the day to society in general is whether someone loves you enough to mark you as theirs and claim you with the socially accepted token of a ring. Any ring of precious metal and or stones. Not even properly a diamond solitaire engagement ring. No?
Cue noises like: Eesh. Ooof. And insert pained, sucking-through-your-teeth noise here.
Why does it matter? I don't know. It just does. I've tried explaining this. I've tried plainly saying, "I would like a ring.". I have shopped for one, found one on sale for not much money and posted it with a link to its sale page publicly.
Nothing doing.
And I guess that's ok, because you know? I've had a ring. And at the end of the day, it didn't mean anything. But when you don't have one, your perspective tends to shift and it looks - and feels - very different...to society and to the ringless.
My cheeks were hot all the way through the store. I felt diminished. Less than. Insufficient. And embarrassed. One of the children asked whether I'd been hurt, if I felt ok, if I had a sunburn.
Oh, I was burned, all right.
But not by fire; I'd been accidentally grazed by a figuratively matching piece of solder.
Time has seen the flames dwindle but I'd be lying if I said there weren't embers still quick to glow red with feelings of inadequacy and shame at not being wanted enough to warrant the socially accepted mark of another.
And the question comes unbidden: Why?
The love is there. It is real and powerful.
The commitment is there and unshakable.
The ring, as I said, doesn't mean much in itself at the end of the day... but ah, the gesture does, and the desire to make that gesture does.
My mind is abuzz with self doubt and questions I cannot answer and do not wish to ask. And my heart feels quite wrung.
Whilst perusing the aisles of the supermarket with two poorly children in tow - because we were out of crackers, and popsicles and gingerale, due to their mother's rampant slackerism - I ran into someone from a previous life...my life B.C.. Before Children.
I ran into my former boss. We didn't used to get along at all, and I mean at all, but over time, he softened and I matured and proved how good and reliable and smart and loyal I was, and we became friends. The time I worked for him was difficult for a lot of reasons - it was during that season of my life where you learn a lot of lessons about loss and disappointment and disillusionment and grief and shock and a whole bunch of really crappy stuff. Some of it did help forge a bond between us, because honestly, when you go through a significant volume of ...stuff... with someone, you can't help it. It's just the nature of things. He saw me through my father's death, my marriage (start to finish), three pregnancies, two births, and a scorching case of postpartum depression. I saw him through empty nestism, the loss of a parent, a friend, and a host of medical issues and illnesses. We went through an awful lot of stuff related to work - not typical stuff, either, but CSI / Law & Order stuff - and it's just how it is. Throw some metal in the fire and it somehow solders itself together. Even after time, when the metal cools, weakens and separates, there's always a little lip or notch where the break took place and those two pieces, when rejoined, will fit back together just so.
And so it was.
I didn't have my glasses on as I trudged through the market with my sulky brood, but I saw him from about a hundred yards away. I recognized his pace immediately, his loping gait, his posture. It had been a couple years since I'd seen him and I found my heart fluttered delightedly to encounter this familiar figure from my past. With him, I'd done a very Bostonian thing and gone from worst to first in the pecking order of office favor. Well. If not first, I made the top three. (I always found ways to get on his very last nerve and aggravate the ever loving monkey crap out of him. As one does.) Also, with him was the last time I felt like The Golden Girl on a daily basis. It was a good feeling and I miss it. The children aren't keen on pumping up parental self regard, and it isn't their job to do so, but dang, what a letdown.
He stopped when he saw me, and it took a moment for it to register - the passage of time, the absence of context - and then we both smiled broadly as the pieces of snapped metal slid back into alignment.
We hugged hello and chatted briefly about each other's health, the children - his, mine - work, hobbies, family well being. The children have a vague memory of him and shook his hand, all smiles - resentment over the lack of appropriate snack food for boys with turbulent tummies now long forgotten. They danced around performing a little bit, telling him about their favorite foods, telling him what grade they're in, how old they are now, what they get up to, how much one of them likes being taller than me, how one of them aspires to be taller than me, and how I am mean and won't buy them Oreos. (Because, child, I will eat them. ALL. OF. THEM. I can't have them in the house. I'm an Oreoaholic. And I'm not proud of that.)
Bossman beamed at me, rested his hand on my shoulder, drew me in for a sideways hug, congratulated me on producing such attractive, clever, amusing children, and said my care and nurturing had paid off, was evident in spades. I choked up quite a bit and got slightly teary. He laughed, which made me laugh, and we lapsed back into talk about The Good Old Days (which most certainly were not always , or even usually, good).
And then it happened.
He said, "So! It's been a lot of years! Got a new ring on that finger by now?"
And then, without waiting, he added, "Well, I have to figure you must have one by now."
A whole different brand of tears welled up inside. Hot, prickly, shameful tears. I couldn't even make a real sentence. I just shook my head, no, and muttered, "No, sorry.".
Sorry? Wait, what?
Why am I sorry?
Then he was sorry!
"Oh, I'm sorry about that. It didn't work out with that guy?"
Um...well, yes, it did. Is. Does. It's working. Mostly. Apart from that whole monumentally bereft thing and the lack of a scheduling framework and the protracted periods of separation. I'm not sure what I mumbled, but it was something like that.
He stared at me, incredulous, and shook his head a little. "I can't believe that."
Well, believe it, Bossman.
Thankfully, Door #2 picked that moment to tug Bossman's elbow and show him that he had a blue tongue and was insisting on being referred to as a Blue Tongued Skink for the rest of the day.
We got back to ogling and admiring my delightful specimens and hugged goodbye and that was that.
I left the store $180 poorer and still forgot the damn gingerale.
So no matter that I have sustained a creative position for seven years in an industry and setting where layoffs come thick and fast, or that I'm parenting a uniquely challenging duo here, or that I've maintained an LDR under what can only be described as difficult circumstances or that I haven't wrinkled up much or any of that. What still matters at the end of the day to society in general is whether someone loves you enough to mark you as theirs and claim you with the socially accepted token of a ring. Any ring of precious metal and or stones. Not even properly a diamond solitaire engagement ring. No?
Cue noises like: Eesh. Ooof. And insert pained, sucking-through-your-teeth noise here.
Why does it matter? I don't know. It just does. I've tried explaining this. I've tried plainly saying, "I would like a ring.". I have shopped for one, found one on sale for not much money and posted it with a link to its sale page publicly.
Nothing doing.
And I guess that's ok, because you know? I've had a ring. And at the end of the day, it didn't mean anything. But when you don't have one, your perspective tends to shift and it looks - and feels - very different...to society and to the ringless.
My cheeks were hot all the way through the store. I felt diminished. Less than. Insufficient. And embarrassed. One of the children asked whether I'd been hurt, if I felt ok, if I had a sunburn.
Oh, I was burned, all right.
But not by fire; I'd been accidentally grazed by a figuratively matching piece of solder.
Time has seen the flames dwindle but I'd be lying if I said there weren't embers still quick to glow red with feelings of inadequacy and shame at not being wanted enough to warrant the socially accepted mark of another.
And the question comes unbidden: Why?
The love is there. It is real and powerful.
The commitment is there and unshakable.
The ring, as I said, doesn't mean much in itself at the end of the day... but ah, the gesture does, and the desire to make that gesture does.
My mind is abuzz with self doubt and questions I cannot answer and do not wish to ask. And my heart feels quite wrung.
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Bangagong
Holy hair.
What have I done???
For years, I coveted bangs - the wispy, the side swept, the chunky, the feathered, all the bangs.
Having hair which is naturally extremely - and I mean corkscrew, porous, keratin-deprived, kinky hair, and having spent a lot of my teens and twenties trying to coax bangs into behaving, I knew what deliberately cutting my hair into a new fringe would mean.
It would mean a lot: A lot of time, maintenance, product, aggravation, disappointment.
However.
Temptation is a funny thing. Frequently faced with all manner of temptation, I score only so-so with resisting it. Food, in particular, presents too great a temptation too often. Ditto shopping. The rest of it, I can largely resist. But oh, the bangs.
I did it.
And by the power of the flatiron, they looked okay! A bit shorter than I wanted -- I was going for this :
Or this: 
But with red hair, and ever so slightly more body mass. Ehem.
As is the natural order of things, however, the newly cut bangs looked more like this:
Oh dear. They were a little too short, and once the hair has been combed out within an inch of its life, it is all *poof* and frizzy. And when I say frizzy, I mean fah-rizzy, like this:
But no worries. I figured once I got home and set about repairing things with my own products and styling tools, I would be able to rein it in and make it look presentable.
Hi. It's essentially summer here. The air? Is warm. Which means I perspire. Particularly along my scalp, where my hair is. That means the hair gets wet. Which means it goes BOING. And gets BIG. So I have to take a leap of faith, apply forty seven metric tons of product and flatiron that sh*t into submission.
Which brings us to my new summer look:
Hi. It's essentially summer here. The air? Is warm. Which means I perspire. Particularly along my scalp, where my hair is. That means the hair gets wet. Which means it goes BOING. And gets BIG. So I have to take a leap of faith, apply forty seven metric tons of product and flatiron that sh*t into submission.
Which brings us to my new summer look:
But. With. Curls.
It is not good.
I've tentatively arrived at the conclusion that maybe bangs can happen from October / November until May or June, and then, we have to let them grow out and comb them into the tumbly, curly wilds of my insane hair.
Because with hair like this... it's going to be a long summer.
Monday, June 2, 2014
Skeletons From The Closet
Well, now.
Maybe you're reading, maybe you're not. But somewhere in my addled grey matter, some little spark of conscience and accountability is alive and well and remembered that I'd mentioned the state of my closet and that someone else out there might remember and ask about it, or, horrors, ask to see it. My lovely, lovely closet.
When I moved into this house, I'd intended each child to take an upstairs room and I'd have the one on the lower level. But when I did the walk through of the property, I realized how large the upstairs rooms really were. And then - THEN - I saw the closet in what is now my room.
It was so large (whilst still empty) that I could have put a Louise IV Fauteuil Chair in there that I might sit amongst my clothing and gaze upon my accessory wall. I have an accessory wall! But no such chair appeared, and it's just as well, because what did appear was a multitude of wonderfulness - jackets, dresses - wraps, sheaths, tanks, fit and flares, skater dresses - cardis, tunics, skirts, boots, scarves, hats, shoes, sunglasses, turtlenecks, sweaters, oxfords, luggage - essentially, all the things I'd had packed away were allowed out. And then, after a little harmless thrift store slash consignment shop indulgence, I brought in new friends to keep them company. Harmless, I tell you.
(Well, it was harmless at first, for that first winter I was here.)
Then came summer.
When you move house, you have to literally touch everything you own. A lot of things were tossed out, per common sense and a ruthless (but wonderful) team of friends who, amongst themselves, decided I needed a clothing intervention. I can't think why.
As temperatures climbed higher, I found I needed a new basic white tee. And a black one. And pink. Turquoise, too, obviously. Perhaps an A-line skirt. A fold down yoga skirt. Capris. Summer whites.
And then, my lovely closet was full to bursting. There was no space for the summer togs.
The two racks were jam packed with velvet hangers, dripping the dark, heathered, and jewel toned three-season clothes I'd already tucked away. The shelf above was full of bags - totes, backpacks, hobos, buckets, clutches, shoppers, duffels, messengers, shoulder and beach bags, evening bags, sorted by color.
The over-the-door shoe holder (as if one of those puny things could hold all the shoes - do be serious -) was stuffed instead with scarves - jacquard, pashmina, silk, cotton,rayon, pleated, infinity, printed with swirls, paisleys, lush summer flowers, tiny rosebuds, stripes, hombre fades, swaths of luxe fabric shot through with metallic thread. Also sorted by color, for the record.
Under the smaller rack, a laundry basket stuffed with pillows, my grandmother's handmade quilt, extra blankets... a nordic-printed basket full of winter accoutrements: Gloves (fleece, leather, knit, velvet), Scarves (yes, again - fleeces, knits,) and earmuffs. That's right, earmuffs.
My lovely pink, plaid suitcases, a gift from The Man, were nested against a wall next to the stack of sweatshirts, hoodies and massive, chunky knit sweaters for those snowy days which beg for the feel of a ski lodge nestled in the alps. Never mind that we live on a peninsula at the beach.
In the corner, a fabric storage bin atop white cubbies, filled with hosiery: Sheer stockings, tights silky with opacity, fleecy lined tights, trouser socks. In the cubby? Summer shoes - canvas, rubber soled, flip flops, haraches, thong sandals, open toed shoes, espadrilles. And beyond that -- the mother lode: A large white storage cube with partitions forming sub-cubbies for my real shoes. (The reader will note that my first batch of real shoes - pre pregnancy- were ruined, as they were stored in a damp basement... patent leather flats, Joan and David suede pumps - I can't even think about it - and then the pregnancies, which meant that after all was said and done, I went up a foot size, irrevocably...and that was before the broken ankle, which meant tossing anything with much of a heel or wedge or that could even hint at any possibility the wearer could slip, trip, slide, crash, fall and otherwise wind up in a crumpled, twisty heap on the ground with more broken bones. So this was Real Shoes, The Redux Part 2.)
No fair guessing - this is sorted by color too - dark to bright to neutral. Flats, mostly, some kitten heels, one or two chunky heels, a modest wedge; dark velvet, reds, beaded blues, hot pink, flowered, nudes, metallics - and boots. Ankle boots, riding boots, boots with buckles, scrunched boots, a very racy pair of high heeled booties with buttons and one scandalous pair of animal print heels so high I can't actually wear them unless I'm sitting down. On top of the shoe cubby, a bin full of hats (baseball hats, beach hats - straw, grosgrain, bucket), felt wool hats, and belts - beaded, braided, leather and rope.
It is a marvel, a kaleidoscopic array of lovely to look at, lovely to touch, clothing.
And it. Was. Full.
A secondhand, white wicker dresser was procured and pressed into service. Neutral shirts, red family shirts, blue/green family shirts... skirts, capris, and everything else. Lighter fabric folds up smaller and it all fit.
And there was much rejoicing.
This past March, I was afforded some time with The Man, which was, as ever, sublime. However. The separation? The parting? Facing untold weeks, months, with no date inked on the calendar when we could be together again? Nothing to look ahead to? NO PLAN? The horror...oh, the horror. It is difficult to bring myself to grapple with the daily grind in view of an emotional wasteland like that.
Dark thoughts along these lines superseded thoughts of all else - yes, even the clothes I'd painstakingly shopped for, arranged and stored so meticulously. It was easy at first; unpack the cases, toss the dirty laundry in a heap by the door, kick it down the stairs. Everything else...eh. Lay it out carefully on the chaise. Oh. More? Lay it, too, carefully on top of everything else on the chaise. What? The stack of lovingly piled clothing toppled? Ah, what a metaphor. Cue violins. Kleenex, stat. Exit stage left.
Did I mention that was in March?
It was June. JUNE! My lovely closet was decimated. Hangers sat askew, garments angrily tossed in on the floor... and out, on the floor...and on the computer chair...and the chaise...and the bookshelf. In short, the clothing was everywhere but on the velvet hangers I'd spent a Christmas gift card procuring.
I'm no neatnik, but I do like things in order. Not that my mind is particularly calm nor organized, but I find it difficult to find peace in a room or a space when it is a shambles. I'd done myself no favours allowing the entropy to flourish.
The funny thing, and it isn't actually funny, is that I would survey my surroundings - the tumult of my own manufacture - and lose all impetus to move forward with Project Pick Up Your Things. Instead, I would literally turn a blind eye, switch off the lights on that half of the room and lose myself in Law & Order or Say Yes To The Dress (because really, I needed to focus on excited, newly engaged women and more dresses). And it overtook me. And everything else.
Well last night was the breaking point and I wish I could tell you why, or what changed, or how the fire got lit under my Yes-To-The Dress-Saying behind, but it did get lit, and suddenly I was on my feet, flinging things into piles. Dresser, closet, other dresser - did I leave out mention of the gorgeous shabby chic dresser a friend gave me? The seafoam green, faintly whitewashed dresser with antique handles and a sublime patina? That's where socks and pyjamas, T-shirts and yoga pants live. And unmentionables, which, obviously, I cannot, will not, mention. Anyway - a pile by the door for laundry - fling, fling, fling! Eventually, it was all flung and tucked away in the appropriate places.
In the end, I was exhausted but - but! Order had been restored. I said yes to the dresses and the shoes and the scarves and the boots and the capris and the tees and the cardigans. I said yes to my room, which, insofar as a room can speak, was begging me to put it right. I said yes to resurrecting a peaceful environment, yes to transforming what had become my hidey hole into my retreat, my oasis. And my closet.
I can't stop looking at it. I just open the door and gaze upon it.
The room isn't perfect. It needs a vacuuming, some dusting, and some further decluttering but it's come a long way from where it was a week ago. I wish I were a long way from where I was a week ago too, but this is something, a good start.
I forgot how good writing can be for the soul; a creative, cathartic outlet which sort of, somehow or other, drew the skeletons out of my closet and motivated me to put the clothes back in it.
Maybe you're reading, maybe you're not. But somewhere in my addled grey matter, some little spark of conscience and accountability is alive and well and remembered that I'd mentioned the state of my closet and that someone else out there might remember and ask about it, or, horrors, ask to see it. My lovely, lovely closet.
When I moved into this house, I'd intended each child to take an upstairs room and I'd have the one on the lower level. But when I did the walk through of the property, I realized how large the upstairs rooms really were. And then - THEN - I saw the closet in what is now my room.
It was so large (whilst still empty) that I could have put a Louise IV Fauteuil Chair in there that I might sit amongst my clothing and gaze upon my accessory wall. I have an accessory wall! But no such chair appeared, and it's just as well, because what did appear was a multitude of wonderfulness - jackets, dresses - wraps, sheaths, tanks, fit and flares, skater dresses - cardis, tunics, skirts, boots, scarves, hats, shoes, sunglasses, turtlenecks, sweaters, oxfords, luggage - essentially, all the things I'd had packed away were allowed out. And then, after a little harmless thrift store slash consignment shop indulgence, I brought in new friends to keep them company. Harmless, I tell you.
(Well, it was harmless at first, for that first winter I was here.)
Then came summer.
When you move house, you have to literally touch everything you own. A lot of things were tossed out, per common sense and a ruthless (but wonderful) team of friends who, amongst themselves, decided I needed a clothing intervention. I can't think why.
As temperatures climbed higher, I found I needed a new basic white tee. And a black one. And pink. Turquoise, too, obviously. Perhaps an A-line skirt. A fold down yoga skirt. Capris. Summer whites.
And then, my lovely closet was full to bursting. There was no space for the summer togs.
The two racks were jam packed with velvet hangers, dripping the dark, heathered, and jewel toned three-season clothes I'd already tucked away. The shelf above was full of bags - totes, backpacks, hobos, buckets, clutches, shoppers, duffels, messengers, shoulder and beach bags, evening bags, sorted by color.
The over-the-door shoe holder (as if one of those puny things could hold all the shoes - do be serious -) was stuffed instead with scarves - jacquard, pashmina, silk, cotton,rayon, pleated, infinity, printed with swirls, paisleys, lush summer flowers, tiny rosebuds, stripes, hombre fades, swaths of luxe fabric shot through with metallic thread. Also sorted by color, for the record.
Under the smaller rack, a laundry basket stuffed with pillows, my grandmother's handmade quilt, extra blankets... a nordic-printed basket full of winter accoutrements: Gloves (fleece, leather, knit, velvet), Scarves (yes, again - fleeces, knits,) and earmuffs. That's right, earmuffs.
My lovely pink, plaid suitcases, a gift from The Man, were nested against a wall next to the stack of sweatshirts, hoodies and massive, chunky knit sweaters for those snowy days which beg for the feel of a ski lodge nestled in the alps. Never mind that we live on a peninsula at the beach.
In the corner, a fabric storage bin atop white cubbies, filled with hosiery: Sheer stockings, tights silky with opacity, fleecy lined tights, trouser socks. In the cubby? Summer shoes - canvas, rubber soled, flip flops, haraches, thong sandals, open toed shoes, espadrilles. And beyond that -- the mother lode: A large white storage cube with partitions forming sub-cubbies for my real shoes. (The reader will note that my first batch of real shoes - pre pregnancy- were ruined, as they were stored in a damp basement... patent leather flats, Joan and David suede pumps - I can't even think about it - and then the pregnancies, which meant that after all was said and done, I went up a foot size, irrevocably...and that was before the broken ankle, which meant tossing anything with much of a heel or wedge or that could even hint at any possibility the wearer could slip, trip, slide, crash, fall and otherwise wind up in a crumpled, twisty heap on the ground with more broken bones. So this was Real Shoes, The Redux Part 2.)
No fair guessing - this is sorted by color too - dark to bright to neutral. Flats, mostly, some kitten heels, one or two chunky heels, a modest wedge; dark velvet, reds, beaded blues, hot pink, flowered, nudes, metallics - and boots. Ankle boots, riding boots, boots with buckles, scrunched boots, a very racy pair of high heeled booties with buttons and one scandalous pair of animal print heels so high I can't actually wear them unless I'm sitting down. On top of the shoe cubby, a bin full of hats (baseball hats, beach hats - straw, grosgrain, bucket), felt wool hats, and belts - beaded, braided, leather and rope.
It is a marvel, a kaleidoscopic array of lovely to look at, lovely to touch, clothing.
And it. Was. Full.
A secondhand, white wicker dresser was procured and pressed into service. Neutral shirts, red family shirts, blue/green family shirts... skirts, capris, and everything else. Lighter fabric folds up smaller and it all fit.
And there was much rejoicing.
This past March, I was afforded some time with The Man, which was, as ever, sublime. However. The separation? The parting? Facing untold weeks, months, with no date inked on the calendar when we could be together again? Nothing to look ahead to? NO PLAN? The horror...oh, the horror. It is difficult to bring myself to grapple with the daily grind in view of an emotional wasteland like that.
Dark thoughts along these lines superseded thoughts of all else - yes, even the clothes I'd painstakingly shopped for, arranged and stored so meticulously. It was easy at first; unpack the cases, toss the dirty laundry in a heap by the door, kick it down the stairs. Everything else...eh. Lay it out carefully on the chaise. Oh. More? Lay it, too, carefully on top of everything else on the chaise. What? The stack of lovingly piled clothing toppled? Ah, what a metaphor. Cue violins. Kleenex, stat. Exit stage left.
Did I mention that was in March?
It was June. JUNE! My lovely closet was decimated. Hangers sat askew, garments angrily tossed in on the floor... and out, on the floor...and on the computer chair...and the chaise...and the bookshelf. In short, the clothing was everywhere but on the velvet hangers I'd spent a Christmas gift card procuring.
I'm no neatnik, but I do like things in order. Not that my mind is particularly calm nor organized, but I find it difficult to find peace in a room or a space when it is a shambles. I'd done myself no favours allowing the entropy to flourish.
The funny thing, and it isn't actually funny, is that I would survey my surroundings - the tumult of my own manufacture - and lose all impetus to move forward with Project Pick Up Your Things. Instead, I would literally turn a blind eye, switch off the lights on that half of the room and lose myself in Law & Order or Say Yes To The Dress (because really, I needed to focus on excited, newly engaged women and more dresses). And it overtook me. And everything else.
Well last night was the breaking point and I wish I could tell you why, or what changed, or how the fire got lit under my Yes-To-The Dress-Saying behind, but it did get lit, and suddenly I was on my feet, flinging things into piles. Dresser, closet, other dresser - did I leave out mention of the gorgeous shabby chic dresser a friend gave me? The seafoam green, faintly whitewashed dresser with antique handles and a sublime patina? That's where socks and pyjamas, T-shirts and yoga pants live. And unmentionables, which, obviously, I cannot, will not, mention. Anyway - a pile by the door for laundry - fling, fling, fling! Eventually, it was all flung and tucked away in the appropriate places.
In the end, I was exhausted but - but! Order had been restored. I said yes to the dresses and the shoes and the scarves and the boots and the capris and the tees and the cardigans. I said yes to my room, which, insofar as a room can speak, was begging me to put it right. I said yes to resurrecting a peaceful environment, yes to transforming what had become my hidey hole into my retreat, my oasis. And my closet.
I can't stop looking at it. I just open the door and gaze upon it.
The room isn't perfect. It needs a vacuuming, some dusting, and some further decluttering but it's come a long way from where it was a week ago. I wish I were a long way from where I was a week ago too, but this is something, a good start.
I forgot how good writing can be for the soul; a creative, cathartic outlet which sort of, somehow or other, drew the skeletons out of my closet and motivated me to put the clothes back in it.
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