Trapped Under Something Heavy

Stating the Obvious

2008-11-30T13:54:00.003-05:00

After a lot of pondering, procrastinating, and just plain ignoring, I think I'm going to step away for a little while. I'm going to muddle my way through the current holiday season (in all its familial glory), then try to refocus on this site. I need to figure out if I really want to blog anymore, then once I do, I need to actually follow through on my decision. You know that saying? A writer writes. I'm not saying I'm a writer in the true sense of the word, but if I'm going to blog, then I need to commit myself to blogging regularly.

So, I'll see y'all sometime in the next few months. Have a wonderful holiday season.

Gone Baby Gone

2008-11-09T23:30:00.002-05:00

It starts almost immediately, but is gradual enough that you fail to notice the damage until you're in too deep to care. By bits and pieces you give more of yourself than you should, explain away behavior that should have been called out. You change small truths until they become big amorphous lies you tell yourself to hold on to that rare flutter of excitement and hope you felt within those first moments of electric, illicit kissing.

The pliable acquiescence you tell yourself is compromise eats away at your foundation,until the house of cards you have so meticulously built crumbles in a heap of self recrimination and regret. What ifs litter the floor like a slick new deck of playing cards, hopelessly boxed, with the queen of hearts face down on the carpet.

Is this the universal plight of all women who are still "out there", or simply my particular brand of self sabotage? Can it really be this difficult to navigate the murky waters of a modern day romance?

Probably not.

What this is, this anticlimactic quasi-humiliating silence, is nothing more than a case of unrealistic, uncommunicated expectations on my part, and a total lack of expectation on his. While far more likely, this truth leaves the more dramatic, Zeffirelli's Romeo and Juliet- part of my psyche in the dry dust of pragmatism. It's not even worth the bottle of wine and tear-jerker movie I have set aside for such contingencies.

It would be so easy to vilify this poor unsuspecting guy who did nothing more than take what was freely and enthusiastically offered. To place my anger and frustration at his feet would be vindictively satisfying; all my sisters, single and married alike, here in real life, and out there in blog land would rally around me with a resounding "Asshole!". But it would be unfair, and would ultimately leave me hollow and cold.

No, I find myself turning my angry gaze and clenched fists skyward, railing at the Universe, yelling and stomping my feet like a petulant child.I've been a good person, dammit! You couldn't throw me this one stinking bone?

All I got in reply was the night sky, and more silence.

Off with her head!

2008-10-27T18:31:00.007-04:00

Where is my head these days?
Certainly not where it should be; not at work, dealing with the epic piles of crap that are accumulating on my desk. It's only a matter of time before they notice, or before the fire marshal comes to condemn my corner of cube land.

Not in the day to day upkeep of a life in motion. Phone calls I need to make are forgotten. Yes, I look like I'm having a conversation, paying attention, nodding in agreement to I know not what, but really I'm miles away. My thoughts jumping like psychotic fish in an overcrowded, electrified pond.

My head isn't here either. I have tried to sit down and focus long enough to write something, anything worth reading, and obviously this isn't it. I have failed miserably, my queue is littered with half completed thoughts, paragraphs that run together, but fail to make a point. My google reader glares accusingly from it's corner of my computer screen, but even that simple, usually enjoyable break in my day, sits undone.

Here's the goocher. The things that have me so utterly distracted would make great posts, but I can't write about them. I'd like to, but one mini drama centers around family, and if Family reads of mini drama, Chanda will be in the poo. Nothing makes me want to drink like a Kennedy than family drama and the impending holidays.

The big pink elephant in the room, the source of all recent lobotomized behavior, centers around absolutely nothing but a remote possibility; a shadow of hope warring with a tsunami of self doubt and ambivalence (hard to say who's). I feel like the more I talk about it, the more I jinx it, and the more humiliated I'll be when it all comes to nothing. See, I told you there was pessimism. Suffice it to say; "Yes, Virginia, there is a guy".

I'll stop this incoherent ramble now, while I'm ahead, sort of. I promise I'll be catching up with everyone soon. In the mean time, that girl in the corner muttering to herself and drooling? Yeah, that's me.

Storm Front

2008-10-15T10:45:00.000-04:00

Clouds gather, skies open,
thighs part in praise
as heavy, humid rains of sweat, lust, and rum
quench the unseasonal drought
of unbearable duration.
Winds of hot, dry unrest calm in the damp,comforting pressure
of a body pressed against mine
in saited sleep.

Now, left alone with nothing but the
satisfying soreness of body, and bruise of lips,
a hollow chill settles deep in the darkening sky,
and a wicked wind whips in the fury of a silent phone.

I went all the way to Rhode Island .....

2008-09-30T21:58:00.009-04:00

And all I got was this lousy cold. A snot laden, pressure filled head cold with delusions of grandeur ( I think it wants to be an upper respiratory infection when it grows up). I can't breathe, I can't think, and I certainly can't write, not even a little. I can't even whip it up to catch up with everyone in my reader because I'm hopped up on NyQuil,the Care Bears have shown up, and I'd probably say something ridiculous in your comment section. I promise as soon as the fog clears and I'm not hallucinating annoying cartoon characters I will catch up with everyone. In the mean time, I thought I'd re post a piece I wrote when I first started blogging. I think I had two whole readers back then, so hopefully it won't be too redundant.

True Story
When I was just about 4 years old, my parents and I were living in student housing while my father completed his doctoral degree here. During that time my mother substitute taught while finishing her teaching degree.

At times my care fell to Lucy, a wizened southern black woman whom my parents met while commissioning her husband to build a trestle table for our kitchen. I still have a warm fuzzy for that long, darkly stained hunk of a table that was still in our house long after I left for college.

Lucy and her husband evidently took a shine to this very young,student poor hippie couple and their precocious child who liked to sing at the top of her lungs to anyone who'd listen, so Lucy would offer babysitting services on afternoons my mother had to be at school. Sometimes she would clean while she watched her "stories". Id sit at that table and color, listening to Lucy talk back to the TV as she shuffled around the kitchen.

One afternoon as Lucy cleaned the kitchen floor, the smell of Spic-N-Span permeated the whole house (that smell, 36 years later, forcibly reminds me of that day),when she opened the screened door and just stood there leaning heavily on her dust mop. I thought she was tired, and needed help shaking out the mop, so I walked over to help her.

"I don't need help child, Lucy just needs to catch her breath"

Those were the last words she spoke. She stumbled back into the kitchen and promptly passed out, falling unceremoniously into my beloved rocking chair. I remember being very concerned for my little red rocking chair, as it was not meant for grownups to take naps in.

"Lucy? Lucy? Ummm, I'm going to go take a walk now" I think on some level I knew something was wrong, but my 4 year old self did not quite understand what that "wrong" could be. As far as I was concerned, she had simply fallen asleep, and In MY red rocking chair.

I wanted my dad to come home and make Lucy get up out of my rocking chair, but I knew he was at the lab working. The Lab was down a short wooded path, across the main highway, and in one of three big red brick buildings. But which one? I toddled myself up to the big road and stopped. I had been told in no uncertain terms that I was NEVER EVER to cross that road without an adult. NEVER NEVER NEVER!!!! SO, I did the next best thing. Yelled.

"DAAAAAADDDYYYY!!!!"
"DAAAAAAAADDDDDDD!!!
"DAD!"

I'm not sure how long I stood there yelling across the street at the facades of those buildings, but I remember being enthralled at the way my voice echoed off of them. So much so, that I almost forgot why I was yelling at them in the first place. I was four, after all. Luckily our next door neighbor who was also class mate of my father's was home for lunch and heard me yelling.

"What's wrong Chanda?"
"Lucy fell asleep in my rocking chair and won't wake up" (again with the rocking chair).

He stood there for a moment, probably trying to process what this kid just said, then sprinted back toward the house, leaving me to wonder what the big deal was.

Lucy had died of a massive stroke - instantly.

That night my mother sat on the edge of my bed to talk to me about what had happened. She was convinced I would be traumatized, permanently scarred by what I had seen.

"So,is Lucy coming over again tomorrow?"
"No, Honey, she died today"
"Where did she go?"
"Heaven" (as all good Irish Catholic moms would say).
"Is she coming back?"
"No, but she's happy where she is"
"Oh,Okay. Can I have chocolate milk for breakfast?"

Early childhood memories before the age of 4 are spotty at best, but this one stands out in extreme clarity, but not in a traumatic way. At least that's not how I perceived it. Not once do I remember being scared or anxious, even after I had learned of her death. I don't know what that says about me, if anything, or if that's just a how a little kid processes abstract concepts like death.

This is Me, Not Flipping Out.

2008-09-21T13:45:00.000-04:00

It's no secret, I HATE to fly.
No, hate is not strong enough. In fact I don't think there is a word out there that fully encompasses how I feel about flying. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach faster than a hooker in the front seat of a rich man's car at the mere thought of it, and a general haze of nausea descends and refuses to lift until the trip is over, and I'm safely back on Terra Firma.

Normally I spend the weeks before a flight compulsively scanning safety records for each airline, running crash scenarios trough my head as I try to fall asleep, playing each one out so that I somehow survive. As the day of departure nears I contemplate the Amtrak schedules,weighing the extra cost of the ticket (almost double), the extra two or three days of travel I will have to add to my time off request, and ultimately decide flying is cheaper(how twisted is that?). I turn desperately to my 8 year old Toyota with 110K miles under her belt and know she would probably not take kindly to the 13 hour drive; add up the cost of a car rental, gas, and additional time off for travel time, and even driving is not as economical as flying. Dammit!

I have two, count em, two flights to Boston coming up between now and Christmas. The first one is Thursday. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't fighting a constant hum of just below the surface panic, but this time I'm not giving in to it. I have given up my daily "I hate to fly, why do I have to fly, I fucking don't want to fly" mantra. I haven't looked up any safety records, or watched any plane crash footage. I haven't even once logged onto the Amtrak website. Each night I compose grocery lists, blog ideas, and alternate endings to movies just to keep my mind clear of anything plane related. See? See how together I am? Trust me, this is together.

When I do start to panic I mentally pack my bottle of xanax,and try to focus on the destination rather than the trip. Thursday I'm going to visit my brother and sister-in-law in their new house in Rhode Island. It's also my nephew's second birthday, and I will get to be there to watch him open his present from his Auntie Shawnee. The second trip, coming up in December, is also to my brother's house in RI. Christmas with the entire family, three generations worth. Oh, to be sure there will be all manner of drama going on within the rooms of that very full house, but there will also be a lot of celebrating, and I will be armed with mighty wine glass. These trips are ultimately worth all the stupid phobic bull shit that comes before, these trips allow me to reconnect with my family, and to reconnect with who I am at a basic level.

So yeah, this is me, not flipping out. But just to be on the safe side, this Thursday, say around 1:20 EST, send buoyant thoughts my way. I'll be the white knuckled girl in seat 15C.

Of Wine and Comfort.

2008-09-16T23:00:00.003-04:00

I found myself this past Saturday evening awash in a warm light emanating more from the people seated around me than from the brass chandelier hanging unobtrusively above the scene below. There were thirteen of us gathered around a long table dressed in white linen, and laden with comfort food the likes of which could nourish even the most starved of souls.

The Tapdancer had effortlessly thrown together a spur of the moment dinner party with her usual flawless domestic skill. She had prepared a fennel encrusted pork loin, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a decadently bubbly, crispy-in-the corners dish of macaroni and cheese made with sharp NY cheddar. Her sister in law had brought along warm spiced apples, and her brother, his famous green bean casserole. This is not your everyday green bean casserole people. This is slap your mamma good green bean casserole. No one knows exactly what goes in it, some say crack, but you literally cannot stop eating it. I fully expect to find myself, months from now, knocking over liquor stores in order to score some more GBC. This veritable feast was rounded off with a warm, thick, fudge brownie, and hot gourmet coffee. Like I said, food to feed your soul as well as your body.

Maybe it was the wine I consumed over the course of the evening after announcing early on, "I feel like getting tanked". Maybe it was those two bottles of Pinot Noir that, at one point, gave me pause to wonder how I ended up on the kitchen floor , and Oh my God I hope none one sees me down here with cat food stuck to my ass before I can drag myself to a dark corner to sober up for a few minutes. Yes, it's always the wine, but before my unfortunate run in with the kitchen floor, I sat around the dinner table listening to the laughter and conversation reach a jovial crescendo, and was struck by just how comfortable I was (am) around these people.

This is my family, not the family I was born into, but the one I got to choose. What a gift we have in our close friends; those we surround ourselves with by choice, the ones who get to see our true selves, and in turn trust us to show us theirs. This loud, laughing pack knows me in all my guises, all my craziness, all my flaws, and somehow they're okay with all of it. Go figure.

Not everyone was there, Ms. Q had to work (she's a restaurant manager, so her weekend's are not her own), and others live out of town (Hi Cindy! Happy Belated Birthday!); but I thought of them as I paused to gather up the loose strands of different conversations, and allowed the energy of the evening to wipe away the last vestiges of the blue funk that had colored the last few weeks a dull grey. How can I possibly remain sad when there are such characters at play?

It's a Little Early for The Valentines Day Masacree

2008-09-10T23:00:00.000-04:00

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

It's beautiful isn't it? ee cummings is one of my favorite poets, and this is one of my favorite poems. When someone asks "what do you want out of life?", it's not money, or fame or success that comes to mind(though those things would be nice). What I crave above all other things is that poem. I want to feel that way about someone, and have someone feel that way about me. Those who have found it I envy with a dark slimy green intensity that sometimes catches me off guard.

Some would say it's a fairy tale, that there's no such thing as that kind of devotion, but for as long as I can remember I have believed that I was destined to find that one great love. Even now, at my age, and being so very very *sigh* very single, I still buy the "happily ever after" bit. Maybe I'm being naive.

Naive? Okay, I'll admit it, but I'm also afraid. In my deepest darkest most secret place, I'm afraid I'll never find it. What if there is something intrinsically wrong with me, and I'm simply not capable of being open enough to let someone in? What if, deep down inside, I know this and I'm using weight as the ultimate weapon for shutting people (men) out? How does one go about unravelling something like that? How does that naivete and that fear manage to coexist?

My head hurts.

This was going to be a quiet little post about a beloved piece of poetry, but obviously I've digressed into a swirling pit of poo. So sorry Mr. Cummings. I'll hold my naivete close for now, and quit while I'm ahead before I start ripping the wings off of the Tooth Fairy.

Nothing

2008-09-05T00:07:00.000-04:00

I haven't wanted to write this week.
The stories and anecdotal bits and pieces of life I have to share require a light tone and a humorous voice, but I just don't feel funny. I feel cranky; cranky and profoundly sorry for myself, which in turn makes me even crankier because I hate it (nay, I loathe it) when I get all maudlin and "woe is me". It's such self indulgent bullshit, but I can't seem to wade out of this tar pit of self pity.

I'm not even sure how to put into words exactly what is wrong. There have been no tragedies, no major upheavals, just this pervasive fog of negativity that makes everything seem worse than it is. Every hurdle seems insurmountable, and no one could possibly understand. Oh no, who could understand money issues, hating their body, job pressure, family melodramas, or feeling lonely and disconnected? Just me, the girl in the self absorbed plastic bubble. Shit, John Travolta's got nothing on me.

This has been building for a while; like a storm in open water, gathering strength and becoming more defined as it feeds off of the warmth below. How is it that I feel restless, anxious, and worried that I won't be able to fix the things in my life that need a lot of work; and simultaneously lack the energy to even whip it up enough to care? My psyche is in paradoxic flux (okay, so that might not be a real term, or real words for that matter, but fuck it, I like it). I'm wondering if it's not time to call in the cavalry.

So I've been avoiding my blog, because I knew once I started to write all that would come would be a bitter tasting whine. Obviously I decided to write it out anyway. Sorry 'bout that, but like so many other bloggers, this space is not only a place to hone, and (hopefully) improve my writing, it's also a place to hash some shit out, to think out loud, and maybe even gain a fresh perspective. Besides, if I don't write honestly, if I edit myself because I think the real stuff is too messy or boring, or whatever, then what the hell am I doing here in the first place?

A meme by any other name.

2008-08-30T13:08:00.001-04:00

A week or so back (because I'm a procrastinator that way) Vodka Mom (what's not to love about that name!) tagged me for a meme. A meme to list 6 unspectacular things about moi. I'm always up for a little self inflicted public humiliation, so let's just jump right in. Shall we?

1. I can usually track the day's menu by the crap I've spilled on my shirt. "Over here we have the morning coffee. Oh, and look, over here. Wait, what the hell is that? Oh, right. I had Mexican for lunch" I swear the girls end up wearing more food than I actual get into my mouth.

2. I mispronounce words all the time. Sometimes on purpose, most times not. The Tapdancer calls me Ms Malaprop. My friends are used to this, and sometimes these mispronunciations become part of our lexicon. They call it "Chandeese".It can get a little sticky if I use these little jewels in different company (which I have). It has garnered me the reputation for being a bit ding bat. The most infamous of these pearls of verbal perfection? "Mutual,like Sweden". Don't judge me.

3. I never wash my car. Ever. I'd like to say it's because I'm green, and conservation of our natural resources is more important to me than a shiny car. In fact I do say that, but the bottom line is that I'm a slacker, and I'd rather be slacking off than washing a car. My co-workers have started calling my car the cookies and cream mobile because the black flecks of gradoo embedded in white paint my car look like a giant scoop of cookies and cream ice cream. I'm kinda okay with that.

42. I love all the Douglas Adams books. I was so sad when he died. The world became a little darker when he packed up his towel and left us to muddle through on our own.

5. I have two cats. I would have more, but as a single woman of a certain age *cough 41 cough* I obsessively worry that I'll become that scary cat lady covered in hair, mumbling to my 50 million cats, and hiding from animal control. Seriously, these are the thoughts that keep me awake at night.

6.I need a pedicure.

Here's the part where I'm supposed to tag someone else to perpetuate the fun. I usually don't, what with all the hate mail and evil looks I got the last time I did that, but I feel like living dangerously today, so I'm tagging Cammy over at The Tippy Toe Diet. She's a great writer, and one of my personal heros for being able to drop 90 lbs and still keep her sanity, and her humor. Cammy, please don't kick my ass. :)

Just a few more.

2008-08-23T10:25:00.010-04:00

Have you ever gone on vacation or visited someone, come home, unpacked, done the requisite 18 loads of laundry, but still feel like you never left? Your head is still back there, stuck in that visited place days or weeks after the rest of you called it quits. I've been back from visiting the homestead for well over two weeks, but here I sit, still perusing the pictures I took, yapping incessantly about this mundane detail or that. I don't know what's come over me. I'm not worried mind you, it will pass soon enough. But you? You, my lovelies are now going to have to slog through one last post involving the trip home. The worst kind of torture, the blog equivalent of a vacation slide show. Muwahahahahaha (queue menacing music).

Actually, it's not all that bad. No really, I promise, just a few pictures I took walking around the yard. Like this one. This little fellow is a baby osprey (he's not really that little, nor do I know if he is actually a fellow, but just run with it), his parentals were busy all week trying to teach him to fish for himself.

He was not happy about the prospects of self sufficiency, you could hear him crying from his perch most of the day. Much like I was when my parents cut the financial apron strings. "What do you mean you're not going to pay for my fifth year of college? So what if I'm still a sophomore."

Moving on. Here's one I surreptitiously shot of my brother and his "mini-me". The Niblit may have blond hair ,and eyes like his mother; but this whirling dervish,from his endless energy and mischievous curiosity, down to his infectious cookie monster laugh, is my brother all over again.

Hang in there guys, you're half way through.

Here's a shot of the dock my dad had built, and the boat lift he insisted on installing for the boat he swore he was getting ten years ago. Where's the boat you ask? Good question. I think the money the Old Man of the Sea would have to shell out for a boat has left him on dry ground. Of course, now that the Niblit has visited and talked about his other grandpa's boat, my father has finally started shopping around for his own. Ahh the joys of grandparental one-upmanship.

More importantly, however, is what comes from out at the end of the dock (boat-shmoat). One of the all time best perks to coming home in the warmer months are these; what I like to call Tidewater comfort food.

Blue Crabs; the quintessential "session food". My brother pulled the pots that evening, cleaned all the gross stuff out of the crabs before he boiled them in water, a little beer, a little Malt Vinegar, and a lot of Old Bay. From river to table in less than an hour. It does not get any better that this. We sat for hours picking crab, drinking beer, and talking. It's better than General Foods International Coffee for celebrating the moments of your life!

There! You made it! The blurb at the end of the post. The final phrase that tells you there are no more boring vacation pictures to wade through. We are now moving on. Give yourselves a pat on the back, you deserve it.

Yay! That's the end!

Scar Tissue

2008-08-19T13:39:00.000-04:00

Highway 17 is the four lane scar that runs the length of Gloucester County VA, puckering the landscape with strip malls, car dealerships, and corrugated steel mega-churches. I marveled at how altered it had become over the years. Old landmarks were gone, and the Super Wal-Marts of the world had arrived to swallow up wide expanses of wild country bramble with hellish, heat rippling asphalt. A typical but none the less heartbreaking scene these days.

Gone was the old mill house turned rollerskating rink my friends and I haunted all through Jr. High. Gone was the dirt road to nowhere we had,in high school, affectionately christened "The Zanoni Screw Stop". It was there, in breathless curiosity, I touched "it" for the first time. Oh yeah, I was a bad girl.

Yet as I turned off the highway, down the back roads of my youth, the rural landscape seemed for the most part intact. It was still that strange mixture of farm country,and wide brackish rivers that have supported "watermen" and their families for centuries.

I sat in the parking lot of the marina situated on the edge of the York River lost in thought. It was here I had spent every summer from age 10 to 20 in the community pool. This was the place of my first summer job, and and a few years prior, my first summer crush. The job was as pool life guard, and it was the first I truly "wanted", so I took the certification class at the nearby coastguard station. I spent 6 weeks the previous January dragging grown men ,"coasties", twice my size out of the pool in mock drowning scenarios. Not as bad as it sounds, actually. The crush was a boy, not much older than my 14 year old self, who was staying with his family at the marina. On their house boat. The thing had a piano in the living room, I kid you not. We spent a week of summer afternoons on that boat, listening to "The Best of Bread" and necking on the couch. His kisses tasted like salt water and Chapstick.

From the marina, I drove down to the beach where I played out my childhood. Time folded in on itself, and I was four years old again. Sitting on the dock on a warm summer night, wrapped in my beach towel, and munching fruit loops out of a plastic baggie. Watching enthralled, as my father and his friends caught blue crab with bits of string, bait, and a net; I believed he was magic. To my four year old eyes, my dad could do anything.

I was not prepared for the tsunami wave of nostalgia that rushed over me as I revisited my old stomping grounds. I did not expect to feel anything but ambivalence. I had run away to an out of state college, eighteen and angry at family and friends who I imagined had never understood me. I had left heartbroken over a boy I loved with blind teenage passion, but he was selfish and cruel, and left me unsure of myself. I was more than ready to leave this small hick town where I felt invisible, and blamed everyone for making me feel that way. It was easier that way, easier to look outward rather than in.

I drove for hours, from place to familiar place, and the overwhelming sense folding around me like that beach towel was of home. For the first time I felt free to enjoy the memories of growing up here, even the painful ones, without them being blurred by the bitter film of regret. This place, for whatever it's worth, helped shape the person I am today, and I am grateful.

The Niblet.

2008-08-13T23:45:00.001-04:00

Last week I packed up the "yoda" and made the trek to my parent's house in the boonies for a much needed break, and to help my mother take care of my nephew. The Niblet (a nick name coined after seeing his ultra sound picture) is almost two years old, and I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen him. Always in a sea of family, and never for very long, so it was my intent to put in some valuable auntie time.

The visit wasn't quite what I expected, in a lot of ways the Hallmark moments I envisioned just never materialized. I've always been good with kids, babies and toddlers especially. I don't know why exactly, they just seem easier to make a connection with than older children. Perhaps I'm more in tune with them because I'm just a big baby myself. Anyway, I was anticipating making an effortless leap into favorite aunt status,I even brought a couple of groovy toys wrapped in brightly colored paper with which to break the ice.

I was surprised at how hard I had to work to gain his trust. We did this two steps forward, one step back dance for the first three days. One minute he was all smiles, the next, a small dark rain cloud of baby temper would appear, and a petulant demand to "go away" or "move" would follow. At first this mini munchkin rejection really hurt my feelings. Silly I know, because a lot of it had to do with him being away from his parents for over two weeks. He clung to my mother,"Nana", because she was familiar. So I kept at it, and little by little he got to know me, started to trust me more and more each day, and by mid week we finally hit our stride.

I could make him laugh by pretending to cry when he tried to send me away (perverse little bugger!), and by the second half of the week he had decided I was okay. He still preferred his Nana (who doesn't), but he also started looking for me when I wasn't there, playing with me without Nana, and only tried to send me away as a game. Evidently faux crying is highly entertaining.

By the end of the week, as I pulled out of the driveway to head back home, he was waiving and shouting "bye bye Shawnee".
I have to say, it brought tears to this auntie's eyes.

The God Squad

2008-08-02T10:29:00.011-04:00

I am not a morning person, I never have been, but having to work for a living has forced my week day hand, and I have to get up Monday through Friday at the butt crack of dawn. So on the weekend I take great pleasure in sleeping late. Those who know me know not to call before 10:30, 10:00 at the earliest, but somebody better be on fire.

Imagine my bleary eyed surprise, a few Saturday's back, when I heard someone knocking at my door at 9:15 am. Thinking there must be some sort of emergency, or mass evacuation, I threw on my robe and shuffled through the living room to answer my door. Before me stood an overly dressed little old white haired couple, smiling at me like it was perfectly normal to knock on a stranger's door too early on a Saturday morning.

I immediately knew what this was. This was a visit from the dreaded "God Squad", those annoying folks who take it upon themselves to zealously peddle their religion from door to door. I don't understand it. I'm fairly certain that when Jesus came up with the idea to get the word out, he meant in a public forum, a park or obliging field, someplace where people could, oh I don't know, CHOOSE to listen or not.

My first inclination was to tell these lovely people I was a card carrying-broom toting witch, and kindly get the hell off my porch before I turned them all into toads. I didn't of course. I didn't have the heart. They were old, and smiling kindly, and it was hot outside; besides I'm really not a mean person(mostly). So I agreed to listen to their scripture passage about how you become wise by speaking softly, and answered their pop quiz question about how does that apply to marriage today (like I know). I even took their pamphlet of thinly veiled hate (immediately destined for the recycle bin), smiled and sent them on their way thinking I was done.

I was so very wrong.

So, here I am, 10:15 on yet another Saturday morning, fuming after being awakened by the same couple, this time schlepping along some other member of their cult-uh-church. This time peddling slightly less veiled hate about the gay and lesbian community (couched in the guise of discussing the challenges faced in being married.) I guess the first visit was just a test run. Now they were back with the big guns.

Enough. Old codgers or not, I should be able to speak my mind in my own damn house. So I crossed my arms, blocked the door with my body, and using the voice I save for telemarketers said, "I respect the fact that these are your beliefs, and they somehow bring you comfort, but they are not mine, and I find them extremely offensive. I also understand going door to door is something you folks feel strongly about, but I have no desire to hear anymore of what you have to say. Please take me off your visitation list". I was so proud of myself, I spoke up, spoke out, kindly, but firmly. I had faced the God Squad and lived to tell about it.

Looking utterly nonplussed, and without missing a beat, the old man said, "May we take a moment to pray together for your soul?"

What? Did I just hear that by speaking my mind,and politely asking someone to leave my house, I can actually put my soul at risk for an eternity of hell fire and brimstone? Seriously? With all the political and social injustice, senseless violence, and greedy pillaging of the earth going on these days (much of which is done at the hands of men who claim to be Christians themselves), THIS is what gets you sent to hell?

Maybe I'm not such a nice person after all, or maybe it was because I hadn't had my coffee yet, but I just couldn't help myself. "You are free to pray for whatever you want, but not on my God damn porch. Please leave!" Oh Yeah, I said it, and now I've pissed off the Southern Mafia.

Guilty Pleasures

2008-07-31T00:23:00.003-04:00

Yesterday, Lara over at Literally Speaking ran off to go see Neil Diamond in the big city. Lucky girl. I could tell for her The ol' Jazz Singer was a guilty pleasure. Why I don't know, Neil is fabulous! Gypsy was also owning up to a few of her own yesterday, so it must be in the air. Either that or summer is just a time for a bit of indulgence.

Everyone has got them (guilty pleasures, not Neil Diamond tickets), those little habits or tastes you indulge in with a secret delight that feels like you're getting away with something illicit. These quirky rituals are for you alone, and you don't care how juvenile, tacky, or bad for you they are, you just don't particularly want to have to explain yourself to too many people. Some like to soak in a hot tub and pick their nose, other's like to buy a tub of cool whip and systematically devour it with a spoon. Who doesn't?

Guilty pleasures? Oh yes, I have a more than my fair share, so I thought I'd fess up to a few of them now. I feel so nekkid all of a sudden.

Evanessence - I love this band,the lead singer is just gorgeous, and wonderfully goth in a Grimm's fairytale kind of way. I swear if they had been around when I was in high school I could have avoided the entire Stevie Nicks obsession(but that's a post for a different day). Not to mention I love the lyrics, and her voice is absolutely blow you away phenomenal. I like to crank it up, and sing into my hairbrush. All the while imagining some random man who done me wrong. "Yeah, I'm talking to you, buddy."

Kraft Mac and Cheese - the yellow dye#487 variety. I'm not even sure it can really even be considered "food", but oh my happy ass, how I love it. I don't eat it very often, because of the afore mentioned happy rear end, but when I do, I like to add insult to injury (because I never do these things half way), and eat my Mac and Cheese with the other quintessential non-food food. The hot dog. Don't judge me.

Chick Lit - I've also heard it refered to as Little Black Dress lit, or Red Dress Lit. It's light, fluffy, and reads like a Sex in the City episode, but I love to curl up with a good trash novel every once in a while. Okay, more than every once in a while, but who's counting?

Romantic Comedies. - They're right up there with Chick Lit, but I love to fall into a Sandra Bullock, Debra Messing, Kate Winslet, girlie, this never happens to anyone, romantic comedy. Of course there has to be a certain amount of eye candy in the guise of a leading man (ANYTHING with James McAvoy.. ohh my, he is tasty.), a funny but quirky best friend, a good cry somewhere in the middle, and happily ever afters all the way around. It's total brain rot, but I just don't give a rat's butt.

Bed Days - Not for the faint of heart. It takes a professional slacker to pull one of these puppies off, and it should be noted they are best attempted after a night of heavy, but not overly excessive drinking. On this day, the sacred "bed day", one sleeps until it is no longer humanly possible to keep one's eyes closed. Once fully awake, shuffle into the kitchen to make coffee, and at that point decide; bed, or couch? Once this crucial, but totally personal decision has been made you hunker down. No need to get out of those pj's, oh no, we're going for maximum comfort here. The rest of the day is spent reading, watching bad movies, and ordering take out. If you've planned ahead and have a well rounded supply of comestibles, then you can avoid the awkward moment when you have to greet the pizza dude in your pj's at 4 in the afternoon. There's an art to making a good bed day, there are no rules, you can even throw in a late afternoon bubble bath if you're feeling ambitious. The possibilities are endless.

So now that I've shared a few of mine, it's your turn. What are some of your guilty pleasures. Come on now, you know you want to spill.

Many thanks to the Tapdancer for pointing out an obviously sleep deprived mistake of calling my one true celebrity crush John instead of James. What the hell was I thinking? Obviously I wasn't, but I still like him better than you!

Shit or Get Off the Pot

2008-07-28T20:43:00.004-04:00

It's official, I suck at keeping this blog updated. I honestly don't know how everyone does it. How do you do it? Inquiring minds want to know.

I've been thinking a bunch about blogging, about my blog specifically, and whether it should be more focused on a particular subject matter? Should I extend my slacker's hiatus until I know exactly what I want to write about? Should I stop all together? If I stop will I miss it? Will I actually do the other things I say I'm going to do if I don't blog? Here's a thought; maybe I'm thinking too much about blogging instead of just shutting up and actually writing. What a concept.

So, what's a procrastinatin' girl supposed to do? I'll tell you what. Shut up and write. And not about the fact that I have nothing to write about. Although that seems to be my current reality, but I digress.

Where was I?

Oh, yes.

Shut up and write.

Since my capacity for original thought is at an all time low tide; we're talking clam digging, dribble castle making, peeing in the tidal pools low, I will just tell you guys what I did on my bloggie vacation. Ironically enough, considering the last sentence, it did not involve going to the beach.

Actually, I didn't do much of anything at all, and I've enjoyed the hell out of it. I've puttered around my house pretending to clean, but really only moving piles of crap from one room to another. I've read novels (trashy and otherwise) on long afternoons sipping iced coffee. I've watched about a gajillion hours of netflixed movies, and subjected the Tapdancer to more than a few indy art films (a weakness of mine). She's always suspicious. With titles like "Wrist cutters, A Love Story" (the current selection I'm trying to talk her into), you can't entirely blame her. But I swear, this one is supposed to be good one!

In a bolder- uh lame brained- move, I whacked off my princess hair (7") and accidentally dyed it a shocking shade of red. The damn box said medium reddish brown. HA! I don't know what cracked up crayola box those jokers were working from, but this is not brown!

And here we are, at the end of the first post-slacker-break post. Here's to hoping it's not the last. That would suck.

The First Five

2008-06-18T23:12:00.002-04:00

I've been thinking a lot since my last post. Specifically I've been thinking about what you guys had to say about my last post; about having to like yourself, right now, not in a year, or 50 lbs from now. So over the past few days I've been pondering,plumbing the depths, getting my introspection on, and trying focus on things I like about myself. It's been harder to do than I thought it would be. I don't know if that's because I'm uncomfortable saying out loud the things that I like about myself (it feels like bragging, or being snobby and shallow), or that when I say those things, they ring hollow, and I don't really believe what I'm saying. Conundrum!

So I tasked myself to come up with 5 things (physical or otherwise) that I genuinely like about myself. My old therapists would be so proud. It's taken a week, and I'm still not sure how I feel about putting them out there, out here, but here it goes:

I like my eyes. They're kind eyes. Blue, but they change in intensity depending on what I'm wearing or if I'm pissed off, and sometimes they look kind of green. They remind me of the colors of the ocean, which is kind of cool because my name means 'star of the sea'.

I'm a really good listener. I feel honored and needed when someone trusts me enough to unload. It happens a lot, I think I put people at ease( that might be considered another "thing", but I think it's part of what makes me a good listener) Even if I can't offer any advice or solutions, I find it easy to empathise with people, and I can tell that they feel better for sharing whatever it is they have on their mind.

I like my hair. It's long and naturally curly, and while it's thinner than it used to be it's still really full and thick. I even like the color; a kind of reddish brown that with a little help from Loriel, can go a deep auburn. A friend once told me I had "princess hair". I know, it's totally vain, and I feel extraordinarily silly and sheepish writing about it, but its the one part of my physical self that I feel like I can flaunt.

When I put my mind to it I am a pretty good cook. I learned from watching my father, he did all the cooking when I was growing up, still does as a matter fact. He does amazing things with food. We haven't always had the best relationship,so the affinity I feel with him when I cook is very important to me. I don't do it very often, but I love getting in my kitchen and experimenting with different recipes. This past winter the Tapdancer and I had a ball dunking homemade cranberry orange biscotti(my own variation on my grandmother's recipe) into thick dark melted chocolate. Watching people enjoy what I've made is very satisfying. It feeds my soul. Perhaps I should do it more often.

I like my sense of humor. I'm funny dammit! Okay, so it may not come across here, but trust me, this is funny stuff. I love to laugh, and when I'm the one who's made the funny, all the better. I love those rare giggle fests, the ones where you laugh so hard you can't catch your breath, tears are streaming down your face, and you might even snort. I can be bawdy when the situation arises, and I pride myself on being able to hang as the only woman in my department. I get all the tasteless jokes and emails, and it is a constant source of amazement to my co-workers that I don't get offended. Bonus points if I can shock the hell out of them.

So there it is. The first five. I don't know if this little exercise actually helped or not, but it did bring to light just how hard I am on myself, all the time. That little voice loop that runs in my head is almost all negative. I don't know who gave the mic to the critical bitch in my head, but damn, she needs to shut the fuck up.

It's a Disgusting Process

2008-06-11T00:48:00.001-04:00

Is it me, or does everyone on those dating websites all look like they could be Hannibal Lecter's love child? With every profile I read I'm convinced I'm one blind date away from the inside of someone's freezer. It's kind of depressing, when one reaches a certain age, to have to actually go through all that dating crap, not to mention the humiliation that is online dating, just to live happily ever after (if there is even such a thing). Why can't I just blink my eyes "I Dream of Jeannie" style, and have my perfect match standing in front of me complete with flowers, a good bottle of wine, a compilation CD of all my favorite songs, and a book of poetry by ee cummings. Is that so much to ask?

It recently dawned on me that I have had one, just one, legitimate relationship in my entire adult life, and I'm here to tell you, it didn't matter how many times I kissed him, he remained a lifetime member of the frog club. Nothing says "forever" like a thirty something Peter Pan who's primary goal in life is to find a woman to keep him in the style to which he has become accustomed. Sexy! The rest have been one utter train wreck after another.Take for example the gay guy in college. That was a year and a half of mixed signals and hand holding that ended abruptly when he finally came out of the closet. I really should have seen that one coming. He was named after a plant for Christ's sake, and he shared a bed with his roommate because "they couldn't afford two". Seriously, how did I miss that?

Then there were the two married men, one of which went no further than an intense two year phone conversation while I waited for his separation to turn into a divorce. It never did. No, I'm not proud of myself for those digressions, and I realize now that with each "affair" there was a woman who I betrayed right along with the schmuck she was married to. But in both cases I was naive enough to believe them when they told me they loved me, and perhaps they did, but not enough.

All of these pseudo relationships, along with the countless other obsessive, unrequited infatuations have had one thing in common; they were all with unavailable, and therefore, safe men (guess how many years of therapy that charming little realization took?). So now I'm wondering if I will ever have the capacity to have a normal relationship. Will I be able to fall in love with a relatively stable, emotionally available man, and let that person in enough for them to be able to love me back?.

What if I can't?

What if I'm doomed to ride the relationship short bus for the rest of my life?

I know a lot of it is wrapped up in low self esteem, and a poor body image, blah, blah, blah; but somehow it feels deeper than that. It's an innate distrust of men. I don't know if I can trust anyone enough to show them the real me, to hand them the keys to the gun cabinet and give them the ammunition to do some serious damage if they wanted to. Hmmm, interesting metaphor. What would Freud say?

And now I don't know where to go with all this. Ive just barfed up a giant hair ball of a character flaw(sorry 'bout that), and I just can't wrap it all up in a neat-cohesive-lesson-learned-pearls-of-wisdom-bow. It's a mess. Hell,I'm a mess.

I know, I know, I'll never get good at it unless I try. I see others dating, and actually making headway through to their own happy ending, but I think I'm a little worse off than most. Oh yes, here's where the weight thing rears(no pun intended) it's ugly head. There is no way any self respecting man is going to find this attractive. And if they do, they immediately become suspect to me.

Okay, so I'm going to have to work on that.

There is a lot I'm going to have to work on, because I do know I don't want to be single my entire life. I do want to have someone I can share all my bits and pieces with, and the only way I'm going to get what I want is to actually go out and get it. Maybe spewing all this stuff out here is some sort of bizarre first step in making that happen. That's my story anyway, and I'm sticking to it.

Yeah, Yeah, I know, this is cheating, but......

2008-05-24T11:55:00.004-04:00

I know, posting a video clip is not considered a real blog post in some necks of the woods, but around these here parts I like to live on the edge. Actually, I have a few ideas for posts that I'm mulling around, but they are kind of heavy, and are going to take some sittin' down and concentrating. I think sittin' down and concentrating on a three day holiday weekend is just not cool. So I'm not gonna do it. No way, no how.

I'm actually off Ms Q's house to celebrate her birthday with The Tap Dancer in true decadent style. There will be drinking and feasting, and more drinking. I think we may even get a visit from political royalty. Needless to say there will be incriminating pictures later in the week. In the meantime, I'm posting a clip by one of my favorite artists, Tom Waits. This little bon mot is a classic. We like to quote bits and pieces of it whenever we can. Enjoy!

Dentist Visit - Beatnik Style

2008-05-19T22:57:00.004-04:00

Dear dentist.Dr. Dungeon master of tooth decay.
Masked man with drill in hand.
Wielding whirring whining weapons of your trade.
Move to reshape the craggy white cityscape of
Bicuspidville.

Novocaine- You sadistic bitch.
You stinging sticking stymied
harbinger of false relief.
Mask the hot horrible pain of
man's inhumanity to mouth.
Your fickle fading
leaves gaping gums of humanity screaming
in freshly drilled agony
praying for ibuprofen.

Dirt Therapy

2008-05-14T23:33:00.001-04:00

I am not one for yard work, of any kind. As I've said before, any kind of outdoor, pick up a shovel and dig, kind of activity was viewed as being cast down into the lowest level of hell. I must be growing up or something (don't tell anyone!), because on Saturday the strangest thing happened. I went out and worked in the yard, voluntarily, and liked it. Ol' Bill (my father) would be so proud.

It was completely a spur of the moment thing. I was sitting on the couch mid morning Saturday, sipping my third cup of coffee, and watching a movie I had DVR'd earlier in the week (those who know me will be surprised to hear it wasn't a death movie). As the movie finished and the house had gone quiet, I started feeling kind of melancholy. I can't put my finger on what the problem was exactly, it was more a general sense of being bored, lonely, and restless. Normally I would have followed that particular rabbit down the rabbit hole and spent the day listening to Sad Bastard music, watching more movies (death ones to boot),feeling sorry for myself, and eating things I shouldn't. Yeah yeah, I know, welcome to my inner sanctum of crazy.

But I didn't. I had been talking about turning an old wooden sandbox left by previous owners of the house into an herb garden for a while,like for three years, but had never gotten around to the actual doing. So this past Saturday, when faced with a long afternoon of throwing cheese doodles at my face, and wiping tears away from my eyes with orange stained fingers until I looked like some deranged crazy lady with a bad spray on tan, I decided to do something a little different.

I threw on some grubby clothes and went outside armed with mighty farmin' tools, and proceeded to lay waste to the weeds and small trees that had taken root in my sandbox. I then made the suburban pilgrimage to Home Depot for gardening soil and plants. I have to say the plant selection there is sad sad sad sad sad. It's the vegetative equivalent to a puppy mill. But I found a few quasi healthy plants and a butt load of potting/gardening soil, loaded up the Toyota and headed back to the homestead

Dirt Therapy. Who knew!? I had the best time pulling weeds, lugging crap around my yard, and digging my hands in cool, rich, pungent soil. I found my head clearing and my thoughts slowing down, until all that I was left with was me and my garden. I may have even talked to the plants as I carefully placed them into their new digs. When I had finished my body was stretched and tired, but in that buzzy energized way that makes you feel kind of high. All those feelings of purposelessness had disappeared, and I had spent the day getting closer to the person I want to be. I was a filthy, sweaty mess, but exceedingly pleased with myself; like a first grader bringing home her first attempt at writing her name.

"Lookie what I did!"

Yep, She's at it Again

2008-05-08T19:09:00.011-04:00

Maybe it's because its Spring and I've put away all my bulky invisibility sweaters (oh, how I miss them). Maybe its because I went clothes shopping this past weekend, and nothing fit well. Or maybe its because I weigh more right now than I ever have in my entire life-for-ever-and-ever-amen. The reality of that statement would normally send me down into the dark dank mold infested basement of depression, and I'm trying really hard not to go there this time, but I have to admit I'm standing at the top of the stairs as we speak.

So I joined Weight Watchers. Again; and if the number of times I've joined and quit were eggs, you could make a shit load of omelets with them. I'll admit my attitude regarding this program has never been stellar. For one thing, I think it feeds my tendency to obsess about food, and I have issues with their reliance on processed foods and artificial sweeteners. I also tended to go into meetings with a major chip on my shoulder, finding criticism in every well intentioned "so how did you do this week?", convinced I was surrounded by over zealous uber dieters looking to bolster their success by my failure. Paranoid much?

What's changed? Funny you should ask. I think my attitude has changed a little. I was sitting in that room, listening to all those women (and more than a few men) share their little victories as well as their lost battles,and each one of them was supported equally. I had an epiphany, right there in my uncomfortable folding chair. I thought to myself "self, maybe you're the critical over zealous uber dieter looking to bolster your failures by belittling other's successes." That's a hard thing to admit to yourself.Oh, and the terrifying number on the scale(which I know I shouldn't be focusing on, but I can't help it) has also provided a renewed sense of urgency to get off my ass and do something. Anything, for cripes sake!

I still have trepidations about being on WW again. I get so hyper focused on food, I worry that it will just feed into the whole compulsive eater's mindset, and I will end up quitting with a vengeance. I'm going to try a few things this time around to alleviate some of that. One of which is to have a day during the week where I just don't think about it at all. I'm not going to call it a cheat day, because I don't like the inference that I'm doing something "bad". I'm also going to refrain from talking about dieting and points and serving sizes ad nauseum both in real life and here. I have a tendency, once I've talked something up, to lose interest quickly and passive aggressively begin to sabotage myself. I recognize that is a completely adolescent reaction put in place by years of forced dieting, but that seems to be the way I roll. As for eating all that processed food and artificially sweetened crap,at least there I can make other choices.

I'm guardedly optimistic this go' round. I know getting healthy is something I have to do,so I will just take it slowly and be willing to give myself a break if I'm not perfection 100% of the time. Maybe this time I can avoid the dank dark basement, I so don't want to go there, there are big ass bugs down there.

I feel like an alcoholic giving up booze, and maybe that is actually what I am. Some sort of hopped up food junkie who has to join a 12 step program to kick her habit.

Hey man, know where I can score a candy bar? (Kidding..... sort of).

Follow your bliss

2008-05-06T00:11:00.001-04:00

I sat at my desk early Monday morning faced with yet another week of mind numbing tedium, close minded plebeian co-workers, and not nearly enough coffee in my system to handle any of it. It was at that bleary eyed moment that I was reminded of a conversation I had last week with a friend about being able to follow your bliss.

It’s an intriguing idea, and I’m always more than a little pea green when I run into or read about someone who is able to follow their inspired creative path unfettered by outside influences (read “the have to have job”). To be able to exclusively do that which makes them feel most fulfilled.

To even know what that bliss is has to be an enviable state. I struggle to find something in my life that I am that passionate about. Whether it be a desire to create that burns inside, or a passion for working with a particular group of people, or in a particular field of expertise; to have something in my life that inspires me in such a way that I absolutely cannot be a peace unless I am pursuing it. That is what I want to be when I grow up – inspired.

I hear writers in this very blogosphere say they have to write, cannot think of not writing, writing is like breathing for them. To not write on a daily basis would be unthinkable. I see artists and crafts people perfecting their skills, overjoyed at what possibilities a new tube of paint or a new swatch of fabric holds, and I am jealous.

I struggle to find my bliss. I have jumped from one creative endeavor to another. Wire wrapping, silver smithing, drawing, weaving, writing, knitting, and most recently web design. While each has been enjoyable, none have sparked that flame of obsession I crave,and none have held my attention long enough for me to become proficient in any of them.

I should probably take this moment to confess that I have not given any of these projects the time or focus needed to become skilled to the degree needed to take any of them beyond the realm of hobby. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’m just adverse to the hard part of the creative process. The working at it part, while ignoring the voice in my head that is telling me “this is not for you, you have no talent with this”. Do I need to be spending weeks, months, even years perfecting a skill or a craft before I know for sure? When do you know for sure? Shouldn't the joy come more easily? This feels suspiciously like my last relationship, and Jesus did that end badly! I guess the question I have is this; when does the inspiration needed to carry one through the hard part supposed to kick in? Could it be be I'm just not all that creative? Or am I really that lazy? Shit, that’s a depressing thought.

I will keep trying though,trying new things as they catch my attention. I may even go back and to pick up some previously failed attempts at past projects. The silver work specifically was something I felt like I didn't give enough time or effort to. Maybe it's not a specific something I need to find in order to be inspired. Maybe I need to inspire myself, find a way to tap into some yet to be discovered well of creative energy. At the very least I probably need to shut up,stop whining, and just go out and do.

Bitch Slapped

2008-05-01T22:36:00.001-04:00

Ohh it feels good to be staring at this blank blog post page again! It has been too long since my last post; it's odd, when I'm writing I'm bitching about how hard it is, and when I'm not, I'm wishing I was (of course I'm still bitching about how hard it is).

What is it about life that likes to periodically slap you on the ass (and not in a good way) just to make sure you still know who's boss?? I don't know, but this past week has been one of those ass slaps. It's been the invasion of the "Ists". First it was the Gynecologist and the get to know your choochie session, then it was the Dentist. I haven't been to one of those "Ists" in over 9 years; I'm here to tell you there was an obscene amount of scraping, and poking, and x-rays, and 6 cavities, and, and and. Oh, and did I mention my appointment was at 7:40 in the morning! WTF? Although I suppose the sleep deprived haze could be considered anesthesia.

The icing on the cake was the Veterinarian..uhh ist. My city boasts a renowned school of veterinarian medicine, but conversely nary a single vet worth their salt. I'm not joking, it's pathetic. I have Siamese cat with chronic gingivitis, and after over $700 bucks in vet visits, second opinions, tests and more tests, the best advice I got around here was to take her to the vet school and have ALL HER TEETH PULLED to the tune of 1600 smackers. No shit, that's what the final verdict was.

Luckily She who Tap Dances knows of a vet that has been taking care of her family's animals for over 20 years. Last year we brought Bella to him,he put her on anti-inflammatory meds and antibiotics to control the issue. But more to the point, he took care of months of worry. Until Tuesday.

Bella had been showing signs that her mouth was bothering her, and since Ms. B had a new set of kitty testicles to snip, we thought we would load up the Toyota with 4 cats in three carriers, and head down to Doc's. Did I mention he's 2 1/2 hours away? Well worth the trip, but the its always an epic adventure. This trip was no exception. Ohh yess, one of the 4 cats took a massive "holy crap I'm in a car crap". Now I'm not sure if it was the gawd awful smell or the ungodly hour (we left the house at 6:45am), but the combination spawned a massive attack of the giggles, and a creative brain storm that coined the new terms "Fear Crap","The Crap Fear River", and "The Tudball Massacree". Okay, it was funnier at the time. I swear. Shut up!

I honestly thought that once Doc took a look at Bella he would maybe have to clean her teeth, maybe even extract one, and we would continue on as before. That was not to be. When we got back from lunch to pick up the herd he was shaking his head. My heart sank. It turns out Bella has cancer. Squamous Cell Carcinoma to be more to the point. I stood in that exam room as explained how he burned the tumor off her gums with some sort of laser and cauterized the hell out of it. I managed not to cry as he told me he got it all and he's not willing to give up yet, but that I had to understand that this was an aggressive cancer, it would eventually return, and it was terminal.

So I loaded my extremely doped up cat back into the car and we headed home a tad more sober than we were on the way there, and our conversations took a darker turn. The rest of the night I nursed my little "bean" back to consciousness, and leaked tears all over her fur.

I'm feeling more philosophical about things now. The chronic gingivitis indicated a suppressed immune system, and I knew that she was never going to be an old cat, but this cancer thing is a little more immediate than the gingivitis. I'm optimistic though, maybe even overly so, she's young, otherwise healthy, and a serious spit fire. She was wobbling around the house Tuesday night, fighting off the drugs and insisting on eating her evening meal. So maybe she can fight this too. I'm hopeful, anyway.

I know, it's silly to get this wrapped up in a pet, but I'm one of those people who do just that. I can't help it, and I'm not really sure I'd want to change it. There is something very fulfilling and soul soothing to care for an animal, and be the recipient of their particular brand of devotion and unconditional love. It's hard when you lose a pet; it's like, in some small way, like losing a family member, and sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. But then, when I'm having a really bad day, one of them will curl up next to me on the couch, squint up at me and purr, and I can't imagine not having them around.

So, the invasion of the "Ists" is over for now, so I can resume writing my piffle,(I know you've all missed it. You know you have. Shut up!) and catch up with all my favorite bloggin' babes who I've missed this week more than I can express.

Much Ado About Nothing (i hope)

2008-04-24T08:40:00.011-04:00

*Updated Below*

Welcome to my mini freak out. Not a big one yet, I'm hoping it won't come to that, in fact I'm almost 99.9% sure it won't come to that. It's that .01% that's got me all in a tizzy.

I have to go to the Dr. today for my annual check up. Affectionately known as the annual poke and prod. Girls, you know the one. It's bad enough on a normal visit; what with the weighing on the scale that is always at least 6lbs heavier than the scale at home, the surly nurses with an opinion on everything, and the oh so dignified toes to the sky exam in the ill fitting paper dress. But today I also have to have a little lump that should not be looked at, and I'm sure I'm overreacting, but I'm a little anxious about it.

It didn't help that I googled "symptoms of ovarian cancer" ,because I'm ever the optimist, and now I'm convinced that every fart is an omen (did you know that chronic gas and bloating can be an indicator?). Please understand I'm not making fun of a very serious and frightening illness, I'm just trying to take my own overactive imagination down a notch and lighten up, because I could very easily freak myself out.

Okay, so this is not the PSA it could have been, it's more like barfing my anxiety all over the page just to get it out and feel a little better (which I do, so, thanks!). I fully intended to do a little more digging around and post a few facts we as women should all know. Perhaps I will later, but the little reading I did do was only adding fuel to my current over reaction, so I thought better of it.

Wish me luck, I have to go pound some water now because along with everything else I'm going to have to pee on demand into a little plastic cup. I so enjoy being a girl!

Okay, I feel better, or more to the point, I feel slightly sheepish (Talk about an overreaction). It was the equivalent of your car making a noise, but stopping once you get it to the mechanic. There was nothing there. She checked..... thoroughly. Then she had me check. I'm here to tell you there is nothing more mortifying than having to feel yourself up in front of your doctor, whilst trying to keep up your end of the conversation. Nothing. She did say it was more than likely (some medical term I cant remember) which is basically something akin to a pimple. Lovely. My doctor said they are fairly normal so I feel better, everything looks fine, is fine, and now we can return to our regularly scheduled program.

I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up.

2008-04-21T00:00:00.002-04:00

I am not unique in the fact that I do not work in the field in which I received my degree. My undergrad degree is in psychology, and as much as I would have liked to go on and get my graduate degree, the lack of academic focus during my college years (all eight of them if that tells you anything), pretty much clinches the fact that graduate school is out of the question.

I currently work investigating and resolving billing issues for clients my company provides services for. It's cube dwelling at it's most glamorous, let me tell you. It's not horrible (much), and it certainly pays the bills, but it is by no means fulfilling, nor does it scratch any kind of creative itch I might have. So the question is always out there, just beyond my Monday through Friday grind; "What do you want to be when you grow up, Chanda?". I still don't know. Can Lady of Leisure be considered a career?

So, a year or so back I started looking into taking some computer classes at the local community college, more to up my skills and marketability than to branch out into something new. I found I could get a two year degree in something called Office Systems Technology ( I think that's just a fancy term for office manager, but it fit the bill in terms of what i needed in terms of skilz). So I signed up, sent in my registration, and picked the first two classes needed for the degree. I don't know if someone fat fingered my information or fate stepped in and said "no no, you're going to do THIS" , but two weeks before class was to start I got my schedule. I was a proud member of the Web Technologies program and howdeedoo, here are your first two classes. What?

I called the registrar's office and spoke to a very candid,very friendly woman who told me in no uncertain terms that yes I could change it back. All you have to do is come to campus, stop by the Registrar's office, get the appropriate paperwork, find your advisor, have him or her sign this and that,and bring it all back to the Registrar's office, and Honey,wouldn't it just be better to see if you liked Web Technologies? Point taken.

What the hell, I figured I would stay put for the time being, try something new, and see if my brain had atrophied or not since the last time I was in school. Turns out it had. I don't know if it's age or just the subject matter, but I found it all so much harder to absorb. I also discovered I resent the time I have to spend working on homework. It take much longer than I think it should, and it frustrates the hell out of me;and at the risk of sounding like my grandfather,these classes are all full of teenagers and twenty-somethings that have basically been weaned on inner mysteries of all things computer.

Welcome to the portion of the program where I drown in a giant pool of self inflicted insecurity.You knew it was coming,right? I've taken an introduction class to C++ ,an HTML class,and a Dreamweaver class, and Ive done well in all of them, but I don't feel like I've learned anything I can apply to actual web design. When does that start? When do I start to feel competent? This semester Im taking first of two graphic design classes, and Im both excited and trepidatious at the same time. I'm dying to learn the ins and out of Photoshop, how to make banners and buttons and learn how it all fits into designing a web sit. But these (online) classes move so quickly, I don't feel like I've mastered one skill before we're off on another. I've never had trouble learning anything before. I feel like the kid in the back of the class who eats paste.

Thoughts of quitting have crossed my mind more than once. It's usually what I do when something gets too hard, when I can't do something perfectly the first time out. How depressing is that? It's that realization that keeps me honest, at least where school is concerned. I may falter, whine, stomp my feet, drop a class, take a semester off,then whine some more; but I am determined to finish this, see where it take me, even if takes me nowhere at all.

So be prepared, class starts in August, and before you know it these pages will be full of bitches, gripes, tears, and of course your classic "I don't feel like working so I'm blogging posts". It could be worse, I could blog about cat vomit again.

From a Dark Place, Unbidden

2008-04-16T18:02:00.013-04:00

Invisible
I feel.
Body present,
taking up too much space
as eyes pass unseeing over
ruined form.
I speak.
Words leaving lips,
the sharp sound of no one listening
is all that returns.
I lean into relentless winds,
the storms of other lives
until eroded walls wash away
and I no longer recognize my own.
I move inward,
searching for a spark
a mark that proves I'm here.
Only cold echos spiral upward
growing louder, undiminished

and I don't care.
She's no longer there.

Bed's Dead Baby

2008-04-15T00:05:00.002-04:00

I didn't know I was going to need a "Before" photo, if I had, I certainly would have taken the time to document the events that unfolded late Friday night, for they were just about my undoing.

I came home Friday night, well, more like early Saturday morning around 1am. I had a friendly Friday night buzz going, and all I really wanted to do was take a shower and fall into bed. The fates, it seems, had other plans. I walked in the door and was struck stupid by a smell, nay, a stench so foul,so strong that I was convinced something or someone had curled up in a corner somewhere and was quietly decomposing. Imagine a mix of dead fish, and rotten chicken duking it out for the title of most offensive smell.

I immediately started stuffing my nose down each and every air vent in the house, convinced this was where whatever had died had chosen for its final resting place. This of course was aggravating my PTSD over the nightmare of moving into my 65year old house as a first time home owner four years ago, and discovering all my duct work had to be replaced to get rid of the rank odour emanating from my floor vents.

It's now 1:30 am, I have checked the vents, taken the garbage out, scrubbed out the garbage can, turned the AC on to dry out the humidity, but was still no closer to finding the smell; though at this point I was acclimating to the it so I could no longer really tell if I smelled it or not. That was until.........

I walked into my room to get ready for bed (I had given up, I was tired, and my friendly Friday buzz was losing patience with me)when oh my GOD the smell! WTF?! Then I saw it back in the corner behind the headboard, that which no living person should ever have to come face to face with ever ever. A giant wet chunky pile of regurgitated canned cat food (Mariners Catch, no less!). It was the biggest pile of cat yack I had ever seen in my life;we're talking Laura Dern digging around in dino doo big. Surely my little 7 lb cat couldn't possibly have made this mess!

Once I've gathered my hazmat gear I start to pull the bed away from the wall to get to the mess, and as I do the entire headboard pitches forward and falls into the mattress; now no matter which direction I move the bed the freekin' headboard just groans and leans farther into the mattress.It's at this point, dear reader, that I lost my shit David Banner-you-wouldn't-like-me-when-I'm-angry-style. I was growling like a mad woman, stomping my feet and swearing like a truck driver, I may have even been crying, I'm not sure, it was all kind of a blurr. When the green haze had cleared, I had ripped the mattress and the box spring off the frame and yanked the bed around so hard that it was now in two large heavy pain in my ass pieces,dragged them through the house into the laundry room, and cleaned up the monumental pile puke. I was done like dinner. I took a shower and went to sleep in the guest room.

I awoke the next morning refreshed and ready to face the aftermath, but not without coffee. I went down to Ms. B's house for a much needed cup O' Joe and to regale her with last night's debacle. We decided there was no better time to move some furniture around get that room looking somewhat decent in spite of the hunter green trim (who does that?).So we did, and it looked pretty good if I do say so myself. Thus the "after picture. And there on the corner of the bed that once resided in the guest room? Yes, there's the cat that started the whole damn thing.

Twin Posts From Different Bloggers

2008-04-09T22:04:00.001-04:00

So, Ms. B and I were sitting around this past weekend chewing on possible blog post ideas for the upcoming week. It is a familiar complaint of mine (and I'm guessing everyone else from time to time) that I can never think of anything to write about. After a drink, or two or three, she thought it might be fun for each of us to write an account of how we met in college, and post it on the same day. Then be able to read each other's perspective on the same event. Brilliant! You can read her account of how she met me (also known as the best day ever!) over at Tapdancing on the Edge of Reason.
It was the fall of 1987, and I was just beginning my Jr year, though due to no less that two Major changes and an obscene number dropped classes, I was probably still a Sophomore. I was heavily into my Nouveau Bohemian ways and dressed the part (my mother liked to call it my bag lady look). You could usually find me wandering around campus in a long twirly skirt, and oversized sweater, two pairs of glaringly different socks to get that oh so together layered leg warmer look, and granny boots. My hair was usually sporting a braid or two, and from that braid usually dangled an errant earring of unusual size. Are you getting an image? No? Let me help you. Imagine (if you dare) that Jerry Garcia and Stevie Nicks got together, drank too much wine, and had a love child. Are you properly horrified? Good, now where was I?

Oh, yes, my third year at East Carolina University in Greenville NC (that's the armpit of the south, in case you're wondering).I was a proud English Minor heading off to her first writing class. Poetry writing that is. The catalogue had read "Introduction to Poetry Writing", implying that those who were there had little to no experience in writing poetry. Silly, naive Chanda. The class was a combination of English majors, all experienced in writing, and writing workshops,thus expecting this class to be easy; jocks and sorority girls all taking the class to satisfy their graduation requirements, also thinking this class was going to be easy, and one or two poor souls who could barely put two sentences together. I'm not really sure what they were doing there. All of this, paired with the fact that the class was way too crowded ensured that our professor/frustrated poet/cranky bitch was in a foul mood. Needless to say the welcome to class speech was less than motivating. She should have just walked in and said "get the fuck out", but I suppose that would be less than poetic.

So there I was on the first day of class, poorly situated in our round table formation of desks next to the premenstrual teacher, surreptitiously taking in my fellow classmates. About half way around the circle I noticed this girl in cat sunglasses, a spikey asymmetrical hair cut, complete with a long braided rat tail falling across her shoulder, and a mason jar full of some sort of bright orange liquid. I was intrigued by that mason jar. It didn't look like orange juice, it was thicker; did someone actually have the brass cahones to bring a mixed drink to a 9:15am class? If they did, they had my total respect. The class met twice a week, and on eacj morning we met, there was the girl with the mason jar,folding origami birds and making their wings flap at anyone who looked askance at her.

One of the required projects for this class was to pick from a list of poets, choose a partner and present a lecture to the rest of the class on that poet. Great. I put off approaching the seemingly unapproachable masses for as long as I possibly could, procrastination being something in which I am particularly gifted. As D day approached, the girl with the mason jar walked into class, plunked a tin of home made oatmeal chocolate chip cookies down on the teacher's desk, and invited everyone to help themselves. Wait a moment! Homemade baked goods? With chocolate? How bad can this girl be? Maybe I should ask her to be my partner. So I did, and she turned me down, flat. The bitch.

Ok, so she was going to leave me to my own devices with the poet I had chosen (Nancy Willard), but the door had been opened, and an easy conversation started in that hallway, and continued across campus. I was on my way back to my apartment, where my roommate at the time was more than likely sleeping off the past night's digressions. She was well on her way down a destructive path of hard drinking and promiscuity, that even back then, I could tell went way beyond the normal college level excesses. Ms. B explained that she too had a troublesome roommate she was less than excited to go home to. She asked if she could come up and hang out a while. Six hours later we had formed the beginnings of a friendship that is still going on twenty years later.

That afternoon she asked if I could give her a ride to the grocery store, then back to her apartment. As we drove by a particularly infamous fraternity house, she rolled down her window and yelled "Fascist Pigs!". I knew right then and there she was my kind of people.

A Shameless Plug

2008-04-08T23:09:00.007-04:00

I thought, for a change, rather than blathering on and on about me me me, that I would toot someone Else's horn today. I want to take some time to introduce you to an incredibly talented woman, who, lucky me, is a wonderful friend as well. She is a doll maker, not that you could consider these amazing cloth sculptures merely dolls. These fey creations each have their own personality, and over the years I have collected as many of them as possible, both as gifts (like I said, lucky me) and as purchases when I just couldn't bare to leave one of them behind. You can check out more of Cindy's creations on her Etsy site - Here.

So, this past birthday not only was I treated to a fabulous surprise birthday party thrown by Ms B, the antics of which you can read about here, but was also the recipient of a new fairy to add to my collection.

This is Jory- You can tell by the look on her face she's a bit of a smart ass. I like that in a fairy.

So does Bella. Evidently they hang out a lot together while I'm at work.

And contemplate ways to bust out of the place.

She also likes to hang out on the mantel and gossip with the girls.
That gorgeous painting up there was done by none other than She who Tap Dances. I got it as a Christmas present one year after many many attempts to "winkle it away" from her. She and Cindy are sisters, evidently creative talent runs in that family.

As it turns out, once I got my camera out and started the Fairies Nest photo shoot, all the other's wanted their 15 minutes of fame. Let's meet The girls on the mantel(sounds like a rock band)
This one doesn't have a name, really, though she does make an appearance in December as the tree topper. Perhaps Noel?
Oh, by the way, this one's Punk. I can't tell you how long I've wanted to say that. Anyhoo, this little creature never quite looked happy until I perched her on the top of my cd stand. Evidently she's really into music, but she also seems happy enough to hang out on a piece of pottery and chat.

These miniatures are some of Cindy's first creations, and also two of my favorites. The Saucy Sorceress and her Consort were the first two dolls I ever got as gifts. Aren't they fabulous!?

Here are a few more miniatures, and they certainly enjoyed mugging for the camera.

Next is Annie, she's a bit shy, and like to hang out in the bathroom.

Last, but certainly not least, are the two that hang out with me in the den. They perch upon the book case vex the cats every moment they can.
Here is Green(Named after the Joni Mitchell song)

And finally "Spring". She's a particular favorite of mine, Don't you just love her outfit?

Okay, I'm done wandering around my house taking pictures, I hope you liked them, and if you are ever looking for a bit of magic, don't forget to check out The Fairies Nest.

Sans Children.

2008-04-06T23:30:00.001-04:00

With the recent passing of my forty-first birthday I find myself contemplating my current childless state,continuously poking that potentially tender spot like a sore tooth you just can't leave alone,until finally coming face to face with the reality that my window of opportunity is slamming shut in a big way. Hell, in my current single state, short of an immaculate conception or a run in with a turkey baster, that window has in all probability already closed.

I've never really been sure I wanted children. Oh , sure there were/are moments when the pull of motherhood makes itself known; like when I spend time with my two year old nephew, when I hold some one's baby and breathe in that baby smell(you know the one), or read a particularly touching blog post that allows a random glimpse into the life of a happy family. It's during those moments that the tick-tock of that despised clock drowns out the rest of the noise my life usually makes. But when push comes to shove, If I'm totally honest with myself, can I say with 100% conviction that I truly want a child, and all the baggage and responsibility that comes with having children? Does this sound like denial,or sour grapes? Perhaps. At the very least it sounds a hell of alot like ambivalence. If by some chance accident I found myself pregnant at this point in my life, of course I would be... terrified, but also not entirely bummed about it. See what I mean? Ambivalence. And ambivalence, at 41, where child bearing is concerned, is basically a no go.

Sometimes I mourn for the experiences that I will miss out on, there is no denying that. I will never feel that fierce unconditional love a mother has for her child, or experience the growth and deepening of the mother daughter relationship with my own mother by giving her a grandchild (not to mention, there is a certain level of guilt as well). And while I can't say I will ever miss the experience of childbirth itself, I do feel left out of the "war buddy" camaraderie women share with the retelling of their birth stories. And quite frankly if you don't have one of those bad boys of your own to share, there are only so many times you can hear that kind of stuff without wanting to run screaming. That is some graphic shit, man!

Does this make me less feminine, less of a woman, less female than the women who have had children? Have I failed in my prime directive to go forth and multiply? Does this overtaxed global village even need the burden of one more living creature to support? These are questions I have no answer for. Sometimes I think this choice, my choice, makes me just as much a woman as the choice to have a child does. Then again, sometimes I feel like I've rushed the sorority, and was found somehow lacking, so now I'm to be pitied, or simply dismissed in terms of having anything worth while to impart regarding all things children.

Ive been in those groups of mothers (and, in all fairness, fathers) as they discuss the ins and outs of raising children; topics run the gamut from discipline, bed times, and nutrition, to how much TV and computer time to give them.Some of what I hear makes me sure that some people really shouldn't raise children, but by not not being a parent myself, any input I make into these conversations is usually met with blank stares, or the oh so popular refrain "Well, you don't have children, so you couldn't possibly understand". I'm not going to lie, that stings a bit, and there may be a grain of truth in that statement somewhere (sometimes I do feel like a stranger in a strange land), but it doesn't mean I'm completely clueless. Certainly no more clueless than some of those parents who (no lie) can't seem to get their 7 year old to bed any earlier than 11, and then wonder why the child is not doing well in school. Hello!? Seriously?

I am lucky though, my best friend is not one of those kinds of mothers, and has always allowed me to share in much of the raising of her children. They're my
God(dess) kids, and I have been an integral part of their lives since they were born. In fact I was still sharing a house with her and her hubby until the oldest was almost three. I helped raise them, still do to a degree, and for that experience I am grateful.

I've written myself into a corner here, and I'm not sure where this is going, or what,definitively, I'm trying to say about all this. Hell, maybe it all just goes to prove that deep down I do want a child, but even if that were the case, to what end? I would still need to come to terms with this new found revelation as something that in all actuality may not happen. I suppose if I really do want a child, there are steps I could take, single or not. I know I would have a huge amount of support, but I have serious doubts as to whether or not I'm selfless enough to raise a child, especially on my own. I've also contemplated the idea of being a foster parent, and haven't written that off entirely. But again, as a single woman, a fairly selfish one at that, I don't know if I have what it takes (practical considerations aside) to be of use to a child in crisis.

Aw, come on, it's not nearly as tragic as it sounds, I'm philosophical enough about it most of the time. It is what it is, and my life is what I have made of it. Torturing myself, obsessing on something I'm not even sure I want will not change things, it will only serve to make me miserable. So, I will enjoy the kids that I do have in my life, revel in the freedom and extended adolescence being without children affords (sleeping in on weekends is still pretty awesome), and try to keep myself open to any unforeseen adventures that may pop up.

Bloggingytis

2008-04-02T23:19:00.002-04:00

It feels strange to be blogging again, It's been a while since I've tried to sit down and write, and it seems I've lost my voice. It had become increasingly more difficult to come up with things to write about, and when I did write, I was utterly dissatisfied with what was on the page. As my frustration increased I found myself whispering mean little wasps of stinging criticism in my own ear. You suck at this. It shouldn't be this hard to just write. If it's this difficult for you, you obviously aren't good enough, and should just quit. Jesus, I'm a bitch.

Needless to say, there have been more than a few times within the past few weeks that I resolved to quit, take the damn thing down, and never look back, but I found I couldn't bring myself to do it. The specter of failure, of one more thing I started but just couldn't seem to stick with was always hanging over my shoulder. Walking away for a little while also made it apparent that I would miss it, and more to the point, I would dearly miss the bloggers I have gotten to know and have truly come to care about through their writing, and their support of my attempts at writing. Blogging has also been something my best friend and I have been doing together since we started our respective blogs in the fall. Bouncing post ideas back and forth, playing the part of editor for each other, and discussing at length our favorite blogs has been great fun, and I'm loath to give that up as well.

This dichotomy of wracked insecurity and genuine enjoyment with the whole blogging experience got me thinking about what real writers must go through on a daily basis. How does one get up every morning and give a little bit of yourself with every article,essay, and blog page you write? I've always been fascinated with the creative process, of the psychology that goes into taking that creative spark and translating it to the canvas or page to become something that inspires. I envy those who make it seem so effortless.

I do know that, at least for me, where I was writing was having an adverse effect on my motivation. My computer is set up in a back bedroom that gets little light, and the desk faces the wall. Every time I sat down to write I felt closed in, rigid, and completely cut off from the rest of the house. Tonight, after several false starts, and two visits from a very kind, very patient co-worker/IT guru, I finally have my wireless connection up and running (oh happy day!). I am now writing from the comfort of my very cozy den, curled up on my very comfy couch with warm kitties curled up like throw pillows, and its a much better perspective. I wonder of you all have favorite places or times to write, what inspires, and what stifles.

Where is this post going? I hardly know (I'm rusty here people!), other than to say that I'm beginning to think that blogging is alot like dating that charming, sexy, dangerous guy your mother warned you about- A shitload of heartache, a few tears, at least one good break up, but sooo worth it in the end.

Culinary Adventures

2008-03-09T20:08:00.011-04:00

While this weekend was not the productivity fest I had hoped (such is the case with all my weekends, Hmmm, I'm sensing a pattern), I did get a chance to play in the kitchen tonight. This evening's attempt at vegetarian cooking was this little dish.

Zucchini fritters with Pasta Portobello
(... and I don't think it came out half bad, if I do say so myself..)

For the Fritters.
Grate 2 medium zucchinis and 1/2 sweet onion onto a clean dishtowel. Wrap tightly and squeeze all the moister out with your hands.

My original attempt with this was a paper towel. Kids, don't try that at home. My paper towel got soggy and ripped at the bottom and I had to then transfer my zucchini to the dishtowel I should have used in the first place.

Once drained, transfer to mixing bowl.
Add:
Two beaten eggs
4 tbs flour
2/3 cup really good pecorino Romano cheese. (grated)
Salt and Pepper to taste.
Mix it all up into a consistent "batter" and spoon into your hot skillet.

Heat enough olive oil to cover the bottom of the pan over medium to medium high heat. I suppose you could use any kind of cooking oil like sunflower or canola, but I'm half Italian, I use olive oil on instinct. Besides, I think it adds a great flavor, and it's really good for you.

Spoon a healthy plop of zucchini mixture into the pan and gently work it into a relatively round patty. Cook about 3-4 min on each side or until golden brown. Cook fritters 3-4 at a time depending on the size of your pan. Remove to paper towel (those guys again) or a cooling rack placed on a cookie sheet. Salt immediately and keep warm in oven as you prepare the rest of the fritters, and your pasta. (I used a 250* oven).

For the pasta
1/2 lb of pasta. ( I used Pene, but you could use whatever floats your boat)
1 pkg sliced Portobollo Mushrooms
1/2 coarsely chopped Sweet Onion
1 good handful (about a 1/2 cup)of Romano Cheese.
1-2 tsp Dried parsley. If you have it you could use fresh, just be sure to up your amounts, fresh herbs aren't as strong as dried.

Once your fritters are going, you can start your water for the pasta and cook using the specifications on the box. Now would also be a good time to coarsely chop your mushrooms and onions.
I used portobello mushrooms because, to me, they have the taste and heartiness of steak, but you could probably use any other type you wanted (or even a mixture of mushrooms. Go crazy!).

OK, your fritters are done, they have been salted and are in a warm oven staying happy. Now drain the oil out of your pan (leave all the tasty bits, and the residual oil), and place back on heat, reduce heat to medium. Throw in your mushrooms and onions. Do not salt your veggies at this point, this will cause your mushrooms to release all their moisture and it will make them kind of soggy and tasteless. Saute in the residual olive oil (you can add more if you need to) until onions have started to brown.

Add a pat of butter to the mixture and stir it in right before you add your pasta. *this is optional, but it does add a richness in flavor*.

By this time your pasta should be done. Drain your pasta, but reserve a little of the water, ohh say about 1/4 c. Throw the pasta and reserved water into your skillet with he mushrooms and onions. Mix well and add a hand full of Romano cheese. Sprinkle with parsley.

Serve with one or two of the fritters.

How's it look?

Ow, Ow, Fuckity, Ow! - Juno

2008-03-05T14:14:00.004-05:00

Months of inactivity. Countless.
Minutes on the cross trainer. 30
Number of old men with gas working out next to you. 1
Number of Calories burned. 450
Maintained heart rate. 144

Tripping over your shoe laces on the way back to the locker room and landing flat on your face? Priceless.

Facing the Music (the healthy you challenge check in)

2008-03-04T21:01:00.007-05:00

Here's a little peek into my psyche. You know I've had a bad week if my check in post is absurdly late, almost to the point of being nonexistent(believe me, I did have more than a few thoughts of just not posting at all). I got on the scale this morning and it wasn't good. At all. I'm not going to post the ugly details because, quite frankly, I find that counter productive. A bad morning on the scale can undermine me for weeks to come. It can toss me into a pit of self pity and self loathing so deep that all I want to do is binge. So we won't go there.

I spent the day trying to organize my thoughts about this post, or more to the point, my thoughts on what factors could have contributed to the temporary demise of my losing streak. I still feel very positive about my decision to give up meat, but I do think it needs some tweaking. A dear friend of mine, and one time vegetarian herself, cautioned me about overdoing the dairy. Evidently it's a rookie mistake, and one, on further inspection, I have totally run with. I also realized that while I have definitely increased my fruit and veggie intake, I have also exponentially increased my carb intake in the form of pasta and rice. Ooops. Note to self. Pay closer attention to carbs and dairy. Thanks Cindy!

And if we're being completely honest here, I have to talk about the big ass pink elephant in the room. It's an ugly one. It's the E word. Just saying "exercise" makes me want to curl up on the couch and veg. I really have to find a way to change my crappy attitude.

Where did this aversion to exercise come from? Funny you should ask. I like to call it "Walk Nazi Backlash". I affectionately call my mother The Walk Nazi. She loves to walk, and thinks everyone should love to walk. When I was a teenager, and we were in the throes of our own brand of mother/daughter angst, her panacea for all my ills was to walk. During my Jr. year in high school we lived at the end of a 1.2 mile dirt road. I had to walk that road every day after school. Up and back, as "exercise". It was an expected chore, that and cleaning the kitchen after dinner. My father liked to get in on the fun by prescribing loooong Saturdays of indentured servitude doing yard work all under the guise of "exercise". Yeah right.

Of course they had my best interest at heart, and seriously, how bad can a walk up a dirt road in the middle of a beautiful farm be? And the yard work? Well, that sucked, but who didn't have to do chores to earn an allowance? Unfortunately I processed the whole thing as being all about poor picked on me. I was being singled out, suppressed, and put upon all due to my blooming weight problem. I haven't really gotten past the "exercise-is-a-big-bad-ugly-chore-set-upon-this-earth-to-vex and torture me" thing. Mature huh? Maybe its time to move on. But how to do that, well there's the rub. All I can do at this point is take it in little tiny baby steps. I've promised myself to go to the gym three times this week (we won't discuss the fact that I haven't gone yet). That's it. That's as far ahead as I'm thinking.

So, there you have it, my less than stellar week. I just have to keep in mind that in the grand scheme of things, it means very little, and I need to keep my perspective. If I can take something positive from it and apply it to my pursuit of a healthy life style, then all is not lost.

What I did instead of cleaning out my closet

2008-03-03T20:50:00.021-05:00

Oh yes, this weekend was going to be a study in productive domesticity. I was going to clean out all three of my closets (yep, you heard, I have three whole closets!), make some fabulous vegetarian gourmet delight to dine upon, and basque in my overblown feelings of superiority. And then Satan called, also know as "She Who Tap Dances" tempting me away from my chores with the siren song of fresh coffee and scones. Dammit.

Well, one thing lead to another, as these things often do, and Coffee gave way to rum drinks. Now I will confess that I might have had something to do wit the rum drinks.... maybe. So I ran back up to my house ( I live a few doors down, and we like to consider the street just a long hallway connecting different wings of the mansion. Delusional much?) and grabbed provisions for a day of blatant laziness.

It goes without saying that where there is lounging around and drinking, there will be random picture taking as well.

This is an up close and personal shot of the giant assed Camilla bush/tree in my front yard. It's way too big, and is currently eyeing my mailbox as a possible meal, but it has gorgeous flowers on it. Besides, it's one of the few things that bloom this early.

Daffodils also bloom this time of year, but I feel so bad for them most of the time. We get a few really warm days and they pop their little heads up thinking it's spring. Then BAM! It dips below freezing and they freeze their happy yellow butts off. It just ain't fair.

Ms. B has a great little creek running through her yard, and the sun was hitting it just right on Saturday, so I got jiggy with my zoom and took a few shots. Cool huh? I like to pretend I'm an "artiste".

Whew! After all of that hard work we needed sustenance. So, we retired to the back yard to relax.

Rum Drinks - magically delicious and good for you too! (it's got vitamin C in it. So there!)

Fear not! We had healthy snacks as well. Don't they look Delicious?

Word on the street is that a camera in your face is the new spring accessory. It's all the rage! Here's Ms. B modeling her new Fuji camera her lovely hubby got her for Christmas.

OK, so my closets are still a mess, but who really cares? In the grand scheme of things the total recharge I got from Saturday's escape from reality is far better than clean closets. I highly recommend it.

Calling all Veggies

2008-02-28T17:55:00.010-05:00

After the last beef recall I made the mistake of going online to watch the video of the mistreatment of cows being processed through a slaughterhouse. It was horrific, and I don't recommend watching it if you enjoy a cheeseburger now and again. I then fell down the rabbit hole and started to link my way through more and more horrific tales of industrial/corporate farming. I will spare you the details, they are out there if you want to read up, but its not for the faint hearted. I do, however, recommend reading up on the ecological impact these large industrial farms have on the environment.

Once I resurfaced and quelled the bile rising in my throat I decided to go vegetarian for a while. Just to see if I could do it. I've given up red meat, pork, and all poultry (lamb goes without saying). I still keep organic dairy, eggs from local free range cage free chickens , and fish (wild, not farm raised) in my diet. Some might say that's not really being a vegetarian, but dude, I'm so not givin' up my dairy! I have to say it's been easier to stick to than I thought it would be. Probably because my decision has nothing to do with my own dietary needs, but out of my personal sense of ecological and moral responsibility. It's too bad there is no ethical dilemma in chocolate (and if there is, shut up, I don't want to know!).

I have toyed with the idea of being a vegetarian since my pseudo hippie days in college(yes, I was one of those), but have always loved a good cheeseburger or meatball every now and again, so have been hesitant to give up meat. But the more I hear about how we raise our livestock and process them for slaughter, I become more and more neurotic as I walk through the grocery store. I pick up a package of chicken, gross myself out, then put it back down. A package of hamburger? Ditto. I have to put it down again. I look like freekin' Rainman pacing back and forth down the meat section picking up things, muttering to myself, and putting them back. It's not pretty people.

Now I know, local organic meat is a responsible option, and I may do that at some point, but it is so prohibitively expensive, I don't think I could afford it, and I can't even begin to imagine how someone could afford to feed an entire family that way. It's sad really, that only the well off can afford to feed their families quality foods that haven't been so pumped full of poisons and chemicals that you can no longer even call it food. The cheap crap is just that. Crap. Whew! Don't get me started on that soap box, I'll never get down.

So now I'm having a big time digging around cookbooks and the Internets looking for groovy vegetarian dishes, and trying out different ways to rework dishes I always cook. The Stuffed Peppers the Tap dancing Queen posted the other day were a direct result of such digging. She added chicken, which is great, but it tastes just as good without.

OK, here's where you guys come in. I need ideas, recipes, general vegetarian tips. (Yes, I know, the minute anyone asks you for a recipe you draw a blank - I'm lookin' at you Miss B). So if you have any good ones, post em in the comment section. Maybe I'll start posting my culinary attempts here, complete with pictures.

Now I'm hungry.

Be Kind to Your Daughters.

2008-02-26T00:41:00.003-05:00

I cleaned out my laundry room this weekend, which in and of itself is no big deal, other than it was a total disaster and it needed to be done. No, what makes this random act of organization note worthy is what I found while cleaning. An old box filled with even older books. High School Yearbooks. The time and place I consider to be the epicenter of my issues with self, body, and food. I'm sure the seeds of discontent were planted far earlier, but there, during that time in my life, is where I know in my heart of hearts there was a disconnect between what I actually looked like, and what I saw in the mirror. And there is where I was somehow derailed.

I sat down with a cup of coffee and my Freshman yearbook 1981-82, and there within its time yellowed pages, I saw a slender, confident, happy girl smiling back at me in her cheer leading outfit. I re-read all the signatures and notes to the "wild girl", the "cool chick" "always smiling", "friends forever" that literally covered the blank pages left for those types of things.

Cute, huh? That's what I see now, what anybody would see looking at this picture. I wish that was how I felt at the time. I'm 15 in that picture, and by then I had already been on more diets than I can count. I had been sneaking food since I was in 2nd grade, and had been binging and purging since 8th grade. Iwas completely caught up in the idea that I was fat.

My Sophomore Year held a similar, but slightly different story. I was no longer a cheerleader, even though I had been one the year before. I had to try out again(we all did), but was found lacking. Nothing had changed, other than I had stopped carrying around bottles of Ipecac syrup in my purse and was no longer puking up most of my food. So yes, I had gained about 15 lbs over the summer. So I told myself I didn't want to be a clique-ish cheerleader, and my best friend and I became the Banner Carriers for our Marching Band. OK.. a step down in the social hierarchy that is high school, but still involved, still smiling, still popular enough.

As I perused the pages of my yearbook I began to notice something in each picture I found, something no one else would really be able to see. In all my pictures, both freshman and sophomore year, I noticed there was no trust in my eyes. There was wariness, and an expectation that an axe would fall, and it would be an axe of words; warnings from parents who insisted I would be fat one day if I wasn't careful,of thinly veiled insults from boys who teased about fat cheerleaders, and crushes who said no.

And my 40 year old self got pissed off. I sat in my living room looking at my thin legs and normal waist line and wondered how "they" found that somehow lacking. I can see now how wrong they were,how wrong I was to give them that much power over me.

Years of self destructive eating, a war I have yet to win, may never completely win, all started long before high school. It started when my mother(who still to this day looks at herself through a fun house mirror),caught up in her own self destructive eating disorder, placed her fears of being fat and unlovable with me. It started when, as a prepubescent girl of 12 or 13,I went on my first diet. A diet that restricted my caloric intake to 1000 calories a day. I'm sorry, that's just insane.

So I can't help but worry for the young girls today, watching as their mothers (many of them my age)obsess and worry over being heavy, count every calorie and point they put in their mouths, perpetuate the idea that to be healthy is to diet, to be happy is to be (insert goal weight here). Are we placing the fears we've learned on the shoulders of future women? Ive been to the Weight Watcher meetings where mothers bring daughters too young to actively participate, but not too young to "watch and learn".

What message are we sending these girls? Why aren't we teaching them that to be happy is to be true to ourselves, to be kind to others, and to value what's inside, not outside? Why are we not teaching them to fuel their bodies with natural foods? To trust their bodies to tell them when they are hungry and when they are full, that artificial sweeteners and processed foods are poison? And why, for the love of god, are we not impressing upon them that BRATZ dolls are not to be used as a fashion guideline,and that the models and teen queens they see on TV are not normal? Why are they watching that crap in the first place?

Ive seen little girls cringe as their fathers, the first male role model they have, the one on which they base all other male relationships, tell them they can't eat that, they don't need that, they've had quite enough Thank you, then worry about being fat. They're not even out of elementary school for Christ's Sake! I've heard both parents comment about a heavy woman or child in none too flattering terms in front of their children. This has to make an impact, I honestly don't see how it can't.

I can't help but be horrified as I watch the birth of another eating disorder.

Perhaps I'm being overly dramatic, it's been known to happen. But it's my gut reaction and I have to go with it. I have experienced first hand what happens when well meaning parents place too much importance on the wrong things. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is be kind to your daughters, to your nieces, to granddaughters for that matter. Give them strength of self, confidence in their inner beauty, and kindness and respect for others, regardless of outwardly differences.

It's time to stop destroying ourselves from the inside out.

Healthy Challenge Check In - The fine art of procrastination

2008-02-20T13:17:00.008-05:00

Obviously I have more than mastered the art of procrastination. If you could unhinge my skull and take a peek inside you would see a beautifully organized (by category) list of rationalizations I like to pull out to assuage my internal guilt monkey for all the things in life, both big and small, I like to put off. Oh, like say for example, writing this update.

There really is no valid reason to put off this post. It's not bad news at all, in fact it's rather good news, but still, here I am, checking in a day late. In fact, I have put off writing anything at all for over a week, and that is yet another study in procrastination and ambivalence I could easily ramble on about for at least three or four paragraphs. I think I'll save that for another time. (See, there it is again!)

Where was I? Oh yes, on to the check in. I got on the scales Tuesday morning - I should stop here and mention that I was seriously considering not weighing myself at all this week, since last week was spent completely ignoring all things weight related - and what do you know? I lost 2 lbs. don’t ask me how, I couldn't tell you, but I'll take it. Maybe not obsessing over every little thing I put in my mouth had something to do with my success. Maybe obsessing about food, regardless of whether I’m compulsively eating or compulsively worrying about eating, is a big part of my problem. I've posted before about my feelings on dieting., but I don't think I have completely rid myself of the dieter's mind set.

There is this wonderful theory now becoming popular that explores the idea of conscious eating instead of dieting. The basic premise is that we as children or young adults, for whatever reason, have lost the ability to self regulate our hunger. We no longer recognize physical hunger cues and eat for emotional reasons, and even more disastrous, we have lost our ability to recognize being satisfied without moving into the "oh my god I want to puke" zone. The trick is to slow down, listen to your body, eat when you are physically hungry, and stop when you are physically full. Obviously that is an overly simplified statement, and much more goes into that process than "just do this and all your issues will be gone". I've read several books by Geneen Roth, and what she has to say made a lot of sense to me, and if you are so inclined, I highly recommend them.

Where is this ramble going? I hardly know myself, but I have been feeling distinctly fraudulent the last couple of weeks as I read everyone’s plans, and points, calories tallied, and lbs lost because I had no such plan, nor was I that jazzed about finding one. So my challenge to myself is not to pick a plan and stick with it, but to slow down enough to listen to my body, feed it what it desires, and stop when I am satiated. Ok, so at least try to do these things. Who knows, maybe I will learn something about myself along the way.

Healthy You Challenge Check In: Nothing Gained, Nothing Lost

2008-02-12T17:50:00.001-05:00

I suppose that's a good thing considering the previous week's gain of 2.5 lbs. I really can't complain(especially after this weekend's potato chip masacree - and oh was it good!), but Im going to anyway.

Motivation on all fronts is non-existent. Maybe it's the time of the year. Maybe Im supposed to be hibernating dammit, not trying to get my butt to the gym! Maybe it's because aunt flo came today so last week I was pms'ing and needed the French onion dip to go along with those chips. Maybe it's because this Thursday is the day I love to hate, and Im feeling sorry for myself as only a singleton can. Or maybe(it's the word of the day)my attitude is for shite and I need to snap out of it. However you look at it, I'll take my nothing gained and count myself lucky.

It wasn't all bad this last week though. I did get more sleep (thank gawd! Can you imagine the tone of this post if I was sleep deprived as well??? I shudder to think). I also managed to up my water intake each day to the recommended 6-8 glasses. So there. Not a total wash.

I don't feel all that great going into this week either (what with VD and all that), but rather than pout and quite possibly binge in a haze of self loathing, Im going to try to be a little kinder to myself, take the pressure off a little, and just try to maintain some state of zen. For just this week Im not going to focus on how many days I do or don't get to the gym, or if that piece of chocolate I just ate makes me evil incarnate; for this week Im going to pamper myself with yummy smelling soaps, romantic comedies staring John Cusack, hanging out with my peeps, and maybe even a good bottle of wine.

One Last Look

2008-02-10T21:49:00.000-05:00

At the risk of becoming one of those tiresome people who make you look at endless pictures of their vacation, Im doing one more post dedicated to my trip to Anguilla. Between the lounging around on the beach and the drinking of much rum, I did manage to do a fair amount of site seeing. We had a few cloudy days, so I spent them driving around the island with my head hanging out the back seat window taking pictures, periodically yelling "Stop!" at my father and making him pull over on some back road so I could jump out and take a shot (of the photographic varity).

Animal Life
Goats, they're everywhere, you notice them the moment you start looking around. They are a main food source for the locals, and they let them run wild. Im not sure how anyone tells which goat belongs to whom, but they are a big part this island's charm. Although you have to be careful when you're driving around, they tend to wander out into the street.

Drive by Goats

A stroll by the ocean.

There were other types of animal life popping up to pose for their close up. Some were beautiful.
Others? Well,let's just say they had character.

Eewwww!
Big Ass Hermit Crab

Flora and Fauna

Around the Island

The rest of the pictures are just shots taken around the island throughout the week. These below are the ones I hope capture the flavor of Anguilla. It is beautiful in that Carribean island way everyone expects it to be, but there is also beauty in the daily lives of the people who live there.

Okay, okay, Im hearing the desperate cries of Uncle from the aether so I will stop torturing you with vacation photos. Well, maybe one more. This was the sunset on the last night we were there, and seemed a fitting end to a beautiful vacation. Thanks for letting me share it with you (Like you had a choice).

Slacker

2008-02-07T09:34:00.000-05:00

Today's blog entry was going to be a picture filled final wave to my vacation in Anguilla. Obviously my mad procrastination skillz have taken over and there are no fabulous pictures with pithy comments*cough* gracing these here pages. I have a really good excuse. No, really I do! Last night when I was supposed to be creating away I was doing this:

It's the last book, and Im into the last chapters, and OH MY AUNT EDNA'S ASS I couldn't put it down! But it was soo intense I had to put it down- several times in fact- and walk around the house pretending I was done reading for the night- going to write- Yeah, that's it, Im going to write. But no, I have to find out what happens!(Yes I talk to myself just like this, and yes, I do need to get a life)

I still don't know what happens (Shhh! Don't tell me!). I read until 11:30 and could very well have kept on going until I finished the book, but I made a promise to myself to get enough sleep this week as part of the Healthy You Challenge(dammit!). So I closed the book as our heroic trio was making their way to confront you- know-who in the Shrieking Shack and went to bed.

So there you have it, my secret slacker shame, but to paraphrase the words of perhaps the most famous procrastinator in literary history " I won't think about that right now. I'll think about that tommorrow. Afterall, tomorrow is another day".

Now where did I put that book.......

Healthy You Check In - I Need a Mulligan

2008-02-05T13:02:00.000-05:00

I don't play golf, but working in a cube farm where everyone and his brother does allows you to pick up a few terms here and there. A Mulligan is one of them. It means a do over, and that's exactly what I need. Last week, my first week in the challenge was less than stellar. It's odd, and so very me, that the minute I announce to anyone any kind of weight loss goal, diet plan, exercise plan, whatever, I immediately set out to sabatoge myself. Does anyone else do out here do this?

Anyway, last week, uuugh. I got on the scale this morning and - yep - gained 2.5 lbs. I'd like to say I have no idea how this happened, but Id be lying. Last week I ate like I was going to the chair. And to add insult to injury, only went to the gym once. Exercise, at least for me, is my biggest challenge. I hate going to the gym- hate it. Everyday I pack my bag, make sure my iPod is charged, and head out to work with the best intentions of going to work out at lunch. Unfortunately by lunch time Iv'e either procrastinated my way out of it ("I'll go tomorrow") or someone has asked me to go to lunch (more calories!) and I hate to pass up the chance to get away and be social. Im going to have to work on this.

On the bright side, even while throwing food at my face, I was playing the casual observer to my bad habits, and was making mental notes on things I can do to change the current backslide. Here's what I want to work on this week:

Water - I don't drink nearly enough, and have recently gotten back in the bad habit of drinking sodas. So, for this week(to start), no more coke. and up the water to 6-8 glasses per day ( Im on glass #2 for today.. I better get drinking).

Sleep - I don't get nearly enough sleep each night. Im somewhat of a night owl, and consider it a victory if I can get to bed by midnight (I have to get up at 6:30), but more times than not, I don't get to bed until 12:30. That just isn't enough sleep, and the next day Im tired, lathargic, and it probably is a direct contributor to my lack of motivation on the exercise front. Plus I read somewhere that a lack of sleep does wonky things to your metabolism. So... in bed this week by 11:30 at the latest.

Exercise - I know, I know, I know, I have to find something or some way to consistantly incorporate movement into my day. Maybe this week I can at least make it to the gym 3 times. That's better than nothing, and continue to try to find other activities I might enjoy more. Like a root canal (just kindding, sort of).

Yes, there is plenty more I could list out and try to tackle, but I think for this week three is good. Next week I'll re-evaluate and see if I can add more. I hope everyone has a great week, and thanks for all the support! It's nice to know we're all in this struggle together.

In Which I am Almost Traded for a Shot of Vodka

2008-01-31T20:48:00.000-05:00

Its a Saturday night around 10pm on the small carribean island of Anguilla, my three friends and I are heading down to a little spot called The Pump House. It was originally an actual pump house for the salt flat that it sits on. Evidently salt was a major export at one time or another, but now the pump house is simply a kick ass reggae bar and resturant.

The band has just started warming up so we all belly up to the bar for our first round of drinks. Here, we meet up with a couple of dudes from Kentucky that my friend Jay had met earlier in the week, and what a merry bunch we are. There is much ordering of drinks, and the first round of ill advised shots that were to be a recurring theme during the night to come.

After a fair amount of social lubricant people begin to dance to the rhythmic sounds of Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, and a few covers of songs Im not sure should be rendered reggae (Elton John's "Daniel" for example).

I should stop here and explain that the locals on the island are extremely friendly, and the men specifically, find it the height of entertainment to dance with tourists of the female persuasion. It's all in good fun, but sometimes they get a little over zealous, so it's good to have a 6' something back up to point to and say "I'm with him". Jay was mine.

So we're dancing and drinking and dancing some more, and taking shots, and dancing, and drinking (you get the picture) when one particular guy who I had danced with several times that night twirls me out into the middle of the crowd and proceeds to exclaim that I was going to go home with him.
"What!?" I yell over the din of the music.
"You are going to go home with me" He yells back, pointing a finger first at my chest then at his.
"Ohhhh I seeee, yeah no, no I'm not" I turn to point out Jay,"I'm with him".
Jay sees my pointing and bops over smiling, extending his fist out to my dance partner in greeting. They knock knuckles in a pantently alpha male-hey-how-ya-doing manner as Mr local yells " I want to take her home for a f*!@K mon" (no lie, he really said it just like that!). I'm shaking my head no, laughing, and moving closer to Jay to take his arm as Jay says as plain as you please " Oh, no, I'm good, but you two go ahead"
What.The.Fuhhhh?
My eyes, I'm sure popped right out of my head as my jaw hit the floor. He did NOT just say what I think he said! And then it dawns on me; I know what he thinks he heard (it is rather loud what with standing with our ears pressed up against the band's speakers and all). So I yell back,
"He didn't say vodka!"
"What?"
"He didn't say vodka!"
"What!?" He motions to his ear, "I'm deaf in here" (no shit Sherlock).
I grab the back of his head and draw his ear down to mouth level and yell for all I'm worth, "HE DIDN"T SAY VODKA! NOT VODKA! WITH AN F WITH AN F!!!"
Then his eyes popped out of their sockets as the lightbulb went off (oh hallelujah).

Focusing our attention back on my would-be suiter, we both smile sheepishly, back away slowly, and make our way out into the street for some air, laughing our very drunk, very deaf, butts off.

Needless to say, this little episode was the running joke for the rest of the week, and poor Jay will probably never live it down.

We interrupt our previously scheduled post.....

2008-01-29T18:33:00.000-05:00

When I started this blog back in November one of my primary goals was to focus a fair portion of my writing on my desire to get healthy and loose weight; to write about the struggles, learning experiences and small victories along the way. I have blogged here and there about it, but have not given it the attention I intended to in the beginning. This is largely due to the fact that I've found writing about my weight, and all that it entails, feels alot like standing in a crowded room. Nekkid. With no clothes on. And everyone is waiting for the monologue I was supposed to have memorized but left in my jeans pocket - which I don't have - because I'm Nekkid. So, Ive written about other things, or, as my blog entry numbers will tell you, not at all.

This, I hope, is about to change. I will still be writing about other stuff, you know, Life the Universe, and Everything, but also more of the weight stuff. My trip to Anguilla, while a lot of fun, was sort of an eye opening experience. I kept having this nagging feeling that "this could be so much better if...". Coming back to my empty little house in the middle of a cold January night was also kind of a jolt. A kick in the rubber parts, so to speak, to try to get my body in shape and my personal life in gear.

Ive been reading a lot of blogs lately by fascinating, strong, wonderful women who are all facing the same challenges I am. Some have more to lose than I do, some have less, some have already made it, some are well under way, but all of them have wisdom and support to impart in their stories. One such woman, Diana, over at Scale Junkie, started a "Healthy You Challenge" for 2008. You get to decide what your definition of healthy is, and how to get there. The idea being that everyone who joins takes on the challenge of becoming healthier this year, and by joining you get the added bonus of the support of all these other women.

So, Ive joined. And each Tuesday I'll be blogging about my progress, or lack there of. See my nifty button over there? I'm rather pleased about it. So, anyhoo - here goes nothing, or everything, depending on how you look at it.

Roots and Leaves

2008-01-28T18:40:00.000-05:00

Anguilla is not like any of the other Caribbean islands you picture when thinking of the Caribbean. Unlike Aruba or St Maarten, Anguilla is, for the most part, still undeveloped and very untourist like. This, unfortunately is changing, but for now you can still wander down a random dirt road and come across a secret little hide away spot you never knew was there.

This is exactly what happened the second afternoon we were there, and what we found was this little bar called KoKo's. It was at the end of a long and twisty dirt road speckled with the most bizzar alien cacti I had ever seen. They looked otherworldly

The bar seemed unassuming enough, very picturesque, with happy little coconut fishies bobbing lazily in the breeze. But looks can be deceiving.

Upon closer inspection my friend Katie discovered these large glass bottles of "infused rum". The girl at the bar placed her hand over each one as she described them. Lemon and Ginger, Orange and Cinnamon, Roots and Leaves 'mon.
Huh? Did she just say roots and leaves? Roots and leaves. What kind of roots and leaves?
She just smiled and started pouring shots.

If this doesn't look like trouble, I don't know what does.

So we all bellied up to the bar, totally willing to throw down whatever potent potable was placed in front of us. We were on vacation after all, and who needs brain cells on vacation?

They were all surprisingly tasty! The roots and leaves in particular - kind of like licorice, but not quite, and the rum left a warm spicy heat as it traveled down your throat. Needless to say there were many rounds of roots and leaves with a few umbrella drinks thrown in for good measure, and we all managed to get our island on. Here's my partner in crime, Jay, up to no good. Later in the week he would inadvertently try to give me away to a local for a shot of vodka, but that's a story for another post.

Once I peeled myself off the bar I stumbled around taking pictures. They came out fairly well considering.

I wanted to lay down here, but thought better of it once I realized Id have to get up again.

This is a shot of Scilly Quay (pronounced silly key), in the middle of Island Harbor (thus the name). Supposedly if you wave from the dock they will come in a boat to bring you over to snorkel and swim. We waved but no one showed - I can't imagine why.

I have no idea what this is, other than rock and water, but I thought it was really pretty at the time.

The next day we were all basking(recuperating)in the sun, describing our find to another longtime resident of the island who said he was very familiar with KoKo's. In fact he claimed to know the secret to the roots and leaves infusion, and wondered out loud if any of us had come down with a case of the munchies after we left the bar. Hmmmm.

A First Look from Tortue Villa

2008-01-27T18:24:00.001-05:00

The happy vacationer has returned! And what do you know? I had a wonderful time! I have to say I'm more than a little embarrassed at how I worried and whined before the trip. It was, as I had suspected (and was continually assured), all for naught. I have tons of pictures and stories, and hardly know where to start(Sort of like the pile of coconut and salt water smelling laundry still staring at me from my bedroom floor). I guess the best place to start is at the beginning.

The morning I flew out of RDU was a little stressful (read shaking hands, nausea and hyperventilation), but I downed my pharmaceutical courage along with my orange juice and felt equal to the task of getting myself on the plane for the first leg of my trip( Raleigh to Charlotte). Again, I felt a little silly once on the plane ;we were no sooner in the air than the captain was announcing our landing.
What?!
Did I fall asleep?
These pills are great!

I met up with my travel companions, the kids of the other couple sharing the house with my parents, and until we had to board our flight we killed time with morning Bloody Marys and a lot of catching up. We were a motley group boarding that flight; I had popped another xanax, and was looking forward to being poured into my seat for the duration of the flight. Excessive pill popping? Perhaps, but I was taking no chances. I just made sure my peeps knew to make sure I got off the plane and pointed me in the direction of baggage claim once we landed.

We landed in St Maarten at 4:15, and should have had plenty of time to catch the 5:00 ferry to Anguilla, but the best laid plans and all that. Baggage claim took a life time, and by the end we were laying bets as to who was going to be shopping for new underwear. Then we hit some crazy traffic jam on the way to the ferry (of course) and we missed not only the 5:00 ferry, but the 6 and 6:30 as well. We did manage to catch the last ferry heading to Anguilla at 7, so by the time we got through customs and loaded our luggage into the two cars waiting for us (along with a celebratory Carib beer) it was pitch black. I had to wait until the next morning to check out our view.

It was worth the wait. These were all taken from the veranda off the living room of our villa, I don't even know if I can put into words just how gorgeous(breath taking,really)it was(do you hate me yet?).

I'll be writing more about the week's happenings and posting more pictures as well. There is just too much to put into one post! But for now I'll leave you with one more picture. This is a view of our villa (we're on the top floor) from the beach below.

I have vacation head..

2008-01-14T16:14:00.001-05:00

And should not be confused with vacation hair,which for me - in a tropical (read humid) setting-is something akin to Peruvian bush woman gone wrong. Either way, I can't concentrate at all (as this post will undoubtedly illustrate). Ive been staring at the same billing issue for half the afternoon(did I mention I work in billing resolution for a corporate telecom co? No? Well, that's what I do. It's oh so glam, let me assure you). It's not like anyone else is working that hard. The all male members of my group are discussing the finer points of football(again), and listening to sound clips of Dirty Harry movies. Mark my words, in about 4 minutes the Nerf football will come out and all pretences of work will be gone. I am so immersed in testosterone around here I might just grow an appendage soon! But I digress (it's that kind of day).

I could not sleep last night, nor do I expect to get much sleep tonight, and we can just forget about tomorrow night. I'll be lucky if I don't vomit, much less actually be able to close my eyes. I suppose that will make the flight all that easier as long as I don't drool on some stranger's shoulder and someone at least slaps me on the back of the head when we land. (See that? I'm being all optimistic and going on the assumption that the plane will actually land and not crash in a flaming ball of metal and carry on luggage. Yay me!). I'm mostly packed, Ive shaved the winter legs (yikes!), and I go get my pedicure this afternoon. Things are mostly done, so all that's left is to try to stay calm. Aside from the flight, I'm actually starting to get excited about the actual trip. I think writing all my crazy shit down in my last post was actually therapeutic (who knew!?). So were all the encouraging comments, thank you! You have no idea how much that helped.

Wish me luck! I will probably not post again until I get back as I don't think the internets are free at the villa, besides I plan to be in a liquid (and thus illiterate) state for most of the time. Have a great week, and I'll toast you all with a rum drink. Cheers Mon!

Crazy is as Crazy does

2008-01-09T13:43:00.000-05:00

This is going to make me sound, at best, like a total ingrate, and at the worst, barking mad, but it's where my head is none the less. Next week - to the day- I'm hopping a plane and heading down to a small Caribbean island for a week of sun and rum with my parents and another family we have known my entire life. This was my parent's Christmas/40th birthday gift to me, an all expense paid week at a beautiful villa on the small but stunning Caribbean island of Anguilla.

What's the problem you ask? Well, here's where my particular brand of crazy comes into it - I'm totally stressed out about it. For one thing, I hate to fly. I think I would rather undergo a root canal than step foot on a giant metal tampon with wings and trust some random yabo not to plunge me to an early death. Seriously, I only fly if armed with mighty Xanax (which I have) and equally mighty pre-flight cocktails(who cares if it's 7am, I'm having a panic attack dammit!).

But that is only a part of where my anxiety stems. If I'm totally honest with myself, and with you dear reader, and look deep in my darkest heart of hearts, the biggest portion of my stress comes from worrying about my weight. There, I said it. I'm letting my fat girl fears color every aspect of what should be a fabulous adventure, and that makes me very sad(and more than a little ashamed of myself to boot).

I worry about getting my fat ass on the plane and if I will fit into those ridiculously small seats (don't even get me started on the seat belts), I worry about laying around in a bathing suit with "the skinny girls", I worry about the countless land mines that will crop up, from snorkeling to embarrassing moments of big girl meets small space, and I worry about the unavoidable run ins with well meaning natives (strangers, mind you) who try to make you feel better by pointing out what you want so desperately to ignore and then discuss it at length while you look for the nearest exit. And yes, I've had plenty of time to remedy some of this by trying to lose weight and get in shape before I had to leave, but we all know how time and procrastination get the best of us. It pisses me off none the less.

So there you have it, my own private Idaho laid bare. I'm certainly not proud of any of it, and I will do my best to get myself in a better place before I leave, but Ive been having a hard time doing anything more than obsessing over all of this for the last several weeks. It's insane, I know. This charming little character flaw of mine to focus on the bad, so much so that I ruin the joy of anticipation, is something I truly hate about myself, and know I have to work to change. I also know, that once I'm back, I will be writing about how much fun I had, how beautiful it was, and posting amazing pictures of views and beaches and sparkling water. I know this, I always do this before any kind of trip. It's ridiculous really. One would think I would learn and actually do something about my weight sooner than later. One would think.

Been Gone too Long

2008-01-07T17:50:00.000-05:00

Ahhh, the blank space of a new blog entry, how you do vex me. It's been so very long since Ive posted anything, and it seems absence does not make the heart grow fonder, it causes the brain to grow empty. So, what to do with blank page and empty brain you ask? Torture you with (aack!)photos I took with my new "Merry Christmas to me" camera!!!

I went home to my parent's house for Christmas, and it was lovely. I sucked up as much of the view as I could get.

There was the usual familial tension and stress, but it was delightfully muted by grape juice - of the fermented variety (is that wrong?). My Grandfather and Aunt came down from Mass. as well as my two cousins. There was much merry making;

And eating of roast beast

And waking of the neighbors

Our resident pyro/chef - My Dad

I also got to spend some time with my nephew(only after I knocked my mother out of the way - first grandchild and all that).

All in all, not a bad holiday. New Years Eve was a quiet affair, I hung out over at the Tap dancer's eating sushi and swilling champagne,and we rounded out the week celebrating her birthday this weekend with all the trappings, including a pilgrimage to our favorite Chinese restaurant, Neo-China. Mr. Tap dancer even picked up the tab - what a nice guy!

So, here I sit, another holiday season past, and Ive come out relatively unscathed, sanity mostly in tact. Normally I would be going into January hibernation mode, but I have to get ready to go to the Caribbean with my parents next week, and that, while wonderful in itself, is causing all sorts of anxiety, much of which I will be spewing on the pages of this blog as the week progresses. Neat!

Solstice

2007-12-24T13:18:00.001-05:00

Hello! This is not your usual hostess of the Trapped Realm - she is "away from her desk", at this time; on her way home to her family for Christmas. I, the Tapdancer, have shimmied my way over here to get these pictures up for you viewing pleasure. The first part of these pictures can be seen over at Tapdancing on the Edge of Reason.
This first picture is of the fun we have with Christmas crackers- its awfully hard to be grumpy with a silly paper crown on your head (although none of these dopes are wearing crowns - hmmmm).

Bea, aka Chanda made an incredible Baked Ziti for dinner, accompanied by a lovely green salad, dressed with gorgonzola, olive oil and balsalmic vinegar. The equally astounding homemade bread was made by Dave-man, who is renowned for not only his kick-ass BBQ, but his KA bread as well. Are you hungry yet?

We open the Christmas crackers at the table before dinner, to keep the "kids" busy. Look how well its working! Here Grandma translates one of the jokes that are written in French - I thought she might have been deigning to read fortunes, but alas, she was not that drunk at this point.

Here I am, the Tapdancer, with my sister-in-love, mugging for the Trapped One. I am a bit glassy-eyed here, but happy! That has to count for something in times like these.

This is my beloved niece, Nickel (I'm not telling you her real name - she's a celebrity in actuality, so we try to keep it low-key, so the fans will give her a break) - isn't she lovely? And she is as sweet on the inside as she looks on the outside, which a rarer and more wonderful gift than a pretty exterior. Sniff - i just love that girl!

Once we had demolished the appetizers, and the dinner feast, we brought out the big guns - dessert! Here you see the cookie tier and a beautiful old dish full of Bea's incredible biscotti. she made her grandmother's traditional anise-flavored ones, but then she created her own recipe for Cranberry Orange Biscotti, which we dredged in Scharffenberger's Semi-sweet chocolate. OMFG, they are orgasmic - I think they should be her signature recipe, they are just perfection!

The Piece de Resistance of the evening was my mother's Buche de Noel - a chocolate roll cake filled with coffee ganache and frosted with her famous chocolate chip frosting. Its an awesome cake; one that I am always trying to get her to make (I had a version of it for a wedding cake), and what makes it truly an artform, is the little meringue/chocolate mushrooms that decorate it. They look real enough to fool your more "groovy" friends, but they melt in your mouth, and you can't get arrested for possesion of them...I don't think. She made extra mushrooms to garnish with, which was greatly appreciated by everyone - it can turn ugly with a limited supply of 'shrooms.

so there you have it - the Solstice Party, in two parts. (Don't forget, the other half is over here, at Tapdancing on the Edge of Reason). Bon appetit, and Happy Christmas!

Ok, so maybe just a picture.

2007-12-20T16:25:00.001-05:00

I know I said I wasn't posting this week, but I was getting some pictures printed as Christmas presents, and this one came out particularly well (at least I think it did), so I thought I'd post it. I took it with an ancient 35 mm camera and then played with it in Photoshop a little(gotta love Photoshop). It's a view of the top half of the Currituck Beach Light House that was taken this summer on our annual trip to the Outer Banks.

We now return to our regularly scheduled pre-holiday panic.

HO HO HO

2007-12-18T08:29:00.000-05:00

The last week before Christmas has sent me running around like the proverbial chicken sans head, and writing everyday just has not been possible. I've been feeling somewhat guilty about that in an I-haven't-done-my-homework- sort of way, and what's the fun in that!? So, in order to preserve my Joi de blog and finish my holiday shopping, baking, wrapping, packing, freaking out, I am taking a break until after Christmas (unless inspiration or the insanity that is my family strikes). Until then my friends....

Merry Christmas, Happy Solstice, Peace.

Starting Small

2007-12-12T23:42:00.000-05:00

I have been called out on the mat by She who Tap Dances to post some of my poetry out here in blog land. Well, I went digging through old journals with the best intentions of pulling out my 20 year old angst ridden- unrequited love filled poetry to subject you to. I read it all and Oh the Horrors it was AWFUL! Bad beyond bad. Bad like Debbie Gibson and Stevie Nicks got together and had a love child,and that child wrote poetry bad! I'm telling you people, it was stinkaroo.

So I wrote a couple of new ones. Little ones. Haiku(s)specifically. I figured I would start small, and maybe revisit those stinky poems later. While these bits of poetic sushi are far from being good , at least they don't sound like a bad country western song.

Here they are

#1
friend revisited
charming and recalcitrant
can never return

#2
Burger of my dreams
clings to my thighs looming large
awaken to fruit

Squirrely Girl - The Anatomy of a Binge(averted).

2007-12-11T10:30:00.000-05:00

8:30PM - Saturday Night. Returned from a wonderful dinner over at Casa de Toy, feeling comfortably full, ready for a quiet evening at home. Curled up with Harry Potter book.

8:50PM - It's quiet in here, too quiet.

9:00PM - Made a cup of tea, placed last three peppermint patty cookies(no sin greater) on a pretty plate and consciously enjoyed my dessert.

9:14PM - Returned to Harry Potter feeling smug and superior for my planned eating and control. Yay me.

9:25PM - No longer feeling smug and superior, feeling restless and agitated. In the back of my mind I know whats coming. Mixed feelings of dread, anticipation, anger, and acquiescence.

9:30PM - Close book, wander into kitchen to peruse contents of cabinets - Pretzels, oatmeal, canned tomatoes, black beans, Kashi bars? No. Staring blankly into the fridge, hmmmm cheese, cold cuts, olives, bread? Cheese toast! Pull half the items out. Stop, throw them all back in, take a deep breath, close the door and give myself a firm but kind pep talk about not being hungry, emotional eating, blah blah blah. Sent myself outside to get some air.

9:44PM - Back inside. Freaked myself out listening to random feral kitties make axe murderer noises in my backyard.

9:45PM - Walk past fridge, open it, close it, open it again. Close it again. Shit.

9:50PM - Sit down at the computer to write a blog entry. Perhaps of version of this very blog entry. Blank blog page gives me the finger. Play a game of online scrabble (OK 3 games).

10:50PM - Ass is asleep. Get up and wander around the house. Well, what do you know? I'm back in the freekin' kitchen again, standing in font of the cabinet. All still there. Open fridge. Nope, no changes in there either. *sigh* Give myself a stern "what the hell are you doing?" talking to and head back into the den.

11:00PM - Turn on the TV. Surf through all 77 channels of crap (4 or 5 times).

11:30PM - Ah! SNL. All is well.... until the damned fast food commercial. Are you f*#!ing kidding me!???

11:45PM - Standing in the kitchen again (there's a shock). Open and close both the cabinet and the fridge again (You have to keep an eye on those suckers, don't ya know).

11:50PM - Pick up my knitting in a last ditch effort to keep my hands and my head busy. SNL in the background. *Knit 1 Purl 2 Knit 1 Purl 2 just keep knitting, just keep knitting, knitting knitting...*

1:00AM - Sleep comes at last. This battle won. Countless more to fight.

A Christmas Ditty

2007-12-09T18:08:00.000-05:00

Twas the fortnight before Christmas and all through Home Depot
Not a white light was twinkling,they'd been bought by the people.

I stood there, face hung, in disbelief and despair,
surely just one, one little set was left there.

I'd gotten there early, pulled myself out of bed,
as visions of Christmas lights danced in my head.

So I in my sweat pants and teeth barely brushed,
Just popped down the road to run errands and such.
Now standing in front of displays oh so bare,
"You'll have to drive further", the clerk said with no care.

Away to the suburbs I flew like a flash.
Parked in the nose bleeds, and inside at a dash.
And what to my bloodshot eyes should appear,
No white lights up front. Nay! None in the rear.

As I threw up my hands, ready to leave in a huff
Down the isle a sales rep came shuffling , no rush.
His eyes they were blank and is jaw hung a' slack,
His beer gut jiggled when I asked. "Are there some in the back?"

He spoke not a word, just pointed his finger
at the carnival colors of lights left there to linger.
Then scratching his ass and cocking his head
He left me there, standing alone, seeing red.

I sighed as I purchased what little was left,
Then hiked back to my car,drove home sad and bereft.

But as I strung all those lights I saw something wonderous and new.
Merry Christmas to all-
My tree's balls have turned blue!

It's called a list, Dear.

2007-12-05T18:10:00.000-05:00

The encroaching holiday season is kicking into high gear, and so are my ADD tendencies. Evidently I‘m not the only one who’s feeling the burn either; my father said these exact words to me last night on the phone.

“I think I have a mental illness – I have all this shit piling up on my desk at the office, and I can’t focus on any of it. All I can think about is that Pink Floyd line ‘there’s someone in my head, but it’s not me.’”

You just gotta love Ol’ Bill.

I know how he feels though, I’m scattered to the four winds these days and it’s wrecking havoc on my diet skilz (and for the record, they aren't that great to begin with). So, I took a moment today during my lunch hour to calm my ass down, breathe a deep breath and (what else) make a list. I was inspired, of course, by She Who Tap Dances, who made a couple of lists of her own last night. Here's what I came up with to help keep the sanity.

2007 Holiday Season Survival Guide
• Sleep – in bed dearie, every school night by 11. I'm far less likely to eat Satan’s breakfast (a bacon egg and cheese biscuit) if I haven’t overslept.

• Water – 6-8 glasses a day, minimum. Gonna flush my worries down the drain.

• Portion Control – What? You mean ½ bag of Oreos isn’t a serving size? WTF?

• Exercise 3 to 4 times a week – Shit. (Yea, yeah, I know – but I HATE it.)

• No late night snackage – No no no no! Bad Bea! Bad!

• In case of emergency break glass. – Or pop cork. Either way, I know it’s not the most well adjusted way to deal with family/holiday stress, but a girl’s gotta have a secret weapon stashed away somewhere.

As for all the other holiday lists? I will write them, post them on the fridge, and ultimately ignore them. Let's hope this first one sticks.

Whine and Cheese

2007-12-04T17:55:00.000-05:00

I read an interesting article over at Oprha.com (working real hard!) about venting and/or complaining continually about things you find unacceptable. Whether it be work, a troublesome friend or spouse, or *cough* weight, this article has some thought provoking ideas.

Basically it said that contrary to popular belief, venting about a situation is not as healthy as one might think. It basically allows you to release just enough emotional pressure to keep you in whatever situation is causing you stress, but does not actually effect change.

Wow. Kind of a simplistic concept, but it makes some sense, and I’ve honestly never thought about it that way. I feel like I do nothing these days except complain about what’s not right in my life, particularly my weight. Is this constant release of “steam” keeping me just comfortable enough to keep things status quo? Not that I would call my weight comfortable, but it’s safe.

This article challenges the reader to go on a “venting fast” for a predetermined amount of time, and see if that energy can be channeled and used the impetus for personal growth and change. There are rules, of course, and evidently a step not to be taken lightly. The article warns of the possibility for all that unreleased steam to expand and eventually explode. Who knows who could get wiped out in the storm? The rules involve a lot of journaling (hmmm, would blog entries count?), and finding at least one productive way to overcome whatever that day’s frustration was.

This all got me thinking about what I’ve been doing about my weight and my life for the past, oh I don’t know, DECADE or so, and the sad answer to that is – nothing. But man do I complain about it. A lot. It’s almost embarrassing. I’ve been whining about my job, my weight, my status as a singleton, my house, my parents, and my oh my how I do go on. And nothing has changed, in fact, in a few areas, things have gotten alarmingly worse.

Serious food for thought, and not a moment too soon, as today’s blog was going to be yet another spectacular whine about this weekend’s binges and the feelings of guilt and self loathing it produced. Perhaps it’s time for a paradigm shift.

If you want to read the entire article you can, here.

The Golden Road to Unlimited Devotion

2007-12-03T18:32:00.000-05:00

Saturday morning, at the butt crack of dawn, my two best friends and I took a mini road trip to mecca. Well, our personal mecca, anyway. Moore County. Home to some of the most talented, time honored potters on the planet. I've been collecting pottery from that area, for about 10 years, I caught the bug from my father, who can take collecting things (anythings) to a compulsive level that is truly impressive, if not a little frightening.

Anyhow, She Who Tap dances, ever the historian, gives a really good overview of the history of the area in her post today, so you should go check it out(along with some illustrative tid bits for flava). Me, I'm just there for the pretty pots. Though, to be honest, in order to make informed choices, you have to know your stuff, and should have done at least a little research. Regardless, it's a wonderful way to spend a day, and I even managed to get a little Santa business out of the way.

Our first stop of the day was here. Jugtown. It was kiln opening day, so even though we got there a mere 13 minutes after the place opened (Ms Q needed a biscuit some kine'a awful),it was packed, and people were staking their claims with a ferocity that would shock you. There was literally a man standing in the corner of the shop with about half a dozen items behind him, and he would NOT let anyone near that corner shelf. This is serious stuff people!

The beauty of Jugtown is that you are free to wander around and take in your surroundings, to really get up close and personal to the workings of the place. Below are a few shots I took while wandering around.(Don't ya'll just want to hop in a car and go!?).

Wood Fired Kiln

Unfinished Bisque

Another Jugtown view

And then it was time to move on. Cold, and ready to depart, my two compadres suffer one more picture.

Carpe Pottery!

We spent the rest of the day puttering around Seagrove, and the surrounding area. We got lost a couple of times (as all good road trippers should), but still managed to find our way to one or two other places.

And these? Well these I just thought were funny.

Mental Health Days

2007-11-30T19:34:00.000-05:00

The alarm went off at it's usual time. 6am. It should be outlawed, nobody should have to get up at that hour. Ever. Normally I hit the snooze button about 46 times until I absolutely have to get out of bed and face the day. Today I staged a small coup. I turned the alarm off, reached for my phone and left my regrets on my boss's voice mail. And I was FREEEEEEEE!!!!!!!

Part of the reason for not going today, was the ginormous pot luck breakfast that was scheduled for today. Not only did I not make the banana bread I had said I would, but I just wasn't feeling strong enough to withstand the abuse my diet would take when faced with the long-ass buffet line loaded with all that bacon-donut-grits-sausage-muffin-yumminess. I have been struggling this week with starting a diet(no- a healthy eating lifestyle change)and did not want to go into the weekend with that on my ever widening butt.

The next call of the Friday morning coup was to buzz She who Tap dances and corrupt her. Let's just say - Mission Accomplished.

Let's recap the day, shall we?

There was the pre battle coffee klatch,where there was much merry making and gossip flinging. Then off we went to explore the new shopping opportunities in our little town. I'm sad to say the opportunities were plentiful, and my credit card is feeling the burn. Bad news for the diet though - who knew there was a brand new chocolatier in town.. who makes their own chocolate...and has a little coffee house on the side....oh the humanity!

I believe the frivolity will carry over into evening, with adult beverages, and if I can convince everyone a John Cusak movie. (Gawd I love that man!)

All in all a good mental health day, much needed, and well spent (just ask my credit card!). I highly recommend them to charge a worn down spirit.

Being bad feels pretty good!

True Story

2007-11-29T11:01:00.000-05:00

When I was just about 4 years old, my parents and I were living in student housing while my father completed his doctoral degree here. During that time my mother substitute taught while finishing her teaching degree.

At times, my care fell to Lucy, a wizened southern black woman whom my parents met while commissioning her husband to build a trestle table for our kitchen. (I still have a warm fuzzy for that long, darkly stained hunk of a table that was still in our house long after I left for college).

Evidently Lucy and her husband took a shine to the very young,student poor hippie couple and their precocious child who liked to sing at the top of her lungs to anyone who'd listen, and Lucy would offer babysitting services on afternoons my mother had to be at school. On those days, she would also clean while she watched her "stories". Id sit at that table and color, listening to Lucy talk back to the TV as she shuffled around the kitchen.

One afternoon Lucy was cleaning the kitchen floor, the smell of Ajax permeating the whole house (that smell, 36 years later, forcibly reminds me of that day),when she opened the screened door and just stood there leaning heavily on her dust mop. Being the helpful child I was, thought she was tired, and needed help shaking out the mop, so I walked over to help her.

"I don't need help child, Lucy just needs to catch her breath"

Those were the last words she spoke. She stumbled back into the kitchen and promptly passed out, falling into my little red rocking chair. I remember being very concerned for my little red rocking chair, as it was not meant for grownups to take naps in.

"Lucy, Lucy, ummm.. I'm going to go take a walk now" I think on some level I knew something was wrong, but as a 4 year old did not quite understand what that "wrong" could be. In my head, she had simply fallen asleep. And In MY red rocking chair.

I wanted my dad to come and wake Lucy up, but he was at the Lab working. The Lab was down the path, across the main highway, and in one of those big red brick buildings.But which one? So, I toddled myself up to the big road and stopped. I had been told in no uncertain terms that I was NEVER EVER to cross that road without an adult. NEVER NEVER NEVER!!!! SO, I did the next best thing. Yelled.

"DAAAAAADDDYYYY!!!!"
"DAAAAAAAADDDDDDD!!!
"DAD!"

I'm not sure how long I stood there yelling across the street at the facades of those buildings. I remember being kind of amused at the way my voice echoed off of them. Luckily our next door neighbor and class mate of my father's was home for lunch and heard me yelling.

"What's wrong Chanda?"
"Lucy fell asleep in my rocking chair and won't wake up" (again with the rocking chair).

He stood there for a moment, probably trying to process what this kid just said then sprinted back toward the house.

Lucy had died of a massive stroke - instantly.

My mother sat on the edge of my bed that night to talk to me about what had happened. She was convinced I would be traumatized, permanently scarred by what I had seen.

"Is Lucy coming over again tomorrow?"
"No, Honey, she died today"
"Where did she go?"
"Heaven" (as all good Irish Catholic moms would say).
"Is she coming back?"
"No, but she's happy where she is"
"Oh... Okay"

Early childhood memories before the age of 4 are spotty at best, but that one stands out in extreme clarity, and one would think it would be a traumatic one. But it wasn't. Not once do I remember being scared or anxious, even after I had learned of her death. I don't know what that says about me, or it may just be that's how little kids process the abstract concept of death.

Neurosis, thy name is Bea.

2007-11-27T23:02:00.000-05:00

Historically speaking, my weight has been a bone of contention in my family since I started sprouting breasts. I wasn't overweight at that point but that changed over time. There have been lectures, ultimatums, pleading, bargaining, bribes, and threats. Each round left me feeling emotionally wrecked. I took their concern and worry and interpreted it as judgement and conditional love. I looked for comfort and control in food. DUH! I was a teenager, teenagers do the exact opposite of what their parents want. So, eating was like flipping my parents a tasty bird.

So,when two days after Thanksgiving,your mother starts a conversation with "I'm only going to bring this up once, and then I'll never speak of it again, but I want you to listen"...RUN!Or at least grab a bottle of wine,because you're going to need it.

In a nut shell- she wants me to consider "that lap band operation" because she doesn't think anything else will work, "you've tried everything", and she thinks I'm ignoring the problem....[blink].... [blink] WTF???

My knee jerk reaction was to get angry, hurt, and revert back to my not so healthy habit of flipping the bird. But I'm an adult now, sort of(there was an unfortunate incident with a bacon egg and cheese biscuit this morning), and can recognize that my mother is truly worried about my health, happiness, and general well being. She is handling it the only way any good Irish/Italian mother would - worry, research, then tell you what you should do(oh, and don't think she didn't through in a little guilt- she's a professional!).

So, back to going under the knife. How do I feel about going under the knife? I don't know, seems a little drastic to me, and kind of like using a band aid to cover a gun shot wound. If you take away the physical ability to binge eat, or over eat, or eat period ,really, what happens with the underlying bag of crap that got you here in the first place? Does that go away? I don't think so. How is that little ol bugaboo going to resurface? With an even more destructive compulsion? Therapy, yes, that would have to come with it, but that takes time. You've ripped away all your coping mechanisms (as unhealthy as they were), without giving yourself time to safeguard yourself with new ones. I don't know, that scares the shit out of me.

And maybe this is all one big rationalization because I don't want to entirely give up my security blanket.

Fuck! I want to be able to do this on my own, without invasive surgery, without obsessing over every bite of food I put in my freekin' mouth! This is really starting to PISS ME OFF!!!! Why is this so god damned hard for me! What if I can't do this? What then???? Christ, maybe I do need therapy.

The Bright Side

2007-11-21T14:39:00.000-05:00

It's the day before Thanksgiving, and as I read through my past blog entries I can't help but feel like they focus on more of the negative side of things. I'm okay with that, it's what I needed to say at the time. But, given the time of season, I thought it would be a pleasant change to focus on a few good things in life. Things I am profoundly grateful for:

Health - I am a healthy person. I have all my teeth, and I can walk, talk, laugh and love unfettered by injury or disease.

Hearth - I have a home, and all the comforts there in. Heat, water, food, and a couple of furry critters to keep my feet warm during cold winter nights. There are many, too many people out there with no home, no safe haven to retreat to at the end of the day, who will go hungry tonight, and every night for their foreseeable future. This is usually the time of year people focus on being generous to those who go without, but once the season passes, that focus blurs and fades until next season. I am guilty of this myself. I now challenge myself to not take what I have for granted, and to find ways to give of myself through out the coming year. Care to take that challenge with me?

Family - As much as my family can drive me bat shit, I'm thankful that I have them. We may be spread out up and down the East Coast, and across the country, but we are all connected by love and history. We always find time to gather during the year,and during those times we are kind and supportive of each other's endeavors (though my father's support sometimes feels like lecturing, Ol' Bill means well). We've also welcomed a new member of the clan this year. Welcome to the family, Breck!

Friends - I'm not even sure I have the words sufficient enough to express myself fully - I have been lucky enough to find a second family in the friends I have. I can honestly say I would be lost without them. They are the people I turn to for strength when I have none. They are the people I can be my true self with, and never feel judged or censured. They are the people I can be silly with and laugh with until I literally pee my pants( You haven't heard a joke until it's told by Ms. Q - she even cracks herself up.) I am grateful for each and every one of you.

Ok.. so there it is. Happy Thanksgiving to everyone out there in the blogosphere (Hi Flutter!)If you like, Id love to hear what ya'll are thankful for this season.

Time Waster Tuesday

2007-11-20T14:53:00.000-05:00

Yeah Yeah Yeah, I'm lame, but the creative juices have dried up like dog poo on the sidewalk. So, in place of a post of any substance I thought Id share with you what Ive been wasting my time with today. Surfing the web and avoiding the tedious - any idiot with a calculator could do it pile of crap on my desk(Ahhhh that's a college education well spent).

I found this site totally devoted to things people overhear in the office, or on the street, or anywhere you hear random weirdness. Damn! Why didn't I think of that. She who tap dances and I are always sitting in restaurants trying to listen in on other people's conversations. Is that wrong?

Overheard in the Office.

Worker girl: I have to clean my room when I get home tonight. Clothing is everywhere.
Worker guy: Why? Are you having someone come over?
Worker girl: Not planning on it, but you never know.
Worker guy: Why the hell do you bother picking up clothing? Maybe if it were actually filthy... But if you're going to let a guy look at your vagina, he should be willing to deal with a shirt on your floor.

McLean, Virginia

Overheard by: Well He's Right

Garden State

2007-11-19T10:15:00.000-05:00

I watched Garden State last night for the umpteen millionth time, and if you haven't already seen it, go watch it. Seriously. Tonight, go watch it. It has to be one of the best movies ever made. It stars, and was written and directed by Zach Braff. Natalie Portman stars in it as well, and she her usual brilliant self. Even if you never see the movie(which would be a bad bad idea), the soundtrack is amazing. The Shins, Paul Simon, Nick Drake, Coldplay, come on- it just doesn't get any better than that.

Andrew Largeman returns to his home town in New Jersey to attend his mother's funeral, he hasn't been back in nine years, and he hasn't been without heavy medication since he was a child. He chooses this week to stop taking all his medication as he is beginning to suspect he's missing something.

Anyway, without giving away anymore of the plot,the movie is all about waking up. Waking up and experiencing your entire life, and all it entails; all its beauty, and all its pain without apology.

It's an idea I find myself knocking around a lot lately - to shrug off whatever insular cloak one wraps around oneself, and really live, feel, and experience life with clarity(and hopefully with more than just a little kindness and insight). By doing so you open yourself up to the possibility of love, in all its beautifully flawed and dysfunctional guises.

I like that idea.

Good luck exploring the infinite abyss!.

You always remember your first.

2007-11-16T11:00:00.000-05:00

She who tap dances was tagged by the lovely Flutter for the 7 random things about you meme, and she in turn has tagged me. My first meme(does it make me a dork if Im kind of cheesed about it? Probably, but Im OK with that.) First things first - the rules:
* Link to your tagger and post the rules.
* Share seven facts about yourself, some random, some weird.
* Tag seven people at the end of the post and list their names there. - Uh Houston, we have a problem. The only two blogger I know are Flutter and Ms. B. Can you tag someone you read all the time but don't know? That can't be considered good manners. Any suggestions?
* Let those you've tagged know by leaving comments on their blogs.

Ok, here goes nothing.
1) I love road trips. I love picking the destination, loading up the car, pulling out the map and watching the scenery change from place to place. Ms. B is usually the co-pilot, as she is usually who I road trip with. It is the co-pilot's job to man the cooler, pick the music and read the map. Oh, and take Rain Man-esque pictures out the window as we drive.

2) I am a spectacular slob. My cleaning style revolves around letting things go for so long the health department shows up, then spending eight hours on a saturday cleaning and blaring the stereo as loud as it can go. Don't ya know the neighbors just love me.

3) I hate yard work and do-it-yourself home improvement with a passion. So, of course I bought a 65 year old fixer upper on half an acre of land.... cuz Im smart that way.

4)One semester in college I withdrew early, took the tuition money and wandered up and down the east coast going to Dead shows. My parents still don't know. I really hope they don't find this blog! Id be SO grounded.

5)I have never and will never be able to spell. I like to call it creative spelling. All I can say is spell check is a beautiful thing.

6) I am God(dess) mother and guardian to The Professor and The Bohemian I love them like they were my own and occasionally spoil them like they're not.

7) I can never ever find my phone. Ever. My cell is the only phone I use, and Im usually running around the house trying to figure out where I left it,or digging around in the pit of despair I like to call a purse, all before the pretty song ends. And, as a matter of course, if I can find it, I can't talk long because Ive forgotten to charge the damn thing and it dies mid conversation.

Ok.. there they are, seven random facts about moi. Since I know no one to tag, feel free to tag someone you know. You can always blame it on the new girl.

Trifecta of Crap

2007-11-15T11:12:00.000-05:00

- Getting on the scales this morning - nothing has changed. Realize I haven't really worked that hard on "dieting" so all the workouts in hell have been for naught. Neat.

- Driving to work in wicked bad traffic amidst the SUV zombies yapping on their cell phones and doing their make-up (sometimes both. I kid you not!). Obsessing about what the scales didn't show, feeling ugly, resentful, mean and spectacularly sorry for myself.

- Sitting at my desk this morning just trying to deal when all four of the mysoginistic, neanderthal men I work with get up en mass and oogle out the window at some poor woman walking to her car. They procede to snort and gafaw about how "thick" she is. That "yeah, her legs are thin enough, but then she gets really big". They laugh as she gets in the car and the car shifts with her. I sat there mute, mortified, blinking back tears of shame, embarassment and anger. Hello! Im right here, your "thick" co-worker - mother fuckers!

As I stuffed my ear buds in and turned up the music to try to tune them out I my anger turned inward.
Me - you should say something, stand up for her, for yourself!
Myself - but Im all alone, they're going to turn on me.
Me - Coward!

I feel like a booger dangling from the nose hairs of life..... GAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

I Got the Music in Me

2007-11-13T20:26:00.000-05:00

Music has always been present in my life. My first memories are of the student housing where I spent my first 5 years as my father completed his PhD filled with music by The Beatles, Janis Joplin, Jimmy Hendrix, The Grateful Dead and Bob Dylan. There were always people around with guitars or small hand held drums (it was the 60's after all).

Once,my parents went to a production of Jesus Christ Superstar in Boston, and brought back the soundtrack. Much to the bemusement of my mother, I appropriated that album and played it. To death. I knew every word. And would sing it,loudly,in various public places. Little did my 5 year old self realize "The King of the Juice" was not who they were singing about. Go figure, the son of God was not the Hey Kool-aid guy.

High school in the early 80's in a rural Virginia county was a dark time for the musically adventurous(it wasn't even a town,just a county with a lot of 4 wheel drive trucks). If I had to hear Hungry Like the Wolf one more time, and watch my friends dye their bangs blond and don headbands for one more minute I was going to scream. So I held my breath until college. Thank god for college radio! The promised land, and not a head band for miles. There I was introduced to music I had never heard before- Kate Bush, The Talking Heads, REM, Siouxie and the Banshees, and The Cure.

Where is this digression leading? Where else, to my iPod. I was setting up some play lists to get my ass moving when I visit my own personal level of hell I like to call The Gym. And Satan's implement of torture du jour? The elliptical cross trainer. Sounds kind of poetic doesn't it? Well it's not - it's 30 minutes of butt burning, calf cramping, oh my god is that my lung collapsing fun. I need my tunes to distract me from the encroaching coronary and the Access Hollywood crap they show on giant screened TVs. Seriously, do you really need to see a life size David Hasselhoff barfing a cheeseburger 27 times in 15 minutes? In slow motion? I think not,but again, I digress.

Where was I? Oh yes,music. Music is inspiration, whether it be to move, laugh, cry,create or love(ahem Marvin Gaye), it inspires. So,if you're still reading, Id love to hear what you listen to for inspiration. What music moves you?

Black wind Blowing.

2007-11-11T23:34:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I was restless. All day long pacing around my house pretending to clean, but never focusing on any one task long enough to do anything other than leave finger traced notes across my piano. Dust Me.

It felt like those energized moments right before a big storm. Everything is still, but you can feel the atmosphere building pressure.

A drawing of breath before a primal scream.

I imagine how an alcoholic must feel when faced with giving up booze. To have to give up something used to comfort, and to numb. The idea of letting go, of living my life, feeling my emotions, no longer diluted by the protective haze of food fills me with a nauseating dread that boarders on panic. Oh, wait - that is panic.

The actual paradigm shift I have to make to be able to do this has to happen now. If I don't do this now nothing will change and I will never....anything. I will be stuck in this dusty cage of my own making. Bring on the storm.

When in doubt, post a poem.

2007-11-08T18:14:00.000-05:00

I've been wracking my feeble brains all day to try to come up with a post worth reading. I'm sad to say I have absolutely nothing of interest to say. I feel sort of empty. Perhaps it's yesterday's soul sucking that's catching up to me, and today was more of the same. It could be that it's cold, and dark, and all I want to do is curl up in a comfy chair with a good book and cup of tea. It is time to hibernate after all... but I digress.

Instead of a post of my own, I want to share a favorite poem of mine. I hope you enjoy it.

Overweight Poem
biscuits with honey running down into the deep crevices
thick dark bread cut into fresh chunks and butter waving over the terrain,
red berries and yellow cream

am I thinking of these things
or you?

Love fills my body,
all the crevices
for the first time. and I feel
heavy
like the September limbs of an apple tree.

Feel opulent

and don't like this opulence.

Coming from a man who knows less than I,
one who, like my father, talks big
and goes away;
one who, like my father, loves deep, a lot,
and goes away/has many others.
And I want it all.
A man who is everything.
Everything I can find in the refrigerator,
or the fruit bin, or the oven, or the larder, or the cupboard,
everything in the silverware chest, the freezing
compartment;
I want him to be handsome and brilliant and
making a mark on the world, rich, responsible,
older. Someone to rescue me.

The British Museum, perhaps.
Something that will last well.
My favorite foods do not keep well;
must be gotten fresh each week.

I never know how far
for the sake of wisdom
to carry a metaphor.

Diane Wakoski(1965)

Calgon take me away.

2007-11-07T18:17:00.000-05:00

Today was a long, tedious, soul sucking day, as only a Wednesday can be. But rather than whine my way down the page and bore you with the details, I'm going to share some of my favorite places in the world, and regenerate a little.

This is my paternal grandparent's house up in New England. I went up to visit this summer to reconnect with Grammy and Grampy, as I haven't seen them in several years. It was like being a little kid again; even though I'm 40 years old, they spoiled me like I was four. It was wonderful being in that house again, the smells of my grandmother's kitchen always invoke feelings of home. While I was there we had amazing conversations about family I never knew. For instance, I found out my great grandfather kept a giant still in his basement during prohibition and made "TNT" (hard cider distilled down into harder liquor),which he took with him to sell when he went on business trips for his company.

While I was in New England I also had the chance to visit my other grandfather in Gloucester. Again, I have amazing memories of summers up there, going out on Papa's boat, eating steamers (steamed clams dipped in butter),playing crazy eights with my grandmother while watching Johny Carson (oh the illicit thrill of staying up that late!) and swimming in the frigid northern Atlantic. Gloucester is the oldest working fishing port on the east coast, you can walk along the harbor and take in the fantastic views.

Moving on down the east coast, to my own beloved Outer Banks, where every September my best friends and I make the trek out to Corolla, where the horses roam, and the 4 wheel drive is the only way down the beach. This is truly a restorative week. We completely unplug and play cards, work puzzles, and drink ice cold glass bottle cokes on the beach as we watch the kiddies try to drown themselves in the waves.Oh, and did I forget to mention the cocktails? Silly me.

Last but not least, there is Anguilla - a small island in the Caribbean that my parents, in an unprecedented show of love and generosity, decided to take my brother, my sister in law, and myself for a week of lounging by the ocean and rum drinks a couple of years ago. They go every January for three weeks(don't ya just hate them?) with friends of theirs that they have known since they were all in college together. Well, as luck would have it, I get to go again this January (thank you mom and dad!).

Diet is a Four Letter Word

2007-11-06T23:01:00.000-05:00

I have been on some sort of diet since I was 14. More to the point, I have been not sticking to one diet or another since I was 14.

The first one was the Scarsdale Diet. Does anyone remember that one? You basically starve yourself on 1000 calories a day but still can't bring yourself to choke down your yummy nekkid tuna and Melba toast lunch. Imagine what that does to teenager's metabolism.

The others that followed were all variations of counting calories, or food combinations, or pills and powders. All of them worked for a short period of time, then didn't, because quite frankly who could last under all that pressure. Now we have things like Adkins. Hello!? What did fruits and veggies ever do to this guy? And Weight Watchers which, to be fair, is at least sensible, but Ive been through those doors at least 4 times in the last 4 years with varied success and if I have to count or weigh or measure one more thing I will go barking mad. Besides,their fascination with fat free dairy (which tastes like dammit), and artificial sweeteners (which literally rot your brain),has me more that a little disenchanted.

I'm not knocking any of these diets, if that's what works for you, but for me, the moment someone tells me what to eat, what not to eat, or how to eat, I immediately revert back to that 14 year old girl who was continually straining against a father who used food to both nurture and control, and a mother who, I now suspect, had her own issues with body image and food.

So here I sit, trying to figure out what is going to work for me once and for all, and quite frankly I am at a loss. Though I can pretty much asume that last night's Leftover Halloween Candy Masacree(complete with three part harmony)is not the way to go, but that's a post for another time. All I can think to do is get off my ass and exercise(yuck),eat as healthy as possible, stay as sane as possible, and as for the rest, well, that remains to be seen.

Little Miss Chicken Little

2007-11-05T18:38:00.000-05:00

I've wanted to start a blog for some time now, ruminating over it for so long my best friendThe Tapdancing Ms. B started one with me as a show of support. She managed to get hers up and running a full month before I got around to mine.

One could infer that I'm a horrible procrastinator(and one would be correct!), but I think there was more to my reticence than just being lazy(and again, I am that too).

The nano-second I posted my first blog entry I immediately wanted to take it down. I was overwhelmed with insecurity. Is it too personal? Is it too melodramatic? Will people think it's stupid? Is my writing so horrible that the blog police will knock on my door in the middle of the night to arrest me and steal the letters from my keyboard? Will people like it? Like me? And then it hit me.

I'm a big chicken shit-no really, I am. I have realized that I let fear run a big portion of my life. I'm neurotically afraid of what people will think(and god forbid someone actually confronted me), so I stay quiet. Afraid of failing, so I attempt nothing. Afraid no one will love me for who I am, so I make sure I find every fault with them and reject them first.

Ms.B is forever teasing me about how I'm always shushing her in public, and its true, I do. I'm so worried about drawing attention to myself that I try to make her tone down her amazingly warm- draw-you-in personality. She really should just smack me up side the head and tell me to get over it. But, as she knows me well, she knows I'm channeling my mother and can't help myself. So, she humors me(with the understanding that she can, and will give me large rafts of poo about it later). It's ironic, really, since it was her dynamic personality that compelled me to tap her on the shoulder 20 years ago in a poetry writing class, and ask her to work on a project our professor had assigned. She turned me down, but we started chatting as we walked across campus, and we've been friends ever since.

Back to this blog thang. It may not always be funny, or insightful, - hell, it may not even be coherent at times, but its mine. It's me, in all my scatter brained glory. So, in the spirit of self empowerment and not giving a flying hoo-ha what people think, I'm not going to hit that big red delete button just yet. Judge me, don't judge me - I'll try not to care.

Jumping In

2007-11-03T16:50:00.000-04:00

I turned 40 this year.
40.
Forty.
Holy crap!
How did I get here? I look in the mirror and see an overweight single woman who has no idea who she is. I don’t feel like I’ve grown into the person I am supposed to be. Way back when there was this amazing person to nurture, and bring to her fullest potential, but the small, dark hearted side of me locked her away, and whispered damaging untruths, until she believed, then finally became the damaged goods I see in the mirror every morning. But I don’t want to dwell on that. Aside from being overly dramatic, my penchant for dwelling on the negative; on what I’m not, rather than what I am, on what I don’t have, rather than on what I do has been a large contributor to my current existential crisis.

What I want to focus on now (and the impetus behind baring my soul to the blogosphere - lucky you!) is how to unlock that metaphorical door, and let my true self out ('cuz damn, she really has to pee). I want to get to know her, become that person I denied myself access to so long ago. I suspect she’s a pretty cool chick. I want to unite what I see as my fractured physical, emotional, and spiritual selves into one well adjusted, happy, thinner me.

Pretty sentiment, yes,but how do I do that?

I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately ,and what I keep coming back to is writing. Honest- no holds barred- writing. It’s all up for grabs; my past, my present, my future, whether it be painful, embarrassing, or funny, I want to put it out there to try to understand who I am, and change myself for the better. Writing is also a great creative outlet, and anyone who knows me, knows I’m always whining about wanting to be more creative. So here I am, not whining (much), writing.

So, welcome to my little corner of the Internet, here’s to belly flopping into the deep end of the pool. Come on in, the water’s fine.