Life is a Banquet

Being Honest

If I am to be honest, and that is the whole point, now, isn't it, I stopped blogging once I realized that I was never going to be Dooce.  I started blogging thinking that perhaps it was like school--be dilgent, do your homework, and succes follows.  Oh, I TOLD myself that I wrote for me.  But, in reality I wrote to appease the gnawing Praise Junkie that continues to reside in me despite multiple excorcisms.  When I was a guest blogger at Michelle's, when I got my first non-friend/relative comment, when I hit double digits on a post, I felt full as the hollow empty feeling resided a bit.  I checked my stats obscessively. 

The fear of failure, the fear that I already WAS a failure was always with me.  Why weren't more people reading me?  Did I need to start talking about bowel movements and my sex life?  Was I a bad writer? Not funny? Not readable? Too boring? Too bland?  Did I not comment enough on other people's blogs?  WHAT WAS I DOING WRONG?

Eventually, I came to feel that I had just missed the curve with this whole writing thing.  Only a handful of people would get famous from blogs, and I just wasn't it.  Ditto for the whole novel writing thing.  People reading less.  Saturated market.  Impossible to break in.  Just not in the cards for me. 

I didn't talk about this deep seated belief that I was simply born at the wrong time, trying this at the wrong time, or my worst fear that I was simply lacking in talent.  I let my depression drive the ship for a while.  I got hung up on other people's lives, other people's success.  I spent (and spend) hours and hours reading other's blogs.  Writing blogs became so painful I avoided them altogether, instead getting sucked into infertilty blogs, knitting blogs, mommy blogs.  Each comment, each success felt like a knife.   Each well written book by a successful author felt like a slap, a personal affront.  Each good small-house book felt like an insult. 

So, I lost myself in my knitting.  In knitting, there is certainty: an item will emerge and you will be praised for its creation.  If you slog through, you will be satisfied at the end.  If you follow the pattern, check your gauge, 95% of the time, the item will fit.   In writing, there were no such certainties. 

Could I bear to keep writing knowing I would most likely not be published? Not be able to support myself even if I was? Could I bear writing knowing that I was not Dooce or Yarn Harlot, or Meg Cabot, Jennifer Cruise or Lori Foster?  Could I bear to keep going feeling this deep seated certainty that it was all for nothing? My "back to school" plan seemed like a joke to me or rather on me.  I wanted something so much that I believed would never happen. Over the last six months, writing and dieting became these untouchable things that I wanted so badly and yet could not do. 

I'm not sure what the answer is.  I want to find my way back to self-confidence, to tenacity.  I want to be able to say, "screw this, I am going to do this anyway."  I want to not be a Praise Junkie to not have such an ugly need keeping me from what I want more than anything.   

School Starts Tomorrow

I have never made a huge secret of the fact that I am the nerdiest of nerds and miss school. Yes, I miss being in college and law school. I miss picking classes, the fresh start at the beginning of each semester, planned breaks, the rhythm of tests and homework.  Yes, I miss tests. I told you, I’m a freak. But, what I really miss is the end goal—knowing that if you do X and Y and Z, you will graduate and that will MEAN you accomplished something real and tangible.

Tomorrow morning at 8 am sharp, I will be dressed and in my seat ready for school to begin.  Curious? You know you are! Read on . . .

The Gilmore Cure

My favorite part of the last week, besides the coughing and hacking, and oh yes, the visit to the Urgi-care center where it was discovered that I was mere steps away from pneumonia and the hospital with 50% of my usual lung capacity, oh and the four drugs I am now on to cure the roving creepy crawlies, all of which is entirely beside the point, my favorite part was when Loralie turned to Christopher and said "I guess we'll never know unless we try."

What? You don't spend your evenings with the Gilmores? However must the rest of the world LIVE without the Gilmore Girls?  Without Netflix? Egads.  Barbarians.  Anywhoo, in the season 2 finale, when Loralie turned to Christopher and said, "I guess we'll never know unless we try . . . " My heart did this little dance.  And even though, I totally knew she was about to get her heart handed back to her in a zillion little candy-sprinkle sized pieces, I was so in awe of her leap of faith that I totally teared up. 

I want this to be my motto.  I want to be so willing to see the world as half-full, the future as wide open.  I think of everything I have spent the last four months dancing around the edge of.  I want to be so willing to say, "What is the worst that could happen?" And then face that worst, and realize that jumping was so totally worth it anyway. 

Of, course if, God wants to make it easier for me to try, he might want to give me Loralie's body.  Just a thought.

My Best of 2005

Many thanks to Barren Mare and others "best of" lists for loosely inspiring my own best of 2005 list. 

The best parts of 2005:

• Watching Caylis grow from a puppy to a teenage-doggie, and watching her gain confidence and personality as she learned to swim, hike on a harness, play more complex games, and love with an abundance and depth that astounds me.  And I thought puppy love was terrific. 
• Getting Married.  The wedding and reception truly were exactly what I (and we wanted).  But, to me the best part is our vows and the partnership they represent.  We think of, reflect on, mention and live our vows in daily life--not just the fairytale moments. And THAT is the best part. 
• Coming out as a writer.  I want to look at 2005 as the year when I took a giant leap of faith, one that I continue to second-guess, accept, and put into action.  This year I finished my first novel, started novels 2 and 3 , joined RWA, went to nationals, had people other than my mother read my fiction, entered my first contest, entered golden heart, sold my first article.  Scary wonderful is the best part. 
• My friendship with the Golden Marionette.  I think my freshman year of college was the last time I had REALLY good female friends, and its been several years since I had "couple friends" and this year, I have both.  Having her to share our wedding with, sharing her wedding, watching our dogs grow, sharing fitness goals and newly-married-angst--She truly is one of MY best parts of 2005. 
• Yoga, Pilates, and Walking.  I could just lament the fact that I re-gained 20 pounds and leave it at that.  But that wouldn't tell the whole story.  Even as my relationship with food has deteriorated, my relationship with fitness improved, I got stronger, I challenged myself, I found ways to work through pain and neuropathy.  Discovering the gym, re-discovering hiking and yoga--these were some of the best moments. 
• Having my mother as my best friend.  Yes, it's corny, but as I have grown to accept myself and love myself, I have allowed myself to love my mother unconditionally, to have the kind of relationship with her that I crave--daily phone calls, long chats, silly conversations about nothing, and not worry about what others might think of our closeness.  In doing so, I have allowed myself to appreciate her quirks, distance myself from the unhealthy parts, and still love her completely. 
• Re-discovering my father.  The big guy's deteriorating condition has been one of many backdrops this past year, but what I have savored is this new feeling of closeness we share.  He reads my writing, he tells me he loves me, he sends me cards.  These little things mean so very much to me. 
• Finishing a job I loved.  As hard as it was to have my job end in Sept., as hard as it has been to adapt to working from home, leaving on good terms was the best part of an unfortunate situation.  And the fact that it freed me to pursue my dreams--well,that is certainly a best part. 
• Watching Freak become a part of my family.  Seeing Freak play computer games late into the night with my brothers and fathers, seeing him pick up the phone to call them on his own, watching him meet my New York relatives, I just fell in love over and over again. 
• Making a home.  As I have grown more confident in my own tastes, I have had the best time making a bunch of clearance finds into a home, filling this place with memories.  Part of this has been learning what makes a home: lazy evenings watching Star Trek, amazing dinners, watching pets do cute things, not sweating little stuff, and having space which reflects each of us. 
• Discovering my inner carpenter.  Part of the above has come about from challenging long held myths about myself--that I am careless, that I am no-good with tools, that I am uncoordinated.  I have ripped carpet.  I have put together furniture on my own.  I have moved furniture.  I have drilled.  I have spray painted.  I have GROWN. 
• Building spaces of my own. My ever rotating office space and closet space HAS served a purpose.  I have had a chance to explore my own needs, be truthful with myself, willing to experiment, willing to change, willing to declare myself worthy of the space. 
• Learning to stick up for myself and my choices.  I couldn't have built as much room for myself to grow as I have, if I hadn't learned so much about accepting who I am, standing up for myself, not worrying so much about pleasing others, not caving in so quickly.  I may be slightly more of a wench these days, but I think that is a good thing. 
• Moving further away from the "dark place."  The depression of three long years as I bounced from doctor to doctor achieved some resolution as I moved from probable MS to the diabetes diagnosis and opened up a new world of hope and treatment.  Metformin and Cymbalta have changed my quality of life, to the point where my health no longer defines me, where my chronic illness can recede to a more acceptable portion of my attention, and where the depression no longer seems crushing on a daily basis. 
• Falling in love with my state.  Obviously, I came here for a reason, and I came because I love the west.  But, this year, in going back to Missouri, going to New York and Reno, I have fallen truly in love with my home and with feeling rooted here. 
• Finding a connection to my community.  Part of feeling rooted has been becoming more involved with the community, volunteering with the library, SMART, and other programs.  Finding the RWA group, and the stitch n bitch ladies. 
• Falling in love with myself all over again.  It has been a decade now since high school, five years since I graduated from college, and one moment from my awakening, my true graduation.  This year when I embraced myself, my love of color, my love of cute things, my optimism, my fickleness, my curves.  I fell in love with my uniqueness and made real progress on accepting myself and dropping all the requirements I held for my own happiness.  THIS is the real best part of 2005. 

Post-Yule Slump

It seems as though most of the blogosphere is in a big slump, so I will work on not feeling so guilty about not blogging. But, of course, I am a woman DRIVEN by guilt, so this really isn’t helping. It doesn’t matter that SHE hasn’t posted for a good six months or that even the legendary her and the fabulous Ms. Fish have off months—the guilt it consumes me. 

 

My excuses which sound lame even to me:

1) Christmas. I gave over 50 presents, made about 2/3 of them myself, and wrapped them all in matching paper and mailed 5 boxes off to points east. Glutton for punishment. See the flickr pics for all the gory and crafty details. 

2) SAD. Winter, so very, very gray. I am a small, unhappy hobbit in my beloved hobbit hole hoping against hope for spring. Right now, I’m thinking of doing an Island Paradise living room makeover to help bring some LIGHT back into my life. Tell me what you think: 

These Blinds: 
Cost: (2 big, 2 small) $34 + 30 dollars shipping= $64

Topped with white valances made with material left from the bedroom project. 

Then add These slipcovers:


Cost: $25 each x 2 = $50

And Sherwin Williams Daffodil Paint (SW 6901)—about $30. Total makeover cost = $150. Not bad huh???? 

3) Work. I’m in the middle of launching my own business to ensure that I get to keep writing AND eating. Unfortunately, this really isn’t something I can blog about here. Suffice it to say that I’m actually going to USE my law degree. At least until the big bucks (ha ha ha ha ha) from writing start rolling in. But, in the meantime, I’ve been drowning in article deadlines and other boring crap. 

4) Life. Life is being lived on a grand scale here these days—lazy evenings watching enterprise with Freak, crocheting marathons, trying to assemble some facsimile of a social life . . . . . Life being lived further away from the clutches of my laptop. Egads. 

 

Life promises to stay busy, but I’ve got some year-end/year-ahead reflecting to do, so stay tuned! 

Where the heart is

Day two of recovery from my NY vacation and I suppose a blog update is long overdue. Despite so much on my mind, so much to think about, write about, my blogging mojo seems to have left me. But, there are things I want to remember, little notes to myself that I don’t want to forget like so many unwritten thank-you notes. If this blog is a record of this time in my life there are things that I want to remember. Just as absence makes the heart grow fonder, so also does it make the mind grow clearer. Here are few basic truths I have re-discovered during my little sojourn. 

The Reluctant Yuppie

Saturday Night Freak and I watched Hotel Rwanda. Few movies have ever moved me more or made me feel so utterly helpless. Not to mention ashamed beyond belief at my status as a white, American female. For me, some of the most haunting images were those of the orphans, their little faces pressed together, holding hands, their gangly limbs betraying their vulnerability. I often make light of my unending desire to have a “United Nations Family” (Angelina, wench, I had the idea first. Mine. Mine. Mine. Oh, and P.S. please send me Brad Pitt too.). But, this movie unearthed emotions much more powerful than just “oh, wouldn’t it be cool.”

Envy Thy Name is Wavybrains

I’ve been thinking a lot about the woman that I envy. You know the one. The one whom you want for your best friend, whom you long to trade places with, whose success nearly eats you alive with jealousy and inspiration. The one who when you close your eyes, you could be and yet, the one who, even in your wildest dreams, you’re sure you’ll never be. You can learn a lot from her. 

Who is she, this woman who eats away at my confidence making me turn green with insecurity and longing? 

Right Side of Bed--With Pictures

I woke up on the wrong side of bed. In fact, I woke up so far on the wrong side of bed, I was pretty certain the right side no longer existed. Just yesterday, my world was peaches and cream, and all was right. I, however, did two bad things 1) I stayed up very late torturing myself with moveable type, getting ever more confused and 2) I ate a rice crispy treat—made with organic brown rice crisps and brown rice syrup marshmallows. For most of you, this would be a very healthy decision, but my pancreas immediately rebelled, and reminded me that diabetics do not have leeway to eat 3 or 4 rice crispy treats, even if they are organic, even if they do not actually contain refined sugar. So, I woke up with a nice blood sugar hangover, extremely depressed about my meager web skills (not to mention my inability to find a decent web designer to subcontract with—impossible to find good help these days). But, I am wavybrains, the optimist, I laugh in the face of depression—or at the very least sneer. I was not going to a bad day! No! But I needed to find that right side of the bed . . . so I embarked on Wavybrains’ patented Save-Your-Morning-Plan. To follow: 

Home Sweet Work

No, I haven’t dropped off the face of the earth in a fit of rewriting angst. I’m still here. In fact, Friday,  I’m there also—I’m Michele tommorrow. Sadly, my novel is no closer to going out to prospective publishers, and my works in progress are also sporting stagnant word counts. This is okay, though, because I’m slowly going crazy—but being paid for it. My freelance work is starting to kick up a notch, and I’m knee-deep in the badlands of moveable type, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. Typepad = fine. This = darn near impossible. But, life is so good at the moment, I really can’t complain. I’m absorbed by this work, loosing track of time, and enjoying little successes and I’ve sold three articles in the last week to boot.  

So I suppose, I can call myself a “writer” now and not flinch. Well, not flinch much. I’m still expecting lightening to strike every time I utter such heresy. The biggest adjustment in the last three weeks has been adjusting to the loneliness—I wasn’t aware how much I relied on the social interaction of the office. I’m such a people person, and I like to talk (just a little bit—stop laughing now). And while, Freak and my mother will undoubtedly attest to the fact that I could talk to a blank wall, I really do like having an audience conversations.  

But, I’m making more of an effort to get out, and as I settle in to a rhythm, I can honestly say that I love this. I love being home for all three meals, I love being semi-caught up on laundry. I love setting my own schedule---even with all the procrastination that entails. It’s hard right now with Freak still suffering through much job stress, to be so happy myself, to have something I love to do. It feels wrong somehow, but I’m slowly learning to let go and enjoy where I’m at. Even if that place DOES leave little time for blogging.

Do it like they do on the Discovery Channel

We had a perfectly wild and wonderful weekend.  Freak and I, you know, are SUCH party animals.  Friday night, why Freak waited until 9:30 to pass out in bed! After taking me to the saloon and buying me a heap of rare cow--and get this--we had dessert first!! On the way to dinner! Rebels, I tell you, rebels.   And Saturday, we took two naps--BEFORE we ever hit the road for the beach.  And Freak bought TWO kinds of chips for the drive--thumbing his nose at the carb police the whole time. 

Our 24 hours in paradise was way, way too short, and exactly what we needed too. We parked the car, and walked to dinner, walked to lunch the next day, and spent endless hours just hanging out in our hotel room.  Yes, I confess, our idea of a romantic weekend getaway is endless hours of the discovery and history channels for him, and a private, shaded balcony for me to read great fiction.  Heaven is hours and hours of uninterupted nothingness punctuated with multiple naps and snacks. 

And, in the end, we were happy that we decided to leave her doggieness at "her" kennel for the night--a little break from her made us appreciate her so much more the next day and allowed us more unstructured time.  Even the most attentive mommies and daddies need some alone time.  But a surefire way to make your owners feel guilty for the  entire drive to their destination is to start whining when they pull into the lot, pitifully stare at them as they walk away, and generally make them feel horrible, even if this IS a clean, nice, attentive place staffed with lovely trainers. Also eat like there is no tommorrow upon your return, ensuring that your misery is cemented in their minds. 

On the 12th, Freak and I mark six months (SIX MONTHS) of making this grand adventure work.  And it's weekends like this that remind me exactly why what we have is so amazing and beautiful.  Click on the flickr link to see pictures of how in love I fall with my husband, everyday.

Oh and if you really want a good laugh, here is me totally enjoying life, getting swamped by ice cold waves, and loving every second. 

Download 9605_037.mov

Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life . . .

After I collected my water cup & the last few things from my desk, I felt a sense of relief and excitement about the future. I DID IT! But, I’m also tremendously sad about leaving behind some amazing people, work that I genuinely love doing, and a sense of purpose. The hardest thing was turning in my badge. I loved my badge, my little symbol of having arrived where I wanted to be.  I felt naked and vulnerable, standing there, badgeless, holding my water cup like a newly minted vagrant looking for a handout. As the empty feeling of sadness and relief spread, I felt like I should be taking myself out to lunch or ice cream or planning a nice little cocktail hour for this evening. I mean isn’t that how you cope with sadness?

But, the thing about being a diabetic is that you can’t even throw a proper pity party. Assuming you FELT like a drink, it’s really not an option unless you want the hangover before the buzz sets in. Ditto sugar. Mmmm brownies . . .plates of brownies . . .topped with coffee ice cream and drifting off to sleep into a pleasant sugar coma. Only to wake up inches from NEVER WAKING UP AGAIN. Ah, the joys of low blood sugar. Self-medication just isn’t an option anymore.  

Luckily, for those of us thwarted in our attempts to drown our sorrows in booze and chocolate, retail therapy has absolutely no long term affects on the blood sugar. Thus, tomorrow, my first day of the rest of my life, I’ll be going to a chi-chi Aveda salon and getting my hair cut and colored, the forest that is my eyebrows landscaped, and a pedicure. This weekend, Freak, who is racking up good husband points all over the place, is taking me to the beach where I will drown any remaining sorrows in the ocean.  

I racked up a few clearance bargains while waiting for my prescriptions to be filled, and so I feel slightly better.  I’m still Wavybrains. And as much as it hurts to move on, I am also so excited about the future, about the possibilities that lie ahead for me

Tales of an Ordinary Ex-Superstar

Today was my last oral argument for my job. As this one was for two very emotionally-gut wrenching cases that symbolize why I love what I do, and why I took this job, it was a very bittersweet experience. Sweet, because Freak (totally contending for Best Husband EVER) came to watch me, a first. Sweet, because I was at the top of my game, reaching my stride—confident, organized, articulate. Bitter, because I don’t get to do it again. 

I keep sitting down to write about my job ending, and how I feel about it, and I find I just can’t. Part of this is due to wanting to leave on a “good note,” not wanting to get snarky about the craziness of leaving in the middle of a huge renovation. I could take out my ire on legislature for under-funding my department, but the truth is: I’m not sure I’d be staying anyway. 

This is probably what hurts the most these days: this unspoken fear of mine that even given a rosy financial picture, my contract would not have been renewed. I am a good attorney, efficient and reliable, and passionate about my work, but I am not a work-horse. I am the anomaly of part-time by choice and circumstance, and while my work record is littered with wins, it also shows my ample use of sick leave and bare-minimum billable hours. My writing also fails to fit a mold.  In short, I am not a superstar. 

Anna Roland Rocks the Socks Off My New Camera

I wonder how as Americans we can be so connected--too connected almost and yet, be so removed from each other.   I'm sitting at a coffee house in town, texting Freak while the Gas Fast Tour gets going, surrounded by Zen and Scientist, trying not to think about why there's only twenty of us here.  Even as I slide my cell phone out of sight, I'm still apart, one with my camera--metering and balancing, drawn in, instant by instant. 

Anna Roland and Thistle are touring the Northwest by bike (hence the Gas Fast Tour), a political and personal statement about our dependence on oil, a war with no end in sight, and some really amazing folk music.  Anna and Thistle are angrier, nervier Ani's, Alanis long before she sold out, the heiresses-apparent to Joni Mitchell.   Zen knows Anna from St. Louis.  I vaguely know her in the way all of left-leaning St. Louis is never more than six-degrees of separation from each other. Wireboy is beside himself that I get to see Anna.  If he knew I was seeing Anna through the lens of my new camera, he just might wet himself. 

I used to be a biker chic too--tearing up the Kady Trail, yelling with Critical Mass, biking my way to killer hamstrings and glutes.  Long before diabetes, before all the fatigue, before divorce, before bitterness, before Oregon, and Freak, I was a radical righteous babe.  Now, I am never more than a cell phone, an email, a text message away from anyone, never further than my Jeep or Hotwire can take me.   

Yet, I know the real distance.  The radical activist in me hasn't succumbed so much to the suburban buzz that I'm not aware of how far apart we really are these days.  I 've never seen 99% of my food growing, my bargain-clothes come from countries I'm not sure I could locate on a globe, and I know the names of the neighbors on my block and no other.  I can walk in my downtown neighborhood and see no other pedestrians.  The nearest "corner produce market" is four big box grocery stores, 3 miles, and two huge roads away. 

I am so far removed from my life in Vancouver (was that ever really my life?), from Zen's life in China, from the life of my grandparents.   Why is it that this is the first time in two years that I have walked at night to the coffee house?  I live with four other people, and yet, this is our first group outing.   Board games and chess sets sit idle while Ipods and cell phones hum.  Yahoo! shows all four of us online, separately together, alone in our little Internet bubble.  I live in one of the most bike friendly states in the nation, and yet, I still can't trust the cars. 

I want to tell you how amazing Anna Roland's music is, how you must go see in Corvallis (Interzone, Tomorrow, August 19th) or in Eugene (Mystic Pizza, August 26th), how she'll silk screen her logo right on the shirt you wear to the concert, how her CD's are a mere $5 (which didn't stop mine from getting lifted from the ladies room), and how Thistle is starting a community in Iowa.  But, all I can think about is how I'm not doing enough, how I'm sitting in a circle of plastic chairs, the intoxicating odor of tobacco and apple pie sedating us, and I'm talking the radical talk, and I keep thinking, "This is not my life, I'm not really here." 

But, I am here, and this IS my life.  I'm doing so much, and yet, still not enough.  My garden died a horrible death sometime in July, recycling and composting are sporadic events in our house, and I give too many of my dollars to silliness, and I have to work too hard to do the common sense things that should be second nature.  All these "Big Ideas" rolling around in our heads, and to 90% of the world, it's so simple, it's laughable.   We need each other.

My life is too vanilla to be password protected

In recent weeks, several blogs I read have gone password protected, closed, or threatened to close. Other bloggers, dismayed at the amount of time that blogging requires have drastically cut back. In a conversation with a friend, she remarked on her decision to not share her “dirty laundry” with the world noting how many people have been burned by sharing too much.  Do I share my dirty laundry? Why am I immune to trolls and drive by assvice?  (Other than the obvious answer that I average a mere 40 visitors a day.

).

I think it was a good day

I've always been lucky.  After all, how do you explain being born in America to great parents, getting to go to college AND law school despite having no money, getting the BEST dog ever, and finding freak? But, today I was extraordinarily lucky.  Not only did I have the beautiful memory of lying on the beach with Freak and Caylis to drive the Mondays away, but I also had some genuinely good stuff happen too.  All at once: 

Gone Fishin'

We're on vacation.  Okay, TECHNICALLY we have a REAL vacation to Reno coming up, but that's actually a WORKING trip for me (writing conference!! More Stress!! Oh boy!!).  But, we NEED a break.  Being slightly cash poor these days, Clanna helped me come up with a fabulous idea. We're on vacation here.  At home. Need us? Cell phones are out of service, sorry.  E-mail? Not checking at the moment.  Hammock? Occupied by the cutest husband around and a book of bathroom ideas? Breakfast? Cinnamon Pancakes.  Clean up? Not happening.  Moving furniture into the basement? Not today.  Naps taken already today? Two.  Freak is right now enjoying the "spa" with a long, hot shower and BATH.  Yes, my manly man takes bubble baths, and I believe that's what he's up to right now.  Massages are planned for later this afternoon. 

What's truly cool though is realizing that we have the perfect home for vacationing at home.  We have a hammock. We have diet sodas in the fridge and pitchers for iced tea. Enough dirty dishes fit in the dishwasher to accommodate a weekend of laziness.  We have enough curtains now to spend the day in our underwear.  What more is needed really?  Oh and we have BOOKS.  Stacks and stacks of books.   I'm only on the computer briefly here because the need to write was overwhelming, but suddenly, the reminder that I have BOOKS waiting has me itching to return to my vacation.

The To-Do list and the To-Worry list are offically missing in action for the next two days! Tell me how YOU vacation and unwind at home, dear readers, I want to do this more often. 

Happy 1st Blog Anniversary To Me!

A year ago TODAY, I started blogging.  I started blogging partly out of curiosity--I'd only seen two or three blogs before I started.  There was another part of me that moved from years of paper scribbling and journals (it's too bad I can't doodle on here. Really, you're missing out on some awesome insects and flowers and fashion models that adorn my paper journals) to blogging out of a long-standing desire to write for the sake of writing.  It never occurred to me to write a snarky blog, a secret blog, or a sex blog.  No, I was (and am) 100% attention whore.  I sent an email to my nearest and dearest announcing my "arrival" on the blogging scene. 

Rodeo Woman

It turns out that I am a redneck woman living in hippy disguise.  On Friday night, I got all gussied up in a new denim sundress, shaved my legs, put on lipstick, and went out with my husband (who does sinful things to a pair of jeans, even if his belt buckle is . . . a tad small . . .) to a rodeo.  And had fun.  Lots of fun.  I'll pause while you pick yourself off the floor. 

I grew up in a town with a Fourth of July Rodeo, too.  Not like this rodeo, though.  The St. Paul Rodeo in Oregon is pretty darn special.  So special that the entire town seems to have built up around it, until you are no longer sure which supports the other.  Land sales take into consideration the 4-day a year revenue from parking, and proximity to the fireworks.  The town sign declares Rodeo first, with population as an afterthought.  And, if that wasn't enough, the arena IS the center of town.  The ENTIRE center of town.

Driving Distraction

Freak has discovered that I am a small child, soothed by long drives in the car.  As the miles add up, and the flatness of Salem gives way to curves and views that remind us why we are here, my anxiety level plummets replaced by the sort of dreams that only happen in the passenger seat. 

Our drives together, and the long meandering conversations that resulted from them, dried up with the rain under the pounding spring sun urging us to "get things done."  And done we have, with our gorgeous garden and welcoming patio (and the weeds now only tease our ankles instead of taunting the neighbors as they reach for the sky), and the soon-to-be-done major basement remodel, and the vast unpacking of stuff from Freak's St. Louis house. 

And parts of us have been "done" too, dried up under the beating heat of stress and work, our tiredness has defined many an evening as we have napped together, and considered movie watching a major victory in stress-management.  But the urge to hit the road is never far from Freak's agenda, and as his personal stress has abated, he has gradually reclaimed the road as his personal relaxation zone. 

The aimless driving without deadline, without goals or objectives, is exactly what I need right now.  I need the wide open spaces on both sides of me, urging to consider the bounty of the future instead of wallowing in my own pit of uncertainty.  It is the uncertainty which has made me slightly crazed lately, both needy and despondent and an over-eager steam roller as I become increasingly desperate in my search for a purpose which would lend definition to the murky future. 

Tonight, we drove to Albany for the simple reason that we had never really driven around Albany as anything other than a gateway to points west.  We started out, not for Albany, but for the health food store, for a little Dagoba nectar of the gods to sustain us.  Then, the car took us on a tour of neighborhoods far out of our lifestyle as we imagined the lives we would lead to live in such sterile places, and from there Albany seemed like a natural progression of sorts.  We ate amongst the locals at a Mongolian Grill dive populated by skinny teenagers and roughened truckers and a few extended families toting tired children.

And now, I am more at peace than I have been in a long time, more able to absorb the lessons of the last few weeks of being a DIY guru that things do not have to be absolutely perfect to be absolutely wonderful and that the only person I really need to please is myself (which is much easier to do if I bring my standards back down to earth).  And for all my stress lately, I see the change which has been happening lately, in spite of all my whining-- as I step ever closer to the person I want to be, and creep closer towards allowing myself to enjoy having that life.  My life is an open road that I can't wait to explore.

All Day, Every Day

I am drained right now.  Not a bad, "my life is hell", kind of drained, but drained nonetheless.  I did three back-to-back long days--a full day (not my usual 4 hours) at work Monday and yesterday with a court appearance thrown in.  Then today, I was at the capitol for a special leadership development program.  For pretty much a full eight hours.  Now, I have a doggie who wants to be walked, a house that desperately needs some attention,  a book which wants more words written, library books to return (see new book reviews!), organic food to be purchased, and I pretty much have the energy to sit here and sip water. 

I've been doing a tremendous amount of thinking lately about how lucky I am to be working part-time, and frustrated that there isn't more part-time work options.  Some days, I feel like a freak, and try to convince myself that my health is doing so much better now, I should really start applying for full-time jobs.  Other days, I tell myself that it doesn't matter what I COULD do, if I don't WANT to do that.  Then I think of what double my barely-above-the-poverty-line salary would do to our lifestyle, what triple would mean, and I vacillate again as I seek to find new ways to justify my life outside the norm. 

Freak gave me a new perspective when about a week ago, he said me, “you think someday I can work part-time too?”  He wasn’t being snarky, or passive aggressive, in fact, he seemed rather wistful.  And that longing freed me from the yoke of guilt I have been wearing for weeks now because in that instant I realized how lucky I am.  And so we started pipe dreaming of a day when both of us work part-time or at least less than 40 hours a week, or even just a day when he no longer has to commute. 

We grabbed a pen and paper and realized that, were our credit card debt paid off (which it will be by December), we could live, at our present lifestyle on two part-time workers.  And sure, I want cruises, and a big house would be lovely, and I do like to eat out, and lord knows I love my shopping, but I want this lifestyle more.  And thus my vacillation returns, as I feel weird for wanting this, for setting this as our goal, for stepping so far outside the buy-more culture. 

But, the last few days give me a glimpse of what a return to full-time work would mean.  It would mean a choice between a dirty house and a house cleaner, fewer moments of little relaxation, of slowing down.  It would mean being too drained to enjoy my largess on a moment-to-moment basis.  It would probably mean very little to no writing.  My dog would grow lethargic and develop separation anxiety issues.  The quantity of home-cooked meals would substantially decrease.  The social life I am building would collapse under the weight of my tiredness.  And who knows what it would do to my health? 

I think I can live with being the best bargain hunter in the west.  With being me, not being trendy.  I've spent a lot of time focusing on "perfect," but I think I can live with imperfect--mismatched sheets, old towels, second hand furniture, if it means getting the life I want.  I can live in a smaller house, with a smaller yard, if it means more freedom of our time. 

But the real stress, and a big part of what's eating me these days, is how uncommon this is, how unaccepted these choice are, how little support there is for part-time workers.  Try searching for part-time work and finding things other than get-rich-quick-schemes.  Try seeing countless jobs that use your education and skills, and which you'd love, if only they were less than 50 hour weeks.  Try imagining NO money,  or fast-food money, instead of a part-time position using your talents.  Stress.  Stress which I would NOT have to worry about if my state were not having a budget crisis.  The stress of being lucky and of trying to get lucky again and wishing it wasn't all so dependent on luck.

A little bit of history

Totally borrowed and adapted from the amazing Eve

15 years ago . . .
I was 10
I weighed what I weigh now
I had recently had my first period
I was reading the Anne of Green Gable Series and lots of Gordon Korman
My secret crush was Jon from New Kids on the Block
I wore sweaters with shirts underneath, corduroy pants, walmart white bra (I was way beyond training bras already) and panties, and walmart sneakers
A typical day’s food: flavored oatmeal, Juice, chocolate milk, pizza, corn, applesauce, cookie, chocolate milk (gotta love school lunches), chocolate milk, banana, hamburgers on whole wheat bread, oven french fries, canned green beans, salad, chocolate chip cookies 
I had crimped hair
I wrote stories and gave them to my mother to read and entered them in contests

10 years ago . . .
I was 16
I weighed around 200. Ish. 
I had never been kissed. 
I was reading Catherine Coulter, Sandra Brown, and Julie Garwood.  I had a steady diet of smut and romance. 
My secret crush was Dennis Rodman
I wore oversized men’s 2 or 3 XL shirts, baggy shorts, colorful pants, and sneakers, and colored walmart underwear and white bras
My hair was permed and shoulder length
A typical day’s food: flavored oatmeal, juice, chocolate milk, hamburger, tater tots, cookie (still school lunch), grazing on apples, vanilla wafers, cheese crackers or ritz crackers until dinner time, salad, tacos, rice, corn, ice cream, bag of m&m’s
I was about to graduate high school

Five years ago . . .
I was 21   
I weighed around 230.  I was actually down slightly from my highest.
I had been married for nearly a year.
I read my first Harry Potter, Carl Sagan, and many, many text books
My secret crush was Toby Maguire
I wore colorful suits of questionable fashion, long tunic tops, purple eskimo coats, and black flats, colorful lane bryant underwear and black bras
I had long hair, usually in a tight bun or french twist
A typical day’s food: pop tarts, 2 sandwiches, pringles, apple, peanut butter crackers, baby carrots, hamburger helper made with veggie crumbles, broccoli with lemon pepper, ice cream
I had been accepted to law school

Three years ago
I was 23
I weighed 150
I wore men’s jeans, men’s shirts, black boots, with the occasional skirt and conservative business suit thrown in, white bra, colorful underwear
I read Adbusters, Mad Cowboy, John Robbins
My secret crush was Reese Witherspoon
I had short, chin length, straight hair
A typical day’s food: Scrambled tofu, toast, apple, salad w/baked tofu, cherries, orange, mango, vegan potstickers, green beans with peanut sauce, soy ice cream
I was finishing my second year of law school

Two years ago
I was 24
I weighed 155
I wore short skirts, sun dresses, sandals, tank tops, black bras and underwear 
My marriage ended
I met Freak
I read bar study guides, Real Simple magazine, books on Fibromyalgia, MS, hypoglyecmia, and natural health
My secret crush was Wil Smith
I had shoulder length hair, usually down
A typical day’s food: omlet, celery, cheese, cashews, Atkins Bar, Deli Meat, Sugar Free Ice Cream, Cheese, Chicken, Broccoli, More Sugar Free Ice Cream
I graduated from law school

A year ago
I was 25
I weighed 180
I wore jeans, tank tops, colorful capris, pink bussiness suits, and black skirts, colorful and lacy underwear and bras 
I bought a house with Freak
I read Yoga for Depression, books on MS, romance novels, 1,001 Indian recipes
My secret crush was Toby Maguire
I cut my hair up to my ears
A typical day’s food: eggs and bacon, celery, apple, chicken, salad, sugar free ice cream, more sugar free ice cream, coconut curry, more sugar free ice cream
I was finishing my first year at work

Today
I am 26
I weigh 163 today
I am wearing brown corduroy pants, a light blue sweater, boy-short underwear, blue bra, and pink ballet flats
I’ve been married to Freak for two months
My hair is “chestnut mahogany” red (looked like black cherry at first, now more just dark red), short and fluffy
I’m reading Persian Feast, Fast Track Detox, Time Traveler’s wife, Chic Lit, and decorating magazines
My secret crush is secret
Yesterday’s food: Poached eggs, apple, celery, salad w/ chicken and flax, 2 gluten-free, fruit-sweetened, protein bars, turkish meat balls w/ cabbage, gluten free banana pudding sweetened with stevia
I’m finishing my second year at my work, my first year of blogging
I write stories, give them to my mother to read, and enter them in contests

Accentuate the Positive

I have this little tendency to dwell on the negative.   I'm told it's because I have much higher standards for myself than everyone else.  I agree.  If only I would develop super human capabilities to meet my ever-growing demands for perfection all would be peachy.  But alas, this isn't happening.  So instead, I stuck here dwelling on how far I have yet to go, how much remains undone, how little progress I make towards the perfect self-actualized person I want to be.  My house is not sparkling 100% of the time. I'm not a size 10.  My projects remain undone. So I'm not perfect (yet!), but I have come along way towards meeting my goals and becoming a better person.   Sometimes I just have to remind myself.  How things have changed for me: 

• I am more honest about expressing emotion.  This is a big victory, and worth all the crying fests and mis-directed anger to get here. 
• My clothes go down the laundry chute.  Always.  No more bathroom littered with underwear. 
• I can walk much further than I could a year ago.  I walk more often too.
• I'm thirty pounds lighter than I was last year at this time. 
• My house is such that I could have people over if I wanted to.  I just wouldn't show them the garage or the basement. 
• I have a pink office, a pink bookshelf, wood bookshelves I built, storage canisters, a decorated home, a scrapbook, all courtesy of my own creativity in the last year
• I actually managed to follow-through on making Christmas presents this year
• Splenda no longer uses my consumption to project its monthly profits
• My kitchen, bathroom cabinets, and bedroom are all nicely organized and stay organized longer and longer.
• My hygiene is better. Not that I ever stank, mind you!  But, I make more of an effort these days, look nice more days of the week, and feel more and more like I DESERVE it. 
• My dog knows sit, "get your Frisbee", fetches like a mad truffle pig,  "go lay down,"  "leave the cat alone," lets us remove food from her mouth, and is completely house trained.  I taught her all that. 
• I listen better.  I admit being wrong more often.  I see the gray area more. 
• I am becoming a more assertive person, asking for what I want, gradually becoming more direct
• I feel despondent so much less often. 
• I manage my blood better and better, even with dietary indiscretions. 
• My cooking is better, real meals much more frequent, vegetables more prominent, and water more swilled.
• My brief writing is better
• My romantic life is better  (guess which I enjoy more--better briefs or better romance?) 
• I have friends.  Even if alot of them live in the computer.  No, seriously, I get out more, have reason to get out. 
• I am now a paid writer for an newspaper.  That people read.  This cannot be overstated how wonderful this is.
• My relationship with all my family members is much improved, more close, more real. 
• I have become more self-sufficent. 
• I have a better sense of who I want to be.   Most days that is.  But still, it's becoming more clear. 
• I am teaching myself systems that allow me to overcome my perfectionism and distractablity.
• I am constantly working at being a better person. 

And yes, gosh darnit, I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and people like me.  So there.   

How are YOU changing into the you you'd like to be? 

Stitch in Time

My life feels much less complicated these days.  Usually, my mind is always racing, but now it seems to be driving the speed limit.  And, no, before you ask, I haven't discovered a new miracle antidepressant.  Rather I've rediscovered an outlet for all that nervous energy.  A ball of yarn, a crochet needle, and zen is at hand.  I do not have to dominate conversations, my fingers do not shred napkins, twirl pens, or fiddle with dry skin because I have something both purposeful and mindless to distract me. 

Freak jokes that I look like I'm making baby booties.  I retaliate by crocheting in a pastel yellow yarn while patting my belly, until finally I break down and buy hipper yarn.  Coolness has infiltrated the yarn bins, pushing aside 70's thick acrylics in garish colors in favor of natural fibers, nubby textures, and vivid colors. 

But despite the revival of  knitting, and to a lesser extent crochet, I'm not about following a trend, the latest yarns, or even about the finished product.  It's the repetitive action, the tangible progress, the calm that has me hooked. Pun intended. 

Picking up or revisiting a new craft is hardly new for me, but it's been years since I carried a project around with me.  Like my ever-present notebook and pen, crochet is fast becoming another important weapon in my arsenal of tactics to keep me present and grounded.  More here.  And this is indeed a good thing. 

Expect potholders for Christmas this year!

Where I Am

Karen asks a good question as part of her survey--where are you in life right now? What is your biggest goal?  And this is of course, precisely what I am busy figuring out.  My goals used to be very clear cut--get into college, get an "A" in a class, graduate, get into law school, and then they became more murky, get a job, yes, but which one? 

I feel divorced from my passion, unsure of what it is, paralyzed by fear, afraid to choose "wrong" and later discover my "true" passion, I try to fit myself into the uncomfortable suits of women not me.  I have had new goals--home ownership, dogs, but still, I have spent two years feeling adrift. 

Piles of Stuff

My little will writing exercise has me thinking differently about the nature of possessions.  Stuff is inherently transitory in my world to begin with, but this puts a different sort of spin on my thinking. 

Clothes get stained, books loose their relevance, appliances break, decorating tastes change, and things get eaten.  I'm not a Vanderbilt and that is actually a very good thing.  I don't really have the mentality for heirlooms.  I USE tables, chairs, and couches, slipcovers, and books. 

I identify with what Scott over at Home Sweet Road said about how you get something new, and you are convinced that this time WILL BE DIFFERENT.  This time you'll be neat, and organized, and you'll keep it looking new . . . .

But "this time" is NEVER different.  I'm coming to accept some basic truths about myself.  One of which is that I care more about living in the moment than I do about protecting my stuff.  I give lip service to wanting a clean sofa, and pristine bed, but I still eat on both.  And I love clothes, but I also love rolling in the grass, playing with the puppy, eating drippy foods, tossing things in the dryer,  wiping my hands while cooking and a hundred other little actions that demonstrate my lack of regard for my clothing. 

I do not think about my progeny when I use a hot glue gun at the dining room table.  I do not give a wit about my heirs when I use a "good" cereal bowl to feed the dog.  What is here, is here for me. 

I resist any urges to "collect."  I have a deep aversion to knickknacks.  To me collections = clutter, and I'm a strong believer in getting rid of that which I do not find useful or beautiful or both.  Collections, no matter how nicely displayed are clutter, and should be limited. 

And when we're gone, what will it matter anyway?  This stuff--the pieces of life that we accumulate?  Will our collections, our purchases, our stuff be anything other than a burden on those we leave behind?  I actually found myself pitying my "heirs," reluctant to saddle them with my detritus, because I know that that which is important to me, probably isn't important to anyone else. 

I've tried renouncing materialism,  attempting to live a monastic life, but that simply isn't me.  I'm bargains and color, and shoes, and pots and pans, and picture frames.  I'm skirts and dresses and beauty products.  And I'm not sure I want to do any of it different--other than continue to be mindful of what I bring in, what is needed, what is needed, and what is destined to become clutter. 

In a way, asking whether something is something which I would leave to others is another way of saying, should I do this just to please myself or with a mind to others?  And the answer so often, is that I should do something just to please myself.  No one else cares what kind of book light I have.  My sheets and bedding are unlikely to be coveted by others. 

But that which I *would* like to leave behind, IS worth preserving, is worth working on--my scrapbooks, my writings, my paintings.  Certain pieces of furniture that I want to symbolize "Family" are worth the investment. That which would mean so much to me, that I would use it constantly, that it would come to be a treasured possession (oh say, a Kitchen Aid mixer) IS worth getting, worth the investment. 

In the end, my life is for me to live, and if my "stuff" lacks meaning for me, it is unlikely to HAVE meaning for anyone else.

I'm Still Kicking

. . . . So I seem to have worried a few.  Which is understandable.  I write my will and then I drop off the blogosphere.  Fear not dear internet!

I have several posts, all written in long hand, which will soon make their way to the computer.   I've been trying to bring more balance to my life (not that I've been that successful), by limiting my hours at the actual computer, freeing more time up for writing and reading and house cleaning and other fun stuff.   

I also post more regularly on my other blog .

And I just rolled out a re-design over there, and any comments on the new design are much appreciated.

So don't worry--no one is going to get to claim their inheritances quite yet. 

Will of Wavybrains

Perhaps it is the Terri Schavio case.  Perhaps it is change in medications that's playing havoc with me right now. Perhaps it is the simple notion of getting older.  Or perhaps, and most likely, it is Connie Mae Fowler, and her uncanny ability to make the unpalatable parts of life slide down like sweet tea, coaxing away of the ugliness of something bitter like death, until dwelling on the morbid becomes as natural as dinner.  Each of  Fowler's books leaves me introspective, questioning my life, and seeking the same meaning in my life that resonates in every sentence of her books.  And so, after finishing The Problem with Murmur Lee, I've decided to follow Murmur Lee's example and write my will.  Even though I intend to be around a good while longer (and so did Murmur Lee), and what I write now will be irrelevant at the time, I'm still glad I drafted a will.  A first for me.

(And it was such an eye-opening exercise, that I hope to post more on it soon. The mere thought of what if? is very terrifying and freeing at the same time)

Full Circle

Two and half long years ago, I was in the hospital for two days with mysterious stomach pains, dizziness, and fatigue. After performing several thousands of dollars worth of tests, the powers that be left it to two medical students to discharge me, and tell me that it was “just an ulcer.” (For the record: It wasn’t an ulcer).  I’m not sure why, but I had this strange urge to keep my hospital bracelet.  I’d felt for months like I was battling some unseen attacker, which was stealing away my energy, leaving me lethargic and powerless against a sea filled with wave after wave of brain fog.  I think I wanted to keep the bracelet as a tangible symbol that this nightmare was not all in my head–that it was real, that I deserved to be taken seriously. 

My-then husband poo-pood the idea as slightly morbid, yet another sign of my preoccupation with my health and my growing hypocondria.  He was right about one of the two.  Last Wednesday, I came full circle in a way.  I was admitted to the hospital.  Given the nifty little bracelets.  Even asked if I had a living will (not what you want to be asked right before some strange man shoves a needle in YOUR SPINE.). 

Nearly seven hours later, when Freak brought me home, I said “I think I’m going to keep my bracelet.”  He said simply, “You should.”  We both felt that this long road was finally coming to an end.  Two years of testing, well over two years of accumulating symptoms, and of trying to forge a life in the middle of limbo land.

What Feels Like Home

Sometimes, you have no idea how much something means until you have been without it so long.  Nearly two years ago, I went from having an apartment filled with nice furniture to having nothing, as the result of an ugly divorce (things are more civil these days, but very ugly then).  I decided that my furniture was simply not worth the mental energy required to fight for it.  But, in the ensuing two years, as I have gradually moved from owning an inflatable mattress and a dish upon my first night in Salem, to acquiring computer desks, washer & dryer, refrigerator, chairs, a breakfast nook, a real bed, bookcases, storage, cooking supplies, and all manner of other odds and ends (including of course A HOUSE and FOUR beasts), I have thought often of what I was forced to leave behind.

I am . . .

Aaack, I’m it.  Must tidy up the place, stuff things into the closets, artfully place fuzzy throws over the bare spots in my meager CSS abilities.  Ah, fug it.  I’ll just write the post I had planned anyway. 

I am a horrible perfectionist.  Indeed, my perfectionism often keeps me rooted to one spot, unable to take action for fear of taking the WRONG action. But, I’ve been working lately (and yes, I know, it does seem that I am holding a self-esteem workshop for Get A. Life, party of one, but I am truly convinced that being self-aware is not a bad thing, nor is being one’s own therapist) on truly enjoying who I AM, and not dwelling on who I wish I could be. 

In short, I am working on appreciating all the little things that make up who I am. (And I was inspired by a similar post on two different blogs, neither of which I seem to have remembered to bookmark. Horrible copy-cat that I am, and I can’t properly give credit for this cool meme).

So without further adieu, I am . . .

Pleasure Seeking

In my efforts to emulate Mama Gena, and devote myself to the study of pleasure, and also in an attempt to answer my FF sisters’ call to think beyond chocolate and carrot cake in terms of what brings me joy, I have alphabetized all the things, big and small that bring me pleasure:

To-Donuts

I like to start every morning with a full cup of expectations.  It’s the type A breakfast for champions.  Guilty flakes with a side of stressmeal and to-donuts. My therapist says that my problem is that I’m a perfectionist and can’t see that my standards are unrealistic.  Ha! I say! I’m just ambitious! And time impaired! It’s not my fault that the world won’t listen to me and increase the number of daylight hours and decrease my need for sleep.  When I get to heaven, God and I are going to have a very long chat about optimization of human potential through increased productivity. And this whole calories = pounds thing–I think we could do without it.   Better we fuel the productivity revolution with cheesecake.  I’d better start working on some flip charts. This will be incredibly useful if God does indeed turn out to bear a scary resemblance to Ross Perot. 

Anyway, the over-achiever in me won’t quit despite medical advice, and evidence that reducing my expectations of myself would probably be beneficial in the long term.  Not to mention make me a nicer person to be around.  But it’s this over-achiever in me that was giddy, yes giddy at JellyBelly’s post today.  Man, I love unrealistically huge to-do lists. Which I too, insist on making, like a sick compulsion despite my inability to cross anything off.  Here’s mine (and yes, hitting the road is sounding better all the time–challenge is could I possibly manage to not have a to-do list for the year):

Home on the Road

When you own a home and possess some modicum of creativity, life is full of unending opportunities to spend money.  In my four years as a renter, and before that my years in the dorm, changing paint color, removing walls, and god forbid, installing anything was not an option.  Which pretty much meant that I could go a year without entering a Lowes or Home Despot and be fine. 

But, Freak and I pretty much spend most weekends and far too many evenings, getting things we need.  Power tools, a hundred different kinds of screws and nails, glues, cleaners, and the ever-spiraling requirements that stem from a single thought.  When we bought the house almost nine months ago, we had a fleeting notion of scraping some peeling paint of a few of the doors.  Two heat guns, a half-dozen scrapers, a can of citri-strip, some sandpaper, sanding sponges,  and some ambitiously selected paint, the peeling paint remains. 

However, the initial round of stripping lead to the need for : a shop broom, trash can, and large dust pan.  Then organization in the workshop became an issue.  A peg board, a bunch of hooks (it feels like we must have made one trip per hook), some shelves, a more powerful drill to install the shelves, a saw to cut the shelves, several level thingies, and a miter box.  Then while installing shelves, knocking down part of a wall seemed easy enough.  However after the bashing and crashing, we needed a reciprocating saw to clean it all up.  And paint.  And trim, because you know, you can't leave the edges exposed.

We also own several tools for the basement remodel-in-progress upon which no progress has been made aside from laying out our over ambitious plans.  We own carpet shears and carpet pullers.  We have light fixtures in boxes, and the electrical doo-dads needed to keep oneself from electrocuting oneself to death when playing with wires. 

So, yeah, they pretty much know us by name at the three hardware stores in town.  Nights that aren't spent wandering the aisles at Lowes and Home Despot being seduced by words like volts and versatile (we're a sucker for words that start with "v") are spent at Pet Smart attempting to make up all the time we spend on house projects to our animals.  It's a toss up whether the animals or the house is a bigger money pit. 

Relaxation is a foreign word around here.  We talk about how much we need it, but achieving it always seems a bit out of reach. 

So, when I discovered this site last night, I thought to myself: "Hey, we could totally do that."  Cause, we spend 365 days in the car anyway, but imagine how awesome it would be to not have an agenda or a to-do list? Yeah, I could totally do that.

Where's Wavybrains?

When I was kid, I had this sick fetish for the game Where in the World is Carmen San Diego? I even liked the cheesy acapella group that sang the theme song.  I attribute my bug for exotic places and nomadic lifestyle solely to this show.  It's certainly not genetic--there are no world travelers in my family, and only a very, very few who have ever even taken a vacation that wasn't to see relatives.  So how I ended up with the soul of a nomad is beyond me.  Anyway, in the gray dreary days that are Oregon winters before our summer arrives, it's kind of nice to think about what it might be like to live elsewhere.  Because, I could do that, you know, live anywhere.  In my head of course relocating is as easy as watching Carmen San Diego scurry across a cartoon globe.  I tend to forget the extreme hassle of relocating to Oregon. 

Plus, as we all well know by now, I have a little tendency (just a small one) to think that the grass is always greener in someone else's life, in some other place.  So Clanna and I were discussing different places the family could all end up (part of my evil plot to lure them closer) when we found this amazing site:  http://www.findyourspot.com

This nifty little quiz helps you find the best places for you to live in the US--loads of fun for quiz junkies like me and Clanna.  But the funniest part--Freak, I, and Clanna all ended up with Oregon cities on our list! Not only that, but our current city was on both our lists and number four for me, with a nearby city as number one. 

Moral of the story--Sometimes you are in exactly the right place. 

So who else wants to fess up to where they'd like to live? Care to take the quiz and share your list? 

My Not-so-Perfect Life

Update: Monday, Feb. 8:  Weird coincidence!  Faulkner Fox is this month's author for Blogging for Books over at The Zero Boss.  So Be sure to enter, and give her some quality blogging to read! Deadline is Next Monday!

When Faulkner Fox was my age, she had an ongoing fantasy of a man, a child, and a house by the sea.  She got three of the four (no ocean), and wondered why she was unhappy.  Thank god, she didn't keep these feelings to herself.  Instead she wrote Dispatches From My Not-So-Perfect-Life, which the universe sent to me as I've worked through a difficult week, a difficult place emotionally.  My anger cache is still in the process of emptying, and letting it out, acknowledging where I am right now seems to be the best thing for me right now.  The most important thing in the last week has been realizing that I am not alone.  Thank you Sarah, Day, Natalie, Tanya, and Michele for reminding me that I'm not alone --that other struggle with these feelings too--and for validating where I am right now.

Which is why it is simply serendipitous that the universe dumped Dispatches into my lap, with Fox's unflinching take on bitterness, anger, and reaching your dream.  I wanted to shout with glee as I read her book in big hungry gulps Wednesday.  Yes, yes, yes! She with her "dark thing" mentality, with her endless questioning, with her insistence on engaging her partners in tough discussions about domestic equity,  her deep need to engage in real no-holds-barred conversations about feelings with others,  she speaks to a part of me that has been desperately needing validation.  Fox helps me to see that I am not alone in my confusion, in my unhappiness, in the endless perfectionism and competitiveness that keeps me isolated from others.

Wavybrains Pollock: Anger Makes Good Art

There’s a lot of urban legends out there, and some days I feel as if I’ve unwittingly become one.  Years from now, at reunion, somewhere in the Midwest, someone will mention my name.  “Oh yes, I remember her. Last I heard, she got divorced, and then she got MS, had to work part-time, and god, where is Ms. First-in-the-class now?” And everyone will laugh and toast their good sense in spending their  law school years at happy hour and  watching survivor.

This is my greatest fear.  That I will become a cautionary tale for over-achievers everywhere.  “Oh, don’t push yourself so hard, I knew this one girl . . .”  These are the games I play with my head when I heap judgements upon my life.  I take my fears and I turn them into judgments that I assign to others. I am so disappointed in myself that I cannot consider anything but scorn and ridicule coming from everyone else. 

I’m supposed to be done with the whole angry and bitter stage of chronic illness by now.  I should be well on my way to acceptance and beatification. Only I’m not.  I have great, big, paint-flinging anger welled up inside of me.  I have rage I dared not confront, as its mere presence scared me, and I was terrified of what it could do unleashed.

Dead Horses? I've got my whip ready!

Let me expose more of my neuroses to the world as I pick apart and analyze my inner workings. As if I wasn’t already driving Freak crazy enough with wedding angst, health woes, and my quest to be the most expensive girlfriend/fiancee/future wife ever, I have an extreme case of baby-itis. You can thank the Redheaded Princess, Julie, Tertia,  Dooce, and the whole host of others in blogland with exceedingly beautiful babies.

I know, I know, I wrote a whole post about how I was so addicted to infertility blogs and needed to find a new corner of the blogging universe to lurk in.  However, with so many new babies to oooh and ahhh over and watch grow, it’s been rather compelling. Better than reality TV. 

A typical evening at Chateau Wavybrains: “Look at this picture!” Wavybrains conveniently does not mention that this is the 100th picture of Bella or Charlie or Tertia’s twins.  Freak glances at the screen for 1.2 seconds before uttering “cute” and slowly backing away from my desk.  Poor guy, he’s started ducking whenever I open my mouth. 

Which is probably reasonable, seeing how most things that spring out of it these days seem to be new ways for us to spend money.  What is unreasonable is the way I keep working babies into conversation. Every other sentence begins “when we have kids” or “if we have kids” etc. I’m starting to annoy even myself.  And I know that I’m driving Freak crazy.

Cause Freak doesn’t like pressure. He really, really, hates being backed into a wall. So, a nice wench would hear him say, “Yes, but now” and drop it. After all, he has a point: a) I have career aspirations that I’d like to address first, b) we’ve have enough major life events in the past two years, c) slightly more money in the bank would be helpful to avoid feeding our offspring government cheese, and d) I really do want him to be excited about the prospect and not looking like a gun is being held to his head. 

So why do I persist in beating dead horses? This really is the larger issue here.

Living Room of My Soul

Life Coach Martha Beck writes in the latest O at Home magazine: “The indifferent hodgepodge of my home stemmed from neglect of my soul, and my ill-nourished soul, in turn, was perpetuating an uninspired environment.” It strikes me that this is a vastly under-utilized tool to understanding the concept of home. Why are we drawn to some homes and not others? Why do we so enjoy peeks into people’s private spaces? What do our homes say about us?

Beck believes that our living space is a self-portrait. “The portrait that emerges is all the more accurate for having been created unconsciously.” Likewise, decorating can be a tool to self-growth. “Pondering the symbolism of your living space allows you to make transformations toward beauty and fulfillment in both your home and your life.”

So how would I describe my home?

Living the Life of My Dreams

Time to throw open the curtains and let the sunshine in. I’m sure that with my recent spate of rather dreary posts, that people probably think that I’m wandering around the house, wearing all black, cursing at my animals and dragging my left foot and clutching the walls like an unsteady hunchback. Not all of these things are untrue of course, but while doing my best Igor impression, I’ve taken stock of my life.  And I’m pretty happy with where it is going.

So, instead of making New Year’s resolutions, I thought about how my life would look if I lived without fear, if I gave up worrying, if I really went for my dreams. How would I spend my time if I spent my time the way *I* want to? What I came up with was this:    

I’d prepare fabulous brunches for myself. I’d become a full-time yogi.  I’d spend my mornings writing, my afternoons taking long walks, and my evenings doing things I loved. And more writing. I’d send more letters and greeting cards. There would be more little notes slipped in lunches and ordinary dinners with candles.

I’d sew my my own clothes. I’d volunteer with children. I’d travel around giving readings from my books. I’d go on month long retreats. I’d visit islands and mountains. I’d take fabulous photographs and hang them on my walls.

I’d become known for my literary salons. I’d have off-beat parties with formal invitations and tons of appetizers. I’d be a weight-loss guru and a cheerleader for more fabulous women. I’d give amazingly well-wrapped presents.

I’d dress eccentric & off-beat. I’d laugh more. I’d turn the music up all the way, and dance around my living room more often. I’d wear lip gloss everyday and finally get treatment for my rosacea. I’d go out dancing. I’d sleep in. I’d make an art out of afternoon siestas. I’d spend more time in the hammock.

I’d prepare lovely, fresh foods straight from my gardens. I’d make my own jam. I’d learn how to knit. I’d finish the quilt for my bed. I’d make wonderful Tom Kha soup. I’d finally learn how to cook a great steak. I’d write a cookbook just for fun. I’d slow dance on the beach. I’d erase the word can’t from my vocabulary.

So what would you do if you didn’t have to worry? How close are you to living the life of your dreams? How are you spending your energy?

I realized how close I am to this life now, and how I could be even closer just by spending my time in more meaningful ways. Pretty awesome. No lotteries to win. No tall dark dashing men to meet. Just the simple power of intention and I could be there. How about you?

Donna Reed, The Martyr

I have a confession. I’m not Donna Reed.  I know. Shocking isn’t it? I mean we do both have perfectly coiffed hair and firm conviction that a casserole makes everything okay.  But, I’m more like the unhappy woman in Pleasantville who needs to see the world in color. Shocking, lush, technicolor.  Deep within me is an Etta James song waiting to be crooned.

I shouldn’t have to make this confession. I mean, it seems pretty self-evident tat I’m an independent woman with dreams beyond a spic and span floor and a well-fed man. But, last winter after I was diagnosed with MS, and sunk into a depression, I saw assuming the traditional wifely role as a way out of my depression and fear. I felt that MS had stripped me of my worth and purpose. The guilt over my changed circumstances consumed me. I now earned 1/3 of what Freak did.  I felt like a prisoner in my own body and in a life so different for the one I envisioned.

I was terrified of all that MS might take from me. Again showing my stellar intelligence, I didn’t face these fears because that would mean admitting that the MS was real. Instead, I’ve spent a good portion of my time in deep denial over the MS, not wanting to give voice to my deepest fear that while the dreams hadn’t changed, my ability to fulfill them had. So, I tried to re-define the dream.

The Lottery Game

Do you ever play the “lottery game?”  You know, the one where you speculate what you would do if you won $5,000, or $100,000 or a $1 million or the whole $121 million dollar jackpot? Freak and I play this game on a not-all-together infrequent basis. Usually after I’ve been worrying about the present money situation. Which is smart. Really. Because, you know, I have a greater chance of being struck by lightening than of winning the lottery. And so, being a rational, reasonable woman, laying around and speculating about what I would do with my largesse would beyond silly.

Only, I do it. Which, incidentally, does not, in any way, relieve my present money worries. And, actually, playing the lottery game creates a whole host of new problems as it reminds me of all the things I would like to have.

Thanksgiving Blessing

I remember as a kid standing around in a circle at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, everyone saying what they were thankful for as part of the blessing.  Of course, with yummy smells wafting from the buffet right next to us, our declarations tended to be short and sweet, and usually focused on each other.  No matter what else was going on, we were always profoundly grateful to be there, the five of us plus them, and whoever else showed up that particular year. Despite the fact that we lived in the same town, Thanksgiving was an event, and it underlined how thankful we were to have what did, even it was very little by materialistic standards, and without being cheesy, we were thankful to have each other.

This is my second Oregon Thanksgiving, my second Thanksgiving without family, and last year I had no idea how hard it would be to have thanksgiving without seeing those core people even for just an hour. Even during the years where my relationship with the family was distant to put it nicely, just seeing them made it feel like Thanksgiving. During those years where choice and allegiances and a bunch of other stuff created a gulch that was only breached by uneasy silences and wary attempts at normalcy, I think I depended on those little moments.

Wearing Someone Else's Clothes

My style is an interesting jumble of misfires and bad choices, tentative steps forwards, and falls backwards towards blandness and practicality. When I was 15, I knew how I’d look at 25, a mixture of my Aunt Laurie and Auntie Mame, with a closet filled with thrift store finds and bargains from Filennes, and I would never be ordinary again.

Pounding of My Heart

I went to my second drum circle Wednesday  night.  I think I’m hooked. After a lifetime of being told I had no rhythm, being asked not to clap because I could never quite get it “right,” I find the drum circle incredibly freeing. It is anarchy in rhythm. Someone starts, and others follow, no sheet music, no discussion, no counting. Some may start, then rest awhile, then start playing again. Others intermittently pick up a wooden flute or a cowbell or even a harmonica. And it all sounds amazing. It is primal poetry welcoming the night, drawing people in, soothing them with its ancient melody, brand new and exciting in form.

Dancing In the Light

Deep inside me resides the soul of a dancer. In another life I was poised, and moved with lightness, and my soul has hungered to dance, to have the exterior mirror the performance in my head.  I can count on both hands the number of times I have danced in public. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve enjoyed it, and I think I’ve always felt self-conscious about my body, my lack of rhythm and my uncoordinated movements.

But last night, I danced, and all I felt was love. Total love, and acceptance for myself, for my connection to my intuition, and for my connection to the divine. I dragged Freak with me to a group I had heard about that meets in a dance studio twice a month to move to world beat music in a safe, supportive, no drugs/alcohol/smoking environment. Just like my first yoga class, I felt like a part of my soul had come home. I felt an immediate connection with the 10 person group.

At first, I was simply amazed at the individuality and freedom of the other dancers, galloping like children, swaying like shakers, moving like beat poets, twirling like ballerinas. Then I felt like the room was hugging me with its energy, and I felt freed, inspired by the freedom that the rest of the group gave to their bodies. After two songs or so, I felt the call of my intuition, and for the first time, outside of the privacy of my office, I didn’t have to think about what my next move would be.

I felt both disconnected from my body, and yet, more in tune with it than ever before. I moved strands of energy like taffy, glittering like diamonds between my fingertips. I listened to my body, opening each charka up, spilling energy onto the floor. My arms seemed lighter than ever before. I felt wonderfully, beautifully alone. The omnipresent observer I fight against was gone, no judgments loomed in my head, no comparisons haunted me, and I filled my own need completely drawing from the energy of the room.

At times people rested, sitting, laying, rocking on the floor, accepting their body’s call to the moment. I was totally in the now, totally in love with myself. At the end when we sat in a circle around a single candle, and held hands, I felt like sobbing with my happiness, with the spirituality of the experience, with how wonderfully, completely, connected I felt.

It was only two hours, but seemed like I had known these people much longer, like I had been in this place before.  I’m definitely going back. In fact, I don’t think I can wait till next month to dance again.

Confessions of a Former Praise Junkie

Confessions of a Former Praise Junkie
Freak and I spent most of six plus hours driving on Saturday talking about the nature of friendship. Seeing as how I've been very focused on finding more community, more people to share with, more close friends, it seems natural to turn my critical on this desire of mine. It's not really enough to say "I want more friends" without digging deeper into why you want more friends, and why you feel that way.

I'm reading to Freak out loud from my private, paper journal, trying to make sense of an epiphany I had Friday morning, trying to sort out the jumble of thoughts going through my head, like fence posts on the endless fields between here and Portland.

Also, given that no one person can be your "everything," it makes sense to think of types of friends I want, knowing that someone could fit into more than one category, rather than just looking for "friends." So what do I want? I want:

---Female shopping friend(s) to go bargain shopping with, to spend the afternoon window shopping
---Foodie friend(s) to cook with, to go to ethnic grocery stores with, to share recipes with
---Chick flick movie friend(s) to go see "girl" movies, watch friends and sex in the city
---walking/hiking/exercise buddies
---Travel friend(s) to take road trips with
---Lunch friends
---Potluck friend(s)-this last category is perhaps the broadest as well as being my deepest long term desire. I want groups of families who come over, hang out, talk politics and life, kids running around, playing board games, maybe someone breaks out a guitar or some music. I want community.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Freak and I have been discussing respect all evening. Its interesting how differently we grew up. Freak had to earn respect, from his grandparents, from his brothers, from his superiors in the military. My family didn’t really operate like that, and neither have any of my relationships. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that respect has played a very limited, if any, role in my life up until recently.

On the Illusion of Need

In Communion with God, Neal Donald Walsch lays out some basic illusions that yield simple truths about ourselves. I’ve resisted joining Freak on the Neale Donald Walsch bandwagon for over a year now, and I’m still on the biggest fan. But some of what he writes really makes sense like this:

“Happiness is not created as a result of certain conditions, certain conditions are created as a result of happiness.”

Upon reading this, it hit me how deeply held this illusion is for me. I have conditioned my happiness so much on illusory needs: I’ll be happy when I get an A, I’ll be happy when I graduate, I’ll be happy if I get a boyfriend, I’ll be happy in that suit, I’ll be happy on this trip, I’ll be happy when I get a dog, I’ll be happy out west, I’ll be happy if he says X, I’ll be happy if I eat that, I’ll be happy once I weigh X pounds, I’ll be happy if I get this gift, I’ll be happy if I get more friends, I’ll be happy if . . . .

The idea that I needed something, needed to discover something, be somewhere, be with someone to be happy has pervaded my thinking my whole life. Happiness is a state of mind, a choice. And yet, I get so hung up on need. I think I need something to balance out my life, need something in order to get back on track, need something from someone in order to feel whole. It is this last one that has been a real challenge lately.

It’s relatively easy to know that I don’t need new clothes, hair goo, magazines, bubble bath, and chocolate to be happy. But sometimes it’s hard not to link my happiness to someone else’s actions. Which always ends up falling short and leaving me disappointed. For example, Freak is incredibly romantic—bringing me flowers from time to time, leaving me little notes, giving me incredible back rubs etc. But if it doesn’t match what I’ve built up in my head, the movie that I’ve played a thousand times creating a script for him, then I’m disappointed.

I see now, in the hours, and days, when things are clicking for me, and I’m shining and upbeat how my happiness is contagious, how it leads to more and more good things. I see the power in releasing illusions, one by one. I truly am the divine, as are we all, and I want to share that with the world more often. And I want to allow myself to see the world in that interconnected way too, to take more responsibility for my own happiness—from within, and not from without.

My Imperfect Self

I believe the universe has led me to this place for a reason. At a certain point, I was tired of living a life on someone else’s terms. I couldn’t remember a time when I wasn’t a “star”, striving for perfection –the star student, the star artist, the poetry star, the star daughter, the star friend, the star wife, even the weight loss star. I could build a stack of scrapbooks to fill my bookshelves of accomplishments that really weren’t for me—they were to feed this inner beast, the need to be the bright spot in someone else’s life, the need to gain other’s approval, to feast on their happiness rather than seeking my own.

The First Step is the Hardest

I am reminded again today of important trying is. I missed my regular noon yoga class, so I went to an evening Pilates class instead. Pilates is to yoga what running is to walking. Apparently I lack these core muscles they speak of, or perhaps that nice thick layer of padding makes them harder to utilize. I felt like a newborn colt struggling to stand upright. But I really enjoyed the class, and I remembered how hard yoga was at first, and then I felt uplifted.

Sometimes I get frustrated because the number on the scale is higher than a year ago, because I still have bad days due to the MS, and my blood sugar still likes to yo-yo from time to time. I beat myself up because I exceed the recommended serving size of certain sugar-free treats :P Or I lament my driving my fossil-fuel mobile to work to conserve energy instead of biking. Or I focus on the kitchen floor (which is disgusting at the moment) instead of the clean bathroom, bedroom, and living room.

But I forget how much I am really doing to change my destiny, to fight back chronic illness, to take charge of my mental state, to not let my genetic tendency towards clutter and chaos take over completely. Trying really is enough to make a difference. For instance, today my mother had a very roller coaster day with various family member’s health conditions. My 84 year old grandmother in New York has a rare vascular disorder that has made her rather debilitated, and while quite treatable, has everyone worried. My father on the other hand, has high blood pressure (not to mention morbid obesity . . .), and a staph infection that has so far not responded to antibiotics. So high powered drugs all around . . .

In some respects though, I feel that my 84 year old grandmother is in better shape than my 52 year old father. She has an active lifestyle (up until 2 weeks ago or so when she started having some problems), she has a network of friends and family, actively involved in her church and community, and has made a variety of lifestyle changes when recommended by her doctor—reducing sugar, and fat, and salt.

My father on the other hand, visits his doctor, and takes the medications they recommend. His lifestyle is still just as a sedentary, and any eating changes are due solely to changes in my mother’s cooking and what she buys at the store. I get frustrated with my father because I don’t feel that he is trying to change his situation, and I feel that he minimizes the toll he is taking on his health. I love him unconditionally, and accepting that I can’t change him was one the hardest lessons of growing up. He has given into his situation, and did so many, many years ago, and that is the saddest thing. Its probably the Sagittarius in me—I can’t stand to see people not trying to improve.

Trying really can make such a difference, and that’s what I am reminded of today. Its not the “Wow, I’m a size 3 now!” success stories we should strive for. Rather, putting one foot in front of the other, stretching, making a concerted effort to eat veggies, use olive oil, whatever steps you take is a step in the right direction. So it doesn’t matter if you flop like a fish on the Pilates mat. If you showed up, you are already a success story.

New Month, New Start

A new month is a good thing. I like the continuity of month-to-month, season-to-season. I think it’s because I was a student for so long that I love concrete deadlines, things to tick off, and starting all over again. I feel like July was a hurdle leading to a catharsis that I had to have to move forward, but it was hardly an easy month. But I’m trying to not let a difficult month lead to a second difficult month.

So I’m trying to recommit to Flylady. I’ve gotten rather lazy about this stuff recently, and I need her reminders and testimonials to prod me to take care of myself, and the house. Nothing says I love you like a clean sink, after all. I’m also trying to hit my target work hours each day so that I have less stress at the end of the week about whether or not I will need to take leave.

I’ve done yoga every day for over a week now, and I’m really enjoying adding it into my daily routine. I think the 2-4 times a week routine I had been doing was a good start, but I think a daily practice allows one to enter into more spiritual side of practice more deeply. I’ve been reading Yoga for Depression by Amy Weintraub, and I can’t say enough good things about this book.

You don’t have to be a yogi to benefit from the meditation and breathing techniques, and all the postures she recommends are very basic and easy. In fact, I’ve found it to be a good before bed routine. I’m getting closer to standing on my head in regular practice and I’m very excited by this, as it shows how much progress I am making.

Now if I could just keep the kitchen floor clean . . .

Loving More, Searching Less

Lately it seems like references to polyamory are cropping up more and more. Perhaps its our hyper-sexualized culture, or perhaps the whole-gay marriage debacle has people throwing in the monogamy towel as a vestige of WASP-dom they’d rather not be associated with. Myself, I never really considered anything other than a one person, one lifetime commitment for a very long time. I mean polyamory, or multiple relationships, is not exactly the dominant meme one receives growing up in the heartland.

I remember this bizarre movie set in the 1970s that came out in the early or mid 1990s that featured parents who were “swingers” and they went to a party where people grabbed car keys and went home with whoever’s car keys they grabbed and someone else went home with their spouse. This shocked and disturbed me more than my first glimpse of full frontal nudity.

Post-script to Regret

A post script to regret: Last night after I finished writing my piece on regret, the Freak and I had a really good talk. I realized that a big problem with letting go of regret comes from failure to understand how far I have come. I can only experience regret precisely because I am a different person now, one who better understands the complications and implications of my choices. For instance, I can only regret my choice in colleges, once I reach the point where I would have chosen differently. The girl I was at that point, would not make a different choice, even if I could go back to that point again. Or if she did, she might regret her choice in a different way.

Similarly with my latest spate of regret, its very easy to look back and say “of course, I would choose differently, I would act differently, I would say different things.” But this is only because I have gone through the consequences of making the choices in the first place. It’s only because I know what’s behind door #3 that I can say I wish things would have happened differently.

I am a different person now then I was a year ago, and I’ll be a different person tomorrow than I am today, and in five years, I will look back and not recognize myself, just like I do now. Put this way, it seems rather pointless to worry about regretting my current choices, or to spend too much time stewing about what might have been.

Instead, I should celebrate. Rejoice in the strong, independent person who is emerging from the pain and the grief. She is only here because she made those choices. Everything I like right now about myself and my life, came about because of choices, both the ones I regret and the ones I do not. I’m ready to dance in the light of who I am right now.

I spent 4+ hours in a car with Freak last night. Doing absolutely nothing, driving the interstate for the pure conversational value of uninterrupted time together to sort things out. I realize how regret has been making me tune out life. I had so much more fun being there with him, just talking and listening to him, than had I spent yet another evening on the internet, numbing myself to the now.
I am at a point in my life where I don’t need to be “looking”—for a partner, for housing, for schools, for a job, and I need to find more ways to celebrate this, rather than trying to find something new to search for. Regretting the end of the search is another form of absolutism that keeps us from really being here.
Freak reminded me that nothing limits me other than my own thinking, and thinking in all-or-nothing terms, of “I will never..” and pining for things in my life to be unsettled just so I can experience the highs and lows of the search again is an exercise in futility. Instead, I should leave the future open and not fixate on future regrets, or paint a picture of a future that causes regrets right now.
           If I free myself from regrets, I will have so much more free time again to really experience life. I think I’m ready to loosen my grip on some of these regrets today, and toss them to the wind, so that I can experience instead of regret. Who I am right now will shape who I will be.

No Regrets

Lilybleu’s reply to my post on Lance Armstrong has me thinking about regret. In a way, I think regret is among the most powerful of emotions. I have spent far too much time look back with all the benefits of hindsight and seeing what “should” have been, what “might” have been, what “could” have been. I spent a long time regretting my choice of colleges, certain that if only I had chosen differently, I would be a different person, happier, more successful, surrounded by more friends and kindred spirits.

          

Magic Number Six

Today was a big day for hope. My friend the Marxist was the first to share the news that Lance Armstrong’s amazing feat was completed. On Friday night, hanging out in the bookstore I read a great deal of his book, every second counts. I am constantly amazed by Lance’s connection to his humanity, his mortality, and his ethos. He says in the book given the choice between winning the tour and having cancer, he’d choose cancer—because cancer has made him who he is.

It takes a very brave person to admit that it takes pain, suffering, fear, and even the threat of death to make us a better person. To admit that without the pain we would not be where we are today. And it takes a strong person to not lament the pain, to not wonder what might have been, what was missed, what was given up to the suffering. Regret is perhaps one of the strongest of human emotions and I like how Lance does not allow himself to wallow in regret.

Like at the end of the book when he describes his failing marriage, he is still facing forward, looking at what needs to be done. Describing what happened, he says simply “We forgot the most important thing. We forgot to be married.” He doesn’t blame her or himself, or the stress of training for the tour. Even though he’s now with Sheryl Crow, and the kids are with his wife, and the marriage seems down for the count, I think this same attitude is what helps them to have a friendly relationship now.

I find a lot of inspiration in Lance Armstong’s story. To win a race of nearly 2,000 miles, six times in a row is daunting. But to other people, losing 50 pounds, running a mile, completing college, painting a house, or saving for retirement is just as daunting. The key as he stresses over and over again, is simply making the choice each day to get on the bike. To simply show up, and then to decide to make each moment, each choice count.

To impatient people like myself, his strategy is sometimes frustrating. Why let less-strong riders win early stages? Why choose to remain with the main pack instead of showing your dominance, cementing your win early? The answer is part of why he is so successful. He puts his energy where it is most needed, and where it will do the most good. There is a lot to be learned from this. So often, we have a goal, and we want to reach it NOW, and so we go whole hog. We ruthlessly slash calories, we pull muscles running when we haven’t walked in months, we put ourselves on a peasant’s budget of bread and water. And then we burn out. And there is nothing left of us to meet the goal. And so we give up.

Lance was 9 minutes back at one point. A rather large deficit when stages are sometimes won by less than a bike-wheel length. To not look at the leader board and think, ok time to rest on five wins, is rather remarkable. To fall off the bike, like he did last year, and to get back up, even when victory seemed nearly impossible, is a show of perseverance. I think sometimes its easy to get overwhelmed by our own perfectionism. To look at the mountain of laundry, the stack of paperwork, the forgotten projects laying around, and to wave our hands and zone out instead of tackling just what we need to.

You don’t win by never getting on the bike. I’m going to try and do a better job of showing up for life and not burning myself out on my own perfectionism before I have a chance to see what I am truly capable of.

Moving On

Much of my melancholy state of the past few weeks has centered around the imbalance of my relationship to the past, my inablity to be truly here in the now, and my yearning for closure. I still lack the answers, but I finally see a path to the balance which I seek.

Sometimes that which keeps us mired in the past is quite simply guilt. We feel burdened by the weight of others saddness and their inablity to move on makes us feel guilty. And so we stagnate.

Last night the wireboy set me free in a conversation I thought I did not want, and then realized that it was ALL I have wanted for over a year. I wrote a poem about it here.

 

There is No Right Answer

I’m not used to not having the answers. I admit it, I’m a bookworm, a nerd, a brownnosing straight-A, type A prototype. I’m the type of sadistic wench who actually enjoys standardized tests. I love short-answer essay tests, and word problems too. I’m really good at memorization and regurgitation and this served me well all the way through law school.

So I’m not prepared for situations where no amount of preparation can give me the answers. At my oral argument yesterday, I felt backed into corner, having to admit again and again to not having the answers the court sought. So I was a bit confused afterwards when my mentor told me what a good job I did fielding questions from the court. As she put it, sometimes the facts are simply against you.

You are Loved

Quote of the day: Don't give me a rhetorical answer to my rhetorical question! My mother reminded me tonight, "remember you are loved." It is such a simple thing, but so incredibly easy to forget when you are feeling off. (Or like in my case when whatever drug interaction checklist the pharmacist uses isn't quite precise enough). I get so hung up on avoiding failure, on making the "right" decisions, on figuring out the "right" answers that I forget to stop and notice all the love around me.

And I am loved. And so incredibly blessed by it. From the wireboy whose made his way back into my circle of friends after a long journey, to my friend the marxist, to other old friends, to the people in my yoga class, and even at work. And of course by poor Freak who has to suffer through these abrupt mood swings, and medication induced weepiness along with me. I've been working on a number of mental commitment cases at work. I notice one similarity among all of the cases I have handled thus far--the tendency of the truly mentally ill to push away those in the best position to help them.

While an inability to recognize love is a far cry from delusions and paranoia, it is a problem that impacts our mental health and our ability to relate to those around us. I just finished Jonathan Franzen's "The Corrections" and one by one each of the adult children realizes that their father, a rather difficult man, loves them. This realization sets them free to be who they really are.

All this worry that has occupied me most of my adult waking hours prevents me from seeing the love, and prevents me from letting my true self out in a similar way. In my search for what is "right", I overlook what is right here. I overlook the happiness that pervades my everyday life--my cats, my Freak and the sweet way he lets me be whoever I want to be, my house that I can paint whatever color I want (including my soon-to-be pink office), the job that I love. I'm happy and I'm so unused to the sensation, I keep searching for the crisis.

My challenge as Freak so ably points out is to find a way to live with all this abundance of happiness without inventing crises. Which I'm very talented at doing. But these crises distract me from the love around me so that I can go right back to worrying about what is "right." And isn't much better to be loved than to be right?

Romancing Myself

Sometimes I only recognize in retrospect how badly I treated myself.  At the time, I usually justify my beliefs in some logical and seemingly rational fashion, then when that façade no longer holds up, I progress to the always helpful medium of blaming others for the sorry state affairs in my life.

Forever Begins Right Now

Tonight, I re-read Judy Blume’s classic novel Forever. 17 year old Girl meets Boy, falls in love “Forever” and then falls out of love. It’s right up there with Love Story as far as sappiness goes. I last read this book when I was 14, and at the time I was more interested in the explicit “dirty” parts than in any plot or deeper meaning. But, when I was selling books back today and getting a few new ones, I saw it on the shelf and it seemed to beg me to take it home.

I read somewhere recently that if we remembered how much love hurts, we’d never do it again. How incredibly true this is. In fact, I think many people stay together long past the relationship expiration date to avoid the pain and heartache. When you are “in love,” the love feels invincible, and you’re certain it’s a once in a lifetime occurrence. And so like the heroine in the book, we rail against ourselves, fight the end, and even when we’re the one who leaves, we still grieve.

Everyone loves to fall in love. It’s the staying that’s hard. Love is such a fragile thing. What appears to be a hardy plant can die quickly, while what appears to be a puny little plant incapable of bearing fruit can surprise you and thrive. And in order to fall in love, we must succumb to temporary amnesia about the pain. Spur of the moment declarations of ever lasting love decorate the bridges, restrooms, building sides, and tabletops of America, testaments to the hope inherent in young love.

In the book, in the end when they break up, she must decide what to do with a necklace that has their names and “forever” inscribed on it. She drops it in her purse in a scene that perfectly captures the awkwardness of such partings. The deeper message here I think is that its very easy to become cynical when we loose forever. The stages of grief are akin to that over the death of a loved one.

Books like Forever don’t come along very often. We are conditioned to expect to see true love, first love triumph, to see our hero whisk the heroine off into the sunset. It’s easy to crave first kisses, and electric glances when you are surrounded by the pressures of daily life, the laundry, the work, the bills. My brother is in love for the first time right now—and I see the power of love to transform a person, to bring us however temporarily out of deep depression with its powerful rush of endorphins. But what do we do when the depression returns? When simply being together is no longer enough to make a crisis go away?

I’m far from a cynic. In fact, it’s the fact that I’m such a romantic that gets me into trouble. I want to believe in forever, I want the white picket fence, the kids, the happy home. I want to be a part of a little old couple on a bench. Even as I mock suburbia and soccer moms, I believe in the power of love. I believe in the power of the union of two.

The fear that Forever leaves unaddressed is the fear of your own fallibility, your own fickleness. It’s not like a diet where all you need is willpower to sustain the relationship. Fear of yourself is powerful barrier to fully being there in a new relationship. It’s that same all or nothing thinking that paralyzes from accepting our half-full world. We feel that we will never again trust completely. It's not fear of committment--it's fear of letting ourselves down. But the human spirit is such an amazing thing. At the end of Forever, when she runs into her former beloved, there is sadness at what is lost, but hope at what may come. That forever is not impossible, it’s just a matter of timing. And luck.

Forever is like any other journey—it begins with the first step. And I think I often forget this. You don’t get the happy ending if you don’t leap, if you don’t believe, if you don’t trust, if you don’t risk the pain. And it begins with forgiving yourself for having dreamed and believed before. I’m not sure I’m there yet, but I’m working on it. Forever can be right now.

And the funny thing about perfectionism is that we don’t want to start a task if we can’t do it “right” or finish it. Flylady with her 15-minutes at a time mantra has helped to stop such negative thinking. It’s enough to do what I can, even if I’d like it to be more. One of her testimonials this week asked what we are hiding from when we give into this defeatism. I think another good question is what are we afraid of?

There is so much good in my life right now that focusing on the negative is holding me back from truly enjoying. Sometimes half full has to be good enough for right now. And if half full makes us truly happy, we have to brave enough to admit that instead of apologizing for not doing “more.” In order to unconditionally love myself, I think letting go of such thinking will be a major step forward. Drink up!

The Half Full Life

My core optimistic self is often overshadowed by the negative attitude that the glass of life is half empty. I’m pretty sure this is a genetic disorder. My mother is so good at seeing the dark cloud instead of the silver lining, that her and I have a running joke calling her my-voice-of-doom. This is not all bad—I can pack an incredibly resourceful carry-on for every contingency, and I’ve probably saved myself from my impetuousness more than once.

But the problem with this is how it feeds my perfectionism. I dwell on what I have not done, what I should do, what others do, what I could be doing, instead of focusing on what I am doing right now. I realized this this morning. I’ve been so busy beating myself up over this latest flare, and mad at myself for being a slacker in some areas that I neglect to see what I am doing right now.

I really should be happy that I am working some hours, as opposed to none, instead of busting my chops for not hitting my goals. I should note that I have not had more than one load of laundry waiting for the machine since moving into this house in May. (This is a major feat for someone who could easily wait to do wash until 3 triple loaders and 2 double loaders were needed). I should be thrilled at the additional chapters I’ve added to the novel, instead of focusing on the fact that its not done yet.

And the funny thing about perfectionism is that we don’t want to start a task if we can’t do it “right” or finish it. Flylady with her 15-minutes at a time mantra has helped to stop such negative thinking. It’s enough to do what I can, even if I’d like it to be more. One of her testimonials this week asked what we are hiding from when we give into this defeatism. I think another good question is what are we afraid of?

There is so much good in my life right now that focusing on the negative is holding me back from truly enjoying. Sometimes half full has to be good enough for right now. And if half full makes us truly happy, we have to brave enough to admit that instead of apologizing for not doing “more.” In order to unconditionally love myself, I think letting go of such thinking will be a major step forward. Drink up!

Immediate Gratification

So I went to the psychic fair downtown yesterday, and as anyone who has known me for any length of time can verify, I’m not exactly a psychic seeking kind of girl. But I love this little bookstore that was hosting the event, and Freak was enthusiastic about going. I must say, nothing happened that changed my degree of skepticism over the whole concept of prophecy. For example, Freak learned that one of our kittens is jealous of the other, and that we pay too much attention to the other one. The medium claimed to communicate with our cats via telepathy. I’m not entirely ruling out the possibility of communicating with animals, but telepathy with animals you have never met? Without knowing our address or what they look like?

I digress. Twenty dollars poorer, on the way to beach, I began to contemplate why so many people seek out tarot readings, animal psychics, goddess card readings and the like. There are now at least three new-age type bookstores/gift shops in our small downtown, and clearly interest in this stuff is exploding. I think this phenomena is directly related to our “hurry up” culture. We have access to each other 24-7 via email, cellphones, pagers, and instant messengers. We have more “leisure time” than previous generations, yet most of us suffer some degree of sleep deprivation.

Confronting the Past

I've been thinking a lot lately about why people are reluctant to confront the past. I think a lot of times, we are unwilling to let go of the mythic importance we have built certain events into, i.e. high school, first dates, bad experiences. We don't want to confront the past head on, because we risk having that vision of the past disrupted--and in the process how we see ourselves is threatened. For example, I have an old friend who is so invested in seeing a certain version of our relationship that it prevents us from having any sort of relationship now, which is very sad. We use our past as a fortress to prevent getting hurt.