Life is a Banquet

Back to the Future

2006 was supposed to be better.  Better than what I am still not sure as the year is only 11 days old.  But, I am trapped in a revival of my high school years--aimlessly waiting for the next big thing and hacking up my left lung.  Yes, that's right.  I spent my formative years sounding like an emphysema patient awaiting transplant.  I have no idea how many bouts of chronic bronchitis I suffered--10? 20?--just that my winters were defined by barking like a seal and being ungodly tired. 

Now, I have spent the least week and a half sounding like a seal, canceling appointments, being a bad wife and friend and citizen.  It has rained 23 out of the last 24 days.  Scratch that.  It rained this morning already.  It has rained 24 out the last 25 days.  The dampness seems to have infiltrated my very being.  I feel moist and spongy like a moss-covered wavybrains. 

In my case, bronchitis is brought on by something else--a cold, an aftermath of a cold, a sinus infection, alien invaders.  It is viral, not bacterial, and my long experience has shown me that antibiotics do little more than make me bat-shit crazy.  Ditto all cough syrups.  (Hello, Loopyville!).  Hot showers help.  Sleep helps (but my god, the weirdness of my dreams . . . .). 

I am such a sad specter of my usual wenchy self that advice has come raining down on me from all corners.  Freak is running the dehumidifier, urging me not to go out in the swampy January chill.  My mother, even knowing the past failure of modern medicine to cure me in all arenas, urges a trip to the doctor.  Mr. 37 has brewed me a Chinese herbal medicine akin to used motor oil in looks, smell, and taste.  The scientist has plied me with Gilmore Girl DVDs. 

This is starting to feel like 2003 re-deux as well.  I am depressed, not to the point of the dark place, but apathy has taken over my body.  My muscles hurt in strange new ways, ways that were supposed to go away once the doctors figured out that I don't have MS.  My blood sugar is acting up.  Exercise is forgotten, eating atrocious (as much as wheat-free, sugar-free eating can be).  I am a mess.  Which, really is nothing new at all.

New Year, New Closet

So the whole pink office was a little bit of a bust, mainly due to a lack of windows.  But, the room IS right off our master bedroom AND right near the laundry area/clothing storage area. And, since I didn't get my 2nd bathroom for christmas, I decided the next best thing would be an old-fashioned boudior.  And, finally, I think the space has come into its own.  Come, marvel at my organization. 

Wavybrains tells all . .

So, ergonomic solutions aplenty have I, including Dragon, a new spilt keyboard, and a very empty bank account. My tendonitis is slowly getting better, although I will have to be disciplined to keep it that way. Boring stuff out of the way, let’s have some of the great gossip and rumors swirling around Casa Wavybrains these days. 

 

1) A certain ponytailed heartthrob is about to embark on a major life change. This ponytailed hottie is swapping keyboards for schoolbooks and halo for paintbrushes? Can it be? And what does this mean for his buxom lass?  Stay tuned . . .  

2) A wannabe novelist was spotted reaching 15,000 words on her NaNoWriMo entry, although her golden heart entry appears to be missing in action. 

3) A little black feline has strayed from his happy home. This nad-less tomcat was last spotted on Saturday. His mournful shadow has been seen hitting the fancy feast in recent days, and his canine love bunny is keeping the hope alive by scouring the bushes and barking at closed doors. 

4) Someone over-taxed their roomba, necessitating an early morning visit to Target, phone calls to Irobot, and many Freak-ish heart palpitations. All is apparently well as in recent days the roomba has been spotted out and around eating cell phone chargers and dragging socks through the fireplace. 

5) A scooba is on the way! That’s right. A little bundle of joy is expected in eight to ten weeks. The bump on the credit card is just beginning to show. 

6) Sssh! That might be the sound of chalk on a chalkboard and an apple for teacher! Keep your fingers crossed and stay tuned. 

7) Love is in the Air! Mr. 37 inches closer to bringing his lady-love from

China

here, and the Scientist has a mysterious someone who is loved by all, especially the black beasts of the household. 

8) Rumor has it that a certain Wavy person is about to have a birthday . . . in NY! Yes, folks you heard it here first. There will be a huge shin-dig at Nana’s place, complete with sugar-free ice-cream and low sodium meats.  

9) On a more somber note, pills have been popping with new frequency and blood has been let. Our sources at the endrocrinologist’s office tell us that a certain blogger’s PCOS and diabetes is not behaving. Condolences on the loss of more carbs is appreciated. 

10)  Desks were spotted leaving the basement a few weeks ago. We have concluded that certain work-from home persons have moved out of their pink offices for the SAD season. 

 

Be sure to keep reading . . .Wavybrains tells all.*

*Many apologies for falling down the email replying front--will be trying to use Dragon more.  Your comments have not gone unnoticed or unappreciated.  Also, even if I comment less, I am still reading my blogroll.  Your juicy gossip is duly noted! 

Vigilant Gourmet

Eating is the most political, most expensive, most time-consuming activity I engage in these days.  It is also single-handedly the most frustrating and depressing part of my life.  And I know that I am not alone. Not at all. My ex used to remark that he wished humans could just take a pill for nutrition and forgo the burden of eating. I never used to agree, but now I think there may be some logic to that wish. Eating is scary act, where even drinking tap water is a risky proposition. Eating “right” changes daily and becomes an uphill battle of money, willpower, and time.

Dryer Lint in my Brain

I probably have something to say, but I fear it’s become lost in a moveable type haze, as I attempt to speak out both sides of my mouth at once and actually make this freelance thing work. And while my novel is still gathering dust (broken record, I know), I just sold another article today, and I’m starting to feel less like a total fraud referring to myself as a writer. Even if I do still totally want to break out into loud giggles and do the happy dance every time I get to announce that I’ve just banked coffee money from my words.  

I, Wavybrains

As the goddess which we all agree I am, I should not have to strain my back cleaning *certain* people’s long hair out of tub drains, weaken my knees bending for stray socks, hyperextend my shoulders vacuuming, and I most certainly should never have to foul my oxygen with the scent of over-ripe cat box. Unfortunately, despite the fact that I am ever so much more intelligent than that Bewitched chick, and would never wear sheer harem pants like that Jeanie broad, mother nature neglected to give me the talent to point at something and say “cleanius maximus immedius” or something like that.

 

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: 

May I borrow your Children?

There are plenty of reasons why it sucks to be the oldest, but not having nieces and nephews ranks right up there.   See, the way I see it, being an Aunt is so much cooler than being a mom.  I was lucky to have three childless aunts and four childless uncles growing up, and having them as a part of my life was a huge blessing.  I looooooooooooooove the idea of being an Aunt:  I am an EXCELLENT present giver, I believe in making exceptions to rules, I'm always up for ice cream, I love parks, and I have no compunctions about watching P-13 movies or listening to rap music.  Seriously fabulous aunt material. 

Today, I found out that dear, dear friend is unexpectedly expecting.  Of course, my baby radar went on high alert causing massive depression for a few hours while I wallowed in jealousy.   But, the thing is, as much as I want to be like Ms. Fish and Ms. Polyp and the Goddess and all the faboo mamas out there, I don't want it YET.   I'm at a really good place in my life right now.  For the first time in three years, I am finally ME again.  I have energy, I am healthy, I am strong, and I am happy. 

While an unexpected event would still be a blessing, there's so much I want to do first.  I want to finish our massive credit-card pay off.  I'm not ready to part ways with lazy weekend mornings and time-wasting afternoons and irregular meal times.  I want my cleaning, eating, writing, and exercising habits to be ACTUAL habits and not just aspirations or good intentions.  I want to travel more with Freak.  I want to be published.  I want Freak to be in a less-stressful place career wise.  I want Caylis to be out of puppy-hood.  I want a second bathroom.  There are books to be read, novels to be written, trips to be taken, wardrobes to be expanded, and Nikon D70's to be lusted over.  I want more family around--chosen or biological for support.  We need a car other than a two-sear insight and a cleaning schedule that wouldn't alarm DHS.  In short, we and I have a lot of work to do first. 

But, still, the pull of children is intense.  I have ALWAYS been a baby person.  I'm one of those annoying teenagers who followed new mothers around at church and parties waiting for a chance to swoop in and hold the baby.  I Looooooooooove babies.  But 24 hour babies?  Mmmm. Not so sure.  I like giving them back. 

So what I really need is some nieces and nephews.  Stud-monkey wants to join the peace corps and at 24 has no girlfriend in sight.  Matty-dog also has altruistic aspirations, will be in school forever, and does not aspire to either long-term partnership or adoption.   Freak actually HAS nieces and nephews, but due to stellar parenting and life choices of his two elder brothers, neither he nor his mother have much contact with these kids.  I'm testing the waters with acting in an Aunt like fashion to some new babies born to my cousins--first of "our generation"--but I need MORE. 

Gosh darn it, I need more kids to shop for.   I want kids to come and visit, and share stories and play with Caylis, and sleep on the floor in sleeping bags and build tents out of sheets, and babies to rock.  And then, I want them to go home so that I can build up excitement over seeing them again.  I want kids to borrow to go to the zoo, and other fun places.   I need adoptive nieces and nephews, people.   I'm going to spoil the heck out of my dear friend's baby, if she lets us.  Any other takers?  Short on siblings?  Need a shower planned?  A free babysitter?  Call 1-800-Not Your Mommy.    

Drowning in a Sea of Cat Pee and Self-Pity

This is how the cat decided to repay us me for the decision to keep her princess-complex behind and spend buckoo bucks on trying to solve her “little” problem:

 

 

 

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.

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.

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?

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 . . .