Friday, January 30, 2009
My Perogative
I am almost certain that I have decided upon the color that I would choose for my skin, were I not restricted to the naturally occurring colors in nature. I would be fuschia. This was not an easy decision to come to, particularly as I've been quite fond of green and orange - in general - lately. In fact, even as I think about green now I am tempted to switch. But, no - fuschia it would be. With lovely teal hair, I think.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Back To Earth
Perhaps you've been wondering why there have been no new postings to this blog lately? (Or perhaps not....but I shall not even consider that as a REAL option.) Well, as it turns out, I spent five days with my mother for our Annual Mother/Daughter Fantastic Birthday Bonding Extravaganza. It kept me quite busy, you see. Sure - it's true that I MIGHT have been expected to return to writing after she left, but then - you know - I had to go back to work. Going back to work after three days of PTO is a horrible experience. (Side note: I don't even want to THINK ABOUT what it will be like after two weeks of PTO in March, when we jaunt over to Bangkok. Aargh!)
Here's a bit of a clue as to how much recovery time this PTO will require: It's Sunday night at approximately 8:30 pm. I am working. I have been working for 4 hours. I have not even crossed off 1/10 of the items on my "Urgent To-Do" list. Sigh. Woe is me. (Side note: My father is probably giddy with delight at this point, as he considers each additional task imposed upon me to be a harbinger of employment stability. Sympathy is not required, in his opinion. Effusive congratulations, on the other hand, are quite appropriate.)
[Random thought: I should not have eaten two donuts today. Why did I do that? Prior to today's donut incident, I had allowed nearly an entire year to pass by in which I had only consumed two donuts. Why would I suddenly need to match last year's record in a matter of minutes?]
Before I sign off to continue my work (with the promise of "real" postings resuming this week), I want to extoll the virtues of my latest venture in the yoga world: AcroYoga. This - my friends - is truly amazing. Today, in a two-hour Acroyoga workshop, I learned the most fantastic things about trust, community, and yoga. (I also learned that when you suspect someone has weak and spindly limbs that cannot support your body weight, you may very well be correct, despite any demonstrations of overconfidence and declarations of "experience.") You will hear more about this topic soon - believe me.
Here's a bit of a clue as to how much recovery time this PTO will require: It's Sunday night at approximately 8:30 pm. I am working. I have been working for 4 hours. I have not even crossed off 1/10 of the items on my "Urgent To-Do" list. Sigh. Woe is me. (Side note: My father is probably giddy with delight at this point, as he considers each additional task imposed upon me to be a harbinger of employment stability. Sympathy is not required, in his opinion. Effusive congratulations, on the other hand, are quite appropriate.)
[Random thought: I should not have eaten two donuts today. Why did I do that? Prior to today's donut incident, I had allowed nearly an entire year to pass by in which I had only consumed two donuts. Why would I suddenly need to match last year's record in a matter of minutes?]
Before I sign off to continue my work (with the promise of "real" postings resuming this week), I want to extoll the virtues of my latest venture in the yoga world: AcroYoga. This - my friends - is truly amazing. Today, in a two-hour Acroyoga workshop, I learned the most fantastic things about trust, community, and yoga. (I also learned that when you suspect someone has weak and spindly limbs that cannot support your body weight, you may very well be correct, despite any demonstrations of overconfidence and declarations of "experience.") You will hear more about this topic soon - believe me.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Pop
It's not the popcorn addiction in itself that concerns me....it's what that popcorn might represent.
Popcorn - after all - is an incredibly violent food.
Had this addiction developed years ago, I might be able to dismiss it. It could - I would theorize - be just a "chance" addiction, born out of ignorance. The truth of the matter - however - is that I developed my habit AFTER I read the full - raw - truths about popcorn.
It started nearly a month ago when I received some fresh ears of popcorn in my CSA volunteer goody-box. What, I wondered, is popcorn, exactly? Why doesn't any-old-sort-of-corn pop? WHY does popcorn "pop?"
The research led to some ugly, ugly truths. Why does popcorn pop? Because it's being heated to high, high temperatures....UNBEARABLE temperatures...and because the poor kernel can't breathe. That's right. Air cannot escape the little morsel, and - in one horrific, violent moment - its center liquifies as the husk explodes. The now-liquid inner kernel hardens as it hits the air - one final gasp as rigor mortis sets in.
I warned you. It is not pretty.
What does it mean, then, that since learning the truth about the horrific ending that each kernel of popcorn meets in my Whirly-Pop popcorn exploder, I eat it nearly every night? What sort of horrible monster am I?
Popcorn - after all - is an incredibly violent food.
Had this addiction developed years ago, I might be able to dismiss it. It could - I would theorize - be just a "chance" addiction, born out of ignorance. The truth of the matter - however - is that I developed my habit AFTER I read the full - raw - truths about popcorn.
It started nearly a month ago when I received some fresh ears of popcorn in my CSA volunteer goody-box. What, I wondered, is popcorn, exactly? Why doesn't any-old-sort-of-corn pop? WHY does popcorn "pop?"
The research led to some ugly, ugly truths. Why does popcorn pop? Because it's being heated to high, high temperatures....UNBEARABLE temperatures...and because the poor kernel can't breathe. That's right. Air cannot escape the little morsel, and - in one horrific, violent moment - its center liquifies as the husk explodes. The now-liquid inner kernel hardens as it hits the air - one final gasp as rigor mortis sets in.
I warned you. It is not pretty.
What does it mean, then, that since learning the truth about the horrific ending that each kernel of popcorn meets in my Whirly-Pop popcorn exploder, I eat it nearly every night? What sort of horrible monster am I?
Thursday, January 08, 2009
A Post
[Behind the scenes of this blog posting: I spent a great deal of time wavering back and forth on potential topics. I even began writing a posting, which quickly turned so melancholy that I deleted the entire thing. At that point, I was sorely tempted to ditch the project and crawl into bed with my copy of "Through The Looking Glass." No - I reminded myself. Your intent is to do a bit of writing everyday. It doesn't have to conform to any standards or notions of what it "should be." I resigned myself to trying again, but - alas - my creative juices are shriveled. This could easily diverge - at this point - into a posting about WHY the juices are dried up (clue: because of work, the severe intellectual fatigue that it induces, and the copious amounts of my time that it has been consuming) but that's not what I want to discuss either. So here's what I'll do: Bore you with random details about today. Aren't you glad I've set this new personal goal?]
Tonight I bought bunny hay. Two five-gallon tubs of it, for which I paid an entire $8.00. (Courtesy of the House Rabbit Society) Earlier this week, in a moment of desperation (the hay connection has been out of town), I paid over $10.oo for a measly bag of dried-out, unflavorful hay at the pet store.
It was clearly not up to the standards of the rabbits-in-residence, and much time and effort was put into demonstrating that fact to me. Elaborate sniffing sessions took place, during which the rabbits would initially rush toward the hay, as if they had been waiting for hay all of their lives, then stop short at the edge of the mound. Bodies leaning back, they would stretch what little neck they have forward and sniff - testily - at the dried grasses. Tossing their heads, they would - each of them - run back toward me as if expecting the "REAL" hay to be produced. This would go on for some time, and - each time - when "good hay" did not appear the rabbits would spend the next half hour scattering hay around their enclosures.
This ritual has been happening - without fail - twice a day for five days. I am glad to be done with it.
Now, as I type, a happy, sprawled-out Charlie lies underneath the table, close to my feet. Janie tugs at my pants leg, suggesting that I pay a bit more attention to her. When I finish typing this, I will do a bit of work - but not as much as some nights.
I bet you that - despite the warning delivered in the preamble to this posting - you still expected there to be a point, didn't you? There isn't.
Tonight I bought bunny hay. Two five-gallon tubs of it, for which I paid an entire $8.00. (Courtesy of the House Rabbit Society) Earlier this week, in a moment of desperation (the hay connection has been out of town), I paid over $10.oo for a measly bag of dried-out, unflavorful hay at the pet store.
It was clearly not up to the standards of the rabbits-in-residence, and much time and effort was put into demonstrating that fact to me. Elaborate sniffing sessions took place, during which the rabbits would initially rush toward the hay, as if they had been waiting for hay all of their lives, then stop short at the edge of the mound. Bodies leaning back, they would stretch what little neck they have forward and sniff - testily - at the dried grasses. Tossing their heads, they would - each of them - run back toward me as if expecting the "REAL" hay to be produced. This would go on for some time, and - each time - when "good hay" did not appear the rabbits would spend the next half hour scattering hay around their enclosures.
This ritual has been happening - without fail - twice a day for five days. I am glad to be done with it.
Now, as I type, a happy, sprawled-out Charlie lies underneath the table, close to my feet. Janie tugs at my pants leg, suggesting that I pay a bit more attention to her. When I finish typing this, I will do a bit of work - but not as much as some nights.
I bet you that - despite the warning delivered in the preamble to this posting - you still expected there to be a point, didn't you? There isn't.
Monday, January 05, 2009
The Final Nail
Today, after my massage, the massage therapist stared at me thoughtfully for a few moments.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Good. I feel good. The shoulders feel much better." I hoped that my response was enthusiastic enough. I never feel quite certain - in circumstances like these - of the appropriate answers.
She nodded, still looking thoughtful.
"That's good," she said, at last. Then there was a pause. "It feels," she continued, finally, "like your left hip is still further forward than your right."
[There really is no story here. This is it. If you don't understand why I would post this, then I must refer you the the posting directly preceding this one - "You Put Your Right Hand In."]
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Good. I feel good. The shoulders feel much better." I hoped that my response was enthusiastic enough. I never feel quite certain - in circumstances like these - of the appropriate answers.
She nodded, still looking thoughtful.
"That's good," she said, at last. Then there was a pause. "It feels," she continued, finally, "like your left hip is still further forward than your right."
[There really is no story here. This is it. If you don't understand why I would post this, then I must refer you the the posting directly preceding this one - "You Put Your Right Hand In."]
Sunday, January 04, 2009
You Put Your Right Hand In
A number of years ago, as a new student to Pilates, I was informed by my instructor – an intimidating drill-sergeant sort of woman – that I was completely lopsided. I was, she continued, horrendously unbalanced – my right side completely dominating my left. Her tone implied that I was as close to a freak of nature as anything that she’d seen in some time.
As I grew to know this woman, I understood that I could not be bothered to take personal offense with anything that she said. Were I to do so, I’d be unable to take her classes. “Tough love” would be far too kind a term to describe her teaching style. In spite of – or perhaps because of – this, I returned over and over to her classes. They were amazingly effective.
Besides, I couldn’t afford not to go – now that I knew about my horrible affliction. However had I had managed to live in ignorance for so long? After spending many long hours and days pondering the dilemma, I identified the root of this evil. Juliet Juniper. Caninus Maximus Strongus: the ultimate restraint-resistant 70-pound ball of canine muscle. Not only had I been walking 3-5 miles daily with her for eight years, but I had been doing it using only my right hand. Even worse: She strained against the leash the entire time we were walking, and if she spotted another dog she surged forward with enough power to have broken through several heavy-duty collars in her lifetime. It was, I realized, no wonder that the right half of my body had developed super-human strength.
Sadly, identifying the cause of the problem did not fix it overnight. My life – instead – became much more difficult as I began to walk Juliet with my left hand. This sucked. Juliet could overpower my left side with no trouble at all, which proved to be quite problematic – and embarrassing – on several occasions.
Many years (and many left-side specific exercises) later, I’ve grown much closer to a “balanced self.” My left side is still not as strong as my right, but it plays a good game. Imagine, then, how disturbed I was to notice – last week – that my right hand (and other right-side parts, by extension) had begun to step in where it was not necessarily welcome. Without warning, it would reach for something that the left hand had intended to grasp, or it would assume control of a device just as the left hand had begun management.
Where, I wondered, had this attitude come from?
I had spent many years teaching my right hand that about the value of “stepping back,” of “working cooperatively.” Now it seemed as if none of these lessons had truly taken hold. After a period of thought, I identified a likely reason for this right-sided domination: my recently-developed addiction to the game of solitaire. The game I play is not just any solitaire....it is the sort of electronic solitaire that is available on my phone. You can imagine how handy this is. I play solitaire if I’m standing in a line, I play solitaire if I’m waiting for someone to meet me, I play solitaire if I’m talking on the phone. Sadly, I also play solitaire at many other times, including the time right before I drift off to sleep. Yes, that is right. Late at night, you can find me curled on my side, eyes drifting shut but hand – RIGHT hand – clinging to the bright face of my phone, moving the red 7 to the black 8.
It is embarrassing to admit to, this addiction. Even more so now that I realize the effect that is has had. You see, it is much easier to play solitaire with my right hand – especially if I am sleepy. As my addiction has increased, so has the strength and dexterity of my right hand.
This confession is not just embarrassing – it is detrimental. It is the reason that I find myself – tonight – working once again on reprogramming my body. LEFT hand, I remind myself sternly as I reach for the refrigerator door. LEFT HAND, I mentally shout as I lift ingredients off the cupboard shelf. Moments later, I reprimand my right hand for attempting to take control of the spoon.
As I eat my macaroni and cheese, my left hand – always a good sport – does its best to hold up its part of the arrangement. The first spoonful is so full of heaping macaroni that I nearly choke on it.
“That’s okay,” I assure my left hand, whose self-confidence is now flagging. “I’m really hungry anyway.”
The next spoonful contains a mere two pieces of macaroni. “Wow,” I enthuse, “way to adjust! You’re a fast learner!”
I hope that it doesn’t hear my stomach growling, protesting the slow pace at which dinner is now appearing. The third try is once again overflowing, and I briefly entertain the idea of letting the right hand – now sitting smugly next to the bowl, taunting me with its availability – take over. I see a tremor of uncertainty in the hand holding the spoon, and my resolve strengthens. My mouth closes firmly over the pasta, and I barely choke at all.
As I grew to know this woman, I understood that I could not be bothered to take personal offense with anything that she said. Were I to do so, I’d be unable to take her classes. “Tough love” would be far too kind a term to describe her teaching style. In spite of – or perhaps because of – this, I returned over and over to her classes. They were amazingly effective.
Besides, I couldn’t afford not to go – now that I knew about my horrible affliction. However had I had managed to live in ignorance for so long? After spending many long hours and days pondering the dilemma, I identified the root of this evil. Juliet Juniper. Caninus Maximus Strongus: the ultimate restraint-resistant 70-pound ball of canine muscle. Not only had I been walking 3-5 miles daily with her for eight years, but I had been doing it using only my right hand. Even worse: She strained against the leash the entire time we were walking, and if she spotted another dog she surged forward with enough power to have broken through several heavy-duty collars in her lifetime. It was, I realized, no wonder that the right half of my body had developed super-human strength.
Sadly, identifying the cause of the problem did not fix it overnight. My life – instead – became much more difficult as I began to walk Juliet with my left hand. This sucked. Juliet could overpower my left side with no trouble at all, which proved to be quite problematic – and embarrassing – on several occasions.
Many years (and many left-side specific exercises) later, I’ve grown much closer to a “balanced self.” My left side is still not as strong as my right, but it plays a good game. Imagine, then, how disturbed I was to notice – last week – that my right hand (and other right-side parts, by extension) had begun to step in where it was not necessarily welcome. Without warning, it would reach for something that the left hand had intended to grasp, or it would assume control of a device just as the left hand had begun management.
Where, I wondered, had this attitude come from?
I had spent many years teaching my right hand that about the value of “stepping back,” of “working cooperatively.” Now it seemed as if none of these lessons had truly taken hold. After a period of thought, I identified a likely reason for this right-sided domination: my recently-developed addiction to the game of solitaire. The game I play is not just any solitaire....it is the sort of electronic solitaire that is available on my phone. You can imagine how handy this is. I play solitaire if I’m standing in a line, I play solitaire if I’m waiting for someone to meet me, I play solitaire if I’m talking on the phone. Sadly, I also play solitaire at many other times, including the time right before I drift off to sleep. Yes, that is right. Late at night, you can find me curled on my side, eyes drifting shut but hand – RIGHT hand – clinging to the bright face of my phone, moving the red 7 to the black 8.
It is embarrassing to admit to, this addiction. Even more so now that I realize the effect that is has had. You see, it is much easier to play solitaire with my right hand – especially if I am sleepy. As my addiction has increased, so has the strength and dexterity of my right hand.
This confession is not just embarrassing – it is detrimental. It is the reason that I find myself – tonight – working once again on reprogramming my body. LEFT hand, I remind myself sternly as I reach for the refrigerator door. LEFT HAND, I mentally shout as I lift ingredients off the cupboard shelf. Moments later, I reprimand my right hand for attempting to take control of the spoon.
As I eat my macaroni and cheese, my left hand – always a good sport – does its best to hold up its part of the arrangement. The first spoonful is so full of heaping macaroni that I nearly choke on it.
“That’s okay,” I assure my left hand, whose self-confidence is now flagging. “I’m really hungry anyway.”
The next spoonful contains a mere two pieces of macaroni. “Wow,” I enthuse, “way to adjust! You’re a fast learner!”
I hope that it doesn’t hear my stomach growling, protesting the slow pace at which dinner is now appearing. The third try is once again overflowing, and I briefly entertain the idea of letting the right hand – now sitting smugly next to the bowl, taunting me with its availability – take over. I see a tremor of uncertainty in the hand holding the spoon, and my resolve strengthens. My mouth closes firmly over the pasta, and I barely choke at all.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Well Hello 2009. How Funny To See You Here.
For those of you who missed it, the calendar year of 2009 has come upon us. No, don't get up. He's an informal sort of fellow. In fact, he'll just hang around in the background while you go about your business. No - really. Keep doing what you're doing. He doesn't mind.
Yes, I'm sure.
In honor of 2009's arrival, I decided to humor him and his "resolution" fetish. He's waited a long time for this, after all. Over 2000 years. Because I have been a bit indecisive as late (thanks to his younger brother 2008 and his chaotic influence) I proposed that we use a bit of time - mutual time - to really make certain that I pick the resolutions that "work for both of us." (His words.)
I will, therefore, be using the month of January to "try out" some different resolutions and find "the right fit." There have been no decisions made as to the number of resolutions that are to come out of this experiment, but there is tacit agreement that the more difficult that they are to adhere to, the fewer I shall adopt.
I admit, I did try to use that unspoken agreement to sort of...well....cheat.
"I will," I stated, dramatically, "resolve to WILL myself into a man."
2009 was silent. I could feel the disapproval. He - apparently - doesn't take these resolutions as lightly as I do.
"I'm serious!" I insisted. "I've been reading lately about a number of species of animals....or at least fish... that spontaneously switch genders. I shall will myself to do that as well! This will - of course - be EXTRAORDINARILY difficult, so perhaps it should be my ONLY resolution."
I refrained from mentioning that at the slightest sign that such an experiment was having any effect I would be forced to cease all efforts immediately. I mean - really - who would want to be a man?
In disgust, 2009 threatened to leave.
"Fine." I conceded. "We'll pick something LESS INTERESTING." I sighed melodramatically, and affected an air of disdain that was meant to suggest that 2009 was LESS than "with the times." He - naturally - didn't even pause to consider such an absurd notion. (It was, admittedly, a lame affectation...what with him BEING "the times" and all.... but I was still smarting from the rejection of my proposed resolution.)
Since our conversation, we've resumed a semi-affable relationship and have been tossing ideas about all day. Most of mine have been shot down immediately. It appears that the resolution to not scratch itchy skin is not a lofty enough goal, and that the resolution to enjoy peanut butter is not an option - just because I ALREADY DO!
"Who," I asked, peeved, "Is making up these little rules?"
Still in the running: The resolution to write - a little something - every day; the resolution to try a new form of exercise every month; the resolution to tackle (unnamed - at my insistence) a long-ignored project.
"I can't help but notice," I sniffed, as we reviewed the potential candidates, "that - so far - all of my potential resolutions involve ME exerting effort, and YOU doing nothing but sitting back and watching."
2009 smiled, saying nothing. He didn't need to. He knows that I don't have - metaphorically - a leg to stand on. His role is not nothing. In the accomplishment of these resolutions, as in the selection of them, we will need to work as a team. At the moments of failure, it will be his role to offer me another chance, to pick me up and carry me forward to the next opportunity.
Still, I don't care for the smug look on his face.
Fortunately for me, nothing has been set yet. When it comes to the selection of my year's resolutions, time is on my side.
Yes, I'm sure.
In honor of 2009's arrival, I decided to humor him and his "resolution" fetish. He's waited a long time for this, after all. Over 2000 years. Because I have been a bit indecisive as late (thanks to his younger brother 2008 and his chaotic influence) I proposed that we use a bit of time - mutual time - to really make certain that I pick the resolutions that "work for both of us." (His words.)
I will, therefore, be using the month of January to "try out" some different resolutions and find "the right fit." There have been no decisions made as to the number of resolutions that are to come out of this experiment, but there is tacit agreement that the more difficult that they are to adhere to, the fewer I shall adopt.
I admit, I did try to use that unspoken agreement to sort of...well....cheat.
"I will," I stated, dramatically, "resolve to WILL myself into a man."
2009 was silent. I could feel the disapproval. He - apparently - doesn't take these resolutions as lightly as I do.
"I'm serious!" I insisted. "I've been reading lately about a number of species of animals....or at least fish... that spontaneously switch genders. I shall will myself to do that as well! This will - of course - be EXTRAORDINARILY difficult, so perhaps it should be my ONLY resolution."
I refrained from mentioning that at the slightest sign that such an experiment was having any effect I would be forced to cease all efforts immediately. I mean - really - who would want to be a man?
In disgust, 2009 threatened to leave.
"Fine." I conceded. "We'll pick something LESS INTERESTING." I sighed melodramatically, and affected an air of disdain that was meant to suggest that 2009 was LESS than "with the times." He - naturally - didn't even pause to consider such an absurd notion. (It was, admittedly, a lame affectation...what with him BEING "the times" and all.... but I was still smarting from the rejection of my proposed resolution.)
Since our conversation, we've resumed a semi-affable relationship and have been tossing ideas about all day. Most of mine have been shot down immediately. It appears that the resolution to not scratch itchy skin is not a lofty enough goal, and that the resolution to enjoy peanut butter is not an option - just because I ALREADY DO!
"Who," I asked, peeved, "Is making up these little rules?"
Still in the running: The resolution to write - a little something - every day; the resolution to try a new form of exercise every month; the resolution to tackle (unnamed - at my insistence) a long-ignored project.
"I can't help but notice," I sniffed, as we reviewed the potential candidates, "that - so far - all of my potential resolutions involve ME exerting effort, and YOU doing nothing but sitting back and watching."
2009 smiled, saying nothing. He didn't need to. He knows that I don't have - metaphorically - a leg to stand on. His role is not nothing. In the accomplishment of these resolutions, as in the selection of them, we will need to work as a team. At the moments of failure, it will be his role to offer me another chance, to pick me up and carry me forward to the next opportunity.
Still, I don't care for the smug look on his face.
Fortunately for me, nothing has been set yet. When it comes to the selection of my year's resolutions, time is on my side.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
