Well, the Supreme Court handed down two extremely controversial decisions that has all of America talking about whether or not child rapers deserve to die with the handguns we're allowed to carry so I'm going to talk about my neighbor's party Saturday night.
So, there we are, my sweetie and I, trying to get some sleep in the relative cool of midnight after the awful 100 degree day we had, all windows open to catch the nighttime breezes, when we hear a car door slamming and maybe three or four men traipsing to my neighbor's back patio which is a scant fifteen feet over the fence from our bedroom window.
One man calls, "Charley, over here, Charley!" in a voice that would serve him well on any stage while giggles and "shhhhs" come from the others. Then, we hear the unmistakable sound of, "Hwwaaaaahhhh" followed by a play-by-play narration: "He's hurling. He's in the bushes. He's hurling in the bushes." Back to you, Tom.
This was not to be the last episode of the evening, either. An hour or so later, more car doors, more loud voices, more Olympic vomiting noises rolling around our cul-de-sac like thunder on the Cascades. It was truly one of the most disgusting things I've ever heard. If we were to have a contest about disgusting things overheard while trying to sleep, this would rank right up there. I just wasn't sure what to do about it--talk to the neighbor, call the police to get the drunk driver off the road, let it go until morning, let it go forever?
There was one thing I was sure of, though. Our neighbor was far too old to for these kinds of shenanigans (you can tell how old I am by the use of the word, "shenanigans." It's a wonder I didn't use, "high jinks").
Our neighbor is a youngish man--maybe late 20's, early 30's--who works as some sort of gardener, has a "roommate" and other than the neighbor's name that's all we know about him (we don't even know if the "roommate" should be in quotation marks). But we do know that he should be past the stage of vomiting parties with friends unless he wants a giant "L" marking his door forever, dooming him to a life of Friday evenings spent playing poker and downing six packs with the guys until he's long past fifty, devoid of any female companionship unless you count Sondra at 1-900-Get-Laid.
So, there we were, my husband and I, each on our side of the bed, listening to all this when we turned to one another and voiced the thought uppermost in our minds: "We'd better shut our window next time we're doing the mattress mambo; sound really carries."
So, about that contest--What's the most disgusting thing you've overheard from outside your abode whilst trying to sleep?
Monday, June 30, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Cute Pics
I've been innudated with cute pictures lately so I just have to share. Thanks, all! Plus, I will be vacationing in Yachats this week (10 points to the out-of-stater who pronounces it correctly). I'll be posting again Monday, June 30th. See you then!
Friday, June 20, 2008
Doctor Bills
The patient will live. The doggie oatmeal worked and the rocks are out of her system. Hooray! Now we don't have to get a second mortgage on the house to pay for her surgery. Hooray!
Does thinking about the cost make me a bad person?
When one of our cats had some thyroid issue and the vet said we should give him radiation treatment to the tune of $1,000.00, I sure thought about the cost. I thought, "We can't afford that. Poor kitty. Oh well. I guess it's curtains for you." There's nothing like a large vet bill to clarify my priorities about just how my animal companions fit in my life.
I love our pets and think of them as part of my family, but I don't rank them on a par with the human members of my family. I'm sure if a human family member needed surgery I wouldn't even think about the cost. We have health insurance which helps, but even so. I can't imagine thinking, "Oh well, honey, you'll just have to cope with that intestinal blockage because we can't afford the doctor."
Of course, people without health insurance are forced to do that all the time. I've read that people without insurance go to the doctor far less, and far later than they should for conditions that would have responded to treatment if caught in time. How awful to know that a person you love has died because you could not afford the treatment.
I do think it makes us a bad society to put money ahead of the health of our fellow humans. I don't feel the same way about animals, even while I realize that domestic pets are dependent upon us to care for them. Certainly that makes me a species-ist, if not a bad person.
I don't know what the answer is. While all living things do eventually die, it seems a crying shame for people--and yes, pets--to die prematurely from something that could be cured if only there were enough money to pay the doctor bills.
Does thinking about the cost make me a bad person?
When one of our cats had some thyroid issue and the vet said we should give him radiation treatment to the tune of $1,000.00, I sure thought about the cost. I thought, "We can't afford that. Poor kitty. Oh well. I guess it's curtains for you." There's nothing like a large vet bill to clarify my priorities about just how my animal companions fit in my life.
I love our pets and think of them as part of my family, but I don't rank them on a par with the human members of my family. I'm sure if a human family member needed surgery I wouldn't even think about the cost. We have health insurance which helps, but even so. I can't imagine thinking, "Oh well, honey, you'll just have to cope with that intestinal blockage because we can't afford the doctor."
Of course, people without health insurance are forced to do that all the time. I've read that people without insurance go to the doctor far less, and far later than they should for conditions that would have responded to treatment if caught in time. How awful to know that a person you love has died because you could not afford the treatment.
I do think it makes us a bad society to put money ahead of the health of our fellow humans. I don't feel the same way about animals, even while I realize that domestic pets are dependent upon us to care for them. Certainly that makes me a species-ist, if not a bad person.
I don't know what the answer is. While all living things do eventually die, it seems a crying shame for people--and yes, pets--to die prematurely from something that could be cured if only there were enough money to pay the doctor bills.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
For The Love of Dogs
"Stupid dog." That's what we're saying, alternating with, "Poor Pooch." She swallowed rocks. Three of them. One she puked, the other two were white circles in the black x-ray. If she doesn't pass them, she'll have to have surgery. Stupid dog.
For those of you new to this blog, I'm talking about our 5-year-old, black setter-lab mix who is highly energetic with extreme retrieval instincts. She lives for rocks and tennis balls. Throw a ball for her and she races as fast as she can to get it. Over and over and over. If no ball is available, she finds a rock and chews on it, carries it around, brings it to us to throw, despite the fact that a thrown rock is a recipe for bruised bones. Stupid dog.
When we take her to the river, she digs for rocks, yipping and barking in excitement. She always sticks her head in the water to better see her prize, forgetting that she can't breathe underwater and comes up sneezing. She has to relearn that breathing lesson each time we go to the river. But, once reminded, she holds her breath while her snout prises up the selected rock. If she brings it to us to throw, she tries to retrieve that exact same rock. This is difficult because as you know and I know, she can't breathe in under water to smell for it. This, too, she has to relearn each time. Stupid dog.
We're pretty sure she's eaten rocks before. I have a decorative candle display that used to live on my coffee table. The candle is on a glass plate surrounded by rocks. I noticed one day that the rocks were many fewer than they used to be. I wondered. Then one afternoon I knew when I saw our dog sidle up to the display and chomp on a rock. The display is now on a much higher table. Stupid dog.
She's had mysterious vomiting episodes in the past. We always took her to the vet whose advice was always the same: Skip a meal or two, keep an eye on her, and bring her in if she got worse. We stopped bringing her in when her tummy was upset and waited it out and whatever troubled her always passed. Literally.
I'm thinking we might have done that this time--and saved a ton of money--but she seemed much worse than in the past, much more uncomfortable. She couldn't settle anywhere, couldn't seem to pass whatever might need to be passed, plus she'd thrown up a few times, including the rock. From her manner I was sure she was going to expire in our back yard and that was just something I couldn't face, so off we went.
She is now at the vet, eating the doggie equivalent of oatmeal, hoping this will stay in her system long enough to push the rocks along. If not, surgery seems to be the next option. I am glad that I've not been asked to administer the food and monitor the results, even if it would save money on the boarding fee. That's just too gross. I feel bad for her though. If she were a person in the hospital, I could go sit by her bedside and hold her paw. But she's not. She's a member of our family though, who isn't feeling well, and I'm worried about her. Poor pooch.
For those of you new to this blog, I'm talking about our 5-year-old, black setter-lab mix who is highly energetic with extreme retrieval instincts. She lives for rocks and tennis balls. Throw a ball for her and she races as fast as she can to get it. Over and over and over. If no ball is available, she finds a rock and chews on it, carries it around, brings it to us to throw, despite the fact that a thrown rock is a recipe for bruised bones. Stupid dog.
When we take her to the river, she digs for rocks, yipping and barking in excitement. She always sticks her head in the water to better see her prize, forgetting that she can't breathe underwater and comes up sneezing. She has to relearn that breathing lesson each time we go to the river. But, once reminded, she holds her breath while her snout prises up the selected rock. If she brings it to us to throw, she tries to retrieve that exact same rock. This is difficult because as you know and I know, she can't breathe in under water to smell for it. This, too, she has to relearn each time. Stupid dog.
We're pretty sure she's eaten rocks before. I have a decorative candle display that used to live on my coffee table. The candle is on a glass plate surrounded by rocks. I noticed one day that the rocks were many fewer than they used to be. I wondered. Then one afternoon I knew when I saw our dog sidle up to the display and chomp on a rock. The display is now on a much higher table. Stupid dog.
She's had mysterious vomiting episodes in the past. We always took her to the vet whose advice was always the same: Skip a meal or two, keep an eye on her, and bring her in if she got worse. We stopped bringing her in when her tummy was upset and waited it out and whatever troubled her always passed. Literally.
I'm thinking we might have done that this time--and saved a ton of money--but she seemed much worse than in the past, much more uncomfortable. She couldn't settle anywhere, couldn't seem to pass whatever might need to be passed, plus she'd thrown up a few times, including the rock. From her manner I was sure she was going to expire in our back yard and that was just something I couldn't face, so off we went.
She is now at the vet, eating the doggie equivalent of oatmeal, hoping this will stay in her system long enough to push the rocks along. If not, surgery seems to be the next option. I am glad that I've not been asked to administer the food and monitor the results, even if it would save money on the boarding fee. That's just too gross. I feel bad for her though. If she were a person in the hospital, I could go sit by her bedside and hold her paw. But she's not. She's a member of our family though, who isn't feeling well, and I'm worried about her. Poor pooch.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Hit The Ground Running
Here's a tip for living from Mary:
Live your life in such a way that when your feet hit the floor in the morning, Satan shudders and says, "Oh shit, she's awake!
The message for me in this quote is one of exuberance, zest, pizazz. I just found that same message in the script for Enchanted April, a play our community theater is considering for next season. Set in post WWI England, two married women feel overwhelmed by loss and and the inexorable march of time that has cast a pall--like the incessant rain--over their lives and decide to rent a castle in Italy for a holiday. Renewal and enchantment follow after the perspective that comes from taking a step back from our lives and taking stock of where we are and where we might be going.
Vacations, retreats, marooned on a plane or in a car--these are good times to let the change in routine work its magic as the pattern that ties us to the form of ourselves is disrupted and therefore more easily examined. Like sorting through our summer clothes and coming across those denim shorts we thought so perfect last season just might be better on younger legs, the choices we made for our life might no longer fit quite so well. Perspective is hard to come by when we keep our nose to the grindstone.
So, give yourself a mini-retreat and figure out what you might do to add a little zest to your life. What can you do to let the devil hear you coming?
Live your life in such a way that when your feet hit the floor in the morning, Satan shudders and says, "Oh shit, she's awake!
The message for me in this quote is one of exuberance, zest, pizazz. I just found that same message in the script for Enchanted April, a play our community theater is considering for next season. Set in post WWI England, two married women feel overwhelmed by loss and and the inexorable march of time that has cast a pall--like the incessant rain--over their lives and decide to rent a castle in Italy for a holiday. Renewal and enchantment follow after the perspective that comes from taking a step back from our lives and taking stock of where we are and where we might be going.
Vacations, retreats, marooned on a plane or in a car--these are good times to let the change in routine work its magic as the pattern that ties us to the form of ourselves is disrupted and therefore more easily examined. Like sorting through our summer clothes and coming across those denim shorts we thought so perfect last season just might be better on younger legs, the choices we made for our life might no longer fit quite so well. Perspective is hard to come by when we keep our nose to the grindstone.
So, give yourself a mini-retreat and figure out what you might do to add a little zest to your life. What can you do to let the devil hear you coming?
Friday, June 13, 2008
A Little Bit of Heaven
I have it on good authority that when the Israelites were wandering through the desert and "manna" fell from heaven, it was really chocolate chip cookies--with no nuts. True story.
Don't believe me? Eat one. You don't have any in the house? Whip up a batch. Use the Tollhouse recipe; they're the best. I'll wait.
See what I mean? Damn, they're good. All part of life's bounty.
With all the ominous news in the world today I've decided to take notice of all the beauty I experience every day, whether it be in a cookie or in a white puffy cloud sailing through a sunny day. Today, this moment that I breathe in, is the only one I can count on so I've decided to make it count.
Blessed Be.
Don't believe me? Eat one. You don't have any in the house? Whip up a batch. Use the Tollhouse recipe; they're the best. I'll wait.
See what I mean? Damn, they're good. All part of life's bounty.
With all the ominous news in the world today I've decided to take notice of all the beauty I experience every day, whether it be in a cookie or in a white puffy cloud sailing through a sunny day. Today, this moment that I breathe in, is the only one I can count on so I've decided to make it count.
Blessed Be.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
The Erratic Poster
There is nothing more precious to childhood than long stretches of time off in the summer. Sleeping in, lazing around in the sunshine patch in a backyard, reading, riding bikes through the neighborhood, vacations--these are all hallmarks of a Norman Rockwell American summer.
I am hoping to have one of those summers, which means since I no longer have to rise early to get my pumpkin off to school, I will most likely NOT be posting at 8 a.m. for the next 3 months. In fact, the beauty of it is that I don't know what my schedule will be. That's also a little frightening because a little structure keeps me sane. I liked my morning routine during the school year, liked sitting down about the same time every morning and composing my thoughts. Now, I'm going to turn into an erratic poster and it just doesn't fit my self image.
(The Erratic Poster--is that a good name for a band? Maybe, The Erotic Poster, would be better. When I was reading about personal blogs someone said the only way to get return visitors to one's site was to write about sex all the time. If that wouldn't be enough to throw people off their morning Cheerios, I don't know what would, especially since I think I personally know so many of you readers and really, wouldn't that just be too much information, at any time of day? But I digress).
Perhaps, in between lazing around the backyard, reading, gardening and sewing projects--all designed with my tweener in mind to keep her active and engaged and out of my hair--I will figure out how to include an RSS feed in this blog so that those who routinely like to keep in touch will know when my musings have hit the blogosphere. Lord knows you wouldn't want to miss a pearl. Plus, I'm sure a routine will evolve in this summery phase of my life; maybe I'll become The Nighttime Blatherer; that'll be my new identity, though I'm not sure I like the handle any better.
In the meantime, even if you are one of those many folk who soldier on at their jobs during June, July and August, try and taste a bit of summer when you can--go for a walk at lunch in the fresh air, eat some watermelon and spit the seeds out at someone, where strappy sandals and flowy skirts, color your nails persimmon, bask in the sun (while wearing sunscreen and a hat), go for a bike ride, water your garden, or drink an infused martini under the stars.
Just remember to breathe in, breathe out and slow down. That's the true essence of summer, the feeling of time stretching endlessly in front of you and all your choices of how to spend that time are delightful. Enjoy.
I am hoping to have one of those summers, which means since I no longer have to rise early to get my pumpkin off to school, I will most likely NOT be posting at 8 a.m. for the next 3 months. In fact, the beauty of it is that I don't know what my schedule will be. That's also a little frightening because a little structure keeps me sane. I liked my morning routine during the school year, liked sitting down about the same time every morning and composing my thoughts. Now, I'm going to turn into an erratic poster and it just doesn't fit my self image.
(The Erratic Poster--is that a good name for a band? Maybe, The Erotic Poster, would be better. When I was reading about personal blogs someone said the only way to get return visitors to one's site was to write about sex all the time. If that wouldn't be enough to throw people off their morning Cheerios, I don't know what would, especially since I think I personally know so many of you readers and really, wouldn't that just be too much information, at any time of day? But I digress).
Perhaps, in between lazing around the backyard, reading, gardening and sewing projects--all designed with my tweener in mind to keep her active and engaged and out of my hair--I will figure out how to include an RSS feed in this blog so that those who routinely like to keep in touch will know when my musings have hit the blogosphere. Lord knows you wouldn't want to miss a pearl. Plus, I'm sure a routine will evolve in this summery phase of my life; maybe I'll become The Nighttime Blatherer; that'll be my new identity, though I'm not sure I like the handle any better.
In the meantime, even if you are one of those many folk who soldier on at their jobs during June, July and August, try and taste a bit of summer when you can--go for a walk at lunch in the fresh air, eat some watermelon and spit the seeds out at someone, where strappy sandals and flowy skirts, color your nails persimmon, bask in the sun (while wearing sunscreen and a hat), go for a bike ride, water your garden, or drink an infused martini under the stars.
Just remember to breathe in, breathe out and slow down. That's the true essence of summer, the feeling of time stretching endlessly in front of you and all your choices of how to spend that time are delightful. Enjoy.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
School's Out!
In 3 hours and 20 minutes from right now, school is out for summer. HEEEEELLLLLPPPP MEEEEE!
I have a delightful child who is cooperative and helpful and no trouble at all, and yet . . . the thought of not having a kid-free zone that I can count on is a bit overwhelming. This is the first summer that she is not going to a day camp most days. It will the be the most unstructured summer we've had since she's been a toddler so that's my frame of reference.
I know in my head that I don't need to follow her around and never take my eyes off her like I did when she was a toddler, but I'm not quite sure what lots of time with a tweener will be like. She does have the tendency to look at me and say, "What are we going to do now," as if I were a cruise director or something. Often, when I suggest my only child call a friend to play with she says, "But I want to do something with you." Awwwwww.
I can't imagine that sentiment is going to last much longer so I most always take advantage of it. I have no memories of playing with my own mother after I was school age, and I would have liked to, so I'm not going to quash suggestions for togetherness. It's easy enough to do as she is a delightful child, and the only one. My mother had five of us so mothering was more like crowd control than tete a tetes. I know I'm lucky, and yet . . . . AAAACCCCCCCCCCCKKKK!
Okay. That's done. Out of my system. I am ready to face my child 24/7 for the next 3 months. (Picture Edvard Munsch's (sp?) painting, The Scream, and you'll see my face). Happy summer.
I have a delightful child who is cooperative and helpful and no trouble at all, and yet . . . the thought of not having a kid-free zone that I can count on is a bit overwhelming. This is the first summer that she is not going to a day camp most days. It will the be the most unstructured summer we've had since she's been a toddler so that's my frame of reference.
I know in my head that I don't need to follow her around and never take my eyes off her like I did when she was a toddler, but I'm not quite sure what lots of time with a tweener will be like. She does have the tendency to look at me and say, "What are we going to do now," as if I were a cruise director or something. Often, when I suggest my only child call a friend to play with she says, "But I want to do something with you." Awwwwww.
I can't imagine that sentiment is going to last much longer so I most always take advantage of it. I have no memories of playing with my own mother after I was school age, and I would have liked to, so I'm not going to quash suggestions for togetherness. It's easy enough to do as she is a delightful child, and the only one. My mother had five of us so mothering was more like crowd control than tete a tetes. I know I'm lucky, and yet . . . . AAAACCCCCCCCCCCKKKK!
Okay. That's done. Out of my system. I am ready to face my child 24/7 for the next 3 months. (Picture Edvard Munsch's (sp?) painting, The Scream, and you'll see my face). Happy summer.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
I Am
The type of poem introduced yesterday is often called an I Am poem and is one of the simplest poems to write. Teachers everywhere use it with students of every age and in every locale, from elementary school classrooms to prisons. Poetry as a genre often intimidates people who don't think of themselves as writers but those who try this simple I Am poem are often surprised at what comes out. The key is to not think too much about your answers to the prompts, to just describe yourself in those terms with as much detail as you can imagine. If you haven't tried it yet, give it a whirl today.
After I wrote yesterday's post, I went ahead and followed the prompts and this is what I came up with:
This Is Me, Today
I am the cry of despair
from a kitten of 46 years.
I sing songs that rock
ballads of love.
I splash red fire,
the red of blood and anger
as I waterfall through life.
I spread my hardwood arms giving shelter
under expansive leaves.
The couch I offer you is a place of rest
from my fear of death.
Close your eyes and see love hiding there.
I showed you mine . . .
After I wrote yesterday's post, I went ahead and followed the prompts and this is what I came up with:
This Is Me, Today
I am the cry of despair
from a kitten of 46 years.
I sing songs that rock
ballads of love.
I splash red fire,
the red of blood and anger
as I waterfall through life.
I spread my hardwood arms giving shelter
under expansive leaves.
The couch I offer you is a place of rest
from my fear of death.
Close your eyes and see love hiding there.
I showed you mine . . .
Monday, June 9, 2008
So You Think You Can Write
You can write a poem. Right now. Don't be scared. Just jot down the first thing that comes to mind in answer to the following questions from Poemcrazy by Susan G. Wooldridge:
If I were a color, what color would I be?
What shape would I be?
If I were a movement, what movement would I be?
What sound?
What animal?
What song?
What number?
What car?
Don't be telling yourself this is silly. Stop that. Just let the images flow.
What piece of furniture?
What food?
What musical instrument?
What place?
What element in nature?
What kind of tree?
What's something I'm afraid of?
What's hiding behind my eyes?
Now, looking over what you've just jotted down, take the phrases and words you like best and arrange them in a way that sounds good to you.
Voila! You have written a poem. Title it with your name, or "I Am" or some such.
Examples from students in the book include:
I'm a turquoise circle, rolling into nowhere,
. . . I'm the number 50, so far from the end and far from the beginning . . . .
I'm what you call life, hard to hold.
A fourth-grade student wrote:
I'm a poem that flies through the sky
I'm love and truth,
happy and sad
three dreams,
porcelain and fragile
in the night.
If you like what you wrote, please share it in the comments section. I sure would like to know you better.
If I were a color, what color would I be?
What shape would I be?
If I were a movement, what movement would I be?
What sound?
What animal?
What song?
What number?
What car?
Don't be telling yourself this is silly. Stop that. Just let the images flow.
What piece of furniture?
What food?
What musical instrument?
What place?
What element in nature?
What kind of tree?
What's something I'm afraid of?
What's hiding behind my eyes?
Now, looking over what you've just jotted down, take the phrases and words you like best and arrange them in a way that sounds good to you.
Voila! You have written a poem. Title it with your name, or "I Am" or some such.
Examples from students in the book include:
I'm a turquoise circle, rolling into nowhere,
. . . I'm the number 50, so far from the end and far from the beginning . . . .
I'm what you call life, hard to hold.
A fourth-grade student wrote:
I'm a poem that flies through the sky
I'm love and truth,
happy and sad
three dreams,
porcelain and fragile
in the night.
If you like what you wrote, please share it in the comments section. I sure would like to know you better.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Fat People Got No . . .
I've been thinking about my weight. For most of my life. Lately, I've wondered why. It's beginning to seem like a colossal waste of my time and energy. Here's what I'm thinking:
I have spent most of my life calling myself 10-20 pounds overweight-no matter what weight I've been, and believe you me, I weighed a lot less 25 years ago. I've lost 10-20 pounds at various times and almost always gained them back.
As a child in elementary school, I felt fat. My siblings would tease me, "Fat Pat/Sat on a cat / What do you think of that?" (I went by Patty back then). I would complain to my parents that I was fat and my dad would pet my head and tell me that I was "pleasingly plump." As I got into my teenage years and complained of being fat, my mother would tell me that men wanted women with a little "meat on their bones." (My mother was angular and thin and came of age in the more voluptuous 1940s). I believed my siblings and my own sense of my body over my parents' attempts to reassure me.
I carried that sense of being "too fat" into my adult life and have kept at least half an eye on my weight and what I ate for the last 20 years. Twenty years, people! That's just beginning to feel a bit ridiculous to me, that I should be unhappy with myself over something so fundamental. As I was listening to David Cook (yes, him again) sing Innocent by Our Lady Peace, I was struck by the line that talks about a woman for whom, "Every calorie's a war." I thought, "That's me," and I really don't want to be that way anymore.
I like to eat. I like to cook. I especially like to bake and then eat that. I also exercise at least 5 days a week, I can run a mile, I'm fit enough to hike and bike and do yoga and all the other activities I enjoy--and yet I carry around with me the sense that I'm wrong, that my body is wrong. I'm getting kind of sick of that feeling, so being the analytical type, I started trying to figure out why I told myself those messages.
Well, first, of course, there's the media. I'm heavier than almost any woman on TV or in magazines, unless they are plus-size models. I have fat on my body and my tummy is definitely not flat. I'd like to blame that on child bearing but it was always rounded. So, I don't fit the current fashion of female beauty. Is it the cultural brainwashing that has done me in? I decided to dig a little deeper, to see what messages I got from loved ones.
Well, you've heard about my siblings and my parents already. On the plus side, I'm married, and my husband does not seem to think I'm repulsive--far from it, if you know what I mean (nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more) [Monty Python reference, for you young people. Check out BBC TV on Friday nights to catch reruns].
In fact, my husband calls models "boobs on a stick," which cracks me up. I've also heard the skinny women in Hollywood called "light bulb heads" because their heads look so big compared to their tiny bodies.
So, on the one hand I've got the media bombarding me with messages that I'm too fat to be attractive. On the other, I've got my husband (and the inferior men who preceded him) who found me yummy. Which side wins do you think? My real experiences with the real people in my real life? No, silly! The media wins of course! With a little help from what Clarissa Pinkola Estes calls "the natural predator of the psyche" in her groundbreaking 1992 book, Women Who Run With The Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype.
What Estes describes is as the "natural predator" is basically the out-of-control ego, that thinks it deserves all that it wants and that it is akin to the gods in beauty, power and might. Always striving for the "perfect" weight--and sacrificing peace of mind, self respect and sometimes health (fad diets, diet pills, eating disorders) to do so--can be seen as a kind of hubris, a trying to achieve a kind of perfection that is not humanly attainable.
Caveat: Being healthy is important; if you're too heavy it can have negative repercussions on your health. Nuff said. That's not what I'm talking about.
What I'm talking about is the assumption that I, a human being, am perfectable. If I just try hard enough, and buy the right beauty products, I can achieve the approved standard of beauty. Two key words: Approved and achieve. Americans love successful people who achieve the goals, achieve results, achieve success in the realms our culture deems worthy (sports & entertainment, primarily). When we do achieve that success, we get approval (money, status, perks, a spot on a reality TV show, etc.).
When we don't, look out. We get public scorn and become the punchline for jokes. So the cultural stakes are high right now for being "overweight."
I've decided I don't want to play that game anymore. It's partly my age: I'm more comfortable with who I am and the consequences of the choices I make (i.e. I bake a lot of brownies, I eat a lot of brownies, I put on a lot of poundies). I'm also happily married and get affirmed in a million ways that I'm loved and desirable. It's also my age in that I'm in what I hope is only the middle of my life span and am realizing that I will never be young again and I can just let go of that and focus instead on what I want to do with the rest of my time on this planet. Weight-watching is not one of those things.
So, this very long post is to say to you all and to the universe that I'm letting go of my almost life-long obsession to be ever more beautiful and am willing to put that time and energy into far more worthy causes. Any suggestions?
I have spent most of my life calling myself 10-20 pounds overweight-no matter what weight I've been, and believe you me, I weighed a lot less 25 years ago. I've lost 10-20 pounds at various times and almost always gained them back.
As a child in elementary school, I felt fat. My siblings would tease me, "Fat Pat/Sat on a cat / What do you think of that?" (I went by Patty back then). I would complain to my parents that I was fat and my dad would pet my head and tell me that I was "pleasingly plump." As I got into my teenage years and complained of being fat, my mother would tell me that men wanted women with a little "meat on their bones." (My mother was angular and thin and came of age in the more voluptuous 1940s). I believed my siblings and my own sense of my body over my parents' attempts to reassure me.
I carried that sense of being "too fat" into my adult life and have kept at least half an eye on my weight and what I ate for the last 20 years. Twenty years, people! That's just beginning to feel a bit ridiculous to me, that I should be unhappy with myself over something so fundamental. As I was listening to David Cook (yes, him again) sing Innocent by Our Lady Peace, I was struck by the line that talks about a woman for whom, "Every calorie's a war." I thought, "That's me," and I really don't want to be that way anymore.
I like to eat. I like to cook. I especially like to bake and then eat that. I also exercise at least 5 days a week, I can run a mile, I'm fit enough to hike and bike and do yoga and all the other activities I enjoy--and yet I carry around with me the sense that I'm wrong, that my body is wrong. I'm getting kind of sick of that feeling, so being the analytical type, I started trying to figure out why I told myself those messages.
Well, first, of course, there's the media. I'm heavier than almost any woman on TV or in magazines, unless they are plus-size models. I have fat on my body and my tummy is definitely not flat. I'd like to blame that on child bearing but it was always rounded. So, I don't fit the current fashion of female beauty. Is it the cultural brainwashing that has done me in? I decided to dig a little deeper, to see what messages I got from loved ones.
Well, you've heard about my siblings and my parents already. On the plus side, I'm married, and my husband does not seem to think I'm repulsive--far from it, if you know what I mean (nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more) [Monty Python reference, for you young people. Check out BBC TV on Friday nights to catch reruns].
In fact, my husband calls models "boobs on a stick," which cracks me up. I've also heard the skinny women in Hollywood called "light bulb heads" because their heads look so big compared to their tiny bodies.
So, on the one hand I've got the media bombarding me with messages that I'm too fat to be attractive. On the other, I've got my husband (and the inferior men who preceded him) who found me yummy. Which side wins do you think? My real experiences with the real people in my real life? No, silly! The media wins of course! With a little help from what Clarissa Pinkola Estes calls "the natural predator of the psyche" in her groundbreaking 1992 book, Women Who Run With The Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype.
What Estes describes is as the "natural predator" is basically the out-of-control ego, that thinks it deserves all that it wants and that it is akin to the gods in beauty, power and might. Always striving for the "perfect" weight--and sacrificing peace of mind, self respect and sometimes health (fad diets, diet pills, eating disorders) to do so--can be seen as a kind of hubris, a trying to achieve a kind of perfection that is not humanly attainable.
Caveat: Being healthy is important; if you're too heavy it can have negative repercussions on your health. Nuff said. That's not what I'm talking about.
What I'm talking about is the assumption that I, a human being, am perfectable. If I just try hard enough, and buy the right beauty products, I can achieve the approved standard of beauty. Two key words: Approved and achieve. Americans love successful people who achieve the goals, achieve results, achieve success in the realms our culture deems worthy (sports & entertainment, primarily). When we do achieve that success, we get approval (money, status, perks, a spot on a reality TV show, etc.).
When we don't, look out. We get public scorn and become the punchline for jokes. So the cultural stakes are high right now for being "overweight."
I've decided I don't want to play that game anymore. It's partly my age: I'm more comfortable with who I am and the consequences of the choices I make (i.e. I bake a lot of brownies, I eat a lot of brownies, I put on a lot of poundies). I'm also happily married and get affirmed in a million ways that I'm loved and desirable. It's also my age in that I'm in what I hope is only the middle of my life span and am realizing that I will never be young again and I can just let go of that and focus instead on what I want to do with the rest of my time on this planet. Weight-watching is not one of those things.
So, this very long post is to say to you all and to the universe that I'm letting go of my almost life-long obsession to be ever more beautiful and am willing to put that time and energy into far more worthy causes. Any suggestions?
Thursday, June 5, 2008
A Good Read
If you like Maeve Binchy or Rosamund Pilcher, you'll like Marcia Willett. It says so right on the book cover, but for once the P.R. is right. Her books detail with compassion and an eye for the beauty found in the English countryside the lives and family relationships of seemingly real people. She doesn't wear rose-colored glasses but does convey the warmth and beauty in "ordinary" lives, finding the heart and the meaning in the way most of us live.
Willett is a U.K. author who published several books in England before publishing in the U.S. I'm in the middle of her first U.S. book, A Week In Winter, and I'm loving it. It's the second of hers I've read and I loved the other one, too. Our local library carries her books, so I imagine others will as well.
If you want a good read, make haste to the nearest library and check out a book by Marcia Willett. You won't be disappointed.
Willett is a U.K. author who published several books in England before publishing in the U.S. I'm in the middle of her first U.S. book, A Week In Winter, and I'm loving it. It's the second of hers I've read and I loved the other one, too. Our local library carries her books, so I imagine others will as well.
If you want a good read, make haste to the nearest library and check out a book by Marcia Willett. You won't be disappointed.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Personification At Its Best
My laptop computer is a bit of diva. If she doesn't like what I'm working on, she'll shut down with no warning. I haven't found a pattern, yet, in what she likes and doesn't.
She appears to prefer my email to my blog, but I haven't taken that personally; blogs aren't for everyone. She really doesn't like my skincare products site: she freezes up every time. I'm not sure if it's a commentary on the high cost of the products, on my lousy priorities--spending money on vanity when people are starving, or on the futility of preserving beauty where everything is doomed to wither and die. She's a bit of a philosopher.
I'm actually surprised she's let me get this far, but diva's do like their press coverage.
The real problem I have with her is her energy. It's actually uncomfortable for me to hold my hands over her keyboard for too long because of the emanations. My hands get tingly after only a short period of time. She's small and lightweight but, boy, is she a dynamo!
In general, despite her temperamental nature, we have a satisfying working relationship. I take her for a spin in various locales so she gets a bit of variety in her life. I regularly visit websites that include news and pop culture so her curious nature is satisfied. She's fast and portable so she makes for a good traveling companion for me and a nice change from our hidebound desktop.
Don't even get me started on their relationship! They won't even talk to each other. It's a generation gap, I think. I haven't pressed it. I figure, given time, they'll work out their relationship. They do share a room when not in use so they can't shut each other out indefinitely. I've thought about getting an expert to help with their communication issues, but I've decided to let them try to work it out first.
In the meantime, I try not to play favorites, to spend quality time with both. They are both special in their own way and I love them both for their unique qualities.
Anyway, I gotta go. Lights are flashing and my hands are buzzing. I've clearly upset my laptop somehow and she's shutting down on me. Maybe if I just give her some space . . .
She appears to prefer my email to my blog, but I haven't taken that personally; blogs aren't for everyone. She really doesn't like my skincare products site: she freezes up every time. I'm not sure if it's a commentary on the high cost of the products, on my lousy priorities--spending money on vanity when people are starving, or on the futility of preserving beauty where everything is doomed to wither and die. She's a bit of a philosopher.
I'm actually surprised she's let me get this far, but diva's do like their press coverage.
The real problem I have with her is her energy. It's actually uncomfortable for me to hold my hands over her keyboard for too long because of the emanations. My hands get tingly after only a short period of time. She's small and lightweight but, boy, is she a dynamo!
In general, despite her temperamental nature, we have a satisfying working relationship. I take her for a spin in various locales so she gets a bit of variety in her life. I regularly visit websites that include news and pop culture so her curious nature is satisfied. She's fast and portable so she makes for a good traveling companion for me and a nice change from our hidebound desktop.
Don't even get me started on their relationship! They won't even talk to each other. It's a generation gap, I think. I haven't pressed it. I figure, given time, they'll work out their relationship. They do share a room when not in use so they can't shut each other out indefinitely. I've thought about getting an expert to help with their communication issues, but I've decided to let them try to work it out first.
In the meantime, I try not to play favorites, to spend quality time with both. They are both special in their own way and I love them both for their unique qualities.
Anyway, I gotta go. Lights are flashing and my hands are buzzing. I've clearly upset my laptop somehow and she's shutting down on me. Maybe if I just give her some space . . .
Monday, June 2, 2008
Sleeping With The Enemy
Another thing no one ever told me is that sleeping with someone else is fraught with difficulty. Oh, I don't mean the sex, although that, too, is a veritable mine field what with different moods, sensibilities, preferences, and needs; it's a wonder anyone ever gets it on.
No, what I'm talking about is the simple act of sleeping with another person in the bed. When I first started down that road I was dumbfounded by how hard it was--again, the sleeping, get your minds out of the gutter! The list of potential difficulties seemed endless.
First, there are the simple environmental issues. Do you like the room cold or warm, mattress hard or soft. Do you like lots of covers, or a fluffy down comforter. Do you sleep au natural or in jammies.
Then, there's actually the sleeping. Does your co-sleeper snore, thrash, grind teeth, or have restless leg syndrome. Does he or she hog the covers, talk in his/her sleep or fart a lot. Do they cough, sneeze, clear their throat or sleepwalk? Do they have insomnia? Like to read before sleep or, god forbid, listen to music to help them fall asleep? The list of potential difficulties is endless.
One of the things that confirmed that what I felt was love for the man who became my husband was that I could sleep peacefully next to him. That was saying something because I am a really light sleeper and he came with a whole host of sleeping incompatibilities when compared to me.
I think what it ultimately boiled down to was trust. I loved him and trusted him enough such that I could let go sufficiently to really sleep, despite the thrashing, cover hogging and various other issues. No one told me this, nor have I read anything about this. This is my own conclusion that I've come to and is the word to the wise that I pass on to every single woman who wants to know if this guy is The One: Can you get a good night's sleep with him in the bed?
The answer to this question will determine the state of your relationship and the level of comfort and trust you take in his presence.
I say "his presence" because I don't know if this is the same for lesbian relationships (or gay men for that matter) so someone else will have to offer advice there.
My reasoning for using sleeping peacefully as a relationship litmus test between men and women is because there is so much violence against women perpetrated by the men in their lives that it takes real trust for a woman to feel safe enough to let go enough to sleep. That's my completely untested theory anyway. Whaddya think?
No, what I'm talking about is the simple act of sleeping with another person in the bed. When I first started down that road I was dumbfounded by how hard it was--again, the sleeping, get your minds out of the gutter! The list of potential difficulties seemed endless.
First, there are the simple environmental issues. Do you like the room cold or warm, mattress hard or soft. Do you like lots of covers, or a fluffy down comforter. Do you sleep au natural or in jammies.
Then, there's actually the sleeping. Does your co-sleeper snore, thrash, grind teeth, or have restless leg syndrome. Does he or she hog the covers, talk in his/her sleep or fart a lot. Do they cough, sneeze, clear their throat or sleepwalk? Do they have insomnia? Like to read before sleep or, god forbid, listen to music to help them fall asleep? The list of potential difficulties is endless.
One of the things that confirmed that what I felt was love for the man who became my husband was that I could sleep peacefully next to him. That was saying something because I am a really light sleeper and he came with a whole host of sleeping incompatibilities when compared to me.
I think what it ultimately boiled down to was trust. I loved him and trusted him enough such that I could let go sufficiently to really sleep, despite the thrashing, cover hogging and various other issues. No one told me this, nor have I read anything about this. This is my own conclusion that I've come to and is the word to the wise that I pass on to every single woman who wants to know if this guy is The One: Can you get a good night's sleep with him in the bed?
The answer to this question will determine the state of your relationship and the level of comfort and trust you take in his presence.
I say "his presence" because I don't know if this is the same for lesbian relationships (or gay men for that matter) so someone else will have to offer advice there.
My reasoning for using sleeping peacefully as a relationship litmus test between men and women is because there is so much violence against women perpetrated by the men in their lives that it takes real trust for a woman to feel safe enough to let go enough to sleep. That's my completely untested theory anyway. Whaddya think?
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