This year my younger daughter wants to be a Fairy Monkey Princess. I have no idea what this is, but I think I can make her a monkey hat to go with it. I found enough brown and tan worsted, and I think I'll use this pattern here. It has the ears on the side, so she can put a princess hat on as well. And if I'm feeling particularly froggy (or, well, actually not froggy, but rather, productive and have the time, I guess. Froggy does not mean what it normally means in knitting), I can even make her a tiara to go with! I actually do want to make the tiaras for the girls, just for fun anyway. Might make one for myself. Then I can do the tiara flail like Amy Farrah Fowler...
I have no idea what Elder Child is thinking of for Halloween. She's a lot like her daddy, in that he sort of decides in the moment. She might wait till we're in the store and something will speak to her, and that will be her Halloween costume.
I pulled out the decorations the night before last, and I think tonight we'll start spookifying the house. The front porch isn't fixed yet, so I won't be putting up a wreath this year. Water leaks between the front door and the screen door because the prior owners used a storm window as a replacement for the transom window. Protip - this does not actually work, and will eventually result in many, many leaks.
I also found my grandma's set of Corelle dishes. They're from the 80's and are plain white with a thin grey border and pale coral flowers. Nothing fancy, nothing too dated. They'll be coming into rotation in the cupboard, and my Pfaltzgraff is going into storage. The older it gets, the less pieces are available to replace and I want them to be safe from overhelpful young girls who might break them. Or my mother, who also breaks things. Thanks to her, I am down an oval serving dish and a butter dish lid. Eventually I hope to have oh-so-charming mismatched, color-coordinated servingware for everyday.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
I keep totally bagging on this blog.
I'm like a bad boyfriend. Or girlfriend. I write a bit, make promises, get all excited and then? Life takes over and I forget about you. Not even get bored - just completely forget about this blog. And then occasionally when I'm on Ravelry, or I'm blogging on my shared blog, I think, "Dayum, I really should use my own blog every now and again. Or at least stop being shitty and break up with it. It's just not fair to keep stringing it along, posting ever so very infrequently, having the best intention of keeping up with it." But hey, here we are. Just like a significant other that knows full well that s/he should change, and yet belligerently never does, despite their beloved's best efforts; here I am, trying again, and in the back of my mind wondering if this time it will stick.
I certainly hope it does. I constantly want to turn over a new leaf, cast off the things that keep me dissatisfied with life, better myself. Give half a damn at work, keep the house tidy, be organized. Send people birthday cards instead of facebook greetings. Match all the unmatched socks. Put the damn laundry in the dresser drawers instead of leaving it in the laundry basket. Remember to set up automated bill pay so I stop getting hate mail from RCN, PP&L, UGI, and the water department. You know, grown-ass adult things I should currently be doing so my kids know that I am SUPERMOM, On Top Of All The Things, Master of the Domestic Universe, and go-getter modern working woman on the go!
But fuck it. I don't think I WANT all those things. I mean, I want some of them. I want an orderly house. I want to stop getting shutoff notices from the utilities. I would love to not find a laundry basket that's been befouled with cat pee because Josie decided to teach me a lesson about putting away the clothes. I wouldn't mind having a job that I actually get excited about, but if I had some measure of domestic order I might actually not care too much about how I'm paying for it. That would be gravy.
I'm turning 38 in a couple of months. Yet I don't feel at all like I have it together. I have it together enough to make sure my girls have clean clothes, healthy meals, and a lot of love. Generally they know where their toys are, since largely, they're strewn across most of my house (bathroom included). They know their mom and dad are crazy about them, and will support them, but are also not tolerant of misbehavior (there are BOUNDARIES, children!) I have a good relationship with both my and my husband's family. The pets are well taken care of, in their twilight years but still healthy and happy. We have a roof over our heads, food in the fridge, and we all like each other.
Looking on that last paragraph, maybe I don't have it so bad. The important elements are there - family, home, love, food... right? So what is it that has me so dissatisfied? Maybe I'm comparing myself needlessly to some unattainable goal. Maybe people don't really have all their ducks lined up, and we're all just floundering in this world and hoping we don't fail too miserably. "They" do say appearances are deceiving...
And maybe the reason why I never get too far with this blog is because sitting down and confronting the things in my life that I need to change is absolutely terrifying, and on some level I know this, and never get much farther than the "Yanno, things? They ain't so bad" phase. Admittedly, things in my life are NOT as bad as others have it, and for the most part, my problems are first world problems. But assuming that we only get one go 'round on this world (and even if we get more, the chances of remembering it are reportedly slim), why shouldn't I be content? Why shouldn't I do the work inside that needs to be done in order to become truly satisfied with my life?
It might be time to stop being a big chicken and face this.
Tomorrow.
I certainly hope it does. I constantly want to turn over a new leaf, cast off the things that keep me dissatisfied with life, better myself. Give half a damn at work, keep the house tidy, be organized. Send people birthday cards instead of facebook greetings. Match all the unmatched socks. Put the damn laundry in the dresser drawers instead of leaving it in the laundry basket. Remember to set up automated bill pay so I stop getting hate mail from RCN, PP&L, UGI, and the water department. You know, grown-ass adult things I should currently be doing so my kids know that I am SUPERMOM, On Top Of All The Things, Master of the Domestic Universe, and go-getter modern working woman on the go!
But fuck it. I don't think I WANT all those things. I mean, I want some of them. I want an orderly house. I want to stop getting shutoff notices from the utilities. I would love to not find a laundry basket that's been befouled with cat pee because Josie decided to teach me a lesson about putting away the clothes. I wouldn't mind having a job that I actually get excited about, but if I had some measure of domestic order I might actually not care too much about how I'm paying for it. That would be gravy.
I'm turning 38 in a couple of months. Yet I don't feel at all like I have it together. I have it together enough to make sure my girls have clean clothes, healthy meals, and a lot of love. Generally they know where their toys are, since largely, they're strewn across most of my house (bathroom included). They know their mom and dad are crazy about them, and will support them, but are also not tolerant of misbehavior (there are BOUNDARIES, children!) I have a good relationship with both my and my husband's family. The pets are well taken care of, in their twilight years but still healthy and happy. We have a roof over our heads, food in the fridge, and we all like each other.
Looking on that last paragraph, maybe I don't have it so bad. The important elements are there - family, home, love, food... right? So what is it that has me so dissatisfied? Maybe I'm comparing myself needlessly to some unattainable goal. Maybe people don't really have all their ducks lined up, and we're all just floundering in this world and hoping we don't fail too miserably. "They" do say appearances are deceiving...
And maybe the reason why I never get too far with this blog is because sitting down and confronting the things in my life that I need to change is absolutely terrifying, and on some level I know this, and never get much farther than the "Yanno, things? They ain't so bad" phase. Admittedly, things in my life are NOT as bad as others have it, and for the most part, my problems are first world problems. But assuming that we only get one go 'round on this world (and even if we get more, the chances of remembering it are reportedly slim), why shouldn't I be content? Why shouldn't I do the work inside that needs to be done in order to become truly satisfied with my life?
It might be time to stop being a big chicken and face this.
Tomorrow.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Perspective
I realized the other day that I might have gotten over myself. And it makes me feel like an adult.
Years ago, I used to work in Customer Service. A few of the other girls and I were chatting one day, and decided that we should be having Girls' Nights Out. We were all in committed relationships, and had gotten into the homebody rut, staying home cozy-couching it with our sweeties when normal people our age were out clubbing it up. Not that we wanted to go trawling for new men, mind you, but, y'know, go out and live a little now and again. I was the one of the group that was nervous when one of the girls mentioned going dancing. I am not, by nature, a graceful person at all. And I used to be very self-conscious, always convinced that people were looking at me, snickering behind their hands at the goofy girl dancing like a seizure victim. Marge, one of the older ladies in the department, overheard me saying this and said, "What makes you think everyone's going to be looking at you? No offense, sweetie, but you're never going to have a good time if that's all you think about." Of course, she was right. I went out, had a few drinks, danced a bunch, and had an awesome time.
I've always had issues with my body. I developed early, so I was constantly feeling uncomfortable with myself in junior high and high school (who wasn't?) When I hit puberty, I gained brand-new ginormous boobies, but I also lost the metabolism I had as a younger kid, but not my appetite - a dangerous combination in a moody preteen girl. I gained a lot of weight fast, and while I don't think I was ever horribly overweight, it was enough for me (and some of my elderly, less tactful family members) to notice. And obsess over. Thankfully, I never developed an eating disorder, but I did spend an inordinate amount of time in my youth fixating on the size of my thighs, sucking in my stomach, eating nothing but pretzels and diet Sprite... all that stuff you do when you are convinced that people are staring at you, appalled at your disgusting enormity.
After kids, you'd think I had even more problems with my body image, right? But no. Having kids made something start to change in me. I'm far from physically perfect, though my husbeast seems to appreciate what it is that I've got. I guess saggy breasts and a stretched-out belly are a turn-on for him. To each his own, I suppose. But hey - my body churned out two of (what I think) are two of the most adorable, fabulous citizens of the planet who bring my life endless joy. The sheer fact that I was able to nurture two actual human beings into life is kind of amazing. Not in that, "Oh, I'm a MOTHER. I am oh so speshul because I have babies and a purpose in life now," kind of way. Just that... I made two people. Two individual human beings. It's kinda wild, that we as adults have our flaws, and our hangups, and our issues, and we forget that as humans we have the potential to make other humans. And yes, most every other life form on the planet can do this, but we get to marvel at it. It got me thinking.
I'm not just a mommy machine. I have other stuff going on, too. I cook, I knit, I garden, I drive like a maniac. I keep up this shitty blog. I learn things, I grow. There's so much inside each of us that is incredible, and we really ought not take it for granted. We are all pretty cool people, and really, the packaging? As long as it keeps everything inside, and it's healthy and does what it's supposed to do, we should really be more proud of ourselves than most of us are. Take care of it, nurture it, keep it tidy, sure. But worry about whether we look like the magazine people look, why do we do that? Do we all really have to be cookie-cutter people who all look like everyone else looks?
Two weeks ago, I went to the beach with my husbeast and kids. It's June in Ocean City, which is always a month where the beaches and boardwalks and malls and streets are filled with drunk graduating high school seniors celebrating Beach Week. Depending on when you graduate, you get a bunch of your friends and head down to the beach to play asshole and three-man, and smoke weed and meet other hormonally- and substance-influenced other young people for a week of debauchery and hopefully not getting arrested. As I sat in our pop-up beach cabana, Evie played in the sand. Fia was rolling around next to me while I tried to put sunscreen on her, and Husbeast was arranging the towels and cooler and beach toys and all the whatnot we'd brought with us. A group of high school girls showed up and plunked their stuff down about twenty feet in front of us, setting up their chairs and umbrellas and radio and all their stuff for a day of sunning. Such a sight would have ordinarily sent me into a tizzy of self-consciousness, although I am fully aware that I have almost 20 years' worth of adventures on me that these little ladies have yet to experience, 20 years that I wouldn't trade for anything. I would have probably put on my cover-up, sucked in my tummy, and internally agonized over whether my husband was leering at them, wishing I was a little bit taller, a lot trimmer, and perhaps more tan.
I was truly amazed to discover that I really didn't care what those girls looked like! Or what they were doing! Or even that they were there! That was a feeling I never had before (not while I was sober, anyway)! I was happy, where I was, in what I was doing, and I really honestly didn't care one bit about who might or might not be looking. I didn't care whether anyone even noticed us on the beach there. We were in our own little bubble of fun, sandy pants, and sunshine. When I said something to husbeast about this, his response? "Good. It's about damn time."
It is about damn time.
Years ago, I used to work in Customer Service. A few of the other girls and I were chatting one day, and decided that we should be having Girls' Nights Out. We were all in committed relationships, and had gotten into the homebody rut, staying home cozy-couching it with our sweeties when normal people our age were out clubbing it up. Not that we wanted to go trawling for new men, mind you, but, y'know, go out and live a little now and again. I was the one of the group that was nervous when one of the girls mentioned going dancing. I am not, by nature, a graceful person at all. And I used to be very self-conscious, always convinced that people were looking at me, snickering behind their hands at the goofy girl dancing like a seizure victim. Marge, one of the older ladies in the department, overheard me saying this and said, "What makes you think everyone's going to be looking at you? No offense, sweetie, but you're never going to have a good time if that's all you think about." Of course, she was right. I went out, had a few drinks, danced a bunch, and had an awesome time.
I've always had issues with my body. I developed early, so I was constantly feeling uncomfortable with myself in junior high and high school (who wasn't?) When I hit puberty, I gained brand-new ginormous boobies, but I also lost the metabolism I had as a younger kid, but not my appetite - a dangerous combination in a moody preteen girl. I gained a lot of weight fast, and while I don't think I was ever horribly overweight, it was enough for me (and some of my elderly, less tactful family members) to notice. And obsess over. Thankfully, I never developed an eating disorder, but I did spend an inordinate amount of time in my youth fixating on the size of my thighs, sucking in my stomach, eating nothing but pretzels and diet Sprite... all that stuff you do when you are convinced that people are staring at you, appalled at your disgusting enormity.
After kids, you'd think I had even more problems with my body image, right? But no. Having kids made something start to change in me. I'm far from physically perfect, though my husbeast seems to appreciate what it is that I've got. I guess saggy breasts and a stretched-out belly are a turn-on for him. To each his own, I suppose. But hey - my body churned out two of (what I think) are two of the most adorable, fabulous citizens of the planet who bring my life endless joy. The sheer fact that I was able to nurture two actual human beings into life is kind of amazing. Not in that, "Oh, I'm a MOTHER. I am oh so speshul because I have babies and a purpose in life now," kind of way. Just that... I made two people. Two individual human beings. It's kinda wild, that we as adults have our flaws, and our hangups, and our issues, and we forget that as humans we have the potential to make other humans. And yes, most every other life form on the planet can do this, but we get to marvel at it. It got me thinking.
I'm not just a mommy machine. I have other stuff going on, too. I cook, I knit, I garden, I drive like a maniac. I keep up this shitty blog. I learn things, I grow. There's so much inside each of us that is incredible, and we really ought not take it for granted. We are all pretty cool people, and really, the packaging? As long as it keeps everything inside, and it's healthy and does what it's supposed to do, we should really be more proud of ourselves than most of us are. Take care of it, nurture it, keep it tidy, sure. But worry about whether we look like the magazine people look, why do we do that? Do we all really have to be cookie-cutter people who all look like everyone else looks?
Two weeks ago, I went to the beach with my husbeast and kids. It's June in Ocean City, which is always a month where the beaches and boardwalks and malls and streets are filled with drunk graduating high school seniors celebrating Beach Week. Depending on when you graduate, you get a bunch of your friends and head down to the beach to play asshole and three-man, and smoke weed and meet other hormonally- and substance-influenced other young people for a week of debauchery and hopefully not getting arrested. As I sat in our pop-up beach cabana, Evie played in the sand. Fia was rolling around next to me while I tried to put sunscreen on her, and Husbeast was arranging the towels and cooler and beach toys and all the whatnot we'd brought with us. A group of high school girls showed up and plunked their stuff down about twenty feet in front of us, setting up their chairs and umbrellas and radio and all their stuff for a day of sunning. Such a sight would have ordinarily sent me into a tizzy of self-consciousness, although I am fully aware that I have almost 20 years' worth of adventures on me that these little ladies have yet to experience, 20 years that I wouldn't trade for anything. I would have probably put on my cover-up, sucked in my tummy, and internally agonized over whether my husband was leering at them, wishing I was a little bit taller, a lot trimmer, and perhaps more tan.
I was truly amazed to discover that I really didn't care what those girls looked like! Or what they were doing! Or even that they were there! That was a feeling I never had before (not while I was sober, anyway)! I was happy, where I was, in what I was doing, and I really honestly didn't care one bit about who might or might not be looking. I didn't care whether anyone even noticed us on the beach there. We were in our own little bubble of fun, sandy pants, and sunshine. When I said something to husbeast about this, his response? "Good. It's about damn time."
It is about damn time.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Progress
So. Where are we now? On my way, I guess. The house is getting tidier a bit at a time, and I think it's starting to affect my brains. As I sort through the crap that sits in my house, taking up valuable space, it seems to be freeing up parts of my mind.
wow.. this sounds all sorts of.. esoteric? would that be the right word? I hesitate to continue, because I feel like I'm getting overly dramatic or something. But let's keep going and see just how crazy/schmoopy/weird/new-agey/whatever this thing gets, shall we?
I'm trying to establish routines in my day. So like, when I make a mess in the kitchen, I try to clean it up right away. Totally obvious, I know. But in my younger, lazier days, mostly I'd just pile everything into the kitchen sink, clean up the scraps/mess and make sure I could find the coffee pot. Then clean later, when I felt like it. Now we keep the kitchen tidy pretty much 'cause we have to, or otherwise there will be no bottles for the bebehs. That started with E, and now with Fi, we keep it up and have extended to keeping the dishwasher empty (no clean dishes sitting in there for days, while we keep piling up the sink). I'm trying to remember to sweep the floor once a night (after the kiddos go to bed, and the dishes are done, and the food from dinner put away).
god. writing that sounds like we lived like animals. maybe we did, and just fooled ourselves into thinking we weren't slobs, we were just unconcerned about housework and had better, more interesting things to do. tomato, tomahto.
Now, I have to get a handle on the laundry. Currently it's all piled up around the house, in cat-free areas, because I have a cat who seems to think that the combination of Downy and cat pee is just glorious, and must pervade the entire house. Have I mentioned I kind of hate this cat? I mean, I really love her, but come on. I can't leave clothes laying anywhere, or she pees on them. Effective human training, I suppose. The clean stuff is in the kiddos' bedrooms, because those doors must remain shut or the damn cat pees on their beds. Asshole. But I can't have those kids living in rooms where there's crap piled everywhere, so I've been going through the attic, removing all the stuff we no longer need. Old clothes of mine that don't fit or are more suited for the 20-year-old I was when I bought them. Bedding for single beds. We have one single bed in the house, but its owner will not allow sheets on it that are not pink or have Hello Kitty or Disney Princess on them. Perhaps Tinkerbell might suit, but the ones in the attic are green flannel and sort of manly. So off to Goodwill with the clothes and sheets. Some stuff was just nasty, so in the trash it went. Finally, after much clearing out, I have drawer space, and storage tubs with nothing in them, and space for stuff we actually use at least part of the year. And I have to get my lazy arse in gear now, and get the stuff put away.
ok, no big deep psychological revelations yet. just the fact that apparently, I am getting over being a slob and a pack rat, hopefully before my kids are old enough to remember that I was ever like that. I wonder if my mom was the same way? Probably not. She was probably mopping up the floor after her own birth, her tiny newborn hands clenched into fists around one of those old-timey mop buckets with the wringer on the side.
I feel like the universe is kicking up the dust in my life, too. The other day, I ran into someone who I have quite literally tried to avoid for almost 5 years. Mostly because of a nasty falling-out, but the relationship was deteriorating long before the batshit-crazy blowup that finally ended it all. It all started innocently enough - I had to stop at the grocery store on the way home from work, and Phantom From The Past was at the opposite end of the coffee aisle when I started walking up it to get my Folgers. You have that moment when you're like, "OK, RUN!!" but I thought, "No. You are a grown-ass woman who is trying to raise two daughters to hopefully be less of a pushover than you were growing up. Running like a chicken is not going to advance that agenda." So I screwed on my big girl britches and marched on up the aisle to get my coffee. Brief pleasantries were exchanged, my theory that the crazy in this person had not subsided at all was confirmed, and I got my Breakfast Blend and was on my way.
What happened over the rest of the weekend was totally cool though. All of a sudden, I found myself in more interesting conversations with my neighbors. Whereas before, we were more of the "hello in the driveway" type of neighbors, saying hi and bye on our way into and out of the house to go to work or out and about, next thing I know, our kids are playing together in my yard. We went swimming in the next-door-neighbor's pool. The neighbors across the street invited my daughters and I to the picnic they were having to celebrate their son's baptism. Their daughter and her friend came to my porch and did crafts with E. For the first time in the years since we bought our house, our family is finally Part of the Neighborhood.
I can't say that getting past the hurdle of the Phantom was the impetus to my developing new relationships with people in my life. But I feel that in the grander scheme it might have been. I mean, anyone who knows which particularly crazy part of my life I'm referring to, knows that while I had no problem staying away from this person after they went all the way around the bend, I was a little spooked by new people afterwards. I kind of like to just have my few close friends, and a whole bunch of casual acquaintances. I've always been that way, but after the incident where I made a New Friend, got wrapped up in being ultraclose with that friend, and had it turn into Total Drama Island, it just sort of reinforced that becoming close to random strangers is not the best strategy for me. I'm not going to go out and become besties with all the neighbors now, but I do think I can get past the idea that people I don't know aren't worth the trouble of knowing because they could possibly be completely bonkers. But I can kibbitz with the moms in the neighborhood, or participate in activities. I can friend people on Ravelry just because they seem like nice folks with pretty projects in their queues. I can maybe even (schedule and finances permitting) go out and take yoga classes, or find a knitting group to participate in once in a while. Who knows? All because I cleared that hurdle.
And, since this is so friggin' long now, I'll have to expound on other ways I'm clearing out the cobwebs another time.
wow.. this sounds all sorts of.. esoteric? would that be the right word? I hesitate to continue, because I feel like I'm getting overly dramatic or something. But let's keep going and see just how crazy/schmoopy/weird/new-agey/whatever this thing gets, shall we?
I'm trying to establish routines in my day. So like, when I make a mess in the kitchen, I try to clean it up right away. Totally obvious, I know. But in my younger, lazier days, mostly I'd just pile everything into the kitchen sink, clean up the scraps/mess and make sure I could find the coffee pot. Then clean later, when I felt like it. Now we keep the kitchen tidy pretty much 'cause we have to, or otherwise there will be no bottles for the bebehs. That started with E, and now with Fi, we keep it up and have extended to keeping the dishwasher empty (no clean dishes sitting in there for days, while we keep piling up the sink). I'm trying to remember to sweep the floor once a night (after the kiddos go to bed, and the dishes are done, and the food from dinner put away).
god. writing that sounds like we lived like animals. maybe we did, and just fooled ourselves into thinking we weren't slobs, we were just unconcerned about housework and had better, more interesting things to do. tomato, tomahto.
Now, I have to get a handle on the laundry. Currently it's all piled up around the house, in cat-free areas, because I have a cat who seems to think that the combination of Downy and cat pee is just glorious, and must pervade the entire house. Have I mentioned I kind of hate this cat? I mean, I really love her, but come on. I can't leave clothes laying anywhere, or she pees on them. Effective human training, I suppose. The clean stuff is in the kiddos' bedrooms, because those doors must remain shut or the damn cat pees on their beds. Asshole. But I can't have those kids living in rooms where there's crap piled everywhere, so I've been going through the attic, removing all the stuff we no longer need. Old clothes of mine that don't fit or are more suited for the 20-year-old I was when I bought them. Bedding for single beds. We have one single bed in the house, but its owner will not allow sheets on it that are not pink or have Hello Kitty or Disney Princess on them. Perhaps Tinkerbell might suit, but the ones in the attic are green flannel and sort of manly. So off to Goodwill with the clothes and sheets. Some stuff was just nasty, so in the trash it went. Finally, after much clearing out, I have drawer space, and storage tubs with nothing in them, and space for stuff we actually use at least part of the year. And I have to get my lazy arse in gear now, and get the stuff put away.
ok, no big deep psychological revelations yet. just the fact that apparently, I am getting over being a slob and a pack rat, hopefully before my kids are old enough to remember that I was ever like that. I wonder if my mom was the same way? Probably not. She was probably mopping up the floor after her own birth, her tiny newborn hands clenched into fists around one of those old-timey mop buckets with the wringer on the side.
I feel like the universe is kicking up the dust in my life, too. The other day, I ran into someone who I have quite literally tried to avoid for almost 5 years. Mostly because of a nasty falling-out, but the relationship was deteriorating long before the batshit-crazy blowup that finally ended it all. It all started innocently enough - I had to stop at the grocery store on the way home from work, and Phantom From The Past was at the opposite end of the coffee aisle when I started walking up it to get my Folgers. You have that moment when you're like, "OK, RUN!!" but I thought, "No. You are a grown-ass woman who is trying to raise two daughters to hopefully be less of a pushover than you were growing up. Running like a chicken is not going to advance that agenda." So I screwed on my big girl britches and marched on up the aisle to get my coffee. Brief pleasantries were exchanged, my theory that the crazy in this person had not subsided at all was confirmed, and I got my Breakfast Blend and was on my way.
What happened over the rest of the weekend was totally cool though. All of a sudden, I found myself in more interesting conversations with my neighbors. Whereas before, we were more of the "hello in the driveway" type of neighbors, saying hi and bye on our way into and out of the house to go to work or out and about, next thing I know, our kids are playing together in my yard. We went swimming in the next-door-neighbor's pool. The neighbors across the street invited my daughters and I to the picnic they were having to celebrate their son's baptism. Their daughter and her friend came to my porch and did crafts with E. For the first time in the years since we bought our house, our family is finally Part of the Neighborhood.
I can't say that getting past the hurdle of the Phantom was the impetus to my developing new relationships with people in my life. But I feel that in the grander scheme it might have been. I mean, anyone who knows which particularly crazy part of my life I'm referring to, knows that while I had no problem staying away from this person after they went all the way around the bend, I was a little spooked by new people afterwards. I kind of like to just have my few close friends, and a whole bunch of casual acquaintances. I've always been that way, but after the incident where I made a New Friend, got wrapped up in being ultraclose with that friend, and had it turn into Total Drama Island, it just sort of reinforced that becoming close to random strangers is not the best strategy for me. I'm not going to go out and become besties with all the neighbors now, but I do think I can get past the idea that people I don't know aren't worth the trouble of knowing because they could possibly be completely bonkers. But I can kibbitz with the moms in the neighborhood, or participate in activities. I can friend people on Ravelry just because they seem like nice folks with pretty projects in their queues. I can maybe even (schedule and finances permitting) go out and take yoga classes, or find a knitting group to participate in once in a while. Who knows? All because I cleared that hurdle.
And, since this is so friggin' long now, I'll have to expound on other ways I'm clearing out the cobwebs another time.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Crisis?
Ohhhh, boyoboyoboyoboyoboy. I need to examine a lot of things, I think, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to do that with my husband. He’s not really much for talking about things, talking them out… he’s more of the “What’s the problem, OK, here are the issues, let’s resolve it” kind of guy. And until I get to that point, where I can actually identify what the heck my deal is, I don’t think I can talk to him about it.
I also don’t think I can talk to my mom about it either. God bless her, but she instantly assumes that either it’s something to do with her, or it’s something that she doesn’t want to hear and she gets upset and worried. I think she has in her mind an idealized version of me that she wants me to be, and as long as I don’t shatter that illusion, we’re all good. Which is fine with me – I can be who I wish I were with her, and figure myself out another way.
This strategy has benefited me in the past. Years ago, I was adrift like this and decided I might have to re-enroll in college. I’d dropped out when I was a senior. Frightening, how easy it is really. You just stop going. Nobody comes looking for you; nobody asks you when you’re coming back. I was even working for the damn college at the time. The end of the year came, and I didn’t have enough credits to graduate, and I just didn’t re-enroll. I remember thinking at the time that there had to be some sort of fail-safe there. That, just like when you’re living at home, and you’re about to do something irresponsible, someone will come along and say, “Hey, what are you doing? This is a bad idea. Here’s why.” You might not listen – hell, I never listened when my parents told me not to do something. In fact most of the time, I ended up doing it anyway. It was my first lesson in real life. You can just stop doing something, and unless you’ve formed emotional ties with someone in an administrative function, or even a close relationship with a professor, chances are, nobody’s going to question it. That struck me as weird, I remember.
So years go by, and I start mulling around the idea of going back to school. Stupidly, I mention this to my mother, who has been after me to go back ever since I dropped out. The look on her face when I tell her that I’m thinking of returning just kills me – all that hope, relief that maybe I’ve come around. I’d told bullshit lies before, it was sort of commonplace. Nothing that hurt anyone up to that point: “No, that bra looks fine – no 4-boob action going on at all!” “No, honey, it’s not you, he’s an asshole who doesn’t know what he’s giving up!” “Sure, I’d love to help you move out of your third-floor apartment in the middle of July… just call me when you’re ready,” and the follow-up when they call, “Oh, man… I have a thing that day! Oh, that sucks! I was looking forward to cleaning your non-air-conditioned apartment that was previously occupied by an elderly cat lady. Too bad…”
So lying? Not a big issue for me. Until the school lie –
“Oh hey, Mom! How’s it going?”
“Not so good. I’m having a bad day today. How are you?”
“Kind of excited, actually. I called the school to see what I had to do to enroll in classes and finish my degree.”
I don’t know why I did it, or what in the world I was thinking. It was like an autonomic nervous response. Rather that fight or flee, I lied my ass off. How that made any sense whatsoever, I’ll never know, unless it was the cosmos using my own weakness for my mom, coupled with my tendency to try and make people happy when they’re sad, against me. Either that, or I’m just an idiot.
And man, was she excited. And I immediately felt like shit, and like… well, like I described above. The internal conversation sort of went like this:
Brain: What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you insane?
Me: Look how happy she is!
Brain: So you’re going to go back to school then? Have you thought about how you’re going to afford this?
Me: I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Brain: Well, dumbass, you’re there right about now. Go ahead and cross, genius.
Me: I’ll get tuition reimbursement from work. And maybe I’ll only take one class and if that sucks or is too expensive, I’ll stop after that.
Brain: And where were you planning on getting the money for this, exactly? You can’t even pay your rent on time!
Me: uh…
Brain: And what are you going to tell your husband? Didn’t the bank just call last week and threaten to repo your car because you’re two months behind on payments?
Me: Ummmmm…
Brain: When were you going to go? Were you planning on quitting your job? They don’t offer those kinds of classes in the adult ed program. What if they don’t accept you because you dropped out? Your grades were pretty shitty when you last went, remember? Kinda the reason why you dropped out to begin with, wasn’t it?
Me: All right! Shut up! I know! This was stupid! Maybe I’ll just maintain the illusion for a little while and then let it drop.
Brain: Oh, that’s brilliant. I thought you did this because you wanted to make her happy. Now you’re going to just lie, not do anything, and then probably act all offended when she brings it up again, aren’t you? That’s terrific. What kind of an asshole are you, anyway? Nice.
Ultimately, I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t maintain the lie, and hope that the whole thing would blow over. Besides, maybe I didn’t want to. And it turned out that the universe aligned just right for me to be able to complete my degree. It wasn’t all magic – there were times I almost couldn’t sign up for classes because I had a bill due. Or the time that I had to borrow a 30-year-old copy of The Riverside Chaucer from another university’s library until I could afford my own $150 copy. (I’m never selling that goddamn book, either. Evie and Fia will have to figure out who gets that gem when I die.) There were the semesters when I had to go to independent study from 8am to 10:30am, and then go to work in Customer Service from 11am to 8pm. Which sucked – a whole lot. (But strangely, not as much as going to work from 8am to 5pm, and then having class from 5:30 to 10:30pm.)
So I’m not going to come to my mom with this soul-searching. It would freak her right out, and we’ve finally come to a point where we have the kind of relationship that I rely on. She’s supportive, don’t get me wrong, but we’ve come to an understanding that there are some things I might have done at one time or another, that I don’t necessarily want to relive with her. And I feel like I might need to relive some of my memories, because I think some of them might have contributed to the choices I’ve made.
I guess this might be a midlife crisis, but I don’t feel like I’m in crisis. To me, crisis would imply some level of distress, a feeling that I’m losing my grip, that everything is spiraling out of control. And I really, truly don’t feel that way. I’m a pretty happy person. I love my husband, I adore my kids, I don’t even really hate my job. My house is messy and needing repair, but it’s my home and I love it, cracked ceilings and drafts and unfinished rooms and all.
That’s it! My house is a symbol of my life! I’m going to need to delve into this next!
But first, since I last started writing this, I've a new reason to freak right the fuck out. Turns out we owe an obscene amount to our daycare for the two lassies... and I have no. idea. where. that's. coming. from. Yeah. Now I'm in full-blown crisis mode. I cooked my lunch for tomorrow, but couldn't eat any of it because I ate pretzels dipped in sour cream (probably revolting, but I've been eating it since I was a kid) and then the kid's chewy fruit snacks. And then cheez doodles. Cause eating a pile of disgusting junk food is bound to make everything better, right? Hell. At least since I already feel like throwing up, I'll have something interesting to look at as it's rocketing out of me.
I also don’t think I can talk to my mom about it either. God bless her, but she instantly assumes that either it’s something to do with her, or it’s something that she doesn’t want to hear and she gets upset and worried. I think she has in her mind an idealized version of me that she wants me to be, and as long as I don’t shatter that illusion, we’re all good. Which is fine with me – I can be who I wish I were with her, and figure myself out another way.
This strategy has benefited me in the past. Years ago, I was adrift like this and decided I might have to re-enroll in college. I’d dropped out when I was a senior. Frightening, how easy it is really. You just stop going. Nobody comes looking for you; nobody asks you when you’re coming back. I was even working for the damn college at the time. The end of the year came, and I didn’t have enough credits to graduate, and I just didn’t re-enroll. I remember thinking at the time that there had to be some sort of fail-safe there. That, just like when you’re living at home, and you’re about to do something irresponsible, someone will come along and say, “Hey, what are you doing? This is a bad idea. Here’s why.” You might not listen – hell, I never listened when my parents told me not to do something. In fact most of the time, I ended up doing it anyway. It was my first lesson in real life. You can just stop doing something, and unless you’ve formed emotional ties with someone in an administrative function, or even a close relationship with a professor, chances are, nobody’s going to question it. That struck me as weird, I remember.
So years go by, and I start mulling around the idea of going back to school. Stupidly, I mention this to my mother, who has been after me to go back ever since I dropped out. The look on her face when I tell her that I’m thinking of returning just kills me – all that hope, relief that maybe I’ve come around. I’d told bullshit lies before, it was sort of commonplace. Nothing that hurt anyone up to that point: “No, that bra looks fine – no 4-boob action going on at all!” “No, honey, it’s not you, he’s an asshole who doesn’t know what he’s giving up!” “Sure, I’d love to help you move out of your third-floor apartment in the middle of July… just call me when you’re ready,” and the follow-up when they call, “Oh, man… I have a thing that day! Oh, that sucks! I was looking forward to cleaning your non-air-conditioned apartment that was previously occupied by an elderly cat lady. Too bad…”
So lying? Not a big issue for me. Until the school lie –
“Oh hey, Mom! How’s it going?”
“Not so good. I’m having a bad day today. How are you?”
“Kind of excited, actually. I called the school to see what I had to do to enroll in classes and finish my degree.”
I don’t know why I did it, or what in the world I was thinking. It was like an autonomic nervous response. Rather that fight or flee, I lied my ass off. How that made any sense whatsoever, I’ll never know, unless it was the cosmos using my own weakness for my mom, coupled with my tendency to try and make people happy when they’re sad, against me. Either that, or I’m just an idiot.
And man, was she excited. And I immediately felt like shit, and like… well, like I described above. The internal conversation sort of went like this:
Brain: What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you insane?
Me: Look how happy she is!
Brain: So you’re going to go back to school then? Have you thought about how you’re going to afford this?
Me: I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Brain: Well, dumbass, you’re there right about now. Go ahead and cross, genius.
Me: I’ll get tuition reimbursement from work. And maybe I’ll only take one class and if that sucks or is too expensive, I’ll stop after that.
Brain: And where were you planning on getting the money for this, exactly? You can’t even pay your rent on time!
Me: uh…
Brain: And what are you going to tell your husband? Didn’t the bank just call last week and threaten to repo your car because you’re two months behind on payments?
Me: Ummmmm…
Brain: When were you going to go? Were you planning on quitting your job? They don’t offer those kinds of classes in the adult ed program. What if they don’t accept you because you dropped out? Your grades were pretty shitty when you last went, remember? Kinda the reason why you dropped out to begin with, wasn’t it?
Me: All right! Shut up! I know! This was stupid! Maybe I’ll just maintain the illusion for a little while and then let it drop.
Brain: Oh, that’s brilliant. I thought you did this because you wanted to make her happy. Now you’re going to just lie, not do anything, and then probably act all offended when she brings it up again, aren’t you? That’s terrific. What kind of an asshole are you, anyway? Nice.
Ultimately, I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t maintain the lie, and hope that the whole thing would blow over. Besides, maybe I didn’t want to. And it turned out that the universe aligned just right for me to be able to complete my degree. It wasn’t all magic – there were times I almost couldn’t sign up for classes because I had a bill due. Or the time that I had to borrow a 30-year-old copy of The Riverside Chaucer from another university’s library until I could afford my own $150 copy. (I’m never selling that goddamn book, either. Evie and Fia will have to figure out who gets that gem when I die.) There were the semesters when I had to go to independent study from 8am to 10:30am, and then go to work in Customer Service from 11am to 8pm. Which sucked – a whole lot. (But strangely, not as much as going to work from 8am to 5pm, and then having class from 5:30 to 10:30pm.)
So I’m not going to come to my mom with this soul-searching. It would freak her right out, and we’ve finally come to a point where we have the kind of relationship that I rely on. She’s supportive, don’t get me wrong, but we’ve come to an understanding that there are some things I might have done at one time or another, that I don’t necessarily want to relive with her. And I feel like I might need to relive some of my memories, because I think some of them might have contributed to the choices I’ve made.
I guess this might be a midlife crisis, but I don’t feel like I’m in crisis. To me, crisis would imply some level of distress, a feeling that I’m losing my grip, that everything is spiraling out of control. And I really, truly don’t feel that way. I’m a pretty happy person. I love my husband, I adore my kids, I don’t even really hate my job. My house is messy and needing repair, but it’s my home and I love it, cracked ceilings and drafts and unfinished rooms and all.
That’s it! My house is a symbol of my life! I’m going to need to delve into this next!
But first, since I last started writing this, I've a new reason to freak right the fuck out. Turns out we owe an obscene amount to our daycare for the two lassies... and I have no. idea. where. that's. coming. from. Yeah. Now I'm in full-blown crisis mode. I cooked my lunch for tomorrow, but couldn't eat any of it because I ate pretzels dipped in sour cream (probably revolting, but I've been eating it since I was a kid) and then the kid's chewy fruit snacks. And then cheez doodles. Cause eating a pile of disgusting junk food is bound to make everything better, right? Hell. At least since I already feel like throwing up, I'll have something interesting to look at as it's rocketing out of me.
Confessions of a Lazy Blogger
Still not very good at this. But perhaps it could just be said that I only come to this thing when I have something in my head I need to work out.
That sounds heavy. And really, nothing's heavy right now. Just a bunch of random thoughts, mostly. I need to sit and examine some things about myself, and I'm still working out how to express them. I feel like I have opinions about things but don't know whether I can justify them yet. I guess this is soul-searching time, huh? Not that there's anything terribly dramatic going on - I just feel like ever since Fi was born, I need to get my house in order. My whole house - not just my dwelling, but myself. I need to get my head straight, and my heart, and find out what the frick I actually want to make of my life. 'Cause all this drifting is cool and all, but I'm 35, for chrissakes. I don't think I'm OK crossing bridges when I get to them anymore.
That sounds heavy. And really, nothing's heavy right now. Just a bunch of random thoughts, mostly. I need to sit and examine some things about myself, and I'm still working out how to express them. I feel like I have opinions about things but don't know whether I can justify them yet. I guess this is soul-searching time, huh? Not that there's anything terribly dramatic going on - I just feel like ever since Fi was born, I need to get my house in order. My whole house - not just my dwelling, but myself. I need to get my head straight, and my heart, and find out what the frick I actually want to make of my life. 'Cause all this drifting is cool and all, but I'm 35, for chrissakes. I don't think I'm OK crossing bridges when I get to them anymore.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
My NEW New Year's Resolution
I think I need to get my brains back.
I know I need to get my brains back.
I need to spend more time connecting my mind to the world of the real, and marveling in all there is to see and do in it.
I need to take my daughters with me on this journey.
Return the chores and responsibilities of the everyday world to their proper place - an undercurrent of reality that defines only the physical activity of the day, not the mental activity. No longer preoccupy myself solely with the domestic arts that I find so soothing and enjoyable, but give my mind a workout as strenuous as might be required of someone grossly out of shape. For my mind is out of shape. It's become fat with Food Network and Bravo and no reading and no writing. When I'm too tired to remember to go to the library other than for the book sale. My daughter has only browsed in the library once in her young life, and that is tragic. Yes, I know she can't read yet, but how will she ever get an appreciation for the wonderfulness of the library, with its infinite shelves of ideas, adventures, knowledge- her mind is hungry for it, and I've been feeding her fucking Caillou.
When I was a kid I was brainy, and people made fun of me for it. Rather than being strong enough to embrace my intellect, I dumbed myself down so that people wouldn't tease me about reading the dictionary for fun. I intentionally did poorly, skived off doing my homework or studying, because the smart kids weren't cool. Well, hell of a lot of good it did me- I still wasn't cool, and by the time I started to try to give a damn, I'd already lost a few good years of building good skills. I blamed it partially on a school system that didn't keep a good eye on me, make me do my homework, catch me in the lies I told my teachers and parents to keep out of trouble, but in all honestly if I'd just said to myself, "I don't care what people think, I AM smart, and I'm gonna work hard," perhaps it wouldn't have taken me 12 years to finally complete college and still end up working as a wage slave in a cubicle farm.
I know it's likely that I will tell this to my girls till I'm blue in the face and they'll still do whatever they damn well please anyway, but maybe, just maybe if I lead by example, they'll enjoy the intellectual pursuits in life, and fuck themselves up some other way.
I know I need to get my brains back.
I need to spend more time connecting my mind to the world of the real, and marveling in all there is to see and do in it.
I need to take my daughters with me on this journey.
Return the chores and responsibilities of the everyday world to their proper place - an undercurrent of reality that defines only the physical activity of the day, not the mental activity. No longer preoccupy myself solely with the domestic arts that I find so soothing and enjoyable, but give my mind a workout as strenuous as might be required of someone grossly out of shape. For my mind is out of shape. It's become fat with Food Network and Bravo and no reading and no writing. When I'm too tired to remember to go to the library other than for the book sale. My daughter has only browsed in the library once in her young life, and that is tragic. Yes, I know she can't read yet, but how will she ever get an appreciation for the wonderfulness of the library, with its infinite shelves of ideas, adventures, knowledge- her mind is hungry for it, and I've been feeding her fucking Caillou.
When I was a kid I was brainy, and people made fun of me for it. Rather than being strong enough to embrace my intellect, I dumbed myself down so that people wouldn't tease me about reading the dictionary for fun. I intentionally did poorly, skived off doing my homework or studying, because the smart kids weren't cool. Well, hell of a lot of good it did me- I still wasn't cool, and by the time I started to try to give a damn, I'd already lost a few good years of building good skills. I blamed it partially on a school system that didn't keep a good eye on me, make me do my homework, catch me in the lies I told my teachers and parents to keep out of trouble, but in all honestly if I'd just said to myself, "I don't care what people think, I AM smart, and I'm gonna work hard," perhaps it wouldn't have taken me 12 years to finally complete college and still end up working as a wage slave in a cubicle farm.
I know it's likely that I will tell this to my girls till I'm blue in the face and they'll still do whatever they damn well please anyway, but maybe, just maybe if I lead by example, they'll enjoy the intellectual pursuits in life, and fuck themselves up some other way.
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