I performed an experiment last night. I hung upside down off the side of my bed. This is something that, as a child, I was able to do for hours. Somewhere along the way I suppose I realized that the only thing this activity accomplished was the development of a headache. So, being a usually logical person, I have ceased doing this. Why I thought of doing it last night? I just wanted to remember what the sensation was like.
In the first seconds that your head is upside down, it seems that all the blood in your body has culminated in your eye sockets. It’s harder to breathe, but this may have occurred with the advent of breasts, which would have been absent 15 years ago when I did this on a regular basis. Or it could be that blood is pooled around your sinuses, inducing instant cold-like symptoms. But after those first few seconds, it’s not so bad really. In fact, unless you move, the only real sensation that persists is a subtle heat in your cheeks. Not so bad, but not especially thrilling either. When I sat up though, which I did in one swift motion, like I remember doing as a child, it was as if I had been cured magically from this pressure I had become accustomed to.
Take from this what you like. I think that we are more adaptable than we think, but still it's nice to have some relief from time to time. Anyone have any magical cures for life up their sleeves? Friends? A good drink? Chocolate? Yes, I think so.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Figs
I had a plan this morning. I had a list of things to do, like I do every morning. And like every morning, like my life, I veered from the list. On the list were exercising, making dinner for tonight, and reviewing coping skills for work . . . but when I took the dogs out, my eye caught the fig tree at the side of our house. The figs are bursting with ripeness, some overripe, and need to be picked for danger of going to waste.
So I picked a few while the dogs were outside, and then realized that I would need a container to hold the fruit. After I filled the colander with all the figs I could reach, I ventured to find a ladder and a pot to hold more fruit. (I did this after attempting to climb the tree – fig trees are horrible climbing trees, fyi.) Underneath the tree, looking up through the wide fig leaves, I saw what seemed like hundreds of plum purple and magenta fruit hanging from the high branches. The sunlight shimmered through the leaves, almost blinding. I was determined to get them all.
Climbing up and down the ladder, pulling the branches near to me, and shaking the fruit from the tree, I felt more satisfaction than I had in quite some time. The earthy, sweet scent of the milky, sticky sap and dirt that covered my hands filled my body. It is the smell of late summer. The subtle itching and sweat on the back of my neck was invigorating. Flashbacks of picking muscadines and scuppernongs from the vines on my grandfather’s farm wash over me. The tender flesh of the fruit and the way it pulls from the tree with a gentle tug amazes me. The taste of the faint sweetness and pinkness is delicious. I’ve never liked figs until this day.
For a moment, I thought maybe I should be a farmer – it actually kind of makes sense, I love food, cooking food, why shouldn’t I like growing it? But I’m pretty sure that farming isn’t like this anymore, this small scale, manual labor of picking fruit by hand to feed local people . . . at least not here.
I digress. I digress from what? Oh, right, my list of things to do. My new thought is to talk to my cousin, who is on the city council, about starting a community garden. And as for this morning’s list – perhaps I did get a little exercise, and for dinner maybe a fig cake? And coping, well, I don’t know, it made me feel better. Maybe my list doesn’t matter so much. As a friend recently pointed out, life is too short to waste on things that make you miserable. So what if I’m not where I think I ought to be in life? I have enough figs to make two cakes, a fig and almond brie, and about ten jars of preserves.
By the way, did you know that the fig tree is a relative of the rubber tree? And that it actually contains latex? Explains why it’s so hard to climb, and the itching. More figs will be ripe in a couple of days.
So I picked a few while the dogs were outside, and then realized that I would need a container to hold the fruit. After I filled the colander with all the figs I could reach, I ventured to find a ladder and a pot to hold more fruit. (I did this after attempting to climb the tree – fig trees are horrible climbing trees, fyi.) Underneath the tree, looking up through the wide fig leaves, I saw what seemed like hundreds of plum purple and magenta fruit hanging from the high branches. The sunlight shimmered through the leaves, almost blinding. I was determined to get them all.
Climbing up and down the ladder, pulling the branches near to me, and shaking the fruit from the tree, I felt more satisfaction than I had in quite some time. The earthy, sweet scent of the milky, sticky sap and dirt that covered my hands filled my body. It is the smell of late summer. The subtle itching and sweat on the back of my neck was invigorating. Flashbacks of picking muscadines and scuppernongs from the vines on my grandfather’s farm wash over me. The tender flesh of the fruit and the way it pulls from the tree with a gentle tug amazes me. The taste of the faint sweetness and pinkness is delicious. I’ve never liked figs until this day.
For a moment, I thought maybe I should be a farmer – it actually kind of makes sense, I love food, cooking food, why shouldn’t I like growing it? But I’m pretty sure that farming isn’t like this anymore, this small scale, manual labor of picking fruit by hand to feed local people . . . at least not here.
I digress. I digress from what? Oh, right, my list of things to do. My new thought is to talk to my cousin, who is on the city council, about starting a community garden. And as for this morning’s list – perhaps I did get a little exercise, and for dinner maybe a fig cake? And coping, well, I don’t know, it made me feel better. Maybe my list doesn’t matter so much. As a friend recently pointed out, life is too short to waste on things that make you miserable. So what if I’m not where I think I ought to be in life? I have enough figs to make two cakes, a fig and almond brie, and about ten jars of preserves.
By the way, did you know that the fig tree is a relative of the rubber tree? And that it actually contains latex? Explains why it’s so hard to climb, and the itching. More figs will be ripe in a couple of days.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Sticky
I’m a wanderer; I don't hesitate to admit that fact. In fact at this very moment I would love to be on a plane to who-knows-where to do something unbelievable. There are not many things that I wouldn’t want to try at least once or any place I wouldn’t venture to for a day, or more. I’ve had I don’t know how many jobs over the past few years and lived in twice as many cities. Some people call this adventurous, some call it flippant. I’m not sure what I consider it, but the main point is I don’t tend to stick to one particular thing or one particular place for very long.
With that being said, I started a new job this week. And with it, my multiple personality disorder began to flare up again – Overwhelmed has taken over most of the week, but Contented and Uncertainty have also taken strong roles throughout the course of deciphering my new position. And of course, Logic is constantly weighing the advantages and disadvantages of every part of this job and has concluded that it is ultimately a tossup; thus she has relinquished all decision making powers to Instinct who is utterly underdeveloped and therefore inept to operate on her own. Meanwhile, Logic has simultaneously been encouraging Action to focus on the tasks at hand rather than hop over to the Congo to see what’s going on over there.
Focus, that’s what I’m reminding myself to do. But it seems that my go-with-the-flow mentality gets the best of me, and my dreams of the wide world of possible lives makes me want so many things that require so much planning and more dreaming! Focus seems impossible. This is typically the point in which I make a list. What exactly is the priority, really?
The advantage of being pulled in six different directions is that it keeps me in one place for a second until one thought eventually conquers the others. At the moment, Logic, Future Plans, and Perseverance are succeeding to convince Instinct that this, here and now, is where I should be . . . or at least that it’s ok for this instant, which appeals to Contented. So it would seem that I am going to be sticking . . . for the moment – however, Action tends to be the strongest of all, so we’ll see what she decides.
With that being said, I started a new job this week. And with it, my multiple personality disorder began to flare up again – Overwhelmed has taken over most of the week, but Contented and Uncertainty have also taken strong roles throughout the course of deciphering my new position. And of course, Logic is constantly weighing the advantages and disadvantages of every part of this job and has concluded that it is ultimately a tossup; thus she has relinquished all decision making powers to Instinct who is utterly underdeveloped and therefore inept to operate on her own. Meanwhile, Logic has simultaneously been encouraging Action to focus on the tasks at hand rather than hop over to the Congo to see what’s going on over there.
Focus, that’s what I’m reminding myself to do. But it seems that my go-with-the-flow mentality gets the best of me, and my dreams of the wide world of possible lives makes me want so many things that require so much planning and more dreaming! Focus seems impossible. This is typically the point in which I make a list. What exactly is the priority, really?
The advantage of being pulled in six different directions is that it keeps me in one place for a second until one thought eventually conquers the others. At the moment, Logic, Future Plans, and Perseverance are succeeding to convince Instinct that this, here and now, is where I should be . . . or at least that it’s ok for this instant, which appeals to Contented. So it would seem that I am going to be sticking . . . for the moment – however, Action tends to be the strongest of all, so we’ll see what she decides.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Interview
I had a job interview on Friday. As I was getting ready to leave for the day, I couldn’t help but think that I was lying to my potential employer. It seemed sort of misleading to allow them to believe that I actually wear eye shadow every day, but I decided to wear the peep-toe kitten heels anyway. At least my blazer was a little bit too long. When I bought the jacket the idea was to get it altered to fit my short torso, but I never got around to actualizing this thought. Maybe this small detail let the interviewer know that, regarding style and my personal appearance, I do not completely have it all together nor do I give much heed to it.
But they say that first impressions are important, so perhaps they overlooked this faux pas; maybe it was overpowered by my sincere smile that showed my positive attitude, my resume that displayed my qualifications, and my words that revealed my competency . . . maybe. What qualities make a good first impression? What makes someone think that you are qualified for a job, that you will be a good friend, that you are “the one?” How often are we correct; how often do we misjudge? Isn’t being very organized sometimes a manifestation of obsession, doesn’t quietness sometimes appear to be snobbishness, can’t controlling mask itself with chivalry?
Yet often we make decisions and judgments based on brief encounters with people. Sometimes we are forced to. These decisions can be lasting – I refuse to listen to a Taylor Swift song based on a snotty comment she made at some award show, despite the fact that I enjoyed the “Tim McGraw” song that won her the award. Sometimes the choice you’ve made in fifteen minutes can change your life, or the other person’s, or yours together, forever . . . or at least until you make another choice to find another job or hang out with someone new or break things off. And even if we do overcome this initial notion, occasionally you will remember that you first thought that one of your closest friends was a bitch, albeit with a shared laugh.
So how do we make these choices?? I suppose we trust our instincts, or ignore them, and give someone a chance despite the blazer that is a bit too long for her . . . and, there will always be other chances to get it right.
But they say that first impressions are important, so perhaps they overlooked this faux pas; maybe it was overpowered by my sincere smile that showed my positive attitude, my resume that displayed my qualifications, and my words that revealed my competency . . . maybe. What qualities make a good first impression? What makes someone think that you are qualified for a job, that you will be a good friend, that you are “the one?” How often are we correct; how often do we misjudge? Isn’t being very organized sometimes a manifestation of obsession, doesn’t quietness sometimes appear to be snobbishness, can’t controlling mask itself with chivalry?
Yet often we make decisions and judgments based on brief encounters with people. Sometimes we are forced to. These decisions can be lasting – I refuse to listen to a Taylor Swift song based on a snotty comment she made at some award show, despite the fact that I enjoyed the “Tim McGraw” song that won her the award. Sometimes the choice you’ve made in fifteen minutes can change your life, or the other person’s, or yours together, forever . . . or at least until you make another choice to find another job or hang out with someone new or break things off. And even if we do overcome this initial notion, occasionally you will remember that you first thought that one of your closest friends was a bitch, albeit with a shared laugh.
So how do we make these choices?? I suppose we trust our instincts, or ignore them, and give someone a chance despite the blazer that is a bit too long for her . . . and, there will always be other chances to get it right.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Dreams
I started writing a book when I was in college, before I even began to think of a career in writing – which, at this point, is still just a thought. I was writing a fiction novel for fun, as a hobby. I had all these beautiful descriptions that I was trying to knit together into one story. I stopped writing it and destroyed all evidence of its existence. I stopped because it was bad. It was a horrible story; it was a horrible, hackneyed love story. Boy meets girl. Girl has problem. Love blossoms amidst it all. Tragedy occurs. Sad ending resulting in a moment of clarity follows. Cue music please.
There’s nothing wrong with love stories, I suppose, but the trouble was I was writing about things I had never experienced – things that I had hardly even dreamed about except through silver-screen colored glasses every once in a while. I was writing about romance and love and adventure and heartbreak – all things I had no understanding of in the slightest. Of course I had thought about these things, I had dreams of my own adventures, but I wasn’t writing my dreams, they were fabricated dreams that I was dictating. (It is of my very critic-esque opinion that this is how movies like Maid in Manhattan are created.)
No, fiction is no place for dreams. Dreams have their place, of course, but not in fiction. Dreams should be examined and realized. Dreams are life’s inspiration – to be pursued and conquered, even if they are absurdly wild and fabulously malleable. Fiction should be the result of experience enhanced. Change the names, certainly – to something poetic, or even symbolic. Have an ending that’s all wrapped up and clean, maybe. Perhaps combine a few moments to fit nicely into an outstanding climax. But they should all happen and be lived. I feel that I write best when I am living or hurting or healing the most. These are the experiences that should fill the books that I will one day write.
So perhaps it’s a little backward from standard thought, but to me dreams should be a quintessential part of reality, whereas reality should be the ever present insight into fiction. So, in the oh-so-philosophically brilliant words of Aerosmith, “Dream on, dream on. Dream until your dreams come true…” (I am so not ready to be a writer yet, clearly.)
And may I just point out that the most tell-able dreams are typically bizarre and unexpected.
There’s nothing wrong with love stories, I suppose, but the trouble was I was writing about things I had never experienced – things that I had hardly even dreamed about except through silver-screen colored glasses every once in a while. I was writing about romance and love and adventure and heartbreak – all things I had no understanding of in the slightest. Of course I had thought about these things, I had dreams of my own adventures, but I wasn’t writing my dreams, they were fabricated dreams that I was dictating. (It is of my very critic-esque opinion that this is how movies like Maid in Manhattan are created.)
No, fiction is no place for dreams. Dreams have their place, of course, but not in fiction. Dreams should be examined and realized. Dreams are life’s inspiration – to be pursued and conquered, even if they are absurdly wild and fabulously malleable. Fiction should be the result of experience enhanced. Change the names, certainly – to something poetic, or even symbolic. Have an ending that’s all wrapped up and clean, maybe. Perhaps combine a few moments to fit nicely into an outstanding climax. But they should all happen and be lived. I feel that I write best when I am living or hurting or healing the most. These are the experiences that should fill the books that I will one day write.
So perhaps it’s a little backward from standard thought, but to me dreams should be a quintessential part of reality, whereas reality should be the ever present insight into fiction. So, in the oh-so-philosophically brilliant words of Aerosmith, “Dream on, dream on. Dream until your dreams come true…” (I am so not ready to be a writer yet, clearly.)
And may I just point out that the most tell-able dreams are typically bizarre and unexpected.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Not So Dirty Dancing
As it turns out, an exercise routine is hard work – which I suppose is one reason it’s referred to as a workout. But it’s more than just the actual exercise that takes work; you have to get a routine that’s right for you . . . that’s the really tough part. And for us procrastinators, it’s a fabulous excuse to just not get into to that routine right away.
First, you have to decide what kind of cardio you want to do – running, swimming, aerobics. Then you have to decide if you want (or can afford) help – a gym, a class, a trainer, a friend that makes you go walk with them even if it’s cold or hot or you would rather have cookies. Then you have to decide what’s going to distract from the fact that you are actually running around in circles or jumping up and down like a fool – creating a good playlist (which can take days, by the way) or possibly that friend. And then, and this is the big hurdle, you have to be motivated to actually exercise – aahh!
Me, I think I’ve finally decided on a routine I might like . . . we’ll see. I decided that structured workouts would be best for me, but classes and trainers, well I’m not one to do things like high kicks in public. So I bought a DVD . . . a dance DVD. I had made a playlist, but the beauty of the dance DVD is that there’s music built-in. I plan on mixing that with walking the dog and some situps, pushups, and such. So I have a plan.
I did the full DVD for the first time today (I’m still working on that motivation bit). And I have to ask, why exactly did I choose to go with the cardio-dance thing?? I was starkly reminded for the entire hour of pas de bourrees, “New Yorkers,” and triples that I have absolutely NO rhythm, period. And for someone who has never taken a dance class and rarely frequents a dance floor for fun, the steps were confusing and the tempo was usually a bit quick – not that I ever kept tempo. The result was a combination of the Dirty Dancing montage where Baby just can’t get the steps right and an episode of the Wiggles. There is a reason I don’t dance in public, usually.
Occasionally the dance instructor will encourage you to improvise, to add “your own fun moves” or “have fun with your arms,” but man, I’m too focused on trying to figure out what exactly my feet are supposed to be doing and how in the world she can move her midsection like that. Perhaps my sister could get a hang of the body roll and add her own fun hip thing, but I just don’t get it. (And yes, apparently the body roll is an official dance move associated with the cha cha – maybe that’s common knowledge, but it was news to me.) My God, when they asked me to spin in the middle of two moves that I just managed, well, this is where the Wiggles moves came in handy.
But I guess the good news is that it got me moving for an hour straight – it certainly got my heart rate going. I suppose I chose the dancing because it’s a good distraction; it’s meant to be fun, which is what I want, but I’m also somewhat of a perfectionist and wanting to get the steps right takes away from the amusement part. I’ll get better at it – as soon as I learn to “clinch my buttocks as I bend my knees” and keep rhythm while hopping and tapping my toe some-which-way. Until then, I will be Baby when she and Johnny danced at the club and she tried poorly to ad-lib since she couldn’t do the lift, I will be that for an entire hour! (Man, I think I’ve seen that movie too many times.) It’s just too bad I don’t have Johnny to teach me the samba – now that would be motivation.
Alas, I suppose the motivation should be health or energy or attractiveness . . . here’s to health.
First, you have to decide what kind of cardio you want to do – running, swimming, aerobics. Then you have to decide if you want (or can afford) help – a gym, a class, a trainer, a friend that makes you go walk with them even if it’s cold or hot or you would rather have cookies. Then you have to decide what’s going to distract from the fact that you are actually running around in circles or jumping up and down like a fool – creating a good playlist (which can take days, by the way) or possibly that friend. And then, and this is the big hurdle, you have to be motivated to actually exercise – aahh!
Me, I think I’ve finally decided on a routine I might like . . . we’ll see. I decided that structured workouts would be best for me, but classes and trainers, well I’m not one to do things like high kicks in public. So I bought a DVD . . . a dance DVD. I had made a playlist, but the beauty of the dance DVD is that there’s music built-in. I plan on mixing that with walking the dog and some situps, pushups, and such. So I have a plan.
I did the full DVD for the first time today (I’m still working on that motivation bit). And I have to ask, why exactly did I choose to go with the cardio-dance thing?? I was starkly reminded for the entire hour of pas de bourrees, “New Yorkers,” and triples that I have absolutely NO rhythm, period. And for someone who has never taken a dance class and rarely frequents a dance floor for fun, the steps were confusing and the tempo was usually a bit quick – not that I ever kept tempo. The result was a combination of the Dirty Dancing montage where Baby just can’t get the steps right and an episode of the Wiggles. There is a reason I don’t dance in public, usually.
Occasionally the dance instructor will encourage you to improvise, to add “your own fun moves” or “have fun with your arms,” but man, I’m too focused on trying to figure out what exactly my feet are supposed to be doing and how in the world she can move her midsection like that. Perhaps my sister could get a hang of the body roll and add her own fun hip thing, but I just don’t get it. (And yes, apparently the body roll is an official dance move associated with the cha cha – maybe that’s common knowledge, but it was news to me.) My God, when they asked me to spin in the middle of two moves that I just managed, well, this is where the Wiggles moves came in handy.
But I guess the good news is that it got me moving for an hour straight – it certainly got my heart rate going. I suppose I chose the dancing because it’s a good distraction; it’s meant to be fun, which is what I want, but I’m also somewhat of a perfectionist and wanting to get the steps right takes away from the amusement part. I’ll get better at it – as soon as I learn to “clinch my buttocks as I bend my knees” and keep rhythm while hopping and tapping my toe some-which-way. Until then, I will be Baby when she and Johnny danced at the club and she tried poorly to ad-lib since she couldn’t do the lift, I will be that for an entire hour! (Man, I think I’ve seen that movie too many times.) It’s just too bad I don’t have Johnny to teach me the samba – now that would be motivation.
Alas, I suppose the motivation should be health or energy or attractiveness . . . here’s to health.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Choose-Your-Own-Adventure
Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books. You remember those, the ones where you are the main character and you have to choose whether to use the foot bridge or take the ferry into the dark tunnel to get over the raging river. But then, it turns out that the footbridge is two hundred years old, shaky and dilapidated, but the dark tunnel takes you through a miraculous cave with talking animals and hidden treasure – who would have guessed. You tried to make the responsible, most probable choice, but ended up flying through the air and climbing up the fallen bridge to save your life. Choose the tunnel next time . . . but then next time the safe option really was the safe option, of course. As it turns out, those children’s authors weren’t trying to mess with our heads, they were just trying to teach us important life lessons – number one, that life is COMPLETELY unpredictable.
Sometimes you’re confronted with a decision and choose what seems like the better choice, this then leads to another dilemma, and you choose all over again. You don’t really feel like you’re choosing your own adventure. You never get what you choose. See, the thing about these books is that sometimes the option that looks like the peaceful, fun, or smart choice ends up leading you into a messy, dangerous place – not what you chose. Things are so not what they appear, lesson number two.
There is always another decision to make. This could be the one that leads you to safety and your happy ending – choose wisely. But that alligator could actually be your friendly neighbor who really does want to help you to get through the swamp; after all, that cute little rabbit turned out to be a vicious, rabies infected creature. What should I do? Does it matter? Should I just make a decision and live with it? Lesson number three: take responsibility for your choices.
Ok, so the alligator was friendly, as expected. Now you have to decide whether the white horse is trustworthy, or a mirage – perhaps he’s just a normal mule, but hey, maybe that’s ok too. Or maybe you should just hike that mountain on your own two feet and not risk the equine’s questionable intentions. Besides, hikes are nice. And at this point you know that there’s going to be another dilemma at the top of the mountain that you are going to have to figure out on your own, yet again, and that could fast-track you to the castle. You’ll be able to see where it is from up there. There is always hope – lesson number four.
Finally you get to the castle, and the story ends there, as if there will be no further decisions or problems. Once when I was sick in bed all day as a kid, I reread a choose-your-own-adventure book until I had chosen every possible choice in every possible order. I finally knew exactly how to navigate that book so that every outcome was a positive one. I spent the entire day figuring it out. It made for a very boring story. Lesson number five: just live your life, adventure is not perfection.
Sometimes you’re confronted with a decision and choose what seems like the better choice, this then leads to another dilemma, and you choose all over again. You don’t really feel like you’re choosing your own adventure. You never get what you choose. See, the thing about these books is that sometimes the option that looks like the peaceful, fun, or smart choice ends up leading you into a messy, dangerous place – not what you chose. Things are so not what they appear, lesson number two.
There is always another decision to make. This could be the one that leads you to safety and your happy ending – choose wisely. But that alligator could actually be your friendly neighbor who really does want to help you to get through the swamp; after all, that cute little rabbit turned out to be a vicious, rabies infected creature. What should I do? Does it matter? Should I just make a decision and live with it? Lesson number three: take responsibility for your choices.
Ok, so the alligator was friendly, as expected. Now you have to decide whether the white horse is trustworthy, or a mirage – perhaps he’s just a normal mule, but hey, maybe that’s ok too. Or maybe you should just hike that mountain on your own two feet and not risk the equine’s questionable intentions. Besides, hikes are nice. And at this point you know that there’s going to be another dilemma at the top of the mountain that you are going to have to figure out on your own, yet again, and that could fast-track you to the castle. You’ll be able to see where it is from up there. There is always hope – lesson number four.
Finally you get to the castle, and the story ends there, as if there will be no further decisions or problems. Once when I was sick in bed all day as a kid, I reread a choose-your-own-adventure book until I had chosen every possible choice in every possible order. I finally knew exactly how to navigate that book so that every outcome was a positive one. I spent the entire day figuring it out. It made for a very boring story. Lesson number five: just live your life, adventure is not perfection.
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