I've been obsessed with food lately. What to cook, when to cook, what to buy, more stuff to try. When to eat, what to eat. What to eat when I can't eat.
Ugh. I'm almost sick of thinking about food.
I had been cooking well this Spring and Summer. Better, fresher food, ridiculously healthy and delicious. Yes, even yummy, fabulous food! Now it's more of a chore. What, again? Eat more of that, less of that.
This is all new to me, so please bear with me. I'm sure it'll settle out eventually. Next up: travel adventures.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Friday, June 6, 2008
Brancusi? You're Done!
Of my two cats, Brancusi is the most neurotic.
One of his peculiar habits is to be overly freaked out by any hint of litter box smell. He is the one who will come and talk at me if the litter box is getting a little too stinky. Because I understand so clearly what he is going on about (unlike other times when he is clearly chattering away about anything and everything like a 4 year old), I have no problem with this and get right to changing the litter.
But sometimes he gets all frantic when he himself has just taken a pee or a poop. He covers it up like a good cat should, scratching up a little mound over the offending offal, etcetera.
But with his highly-sensitive nose, simply covering it is not enough. Because he can still *smell* it, you see? So he keeps scratching. And since he doesn't want to dirty his paws further, he will instead scratch the wall, the side of the porcelain fixtures, the door. It gets very irritating to listen to, not to mention damaging to the wall.
If you go to the door of the bathroom and yell at him, he will burst forth with a little guilty squeal of fear. Guilty because he knows that if Mama is yelling at him that he must have done something wrong (although with his little brain, he's not exactly sure what), and fear because sometimes I get so irritated with his obsessive scratching that I will give him a little squirt of water to deter him. Truly, sometimes the only thing that will pry him away from his scratching is to fling a little water on him. But then he will sometimes go out in the hallway to scratch some more.
Ah, what a sweet, compulsive cat he is.
Now, it's hard to ignore all this carrying on when one is trying to get some work done. Scratch, scratch, scratch, moving from box to wall to porcelain. The part of my brain that can identify sounds from across the house has this down pat. But if it goes on too long, I'll lose patience and yell at him from across the house. Granted, our house is not very big, so I don't have to yell far. Since this of course, rarely works, I then feel compelled to get up and menace him in person. Because we know how well that works (not). This is where the squirting comes in.
He knows I don't like this. He know he will get yelled at and probably squirted, but he can't help himself. Meanwhile, I am tired of escorting him out of the bathroom. And believe me, I've tried ignoring him, but the sound wears on my nerves too badly. (Although not as badly as his nails on matte plaster walls. Oy.)
Recently, I noticed that as soon as I came to the door, he'd go shooting past me with that little squeal *Mrrh!* even if I didn't squirt him. Hmmm. So his little brain has locked on to the pattern. Mama yells and he gets squirted leaving the bathroom. What if I changed the pattern a little? He already has learned that if I call him in a certain way, it means food, i.e. "Oookaaaay! It's time for dinner!!" In fact, I have to be careful to not use that intonation in everyday conversation or else the cats will mistakenly think "food!" They also recognize their name calls that I use to summon them for food or snuggles. They also respond very well to praise; in fact, they are both completely addicted to attention. Hmmm.
Thus began operation anti-scratch.
I wanted to train him (I mean, manipulate him) to stop scratching, and the first step was to be able to cue him from a distance rather than having to go to the scene in person. And using a call that would be distinctive enough to communicate a specific idea.
So I would yell, I mean, call out his name (branCUsi!), and then tell him "You're done!" The first couple of times, I stood outside the door and when he would come shooting out, I'd coo at him in praise and rub him down (he likes rubdowns like a dog). He ate it up. See, Mama isn't mad, just glad you stopped scratching already!
Soon, I could yell "BranCUsi! You're done!" from the office, and he would come shooting out with a little Mrrt!, running straight to me to get praised and have his ears rubbed. "GOOD boy, BranCUsi! You covered up your poop, ... and then you stopped!" haha Only now, his squeal has changed to a little bird noise of anticipation.
My husband thinks this is hysterical. Cat training works! he says. I'm not completely convinced that my directive is functioning as a direct command, but I keep reinforcing the new pattern, and maybe it'll stick. And even if not, I can at least shift my cat's neurotic tendencies for the better.
Now I wonder, what else can I tweak? I'm still working on myself.
One of his peculiar habits is to be overly freaked out by any hint of litter box smell. He is the one who will come and talk at me if the litter box is getting a little too stinky. Because I understand so clearly what he is going on about (unlike other times when he is clearly chattering away about anything and everything like a 4 year old), I have no problem with this and get right to changing the litter.
But sometimes he gets all frantic when he himself has just taken a pee or a poop. He covers it up like a good cat should, scratching up a little mound over the offending offal, etcetera.
But with his highly-sensitive nose, simply covering it is not enough. Because he can still *smell* it, you see? So he keeps scratching. And since he doesn't want to dirty his paws further, he will instead scratch the wall, the side of the porcelain fixtures, the door. It gets very irritating to listen to, not to mention damaging to the wall.
If you go to the door of the bathroom and yell at him, he will burst forth with a little guilty squeal of fear. Guilty because he knows that if Mama is yelling at him that he must have done something wrong (although with his little brain, he's not exactly sure what), and fear because sometimes I get so irritated with his obsessive scratching that I will give him a little squirt of water to deter him. Truly, sometimes the only thing that will pry him away from his scratching is to fling a little water on him. But then he will sometimes go out in the hallway to scratch some more.
Ah, what a sweet, compulsive cat he is.
Now, it's hard to ignore all this carrying on when one is trying to get some work done. Scratch, scratch, scratch, moving from box to wall to porcelain. The part of my brain that can identify sounds from across the house has this down pat. But if it goes on too long, I'll lose patience and yell at him from across the house. Granted, our house is not very big, so I don't have to yell far. Since this of course, rarely works, I then feel compelled to get up and menace him in person. Because we know how well that works (not). This is where the squirting comes in.
He knows I don't like this. He know he will get yelled at and probably squirted, but he can't help himself. Meanwhile, I am tired of escorting him out of the bathroom. And believe me, I've tried ignoring him, but the sound wears on my nerves too badly. (Although not as badly as his nails on matte plaster walls. Oy.)
Recently, I noticed that as soon as I came to the door, he'd go shooting past me with that little squeal *Mrrh!* even if I didn't squirt him. Hmmm. So his little brain has locked on to the pattern. Mama yells and he gets squirted leaving the bathroom. What if I changed the pattern a little? He already has learned that if I call him in a certain way, it means food, i.e. "Oookaaaay! It's time for dinner!!" In fact, I have to be careful to not use that intonation in everyday conversation or else the cats will mistakenly think "food!" They also recognize their name calls that I use to summon them for food or snuggles. They also respond very well to praise; in fact, they are both completely addicted to attention. Hmmm.
Thus began operation anti-scratch.
I wanted to train him (I mean, manipulate him) to stop scratching, and the first step was to be able to cue him from a distance rather than having to go to the scene in person. And using a call that would be distinctive enough to communicate a specific idea.
So I would yell, I mean, call out his name (branCUsi!), and then tell him "You're done!" The first couple of times, I stood outside the door and when he would come shooting out, I'd coo at him in praise and rub him down (he likes rubdowns like a dog). He ate it up. See, Mama isn't mad, just glad you stopped scratching already!
Soon, I could yell "BranCUsi! You're done!" from the office, and he would come shooting out with a little Mrrt!, running straight to me to get praised and have his ears rubbed. "GOOD boy, BranCUsi! You covered up your poop, ... and then you stopped!" haha Only now, his squeal has changed to a little bird noise of anticipation.
My husband thinks this is hysterical. Cat training works! he says. I'm not completely convinced that my directive is functioning as a direct command, but I keep reinforcing the new pattern, and maybe it'll stick. And even if not, I can at least shift my cat's neurotic tendencies for the better.
Now I wonder, what else can I tweak? I'm still working on myself.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Good Thing I'm Not a Horse
I'm barely into my 40s*, and already I'm falling apart!
(*Give or take a couple. Let's not quibble about the exact number, okay?)
My knees were the first to pipe up and scream--hellooo? No more blitheful knee-twisting for youuu! That was about 8 years ago, still in my Yout.
When I discovered that I could not walk down an incline without crying, I was bereft. I thought to myself that my dancing-hiking-lunging-walking downhill days were over.
But then I learned to strengthen the front of my legs to balance all the muscle on the backs of my legs. I learned to not run around on wet rocks, twisting my knees. I learned to avoid the deep lunges and the over-extensions that my legs do so, so well. I learned to do more yoga stretches. I learned to keep a little bend in my knees on rough downhills. I stopped stomping the floor quite so hard on the balances. I wore tendon straps, which even got me all the way to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Hey, I guess my knees are doing pretty well, if I pay attention and treat them well.
Then my thigh tendons (those things that my husband knows the exact name of) got into the act. Ow, stop that. And my feet. Have I mentioned my feet?
I have friends who dance all weekend and show off their blisters. I'd be happy to dance for hours (and I have), but I just can't do that any more. I don't even want to any more. It's too painful. Let's not even mention all the kids who stomp as hard as they possibly can. (Are they crazy?! No, young.)
I used to have to dance 8 hours a day, hard, to make my feel hurt. At a long weekend on a hard floor, I'd feel it even more, and traded dancing hours for having to nurse my feet back to health over the following week. I'd have all my moleskin and band-aid supplies, my strategies for getting my feet through the whole weekend of fun. Wouldn't want to miss anything, nooo. I got to be a pro at adding padding or second skin to any burgeoning blisters, taking what dancers call "Vitamin I" -- Ibupr0fin-- to reduce inflammation, and leaving my feet sticking out of the sleeping bag to cool overnight. If I'm lucky, I can get Joe to massage my feet, but that's not a permanent solution.
Last year, I had to hold back on Saturday to have enough foot energy left for the coveted Sunday dances.
This year I wasn't even getting many blisters. At first I was happy that I wasn't coming home with as many blisters, but then, the reality started to sink in... It was because I hardly danced enough to raise a blister except on rare occasion.
Why is that, you ask? It's not that I had lost my wind. The rest of my body could keep going for hours. It's my feet that were holding me back.
Now, after I dance vigorously for a mere couple of hours in an evening, my tootsies hurt. Not just a little achiness, but pain as if I have been dancing for days. Those darn metatarsals blare out painfully.
It's the nub ends of my feet-bones, getting sore, you know. I feel it every time I raise up on the ball of my foot during a dance, which I do roughly a thousand times per dance, or conservatively, more than 7500 times in the course of an evening of dancing.
They said it might be arthritis. This made me glum, because I wasn't sure it would be possible for me to give up dancing.
I saw a foot doctor this week, and was hoping he would have some doable advice for me. Something to manage the situation that won't force me to cut back on my life. I'm already cutting back on my dancing... sitting out some dances and resting my feet. It's frustrating because the rest of me feels great. My cardio can take it; it's my feet that are pooping out.
Oh, have I mentioned my hips and my hands? All of my joints are complaining.
There I was pulling weeds last week, yanking wire grass and vines out of my garden for about an hour, and for several days afterwards, I could not curl my fingers without aching. They were painfully tight. And awkward, when I had to hold or carry something. And a week later? I can still feel it! Damn. How did this happen?
It's another reminder that my body is not as spry and resilient as it used to be.
I can't figure it out, though--are other people my age feeling this kind of stiffness and aches and pains? I never hear about it. Okay, a little more yoga would be good, but I never think of myself as quite old enough to be suffering this.
When I told one of my older friends this, she reminded me that "old age is not for sissies." I nodded and said, "true, dat." And then I thanked her for not telling me I was too young to be feeling any pain, because there's nothing more annoying than having someone minimize your situation through active denial.
Another friend of an even older vintage told me that I might want to strengthen my core from an athlete's perspective. She's a runner, so she knows the wisdom to compare notes with other athletes and what it's like to be unwilling to just quit. Okay, so I'm already working on that.
I am a little scared, though, that this is only the beginning of a long decline. Where does it continue from here? What happens next? Do I get a chance to get used to this before the next restriction? Aaiigh! Not for sissies, indeed.
Okay, so I see the podiatrist, and he gives me a list of *seven* different things that are wrong with my feet. Most of them are congenital, most of them, the kind of thing that one often outgrows, although he says my doctor could have corrected it easily with (he says, minor) surgery in my 20s. Apparently, one of my feet has outgrown something, and the other hasn't. Therefor, I am still pigeon-toed, knock-kneed, adducted, twisted, sheered, over-pronated, under-whatevered... the list goes on.
I know there are at least seven things, because after I while, I asked him to write them all down for me. I certainly can't keep track of every last one of the medical terms, but you can bet I will be asking Dr. Google for further clarification because I can barely remember what means what.
He was kinda laughing as he enumerated all my issues, but when I chided him to not make fun of my feet because after all, I had to deal with the body I inherited, he softened and told me it was not his intent to make fun of me but to soften the bad news. Oh, FABulous. It's THAt bad, huh? But I appreciated that he acquired a little more sensitivity after that and spent a lot of time explaining things to me.
Part of me is happy that most of it appears to be congenital. This means it's not my fault to be born wonky. It's not like the rest of me is particularly symmetrical. Hur, hur, hur.
But boo to my wonky genes! It means that I can't afford to be a sissy at all. If I were a horse, they'd shake their heads and say, well, she's cute, but the gait is all out of whack--we can't use her. At least I don't have a sway back. Oh wait... I probably do.
I'm sure my husband will be happy to be vindicated by the need for more stretching. "More yoga!" he will tell me. Yeah, yeah. But not just that.
There will be stretching and orthopedics and all that. Looks like I will be spending big bucks to have my everyday and dance shoes outfitted, even with my major insurance. But yea for less pain and more dancing!
I am not up for surgery at this time, although supposedly it'd be a relatively simple matter to straighten the darn leg already. I am almost certain that none of my childhood doctors ever said anything about this to my mother. When I look back, I can tell that most of this stuff was obvious 25-30 years ago, but who paid attention to that? The big thing in the 70's was the sclerosis twisted-spine that would necessitate a back brace to straighten. (I'm sorry, my brain fails to remember the exact term, but I'm getting flashbacks to elementary school when we all had to undergo screening, and one of my friends needed to wear a spine brace for three years.) My spine was straight enough to pass that test. Apparently legs and gait do not get the same scrutiny. Well, apparently, legs also usually grow out of it.
If I tried, I could probably construct a unified theory for every weird physical thing in my life. Oh, so this is why my legs feel slightly unbalanced in my downward dog? My feet are throwing off my hips, too? Is this why my torso gets thrown forward and my toes want to curl under? Did that throw this other thing out of whack? Why one eye is tilted higher? Why my neck suffered and I overreact to insect bites? ? Why I hiccuped in utero? Oy! Save me from hypochondria! Yoga has been very good to me for alignment, but now I gotta... I don't know what. Relearn how to walk? Do the Alexander thing? It'll be ortho shoe inserts for starters. That explains why my feet cry in disappointment when I take off my Danskos--they are good for me, just not good enough.
It could be much worse, I know. Chalk it up to one more wonky thing in my physical self, and the vagaries of aging. This body of mine shimmies to the beat of a different drummer.
"I will not be a sissy. I will not be a sissy. I will not be a sissy..."
(*Give or take a couple. Let's not quibble about the exact number, okay?)
My knees were the first to pipe up and scream--hellooo? No more blitheful knee-twisting for youuu! That was about 8 years ago, still in my Yout.
When I discovered that I could not walk down an incline without crying, I was bereft. I thought to myself that my dancing-hiking-lunging-walking downhill days were over.
But then I learned to strengthen the front of my legs to balance all the muscle on the backs of my legs. I learned to not run around on wet rocks, twisting my knees. I learned to avoid the deep lunges and the over-extensions that my legs do so, so well. I learned to do more yoga stretches. I learned to keep a little bend in my knees on rough downhills. I stopped stomping the floor quite so hard on the balances. I wore tendon straps, which even got me all the way to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Hey, I guess my knees are doing pretty well, if I pay attention and treat them well.
Then my thigh tendons (those things that my husband knows the exact name of) got into the act. Ow, stop that. And my feet. Have I mentioned my feet?
I have friends who dance all weekend and show off their blisters. I'd be happy to dance for hours (and I have), but I just can't do that any more. I don't even want to any more. It's too painful. Let's not even mention all the kids who stomp as hard as they possibly can. (Are they crazy?! No, young.)
I used to have to dance 8 hours a day, hard, to make my feel hurt. At a long weekend on a hard floor, I'd feel it even more, and traded dancing hours for having to nurse my feet back to health over the following week. I'd have all my moleskin and band-aid supplies, my strategies for getting my feet through the whole weekend of fun. Wouldn't want to miss anything, nooo. I got to be a pro at adding padding or second skin to any burgeoning blisters, taking what dancers call "Vitamin I" -- Ibupr0fin-- to reduce inflammation, and leaving my feet sticking out of the sleeping bag to cool overnight. If I'm lucky, I can get Joe to massage my feet, but that's not a permanent solution.
Last year, I had to hold back on Saturday to have enough foot energy left for the coveted Sunday dances.
This year I wasn't even getting many blisters. At first I was happy that I wasn't coming home with as many blisters, but then, the reality started to sink in... It was because I hardly danced enough to raise a blister except on rare occasion.
Why is that, you ask? It's not that I had lost my wind. The rest of my body could keep going for hours. It's my feet that were holding me back.
Now, after I dance vigorously for a mere couple of hours in an evening, my tootsies hurt. Not just a little achiness, but pain as if I have been dancing for days. Those darn metatarsals blare out painfully.
It's the nub ends of my feet-bones, getting sore, you know. I feel it every time I raise up on the ball of my foot during a dance, which I do roughly a thousand times per dance, or conservatively, more than 7500 times in the course of an evening of dancing.
They said it might be arthritis. This made me glum, because I wasn't sure it would be possible for me to give up dancing.
I saw a foot doctor this week, and was hoping he would have some doable advice for me. Something to manage the situation that won't force me to cut back on my life. I'm already cutting back on my dancing... sitting out some dances and resting my feet. It's frustrating because the rest of me feels great. My cardio can take it; it's my feet that are pooping out.
Oh, have I mentioned my hips and my hands? All of my joints are complaining.
There I was pulling weeds last week, yanking wire grass and vines out of my garden for about an hour, and for several days afterwards, I could not curl my fingers without aching. They were painfully tight. And awkward, when I had to hold or carry something. And a week later? I can still feel it! Damn. How did this happen?
It's another reminder that my body is not as spry and resilient as it used to be.
I can't figure it out, though--are other people my age feeling this kind of stiffness and aches and pains? I never hear about it. Okay, a little more yoga would be good, but I never think of myself as quite old enough to be suffering this.
When I told one of my older friends this, she reminded me that "old age is not for sissies." I nodded and said, "true, dat." And then I thanked her for not telling me I was too young to be feeling any pain, because there's nothing more annoying than having someone minimize your situation through active denial.
Another friend of an even older vintage told me that I might want to strengthen my core from an athlete's perspective. She's a runner, so she knows the wisdom to compare notes with other athletes and what it's like to be unwilling to just quit. Okay, so I'm already working on that.
I am a little scared, though, that this is only the beginning of a long decline. Where does it continue from here? What happens next? Do I get a chance to get used to this before the next restriction? Aaiigh! Not for sissies, indeed.
Okay, so I see the podiatrist, and he gives me a list of *seven* different things that are wrong with my feet. Most of them are congenital, most of them, the kind of thing that one often outgrows, although he says my doctor could have corrected it easily with (he says, minor) surgery in my 20s. Apparently, one of my feet has outgrown something, and the other hasn't. Therefor, I am still pigeon-toed, knock-kneed, adducted, twisted, sheered, over-pronated, under-whatevered... the list goes on.
I know there are at least seven things, because after I while, I asked him to write them all down for me. I certainly can't keep track of every last one of the medical terms, but you can bet I will be asking Dr. Google for further clarification because I can barely remember what means what.
He was kinda laughing as he enumerated all my issues, but when I chided him to not make fun of my feet because after all, I had to deal with the body I inherited, he softened and told me it was not his intent to make fun of me but to soften the bad news. Oh, FABulous. It's THAt bad, huh? But I appreciated that he acquired a little more sensitivity after that and spent a lot of time explaining things to me.
Part of me is happy that most of it appears to be congenital. This means it's not my fault to be born wonky. It's not like the rest of me is particularly symmetrical. Hur, hur, hur.
But boo to my wonky genes! It means that I can't afford to be a sissy at all. If I were a horse, they'd shake their heads and say, well, she's cute, but the gait is all out of whack--we can't use her. At least I don't have a sway back. Oh wait... I probably do.
I'm sure my husband will be happy to be vindicated by the need for more stretching. "More yoga!" he will tell me. Yeah, yeah. But not just that.
There will be stretching and orthopedics and all that. Looks like I will be spending big bucks to have my everyday and dance shoes outfitted, even with my major insurance. But yea for less pain and more dancing!
I am not up for surgery at this time, although supposedly it'd be a relatively simple matter to straighten the darn leg already. I am almost certain that none of my childhood doctors ever said anything about this to my mother. When I look back, I can tell that most of this stuff was obvious 25-30 years ago, but who paid attention to that? The big thing in the 70's was the sclerosis twisted-spine that would necessitate a back brace to straighten. (I'm sorry, my brain fails to remember the exact term, but I'm getting flashbacks to elementary school when we all had to undergo screening, and one of my friends needed to wear a spine brace for three years.) My spine was straight enough to pass that test. Apparently legs and gait do not get the same scrutiny. Well, apparently, legs also usually grow out of it.
If I tried, I could probably construct a unified theory for every weird physical thing in my life. Oh, so this is why my legs feel slightly unbalanced in my downward dog? My feet are throwing off my hips, too? Is this why my torso gets thrown forward and my toes want to curl under? Did that throw this other thing out of whack? Why one eye is tilted higher? Why my neck suffered and I overreact to insect bites? ? Why I hiccuped in utero? Oy! Save me from hypochondria! Yoga has been very good to me for alignment, but now I gotta... I don't know what. Relearn how to walk? Do the Alexander thing? It'll be ortho shoe inserts for starters. That explains why my feet cry in disappointment when I take off my Danskos--they are good for me, just not good enough.
It could be much worse, I know. Chalk it up to one more wonky thing in my physical self, and the vagaries of aging. This body of mine shimmies to the beat of a different drummer.
"I will not be a sissy. I will not be a sissy. I will not be a sissy..."
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Life-Globe Shaken
I apparently rely heavily on my habits and routines. Being taken out of my usual routines is both refreshing and discombobulating. (I love those words!)
After it was determined that my computer was "totaled" a few weeks ago, I decided to buy a brand new machine and to embark on the journey of transferring money and data. This has also entailed learning the latest operating system, rearranging files, and evaluating old digital baggage. (You can guess what comes next: Fling, fling, fling! haha)
So I've been transferring vital files from my old HD to my external HD and meanwhile streamlining the files on my new HD because apparently I have waaay too many photo files hogging space on the new machine. It's all so annoying tedious that I can barely restrain myself from rolling my eyes as I type the words. *yawn*
As much as I sometimes fantasize about my machine being wiped and having to rebuild from scratch (start over! start fresh! hack back the digital weeds!), that's not the fun and productive way to do it. I got the next best thing, though--all or most of my old files, but with an opportunity to restructure and reevaluate all the stuff that was there. So I've dropped a lot of my usual activities while dealing with the new situation.
It feels strange that I have not posted to Flickr in weeks, have not been keeping up with many of my usual blogs or networks, have not been writing as much as usual. Instead, I've been doing hard disk rearrangement and uh, yard work. It's so strange, this feeling, that I can just drop my digital world to the bare minimum and take on different real life projects. It's like traveling in the American SouthWest and breathing deeper from the wide open spaces. There is more space there.
Then on top of that, we just had a long holiday weekend, which we were happy to use to do as little as possible instead of rushing off to far off entertainments. OR rather, we did do a lot, but it was mostly garden work and reading fabulously distracting fiction and having dinner and games night with my sister and hubs. And cooking. And of course, all the rearranging of the data. And getting the new printer set up. Oh, did I mention the all-in-one printer. Cool, cool.
Both of these events has taken me out of my usual way and thrust me into an alternate zone of activity. It's so weird and discombobulating, yes, and refreshing too! What if you had to start over? I might be neglecting a few things (Oh, I just know I am), I might be losing a few things (it seems inevitable), but mostly I'm enjoying the sensation of being shook up, trying new patterns, and seeing where the elements of my life resettle. So I'm milking it until the new/old routines settle back into place.
I'll come back, I will. I'm just rearranging. Better! Faster! We have the technology!
After it was determined that my computer was "totaled" a few weeks ago, I decided to buy a brand new machine and to embark on the journey of transferring money and data. This has also entailed learning the latest operating system, rearranging files, and evaluating old digital baggage. (You can guess what comes next: Fling, fling, fling! haha)
So I've been transferring vital files from my old HD to my external HD and meanwhile streamlining the files on my new HD because apparently I have waaay too many photo files hogging space on the new machine. It's all so annoying tedious that I can barely restrain myself from rolling my eyes as I type the words. *yawn*
As much as I sometimes fantasize about my machine being wiped and having to rebuild from scratch (start over! start fresh! hack back the digital weeds!), that's not the fun and productive way to do it. I got the next best thing, though--all or most of my old files, but with an opportunity to restructure and reevaluate all the stuff that was there. So I've dropped a lot of my usual activities while dealing with the new situation.
It feels strange that I have not posted to Flickr in weeks, have not been keeping up with many of my usual blogs or networks, have not been writing as much as usual. Instead, I've been doing hard disk rearrangement and uh, yard work. It's so strange, this feeling, that I can just drop my digital world to the bare minimum and take on different real life projects. It's like traveling in the American SouthWest and breathing deeper from the wide open spaces. There is more space there.
Then on top of that, we just had a long holiday weekend, which we were happy to use to do as little as possible instead of rushing off to far off entertainments. OR rather, we did do a lot, but it was mostly garden work and reading fabulously distracting fiction and having dinner and games night with my sister and hubs. And cooking. And of course, all the rearranging of the data. And getting the new printer set up. Oh, did I mention the all-in-one printer. Cool, cool.
Both of these events has taken me out of my usual way and thrust me into an alternate zone of activity. It's so weird and discombobulating, yes, and refreshing too! What if you had to start over? I might be neglecting a few things (Oh, I just know I am), I might be losing a few things (it seems inevitable), but mostly I'm enjoying the sensation of being shook up, trying new patterns, and seeing where the elements of my life resettle. So I'm milking it until the new/old routines settle back into place.
I'll come back, I will. I'm just rearranging. Better! Faster! We have the technology!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Sorting Through the Old Closet
First order of business is that my computer is making a good impression of a dying bug (feet in the air, making pitiful noises or twitching-ack!ack!). Until this situation is resolved (in all likelihood, I'll need a new machine), I can check in only intermittently, stealing little chunks of time from my husband's machine. And commenting/posting less than usual.
* ^ *
Well. I didn't write yet about how I went on a clothes shopping spree last week! I had looked in the Sunday paper for all the current Mother's Day sales and had targeted a couple of locations to scout for new clothes. With limited time, I focused on one store that seemed to have the best possibilities, and I completely lucked out, finding tons of great stuff at heavy discounts. Woot! I ending up spending a good four(!) hours there.
Ordinarily, trying to make decisions in a big store when I don't know what I want leads to migraines and misery, but here I was busy but focused, collecting possibilities, trying on and evaluating options, finding new possibilities, weeding through my monster pile and actually making headway. It was even fun, maybe because I was finding things that really worked for me. As a bonus, I came home with a core of a new wardrobe and a new look, too.
Then I spent all evening gleefully retrying on all the clothes I had acquired, and also going through my closet to see what would coordinate or could be worn in different ways. Oh yes, and showing off to my husband, who, although ensconced in a book on the couch, was highly appreciative. He kept saying, "I like this new look!" Yeah. So I was quite pleased with myself.
Now that I had something like five pairs of great slacks (on clearance for 80% off!), I felt the freedom to weed out the old slacks that did not fit me any more, no matter how nice they were. Fling, fling, fling. I also pulled out some less-than-ideal skirts and blouses and added them to the "to donate" pile. Time to release them back into the wild. Ahhh, this was most refreshing, clearing out the old and passe.
I got farther and farther back into my closet, trying on everything and clearing out swathes of blah. Way back in the back, I finally reached some of my old dresses and nearly came to a standstill. Several sentimental pieces awaited me.
I took out the blue print mini dress that I looked particularly fabulous in oh, 14 years ago, and admired it. Yup, it was still extremely cute, but I haven't been able to fit into it in at least five years... Well, on to new and better things that actually fit. I gently folded it up and put in on the pile.
Then I tried on the textured black Lycra mini dress that I had been wearing when my husband proposed to me. Size 7. (Pause to laugh at the ludicrousness of ever having been able to wear that size. I did, though! For years!) I wormed my way into it and sashayed out to the living room. "What do you think, Babe? I know I can fit into it, but I don't know if I *should*." He took a look and said, "I like everything I've seen so far, but not that." "With the jacket?" "The jacket's not bad, but not the dress. It doesn't look good." Whew! A sensible and honest opinion is a valuable tool. It's true: it does not truly fit me anymore. I took one last look at the bulges (remembering more the way I looked in it when I first bought it), and put the little black mini dress on the pile. Ditto the wonderful teal knit dress I'd worn 18 years ago. Ditto the first dressy dress I ever bought some 20+ years ago for a winter wedding. I was a geeky, gawky twig back them, and the dress showed off my coloring and made me look like a sophisticated adult. Good memories. So it was painful to even think about letting it go, but I'm releasing that one back into the wild, too. Someone else will have to appreciate its fine fabric and fit.
It's strangely wrenching to let go of those old pieces that remind me of special or significant times in my life, though. I can imagine I am still that young person with all sorts of possibilities ahead of me, a skinny figure with nice legs, who is just starting to realize her potential and worth. I feel affection for her. But now I'm more on the mature end of that stage, and I can't be the cute and sexy girl any more. Like it or not, I'm all the way to woman now. At my age, I guess I'd better get used to it and live it like I mean it. Which also means letting go of those old parts of my image (or self-image) that no longer fit. Damn.
*Ripping off a few more pieces of old self.*
Here's hoping there's fresh new skin just waiting to show up.
* ^ *
Well. I didn't write yet about how I went on a clothes shopping spree last week! I had looked in the Sunday paper for all the current Mother's Day sales and had targeted a couple of locations to scout for new clothes. With limited time, I focused on one store that seemed to have the best possibilities, and I completely lucked out, finding tons of great stuff at heavy discounts. Woot! I ending up spending a good four(!) hours there.
Ordinarily, trying to make decisions in a big store when I don't know what I want leads to migraines and misery, but here I was busy but focused, collecting possibilities, trying on and evaluating options, finding new possibilities, weeding through my monster pile and actually making headway. It was even fun, maybe because I was finding things that really worked for me. As a bonus, I came home with a core of a new wardrobe and a new look, too.
Then I spent all evening gleefully retrying on all the clothes I had acquired, and also going through my closet to see what would coordinate or could be worn in different ways. Oh yes, and showing off to my husband, who, although ensconced in a book on the couch, was highly appreciative. He kept saying, "I like this new look!" Yeah. So I was quite pleased with myself.
Now that I had something like five pairs of great slacks (on clearance for 80% off!), I felt the freedom to weed out the old slacks that did not fit me any more, no matter how nice they were. Fling, fling, fling. I also pulled out some less-than-ideal skirts and blouses and added them to the "to donate" pile. Time to release them back into the wild. Ahhh, this was most refreshing, clearing out the old and passe.
I got farther and farther back into my closet, trying on everything and clearing out swathes of blah. Way back in the back, I finally reached some of my old dresses and nearly came to a standstill. Several sentimental pieces awaited me.
I took out the blue print mini dress that I looked particularly fabulous in oh, 14 years ago, and admired it. Yup, it was still extremely cute, but I haven't been able to fit into it in at least five years... Well, on to new and better things that actually fit. I gently folded it up and put in on the pile.
Then I tried on the textured black Lycra mini dress that I had been wearing when my husband proposed to me. Size 7. (Pause to laugh at the ludicrousness of ever having been able to wear that size. I did, though! For years!) I wormed my way into it and sashayed out to the living room. "What do you think, Babe? I know I can fit into it, but I don't know if I *should*." He took a look and said, "I like everything I've seen so far, but not that." "With the jacket?" "The jacket's not bad, but not the dress. It doesn't look good." Whew! A sensible and honest opinion is a valuable tool. It's true: it does not truly fit me anymore. I took one last look at the bulges (remembering more the way I looked in it when I first bought it), and put the little black mini dress on the pile. Ditto the wonderful teal knit dress I'd worn 18 years ago. Ditto the first dressy dress I ever bought some 20+ years ago for a winter wedding. I was a geeky, gawky twig back them, and the dress showed off my coloring and made me look like a sophisticated adult. Good memories. So it was painful to even think about letting it go, but I'm releasing that one back into the wild, too. Someone else will have to appreciate its fine fabric and fit.
It's strangely wrenching to let go of those old pieces that remind me of special or significant times in my life, though. I can imagine I am still that young person with all sorts of possibilities ahead of me, a skinny figure with nice legs, who is just starting to realize her potential and worth. I feel affection for her. But now I'm more on the mature end of that stage, and I can't be the cute and sexy girl any more. Like it or not, I'm all the way to woman now. At my age, I guess I'd better get used to it and live it like I mean it. Which also means letting go of those old parts of my image (or self-image) that no longer fit. Damn.
*Ripping off a few more pieces of old self.*
Here's hoping there's fresh new skin just waiting to show up.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Lightly Filtered
I'm trying a couple of new things recently, both exciting with possibility.
Finally, I signed up for Miss Smarty Pants (see FlyLady) to refocus on sorting out my wardrobe or lack thereof.
Years ago, I worked in high-end picture framing, which meant that I had to look good for working out front with clients, but not so good that the hands-on work in the back room would trash my clothes. My answer to that was mostly camp shirts and blouses with khakis. Can I say that I am damn sick of that look? It is not me! So I've been gradually getting rid of those old clothes, and now... *ahem* my clothes are suitable for a stay-at-home-somebody, alright. Speaking of persona, that is not really me, either.
Problem is, I need to look reasonably professional for the teaching work, but I have gradually outgrown a number of dresses and all of my pants that are not clothes-swap jeans. Last time I went pants shopping, it was a disaster - during the height of the spandex craze. *shudder* So my wardrobe as a whole has been shifting toward the utilitarian through benign neglect and lack of finding the right thing. Here I've spent all of my clothing dollars on high quality backpacking gear, but I don't have a decent pair of slacks to save my life. Wait, I do... but just one.
So the wardrobe as a whole needs some punch. I refuse to fall back into the whole 70s look, yet I am not a fashion enthusiast. So what to do? It appears that layers is the way to go these days. Now if I can find something not too tight or skimpy... Thank the Fashion Goddesses that MSP is showing me the way. Have I mentioned the personalized body profiles?
I don't expect to find everything I need all at once, and anyway, large sudden changes tend to flop under their own weight, but I am heartened by the new ideas I have been exposed to through MSP. So it IS possible. Must go shopping and see if I can start filling in some of the gaping holes in my closet. Mother's Day isn't until next weekend, right? So there should still be some good sales going on. Baby steps...
The other neat new thing I'm excited about is joining a online woman's writing group. I had already restarted this blog to write about my life (or more importantly, to motivate myself to write more). So it was serendiptious that a writer friend asked if me if I'd be interested in being invited to this group. Yes! Wonderful how the Universe gives you a gift right at the moment you open space for it. I am looking forward to "playing" and stretching myself a little more. Writing with/for a group is its own challenge apart from writing for ones own satisfaction. As it turns out, there's more stretching involved than in just the writing...
Over the years, I have worked to keep my perfectionism on a short leash (Down! Sit! Good girl! Have a snack.), and I'm pleased to have learned to roll with that pretty well. So: "Writing is like exercise. You've got to do it everyday. And it's not always divine." Nooo, it's not. The important thing is to keep writing. As with many other things in my life, I need to worry more about the *doing* and less about the final mythically perfect product. (...to the degree that my mother now gets frustrated when she is trying to teach me the precise way to perform a quilting technique, while I barrel ahead because I don't want to get stymied by my perfectionism yet *again*. Hellooo childhood self, but I digress...)
So the writing, wow, the writing. Such wonderful amalgamations of language and thought and emotion and mood... To talk to and work with excellent writers is stimulating and a little intimidating. Not only because of my own modest pace, but because I am expected to comment and interact online as well. I am such a lurker. I read, I appreciate, laugh, cry, savor the neat turn of phrase or admire the pacing. But giving back out of my dis-jointed thoughts is a challenge.
Often I don't comment on blogs because because I'm dubious whether a comment is worth making or whether it's just a piece of flotsam passing through the ether of my brain. After all, there are legitimate times to be thoughtful and stay quiet. Even when I feel I have something useful to say, I don't usually have time to spent half an hour crafting that perfect piece of feedback. So with the commenting as with the writing, I have to push myself to just DO it. Just do it, already. It's okay if it's not perfect or if the thoughts don't fall neatly in line. If I had to edit all my ideas to perfection. I'd never get around to writing or talking at all.
Thank goodness for editing, though. It's the filter on my brain. :)
New tagline? Joy o' Life, Lightly Filtered* Ha! Okay, time to get back to work.
Oh, did I mention the joy of working with other creative and thoughtful women? Yes!
* Thanks for Shalet for the reminder of the filter idea.
Finally, I signed up for Miss Smarty Pants (see FlyLady) to refocus on sorting out my wardrobe or lack thereof.
Years ago, I worked in high-end picture framing, which meant that I had to look good for working out front with clients, but not so good that the hands-on work in the back room would trash my clothes. My answer to that was mostly camp shirts and blouses with khakis. Can I say that I am damn sick of that look? It is not me! So I've been gradually getting rid of those old clothes, and now... *ahem* my clothes are suitable for a stay-at-home-somebody, alright. Speaking of persona, that is not really me, either.
Problem is, I need to look reasonably professional for the teaching work, but I have gradually outgrown a number of dresses and all of my pants that are not clothes-swap jeans. Last time I went pants shopping, it was a disaster - during the height of the spandex craze. *shudder* So my wardrobe as a whole has been shifting toward the utilitarian through benign neglect and lack of finding the right thing. Here I've spent all of my clothing dollars on high quality backpacking gear, but I don't have a decent pair of slacks to save my life. Wait, I do... but just one.
So the wardrobe as a whole needs some punch. I refuse to fall back into the whole 70s look, yet I am not a fashion enthusiast. So what to do? It appears that layers is the way to go these days. Now if I can find something not too tight or skimpy... Thank the Fashion Goddesses that MSP is showing me the way. Have I mentioned the personalized body profiles?
I don't expect to find everything I need all at once, and anyway, large sudden changes tend to flop under their own weight, but I am heartened by the new ideas I have been exposed to through MSP. So it IS possible. Must go shopping and see if I can start filling in some of the gaping holes in my closet. Mother's Day isn't until next weekend, right? So there should still be some good sales going on. Baby steps...
The other neat new thing I'm excited about is joining a online woman's writing group. I had already restarted this blog to write about my life (or more importantly, to motivate myself to write more). So it was serendiptious that a writer friend asked if me if I'd be interested in being invited to this group. Yes! Wonderful how the Universe gives you a gift right at the moment you open space for it. I am looking forward to "playing" and stretching myself a little more. Writing with/for a group is its own challenge apart from writing for ones own satisfaction. As it turns out, there's more stretching involved than in just the writing...
Over the years, I have worked to keep my perfectionism on a short leash (Down! Sit! Good girl! Have a snack.), and I'm pleased to have learned to roll with that pretty well. So: "Writing is like exercise. You've got to do it everyday. And it's not always divine." Nooo, it's not. The important thing is to keep writing. As with many other things in my life, I need to worry more about the *doing* and less about the final mythically perfect product. (...to the degree that my mother now gets frustrated when she is trying to teach me the precise way to perform a quilting technique, while I barrel ahead because I don't want to get stymied by my perfectionism yet *again*. Hellooo childhood self, but I digress...)
So the writing, wow, the writing. Such wonderful amalgamations of language and thought and emotion and mood... To talk to and work with excellent writers is stimulating and a little intimidating. Not only because of my own modest pace, but because I am expected to comment and interact online as well. I am such a lurker. I read, I appreciate, laugh, cry, savor the neat turn of phrase or admire the pacing. But giving back out of my dis-jointed thoughts is a challenge.
Often I don't comment on blogs because because I'm dubious whether a comment is worth making or whether it's just a piece of flotsam passing through the ether of my brain. After all, there are legitimate times to be thoughtful and stay quiet. Even when I feel I have something useful to say, I don't usually have time to spent half an hour crafting that perfect piece of feedback. So with the commenting as with the writing, I have to push myself to just DO it. Just do it, already. It's okay if it's not perfect or if the thoughts don't fall neatly in line. If I had to edit all my ideas to perfection. I'd never get around to writing or talking at all.
Thank goodness for editing, though. It's the filter on my brain. :)
New tagline? Joy o' Life, Lightly Filtered* Ha! Okay, time to get back to work.
Oh, did I mention the joy of working with other creative and thoughtful women? Yes!
* Thanks for Shalet for the reminder of the filter idea.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Flower Macros Make It Big
I had to share this video I found on Flickr. The photographer made a slideshow straight from a folder of flower macro shots, unedited. Lots of shifting bokeh and changing light. Then he added music - which seems to be light Taiwanese trancelike pop (???) - to the shifting effect of the slideshow.
The combination is surprisingly beautiful. Happy May Day.
The combination is surprisingly beautiful. Happy May Day.
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