A few months ago, I was regaling some friends with a few of our perpetually undone house projects, such as the kitchen light that fell down several years ago. "And that was when I was talking to so-n-so on the phone, and you know, he's been dead for how many years?"
My friend Brian (who makes a living fixing up and renting houses) said, "Whoa, that is a long time. And you haven't gotten it fixed yet? No, no, no, Missy. If you haven't gotten to a project within one year, then you hire someone else to do it for you!"
Ah. I'll have to tell my dear husband that. He'll be so happy to hear it.
We like house projects. We plan, we plot, we train, we buy samples and supplies. Sometimes we are even reasonably good at doing them.
However, even when we are NOT much good at them, or are having a hard time bringing them to completion (see: new boxes of ceiling fans stacked under the dining room table since this Summer, see: unfinished tile job from eons ago), we have a hard time letting them go. We say to ourselves, well, I should be able to whip that right up. No problem. We can save money by doing it ourselves! Ha. Haha. Oh, hahahahahaHAHAHa! *ahem*
The truth is that house projects often fall under the heading of Idealism + Perfectionism = Inertia. Although to be fair, the ceiling fans will require some rewiring in a crazily-accessed attic. It's not like we are dealing with a new house here.
Anyway, we rarely allow ourselves to let someone else do these jobs, because we have a mythical belief in our ability to do it, and do it alone. We come from do-it-yourselfer ancestors! we say. They put up ceiling fans in the roof of their cave in less than an hour! And we'd rather leave it undone for years and years rather than admit that no, it would be better if someone else did it.
So we are changing that.
Rather than putting the new kitchen cabinets in all by ourselves, we were thrilled to have my mom gift us with a couple days of expert carpenter work. Rather than putting up the new ceiling fans - oh, sometime before the little girl goes to kindergarten, we are hiring a handyman contractor to knock out that task. And a few more. Many, many more, oh yes!
You can imagine the glee and trepidation this inspires.
I love working up the specs and the process. I love the completed project. I get skittish around the mess that it will entail. A little noise, I can deal with. The outgassing/fumes/dust/disrupted space puts me on edge.
So yes, it will be hellaciously dusty in here for the rest of the day/week/year (mmm, plaster!); at least the dreaded plaster work will be fixed! And anyhow, the new ceiling fans should help air out the kitchen after the grouting fumes take over. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.
Now I am casting my mind over the whole property, wondering who else I might get to come tackle this mess that we'll never get to. Hmm, yard workers. Hmm, carpenters. Hmm, painters and finishers. Hmm, arborists! And let's fill in that hole, excuse me, holes that the electricians left while we are at it. Oh, and stain the window sills. Can I get a bathroom fan, too?
So. Equal parts glee and trepidation. And a banishing of perfectionism, as this old house demands.
Our new handyman is keen on "mudding" the whole living room to even out the plaster. And fixing that corner where a previous renovation never got detailed. And perhaps ripping out the bedroom ceiling. Wait, what??! He has a keen eye for finishing details, and I like that. It's an adjustment for him, too, though.
"What the hell is wrong with this?" Our handyman glares at the space above the kitchen sink. The countertops (mostly level) tilt a different way than the window sill (also mostly level, but the other way). The floors tilt, throwing off the neat line of cabinets. Cracks shyly snake down our plaster walls. The wiring patterns are whacked out (we've known this for years).
"Well, it's an old house," I explain. "Nothing is really square or level, so every time you "fix" something, you notice how nothing matches up."
"And no," I tell my husband," we are not ripping out the bedroom ceiling. NOT a priority." If we started trying to make everything perfect, we'd never finish. But if we get someone else to do it with a generous modicum of competency, it will at least get finished.
Yes, this house is crazy and neglected. Yes, we are slow-moving perfectionists. It's maddening. It's saddening. It's depressing. It's an exercise in letting go of perfection. It's now someone else's job!
Whoo-hoo!
--
Friday, November 5, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The Monkey Goes For A Walk
So the little girl had a great Halloween out and about.
She doesn't have a concept of candy yet, although she's learned that chocolate is "Mommy's snack."
She might have a concept of dressing up; she does love wearing her bunny ears from the festival or the monkey suit I bought for her for the occasion.
She really does NOT understand what we are doing shambling through the dusk and dark, knocking on doors and dodging other pint-sized fairies and superheroes.
She does not understand the concept of presently yourself in a picture of cuteness and performing the ritual words to receive a piece of miniaturized candy in return, but she's getting there.
We've posed for the obligatory costume pictures, and the little girl is eager to move on and won't sit down. She pats the pumpkins, sniffs the mums. "Smell flower" she informs us.
As we start off through the neighborhood streets, we stop to admire a little boy's bee costume. "What does a bee say?" we ask her. She stares. "What does a bee say?" The little boy stares. "Oh, and you are a monkey," the boy's mother responds. "What does a monkey say?" my husband prompts. The little girl scrunches up her face in a grin and makes a little half-hearted grunting.
Candy and thank yous exchanged, we leave, the kiddos still awkwardly wondering if their super smart parents have suddenly lost their minds.
We follow clusters of children that detach themselves from their front doors to gather in little flocks of costumes, flying up the street.
We amble along in the near dusk, pointing out decorations and displays rather than approaching every lit door.
We pass friends we know from church just setting out with their passel of youngsters, and chat in passing. My friend wears cat whiskers and ears. "Our candy is on our front porch," she calls. "Go get yourself some KitKat bars!"
Further down the street, we hail our handyman contractor pulling his little boy in a wagon. We greet his wife and mother-in-law with smiles and handshakes, but all of our attention is on the kids anyway. His son sees the monkey costume and sings us a verse of monkeys jumping on the bed. We wave good bye - "I might be over next week after all," Paul calls, - and continue down the middle of the street following a small pack of young girls leggily dressed in either red or white dresses. I can't figure out who they are supposed to be. Dusk is falling fast into night.
A looming tower of pink and orange glowing inflated pumpkins sway in the slight breeze, and a moving spider the size of a Mini catches our eyes. It sparkles with dark glitter. Then the sounds of live old-time music beckons us across the boulevard and into the lawn party of a neighborhood church. We are surrounded on all sides by anticipatory teens, wee Elmos and princesses, and adults shepherding their charges among the garish lights. A tall Zorro with a cape ambles by. A mummy stands listening to the music, while his wife comes over with hot cider.
The cops lets another crowd across the street. It's a happening scene of every age and ethnicity swirling by. The little girl only has eyes for the band, who bathed in pink floodlights, singing in vigorous harmony, a spectacle among spectacles.
After a while, we retreated to quieter and darker streets, interspersed with lights casting strange shadows and flickering colors, beckoning us to new doorways.
On the "toddler-friendly" route, we find a friendly Italian greyhound, a little boy dressed to match his puppy, a family who recognizes us from the park, and a lavish display of spiders, real small-animal skulls, and taxidermied rodents against dramatic drapery. One woman fastens a glow stick around the little girl's wrist.
At another house, the little girl actually knocks on the door herself. The woman who answers crouches down to engage her in gentle conversation while Miss Monkey carefully looks over the bowl of candy. The little girl picks up one colorful package, inspects it, then puts it back. We laugh. I snag a sparkly zebra sticker. At another house, they press small Snickers bars on both of us parents. "To keep up your stamina," they say. We are surprised to find we need it. Some steps are steep, some sections of sidewalk are dark and confusing.
Wandering about, we see a long house with colorful lights and a yard full of halloween figures. "Oo, look!" we tell her. "Look at those pumpkins, those lights!" We stop again, and the little girl takes my husband's hand (yet again), and this time, confidently marches herself right up to the front porch where, it looks like, half the family and assorted friends and neighbors wait in a tableaux. Two teen girls, waiting for us, say "Awwww" in the sweet way that only teen girls can. "It's a monkey. What a cute monkey. She even has a banana. You want some candy, honey?" "Can you say Thank You?" we prompt, and the little girl mumbles something that makes the crowd oo again. On the way back to the sidewalk, she breaks away to investigate a smiling Dracula "I love to count my candy - a! a! a!" and we have to tackle her.
We think we've broken the shyness barrier. A porch full of strangers in strange light, and she didn't even blink, much less cower. Yes, let's walk up to another doorway, knock, and see what interesting "toys" they might have!
By this time, we've zigzagged into the far reaches of the neighborhood over cracked pavement and a street under construction, trying to find a friend's house. Headlights cut through the night, revealing other rug-rats of various ages. We finally stumble over a section of roots to cross back over the boulevard to a smoother piece of pavement. Crowds are gathering around a family's Harry Potter display. People are quiet but festive, ambling with purpose.
We are becoming foot-sore, asking ourselves why, for goodness sake, we insisted on trekking all the way over to David's house. We take a quiet, easy route home. "No hills," my husband insists.
We hear music floating down the street to meet us. When we finally draw abreast of the source of music and stare up to the high porch where a woman sways, playing mazurkas and gypsy fiddle tunes, my husband says "Okay. One more." We are drawn up and up the steep steps, the little girl determined to go to the music. A young daughter smiles and fans out the packages of Skittles as if they were a gypsy's cards. The little girl reaches for the generous bowl instead. I can see she's thinking "nice! red!" We murmur our thanks, and the woman breaks into a little Mussorgsky. The Night on Bald Mountain is floats out in fragments into the quiet as another family of children arrive.
The streets home are even darker, quieter. It's a school night, after all. Cars pass, and I'm very glad that I finally attached reflective markings to the stroller. The little girl asks for cracker, and raisins, and her water bottle. The handful of candy and glow sticks we've gathered lie tossed into the bottom of the stroller.
We visit one last house on our street, our neighbors. Their daughter is getting through the last post-excitement meltdown before bed, but she quiets and comes to the door to see us, already in her pajamas. "Yes, we had a good time going around, didn't we? But now, it's late," her mother says, turning surprised eyes on us. "We are heading home right now," I assure her. "Pumpkin!" The little girl declares. "Ahhnge pumpkin." It's not too late for most people, but late for parents on toddler time. We throw together some tomato-basil soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, and roll our little monkey straight into her pajmas. We give candy to one last set of pre-teen latinos in sparkly faery finery (half a handful each since there is so much left), and turn out the lights.
After my husband leaves, I hide the rest of the mini Milky Way darks so they won't be staring him in the face when he wakes up in the morning. The candy was not the point. The little monkey went for a Halloween walk, and it was good.
--
She doesn't have a concept of candy yet, although she's learned that chocolate is "Mommy's snack."
She might have a concept of dressing up; she does love wearing her bunny ears from the festival or the monkey suit I bought for her for the occasion.
She really does NOT understand what we are doing shambling through the dusk and dark, knocking on doors and dodging other pint-sized fairies and superheroes.
She does not understand the concept of presently yourself in a picture of cuteness and performing the ritual words to receive a piece of miniaturized candy in return, but she's getting there.
We've posed for the obligatory costume pictures, and the little girl is eager to move on and won't sit down. She pats the pumpkins, sniffs the mums. "Smell flower" she informs us.
As we start off through the neighborhood streets, we stop to admire a little boy's bee costume. "What does a bee say?" we ask her. She stares. "What does a bee say?" The little boy stares. "Oh, and you are a monkey," the boy's mother responds. "What does a monkey say?" my husband prompts. The little girl scrunches up her face in a grin and makes a little half-hearted grunting.
Candy and thank yous exchanged, we leave, the kiddos still awkwardly wondering if their super smart parents have suddenly lost their minds.
We follow clusters of children that detach themselves from their front doors to gather in little flocks of costumes, flying up the street.
We amble along in the near dusk, pointing out decorations and displays rather than approaching every lit door.
We pass friends we know from church just setting out with their passel of youngsters, and chat in passing. My friend wears cat whiskers and ears. "Our candy is on our front porch," she calls. "Go get yourself some KitKat bars!"
Further down the street, we hail our handyman contractor pulling his little boy in a wagon. We greet his wife and mother-in-law with smiles and handshakes, but all of our attention is on the kids anyway. His son sees the monkey costume and sings us a verse of monkeys jumping on the bed. We wave good bye - "I might be over next week after all," Paul calls, - and continue down the middle of the street following a small pack of young girls leggily dressed in either red or white dresses. I can't figure out who they are supposed to be. Dusk is falling fast into night.
A looming tower of pink and orange glowing inflated pumpkins sway in the slight breeze, and a moving spider the size of a Mini catches our eyes. It sparkles with dark glitter. Then the sounds of live old-time music beckons us across the boulevard and into the lawn party of a neighborhood church. We are surrounded on all sides by anticipatory teens, wee Elmos and princesses, and adults shepherding their charges among the garish lights. A tall Zorro with a cape ambles by. A mummy stands listening to the music, while his wife comes over with hot cider.
The cops lets another crowd across the street. It's a happening scene of every age and ethnicity swirling by. The little girl only has eyes for the band, who bathed in pink floodlights, singing in vigorous harmony, a spectacle among spectacles.
After a while, we retreated to quieter and darker streets, interspersed with lights casting strange shadows and flickering colors, beckoning us to new doorways.
On the "toddler-friendly" route, we find a friendly Italian greyhound, a little boy dressed to match his puppy, a family who recognizes us from the park, and a lavish display of spiders, real small-animal skulls, and taxidermied rodents against dramatic drapery. One woman fastens a glow stick around the little girl's wrist.
At another house, the little girl actually knocks on the door herself. The woman who answers crouches down to engage her in gentle conversation while Miss Monkey carefully looks over the bowl of candy. The little girl picks up one colorful package, inspects it, then puts it back. We laugh. I snag a sparkly zebra sticker. At another house, they press small Snickers bars on both of us parents. "To keep up your stamina," they say. We are surprised to find we need it. Some steps are steep, some sections of sidewalk are dark and confusing.
Wandering about, we see a long house with colorful lights and a yard full of halloween figures. "Oo, look!" we tell her. "Look at those pumpkins, those lights!" We stop again, and the little girl takes my husband's hand (yet again), and this time, confidently marches herself right up to the front porch where, it looks like, half the family and assorted friends and neighbors wait in a tableaux. Two teen girls, waiting for us, say "Awwww" in the sweet way that only teen girls can. "It's a monkey. What a cute monkey. She even has a banana. You want some candy, honey?" "Can you say Thank You?" we prompt, and the little girl mumbles something that makes the crowd oo again. On the way back to the sidewalk, she breaks away to investigate a smiling Dracula "I love to count my candy - a! a! a!" and we have to tackle her.
We think we've broken the shyness barrier. A porch full of strangers in strange light, and she didn't even blink, much less cower. Yes, let's walk up to another doorway, knock, and see what interesting "toys" they might have!
By this time, we've zigzagged into the far reaches of the neighborhood over cracked pavement and a street under construction, trying to find a friend's house. Headlights cut through the night, revealing other rug-rats of various ages. We finally stumble over a section of roots to cross back over the boulevard to a smoother piece of pavement. Crowds are gathering around a family's Harry Potter display. People are quiet but festive, ambling with purpose.
We are becoming foot-sore, asking ourselves why, for goodness sake, we insisted on trekking all the way over to David's house. We take a quiet, easy route home. "No hills," my husband insists.
We hear music floating down the street to meet us. When we finally draw abreast of the source of music and stare up to the high porch where a woman sways, playing mazurkas and gypsy fiddle tunes, my husband says "Okay. One more." We are drawn up and up the steep steps, the little girl determined to go to the music. A young daughter smiles and fans out the packages of Skittles as if they were a gypsy's cards. The little girl reaches for the generous bowl instead. I can see she's thinking "nice! red!" We murmur our thanks, and the woman breaks into a little Mussorgsky. The Night on Bald Mountain is floats out in fragments into the quiet as another family of children arrive.
The streets home are even darker, quieter. It's a school night, after all. Cars pass, and I'm very glad that I finally attached reflective markings to the stroller. The little girl asks for cracker, and raisins, and her water bottle. The handful of candy and glow sticks we've gathered lie tossed into the bottom of the stroller.
We visit one last house on our street, our neighbors. Their daughter is getting through the last post-excitement meltdown before bed, but she quiets and comes to the door to see us, already in her pajamas. "Yes, we had a good time going around, didn't we? But now, it's late," her mother says, turning surprised eyes on us. "We are heading home right now," I assure her. "Pumpkin!" The little girl declares. "Ahhnge pumpkin." It's not too late for most people, but late for parents on toddler time. We throw together some tomato-basil soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, and roll our little monkey straight into her pajmas. We give candy to one last set of pre-teen latinos in sparkly faery finery (half a handful each since there is so much left), and turn out the lights.
After my husband leaves, I hide the rest of the mini Milky Way darks so they won't be staring him in the face when he wakes up in the morning. The candy was not the point. The little monkey went for a Halloween walk, and it was good.
--
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
A Piece of Work in Progress
"Hey, speak up!"
socially awkward
"Needs to participate more in class."
"Too quiet."
painfully shy
That was me.
"Excuse me. Where did you get those great leggings?"
"I just had to say, I like what the color of those earrings so with your eyes."
"I couldn't help overhearing..."
gregarious
"That car was just tearing along without looking- are you okay?"
sympathetic
"Nice to see you!"
"Hi, are you all here for the newcomers' workshop?"
welcoming
"Well, when I was a kid..."
"I was hearing that it was taking up to an hour."
verbose
"I was just tell someone that..."
"Are you new to the area?"
"Oo, that's a great tie/skirt/pair of earrings."
perky
"Welcome to the dance! I'm so glad to see you all here tonight."
enthusiastic
This is me now.
Yes, whereas I used to barely be able to speak to a stranger without feeling like I was on fire, now I chirp right up on a regular basis. Sometimes I rattle on at length. Sometimes I strike up conversations with perfect strangers. At the cheese counter. In the checkout line. In the line to vote. Leaving a shop. I can accost someone at will.
Is this a talent or a failing? I get mixed reviews.
My husband admires how I can strike a conversation and find a connection with almost everyone (if they cooperate).
Many new dancers find me friendly and encouraging.
One parent's group at the park thought I had a lot of gall to break into their conversation.
And the woman standing next to me in line to vote might have found me friendly, talkative, political, intrusive, entertaining, wearisome. Maybe all in succession.
"Oh great. Now she won't shut up."
I know - I'm a piece of work.
But it's a work in progress.
Some days I find myself with an ungodly amount of confidence and cheer. Other days, I feel overwhelmed entering a shop and don't want to talk to anyone. Some days I revel in being on stage leading a whole crowd. Other days, I'm convinced that everyone hates me.
I'll take the confidence where I find it, thank you. Such an exhilarating feeling. How can I turn that down after so many years of being relatively mute?
"Wow! You look great in that color!"
--
socially awkward
"Needs to participate more in class."
"Too quiet."
painfully shy
That was me.
"Excuse me. Where did you get those great leggings?"
"I just had to say, I like what the color of those earrings so with your eyes."
"I couldn't help overhearing..."
gregarious
"That car was just tearing along without looking- are you okay?"
sympathetic
"Nice to see you!"
"Hi, are you all here for the newcomers' workshop?"
welcoming
"Well, when I was a kid..."
"I was hearing that it was taking up to an hour."
verbose
"I was just tell someone that..."
"Are you new to the area?"
"Oo, that's a great tie/skirt/pair of earrings."
perky
"Welcome to the dance! I'm so glad to see you all here tonight."
enthusiastic
This is me now.
Yes, whereas I used to barely be able to speak to a stranger without feeling like I was on fire, now I chirp right up on a regular basis. Sometimes I rattle on at length. Sometimes I strike up conversations with perfect strangers. At the cheese counter. In the checkout line. In the line to vote. Leaving a shop. I can accost someone at will.
Is this a talent or a failing? I get mixed reviews.
My husband admires how I can strike a conversation and find a connection with almost everyone (if they cooperate).
Many new dancers find me friendly and encouraging.
One parent's group at the park thought I had a lot of gall to break into their conversation.
And the woman standing next to me in line to vote might have found me friendly, talkative, political, intrusive, entertaining, wearisome. Maybe all in succession.
"Oh great. Now she won't shut up."
I know - I'm a piece of work.
But it's a work in progress.
Some days I find myself with an ungodly amount of confidence and cheer. Other days, I feel overwhelmed entering a shop and don't want to talk to anyone. Some days I revel in being on stage leading a whole crowd. Other days, I'm convinced that everyone hates me.
I'll take the confidence where I find it, thank you. Such an exhilarating feeling. How can I turn that down after so many years of being relatively mute?
"Wow! You look great in that color!"
--
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
And So It Begins
Another November, another round of NaBloPoMo.
This year, I think I'll tell stories.
Have I told you about my kitchen/friends/child/happy/sad/
irate/musings/inspirations/relationships/deep dark secrets/
favorite comics recently? No? This month, I will. I have thirty
days to fill. (I can do it, I can do it.)
Whether you are new to this blog, or a regular visitor, welcome!
I'm scrounging up some teacups and baking some
orange-cranberry bread. Tea's on! Please, have a muffin.
--
This year, I think I'll tell stories.
Have I told you about my kitchen/friends/child/happy/sad/
irate/musings/inspirations/relationships/deep dark secrets/
favorite comics recently? No? This month, I will. I have thirty
days to fill. (I can do it, I can do it.)
Whether you are new to this blog, or a regular visitor, welcome!
I'm scrounging up some teacups and baking some
orange-cranberry bread. Tea's on! Please, have a muffin.
--
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Things I Am Loving This Month
This month has seen periods of great activity and periods of reasonable sloth. Here are some of my favorite things and moments so far:
Gifts of the self. Hanging out with my Dad.
A lovely Rosalind in a lovely play. It was just As I Like It. All the leads were good looking, all the dialogue was sparkling and freshly appreciated, the underlying themes were love love sex and love, the staging was magical, and it ended with a joyful dance!
New countertops that look awesome and inspire order.
Cooking enterprises, how I love thee. So delicious and satisfying.
Cleaning up after those same cooking enterprises.
The little girl teaching herself how to drink lemonade out of a real cup without spilling (much) or choking (much).
Hanging out at a neighborhood festival on a sunny and convivial afternoon. Taking pictures of the tug of war, popcicle eating, running into friends and neighbors, and sprawling on the grass.
The slow but steady shrinkage of my waistline. My pants are sagging; that's a good thing, right?
Snuggle times with my husband.
Finding excellent books that inspire and absorb me. Historical first people fiction, organizational processes and more.
Quickie quilt projects while I am trying to decide what to do next on the big project.
Local farm cheddar. So smooth and delicious.
Having the little girl run full tilt into my arms yelling "haahg!" Then presenting lips. "Kiss!"
"Southern Milk Chocolate" flavoured ice cream. Why Southern? I don't know, but it sure is delicious.
Tracking prices and deals to both stock up and streamline my buying.
New swirly flirty dance skirts from the thrift store.
All the phrases that my daughter has picked up from me. Teego.(Here ya go.) How 'bout dat! Cool cool! Gracious! Oh gosh! Oh my! Damn it!
These bright orange title headers.
Owl stamps and book-gifts arriving in the mail.
Friends who don't mind indulging in puns and silliness.
Taking opportunities to mentor other people and give back great energy.
Sleeping under the goose-feather duvet in cool weather.
--
Gifts of the self. Hanging out with my Dad.
A lovely Rosalind in a lovely play. It was just As I Like It. All the leads were good looking, all the dialogue was sparkling and freshly appreciated, the underlying themes were love love sex and love, the staging was magical, and it ended with a joyful dance!
New countertops that look awesome and inspire order.
Cooking enterprises, how I love thee. So delicious and satisfying.
Cleaning up after those same cooking enterprises.
The little girl teaching herself how to drink lemonade out of a real cup without spilling (much) or choking (much).
Hanging out at a neighborhood festival on a sunny and convivial afternoon. Taking pictures of the tug of war, popcicle eating, running into friends and neighbors, and sprawling on the grass.
The slow but steady shrinkage of my waistline. My pants are sagging; that's a good thing, right?
Snuggle times with my husband.
Finding excellent books that inspire and absorb me. Historical first people fiction, organizational processes and more.
Quickie quilt projects while I am trying to decide what to do next on the big project.
Local farm cheddar. So smooth and delicious.
Having the little girl run full tilt into my arms yelling "haahg!" Then presenting lips. "Kiss!"
"Southern Milk Chocolate" flavoured ice cream. Why Southern? I don't know, but it sure is delicious.
Tracking prices and deals to both stock up and streamline my buying.
New swirly flirty dance skirts from the thrift store.
All the phrases that my daughter has picked up from me. Teego.(Here ya go.) How 'bout dat! Cool cool! Gracious! Oh gosh! Oh my! Damn it!
These bright orange title headers.
Owl stamps and book-gifts arriving in the mail.
Friends who don't mind indulging in puns and silliness.
Taking opportunities to mentor other people and give back great energy.
Sleeping under the goose-feather duvet in cool weather.
--
Friday, September 3, 2010
Replete with Friends
Well, in my last post I left out a little fact that I still do have a number of friends around. It's not like I am deserted in the world.
I have a few college friends who I still get together with. Like the friend who I called up and said, "Hey, I have some fresh key lime pie. Can we come over and share for a while?" And the little girl got to hang out with their little boy, and we took pictures of each other and talked about our lives. For a scant couple of delightful hours.
I have a few college friends who I still get together with. Like the friend who I called up and said, "Hey, I have some fresh key lime pie. Can we come over and share for a while?" And the little girl got to hang out with their little boy, and we took pictures of each other and talked about our lives. For a scant couple of delightful hours.
Or the college friend who lives on the other side of world, perfectly situated to chat with me in the middle of my night while he's at work (and who does). For maybe three minutes at a time, true, but it's good.
I'm thinking of another college friend who writes me email letters every so often. I love correspondence, I do!
I have some old friends from junior high school, one in particular who I'm reconnecting with. I enjoy the mutual wit, commentary, and commiseration. Plus, we are both interested in knowing each other as we are in the present.
I have a good accidental friend who is also a dance caller, and we'll call each other up to chat about event ideas, or dances, or life. He's incredibly generous and engaging. Come to think of it, I have a number of caller buds with whom I can both revel in caller-geekery and share honestly about my life.
I have a former neighbor who is still a friend, and whenever we catch some time together, we gab about art, design, our husbands, our houses, our health, our lives. it's amazing to me that she can say some blunt things that from anyone else would feel like stabbing pain, but from her, it doesn't bother me at all because it's coming from a place of caring and candor.
I have a couple of friends who are married to each other, who I can't really remember where I met, but nevertheless we share lots of commonalities and generosities. And our kids like each other.
I have quite a few friends via Flickr, some of whom I have met, some not, with whom I share conversation, images, and the details of life. It always amazes me how I can feel the love through the internets.
I'm thinking of another college friend who writes me email letters every so often. I love correspondence, I do!
I have some old friends from junior high school, one in particular who I'm reconnecting with. I enjoy the mutual wit, commentary, and commiseration. Plus, we are both interested in knowing each other as we are in the present.
I have a good accidental friend who is also a dance caller, and we'll call each other up to chat about event ideas, or dances, or life. He's incredibly generous and engaging. Come to think of it, I have a number of caller buds with whom I can both revel in caller-geekery and share honestly about my life.
I have a former neighbor who is still a friend, and whenever we catch some time together, we gab about art, design, our husbands, our houses, our health, our lives. it's amazing to me that she can say some blunt things that from anyone else would feel like stabbing pain, but from her, it doesn't bother me at all because it's coming from a place of caring and candor.
I have a couple of friends who are married to each other, who I can't really remember where I met, but nevertheless we share lots of commonalities and generosities. And our kids like each other.
I have quite a few friends via Flickr, some of whom I have met, some not, with whom I share conversation, images, and the details of life. It always amazes me how I can feel the love through the internets.
I have a few friends on FB (as opposed to friend contacts of whom there are many), who share many of my language-culture-science-literary interests. Even a few contacts I don't know that well can engage in interesting and/or witty conversation. It's like discovering new sides to a person, and it feeds my brain and intellect in a way I don't get from reading A Kiss For Little Bear yet again.
I have a number of acquaintances from both dancing and church who are this close to being true friends. And even more who are always happy to see me when we cross paths, and that counts for a lot as I am not always around all the time.
I know a young dancing couple who I would love to get to know better. When they invite us to go for pizza or a birthday party, I am so there! A couple of women would like to know me better, and I make time when I can.
It's not so hard, is it?
I see people being mutually open, friendly, caring, generous, authentic, willing to accept other people where they are at, and interested in knowing more.
So what if some friends are fading back or creating toxic situations? There are more beautiful faces coming into focus. Any of you who are reading, I think you know who you are. Mwah!
--
I have a number of acquaintances from both dancing and church who are this close to being true friends. And even more who are always happy to see me when we cross paths, and that counts for a lot as I am not always around all the time.
I know a young dancing couple who I would love to get to know better. When they invite us to go for pizza or a birthday party, I am so there! A couple of women would like to know me better, and I make time when I can.
It's not so hard, is it?
I see people being mutually open, friendly, caring, generous, authentic, willing to accept other people where they are at, and interested in knowing more.
So what if some friends are fading back or creating toxic situations? There are more beautiful faces coming into focus. Any of you who are reading, I think you know who you are. Mwah!
--
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Another Parental Episode Waiting to Happen
Where have all the friends gone?
You hear about how children will change your life. True. They also change your body, outlook, sleep patterns and attention span. Nobody tells you that your friends will - in a seismic shift - disappear. It's as if a crack opened in the ground, swallowed scores of people, and then snapped shut, leaving me to wonder what the hell happened.
Or maybe I am the one that has been swallowed alive. Swallowed by Parenthood. And I'm floating alone in this place saying, "where is everyone?" And even when I do run across a friend, the script goes, "Hi! I have three minutes to make a meaningful connection."
On top of that, I'm apparently annoying and impossible to relate to. I so love that state of being, but again, I've got about three minutes to worry about it before the next parenting episode begins.
I'm sad about my usual friends, but I'm also distracted, trying to keep up with my everyday life which has been steadily getting That Much Harder while I wasn't looking.
It's not that I'm not connected to other moms, it's just that they are not my usual set of friends. I do have a lot of people I kinda know in a friendly way. That's good, right? And I'm meeting a few new people, and they seem nice as we are exploring avenues of mutual sympathies and conversation. It just feels odd to find myself trying to get to know a new set of people who may or may not really be my new good friends, when I know perfectly well that my old friends are out there living their exciting lives. Going to concerts, staying out late, having long meaningful conversations with other people. I, on the other hand, am restricted to a few moments a day for socializing, or up to an hour of fragmented lunch time conversation. My husband and I take turns going out dancing. I've missed dancing and socializing, so I really love this, but it's still so odd to be there without him. Why yes, we are still married, we're just... parents.
My husband says I'm just in a different place in my life now. Well, nobody told me it was going to eat my old friends!
I wonder if my usual friends are not used to taking advantage of whatever moments we have. Many of my parent friends are used to working quick conversations or projects into any little space in the action. My non-parent friends are perhaps too leisurely to mesh with my sped-up life these days. By the time they are feeling like enjoying an activity, I'm all like, "Oops, that's all the time we have for that today! Gotta go for lunch and nap." Even on social arenas like FB, my frequent interactions are with friends who are at a distance, as if we've learned to not take communication for granted. If you want to keep in touch, ya gotta seize the moment.
The up side is that I am finding other people to relate to. I do have people out there who are happy to see me. But getting people to talk to me in the few moments I have... it's not been easy. Even when I am not in a hurry, my brain is scanning for trouble.
Well, some new and old things I've been doing recently:
Taking turns going dancing.
Plodding along on quilt projects. That's a seam or two per week.
Reading books (at night).
Walking to the park farther into the neighborhood so I get more exercise.
Making an effort to chat with some of the other parents I see.
Going to church services again, listening to music and sermons, seeing folks.
Attending a friend's bi-monthly play group where the little girl is comfortable with the other parents and kids.
Cooking more meals with local food.
Writing more (short) letters.
Trying to have more real conversations when I do see people I know. "Hi! I have three min- errr, seconds!"
Writing blog posts between parental episodes. "Hi! Time for bed!"
--
You hear about how children will change your life. True. They also change your body, outlook, sleep patterns and attention span. Nobody tells you that your friends will - in a seismic shift - disappear. It's as if a crack opened in the ground, swallowed scores of people, and then snapped shut, leaving me to wonder what the hell happened.
Or maybe I am the one that has been swallowed alive. Swallowed by Parenthood. And I'm floating alone in this place saying, "where is everyone?" And even when I do run across a friend, the script goes, "Hi! I have three minutes to make a meaningful connection."
On top of that, I'm apparently annoying and impossible to relate to. I so love that state of being, but again, I've got about three minutes to worry about it before the next parenting episode begins.
I'm sad about my usual friends, but I'm also distracted, trying to keep up with my everyday life which has been steadily getting That Much Harder while I wasn't looking.
It's not that I'm not connected to other moms, it's just that they are not my usual set of friends. I do have a lot of people I kinda know in a friendly way. That's good, right? And I'm meeting a few new people, and they seem nice as we are exploring avenues of mutual sympathies and conversation. It just feels odd to find myself trying to get to know a new set of people who may or may not really be my new good friends, when I know perfectly well that my old friends are out there living their exciting lives. Going to concerts, staying out late, having long meaningful conversations with other people. I, on the other hand, am restricted to a few moments a day for socializing, or up to an hour of fragmented lunch time conversation. My husband and I take turns going out dancing. I've missed dancing and socializing, so I really love this, but it's still so odd to be there without him. Why yes, we are still married, we're just... parents.
My husband says I'm just in a different place in my life now. Well, nobody told me it was going to eat my old friends!
I wonder if my usual friends are not used to taking advantage of whatever moments we have. Many of my parent friends are used to working quick conversations or projects into any little space in the action. My non-parent friends are perhaps too leisurely to mesh with my sped-up life these days. By the time they are feeling like enjoying an activity, I'm all like, "Oops, that's all the time we have for that today! Gotta go for lunch and nap." Even on social arenas like FB, my frequent interactions are with friends who are at a distance, as if we've learned to not take communication for granted. If you want to keep in touch, ya gotta seize the moment.
The up side is that I am finding other people to relate to. I do have people out there who are happy to see me. But getting people to talk to me in the few moments I have... it's not been easy. Even when I am not in a hurry, my brain is scanning for trouble.
Well, some new and old things I've been doing recently:
Taking turns going dancing.
Plodding along on quilt projects. That's a seam or two per week.
Reading books (at night).
Walking to the park farther into the neighborhood so I get more exercise.
Making an effort to chat with some of the other parents I see.
Going to church services again, listening to music and sermons, seeing folks.
Attending a friend's bi-monthly play group where the little girl is comfortable with the other parents and kids.
Cooking more meals with local food.
Writing more (short) letters.
Trying to have more real conversations when I do see people I know. "Hi! I have three min- errr, seconds!"
Writing blog posts between parental episodes. "Hi! Time for bed!"
--
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