Ruh-Roh. I'm running behind on NaBloPoMo posts. I've been evoking my little blogger strategy of starting and saving a post on the appropriate day, then filling in later. Ooo, so I am catching up a little.
Well, let's talk about the annoyance that is the G00gle world right now. what with geemail accounts and the super duper G+ thing, you'd think it would be even more fun to use. But noooo. Having even one additional account adds to the complications.
My husband is now trying to catch up with far-flung colleagues for a meeting. As always. But there's a confusion about which account is actually the default and which account has most of those other docs, and which persona goes with which app. And then G00gle itself is being unhelpful.
For myself, the G+ account is pretty good, other than not getting too many other friends to sign up for it, so I still hang out on teh eeevil FB for social contact most of the time. I want to link this blog (and account) to the main account, but first I have yet to figure out how to have multiple account functioning properly. No, G+ does not really let me switch back and forth between accounts. I have to sign in and out depending on the app I want to use or I can't get much done. F'instance, to "+" something on the G+, it asks me to sign in. So I tell it to switch identities. So I do that, and it tells me to log in yet again. Can't it tell which account I'm on? Varra annoying.
--
Monday, November 14, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
NaBloPoMo Autumn Leaf Edition
There is so much to be done before the chaotic crush of Thanksgiving holiday week. Now is the perfect time to continue whipping the yard into shape so I'm not cursing myself in March. So I'm ripping up old vines and shrubs, discretely zapping certain persistent offenders, planting bulbs and digging vines and clearing and mulching and .... Yes, all of that. Haven't gotten to any reseeding or raking yet.
I had a neighbor ask around for extra materials for their composter. I offered a bag or two of our lovely willow oak leaves with some maple and holly mixed in. Funny how she has not lept at the chance. Those oak leaves make such lovely mulch... when I can get the composter open.
The leaves are coming down in earnest now, making a soft crinkly blanket covering everything. I should remember to make a big pile of them for the little girl to play in before I have to bag them up and have them hauled away. The slender willow oak leaves slide together sighingly rather than crunching like a maple or sycamore leaf. The main hazard you'd encounter might be the random holly leaf or sweet gum ball surprising you with a prickle.
I did tell my neighbor that I had too many leaves to mulch and enough to share, but maybe she suspects me of trying to pull a fast one on her. As if I'm not the one doing the work, here. No, no, really! We have too many leaves to mulch! They sit under the Japanese maples and drift over decorative rocks. They block light to what's left of my lawn, is what they do. So I will mulch and haul.
Driving down our street, I point out the changing leaf colors to the little girl. "Do you see the colors? Do you see the leaves? Red and yellow and orange and brown. 'It must be Fall.'" "Yes! I see dem!" she tells me. At home she'll shuff her feet through any drifts in her path. As she should. Is it not the province of children to revel in the senses? The leaves even smell like Fall, the slow rot and disintegration making a new layer of mulch to feed future new growth. I told my neighbor leaves are the perfect recyclable material, but I don't think she believed me.
--
I had a neighbor ask around for extra materials for their composter. I offered a bag or two of our lovely willow oak leaves with some maple and holly mixed in. Funny how she has not lept at the chance. Those oak leaves make such lovely mulch... when I can get the composter open.
The leaves are coming down in earnest now, making a soft crinkly blanket covering everything. I should remember to make a big pile of them for the little girl to play in before I have to bag them up and have them hauled away. The slender willow oak leaves slide together sighingly rather than crunching like a maple or sycamore leaf. The main hazard you'd encounter might be the random holly leaf or sweet gum ball surprising you with a prickle.
I did tell my neighbor that I had too many leaves to mulch and enough to share, but maybe she suspects me of trying to pull a fast one on her. As if I'm not the one doing the work, here. No, no, really! We have too many leaves to mulch! They sit under the Japanese maples and drift over decorative rocks. They block light to what's left of my lawn, is what they do. So I will mulch and haul.
Driving down our street, I point out the changing leaf colors to the little girl. "Do you see the colors? Do you see the leaves? Red and yellow and orange and brown. 'It must be Fall.'" "Yes! I see dem!" she tells me. At home she'll shuff her feet through any drifts in her path. As she should. Is it not the province of children to revel in the senses? The leaves even smell like Fall, the slow rot and disintegration making a new layer of mulch to feed future new growth. I told my neighbor leaves are the perfect recyclable material, but I don't think she believed me.
--
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Silly Songwriting
A Song in My Heart, Silly Lyrics on My Lips
Have I told you about my silly songwriting? While jollying my daughter along in the world, I frequently find myself coming up with songs about anything and everything in my path.
It all started with:
Yes, I have songs about going to the library, bare feet, and tortellini. I even have a song about not having a song. Sample lyric: "I'm eating my banana, but I don't have a song."
My daughter loves these songs. Sometimes I hear her singing the waffle song in her crib, which really tickles me. Not only is she reciting with precise rhythm and stress, she's approximating the tune. It makes a mamma proud.
Sometimes she requests a song. "Sing the Grandma Song!" She'll tell me. "Sing 'Barefeet.'" "Sing the banana song!" I didn't have a banana song, which is how I came to have a song about not having a song.
I don't know what exactly posses me when I come up with these riffs of silly words set to music, but when they appear, I sing them over and over to help fix them in place. I once lost a song for a week, and I was heartbroken. And then one day I fumbled for the chorus lyric and managed to recreate the whole thing. When I'm wise, I grab my voice recorder or our little Flip camera and film myself singing a snippet.
Sometimes it's just a simple repetitive refrain. Sometimes it has several verses. Sometimes the song flows straight out of my mouth in one piece. Sometimes I add on and rewrite verses for months. But in most cases, I have something I want to say, and I open up my mouth, and it comes out sung.
I've been told that they are good. Really good. Good as in Stuck in My Head And I Can't Stop Singing It good. Which I guess is good. It's an odd feeling to be internally assailed by a tune I wrote myself.
My latest was inspired about my daughter always wanting a book to read whenever she has to lie down on the changing table or sit on the potty. But not just any book, but a small book. Just a small book. Hence this song:
I find myself running it through my head repeatedly this week, an ongoing refrain. This one is pretty insidious, but no worse or less catchy than the rest of them.
I write earworms, I realize with amazement. I never suspected I'd ever have such a talent.
--
Have I told you about my silly songwriting? While jollying my daughter along in the world, I frequently find myself coming up with songs about anything and everything in my path.
It all started with:
Oh, I like to change my diaperand has progressed through any number of songs about a variety of foods, things, and places to visit.
Moo moo moo the cow says.
Yes, I have songs about going to the library, bare feet, and tortellini. I even have a song about not having a song. Sample lyric: "I'm eating my banana, but I don't have a song."
My daughter loves these songs. Sometimes I hear her singing the waffle song in her crib, which really tickles me. Not only is she reciting with precise rhythm and stress, she's approximating the tune. It makes a mamma proud.
Sometimes she requests a song. "Sing the Grandma Song!" She'll tell me. "Sing 'Barefeet.'" "Sing the banana song!" I didn't have a banana song, which is how I came to have a song about not having a song.
I don't know what exactly posses me when I come up with these riffs of silly words set to music, but when they appear, I sing them over and over to help fix them in place. I once lost a song for a week, and I was heartbroken. And then one day I fumbled for the chorus lyric and managed to recreate the whole thing. When I'm wise, I grab my voice recorder or our little Flip camera and film myself singing a snippet.
Sometimes it's just a simple repetitive refrain. Sometimes it has several verses. Sometimes the song flows straight out of my mouth in one piece. Sometimes I add on and rewrite verses for months. But in most cases, I have something I want to say, and I open up my mouth, and it comes out sung.
I've been told that they are good. Really good. Good as in Stuck in My Head And I Can't Stop Singing It good. Which I guess is good. It's an odd feeling to be internally assailed by a tune I wrote myself.
My latest was inspired about my daughter always wanting a book to read whenever she has to lie down on the changing table or sit on the potty. But not just any book, but a small book. Just a small book. Hence this song:
Give me a small book.
I want just a small book.
So give me a small book
So I don't have to wait.I sit and sit and
when I sit I sit and read
I read and read so
I don't have to wait.
I find myself running it through my head repeatedly this week, an ongoing refrain. This one is pretty insidious, but no worse or less catchy than the rest of them.
I write earworms, I realize with amazement. I never suspected I'd ever have such a talent.
--
Friday, November 11, 2011
Day of Properly Fitted Jeans
I finally had had enough of my jeans sliding down my butt.
I'm gradually slimming down again (post-nursing, post-workout), but I often find myself in an awkward in-between phase: either too plump for some pants or two slim for others.
Every few months I try on my old jeans, or attempt to. Every so often I can fit into another one the next size down. Oo, a 14 now. But my belly pooch still gets in the way. A 12 is not always a 12. Sometimes it's a 10 with an 8 waist, oh, haha.
On one hand, it's nice to be losing weight. On the other hand, I keep growing out of great pairs of jeans! I could wear my two current favs for months. But when I found myself constantly hitching them up to avoid looking like a punk, I admitted defeat. No belt was going to make those look good. "That's it for those," and I folded them for the pile to Goodwill.
Last week I realized I didn't have many pants left. Oh, I had one, maybe two pairs of dressy trousers good enough for church, thank goodness, but my jeans situation was dire. All that were left were one pair constantly hidden somewhere in the laundry and this last pair of colorful jeans. When I found those sliding off of me, oh, I was delighted but chagrined. What?! No more pants!? Impossible.
Sears was having a jeans sale, so off I went one evening. Tried on five pairs, bought two pairs. Low rise waist, slightly boot cut, stretch denim. They fit happily. No more saggy butt. Til next time.
--
I'm gradually slimming down again (post-nursing, post-workout), but I often find myself in an awkward in-between phase: either too plump for some pants or two slim for others.
Every few months I try on my old jeans, or attempt to. Every so often I can fit into another one the next size down. Oo, a 14 now. But my belly pooch still gets in the way. A 12 is not always a 12. Sometimes it's a 10 with an 8 waist, oh, haha.
On one hand, it's nice to be losing weight. On the other hand, I keep growing out of great pairs of jeans! I could wear my two current favs for months. But when I found myself constantly hitching them up to avoid looking like a punk, I admitted defeat. No belt was going to make those look good. "That's it for those," and I folded them for the pile to Goodwill.
Last week I realized I didn't have many pants left. Oh, I had one, maybe two pairs of dressy trousers good enough for church, thank goodness, but my jeans situation was dire. All that were left were one pair constantly hidden somewhere in the laundry and this last pair of colorful jeans. When I found those sliding off of me, oh, I was delighted but chagrined. What?! No more pants!? Impossible.
Sears was having a jeans sale, so off I went one evening. Tried on five pairs, bought two pairs. Low rise waist, slightly boot cut, stretch denim. They fit happily. No more saggy butt. Til next time.
--
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Sun-Warmed Studio Welcome
We climb up the long flight of wooden creaky stairs to the upstairs studio. Why are so many dance studios up flights of wooden stairs?
Three women and their children are clustered in the small lobby, wrestling small ballet slippers and and tights onto pint-sized feet and legs. They hail me cheerily, and I greet them back. When I notice the preponderance of white leotards and pink tights, skirts and slippers, I exclaim, "Oh! I didn't realize there was a dress code!" My remark serves as part question and part apology. It tells them "It's my first time - don't judge me!" In fact, I know that lots of dance studios have a dress code for their students, but I can't remember if this one does or not.
"Oh, there's no dress code," a woman laughingly informs me. "Some of us are just a little overly-excited about little girls dancing!" I giggle too, because really there is a lot of pink in the air. My little girl is dressed in various shades of purple. Today she has a colorful tree with a perched owl embroidered and appliqued onto her purple shirt. The pants are new purple leggings with a flower scatter print, (they of the purple pants song fame).
I peek in the door and see a small gaggle of little girls playing with shiny striped hula hoops. The teacher, a dark haired woman with a big smile catches me peeking in and tells me "I usually put something in the center of the room to start so the children can play while we wait for everyone to arrive." She herself is wearing a green knit top and loose black gauchos, and bare feet. Her small daughter is running around in everyday little girl clothes. Socks or bare feet are fine, I'm told. It seems to be a laid back atmosphere.
The little girl seems excited by the new scene. A floor-to-ceiling mirror along one long wall reflects everything back to us while wooden barres line the rest of the brick walls. Sunlight streams in the windows and makes pools of warmth on the cool floor. We step in and out and move the hoops around our waists and over our heads.
Another woman introduces herself and says, "Make yourself at home - don't mind us - these girls have known each other forever." One little girl comes over and says "What's your name?" Another little girl comes up and waves at TLG. The little girl doesn't know what to make of it, but she seems okay with the attention. Nothing like her run-and-hide shyness last year.
After a while, a few more children come in, and we begin. Make yourselves really really tall, then make yourselves very very small, now really tall again. We stretch and curl and smile. We end on the floor pretending to be seals stretching our backs and barking. We rest for a moment on the dusty floor, half blinded by sunshine. The little girl smiles at me. She likes it.
We take hands in a circle. I'm grateful and impressed that the little girl takes hands with the others. We make the circle stretched out and big, then bring it in to make it very small. The teacher's smiling eyes flit around the room observing and encouraging. The little girl follows along. I'm thinking this dance class thing might work out.
Then we progress to dancing around the room with the music, first "ice skating" then tip-toeing, then marching, and galloping and more. The little girl is grinning and dancing. The teacher reminds us to play "freeze" every time she shimmers the tambourine to transition to a new dance. I notice that I'm the only one in jeans instead of yoga pants. Next week I'll wear something more casual suitable for rolling around on the floor!
Later we play with scarves, read a book about moving different parts of our bodies, and play with a parachute. TLG is eager to get underneath, but we move on after a brief play. We finish with a few ballet arm moves, which most of the little girls quickly lose interest in. I'm surprised that my little girl isn't the only one uninterested in more formally structured activity, but relieved as well. This class is about right for her. She's still the tallest, but maybe not the oldest. My tall little girl fits right in.
Next week we'll bring the pink net skirt and leather-soled slippers.
--
Three women and their children are clustered in the small lobby, wrestling small ballet slippers and and tights onto pint-sized feet and legs. They hail me cheerily, and I greet them back. When I notice the preponderance of white leotards and pink tights, skirts and slippers, I exclaim, "Oh! I didn't realize there was a dress code!" My remark serves as part question and part apology. It tells them "It's my first time - don't judge me!" In fact, I know that lots of dance studios have a dress code for their students, but I can't remember if this one does or not.
"Oh, there's no dress code," a woman laughingly informs me. "Some of us are just a little overly-excited about little girls dancing!" I giggle too, because really there is a lot of pink in the air. My little girl is dressed in various shades of purple. Today she has a colorful tree with a perched owl embroidered and appliqued onto her purple shirt. The pants are new purple leggings with a flower scatter print, (they of the purple pants song fame).
I peek in the door and see a small gaggle of little girls playing with shiny striped hula hoops. The teacher, a dark haired woman with a big smile catches me peeking in and tells me "I usually put something in the center of the room to start so the children can play while we wait for everyone to arrive." She herself is wearing a green knit top and loose black gauchos, and bare feet. Her small daughter is running around in everyday little girl clothes. Socks or bare feet are fine, I'm told. It seems to be a laid back atmosphere.
The little girl seems excited by the new scene. A floor-to-ceiling mirror along one long wall reflects everything back to us while wooden barres line the rest of the brick walls. Sunlight streams in the windows and makes pools of warmth on the cool floor. We step in and out and move the hoops around our waists and over our heads.
Another woman introduces herself and says, "Make yourself at home - don't mind us - these girls have known each other forever." One little girl comes over and says "What's your name?" Another little girl comes up and waves at TLG. The little girl doesn't know what to make of it, but she seems okay with the attention. Nothing like her run-and-hide shyness last year.
After a while, a few more children come in, and we begin. Make yourselves really really tall, then make yourselves very very small, now really tall again. We stretch and curl and smile. We end on the floor pretending to be seals stretching our backs and barking. We rest for a moment on the dusty floor, half blinded by sunshine. The little girl smiles at me. She likes it.
We take hands in a circle. I'm grateful and impressed that the little girl takes hands with the others. We make the circle stretched out and big, then bring it in to make it very small. The teacher's smiling eyes flit around the room observing and encouraging. The little girl follows along. I'm thinking this dance class thing might work out.
Then we progress to dancing around the room with the music, first "ice skating" then tip-toeing, then marching, and galloping and more. The little girl is grinning and dancing. The teacher reminds us to play "freeze" every time she shimmers the tambourine to transition to a new dance. I notice that I'm the only one in jeans instead of yoga pants. Next week I'll wear something more casual suitable for rolling around on the floor!
Later we play with scarves, read a book about moving different parts of our bodies, and play with a parachute. TLG is eager to get underneath, but we move on after a brief play. We finish with a few ballet arm moves, which most of the little girls quickly lose interest in. I'm surprised that my little girl isn't the only one uninterested in more formally structured activity, but relieved as well. This class is about right for her. She's still the tallest, but maybe not the oldest. My tall little girl fits right in.
Next week we'll bring the pink net skirt and leather-soled slippers.
--
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
A Few Artists I Admire
A Few Artists I Admire
Roz Chast Acid Logic has something interesting to say about Roz.
K Beaton - artist of comic "Hark, a vagrant"
Guy who sketched/live blogged the NYC marathon
Kathryn Demarco
Marjane Satrapi graphic novel artist
Meredith Gran - artist of comic Octopus Pie
Andy Goldsworthy
[image of the day] photographer
Some of the characteristics they have in common is being wholey themselves, a particular sense of story telling in their art, and a sense of delight, thoughtfulness, and wonder in their work. Some of them also have a particular wry or quirky humor. At times I wish I could be more like each of them!
Roz Chast Acid Logic has something interesting to say about Roz.
K Beaton - artist of comic "Hark, a vagrant"
Guy who sketched/live blogged the NYC marathon
Kathryn Demarco
Marjane Satrapi graphic novel artist
Meredith Gran - artist of comic Octopus Pie
Andy Goldsworthy
[image of the day] photographer
Some of the characteristics they have in common is being wholey themselves, a particular sense of story telling in their art, and a sense of delight, thoughtfulness, and wonder in their work. Some of them also have a particular wry or quirky humor. At times I wish I could be more like each of them!
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
8 Auspicious Symbols
I am a new fan of Gretchen Rubin and her Happiness Project. Check it out - it's quite interesting and inspiring.
She recently blogged about compiling a list of ones own personal 8 Auspicious Symbols, as in Buddhist philosophy. (Side note: Buddhism is filled with numbered lists, which I've always found reassuring and intriguing to my scattered head.) Gretchen invites us to create our own list of personal symbols.
Symbols + personal reflection + lists = how could I pass this up?! :)
Of course, I have more than eight symbols, but not all of them translate into words very well. What's mysterious and compelling to me is that we each develop our own list of meaningful symbols. We may hold them in our hearts, seek them out, create them, and/or flaunt them in public. And/or share them with others. :)
I notice these symbols and collect them to some degree.
I have only one wedding ring, but I have a number of seashells that show off the perfect spiral. I collect hearts in different forms. I have numerous drawings, paintings, postcards or photographs of the moon and of tree silhouettes.
Other things I notice repeatedly, such as a sliver of moon, or a full moon hovering or lifting over the horizon, shifting tone against the changing sky.
What I think of as Lotus-heart hands is an familiar gesture of appreciation greater than words. I don't personally possess a flaming chalice, but it's dear to me and representative of my whole life experience in the Unitarian Universalist church. I have only one plaster hand-print from my daughter's first Christmas. One fleeting moment in her young life thus far.
And thus the symbols fall. I find them (or they find me), and I come to realize what they mean.
--
She recently blogged about compiling a list of ones own personal 8 Auspicious Symbols, as in Buddhist philosophy. (Side note: Buddhism is filled with numbered lists, which I've always found reassuring and intriguing to my scattered head.) Gretchen invites us to create our own list of personal symbols.
Symbols + personal reflection + lists = how could I pass this up?! :)
Wedding Ring - "Love freely given has no beginning and no end."
Spiral - The mysterious π or Pi. The way the world repeats and expands or concentrates patterns inherent in our natures. The closest to "radiate the dance." One variation is the Celtic tri-spiral that feeds itself.
Lotus-heart Hands - A symbol of gratitude and mutual regard. Our best selves. "The Buddha in me greets the Buddha in you."
Bare Tree Branches - Grace and inherent knowledge. The patterns in life that grow randomly yet in a contained pattern.
The Flaming Chalice - UU symbol of the light of knowledge lit within each of us.
Baby Hand Print - My daughter's amazing existence.
Hearts - Love in all its many manifestations, also the enjoyment of finding and noticing.
The Moon - Full to crescent, though I am especially attached to crescent moons. The cycles of our lives, always in transition.
Of course, I have more than eight symbols, but not all of them translate into words very well. What's mysterious and compelling to me is that we each develop our own list of meaningful symbols. We may hold them in our hearts, seek them out, create them, and/or flaunt them in public. And/or share them with others. :)
I notice these symbols and collect them to some degree.
I have only one wedding ring, but I have a number of seashells that show off the perfect spiral. I collect hearts in different forms. I have numerous drawings, paintings, postcards or photographs of the moon and of tree silhouettes.
Other things I notice repeatedly, such as a sliver of moon, or a full moon hovering or lifting over the horizon, shifting tone against the changing sky.
What I think of as Lotus-heart hands is an familiar gesture of appreciation greater than words. I don't personally possess a flaming chalice, but it's dear to me and representative of my whole life experience in the Unitarian Universalist church. I have only one plaster hand-print from my daughter's first Christmas. One fleeting moment in her young life thus far.
And thus the symbols fall. I find them (or they find me), and I come to realize what they mean.
--
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