Emily a la Blog

Giveaway - a gift in honor of my mom's birthday

2012-01-22T13:02:00.000-08:00

As a thank you to my blog readers, I want to share a gift.

From my family to yours; a reminder that celebration comes in all shades and in all seasons.

I hand-stitched the little felt bunting and the caption, and framed it in a 6.5" embroidery hoop. It's ready to hang wherever it will remind you to appreciate all of life's gifts.

To enter the giveaway, simply leave a comment on this post (include your email!) and I'll randomly select one comment on February 1st.

I made one for Mom, too.

Her birthday party was really special. We laughed a lot, listened to records my dad's been collecting from Goodwill (the nursing home's sound system is a little outdated), enjoyed our cheese and cracker platter and fruit juice courtesy of the dining hall, and ate cupcakes my sister made. So much love in one room.

A gift

2012-01-20T13:34:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is Mom's birthday. She'll be 59. Last month, we crossed the 5-year mark since her Alzheimer's diagnosis (dare I call it an anniversary?). We told her last weekend we wanted to celebrate her birthday together, and she seemed surprised. We assured we would remember her birthday even if she can't.

Celebrations are tricky things, these days. Wintertime has always been a string of parties for my family, with a December birthday, Christmas, New Years, and then three January birthdays, including Mom's. But this year we're all off kilter.

My December-born brother took a trip and celebrated by traveling solo. Mom was released from the hospital the week before Christmas, and couldn't leave the nursing home. That hurt so, so much (when we distributed gifts from under the tree, hers got set aside without a word. No one could comment, it was too hard). She didn't attend my January-born brother's birthday get together, and she won't attend my sister's birthday party next week. She's still pretty unsteady on her feet, and I'm afraid it would be too much chaos for her. I don't want her to feel overwhelmed or overlooked.

It sucks. Friends, it's hard to explain how much it sucks.

We're all wondering how Mom's birthday party is going to work in a nursing home. One of her sweet nurses told us the dining room is going to provide us with a platter of cheese and crackers. She seemed eager to decorate for us (we'll use the common room in Mom's wing), but then confessed, "We only have one birthday banner. And it's pirate themed." I don't think Mom will mind.

I haven't bought any gifts. The walls of her little shared room are almost completely covered with family artwork, photo-calenders, love notes, and art prints. She could use some new clothes, but I know they'll eventually disappear into the mysterious laundry system, so I'm not motivated to spend very much on outfits. For the past several birthdays, I bought her things that were sensory: soft blankets, aromatherapy, socks, pillows. But now I'm afraid they'll just clutter her room.

Today I had a brainstorm. I'm going to make a gift in her honor, and give it to one of you. Check back tomorrow for a birthday giveaway.

Having this blog has helped me process so many things. I don't know how many people read it, or if it even registers on anyone's radar as being meaningful, but it has been a life line to me. What better way to express my appreciation than with a gift? From me and Mom.

It's something she would do.

Mom and Roxy, the nursing home kitty

Adventures of an Etsian

2012-01-19T15:29:00.000-08:00

My goofiest items on Etsy sell the fastest. I'm not sure if it's my witty descriptions or the dirt-cheap, must-sell prices. I'll let you judge for yourself.

I posted this as an experiment, and it sold in a matter of days: http://www.etsy.com/transaction/57736319

Chicken wire fabric? Really?

Or what about this gem: http://www.etsy.com/transaction/69936284.

Sold within 48 hours.

I've discovered that craft supplies sell better on Etsy than finished products. I think the majority of crafty shoppers think the same thing I do when I see the latest handmade trend: "I bet I could make that." Turns out my skills on the sewing machine are in lower demand than raw materials. So I gave away most of the projects I finished last year, and I'm selling fabric on Etsy instead.

I shop for vintage linens every time I go to my local consignment stores. I've found some real treasures lately, and it's fun to wash, iron, and cut the sheets and pillow cases into usable pieces.

Note: A couple of years ago (when my sewing obsession kicked into high gear) I finally figured out what a "fat quarter" was. I'll spare you an embarrassing Google search. A "fat quarter" is one quarter of a yard of fabric, cut 18" x 22" instead of 9" x 44."

Allow me to demonstrate, with an illustration by yours truly. Fabric off the bolt in stores is typically 44 - 45" wide, sold by the yard. But when you only need a little bit of fabric, you probably don't want a long skinny strip.

There you have it, folks! All my Etsy secrets, revealed!

Check out my shop for the latest and greatest.

TLC

2012-01-17T13:18:00.000-08:00

I miss Mom most when I am sick. I miss being taken care of. I miss her calm and her attention.

I don't think this is just because of Alzheimer's. Even if she hadn't aged decades too fast, I would still miss being a little girl in her care. The fact that she lives in a nursing home now just amplifies my memories of her as nurse for all our childhood ailments.

I remember having the flu when I was four or five. Mom sat with me in the night-light-lit bathroom, reassuring me. I remember how scary it was to throw up, how out of control my little body felt, and how relieved I was when it was over. Mom cleaned up. Mom tucked me back into bed.

I had a 24-hour bout with the flu last week, and those memories resurfaced. I felt alone and weak and wished Mom could make it better; feed me applesauce and saltines, let ginger ale go flat and leave it by my bedside with a straw, check on me in bed.

At age twelve, I had pneumonia. I spent a day in the emergency room because my breathing was so shallow and my wheezing was so deep. I remember I wore my pink Beauty and the Beast T shirt. On the way home from the hospital, Mom bought me a roast beef sandwich at the grocery store. At home, while I waited several days for the inhalers and antibiotics to help, Mom spent nights with me on our hide-a-bed in the living room. This was the ultimate treatment. Only REALLY sick kids got Mom's full attention all night long, like when my sister had influenza, or when my brother broke both his wrists. I kept us both awake most the night coughing.

I remember when Mom was satisfied that I was out of danger, and it was safe to go back to my own room, which I shared with my then five year old sister. I was crushed. I remember crying uncontrollably as I dragged my pillows and blankets down the hall to my room. I was on the mend, I knew it was true, but I didn't want to be better because it meant no more special treatment. I wallowed in what felt like rejection (poor Mom, I know she was exhausted and ready to rejoin Dad in the master bedroom).

Being in her care was like being a celebrity.

It's not being waited on hand and foot that I miss, it's the memory of knowing it was going to be OK. Knowing for sure that I was in good hands.

Log cabin quilt, 2011

2012-01-16T20:01:00.000-08:00

As promised, photos of one of my fall projects:

I love this book:

Happy New Year

2012-01-07T08:58:00.000-08:00

For New Year's, I caught a cold. I made it to midnight, then went right to bed. The long weekend was spent with a Kleenex box and mugs of EmergenC and spicy chicken soup.

But all was not lost.

I had a REALLY good visit with Mom on Saturday.
I painted our bathroom (repairs are close to being finished, after The Disastrous Flood of 2011)
I caught up on laundry
I finished a quilt
I cleaned up the Christmas decor
I cooked from scratch
I slept a lot

Go me.
Three day weekends are my best friend.

Christmas 2011

2011-12-24T12:00:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas, sweet family. I don't know where I'd be without you.

Photos by the lovely and talented Kelsey Michelle

Open Letter to Women I Admire

2011-12-23T17:00:00.000-08:00

Dear Heroines,

I appreciate your strength, creativity, open heart, transparency, and confidence. I want more of these traits in me.

     More light shining through.

     More unapologetic enjoyment.

     More honesty.

     More laughter.

The Christmas season has been hard this year. There's a lot of fear and sadness as my mom's health fluctuates dramatically (seizures, multiple hospital stays, immobility, confusion, more questions than answers). I'm preoccupied with grief and disillusionment instead of holiday cheer. I thank God for each and every opportunity to express love to Mom, and simultaneously agonize that her full-bodied living has been so diminished.

In the last two days of relative calm, a deep appreciation has surfaced in me for women who demonstrate the kind of life I want to live. The rawness of my heart has removed all inhibitions when it comes to love and recognition (no more secret-admiring. I'm going public).

Whether it's been years since we've seen one another or we've never actually met in person, I want you to know how much you mean to me.

Nancy, you continue to show me the power of making a life doing what you love.

Cami, your honesty and wise counsel are the balance bar I need while crossing life's high wires.

Carol, your humor, leadership, and refusal to accept negative self-descriptions make me smile til my cheeks hurt.

Alicia, you are an open window of beauty and tenderness.

Cary, I love your bold vibrancy in life and in art.

I am grateful for every intersection where our paths cross.

I see several common threads among you:

Full acceptance of life in all its shades of celebration and sorrow.
Joy in your place in the world.
Humility combined with extravagant generosity as you share yourself with the people around you.

Thank you for all the ways you exemplify the woman I want to be.

Love,

Emily

A first

2011-12-22T13:23:00.000-08:00

On December 10th, I ran my very first 5k! Our local Jingle Bell Run was a great experience.

I'm somewhere in the blurry part of the crowd. (Blurry because of my speed, of course.)

Source

Here's what I wore:

Here's what I plan to wear next year:

This lovely outfit comes from the ever popular Mom vs Marathon (photo used with permission). The subtitle of her blog is "How to run a marathon and a household without losing your mind" -- don't you love it? I admire her writing, photography, her running stories, and especially her style. Check out her blog - it's really inspiring.

And I highly recommend running with bells on your shoes. It's so much cheerier.

November's Book: Born to Run

2011-12-21T15:08:00.000-08:00

In November, I listened to Christopher McDougall's book on CD (some nice multi-tasking was accomplished listening to a book about running while quilting in my jammies). I heard Born to Run mentioned in my running class and was intrigued. Something about the barefoot running debate, a big race in Mexico, and a giant canyon. Huh.

So I checked out the audio book from the library. This was a good call. I never would have been able to keep up with all the characters and subplots had I been slogging through the 300-plus pages, one chapter at a time. Since I could just enjoy listening (and push "pause" while finishing a seam with my noisy sewing machine), the plot unfolded like a Christopher Nolan film: tricky and spell binding.

WOW. It wasn't what I was expecting from a book whose subtitle sounds like an athlete-tabloid. This book has it all: suspense, intrigue, feats of strength, rugged terrain, science, psychology, ultra marathons, strong women, fanatical men, and layers of back story that added depth to every chapter.

It was all very accessible. The author writes from a modest, average-Joe perspective, and I never felt I was in over my head. The running itself though, sheesh. My measly singular-mile accomplishments pale in comparison. But it was all inspiring.

Take a gander at the author's website. I hope his pictures add oomph to my glowing recommendation.

Thoughts

2011-12-20T15:22:00.000-08:00

I've realized recently that I hold on to unpleasant emotions in order to protect others. I have made it my responsibility to hide my own pain and anxiety to make sure everyone in my vicinity is happy or, at the very least, not experiencing their own emotional discomfort.

I learned this as a little girl. I discovered I could affect the people around me by helping, smiling, giving the right answers, or just being silent. I've created a very intricate (subconscious) system using each of those elements to place myself in the world, garner praise, and make others happy.

I don't contradict people in conversation, even to correct a misunderstanding.

I am self-conscious of tears, even when there's no reason to hide them.

I keep quiet when I'm not 100% sure my ideas will be accepted.

But I'm getting pretty sick of myself.

Life has thrown some curve balls my way, and there are times I really want to walk away from needs I can't meet. Sometimes the best form of self expression is a sob. I don't know anymore when to keep quiet and when to speak up. But I'm still using my Good Girl Kit of Minor Remedies.

So my heart soars when I read things like this:

Source

I have nothing to announce. There have been no breakthroughs. But my ears are tuned to hear more about vulnerability, honesty, audacity, and authenticity.

Thank you for sharing the journey with me here.

Patchwork introspection

2011-12-05T14:43:00.000-08:00

I love quilting. You may think that I've been day dreaming about being Amish, or practicing for my sixties, or pretending I'm a shut-in. And you'd be right. Quilting, to me, is the perfect combination of wild creativity, solemn perfectionism, and focused solitude. These are things I'm drawn to lately.

It's not as boring as it sounds. I know "quilting" seems like an oxymoron. What business does a hand made blanket have posing as a verb? If you hear "quilt" and picture pastel calicos and dusty doilies, I understand. I really do. But that's not what I'm talking about here.

I've spent the last several weekends hunched over my craft room table cutting, piecing, ironing, and stitching. When I sew, I'm a combination of Sponge Bob Square Pants (a veritable frenzy of enthusiasm) and a Tibetan monk (meditating on seam allowances and color selection). Here's why.

It's a craft for problem-solvers, puzzle lovers, and type-A personalities. It's challenging to start with the end result in mind and then figure out how to assemble all the pieces to get there. The more precise I am, the better the results. There's nothing like the satisfaction of organizing fabric in the exact size and colors you want.

I saw a picture of a particular quilt recently and fell in love. It was made from two dozen or so stars, all different colors, on a white background. The stars weren't symmetrical. I love asymmetrical quilts. They're all the rage (put the classic "bonnet girl" quilt pattern out of your mind).

Source

One set back with this new-found quilt design: I don't have a pattern.

I LOVE this predicament. I can see the seams in the photo, so I can break it down to individual strips. I see that each star is made from five squares, interlocking with the four stars around it. So I made my own pattern. It's real scribbly but I think I get the gist of it. Time will tell.

I sometimes feel like I'm cheating when I use tools like table top mats and rulers and rotary cutters. Sort of like receiving a bouquet of beautiful flowers, then realizing they're fake. Oh well. This "cheating" isn't something I dwell on. Since I can't create anything out of thin air, this is the next best thing.

Quilting is introvert-friendly. On Sunday I was in my PJs for HOURS (covered in lint and thread) with unwashed hair and floppy socks. I'm no Martha Stewart, but she's got nothing on me when it comes to commitment to creativity. It's engrossing. I lose all track of time.

It's also a forgiving craft. Every uneven edge and wad of string gets hidden when the quilt is assembled. The most rewarding part of making a patchwork block comes after all the edges are sewn together, the seams have been ironed, and I flip it over to see the front. Success.

I wanted to include a bunch of pictures, but if I keep waiting to post til I remember, it'll be another week at least before this gets published.

Photos to follow.

In the meantime, here are links to other people's quilting photos that inspire the heck out of me.
http://incolororder.blogspot.com/
http://allbuttonedup.typepad.com/all_buttoned_up/2011/10/desk-sized-modern-crosses.html
http://emmmylizzzy.blogspot.com/2011/11/more-coziness.html

How timely

2011-11-28T16:17:00.000-08:00

I just noticed this quote on my coffee.

I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.

-Louisa May Alcott

My weekend felt a little stormy (no dramatic stories to tell; nothing specific I can blame, just a case of the "Meh. Whatever"s).

My double tall Americano is long gone, but I'm leaving the paper cup on my desk for a few more hours.

The best location for ab-crunches

2011-11-16T13:44:00.000-08:00

I wanted to mention a few more things about my night running class. After our laps around the track, we do 3 minutes of strength training: 1 minute in "Plank" position, 1 minute of crunches, and 1 minute of push-ups. Let me tell you, these are the longest 180 seconds of my week. But I'm getting stronger.

The best part about strength training is the close quarters. Since the ground is all muddy and wet, we share a tarp. Imagine, if you will, a 5' x 5' blue tarp spread on the ground, in the dark. Then picture 9 ladies, lined around the edges, doing various training moves in semi-unison. During Plank, our hands are on the tarp. During crunches, we all sit on the tarp facing outward, and alternate up and down with the person next to us so there's room for everyone's shoulders. During push-ups, we kneel with hands in front of us (and the really strong gals don't use their knees at all).

I've never exercised in such close proximity before. Not to mention I don't know these women well. But the camaraderie of shared experience disguises the fact that we're practically strangers. We all have our headlamps on and we're elbow to elbow (I'm careful not to look at anyone head on, or I'll get blinded). We breathe heavy in each others' ear shot while concentrating on the repetition.

One of the women has been telling a continuing story about someone they know personally who is on Jeopardy. We get a one-minute installment of the story during Plank. Last week during push-ups, one woman asked, "Who likes Twinkies?!" We all laughed. Nice distraction. On Monday, when we rolled onto our back for crunches, we realized the clouds had cleared above us and we were looking up at the stars. Best workout ever.

I told Michelle that's one thing I love about being a woman: get a few of us together, and there's likely going to be lots of story telling. We may not know each other very well, but that doesn't stop us from working hard and laughing together. Being in the dark to exercise limits my ability to compare myself with the women around me. Instead, I just enjoy what my body is capable of doing and appreciate the women around me.

Miracles

2011-11-14T13:50:00.000-08:00

When someone you love has a chronic, debilitating illness, there's a constant roiling combination of anxiety and grief just below the surface. At least that's how it is for me. And it doesn't take much to expose it all. Sort of like a breach in the dam of my emotions, pin pricks can turn into flash floods pretty quickly. Knowing Mom's brain is chemically and biologically affected by Alzheimer's makes it less of a shock to hear she's been taken to the Emergency Room, but no less scary.

I got an email at work on Thursday morning from my dad, explaining that Mom had a seizure (or similar "fainting spell," unresponsive for 20 to 30 minutes) early that morning and was in the ER for observation. The nursing home had called him, and he had gone to the hospital at 5am. She was fine, his email said, just bored.

While I decided how to respond to the news on Thursday morning, I couldn't control the tears. Surrounded by co-workers in our shared office is not where I wanted to have a melt down. I left work early and spent a few hours with Mom and Dad at the hospital. She was discharged that afternoon, no worse for wear. Thankfully, she already had an appointment scheduled next week with her neurologist.

There's nothing predictable about Alzheimer's except for decline, so hearing that Mom had a seizure was the equivalent to hearing she'd had a stroke, or a heart attack. Panic, loss, fear, bewilderment, anger all came to the surface like the day we heard her diagnosis five years ago. Or the day she got lost while taking a walk. Or the nights she woke up crying. Or the day only a month ago that we moved her to the nursing home.

We've lost a lot. She's lost a lot. Without the familiar abilities, awareness, motor skills, or creativity, it's sometimes hard to recognize the woman I love so much. But she still recognizes us. Her face still lights up when she sees us. She still whistles and hums and can recall the tune to every song she's ever heard. She still smiles and laughs and there are moments when her eyes are filled with unmistakable light.

When I got to her bed in the hospital admittance wing, she was humming to herself and gazing out the window. She smiled when she saw me.

Her lunch was brought in on a cafeteria tray and set on the bedside table. Dad spoon fed her. He kept her laughing. He stood at her side and helped her with a tenderness and nonchalance attributable only to a 35 year-long love story. I was speechless. It was a moment I will never forget. All the angst and blood curdling worry that began building when I read my email that morning vanished. Mom was safe. Dad was here and taking good care of her.

Those happy, peaceful, funny, beautiful moments are the ones my counselor calls miracles. I wish for more dramatic miracles, like Jesus calling my mom's name in a loud voice like he did for Lazarus.

"Vicki! Come out!"

I wish the tendrils of Alzheimer's would unwrap themselves like burial cloth, falling to the ground in ribbons. I wish she could step out of this tomb.

The miracles I witnessed this week might not make headlines, but they still soothe me.

A kind doctor's soft voice, giving us vocabulary for our questions
Nurses who were attentive and compassionate
Dad's stories about music and art and cooking and childhood
Mom's laughter, throwing her head back in that familiar way, even in a hospital bed
A funny moment of self-consciousness as the nurse wheeled Mom out of the ER, suddenly aware she wasn't in her normal clothes ("Am I dressed?!")
Speedy return to the nursing home and a big welcome from the staff there ("Vicki! Hi! How are you feeling? I'm so glad to see you!")
Family photos on Friday morning that had us all laughing
Seeing my 28 year old brother embrace Mom and rest his head on her shoulder
Time this weekend to rest, craft, read, and process.

Running...at NIGHT!

2011-11-09T18:04:00.000-08:00

I'm one week in to my second session of running class. Same time, same place...but now that Daylight Savings has plunged us all into darkness, we're running by head lamp.

While rounding the bend at the middle school track where we run, I blurted to my Exercise Buddy Michelle, "Who knew we would be taking a class on RUNNING, in the RAIN, in the DARK?!"

She laughed, "I know!"

"We are so hard core!"

Me (left) and Running Instructor Carol

Like any worthwhile endeavor, night running requires a specialized wardrobe. My tank top and spandex shorts just weren't cutting it anymore. I found running tights at Target, and Michelle and I are layering our long-sleeved-moisture-wicking shirts with water resistant jackets (light weight, warm, but not too warm).

We bought head lamps from Amazon.com, and went with the cheapest option we could find. Big mistake. I couldn't get the thing to turn on after the batteries had to be replaced (providing a grand total of 1 hour of use). It didn't even last long enough for our first class. But I did use it while cleaning my oven.

Cheap-o prototype. Lamp was crap, but the strap did wonders for my hair.

We also have to wear reflective glow-in-the-dark gear (requirement of the shoe store sponsoring the class). I doubt we'll come across much traffic on a dirt track in a residential neighborhood, but you never know. In one of our warm up runs, Michelle and I saw a deer saunter across the sports field. With lights strapped to our heads and neon vests velcroed tight, we needn't worry about being gored.

Michelle

Winter months are always the hardest for me exercise-wise (at least in the dark and soggy Pacific Northwest) so I'm happy this winter session has us running twice a week.

Plus, I'm fast as lightning in my new running tights.

In October I read: Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness

2011-11-09T17:34:00.000-08:00

Any Alexandra Fuller fans out there? I read her first two books (Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight and Scribbling the Cat) shortly after coming home from Africa. I was desperate to get my hands on anything that brought back the sound of crickets at night, Muslim prayers at dawn, and the constant sweeping of red Ugandan dirt. They didn't disappoint.

Imagine my delight when I heard Fuller had another book in the works. I put Cocktail Hour on pre-order back in June, and waited for the release date. Another gem. In this book, she writes more about her family history, how her parents ended up in Africa in the first place, and how her immediate family was affected by the choice to live there. Interesting stuff: riveting, heartbreaking, rollicking. Her family members sound like wildly likable characters.

From the Amazon.com review:

In Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness Alexandra Fuller braids a multilayered narrative around the perfectly lit, Happy Valley-era Africa of her mother's childhood; the boiled cabbage grimness of her father's English childhood; and the darker, civil war- torn Africa of her own childhood.

The family photos she includes are wonderful (you can also see them on the Amazon listing).

Highly recommended.

Six weeks in review

2011-10-19T22:24:00.000-07:00

I've spent an embarrassing amount of time today trying to figure out how to represent the last six weeks of my life as a line graph. Tonight was the last session of my running class and I realized today that quite a lot has happened since I began.

I was hoping to create a graph with the horizontal axis listing dates from mid-September til now, and the vertical axis showing my stress level on a scale of 1 to 10. The goal was to show how CRAZY and STRESSFUL and OFF THE CHARTS my life has been lately. A veritable emotional roller coaster.

But I'm no master of excel, so I'm going to have to stick with my normal method: the long winded essay.

Let's go back to the week of September 12th, shall we? That was the first night of my running class. I ran a 10:22 minute mile. Awesome. Very happy and proud of myself. A new way to unwind is always a good thing. This came in handy when, later that week, Hubbins and I had an uncomfortable but necessary conversation about our spending. Mostly mine. And how it was excessive. Or something like that, the details are hazy.

On September 21st, Hubbins started school! HOORAY! He's pretty much a genius full of untapped mental resources. He's talked vaguely about going back to school before, but never very seriously. This year, with prodding from his boss, he decided to make it happen. He's working toward a four year degree (estimated graduation date: Spring 2013). His strength is numbers so he's nervous about all the reading and writing it's going to require. I keep reminding him that this is why he married an English major. And why I married a math whiz who can budget.

The next week, Hubbins left town for three days on a business trip. I decided not to go (having saved nothing for a weekend at the spa). It was just as well I stayed home.

On Thursday the 29th, I got an email from my dad saying that the nursing home we visited had an opening and Mom could move in immediately. Gulp. On Friday, my sister and I packed a suitcase and gathered a few mementos from home for Mom to take with her. This was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Mom was emotional about leaving home, and it took all the strength we could muster to stay positive and reassure her the change would be a good thing. We smiled and rubbed her back and promised she'd be in good hands and that we'd visit often. But all I wanted to do was cry in her lap. I desperately wanted Mom to reassure me that everything would be OK and that she understood our good intentions. It was a terrible day, and I went home to an empty house.

When Hubbins came home, we worked on his first few homework assignments before I left on vacation. My co-worker and exercise buddy Michelle and I took off for PALM SPRINGS! We shopped, got facials, read, laid in the sun by the pool, and ate at an awesome new restaurant downtown Palm Springs. Sunshine never felt so medicinal.

My first day back to work was uneventful, until I got home to a waterfall over the front door.

A week later, once the fans and de-humidifiers were finally removed and the floor-to-ceiling plastic pulled down, we thought the worst was over. Then our oven blew up. Hubbins and I were watching TV on Monday this week when we saw a blazing light coming from inside the oven. We peeked through the oven window and it was like looking directly into the sun. I thought a biscuit had fallen off the cookie sheet and burst into flames. But the the heating element had split in two. Repairs pending.

Throughout all this, I've attended the running clinic twice a week. Tonight was our last session. I've been reflecting today on how much running has helped me cope. Even when my preference was to curl up on the couch in my jammies, I ran. Every night felt like an accomplishment. My head cleared, my muscles ached, and my perspective improved. I did a lot of emotional eating over the last six weeks and gained back several pounds, but I kept running. Tonight, my mile pace was 9:56. SUCCESS!

The next series of classes begins in two weeks. We'll be running after dark, so we get to wear headlamps. I don't know what wild and crazy things will happen between now and mid December, but running will help me take it in stride.

Waterlogged

2011-10-12T21:02:00.000-07:00

You are never going to believe what happened last night. It involves firemen and flooding.

On the way home from work I dropped Hubbins off at a coffee shop near our house so he could do some homework (he recently went back to school!). I came home to change out of my work clothes and unload some boxes we had in the trunk, to make room for groceries. I said hi to the kitties and filled the bathroom sink with a little cold water and closed the drain to give Rajah a little drink (he loves drinking out of the sink). Both faucets were off (this is important).

Then I went on my merry way to the farm stand to get produce. I was gone for 30 or 45 minutes.

When I came home, there was a firetruck in the street right in front of our driveway. The neighbor lady was standing in her driveway looking up at our laundry room. There were three firemen outside the front door, and one was up on a ladder, about to break a window on the second story to get in. Hot water was pouring from the ceiling of our entry way, from the bathroom and laundry room (directly above the front door).

I jumped out of my car and the neighbor lady shouted, "Here she is!"

A fireman said, "Hello, Ma'am, do you live here?

"Yes!" I said.

He shouted up to the fireman on the ladder, "We have the homeowner!" Broken glass averted.

I opened the front door. Water was running through the ceiling. There was water at the bottom of the stairs, all our shoes were wet, and the area rug was completely soaked with standing water on top of it.

The firemen and I ran upstairs. In the bathroom, the sink (still plugged) was overflowing onto the floor and the hot water faucet was on full blast. The first fireman turned off the faucet and unplugged the drain.
Another fireman said, "You better call your landlord."

I grinned weakly, "we own this place."

"I think you're pretty lucky," the third fireman said, "If there is a positive side to this, the water just went straight down and out, it didn't ruin the carpet on the stairs."

They told me the neighbor had called 911 when she discovered hot water pouring from our house. Not just out from under the front door, but falling from the second story onto our front step. She knocked on our door and was dripped on by a tropical waterfall.

The firemen and I went back down to the entry way. Water had run down the inside of the wall and created a big bubble in the paint. I've always hated that paint, but it was thick enough to hold probably 4 cups of hot water. The firemen recommended that I pop the bubble and avoid any more damage to the sheet rock. I ran to gather towels.

When I came back, they took my name and phone number. One said, "Well, we're going to leave you now. Good luck!"

I said, "Thank you so much for coming. I would have had a heart attack if I'd come home to this by myself."

I was bewildered by it all but so relieved our house was not in flames. I asked, "Do you get many calls for water?"

"Oh yeah. You'd be surprised." (Little comfort.)

They left. I moved my car from the street to our driveway. I went inside and started cleaning up what I could. I used every towel we own. It was hot and steamy. I was sweating and crying. I don't know what was worse, finding a home owner's emergency or calling my husband and telling him, "The bathroom flooded. There were firemen here. It's bad."

Hubbins walked home while I cleaned.

He found me and about 20 towels, all sopping wet. Mr. Calm Cool and Collected called the insurance company and the water damage cleanup folks.

The cleanup crew spent today dismantling the bathroom, tearing up laminate flooring (which we laid two short years ago) and removing all the damaged drywall. Our toilet and sink are on the back porch. The whole bathroom area is sealed with floor-to-ceiling plastic. There are giant de-humidifiers and fans running.

It looks like ET in here, that scene near the end where guys in HazMat suits quarantine Elliot's house. I have to unzip a plastic barrier to go downstairs.

Former sink location

Former toilet location

Zippered plastic hallway

Please make sure all your sinks have overflow drain holes. Ours didn't. Now it's full of rain water on the porch.

Book of the month: A Grace Disguised

2011-10-03T16:14:00.000-07:00

September's reading was recommended on a blog I follow called Team Ewan. Kirsten's review is far more eloquent than anything I can say about it. Her beautiful and heart wrenching writing has been a big encouragement to me. So I took note when she recommended a book about loss.

A Grace Disguised: How the Soul Grows through Loss

I loved the book. The honest, raw, vulnerable discussion of grief was really soothing to me, especially this week. It provided a little glimmer of light.

On Friday, we moved my mom to a nursing home. Alzheimer's has done a number on her motor skills and basic functioning, and it reached a point that needed professional attention. Notice how I defend the decision, as if you're questioning the necessity of long-term care. Like I described here, mom doesn't belong among elderly invalids. But she does require more care than my family can provide.

The transition hurts a lot. Knowing she's not at home anymore means I can't pretend, even subconsciously, that life will ever return to normal.

It hurts too much to say anything else at this point.

Attention craft-lovers: SALE!

2011-09-20T11:43:00.000-07:00

Well, it's officially fall. Overnight the leaves turned color, a cool breeze picked up, and the days are noticably shorter. While this usually triggers a tantrum ("PLEEEEASE can I have more summer?"), this year I'm distracting myself with crafting.

My sewing machine is out again, the coffee table is covered with embroidery floss, and I'm reorganizing my fabric stash.

Want to join me?

Exclusively for you, dear blog readers...

Etsy SALE!

Enter coupon code BLOGFRIEND15

at checkout to receive 15% off!

I'm running again.

2011-09-15T11:52:00.000-07:00

Weekly. TWICE weekly, in fact. Please recall that my prior relationship with running has been wrought with peril.

My workout buddy and I enrolled (with minimum coercion from me) in a running class!!!

From the informational brochure:

For women wishing to begin a consistent running program
This program provides:
• Twice weekly group workouts in a fun, non-intimidating environment.
• Personal goal development.
• Interval training.
• One on one attention.
• Advice on running technique and mechanics.
• Instruction in injury prevention, stretching and strength exercises.
• Overall enjoyment of running.

GAH! I'm so excited. My legs are sore today (two sessions under my belt) but it's the good I-just-accomplished-something-worthwhile sore.

My lifelong goal of being an REI model is about to come true!

Full heart

2011-09-10T15:20:00.000-07:00

If there are any silver linings to Moms Alzheimer's diagnosis (and most days there aren't) one might be my increased appreciation for living.

I scour my life for beauty and sweet memories and divine encounters. I've uncovered a lot of treasures. Sometimes it feels naive and indulgent to be so swept up in grateful emotions and let the tiniest little things thrill me (I was nearly moved to tears during a peanut butter commercial this week). But it's a practice I plan to continue.

Some days are dark, cry-til-my-gut-hurts days. Last weekend I felt bulldozed by grief. I wrote angry words in my journal, and wallowed in the helplessness I felt. I purged all the sorrow-sludge up from the depths. Not pretty. I'm not comfortable sharing that stuff here.

But then there are weekends like this one, where I meet new friends and have meaningful conversations and the sun shines and I sense a Midas-touch of celebration. Creativity and inspiration abound. The world is a beautiful place.

Grief has widened my perspective. I feel like a funnel, taking in more than I have the capacity to contain.

I move forward with open arms, vulnerable but receptive.

Current Obsessions

2011-09-06T10:53:00.000-07:00

1) All things Cath Kidston.

Source

Online magazine

Fabric

2) I love this necklace.

It seems appropriately moody to me, with a silver lining.

AdeloCreations on Etsy

3) Someday, I will be part of this club.

Does the combination of love-for-all-things-vintage and camping appeal to you? It does to me. More inspiration here.

I'd like to read and take a nap in a cozy nest like this:

Source

5. A pet bunny.

Remember this post? Bunnysitting 2008

Me and Mr. Bun

I raised rabbits as a little girl, and will always have a soft spot for long fuzzy ears and twitching noses.

This blogger is a quilter and a rabbit owner:

Jeni: In Color Order

Source

I love her blogs about her rabbit George and quilting {swoon!}.

Source

Now I just have to convince the more skeptical members of the family that a pet bunny is a good idea.

"I need more information"

"Don't even think about it. I already have to share my humans."

Vacation Project #3: Refurbished Furniture

2011-09-04T09:43:00.000-07:00

1. $5 antique store find

2. $35 gallon of mis-matched high-gloss paint, on sale for $7

3. New finish on old table

4. Extra space for container gardening!

Growing in my front entry: oregano, geraniums,
basil, moss, dill, lavender, cilantro, fern.

Vacation Project #2: Embroidery

2011-08-30T06:53:00.000-07:00

See what I'm working on?

The pattern and kit (and photo) came from the amazing Alicia Paulson, who I adore. Her photos, writing, and crafts are all breathtaking. She lives in Portland. Maybe someday I'll get to meet her.

My sampler is half-way done; I've completed L - Z.

I've never done embroidery before (only counted cross stitch as a teenager). It's fun! I'm really pleased with it. Kudos to Ms. Paulson for making the instructions so easy to follow.

Check out my awesome pin cushion ring, purchased here

My fingers are all jammed up and sore, though. The combination of cutting fruits and vegetables for my juicer (new sharp knife = lots of bandaids) and working with needle and thread every night make for some tender finger tips. Lots of cuts and pokes. But I'm excited to share the finished product with you.

Please visit Posie Gets Cozy. In my opinion, it's a serious contender for Most Beautiful Site on the Internet.

Perfect Summer Day: A Tutorial

2011-08-28T19:37:00.000-07:00

Pick berries from the backyard

Sun-warmed blackberries are best

You'll need at least 4 cups

Put on a cute apron

Coat the berries with sugar

Make a pie crust from scratch

Cut holes for the steam to vent

Bake until golden

Bring the warm pie to a friend's house, with flowers from the garden

Serve a la mode

Eat it all!

New on Etsy!

2011-08-28T15:38:00.001-07:00

August Book of the Month: Tender at the Bone

2011-08-23T16:42:00.000-07:00

This month my reading recommendation is Tender at the Bone: Growing Up at the Table.

This book has been in my "to read" pile for over two years. I put it off for so long in part because I was expecting it to make me hungry and crave comfort food. There are lots of appetizing recipes and descriptions of delicious meals, but the focus isn't eating.

Instead, author Ruth Reichl describes all the significant events in her life as they relate to cooking (that's her on the cover). What a great theme for a memoir. I didn't realize it before I started reading, but Reichl is the Editor in Chief of Gourmet Magazine (check out her bio on their website). Knowing that her career path led to the restaurant industry makes her stories even more interesting.

Landmarks in her development as food aficionado:

Her mom's nickname was "the Queen of Mold." As a little girl, Ruth warned dinner guests about which dishes to avoid, having seen her mother scoop mold off the top before serving it [gag].

Her family's maid and her grandmother's maid were both amazing cooks (recipes for Aunt Birdie's Potato Salad and Alice's Apple Dumplings with Hard Sauce are included).

She was sent to a girls' school in Montreal to learn French. There, she befriended a girl who brought her home on weekends. Her classmate's family introduced her to all kinds of fancy dishes, prepared by their kitchen staff.

After finishing high school at home in New York, she attended college in Michigan (to get as far away from her chaotic home life as possible) She and her roommate (from Detroit) discover the local farmer's market and get creative cooking for themselves.

She worked for a summer at a health camp on Île d'Oléron off the coast of France (she describes the "camp" as a place where poor French children are sent for a free month in the country). The purpose of the camp was for the kids to gain weight. While in the France, she met a local cheese maker and learned to make a fruit tart from scratch (recipe included).

Back in Michigan, she worked in a fancy French restaurant (and impressed her snooty co-workers by speaking flawless French and knowing more than her fair share about cooking).

She and her college roommate traveled to northern Africa on a whim, and spent time in Tunisia and Algeria. Their adventures were harrowing and exciting. They pushed the limits of personal safety while making friend there, even considering it was the late '60s.

The book reads like an anthology of world cuisine; I felt jealous of all the experiences Reichl described from her own far-flung and richly-appreciated life.

My favorite chapter was about moving to Berkeley, California in 1972. As newly-weds, she and her husband formed a commune with several friends. They were all passionate about living simply and eating healthy. I think I liked it so much because I could picture the same scenario in my hippie-friendly town. I laughed out loud at several passages about one roommate in particular. He convinced the whole household they needed eight bags for household recycling.

"Nick would not be moved. The bags were ugly and recycling was annoyingly time consuming, but it was the right thing to do. We grumbled; we recycled. We could also agree that Nick was right when he asked us not to buy Nestlé’s product, although I no longer remember why. We agreed with the ban on Welch's (they supposedly supported the John Birch society) and Coors (fought with unions). Grapes, of course, were completely forbidden, but is was a moot point: the farm workers had such strong support in Berkeley that grapes were simply unavailable. But the day Nick came home saying that coffee was unhealthy and henceforth we should all drink tea we went into open revolt."

That same roommate packed their cupboard with chamomile. He discovered biorhythms and made charts for every body living at the house. He discovered grains, bee pollen, nutritional yeast, bean sprouts, homemade yogurt. Then they all decided it was cheaper to forage from garbage cans for discarded food, including steak from a dumpster. All their principals changed when they decided that wasted food was morally worse than eating from the top of the food chain.

I found it fascinating.

The book uses food as a basis, but Reichl seamlessly incorporates universal themes such as self-discovery and family loyalty by describing her most influential relationships, the era she grew up in, and her international travel. Her use of recipes is a nice bonus. I appreciated her wit and self-deprecating humor.

This book whet my appetite for reading, writing, and eating. I highly recommend it.

Vacation Project #1: Spare Room Redo

2011-08-22T09:50:00.000-07:00

Look at what I did during my recent week off!

Our spare room is no longer a random-storage-catch-all, it's a guest room and reading oasis. I LOVE this room now. The afternoon sun through the new curtains makes me so happy.

The quilt on the day bed is one I made with a 94 year old woman I worked for in 2003. I'm so happy it's out of storage and on display now.

Please note the constant supervision from Rajah and Ivan.

July's book of the month: LIT by Mary Karr

2011-08-03T11:20:00.000-07:00

Lit is about getting drunk and getting sober; becoming a mother by letting go of a mother; learning to write by learning to live. Written with Karr's relentless honesty, unflinching self-scrutiny, and irreverent, lacerating humor, it is a truly electrifying story of how to grow up--as only Mary Karr can tell it.

(From the Amazon.com review)

I thought I might not be able to relate to this story. It's written by a middle-age woman about the impact of a miserable childhood, the struggles of parenting her young son, a languishing marriage, and the lure of alcoholism. But I was wrong. I was right there with her, every guarded and garish step of the way.

Mary Karr's anxious, unwilling exposure to prayer and her experience of faith is the best I've ever read. Not until she'd hit rock bottom did she allow herself to consider the possibility of a Higher Power. She made a slow progression toward belief, and fought tooth and nail along the way.

In Lit, I found a familiar topic examined from a completely foreign perspective. For someone like me, steeped in church life and Christian-y language, the book strikes a nerve. I grew up attending Sunday School, participating in church activities, and speaking comfortably in groups about prayer, faith, and salvation. For several years now, I've resisted all that "involvement," and tend to think of God as a familiar but distant relative prone to surprise visits, lavish gifts, and long periods of silence. So Mary Karr's new belief as an adult, accompanied by cynicism, resistance, and much eye-rolling really appealed to me.

My little sprout of faith often feels like a high-maintenance house plant, fading for lack of attention. But Mary Karr describes faith in a way that sounds more like a fallen tree. Her story doesn't conjure up images of grape leaves or stalks of wheat. A more appropriate symbol for her conversion is a horizontal tree trunk blocking the path, impossible to ignore. She reached a point of despair in her marriage, as a parent, and as an alcoholic where she couldn't avoid God anymore.

Another thing I love about this book is that you won't find it on the shelves of your local Family-Friendly-Christian-Bookstore-Full-of-Fish-Shaped-Jewelry. There's too many swear words in it for that. Plus, it doesn't end with a syrupy conclusion of prosperity, happiness, and a life of ease. The final chapter recaps all that she's learned about relationships and love.

Lit also convinces me that poets make the best memoirists. Not one wasted word.

Advice for talking to cool people

2011-07-31T11:18:00.000-07:00

If you want to spend time with someone who is cool, so cool in fact that they are in high demand and hard to corner for "alone time," then here is my advice: go hiking.

This guarantees that you will have several hours of uninterrupted conversation. The only other people you will encounter will be other hikers who are either a) fast athlete-types who pass by quickly; b) slow leisure-hikers (usually accompanied by children or pets) who are easy to avoid; or c) going the opposite direction. Other than that, it's just you, your cool hiking buddy, and the mountainside.

In case you're curious, I know all this good advice from recent personal experience. My sister agreed to hike with me last weekend, and we spent FIVE HOURS together! I didn't have to compete for attention with husbands (hers or mine), pets, work, or errands.

In case you get tongue-tied around your cool hiking buddy, here are some suggested conversation topics (also the product of recent personal experience since we talked all five hours without getting bored):

Cooking. We compared notes on recent kitchen-experiments. She made a delicious sounding soup. I made quinoa salad. Good ideas were exchanged.
Family vacation disasters. "Remember that time we forgot the tent poles? What about the trip when we got rained out and drove across-state til we found sunshine? Or how about the time I lost Elliot?" (this might be trickier if you're not talking to a sibling).
Anonymous co-workers. This is a good source for hilarious stories because you get to freely describe your fellow employees' quirks and office drama(s). At least until your hiking buddy's boss appears on the very same trail for an impromptu introduction. Awkward.

Isn't that for old people?

2011-07-22T17:11:00.000-07:00

Picture my mom as Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, swinging a guitar case down the city streets of Austria, singing "I Have Confidence."

She's not Jessica Tandy in the last scene of Driving Miss Daisy, being spoon fed by Morgan Freeman.

It just doesn't compute when I try to imagine Mom in a nursing home. But her decline due to Alzheimer's is forcing me to think about it. The woman I know is more likely to storm the gates armed with love notes and hand made gifts, showering the elderly with kisses and little hand-squeezes, delivering flowers and singing hymns (to bless others, not because it's the only thing she remembers).

Last night Dad, Olivia and I attended a workshop called "Choosing the Right Care Setting for a Family Member." Doesn't that title just give you the heebie jeebies? NOT a pleasant topic.

During the presentation, silent criticism was my defense mechanism against bursting into tears.

The presenters were not highly acclaimed public speakers. They were both about Mom's age. They seemed like very compassionate women, skilled in their jobs as facilitators of support and assistance, but they were nervous and relied too heavily on their props (microphone with a short cord, power point, remote control for power point, lots of gesturing toward their pile of handouts).

Their attempts at levity were one-liners about the certainty of aging and death. We were not a jovial crowd of attendees and we didn't laugh easily. The women sitting behind us were white-haired and frail; I assume they were there as caretakers of their spouses. My sister and I were the youngest participants by a decade or two. It sucked. I kept thinking about the irony of my two grandmothers, ages 86 and 91, still living alone. But we weren't researching care for them (which would be just as unfortunate, but at least somewhat expected). We were there for our 58 year old mother instead.

The presenters talked about our options:

In-Home care (been there, done that: Mom's had a part-time caregiver coming to my parents' house for the last three years or so).
Retirement Community (for independent folks; no personal care included).
Assisted Living Facility (good for seniors with minor physical limitations).
Adult Family Home (I picture a bed and breakfast with supervision).
Skilled Nursing Facility (full spectrum of physical and mental assistance).
Specialized Care Facility (usually designed for dementia patients; a secure environment, sometimes described specifically as "memory care"). This is most likely our next step.

They also talked about the cost of these services and the difference between Medicare and Medicaid. It was all very introductory but involved so many hypothetical scenarios I got antsy. I was distracted, wondering what my family can afford, how much Medicaid actually covers, and hoping Mom doesn't end up in a ghetto nursing home (I don't know if such a thing even exists in our hometown, but I imagined the worst).

When the presenters asked if anyone had questions, several people voiced frustration with stubborn parents.

"My mom is 88 and she hasn't left her house in 2 years. She refuses to have in-home care and won't go to a Home. She keeps falling. My five siblings and I know we're enabling her by pouring her juice for her and helping her up off the bathroom floor. But what else do we do?"

"My brother refuses to be helped."

"My mother says she doesn't care if she never sees me again, and when I told her that was fine but that I needed a break, she wandered off. I was hoping she'd wander really FAR off so I could call 911. But she didn't. I'm just going crazy with her."

Someone else described (very succinctly) how backwards it feels to be a child making decisions for a parent. Even as adults, she said, it doesn't feel normal. There were lots of murmurs of agreement.

It made me thankful for Mom's sweet spirit. She has NEVER been short-tempered or bitter throughout this whole ordeal. She's not demanding at all (sometimes I wish she was, just so I knew how to help her).

The whole experience last night was surreal. It seems so wrong to picture my mom (vibrant, beautiful, creative, talented) in a convalescent-retirement-senior-assisted-nursing-old-folks'-HOME. The associations that come to mind are sterile, antiseptic-smelling, and white-haired. Slumped shoulders, pushing a walker, slipper-feet shuffling down carpeted hospital hallways. A sea of pastel colors, cheap hotel furniture, sweatshirts with collars. Mom's barely old enough to qualify for a senior's discount at Denny's, and here we are choosing a "Care Setting."

Livi and I held it together until the very end of the workshop. As we were leaving, one of Mom's caregiving friends hugged us and told us how much she loves our mom. Then we lost it. Our stoicism gave way to hot tears and quivering chins.

"Thank you," we choked. "We love her, too."

Happy dance

2011-07-21T13:16:00.000-07:00

Observation:
Exercise makes me feel better.

Note to self:
Self, remember this observation next time you're feeling lethargic and can't muster the motivation to get off the couch while watching Storage Wars and snacking on chips and salsa.

Exercise is like therapy: sucky until it's over, then I feel AWESOME! The nights I go to the gym, I come home all amped up and cheerful. I do laundry, clean the kitchen (even sanitize the counter tops; usually reserved for special occasions), sing, cook something, crack jokes, dance, call my sister and beg to hang out (What? You're exhausted from working overtime? Are you sure you don't want to take a walk with me?).

Last night Hubbins caught me dancing to Bulletproof by La Roux. (Listen to this song. I dare you not to get jiggy with it). I say "caught" because I was in my craft room with the door closed, the lights off, and the volume UP. I realized he was peeking through the door jam and I screamed. He made fun of me and I got all bashful and indignant, but I was secretly proud that I was doing something as scandalous and happy as throwing my own private dance party. For the record: my dancing is what would happen if Napoleon Dynamite and Richard Simmons taught hip hop. Feast your eyes on THAT visual!

I'm reveling in the happy feelings right now because I know this evening is going to be less fun. Dad, Livi and I are attending a workshop at the hospital on how to choose long term care service and assisted living facilities. This is most likely in Mom's near future. I'm taking big breaths and steeling myself for tonight's tough topic.

I think my next dance party should be with Mom. I'll play the Fiddler On The Roof soundtrack, Barrage, and something by Aaron Copeland.

A word from my nephew

2011-07-21T08:43:00.000-07:00

A few new favorites

2011-07-17T14:10:00.000-07:00

1. Six month old nephew

2. Veggie container-gardening

3. Beer from Manchester

4. Adele

Spin

2011-07-14T21:25:00.000-07:00

The fantasy

Me: age 4

Source

The reality

Source

I went to spin class at the YMCA tonight. WOW. Not at all what I expected. One of my boot camp instructors teaches spin too, and she encouraged me and my workout buddy Michelle to come check it out. She assured us it was appropriate for ALL levels of fitness! Even beginners!

This should have clued me in.

She could tell we were exercise amateurs.
Anything appropriate for "ALL fitness levels" is especially hard for newbies.

We showed up right on time to the small, full classroom. There were 12 bikes total, and since Michelle called at 6am to reserve our spot, there were still two available for us (right in the middle).

One of the men who arrived just before us was carrying a bike helmet. The instructor said, "I don't have room for you tonight Bill. Did you call to get your name on the list?"

"Yeah, I called," he said. "Seven a.m. They told me 'you're in!'"

"Huh. Really." The instructor said without asking. "I didn't see your name on the list." She looked around the room. "Allison bailed so I guess there's space."

"If not, that's OK" Bill said, shrugging. "I guess I'll take a real ride instead."

"Oooh," the other regular-attenders chimed in, "A real ride," they repeated, exaggerating his tone of superiority.

"And it would be an inferior workout!" he quickly added.

Nice recovery. Everyone laughed.

One woman opened the window nearest to her and turned on the free-standing fans (the building is OLD and not air conditioned). Each bike had a small sweat-towel on the handlebars.

The teacher showed Michelle and I how to adjust the bikes for maximum ~~pain~~ effectiveness. Seat at hip level? Check. Pedal extended to keep foot directly below knee? Check. Handlebars a comfortable distance? Check.

"You're ready!" She chirped.

Then she broke the news to us: "First timers usually feel like..." she hesitated, "like they want to die."

Gulp.

"OK, let's get started!" She shouted.

The woman next to Michelle leaned toward us and said, "Just keep in mind, she yells because she loves us."

We got on our bikes as the inspirational techno-perk soundtrack began. My seat seemed too tall. I tried to balance my weight.

It was then I realized that the primary point of contact between my body and this equipment was my CROTCH. And the seat was shaped like a cake server. But with less cushion. There was no comfortable way to sit on such a surface.

"Add some tension; we're biking on a flat surface."

Flat surface? Check.

I looked at the classmates ahead of me. They seemed to be in no discomfort. But the regular attenders were all serious athletes. Calf muscles rippled around us and I noticed a distinct lack of body fat on any of them. They had those hard-core biking shoes on. They wore T-shirts advertising local athletic events.

I looked at the clock: five minutes in. OUCH.

The forty-five minute class took us on a hill-infested ride. We slowly added tension, increased speed, stood up, pushed hard, sat back down (OUCH) and maintained our pace. The tiny room got HOT. I saw sweat fall from my head to the floor. My hair clung to the back of my neck. I breathed like a woman in labor. I watched my legs pump and enjoyed seeing them work (considerably slower than the rest of the class). It took a lot of concentration to keep going.

During the "downhill" stretches, I let go of the handlebars, sat upright and drank from my water bottle. I really wanted to stand on solid ground. Standing on the pedals was a relief though, as circulation slowly returned. My (ahem) lady bits fell asleep. As did my toes and butt and a few fingers. Sharp tingling added a little distraction (OUCH).

I realized being on stationary bikes was a privilege. Under any other circumstances, I would never be able to keep up with these classmates. I watched the feet in front of me spin, blurring with speed. I was part of the pack. I was in the peloton.

Finally, class was over. Michelle and I slowly dismounted our bikes, breathing hard, sweating profusely, and grinning through gritted teeth. We did it!

We stretched and guzzled water.

Now its time to go soak in the bath.

I may never walk normally again.

A confession, an observation, and a few celebrations

2011-07-12T14:48:00.000-07:00

I had an unfortunate incident yesterday involving chocolate cake and ice cream. We had leftovers in our fridge at work from a staff birthday party, and I couldn't stop day dreaming about it. I finally just dished myself up a generous portion. I was so self-conscious about eating it at my desk (when no one else was), I was really sneaky about it and felt guilty from the very first mouthful.

So I ate it fast.

Then I felt sick.

Then I hated myself.

I didn't enjoy it. It felt like a wad of tar and remorse in my gut.

Lesson learned: when I feel the need to "sneak" food, something isn't right. If I can't enjoy it, don't bother. Had to give myself the "you screwed up, but you can do better" pep talk for the rest of the day. Bleh.

Last night while watching TV with Hubbins I said, "being on a diet and seeing restaurant commercials is like watching porn." Have you noticed this? When I see food prepared in slow-motion and served as the camera zooms in for a close-up, I start drooling. It's tantalizing and off-limits; the images are airbrushed and totally unattainable (I've ordered some of those exact meals, and they look nothing like the commercial). Next time you see an ad involving food, pay close attention.

I attended all eight sessions of boot camp in the month of June, and haven't missed one yet in July. I love it. And by "love" I mean I'm grateful when every 60-minute session is done. It's kicking my butt, but giving me more energy.

Hubbins and I ran again over the weekend, our favorite 2.6 mile loop. It's full of hills which actually makes it more bearable...the "I think I can, I think I can" huffing and puffing is rewarded with glorious gravity on the downhill side. We ran 12 minute miles!

Still juicing up a storm. Here is a handy reference guide for anyone interested:

Since I challenged myself with better eating and more activity last month, I've lost 6 pounds and 2 inches around my middle!

Something pretty on your table (for free!)

2011-07-08T20:31:00.000-07:00

1. Wash and dry a tin can (I used 15 oz size)

2. Cut two pieces of paper: one 10" x 4.25," one 10" x 2"

3. Attach both pieces of paper to the can

(I used double sided tape and a little glue)

and tie with ribbon.

4. Put some flowers in your new vase.

Ta da!

I left these little bouquets in the fridge overnight

(to keep them away from the cats) and everything opened up nicely.

I picked roses and strawberries and used herbs from my garden as greenery:

rosemary, lavender, oregano, basil, mint, fennel, and mustard.

Very fragrant!

Achievements

2011-07-04T12:42:00.000-07:00

Happy 4th of July!

Lots of good things happening here.

I turned 30 in June! I celebrated with family and friends, barbecue-potluck style.

Mom in law and nephew (5 months)

I was kind of expecting an emotional break down about being soooo ooold. But it never came. I know so many awesome 30-somethings, I just feel like I'm one of the cool kids now. Anyway, 30 is the new 21.

I like having another benchmark for newness (like New Year's, or back-to-school mode in September). I expect nothing but the best from my thirties. The week of my birthday, I kept wanting to announce, "THIS is the dawning of a NEW era!"

But then I remembered that line is from Scar's speech in The Lion King. The rest of the sentence is "...in which lion and hyena come together!" Oops.

Not quite what I was after.

*****

I've used my new juicer (birthday gift) consistently for the last two weeks, usually twice a day. YUM. There's more produce in our fridge right now than I've ever eaten before. We keep buying more because we're consuming so much good stuff. I'm losing minimal pounds and inches, but feeling great and enjoying this foray into better health.

Even though I'm back on Weight Watchers and drinking vegetable juice everyday, I'm not calling it anything more than a health fad for now. There have been too many times that I think my lifestyle has made a complete one-eighty (Presto chango! I'm a health nut!) only to slip back to my normal, unhealthy eating habits and inactivity. So, all pressure is off, and I'm just enjoying myself. I feel really good.

Celery, romaine, peach, ginger, jicama, wheat grass juice

Spinach, strawberry, blueberry salad: orange vinaigrette made with the juicer

Hubbins is enjoying the juicer less so. He swallows it like NyQuil, doing his best not to taste it. He makes the same face the cat does when kitty gets hairball laxative jammed down his throat.

This may fall under the category of TMI, but oh well: my BO smells different. Think eau de celery. Weird.

*****

Remember all my bitching and moaning about jogging? Well. I ran this weekend for the first time in two years. And I did it...the whole 2.6 mile loop all in one go!!! This tops the charts of "things I'm proud of and never want to do again." Boot camp at the YMCA is obviously paying off. Good job, lungs and legs.

Naturally, I celebrated by buying a new pair of shoes. We're running again tomorrow and I must accessorize appropriately.

Hope you're enjoying the holiday...happy Independence Day!

Loving Mom

2011-06-27T12:04:00.000-07:00

It's been a hard week for me. Mom said recently she's been feeling dizzy when she first wakes up, and isn't sure who or where she is, and doesn't know what to do.

These incremental losses are excruciating. Alzheimer's is called "The Long Goodbye." But that fails to capture the agony of watching a loved one slip out of reach. It's grieving in slow motion.

These are the things that have been on my mind lately.

*****

Mom, how greedy of me to want more mothering than what you've already given me. But I know you weren't done, either. What you had left to give was stolen from us both.

What a rich, deep life you've given each of your children, thick with memories of your smile, your scent, your body's warmth, your voice, your hands. All the synonyms for "nurture" flow through you like sap through birch limbs. Because your roots run so deep, we know you are in good hands.

*****

Seeing someone cry isn't the same as understanding their grief. Unless you too have stood on the precipice, the mouth of a gaping, dark, bottomless hole. Grief is a wide open mouth, crying too deeply to be heard. It's in the belly, reaching out toward things that can't be held.

*****

Monolithic - that's what Mom's become to me. An ideal, a heroine, a goddess. In real life she smells unwashed, she fidgets and stammers, her unshaven legs are scaly they're so dry. But in my mind's eye she's verdant and lush and happy and angelic. It's because I know the real person, the one hidden by dementia.

*****

Living in grief is bitter. But it concentrates everything. Pain is difficult and condensed. Beauty and appreciation are overwhelming, too. It's all breathtaking. A tea bag in hot water knows what I'm trying to describe.

*****

"What's the price of a pet canary? God cares what happens to it even more than you do. He pays even greater attention to you, down to the last detail - even numbering the hairs on your head. You're worth more than a million canaries."

Matthew 10:29-31

One of those days

2011-06-24T12:36:00.000-07:00

Source

Trying to appreciate the soil and darkness. Believing someday there will be fresh air, sunlight, and growth.

Reminders

2011-06-16T14:08:00.000-07:00

When I’m tired of telling myself “no more,"

When I’m sweating at Boot Camp,

When I’m sure exercise is going to give me an aneurism,

When I’m overwhelmed knowing this is going to take time,

Remember...

...I'm choosing to eat what I actually prefer

...Relationships are more important than size

Uganda, 2006

Auntie and Nephew (3 months old) March 2011

...I've completed even bigger goals

Table Mountain, Cape Town South Africa

Hiked December, 2005

...There are trips to look forward to this summer and fall

Lake Chelan, WA

... and cute bathing suits exist!

Source

May/June 21 day challenge

2011-06-13T16:52:00.000-07:00

Recap: inspiration came from here (blogger and runner Tricia wrote about how she lost over 120 pounds by starting with a short-term goal). I was inspired to try it myself.

Three weeks ago, I made the following goals (editorial comments included):

Cut out soda. I drink it because it’s in the house, not because I love it. It's an easy break-up since I don’t see any real future for me and Diet Coke. Meh. Easy place to start. I know water is better for me. I have a feeling if I were to Google “artificial sweeteners” I would have nightmares for a week.
Eat less LIFE Cereal and Wheat Thins. I know they are made with manna from heaven, but man shall not live on carbohydrates alone. The only portions that satisfy my cravings require mixing bowls-full. Too much. No more crates from Costco.
Less peanut butter.
More fruit. Appealing because fruit is DELICIOUS. Buy a juicer?
More veggies. Drink leafy greens? Raw foods until dinner? Natalia Rose and Cheri Calbom make a compelling argument for vital nutrients and overall health coming from liquefied vegetables. Too good to be true? Maybe. But I’m willing to give it a try.

Notes from my journal May 23rd:

My approach to weight loss needs to change. 'Cause I’m not losing any. My motivation can’t just be "Oh, it'd be nice to fit into cute clothes." The ideal size pair of pants that sat in my drawer for six years wasn’t enough. I found semi-cute XL clothes instead.

The good, healthy things that come with being skinnier need to be my GOAL not just nice by-products. I turn 30 next month. I don’t want to stay on the trajectory I’m on. Another few years, and I’ll be on a TLC show (not the funny kind), needing surgery or an intervention.

So, here we are, three weeks later. I did it! I haven't had soda or peanut butter or LIFE cereal in three weeks. I cut down on Wheat Thins and upped my fruit and veggie intake (this is the BEST time of year for eating raw food. The produce stands are overflowing). I drank lots of water, and started excersising again.

I tried some new things in the last 3 weeks:

Baked whole wheat bread in my bread machine. YUM. That's the way to replace white, overly processed bread. Unforeseen temptation: fresh, hot, whole wheat bread is best in large quantities and slathered in butter.
Bought goat's milk to use instead of Coffee Mate flavored creamer. Not terrible. Downside: made my coffee taste like cheese.
Started a new exercise program at the gym, sweating my heart out twice a week (week 2 of Boot camp starts tonight!). Lesson learned: I am way more motivated to be active when I'm with other people and accomplishing a task rather than simple repetition.
I tried to eat only raw food for the first half of the day. Instead of granola or toast for breakfast, or snacking on vending machine cookies, I ate bananas, oranges, strawberries, and cherries. YUM.
I started keeping water bottles (with straws) with me all day. I now have a water bottle at home that I refill first thing in the morning and when I get home, and another water bottle on my desk at work that I refill throughout the day. My record-setting day was 86 ounces. Lesson learned: space it out over the day instead of drinking 20 ounces in one sitting. I was running to the bathroom every 30 minutes.

The scale isn't showing evidence that I made any changes at all, but I'm OK with that. My thinking is changing, and my habits are changing, and I think that is where this all has to start. And I'm feeling better because I'm conscious of what I'm eating (instead of mindlessly munching) and I'm aware of how I feel based on my food and activity decisions throughout the day.

New goals for the next three weeks are percolating.

Giveaway winner!

2011-06-10T18:00:00.000-07:00

The winner of my Quitter giveaway is the lovely LISA!

As well as a reader of my blog, she is a blogger herself and also happens to be a real-life co-worker of mine. She is very deserving of this prize, number one because she is following her dream while keeping her day job as we speak and number two, she is the only participant in my giveaway who doesn't already own the book. :)

Check out her funny and fabulous blog, The Spice Pantry.

Happy reading, Lisa-lou!

The Help: Book of the month

2011-06-08T08:20:00.000-07:00

Synopsis: during the early 1960s a young white woman in Jackson, Mississippi interviews black maids in her community. Together, they write an anonymous book sharing life from the maids' perspective and in the process, redefine what they believe about friendship and identity.

I have had this book on my “to read” shelf for over a year. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that it wasn’t until I saw a preview for the based-on-the-book movie (to be released in August) that I picked it up for the first time.

The quotes on the back of the book made it sound depressing. Another poignant, painful novel about the South. But the movie trailer hooked me. I saw the frilly society ladies' homes; the dark, beautiful faces of the story tellers; the landscapes of cotton plantations and a city in the midst of the civil rights movement. It made me curious. One image shown during the preview was a front yard full of toilets. What's that all about?

As the trailer concluded, I realized one of the protagonist is a writer. SOLD! To the woman who judges books by their covers. I got home and started reading.

It’s a story steeped in it's setting. From the very first sentence, you know you’re in the deep south. Everything takes place in an unmistakable location: warm kitchens, spotless parlors, dusty roads, empty mansions, country clubs, and hot attic bedrooms. Food is a prominent theme, and the author (Kathryn Stockett) does a masterful job of placing the story in a specific era (brand names, clothing descriptions, stores, appliances, songs, societal changes, etc.). The details aren’t burdensome, they bring the story to life. No other book has inspired me to clean my whole house and bake cornbread from scratch.

The book is written from three different perspectives. And it’s seamless. The chronology wasn’t confusing at all. In fact, the three distinct voices helped round out the narrative: the journalist-hopeful doing the interviewing (Miss Skeeter) and her complex family and romantic relationships; a wise, compassionate middle-aged maid (Abilene) who lost her own son but loves helping to raise children; and a younger, spunky, "sass-mouthed" maid (Minnie) whose family life is filled with conflict and whose soul is filled with strength she's still discovering.

Oh! To be able to write like this! It kills me to read Kathryn Stockett's mini-biography on the dust jacket “…this is her first novel.” Such a blazing success of a first novel! The “New York Times Bestseller” stamp of approval is well deserved. Bummer it took me so long to join the club of fans.

And I just can't resist pointing out: we're a week into June, and I already finished a book! That alone could be my glowing recommendation for The Help.

Hooray for meeting goals (book reading aspirations explained here).

Healthy inspiration

2011-06-06T21:48:00.000-07:00

Want to know the most motivating thing I've read recently? This blog post: Endurance Isn’t Just Physical. I've followed the blog for months, most interested in the before and after weight loss photos, assuming that kind of success is a fluke. But the author didn't start out dramatic, she worked up to it with small goals. Baby steps, to quote Dr. Leo Marvin.

At Tricia's recommendation, I'm in the midst of my own 21 Day Challenge and so far, small goals and a small time frame have made healthy goals realistic for me. Another week to go, then I'll share.

In other health-news: tonight I started Boot Camp at the YMCA (Zumba's schedule changed last fall and I only went back once since then).

Boot Camp was brutal. But in a good, lung-filling, head-clearing way. The instructor is British. Exercise directions are SO much better with an accent. Circuit train with a Brit, if you can swing it. The hour was dignified but strict. Like Mary Poppins.

How awesome would it be to have Mary Poppins as a personal trainer?!

She'd probably sing "Just a spoonful of Sweet n Low Makes the Medicine Go Down."

The fast-paced portion would be "Supercalisthenicswillmakeyourabsferocious."

Bert the chimney-sweep would lead a special session called "Chin-Chin Adieu."

I think I'm on to something.

Friends in Blogland

2011-06-03T14:15:00.000-07:00

Come meet a favorite Blogger of mine (ElizabethEsther.com). She invites her readers to share their own favorite post on the first Saturday of every month.

Happy June!

Mother's Day

2011-06-02T21:11:00.000-07:00

My sister Olivia and I took Mom to Seattle on the 14th to celebrate Mother's Day with our grandma.

I don't know if I can describe what it was like to visit my 91 year old Grandmother with my 58 year old mother who has been living with Alzheimer's for 4 years. It was rough. A lot of stories got repeated. There were moments of disorientation (for all parties involved). It was like being with two caricatures of women I used to know.

It was also beautiful. Even with memory lapses and confusion about where we were and why, Mom and Grandma were happy to see each other. We laughed a lot. Aging has awakened a child-like appreciation of the world in both of them. There's nothing like Alzheimer's to force you to live "in the moment." And there were a lot of special moments on Saturday.

Mom always used to initiate our get-togethers. She and Grandma talked on the phone weekly for as long as I can remember. Since life has changed so dramatically in the last four years, they've only seen each other a handful of times.

Grandma was in denial for a long time about her daughter having Alzheimer's. She told us a few Christmases ago, "We just have to pray! She hasn't been healed because we don't have enough faith!" Less than helpful. It was easier to avoid big family gatherings.

But the years have softened some edges and Grandma made no such comments during this visit.

Seeing Mom in the role of daughter was the most like herself I've seen her in a long time: listening attentively to stories, sympathy for her mom's aches and pains, laughing in her good natured way.

Mom's calligraphy. A gift to Grandma many years ago.

There was a familiarity between Mom and Grandma that didn't require any introductions or recall of facts. They were comfortable together.

Mom gave Grandma a hug and, face to face, told her "I love you so much."

Grandma said, "I love you so much, too."

I was SO glad to be with Olivia. We handled the day beautifully together, and then both had emotional melt-downs the next day. It takes a toll.

But we were both happy to make it happen. It was the best gift we could have given.

Words just don't do justice to the amount of love and respect and admiration I have for these three women.

Quitter: Book of the month and a GIVEAWAY!

2011-06-02T11:08:00.000-07:00

If you don't love your current job, there's probably something you dream about doing instead. And if you read a book with the subtitle: "Closing the gap between your day job and your dream job," you might expect, as I did, to be told to quit today and immediately follow your heart to make all your wishes and dreams come true.

But that is not the message of this book. In Quitter, Jon Acuff (of Stuff Christians Like fame) provides a handbook for making the most of your current work situation and pursuing your dream job. By not quitting. Yet.

And he should know. He quit eight jobs in eight years. He discovered what worked: "by the last time I quit, I didn't have to say a word...that's how good I got. No two weeks' notice needed" and what didn't: "The first time, I took my boss out to dinner as if we were breaking up. It was amateur. It was also overkill" (page 3).

Before quitting your day job, Jon Acuff urges readers to define the goal (what is your dream job?) and make the best of the job you're in (as training for the job of your dreams and as a platform to dream big, not just to grin and bear it). He uses lots of stories from his own hilarious experiences. Including the opportunity to accept his very own dream job last year.

I loved this book. I don't know what my "dream job" is anymore, but I know there's lots of room in my life to incorporate more of the things I'm passionate about.

The two years I spent working with the African Children's Choir is hard to top. Being a chaperone for 24 children from Uganda was definitely a dream come true. That job had it all: travel, teaching, kids, music, Africa, Jesus, teamwork, meeting people, showbiz.

It also burned me out. That level of intensity was not sustainable. I loved (almost) every minute of it, but I came home exhausted.

But many of the same elements still lure me:
I miss teaching.
I miss my kids.
I miss traveling.
I miss knowing that what I did every day was meaningful in a big way.

I come alive when I get to participate in training at work. My heart rate quickens for any opportunity to create (whether it's a spreadsheet at my day job or a quilt in my free time). I love learning people's stories. I am drawn to other cultures (two of my current co-workers speak English as their second language, and when they answer a personal phone call in their first languages, I smile every time).

Reading Quitter got me thinking about my job. Not just my current position, but the idea that employment doesn't have to be a 40 hour-per-week chunk of time that is disconnected from the rest of my life. It's exciting.

Also exciting: Quitter is currently on the Wall Street Journal best sellers list! Jon Acuff just posted this update on his blog.

GIVEAWAY!

I'd love to share this book with you. I will give away my copy to a reader (chosen at random) who comments here and describes their dream job. This giveaway includes the hardcover book AND my post-it-note bookmarks. What a deal, huh? I'll announce the winner on Friday, June 10.

Accidental hiatus

2011-05-27T11:10:00.000-07:00

What? How did May slip past me? I haven't posted in four weeks. Sheesh!

Instead, I...

Had a mini vacation with Hubbins to celebrate our fourth anniversary. It was really restful to stay home this year, work on projects, spend time with friends, and hang out at our favorite pub.

Spent time with Mom while Dad was out of town. She really shouldn't be on her own anymore, so while Dad got a much needed break, my sister and I pitched in with Mom's daily routine. I was dreading it and expecting the worst, but I really enjoyed helping Mom get ready for bed each night, tucking her in, and saying a bedtime prayer. "Role reversal" just doesn't cover it. It was a really special time, which I'll say more about another time.

Sewed. A lot. My craft room is bursting at the seams with pillows and fabric and stray thread. Love it.

Started a new job (same employer, different position: back office instead of customer service). Big adjustment, but so far I'm happy with the change.

Celebrated Mother's Day with my sis, Mom, and Grandma (who turned 91 this year). This deserves a post of it's own, too.

Read. Book-per-month goal is coming along nicely. I'm excited to share my May book report!

New health goals. More than you ever wanted to know coming soon.

A reading year

2011-04-30T09:00:00.000-07:00

My husband is a hard-core reader. He read 100 books in the last twelve months (doubling the goal he made for himself a year ago last May).

I'm more of a flirtatious reader, fluttering from book to book, toying with a particular author, or playing hard to get when it comes to finishing the last chapter. I've written about this before. That post from a year ago lists books I still haven't read (but all the titles have hyper-links now, if you're curious).

But Hubbins is inspiring me. He is smart. He knows a ton, not surprisingly.

If you were on a high-stakes game show and you were given the chance to phone someone to help answer a trivia-based question, he'd be the one to call. I'd give you his phone number...if that kind of thing wasn't frowned upon here on the Internet.

When we were first dating, I thought he was making stuff up all the time, trying to impress me. He does that too (and it's maddening when I can't tell the difference between made-up-stuff-to-get-a-reaction and real facts) but for the most part, he is a wealth of reliable information. I remember thinking I might marry this guy when I was comfortable enough around him to ask, "I've never heard that word before. What does that mean?" He specializes in marine biology, history, apologetics, politics, and Star Wars Trivia among other things, because that's what he reads about most.

I followed this blog for a while, by a woman who read one book every single day in 2009. I'm not that ambitious. A book a month seems do-able (gosh that sounds measly next to Hubbins' hundred). Will you hold me to it? Will you recommend some titles?

I'm saying all this on my blog because I think posting my progress will be motivating. I'm looking forward to sharing my literary adventures with you.

Five Minute Friday

2011-04-29T12:25:00.000-07:00

If I knew I could, I would make a living sewing pillow tops and creating scrapbook pages. I would explode my Etsy shop to something that generated an income. I wouldn’t get bored doing the thing I love.

I would teach art to children.

I would go back to Africa. I would fly with my airplane-shy husband.

I would tell all the people I know (in real life and via blogs) how much they mean to me, how much they brighten my days.

I would plant a lemon grove, even in rainy Northwest Washington.

I would make pottery and paint it turquoise.

I would dry my laundry on a clothesline in the (scarce) sunshine.

I would collect blooming peonies all summer from my small garden.

I would write daily and make my blog something of cohesion rather than just random posts.

I would raise a bunny and train it to use a litter box. I’d build a hutch for the back porch since we don’t have a yard yet. I’d feed it carrots and lettuce and alfalfa pellets like I did when I was 8.

I’d spend more time with children and keep my perspective fun-loving and lively.

I would love my husband even more than I do today, coming up on our fourth anniversary next week.

I would be content with all the happy things that are already a part of my life. I know I can.

Something new!The Gypsy Mama posts a writing prompt every Friday. Anyone interested can submit their 5-minute essay.

Tid bits

2011-04-27T13:01:00.000-07:00

Last night I puttered in my garden for the first time this year. I pulled dandelions and a few other scruffy weeds. The earth was soft and the roots came up easily. I pulled dead leaves out of the nooks and crannies, and trimmed dead branches. There's nothing quite like the sight of green shoots that survived the winter (including a freak snow storm in April) who have made their way up to daylight again. I'm back to cheerleading as we pull out of the driveway for work in the morning: "Grow my little plants! You can do it!"

*****************************

Hubbins and I are eight chapters in and still enjoying Love and War. We read aloud together last night. Communication these days feels less like a claustrophobic closet and more like a meadow on a hilltop, where you can't even see the edges, just the beautiful place you're standing. I'm happy.

*****************************

I sewed this bowtie for my nephew on Saturday. He wasn't in the mood to model it for us, so his buddy the miniature pomeranian decided to try it out. No photos yet...just picture something along these lines:

I can't say it any better than this.

2011-04-24T10:38:00.000-07:00

If I was there that day

2011-04-23T09:05:00.000-07:00

Saturday morning. Sabbath. A dark day.

Jesus is dead. They crucified him. His mother and the other women and I waited to take his body, but by the time he was gone, it was too late. No time to even honor the dead. The tomb has been sealed and there are guards all around it.

Are we crazy? Was he crazy? Did he lie? Can I really be angry with him?

He made such a big difference and showed me what God is really like, but I was hoping all the references to God's Kingdom weren't just metaphors.

They killed him. I still can't believe it. He was mortal, just like the rest of us. I was hoping that, pushed to the limit, he'd do another miracle, jump down from that cross unscathed. The whole hillside would worship God in a beam of light from heaven. But instead the sky got dark as they mocked him. I waited for it, hoping for something dramatic, and watched through tears as his body gave in, knowing he had the power if he chose. Such pain he endured. Regardless of who he was, we loved him, and we watched it happen: his last breath, his death.

So now what? Were the last three years a waste? He started something and we all hoped he would finish it, but maybe this is what he knew would happen. Continuing on is up to us. Or maybe it was all in our heads. I don't know anymore. My head hurts from crying, and I can't think clearly.

WHY GOD, WHY? I miss him! He changed everything! And now he's gone. The grief is bottomless.

Sabbath rituals feel so familiar, but so forced today.

*******

Thank you Alece, for a new perspective.

Frankly, my dear...

2011-04-22T18:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I told Self-Esteem, "It's time to learn to swim."

Then I pushed her into the deep end of the pool.

***

I participated in "crazy hair day" at work. This is noteworthy (no really, it is) for two reasons:

1) My hair has long been a source of shame.

2) I've always assumed that Unnoticed = Acceptable and Conspicuous = Unacceptable.

But I'm debunking these myths.

It was "youth week" at work so we dressed up and decorated for a number of themes to make banking fun! And hip! I didn't participate in Sports Day (no jersey), or Clash Day (didn't have the guts to purposely dress tacky) or Rock Star Day (required knowledge of popular culture, of which I have none).

Crazy hair day I could do. I wasn't the only one. And I got more smiles and thumbs up and praise than I ever have. HA!!! Take that, insecurity! It was my attitude and participation that mattered more than feeling classy.

It was good confidence training to walk into the lobby looking like a Teletubby, greet my clients, and assist them with their financial needs (new safe deposit box, loan application, potential fraud). I wanted to laugh at myself to ease my own discomfort, but I carried on with business as usual.

It felt good to not give a damn.

Family Vacation, 2001

2011-04-20T10:42:00.000-07:00

Vacations near water were the best. Our shoreline at home in Northwest Washington was sheltered by the San Juan Islands and Puget Sound created a rocky, sea-weedy, barnacled barrier from full size waves. So we were excited to spend a few days camping on the Oregon coast. Things we loved about Oregon included No Sales Tax! Real Sandy Beaches! The Actual Pacific Ocean!

All seven of us piled into our Chevy Suburban with an elaborate seating arrangement based on age and number of pillows. Big kids sat in the way-back on the removable bench seat with pillows and blankets (in permanent recline-position); younger kids sat in the middle with backpacks full of travel games. Mom and Dad sat up front, manned the ship, and monitored snack-consumption. All the camping gear was stowed in a rented u-haul trailer we pulled behind the Suburban.

On the day I'm remembering, we were weary of traveling. We'd stayed with our Grandpa in eastern Washington for a sunny beginning to the vacation, and seen some beautiful territory along the nearly 300 miles from Wenatchee to Vancouver, Washington. It was hard to believe that the scraggly, brush-covered hillsides were in the very same state as our mossy, evergreen hometown. But it had been hours since our last stop, and we were all a little stir-crazy.

As we approached the I-5 bridge over the Columbia river, we predicted who could hold their breath the longest. In the tradition of road-tripping families across the country, we used the length of the bridge as our goal. The highway lifted above solid ground and the tree line zipped past us. All five kids inhaled loudly.

Then, silence. Except for Mom and Dad chatting up front and the sound of our nine passenger Suburban traveling at 70 miles per hour (not unlike a 747 at thirty thousand feet).

We glanced at each other to gauge our competition. My lungs began to burn. The seconds ticked slowly. Our faces turned red and our cheeks puffed out around pursed lips.

Somebody exhaled. One down. We tried not to look at each other, in case of laughing out loud.

Someone else exhaled. The two breathers compared their total time and watched the three remaining.

Two more exhaled, loud enough to sound like all three kids. The bridge ended and we crossed into Oregon.

Just as quickly as inspiration struck, we forgot our breath-holding game.

Except for Elliot. He continued holding his breath. Everyone else was facing forward talking about what our campsite might look like, but I watched him without drawing any attention, wondering how long he’d hold out.

Finally, in the loudest burst of breath yet, Elliot exploded.

Dad jumped in the driver’s seat, startled by the noise.

“Who was that?” Dad asked in a raised voice.

I assumed Dad was impressed by the landslide winner of the breath-holding contest. In an effort to give credit where credit was due, I yelled up to the front seat, “That was Elliot!!!”

As soon as I said it, I realized my mistake. Dad looked up into his rear view mirror to make eye contact not with the contest winner, but the culprit. Dad was not a fan of being startled, but I remembered this too late. Not that raising five kids would make a person jumpy; Dad had always been easy to scare (and always with negative consequences).

Elliot was still breathing heavily and recovering from his feat of lung strength, but he got an angry scolding.

I looked at him sympathetically and whispered, “Sorry.”

He shrugged knowing Dad wasn't really angry with him, just irritated from the scare.

But then I smiled, and quietly congratulated him on his record-breaking time.

***********************************************************

10 years later I still ask him, "Remember the time I got you in trouble for holding your breath?" The more years that pass, the harder we laugh.

Hair update

2011-04-15T18:42:00.000-07:00

Almost a year after meeting The Greatest Hair Stylist On Earth, my hairdo now involves COLOR! These pictures don't show it very well...but look! I have hair in front again!

Big improvement over this look, don't you think?

HA!

Colors I have loved

2011-04-13T22:00:00.000-07:00

What do these photos have in common?

My crib, before Mom and Dad brought me home from the hospital.
(Is it just the lighting that makes it look so sterile?)

Me in our wooden rocking chair with giraffe.

In our wing back chair with a straight-haired kid and a baby I don't remember.

Easter 1986 in matching dresses made by Mom

Age 7 with newborn sister

See the rainbow afghan in every picture? I didn't realize my parents had it as long as they did until I started flipping through my photo album this morning. I loved that blanket.

Which is why the gift I received over the weekend means so much to me.

My Mom-in-law crocheted an afghan for me, inspired by the one I discovered on this blog.

As soon as I saw the finished blanket, I remembered the rainbow-afghan. And now I have my very own.

Wrapped in my newest heirloom

Good words

2011-04-11T18:18:00.000-07:00

It is crucial to understand that the teachings of Jesus do not by themselves make a life. They were never intended to. Rather, they presuppose a life. - Dallas Willard

These words soothe me. They liberate me from defining myself through Christian-y actions; from measuring my worth based on how well I fit into church culture.

Remember this quote I posted in January?

Your beliefs will be the light by which you see, but they will not be what you see, and they will not be a substitute for seeing. - Flannery O'Connor

This is why it resonated with me: faith isn't a costume I can hide in, or a dialect I can use to blend in, or a hammer to bang on peoples' heads to get their attention. It isn't a happy meal or a prepackaged kit. Some assembly IS required. Batteries are NOT included. I'm grateful for that.

Faith has to be worked out and wrestled to the floor and slowly allowed to have influence.

Paradox

2011-04-07T16:02:00.000-07:00

For the majority of my life everything fit into categories. Right or wrong. Holy or secular. Providence or punishment. Us or them.

My world isn't so black and white anymore. The older I get, the more grey areas I discover. I'm not satisfied with the kind of simplistic explanations I heard in Sunday School (where the answer to every question was either "Jesus!" "Read the Bible!" or "Pray!").

My wonderful, God-fearing, selfless mother is being eaten alive by Alzheimer's. Where's God's grace in that situation? Why do her retirement years have to be spent waiting for someone else to determine when she can leave the house, instead of traipsing the globe in freedom and independence?

The family rules and absolutes I used to measure myself against have all changed. Were we overzealous as children or are we off-track as adults? If the yardstick I've measured my success against is gone, where does that leave me?

I married the love of my life and we followed all the rules to make the most of our engagement, but marriage is still hard. Why do I often feel like I've lost any ability to communicate with the one I love?

I crave community but can't stand shaking hands, singing pleasantries and smiling on Sunday morning. Where do I find down-in-the-trenches-with-you friendship? I don't meet people I could call in the middle of the night during a crisis when I go to church. I meet people I can wave to across the parking lot.

So my prayers sound like this these days. Raw.

I'm learning that life is hard AND God is good. The two aren't mutually exclusive, surprisingly enough.

Zippo vs. Blowtorch

2011-04-06T16:21:00.000-07:00

When I was 3 years old, I sang this song in Sunday School:

This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine.
Hide it under a bushel? NO! I'm going to let it shine.
Don't let Satan blow it out! I'm going to let it shine.
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

I don't know if I could define "bushel" even now, but the message of the song is still burned in my memory: be an example to others and share your faith with people who don't believe.

“Sharing your faith” is a loaded phrase. It’s not like sharing your lunch, or sharing a funny story. When it’s FAITH you’re sharing, things take a drastic turn for the serious. I’ve heard a lot of church-folk use this phrase casually, but the implication when it’s said among Christians is anything but casual. Kind of like “sharing” the Heimlich maneuver with a choking person: “this is going to be uncomfortable for us both, but you’ll thank me later.”

This kind of sharing was a big deal for me when I started attending community college. I was 16, still a high school student, fresh out of home school. It was the first secular setting I'd spent any time in. The same month I started college, my church launched an evangelism campaign that included a media blitz, literature to distribute, training, scripts, and all kinds of impetus to go into the community and save souls.

I believed (and still do) that it was a helpful endeavor, like a search and rescue mission. But in my immaturity and wide-eyed paranoia outside my protective Christian bubble, I obsessed over making every conversation an opportunity. I didn't want to take my salvation for granted, nor deny anyone else assurance about eternity simply by staying silent. But, oh, did it wreak havoc on my conscience. I interpreted every impulse or nudge to speak up as conviction direct from God. It was miserable. "This little light" became an obsession.

In my art class that first quarter, we were allowed to bring CDs to play while we painted. A classmate played an Alannis Morriset album (I was horrified and though I didn't understand any of the lyrics, they all sounded angry). I brought a Jars of Clay mix tape and watched the classroom for signs of recognition or softening.

One art assignment was to find interesting textures around campus. In the library, I used my charcoal crayon and newsprint to transfer the texture of flooring tiles where they formed a "T." I held it up to show my classmate. "Look, a cross!"

I gave the Four Spiritual Laws booklet to another classmate, with some stalker-ish (but sincere) explanation that I wanted him to be truly happy.

On New Year's Eve that winter, I had a panic attack while visualizing another classmate going to hell. I’d never had a conversation with her, but I had her phone number from a class get-together she organized. I called her at midnight. Thankfully, she didn't answer, and by the time I saw her again on campus, the compulsion had passed and I said nothing.

The list of examples goes on.

When I transferred to University three years later, I started attending a campus church that met in a lecture hall. Those of us interested in getting together with a smaller group of peers were divided by dorm into Bible study groups for a second weekly meeting. Our group leader also met with us individually. The focus of the campus group was relationships, built within the three weekly scheduled gatherings. But the relationships were flimsy at best. I started to feel like a number rather than someone these peers actually wanted to hang out with. I felt like a project. It was the opposite of what I was looking for. I began to realize what it felt like to be on the receiving end of sharing.

I'm not consumed anymore by missed opportunities to share. I don't advertise my theological preferences on T-shirts or bumper stickers. Instead, I find myself drawn to subtle expressions of faith in others. People who are sincere capture my attention. Honest admission of struggle (instead of pretending everything is OK) is refreshing. A sense of humor is always appealing. Evidence that someones life has been improved by a relationship with God is more compelling than a speech.

I've stopped shining spotlights into the eyes of everyone I meet. Now I look for fireflies instead.

Ira Glass, Billy Mays, and Jesus

2011-04-04T12:41:00.000-07:00

Ira Glass got me thinking about faith over the weekend.

On Saturday I spent most the day in my craft room sewing and listening to This American Life via podcast. One episode was called "Bait and Switch" - stories about people taking the bait, falling for scams, or being tricked. The portion that had my full attention was about evangelism. It was SUPER interesting to hear this topic discussed in documentary-style by Ira Glass. One of the producers talked about tactics he’d used as a college student in an evangelical organization: a survey meant to strike up spiritual conversations or an event with a hidden agenda (been there, done both).

The producer talked about a beach party he helped organize. Girls in bikinis handed out fliers inviting anyone interested to drop by a luau later that day. Mid-way through the party (a series of wholesome skits), several people stood up and started talking about what a big difference God had made in their lives. The guests looked at each other and realized, "This is a gimmick. These girls aren’t ‘on the market.’ This is the exact opposite of what we came here for!"

Proselytism is a subject I'm familiar with (as a former proponent) and hyper-sensitive about (as a current opponent). My problem isn’t the message of Christianity, which is chock full of benevolence, second chances, and peace. But the message is totally lost when it’s delivered like a marketing ploy. I hate the stereotype that every Christian is a crazy televangelist in disguise, and the actual emphasis many churches put on "witnessing." Blech. It makes church feel like a pyramid scheme.

It seems to me that the really important things in life are communicated in multiple ways, person to person, in the context of friendship. I don't know about you, but I don't make decisions based on a single billboard, or a guilt-laden forwarded email, or because a used car salesman says my name three times in a sentence and makes eye contact.

Example: I use OxyClean because my mother in law showed me how much it whitened her vintage linens. I bought a tub of it based on her recommendation as someone I trust and the evidence I saw for myself, not because Billy Mays inspired confidence or used clever marketing tactics and eventually wore me down through volume and repetition.

The other thing that bothers me about being overly (obnoxiously) verbal about personal beliefs is the tendency to brag, or take on the attitude "Be like me!" The idea that my life should be a shining example to others puts all kinds of pressure on me to act as if I have it all together. The result is that I become less authentic instead of more authentic. I can spot this a mile away in other people, too. Nothing bugs me more than unreasonably cheerful people who always mention "blessings" or name-drop while describing how good God has been in their recent experience. My assumption is always that people like this are exaggerating simply to evangelize me.

What about you? Does the phrase "authentic faith" sound like a trendy church phrase or an oxymoron?

Does my ending a blog about faith with an open-ended question feel like a gimmick?

Family party: Happy birthday Elliot!

2011-03-29T21:04:00.000-07:00

Grandma

Brother Ian

Surprise visit from my nephew! I love the look on Mom's face.

No more kids in the family! We're all a bunch of big people now.

Happy 19th, Elliot. Hope it's your best year yet. I love you.

I've posted more St Patrick's Day photos here.

Recipe for potato lovers

2011-03-29T20:17:00.000-07:00

On St Patty's Day we successfully recreated our favorite pub's recipe (if you like baked potatoes or nachos, you're going to love this). I took pictures to share with you.

IRISH NACHOS

We lined our cookie sheet and broiling pan with foil for easier clean-up.

We used 10 lbs of potatoes...

...but you don't have to prepare that many at once.

See how fun it is to clean potatoes?!

Slice potatoes into wedges (leave skin on), 1/4" to 1/2" thick.
Too thin, and they'll burn. Too thick, and they won't cook evenly.

Drizzle with a little olive oil, toss to coat.

Sprinkle with garlic powder and Johnny's seasoning to taste
(OK to use lots; it gets "diluted" as all the moisture cooks out of the potatoes).
Bake for 30 minutes at 350 F.

While potatoes are in the oven, cook bacon.
This is a whole package (again, for a huge batch) on the George Foreman.

After 30 minutes, check potatoes: make sure olive oil is distributed evenly so they don't stick to the foil.
Rearrange any slices that are getting over-cooked along the edges.
Keep cooking for another 30 minutes or until potato wedges are soft.

Potatoes may be saved in the fridge for future use, or transferred to another pan without olive oil
(they shouldn't be wet).

After bacon is cooked (till crispy) and cooled, break into chunks.

Spread cooked potatoes on a cookie sheet without olive oil
(what you've used so far should have absorbed).
Sprinkle with cheese (we use Mexican blend grated cheese).
Sprinkle with bacon.
Bake at 350 F for another 10 minutes or so
(long enough to reheat potatoes if necessary, but brief enough to melt cheese without over-cooking potatoes).

DONE!
Serve with sour cream and chives.
Enjoy.

Life

2011-03-25T10:11:00.000-07:00

We had friends over for St Patrick's Day and served Irish Nachos, Guinness bread, bratwurst and sauerkraut (sort of a St-Patty's-Day-Oktoberfest-hybrid meal). I love hosting parties. St. Patrick's Day is in Hubbins' top 4 "Holidays Worth Celebrating" so it was a win-win (the others in that list are 4th of July, Halloween, and Shark Week).

We had a three day weekend (part of Hubbin's holiday planning) and it felt wonderful. I sewed all three days: pillows for a friend using fabric she found (a $1.99 remnant from Goodwill was redeemed as four themed pillows for her movie room) and tackled a pattern for PJs. Picture MC Hammer pants on a clown. That's what they look like, but sooo comfy.

Got together with girlfriends on Saturday and bought my first grown up purse through Miche. No more fanny pack on a shoulder strap for me. I'm living on the edge, folks.

Argued with Hubbins on Sunday over a stupid miscommunication (the cause of 99.9% of our marital conflict) and was angry for two days. Talked it over Monday night and resolved a bunch of stuff. Highly recommend this book we're reading together; it prompted a conversation about how we ~~fight~~ approach conflict individually and how we sabotage ourselves without even realizing it (metacommunication at its finest). Whoa. Blew my mind.

I'm so grateful it's Friday! Coming up this weekend: birthday party at our house for baby brother who turned 19 this week, snuggle time with that nephew of mine, and this little treasure that just arrived from Amazon.com (bestillmyheart):

What are your weekend plans?

Projects

2011-03-13T14:52:00.000-07:00

What a productive weekend.

I made two pillow covers, using this fabulous (free) pattern from Denyse Schmidt. I LOVE this woman's style and color choice and modern take on quilting. No dusty rose calico or lacy crap here.

I finally finished my granny square afghan (remind me not to start one of these again.....months and months worth of crocheted squares were a pain). Feels good to have it done. Only thing left to do is have it blocked so it lays flat. I just made up all the seams as I went, but it passes the cozy-enough-to-fall-asleep-with-on-the-couch test, so I'm happy.

I panicked a couple of weeks ago, when I started putting the squares together. I was afraid it was going to be teensy and not even cover my legs. It ended up being about 5 ft by 4 ft. Perfect. It's heavy. I hope I can keep the cats off it so I don't have to wash it anytime soon. It's all cotton, and I don't want it to end up looking like a giant wash cloth.

I made my nephew a mini duvet cover (44" x 49") without a pattern. Pretty pleased with how it turned out!

Sorry about the pastels, kiddo. I ran out of blue and green. When you're older I'll make you something more masculine.

Ivan approves.

Wonder of wonders, I figured out button holes! I had to download the owners manual to my hand-me-down sewing machine, but I found what I needed, and voila.

Other images from a fantastic weekend:

Our couch doubles as a kitty bunk bed

Spring, is that you?

Ash Wednesday

2011-03-11T15:59:00.000-08:00

Wednesday night, I went to Mass with my mother-in-law's boss.

I'd never been to Mass before. And I'd never spent time with my mother-in-law's boss (except for a baby shower we both attended).

I told Mom-in-law a few months ago that I was curious about Catholicism. She said her boss (and close friend) was a devout catholic, and she'd probably take me. So I got to attend Mass on Ash Wednesday.

First impressions:

Silence (no talking amongst the congregation before the service other than very low whispers)
Bright (all the lights were on)
Gold (lots of shiny stuff up front)
Candles (they stood for things, but I'm not sure what)
Respect (everybody knelt at the end of their pew before sitting)
Interactive (the congregation said stuff out loud in response to the priest)
Scripted (the whole year's readings and order of events is published in advance)

What a contrast to the protestant, evangelical mega-church I'm used to attending where the volume is loud, the lights are off, and the attendees are spectators in theater seating.

I didn't really understand what Ash Wednesday even meant. Here's what I learned: Ash Wednesday...
...is one of Catholocisms' Holy Days of Obligation
...is the first day of Lent
...is 40 days before Easter.

Lent is about repentance, reflection, gratitude and contentment. The priest (who had an awesome Irish accent) said, "Before giving up typical things for lent (like candy, alcohol, overeating, etc), give up sin." He said by sacrificing habitual sins, the next 40 days can result in individual transformation.

The decor on stage inside the simple church building (built in 1902) was ornate and kingly. The front of the building (the "stage") looked like a throne room. I was curious about what all those features were called and why they were significant: the table where the priest prepared communion, the pillars and shelves and "backdrop" behind that, the three dimensional "last supper" artwork against the front piece, with clean-shaven Jesus and his disciples all mid-sentence, eating a meal from one loaf and one cup.

Everyone knelt on fold-out knee benches, touched their faces, crossed themselves, prayed silently with palms together. We looked like children learning to pray, exaggerated and earnest. I wasn't quite sure where all the genuflecting was directed. Life size statue-Jesus with an outstretched hand? Small gold-Jesus hanging on a cross? Little box where the sacrament went after communion (kind of crypt-like)?

In the middle of the service, we made two single-file lines and the priest put ash on our foreheads, in a little cross. Every time he did this, he repeated "Turn from sin and follow the gospel." He was fast, reaching for the first person in each line in quick succession as we filed past him. I liked the rhythm of his voice, varying only slightly in cadence. "TURNfromsin and FOLLowthegospel."

When it was time for communion, I stayed in my seat and felt awkward. I didn't know the rules about communion for catholics, but thought it was best to err on the side of caution. Plus, everyone was sipping from the same goblet. That seemed archaic. Granted, little individual plastic cups with less than an ounce of grape juice (in the communion services I'm familiar with) hardly seemed reverent in comparison.

After being given bread and wine, people came back to their seats and prayed. When I knelt to pray like everyone else, I was crunched between the pews. I almost kicked over the kneeling bench in the row behind me. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore all the temptation of watching people receive the elements, which felt like spying. I had to consciously visualize the Jesus familiar to me: a Keith Green, parable-telling, bearded hippie character. Much more casual. He seemed inappropriate in that setting. I pictured Jesus as an earthy guy, using things like wheat and plowed dirt and sheep to illustrate his points.

I realized the church setting represented the respect and investment of the clergy and congregation. The building we were in wasn't supposed to recreate Jesus' surroundings to make him feel at home (unless that was meant to look heavenly). It was a sign of respect for someone loved and admired. It made me wonder about the laid-back, "seeker-friendly," coffee-serving comfort zone of the church I'm used to.

My mother in law's boss talked about her faith very easily. Her Catholicism was an aspect of her life she had no difficulty describing. I liked that. What made the service special was the sincerity of her faith. She said finding this church felt like coming home. I could see the same appreciation and relaxed reverence in others, too. Nothing felt forced.

It made me want to cry, for the absence of that kind of contentment in my own life, and out of gratitude. Christian faith lives on, even though my own has been long neglected. The rhythm of the service (standing, kneeling, praying, singing, listening, responding) was unfamiliar to me, but I could see the appeal of the repetition. I recognized that the significance of each portion of the service depended on the participants, not the ritual itself.

Next time I attend my own church, I'm going to remember that what I get out of a service depends on what I bring to it: cynicism, criticism, and my silent stream of editorial comments don't lend themselves well to faith-building. What I saw at Mass was dedication, buy-in, investment of time, receptivity.

That's what I want, whether the setting is casual, "Shake hands with someone you didn't drive here with!" or liturgical, "Peace be with you."

And also with you.

Embrace the inner nerd

2011-03-09T08:15:00.000-08:00

We woke up earlier than we usually do on a Sunday. My husband was excited for our comicon day trip; I wanted to allow time to stop for coffee. He was ready to go at 7:00 am, even though he told me the night before he wanted to leave "a little before 8:00." We left the house with plenty of time to stop (7:35 was all the longer he could stall) so we started the day at our favorite sci-fi themed donut shop.

On the drive to the convention center, we listened to Dr Horrible's Sing Along Blog, to get us in the mood. "Everyone's a Hero" is my favorite song.

The convention center was busy, but not overflowing like it was the first two days of comicon, according to news reports. We met two of my brothers there. Hubbins had some serious shopping to do (all the vendors want to get rid of their inventory on the last day, you know). So I spent time browsing with these two handsome gentlemen.

People in costumes were very willing to pose for photos

I took the sketch in front that says "Batman was here"

A very tiny Jawa looking at toys

Contrary to popular belief (held by me) there was no single stereo-type present. I remembered that the event was described as the "Premiere Comic Book and Pop Culture Convention," so the appeal was widespread.

Imagine my surprise when I felt right at home.

I expected the majority of attendees to be basement-dwelling, computer-game-playing, movie-quoting, social-skill-lacking teenage boys. I expected to have some fantastical counter-cultural experiences. I worried about conversations in Klingon without a translator. I was afraid of what might happen when thousands of awkward people got together. Would fight or flight instincts be triggered? Would they stampede?

Nobody stampeded. (Although, at 10 am sharp, the organizers let all the vendors know via public address system "we're opening the doors!" and someone played the familiar "start the races!" song on a trumpet. I didn't expect live music.)

Everywhere I looked vendors were selling witty T shirts and mouse pads and laptop decals.

"Nerd" isn't a subculture, or a minority, or an affliction. It's a celebrated social status. The jargon was specialized, the inside jokes were nuanced, and most of it went right over my head. But there was a lot of personal pride in that convention center. I recognized the sense of accomplishment and community. The emphasis was on achievement: high scores, intricate artwork, replicas, and collections. The mood was cheerful and congratulatory. And everyone had a "team:" DC, Marvel, Dark Horse comics; zombies; steampunk; anime; Buffy; Star Wars; Star Trek; every subcategory was represented, including the good guys and the bad guys.

Hubbins told me he almost saw an epic battle take place. A tiny Darth Vader (a 4 or 5 year old in full costume) with an oversize helmet and light saber was walking with his parents, when a tiny Jedi walked by with his parents. The Jedi took his role very seriously, and without provocation, lunged at Darth Vader. Darth was goofing around, and didn't see Jedi coming. The parents intervened before things got ugly, but had to drag the little Jedi away from the altercation.

In my last post, I mentioned the 501st Legion. Well. They were, by far, my favorite. They win the prize for most accessible, friendliest, nerdiest, coolest part of my day.

They had a photo station set up with a movie-photo backdrop. Various characters posed for a professional photo for a $5 donation to charity. The "extras" in costume wandered around for photos too.

Me and scout

Me and pilot

The caution tape behind us says "Imperial Occupied Zone"

My brother had his picture taken with the stars from Boondock Saints, Hubbins found some great deals, and my brothers and I were inspired by the skill and gumption of self-marketing artists and enthusiasts.

There was little bit of everything in the way of art at the convention. I steered clear of the really gory, sexual, or absurd stuff (of which there was 'lots) but I took business cards from all these artists. I've brazenly copied and pasted these pictures, so follow the links and check out their work. Some very cool stuff.

http://mikeatron.com/

http://drakebrodahl.com/

http://britsketch.blogspot.com/

http://fleetstreetscandal.com/

http://krakenstudios.blogspot.com/

Just look at this painting. Who comes up with this stuff? A genius, that's who.
http://www.pyramidcar.com/

I had a great time. I could have stayed longer. We're already planning next year's expedition. Maybe we'll come up with our own costumes.

But nothing can top this:

This weekend...Emerald City Comicon

2011-03-04T09:18:00.000-08:00

Don't be jealous: this weekend, I'm going to the annual comics convention in Seattle.

As you may recall, I married a nerd. My first comicon experience was still an eye-opener. I wrote all about it here.

When my husband asked me a few months ago if I would go with him to Seattle this year, I said yes with one condition: that I attend the event as an investigative journalist, with my camera, in order to blog all about it.

Now it's only a few days away and I'm wondering what I got myself into.

Hubbins has expressed his excitement multiple times this week. He asked me why I'm not as eager as he is.

I explained, "Imagine if I took you antique shopping for a day."

He protested my analogy without answering the question. "It's not the whole day."

"How long will we be there?" I asked.

"Two to four hours."

"How long will we spend anticipating it on the drive to the convention center and re-living it on the drive back?"

"Two hours each way" he answered cheerfully.

"See?" I said. "All. Day."

I confessed I was nervous.

"Oh yeah, you've never been to one of these, have you?" he asked.

"Only the local one two years ago!"

"Yeah," he said, "This is going to be a hundred times bigger."

Gulp. "It's like mecca for nerds!"

The whole event glorifies all the things I'm so grateful that he isn't into like costumes, fan-worship, comic book celebrities, and a whole life that revolves around fictional characters.

"I know," he responded. "Won't it be great?!"

Sigh.

I'm an Anne-of-Green-Gables loving, afghan crocheting, cookie baking, memoir-reading kinda girl. But I must admit I am excited knowing that William Shatner and Larry Hama will be there and so will the 501st Legion (did you know this existed? I had no idea. I'll try to get my picture taken with one of them). Stay tuned for a full report.

Next weekend, I'm lobbying for the Antique Mall.

Vineyards: part 2

2011-03-02T10:30:00.000-08:00

Part 1

Part 2
After I proved I was a competent weed-puller in the vegetable garden, the Vineyards asked me work in the more delicate garden where they grew flowers. The flower garden was against their detached garage, a very old building with a low ceiling. It was crammed full of tools. In the garage I’d collect my 10-gallon bucket to put weeds in and a trowel or shovel (depending on the depth of the roots). Then I’d start, usually in the front of the garden. This is where the shorter flowers grew; violets, pansies, snapdragon seedlings, candy tuft, and forget-me-nots. I’d work my way toward the back of the garden (usually two or three days of weeding) until I was under the six-foot-tall delphiniums, foxglove, and hollyhocks.

In the center of the garden was a small wooden arbor. It covered a portion of the brick pathway that ran lengthwise through the middle of the garden, and gave a little shade to the birdbath nearby. Honeysuckle grew on that arbor. The scent was powerful and unmistakable. It reminded m of my piano teacher’s house when I was six years old; honeysuckle grew along the walkway leading up to her front steps. Now the scent evokes a double-memory: piano practice and weeds.

Working in the sun for the better part of a day was hot and achey. But my arms got tan and it felt good to be making visible progress. When the ten gallon bucket was full, I’d haul it behind the barn on the other side of the Vineyard’s property and dump it on the yard-waste pile. There was a chicken coop alongside the barn and I’d toss a few succulent greens to the chickens, which they chirped over and pecked at happily. Chickweed was their favorite.

After a few hours of work, I’d take a break. Margie would invite me inside and I’d wash up before eating a snack. I tried not to track too much dirt into the laundry-room or bathroom. I’d wash my hands, splash a little water on my sun-burned face, and blow my nose. I knew it was a successful day of work if I had dirt in my snot. “That’s how hard I’m working” I told myself. The tiny bathroom smelled like my Grandma’s did: ivory soap and talcum powder. I’d wipe the dirty puddles I’d made off the edge of the sink.

Margie would serve me a snack, and we’d visit. She had 2-liter bottles of off-brand soda. I could tell from the lack of carbonation that they’d been in the pantry for more than a little while. Ken watched TV in the living room, where the blinds were drawn to keep it cool.

Vineyards: Part 1 and a writing update

2011-02-23T08:52:00.000-08:00

Their name was appropriate: Vineyard. I would announce to Mom as I walked out the front door, “I’m going to work at the Vineyard’s!” But I wasn’t going to the French Riviera or an Italian hillside or Napa Valley; I was riding my bike half a mile to Ken and Margie Vineyard’s house, to work in their yard.

I was 14 the summer they hired me. They paid really well (compared to babysitting, lawn-mowing, or cutting cartoons out of The New Yorker for my Dad’s humor collection). I felt a little guilty for taking their cash. So I was meticulous with my hours and calculated the time I worked to the minute. I’d write my start time on a post-it note and jam it into my jeans pocket. By the time I pulled it out again to record quitting time for the day, the post-it wasn’t sticky anymore, and the adhesive had collected a bunch of dirt.

That first summer, I weeded the Vineyard’s vegetable garden. We had been the happy recipients of free produce from them for several years, since Mom had befriended them on her daily walks through our neighborhood. They hired me to help keep the garden maintained since they were my grandparents’ age, and couldn’t spend as much time stooped over their veggies as they wanted. So I did, crouched on my haunches or hands and knees, moving between the rows lined with grass-clipping mulch.

I pulled chickweed from between scratchy cucumber vines, uprooted dandelions without uprooting green beans, and removed thistles hidden under large pumpkin leaves. The soil was dry and sandy. I had the warm, dusty smell of earth in my nostrils and dirt under my fingernails.

This is one of the pieces I started this month. Keeping my 15 minute daily writing appointment has given me all kinds of literary momentum. I’ve been reading and writing way more than usual (I’m spending more time in my craft-room-turned-reading-nook with a glass of wine, Pandora radio, and a journal than I am sprawled on the couch in front of the TV).

Labeling each writing session is super helpful. Here are a few headings I’ve used so far:

Whenever I Forget Something, I Panic
Letter to my Nephew (11 days old)
Letter to Lisa Genova (author of Still Alice)
Letter to My Mom (I miss you)
Remembering Uganda
Stream of Consciousness Update
Good Excuses for Not Writing

Broad range of topics, right? More writing to come.

Valentine's

2011-02-15T12:50:00.000-08:00

How was your weekend? Do anything special for Valentine's Day?

Saturday morning, a friend and I baked a kitchen full of cookies. Edible Valentine's are the best, if you ask me.

I also got to spend time with my kissable new nephew (three weeks old).

Peace out

Hope your week is going well. I'm off to my daily writing appointment...I've had a 93% success rate so far. Saturday was the only day I didn't write. I figure my excuses are valid (see photos above).

Happy mid-month!

My favorite couples

2011-02-12T00:00:00.000-08:00

Jim and Pam

Leia and Han

Phil and Claire

Rosie and Sam

Me and You

Happy Valentine's Day, honey. I love you.

Things I love this week

2011-02-03T12:50:00.000-08:00

Found here

Tutorial here

More pencil/photo art here

Found here

More here

Found here

February Project: Write Daily

2011-02-01T15:48:00.000-08:00

My new mentor is encouraging me to write daily.

Writing every day is the key to becoming a writer. Writing every day is the key to remaining a writer. It is the only secret, the only trick. Don't despise the fifteen-minute write. Don't despise writing in your journal. Don't despise writing down your complaints for fifteen minutes before going to work. Any writing counts.

It keeps you connected to your writing no matter what else is going on in your life. The fifteen-minute write makes the difference between being a writer and wishing to be a writer.

-Priscilla Long

So, without further ado, I'm going to write for at least 15 minutes every day this month. I brought a little notebook to work today that I scribbled in on my lunch break. Off to a good start.

More advice (page 16):

In your notebook, begin each practice session on a new page. Date each session and when you're finished, if obvious, give the writing a descriptive title or label. These labels become clarifying when you are looking back through your notebooks for themes, concerns, bits of writing.

"Bits of writing." I have lots of that. But I'm narrowing down my focus. Since my biggest and brightest ideas strike while I'm at work, I thought my lunch hour was a good time.

I'm excited.

Mom is Resilient

2011-01-28T10:16:00.000-08:00

Mom’s birthday was last week so my sister and I took her out for lunch. There’s strength in numbers. I told my sister recently that I wish I was as patient as she is with Mom. Sis takes it all in stride and smiles and soothes and makes Mom feel comfortable. I cringe and avoid eye contact and bite my tongue to keep from crying.

Mom needs help getting in and out of the car. She has a hard time with steps and moves slower than she ever has. She fumbles and can barely feed herself. Her speech is broken and often trails off into nonsense as she loses track of what she was saying. She’s easily distracted and comments on odd things.

The amount of patience it requires to spend time with her is excruciating to me. It’s hard to distinguish the pain of seeing her struggle with the frustration of having to help. Bottom line is that I’m angry. Being around her churns up all my anger over the unfairness of her disease. I try to make Mom laugh and stay light hearted but often it’s a false happiness I model. She can no longer tell that I’m faking it.

My sister told me that her patience took practice.

So I cut myself some slack on our outing and allowed myself to be out of practice. We had fun! Mom is still in such good spirits. She LOVED seeing us and said repeatedly, "My girls! I miss you!" We fussed over her and helped her change into a fleece jacket. She put on her new slip-on shoes with gel soles which she loves. My sister fixed her hair. Mom told us that Dad said to let us help her style it after he blow-dried her hair that morning. It still looked like she'd slept on it.

We said goodbye to Dad around 2:30pm and I said, "don't wait up!" Mom was all smiles.

Mom got into the car without any help, probably because she was excited and didn't over-think the mechanics of maneuvering into the seat. We buckled her seat belt and pulled out of the driveway, commenting on the new neighbor's changes to the property next door. There were backhoes and trucks in their driveway. The lilac bushes I loved as a kid were all gone. Mom said, "I worry about Zelda [the cat] getting out. They have lots of dogs."

We had a late lunch in one of our favorite restaurants. We took a bunch of pictures of each other at the table while we waited for our food. We joked and told Mom stories. She loved listening, like any mother would. Her sense of humor isn't gone and she laughed over our exaggerations, miscommunication with our husbands, cooking foibles, and adventures at work. And when we repeated stories, she enjoyed them just as much the second time around.

We were talking about headaches and I told my sister, "Maybe sneezing really hard would help; you could just shoot it right out your nose."

Mom frowned and said, "Oh, goodness" with the exact same inflection I'm used to. That's always been her indirect way of saying, "Ick! Stop it!" It was nice to hear that familiar phrase, as if she was good-naturedly scolding me like she did when I was a kid.

After eating, we did some antique shopping. I was worried Mom might break something, but she followed us around the store without help and gently touched the things that caught her eye. I felt like a parent as I supervised her. We laughed over the weird things we saw and pointed out the dishes and fabric that reminded us of family friends or grandparents.

I caught Mom looking at me a few times and when we made eye contact, she smiled really big. It was obvious she missed us and was happy to be with her daughters for the afternoon. It was really healing for me, too: relieved the guilt I was feeling about avoiding discomfort. I genuinely enjoyed myself.

It was a really nice time. I love and admire you, Mom.

Survey

2011-01-26T13:19:00.000-08:00

This quote stopped me in my tracks when I read it a week and a half ago. It's been ringing in my ears ever since.

"Your beliefs will be the light by which you see, but they will not be what you see, and they will not be a substitute for seeing."

-Flannery O'Connor

I'm curious - what does it mean to you?

Interesting things happen at work

2011-01-23T08:30:00.000-08:00

Why is it that I have the most ideas for writing when I’m at work? My mind is just bursting with images and phrases I want to get down, but of course I can’t spend the day online. When I get home I’m too tired. I'm a loan officer at a local financial institution. I open new accounts and process loan applications so I meet lots of interesting people.

I met a case worker who came in with a client I helped last week. She was my hero, I’d just never met her before. She was good-humored, sarcastic, didn’t get swept up by irritation, and seemed like a really fun person to be around. Today I helped a preschool teacher who I assumed was older than me (she had that coolness about her that I’m so used to looking up to). She was a year younger than me. She was really expressive but soft spoken (like…the perfect preschool teacher). We clicked. I also helped an elderly women whose husband had recently passed away. She came in with her son and daughter in law to take care of her late husband's accounts. I tried to be efficient and patient, even though her son was on edge and didn’t like being in my office as long as he was. I got flustered and made mistakes. At least the lady and her daughter in law were nice.

I feel the need to explain myself in tense situations like that. There’s this welling up of justification and I want to blurt, “Hey, this is a delicate process, and it’s confusing because our computer system doesn’t update every account by default. I have to go into each one of your individual records in each of your individual accounts, so chillax. It takes TIME to reconcile a person‘s accounts when they die.” Of course, because I’m a good employee who values her job, I just smiled and worked silently.

The longer I'm under pressure to hurry, and the more a person I'm helping is antsy or irritated, the higher my anxiety spikes. I get sweaty and flushed and angry.

These are the kinds of scenarios you do NOT mention during a job interview when you’re asked “how do you perform under pressure?”

My anxiety

Instead, you should talk about how much you enjoy helping preschool teachers and social workers.