It was air too good to waste. So I helped myself.
I washed away makeup, removed contact lenses, slid on specs, scrubbed at my teeth, and donned sleepwear. And then, prepped for bed yet not ready for sleep, I crept up the stairs, through the mudroom, and into the backyard. Where, at midnight, I tiptoed across the lawn to boost onto the trampoline and jump.
Perhaps wherever my parents dwell I feel more childlike, for it’s there that my dad creates the most generous ice cream cones. It’s there that I know I won’t be rousting for work the next morning. There that shelves boast picture books. That my mom wears an apron to bake brownies and extra chippy cookies. And it’s there that rests the world’s bounciest trampoline.
Ma n’ Pa are settled on a mountainside where the air swirling about them bears a scent a bit sweeter than the wind ‘round my home. So after all but I had tucked in for the night, I snatched up the young within me and snuck out to bounce into the unsullied sky, accompanied by cricket chirps and the slow creak of old springs.
The creak of old springs. After a few moments of up and down I stilled my motion to glance to the nearest neighbors’ spot where I spied lights off and windows open. Surely they slumbered, enjoying those same crickets and that persuasive air. And my addition of the old springs’ song could wake them.
Thus I hopped from the tramp, landing on loamy earth, and scampered back inside, forbidding my inner kid from disturbing the nearby sleeping. For when it’s black and jumping beckons, I may yield to pangs of younger youth, but all decorum doesn’t leave me.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
CEREBRAL DECOMP
It was quite a while ago, and I don’t remember which pal I was visiting, but as I sat at what I recall to be the kitchen counter gabbing, out of the corner of my eye I saw her six-year-old son come in from the yard, turn on the television, palm the remote, and plop down on the couch.
That happened and I think I momentary blacked out, for I don’t remember the rest of the conversation I had been engaged in.
The lil' fella came in, turned on the TV, and his mother didn’t have a word to say about it. Apparently, what he’d done was the norm.
My shock was founded in my childhood, wherein my sisters and I, when we became old enough to understand what a television was, weren’t allowed to flip the TV's switch without mom’s go-ahead. When we did have her permission, it wasn't to watch network television; we watched PBS or, on Friday nights when ma n’ pa went on their weekly date night, we enjoyed the treat of Nick at Night. Cable? What's that? There were stacks of movies in the house and we borrowed even more from the neighbors, but we had to have the parental okay to turn on the TV for those as well. In the Peterson home, sitting on your rump entranced by moving pictures wasn't an acceptable use of time.
And it had never occurred to me that other homes didn’t operate in the same way.
TV makes a frequent appearance as a topic in conversations between me and Mr. Megan (I should really doom him to being called that permanently if he's going to be difficult about not wanting his name used here). Most often it is in the context of how glad we are that we two aren't TV-watching people. We get news from our phones' apps and our liberal fury fix from NPR. We don't feel we're missing out on anything by placing our television and its little buddy, Apple TV, in the garage in front of the treadmill.
Years ago, in one of our exchanges on TV I was stunned to learn that when he was a kid, long before he was Mine, when my husband came home from school it was perfectly fine for him to turn on the TV and park himself for the afternoon.
You didn’t have to ask permission? I sputtered.
Uh, no. You did?
Of course! Did you have to have your homework done.
No.
And you could just watch TV? Like network TV with commercials and stuff?
Sure.
Geez. No wonder I got better grades than you.
Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't have set my eyes on and snagged this fellow if he weren't plenty sharp and awfully intellectual--I think far too highly of myself to buddy up with a dullard--but in the context of performing during public education, mama's oft-repeated adage in response to whining from a denied request to watch television was dead right: TV rots your brain.
That happened and I think I momentary blacked out, for I don’t remember the rest of the conversation I had been engaged in.
The lil' fella came in, turned on the TV, and his mother didn’t have a word to say about it. Apparently, what he’d done was the norm.
My shock was founded in my childhood, wherein my sisters and I, when we became old enough to understand what a television was, weren’t allowed to flip the TV's switch without mom’s go-ahead. When we did have her permission, it wasn't to watch network television; we watched PBS or, on Friday nights when ma n’ pa went on their weekly date night, we enjoyed the treat of Nick at Night. Cable? What's that? There were stacks of movies in the house and we borrowed even more from the neighbors, but we had to have the parental okay to turn on the TV for those as well. In the Peterson home, sitting on your rump entranced by moving pictures wasn't an acceptable use of time.
And it had never occurred to me that other homes didn’t operate in the same way.
TV makes a frequent appearance as a topic in conversations between me and Mr. Megan (I should really doom him to being called that permanently if he's going to be difficult about not wanting his name used here). Most often it is in the context of how glad we are that we two aren't TV-watching people. We get news from our phones' apps and our liberal fury fix from NPR. We don't feel we're missing out on anything by placing our television and its little buddy, Apple TV, in the garage in front of the treadmill.
Years ago, in one of our exchanges on TV I was stunned to learn that when he was a kid, long before he was Mine, when my husband came home from school it was perfectly fine for him to turn on the TV and park himself for the afternoon.
You didn’t have to ask permission? I sputtered.
Uh, no. You did?
Of course! Did you have to have your homework done.
No.
And you could just watch TV? Like network TV with commercials and stuff?
Sure.
Geez. No wonder I got better grades than you.
Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't have set my eyes on and snagged this fellow if he weren't plenty sharp and awfully intellectual--I think far too highly of myself to buddy up with a dullard--but in the context of performing during public education, mama's oft-repeated adage in response to whining from a denied request to watch television was dead right: TV rots your brain.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
ULTIMATE IDIOCY
Ultimate Fighting is a sign of social degeneration. Regression back to a era when crowds packed themselves into coliseums to be entertained by gang-rapes of exotic women, lions tearing into slaves, and men slashing to the death.
I’m not a fan of boxing. I think the event uncivilized. It appeals to our most base selves, teasing the Natural Man that we really ought to strive to kill. Ultimate Fighting moves beyond that appeal to the basest of selves, speaking to whatever devil might lurk within us. For a group of humans--beings gifted with intelligence, beings with the ability to create art--to crowd together with the intent cheer on physical violence is an indication of the pathetic direction in which we’ve sent ourselves.
The barbarism that’s apparent in encouraging gruesome sport turns my stomach, as--though I support, encourage, and enjoy recreation and leisure time--we human beings really should be being more. We have history to tell us what happens to societies that indulge in violence as sport. We have the knowledge of what kind of a change a single person can instill. Yet we find entertainment in people choosing to reduce themselves to raging beasts.
Appropriately, we punish people who organize dog fighting and the like; yet we permit the same kind of caged combat using humans to be shown and celebrated on television. Not like controlled, staged, choreographed violence in cinema, but graphic, gross, detrimental physical contact. And through watching it, and recording it, and attending it, we show our approval of it.
We are disgusting.
(And when I say we, of course I don’t mean me.)
I’m not a fan of boxing. I think the event uncivilized. It appeals to our most base selves, teasing the Natural Man that we really ought to strive to kill. Ultimate Fighting moves beyond that appeal to the basest of selves, speaking to whatever devil might lurk within us. For a group of humans--beings gifted with intelligence, beings with the ability to create art--to crowd together with the intent cheer on physical violence is an indication of the pathetic direction in which we’ve sent ourselves.
The barbarism that’s apparent in encouraging gruesome sport turns my stomach, as--though I support, encourage, and enjoy recreation and leisure time--we human beings really should be being more. We have history to tell us what happens to societies that indulge in violence as sport. We have the knowledge of what kind of a change a single person can instill. Yet we find entertainment in people choosing to reduce themselves to raging beasts.
Appropriately, we punish people who organize dog fighting and the like; yet we permit the same kind of caged combat using humans to be shown and celebrated on television. Not like controlled, staged, choreographed violence in cinema, but graphic, gross, detrimental physical contact. And through watching it, and recording it, and attending it, we show our approval of it.
We are disgusting.
(And when I say we, of course I don’t mean me.)
Monday, July 27, 2009
TAKING IT ALL OFF
Have you ever come across a chick with a super-short haircut and sputtered, Oh, I so wish I had the guts to do that! And then the gal smiles and responds, Thanks. I get that all the time?
Well, apparently I have the guts to do that.
For years, I have wanted, have been talking about, have been yearning for, a short, short haircut. The Husband has been a vigorous cheerleader in favor to the point that he’s even asked pixie-cut women in the world if he could take their picture to try to convince his wife to do that ‘do. And at times I have been awfully tempted to bend to my wishing and his bidding to the tune of a pile of my hair on the salon floor. Just tempted though.
But last Saturday, after a perfectly delightful lunch with my friend Rabid (yes, Dear Reader, we did have a second date), it was the mom I saw pushing a stroller down University Avenue in Provo with three little ones in tow that tipped the scales. She, like hundreds before her, had an a-lined bob just like mine. I stared for a moment and thought, It has to go. I’m cutting it off. Everyone and their daughter has an a-line, and I just can’t do it anymore.
So that pixie haircut I said I wanted before I reach dead or crazy—I did it. Or rather Caitlyn, per my behest, did it to me.
What was I thinking?
I sat Cat’s chair to do our usual rigmarole and said, So what do you think about taking it all off?
Love it, the girl said definitively.
And we spent the next 15 minutes rifling through hair ‘zines looking for the proper pixie. My hands shook a bit as I turned the pages. I can’t do this, I thought. I’ll hate it. I’ll look fat, fat, fat. But I wanted to follow through; I’ve truly been talking about this for years, and I'm tired of seeing a similar bob to my own whenever I turn around. We found a cut to suit, and Kitty went to work, depositing my treated locks on the shiny black floor.
No going back now.
Throughout the chopping, my mug was frozen in fear and horror. Sister Haley, an encouraging spectator, kept telling me it was a great idea. It was going to be so cute. I have the right face for it, et cetera. Yet that face was stuck in a simulacrum of Terror.
Are you going to cry? she asked.
No, I’m going to throw up. We should start over.
But once began, the cutting had to continue, and Cat did her job well. The style looks as it should. My color is awesome. I have new appropriate hair product. I've been taught how to style my new head. My stunning stylist snipped a fine pixie to be sure. But it's a haircut that doesn’t seem to belong on my noggin. I look like a homeless little boy. Or a Fraggle. I look nothing like a pixie.
The mp3 that's on repeat in my head: This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea . . . I miss my common bob. So welcome to my era of serious adjustment. I hope that it's short--as short as my new coif. Or that my strands develop superstar growing power, launching me back to familiarity. For as things sit now, each time I find a mirror's crept up on me, I am forced to shake my nonexistent locks in sorrow at my poor decision-making ability.
Just exactly what was I thinking?
Not entirely sure at this point, wherein I find myself periodically running hands through hair that's no longer there. But here's what I'm thinking now: Well, at least I know I won't be continually confronted with other pixie-cuts. This kinda thing takes unique guts--which, incidentally, I'm not all that thrilled to discover I've got.
A gift--because though you dutifully read through the above, what you were actually looking for was the visual evidence:
Fret not, folks, I am in the process of correcting the blue self on the right side of your screen. We are all about the honesty here.
Well, apparently I have the guts to do that.
For years, I have wanted, have been talking about, have been yearning for, a short, short haircut. The Husband has been a vigorous cheerleader in favor to the point that he’s even asked pixie-cut women in the world if he could take their picture to try to convince his wife to do that ‘do. And at times I have been awfully tempted to bend to my wishing and his bidding to the tune of a pile of my hair on the salon floor. Just tempted though.
But last Saturday, after a perfectly delightful lunch with my friend Rabid (yes, Dear Reader, we did have a second date), it was the mom I saw pushing a stroller down University Avenue in Provo with three little ones in tow that tipped the scales. She, like hundreds before her, had an a-lined bob just like mine. I stared for a moment and thought, It has to go. I’m cutting it off. Everyone and their daughter has an a-line, and I just can’t do it anymore.
So that pixie haircut I said I wanted before I reach dead or crazy—I did it. Or rather Caitlyn, per my behest, did it to me.
What was I thinking?
I sat Cat’s chair to do our usual rigmarole and said, So what do you think about taking it all off?
Love it, the girl said definitively.
And we spent the next 15 minutes rifling through hair ‘zines looking for the proper pixie. My hands shook a bit as I turned the pages. I can’t do this, I thought. I’ll hate it. I’ll look fat, fat, fat. But I wanted to follow through; I’ve truly been talking about this for years, and I'm tired of seeing a similar bob to my own whenever I turn around. We found a cut to suit, and Kitty went to work, depositing my treated locks on the shiny black floor.
No going back now.
Throughout the chopping, my mug was frozen in fear and horror. Sister Haley, an encouraging spectator, kept telling me it was a great idea. It was going to be so cute. I have the right face for it, et cetera. Yet that face was stuck in a simulacrum of Terror.
Are you going to cry? she asked.
No, I’m going to throw up. We should start over.
But once began, the cutting had to continue, and Cat did her job well. The style looks as it should. My color is awesome. I have new appropriate hair product. I've been taught how to style my new head. My stunning stylist snipped a fine pixie to be sure. But it's a haircut that doesn’t seem to belong on my noggin. I look like a homeless little boy. Or a Fraggle. I look nothing like a pixie.
The mp3 that's on repeat in my head: This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea . . . I miss my common bob. So welcome to my era of serious adjustment. I hope that it's short--as short as my new coif. Or that my strands develop superstar growing power, launching me back to familiarity. For as things sit now, each time I find a mirror's crept up on me, I am forced to shake my nonexistent locks in sorrow at my poor decision-making ability.
Just exactly what was I thinking?
Not entirely sure at this point, wherein I find myself periodically running hands through hair that's no longer there. But here's what I'm thinking now: Well, at least I know I won't be continually confronted with other pixie-cuts. This kinda thing takes unique guts--which, incidentally, I'm not all that thrilled to discover I've got.
•••
A gift--because though you dutifully read through the above, what you were actually looking for was the visual evidence:
Fret not, folks, I am in the process of correcting the blue self on the right side of your screen. We are all about the honesty here.
Friday, July 24, 2009
CIRCA '98
This group shot was captured in Pizza Bob's in Haleiwa, Hawaii, circa 1998. It was on this trip that I was coerced to tour the BYUH campus. It was on that tour I decided that it would be the school I'd attend. This during the very long period of my life that I didn't so much like my family. At all. Not the sisters. Not the parents. (Okay, not the mom. Somehow the dad never fell from my good graces.)
Eleven years can do so much in the way of change and progress. I did go to that school. I left with a B.A. in English, some like-minded friends, and a very unintentionally-stumbled-upon husband. I now not only like my family, I adore them. I love my sisters. I feel fortunate to consider my mom one of my very best friends and am appropriately ashamed of how I treated her. Unchanged: my dad still sits squarely in my good graces.
When this picture was taken this was all there was to the family. Dad, Mom Megan, Whitney, Caitlyn, Haley, Mallory, and Lauren (who is unbearbly cute in that photo, isn't she?).
Now the family has blossomed into Dad, Mom, The Husband, Megan, Ethan, Whitney, Jack, Van, Tadd, Caitlyn, Jon, Haley, Addison (arriving within the next few weeks, we 'spect), Nicholas, Mallory, and Lauren. Eleven years ago we were eight. Since then, though not at the speed I believe my mom wishes we would have, we have grown. Eleven years later, we are sixteen.
From the above, we have doubled.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
THINK OF YOU; THINK OF YOU FONDLY
I think of you when I do things.
When I perch on the bathroom counter for an hour, carefully trying to trim my own bangs, I think of you, Caitlyn, and wonder how with a few minutes and some simple snips you can transform me.
When I'm on the treadmill downstairs or plodding through the neighborhood, hating every second, every footfall, and wondering if my lungs might actually explode, I think of you Rabid and wonder how in the world you run marathons.
When I pick up my camera to capture a something, I think of you, Ashley and wonder how you so artfully stop life.
When I pluck an errant hair, I think of you Buffy, and wonder how you know how to shape my nearly nonexistent brows.
When I stand in front of the oven, wondering if it's even worth my time to turn it on or if we should just do Mongolian barbecue again, I think of you Whitney, and wonder how you know what flavors will complement each other and how long to let the oven meld them all.
When I sit down to labor over an essay or a blog post, I think of you mom, and wonder how you had the fortitude to write an entire book.
When I pass the time in a meeting doodling on my notes, I think of you Mallory, and wonder how you can move your hands to paint a face that actually looks like a face.
When I try to silently land when floating from forward fold to chaturanga, I think of you Goddess Yoga Teacher, and wonder how it is you seem to levitate and then land without a sound.
When I'm in public and find myself annoyed at the noises children make and wonder if there couldn't have been another way to further the human race, I think of you Aunt Sue, and wonder how you've been able to stand other people's little monsters for the last 20 years as you taught them to multiply and read.
When I find myself bumbling through a sales presentation, quite sure that I'm making an idiot of myself, I think of you, The Husband, and wonder how your slick tongue can sell anyone anything.
While I'm studying the heart, I think of you Lindsay, and wonder how you're able to stay so tough while battling Marin's heart issues.
When I'm trying to come up with an idea that will impress my boss and keep me top-of-mind, I think of you Dad, and wonder how you used ideas and their fruits to support a family of eight.
The life I have is one of examples. It's one decorated with people who can do things I can't. Or who have developed skills I won't. I don't have to look far for awe or inspiration. It's a phone call, an email, a visit, a room away.
Who do you think of when working through the bits of your day-to-day?
When I perch on the bathroom counter for an hour, carefully trying to trim my own bangs, I think of you, Caitlyn, and wonder how with a few minutes and some simple snips you can transform me.
When I'm on the treadmill downstairs or plodding through the neighborhood, hating every second, every footfall, and wondering if my lungs might actually explode, I think of you Rabid and wonder how in the world you run marathons.
When I pick up my camera to capture a something, I think of you, Ashley and wonder how you so artfully stop life.
When I pluck an errant hair, I think of you Buffy, and wonder how you know how to shape my nearly nonexistent brows.
When I stand in front of the oven, wondering if it's even worth my time to turn it on or if we should just do Mongolian barbecue again, I think of you Whitney, and wonder how you know what flavors will complement each other and how long to let the oven meld them all.
When I sit down to labor over an essay or a blog post, I think of you mom, and wonder how you had the fortitude to write an entire book.
When I pass the time in a meeting doodling on my notes, I think of you Mallory, and wonder how you can move your hands to paint a face that actually looks like a face.
When I try to silently land when floating from forward fold to chaturanga, I think of you Goddess Yoga Teacher, and wonder how it is you seem to levitate and then land without a sound.
When I'm in public and find myself annoyed at the noises children make and wonder if there couldn't have been another way to further the human race, I think of you Aunt Sue, and wonder how you've been able to stand other people's little monsters for the last 20 years as you taught them to multiply and read.
When I find myself bumbling through a sales presentation, quite sure that I'm making an idiot of myself, I think of you, The Husband, and wonder how your slick tongue can sell anyone anything.
While I'm studying the heart, I think of you Lindsay, and wonder how you're able to stay so tough while battling Marin's heart issues.
When I'm trying to come up with an idea that will impress my boss and keep me top-of-mind, I think of you Dad, and wonder how you used ideas and their fruits to support a family of eight.
The life I have is one of examples. It's one decorated with people who can do things I can't. Or who have developed skills I won't. I don't have to look far for awe or inspiration. It's a phone call, an email, a visit, a room away.
Who do you think of when working through the bits of your day-to-day?
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
MIXED TEACHING
As promised: a photo of my progress on my Scorpion Handstand.Make no mistake there as you see that my toes only hover near the wall rather than
rest upon it--I couldn't get anywhere near this close to the final posture without the wall.
Someday. It's all a part of the process.
•••
Everyone knows that I practice yoga. But were you aware that I also teach it?
No?
Good. 'Cause I don't.
But I did on Saturday.
The gal that owns a studio about three miles from my house called me on Friday, frantic to find someone to teach her Saturday morning class. But I, uh, am not a teacher. I've completed some teacher trainings, but I don't have my RYT, in fact, I have decided not to pursue that path, as I'd rather focus on my own practice than those of others. Details. Details. She didn't so much care.
So there I was, Saturday morning at 8AM, leading some middle-aged ladies in postures and breathing, glancing at myself in the mirror every so often, mouthing out that this was so bizarre.
I was nervous, but not as nervous as I probably should have been. I'd never done that before. I'd never taught. But I think that my lack of nervousness could have been due to the fact that this--yoga--is what I do. I've had a regular practice for five years now. I wasn't in high school for that long. I wasn't in college for that long. I haven't been selling drugs for that long. Yoga is what I know. So why shouldn't I be able to take an hour and talk some ladies through some poses?
My biggest concern about the morning was the music. When I practice alone, I like rather unconventional yoga music--I prefer tunes with an identifiable beat, and for my debut into shoddy teaching I didn't think it appropriate to use my own music choices though I wasn't about to give into the standard instrumental-accented-with-mantras music that comes to mind for most when considering a yoga class. So here's what I put together to guide us from downward dog into forward fold in order of appearance:
"It's Good to be in Love" • Frou FrouAnd it was brilliant. I may not be any kind of yoga teacher of note, but this here soundtrack was perfect. For me, that is; I'm quite sure that it did make the regulars pretty nervous.
"Make it Mine" • Jason Mraz
"Beautiful" • Moby
"Too Much" • Dave Matthews Band
"Don't You Worry 'Bout a Thing" • John Legend (This one is particularly perfect for Surya Namaskara)
"David" • Nellie McKay
"Boy with a Coin" • Iron and Wine
"Star Mile" • Joshua Radin
"Banana Pancakes" • Jack Johnson
"Porcelain" • Moby
"Everyday People" • Sly and the Family Stone
"Fire and Rain" • James Taylor
"Cat Piano" • Seabear
"Falling Awake" • Gary Jules
"Girl from Ipanema" • Astrud Gilberto, Joao Gilberto & Stan Getz
"Train Song" • Feist & Ben Gibbard
"Orange Sky" • Alexi Murdoch
Perhaps it shall serve as the mix for my personal practice for the next little while.
Monday, July 20, 2009
TWITS • A WEEK OR SO LATER
• In my next life I'm going to be a sanctioned assassin. That or Helen Mirren. Whichever The Great Spirit is more game for.
• How the heck do people run marathons? Or 5ks for that matter? A single mile leaves me suicidal.
• My big yellow rose clip-on earrings left my ears totally infected. Toss 'em? I think not. They match the yellow slingbacks.
• Those who cheat on spouses are stupid, dumb, selfish, dumb, stupid shits. Sorry for the swear, but don’t tell me it doesn’t fit like a glove.
• A local studio owner just called me to substitute a yoga class tomorrow. Uh, I've never taught before. This'll be interesting.
• Seen: the most bestest bumper sticker: "Animals are just little people in fur coats." (Or at least my Soph is.)
• I’ve created a rockin' soundtrack for that yoga class. I like wonky stuff for my Surya Namaskara. It's gonna freak out the regulars.
• We would have a significantly more peaceful planet with a significantly larger number of Buddhists upon it.
• "Eat greens & prosper." It's now on my kitchen wall. No kidding. Spock gone healthy. Husband hates it.
• Gum. I am a chain-chewer. One used piece goes into the wrapper of the next.
• I wonder how large a receptacle my life's chewed gum would fill . . .
• If more people could see my Soph give shifty eyes, the demand for Yorkies would skyrocket.
• Just ate a quesadilla and heard cows complaining in chorus while I did.
• Mashed and seasoned hummus should grow on trees. In my back yard. Very messy. But tasty. Stand underneath for a mouthful.
• I will pay someone $100 to unpack my suitcase from last week's POA meeting. It generally takes me two weeks to get that done.
• Saw an ad for conflict-free diamonds in eco-friendly gold. Not sure that would persuade me to buy an ugly ring I don't need.
• Two pairs. Each a 3.5 inch heel. Each peep-toed. Patent leather. One slingbacked. One sunny. The other minty. Proud owner of both.
• Raise your hand of you'd like to band together and run away from all responsibilities.
• Looking for a new vice. Was considering diet soda, but without that Liquid Satan in my body my skin is so much better.
• Had a dream last night that my Rabid friend was in a race and got lost in a grotto; we found her in the cave waiting for the ladies' room.
• Can everyone please leave me alone?
• Since every pair of pants I buy has to be taken up, I figure why not buy Tall pants when they're on sale? All go right to the tailor anyway.
• The key to successful Mormon dressing (or any dressing, for that matter): Hollywood Fashion tape: http://stupidtinyurl.com
• I am hungry. Again. Still.
• How the heck do people run marathons? Or 5ks for that matter? A single mile leaves me suicidal.
• My big yellow rose clip-on earrings left my ears totally infected. Toss 'em? I think not. They match the yellow slingbacks.
• Those who cheat on spouses are stupid, dumb, selfish, dumb, stupid shits. Sorry for the swear, but don’t tell me it doesn’t fit like a glove.
• A local studio owner just called me to substitute a yoga class tomorrow. Uh, I've never taught before. This'll be interesting.
• Seen: the most bestest bumper sticker: "Animals are just little people in fur coats." (Or at least my Soph is.)
• I’ve created a rockin' soundtrack for that yoga class. I like wonky stuff for my Surya Namaskara. It's gonna freak out the regulars.
• We would have a significantly more peaceful planet with a significantly larger number of Buddhists upon it.
• "Eat greens & prosper." It's now on my kitchen wall. No kidding. Spock gone healthy. Husband hates it.
• Gum. I am a chain-chewer. One used piece goes into the wrapper of the next.
• I wonder how large a receptacle my life's chewed gum would fill . . .
• If more people could see my Soph give shifty eyes, the demand for Yorkies would skyrocket.
• Just ate a quesadilla and heard cows complaining in chorus while I did.
• Mashed and seasoned hummus should grow on trees. In my back yard. Very messy. But tasty. Stand underneath for a mouthful.
• I will pay someone $100 to unpack my suitcase from last week's POA meeting. It generally takes me two weeks to get that done.
• Saw an ad for conflict-free diamonds in eco-friendly gold. Not sure that would persuade me to buy an ugly ring I don't need.
• Two pairs. Each a 3.5 inch heel. Each peep-toed. Patent leather. One slingbacked. One sunny. The other minty. Proud owner of both.
• Raise your hand of you'd like to band together and run away from all responsibilities.
• Looking for a new vice. Was considering diet soda, but without that Liquid Satan in my body my skin is so much better.
• Had a dream last night that my Rabid friend was in a race and got lost in a grotto; we found her in the cave waiting for the ladies' room.
• Can everyone please leave me alone?
• Since every pair of pants I buy has to be taken up, I figure why not buy Tall pants when they're on sale? All go right to the tailor anyway.
• The key to successful Mormon dressing (or any dressing, for that matter): Hollywood Fashion tape: http://stupidtinyurl.com
• I am hungry. Again. Still.
• • •
Yo. Don't get used to frequent mass mock tweet posts. I'm just low on content, so I thought I'd publish a tweeting-in-progress post earlier than planned.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
SWIMMING AND FISHING
Along with a lemon-yellow belt, two of them came in the mail.
One bathing suit came in my favorite color: barfy green, while the other was an orange just about as bubbly as orange can get.
Though he wasn't invited to be a part of investigating my new merchandise, The Husband plopped down on the closet floor to make himself seem a supportive contributor in my quest for a decent suit. His eagerness to be a help could have been largely influenced by the fact that a girl has to take her clothes off to change from one suit to another. ("Could have been?" Who am I kidding?)
I tried on the first one and made my way to the mirror. Sick, I thought, but the kind of sick I've become accustomed to.
This green. Do you like this green? I inquired.
It's--
I mean, is this the kind of color someone colored like me shouldn't wear, right?
I--
I mean, I'm probably too pale for it right? I mean besides what a disaster this swimsuit is on anyhow.
I like it.
You do? Why?
I like the green.
As I changed from the green to the orange I had the kind of rapt attention wives seek when trying to hold a meaningful conversation.
With the orange one on, I walked tip-toe to the mirror. (Why does putting on a swimsuit make me want to walk tip-toe? I think it's something about that extra few inches from the ground lengthening my leg so as to diminish the apparent size of my thighs on naked display, fooling myself into thinking they're not what I know they are.) Once there, I tightened the tie in the front, mumbling something about little boobs needing extra help staying in swimwear.
Back in the closet, I said, Do you like this one?
Yeah. It looks good.
But it really doesn't. I look fat.
There's no muffin top or anything.
Well of course there is, I said, walking back to the mirror. See, right there!
If you say so, he said with a detectible eye-roll in his voice (neat how after seven years of being his wife I can hear that and even often anticipate it).
I do.
I stood facing him, with my hands on my hips. Well, which one do you like better?
I like that one. He indicated the orange one I was still wearing.
Why? ('Cause that suit was already dead in the water, as I liked the other one better.)
'Cause it's more revealing.
What? No it's not. It's a halter top while the other is strapless. Duh. How's this more revealing?
I can see your nipples.
I groaned. Okay not as my husband who constantly wants to bang me, which one do you like better?
That's the right question, he said, Go with the green one.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
ON REMARKS
I like titles. And I enjoy titling things. In college, my reward for finishing a paper was to have the privilege of titiling it, and once I'd graduated I had a great time putting together titles for my husband's assignments. (My favorite was "Cooking Lono" for a paper on the apotheosis of Captain Cook. To those unfamliar with Hawaiian history, this won't make any sense at all, but at the time, for that class, the title was praised as perfect.)So, loving dubbing as I do, when I fell upon the blogosphere and considered having my own blogspot, I gave the name of the thing a little more thought than the christening of a blog actually deserves.
I wanted something rhyming (si, I was that silly) for the sake of catch. I didn't want it to have anything to do with my own name, first, middle or last. And I wanted the title to have a personal connection.
As I was a new addition to Sparks and a blog seemed to be an entitiy comprised of remarks, I fell onto Remarks from Sparks. It had rhyme. It had naught to do with Megan Lynn Romo. And it had a narrow personal connection; you'll note that in every header I make for myself I always distinguish in some way the two Ms in "Remarks from Sparks," for both my husband's and my first name begin with an M. We are now, have ever been, and shall always remain M. & M. (There's even another personal connection in there that I'm not going to tell you about.) Thus, altough the name sounds trite, it encompassed everything I needed it to.
As I have continued to keep up the blog since its genesis I've come to apply more meaning to the title of the thing. Though it now irks me that I have a cheesy rhyming name (thought not as much as KnuckleHeaders bothers me), I have discovered more significance in the title of my space. Whereas many blogs are only a journal of personal experiences or a documentation of life events of the author's family, my blog has made itself into what the name say it is: a collection of remarks.
Initially the blog began as many do, a mishmash of images, anecdotes, trips, etc. But after a while I realized that such a space didn't suit me and my online needs (yes, I have needs for my online activity). Instead of being a blog of nothing but daily tidbits, I wanted my area to be less about the middling goings of of day-to-day and more about honest remarks, thinkings, critiques, evolutions, and admissions.
As I have continued to keep up the blog since its genesis I've come to apply more meaning to the title of the thing. Though it now irks me that I have a cheesy rhyming name (thought not as much as KnuckleHeaders bothers me), I have discovered more significance in the title of my space. Whereas many blogs are only a journal of personal experiences or a documentation of life events of the author's family, my blog has made itself into what the name say it is: a collection of remarks.
Initially the blog began as many do, a mishmash of images, anecdotes, trips, etc. But after a while I realized that such a space didn't suit me and my online needs (yes, I have needs for my online activity). Instead of being a blog of nothing but daily tidbits, I wanted my area to be less about the middling goings of of day-to-day and more about honest remarks, thinkings, critiques, evolutions, and admissions.
Really, I wanted my blog to become the title it already bore. Remarks. It's a blog where a girl in Sparks (a Sparkler, if you will) leaves remarks on life, living, the interesting, the boring and the in between. Remarks warranted and remarks otherwise. The definition of "remarks" above includes noting an opinion or judgement. That's what I do. It's what I use the blog for.
At times I weaponize Remarks, using my blog to slice through an issue or blast people and things that I think deserve critical attention. At times I make remarks that serve as therapy. Or I explain a thought process through words shaped around an event.
Anything I should care to know about your blog's title?
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
E HA
We need to do something about laughing online. And I think it might be to become better writers who can communicate tone without typing out the reverberations of our laughter. (I say our because I am a little bit guilty. "A little bit" because I'm not bashful about saying that I'm less at fault than so many others.)
And though we employ electronic laughter to make up for unspecific tone, one reason it is lame substitute for better written expression is that it may not necessarily communicate what you intend it to:
A fat helping of what I write here is tongue-in-cheek. I'm automatically cynical and quick to be sarcastic, but I can almost guarantee that there are plenty of readers that leave Remarks from Sparks having missed the point entirely. For the most part, that's my fault; for if some readers often leave muddled, I did a poor job communicating, and to get better I need practice and time and commitment to a message or theme.
And so, I believe, do many others. But until then, we're all subjecting ourselves to laughter that only just might say what you mean it to say.
(I have a ten dollar bet with myself that the first response on this post will include some kind of typed out laughter. Don't disappoint me as I now let you loose to leave all the Heh, heh, hehs and Ha ha has your wry inner selves are itching to slap in a comment. LOL.)
And though we employ electronic laughter to make up for unspecific tone, one reason it is lame substitute for better written expression is that it may not necessarily communicate what you intend it to:
• When I read Heh, heh, heh. as laughter, I think of a dirty old lech thinking sordid thoughts and keeping nasty secrets.Rather than writing out our laughter, I wish for us to be able to write what we mean to say with the tone we intend it to have and avoid having to result to attaching LOLs and emoticons. But because it can be so tough to communicate tone when writing, especially writing online because it tends to merit less consideration and spawn laziness, we all know that it's simple if not downright common to read the wrong meaning into something.
• When I read Hee, hee, hee! I think of an elf or a fairy or a Brownie snatching a snack from an unsuspecting picnicker.
• When I see Tee hee! the image that comes to mind is a little girl with blond ringlets perched on a cushion--a Miss Muffet sort of picture.
• Ha ha ha! seems like real laughter to me, but pretty boisterous. A loud, echoing laughter, when you might have been intending to convey a chuckle.
A fat helping of what I write here is tongue-in-cheek. I'm automatically cynical and quick to be sarcastic, but I can almost guarantee that there are plenty of readers that leave Remarks from Sparks having missed the point entirely. For the most part, that's my fault; for if some readers often leave muddled, I did a poor job communicating, and to get better I need practice and time and commitment to a message or theme.
And so, I believe, do many others. But until then, we're all subjecting ourselves to laughter that only just might say what you mean it to say.
(I have a ten dollar bet with myself that the first response on this post will include some kind of typed out laughter. Don't disappoint me as I now let you loose to leave all the Heh, heh, hehs and Ha ha has your wry inner selves are itching to slap in a comment. LOL.)
Monday, July 13, 2009
BEFORE DEATH DO YOU PART
My entertaining InterPal, Natasha, has a list on her blog. A big fat list. Of 106 things. A list of all the stuff she wants to do before she's dead or nutso (whichever comes first, I guess). It's a nifty list.
Many people have created and displayed lists like this one, but what I especially like about Natasha's is that she crosses something off when she's done it. I'd imagine it gives a toe-tingling sense of accomplishment. (Yes, I am one of those people who writes things I've already done on my to-do list so that I can cross them off straightaway and begin my must-dos with an air of progress; so in seeing that Natasha has crossed things off, I feel satisfaction on her behalf. Large-living vicariously.)
Inspired by Natasha, I shall consider formally crafting my own list. And so ought you.
In fact, to get you goin', I shall encourage you to deposit here a few bits of your list that you've been kickin' around. They don't have to be grandiose or unique, do they? And they don't necessarily need to be reasonable. Just stuff you'd really like to get done prior to your arrival in The Happy Hunting Ground or the loony bin. You can even include bits you've already done for a little taste of that delicious thing we call achievement.
Me, I want to
Don't be shy now. The sky [or the grave, rather] is the limit.
Many people have created and displayed lists like this one, but what I especially like about Natasha's is that she crosses something off when she's done it. I'd imagine it gives a toe-tingling sense of accomplishment. (Yes, I am one of those people who writes things I've already done on my to-do list so that I can cross them off straightaway and begin my must-dos with an air of progress; so in seeing that Natasha has crossed things off, I feel satisfaction on her behalf. Large-living vicariously.)
Inspired by Natasha, I shall consider formally crafting my own list. And so ought you.
In fact, to get you goin', I shall encourage you to deposit here a few bits of your list that you've been kickin' around. They don't have to be grandiose or unique, do they? And they don't necessarily need to be reasonable. Just stuff you'd really like to get done prior to your arrival in The Happy Hunting Ground or the loony bin. You can even include bits you've already done for a little taste of that delicious thing we call achievement.
Me, I want to
• be a spectator at WimbledonIt's a list I see burgeoning. And I see this post being updated as I read your want-to-dos. Hey, what a great idea. I want that on my list too . . .
• experience Burning Man
•get a bachelor's degree
• get my friggin' MFA already
•go skydiving
• go skydiving again
• learn to sail
• write and publish a book
• see the aurora borealis
•be unafraid to hold a headstand in the middle of the room
• get my scorpion handstand in the middle of the room (I promise to soon post an image of my progress on that one)
• become a crack shot
• publish a contribution in Real Simple
• get my CCW (permit to carry concealed weapon)
• make use of the six years of French I took and actually learn to speak the language
• go to the beach without giving a damn what I look like in my swimsuit
• have citrus trees
•pixie-cut my hair
• see Niagra Falls
• plan and carry out an annual get-together with just my sissies
• landscape the backyard
• find John Galt
. . . to name a few.
Don't be shy now. The sky [or the grave, rather] is the limit.
Friday, July 10, 2009
HENPECKERY
I now know that blogs have the power to change things. For mine has.
In my last post of tweets, I wrote that I want my mom to return to public life and abolish the need for logging in to read her blogging bits and pieces. Grace-be-praised, she read that and relented. That makes today your lucky day. One no longer has the need to be on the VIP list to get in. I mock-twittered; she answered. Blogs have power, people.
Why did I want her to come out from hiding? She's funny and interesting and I've been told more than just a few times that my mom's comments on my blog are the clever kind. Now's your chance to enjoy more of my ma.
Changing the world, I am. One post at a time.
In my last post of tweets, I wrote that I want my mom to return to public life and abolish the need for logging in to read her blogging bits and pieces. Grace-be-praised, she read that and relented. That makes today your lucky day. One no longer has the need to be on the VIP list to get in. I mock-twittered; she answered. Blogs have power, people.
Why did I want her to come out from hiding? She's funny and interesting and I've been told more than just a few times that my mom's comments on my blog are the clever kind. Now's your chance to enjoy more of my ma.A bit about the lady I call Ma: My mom is 50. She won't be bothered that I told you that, because so far as someone can be proud of their age, she's proud of hers. She's not a ninny about getting older. She let her hair go grey and doesn't fret over wrinkles. It makes her so much more fun than if she were nervous about her years. Those 50 years have given her a lot of livin' and plenty of learnin'.I love the way she's taken to structuring her posts as of late. On any given day she writes a slew of simple paragraphs outlining her doings and those of my Utah family (which is everyone aside from me). It keeps me in the loop, keeps me entertained, and is always very easy to follow. I think for people who have out of town family, it's a great way to keep folks apprised and enraptured.
Her online alias is Hen Pecks, for she is the mother hen of the sixchix (my five sisters and me) and her writings are pecks upon the keyboard. She lives in a small town in Utah, seated on the mountainside just near enough to the wilderness to go exploring on her quad and scare the living daylights out of any stupid-enough-to-get-on-there passengers.
She loves the outdoors so much she brought them inside. The woman has the healthiest houseplants you'll ever see. I'm not exaggerating. They're so green and lush that folks ask if they're faux. Why are they so healthy? She talks to them. And gives them names. And then labels them with their names. It seems nutty, but one cannot deny the verdant fruits of her chatter.
She is a writer with a manuscript ready for publication, and when she's not tapping away at her beloved iMac, Maxwell, (for she is a Mac whore too) she is discovering new tricks to go greener, conserve, get a simple chocolate fix, avoid waste, clean more efficiently, attend to her health, maintain her spirituality, and keep her garden growing. Read her blog, for she shares those tips and tricks she comes upon. The woman is a fount. And an enjoyable one at that.
You know how I'm all hot and bothered for the sake of honesty and beg for more reality in people's postings? Well, I never needed to beg my mom. She is an honest blogger, telling it like it is.
Additionally, she's not one of those bloggers that will tantalize you with a post or two and then take a month-long sabbatical. She's a daily-poster, ladies. I highly recommend you subscribe to her feeds, for you shall surely be fed. (Hot dawg, I'm a genius with that last sentence.)
Changing the world, I am. One post at a time.
TWITS
I don’t Twitter. I won’t Twitter. I don’t do Facebook. I didn’t do MySpace.
I keep a blog, and that’s as far into the social aspect of the Internet as I will delve. However, there I times I have thoughts and think, If I didn’t think that Twittering would be a monumental waste of my already squandered time, I’d tweet this . . . So rather than wasting my time actually twittering I will instead waste it depositing a post comprised of thoughts in 140 characters or less.
Whitney tells me that I’m not at all original in writing a post like this one. That’s something I would know if I read more blogs than my own and hers. Something to consider.
I keep a blog, and that’s as far into the social aspect of the Internet as I will delve. However, there I times I have thoughts and think, If I didn’t think that Twittering would be a monumental waste of my already squandered time, I’d tweet this . . . So rather than wasting my time actually twittering I will instead waste it depositing a post comprised of thoughts in 140 characters or less.
• It’s lame that my mom’s blog is private. All should send her emails petitioning that it be public again. I want everyone to enjoy.This little Tweet concept will probably make itself into a recurring theme on Remarks from Sparks. In fact, it is now a label. Throw it a shower or something. I shall keep a little list of tweetables and then post them as a composite.
• I am the one who discovered Whitney’s contribution in Real Simple http://stupidtinyurl.com.
• My hair feels disgusting. Maybe I should wash it. Thursday.
• I have discovered that some inconsequential people think that I should give a damn if they think I’m tactless. Hilarious.
• When was the last time I told you how much I love my iPhone? If it’s been ten minutes it’s been far too long.
• Little things that make a day: sending two pounds of awesome salt water taffy to someone who will surely think you’re creepy for doing so.
• I again love myself today for never having given in to Facebook.
• Yoga is like sex; it’s not a nearly large enough part of my life.
• U2's Vertigo is my favorite sun salutations tune.
• I just saved my neighbor’s dog, Luna’s, life. I’m one of those heroes you read about in the local paper.
• I wish James Taylor’s Suzanne had never died. If I kick, please remind my husband to write a Fire and Rain about me.
• Incidentally, I think it’s super lame that my husband is against my using his name in my blog.
• @caitlyncox Don't be mad. I just cut my own bangs. They were getting too long. And now they’re awesome.
• Ryan Reynolds is sexy. The Husband heartily agrees. In fact, I got the idea from him.
• Is there a law against taking your screaming-bloody-murder infant out of Sunday School?
• If the parents in my ward would please start a Foyer Parents Club I’d make them t-shirts. Or ties or necklaces to be church-appropriate.
• I had a dream last night that my spouse had a secret blog wherein he used his own name and I was miffed that he didn't let me use it in mine.
• Why does my dog act like she needs an engraved invitation to jump up onto the bed? She sleeps with us every night.
• I’m not sure how many times I can drive past the local water park without blowing off my day to go in and play.
• Married Mr. Right for Me, I did.
• My favorite dress is from Wal-Mart. My favorite earrings are plastic silver posts from F21. I am super classy.
• I just bought a killer new swimsuit from J. Crew. And I’ll probably never wear it as I am too fat to ever leave the house.
Whitney tells me that I’m not at all original in writing a post like this one. That’s something I would know if I read more blogs than my own and hers. Something to consider.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
THE ANTI DISCUSSION
50% of the people you know take one, and 80% of those folks are ashamed to talk about it. I'm one of the 50 but not one of the 80.
So it's time we talk about antidepressants.
It was five or so years ago that I was of the opinion that depression was a figment of foolish folks' imaginations. Then a marriage, a move to Hawaii, a move to Vegas, a move to Kansas, and a new job hit me in speedy succession. I learned right quick that depression is legitimate and medicating for it is responsible. And now with the profession I find myself in, I've acquired enough understanding of the body to clinically legitimize, for myself, depression as a disease state improved by inhibiting the reuptake of certain neurotransmitters.
Simply put, it's more than just a bad mood.
So here's how I see it, it's unreasonable for me to be ashamed of my years of consuming a little while pill that helps me see my fellow earthlings in a more flattering light, find the rosy that exists in the everyday and rediscover the gumption to heave myself out of bed each morning.
I'm a cynic by nature (most certainly not ashamed of that or motivated to change it), but I'm not made to be a ball of inert depression, and if that's the state in which I find myself, there's no reason I should have to live with it. And neither should you.
You can classify depression in two ways: situational and chemical. Situational depression is the succession of bad days after events like a big let down at work, the death of a close one, or a break up. When that depression doesn't resolve itself despite your best efforts, it may have evolved into chemical depression, the situation or confluence of events serving as a trigger for a more permanent state of gloom. It's the chemical depression that requires chemicals to normalize.
My understanding of this and my head-over-heels love for my little white pill have morphed me into a world class Antidepressant Missionary. A downright proselytizing fool.
A friend of mine at work recently had a baby. Then she and her boyfriend separated. And she moved. And then after that she had to return to work from maternity leave. When I caught up with her at our last meeting, she was radiant and toting handfuls of baby photos. When conversation revealed all the ruckus smacking her around lately, I made the calculated choice to overstep my work-relationship bounds, and during one of our many snack breaks (the effects of which undoubtedly induces situational depression), I took her aside.
I'm going to step out of line, I told her as I prepped an orange for peeling, but it might be helpful, so I'll chance it. You've got a lot going on, and I want you to know there's nothing shameful in taking an antidepressant. I'm certainly not saying I see depression in your face, but with all you have going on, be aware that a bunch of junk all happening at once can be the catalyst for chemical depression, and you should know there's not a thing wrong with medicating for it. Just a thought.
A look of understanding and relief washed over her pretty face, and her eyes found themselves glistening. She issued profuse thanks, for she explained that she was starting to feel like getting out of bed was too much, like perhaps she wasn't up to taking care of her new little girl, and like she didn't love a whole lot in her life. She told me that at her last doctor's appointment she smiled, shrugged and said that everything was lovely, when that wasn't the truth. My step out of bounds gave her something to consider.
A month later I received a thank-you note in the mail.
You and I know each other so well that I'm beginning to feel that it would be irresponsible of me to withhold the fact that my days see the benefits of an antidepressant and that there's nothing disgraceful about it. Clinically, I'm not crazy. Clinically, I'm not psychotic. (I thought you'd appreciate that qualification there.) Clinically, I'm a little off kilter, and feel a whole heck of a lot better with an increased amount of dopamine and norinepinephrine floating around in my body.
Now why should anyone be sheepish about that?
So it's time we talk about antidepressants.
It was five or so years ago that I was of the opinion that depression was a figment of foolish folks' imaginations. Then a marriage, a move to Hawaii, a move to Vegas, a move to Kansas, and a new job hit me in speedy succession. I learned right quick that depression is legitimate and medicating for it is responsible. And now with the profession I find myself in, I've acquired enough understanding of the body to clinically legitimize, for myself, depression as a disease state improved by inhibiting the reuptake of certain neurotransmitters.
Simply put, it's more than just a bad mood.
So here's how I see it, it's unreasonable for me to be ashamed of my years of consuming a little while pill that helps me see my fellow earthlings in a more flattering light, find the rosy that exists in the everyday and rediscover the gumption to heave myself out of bed each morning.
I'm a cynic by nature (most certainly not ashamed of that or motivated to change it), but I'm not made to be a ball of inert depression, and if that's the state in which I find myself, there's no reason I should have to live with it. And neither should you.
You can classify depression in two ways: situational and chemical. Situational depression is the succession of bad days after events like a big let down at work, the death of a close one, or a break up. When that depression doesn't resolve itself despite your best efforts, it may have evolved into chemical depression, the situation or confluence of events serving as a trigger for a more permanent state of gloom. It's the chemical depression that requires chemicals to normalize.
My understanding of this and my head-over-heels love for my little white pill have morphed me into a world class Antidepressant Missionary. A downright proselytizing fool.
A friend of mine at work recently had a baby. Then she and her boyfriend separated. And she moved. And then after that she had to return to work from maternity leave. When I caught up with her at our last meeting, she was radiant and toting handfuls of baby photos. When conversation revealed all the ruckus smacking her around lately, I made the calculated choice to overstep my work-relationship bounds, and during one of our many snack breaks (the effects of which undoubtedly induces situational depression), I took her aside.
I'm going to step out of line, I told her as I prepped an orange for peeling, but it might be helpful, so I'll chance it. You've got a lot going on, and I want you to know there's nothing shameful in taking an antidepressant. I'm certainly not saying I see depression in your face, but with all you have going on, be aware that a bunch of junk all happening at once can be the catalyst for chemical depression, and you should know there's not a thing wrong with medicating for it. Just a thought.
A look of understanding and relief washed over her pretty face, and her eyes found themselves glistening. She issued profuse thanks, for she explained that she was starting to feel like getting out of bed was too much, like perhaps she wasn't up to taking care of her new little girl, and like she didn't love a whole lot in her life. She told me that at her last doctor's appointment she smiled, shrugged and said that everything was lovely, when that wasn't the truth. My step out of bounds gave her something to consider.
A month later I received a thank-you note in the mail.
You and I know each other so well that I'm beginning to feel that it would be irresponsible of me to withhold the fact that my days see the benefits of an antidepressant and that there's nothing disgraceful about it. Clinically, I'm not crazy. Clinically, I'm not psychotic. (I thought you'd appreciate that qualification there.) Clinically, I'm a little off kilter, and feel a whole heck of a lot better with an increased amount of dopamine and norinepinephrine floating around in my body.
Now why should anyone be sheepish about that?
INTERNAL WELFARE
I have a medical crush on my internist. She's the best kind of doctor. She practices the best kind of medicine.
May brought me the obligation of scheduling my annual physical. And though I'm devoted to routine medical care, I kept circumventing a call to her office. For I knew there would be blood.
The anti-depressant I take is metabolized by the liver. So my doctor, being the superstar that she is, mandates that I have my blood drawn annually to verify that my super dose of Sane isn't having a negative effect on my liver. That kind of vigilant medicine confirms to me that I've picked a stellar doc. Yet all my faith in her and dedication to health doesn't mean that I'm revved up for my annual interview with a vampire.
Nevertheless, I eventually made my appointment.
In the patient room, once my weight had been taken, blood pressure noted, and pulse entered into my chart, I perched on the exam table and answered my doctor's routine questions.
What supplements are you taking these days? she asked.
I rattled off the names of the handful of pills I habitually cram in my mouth every day. Stuff like Calcium, Vitamin D, Folic Acid (oh calm down, it serves more than just the pregnancy purpose), B12, Iron, Glucosamine, a Flinstone vitamin some days, a grown-up multi-pack other days, and on. Once I'd finished my list, accompanied by the doses I take, I stopped, Hey, wait a minute--do I even need to take all this crap? 'Cause if I don't have to, I'd rather not.
Well, let's find out, she said. Go off of everything aside from your antidepressant for a month and at the end of the month we'll send you for blood work to see what's necessary and what isn't. Throughout the month, if you have any symptoms, note them.
Not only was I game because it was a very attentive and essentially brilliant notion, bein' as it's darn good medical practice, but I've been wanting to make sure that I'm being a responsible vegetarian and getting everything I need. Some vegetarians can get lazy and ignore things like beans, whole soy and dark greens; for the most part, that's not me, but one can never be sure how good they are at anything until it's verified.
(Frankly, responsible vegetarians often maintain more protein-rich diets than do omnivores; the rumor that vegetarians have a tough time getting protein is a dirty one. I'm not the kind of person that's going to take going meatless truly seriously unless I've done enough research to know that for me it's smart, safe, viable, reasonable, and interesting. (Do know that this isn't me trying to convince you to drop the drumstick--I wouldn't do that; it's me merely clarifying my line.))
One month passes sans supplementation. Then a tearless trip to the phlebotomist (wherein the vampire siphoned eight vials out me, an indication to you of just how mant tests my attentive doc ordered). And a week later, back to my internist's office without a list of lurking symptoms.
The result of this experiment: I am absolutely healthy. No danger areas. No nearing Insufficient. In fact, all things necessary for good health now and great health in the future are in the higher part of the ideal range. The only supplementation I need to restart is Calcium. And not because my blood shows a deficiency, but rather as prevention because I'm the poster child for future osteoporosis. (I used to pedal an osteoporosis medication so this is something I know a little bit about; of the risk factors I have 3 of the most significant. Careful prevention's essential or I'll become a part of the clan of incredible shrinking women.)
No doctor, I'm not lacking iron. No other doctor, I don't even come close to having a Vitamin D deficiency. Instead, I'm a portrait of health.
May brought me the obligation of scheduling my annual physical. And though I'm devoted to routine medical care, I kept circumventing a call to her office. For I knew there would be blood.
The anti-depressant I take is metabolized by the liver. So my doctor, being the superstar that she is, mandates that I have my blood drawn annually to verify that my super dose of Sane isn't having a negative effect on my liver. That kind of vigilant medicine confirms to me that I've picked a stellar doc. Yet all my faith in her and dedication to health doesn't mean that I'm revved up for my annual interview with a vampire.
Nevertheless, I eventually made my appointment.
In the patient room, once my weight had been taken, blood pressure noted, and pulse entered into my chart, I perched on the exam table and answered my doctor's routine questions.
What supplements are you taking these days? she asked.
I rattled off the names of the handful of pills I habitually cram in my mouth every day. Stuff like Calcium, Vitamin D, Folic Acid (oh calm down, it serves more than just the pregnancy purpose), B12, Iron, Glucosamine, a Flinstone vitamin some days, a grown-up multi-pack other days, and on. Once I'd finished my list, accompanied by the doses I take, I stopped, Hey, wait a minute--do I even need to take all this crap? 'Cause if I don't have to, I'd rather not.
Well, let's find out, she said. Go off of everything aside from your antidepressant for a month and at the end of the month we'll send you for blood work to see what's necessary and what isn't. Throughout the month, if you have any symptoms, note them.
Not only was I game because it was a very attentive and essentially brilliant notion, bein' as it's darn good medical practice, but I've been wanting to make sure that I'm being a responsible vegetarian and getting everything I need. Some vegetarians can get lazy and ignore things like beans, whole soy and dark greens; for the most part, that's not me, but one can never be sure how good they are at anything until it's verified.
(Frankly, responsible vegetarians often maintain more protein-rich diets than do omnivores; the rumor that vegetarians have a tough time getting protein is a dirty one. I'm not the kind of person that's going to take going meatless truly seriously unless I've done enough research to know that for me it's smart, safe, viable, reasonable, and interesting. (Do know that this isn't me trying to convince you to drop the drumstick--I wouldn't do that; it's me merely clarifying my line.))
One month passes sans supplementation. Then a tearless trip to the phlebotomist (wherein the vampire siphoned eight vials out me, an indication to you of just how mant tests my attentive doc ordered). And a week later, back to my internist's office without a list of lurking symptoms.
The result of this experiment: I am absolutely healthy. No danger areas. No nearing Insufficient. In fact, all things necessary for good health now and great health in the future are in the higher part of the ideal range. The only supplementation I need to restart is Calcium. And not because my blood shows a deficiency, but rather as prevention because I'm the poster child for future osteoporosis. (I used to pedal an osteoporosis medication so this is something I know a little bit about; of the risk factors I have 3 of the most significant. Careful prevention's essential or I'll become a part of the clan of incredible shrinking women.)
No doctor, I'm not lacking iron. No other doctor, I don't even come close to having a Vitamin D deficiency. Instead, I'm a portrait of health.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
MOUTH TO MOUTH
Doesn't recalling your first kiss just make you gag? Not that I'd expect it to cross your mind at all. My own rarely makes an appearance in conscious thought, but a recent comment on my blog brought it to mind and made me grateful that I'd not had a larger lunch, for it woulda' ended up on my perfect little iPhone.
What if kissing was still like that? What if it were still sloppy, slobbery, and awkward? Fortunately, such is not the case. At least--thank my luckiest of lucky stars--not for me. In fact, I've been married to Monsieur Megan for nearly 7 years and my eyes still roll back in my head when he gives me one of those movie star smooches he's so grand at. And I 'spect that's going to continue.
But that initial foray into lip-locking was a disaster. As I can only speak for myself, I'd hope that was the case for both parties; for if the other half of my first kiss thought that it was any good I sure do pity him, as I have long-since moved on to bigger, better, and longer-lasting things (that invariably lead to other things whether intended or otherwise).
Although my sweetheart's kissin' makes me weak in the knees, I don't actually understand kissing. The act itself. Sometimes when The Husband and I are watching a movie and one love interest goes in for the kill, I will turn to my own love interest and say something akin to, Isn't it so odd that we do that? That we bring our mouths together to advance or nurture a relationship? Sort of creepy-weird. He rolls his eyes every time. He's heard it before.
The really strange, however, is that in our youth we could set our sights on an awkward, gawky, scrawny, four-eyed, pubescent boy and, in effect, say, Hey, I think I want to put my mouth on his mouth. And that that same pubescent boy could look at a chubby, over-made-up, highly-hairsprayed girl and think likewise.
If you don't believe in miracles, just considering that element of maturation should help out significantly.
What if kissing was still like that? What if it were still sloppy, slobbery, and awkward? Fortunately, such is not the case. At least--thank my luckiest of lucky stars--not for me. In fact, I've been married to Monsieur Megan for nearly 7 years and my eyes still roll back in my head when he gives me one of those movie star smooches he's so grand at. And I 'spect that's going to continue.
But that initial foray into lip-locking was a disaster. As I can only speak for myself, I'd hope that was the case for both parties; for if the other half of my first kiss thought that it was any good I sure do pity him, as I have long-since moved on to bigger, better, and longer-lasting things (that invariably lead to other things whether intended or otherwise).
Although my sweetheart's kissin' makes me weak in the knees, I don't actually understand kissing. The act itself. Sometimes when The Husband and I are watching a movie and one love interest goes in for the kill, I will turn to my own love interest and say something akin to, Isn't it so odd that we do that? That we bring our mouths together to advance or nurture a relationship? Sort of creepy-weird. He rolls his eyes every time. He's heard it before.
The really strange, however, is that in our youth we could set our sights on an awkward, gawky, scrawny, four-eyed, pubescent boy and, in effect, say, Hey, I think I want to put my mouth on his mouth. And that that same pubescent boy could look at a chubby, over-made-up, highly-hairsprayed girl and think likewise.
If you don't believe in miracles, just considering that element of maturation should help out significantly.
Monday, July 6, 2009
BERMUDIAN
I have discovered shorts.
Discovered? you say, fashionably draped in confusion. Just now? Good grief what were your summers like as a child? Mormons aren't allowed to wear shorts?
Allow me to clarify, Dear Reader: I have just now discovered that as an adult I like shorts, and I don't care if they look rotten on me.
See, I have cankles. The real thing. And I have thighs so significant that my weightlifting coach in college was even embarrassed by their circumference. I'm not just a girl grumbling about not having the daintiest of ankles or your average dame moaning over a pair of thighs that aren't as bad as she thinks; I am actually a girl with tree trunks for lower limbs.
Thus a few years ago when the stores I shop in started stocking fashionable, Mormon-appropriate shorts, I ignored them and stuck with regular jeans. Not for me, for I have cankles, and I couldn't think of a better way to accentuate my thunder thighs than to put 'em into ill-fitting shorts (for with these thighs every pair of bottoms that fit in the waist and the rear are unable to accommodate me in the thigh area).
But then a few weeks ago The Husband wanted to spend Saturday at the Sparks Marina (a little nod to you, Aunt Sue), a municipal park in Sparks with a fake lake, grass, sand, and a dog park. I had some studying to do and figured I'd grab the Soph and go along to lay on the grass reading and highlighting while The Husband floated in the middle of the cement pond endeavoring to make it through Atlas Shrugged. But as I was getting dressed I realized that I didn't want to sprawl in the sun in jeans. I wanted some shorts.
So on our way to the park we stopped at Target. And I bought a pair of shorts. As I'm below average height, the shorts hit lower than they ought and made me look even more stumpy than I am. Unfair to be sure. And just as I thought they would, they in effect pointed neon lights at my thighs and had a public temper tantrum over my cankles. And because I'm not only naturally fair but also have a [reasonably] severe aversion to the sun and am more often than not too lazy to use self-tanner, my legs were blue-white. But I was comfy. So I didn't care.
So comfy that the next week I rummaged through Banana Republic and came home with two more pairs. While I labored in the dressing room I looked at myself in the mirror, clad in a set that I ended up giving a home, and thought, Well, these are the legs I got. And there a big fat bummer. They're really not going to get much better. So although I'm not comfortable in my skin I may as well be comfortable in some shorts.
And, by George, I am.
Discovered? you say, fashionably draped in confusion. Just now? Good grief what were your summers like as a child? Mormons aren't allowed to wear shorts?
Allow me to clarify, Dear Reader: I have just now discovered that as an adult I like shorts, and I don't care if they look rotten on me.
See, I have cankles. The real thing. And I have thighs so significant that my weightlifting coach in college was even embarrassed by their circumference. I'm not just a girl grumbling about not having the daintiest of ankles or your average dame moaning over a pair of thighs that aren't as bad as she thinks; I am actually a girl with tree trunks for lower limbs.
Thus a few years ago when the stores I shop in started stocking fashionable, Mormon-appropriate shorts, I ignored them and stuck with regular jeans. Not for me, for I have cankles, and I couldn't think of a better way to accentuate my thunder thighs than to put 'em into ill-fitting shorts (for with these thighs every pair of bottoms that fit in the waist and the rear are unable to accommodate me in the thigh area).
But then a few weeks ago The Husband wanted to spend Saturday at the Sparks Marina (a little nod to you, Aunt Sue), a municipal park in Sparks with a fake lake, grass, sand, and a dog park. I had some studying to do and figured I'd grab the Soph and go along to lay on the grass reading and highlighting while The Husband floated in the middle of the cement pond endeavoring to make it through Atlas Shrugged. But as I was getting dressed I realized that I didn't want to sprawl in the sun in jeans. I wanted some shorts.
So on our way to the park we stopped at Target. And I bought a pair of shorts. As I'm below average height, the shorts hit lower than they ought and made me look even more stumpy than I am. Unfair to be sure. And just as I thought they would, they in effect pointed neon lights at my thighs and had a public temper tantrum over my cankles. And because I'm not only naturally fair but also have a [reasonably] severe aversion to the sun and am more often than not too lazy to use self-tanner, my legs were blue-white. But I was comfy. So I didn't care.
So comfy that the next week I rummaged through Banana Republic and came home with two more pairs. While I labored in the dressing room I looked at myself in the mirror, clad in a set that I ended up giving a home, and thought, Well, these are the legs I got. And there a big fat bummer. They're really not going to get much better. So although I'm not comfortable in my skin I may as well be comfortable in some shorts.
And, by George, I am.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
HEART THE HEART
It appears that physiology is all the rage.
Your insides are in. If you want a note card or a necklace with an anatomical heart on it, you're not going to have to hunt far. Esty and others can provide. It's trendy.
Though our innards aren't all that attractive, artists and artisans have been making a thing of the heart in its anatomical form. They're letterpressing the pretty ugly pump in your chest onto a nice note card or they're metalworking it into something to hang from your neck.
Though our innards aren't all that attractive, artists and artisans have been making a thing of the heart in its anatomical form. They're letterpressing the pretty ugly pump in your chest onto a nice note card or they're metalworking it into something to hang from your neck.
I'm now the proud owner of one of those necklaces. And if you really know me, you know that that's odd. Remember how I'm just horrible when it comes to accessories? Necklaces are especially bad. I slip one on and feel like I'm playing dress-up with my mom's stuff. I feel like the decor doesn't suit me.
But I've been putting in some more effort and have been seeing a little more success. Sounds like a silly thing to put effort into I know, but sometimes as I'm making my egress from the the house to conquer my calling-on-doctors day I feel a little too plain. But when I grab a necklace as I dash out of my closet, looping in on as I tumble down the stairs, I fell the plainness wander off, and I discover a little bit of confidence take its place. This is only sometimes, mind you.
Anyhow, the anatomical heart necklace . . . It's a dainty one. Which is even less like me. A demure chain, a modest pendant. But I'm so excited about this necklace that I'm having a tough time not wearing it to bed. Why? It's the heart. The anatomical heart.
You see, two of the five medications I now have responsibility for directly benefit this vital organ. I have spent three months of this year relegated to my office, rather than out making calls on offices, learning the anatomy of the heart and circulatory system, the epidemiology of the disease states, and the various forms of available treatment for both in order to be certified to promote these drugs. The heart and I have become close friends. So when I clicked upon an sort of attractive and slightly abstract heart pendant, I knew it had to be mine. Like a reward for finally being able to visualize and understand much of what happens during lub dub, etc.
A version of one of my many self-help diagrams.
For me, it's not as if I'm falling into the arms of a trend, having no defined reason for wearing my heart around my neck. Instead the trend has come to serve me, giving me a token to symbolize a successful passing from one set of drug responsibilities to another.
It's a medal of honor.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
INDEPENDENTLY ENGAGED
You'll probably spend the day doing the things that Americans do to celebrate our victory over taxation without representation; stuff like barbecuing, fireworks, potlucks, and parades. Do enjoy yourself, please.
The Husband was all for a holiday at my mom's or with the NorCal family, but I put the kibosh on that, as I have three major projects for work that need doing now, and I can't spare a day for frolicking without undesirable consequences next week.
Let's hear it for women having the freedom to mess around in the workplace.
Friday, July 3, 2009
WEAPONIZING SPACE
Sometimes a blog is for wielding. Like a weapon.
Because a blog is a forum of the unseen, it can feel like a safe place to field or launch an offensive. But a specifically unspecific one.
There are instances wherein I take the opportunity to let certain readers know that I know they're there. Or I'll put together a post about an unsavory exchange with a someone in particular because it's lit me up and I think it's worth writing about. But I do this without revealing the name or the title of my target. Though they know who they are.
It may appear cowardly for me to avoid the specifics of a name, but it's actually a splash of kindness. Unless what my target has committed is horrifically egregious, too personally directed, or pointed at someone in my family, I allow them to remain anonymous. Why do I grant them this courtesy when I've clearly taken issue with them? The answer is quite simply you.
Thanks to links from a certain blogosphere celebrity (see how I'm allowing her to remain anonymous--as if that were possible), many people have encountered Remarks from Sparks; but because this isn't a blog littered with motherly anecdotes, voyeuristically satisfying photos of kids, recipes, or post after post trashed with stuff I want, only a handful of the newcomers stay.
I'm not only okay with this. It pleases me. For the readers that do stick around are weeded-out treasures; all with a sense of humor about themselves and the world, they're the hearty, the passionate, and the thick-skinned (or the self-immolating and morbidly curious, but it's not of those I speak). They read my Remarks with the understanding that I might publish something that slaps close to home, but they've learned that it's really not directed at them, and who am I that they should care if it were? They understand that when arriving at this URL they'll be encountering some inconsequential person's direct, considered digressions and that there is no reason for them to find offense or invest their emotions in what I write.
Many of the readers that stay are also the kind of readers who get incensed. So there's the chance that if I'm mid attack and use a name or leave a link, the most brazen of you will do what you do, perhaps allowing my Remarks to influence an opinion, and you'll hop on the offensive, taking on a battle that you need not. Whatever issue I'm cryptically covering is between me and the precise target. That's why I don't give you their name. It doesn't serve any practical purpose. When I post about a less-lovely interaction I'm merely telling you bits to entertain or spark thought, not prompting you to suit up and go get 'em.
There are also times that I write something pointed at a specific someone and the readers who aren't they have no idea that the post is one with an agenda. To them it reads like regular Megan. But the individual who is the aim of my words can make no mistake in understanding about whom and what I speak. And I welcome them to open up a dialogue--it's that kind of thing that grants clarity.
Why do this? Why weaponize my online space? So that I do less weaponizing in my offline space.
I have the capacity to be an explosive person. A firecracker of sorts. My verbal explosions have become more infrequent as I've developed better control over my mouth and have come to see their ineffectiveness. But I'm still very often aflame.
I don't feel lightly. I don't react small. I tend to hurl myself at things--issues, projects, improvements, relationships. If I'm going to do something, I'm going to really do it. It's a personality trait, and it bleeds into how I embrace reactions.
So when I get my knickers knotted over something a someone's done or said, I feel such a build up of whatever emotion attaches itself to that experience that I have to set at least a fleck of it free.
Yes, I could privately write down my detonation with every detail I deem inappropriate for this space and then shred the paper; I've done that before. But I've learned that it's more satisfying for me to write and press Publish Post. That way someone else out there picks up my tone and gets a little feel for my feelings. And then I feel cleansed.
Because a blog is a forum of the unseen, it can feel like a safe place to field or launch an offensive. But a specifically unspecific one.
There are instances wherein I take the opportunity to let certain readers know that I know they're there. Or I'll put together a post about an unsavory exchange with a someone in particular because it's lit me up and I think it's worth writing about. But I do this without revealing the name or the title of my target. Though they know who they are.
It may appear cowardly for me to avoid the specifics of a name, but it's actually a splash of kindness. Unless what my target has committed is horrifically egregious, too personally directed, or pointed at someone in my family, I allow them to remain anonymous. Why do I grant them this courtesy when I've clearly taken issue with them? The answer is quite simply you.
Thanks to links from a certain blogosphere celebrity (see how I'm allowing her to remain anonymous--as if that were possible), many people have encountered Remarks from Sparks; but because this isn't a blog littered with motherly anecdotes, voyeuristically satisfying photos of kids, recipes, or post after post trashed with stuff I want, only a handful of the newcomers stay.
I'm not only okay with this. It pleases me. For the readers that do stick around are weeded-out treasures; all with a sense of humor about themselves and the world, they're the hearty, the passionate, and the thick-skinned (or the self-immolating and morbidly curious, but it's not of those I speak). They read my Remarks with the understanding that I might publish something that slaps close to home, but they've learned that it's really not directed at them, and who am I that they should care if it were? They understand that when arriving at this URL they'll be encountering some inconsequential person's direct, considered digressions and that there is no reason for them to find offense or invest their emotions in what I write.
Many of the readers that stay are also the kind of readers who get incensed. So there's the chance that if I'm mid attack and use a name or leave a link, the most brazen of you will do what you do, perhaps allowing my Remarks to influence an opinion, and you'll hop on the offensive, taking on a battle that you need not. Whatever issue I'm cryptically covering is between me and the precise target. That's why I don't give you their name. It doesn't serve any practical purpose. When I post about a less-lovely interaction I'm merely telling you bits to entertain or spark thought, not prompting you to suit up and go get 'em.
There are also times that I write something pointed at a specific someone and the readers who aren't they have no idea that the post is one with an agenda. To them it reads like regular Megan. But the individual who is the aim of my words can make no mistake in understanding about whom and what I speak. And I welcome them to open up a dialogue--it's that kind of thing that grants clarity.
Why do this? Why weaponize my online space? So that I do less weaponizing in my offline space.
I have the capacity to be an explosive person. A firecracker of sorts. My verbal explosions have become more infrequent as I've developed better control over my mouth and have come to see their ineffectiveness. But I'm still very often aflame.
I don't feel lightly. I don't react small. I tend to hurl myself at things--issues, projects, improvements, relationships. If I'm going to do something, I'm going to really do it. It's a personality trait, and it bleeds into how I embrace reactions.
So when I get my knickers knotted over something a someone's done or said, I feel such a build up of whatever emotion attaches itself to that experience that I have to set at least a fleck of it free.
Yes, I could privately write down my detonation with every detail I deem inappropriate for this space and then shred the paper; I've done that before. But I've learned that it's more satisfying for me to write and press Publish Post. That way someone else out there picks up my tone and gets a little feel for my feelings. And then I feel cleansed.
PLAN OF REACTION
I have an upcoming POA meeting for work. POA: Plan of Action. Plan of Attack.
We don't have these meetings too often, perhaps just three or four times a year. But when we do, the days we spend have a familiar ring to them: we gather, sit in dark rooms, gazing at videos and power point presentations on our respective disease states (those we have responsibility to sell for, not necessarily those that we have ourselves), we eat a lot, and then we role play until our mouths are dry and we can no longer stand (which comes quickly when you're teetering in a pair of four-inchers).
Overall, the meetings aren't too big of a deal. I've been to enough of them to know what to expect. However, two or three weeks before a meeting I start fretting. Yes, fretting about what I'm going to wear. Yes, fretting that my roots might be a little longer than is acceptable. Yes, fretting about missing my yoga classes. But mostly fretting about food. What the heck are these people going to try to feed me this time?
When it's near meeting time, prospective attendees receive an email "inviting" (in quotation marks because let's be honest here, you're not "invited" like you have a choice; you're goin', sister) them to register. So you register.
Do I write "Vegan" so as to avoid the cheese conundrum? No, because that's a lie. I'm not a vegan, for sometimes I eat cheese or fall to the temptation of ice cream. When I do, I find myself stumbling under the pressure of guilt for partaking in something made with milk taken from cows I've never met and don't know how they were treated. (Let's you and I talk about this whole issue/position later; not now, okay? I am completely aware that I verge on peculiar here. I have no idea what's happened to me as of late; I didn't used to feel like this.)
But again, if I just write "Vegetarian," the truthful statement, I will find myself subjected to cheese. Lots of it. I will refuse to eat it. I will then find myself starving. And then I will give in to the stupidest thing lying around (most often candy, chips and other demonic treasures). And then I'll come home feeling like garbage and will have to take a vacation day to recover from the crud I feel weighted with.
So what do I do? I lie. I write "Vegan." It's better to try to explain away the occasional dairy disaster or the lie itself than leave a full plate of Something sitting at the dinner table and later realize that I've stuffed my body with jelly beans.
That and I bring enough nuts, Clif Bars and Lara Bars to feed the entire meeting. So I guess we should be just fine. Fretting unnecessary.
We don't have these meetings too often, perhaps just three or four times a year. But when we do, the days we spend have a familiar ring to them: we gather, sit in dark rooms, gazing at videos and power point presentations on our respective disease states (those we have responsibility to sell for, not necessarily those that we have ourselves), we eat a lot, and then we role play until our mouths are dry and we can no longer stand (which comes quickly when you're teetering in a pair of four-inchers).
Overall, the meetings aren't too big of a deal. I've been to enough of them to know what to expect. However, two or three weeks before a meeting I start fretting. Yes, fretting about what I'm going to wear. Yes, fretting that my roots might be a little longer than is acceptable. Yes, fretting about missing my yoga classes. But mostly fretting about food. What the heck are these people going to try to feed me this time?
When it's near meeting time, prospective attendees receive an email "inviting" (in quotation marks because let's be honest here, you're not "invited" like you have a choice; you're goin', sister) them to register. So you register.
Name • Megan RomoDo I write "Vegetarian?" No, I can't do that, because then what they'll give me will be drowning in butter and cheese and will be unrecognizable as actual food, and I will refuse to eat it. (I love how people think that vegetarians require cheese for a dish to taste good. Folks, try those vegetables, noodles, rice and beans all by themselves; you'll be surprised to find that they not only have flavor, but a dandy flavor at that.)
Address • Somewhere in Sparks
Emergency contact • The Husband
Relationship to emergency contact • Eternal companion bound in love, affection, adoration, and many other words that mean just about the same thing
Job title • Specialty Sales Professional
Territory • Reno, Nevada
Special dietary considerations • Uh . . .
Do I write "Vegan" so as to avoid the cheese conundrum? No, because that's a lie. I'm not a vegan, for sometimes I eat cheese or fall to the temptation of ice cream. When I do, I find myself stumbling under the pressure of guilt for partaking in something made with milk taken from cows I've never met and don't know how they were treated. (Let's you and I talk about this whole issue/position later; not now, okay? I am completely aware that I verge on peculiar here. I have no idea what's happened to me as of late; I didn't used to feel like this.)
But again, if I just write "Vegetarian," the truthful statement, I will find myself subjected to cheese. Lots of it. I will refuse to eat it. I will then find myself starving. And then I will give in to the stupidest thing lying around (most often candy, chips and other demonic treasures). And then I'll come home feeling like garbage and will have to take a vacation day to recover from the crud I feel weighted with.
So what do I do? I lie. I write "Vegan." It's better to try to explain away the occasional dairy disaster or the lie itself than leave a full plate of Something sitting at the dinner table and later realize that I've stuffed my body with jelly beans.
That and I bring enough nuts, Clif Bars and Lara Bars to feed the entire meeting. So I guess we should be just fine. Fretting unnecessary.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
HAIR COLOR
I may not warsh my hair all that often, but when I do I have a lovely selection of cleaning products to choose from:
Ah, the little, pretty things in life.
Ah, the little, pretty things in life.
ANOTHER MAN'S TREASURE
Yesterday morning on the way to Carson City, I stopped at the 7-11 near my house. Gas and a bottle of water. The Smart kind of water. Because it makes me feel smart. Or hydrated. One of the two. Or both. And both are important.
I grabbed my gas card and noted the mileage on my odometer as I swung my legs out of the car and onto the asphalt. I chanted 21,361 over and over as I made my way to the pump, 'cause when you use a fleet gas card, in addition to your super secret Driver ID the pump calls for your car's mileage. I tapped in my driver code and then wrestled with the pump, for it always seems to be a wrestle for me.
Once my gas tank was satisfied I wrestled the pump back to its home, went into the 'lil mart for a Clif Bar and my Smart Water, came out, and slid back into the car. I went through the blast-off rigmarole: clicked my seat belt, twisted off the cap of my water, tore open the Clif Bar, turned the key, pressed Play on my iPod, put on my magnetic name tag, and was about to put ‘er into Drive when I spied a man at my window.
A small man—maybe 5’5”, slight, probably in his early 40s, sort of resembling Sean Penn, wearing jeans with a wife-beater, and pinching a cigarette in one paw. This man gestured for me to roll down my window. I politely shook my head (for I’m highly discouraged to do such things even in the daylight—on certain topics I heed my husband’s admonishing like a dutiful daughter). He motioned for it to be just a crack. I relented—hoping that were he to shove some weapon through the crack someone in the nearly-full gas station would hear my screams—and let my window down an inch.
Yes?
I’m sorry to bother you [Oh great, is he going to ask me for money or directions? I don’t carry cash, so I’m useless for the money. And I’m terrible with directions, so I’m useless for those as well . . . why couldn't he have approached someone else?], but I just wanted to tell you that I just drove 2400 miles and you’re the prettiest lady I’ve seen on my trip.
Oh! Oh! Well thank you so much. Uh, thank you. I sputtered, trying to be gracious as I noted his van's Ohio plates. Please have a nice day and a good drive.
He waved politely as I rolled up my window, and I smiled at him as I pulled into drive and escaped.
The subsequent repaired stream of consciousness: Wow, he’s nuts. But that was very nice--very nice and bizarre--of him. This skirt was a good buy for sure. How weird that he approached me. Do you think he meant my face? ‘Cause my face is flat. And my hair is weird these days. He couldn't have meant my face. But then, what's left? Did he mean my whole form? Whack job. I’m a fat cow right now. Was that his line to kidnap me into that giant van? Why would he want me? That lady with the jet skis looked just as viable. What the heck does he need that giant van for? Oh look, he’s got an adorable pug in there. What a little sweetie! I should have gone to meet his dog. What the %&#@ am I thinking?! That’s how they lure you before they kidnap, rape, and kill you. A cute little dog. Sneaky. I wonder what brought him here from Ohio. Oh! What if he lost his job or something? Sad. Well, of course I’m the best looking thing he’s seen—he’s been driving through No Man’s Land and gas stations for half the country—I’m the only thing he’s seen that isn’t wearing a wolf howling at the moon t-shirt or grimy baseball cap. I’m not a truck stop broad or a trucker. I’m like gold. Why would he call me a lady? Isn’t a lady old? Or a hooker? Do I look old? Are these heels skanky lookin'? Does my giant rump make the skirt too tight? I’m modest, so I didn’t look like I was askin’ for it. I know that much. The neck on this dumb shirt is too high anyhow. I can barely breathe. Oh, no! I wonder if he read my name! Or maybe got my license plate! But then he would have only got the front and it’s the wrong plate I’ve still got on there. But if he did get my plate number and my name what the heck would he do with it? A lady? Really? Oh, now this is one good Clif Bar . . .
I grabbed my gas card and noted the mileage on my odometer as I swung my legs out of the car and onto the asphalt. I chanted 21,361 over and over as I made my way to the pump, 'cause when you use a fleet gas card, in addition to your super secret Driver ID the pump calls for your car's mileage. I tapped in my driver code and then wrestled with the pump, for it always seems to be a wrestle for me.
Once my gas tank was satisfied I wrestled the pump back to its home, went into the 'lil mart for a Clif Bar and my Smart Water, came out, and slid back into the car. I went through the blast-off rigmarole: clicked my seat belt, twisted off the cap of my water, tore open the Clif Bar, turned the key, pressed Play on my iPod, put on my magnetic name tag, and was about to put ‘er into Drive when I spied a man at my window.
A small man—maybe 5’5”, slight, probably in his early 40s, sort of resembling Sean Penn, wearing jeans with a wife-beater, and pinching a cigarette in one paw. This man gestured for me to roll down my window. I politely shook my head (for I’m highly discouraged to do such things even in the daylight—on certain topics I heed my husband’s admonishing like a dutiful daughter). He motioned for it to be just a crack. I relented—hoping that were he to shove some weapon through the crack someone in the nearly-full gas station would hear my screams—and let my window down an inch.
Yes?
I’m sorry to bother you [Oh great, is he going to ask me for money or directions? I don’t carry cash, so I’m useless for the money. And I’m terrible with directions, so I’m useless for those as well . . . why couldn't he have approached someone else?], but I just wanted to tell you that I just drove 2400 miles and you’re the prettiest lady I’ve seen on my trip.
Oh! Oh! Well thank you so much. Uh, thank you. I sputtered, trying to be gracious as I noted his van's Ohio plates. Please have a nice day and a good drive.
He waved politely as I rolled up my window, and I smiled at him as I pulled into drive and escaped.
The subsequent repaired stream of consciousness: Wow, he’s nuts. But that was very nice--very nice and bizarre--of him. This skirt was a good buy for sure. How weird that he approached me. Do you think he meant my face? ‘Cause my face is flat. And my hair is weird these days. He couldn't have meant my face. But then, what's left? Did he mean my whole form? Whack job. I’m a fat cow right now. Was that his line to kidnap me into that giant van? Why would he want me? That lady with the jet skis looked just as viable. What the heck does he need that giant van for? Oh look, he’s got an adorable pug in there. What a little sweetie! I should have gone to meet his dog. What the %&#@ am I thinking?! That’s how they lure you before they kidnap, rape, and kill you. A cute little dog. Sneaky. I wonder what brought him here from Ohio. Oh! What if he lost his job or something? Sad. Well, of course I’m the best looking thing he’s seen—he’s been driving through No Man’s Land and gas stations for half the country—I’m the only thing he’s seen that isn’t wearing a wolf howling at the moon t-shirt or grimy baseball cap. I’m not a truck stop broad or a trucker. I’m like gold. Why would he call me a lady? Isn’t a lady old? Or a hooker? Do I look old? Are these heels skanky lookin'? Does my giant rump make the skirt too tight? I’m modest, so I didn’t look like I was askin’ for it. I know that much. The neck on this dumb shirt is too high anyhow. I can barely breathe. Oh, no! I wonder if he read my name! Or maybe got my license plate! But then he would have only got the front and it’s the wrong plate I’ve still got on there. But if he did get my plate number and my name what the heck would he do with it? A lady? Really? Oh, now this is one good Clif Bar . . .
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
