D has been working hard on the 450 gallon fish tank that will be replacing our two koi's modest (read: too small to turn around in) 60 gallon tank. If you saw our fish, you'd understand why this is necessary. These fish outweigh some housecats. It may take both of the adults in the house to lift the larger of the two out of the present tank and into the temporary tank that will house them while we move the present tank aside to make room for the new! improved! aquarium.
D's been building the new tank in the garage. He said it's a little like building a plane in your garage. I said, "Yeah, but planes have wheels." How will he move the tank from the garage to around the house and in the back door so it can be set up in the livingroom? He'll build a special dolly for it. Of course.
My mother fails to understand why we have to "lose" about an eight of our livingroom to this new tank, even though I explained that these fish are a like family, and we can't just give them away, let them die, or fry them up for dinner (even though they'd serve 12).
Between the saltwater tidepool/reef tank that runs the length of one of the walls of the garage, and now the Big Tank, I say we call this "Monterey Bay Aquarium North" and start to sell admission to classes of small school children. It will off-set the expenses associated with building the "exhibits," anyway.
I'll be sure to announce the Opening Day date and Members-only Early Entry hours as soon as those details become available.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Monday, May 09, 2005
Monday night, turning in early
Well, I don't know what you have left for the day, but I'm about done. I've given the kids 10 minutes more to color, etc. and 10 minutes for me to "scribble" as Jo March might say, and catch up on the internet (as Jo never did), and then we're hitting the hay.
Reading L'Engle's musings on "fundamental" Christianity and "literalism" has been encouraging. She always points back to the importance of Love. I wish I could keep it in mind more often, myself.
I was approached by a past school board member on Saturday with a question about whether I would consider "having a conversation" about me being on the Board. Clearly, she doesn't realize that while I seem responsible and discerning and involved, in fact, I dread responsibility and I am trying very hard to set boundaries in my life and keep it simple. Maybe it's time to practice the mantra that goes:
No. No. No.
Except that's not a very positive mantra, is it? Maybe it should be a question of saying "no" to them, but of saying "yes" to me, to my family, to space & peace. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Speaking of which, I have done a drastic thing and signed up for a 3-day poets' workshop at a retreat center near Monterey. It takes place next month. It's my way of re-affirming that I'm serious about writing. I've heard the workshop leader give a lecture and I think I can learn a lot from her. This afternoon, I was talking to another writer I know who is familiar with some people who go to that particular conference/retreat facility, and she said, "Yeah. That could be really a great experience."
"Or," she added brightly, "it could turn out to be just a bunch of really damaged people putting it all out there for 3 days."
Great.
I also now notice that swimsuits are entirely optional at the hot springs, and are, in fact, used less often than the alternative. This has left D wondering why, exactly, he agreed to giving me the weekend off (while he single-parents).
But honey, it could be such an...um...educational experience. My goal? To write poetry and more poetry, to pick up some more writing tips, and to do it all without myself somehow becoming a really damaged person. Hey. Goals are important to have.
Reading L'Engle's musings on "fundamental" Christianity and "literalism" has been encouraging. She always points back to the importance of Love. I wish I could keep it in mind more often, myself.
I was approached by a past school board member on Saturday with a question about whether I would consider "having a conversation" about me being on the Board. Clearly, she doesn't realize that while I seem responsible and discerning and involved, in fact, I dread responsibility and I am trying very hard to set boundaries in my life and keep it simple. Maybe it's time to practice the mantra that goes:
No. No. No.
Except that's not a very positive mantra, is it? Maybe it should be a question of saying "no" to them, but of saying "yes" to me, to my family, to space & peace. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Speaking of which, I have done a drastic thing and signed up for a 3-day poets' workshop at a retreat center near Monterey. It takes place next month. It's my way of re-affirming that I'm serious about writing. I've heard the workshop leader give a lecture and I think I can learn a lot from her. This afternoon, I was talking to another writer I know who is familiar with some people who go to that particular conference/retreat facility, and she said, "Yeah. That could be really a great experience."
"Or," she added brightly, "it could turn out to be just a bunch of really damaged people putting it all out there for 3 days."
Great.
I also now notice that swimsuits are entirely optional at the hot springs, and are, in fact, used less often than the alternative. This has left D wondering why, exactly, he agreed to giving me the weekend off (while he single-parents).
But honey, it could be such an...um...educational experience. My goal? To write poetry and more poetry, to pick up some more writing tips, and to do it all without myself somehow becoming a really damaged person. Hey. Goals are important to have.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Mother's Day
I was deeply happy for a good long stretch of time today. It made me realize that I only skip over the surface of happiness like a well-thrown stone most of the time. Real contentment, the sense that all is, in fact, right with the world, is a little too rare these days.
When did that change? I don't know. But I do know that it helped greatly to be home for most of the day - after taking R to riding lessons at 8:15. And it helped even more that D did the grocery shopping, made lunch, and did the dishes. His mother and stepdad were here, and we had a good time, considering. There were only a couple of tense moments - once when Larry started to talk about how the streets in Iraq were literally running with blood & I cut him off because the kids were within earshot; and again, after lunch, when the kids weren't around and he told the story of how he'd threatened a registered sex offender who works as a janitor in the same large hospital building where he (Larry) is working as a painter. The conversation got a little too graphic and I interrupted with a story about my dad (always a good conversation stopper) and he dropped what he'd been saying.
In spite of that, though, I felt like I had a good stretch of space to catch up on emails, organize papers, do laundry and tidy, while the kids entertained themselves. That kind of time is just the ticket to allow me to feel caught up so I can in turn settle down and breathe deeply, so I can rest my feet in peaceful waters.
Just finished reading Eve Green by a novelist 10 years younger than me. The nerve. I'd picked it up at random (I kid you not), so of course, it "randomly" takes place in Wales. It never stops in my life, apparently; that connection to Wales is always there in one form or another.
Now I'm reading Penguins & Golden Calves by Madeleine L'Engle. Essays on icons and idols, writing about America and Antarctica, and about her life with her husband and her life after his death. It's a good read. It's good for me to stay connected with this author, who is so much a Christian and yet still so able to allow God to live somewhere bigger than the box some Christians put him in.
When did that change? I don't know. But I do know that it helped greatly to be home for most of the day - after taking R to riding lessons at 8:15. And it helped even more that D did the grocery shopping, made lunch, and did the dishes. His mother and stepdad were here, and we had a good time, considering. There were only a couple of tense moments - once when Larry started to talk about how the streets in Iraq were literally running with blood & I cut him off because the kids were within earshot; and again, after lunch, when the kids weren't around and he told the story of how he'd threatened a registered sex offender who works as a janitor in the same large hospital building where he (Larry) is working as a painter. The conversation got a little too graphic and I interrupted with a story about my dad (always a good conversation stopper) and he dropped what he'd been saying.
In spite of that, though, I felt like I had a good stretch of space to catch up on emails, organize papers, do laundry and tidy, while the kids entertained themselves. That kind of time is just the ticket to allow me to feel caught up so I can in turn settle down and breathe deeply, so I can rest my feet in peaceful waters.
Just finished reading Eve Green by a novelist 10 years younger than me. The nerve. I'd picked it up at random (I kid you not), so of course, it "randomly" takes place in Wales. It never stops in my life, apparently; that connection to Wales is always there in one form or another.
Now I'm reading Penguins & Golden Calves by Madeleine L'Engle. Essays on icons and idols, writing about America and Antarctica, and about her life with her husband and her life after his death. It's a good read. It's good for me to stay connected with this author, who is so much a Christian and yet still so able to allow God to live somewhere bigger than the box some Christians put him in.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Post race night already
It's been a full day. The race went well - I didn't walk at all, and did a pretty good time (for me), considering I hadn't been trainng for the event as much as usual.
I spent the better part of the day after that shuttling kids around and participating in the girls' school's May Faire, complete with maypole dancing from each class, strawberry shortcake, flower planting, garland making, prayer flag painting, and kids running around and being kids.
I've fallen asleep twice now, writing this. No point trying to come up with anything much that's readable, now....make that three times. -out-
I spent the better part of the day after that shuttling kids around and participating in the girls' school's May Faire, complete with maypole dancing from each class, strawberry shortcake, flower planting, garland making, prayer flag painting, and kids running around and being kids.
I've fallen asleep twice now, writing this. No point trying to come up with anything much that's readable, now....make that three times. -out-
Friday, May 06, 2005
Pre Race Night, not ready
Tomorrow is The Human Race, a 5k walk/10k run with about 8,000 participants that annually raises over 1 million dollars for non-profit organizations in the county. A 10k is 6.2 miles - and haven't run any further than 4.6 miles at a stretch since February. I should probably be worried, but what's the point? It wouldn't change anything. I have to hope the half marathon training leading up to February is still somehow in my system.
Besides, thanks to amazing generosity from co-workers, I've raised quite a bit of money for our city's Hospice, and the pledges will motivate me after the four mile mark, when I'm starting to wonder whose bright idea it was to do the 10k instead of the 5k, anyway.
It's just past 9pm now, and I'm going to bed - about an hour and a half earlier than I have all week. That should help with the run too, I think.
Besides, thanks to amazing generosity from co-workers, I've raised quite a bit of money for our city's Hospice, and the pledges will motivate me after the four mile mark, when I'm starting to wonder whose bright idea it was to do the 10k instead of the 5k, anyway.
It's just past 9pm now, and I'm going to bed - about an hour and a half earlier than I have all week. That should help with the run too, I think.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Pre-weekend mode
Let's just call this the beginning of the weekend. There's that one day of work to get through, but hey! that's just one day.
We do Superslow weight training twice a week at work. It's one of the biggest perks there is at the company, one of the reasons *not* to quit. The concept is that you use specially-calibrated machines to move the weights really slowly. It's not the number of reps that counts so much as spending 2 minutes on each machine doing exaggeratedly slow reps, 10 seconds in each direction. That way, within 20 minutes, you've had quite a workout. Sometimes my arms and legs are shaking pretty significantly by the time I wobble back to my desk after a session. My coworker once made fun of me, when just back from the gym, because my triceps and biceps were quivering when I reached out to dial the phone.
I usually don't want to do these workouts. It helps that our 2 trainers are awesome women and fun to spend time with and are, besides that, really good coaches. But still, it's a workout, not a half-hour of lying on a couch. And the weights are, well, heavy.
But the results of the training are great, and as another coworker pointed out once about each machine: "Hey. It's only 2 minutes. I can do just about anything if it's only for 2 minutes."
I may have already told this story. But my real point, now, is this: tomorrow is only 1 workday before the weekend. I can survive 1 workday.
And to Josh: we'll have to decline your generous offer of less-than-domesticated rats. But gee, thanks for asking.
(Is this what you mean by snarkiness, Julia?)
We do Superslow weight training twice a week at work. It's one of the biggest perks there is at the company, one of the reasons *not* to quit. The concept is that you use specially-calibrated machines to move the weights really slowly. It's not the number of reps that counts so much as spending 2 minutes on each machine doing exaggeratedly slow reps, 10 seconds in each direction. That way, within 20 minutes, you've had quite a workout. Sometimes my arms and legs are shaking pretty significantly by the time I wobble back to my desk after a session. My coworker once made fun of me, when just back from the gym, because my triceps and biceps were quivering when I reached out to dial the phone.
I usually don't want to do these workouts. It helps that our 2 trainers are awesome women and fun to spend time with and are, besides that, really good coaches. But still, it's a workout, not a half-hour of lying on a couch. And the weights are, well, heavy.
But the results of the training are great, and as another coworker pointed out once about each machine: "Hey. It's only 2 minutes. I can do just about anything if it's only for 2 minutes."
I may have already told this story. But my real point, now, is this: tomorrow is only 1 workday before the weekend. I can survive 1 workday.
And to Josh: we'll have to decline your generous offer of less-than-domesticated rats. But gee, thanks for asking.
(Is this what you mean by snarkiness, Julia?)
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Miscellany
I'm still trying to sell the Escape. You can see it on craigslist.org here until the link expires.
We're also trying to find a home for something like 40 years (no, seriously) of National Geographics. D's father gave the boxes to us, and would like them to go to a school or non-profit organization as a lot. Once I know the exact years, I'll put that on craigslist too, I guess. Unlike many people I know, I have no experience at all with eBay, so I'm sticking to the local listings.
Dang.
I just started another sentence (and it was going to be a good one, honest) but Beatrice the rat walked on the keyboard and it went away. She's a worse critic of my work than I am. But she has turned out to be a great pet (when she isn't playing editor). She probably gets held or runs around the house 45-90 minutes a day by any of the four of us. When she is loose - which is to say, when the dog is not inside - she comes when you call her, even if she's in a distant room. Hmm. That's more than I can say about my daughters, as a matter of fact.
But I digress.
Beatrice and the dog (who is, I must say, a marvelous creature himself) have been introduced. She would climb right up his nose and sit on his head if we let her - she's that fearless and friendly. But Albion, wonderful though he is, would not be blamed for thinking that she is...well, if not an afternoon snack, than at least a fun new toy. And it's just too hard to un-bite the head off of a small animal.
Um. Sorry. Got gross there for a second.
I'm posting a picture from the race we ran last month, too. My first blog photo. Finally! Not the perfect picture of any one of the three of us, but it'll do.
We're also trying to find a home for something like 40 years (no, seriously) of National Geographics. D's father gave the boxes to us, and would like them to go to a school or non-profit organization as a lot. Once I know the exact years, I'll put that on craigslist too, I guess. Unlike many people I know, I have no experience at all with eBay, so I'm sticking to the local listings.
Dang.
I just started another sentence (and it was going to be a good one, honest) but Beatrice the rat walked on the keyboard and it went away. She's a worse critic of my work than I am. But she has turned out to be a great pet (when she isn't playing editor). She probably gets held or runs around the house 45-90 minutes a day by any of the four of us. When she is loose - which is to say, when the dog is not inside - she comes when you call her, even if she's in a distant room. Hmm. That's more than I can say about my daughters, as a matter of fact.
But I digress.
Beatrice and the dog (who is, I must say, a marvelous creature himself) have been introduced. She would climb right up his nose and sit on his head if we let her - she's that fearless and friendly. But Albion, wonderful though he is, would not be blamed for thinking that she is...well, if not an afternoon snack, than at least a fun new toy. And it's just too hard to un-bite the head off of a small animal.
Um. Sorry. Got gross there for a second.
I'm posting a picture from the race we ran last month, too. My first blog photo. Finally! Not the perfect picture of any one of the three of us, but it'll do.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
The absolutely first thing you must do...
...is read Eloise Takes a Bawth sometime. It's zany, but it's also poetry.
Do you know about the author of the Eloise books, Kay Thompson? What a character. I had no idea. She was wild, eccentric, strong, determined and proud. She was probably very hard to live with, but at the same time she was inspirational. She never stopped, and she never looked back.
I truly admire people like that - artists on fire for life - but sometimes, I have to admire them from afar. Close enough to be warmed and lit up, but not so close that I burn to a crisp. My focus now is on creating my own light, having my own fire.
(And in the meantime, having fun fun fun by doing things like reading Eloise books to my kids.)
Do you know about the author of the Eloise books, Kay Thompson? What a character. I had no idea. She was wild, eccentric, strong, determined and proud. She was probably very hard to live with, but at the same time she was inspirational. She never stopped, and she never looked back.
I truly admire people like that - artists on fire for life - but sometimes, I have to admire them from afar. Close enough to be warmed and lit up, but not so close that I burn to a crisp. My focus now is on creating my own light, having my own fire.
(And in the meantime, having fun fun fun by doing things like reading Eloise books to my kids.)
Monday, May 02, 2005
Somewhere in the middle of 8 hrs sleep
I fell asleep at 9 when I put the girls to bed, and now I'm doing this habitual "getting up only to post at around 11pm" thing.
What to say about today? Work was busy, as usual, so the day flew by there. After school and before the girls and I had dinner and a trip to the pet store, I was watching 6 kids: my 2, the next-door neighbor, the girl from across the street (who now knocks on our door 3 times an afternoon if we're not out front begging us to come out), and the siblings who had come over to play with my 2 kids to begin with.
It's crazy & impossible not to be completely In The Moment when in charge of that many children. One must abandon the thought of doing anything other than paying attention to the Present.
It is , however, tricky paying attention to the Present in multiple locations.
Julia was asking me to let her play inside with the rat at the same instant that Richie fell off the bike he was borrowing, and while I was distracted by that, S and Kira disappeared from Kira's driveway, where I'd had an eye on them. I saw from afar that Richie was fine (he got up and wasn't crying or limping), I put off Julia's request, and took her with me to find the other 2 five-year-olds. It wasn't too hard to guess where they'd gone because they'd just finished asking if they could go play at Kira's house, and I'd just finished saying, "No," because her mother was gone and there was no one there to watch them.
Sure enough, the front door to Kira's house was unlocked. I didn't feel comfortable going in while the other kids were in the street on bikes - I needed to watch them, too - so I called into the house from the front door for the girls to come out. It took a few tries, and then they finally emerged from a back bedroom. Before they were even close to me, Kira announced, "We're just eating crackers."
Right. That's always convincing.
"Really?" I asked. "You're not maybe eating candy?" (Kira's mother had told me a couple of days ago that they'd just found and raided a hidden stash.)
Oh, no, they weren't eating candy. They were busily chewing on crackers. Apparently the kind of Saltines that coincidently crunch just like hard candy crunches when you bite down on it in a quick the-parent-is-watching-me panic.
I was amazed at how fast they'd thought up a lie and how long they insisted on sticking to it. I asked a couple more times if it wasn't maybe, perhaps, for example, some candy they were eating. I even said boy, I bet it sure would be tempting to find and eat candy in a house when your mom and dad weren't there. I asked to see what they had in their mouths and their eyes got wide and a little wild and they clamped their jaws shut and furiously shook their heads, crunching and swallowing manically.
Meanwhile, Richie had fallen again, or maybe was finally really reacting to having fallen the first time, and he was lying in another neighbor's driveway, shaking his hand and groaning theatrically. And Julia was asking politely but plaintively if her dad was coming soon to pick her up.
Oh yeah, I was living in the moment then. It was so very Zen and peaceful.
I finally had to pull out the, "Gee, I guess we can't let you two play together if you tell stories to adults like this when you do," and that was enough to elicit the confessions. Not that they shouted out, "It's candy! It's candy!" They just nodded and when I finally put the question to them one more time.
I said, "Thank you for telling the truth," without adding, "finally."
I herded the children (except the girl-from-across-the-street) inside.
I got out the rat for Julia.
I got out more paper and pens for the Candy Thieves of Clairmont Court.
I cleaned up Richie's only-slightly torn palm.
I spent some time focusing on the "here and now" instead of the "here-and-there and now."
Actually, it was a good afternoon.
What to say about today? Work was busy, as usual, so the day flew by there. After school and before the girls and I had dinner and a trip to the pet store, I was watching 6 kids: my 2, the next-door neighbor, the girl from across the street (who now knocks on our door 3 times an afternoon if we're not out front begging us to come out), and the siblings who had come over to play with my 2 kids to begin with.
It's crazy & impossible not to be completely In The Moment when in charge of that many children. One must abandon the thought of doing anything other than paying attention to the Present.
It is , however, tricky paying attention to the Present in multiple locations.
Julia was asking me to let her play inside with the rat at the same instant that Richie fell off the bike he was borrowing, and while I was distracted by that, S and Kira disappeared from Kira's driveway, where I'd had an eye on them. I saw from afar that Richie was fine (he got up and wasn't crying or limping), I put off Julia's request, and took her with me to find the other 2 five-year-olds. It wasn't too hard to guess where they'd gone because they'd just finished asking if they could go play at Kira's house, and I'd just finished saying, "No," because her mother was gone and there was no one there to watch them.
Sure enough, the front door to Kira's house was unlocked. I didn't feel comfortable going in while the other kids were in the street on bikes - I needed to watch them, too - so I called into the house from the front door for the girls to come out. It took a few tries, and then they finally emerged from a back bedroom. Before they were even close to me, Kira announced, "We're just eating crackers."
Right. That's always convincing.
"Really?" I asked. "You're not maybe eating candy?" (Kira's mother had told me a couple of days ago that they'd just found and raided a hidden stash.)
Oh, no, they weren't eating candy. They were busily chewing on crackers. Apparently the kind of Saltines that coincidently crunch just like hard candy crunches when you bite down on it in a quick the-parent-is-watching-me panic.
I was amazed at how fast they'd thought up a lie and how long they insisted on sticking to it. I asked a couple more times if it wasn't maybe, perhaps, for example, some candy they were eating. I even said boy, I bet it sure would be tempting to find and eat candy in a house when your mom and dad weren't there. I asked to see what they had in their mouths and their eyes got wide and a little wild and they clamped their jaws shut and furiously shook their heads, crunching and swallowing manically.
Meanwhile, Richie had fallen again, or maybe was finally really reacting to having fallen the first time, and he was lying in another neighbor's driveway, shaking his hand and groaning theatrically. And Julia was asking politely but plaintively if her dad was coming soon to pick her up.
Oh yeah, I was living in the moment then. It was so very Zen and peaceful.
I finally had to pull out the, "Gee, I guess we can't let you two play together if you tell stories to adults like this when you do," and that was enough to elicit the confessions. Not that they shouted out, "It's candy! It's candy!" They just nodded and when I finally put the question to them one more time.
I said, "Thank you for telling the truth," without adding, "finally."
I herded the children (except the girl-from-across-the-street) inside.
I got out the rat for Julia.
I got out more paper and pens for the Candy Thieves of Clairmont Court.
I cleaned up Richie's only-slightly torn palm.
I spent some time focusing on the "here and now" instead of the "here-and-there and now."
Actually, it was a good afternoon.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Many a new
Happy May Day!
Thanks for the comments, ladies. It's interesting. I completely believe that Clare could be a writer like her mom was and is, but I realize that I can't (maybe I should say, "can't yet") believe in it for myself. Is that an honest assessment of my lack of ability, or just my lack of belief in myself that's speaking? And if it's the latter, well, dammit, I need to take steps to change that.
Last month, I wrote a couple of new poems & posted one here. Here's what I'll do this month to strengthen/create my vision of myself as a writer. I'll write at least two new poems and will send something out to a magazine or journal. Today, the part of Julia-daring-me will be played by me. Since she's busy with a new baby and all that.
And I think Lisa 's comment to yesterday's post is valid. If such a thing can be done and if I can be thick-skinned/confident enough to stand the unavoidable potentially ugly fallout associated with it, I should try to change where I sit at work from one room to another. As one of Lisa's teachers once told her about Evolution: "Change, Adapt, or Die."
Hmmm. So what have I learned from my forty-five minutes on the internet tonight? That my self-esteem and self-confidence are still too low. That I shouldn't beat myself up over having low self-esteem. (Because for some reason, that just seems counter-productive.) That some people claim to have seen UFO's around the WTC during the attack. (You'll notice no hot link to those web pages. I'm sure you can find them if you're so inclined.) That Suzanne saw an amazing sight today. And (again) that I can sit down hoping I'll come up with something to say and - lo and behold! - the words come. Even if it's self-reflective stuff.
And since I have to get up for work in 5 hours (stop laughing, D), I'm done for now. And yeah, that sleeping 8 hrs a night thing didn't last (as some of you knew it wouldn't). But I remember it fondly, and it's something to try again soon.
Thanks for the comments, ladies. It's interesting. I completely believe that Clare could be a writer like her mom was and is, but I realize that I can't (maybe I should say, "can't yet") believe in it for myself. Is that an honest assessment of my lack of ability, or just my lack of belief in myself that's speaking? And if it's the latter, well, dammit, I need to take steps to change that.
Last month, I wrote a couple of new poems & posted one here. Here's what I'll do this month to strengthen/create my vision of myself as a writer. I'll write at least two new poems and will send something out to a magazine or journal. Today, the part of Julia-daring-me will be played by me. Since she's busy with a new baby and all that.
And I think Lisa 's comment to yesterday's post is valid. If such a thing can be done and if I can be thick-skinned/confident enough to stand the unavoidable potentially ugly fallout associated with it, I should try to change where I sit at work from one room to another. As one of Lisa's teachers once told her about Evolution: "Change, Adapt, or Die."
Hmmm. So what have I learned from my forty-five minutes on the internet tonight? That my self-esteem and self-confidence are still too low. That I shouldn't beat myself up over having low self-esteem. (Because for some reason, that just seems counter-productive.) That some people claim to have seen UFO's around the WTC during the attack. (You'll notice no hot link to those web pages. I'm sure you can find them if you're so inclined.) That Suzanne saw an amazing sight today. And (again) that I can sit down hoping I'll come up with something to say and - lo and behold! - the words come. Even if it's self-reflective stuff.
And since I have to get up for work in 5 hours (stop laughing, D), I'm done for now. And yeah, that sleeping 8 hrs a night thing didn't last (as some of you knew it wouldn't). But I remember it fondly, and it's something to try again soon.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Saturday night
I am so grateful for my husband's ability to listen to me and for his support.
D caught me looking at job listings and wanted to know how serious that was. So we had a long talk. Actually, as I was saying, I had a long talk and he had a long listen and good advice.
I am not an ambitious person when it comes to work. I have never been. I don't feel the need to push myself ahead in some career path. I do not strive for more and more money. I feel extremely fortunate that I do make a good living, but that's more accident than planning.
I want a job where I know what my duties are and I do them extremely well and am recognized for my competence. Beyond that, what do I need? Health benefits and hours that allow me to pick up my kids from school. But as for the rest? I was happy covering books with plastic at the library, which required next to no brainpower and by most peoples' accounts was hellishly monotonous, but to me was therapeutic and lovely. I was happy doing software troubleshooting which required thinking hard and fast all day long while keeping 20-50 customers and programmers satisfied. If I know my place and can work hard behind the scenes to make the machine function, that's good enough for me.
My unhappiness at jobs has more often than not sprung from personality conflicts. I know I'm not perfect, and I'm sure I'm not easy to work with all the time. But whatever faults I have, I think that I have a positive attitude at work in general. And I only last so long working with people who are chronically angry, or disrespectful of other people who don't share their political views or temperament. My skin is only so thick, and then when I've had enough, I've had enough, and any more of the same negative attitude or unethical behavior from colleagues is fuel for the fire of discontent. Maybe I need to participate in some kind of workshop where I learn to interact more productively with aggressive personalities.
Or maybe not.
Just because my childhood has given me the tools needed to put up with abusive people doesn't mean I should.
Perhaps what I really need is to be a writer. They work alone almost all of the time. Some writers complain about this. At the moment, I think it sounds heavenly.
Fretting about work is not something that one should be doing on a Saturday night.
Is it?
D caught me looking at job listings and wanted to know how serious that was. So we had a long talk. Actually, as I was saying, I had a long talk and he had a long listen and good advice.
I am not an ambitious person when it comes to work. I have never been. I don't feel the need to push myself ahead in some career path. I do not strive for more and more money. I feel extremely fortunate that I do make a good living, but that's more accident than planning.
I want a job where I know what my duties are and I do them extremely well and am recognized for my competence. Beyond that, what do I need? Health benefits and hours that allow me to pick up my kids from school. But as for the rest? I was happy covering books with plastic at the library, which required next to no brainpower and by most peoples' accounts was hellishly monotonous, but to me was therapeutic and lovely. I was happy doing software troubleshooting which required thinking hard and fast all day long while keeping 20-50 customers and programmers satisfied. If I know my place and can work hard behind the scenes to make the machine function, that's good enough for me.
My unhappiness at jobs has more often than not sprung from personality conflicts. I know I'm not perfect, and I'm sure I'm not easy to work with all the time. But whatever faults I have, I think that I have a positive attitude at work in general. And I only last so long working with people who are chronically angry, or disrespectful of other people who don't share their political views or temperament. My skin is only so thick, and then when I've had enough, I've had enough, and any more of the same negative attitude or unethical behavior from colleagues is fuel for the fire of discontent. Maybe I need to participate in some kind of workshop where I learn to interact more productively with aggressive personalities.
Or maybe not.
Just because my childhood has given me the tools needed to put up with abusive people doesn't mean I should.
Perhaps what I really need is to be a writer. They work alone almost all of the time. Some writers complain about this. At the moment, I think it sounds heavenly.
Fretting about work is not something that one should be doing on a Saturday night.
Is it?
Friday, April 29, 2005
More Spring Cleaning
Happy Birthday to my half-sister Melinda, and to our friend Cheryl! I don't think either read this page, but it's the thought that counts, right?
In other news...
In our livingroom are about 10 boxes and half a dozen bags all packed up and ready to go to the girls' school Rummage Sale. I'd done much of the boxing earlier in the year, but tonight I also went through cupboards and did more purging.
I also have three bags full of items that wouldn't necessarily sell at the garage sale but are still in good enough condition to donate to charity. And then there's the stuff that I've just plain thrown out. It's very nice to think that after I drop those things off tomorrow, I won't have to see them again. Except while working at the rummage sale, when I can pretend they were never mine, anyway, all the while diverting the girls' attention from anything they might recognize and suddenly feel compelled to rescue from my heartless abandonment.
You know how it goes. "But Mom! That's my favorite little-stuffed M&M-in-a-baseball-hat guy! I love that one! How could you get rid of it?!"
I tell you. I'm heartless.
But really, we SO do not need all this stuff. Good riddance to it, I say!
I do have a fear that all these internal & external changes I'm going through will lead to me jettisoning more big things - like my job, for example. There are plenty of reasons to stay where I work. But there are also, I'm increasingly aware, reasons to leave.
I've been feeling dizzy lately, just that slight loss of equilibrium one might get after a glass or two of wine, or the sense of constantly listing a little that comes from having turned around in circles several times like kids do before they lie on the floor and go, "Woooow." And of course I think it could be anemia, or that I'm pregnant (extremely unlikely, but technically not impossible), or that I have a brain tumor. Or it could be, I think, just a physical manifestation of an internal state of being off-balance. I'm listing. I'm drifting. And I don't know what port I'm leaving or what port I'm making for. I'm trying to enjoy the journey, but I'm also a little worried that I've forgotten to look up and take mental note of the position of the stars.
Today makes a year since I started this Blog. Who'd have thought it would be so regular a part of my life? I'm glad. Even though sometimes it feels like nothing more than a combination journal/email to myself, some confidence and writerly habits have come from it.
My first post said, "Thus it starts. No promises. Just a beginning."
And now?
Thus it continues.
No promises.
Just a process.
In other news...
In our livingroom are about 10 boxes and half a dozen bags all packed up and ready to go to the girls' school Rummage Sale. I'd done much of the boxing earlier in the year, but tonight I also went through cupboards and did more purging.
I also have three bags full of items that wouldn't necessarily sell at the garage sale but are still in good enough condition to donate to charity. And then there's the stuff that I've just plain thrown out. It's very nice to think that after I drop those things off tomorrow, I won't have to see them again. Except while working at the rummage sale, when I can pretend they were never mine, anyway, all the while diverting the girls' attention from anything they might recognize and suddenly feel compelled to rescue from my heartless abandonment.
You know how it goes. "But Mom! That's my favorite little-stuffed M&M-in-a-baseball-hat guy! I love that one! How could you get rid of it?!"
I tell you. I'm heartless.
But really, we SO do not need all this stuff. Good riddance to it, I say!
I do have a fear that all these internal & external changes I'm going through will lead to me jettisoning more big things - like my job, for example. There are plenty of reasons to stay where I work. But there are also, I'm increasingly aware, reasons to leave.
I've been feeling dizzy lately, just that slight loss of equilibrium one might get after a glass or two of wine, or the sense of constantly listing a little that comes from having turned around in circles several times like kids do before they lie on the floor and go, "Woooow." And of course I think it could be anemia, or that I'm pregnant (extremely unlikely, but technically not impossible), or that I have a brain tumor. Or it could be, I think, just a physical manifestation of an internal state of being off-balance. I'm listing. I'm drifting. And I don't know what port I'm leaving or what port I'm making for. I'm trying to enjoy the journey, but I'm also a little worried that I've forgotten to look up and take mental note of the position of the stars.
Today makes a year since I started this Blog. Who'd have thought it would be so regular a part of my life? I'm glad. Even though sometimes it feels like nothing more than a combination journal/email to myself, some confidence and writerly habits have come from it.
My first post said, "Thus it starts. No promises. Just a beginning."
And now?
Thus it continues.
No promises.
Just a process.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Another old one
I wrote this poem three years ago, almost to the day, to be part of the "THE WILD POETRY ELIOT HYPERPOEM" project. You can see the original hyperpoem here. The idea is for different writers to use a line from "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock"(in this case)and use it as a jumping off place to create something of their own, or to at least incorporate it into a poem somehow. I suppose you can either think of this as base, low plagiarism, or as another link in a long chain of artists inspiring one another. Or you can think of it however you like, actually. When I wrote it, I was very conscious of the war in Iraq having just started.
Portent
And how to explain that yellow smoke? Is it
signal smoke, the smoke of sacrificial offerings,
prophetic? Born of the burning of unholy things?
The yellow haze of gypsies, soothsayers and bombs.
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window panes
and will not be gone.
What good could come of such a thing? What could it signal
that is clean? See how it lies low and eager to come in?
Yes, you see what I mean. It is Spring again.
The roses reincarnate the yard, and still, outside
the yellow smoke hangs sullen and sulfuric, daring us to breathe.
We try to blow it free like cake candle flames, but the smoke
remains: muzzle pointed at us, the yellow of rotten grass,
of nicotine stained fingers and newspapers in rooms
where we pass time reading the same stale page.
I have measured out smoke in pipes and corridors;
yours are not the only eyes that burn from what presses
at the panes. I have seen the smoke of fires rise
with a full-moon wind, but that smoke rose. Since then,
since then pillars have smoldered low beneath our feet.
And I can only think two ways free: to open the window,
let the patient smoke in, to anoint the room with what follows behind;
or to bide time until it slinks to another street, every tatter of it gone,
and we can wipe the glass clean.
Portent
And how to explain that yellow smoke? Is it
signal smoke, the smoke of sacrificial offerings,
prophetic? Born of the burning of unholy things?
The yellow haze of gypsies, soothsayers and bombs.
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window panes
and will not be gone.
What good could come of such a thing? What could it signal
that is clean? See how it lies low and eager to come in?
Yes, you see what I mean. It is Spring again.
The roses reincarnate the yard, and still, outside
the yellow smoke hangs sullen and sulfuric, daring us to breathe.
We try to blow it free like cake candle flames, but the smoke
remains: muzzle pointed at us, the yellow of rotten grass,
of nicotine stained fingers and newspapers in rooms
where we pass time reading the same stale page.
I have measured out smoke in pipes and corridors;
yours are not the only eyes that burn from what presses
at the panes. I have seen the smoke of fires rise
with a full-moon wind, but that smoke rose. Since then,
since then pillars have smoldered low beneath our feet.
And I can only think two ways free: to open the window,
let the patient smoke in, to anoint the room with what follows behind;
or to bide time until it slinks to another street, every tatter of it gone,
and we can wipe the glass clean.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Daily poetry
Tonight I have neither thoughtful musings nor family anecdotes to tell. But I found this on Poetry Daily by Alan Shapiro, and like it. I only have a few more days of National Poetry Month to give me an excuse to post so many poems, but I'll probably continue to do so after April, too.
Who hasn't fallen out of love? Or risen out of it?
Takeoff
We didn't fall out of love,
old love, we rose — we rose
as in a plane, as in the moment
when the wheels lift
and the whole craft
shudders against the gravity
it then forgets as
all at once the runway's
fretful rushing by the window
slows and resolves to field
and tree line, the beaten
metal of a pond
the sun anneals;
we rose the way it all
grows clearer
as it diminishes till
a car drives in place
along a road that winds
and straightens, straightens to wind
again across a widening
landscape in which
nothing at all is moving
except the ever-
smaller sharper
shadow of our
getting clear of it.
Who hasn't fallen out of love? Or risen out of it?
Takeoff
We didn't fall out of love,
old love, we rose — we rose
as in a plane, as in the moment
when the wheels lift
and the whole craft
shudders against the gravity
it then forgets as
all at once the runway's
fretful rushing by the window
slows and resolves to field
and tree line, the beaten
metal of a pond
the sun anneals;
we rose the way it all
grows clearer
as it diminishes till
a car drives in place
along a road that winds
and straightens, straightens to wind
again across a widening
landscape in which
nothing at all is moving
except the ever-
smaller sharper
shadow of our
getting clear of it.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Road rash
R took a spill on her bike this afternoon. It was a slow-moving spill, and she's only scraped a knee and her palm, a bit, and now has an arcing bruise in the shape of part of her tire on her inner thigh. I was down the street walking home with S at the time, and I saw that R didn't shed a tear as she got up and hobbled to our driveway. Another mom, who was collecting her daughter from a play-date when R fell, commented on how brave R was. I also praised her for being so calm while I cleaned up the cuts and applied antiseptic and bandages.
"That was quite a spill," I said. "I saw you fall."
"Me too. Up close," she answered.
Later, when we were talking about our best thing/worst thing for the day, R said that her best thing had been the fall. "I know it sounds weird," she said. But then she explained that when she was going down with the bike, it made her get rid of some anger she'd been holding inside about other things in her life. I can only guess that this is the anger and frustration that she catalogued for me yesterday: anger over having to endure the STAR testing at school, over being friends with people who aren't friends with each other, over her little sister getting on her nerves. She said that the fall pushed everything out of her except what was happening at that moment, and she sort of felt better afterwards for it. I wasn't sure whether to be relieved that she had this kind of release (I understand what she means), or whether to be afraid that it's the beginning of some lifelong pattern of self-abuse in the name of catharsis. This is just one example, too, of me extrapolating some little event out to an extreme conclusion.
But then she said that her worst thing was also the fall. So I think we're all right.
"That was quite a spill," I said. "I saw you fall."
"Me too. Up close," she answered.
Later, when we were talking about our best thing/worst thing for the day, R said that her best thing had been the fall. "I know it sounds weird," she said. But then she explained that when she was going down with the bike, it made her get rid of some anger she'd been holding inside about other things in her life. I can only guess that this is the anger and frustration that she catalogued for me yesterday: anger over having to endure the STAR testing at school, over being friends with people who aren't friends with each other, over her little sister getting on her nerves. She said that the fall pushed everything out of her except what was happening at that moment, and she sort of felt better afterwards for it. I wasn't sure whether to be relieved that she had this kind of release (I understand what she means), or whether to be afraid that it's the beginning of some lifelong pattern of self-abuse in the name of catharsis. This is just one example, too, of me extrapolating some little event out to an extreme conclusion.
But then she said that her worst thing was also the fall. So I think we're all right.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Placeholder post
Here's a placeholder post: an I'm-putting-my-quarter-on-the-arcade-game-edge-to-say-I-get-the-next-round post.
It's not that there is nothing to say. There is plenty to say. How the kids on the street spill out from the houses in the long afternoons to play, and how we moms talk in driveways about whether evolutionary theory really contradicts the story of creation from the Bible, and whether the careful phrases required by Positive Discipline are really worth it when one swat on the bottom seems imminently more expedient and effective, and where there's a good deal on groceries, and what we women on the cusp (or just past) of 40 want to be when we grow up. There is plenty to write about the satisfaction of so many blossoms on the orchid in the bathroom, and the simple gratitude that it is still alive, after all these years. About what isn't still alive - the relationships and habits and reactions that have died either tortuous or unnoticed deaths, the stars whose light we are still getting. About the mixed blessing of a rejection letter from a literary magazine. About the rat coming to us when she is loose in the house and we call her. About cheese. About whale cheese. About Wales. About what is inherited and what is learned. About the smell of basil, and the perfect blue-grey color of the BMW driven by the boy in High School I had a crush on.
But today, I'm just writing to record that at least I know, now, that when I sit down to write, there is plenty to say. And the words to say it all are waiting just like those kids to spill out into the world and play.
It's not that there is nothing to say. There is plenty to say. How the kids on the street spill out from the houses in the long afternoons to play, and how we moms talk in driveways about whether evolutionary theory really contradicts the story of creation from the Bible, and whether the careful phrases required by Positive Discipline are really worth it when one swat on the bottom seems imminently more expedient and effective, and where there's a good deal on groceries, and what we women on the cusp (or just past) of 40 want to be when we grow up. There is plenty to write about the satisfaction of so many blossoms on the orchid in the bathroom, and the simple gratitude that it is still alive, after all these years. About what isn't still alive - the relationships and habits and reactions that have died either tortuous or unnoticed deaths, the stars whose light we are still getting. About the mixed blessing of a rejection letter from a literary magazine. About the rat coming to us when she is loose in the house and we call her. About cheese. About whale cheese. About Wales. About what is inherited and what is learned. About the smell of basil, and the perfect blue-grey color of the BMW driven by the boy in High School I had a crush on.
But today, I'm just writing to record that at least I know, now, that when I sit down to write, there is plenty to say. And the words to say it all are waiting just like those kids to spill out into the world and play.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Backtowork eve
Got the girls to bed later than I wanted to, but still at a - *cough* - somewhat decent hour.
They did so well at the run this morning. R ran on ahead of us and says she did the mile in 15 minutes. The event wasn't formally timed, and I hadn't realized how informal it was until I got to the end and there was no clock, no timer, no nothing. I think S and I did the route in about 20 minutes, but that's just a guess because it started 3:30 min. after the 5k, but the 5k started "sometime" after 9am. At any rate, I'm proud of both girls. R says she didn't walk much, and S ran more than I thought she would. We did most of the route holding hands, except when she did a little sprint now and then. When she did walk, she walked fast, and we only had to stop once, when she insisted on unzipping the legs of her pants to turn them into shorts because she was hot. These pants have a handy design where you can adjust the length by adding or removing zippered sections of them - but since we didn't want to stop as long as it would take to actually pull off her shoes and remove the unneeded sections completely, for the last 1/3 of the mile or so, S had half of her pants fallen around her ankles. The effect was comical, but considering the circumstances (pushing ourselves to finish a run as quickly as we could), S and I cared about how she looked about as much as a woman in labor cares about how she looks.
Both girls ran the last bit of their race all-out. It's hard not to, when the finish has rows of people on both sides cheering you on. S and I were too far back to see R finish, but she said she passed several runners at the end. And S looked so impressive to me (just behind her as I was at the end of the race) pushing her short body for all she was worth, with her little arms and legs pumping. She's become taller and leaner in the last few months, but she still looked something like a determined little bull charging the finish line. (I would never use this description in her presence, and I mean it in the most affectionate way - honest. There's just no other comparison that comes to mind.)
On another note, I got to spend some much-needed time at the Apple Box "writing" mid-day while D took a break from work to watch the girls. I know that technically, talking about writing doesn't count as writing - nor does talking about other things count as writing. But it was still much-needed. I feel like I've had a real weekend.
They did so well at the run this morning. R ran on ahead of us and says she did the mile in 15 minutes. The event wasn't formally timed, and I hadn't realized how informal it was until I got to the end and there was no clock, no timer, no nothing. I think S and I did the route in about 20 minutes, but that's just a guess because it started 3:30 min. after the 5k, but the 5k started "sometime" after 9am. At any rate, I'm proud of both girls. R says she didn't walk much, and S ran more than I thought she would. We did most of the route holding hands, except when she did a little sprint now and then. When she did walk, she walked fast, and we only had to stop once, when she insisted on unzipping the legs of her pants to turn them into shorts because she was hot. These pants have a handy design where you can adjust the length by adding or removing zippered sections of them - but since we didn't want to stop as long as it would take to actually pull off her shoes and remove the unneeded sections completely, for the last 1/3 of the mile or so, S had half of her pants fallen around her ankles. The effect was comical, but considering the circumstances (pushing ourselves to finish a run as quickly as we could), S and I cared about how she looked about as much as a woman in labor cares about how she looks.
Both girls ran the last bit of their race all-out. It's hard not to, when the finish has rows of people on both sides cheering you on. S and I were too far back to see R finish, but she said she passed several runners at the end. And S looked so impressive to me (just behind her as I was at the end of the race) pushing her short body for all she was worth, with her little arms and legs pumping. She's become taller and leaner in the last few months, but she still looked something like a determined little bull charging the finish line. (I would never use this description in her presence, and I mean it in the most affectionate way - honest. There's just no other comparison that comes to mind.)
On another note, I got to spend some much-needed time at the Apple Box "writing" mid-day while D took a break from work to watch the girls. I know that technically, talking about writing doesn't count as writing - nor does talking about other things count as writing. But it was still much-needed. I feel like I've had a real weekend.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Butter & Eggs Day Parade
S was in the parade today along with a quarter of the town's population (the rest of us watched). She walked with the girls' school. The theme was "That's Entertainment," and her school was trying to suggest old-fashioned things like jumping rope and music and dance and just plain "doing" instead of "watching" as good forms of entertainment. Very Waldorf of them. S was among the kindergartners in the back of the group, blowing bubbles. She seemed to have a good time. The town is small enough that we saw a dozen or more people we know downtown as we sat among the lighter crowd toward the front of the parade route.
Tomorrow, the girls and I will run that little 1-mile race together in the City.
It's a real family weekend. Except that D worked today & will work again tomorrow. Blech, I say. And he says double-blech.
Looking forward to writing time (BIC!) tomorrow too - if I can find parking while downtown is having an antique festival. (Be warned, SA, the joint may be jumpin')
I kind of dread writing these blog entries at night. It's been suggested that I switch my blogging time to the morning, but I couldn't do it at work, and before work, when it's still dark, I don't have time to get lost in a thought and find my way out through words. But even at night, even when I feel drained of anything but the energy to crawl into bed, once I start writing, my love of the process comes right to the surface, and I feel I could go on for a long time, enjoying what I'm doing. The exact same thing could be said of my running. As I lace up my shoes, I think, "Is this really necessary?" and after about 20 steps, I think, "Yes. Yes, it is."
Julia mentioned that she'd just read a Steve Martin book. I haven't read any of his books, but I found this quote and wanted to share:
"I think I did pretty well, considering I started out with nothing but a bunch of blank paper. ~ Steve Martin
Tomorrow, the girls and I will run that little 1-mile race together in the City.
It's a real family weekend. Except that D worked today & will work again tomorrow. Blech, I say. And he says double-blech.
Looking forward to writing time (BIC!) tomorrow too - if I can find parking while downtown is having an antique festival. (Be warned, SA, the joint may be jumpin')
I kind of dread writing these blog entries at night. It's been suggested that I switch my blogging time to the morning, but I couldn't do it at work, and before work, when it's still dark, I don't have time to get lost in a thought and find my way out through words. But even at night, even when I feel drained of anything but the energy to crawl into bed, once I start writing, my love of the process comes right to the surface, and I feel I could go on for a long time, enjoying what I'm doing. The exact same thing could be said of my running. As I lace up my shoes, I think, "Is this really necessary?" and after about 20 steps, I think, "Yes. Yes, it is."
Julia mentioned that she'd just read a Steve Martin book. I haven't read any of his books, but I found this quote and wanted to share:
"I think I did pretty well, considering I started out with nothing but a bunch of blank paper. ~ Steve Martin
Friday, April 22, 2005
It's all OK around here
My friend Laura gave me a copy of the music from Oklahoma yesterday, and we've all been listening to it ever since. In the car, in the livingroom, in R's room. D says he's made a copy for in his truck & at work. I mean, we're such a sappy happy family at the moment, wandering around humming "The Surrey with the Fringe On Top" and "People Will Say We're In Love."
I'm a sucker for lyrics that are clever. Cole Porter does the same thing, and Irving Berlin. Not that I know many of their songs, but those I know I like.
I do know the songs from musicals I was in: The Wizard of Oz in 7th grade, The Sound of Music in 8th grade, Westside Story in college. And yesterday, I Googled the boy I'd acted opposite as a teenager. He was Gregor Von Trapp to my Maria, and I was Mrs. Crachit to his Bob Cratchit in the Christmas Carol. At one point, we figured we'd had about 20 on-stage children together. Oh, the romance. I must say he has grown up nicely since he could sing higher notes than I could, and his career has sure taken off better than mine did. In spite of battling MS for years, he's done off-Broadway and tons of voice-overs and TV (such as CSI: NY). Go, Grant!
Well, I must tuck the little "I Can't Say No" gals into bed, now. As S pointed out about the song, "She says she can't say 'no' but she says 'no' when she says that."
Ah. Can't put anything past my kids, I tell you.
I'm a sucker for lyrics that are clever. Cole Porter does the same thing, and Irving Berlin. Not that I know many of their songs, but those I know I like.
I do know the songs from musicals I was in: The Wizard of Oz in 7th grade, The Sound of Music in 8th grade, Westside Story in college. And yesterday, I Googled the boy I'd acted opposite as a teenager. He was Gregor Von Trapp to my Maria, and I was Mrs. Crachit to his Bob Cratchit in the Christmas Carol. At one point, we figured we'd had about 20 on-stage children together. Oh, the romance. I must say he has grown up nicely since he could sing higher notes than I could, and his career has sure taken off better than mine did. In spite of battling MS for years, he's done off-Broadway and tons of voice-overs and TV (such as CSI: NY). Go, Grant!
Well, I must tuck the little "I Can't Say No" gals into bed, now. As S pointed out about the song, "She says she can't say 'no' but she says 'no' when she says that."
Ah. Can't put anything past my kids, I tell you.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
There's no translation for it
D just said he's "deprimé" (pronounced "day-preem-ay" with a French accent)which is apparently untranslatable, because the few words I threw at him - deflated, defeated, drained - didn't do the trick. I guess it's more like "totally without energy and feeling depressed about not having enough energy."
I know how he feels. I'm all daypreemay myself right now. But it could be worse. Apparently, the minimum wage in Cuba is being doubled May first from 100 pesos to 225 pesos - equal in US dollars from about $4.50 to about $9.40 a month. It would be worse to be daypreemay and trying to make ends meet in Cuba. Or plenty of other places in the world.
I'm reading Feed, and it's having a real effect on me. I highly recommend it to anyone who likes YA Science Fiction - a sub-genre, I guess. Highly. Like, way highly. It's all about death? And it's written in like first person, in this teenager's voice, you know? And it's like, totally affecting me so that I'm thinking da da da the world is heading in this direction and da da da we should all pay attention. On and on, as I read it. And I'm not really daypreemay from reading this book, because I get a charge out of a good book, even if it's a totally depressing good book. Or maybe because it's totally depressing.
Damn. I may never get out of therapy. Thank God for a good health plan and a reasonable co-pay.
I know how he feels. I'm all daypreemay myself right now. But it could be worse. Apparently, the minimum wage in Cuba is being doubled May first from 100 pesos to 225 pesos - equal in US dollars from about $4.50 to about $9.40 a month. It would be worse to be daypreemay and trying to make ends meet in Cuba. Or plenty of other places in the world.
I'm reading Feed, and it's having a real effect on me. I highly recommend it to anyone who likes YA Science Fiction - a sub-genre, I guess. Highly. Like, way highly. It's all about death? And it's written in like first person, in this teenager's voice, you know? And it's like, totally affecting me so that I'm thinking da da da the world is heading in this direction and da da da we should all pay attention. On and on, as I read it. And I'm not really daypreemay from reading this book, because I get a charge out of a good book, even if it's a totally depressing good book. Or maybe because it's totally depressing.
Damn. I may never get out of therapy. Thank God for a good health plan and a reasonable co-pay.
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