Tomorrow, I have tenatively designated as a free day for myself. Not a "day off" but a "day on" - tuned in and turned on to my creative self, to my inner poet, to my creature comforts.
If I plan too much then something will happen and it will all go to hell. But I envision myself sitting in a glade or on a windswept hill, with my sweet collie at my side, being all emo, scenting emergent spring on the wind, spending some quality time getting dirt on our paws.
It doesn't have to be much, but it does need to be some time outside, not thinking about the dust bunnies, the back log of bills or the laundry.
Studying some Italian would be good, or perhaps pretending to be Italian when I order some coffee at Starbuck's? I'm rusty, though, so I content myself these days with simply saying "grazie" instead of "thaink yew."
Time to check the weather report and look at a topo map of the county. I need to find the highest point and see if there will be wind.
February 17, 2011
February 11, 2011
In Bulk
As of this moment, I have lost seven pounds since Dec. 1. My goal through the holidays was to lose not gain. Even one pound would have been a victory. And it was FIVE, then another TWO in the past week (since I started lifting/cardio regularly). There were ups and downs but never up to or over the starting point.
I call this an unqualified success. Go, ME! I am also around pain levels of 2-3, with occasional 5s. But nothing over a 5 in the past week.
One way to approach everything, that I sometimes over use, is the modeling method. I "model" success and then try to recreate it. This comes from years of reading self-help crap as well as business plan advice. For the most part, it works. But there are times when you don't want to analyze the miracle - you just want to move ahead, be grateful, enjoy it, and keep the benefits coming. So for now, I am not going to analyze why this has happened. There is also the idea that analysis will be a jinx. Or perhaps hubris, that I can somehow advise or prescribe success. I am successful right here and now, but there's always tomorrow and that little thing of buttercream in the freezer.
But what I can safely say is that all of the information I've gathered about pain, exercise, my body, losing weight, nutrition and the random nature of the universe has finally come around to help me. Maybe I just got out of my own way. I don't know.
In many ways, I seem to live my life "in bulk" - aka always as much of a good thing as I can stand until I overindulge. Books, food, dogs, booze, yarn, fabric, dates, activities, plans.... and then I spend a good deal of time washed up and burned out. Not a good thing. So, as vanilla and bland as it sounds, I am working on living in moderation. Skimming along the surface on a sailboard instead of madly thrashing about in the water doing the butterfly.
Metaphorically, of course. My sailboard days are probably over (never say never!), and the butterfly stroke timing has always escaped me. Kick, kick, whut?, drown, arms, whut?, kick... flail.... switch to breaststroke.
Lost in my own metaphor, I will close this entry for now. A final word: Tiberius! (shout-out to some new readers, perhaps?)
I call this an unqualified success. Go, ME! I am also around pain levels of 2-3, with occasional 5s. But nothing over a 5 in the past week.
One way to approach everything, that I sometimes over use, is the modeling method. I "model" success and then try to recreate it. This comes from years of reading self-help crap as well as business plan advice. For the most part, it works. But there are times when you don't want to analyze the miracle - you just want to move ahead, be grateful, enjoy it, and keep the benefits coming. So for now, I am not going to analyze why this has happened. There is also the idea that analysis will be a jinx. Or perhaps hubris, that I can somehow advise or prescribe success. I am successful right here and now, but there's always tomorrow and that little thing of buttercream in the freezer.
But what I can safely say is that all of the information I've gathered about pain, exercise, my body, losing weight, nutrition and the random nature of the universe has finally come around to help me. Maybe I just got out of my own way. I don't know.
In many ways, I seem to live my life "in bulk" - aka always as much of a good thing as I can stand until I overindulge. Books, food, dogs, booze, yarn, fabric, dates, activities, plans.... and then I spend a good deal of time washed up and burned out. Not a good thing. So, as vanilla and bland as it sounds, I am working on living in moderation. Skimming along the surface on a sailboard instead of madly thrashing about in the water doing the butterfly.
Metaphorically, of course. My sailboard days are probably over (never say never!), and the butterfly stroke timing has always escaped me. Kick, kick, whut?, drown, arms, whut?, kick... flail.... switch to breaststroke.
Lost in my own metaphor, I will close this entry for now. A final word: Tiberius! (shout-out to some new readers, perhaps?)
December 20, 2010
I'll Protect You
Larry the Lion was my special pal. He IS my special pal. He sits next to my desk, mostly because this room stays out of range from the marauding band of Dogs Who Like Plush Toys To Eat As Snacks.
Larry was given to me when I was in the hospital, recovering (?) from polio. That is what I recall. He might have been given to me that Christmas, which would have been a few weeks after I left the hospital. At any rate, I remember pulling Larry's string so many times - always until he said, "I'll protect you." (Here's a page of all his utterings.)
And here is a video of Larry in action.
My Larry is ratty, smelly, and very old. He's lost his tail (bar fight); lost most of his right ear (fight with one of the marauding band). He still has his whiskers (I remember chewing them some), and he's lost his voice. The string is gone. One would have to perform surgery on Larry to remove the mechanism and see if it can be repaired.
There's a small part of me that is trying VERY hard not to calculate how many eons of generations of dustmites have lived on him. I think I'll keep him, though.
He's here to protect me.
Larry was given to me when I was in the hospital, recovering (?) from polio. That is what I recall. He might have been given to me that Christmas, which would have been a few weeks after I left the hospital. At any rate, I remember pulling Larry's string so many times - always until he said, "I'll protect you." (Here's a page of all his utterings.)
And here is a video of Larry in action.
My Larry is ratty, smelly, and very old. He's lost his tail (bar fight); lost most of his right ear (fight with one of the marauding band). He still has his whiskers (I remember chewing them some), and he's lost his voice. The string is gone. One would have to perform surgery on Larry to remove the mechanism and see if it can be repaired.
There's a small part of me that is trying VERY hard not to calculate how many eons of generations of dustmites have lived on him. I think I'll keep him, though.
He's here to protect me.
December 18, 2010
Quiet House
The house is quiet. No electronics are on (except for the ambient computer, the inexplicable stack of DVR, VoIP and Xbox thingeys in the living room). I'm listening to the neighbors mow their yard, the dogs napping and the tick of a clock I got at IKEA for my birthday a bazillion years ago.
The kid is away for a weekend youth group thing, and I have hours and hours to myself. I cleaned ALL the surfaces in the kitchen (except for inside the fridge or oven), and I'm moving on to declutter the mountain of clutter that clutters up the clutter-magnet areas in the kitchen, dining room and living room. Decluttering is a job best done when one has all the bills paid, all the dogs happy and all the trash cans empty. Which means it's a daunting task that never gets done around here.
I listened to a couple of radio shows and then turned on the TV thinking that I would putter while watching mindless stuff on TV, but it's not mindless. It's mind-sucking. It draws me right out of my headspace and into something else. It's devious and insidious. Pernicious and a couple of other -iouses. In fact, I'm very close to calling ATT and disconnecting everything except the internet.
Once I'm back in my own groove, I plan to cut out some last things to sew up for a little friend for xmas gifties, and then the epic mail run will be Monday. I always cut it close on the mail drop date, but this year, it's CLOSE.
Most of all, I spent last night watching a fun new show that I've got queued on Netflix: Hotel Babylon. It's a slightly racy hipster version of the Love Boat/Hotel (remember James Brolin's hit TV series?). The hotel theme isn't a new one, but this is a particularly clever one that is nice low-calorie fluff. Knitting with novelty yarn kind of TV. I dabbled in eating myself stupid with popcorn, wine and then some chocolate. By the time I had moved on to the cheese, I realized several major revelations about me: a) booze is a gateway drug to overeating, b) popcorn tastes really awful and leaves your mouth all greasy, and c) my chocolate tastes are very very expensive ones.
I decided that I was going to give myself the gift of weight loss for the holidays. Tonight is a dinner party, so I'll be testing my mettle, but I want to be in the minority. I am GOING TO LOSE WEIGHT DURING THE HOLIDAYS. I won't feel deprived, I won't cheat and I won't mope... it's a gift I richly deserve.
See what a little quiet can do? Uh oh, the neighbor has fired up the mower, now right under my window, so I'm heading into the other bedroom to sew. And not eat.
The kid is away for a weekend youth group thing, and I have hours and hours to myself. I cleaned ALL the surfaces in the kitchen (except for inside the fridge or oven), and I'm moving on to declutter the mountain of clutter that clutters up the clutter-magnet areas in the kitchen, dining room and living room. Decluttering is a job best done when one has all the bills paid, all the dogs happy and all the trash cans empty. Which means it's a daunting task that never gets done around here.
I listened to a couple of radio shows and then turned on the TV thinking that I would putter while watching mindless stuff on TV, but it's not mindless. It's mind-sucking. It draws me right out of my headspace and into something else. It's devious and insidious. Pernicious and a couple of other -iouses. In fact, I'm very close to calling ATT and disconnecting everything except the internet.
Once I'm back in my own groove, I plan to cut out some last things to sew up for a little friend for xmas gifties, and then the epic mail run will be Monday. I always cut it close on the mail drop date, but this year, it's CLOSE.
Most of all, I spent last night watching a fun new show that I've got queued on Netflix: Hotel Babylon. It's a slightly racy hipster version of the Love Boat/Hotel (remember James Brolin's hit TV series?). The hotel theme isn't a new one, but this is a particularly clever one that is nice low-calorie fluff. Knitting with novelty yarn kind of TV. I dabbled in eating myself stupid with popcorn, wine and then some chocolate. By the time I had moved on to the cheese, I realized several major revelations about me: a) booze is a gateway drug to overeating, b) popcorn tastes really awful and leaves your mouth all greasy, and c) my chocolate tastes are very very expensive ones.
I decided that I was going to give myself the gift of weight loss for the holidays. Tonight is a dinner party, so I'll be testing my mettle, but I want to be in the minority. I am GOING TO LOSE WEIGHT DURING THE HOLIDAYS. I won't feel deprived, I won't cheat and I won't mope... it's a gift I richly deserve.
See what a little quiet can do? Uh oh, the neighbor has fired up the mower, now right under my window, so I'm heading into the other bedroom to sew. And not eat.
December 15, 2010
Writing Is It
Made a list today. No surprise that writing was high on the list of things that make me feel essentially myself...
it's very difficult to work as a writer, teach writing and also love writing as a soulful part of your, um, soul. But that's what I do.
Daily, I hear stories and have ideas for books. Today, I got the idea for more adventures of Riley, my main character in one novel and a major/minor character in another one. This would be a collection of stories from his days as a cabbie. I'm sure it's been done, but Riley is so lovely and odd and special to me, his character would carry the thing. It would NOT be like Mr. Rourke on Fantasy Island.
Since I brought it up, here's a little slice of heaven: the intro to an episode from 1978. (Beware the intro and outro sound from the retrorebirth folks.)
Fantasy Island
it's very difficult to work as a writer, teach writing and also love writing as a soulful part of your, um, soul. But that's what I do.
Daily, I hear stories and have ideas for books. Today, I got the idea for more adventures of Riley, my main character in one novel and a major/minor character in another one. This would be a collection of stories from his days as a cabbie. I'm sure it's been done, but Riley is so lovely and odd and special to me, his character would carry the thing. It would NOT be like Mr. Rourke on Fantasy Island.
Since I brought it up, here's a little slice of heaven: the intro to an episode from 1978. (Beware the intro and outro sound from the retrorebirth folks.)
Fantasy Island
December 12, 2010
Of Sandwiches and Dragons
I attended a children's Christmas pageant this morning. Apparently, the children had had a lot to do with the scriptwriting because the play was a fresh little story entitled "The Dragon Who Never Had a Christmas." A world premiere.
Woodland creatures (which looked a lot like children in various Halloween costumes) opened the story by running away when the dragon came in roaring (in lieu of breathing fire). The flowers scolded him for being too mean and/or loud. And he wandered through the forest looking for this thing called a "Christmas."
Part of it involved visiting some wise guys (aka three young men dressed as Mafiosi while the theme from Godfather played), and they all shared a sandwich. The eating of the sandwich was non-simulated, and it may have been peanut butter because there was quite a bit of chewing and silence and awkward pauses, but then things got back on track when the dragon, with a bolus of sandwich in his cheek, said his next line and the show carried on.
What the dragon learned is that Christmas was about caring and sharing and giving and ... apparently, singing.
The best part though - the showstopper - was the gathering of the players at the end to sing the Whoville "Wah Hoo Dor Re" theme from the Grinch TV show, and one little ballerina (maybe she was one of the flowers?) was singing as loudly and as off-key as possible. An impromptu solo where she knew with great certainly every fifth word.
The whole thing was just as wonderful as it could be, and made me laugh, giggle, guffaw and smile. Lovely. Just lovely!
Woodland creatures (which looked a lot like children in various Halloween costumes) opened the story by running away when the dragon came in roaring (in lieu of breathing fire). The flowers scolded him for being too mean and/or loud. And he wandered through the forest looking for this thing called a "Christmas."
Part of it involved visiting some wise guys (aka three young men dressed as Mafiosi while the theme from Godfather played), and they all shared a sandwich. The eating of the sandwich was non-simulated, and it may have been peanut butter because there was quite a bit of chewing and silence and awkward pauses, but then things got back on track when the dragon, with a bolus of sandwich in his cheek, said his next line and the show carried on.
What the dragon learned is that Christmas was about caring and sharing and giving and ... apparently, singing.
The best part though - the showstopper - was the gathering of the players at the end to sing the Whoville "Wah Hoo Dor Re" theme from the Grinch TV show, and one little ballerina (maybe she was one of the flowers?) was singing as loudly and as off-key as possible. An impromptu solo where she knew with great certainly every fifth word.
The whole thing was just as wonderful as it could be, and made me laugh, giggle, guffaw and smile. Lovely. Just lovely!
December 11, 2010
Dog Stories: Betsy
George was my first Border collie, but his story can wait.
Betsy is the first BC puppy that I really got to know and love, and whom I ultimately failed through apathy and naivete. And hormones. Mine.
In high school, I was friends with a large family with five kids, ranging in ages from two older and ten years younger than me. Two of the kids were in my high school: one of my best friends Amy and her brother Wyatt. I would have to say that Amy probably didn't consider me her best friend. I was that kind of teenager. All fangirl but no fans. I loved her and that family like none other. They were close and raucous and gauche and godly - everything my family was not. Well-churched, with extended family all over the state, Amy's family had a big open door for "the lost" and I suppose I qualified. I spent lots of time over there, and it helped that the house was two blocks from high school.
After Amy went off to college (she was a year older than me), I still maintained ties with them, and specifically, had a massive crush on her little brother. He is two years younger, so it felt rather taboo, and I kept my feelings hidden.
For Christmas (I think this dog story has one of those typical elements to it), they got a puppy. A very very attractive and cute-as-a-button Border collie puppy. Any Border collie owner knows the upshot of this story, right?
At my house, I had just lost Suzy the beagle and Red the outdoor dog, and was left with Thomas who was around 7 or 8 at this time. I was looking for a project dog. And along came Betsy.
Betsy was a little terror, as most Border collie puppies will be if left to their own devices. No one in the family had ever thought of dog training. All the previous dogs in their network were retrievers or poodles or chihuahuas. Yes, these breeds can be a handful but less likely than BCs.
When she was little, Betsy was a cute little roly-poly with shark teeth, but her antics could be tolerated. As she grew taller, she spent more and more time in the backyard, and by the time my senior spring semester rolled around, I was feeling so sorry for Betsy. She spent hours in the back yard, destroying things. I piped up. "Betsy needs training. I can do that."
It was arranged that my two free periods after lunch could be devoted to coming to their house and letting myself in during the day (no one was home, except maybe for their maid). I could walk her, work her and turn her into a decent family pet.
For a month, I did just that. I enjoyed her, loved on her, taught her to sit/stay, and not to jump up.
What I didn't know (and I do now) is that it's not about training the dog, it's about training the people. I also didn't know that Border collies require a high level of exercise and action - they need jobs. Betsy had no job. I was her only highpoint of the day, and it was killing her. Idle Border collies are the Devil's playground.
Add to the mix the fact that Wyatt started coming home after his 5th period for some reason, and he and I overlapped at the house for about 30 minutes. The flirting was epic, and while no contact was ever made, I began spending more of my 75 minutes at their house hanging out with him. (Yes, this really is the truth. I was quite innocent in those days and never understood that that kind of unsupervised free time between teens is exactly how we get teen parents.)
In any event, as my interest in Betsy's training waned and in Wyatt increased, her behavior got worse, and eventually, the family decided to give her to an aunt or mawmaw "in the country" where she could "run free."
My guilt soared. Not only was my crush on Wyatt taboo (in my mind) but I had also failed to rescue this dog. I hadn't followed through on my promise and the lofty goal in my head to make her into the perfect family pet.
God only knows what happened to Betsy, and I hope something that I did served her in the future. As far as I know, everyone in the family and mawmaw loved Betsy a lot. No one was abusive or hateful towards her. It was just another case of a misplaced pet, and I truly hope Betsy found a good home at last.
I've made up for that over the years, to other dogs and specifically other Border collies. But Betsy was the first puppy I had long hours with. I can still feel her little cat feet and those baby shark teeth, and see her crazy eyes laser-punching holes in me from the other side of the glass, when I would sit on the couch and watch Wyatt play Simon (or some other electronic game that was emergent at the time).
What the family thought of me, I'll never know, and frankly, I don't want to know. I can sorta guess. Eventually, I was the stray that they gave away to someone else. After so many years of me looking into their lives, just as Betsy would stand at the sliding glass door in the backyard, I finally stopped my efforts to fit in, to be liked by them. I recall a conversation with Wyatt when we were both in college, where he was cruelly dismissive. In the same way that Betsy had been offloaded, so was I.
There's the catch phrase "You teach people how to treat you," and a subclause of this could be "Observe how people treat their dogs for clues as to how they will treat you."
Betsy, you deserved better and I'm sorry I couldn't make it happen. I hope you got the love, space and work you needed. I did, eventually.
Betsy is the first BC puppy that I really got to know and love, and whom I ultimately failed through apathy and naivete. And hormones. Mine.
In high school, I was friends with a large family with five kids, ranging in ages from two older and ten years younger than me. Two of the kids were in my high school: one of my best friends Amy and her brother Wyatt. I would have to say that Amy probably didn't consider me her best friend. I was that kind of teenager. All fangirl but no fans. I loved her and that family like none other. They were close and raucous and gauche and godly - everything my family was not. Well-churched, with extended family all over the state, Amy's family had a big open door for "the lost" and I suppose I qualified. I spent lots of time over there, and it helped that the house was two blocks from high school.
After Amy went off to college (she was a year older than me), I still maintained ties with them, and specifically, had a massive crush on her little brother. He is two years younger, so it felt rather taboo, and I kept my feelings hidden.
For Christmas (I think this dog story has one of those typical elements to it), they got a puppy. A very very attractive and cute-as-a-button Border collie puppy. Any Border collie owner knows the upshot of this story, right?
At my house, I had just lost Suzy the beagle and Red the outdoor dog, and was left with Thomas who was around 7 or 8 at this time. I was looking for a project dog. And along came Betsy.
Betsy was a little terror, as most Border collie puppies will be if left to their own devices. No one in the family had ever thought of dog training. All the previous dogs in their network were retrievers or poodles or chihuahuas. Yes, these breeds can be a handful but less likely than BCs.
When she was little, Betsy was a cute little roly-poly with shark teeth, but her antics could be tolerated. As she grew taller, she spent more and more time in the backyard, and by the time my senior spring semester rolled around, I was feeling so sorry for Betsy. She spent hours in the back yard, destroying things. I piped up. "Betsy needs training. I can do that."
It was arranged that my two free periods after lunch could be devoted to coming to their house and letting myself in during the day (no one was home, except maybe for their maid). I could walk her, work her and turn her into a decent family pet.
For a month, I did just that. I enjoyed her, loved on her, taught her to sit/stay, and not to jump up.
What I didn't know (and I do now) is that it's not about training the dog, it's about training the people. I also didn't know that Border collies require a high level of exercise and action - they need jobs. Betsy had no job. I was her only highpoint of the day, and it was killing her. Idle Border collies are the Devil's playground.
Add to the mix the fact that Wyatt started coming home after his 5th period for some reason, and he and I overlapped at the house for about 30 minutes. The flirting was epic, and while no contact was ever made, I began spending more of my 75 minutes at their house hanging out with him. (Yes, this really is the truth. I was quite innocent in those days and never understood that that kind of unsupervised free time between teens is exactly how we get teen parents.)
In any event, as my interest in Betsy's training waned and in Wyatt increased, her behavior got worse, and eventually, the family decided to give her to an aunt or mawmaw "in the country" where she could "run free."
My guilt soared. Not only was my crush on Wyatt taboo (in my mind) but I had also failed to rescue this dog. I hadn't followed through on my promise and the lofty goal in my head to make her into the perfect family pet.
God only knows what happened to Betsy, and I hope something that I did served her in the future. As far as I know, everyone in the family and mawmaw loved Betsy a lot. No one was abusive or hateful towards her. It was just another case of a misplaced pet, and I truly hope Betsy found a good home at last.
I've made up for that over the years, to other dogs and specifically other Border collies. But Betsy was the first puppy I had long hours with. I can still feel her little cat feet and those baby shark teeth, and see her crazy eyes laser-punching holes in me from the other side of the glass, when I would sit on the couch and watch Wyatt play Simon (or some other electronic game that was emergent at the time).
What the family thought of me, I'll never know, and frankly, I don't want to know. I can sorta guess. Eventually, I was the stray that they gave away to someone else. After so many years of me looking into their lives, just as Betsy would stand at the sliding glass door in the backyard, I finally stopped my efforts to fit in, to be liked by them. I recall a conversation with Wyatt when we were both in college, where he was cruelly dismissive. In the same way that Betsy had been offloaded, so was I.
There's the catch phrase "You teach people how to treat you," and a subclause of this could be "Observe how people treat their dogs for clues as to how they will treat you."
Betsy, you deserved better and I'm sorry I couldn't make it happen. I hope you got the love, space and work you needed. I did, eventually.
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