Dear John...(to be continued...)

I suppose that I should start by giving you a pseudonym. Let’s call you...John.

John. I have so much that I want to say to you and about you, I find myself struggling with where to begin. We really only knew each other for about six months, face to face. That was three years ago, and of all the things that I know about you, me and you and me, I know that whenever I hear your name now, whether it’s in reference to you or not, I get a flash of nausea. No, not quite nausea. Yet still a sick type of feeling. I’ve had it before when I’ve been caught in a lie or know that I have forgotten something really important.

It’s an odd sensation, a rush of heavy quicksilver in my stomach and a feeling that all the blood in my body suddenly increased in temperature by 10 degrees. Not boiling, that would be too much, but a definitely unpleasant heat. It doesn’t last as long as it did. (But frankly, since it happens at all, it lasts too long.) It makes for a touch of awkwardness in classes now if I have a student with your name. It isn’t his fault that the two of you share a name, yet I still find myself grading every student with your name a half a letter grade up to make sure that I’m not being unduly and unfairly prejudiced. (I’ll give them your name and number, so they can thank you for the boost.)

So I have this feeling, this sort of 2 second hot flash, whenever I hear or see your name. I am 26 years old. I should not be having hot flashes. And as much as I hate it, I’ve been trained, or at least my body has been trained to react to you. It’s a fight or flight, though there is no actual event to fight or flee when I hear your name. So I’m left without any sort of resolution, feeling hyperaware of my body and my self, and all because I’ve heard your name.

How does that happen? How does one word, John, make me flush with a mixture of anger and terror all topped with an acute self-consciousness. Eleanor Roosevelt said: “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Apparently I sent in a form, signed and notarized, practically begging you to make me feel inferior, there’s really no other explanation for it. A wise woman and a wise statement, but I wonder, does the perpetrator have to know they are making the other one feel inferior? Is that a part of the equation? It gives a bit of absolution to the victim if the aggressor knew they were acting in a way as to make others feel inferior.

Or does that make it all the more sinister; you’ve no way of knowing how your name makes me feel, so how could any fault be attributed to you? It comes back on me. mea culpa. It is my own fault. I am the one making myself feel bad. I am the problem. I have given the consent, so it is my fault. Wasn’t that the rule in Nazi Germany and more recently at Guantanamo Bay? It is the ones in control, the ones who gave the command that are to blame. The soldiers on the ground are simply obeying orders.

To be continued...(upon request)

Polar Bears

This evening I attended the presentation of my summer school students. They were presenting on different topics related to global warming. One of the better presentations was on the effect of global warming on sea ice. As the earth warms, the ice melts. And in places like Canada, Greenland and Russia, this is detrimental to populations of polar bears.

This seems to be one of the most touching arguments because of the endearing visual of baby polar bears. Phytoplankton and krill are less photogenic.

Be that as it may, here are some items found using the keyword "polar bear" on etsy.



Clockwise from the upper left:

• Polar Bear in Blue - Fine Art Photograph on Metallic Paper by http://lilacpopphotography.etsy.com/
• Polar Pals Penguin Polar Bear Seal Amigurumi crochet pattern pdf FREE SHIPPING by http://tigerlily.etsy.com/
• Baby Snow Bears by http://zukzuk.etsy.com/
• Euphoria II by http://treecandy.etsy.com/
• Baby Polar Bear by http://dmhstudio.etsy.com/

Noisy Neighbor

I just received a call from an assistant in the apartment complex where I live. A few weeks ago, I was woken up by pounding and furniture being moved in the apartment below me at 5am on a Saturday. As the downstairs neighbor left, I yelled at him that he was violating the lease by making so much noise at such a time. His response was, “Welcome to my world.”

I was left without words, not only because he’d already left and I would have been left talking to myself. Also, I was trying to think of the last Saturday that I’d started at 5am by hanging pictures and moving furniture, and not one example came to mind.

My response, since actually speaking to my neighbor isn’t so much successful and causes a spike in my blood pressure, was to write a letter to the landlord asking if I was indeed correct in interpreting the “quiet enjoyment” section of the lease to mean that I shouldn’t have be woken up at 5am on a Saturday.

The landlord (or an office assistant most likely) read the letter and called the neighbor to tell him of my complaint. I asked her how the conversation went; she hesitated, and I had images of him yelling about my loud behavior that he hadn’t ever complained about (he really really hates my sewing machine!).

I understand that my neighbor most likely hears much of the noise that I make, but I feel that I’m fairly lazy and that during the quiet hours of after 10pm and before 9am, I’m not doing very much. And when I use my sewing machine or when I’m hanging pictures, etc., it is always during the day where, to put it bluntly, if he doesn’t like it, he can suck it.

But now I know that he knows I complained. Which is, I suppose, the point. That I’m not going to just let him bang around and wake me up without putting up a fight (granted, my fighting consists of letter writing, but that’s a type of fighting). And I did try and talk to him about it, but to no avail. What else was I to do? Ignore it, yes, that was probably an option. Try and talk to him again? Seems pointless.

I’m hyperaware of my own actions now. I don’t want to be the pot who called the kettle black (I’m tired, I can’t think beyond cliché at this exact moment in time!), so I find myself tiptoeing around my own apartment in the middle of the day. His being loud has resulted in me being quieter.

Gym Dating

I’ve been going to the gym every other day (if not more, yay!) recently, and whenever I’m on the treadmill, I like to be able to see myself across the room in the mirror. I’m not sure what it is, I think I remember reading somewhere that if you can see yourself at the gym you work harder or burn more calories or something. All I know is that I like to watch my hair swish rhythmically in the mirror and see that as I get sore and tired, it looks that way! There’s a satisfaction in seeing a visual of my hard work (regardless that the evidence is nothing more than a sweaty face and flushed cheeks).

Between the row of treadmills are three rows of weight machines and free weight stations, so there are a number of people that wander in and out of my eye line during my workout.

Today, I realized a tall, fairly good looking guy kept glancing back at me. It took me 10 minutes, and just over a mile, to realize that it wasn’t him checking me out, so much as him trying to figure out who the girl was that kept staring at him. For as I focused on myself in the mirror, where he was lifting weights made it seem as though I was staring at him.

And that got me thinking about people who find dates at the gym. This has never crossed my mind. I always go fairly focused on what I’m doing, and as I leave, I’m most focused on getting home to get a shower. And I always assume that is the case for everyone else there.

I had one guy ask me if he could use the weight machine next to me in the circuit area. I gave him a slightly annoyed glance, and said, “Sure, no problem” with what I fear was a fairly brusque tone, thinking I have my headphones on and am trying to get in shape here, why are you bothering me? So was he trying to hit on me? My friends said yes, but I'm pretty sure they were trying to stoke the fires of my feeble ego. I was not convinced.

Does it happen? Is the gym really a place to meet people? Can you really catch someone's eye as you finish up the last few paces on the treadmill, gasping for breath, face as red as an albino after a day at the beach, sweat dripping from your elbows? Is that a sexy time?

I'm completely lacking all of the normal accoutrement that I normally employ in my siren attempts – made-up face, push-up bra, no visible sweat, an odor that leans towards middle-range perfume as compared to unwashed hippie, etc.

To be fair, my luck in love has proven about equal in and out of the gym, so it’s hard to tell if there’s really a cause and effect.

Curtains

I have finally moved into my own little apartment. And not counting the downstairs neighbor who blasts the most horrible music when I use my sewing machine and the no air conditioning, it's not bad.


Though I was woken up this morning by the crash of my curtains (curtain rod included) falling to the floor. Venetian blinds are installed in every window, and they are in no way lightproof. It wouldn't be a big deal if the safety light for the building wasn't right outside my window. So after much effort, I managed to find curtains that blocked out the light and finally let me sleep!


Part of that task was getting a tension curtain rod because I didn't want to do any drilling or hammering (this also raises the wrath of my idiot neighbor; I hung one picture with a grand total of four bangs of the hammer that resulted in two hours of the world's worst music. How is that quid pro quo?!). And now, part of the window drywall chipped off, causing the curtains to fall and part of the wall to come with it. My task today will be finding hooks to rehang the curtains. Wish me luck!

On a side note, I found these beautiful etsy items searching for "curtains".





Clockwise from top left:

• antique handloomed LILAC BLUE roll curtains roman SHADES slipcover 13.11y by http://grainsack.etsy.com/
• Vintage Curtain Tie Back Assemblage Necklace No. 02 by http://chezmichellelouise.etsy.com/
• Urban Ruin compost dyed silk scarf natural dyes 020108 by http://girlwithasword.etsy.com/
• Aqua/Ivory Damask Linen Drape 50in X 108in by http://avecdieu.etsy.com/
• The Night Breeze - Necklace in Fine Silver by http://daisyjanedesigns.etsy.com/
• And then there was light - 8X8 signed fine art photograph by http://janeheller.etsy.com/

Tears

Two days ago, I made three of my students cry. This was in a class with six students, so I made 50% of my students cry. In my defense, it was for being understanding and asking them how they were doing and wanting to hear more about their hopes and their stress. (At least I hope that it was an OK reason to make them cry!) To be fair, and bless their hearts, I could probably make them cry based upon their English skills. Honestly, it hurts to read some of their assignments.

There was “Jessica”, whose mother is battling cancer and who feels that she needs to be perfect. There is “Eleanor”, who feels overwhelmed and stressed with the amount of work she has to do, and feels that she will never be able to be the student she thinks she should be. And there is “Jennifer”, who is abysmally failing math, and she has two older brothers who did well in math. She feels that if she has to succeed, and puts so much in the idea that she’ll fail and not be as good as the were, that she actually does fail.

I did my best to comfort and reassure them. I found myself saying things that I wish I could have been told. Telling Jessica that her parents already think she’s perfect, and so she doesn’t have to worry about anything. Eleanor was told that as long as she keeps working day by day, she’ll get to where she wants to be. And poor Jennifer, I asked her what she was good at that her brothers weren’t. She said she’d never thought about it.

My brothers were very good at athletics. Brother A at track and cross-country and Brother B at football. I was not, to say the least, gifted in sports. I found it absolutely appalling to have to touch someone else’s sweat, so I wasn’t good at basketball. Running just plains hurt, so cross-country and track were out. Yet I ran cross-country and track all four years of high school. I kept trying, but not with any real passion for it.

I’ve gone back to running and working out on my own, and I can run as fast, if not faster, then I did in high school. Not because I’m in any better shape, but because it’s something that’s now mine. And I’ve matured enough to know that it’s going to hurt, there’s no looking past that. But, since I’ve actively chosen to run, the hurt is OK.

When I was in college, I remember a young teacher, who must have been a PhD student doing teaching, asking me if I was OK, at a moment when I knew I was on the verge of tears. And I didn’t feel comfortable enough with myself to be able to talk about my worries.

They seemed to respond well to what I had to say; though, I hope that it wasn’t simply because I was a teacher, and they’re used to saying yes to teachers. I hope that I’ve helped them. I hope they know that my heart breaks, because I can see so much of myself in them. Scared, uncertain, yet determined.

Aspens

When I was a child, my family vacationed at a small red cabin in a picturesque small town in Colorado, complete with a view of Pikes Peak from the front window. It took around 8 or 9 hours to get from Kansas to Colorado, and it was always a relief to finally pull into the drive. Each year, I was struck by the sweet and pungent smell of pine trees and the soft and unmistakable whisper of quaking aspen leaves.

So as I sit in my studio apartment where last night, the predominant smell was skunk (a story for another day) and the sound is of my window fan, I dream of the quiet whisper of Colorado aspens.





Clockwise from upper left:

• Birch Trees on Sky Blue- Real Texture by Kristen Dougherty Free Shipping by http://kristend12.etsy.com/
• Canterbury - Golden Leaf and Green Jewel Necklace by http://liliswan.etsy.com/
• RED Aspen Leaf Earrings w/Droplet (silver) by http://toastjewelry.etsy.com/
• Deep in the Woods 20x30 Poster by http://upcripplecreek.etsy.com/
• Real Sterling Apsen Leaf with a Freshwater Coin Pearl, Moonlit Trees Necklace by http://briguysgirls.etsy.com/
• Aspen Vase D - Wall Hanging or Free Standing by http://dbabcock.etsy.com/

The Hangover

My air conditioning stopped working in my car, and since I don't have air conditioning in the small box some call an apartment, I figured I should at least have it in my car. I went into the car shop and explained my lack of cold air problem as well as the odd tinkering, clanking sound coming from the engine. As it turned out, I needed a new compressor that would cost around $800. This following 2 weeks before that when I'd had the entire exhaust system replaced for around $1000.

So while they fixed my car, I headed over to the cinema at the mall. Considering my mood, I figured I should keep things light with The Hangover.

The basic premise is well-known; four guys go to Vegas for a bachelor party. In the morning, they wake up with a tiger in the bathroom, a baby in the closet and no groom. The rest of the film involves them gathering the details of their night as they search for their friend, all in the hopes of someway, somehow making it back in time for the wedding.

A few days before, I watched the behind the scenes/comedy tour of Zach Galifianakis. I loved him in Out Cold, a ridiculously teenage snowboarding movie that I watched in the background as I worked on my dissertation. I have a fondness for the film that transcends its admittedly loose and ridiculous premise and levels of acting.

That being said, I knew that Galifianakis was capable of understated and wry hilarity. (That combined with the fact that he can deliver amazing jokes while playing brilliantly on the piano...stunning!) As Alan in The Hangover he delivers deadpan lines with perfect timing. I'm a bit disappointed to see that he'll also be in G-Force this summer, but I can understand the desire to move into film.

Ed Helms, who I know and love from The Office, does a beautiful job as the whipped boyfriend/dentist/neurotic who *spoiler alert!* pulls out his own tooth to prove that he can. Bradley Cooper is the cocky, self-assured leader who ended up in the hospital.

I love the moment where Helms sits down at the piano and begins to sing. (I wonder if Helms and Galifianakis ever played together.) When the men headed to Mike Tyson's house to return a tiger, things began to feel a bit forced or overplayed. As they meet an overly stylized and stereotyped Mr. Chow in the desert, I begin to squirm a bit in my seat, wondering how long it was until the end.

There are only two women in the film that are seen in any depth (and depth is being generous). Heather Graham, the woman that Ed Helm's character, Stu, marries in the middle of the night. She's a stripper with a baby and a heart of gold, who seems to truly believe that Stu will deliver her from her life. The second woman is Stu's girlfriend, Melissa, played by Rachel Harris. Melissa is an overbearing and controlling shrew of a woman. And there's not too much more presented.

Overall, The Hangover starts strong, gets a bit weak in the middle, but finishes solidly. It lives up to and exceeds exactly what it seems to be: a bro-style comedy, heavy on ridiculous circumstances and light on thinking. Enjoyable, laugh out loud funny at times, but not a film I would buy.

NYC Central Park Conservancy Run

I am going to be running the 4 mile walk/run in Central Park tomorrow. I went over the course today and picked up my number. I also got the race t-shirt. In theory, I could just keep the shirt and not run the race, but I don't think that's recommended! Here are some running items I found on etsy.

Clockwise from top left:

• The Wait...8x10 Reproduction Print by http://michelemaule.etsy.com
• I Run New York t-shirt by http://Muncheys.etsy.com
• Blue Vintage Samsonite Suitcase by http://Brightwall.etsy.com
• Between the Sheets by http://amyartist.etsy.com
• 8x10 fine art photograph...trail of truth by http://kellya.etsy.com
  

Saying Goodbye

Summer has been a time when I've had to say goodbye. And as summer has reached a halfway point and is now moving towards a close, I'm almost relieved. I know that it's the opposite for most other people, most celebrate summer and mourn the arrival of fall.

Here are some etsy items found using the search "goodbye".





Clockwise from top left:

• Farewell 8x8 print by http://cassiabeck.etsy.com/
• Kissing the War Goodbye by http://thepaintinglibra.etsy.com/
• I'll see you soon, goodbye. by http://amandahawkins.etsy.com/
• Dirt Road 5x5 photograph by http://nepheliad.etsy.com/
• Goodbye - vinyl wall art decal graphic sticker by http://tastysuite.etsy.com/
• untitled (to take leave of) by http://lmiem.etsy.com/

Resistance

I've been going to the gym more often this summer. Not only do I have more free time as well as more time to kill (yes, the two are different!), I am also going to be running a 4 mile run in Central Park this weekend - the New York Road Runners Central Park Conservancy run/walk. The walk part of the name is particularly important to me. While I can average 10 minute miles for 4 miles, I always end up walking of it. Granted, that time was on a treadmill without a lot of hills (I still have to go over the route, but it's Central Park, there will be some changes in elevation!), I feel fairly confident that I'll be able to finish the 4 miles before the kid's races start an hour and a half later

There is one thing that I noticed at the gym. Some days, I just can't face running, and so I head to the stationery bikes. As I enter the settings, I must admit that I cringe a bit when I put my age at 26. Yes, in many ways, I'm still extraordinarily young, and I recognize that. But there's also a faint twinge that I'm in my late 20s. I'm not overly sensitive about my age, yet I feel as though there are things that I should have done, or should have happened by now. But that is a topic for another day.

Every time you sit down at any of the cardio machines, you have to enter a "resistance". It starts at "1" and goes up from there. At first, a lower setting is ideal; it takes time to get into the rhythm; your muscles and your breathing has to adjust. Above all, I need a rhythm, a pattern to my movement. Much of it is based off of the music I'm listening to. Ideally, the movements of my body match the beat of the music, and if it's close, but not quite the right tempo, I find it frustrating. But again, I digress.

As I get into the rhythm and begin to sweat, if the resistance goes back down to where I started, it makes the biking difficult and jerky. The wheels are spinning faster then I'm pedaling, frustrating my efforts and throwing off the rhythm and pace. There needs to be some resistance, something to work against, for the workout to keep progressing.

This is something that to keep in mind as I continue through life. Without some resistance, some friction, some difficulty, I'm not going to progress. So when it hurts (as it often does at the end of a workout as the legs begin to ache and the lungs start burning) and it seems difficult (really? there's still another mile to go?), that's actually a good sign. It means that somethng is happening, or going to happen.

Sunflowers and Wheat

In celebration of my grandmother (see the entry below), here are some etsy shops with some lovely Kansas and wheat related items.

Clockwise from the top left:

• Kansas Wheat on Canvas by http://eringarrisondesign.etsy.com/
• Wheat Harvest - A Recycled Notebook by http://kylallon.etsy.com/
• Sunflower group 8x10 photo by http://aztek721.etsy.com/
• Haystack Series - Green - Original Fine Art Photograph 11x14 by http://jaredks.etsy.com/
• Tractor 3, 8x10 print by http://landofozphotography.etsy.com/

A year and a day

It has been a year and a day since my mother's mother died. My grandmother. A woman my grandfather, her husband, first described as "a real peach". Last summer I was tortured by a combination of factors. And I wrote about my grandmother. This is part of what I wrote.

In the evenings, she would grow lonely and restless. She called out to anyone; demanding they come to see her right then. Right at that moment. She could feel an otherness creeping upon her as the sun began to go down. In the long afternoon hours, her Sunday afternoon feeling swelled and morphed. She became not herself. Whatever relative that happened to be on hand, that had answered her desperate call, was likely to be met with anger and frustration when they informed her that they were not there to take her home. Why would you come here and not take me home? Why do you always leave me here? In a room that is never warm enough. Where you have to push a button to use the bathroom, wait until the urge has passed and the aide instead has to get you a fresh pair of Wal-Mart brand Depends.

Family came to her in the hospital. To sit with her and to hold her hand. She leans over and asks if they are here to say goodbye. She asks if she can let go; it hurts; it hurts. It is difficult to hang on with oxygen flowing into lungs clogged with pneumonia, into a brain scarred with strokes and Parkinson’s. Each morning, the doctor arrives earlier and earlier so as to avoid the family, in particular the eldest of the two daughters. She accosted him last week, demanding to know why there were no answers, why nothing was happening. Why every time that she asked about something, all he said was that she was holding on. Was she to let go? How do you let go?

Her face and hands and hair were made beautiful in death. Before, after weeks in the hospital, months in the care center and years helping on the farm before SPF 50 and wrinkle reducing moisturizer, her hands were rough and mottled black and blue from too many sticks of the IV. Her smile sagged on one side from any number of strokes and mini-strokes. Weight was lost and then gained, cheeks and jowls sagged. Eyes were puffy from too much sleep. Hours had been spent putting in rollers at home and going to the local salon for a permanent. In the hospital, it hung straight – washed on a semi-regular basis with a shower cap placed upon her head, massaged, let to set, then removed. Another item on a to-do list of a nurse or an aide.

The doctors didn’t seem to visit much. First do no harm. There was no harm that could be done, nor any good, except for the morphine drip that increased at night when legs got restless and the mind couldn’t sleep, as it searched for the reason for holding on, for the reason that it hurt, that the last days were so unbearable. A woman who had spent her life serving others. No saint, surely, but saintly in the way of a farmer’s wife and a teacher and a mother. A quick end, a smooth end would have been deserving.

She waited. She waited until the wheat was cut. She waited until her youngest daughter had said good night. She waited until her husband was at home, sleeping in the bed they had shared. 3:00am in the morning, the quiet hour, the night before the dawn, she let go.

Her obituary fits neatly on a page. Listing those alive and those who passed before her with a summary of her hobbies. My cousin and I called her Magic Fingers as she taught as how to sew; we couldn’t fathom how fingers could make such small and even stitches as our stitches wavered across the fabric. Nora enjoyed sewing. She made outfits for five children, including underwear out of feed sacks. My mother didn’t get her first store bought dress until she was 18. She made outfits and quilts for all of her grandchildren. Do some anecdotes, some personal touches bring her any closer? Do they do any more then Nora enjoyed sewing?

When asked by the pastor for memories of their mother, her children sat silently at the table. My own mother decided, in an oddly obstinate way, that she would not say a word. She was not going to help him. She would sit there in silence and let someone else talk. My aunt, a daughter-in-law named Eileen, chimes in. Eileen and her husband who found it so difficult to get off the farm to come to Christmas celebrations even when they were only a 30 minute drive away. This is the woman who has all the memories. This is the woman who decides how my grandmother will be remembered in the pastor’s sermon.

She filled a silence, though, she filled a void that wouldn’t be filled with the ponderous, slow to speak and not ever quite able to deal with emotions children. The gap had to be filled and she did her best. More than the other daughter-in-law who began to lecture, a few days before Nora let go, my mother and her sister on the care that should have been given. Living only an hour away, as compared to the 3+ hours of all the other family members aside from Eileen, she came only at the end. She voiced her opinion only at the end when there was nothing that could be done. When her opinion was simply filling another kind of void, that space of time as they waited to see how long Nora would hold on. The space the doctor kept calling Nora’s balance beam that was narrowing by the day.

This was the daughter-in-law who practiced medicine and her husband who did the same; let’s call them Mae and Paul. Mae and Paul came on their own convenience, squeezed in between trips to Milan, Israel, China, England, New York City and San Fransisco.

They were not there to hold her hand as she called for help and asked if she had to keep holding on. They did not feed her the mashed up food the care center fed her near the end. They did not wash her hair, put on her socks, brush her hair back from her forehead, hold a cold cloth to her lip that she bit so hard in pain or with the shudders and twitches of Parkinson's she had to have stitches.

They come in as time has run out. As their opinions cannot be acted upon. As though they had all the answers and if they’d had their way, she would be fine. An unconscious presumption or unknown guilt, for whatever reason, she spent hours detailing to Miriam just how Nora’s care should have been administered. Who does that help? How does that help?

I wonder at the tale of the prodigal son. Did not the first-born son have a right to be just a wee bit annoyed? Here comes his brother, welcomed back in without a second thought. Are we expected to be so forgiving? As we forgive, we let go of that small self-satisfaction, that conviction that we are somehow, in whatever small way, better than these others. I sent letters and flowers and I held her hand; a cautious, selfish and guilty whisper inside me tells me that this makes me better than those who came only to say goodbye. If I forgive them, I am no better than them. It is good that the Word can be seen like poetry – metaphors and symbolism, able to be interpreted.

88 years of life can fit neatly onto a page and even more neatly onto a grey granite headstone. A list of her children’s names. Her husband’s name alongside hers. No extra decoration, no frills and elaboration.

Thinking of Greece

I have been in New Jersey all summer so far, and my vacation is going to be heading home to Kansas for a few weeks. While it will be nice to see family, it's not quite the same as heading somewhere exotic and exciting. And as I've been thinking about exotic and exciting, I was remembering my visit to Greece. The main reason that I wanted to go was because of the beautiful blue and white style architecture/design prevalent on many of the islands. And these great etsy items all made me feel a little less sad about being stuck here in dirty Jersey.

Clockwise from upper left:

• Memories of Greece Fringe Scarf by http://fashiontouch.etsy.com/
• Greek Window Flowers 8x12 photo by http://williamdohman.etsy.com/
• Indigo Sea earrings by http://rubystudios.etsy.com/
• Fabric Wild Flower Brooch by http://youaremysunshine.etsy.com/
• Local Rumors 8x8 signed fine art photograph by http://abcdimages.etsy.com

Beauty and Talent

I am continually amazed at the talent and skill of people in the world. One new favorite artist is Miss Cassia Beck of http://cassiabeck.etsy.com/. I got this lovely print from her - the fuschia flowers in Brighton were some of my favorite flowers. The mix of bright pink and purple were stunning, and I'd never seen flowers like them before I lived there. I have the image hanging over me as I type, and I couldn't be more pleased!

Isn't it beautiful! Funnily enough, as I got the package in the mail from England, I realized that she lives on the cross street from one of the houses where I used to live. One of my favorite pubs was right at the end of her road!

It is, in fact, a small world.

I noticed last night that nearly all of the pictures I have hanging or on display in my little apartment have to do with England and most specifically Brighton.

Above my bed is a collage of images related to England, by my desk are 2 photos by the wonderful cassiabeck, above my easy chair I have a picture of the hills of Sussex and the photo above of fuschia. Over my table is a reproduction of the now iconic "Keep Calm and Carry On" poster. Above my couch is a reproduction of an antique map of Great Britain. My bookcase is lined with photos and ephemera related in someway to Brighton. I may have a theme here that borders on obsession.

I moved away from Brighton at the end of January 2007. The very last day I could stay until my visa expired. I had lived there for about 3 years. It's been over 2 years now, and I still dream of my days on Brighton beach. While I had some stressful/bad times there, nearly all related to the twat-ishness of English men, overall, I absolutely and overwhelmingly loved it.

Mail

I have an obsession with checking my email. Constantly and continually wanting to see if anyone has contacted me. It used to be part of an obsession with certain men, and still seeing emails from a couple of specific addresses makes me feel flush, faint and a bit nauseous. Though right now, I'm waiting (seemingly in vain) to hear back from publishers and job interviews. I have two job interviews where I should be hearing any day now. And I'm trying to get work published, and so I seem to constantly be hoping and waiting for an editor to write back and say, yes, your idea sounds like the perfect fit for our magazine and we'd love to pay you $5.00 per word. ($5.00 per word is obviously beyond hope, but I'd take .50 a word!)

I feel like email has gone the way of "real" mail; too much of it is junk or spam or simply forwards. But this morning, I got the lovely surprise of waking up to my jewelry being featured in a blog! The wedding blog, http://inventingweddings.blogspot.com/, posted my pearl ivory and peach bracelets as a part of their "peach and teal" color theme.

Also featured:

White Handmade Wedding Tutu Skirt by kaedankrafts

The Scent of Lisabetta Necklace by soradesigns

Stackable and Stretchable Pearl Bracelets by kristinmc

Shabby Jungle Brooch by walkonthemoon

Locket Charm Necklace by dreamamlittledream

Adelaide Save the Date by MewPaperArts

Peaches and Cream Bouquet Set by modagefloral

Double chin

I have a fear that I'm beginning to develop a double chin and a bit of a beer gut. Well, I suppose to be technical it's a rum gut, but all the same.

I have been going to the gym about 4 times a week recently. Since the semester has ended, I find myself with more spare time, and so I've been headed to the gym more often. It is also to try and stop the widening of my waistline and the inexplicable loose skin beneath my chin.

I remember the day in high school where my friends decided to have a bra-free day. I was in absolute agony. Mostly because the bras I wore day to day added one if not two cup sizes on their own. I was terrified of showing just how flat-chested I really was. For even with my extra padded bras, I was still most definitely not Pamela Anderson.

And now, my agony over my chest is the unexplained reason that I would gain weight solely under my chin and around my hips and not on my boobs. It makes no sense. I really only go to the gym to ensure that my stomach doesn't stick out past my small cup size. I don't have a lot of room to work with, so my weeks of eating chips and drinking very quickly leads to a bit of a crisis.

I went to the gym today, lifted some weights, did some time on the elliptical and on the treadmill. I generally felt good about myself. And yet when I get home, I follow up my workout with a plateful of wavy lays dipped in ranch and a triple rum and coke. It seems...not ideal.

Guilt

I volunteer for a website that reviews books and music. I moved from simply reviewing items to be a part of requesting the items. During the schoolyear, as I'm teaching, I didn't really make time for it and I thought that now that it was summer, I'd make more requests. And so I sent off my requests, and now I've been told off for not doing things properly.


In my defense, I was never given any guidelines, but now I'm left with a stack of books sent to me that serve no purpose since they were published over 6 months ago, and therefore I could write the most insightful and witty reviews of the books, but no one would ever see them. Should I send them back? Do I keep them and just pretend it's OK that the publisher will now never get their books reviewed

And is it OK for me to be defensive because I was never told the right way to do things? That is my go to move for confrontation, and I suppose anyone's really. Our egos are such that it can be hard to take criticism. And instantly all the reasons that we're right and the other person is wrong are clear and obvious to us.

In this case, I suppose it is more of me not knowing the right way to do something. And so it's simply someone providing guidance for future efforts, and not completely a criticism. But hearing that I've done something not right, whether I should have known better or not, leaves me feeling slightly ill. As though I've finished my third plate at an all you can eat pizza buffet. Not enough to cause any actual damage, but enough to feel bad (physically or otherwise) for a day or so.

Chia Obama

Somehow this seems inexplicably wrong. It goes beyond kitsch to ridiculous and from ridiculous, the idea teeters dangerously on offensive. Was there a Chia Bush? It seems to be trivializing and mocking. Or am I being overly sensitive?

The "Happy" Obama isn't the only option. There is a "Determined" Obama with a serious expression on the clay pot face.

Can anyone be made into a Chia? It could be a commemoration or a memorial. Don't just leave flowers at a loved one's grave, order a custom Chia pet. You'll be able to honor their memory while strangers will know what your loved one looked like in life. Assuming your loved one had an orange-y clay face and green and leafy hair.