Foul, non sequitur*

So, I guess I wasn't quite back on the horse. This post will be a bit disjointed.

So sorry, Gentle Readers, to leave you hanging with no new writings. I've had some things to process, and then a holiday happened, and then another holiday happened, and well, I am a master procrastinator. But I'll tell you about that later.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There's an amazing amount of depressive procrastination that can set in when a project ends. It is rather amazing. It's almost like a post-partum of sorts (I have lady bits and manufactured a human with them, so I can say that). I devote so much of my time, energy, sanity and whole self to one thing for a certain amount of time, that when that thing is done or over, I almost don't know what to do with myself after that. I guess that it's a good thing that I can immerse myself into a project, and do it to the very best of my ability, but it gets exhausting. And then I need to work a full day, and care for the aforementioned small human. Who is bright and completely awesome, but still exhausting all on her own. Maybe I should start getting weekly lottery tickets.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

One of the things that I am paying the piper for now is that I never really had a career path, not a 'practical' career path. I went to a vocational theater school, and then took accounting adult ed classes after getting laid off from a retail job, and cobbled together a bookkeeping background by working for my husband's family in their various ventures. Now I have all these ideas for things to do that I am passionate about, but I don't have any time at all to do them in, so I just have to hope that I want to work on them when the time is available. Inspiration doesn't have a long shelf life. I don't know that this creative frustration is a product of not having a piece of paper, or just a product of being a functioning adult who is contributing to society. Either way, creatively frustrated, and blaming it on lack of time to devote to all the ideas that are cropping up.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gah. Am writing this in a coffee shop--typical, I know, shut up--and my table is facing a table where there are couple of young kids studying. I've been staring over the top of my laptop screen while thinking, but it looks like I'm staring at them, and now I'm pretty sure that they think I'm a creeper. And I can't approach them and say 'hey, I totally wasn't staring at you, I'm just staring into space, and you happen to be right above my laptop screen, and I'm really not a creeper. Am I concerned because there is someone in this room who might not like me? Does it matter if a complete stranger, who I may never cross paths with again, has a less than stellar opinion of me, a complete stranger? This sounds like normal human stuff. I'll chalk it up to normal human stuff.

Also, IT'S FREEZING IN HERE. FREEZING. So, with that, until next time, Gentle Readers.

*If you didn't get this reference, please find Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead, the play by Tom Stoppard in either written or film form. As of this post publishing, the 1990 film is on Netflix. Seriously, go watch it.

Blarg

I've been composing a blog post for a few days. Maybe this little blip will kickstart this process.

Haven't given up the ghost completely...

...yet.

Hello again, gently readers.

I've been composing this post in my head for the past few days, and have been thinking about my poor, abandoned blog for even longer. I'll admit it, I was slightly embarrassed that after all my bluster that I had to let go of not one, but two projects. Boo hoo. Only not really.

So, a bit of a recap: there was a trash-fashion show that I competed in--I've been participating every year since it started, but this was the first one where I modeled.

bad cell phone photo

another bad photo of sleeves!

bustle!

And here's the finished outfit!

The first photos are poor quality, yes, but you get the gist, and this was the only photo I got of my complete outfit! I did not plan for documentation. Bad one on my part. Anyhow, the top is a bra with bottle caps (from across the country!), the corsety-bustier thing is out of heat-treated potato bags, and the skirt, bustle, veil,  and sleeves are made from onion bags.

I had been working away on this project despite my body deciding to not play fair: the week before I had some close contact with dogs that I don't know, I'm quite allergic to dogs and paid the price for that; and the week leading up to the show a cold decided that it was the perfect time to wage war. Side note: though zinc-heavy remedies can be super awesome, they make you feel fun-kay. Blech. That's why I hadn't been posting in the blog as much--I have super limited time after the monster goes to bed, and between allergic reations, colds, trashion shows, and, well, cats on the internet, I hadn't had a lot of time for blogging. Boo.

Now that the trashion show is over, I have been re-thinking my projects. I have a few irons in the fire, just in regular life, and I have been having doubts as far as adding another one to the pile. Of iron. So, I'm not. Adding one. To the fire. I've decided to not participate in NaNoWriMo.

What? you ask.  But you've been talking about that in your blog for a long time!

That's true. I have.

Are you the type of gal to string a reader on?

Maybe, but I don't try to be.

Why drop this one, and not one of the other 'irons' in your 'fire?' Hmm?

Well, a) I don't appreciate the tone you're taking with the quotes there, buddy. Watch it , or I might not let you ask any more questions.

Noted.

And b) it's more of a last in, first out kind of order. NaNoWriMo is the youngest project, so it can chill. I didn't register as a participant, so I'm not dragging down the success rate of the project. There are plenty of other people who will start and not finish.

You mentioned that you had let go of two projects, but you have more. Do you want to elaborate?

Not yet--some I can't expand on yet (SQUEE), and some I will, but in future posts. I can't blow my wad all at once--gotta keep it going for a little while, eh?

What does abandoning projects that you speak about publicly do to your reputation on your blog?

Nuthin. Key phrase is 'your blog.' (How do you like them quotes now?) My blog, my rules. This interview is OVER.

Don't worry, gentle reader: since this exchange happened in my head, I totally flipped over the imaginary table. That's the only way to end an interview like that.

And that's the end of my post. Only time will tell if I'm actually back on the horse.

An Apology to Froderick.

I broke up with my best friend. Nearly five years ago, and holy fuck, was I an idiot. Had I known that it's nearly impossible to replace the kind of relationship that we had, I might have thought, for a half a second, about what I was doing, and how that would impact both our lives.

Of course, I can't really remember what was such a goddamned big deal that I thought it best to break it off with her. For ease, I'll call her Froderick. There was some sort of drama in our little circle of friends, but I can't remember what it was. How stupid to throw away such an intense friendship over something that I can't remember.

I've been thinking about her more and more lately. I've half-heartedly reached out a couple of times in the past few years, hoping to, I don't know, patch things up? Maybe. Apologize? Yes, especially now.

This past week, a friend passed away. He was a friend of my husband's, since their awkward high school days. I met him in the halcyon days of the coffee shop, where I met my husband, and would while away hours with Froderick, doing crossword puzzles together, drinking lots of coffee and smoking lots of cigarettes. He was a good one. He shouldn't have died. He should still be here.

He had moved out of the area, and after the move, I hadn't seen him at all, save for just this past August, on a random trip to the grocery store, one of the few times that I had my Monster in tow. He was up visiting, with his two children, and the three kids played for the few minutes that we were chatting, playing a quick set of Catch-Up. I was in a hurry to do something, I don't remember what it was now. And now, in the blink of an eye, he's gone forever.

What do you do after someone goes before their time? You hold those close to you, in my case, mandate that no one you love is allowed to travel in any method that does not involve them being on the inside of a steel cage, and mourn. His passing has brought those coffee shop days back to mind, and with them, Froderick too. I miss her even more, and perhaps more because part of me is pretty sure that we'll never get to be friends again. I don't want that to be the case, but that's not how things go in this world. All I can do is apologize, and wish her well.

Froderick, if you are reading this: I'm so sorry, from the bottom of my heart. I miss you terribly, and I was a colossal idiot to be so mean. I hope you can forgive me, a little bit, at least.

Things early on a Monday

1. The internet is working again (no thanks to the provider, it seems), yet I am on my phone again. Glutton for punishment?

2. I an up early.

3. I dropped off on running, but I am going out today.

4. It's nearly officially fire-in-the-woodstove season.

Just a quick little post

...while I take my lunch break at work.

Some way or other, I have managed to get my personal project stack sky-high again. I recently cleaned out my projects and commitments, and whoosh, there they go again. Albeit this time, the only projects that I have on a deadline are few, and those deadlines are up before Christmas. the rest are work-on-them-when-I-want-to projects, thankfully.

I guess I need to be creating something. My mediums have changed throughout the years, and as they change, I am getting to be more and more central to the art. I don't know about that. Growing up, I kind of dreamed a bit of being famous, but I really don't want to be noticed, a lot of the time. PARADOX, NO?

Gah. Don't really have time to delve into this, dear readers. That's your little tidbit for now. Maybe the internets will be fixed at home, but I'm not holding my breath.

Ta-ta, dahlings.

The internet

...if being a jerk. A jerky jerkface jerk. I'm composing this from my phone, so please excuse any silly typos. Also, in the future, we write things ON OUR PHONES. THAT AREN'T ATTACHED TO A WIRE. ooooOOOOO.

There's a project I've started to dream up, one that I am hoping to work out a bit with NaNoWriMo, and I can't do research at home, because of our internet woes. We've talked to the internet company, ads were blown off. Gah. And I don't have time to just stop by a coffee shack and hang out whenever I want. Gah. I guess I'll have to make notes and get information from books. Like it's the 20th century or something.

Okay. I have to sleep, and this kind of input is killing my wrist, oddly enough. Think speedy internet thoughts for me. Because the internet runs on MIND POWER. (With mind bullets!)

Cleaning up the joint!

I live in this little, teeny, tiny 'town,' which is more accurately described as a place where a bunch of people built a bunch of houses a hundred years ago (yes, on a dune,) so that they would have a workforce that didn't have any excuse for not showing up to the mill on time. I live in a former company town. The local industrial history is a story for another time, but there is a story there, so remind me about that one later, gentle readers.

Anyhow, this teeny tiny company town had been pretty much derelict and neglected by the property managers or owners or whoever until a local group of property developers, builders and managers bought the whole town, kit and kaboodle. They got rid of (most of) the meth kitchens and pot grows, fixed up the houses so that they could be habitable, and started renting them out, with an eye toward building more housing, and a business park, as well as a park. Yay, rescuing historical places! The neat thing is that they have educated their workforce on historical restoration, and have been working toward fixing up the whole town. Which is a slow-going process. And in the meantime, the economy kind of took a nosedive. I don't know what this means for their long-term plans, but we are getting off on a tangent.

So, my street. When we moved in, we thought that the neighbors were a little bit on the crazy side, but after clicking around on YouTube, I have decided that my neighbors are complete angels. (There are some real assholes out there, and they don't live next door to me. Thanks be to the Flying Spaghetti Monster.) Then the Young Bucks moved in at the top of my street. Some of the Young Bucks have ladies and babies running around (two of the ladies were engaged in fisticuffs the other day), but they all want to hang out with their cheap beer and naked babies in the middle of the road. The narrow, one-way road. Thanks, neighbors. The Young Bucks have a couple of cars that I am pretty certain are non-op, hanging out, full of junk, in their driveways. Their beer-can collection is in the front of the house. And, it's the first thing folks see when they come to my house. Thanks, neighbors, for that first impression of blight-ishness. That's priceless.

So, the other day, I got a form letter from the property management company, telling the tenants that, hey, dudes, there's a bunch of junk and stuff lying around, so ya'll had better get that shit taken care of, or we'll take care of it, and charge the lazy jerkwads for the trouble. (I may be paraphrasing.) This letter made my little heart sing. The abandoned vehicles? Getting towed! The funky yards? Getting mowed! The crazy amount of toys cluttering up the street? Getting stowed!

Now, if they would just finish painting the house that they had started on before I moved out here. Two years ago.

Alrighty, it's time for me to do nighttime stuff. Like sleeping.
Bon nuit, mes petites choux.

issues

I totally have body issues. I'll own that completely. It seems that I always have, and sometimes it seems that I always will.

For most of my adolescent and adult life, I have been overweight, and ranging from a bit of the chub to oh lord, don't take my photo, ever. Right out of high school I was working at a very active job, and was on the poor college student diet, so bam! Lost a bunch of weight. As soon as I moved on from that, bam! It all came back. And brought friends.

So, I've been stewing with my body-shame for a while. Until rather recently. When I said 'fuck it.'

These are my issues. They belong to me, they are part of me, but they aren't all of me. So, fuck 'em. I decided that I was the only one who got to decide when I would feel shame, and I decided that I don't want to feel shame over how I am shaped.

Not that I am sitting on the couch and eating giant terrible hamburgers all day. (Though, how awesome would a giant, juicy burger with mushrooms and bacon be, right about now? Completely awesome. But all my ground beef is frozen, so it will have to wait.) I run in the mornings, and I decide if I am bored or hungry when I think I want to eat something.

I've had such a weird relationship with food (in that I love food, and it loves me, and makes sure that there is more of me to love)--food is my comfort when I'm sad or lonely or unsure; food is my punishment when I've done something wrong or embarrassing; food is my reward when it's been a tough day, or week, or hour, or minute; and food is my food--keeps me alive. I just have to break up with food. I've made this claim before, but like the Fat Girl Syndrome (when a Fat Girl dates anyone who really isn't worthy of her awesomeness, the reason not to leave them goes as follows: but I'm fat, therefore I am not worthy of someone as attractive/cool/desirable as this; where will I ever find someone who is willing to date a Fat Girl such as I?) I have a terrible time leaving food. Little by little, I've put some distance between the two of us: I don't drink sodas; I don't keep sweets in the house, and when I bake some, I share with friends and don't bake too often; and I try not to use food as a reward. That's where beer comes in. Also, SHUT UP I KNOW ABOUT THE CALORIES IN BEER, BUT LET ME HAVE MY BEER. THE WORLD WILL COLLAPSE IF I DON'T GET TO HAVE BEER IN MY LIFE.

I've also changed up my habits--at work, I use the bathroom on the floor above me, instead of the bathroom that is right outside my office, and biggest of all, I've been running in my neighborhood most weekday mornings. Which means getting up super early, and getting outside. Recently, I've changed my route--I've made it a bit longer, and when I finally am running up the last stupid hill of my stupid run that is stupid, I am usually asking myself why in the world did I think that was a good idea? Running is hard. Life is hard. Things worth doing are hard.

I've been running for about a year, but with weeks here and there where I skipped the morning run. I've been breaking up with food for about six months, or so. I detail this because I want to be clear that this isn't a 'I just started this stuff, and let me tell you about something that will just fizzle out ' thing.

I did add a new component. Nearly naked photos. No, I am not posting them here, and no, you may not see them. Not now.

What I am doing is taking a photo of myself in the bathroom mirror, neck down, in my bra and panties. I am posting them to a private blog, so that I can keep a record. Hopefully, so I can say goodbye to all that fat without Adipose. (WINK) I may decide to make that blog public, but not right now.

These are things that I just started doing, really, because I have taken ownership of my issues. Yes, I have issues, but their mine, goddammit, and I'll make them work for me.

Also, I am going to go onstage in a trash-fashion show. I don't do onstage stuff. That's right, body issues, you can take your fucking shame and shove it up your ass. Cuz you bitches are working for me, now.

Fuck yeah.

Ack ack ack ack ack

I wrote a thing. And the thing wouldn't tell me what its name was, so I picked a so-so name.
AND THEN I CLICKED SUBMIT.

600 word story for a contest on NPR, and it's all submitted, and I should really be in bed, but ya'll were making me feel guilty for not posting here.

So, here's a little band-aid post. MORE TO COME.

Now, bed time for this lady.

À bientôt, mes amis.

Writing!

I've been cooking a short story for a fiction contest on NPR, and I think I know what's going on. I like this, creating a whole story that hasn't existed before. It's rather thrilling.

Now I am off to write more!

A list of things

1. The Russians are over taking the stats! Not that there is anything wrong with Russia, or the fine people that make up that country, I merely find it highly suspect that my relatively new blog could be so enticing to more people in Russia than in the US, where this blog is authored. Are a Russian reader, or a reader from somewhere outside the US? Leave a comment. You'll get a prize. For real-real, not for play-play.

2. I wrote a thing that seemed to take a lot out of me last time. It was good to write, but I let it be an excuse to not come back to the blog. So sorry. Done with that excuse for now.

3. National Novel Writing Month is coming up, and quickly too. I should really spend some time thinking about what I want to write 50,000 words about. Maybe catfish. Or wingnuts. Or maybe I spend some time.

4. I have been putting off chopping kindling and making fire starters. I really should get on that and get a good stock pile going while we still have our late summer. October will be chilly, and will be here before we know it.

5. Fall is coming! The pears will be ripe soon, then the apples, then the pumpkins! I have a lot of canning in my future. Hopefully.

Alright, that will do for now. I'm now back up on the horse.

Beaux reves.

Sleeping monsters

Oh, I want to sleep.

My darling little Monster, after a weekend of alarmingly high fevers, was feeling better yesterday, her birthday. So we took the whole family up to my parents' house and played outside with bubble wands and giant bubble makers and the sprinkler and ran and ran and ran. And she fell asleep just before 7. Like doofuses, neither the husband nor I went to bed until close to 11, and at the stroke of midnight, the Monster was up. "Hi, Daddy! It's almost morning time! Let's get breakfast!" was the husband's greeting. And there was much pleading and cajoling and, I'll admit, threatening with banishment from 'Mama-Dada Bed' if the Monster did not just please, please, please go to sleep. She did, eventually, out of sheer boredom, I would imagine.

I was too tired to really appreciate the complete change over the course of two nights. The first night, Saturday, she had a very high, sudden fever. That had happened once before, nearly a year ago. That was when she had her first ambulance ride.

She had molars coming in, her two-year molars, so I didn't make much of the fever at first. It was a normal, small-child fever. We had a bath, got into jammies, and went onto the couch to 'have nurses,' her term for nursing. We had weaned to only one nursing a day, at night, to put her to sleep. We would eventually move from the night time nurses on the couch to in her bed, to reading books every night. I am glad we aren't nursing to sleep anymore--that means that other people who aren't me (read: the husband) can put her to bed, while I am in the house. (That wasn't even a remote possibility with the prior arrangement.)

We sat down to nurse, and I would normally put a simple puzzle game on the X-station-play-box. I get impatient, and nursing a nearly-two-year-old with a full grill isn't the most comfortable thing in the world, so I would distract myself with a game of some sort. I didn't that night, or I hadn't yet. We sat there, me and my daughter. My Monster. Still a baby, but shedding more and more of that every day for the big girl world. . We sat there, we two, and just looked at each other. She seemed to be doing better, she seemed to be ready to sleep, and I was ready for her to sleep--a toddler is exhausting, and a clingy toddler doubly so. To top it all off, the husband works long shifts, long into the night, so I am on my own most of the time. We sat, and I watched her as her eyes started to close, nursing rhythmically. And then the nursing stopped. Her eyes were open, but not looking at me or at anything, and in my arms, she started shaking and shaking, and I could not stop her. I couldn't stop the seizure.

I called 911, and then my husband. I don't know how long it took for the firemen to get to our house. My husband got home after the emergency vehicles got there, and I can't imagine what it must be like, coming home to flashing lights, knowing that they are there for your little baby. We live in a little community outside of town, and the volunteer fire department is just down the street from us. The firemen are our neighbors. Our house is so small, that three of them, in their gear, filled up my little living room.

They had me lay my Monster down on the floor and take off her pajamas. She had come too, and she was so dazed. I did what the firemen said, and the husband got home. He would follow us in the ambulance. I wrapped her up in the blanket, and with the neighborhood watching, we got into the ambulance.

She was so tiny on the stretcher, under the oxygen mask.

How do we do this? How do people elect to care for such a vulnerable human? Who would choose to risk to have their heart utterly broken? Knowing what absolute pain is very possible and quite likely in so many instances, who would choose this?

We rode to the hospital, under the fluorescent light in the ambulance. When I am in stressful situations, I react inappropriately. I smile. This got me so grounded growing up--my dad was never amused by this quirk, and even less so when he was Very Mad. I was sitting in an ambulance, riding through town, with my baby strapped to a gurney and under an oxygen mask, and I had to keep from smiling. Not out of joy, or enjoyment, but because I honestly can't be in a high stress situation and keep a straight face. Great for lightening the mood when it's appropriate, but not so great for right then.

The Monster had had a febrile seizure. I was familiar with those--my baby sister had those when she was an infant. I hadn't really remembered much of them from when we were growing up. They occur with a sudden, high fever, but can be prevented by keeping the fever low with over the counter medication. I told the Monster that she gets one ambulance ride, and that she had used it up.

We went home that night, and we slept. Her fever broke the next day.

Now I am going to go to bed. I have a Monster who will be awake very early in the morning.

À bientôt, mes petite choux. Beaux rêves. 

One more project.

November is coming! November is coming!

November happens to be my birthday month (wooo, Scorpio!), and it also happens to be NaNoWriMo. I am going to participate this year. I've been eyeballing that challenge for a few years now, and in the spirit of doing things that I say I am going to do, here goes. 50,000 words in 30 days. I will have to average about 1,700 words a day. For 30 days. Hoo boy, what am I getting myself into?

Alrighty, I've talked the talk. Let's see if I can walk the walk. 

I don't see a lot of knitting happening in November.

Overdue

Here I sit comfortably, upon a settee,
With large waves of guilt overtaking me.
This blog, I've abandoned, or so it seems,
For idle amusement from internet memes.
I'm aware of my actions, but I can't seem to stop
This clicking on cats and other culture of pop.
A small voice pipes up, in the back of my head,
"But what about the commitment you publicly said,
To post to the blog on a regular schedule?
Will you renig on this too? Think of what you said, you'll
Be rather sorry if the grand promises made
Are forgotten like many other things and just left to fade."
I listened to this voice, my own voice of reason.
I've ignored it in the past, but now I'm more seasoned
I heed this advice that I give to myself.
So rather than let this blog gather dust on a shelf,
I'm on my couch, writing a post on my device,
(Which may be a bit hokey, but I find it quite nice,)
So that I may say that I have followed through
And created a new entry, dear reader, for you.
It may be a trope, hackneyed or old
To hear a story in couplet told.
I find it quite charming, this literary structure,
And will use it more in the future, I'm sure.
So that is all, I've done what is due.

a bientôt, mes petits choux

Grab-Bag Quickie

At work. I need a little break from writing, so I thought I would write on my blog.

Yo dawg, I say you like writing.

I like the idea of some shorter, structured posts. I have Future Fridays (awesomely alliterated!), which have potential to be a blast. How about a Grab Bag Quickie? I'll take a topic (and please suggest topics, gentle readers) and search on Google with the I'm Feeling Lucky button, or if a topic doesn't strike me, I'll go to a random article on Wikipedia. And I'll try not to cheat. Also, I'll choose how to use a topic.

Today, I'll write on the Grab-Bag Quickie for 10 minutes--that's what I have left on my break.

Alright. This is a challenge. Timer is going.

Today's Grab-Bag Quickie Topic Seed: Karl Leister, German clarinetist.

Hmm. German clarinetist. Okay, let's see where this goes.

My mom plays the clarinet. Or, she did, in high school. She would pull it out when my sisters and I were little, and us girls would play with it, or really, make it go HONK after much effort, then my mom would wow us with her scales. We were kind of a musical family, sort of half-heartedly so. We had a keyboard growing up--no space for a piano, really. I took lessons, and my younger sister did as well, from the same teacher. I hated that teacher, (how cliche, I know, I know) and the minute she tried to cajole me into practicing by saying 'well, your sister is getting ahead of you in the work book,' I said see ya, lady. I don't know if my mother was ever disappointed that piano lessons never really took; she never really let on either way.

Yesterday was my mother's birthday, and after we had dinner and cake, the year book came out. Oh, there were some wonderful pictures in there, and some hairdos that I just died over. That got me thinking, about where my mom is in her life, and where I am in mine. Her mother, my grandmother, died three years before I was born. My mother never got to call her mother, at three am, with a screaming baby, seeking advice, comfort or just her mom's voice. Now that I have a Darling Monster of my own, I don't know that I ever called my mom at three am, but I definitely called her frantically when Baby Monster had a fever, or when I couldn't remember a recipe that I swore I wrote down last time, or for whatever reason. It hadn't ever struck me what it must have been like for my mom, to be 2,000 miles away from her childhood home, with a small baby, and then two and then three small children, and essentially going it by herself.

So, Mom, if you are reading this, thank you. It must have been difficult, but it didn't really show.


Ha.
There goes the timer.
Toodles, peeps.

HTML

I learned HTML when Angelfire was just getting established, when Netscape was the cool alternative to IE, and when Lycos was a thing. And I haven't really used it since. I used to know hex colors and I totally knew how to use that new-fangled Google thing. Other than that new-fangled Google thing, the rest has rather fallen by the wayside.

And I just spent about half an hour, cutting and pasting a bunch of code all over the HTML for this blog, playing hide-and-seek with a silly Twitter 'follow me' button, all for the sake of.. what? Do I need to beg people to look at what I do online? Do I need to be in constant connection with the interwebs? What's my goal?

What's my motivation?

I know I want to develop my writing muscle--without use, any muscle atrophies. So, this, this blog, is an exercise. Exercise takes time, effort and discipline. I don't have a great track record as far as sticking with something that requires those ingredients. This may be my training arena. If I can stick this out, can make this go, what else can I do?

I can put a silly button on a blog, I know that.


Follow @knottyknitter

This is a test.

...this is only a test.

I have a silly little phone that wants to do lots of silly things, like have a blogger app.

If the photo portion worked, that's a necklace holder and earring frames that I made.

Thanks for hanging out for the test!

Jammin'

First there were these:

lots and lots of brambles!

Which means that there are these:

oh, look at those berries!

Which means that there are lots of these:

so ripe!

Which means that I got lots of these:

so many berries!

 So I made lots of this!

jam!

more jam!

I had some time to myself while picking and picking and picking berries, and I got to thinking about the phrase a peach out of reach, a phrase meaning a lovely thing that you just can't have. So, if a peach out of reach is something that you want and just can't have, would a blackberry out of reach be something lovely that you want and can't have, and will end up bleeding if you try to obtain said lovely thing? Thing is, the latter phrase looses all the flow of the rhyming phrase of a peach out of reach.

Hmm.

Some suggestions: A berry that will parry? A bit esoteric, perhaps. A fruit that will fight? Doesn't really convey the message.

What do you think? 

Future Friday!

Friday is for the Future!

For the First Future Friday, I have this dashing fellow:

He is a dashing fellow.

Nikola Tesla.

But, wait, you say. Tesla died in 1943! How is this handsome fellow appropriate for Future Friday?

Tesla's innovations and inventions laid the very groundwork to where we are as far as our technology today. We will be reaping the benefits of his hard and un-thanked work for years to come. And thanks to the generosity of geeks, nerds, and all-around neat people all around the world, his final laboratory will be able to be made into a museum and historic site, protecting it permanently. Learn more here, via the Oatmeal.

I may have found a soap box...

Blag. Blarg. Blughugablugablug.

I am absolutely blocked. 

Wait, no, that's hyperbole. I have all of these ideas of what to write about, but they all require research. By the time that I have a couple of moments, after the darling monster has gone to bed, and I've pretended to clean up after dinner and maybe thought about starting a load of laundry or even the dishwasher, I am wiped out. I have so many ideas about what I want to do, for this space, and elsewhere, but no time at all. 

Growing up, we heard from so many sources that we needed to follow our hearts or dream big or that you are all unique (no I'm not--for the Python fans) or some other Disney-esque bullshit that's fed to children now. We learned through TV and magazines and any other form of media that we could get our sticky little paws on that we were all special shining stars and that all we had to do was be special and special things would happen to our special selves, if only we would believe. Can you tell that I think that's bunk?

What did that do for me? I can't tell you, but I can tell you that, though I might have believed at one point, that I was a special snowflake of a shining star, I don't believe anymore. I'll leave behind my unrealistic expectations of actual adult life behind and take a good dose of reality. You don't always get to follow your special star to your special place. Not when there's rent and a car payment and shoes and food and, and, and. Someone has to do the dirty jobs, and I can tell you that cleaning up funky toilets in hotel rooms isn't anyone's big dream.

I guess what I am getting to, in quite a round-about, unintended soap-boxy fashion, is that I need to learn to make this, right now, my special-snowflake-shining-star place. Not having any time, running around, chasing a darling monster needs to be my special place. And I will come to terms with that.

~~~~
Holy zombie jesus, that got a bit maudlin.
I will say, for context's sake, I have my Pandora set to Dengue Fever, and a very sad-sounding song was on, Amorino by Isobel Campbell. I think that had something to do with the direction of this post. Ack. I'm going to bed now.

Faites de beaux rêves, mes petits choux.

this one is the quick post

This will be a quick post. I said that to myself last night, and that dug a little bit deeper than I had anticipated.

I got to meet and spend time with a new person, not connected with work, or something that I was obligated to do, and had a great time. I had forgotten what that was like. My life has gotten so full of necessary obligations that when I had a chance to slow down and spend time with friends and meet new people, I jumped at that.

I forgot how invigorating it can be to spend time with folks you click with, on personal and creative levels.

In other words, I had a nice evening. And now, I am ready for bed.

Faire de beaux rêves, mes chéris.

not-so-quick of a post

It's after 11 and I want to go to bed, but here I am keeping a promise (of sorts) to myself.

I was on my way to the library, after picking up my darling little monster from daycare, after I had put in a full day of work. We were in the car stopped at a red light, and I noticed a younger woman, probably my youngest sister's age, walking toward the crosswalk. There were a couple of men, one about her age, and one much closer to twice her age walking behind her, and my radar went off. I hadn't been noticing the world outside of my itinerary much, but I saw her, saw the men, and in an instant I was intently watching. I was watching her, to make sure that she wasn't acting like she felt she was in any danger, and I was watching the men, watching their postures, how they looked at their surroundings.

Why?

Usually, whenever I see a woman who is in my age group, I am instantly comparing myself to her. Is she taller, shorter, thinner, fatter, prettier, uglier than me? Do I defer because I think I am less than her by comparison? Do I puff up, act bigger and badder? Is this woman an ally or an enemy, because she is taller/shorter/thinner/fatter/prettier/uglier than me? All of these questions are asked and answered in an instant. I can't help it; that's what happens. I try to help it, I try to pretend to not care, and hope that will lead to a 'fake it 'til you make it' sort of outcome, but that is rarely successful. But, when I see a woman in a potentially dangerous situation, that turns off. My radar goes off. I watch her, watch her body language, watch the men, look at their expressions. Are their eyes angry? Are their fists balled up? My hand usually reaches for my phone, in case I need to make a call to 911.

The first time I really remember doing this, dropping all concerns about the superficial and instead being concerned about the person herself was the summer between junior and senior year of high school. I was seventeen and on a trip to France with my French class. Two of my very good friends went on that trip, so I'll have to ask if they remember this incident. We were on a city bus, late, in on larger city. It might have been Paris, but I don't remember. There were only a couple of other people on the bus, a young woman who was a few years older than me and my friends, and a young man. I remember he had on a giant puffy jacket and a baseball cap. He was talking to the woman, and my French wasn't good enough to keep up with what they were saying, but to me, it was clear that they weren't besties, and that she wasn't very amused with what he had to say. I think I mentioned something to my travel companions, but if I did, they weren't too concerned. At the next stop, she was off the bus in a heartbeat, and he got off after. I remember watching through the tinted bus windows that made the streetlamps an even darker amber. I had lost sight of her, but I had watched the young man turn a corner, and the bus was on its way, and we went back to the hostel.

Every now and then I find myself thinking about that night. I'll never know what happened, or what their actual relationship was. I don't know if I was imagining some sort of potential threat, just for the universal human thrill of being able to say 'I know that something was up, I knew before everyone else.'

Today, the woman crossed the street, head high, and with a little smile and wave to me. The men went on their different ways. Truth be told, I was thinking about what to write tonight when I pulled up to that intersection. And there it was.

Having thought about this all afternoon and evening, these are my thoughts: It's saddening that I instantly compare myself to someone that I've never met, and some sort of self worth is measured by that comparison. That part is getting better and better as I get older, and frankly, care less. It is also a slight comfort to think that there might be others, women and men, like me, who watch out for each other when we think that there is a potentially dangerous situation. I do take off the rose-colored glasses and hope that I'll never have to rely on a stranger being concerned for my or a loved one's well-being, but I would like to think that there are others out there, their hands on their phones, watching their surroundings.

Hm. That's a darker note.

Cupcakes, ponies, sunshine, rainbows and smiles.
That helps a bit.

a bientôt, mes petits choux

changing things up a bit

I've let my blogs go fallow for too long, so here I come with the roto-tiller.

I've wanted a lot of different things in my life and I haven't been able to successfully achieve them for some reason or another, but mostly because I haven't done anything about it. Here I am doing something. What I want this time (or really, have wanted for a long time, but haven't done much toward) is to be a writer. How do you get to be a writer? You write.

That's the thing about writing. You don't need a whole lot to become a writer, but there is one thing that you must do, and that is actually write. Put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and write. Not think about it, or talk about it, but actually do.

The doing is the hardest part for me.

I am a terrible (or wonderful) procrastinator. I could list my excuses and give them more validation, but I won't do that. I am going to make this pledge here, on my public but not viewed space, to endeavor to write. To endeavor to write every day. To do something productive, instead of getting lost in cat pictures and 'liking' facebook posts.

Here's my talk. We'll see what the walk entails tomorrow.

Until then, bon nuit, mes petits choux.