Squished Piggies Don't Squeak

I've moved ... again

2007-06-22T18:42:00.000-07:00

Hmmm. I logged in to say I've moved again, and was forced through the new blogger update.

All I want to say is that my new blog address is http://www.sueeeus.com/blog/

I guess it's a bit confusing to have done it that way, but the new service provider charges extra for subdomains, so I didn't make it blog.sueeeus.com or something like that.

Anyhoooo, that's where I am, and where I'll be for a while.

I've moved

2006-03-20T08:43:00.000-08:00

I decided to try out a new blogging utility called WordPress, so I loaded it to a webserver and spent some time this weekend installing and configuring it. I like its features, and it's free. It's not been the easiest thing to configure, but that's mostly because I did a custom install on my own webspace. There are low cost providers out there who offer WordPress blogging and they've done all the hard stuff so it's easy for a newbie to get started. I had to do things the hard way, though, because that's just my way.

Anyway.

Here's my new blog.

http://sueeeus.holyshiznit.com/

I will eventually move my blogger archives over there, but that is thus far proving to be difficult.

A little eye contact, please

2006-03-17T14:30:00.000-08:00

I recently met with a coworker to discuss, um, work stuff. I knew him by name, having worked with him in the past, but I couldn’t recall his face, and vice versa. So we met in person, and he brought me up to speed on the work stuff. The thing is, his eyes kept darting from my eyes to my hair. It’s not like my silver streaks are blinding, or anything, and I admit, I’m not one to keep up with things like haircuts and color updates. But come on. It’s rude! Maybe one glance would be okay. It wouldn’t bug me (much). I might not even mind a chiding comment, like, say, “Looks like project X is taking it’s toll on you, har har har.” I might come up with some wry and witty retort, and that would be that. But to keep darting from my eyes to my hair to my eyes to my hair. Again, I say, how rude! That was the first meeting. The second was with the rest of the team. (It’s a special assignment task force, oh so very important, yeah, yeah, right, unh-hunh, yeah.) Ahem. During this meeting? He calls me Jan. Being new to the team, and considering we were teleconferencing with people from across the country, I at first thought he was talking to someone else, not in the room. But I realized that 1) I am the only woman on this team, and therefore 2) he was speaking to me. Now I don’t know how one confuses Jan with Sueeeus... And during this meeting? The steady-eye-contact-challenged team leader introduced me to the other team members in the room (who I already knew). One of them looked at me with unfeigned lack of recognition. Ummm, we worked in the same group and I sat two desks down from you (a few years ago), I reminded him. Ohhhhhh, he says, not completely convinced. I don’t think I look that much different. I did change my name though (having married Mr. Gadget), and that throws people off somewhat.

Show and Tell - butter dish

2006-03-16T06:00:00.000-08:00

Blackbird is on a quest for a butter dish.Not too long ago I was also on a quest for the perfect butter dish. I ended up coveting one of these French crock thingies, and I eventually gave in to temptation and bought one. It's nice, and the butter stays room temperature, but my butter still spoils because I don't use it fast enough.
The butter goes in the bell, and the bell/lid sits on the bowl of water. The water makes a seal, supposedly keeping the butter fresh. Before this I had a square clear glass canister/stacking jar from IKEA that fit two sticks of butter perfectly, but, alas, in the nimble hands of Mr. Gadget, the lid got away one day, and shattered into many pieces. It was cute too. The lid had all these half sphere dimples impressed in the top. I don't know if IKEA still makes them. I couldn't find them in their on-line catalog. It was only about $3. C'est la vie.

The Sunday paper has never been so much fun

2006-03-15T20:58:00.000-08:00

We get the Sunday paper and use it to fill our recycle bin. Sometimes we look at the sale inserts. Once in a while we look at headlines. I used to do the crosswords, before the boy came along. But now... ...in the hands of a one-year-old...
...it is great fun! Oh, what a mess a little boy can make.
Of course, there is usually more to a scene than first meets the eye.

zen

2006-03-10T15:02:00.000-08:00

There is a specific moment during the course of a cold where the post nasal drip has stopped its irritation and morphed into something else, where the nose has stopped running, if only temporarily, where the sneezes are at bay, where the sinus pressure is causing a sensation closer to dizziness than pain, a dizziness that is similar to that feeling one might get after a glass of wine, when you realize that your mouth is closed and you can breathe through your nostrils. A complete breath of air. It’s a moment of clarity. It feels like nothing else. It feels like bliss. It feels like zen. Like nirvana. It is peace. It is calm. At least, to someone who has a lifelong history of respiratory issues of one sort or another (though, thankfully, nothing serious). You exclaim to yourself, Oh! So this is what it feels like to breathe! Your mind races with excitement as you dream of how good it would feel to be able to breathe this way all the time. How energizing, to have that much oxygen at one’s disposal! And then the moment passes.

Big brmother is watching

2006-03-10T12:24:00.000-08:00

We have a new world order around Chez Squished. The boy is sleeping alone. Through the night. All night. In his own room. Without a bottle. A moment is in order to digest the magnitude of this fantastic milestone. Of course, measures have been taken to make this come about. It’s been a journey, beginning with the decision, for safety’s sake, to put him in his own room, followed by a fairly successful first night. We learned that the tension style safety gate in his doorway makes him feel too abandoned or trapped. I found a set of Kidco safety gates on Craigslist for a bargain, and we now have a very secure stairwell. I’ve put tension gates in the doorways of the other rooms, and left his room open, and my room open. He now has a free path to our room should he need it, if he wakes up afraid. Simply having an open doorway has done wonders for his perception of things. And, since I’m married to Mr. Gadget, we now have the child on nighttime surveillance.
The camera is mounted so that I have a full view of my munchkin all snug as a bug in a rug. Mr. Gadget claims to have had these gadgets all along (the usual story), and is just retrieving them from the places where he’s had them squirreled away. I do know that he won the mini DVD player in a company raffle, so that gadget is legit. The others? Not so sure. But I’m not complaining. In my sleepy stupor I can press a button and check in on my sleeping munchkin. I can see if he’s scooted his way out of his blankets or if he’s scooted himself into the corner. Tomorrow is our first Saturday with this arrangement, which means I can sleep in (or at least pretend to). I’m looking forward to seeing if he wakes up happy and comes looking for me, or if he stops to play with his toys along the way.

Show and Tell - vos yeux

2006-03-09T06:40:00.000-08:00

(*Updated to add Mr. Gadget)
Today, Blackbird asks to see our eyes.
These are the eyes to be looking at. Blue, beautiful blue.
He gets them from his dad. But the hint of almond he gets from me.
These are mine, complete with Cleopatra drag queen makeup, especially for the photo. I don't really wear that much eye shadow on a normal day. One color is Copper by Naturistics, from the dollar store. The other is Big Bang by Urban Decay, a whole lot more than a dollar, from Sephora. The freaky halo light reflection (from the makeup mirror) is a nice touch too, yes? I'm looking forward to seeing other blogger's eyes. Eyes are the window to the soul, you know.

The office pool

2006-03-08T13:17:00.000-08:00

Somebody at work has launched a weight loss challenge. It lasts 12 weeks and participants submit $40 to the pool along with a weight loss goal anywhere between 12 and 36 pounds. At the end, those who have met their goal get their money back. Those who haven’t don’t. What remains in the pool is split among those who have met their goal.

What the heck. I’m in. Some of the guys are talking about loading up on water right before the weigh-in. They are speaking of a weigh-in, but I’m banking on the honor system. It’s almost unbearably humiliating to step on the scale at the doctor’s office. In front of coworkers? I.Don’t.Think.So.

I think I’ve gained 10-12 pounds since I shut down the milk factory. I’m somewhat amazed by that. Nothing in my lifestyle changed besides that, and whomp, there it is. Yes, I tend to be stressed out a good deal of the time. I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know that I need to learn how to manage stress better. I know.

I'm signing up for 18 pounds.

Hasten not to judge

2006-03-07T19:17:00.000-08:00

It was a normal morning. I was late, as usual. I could have ~~left~~ tried to leave earlier, but I wanted to spend some time with my scrumptious little munchkin. Plus, I needed to ~~give~~ get some extra snuggles and cuddles after the harrowing nose aspiration grapple of the morning. Call me overbearing, but I want my child to be able to breathe. I’m just that way. Oh, how he doesn’t like the aspirator! My, oh my, is he a strong little guy. And fast, too. He can grab that little blue bulb, yank the tip out, fling it away, and yank my finger backwards (the one that’s attached to the hand that is trying to hold him steady) all in the matter of a split second. He. Does. Not. Like. It. Understatement. Thankfully he’s all smiles the second it’s over. He will even try to play with the bulb, stick it in his mouth, or even put it to his nose. To which I give much encouragement. Good boy! However. If I get anywhere near his nose with that thing, all hell breaks loose. I’ve tried making a game of it. I’ve tried to gently sneak it to him while he’s sleeping. He’ll have none of it. Sigh. We had a nice little bit of play time, snuggles, bounces and jumps (still his favorite thing to do), and I handed him over to Mr. Gadget, the morning daycare express driver.
I picked up my bag, reached for my keys, and didn’t find them. I could have sworn I put them on the hook. It’s part of my routine. Routines are important in my world. I’m not overly obsessive (IMHO), but there is something to be said for routine, for order. Without order there is chaos. With chaos there is stress. Stress is bad. With order, there is harmony. Harmony is good. Order is good.
I checked all the surfaces downstairs for where I might have left my keys. I checked again. I went upstairs. I went through the laundry basket. I was getting frustrated and I suppressed the natural blame response thoughts that were welling in my mind. No, I’m not going to blame Mr. Gadget for this. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt. I could have left them on my desk. (I didn’t.) I could have left them on the kitchen counter. (I didn’t.) I could have put them on the cedar chest and Boo might have found them, played with them, and dropped them in the freshly folded laundry basket. He was, after all, helping me*. (I didn’t. He didn’t.) Or, he could have dropped them in the diaper bag. (He didn’t.) Still suppressing the blame thoughts, but not quite as much, I decided to check Mr. Gadget’s pockets. I felt a bit guilty when they came up empty. I was ready to say, AHA! Upstairs. Again. Downstairs. Again. I checked my bag again. Did I leave them in the car? I’ve never left my keys in the car. Ever. I checked anyway. No keys. Upstairs again. Laundry basket again. Diaper bag again. Downstairs again. Office again. Laundry room again. Breathe deeply. Remain calm. Stress is bad. (I read only yesterday that stress, and the stress hormone cortisol, play a major role in obesity, even in people who don’t have horrible eating habits, thank you very much.) Breathe deeply. I dumped out the entire contents of my purse, in the off chance that I overlooked the keys. Nope. No keys. Upstairs again. And the phone rings. “Hello?” It’s Mr. Gadget. “Ummmm… You have my keys, don’t you,” I ask, nicely, softly, slowly, calmly. “Sahwwwy,” he says weakly, quietly. “Just take my keys,” he says. “Yes, well. You don’t have a key to my office cabinet, where I keep my computer, the one I need to do my job, now, do you?” “Sahwwwwy,” he says again.
And that is why I was late (today).

*He especially loves finding the socks in the basket. He gets one, flings it behind him with a flourish, and reaches for another. He likes to help with things that are already folded too. In the kitchen we have a lot of small multi-purpose towels, stacked neatly on a shelf. He likes to pick them off, one at a time, and fling them, just like the socks. We also have face cloths that I use to wash his face and hands after eating. They’re softer than the others. I usually drape them over a rail to dry after use. Sometimes while I’m wiping down surfaces in the kitchen, he grabs the face cloth and starts scrubbing things he can reach. He’s such a good helper, I tell him, and thank him profusely. One of these days, when he’s older, I hope this encouragement will click and he will be happy to help clean up his room.

Some things never change

2006-03-07T09:37:00.000-08:00

If it’s your dad’s 80th birthday, and you call him to wish him well and ask how he’s been, don't ask about the diabetes. If he mentions that his toes are numb, and that his quack of a doctor thinks he should see a specialist and start insulin injections, and you say, humbly, that it’s not as bad as it sounds, because you yourself were faced with just such a need. When you say that yes, it’s traumatic at first, and no, it’s not convenient and yes, it is annoying that the necessity exists, but no, it’s not that bad once you get used to it, and yes, it’s worth it if it helps preserve your health and life, don't feel snubbed if he completely ignores you. Or if he sounds surprised. Oh? You had diabetes? When did you have diabetes?
If you try to explain that one shouldn’t ignore signs like numbness in the toes, and he says you are no better than his quack of a doctor, don’t let it get you down. If you offer to take time off from work to travel 300 miles and take him to the specialist, to which he restates that they are all quacks and the bittermelon he is taking now will surely put all things back into balance, you might want to let the conversation end. But if you are a fool and try to reach past the denial, because you are truly concerned, because you’ve had this conversation before, a year ago, and the toes were numb then, and dare you mention that one could lose ones toes, if the numbness goes unchecked, and God forbid, you mention the g word (gangrene), and all hell breaks loose and you are called uncharitable and malicious, just like your mother, don’t take it to heart. If he says that you say these things in the guise of concern, just like your mother, but at the core are simply wicked and malicious, just like your mother, and don’t mean well at all, just like your mother, and if he makes reference to being intellectually superficial, just like your mother, ignore it (just like your mother). If he goes on to say more admittedly bitter things, just interrupt and say Happy Birthday in a bright voice, and that you called to wish him well for his birthday. If he says “Bye” and hangs up on you, don’t cry or feel bad. Just know that, all the same, he was delighted to hear from you today. He is 80, after all.

Thou shalt not covet

2006-03-05T16:35:00.000-08:00

It's one of the commandments. The ones that most people remember. I was watching this cooking show on TV. Why, I have no idea. I like cooking shows, but I don't tune in. It must have been while I was waiting for my show to come on. Whatever show that was. Anyway. The wonderfully voluptuous Italian woman was preparing some sort of fresh pasta dish and it was the first time I'd seen a porcelain covered cast iron pot in action. I was mesmerized. It was beautiful. BEE.YOO.TI.FUL. And I began to covet. What a great pot. A great everything pot. I'm all about the everything pot. So. I Googled. But I could not find it. I found something similar, but not the same.
This is by Staub, and it's called a bouillabaisse pot. It has a volume of about 5 qts. And a price tag of about $200. TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS??!! For heaven's sake! Good Lawwwwwd, that's some crazy talkin' crazy money. Mercy sakes alive, child! And the one she had was bigger, more mesmerizingly blue (with gradation, swoon). I mean it. It was a beautiful piece of kitchen ware. It's that shape, that most captured my attention. That, the volume, and the beautiful white interior in contrast with the jeweled exterior. I fancied one in chartreuse.
I found this. This is made by Lodge. Whimsical on the ragged edge of tacky, but I like it. Also about 5 qts. Also about $200. TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS??!! Other bloggers I enjoy reading might say WTF, but I, I don't use those words. But if I did, this would be an opportunity. (Even the abbreviation is making my ears turn red. I'm that tender about certain colorful words.) As usual, I digress.
This is made by Innova. The cheap rendition. It can be found for $40. I've read good reviews and bad reviews. I'm trying to figure out how it compares to Le Creuset and company. Some say well. Some say not well. I suspect it's every bit as functional. It's now gracing my stove. But it's not nearly as beautiful as the original coveted piece. That shape. Sigh. Those colors. Sigh. Are they worth $160 (or more) more? I could never justify such an expense. And, of course, it's doubtful that I will be performing as fantastic works of culinary art as those I witnessed on TV. I'm sure this piece will suit me just fine. It's quite gorgeous if it's not being compared to the others. Sigh.

Love

2006-03-04T18:16:00.000-08:00

enamored, in love, besotted, bewitched, captivated, charmed, crazy about, crazy over, devoted, dotty, enchanted, enraptured, entranced, fascinated, fond, hooked, nuts about, silly about, smitten, stuck on, taken, wild about, beguiled, dazzled, delighted, all over, attached, big, big for, caring, crazy about, crazy for, crazy over, dear, devoted, doting, fond, friendly, huggy, lovey-dovey, loving, mushy, nutty about, partial, soft on, tender, warm, warm-hearted, apple of my eye, cherished one, angel, beloved, darling, dearest, fair-haired boy, favorite, honey, light of my life, loved one, object of my affections, pet, sweetheart, treasure, cherished, darling, dear, dearest, doted on, endeared, esteemed, fair-haired, loved, precious, prized, respected, sweet, treasured, my boy, my child, my half-pint, my lad, little guy, my sprout, my squirt, my lovebug, my Buggaboo, my Boo, my son

New boots, from across the sea

2006-03-04T09:07:00.000-08:00

I won them on eBay. I bought a pair in late 2001 from one of those roadshow vendors who set up shop in the mall during the holidays. The first pair cost $100, which was much much much more than I would normally ever spend on a pair of shoes, but it was Christmas time, I was in love, and I decided it was okay. I wore those boots nearly every day for three years. My feet swelled too much in pregnancy and I couldn’t fit them any more, and the soles cracked where the foot bends, so they were no longer water proof. Not the prettiest shoes, but the comfort, weight, all-purpose usefulness, and easy to slip on/off features more than made up for the looks. And they don’t look so bad. Nice and nondescript. The manufacturer touted the sole as extremely long wearing, and it was. The surface was barely worn at all. But it did eventually give way from the act of stepping. I’ve been looking for a replacement pair, and trying to spend less than $100. Almost all the options that I could find ended up being $100 after postage. It appears to be a competitive market. Or, at least, the competitors keep track of each other’s prices, so there’s very little variation. Good for them, not so good for me. I finally won a pair on eBay, but I had to get up at 4 a.m. to finish the bidding, because it was closing on Australia time. The postage cost as much as the shoe! But well worth it. I spent about $45 US total. A deal! They arrived yesterday, and I’m so pleased. I got a half size bigger, to accommodate my post pregnancy shoe size. A half size is significant in AU sizing. It seems much more dramatic than a half size US. Needless to say, there is plenty of room in this new boot. It feels a bit different. Tighter in the heel. (Not a bad thing.) Maybe a bit more narrow in general, but that may be because my others were well worn and broken in. The leather’s not as shiny, but again, I had been regularly polishing the others. I’m pleased. But I still like my first pair better. Maybe it's a first love kind of thing.

What's in a name? Or, a whinge on a peeve

2006-03-02T08:31:00.000-08:00

Emily Post (1873–1960). Etiquette. 1922.

Chapter XXVII.

Notes and Shorter Letters

Never under any circumstances address a social letter or note to a married woman, even if she is a widow, as Mrs. Mary Town. A widow is still Mrs. James Town. If her son’s wife should have the same name, she becomes Mrs. James Town, Sr., or simply Mrs. Town.

Dear Mom,
I know you mean well, and that you make every effort to be proper and to do the right thing. All that said, I can bite my tongue no longer, and must let you know that I most passionately disagree with Emily Post’s letter addressing etiquette, and would much rather you address me using my own name, rather than that of my husband. Consider it a matter of practicality in this modern age. The only form of identification I have that has my husband’s name on it is my marriage license, and I normally don’t carry that with me. When an item of mail requires a signature receipt, the postmaster must see some form of identification to ensure that the individual receiving the post is, in fact, the intended recipient.

My husband might be able to sign for the letter. Although the postmaster will surely recognize that he is not, in fact, Mrs. Cool Cat Gadget.

I could try to sign for the letter, but as I mentioned earlier, I’m not accustomed to carrying my marriage license with me.

Perhaps the thing to do, to avoid any wasted trips to the post office, is to go together. That way we could explain that I am the Misses and he is the one named Cool Cat Gadget. Ah, but it is not very convenient to visit the post office as a couple. After all, the post office is closed by the time he returns from work, and since he works on Saturday, we can’t go then either. He does have Mondays off, but then I work. If I could make it home on a Monday before the post office closes, I could get my letter.

You see, if you would address the letter to Sueeeus Gadget, there would be no question.

Using my name is no insult to the man I married. Using his name when addressing me is an insult to me. I took his name (in retrospect, perhaps I shouldn’t have, considering the hassles this decision has spawned), but I didn’t want to lose myself in the process. Etiquette, schmetiquette! I don’t care what Emily Post has to say on this matter! I wouldn’t mind so much if I received something addressed to Mrs. Cool Cat Gadget from a complete stranger, but when it’s from my own mother (and grandmother), it is most annoying and insulting. I’m sorry to say it, but that is how it is. I am still ME! I am not a shadow of the man I married. He is not my provider, he is not my protector, he is not my guide. He is my partner. Partner! Please. Please use my name.

Sincerely,
Sueeeus Gadget

Have I mentioned how much I like Craigslist?

2006-03-01T16:23:00.000-08:00

It’s very effective. I took some digital photos of things I wanted to be rid of last Thursday evening, posted ads on Friday morning, and had most things sold and out of my house by Friday evening. How efficient is that? It’s a rush! Free, easy to use classified ads. I love it! Of course, it helps to price things so low that people will snap them up in a heartbeat. Still. It's a great service, and I am pleased. I don't know if it's as effective everywhere as it is here in the Squished Piggy suburbs, but they do have 'branches' all over the world. Too. Cool.

www.craigslist.com

A night on his own

2006-02-27T19:17:00.000-08:00

A first. A very good first. Last night the beautiful boy spent the night, alone, in his own room. He fell asleep very early, around 6 p.m., because we got off schedule during the weekend. So he awoke around 10 and played for a while. We took him to bed around 11 and both of us lay down with him, hoping for him to settle. With no bottle. He squirmed, he squirmed, he tossed, and turned, he whined and fussed, he... This is starting to sound like Dr. Seuss. Anyway, it went on. And on. We finally caved and gave him half a bottle. He inhaled it and was none too happy when it was all gone, but I did the deft binky switch maneuver, and he went for it. It helps to be too tired to fight. I tiptoed out of the room, but he heard me, lifted his head, and started to cry. Oh, the most heart wrenching how could you leave me cry. So I lay back down and got snuggly buggly again. Which I like very much. It only took an extra 5 or 10 minutes, and I tiptoed back to my room. His door is open and gated, my door is open and down the hall. The monitor is on. I can hear him if he needs me. He slept until morning. Ahhh, bliss. I'm crossing my fingers that it wasn't a fluke and that he'll make it through the night tonight.

Marveling in the moment

2006-02-25T16:08:00.000-08:00

When I awoke to whimpering at 4 a.m. the other day, and found my child lodged beneath my dresser, I decided it's time for him to learn to sleep in his own room. We had his room ready when he came home from the hospital with him, over a year ago, but never actually used it. It began to collect things, until it was filled with bags and boxes and ribbons. It had become, and stayed, the gift wrapping room. We moved all the non-baby things out, and I put a cube shelf unit in his closet for his clothes (which were conveniently in the laundry room until now). We gathered most of the toys from around the house and arranged them on shelves for him. We left a few of his favorites downstairs. I put a queen mattress directly on the floor and finally found a use for the crib bumper that I'd worked so hard to make him, over a year ago. It is now a queen mattress bumper. It's just a bit longer than the two sides of the mattress that meet the wall, and they provide a little amount of cushion when he's scooting himself across the mattress in the middle of the night, half asleep. He does that. Like a little mole. His face is down and he scoots on his stomach with his butt up in the air, scoot scoot scoot, here, there, back again. He moves quite a lot in his sleep. We're working on a night-night routine, and I've been sleeping with him until he is familiar with the room. I'm also weaning him from night time bottles. This is alot to throw at him at once, but I'm tired of washing sheets every single day, if I don't wake up at 2 a.m. to change him (and risk waking him as well).

He likes to have me right where he is, so it's hard to get anything done. I've been trying to clean out my spare room and turn it into my craft room, thus giving myself precedence over my non-existent guests. I finally got him to take a nap, and he had a nice long rest. He just woke up and I'm marveling in the moment. I can hear him happily playing and singing and cooing and having a good time. I don't want him to see me and decide he has to cry until I come be with him, so here I am, blogging, but more importantly, hiding from him. Hiding from my own son!

It's been about twenty minutes. He's been alone long enough now, and is starting to lose interest with the things in his room. I must go snuggle my Boo!

The hazards of blogging

2006-02-23T18:47:00.000-08:00

Okay. I'm back. And I'm feeling much better. A thank you to all the people who post such warm and nice things.

I find that one of the hazards of blogging is that it's so in the moment. That's all fine and good when the moment is good. But when the moment is dark. Well. Not so good.

I will first say that I like myself. Whew! I tried to ponder it more fully last night, and the night before, but I fell asleep. I wanted to ask myself to try and put together a mental list of why I liked myself, in that moment, so I could make those thoughts more concrete and perhaps file them away for times of darkness when the goodness escapes me. But I fell asleep.

I know that I mentioned earlier that it's probably hormones, and in the moment when I was writing that, I was in a dark place and commented that it's such a copout to say that. I have to say, now that I'm in a more positive place, that there is some truth to that. Hormones are these crazy little brain chemicals that wreak utter chaos if something disturbs their fragile balance. I know this. I know this. I lost a brother to the imbalance. And I've spent a lifetime drifting in and out of darkness, and when I get stuck there, it feels like deja vu and I get disgusted with myself for getting stuck there again and not being able to find my way out and only recognizing enough to know that I've been there before, thus giving myself more reason to despise myself. Magnifying silly superficial things beyond all reason. It's that broken record sensation I spoke of earlier. If we were talking classical control systems theory, it would be called positive feedback, which leads to instability and ultimate destruction. Now I have a visual of Galloping Gerty, which fell victim to harmonic frequency. (Umm, nerd alert. So I majored in Control Systems. Woop. Dee. Doo. I even actually used a teensy weensy bit of it in my professional life. But anyway, I digress. I was just attempting to express an analogy.)

So anyway. Hormones. A cacophony of hormones. That, and a yawn of excuses.

I could just delete the posts of darkness, but it wouldn't be altogether honest, so I think I'll leave them be. It sort of fits the SPT All of Me theme.

But right now? The sound of exploding glass has just interrupted all other trains of thought. That, and somebody wants his mommy.

Self Portrait Tuesday

2006-02-21T05:44:00.000-08:00

I know the personal history theme is over, but I found this picture while digging through some old boxes of things. I've been on a sort of a downer lately, feeling anxious about things in general. Too much work. Not enough family time. Not enough baby time. Not enough me time. Thinking about self image and wondering why it is so easy to magnify the flaws and disregard the features. I've been feeling frustrated with myself for not being physically what I would like to be. Today, I would leap for joy to have the look that I had 25 years ago, in this picture. Yet in this picture, I remember the person I was then. And I had the same self image. I wasn't satisfied. Oh if only. Such a tiresome and most shallow expression. Where is the thankfulness for all that is good in life? So easily taken for granted.

I was nominated for Homecoming Queen that year, the fall of my Senior year. I don't know why. I wasn't crowned, and that didn't bother me. I remember feeling so uneasy being the center of attention. I don't like that feeling at all. I try to stand to make myself look as small as possible, so self-conscious of the midsection and the legs. My calves were so big I had to take my boots apart and re-sew the zippers in to give me a little more room, as much as I could possibly get. I was always in danger of them exploding from my legs. Now that would have been a sight! I'm the one next to the king. A bit heavy, and very much aware of it. Today, there is much more of me. A hundred pounds more. What an awful thing to put in writing. What a shameful thing. Four pounds a year for twenty five years. It can creep up on a person, and it wasn't a bit hard. I actually wear it rather well, which isn't necessarily a good thing. It makes the denial just that much easier. I wonder why the person in that picture couldn't be happier with herself. How shallow was she? There were probably people who would have loved to have her face, her skin, her eyes, maybe her hair. But she didn't pay much attention to those features. They came with the package. She didn't ask for them. They were just part of the genetic roulette. As were the legs. How foolish is it to let such a thing contribute so much to the total sum of self worth?

Very foolish. Very shallow. There are some things in life that the girl in the picture can control. Self worth is a choice. What a shame that she keeps forgetting this. She flashes a toothy smile, tosses her head, and is on her way, pushing those thoughts behind her for another day.

Another restless night

2006-02-20T12:13:00.000-08:00

I dreamt that I had sleep apnea and I was a doctor, looking at myself (you can do this in dreams, be more than one character), and I put the stethoscope to my chest and realized that I was missing 3 beats for every 4 beats, so I wasn’t getting enough oxygen to my brain, which explained why I so often wake up with excruciating headaches. I guess that also means I’m ¾ dead. I do get an inordinate number of headaches. I probably do have sleep apnea, actually, because I’m told I snore like a sailor, and sometimes I find that I wake myself up, choking and coughing. I should go get it checked out.

I had another dream that I belonged to this huge powerful company and everyone was in a big auditorium. There were food tables here and there and people were lining up to grab something before sitting down for whatever was to come. I wanted to get in line but somebody needed me, and when I could finally get to the table the meeting was about to start and I had to sit down, but it was too late anyway, because all the food packets were gone. One of my coworkers found me and told me about a design that another coworker was pushing, and he was very upset, saying it would be creating some troubles down the line because of inconsistencies between models. We need to keep options consistent across the board, for simplicity, for configuration control, and also to keep costs down. I told him not to worry, I completely understood, and I’d find my other coworker and let him know we had to work out the design requirements a bit more, to make it consistent. It meant a lot more work on our parts, up front, but it made things smoother in the end. Later, in the dream, it was like being on trial. I didn’t want to stand out or have any attention brought on me. People were being called accountable for things and they were made to be seen as they were. I cowered, hoping I’d not be called, but I was. And I was told I was a… …I stuttered and mumbled and tried to deny it, something about not being a Squished Piggy (really, it was just like that in the dream, literally those words), but the verdict came out as I felt my form change to that of a pig, and I was horrified to feel my nose change to a snout and the rest of me follow suit. So there it was, plain as a day. I’m a pig. I didn’t like that dream very well.

Another one. This one morphed from the pig dream. My company was on the verge of announcing a brand new product. The biggest personal transport ever. It might have even been meant for space travel, or something, but it was a gigantic ocean liner that had the hugest seating capacity; a great many abreast on the top deck. It was all hush hush. I might have had a premonition about it, that it was a doomed venture. It was perhaps a dream within a dream, but I saw several of these ocean liners on the high seas, being tossed to and fro by the gigantic waves, and they were straining and out of control, subject to the fury and whim of the sea. I awoke just as they were about to be clashed together on a huge wave. I was strapped into my seat and remember seeing part of the hull of another ship, painted a nice shiny blue. Part of it was silver, towards the top. There was work that needed to be done – some metal had to be spliced in, where there was corrosion, as though an old ocean liner had been used for the frame and parts were rusted out. It looked so out of place, to see rusted through patches on this sleek new ocean liner.

Note to self. Consider not having caffeine and/or chocolate after 6 p.m., because face it, it sometimes affects me.

Like a broken record

2006-02-20T10:47:00.000-08:00

There are times when I get wrapped up in the same old things, like a broken record, over and over again. There are times when I think I’ve grown beyond whatever the hang-up is (and it’s usually the same old thing or set of things), then something will happen and once again I’ll find myself back there, at square one. It amazes me that I can so swiftly find myself right back at the beginning, blind sided, if it were. I’ll struggle with the thoughts and feelings for a time, and then I’ll be over it. Until the next time. I find it quite tedious. And then, it occurs to me, that I might be hormonal. Yes, that’s it. It’s usually it. It’s such a copout, to blame the endocrine system, but there it is.

Why do I blog? It’s a scary thing, to put ones thoughts out there in the public realm. People can read, have thoughts, pass judgments. It’s terrifying! I don’t want to be judged. I mean, I do, in one sense, want approval. Who doesn’t? It’s one of my tedious themes. Then I get over myself for a while. Until the next time. But I’m not seeking the world’s approval. Really, I’m seeking my own. I would have liked to have had my parents’ approval, but history is what it is and they are who they are, I am who I am, and I did as much as I possibly could for as long as I could to gain their approval. Now I’m just wrestling with myself. I don’t think I’m alone in this. I think that being centered takes a lot of self discipline. I think that accepting oneself does as well. Maybe it’s easier for some than others. Especially if they don’t have whacked out hormones! Again, that’s a copout. But there is some truth to that, be that as it may.

All that said, I don’t write for an audience. I write to work my thoughts out. And it’s mostly crap, because that’s often what’s in my head. Note to self: practice more self-discipline.

I would like to see myself as my son sees me. To him, I am the most beautiful woman in the world. He sees me and sees the mama he loves and the one he depends upon. He doesn’t have any notions about my size, shape, or color. He sees who I am. He sees a fun person, a loving person, a kind person, a patient person, a caring person, and sometimes a stern person. I could stand to learn much from him. It’s called unconditional love. How I want to shake the conditioning of a lifetime. It’s such ugly baggage to be saddled with. And for what? No good comes of it.

Which isn't to say I'm not Super Sensational

2006-02-18T18:01:00.000-08:00

Because I am. I have a ribbon to prove it. Self-loathing is not all encompassing. I have some fine qualities that I appreciate in myself. However, I'm not wont to write about them. Journaling, and now, blogging, is usually where the troubles come out. Or the thrills. Moments of extremes. The daily grind is just that. Mundane. Who wants to write about it? Who wants to read about it? Although having the calm and mundane readily available to remind oneself of what is fine and good in life is somewhat valuable in the sense of bringing one's perspective back to safer ground, rather than teetering on the extreme precipice, in danger of plummeting into depression from whence the recovery is an arduous task.

My extremes. The highs? My Boo. Fun diversions and friendships discovered in the community of Blog. Triumphs in bargain hunting. Discoveries in general. The lows? All the other drivel that takes place here. Alot of struggle coming to terms with the loss of my brother. Struggle over growing pains. Not just mine, but those of the people I love.

Waiting to live

2006-02-18T17:23:00.000-08:00

I have this poisoned mentality where I've somehow convinced myself that I have to wait to enjoy the things in life that people who don't have weight problems get to enjoy. The beach. A tropical vacation. A cruise. Pampering. A night on the town. Dancing. Swimming. Shorts. Skirts. Heels. Shopping for clothes, period. It's a sad and self-inflicted punishment. A poor body image is a prison. And it is poison. POISON! It's an ugly self-loathing that is mostly undeserved. It doesn't seem to be completely related to my actual weight. I've carried this diseased attitude around my entire life. I didn't always look like a beached whale. But I must have thought I did. Looking back at old pictures, I wonder how I could possibly have been unhappy with how I looked. I looked good! By no means perfect. By no means Barbie or the girls in the media. Never frail. Always strong and sturdy. But always heavier than the average girl. And today? Today I probably don't truly look like a beached whale either, although much more so than the me of adolescence, some twenty five years ago.
Being accepted. It has alot to do with being accepted. Maybe I would have a healthy self image if I had been raised to feel wanted and accepted. I never cease to amaze myself that I can still be carrying thoughts like these around, when I'm an adult now. An adult! A D U L T. Over forty. FORTY! I would think I would have gotten over childhood by now.

I know better, but I don't do better. I don't know how to breach the void between knowing and doing. I can analyze it, intellectualize it, explain it. It boils down to caring what others think or might think. To elevating that over what I think. It's a sick thing, to allow myself to let the imagined judgement of a total stranger, even, a nonexistent public, rob me of my living moments. It's crazy. It's stupid. But I still do it.

I want to live

2006-02-17T23:52:00.000-08:00

Today I found these words exploding from my being. Every time I hear a certain song I remember my brother and I cry, thinking of a young life that is over without experiencing Venice, Rome, Paris, Argentina. I sat at my desk all week long, completely wrapped up in the project I'm working on. I worked all day, every day, barely breaking for anything, through lunch, after quitting time, until the very last moment when I had to leave to get to daycare to collect my Boo. I get consumed in what I am doing, and while it means I'm super productive at work, it's TOO MUCH. A life out of balance. It's a character flaw. I need to learn how to put other things in focus, like allowing myself to take breaks, get some fresh air, take a walk, anything. STEP AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER. Something has to give, and what gives is my vessel, my body, my self. A desk job is not good for one's physical condition. Cerebral fitness isn't all that attractive, and I'm not so sure how healthy it is either. On the way home I see the sky is blue. The air is crisp. I feel it on my face before I get in my car. It feels so GOOD. I need to find some way to make a living that is more active. Because I want to LIVE! I want to BREATHE! I just don't quite know what to do, though. Else I'd be doing it. So I simply say it.
I want to LIVE!
The words will have to do for now. When I picked up my beautiful boy this afternoon, I spun him around in circles a few times, this way and that, before putting him in the car. It was so crisp and cold, the cold air in his face took his breath away and he was delighted. We giggled for joy, breathing the air and spinning around. His wide open laugh with drool dribbling out is a beautiful sight to behold. Joy. It's the picture of joy, and I love it, and savor it; am absolutely grateful to experience this moment of life. This is the kind of life I want to be living. Breathing! Dancing! Holding my boy!

Every day goes by

2006-02-13T12:06:00.000-08:00

A day is a day to live
Or a day is a day to die
Make time for hopes and dreams
Before another day goes by

It’s easy not to give it thought
To simply plod along
Since daily life must still be lived
And another day goes by

Waking, washing, working
Feeding, serving, resting
These are all the mundane things
Thus another day goes by

Soon the years have disappeared
Never to return
Oh to live with no regret
As every day goes by

A day is a day to live
And a day is a day to die
Now is the time for hopes and dreams
Now, before this day goes by

Recent dreams

2006-02-12T16:56:00.000-08:00

There aren't very many women where I work. I've been the only woman in my group for many years. Recently, we hired another woman. I had a dream where she was one of the main characters. We stopped by her place for some reason, and she had one of those super cool industrial turned living quarters places. It had all these big pipes and valves running overhead and here and there, and was very spacious. It was relatively new to her, and I'm not sure she knew all the workings of the valves and plumbing. When I walked in, I also noticed she had the exact same furniture set that I inherited from my mom. Only hers was pristine, as though it were fresh off the showroom floor. Mine is in the garage, filled with cobwebs, chipped and scarred and battered and very well worn. I was very impressed with the condition of her furniture. Someone who was with us (it could have been me) fiddled with one of the valves, out of curiousity. What does this do? It's just a water valve. Or something. Suddenly, the room was filling with water. There were these manhole looking plugs in the floor and water was coming up quickly. She ended up with several inches of water on the entire floor before we were able to figure out the proper combination of valves to use to make everything drain and go back the way it was. These are some of the hazards with using an industrial space for a home, when the machinery hasn't been disabled.

I don't know what that dream is all about. I don't even know her. She's in my group, but not my subgroup, so I never see her and never speak with her, unless it's group meeting day. Even so, we don't interact unless work dictates a reason. Not that I wouldn't be friendly. That's just how things are at my office. We're sort of autonomous.

I had another dream that featured my brother as a teenager. He had that sparkle in his eye. It was a good-natured sparkle, as though he were happy and amused by something. We were outside the house, maybe behind it, hanging out on the hill. In real life we seldom hung out together, because I was in college when he was in high school. Maybe I was actually my younger sister in the dream. Anyway, he was making jokes or teasing or just being pleasant. This dream was a happy dream, and it makes me happy and sad to think about it. I wish he could have stayed the kind of person he was in that dream. Happy. Maybe if he could have lived longer, he would have found that sparkle again. I miss him.

A part of me wants to think that the dream was his way of reaching out to me to tell me that he is okay now, and not to worry. All is well. If I could remember that dream more clearly, I might know. But the details of that dream escape me, and I'm left with wistfulness and sadness for the beautiful boy he was, and the troubled man he became. I wonder if the sadness will ever go away. I think of him every day. Every single day. More now than before, when he was alive, when I took for granted that he would always be here, at least as long as I would be here. I figured he'd get through the rough waters and things would settle down and all would be well again.

I had a recurring murderous dream that deeply disturbed me. I already wrote about it. I read somewhere that murderous dreams aren't really about murder, but about changes in life and/or attitudes. I certainly hope so. Even so, those kinds of dreams shake me up. To the core.

It's my blog and I'll write the way I want to

2006-02-12T01:19:00.000-08:00

It's late. I should be sleeping. But I have so little me time. Not that I have anything in particular to write about. I'm a good waster of time. I just wasted a good half hour reading through previous posts. Of my own. I ponder a bit over why I would be entertained by day-to-day things that I posted previously. There have been times when I've gone through old journals and read them as well. Consuming quite alot of time in the process. I guess it's not so odd. At least not for me.

Here's something. I love sentence fragments! Okay, I don't really. But I talk this way. Sometimes. And it's kind of fun, even liberating, to write this way. I feel like I'm a kid getting away with something. Something devious. You see, my dad is a linguist. A genius, really, as far as language goes. At one time he could speak, read, and write in 14 languages. Later, he added a couple more, speaking only. I asked him to teach me French when I was a teenager. It didn't last long. He wasn't very patient with me. Later, I took a semester of French in college and did quite well. I was the second best in the class. Excellent pronunciation, I was told. I would have liked to have given it more time and become fluent.

Anyway. About language. My dad would constantly correct us. No split infinitives! No dangling participles! Blast! Bloody Barbarian! I don't actually know what a split infinitive is, or a dangling participle. I know I've looked them up before, but I can never keep those definitions in my mind. I can't keep any grammatical definitions in my mind, come to think of it. Except conjunctions. Know why? Conjunction junction, what's your function? First person, second person, third person? I guess I could figure out first person would be "I this, I that", and maybe second person would be "she this, she that"? Or "you this, you that"? Is third person "Sueeeus this, Sueeeus that"? I don't know these things. I have a worn copy of Strunk and White that I consult if the need arises. But anyway, I don't care! It's my blog, and I'll write the way I want to!

So. I was thinking about dreams and recurring dreams and dream analyses. With a little forboding I mustered up the courage to google dream analysis. According to the experts (insert grain of salt) dreams of murder are about radical change, or the death of an attitude or belief within yourself. I've been thinking of making radical changes in my diet. I've been daydreaming of making radical changes in my lifestyle. I haven't actually done either.

I was thinking about those people who get bariatric surgery. It's scary. One in a hundred DIE from it. The lap band is supposedly the safest and least invasive. Before I read about what a post-op lap band patient eats, I thought it would be the easy thing to do. Physically render oneself unable to overeat. So why not avoid the risk of death by surgery and try the diet alone? I read up on the diet they have to follow post op. It's basically liquid - protein shakes - for the first six weeks, then low carb after that. Needless to say, tiny portions all along. So it seems to me to be very much like what I would call a crash diet followed by an Atkins/South Beach/low carb/diabetic diet. All the experts say not to crash diet. It's the worst thing. So how can the lap band be a good thing? Crash dieting screws up your metabolism. Of course I know it's true. I've done that before, more than once, and did hose my metabolism, more than once. The lap banders do lose the weight. Do they keep it off? Do they hose their metabolisms?

TV advertises wonder pills like Relacor, Cortislim and Zotrin. A little pill to make you happy and make you lose weight. They call it (Relacor) the happy pill. Can it be that easy? I wish. But I don't think so. I don't trust it. People died from diet pill crazes. Ephedra? I think it makes holes in your heart. I think one of my brother's (still living) compromised his heart with that stuff. Scary!

The simple answer, although not so simple in execution (for me, anyway), is to eat right, in moderation, and exercise. When I went to Europe the first time, I backpacked for two months. I walked somewhere every day, went outside every day, and ate when I was hungry. I lost 20 lbs and toned up and looked the best I've looked in 20 years, all without even trying. That was twelve years ago. The office job is not so good on my waistline. Or my well-being. But it does allow for the roof over my head. With the job comes much stress. Without it would come more stress, but in a different flavor. I'm now daydreaming of a lifestyle and adventure something on the order of Under a Tuscan Sun.

Show and Tell - favorite lamp

2006-02-09T07:03:00.000-08:00

Show and Tell, a fun diversion brought to Blogworld compliments of Blackbird.
I'm partial to Tiffany lamps. I love them! My sister gave me this one. Such an extravagant gift. I love it love it love it! My great grandfather made the little oak table upon which it rests.
This is a much less expensive dragonfly lamp. It's a torchiere. There used to be a pair, but there was a little mishap not too long ago.

I even have more Tiffany lamps! Well, just a couple, hanging from the living room ceiling. A purposefully unmatched pair. This particular one did much to help my baby through his colic. For some reason, he loved to stare at it and it calmed him down. The other (no pic) is also a pendant, and much less busy, but in the same color scheme.

There is much color at Chez Piggy.

That kind of a morning

2006-02-08T10:53:00.000-08:00

It's been that kind of a morning...

Where the head is pounding so hard that it wakes you up at 3 am and you lie as still as you can hoping you can relax enough to go back to sleep and pray that the headache will be gone when you wake up, but you finally give up and stumble downstairs to take 4 ibuprofen, yes, 800 milligrams, then lie as still as possible waiting for them to take effect, knowing it will be at least 20 minutes, all the while wondering if you should perhaps go try and throw up because possibly if might make you feel better, and you actually nearly talk yourself into trying it when you hear the baby crying and need to get him a bottle and hopefully get him to go back to sleep so that you yourself can go back to sleep and hopefully, oh hopefully, wake up without the headache.

Where, two hours later, you get up because the baby is up again, and you are blissfully happy that the headache has receded, even though you can feel it lingering and you keep on hoping that it won't return as you try to calculate through the fog that is in your brain how many hours you will have to wait before you can subject your body to any more ibuprofen.

Where you call in sick to the office, but you have to keep the baby home all day too, because, after all, he started all of this, with the pink eye and germs he brought home from daycare, and he can't go back for 24 hours.

Where he feels fine and wants to play and you're miserable with aches and pains and congestion and phlegm, all on the way to a full blown sinus infection, so you barricade him into the living room with the sofa making most of the barricade and you lie down so that your body spans the rest so that he is fully enclosed and can play with a pile of toys while you try to sleep a little bit more, just a little bit more.

Where he plays with the lid to his drum and decides to bang it on your head. Oops, says his expression, but not really.

Where he thinks it is not much fun at all to be confined to a play space with his mama when there is a whole house to explore beyond her.

Where you finally think you are ready to handle some coffee and toast, because your tummy is grumbling and your head is starting to pound again, but you're not sure whether it will help or hurt, but you don't dare anyway, because you don't want to make any noise since the baby finally fell asleep for his morning nap, so instead you go whine about it all on your blog...

It's been that kind of a morning.

Self Portrait Tuesday

2006-02-07T06:43:00.000-08:00

February Theme: All of Me.

Up close and personal. A forty year old complexion. One might be able to see the wrinkles if it weren’t for the water retention.

Up close, it looks kind of scary to me. All these bumps and lumps and things. And fuzz in places. I don't like to look up close.

I don’t wear foundation. The thought of colored goo all over my face kind of grosses me out. I don’t use fancy schmancy cleansers and products. I just never got into all that personal care stuff. Probably because at the core, I'm lazy. I wash my face every morning with soap and water. Once in a while I might use lotion, if it’s winter time, the skin is dry and scaly, and if I remember. Usually, I don’t remember.

I don’t use makeup remover. Well, I do. It’s called a pillowcase. What little makeup remains by the end of the day accompanies me to bed. I don’t wear very much makeup. Eyeliner, brow pencil, a little shadow, mascara, and lip color. I use that all day lip stuff, so it goes on once, and if it lasts, it lasts. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. I’m not the glamour girl of my youth, and I can’t be bothered with using much of my precious time on appearance. I give it the bare minimum effort.
I think I’m aging rather gracefully, even so. I'm not complaining. But then again, I don't look too closely.

Snippets from sleep deprivation

2006-02-06T12:04:00.000-08:00

I have post nasal drip. Again. I hate post nasal drip.
Sometimes my dreams are so realistic that they freak me out. Sometimes I wake up my husband and tell him about my dreams and make him assure me that they’re not real.
Sometimes these dreams are so realistic that I don’t believe him when he reassures me that it wasn’t Colonel Mustard, in the library, with the pipe wrench.
Sometimes I think I have a recurring dream, but I realize it might be that I’m dreaming that I’m dreaming. And this freaks me out as well.
Sometimes I get deja-vu. Like right now. And this sort of freaks me out too.
When I have a night like last night, I wake up wondering if I’m losing my mind. Or if I should call the police. Or at least say a few Hail Marys.
How does one pluralize Hail Mary, non-possessive? Hail Maries?
I believe there’s more to seeking pardon than chanting.
Is a person responsible for what they dream?
Maybe I’m a reluctant psychic. (More freaking out.)
Perhaps I watch too much TV, especially CSI.
The latter is the most plausible explanation.
Perhaps I am becoming mentally ill.
Also plausible.
Could be more freaking out if I don’t stop thinking.
The baby woke up crying at 3 a.m. Heart wrenching crying. Was he dreaming bad dreams? Is he mentally connected to me? Did I dream the bad dreams before or after he woke up? I don’t remember.
He’s got five teeth pushing through at once. It must not be very comfortable. Poor little guy.
If I really did have a recurring dream, should I look into it further? Dream analysis?
I wonder if dream analysis is a bunch of hooey.
Or not.
Again, too much TV. Maybe I should write for CSI. I have material.
I need to load up on some romantic comedies or slapstick or anything light-hearted.
Inspector Clousseau, I need you.
I don’t always have bad dreams. Sometimes they’re quite nice. Most times they’re decidedly odd, but not without explanation.
I think I need to change shampoo for a while. My hair is all limp and doesn’t feel fresh, even though I just showered.
I am so tired.
When the mascara brush barely grazes the surface of the eye and the eye tissue instantly gets all gooey, it probably means it’s time to get new mascara.

You win some, you lose some

2006-02-05T19:16:00.000-08:00

I wonder if that ref was BLIND. No way was that a touchdown. How lame!
Things were going so well, but I have to say, there were quite a few questionable calls. In Pittsburgh's favor. What's up with that?
But what the heck. Who cares. It's just a game. We had fun.

Ready for the big game

2006-02-05T14:49:00.000-08:00

It's Superbowl Sunday and the boys are ready. Go Hawks!
Check back in a few hours to see if they're still smiling.

A year of milk

2006-02-04T22:42:00.000-08:00

Nine Thousand Two Hundred Eighty point Two ounces. One Thousand One Hundred Ten point Five hours. Seventy Two point Five gallons. Forty Six point Three days. These are the numbers of my commitment to nourish my baby with mother's milk. Mother's milk drawn drip by feeble drip from a disappointingly under-productive set of double-dees. Oh, sweet nectar of life. How hard you made me work for you. Two rounds of galactagogues. Four pumps - the first pump didn't cut the mustard, and we had to bring in the big guns. The second was a hospital rental while I scrambled to find my own on eBay, the third. Then one night, a few months later, during the midnight shift, the belt slipped from the shaft and the workhorse would work no more. Enter the fourth, another rental to see me through while my workhorse companion traveled to the land of Medela for service, because it is nigh unto impossible to acquire a simple little part to fix it oneself. No, one must have factory authorized service, shipping and insurance, for over a hundred dollars. (To their credit, the pump returned fully refurbished, with all new parts, shining as though it were brand new.)

It's been a long journey. I was heartbroken that my beautiful boy wouldn't nurse. Heartbroken. It's not that big of a deal, people would say to me. An entire generation was raised on formula, when breastfeeding was no longer de la mode, my doctor told me. But it was a big deal to me. It mattered to me. I wanted that full natural mother experience. I wanted the labor. I wanted the natural delivery. I wanted to breastfeed. Those first post-partum days were difficult for me. I struggled with such a load of self-inflicted disappointment. Disappointment that I didn't labor. The baby didn't even drop, let alone get ready for any journey out. He was quite happy where he was, or perhaps he was too big to drop. He was 10 lbs 7 oz, after all, at 39 weeks. No contractions. No labor. No natural delivery. Scheduled C-section at 39 weeks. And then, where was the milk? The lactation consultants assured me that the baby was getting what he needed from the measly drops of colostrom that my defective mammaries produced. They were wrong. How disappointed I was with the supply issues I faced, on top of everything else. I didn't even produce enough for a normal sized baby, yet here I was trying to feed my supersized child. I couldn't do it. Even with the help of galactagogues, and pumping for hours upon hours, I still had to supplement with formula. It was exhausting, to have to pump so frequently and for such a long time. Sleep when baby sleeps, everyone told me. But I had to pump. Because I wanted to hold him, and try to breastfeed him, when he was awake. I was so stubborn! I wanted him to have the benefits of breast milk, and by golly, he was going to get it. Again, in retrospect, I shouldn't have been so neurotic. I should have gotten some more sleep.

He did nurse a few times. I have a wonderful and warm memory of those few precious moments where we bonded, skin to skin, baby to mother, the way it was supposed to be. For that experience, I am forever grateful.

In the early days when life was little more than a blur, I told myself I could do it, I could make it to two months. Poor little big guy was a colicky boy, to top things off. Because I needed to experience a screaming child wailing for hours upon hours, who would only settle down if continually bounced. And I had plenty of time and energy for that, between feeding attempts and pumping. Obviously. Of course.

We got through the colic, and I set my sights on six months. It seemed like forever, but they say that six months is the magic line where health benefits are evident. Six months. I could make it, I told myself. And I did. I found a routine, finally, where I could get some sleep, not nearly as much as I'd like, but enough to keep my sanity. I managed to supply 75-80% of his milk needs, in the first six months.

Having a routine helped, so I made a new goal. One year. Twelve months. You can do it, I told myself. There were many times that I nearly gave up. But I persevered, and I made it. After he started solids, at six months, and after the second round of galacatogues, I was eventually able to supply nearly 100% of his milk needs.

Looking back, I'm not sure why I was so resolute. Perhaps it was because I had been barren for so many years. Perhaps it was because I knew that this might be the only child I could ever have, and this was a one time opportunity. I do have a strapping healthy boy, and I am grateful.

If there is a next time, I don't know that I'd make this kind of a milk commitment again. If there is a next time, I will maintain the hope that my baby will nurse, I'll pump to avoid engorgement, and I'll start the fenugreek early. If there is a next time, I may not keep as copious notes.

Show and Tell - Favorite Bag(s)

2006-02-03T05:40:00.000-08:00

What an exciting topic for me! I love leather! I love bags! Excuse me while I hyperventilate. Okay, I've caught my breath. Bags! Leather! Oh, dear, here we go again.

I must preface the dissertation with the information that, although I LOVE bags and leather, especially good leather, I'm very frugal and deny myself the truly exquisite. I admire the truly fine and exhorbitantly expensive from a distance.

I used this bag all summer. It's a fun style and a fun color, and has a surprising amount of usable space. But I am fickle, and I am through with it. I am thinking of sending it to a certain somebody who has a raspberry hat that it might match quite well. It doesn't seem quite her style... Yet, one word, and it's in the mail!

I have returned to this bag, which I grew weary of and stashed away for a time, knowing I would one day return. This is a souvenir I bought in Paris. How cool is it to say, in an uppity nasal voice, when someone admires it and exclaims, ooh, Paris, when they see the word embossed in a chic and understated type on the front, Oh this? I got it the last time I was in Paris. Implying that I often go to Paris. Of course, I work with men, and when I go out in public, wait, I almost never go out in public... Suffice it to say, nobody's ever noticed. But I love it.

It's probably on a par with the brands one might find at Target here, for all I know, but all the same, it's leather, it has a nice finish, and I like it. It's not perfect, but it's got some good features. It can be worn over the shoulder, or backpack style if absolutely necessary (although the latter method is not very elegant, especially on someone of my size).

Look! It has a matching wallet with a well thought interior configuration. Yes, it was extra, but I was on vacation, and when will I ever go to Paris again? I was just daydreaming this morning that my sisters and I could take a trip to Paris and see the sights, admire the paintings in the Louvre, nibble on delights at the corner cafes and stroll along the Seine. That would be a fine thing to do, indeed.

I've had these for quite a while. I'm thinking of putting them on eBay, because I never use them and there's little point to holding on to them. I couldn't quite muster the resolve to give them to Goodwill with the others I let go recently, so they are hanging in the office, waiting to learn their fate. The satchel/briefcase is big. The leather is extra thick and strong. It's not a name brand bag, but it was still very expensive (to me), when I got it. The other is a Coach bag. It was my ultimate dream bag for years, and then I found it at a thrift store (still very expensive, by thrift store standards). I had a copy that I had been using, then switched to the real thing. I actually liked the copy better.

Go see Blackbird for more Show and Tell!

Miscellaneous Things

2006-01-31T12:55:00.000-08:00

Things of late...

Biff boom crash. Crash boom smash. Thud. These are sounds that are heard on an increasing basis at Chez Piggy. I'm thanking my lucky stars that these new sounds are not accompanied by six seconds of deafening silence (now isn't that a fancy oxymoron?) followed by WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH at many many decibels. Because they could. But they aren't. Again, Praise the LORD. ALMIGHTY.
There is one less Tiffany dragonfly torchiere lamp gracing my living room, as of last night.
Although there have been times when I have wished for nicer furnishings, I am quite thankful that the material goods in our home are nothing to write home about. It makes it much more tolerable when we have to part ways.
The Tiffany was one of the nicest things I have d.
It wasn't a REAL Tiffany. But it was still nice.
I have an identical one in another, more BooProof part of the room.
Torchiere style lamps and one year olds do not mix.
Even when you put safety latches, plugs, or covers on all the doors, drawers, outlets, and knobs, and keep a keen and watchful eye on your little one 99.999% of the time, he will do amazing things in that 0.001% snapshot of unbridled freedom.
If you're anything like me, your first thought after thanking God that the baby is unharmed, is to offload as much responsibility in the event as possible, as soon as possible; i.e., blame the husband.
If you're anything like me, you will notice yourself doing this, laugh, and ask your husband if he thinks it's funny that your first instinct after ascertaining all is well with the baby is to offload as much responsibility in the event as possible, as soon as possible on someone else.
If you're married to someone like Mr. Gadget, he will laugh right back and say it's a good thing it happened on your watch, not on his, because he was busy relaxing on the couch and watching tv, while you were busy cleaning up the kitchen (and supposedly watching the baby).
If you're anything like me, you'll still make the comment that the lamp might not have fallen over had the big new box of diapers not been left on the cedar chest, because everyone knows that boxes are a baby's best friend, especially if they're conveniently set at just the right height for a busy little boy who is also very strong and who loves to push things off of surfaces because it's so fun to see what happens when they fall.
If you're anything like us, you'll still laugh, clean up the mess, put the broken lamp away, thinking that it might possibly be salvaged (and knowing that it will stay in the garage for a few years and then possibly end up in a yard sale for 50 cents), squeeze the baby and give him lots of hugs and kisses, blow raspberries on his belly until he giggles and squirms and laughs and giggles, and put him down in a safe place far from Tiffany lamps, and go on with life as usual. Which means staying up too late, watching too much tv, waking up at midnight and again at 4 a.m. to feed the nibbler who won't eat enough at one time to hold him more than 4 hours, sleeping through the alarm clock, waking up feeling briefly happy that you might have actually had some decent rest until you realize that you slept through the alarm and you should have left for work an hour ago.
If you're anything like me, you're undyingly thankful that you have the kind of job where they are very forgiving if you happen to wander in an hour later than you intended.

Geniuses in the blogosphere

2006-01-27T11:37:00.000-08:00

Last night I was lurking among the handful of blogs where I tend to lurk, and I happened upon a link to an intelligence quiz on Angie's blog (Angie who has an amazing home, accomplishes incredible projects, both in quality and quantity, and is about to have a baby, hooray!). I decided to try it, just for fun. The score key says 1-5 is average, and 19+ is genius. I put alot of pressure on myself, because I like to think that I'm kind of smart, and I'd hate to find out otherwise. I breathed a sigh of relief when I got past 5! I was also relieved to find that I didn't have to go in order, so I could go through the list and finish what I could figure out and go back to the stumpers. I finally gave up, with a score of 31, and googled the remaining two that I couldn't figure out. I'd have never gotten them, no matter how long I tried.

I had to make an enthusiastic comment on Angie's blog, and in so reading, discovered that she is in the company of greatness, as it is now even more evident that there are geniuses in the blogosphere. I think everyone who commented had scores in the high 20s and up. Far beyond the 19 genius level. I am not surprised! I always marvelled at how intelligent everyone out there in blogland seems to be, with all the witty and clever things they write about. I think the set of population who are bloggers (at least in the sphere of blogs where I lurk) are smarties, yes indeed.
I envision Barney Fife's expression when he's all puffed up and pleased with himself -- the one where he takes in a great big snort of air through his nose and mutters something like 'yeh'.

Geniuses! The lot of us!

Show and Tell - My computer

2006-01-27T10:20:00.000-08:00

Blackbird has requested a peek at our computer(s).

I've worked with computers for quite some time. I remember when a 286 was considered sweeeet, and fast! One of my first jobs was in a computer lab, pulling batch printouts and distributing them to their rightful owners. Operations. Woo hoo. It was so very high tech, at the time. I even remember programming on a mainframe using cards. We'd painstakingly type out our code on a little monitor/terminal and our program would spit out a deck of cards with one line of code per card (if I recall correctly). Then we'd stand in line to submit our job, our program, to the mainframe. In would go the stack of cards and we'd wait for our printout to see if our code worked. What a process. Some of us have no idea how good we have it today! Punch cards. Now that speaks to history. Technology has come a long way, baby.
I have a work computer that is configured appropriately with all the approved corporate stuff. It's a laptop, relatively new (upper left picture). I use a docking station and a 19 inch flat panel monitor, both at the office and in my home office (Santa suprised me BIG TIME with this monitor, this year, middle right). I need the big screen for the things I do. Those purple post-it flags? They're very important for my data analysis work. Low tech, but very useful. The yellow post-it has my phone numbers and office backup numbers. We just changed phone systems at work and got new numbers. Very inconvenient (remembering new numbers, but the new phones are quite nice).

My home computer is a home-built desktop variety. It had all the latest for its time, but is pretty much obsolete by now. I just installed a dvd-burner, and it has a 40GB hard drive, which is partitioned into two 20s, one of which is full. I'd like to remove the partition but don't want to lose any data, so am struggling with mustering up the courage. The 20 that is full is the main drive, and I don't even have enough room to defrag. Very frustrating. Things are getting slow, so I will soon be forced to do something about it.

I have a switch that allows me to toggle between my work computer and my home computer yet use the same keyboard, mouse, and monitor. Very cool. I just hit the Scroll Lock button twice and voila! Switcheroo.

Mr. Gadget gave me an optical wireless mouse and keyboard. They're nifty, actually, but I can't use the keyboard for security reasons. My work doesn't allow wireless keyboards, so I bought a wired keyboard for $5 at a local drugstore, to use while I am working from the home office. It's only a year old and the 'e' is nearly rubbed off, and the s, d, c, n, and o are close behind.

I run Windows XPpro on both machines, and I use the MS Office suite for many of the things that I do. I've also used ColdFusion quite a lot, but it's been recently updated to something called Studio 8, which has a bazillion capabilities that I have yet to learn.

All in all, there's nothing sexy about my computing setup. Maybe one of these days we'll do a wireless LAN in our home, and then I can blog from the comfort of my couch while trying to keep the baby from chewing on the screen. Then again, maybe not.

p.s. Mr. Gadget has a collection of computers. Very few of which are usable. We have a computer graveyard upstairs. And in the garage. I'm afraid to even attempt to count or photograph what we've got. He collects them from people who give them away, and once in a while he gets them to work again. We've given some to his family members. Who have promptly hosed them by not following instructions and installing things that shouldn't be installed. But I digress. Bottom line. Too much electronic junk is hanging around this house.

Self Portrait Tuesday

2006-01-24T06:38:00.000-08:00

Self Portrait Tuesday - Personal History III

Forty years ago, or thereabouts, my parents dressed me in traditional Korean garments in celebration of my first birthday and my mixed heritage. Every brother and sister has a similar photo commemorating their first birthday. The girl's dress has been worn three times. The boy's garment had been worn six times, between 1963 and 1982, until last week, when my beautiful boy turned one. I waxed nostalgic and dressed my blonde haired blue eyed quarter Korean beauty in the traditional garb for his first birthday picture.

Wanted: New laundry fairy

2006-01-22T15:49:00.000-08:00

At our house, the housework is accomplished by fairies. My husband and I are supposed to split the detail, but somehow, his chores almost always get done without him. We have a dish washing fairy and a laundry fairy. They are the most prominent. A basin, tub, and tile fairy makes a more occasional appearance.

Alas, these fairies can not always be trusted. Sometimes they use too much soap. Sometimes they don't load the dishwasher right and things interfere with the spray action. My husband tried to blame one for washing a burgundy tablecloth with a load of darks, which also included the baby's brand new pro sport sweatshirt and pants with bright white side stripes, now pink. But I know for certain that no fairy was involved. I know when my husband actually does the laundry. It's not often. But it was that load. He still denies it.

The laundry fairy went too far this time. It was a load of whites, with one queen size flannel sheet too many. The machine went into its high spin cycle and started to hop across the floor with such a thundering thump thump clunk thump, that it scared me and the baby half way to Kansas and back. I ran to the laundry room as fast as I could, just in time to witness the mad hopping, and as I reached for the power button to make it stop, the front door gave way to the weight of the load. If only my reflexes were more honed. I could have saved my washer. But it wasn't to be. The door latch would latch no more.
My husband tried to blame this event on me. ME! How could it be me, when we both know that we have laundry fairies. It's a good thing that he fixes appliances for a living. We were up and running again in no time, and he finished the laundry that night.

A matter of depth perception

2006-01-21T23:16:00.000-08:00

Or lack thereof. What does it mean when a woman has three park assists in her garage?

It's not that I have trouble parking (although I did actually recently scrape my side mirror against a support beam in my office's parking garage). The thing is, I am married to a gadget guy.

One day I was pulling the car into the garage and was greeted by a dangling blue ball. When the ball hits the windshield, it's time to stop. This is parking assistant number one. Low tech. A little time passed. A new parking assistant arrived. A laser. Ooh. Ahh. Parking assistant number two. When the red dot appears on the left front dashboard speaker, it's time to stop. Groovy man. I just rolled my eyes at him. The other day the Park Zone appeared. The light is green as the car approaches, turns yellow as the distance closes, and red when it's time to stop. Parking assistant number three. It was on clearance, he says, as his defense.

The baby likes the laser one. He likes that red dot. He always looks up at it when I'm getting him out of his car seat. This bothers me. Is it just a red dot, or is it something that could harm him? I hope no more parking assistants show up.

Show and Tell - A good hat

2006-01-20T06:50:00.000-08:00

Ooh, I love hats. But rarely have occasion to wear one. I actually wore this hat yesterday. In fact, was wearing it when I read Blackbird's announcement that today's theme is a good hat. Voila! Okay, yes, I was wearing a fleece snow hat indoors. Why? Well, you see, our recent heat bill arrived to the tune of over $200 for only ONE MONTH. Outrageous! Double from last year. Before the baby came, my husband started calling me Mother Russia because I insisted we keep the heat down in the house, 65 degrees while we're in, off while we're away. I programmed the thermostat and that was that. Once the baby came, we needed to keep the house at 68 degrees all the time, so I set the thermostat to Hold 68 and that was that. The baby is now a year old, and in daycare, and I'm back in the office a few days a week, so I set the thermostat back to Run Program. Only I worked from home yesterday, and was freezing! So I first donned a heavy sweatshirt over my jammies. Don't tell my office that I work in my jammies! (I start at 6 a.m. and it's so much easier to stumble out of bed and get to it.) I was still freezing, and the hat was conveniently nearby, and one does lose a tremendous amount of body heat through one's head, you know, so on went the hat.
This hat? I designed it. My brothers were talking about how cool they (the brothers) are on the slopes, catching air and whatnot on the snowboard, and the topic of cool hats came up. Wouldn't it be cool to have dredlocks? I'm no snow bunny, but I like a design challenge, and so was borne the dredhat. (Yes, one can get dred hats in Jamaica, but they're costume, mainly, and not suitable for extreme snow antics. Plus, I didn't know such a thing existed at the time. So you see, my design? Still original in my small world.)

They were a big hit on the slopes. People kept asking the avid sportsters where they got those cool hats. And people kept telling me I should sell them. And I kept telling them that they're not cost effective. One would have to hire slave labor in third world countries to be able to sell them at a price the public would be willing to pay. It's those hand braided dreds. So time consuming. But a nice effect, eh?

As it turns out, the dredhat is more suited to the non-extreme snow sportster, due to the long locks whipping in the wind and interfering with one's vision. And as well, my brothers learned that a hard helmet is advisable, in the ~~odd~~ chance of a wipeout.

Now this is a good hat, don't you think? High marks for cuteness, but that's mainly because of the model.

A year ago today

2006-01-14T14:55:00.000-08:00

A year ago today you came into the world and took your first breath. How perfect you were, my 10lb 7 oz giant of a boy. Yet how tiny you seemed. I was terrified when it hit me, the responsibility of my job from there on out. To protect you. To nurture you. I felt suddenly so inadequate. You were my dream of dreams, my miracle boy. How I yearned for you, for all my life. How amazing it is to see you now, the bright and beautiful boy you are growing into. Your personality unfolds before my eyes. You have a fine sense of humor. Such a twinkle in your eyes. And your smile! Oh, your smile! You light up the room. Your giggles are a joyful noise. You have so much fun being you. And I have so much fun watching you be you. You are very smart, my love. I can watch you learn. I can literally see the comprehension dawn on your face, your beautiful face. You are stubborn, dear one. Just like your dad. Tenacious, just like your mom. Are they not the same thing! We are all that way, aren't we? I will do my best to teach you the things you need to know. I will do my best to give you the best of me, and keep from you the worst of me. I want so much for you! I want you to be well adjusted, to have all that you need, to appreciate life and simple pleasures. I don't want to spoil you. I want you to be gracious and kind, to think of others as well as yourself. I want you to be strong and courageous, but wise. I hope I can teach you these things. I hope that you never grow to resent me. I hope that you will always know how much you are wanted, how much you are loved, and how much you belong here, in this world. I love you, my precious one. I love you.

A year in the life of a beautiful boy

2006-01-14T00:05:00.000-08:00

A year ago today, my life changed in the most wonderful way.
Happy Birthday to my beautiful boy!!

It's 8 O'Clock and Do You Know Where Your Binkie Is?

2006-01-13T22:20:00.000-08:00

It's all my fault. I should have checked the diaper bag before we left the daycare. But I didn't. Instead, we went merrily on our way. Once home we had dinner, a bath, got into the jammies, and settled down for a bottle, before night-night. It was then that I realized we were sans binkie. No problem, I thought. He's not addicted. He can manage a night without it. But he squirmed. He writhed. He tossed. He arched his body into unnatural contortions. He whined. He whimpered. He. Didn't. Fall. Asleep. This went on. And on. We have a couple of backup binkies. The Soothie was his first favorite. He used it for several months. I lost one, and we managed to survive with the remaining one until he decided he no longer liked it. I found it and tried to give it to him. But it just wouldn't do. I tried his teether binkie. He likes to chew on it, but not suck on it. He knew the difference. He spit it out and continued to writhe.

It's all my fault, this addiction. He wasn't dependent before, but a couple of months ago he started grinding his teeth and I just couldn't stand that sound. It was worse than fingernails on a chalkboard, or running your finger around the rim of a glass to make it ring. It was excruciating to hear. So I'd stuff the binkie in his mouth the instant he started grinding. Bad mother. Bad mother.

I handed the writhing unhappy and exhausted child to the husband and went upstairs in search of something I vaguely remembered stashing away with other baby things passed on from friends, over a year ago, when I was stocking up and preparing for motherhood. Aha! A bag of binkies. They weren't the right kind (when things like nipple confusion mattered), and they were used, so I'd never actually brought them out before. But this was an emergency. I gathered them all and brought them downstairs, sterilized them, cooled them down, and offered them to the unhappy child. He would have none of it. He'd open his mouth, taste it, then fling it across the room. Soon the lot of them lay scattered and dejected on the living room floor.

The husband shook his head at me and said, "That's why I always check the diaper bag before we leave." Yes. Right. But we won't go into that.

"Shall I go to the daycare and get it?" he asked. "No, it's too late," I replied. So I sent him to the store. I wanted my baby to get to sleep, poor little guy. It couldn't be just any binkie. It had to be a specific kind, and we've only seen it in two places. Babies R Us and _____. For the life of me, I couldn't remember the name of the store where we'd happened to see the exact kind in stock. I thought of getting them for backup or emergencies, but decided that the love bug is nearly a year old and should be weaning from it shortly, and surely we could manage on the two that we already have. Surely they will last as long as he needs them. Of course, a few days later I was washing one of them and noticed he'd chewed all the way through it and it had become a choking hazard. In the trash it went, with no further ado. Still, I thought we'd be able to make it with the one remaining. "Babies R Us is too far away. I think it was Albertson's", I finally said. "And if not, it's probably Price Savers or Rite Aid".

Off he went. I tried giving the boy a bottle again. His routine is to drink all but the last half ounce in his bottle, spit it out, take the binkie, and crane his head and neck into the shape of a question mark, and drift off contentedly to sleep while clutching my hand and fiddling with the heart charm on my bracelet. It's his routine. Poor little guy was so exhausted that he did fall asleep while drinking from the bottle. Daddy arrived an hour later, after going to Albertson's, Rite Aid, and having begged the checker at Price Savers, which was closed, to show him the styles they carried by holding them up to the glass of the shut door. Not the right ones. They were nowhere to be found. He finally tried Target, and what do you know. That's where we saw them!

I put my sleeping boy to bed and placed the new binkie within reach so that when he started squirming at midnight, as he always does, he would find it, place it in his mouth, and drift contentedly back to sleep.

Show and Tell - Favorite Room

2006-01-13T09:40:00.000-08:00

Show and Tell this week is our favorite room. This is my first house and I love that I finally have a house, although it's by far nothing like my dream home. It has a somewhat typical American suburban development tract floor plan that doesn't make much sense to me, but given my options and budget, this is what I have. I don't have a favorite room, per se. I thought of posting a picture of my bedroom, as I long, LONG, for a good and full night's sleep. But I spend almost no time there, unless I am sleeping. I thought of posting my kitchen, which I love, in that it is much bigger than anything I've ever had, has a pantry and an island and a deep sink. But it's messy, and really sort of average, all in all. Plus, I feel like a slave to the chore of feeding the family sometimes, so it's not always my favorite place. Especially when I don't get as much help keeping things clean and tidy as I would like. The other living room used to be my favorite, but then we got this ridiculously big tv that doesn't fit inside the armoire (I like things tidy and electronics concealed -- it's good feng shui, you know), so I had to move the armoire out, which is a very pleasing article, with nice bookshelf units on each side. The room used to be balanced and nice. Now we have a very comfy sectional sofa to go with the tv, but the room is too small for it, so it just doesn't work. Plus, we also have a crib next to the sofa. It's very crowded in that little room, so I don't like it's looks at all any more. But the function is nice. Many people can hang out in comfort and ooh and ahh at the amazing detail one can see in high definition tv. But. Not my favorite room any more. I therefore offer this picture. This is taken from the sofa in the diaper changing living room. I like to sit there on occasion and look up at all the crazy lines and angles in the ceiling. (Floor level is more cluttered than I like.) I like the tiffany style pendant lamps and the vaulted ceiling and the skinny rectangular windows. I like the skylights in the upstairs loft. I like to sit here and daydream about what kind of crazy lines and angles I want to build into my dream home. They will be more meaningful lines, though, with practical and useful features and functions.

Go see Blackbird for more show and tell!

Not a day goes by...

2006-01-12T00:16:00.000-08:00

Today you would have turned 35.

I hope you are singing showtunes in heaven
Surfing the waves of the Aurora Borealis
Dancing amidst the stars
Soaring through the universe
Smiling
Laughing
Now and forevermore

I think of you every day.

Self Portrait Tuesday

2006-01-10T06:30:00.000-08:00

Self Portrait Tuesday - Personal History II
In 1971, Professor Pig followed his heart and sold his home in a quaint university town, gathered up his Honorable Bag and tribe of unruly children (number seven in utero), and journeyed to the Sceptred Isle to spend a year in the sacred walls and halls of the esteemed Cambridge University. The Professor had his own passport, and his family shared one. This is the family passport photo, although it's missing one child (who is, sadly, missing once more; this time, forever).

The band of foreigners made their home in a humble flat on Norwich Street. Number 19. A young Squished Piggy, a misfit in her own land, found herself somewhat of a celebrity. After all, the English children had never seen an American before. Are you a North American or a South American? she was asked, time and again. The shy girl who had no friends in her home land found herself befriended by two young girls, Bernadette and Elizabeth. There were afternoons with tea and toast and walks along cobbled roads lined with berry bushes. It was the happiest year of a young Squished Piggy's life.

Years later, in 1994, a grown Squished Piggy made her way back to 19 Norwich Street. She walked the streets of Cambridge, and marveled at the majesty of the university --the grounds, the architecture, the history. No wonder Professor Pig was so enamored with the place.

Fast forward another ten years and a few more travels. Warsaw. Manchester. Mexico. Paris. Rome. By 2004 the Squished Piggy passport had run its course and finally expired. Present day. A new life. A new look. A new passport.

Oh why not...the American Express Meme

2006-01-06T16:34:00.000-08:00

Blackbird and several of her faithful readers commented about this meme, so I thought I'd give it a go myself...

My name....SueeeuS

childhood memory....A kiss on the forehead and a whispered “You’re a good kid” from my Grandpa while I was pretending to be asleep on Christmas Eve

fondest memory....Staying up late playing games and drinking tea with my brothers and sisters

soundtrack....The slap slap slap slap of my baby’s hands on the hardwood floors as he crawls to me as fast as his mighty little body can move

retreat....A woodsy place with a view of water, mountains, trees, blue skies, and white fluffy clouds

wildest dream....Look good in lingerie while performing lead guitar and vocals in a rock band

proudest moment....January 14, 2005, holding my son for the very first time

biggest challenge....Raising my child to be kind, strong, gentle, considerate, decent, and loving without giving him my ugly baggage

alarm clock....Set to wake to music on very very low volume

perfect day....The best of all possible worlds

first job....Youth Conservation Corps

indulgence....Blogging and TV

last purchase....Rapid rising yeast

favorite movie....Gigi, My Fair Lady

inspiration....hope of a brighter tomorrow

My life....is so much better than I give it credit for

My card is....American Express in the Costco 2% cash back flavor

Show and Tell - Something Crafty

2006-01-06T09:30:00.000-08:00

This year I ~~told~~ suggested the cool cat make me something for Christmas. I tried to make him something as well. I had visions of making a photo holder with a concrete base, where the base is a hand or foot print, and there is either a notch or a stem to hold a photo (of the Boo, of course). I first tried making a sand casting. I mixed the sand to the proper wetness for forming, and I covered it with plastic wrap to keep down the mess, and also to produce a smooth finish. Unfortunately, it takes quite a bit of pressure to make a clear impression in the sand, and Boo, Mr. Magooboo, didn't take kindly to that. I poured it anyway, to see what I'd get (which was an undefined lumpy foot). Not what I had in mind. Next, I made play doh, because it would be softer than sand and easier to make the impression. I found a recipe on the internet, and what do you know, it worked. Since I didn't have the plastic film this time, the finished product didn't turn out smooth. It looks sandy and coarse. But much more like a hand and foot print. I gave up on the photo holder details, and decided that these would just be paperweights or garden stones or something.
I tried, anyway. On the left are the play doh castings. They haven't cured as long, and are a dark color with a coarse finish. On the right are the sand castings. They are smooth and white, having cured a week longer. Also, their color may be more white because of the smoothness factor. I like the smoothness and color of the sand casting better, but I like the definition of the play doh casting.
This is what the cool cat made me. Bless his heart. My BIL is an excellent craftsman, having built an incredibly beautiful and amazing home and furniture and whatnot. So. When the cool one presented me with my gift, he didn't say, Merry Christmas, Honey. No. Instead, he said, I'm not D. By way of apology, I guess. Silly man. I love that he made me something. That he thought it out and made it happen. It's a box that holds my ribbons. (I had mentioned that I'd like something to spool my ribbons on, as it would make gift wrapping so much easier.)
Now my ribbons spool oh so nicely. I like this gift quite a lot.
Since he was on a roll, he made me a spindle for the gift wrap as well. He got a little carried away with the dowels, bless his heart. It works, and holds quite a lot of paper. Incidentally, this was the baby's favorite item on Christmas day. He kept pulling dowels out and swinging them about like a Kung Fu master. He had loads of fun.

Go see Blackbird for more show and tell!

Self Portrait Tuesday

2006-01-03T06:52:00.000-08:00

Self Portrait Tuesday Blog | January Theme - Personal History

Squished Piggy, past and present.

Sick in Suburbia

2005-12-30T22:12:00.000-08:00

This holiday has really thrown me for a loop. I haven't been this sick in donkey's years. The good thing about being sick is that it has forced me to slow down; to stop. Just stop. I've spent many hours just thinking, praying, thinking, and praying some more. I think it's been good for me. Of course the vicoden helps put me into that reflective frame of mind. It does an excellent job of taking the pain away. But I tend to get a sick-to-my-stomach feeling, too. That could be from the antibiotics, though. Either way, I've got meds to help me through and I'm on the road to recovery. I've written pages and pages in my paper journals, and I even read a book (Lamb, by Christopher Moore, subtitled The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal). The book was something that would probably offend some or many mainstream Christians, but I enjoyed it. Moore did his research well, which impressed me. It's a down to earth and funny story. Okay, so the conservative Christian in me had a hard time with a few places here and there, but all in all it was well done, and I have to say I am impressed --the man had to have done some extensive study of scriptures to come up with the tale he spun.

Lady Linoleum has a daunting and impressive list of resolutions. I was thinking of putting some together, but am waffling now. Maybe tomorrow I'll give it some more thought.

The year is coming to a close. I haven't even made a post about our Christmas. That's the problem with being sick. Too sick to even blog. What is the world coming to?

My husband, the cool cat, every once in a while makes a comment that I must only post pictures of things that are important to me on my blog, and wonders why there are no pictures of him. "I see how it is," he says. Of course, he won't be looking over my shoulder when I post this picture, so he won't know that he has, in fact, appeared on my blog.
My bestest boys, Santa and the slobber Elf (Christmas Eve at Grandma's house). They're both pretty cute, I have to say.

Self Portrait Tuesday - Take II

2005-12-27T22:33:00.000-08:00

This one's not as gross as the sore throat. I took this last week, but decided to post the madonna painting instead.This is a reflection in my wedding photo. My beautiful niece C and her sweet brother M, fatherless now. I was thrilled that they came to my wedding. At this time in my life, at this age, I decided I no longer wanted the pomp and circumstance of a big to-do, and decided to run off to Vegas for a quick and quiet ceremony (which is the absolute last thing I'd ever have wanted to do, at any other time in my life). Only a handful of people attended, but those who did were my closest friends and family, and it couldn't have been a better celebration.

Self Portrait Tuesday

2005-12-27T22:08:00.000-08:00

Mercy Me, is it Tuesday again? It's the last of the reflective surface self portraits, I believe.Everybody say "Ahhhhh". This is a reflection from a hand mirror as I attempt to get a look at my throat, which is exceedingly sore. Things have progressed from a normal cold. I thought I was better after a couple of weeks of annoying cold symptoms, then got hit with fatigue, nausea, chills, aches, headache, earache, cough, and the lovely yellow phlegm that we all know and love. Two days of that, and the sinus congestion and nausea are gone, but the throat is very sore, and the ears, they are bothering me. I've been faithfully irrigating my sinuses daily, drinking gallons of green tea and inhaling eucalyptus oil, but now I see that there are white spots on the tonsils. I suppose I'll break down and go to the doctor tomorrow, unless things clear up tonight. I hope they clear up.

Self portrait Tuesday blog: http://selfportraittuesday.blogspot.com/

One of those "If you don't forward this to 96 or your email contacts, then none of your dreams will come true..." messages

2005-12-27T20:32:00.000-08:00

...Which I never forward. I don't mean any disrespect to the kind people who send me these messages, but that last line, where they say that if you don't forward it then bad luck will befall you, or you are not a truly nice person, blah blah blah, just ruins it for me. Sometimes when I really like the message, I might forward it, but I delete that last coercive bit before sending. Anyway. This came to me today, and it was sort of sweet.

By the time the Lord made woman, He was into his sixth day of working overtime.

An angel appeared and said, "Why are you spending so much time on this one?"

And the Lord answered, "Have you seen my spec sheet on her? She has to be completely washable, but not plastic, have over 200 movable parts, all replaceable and able to run on diet coke and leftovers, have a lap that can hold four children at one time, have a kiss that can cure anything from a scraped knee to a broken heart -and she will do everything with only two hands."

The angel was astounded at the requirements. "Only two hands!? No way!
And that's just on the standard model? That's too much work for one day. Wait until tomorrow to finish."

But I won't," the Lord protested. "I am so close to finishing this creation that is so close to my own heart. She already heals herself when she is sick AND can work 18 hour days."

The angel moved closer and touched the woman. "But you have made her so soft, Lord."

"She is soft," the Lord agreed, "but I have also made her tough. You have no idea what she can endure or accomplish."

"Will she be able to think?", asked the angel.

The Lord replied, "Not only will she be able to think, she will be able to reason and negotiate."

The angel then noticed something, and reaching out, touched the woman's cheek. "Oops, it looks like you have a leak in this model. I told you that you were trying to put too much into this one."

"That's not a leak," the Lord corrected, "that's a tear!"

"What's the tear for?" the angel asked.

The Lord said, "The tear is her way of expressing her joy, her sorrow, her pain, her disappointment, her love, her loneliness, her grief and her pride."

The angel was impressed. "You are a genius, Lord. You thought of everything! Woman is truly amazing."

And she is! Women have strengths that amaze men. They bear hardships and they carry burdens, but they hold happiness, love and joy. They smile when they want to scream. They sing when they want to cry. They cry when they are happy and laugh when they are nervous. They fight for what they believe in. They stand up to injustice. They don't take "no" for an answer when they believe there is a better solution. They go without so their family can have. They go to the doctor with a frightened friend. They love unconditionally. They cry when their children excel and cheer when their friends get awards. They are happy when they hear about a birth or a wedding. Their hearts break when a friend dies. They grieve at the loss of a family member, yet they are strong when they think there is no strength left. They know that a hug and a kiss can heal a broken heart. Women come in all shapes, sizes and colors. They'll drive, fly, walk, run or e-mail you to show how much they care about you. The heart of a woman is what makes the world keep turning. They bring joy, hope and love. They have compassion and ideals. They give moral support to their family and friends. Women have vital things to say and everything to give.

HOWEVER, IF THERE IS ONE FLAW IN WOMEN, IT IS THAT THEY FORGET THEIR WORTH.

And then it dawned on me...

2005-12-24T14:21:00.000-08:00

...the realization that I'm usually sick on holidays. This goes back as far as I can remember. The sickest I've ever been has always been on a holiday or break. As far back as high school, and college. I'd never be sick, until break time, when whatever stored up depletions (is that an oxymoron?) would band together and hit me with the full might of their fury. This may be a trait I share with my dad. To his credit, he never missed a day of work in his life. He would get sick from time to time, but always on a break or a holiday. Is it will? Willing oneself not to be sick, holding it at bay until one's duties are fulfilled?

I've been in the working world for 20 years, and my company provides sick leave. It's okay to miss work once in a while. But I rarely do. Instead, I get sick on holidays and vacations. How smart is that? This is MY time. My precious time. I get so little time off. It shouldn't be spent being sick.

I was writing in my journal today...

2005-12-23T16:23:00.000-08:00

...in the one where I use real names and write out some of the deeper things of my heart, where tears are often shed, and comfort is often found. I write in this journal on momentous or meaningful occasions, like birthdays, Thanksgivings, Christmases, anniversaries, new year's days, days of losing loved ones. And such.I started this journal on January 1st, 1994. I also sent one just like it to a certain Sweet Pea, but alas, it was lost in the mail. My fault. I should have wrapped it like Fort Knox.
See? Tears.
I have many journals, though. All currently in work.
There is one for the master To Do list (top left). The first page is entitled, Projects in the Scheme of Things. There are pages with different categories of projects. Art projects. Sewing projects. Photo projects. And such. There is the special occasions journal (top center), mentioned earlier. Proceeding clockwise. The everyday journal, started on March 26, 2000. This one is filled with lists, dreams, thoughts, worries, hopes, disappointments, and such. Not just those reserved for special occasions. The last entry was on my 40th birthday, earlier this year. Next is the prayer journal. I write out prayers for people in this one. I recently started writing fragments of thoughts that might one day be turned into something beneficial for mankind, in the form of children's stories. The fragments start with prayers for healing of broken hearts and how things in childhood are often carried into adulthood, along with the pain, tears, shame, doubt, misunderstanding and myriad other emotions. And such. The next journal is another list journal. A list of family members and gifts and projects that pertain to them. And such. We come to the pregnancy and feeding journal. This one is well worn. The title page says, New Beginnings, New Life, 17 May 2004. I started this journal the day I found out I was pregnant. My friend A., my college roommate gave me this journal. It has a beautiful picture of a ship on the cover, that reminds me of Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Dawn Treader. What a fantastic name. In this journal are thoughts and feelings, pregnancy experiences, doctor visits, letters to my unborn child, and, for the third trimester, a record of every single thing I ate, what time I injected insulin, how much and what kind. I was so disappointed to have acquired gestational diabetes, but I managed it well, and it disappeared when the placenta came out, just like the doctor said it would. In this journal is also recorded an entry for every time I've spent connected to my companion the Lactina. Time and amount. Milk for a year. And finally, the last journal. A sketch pad of sorts. Another project journal.

Journals are very therapeutic. I love journals. I love the written word. I love paper. And now, I love to blog. But I still write in my paper journals as well.

Nostalgia and the wonders of technology

2005-12-23T15:34:00.001-08:00

A year ago, I got to see my precious child, before he was born. It was an amazing and wonderful thing that brought immeasurable peace and joy to my heart.

Peek-a-Boo

2005-12-23T15:34:00.000-08:00

Peek-a-Boo!
I see you!

I love how he smiles and plays, even when he's sick. He's had a cold for two weeks, and started coughing the other day. The coughing causes the gag reflex, which causes the contents of the stomach to reappear in the most dramatic fashion. We've been running the humidifier with eucalyptus oil to help open the airways. He became listless, though, and wouldn't eat or drink, so we went to the doctor. He has an ear infection, so he's now on his first round of antibiotics. As it turns out, all the kids in daycare have an ear infection right now. Imagine that. I am having to be very creative, trying to get him to take his medicine and not regurgitate it immediately. This is a challenge. And the snot aspirator? He fights like a madman when I come close with that thing. I'm afraid of hurting him, just from trying to restrain him while cleaning his nose. He's SO strong. And he fights with such intensity. I need him to breathe, though, so I keep trying. I wouldn't say I usually win, though.

Houston, we have liftoff...

2005-12-23T12:51:00.000-08:00

...or rather, forward motion.

Show and Tell

2005-12-23T12:04:00.000-08:00

Coats. Coats! Today we show and tell our coats for Jennifer via Blackbird.

My favorite coat is a deep berry boiled wool coat, very plain in style. I usually wear a paisley scarf of some sort with it. However, I seldom wear it these days, since the things I wear are quickly covered in baby snot and drool and whatnot. And I am not a fan of drycleaning. Those chemicals bother me, and somehow, in my head, I just don't feel like drycleaned things actually get clean. One of my quirks. I also have a white wool/cashmere blend coat that my sister found at a thrift store. It has its own shawl. I have yet to wear it, as it hasn't fit any occasion as of yet. Next is the parka. I haven't worn it since 2002, which is the last time I went skiing. It's a very nice coat, but I don't spend much time in blizzards, so it stays in the closet. The coat I wear every day is a plain fleece jacket. Fleece, yes, blech, yes, but I can throw it in the washing machine any time. Plus, I can zip it over me and my baby, if I'm carrying him in a front pack.

Oh yes, the parka? I am amused by its label. No endangered species have been shorn. And for some reason, this nylon garment is recommended for dry cleaning only. Perhaps because of the fur ruff? Why is it that animals in the wild don't shrink when their fur becomes wet? I think the easy road is to place a dry clean only label on clothes, and that way the manufacturer doesn't have to worry whether or not the garment will hold up through a wash cycle. It's all about quality control and cost savings.

In search of holiday cheer

2005-12-22T22:43:00.000-08:00

Rather than work on my lengthy to-do list, I've been making goodies. It started with shortbread. My dad's recipe. It turned out okay, but not as wonderful as my childhood recollections. It did help make things seem a bit more cheerful, having a house full of buttery sugary yummy smells. Next came the cashew brittle. I've never made it before. The recipe came from Mrs. Fields, and called for macadamia nuts. I had cashews, so cashew brittle it became. It was surprisingly easy to make. The house smells even more sugary and buttery. I couldn't stop with the brittle. I decided to dip pretzels in dark chocolate. I like that salty sweet combo. And finally, the rice crispy treats. More butter. And marshmallows. I don't really like marshmallows, but I do like rice crispy treats.
With a house full of goodies, I felt compelled to buy some holiday tins to package them in, and ultimately, give away. Otherwise, I will eat it. All of it.
Somehow, the cheer doesn't linger long. I was thinking of making meringues, or ambrosia. I don't know the correct term. I've never made it, but thought I'd try. I have a nice mixer that should make short work of whipping egg whites to a stiff peak. I also want to make candied popcorn, or popcorn balls. Popcorn is a happy smell to me. When we were young, we always had peanuts in the shell, an orange, an assortment of ribbon candies, and sometimes popcorn balls in our stockings on Christmas morning. But the tins are already full.

I am avoiding my to-do list well. And the cheer remains somewhat elusive. It comes and goes.

Gifts from afar

2005-12-22T14:07:00.000-08:00

Today, a sweet surprise. A package has arrived from a far away place. From a sweet pea of a person.
I am delighted. Without even opening it, I am delighted. How kind, how sweet, what a wonderful friend, I think to myself.
And then. I open it. It is exquisite. It is divine. It is beautiful. It is extravagant. It is gorgeous. It is oh, so fine. And the color. My favorite shade of red. It is perfect. Absolutely perfect. And I think, oh Suse, you shouldn't have! But I'm so glad you did! It is fabulous!
See? Fabulous! Thank you so very much, my friend. (And just today she was saying that "every girl needs a little Audrey in her life." This is so very Audrey, don't you think?)

I am tickled ~~pink~~ the most gorgeous shade of red! Thank you!

Just one more cup of tea...

2005-12-21T16:49:00.000-08:00

...before I go collect my boy.

I am actually on vacation this week, but it feels about the same as any other working week. Part of me feels guilty for dropping him off, but I can get errands done faster if I don't have to bundle him in and out of the carseat. Good daycare is in demand. The waiting lists are long. To secure our spot, we pay whether he's there or not. So I'm taking advantage of this time. In fact, the cool cat and I actually went out to a movie on Monday. Our first theater movie since the Boo was born. We saw King Kong. It was gory in places. I had to look away. And I jumped on several occasions. And squirmed. And smiled. We had a good time.

I have a list. A very ambitious list. I wanted to get my life organized during this break. So I can feel more at peace. More calm. Less stress. But I've been blowing off the things on my list. I'm having such a hard time getting into the swing of things this year.

I went to JoAnn's today to get some tins for baked goodies. I appreciate the price reductions of 70% off all Christmas items. But they're busily putting out the Valentine's Day stock. I can't even say how deflating this feels to me, this pushing of the next commercial occasion. I want things to SLOW DOWN! I want to kick back, drink some tea, and read a book. And not worry about the bazillion things I think I need to do. I don't want to think of Valentine's Day. I don't want to be surrounded by pink and red fuzzy hearts quite yet.

Here's my new list.

Rest.
Drink some tea.
Have some more tea.
Read a book.
Take a nap.

But not now. Now I have to go get my love bug. He needs some serious snuggling. Or rather, I do.

Self Portrait Tuesday

2005-12-20T10:53:00.000-08:00

Self Portrait Tuesday Community - Theme: Reflective Surfaces 'Tis the season for reflection. For piety. For prayer. For thankfulness. For gratitude. For remembering. For faith. For hope. For love.

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

I believe.

Behold, a virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a son, and they shall call his name Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us.

I grew up with this oil painting of the madonna and child. My mother made it. It graced our walls for as long as I can remember.

Show and Tell

2005-12-16T06:00:00.000-08:00

This week, Blackbird (and Deb) want to see a favorite ornament.

I tried to start a meaningful tradition a few years ago with home made ornaments, but that grand idea sort of fizzled. Most of my ornaments have no meaning or story. They're just colorful things that were probably on sale. I do have butterflies, which are kind of cool. And lots of berry clusters. But nothing very meaningful.

At the risk of planting a Kenny Rogers melody firmly in the unwary reader's mind, this is my favorite. This is what decorates my life:

What could possibly be better? Or more beautiful? Or more adorable? He's deliciously huggable, my little Love Bug.

Self Portrait Tuesday

2005-12-13T18:05:00.000-08:00

Reflective Surfaces - http://selfportraittuesday.blogspot.com
Reflections from a PDA
In a little over a month, Lactina and I will part ways. The journey has been long and tiring, and I hope worthwhile.
Mother's milk is supposed to boost a baby's immune system. Poor little guy has another cold. And therefore, so do I.
The PDA. Christmas 2004. The last of the big splurges before the baby came. A cry to order and organization. Fast forward to December 2005. I barely know how to use it. The money was not well spent.

Thank God It's Friday

2005-12-09T23:24:00.000-08:00

What a day. What a week. This one wiped me out. So much work. So little sleep. My brain is like goo. I had all these great intentions of getting other things done this week. My poor little love bug is all sniffly and under the weather. There are two new kids at the daycare. Carriers, the both of them. I'm certain of it. It's okay, I guess. Some exposure is good for building a strong immune system. And his is fairly strong. He doesn't like sweets, so I have to be very creative in attempting to dose him with infant decongestant. He hasn't been sleeping very well, either. Poor little guy. He's normally such a happy boy. It's hard to see him hurting. Those tears are so heartbreaking.
What a face. He has so many new expressions, and they are so funny! He's trying to be a tough guy. But I know better. He's a love.

Weekend plan: get some SLEEP!

Friday show and tell

2005-12-09T15:45:00.000-08:00

Friday show and tell - Blackbird has asked to see decorations.
Alas, there is not an abundance of holiday spirit at Chez Squished this year. We do have a wreath on the front door. One of my coworker's sons was selling these to raise money for his school's band. I think they take a trip every year for a competition. Or something like that. He's very good. (The son. He plays trombone.) The wreath was somewhat on the ho-hum drab side, so I stuck an assortment of colorful things in it to spruce it up.
We also have a cute little Charlie Brown tree just outside the front door, so a few baubles dangle from its limbs.

Just inside the door is a post with a nice vanilla candle. Not nearly as nice as Babelbabe's, though. Those are downright fabulous. Some crackled glass ornaments hang from this. They are too heavy for the tree. They're a deep amber color. Gorgeous up close.

Inside, the tree is jam-packed with all sorts of colorful things. I'm partial to the butterflies, and this green sequined star.
This fairly well sums it up though. The sentiments of the season, that is.

Self Portrait Tuesday

2005-12-06T06:10:00.000-08:00

http://selfportraittuesday.blogspot.com
December challenge: reflective surface

Reflections from the kitchen.

Living on the edge. Is there anybody out there? A face, distorted, on a waste can. A wasteland. There is a ghost in the faucet. A shadow of a person. A shapeshifter. It's not the real her. Or is it? Living on the edge. Resting on a thin sharp line. Hoping not to get hurt.

Meaningful Traditions

2005-12-05T22:15:00.000-08:00

At Chez Squished we have a very pretty tree. It's a rather squished tree. Squished full of decorations. It's squished into a corner. Yes, we have a house with not one, but two living rooms, and two dining rooms. What is up with that? Who designs these ridiculous floor plans? What use do I have for two small living rooms and two small dining rooms. Areas, actually. They are areas. I can only imagine the living room with the vaulted ceiling is intended to be the formal living room, and the area of that room closest to the kitchen is supposedly the formal dining area. Bah! It's completely useless to me. We had the changing table set up there for the first half of the year. A diaper changing room. That's what it was. The real dining room is tiny, just off the kitchen on the opposite side of the formal dining area. Adjacent to that is the real living room. Where we hang out. I'd much rather have one large living room, and one large dining room. We don't have the sort of lifestyle where we roam from room to room. I digress. With all these rooms, one would think we would have room (ha!) for a tree. Alas, such is not the case. This year the tree is relegated to the corner of the dining room. The real dining room. That we don't use. Yes, we are pitiful. We eat in the kitchen, seated at the island. Or... Seated on the couch. Yes, it's true. All is not lost though. I plan to start a family dining tradition, where we sit down to eat as a family, in the dining room, at the dining table, at the same time. It doesn't work with our current schedule though. There's no telling when Mr. Squished will return home from work on any given day. Hopefully the dining tradition will fare better than my Christmas gift tradition. Our first year of marriage, I suggested that Mr. Squished and I make each other an ornament for the tree, and do it every year. I thought it would be a nice gift. Something that someone put some thought and effort into. He said he thought that was a nice idea. Christmas arrived. He opened his special gift. A red velvet box with a picture of the happy Squished newlyweds in their I Do kiss emerging from a fluffy nest of tulle. A white satin button (from the gown, of course) attached to the corner of the box, for the ornament hook. Awwwww. Isn't that sweet? I waited for my special gift. I would have loved it, even if it was a screwdriver with a ribbon through the handle, tied in a bow. But. He forgot.

Teenage pedestrians

2005-12-05T21:27:00.000-08:00

I live near a high school. In the morning it is dark. The color of the sky blends with the color of the pavement. There are five lanes which separate the school from the sidewalk on the other side of the street. The speed limit on this arterial is 40 mph. I don't recall seeing the 20 mph reduced speed school zone signs that are posted near the elementary schools. If I happen to drive along this street in the morning before school starts, I observe teenagers sauntering into the traffic, crossing the street. It never fails. They just walk out into traffic, without bothering to continue to the corner where there is a crosswalk and a traffic signal. It is so terribly hard to see these people, dressed in blue jeans that blend with the color of the sky and the color of the pavement. They don't even look. They step out into traffic so nonchalantly. Defying society. Daring society. They are invincible, are teenagers. I used to be one. I remember.

I hope and pray that they survive this phase of clouded judgement and gracefully outgrow the arrogance that accompanies this time of youth.

on cars and names

2005-12-02T22:42:00.000-08:00

I've never named a car. There will be no embelishments hanging from my rear view mirror either. No bumper stickers. Well, I do have a Baby on Board sign now. But that's because I have a baby on board. Not that the sign will cause drivers to be any more considerate.

My dad always named his cars Betsy. After the queen. Of course. One brother named his first car Gwendolyn. I'm not sure if it was supposed to be a witchy name for a wicked car. But Gwendolyn it was. Another brother had a car that he named The Antichrist. Because nothing could kill it. It had seen many a collision and mishap. It just kept on going. And going. And going. The only thing that stopped it was that big car smasher thing that they have at the wrecking yard. It was a 60s or 70s Maverick. His roommates's car was called Creeping Death. Maybe it's more of a male thing, this naming of cars. Maybe it's an emotional attachment thing.

My cars have been moderately nicknamed, though. The Truck. The Subie. The Benz. The Car. But that's as far as it goes.

Show and Tell

2005-12-02T13:10:00.000-08:00

Topic du jour: Your Car

Cars. Is it true that cars are a reflection of one's personality? Aspects, at least. I imagine. I didn't even drive my first car. It was an ancient Datsun with a manual transmission and I was a chicken $#!t. I paid $200 for it, and my boyfried drove it. That was in 1986, fresh out of college. He went back to school and I traded the Datsun for a new Ford Ranger. I was the cat's meow at that point. It was red with an automatic transmission. Then I met up with a hoodlum crook in the guise of a friend who talked me into buying a classic Mercedes. 350SLC. The European version. Silver. Sleek. It was beeeeeeyoootiful, and very flashy, but it was being consumed by rust, and what did a naive girl like me know about things like that? People thought I was RICH! I drove it to my 10-year high school reunion. Oooh, how successful I looked. Ha, if only they knew. I lost a LOT of money on that car. Relatively speaking. I drove it for 8 years, then liquidated everything I could in order to come up with downpayment for some property. At which time I acquired my beloved Subaru. I paid $350 for it, and drove it for many years as I struggled to pay for my real estate investment. Priorities. That car was a sight! It was a tiny hatchback, white with big round rust blotches all over it, and it was covered in green algae when I got it. I took a scrub brush to it, literally. I mastered the manual transmission with that car, and learned to drive in ice and snow. That trusty car never let me down. It had over 225,000 miles on it when we parted ways. I let my ex-fiance have it after the breakup, and I treated myself to a 'me' car. A safe and conservative sedan. Volvo 850GLT. Charcoal grey. I got it used, and it had all the bells and whistles. It was divine. It served me well. I drove it for 6 years, until, not too long ago, my sister had a friend in need and asked if I'd sell it to him. So I did. I didn't have new car plans in my short term budget. I was on a vague wait two more years plan. But what the heck!!

This is the new me. I am a mom. A minivan mom. I'd never have imagined that a car could bring such delight, but I am delighted through and through. I have heated seats! Power doors! Lots of them! With a press of a button the rear hatch opens. Another press and it closes. Same with the sliding side doors. Both of them!! Deeeeeeeluxe!!! Oh. I almost forgot. It's a Toyota Sienna XLE. 2006. Slate grey.
And how pretty is that? My instrument cluster is like a jewel. All these pretty blues. It's just so ooooh. So pretty. I am thrilled.
And the interior? I'd have preferred a darker grey, but it only came in light grey. That burly woody stuff is okay. Sort of tacky, but sort of not. Sort of pretty, in a faux plasticy way. I can play MP3 files! I burned a CD with over 150 MP3 songs and loaded it in and away it goes. I can go several hundred miles on one CD without repeating any songs. Woohoo! Woo. Hoo.

Yes. I am really loving this car.

Snow falleth

2005-12-01T15:48:00.000-08:00

Much as I find the sight of falling snow, especially huge fluffy snowflakes, a beautiful sight to behold, I also find myself filled with dread. My chest constricts, my breathing becomes shallow, and I am filled with anxiety.There are so many steep hills where I live, and maneuvering in freezing conditions is difficult, to say the least. I must be off to collect my boy, before the temperature drops further, making the journey even more treacherous. Driving on ice terrifies me.

Permission, and scattered thoughts

2005-11-30T19:45:00.000-08:00

I heard a quote the other day. You need to give yourself permission to live life more fully. It struck me as apropos in the aftermath of losing my brother. I've been moping about for weeks, wrestling with a multitude of emotions. Sorrow. Disappointment. Despair. Melancholy. Uncertainty. Guilt. Wistfulness. Anxiety. And such. It's not just him. It's the holidays. I think I struggle with general melancholy every year, brought on by a warped sense of how things should be. I've observed that how things are is often a state brought about by overcompensation for how things should have been. For instance. The whole commercialized gift-giving thing. I've watched friends and siblings overcompensate unhappy childhoods by showering their children with excesses. They take it for granted, expect bigger and better every year, and lack satisfaction unless the status quo has been met by name brand or dollar amount. There is no appreciation for the simple things. Things that actually have meaning. Or usefulness. Things that somebody thought about and put effort into making. Material things don't make your children love you more. And they don't make up for what was lacking in your own childhood.

Sometimes I think empathy is a curse. Walk a mile in someone else's shoes. Feel their pain. But to what end? To what good? How can I retain clarity of mind to gain wisdom and understanding, rather than get caught up, as I am so apt to do, and sink in, spiraling downward into gloom and despair?

Words are very powerful. Once you put them out there, into the universe, there's no getting them back. For good or naught, they are launched on the winds of forever. That's why I just deleted an hour's worth of text. A pity party of one. What good would it serve, other than to get it off my chest? I wrote it out, part of it anyway, and released some of the sadness and tension in so doing. It doesn't have to be shared. It doesn't have to go out into the universe where possibly it could bruise someone else.

There is something that terrifies me. I realize, in many ways, I am very much like my brother. The one who found no recourse but to release himself from the confines of this earth. There are many ways in which I am not like him, though, and this helps assuage the fear. He was frighteningly intelligent. I am not. He was reckless. I am not. He was earnest to the (n)the degree. I am only earnest to the (n-3)rd degree. He drank beyond moderation. I do not. He was fearless. I am not. But in his heart of hearts? We are the same. I think. I get him. I think.

About living life more fully. What does that mean? Those words sent me further into the mire until I pondered what is actually meaningful to me. More than anything, my beautiful boy. That after a lifetime of yearning, he IS my heart's desire. To be sad that my life isn't full is to tragically overlook how incredibly blessed I am. And what else is fulfilling, in the world of Squished Piggies? A good job. A good wage. Food in the pantry. A roof over my head. A shirt on my back. A hot shower whenever I want it. The love of a good man. So I'm not a jet-setting glamour girl. I tried that. It wasn't any more fulfilling than kicking back on the sectional with my man and my boy, watching TV. (But it would be nice to be in better shape and wear cute things, and it used to be fun to shop for cute things, back in the day.) So I'm not a socialite. The friends I do have are warm and wonderful. Not a bit superficial. It might be nice not to have to work for a living, but I like to work. It would certainly be nice to have more sleep, get more exercise, see more sunshine, breathe more fresh air, and eat more fresh food. I get some, so it's still good.

Self Portrait Tuesday

2005-11-29T06:41:00.000-08:00

Exploration of Identity
Obscure. Hidden. Concealed. Covered. Camouflaged. Protected. Inconspicuous. Undiscovered. Unnoticed. Unobtrusive. Sheltered.

Enemy number one

2005-11-28T23:05:00.000-08:00

...from The Princess Bride...

Vizzini: ...you're no match for my brains.
Man in black: You're that smart?
Vizzini: Let me put it this way: Have you ever heard of Plato, Aristotle, Socrates?
Man in black: Yes.
Vizzini: Morons.

Even smart people need help sometimes. How can smart people get help, when the would-be helpers are, as Vizzini so bluntly put it, morons? How can a master of the mind take the average mind-professional's advice seriously, when said professional's skills and abilities are just that --average. What can they (the smart people) be told that they can't out-think, out-reason, out-diagnose, or out-wit?

They may well be their own worst enemy. It's not always a good thing to be smart. How many smart people have flown over the cuckoo's nest?

Humility. Patience. A willingness to listen. These things help, although they don't necessarily come easily.

Not everyone is a moron.

Finding balance

2005-11-27T13:38:00.000-08:00

I love how he grasps my fingers with all his little might when he's tired and settling down to sleep. He pulls my hand to his face and doesn't let go.
My heart swells. It is indescribable, this feeling of being wanted and needed. I drink it up, breathe it in. It fills me up.
I know I shouldn't indulge him with too much coddling. There is a balance that I need to find, where he can know he's secure in me, that he is wanted and needed and loved, and where I know he's developing self-confidence, trust, and independence.

It is difficult for me. I caress his sweet little face until he drifts off to sleep. I slowly pry my fingers away.

red is red

2005-11-25T23:18:00.000-08:00

Truth is absolute. Perception is relative. Reality is relative. Reality is based on perception. After all, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Red is red and green is green, but to one color blind, green is red and red is green. It’s not truth, but it is reality. One does not lie, to say red is green. Yet, in truth, red is not green. Does truth matter, then, if it is perception and not truth that influences and molds how we think and who we become? I maintain that truth matters. I seek after truth, but am impaired by reality.

Friday show and tell

2005-11-25T13:50:00.000-08:00

Is today Friday? I've lost track. The theme is Something Special.

These stories brought hope and light to the mind of a very young girl, who, until reading them, felt alone in the world where nobody, not even her parents, knew her, or cared to know her. These magical stories of love and light and the battle between good and evil filled her mind with wonder and planted seeds of self-worth. These stories changed her life.

Many years later, this girl learned that another young girl, who recently lost her father, loves these stories. This book will be lovingly and beautifully wrapped, placed in the post and sent to a faraway place, so it will be something magical for a dear and special child to open for Christmas.

Scenes from a Memorial

2005-11-23T09:15:00.000-08:00

Preparing for the trip was very difficult. There was so little time to get things together. Going through a lifetime's accumulation of photos. Finding the sum of a person's life is only 124 photos. Crying. Shopping for suitable ash containers. Creating a slideshow for the service. Finding the right music. Crying. Installing a DVD burner in my computer. Getting it to work. Packing up. Crying. It was emotionally and physically exhausting.
We had a display with photos and flowers.
Small boxes filled with his ashes for loved ones to take. The lavender baby blanket that all nine of us came home from the hospital in. Some letters he had written.
Ashes and flowers on the mantle.
And balloons with tiny tissue packets of ashes tied to the ends.
They were beautiful.
We released his ashes to the sky. It was a beautiful sight to behold. The winds carried him away. Up, up, and away.

When it's my time, I hope somebody sends me off like that. Up, up, and away.

Self Portrait Tuesday

2005-11-22T23:10:00.000-08:00

Exploration of Identity

There have been better days

Friday show and tell

2005-11-18T10:19:00.000-08:00

Red. I love red. Any time. All the time. There is much red in my world.

A perfume bottle. My prized possession. Art glass. Which I love.
A crystal bud vase. A gift my dad gave to my mom then took back for 'safe keeping'. She later gave it to me. I've always loved it, regardless of its twisted past.
Art. My departed brother's daughter, one of the apples of my eye. Oil pastels on artboard.
In case I ever go too fast on the treadmill. Not likely to happen. Ever.
Purchased by the super-case.
The gem of the kitchen.
Bought to brighten the room the day after my brother died. Now withered and dead.
The love of my life.
A watercolor print from a local artist.
Mini-diaper bag.
Candles on a bookshelf.
A gift from my honey.

Self Portrait Tuesday

2005-11-15T06:47:00.000-08:00

Theme: Exploration of Identity

This series is from my big European adventure, mid-September through mid-November 1994, which was in itself quite an exploration of identity. My college roommate and I reunited to spend two months on a whirlwind Europe Through the Back Door tour, from Ireland to Greece and many places in between.

"Disciple Scholar Nymph Thinker Victor Irresistible Feral Bad Ass Rejoicing Cloaked Traveler"

Sorry I missed you

2005-11-12T14:23:00.000-08:00

Dear Jack,
I'm sorry I didn't come visit you last weekend. I was feeling a bit selfish and just wanted to stay in. I didn't get out of my pyjamas all day. Or maybe all weekend, for that matter. You see, I lost my brother on October 27th. And learning to grieve is a new thing for me. Remember? I mentioned it on the 29th, the last time I saw you. Remember? I brought Boo in so you could see him in his Halloween costume, so it would brighten your day. It was all so fresh and I mentioned it to you, briefly. You didn't say anything, though. Not a word. I thought perhaps you might say I'm sorry for your loss, or this must be difficult. But you said nothing at all (which kind of hurt my feelings). Maybe it was hard to hear about another losing his life, especially one so young, when you were confined to that miserable bed in that miserable nursing home, your own life slowly fading away. The aide came to feed you dinner, so we said our goodbyes. Where's my kiss, you barked at me. It was too crowded for all of us in there. Me, Boo, the aide. I could barely reach you to lean over and kiss you. But since you put it that way... We had a nice visit, didn't we? You told me that I had rescued you. You were trapped in an airplane. You had been dreaming, you see, but I arrived in the nick of time. I'm glad I could be of assistance.

Today, I packed up Boo, even though I still don't feel like getting out and about, but I know how much it brightens your week to have a little visit from us. And your neighbor Herman sure loves our visits too. He always asks if he can keep Boo.

I was walking towards your room and the nurse stopped me to ask who I was visiting.
My friend Jack, I said. Oh, I'm sorry, he passed away, she said.
When? I asked. Last Saturday. The 5th. Around noon. He drifted away in his sleep.

So you see, you left us, on the day I was being selfish. I could have been there and held your hand while you drifted off to meet your maker. It's the time I'm normally there. Instead, you were all alone. I'm sorry I missed you.

In a way, I'm also a bit miffed at that person you call a son, even though he's not your son. He hardly ever visited you. He didn't even bring you clean clothes when you needed them. The staff asked me about it and I said I didn't know what your arrangement was, but that the so called son was responsible for your care. As far as I can see, he has done very little to reciprocate all that you have ever done for him, and I find that quite pathetic. He could have called me and let me know. He knows I'm your only friend here. I would have wanted to be by your side when they lowered your spent body into the earth. I know that every time we saw each other, we knew it might be the last time. And I'm glad you told me you weren't afraid to go. You lived a colorful and eventful life, my friend. I'm glad to have met you.

But I'm sorry I missed you.

My friend Jack.
August 1, 1916 - November 5, 2005

O migraine, how I loathe thee

2005-11-11T15:10:00.000-08:00

O migraine, how I loathe thee
Thou vexation of cranial orb
Thy thund’ring rage woulds’t pummel
Yea verily torment
Even unto the spewing forth
Harken yonder, ‘tis sweet relief
B’neath veil of darkness still
With temper'd potion of ibuprofen
Yea, milligrams of one hundred times eight
And undulations, of rhythm most merciful
O King Kong, thou magnificent throne
I am at thy mercy
Thrice times the quarter hour
Thou hast brought me refuge
O soothing nectar of yon delicate leaf
Such comfort thou dost bring
O Ibuprofen! O King Kong! O Green Tea!
Thou art my truest friends indeed

Show and Tell, Part II

2005-11-11T11:15:00.000-08:00

But wait! There's more! Okay, so the drinking receptacle also depends upon the particular beverage. If we're talking about green tea, for instance, then this is my favorite cup. I found a pair at a thrift store years ago, and last week or the week before (everything happened last week, and the week before) I was emptying the dishwasher and dropped something on one of them and cracked it. WOE IS ME.

What pleases me about this cup, you might wonder? Well. I'll tell you. First, its shape. It is somewhat square (like me) and somewhat round (like me) and somewhat stout (like me). Next, it's design. It is somewhat Asian (like me). And somewhat delicate (like me), yet somewhat rustic (like me). And, prior to the slippery dishwasher emptying incident, it was somewhat sturdy (like me).

Now it is somewhat broken (like me).

Friday show and tell

2005-11-11T09:15:00.000-08:00

I like Blackbird's Show and Tell game. This week I had the honor of choosing the theme - Favorite Cup or Mug. I've been on a quest for the perfect cup for quite some time, and I'm looking forward to oohing and ahhing and being jealous of other people's fine beverage-ware.

If I weren't so particular, finding a good cup wouldn't be an issue. However. Sort of like Goldilocks, things need to be just right, or I'm not quite satisfied.

Currently, this is the closest I've come. I discovered it last week, at Pier 1. But it's still not quite there. I love the cobalt blue. I have tons of cobalt blue dishes - food looks so nice when presented with this color. Bright green broccoli, orange carrots, multi-colored peppers... So lovely! So. Cobalt is one of my favorite consumption receptacle colors. I was therefore delighted to find this cup. And even more delighted that it was 20% off. I like the ribbon handle. This is a very nice ergonomic grip. I can fit all four fingers through the handle and wrap them snugly and comfortingly around the cup, or I can wrap all four nicely around the handle itself. Both good qualities. It is made of porcelain, which has a nice sturdy weight and feel without being thick and clunky.

I especially like the swirling leaves. The cobalt glaze is raised above the white floral design, so it has a pleasing texture as well. The only thing that is not quite right about this cup is the volume. It's a bit much for me. It stands too tall for my Senseo coffee maker (but that may not matter too much, as I have several issues with that particular coffee machine, and its days may be numbered). Beverages lose their heat before they can be fully enjoyed. This happens with small cups as well, though, as I tend to take my sweet time and a cup of something soothing usually lasts an hour or two.
I bought four, and am contemplating going back for another four. I might, after all, entertain, one day, in the odd chance that I make some (local*) friends and invite them over. It's also possible that more than two family members at a time might actually visit, in which case it would be nice to serve coffee or tea in matching mugs. The sale is on for a few more days. I will give it some more thought.

*My best friends are hundreds, even thousands, of miles away.

Hanging out to dry

2005-11-09T20:01:00.000-08:00

I've been asked to help draft my brother's obituary. My family has a message board (we were way cool, before blogland ever was, ha ha so there, neener neener neener) that we use to keep in touch. I'm an emotional wreck, but I made a first attempt. I put it out there for the family's scrutiny. It went something like this:

1/12/71 – 10/27/05. Like a comet blazing through the night sky, P2’s life, though short, burned brightly with passion, faith, and love. He set for himself unattainable standards, which he followed with unstoppable drive and determination, fueled by his keen intellect and clever wit. P2 lived to love and be loved, and to do his very best. He gave it his all. Through the eyes of his family he was one to always share what he had, to keep the family in order; he was always de la moda, a faithful brother, a mechanic extraordinaire, smart, sharp witted, and an all around good guy. He was selfless, a loving father, and a great cook. He is survived by daughters J, K, and C, son M, granddaughter M, brothers T1, T2, P1, J1, and J2, sisters S1, S2, and C, mother P, father H, and (ex) wife L.

No posts. No replies. No comments. Nothing but Silence. I'm left hanging, with this girly emotional outpouring that I can't take back or delete. So I make another attempt. This time more concise, matter of fact, less emotional.

1/12/71 – 10/27/05
P2, born and raised in (God's Country), was a man of passion and intellect with a great love for his family, the outdoors, food and music. P2 died unexpectedly while living in Colorado Springs. P2 was a natural leader, with a proficiency for chemistry and mechanics. He served his country as an ELT on the US Navy submarine Pintado. P2’s memory will live on in the hearts of his family and friends.

Again, nothing. Silence. Inside I am screaming. Screaming. How can I be the only one putting words out there for the family to consider, and yet they say nothing. Are they offended? Do I sound like a stammering fool? Have I mocked his life? I didn't mean to. Have I romaniticized his life? I didn't mean to. What have I done? Why do they not say anything?

I've never written an obit before. I've barely ever read one. I trolled around with the help of Google and found some examples and tidbits and ideas. The generic newspaper obit is too boring and dry. Just a resume for the dead. Name, Age, COD, Job History, Family History, blah blah blah. Too impersonal. Too many shallow angles from which to draw judgemental conclusions. And to what end? What is the point of that information? What good does it serve? I. Don't. Like. It. Who the hell is an obit for, anyway? The general public? Or people who care. I think it should be for people who care. So I tried again.

1/12/71 – 10/27/05
P2, born and raised in (God's Country), was a man of passion and intellect with a great love for his family, the outdoors, food and music.
P2 was a natural leader, with a penchant for cooking, chemistry and mechanics. He served his country during the 1990s as an ELT on the US Navy submarine Pintado.
P2 developed a lifelong friendship with his first child J, born of N and adopted to the A's in 1986. In 1994 he married L and stepped in as a father figure to K (born 1992); C was born in 1996, followed by M in 2000. The marriage ended in divorce early in 2005.
Always an excellent cook and lover of good food, P2 had entrepreneurial dreams of becoming a restaurateur and chef. P2 had a discriminating palate and enjoyed fine wines and micro-brews, but he also kept a place for his good friends Jack and Jose.
Most recently residing in Colorado Springs, in a show of eccentricity and necessity coupled with a sense of humor and frugality, P2 announced earlier this year that his new home address was “The North Face of Mount Gibbler, Uncompahgre National Forest, Under the Blue Tarp Lean-To.”
Whether hunting, fishing, biking, playing golf, or snowboarding, P2 was at his best when able to enjoy the outdoors, especially in the company of his brothers, sisters, and children.
P2 always had a flair for the dramatic, and enjoyed many genres of music, from Broadway to Punk Rock. His eclectic sense of style mirrored his taste in music. He could just as easily look as though he stepped from the cover of GQ magazine, as from the pages of Rolling Stone.
P2 was deeply spiritual; a seeker of “Truth, with a Capital T.” He wanted little more than to love and be loved. He set for himself unattainable standards, and he gave it his all. He fought the good fight. He finished his course.
P2 is survived by daughters J, K, and C, son M, granddaughter M, brothers T1, T2, P1, J1, and J2, sisters S1, S2, and C, mother P, and father H.
P2 wrestled with bipolar disorder. His memory will live on in the hearts of his family and friends.
A small memorial celebration will take place on November 19, 2005 in (God's Country). For information, please call xxx-xxx-xxxx.

I await feedback from my family. I am too tired to scream anymore. I hope they will finally step in and help me.

The kindness of people

2005-11-08T15:44:00.000-08:00

So many people have shared warm and kind sentiments at the loss of my brother. Some friends I used to work with sent this gigantic and fabulous bouquet of Peruvian lilies, which I adore. I am touched by all this kindness that is pouring out for me and my family. Thank you all so very much.

Simple pleasures

2005-11-08T15:40:00.000-08:00

His favorite things are cardboard and paper. Notice in the box he's holding his favorite postcard. When the mail comes, it's mostly junk mail. Look! I say to him. Some mail came for you! He rips it to shreds with glee, and tries to eat it as well. I am vigilant and remove it before he ingests any. How he loves doing what I'm doing! If I'm reading my mail, he wants to read his mail. His postcard came from a real estate duo who paid a little extra for that marketing edge, for it is no ordinary postcard. No, indeed. This clever postcard is laminated. We treasure this item in our household and are quite careful not to throw it out. He has gotten many miles of safe reading and chewing pleasure from it. In retrospect, I still have mild regrets at the hundreds of dollars ~~wasted~~ spent preparing for the arrival of my first child. When all that was needed was cardboard and junk mail.

Self Portrait Tuesday

2005-11-08T02:25:00.000-08:00

Exploration of Identity - Rock Star

The Rock Star is a typical expression of insecurity and low self esteem. A cry for attention. The Rock Star would parade before the masses, entertaining them, but only in exchange for feeding on their adoration. Look at me! Validate me! I wonder how many rock stars had parents who didn't like them.

This picture was taken twenty years ago. 80s era glam rock. It was all in good fun.

Oh, there's more

2005-11-06T16:57:00.000-08:00

I used to own an old building in a small town off the beaten path on the scenic route to somewhere. I bought it with an ex-fiance when the romance was fresh and we were living on dreams of a new and better life. We were going to make a bed & breakfast and live a simpler life in a sleepy small town. The reality set in. The romance fizzled. Lies, corruption, that sort of thing. Much drama. I bought him out of his portion. Real estate values were flat for years and years. I gave him a fair price. More than fair, if you ask some. (Although I'm fairly certain he thinks he's been had.)

This place was a sitting duck. After the breakup, there were several breakins. I suspect the ex was involved in some of the first breakins, but that's all water under the bridge. I'm over it. Karma will visit him, if she hasn't already. I suppose I can hardly blame anybody for vandalizing my property. After all, it was sitting there, vacant, begging for someone to throw rocks through the windows. Begging for someone to pry the doors off. Begging for someone to kick the chimneys in. Begging for someone to climb out on the roof and kick bricks down. Begging for someone to spray paint obscenities on the walls, counters, floors, mirrors, toilets. Yes, even the toilets. Begging for someone to start a fire in the middle of the floor. Oh, that building wanted to be abused. Yes indeed.

How stressful that was for me! We would drive 7 hours, work like fiends to run damage control and secure the place, attempt to eradicate the weeds (nasty letters about noxious weeds and the illegality thereof would make their way to my post box from time to time) , and drive 7 more hours back, all in the course of a weekend. It was brutal, and I must say the cool cat was heroic and his help was invaluable. True love. I still loved the building for what it was, but it just wasn't practical to keep in the family, and it wasn't fair to try and hold onto it when it represented the hopes and dreams of a previous romance. I sold it this year. Karma was good to me. The market was inflated and I made a tidy profit. (Enough to buy a new truck, thank you very much, with some leftovers to invest in new hopes and dreams, this time with my partner, friend, and forever-man, the Cool Cat himself.)

So the cool cat has a nice new truck to drive, and I have no more stress from this beautiful historic building that screamed for abuse. Karma has been just.

A rant on vandalism

2005-11-06T16:34:00.000-08:00

We are not uppity well-to-do uppercrusters. Okay, admittedly, I am a snob sometimes, but I'm working on that, and I'm not a complete snob, and am actually quite humble here and there, depending on the subject matter. I am very well acquainted with the low income lifestyle and the school of hard knocks.

We have a new truck. It's quite a nice vehicle, and it cost a fortune (in my book, but I am also known for being a tightwad, the queen of thrift, or, as others who live hereabouts might sometimes say, the Fun Police, Party Pooper, Party Police). We got a flat tire, not too long ago. Upon closer investigation, the cool cat discovered that somebody deliberately jammed a peanut into the valve stem so as to cause a slow leak. Now, what I want to know, is WHY? Why would somebody do this? Give us a flat tire because we have a fancy new ride, and they don't? Peanuts, to my knowledge, do not naturally occur in valve stems.

We passed a large new truck on the road today, while I was ranting, and I noticed a long scratch, from the passenger door to the rear quarter panel. It certainly looked like a key scratch to me. Further fueling my tirade. There must be new truck goblins that flit about, looking for squeaky clean vehicles to teach a lesson, to show the what for.

Very annoying. Especially when some people work very hard for a living, and scrimp and save and make sacrifices for years in order to be able to do something monumental like buy a new vehicle. Which they intend to make last for at least the next decade or two. Sometimes appearances may be that things come easier to the haves than the have nots. Just know this, like my friend Earl says, Karma has a way of finding these things out and settling the score.

A Logical Fool

2005-11-06T16:03:00.000-08:00

Hrumph. Bok bok what?!, said I, when the results popped up. Below average. Impossible! This is an outrage! And all this time I thought my logical intelligence was above average. But I don't know what is considered logical intelligence. This test, it must be rigged, methinks. So I ~~cheated~~ tried it again, and went back and changed answers in various combinations, but nothing I could do could budge that logical intelligence rating. I didn't try changing answers to the questions I knew I had right. Maybe I should have. Maybe they would have been logical, but not mathematically correct. Oh who knows. I am hitherto resigned to the fact that I am a logical fool.

Your IQ Is 135

Your Logical Intelligence is Below Average
Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius
Your Mathematical Intelligence is Genius
Your General Knowledge is Exceptional

A Quick and Dirty IQ Test

Excerpts from a letter

2005-11-05T16:20:00.000-08:00

He sent me a letter and some pictures, years ago when we could still communicate. On the back of this picture he wrote, "I think my smile is out there somewhere." He's been melancholy for so very long.

April 10, 1993
Don't worry, I'm still your little boy. I still remember when I was little, and it seemed like the whole world hated me and the only place I had to turn was you, and you were there. I still need you as much as when I was little. As I grew up, life sucked more and more. I don't remember exactly when the fire in my eyes went out, when my dreams and ambitions went away....

...Every day I wish I could change. I can't have fun. I can't smile. Something inside me won't let me...

...Don't worry though, I'm still your little prince and you can hold me and make me forget about all my troubles and then make me make tea for you...

...take care... I love you!

He has found his smile again, and now he is at peace. How my heart has ached for him. How I wish he could have found his smile another way.

Simplify, in small steps

2005-11-04T09:42:00.000-08:00

In light of recent events, I am taking it upon myself to simplify my life. I've removed many of the links from my blog stalking list. I spend far too much time reading other people's blogs, and while I greatly enjoy this activity, I must cut back and be less obsessive. I've left a few links, and these fine folks have links to the blogs that I've removed from my list, so I will still stalk from time to time, while passing through. I've added a few people to my links. These are people who have shared warmth and compassion from across the miles, and I would like to gently stalk them so that I can return the warmth and send good thoughts their way.

One step at a time, bit by bit, I want to find my way to the place where I savor life, all aspects of it, more fully. So layer by layer, I must peel away the extras, until I reach that gleaming core.

Friday show and tell

2005-11-04T09:15:00.000-08:00

Today's theme is Addiction. Suddenly addiction is a difficult word for me. I would make light of it in earlier days, but now, there is a solemn hush that settles in my mind when I consider the word. Addiction. In some form or another, Addiction reared its ugly head and consumed my brother, rendering him nearly unrecognizable, and barely a shell of his former self. Ultimately, a vessel only, with no life remaining. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. His earthly vessel is no more than dust now, and his spirit and soul have been released into forever, where he is free and at peace, himself once more, unentangled and unencumbered by addiction. Addiction. HOW UGLY YOU ARE! I shout it to the universe. LEAVE US ALONE! Alas, we are not wholly powerless in the matter. We fall snare to addiction by our own choices. It's a subtle dance we dance. Seldom do we see it coming, and if we do, often we look the other way. It won't happen to me. Who gets the last laugh? Not you. Not me. Addiction.

I don't want to make light of addictions today. Today I will show and tell my obsessions. Similar, but not quite the same. I have many obsessions. I am somewhat OCDly (Obsessive-Compulsive-Disorderly), after all. I made up my own acronym-adjective, thank you very much. Or is that an adverb? I am awful with grammatical terms and definitions, although I can sometimes manage to string words together in a not-too-unpleasing way.

Obsession Category: The quest for perfection. Currently the quest is for the perfect tea and coffee cup. Volume, density, weight, shape, design, color, price. These are all important factors. Previous quests included the search for the perfect pepper mill. I didn't find it. I gave up and then sold most of my surplus on eBay. The measure was found at J. Paul Getty Museum restaurant in Los Angeles. A compact stainless steel device that ground fine to coarse with such smooth perfection. I could never find its equal.

Other obsessions can be read about, ad nauseum, if one were to peruse this blog. The number one obsession, unparalleled, unmatched, hands down, is none other than MY BOY BOO. As it should be.