Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
Today's Stream of Consciousness
Ooo, ooo. Guess how I woke up this morning? Yet still more seizures! It's just been buckets of fun hanging out and convulsing off and on all day.Yay rah.
On the plus side, the whole inability to really do anything meant that we finally a good excuse to watch the Netflix DVD that has been taunting us for the past month. We haven't been great about actually checking our que lately, so we didn't really remember what was in the red envelope. Turns out this round was Marley and Me. I'm not going to say it's an amazing film, but the mix of silly puppy antics and general heartfelt emotional stuff was a perfect way of sinking away for an afternoon. Of course like all dog movies, it leaves you bawling your eyes out.
A good cry movie is perfect every now and again. Plus, I always get really touched whenever Zach tears up. I love the guy, but he's definitely not a heart on his sleeve kind of person. I've gotten better at distinguishing between the facial expressions that to an amateur would all read as blank. So whenever something goes through enough to be expressed in ways that could be read by normal people, my heart melts a little Granted, he just does the barely there guy cry where his eyes slightly well up and one lone, perfect tear traces his cheek. Which makes the puffy, red snotty mess of me a tad jealous, but all in all it's worth it.
On the plus side, the whole inability to really do anything meant that we finally a good excuse to watch the Netflix DVD that has been taunting us for the past month. We haven't been great about actually checking our que lately, so we didn't really remember what was in the red envelope. Turns out this round was Marley and Me. I'm not going to say it's an amazing film, but the mix of silly puppy antics and general heartfelt emotional stuff was a perfect way of sinking away for an afternoon. Of course like all dog movies, it leaves you bawling your eyes out.
A good cry movie is perfect every now and again. Plus, I always get really touched whenever Zach tears up. I love the guy, but he's definitely not a heart on his sleeve kind of person. I've gotten better at distinguishing between the facial expressions that to an amateur would all read as blank. So whenever something goes through enough to be expressed in ways that could be read by normal people, my heart melts a little Granted, he just does the barely there guy cry where his eyes slightly well up and one lone, perfect tear traces his cheek. Which makes the puffy, red snotty mess of me a tad jealous, but all in all it's worth it.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Eating Right (whatever that might mean)
I have a very picky body. I assume it's just part of the epilepsy thing, but whenever I seem to eat less that stellar my body full on freaks out and holds me hostage until it gets what I want. Almost every time almost immediately after I get a good, healthy meal, everything immediately perks up and gets me back on my suddenly much steadier feet.
Today was definitely a crappy feeling day. So all throughout the day I tried very hard to eat whatever nutritious food I could think of in the hopes of snapping out of it. I lunched on a big salad. Snacked on low fat Greek yogurt. Ate a dinner of left over rotisserie chicken, followed by the very sensible dessert of all the still edible fruit, including slightly squishy blueberries, I could find. All sorts of very good healthy things. And continued to feel like crap.
Until finally I gave up, and took a spoon to a pint of Ben and Jerry's. Five minutes latter, for the first time today I felt almost normal.
Hey, you can't argue with results.
Today was definitely a crappy feeling day. So all throughout the day I tried very hard to eat whatever nutritious food I could think of in the hopes of snapping out of it. I lunched on a big salad. Snacked on low fat Greek yogurt. Ate a dinner of left over rotisserie chicken, followed by the very sensible dessert of all the still edible fruit, including slightly squishy blueberries, I could find. All sorts of very good healthy things. And continued to feel like crap.
Until finally I gave up, and took a spoon to a pint of Ben and Jerry's. Five minutes latter, for the first time today I felt almost normal.
Hey, you can't argue with results.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
July is a sucker punch
July is the most awkward month.
You go through all of June jumping on every hot day, bemoaning the inevitable cloudy grey weeks, waiting for summer to just show up already.
And then July comes on to save the day, complete with a big party and fireworks. And there it is, summer in all its flip flop and beachy glory. For a little while you feel like summer will last forever. No hurry, just lazy summer days.
Until the last week of July when just as suddenly as July came, you realize that August is almost here. Which means school is almost here. Which means oh crap, summer is almost over and why oh why did I waste it? So much to do, so much I should have done. How could it have gone so soon? Sure, its been summer since June. And it will be summer for over another month. But it never feels quite like that. Sure, there may still be a good month or so of Summer left, but once you realize that the end is coming, its hard to really be in summer. July just lulls you into summer, and than jolts you straight out.
You go through all of June jumping on every hot day, bemoaning the inevitable cloudy grey weeks, waiting for summer to just show up already.
And then July comes on to save the day, complete with a big party and fireworks. And there it is, summer in all its flip flop and beachy glory. For a little while you feel like summer will last forever. No hurry, just lazy summer days.
Until the last week of July when just as suddenly as July came, you realize that August is almost here. Which means school is almost here. Which means oh crap, summer is almost over and why oh why did I waste it? So much to do, so much I should have done. How could it have gone so soon? Sure, its been summer since June. And it will be summer for over another month. But it never feels quite like that. Sure, there may still be a good month or so of Summer left, but once you realize that the end is coming, its hard to really be in summer. July just lulls you into summer, and than jolts you straight out.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Blow Out
I haven't used a blow drier in years. I'm a night showerer, so it's usually not that big of a deal to let things air dry, but every now and again waiting for my crazy long and thick hair to finally dry so I can flat iron it into submission is a trial of patience.
So when I saw a blow drier at Costco for $15, I decided it was time to get on board with fried but quickly dried hair.
After the next shower, I let things air dry for a bit, got frustrated with waiting around for so long and decided to go use my new toy. And walked out of the bathroom looking like this:
Yes, Zach laughed his head off. And so did I. Silly me, I assumed that all you did with a blow drier was point the hot air at your hair, and it would dry and look like normal dried hair. I assure you, that is not normal, dried hair for me. Apparently it is possible to mess up something as simple as drying your hair, because I certainly did.
Apparently I now get to learn yet another piece of normal girl life. And just when I was starting to learn how to wear matching outfits other that jeans and t-shirts.
Or I could just continue to flat iron my hair into some semblance of normalcy.
(Also, I would like to point out that I'm not wearing any makeup in either of these. Granted, posting that first picture just about killed any hopes of blog vanity, but still.)
So when I saw a blow drier at Costco for $15, I decided it was time to get on board with fried but quickly dried hair.
After the next shower, I let things air dry for a bit, got frustrated with waiting around for so long and decided to go use my new toy. And walked out of the bathroom looking like this:
Yes, Zach laughed his head off. And so did I. Silly me, I assumed that all you did with a blow drier was point the hot air at your hair, and it would dry and look like normal dried hair. I assure you, that is not normal, dried hair for me. Apparently it is possible to mess up something as simple as drying your hair, because I certainly did.
Apparently I now get to learn yet another piece of normal girl life. And just when I was starting to learn how to wear matching outfits other that jeans and t-shirts.
Or I could just continue to flat iron my hair into some semblance of normalcy.
(Also, I would like to point out that I'm not wearing any makeup in either of these. Granted, posting that first picture just about killed any hopes of blog vanity, but still.)
Monday, July 26, 2010
My Guardian Angel of Sloth
So did not want to get out of bed this morning. Which, to be fair, describes every morning, but it really, really describes Monday mornings. I suppose they wouldn't be so bad if I would keep sensible habits over the weekend, but it's so hard to be sensible when you don't have to.
Still this morning was hard enough that \I decided to take advantage of my flexible schedule for once, sleep in a bit and just go the office a little later than normal. I felt guilty, of course, but overall it just felt good.
Still, I had to go to work sometime. Checked my e-mail one more time, and suddenly my day went from files and sensible shoes to sweat pants and hulu. Because in that last minute before heading out the door, I had gotten an e-mail saying that the law school was closed. Not from the actual law school of course, because that would just be too sensible, but from the career people extending some deadline because the building was closed due to power outages from yesterday's thunder storms.
It was a sloth angel miracle. I was not only being granted all the benefits of a snow day, without any actual snow or inconvenience, but was also being blessed for my laziness in getting started. To think that had I gotten up on time, I would have received no e-mail and had to turn around and come home, having wasted $1.50 in bus fair, and time that could have been spent sleeping.
Things like this make it very difficult to get into good, responsible adult habits, but I'm to busy not being in the office* to worry about that right now.
*Technically I'll be trying to work from home today. And I really will try to be good, but since none of the big, essential files are here, I can't help but be limited.
Still this morning was hard enough that \I decided to take advantage of my flexible schedule for once, sleep in a bit and just go the office a little later than normal. I felt guilty, of course, but overall it just felt good.
Still, I had to go to work sometime. Checked my e-mail one more time, and suddenly my day went from files and sensible shoes to sweat pants and hulu. Because in that last minute before heading out the door, I had gotten an e-mail saying that the law school was closed. Not from the actual law school of course, because that would just be too sensible, but from the career people extending some deadline because the building was closed due to power outages from yesterday's thunder storms.
It was a sloth angel miracle. I was not only being granted all the benefits of a snow day, without any actual snow or inconvenience, but was also being blessed for my laziness in getting started. To think that had I gotten up on time, I would have received no e-mail and had to turn around and come home, having wasted $1.50 in bus fair, and time that could have been spent sleeping.
Things like this make it very difficult to get into good, responsible adult habits, but I'm to busy not being in the office* to worry about that right now.
*Technically I'll be trying to work from home today. And I really will try to be good, but since none of the big, essential files are here, I can't help but be limited.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Babyface
Today was a Costco day, and like most Costco days, the best part was the samples. Or at least it was. I spotted a display of gelato at the end of the row, and perhaps to eagerly walked over, because hey, gelato. I reach over, and the woman all but slaps my hand away, glares at me and asks, "How old are ya hon?"
"Uh, 23?"
She responded with a very dubious snort, a "well, we have to ask" and a half handed gesture granting access to the samples.
I did enjoy my spoon full of gelato, but it would have been a little nicer without feeling instantly transported back to awkward teenagedom with just one question. I realize at some point this may be flattering, but right now? Not so much.
"Uh, 23?"
She responded with a very dubious snort, a "well, we have to ask" and a half handed gesture granting access to the samples.
I did enjoy my spoon full of gelato, but it would have been a little nicer without feeling instantly transported back to awkward teenagedom with just one question. I realize at some point this may be flattering, but right now? Not so much.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Turning off the lights
I'm all about turning lights off whenever you leave a room. My Oregon hippie roots got me started, and living with a chronic migraine sufferer who generally prefers the absence of bright light pushed me the rest of the way. I now turn lights off on auto-pilot, no thinking required.
It's a great habit. Just not at work. Especially the work bathroom. Which may or may not have other people in it
It's a great habit. Just not at work. Especially the work bathroom. Which may or may not have other people in it
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Civil Unions are of the Devil
No, not for any moral reason. I now loathe civil unions, because while they may be a politicians dream compromise, they are lawyer hell.
We have a huge legal framework for marriage. Huge. I had no idea what a ginormous system I was getting myself into, I was pretty well blinded by love and the promise of sex. But it is absolutely staggering how almost every legal thing has some sort of separate, special box for married folks. Property, taxes, schools, medical, video rentals, pretty much everything you ever have to fill out some sort of a standardized form is affected by that nice little word.
And civil unions? Great at making you feel good about legal equality without overly scaring the straight folk. really, really bad at a whole host of practical stuff. It's this weird nebulous thing, that is so like a marriage, but because of that stupid little word change, you can't just check the nice neat little marriage box. And don't even get me started about what happens when people dare to move across state lines. Utter chaos.
I'm trying to do a nice, neat, normal legal thing for a client. Something that would be so, so easy if she just had the word marriage attached to her life instead of that stupid Vermont Civil Union. Just one teeny tiny word change, for two things that are supposed to be essentially synonyms would make everything work.
Look, I get that the word marriage has all sorts of nice, cozy meanings for people. But we are also a hugely bureaucratic society and things just do not work when we try to get all fancy and separate. The more and more legal garbage I have to sort through, the more I've begun to abhor how much of our legal system simultaneously tries to support an often inconsistent ideal while trying to also reflect and support reality. Especially in family law. I so wish we could just have a system that recognizes and supports people in how they are already going to live their lives, instead of this schizophrenic mess.
We have a huge legal framework for marriage. Huge. I had no idea what a ginormous system I was getting myself into, I was pretty well blinded by love and the promise of sex. But it is absolutely staggering how almost every legal thing has some sort of separate, special box for married folks. Property, taxes, schools, medical, video rentals, pretty much everything you ever have to fill out some sort of a standardized form is affected by that nice little word.
And civil unions? Great at making you feel good about legal equality without overly scaring the straight folk. really, really bad at a whole host of practical stuff. It's this weird nebulous thing, that is so like a marriage, but because of that stupid little word change, you can't just check the nice neat little marriage box. And don't even get me started about what happens when people dare to move across state lines. Utter chaos.
I'm trying to do a nice, neat, normal legal thing for a client. Something that would be so, so easy if she just had the word marriage attached to her life instead of that stupid Vermont Civil Union. Just one teeny tiny word change, for two things that are supposed to be essentially synonyms would make everything work.
Look, I get that the word marriage has all sorts of nice, cozy meanings for people. But we are also a hugely bureaucratic society and things just do not work when we try to get all fancy and separate. The more and more legal garbage I have to sort through, the more I've begun to abhor how much of our legal system simultaneously tries to support an often inconsistent ideal while trying to also reflect and support reality. Especially in family law. I so wish we could just have a system that recognizes and supports people in how they are already going to live their lives, instead of this schizophrenic mess.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Pancake ammo
Like most normal couples, we are not immune to fighting from time to time. It sucks, but in some ways it's kind of reassuring that we care enough to not just get riled up, but to talk, if a bit too loudly, about things until they're solved.
Unlike normal couples, about half of our fights are ignited by something food related. Of course it's never actually about the food. All I know is that on the days when we tensely avoid eye contact and slowly smother in subconsciously or not utterly and completely ruin whatever I am craving and cooking, which quickly results in me swearing and crying and food throwing. Hey, some people say we need to talk, I throw food at the wall.
Like this weekend. Nothing had actually happened. But we were trying so hard to be polite, all please and thank you, excessive use of "I" statements and all, that it was clear that both of us were very aware of the underlying tension and very unwilling to be the first person to address it.
We very calmly decided to make some pancakes, Zach on batter making duty and me on flipping. The last time he forgot to get blueberries out of the freezer to thaw, so I kindly reminded him, and he insisted he would never make such a mistake again, especially since he knew it was important to me.
So, of course there were no blueberries sitting out. I lied, said it was fine, turned the griddle on to preheat, and waited a few minutes for them to thaw. Which is very much not my precious, finely honed routine. Which of course made the griddle way too hot, and turned the first pancake into a blackened disk, with a gooey undercooked center.
Ok, so one pancake was a little crispy. Well, that lousy blueberry forgetting husband can just choke it down and deal. Big breath. Pancake two will be just fine. Pancake #2 refused to hold together, and just dissolved into a doughy mess. By this point I'm making very obvious grumbles, and trying to let out frustration through angry whisking. I didn't even try deep breaths for the next one, just threw some batter on the griddle, and shot eye daggers at it, just daring it to defy me. And then that %@*^ pancake would not $#^*$^% rise! So I did the only logical thing I could, screamed at the pancake, catapulted it onto the wall with the spatula and stormed out of the kitchen to sulk in the bathroom. Hey, there are only so many places to sulk in a studio.
This isn't the first time this has happened. There was the pita dough. And the guacamole. The fajitas were probably the worst for mess value. I swear, I was aiming for the trash can, but seeing red may have impacted my aim a little, and resulted in a very brightly covered wall about two feet above the trash.
On the plus side, I always feel so much better after my food triggered outbursts. Taking all my bubbling rage and channeling it in a physical, albeit messy way, is remarkably effective at relieving tension. Sure for about 5 minutes latter I'm almost more furious, but at some point after my brain gets done blaming Zach for making me hurl food, I start to realize that I just threw an utterly ridiculous temper tantrum. This usually leaves me ashamed enough and humble enough to have a conversation that borders on rational. On the other hand, instead of having a conversation with a calm, rational husband, I have now created a man who is very concerned and upset over his rage monster temper tantrum throwing out of nowhere over nothing spouse. It's a trade off.
Still, even though it usually all works out, I'm still a little flummoxed why food of all things is my secret rage inducing, tension breaking trigger. It's never a conscious thing. I just wish I knew why my subconscious chooses to ruin delicious things in such a messy fashion.
What about you? Any weird things that tend to set you off?
Unlike normal couples, about half of our fights are ignited by something food related. Of course it's never actually about the food. All I know is that on the days when we tensely avoid eye contact and slowly smother in subconsciously or not utterly and completely ruin whatever I am craving and cooking, which quickly results in me swearing and crying and food throwing. Hey, some people say we need to talk, I throw food at the wall.
Like this weekend. Nothing had actually happened. But we were trying so hard to be polite, all please and thank you, excessive use of "I" statements and all, that it was clear that both of us were very aware of the underlying tension and very unwilling to be the first person to address it.
We very calmly decided to make some pancakes, Zach on batter making duty and me on flipping. The last time he forgot to get blueberries out of the freezer to thaw, so I kindly reminded him, and he insisted he would never make such a mistake again, especially since he knew it was important to me.
So, of course there were no blueberries sitting out. I lied, said it was fine, turned the griddle on to preheat, and waited a few minutes for them to thaw. Which is very much not my precious, finely honed routine. Which of course made the griddle way too hot, and turned the first pancake into a blackened disk, with a gooey undercooked center.
Ok, so one pancake was a little crispy. Well, that lousy blueberry forgetting husband can just choke it down and deal. Big breath. Pancake two will be just fine. Pancake #2 refused to hold together, and just dissolved into a doughy mess. By this point I'm making very obvious grumbles, and trying to let out frustration through angry whisking. I didn't even try deep breaths for the next one, just threw some batter on the griddle, and shot eye daggers at it, just daring it to defy me. And then that %@*^ pancake would not $#^*$^% rise! So I did the only logical thing I could, screamed at the pancake, catapulted it onto the wall with the spatula and stormed out of the kitchen to sulk in the bathroom. Hey, there are only so many places to sulk in a studio.
This isn't the first time this has happened. There was the pita dough. And the guacamole. The fajitas were probably the worst for mess value. I swear, I was aiming for the trash can, but seeing red may have impacted my aim a little, and resulted in a very brightly covered wall about two feet above the trash.
On the plus side, I always feel so much better after my food triggered outbursts. Taking all my bubbling rage and channeling it in a physical, albeit messy way, is remarkably effective at relieving tension. Sure for about 5 minutes latter I'm almost more furious, but at some point after my brain gets done blaming Zach for making me hurl food, I start to realize that I just threw an utterly ridiculous temper tantrum. This usually leaves me ashamed enough and humble enough to have a conversation that borders on rational. On the other hand, instead of having a conversation with a calm, rational husband, I have now created a man who is very concerned and upset over his rage monster temper tantrum throwing out of nowhere over nothing spouse. It's a trade off.
Still, even though it usually all works out, I'm still a little flummoxed why food of all things is my secret rage inducing, tension breaking trigger. It's never a conscious thing. I just wish I knew why my subconscious chooses to ruin delicious things in such a messy fashion.
What about you? Any weird things that tend to set you off?
Monday, July 19, 2010
The File Room tried to kill me
When I started working this summer on domestic violence and other sensitive cases, there was a teeny-tiny part of my brain that was somewhat nervous that after zealously and brilliantly representing a client, a somewhat disgruntled ex might be angry enough to follow me on a dark and dreary night, whereupon horrible things would happen. The odds are slim, to none, but I have a very active imagination and this was a very real concern during my first naive weeks.
Now that I've been at this job for a while, I've come to learn that the only thing that ever consistently threatens my well being is the file room.
The clinic file room is this closet that probably was decent sized until 8 ft tall, ginormous metal file cabinets were squeezed in configurations designed not only to maximize efficiency, but to create a mini labyrinth of tiny, enclosed spaces. Even with file cabinets fighting for every spare inch of space, they are still overflowing, leading to file upon file being haphazardly stacked with little concern for organization or safety. With only a dim, flickering light to guide your way, once you key into the room and shut the door behind you, its hard to know when or if you'll ever find what you need and emerge safe and sound back into the light.
As creepy as it is, usually the worst hazards actually faced are just a surprise file avalanche, or an almost tipping over cabinet. A little nerve-wracking, but deal able.
So this morning, when a 6 inch thick folder jumped at me, it just seemed like a normal excursion to the file room. What is less normal is me actually having a valuable file of my own in my hands. A very important file, that was now scattered into the corner, which is only accessible by a small gap between the mammoth file cabinets. A small gap that is barely wrist sized.
So I did what any one would do, squeezed my wrist on in and began the painstaking process of gathering papers. It went fine at first, until I realized that my efforts to get most of them had resulted in one piece being continually pushed farther and farther away. So I reached, and I bended and I grabbed until finally, finally! I managed to make contact with the last elusive document. Document in hand, I moved to pull it out and get out of there. At this point I had moved around in such away that I couldn't really see what I was doing anymore, so it came as a bit of a surprise when my wrist moved, and moved and then clang! hit the cabinet and would not move anymore. Some how amidst all the contorting, I had managed to get myself good and stuck.
I really had no desire to spend my last days wasting away in file purgatory. I had even less of a desire to call for help. Even in the off chance that someone would actually hear me, I gaggle of legal interns that I have to see every day trying to extract my wrist does not seem like the best option. Besides, we're all nerds. The physical world is not really our thing.
I think the panic of having to be known as the girl who got stuck in a filing cabinet was enough for me to pull through the pain and finagle my wrist out of there. Still after almost being eaten, I'm keeping my guard up next time. I'm onto you now, file room.
Now that I've been at this job for a while, I've come to learn that the only thing that ever consistently threatens my well being is the file room.
The clinic file room is this closet that probably was decent sized until 8 ft tall, ginormous metal file cabinets were squeezed in configurations designed not only to maximize efficiency, but to create a mini labyrinth of tiny, enclosed spaces. Even with file cabinets fighting for every spare inch of space, they are still overflowing, leading to file upon file being haphazardly stacked with little concern for organization or safety. With only a dim, flickering light to guide your way, once you key into the room and shut the door behind you, its hard to know when or if you'll ever find what you need and emerge safe and sound back into the light.
As creepy as it is, usually the worst hazards actually faced are just a surprise file avalanche, or an almost tipping over cabinet. A little nerve-wracking, but deal able.
So this morning, when a 6 inch thick folder jumped at me, it just seemed like a normal excursion to the file room. What is less normal is me actually having a valuable file of my own in my hands. A very important file, that was now scattered into the corner, which is only accessible by a small gap between the mammoth file cabinets. A small gap that is barely wrist sized.
So I did what any one would do, squeezed my wrist on in and began the painstaking process of gathering papers. It went fine at first, until I realized that my efforts to get most of them had resulted in one piece being continually pushed farther and farther away. So I reached, and I bended and I grabbed until finally, finally! I managed to make contact with the last elusive document. Document in hand, I moved to pull it out and get out of there. At this point I had moved around in such away that I couldn't really see what I was doing anymore, so it came as a bit of a surprise when my wrist moved, and moved and then clang! hit the cabinet and would not move anymore. Some how amidst all the contorting, I had managed to get myself good and stuck.
I really had no desire to spend my last days wasting away in file purgatory. I had even less of a desire to call for help. Even in the off chance that someone would actually hear me, I gaggle of legal interns that I have to see every day trying to extract my wrist does not seem like the best option. Besides, we're all nerds. The physical world is not really our thing.
I think the panic of having to be known as the girl who got stuck in a filing cabinet was enough for me to pull through the pain and finagle my wrist out of there. Still after almost being eaten, I'm keeping my guard up next time. I'm onto you now, file room.
An artistic rendering of today's events, modified from here.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Sneak attack naps
My body can be such a bossy, manipulative, control freak sometimes. Look, I like taking naps as much as the next gal, especially on lazy Sundays. But sometimes I'd really rather do something. You know, read a book, clean out my closet like I've been promising myself for goodness knows how long.
Apparently it doesn't matter what I want. It will start small, just a yawn here or there. Little nudges to let me know that a nap is being requested. I'll firmly say no, keep right on doing what I'm doing. And then things get vicious. Eyelids no longer able to function properly. Blurry vision. Throbbing head. The coach seeming far more comfortable than normal. And just as soon as it starts, its over and I feel perfectly normal, cleverly lulled into a false sense of security, safe to curl back up with my book. On my nice warm bed. And then, bam, the next thing I know, it's 7:30 at night, and I've somehow lost the last hour or so to unconsciousness.
It knows as well as I do that now we aren't going to get to sleep at any semblance of a reasonable hour tonight, which is going to make tom morrow super fun, but apparently so long as I learn who is really in charge, that's a small price to pay.
Now if you'll excuse me, my body is requesting cherries, and I'm not about to piss it off again.
Apparently it doesn't matter what I want. It will start small, just a yawn here or there. Little nudges to let me know that a nap is being requested. I'll firmly say no, keep right on doing what I'm doing. And then things get vicious. Eyelids no longer able to function properly. Blurry vision. Throbbing head. The coach seeming far more comfortable than normal. And just as soon as it starts, its over and I feel perfectly normal, cleverly lulled into a false sense of security, safe to curl back up with my book. On my nice warm bed. And then, bam, the next thing I know, it's 7:30 at night, and I've somehow lost the last hour or so to unconsciousness.
It knows as well as I do that now we aren't going to get to sleep at any semblance of a reasonable hour tonight, which is going to make tom morrow super fun, but apparently so long as I learn who is really in charge, that's a small price to pay.
Now if you'll excuse me, my body is requesting cherries, and I'm not about to piss it off again.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Another way of making a chicken breast delicious
Much as I love a good steak, most dinners around here are focused around a nice, cheap and healthy chicken breast. Which can get very boring in a hurry, so I'm always looking for an easy way of doing something new.
For our wedding we got gobs of cookbooks that I rarely use. I just started cracking open the cooking light book, and if the rest of these recipes are as good as this one, I might have a winner.
Tonight's meal was a light, lemony and buttery chicken francais. Butter, wine, and Parmesan made evrything delicious, but at only 266 calories per serving it was the best kind of delicious.
Chicken Francais, adapted from Cooking Light Complete Cookbook.
What you need
Combine first 8 ingredients in a shallow dish, or pie pan, or whatever.
Pound the crap out of each chicken breast. Do it however you want, but I like placing them in a gallon ziplock to keep the ook from getting everywhere, plus it makes them easier to hold down. Dip in flour, than the egg mixture. Make sure to coat it well.
Heat up some olive oil in the skillet, you may want to use some non-stick spray too. Add as much chicken as will fit; cook 4 minutes on each side or until done. Repeat with whatever is still hanging out.
Melt butter in pan; add 1/4 cup wine and 3 tablespoons juice. Bring to a boil; let it go for a few seconds, and than slowly drizzle that buttery goodness over your nice crisp chicken, or put in in some sort of container for latter (we used our bunny creamer). Eat chicken. We just had wild rice for a side. I'm sure some nice fresh greens would be great, but once again we forgot to use the stuff we grabbed before it went bad. It was still great though.
For our wedding we got gobs of cookbooks that I rarely use. I just started cracking open the cooking light book, and if the rest of these recipes are as good as this one, I might have a winner.
Tonight's meal was a light, lemony and buttery chicken francais. Butter, wine, and Parmesan made evrything delicious, but at only 266 calories per serving it was the best kind of delicious.
Chicken Francais, adapted from Cooking Light Complete Cookbook.
What you need
- 3/4 cup egg substitute (we just used 2 eggs)
- 1/4 cup grated fresh Parmesan cheese
- 1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley (the dry stuff was just fine, but I'm sure fresh would be even better)
- 1/4 cup dry white wine
- 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 1/8 teaspoon hot pepper sauce (a tad of tabasco for us)
- 3 garlic cloves, minced (I love the stuff in a jar, so nice and easy)
- 8 (4-ounce) skinless, boneless chicken breast halves (we just used 4 chicken breast, and cut them in half)
- 1/4 cup all-purpose flour (doesn't need nearly this much)
- 1 tablespoon olive oil, divided
- Cooking spray
- 2 tablespoons butter
- 1/4 cup dry white wine
- 3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
The Actual Cooking Part
Combine first 8 ingredients in a shallow dish, or pie pan, or whatever.
Pound the crap out of each chicken breast. Do it however you want, but I like placing them in a gallon ziplock to keep the ook from getting everywhere, plus it makes them easier to hold down. Dip in flour, than the egg mixture. Make sure to coat it well.
Heat up some olive oil in the skillet, you may want to use some non-stick spray too. Add as much chicken as will fit; cook 4 minutes on each side or until done. Repeat with whatever is still hanging out.
Melt butter in pan; add 1/4 cup wine and 3 tablespoons juice. Bring to a boil; let it go for a few seconds, and than slowly drizzle that buttery goodness over your nice crisp chicken, or put in in some sort of container for latter (we used our bunny creamer). Eat chicken. We just had wild rice for a side. I'm sure some nice fresh greens would be great, but once again we forgot to use the stuff we grabbed before it went bad. It was still great though.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
My sole-mates
I was wasting time looking for shoes online, and noticed that my absolute favorite pair of flats in on sale at a variety of places.
I seriously love these shoes. Not only do they have a special place in my heart as the first more adult shoes I bought to move up from my standard sketchers and flip flops, but they are so comfortable. I love the look of most shoes, but I hate wearing them. They;re fine at first, but after a while I feel like they are strangling my feet. The second I step in the door, shoes come flying off. Even out in public, if I've been sitting for a while and think I can get away with it, I'll almost always try to slip my shoes off so my feet can breath. Not these. I actually forget I have these on. People, that has never happened before with a non-flip flop real shoe. Never.
I think they're cute too. Not supper dressy, but enough to pass. And I love that little button. Plus the purple lining just adds to the feeling that these shoes and I were meant to be.
I'm half thinking of grabbing a second identical pair, because I think I will cry bitter tears if anything ever happens to mine.
I seriously love these shoes. Not only do they have a special place in my heart as the first more adult shoes I bought to move up from my standard sketchers and flip flops, but they are so comfortable. I love the look of most shoes, but I hate wearing them. They;re fine at first, but after a while I feel like they are strangling my feet. The second I step in the door, shoes come flying off. Even out in public, if I've been sitting for a while and think I can get away with it, I'll almost always try to slip my shoes off so my feet can breath. Not these. I actually forget I have these on. People, that has never happened before with a non-flip flop real shoe. Never.
I think they're cute too. Not supper dressy, but enough to pass. And I love that little button. Plus the purple lining just adds to the feeling that these shoes and I were meant to be.
I'm half thinking of grabbing a second identical pair, because I think I will cry bitter tears if anything ever happens to mine.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Available
So, just now, I completely ignored the person knocking on my door. I have no idea who they were, I just know that at that moment I didn't feel like chatting, especially as once you start, you really have no idea and only a marginal amount of control over how long things will go.
I completely could have answered. I can also frequently answer my phone when it rings, or respond to the IM that just popped up from the program I forgot to log out of. I just frequently don't.
I do feel kind of bad about my hiding method of avoiding momentarily unwanted interaction. I'll usually even freak out that somehow they can see through the electronic device and know that I'm right there, willfully not answering, because at that moment I have better stuff to do.
I feel like this is something I'm supposed to feel worse about, like there is some unwritten rule that if someone unexpectedly pops up and wants to chat, by golly, you chat with them whether you want to or not. Meh. Apparently I'm socially conditioned enough to know that I should fee bad, and be concerned about hurting peoples feelings or making them feel like I never want to talk with them ever, when really I just didn't feel like it at that moment. Just not enough to actually feel bad. All in all, I'm pretty ok with it. Maybe it's just the introvert in me, but I don't feel a particular obligation to be available all the time, even when I actually am.
I completely could have answered. I can also frequently answer my phone when it rings, or respond to the IM that just popped up from the program I forgot to log out of. I just frequently don't.
I do feel kind of bad about my hiding method of avoiding momentarily unwanted interaction. I'll usually even freak out that somehow they can see through the electronic device and know that I'm right there, willfully not answering, because at that moment I have better stuff to do.
I feel like this is something I'm supposed to feel worse about, like there is some unwritten rule that if someone unexpectedly pops up and wants to chat, by golly, you chat with them whether you want to or not. Meh. Apparently I'm socially conditioned enough to know that I should fee bad, and be concerned about hurting peoples feelings or making them feel like I never want to talk with them ever, when really I just didn't feel like it at that moment. Just not enough to actually feel bad. All in all, I'm pretty ok with it. Maybe it's just the introvert in me, but I don't feel a particular obligation to be available all the time, even when I actually am.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Reason #62 why I only have 220 facebook "friends"
You all know how facebook tries to match people up with their little hey, be friends with this person box, right? Most of the people who show up mean nothing to me, but every now and again I see a familiar face show up. I'll get a little excited about the possibility to catch up, or at least stalk and wonder why I wasn't friends with them already. And then just before I go to click the friend button, I'm can't help but wonder if maybe at one point we were facebook friends, at least until they dumped me. And how petty and needy is it going to look for me to come crawling back, begging for another chance to renew our beautiful acquaintanceship?
And that's why I never ever send friend requests on facebook.
And that's why I never ever send friend requests on facebook.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
100% stereotypes!
I know that it is horrible to judge how other people parent. Short of actual abuse there are a million different ways to do an excellent job and a million more things that don't make any difference. Different styles for different people, never being able to know the full circumstances, blah blah.
But is it ok to judge how people blog about how they parent?
Because I swear, if I read the phrase so and so is 100% boy or 100% girl again, I just don't think I can help myself.
But is it ok to judge how people blog about how they parent?
Because I swear, if I read the phrase so and so is 100% boy or 100% girl again, I just don't think I can help myself.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Reclaiming my inner Claudia
Have you ever seen the blog, What Claudia Wore? I love wandering over and being reminded of the sheer fabulousness of one of my favorite childhood literary characters.
Like so many children of the nineties I loved the Baby Sitters Club books. The entire bottom shelf of my bookcase was devoted to my extensive collection. I suppose I must have enjoyed the actual stories to some extent, but mostly I was in it to see what Claudia wore. I loved every bit of her brave and crazy wardrobe that felt every bit as zany and wonderful as she was. She may not have been the most conventional style role model, but as far as I was concerned her crazy uniqueness was the height of fashion. A fact I am reminded of whenever I look at pictures of little me complete with silver ribbon woven through my lumpy braids, electric blue bicycle shorts, puffy paint tie die sweatshirts, purple velvet overalls and other outfits that boldly and cheerfully proclaimed my individuality and loose adherence to traditional conceptions of matching and taste. I looked like an insane clown, but I was such a happy insane clown.
Somewhere along the line fashion stopped being a fun expression and started becoming a means of signaling to the herd that I was one of them. I know that I didn't covet abercrombie and fitch shirts ion high school because I had an inherent love for cheap screen printed slightly risque slogans on tight t-shirts, but I did have a desire to be considered normal. I had aspirations of being cool, but would have happily settled for normal.
I've been clumsily trying to telegraph how normal I am/want to be through my sartorial decisions ever since. And now I'm looking to enter a profession where I'm not just condemned to a life of suits, but even the suits need to be the perfectly conservative and conforming.
It's a truth that how do dress affects how people see you and thus how they treat you. It's kind of a sucky truth, but true none the less. It's true to the extremes where wearing a barely there halter top and a pair of patent thigh high boots is going to lead to certain assumptions, but its also just as true when it comes to the standard lady law student uniform of dark denim skinny jeans, cute top and a cardigan. I wear that, and it sends a very clear message that I belong here. It's comforting. It's easy. It communicates for me.
But it's not fun. And lately, I'm kind of wondering, who cares what people think? The people I actually interact with, who will actually remember me enough for their opinion of me to really matter are going to be going off more than just what overpriced fabric I threw on each morning. And everyone else, the people I just make glancing contact with, why do I care what they think? What possible effect on anything that matters is any opinion of there's about me going to have. Assuming they even notice enough to have one.
Really, I'm the person I have to spend the most time with. I'm the person who sees me in the mirror, the person who judges me the most. I'm not saying I should ignore the reality of clothing as a message sender, but I should start caring what message I send to me. Wearing a disguise because it fits in with others may tell others that I belong, but it tells me that who I am shouldn't be shown.
I doubt I'll ever be as free and naive as I once was. I do care what people think, I am aware of what's normal, and that isn't a bad thing. But I also hope I can find a way to break through the box of the safe and generic and let a little me flow through.
Today I wore a bright mustard yellow shirt with a ruffle that I affectionately refer to as my big bird shirt, a full spring green skirt, big spiral earrings and fuschia flats with a burst of petals at the toe. I looked like an insane clown, but every time I looked down, after stifling my instinctive discomfort of being different, I felt as happy as a nine year old.
(I'm not posting pictures, not for vanity reasons, but because my attempts at camera timer failed miserably and Zach looks too tired to play a game of pose and shutter.)
Like so many children of the nineties I loved the Baby Sitters Club books. The entire bottom shelf of my bookcase was devoted to my extensive collection. I suppose I must have enjoyed the actual stories to some extent, but mostly I was in it to see what Claudia wore. I loved every bit of her brave and crazy wardrobe that felt every bit as zany and wonderful as she was. She may not have been the most conventional style role model, but as far as I was concerned her crazy uniqueness was the height of fashion. A fact I am reminded of whenever I look at pictures of little me complete with silver ribbon woven through my lumpy braids, electric blue bicycle shorts, puffy paint tie die sweatshirts, purple velvet overalls and other outfits that boldly and cheerfully proclaimed my individuality and loose adherence to traditional conceptions of matching and taste. I looked like an insane clown, but I was such a happy insane clown.
Somewhere along the line fashion stopped being a fun expression and started becoming a means of signaling to the herd that I was one of them. I know that I didn't covet abercrombie and fitch shirts ion high school because I had an inherent love for cheap screen printed slightly risque slogans on tight t-shirts, but I did have a desire to be considered normal. I had aspirations of being cool, but would have happily settled for normal.
I've been clumsily trying to telegraph how normal I am/want to be through my sartorial decisions ever since. And now I'm looking to enter a profession where I'm not just condemned to a life of suits, but even the suits need to be the perfectly conservative and conforming.
It's a truth that how do dress affects how people see you and thus how they treat you. It's kind of a sucky truth, but true none the less. It's true to the extremes where wearing a barely there halter top and a pair of patent thigh high boots is going to lead to certain assumptions, but its also just as true when it comes to the standard lady law student uniform of dark denim skinny jeans, cute top and a cardigan. I wear that, and it sends a very clear message that I belong here. It's comforting. It's easy. It communicates for me.
But it's not fun. And lately, I'm kind of wondering, who cares what people think? The people I actually interact with, who will actually remember me enough for their opinion of me to really matter are going to be going off more than just what overpriced fabric I threw on each morning. And everyone else, the people I just make glancing contact with, why do I care what they think? What possible effect on anything that matters is any opinion of there's about me going to have. Assuming they even notice enough to have one.
Really, I'm the person I have to spend the most time with. I'm the person who sees me in the mirror, the person who judges me the most. I'm not saying I should ignore the reality of clothing as a message sender, but I should start caring what message I send to me. Wearing a disguise because it fits in with others may tell others that I belong, but it tells me that who I am shouldn't be shown.
I doubt I'll ever be as free and naive as I once was. I do care what people think, I am aware of what's normal, and that isn't a bad thing. But I also hope I can find a way to break through the box of the safe and generic and let a little me flow through.
Today I wore a bright mustard yellow shirt with a ruffle that I affectionately refer to as my big bird shirt, a full spring green skirt, big spiral earrings and fuschia flats with a burst of petals at the toe. I looked like an insane clown, but every time I looked down, after stifling my instinctive discomfort of being different, I felt as happy as a nine year old.
(I'm not posting pictures, not for vanity reasons, but because my attempts at camera timer failed miserably and Zach looks too tired to play a game of pose and shutter.)
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
The Perspective of the Founding Fathers
As part of the holiday weekend, we re-watched 1776. I love that movie and the hotness of little John Adams. I know that the movie is much more of a fun little of singing and dancing enthused historical fiction, but it's still the type of film that gently pushes me into thinking.
The thought of this viewing - there never was a golden age of politics or America. Congress has always been somewhat inept.
Most of the founding fathers weren't worth a damn, they just had obnoxious and disliked people like Adams pushing them into doing things. It took them how many years to man up and declare independence?
Congress has always been full of egomaniacs who are more concerned with them and theirs than doing the right thing. Financial interests have always dominated, we've just switched from slaves and molasses to pharmaceuticals and oil. Biases and prejudices have always affected things more than they ought.
But you know what? Somehow or another, things work out. Sure, as a country we've done some really stupid and downright horrible things. I'm sure we'll do many more. But in general? We do ok, we keep getting a little better. The overall trend is positive.
Don't get me wrong - it's still good to be concerned, active, vigilant and all that. I'm sure I'll continue to be terrified by some new political development at least once a week. I'm less sure, but still hopeful, that I'll actually do something about it.
But the next time I'm freaking out about how Michelle Bachman and Glenn Beck* are surely the harbingers of the political apocalypse I also hope I can remember to take a deep breath and a little perspective.
*Feel free to insert Obama or whoever sends shivers down your spine here. I may not be anywhere close to politically neutral, but I think this particular point is about as close as I get, even if the way I said it isn't.
The thought of this viewing - there never was a golden age of politics or America. Congress has always been somewhat inept.
Most of the founding fathers weren't worth a damn, they just had obnoxious and disliked people like Adams pushing them into doing things. It took them how many years to man up and declare independence?
Congress has always been full of egomaniacs who are more concerned with them and theirs than doing the right thing. Financial interests have always dominated, we've just switched from slaves and molasses to pharmaceuticals and oil. Biases and prejudices have always affected things more than they ought.
But you know what? Somehow or another, things work out. Sure, as a country we've done some really stupid and downright horrible things. I'm sure we'll do many more. But in general? We do ok, we keep getting a little better. The overall trend is positive.
Don't get me wrong - it's still good to be concerned, active, vigilant and all that. I'm sure I'll continue to be terrified by some new political development at least once a week. I'm less sure, but still hopeful, that I'll actually do something about it.
But the next time I'm freaking out about how Michelle Bachman and Glenn Beck* are surely the harbingers of the political apocalypse I also hope I can remember to take a deep breath and a little perspective.
*Feel free to insert Obama or whoever sends shivers down your spine here. I may not be anywhere close to politically neutral, but I think this particular point is about as close as I get, even if the way I said it isn't.
Monday, July 5, 2010
The Birthday Celebrations
I'm kind of weird about my birthdays. Not in the freak out over aging run to the mirror to check for wrinkles and claim that this is just my 3rd 21st birthday kind of way. Sure, it feels odd to be 23, it always feels a little weird to change the number. But all things considered, I'm ready and happy to keep moving forward. So ready and happy that I overly expect a day momentous enough and perfect enough to fully celebrate the event. My birthdays are a potent combination of excitement and glee, with a strong undercurrent of stress and high expectations, all ready to combust if anything strays from perfection. It makes it hard to really enjoy the day, when I'm constantly peeking over my shoulder looking for things that can make everything ignite.
So when I say this was a lovely birthday, knowing that happened despite my craziness really means something.
This year my Birthday was on a Sunday, so we sort of did a pretend birthday thing on Saturday. It was a wise move, and I'm not just saying that because this way I got twice the birthday action all for the same low yearly price.
Day 1 began waiting for the bus to whisk us away. I took advantage of my birthday hotness to mug around for the camera; blogging has made me a little compulsive about that.
And away we went to Cleveland park, my favorite neighborhood in DC. It just has this perfect feel. Big trees, quaint little shops, skipping distance from the zoo. It also feels like an actual neighborhood, like a small town that somehow ended up in the middle of a city. It's my someday home, at least if we stay in DC.
Whenever we find an excise to go over there, I also always gaze wistfully at All Fired Up, a paint your own pottery place whenever we go there. I've been trying to get Zach to spend an afternoon painting for over a year, and my birthday finally provided the perfect opportunity.
It was such a fantastic little place. Comfy and cozy, bright and colorful. Bins and books full of textures and images for inspiration. I loved picking out my little dish (I grabbed a little wavy thing I'll use to corral my keys) and ever so carefully coating in color. Although, for all I've seen recommending it as a great date activity, I'm somewhat sceptical. We each got so into getting every detail just so, that we were too deep in concentration to even think about conversing. Maybe that's just us though.
We ended up spending close to two hours indulging our creative sides as much as our inherent type-a neuroses would allow. Our original plan was to go out to eat after wards, and then swing by Georgetown cupcake for some scrumptious treats. It was a lovely plan, but after the pottery painting (and the Greek deli lunch we grabbed beforehand) I just wasn't feeling it. Remember the aforementioned birthday perfectionism? I had started off planning (or pushing Zach to plan) for this whole big day, capped off with a great meal. Why? Because it just felt like something we should do, that I would miss or feel deprived if we didn't. But as the day went on all lovely like, I felt like I didn't really need that, I'd be happy with some pasta at home, so lets just save our money. The cupcakes were not up for compromise. And this is where car less city living can get complicated. We had a public transit plan in place for getting us from home to pottery to dinner to cupcakes. Not a clue how to get from pottery to cupcakes. One minor freakout latter, we had a plan, and an hour latter we had cupcakes (we even just managed to miss the big line) and were back home.
And that was day 1. Day 2 was a little simpler, but still quite delicious. After some obligatory camera mugging, we went off to the Dupont circle farmers market for a Sunday morning stroll and visions of bright and shiny produce.
Growing up in Portland, I frequently went to Saturday's market down by the waterfront. It's still one of my favorite places, chock full of hippy goodness. I think I secretly expect all outdoor markets to be that awesome. I liked the market well enough, but a bunch of preppy east coasters and produce can only be so exciting. I was done in about 15 minutes. We did walk away with a lovely loaf of sourdough, so it wasn't a complete wash.
The rest of the day was nice and calm, plenty of good food and relaxation. And then it was present time! I'm very pleased to report that I quelled my natural urges and was able to be happily surprised by everything.
I was especially thrilled by my new le creuset utensil crock. I not only love it for what it is, with all its bright shiny color and functionality, but there is also something wonderful about getting a little something from a brand whose dutch ovens I continue to covet. Like a little piece of my optimistic future.
Zach also got me a pancake pen, all the better for my love of creative pancake shapes. Way easier than trying to pour straight from the batter bowl. In this past year of netflixing, there is only one movie that I actually watched twice in a row before returning it, a big deal from a girl who usually refuses to rewatch movies until she's mostly forgotten them. Zach remembered, and now I can indulge in some animated superheroine and Nathan Fillion action whenever I so desire. The wallet wasn't an original gift, but when we were wandering around Cleveland park we popped into an adorable eclectic store, and there it was. I've been obsessively searching for the perfect wallet for years, and being my birthday was the perfect excuse to bring it home.
A cupcake (or two) latter and that was that. Despite my best crazy perfectionist urges, it had been a lovely two days that left me feeling loved and ready for another great year.
(Also, each and every well wish on my original birthday post kept me smiling and glowing and generally added to the wonderfulness. I love you all.)
So when I say this was a lovely birthday, knowing that happened despite my craziness really means something.
This year my Birthday was on a Sunday, so we sort of did a pretend birthday thing on Saturday. It was a wise move, and I'm not just saying that because this way I got twice the birthday action all for the same low yearly price.
Day 1 began waiting for the bus to whisk us away. I took advantage of my birthday hotness to mug around for the camera; blogging has made me a little compulsive about that.
And away we went to Cleveland park, my favorite neighborhood in DC. It just has this perfect feel. Big trees, quaint little shops, skipping distance from the zoo. It also feels like an actual neighborhood, like a small town that somehow ended up in the middle of a city. It's my someday home, at least if we stay in DC.
Whenever we find an excise to go over there, I also always gaze wistfully at All Fired Up, a paint your own pottery place whenever we go there. I've been trying to get Zach to spend an afternoon painting for over a year, and my birthday finally provided the perfect opportunity.
It was such a fantastic little place. Comfy and cozy, bright and colorful. Bins and books full of textures and images for inspiration. I loved picking out my little dish (I grabbed a little wavy thing I'll use to corral my keys) and ever so carefully coating in color. Although, for all I've seen recommending it as a great date activity, I'm somewhat sceptical. We each got so into getting every detail just so, that we were too deep in concentration to even think about conversing. Maybe that's just us though.
We ended up spending close to two hours indulging our creative sides as much as our inherent type-a neuroses would allow. Our original plan was to go out to eat after wards, and then swing by Georgetown cupcake for some scrumptious treats. It was a lovely plan, but after the pottery painting (and the Greek deli lunch we grabbed beforehand) I just wasn't feeling it. Remember the aforementioned birthday perfectionism? I had started off planning (or pushing Zach to plan) for this whole big day, capped off with a great meal. Why? Because it just felt like something we should do, that I would miss or feel deprived if we didn't. But as the day went on all lovely like, I felt like I didn't really need that, I'd be happy with some pasta at home, so lets just save our money. The cupcakes were not up for compromise. And this is where car less city living can get complicated. We had a public transit plan in place for getting us from home to pottery to dinner to cupcakes. Not a clue how to get from pottery to cupcakes. One minor freakout latter, we had a plan, and an hour latter we had cupcakes (we even just managed to miss the big line) and were back home.
And that was day 1. Day 2 was a little simpler, but still quite delicious. After some obligatory camera mugging, we went off to the Dupont circle farmers market for a Sunday morning stroll and visions of bright and shiny produce.
Growing up in Portland, I frequently went to Saturday's market down by the waterfront. It's still one of my favorite places, chock full of hippy goodness. I think I secretly expect all outdoor markets to be that awesome. I liked the market well enough, but a bunch of preppy east coasters and produce can only be so exciting. I was done in about 15 minutes. We did walk away with a lovely loaf of sourdough, so it wasn't a complete wash.
The rest of the day was nice and calm, plenty of good food and relaxation. And then it was present time! I'm very pleased to report that I quelled my natural urges and was able to be happily surprised by everything.
Zach also got me a pancake pen, all the better for my love of creative pancake shapes. Way easier than trying to pour straight from the batter bowl. In this past year of netflixing, there is only one movie that I actually watched twice in a row before returning it, a big deal from a girl who usually refuses to rewatch movies until she's mostly forgotten them. Zach remembered, and now I can indulge in some animated superheroine and Nathan Fillion action whenever I so desire. The wallet wasn't an original gift, but when we were wandering around Cleveland park we popped into an adorable eclectic store, and there it was. I've been obsessively searching for the perfect wallet for years, and being my birthday was the perfect excuse to bring it home.
A cupcake (or two) latter and that was that. Despite my best crazy perfectionist urges, it had been a lovely two days that left me feeling loved and ready for another great year.
(Also, each and every well wish on my original birthday post kept me smiling and glowing and generally added to the wonderfulness. I love you all.)
Sunday, July 4, 2010
My independent DC Independence Day
Happy Independence Day! I hope all the American's had a great weekend. Well, I hope the international set had a good weekend too, but you know what I mean.
Last year we went and did the iconic DC Independence Day celebration of fireworks and concert on the steps of the Capitol Building. It was lovely, it was fun, I'm glad we did it at least once. It was also an exhausting day of lines and crowds.
One year latter, much of the shine and excitement of living in DC has largely worn off. It didn't take long for things to go from awe over the abundance of picturesque monuments and living history to just being annoyed by the tourists they bring. It's the funny thing that happens when you live someplace. People will travel from all over to see what you just stroll on by.
All I really wanted was to walk 5 minutes, watch some pretty fireworks, and walk home. Being about 5 miles away from the mall and surrounded by some very lovely, very obscuring trees, I didn't think that was a possibility. Still, as much as I tried to psyche myself up for spending several hours commuting downtown and being shoved around in a mass of humanity, I just couldn't quite bring myself to do it. But spending the 4th indoors, doing nothing more festive than watching 1776 (I've said it before and I'll say it again, John Adams is strangely attractive in that movie) just seemed wrong. I really do like fireworks. I always looked forward to them as a kid. They were bright and pretty and festive, and just happened once a year, which kept them all special. They're nostalgic, they just feel like America and the fourth of July. I see fireworks, and I can almost taste the bbq and watermelon. They're simple, but they just feel warm and good. I didn't want to go two years without sparkly explosions in my life.
Fortunately about an hour before dusk, when I had kind of given up on going out, Zach remembered that there was a decent view from over by the National Cathedral, which happens to be about 5 minutes walk from us. neither of us could quite remember just what you could see from there, but it seemed worth a try.
We showed up to find a few hundred people happily spread out over the south lawn of the cathedral, gazing down onto a clear view of the Capitol and the Washington Monument. It was perfect. Being in school, I tend to miss being around nice, normal families, and there was something special about just sitting back and people watching, being drawn in for a moment into the family feel of those around us.
And then it started. At first with a few tiny bits of color, we could barely see, but before long there they were, big and beautiful. Just how I remembered. And then that was that, and 5 minutes latter we were back home, having had a perfectly hassle free night.
Which is also the nice thing about having lived someplace for a while. I'm less likely to get as excited by all the big iconic things as I used to, but there is something sweet about discovering the little hidden treasures too.
Last year we went and did the iconic DC Independence Day celebration of fireworks and concert on the steps of the Capitol Building. It was lovely, it was fun, I'm glad we did it at least once. It was also an exhausting day of lines and crowds.
One year latter, much of the shine and excitement of living in DC has largely worn off. It didn't take long for things to go from awe over the abundance of picturesque monuments and living history to just being annoyed by the tourists they bring. It's the funny thing that happens when you live someplace. People will travel from all over to see what you just stroll on by.
All I really wanted was to walk 5 minutes, watch some pretty fireworks, and walk home. Being about 5 miles away from the mall and surrounded by some very lovely, very obscuring trees, I didn't think that was a possibility. Still, as much as I tried to psyche myself up for spending several hours commuting downtown and being shoved around in a mass of humanity, I just couldn't quite bring myself to do it. But spending the 4th indoors, doing nothing more festive than watching 1776 (I've said it before and I'll say it again, John Adams is strangely attractive in that movie) just seemed wrong. I really do like fireworks. I always looked forward to them as a kid. They were bright and pretty and festive, and just happened once a year, which kept them all special. They're nostalgic, they just feel like America and the fourth of July. I see fireworks, and I can almost taste the bbq and watermelon. They're simple, but they just feel warm and good. I didn't want to go two years without sparkly explosions in my life.
Fortunately about an hour before dusk, when I had kind of given up on going out, Zach remembered that there was a decent view from over by the National Cathedral, which happens to be about 5 minutes walk from us. neither of us could quite remember just what you could see from there, but it seemed worth a try.
We showed up to find a few hundred people happily spread out over the south lawn of the cathedral, gazing down onto a clear view of the Capitol and the Washington Monument. It was perfect. Being in school, I tend to miss being around nice, normal families, and there was something special about just sitting back and people watching, being drawn in for a moment into the family feel of those around us.
And then it started. At first with a few tiny bits of color, we could barely see, but before long there they were, big and beautiful. Just how I remembered. And then that was that, and 5 minutes latter we were back home, having had a perfectly hassle free night.
Which is also the nice thing about having lived someplace for a while. I'm less likely to get as excited by all the big iconic things as I used to, but there is something sweet about discovering the little hidden treasures too.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
God bless America (especially as we try to set it on fire tommorow)
I keep seeing fireworks stands all over the place. Which, sure fireworks, fourth of July, they do kind of go together. I get it, I like setting things on fire and watching pretty sparks too. But, uh, this is a city. A very populated city, with an abundance of apartment buildings, narrow roads, monuments and people - but very lacking in nice, open spaces where things can be set on fire without killing us all. I see a few patches of dead grass here and there, but that's about it. We can barely find spaces to park around here, let alone to set things on fire.
Yes, I am kind of stuck on this whole setting things on fire thing. I just can't believe that in a town full of lawyers and legislators, no busybody in power has been able to realize that this is a bad idea. I see the kinds of crazy, overdone, over reactionary laws that come from DC everyday. And yet, I can go buy something designed to send out streams of fire for five bucks. On fire people. Come on.
Yes, I am kind of stuck on this whole setting things on fire thing. I just can't believe that in a town full of lawyers and legislators, no busybody in power has been able to realize that this is a bad idea. I see the kinds of crazy, overdone, over reactionary laws that come from DC everyday. And yet, I can go buy something designed to send out streams of fire for five bucks. On fire people. Come on.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Losing it with love
My inner (well, more like outer) feminist isn't that hard to bring out swinging, ready to ride her high horse a ranting and a yelling. One way to get her a little riled up is to start talking about the crazy expectations for beauty and women bodies. I think it is disgusting how fat or thin has somehow become almost a moral judgment. I'm generally a fan of the fat acceptance movement, and think most people who body snark under the guise of promoting health are about as sincere as those who use the passive aggressive "bless their heart" after their nastiness. I hate how narrowly we look at beauty. Most of all, I hate how often we hate ourselves for not being whatever it is we think we should be. (I tried so hard to find the scene from mean girls where the plastics bond over their mutual self-hate, but alas, youtube failed me). Most of how we view our bodies in contemporary culture is so destructive.
In theory I think of myself as having excellent body love. I'm the girl who sometimes takes her husbands compliments with a bit of gratitude and a cheeky "I know". The girl whose high school yearbook includes the message "you are beautiful...the problem is that you know it." And I usually do know it. Sort of.
That said, I'm kind of ashamed of how thrilled I am by my body lately. Not because I'm so glad that I embrace the whole aforementioned body love thing. No, I'm psyched to finally be back to my wedding weight. Really, really thrilled. Stop to check myself out in the mirror, contemplate how skimpy of clothing I can get away with thrilled. Which would be fine if I didn't remember how horrid I felt before.
My first year of law school was so not good to me. I went from walking around a huge campus everyday and halfway decent eating habits to taking the bus between sitting on the couch at home and sitting at a desk at school. The very same school where I survived largely on a diet of free pizza. Add in a lovely dose of birth control and I gained about 20lbs and officially moving to overweight BMI in the space of 6 months. Being 5' 2", those 20 lbs are kind of a big deal. As the stretch marks from my thighs ballooning will always remind me.
I should probably say, that all in all, I was still fine. Health wise, I was probably just peachy. Even by superficial standards, I was still ok. But for me, I hated it. I hated me for getting like that. I silently, and not so silently swore at the new numbers on my necessarily new pants. I would suck in my cheeks when I looked in the mirror just so I could get a glimpse of the real me.
So, after reading some very good and very sensible posts on weight loss through calorie counting, I started paying attention to what was going into my mouth. For the first few months, I was a little crazy. I used one of those little calculator things that says if you want to lose x lbs in a certain amount of time, you should eat y calories. My magic number was 1,200. With that many "allowed" I would either scream from hunger and frustration at the end of the day, or cry with disgust at my failure of 1,300 and wonder why I just had to have that extra piece of toast and ruin everything.
I did gradually start to calm down, to stay aware, but in a sane way. But not until I started seeing some smaller numbers on the scale.
Yay rah for me for getting down to where I'm at now. I just wish I did it for the right reasons. I lost weight because I hated my body. I wish I had done it because I loved it.
I'm not anti losing weight. No one can deny that generally speaking healthy behavior like eating right and exercising leads to being thinner. And at certain levels, being overweight can cause some negative consequences of their own. I've seen people I love dearly deal with most of them.
It makes sense that if you love yourself, including your body and all its awesomeness, you would take care of it. That's hardly an original idea. Right now, that's not why I take care of my body. I take care of it because I only love it when it does what I want, looks how I want. Which is to say, I don't love it at all. Aa any child can tell you that conditional love isn't the real deal.
Hating my weight gain led me to do some healthy things. I think many people look at things like that and feel like it is necessary and positive to shame themselves and others into losing some weight. There's a reason we talk about eating dessert as being bad, talk about working out as making up for something. Every way we talk about anything that could impact weight is loaded with guilt and judgment. And I guess that oftentimes all that works. The crippling guilt from not meeting my calorie goals, not looking how I "should" really did cause me to loose some weight.
But ultimately it doesn't solve anything. It's built on a lie. There isn't anything inherently good about being thin. It fits a current, transitory beauty standard, but that isn't anything real. (Healthy is real, but healthy is more than just a number, and more than just the physical too.)
All in all, my body and my weight are going to do all sorts of crazy things throughout my life. Everyone's will. I'd much rather be happy through all of that. I imagine I'll be healthier too if I eat and act consistently because I love me than being stuck in a cycle where I'm only motivated to do well when I feel bad.
We would all be so much happier (and healthier) if we just let go of all that baggage, all that negativity. Easier said than done, I know. I don't know how exactly to love my body. Frankly, I'm not even sure what that phrase means, it is kind of a new agey overly vague kind of phrase. I just know that what I currently do doesn't work, not really. I hope to have a long life with me and my body, and I'd rather spend it as friends than enemies.
In theory I think of myself as having excellent body love. I'm the girl who sometimes takes her husbands compliments with a bit of gratitude and a cheeky "I know". The girl whose high school yearbook includes the message "you are beautiful...the problem is that you know it." And I usually do know it. Sort of.
That said, I'm kind of ashamed of how thrilled I am by my body lately. Not because I'm so glad that I embrace the whole aforementioned body love thing. No, I'm psyched to finally be back to my wedding weight. Really, really thrilled. Stop to check myself out in the mirror, contemplate how skimpy of clothing I can get away with thrilled. Which would be fine if I didn't remember how horrid I felt before.
My first year of law school was so not good to me. I went from walking around a huge campus everyday and halfway decent eating habits to taking the bus between sitting on the couch at home and sitting at a desk at school. The very same school where I survived largely on a diet of free pizza. Add in a lovely dose of birth control and I gained about 20lbs and officially moving to overweight BMI in the space of 6 months. Being 5' 2", those 20 lbs are kind of a big deal. As the stretch marks from my thighs ballooning will always remind me.
Me in the Spring of 2009, at about 145lbs
I should probably say, that all in all, I was still fine. Health wise, I was probably just peachy. Even by superficial standards, I was still ok. But for me, I hated it. I hated me for getting like that. I silently, and not so silently swore at the new numbers on my necessarily new pants. I would suck in my cheeks when I looked in the mirror just so I could get a glimpse of the real me.
So, after reading some very good and very sensible posts on weight loss through calorie counting, I started paying attention to what was going into my mouth. For the first few months, I was a little crazy. I used one of those little calculator things that says if you want to lose x lbs in a certain amount of time, you should eat y calories. My magic number was 1,200. With that many "allowed" I would either scream from hunger and frustration at the end of the day, or cry with disgust at my failure of 1,300 and wonder why I just had to have that extra piece of toast and ruin everything.
I did gradually start to calm down, to stay aware, but in a sane way. But not until I started seeing some smaller numbers on the scale.
Yay rah for me for getting down to where I'm at now. I just wish I did it for the right reasons. I lost weight because I hated my body. I wish I had done it because I loved it.
I'm not anti losing weight. No one can deny that generally speaking healthy behavior like eating right and exercising leads to being thinner. And at certain levels, being overweight can cause some negative consequences of their own. I've seen people I love dearly deal with most of them.
It makes sense that if you love yourself, including your body and all its awesomeness, you would take care of it. That's hardly an original idea. Right now, that's not why I take care of my body. I take care of it because I only love it when it does what I want, looks how I want. Which is to say, I don't love it at all. Aa any child can tell you that conditional love isn't the real deal.
Hating my weight gain led me to do some healthy things. I think many people look at things like that and feel like it is necessary and positive to shame themselves and others into losing some weight. There's a reason we talk about eating dessert as being bad, talk about working out as making up for something. Every way we talk about anything that could impact weight is loaded with guilt and judgment. And I guess that oftentimes all that works. The crippling guilt from not meeting my calorie goals, not looking how I "should" really did cause me to loose some weight.
But ultimately it doesn't solve anything. It's built on a lie. There isn't anything inherently good about being thin. It fits a current, transitory beauty standard, but that isn't anything real. (Healthy is real, but healthy is more than just a number, and more than just the physical too.)
All in all, my body and my weight are going to do all sorts of crazy things throughout my life. Everyone's will. I'd much rather be happy through all of that. I imagine I'll be healthier too if I eat and act consistently because I love me than being stuck in a cycle where I'm only motivated to do well when I feel bad.
We would all be so much happier (and healthier) if we just let go of all that baggage, all that negativity. Easier said than done, I know. I don't know how exactly to love my body. Frankly, I'm not even sure what that phrase means, it is kind of a new agey overly vague kind of phrase. I just know that what I currently do doesn't work, not really. I hope to have a long life with me and my body, and I'd rather spend it as friends than enemies.
Me now, at about 125lbs. Not that the numbers really matter, but they kind of still do.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Sew
I don't know if it is a function of getting older, nesting, or just a good case of blog induced envy, but lately I've been really wishing I had the skill and equipment to sew.
It's an odd feeling for a girl who used to groan at any mention of crafts. I haven't touched a sewing machine since 4H, where I made a truly hideously kitschy Noah's ark vest (it had flappy elephant ears and a abundance of awkward, theoretically decorative buttons) and a mediocre potholder. I haven't really wanted to either.
But then I go strolling through etsy and find a birthday banner that would look just perfect over our window. And I think, hey, I could do that (I probably can't, but oh, wouldn't it be fun to learn?) Before long it's images of custom skirts and curtains. When I get to picturing the quilt I could totally (not) make, it's generally time to rejoin the reality of my non-existed skills, and the lack of space and money to learn right now.
Still, it's nice to think about a house with little things that I actually created. Including a cute little bit of birthday bunting.
It's an odd feeling for a girl who used to groan at any mention of crafts. I haven't touched a sewing machine since 4H, where I made a truly hideously kitschy Noah's ark vest (it had flappy elephant ears and a abundance of awkward, theoretically decorative buttons) and a mediocre potholder. I haven't really wanted to either.
But then I go strolling through etsy and find a birthday banner that would look just perfect over our window. And I think, hey, I could do that (I probably can't, but oh, wouldn't it be fun to learn?) Before long it's images of custom skirts and curtains. When I get to picturing the quilt I could totally (not) make, it's generally time to rejoin the reality of my non-existed skills, and the lack of space and money to learn right now.
Still, it's nice to think about a house with little things that I actually created. Including a cute little bit of birthday bunting.
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