Day 23 - a youtube video that makes you laugh.
IWILLGETYOUFORTHISMONDAY! YOU! YOU! Your time is over, Monday!
Showing posts with label 30 days. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 30 days. Show all posts
Monday, November 8, 2010
Day 22 - Blog
Day 22 - a website that has been meaningful since your loss.
There can't be only one. That's just not fair.
The "L" part of the adoption/loss/infertility online community is one I tried to avoid before sliding into that category myself. There were blogs I would stumble upon, read, cry, and then say to myself, "I have to look away. That won't be me. That can't be me."
Pre and even during pregnancy I was hellbent on puppy dogs and rainbows and "thinking only positive thoughts" and I couldn't let the possibility of loss even enter my thoughts for more than a few moments.
But guess what, kids? Completely isolating yourself from anything remotely negative or painful and thinking only good thoughts while putting flowers in your hair and blowing kisses at the world - That doesn't always work. **
And for the longest time I blamed myself for our loss. I wasn't positive enough. I didn't want it bad enough. There was something I did (or didn't do) to make this happen. And you know you're being irrational and yet there is nothing anyone can say to make you not feel those thoughts.
And those thoughts are sucky enough. Believe me. It sucks even more to have them reaffirmed in allegedly feminist writing. In fact, that still makes me seethe. So much so, I won't reference the tome.
But once I found myself a part of the "L" I started scratching and clawing and hunting for all of the other loss blogs I could find. I forged bonds with those whose losses were still recent, like mine. I found strength from those who were a little further along the grief road. I realized I wasn't alone in my thoughts or my self-blame or any of the other crazed things that come out of your head when you are trying to comprehend an absolutely incomprehensible event.
And I will be forever grateful to those bloggers who reached out in my early days and said to me, kindly, softly, knowingly, "You will keep living. I promise. I did."
So this is a shout out to the entire ALI community. All three letters of it. I wouldn't feel right pointing to one blog over another. Because I would inevitably forget one. And, like life, I gravitate towards some on some days, others at other times. I am just so thankful there is a realm that exists where I can float among similar beings, each one unique, but connected.
** this, in no means is a diss on thinking positive. You know I loves me some Perfect Moment Mondays, and let's be honest, being bitter and negative 24/7 is totally draining. And gives you wrinkles. Positive thinking - it can do some amazing things. But there are times when the body is a tad more forceful in the mind/body connection. And that does not equate to a shortcoming in your mind, or your control over it. There are just some things you cannot control.
There can't be only one. That's just not fair.
The "L" part of the adoption/loss/infertility online community is one I tried to avoid before sliding into that category myself. There were blogs I would stumble upon, read, cry, and then say to myself, "I have to look away. That won't be me. That can't be me."
Pre and even during pregnancy I was hellbent on puppy dogs and rainbows and "thinking only positive thoughts" and I couldn't let the possibility of loss even enter my thoughts for more than a few moments.
But guess what, kids? Completely isolating yourself from anything remotely negative or painful and thinking only good thoughts while putting flowers in your hair and blowing kisses at the world - That doesn't always work. **
And for the longest time I blamed myself for our loss. I wasn't positive enough. I didn't want it bad enough. There was something I did (or didn't do) to make this happen. And you know you're being irrational and yet there is nothing anyone can say to make you not feel those thoughts.
And those thoughts are sucky enough. Believe me. It sucks even more to have them reaffirmed in allegedly feminist writing. In fact, that still makes me seethe. So much so, I won't reference the tome.
But once I found myself a part of the "L" I started scratching and clawing and hunting for all of the other loss blogs I could find. I forged bonds with those whose losses were still recent, like mine. I found strength from those who were a little further along the grief road. I realized I wasn't alone in my thoughts or my self-blame or any of the other crazed things that come out of your head when you are trying to comprehend an absolutely incomprehensible event.
And I will be forever grateful to those bloggers who reached out in my early days and said to me, kindly, softly, knowingly, "You will keep living. I promise. I did."
So this is a shout out to the entire ALI community. All three letters of it. I wouldn't feel right pointing to one blog over another. Because I would inevitably forget one. And, like life, I gravitate towards some on some days, others at other times. I am just so thankful there is a realm that exists where I can float among similar beings, each one unique, but connected.
** this, in no means is a diss on thinking positive. You know I loves me some Perfect Moment Mondays, and let's be honest, being bitter and negative 24/7 is totally draining. And gives you wrinkles. Positive thinking - it can do some amazing things. But there are times when the body is a tad more forceful in the mind/body connection. And that does not equate to a shortcoming in your mind, or your control over it. There are just some things you cannot control.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Day 21 - Recipe
I'm not trying to be a downer. Honest. I'm just following the MEME! But yes, it does seem that the blog's taken a bit of a somber turn of late. Here's how I'll make it up to you:
Day 21 - A Recipe
I can't really recall the original source for this recipe. I think it was actually the Frugal Gourmet - that guy on public TV that could be the doppelganger for my high school humanities teacher. I have added some elements from my mom/grandma's practices, but not a lot, because they are waaaaay too heavy on the butter and sour cream for me. And I've added some healthier and vegan options as well since we're toying with this lifestyle (and kind of digging it.) So, without further ado....
Pierogi
[note: if I'm going through the trouble of mixing, mashing, flouring up my counter tops, I want to make it worth our while. I usually double, triple or quadruple this recipe and freeze a batch to boil up later]
ingredients:
dough
3 cups flour (I usually mix 1 c. whole wheat with 2 flour. I wouldn't recommend using all wheat flour - it's not as maleable when you need it to be)
1.5 tsp salt
1 egg (your favorite egg substitute works fine here. Or just increase the amount of vegetable oil you use by about a tablespoon)
3/4 cup water
4 tsp vegetable oil
filling
1 tablespoon butter (or earth balance spread)
1/3 cup onion finely chopped
1 cup potatoes - cold, mashed
3/4 cup shredded cheddar cheese (or sauerkraut)
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
For the dough:
Combine the flour with the salt. Beat together the egg (or egg sub), water and oil and stir into the flour mixture to make a soft, but not sticky dough, that holds together in a ball. If necessary, add 1 tbs more of water at a time, being careful not to make the dough sticky.
Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Knead about ten times or until smooth. Half the dough. Cover the halves with plastic wrap or a damp cloth and let rest for 20 minutes.
For the filling:
Meanwhile, in a skillet, heat the butter over medium heat. Cook the onions for 3-5 minutes or until tender. Transfer to a bowl and add the potatoes, cheese (or sauerkraut), salt and pepper.
Working with one portion of the dough at a time and keeping the remaining dough covered, roll out on to a lightly floured surface to 1/16" thickness. Using a 3" cutter (or the floured top of a drinking glass) cut the dough in rounds.
Place 1 tsp of filling (heck, shove all you can, I say) on each round. Lightly moisten the edge of 1/ the dough with water, pinch edges together to seal and crimp. Place on a cloth and cover with a damp cloth to prevent them from drying out. Repeat with the remaining portions of the dough.
[now, you can choose to place the pierogi on a floured cookie sheet and freeze them - you can toss them into a freezer bag or container once they are frozen and you're sure they won't stick together. Or you can enjoy them right now. I usually do a combo of both]
In a large pot of boiling salted water, cook the pierogi in batches for about 2 minutes or until they float to the top, stirring gently to prevent sticking. Remove to a collander to drain.
In a large heavy skillet (cast iron rocks here), or just reuse the one you used to fry the onions in the first place, melt some oil and butter over medium heat, cook a few slices of onions for about 5 minutes until golden. Add a few pierogi at a time and toss to coat and warm through. (I like to brown the outside of the pierogi just a little here. personal preference.)
This recipe makes about 30.
Enjoy!
Day 21 - A Recipe
I can't really recall the original source for this recipe. I think it was actually the Frugal Gourmet - that guy on public TV that could be the doppelganger for my high school humanities teacher. I have added some elements from my mom/grandma's practices, but not a lot, because they are waaaaay too heavy on the butter and sour cream for me. And I've added some healthier and vegan options as well since we're toying with this lifestyle (and kind of digging it.) So, without further ado....
Pierogi
[note: if I'm going through the trouble of mixing, mashing, flouring up my counter tops, I want to make it worth our while. I usually double, triple or quadruple this recipe and freeze a batch to boil up later]
ingredients:
dough
3 cups flour (I usually mix 1 c. whole wheat with 2 flour. I wouldn't recommend using all wheat flour - it's not as maleable when you need it to be)
1.5 tsp salt
1 egg (your favorite egg substitute works fine here. Or just increase the amount of vegetable oil you use by about a tablespoon)
3/4 cup water
4 tsp vegetable oil
filling
1 tablespoon butter (or earth balance spread)
1/3 cup onion finely chopped
1 cup potatoes - cold, mashed
3/4 cup shredded cheddar cheese (or sauerkraut)
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
For the dough:
Combine the flour with the salt. Beat together the egg (or egg sub), water and oil and stir into the flour mixture to make a soft, but not sticky dough, that holds together in a ball. If necessary, add 1 tbs more of water at a time, being careful not to make the dough sticky.
Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Knead about ten times or until smooth. Half the dough. Cover the halves with plastic wrap or a damp cloth and let rest for 20 minutes.
For the filling:
Meanwhile, in a skillet, heat the butter over medium heat. Cook the onions for 3-5 minutes or until tender. Transfer to a bowl and add the potatoes, cheese (or sauerkraut), salt and pepper.
Working with one portion of the dough at a time and keeping the remaining dough covered, roll out on to a lightly floured surface to 1/16" thickness. Using a 3" cutter (or the floured top of a drinking glass) cut the dough in rounds.
Place 1 tsp of filling (heck, shove all you can, I say) on each round. Lightly moisten the edge of 1/ the dough with water, pinch edges together to seal and crimp. Place on a cloth and cover with a damp cloth to prevent them from drying out. Repeat with the remaining portions of the dough.
[now, you can choose to place the pierogi on a floured cookie sheet and freeze them - you can toss them into a freezer bag or container once they are frozen and you're sure they won't stick together. Or you can enjoy them right now. I usually do a combo of both]
In a large pot of boiling salted water, cook the pierogi in batches for about 2 minutes or until they float to the top, stirring gently to prevent sticking. Remove to a collander to drain.
In a large heavy skillet (cast iron rocks here), or just reuse the one you used to fry the onions in the first place, melt some oil and butter over medium heat, cook a few slices of onions for about 5 minutes until golden. Add a few pierogi at a time and toss to coat and warm through. (I like to brown the outside of the pierogi just a little here. personal preference.)
This recipe makes about 30.
Enjoy!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Day 20 - Hobby
Day 20 - a hobby of yours and how it changed since your loss.
Once upon a time, M, M's mom and I would meet every Thursday night at a local chain restaurant for "mom's night out." A tradition that began as a morale boost in bad times (that weren't even related to baby-making) and carried well into my pregnancy. A weekly event that lasted at least 3 years with seldom a skipped week.
We would order discounted beers, half-priced apps and beat the shit out of the entire bar playing NTN Trivia. You know, those little blue box things? Yeah, we kicked ass. Seriously. We would play individually and one of us could guarantee a top 10 spot on just about any game. I'm not trying to brag. But we were unstoppable. We won T-shirts, a weekend to Atlantic City. We ruled.
But the last time we were there, right after I finally confessed why I had been sipping on cranberry seltzers for months and months, I went into labor.
Only I didn't know it.
I remember calling the person on call and explaining my symptoms, being told to "just relax" and "go home and take a bath." Call in the am if it got worse. I remember M silent on the drive home, already freaking, already jumping to conclusions while I tried to convince myself and him that this was just braxton-hicks. All would be well. We called his mom and said I was taking a bath. We'll be fine. She was relieved.
The next time we talked to her was to tell her our daughters, her grandchildren, were dead.
She went back to the chain restaurant a few weeks later to let our favorite staff and regulars know.
We've never been back.
Once upon a time, M, M's mom and I would meet every Thursday night at a local chain restaurant for "mom's night out." A tradition that began as a morale boost in bad times (that weren't even related to baby-making) and carried well into my pregnancy. A weekly event that lasted at least 3 years with seldom a skipped week.
We would order discounted beers, half-priced apps and beat the shit out of the entire bar playing NTN Trivia. You know, those little blue box things? Yeah, we kicked ass. Seriously. We would play individually and one of us could guarantee a top 10 spot on just about any game. I'm not trying to brag. But we were unstoppable. We won T-shirts, a weekend to Atlantic City. We ruled.
But the last time we were there, right after I finally confessed why I had been sipping on cranberry seltzers for months and months, I went into labor.
Only I didn't know it.
I remember calling the person on call and explaining my symptoms, being told to "just relax" and "go home and take a bath." Call in the am if it got worse. I remember M silent on the drive home, already freaking, already jumping to conclusions while I tried to convince myself and him that this was just braxton-hicks. All would be well. We called his mom and said I was taking a bath. We'll be fine. She was relieved.
The next time we talked to her was to tell her our daughters, her grandchildren, were dead.
She went back to the chain restaurant a few weeks later to let our favorite staff and regulars know.
We've never been back.
Day 18 - Wedding
Day 18 - My Wedding
Our wedding was small. Somewhat by design. Mostly by laziness.
Once upon a time, I wanted to be a Foreign Service Officer. You know, one of those folks that get to sit in embassies and dream of being appointed an ambassador someday or worse-case scenario at least pushing papers in a semi-exotic or interesting location. Well, back when I was serious about it, I studied and studied and took the exam and holy shit got an invitation to sit through the next steps down in the Belly of the Beast (aka DC).
So I studied some more and filled out the piles of paperwork, realized I had lived (at that point) in over a dozen separate addresses (and do I have a reference for each?) Among the rules and regs and orientation packets it said that yes, the U.S. Govt was a strong supporter of families and would do everything possible to make the relocation of you and your spouse as seamless as possible. Spouse. Not soulmate. Not best friend. Not fiance. Not boyfriend. Spouse.
So that's when we decided to get married. A couple of months before my big exam so my name would be officially changed when I took it.
We talked about eloping. We talked about going down to Mexico and inviting everyone to meet us there. But then realized we would be semi-pissed if someone threw that invite to us with less than a month to plan. So, scratch that.
We decided upon a pretty awesome (and free) park very close to our apartment at the time. With rose gardens and a reflective pool. We would have the reception catered at our apartment which we dug almost as much as the one we have now and then family and a few select friends would feast down the road at a swanky restaurant. My dress was not a wedding dress per se, but looked close enough to one. Think lacy, flapper-y, whitish. I tried the gown shops and would just about break into hives everytime the cadre of made-up clerks would dash towards me with forms to complete (free mailing lists!) and harnesses and corsets to take with me into the dressing rooms. Every time I would head towards the discount racks or simpler styles at least a few would nod knowingly,
Oh this is your second wedding.....
No bitches! Step off! You don't know me!
So one evening, M's dad (master shopper) and I went to a plain old dress store and found something we thought would work just fine. M was fitted for a suit. And we were good to go.
The guest list went from tiny to big to small to big again to wait a minute, we don't really know that many people around here, do we? We had just moved back to our hometown from Chile and most of our friends were scattered - teaching and living abroard or just settling back themselves in various parts of the states. We felt a tad hypocritical sending invites off to cousins and aunties and other family folk who's own weddings and important events we had missed because of our travels. And well, we just didn't have our heads screwed on very tight those days either.
If I had to do it again, I would be far more inclusive. Far more far reaching (and timely) in our invites and welcoming of people to celebrate with us. I would have planned for folks to have something to do once they arrived after the "rehearsal dinner" and would have realized that weddings are really not about the bride and groom. I was just so hung up on giving my mom as minimal a role as possible and controlling all aspects of this tiny little party so that it would be "ours" that I am certain I hurt feelings unnecessarily. And caused a still-unrepaired rift with one of my former friends but that is not a story for today.
All in all, the party went pretty well. It was 90+ degrees. So the elaborate speech the minister had prepared turned into a "you?" yeah. "you cool with this too?" yep. And that was it. My mom clapped at the wrong time. My aunt got the great idea to bring my grandmother out of the nursing home for the day and she freaked the F out - that nearly sidetracked some things. My mom got my husband's name wrong (she claims she was joking. He claims she was heavily medicated). The food was awesome. People are still talking about the cake. The bill was astoundingly affordable.
And then we were off for three weeks to Mexico, Belize and Guatemala. Complete with a journey via golf cart to the place where they filmed the first season of Temptation Island.
So romantic, us.
Our wedding was small. Somewhat by design. Mostly by laziness.
Once upon a time, I wanted to be a Foreign Service Officer. You know, one of those folks that get to sit in embassies and dream of being appointed an ambassador someday or worse-case scenario at least pushing papers in a semi-exotic or interesting location. Well, back when I was serious about it, I studied and studied and took the exam and holy shit got an invitation to sit through the next steps down in the Belly of the Beast (aka DC).
So I studied some more and filled out the piles of paperwork, realized I had lived (at that point) in over a dozen separate addresses (and do I have a reference for each?) Among the rules and regs and orientation packets it said that yes, the U.S. Govt was a strong supporter of families and would do everything possible to make the relocation of you and your spouse as seamless as possible. Spouse. Not soulmate. Not best friend. Not fiance. Not boyfriend. Spouse.
So that's when we decided to get married. A couple of months before my big exam so my name would be officially changed when I took it.
We talked about eloping. We talked about going down to Mexico and inviting everyone to meet us there. But then realized we would be semi-pissed if someone threw that invite to us with less than a month to plan. So, scratch that.
We decided upon a pretty awesome (and free) park very close to our apartment at the time. With rose gardens and a reflective pool. We would have the reception catered at our apartment which we dug almost as much as the one we have now and then family and a few select friends would feast down the road at a swanky restaurant. My dress was not a wedding dress per se, but looked close enough to one. Think lacy, flapper-y, whitish. I tried the gown shops and would just about break into hives everytime the cadre of made-up clerks would dash towards me with forms to complete (free mailing lists!) and harnesses and corsets to take with me into the dressing rooms. Every time I would head towards the discount racks or simpler styles at least a few would nod knowingly,
Oh this is your second wedding.....
No bitches! Step off! You don't know me!
So one evening, M's dad (master shopper) and I went to a plain old dress store and found something we thought would work just fine. M was fitted for a suit. And we were good to go.
The guest list went from tiny to big to small to big again to wait a minute, we don't really know that many people around here, do we? We had just moved back to our hometown from Chile and most of our friends were scattered - teaching and living abroard or just settling back themselves in various parts of the states. We felt a tad hypocritical sending invites off to cousins and aunties and other family folk who's own weddings and important events we had missed because of our travels. And well, we just didn't have our heads screwed on very tight those days either.
If I had to do it again, I would be far more inclusive. Far more far reaching (and timely) in our invites and welcoming of people to celebrate with us. I would have planned for folks to have something to do once they arrived after the "rehearsal dinner" and would have realized that weddings are really not about the bride and groom. I was just so hung up on giving my mom as minimal a role as possible and controlling all aspects of this tiny little party so that it would be "ours" that I am certain I hurt feelings unnecessarily. And caused a still-unrepaired rift with one of my former friends but that is not a story for today.
All in all, the party went pretty well. It was 90+ degrees. So the elaborate speech the minister had prepared turned into a "you?" yeah. "you cool with this too?" yep. And that was it. My mom clapped at the wrong time. My aunt got the great idea to bring my grandmother out of the nursing home for the day and she freaked the F out - that nearly sidetracked some things. My mom got my husband's name wrong (she claims she was joking. He claims she was heavily medicated). The food was awesome. People are still talking about the cake. The bill was astoundingly affordable.
And then we were off for three weeks to Mexico, Belize and Guatemala. Complete with a journey via golf cart to the place where they filmed the first season of Temptation Island.
So romantic, us.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Day 17 - Art
Day 17 - an art piece (drawing, sculpture, painting, etc) that moves you.
Oh, this one is easy.
Angie painted this.
When I saw this on her blog, I realized that I was not the only one who cringed at the thought of my children as winged seraphs flitting from cloud to cloud or as my mom put it one day, "like two little bumblebees or butterflies sitting on flowers giggling and and looking over us."
Barf. Barf. Fucking barf.
Because that pretties things up, doesn't it? Removes the horrific imagery of your babies dying in your helpless arms. And sanitizes the truly awful things I wish upon the people I think failed them. Failed us.
I don't want pretty little angels. I want two little girls tearing my house apart, giving me sleepless nights, filling my heart with worry and love. I don't want angels. I want the mess, the chaos, the mischief that is life. I'll take life over angels any day.
And for the longest time, I thought I was the only one.
So when I saw this beautiful painting, I immediate wrote to the artist, who then became my friend, who then made me one of my very own paintings. All of this I cherish.
This is the art that moves me. The art that speaks to me and tells me I am not alone.
Oh, this one is easy.
Angie painted this.
When I saw this on her blog, I realized that I was not the only one who cringed at the thought of my children as winged seraphs flitting from cloud to cloud or as my mom put it one day, "like two little bumblebees or butterflies sitting on flowers giggling and and looking over us."
Barf. Barf. Fucking barf.
Because that pretties things up, doesn't it? Removes the horrific imagery of your babies dying in your helpless arms. And sanitizes the truly awful things I wish upon the people I think failed them. Failed us.
I don't want pretty little angels. I want two little girls tearing my house apart, giving me sleepless nights, filling my heart with worry and love. I don't want angels. I want the mess, the chaos, the mischief that is life. I'll take life over angels any day.
And for the longest time, I thought I was the only one.
So when I saw this beautiful painting, I immediate wrote to the artist, who then became my friend, who then made me one of my very own paintings. All of this I cherish.
This is the art that moves me. The art that speaks to me and tells me I am not alone.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Day 16 - More Crying? Songs and Such
The official month of remembrance and awareness is over. But life without goes on. And on. That's my rationale for dragging out the 30 day MEME that will most likely span 40+ days for me. How's about a lightning round today? Ah, we'll see. Let's take it one meme-day at a time...
Day 16 - a song that makes you cry (or nearly)
Flash back to Day 1 for some sobs all of those slay me. I want to approach today's theme a little differently.
Have you ever found yourself listening to a song and have your eyes well up for no reason? Not because it makes you sad, not because you even particularly resonate with the lyrics, it just makes you feel so....so....alive? Alive with happy AND sad and sometimes all at once. Alive with remembering some hurt and reveling in getting over it (or not). Remembering certain times and scents and people and equally thankful they are not in your life right now, but that your life has been indelibly stamped by them. Gah, I love that feeling. That feeling of remembering what it is to be ME, not just a childless mother, not just a wife, or a businesswoman or whatever, but me.
Here are just a few songs that make me feel this way:
My Curse, Afghan Whigs - if I ever sing in a punk rock back, this shall be my encore. I promise. I had a secret hope that Greg Dulli just might pull this one out (even though he doesn't sing on the original) last week. But he didn't. Probably for the best. This is one of my secret beloved songs.
Jennifer She Said, Lloyd Cole - Aww, forever she said, yeah forever she said, yeah for EHH EHHH EEEHHH ever. Ba ba DAH da da da. Ba ba DAH da da da.... This song will always be me playing hooky, driving in a vintage convertible, with someone I once loved, singing at the top of our lungs. Fearless.
The Bends, Radiohead - Chills the first time I heard the opening chords of this song. I think I had forgotten music could do that.
Best of You, Foo Fighters - M thinks the Foo Fighters are pure pop. I am really ok with that. And I love this song. Aside: A few years ago, Prince was the half time Super Bowl show and he played his ass off in the rainy muck. Doo rag and all. He pulled out a Foo Fighters song and killed it. M. says as payback for them covering Darling Nicki at one of their live shows. Whatever. I swooned. I can't even remember what teams were playing. All I remember is Prince reminding everyone that he can take any song and make it his own. Somehow, when I hear this song in my ears, I dream of Prince singing it. And making it even hotter. Hey purple one, can you make that happen?
Polar Bear, Ride - Actually, just take any song off this album and put it here. Ethereal. Shoe gazing at its BEST. I am STILL kicking myself for not seeing them my very first day in London. My provincial brain just could not grasp the fact that they were actually playing down the road from my dorm. Silly, silly little girl.
She’s not Dead, Suede - Another one from the London days. Overwrought. Angsty. Sometimes that feels like me on a good day. And I need someone to sing with.
And as of Oct. 24th, add this one to the list:
Hyperballad, Bjork, covered by Greg Dulli - picture this: 3rd encore. Way past midnight. Rabid crowd. Can't get enough of this pudgy, cleft-chin dude on stage who somehow has managed to sing over his adorers who have known every word of every Whigs song he has shared. Soft, soft drums, first words....some puzzlement. Wait a minute. I know this song. I know these words. Is it....OMG its Bjork. Greg Dulli is softly singing Bjork, the Bjork that I no longer listen to because its on the album that utters one of my beloved's names and breaks my heart. But this, oh wait, the cresendo...
I go through all this, before I wake up, so I can feel happy and to be safe again...
Tears. Tears! But not necessarily sad. And I've been singing it ever since. And feeling alive.
Day 16 - a song that makes you cry (or nearly)
Flash back to Day 1 for some sobs all of those slay me. I want to approach today's theme a little differently.
Have you ever found yourself listening to a song and have your eyes well up for no reason? Not because it makes you sad, not because you even particularly resonate with the lyrics, it just makes you feel so....so....alive? Alive with happy AND sad and sometimes all at once. Alive with remembering some hurt and reveling in getting over it (or not). Remembering certain times and scents and people and equally thankful they are not in your life right now, but that your life has been indelibly stamped by them. Gah, I love that feeling. That feeling of remembering what it is to be ME, not just a childless mother, not just a wife, or a businesswoman or whatever, but me.
Here are just a few songs that make me feel this way:
My Curse, Afghan Whigs - if I ever sing in a punk rock back, this shall be my encore. I promise. I had a secret hope that Greg Dulli just might pull this one out (even though he doesn't sing on the original) last week. But he didn't. Probably for the best. This is one of my secret beloved songs.
Jennifer She Said, Lloyd Cole - Aww, forever she said, yeah forever she said, yeah for EHH EHHH EEEHHH ever. Ba ba DAH da da da. Ba ba DAH da da da.... This song will always be me playing hooky, driving in a vintage convertible, with someone I once loved, singing at the top of our lungs. Fearless.
The Bends, Radiohead - Chills the first time I heard the opening chords of this song. I think I had forgotten music could do that.
Best of You, Foo Fighters - M thinks the Foo Fighters are pure pop. I am really ok with that. And I love this song. Aside: A few years ago, Prince was the half time Super Bowl show and he played his ass off in the rainy muck. Doo rag and all. He pulled out a Foo Fighters song and killed it. M. says as payback for them covering Darling Nicki at one of their live shows. Whatever. I swooned. I can't even remember what teams were playing. All I remember is Prince reminding everyone that he can take any song and make it his own. Somehow, when I hear this song in my ears, I dream of Prince singing it. And making it even hotter. Hey purple one, can you make that happen?
Polar Bear, Ride - Actually, just take any song off this album and put it here. Ethereal. Shoe gazing at its BEST. I am STILL kicking myself for not seeing them my very first day in London. My provincial brain just could not grasp the fact that they were actually playing down the road from my dorm. Silly, silly little girl.
She’s not Dead, Suede - Another one from the London days. Overwrought. Angsty. Sometimes that feels like me on a good day. And I need someone to sing with.
And as of Oct. 24th, add this one to the list:
Hyperballad, Bjork, covered by Greg Dulli - picture this: 3rd encore. Way past midnight. Rabid crowd. Can't get enough of this pudgy, cleft-chin dude on stage who somehow has managed to sing over his adorers who have known every word of every Whigs song he has shared. Soft, soft drums, first words....some puzzlement. Wait a minute. I know this song. I know these words. Is it....OMG its Bjork. Greg Dulli is softly singing Bjork, the Bjork that I no longer listen to because its on the album that utters one of my beloved's names and breaks my heart. But this, oh wait, the cresendo...
I go through all this, before I wake up, so I can feel happy and to be safe again...
Tears. Tears! But not necessarily sad. And I've been singing it ever since. And feeling alive.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Day 15 - house, well, home
Day 15 - what you like about your house?
Everything.
Only its not a house.
And its not "ours."
Not ours in the sense we don't own it. We rent. And damn, I love renting. My fridge is broke. Someone come fix it. Ooh, look at all those leaves out there. Someone (else, not me) should really rake them so no one slips and falls. Oh, you're here to clean out my air filters so we'll be nice and cozy this winter? I heart you really nice maintenance dude that remembers my name.
M and I have both had the moving bug lately. But if there is one thing that gives us pause, its that we know. We are certain. We could most likely never afford a place this great in any other city that we would want to live in. I am looking out the window in my office, past the turning leaves, straight into the river where I kayak. If I walk the length of the place - and it is looooong - I end up on my little balcony, which overlooks the state capitol. Dome and all.
I live across the street from my Office. As in, the place where I go where most of my other co-workers are. We park there too. Bonus. We can walk to just about all of the eating/drinking/playing establishments in town (and stumble home). The only thing missing is a decent supermarket that's walkable. Hence my madwoman adventure in search of ranch dressing when I was pregnant.
Our place is huge. Far more space than 2 people should occupy. If I were still in Poland this would be a squat for at least a dozen students. M and I each have an office. Each have quiet space. Although we've both taken to the (usually unused) dining room table to do any hard core studying (me for my CAE, M for, well, we'll get into that later).
I love our home. I hated coming back to it from the hospital. I hated the long, empty hallway, esp. when I heard other people's kids running down it. But we are back to a peaceful coexistence again: Me and this space. Despite the size, we ALWAYS end up trying to fit into tiny spaces together - the kitchen (which, admittedly, is the one thing I would gut and redo if we had that option), the broken couch, the floor in front of the couch behind the coffee table we got from the office basement and have proceeded to ruin with our negligent coffee and tea mugs (sorry), M's office (it's the warmest room in the house come winter).
I love the yellow walls of my office, the dark, dark blue in my quiet room. I love that the kitchen is so far away from our living space - so if I'm nonstop munching I at least get some exercise. I love where we live.
Everything.
Only its not a house.
And its not "ours."
Not ours in the sense we don't own it. We rent. And damn, I love renting. My fridge is broke. Someone come fix it. Ooh, look at all those leaves out there. Someone (else, not me) should really rake them so no one slips and falls. Oh, you're here to clean out my air filters so we'll be nice and cozy this winter? I heart you really nice maintenance dude that remembers my name.
M and I have both had the moving bug lately. But if there is one thing that gives us pause, its that we know. We are certain. We could most likely never afford a place this great in any other city that we would want to live in. I am looking out the window in my office, past the turning leaves, straight into the river where I kayak. If I walk the length of the place - and it is looooong - I end up on my little balcony, which overlooks the state capitol. Dome and all.
I live across the street from my Office. As in, the place where I go where most of my other co-workers are. We park there too. Bonus. We can walk to just about all of the eating/drinking/playing establishments in town (and stumble home). The only thing missing is a decent supermarket that's walkable. Hence my madwoman adventure in search of ranch dressing when I was pregnant.
Our place is huge. Far more space than 2 people should occupy. If I were still in Poland this would be a squat for at least a dozen students. M and I each have an office. Each have quiet space. Although we've both taken to the (usually unused) dining room table to do any hard core studying (me for my CAE, M for, well, we'll get into that later).
I love our home. I hated coming back to it from the hospital. I hated the long, empty hallway, esp. when I heard other people's kids running down it. But we are back to a peaceful coexistence again: Me and this space. Despite the size, we ALWAYS end up trying to fit into tiny spaces together - the kitchen (which, admittedly, is the one thing I would gut and redo if we had that option), the broken couch, the floor in front of the couch behind the coffee table we got from the office basement and have proceeded to ruin with our negligent coffee and tea mugs (sorry), M's office (it's the warmest room in the house come winter).
I love the yellow walls of my office, the dark, dark blue in my quiet room. I love that the kitchen is so far away from our living space - so if I'm nonstop munching I at least get some exercise. I love where we live.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
See? I Wasn't Even Kidding - Day 14
Day 14 - a non-fictional book that is meaningful to you since your loss.
Elizabeth McCracken is the easy answer here. An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination is the "OMG. Holy shit. I am NOT crazy!" book. The "what happened to us WAS/IS and forever will be fucked up and it is OK that I was not in my right mind every moment of the way" story. As beautifully written as any horrible story could be, McCracken, man. She speaks to me.
So, how's about a not-so-expected answer now?
There was one book that I read, cover to cover, when I still couldn't see straight. One that I picked up throughout the day and then used to pummel M with facts and information that I had gleaned from it every night when he came home from work.
"Hey, M! Guess what? Did you know the Hardy Boyz made their own trampoline wrestling ring in their back yard when they were kids?"
"Hey, M! Did you know their mom died when they were young? That's sad."
"Hey, sweetie..." [WHAAAAAAAT? Tell me, m. just what did you learn about Matt and Jeff today? I'm just dying to know.]
I can't explain it. I went for a walk most days. One day found me at the library. I saw this book. I picked it up. And good goddess, it became my security blanket. I couldn't get enough of the Hardy Boyz and their trials and tribulations in the WWE. It was simple. It was straightforward. It probably dropped my reading level down several grades. But whatever. It entertained me and g*ddammit I wanted to be entertained.
It did the trick.
Unlike me, trying to replicate a super-sweet wrestling move on M. a few months ago. Yep. Scar is still there.
Elizabeth McCracken is the easy answer here. An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination is the "OMG. Holy shit. I am NOT crazy!" book. The "what happened to us WAS/IS and forever will be fucked up and it is OK that I was not in my right mind every moment of the way" story. As beautifully written as any horrible story could be, McCracken, man. She speaks to me.
So, how's about a not-so-expected answer now?
There was one book that I read, cover to cover, when I still couldn't see straight. One that I picked up throughout the day and then used to pummel M with facts and information that I had gleaned from it every night when he came home from work.
"Hey, M! Guess what? Did you know the Hardy Boyz made their own trampoline wrestling ring in their back yard when they were kids?"
"Hey, M! Did you know their mom died when they were young? That's sad."
"Hey, sweetie..." [WHAAAAAAAT? Tell me, m. just what did you learn about Matt and Jeff today? I'm just dying to know.]
I can't explain it. I went for a walk most days. One day found me at the library. I saw this book. I picked it up. And good goddess, it became my security blanket. I couldn't get enough of the Hardy Boyz and their trials and tribulations in the WWE. It was simple. It was straightforward. It probably dropped my reading level down several grades. But whatever. It entertained me and g*ddammit I wanted to be entertained.
It did the trick.
Unlike me, trying to replicate a super-sweet wrestling move on M. a few months ago. Yep. Scar is still there.
Two-A-Days - Back on Track with the Meme. Day 13
I started late. I'm a slacker. And much like Audrey, I get defiant when I feel obligated. Regardless of whether or not I imposed that obligation on myself.
All of this to explain why you are reading a "day 13" post on the 26th day of the month.
Day 13 - a fictional book that is meaningful to you since your loss
The short answer to this is: none. Sure I've read a few books that I've liked, some that I've set aside. I just haven't been drawn to a fictional piece since our loss. Haven't found that book that's made me go, OMG, how did I miss this one?
I do, however, have immense gratitude for Carl Hiaasen. You know, the dude that wrote Striptease, and dozens of other books, all set in south or central Florida, all having more or less the same plot (corrupt land developer or business owner, quirky middle-aged characters with family issues but good hearts, hijinks, good guys winning). Hiaasen is what I read this year and the year before on our summer vacations down to the Gulf Coast of Florida. Both times felt like a reprieve, like a pause in life where M and I could just grab a trashy novel, a beach towel and enjoy each other's company for a while. And Hiassen was our go-to guy. Nothing too taxing. Nothing too stressful. Just a decent story and a couple of laughs and lots of down on their luck souls getting some breaks here and there.
Hiaasen makes me think of Bonita Springs which makes me think of happy.
**
And so many thanks, by the way, for your comments and emails yesterday. The storm seems to have faded. Life resumes, as it always does, after some tense moments, a shaky day, some hugs, some tears and some love. Thank you for giving me the strength to walk in the door with a smile on my face to try to shift the scene. It eventually worked.
All of this to explain why you are reading a "day 13" post on the 26th day of the month.
Day 13 - a fictional book that is meaningful to you since your loss
The short answer to this is: none. Sure I've read a few books that I've liked, some that I've set aside. I just haven't been drawn to a fictional piece since our loss. Haven't found that book that's made me go, OMG, how did I miss this one?
I do, however, have immense gratitude for Carl Hiaasen. You know, the dude that wrote Striptease, and dozens of other books, all set in south or central Florida, all having more or less the same plot (corrupt land developer or business owner, quirky middle-aged characters with family issues but good hearts, hijinks, good guys winning). Hiaasen is what I read this year and the year before on our summer vacations down to the Gulf Coast of Florida. Both times felt like a reprieve, like a pause in life where M and I could just grab a trashy novel, a beach towel and enjoy each other's company for a while. And Hiassen was our go-to guy. Nothing too taxing. Nothing too stressful. Just a decent story and a couple of laughs and lots of down on their luck souls getting some breaks here and there.
Hiaasen makes me think of Bonita Springs which makes me think of happy.
**
And so many thanks, by the way, for your comments and emails yesterday. The storm seems to have faded. Life resumes, as it always does, after some tense moments, a shaky day, some hugs, some tears and some love. Thank you for giving me the strength to walk in the door with a smile on my face to try to shift the scene. It eventually worked.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Day 12 - Obsessions
Day 12 - something you are OCD about
I'm kind of with Angie on this one. I don't like to drop terms like OCD around too lightly. But that's the title of today's topic, so let's talk about some habits, perhaps some repetitious habits that I may feel a little silly admitting.
Reading through the other ladies playing along, its pretty clear we're all a little hung up on lists of all shapes and sizes. I prefer mine with little empty boxes drawn next to my to dos that I can fill in when they're done. Silly, yes. Satisfying, yes. But I also seem to find a bizarre comfort/discomfort in stacks.
Like when my dear pal S. came into my dorm room in the midst of mid-terms freshman year to find me quietly crying and stacking my books and notes in piles around me.
“Dude, I think if you just opened one and started studying, you might feel a little less stressed.”
Well, yes. Probably. But I just have this desire to physically see a representation of the tasks ahead of me. That stack – manageable. That one – no way. That one over there – I’m going to pretend it’s not really there but I will keep it there so I don’t completely forget that there is something big that I am avoiding.
15+ years later (dammit!) I look around my desk and I see these same patterns. This stack – personal. That stack – work-related. That stack – stuff I should get to sooner than later. It’s all stacks and piles that would probably be thinner if I spent less time stacking and more time doing.
I can’t tell if this is how I get my head around things, or how I unnecessarily add to my anxieties. The stacking helps compartmentalize but it’s not like I create one and stop. Ok, here are tasks I can reasonably address today. One step at a time. No. That would be sensible. I need to know I am in the weeds. In over my head and I need the piles as evidence.
My penchant for stacking is not unnoticed. It is M’s scapegoat for all things missing (aka things he’s misplaced) in the apartment. Sometimes it is the culprit (have you seen the last New Yorker magazine? What about my library book?) Oftentimes not. (honey, where’s my toothbrush?) But anyone who has lived with me for a time can attest that when I talk about piling it on, it’s not even figurative.
I'm kind of with Angie on this one. I don't like to drop terms like OCD around too lightly. But that's the title of today's topic, so let's talk about some habits, perhaps some repetitious habits that I may feel a little silly admitting.
Reading through the other ladies playing along, its pretty clear we're all a little hung up on lists of all shapes and sizes. I prefer mine with little empty boxes drawn next to my to dos that I can fill in when they're done. Silly, yes. Satisfying, yes. But I also seem to find a bizarre comfort/discomfort in stacks.
Like when my dear pal S. came into my dorm room in the midst of mid-terms freshman year to find me quietly crying and stacking my books and notes in piles around me.
“Dude, I think if you just opened one and started studying, you might feel a little less stressed.”
Well, yes. Probably. But I just have this desire to physically see a representation of the tasks ahead of me. That stack – manageable. That one – no way. That one over there – I’m going to pretend it’s not really there but I will keep it there so I don’t completely forget that there is something big that I am avoiding.
15+ years later (dammit!) I look around my desk and I see these same patterns. This stack – personal. That stack – work-related. That stack – stuff I should get to sooner than later. It’s all stacks and piles that would probably be thinner if I spent less time stacking and more time doing.
I can’t tell if this is how I get my head around things, or how I unnecessarily add to my anxieties. The stacking helps compartmentalize but it’s not like I create one and stop. Ok, here are tasks I can reasonably address today. One step at a time. No. That would be sensible. I need to know I am in the weeds. In over my head and I need the piles as evidence.
My penchant for stacking is not unnoticed. It is M’s scapegoat for all things missing (aka things he’s misplaced) in the apartment. Sometimes it is the culprit (have you seen the last New Yorker magazine? What about my library book?) Oftentimes not. (honey, where’s my toothbrush?) But anyone who has lived with me for a time can attest that when I talk about piling it on, it’s not even figurative.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Day 11 - Recent Photo
Day 11 - a photo of you recently and how it makes you feel seeing it now.
Is a year ago recent? I think it should be. What if I look exactly the same? That should count, right?
This is me, and two other gorgeous women, who also had children that aren't with us today. Bonus points if you can guess who they are.
I look at this photo and remember the kind older gentlemen who took it for it when he saw us struggling to get that outstretched arm, aim and hope for the best self-portrait. He said, "look at those smiles. You must be really good friends."
And the truth was, it had only been hours since we met. It was, but it wasn't. We had been writing and reading and consoling and grieving with each other for months and months.
It is true that real hugs feel even better than virtual ones.
I look at this photo and I know there is life after loss. Because we are living it.
Is a year ago recent? I think it should be. What if I look exactly the same? That should count, right?
This is me, and two other gorgeous women, who also had children that aren't with us today. Bonus points if you can guess who they are.
I look at this photo and remember the kind older gentlemen who took it for it when he saw us struggling to get that outstretched arm, aim and hope for the best self-portrait. He said, "look at those smiles. You must be really good friends."
And the truth was, it had only been hours since we met. It was, but it wasn't. We had been writing and reading and consoling and grieving with each other for months and months.
It is true that real hugs feel even better than virtual ones.
I look at this photo and I know there is life after loss. Because we are living it.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Day 10 - An Old Photo
Day 10 - a photo taken over 10 years ago of you and how it makes you feel seeing it now.
This post was a little fun. Because it forced me to dig through an old box of photos. The hard part was trying to decide what to share here - a pic of me and my old friend A? Me and the original J*vi? The original Isa? Most of these photos made me smile. In fact, there's one lingering on my face right now. I couldn't find the photo I had in mind, the one from my own house of bad vibes, which is most likely for the best, particularly if I ever plan on running for office.
So I give you this one:
Summer 1998. Lithuania, or maybe Latvia. Just a few weeks after M and I first met, moved in together, and pretty much understood we would be spending the rest of our lives together. I can't explain it - I knew this as a fact before I actually liked him. Let alone loved. I think he might say the same thing. I am wearing his shirt. We are sleepless, probably haven't eaten in a day, and simply, blissfully happy. Hopping on trains, wandering cities, spending a lot of time in parks. Because, well, they're free.
Sure my hair is ridiculous. Whatever. 1998. I bet yours was too.
How does this photo make me feel now? Like it was yesterday. Like sometimes following your heart pays off. Like I am the luckiest girl in the world.
This post was a little fun. Because it forced me to dig through an old box of photos. The hard part was trying to decide what to share here - a pic of me and my old friend A? Me and the original J*vi? The original Isa? Most of these photos made me smile. In fact, there's one lingering on my face right now. I couldn't find the photo I had in mind, the one from my own house of bad vibes, which is most likely for the best, particularly if I ever plan on running for office.
So I give you this one:
Summer 1998. Lithuania, or maybe Latvia. Just a few weeks after M and I first met, moved in together, and pretty much understood we would be spending the rest of our lives together. I can't explain it - I knew this as a fact before I actually liked him. Let alone loved. I think he might say the same thing. I am wearing his shirt. We are sleepless, probably haven't eaten in a day, and simply, blissfully happy. Hopping on trains, wandering cities, spending a lot of time in parks. Because, well, they're free.
Sure my hair is ridiculous. Whatever. 1998. I bet yours was too.
How does this photo make me feel now? Like it was yesterday. Like sometimes following your heart pays off. Like I am the luckiest girl in the world.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Day 9 - A Photo You Took Since Your Loss
Here's one for ya:
I distinctly recall pulling out my camera and feeling kinda artsy this weekend. This amazing, restorative weekend spent with some other baby lost moms. I think Niobe was rubbing off on me.
Nothing fancy, but I like it. I'm a little partial to the beach off season. And wonderlands.
I distinctly recall pulling out my camera and feeling kinda artsy this weekend. This amazing, restorative weekend spent with some other baby lost moms. I think Niobe was rubbing off on me.
Nothing fancy, but I like it. I'm a little partial to the beach off season. And wonderlands.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Day 8 - a photo that makes you angry/sad.
Day 8 - a photo that makes you angry/sad
And, just like that, I'm days behind on the MEME. Don't worry, I've already received some tsk tsks from IRL friends. And I'll do my best to catch up.
But can I just skip over the rest of the picture posts? Please?
My relationship with photography could be one of the most striking changes since the birth and loss of our daughters.
Because on the one day, in the few moments that we needed a camera, we had none. For some reason, the woman that carries a little point-and-shoot with her everywhere had a an empty purse. The man who takes hundreds of photos weekly had nothing in his hands.
But its worse than that. Its not like we trekked hours to get to the hospital. We could walk there from our apartment. One phone call to M's parents or my brother would have sent them and any photo-taking apparatus we wanted dashing to the room where we were weeping.
But we didn't call.
In fact, we sent both of them away when they appeared at the hospital that night. Because I couldn't bear to let anyone else into the grief that overwhelmed us. Didn't want to try to explain the events leading up to the delivery. I couldn't get my head around anything that had occurred within the last 24 hours and trying to bring anyone up to speed while hanging on to the final seconds of our daughters was more than my heart and head could bear.
And if I could undo all of that, I would. If I could give the people we love just a few minutes with our daughters while they were alive, I would.
But I didn't. And that is one of the most shameful admissions I can make. I didn't. I didn't let anyone in.
**
We have just a handful of photos of Isa and Jovi - one from a camera that a nurse let us borrow and a few taken on my cell phone that are far too fuzzy to do anything with. Trying to transfer the photos from the nurse's camera to something we could use was a fiasco, an absolute breaking point for M, who insisted the prints she handed us were lovely but there HAD to be a way to get them off the memory card and on to one of our computers - he ran home to get a computer and any other USB apparatus he could grab. He opted not to grab a camera because at that point the girls had already passed away and it felt, I don't know, it didn't feel right snapping photos. Frankly, I am surprised he didn't hurl all of our cameras into the river. Because that was his state when he returned to the hospital. Shaking. In shock. Realizing that the apartment he entered looked exactly like it did just a day earlier when all was well. The understanding that everything in our lives had completely shifted, but nothing else had.
So, its not a particular photo that makes me angry/sad/ashamed - it is the lack of them, and the remembrance of my own selfishness that makes me cringe.
And, just like that, I'm days behind on the MEME. Don't worry, I've already received some tsk tsks from IRL friends. And I'll do my best to catch up.
But can I just skip over the rest of the picture posts? Please?
My relationship with photography could be one of the most striking changes since the birth and loss of our daughters.
Because on the one day, in the few moments that we needed a camera, we had none. For some reason, the woman that carries a little point-and-shoot with her everywhere had a an empty purse. The man who takes hundreds of photos weekly had nothing in his hands.
But its worse than that. Its not like we trekked hours to get to the hospital. We could walk there from our apartment. One phone call to M's parents or my brother would have sent them and any photo-taking apparatus we wanted dashing to the room where we were weeping.
But we didn't call.
In fact, we sent both of them away when they appeared at the hospital that night. Because I couldn't bear to let anyone else into the grief that overwhelmed us. Didn't want to try to explain the events leading up to the delivery. I couldn't get my head around anything that had occurred within the last 24 hours and trying to bring anyone up to speed while hanging on to the final seconds of our daughters was more than my heart and head could bear.
And if I could undo all of that, I would. If I could give the people we love just a few minutes with our daughters while they were alive, I would.
But I didn't. And that is one of the most shameful admissions I can make. I didn't. I didn't let anyone in.
**
We have just a handful of photos of Isa and Jovi - one from a camera that a nurse let us borrow and a few taken on my cell phone that are far too fuzzy to do anything with. Trying to transfer the photos from the nurse's camera to something we could use was a fiasco, an absolute breaking point for M, who insisted the prints she handed us were lovely but there HAD to be a way to get them off the memory card and on to one of our computers - he ran home to get a computer and any other USB apparatus he could grab. He opted not to grab a camera because at that point the girls had already passed away and it felt, I don't know, it didn't feel right snapping photos. Frankly, I am surprised he didn't hurl all of our cameras into the river. Because that was his state when he returned to the hospital. Shaking. In shock. Realizing that the apartment he entered looked exactly like it did just a day earlier when all was well. The understanding that everything in our lives had completely shifted, but nothing else had.
So, its not a particular photo that makes me angry/sad/ashamed - it is the lack of them, and the remembrance of my own selfishness that makes me cringe.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Day 7 - Photo
Day 7 - a photo that makes you happy
This is me. Circa 2000. After a day-long ascent up the Inca Trail en route to Macchu Picchu. At that point in my life, the hardest thing (mentally and physically) I had ever done. Because it was all me. It wasn't about dealing with something someone else did to you (chemo, a bad break up, etc.) It was a situation I put myself in and the only way I was getting out was by my own legs.
There were moments where I seriously was not quite sure I would make it to the top. Even gnawing furiously on coca leaves, the altitude was draining. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't feel my feet. And I couldn't understand why everyone else was doing ok and I wasn't and that was beyond discouraging (later M. reminded me that one cannot have a chestful of scar tissue and bleomycin and assume their lungs are fully functional. That helped the sting a little, but not enough) I found it harder and harder to resist the urge to fling myself over the side of the cliff. I remember thinking through an existence in Peru and how I could sustain myself if I had to linger there.
Even with the crest of the mountain in sight, I could not put one foot in front of the other for more than a few steps. I was immobilized. I just can't explain it.
And then M. who had been hanging out at our destination for at least an hour. Who had already done this gruel of a hike and was (rightfully so) resting his own sore legs and waiting patiently for me, realized that his shouts of encouragement just weren't working. And neither were his prods.
So he ran back down the trail, dried my tears, held my hand, took my pack and walked the rest of the way with me.
And then it was over. And then I realized I had done it. We had done it. And OMG the relief, the joy, the pride. It was overwhelming.
This could be my favorite picture of me ever. I keep this photo on my desk at home, which is why you're getting a sun-faded, crooked, photo of a photo kind of shot here.
And yes. This is the very first photo of me that has appeared on this here blog.
This is me. Circa 2000. After a day-long ascent up the Inca Trail en route to Macchu Picchu. At that point in my life, the hardest thing (mentally and physically) I had ever done. Because it was all me. It wasn't about dealing with something someone else did to you (chemo, a bad break up, etc.) It was a situation I put myself in and the only way I was getting out was by my own legs.
There were moments where I seriously was not quite sure I would make it to the top. Even gnawing furiously on coca leaves, the altitude was draining. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't feel my feet. And I couldn't understand why everyone else was doing ok and I wasn't and that was beyond discouraging (later M. reminded me that one cannot have a chestful of scar tissue and bleomycin and assume their lungs are fully functional. That helped the sting a little, but not enough) I found it harder and harder to resist the urge to fling myself over the side of the cliff. I remember thinking through an existence in Peru and how I could sustain myself if I had to linger there.
Even with the crest of the mountain in sight, I could not put one foot in front of the other for more than a few steps. I was immobilized. I just can't explain it.
And then M. who had been hanging out at our destination for at least an hour. Who had already done this gruel of a hike and was (rightfully so) resting his own sore legs and waiting patiently for me, realized that his shouts of encouragement just weren't working. And neither were his prods.
So he ran back down the trail, dried my tears, held my hand, took my pack and walked the rest of the way with me.
And then it was over. And then I realized I had done it. We had done it. And OMG the relief, the joy, the pride. It was overwhelming.
This could be my favorite picture of me ever. I keep this photo on my desk at home, which is why you're getting a sun-faded, crooked, photo of a photo kind of shot here.
And yes. This is the very first photo of me that has appeared on this here blog.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Day 6 - 20 Things
Day 6 - twenty things that calm you.
- Exile in Guyville
- Cooking when I’m not hungry
- Knitting when there’s no urgency to finish
- Kayaking when I’m not busy drowning
- Poodles on my lap
- Galaxie 500
- Laps in the pool
- The sauna when I don’t have to share it
- M’s laugh – not his snort, not his guffaw, not the nervous chuckle that everyone else in the world adores, but his full-bellied, rarely heard, eyes tearing laugh
- Running along the river
- Walking along the river
- Staring at the river
- Mogwai
- Putting the kettle on for tea
- Fresh sheets on the bed
- A new notebook (for my lists, see day 12) and a nice pen
- Reading Lucky “the magazine about shopping”
- Riding the train by myself
- Sunday afternoons at my in-laws’ house, watching football on the oversized couch eating bbq chips with poodles on my lap
- M’s embrace
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Day 5 - Quote
Day 5 - your favorite quote
Being
Is Dying
By Loving
-author unknown (at least to me)
I came across this my freshman year in an impossibly difficult seminar on the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Poets. JFC it sounded so cool in the course catalog, but I can't think of a class that made me feel more like a fish out of water. In fact, I just shuddered when I saw some of the writer's names in the wiki post. Scars, dudes. Scars. I left the class every single day thinking to myself "what the fuck am I doing here?" meaning the school in general. It was a dive face first into pretension - one I wasn't ready for. It is only now that I understand that every single other person in that class was talking as much shit as I was. That is a wonderful revelation, an ah ha! moment that I think only comes with age.
But back to the quote. The one cool thing about the class was that it gave us a reason to request access to the cool library on campus, the one where you had to wear gloves to touch shit, the one that was rumoured to house a book bound in human flesh!!! And pretty much the only place in North America I am guessing found a reason to hang on to the zines and self-published works of these "poets."
So there I am, locked in the reading room trying to find something ANYTHING accessible in the stack of stuff that prided itself on being inaccessible to mere mortals like me. And I came across this quote. And it hit my young impressionable mind like a brick. A ha. Now there's something. I can't even tell you I understood what it meant. It just....spoke to me.
And still does.
Being
Is Dying
By Loving
-author unknown (at least to me)
I came across this my freshman year in an impossibly difficult seminar on the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Poets. JFC it sounded so cool in the course catalog, but I can't think of a class that made me feel more like a fish out of water. In fact, I just shuddered when I saw some of the writer's names in the wiki post. Scars, dudes. Scars. I left the class every single day thinking to myself "what the fuck am I doing here?" meaning the school in general. It was a dive face first into pretension - one I wasn't ready for. It is only now that I understand that every single other person in that class was talking as much shit as I was. That is a wonderful revelation, an ah ha! moment that I think only comes with age.
But back to the quote. The one cool thing about the class was that it gave us a reason to request access to the cool library on campus, the one where you had to wear gloves to touch shit, the one that was rumoured to house a book bound in human flesh!!! And pretty much the only place in North America I am guessing found a reason to hang on to the zines and self-published works of these "poets."
So there I am, locked in the reading room trying to find something ANYTHING accessible in the stack of stuff that prided itself on being inaccessible to mere mortals like me. And I came across this quote. And it hit my young impressionable mind like a brick. A ha. Now there's something. I can't even tell you I understood what it meant. It just....spoke to me.
And still does.
Friday, October 8, 2010
A 30 Days Cheat Sheet - UPDATED
Here's a quick-and-clean list of all the ladies in my Reader who are baring bits and pieces of themselves in the next 30 days or so. Did I miss you? Please tell me!
The Road Less Traveled - I blame (love) loribeth for planting the seed.
Still Life with Circles - altered the idea slightly to fit the lens through which I see most of the world
Some faves: (I almost said "old faves" but I didn't want you to get mad at me)
Between the Snow and the Huge Roses
Epic Fail
Glutton Button
And some blogs and ladies I look forward to getting to know this month:
Angel Baby Alexandra
Butterflies for Alexandra
Chaos Multiplied
Fly Away Home
Lazy Seamstress
Love love
My Insides, Out
Naptime Confessional
Only a Whisper
Raindrops
The Nature of Balloons
The Radar of Chance
Valentina in the Sky
The Road Less Traveled - I blame (love) loribeth for planting the seed.
Still Life with Circles - altered the idea slightly to fit the lens through which I see most of the world
Some faves: (I almost said "old faves" but I didn't want you to get mad at me)
Between the Snow and the Huge Roses
Epic Fail
Glutton Button
And some blogs and ladies I look forward to getting to know this month:
Angel Baby Alexandra
Butterflies for Alexandra
Chaos Multiplied
Fly Away Home
Lazy Seamstress
Love love
My Insides, Out
Naptime Confessional
Only a Whisper
Raindrops
The Nature of Balloons
The Radar of Chance
Valentina in the Sky
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)