Sympathy = I see your pain and I am sorry you suffer.
Empathy = I see your pain and I suffer with you.
Got it? Good.
Oh, why did I feel the need to post this? I've been blog-hopping again, and I got caught up in this blog. I read the whole thing and cried several times. I really, really wanted a happy December for her.
Because I have a child, can I be said to feel empathy for her? Or is it just sympathy?
I want another child. I am greedy. Really, I want three kids, all told. I have one, and one is all I shall have. There's no way my body could do it again. Last time, with Bird, my appendix exploded a third of the way through. I don't want to think what would go, a second time. Also, we can't afford another child. How sad is that? So many people just have them and worry about the money later, but not me. I refuse to lessen the quality of life for the child already here just because I feel twitchy and...empty. Also, also, I haven't been entirely sure I wanted to remain married for the last couple of years - not the best of times to add a baby to the mix, eh? Logic is hard cheese when faced with wanting another little one. So I read that blog, and I started weeping and trying not to get tears in the keyboard because then I would not only be sad but bereft of Bob the Wonder Computer.
I wasn't crying for me. I was crying for a woman who has been dealt a crappy hand and is struggling to play it. I was crying because I know a woman who has terminated pregnancies because condoms were inconvenient but abortions weren't. Six of them. And there are women in the world who are beggaring themselves for the chance at one baby. One.
So, sympathy or empathy? I think empathy...if only because I hurt to the very heart of me, and I just don't think sympathy goes that deep.
So, after I read and read and read and cried and cried and cried, I wrote this:
From the Outside Looking In
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You know mama, you give us this expectation
That we are supposed to be fecund,
We should be able to produce children as readily
As the blood that comes with each passing moon
How unfair, then
To deny that fertility
To break the body from creation
So that it will not produce
How unkind to surround the grieving womb
With babies, fresh, sweet, soft
To remind it of failures as it struggles
To hold on to a handful of cells
Just one more day
How much worse to give out the hope
That this time will be different
That the struggle, the pain, the misery
The rage
Will finally pass into beauty
Into joy
Only to dash it all
With a scarlet streak
A twinge
Splashing drops
Pitying stares
Awkward silences
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am not sure it's finished, but for the moment...I am.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Painting Ostara (NOT Easter) Eggs
Tomorrow is the Vernal Equinox...Ostara for those who speak Pagan. I promise, this isn't going to turn into one of those blogs that continually natter on about religion and how "somebody done us wrong" and all that. I know I just left that huge pile of steaming rant about St. Patrick's day, but that was more about history than spirituality. I knew all that stuff long before I shifted gears spiritually. This, however, is about religion and history.
So tomorrow is Ostara, and today mum, Bird, and I are going to paint eggs. Tomorrow, Bird will wake to find a little basket with a tiny chocolate bunny or two, some jelly beans, a couple of little toys in it. I'll probably hang it from his doorknob.
Ostara was (and still is) a sacred day - the returning of the sun's strength, the coming of Spring, the beginning of new life. After long winters - short, cold days and long, bitter nights, bare trees, no food, nothing to do but huddle in the back of the cave/hut/two-storey brick-and-board neo-colonial and scromp (if you don't know what scromping is, think about it a while. You'll figure it out.)(Pagans liked to scromp a lot, which may be one of the reasons certain other religions started frowning on the whole scromping thing). It's a celebration of new life. That's why the rabbits - 'cause, you know, they breed like...well...themselves. Ostara is/was a time to go out into the fields and bless them, invite fertility in some fun and interesting ways. It's also why the eggs. Again with the invoking of bounty in the coming year.
When Christianity was getting its toe-hold in the world, the "church" did something quite smart. It took note of when the prevailing religions of the time had their biggest shindigs, and it began holding high holy days then, too. It went hand-in-hand with building churches on sacred space, and it was sound (if rather rude) logic - build where they already worship and they'll come hang out. Celebrate when they do, and it isn't too foreign to them - more likely to convert peacefully. If you go to Europe and visit some of the oldest churches, you'll see interesting things in the rafters and darker corners - some very pagan critters staring at you with a wink and a grin. Hey, who do you think built those churches? Locals, of course!
Bird loves to color eggs. I put him in a white t-shirt and let him loose, and he ends up with a festive shirt and a big ol' grin on his face. I write blessings on the ones I do, and the things I hope for in the coming year. I like to think that when I eat the egg, I'm taking those blessings into myself. We talk about how the days will be getting longer, hotter, and how it's spring - flowers coming out, trees blooming, time for gardens (if you do that sort of thing, which we don't really, but should) and things hatching and being born. It's such an optimistic time of year.
It doesn't bother me that people color eggs, have egg-finds, give baskets when they aren't pagan. Sometimes I think it's downright funny, especially when it's someone who is sort of...rabid...about their faith. They can't possibly know what they're doing, or they's stop. I just want folks to understand what they do, the history of it, the reasoning behind it. I don't do blind faith (which isn't to say that I won't take a leap of faith), and I wish other wouldn't do it, either. I don't think any God wants sheeple worshiping "because they should, that's why", but would rather have thinking folk, well aware of the intent behind what they do and why they do it.
I'm into that Zen mindfulness, can you tell? So I'll leave you with this, because laughter unites us, whoever we worship:
So tomorrow is Ostara, and today mum, Bird, and I are going to paint eggs. Tomorrow, Bird will wake to find a little basket with a tiny chocolate bunny or two, some jelly beans, a couple of little toys in it. I'll probably hang it from his doorknob.
Ostara was (and still is) a sacred day - the returning of the sun's strength, the coming of Spring, the beginning of new life. After long winters - short, cold days and long, bitter nights, bare trees, no food, nothing to do but huddle in the back of the cave/hut/two-storey brick-and-board neo-colonial and scromp (if you don't know what scromping is, think about it a while. You'll figure it out.)(Pagans liked to scromp a lot, which may be one of the reasons certain other religions started frowning on the whole scromping thing). It's a celebration of new life. That's why the rabbits - 'cause, you know, they breed like...well...themselves. Ostara is/was a time to go out into the fields and bless them, invite fertility in some fun and interesting ways. It's also why the eggs. Again with the invoking of bounty in the coming year.
When Christianity was getting its toe-hold in the world, the "church" did something quite smart. It took note of when the prevailing religions of the time had their biggest shindigs, and it began holding high holy days then, too. It went hand-in-hand with building churches on sacred space, and it was sound (if rather rude) logic - build where they already worship and they'll come hang out. Celebrate when they do, and it isn't too foreign to them - more likely to convert peacefully. If you go to Europe and visit some of the oldest churches, you'll see interesting things in the rafters and darker corners - some very pagan critters staring at you with a wink and a grin. Hey, who do you think built those churches? Locals, of course!
Bird loves to color eggs. I put him in a white t-shirt and let him loose, and he ends up with a festive shirt and a big ol' grin on his face. I write blessings on the ones I do, and the things I hope for in the coming year. I like to think that when I eat the egg, I'm taking those blessings into myself. We talk about how the days will be getting longer, hotter, and how it's spring - flowers coming out, trees blooming, time for gardens (if you do that sort of thing, which we don't really, but should) and things hatching and being born. It's such an optimistic time of year.
It doesn't bother me that people color eggs, have egg-finds, give baskets when they aren't pagan. Sometimes I think it's downright funny, especially when it's someone who is sort of...rabid...about their faith. They can't possibly know what they're doing, or they's stop. I just want folks to understand what they do, the history of it, the reasoning behind it. I don't do blind faith (which isn't to say that I won't take a leap of faith), and I wish other wouldn't do it, either. I don't think any God wants sheeple worshiping "because they should, that's why", but would rather have thinking folk, well aware of the intent behind what they do and why they do it.
I'm into that Zen mindfulness, can you tell? So I'll leave you with this, because laughter unites us, whoever we worship:
Yeah, that's about right...
2008 E-Mail Request
To all my friends who, in 2007,
sent me an email with promises of
good luck if I forwarded something . . .
IT DID NOT WORK!
For 2008,
please just send either money,Hershey's kisses Lindt Lindor Truffles
or gas vouchers.
Thank you!
My mum sent me the cartoon...I have no idea who is responsible for the art or I'd give them credit.
I really love my friends and family. I know, I know, sometimes I complain enough to make a misanthrope proud, but I do love them. Sometimes aliens take over their brains and they send me those chain mail letters that promise good fortune or a cute cartoon popping up on my screen if I forward them to eleven-hundred Croatians in sixteen seconds and a rain of blue ice over my house for a year if I just delete the stupid thing. Sigh.
Being a Pagan, I (somewhat by default) believe in magic. No, not the David Copperfield kind - he's fun, but let's get this straight, he's an illusionist, not a magician. So's David Blain, I don't care what he claims. The clown who makes kids in the cancer ward laugh? He's a magician.
Believing in magic doesn't mean I think I can change an apple into a pork chop - although Homer Simpson would be my best friend if I could. Wouldn't that be neat? To take a nutritionally sound food and make it look, feel, and taste like something else while retaining all its nutritive values? Kinda like tofu, only edible.
I do believe that we can shape our reality. I believe that perception is key to our experiences. If someone "curses" me and I believe in that "curse", then I am cursed. The same is true for blessings. It's all in our heads, people.
So when you forward those chain thingies, you make them stronger by feeding them your belief. Also, you clutter up people's mailboxes and waste their time, even if all they do is open the silly things and then delete them.
For the record, I haven't forwarded one in years, and no one in the Latvian Mob has come to collect my spleen for research or anything. And the one time I did forward one, for kicks? I didn't win the lottery or even get a birthday card from my grandma with five bucks in it.
By all means, send me the funny stuff, but quit feeding people's egos and superstitions and just can those fear mongering chain-mails before someone hurts their deleting finger.
* I have no idea what happened to my colors...and I have no idea how to fix 'em. Hopefully they'll return to normal in the next post.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Meanwhile, back at the (germ) ranch...
One of the many festive aspects of being a mum is dealing with bodily secretions and their aftermath. If you're not a parent, you may think snot is horrifying. It's downright tame compared to the things that can come flying out of an orifice at any given moment. The trouble with cleaning up these various leaks is, they tend to get on you and spread the fun. Whee.
When I was a nanny for one of my favorite families, I remember watching the progression of plague through the household, and some of the things I learned are still with me. The kids liked to share drinks with anyone who would put a cup down within reach. They would drink my water, their mum's coke or diet coke or whatever, anything was fair game. They would "share" their sickness right along with those drinks. I always got a fresh cup, and learned to keep it out of reach until they understood they couldn't share mine. I am not a real "sharer" when it comes to beverages. I'm not a germophobe, per se, but I do know that's a fine way to spread stuff around. The Evil Genius doesn't drink from my cup very often, and only when I know he's well. If he's even a little sick, I get him his own cup or simply hand mine over and get a new one. I won't let another kid share at all. I get kind of narked when parents think it's cute, their kids wandering up and having a drink from my beverage. It's not cute. It's disgusting. It's a form of germ warfare, if you ask me. Plus, it's rude. Don't get me wrong, I give kids drinks all the time...but I give them drinks, I don't share. I'll hand over a bottle of water in a heartbeat rather than let a little guy go thirsty, but I don't want it back. I'll get another, thanks.
Around this house, the usual progression is from T to Bird to...maybe me. Or from Bird to T to...maybe me. I don't always get what they have, but when I do, it sucks. I don't like being off my game anyway...but feeling unwell and having to take care of two babies (one grown, one not) while they're sick...just yuck. You see, as is the natural order of things, mum can't be sick. She can't rest, and no one takes care of her when she's flattened by whatever plague they brought home this time. She still has to feed, clothe, and (in my case, desultorily) clean house. If she does take to her bed, she'll have to make up for it later, believe me. This is why I try very hard not to get sick. I don't want the extra work. Last time I was really sick, by the time I was better I was giving serious thought tohomicide a divorce. Probably, I shouldn't get that sick again, ever.
Bird feels better, now. He's serenading his daddy with one of his trademarked concerts at top volume. T would very much like to have a little down time, but Bird is sick of me - he has me all day, every day, but he has daddy only rarely. So T is getting a concert when he'd rather lick his wounds - today was his last day at the old job, and he is already missing it. Not the stress, the long hours, or the jackassery of management, but the cars and the guys he works with. I tried to get Bird to hang with me upstairs, but he ain't havin' it.
T seems to be coughing less, although he is making up for the lack of frequency with greater drama. My goodness, the way he coughs, you'd think to see a lung come flying out at any moment!
I am hoping that what's troubling me today is allergy related, but I have a suspicion it isn't. I'd really like to go to the gym tomorrow. Missing too many days at the start makes it too easy to just quit, and I want to make it a habit. As it it, I'll have to go three day in a row to get back into my two on, one off schedule. Or I could just take two off and be back in the groove. I don't know. I'm dithering. I guess I'll have to wait and see what the glands say.
Meanwhile, I have no idea where I was going with this. I got interrupted a few times, and my train of thought is thoroughly derailed. Oh, well.
When I was a nanny for one of my favorite families, I remember watching the progression of plague through the household, and some of the things I learned are still with me. The kids liked to share drinks with anyone who would put a cup down within reach. They would drink my water, their mum's coke or diet coke or whatever, anything was fair game. They would "share" their sickness right along with those drinks. I always got a fresh cup, and learned to keep it out of reach until they understood they couldn't share mine. I am not a real "sharer" when it comes to beverages. I'm not a germophobe, per se, but I do know that's a fine way to spread stuff around. The Evil Genius doesn't drink from my cup very often, and only when I know he's well. If he's even a little sick, I get him his own cup or simply hand mine over and get a new one. I won't let another kid share at all. I get kind of narked when parents think it's cute, their kids wandering up and having a drink from my beverage. It's not cute. It's disgusting. It's a form of germ warfare, if you ask me. Plus, it's rude. Don't get me wrong, I give kids drinks all the time...but I give them drinks, I don't share. I'll hand over a bottle of water in a heartbeat rather than let a little guy go thirsty, but I don't want it back. I'll get another, thanks.
Around this house, the usual progression is from T to Bird to...maybe me. Or from Bird to T to...maybe me. I don't always get what they have, but when I do, it sucks. I don't like being off my game anyway...but feeling unwell and having to take care of two babies (one grown, one not) while they're sick...just yuck. You see, as is the natural order of things, mum can't be sick. She can't rest, and no one takes care of her when she's flattened by whatever plague they brought home this time. She still has to feed, clothe, and (in my case, desultorily) clean house. If she does take to her bed, she'll have to make up for it later, believe me. This is why I try very hard not to get sick. I don't want the extra work. Last time I was really sick, by the time I was better I was giving serious thought to
Bird feels better, now. He's serenading his daddy with one of his trademarked concerts at top volume. T would very much like to have a little down time, but Bird is sick of me - he has me all day, every day, but he has daddy only rarely. So T is getting a concert when he'd rather lick his wounds - today was his last day at the old job, and he is already missing it. Not the stress, the long hours, or the jackassery of management, but the cars and the guys he works with. I tried to get Bird to hang with me upstairs, but he ain't havin' it.
T seems to be coughing less, although he is making up for the lack of frequency with greater drama. My goodness, the way he coughs, you'd think to see a lung come flying out at any moment!
I am hoping that what's troubling me today is allergy related, but I have a suspicion it isn't. I'd really like to go to the gym tomorrow. Missing too many days at the start makes it too easy to just quit, and I want to make it a habit. As it it, I'll have to go three day in a row to get back into my two on, one off schedule. Or I could just take two off and be back in the groove. I don't know. I'm dithering. I guess I'll have to wait and see what the glands say.
Meanwhile, I have no idea where I was going with this. I got interrupted a few times, and my train of thought is thoroughly derailed. Oh, well.
To go or not to go...
Ugh. Scratchy throat. Nose running like faucet. Today is a gym day - but I am thinking I may not go. I don't feel too awful, but I have no idea if I'm contagious - so do I go get in one workout before whatever I have flattens me, or do I wait and just go after it's run its course?
I'm thinking I won't be going - Bird is still coughing and I don't want to expose him to childcare or vice versa. Sigh. I guess it'll be a "doze cuddled in the chair" kind of day. Maybe I can go this afternoon, when T gets home from work...
Nothing like a new convert, huh?
I'm thinking I won't be going - Bird is still coughing and I don't want to expose him to childcare or vice versa. Sigh. I guess it'll be a "doze cuddled in the chair" kind of day. Maybe I can go this afternoon, when T gets home from work...
Nothing like a new convert, huh?
Monday, March 17, 2008
A little hmmm, and a little hurrah!
First, the "hmm." I had my baseline assessment at the gym this morning. They took my BP (perfect, as always), weighed me (while I wept), and had me bend, stretch, and generally look a fool while they measured my performance - all so I'd know where I am (unfit as hell, that's where!) and can figure out where I want to be (me minus one-hundred-twenty pounds, that's where!) and how to get there (stop eating so dang much and start moving a whole lot more, that's how). I was told to slow down on the treadmill, but lengthen my time. It seems that speed isn't what I need, it's duration. If the heart goes too fast, the fat doesn't go at all. Dang. Also, I don't need to do the weights as much - I'm actually pretty strong and limber for a woman of size. No problem. I will adjust my workouts accordingly, although I am impatient and want to do more, not less. Still, if the end result is me weighing less, I'll manage.
Now for the "hurrah!" My preemie nephew now weighs two pounds!! So he weighs less than the brisket I'm cooking tonight, so what? He's gained weight! When you start out at one and a half pounds, another half pound is huge! The docs are considering transfering him to a hospital closer to my brother and SIL so they don't have a two plus hour drive to get to him every day.
Now I am going to cut strawberries for tonight's desert. Mmm, strawberries...
Now for the "hurrah!" My preemie nephew now weighs two pounds!! So he weighs less than the brisket I'm cooking tonight, so what? He's gained weight! When you start out at one and a half pounds, another half pound is huge! The docs are considering transfering him to a hospital closer to my brother and SIL so they don't have a two plus hour drive to get to him every day.
Now I am going to cut strawberries for tonight's desert. Mmm, strawberries...
St. Patrick's Day Rant
I'll be cooking corned beef and cabbage for dinner tonight, much to my family's dismay. Mum will come down because she, like me, loves the stuff. T and Bird like the meat fine, but not the cabbage. Bird doesn't even want the potatoes, which leads me to wonder if any of the one-quarter Irish in my veins made it to him. I get not liking cabbage, but potatoes? Something's not right with the child.
Seeing as I'm Pagan, you wouldn't think I'd celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Better than most, I know what St. Patrick did to get famous and earn his sainthood. However, I'm also part Irish, and I happen to love corned beef and cabbage. Also, I consider it a reclaiming of the day for Pagans.
A bit of rather bent history (that has, I'll grant you, been mangled in my head over the years and is rather truncated because I'm not writing a book, here)(I'm writing a book somewhere else). When I was a child, we were told that St. Patrick's day was to celebrate his chasing all the snakes out of Ireland. It is an historically serpent-free bit of earth, and the church attributed this to St. Pat and his efforts...kind of overlooking that there weren't any of the slithery things on the island to begin with, if you ask me. Which they didn't, because I was a kid and most grown-ups weren't prepared for my staggering logic and keen grasp pf history but rather appalling lack of respect for theology .
Many years later, people were saying St. Patrick's Day was a celebration of all things Irish, like green beer (wait, isn't beer German??) and green clothes, and green hair, and green mashed potatoes (which I won't eat on a dare because, really...green potatoes???), and rivers dyed green (I'm sure the fish are all so very thankful to be included...like Fridays and Lent weren't enough for them!)(that might only be funny if you're Catholic)(or not) and exclusionary parades, and funny little men waving their shillelaghs about (look it up you pervs!!) and that sort of thing.
In none of the many different explanations for this seemingly random holiday did anyone mention pagans. A most curious oversight of you know what St. Patrick, who was just Patrick at the time (not really, I have no idea what his real name was. For all I know, it was Fred), was actually doing on the Emerald Isle.
He was born and lived sometime between 490 and 461 AD, give or take. Around age sixteen, he was either sent or stolen and taken to Ireland where he spent some time hanging out with sheep and being lonely. He talked to God a lot. You may notice that lots of shepherds do that. So would you if all you had for company all day was a bunch of mutton-heads. Christianity was rolling along like a snowball in those days, spreading out all over the dang place. Good grief, it was getting so that a simple Pagan/Heathen (there's a difference between the two, not that the church cared much) couldn't get any peace, any more. Everywhere they turned, there was a church being built where a sacred grove used to be, from the trees that used to be the sacred grove, or a church going up on a sacred hill, or someone bathing their dirty feet in a sacred stream. To be fare, there was a lot of real estate lumped under that "sacred" heading in the pagan world. We're like that - we just love our planet so. Plus, you know, all those gods needed housing, and they don't do the roommate thing very well. So the pagans were running out of places to have sex on the ground, in the woods, up a tree - they were big on the sex, those little devils - and to read entrails in their spare time.
I digressed. Sorry.
So there was this lonely kid, Patrick Whatsisname, hanging out with sheep and pondering life, the universe, and everything. He got the idea, somewhere along the way, that maybe other folks should share his God. He got out of his contract (OK, probably slavery) and went around telling folks how terrific his God was, and how he reckoned they should convert.
It seems that polite conversation wasn't doing it for the pagans, who tended to stare at him, or point and laugh. Rude beggars, huh? Now young Patrick (or middle aged Patrick, or old Patrick, I have no idea) decided he needed to be a bit more...persuasive. He had noticed something common among the pagan big-wigs. The guys at the top of the food-chain, magic/spirituality wise speaking tended to have a symbol on them somewhere...usually on their wrist. On the wrist that indicated their "hand of power", or the hand which they believed their "magic" flowed from. If it wasn't a tattoo, it was a torque. Guess what the tattoo/torque was? A critter called the oroborus. For them as what doesn't ken what that critter is, it's a snake eating its tail, and often represents eternity.
Seeing as I'm Pagan, you wouldn't think I'd celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Better than most, I know what St. Patrick did to get famous and earn his sainthood. However, I'm also part Irish, and I happen to love corned beef and cabbage. Also, I consider it a reclaiming of the day for Pagans.
A bit of rather bent history (that has, I'll grant you, been mangled in my head over the years and is rather truncated because I'm not writing a book, here)(I'm writing a book somewhere else). When I was a child, we were told that St. Patrick's day was to celebrate his chasing all the snakes out of Ireland. It is an historically serpent-free bit of earth, and the church attributed this to St. Pat and his efforts...kind of overlooking that there weren't any of the slithery things on the island to begin with, if you ask me. Which they didn't, because I was a kid and most grown-ups weren't prepared for my staggering logic and keen grasp pf history but rather appalling lack of respect for theology .
Many years later, people were saying St. Patrick's Day was a celebration of all things Irish, like green beer (wait, isn't beer German??) and green clothes, and green hair, and green mashed potatoes (which I won't eat on a dare because, really...green potatoes???), and rivers dyed green (I'm sure the fish are all so very thankful to be included...like Fridays and Lent weren't enough for them!)(that might only be funny if you're Catholic)(or not) and exclusionary parades, and funny little men waving their shillelaghs about (look it up you pervs!!) and that sort of thing.
In none of the many different explanations for this seemingly random holiday did anyone mention pagans. A most curious oversight of you know what St. Patrick, who was just Patrick at the time (not really, I have no idea what his real name was. For all I know, it was Fred), was actually doing on the Emerald Isle.
He was born and lived sometime between 490 and 461 AD, give or take. Around age sixteen, he was either sent or stolen and taken to Ireland where he spent some time hanging out with sheep and being lonely. He talked to God a lot. You may notice that lots of shepherds do that. So would you if all you had for company all day was a bunch of mutton-heads. Christianity was rolling along like a snowball in those days, spreading out all over the dang place. Good grief, it was getting so that a simple Pagan/Heathen (there's a difference between the two, not that the church cared much) couldn't get any peace, any more. Everywhere they turned, there was a church being built where a sacred grove used to be, from the trees that used to be the sacred grove, or a church going up on a sacred hill, or someone bathing their dirty feet in a sacred stream. To be fare, there was a lot of real estate lumped under that "sacred" heading in the pagan world. We're like that - we just love our planet so. Plus, you know, all those gods needed housing, and they don't do the roommate thing very well. So the pagans were running out of places to have sex on the ground, in the woods, up a tree - they were big on the sex, those little devils - and to read entrails in their spare time.
I digressed. Sorry.
So there was this lonely kid, Patrick Whatsisname, hanging out with sheep and pondering life, the universe, and everything. He got the idea, somewhere along the way, that maybe other folks should share his God. He got out of his contract (OK, probably slavery) and went around telling folks how terrific his God was, and how he reckoned they should convert.
It seems that polite conversation wasn't doing it for the pagans, who tended to stare at him, or point and laugh. Rude beggars, huh? Now young Patrick (or middle aged Patrick, or old Patrick, I have no idea) decided he needed to be a bit more...persuasive. He had noticed something common among the pagan big-wigs. The guys at the top of the food-chain, magic/spirituality wise speaking tended to have a symbol on them somewhere...usually on their wrist. On the wrist that indicated their "hand of power", or the hand which they believed their "magic" flowed from. If it wasn't a tattoo, it was a torque. Guess what the tattoo/torque was? A critter called the oroborus. For them as what doesn't ken what that critter is, it's a snake eating its tail, and often represents eternity.
Pat realized that if he took away this "power", he took away their mystique and leadership ability. So he removed the snakes - often with something edged and unpleasant. Yes, he whacked off their hands. Or branded their skin. Or took their trinkets. Converting Heathens is such messy work!! It was for their own good, of course.
Some pagans today go on "snake crawls", a sort of pub crawl where they wear snakes and proclaim their paganism. I'm not quite that...er...proactive. I also don't necessarily think old Pat went around mauling everyone he met in an effort to build church membership and win a nifty prize. But it's the bloody aspect of what he did that earned his name in Christendom and for which his holiday is celebrated.
So again, why would I celebrate the day? Well, I'm all for a day when families get together and discuss history, theology, spirituality, and the like. Traditions are important - they give us a foundation on which to build our lives. People should discuss their history so they don't repeat it - whatever side of the issue they're on. Also, as I mentioned, I am part Irish. I can celebrate that heritage even as I acknowledge its imperfection. And I am Pagan - and I am celebrating the fact that I can be pagan today without (much) fear of having my (largely not visible when I'm clothed) tattoos painfully removed and other unpleasantness (except for the odd zealot who thinks I'm fair game, but I'm used to that. I live in the Bible belt, after all). Precisely because we didn't get wiped out, I celebrate. And have you ever had a really nice corned beef and cabbage dinner? I mean, yum!
Oh, and I won't be wearing green. I wear blue. Don't even think about pinching me.
Some pagans today go on "snake crawls", a sort of pub crawl where they wear snakes and proclaim their paganism. I'm not quite that...er...proactive. I also don't necessarily think old Pat went around mauling everyone he met in an effort to build church membership and win a nifty prize. But it's the bloody aspect of what he did that earned his name in Christendom and for which his holiday is celebrated.
So again, why would I celebrate the day? Well, I'm all for a day when families get together and discuss history, theology, spirituality, and the like. Traditions are important - they give us a foundation on which to build our lives. People should discuss their history so they don't repeat it - whatever side of the issue they're on. Also, as I mentioned, I am part Irish. I can celebrate that heritage even as I acknowledge its imperfection. And I am Pagan - and I am celebrating the fact that I can be pagan today without (much) fear of having my (largely not visible when I'm clothed) tattoos painfully removed and other unpleasantness (except for the odd zealot who thinks I'm fair game, but I'm used to that. I live in the Bible belt, after all). Precisely because we didn't get wiped out, I celebrate. And have you ever had a really nice corned beef and cabbage dinner? I mean, yum!
Oh, and I won't be wearing green. I wear blue. Don't even think about pinching me.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Wabbits!!
We're what, a week from Easter? I don't actually celebrate Easter, and if it were left entirely up to me, neither would Bird. However, being a half-breed spiritual family means compromise. Well...mostly it means I compromise. I haven't noticed anyone making an effort to join in any of my holiday celebrations.
So we're a week away from what has become a totally commercialized rip-off of a sacred day in most Pagan religions, and I ran across something cool. If I didn't already have plans for Bird's Ostara goodies, I'd likely buy something to help these folks out. Make Mine Chocolate is all about keeping the bunnies folks give each other chocolate instead of the fluffy, high maintenance sort. And, having raised the nibbly little fuzzy-butts myself in the past, I can say with some authority that they are high maintenance. If you intend to tend them right, that is.
I raised Angoras, if you're interested. We also had sheep, and we would spin the combined wool/fur for some fabulous yarn. Mostly, I would "harvest" the fur (totally bunny friendly, they actually enjoyed the process) and card the wool and make blends, because my spinning skills were largely nonexistent. They are still mostly absent unless you require yarn that looks like some kind of horrible nuclear earthworm tragedy, with lots of squidgy bits and some very thin bits in for added fun in working the stuff.
So I dig that the folks at Make Mine Chocolate are trying to keep innocent bunnies out of shelters and rescues when they get too big or troublesome to be cute any more. If you haven't already got the requisite chocolate bunny (And who thought giving kids a fertility symbol on a major holiday was a good idea, by the way?)(Made of sugar and caffeine laden chocolate?)(A food usually symbolizing lovers?) then maybe you could do a double good deed and go get one from the folks giving part of the proceeds to help out the real bunnies.
Brace yourselves, because I amscheming planning not one but two pagan heavy, semi-historical rants about holidays in the coming week! Aren't you thrilled???
So we're a week away from what has become a totally commercialized rip-off of a sacred day in most Pagan religions, and I ran across something cool. If I didn't already have plans for Bird's Ostara goodies, I'd likely buy something to help these folks out. Make Mine Chocolate is all about keeping the bunnies folks give each other chocolate instead of the fluffy, high maintenance sort. And, having raised the nibbly little fuzzy-butts myself in the past, I can say with some authority that they are high maintenance. If you intend to tend them right, that is.
I raised Angoras, if you're interested. We also had sheep, and we would spin the combined wool/fur for some fabulous yarn. Mostly, I would "harvest" the fur (totally bunny friendly, they actually enjoyed the process) and card the wool and make blends, because my spinning skills were largely nonexistent. They are still mostly absent unless you require yarn that looks like some kind of horrible nuclear earthworm tragedy, with lots of squidgy bits and some very thin bits in for added fun in working the stuff.
So I dig that the folks at Make Mine Chocolate are trying to keep innocent bunnies out of shelters and rescues when they get too big or troublesome to be cute any more. If you haven't already got the requisite chocolate bunny (And who thought giving kids a fertility symbol on a major holiday was a good idea, by the way?)(Made of sugar and caffeine laden chocolate?)(A food usually symbolizing lovers?) then maybe you could do a double good deed and go get one from the folks giving part of the proceeds to help out the real bunnies.
Brace yourselves, because I am
Worn Out
He fell asleep mid Cheez-It.
I love the profound simplicity of a child's sleep, the way they relax and let go of the waking world. Wouldn't it be nice if everything was that easy?
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Aww, hail!
So a few minute ago, we had a bit of hail. There was another twister somewhere nearby, but it went visiting elsewhere. This time, T and J took the Evil Genius down to the little bathroom, but I had to take pictures. 'Cause, you know...I am just that clever! Here's what we had falling on our house:
Hailstones...on my front porch...make me happyyyy....
Hailstones...on my big fat hand...make me smiiiile...
Oh, hailstones...on my front porch....make me happyyyy....
Hailstones...on my yard...make me very glad I didn't plant any seedlings yet because they'd be very unhappy with the weather right nooooowwwwww...
So much for the musical interlude. I brought in some hailstones and Bird and I had a snack. Yes, that's how much I respect the weather. Hey, they're calorie free, and cool your drink fast!
The sun's out, now...I may go look for rainbows.
Speaking of Tornadoes...
I had a late start this morning, so I didn't get to the gym until almost eleven o'clock. 35 minutes on level 2 hills, 1.9 miles, and three rounds of the circuit room...in case you cared. A woman who was working out in the circuit room mentioned that we were expecting bigger storms than we had last night, supposedly heading right for us. As we spoke, Alabama was being lambasted (not her words, mine) and we should brace ourselves. Well, thanks, Suzy Sunshine! I opted to finish my workout and let the weather sort itself out without my help.
I had to run to the grocery store afterwards. My goodness. People buying cases of water, loaves and loaves of bread. Really, you get hit by a tornado and you want bread and water? I would be stocking up on chocolate and bottled Starbuck's.
While out and about, I called home to see if I needed to add anything to the list. Our roommate was concerned that I wasn't home, the first time. Second time, he said I needed to get my butt home right away. I told T to relay to him that I would get home when I was damn good and ready, and the tornado could just wait for me.
I got home, and a few minutes later, the sky looked quite sullen. I think the storm was cross with me for not being home when it came to call. T and J were watching the local weather, and as T was helping me bring in the groceries, he told me there were reports of funnels all over Gainesville. That's just a few miles north of us. I replied "That's Gainesville and we live in Braselton." If you live 'round here or look at a map, you'll know why that's so funny. If you don't know, well...we may as well be in Gainesville, where weather is concerned. The storm system was ten miles wide, more than enough to cover Gainesville and us with some to spare. Whatever. I was here first.
On the weather map, there wasn't a fraction of an inch small enough to describe how close the tornadoes were to where we live. Looking out the window, you'd never know they were out there. We're fine, didn't even head for the downstairs bathroom, although I think T and J wanted to go. I wanted to eat my lunch. Working out makes me hungry, dang it, and if I am going to get smushed by my house, I'd prefer to do it with a full stomach.
So here I sit, surrounded by storms, inches away from an exclamation point of an afternoon, and what am I doing? Seeking shelter? Watching the weather channel? No and no. I am eating my mostly-veggies Italian sandwich and watching the Mobil One Twelve Hours of Sebring (I have worked in the communications tower for this race - fun, fun, fun!!). Smart, me.
I had to run to the grocery store afterwards. My goodness. People buying cases of water, loaves and loaves of bread. Really, you get hit by a tornado and you want bread and water? I would be stocking up on chocolate and bottled Starbuck's.
While out and about, I called home to see if I needed to add anything to the list. Our roommate was concerned that I wasn't home, the first time. Second time, he said I needed to get my butt home right away. I told T to relay to him that I would get home when I was damn good and ready, and the tornado could just wait for me.
I got home, and a few minutes later, the sky looked quite sullen. I think the storm was cross with me for not being home when it came to call. T and J were watching the local weather, and as T was helping me bring in the groceries, he told me there were reports of funnels all over Gainesville. That's just a few miles north of us. I replied "That's Gainesville and we live in Braselton." If you live 'round here or look at a map, you'll know why that's so funny. If you don't know, well...we may as well be in Gainesville, where weather is concerned. The storm system was ten miles wide, more than enough to cover Gainesville and us with some to spare. Whatever. I was here first.
On the weather map, there wasn't a fraction of an inch small enough to describe how close the tornadoes were to where we live. Looking out the window, you'd never know they were out there. We're fine, didn't even head for the downstairs bathroom, although I think T and J wanted to go. I wanted to eat my lunch. Working out makes me hungry, dang it, and if I am going to get smushed by my house, I'd prefer to do it with a full stomach.
So here I sit, surrounded by storms, inches away from an exclamation point of an afternoon, and what am I doing? Seeking shelter? Watching the weather channel? No and no. I am eating my mostly-veggies Italian sandwich and watching the Mobil One Twelve Hours of Sebring (I have worked in the communications tower for this race - fun, fun, fun!!). Smart, me.
I said "Bring on the rain"...
...not go make a mess!!
So a tornado, or some wind strong enough to pretend to be a tornado, hit Atlanta last night. Usually when I hear about storm damage, I shrug my shoulders, say a blessing for the folks affected, and continue on with my day. Sometimes, if I know someone involved, I will try to help them recover, but for the most part, I have accepted that I live in a tornado prone area and that, on occasion, I or someone I know will have to dance with the dervish.
I am not surprised when there's a tornado, but it seems to stun the news community every time. They get busier than a fire-ant mound when you step on it. A tornado was bound to hit the city proper one of these days, but folks seem stunned by that, too. Like cities are supposed to be immune, and only little towns or suburbs are subject to the whims of the wind.
Several of the buildings hit are places I have frequented in the past, due to my long history with the Festival of Trees, which until last year was held at the Atlanta World Congress Center. I've fetched lunch from the CNN center a number of times, and stayed at the Omnni hotel. They've all had some kind of damage from the storm.
When T first told me about it, he said that they were all destroyed, along with Centennial Olympic Park and some local lofts. Being T, he of course was a tad...umm...exaggerated in his reporting. They are not destroyed, just a touch...bent (although the lofts do look more ventilated that before). Destroying the Congress Center would take more than wind. A thermonuclear device wouldn't dent that convention-filled concrete rabbit warren.
Atlanta is a bit messy - it looks a little like what I imagine a frat house would be after a three day weekend. Below are some pictures I blatantly copied from several sources, including the AP story here and the AJC website here. What, you thought I would go down there myself? What am I, crazy? Wait, wait, don't answer that.
Looks like a movie set, doesn't it?
Outside the CNN Center
Tornado damage, or SEC fans gone wild??
The Omni Hotel won't need window washers for a while.
The view from the Omni Hotel down to Centennial Park.
A downed light pole at Centennial Park
Drama in the sky.
Friday, March 14, 2008
A crappy poetic interlude, plus more.
It's the "plus more" you're interested in, isn't it? That's OK, scroll on down, but it won't be any more fun than the crappy poetic interlude. You've been warned.
Grey Morning
~~~~~~~~~~
Grey morning crept out,
Dusted the sky with half-hearted light,
Silvered the Leland Cyprus,
Reminded me of sunrises in my Northern years.
Mornings muffled with snowfall.
Mornings whispering with rainfall.
Mornings cacophonous with birdcalls.
Just before the world turns color again,
There is a gel silver look to it,
An "Ansel Adams was here" look to it,
One tree swaying in delicate pink lace
Makes a counterpoint
To this creeping grey morning.
Grey Morning
~~~~~~~~~~
Grey morning crept out,
Dusted the sky with half-hearted light,
Silvered the Leland Cyprus,
Reminded me of sunrises in my Northern years.
Mornings muffled with snowfall.
Mornings whispering with rainfall.
Mornings cacophonous with birdcalls.
Just before the world turns color again,
There is a gel silver look to it,
An "Ansel Adams was here" look to it,
One tree swaying in delicate pink lace
Makes a counterpoint
To this creeping grey morning.
Meanwhile, I am hearing "Bring On the Rain" in my head. The temperature has dropped several degrees since this morning, and a small shower made a comma in my workout at the Gym - all the kids were outside playing and marched in when the sprinkles began, right in front of the window where I was slogging away on the treadmill. Of course I searched out the Evil Genius because I am a mum and we do that. He was holding hands with another little guy, marching along with all the other kids, and I almost fell off the treadmill it was so freakin' cute.
It is darkening outside, clouds thickening and growing broody. I keep telling them to bring it on. Bring on the rain. My poor parched bit of earth won't withstand another long dry like last Summer's drought. We're still some thirteen feet down on the lake. Bring on the rain, I say. Wash away the pollen that is only just beginning to wreak havoc with Bird's and my sinuses and lungs. Wash away the stink of Bradford Pears in bloom (Just in case you didn't know what they smell like, well...the politest way I can put it is - they smell of spunk. If you don't know what that is, go watch Sex and the City until they explain it, because I'm not.). Wash away the dust and grime that have dulled my world, my bit of earth, for months. Bring it on. Bring on the rain.
Again with the meanwhile, the ornamental plum looks quite lovely, all that pink froth against the grey (Yes, spell check, grey. I am reclaiming the spelling of my youth, when we had a choice about these things!! I don't care how much you pout in the corner, it's staying "grey"!) is so delicate, you'd never know that the tree in question (blossoms and all) has withstood some truly impressive winds of late without turning a leaf over it. I do love the grace of the tree dancing in the wind, and it belies a hidden strength, a durability that is enviable. Perhaps in my next life I shall be such a tree, pliable yet constant with tiny little blooming treasures and surprising scarlet leaves.
Now for the gym report, because obviously I did manage to go after fun and games at the doctor's. I did 1.97 miles in 35 minutes on level 2 hills setting, with a top speed of (brace yourself) a whopping 3.8 mph (for a whole 2 minutes, no less!), and three, count 'em three rounds of the circuit room. I felt better today, although my neck is still bothersome. I think taking yesterday off helped, and I'm going to see how two on, one off does as a schedule. I know that I should rest between weight/resistance training to give the muscles a chance to...well...do whatever muscles do when you suddenly force them to lift, press, push, and pull weights after they'd happily settled into an existence of noodlehood. Yeah, the best laid plans, and all that.
Hey, it's sprinkling! I am going to go frolic in the rain...yay...
Where'd the Sun Go?
If I am up, the sun should be too. Right? I've been awake for over an hour now, brain running circles in its hamster wheel. Smell that? It's the smoke curling out my ears from all that activity. I finally gave in and got up.
Some mornings are like that - I know I can sleep a little longer, but I also know I have to be up at a certain time, so I wake hours early and can't get back to sleep. Never mind that I didn't get to bed until one-o'clock this morning - pesky brain won't let me be.
I have a doctor's appointment this morning. I'm not worried about it or anything - I know she's going to chastise me for not keeping track of my blood sugars, being slack about taking my dang medication, and being overweight. She won't be able to gripe about blood pressure - almost always perfect, unless I am really cheesed off. She'll mention the cholesterol medication again, and I'll refuse it again, and she may fire me as a patient because of it. She really wants me to take it, I really don't want me to take it. I'm already on three medications that affect liver function. Do I really need a fourth? What I really need is to lose weight. Why can't doctors prescribe personal trainers instead of drugs? Wouldn't we all be better off?
I was hoping T would be home to watch the Evil Genius while I went to the doc. He was going to be, but ended up going with our roommate J to help out with a job. Sigh. He forgot, when he told J he'd go, that he'd promised to watch Bird so I could have one kid-free appointment this decade. Oh, well. This was the crux of what kept me awake when I really wanted to hit my internal snooze button. Were it just me going, I could roll out of bed twenty minutes before the appointment, get dressed, and go. Bird complicates things. I have to get him up and dressed, throw some cereal into a baggie, fill a cup with milk, and get Bird and his breakfast into the car at least forty-five minutes before my appointment. I hate waking him up early - he can be such a grumpus! I wonder where he gets that from?
I will, of course, wait until the very last minute to wake the little guy. He went to sleep late last night, too. This could be an interesting day. I am hoping to assuage any ill will and Evil Genuisery with a promise of a visit to the gym after - he loves the childcare area. I am likewise hoping to assuage any umbrage from the doc. with mention of renewing my gym pilgrimages, despite neck issues and feeling like an arthritic octogenarian after the last two rounds of huff-and-puff.
Meanwhile, I guess I'll watch the sunrise and think longingly of the breakfast I am not allowed to have because I also have labs today, which means fasting until after theydrain me take blood. I'll pack an apple or (more likely) a little packet of cookies for after, so I won't fall off the treadmill and embarrass myself. That'd be just my luck.
Some mornings are like that - I know I can sleep a little longer, but I also know I have to be up at a certain time, so I wake hours early and can't get back to sleep. Never mind that I didn't get to bed until one-o'clock this morning - pesky brain won't let me be.
I have a doctor's appointment this morning. I'm not worried about it or anything - I know she's going to chastise me for not keeping track of my blood sugars, being slack about taking my dang medication, and being overweight. She won't be able to gripe about blood pressure - almost always perfect, unless I am really cheesed off. She'll mention the cholesterol medication again, and I'll refuse it again, and she may fire me as a patient because of it. She really wants me to take it, I really don't want me to take it. I'm already on three medications that affect liver function. Do I really need a fourth? What I really need is to lose weight. Why can't doctors prescribe personal trainers instead of drugs? Wouldn't we all be better off?
I was hoping T would be home to watch the Evil Genius while I went to the doc. He was going to be, but ended up going with our roommate J to help out with a job. Sigh. He forgot, when he told J he'd go, that he'd promised to watch Bird so I could have one kid-free appointment this decade. Oh, well. This was the crux of what kept me awake when I really wanted to hit my internal snooze button. Were it just me going, I could roll out of bed twenty minutes before the appointment, get dressed, and go. Bird complicates things. I have to get him up and dressed, throw some cereal into a baggie, fill a cup with milk, and get Bird and his breakfast into the car at least forty-five minutes before my appointment. I hate waking him up early - he can be such a grumpus! I wonder where he gets that from?
I will, of course, wait until the very last minute to wake the little guy. He went to sleep late last night, too. This could be an interesting day. I am hoping to assuage any ill will and Evil Genuisery with a promise of a visit to the gym after - he loves the childcare area. I am likewise hoping to assuage any umbrage from the doc. with mention of renewing my gym pilgrimages, despite neck issues and feeling like an arthritic octogenarian after the last two rounds of huff-and-puff.
Meanwhile, I guess I'll watch the sunrise and think longingly of the breakfast I am not allowed to have because I also have labs today, which means fasting until after they
Thursday, March 13, 2008
And the mystery smell is...
...Gasoline! Yes, we have a winner!
It seems the lawn mower, perhaps upset by its battery indigestion, spewed gasoline from its nether regions all over the garage floor. Oh, hurrah.
Time to callthe exorcist lawn mower repair Yeti (aka Big John, who comes to our house and is about the friendliest giant I ever met) to give the tractor beast a good talking to and a thorough going-over.
Meanwhile, our garage is airing out and I have a headache from the combined muscle pain and gasoline fumes, so no gym for me this morning. Maybe this afternoon, but definitely tomorrow after my doctor's appointment. I know, you were desperate to know the minutiae of my daily life. I live to please.
It seems the lawn mower, perhaps upset by its battery indigestion, spewed gasoline from its nether regions all over the garage floor. Oh, hurrah.
Time to call
Meanwhile, our garage is airing out and I have a headache from the combined muscle pain and gasoline fumes, so no gym for me this morning. Maybe this afternoon, but definitely tomorrow after my doctor's appointment. I know, you were desperate to know the minutiae of my daily life. I live to please.
Grumble.
G'mornin'. Haven't had coffee. Haven't had tea. Didn't sleep well. Grumble.
The muscle in my neck that pulls at the slightest provocation has decided to go on strike. Apparently it doesn't like the gym. Stupid neck muscle. Yesterday, I notice the twinging, but I had hoped it was due to the resistance machines and not the usual. Hah!
Last night, every time I move, or T moved, or a cat jumped onto or off of the bed, or the earth spun, or a spider sneezed in the corner, I woke up with a catch in my breath and my neck telling my head who's boss. Today, I can't turn my head more than a fraction without someone driving a railroad spike into my brain via that muscle.
Also, for some reason my house smells like gasoline, or paint, or some other noxious, fume-y smell. Yesterday, T had the lawn mower plugged in to the trickle charger, but her accidentally had the charger set on "git 'r' done now" rather than "slow and steady". All day. Bird and I went outside to play in the afternoon and I smelled...well, there's no other way I know how to put this...battery farts. You know, that acidic, rotten egg smell? I thought one of the neighbors must be doing some fertilizing or something, but noticed smoke boiling from the lawn mower. Right next to where Bird was standing to reach for his chalk. Inches from my beloved's face. How fast can a fat woman move? You ever see a rhino charging a fire? That boom wasn't concrete cracking, it was me breaking the sound barrier. I unplugged the charger - I wasn't going near the clippy things on the battery, 'cause I may be crazy but I ain't stupid - and got Bird far, far away from what looked and smelled like impending doom.
So last evening, at least until I got dinner cooked, the house smelled like battery farts.
Now this morning, it smells like gasoline or whatever. I don't even want to go down to the garage and see what may have spilled, exploded, imploded, or otherwise made my environment a disaster. I'd light incense, but...um...boom?
So I'm a little out of sorts today. Woo-hoo.
The muscle in my neck that pulls at the slightest provocation has decided to go on strike. Apparently it doesn't like the gym. Stupid neck muscle. Yesterday, I notice the twinging, but I had hoped it was due to the resistance machines and not the usual. Hah!
Last night, every time I move, or T moved, or a cat jumped onto or off of the bed, or the earth spun, or a spider sneezed in the corner, I woke up with a catch in my breath and my neck telling my head who's boss. Today, I can't turn my head more than a fraction without someone driving a railroad spike into my brain via that muscle.
Also, for some reason my house smells like gasoline, or paint, or some other noxious, fume-y smell. Yesterday, T had the lawn mower plugged in to the trickle charger, but her accidentally had the charger set on "git 'r' done now" rather than "slow and steady". All day. Bird and I went outside to play in the afternoon and I smelled...well, there's no other way I know how to put this...battery farts. You know, that acidic, rotten egg smell? I thought one of the neighbors must be doing some fertilizing or something, but noticed smoke boiling from the lawn mower. Right next to where Bird was standing to reach for his chalk. Inches from my beloved's face. How fast can a fat woman move? You ever see a rhino charging a fire? That boom wasn't concrete cracking, it was me breaking the sound barrier. I unplugged the charger - I wasn't going near the clippy things on the battery, 'cause I may be crazy but I ain't stupid - and got Bird far, far away from what looked and smelled like impending doom.
So last evening, at least until I got dinner cooked, the house smelled like battery farts.
Now this morning, it smells like gasoline or whatever. I don't even want to go down to the garage and see what may have spilled, exploded, imploded, or otherwise made my environment a disaster. I'd light incense, but...um...boom?
So I'm a little out of sorts today. Woo-hoo.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Reouch.
As in, ouch again. 1.87 miles in 35 minutes on the treadmill, level one hill setting again, and one round of the circuit room. I tried to do two rounds, but I just couldn't. Good grief, just getting up the stairs from my garage was a trial. I need to remember this hurt when I am thinking fond thoughts of Starbucks or Cold Stone Creamery. Although, to be fair, I have been to Cold Stone in over a year. But still...mm...ice cream...wait, no!! Bad!! Down, girl!!
Whew. The downside to being a halfway decent cook is it's easy to get fat. Add psychological issues to the mix, it's even easier. Add elleventy million boxes of Girl Scout cookies a year, assorted easily consumed, fat and/or sugar-laden snacks and convenience foods to the mix and, well...sigh...
So why am I listing what I did at the gym here? As a sort of goad for myself. Making it concrete, you know? This is what I did today...or didn't do. Five days a week, at least four of them in the actual workout room, not the pool. That's what I am working toward. We'll see if I make it, and if I can keep it up. I might even be brave enough to discuss actual weight loss, should I experience any. Right now, I'll settle for less aching.
Oh, and? There was no masseuse waiting for me when I got home!! Dang!
Whew. The downside to being a halfway decent cook is it's easy to get fat. Add psychological issues to the mix, it's even easier. Add elleventy million boxes of Girl Scout cookies a year, assorted easily consumed, fat and/or sugar-laden snacks and convenience foods to the mix and, well...sigh...
So why am I listing what I did at the gym here? As a sort of goad for myself. Making it concrete, you know? This is what I did today...or didn't do. Five days a week, at least four of them in the actual workout room, not the pool. That's what I am working toward. We'll see if I make it, and if I can keep it up. I might even be brave enough to discuss actual weight loss, should I experience any. Right now, I'll settle for less aching.
Oh, and? There was no masseuse waiting for me when I got home!! Dang!
Ouch.
It started yesterday afternoon. Little aches. Little reminders from my body that I am overweight, out of shape, haven't been to the gym since, umm...November! I'd stand up, and my legs would twinge. Reach for a pot, and my neck and shoulders let me know about it.
Last night, I went to bed just knowing that today would be an ouchy kind of day.
I was right.
Ouch!
I swear, even my fingers are telling me about it!
I don't care, though, I am going back this morning, if only to slog along on the treadmill for a while.
If there's a masseuse waiting at my house when I get home, I won't turn her away. I'm just sayin'.
Last night, I went to bed just knowing that today would be an ouchy kind of day.
I was right.
Ouch!
I swear, even my fingers are telling me about it!
I don't care, though, I am going back this morning, if only to slog along on the treadmill for a while.
If there's a masseuse waiting at my house when I get home, I won't turn her away. I'm just sayin'.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
I went to the gym.
Grrrooooooaaaannnnnnn.
I'm just sayin'. Grrroooooaaaannnnnnnn.
20 minutes on the treadmill, hills setting level 1, for 1.27 miles in 25 minutes. Then twice around the circuit room, and finally stretching. I'm good for the rest of the month, right?
I'm just sayin'. Grrroooooaaaannnnnnnn.
20 minutes on the treadmill, hills setting level 1, for 1.27 miles in 25 minutes. Then twice around the circuit room, and finally stretching. I'm good for the rest of the month, right?
I'm going to the gym.
No, really, I am. Just as soon as I finish cleaning the kitchen. And, um, doing the laundry. Oh, and sorting through Bird's clothes and removing the too-small things and putting the rest away again.
Also, I should really pressure wash the North side of the house and weed the Iris bed, don't you think?
Then there are all the blogs I read in the morning - won't they miss me?
But after that, I'll go. Wait. They don't have childcare between one and four in the afternoon, so I have to get out of the house by eleven if I want to get there, get the Evil Genius checked in, change into my exercise clothes, and get in a real workout before childcare closes and we have to go. And I hate going in the afternoon because there are all those kids there after school, and the teeny-bopper girls all stare at me and giggle and my poor delicate ego can't stand it.
So I'll definitely go if Bird wakes up by, say, ten o'clock (Excuse me, tree service in my neighbor's yard? Could you muffle that chainsaw? Puhleeeeze??) and I can get him fed, dressed and in the car by eleven.
Otherwise, I'll go tomorrow. But I will go. After all, I washed my socks and everything.
Also, I should really pressure wash the North side of the house and weed the Iris bed, don't you think?
Then there are all the blogs I read in the morning - won't they miss me?
But after that, I'll go. Wait. They don't have childcare between one and four in the afternoon, so I have to get out of the house by eleven if I want to get there, get the Evil Genius checked in, change into my exercise clothes, and get in a real workout before childcare closes and we have to go. And I hate going in the afternoon because there are all those kids there after school, and the teeny-bopper girls all stare at me and giggle and my poor delicate ego can't stand it.
So I'll definitely go if Bird wakes up by, say, ten o'clock (Excuse me, tree service in my neighbor's yard? Could you muffle that chainsaw? Puhleeeeze??) and I can get him fed, dressed and in the car by eleven.
Otherwise, I'll go tomorrow. But I will go. After all, I washed my socks and everything.
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