not wishing it away for once

Happy New Year! Happiness is not wishing away the moment. For the first year in about three, I haven't been dying for the year to end. I'm looking forward to 2011 of course -- and am very thankful for 2010. So much happened...I'm about to go make my list. Remember to open the front door at midnight and let the new year in.

Happy 33 to me =]

well, 11:49pm has come and gone...officially 33 years old. I'm thankful, happy, mischievous, tired, full, lucky, excited, slightly calculating and a bit more competitive than I was before. How's that!?

Here I go!

domestic disturbance

I am fairly convinced that my year living with no kitchen set my cookingskills-domesticmaturity back a bit. Sort of like reverting to pre-college days when I thought I could replace eggs in cookie batter with water (so it could be eaten raw, obviously) and then watched the result of my innovation liquify into one big cookie drippy mess that flowed off the pan and onto the oven floor. (This is loosely tied to my very near failure of high school chemistry. Some things just don't compute for me the first time around. Or the second, for that matter, but I'm not here solely to make myself look stupid.)

From March of 2009 until mid-April 2010 I lived with no kitchen. I thought about writing about it at the time, (hey what a cool blog idea! documenting a less-than-ideal life situation!) but those half-baked good intentions went the way of my watered down cookie dough. I spent a lot of time not thinking about it; instead functioning in a general haze of lollygagging internet activity, Law and Order episodes, perpetual laundry folding, and the ultimate time sink: playing with, speaking to, and photographing the dogs.

For the first few weeks, I had only a college-size refrigerator. I was stoked: an adventure! Like camping! I can do this! I smugly went to the grocery store, determined to make the best of my situation. I purchased as many prepackaged mini-sized preservative-filled delicacies as I could find. Mini cheeses, single serving fruit cups, anything that came in "bar" form, and with as much wrapping as possible. It was an environmentalist's nightmare, a gluttonous Ugly American snack paradise of wastefulness and Other Natural Flavors. I learned quickly that Lean Cuisines will not stay frozen in the freezer "area" of small refrigerators. (Had I only recalled me and my college roommates' pathetic attempts at early Jello shots that never came out quite right, I would have saved myself a couple of wasted dinners.)

Before I could completely lose my mind, the financial gods smiled on me (well, it may have been more of a grimace, but I take what I can get) and I was able to purchase a brand new "normal" sized refrigerator. The joy I felt buying condiments in standard-sized jars was euphoric. It almost made me forget about how I still had no kitchen, still washed my dishes in the bathroom sink, and still lived in one room with two dogs and saw no way out of the situation in the near future.

And luckily (luck? not so sure, do we make our own? more on this in the future) my circumstances and I were able to move me into a whole new living space this past spring where I now enjoy gasp four whole rooms, one of which is a kitchen.

However, I seemed to be experiencing some temporary amnesia when it came to things like operating a stove, making simple dressings and sauces, chopping vegetables, handling raw chicken...fish...how do fish work...? corn? boil?

Perhaps the confusion was because the domestic goddess within me had never really solidified prior to this. I'd only had a couple years under my belt of cooking for two or more. Plus, a great deal of time from 2005-2009 was spent spending copious amounts of money in fancy restaurants...rather than perfecting my Coq au Vin.

I think I can say I'm back on a better (albeit different) track now. For those of you who are concerned, I did manage to remove the wrapping off the chicken I soon victimized in the photo, above right. I'm thoroughly enjoying my tiny kitchen, and I'm even doing some baking lately (read: science). Maybe my cooking renaissance will launch me forward out of beginner domestic goddess to a comfortable spot in intermediate.

Whistling Rules

If you're in a hurry and don't have time to read these, swing to the safe side and just don't whistle. Ever. Especially around me. OK, you can whistle alone.

Wikipedia defines Human whistling as the production of sound by means of carefully controlling a stream of air flowing through a small hole. Whistling can be achieved by creating a small opening with one's lips and then blowing air out of the hole or sucking air into the hole.

(Thank you for specifying the "Human" part, Wiki)

In general, here are my whistling guidelines.

When to never ever whistle:
1. If I am near you
2. If you are in church
3. If you see a pretty lady (it's just too cliche, forget rude)
4. If people around you are sleeping
5. At a job interview
6. If you are on a first date (unless you want it to be your last)
7. If you are my boss
8. While you are serving food to the elderly
9. While you work (unless you are short and live in the woods with six other creatures all dressed the same as you but in varying colors)
10. If I am near you

When you pretty much shouldn't whistle, but probably could get away with it:
1. In a crowded bar where it's very hard to hear people talking next to you
2. In a storm system characterized by high pressure, heavy rain and strong winds
3. If you're really that scared, or about to be murdered
4. If the music is very loud so as to mostly drown out your whistling
5. If you're with a fellow whistler or someone characterized by a pro-whistling attitude (probably a street performer, a circus member, or someone who is socially inept or generally stupid)

When whistling is okay:
1. If you're alone in your car, and you happen to hear "Patience" by Guns n Roses in its entirety (you actually sort of have to whistle)
2. If you are Anna in The King and I (you kind of have to)
3. If you are alone watching Bridge on the River Kwai
4. If you are alone, singing "Goodbye Stranger" by Supertramp, "Golden Years" by David Bowie, "Young Folks" by Peter, Bjorn and John, or "Me and Julio Down by the School Yard" by Paul Simon.
5. If you find yourself in solitary confinement.
6. If you train wild animals
7. If you're in a large group of fellow whistlers or a marching band of POWs.

I was recently told by a guy that I have a lot of "rules." And, in fact, he was not the first guy to tell me this. I have been told it's hard to remember my rules, so I decided I will occasionally post them here. I am sure some people mean well by whistling, or they're genuinely happy. I think whistling got damaged for me by a couple of key characters in my life. One of whom I cannot name, (cuz this blog is so famous and all of two people read it and it might get back to the bad whistler person) really made me twitch with whistling anger. He would dance around, whistling something I sometimes recognized, sometimes didn't, but it wasn't that part that drove my eyes to dart around within reach for sharp objects -- no, it was the part where he would whistle AT ME. TO ME. TOWARDS MY FACE. To evoke, what kind of reaction? I think he expected me to grow for him a broad smile, tilting my head towards his, perhaps gently swaying my head back and forth at his musical wonderment coming from his face. Blinking slowly. Smiling in a different way when the music got really good. Nodding my head time to time. Instead, I'm forced to smile politely like I just smelled something rotting, and go about my business as if I do not hear the sound of his happiness. I know it will pass, but I just don't know when.

And to all you people out there who cannot whistle: It's okay. You can really stop trying.

is she actually writing an entry on water?

Spending countless hours talking about writing on this blog and not doing it, I'm driven to this: jumping in again. Diving (in my lame way I can't really dive, but try to act like it) into the water. Like I've said before, swimming has always been a challenge for me. Despite growing up by a (gross) man-made "lake" (whose taste I will never get out of my mouth; once you swallow Candlewood Lake water you can relive it at any moment) and going to Cape Cod each summer for a week or two, being around water, I never fully trusted it. If I were a fan of footnotes, I’d have one about trusting myself linked here.)

My dog Grace is a big fan of water. She doesn’t really care for rain because it makes her blink a lot, but she likes jumping over puddles in a cute attempt to keep her little feet clean (or her tap shoes, if you live in my world). Which is thoughtful considering she spends 20 hours of day on my bed. Her first boat ride was last summer. We (insert phantom footnote here, explaining “we”) took Grace and her little brother slash boyfriend Levi on a ferry cruise in Hyannis harbor. For a summer that otherwise sucked worse than having teeth pulled with no painkillers, it was a small brightspot.

Since we don’t get to spend much time on boats, Grace has taken up the hobby Watching Water Go Down the Drain in the Tub. She couldn’t care less who is in the shower, or what else is happening in the room, but the moment she hears the water come on, no matter where she is in the house or what level of deep dog sleep she’s enjoying, she appears, almost immediately, at the doorway to the bathroom, seemingly transported by time travel. The look on her face makes me feel like I’m doing something right. That, despite the cold long winter where we do not get out of the house enough, her joy at standing tubside and watching the current swirl into the abyss is proof I’m some kind of good dog parent. It’s a combination of illusionary sights and echoing sounds that make her ears stand up, her head darting back and forth like watching a heated ping-pong tournament. It makes her happy, and that makes me happy.

Water can be so calming, so soothing. Floating in Onset bay with my nieces and nephews, standing at the edge of the pond at Tarrywile Park watching the dogs lose their minds in excitement, running in and out of the lily-pad speckled pool, the memory of rain steadily coming down on us in the August heat of Saratoga, listening as Allman Brothers performed so reliably. As a kid we played in the stream behind my house; depending on how rainy it had been, there was anything from barely any water among the rocks, to a rushing imitation of a river, which was wildly exciting…being eight years old. My friends and I returned to the stream time and time again, later as young teenagers to have secret discussions about Important Matters, using substitute terms for things that could not be spoken aloud. The privacy the sound of the water offered was later replaced by conversations held with boyfriends inside a car, dragging our feet to put off ending the night. (Insert phantom footnote here: No one can hear what’s discussed in a car, of course.)

Of course, water can also be our worst enemy, anywhere on the spectrum of mildly annoying, to causing death and destruction. From accidently running your wristwatch through the laundry to the pain and horror of floods, tsunamis— times when the very thing that keeps us alive can also kill us. My own personal nightmare reoccurs not on a scale of abovementioned calamities, but in a mental/physical/mess you up and other people can see sense: I despise getting my hair washed at the salon. I don’t just despise it, it makes me completely insane, like a mental patient lunatic who should probably be sedated, for the sake of the others nearby.

Now, I need to be clear. I don’t mind washing my OWN hair, thankyouverymuch. And I’ve never enjoyed the neck strain of the hair washing sink when getting my hair cut; they always say, “You comfortable? Water temp okay?” Yeah, yeah fine, just get this garbage over with. But sometime a couple years ago, something about me changed. Maybe I altered my state when I touched a faulty outlet in the 250-year-old house I used to live in, or some amount of hearing damaged caused by one too many Phish shows finally caught up with me, or maybe I’m just nerve-broken due to old age, but I completely spaz out feeling water go down my sides of my head.

Unfortunately, I seem to be the only person on the planet who experiences this. No support group exists for people who feel an outrageous and horrifically orgasmic (I know, I know, but not in a good way) sensation down each side of their spine every time the water whooooshes past their ears. Even thinking about this as I write makes me shudder in fear. And the scary/funny/weird/I’m feeling old part about this is that it didn’t use to happen. (Some could say it parallels my dentist-attending experience the last few years. As a child, nothing bothered me, doctors, dentists, irritating people, it was all fine. Now I can barely get my teeth cleaned without letting my hypersensitivity get the best of me.) My coping skills include: visualization techniques, imagining that what I’m feeling IS actually a good thing, hugging my arms around my torso in a sad attempt to squelch the urge to go into hysterics, and giggling. All the stylists at the salon I attend know about my…issue. They are kind and keep their judgments to themselves, or at least they wait until I leave to make fun of me. I must be an absolute hoot to imitate. A sharp-minded comedian would have a field day.

I’ll wait to divulge into metaphors of me swimming near docks for safety. Need to think on that a bit more, and I’ve already overwritten for one topic. And now I need to go recover. And drink some water.

redemption

I recycle. Not as much as I used to, or plan to again in the future. Life took a weird turn and to make a long story short [too late] I am not as...on top of the whole recycling thing as I wish anymore. But, I still make an effort. My confidence lies in my original beliefs; I will be back on track in the future. Yes.

In the meantime, I manage somewhat haphazardly. But manage still. One of the most irritating things about Living in Connecticut and being a recycling is the fact that, unlike many other states, we still have a "bottle bill" law. Shit this is getting boring, even as I review my facts.

The other afternoon, I decided to do the one thing I promised myself I'd do over the school break, besides eat and sleep and read: Clean Out My Car. It's a circus that imitates other parts of my life, and the biggest obstacle turned out to be the bottles I'd driving around with a scary amount of time. I and my former We don't drink much beer, at least anymore, having graduated to (a phrase that made me look really bad so I just deleted it because sarcasm doesn't always translate via my interweb skills) so it's only every few months that I end up having to return soda and beer bottles for the incredible awesome reward of five cents each.

Bottom line: it sucks and the benefits don't seem to outweigh the costs. I do NOT mind dragging my recycling out to the street on trash night. Prepping empty peanut butter jars, rinsing out pickle jars...it's almost fun compared to standing in a cold 6x12 grocery store annex containing five bottle redemption machines, three of which are broken; the smell a cross between Very Old beer and Cheerio throw-up. The only person authorized to repair the jammed "Glass" machine is an ex-con who has to be paged over the loudspeaker from his hideout in the back by the dumpsters and he is reluctant to say the least.

The weird thing is, in college, and someone back me up on this...returning bottles was kind of...fun. Maybe it was the sheer volume that promised us an impressive sum each weekend, a stupid mind game of "deposit" and "redemption" that made us think we were somehow saving money, when all we were doing was...not wasting more. It all went straight back to Latham wine & spirits, or whatever it was at the time.

Fast forward to now. A generous combination of fear, disgust and panic arose last week when I returned bottles for the first time in months. The realization that the cuffs of my jeans, resting softly on the concrete floor were quietly soaking up the filth in which I stood left me speechless, stupid.

More on this. Or, Moron: this. Will be soon. Loveya audience in my mind.

honestly

I'm looking forward to a point where I can say: Gee, look at my past year! How I have accomplished and thrived! (My brain wants to write thriven, but we'll move on.) Lots of bloggers I see do this sort of thing. My recollection of the past year would move some to tears, other to nausea, and others still to eating themselves into a coma. I do not want to harm my readers, and it is with this I say, how about I just not mention last year!

Which leads me to now. It's a Tuesday night, and I always claim that a week is much better once one is IN it. Anticipation is a killer; see my thoughts on Sunday Nights. Even Monday nights are such a relief: You're back to school / work / what you do / and you can't turn back. You're in a program and programs save you from procrastination and indecision...something that can take the brightest kid down a notch. Or three.

Of course, not everyone works M-F 9-5 blah-blah. But everyone has a personal "Sunday night." When whatever freedom, in whatever temporary form, had presented itself on-- hopefully a repeating basis-- is about to end. And the only solution to this anxiety is jumping off the dock.

I'm terrified of jumping into water. My nieces and nephews have had to almost literally push me off docks on our family vacations. My relationship with swimming in any way, shape or form has been spotty at best. I think (OK, I know) I made it to "Intermediate" in whatever the hell swimming crap I was signed up with when I was little. After that, I buried myself in...anything but. Then by the time I was a sorta-adult, I was able to float, bob, hang out, chat, tread water, be social...just not swim per se. I got away with it for quite some time. I have made peace with it, and clearly I'm writing about it now, so, Hey World: I suck at Swimming! You were right about me in 7th grade! BUT, the jumping is the more important point.

When that anxiety of The Next Thing occurs, I have found it's best to hold my breath and jump in. Not altogether reckless (although there's a time and a place for recklessness; we'll get to that later) but at least some semblance of awareness + OKAY. You'll. Be. Fine.

Here's where a pithy ending would work. But we all need cliffhangers.

cautious reflection

Happy New Year! 2010. Weird.

But seriously, never have I been happier to see a year go away as I am to see 2009 end.

If you ask me, I could callously answer you that 2009 sucked big time for me. And I have, in different ways, loudly made this clear. But, I have to be honest: to say nothing good happened in 2009 would be a lie; sure. Lots of good things happened. A little dog named Levi came into my life. I found out, the hard way, who my true friends were. I got closer to my family, especially my parents. I realized what the break in my palm's "life line" actually meant (it's called "new start, for reals"). I learned independence doesn't just occur, but is something that grows over time. I wrote more than I wrote the year before. (Some good stuff, actually.) I read a lot more and learned new avenues for learning (just go with that one). And I actually saw a glimpse of a healthy me; a ME who hasn't surfaced in about...five years. Turning the glimpse into a constant is the next step.

Part of me feels like all this 2009 reflection crap should have been taken care of by 11:59pm on 12/31/09. But I guess one thing I've realized over the past ten years is I take a little longer than I expect to reflect on things, and in turn, DO something about that reflection. I knew when I studied abroad in Salzburg, Austria in 1999 that I wouldn't fully be able to write about the experience until years later. I had the awareness to realize what I couldn't realize at the time, but what I knew in my head and spirit I would realize over time. Realize. Thesaurus, anyone?

Anyway, I'm happy to have this place to write. We'll see where it goes. Having your life completely thrown off course and have the crap kicked out if it is something I'm sure not everyone has the privilege of experiencing, so I should be thankful if not boastful. OK pushing it a bit...

It just took me five minutes to figure out how to spell privilege. Small victories.

Other things for 2009: use coupons to buy new desk chair (mine died), take more pictures and post them, work on upper body strength, eat more vegetables, write a manuscript of a really messed up kid's life, start playing guitar again, write down my family history, run more than three miles (at a time), find new ways to break grammar rules and get away with it. sounds like FUN sign me up!