Yea! Thanks to Diane for my first bloggie award! (It's those little things, like finding $10 in the pocket of a coat you haven't worn in a while, that make the day nice)
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
bad month for pets
ANIMALS ARE SUCH AGREEABLE FRIENDS -- THEY ASK NO QUESTIONS, THEY PASS NO CRITICISM --George Elliot
It's been a rough month around here for pets.
At the end of August, J, K, and I went on our annual Saco camping trip. The cats were inside for 4 days with their food and water and litter box. When we got home, they were in a frenzy to go outside, so we let them out for a little romp. They haven't been back since.
Two weeks ago, J was backing out of the garage and she felt a thump. She jumped out of the truck to see her dog, Sabi, climbing out from underneath. Sabi was 14 years old, almost 15. If he were younger and a bit more spry, they probably would have opted for surgery to repair his broken femur. But as it was, who puts a 14 year old dog (who is deaf and going blind and has a tumor on his tongue) under anesthesia for a major surgery? Sabi is buried under his favorite sunning spot by the garage.
Then, this weekend, we said good-bye to Sullydog, my Dad's best friend. Sully was 13, almost 14 and also was ailing. He was in a lot of pain and getting disoriented and confused all the time. It got to the point where he couldn't go on his favorite walks around the neighborhood with Dad. My parents are going to bury his ashes and plant a tree in the spring.
It's funny how much animals can come to mean in your life. It's funny how you can love them so much. I remember how much joy I got from three goldfish I had when I lived in Calfornia. And they were FISH!
Anyway, we went through a lot of ice cream, wine coolers and tissues over the past month.
There's an expression that says my goal in life is to be half the person my dog believes me to be. It seems like a pretty good goal to me.
It's been a rough month around here for pets.
At the end of August, J, K, and I went on our annual Saco camping trip. The cats were inside for 4 days with their food and water and litter box. When we got home, they were in a frenzy to go outside, so we let them out for a little romp. They haven't been back since.
Two weeks ago, J was backing out of the garage and she felt a thump. She jumped out of the truck to see her dog, Sabi, climbing out from underneath. Sabi was 14 years old, almost 15. If he were younger and a bit more spry, they probably would have opted for surgery to repair his broken femur. But as it was, who puts a 14 year old dog (who is deaf and going blind and has a tumor on his tongue) under anesthesia for a major surgery? Sabi is buried under his favorite sunning spot by the garage.
Then, this weekend, we said good-bye to Sullydog, my Dad's best friend. Sully was 13, almost 14 and also was ailing. He was in a lot of pain and getting disoriented and confused all the time. It got to the point where he couldn't go on his favorite walks around the neighborhood with Dad. My parents are going to bury his ashes and plant a tree in the spring.
It's funny how much animals can come to mean in your life. It's funny how you can love them so much. I remember how much joy I got from three goldfish I had when I lived in Calfornia. And they were FISH!
Anyway, we went through a lot of ice cream, wine coolers and tissues over the past month.
There's an expression that says my goal in life is to be half the person my dog believes me to be. It seems like a pretty good goal to me.
Friday, September 26, 2008
There's a hole in my heart where a dog used to be
I did not write the following poem. I combined and changed two poems I found by Christina Torres and Amy Waggoner. But the emotions are all mine.I lost a special friend today
The kind you can't replace
And looking at his empty bed
I still can see his face
I see the endless energy
The sparkling puppy eyes
Not the tired, fragile friend
We had to bid goodbye
I know he's in a special place
That heaven has for friends
Where fields and ponds and sunshine
Make them strong and whole again
I remember how he ran to us
To play his favorit puppy games
And how his ears would perk right up
When he heard us call his name
But as the precious years went by
He both aged and grew
And we often found him slowing down
Though there was much he loved to do
He never was a guard dog
Each time time the doorbell rang
He'd greet friends and strangers alike
With drool and kisses, not with fangs
We noticed in the recent times
His eyes were not so sharp
Where once was a ball of yellow fur
The years had shown their mark
Our Sully was a special dog
Always giving us his best
But lately looking in his eyes
He seemed asking to just rest
And so now with heavy heart
We'll respect that wish today
You can finally rest and sleep
But in our hearts you'll stay
Good-bye my friend. I love you.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
WEEKLY WRITIERS WORKSHOP
Kudos to MamaKat for her thought provoking prompts for this week's writer's workshop. I think I may do more than one! But for now:
Ten Things I Believe In:
1) I believe that in their purest form, religion, science, and art are all the same thing: glimpses of TRUTH. I think we all need to explore all three in order to understand ourselves and our world more clearly. I believe it is our duty to do so.
2) Conversely, I believe that in their most perverse form, religion, politics, and hype are all the same thing: attempts to OBSCURE truth and exert control over others. I think we all need to stay informed and not fall prey to these tactics. I believe this is our duty, as well.
3) I believe nobody ever has or ever will look as good in leather pants as JIM MORISSON.
4) I believe in LOVE. I believe two people can meet, get to know one another, fall in love, and commit to spending the rest of their lives together. I do not, however, believe in soul mates. There are far too many people out there to believe that I could only be truly happy with ONE.
5) I DON'T believe that "everything happens for a REASON". I believe that lots of things happen for absolutely no reason at all. However, I think that everyone has the choice to pick up the pieces and make sense of their lives. I believe that lots of people become better people in the wake of tragedy. But I don't believe the tragedy happened in order for the person change.
6) Like Ben Franklin, I believe that BEER is living proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. Ditto for ice cream.
7) I believe in LEARNED HELPLESSNESS. On a few rare occasions, I have been on the ball enough to help somebody over the hump and onto learned independence. On several other occasions, I have unfortunately missed the mark completely. Though I am still finding my way in the road to serving others, I'm pretty sure I'm a lot closer to the mark than Dr. Phil.
8) Likewise, though I may not know the secret to SUCCESS, I believe that Donald Trump is so far off the mark he is pointing in the wrong direction.
9) I believe that all lists of ten items contain one FILLER.
10) I believe that the cure for cynicism is to spend lots of time in NATURE. One day I hope to make my livelihood in the outdoors. Wish me luck!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
BUSY DOING NOTHING
DOING NOTHING IS BETTER THAN BEING BUSY DOING NOTHING ---Lao Tzu
For the past two weekends, I did nothing. This is not like me. Usually, I have my weekends packed full, from end to end. I clean, do laundry, run errands, grocery shop, go to the gym, train for/run in a race of some sort, visit friends, go to movies, listen to bands, go to the beach, babysit, and then send out a bulk email recapping it all. For the past two weekends, I had planned on doing the same. And for the past two weekends, my well laid plans fell by the wayside.
Don't get me wrong; I did SOME things. Two weekends ago, I went to a comedy club on Friday night. I had fun. A little too much fun, I think. Because when Saturday rolled around, I rolled out of bed .... and onto the sofa. I spent the day with Nerd eating take out and watching videos. I felt so lazy! I felt so useless! I felt so -- relaxed!! In a strange way, it was almost better than working out all day. But I really needed to do some catching up on Sunday. I made a to-do list and got mentally prepared to tackle it come morning. When Sunday rolled around, I rolled out of bed...and back onto the sofa. I spent the day with J and K eating pizza and watching tivo'd movies.
Last weekend, I went on a trip to Texas to visit with friends. We had big plans, to eat a big breakfast at a Mexican place, run bleachers for exercise, go to 6th Street in Austin, listen to live music, maybe go to a movie. On Saturday, we successfully went out for breakfast. Then, once home, the sofa's gravitational pull captured us. "No!" we said. "We are going to run bleachers!" But the pollen count was so high and the air quality so bad. We had such bad headaches. There was no way we could do bleachers. As a compromise, we decided to walk to Blockbuster and get some movies. We underestimated the distance, however, and once we got home with the movies, it was time to jump in the shower and get ready to go to Austin.
We made it to Austin, walked around 6th Street for a while and then, well, just kind of wandered on back to the car and back home. We could have gone crazy and had lots of fun, but we were already in "do nothing mode." When Sunday rolled around, you get the picture. Good thing we still had those Blockbuster movies to watch!
But next weekend is going to be different. I have lots of things planned. I swear.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Writer's Workshop Thursday
I'm trying to be a good little student and keep up with MamaKat's assignments. What a good idea! Seriously, I'd hand out assignments to everyone in the blogosphere, too, if only I could think of any. I guess that's why I'm the student, eh?
Anyway, one of the assignments was to describe a recurring dream you have.
Dreams, for me, have been both a blessing and a curse. I am one of those people who dream vividly, constantly, and creatively. I have dreams that have plots and subplots and endless lists of characters. I dream in crazy colors that I daresay do not exist outside my head. I am often somebody else in my dreams.
On the flip side, I have horrible nightmares. When I was younger, the pediatrician called it "night terrors". That's basically a sleep disorder in which you have non descript nightmares that are filled with a sense of panic. I would jump up out of bed (still asleep) and run, screaming through the house. I'd fall out of bed or crawl under the bed or into the closet and then wake up not knowing where I was. Most children outgrow night terrors in two years or so. I, on the other hand, am the only adult I know who still experiences night terrors.
I don't have the episodes nearly to the degree I did when I was younger. Mostly when I am stressed or anxious about something; usually no more than twice a year. The last time I experienced an episode was last November.
I was flying out on an early flight and I was a little anxious about getting up on time. Not to worry: I ended up staying up all night after my nightmare. I don't remember what it was about, I just remember waking up in the garage, trying frantically to open my locked jeep and screaming. I calmed down, got some water, and went back to bed. I awoke again, this time in the basement, squeezing myself into the space between the dryer and the wall. I again tried to go back to sleep. The third time I woke up, I was outside, running through the path in the woods and screaming. An hour and a half had gone by since I had first gone to bed. Lucky for me, no matter what time of day it is, if you channel surf long enough, you will eventually find the movie "Overboard".
As I said, I never really remember the dreams when I wake up in that paniced state. I do, however, have a recurrent nightmare that I've had since I was three years old. Given the premise of the nightmare and the actions I take when I experience the night terrors, I would wager a guess that I am dreaming of some semblance of my recurring nightmare. (Though many studies show that night terrors DO NOT occur during REM sleep) Whatever. I'm not a sleep scientest, just a poor sleeper.
I first experienced the nightmare when I was three years old. My dad worked out of town a lot and would come home on Fridays with presents for everyone. He came home this particular Friday after we had gone to bed. His presents that night were two quilted blankets for my brother and me. They had flowers and smiley faces and peace signs all over them. They were also emblazened with wierd, hippy-ish sayings: "what the world needs now is love", "where have all the flowers gone?", "I can't believe I ate the whole thing". He put the blankets on our beds and tucked them all around us. That night was the first time I had the nightmare. I blamed the blanket. I refused to have it on my bed until years later when I found it and thought it was cool.
In my dream, I am 11 years old or so. I am not me. I am a girl who is either a hippie or a gypsie or native American. I have long dark hair, almost to my waist. I'm wearing an embroidered peasant-style shirt, jeans and sandals. I have lots of beads and bracelets and necklaces on and random little beaded braids in my hair. I am at a flea market or fair of some sort. There are endless rows of tables where people have set up things they are selling. I get the feeling I have a booth, as well, but I am never in the booth in my dream. Instead, I am being chased.
I am being chased by a guy who looks a lot like Charles Manson (maybe I saw him on TV when I was 3?) I am petrified. I know I cannot let him catch me because if he catches me, he will hurt me. Maybe even kill me. I have to get away from him.
I run through the rows of tables in this dream, twisting and turning, cutting in and out of alleyways, jumping over boxes. He is right behind me, almost about to catch me. Then I lose him. Only to turn a corner and come face to face with him. I jump up on tables and knock people's merchandise around. I crawl on my hands and knees under tables, hiding under tie-dyed table cloths and tapestries. Sometimes I hide in empty boxes. Sometimes people at the flea market help me. Sometimes they don't even seem to see me.
Finally, I reach the edge of the flea market and I jump over the fence. I run across a field to a tower. Then I start climbing the tower. He's still chasing me! I'm climbing and climbing and the wind is blowing and my fingers are getting cold. I'm afraid I'm going to fall but I know if I don't keep climbing he'll get me.
Sometimes I have the dream all the way to the end, climbing the tower. Sometimes I wake up in the flea market. Sometimes the flea market is outside, sometimes inside. Sometimes my pusuer is alone, sometimes he has other men with him. Always, though, the sense of panic, the feeling of absolute terror is there. It's a horrible nightmare.
Luckily, despite my incident last November, I haven't had it in years. I've had people tell me I should try to analyze this dream and see what it MEANS. I gotta be honest, though: I don't think it means anything. I just think it's a dream about being chased. A ridiculously vivid dream about being chased. Fortunately, he ain't never caught me yet!
Anyway, one of the assignments was to describe a recurring dream you have.
Dreams, for me, have been both a blessing and a curse. I am one of those people who dream vividly, constantly, and creatively. I have dreams that have plots and subplots and endless lists of characters. I dream in crazy colors that I daresay do not exist outside my head. I am often somebody else in my dreams.
On the flip side, I have horrible nightmares. When I was younger, the pediatrician called it "night terrors". That's basically a sleep disorder in which you have non descript nightmares that are filled with a sense of panic. I would jump up out of bed (still asleep) and run, screaming through the house. I'd fall out of bed or crawl under the bed or into the closet and then wake up not knowing where I was. Most children outgrow night terrors in two years or so. I, on the other hand, am the only adult I know who still experiences night terrors.
I don't have the episodes nearly to the degree I did when I was younger. Mostly when I am stressed or anxious about something; usually no more than twice a year. The last time I experienced an episode was last November.
I was flying out on an early flight and I was a little anxious about getting up on time. Not to worry: I ended up staying up all night after my nightmare. I don't remember what it was about, I just remember waking up in the garage, trying frantically to open my locked jeep and screaming. I calmed down, got some water, and went back to bed. I awoke again, this time in the basement, squeezing myself into the space between the dryer and the wall. I again tried to go back to sleep. The third time I woke up, I was outside, running through the path in the woods and screaming. An hour and a half had gone by since I had first gone to bed. Lucky for me, no matter what time of day it is, if you channel surf long enough, you will eventually find the movie "Overboard".
As I said, I never really remember the dreams when I wake up in that paniced state. I do, however, have a recurrent nightmare that I've had since I was three years old. Given the premise of the nightmare and the actions I take when I experience the night terrors, I would wager a guess that I am dreaming of some semblance of my recurring nightmare. (Though many studies show that night terrors DO NOT occur during REM sleep) Whatever. I'm not a sleep scientest, just a poor sleeper.
I first experienced the nightmare when I was three years old. My dad worked out of town a lot and would come home on Fridays with presents for everyone. He came home this particular Friday after we had gone to bed. His presents that night were two quilted blankets for my brother and me. They had flowers and smiley faces and peace signs all over them. They were also emblazened with wierd, hippy-ish sayings: "what the world needs now is love", "where have all the flowers gone?", "I can't believe I ate the whole thing". He put the blankets on our beds and tucked them all around us. That night was the first time I had the nightmare. I blamed the blanket. I refused to have it on my bed until years later when I found it and thought it was cool.
In my dream, I am 11 years old or so. I am not me. I am a girl who is either a hippie or a gypsie or native American. I have long dark hair, almost to my waist. I'm wearing an embroidered peasant-style shirt, jeans and sandals. I have lots of beads and bracelets and necklaces on and random little beaded braids in my hair. I am at a flea market or fair of some sort. There are endless rows of tables where people have set up things they are selling. I get the feeling I have a booth, as well, but I am never in the booth in my dream. Instead, I am being chased.
I am being chased by a guy who looks a lot like Charles Manson (maybe I saw him on TV when I was 3?) I am petrified. I know I cannot let him catch me because if he catches me, he will hurt me. Maybe even kill me. I have to get away from him.
I run through the rows of tables in this dream, twisting and turning, cutting in and out of alleyways, jumping over boxes. He is right behind me, almost about to catch me. Then I lose him. Only to turn a corner and come face to face with him. I jump up on tables and knock people's merchandise around. I crawl on my hands and knees under tables, hiding under tie-dyed table cloths and tapestries. Sometimes I hide in empty boxes. Sometimes people at the flea market help me. Sometimes they don't even seem to see me.
Finally, I reach the edge of the flea market and I jump over the fence. I run across a field to a tower. Then I start climbing the tower. He's still chasing me! I'm climbing and climbing and the wind is blowing and my fingers are getting cold. I'm afraid I'm going to fall but I know if I don't keep climbing he'll get me.
Sometimes I have the dream all the way to the end, climbing the tower. Sometimes I wake up in the flea market. Sometimes the flea market is outside, sometimes inside. Sometimes my pusuer is alone, sometimes he has other men with him. Always, though, the sense of panic, the feeling of absolute terror is there. It's a horrible nightmare.
Luckily, despite my incident last November, I haven't had it in years. I've had people tell me I should try to analyze this dream and see what it MEANS. I gotta be honest, though: I don't think it means anything. I just think it's a dream about being chased. A ridiculously vivid dream about being chased. Fortunately, he ain't never caught me yet!
Saturday, September 13, 2008
A Hope Chest Full of Laughter
This week, J was cleaning out her hope chest. I honestly don't know why she has saved half the stuff, but I am so glad she has!
"Heb!" she called over to the garage-loft, "Get over here!"
In front of her was a pile of notes that we had written to one another, probably in study hall or math class. We started going through the pile, standing up to read and act out the notes:
"Hey dude! S'up? (remember 's'up?' It was so much cooler than 'whazzup') So, did you ask your mom yet? Shell said she can come and my mom said we can sleep in the basement room. Plus, we just got a cable box down there so we can totally see the World Premiere of the new Billy Idol video on MTV. Its gonna be so cool!"
"Hey bud! S'up? My sister is such a jerk! She told on us that we were playing capture the flag in the woods with John and Paul last night after we were s'posed to be in for the night. I am grounded and my mom is prob'ly gonna call your mom so be on the lookout. I'm gonna spend the whole time thinking up ways to get her back for this. So you start thinking, too. We're gonna get her back so bad and there's nothing she can do about it."
"Hey guys! I got in a big fight with my dad because he always lets John do whatever he wants and I never get to do anything. So he said why don't you go find some other family to adopt you and maybe they will treat you better. Wait, my mom just got home. I have to go. Ok, I'm back. She just made me fold the laundry. I left a note under my dad's pillow that said I found a family to adopt me and I'll be packing tomorrow so goodbye. Now I'm in even more trouble! My family stinks!"
She had birthday cards and get well cards (I don't remember anyone ever being really sick, with mono or anything. We were probably sick for 2 days "Oh no! We don't get to hang out for 2 whole days!") Her husband was reading notes and cards and watching the two of us rolling on the floor laughing until we cried. He just looked at us and said "You two haven't changed at all since you were 13. This letter could have been written yesterday." That just made us laugh even harder.
Then came the hight point of the night: J pulled out a bag of saved clothing. Of course there were the old concert shirts and graduation caps. But she also had saved her Jams! Oh, lord, I had forgotten all about Jams. They were those really ugly drawstring Hawaiian print shorts. Everybody had a pair. Just one pair. Because they were really expensive and you blew your entire birthday budget on that one pair. Mine were teal blue with palm trees and surf boards. Hers were purple with big hibuscus flowers.
Of course, we had to try them on. We took turns wearing the Jams with the Ocean Pacific half shirt, the Vans and the Oakley Razor sunglasses. Oh what fun to prance around as if we were on the catwalk and casually peer over the top of the sunglasses. "Hey dude, s'up?" (They were really small steps down the catwalk so we wouldn't rip the shorts right down the center seam. Ya gotta be careful with shorts you wore when you were 14) Plus, if a big fit of laugter was about to come on, the Jams were definitely in harms way.
On Friday, I went to a comedy club with some other friends. In my head, the real test was to see if any comedian could make me laugh as much as the hope chest had. They were pretty funny. But I think the hope chest still won. By a banana hair clip!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Writer's Workshop Wednesday
Wednesday's Assignment from Mama's Losin' It is to write of an encounter with a former teacher. I have exactly the person in mind.
My sophmore year in high school, I had an English teacher who hated me. I was never really sure why she did not like me. I thought I was pretty cute and likable. I worked really hard in school. I came to class, I studied hard, I tried not only to grasp the knowledge but to apply it.
I went to a private all girl's school. I hated it. I wanted nothing more than to just go back to public school where the rest of my friends went, but my parents would not hear of it. I had a full scholarship to this school and they insisted that I take advantage of the opportunity. (they were quirky like that) In retrospect, I guess I could have tried a little less in my academic endeavors and that may have taken care of the whole "but you have a scholarship" dilemma, but it never crossed my mind.
Many of the girls who went to the school had summer cottages in the town where I lived. Many of the girls in the school looked down on me because I lived year round in the summer cottage town. My family did not have a regular home, a summer cottage, and a ski cabin. We had one house. It almost seemed to me that my English teacher saw me in the same light as the summer cottage crowd.
Often in class, she would suggest engaging our families in a discussion of classic literature around the dinner table. I'm sure she meant for this to be a positive, enlightening experience. However, my family did not discuss Anna Karenina or Great Expectations at dinner. We discussed the Red Sox. Charles Dickens would not stand a chance.
Often in class, she would ask students to share with one another the content of those dinner discussions. Some students would share their mother's point of view as she wrote in her term paper at Wellsley. Other students, like me, looked down at their desks and tried to disappear. And always -- ALWAYS -- she would call on me.
"What did your family think of this novel?" she'd say.
"Um, I don't know" I'd stammer. "We didn't talk about it."
I still remember the way she'd look down her nose at me. Through those black rimmed half glasses. (She always wore black rimmed glasses, black ribbed turtle neck sweaters over skinny black pants and black boots) "Well, I guess some people think they don't have to pay attention to assignments."
In those moments, I'd actually feel ashamed of my family! Nobody in my family had gone to college! Nobody wrote term papers about t.s .elliot! Nobody cared to compare and contrast Much Ado About Nothing and Othello! I'd sit in class and seethe, thinking that this was her intent all along, to make me feel like I was a little less than her.
One day, during a discussion of A Farewell to Arms, we were talking about somebody's dad's opinion of Hemingway as the greatest American writer and the novel as a classic love story. As usual, she asked me to weigh in on it.
"I don't think they were in love at all," I said. "I think the characters were a couple of alcoholics who were afraid of being alone. So they just hung on each other and drank and said 'I love you, I love you, I love you' so they wouldn't have to be alone."
She looked down through her glasses at me. "Obviously, somebody has not been paying attention in class all year. I try to teach you girls how to read great literature and appreciate great writers. Hemingway HAS been referred to as the greatest American writer of all time by many scholars. You would know that if you cared to do the work in this class."
"But I did read the book," I argued back to her. "I just don't think its a love story. I think its sad!"
After lecturing the class on how I didn't know the difference between a "book" and a "novel" she gave me an extra assignment to research Ernest Hemingway and write an essay on Hemingway as the greatest American author of all time.
Big mistake. BIG MISTAKE. Because in my research of the greatest American writer of all time, I learned a few things that she had neglected to mention in class. Like how he was a raging alcoholic. How he had a series of failed relationships including one with his nurse during World War I. How he was referred to as a member of "the Lost Generation" by Ezra Pound. How he was thought to have suffered from bipolar disorder and ended his life by committing suicide.
I did HER assignment. However, I wrote MY essay. Somehow in between the lines of the paper, I managed to suggest that somebody ELSE hadn't been doing her assignments. (seriously ---who the hell teaches Hemingway and neglects to mention the Lost Generation and the alcoholism?) I managed reference my ass off about his dark period in which he wrote this novel. I managed to turn that paper in, feeling like she was a little less than me.
(I still have that essay tucked away in a hope chest. I might dig it out this weekend and read it again. Just because.)
My sophmore year in high school, I had an English teacher who hated me. I was never really sure why she did not like me. I thought I was pretty cute and likable. I worked really hard in school. I came to class, I studied hard, I tried not only to grasp the knowledge but to apply it.
I went to a private all girl's school. I hated it. I wanted nothing more than to just go back to public school where the rest of my friends went, but my parents would not hear of it. I had a full scholarship to this school and they insisted that I take advantage of the opportunity. (they were quirky like that) In retrospect, I guess I could have tried a little less in my academic endeavors and that may have taken care of the whole "but you have a scholarship" dilemma, but it never crossed my mind.
Many of the girls who went to the school had summer cottages in the town where I lived. Many of the girls in the school looked down on me because I lived year round in the summer cottage town. My family did not have a regular home, a summer cottage, and a ski cabin. We had one house. It almost seemed to me that my English teacher saw me in the same light as the summer cottage crowd.
Often in class, she would suggest engaging our families in a discussion of classic literature around the dinner table. I'm sure she meant for this to be a positive, enlightening experience. However, my family did not discuss Anna Karenina or Great Expectations at dinner. We discussed the Red Sox. Charles Dickens would not stand a chance.
Often in class, she would ask students to share with one another the content of those dinner discussions. Some students would share their mother's point of view as she wrote in her term paper at Wellsley. Other students, like me, looked down at their desks and tried to disappear. And always -- ALWAYS -- she would call on me.
"What did your family think of this novel?" she'd say.
"Um, I don't know" I'd stammer. "We didn't talk about it."
I still remember the way she'd look down her nose at me. Through those black rimmed half glasses. (She always wore black rimmed glasses, black ribbed turtle neck sweaters over skinny black pants and black boots) "Well, I guess some people think they don't have to pay attention to assignments."
In those moments, I'd actually feel ashamed of my family! Nobody in my family had gone to college! Nobody wrote term papers about t.s .elliot! Nobody cared to compare and contrast Much Ado About Nothing and Othello! I'd sit in class and seethe, thinking that this was her intent all along, to make me feel like I was a little less than her.
One day, during a discussion of A Farewell to Arms, we were talking about somebody's dad's opinion of Hemingway as the greatest American writer and the novel as a classic love story. As usual, she asked me to weigh in on it.
"I don't think they were in love at all," I said. "I think the characters were a couple of alcoholics who were afraid of being alone. So they just hung on each other and drank and said 'I love you, I love you, I love you' so they wouldn't have to be alone."
She looked down through her glasses at me. "Obviously, somebody has not been paying attention in class all year. I try to teach you girls how to read great literature and appreciate great writers. Hemingway HAS been referred to as the greatest American writer of all time by many scholars. You would know that if you cared to do the work in this class."
"But I did read the book," I argued back to her. "I just don't think its a love story. I think its sad!"
After lecturing the class on how I didn't know the difference between a "book" and a "novel" she gave me an extra assignment to research Ernest Hemingway and write an essay on Hemingway as the greatest American author of all time.
Big mistake. BIG MISTAKE. Because in my research of the greatest American writer of all time, I learned a few things that she had neglected to mention in class. Like how he was a raging alcoholic. How he had a series of failed relationships including one with his nurse during World War I. How he was referred to as a member of "the Lost Generation" by Ezra Pound. How he was thought to have suffered from bipolar disorder and ended his life by committing suicide.
I did HER assignment. However, I wrote MY essay. Somehow in between the lines of the paper, I managed to suggest that somebody ELSE hadn't been doing her assignments. (seriously ---who the hell teaches Hemingway and neglects to mention the Lost Generation and the alcoholism?) I managed reference my ass off about his dark period in which he wrote this novel. I managed to turn that paper in, feeling like she was a little less than me.
(I still have that essay tucked away in a hope chest. I might dig it out this weekend and read it again. Just because.)
Monday, September 8, 2008
Apartment Frustration
This weekend seemed to be one thing after another that just did not happen. Saturday morning at 6:00am, I found that my sprint triathlon had been cancelled. Later, I attempted to do some shopping and get a book from the library, but I was thwarted again as the things I wanted to obtain were not there. On Sunday, some plans I had with a friend fell through, so I decided to go to the beach. But every time I tried to go into the ocean, I was tossed out again by the remnants of Hannah. Nothing was panning out!
Just as I started to give in fully to my frustration, I remembered that a friend of mine was spending his weekend apartment hunting. In my opinion, that is THE most frustrating activity on earth. (which probably explains why I still don't own a place of my own and am living over my best friend's garage)
Years ago, when I was apartment hunting in Boston, one guy showed me a basement apartment that had no sub-flooring, no carpet, no cabinets, no kitchen floor, no closet doors, no sheet rock, broken windows and no appliances. It was the 24th of the month. He wanted a decision on the spot, because he was hoping to get somebody to move in on the 1st of the next month!
The next apartment I looked at was at least fully constructed. The realtor showed it to me and 4 other people at the same time. At 2:00 pm on a weekday. (I had to go into work early, run out of work to see the apartment and then go back and work late.) After showing all 5 of us the apartment, the realtor guy basically said that whomever could get to HIS office first to fill out the paperwork could have the apartment. Like some kind of strange amazing race. Skewed to favor people who didn't have a job to go back to.
Years later I was apartment searching in California. Though I had several years and 3000 miles in between, aparment searching had not changed much. I had given some thought to sharing a place with roommates. The place I looked at had advertised 3 bedrooms. In actuality, it had two bedrooms. The people living there had taken some cubicle dividers and sectioned off some of the living room. About 5 feet by 8 feet. The rest of the living room formed an "L" that was 2 feet in width on one side and about 3 1/2 on the other. Into which a sofa and a widescreen TV had been stuffed. There was one bathroom. For this luxurious set up, they were asking $750 per month.
After quickly dropping the roommate idea, I checked out a rather promising one bedroom apartment. Unfortunately, when we entered the apartment, I was overwhelmed by the strong odor of cigarettes and cat pee.
"Now, this would be thoroughly cleaned before move-in, right?" I asked.
"Oh, its already been cleaned by the crew" I was told.
"This place really does not look like its been cleaned" I said as I opened the refrigerator to a sticky greenish brown stain on the bottom.
"No, it has." the apartment manager said in a bored tone.
Then we went into the bathroom where, floating in the toilet, was a GIANT TURD. An "I had lots of mexican food last night" turd.
To this day, I'm not sure what disturbed me more: the fact that there was a sequioa log greeting me in the loo or the apartment manager's reaction to our unexpected visitor.
"Oh" she said in a matter of fact tone and reached out to flush. Then she again assured me that the apartment had already been cleaned.
WOW! Both my weekend and the garage-majal look astronomically better.
Just as I started to give in fully to my frustration, I remembered that a friend of mine was spending his weekend apartment hunting. In my opinion, that is THE most frustrating activity on earth. (which probably explains why I still don't own a place of my own and am living over my best friend's garage)
Years ago, when I was apartment hunting in Boston, one guy showed me a basement apartment that had no sub-flooring, no carpet, no cabinets, no kitchen floor, no closet doors, no sheet rock, broken windows and no appliances. It was the 24th of the month. He wanted a decision on the spot, because he was hoping to get somebody to move in on the 1st of the next month!
The next apartment I looked at was at least fully constructed. The realtor showed it to me and 4 other people at the same time. At 2:00 pm on a weekday. (I had to go into work early, run out of work to see the apartment and then go back and work late.) After showing all 5 of us the apartment, the realtor guy basically said that whomever could get to HIS office first to fill out the paperwork could have the apartment. Like some kind of strange amazing race. Skewed to favor people who didn't have a job to go back to.
Years later I was apartment searching in California. Though I had several years and 3000 miles in between, aparment searching had not changed much. I had given some thought to sharing a place with roommates. The place I looked at had advertised 3 bedrooms. In actuality, it had two bedrooms. The people living there had taken some cubicle dividers and sectioned off some of the living room. About 5 feet by 8 feet. The rest of the living room formed an "L" that was 2 feet in width on one side and about 3 1/2 on the other. Into which a sofa and a widescreen TV had been stuffed. There was one bathroom. For this luxurious set up, they were asking $750 per month.
After quickly dropping the roommate idea, I checked out a rather promising one bedroom apartment. Unfortunately, when we entered the apartment, I was overwhelmed by the strong odor of cigarettes and cat pee.
"Now, this would be thoroughly cleaned before move-in, right?" I asked.
"Oh, its already been cleaned by the crew" I was told.
"This place really does not look like its been cleaned" I said as I opened the refrigerator to a sticky greenish brown stain on the bottom.
"No, it has." the apartment manager said in a bored tone.
Then we went into the bathroom where, floating in the toilet, was a GIANT TURD. An "I had lots of mexican food last night" turd.
To this day, I'm not sure what disturbed me more: the fact that there was a sequioa log greeting me in the loo or the apartment manager's reaction to our unexpected visitor.
"Oh" she said in a matter of fact tone and reached out to flush. Then she again assured me that the apartment had already been cleaned.
WOW! Both my weekend and the garage-majal look astronomically better.
Friday, September 5, 2008
5 current addictions
I've never done one of these "tagged" things before, but I just got tagged by Mrs. D for a little game started by Being Brazen.
I'm supposed to name 5 things that I'm currently addicted to and then tag 2 more people.
Seriously...FIVE things I'm addicted to? FIVE? I've been trying to find more balance in my life! But if I can't find balance, I've been trying to NOT THINK. As innocent as this little game appears on the outside, it is in actuality a cruel way for life to thumb its nose at me and let me know that I have absolutely no control or will power. Hey, Thanks Mrs. D and Being Brazen!
Ok, anyway... I'm currently addicted to:
Diet Coke: Of course. Isn't everyone? I'm not fully convinced its only caffeine in there. Its probably heroin. I can't get thru the day without at least two 16 oz bottles. Sometimes more. I need to cut down.
Peanut M & M's:Again, I never claimed to be creative with my addictions. I've been doing so much partying this past month that I've been accousted with peanut M & M's wherever I turn. Yesterday a patient brought a bag of peanut M & M's to the staff as a special treat. I could not walk by the bowl without grabbing a couple. I'm actually eating some now. I need to stop.
Triathlons: Yeah, I know. This summer has been life changing. What I thought would just be one more thing to check off my life list has turned into an obsession. Where this year I was kind of "playing" at the training, I have made the decision to actually train next year. I'm planning my life around it. I feel like I have been swept away by a power greater than myself. As far as addictions go, I think its a good one. I don't need to stop. I'm going with it.
Blogs: Hey, you know, after work and working out, I just jump on the computer and check my email and surf around for a little while and, you know, just see what people are up to. And post something. And leave. But, you know, maybe just check one more. And maybe check to see if I got any comments. And, hey, maybe start another blog dedicated to an obsession or something. But, you know, I'm in complete control here. I don't need a lot of sleep.
Jason Mraz: Sometimes I need to mix it up a little. The good old standby's are so dependable: Van Halen, Jane's Addiction, the Chilli Peppers, and my boy Chris Clouse. (If you are not familiar with him, you should be. Check him out. He is one of the things I miss most about California).
Anyway, I chucked a new CD in the ipod for workouts, into the car for commuting, into the computer for listening while blogging. I have been rocking and grooving and beat boxing with ol' Mr. A-Z for a few weeks now. I can't get enough. I enjoy the fact that NONE of my friends like him. I'll chuck him in the file with Ozomotli and only listen by my lonesome. I'll grow out of this one eventually. Or maybe he'll become an old standby. Who Knows?
Now for the difficult part. Who to tag? Who to tag? I suppose I'll actually have to start leaving some comments on my regular visits rather than skulking around in the dark, so people will know who the heck Hebba is.
Tag...Tutu Girl and Reb
I'm supposed to name 5 things that I'm currently addicted to and then tag 2 more people.
Seriously...FIVE things I'm addicted to? FIVE? I've been trying to find more balance in my life! But if I can't find balance, I've been trying to NOT THINK. As innocent as this little game appears on the outside, it is in actuality a cruel way for life to thumb its nose at me and let me know that I have absolutely no control or will power. Hey, Thanks Mrs. D and Being Brazen!
Ok, anyway... I'm currently addicted to:
Diet Coke: Of course. Isn't everyone? I'm not fully convinced its only caffeine in there. Its probably heroin. I can't get thru the day without at least two 16 oz bottles. Sometimes more. I need to cut down.
Peanut M & M's:Again, I never claimed to be creative with my addictions. I've been doing so much partying this past month that I've been accousted with peanut M & M's wherever I turn. Yesterday a patient brought a bag of peanut M & M's to the staff as a special treat. I could not walk by the bowl without grabbing a couple. I'm actually eating some now. I need to stop.
Triathlons: Yeah, I know. This summer has been life changing. What I thought would just be one more thing to check off my life list has turned into an obsession. Where this year I was kind of "playing" at the training, I have made the decision to actually train next year. I'm planning my life around it. I feel like I have been swept away by a power greater than myself. As far as addictions go, I think its a good one. I don't need to stop. I'm going with it.
Blogs: Hey, you know, after work and working out, I just jump on the computer and check my email and surf around for a little while and, you know, just see what people are up to. And post something. And leave. But, you know, maybe just check one more. And maybe check to see if I got any comments. And, hey, maybe start another blog dedicated to an obsession or something. But, you know, I'm in complete control here. I don't need a lot of sleep.
Jason Mraz: Sometimes I need to mix it up a little. The good old standby's are so dependable: Van Halen, Jane's Addiction, the Chilli Peppers, and my boy Chris Clouse. (If you are not familiar with him, you should be. Check him out. He is one of the things I miss most about California).
Anyway, I chucked a new CD in the ipod for workouts, into the car for commuting, into the computer for listening while blogging. I have been rocking and grooving and beat boxing with ol' Mr. A-Z for a few weeks now. I can't get enough. I enjoy the fact that NONE of my friends like him. I'll chuck him in the file with Ozomotli and only listen by my lonesome. I'll grow out of this one eventually. Or maybe he'll become an old standby. Who Knows?
Now for the difficult part. Who to tag? Who to tag? I suppose I'll actually have to start leaving some comments on my regular visits rather than skulking around in the dark, so people will know who the heck Hebba is.
Tag...Tutu Girl and Reb
Thursday, September 4, 2008
The Ultimate Guy-Weekend Accessory
So last Saturday, I got some relentless texts from Nerd. He was supposed to be on a "guy's weekend". So you can imagine my surprise when he was texting me. Texting girlfriend-type people is strictly prohibited on guys weekends, as I understand. Of course, I'm also the person who thought female wingmen existed, so don't take this as fact.Anyway, I soon discovered that his buddies, incapable of determining north from south or operating a Tom-tom, added 2 1/2 hours onto their trip. He was in Hyannis by himself for the next 4 hours on a rainy day. Since I was already on Cape Cod, I buzzed down to hang out until his buddies arrived.
In true guy form, he worked on trying to get a back rub out of me. In true physical therapist form, I only did so after reviewing his stretching regeime and developing a new one for him. "Make sure you do this every time after you go to the gym", I said.
"You know," he replied, "I don't think my back hurts from the gym. I think its because my man-bag weighs too much."
"Your MAN BAG!" I said "What the hell do you have in a man-bag?"
"Too much stuff. It weighs about 40 pounds. I just took out the umbrella, though."
I was incredulous. "You carry an umbrella around all the time?"
"Not anymore. But you should see my umbrella. Its super fancy! When I use it, I feel like I should be wearing a trench coat and a matching hat, like Humphrey Boghart"
I looked at him. "Dude, seriously? You have no idea why people think you are gay?"
"Just because I have a man-bag? I got a lot of stuff. I think I should try switching it to my other shoulder."
"No," I told him, "You should stop carrying a purse."
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
MY LAST 3 EMAILS
I was toying with the idea of writing the letter to my 10 year old self when it dawned on me that I was much more well adjusted at age 10 than I am now. When I was 10, I ate, breathed, slept, and lived for gymnastics. I was the youngest girl on the "elite" team at the gym. I weighed 52 pounds. I excelled at school and was part of the "popular" crowd in 5th grade---whatever that is. (Of course, that was before junior high when the popular crowd took on a whole new meaning) My biggest worry at age 10 was that most adults thought I was a very articulate 6 year old.
Flash forward 28 years, and I don't seem to have things figured out nearly as much as I did when I was 10. I suppose this should be a clue to me to examine my life and try to get it back on track. However, that would entail lots of deep thought and that is in direct conflict with my new life philosophy.
So instead of writing a letter, I decided to examine the last 3 emails I sent:
1) I sent an email to my friend, Char, to solidify our plans for a girls weekend in 2 weeks. Our last girls weekend in Texas was 2 years ago. At the time, I hadn't seen Char in a couple years. It came as a bit of a shock to find out that she was extremely unhappy. I felt like a pretty bad friend that I had not known she was so unhappy! Unfortunately, the next year was even worse for Char. Her boyfriend of 3 years left her, she got her identity stolen, and she lost her job all in one year. I wanted to fly down to Texas, but she wanted to be alone. All I could do was email her and call and text her, trying to be a good friend. Things are finally turning around for her. So in 2 weeks, Char, D, and I are going to get together and laugh our butts off about anything and everything. I just had to email to confirm.
2) I sent an email to a wheelchair vendor to clarify the specs for a patient's new chair. Things are getting much busier in the wheelchair clinic at work. That had been one of my work goals: to expand the wheelchair clinic. However, now that it's expanded itself beyond my time constraints, I end up taking work home to get it completed. Be careful of what you wish for.
3) I sent an email to Nerd. Nerd is probably going to be moving soon. Either to another country for a few months or to another state, possibly permanently. My close friends are upset. They think he should turn down the offer and stay here. They don't understand why I'm not as upset as they. But I'm happy for him. I don't want him to turn down the offer. I think he should go. The only regrets I've ever had in my life are the times when I turned down an opportunity to travel somewhere or work in a great situation in order to stay with somebody. Inevitably, when things did not work out, I was resentful. I wouldn't want Nerd to resent me like that. I do wish our timing was a little better, though.
When you look at those 3 emails in line, it seems like my life is pretty well balanced. Then why does it seem so disjointed?
For 10 year old letters from people a bit more well adjusted than me, go to Mama's Losin It
Flash forward 28 years, and I don't seem to have things figured out nearly as much as I did when I was 10. I suppose this should be a clue to me to examine my life and try to get it back on track. However, that would entail lots of deep thought and that is in direct conflict with my new life philosophy.
So instead of writing a letter, I decided to examine the last 3 emails I sent:
1) I sent an email to my friend, Char, to solidify our plans for a girls weekend in 2 weeks. Our last girls weekend in Texas was 2 years ago. At the time, I hadn't seen Char in a couple years. It came as a bit of a shock to find out that she was extremely unhappy. I felt like a pretty bad friend that I had not known she was so unhappy! Unfortunately, the next year was even worse for Char. Her boyfriend of 3 years left her, she got her identity stolen, and she lost her job all in one year. I wanted to fly down to Texas, but she wanted to be alone. All I could do was email her and call and text her, trying to be a good friend. Things are finally turning around for her. So in 2 weeks, Char, D, and I are going to get together and laugh our butts off about anything and everything. I just had to email to confirm.
2) I sent an email to a wheelchair vendor to clarify the specs for a patient's new chair. Things are getting much busier in the wheelchair clinic at work. That had been one of my work goals: to expand the wheelchair clinic. However, now that it's expanded itself beyond my time constraints, I end up taking work home to get it completed. Be careful of what you wish for.
3) I sent an email to Nerd. Nerd is probably going to be moving soon. Either to another country for a few months or to another state, possibly permanently. My close friends are upset. They think he should turn down the offer and stay here. They don't understand why I'm not as upset as they. But I'm happy for him. I don't want him to turn down the offer. I think he should go. The only regrets I've ever had in my life are the times when I turned down an opportunity to travel somewhere or work in a great situation in order to stay with somebody. Inevitably, when things did not work out, I was resentful. I wouldn't want Nerd to resent me like that. I do wish our timing was a little better, though.
When you look at those 3 emails in line, it seems like my life is pretty well balanced. Then why does it seem so disjointed?
For 10 year old letters from people a bit more well adjusted than me, go to Mama's Losin It
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
the meaning of life
My life has no purpose, no direction, no aim, and no meaning; and yet I'm happy. I can't figure it out. What am I doing right? ---Charles M Schultz
So this week brought about the hatching of mass quantities of teeny, tiny, little green gnats; gnats so tiny that they fit right through the holes in my screens! They flew in great swarms all around my apartment, up into the recessed lighting in the ceiling, where they were propmtly fried by the light bulbs. Then they rained down like volcanic ash all over everything I own; they fell on the computer keyboard, the bookcases, on the freshly washed dishes drying in the dish-rack, on the coffee table. Fortunately, I had the foresight to leave the lights over the bed OFF, but my lovely white canvas IKEA sofa looked like it was grey tweed (their little bug bodies, while green when alive, turn black when deceased)
Then the spiders came. They were psyched! They clearly thought I had opened up some kind of arachnoid all-you-can-eat-buffet. Normally, I don't mind sharing my place with a spider or two. I really liked Charlotte, so I figure her friends are ok, too. But when they try to take over the place, its time to put your foot down. I had to break out the big guns -- the vacuum cleaner.
And as I vacuumed up tiny little insect carcasses, I thought about how lucky I am to have been born -- you know-- a HUMAN, rather than an insect with a lifespan of less than 24 hours. I can only hope that my life has a little bit more meaning, as well. (You never can tell though. Remember "Horton Hears a Who"? Maybe we are the ones whose lives are insignificant and those gnats actually accomplished something grand) Well, before getting sucked up a vacuum hose.
So this week brought about the hatching of mass quantities of teeny, tiny, little green gnats; gnats so tiny that they fit right through the holes in my screens! They flew in great swarms all around my apartment, up into the recessed lighting in the ceiling, where they were propmtly fried by the light bulbs. Then they rained down like volcanic ash all over everything I own; they fell on the computer keyboard, the bookcases, on the freshly washed dishes drying in the dish-rack, on the coffee table. Fortunately, I had the foresight to leave the lights over the bed OFF, but my lovely white canvas IKEA sofa looked like it was grey tweed (their little bug bodies, while green when alive, turn black when deceased)
Then the spiders came. They were psyched! They clearly thought I had opened up some kind of arachnoid all-you-can-eat-buffet. Normally, I don't mind sharing my place with a spider or two. I really liked Charlotte, so I figure her friends are ok, too. But when they try to take over the place, its time to put your foot down. I had to break out the big guns -- the vacuum cleaner.
And as I vacuumed up tiny little insect carcasses, I thought about how lucky I am to have been born -- you know-- a HUMAN, rather than an insect with a lifespan of less than 24 hours. I can only hope that my life has a little bit more meaning, as well. (You never can tell though. Remember "Horton Hears a Who"? Maybe we are the ones whose lives are insignificant and those gnats actually accomplished something grand) Well, before getting sucked up a vacuum hose.
Monday, September 1, 2008
HAPPY SEPTEMBER
Well, Labor Day Weekend has come and gone and honestly, it may have been the best weekend of the summer. It's a toss-up with last weekend. Went to a party on Saturday nite, went bike riding all around Cape Cod on Sunday, and went to the beach today. Hung out with friends all weekend, saw my Dad, and watched a James Bond movie with nerd.
I would say "Good bye Summer", but I always think that September is better weather wise than June pretty much every year. So I unofficially extend summer in my own mind until October 15 or so.
August Goals:
1) Daily Meditation: I'm gonna give that a thumbs up. I think that when it comes to being silent and looking within, we all need to find our own way of doing things. Sometimes its sitting and being silent in the room (which I do), sometimes its being physical and letting your mind go silent (which I do even better), and sometimes its writing until all the chatter in your mind spills onto the paper and is silent (which I started doing again this month). We'll see where it goes from here.
2) Rock climbing: a bust. Didn't happen this month. Hopefully next month.
3) Outdoor concert: that didn't happen either. It rained alot this month.
4) Simple Abundance: It's less of a read through book, and more of a daily book of assignments for the year. Its been helpful in the whole meditation goal.
5) Bought the bike! Love it, love it, love it!!!!
6) Gave away 9 things and then some.
7) Bought the "going back to school outfit" with the gift card. Five out of seven ain't bad!!
AND NOW FOR NEXT MONTH:
I gathered all the past months goals into a folder and went through them this month. So in the spirit of back to school and all that jazz, I'm going to try to remedy all of the unfinished business for the year:
1) For 30 days I will exercise outside every day.
2) I will stick to an eating plan for 30 days.
3) I will pull out 4 crafts from my untouched craft box (one a week) and either complete it or get rid of it.
4) I will go to a museum.
5) I will go to an outdoor music event.
6) I will go rock climbing.
7) I will read "Downshifting"
8) I will get the finances in some sort of order
9) I'll tune and play the guitar at least 2 times per week.
10) I'll go hiking and camping at least once.
Quite a list. But cleaning up is always a big project, eh?
I would say "Good bye Summer", but I always think that September is better weather wise than June pretty much every year. So I unofficially extend summer in my own mind until October 15 or so.
August Goals:
1) Daily Meditation: I'm gonna give that a thumbs up. I think that when it comes to being silent and looking within, we all need to find our own way of doing things. Sometimes its sitting and being silent in the room (which I do), sometimes its being physical and letting your mind go silent (which I do even better), and sometimes its writing until all the chatter in your mind spills onto the paper and is silent (which I started doing again this month). We'll see where it goes from here.
2) Rock climbing: a bust. Didn't happen this month. Hopefully next month.
3) Outdoor concert: that didn't happen either. It rained alot this month.
4) Simple Abundance: It's less of a read through book, and more of a daily book of assignments for the year. Its been helpful in the whole meditation goal.
5) Bought the bike! Love it, love it, love it!!!!
6) Gave away 9 things and then some.
7) Bought the "going back to school outfit" with the gift card. Five out of seven ain't bad!!
AND NOW FOR NEXT MONTH:
I gathered all the past months goals into a folder and went through them this month. So in the spirit of back to school and all that jazz, I'm going to try to remedy all of the unfinished business for the year:
1) For 30 days I will exercise outside every day.
2) I will stick to an eating plan for 30 days.
3) I will pull out 4 crafts from my untouched craft box (one a week) and either complete it or get rid of it.
4) I will go to a museum.
5) I will go to an outdoor music event.
6) I will go rock climbing.
7) I will read "Downshifting"
8) I will get the finances in some sort of order
9) I'll tune and play the guitar at least 2 times per week.
10) I'll go hiking and camping at least once.
Quite a list. But cleaning up is always a big project, eh?
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