Author: gr4c5

I write. I read. I cook. I run. That's me, in a nutshell.

What I Did (Thank You Very Much)

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studyoflegs
Everyone has a comment about my legs. Or, rather, the pictures I had taken of said legs. There have been mixed reviews, for sure. Funny how the boys have good things to say (thank you, gentlemen) while the girls…well, they don’t say anything negative, per se. Just stuff like “what made you do that?” voices trailing off, implying judgment just under the skin. The tone is not condescending…yet not very complimentary either. Umm…thanks.
Here’s why I did what I did. Maybe there are women out there who do not have a single complaint about any part of their body whatsoever. Maybe there are women out there who think they are perfect in every single way and wouldn’t change a thing. Good for them. I, on the other hand, (unfortunately), am not one of those women. I could find fault with a fingernail (they don’t grow straight). The recent weeks of trying on clothes that did not flatter, finding new gray hairs and realizing gravity works in mysteriously bad ways has really taken a toll on my otherwise happy-to-be-me personality. Turning another year old hasn’t help matters. As my mother says, I’m 39 and “holding.” Middle aged, if I think about it, and consider the odds of living to 78 and beyond.

To put it bluntly, I needed something. Me & myself, we needed compliments from moi. In a nutshell, I wanted to stand in front of a mirror and proclaim myself happy to see me in that WhereHaveYouBeenAllMyLife? enthusiasm. I just wanted to be happy to be me. So, yes, it took fishnet stockings. It took high heeled boots and it took a schoolgirl skirt to put me in that frame of mind. The bigger compliment to myself was the ability to stand (or sit on a kitchen counter provocatively) in front of a camera and capture the moment. The biggest compliment was for me to post myself for all the world to see. Truly proving that while I have changed dress sizes and acquired more gray hair, I have reclaimed my sense of self. I heart me once again. So, that’s why I did what I did. Thank you very much.

With Absolute Abandon

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tigerlilyI am obsessed with you. Every word you utter ripples through me; sends shivers down my spine and spears my heart. I cannot get enough of your voice and how you say what you do. I capture my tongue hostage for fear of parroting too much, driving others insane with incessant talktalktalk of you. It’s all in what you say that makes it impossible for me to fall silent.
I realize this is my way. This has always been my way. I fall in love easily, carelessly, with absolute abandon. New fascinations rein supreme while old loves are tossed aside without favor. Over and over and over again. How my husband tolerates me I’ll never know.
But, but, but, back to you. Always you. If you were to stand before me, if I knew you, would I have the courage to confront your voice? Would I be capable of communicating my devotion to your craft? I hate the heartache you force me to feel. I am a fool for your politics, your positions. I don’t walk away easily – for even after I have removed myself your words follow me. Like a fine coating of dust that can’t be wiped clean you cover my conscience. You preach the imperfections and I pour over every word like a new language I have yet to understand.

Flicked to Flix

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My dislikes have the awful habit of growing to aversions. After they avert they become near-phobias and I give up completely. Somewhere along the way I stopped liking movie theaters and, above all else, going to them. I chalked it up to annoying people talking through the good parts, having to “hold it” until the very end, and the waste of money if the film wasn’t all that good. I couldn’t justify gathering the courage to shush someone (gawd forbid), or sit in pain while I twisted my bladder in agony, or spend a small fortune on popcorn and flat, mostly iced soda. I was perfectly capable of keeping my mouth shut, pausing for a bathroom break, and making my own freakin’ popcorn (with Tabasco) at home.
After I had given up on going to the movies I soon began to hate watching movies in general. My interest in renting became almost nonexistent after awhile. Suddenly, going to Blockbuster was more of a bubble buster. They never had what we wanted when we wanted it and when they did, the copy usually had some skipping/freezing/blank screen problem. We could never return the disks on time and we almost always missed out on the special features. Director commentaries are almost always just as long as the movie itself and who has time to watch the thing twice, especially when it has a 2-day rental sticker on it? Me & movies~  suddenly we didn’t get along so well. It kind of hurt my feelings, especially when friends and family would ask “did you see — yet?” or I’d read a book and realize it probably made a pretty good movie, too (as in the case of In Cold Blood by Truman Capote), or that nagging, tiny itch to see every Oscar winner for best pic…
Recently, my husband has turned to Netflix. So far we have seen five movies in just as many weeks:

  1. I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry (funny, funny scene with Dave Matthews – who knew he could be so gay?)
  2. Click (One of those “morality” movies – wasn’t super thrilled with it)
  3. Capote (I am a huge, huge fan of Capote – both the writing and the person. This was the best one so far)…
  4. Stranger than Fiction (I expected Will to be naked and Emma to be dry. Who knew I would be so wrong? Great movie!)
  5. Memoirs of a Geisha (although this was lengthy, it was worthy)

My sister wants us to rent Weeds. Someone else suggested House. Not only am I trying to catch up on movies missed, but television, too! Yikes.

Sunday SuperBowl Solitude

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From the moment I hung up the phone after talking to my sister I have not utter a word today. Not a single sound. I just realized this. Six hours of self silence. Natalie sang to me for awhile. I sent text messages while I missed my heartbeat. The tv blared the big game -which was watched through eyes squeezed shut. I spent more of the night looking down, unwinding tangled yarn, and reknitting silly squares. This blanket will be the death of me, I’m sure.
I reorganized my closet, cleaned the bathroom and folded laundry. Lit a candle and munched on cheese and crackers. Forgot about the candle and couldn’t figure out why I kept smelling a pineapple hours later.
I could have been at an all-day, sleep-over Superbowl (#42) party; I could have been socializing and snacking, sitting uncomfortable on someone else’s couch. I know how that would go. I can picture myself struggling to listen to conversations, trying to sort out strings of sentences, overlapped with tv noise and other talking. Trying to pay attention to the words directed at me, blocking out everything else.
Not this time. Silent. Quiet. Solitary. Just me and the cat…and the pineapple.

Happy Birthday

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I have deemed my 39th year the year of change in oh so many ways. Traditionally, my birthday is the day of resolutions, promises and new leaves turning over. Nothing new there. I have said that before just as I have made public my struggle with 2007. I have to say (again) I’m glad it’s over. I’m more than happy to be putting 38 behind me, as well. Having said all that, here’s how I celebrated the big 39th.

Daybreak doesn’t come easy in my bedroom. Dark forest green walls and brown wood blinds keep out any good morning sunshine. Lying in the dark, contemplating the day, the phone rang. My mother – serenading me with “Happy Birthday Dear 39 and holding….” I wanted to ask her to call back and sing into my answering machine (I’ve kept my mother and sister’s birthday wishes on my machine for the past 2 years). Instead, I smiled into the phone and enjoyed her goofy singing. A great way to start the day.
Later, kisa and I visited Grandpa’s house. Sitting with cinnamon scones and steaming coffee at the kitchen table we listened to the silence. The longer we sat the more aware of other sounds we became: the ticking of a clock, the wind rattling the clothesline stretched across the lawn, the dripping, drumming of rain off the gutters. I swore I could hear the whispers of ghosts.

A big part of my birthday celebration was redemption for the dress fiasco of last week. So, believe it or not, I took me, myself & moi shopping. Yes, shopping. I found jeans called “flirt” and “diva”, black v-neck tops and catch-my-legs in black fishnet stockings. Here’s the thing – everything fit, first try. No struggling, no scrutinizing. My dressing room didn’t even have a mirror.

Next stop, Panera for lunch. I have a soft spot for the sandwich shop thanks to Sarah and a little trip to Saratoga. This time I went vegetarian with creamy tomato soup, crunchy asiago cheese croutons, and a Greek veggie sandwich. Yum. I could have sat there all day.

The rest of the afternoon was spent working out, playing on the computer and opening mail. My sister sent a cool package of goodies (hello homemade tortillas!). I can’t wait to start making my own fajitas from scratch.

Later, a steamy bath filled with bubbles. Getting ready for a night on the town. I modeled two different outfits for kisa because I just couldn’t decide- heels and brand-spanking new jeans or boots and brand-spanking new skirt? Sweater or scoop neck tee? Everything black, black, black. Finally decided on the school-girl skirt in flannel dark, fishnets and braided black top. Something sexy-festive and fun. Ready to hit the town.

Speaking of town – it was hopping. For the first time ever we had to park on the roof of the garage. People everywhere, chatting, laughing calling to one another, rushing to cross the street, others standing to window shop. Smoky breath rising; groups huddled together on street corners, shoulders shrugged to ward off the cold. Neko Case performing at the Calvin, restaurants with hour-plus waiting lists. Stop and go traffic, the chirping walk signal in between the flow of cars. There was a buzz and I felt the electricity everywhere.

We ended up at Zen. Plum wine, a fire boat filled with seafood, bok choy, mushrooms, cabbage, brown rice, chopsticks and soy sauce. Next time we will cook our own meal, Japanese Shabu style. I have the meal all picked out.

Home again, stuffed and happy. My favorite soon-to-be four year old on the answering machine, serenading me with Happy Birthday (I live in a zoo) with a little Fire and Rain and Scarborough Fair thrown in. So damn cute. If it hadn’t been so late (way past his bedtime) I would have called him back to ask if he takes requests. Maybe a little Janitor of Lunacy.

Later, late night – a night-cap of a single cranberry vodka. KBCO on the stereo. Red candles in the dark flickering in the reflection of cds on the ceiling. Happy birthday to me.

Jerusalem Diet

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Besserman, Judith and Emily Budick. The Jerusalem Diet: Guided Imagery and Personal Path to Weight Control. Jerusalem: Green Publishing, 2007.

The very first thing I liked about this book was the statement that it is not a conventional “diet” book. Yay for that! It’s a book about making choices. Sometimes, in the world of nutrition and eating better, it is better to not think in terms of dieting; instead think in terms of getting healthier. Period.
The second thing I liked about this book is the disclaimer about gender. Right in the introduction the subject of why women are ‘targeted’ is addressed. The authors are quick to point out that while men have benefited from their methods, the conversation of this book is directed toward women because a woman’s reasons for dieting differ from a man’s.
Other points made in The Jerusalem Diet seemed to be common sense. A lot of conversation covers emotional eating and how food takes the place of other wants and desires. This is something any dieter has definitely heard before. The recommendation to start a food diary seems commonplace as well. Doesn’t Weight Watchers encourage the same awareness of dietary intake?
The main focus of The Jerusalem Diet is the use of imagery, or guided visualization. Throughout the book there are 43 different imagery exercises to be practiced during both the dieting and maintaining stage of weight loss. The exercises are conveniently indexed in the back as well. There is a pleasant mix of “lecture” and storytelling between exercises. Besserman and Budick share the experiences of their patients, which results in personalizing the “how to-ness” of the rest of the book.
One final addition to the book is a list of soup recipes designed to promote weight loss. It isn’t clear why the program is called the Jerusalem Diet other than the fact Besserman practices in Jerusalem and Budick teaches at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

*Disclaimer: while reading The Jerusalem Diet for review I also practiced what it preached to see how effective it was in helping me with my dietary concerns. Stay tuned because I’m still working on it!

February Is…

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heartWhen you think of the month of February what do you think of? I think of Valentine’s Day and how much I hate the Hallmark Holiday. I think of how I survived another year being me…and how I can’t wait to be me for another year. I think of National History month, National Friendship month, National Theater Month, National Science month, and the birthdays of Jonathan Letham, Ross Thomas, Russell Hoban, and Ian Banks. Lots and lots of reading for the month of February. Unfortunately, all of this will have to be put on hold while I read other things. LibraryThing has me tied up with:

  • The Jerusalem Diet: Guided Imagery and the Personal Path to Weight Control by Judith Besserman and Emily Budick
  • Dancing to “Almendra”: A Novel by Mayra Montero
  • and a third book coming soon.

Here’s where I’ll try after I am done with those:

  • American Century – by Harord Evans
  • Defiant Hero – by Suzanne Brockmann
  • His Excellency – by Joseph Ellis
  • Bright Young Things – by Amanda Vail

I just found out that American Century is over 700 pages long and is a nemesis subject of mine: history. Ugh. So, I anticipate I won’t get to any of the others this February. Maybe next year!

January Was…

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January was a pretty good month for reading, given the fact I was sick for the first two weeks! I was able to get through all the books on my ‘January Is’ list…as well as some extras. Here’s the total tally:

  • Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned by Walter Mosley – finished!
  • Beyond the Black Stump by Nevil Shute – finished!
  • The Dollmaker by Harriett Arnow – finished (thanks to NYC)!
  • The Americanization of Benjamin Franklin by Gordon Wood – Finished!
  • Everyday Zen: Love and Work by Charlotte Joko Beck – Finished!
  • Alburquerque by Rudolfo Anaya – Finished!

and the extras:

  • The Funnies by J. Robert Lennon (was actually a reread)
  • Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley (started on a whim and couldn’t put it down)
  • Book Lover’s Cookbook by Janet Jensen (as a Christmas present)
  • A Civil Action by Jonathan Harr (something I had laying around…but didn’t finish. Not yet, at least!)

Out of all the reads I think Thousand Acres and Alburquerque were my favorites. Both had a lot of locational culture, if that makes sense. I learned a lot about farming from Acres and more than a lot about food, traditions, history and the people of Alburquerque.

Buyer Be Seated

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the-dress.jpgI could have called this “Hell Has A Name Part Two” because this is just a continuation of the disaster I call the Quest for the Dress.
So, I’ve already covered the fiasco that was finding said dress. Yes, this is a picture of me in it. Not a happy camper am I? If I only knew…believe it or not, this is the happiest moment (wearing the dress) I would have that night.

 After humiliating myself for five hours finding the beforementioned dress I thought I was being wise to my “hefty” situation by next buying body hugging undergarments. You know the things that cinch you in, hold your extra baggage sausage-like? I guess I’m just talking to the women out there…But, I found the perfect all-in-one. Bra and skirt together. Lots and lots of lycra. Brilliant! Somehow, I really believed I could benefit from such a contraption. And for an hour all went well.
I can’t tell you when it all when wrong or why. I can’t say I made a wrong move, made a sudden move, or really moved at all. But, the next thing I knew the top to before beloved undergarment had popped off. Literally popped off and slid. Down. Way down. Without warning. All through dinner I discreetly negotiated trying to pull it back up. Leave it to lycra to be so uncooperative. I never got it back to the right place.
Sometime later, the same thing happened with the bottom half. Instead of popping suddenly the bottom portion had, unbeknown to me, worked its way up. Subtly, silently. Now the entire garment was around my waist, and cinching only my waist. Not in a good way, either. If I had a tire before, now definitely I had two.
I spent the entire wedding reception glued to my seat. In a corner. Trapped beside an elbowing, poking mother who insisted I asked someone (anyone) to dance. Riiiight. Luckily, my cousin put it perfectly, “We don’t dance.”

Hell Has a Name

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FatHell does have a name. Hell, hell has several names. Shopping…malls…Macy’s. Take your evil. Pick your poison. Five hours of scouring racks, trudging into fitting rooms, undressing and cringing, fighting static electricity all the while, not wanting to scrutinize lines too closely, yet knowing if I didn’t someone else would, deciding “no, this doesn’t work” only to start the process all over again. Back to the racks. Pushing aside hangers of too flashy, too shiny, too young, too short, too I’mNotThatGirl, too Holy-Cow-They-Want-$250-For-That?! Finding one or two things to haul back to the all-telling mirrors. Glancing over the shoulder, deciding something’s just not quite right (oh wait. It’s me that’s not quite right). Back and forth. Forth and back.
Halfway through the process I noticed a stain right in the middle of my turtleneck and my sweater was beyond brimming with snapping static. My feet were hurting and by dress #8 I broke a nail trying to negotiate the too-tight zipper. That should have told me something right there. With each try-on I felt fatter and fatter. Uglier and uglier. I started to curse my cousin and question why big, fat me had to attend his wedding. The dressing room felt too tiny and someone had turned up the heat. Too make matters worse, some lady tried to steal my dressing room while I was in my mother’s dressing room deep in consultation. How this woman had missed my inside-out jeans on the floor, my cat hair covered coat on the seat, my purse hanging on the door…not to mention the stained turtleneck lying crumpled in the doorway, is beyond me.
Finally, frustration found me and I started trying on black anythings. Black, black, black. Not a shred of color. I settled on something with rhinestones, something fit for a funeral. Shopping had been the death of me. I was so relieved to be finished, done with the search that when I dressed back into my clothes for the final time I put my turtleneck on backwards and forgot to zip my jeans.

ps~ while this makes a great end to the story, just wait until you hear about what happened at the wedding…Hell gets worse.

Left Out

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My husband refuses to read the book reviews when I blog. If he sees a book cover for a picture, he skips it. Automatically. He doesn’t come right out and say it, but I know he finds them boring. My impulse is to apologize, to be put off and/or hurtfully offended. Instead of being put off, I have to fight that off. I have to dig deeper and ask myself why anyone would read any word at all? Thinking like that keeps me way grounded – almost underground with humbleness. I think Kisa reads mostly because he’s married to me; he has a vested interested in what I might (or might not) say, but. But. But, he draws the line at boring books. I try telling him that I don’t write traditional reviews, that he might actually find one or two interesting….or something. He doesn’t care. He still won’t read. He has even said (and I quote) “you could call me a jerk, tell me I’m an asshole and I wouldn’t know it.” Hmmm…is that a challenge? Is that a Dare-You-To statement? That means I could unleash the dream about divorcing him; untether the frustration when I feel I’m not being fawned over enough; cry it’s a crying shame I can’t get him to clean the toilet. Seriously! Think of the possibilities! Actually…No.
Honestly, this is not a bone of contention between us (although it might sound that way). I don’t silently resent him for not reading me cover to cover, line after line, word by word. I sometimes cringe at what he does read, fearing he will misinterpret me just as much as the next person who doesn’t know me half as well. Or more.

ps~ Here’s a little haha for the unread: When I posted Everyday Zen I hadn’t been able to load a picture to go with it. So, when my husband signed into this site he was tricked into starting to read the blog. It’s actually kind of funny. When I joked that I almost got him he admitted, “yeah, it took me a few lines to realize I was reading a review…” then he added, “but when I did, I stopped.” Touche.

Alburqueque

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Anaya, Rudolfo. Alburquerque. Alburquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1992.

My final book of January – chosen to celebrate the month New Mexico became a state. Anaya’s Alburquerque is rich with the culture of New Mexico’s Mexican population. In the center is Abran Gonzalez, a young ex-boxer from Barelas. Upon discovering he is adopted he sets out to learn as much as he can about his birth parents. It is crucial to his understanding of who he really is. Swirling around Abran there is magical realism, cutthroat politics, deep rooted culture, rich history, and tragic romance.
My one complaint – I don’t know why Anaya has Abran have a chance meeting with his birth father in the very first chapter. It seemed a little too coincidental and more than a little cheesy. He is able to come full circle with the same characters at the end. Like I said, a little cheesy.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter simply called, “New Mexico” (p 167).

Everyday Zen

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Beck, Charlotte Joko. Everyday Zen: Love and Work. San Francisco: Haper Collins, 1989.

I had a hard time wrapping my brain around the reading of this book. I think I couldn’t figure out what was bugging me until I realized the reading required more than just my brain. It asked my heart and soul, my beliefs and convictions to get involved. It became a religious thing and that was something I really struggled with in order to read Beck’s book. I admit it – I am a person wrestling with and for a belief. If that bothers you, stop reading right here. I am searching for self-acceptance for what I believe and, ultimately, do NOT have faith in.

I found it insteresting that Beck put the word love in the title of her book because in the chapter specifically on love she states, “love is a word not often mentioned in Buddhist texts. And the love (compassion) they talk about is not an emotion…” (p 71). I had an interesting time coming to terms with that concept.

The other quotes that I took to heart are:
“…the storms of life eventually hit them more lightly. If we can accept things just the way they are we’re not going to be gratly upset by anything. And if we do become upset it’s over more quickly” (p 13).
“We can’t love something we need” (p 39).
“Other people are not me” (p 68).
“Not all problems are as tough as these, but less demanding ones may still send us up the wall with worry” (p 99).

New Words:

  • sesshin
  • zazen
  • koan
  • zendo
  • samadhi

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “Zen Buddhism And Meditation” (p 255).

Stop The Read

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I have to stop, or at least slow down, the BookLust Challenge for a short time. Within a month I have been chosen to read three different Early Review books for LibraryThing. I don’t know how this happened, but there you have it. I will finish the two BookLusters I have going then switch to the Early Reviewer books; the first being a diet book (go figure). This feeling-fat reader couldn’t have asked for a more appropriate to start with. You will read why in a few days. Trust me, I have something to vent about and it’s not pretty!

You Didn’t Ask Me

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I know this picture is huge. I wanted it big for a reason. The reason is this: to make the message loud and clear. Some time ago I told a friend this postcard (shamelessly swiped from PostSecret) reminded me of them (grammar be damned, I want to protect the not-so-innocent from scrutiny). Yes, I thought they had something to do with a could-of, should-of relationship. Then, the other other other day someone else admitted to me, “I married the wrong person.” Yikes. What, tell me, what exactly, clued you into the right or wrong of a marriage partner? How do you know that now, and more importantly, did you know that going into the whole “death do you part” deal?
Freak me out. It would kill me to regret any part of the vows I exchanged (and now share) with kisa. I could sigh and say someone else could have been more my speed, more my temperament, more my Me. But, that’s just the way life is…and isn’t. I’m not going to regret something because ultimately, that means regretting someone and that’s not fair. So, I ask again. Did you know you married the wrong person from the very start? If so, why did you do it, let it happen, whatever?
I admit! I play the “what if?” game in my head. That doesn’t mean I’m unhappy with my here and now. I think of old boyfriends and what could have been. I don’t think there’s a person out there who hasn’t done something similar, if not the exact same thing. A kind of WhereAreTheyNow? for ordinary people. I’m sure someone is Googling you right now. If I question my future with my past’s someones here’s what I come up with: a bored housewife with alcoholic tendencies, a military maiden with issues with authority, an atheist marooned at marathon mass every Sunday, a tripped out druggie wondering which sex my husband is having, gay or straight, without me, a overworked mother of three who has to wait through “just nine more holes – just nine more.” None of these are my idea of me.  But, I said yes at the time. Did I know I would be marrying the wrong person? Did I know all these past passings would be considered mistakes? Certainly not. Life just works in a weird, weird way.