Ma flew to New York this morning to help care for my sister-in-law as she recovers from her surgery. Ma will also be watching her three, adorable, New York dwelling grandkids. Lucky Ma.
With Ma gone, I'm in charge on the home front. Do you know what happens when I'm in charge on the home front? Stuff happens.
The Little Brother comes home in three weeks.
Ma comes home in two and a half weeks.
I forced my father to sign up for evernote this morning. Through text message. Like this: If you do not have evernote on your phone or iPad please add it so I can share with you.
(When I navigated to my sent message just now, I was pleasantly surprised to find I said please.)
I've been toggling all morning between work and evernote, creating lists for each room, adding things to do when I think of them or I get a text from Pa.
I also intend to create a calendar on a currently unoccupied whiteboard with all the days left between now and then. Each day will house a list of the things for use to do. If we get something done earlier than the day it was planned for, we can slot something else in it's place.
There is no end goal. We will do as much as we possibly can with the time that we have. We will not run out of things. Nor will I let either of us slack. There are things to be done and we must do them.
I'm basically a tyrant.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Monday, May 19, 2014
Sewing Machines: An Accounting
I spent Saturday getting the Ma's serger up and running. We had taken it in to the shop months and months ago. The repair man was appalled. "You messed up the programming, which you shouldn't be able to do. How did you do that!?" We hadn't touched it since bringing it home.
(Is anyone surprised that we were able to mess up something you aren't supposed to be able to mess up?)
I gave myself a sunburn reading the manual. There were a couple of parts I didn't understand and reread several times. I forgot to notice how long I'd been in the sun.
Giving up all hope of coming to an understanding, I threw Ma in the car along with my trusty serger manual and we headed to the Bernina dealer. I showed the sweet lady my confusing points. She was just as confused as I. I gave up asking for help. It turned out okay. I was able to do what I needed to and it was while I was sewing that I had an epiphany about the confusing parts. There's still one thing in particular I do not understand. (The line means to thread the needle, the dot means to pull out the needle and unthread it. So, the dot on top of the line means . . . that you both need a threaded needle and no needle that is not threaded??)
I had to do some rearranging to get the cutting station set up. Currently, the only usable machine in the sewing room is the serger. That means we have access to one quarter of our machines.
We have:
These machines used to be shared among three of us: me, the Ma, and the Little Sister.
The Little Sister has inherited a sewing machine from her husband's grandmother. That means those four machines are shared between two people. May I point out that there are two standard sewing machines for two people, which makes perfect sense, and the other two have distinct purposes. This means we can both be in there embroidering, sewing, and serging at the same time. We're almost never in each other's way.
We're contemplating purchasing another machine. Most sergers can't switch between the overlock stitch and the cover stitch. Setting up your machine to do one after it's been doing another takes a good twenty minutes, and that's if you're fast. The Bernina dealer has a supply of sergers that just came back from the schools. They are newer, easier to use, and inexpensive. They don't do the cover stitch. Our solution? Set up our current serger to do the cover stitch and leave it as a coverstitch machine. Purchase the new model just come back from the schools to be our serger.
Clearly, two women need five sewing machines.
When we do things, we do them in a big way.
(Is anyone surprised that we were able to mess up something you aren't supposed to be able to mess up?)
I gave myself a sunburn reading the manual. There were a couple of parts I didn't understand and reread several times. I forgot to notice how long I'd been in the sun.
Giving up all hope of coming to an understanding, I threw Ma in the car along with my trusty serger manual and we headed to the Bernina dealer. I showed the sweet lady my confusing points. She was just as confused as I. I gave up asking for help. It turned out okay. I was able to do what I needed to and it was while I was sewing that I had an epiphany about the confusing parts. There's still one thing in particular I do not understand. (The line means to thread the needle, the dot means to pull out the needle and unthread it. So, the dot on top of the line means . . . that you both need a threaded needle and no needle that is not threaded??)
I had to do some rearranging to get the cutting station set up. Currently, the only usable machine in the sewing room is the serger. That means we have access to one quarter of our machines.
We have:
- a standard bernina sewing machine, a couple of decades old at least
- another standard bernina sewing machine, maybe a decade and a half old (belonging to me)
- a bernina sewing machine that can be an embroider machine, half a decade old
- a serger that does both an overlock stitch and a cover stitch
These machines used to be shared among three of us: me, the Ma, and the Little Sister.
The Little Sister has inherited a sewing machine from her husband's grandmother. That means those four machines are shared between two people. May I point out that there are two standard sewing machines for two people, which makes perfect sense, and the other two have distinct purposes. This means we can both be in there embroidering, sewing, and serging at the same time. We're almost never in each other's way.
We're contemplating purchasing another machine. Most sergers can't switch between the overlock stitch and the cover stitch. Setting up your machine to do one after it's been doing another takes a good twenty minutes, and that's if you're fast. The Bernina dealer has a supply of sergers that just came back from the schools. They are newer, easier to use, and inexpensive. They don't do the cover stitch. Our solution? Set up our current serger to do the cover stitch and leave it as a coverstitch machine. Purchase the new model just come back from the schools to be our serger.
Clearly, two women need five sewing machines.
When we do things, we do them in a big way.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
The National Bottle Museum
I wrote this post last June but I was saving it until I got my other New York trip posts ready to publish. Still hasn't happened. Maybe it never will. In the name of doing what you can and not worrying about the rest, I'm publishing this post.
Bet you didn't know there was a museum out there dedicated to old, glass bottles. There is. One that is national, in fact.
The National Bottle Museum just happens to be located on the main street of Ballston Spa, not a five-minute drive from the Middle Brother's abode. Also, it was free to visit. How could we resist?
I'm addicted to museums. For real. If there's a museum, I am there. Even if it's a tiny, poorly-funded museum dedicated to old, glass bottles. Do I care about old, glass bottles? Not really. Did I really want to go the National Bottle Museum? Yes! I would have gone by myself, gladly.
I learned distinguishing marks of old bottles and how you can tell about when a bottle was made. I also learned more about the different techniques they used and how they put together teams of men in order to maximize the glass bottle output. Factories would make millions of bottles each year, each one made by hand. They had an impressive collection of old bottles and an enthusiastic staff.
Apparently the best place to dig for bottles is in an old privy. Gross. Good news is, they're old enough that the only thing down there is really fertile dirt. Don't think about it too hard. Glass bottles were imprinted with the factories name. They wanted their bottles back and it was considered stealing to use the bottle for anything else. Imagine it's winter and there's five feet of snow outside. You can't get the bottle back to the factory, you can't use it for anything else, you don't have enough room to let it just hang around your tiny home. What do you do? Through it down the privy hole. The deeper you dig, the older the bottles get. There's nothing better to a bottle collector than an untouched old privy.
This is the part where you thank your lucky stars that old, glass bottle collecting is not something you're interested in.
Elle and Izzy struggled a bit with it. The museum curator was long-winded and not particularly adept at keeping the interest of small children. They did have a rather nice miniature of a glass manufacturing setup. I picked up Elle so she could see better and explained to her that they made glass bottles by blowing air down a tube, making the glass expand from a ball to a container. I used my hand to explain to her how it was done. A few mornings later, Elle and Izzy were hanging out in the family room while I was pretending to still be asleep. I wasn't, of course (Aunt Megan! Aunt Megan! Are you awake, Aunt Megan?). The girls usually played silly games while they waited for their parents to realize they were up and about. I was drifting, not really paying attention to whatever game they were playing, until I recognized the sound effect I had used to explain to Elle the expanding of a bottle. I perked up, and what did I hear? Elle explaining to Izzy how glass bottles are made! I think that might just be my proudest Aunt moment.
Bet you didn't know there was a museum out there dedicated to old, glass bottles. There is. One that is national, in fact.
The National Bottle Museum just happens to be located on the main street of Ballston Spa, not a five-minute drive from the Middle Brother's abode. Also, it was free to visit. How could we resist?
I'm addicted to museums. For real. If there's a museum, I am there. Even if it's a tiny, poorly-funded museum dedicated to old, glass bottles. Do I care about old, glass bottles? Not really. Did I really want to go the National Bottle Museum? Yes! I would have gone by myself, gladly.
I learned distinguishing marks of old bottles and how you can tell about when a bottle was made. I also learned more about the different techniques they used and how they put together teams of men in order to maximize the glass bottle output. Factories would make millions of bottles each year, each one made by hand. They had an impressive collection of old bottles and an enthusiastic staff.
Apparently the best place to dig for bottles is in an old privy. Gross. Good news is, they're old enough that the only thing down there is really fertile dirt. Don't think about it too hard. Glass bottles were imprinted with the factories name. They wanted their bottles back and it was considered stealing to use the bottle for anything else. Imagine it's winter and there's five feet of snow outside. You can't get the bottle back to the factory, you can't use it for anything else, you don't have enough room to let it just hang around your tiny home. What do you do? Through it down the privy hole. The deeper you dig, the older the bottles get. There's nothing better to a bottle collector than an untouched old privy.
This is the part where you thank your lucky stars that old, glass bottle collecting is not something you're interested in.
Elle and Izzy struggled a bit with it. The museum curator was long-winded and not particularly adept at keeping the interest of small children. They did have a rather nice miniature of a glass manufacturing setup. I picked up Elle so she could see better and explained to her that they made glass bottles by blowing air down a tube, making the glass expand from a ball to a container. I used my hand to explain to her how it was done. A few mornings later, Elle and Izzy were hanging out in the family room while I was pretending to still be asleep. I wasn't, of course (Aunt Megan! Aunt Megan! Are you awake, Aunt Megan?). The girls usually played silly games while they waited for their parents to realize they were up and about. I was drifting, not really paying attention to whatever game they were playing, until I recognized the sound effect I had used to explain to Elle the expanding of a bottle. I perked up, and what did I hear? Elle explaining to Izzy how glass bottles are made! I think that might just be my proudest Aunt moment.
Weekend Things
Last night, just before dinner, I took my nephew out to play in the sun. I sat him in the baby swing, sat myself on the grass in front of him, and sang him silly songs as he swung back and forth. My Pa came out and started kicking around a soccer ball. Little Man was enthralled as the ball went whizzing across the yard.
After observation comes practical application. I pulled him out of the swing and set him on the ground by the ball. He put his two tiny hands on the top of it, investigating its shape and texture. When he was ready, we held hands so he could walk. He didn't understand at first; he had never intentionally kicked something repeatedly before. I kicked the ball for him. He thought it was pretty much the funniest thing he had ever done in his entire life, which is quite possible seeing as he has less than a year to his name. In time, he was able to kick the ball himself. It didn't go far but that made it easier to kick again. He'd kick it a few times, I'd kick it to Pa, and Pa would gently kick it back. It didn't matter who kicked the ball, it resulted in the same rush of giggles and belly laughs and happy screams.
On our way in, I tickled Little Man's tummy and told him about what it takes to become something in this life. The key, I told him, was consistency. He could do anything if he were willing to be consistent. Starting early didn't hurt either. But most important is to enjoy the ride. I've never seen anyone play soccer with as much joyful abandon as Little Man did. Remember, I said. Remember to be consistent and happy and you've got this life thing down. He grabbed my tickling hand, shoved it away from his tummy, and gurgled at me. I think the talk did him some good.
Later, I went back out again. There was a perfect dandelion I protected from Little Man's errant kicks. It stood tall in the middle of the lawn, waiting for a perfect wish. I blew the dandelion wisps into the wind and wished with all my heart for my sister-in-law to live a long and happy life. Days before her 29 birthday she learned that she had breast cancer. She had surgery earlier this week and we're all praying as hard as we can that she will be cancer free for now and forever and able to raise her three small children. A perfect wish for a perfect dandelion. Ma will be flying to New York soon to help take care of her babies while she concentrates on getting better. It's hard to help from thousands of miles away.
This weekend I have no plans. Not true. This weekend I have no social plans. I've left it intentionally empty because, oh, do I have plans. Selfish plans every one.
My weekend things:
My week has been filled with people and plans, which is why I have a list of weekend things. Tonight I've been invited to a tea party. However, I've heard nothing solid. I see two options. 1) The tea party will occur followed by an hour of yoga (who doesn't do yoga after tea?) and it will be delightful. 2) The tea party will be postponed and I will begin my weekend things tonight and it will be delightful.
PS I'm considering investing some time and thought in a summer bucket list. Working a grown-up person job does not mean there is no such thing as summer. On the other hand, a summer bucket list seems pointless for me. I already know the four most important things: popsicles, sunshine, books, and traveling to and with family, aka adventures. A list is unnecessary. Finding something to put on a list feels forced and un-summer like. I think that means no summer bucket list for me. What would be on your perfect, summer bucket list?
After observation comes practical application. I pulled him out of the swing and set him on the ground by the ball. He put his two tiny hands on the top of it, investigating its shape and texture. When he was ready, we held hands so he could walk. He didn't understand at first; he had never intentionally kicked something repeatedly before. I kicked the ball for him. He thought it was pretty much the funniest thing he had ever done in his entire life, which is quite possible seeing as he has less than a year to his name. In time, he was able to kick the ball himself. It didn't go far but that made it easier to kick again. He'd kick it a few times, I'd kick it to Pa, and Pa would gently kick it back. It didn't matter who kicked the ball, it resulted in the same rush of giggles and belly laughs and happy screams.
On our way in, I tickled Little Man's tummy and told him about what it takes to become something in this life. The key, I told him, was consistency. He could do anything if he were willing to be consistent. Starting early didn't hurt either. But most important is to enjoy the ride. I've never seen anyone play soccer with as much joyful abandon as Little Man did. Remember, I said. Remember to be consistent and happy and you've got this life thing down. He grabbed my tickling hand, shoved it away from his tummy, and gurgled at me. I think the talk did him some good.
Later, I went back out again. There was a perfect dandelion I protected from Little Man's errant kicks. It stood tall in the middle of the lawn, waiting for a perfect wish. I blew the dandelion wisps into the wind and wished with all my heart for my sister-in-law to live a long and happy life. Days before her 29 birthday she learned that she had breast cancer. She had surgery earlier this week and we're all praying as hard as we can that she will be cancer free for now and forever and able to raise her three small children. A perfect wish for a perfect dandelion. Ma will be flying to New York soon to help take care of her babies while she concentrates on getting better. It's hard to help from thousands of miles away.
This weekend I have no plans. Not true. This weekend I have no social plans. I've left it intentionally empty because, oh, do I have plans. Selfish plans every one.
My weekend things:
- flip my mattress
- clean my bathroom
- clean the carpet in the hallway outside of my bathroom
- serge the pile of rags in the sewing room
- pick up the sewing room
- make a couple of loose-fitting, wide-necked sweaters to wear while I'm working
- sew a pillow cover
- finish reading my book
- start and finish my other book
- start my other book
- eat popsicles
My week has been filled with people and plans, which is why I have a list of weekend things. Tonight I've been invited to a tea party. However, I've heard nothing solid. I see two options. 1) The tea party will occur followed by an hour of yoga (who doesn't do yoga after tea?) and it will be delightful. 2) The tea party will be postponed and I will begin my weekend things tonight and it will be delightful.
PS I'm considering investing some time and thought in a summer bucket list. Working a grown-up person job does not mean there is no such thing as summer. On the other hand, a summer bucket list seems pointless for me. I already know the four most important things: popsicles, sunshine, books, and traveling to and with family, aka adventures. A list is unnecessary. Finding something to put on a list feels forced and un-summer like. I think that means no summer bucket list for me. What would be on your perfect, summer bucket list?
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Phoenix
A few weeks ago, Ma and I headed to sunny Phoenix for her birthday. We left Wednesday as soon as I finished work, stopped for the night in Vegas, and traveled the rest of the way Thursday. The original plan was to leave Thursday morning from Vegas and be in Phoenix by early afternoon. Check out wasn't until noon, our beds were heavenly, and all we meant to do in Phoenix was stay in bed and read anyway, so why hurry?
We arrived in Phoenix right around dinner time. While we were tempted to find a delicious, local restaurant, we went to the grocery store. A wise decision considering our intentions. It made it easy to lounge around all day with a fridge full of food that we could grab and eat.
Friday afternoon we finally made it to the olive grove I've been meaning to visit for years. It was a perfect ninety degrees with a light breeze. The trees were beautifully delicate with spindly branches and tiny white flowers. Apparently each tree only produces enough olives for 1 to 6 gallons of extra virgin olive oil. Why is olive oil not as dear as gold?
The restaurant was delicious. Ma and I split a sandwich and also shared a peanut butter cookie made with olive oil. I would have been happy to eat my way out of a tub of those cookies.
Saturday we ventured out only for food.
The rest of the time we spent hanging around the cool house or in the backyard with the sunshine, reading our books, eating birthday cake and drippy popsicles.
Pretty much one of the best birthday weekends ever.
We arrived in Phoenix right around dinner time. While we were tempted to find a delicious, local restaurant, we went to the grocery store. A wise decision considering our intentions. It made it easy to lounge around all day with a fridge full of food that we could grab and eat.
Friday afternoon we finally made it to the olive grove I've been meaning to visit for years. It was a perfect ninety degrees with a light breeze. The trees were beautifully delicate with spindly branches and tiny white flowers. Apparently each tree only produces enough olives for 1 to 6 gallons of extra virgin olive oil. Why is olive oil not as dear as gold?
The restaurant was delicious. Ma and I split a sandwich and also shared a peanut butter cookie made with olive oil. I would have been happy to eat my way out of a tub of those cookies.
Saturday we ventured out only for food.
The rest of the time we spent hanging around the cool house or in the backyard with the sunshine, reading our books, eating birthday cake and drippy popsicles.
Pretty much one of the best birthday weekends ever.
Current Obsessions
There's one thing I have in common with each of my siblings. We are always moving on to the next big idea. It's impossible to know what's going to strike our fancy next, but we love exploring and learning and trying out new things. While this is true of all of us, I'm the worst culprit.
I've compiled a list of some of my current obsessions. These are things that I love but don't yet have a permanent place in my life. I have to work at them to make sure they have place. For all I know, they are a passing fancy, though I hope the majority make the move from passing fancy to permanence.
Neila Rey. This is one fancy lady. She's pretty much my fitness heroine.
Making my own swimsuit. I'm thinking this tutorial with a beautiful, green material to sew it up in. Something like this, maybe.
Yoga. I've gone so far as to make a list of things I'd like to acquire for my personal yoga practice. A foam roller, a yoga block (not the foam kind; a nice one of wood), a couple of small pillows, and a bolster.
Studying French. I'm using duolingo, coffee break French, and a couple of teach yourself French books that I picked up from Barnes and Noble a couple of years ago. I haven't missed a single day (besides the days when I was pretty much dying) since I decided it was definitely happening. Except Sunday. Sundays are always my break days. I've got four other members of my family hooked on studying Spanish and I'm planning to pounce on my grandmother soon.
Spring cleaning and decluttering. A couple Saturdays ago I did my bathroom. I pulled everything out and cleaned it top to bottom. I'm working with my Ma to get the office cleaned out. In the next couple of Saturdays I'll take care of my bedroom.
Meditation. I've tried it a few times over the past several months. I am not good at meditation. My brain whizzes around thinking about all sorts of things when I'm supposed to be focusing on my breathing and settling my mind. I will learn how to meditate effectively. I'm determined. I have a specific pillow that is now my meditation pillow.
Getting my car paid off by my two year anniversary of owning it. That might not sound big, but it's big. I bought it new and had no down payment to speak of. I decided just last month or the month before that it's going to happen. It's making me very poor but I'll be much less poor once it's done.
Black out curtains. For energy saving purposes.
Planks, push ups, pull ups, and chin ups.
General Conference. I'm determined to do an in-depth study of all the most recent talks. I've got a conference binder where I'll keep all my notes, a template for favorite quote flashcards, a list of prompts to help me focus my study of each talk, and a tentative schedule mapped out. Also, a couple of cousins to encourage and help me to stay focused.
Listening to all the keyboard solo cds at the library. This is going take a long time. I've checked out maybe ten so far.
Poetry. I've been less good about it the past couple of months, but I'm still reading it. I intend to begin writing a haiku a day again soon.
I've compiled a list of some of my current obsessions. These are things that I love but don't yet have a permanent place in my life. I have to work at them to make sure they have place. For all I know, they are a passing fancy, though I hope the majority make the move from passing fancy to permanence.
Neila Rey. This is one fancy lady. She's pretty much my fitness heroine.
Making my own swimsuit. I'm thinking this tutorial with a beautiful, green material to sew it up in. Something like this, maybe.
Yoga. I've gone so far as to make a list of things I'd like to acquire for my personal yoga practice. A foam roller, a yoga block (not the foam kind; a nice one of wood), a couple of small pillows, and a bolster.
Studying French. I'm using duolingo, coffee break French, and a couple of teach yourself French books that I picked up from Barnes and Noble a couple of years ago. I haven't missed a single day (besides the days when I was pretty much dying) since I decided it was definitely happening. Except Sunday. Sundays are always my break days. I've got four other members of my family hooked on studying Spanish and I'm planning to pounce on my grandmother soon.
Spring cleaning and decluttering. A couple Saturdays ago I did my bathroom. I pulled everything out and cleaned it top to bottom. I'm working with my Ma to get the office cleaned out. In the next couple of Saturdays I'll take care of my bedroom.
Meditation. I've tried it a few times over the past several months. I am not good at meditation. My brain whizzes around thinking about all sorts of things when I'm supposed to be focusing on my breathing and settling my mind. I will learn how to meditate effectively. I'm determined. I have a specific pillow that is now my meditation pillow.
Getting my car paid off by my two year anniversary of owning it. That might not sound big, but it's big. I bought it new and had no down payment to speak of. I decided just last month or the month before that it's going to happen. It's making me very poor but I'll be much less poor once it's done.
Black out curtains. For energy saving purposes.
Planks, push ups, pull ups, and chin ups.
General Conference. I'm determined to do an in-depth study of all the most recent talks. I've got a conference binder where I'll keep all my notes, a template for favorite quote flashcards, a list of prompts to help me focus my study of each talk, and a tentative schedule mapped out. Also, a couple of cousins to encourage and help me to stay focused.
Listening to all the keyboard solo cds at the library. This is going take a long time. I've checked out maybe ten so far.
Poetry. I've been less good about it the past couple of months, but I'm still reading it. I intend to begin writing a haiku a day again soon.
Friday, May 2, 2014
A Childhood Nightmare
Last night was a living nightmare from childhood. I forgot what it felt like to keep a lonely, late-night vigil with only a cold, porcelain bowl for company. The sand papery feeling in my tired eyes, the silent begging for my body to sleep or at least stop being so regularly ill, but hoping beyond hope for both. I was always set up on the couch so I wouldn't wake the little sister with my constant comings and goings, my restless turning in the night, the few times when I would have to employ the giant to my child hands sauce pan that acted as my back up for when I couldn't get out of my blankets fast enough. The nights would always end with me falling into an exhausted sleep at five or six in the morning halfway through my fourth movie. Usually the bustle of my family would wake me, but then I could stumble to bed and fall into non-existence for the rest of day.
You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this. This is not something you need to know. Though I do think it's interesting to note the differences from last night and twenty years ago (Ma wished me good luck before going to bed instead of setting me up in my little couch cocoon of illness, I spent the night in my own bed instead of on the couch because there was no one in my room to disturb, I didn't have a straw in my little cup of sprite because I didn't know where to find them in the new kitchen), what is really important about last night is how it reminded me that there is someone out there who subtly influences our lives to make them better. Often harder, but always, always better.
One. I spent six hours cleaning my bathroom and then was gone for five days living it up in Phoenix which means my bathroom only saw about a week's worth of use before my late-night vigil, and it was still pristine. The only thing worse than being violently ill all night, is being violently ill in a grimy toilet, in a grimy bathroom, on a grimy floor. How is that evidence of a person ruling the universe who loves me on an individual level? I can say with certainty, my bathroom has not been that clean since the day we moved in. I can't speak to its cleanliness on the day we moved in. I was seven and far more interested in the playability of the big toy in the backyard. It's possible my bathroom has never been that clean. Ever.
My bathroom is no longer pristine. You may think it's in my head, tainted by association. It's not. I had to wash my face with hot water and real soap after my first three encounters. So much splashing. My face was not happy. In general I use raw honey and olive oil as my face washing products. This morning the whole thing aches from dryness. Weirdly, I can tell exactly were on my face my tears were most likely to fall while I was doing my business. The salt from my tears sucked out any moisture those parts of my face might have been hiding. My face only kind of hurts. My tear tracks are silently screaming.
Two. We had Sprite in the refrigerator. This was important. My first three encounters were spent emptying my stomach of everything I had eaten in my past two meals. The two encounters after that I didn't have anything left to get rid of which meant there were several seconds of super painful gagging, followed by a small mouthful of stomach acid and burning in the back of my throat and nose that I couldn't get at with a toothbrush.
Sprite, spiked with the tiniest bit of apple juice, comes up almost as easy as it goes down and doesn't burn in either direction (I stir mine when I'm sick so it's super flat). Also, it tastes pretty much the same going down or coming up. TMI? Probably, but it's true.
Also, sprite has sugar, something my body sorely needed. On the off chance I did manage to keep a mouthful or two down, my body would thank me for giving it some calories.
I can't remember the last time we had sprite in our outside refrigerator. Normal sprite. Occasionally we have sprite zero which I will use to spike my fruit juices. It takes me months to get through twelve cans of the stuff. But real sprite with the sugar and everything in it? It's been years. And yet when I popped out to the garage refrigerator to assess my options on sick drinks, there was a brand new twelve pack just waiting for me. I know it wasn't there a couple of weeks ago. For some reason, Ma thought it would be a good idea to buy sprite with sugar sometime in the past two weeks and as soon as we're both awake at the same time I'm going to gush to her about how thankful I am.
I've been slowly drinking a can's worth of sprite spiked with apple juice this morning. I'm hoping I'll sleep better. Chances are good it's about all I'll ingest today.
Three. It's been less than a week that my hair has been long enough for me to pull it all up and back with a single hair elastic and a couple of bobby pins. It's off my face and off my neck. If I had been sick even a week ago it would have been nearly impossible to keep my hair out of the splash zone. I would have had to use myriad bobby pins with a distinct tendency to slip out at the worst possible moment. My face is easy to wash. My clothes easy to change (I had to change my pajama shirt three times during the night, and my sleeping shorts once). But my hair? Not easy to wash in the middle of night when my brain is fuzzy from lack of sleep, my eyes are like sandpaper, and my body hurts everywhere from the constant squatting and standing up again, the heaving, and the leaning over the sink to brush my teeth (which I stopped doing at about two in the morning; there didn't seem to be a point to keeping it up).
These things might seem silly to you. I can say with certainty my night would have been far worse without a clean bathroom, a can of sprite, and a way to keep my hair out of my face. Perhaps you may see these as coincidences or great luck. That's fine, but I know they're not. Unfortunately it's not a type of knowing you can pass from one person to another. It's something you need to know for yourself. Before you know you can't help but doubt the possibility. After you know, you wonder how you ever could have not known.
I do know. I know that those weren't coincidences but were instead clear manifestations of the powerful love the God of everything has for me. He cares about me enough to influence my life in such a way than when I'm up all night living a childhood nightmare, I'll have a clean bathroom, a can of sprite, and a way to keep my hair clean.
You might think it would be nicer if he had kept me from being sick in the first place. Which is partly true. I would have preferred to spend last night blissfully sleeping instead of heading to the bathroom every half hour like clockwork. But our bodies get sick for a reason. Often, it helps us know how to better take care of them. We went to a restaurant to celebrate the Ma's birthday yesterday. This was not a case of food poisoning. Ma and I shared the same burger and the same basket of fries and she was in bed all night. (I can't say she was sleeping all night. I'm sure my antics woke her. Once a mother, always a mother.) This is the second time in the past few years I've been so sick I couldn't help but empty my stomach after eating there. That's significant. I've probably thrown up only half a dozen times (I'm counting last night as a single incident) in the past few years and most of those half dozen times where during that time period when I was on that medication that made it hard for me to eat without being sick after. This is my body's way of telling me to please stop eating there. I like the taste of the food, but my body really struggles with it. I will never eat there again because now I know better.
I also want to note that there was no great lesson to be learned from the can of sprite or the super clean bathroom. These were not put in my life to teach me, to help me grown and learn. They were put there because my Father loves me enough to want to make my life a little easier. Seeing and feeling that love manifested in such small ways nearly makes last night worth it.
There's one more thing I've been thinking about. We'll call it four. This one has less to do with a specific happening of the night. Last night reminded me how lucky I am to work a job where I can take a sick day, of how lucky I am that even if I was really very sick for several weeks and needed to quit my job for a little while that it would be possible because of the financial position I'm in. I'm not rich. I'm actually pretty poor. But I'm so much richer than most of the world. For so many people a day of missed work means a day of missed pay which means less food for their children, less chance to buy a used pair of shoes for their growing children's feet or more chance that they won't be able to make their rent payment. It could also mean the chance to be replaced by a younger, seemingly healthier worker that won't need sick days. Truly, I am blessed.
You'll have to excuse me now. I fell into an exhausted sleep sometime around five. My body woke itself up at about twenty to seven, ten minutes after my usual wake up time but not too shabby after spending most of the night awake. Of course, I'd much prefer I hadn't woken up, but it gave me time to send an email to my manager letting her know I would not be appearing for work and to cancel the meetings that there's no point in holding if I'm not there because I was the host of the meetings and I have the work that needs discussing and the ideas for implementing and I would be doing the work that came out of those meetings.
I'm trying to trick my body into letting me sleep. My blackout curtains are open, letting the sun flood in, and I'm keeping my brain occupied. When I log off, I'll close my blackout curtains, turn on my fan to keep the room cool like night, and stop using my brain. This is supposed to signal sleeping time to my body. Wish me luck.
Also, I thought you might like to know that I've made a pact with myself to never eat again. Ever. Except applesauce and water. And the occasional sprite spiked with juice for when things start feeling sketchy. In six months I might consider adding toast to my diet. Another six months after that I might consider adding in oatmeal. I do love oatmeal. But that is it. For the rest of forever. And I'm only considering those items for the continuance of life. Something about the necessity of calories to keep your heart pumping.
One last thought. Last night was awful and endless. As the night wore on I couldn't see anything but dark half hours stretching into forever and beyond, an endless night of tired eyes and achey muscles and crying (not sob crying, but I apparently cannot throw up without tears leaking out of my eyes; this is one thing that hasn't changed over the past twenty years). An endless night of a little pain growing into small gags and then big gags and then a need to be in the bathroom right now or else.
I slept for less than two hours. The sun is out. The pain in my belly is gone (though my muscles are super sore). I've been nursing a can of sprite (still no straw) over the past hour, an amount it took me five hours to drink last night, without the slightest sign that I might need to run to the bathroom to rid myself of it. This is how it always used to be as a child. The night would end, the day would dawn, and it would feel like I had spent the night living in some sort of surreal, alternate universe.
And I can read again. That's impossible during the night when I'm tired and my head hurts from lack of sleep and anything is liable to set off my need to run to the bathroom. When I try to read during a night like last night, the letters dance in front of my eyes and make me motion sick. But today I can read. Good thing as that will be my go to activity if can't manage to convince my body it should be sleeping.
It's amazing to me the difference night and day makes. I don't understand. I see no logic in it. But somehow, it works.
Thank goodness for a shoddy memory.
PS, I realize this is a really long post about a subject you don't much care to hear about. If I'd gotten more sleep last night, perhaps I could trim it down. As it is, my bed is calling. If you made it this far, congratulations. I'd tell you to leave a comment and I'll bring you cookies, but since I've sworn off cookies for the rest of forever you'll have to settle with a pat on the back administered by yourself to yourself.
You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this. This is not something you need to know. Though I do think it's interesting to note the differences from last night and twenty years ago (Ma wished me good luck before going to bed instead of setting me up in my little couch cocoon of illness, I spent the night in my own bed instead of on the couch because there was no one in my room to disturb, I didn't have a straw in my little cup of sprite because I didn't know where to find them in the new kitchen), what is really important about last night is how it reminded me that there is someone out there who subtly influences our lives to make them better. Often harder, but always, always better.
One. I spent six hours cleaning my bathroom and then was gone for five days living it up in Phoenix which means my bathroom only saw about a week's worth of use before my late-night vigil, and it was still pristine. The only thing worse than being violently ill all night, is being violently ill in a grimy toilet, in a grimy bathroom, on a grimy floor. How is that evidence of a person ruling the universe who loves me on an individual level? I can say with certainty, my bathroom has not been that clean since the day we moved in. I can't speak to its cleanliness on the day we moved in. I was seven and far more interested in the playability of the big toy in the backyard. It's possible my bathroom has never been that clean. Ever.
My bathroom is no longer pristine. You may think it's in my head, tainted by association. It's not. I had to wash my face with hot water and real soap after my first three encounters. So much splashing. My face was not happy. In general I use raw honey and olive oil as my face washing products. This morning the whole thing aches from dryness. Weirdly, I can tell exactly were on my face my tears were most likely to fall while I was doing my business. The salt from my tears sucked out any moisture those parts of my face might have been hiding. My face only kind of hurts. My tear tracks are silently screaming.
Two. We had Sprite in the refrigerator. This was important. My first three encounters were spent emptying my stomach of everything I had eaten in my past two meals. The two encounters after that I didn't have anything left to get rid of which meant there were several seconds of super painful gagging, followed by a small mouthful of stomach acid and burning in the back of my throat and nose that I couldn't get at with a toothbrush.
Sprite, spiked with the tiniest bit of apple juice, comes up almost as easy as it goes down and doesn't burn in either direction (I stir mine when I'm sick so it's super flat). Also, it tastes pretty much the same going down or coming up. TMI? Probably, but it's true.
Also, sprite has sugar, something my body sorely needed. On the off chance I did manage to keep a mouthful or two down, my body would thank me for giving it some calories.
I can't remember the last time we had sprite in our outside refrigerator. Normal sprite. Occasionally we have sprite zero which I will use to spike my fruit juices. It takes me months to get through twelve cans of the stuff. But real sprite with the sugar and everything in it? It's been years. And yet when I popped out to the garage refrigerator to assess my options on sick drinks, there was a brand new twelve pack just waiting for me. I know it wasn't there a couple of weeks ago. For some reason, Ma thought it would be a good idea to buy sprite with sugar sometime in the past two weeks and as soon as we're both awake at the same time I'm going to gush to her about how thankful I am.
I've been slowly drinking a can's worth of sprite spiked with apple juice this morning. I'm hoping I'll sleep better. Chances are good it's about all I'll ingest today.
Three. It's been less than a week that my hair has been long enough for me to pull it all up and back with a single hair elastic and a couple of bobby pins. It's off my face and off my neck. If I had been sick even a week ago it would have been nearly impossible to keep my hair out of the splash zone. I would have had to use myriad bobby pins with a distinct tendency to slip out at the worst possible moment. My face is easy to wash. My clothes easy to change (I had to change my pajama shirt three times during the night, and my sleeping shorts once). But my hair? Not easy to wash in the middle of night when my brain is fuzzy from lack of sleep, my eyes are like sandpaper, and my body hurts everywhere from the constant squatting and standing up again, the heaving, and the leaning over the sink to brush my teeth (which I stopped doing at about two in the morning; there didn't seem to be a point to keeping it up).
These things might seem silly to you. I can say with certainty my night would have been far worse without a clean bathroom, a can of sprite, and a way to keep my hair out of my face. Perhaps you may see these as coincidences or great luck. That's fine, but I know they're not. Unfortunately it's not a type of knowing you can pass from one person to another. It's something you need to know for yourself. Before you know you can't help but doubt the possibility. After you know, you wonder how you ever could have not known.
I do know. I know that those weren't coincidences but were instead clear manifestations of the powerful love the God of everything has for me. He cares about me enough to influence my life in such a way than when I'm up all night living a childhood nightmare, I'll have a clean bathroom, a can of sprite, and a way to keep my hair clean.
You might think it would be nicer if he had kept me from being sick in the first place. Which is partly true. I would have preferred to spend last night blissfully sleeping instead of heading to the bathroom every half hour like clockwork. But our bodies get sick for a reason. Often, it helps us know how to better take care of them. We went to a restaurant to celebrate the Ma's birthday yesterday. This was not a case of food poisoning. Ma and I shared the same burger and the same basket of fries and she was in bed all night. (I can't say she was sleeping all night. I'm sure my antics woke her. Once a mother, always a mother.) This is the second time in the past few years I've been so sick I couldn't help but empty my stomach after eating there. That's significant. I've probably thrown up only half a dozen times (I'm counting last night as a single incident) in the past few years and most of those half dozen times where during that time period when I was on that medication that made it hard for me to eat without being sick after. This is my body's way of telling me to please stop eating there. I like the taste of the food, but my body really struggles with it. I will never eat there again because now I know better.
I also want to note that there was no great lesson to be learned from the can of sprite or the super clean bathroom. These were not put in my life to teach me, to help me grown and learn. They were put there because my Father loves me enough to want to make my life a little easier. Seeing and feeling that love manifested in such small ways nearly makes last night worth it.
There's one more thing I've been thinking about. We'll call it four. This one has less to do with a specific happening of the night. Last night reminded me how lucky I am to work a job where I can take a sick day, of how lucky I am that even if I was really very sick for several weeks and needed to quit my job for a little while that it would be possible because of the financial position I'm in. I'm not rich. I'm actually pretty poor. But I'm so much richer than most of the world. For so many people a day of missed work means a day of missed pay which means less food for their children, less chance to buy a used pair of shoes for their growing children's feet or more chance that they won't be able to make their rent payment. It could also mean the chance to be replaced by a younger, seemingly healthier worker that won't need sick days. Truly, I am blessed.
You'll have to excuse me now. I fell into an exhausted sleep sometime around five. My body woke itself up at about twenty to seven, ten minutes after my usual wake up time but not too shabby after spending most of the night awake. Of course, I'd much prefer I hadn't woken up, but it gave me time to send an email to my manager letting her know I would not be appearing for work and to cancel the meetings that there's no point in holding if I'm not there because I was the host of the meetings and I have the work that needs discussing and the ideas for implementing and I would be doing the work that came out of those meetings.
I'm trying to trick my body into letting me sleep. My blackout curtains are open, letting the sun flood in, and I'm keeping my brain occupied. When I log off, I'll close my blackout curtains, turn on my fan to keep the room cool like night, and stop using my brain. This is supposed to signal sleeping time to my body. Wish me luck.
Also, I thought you might like to know that I've made a pact with myself to never eat again. Ever. Except applesauce and water. And the occasional sprite spiked with juice for when things start feeling sketchy. In six months I might consider adding toast to my diet. Another six months after that I might consider adding in oatmeal. I do love oatmeal. But that is it. For the rest of forever. And I'm only considering those items for the continuance of life. Something about the necessity of calories to keep your heart pumping.
One last thought. Last night was awful and endless. As the night wore on I couldn't see anything but dark half hours stretching into forever and beyond, an endless night of tired eyes and achey muscles and crying (not sob crying, but I apparently cannot throw up without tears leaking out of my eyes; this is one thing that hasn't changed over the past twenty years). An endless night of a little pain growing into small gags and then big gags and then a need to be in the bathroom right now or else.
I slept for less than two hours. The sun is out. The pain in my belly is gone (though my muscles are super sore). I've been nursing a can of sprite (still no straw) over the past hour, an amount it took me five hours to drink last night, without the slightest sign that I might need to run to the bathroom to rid myself of it. This is how it always used to be as a child. The night would end, the day would dawn, and it would feel like I had spent the night living in some sort of surreal, alternate universe.
And I can read again. That's impossible during the night when I'm tired and my head hurts from lack of sleep and anything is liable to set off my need to run to the bathroom. When I try to read during a night like last night, the letters dance in front of my eyes and make me motion sick. But today I can read. Good thing as that will be my go to activity if can't manage to convince my body it should be sleeping.
It's amazing to me the difference night and day makes. I don't understand. I see no logic in it. But somehow, it works.
Thank goodness for a shoddy memory.
PS, I realize this is a really long post about a subject you don't much care to hear about. If I'd gotten more sleep last night, perhaps I could trim it down. As it is, my bed is calling. If you made it this far, congratulations. I'd tell you to leave a comment and I'll bring you cookies, but since I've sworn off cookies for the rest of forever you'll have to settle with a pat on the back administered by yourself to yourself.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
April Books
I had a pretty poor showing this month. Only four books:
- The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
- The Conch Bearer by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
- On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King
- The Forgotten Garden by Kate Morton
My favorites were The Grapes of Wrath and On Writing. I liked King's book on writing so much I'm looking into reading one of his novels. Not my genre, but knowing a bit about the author's ideas about writing will make the novel much more interesting.
The Conch Bearer was my novel for children for the month. It was interesting to read a fantasy children's story set in the Indian culture, but I didn't love it.
The Forgotten Garden was this great mash up of The Thirteenth Tale, Rebecca, The Secret Garden, and a pirate story I apparently haven't read and included gory family secrets, curses, and lost orphans.
I didn't read the book club book for last month, nor did I manage to get my history book read. I did start The Forgotten Man: A New History of the Great Depression but I've hardly made progress. Just means I've got a head start on my history book for May.
Apparently I'm feeling sad about my poor reading this past month because I've got a hefty list for this next month. I see my chances of getting it done as slim to none, but I'm hoping at the very least to read my standard six according to my reading plan (fiction, children's fiction, classic, history/biography, nonfiction, and book club). Wish me luck.
PS I tried to get this post written in ten minutes (I use a chrome timer app--it helps me not be so overwhelmed by my work). I'd say it took me about fifteen minutes. I'm a bit of a slow writer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)