A moment on the lips...

I've been on a diet lately. This is not an unusual thing for me. I am not built to be a skinny girl. I crave carbs; I have no interest in vegetables. I view serving fruit for dessert as a cruel joke. My body clings to every calorie like a great famine is coming. (I like to think that, from an evolutionary perspective, my body is ideal, being built to lose nary an ounce of body fat, no matter if you starve it for days. It's a bit of a comfort.) I hate exercise: no, I don't get any sort of "high" from it; I get sweaty and tired and hungry. So very hungry.

Needless to say, for most of my adult life, I have been battling my weight. I am lucky in the fact that when I gain, I gain proportionally, so I can "hide" a certain amount, but there's a limit to anyone's ability to finding clothes that hide your sins. Lately, I have crossed that limit. (I'm always embarrassed to admit that I've gained weight, but being overweight isn't like a secret drinking problem; anyone with eyes can see that, yes, I could stand to lose a few pounds.) Maybe I should learn to be happy with my curves: I see plenty of ladies who are larger than me and rock it. But I'm not there yet.

I've tried a number of diets. When I was at my highest, I joined Weight Watchers, which I followed to the letter. I lost over 40 pounds, but it took me over a year. I kept it off for a while, but it creeped back up. (Unfortunately, dieting is one of those stupid things you need to do your whole life.) Now that I have a metabolism of a lady in her mid-40s, my metabolism is even worse than that.

Four years ago, I gave up carbs for a while and that worked quite well for me. Of course, I had a few extra factors to help out: I was living alone, going through the tension of a marriage falling apart (being stressed actually helps me eat less). I was working on a project at work that was so crazed, people still talk about it. Eating was not a priority. It actually worked! I got as thin as I had been in 15 years. But, eventually I started eating carbs again, bread was back in my life, and once again, the pounds creeped back. These days, I'm much happier, but that's not helping the waistline.

This year, I decided to revisit the no/low carbs thing, at least for a while. Lent was about to start, and I find that's a good time to diet. It's a long enough chunk of time that (with luck) one can see some results, but it's also a set amount of time. No trips were planned during this period, which makes it easier as well. I had my yearly physical right before Lent started, so I took that weight as my starting weight (sure, I was dressed, so my weight surely wasn't that high, but that meant the first few pounds were easy.)

A few things I'd like to point out: I get that no diet is actually *no* carbs, so, please, don't be telling me that "fruit has sugar!" I just say "no carbs" because it's easier when I explain to someone why I'm taking apart my sandwich. I don't actually believe that this type of diet helps you lose weight because it alters how your body recognizes food. I think it works for me because I am no longer eating a loaf of bread with chocolate on top. I don't believe in magic ratios of olive oil or amount of protein in each meal or a handful of nuts. I do believe that different people have slower or quicker metabolisms, and that's just the hand you're dealt.

I've modified the "no carbs" diet slightly. Here are my exceptions. Sauces are ignored. I am not trolling through a list of ingredients for spaghetti sauce or having my Chinese food cooked in a special way. I am not counting anything. I am not figuring out how many carbs are in a teaspoon of Splenda or whatever. I will allow the Atkins snacks, but no more than one a day. Here's the big one: I allow myself one "cheat" carb every other day. Once a day is too much (I've tried that), but I need something. This also allows for some needed flexibility: you're at a work lunch and there's nothing that you can have, etc. I end up using it on oatmeal for breakfast a lot, because I am a weirdo.

It's been going pretty good. I'm getting close to that 10-pound mark, which is enough to prevent me from giving up in a fit of frustration. It's probably not that noticeable to most people, but I can feel it. For that reason, I'll probably keep it up after Lent is over. I feel more in control, and my clothes are fitting better. I'm looking forward to things getting loose. I still am not so sure about fruit, but, for now, it's all I've got.

How do you sleep?

About a year or two ago, a thing started happening. I wake up, an hour or so after I first fall asleep, I wake up in a panic. I am convinced that I have medication I need to take. I need to take it immediately. If I don't take it, it could be fatal. In fact, I'm a bit worried that I've actually waited too long to take it.

Some nights when I wake up, I just wake up, have the thought, then realize it's not real (In real life, I don't have any life-or-death medications I need to take. The worst thing I can do is forget my synthroid, and that simply results in me being a bit woozy that day.) I'm panicked, I'm confused for a moment, but then I realize that I don't truly need to take anything, and I go back to sleep.

But then there are nights that I actually get up out of bed to get the medicine. I sometimes just walk across the room; sometimes I make it all the way to the bathroom, and I stand there, confused, wondering where the medicine could be. In fact, I can't remember which medicine I need to take, but it must be here somewhere. After all, it's critical that I take this! It always surprises me how long it takes me to figure out that there is nothing I need to take.

This happens to me at least once a week. I am awake, my heart is racing, my mind is struggling with what I need to do. I feel a rush of adrenaline. It always takes me a while to calm back down and get back to sleep.

Until this started, I never had anything like this happen to me. Sure, I would have vivid dreams that would leave me momentarily confused when I first woke up. But this is different. When this weird thought wakes me up, I am absolutely convinced that I need this medication, and it truly is a matter of life or death.

I have no idea what brought this on. I wish I knew how to stop it or what triggers it. It freaks me out, while it is happening and afterwards, when I realize that my thoughts have tricked me again. It's sort of the opposite of waking up from a nightmare. I wake up with the thought that there is something I need to do immediately.

I am hoping it goes away, just like it randomly started. I really do wish I could figure it out. Until then, sweet dreams to all of you.

Another 365

I've just completed another 365 project. (If you want to see the whole thing, go here: Link to 365 project.) It seems simple: one photo a day for one year. It's tougher than it sounds. I did my first one in 2010, and I really loved it. I learned so much about how to take photos, the limits of my camera, getting over the shyness of taking a picture. But I needed a break.

At the beginning of 2012, I decided I wanted to try it again. I recruited a number of brave souls, and we had at it. (Want to see the whole group? Go here: The whole 365 group.) We started March 1, 2012. Most of the members are from parts of my life: friends from high school and college, aunts, a spouse of a friend from grad school. It's a small group, but there are people all over the country, which made for some lovely pictures during the seasonal changes. I love seeing everyone's pictures. I feel like I know everyone a bit better, and I'm so pleased to see the beauty they all captured.

There are a lot of things I love about the 365 project. I find I'm more aware of my world. I have to be looking for that picture. I want to find something interesting or unique about the day, and that requires paying attention. I like that I can look back on my year and be reminded of every single day. But it is a challenge. There are days that nothing came my way, and I would just wander the house, looking for a new way to take a picture of that candle or stack of books. Or I would forget completely.

The biggest challenge this year wasn't directly related to the project, but definitely affected me. In November, we lost my favorite subject, our beloved kitty Murray. He was always my go-to picture; at the end of the day, when I was scrambling for something, he could be counted on for some pose of kitty splendor, and, suddenly, he was no longer there. It threw me off, probably more than I realized at the time. I know I lost track of the days, and I just didn't want to take pictures, but I felt obligated. I'm not happy with the later pictures in the project, and I have to believe it was related to this. I miss my boy so much.

The project officially ended last Thursday, and Saturday we got two kittens. These events aren't necessarily related, but it seemed right. I am sure there will be thousands of pictures of the new kitties, but last year needs to belong to Murray. I will cry when I look over this 365, but I also see so many wonderful days, mixed with those pictures of Murray.

Thank you to all participated, even if all you did was look at a few pictures. I'll probably start up again in a few months, but there is a relief to not being obligated to my camera. Yesterday I walked home from work, and I realized that I could just walk. I didn't have to look for that next picture. I could just enjoy the sunshine.

And you'll see me, somebody new!

"I Will Survive" just shuffled up on my ipod. It's a song that makes me smile. It makes me smile because of one incident when I was in the eighth grade.

Eighth grade was a big one for me. I went from a school of about 50 kids in my grade to over 1000 eighth graders. A lot of kids would hate that jump in numbers, but it's where I found myself. In seventh grade, I had been surrounded by kids who had known me since I was 5, kids who had judged me by my inability to play kickball and my social awkwardness. I had been picked on relentlessly by a group of boys that thought it was hilarious to make the shy girl cry. In later years, there would be a few a would reconnect with, but, at the time, my primary goal of the eighth grade was to avoid ever single one of those assholes.

When you have a sea of 1000 kids to disappear into, it's pretty easy to avoid 50. I stopped being so shy because I had decided that it was no fun. I fight my shyness almost every day, but in the eighth grade, I fought it like it was my job, and I was rewarded with friends and a new life. I couldn't have been happier.

The only downside was the bus. My bus route picked up primarily kids from grade school, of course, and I would get on and hope no one would even notice me. Luckily, we lived fairly close to the school, so most days we were on for barely enough time to get settled into a seat. This was fine by me. I was so sure someone would expose me, which, looking back, was a ridiculous fear. I wasn't the only one who had found new friends, new groups to hang out with, a new way of being. We were all scattered into the pool of 1000.

But there was that day. Honestly, I can't remember the details. It had probably snowed some and there was ice and snow. They probably should have cancelled school, but they didn't. The big yellow bus full of eighth graders lugged around back roads that hadn't been plowed, and the drive that should have taken less than 10 minutes was pushing an hour. We inched along, kids got restless, it felt like we'd never get to school. We had time on the bus to reconnect and become what we were a year ago. I was almost in a panic. We couldn't get to the school soon enough.

And then, a few blocks from the school, a group of kids started singing. "At first I was afraid, I was terrified..." Gradually, more kids started singing along. We had gone our separate ways, but we all could sing along. I loved this so much because it was joyful and fun and everyone knew we were being a bit ridiculous, but it was beautiful. We pulled into the school parking lot, pumping our fists to the "Hey! Hey!" of the song. Other buses were also late, the other kids looking bored and restless, but we were all lifted that day.

It's back!

"American Idol" is back, and I can't resist writing about it. In all fairness to the show, I will admit that I have only watched an hour or so of this new season. Of course, that speaks to how I feel about the new season. None the less, I have some opinions.

First of all, if you haven't heard about this, please give it a read and watch the video:
Do the judges actually decide?

For those who don't want to check it out, this person points out that the judges are being given signals from behind the scenes as to who to send through and who to dump. So, although there may be some back and forth during the auditions, the bottom line is that Mariah, Nicki, Keith, and Randy aren't really making any decisions here. This, of course, gets them off the hook for being a deciding vote or, frankly, even really thinking during this whole process.

If this is true, it explains a lot. It explains the "say it all together" judgments, which I hate. Why take away the most interesting part of the auditions? Will the girl who has a nice voice but is clearly nervous get through? What about the boy with the sad story and mediocre voice? Will they give him a chance? It's much more interesting to watch the judges struggle with this, but when they all shout, "YES!" there's no drama. Right now, there's so many unanimous proclamations, I have no idea as to what kind of singer speaks to each judge. Why have a panel of four with different backgrounds and ages, when all they're going to do is rubber stamp a nod from behind the camera?

This is why I watched the first half hour of the first night and decided I'd wait until Hollywood. I did catch it the other night, but it was boring, background noise. I think I'll like Nicki as a judge, but at this point, I don't know how much she's allowed to say. Mariah seems much more concerned about her hair than anything else. Keith may turn into something interesting, so I will be curious as to what might happen when (if?) they're allowed to voice their own views.

At this point, I really think that "American Idol" should just start their season in Hollywood. Make Hollywood "week" longer, with flashbacks to the auditions, backstories, all that nonsense. Let the judges do their jobs. The novelty of the bad audition has worn off, but they can still be woven into flashback segments. Hollywood Week is just good drama. Just cut to it, have us pick our favorites, and let's start voting!

Resolution Number One

This January, I am pushing myself to write. I'd love to tell you that I have a plan or a set goal for this task, but I don't. This is not entirely by accident. I know that They tell you that for resolutions to succeed, your resolutions should be specific and measurable, and for most resolutions, this is probably true. However, in this case, I am ignoring this advice.

I know I could set goals: the obvious one being a certain wordcount every day or over a period of time (5000 words per week or something like that), but I feel like at this point, this won't help me. I've done these sorts of things. I did the NaNoWriMo, and I've done the blog post a day for a month (in fact, I had quite the streak going for a while). I keep a journal that I write in every single day (just started Year 4!); I email, facebook, tweet, and text; and I write actual letters, not to mention that my actual job involves writing. This isn't to brag, but to point out that my issue isn't not writing. My issue is quality.

I feel like I have roughly 2743 projects going, at some stage of development. I don't hate any of them, but I'm not in love with any of them either. I know some of this is about finding a voice and making up for the fact that the last writing class I took was in high school. I know that I have to learn how to kill my darlings and push through and let go and all those things about writing you hear about. There are times I think about writing and am so excited about the possibilities and then there are times it scares the hell out of me. Sometimes this happens at the same time.

So, what did I decide? I resolve, in the vaguest of ways, just to write every day. No wordcount or time period will be set but I plan to work on something of mine every day, for the month of January. Maybe it doesn't sound like much, but I am hoping that this may help focus me a bit. I can see which projects I drift towards and which projects make me the happiest. Maybe I'll just write an interesting paragraph or sentence but I'm fine with that. Maybe I'll figure out a way to blend a couple of projects together or let one go. What I would like to achieve by the end of the month is a sense of purpose to my writing. Let's see how it goes!

New Year, New You!

It's that time again, time to at least think about making resolutions. There's a part of me that says there's no good reason that you should change yourself on a certain day. If you need to make changes, you just should. Plus, are you really going to change three or four things at once? Have you just set yourself up for failure?

But I love the idea of the clean slate. I look at my brand new calendars and they give me this sense of all the possibilities of the next year and I'm all, "Yeah! Let's do this!" And I envision this thin, organized, best-selling, fit version of myself. Oh, my temper is totally under control and I'm a world-class cook.

I know that the best resolutions are the ones that are achievable and measurable. You can't vaguely state you want to lose weight; you have to state you want to lose XX pounds. You have to have a plan. But in some cases, it's difficult to be that specific. I know I want to write more (and/or write better and/or write with more specific direction), but I'm not sure how one measures all that. I could do a wordcount thing, but that doesn't address quality at all, and that's really what I want to work on this year. I feel like my writing has been fragmented lately. I've stuck my toes into a bunch of projects but not really gotten anything worthwhile together.

I suppose the need for resolutions comes out of wanting to do more with my life. I'm probably not very good at giving myself credit for the things I am doing; I see a lot of things I should be doing. Maybe I need to spend some time figuring out what I like about my life. Maybe if I can be happier with the good stuff, I won't beat myself up over the stuff I struggle with. That's not to say I'm giving up, but maybe making myself into a personal cheerleader might be better for me than being a personal slavedriver.

Whatever your plans for 2013, I wish you luck and happiness. Happy New Year!

Fate steps in and sees you through

All my life, I never saw a shooting star. I tried, more than once, but seeing a shooting star requires patience, the right conditions, and luck. I have never been known for my patience, and it seems that whenever meteor showers are occurring, the clouds roll in. It doesn't help that the area I live in is full of the lights of suburban living.

As to luck, I'm not sure how much I believe in it. I believe in the luck you can make, the spin you can put on a situation to make it better and, therefore, luckier. ("Boy, I was lucky to drop that plate and have it shatter all over the kitchen floor because when I swept the floor, I found this penny!") I pick up pennies, throw salt over my shoulder, anything to hold onto my luck, but, deep down, I am afraid to count on it, even a little bit. If I have to count on luck, then I am am not in control. If I have to count on luck, it could end up being bad luck, and I want to protect myself against this.

There was a part of me that was convinced I'd never see a shooting star. Some things only happen to other people. I doubt if I'll ever catch a foul ball at a baseball game, but that's alright. I felt that maybe shooting stars are meant for other people. But, unlike the foul balls, I wanted the shooting stars.

Last week, HWM decided it was time I saw a shooting star. The Geminids were peaking on a clear night with no moon. He went out to the deck before me, just to be sure we could actually see one. After a few minutes, he came in to get me. It was a cold night, but I was wrapped in a blanket, looking up while my eyes adjusted to the dark. While we waited, HWM said that maybe I had actually seen one before. I thought that this could be a possibility. Maybe I was expecting too much. We continued to wait. It was a beautiful night. There were so many stars, but I wasn't sure if we'd see more than that.

And then, there it was. A shooting star! It was perfect. It was so perfect that it confirmed what I had always said, that I had never seen a shooting star before. I would remember if I had seen something so amazing and beautiful before. We both saw it, and HWM asked me if I made a wish. I nodded, I was crying a little bit.

But the reality was that the shooting star was the wish. In that moment, I could believe that good luck might just happen to me. In that moment, I knew that wonderful things might just happen to me. In that moment, I got a bit more hope back.

(for G, thank you for the magic)

It's me, not you

Warning: This is just kind of a ramble of what's been going on with me. Not a lot of story here. I'm cool with that if you are.

It's been a while since I've written here. I'd love to say that it's because I've been working on another project, but that would not be the case. I have been busy with life stuff: some of it the usual (work, Christmas prep), some of it out of the ordinary (travel, an unexpected sadness). I just haven't had the time (or right frame of mind) to sit down and write these days.

The travel was a good thing. I saw family and we went beck to New Orleans (again, some more), which always makes me happy. Of course, the downside of traveling, especially close to the holidays, is that I feel even more behind than usual. (I had my first "oh my God, I forgot to put up the tree" anxiety dream in early November, so I got that out of the way early.) (The tree still isn't up, so look who's laughing now, subconscious!) I always love to travel, so I can't really complain about it.

On the sad end, we lost our beloved kitty, which has really thrown me. I plan to write more about that, but, I'm not ready quite yet. For now, I find myself crying at least once a day. I miss him so much. I miss him in so many unexpected ways. I am so grateful for everyone who has reached out about this. Thank you. (Yes, I'm crying now.)

I am looking forward to the holidays. I'm a sucker for the lights and the music, and I know that no matter what, every Christmas has its own type of special. The tree will get put up, the house will get (somewhat) clean, and there will be things I forget to do (or don't have time to get to.) I have to remind myself that this is alright and I need to take time to enjoy it all. I'm not always good at that, but I will work at it.

I hope I'll be able to write more here in the coming year. I do plan to simply write more, but some of it won't make it here. I have plans for January. 

If I don't write before the new year, I wish everyone the best for 2013. 

Black Thursday

Shopping is taking over the holidays. This, of course, isn't news. But retailers just seem to want more and more. Opening at 6 a.m. or 5 a.m. on the Friday after Thanksgiving wasn't enough. This year, there are more retailers that are opening on Thanksgiving Day. Don't we all have enough gross consumerism surrounding Christmas? Can't we keep one day pure? Apparently not.

Thanksgiving is a great holiday. It's certainly one of my favorites. It's the holiday that has no gifts, no expectations or requirement of good weather, nothing but a huge meal and some football. It's a day that you're supposed to reflect on what you are thankful for and be with loved ones and eat until you can't move.

Part of what makes it great is that almost everyone has the day off, as well as Friday, so you have the glorious long weekend. If your family is out-of-town, it's a good chance to visit, and even if you stay in town, you can slow down a bit. You've just made a huge meal, and the leftovers will get you through most of the weekend without having to cook. Sure, you'll probably want to knock out some of the Christmas shopping, but you have all weekend. But now, retailers want to push shopping on all for the entire weekend.

It's gross. I feel bad for all those people who have to work on those days, because they don't get to relax on Thanksgiving Day. They can't travel to visit anyone, no doubt they can't fully participate in dinner as they have to rest before working crazy holiday hours, because some CEO decided that they needed a little more cash for the bottom line. (I found this quote from Kathy Grannis, a spokeswoman for the National Retail foundation: "Shoppers have shown us that they love wrapping up their Thanksgiving meals, grabbing their coats, and going shopping." I'm willing to bet a large chunk of cash that ol' Kathy isn't going to be leaving her Thanksgiving meal early to open the doors at the local Target.) I read an article that said that the only people who are working are those who volunteered, which must be true because there are at quite a few Wal-marts and Sears that aren't opening because they didn't get enough volunteers to work on Thanksgiving Day (that was sarcasm.)

The thing I'm confused about is why. Why are they doing this? All these places have on-line presence. Can't we do this on-line, instead of forcing employees who are so desperate for money to give up a holiday? Costco seems to be able to do it. Amazon doesn't even have stores, and they've been known to sell a few items around the holidays. Do we have to camp out in front of Toys R Us to have a merry Christmas?

What are the stores actually getting here? Is this really making any difference to the bottom line? Somehow, I just can't believe it. Yeah, they get their store mentioned in the papers, a few folks pay a little less for another tv, but I don't know what the retailers are actually making. We all know that a lot of these door-buster specials have little or no profit for the companies, so are they turning on the lights and paying the employees for any actual profit?

I'll tell what they're getting from me: I've decided that I'm not doing any pre-Christmas shopping at any store (or their on-line version) that's open on Thanksgiving. It might be a boycott of one, but it's got to start somewhere. I'm not going to lie: it's going to suck. I love Target but none for me this holiday season. No more Old Navy (and Gap) for a while. Sorry kids, nothing from Toys R Us this year. No quick run to Kmart for lights or whatever. Maybe if some of us don't encourage this, we can get Thanksgiving back.

Friday Morning Quarterback

The election is over and now it's time to figure out what happened. It's actually pretty simple: there's a group of older, rich white guys running the GOP and the closer you are to being them, the more likely you were to vote for them. Unfortunately for them, more and more people are less and less like them. 

Here's the problem with the GOP model: they're clinging to that cool-kid model of the '50s. (I know the GOP is completely not cool, but hold on for a minute.) The GOP thinks that everything is still like high school in the '50s. You have this group of popular kids: the star quarterback, head cheerleader, etc, and they run everything. It might be just a handful of kids, but everyone looked at them and were all, "if only we were them." They set the standard, ran student council, all of it. Very "Revenge of the Nerds". You didn't have to appeal to the minorities or gays or dope-smokers because they all actually wanted to be you and expected you to run things.

But now, for so many reasons (more minorities, people out of the closet openly, the internet showing someone that they are not alone), the "outcasts" don't want to listen to the self-proclaimed Big Man on Campus. As one of the folks I follow on twitter pointed out "it's no longer subversive to smoke pot at a gay wedding." The fringe folks are realizing that they're not so "fringe" after all. "You're not like the popular kids? Hey, me too!" Things like gay marriage are passing, mostly because most people don't care who other people are marrying. They certainly don't want other people to be making judgments about their lives. I think younger people (the ones that don't fully get the whole '50s mindset because that might as well be Victorian times) are confused about the idea of even voting on something like that. 

The GOP is genuinely befuddled that there are girls like me who don't want to be homecoming queen or cheerleader, even if it were offered to me. They don't understand that I actually do want to work and have a good job and not have to rely on a man to take care of me. They don't get that the gay guys don't secretly wish they weren't. (Even moreso, they don't secretly wish that meathead quarterback *was*.) I'm not saying that we're this super-tolerant society, but I do think that we are a society that, for the most part, really doesn't care what you are doing most of the time. Smoke dope? Whatever. Sleep with people your same sex? Shrug. You're not actually an American yet? If you're getting your work done and you're not causing trouble, what do I care?

That's the difference in message: The democrats say "we'll help you be what you want to be" whereas the GOP is "we'll help you be that 1950s thing!" Guess which one speaks to more people?

Where do the wishes go?

I wish. I wish too often. I wish on birthday candles and an eyelash on my face and the clasp of the necklace that made its way to the front and on the first star of the night. Despite all logic, I always make a wish.

Maybe it's real. Maybe there is a force in the universe that grants wishes. Maybe it's not for everything: the birthday candles might be real whereas the blown eyelash is just a puff of air. The thing is, I don't know, so I figure I better be safe and make all the wishes. And, just in case, I better make the same wish, over and over. What if that universe force decides to only grant the most recent wish? Better be sure I'm getting the wish I really want.

Although there is a part of me that knows that these wishes are simply hopes I'm casting into the air, there's another part of me that thinks it just might happen, so I better wish carefully. But there have been times when something happens, and I see that a certain wish will never come true. And I can't help but wonder where those wishes went.

You might think that when that wish is gone, it might shake my faith in making wishes. I suppose it should, but, then again, what if I'm wrong? It always comes back to that. What if there was a reason this wish shouldn't come true? Maybe the universe is looking out for me or has a plan that I can't see right now. Maybe someone else's wish somehow trumped mine or maybe I didn't do it right. But I want those wishes. I want those wishes back. I earned those wishes and I need them back.

And you're working on something good

He's gone into his Little Room on what he calls a writing bender. I've never been with someone who is an artist-type before, and, even on regular days, HWM doesn't work normal work hours. But when he wants to really get in that creative groove, he takes a writing bender. He stays in the room, day and night, for a few days. He's at home, but he's also away.

HWM has a place to work that he calls his Little Room. It's not a study or an office, but it is where he works. He surrounds himself with things he loves, his pictures, his buddhas, his mementos, art he has created, whatever he needs to inspire him. He lights incense and candles and listens to music and gets to work. When he goes on his benders, he immerses himself in the Little Room, sleeping in there, only coming out for a few minutes to gather some food or go to the bathroom. Days later, he comes out, exhausted, needing a shower, but with a glow of creativity in his eyes. These benders push him forward, and I love to see this.

When we we first together and he would do a bender, they confused me. Why was he going away for so long? Why didn't he want to see me? What the hell was he doing in there? Everyone I know works "normal" hours, what did he think he was doing in there? Why was he sleeping in there, why not be more comfortable with me? But now I get it. I see why he does this and how they help him.

When he goes on benders now, I smile. I will miss him, even though we're in the same house, but I know he's creating magic. I smell the incense, I hear him moving around, and I can't help but smile. I plant a couple of kisses on the door and I hope he knows I am thinking of him.

Smoke 'em if you got 'em

There is something exciting and romantic about the whiff of cigarette smoke. These days, I don't smell it very often. I'll be out walking (you only smell smoke outside now; there's something almost scandalous about the idea of smoking indoors these days), and someone will walk by, and I'm transported to a different time.

When I was growing up, smoking was all around. All of my grandparents smoked, as did most of the grown-ups I knew. You could smoke in bars and restaurants, you could even smoke in college classrooms. I had a professor who would puff his way through 4 or 5 cigarettes during his 50-minute lectures at 8 in the morning. When my parents would have parties, the house filled with smoke and laughter. Sure, the house stunk of old smoke the next day, but while the party was going on, cigarette smoke meant something was happening.

The first boy I kissed beyond a simple peck on the lips smoked. He was the older brother of a friend of mine, and seemed mysterious. Until I met him, I thought only bad kids smoked but he seemed nice, not a "hood," as my mom would call the kids I wasn't allowed to hang out with; however, he didn't say much, so maybe I didn't know his secret life. I met him as part of a group and we seemed to get along. I got those first kisses at a dance club for teens, during a slow dance. Our next (and only) date was to meet to watch the next high school football game. I don't remember much about that night except being terrified that we'd run into someone who would tell my parents I was with a boy who smoked.

We didn't have a lot to say to each other but when he kissed me, it was exciting. I could taste the smoke on his lips. I can't say that kissing him made me feel grown up, but it did make me feel like less of a kid and more like a teenager. It made me wonder what dating and meeting boys and falling in love would be like.

When I got older and went out with friends, we would go to places where smoking was all around. Pizza places, bowling, concerts, anywhere people hung out, there was smoking. Going to bars in college meant you came home with your clothes reeking of cigarette smoke. Most of my friends smoked, and I was jealous as to how effortlessly they'd handle their cigarettes. The tapping of the pack, the cupping of the end around the flame as they lit up, that first inhale and exhale, the different ways they blew smoke. I'd be lying if I said I didn't find the way people smoked as cool. People look cool when they smoke, they just do.

(Of course I tried smoking in college. However, I have a chronic cough and even one cigarette left me with a hack so deep in my lungs even an idiot 20-something knows that's not a good look. I was left to admire others for having something to do with their hands when we were just hanging out.)

The smell of cigarette smoke takes me to nights full of possibilities. It takes me to a time when we didn't text to know who was going to be where. You showed up and looked around and hoped. Smoke was where things were happening. Smoke reminds me of going to breakfast with my Nana, and just taking your time with your coffee and cigarettes. To me, smoke is still the scent of excitement.

Birds singing in the sycamore tree

I am afraid to dream. I believe I am. This isn't to say I don't have goals or hopes or plans. These I have. But dreams. I'm not so sure.

Dreams are different from goals. A goal is "I will lose 20 pounds." A dream is "when I lose those 20 pounds, I will be discovered and become the world's first over-35 super model!" I'm pretty good at goals. I can make the plans, make a list of things to get done, start crossing those off. But dreams often require a bit of faith, a bit of hope, a bit of counting on chance. Dreams need you to be able to picture a new way of looking at your life. I'm not so good at those things.

I view myself as a practical person. Maybe it's my anxiety, maybe it's because, at heart, I am a scientist, but I when I make plans, I'm not comfortable with taking chances. It's not a bad thing: I have a steady job, a 401K, the sorts of things a responsible adult should have. But I don't really have dreams. When I try to dream, I see where it can go wrong. I see that I might need someone or something to come through that I can't control. And so I hesitate, afraid to commit to a dream.

On a recent episode of "Treme," someone criticized New Orleans, saying that it was nothing but "drunks and dreamers." And with that, I understood why I love New Orleans. When I visit New Orleans, I get to see the dreamers. I hear the stories of how they just packed a bag and moved there, or came to visit and just never left. Maybe it didn't turn out like they planned, but for a moment, they had the courage to give in to a dream. I think to myself, "I could never do that." I wonder what it would be like to believe in what could be over what current was. Is that enough? It seems to be.

Here's the funny thing: I have given into a dream. And it was the best thing that ever happen to me. So, why am I afraid to dream now?

I want bravery. I want bravery so that I can dream. I admire the dreamers because they have a bravery that I can only hope to have. One day, I may give into a dream, and you might shake your head at that crazy thing I just did. But don't worry; I'll still have my 401K.

Crippled inside

I feel fragile this days. I feel like I am stumbling and I can't get it together. I feel like I make the wrong choices and I can't follow my own instincts. This happens. I go through these phases. But today feels hard.

I always want people to think I'm tough, that I have a thick skin. But I get upset too easily. I try to act like a roll with the punches, but I feel jarred when things go the wrong way. I cry too easily.

Maybe it's not that I don't want anyone to know. Maybe it's that I'm afraid that if someone knows, they still won't care.

Shoot and score

I have ordered a new camera. It's not a DSLR and it's mirrorless, which are things that mean very little to me. I love taking pictures, but the details of what a camera does and what make one better than another isn't interesting to me. I barely know who much my camera can zoom. But this camera is, from what I have read, a good camera for those who want something more than a point-and-shoot, but don't want too much crazy going on. That sounds a lot like me.

I do love my point-and-shoot and I expect it will still be the one I carry around on most days. But, under certain circumstances, I get frustrated with it. Low light, action shots, certain indoor circumstances don't give me the pictures I want. There are times I see what I want to capture, but that's not what shows up. I suppose that will happen with any camera, but I'm hoping it's a bit less. I'm hoping to be able to get a good picture of the next full moon.

What pushed me over to the buying territory is that Sony is upgrading this camera in the next month, so the current model dropped in price by $200. I couldn't resist. It's possible that these upgrades in the newer version would be nice, but I'm thinking that won't be the case as the rumored upgrades have to do with video capture (something I never do with my current camera) and blah-blah computer interface. If you know anything about me, I'm about ten years behind on anything technology-related, so even the "old" computer-ish stuff is still at least five years ahead of anything I'm going to be using. Do I think those upgrades are worth over $200? I'm taking that bet and buying the current model.

I am worried about the bulk of this camera. I'm already pushing bag-lady status with the amount of stuff I drag around on a regular basis, so this might just push me over the top. "Don't mind the suitcase; it's carry-on size." Actually, I am more worried the bulk will have me leaving it behind and not using it enough. I will have to push myself on that.

Sometime next week, the new toy arrives. I'm very excited! Stay tuned for updates.

Pronoun confusion

"We built it!" chant the Republicans. This is in answer to a statement that President Obama said about small businesses. First of all, that statement about not building a business by yourself, besides being quoted out of context, is absolutely true. Even in the commercial of the guy rebutting the President's claims, he claims that he and his father built their business. Are they not even listening to themselves? When they chant, "We built it!" do they not see that the pronoun they are using implies that they don't do it alone?

Besides completely missing the point, that a business needs the infrastructure, roads, community, etc, to succeed, why is this considered a bad thing? Why is the idea of assistance something undesirable? I went to public schools and the government paid for a nice chunk of my graduate school. And where's the line? If you get a scholarship to college, should you turn it down? Should you avoid the interstate and get an off-road vehicle? I need answers!

I have no doubt that being a small business owner is a challenge and loads of hard work. But isn't this why you would want more help, not less?

What we talk about when we talk to Genoa Jeff

When I was in high school I was one of those girls who spent hours on the phone. It was before the days of cordless phones, so I had an extra-long cord and I could cover my entire bedroom while chatting. We'd talk and do other things; they were less like conversations and more like just keeping each other company. We didn't have email or texts or facebook, so it was the phone.

I had a handful of friends I could turn to for these non-ending phone calls. Most of them were not my boyfriends, as my boyfriends weren't very interested in the rambling chatfest. It takes a certain type of person to be on the phone for hours and hours.

One of my phone friends was Genoa Jeff. I met Genoa Jeff when we were in the All-Ohio State Fair Band together. The AOSFB was three weeks away from home with 300 other band dorks. I loved every minute of it. I honestly don't remember how close Genoa Jeff and I were when we were at the fair, but he lived just close enough that calling each other wasn't long distance, so we could spend hours on the phone.

Genoa Jeff was skinny and sarcastic and smoked all the time. Looking back, I realize that he must have hated living in small-town Ohio (heck, Genoa wasn't even big enough to actually be a town), and he envied me, living in the big city of Toledo. He would ask for all the details of my high school, what music we were playing, how many people were in the band, did we really have ten tubas in the marching bands? Being a high school girl, I couldn't be more thrilled to talk for hours about my life, so it was the perfect arrangement.

We would talk and talk, until my dad kicked me off the phone. What in the world did we talk about? I suppose it doesn't really matter. We just told each other the stories from our day, no doubt editing our lives to make them more interesting or dramatic. Our lives barely overlapped, so any artistic license was purely for entertainment.

I'm not sure when we lost touch. He just sort of faded from my life, and, when I realized that he was gone, it was too late. I wonder what happened to Genoa Jeff. The sad truth is that I don't even know his last name, and googling "Genoa Jeff" isn't any help. So I just remember, long talks about nothing and everything.

(Thanks to Bru, who inspired this post.)

You're my obsession

I'm not sure when things changed for me, but I wasn't caught up in the Olympics like I was years back. Don't get me wrong: I still paid way too much attention to what's happened and I spent plenty of time checking results on-line. But something was missing. A lot of people blamed the coverage (which had plenty of problems), but there's another issue for me.

When we watch the Olympics (or other world-class sports), we are watching people who are obsessed. There's a commercial that ran during the games showing various folks training and the voiceovers are statements like, "I haven't had dessert in five years," "I haven't read any books," etc. The idea, of course, being that these people are so focused on the athletics, they have time for nothing else. But is that appealing? Is this a good thing?

It is amazing watching what some of these athletes can do. You watch them fly through the air, run faster than seems possible, and you know that you will never ever be able to come even close to that. But you also hear the stories: how they left home at 12 because they wanted to train with a certain coach or how they've had the same knee repaired three times already before the age of 25, and I have to wonder if we really should be celebrating these athletes.

Maybe I'm a bit jealous. I've never had that singular focus. I've had times when I've had goals, and I've gone after them, but, deep down, I don't think I could have given up a big part of my life to go after just one thing. It's not that I've cut corners or walked away from a challenge, but I prefer balance over putting all my eggs in one basket. In fact, I'm happiest when I have the back-up plans and the different things to do.

When I was younger, I admired that focus that these athletes have. I wasn't consciously aware that this was part of the equation, but I would wonder what it would take to be an Olympic athlete. Now that I'm older, I realize that there is an element of "these people are crazy" that goes into this class of training and commitment. I'm not sure if we should be admiring this. And maybe this is why I'm a little more jaded when I watch the Olympics.