Mar 2, 2008 | In Photos, This Life
if i told you things i did before
told you how i used to be
would you go along with someone like me
if you knew my story word for word
had all of my history
would you go along with someone like me
i did before and had my share
it didn’t lead nowhere
i would go along with someone like you
it doesn’t matter what you did
who you were hanging with
we could stick around and see this night through
usually when things have gone this far
people tend to disappear
no one will surprise me unless you do
i can tell there’s something goin’ on
hours seem to disappear
everyone is leaving i’m still with you
it doesn’t matter what we do
where we are going too
we can stick around and see this night through
and we don’t care about the young folks
talkin’ ’bout the young style
and we don’t care about the old folks
talkin’ ’bout the old style too
and we don’t care about our own folks,
talkin’ ’bout our own style
all we care ’bout is talking
talking only me and you
Peter, Bjorn and John featuring Victoria Bergsman
Feb 29, 2008 | This Life
Some things, just aren’t worth doing. Worth saying. Worth reading. Some things… some things should be set aside in preference for the playground. On this last day of February, where anything can happen and often does, I hope you found time to play.
Feb 28, 2008 | This Life, You Can't Make This Stuff Up
My brother of the wedding without notice (THANKS FOR ALL THE ADVANCED NOTICE, MARK!) sent me a lovely birthday gift. And his bride-to-be tucked in 6 packages of Goo Goos. “A southern treat for your southern taste-buds,” she inscribed the card.
ME: OOOH, Goo, Goos!
IZ: What are they?
ME: Only the best thing on the planet. Clearly, Marie is making sure I’ll be the fattest girl at her wedding.
It’s true too. They are the best things on the planet. Better than mochas, better than sex, better than rock and roll. Better than these shoes. They’re even better than Girl Scout Cookies*. Chocolate and caramel and pecans and marshmallow. There’s no real argument here.
But there is a small problem with the Goo Goo. They are three bites, four if you’re not a pig (oink!). And those three bites contain 250 calories and a bazillion grams of fat. Chocolate and caramel and pecans and marshmallow and cellulite and guilt and remorse and shame.
IZ: Are you going to eat them?
ME: Hell yeah. Just not in one sitting. In fact, I think I’m going to use them as incentives. I’ll call it Operation Goo Goo. I’ll just eat one as a reward for getting in all 7 workouts in a week. Miss a work-out, no Goo Goo. At that rate, I’ve got six weeks of motivation right here!**
Today is day 4. I have 3 more workouts to go before I can tear into my first Goo Goo and consume it in three bites. (Oink)
*Note to self: Do not let those little sprites in green talk you into buying their boxes of cardiac arrest. No, no, no, no. If you’re feeling guilty, hand them a 10 spot and pass on the sugar and fat. Hydrogenated anything is not your friend.
**Uh, that puts me at April. Note to Mark and Marie: Send more incentives.
Feb 27, 2008 | This Life
So, how was your weekend? I spent mine, as you can see, in bliss. The weather here, until today, has been really lovely. I crave sunshine. I woke up on my birthday expecting rain, but encountered sunlight. “It’s like a present from the Universe,” IZ remarked as we piled into the car for church.
And it was. It’s been a week of lovely weather. So lovely, that as the rain and the clouds and the tricky temperamental tantrums of Spring loom, I’m ok. Of course, it’s 71 in Santa Barbara today. But we’re not dwelling on that, m’kay?
However, I’ve been absent from this blog. And there is a very good reason for it, beyond the excessive sunlight. I’m whipped, people. Painfully out of shape and desperately trying to remedy my condition ASAP. Weddings, specifically my brother’s impending wedding, (THANKS FOR ALL THE ADVANCED NOTICE, MARK!) have a way of doing that to you. The thought of finding a dress, much less an appropriate dress that fits, has driven me into the arms of my arch-nemesis—where I may be driving myself into the ground. Literally.
IZ: If you keep up at this pace, your arrhythmia is going to be an issue. Sweetie, you could have a heart attack. You realize that, right?
Me: Yeah, well, then I don’t have to go to the wedding.(THANKS FOR ALL THE ADVANCED NOTICE, MARK!) And that means I don’t have to find a dress.
I’m not going to bother detailing the physical aspects of this… as it bores me and I’m in denial. Let’s just say, there are ALWAYS complications and I’m finding that mind-over-matter may not be effective when facing my limitations. Dang it.
Here’s the thing—because it appears I’m expending a great deal of words talking around the subject— I need to lose weight. . . NOW.
This wedding (THANKS FOR ALL THE ADVANCED NOTICE, MARK!) is 3 short months away and in a weird coincidence of numbers, my waist (and my hips, but sadly not my boobs) is 3″ too large to fit into anything. And while I’m prone to hyperbole, I’m not stretching truth here. Even if I don’t “look like an overweight person, ” I have a tape measure that argues this point.
I stood in front of the hallway mirror, wearing the one dress I own that might be appropriate, sucking in with all my might.
Me: You know, maybe with a girdle? Or maybe if I lost 10 lbs? But you know, even if I do, I’m still lopsided. See! (Pulling out the bust-line of my dress 3″) If I just had larger boobs I could pull this off now. As it stands, I’m thinking I’m in trouble.
IZ: It looks fine! You look great, the dress will be perfect on you by May. (You see where my child gets his optimism, right?)
Boy Wonder: Mom, you know they make inflatable bras, right? Just get one of those. You’ll be fine.
See, optimism and problem solving. They’re such men. They have NO idea what it feels like to live inside of me. Because no amount of weight loss or supportive garments is going to change the little voice that mocks me inside my head. We call that voice, Anna Rexia. She is a miserable waif who isn’t beyond cruelty, “Fatty, fatty, McFatty,” she sings to me. Seriously! My anorexic voice watches Grey’s Anatomy. And now, we’re laughing. But it’s so not funny. Not really.
So, this is where I am. On a treadmill, furiously trying to silence the discord in my brain. Which takes me away from this blog and leaves me with too many words and no energy to edit.
Feb 23, 2008 | In Photos, This Life
Feb 20, 2008 | Best of Etsy, This Life
These are from the lovely Kate. . . who sent so much more than these beautiful buttons. However, like all small children and cats, I’d rather play with the “box”… and these buttons, which topped my gifts, have me enraptured.
Let’s blame it on December, shall we? Because I don’t really have any excuse beyond the misery that was that month. The wind blew and strange things happened and everybody (mainly me) was a wee bit wonky. Remember??
However, December not only produced misery and weather, but it also brought bouts of generosity in the form of several impromptu swaps that I’ve yet to acknowledge. As it is nearly March, it would seem I’ve been remiss. How hard is it, really, to say “Thank you, ” I ask you? Yeah, not that hard. Bad, bad, Wende.
I am borrowing a photo from Kalurah—as I’ve allowed my pair to become frightfully dirty. I’ve used them so, so much and I’m embarrassed at how terribly neglectful I’ve been, here. I think I need a pair of these in every color.
Truth is, I’ve been meaning to write a post about the art of the “Thank You Note.” But having not finished writing mine, I feel a little disingenuous about doing so. As much as I abhor the old adage, “Those who can’t, teach.” It seems to fit in my case. And it doesn’t surprise me at all that the custom has fallen out of favor. Writing of any kind seems to be the last choice to cell phones and email or blogging! I have my personal preference, clearly, but I wouldn’t prioritize. Thank you is appropriate no matter how it’s delivered. Right? It’s the thought that counts, I think. I hope.
I don’t think I can ever have enough of Susan’s amazing work.
But there is something, admit it, to getting a piece of mail that expresses gratitude for your effort. And it IS effort to put something in the mail. We won’t even talk about the effort involved if you MADE that gift. Yes, mail that is not a bill is a gift in itself. Especially if it is not addressed, “To: Homeowner” but instead, has your name illegibly scrawled on the envelope. How can you not feel loved?
So, I have been remiss. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It means I’m lazy.
These were made by the lovely Susan, but came via a gift certificate from the ever thoughtful HG. Thank you both!
This week the boy and I have been slowly, but carefully cranking out our written thank yous. His are involved and feature embroidery from his new machine. Mine feature my chicken scratch that will no doubt be illegible. These small but well meant, if poorly timed, notes of affection are winging their way to you.
In the meantime, please accept my humblest of apologies. I’ve hot linked the photos to their respective givers. Each of them was so generous that I should have a separate post about them all. But if I do that, I’ll never get these notes finished.
