dipping in

One of the coolest projects that have kept me busy the last few weeks had me focusing on penmanship.

My pal EB is getting married in May, and as a gift to her and her future husband I did the calligraphy on the outside of their invitations. I hadn't worked in pen and ink for several years, but with a little practice I got the hang of it again. Plus it was a fabulous reason to buy a bunch of new nibs and inks.

For me, the best way to hone a skill is by playing for keeps. And this project slowed me down and steadied my hand--it's amazing how few envelopes you waste by actually stopping to think about what you're going to do before dipping the pen. I played with several sizes, styles, fonts and colors before showing EB three samples I thought would work well that were inspired by the scripty font on her invites. She ended up choosing the one I liked best.

I found myself looking forward to the addresses with a capital H or W--those two are fun to do and seem prettier to me than the rest.

All this got me thinking about how bizarre it is that I type faster than I write, and when I do jot anything down, endings of words trail off in a squiggle, I often don't bother with dots or crosses, and most people can't even read my handwriting. Why bother? Everything's electronic--H even makes To Do lists on the iPhone--and I rarely have a need to bust out the penmanship. I have even less patience to do it legibly.

But there's a satisfaction that comes with taking the time to make something pretty. And about 160 invites looked awfully sweet laid out to dry. I'm looking forward to doing this again sometime.

if the first year is the toughest, we've totally got this

"Dude, can you believe that as of yesterday it's been a year since you moved here?"

"It doesn't feel like a whole year. More like six months."

"How ridiculous is it that we used to see each other for a weekend after being apart a month or two and that was totally fine, but now it's weird just to go a week without seeing each other?"

"Funny how things change."

"They say the first year of living together is the hardest."

"And people were concerned about us being practically on top of each other in such a little condo, too."

"I'm pretty surprised it's gone so smoothly, considering there's really no personal space."

"If anything, you think the place is too big. If I'm sitting on the chair you're wondering why I'm not next to you on the couch."

"Yeah, and when you're in the other room you seem so far away...I'll bet we could even make do with a studio!"

"Let's not push it."

the difference: you can give a toddler a time out

My mom's surgery last Tuesday went well; the doctor said it was rare to see flaps around a hole like that fall closed during surgery and that was a great sign. She was groggy for a few days, but diligently sat in her chair--for the first few days, anyway.

She has to sit where the purple scarf is (the seat is shaped like bicycle seat and only slightly comfier), knees on the blue pads and face in the white horseshoe-shaped pillow. The purple-and-pink thing is a hand mirror, and taped under the pillow is my high school locker mirror (they allow her to sort of see the television). She has another pillow apparatus to help her sleep face-down, too. That really sucks--she pretty much didn't sleep at all for five days.

The mirror that came with the chair is all scratched and warped. But they sent us a new one yesterday.

As much as I yell about staying in the chair, I can't imagine having to be face down for nearly 24 hours a day. Yesterday I sat on the floor with the laptop for four hours and my neck was killing me. The pain meds prescribed for my mom weren't so much for the eye, but for her aching back and sore neck. Poor woman.

But that was last week. As of Sunday, she still has to sit in the chair but can sleep on her side, so both of us are getting some much-needed rest. She's also feeling a lot better. However that means she is itching to move around and do stuff. I had been up late and overslept this morning, and in a few hours she managed to do laundry, make puri (Indian fried bread) from scratch, make sevayian (Indian sweet dish made with angelhair pasta), chop the veggies I got from the grocery store and scrape the stickers off our new front and storm doors and window. She swears she kept her head down the whole time.

About 45 minutes ago she left the chair to use the bathroom and I heard the sound of chopping spinach. I got my brother on the phone to give her a good scolding and she sat back down. Then I went to finish chopping the spinach and hadn't been in the kitchen two minutes before she was out in the driveway dragging in the empty garbage cans from the curb. All this is making me question my mothering capabilities; if I can't wrangle one grown woman, how the heck am I going to raise children?

I'm delighted that my mom is feeling better. Every four hours when she takes off the eye patch for drops, she can see a tiny bit more. She says it's more like a curtain opening from the top down. We see the doctor again on Thursday. Hopefully we can say goodbye to the chair very soon.

In the meantime, we've been flooded with so many good vibes, cards, flowers and presents that the living room looks like a gift shop. It's wonderful to see just how many people love my mom almost as much as we do. I won't attempt to post photos of all the flowers, but I had to include this, which is so huge I put my mom's iPod in the shot to show just how ginormous it is.

I'm thinking they miss her back at the office.

patching up the hole

My mom's vitrectomy (eye surgery) is at 5:30 a.m. this morning. It is 1:05 a.m. and I'm bouncing off the walls because I made the mistake of inhaling a full-size Snickers bar at 9:45. Bad idea.

I've been at my parents' house for a few days and haven't been online. So now that there's little chance that someone will call my mother from other continents, I am attempting to check email, twitter and the blogs. On dialup. Dialup in general is very frustrating--Google Reader doesn't even register when you're checking gmail in basic HTML view--so I may just give up soon.

My mom's massage chair-like "Face-Down Recovery" apparatus arrived on Saturday. The delivery person adjusted it for her and showed her how they expected her to see anything when her face is planted into a pillow with a hole in it: A considerably warped "mirror" made of folded plastic that makes you feel like you're looking through your grandmother's bifocals. Horrid. H and I rigged up a much more effective one with a hand mirror, Velcro, electrical tape and my magnetic locker mirror from high school. Nothing's going to keep my momma from enjoying her Hindi soap operas in their full blingtastic-fashion glory.

Unfortunately, despite the badass viewing experience we created, the longest my mom could bear to sit in the chair was fifteen minutes. I even had to sit in it for half an hour to prove that it wasn't the most miserable activity in the universe, after which she accused me of "just saying that to make her feel better."

If you think it's insane that I can't watch tv without doing at least one other thing at the same time, you haven't seen my mother in action. It takes me a full day to accomplish what she does in a few hours. And if you lend a hand in her kitchen and don't hear some form of "move your hands and feet faster," either she's not feeling well or you're not in the right kitchen.

This surgery is supposed to repair the macular hole in the central part of her retina, which could leave her blind if it goes unsuccessfully treated.

During the operation, the surgeon first gently removes the vitreous gel with a procedure called vitrectomy. This eliminates any traction on the macula. A gas bubble is injected in the eye to place gentle pressure on the macula and help the hole to seal. In many cases, patients enjoy functional vision after the bubble has dissipated and the eye has healed.

To keep gravitational pressure on her macula, she has to sit face-down for "23 and a half hours a day for 10-15 days." So it's going to be torture for her to be stuck in a chair/lying-down contraption at the mercy of slower and more incompetent family members like myself. As I've described before, my mom is a nurse who can be a terrible patient. I've compiled a list of people to call when (not if) she gets unruly and doesn't follow orders. Top of the list? My brother, who has more than earned the right to yell at her about these matters. In fact, he can probably employ some of the lines she's used on him during all those months of open-heart-surgery recovery when he was stubborn and rude and cranky and in pain and unable to eat or even drink a thing. I'm sure the reminder of what she's had to watch him go through will be enough to keep her in line.

But in case that doesn't faze her, I'll play my trump card: Reminding her that if she wants to see what those future grandchildren look like, she needs to suck it up and make a full recovery.

this hold music sounds like a perversion of the Knight Rider theme song

Yesterday I attended a lovely brunch with my college girls. It was raining like nobody's business, so I am very thankful that pp swung by to pick me up so I didn't have to take the El and the bus. On the way over there, she asked me what I had been up to and was as surprised as I am that I haven't completed as many projects as I had planned since being laid off.

So I've been paying attention to what I've done today to get a better idea.

Today I got out of bed a few minutes after H left for work (about 8:10 a.m.), brushed my teeth, ate some yogurt and granola and caught up on my google reader. I finished watching The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (which I had seen a few minutes of and recorded last week) and Noises Off (which I started watching last night when I couldn't fall asleep) while working on the calligraphy on EB's wedding invitation envelopes. And then I watched an episode of Monk (the one where he gets buried alive).

Then Citibank crank-called me again. I've been trying to talk to them about the mortgage for weeks and get transferred into their automated telephone system until I want to throw the phone out the window. Seriously, the time ratio of being on hold:talking to a live person is about 12,000,000,000,000 minutes to 1. Every time I have to explain my situation and give all my info, then they give me the "direct number" and "transfer" me--which usually means hold music for awhile and then a few rings before it hangs up on me. Or else I'll be on hold for several minutes and suddenly get a busy signal. It's no different when they call me, either.

Today I talked to--each in a separate call with a separate amount of hold time--Raman, Manisha, Brittany, Ron and now Nick. I've been on hold with the last one for about 1 hour, 4 minutes and 17 seconds now. However, he seems to actually care about helping me and actually said he'd hang with me until I get some help. That right there was worth the wait.

I'm shocked I forgot to tell pp that being on hold takes up a big chunk of my day. Are there any jobs that require listening to a loop of recorded messages backed up by annoying music? Because I'm starting to feel like a pro.

***update***
4:20 p.m. I've been on hold 1 hour, 34 minutes and 38 seconds. Now I'm working with someone named Melinda, who is looking into my situation. I've now found out that there's a chance my account has been misclassified all these years. Great. Kudos to Nick, who stayed with me, checking in every few minutes until I got to Melinda.

Sadly, this is the most productive call I've had in nearly a month.

***update 2****
So I'm working with Melinda, who puts me on hold while she goes to check on how my account has been misfiled and I'm waiting. Suddenly some Indian-sounding lady (I normally wouldn't categorize, but I happen to be intimately familiar with how they sound and have recently been talking with dozens of call-center people) gets on the line, says "You're welcome" as if she were in the middle of talking to someone else, and HANGS UP ON ME.

Then I spent about thirty minutes trying to get back to Melinda, dialing through the maze of all the automated menus and the numbers various people have given me. To no avail. I talk to Cindy, Felicia, Clint and then finally Eric, who seems nice. He asks me all my information and then comments on how I must be living downtown because of my mortgage. That jokester. He shut up after I told him I'd been talking to Citibank since 2 p.m. Maybe if I hadn't already spent several HOURS ON HOLD I could have laughed along with him. He says he'll try to get me back to the department where Melinda works and gave me a direct number. He said because it's an internal transfer, I'd be bumped up to the next available person, but he's not sure if Melinda is gone for the day. Then he transfers me.

It rings, then a message says they are CLOSED FOR THE DAY. Then it hangs up on me.

I do not know WHAT THIS EFFING BANK WANTS FROM ME! I AM TRYING TO BE A RESPONSIBLE HOME OWNER, BUT THEY SEEM TO THINK THAT THEY DON'T HAVE TO DEAL WITH ME UNTIL I'M ON THE BRINK OF HOMICIDE.

The worst part is that there are people out there with much bigger problems than I have. I pray they're getting better treatment than I am. EFF YOU CITIBANK. Because I'm going to become the nightmare that keeps coming and coming and coming UNTIL YOU TALK TO ME.

Because, you know, I don't have anything better to do.

when your elbows are throbbing, it's time to put down the knitting needles

For someone without a job, you'd think I'd have a ton of time to post. Especially when I have spent entire stretches from 8 a.m. until 5 p.m. sitting at the computer without even realizing I'd forgotten to eat lunch. But for some reason, I can't seem to find much to say that can't be summed up by what I've already said in this post. Which would get old pretty quickly.

Aside from looking for a new gig, I have been logging in some serious hours in front of the television--escaping into the drama of fictional people really takes the edge off of my real-life issues. And you know I can't watch tv unless I'm doing something else at the same time. Like knitting. Here are a few of my latest projects, which took SO much longer to complete than I had anticipated:

"Spiderweb" crochet afghan

"February Lady Sweater" for my mom's birthday (shh, don't tell her)

Baby booties on the fly for an impromptu shower that unfortunately didn't happen.

I'm also doing a few other projects that are either a) not completely finished yet b) going to be received by someone who reads this blog c) already given away without my having taken a picture.

I think I need to take a break because my arms really have been hurting lately. So perhaps there will be more posts up here soon. Stay tuned!

all of this has happened before...and it will happen again

Many moons ago during the heyday of my procrastination, whenever I had a big deadline--after all the socks had been rearranged by wool content and the bathtub tiles got a good scrubbing--I would suck down some coffee, pack up my stuff and sit at a computer in the most quiet, lonely, boring place I could find. The plan was that I wouldn't allow myself to get up from that spot until I'd at least made a dent in the big project. Which was nearly always due the next morning.

The situation was pretty straightforward: No music, no cable, no interesting friends to distract from their own work, not even any cute boys around to wonder about. I should have been able to sit down, pound out the project and still have time for a couple re-runs, eight hours of sleep and a balanced breakfast. Right?

Not even once.

So I'd sit there in the lonely place rattling my imaginary chains and try to concentrate. And without fail, I'd start writing rambling, off-topic letters. First came the obligatory journal entry detailing just how screwed I was, how YET AGAIN I'd waited until the last moment to even begin figuring out the requirements of the assignment, how I'd once again banished myself to the depths of Grainger (the beautiful library full of studious engineering types, very few of whom I knew well enough to conversate with) and how this time, yes this time for sure, I was in a mess from which not even an all-nighter could extricate me.

My journals from 1996-2000 are bursting with taped-in looseleaf sheets documenting the struggle between what I knew I should be doing versus the sheer agony of actually taking a step in the right direction. But regurgitating the same impending doom at least once a week got old. So I decided to channel my pain into a warning to others: Do your homework in a timely fashion or you could find yourself wishing you were watching the latest episode of your favorite dramedy instead of staring at the inside of a carrel wondering how you let time get away from you. Again.

The notes detailed how doing this paper/project/assignment/take-home exam was the equivalent of being repeatedly hanged, drawn and quartered. I'd suggest all kinds of things I'd rather be doing, such as sweating in a desert filing camel hooves or hanging outside the 93rd-floor window of the Sears Tower washing windows. And somehow I always found someone around me in the computer lab area to describe. There was the bug-eyed kid who looked like he'd skipped fourth grade that I was sure figured out a way to access dirty pictures on school machines. The weird broody kind of guy who gave me the feeling he was hiding an uzi in his big backpack and waiting to take us all out for high crimes of procrastination. The girl with the twitch I kept catching in my peripheral vision. The sad-looking person who seemed a little too relaxed, like she had already finished all her work and was just in there for fun. Beeyatch.

But I needed that venting--nothing gets you primed for productivity like the sleeve-rolling-up exercise of describing how much the impending job makes you want to throw yourself off a balcony. And apparently people enjoyed reading them. When I graduated, several people told me how much they'd miss the frenetic warnings against waiting until the night before the exam to start the assigned readings or stories of how a computer-lab stranger can really do you a solid by banging on the table when he noticed you drooling on your psychology book. Some friends even mention those 3 a.m.-emails when I see them now, all these years later. It's almost as if those missives were the precursor to this blog. Especially because this isn't the first post I've written about my tendency to procrastinate.

Two weeks ago I got a small assignment. It's due tomorrow. And while it really should NOT be a big deal, I have been completely unable to even get started. The ideas are whirling around in my head, but I have not been able to get more than a sentence down in eight full days.

So here I am, sequestered in the lonely, silent conference room of my building. There's a menacing-looking med student taking up the big table with books, each thicker than my thigh, and some people watching what looks like an awards show in the enclosure with the bigscreen tv (I'm glad I'm not aware enough to realize what I'm missing). I have been sitting on this couch with my laptop since 3:30 p.m.

It is now 9:30.

I made some headway after a peptalk from cc, but I'm nowhere near getting the job done. I told H I wasn't coming back until I had made some serious progress, and I'm pretty sure he expected me back hours ago. This sucks because he has the day off tomorrow and we have plans to catch a matinee. I'm sure he'll worry about my falling asleep in the theater if I pull an all-nighter, but I don't usually get tired until two days after staying up all night. He didn't know me in college, but it won't take him long to figure out how this cycle of insanity works.

Writing this post got the juices flowing. Now I feel like I can get down to business for real. Unfortunately, that's not all that feels like flowing; I hope H comes down here to check on me soon, because I really have to pee.

apparently it's not about a ring or a piece of paper

"Thanks for taking me out to dinner, mom and dad."

"No problem, beta. But you barely even ate anything, just the side of rice."

"I know, but I couldn't totally enjoy it because I know H is at home eating leftovers and he doesn't get to eat out very often."

"Ah, I feel that way when I go out with my girlfriends and your father is at home."

"It's crazy, right?"

"No. That's what's called being married."

which is why i have an eye appointment this afternoon

Last night EB called to say her dad needs to have surgery next week to repair the hole in his heart. I attempted to reassure her by saying my brother has about four or five foreign objects tacked onto his ticker, including some GORE-TEX to make up for his lack of left ventricle, and he's as much of a smartass as ever. But I know there's little you can say to put someone at ease when a person they love is going to have his ribcage sawed open. I'm sending them good vibes.

Then my mother called. She's been having some eye issues for months (big black floaters, flashes of light, sometimes a sharp pain), but because someone told her she "really didn't need it," she opted out of eye insurance coverage for 2008 and couldn't see a doctor until January. Upon seeing her, the eye doctor freaked out, yelled at her and immediately sent her to a specialist.

The specialist did an eye angiogram (!) and referred her to another specialist. He was not happy she had waited, said that she has a "macular hole" in her right eye and should have surgery ASAP. She downplayed the severity of the situation and even told H she'd be angry with him if he told me what was going on. So while my mom was getting injected with dye, I spent the day beating myself up over a coverletter that somehow disqualified me for what would have been a perfect job instead of worrying about something way more important. I guess that's why she didn't want me to know.

This is just the latest in a long history of my mother being a great nurse but a horrid patient. She was supposed to have some other procedure for months, but has put it off for some ridiculous reason. Even though this is the perfect time: Unemployment means I can come home, drive her to appointments, pick up medicines--and most importantly--smack her around if she doesn't comply.

But it doesn't matter what I have to say. I think what got her in gear was the specialist telling her with certainty that this eye thing could render her completely blind. She ran home and made an appointment for the very next day. Because for as much as she likes to whine about not being alive to see her grandchildren, being alive but not being able to SEE her grandchildren may very well kill her on the spot.

me, Gandhi, Darwin, Clinton...and Duff

Yesterday Ri was telling me about a segment on Good Morning America about this book Why Him? Why Her?, and she said there was an online quiz that would reveal your personality type. So I took the little test.

Apparently, my primary traits are of a "Negotiator" and my secondary traits are of a "Builder." Normally on these quiz-type things there are one or two bullet points that I disagree with, but I had zero beef with this one. Aside from the generic "friendly," "sweet," "empathetic," "trusting" types of adjectives, it picked up on the more specific "you almost always seek consensus and harmony, and are willing to give up some of your pleasures to build an orderly, harmonious home and family life," and even "when you feel betrayed you can be unforgiving and hold a grudge too long." Yep. But I'm trying to work on that last one.

At the end, the assessment told me that I naturally gravitate toward Director/Builders. So of course I asked H take the quiz when he got home. I'd say it targeted him pretty dang well, too, with the "analytical," "logical" and the "You are also calm, efficient, quick to make decisions and remarkably self-disciplined." Naturally, he is a Director/Builder.

None of this revealed anything I didn't know before--while we do our fair share of bickering, H never makes me feel like yelling until my throat feels torn or hurling inanimate objects at his head; we usually just talk it out. But when you've been feeling frustrated and useless, it's a nice consolation for an unbiased third party to confirm that something you did actually works.


Here are some celebrities who share our personality profiles:

Oprah Winfrey

Leo Tolstoy

Katie Holmes

Bill Clinton

• Hillary Duff
• Mohandas Gandhi
• Charles Darwin

Albert Einstein

Hillary Clinton

Bill Gates

Nicole Kidman

It's a pretty impressive list. However I must not be caught up on all the stuff Hillary Duff is doing lately that makes her especially noteworthy.

back then the street edition was 20 cents

"We're not in it to make money," says the David Cole from the San Francisco Examiner.



via Romenesko

last link in the chain

It's no secret that I love that I'm Indian. I can't get enough of the food, the cheesy movies and the sometimes inexplicable superstitions, and the culture has really shaped who I've grown to be. In recent years I've tried to absorb as much as I can, from learning Devanagari script to unlocking the secret of making a killer gujiya.

But is it all for nothing? Am I going to be the annoying person whose children roll their eyes whenever she tries to get them interested in some music or a movie? Does it make a difference that I can cook all this stuff if nobody wants to eat it? My own brother has never taken a liking to our culture--while we'd dine on dal and chawal or chicken curry and fresh roti, my mom would make him a separate meal of pizza, spaghetti or a hamburger. He's just not into it, and I can accept that, but I hope he'll be more interested when he's older. Because we don't have any family here; he's all I will have beyond my parents. And there won't be many family-friend get-togethers with long folding tables of aluminum vats full of food like those we had during our formative years; even the after-church tea receptions are rarer as time goes on. Besides, our family friends have their own extended networks with whom to share spicy Thanksgiving turkey and four different kinds of bhaji among the plates of mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. Everyone has moved on, and the preferred path is the one of least resistance. One of my friends even says the reason she doesn't cook Indian food is because her parents do such a good job she just lets them do it.

I wasn't always this keen on the traditions of my culture. When I was in junior high, our family started going to this evening Hindi church service on top of the morning mass we'd attend every Sunday. Mom and Dad wanted to give us a sense of the community they'd left behind. It was a whole lot of praying for a kid, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't think it was a drag. However those sermons boosted my Hindi vocabulary exponentially, and I saw people my age who were actually into the culture. I looked up to them, noticing their pretty outfits and that they already knew how to do all the cool dances and cook complex dishes by the time we were in high school. I wanted in on all that, and for once I felt lame because I didn't embrace my heritage, after all those years among my school friends when the opposite was true. And after a little while, I started appreciating that stuff for its own merit, not only to fit in.

But all of those people have moved on and away. Our family doesn't attend that church anymore. I have several closets full of gorgeous outfits, but noplace to wear them. I can't even cook Indian food in my condo for fear that any lingering aromas might turn off potential buyers. I used to feel so confident saying it doesn't matter--that I'm Indian enough for everyone--but the truth is that holding onto a minority culture is a whole lot of work. And if you're the only one interested in keeping up with it, just doing something you enjoy once in awhile can quickly make you feel like an unwanted proselytizer preaching to deaf ears, even if all you want is some company during a cheesy movie.

When I go back to my parents' house, I can indulge in comfort food, binge on some bad soap operas and catch up with my family in grammatically questionable Hindi. But I won't be able to do that forever. And if enough time and resistance wears away at my enthusiasm, a big part of my identity will be relegated to the spice rack--busted out about as often as a non-Chinese family springs for dim sum or hot and sour soup. And that just makes me want to cry.

these pulsating lights make it really hard to knit

Last night H and I went out to the Hop Haus to celebrate Cool Cat's big 3-0. That place holds special memories for me: It was the sports bar/purveyor of exotic-meat burgers where my coworkers took me for a great birthday lunch--right before we got back to the office and were all laid off. But it does serve a mean cheeseburger.

I was expecting the same casual vibe from the place, so I was surprised to see the DJ bumping in a booth, laser-lightbeams bouncing off every surface, and that I could feel the bass in my sternum and on the bottoms of my feet (through heeled boots). H was even convinced individual hairs on his head were vibrating to the beat.

But it was a lovely get-together. The music took me back to the old days (especially the merengue and bachata they were playing toward the end). And it's always great to see my college girls, especially Cool Cat, who I discovered has been living pretty close to us all this time. Sadly, after a few hours the lights started to give us psychedelic hallucinations, so we moved to the bar area. The music was still plenty loud over there, but we didn't have to yell as loudly and were away from the throat-scratching fog machine and crazy lights.

Taken by H from his iPhone.

The light display was very cool. And seven years ago--when I could dance all night in four-inch heels and run around without a coat when it was below freezing--it would have been pretty freaking awesome. But you just can't turn back time. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to take my vitamins before shuffleboard starts.

he spoke to me

Yesterday I waited for H to come home so we could watch the Inauguration together. And despite seeing it eight hours after everyone else, the proceedings still felt momentous. Obama's speech isn't being lauded as "memorable," but a few points seemed to speak to me directly--my parents certainly packed up their few worldly possessions and traveled across oceans so that we might live a better life. Even the fact that he included the word "Hindu" hit home, and that's not even my religion.

Sepia Mutiny's Anna was there, and she captured some of what I felt:

You are what you look like. And to the vast majority of the world, I look Hindu. I’m not ashamed of that at all. Today, I felt celebrated for it. I felt included, even though my actual faith was mentioned first, in a group which was organized by a man magnanimous, courageous and heedful enough to include “non-believers”.

If every American could feel included, there's a much better chance we will work together to turn this ship around. And in these frightening times, the hope that things will get better is what I'm relying on to make it through.

hurts so good

The great thing about one of your best friends studying to be a yoga instructor is that in her classes you get individual attention, can ask any stupid question you want, and you don't have to feel self-conscious about the fact that your legs have not been de-fuzzed in more than a month.

I had a great first session with Kaiya at her in-home studio--something about teetering around in the tree pose in a sun room surrounded by real trees is very very zen. And our little yogi-in-training is off to a fabulous start: I left there feeling refreshed, energized and content, and I woke up this morning with the best kind of sore muscles an out-of-shape cadiz could ask for.

life block

In the time since I stopped working I have come up with hundreds of things I can spend this time at home doing: half-finished projects, hobbies I'd like to pick back up and tons of time-consuming tasks that have fallen to the wayside as life had picked up speed the last few years. But it's been weeks and I have yet to completely finish a single one.

I have NO idea where the time goes. I wake up at about 8 a.m. every morning and spend the day shuttling between looking for jobs, puttering around in the kitchen, cleaning/reorganizing something in the house that annoys me and television. Then suddenly it's 5:15 p.m. and H is home. I feel like while I was working I did more in two hours than I accomplish in eight hours here. And it's frustrating, because I'm not just sitting around eating yogurt and watching reruns of Project Runway (well, not ALL day, anyway).

The more I plan to do, the more paralyzed I get. This is not a state of mind I'd like to hang around in for very long.

don't leave home without me

Velocibadgergirl tagged me for the six things thingy.

RULES: Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
Let each person know that s/he's been tagged by leaving comments on their blogs. Link to the person that tagged you. Let your tagger know when your entry is up.


Here are six random things about me when it comes to staying home. Here are six other random things about me, which are a little more random.

1. I prefer not to leave the house more than once a day.

2. When I'm home, I like to be in pajamas no matter what time it is.

3. When I'm home by myself, I often forget to eat. When other people are around, I'm constantly snacking and asking if they're hungry, too.

4. I am creeped out when taking a shower if I'm the only one in the house.

5. If you want to be sure I will get absolutely nothing accomplished, leave me home alone where there are one or more of the following: a television, a couch, a bed and/or the Internet.

6. An alarm is not as effective without another human being around to make sure I haven't turned it off and fallen back asleep.

I tag: Madelyn, Mike, Supacoo, Momma, the Casual Perfectionist, weebug, Eclectic Bride. No obligations.

the things they did for us

The year was 1984. The holiday season was ramping up and there was absolutely nothing 6-year-old Cadiz wanted more than a Cabbage Patch Kid. Unfortunately for my mom, everybody and her momma wanted one, too, and the shelves were bare. To hear Mom describe it, getting a Cabbage Patch Kid that Christmas probably inspired that Schwarzenegger action flick Jingle All the Way.

Little did I know then, but late at night my mom went to every toy store within a 15-mile radius for weeks in vain so I wouldn't be disappointed on Christmas morning. And there was no way she was going to let me open a box with a raincheck in it, so the poor woman finally ordered one from abroad.

The "official" paperwork that came with "Brigitta Sylvia," dated December 25, 1984. I was apparently so excited to start playing mom that I never bothered to add my signature.

When I ripped open the wrapping paper that morning, I noticed that Brigitta Sylvia looked slightly different than the *real* Cabbage Patch Kids my friends had. But my mom--clever as always--put on the spin: My doll was WAY cooler than everyone else's because she came all the way from GERMANY, just for me. I was sold.

Me and Brig on Christmas.

I don't know if I ever really told my mom how sweet it was that she went to such great lengths to see me smile. Awhile back, I stumbled onto a set of short films called The Responsibility Project. They're all about doing the right thing. I hadn't thought about ole Brigitta in years, but watching the film called Tony reminded me of what parents are willing to do for their kids. And while we don't always show a lot of appreciation at the time, those gestures stay with us forever.

2009: Reboot

I can't say that I'm going to miss 2008. I lost my last grandparent, my job and pretty much all of my savings. However, I am thankful for being able to look upon my boyfriend's face in person nearly every day, actually living in the place I've been paying mortgage on for three years (though it doesn't look like it's going to sell anytime soon) and having a reliable fast Internet connection for the first time in a long time.

My situation is likely going to get worse in 2009, but there's little I can do to prevent that. So I'm taking time to "reboot" my life. It started with an abrupt decision to chop off most of my hair, and now I'm looking at everything around me in a new way: Have I truly expressed how much the people who love and support me are appreciated? Do I really need to watch so much television? What needs to change to prevent my being taken advantage of in the future? Maybe that life-assessment I didn't go through when I turned 30 is catching up with me four months late, but I suddenly feel like a bomb is going to go off if I don't get my crap together as soon as possible.

Last month I reconnected with people who studied abroad with me; we reminisced in disbelief that our semester in Spain was a full DECADE ago. Then I stumbled onto a journal (I still haven't put my albums together) from that time and discovered that the uncertainty and frustration I had wanted to escape back then isn't all that different from the confusion and helplessness that I wrestle with today. Ten years can change a lot of the details, but the sentiment is the same. There's no such thing as a vacation from your life--and perhaps the best way to figure out where you're going is to take a good look at where you have been. So that's what I aim to do this year.

Happy 2009 everyone. I hope things get clearer and brighter for all of us.

happy holidays!

I hope everyone has an opportunity to spend the next few days with those you love the most. I'm sure I'll be posting up a storm once I get back to the city where the online connection moves faster than those sticky toys that crawl down the wall. Until then, I wish you all the very best, most happiest, safest of holidays and will see you again around these parts very soon.

Love Cadiz