the power of habit

I don’t wanna get ahead of myself here and be like, “I’ve changed my life forever in a little over a week!!” because I have a 35-year history of never ever ever EVER following through with ANYTHING.    BUT.  I’ve discovered something kind of cool thus far in 2014, which is that habits and routines are a little bit of fantastic.  

I can’t ever seem to develop any good routines.  I wish I could say that’s because I’m totally spontaneous and fill my days and nights with all sorts of different fun things.  Instead, the closest thing to a “routine” I have is coming through the door after work, walking straight to the kitchen (while catching up on the day’s Instagram posts) and standing there with my coat on, eating something out of a box or a crinkly bag for ten minutes.  After  that, I sometimes pull myself together enough to make dinner, sometimes tell Greg that we’re on our own to “scrounge” (which means probably something involving eggs or frozen chicken patties or spaghetti and a jar of sauce).  I usually brush my teeth before bed, but most of the time I can’t be bothered to wash my face.  I usually roll out of bed at the last possible second, sometimes with enough time for a shower, sometimes with enough time to at least wash my greasy bangs in the sink, sometimes with enough time to pull on a dress and lament my grossness for the rest of the day.  It’s a sad pathetic life for a 35 year old with no children.  

So slowly but surely, I’ve been trying to develop some routines.  I set my phone alarm for 9:55, a five-minute warning that I need to finish up whatever I’m doing and head upstairs.  I then have a whole grown-up routine involving vitamins, floss, my Clarisonic, mouth wash, moisturizer, etc.  In the mornings, I set my alarm for 6:45, and then get up around 7:05 (baby steps, ok??) and make smoothies for Greg and I.  Depending on time constraints, I try to do 20 minutes of yoga.  I then walk Porter and am out the door with enough time to be at my desk by 9am.  I’d love to get to work early enough that I don’t have to park a mile away in the weird overflow lot, but again, baby steps.

And guess what?  After a week and a half, I feel awesome.  

I do have more to say on this topic of habit though, so stay tuned…

2014, I could kiss you

We joked on New Year’s Eve that we should’ve created an effigy of 2013 to beat, burn, stab, etc when the clock struck midnight.  2013 fucking sucked.  But you know what?  I’m feeling good, getting back on the horse, and super excited for 2014.

As a palate cleanser from my last song post, here’s a song that’s not sad, that I don’t cry when listening to, and that I have no emotional connection with except that it sounds like The Kinks meets the Rolling Stones, which can only be awesome.

When you look in the sky, just try looking inside

Despite the insane hype, Arcade Fire continues to make music that can move me to tears.  This morning in the car I was listening to this song and it made me feel so amazing and so sad at the same time.  And I started crying.

In particular, I love this verse:

They say heaven’s a place
Yeah heaven’s a place, and they know where it is
But you know where it is? It’s behind the gate, they won’t let you in
And when they hear the beat coming from the street they lock the door
But if there’s no music up in heaven, then what’s it for?

I’m at that stage of life where terrible things start to happen to you and the people around you, and as a result the highest highs and the lowest lows sit snugly up against one another to be experienced in quick succession.

I was driving in the car jamming along and feeling good, and then I started thinking of some friends who are going through probably the toughest thing they’ll ever go through, and the crappy year I’ve had, and I wondered how life can be so horribly cruel and so beautiful at the same time (something that I think of all the time, actually).   But sometimes things are so bad that there’s nothing you can do but enjoy a good melody.

You have all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile

I used to love Christmas.  Like LOVE it love it.  Like Buddy the Elf love.  I’m not sure if it’s a simple symptom of growing older and more cynical, or tired, or just that as time passes situations get more complicated.  I miss the days when my brother and I used to sleep on the pull-out couch in the den on Christmas eve, watching Christmas movies and waiting for Santa (even though he was so much older than me and already knew) while my mom worked away in the kitchen finishing up her pies.  The next morning all I had to do was roll out of bed and head for the Christmas tree, and my brothers and sister and aunt and uncle would be there and we’d open presents and eat a big dinner and laugh a lot.  I could go the entire day without putting shoes on.

Then people paired up, moved further away, and had families of their own.  My parents sold the house and there was no longer a central place that made sense for everyone to go.  And now I have a husband and in-laws and my own house, and it’s decorated all nice and cozy and I don’t particularly like to spend time away from it over the holidays.  And my family doesn’t quite enjoy spending time together like they once did, and it all seems like a chore.  Everything is, “Well you know, we’ll try to make it but the weather…” or “We’re so busy…” or “It’s such a schlep…” Getting together just doesn’t seem worth the effort for anyone anymore.

I’m also a victim of the blogosphere, and am therefore saddled with this idea of having to make everything so *special.*  I have a hard time doing half-assed gifts for people, everything feels like it has to be so meaningful and personalized and hand-made and thoughtful.  A scented candle just doesn’t seem to be an ok gift for me to give, even though I personally like to get them.  So I stress about getting gifts for my in-laws, that it’s never enough, and Greg isn’t really helping.  So then I get annoyed at him. And meanwhile I’m baking my ass off to put together giant assortments of cookies for various people, near and far, but cookies don’t really seem like they count as a gift, which means I still need to worry about doing more more more.

On top of the stress, I just feel lonely.  I haven’t seen my family in ages, and every time I try to get my mom to come down for the weekend so we can do fun holiday stuff she has some kind of excuse.  I worry about her because she’s alone in this house in the middle of nowhere, and so I try to figure out how I can juggle things to make time for her.  Then when I do make time, she’s not willing to make the effort to come down.  But then even when I do see my family, I’m reminded how strained everyone’s relationships have become and then I’m sitting right there in the middle of them feeling lonely in a different way.  Greg is only marginally into the holidays and only really wants to do Christmas things after like the 20th.  And I feel like most of my friends are just acquaintances that have their own things going on, or my good friends are either far away or also have their own things going on.  And so I’m left to my own devices to try to be in the spirit.  Like I’m trapped in this sad snowglobe all by myself.

I was baking last night, and listening to Christmas music, and trying to throw myself into the spirit.  And I started wondering why the holidays are meant to be this wonderful time of year, where everyone is a little kinder and more thoughtful and spiritual, and yet for so many people it yields the opposite effect.  It’s like everybody is walking this razor’s edge between ecstatic joy and cosmic melancholy, and if you don’t feel the right amount of joy, it makes for even more melancholy.

And then as the icing on the cake, I committed a Facebook faux pas last night.  I stupidly posted this status chain where you tag a bunch of people, and I kind of forgot how far reaching the ripple effects are of tagging on Facebook, and then everybody was annoyed.  So even social media is working to make me feel like shit.

So this must be what it feels like to be the Grinch.  Except I’m not sure that my heart is going to grow three sizes anytime soon.

Or maybe I’m just PMSing.

well, I’m a bit of a photog


I’m self-deprecating by nature, and I don’t really feel comfortable praising myself.  Humility is a valuable asset but sometimes it can really get in the way of development.

We recently got back from at trip to Italy, where i managed to take 1100+ photos.  Why is it that it takes a vacation for me to break out my real camera?  Sure, I use Instagram like every other schmuck on the planet, but I wind up feeling too silly to carry my Nikon around on a regular basis.  Granted, it’s the difference of a 2lb monstrosity vs. a sleek little thing you keep in your pocket, but still.

I think, and others have corroborated, that I take relatively good pictures.  I’m no Annie Lebowitz, but I think I have a pretty good eye and I would like to start taking photography more seriously.  Maybe move beyond the “no flash” mode on my camera and get down and dirty in the art form.  It’s one of the few things that I feel I have maybe a bit of a raw talent for, so rather than decide that I want to be a master painter or a jazz pianist, I should start with something that I have SOME sort of aptitude for.

So anyway, I thought I’d start going through my overloaded hard drive and posting some of my better moments in photography.  The above is one I took in Florence a few weeks ago.  It’s probably my favorite from the whole trip.  Something about the storm clouds and the dreamy colors of the Ponte Vecchio.  The priest walking past was the cherry on the gelato.

chicken pancakes for the soul

Since my last post was such a thorough downer, I thought I’d go for something quick and uplifting (also because my to-do list for today had “blog” on it and I’m trying desperately to check everything off).  My friend sent me this video today, which I thought was the perfect antidote to Monday.

Afterward I popped over to the website –  I haven’t had a chance to really dig in much yet, but it seems like a fun site.  I particularly like that they have “activities” for you to do.  Although my younger self would never have believed it, the adult me enjoys completing as assignment.

There was one in particular called “Tweeting to the oldies” where you write a Tweet describing your grandparents.  Here was mine:

“The most wonderful flabby arms and the softest most wrinkliest skin. I miss her so much, 25 years later.”

Writing it actually made me tear up at my desk.

touching base

Hi there, long time no see.

I want to get back into posting on this thing.  I’m constantly coming up with little things here and there that seem like something best fleshed out in blog-form.  But I haven’t been able to come back to this space because I’ve been avoiding writing about what needs to be written about before I can move on to business as usual.

My dad passed away, back in June.  I can’t believe he’s only been gone five months, it feels much longer.  In a way I’d like to just leave it at that and not rehash anything, but now that I’m writing this it feels like maybe this is the perfect place to rehash this.

To get things going, and because I don’t have the time to sit here and start pouring my heart into a big post about it, I thought maybe I’d share a snippet of something I wrote in my personal journal.  I was just reading back over it the other day and it’s a small glimpse into what I was feeling back then.  And even then I waited a few days to write about it because it just felt too strange to see the words staring back at me on the screen.

“We had the memorial for dad last week.  Everything went really well, there were SO many people there, probably around a hundred.  It was the loudest wake I’ve ever been to – I walked out into the hallway a few times and felt bad for the other funerals happening.  But everybody chatted and looked at the pictures (I put together a collage board and [my brother] had a laptop with a slideshow) and shot the shit.

When we were walking into the funeral home, I was very quiet and taking deep breaths, and [my sister] asked me if I was ok.  Everybody kept asking if I was ok, in this confused tone, like it was some big mystery why I was being quiet.  As if any minute they were going to ask me if it was something I ate, or if I’m having a problem at work.   I did ok at the funeral.  I started crying when I saw Ronnie and Kim, I’m not sure why.  I guess because they had been such a familiar part of our family and I know they loved my dad.  Then I pulled myself together.  At the end, when the crowd had dwindled back down to just our family, I sat in a chair and it all started coming to me.  Once the boisterous chit chat and laughter had stopped, the silence was so sad.  It finally felt real, this was the last thing.  Everyone had gone – I might never see some of those people again.  They had paid their respects and were leaving to move on with their lives.  And there he was, ashes in an urn on a table.  And there we were, fatherless, husbandless, and embarking on a new chapter.  And I cried.  And everyone fawned over me – [my sister] gave me a nice long genuine sympathetic hug, and my mom gave me a hug.  But the thing is, they all acted like I was the one who needed the comforting, like I was this weak little thing that couldn’t handle the situation.  When really I’m not the weird one, they’re the weird ones.“

It’s been five months and I’m finally just in the past few weeks beginning to feel his absence in a sad way.  He was so sick for so long that when he finally passed, there was such a wave of relief among everyone that it didn’t leave much room for mourning.  And of course, everyone had a complicated relationship with my father, so nothing about this is particularly straightforward.  But I think maybe it’s time for me to reflect a little more on the loss instead of pushing it down and out of the way.