Punch, Cross, Hook, Upper

There was a staff picture today at work. It was emailed to everyone. It wasn't my prettiest day. Ill-fitting clothes, dough-white legs, dried strawberry smoothie in my hair that I wouldn't find until about 4:30. The smoothie didn't show up in the photo, but the ill-fitting skirt really, uh, highlighted the ole midsection.

Reminding me why I've been getting up at 5:30 and doing a kickboxing workout video* in my garage for the past week. And damn, am I uncoordinated. But I'm doing it alone, before anyone is stirring, and when that little muscle-bound Australian smiles at me from the screen and says, "Yew deed grite!" I'm all like "F-YEAH I DID EFFING GREAT" and my mornings start to feel a little bouncier. Hopefully my midsection will soon feel less so.

And now, the story you've been waiting for
I've started buying dried beans instead of canned. And when you eat as many beans as I do, that's actually worth mentioning. The thing is that I've been buying them, but usually bail out or plan poorly and turn to a can in a pinch. I finally had the foresight to soak 2 cups of black beans all day yesterday only to realize as I started dinner that I was looking at another couple of hours to COOK the damn things. I ended up going to Ghetto Grocery (which smelled suspiciously pukey) for a can of beans, and all told, the big pot of beans caught up with the pot of canned beans and they all finished cooking at the same time, which is to say that I have a veritable shitload of black beans in my refrigerator. And which is also to say that while you may pay half as much for dried beans, they're going to require a nice, clear page in your planner.

* I let A. preview the kickboxing video with me. The line I hear about a hundred times a day, in an exaggerated Australian accent? "Yer riddy feh anything. Lit's jump some raope!"

The Smoke is Clearing

I should have written a blog post yesterday, as A. had a quite-late meeting and I chose to sit in front of my home computer during that time and burn my eyeballs to raisins. But instead of creating something (or cleaning out a closet or a drawer for chrissakes) I sat and read blog after blog, because have you seen my blogroll over there? Out of control. Some editing is in order.

Usually when A. has these late meetings (which happen on our back porch, with beer, I might add), I visit the meeting for a bit and enjoy some beverage and a few smokes. But alas, I have quit smoking-- again-- so I sat inside and frittered away time with nothing to show for it, as I have been known to do.

This quitting has been a good quitting so far-- I'm on day 5, and doing okay. My dear husband has also quit, and while I applaud his effort and I feel hopeful for the both of us, I will say that quitting smoking + marriage = rocky times. Especially when one of us (him) turns into a mean neat freak and the other (me) turns into a big no-skinned over-sensitive weenie. We have our moments when we see each other through the fog and apologize and understand it's a temporary insanity, and we have moments like last night where the two-ish hours I spent with my husband were far, far more difficult than the entire day I spent with a two year old, tantrums and all.
But.
It will get better.

Parts
Yesterday Bird and I ran a ton of errands in the morning. We also went to the library. Which Bird pronounces "Labia."

"Bird, where are we going?"
"To the LABIA!!"
"What will we do there?"
"SEE MONKEYS!"

And while we are on the subject of anatomically correct names for parts, I had always intended to teach Bird the real words for things-- parts, genitals-- rather than give her a cutsey substitute word to use that would somehow lead to her being ridiculed in 6th grade sex ed when she refers to her "cupcake" or other nonsense. But when the time came to step up to the plate, I failed. When she started asking "whassat?" about everything, right around 14 months, I said, "that's your business." And it stuck.

Not that there's anything wrong with "business." She was pointing to an entire region when I said that, not a specific part. And it was just easier. So now she goes around talking about everybody's "bensins," mine, daddy's, even poking at my poor eunich dogs and reminding them how much "bensins" they have missed out on.

It's time to introduce the real words for things, I think. And here's how it went yesterday, I shit you not:
"Bird, do you know what your business is called?"
"BENSINS!"
"Yes, but do you know the word for your business?"
"BENSINS!"
"It's called vagina."
"Potato!"
"No, va-gi-na."
"PO-TA-TO!"
"VAGINA!"
"POTATO!"
And this concludes the first round of the great Vagina-Potato debate of 2007.

Thirty Year Old Granola is Better
Also yesterday while running errands, Bird and I nearly starved to death, so we ran to Harris-this-is-going-to-cost-you-a-hundred-bucks-Teeter looking for snacks. And oh, did we find some snacks. I also heard Sheryl Crow's version of "Sweet Child of Mine" and it was the longest and most grueling three and a half minutes of my life, and I have had a baby come right out of my body.

Anyway. In no time we were back in the car cruising along and scarfing down granola bars. Damn good granola bars. Granola bars bought in haste. "Surely," I said aloud, "these are packed full of bullshit." And do you know what? THEY ABSOLUTELY WERE, full of high fructose maltose nastiness. So when we got home I drug out my own mama's recipe from an old seventies health-food cookbook and went to work. Damn fine granola bars, folks, don't waste your cash at the HarryTeet. I don't have the recipe here with me at work but I will post it later. You won't want to miss it.

It's turned into a free-for-all
Since my wheels are turning too fast (it has become so obvious that I am a morning person), I will stop with the sentences and just list of everything that I am thinking for the next minute or so:

• Yoga and why the fuck I am not doing it
• Cutting my hair short (pixie) again
• If the stuff used to kill off the roaches is going to poison us in the end
• Scheduled maintenance for my car
• Severe lack of money, but I feel like the answer is within reach, just can't see it
• Why do I tune in to Dave Ramsey, that smug sonofabitch
• Why can't I get Mint to recognize my bank info (that's the reason I got on the computer last night in the first place, now I remember)
• Throwing things away, thowing LOTS of things away
• Why do I let my dogs get to a point of stink-out when I could just wash them
• Whether or not to switch from Shutterfly (used for parents in Indiana, etc) to Flickr (which is 700X easier to organize)
• Making play dough for Bird
• Waldorf school, Montessori school
• LACK OF MONEY
• Thankful I will be listening to Larry Flick this morning on my drive to see a patient
• Oh shit, I'm going to be late.

We Have Reached Maximum Occupancy of Brain

Oh, oh, oh, my head is on the verge of explosion. There's too much going on in there, bumping around and against itself and still not making a shred of sense.

I have one more day of intern clinic, and then one more weekend of classes (proprioceptive neuromuscular facilitation, which is not as bad as it sounds), and then school is over. I will study. I will take the national board exam and I will become licensed.

And then I can't use "I'm in school" as an excuse to not have my shit together, or at least have some kind of a plan for thinking about deciding how said shit will come together. And by my shit, I mean my whole family's shit, because I tend to be in charge of the shit that needs to come together. And I can no longer use "I'm in school" as an excuse for working part time and keeping my family broke. Even a little bit. I'm going to have to own the part-time thing as it relates to the broke-ass thing, knowing that the good-hearted effort to spend more time with Bird also includes the reality that I could be doing more. I could be trying harder to save us from broke-assness.

So then maybe I will give massage somewhere one day a week in addition to my now three-day-a-week job with the dying people and the small-but-steady paycheck. But then, am I following my initial plan to have more time with my family? Or am I just really looking for full-time work after all, no matter how you piece it together? And do I really want to stick around with the dying people? This was supposed to be temporary. And oh, what a mess.

So begins the whirring of my gears, but the cogs and wheels are getting all mucked up with muck and it becomes overwhelming. What if this, what if that, what about childcare, what about another baby, what about the bills, what about the mortgage, what about that ten-year-old car, what about a drink? Yes, I could use a drink, thank you. And I'll kiss you on the mouth if you give me a smoke and talk to me about something else.

Mama's Secret

The Cheesecake Factory is a silly name for a restaurant. I was going to say it's a dumb name, but I'm trying not to be so crotchety and judgmental. (I didn't say anything about not being crafty and underhanded about my criticisms, however).

:::: Aaaahhhh. :::
So, I am out of my fog of wanting to lay on the couch and eat Pringles and ignore the commitments crashing down around me. I have rearranged my job schedule so that I will, beginning next week, tack on thirty minutes here or there on my longer days as a trade for Thursday afternoons off.

Any idea how this changes my world? How it makes every breath I take seem so much easier? How it feels like the sun just came out?

It feels like when you make that one rotation of the Rubik's Cube that really begins the solving of the puzzle, that makes it clear how to solve it. Or maybe like the moment you realize you can peel the colored stickers off and reapply them to make it look like you are a Supergenius Rubiks Cuber. Whichever. Now I can go to the mall and return those Christmas presents. Get a haircut. Pick Bird up early. Now I can meet my freelance deadlines. Now I can have a little space.

:::: I am the goalie.:::
I have come leaping out of my ugly little fog in a very task-oriented, goal-setting frame of mind, having picked my whiny ass up off the pity-party sidewalk, brushed off, and splashed some cold water on my face. There's no sign of this shit going anywhere, so it's time to figure out how to make it work.

I discovered this website. About setting goals, achieving goals. Keeping track of your goals. Other people's goals. Checking in from time to time to make sure I'm spending my energy toward something I've chosen to work for (or against, whatever the case may be.)

Yes, it's probably dorky and to be honest, I don't fully understand the site because I haven't taken the time to really look it over. Participating in 43 Things is one of my goals. Baby Steps, y'all.

But two things I know I want to put on the list?
1. Become an early riser
2. Be job-free (this does not mean unemployed-- this means working from home) by Summer 2007.

Why all the Oprah moments, Mama Snee? A classmate was going on and on about this book/DVD/empire called The Secret. I'm sure you know all about it, I'm just out of the Oprah loop, and totally on purpose, I might add. And I'm sure as shit not going to shell out a bunch of cash for a book/DVD that, upon inspection at the bookstore this afternoon, is filled with a lot of quotes by famous people and printed on "antique" looking paper. I'm all for inspiration, but I like mine to be free of charge and without mysterious wax seals on the cover.

In any case, I believe the premise to be something about putting your wants/ desires/ needs energy out into the Universe, and how the Universe will match your energy and sling it back to you however you've manifested it. In other words, positive thinking. Write it down to make it real. Eyes on the prize. Cut out that patio furniture you've always wanted and stick it on your fridge until, holy shit, here's that patio furniture you've always wanted for sale on Craigslist.

Maybe it's because the Universe gave it to you, and maybe it's because you looked at it every day and were more motivated to seek it/ more alert to opportunities to obtain it. Maybe I just said the same thing twice.

So I'm writing things down, like the above mentioned items. Maybe I'll participate in 43 things, and maybe it's already done its inspirational job for me, as I sit here and look at my little notebook and this growing list of things I actually want to do. Usually my lists are comprised of things I want/need/have to do in order to keep my income/ house/ car/ health/ family out of ruin. So a list of things I want? A list about who I want to be? That's a start right there.

So if you were worried that I had retreated to the corner of my garage with an Us Magazine, a fifth of vodka and a pack of smokes, you were almost right. But it's going to be okay.