... give or take... since I last blogged. I'm taking 2011 seriously; more seriously than I have taken previous years. Is it the looming "THIRTY" that will arrive this year? Perhaps.
But I decided that something had to give while I sorted out some resolutions and new habits, and what gave way was the blog. Too much pressure! Too tough to keep it up for a handful of readers, and a rare smattering of commenters. It sort of epitomized how I've been living... give, give, give and be too busy to receive, receive, receive.
I've added some gym time to 2011, and am working to procrastinate less on the little things. (The big things? Eh, they're OK to procrastinate on, as far as I see it. But letting the dishes or laundry pile up, failing to prep a lunch or a gym bag, leaving mail stacked around... those are the things that really needle me, and wear down my temperament into a snide, snippy, sarcastic shrew.)
As for the blog? It may be time to take a turn with it, and use it for the next few months in one way only... work anecdotes, short slice of life anecdotes, tales from the spiritual advancement files, etc. Suggestions?
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Tales from the six...
#6 bus line, that is.
I think it should be a universal Portland rule that if you are unfortunate enough to have a rather weak chin, combined with the very unfortunate habit of leaving your mouth open all the time, you should neither get one NOR two lip piercings. Especially one on each side of your bottom lip. They really don't enhance the whole mise en scene ya got goin' on.
I think it should be a universal Portland rule that if you are unfortunate enough to have a rather weak chin, combined with the very unfortunate habit of leaving your mouth open all the time, you should neither get one NOR two lip piercings. Especially one on each side of your bottom lip. They really don't enhance the whole mise en scene ya got goin' on.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Decompression.
I was out for dinner last night with a friend, and the first five minutes or so were a bit off, as I was "coming down" from work. That's the thing not just about interactions with or for the Boss... but about the casework. I'm a government employee now, so it's a common belief that I leave work and forget the woes of others. Problem is, I'm not very forgetful.
This week, I woke up one night at 2:35 AM and laid awake for almost an hour, mulling over two new folks I've been assisting, and their place in the maze of immigration-toward-citizenship, and what I either forgot to tell them or what I needed to do more research into. When that hour was nearly up, I did not fall asleep - I had to move to the guest room because the quiet breathing (no snoring even!) of my husband was still keeping me up. I needed absolute silence to get out of the thought circle.
Tonight, I'm drinking some wine and watching my binky show, and I've forgotten the details of which case was keeping me on edge tonight. But a psychologist or a life coach or a counselor would still have a field day... I can't remember for the life of me what was in the ever-looping thought circle just an hour ago, but I still FEEL it! Low, persistent anxiety... the sense that the right answer is just out of my vision's edge... the worry that I won't be back at my desk til Monday, and they have to go all weekend in radio silence...
Happy Friday?
This week, I woke up one night at 2:35 AM and laid awake for almost an hour, mulling over two new folks I've been assisting, and their place in the maze of immigration-toward-citizenship, and what I either forgot to tell them or what I needed to do more research into. When that hour was nearly up, I did not fall asleep - I had to move to the guest room because the quiet breathing (no snoring even!) of my husband was still keeping me up. I needed absolute silence to get out of the thought circle.
Tonight, I'm drinking some wine and watching my binky show, and I've forgotten the details of which case was keeping me on edge tonight. But a psychologist or a life coach or a counselor would still have a field day... I can't remember for the life of me what was in the ever-looping thought circle just an hour ago, but I still FEEL it! Low, persistent anxiety... the sense that the right answer is just out of my vision's edge... the worry that I won't be back at my desk til Monday, and they have to go all weekend in radio silence...
Happy Friday?
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Another new one!
The first thing in our new house broke last night! The kitchen sink!
I can't even imagine what causes water to gracefully arc out of the side of the faucet (somewhere in the middle of the neck; was it hit with a pan?), but that is what we have.
Some plumbing tape, covered with duct tape, and I said: "Heck, in my house growing up, we'd have left it like that for a couple weeks." (My father's dishwasher has been broken since 1997. I am not joking. He just uses a little bucket to hold the door up, so it does not fall to the ground when loading. Old Yankee thriftiness taken to the extreme.)
But that is not how John's family operated. Nor how he operates now. Ahem.
And because I'm nothing if not honest... this literally happened in the midst of my asking John the last time he cleaned a bathroom in this new house, the last time he swept the living room in this new house (two things I was doing at the time), and so even I have to then admit that while I may do the lion's share of the day to day, were it up to me, we'd be soon living full-time either with duct tape or be out whatever ungodly amount a plumber charges to put in a new faucet.
But, Emily!, you must be saying. Your husband has a theater degree and a finance degree! What could he know about fixing and installing things!? And so to those folks -- and those parents who might worry a theater degree has no real world application -- I say to thee three words: set design class.
The man can cut, he can measure, he can saw, he can use a power drill and more... and has a layer of aesthetic appreciation, too. In the middle of the kitchen loss, that's what we call a win-win.
I can't even imagine what causes water to gracefully arc out of the side of the faucet (somewhere in the middle of the neck; was it hit with a pan?), but that is what we have.
Some plumbing tape, covered with duct tape, and I said: "Heck, in my house growing up, we'd have left it like that for a couple weeks." (My father's dishwasher has been broken since 1997. I am not joking. He just uses a little bucket to hold the door up, so it does not fall to the ground when loading. Old Yankee thriftiness taken to the extreme.)
But that is not how John's family operated. Nor how he operates now. Ahem.
And because I'm nothing if not honest... this literally happened in the midst of my asking John the last time he cleaned a bathroom in this new house, the last time he swept the living room in this new house (two things I was doing at the time), and so even I have to then admit that while I may do the lion's share of the day to day, were it up to me, we'd be soon living full-time either with duct tape or be out whatever ungodly amount a plumber charges to put in a new faucet.
But, Emily!, you must be saying. Your husband has a theater degree and a finance degree! What could he know about fixing and installing things!? And so to those folks -- and those parents who might worry a theater degree has no real world application -- I say to thee three words: set design class.
The man can cut, he can measure, he can saw, he can use a power drill and more... and has a layer of aesthetic appreciation, too. In the middle of the kitchen loss, that's what we call a win-win.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
A new one.
First, you have to know how much I hate to be hot. I HATE IT. When hot, I become furious and mean and itchy and snap at people.
The downtown Portland shopping and in-out, in-out from store to store was making me hot. My rain coat keeps me warm, which is not good on a rainy day that is also 55 degrees (this is warm to a Westerner). Up four flights of stairs to my car in the lot, and I had the windows rolled down for some air, puttering toward the freeway entrance.
When I was panhandled WHILE SITTING IN TRAFFIC.
That's a new low, even for the clean, intelligent-looking, 21 year old young man with matching clothes and a Helly Hansen backpack. Does it seem remotely likely that walking up to my open window as I'm easing off the brake, and asking for change, is going to elicit a "yes"?
Gah. Chalk it up to Sunday Blues, perhaps.
I just gave a firm "no" and kept all commentary to myself - 'tis the season, after all.
The downtown Portland shopping and in-out, in-out from store to store was making me hot. My rain coat keeps me warm, which is not good on a rainy day that is also 55 degrees (this is warm to a Westerner). Up four flights of stairs to my car in the lot, and I had the windows rolled down for some air, puttering toward the freeway entrance.
When I was panhandled WHILE SITTING IN TRAFFIC.
That's a new low, even for the clean, intelligent-looking, 21 year old young man with matching clothes and a Helly Hansen backpack. Does it seem remotely likely that walking up to my open window as I'm easing off the brake, and asking for change, is going to elicit a "yes"?
Gah. Chalk it up to Sunday Blues, perhaps.
I just gave a firm "no" and kept all commentary to myself - 'tis the season, after all.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
What I won't say.
I won't say that it should have come to this. I won't say it's what I would do if I were the most powerful man in the world. I won't say it should pass the House or the Senate, or that a different version should pass than will, or does. I won't say that it isn't a depressing compromise, a non-compromise, a total defeat or a shameful loss of value, power, reputation, promises. I certainly won't say I like it. I won't say I agree with what's happening, and I won't say it's been a blunder from start to finish, with a lot of blame placed squarely on anyone who dares call himself a journalist.
But I will say that as adults, often our choices end up being between two things we dislike very, very much. Still, there is a choice, and it sometimes has to be made. And if you, alone, had to choose one of these options -- not a combination of the two, and not a different option altogether -- what option do you prefer?
You could end all the Bush-era tax cuts, and let most people in America pay a little more in taxes, what they paid under Clinton, say... and while you add that desperately needed revenue, you also have to let long-term unemployment end. You have to look that neighbor in the eye and let them lose their house, their car or their self-worth.
Or, you could extend all the Bush-era tax cuts, and add to the debt and likely extend the depression, but you would get in turn to continue long-term unemployment checks to the person who wants to turn on the heat but is cold, or who wants to buy a Christmas gift, but can't.
What if those end up being the only two options, both of which stink? What would you do?
But I will say that as adults, often our choices end up being between two things we dislike very, very much. Still, there is a choice, and it sometimes has to be made. And if you, alone, had to choose one of these options -- not a combination of the two, and not a different option altogether -- what option do you prefer?
You could end all the Bush-era tax cuts, and let most people in America pay a little more in taxes, what they paid under Clinton, say... and while you add that desperately needed revenue, you also have to let long-term unemployment end. You have to look that neighbor in the eye and let them lose their house, their car or their self-worth.
Or, you could extend all the Bush-era tax cuts, and add to the debt and likely extend the depression, but you would get in turn to continue long-term unemployment checks to the person who wants to turn on the heat but is cold, or who wants to buy a Christmas gift, but can't.
What if those end up being the only two options, both of which stink? What would you do?
Friday, December 3, 2010
Do you like bird hunting?
No? Whether you do, or you don't, I invite you to read this article, in the New York Times, by my friend, the excellent writer and photographer Dave Sherwood. Even if you have never hunted birds, even if you've never watched a dog work the fields, and even if you have never been to Maine... I bet dollars to doughnuts that he's a good enough writer for you to finish the article and enjoy it. He's that talented. And his dog Bailey is awesome!
Saturday, November 20, 2010
5 Things I learned this week.
1. "Kumbaya" is a distortion of an old spiritual called "Come By Here", a praise and plea to God.
2. I can skip reading BlackBerry messages until Monday if they are identifiable by subject line as a thing I can only work on while in the office. This saves me an evening (or a weekend) of stewing about a piece of casework, for example.
3. Toothpaste can treat and heal burns, polish old tennis shoes, fix car scratches and more!
4. If you make $34,000 a year, you pay $10 a year in taxes toward public housing, 24 cents toward funding for the arts, $1,040 to Social Security and $11 to Head Start. You pay $46 in foreign aid and $230 toward combat operations in Iraq and Afghanistan.
5. This is the time of year for Delicata squash; go get yourself one, quick! They're incredibly delicious.
2. I can skip reading BlackBerry messages until Monday if they are identifiable by subject line as a thing I can only work on while in the office. This saves me an evening (or a weekend) of stewing about a piece of casework, for example.
3. Toothpaste can treat and heal burns, polish old tennis shoes, fix car scratches and more!
4. If you make $34,000 a year, you pay $10 a year in taxes toward public housing, 24 cents toward funding for the arts, $1,040 to Social Security and $11 to Head Start. You pay $46 in foreign aid and $230 toward combat operations in Iraq and Afghanistan.
5. This is the time of year for Delicata squash; go get yourself one, quick! They're incredibly delicious.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Topsy Turvy.
In the great work of life -- to become a "better" person -- we're usually given parables that illustrate selflessness. Walk a mile in someone else's shoes, right? The great Pema Chodron teaches us how to breathe in anger and oppressive heat and darkness, and breathe out love and refreshing coolness and light. We think of how much we love our children (or pets or best friends) and imagine that God loves us like that. Another Buddhist teacher reminds us that everyone we meet is, or has been, our mother. Treat them thus.
Well, some days, I say "boo" to this. It doesn't work. The stupid driver who delays me another five minutes coming home, the jerk in the grocery line who has to write a check, then use an Oregon Trail card, then run back for something else... you know how it goes.
At church on Sunday, the parable that was told might be unconventional, but it's sticking with me, and the topsy turvy way it illustrated those lovely lessons of compassion is just darn neat. I'd like to share it with you, and would love your reactions - those that are immediate, and those that come later.
God was narrating a man's death, as he wandered up to her. He had died in a car crash and said to her, "Am I dead?" She said, "Yes," and he replied, "What about my wife and children? What will happen to them?"
God answered, "See? That's great! You just died and you're thinking of other people! You're growing! They will be fine. Your children will always think of you as perfection; they weren't old enough to resent you yet. And your wife is relieved." Seeing his shocked face (and ours in the pews!), God said, "Well let's be honest. Your marriage was falling apart. But she feels guilty for feeling relieved if that makes you feel any better!"
Then he said, "Well, what happens next?" and when she told him he would be reincarnated he said, "Ha ha! The Hindus were right!"
She said, "Well, everyone is, in a way."
"Who am I going back as?"
"Let's see... you're going back as a baby peasant girl in China, in 542 AD."
"What? OK, going back is one thing, but I am going back in time, too? I can't do that! What if I run into myself? The whole thing will collapse!"
God laughed. "Well, you run into yourself all the time. You won't remember this life or any of the ones you've lived previously. And you'll keep going back, around and around, until you've matured."
"Matured? Is that what life is about?"
"A little cliche to ask me the meaning of life, isn't it? But yes, it is. All this is for you."
"And you made all this, just for humankind, so we can grow?"
"No, not humankind. Just you."
As he was struggling to catch up, God let him know that it would not only be OK if he ran into himself down there, but that he definitely would. That he was every single other life on the planet.
She said, "Every time you've been mean to someone, you were hurting yourself. And every time you've shown kindness, you were really showing kindness to yourself. And when you have lived every life there is, or has been, or ever will be, you'll have learned it all and be ready for what's next."
What do you think? This is an abridged version, but the good jokes and the basic gist are in there. It really has me thinking. Some days, it is just too hard to think of every homeless person on the street and every co-worker and every crazy neighbor as your mother or your child or a member of your human family. Frankly, in a distracted or frustrated state of mind, selfish is part and parcel, and so what a great reminder to embrace that selfishness... and just think of that person as ME!
I think this parable takes "Love thy neighbor as thyself" out to its fullest conclusion. And I, for one, am grateful for the gains from the mental stretch it requests.
Well, some days, I say "boo" to this. It doesn't work. The stupid driver who delays me another five minutes coming home, the jerk in the grocery line who has to write a check, then use an Oregon Trail card, then run back for something else... you know how it goes.
At church on Sunday, the parable that was told might be unconventional, but it's sticking with me, and the topsy turvy way it illustrated those lovely lessons of compassion is just darn neat. I'd like to share it with you, and would love your reactions - those that are immediate, and those that come later.
God was narrating a man's death, as he wandered up to her. He had died in a car crash and said to her, "Am I dead?" She said, "Yes," and he replied, "What about my wife and children? What will happen to them?"
God answered, "See? That's great! You just died and you're thinking of other people! You're growing! They will be fine. Your children will always think of you as perfection; they weren't old enough to resent you yet. And your wife is relieved." Seeing his shocked face (and ours in the pews!), God said, "Well let's be honest. Your marriage was falling apart. But she feels guilty for feeling relieved if that makes you feel any better!"
Then he said, "Well, what happens next?" and when she told him he would be reincarnated he said, "Ha ha! The Hindus were right!"
She said, "Well, everyone is, in a way."
"Who am I going back as?"
"Let's see... you're going back as a baby peasant girl in China, in 542 AD."
"What? OK, going back is one thing, but I am going back in time, too? I can't do that! What if I run into myself? The whole thing will collapse!"
God laughed. "Well, you run into yourself all the time. You won't remember this life or any of the ones you've lived previously. And you'll keep going back, around and around, until you've matured."
"Matured? Is that what life is about?"
"A little cliche to ask me the meaning of life, isn't it? But yes, it is. All this is for you."
"And you made all this, just for humankind, so we can grow?"
"No, not humankind. Just you."
As he was struggling to catch up, God let him know that it would not only be OK if he ran into himself down there, but that he definitely would. That he was every single other life on the planet.
She said, "Every time you've been mean to someone, you were hurting yourself. And every time you've shown kindness, you were really showing kindness to yourself. And when you have lived every life there is, or has been, or ever will be, you'll have learned it all and be ready for what's next."
---- ---- ---- ---- ----
What do you think? This is an abridged version, but the good jokes and the basic gist are in there. It really has me thinking. Some days, it is just too hard to think of every homeless person on the street and every co-worker and every crazy neighbor as your mother or your child or a member of your human family. Frankly, in a distracted or frustrated state of mind, selfish is part and parcel, and so what a great reminder to embrace that selfishness... and just think of that person as ME!
I think this parable takes "Love thy neighbor as thyself" out to its fullest conclusion. And I, for one, am grateful for the gains from the mental stretch it requests.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
"It also reinforces the idea that breasts are the fundamental, defining aspect of femininity."
I mentioned to a friend last week, off hand, that I hate pink-colored items for sale in the name of "breast cancer awareness" or "breast cancer support". Awareness and the support are great - as is research for a cure - and so the friend was shocked and said, "Why do you hate it? I like it. I support research when I buy it."
And I only had a vague answer that many of the products donate a portion of the proceeds to research, and usually only a portion of the first 1,000 or 10,000 or 100,000 sold - be it yogurt lids or shoelaces. It was decidedly not a powerful response. And it was decidedly not everything that bothers me, that prompted me to use the word "hate", but I just couldn't find the words for the feelings/thoughts.
Then I read this article today, from which the quote/title of this post is pulled, and I realized that's the answer I want to give. It's not only the marketing devilry involved in the pink-ifying of everything. It's the "Save the TaTa's" type campaigns, that reduce cancer treatment to a reason for saving a woman's defining role in the world: being sexual, particularly using her breasts -- and preferably for another's pleasure. So I tip my proverbial hat to Peggy Orenstein for that great essay.
And I only had a vague answer that many of the products donate a portion of the proceeds to research, and usually only a portion of the first 1,000 or 10,000 or 100,000 sold - be it yogurt lids or shoelaces. It was decidedly not a powerful response. And it was decidedly not everything that bothers me, that prompted me to use the word "hate", but I just couldn't find the words for the feelings/thoughts.
Then I read this article today, from which the quote/title of this post is pulled, and I realized that's the answer I want to give. It's not only the marketing devilry involved in the pink-ifying of everything. It's the "Save the TaTa's" type campaigns, that reduce cancer treatment to a reason for saving a woman's defining role in the world: being sexual, particularly using her breasts -- and preferably for another's pleasure. So I tip my proverbial hat to Peggy Orenstein for that great essay.
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