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In a girl scout kind of way I've decided to face this sleepless challenge head on, starting with modern herbal science. I just chased an "Easy-to-swallow tablet" of all natural Knock Out with a half gallon of water. Seriously considering contacting the manufacturer on this one- something designed to help you drift off to slumber land shouldn't taste like old gym shoes. How is that easy to swallow?? But I'm rambling. More to follow, especially if this pill kicks in asap.
Today I learned that if you need to get something moved along at my former gov't employer, in the "Special Counsel" vs. "Senior_" contest, "Special" kicks ass. I'll have to remember to ask my old boss what makes him so special, but whatever mojo he has got me back into the computer system and id'd within an hour. For anyone who has ever dealt with State government, this type of expediency is legend. In a blink I'm suddenly handed a motion and introduced to the newbies as an attorney who will be helping with x case. How the???
I would like to think that this means I'm hot stuff. In reality, this means someone is mildly frantic pre-trial, I'm not getting my old law school intern salary, and I will not have grounds to bitch about not having any direction for at least a month.
In other news, I have expanded on my reuse theme by picking up the copy of The Know-It-All that's been floating around the house since my law school days. This tome by A.J. Jacobs contains the swashbuckling tale of a gent who decided to read the Encyclopedia Britannica cover to cover, taking out the juiciest bits and passing them along to the eager reader as he went. This is delightful random knowledge at its best. I've put the book down for tonight at the reference to gymnasium, which apparently translates from the Greek into something like "room for naked exercise." He has recycled his knowledge to spare me the eye strain and I'm giggling. What's not to love?
More importantly, how have I gone on so long without such information? The author goes into his family's relationship with the imposing shelf of books, and I feel a little sad that I, too, was once granted the opportunity to indulge in such reading and shirked it. Grams had two collecting missions when it came to me: white china that strongly resembled the set she gave to my parents and the World Book Encyclopedia. She would find pieces of both at yard sales, flea markets and community swaps. I would get sections of culture and knowledge at a time, few if at all from the same pattern or year, but lovely nonetheless.
Eventually all volumes A-Z were present and accounted for, cream colored with gold lettering and packed with wonderful pictures and morsels of knowledge for my hungry mind. Unfortunately these came when I was about 11 or 12, a period when I had decided to bury myself in Stephen King's picture-less It, followed by Misery and Needful Things. I developed a strong distaste for clowns instead of learning that Daniel Fahrenheit was a moron. As a more enlightened adult who recognizes the movie version of The Shining as being nearly as great as the book, I can now move beyond King's nonsense and absorb almost entirely useless and fun knowledge in small, manageable bites. Perhaps there is a bit of intellectual redemption to be found in this delightfully thin book?
*crickets chirping*
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Jan. 24, 2010 more musings on letting go
This steel-gray Sunday morning I woke up to a few non-spam emails, one of which was carmex to my chapped hide. You see, I'm not happy to be back in the States. Or, I didn't realize I was okay with being home until I read the aforementioned message. Before anyone gets their feathers in disarray, please realize I have only been able to visit a small but meaningful contingent of family and friends to date, a few of whom are walking emotional disasters that have since caused more agitation than almost missing my flight home. Himself is also still abroad and I'm not good at kicking around without much direction. Idle hands and all that. And, most of all, I still feel like an a-hole for leaving CM. Read on...
Before this trip I didn't fully comprehend just how much Maslow was on to something. It really sank in as I sat cross-legged on the floor of a Lao home and faced a proud mother who was scared that her son would lose his job and be forced to move to a neighboring country where so many of her friend's children had disappeared. I reassured her as best I could, but her desire to meet basic needs we often assume as a given in the West wrenched my heart. La mer and others like her furthered my resolve to keep working, despite the difficulties of the environment.
And then I left.
Well, it was actually several months after that, but sooner than expected. Cue soul-gnawing distress and guilt.
This morning's wondrous, glorious email soothed by simply saying things where my old job was located are moving along beautifully. It included a few pats on the back and warm fuzzies, but hearing someone in the know say that what I built upon is moving on without me is a relief. It may sound arrogant of me to fear otherwise, but in a region where needs are great, individuals and smaller projects can slip between the cracks through no one's bad intentions. It just happens.
I do think that the sleepless nights are over, so long as I steer clear of the java after 3:00 and don't choose to indulge in a Friends marathon. It makes a big difference to be able to read into someone's message that the project I worked on is truly sustainable, and that something I've penned may very well bring in real m-o-n-e-y. Maybe, just maybe, I'm now ready to let go of some of the angst I have at leaving early and start handling things head-on over on this side of the world. Like those bins on top of the closet. Eek.
Before this trip I didn't fully comprehend just how much Maslow was on to something. It really sank in as I sat cross-legged on the floor of a Lao home and faced a proud mother who was scared that her son would lose his job and be forced to move to a neighboring country where so many of her friend's children had disappeared. I reassured her as best I could, but her desire to meet basic needs we often assume as a given in the West wrenched my heart. La mer and others like her furthered my resolve to keep working, despite the difficulties of the environment.
And then I left.
Well, it was actually several months after that, but sooner than expected. Cue soul-gnawing distress and guilt.
This morning's wondrous, glorious email soothed by simply saying things where my old job was located are moving along beautifully. It included a few pats on the back and warm fuzzies, but hearing someone in the know say that what I built upon is moving on without me is a relief. It may sound arrogant of me to fear otherwise, but in a region where needs are great, individuals and smaller projects can slip between the cracks through no one's bad intentions. It just happens.
I do think that the sleepless nights are over, so long as I steer clear of the java after 3:00 and don't choose to indulge in a Friends marathon. It makes a big difference to be able to read into someone's message that the project I worked on is truly sustainable, and that something I've penned may very well bring in real m-o-n-e-y. Maybe, just maybe, I'm now ready to let go of some of the angst I have at leaving early and start handling things head-on over on this side of the world. Like those bins on top of the closet. Eek.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Jan. 22, 2010 Lists are Fuuun
The much-anticipated query arose last night during the nightly phone chat with Himself, "So, how much stuff did you take to Goodwill?" The question was slipped in among routine but always charming conversation and asked in a tone that belied his curiosity. Question mark hanging in the air, I responded in a similar tone that I hadn't yet dropped off anything at the shop because I was still adding to the pile.
Truthful response, yes, but I didn't admit that I was scared to drop off the flotsam on the same day I packed it all up. Out of the foggy recesses of my brain I can pull out a memory of packing up a few items of clothing and casually tossing in a small brass and black metal Grecian urn looking thing that was, undoubtedly, made in India. I dropped off the box before class, and while sitting through Gratuitous Transfers my semi-nimble mind landed on a memory of the odd little vase. As I thought about it the small stirs of panic began to set in. Wasn't that the vase that my dad had said was purchased by he and my mother? The same one I plucked out of a garage sale later held by my stepmother? She, ahem, most certainly didn't know the provenance of such a fine little oddity, but I could not claim such ignorance. How could I toss out something that my broke but in love parents had cherished during their brief romance? Was I so heartless?
I rushed back to the shop as soon as classes were over, frantically scouring the shelves topping the clothing racks for the distinctive little urn. I was scanning the last section, the one apparently reserved for misfit junk, when my eyes fell upon the vase. At least three green $4.99 stickers were randomly plastered on top of the metal, but I rushed it to the checkout counter without hesitation. Breathlessly I told the woman what had happened, and she said it was very lucky that I had found it, although the look on her face upon further appraisal of what she was wrapping said otherwise. In the eye of the beholder I guess...
So, to prove that I am letting go of a "few" things, may I present an inventory of our household's rejects to date, soon to grace several abodes near me:
2 A-Z silver bookends that vaguely reminded me of erector sets
1 wobbly Samsonite rolling bag that has flipped over in more domestic and international airports than I care to remember
1 silver-plated footed iced tea pitcher with awful proportions
1 antique glass frog with no base, used for arranging flowers
6 white odd Ikea ceramic shot glass looking things that cook your fingers if you use them as espresso cups
1 unused magazine rack
3 wall-mounted candle racks
1 vintage glass dish
2 unused weathered-wood picture frames
1 slightly scuffed millefiore bottle stopper I purchased in Italy
1 really horrible Fossil purse- brown and black should never be put together like THAT, yeck
3 pairs of lightly used flip-flops
1 pair of pleather boots styled for a dominitrix that I bought on eBay- oops
1 vintage straw and lace hat that time has not been kind to
1 green table lamp purchased in a small Florida town with my Gram's encouragement, then given to her, then returned to me shortly before she passed- except I have no place for it and won't unless I open a country themed bed-and-breakfast in 30 years
1 pair of are they brown, are they purple? suede heels
4 belts, 3 of which are mine and one of Himself's that is more appropriate on a scruffy frat boy than my hunky husband
2 chipped marble dishes
1 giant antique Atlas jar
Phew.
Truthful response, yes, but I didn't admit that I was scared to drop off the flotsam on the same day I packed it all up. Out of the foggy recesses of my brain I can pull out a memory of packing up a few items of clothing and casually tossing in a small brass and black metal Grecian urn looking thing that was, undoubtedly, made in India. I dropped off the box before class, and while sitting through Gratuitous Transfers my semi-nimble mind landed on a memory of the odd little vase. As I thought about it the small stirs of panic began to set in. Wasn't that the vase that my dad had said was purchased by he and my mother? The same one I plucked out of a garage sale later held by my stepmother? She, ahem, most certainly didn't know the provenance of such a fine little oddity, but I could not claim such ignorance. How could I toss out something that my broke but in love parents had cherished during their brief romance? Was I so heartless?
I rushed back to the shop as soon as classes were over, frantically scouring the shelves topping the clothing racks for the distinctive little urn. I was scanning the last section, the one apparently reserved for misfit junk, when my eyes fell upon the vase. At least three green $4.99 stickers were randomly plastered on top of the metal, but I rushed it to the checkout counter without hesitation. Breathlessly I told the woman what had happened, and she said it was very lucky that I had found it, although the look on her face upon further appraisal of what she was wrapping said otherwise. In the eye of the beholder I guess...
So, to prove that I am letting go of a "few" things, may I present an inventory of our household's rejects to date, soon to grace several abodes near me:
2 A-Z silver bookends that vaguely reminded me of erector sets
1 wobbly Samsonite rolling bag that has flipped over in more domestic and international airports than I care to remember
1 silver-plated footed iced tea pitcher with awful proportions
1 antique glass frog with no base, used for arranging flowers
6 white odd Ikea ceramic shot glass looking things that cook your fingers if you use them as espresso cups
1 unused magazine rack
3 wall-mounted candle racks
1 vintage glass dish
2 unused weathered-wood picture frames
1 slightly scuffed millefiore bottle stopper I purchased in Italy
1 really horrible Fossil purse- brown and black should never be put together like THAT, yeck
3 pairs of lightly used flip-flops
1 pair of pleather boots styled for a dominitrix that I bought on eBay- oops
1 vintage straw and lace hat that time has not been kind to
1 green table lamp purchased in a small Florida town with my Gram's encouragement, then given to her, then returned to me shortly before she passed- except I have no place for it and won't unless I open a country themed bed-and-breakfast in 30 years
1 pair of are they brown, are they purple? suede heels
4 belts, 3 of which are mine and one of Himself's that is more appropriate on a scruffy frat boy than my hunky husband
2 chipped marble dishes
1 giant antique Atlas jar
Phew.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Jan. 20, 2010
I have a second-hand life. Hand-me-down, reused, recycled- however you phrase it, my whole life has been marked by thriftiness and repurposing. And it didn’t start out from any intention to be green. After all, becoming your grandparent’s 6th child isn’t due to anyone hugging a tree. Much of what followed has been born out of necessity, chance and a bit of really fantastic fortune.
Throughout my childhood black leaf bags bursting with donations from my uncle’s church were always a cause for celebration. The thin-walled smelly plastic held heaps of amazing and slightly scary clothing styles to choose from. Weekend trips to flea markets and thrift shops also yielded great treasures, so long as everyone kept their patience and a .40 can of Coke in hand.
As I sit here typing, a glance down at my brown and black stained fingers tell me that while I’ve moved far from 2144 Peach Drive, some things will never change. My discolored digits give away the fact that I just finished re-dying a lovely estate Ferragamo bag and a cute little brown (authentic) Coach purse I picked up last night at the local Goodwill. Can I afford to buy these things at full price? Perhaps. Do I want to? Not really.
I haven’t always appreciated the gift for thrift that my grandparent’s meager income and Depression-era values instilled in me. As a teenager I had the unexpected privilege of attending a fairly well-to-do private school, all the while living between a trailer and my grandparent’s two bedroom post-WWII asbestos-shingled house. Uniforms blurred the income lines between my classmates and me, but my penchant for thrift soon drew a horrified reaction from a pair of classmates that would help to firmly place me in the realm of “other” for the rest of high school. It had something to do with a road trip, junk shops and my explaining how to mend a hole in a t-shirt.
Cruising through Goodwill last night I realized that while my standards have changed (just because you appreciate the value of McCoy pottery does not mean you have to buy it), in this period of recession I’m no longer an oddity. No more am I young woman standing shoulder-to-shoulder with only little white-haired ladies telling me how they repurpose shoe racks for planters. In the aisles I now also smile at fashionable-looking women looking at furniture and teenagers ooing and aahing over DKNY jeans that look brand new and ring up for $5 a pair.
My Goodwill trip last night was an odd way to mark my return to my residence from Southeast Asia, but for some as yet undiscovered reason it felt like the right thing to do, although it may have just been a symptom of procrastination. Now that I’ve returned to my home I have to face the thrilling task of packing up for a move to the District. Unfortunately I’m finding that my treasure-seeking habits, while now fairly refined, have led to some clutter blunders. Over the next few weeks I’ll be clearing out my old life to make room for the new. My husband of seven years and I will finally be living in the same country after 3 years apart and we really, really need the space. Wish me luck!
Throughout my childhood black leaf bags bursting with donations from my uncle’s church were always a cause for celebration. The thin-walled smelly plastic held heaps of amazing and slightly scary clothing styles to choose from. Weekend trips to flea markets and thrift shops also yielded great treasures, so long as everyone kept their patience and a .40 can of Coke in hand.
As I sit here typing, a glance down at my brown and black stained fingers tell me that while I’ve moved far from 2144 Peach Drive, some things will never change. My discolored digits give away the fact that I just finished re-dying a lovely estate Ferragamo bag and a cute little brown (authentic) Coach purse I picked up last night at the local Goodwill. Can I afford to buy these things at full price? Perhaps. Do I want to? Not really.
I haven’t always appreciated the gift for thrift that my grandparent’s meager income and Depression-era values instilled in me. As a teenager I had the unexpected privilege of attending a fairly well-to-do private school, all the while living between a trailer and my grandparent’s two bedroom post-WWII asbestos-shingled house. Uniforms blurred the income lines between my classmates and me, but my penchant for thrift soon drew a horrified reaction from a pair of classmates that would help to firmly place me in the realm of “other” for the rest of high school. It had something to do with a road trip, junk shops and my explaining how to mend a hole in a t-shirt.
Cruising through Goodwill last night I realized that while my standards have changed (just because you appreciate the value of McCoy pottery does not mean you have to buy it), in this period of recession I’m no longer an oddity. No more am I young woman standing shoulder-to-shoulder with only little white-haired ladies telling me how they repurpose shoe racks for planters. In the aisles I now also smile at fashionable-looking women looking at furniture and teenagers ooing and aahing over DKNY jeans that look brand new and ring up for $5 a pair.
My Goodwill trip last night was an odd way to mark my return to my residence from Southeast Asia, but for some as yet undiscovered reason it felt like the right thing to do, although it may have just been a symptom of procrastination. Now that I’ve returned to my home I have to face the thrilling task of packing up for a move to the District. Unfortunately I’m finding that my treasure-seeking habits, while now fairly refined, have led to some clutter blunders. Over the next few weeks I’ll be clearing out my old life to make room for the new. My husband of seven years and I will finally be living in the same country after 3 years apart and we really, really need the space. Wish me luck!
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