Inked

I don't have one of it finished... I'll post that tomorrow when I take it. But here are the photos of me getting my tattoo tonight:

It didn't hurt as bad as I thought, I'm ticked my cami busted and I spent the evening trying not to flash the tattoo shop (hence the missing shoulder strap,) and I'm just hoping paranoia doesn't set in about the permanence. I think it all could be that I just need a nap.

But I have accounting homework I have to do that's due by midnight... so that comes first, finished pictures and story tomorrow.

Matter to Matter

I have had a lot of things on my mind lately, in relation to my life and how I want it to be. Something that has always bugged me since high school was a feeling of unrealized purpose and potential. This in turn translates to success, wanting to be successful, and what that means. I had an interesting conversation yesterday which opened my eyes a bit (I wrote about it here on Color Me Kyra) but then something happened afterwards...

One of the things that has always bothered me was why our weight matters so much to other people. Why is it the most important, top of the list thing that people have to qualify you by and then be able to move on to other things... if you actually pass muster, which is almost impossible to do? I was thinking about this, and then after discussing Harry Potter with my daughter and puttering around J.K. Rowling's website I found a statement to girls and the public in general. I was completely amazed (I know, Harry Potter doesn't seem to fit into this discussion, but humor me for a second.)

This is from her site, part of a sort of blog entry she made:

"'Fat' is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her,' I said; I could remember it happening when I was at school and witnessing it among the teenagers I used to teach. Nevertheless, I could see that to him, a well-adjusted male, it was utterly bizarre behavior, like yelling 'thicko!' at Stephen Hawking."

"I'm not in the business of being judged on my looks, what with being a writer and earning my living by using my brain...

I went to the British Book Awards that evening. After the award ceremony I bumped into a woman I hadn't seen for nearly three years. The first thing she said to me? 'You've lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw you!'

'Well,' I said, slightly nonplussed, 'the last time you saw me I'd just had a baby.'

What I felt like saying was, 'I've produced my third child and my sixth novel since I last saw you. Aren't either of those things more important, more interesting, than my size?' But no - my waist looked smaller! Forget the kid and the book: finally something to celebrate!"


Makes you stop and think, doesn't it? I was still, doing just that when I took my daughter to Basketball practice yesterday evening. I got into a conversation with one of the other women there, whom I really never talk to. Someone brought up my being in school again, and I mentioned that yes I was graduating soon, and was abruptly cut off with a comment of "You look like you have lost a lot of weight. You're looking better!"

Whoa. What? Weren't we just talking about something else? Not to mention, I'm the same weight I have been for, oh..... at least three years now? I know, some women thrive off of those "you've lost weight" compliments. I do not. I am someone who has been secretly, desperately hoping you noticed who I was all those times we talked, not my waist size. It hurts to find out otherwise, and is actually demotivating to me to hear a "keep up the good work, keep losing weight" from people whom I have never discussed weight with before, nor have any real clue about it.

I'm more interested in the person and the life than the dress size - why isn't anyone else? The only dress size I care about is my own, I don't care what yours is - it's your business, your body, your life. I want to know what you've been up to, not what your scale has.

Apparently, I really am in the minority. But worse, with the words from J.K. Rowling's site on my mind I realized I have no chance. No one does. If you can build for yourself over a billion dollars in success from nothing, in a way that has never been seen before, 100% success that cannot be denied on a massive scale the like Harry Potter series, and the first thing that people - even friends - can say and do is judge you on your weight today... Well, I'm screwed. We're all screwed.

Because you know what? You can't do better than that. You can't ask for more publicity of your success, or even just more success. She's at the top level of the highest ladder which she got to on her own, no one can do better than that. And yet they STILL... We're never going to be thin enough. There is NO SUCH THING.

There exists only a few levels of being for women and weight in our society:

* Way too fat "why is she even let out in public?"
* Not as but still way too fat "Awww what a shame, how did she let that happen?"
* Still fat but given a pass to merge with the population with a "well, she has such a pretty face... if only..."
* Fat but "boy if she could just drop the last 20 lbs!"
* Not actually fat but "she still needs to drop 5-10 lbs, she doesn't look quite right."
* Actually at your perfect thin goal weight which is healthy "You know, if she just worked hard enough she could look decent - she has such potential if she only made the effort!"

** and then there is finally thin "OMG, what did you do? You should eat! Haven't we been telling you this? You're too thin!"

I'm not saying we don't attack each other on other levels too, but dress size is always the first. You could walk in with a puce mohawk and people would still be first and foremost judging you by your derrière.

It's not that I haven't faced an impossible judgment before, I have. I have been told by numerous other people in my history that because I am female I can't ever achieve - not really. Those people are irrational, and quite frankly blindly stupid. We know this.

If someone says to our face if we do 100% the same wonderful job as the man next to us, our results will be lacking simply because we're female - we know they're idiots. MOST people know they're idiots. Enough know this that it's not "P.C." to say something like that, and in some cases legally actionable. If we judge by gender the work that someone does, we know that is absolutely ridiculous. So why is it we judge the same things by dress size? It's just another impossible thing, because there is no "right" way of being. There is no right dress size. At least we know on the female argument according to the morons if we were just male it would have been acceptable, but on dress size there is no right answer - you're either too big or too small, and Goldilocks isn't here to find what the hell is going to be just right. (She's probably out back, being told by the bears that she needs to drop a few pounds before they'll let her near the porridge again.)

I know everyone talks about letting go the dress size thing in relation to other people. The whole "you have to do it for yourself" argument. It's 100% true, so don't misunderstand me. But it is also necessary to acknowledge that we are motivated by what others think of us. It's our nature, we're peer-group driven. If we weren't, there would be more unacceptable behavior on a much grander scale. So the key then lies in changing how we view others, and trying to get the word out so that others can change how they view us.

If you have been reading me for a while now, you probably know that one of my biggest wishes (and greatest fears) is to be seen. Really seen. I don't think that I am alone in this desire. I think most people, unless they have been up to rather nefarious pursuits, want to be truly seen. I spent a lot of my life ignored, and then noticed only to be singled out for painful purpose. That wasn't what I had in mind, and still isn't. There are three people in my life who do actually "see" me, and there is such a vast difference between looked at and being seen.

I want to see the people in my life, and be seen by them. I don't know what the answer is for the greater whole out there. Maybe it's simply each of us making the choice to stop imposing stupidly impossible and unrelated filters over our interactions with other people. Maybe it's that we also stop hiding behind the filters ourselves - I can't be the only one who dually harbors the fear of being seen as well as needing to be. It's a scary thing, I think, to most. But this reality? This way of judging others, not on their merits, but by how they don't measure up to whatever impossible standard we have set? It's so much worse. We just don't realize it, because we have become used to the pain and insult.

Or maybe just numb. I don't want to be numb anymore. I rather hope that others feel the same way.

Second... Third... Fourteenth Thoughts

As I was driving in this morning, I was listening to a morning show (Bob & Tom Show, it's the only good thing about having to drive so far in the snow and wishing for a sled and team of dogs which would probably get me there faster. Plus, I think the dogs might actually consider saving me if we go veering off the side of a mountain pass.) The comedian on the show just happened to mention his tattoo... and how you can actually die from getting one if you happen to be allergic to it and how sick he got from his little one.

Yeah, not the best thing to hear about the day before you are going to get your first one.

Yes, the place I am going is hardcore on the sterile and proper procedures and such, so much so that when I got my nose pierced they informed me that they only do it with a ring because it lowers the risk of infection - and that tends to upset most people into going somewhere else, but they would rather lose the business than run the risk for the client. Yes, I went with them. I wore a silver ring and looked like your average hoodlum for several months. I really played it up for Halloween with fake piercings too; people were scared to ask which were real and which weren't. Add to that the blue, green, and pink hair, fishnets, leather miniskirt and halter top costume, and I really scared the crap out of the PTA here. Ahh, man, that was a great Halloween.

Sorry... happy memories. Where was I?

Oh right, so anyway I am having serious anxiety over my tattoo now. Not that I wasn't anyway, but hearing that this morning did not help my anxiety level. Interestingly, Mr. Savy (notorious chicken) isn't worried at all. It's probably the soccer ball effect. It involves soccer in some form, therefor there is no problem. Ever. I swear, the sexiest thing I could wear for him would be some sort of lacy thing with soccer emblems all over it. Forget the edible, black leather whatevers. Sorry, just testing the libido horoscope theory from below.

So, tomorrow is the day. I'll be getting the tattoo at 3 PM... I'll bring a camera. Well, at the very least I'll take photos when it's done. Assuming I don't bust out into feathers and make a break for it (if I do, I'm headed towards the islands. I am DONE with this weather!)

On This Day

Some amazing things in history happened on this day:

* In 1922 the US Supreme court upheld the 19th amendment, which gave women the right to vote.

* In 1827 the first Mardi Gras happened in New Orleans.

And perhaps a lot less amazing, I was born. I'm 33. Yup. Today is my birthday.

I was awakened by the dogs making a racket several times during the night, and for about an hour around 3 AM I just sat in the dark and watched the snow fall outside. It's amazing how incredibly quiet it can be, and snow seems to make it more so - like a giant pair of earmuffs for the world.

But then at 6:30 AM I was pounced upon by two little mini-mes who had gone and spent all their allowance money to buy me presents. My son bought me a bottle of lurid purple nail polish (hey, the more lurid, the better!) and a big bag of M&Ms. My daughter bought me a super-soft stuffed duck for snuggling and a solid chocolate bunny (me thinks they found the Easter section.)

They're on vacation this week, so there was no rush. We snuggled in bed with each other for over half an hour. They baked me a cake yesterday, and they're plotting on when the party must commence. From my eavesdropping, I believe I will be subjected to chocolate cake and several cut-throat rounds of UNO, followed by making snowmen outside and then everyone doing our nails with the purple polish.

Sounds like a pretty good birthday to me!

Mr. Savy is traveling, and I won't see him today. But Friday we get our tattoos! Those are our presents to one another (his birthday isn't all that far off either.) Now I just need to not freak and chicken out!

I pulled up my "birthday horoscope" for a laugh, and apparently I am going to be an energetic, sex-crazed, force of nature this year. Look out, baby!

"Mars opposition Pluto in your Solar Return suggests that you have powerful, transformative energy at your disposal this year, and much will depend on how you handle it. Channeled positively, you could move mountains when it comes to pushing your projects ahead.

With Venus and Mars in a hard aspect to each other, your affections are strongly stimulated, and you are more acutely aware of your powers of attraction. Romance, love, and sexuality occupy your mind more than usual. You can enjoy an increase in personal magnetism (as well as libido!)

...This can also indicate an increased need for sexual union, as it stirs the passions and generally indicates ease in satisfying one's desires through positive connections with others."

What is fascinating is that while I don't put much (any) stock into horoscopes, much of mine is dedicated to a shift in career and entrepreneurial success. Considering I am graduating and pushing forward with my art as never before, and possibly some other options... well... it wouldn't hurt to believe just a little bit, right? It even said it was going to be my "lucky" year! ...but maybe they were just talking about the sex? Hmmm.

Anyone for some cake?

You and Your Peg Leg Too!

I think I have completely destroyed my hip complex. Maybe my entire right leg. My right leg hates me, and now the feeling is mutual.

Alright, that is being over dramatic, but I swear I am walking around like a pirate with a peg leg right now. A drunk pirate. No, I have no idea how I did it. My plantar fasciitis is acting up in my right heel, I have somehow hurt the center of my right quad (I think it's a repeat of a tear about six months ago), but the kicker to what started it all is major hip pain. I, being the hypochondriac-self-diagnosing-queen, after much research feel that it is probably sciatic nerve pain. I'm probably wrong, but the other options were rather frightening. I'm all for being an optimistic-hypochondriac-self-diagnosing-queen.

In short (and to avoid sounding like a 90 year old nursing home hostage,) today I am a pirate. Therefore, I am going to officially declare today Pirate Tuesday!

I know there is a national pirate day, or talk like a pirate or some other variation. I just feel that given the circumstances, and the inordinate amount of hotness we attribute to pirates in this day and age... well, we should all have the opportunity to yell "Yo HO!" without talking about someone's ex-girlfriend on a more regular basis. I'm just thinking about the common good, you know.

So, be a pirate to someone you know. Strap on an eye-patch, plunder your closet, pillage your best friend's refrigerator.

We're supposed to get up to 15 inches of snow through today and tomorrow. I'm trying to work on my persona as a snow-pirate. But I just can't seem to get the skis and fluffy winter jacket to look both threatening and sexy at the same time. I'm a bit worried about the peg-leg cantering on ice too.

That brings me to the booty. No, not my booty. Well, it's mine, but it's not body booty. Er, anyway, yesterday I spent time with my mother and the kids beading. My mom has gotten into making jewelry out of beads, and the kids are doing it with her. I bought some beads so I could too. It's not that I'm such a joiner on craft projects, it's that they were sparklie, pretty blues and iridescent blacks, and I have no memory after seeing the the flash and glittering until I was outside the store with purchases in hand (thank goodness it wasn't a diamond jewelry shop.)

Does anyone else have the desire to just plunge your hands (maybe your whole body) into vats of sparkling beads and stones when you pass by them? Come on, fess up! It can't just be me! I suffer from the same affliction around large vats of M&Ms.

I made my very first beaded necklace for myself:



(I ended up having to take a ton of photos. Apparently photographing myself in the morning means I look like a drugged up zombie with my eyes half-to-completely closed in EVERY photo. And no, I have no idea why the hell I always look like I am smirking. Smirking off center. Why the hell do I post photos anyway?)

I know, I know. But it's my first necklace I ever made minus the ones constructed out of pasta in first grade so give me a break. The thing is, it doesn't take much time to make something like this. For my mother it does because of her limitations, but for me... this would turn out to be a very expensive hobby. And then there is the problem of what to do after you have made 600 necklaces of varying types. It seems everyone I know out here sells "hand crafted beaded jewelry" to anyone they can. The best outcome I could see of actually getting involved in "beading" would be a big pirate chest full of sparkling strands of things I'll never get around to wearing... but might like to roll around in on occasion.

But maybe that's what those pirates really did with all those chests full of jewels?

Ya Ya Ya

It's Monday. I hereby renew my petition to have Mondays stricken from the week, permanently.

Actually, it could just be my mother who is making me want to stick my head into an electrical socket, rather than the Monday-effect. Last night we watched my latest Netflix arrival: Across the Universe. Now, I should say up front that I am generally not a Beatles fan. I'm just not - let it go. The world will continue to turn without my undying devotion to the boys from across the pond. I don't like Elvis either. See? I'm evil incarnate.

I have blogged before about my parents in a movie theater. They are the talkers. They are the ones that make you wish you had brought a taser gun with you to use during a nice loud action scene when no one is looking... or perhaps a sedative spiked butter topping to spray on their popcorn when they're not paying attention. They will not shut up. They chat with each other about the plot, and exclaim over the actors they recognize and mention their other roles that they loved them in. They don't think anyone else can hear them either, and are offended when someone like me leans over and asks them to please be quiet before the rest of the movie-goers pull out the flaming torches and pitchforks (because if I had to choose sides...)

In short, I have a serious pet peeve with movie talkers. (SHUT UP!!!!) So, Netflix should be a blessing right? At home, I can turn it up and drown out the talking. Even more, my father isn't here so it's just my mother with no one to talk to. Well, except for me. But she's a lot quieter, when all is said and done without my father here.

Except that I didn't even consider the fact that my mother is a die-hard Beatles fan. So, riddle me this Monday morning blog hunters: What is worse than a talker during a movie?

How about a SINGER during a movie/musical? How about a singer/talker who knows all the words, but the songs are slightly different so they get even louder trying to make it fit the tune they know with the altered one in the movie?

Oh.. My... Wholly mother of... Son of a... GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!

But wait! It gets better! Better, you ask? Oh yeee-eee-heeees! Because the movie was about the screwed up time surrounding the Vietnam war. The horrible politics that the government played with the lives of people they didn't care about, and how awful it was. As it turns out, my mother was graduating High School in the middle of it, with a couple brothers off to war because of the draft, in a military family, while friends were wearing black armbands and protesting. I know this, and much more detail because she kept leaping to her feet to lecture me and the television (who listened intently, as all televisions do) about that period of time in her life. And LBJ. And Kent State.

And afterwards, after it took twice the amount of time to get through in between having to pause for the lectures and outbursts and hating my life as she sang her way through the majority of it, she stood up, glared at me, and said "Well, why the hell did you rent that movie?"

I think she thought I requested it just for her. Uh no. I had it way down on my list, and for some reason the other 20 movies ahead of it were not available. It was on my list because I heard it was a good movie. And Eddie Izzard was in it. That's it. Really. All my normally sinister plots were far removed from the situation when I made that fateful decision to add it to my queue. She then told me about how it was a very well done movie, but now she was angry and depressed and why did I have to rent it in the first place? Then she went to bed.

She's still witchy about it this morning too. I'd have more sympathy, if I didn't still want to throttle her for singing and lecturing the entire way through the movie. I think it was a good movie. I think it was well done. I didn't hate the music because of the way it was done. But I regret ever checking it out.

And in an unrelated more light hearted direction, I stole this from Dave, my ideal boyfriend... er the thing is called my ideal boyfriend, not Dave. That's not to say that there is anything wrong with Dave, although he did have an ideal boyfriend too which is how I found this silly quiz... er. Anyway:

Who is Your Ideal TV Boyfriend?

More on Gossip Girl. Created by BuddyTV

But my question is... is he TALLER THAN ME???!??! I see that they didn't ask that little question of immense importance! Priorities people, priorities.

Lastly, a thank you to Dorid for this award:


(though I'm likely a lot less excellent and a wee bit too acerbic this morning. But is IS Monday.)

Lookin' Naked

There is a show, that unless you've been under a rock (one of my favorite places,) you have heard of: How To Look Good Naked.

Now, I have to admit that I have not seen the show completely through in one sitting. I seem to catch five minutes here, and then five minutes there. All told, I think I have seen all the parts of the show, just not all at the same time with the same people. I find the show makes me inordinately uncomfortable, which could account for my erratic viewing habits... or it could be my channel-surfing addiction (Mr. Savy complains that I am the only person he knows who can watch six shows at once and actually keep up on them.)

What I'm curious about is what other people think about this show. Would YOU want your headless near-naked body plastered up on the side of a building at Attack of the 50' Woman size? Worse yet, would you then want to go in person and interview people on what they thought of the giant headless you on the building behind you? Sounds like a fun Friday night activity, doesn't it? I mean, who hasn't wanted to see their body plastered to the side of a building and then openly critiqued? They've even got someone on the show apparently referred to as the Bra Whisperer.

It's an interesting show, to the point that it is about "teaching" women to like what there is to like about their bodies, and how to "use" them (dress, appearance, etc.) But, I have to tell you that is one show I could never, ever do (not that I can do any show anyway, I can't stand being on camera. All my home videos will probably make it seem like my kids grew up in a one parent household with a make-believe mommy, as no evidence exists to the contrary.) I likely wouldn't make it past the "lets strip to our panties and look at ourselves in the full length mirrors hemming us in on all sides" point on the show. I'd probably start bawling my eyes out, and throw up in the corner and not make it back out into the light of day for about six years.

Still, I see the merits in the lesson being sought: We can't all look like super models and have quarters bounce off our skin like a military made bed, but that doesn't mean we don't have anything to offer either. I get it. No, really, I do. I see it for others even, without even trying to. I see beauty in everything, every body, but my own (of course. Isn't that always how it goes? Same old tune, new generation.)

Speaking of generations, my mother is quite literally at this moment lecturing me on the show and how beneficial it is. Of course, when I asked if she would go through the process she said "Oh hell no. But I like the show, because it has real women's bodies." She's continuing on right now with the lecture, but I won't torture you with it.

Still, do you wonder why we're at a place in life that a show like this even needs to exist? (And here my mother absolutely insists that it does need to.) In some ways it makes me very sad. It makes me think about the Dove beauty campaign a while back where people actually came out of the woodwork to say that they shouldn't have to look at horrible women's bodies in advertising campaigns.

So... do YOU look good naked?

Cheeky of me to even ask, isn't it.

Delayed Tattooed Effect

More nightmares last night, but let me back up... I didn't get a tattoo. But only because they had to schedule us in for next Friday. I am very excited. Even more so because the shop is totally fascinated with Mr. Savy.

While we were dropping off our ideas for our tattoos, they asked us what we did and so on... the usual making conversation kind of thing. Mr. Savy just said he was an engineer. Saying I'm an artist went as it usually does in a tattoo shop (for not having a tattoo, I have spent plenty of time in various shops) "Oh, we're artists too. We have paintings locally here, and here..." The most friendly artists in existence are in the tattoo business, and they don't pull that snobbery attitude like so many others do - I love it. Anyway, while I was filling out paperwork, the guy asked Mr. Savy what he did specifically as an engineer. Mr. Savy replied "Aerospace", and the guy looked a little confused. I laughed and said "He's a rocket scientist."

The guy's mouth fell open, he looked at Mr. Savy with big eyes and said "Really? You're a real rocket scientist?" And Mr. Savy grinned and nodded yes. The guy then turned to me with this priceless expression and said sort of whispery "You.... you married.... you really married a real rocket scientist?"

At this point I was cracking up, and another tattoo artist who was working on someone stopped and shouted out "WAIT! WAIT! WHAT? Someone's a rocket scientist? Seriously? Who's a rocket scientist? You man??! DUDE! That's awesome! Good for you man! Good for you!"

Mr. Savy was totally blushing and cracking up. Eh... maybe you had to be there, but it was hilarious to me. I told Mr. Savy that it's SO nice not being the "strange scientific anomaly" (i.e. circus side-show freak) because I am an artist at his social/work gatherings, and having him try it out for a while. They might have been more enthusiastic with their commentary, but the elements involved were exactly the same as when I am exposed to his peer groups; "Well, golly gee.. look at that. You married her, eh? I see. And she's an artist? Hmmm... and did you find this rare, aberrational species in the wild?"

Mr. Savy has settled on a tribal armband with... wait for it... a soccer ball in the center. Yeah. Shocker. Eh, who am I kidding - I can't stop giggling about that too. They're going to do a nice job with it though, and I have to say that tattoos are either a turn on for me, or a turn off. A tribal or Celtic armband is a total turn on for me. I can overlook the soccer ball.

I made a rough sketch of what I want:
The shapes (minus the moon) will be filled in with black. And obviously it's going to be a lot cleaner and symmetrical and whatnot. This was just a fast sketch I made to bring in. Oh, and it turns out that the moon will be facing the other direction. I guess in general pop culture, people consider this direction backwards... I paint it both ways in my paintings, so I don't care.

My birthday is on Wednesday, and Mr. Savy's is in about a month - so these are our birthday presents to each other.

I dreamed last night we went back, Mr. Savy got his and it was great. But when the guy showed me the design for mine, he had turned it into a peacock. I hated it, and was upset about it - but they got upset with me and tossed me out of the shop - without my shirt back on. I kept trying to tell everyone that I just didn't want a peacock (in full bloom, but not nicely done even) tattooed on me, and why couldn't anyone understand?

Yeah, my psyche makes no sense to me either. I didn't even tell you about the dust devils in the dream that then covered me in mud when they stopped at the dirt-camp-site we were sleeping in our car at. I was very grateful to wake up this morning, what can I say?

In a totally unrelated aside: Last night Mr. Savy and I bought Guitar Hero, and American Idol for the Wii. Guitar Hero is totally defeating me, because I'm so right hand dominate; I might have to flip the guitar over backwards in order to play it. The American Idol, on the other hand, is surprisingly addictive.

I can't sing. Seriously. I know this. I have only ever tortured the ears of my children and perhaps Mr. Savy on a rare random occasion. I try not to do it, as I'd likely be declared a public menace. But they made me sing with my daughter, and now her and I are totally addicted. Never to happen in public, of course, but for my basement I am the incredibly awful American Idol success.

Making Circles in the Morning Sun

When you grow up and decide to be an adult (for a short period of time anyway), you end up having to face certain undeniable truths... usually about yourself. They tend to stink, royally, as well. That is usually the period in your life people refer to as facing down your demons.

I find it ironic that the biggest, scariest monster in our lives is ourselves. The most frightening moment is when you say something, and realize you sound exactly like your parent. Comedians make jokes about this, but when you are yelling something and suddenly realize that's your mother spewing out of your vocal cords, a serious panic sets in. You start to wonder how much of your life is you, and how much of it belongs to the nature verses nurture debate.

Do you think people are truly in control of their own destiny? One of my favorite songs of all time is from way back, it was the opening song to Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure: Breakaway, by Big Pig.


You can't buy this song on it's own anywhere, which is annoying as all get out. But it's been re-mixed and re-released by other singers since. The lines that stick in my head in particular are: "Mama told me when I was young, stand tall girl you're number one. You can be what you want to be, but you can't change the course of your destiny." Sounds silly at first, but if you really start thinking about it, it makes you wonder. (Wow, a deep thought in the 80's. Shocking, isn't it?)

My mother visiting is always cause for reflection for me, as evidenced through my blog on many occasions. Add to that my birthday next week which always makes me reflective, and you have a Kyra-mess on your hands. My mother is a glimpse into a very different kind of future, one that I do not want. That makes me feel pretty bad to say, in all honesty.

Out of curiosity, how many of you want to end up where your parents are right now?

Granted, my mother faces hardships I hope to never see. Her illnesses have robbed her of so much. But at the same time, this is where she is and what she has made out of her life. I believe it's seeing her that scares me so badly and puts me in a panicky tailspin to fix my life up and somehow change everything to the "way it's supposed to be." Not that I know what that is, but just that it cannot be only this.

Moms also seem to lack the tact-filter. They're allowed to say everything to you that even the stereotypical girl friend cannot. Everything from pointing out your panty-line to more personal items in nature. It's a little like playing paintball and wondering where the next shot is going to come from.

Eventually I become exhausted, and start wishing I had a pair of scissors I could use on my life. If only I could cut away my easily irritated nature, and loud mouth, and thighs... and how about my life from 12 years old to about 22 - that should absolutely go in the garbage bin. Wouldn't it be great if you could do something like that?

Well, anyway... lots of blog have Friday questions. This week I have one too: Do you believe in destiny, and that your life is on that path? Why or why not?

Personally, I am not certain about destiny. But I do feel like there is so much more that I am supposed to do and be. Which, in its essence I suppose is a definition of a destiny. It's just not your average Clash of the Titans, save the world, type of destiny where we have to overcome the Matrix and be the one. Maybe the best answer to that for me is that I do believe in a sort of positive destiny, but that it can be completely screwed up by us.

So what do you think?

Rat-tatata-tattoo

My mother made it here, but as usual if thine passenger makes it, thy luggage doth not. Still, so far so good. Ready for a twist? I think my mother, Mr. Savy, and I are all going to go out and get tattoos... possibly this weekend (or at the very least next weekend.) Mine will be my birthday present (my birthday is next Wednesday.)

No, I don't have one yet. I have my nose and naval pierced, but no tattoos. No, I cannot be talked out of a tattoo. I have wanted one for a long time, but I am very, VERY picky about what I put on my body permanently. Which is why I haven't done anything yet.

I dreamt a couple months ago that for some reason I thought it would be neat to get a tattoo, apparently lost my mind, and ended up with Disney characters largely tattooed all over my calves and thighs. I don't even want a tattoo on my leg in ANY place, nor a cartoon character - so I have no idea where that dream image sprouted from. The rest of my dream was about me regretting my stupid move and trying to figure out how to UN-tattoo myself in a panic. When I woke up, I stripped down just to verify there had been no unauthorized tattooing while I snoozed. I've never been so happy to be blinded by my glow-in-the-dark pale skin before.

So... that being said, I'm now trying to narrow down and settle my picky nature on a tattoo. I'm going to get one on my upper back/nape of my neck. I was thinking along the lines of something like this (artwork from the cover of Beyond The Pale):
But I'm not entirely settled on the design. I think I'd like to have the moon in there (the moon being very important to me, and evident in my own art) and as I am just about a full blood Celt and was brought up heavy in that direction, I also have a love of Celtic knot-work. But I like the tribal influences too...

Ok, if you can see where I am going with this, I am casting about for ideas. I love how the tattoo looks in the picture above, the flowing look to it, and the placement. The Fleur De Lise I'm a bit iffy on, and looking to improve with the Celtic/Moon thing... but I'm plum out of ideas and inspiration. So, open for suggestions here. Any ideas?

Divorce The Fairy Tale

One of the biggest barriers to being a healthy weight is what that will eventually end up meaning. Most of us like to imagine that we'll suddenly be more successful, better-liked, better looking, and that somehow the world will simply fall at our feet (as is our due for working so hard, right? After all, it works for celebrities, doesn't it?)

That's the fairytale.

Fairytales serve a purpose, though. They're a nice distraction from reality. The reality is what will really happen when you get a grip on your lifestyle, your weight, and your fitness. Fairytales can be scary and exciting, but reality is always more so - we just don't like to think about that.

One of the things I have my clients do (the ones who are working on significant permanent lifestyle shifts,) is to write themselves a story. I want to know what a week in the life of the perfect-body-you is like. What do you do when you wake up? Where do you live, what does it look like? Who do you live with (or without?) What job do you have? How do you handle getting into a fender bender or a mean boss deliberately going after you on a Monday morning? Who are your friends, and how do they treat you? Strangers, and general interaction? What do you do with your free time? What is fun for that perfect you?

And then I want you to look at everything that contrasted with how your life is now. That's the hard part, taking your eyes off the glittering dream house of the perfect you and focusing it on your reality. We like our castles in the air, and we don't like it when anyone messes with them... even ourselves.

It sounds like a bunch of psycho-bologna, but you would be surprised. I think the biggest revelation is realizing that we put so many wishes and dreams that are in reality either unlikely or truly impossible (i.e. if you are 5'2 you will never be 5'10) into those scenarios that secretly run in our heads about what life will be like when we finally have the "perfect body". Women, more so than men - but they do it too, believe me.

Beyond the impossible wishes reside the scary ones. The what-ifs. The "Oh crap, my whole life would have to get dumped on its head and rearranged, and not only is that a lot of work - it's scary and I might fail, or they might laugh at me... or worse... what if I disappoint myself? What will I have to wish for then if all my dreams are dashed?"

But what if? What if you have to dump the mean boyfriend/girlfriend, or cruel so-called friends? What if you have to quit the horrible job that makes you ill every Monday morning simply because you know you have to go into work? What if you need to move to a sunnier place in order to feel more a part of your world? What if you need to go back to school?

What if you started doing just that, right now? What if you made things better, tiny piece by tiny piece at a time? What if you finally start arranging your life to be exactly as you want it, and what you knew you always deserved? What if going to all the trouble and all the work was actually worth it, and you could be the reality of your own fairytale?

I remember being in High School, I think it was my Junior or Senior year, and walking in on that first day of classes. I remember hating myself because I hadn't somehow dropped to a size 2 over the summer break. All that time wasted, and now I had to walk past all the judgmental twits with the moronic sidekicks who took delight at making fun of every person they saw (but it always seemed like it was only you.) I remember telling myself, in time with the beat of my steps; "Just you wait. You'll see. The weeks and months will pass, and before your eyes I'll become a new person. I'm starting fresh, from this moment forward. Every step is one where I am thinner than the one before."

I'll become a new person? Really?

In my brain I saw a shorter, pretty, thin waif. Petite, cute, perhaps having a singing voice (out of all the wishes, I'd probably be shorter before my singing voice improves.) I would be popular, and be better at math (as in, like it at all - another impossibility.) I would have friends who cared not only to be around me, but whether I was there at all (loner by nature.) But most surprising of all... I wouldn't BE THERE at all, in that place, that school, my home (which was a nightmare I could write a book about.)

I wanted to run away from who I was, to someone else who not only could handle my life - but just do it better than me in any regard, and get the hell out of it and into something better. Every step I took I repeated the mantra that I would be someone else soon, that was the journey I was on. See the problem? Think it's so different now?

High School was rough for everyone, and I don't think anyone disagrees (even those popular prom queens, where the only thing that ever held us back from exacting revenge were the images from the movie Carrie.) Life is never what it seems from the outside. But that is all most people do: look at life from the outside. That's why we're so susceptible to the fairytales and glamor of how we imagine life should be. It's how Hollywood rakes in the cash, selling us packaged versions of how life could be if only you were "good enough."

Under all the glamorous wishes lies the truth, the life you really could have. But it isn't about being thin enough to have it, it's about you making the choices to make it happen. Very importantly, it also isn't about all or nothing.

It's very hard to admit that even some of our possibilities, while achievable, aren't responsible or really possible in the context of being real. For example, I really thought I was going to go live in Italy and paint (of course, I was supposed to be a jet-setting single gal too.) Could I make that happen? Actually, I could. But where would that leave my children, my life here? What would that do to the good parts, the stuff worth keeping? Some dreams, even if they are achievable, have to be left behind. That part hurts, a LOT. It makes me want to go dive into the ice cream. We all have our shattered baubles of discarded possibilities, and I'll keep mine to look at now and then, but not to shape where my life should be.

There is one last side worth addressing, and it is not a bright and shiny discussion. There are the fears of what would happen, what could happen, if we became that person... or even just that dress size. I will not get graphic, but some of us have horrors in our past that have damaged us (me included.) I will not even suggest that you can make those go away, because you cannot. You were wronged, period. That doesn't get wiped away with a smaller pant size. But it's important to note that it cannot be caused to happen again just because of one either. The dark fairytales about what might happen need to be discarded right along with the impossibilities, because they are no less a lie.

Once you divorce the fairytales from the possibilities, you will realize that you suddenly have a very bright list of what could be. A list of achievable successes that make you feel giddy just contemplating making them come true. To make some of them happen, the process might make you downright ill (especially if it means confrontation of some sort with a boss, friends, moving, etc.) But the end result should be vastly appealing to you. You have a list of everything you really want, and the knowledge that you can actually have it.

And suddenly you realize it's a long journey from that moment where you mistakenly thought it was all about what the scale told you this morning. Fairytales are what can't ever happen. Dreams are what is possible, that are entirely up to us to make into reality. Divorce the fairytales from the dreams, so you don't get mixed up. Put the fairytales away, so they'll stop getting in your way. It's only then that you can start chasing your dreams, and making them reality.

I Put A Spell On You

One of my morning habits is to check my Google email, and this morning the advertisements running along the page say things like "100% safe love spells!" I'm not kidding. They're not just your average run of the mill hocus-pocus dance under a full moon naked kind of love spells, but they're apparently Egyptian love spells.

I'm thinking Cleopatra might have a complaint to file.

It's my understanding that the Google mail ads were tied into content within your emails (which I find slightly creepy anyway, but fine.) I have not been discussing putting spells on anyone... or love for that matter. Or Egyptian anything. So, I'm rather lost as to how these advertisements got tied to me.

I could use a spell or two though, but not for love. I need something to snap me out of this funk that I am in. I know why I am in it, and frankly it's a damn good reason to want to hide from the world. But that doesn't make it any easier. Obligations abound. Must put on a happy face. Even if my heart is breaking, and it is.

Let me ask you something: how important do you think human connections (friends, family, extended family) are in a person's life? How vital are they? What if they're toxic? What if they're all you have left, and without them that area of your life is officially declared vacant? Is vacancy better than toxic?

I think the obvious answer is yes, it's better to be empty than filled with poison. But I wonder if that is really true. And what happens if it's too late, if it doesn't matter if you eliminate the toxic relationship because it's done so much damage there isn't much of anything left to lose anymore?

P90X PowerStands Push Up Bars

I cannot tell you how much I love these P90X PowerStands! Forget P90X for a second, these things stand alone as an excellent piece of exercise equipment, that I would want even if I had never heard of P90X or P90X Plus (which is the program you will absolutely need them for.)



Here are some visuals for reference. I have my old stupid (typical) push-up bars I picked up at a sporting goods store about two years ago in the photos for reference so you can see the difference:



The biggest thing I love about them is that they do NOT roll. I have literally sprained my wrist when one of my bars rolled on me. I was terrified to do dive-bombers and Hindu push-ups with my dinky push-up bars. These PowerStands do not even wiggle. I am also someone who often has a hard time getting to a 90 degree angle with my form (for whatever reason, possibly my wrists, or maybe I simply stink at push-ups. It's probably both.) But I have to tell you I have no problem going deeper than 90 degrees with my push-ups using the PowerStands. My wrists don't hurt at all, which has been a huge problem in the past for me, and somehow being higher up just enables me to watch my form better.

I was worried about the PowerStands construction, especially after my horrible push-up bars, but these things are totally solid. I'm not concerned about them breaking or pieces coming apart, as they're a heavy (literally and figuratively) duty metal solid piece of equipment, with a non-slip surface on the bottom so you can use them on a hard floor. The PowerStands are perfect for doing various types of push-ups and other core exercises (as you'll see if you decide to go with P90X Plus, you really need them for that program. I got by without them, but truthfully I needed these.)

I admit, I have an exercise equipment addiction. But, that being said, I'm not kidding: it's about time decent push-up bars were out there. There is nothing quite like having a GOOD piece of exercise equipment, and there is nothing so awful as having a bad one. So I'm very happy to say that these P90X PowerStands are, in one word, excellent!

Waldo Isn't Here Anymore

Spot the problem (you can click on it to bring it up larger):


Now, I know you're thinking that it's that the keyboard is in dire need of a cleaning, but that isn't it. Look closer.




My letters are leaving me! I'd like to say I'm so computer typing savvy that I never look at the keyboard, but the truth is that while I type around 130 words per minute, every so often I like to look down and be reassured by the location of the keys. I didn't realize I even did that, to be honest, not until I looked down one day and noticed my N had eloped with my E and A had gone off behind them, closely followed by L. And that darn H is just a joiner, isn't he?

Since when do letters rub off keys?!?!!

I'm afraid to clean it and give the other letters a reason to leave me too!

Bar Fly

Tonight we went to my favorite restaurant. The kids were very excited, as we rarely go out. They love this restaurant, as much for the special kids theater fun area as for the massive "salad" bar. The salad bar is a plethora of spring rolls, freshly baked breads, vegetables, carrot cakes, pasta, crab, shrimp, and a block of cheese that weighs more than I do.

However, in the car on the way there I was not thinking about the salad bar when my son piped up from the back seat with; "Hey mom? While we're waiting and stuff... can *sister's name* and I just go to the bar?"

It took me a minute, or three, to figure out what he meant. Meanwhile, Mr. Savy was busting a gut laughing next to me and mumbling something to the effect of "hahaha... bar... hahahaha... my kids wanna go to the bar.... hahaha.... you mean SALAD bar, cause mommy and daddy are going to go to the other one.... hahahaha..." tears on his face and everything.

We don't get out much.

Hush Out Loud

A quote fluttered across my Google mail account the other day.

"The less you speak, the more you are heard."

I have no recollection of who it was attributed to, but it has stuck with me. It's an interesting quote, because the more I thought about it the more I realized that in many respects it was true. There are people in my life with whom you literally just run the verbal gauntlet and simply try to make it through. Others are very quiet, but you do tend to pay attention when they speak (sometimes just out of shock that they didn't forget how to do so.)

After batting around this quote in conversation with others, it came up that bloggers would do well to listen to the advice. The emergence of such a massive amount of bloggers has certainly made the internet seem... busier. There a millions of people who have something to say and are saying it. The question put forth in our conversation is whether or not it should be said at all, and does the cacophony reduce the value of any decent content out there?

In real-life, I have heard different variations of "helpful" quotes telling people (me) to shut up on a rather frequent basis. Enough so, that I think perhaps that was the reason that Google's quote stayed on my radar for so long. The one that hurt the most was when I was 19 and trying to get along with employees at my new job. Everyone was offering an opinion, and I was sitting there too, so I did as well (not interrupting anyone or anything, and I was a part of the conversation.) While this is a story I have related on my blog before, the parting words (shot) of my co-worker have stayed with me very strongly unto this day; "It's better to have people wonder why you didn't speak, than to wonder why you did."

There have been many variations throughout the years. Isn't it interesting how people pick up good quotes and save them up to throw them at each other when the opportunity presents itself? It seems that silence really is golden to so many, but I wonder... Is it because when others speak it challenges their own opinions? We're a country built on the concept (not always the reality) of free speech. We're a community that encourages as many ideas as possible, because we found that there are often diamonds in all the rubble that spew forth, and that even the diamonds become higher quality when adjusted for the other rocks around them. In short, we have better formed opinions because of the opinions of others (as long as we stick to forming our own.)

I have tried to shut up. No, seriously - I really have! I have always wished I was one of those people who was quiet, mysterious, and deep. I'm very deep, at least. I completely baffle people on a regular basis, so perhaps that qualifies as mysterious. But I am most certainly not quiet. I have started to think that there are simply types of people who naturally are that way. It's not necessarily a skill that is learned, but more a trait that is there or is not. Not everyone thrives in silence, and not every silence is decorous.

Which brings me to another quote that I love by Emile Zola; "If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, I will answer you: "I am here to live out loud." "

I think that is perhaps what we bloggers do. We live out-loud. Some of us more than others. Me more than most due to my real life tipping the balance a bit, perhaps. With my paintings, I came to realize I was saying all the things I wanted to in my art that everyone refused to hear. That may sound silly, especially when you see a lot of my art isn't that volatile, but I don't post all my artwork for everyone to see. A great deal of darker works are not for public view, not because I shouldn't have painted them... but possibly because I am satisfied with the fact that I did.

Now, I also write online. People actually read my blog (I was amazed that anyone did.) But I read other people's writing as well, and I know why; I am a better person for all the words I consume that others offer, and what a gift that they do offer so much.

So once again, for now, I'm going to give up on "being quiet". I don't think I'm meant to be.

And I'm going to give live a little more out loud today.

Love Affair

Instead of digressing into a litany of why I don't like Valentines day (which I have already done a little bit of this week already,) I thought I would talk about a different kind of love affair. I have long joked about those women who are in love with shoes. It's a tongue in cheek comment about why anyone would need to own 300 pairs, and start drooling over designer names for something that covers our smelly toes. More than that, I rather feel that way about fashion in general... not that I don't like dressing nice, I do! But I could care less who's staked out my label. It fits, then bravo to whomever.

But I have found that I am a little bit of a hypocrite. I figured I didn't care all that much about clothing... until I caught myself fantasizing. I kept thinking about my new pj/sweat pants. Sure, I know that sounds silly, but when you are all dolled up and walking around in pantyhose and heels, the idea of sinfully soft and comfortable clothes is... is... *sigh*

I do have a love affair with clothing... just not like everyone else. Forget the flash. Give me the soft clingy comfort and I'm yours.

So there is my love story for Valentines day. I plan on meeting up with my secret love later this afternoon. WITH fluffy socks. How's that for decadent?

Doggy War

Last night the dogs launched an all out offensive. We're not exactly sure why. We let the kids stay up for about 20 minutes, watching a little American Idol, which I cannot stand (I know, all you Idol die-hards hate me now) and then flipped the channel to the Westminster Kennel Club dog show which was on cable (same octave of howling, shorter, cuter contestants.)

I know they say animals watch television now and then, but all three of my dogs and the cat were completely riveted. I've never seen anything like it with them. Personally, I think it may have been that the dogs were so obviously walking their owners around and making them do tricks for the judges. It was especially entertaining to watch the dogs who had dressed their handlers (mostly female) in long skirts and then made them run as fast as they could on national television. Clearly purebreds have a smarmy sense of humor.

After tucking the kids in bed, we put in our newest Netflix arrival: Becoming Jane. I had really been looking forward to this movie. Mr. Savy was out cold about five minutes in. I should have joined him. Instead, I watched the whole bleary thing drag onward, and then went to sleep... and that was when it started.

First it was the whining. Exactly 45 minutes after I had dozed off, the puppy starts up. It seems that if you wake up under 30 minutes or over four hours you are able to function reasonably well, but anything in between those times and you operate like you are on roller skates in an ice storm.

Got puppy out. Fell asleep on door frame. Nose slightly frosted from leaning against the windowpane. Stumbled back upstairs and put puppy away. Sleeping now.

25 minutes later, the labrador starts in thumping his tail and walking from one side of our bed to the other. With. His. Ball. He has never, in all nine years, tried to play ball at 2 a.m. with us. Told him to go away. Dozed. Five minutes later he shows back up again with his rope. I ignore him, I doze. I dream about walking through a choking haze of poison fog that has enveloped the city, and the Penguin is holding Batman hostage.... because my dog has his face set on the pillow next to mine and is breathing at me. Get up, toss dog outside before I do something sinister. Fall asleep against door frame again, nose gets a little more frostbitten from the window.

After stumbling back upstairs and giving the labrador a rather obnoxious, and colorful warning, I went back to sleep... only to be woken about 40 minutes later by puking sounds from the Lhasa Apso (ate all the cat food, and was paying for it.) You have got to be kidding me.

This time I kick Mr. Savy in the shins and inform him that it's his turn, as I can no longer feel the tip of my nose. Mr. Savy obliges by getting up and turning on every light as he goes. I laid in bed waiting for the dog to be let in, contemplating how many ways I might torture Mr. Savy for his cruelty. It's now 4 a.m.

From this point forward the dogs intermittently whined and complained or got in my face about every 20 minutes. It's clear that they hate me. They even engaged the cat's services, who kept sitting on my chest when I dozed off to stare down at me imperiously. You haven't been stared down at by a cat until you have a 23 lbs mammoth feline on your chest, air optional.

All the animals are running around this morning, inordinately proud of themselves. I'm exhausted. But the kids have another snow-day, so there will be no rest for the weary. This is what they mean when they say "dog-tired" isn't it?

Chocolate Clouds

Today, I was on time. And why wouldn't I be, what with the temperature dropping so far below zero that my house contracted and shifted, making the windows pop with sounds so similar to gun fire that I thought I was back in Chicago!

The puppy gave up on sleeping around 3 a.m. and decided I shouldn't sleep either. So, I went and lifted weights, and then had a leisurely morning getting ready. I put my books together, with everything I needed for my exams today, and snacks. I kept thinking to myself that this week couldn't be as bad as last week. Sure, I hate my dog right now for getting me up an hour or more before I needed to get up. And sure, it's so cold that I could stick my tongue on the window and re-enact the scene from A Christmas Story. But hey, it's gonna be ok. Yes it is. Yup.

That was until I fell down the stairs in my garage to get to my car. Then I stumbled to my car and tossed my book bag in only to have my MRP chocolate shake powder explode inside the car, causing waves of chocolate clouds to roll out of the door from the other side of the car, coating everything in a lovely smelling brown dust. Including me in my white jacket. My new, Christmas present, worn twice jacket.

I managed to make it to class (noting that it was -15 F for most of the drive there and my hands had frozen to the steering wheel,) had to repeatedly explain why my perfume made everyone suddenly crave chocolate éclairs. I managed to completely bomb one exam, and I think ace the other. I think those scores are actually metaphorical for my day. It's all good-side/bad-side.

Bad side : Dog, 3 a.m.
Good side: workout done without a rush and more than a two second shower.

Bad side: Clouds of protein powder swirling in my car on everything, will take hours to clear.
Good side: If it's going to be clouds, at least they're chocolate clouds!

And lets face it... who doesn't like chocolate clouds?

(is the day over yet?)

Chilled Down and Out

It was four degrees when I walked my daughter to the bus this morning. FOUR. Fahrenheit! There was wind. The wind-chill was double digits below zero. I was in spandex shorts and a sports bra with a jacket thrown on top (just got done working out.) I still can't feel my legs yet. I think part of my brain believes I actually live some place tropical, and is honestly surprised when we walk outside and return with frostbite. I just don't know how else to explain it.

And speaking of a cold chill; the night before last I dreamt I was trying to explain to people why I don't look like a ripped 4%body-fat fitness model when I work out as much as I do. I was horribly embarrassed. I woke up feeling ill about it. Last night I dreamt I stopped eating. Altogether. I woke up, felt horrible about myself and went back to sleep only to dream about what an utter failure I am. Pattern, anyone? I'd like to say the dreams involving Hugh Jackman and Matthew McConaughey make up for nights like these... but they don't.

In real life, last night I got mentally body-slammed by a relative. My brother has recently had some wonderful success in his business. As a matter of fact, he landed enough contracts to push his company over the million dollar in sales mark per year. Pretty good for a severely dyslexic kid who dropped out at 15 into hardcore drugs and screwing up his life. Quite the turnaround, don't you think? I think it's wonderful, and proof that there really is a place for everyone in this life, even if you don't "fit".

... and then the comment was made "And what the hell have you been doing, Kyra?"

Ouch.

I wanted to say that I'm trying. I'm back in school, going to graduate with my Bachelors in Business this May. I've been involved in art professionally for many years now (after hiding out in secret with it) and I even have a lesser degree in Fine Art. But I pulled back on pushing with galleries and shows to go to school again. I got certified as a personal trainer... though I backed down on that to only a very select few clients when I went back to school. I'm writing, a lot... but it doesn't matter because none of it's published. Oh yeah, and I got married and then had a couple kids in there and moved seven times in five years before we finally settled.

But in the end, it's all a bunch of excuses, and I don't have much to show in the way of tangible success. I know. They didn't need to point it out. I feel it. I feel it so much it aches.

There even are all these new shows on the networks, featuring powerful successful women about my age (e.g. Cashmere Mafia, Lipstick Jungle, etc.) They're great shows, so far for just kicking off. But in some ways they're so painful to watch.

Do I think I could have been one of those types? I don't know. But I do feel like shouting "I coulda been a contender!"

Where was I supposed to be? If you want to know the truth: in Europe, actually. Italy, I think. As a kid, none of the other girls I hung out with had any motivation to do anything, to be anything more than a mom and wife. To me, I couldn't stand that - that was what you were to other people in my mind, their definitions and extras, not who you were meant to be to yourself.

There had to be something more. I made rules for myself, while I watched those same girls try and get pregnant in high school. I wasn't even going to think about getting married until I was 28. I figured at 28 I would have a career path and a good "self" established. I wanted to know who I was before I said yes to become anyone else's someone.

But life really is what happens when you are making other plans. I met someone who knew me better than I knew myself, and liked me anyway, even though I didn't. I became those things, wife, mom, and lord help me... soccer mom (but I would like to point out I'm the coach. I don't know if that redeems me any, though.)

Maybe this melancholy is all due to my birthday that is in about two weeks. I'm going to be 33. Aren't I supposed to be established and have at least half the answers by 33? Isn't there some unwritten rule? And could someone please get the flashbacks of the show Thirty-Something to stop flitting across my mind?

I just feel mentally run over by a truck, overwhelmed with what I do have going (two exams tomorrow, and a third on Thursday), sick kids, and a serious case of disappointment in myself.

Oh, and it's Monday. I HATE Mondays.

Weekender

Last night I couldn't sleep. I'm not exactly sure why. Earlier in the day I had gotten sick, with a touch of whatever the kids had... but it passed (thankyouthankyouthankyou!) Boredom leads you to do stupid things.

As Mr. Savy snored away, I flipped through the cable channels and landed on Pretty Woman. I like the movie, but I have no real desire to watch the whole thing again... but I had to see the shopping scene. I have no idea why I like that scene so much, except maybe it's a secret fantasy of mine to be able to blow an obscene amount of money on clothing and whatever else took my fancy. The truth is, I'm so frugal I could never let myself do that no matter how much money I had. I suppose that is what makes that movie a fairy tale to me, and not so much the handsome young billionaire and the beautiful innocent hooker.

I decided to rummage through my bathroom cabinets on a lark and found some of those nose strip things. They must have been in there for a couple years, but I figured... why not?

OMG, why did I ever buy these things?? It cemented to my nose and I had tears streaming down my face when I pulled it off (before I realized it was permanently attached.) That's why they were buried and lost. I decided I had better get out of my cabinets before I find something else even more sinister. I might lose a limb or something.

This morning I went cross-country skiing in my back yard. It turns out we got a total of 17 inches of snow the other day. Cutting a trail in 17 inches of powder is really really hard. Another 8 or so inches is expected by tomorrow morning. I think I might try building an igloo. I always wanted to do that (any pointers from igloo pros? Sugar cubes don't count.)

Friday, At Last.

I'm so glad it's Friday. Not because I have anything planned, but because for me it means that this week is finally almost over. I know that most people start a week on Sunday and it goes until Saturday. I always thought that was weird to set calendars up that way. For me, I am a firm believer of structuring a calendar to start on a Monday and end on a Sunday. Or even better yet; start on a Monday and end on a Friday!

Because the weekend deserves its own special honor, don't you think? Why group in a glorious weekend with a nasty old week. No, no, no. That would be wrong.

It's still snowing. Not blizzard like proportions, but pretty... like a Christmas card. We have at least 18 inches of snow out there which makes some of the drifts approach the height of my waist. That means I must play. I spent yesterday afternoon taking turns with my son doing dive-bombers over a particularly large drift on the side of the house. Now, that is the way to spend an afternoon!

This week has been rough. I managed to injure myself four different ways, without me figuring out how I did any of them. School issues, children sick, and extended family issues. I'm just not feeling the love. And speaking of which, next week is Valentines Day.

My kids are busy working on their Valentine's cards for their school party (if they're home, and bored... might as well put them to work, I say!) The store advertisements are arriving in my mailbox, stuffing it to the brim. $25.99 for a dozen roses! $5.99 for a single rose! And don't forget the candy! $22.99 for a box of 12 gooey something-or-others, in the shape of a large gaudy cellophane wrapped heart!

I know, I have someone and I love him very very much. I should be happy about Valentines Day.... but come on. I can't be the only person not into it, right? I just don't like days that force another person to express themselves because it's been designated for them to do so. Flowers are expensive and die, boxed chocolates threaten my dress size and self esteem. And cards... cards are the worst, because it's someone else telling you what they feel about who knows what with your special person's signature included. I know, for someone who reads trashy romances like she's breathing, I'm decidedly unromantic.

I like getting flowers picked from my yard by my children, but should my husband bring me a bouquet I would appreciate it so much more if it wasn't because of a pepto-bismal-pink holiday. We discussed this last night, and Mr. Savy sees my point. He said men generally feel a lot of pressure though, a peer group kind of thing. I guess some of the men will actually discuss what lengths they have gone to in order to impress their certain someone on Valentines day.

The thing is, I am not impressed by flowers, chocolate, or platitudes. I'm impressed when I'm sitting on the couch reading, and Mr. Savy sits next to me with his book and quietly takes my hand. I'm impressed when we walk into a room full of people, when he puts his hand reassuringly on my lower back and stays with me through it all. I'm impressed when he actually comes back inside in the morning when he was about to leave, just to make sure that he told me he loves me before he goes.

I don't need a card, or candy, or flowers to know that he loves me. But he did inform me that we're going out to dinner. ...I didn't argue that one.