SOMETHING SERIOUS

Dew drops

"Dew drops"

I wanted to sit down and write up all the stories from our vacation last week. We had a great time and I promise to tell you all about it, but first I need to talk about something more serious than frolicking on a beach. On our second evening in Orange Beach, Michael and I were enjoying a cocktail out on our balcony, just watching the water and the cars race up and down the street. We were chatting about nothing in particular when our conversation was halted by the sight of a Ford pick-up truck cruising down the road sporting a huge Rebel flag flying off the end of the truck bed. Both of us were shocked and outraged by the sight of it. Both of us were unable to comprehend the display of a symbol so blatantly racist.  

Let's take for a moment into consideration, the swastika. What's the first thing that you think of when you see that symbol? Nazis? Holocaust? That's what I think of when I see it. To me that symbol represents a nation of conformity and anti-different. Those who were different, those who where Jewish, were rounded up like cattle and forced into concentration camps and slaughtered by the thousands. It doesn't matter to me that the swastika is an ancient symbol of the sun or stars or that it translates into "that which is associated with well being" in Sanskrit. It is and will always be forever tainted by the Nazis. When someone spray paints this symbol on something in an act of vandalism, we call it a hate crime. 

Here are a few things we witnessed on this trip. There was a black family using the communal grill one evening in the condo complex we were staying in. It was about nine in the evening. The security guard went to them and reminded them that they close everything down at ten. She said some other things, but we didn't hear them. The family wasn't loud or out of bounds in any way and I'm positive that they only reason the security guard reminded them of the curfew was because they were not white. While we were driving home, we hit some traffic in St. Louis. Cars were zooming down the highway at brisk pace, but suddenly everyone slowed down in front us. When we noticed the police officer on the other side of the highway, Michael said something about how silly people were to slow down because they saw the cop. I realized we were in Ferguson and I said depending on who is driving that car, they probably feel they have to slow down because they probably fear the police. Because we have not done a good job in this country of telling them otherwise.

The Rebel flag is a reminder of a horrible injustice. It's a reminder that we treated fellow human beings in a very inhumanly fashion. It's a reminder that we are still treating fellow human beings unfairly and unjustly. It comes down to treating each other with respect and realizing that we all share this space. I don't know the answer to fixing the problem this country has with race relations. I would think that discrimination based on skin color would be a mute point by now. It definitely should be. Yet, it just seems to be getting worse. It has always been such a simple concept to me. Treat others the way you would wish to be treated. They teach us this in Sunday school and pres-school. Mr. Roger's told us this every day on PBS. Have respect for one another. So simple. 

Yes, it may be your states' right to fly the Rebel flag, but it doesn't make it right. It doesn't make you right. 

ON SHOWING UP

Ferran Andria: Notes on Creativity @ the Nelson.

"Ferran Andria: Notes on Creativity @ the Nelson."

Last week Chookooloonks posted this entry about reading Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers and this talk she came across from Sean Wes about growing your audience. The Sean Wes thing is what made me sit up and pay attention. He's talking about how to grow your audience in social media. I'm not all that interested in that part. I don't really need an audience, but his first piece of advice struck a chord., because it's a good piece of advice that can and should be applied to all thing.  "Show up every day for two years." This tidbit of advice was tossed my way just a few days after I'd walked through the Ferran Andria: Notes on Creativity exhibit at the Nelson. The exhibit was full of notebook paper sketches of food pairings. It really was looking at someone's creative journal and the process that goes into making food into an art. I wandered that exhibit looking at it in the veiled way you would look at a car crash. Wanting to look, but not wanting to look out of respect for that individual's privacy. When I journal (not often enough) I don't write anything more exposing than I write here, but the journal is mine and mine alone. I write with the idea that no one is going to send me a text saying "hey, you forgot to dot your i's and cross your t's." This was kind of why I took that picture up there on the Map of Creativity.

If I'd been on my own that day, I probably would have just sat down on the floor and copied this down in a notebook of my own. As it is, I've taken to blowing up sections of it at a time on my phone to study it.  Like maybe if I follow the map and decipher the notes I will find the key to creativity. I am constantly standing on that line between inherent creativity and learned creativity. My science brain is always taking apart and dissecting the very word "create-ivity" and what it means to be creative. Cre.a.tiv.ity: the use of imagination or original ideas, especially in the production of an artistic work. What is artistic work? If anything the Ferran Andria exhibit is an example of the subjectivity of art. Placing this fruit shaped into perfect circles next to that vegetable chopped into squares next to a pate mouse pipped into a rose shape is in fact a piece of art. A fleeting piece of art, but still. I struggle the most with all the things I think I am not. I am not an artist or a writer or a mom. I am not a girl;I am a woman.I am not a woman; I am a girl. Several weeks ago I went to yoga class. I had taken my everything journal with me because I had gotten there early and used it to jot down things before class. I set the journal on the counter while I signed in and the teacher noticed it and said "Oh..that's a big notebook. You must have a lot to write." I laughed and replied "or nothing at all."

So what this Map of Creativity does not tell you, is how to change your idea of what you are not. Under "Personality Requirements" it lists attitudes, abilities, feelings and capabilities, but does not elucidate on what kind of attitude or type of abilities. Because I can have an attitude. I can have feeeelings. I may or may not have abilities and or capabilities. So what happens if I'm lacking at least two things on this list?  Am I incapable of using my imagination or generating an original idea? These days, I feel that's just it. I have a lack of imagination, a lack of vision. At least I thought maybe that was it, but then I started to think maybe I lack discipline. Maybe I just need to start showing up. An hour of devotion to my yoga mat. Twenty minutes of sketching and taking notes in my journal. Maybe an hour of actual writing. 

What if I started small? What if I just started showing up for something every day?  

PLAY BALL

Today, I played catch without getting hit in the face. And without shoes. #365 #baseball

"Today, I played catch without getting hit in the face. And without shoes. #365 #baseball"

Once again, I have signed up for the Corporate Challenge and put my name on the list for the softball team thinking that I really wouldn't be needed on the softball team. There were so many people that signed up this year that they had to have try-outs. I was dead the day of the try-outs, at least this was my excuse, but somehow I managed to still make the team. I asked one of the guys who did make the team how it was possible that I made the team and he said "you can catch." with a shrug. I thought to myself "I can?" I haven't thrown or caught a ball since the softball game last year. Apparently I did OK as a catcher because that's where they're putting me again this year.

The guys in my office talk about baseball all the time. Jeff, who is from St. Louis, is a Cardinals fan and everyone else is all "GO Royals! Go Blue!" So there's a lot of trash talking back and forth and statistics and lots of things that make my eyes glaze over. I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that we should all go play catch. We have this large grassy area next to our building. Sometimes they set up a volley ball net out there. Jeff said that he and Jay had been talking about doing that for a while. The next day we all brought in our baseball mitts and Jeff brought a softball and during lunch we all went out to play catch. Jeff threw the first ball which promptly hit me right in the face. Tears involuntarily leaked out the sides of my eyes because the ball hit part of my nose as well as my lip. I wiped the tears and blood away, got up and said "Let's keep going." After that, Jeff refused to throw the ball to me. I end up throwing to him now, but I've not let a ball hit me since. 

We go out pretty regularly around lunch time and toss the ball around. I've started catching more than I miss. I still marvel at the guys as they throw and catch the ball because they make it look so easy. There's a fluidity to the way they just seem to naturally catch the ball. I stop breathing every time the ball comes in my direction and I feel my gloved hand awkwardly move into a position that will hopefully catch the ball. I am slightly surprised every time the ball ends up trapped in my glove. I feel so self conscious when we're out there, like I'm wrapped in a neon sign that says "no athletic ability". As I watch the ball go around the circle, I wonder what happened to my gracefulness. I have some grace or at least I feel like I have grace when I'm in the middle of my yoga practice. Where is any of that when I'm holding the mitt up for a ball or chasing after one I've missed to catch?  Do I look awkward and ungraceful to the guys? Are they seeing me the way I'm seeing me? 

Then there are moments, though rare, when I fall into sort of a meditative state. The one rule every one tells me about softball is to keep my eyes on the ball. I watch our neon yellow softball move from person to person and things begin to slow down. Everyone stops talking and all you hear is the thwak sound of the ball hitting a glove. In these moments, my movements are more relaxed. It all starts to have it's own rhythm and sway. I don't stress about catching the ball, I just catch the ball.

I even remember to breath.

SIREN SONG

Katrina and Randy sent me this whirlygig. Thank you! I love it! #365

"Katrina and Randy sent me this whirlygig. Thank you! I love it! #365"

Last night, shortly after Michael had put me to bed, the tornado sirens went off. I had started drifting off on the couch during SNL. Michael took my hand and said "let's go." I didn't argue. I rarely make it through SNL. I had just drifted back into that place between awake and deep sleep when I heard the wind change and sirens begin to wail. I got up and put on a robe and went to find Michael standing on the front porch. He told me not to worry, we were fine and he'd let me know if we needed to go downstairs. I toddled back to bed and listened to the wind and rain. I wondered if the chickens were OK. The sirens eventually went off and all that was left was the sound of the rain hitting the window. 

I realized that it had been years since I'd heard tornado sirens sounding for reasons other than a weekly test. It left me disoriented. Confused. Misplaced. That sound was always a such a constant part of life when I lived in Oklahoma. Heard so often to become complacent to the sound. In those days though, we'd have a closet cleaned out well before the sirens would sound. The sirens just meant it was time to think about getting into that closet. We never lived in a house that had any kind of a tornado safe room. They tell you to go into an interior bathroom or closet. We never had an interior bathroom and the one interior closet was small, barely enough space for Chris, Hooper and I. We used to laugh about it, Chris and I. It was a joke. Really there was nothing else to do about the situation but laugh. By the time I'd pull all of the clothes out of the closet and lay them on the bed in our tiny bedroom, the room would look like a tornado had already hit. There would always be a picture of me and Hooper crouched in the closet, me wearing a helmet. 

Even then, we didn't trust the sirens. Chris would stand outside with a cup of coffee, watching the skies. I'd have Hooper on his leash at the ready. If Chris came inside, we knew to make a mad dash to the closet. Luckily we always managed to be on the side of the street that had just narrowly avoided destruction. The tornado sirens went off here the first Spring after our move. I was at work. My desk provided me with a perfect view of sky. I sat there eating my lunch while my colleagues sat in the stairwells. Chris went down to the basement with Hooper, but didn't stay long. The sirens rang for almost two hours. We never saw a tornado and later Chris and I would laugh about the tornado paranoia in this city. Here the sirens mean there's a tornado somewhere in this big city. There the sirens mean the tornado is in your neighborhood, probably knocking on your back door. 

Technically I still live in Tornado Alley, though it's been since that first Spring since I've heard the warning sirens. I had forgotten the sound. It's odd to go from hearing that sound all the time to nothing. Tornados and surviving them are sort of sealed into the skins of Oklahomans. It's what makes us sturdy and resilient. Living without that threat has made me a little soft. Last night's alarm set my heart racing and my last conscious thought was if we had time to gather the chickens up and get them in the basement along with Josephine. The panic didn't last long, but it was there. It was enough to pull up past memories like that time Mom, Dad, Janell and I stood inside the camper wondering where our little dog, Bitsy, was seconds after a tornado passed by us. She'd hidden in the bathroom. I remember all those times Chris and Jen would borrow my car to go chase storms. I remember driving through south OKC to check on Chris's parents after the May 3rd tornado and realizing that if they'd lived just two or three blocks east, their home would have been nothing but rubble. I remember all those moments of sitting in the closet with Hooper. 

I remember that there's still some of that red dirt in my bloodstream.  

LET'S THROW SOME SHIT

I rode the scooter any way.

"I rode the scooter any way."

Before any of you think I'm condoning rioting, think again. Rioting is stupid and ineffective. People on the outside watching all of the rioting are looking at their TV screens and judging those rioters and shaking their heads at the crazy destruction that is taking place. I'm not going to sugar coat or lie about this, but a majority of those outside watchers are white and by the look around my Facebook news feed those white outside watchers are judging the rioters based on the color of their skin. To those watchers, the rioting is about black people going crazy. End of story. It could be that those same people think that rioting should only happen when your favorite basketball team loses the Final Four Championship. Man...look at all those white people rioting because their team lost a basketball game. Golly darn, it sure sucks and makes me so angry when my team loses!

That's sarcasm, by the way. 

From 2010 to now, there have been eighteen riots. Less than half of those have been race related riots. Of those race related riots, all of them have been in result of social injustice. I'm not saying that's a good reason to riot, but I'd rather see people getting angry and throwing things around for a better reason than my basketball team lost a game. The destruction of property seems counter intuitive to me, but there have been times when I've been so angry about something that I've wanted to throw a brick through a window. I can imagine that if I've been discriminated against over and over and watched my friends and neighbors suffer the same treatment day in and day out, I'd be angry enough to throw something bigger than a brick. This riot is not about just having an excuse to commit a crime, but an act of disrespect towards an authority and law that is continuously disrespecting it's community. 

There were several riots that led up to the American Revolution. We are all taught about the Boston Tea Party, a non-violent riot that led to the destruction of property, but there were several other riots like the Gaspee Affair and the Pine Tree Riot that were more violent. Riots, as awful as they are, have the ability to spark great change. It all starts with a conversation. We are talking about what's happening in Baltimore. We are talking about Freddie Gray. We are talking about police brutality. We are continuing the conversation on how to mend race relations in this country. Until that happens, I think we should expect to see some mess. Maybe instead of judging those for rioting, we should be working to make things better so people won't want to riot. 

TURN ON YOUR HEARTLIGHT

Oklahoma sunsets. #365

"Oklahoma sunsets. #365"

So there we were Sunday afternoon, having a nice lunch of sardines with Brie, pickled things and crackers. For some reason or another, E.T. was on TV and we were telling each other stupid E.T. factoids. Michael said something about every kids closet in America looking like Gertie's stuffed animal closet with E.T. hiding among the toys. I told Michael how the science teacher in that movie is Harrison Ford. The movie got closer to the end and tears welled up in my eyes as I crammed a cracker in my mouth. I sniffled and Michael looked over at me. I just shrugged and said "every time." That movie gets to me every dang time I see it. I know it's coming. I've seen this movie dozens of times. Every child of the 80s, including me can quote this movie, so I know what's going to happen at the end. Yet every time, we get to the end of that movie, I turn into a sobbing mess. E.T. is not the only movie that does this to me. Up, The Color Purple, Little Women. There's a slew of others. 

There's just something about all the goodbyes at the end, E.T. telling the older brother "thank you" and a sobbing Gertie to "be good". The moment that truly stabs me in the heart is that final goodbye between Elliot and E.T. E.T. looks at Eliot and says "come" and Eliot's answer is to say "stay". Just that simple tug-o-war of words is the moment that breaks me. It's when a simple movie about a boy and an alien becomes this complex story of love and loss and learning to say goodbye. Eliot is not just saying goodbye to E.T. He's saying goodbye to a part of his childhood. He will never be the same Eliot, forever changed by his connection to E.T. and how something that sounds unbelievable has the possibility to be believable. Every one of us has been that age where we believed in something that couldn't be possible. Fairies. The Loch Ness Monster. Witches. Aliens. Ghosts. Then there comes a time when most of us just stop believing. But it's the stay or go part that is the strongest most painful struggle for me in this movie. 

What if it were that easy to just say yes to going, to getting on the space ship? Or if you look at it from E.T.'s side, staying on a foreign planet? Of course I know why E.T. couldn't stay here. Human beings in general are just not kind to things drastically different from us. He would never be free to explore and learn or just simply enjoy the wonder that is our planet. The thing I never understood was why Eliot couldn't go. I've never been able to tell if he just didn't want to go or if he just realized he was needed more by his own family. Maybe he was scared. I don't know. All I can think is that I would go. I would have hopped right on up into that space ship. I would have then and there's a part of me that would still get on that space ship today. I don't see it as an escape as much as I see it as an opportunity for a great adventure. 

Except...I wouldn't. The things that compel us to stay or go are bigger and stronger and more complex than possibilities of grand adventures. I think I understand that more than I even want to understand it. I'll be right here.

EGGS

Dyed

"Dyed"

I woke up this morning with parts of a song playing in my head, except I can't place it. I think it might be the Go-Go's and I think the song goes like "breeeeahhhhthing, breathing is free." and it just repeats that line over and over. But when I googled those lyrics, Google had no idea what I was talking about. I mean it had some idea because it brought up 80s songs like "Take my Breath Away" and "Breathe Free" by Ariana Grande. There were lots of links to a yoga breathing studio. So I have no idea what the song is. Those probably aren't even the real lyrics, but some misunderstood interpretation of what I think the lyrics are. I know the tune is for real though. I just do. I'm listening to the Go-Go's now, searching for that song, and I may have to make them my band of the year even though they've been around for some time. Old is new.

So, how was everyone's Easter weekend? Full of jelly beans and Cadberry eggs? Full of eggs? I think Randy and I tied for most deviled eggs eaten in one day. I'm also sure that I had my fill of Betty Crocker circa 1950 recipes. There's still some pistachio salad and strawberry fizz pie in the refrigerator. The Cabbage ate pretty much nothing but candy on Saturday with a few tomatoes and maybe some corn. We dyed eggs. We hid eggs. We found eggs. Then we came home and I made quiche for dinner. No lie. The only one of us who didn't eat eggs was Josephine. She ate a hamburger. The Cabbage got a happy meal when we stopped at the big overpass road stop near Vinita. She ate everything but the hamburger and three fries. Well, she ate four bites of the hamburger until she realized there was something green on it (a pickle) and then stopped eating it. We stopped for an early dinner some where on 71 and left Josephine in the car. When we came out Josephine was sitting right where I'd left her, but now full of hamburger and french fries. She even ate the pickle. 

Josephine probably had the most fun of all of us this weekend. She had a kitten to play with and cat toys. That ball on a string attached to a scratching post is the MOST fun. There were two little dogs that wanted nothing to do with her, but didn't stop her from trying. Cindy and Terry brought Bella over (Josephine's sister) on Saturday night and the two of them played and bickered and played. At one point Michael looked down at the two dogs and then at me and said "do we need to get another dog?" We are not getting another dog, but I was pretty pleased with Josephine's behavior. She scratched at the door when she needed to go out. She did not steal any socks or chew up something she wasn't supposed to be chewing on and she got along very well with the other animals. I feel that Josephine earned her McDonald's hamburger, pickle and all. 

ENUI OUI

Perch

"Perch"

Last week I sat down to write my Thankful Friday entry and it was like being tarred and feathered or maybe more like making cheese, pulling teeth, watching paint dry, walking through swamp mud. All of those things. Sometimes I'm like this when it's too hard to pull the thoughts and words out of my brain, but this time I feel like there are no thoughts and words to pull out of this brain. I bet if you looked inside my left ear, you could see your house on the other side. I wish my basement was as empty as the inside of my brain feels right now. I don't know if it has something to do with the allergy medicine I've started taking again or if it's just that I'd rather stare out the window. I sit down to write and my gaze drifts to the view outside my window or to some pretty dresses at an online store. I need to buy a new swimsuit. If I'm at home and try to sit down on the couch with the laptop, Josephine will put her paws up on my knees or the couch and nip at my fingers while I try to type or chew on the corner of my lap desk. It really only takes two minutes of this for me to put down the computer and pick up one of her toys for a came of tug-o-war/fetch. 

Let's talk about Josephine for a second. On Saturday we gave her a pig's ear and it was kind of like handing an iPad over to any child. She chewed on it all of Saturday evening and well into Sunday before we took it away because it had reached choking hazard size. Then she hunted all around the house for it, like she had just misplaced the pig's ear. In between all that chewing, she learned how to use the dog doors. We are still not sure if she knows to go outside to use the bathroom or if she's just going outside to bark at other dogs and chew on sticks, but we've been accident free in this house for four days. It's really nice to not hear her whine while I'm in the middle of a shower and have to quickly dry off, throw on a robe and let her outside. The bad news is that when you throw her back inside because she keeps getting into the paint while you're painting a chicken coop, she just comes right back out unless you block off the dog door. She is now sporting some new white streaks in her face and on her ear as well as a little bit of blue in her eyebrow. I'm pretty sure she's going to terrorize the chickens when it comes time to put them in the backyard. 

Now I will tell you it has taken me hours and hours to write that paragraph up there and that's without any proof reading or anything. There are lead weights on these fingers and molasses inside this head. I left work Friday and noticed that I could see color in places that had been brown and gray for what seemed like forever. Yellow wisteria and pink tulip trees. The grass was beginning to green and seeds I had ordered arrived. All of this on the first day of Spring. Now when I look out the window, instead of bleak nothing, the trees all have hints of green and white. It's kind of like seeing their auras.  I want to jump for joy for all of this, but the spring in my step that I thought would come with Spring hasn't happened yet. Instead I'm kind of like a grizzly bear fresh out of hibernation. I'm slightly disoriented and groggy and I will tear off your face if you make the slightest move towards my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Do not even think about it. 

These days, when the mental fog rolls in, I start to panic a little. I think I have Dad's disease and it's got to be progressing at an even more accelerated pace than Dad's ever did. In just a matter of days I am not going to know where I've parked the car or that the tag in underwear goes in the back. I can feel the plaques forming and to me it looks just like the plaque that forms on your teeth, though I'm pretty sure it isn't. But I just image thick layers of hard yellowish crust forming on my brain and wish for a dentist tool to scrape scrape scrape at it. Sometimes I picture Doozer like creatures doing things like popping tension bubbles in my muscles or rubbing out a twitchy nerve. It's a great thing to do while trying to do savasana. Now I picture them with pick axes, chiseling away the plaque forming on my frontal lobe. I've lost both grandmothers to diabetes and one grandpa to heart disease. You would  think those things were the genetic predispositions I'd fixate on.  All it takes is one parent to literally lose there mind to flip those genetic predispositions all to Hell.

That's just to say that if things get funky weird or quite around here, it's only because I'm too busy visualizing Doozers chiseling away at my brain.

OKIE PRIDE

When I see this I know I'm about an hour away from mom and dad

"When I see this I know I'm about an hour away from mom and dad"

It was brought to my attention yesterday that Oklahoma has made national news six times in the last two weeks and not for being shining examples of humanity. "Is this a great state or what?" That's a very good question. I've always had my political problems with Oklahoma. That's no secret. Chris and I raged against the machine of intolerance and ignorance the whole time we lived there. For me? I fought that battle for thirty four years. We believed that Oklahoma could be better than OK. Sure...over time our souls began to show the toils of constant battle and if I'm perfectly honest, I was lured away to a new state by more than just a really great job. Though I still find myself fighting the same kind of battles here. It's just that there's more people fighting along with me which makes the fight not as hard. 

Sunday, a video of the Oklahoma University fraternity Sigma Alpha Epsilon chanting racial slurs went very public. My first thought was "what the fuck is wrong with Oklahoma?" I was embarrassed. I am embarrassed. Shame on those boys. Shame on those parents that taught these boys that this was acceptable behavior. I could easily rant on and on about the gross misconduct of these boys and it's not like we haven't seen this kind of intolerant bigotry behavior before. I grew up in a family where the N-word was used. Those boys probably did too. The difference is I had parents who treated that word as the worse curse word you could ever use against another human being. Those were the same parents who taught me to treat others as I would want to be treated.  

All this national attention on Oklahoma makes it hard to admit that, yes, I am from Oklahoma. I want out-of-staters to know that not all Oklahomans believe this way. We are not all bigots and ignorant. We don't still live tee-pees (seriously, a woman asked us that in DC while on a HS band trip). Oklahoma has a rich history full of strong, hard working people. We come together in times of tragedy and crisis to do what ever it takes to help our fellow Oklahomans in need. Examples include the Murrah Building and any tornado. Oklahomans are proud. In the wake of SAE's video, OU President David Boren immediately stood up and said that this behavior will not be tolerated. He took swift action to remove the fraternity from the university. While some may say that Boren was a little to harsh on SAE, I say no way. "This behavior will not be tolerated." Yeah, it's just a stupid fraternity full of the usual cliche of white rich think's they're privileged white boys. It's not the world. But it makes a statement. Hate will not be tolerated. There are consequences for your bigotry behavior. 

I've never been an OU fan. I'm more of an Oklahoma State Go Pokes! kind of girl. The actions of David Boren and the rallying of OU students in the wake of SAE's grossness, makes me respect that campus a little bit more. They make me hang my head high when I say "I am from Oklahoma." I'm proud to be an Okie. 

MARCH 8TH

I can still remember the feeling of that itchy collar strangling my neck. #tbt

"I can still remember the feeling of that itchy collar strangling my neck. #tbt"

I remember my first day of my Freshman year at Collinsville High. I was nervous. I'd heard all the rumors and stories of older kids torturing, teasing and tricking freshmen on their first day. Most likely I would be one of the protected ones. I was friends with enough older students to keep me safe. There was always someone looking out for me, but I was nervous none the less. Though I had older friends, I did not have older siblings at the school. I could never say "My brother's going to kick your ass for that." I could, because he totally would have, but he'd have to leave his job and drive the twenty minutes up from Tulsa to do it. My sister graduated high school the year before I started my freshman year and got married. I was officially on my own. But I'd always been the baby who wasn't a baby. Still, I had more than the usual first day of school jitters that day.

The day turned out to be fine. No one teased me or threatened me. I found all my classes. It was just a normal day, but after my last class, as I walked down the hall to my locker, I noticed my sister leaning against it. I don't know why, but I was so relieved to see her. I remember asking her "what are you doing here!?" and Janell said that she just wanted to make sure my first day had gone well. Then she took me to Sonic and gave me a ride home. Even thinking about it now, I remember that I was just so happy to see her. There was always a part of me that felt slightly abandoned when Janell moved out. Randy didn't count. I didn't remember the time he lived in the house with us. I was used to his absence. Plus I knew that I could call him or Katrina at any time and they'd come rescue me. Which they did on a number of occasions. But Janell had always been there. And then she wasn't. She graduated, moved out and got married all in a matter of weeks. I think that was the summer I moved in to Randy and Katrina's to avoid the isolation and the constant bickering of my parents. Janell showing up  at school without any prompting just made things better that day. I felt less abandoned. 

Yesterday was Janell's birthday. She shares it with Dad. I used to tell stories here about Dad on his birthday knowing he'd never read them. It made it easier to write things, knowing that Dad wouldn't read it. Not that I write anything that I think would be bad. I tell the truth and sometimes people don't like it when I tell the truth. I've sort of censored myself. Dad was a topic I never really worried about censoring. I never worried about him judging the words I'd chosen or flipping them around into something negative. I don't know why I didn't feel like writing about him this year. I didn't even really acknowledge the day at all beyond wishing Janell a Happy Birthday. I'm sure it's difficult for her sharing this day with Dad, all the years of joint birthday celebrations. Maybe she's the one feeling slightly abandoned now. I hope she reads this and feels less abandoned. 

RANDOM BITS OF THINGS

I'm feeling slightly scattered. Last night I had weirdo crazy Hunter S. Thompson  type dreams. There was a real honest to God two-headed man and a woman who cried rubber duckies. Like, instead of salt water tears, tiny rubber duckies dripped from her eyes. I don't remember much more than that, other than it just seemed to be one oddity after another. I even woke up around two in the morning, only to fall asleep to more LSD like visions. I woke up confused and had a difficult time choosing what I was going to wear today. I'm not sure that last night's sleep had anything to do with not knowing what to wear, but it seems like a decent enough excuse. Today I am the Hamburgler of words, dropping the "robble robble" for "ramble ramble". 

A few weeks ago, I did an in-home try on of eyeglass frames from Warby Parker. I didn't tell anyone or take pictures of the different frames because I knew which pair I was going with the moment I put them on. It was just that simple. As it turns out, eyeglass frame shopping in a store, for me, is like shopping at Walmart. I am overwhelmed by the amount of selection. I spent hours picking out my last pair of glasses and ended up not really being in love with the frames at the end of it all. I had just reached my limit and said "that'll do pig." For those of you new to Warby Parker, this is how it works: You pick five different frames on their website and they send them to you free of charge to try on. They include everything to ship them back, again free of charge. Five frames. You can pick them or they can pick them for you. You don't even have to really pick five! I picked five. The first one on my list was the one I was really hoping for because I thought they were super cute. They were just 'meh' on my face though. The third one on my list turned out to be the no brainer these are the frames for you Cindy. 

New specs. The better to see you with my dears.

"New specs. The better to see you with my dears."

Oh, you might also take notice of my bottom lip in that picture. I am not wearing lipstick because for once in my life my lips are not scabbed over and blood crusted from my constant picking. Last week, my lip split all by itself. No really. I had nothing to do with it that time, but I'm sure I didn't help matters. My lips had scabbed over one too many times and that plus they were so dang dry. That night I went and bought three things of Carmex. I've stashed one at my desk, one in my coat pocket and one on my nightstand and every time I think about picking at my lips, I coat them with Carmex instead. It's working. For now. 

I took my Nikon to Oklahoma with me over the weekend, but never took it out of the bag until Sunday. I had a few minutes to kill before meeting Margaret and Philip for brunch. I pulled on my bunny cap and trudged my way through the slush and ice to take a few pictures. I didn't take many before it was time for me to go inside, but I liked the ones I did take. At least I was happy with how they turned out. I am struggling these days to make time for this camera. It's easy for me to say that I took it with me to Oklahoma because I take it with me every where. It is always in my bag. I just have gotten into a terrible lazy habit of not taking it out of my bag. I spent five minutes on Sunday. Just a measly five minutes. I walked away with six shots and three of those ended up being my favorite. Five minutes a day. I'm an idiot. No...I'm just lazy. It's just gotten easier to sit here and look out the window at all the dead winter yuck and say it's not worth getting the camera out. That's just plain wrong. 

I think that's the last of the ramble. I need to order seeds. Ok...now I think that's it. Sometimes I think that when I'm scattered, it's good to just tell you all of the things I'm scattered with. It's like reorganizing the closet. Mine is sorted by color (because I'm crazy), but sometimes some garment or other gets put back in the wrong spot. Every now and then I have to go in and take that blue shirt out of the gray section and move it back to the blue section. Maybe that's what I'm doing here. Rearranging things in my brain so there's more room for a more focused thought. Defragmenting my hard drive. I'll let you know if it actually works.

WINTER WEDDING WONDERLAND

I've positioned myself right next to the cake.

"I've positioned myself right next to the cake."

Right now, I am currently propped on the couch watching last night's episode of Downton Abbey. Josephine is curled up asleep at my hip. I've taken today off so I could have a moment to set things straight before going back to work. Groceries needed to be purchased and I desperately needed to dust and vacuum, but all of that is done now. All that's left is to make this evenings dinner. So, I have a few hours to sit and compile my thoughts. Except now that I'm sitting down to do that, I realize I don't have too many thoughts to compile. 

Weekend trips to Oklahoma always seem to rush by in a blur. This one was mixed with snow and ice. The snow started just as Talaura and I reached Wichita. Roads didn't get bad until I made it to Oklahoma City just in time for rush hour. My last hour of driving was a bit tense, but I think this was more to do with the other drivers on the road than the weather. So I parked myself in the Jens' home and didn't leave until it was absolutely necessary. We ate Hideaway Pizza and ginger bread cookies and watched Mrs. Fisher's Murder Mysteries. It was so warm and cozy, I had to be reminded that the real reason for my visit was not sitting on a couch with a puppy on my lap. I was there for a wedding. And not just any wedding. Misti and Mark's wedding. 

I squeezed myself into a dress, put some lipstick on and headed out to celebrate. Which I did. Misti looked beautiful and it had nothing to do with her gown, though it was gorgeous. Every time I spotted Mark, he was grinning from ear to ear. Those two where lit with joy, the kind of joy that comes from declaring to all of your friends and family that you mean it. You mean to spend the rest of your happy days together. And they do. Chris used to always say "we want good things for those we love." He never said the reason for wanting those good things for our friends. The reason is that he and I both got great joy out of seeing our friends happy. Purely selfish reasons. My heart swelled with knowing that these two were so happy. We laughed, we drank, we ate cake and we danced. That's how happy we all were and are for these two people. 

I really couldn't be more happy for these two. I know we all wished for more time, but I think we did a good job of savoring the time we had together. I arrived in swirling snow and just as quickly as the weather changes in Oklahoma, I left. The roads where clear and the sky was blue and Misti was married. Sadie, Sadie.

MISADVENTURES IN MEARSURMENT

Small avocado, big seed.

"Small avocado, big seed."

Hey, remember when I said that I had two nice dresses in my closet that were a little too small, but I was going to try to lose an inch or two to get into one of them? I remember that too. It was such a lofty idea until I got sick and there were those two weeks where I did nothing followed by a gradual return to the treadmill. I am now back to my old self except I still have this cough and wake up with a sore throat every other day. I have also become a MuscinexD junky. Any way, the flu threw a wrench into the cogs of my weight loss plan. I figured that the last thing I needed was to stress about wiggling my fat ass into a dress because that tends to make one's ass fatter. 

My friend Heather introduced me to an online dress place called eShakti. For $7.50 more they will custom size your dress to your measurements. This sounded like a brilliant idea because even when I buy a dress in my size it's either a bit snug there and bit loose here. So I created an account with them, they sent me a new account coupon, and I picked out a dress. Then I had to get my measurements. I know that somewhere in my tiny house there is a cloth measuring tape, but that evening I couldn't find it any where. Michael said "that's OK. We can just use this tape measure." I look over and he's holding the kind of tape measure you use to build things. Here's the thing. I grew up in a home where my mother made a lot of my clothes. I spent so much time standing in the sewing room with bits of fabric and patterns pinned to me. I know that body measurements are done with a cloth tape measure. I know this, but I let him talk me into being measured with a carpenter's tape measure any way. Because I'm stupid and impatient and wanted a new dress. 

The new dress arrived and I excitedly opened the box and pulled out my custom dress. My first thought was "hmmmm...that looks a little big." Then I slipped it over my head and said "this is ridiculously too big!" And it was. It was like I was wearing a sack. Michael came in and said "what happened?!" and I started wondering if I could alter it myself ( I can not alter it myself). Michael grabbed a hold of a good two inches of fabric in the back trying to make the dress fit me properly and said "How could we be so far off?" Luckily, eShakti had included a cloth tape measure with my order. So I pulled off the dress and grabbed the tape measure to see how it was possible that we could have been so far off. I opened my account page with my measurements and we started at the top of the list. Shoulders: originally I had 20. Michael checked this with the new tape measure. 16. This explained the off the shoulder look of the dress. We originally had 41 inches down for my waist. My real waist size? 25 inches. As Heather put it, "Holy Mismeasurement!" And because I really have no concept of size and numbers associated to size, I never questioned the 41 inch waist number. We went through that evening and fixed every single measurement. I sent the too big dress back and picked out another dress in case the returned one didn't come back in time.

Well, it looks like neither of these dresses are going to get here in time to wear to Misti's wedding this weekend. Last night, resigned to the fact that I would have to wear one of those two dresses in the closet, I tried on the one that was a little more forgiving. I couldn't get the zipper up on the side. I pinched and twisted and lowered the zipper and then tried zipping it up really fast. I got a cramp in my shoulder while trying to turn sideways, hold fabric and zip the dress all at the same time. Every time the zipper would hit this one section it would come to a screeching halt. Then Michael tried zipping it while I held fabric together and he couldn't get it. Finally he said "Take it off." I pulled the dress off and he took it and zipped up the side. Then he handed me the dress and said "pull it on over your head." I looked at him like he was crazy. "There's no way that dress is going on over my head with the zipper up." He threw the dress over my head and tugged it down. The dress does go on over my head with the zipper up! So, the dress was on. It's a little snug and I probably won't really be able to eat, but it's on. The question comes to how I get out of it at the end of the evening. Michael said "get a friend." He then amended that to "not a male friend." I said "fine. I'll just have one of the Jens do it." I'm not sure he thought that was much better. 

So the moral of the story is DO NOT USE A CARPENTER'S TAPE MEASURE TO MEASURE YOUR BODY! Unless it's just your height you're measuring. Then you're probably OK. 

PRESIDENT SNOW DAY

Josephine is watching Downton Abbey with me.

"Josephine is watching Downton Abbey with me."

I am procrastinating. Michael is diligently working on his work bench that he's building in the basement. It's almost done. He got the top shelf on today and I think he's installing a light right now. It's a legit work table. I'm impressed especially because he used a lot of re-claimed wood to build it and it is sturdy. Any way, today I've washed sheets and watched the latest episode of Downton Abbey (poor, poor Isis). I cleared the cars from snow and shoveled the end of the drive. I put the sheets back on the bed (which is no easy feet with the new bed frame) and I've taken a luxuriantly long shower where I slavered a new body butter all over myself at the end of it. I smell like lavender and rosemary. 

Michael had asked me earlier this morning what I had planned for the day and I said that I should do some writing. Not at this space writing. But it seems that I have not been able to motivate myself to do any of that. This space is my last hold out of procrastination. Well, not really because Josephine wanted up here with me and is nipping at my fingers as I type. It's hard to type and play tug-of-war at the same time. So you can see, procrastination comes pretty easily around here today.

I've been thinking about Lent. It's just around the corner. I'm all ready for Fat Tuesday. The fixings for jambalaya are in the fridge right this minute. I'm ready for the gluttony part of of all of this, but I haven't really considered the forty days of sacrifice. Last year I didn't give up anything, but committed to adding something good to my life. I vowed to get on my yoga mat and I did that and it was great. Misti posted a link to a 40 bags in 40 days project to declutter your house. I'm seriously considering this because getting rid of things is part of this year's plan. I'm not religious, so the idea of sacrificing something is not all that important to me. I do like the challenge of something consistent for forty days. It's how you form habits and I see the time of Lent as a great opportunity to instill some good habits. This year I was thinking about 100 words a day. Except now that I can see that number, it doesn't seem like a whole lot of words. How about 400 words a day? That sounds a little bit better, except I know that I should strive for 1000 words a day. 

For now, though I'll stick to 400 words a day and a bag of garbage/toss-out a week. How about you guys? Anyone giving up or adding something to their lives for Lent?

NUMB FINGERS

We're working (at least one of is trying to).

"We're working (at least one of is trying to)."

When Chris died, I started writing a whole lot more. Not necessarily in this space, but there's bits and pieces of things accumulating in my google drive. My drive is full of thoughts on this whole widow thing, things about my dad, stories. There's even a little bit of fiction in there. I entertained thoughts of putting it all together in some sort of book. I participated in NaNoWriMo with the idea that this would be a great way to get all of those thoughts compiled into one spot. I was on a roll. I did really well. I put together over 35,000 words all into one space until I finally reached a point where I felt like I didn't have any more words to put down. I was also very much alone with my own brain during that time. I could either type it all out or talk to myself or the dog. Who am I kidding? I talked to myself and the dog while typing typing typing away.

These days I am less alone with my own thoughts. I have less time for my brain to ramble. I do a lot less typing typing typing than I used to. As a result, all that stuff in my drive folder is gathering dust. There's two sides to this coin. On one side I'm more engaged with things outside my own head. On the other side, I have unfinished projects. I wrote one hundred words for NaNoWriMo last year. I have yet to find a balance of sitting down to write and spending an hour or so inside my own head. When I do have time to myself, I find that I am easily distracted from working on any of those unfinished projects. I'll open my laptop and get settled. I'll have the drive folder of interest open to work on and then Oh...I need to check my mail. I wonder what's happening on facebook. When's the last time I checked out a recipe at Thug Kitchen? I should see if any one I follow has posted anything new on their blog. Amy may have posted some new pictures of Charlotte in flickr. I need to see those baby pictures. My fingers have become too heavy to lift and it's just easier to click a mouse around.

The other night I woke up in a fit of coughing. As I laid there trying not to cough and trying to go back to sleep, I suddenly had a clear direction for one of those unfinished projects. I wanted to write again. I'm sure it has something to do with wanting to write something other than a memorial entry. I'm tired of writing those. I'm starting to lose track of time. How many years has it been now? Three years? Twenty years? One day ago? Time blurs all that up. He knows that he is missed. There's more to it than the want to write more and put some finishing touches on things. I want to make time to do that. I want to carve out a few minutes a day to trap myself inside this head. Michael is currently down in the basement building himself a work bench. He's carving out his time and space. I need to take his lead and do the same for myself. I'm doing that now with a dog curled up at my feet. It's not a bad gig. 

GREENISH THUMB

Watering the orchid. #365

"Watering the orchid. #365"

Friday night as we were putting the Cabbage to bed, Michael asked her what she wanted to do on Saturday. The Cabbage replied "I want to go to that place that has the big pillows and plays movies." Michael and I were perplexed. After further investigation we realized that the Cabbage wanted to go to Smaland in IKEA. We really had no need to go to IKEA, but Smaland is a free indoor activity on a cold rainy/snowy day and it's hard to say "no" to free. I looked at Michael and shrugged "We'll look at kitchen displays while she plays in Smaland." We dropped the Cabbage off at Smaland and headed up to browse kitchen displays. Except all of the kitchens were closed because they were putting in new kitchens. Michael decided he wanted to look at lighting so we headed back down stairs. Then I remembered that I wanted a wooden cutting board to turn into a laptop desk. Michael found an awesome travel backpack and then before we knew it we were in the plant section. 

You guys know that I can't walk through this section without deciding that I need a plant of some sort. On this day, I was drawn to the orchids. I stood there hemming and hawing with Michael hovering nearby saying "just get one." This is where I confess. I am not all that great with houseplants. The ones that I have in our house are surviving, but not really thriving. I don't fertilize. I barely remember to water them. If I take them to work, all of this changes. They sit in a window that gets plenty of light and they are watered on a regular basis. I don't know what happens at home. I'm more focused on keeping us alive than the plants? I have no idea, but the plant I put in the bathroom is dead dead and has been dead dead since the bathroom remodel. Yet I'm standing in IKEA looking at orchids. ORCHIDS! The most intimidating house plant ever imagined. These things require more than attention. My favorite teacher and adviser in undergrad, Dr. Magrath, was a botanist and president of the National Orchid Society (or something like that).  He was always trying to give me one of his orchids. I refused every time because the last thing I wanted to do was kill a plant given to me by the person who decided if I would graduate college. I would never have been able to ask him for a letter of reference. And Michael's all "get one."  I will kill this plant. This is an expensive plant that I will kill. I say all of this. 

That's when a lovely young man standing within ear shot pipes up and says "One to two ice cubes a day. That's all they need." I turned around and said "really?". He shrugged his shoulder and waived his hand and said "Really. They're totally easy. One to two a ice cubes a day and no worries." I turned back to the orchids and hesitantly reached for one that had two blooms, and several buds. I looked at Michael and said "Well, you heard the man. I can't kill this." So I bought that orchid, the most intimidating house plant of all house plants. I'm going to try really hard not to kill it or fuss over it. We'll see. 

Oh, by the way, I lied about Smaland being free. It cost us $65 that day. IKEA knows what it's doing. 

EXCUSE OUR MESS

The Saturday before I got sick was a relatively warm day as far as winter is concerned. It was the kind of weather that makes people here head outside because it is January and they know in just a matter of days the weather will shift and there will be no sun for twenty days. And it will be cold. So cold. (Except not really, because global warming has actually made this winter the warmest winter on record). Knowing that it was going to be the kind day where we could be outside, we discussed the idea of going to the zoo. When Saturday rolled around and Michael ended up being down and out with the flu, I looked at the Cabbage and said "there's no way we're hanging around here all day in a house of ills!" The two of us went to the zoo. We packed a lunch and a backpack and marched right on into the zoo with no plan. I let the four year old be in charge of the map. 

We visited the polar bear. We sat on the floor in the new penguin house mesmerized by swimming penguins flying through the water. We had just decided to make our way to Africa when I looked up and noticed the Tropics. I said "why don't we go to the tropics first? It's right there." The Cabbage asked me what are the tropics and then I had to explain Brazil and rain forests. She didn't seem all too interested and asked me what we might see in there. I just had to mention monkeys to peek her interest. So we made our way through the tropics. As we reached the Gibbon habitat, I noticed a sign on the window: "We're sorry our exhibit is messy. We would not allow our Zookeepers to clean today" - The Gibbons. One of the Gibbons was sitting on a tree branch, it's shoulders hunched and a brooding cranky look on it's face. 

I couldn't help but laugh. I could just see the Gibbon looking at the Zookeeper's door with a squinty eye and handful of poop in one hand ready for throwing. I thought to myself "good for you Mr. Gibbon." How often have I felt like throwing poop on the next person to walk through my door to bug me about something? I think we can all relate. The Gibbon is just lucky enough to be able to act on those feelings. My next thought was "Shame on you, Zookeepers!" That sign is totally humiliating. For the Gibbons, of course. First of all, it's their house. It's bad enough that they've had to seriously move into this downsized dump compared to their original home. Now they have to put up with intruders coming in and "cleaning". OK, maybe that's not so much of a bother. It's really nice to have someone do the cleaning for you, but there are days where I'm sure the gibbons are like "leave me the f alone."  I bet they get tired of the constant bother. People tapping the glass all the damn time. Always being watched and photograph. The zookeeper is just one more aggravation.  

It was also tropical day at the zoo and all the habitats had been decorated luau style with grass skirts and leis draped over tree branches. It could be the Gibbons were just not into the idea of decorating their place in kitsch. Whatever, hooray to you Gibbons for taking a stand. Even if it meant you had to throw a little poop. 

BIRTHDAYS

Thirty nine

"Thirty nine"

Tomorrow, I will turn thirty nine. I am on the fence about this. Thirty nine sounds like a joke. It's the age that people who fear growing older will claim they are for birthday after birthday. When I tell people that I am thirty nine, they will laugh and say "very funny! But how old are you really?" This is a reaction I get any way, but it's usually because they don't believe I am that old. Except now I won't be able to stop thinking that they are thinking I'm trying to pull a fast one about my age. I swear it! I am thirty nine, or at least I will be tomorrow. 7:20 PM to be exact. 

I have made it no secret that I relish in the idea of growing old and how I can't wait to be a little old lady leading chair yoga classes in the old folks home and doing macrame. I'm going to play so much bingo. I can't wait to turn forty. Aging is a right of passage. I am thrilled by each new white hair the shows up on my head. Yet I get more and more blaze about the actual day of my birth every year. That day lost its specialness years ago. I am still haunted by shitty birthdays of the past. The theory is that if I don't make any sudden movements and just quietly turn a year older, the gods will take little notice and won't feel the need to fuck things up for me. 

Last night, Michael and I stopped in at a Super Target to grab a few things I'd forgotten to get the day before. As we were pushing our cart down the front isle of the store, we passed a rack of sweat pants. I glanced over and gasped. "I have to get these sweat pants!" They were turquoise with a purple thirty nine screen printed on the thigh. It was agreed that this was an appropriate impulse buy. I find it completely hilarious and juvenile to wear sweat pants with my age on them. It's like the Cabbage telling everyone she meets "I am four!" but Hell yeah. I am thirty nine! 

Or at least I will be tomorrow. And I'm wearing those pants.  

IMPRINTS

Painting my nails silvery gray while watching Silver Linings Playbook. #365

elephant_soap's photo on Instagram

I remember a visit with family in Mississippi once when I was little. I don't remember how old I was. I just remember being little. My cousin Tammy was maybe still in college. I'm not really sure. I know it was before she was married, before she had kids of her own. Which was rare. Most of my cousins were all grown up with brand new babies of their own. I was in this odd place too old to hang out with the adult cousins and too young to hang out with new baby ones. Tammy reminded me of someone's cool older sister or baby sitter. I remember on that trip that she gave me a toothbrush. She had painted my name on the handle with paint pens (remember paint pens?) and added two little daisies. One just before the C and one just after the y. She was the one in the group most likely to sit and color with me or make beaded bracelets. 

On this trip where she gave me the toothbrush, she also painted my nails. I remember that she told me that I had to be really careful. "Never do your nails too close to bedtime. You want to be sure that they have plenty of time to dry before you go to bed because if you don't, you'll wake up the next morning with your sheets imprinted on your nails." I was split on what I thought of this wise bit information. The idea of waking up to Strawberry Shortcake imprinted on my nails sounded cool to me. It took me a moment to realize that she meant the texture of the sheets would leave an impression. I envisioned swirly flowery patterns from sheets on the bed I was sleeping in that night pressed into my thumb nail. I didn't think that this was such a bad thing. But Tammy was so cool and she'd taken the time to paint my tiny nails and share her knowledge with me that I didn't want to mess them up. I spent the rest of the evening moving with care and ease. I went to bed that night plucking gently at the sheets and blankets with my finger tips and sleeping with my hands outside the covers. 

Tammy's tidbit about not going to bed with wet nails would be filed away with the scores of other beauty tips I would receive throughout this life. Mom taught me the importance of always washing your face before bed. From Katrina, I would learn that earrings are essential to any outfit and Janell would teach me to be creative in finding my own sense of style. I am reminded of a picture Misti posted once of a toddler Misti sitting on a kitchen counter as her mother liberally sprayed her tiny locks of hair into curls. The things that women teach girls. Even that old lady in that boutique Mom and I went into to try on prom dresses when she placed her cold hands on my bare breasts to lift them up to put them in my strapless bra. Traumatizing yes, but I always wear a strapless bra properly now. When I wear one. 

These are the things I thought of this morning when I woke up and noticed that my sheets had left wrinkled lines in my freshly painted nails. 

MY STUFF HAS STUFF

One empty drawer. #365

elephant_soap's photo on Instagram

I did some shopping with Mom while I was in Tulsa. I had a gift card to my favorite store and it was burning a hole in my pocket and its the time of year that store has their big tag sale. It is the only time of year I can buy more than just one item from the sales rack. I love this store as much as I hate it for its lovely stupidly overly priced clothes. Any way, this post has gone from "hey I'm getting rid of stuff!" to justifying how I brought more stuff into the house. Catch 22. Those shopping bags rode in the back seat of my car as I traveled the state of Oklahoma, across the Flint Hills of Kansas and all the way home. I kept glancing at them in my review mirror. Half of those glances had me chewing the inside of my cheek with a little bit of guilt. 

You see, I used to be really really good about cleaning out my closet and drawers EVERY season. Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall (all you got to do is call) I would pull everything out of the closet and everything out of my shirt drawer and make two piles: keep or donate. I was brutal about it too. If I hadn't worn it more than once that season, no matter what the original cost, it went into the donate pile. I was so strict about it. Everything would fit in my closet or dresser. I would not have plastic totes of clothes stored in the basement. I would not have to swap summer clothes for winter clothes. Well I can tell you right now that there's a plastic tote full of sweaters in the basement. I have not made any attempt to bring them up and swap them out with some summer items despite the fact that it is a whopping twelve degrees outside. That chewing on my cheek with guilt was not because I spent money (I spent very little money that day), but because I knew I didn't have enough hangers for the things I'd purchased. 

So when I got home that day and unloaded my car, I went straight to the closet. Michael was all "are you going to do this now?" and I was all "yeah. I'm doing this NOW!" I filled a garbage bag with dresses, blouses and shirts. I cleared enough hangers for the new stuff with some spare hangers left over. And I felt a little better. Part of my plan for this year is to get rid of a lot of things. Less clutter. Less nick-knacks. Less stuff to straighten and dust. More space for living and impromptu dance parties. Less spending time on doing things that need to be done and more time on things that want to be done. Part of this includes how much time I spend with my email. I spent a lot of time last week unsubscribing to unnecessary emails. I am that person who cannot stand to see that I have unread emails in my folder and I waste a lot of time clicking on emails that I don't even really read because I can't stand to see those little dots or numbers of unread things. Some of those emails are advertising some cool stuff. So I end up clicking on the email and then wasting another fifteen (hour) minutes "window" shopping. I want less stuff, but here I am looking at more stuff. I said goodbye to all of those ads and political emails.

The next thing I tackled was the two drawers of senseless filing cabinets. I don't know when he did it, but Chris had purchased an elaborate filling system with pre-labelled hanging folders for all the months and all the months on an odd year. It had folders for all kinds of inventory stuff like household appliances and auto insurance. When I first came across the folders they were in the filing cabinet in his office and almost every folder was empty. Then I started putting bills in the folders. I would write "paid" on the bill and then stick it in the corresponding month like I was really doing something awesome or responsible. But then we needed some space and I decided that filing cabinet could go because the office credenza that the TV sits on has two filing drawers. I took all of the folders out and crammed them in those drawers that already had folders in them. This made them even more useless because you couldn't move folders to open them. I dumped out all the "paid" bills. I tossed out taxes from 1998. And 1994. By the time I was done, I had consolidated everything into one very manageable drawer and had one completely empty drawer.

I've left that drawer empty. I'd like to say that things won't end up there eventually. I know that when I finally get around to cleaning out my desk, things that I plan on keeping will probably go into that drawer. Right now though? I'm going to relish in knowing that I have one empty drawer in this house.