Comfort and Limitations

It’s dark when the alarm goes off and my husband hits the snooze button to squeeze a few more precious minutes of sleep from his restless night.  I lay there not quite wanting to open my eyes and tentatively move my sore limbs, regretting my decision to tear down a fence in the back only a little, thinking, not bad for an old chick, as I become familiar with each ache.

The sound of the shower motivates me to swing my feet to the chilly floor and shuffle downstairs to turn on the kettle for tea.  One English Breakfast tea bag goes into the stainless travel mug for my husband and I fill the coffee pot to the six line for myself, dumping two mounded scoops of coffee into the basket before remembering to actually turn it on.

The cat is looking at me from her perch on the arm chair and I’m wondering why she isn’t yeowling at me like she normally does at this point in my morning routine, hurrying me along so that she can have a fresh bowl of food.  I glance at the dog’s dish to make sure my son has fed her before heading down to tend to the cat, proceding with caution on the stairs because I know she’ll come barreling down them right as I’m ready to take another step and I don’t want to be a feature story on the 5PM news.  But she doesn’t today, and I look back to see her staring at me, seemingly as uninspired in this routine as I am.  I tap the spoon on the rim of the cat food can and peer around the corner to see her headed down the stairs.  She stretches each hind leg, then looks up at me and yeowls, as if to say, it’s about time.

I glance at the cat box on the way out, surprised that it’s actually clean.  Not too long ago, frustrated with my son’s admirably persistent passive aggressive resistance in keeping the patio free of the doggo’s droppings, I switched responsibilities with him trading the cat box for the patio.  With two rapidly aging pets, it’s anyone’s guess as to which job is more thankless than the other, but I figured it was worth a try.

My son’s nearly 17 and I can see signs of maturity.  Fleeting signs.  Like when the doggo is making a beeline toward the patio door, grim determination on her normally soft face, and then right before she passes over the threshold, lets a few drop, not quite making it yet again.  Before I can throw my arms in the air and moan about how ridiculous it is that the dog can’t seem to know when she has to go, my son has a bag in his hand, shooshing me and saying he’ll pick it up.  It seems there are some perks about having an almost 17-year-old in residence.

At some point in my early morning meanderings, I happen upon one of the books I leave around the house languishing in a semi-read state.  I do this purposefully trusting that if they’re out of sight, they’ll also be out of mind, because much competes for my attention these days, most of which exists beyond the covers of a book.  It works, and while I’m waiting for photos to upload, or my Mac to reboot, I pick one up to read a few paragraphs:

He knew that every adolescent boy is a loser and an outcast in some area:  socially or emotionally, scholastically or athletically.

William Zinsser refers to an admired headmaster of a school he attended who made a place for all, enabling his students “to be comfortable with [their] limitations and confident in [their] strengths.”  I don’t know that I disagree with him, even though seeing the statement printed on the page seems harsh, and I can hear imagined voices crying out against it, thinking it not true.  But it is.  It’s as true for girls as it is boys.  I remember.

My son has developed a quiet grace that is pleasant to be around now that the Geometry teacher battles are a couple of years behind us.  The Algebra II and Spanish skirmishes last year weren’t great, but having a teacher who was human did help restore his attitude about the difference a teacher can make even when one doesn’t love a particular subject.  Too bad a kid isn’t graded on that since it’s what much of life can be based on — one’s ability to turn the other cheek.  To deal with one’s limitations by moving on. To face that you don’t want to do something but have to no matter how much sense it doesn’t make.

The other day, he forwarded an oddly worded email sent by a person asking for his talents.  When I first saw it, I thought of all the spam that flows in and out of the web every day but forced myself to consider what it was requesting.  Evidently, the young man is a writer and graphic novel creator looking for an artist to illustrate portions of his publications.  The artist currently a part of his team creates excellent characters with human likenesses, but not so much fierce, metallic, piston-firing mechs.  She saw my son’s drawings on a site he’s been uploading work to for about a year now.

And so the drawing begins for his first paid job which, according to the writer, translates to free copies of the finished book to distribute as he chooses and a share of any profits received in sales.  That could entail shopping the book around to local comic stores, and as much as I can say that my son is definitely talented, hawking his wares isn’t something I see him doing.

I’m thinking payment comes in the form of accepting a new responsibility and chalking it up to experience, but we’ll see.  Far be it from me to squash anything impractical even though it’s genetically ingrained in me.

Just a minor shortcoming.  I’m still working on it.

doog

Dear Desiree…

Tally-Ho NaBloMoPo on Day 14. So move it. Can you do it? Make it burn…on three…ready? Let’s go. Whatever. But this one will be short, because I have to do a post on my food blog today, too. I was nearly done with a post two days ago, was loading the last photo, and then…Yes. That stoopid message that says something about being reset so the connection was lost came up after I realized things were getting a bit slow and I suspected the inevitable was about to happen. When’s the last time you actually saw mad? You know. Like, really mad.

November 14, 2007

Dear Ms. Bartlett:

I just thought I’d take a moment today to let you know you kicked my butt the other day. Seriously. I should have known better, and that’s what I get for not taking the time to do a bit of research; i.e., look before you leap. I should have channel-surfed a bit. But you looked so harmless. So sweet. It was that smile.

I’m sure you’re far too busy for someone like me, but I’ve been trying to find ways to make sure I get regular exercise. I don’t always look forward to it, but do a fairly good job of getting in some exercise at least four days a week. But I’ve been struggling with the time change since I have a tendency to go out late in the afternoon or early evening to walk — hopefully right before the MoH gets home. One day it was completely dark by the time I’d finished, and although I sort of enjoy that, occasionally, the brush by the side of the road engages my overactive imagination and my constructive pessimistic proclivities begin to map out my defense on the chance the boogey man is hiding in the bushes and is getting ready to jump out to get me. Little does he know that I’m ready to grab the sides of his face in my palms and dig my thumbs into his eyeball sockets, knee him in the nards, and if necessary, ram his nose up into his sinus cavity with the base of my palm. Of course, a lifetime of repressed rage would most likely also be unleashed and there wouldn’t be much left of him.

Yes. Well, um, so I had waited too long to walk and it was already dark, so I decided to take a look at the free On Demand channels on cable. I thought I’d seen something about Exercise on Demand and thought I’d give it a shot. Mind you, it was some time ago (like years) that I’d see this feature of our monthly service to Time Warner, but that’s beside the point.

You would have been proud. I had appropriate exercise clothes on, and my tennies. Hell, even my weights were close by. I have to be honest though — I was a bit worried about my left arm since it’s been so screwed up with tendonitis. But I wasn’t going to use that as an excuse. I was going to suck it up.

Suck dough balls was more like it.

Sheeeeee-it. You smiled the entire time you were kicking my butt. In fact you kept telling me to smile and each time you did, I wasn’t. What’s up with the whole smiling while your tongue’s flapping around your chin? Have you ever tried to do that? But since I’m a team player, I tried, and I did learn that if I smile with my teeth, at least I can get air into my oxygen deprived lungs.

And I did appreciate that you kept telling me that I could take a break any time I wanted. I did notice that you smiled when you said this, like it was some kind of a dare. I’ve got you all figured out, marching in place there and not losing count while you’re smiling and telling me to take it easy. And not sweating. Not a single shiny place on your body.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to hang on to a weight when sweat’s dripping down your arms? Huh? And your your spine? Well, suffice it to say it was a veritable river headed down to my drawers. At least the RT didn’t make any comments when he walked by wondering about this latest project his mother had gotten involved in. And he didn’t laugh when I grunted, either, and I was listening.

I know you know that I knew I’d be doomed after the warm up and before the weights because I was already toast. That you knew that I’d know those repetitions would make my muscles feel like they’d been flopped into a frying pan set on sizzle. You totally knew. And you smiled the entire time. But you also knew I’d feel like *thank gawd I’m done* successful and proud after you ran me through the wringer the routine. I know you’d know that I knew I’d know you knew. Yanno?

So all in all, the beginner’s (ohmygawdwhatmustheregularworkoutbelike?) workout was a freakin’ killer great and because it was an interminable, exhausting only 30 minutes, I switched to a cardio salsa dancing workout that finished the job you started immediately afterward. I’ll have to thank her another time since I couldn’t see the writing on the screen with my face on the floor didn’t catch her name.

But hey! It was so incredibly tortuous and I was so sore the next day fun, that I was thoroughly encouraged to go on my walk again, making sure I got it in before the sun went down — in the drizzling rain.

So thanks, Desiree! The next time I need my butt royally kicked an amazing workout, I know how far and fast to run in the opposite direction you da man.

Devotedly,

Me

p.s. Might you be related to Rachael Ray? Just asking. It must be the smile.

Desiree Bartlett: Exercise Expert

Rachael Ray: Professional Smiling Person

Actually, the workout was excellent, and I was surprised that I felt as if I’d gotten more done than twice the time on a vigorous walk. I enjoy getting outside, keeping an eye on my odd neighbors in Paradise breathing, and watching the sunset, but this is something I need to do a couple of times a week. The on demand channels are an included service, and I can exercise whenever I want, which is, well, not a whole lot different that most everything else I do. So…okay. Whatever.

Nearly Wordless on Wednesday

The sunset was interesting last night.

The troops became even more restless.

And according to the RT, gas alerts were also something to be concerned with.

But not natural gas.

Teenagers.

Thirty-one words. Not bad for a nearly wordless Wednesday.

Okay, so now 41.

Um…

PETA: Are you hooked yet?

I’m probably not going to do very well on the “nearly” aspect of my version of Wordless Wednesday. And I’ll blame it on this article published today in our local paper. It’s worth clicking on just to think about your own reaction before you keep reading. It’s a very short article…

Ugly Fish

Goodness knows there are many important issues that we can pay attention to, devote our time to, be concerned about, and get on soapboxes over. Worthy causes. Behaving as if today and now is ours for the taking with no regard for others’ future on this very unique planet is the epitome of stupidity.

But where does one draw the line?  At what point is a sensational side show supporting a cause?  And do they actually think this educates anyone, which would be the whole point of bringing public attention to it?

It was crude, public masochism.

Oh, and certainly I’m convinced that a fish is more important than this.  Or this. Or that spending time to worry to the extent demonstrated by PETA about what it feels like being “hooked” should be focused upon more than this or & Relationships, Seniors & Aging" target="_blank">this.  Or this.  Or this. Or what is happening in Darfur.  Or Burma.

Perspective would be a great thing, don’t you think?

Almost Wordless, but Not Quite?

 See updates below…

I have to work today. All day. Yes. A-L-L. As in all.

There’s no blogging.

Warning

Because I have a lot to do.

Gentle Reminder

Seriously. A. Lot. You know…tons.
I have several iTunes playlists at my disposal…

mac Screen

But I’m going to wonder about that spider outside — right in front of the door at face level — whom I’ve named Clyde.

Okay. So maybe not?

Fat Head

Update #1: Okay, so, like…I lasted until 11:54 (3.5 hours - not too bad, huh?) when a Liz Story piece came up on my iTunes play list and I decided to Google for sheet music — which I’ve never done. And whoa. There’s not only sheet music on line, but I can get it immediately with plastic money. And print it out. And play it. Do you have any idea HOW long it’s been since I purchased music? YEARS. Then I could park my caboose on that ol’ piano bench and actually play. OMG. There are distractions EVERYWHERE. And no, the time in my post above not correct, so don’t even think you can check up on me, Slick.

Update #2:  It’s nearly 4pm and my eyeballs have fallen out and are rolling across the desk.  Edu-speak is pouring out of my fingers and making absolutely no sense…wait.  That sounds normal, doesn’t it?  Have….to….finish…