|
| Midwinter, Exile Far wind-wild plains. Blue space. A golden field. A bridge, empty black oaks to winter-winding road twisting through December. Silence I have broken, silence I have given, silence that blesses, like sacrament, my unguarded mouth. Small Town (West Texas) Dust brown, all the strongboned longhorns swinging on through cloudless red dawn; with usual calm they cross blacktop of the empty highway. Day passes; she again looks out where the wheatfield is a blur of light, and the white heron flying low, a lone curve of grace. Daysong: Desert Rise up, my love, rise up: the morning muezzin calls through the whirling sand, muttered prayers starling to the hazy sun from the courtyard's lightning white stone restlessness like a bird-winging wind is rising and calm is broken as light on the dust-swept sea; the new day's sorrow sinks beneath grit and salt;
but for this sunrise time at least,
my land, my love, rise up. | | |
| I know. I'm failing Xanga. I just haven't felt like blogging lately. But I have a few books I wanted to talk about, so....I'll be back soon. Oh, I got my one year review today at my job and I'll have you know --- I am "Average". How does it feel? Hm?
DING! DING! DING! You're right ---- don't really give a flying rat's ass about it. Thanks for playing. :)
That is all. Peace out girls scouts.
P.S. WAIT! I am going to the Mozart festival this weekend and I'm so excited I can't sit still! And I'm buying new fancy-schmancy sneakers so I can run my half-marathon without falling over!
So, that's happy. :) | | |
| I realize that what follows definitely falls under the heading of Chick Blogging......so, don't say I didn't warn you.
Like I said before, hung out with my girlfriends this weekend --- and one of them constantly harps on the fact I just lost twenty pounds every time I see her like I sold my soul to Richard Simmons or something to accomplish that "miracle" (ok, seriously, you work out 2 hours a day six days a week and give up cokes,coffee and most sugar/bread products and see where YOU are in three months.....I'm just saying). She keeps going on and on about how skinny I look and finally, I roll my eyes and tell her I weigh 118 which is completely healthy and I'm training for a (half) marathon, can we please drop this. And then she says, "Holy crap -- you weight THAT MUCH?"
Then, today, at work - same exact situation and conversation with a co-worker (also female - can you tell? they are the only ones who really care --- guys, if they pay attention at all, are like, "Cool! You have biceps!") --- and she said the Same. Exact. Thing. Except replace "holy crap" with "Oh my lord". "You weigh THAT MUCH?"
I am 5'4 (and a very important 1/2). The healthy median weight for women my size is 125. This is a slightly flexible number because every woman has a different build, so you can give or take about 7-10 pounds from that number and still be fairly healthy. I used to weigh about 110-112 because I became very, very sick for a couple of months before and after my two months in Africa. The couple of times I visited the doctor, the nurses gave me lectures about making sure I ate plenty of protein and vegetables because if I lost anymore, the doctor would prescribe an eating plan for me.
So, EXCUSE ME?! 118 is lot of weight? Since WHEN? Since HOLLYWOOD told us that you need to smoke cigarettes and mainline crack so you too can have a 100 pound body like Nicole Richie, Kiera Knightley, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, ad nauseum? I'm an athletic build anyway but, honestly, if I lost anymore than 5 more pounds the little curves I have right now would vanish. I've been there. I know. Not sexy in the slightest. I'm pissed because I worked hard for this body and yet women feel like they have a right to tell me it is not good enough. I am well aware that I don't measure up to any Hollywood standards (Angelina Jolie I am not) :) but isn't that OK? Isn't being healthy and comfortable in the skin God gave you the most important thing?
I refuse to let it bother me anymore than what I've written here because I'm proud of how much I accomplished in training for this marathon because long distance running has always been a challenge for me. I'm not angry -- just sad how societal (stupid) standards make their way into all of us to insinuate we never look perfect ENOUGH. It reminded me of this story Ann Lamott tells in Traveling Mercies (one of my top 100 favorite books of all time)(read it)(seriously, now)(well, after you're done reading my blog). She goes shopping with her best friend, Pammy, for a new dress to go along with her new boyfriend and their first vacation. Pammy is in her second year of struggling with cancer and chemo.Ann comes out of the dressing room in this purple (tight) sundress and asks her friend, all anxious and girly, "Pammy, does this make my thighs look fat?" And Pammy, with her scarf tied around her chemo-bald head and sitting in her wheelchair, looks at her quietly and says, "Annie, you don't really have that kind of time."
Catch you on the flipside. | | |
| I hate cucumbers. I mean, I can eat them because we were a Clean Your Plate household but when possible, I boycott cucumbers. I don't even like that Cucumber-Melon lotion from Bath & Body Works; every time I smell that cloying/sweet smell, I have to stifle my gag reflex.
I also don't drink. I take sips of my brother's beer or my best friend's margarita every six months or so. I have reasons that I don't feel like listing for you right now but I've thought it through and, as a personal choice, I just don't drink.
So, how much sense does it make that when I found a recipe online for a Cucumber.....Thingamabob......drink, my mouth starts watering? The recipe calls for either gin or Absolut Orange -- you know, I think it's the idea of cucumber and orange together. I love water with orange and cucumber slices floating on top (and plenty of ice) because it tastes like early California summer. Anyways, this drink takes at LEAST 15 minutes of prep time because you have to peel, blend, and strain the cucumbers plus the rest of the measuring, shaking, whatever, whatever.....and I got so excited about making this for my friends that I scheduled a "drinking hour at Courtney's place" about three weeks ago. Which is this weekend.
And after it's all said and done, I'll have about 2 sips and I'll be good for the next six months. Go figure.
EDIT: So......the drink, um.........sucked. It was drinkable. And that's the best that can be said. My budding career as a bartender officially died last night but, you know, I think I'm ok with that. | | |
| One of the guys at work used my computer to work some overtime after I went home and the next day, I came back to my cubby to find a snarky little note taped to my computer. I left my Lord of the Rings soundtrack (that I borrowed from the library) in the CD drive and my co-worker, oh let's call him Johnny (because that's his name), evidently found the facts that:
A. I ACTUALLY CHECK ITEMS OUT FROM THE LIBRARY.
B. I LISTEN TO "CLASSICAL" MUSIC.
both worthy of said snarky comment. Seriously?
He actually brought it up later, making fun of me in front of the rest of the work crew, and I commented that I love several composers who work in Hollywood: Hans Zimmer, occasionally Danny Elfman, and Patrick Doyle (who is Irish, the youngest of seven children, and, I hear, screamingly funny so I know we'd be BEST FRIENDS). Crickets chirping, people; everyone just looked at me like I had grown a second head. I mean, it's a given that I usually stick out like a sore thumb on my shift because I read non-Christian books and wear high heels with my skirts and......I don't know. I just don't fit in and I'm completely fine with that -- but it started me thinking about peer pressure and conformity and insecurity.
My last year of college, I met this guy, Zach, who lived in the suite underneath mine and across the hall from my two closest guy friends. (Bear with me here - I have a point eventually) Zach was definitely one of the popular guys around campus: 6'3, puppy brown eyes and blonde curls with a soccer playing, farm boy body that made all the underclassmen go all girly and melt-y when he walked by -- (no, I had my own thing going on and did not have a crush on him but thank you for asking -- I'm just trying to get ya'll to get a PICTURE here, ok!?). He grew up on a farm in the Central Valley with his brothers so most of his stories involve his soccer team/brothers/random guys, alcohol, farm equipment, fields at night and disastrous results. Prank King of his school, star forward, blah, blah, blah. His dad expected to take over the farm when he graduated so he majored in Biology (farm animal stuff, I guess). But this is his life goal -- are you ready here? I just want you to have this picture of Zach firmly in your mind when I say this. OK
Zach's Life Goal: Opera star.
I cannot describe the sheer level of sh**t this guy went through at my school before people learned to leave him alone (rage issues with farm boy fists -- um, yeah). Because --- he didn't fit into what people thought he should do/be. If he weren't so hot or popular, nobody would care. Or if he were hot and popular and wanted to farm or coach soccer or be a doctor, nobody would care. As long as he fit into a box, nobody would have thought to make fun of him.
I think that if I hadn't had so much alone time growing up (by alone I mean: 1. being homeschooled and 2. growing up in the country), I would have completely fallen for the seductive idea that I should fit into the pattern that ________________ (society, my parents, church, my peer group, my school, fill in the blank) told me I should fit into. I've struggled with that as it is --- but having all that time to develop my interests in baseball, nature, books, classical music, and People magazine, gave me strength to be myself when I felt so different from everyone else. [As a sidenote, however, I would like to add that anybody going around proclaiming their rebellion against society by wearing all black all the time or refusing to drink Starbucks or refusing to say "I'm sorry" because it's a bad confession are focusing on Being Different instead of finding out Who They Really Are Inside. And there is a huge difference. If you wear all black because "society" wears Abercrombie, you are still letting society dictate your life. ]
Anyways..... (EDIT) (I had to go home and then ended up talking to my mom for an hour) this is my point:
Boxes are an illusion; they are a tool we use to comprehend the world around us and drain the magic out of our lives. If what you love (say, playing softball and crocheting afghans while listening to Staind --- not that I know anyone like this, nooooooo) doesn't fit into what everyone else's idea of You --- so what? Insecure people mock what they cannot understand. Embrace that fact and move on. I feel sad for people who feel like they can never be their true self because it doesn't "fit" with the world's ideals. Follow God. Listen to your heart. K, now I'm done.
Oh, and Zach? Yeah, he's singing opera in San Diego.
............B
P.S. I would also like to say that Meg Cabot is one of my heroes because she makes no apologies for loving TaB, counting watching TV as a hobby, appreciating children from a distance, writing books for fun on her vacation, and thinking it's a pretty good bet that anyone who says they read Joan Didion in their spare time is pretentious (and lying). And because she writes posts like this:
"Words it turns out that authors should probably not say while guest-speaking at a middle-school assembly:
Horny
Boobs
Diarrhea
Words this author said yesterday while guest-speaking at a middle-school assembly:
Horny
Boobs
Diarrhea
Amount of time it took for shrieks of laughter to die down after uttering said words:
Five minutes
Way it felt to still be capable of getting detention, even though I'm 39:
Priceless."
P.P.S. And how can you hate Canadians when Scott Speedman is in the world?!
| | |
|
