Not quite. I guess you could say that my student is playing hooky. She phoned this morning to say she was either going to go back to bed or clean her house. Yuck. That sounds like a lovely day. She sounded depressed, kind of the way I feel many mornings. I could have tried to talk her out of it, but that's not my job, particularly when I just woke up. Hard to talk anyone out of anything while yawning. Honestly, I'm kind of relieved. I'm not sure we're working all that well together. Her insecurities are massive, like, hm... oh, who? ME! So I'm not sure I'm the best art teacher for her. I try to mirror her feelings back to her for support, so she sees that she's not the only artist who has self doubt, but it gets tiring.
So I get to spend another morning doing slacker stuff. Whoo hoo! The afternoon is the time to work. Yesterday I wasn't wildly productive, but I did get a few more boxes packed. And I pitched a few more things in a Goodwill box, such gems as a set of plaster fish wallplaques (you know, they were all the rage in the 60's), and two copper plated jello molds in the shape of a lobster and a salmon, all stuff from my parents' house. They were hanging on the kitchen wall as an example of wierd kitsch, but I'm tired of them. Most of my decor has been ironic kitsch, like my rearing pony lamp with the rectangular lampshade made out of orange metal blind strips. What about my hula doll??? That, I am not ready to part with yet, but there may come a day. What would my house look like without kitsch? Would it look impossibly bland? I don't know if it's possible for me to decorate without kitsch, I've spent so many years developing my taste for it, like the chili lights adorning the cornices of the kitchen. It's the poor artist failsafe decor choice. Hell, I even paint my kitsch, like the old toys that I combine in surreal still lifes. Irony (or sarcasm) and kitsch: what would I be without it? I look at the bits of useless antiquity that people (including me) scatter about our houses, old milk pails, hat stands in an era when most of us rarely wear hats that can't be stuffed in a drawer, clocks that no longer work, old tin signs, shoe forms --- it's just kitsch with a longer pedigree.
Our real estate agent suggested we have a yard sale. I'm sorry, but if I spent a whole day watching videos and eating doritos, I would regard that as a day better spent than earning a hundred bucks, sitting in my front yard, haggling with octagenerians over the price of my tchotches. No no no nope. Goodwill can earn their money getting rid of my crap.
So, the day is wide open. I'm out of newsprint to wrap stuff so I think a good idea is a trip into town to get another roll and then a trip to the gym, such a rare event these days. I was feeling kind of crappy yesterday afternoon while packing and decided I wasn't going running last night because it was raining. Then the rain slowed down. I thought, I really don't feel that bad physically, but I'm stressed out over all this packing. Solution: get on my shorts and drive to the park to meet Fuzz and my running group. Well, most of my group wimped out, including my coach! Fuzz runs with the overacheivers, and the only other one of my group to show up is way faster than me, so I told her to not bother waiting for me and ran in the drizzle by myself. It was beautiful. I didn't have to worry about keeping up or humouring anyone along and just ran at my own pace, which actually turned out to be about the same as my usual time. The drizzle kept it cool, like a nice breeze, and I met a very friendly elderly Labrador who, when I stopped to chat briefly with her owner about the deer that just passed by, just rested herself against the side of my sweaty leg as if to say, hi, you seem nice, can I just hang out with you? Wet dog isn't so bad when you're wet already.
After another morning of being ignored by the cat, is someone trying to tell me something about dogs, or am I just opening myself up to the doggy universe? No, not another Lab, too big for eternal puppydom. I think. Maybe. Argh.
28.6.06
Playing Hooky with my Tchotches
Not quite. I guess you could say that my student is playing hooky. She phoned this morning to say she was either going to go back to bed or clean her house. Yuck. That sounds like a lovely day. She sounded depressed, kind of the way I feel many mornings. I could have tried to talk her out of it, but that's not my job, particularly when I just woke up. Hard to talk anyone out of anything while yawning. Honestly, I'm kind of relieved. I'm not sure we're working all that well together. Her insecurities are massive, like, hm... oh, who? ME! So I'm not sure I'm the best art teacher for her. I try to mirror her feelings back to her for support, so she sees that she's not the only artist who has self doubt, but it gets tiring.
So I get to spend another morning doing slacker stuff. Whoo hoo! The afternoon is the time to work. Yesterday I wasn't wildly productive, but I did get a few more boxes packed. And I pitched a few more things in a Goodwill box, such gems as a set of plaster fish wallplaques (you know, they were all the rage in the 60's), and two copper plated jello molds in the shape of a lobster and a salmon, all stuff from my parents' house. They were hanging on the kitchen wall as an example of wierd kitsch, but I'm tired of them. Most of my decor has been ironic kitsch, like my rearing pony lamp with the rectangular lampshade made out of orange metal blind strips. What about my hula doll??? That, I am not ready to part with yet, but there may come a day. What would my house look like without kitsch? Would it look impossibly bland? I don't know if it's possible for me to decorate without kitsch, I've spent so many years developing my taste for it, like the chili lights adorning the cornices of the kitchen. It's the poor artist failsafe decor choice. Hell, I even paint my kitsch, like the old toys that I combine in surreal still lifes. Irony (or sarcasm) and kitsch: what would I be without it? I look at the bits of useless antiquity that people (including me) scatter about our houses, old milk pails, hat stands in an era when most of us rarely wear hats that can't be stuffed in a drawer, clocks that no longer work, old tin signs, shoe forms --- it's just kitsch with a longer pedigree.
Our real estate agent suggested we have a yard sale. I'm sorry, but if I spent a whole day watching videos and eating doritos, I would regard that as a day better spent than earning a hundred bucks, sitting in my front yard, haggling with octagenerians over the price of my tchotches. No no no nope. Goodwill can earn their money getting rid of my crap.
So, the day is wide open. I'm out of newsprint to wrap stuff so I think a good idea is a trip into town to get another roll and then a trip to the gym, such a rare event these days. I was feeling kind of crappy yesterday afternoon while packing and decided I wasn't going running last night because it was raining. Then the rain slowed down. I thought, I really don't feel that bad physically, but I'm stressed out over all this packing. Solution: get on my shorts and drive to the park to meet Fuzz and my running group. Well, most of my group wimped out, including my coach! Fuzz runs with the overacheivers, and the only other one of my group to show up is way faster than me, so I told her to not bother waiting for me and ran in the drizzle by myself. It was beautiful. I didn't have to worry about keeping up or humouring anyone along and just ran at my own pace, which actually turned out to be about the same as my usual time. The drizzle kept it cool, like a nice breeze, and I met a very friendly elderly Labrador who, when I stopped to chat briefly with her owner about the deer that just passed by, just rested herself against the side of my sweaty leg as if to say, hi, you seem nice, can I just hang out with you? Wet dog isn't nearly so bad when you're already wet yourself.
After another morning of being ignored by the cat, is someone trying to tell me something about dogs, or am I just opening myself up to the doggy universe? No, not another Lab, too big for eternal puppydom. I think. Maybe. Argh.
So I get to spend another morning doing slacker stuff. Whoo hoo! The afternoon is the time to work. Yesterday I wasn't wildly productive, but I did get a few more boxes packed. And I pitched a few more things in a Goodwill box, such gems as a set of plaster fish wallplaques (you know, they were all the rage in the 60's), and two copper plated jello molds in the shape of a lobster and a salmon, all stuff from my parents' house. They were hanging on the kitchen wall as an example of wierd kitsch, but I'm tired of them. Most of my decor has been ironic kitsch, like my rearing pony lamp with the rectangular lampshade made out of orange metal blind strips. What about my hula doll??? That, I am not ready to part with yet, but there may come a day. What would my house look like without kitsch? Would it look impossibly bland? I don't know if it's possible for me to decorate without kitsch, I've spent so many years developing my taste for it, like the chili lights adorning the cornices of the kitchen. It's the poor artist failsafe decor choice. Hell, I even paint my kitsch, like the old toys that I combine in surreal still lifes. Irony (or sarcasm) and kitsch: what would I be without it? I look at the bits of useless antiquity that people (including me) scatter about our houses, old milk pails, hat stands in an era when most of us rarely wear hats that can't be stuffed in a drawer, clocks that no longer work, old tin signs, shoe forms --- it's just kitsch with a longer pedigree.
Our real estate agent suggested we have a yard sale. I'm sorry, but if I spent a whole day watching videos and eating doritos, I would regard that as a day better spent than earning a hundred bucks, sitting in my front yard, haggling with octagenerians over the price of my tchotches. No no no nope. Goodwill can earn their money getting rid of my crap.
So, the day is wide open. I'm out of newsprint to wrap stuff so I think a good idea is a trip into town to get another roll and then a trip to the gym, such a rare event these days. I was feeling kind of crappy yesterday afternoon while packing and decided I wasn't going running last night because it was raining. Then the rain slowed down. I thought, I really don't feel that bad physically, but I'm stressed out over all this packing. Solution: get on my shorts and drive to the park to meet Fuzz and my running group. Well, most of my group wimped out, including my coach! Fuzz runs with the overacheivers, and the only other one of my group to show up is way faster than me, so I told her to not bother waiting for me and ran in the drizzle by myself. It was beautiful. I didn't have to worry about keeping up or humouring anyone along and just ran at my own pace, which actually turned out to be about the same as my usual time. The drizzle kept it cool, like a nice breeze, and I met a very friendly elderly Labrador who, when I stopped to chat briefly with her owner about the deer that just passed by, just rested herself against the side of my sweaty leg as if to say, hi, you seem nice, can I just hang out with you? Wet dog isn't nearly so bad when you're already wet yourself.
After another morning of being ignored by the cat, is someone trying to tell me something about dogs, or am I just opening myself up to the doggy universe? No, not another Lab, too big for eternal puppydom. I think. Maybe. Argh.
27.6.06
Meandering through Slugday 2 and... Cleaning???
Ok, another morning spent in bed. Doing even less, getting up later, reading the entertainment section of the Saturday paper and an illuminating article on pie, yes, pie, rhubarb at that, in the Sunday Times.
I think I need this. Thinking about making pie. Sacrilige for a compulsive overeater? Not necessarily. I have the odd piece of pie, but I don't think I've made one for almost a year. I'm really out of practice. Pie is one of those things you get better at with practice, probably because it requires such eye-hand coordination, kind of like riding a bike. I'm sure I can still do the fundamentals, but the finer points of crust (it's always about crust, isn't it?) may be forgotten. Why in hell do I want to make pie? Well, to have a piece, of course!
But I also have this fantasy of making a pie for each of the neighbours I will be leaving in two weeks, most of which I regret not having gotten closer to. I really have very little in common with most of them, but they have been generally good neighbours: friendly enough for the odd chat or just a wave. There's one who I quite like and never see much but at least we will be living near enough her son that we'll still see them the odd time and I may get to walk his dog, that is if he doesn't pull my arm from my socket!
Speaking of dogs, I am having dog fantasies. Martha Stewart (sigh, yes, another guilty pleasure) yesterday was a rerun of her bulldog day show, and I really like the look of French bulldogs. They aren't so wrinkly drooly as the English variety, but still fall under the so-ugly-they're-cute category. Temperamentally they seem pretty easy going, but the only thing that gives me pause is their lack of heat & cold tolerance. Is that just asking for trouble in our hot humid summers? And of course they would need a coat in winter: that's just too precious. I'm confident I could bludgen Fuzz into walking a dog in a coat, but he would suffer.
It's nice to just be able to sit and bluesky. Yesterday I discovered a geranium sale at my favorite greenhouse (ok I used to work there) and went nuts and bought geraniums and verbena and alternantheria (I can't actually say that, I just say "trailing purple stuff" for six planters! I'm just so happy I have more sun at the new house. There are a couple of huge silver maples but that's about it, and their shade is dappled.
We're slowly going through stuff, packing, and culling. On Sunday Fuzz took a bunch of old and not so old toys down off a high bookshelf running the length of a living room wall. We dusted and packed. And I culled. Some things I just automatically packed, like the antique toys and my half rusted Lassie lunchbox from primary school. Others, like a doll my dad brought back from Holland on one of his peripatetic business trips (likely bought in the airport shop) got dusted, fondled, and then placed in the goodwill box. I'm letting go of more and more of my childhood. She wasn't a loved doll, always the type you just put on a shelf and looked at. I'm getting quite cold blooded about this. No, that's not right, it's not cold blooded, I'm analysing why I hang on to things, and if it doesn't have a good memory or feeling attached to it, it goes. The doll just reminded me of how often my father wasn't there (physically and emotionally) when I was a kid. The lunchbox reminded me of my mother sending me to school with a roast beef sandwich, a thermos of hot soup, and one of those little red boxes of raisins. When I look at it that way, the choice was a no-brainer.
When you see how the language of love in my family was expressed through food, no wonder I have food issues. Ergo the rhubarb pie fantasy. I care therefore I cook. Interesting.
The emptier my house is getting, the clearer I feel. God, am I going to end up being the clutter Nazi? Is Martha rubbing off on me too much? Yesterday I vaccuumed the whole house and then washed two floors. I'm having a love affair with my Swiffer. Who is this woman?
I think I need this. Thinking about making pie. Sacrilige for a compulsive overeater? Not necessarily. I have the odd piece of pie, but I don't think I've made one for almost a year. I'm really out of practice. Pie is one of those things you get better at with practice, probably because it requires such eye-hand coordination, kind of like riding a bike. I'm sure I can still do the fundamentals, but the finer points of crust (it's always about crust, isn't it?) may be forgotten. Why in hell do I want to make pie? Well, to have a piece, of course!
But I also have this fantasy of making a pie for each of the neighbours I will be leaving in two weeks, most of which I regret not having gotten closer to. I really have very little in common with most of them, but they have been generally good neighbours: friendly enough for the odd chat or just a wave. There's one who I quite like and never see much but at least we will be living near enough her son that we'll still see them the odd time and I may get to walk his dog, that is if he doesn't pull my arm from my socket!
Speaking of dogs, I am having dog fantasies. Martha Stewart (sigh, yes, another guilty pleasure) yesterday was a rerun of her bulldog day show, and I really like the look of French bulldogs. They aren't so wrinkly drooly as the English variety, but still fall under the so-ugly-they're-cute category. Temperamentally they seem pretty easy going, but the only thing that gives me pause is their lack of heat & cold tolerance. Is that just asking for trouble in our hot humid summers? And of course they would need a coat in winter: that's just too precious. I'm confident I could bludgen Fuzz into walking a dog in a coat, but he would suffer.
It's nice to just be able to sit and bluesky. Yesterday I discovered a geranium sale at my favorite greenhouse (ok I used to work there) and went nuts and bought geraniums and verbena and alternantheria (I can't actually say that, I just say "trailing purple stuff" for six planters! I'm just so happy I have more sun at the new house. There are a couple of huge silver maples but that's about it, and their shade is dappled.
We're slowly going through stuff, packing, and culling. On Sunday Fuzz took a bunch of old and not so old toys down off a high bookshelf running the length of a living room wall. We dusted and packed. And I culled. Some things I just automatically packed, like the antique toys and my half rusted Lassie lunchbox from primary school. Others, like a doll my dad brought back from Holland on one of his peripatetic business trips (likely bought in the airport shop) got dusted, fondled, and then placed in the goodwill box. I'm letting go of more and more of my childhood. She wasn't a loved doll, always the type you just put on a shelf and looked at. I'm getting quite cold blooded about this. No, that's not right, it's not cold blooded, I'm analysing why I hang on to things, and if it doesn't have a good memory or feeling attached to it, it goes. The doll just reminded me of how often my father wasn't there (physically and emotionally) when I was a kid. The lunchbox reminded me of my mother sending me to school with a roast beef sandwich, a thermos of hot soup, and one of those little red boxes of raisins. When I look at it that way, the choice was a no-brainer.
When you see how the language of love in my family was expressed through food, no wonder I have food issues. Ergo the rhubarb pie fantasy. I care therefore I cook. Interesting.
The emptier my house is getting, the clearer I feel. God, am I going to end up being the clutter Nazi? Is Martha rubbing off on me too much? Yesterday I vaccuumed the whole house and then washed two floors. I'm having a love affair with my Swiffer. Who is this woman?
26.6.06
Slugday
This morning when the alarm went off, I decided I needed a day off. Or at least half a day. I miss the routine I got into around the time of my hysterectomy, when I spent many weeks having the whole morning to take my breakfast back to bed and read or blog while the tv played in the background. In the last couple of months, the task of selling, buying and moving house has become my job and has managed to occupy most of my waking hours and attention. I am fighting with a cold right now - the type that travels around your body and seems to leave for a day just to return, maybe because I need more rest.
However, as a doctor pointed out, I am not so good at "self-care" and he's right, dammit. Why it is so hard for me to accept this as a helpful observation, not criticism? He told me I have to take better care of myself, and I have to admit I'm not sure exactly how to go about that. Ok, I'm getting the eating better stuff pretty well, but as someone who has been obsessed with food most of her life, it's not surprising that that was the first thing I would tackle.
The physical exercise stuff is an interesting journey. It took me over five years, but I went from no exercise to maybe too much. Before my surgery I was exercising too much, perhaps even compulsively. I was going to the gym religiously 3 times weekly, plus running at least 3 times weekly, and I had developed some sports related injuries in my shoulder and knees. I think that in some area of my brain, I believed that if I didn't exercise nearly every day, I would fall apart. Some of the scenarios lurking in my semi-conscious were: gaining back a lot of weight, losing all discipline and never exercising, just a general avalanche of backsliding. Well, it hasn't happened yet. I am going to the gym much less, but I'm still running 2 or 3 times a week with my group and/or Fuzz (wow, never thought that day would ever come to pass. He was always the fit one!) and I'm doing things like gardening, home reno, packing and extensive cleaning. Checking my weight monthly, I've gained 2 pounds at the most. So the physical stuff is ok right now, it's still a discovery process that I suppose will continue.
I guess the hard part of self care for me is discovering the difference between being good to oneself vs. overindulging. A morning in bed feels dangerous to me for some reason. I feel shame over it. And yet I regularly plug myself into the television for hours on end late at night. It's like, well, it's late, who does useful work then? And yet I feel I never have time to write or meditate. Why don't I do it then instead of watching the Late Late Show? Oh, I don't know. Maybe I need this guilty pleasure. It isn't accompanied by Late Late Eating any more, so what's the problem? Dial it back, honey. Even Martha has help.
However, as a doctor pointed out, I am not so good at "self-care" and he's right, dammit. Why it is so hard for me to accept this as a helpful observation, not criticism? He told me I have to take better care of myself, and I have to admit I'm not sure exactly how to go about that. Ok, I'm getting the eating better stuff pretty well, but as someone who has been obsessed with food most of her life, it's not surprising that that was the first thing I would tackle.
The physical exercise stuff is an interesting journey. It took me over five years, but I went from no exercise to maybe too much. Before my surgery I was exercising too much, perhaps even compulsively. I was going to the gym religiously 3 times weekly, plus running at least 3 times weekly, and I had developed some sports related injuries in my shoulder and knees. I think that in some area of my brain, I believed that if I didn't exercise nearly every day, I would fall apart. Some of the scenarios lurking in my semi-conscious were: gaining back a lot of weight, losing all discipline and never exercising, just a general avalanche of backsliding. Well, it hasn't happened yet. I am going to the gym much less, but I'm still running 2 or 3 times a week with my group and/or Fuzz (wow, never thought that day would ever come to pass. He was always the fit one!) and I'm doing things like gardening, home reno, packing and extensive cleaning. Checking my weight monthly, I've gained 2 pounds at the most. So the physical stuff is ok right now, it's still a discovery process that I suppose will continue.
I guess the hard part of self care for me is discovering the difference between being good to oneself vs. overindulging. A morning in bed feels dangerous to me for some reason. I feel shame over it. And yet I regularly plug myself into the television for hours on end late at night. It's like, well, it's late, who does useful work then? And yet I feel I never have time to write or meditate. Why don't I do it then instead of watching the Late Late Show? Oh, I don't know. Maybe I need this guilty pleasure. It isn't accompanied by Late Late Eating any more, so what's the problem? Dial it back, honey. Even Martha has help.
20.6.06
Back Again
The Title Wizard says I've used "Back" in a number of my titles. Not a huge surprise I guess, because isn't "back" the pattern of life? As I sag, aw no, come on, ease into a sage (!) 45, I am beginning to think that the Bhuddists have it right: you repeat events and mistakes until you get it right, and maybe that takes several lifetimes. It certainly seems that I, and other people I know who are struggling to change their lives, seem to repeat our issues endlessly. I used to find this depressing and sometimes still do while I'm in the midst of an AFGO (Another F***ing Growth Opportunity) but now I'm more able to look at it and sigh, "0h yeah, that again". Sometimes I even smile because I've just been reminded that my humanity is linking me with all the other humans I know and respect who also struggle.
I used to think I had to be perfect. Hell, there are still many times I fall into that thinking. See, that's one of my patterns!
I used to think I had to be perfect. Hell, there are still many times I fall into that thinking. See, that's one of my patterns!
19.6.06
Whew, This Feeling Stuff is Hard!
I don't usually post in the evening, but I've had so little time to write in the mornings that it's now or never. I'm ticked off I've been posting so little. I've wondered if this meant the end of my blog for a while, but I think posting is good for my health. Who cares where it is or isn't going. I've spent too much of my life worrying about end product.
True to form, I've spent the last week worrying. The unthinkable happened: we bought and sold a house in what seem like good deals in around a month, and everything is moving more or less smoothly. After some great euphoria over this, the worry found its way back in. And why not? It's my default position. Just like being hungry. When in doubt, worry, then eat! That's how, kiddies, you get back on the binge-o-matic! Whee!
Someone in a meeting this morning said, "I don't know what's wrong, but my food's up. It will come to me soon." I nodded, because that's what I'm recognizing in myself the longer I hang around the 12-step "rooms": I'm still lousy at figuring out why I'm not feeling happy some days, but I realize that I am unhappy about the same time the hunger rises. I guess I'm healthier these days, because I get good and miserable before I start to binge. I don't look forward to these lousy feelings, but it beats the alternative. It's as if there is some antediluvian part of my brain that is slowly learning to recognize a negative emotion before my digestive tract does!
Not that I'm perfect at this. I'm no food nun. But rather than fantasizing about diving into a dozen donuts, I usually find I'm snacking on a few more baby carrots, pickles and other veg. If this doesn't help the hunger and it's not meal time I go, "Duh? Wazzup? Aw crap, what is it now?"
True to form, I've spent the last week worrying. The unthinkable happened: we bought and sold a house in what seem like good deals in around a month, and everything is moving more or less smoothly. After some great euphoria over this, the worry found its way back in. And why not? It's my default position. Just like being hungry. When in doubt, worry, then eat! That's how, kiddies, you get back on the binge-o-matic! Whee!
Someone in a meeting this morning said, "I don't know what's wrong, but my food's up. It will come to me soon." I nodded, because that's what I'm recognizing in myself the longer I hang around the 12-step "rooms": I'm still lousy at figuring out why I'm not feeling happy some days, but I realize that I am unhappy about the same time the hunger rises. I guess I'm healthier these days, because I get good and miserable before I start to binge. I don't look forward to these lousy feelings, but it beats the alternative. It's as if there is some antediluvian part of my brain that is slowly learning to recognize a negative emotion before my digestive tract does!
Not that I'm perfect at this. I'm no food nun. But rather than fantasizing about diving into a dozen donuts, I usually find I'm snacking on a few more baby carrots, pickles and other veg. If this doesn't help the hunger and it's not meal time I go, "Duh? Wazzup? Aw crap, what is it now?"
13.6.06
Whoa...
I wonder if I come across as terminally positive here? Am I ticking you off with some sort of goody two shoes act? I dunno. It's impossible to see how others see us.
CAUSE I HAVE GREAT NEWS!!!!
Our house sold!! It took 2 days. Yah, baby! Fuzz and I walked around in a daze for most of Saturday. That was it. No more "fluffing", obsessive cleaning up after ourselves, or any more of that crap. Sad to say that this was the cleanest our house every has been. But I kind of like it. It looks so uncluttered. It's good, because now we have to pack up, and we're moving into a smaller house. So, if I can keep that image of an uncluttered space during moving and reno stuff, it will give me the impetus to keep getting rid of stuff. Speaking of which, this afternoon I am going to take a series of digital photos of stuff so I can send it to various friends who may wish to buy or adopt stuff.
I'm freakin' amazed at how well this has been going. None of the awful stories I've heard of in real estate have been happening. Financing, legal stuff, all of it has gone through without much of a hitch, boom boom boom. And yesterday I bought a new fridge. Well, used, but gently used for a few years and half the original price. And it's just the fridge I wanted but didn't think I could afford yet. I actually was approached about it in an OA meeting. Turns out she was told I might need a fridge by another OA friend ---who I think I wrote about here before, the one who's been helping me pack up and clean in exchange for art lessons.
I keep thinking this is eerie evidence of a higher power at work, and best friend thinks it's time I bought a lottery ticket, but our higher power really does work through people. And a higher power works through me gettin' it out there: sharing with friends about my issues and fears, my problems, my joys. I've gotta get the whole deal "out" there. Basically, we're all part of this higher power. It's bigger than all of us, maybe, but it is essentially composed of all of us.
I've spent too much time in my life trying to function in my own little bubble. Yesterday I wanted to skip and jump for joy, and I had many different friends to do so with. It was magnificent. This is living.
CAUSE I HAVE GREAT NEWS!!!!
Our house sold!! It took 2 days. Yah, baby! Fuzz and I walked around in a daze for most of Saturday. That was it. No more "fluffing", obsessive cleaning up after ourselves, or any more of that crap. Sad to say that this was the cleanest our house every has been. But I kind of like it. It looks so uncluttered. It's good, because now we have to pack up, and we're moving into a smaller house. So, if I can keep that image of an uncluttered space during moving and reno stuff, it will give me the impetus to keep getting rid of stuff. Speaking of which, this afternoon I am going to take a series of digital photos of stuff so I can send it to various friends who may wish to buy or adopt stuff.
I'm freakin' amazed at how well this has been going. None of the awful stories I've heard of in real estate have been happening. Financing, legal stuff, all of it has gone through without much of a hitch, boom boom boom. And yesterday I bought a new fridge. Well, used, but gently used for a few years and half the original price. And it's just the fridge I wanted but didn't think I could afford yet. I actually was approached about it in an OA meeting. Turns out she was told I might need a fridge by another OA friend ---who I think I wrote about here before, the one who's been helping me pack up and clean in exchange for art lessons.
I keep thinking this is eerie evidence of a higher power at work, and best friend thinks it's time I bought a lottery ticket, but our higher power really does work through people. And a higher power works through me gettin' it out there: sharing with friends about my issues and fears, my problems, my joys. I've gotta get the whole deal "out" there. Basically, we're all part of this higher power. It's bigger than all of us, maybe, but it is essentially composed of all of us.
I've spent too much time in my life trying to function in my own little bubble. Yesterday I wanted to skip and jump for joy, and I had many different friends to do so with. It was magnificent. This is living.
6.6.06
Balance? Wazzat?
Around 4 pm I fell into bed and slept for a solid 2 hours. I was exhausted. The real estate agent had just left the house after taking a series of pictures for the listing on her website. Fuzz and I, with the help of a few dear friends, had just spent every spare moment of the last few weeks preparing: packing, painting, cleaning cleaning cleaning what hasn't been cleaned for years, drywalling, patching wallpaper, mowing, planting planterswrestling The China Cabinet of Doom into a storage unit, I even spent Sunday laying ceramic tile on two countertops... one of those jobs I just never "got around to" for 2 years.
But it worked. The house looks great. Kind of like I always dreamed it could but never felt able to make happen. Now, I don't want to spend the rest of my life cleaning every spare moment, but hey, it's not bad exercise. How do I integrate some of this into my daily life without it taking over? The last few weeks I haven't journalled much, gotten to the gym, nor spent much time in the studio. And I don't even have kids. I don't want to be busy busy all the time. I know I know, it's the old story, I want it all, but, yes, I do want more. I want to have friends in my next house without cringeing about how it looks. I like being able to see outside without gunge on the windows. I like the look of a clean countertop with some open space so I can work on it without having to shove piles of stuff (usually paper) to the side.
Can this be a part of my life? I'm already feeling overwhelmed by the concept. I think that may be a sign that I need to spend less time dwelling on the concept, and just keep putting one foot in front of the other. And granted, right now is a particularly hectic time. This isn't just housekeeping, it's moving! (I can hear the collective "ugh!" from here.
When it all seems like too much, I recall how I felt the last couple of months when I was finishing grad school. One day I wrote out a list of all the projects I had to accomplish before the end of the semester, and I went into shock! "No way can I do all of this!" I thought. Then I got rid of the list and went back to work. It all got done, maybe not as perfectly as I desired, but it went remarkably well given how intimidating that list looked.
Except, right now I feel like another nap!
But it worked. The house looks great. Kind of like I always dreamed it could but never felt able to make happen. Now, I don't want to spend the rest of my life cleaning every spare moment, but hey, it's not bad exercise. How do I integrate some of this into my daily life without it taking over? The last few weeks I haven't journalled much, gotten to the gym, nor spent much time in the studio. And I don't even have kids. I don't want to be busy busy all the time. I know I know, it's the old story, I want it all, but, yes, I do want more. I want to have friends in my next house without cringeing about how it looks. I like being able to see outside without gunge on the windows. I like the look of a clean countertop with some open space so I can work on it without having to shove piles of stuff (usually paper) to the side.
Can this be a part of my life? I'm already feeling overwhelmed by the concept. I think that may be a sign that I need to spend less time dwelling on the concept, and just keep putting one foot in front of the other. And granted, right now is a particularly hectic time. This isn't just housekeeping, it's moving! (I can hear the collective "ugh!" from here.
When it all seems like too much, I recall how I felt the last couple of months when I was finishing grad school. One day I wrote out a list of all the projects I had to accomplish before the end of the semester, and I went into shock! "No way can I do all of this!" I thought. Then I got rid of the list and went back to work. It all got done, maybe not as perfectly as I desired, but it went remarkably well given how intimidating that list looked.
Except, right now I feel like another nap!
2.6.06
Damn, The Sponsor was Right AGAIN
I've been in OA now for over 3 years and I've just recently started sponsoring in the last month. My sponsor has been encouraging me to sponsor for ages, but I've been either too wrapped up in my own recovery or just plain afraid of sponsoring. Growing up in a family where I was trained to sacrifice my needs for my parents disfunction, for the longest time I just didn't feel able to be a healthy sponsor rather than an enabler or a martyr. Just when all the poo hit the fan with buying and selling a house, so I'm still not the most active sponsor in the world, and I'm taking a tip from my sponsor and letting my "sponsees" call me, do the footwork in their recovery by reaching out to their sponsor.
Right now I don't have time to chase them down. If they want me, they know where to find me. One of the two has just dropped off the face of the earth, but she's a big NHL hockey fan, and it's playoff season, so I figure she'll resurface in a few weeks.
The other one I've been playing phone tag with. The relationship is complicated by the fact that I can often be found going to bed only slightly earlier than she usually rises, but the other morning she finally got me at home and awake. My sponsor has always said to me that her sponsees often gave her more than she gave them, at which I would usually go "huh?", but I found that happening on Tuesday morning.
My sponsee is pumped, she wants to work the program. She's sick and tired of being sick and tired. Lookout, she's on a roll, get out of her way. Here I was half awake, having spent half the night rattling around the house packing, tidying, pitching and completely obsessed with house, house, house. I was also feeling pretty low that night, pessimism rising.
She brought me down to earth, reminded me of where I was and how important these new habits of living are to my present happiness. She also reminded my how little program work I've been doing. I was telling myself that because my food was quiet (Hell, I was so busy, I was forgetting to eat my programmed snacks, always a shock for me to realize), I was fine. If you read my posts regularly, you will have noticed how little I've been blogging. Ditto with the reading of OA literature and attending meetings. They are all part of my lifeline, what keeps me plugged into health, rather than disfunction and misery.
Ok, ok, uncle uncle! I hear ya! Time to put some balance back. Do the things that make me feel better. Hit a meeting yesterday, and will do another tomorrow and lunch with a fellow sufferer who's struggling. Then back to the unending house crap. Did I say I'm glad we're moving into a smaller house? Much more manageable, and forces me to let go of the China Cabinet of Doom!
Right now I don't have time to chase them down. If they want me, they know where to find me. One of the two has just dropped off the face of the earth, but she's a big NHL hockey fan, and it's playoff season, so I figure she'll resurface in a few weeks.
The other one I've been playing phone tag with. The relationship is complicated by the fact that I can often be found going to bed only slightly earlier than she usually rises, but the other morning she finally got me at home and awake. My sponsor has always said to me that her sponsees often gave her more than she gave them, at which I would usually go "huh?", but I found that happening on Tuesday morning.
My sponsee is pumped, she wants to work the program. She's sick and tired of being sick and tired. Lookout, she's on a roll, get out of her way. Here I was half awake, having spent half the night rattling around the house packing, tidying, pitching and completely obsessed with house, house, house. I was also feeling pretty low that night, pessimism rising.
She brought me down to earth, reminded me of where I was and how important these new habits of living are to my present happiness. She also reminded my how little program work I've been doing. I was telling myself that because my food was quiet (Hell, I was so busy, I was forgetting to eat my programmed snacks, always a shock for me to realize), I was fine. If you read my posts regularly, you will have noticed how little I've been blogging. Ditto with the reading of OA literature and attending meetings. They are all part of my lifeline, what keeps me plugged into health, rather than disfunction and misery.
Ok, ok, uncle uncle! I hear ya! Time to put some balance back. Do the things that make me feel better. Hit a meeting yesterday, and will do another tomorrow and lunch with a fellow sufferer who's struggling. Then back to the unending house crap. Did I say I'm glad we're moving into a smaller house? Much more manageable, and forces me to let go of the China Cabinet of Doom!
Wrestled the Gorilla...
aka the china cabinet into the storage unit! It is massive (219 cm tall, that's over 7 ft and almost a meter deep), but thankfully the top half detaches from the bottom. And of course, the dining room now looks spacious. I kind of like the old thing, the homespun craftsmenship, dovetailing, and plain dignity of it. It may or may not be valuable, but I can't keep it in any house I'm going to live in any time soon, more suited to a rambling old farmhouse with 12 foot ceilings.
There are also so many sad memories with this cabinet. It seems to hold a dark cloud of sadness in its dark victorian depths. In the top was all the china and crystal that was used so rarely. In the bottom went various bits of stuff that my parents didn't know what to do with: all those Christmas tchochkes from my father's business associates, 60's cloth napkins and placemats in acqua, green and orange, home movie cameras and reels, slides... then there was the alcohol and chocolate. My father's vice and mine, respectively, side by side. It just struck me a month or two ago how eerily the two forbidden substances coexisted there for years while I swore I would never be like my father as I mimicked his every step in alcohol with my food: the closet bingeing, the shame, the isolating, the supressed rage and fear, the hopelessness.
The reasons for selling it aren't merely physical. I think it's time to move on with my life.
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