Let's Make a Deal

I love a good bargain.  Not that kind of bargain!  I lack the ability to find a good deal in a store or at a garage sale.  Much to my great frustration, I am not endowed with that kind of luck.

But I am a champion at the household chore bargain!

I come from a long line of bargainers.  I learned it from my older sister, who learned it from our older brother, who perhaps learned it from our oldest brother though I can't confirm that, and he probably learned it from a medicine man in Minnesota.  (They were all really good at cheating at board games as well but I, thankfully, have not inherited that.)

It went something like this:
Lanie (Older Sister): Hey will you go out and water the cows for me?
Me: No.
Lanie: If you go water them you can have my Huey Lewis and the News 45 record.  (She knew I'd been drooling over that sweet 45 record.)
Me: Deal.

Here's another scenario:
Lanie: Hey if you wash the dishes for me tonight I'll vacuum for you tomorrow.
Me: No.  I don't mind vacuuming.  What else you got.
Lanie: I'll vacuum and do the dishes next time it's your turn.
Me: No, I want you to do the dishes the next two times it's my turn.
Lanie: Deal.

There are several keys to the bargain. 

• One must know how badly the other person wants the deal.  If they want it enough you can really get some great trades.  Conversely, if you initiate the deal, do not let them know how badly you want it unless you want to wind up doing the dishes the next 15 times it is their turn. 
• One must be willing to yield a little if initiating said deal. 
• One must always be storing away information about the other party in order to bring something enticing to the table the next time a deal is desired.
• One must sometimes engage in bargains with the other party - even when not in the dealing mood - in order for reciprocation to occur. 
• One must know how to make the other party feel like they are getting the better end of the deal.

For Instance:
Me: If you run to the store for me I'll empty out the dishwasher.
Brian: I don't want to run to the store.
Me: You'll be back from the store and resting on the couch again before I'm done emptying this dishwasher.  You are clearly the winner here.
Brian: Okay.

Now, to be fair to Brian, he is easy to take because he, evidently, did not grow up bargaining.  It usually doesn't occur to him to wheel and deal with me when he wants something.  And he never makes a counter offer!!  He could totally counter offer, throw in extras, and come out a champ - some of the time at least.  But most of the time it's really kind of pathetic.  It's like he's taken the thrill of the game from me. 

Slowly but surely, he's getting the hang of it.  Just the other afternoon I was complaining about vacuuming and he asked if I wanted him to do it.  Ummmm...OF COURSE!  And then he said, bringing a tear of pride to my eye, "you have to do something for me then."  I was ready to deal! 

"Okay," I pressed on.

"You have to let me play Assassin's Creed (a video game)" he replied.

"DEAL!"

In my best Charlie Sheen voice spoken in my head I thought, "Duh, WINNING!"  I didn't have to do anything!  Except not complain about him playing a video game.  Sweet, innocent Brian.  You've so much to learn about bargaining power.  I found plenty of ways to entertain myself for an evening.  Plus I got to watch him vacuum. 

And he looked dreamy.

Give Me a Head of Hair, Long Beautiful Hair

I gave the old oil and vinegar hair care regimen a fair shake.  I really did.  And in all reality it wasn't bad.  But that chapter, my friends, has come to a close.

I began this journey with my knitting friends who challenged me to try it for the period of Lent since I was interested in it anyway.  All was going okay, but I never felt like my hair was getting conditioned very well.  My hair didn't feel as silky, tangle free, and soft as I wanted.  I kept waiting for the magical transformation in my hair - hair that had never felt healthier - that others had spoken of.  It never really came.  (Sort of like the elusive runner's high that I never once experienced in all my attempts at becoming a runner.) 

The end of June is when I was finally able to see my knitting group again.  I hadn't seen them since February!  (Which is wrong and unhealthy.)  They, in their delightful honest ways, told me that my hair looked fine except that it wasn't as shiny.  I agreed. 

I decided to try an experiment with the vinegar conditioner by throwing in a tablespoon of olive oil with my vinegar water mixture.  I hopped in the shower, went through my normal routine, and when that conditioner met my hair I thought I heard angels singing.  This, THIS, is what conditioned hair felt like.  I rubbed it through my hair ends and rinsed it out, all the while reveling in the luxurious feel of my hair. 

Ah, but what a cruel hoax it all turned out to be.  A few moments later when I was blow drying my hair I realized that I had not in fact rinsed out the "conditioner" at all.  Somehow, I had thought the vinegar would cut through the oil and allow it to rinse off.  The oil sat on my hair like those poor bird-victims of the Exxon Valdez disaster.  I thought maybe as I blow dried it the heat would help it to absorb into my hair.  This did not happen. 

I walked around with my oily cap of hair wanting to wash it so badly.  And I mean wash it with shampoo.  Not only did I feel the baking soda wash was not going to be any sort of match for this oily disaster head, but I was longing to feel the rich lather and sudsy softness of a shampoo - that complete squeaky clean feeling that comes with all that soapy goodness.  But I had come so far!  How could I just give up, revert back? 

I decided I would shampoo and condition (and I mean manufactured conditioner here) JUST ONCE and then I would go back to what I was doing.  Maybe try some other experiments with the conditioner.

In the shower I was nervous.  Would I remember how to do this?  How would my hair react?  Well, it's like riding a bicycle, the squeezing of the bottles and the lathering of the head.  And let me tell you how my hair reacted.

My. Hair. Loved. It.

I don't think my hair had ever felt so silky and supple and soft and gorgeous in my entire life.  I don't think my baby hair felt as sweet as the hair on my head felt on that particular day.  I was like a Pantene commercial, touching my hair, swishing my hair, smelling my hair, tossing my luxurious locks. 

A part of me knew right then and there that it was over.  We were going camping that weekend and I decided I didn't want to hassle with taking baking soda and vinegar and putting together my mixtures while camping.  But I would go right back to it the next week I said.

When we got home we were getting ready to leave in a few days for another weekend.  I decided there was no point in hassling with it right then either.  I would get right back to it the next week.

But the next week came, and I marched slowly into the bathroom.  I grasped my mustard and dressing bottles I'd been using for the hair care mixtures, and walked resignedly into the kitchen, where I placed them gently in the dishwasher.  It was over.  In the end, I'm simply too vain.  Woe is me.  I am too weak and too proud. 

I have decided that what is better, for my hair at least, has little to do with what I'm washing it with but rather the frequency.  My hair is so much healthier when I only wash it every third day.  It was a good run.  Now I know.  And sweet mercy, you just ought to run your fingers through my hair sometime.  I can't get over the difference. 

I am an Old Person Whom Shall Henceforth Talk About Her Physical Ailments

I've been a little tired lately.  That is perhaps the greatest understatement ever made on my blog.  (And I've been known to exaggerate upon occasion.)  I have been grossly exhausted.  To the point that I was getting ten or more hours of sleep a night, still taking naps, and when I was awake I felt like I was under water trying to move through my day.  On top of that I felt like my heart was racing all the time - a constant bounding heartbeat.

So naturally, I thought I was going to die. 

Then I slapped myself across my face, pulled myself together, and got focused.  I did what any other sane person would do.  I turned to Google for answers.  One suggestion that came up was that I might be anemic (low on iron).  Light bulb.  I don't know why I didn't think of this.  (It was probably the lack of red blood cells carrying oxygen to my brain.) 

I've had trouble with iron ever since high school.  The first time I ran into it was my junior or senior year.  I had been highly fatigued for at least six months and I remember begging my mother to take me to the doctor to see what was wrong.  She finally did.  (Although, looking back, I admire her restraint because I can't imagine how snide I probably would have been.  Oh, you're a teenager and you're tired are you?  Don't say!  I just can't imagine!  Let me alert the media!  A tired teenager!)  Anyway, he immediately put me on iron.  I was pretty much right as rain within a week. 

The first year Brian and I were married a different doctor caught my low iron levels in a blood test and again, I went on iron.  But I worry about having too much iron since it builds up in your system - so I always end up going off of it eventually.  Evidently it'd been a little too long.  So, I'm back on the sweet, sweet, iron.  Within two days my heartbeat was back to normal (the rapid heartbeat is caused by not having enough red blood cells to carry oxygen so the heart has to work extra hard - sorry heart!) and my energy levels have been steadily improving.  I've crawled out of the bed, off the couch, and out from under my blankies and I'm ready to meet the world again.

In related news: I have discovered Melatonin!  Melatonin is a hormone that helps control circadian rhythms.  It's a simple supplement that can be purchased in the vitamin section.  I think we all know I have sleep issues.  I have been taking it for a few weeks and it may all be in my head - but I'm going to sleep at normal times and waking up at normal times.  I may be able to live my life like a normal person!!  I never thought it could be possible.  I think all along I've had a dysfunctional circadian rhythm.  I don't know how long I'll take it, because I don't want to turn into that crazy supplement-taking-38-pills-a-day-lady.  But right now, it feels nice to function like the rest of humanity. 

So, my blood's all pumped up with iron and I'm sleeping normally.  Who knows what's next! 

A Thursday Kind of a Blog

After two fantastic long weekends with first my family, and then Brian's, with hosting a dinner party mixed into the middle of it, I completely fell apart this week.  Exhaustion took over and I wandered around like a zombie trying to function.  Then yesterday I got my hair cut and that, evidently, was the last straw.  When I got home I went to sleep.  And I slept.  A whole bunch.

But today is Thursday and, while not terribly interesting, here is what the day looked like:

• I'm still waiting for Doreen the dove to hatch her babies.  It should be happening any minute.  She is completely faithful.  She often gives me hateful looks while I'm watering my plants out front though. 
• I gave several piano lessons.  They were delightful.  My favorite conversation from the lessons went thusly: Me - How was your week? Student - Stressful.  My sister just got home from Belgium and I forgot that she hates me.  
• My parents popped in while I was giving lessons and were kind enough to wait around while I finished up my lessons.  Then they took me to the fair.  They paid my entrance fee.  They bought me lunch.  Clearly, I am still seven years old.  And they let me drag them through every single animal barn.  I loved every second.
• I came home and decided I needed to learn how to play the guitar.  I have done many awkward things with my hands in my piano playing career but I have never done anything as awkward as trying to play a C chord on the guitar.  And I have felt pain while playing the piano but at least the surface of the piano keys never feels like trying to make music on a cheese slicer.  Those strings are a bit ouchy. 
• Currently, the dog is sleeping on the living room rug, Brian is sleeping on the couch "watching" a Cubs game, and I'm checking in with ya'll. 
• Tomorrow - a morning walk and some garage saling with a friend.  Here's hoping your summer is finding you enjoying some easy living as well.

Birds Inc.

I hate to tell you that the bird drama is continuing around here.  But it is. 

The saga of the birds has now moved to the front porch.  Yesterday, whilst watering the hanging flower baskets on my front porch, I discovered a bird nest in one of them.  "No wonder this basket's not looking too hot," I thought to myself.  I looked in the nest: no eggs, no birds.  I decided that the birds must have moved on.  I removed the nest and discarded it in the alley where it was promptly smashed by passing cars.

This morning I awake to find a dove sitting in said hanging basket.  I thought, "silly bird, you can't live here anymore.  I took your nest.  These are no longer suitable lodgings."  When the dove was spooked by a passing car I peeked in the basket to see what damage was done, and behold, there was an egg.  Now I know that egg was not there yesterday.  This dove laid that egg this morning.

Now I'm filled with extreme remorse.  Can you imagine what I've done?!?!  I threw out this mama's nest!  She worked tirelessly to get a cozy space ready to birth her babies, came back to the nest this morning in the midst of birthing pangs, only to discover that her work had been destroyed!  And now, there was no time for her to even gather the resources to build a new one.  The baby was coming and the inn had been torn down.  I am a horrible monster. 

And what do I do about my flowers that are in that basket?  Do I just let her sit all over them and destroy them?  Will I be able to water them?  Will she and her babies be pooping on them?  I read that the gestation period is about 14 days.  How long will they be living there after they hatch?  What if they don't hatch and I've sacrificed my plants for nothing?  Are these residents permanent - will they be returning each year?

Clearly I cannot evict a mother and her babies.  That would be cruel beyond belief.  I guess I'll just be tip-toeing around the front porch for awhile awaiting the new arrivals - and for the magic of nature to unfold.

Last Lesson

It was a beautiful day for our last piano lesson, Nadia and I.  The sun was shining, the windows open: it was as if the heavens were blessing this last meeting between the two of us.

Nadia came to me as a young girl, she must have been in the fourth or fifth grade.  I had taught her older sister some years before and I was aware that their mother had passed away from cancer recently.  I wasn't sure what to expect.  Would she be fragile and shy, would I need to handle her with kid gloves?  But she came with enthusiasm for learning the piano and an outgoing, sweet, and funny personality.  And we had so many good times together as I watched her develop into a wonderful pianist and a delightful young woman.

I knew today was coming.  This wasn't one of those times where it hits me like a punch in the gut.  She graduated from highschool this spring, and this is an inevitable ending - sad though it may be.  But she gave me the beautiful gift of seeing this thing - piano lessons - through to the end.  It wasn't always easy.  There were plenty of weeks she struggled with practice or didn't make it to a lesson.  We shared the disappointments of poor performances and slow progress at times.  But we also marveled at her increasing ability, her love of music, and those times when her performances just shined.  I loved how inquisitive she is, about music and life.  We laughed A LOT in our lessons.  She also gave me one of those moments that makes me so thrilled to be a piano teacher this spring: she played me a song she had composed.  And it was enchanting - a sweet, beautiful piece of music. 

But on this gorgeous June day, at Nadia's last lesson, we also had the chance to sit and talk to each other - something that normally just can't happen in a half hour lesson.  I wanted to encourage her to continue playing, and to know what she had planned next.  And with the lesson done, we could sit and talk like two friends, without the barrier of the teacher student dynamic - another great gift to me.  She doesn't know what is in store for her next.  And in so many ways neither do I.  I love teaching piano and I know I'm going to continue to do it.  But I also have this feeling that there is something else too.  I just don't know what.  We both had a sense that we are waiting to see what God has in store for us - as if we are both sonatas waiting for the composer to finish the next movement.

Nadia has probably taught me as much as I've taught her, as do most of my students.  I can't wait to see where she goes in life.  This was a good ending, both sad and happy.  As she rose from the piano bench to leave we hugged.  Then we hugged again.  The two of us - unfinished compositions that we are.

For the Birds

It's no secret that I am officially old.  One hallmark of my advancing age is my daily bird-watching.  That's right.  I am obsessed with birds.  It won't be long now until I'm taking bird watching trips, learning bird calls, purchasing bird books, and otherwise engaging in this geriatric past-time. 

However, the birds have been angering me of late.  Frankly, they're needy and rude - not taking into account my feelings or appreciating my efforts to make their lives better at all.

1. A few years ago I purchased a lovely hummingbird feeder to replace my cheeky plastic red one.  The new one is really lovely.  I purchased it at a bird store in Indianapolis.  It's purple and has a lovely disk shape with elegant detailing and a perch for the birds to sit while they eat.  I brought it home, threw out the old one and waited for the hummingbirds to come.  I thought there would surely now be more hummingbirds than ever as word spread throughout bird land of the new and superior feeder that was hanging over by the little yellow house.  I figured I might have to purchase a few more of them so that fights would not break out amongst these charming, yet territorial, feathered creatures.  But they did not come.  In fact, the ones that had been visiting ceased feeding at our house at all.  Finally, last year I went and bought a $3 el-cheapo hummingbird feeder that was red and plastic and stupid looking just to see what happened.  Within minutes the hummingbirds returned.  All manner of hummingbirds descended on that grotesque red feeder.  I am beside myself.  I don't even know if I want them around if they're going to act like that.
2. Ah, the gold finches, with their sweet songs and enchanting head movements.  They love my gold-finch-feeder.  They really do.  I filled that baby up at the beginning of spring and they immediately came and ate.  And ate.  And ate.  They ate like crazy.  Until the feeder was only a quarter full.  And then they stopped.  No more finches.  I wondered what happened.  I thought maybe they were all busy having their babies and would return in a few weeks.  Or maybe a terrible bird tragedy had befallen them like those birds in the south last year.  Were they dropping dead out of the sky?  I worried about my little finches.  I decided to fill the feeder again, even though there was clearly still plenty of food in it, just to see what happened.  Again, within minutes they were back.  All manner of gold finches, verily, every gold finch in the county it seemed was eating their fill.  So, evidently they were all too good to eat the food at the bottom of the feeder?  What?  They want a full feeder or they won't eat?  Who do these finches think they are?  Shame on them.
3. This final example is really the last nail in the coffin for me.  I had read that birds like to eat where there is a water source so they can drink and bathe and be generally content.  So this weekend I finally purchased a bird bath.  Just a silly cheapy one but I think it looks kinda cute.  I thought it would be the final installment in my bird-paradise-back-yard, and I knew the birds would love me for it.  But I also have these little candle holders on posts in my flower beds.  The idea is that they can hold citronella candles but in reality all they do is collect rain water since we never put candles in them.  They are a few feet away from my new bird swimming pool.  And yesterday, I watched a bird reject the bird bath only to land on the edge of one of the candle/water holders.  It took a drink, which was cute so I almost forgave it.  And then.  Then this bawdy little bird turned around, placed its little tail feathers in the water (which was still kind of cute) AND POOPED IN MY CANDLE HOLDER.  I SAW THE POOP FLOAT DOWN THROUGH THE WATER.  And then it flew away.  I have now attached signs to each of the candle holders informing these foul fowl that these are NOT birdy bidets.  Okay, I haven't actually done that but I am incensed, downright offended.  These birds show no respect. 

And that, good people, is why caring for the birds might be better left to the birds.

A Fishy Story

A few weeks ago Brian was away for the weekend repairing a screen in Virginia and I, with a particular and shameful weakness for McDonald's Filet O'Fish meal, decided I should treat myself to this culinary delight.  However, I made the mistake of talking to my sister on the phone and divulging to her my plans.  She shamed me.  She said that if it was a fish sandwich and fries I was desiring that I should simply make it myself, that it would be more delicious and nutritious.  Since I had nothing better to do, and the guilt she had laid upon me was quite immense, I decided to give it a go. 


The first step was purchasing the supplies.  While I try to avoid pre-packaged foods, the ingredients list on the fish fillet box did not seem overly offensive.



I then had to bake my little patties of fishy goodness.



Whilst (I think that word should be used more.  Don't you?) the fish was baking, I whipped out some delightfully tasty tartar sauce, if I do say so myself.

I lovingly placed my fries into a cozy little oil bath.



I then had to tear up a brown paper bag (since I haven't been purchasing paper towels, which would have been much easier in this situation) and spread out my happy fries and sprinkled them with sea salt.



Then I had to steam my buns, because a true Filet O'Fish connoisseur knows that the bun must be steamed for that soft cushiony delightful feeling.



And then it was time to assemble my meal.  Just a tad classier than eating out of a paper bag in a parking lot.

So now you are probably wondering what the verdict was.  (Or how bored I could have possibly been to not only cook this meal, but document the entire process.)  Well...

I should have gone to McDonald's. 

My first mistake was in listening to a woman (my sister) who earlier in the day had prepared six quiches and ten pounds of roasted potatoes for a meeting that would not take place for another week.  She did not discover this gaffe until arriving at the EMPTY meeting location, food in tow.  So, she doesn't even know what day it is and I'm listening to her give me advice about how to make food that is better than a trusted institution.  (Okay, I know that McDonald's is absolutely horrible and I try not to eat there.  It can't stop me from loving their delicious food though.) 

So I gave it a shot.  It didn't take long to prepare.  I'm sure it was better for me.  But my fries were too thick and they got soggy.  And the sandwich lacked a certain je ne sais quoi.  And somehow it just didn't have the delicious irresistability of that Number 9 meal that I adore.

It was probably the absence of plastic and crack-cocaine that is likely in those yummy fries and sumptuous fish sandwich.  Still...

What Just Happened Here?

After spending three months carefully researching prices and travel advice, poring over reviews, watching Rick Steve's "Best of Europe" episodes, and dutifully squirrelling money away for a trip to Ireland in September...last night we finally booked our trip to:

Prague and Budapest

?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

I don't even know what happened. 

I need to go pull myself together before I accidentally enroll in graduate school all "spur-of-the-moment" too.

Where Have I Been

When I don't blog for a week or two I get completely overwhelmed with all the things I should have blogged about and wanted to blog about...and then my mind gets paralyzed and can't think of anything of any interest to anyone.  So, it is in an attempt to get myself blogging again that I make this entry.  It is in the spirit of one of my favorite bloggers, the yarnharlot, who often writes numbered lists of random happenings.  Here goes:

1. We were thieved.  A hoodlum broke into our garage and took our Garmin (GPS) and Brian's circular saw.  I guess my dad's right.  We live in the ghetto.  But I'm sure that crack-head needed the money worse than we needed that circular saw or the somewhat untrustworthy navigational device.
2. I acquired the lamest sports injury in history.  I took a long walk.  And after that I couldn't walk for days.  According to the internet, I probably had a bit of tendonitis.  From walking.  Are you kidding me?
3. I read a list of symptoms for goiter.  I concluded that I did not in fact have goiter.  I woke up the next morning with goiter.  It's better now.
4. I have been crying excessively for the last two weeks.  The last episode of "The Office" made me a wreck.  My mom recited "The Road Less Traveled" at Easter dinner and I blubbered like a baby the entire time.  I have turned into a sentimental sap.  More so than before.  It's probably a symptom of goiter.
5. I finished the "Harry Potter" book series.  Ten years later than the rest of the world.  But wow, were they ever good!
6. I had an exhilarating library experience.  I requested that the library purchase about five books.  And they did.  And they held them for me so that I could read them first.  The power may have gone to my head. 
7. We spent a lovely weekend in Indy with Brian's parents in which we ate copious amounts of meat.  Mmmmmmmm...
8. Our sweet 1995 Taurus has finally been repaired, i.e. it no longer has its "sweet purr" as I liked to refer to it.  The purr had turned into a roar.  You're welcome neighborhood.  We have done our part to make this area a little less ghetto.
9. In February I took a bunch of items to area consignment shops.  Last week I went and collected $45 dollars from them.  I did not have to get up early, put out tables, put stupid price stickers on anything, and make small talk with strange neighbors.  I will never have another garage sale as long as I live. 
10. My brother-in-law claimed that if you put an orange in a sock and beat somebody with it, they'll be hurt badly but won't bruise.  So guess what we did this weekend after purchasing oranges?  He was wrong.  I have a bruise on my arm from where I beat my own self with a sock-orange.  Brian was the only one smart enough to not take part in this experiment.

In related news: I made it throught the Lent season without shampooing or conditioning my hair.  There were some rough days.  I over-baking-soda'd my hair one day and ended up with a grease bomb living on top of my head.  Then I got some control but I was hating it.  The top of my head was greasy and the tips of my hair were DRY and resembled a bristle broom.  It was disaster. 

I scoured the internet trying to figure out where I was going wrong.  The helpful advice I found said: "Play around with the proportions and methods.  You'll figure out what works for you."  I don't want to play around!  I just want someone to tell me what the three options are and spell out how to do them so I can end this torture!!  One person said "don't use too much baking soda because it will end up making your hair more greasy."  Another said, "If your hair is greasy you need to add some more baking soda."  Thank you so much to the granola-eating-birkentstock-wearing-hippies who can't give me CLEAR INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO GET MY HAIR CLEAN. 

I finally found what has worked for me, thanks to one kind person who made a comment on another blog with some clear instructions.  I have a mixture of roughly two tablespoons of baking soda to one cup of water.  I mix the baking soda with HOT water and shake it until dissolved. (The baking soda should have a slippery, not gritty feel.)  I get my hair dripping wet, and then apply the mixture.  Rub it in.  Let it sit while I brush my teeth.  (Yes, I brush my teeth in the shower...makes way more sense.)  Then rinse it out really good.  I then rinse the ends only of my hair with my vinegar mixture.  (1 Tbs. Vinegar/1 C. Water)  And then I rinse that out. 

I think I'm going to stick with it for a while.  I don't ever want to go through that adjustment period again.  So I'll keep it going until a.) I'm wealthy and can afford really delightful organic hair products or b.) I'm too lazy to take it any longer. 

With that, I leave you with a few pictures of what my hair looked like a few weeks into the project - and I wish you a happy spring!!!

First Poo-Free Washing

Since I spent copious amounts of time on Fat Tuesday washing my hair, I did not wash it yesterday (the first day of Lent).  So today was the first washing with baking soda and apple cider vinegar.  And tomorrow I have a hair appointment.  Thus, my Lenten exercise is going to start off with a bit of a hiccup because my hair dresser is going to wash my hair.  I briefly considered taking in my bottle of baking soda mix to have her use, but I think she would look askance at that.  In fact, I don't think I'll tell her of my plan because she will probably hair-dresser-divorce me. 

The results of the first washing: it didn't feel like I washed my hair at all.  I didn't like it.  It just sort of felt like I was pouring water on my head.  It doesn't feel as clean as normal, but, maybe I'll develop a new normal.  I blow dried it and here's what I look like:

I guess it looks clean enough, but I'm not quite sure yet what I think.

Also, just for fun, here's a picture of a.) a throw pillow with a tiny head, or b.) my giant cat.  I report, you decide.

 

 What you can't tell from this shot is that her entire body is covering a floor vent and she is vampiring all the heat that is supposed to warm the guest room.  I tried putting her on a diet but all that happened is that my other cat almost starved to death because she ate all his food.  Oh Maggie, what will become of you? 

Poo Free

Happy Ash Wednesday!  Every year I struggle to find something meaningful to give up for Lent.  I really admire the idea behind giving something up - to draw closer to God - to examine the practices and material goods we have become dependent on in our daily living - even if it's not done for religious reasons.  And so often I end up giving up on giving something up because it seems too difficult to find that perfect transformational experience. 

A few weeks ago I was kicking around the idea of going shampoo and conditioner free.  I had read several forums and blog posts about it and it sounds, well, at the least really interesting.  (There is a great article on how to do this at simplemom.net.)  Most of what I've read claims that your head will not become a grease pit, but that in fact you will have hair that is in the best condition ever.  (Hmmm, I am sort of vain about said hair.)  To sum it up, you wash your hair with baking soda and you condition it with apple cider vinegar.  How cheap and easy can you get?  And you aren't pouring horrible chemicals on your head and you help the environment?  No brainer.  

I brought it up to my knitting group (always full of wise counsel and up for good adventure) and they suggested I take the leap for Lent.  That way, I am giving it a fair shake but have an ending date if it doesn't work out.  I loved the idea immediately.

And then I got a little crazy.  There is so much good information out there about the dangers of the chemicals we use in cleaning our homes and our bodies.  Not only that, but there are really easy, cheap, and natural ingredients we can use as an alternative.  I went to the library and pulled out books with recipes.  I went to the health food store and went berserk.  I stopped at the grocery store and bought all the vinegar and baking soda they had.  (Just kidding...although I stocked up.)  I've already started mixing up my own laundry detergent.  Today I made fabric softener.  Two days ago I started using the oil cleansing method on my face.  (I'll admit, this one SCARES ME TO DEATH.) 

But I can't help feel like all these things are still just token moves, just drops in the environmental bucket.  And I need to find a balance.  I don't know where to stop.  For instance, yesterday I read a forum where women were exclaiming how wonderful reusable feminine hygiene products are and why don't all women use them and why would you want to kill mother earth by not using them and OMG when are you going to start using them?  It had not really occurred to me that I should be seeking an alternative and now I feel just horrible.  Am I literally going to have to go sit in a red tent every month now?  Every time I hear about something new, I can't un-hear it, and then I feel I have a responsibility to respond.  I can't eat my beloved Swiss Cake Rolls without feeling a tremendous amount of guilt because I just know that they are filled with things that are just HORRIBLE for me, not to mention the packaging.  Oh my lands, THE PACKAGING! 

I'm going to take a deep breath now. 

All better. 

But you see what I'm saying about this balance issue.  I want to try to live responsibly - in regards to the environment, our health, and the old pocket-book - but I also want to enjoy the good things in life (i.e. Swiss Cake Rolls) and enjoy my time here on this planet. 

At any rate, yesterday was Fat Tuesday and since it was my last day to shampoo, I lived it up.  Hope you did the same.  My hope is that if you are giving up something for Lent, it might be an enlightening experience. 

Sticks and Stones...*Warning: Feminist Rant to Follow*

“All right, ladies, let’s get to work. I called you a lady to humiliate you. It’s a motivational tactic we coaches use.” - Sponge Bob Square Pants

Something has been bothering me a lot in the last few years and it seems like I'm becoming more and more aware of it - and more sensitive about it. I am sick and tired of men cutting each other down by, in essence, calling someone a female. It occurs in a lot of different ways, and by using many different phrases. And I can barely stomach it anymore. Some examples of phrases I have recently heard, from one man to another man, (and they aren't pretty):

"Don't be a girl."

"Quit being a pussy!" (We all know this means "don't be a vagina" which at its very essence means, "don't be a woman.")

"Man up."  (This one may not fit, but just sort of bothers me.)

"What are you? A woman?"

"Come on now, hike up your skirt and play."

"Who lit the fuse on your tampon string?"

There are a lot of other variations I hear that I shan't repeat here because of their vulgarity (as if the above were not vulgar enough). This drivel is unbelievable to me. Would we tell each other, or our children, not to be a black person, or a Jew, or a dirty Arab? I imagine a lot of people still do, but generally the circles I move in don't do that. But those same people (even those who are followers of Jesus) don't hesitate to throw out these little barbs of latent sexism when they wouldn't do the same regarding race.  And these are good people, people I love and even admire.  But what bothers me most is that these are men who have daughters, who are married to - and presumably love - a woman, who have mothers.  Why is this okay? 

I've heard people come back with: well, of course, a man shouldn't be something other than a man, shouldn't try to be something other than a man, and that's all these phrases allude to.   

Nice try.  We all know that this kind of language means that being a woman is "less than."  This language means that women are weak, both emotionally and physically and that there are no qualities in women that should be emulated.  It means being anything like a woman is something one should avoid at all costs, lest you be seen as weak, useless, expendable. 

It is a futile battle that I fight to get the men around me to take this seriously.  (And even most women.)  They think I'm being such a typical "girl" about it, that I'm being way too sensitive, that there's no harm in this good-natured ribbing.  (Even Brian thinks I'm off my rocker about this one.  He tries not to speak this way simply because he doesn't want to hear me rant for five minutes, not because he actually embraces what I'm saying.)  But this isn't good-natured ribbing.  This type of talk settles into our psyche, becomes part of our culture and society, and shapes our expectations of what we can become.  Look around you at how it doesn't even occur to most women to be offended at this talk!  Is it because we view ourselves this way that we simply accept it?

We have finally reached a point in our society where it is okay to raise little girls more like boys.  They can be good at sports, wear pants, get dirty, be good at math and science, and have strong wills.  I would say, typical masculine qualities.  But we are still not okay with little boys being raised in any way that resembles feminine qualities.  I don't think that women and men share identical characteristics - and viva la difference - I don't want us to be the same.  But when will we start to actually value the wonderful characteristics of females - or at the very least, not see them as the very worst? 

Celebrating Love

This post is a bit late considering that it began on February 14 and the subject matter is the oh-so-controversial topic of Valentine's Day. 

You see, I began this post while Brian was at work on the great day of love, but the day took a bit of an unexpected turn.  Here's the story.

Every year as Valentine's Day approaches, Brian and our friend Dan begin ranting and raving about how it's a made-up holiday created by the card companies to make men spend money.  While it has been exploited by the card companies, it certainly wasn't created by them.  And if it was - so what?  Is there anything wrong with having one day a year that we recognize love and the great gift it is to us human beings - and not just romantic love, but love in general?  What would life be without relationships that lend meaning to our existence and provide us with joy and nurturing?  I think that holidays in general break the tedium of everyday life.  Which is why I look forward to St. Patrick's Day with zeal and hit haunted houses every Halloween!  We need these little spots of levity to keep our lives from growing dreary.  So a day honoring love isn't such a bad thing in my opinion.

But whenever the topic is brought up Brian has this go-to phrase he likes to say.  It goes something like this: "Why should I have to do something special for Lisa on Valentine's Day?  I celebrate our love every day." 

And every time he says it I think: Oh really?  Pray tell, what is this daily celebration you speak of?  What are these ceremonies and festivities that are taking place commemorating our great love each day?  Because if you're partying it up over our love each day, I don't think you've invited me to the celebration. 

Now, I know, I know, celebrating can be in the small things, blah, blah, blah.  However, it might be more appropriate to say that he lives in a state of gratitude for our love each day.  Expressing that love and gratitude in small ways.  (Perhaps in the way he leaves his slippers on the dresser every night, or eats all the yummy food in the house?  Just kidding!  No, he really does those things but I know it's not out of love.)  He's very good at expressing love and acting out in love in so many ways each day.  It just sort of hurts my feelings when he acts like it's the hugest burden in the world to spend a day really celebrating it, like it's not worth whooping it up over our relationship for a day.

But I'm used to the attitude, I kind of get it, and I'm not sore about it and I don't harbor secret expectations.  So this Valentine's Day I set about making a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs for our romantic supper.  (Because I take all my romantic cues from "Lady and the Tramp.")  And Brian was happy.  (He loves spaghetti!)  And we had a lovely dinner and I was feeling quite satisfied.

Then he goes and brings this out of the kitchen:

The prettiest, sweetest little Valentine's Day ring ever!  (He knows I have a thing for rings - as in I crazy love them.)  Maybe because it hasn't been automatic all of these years to receive a gift, this one felt really special.  It was so out of the blue, such a pure surprise, that it brought so much more joy than if I had been expecting a Valentine's Day token or gift.

No, next year I won't be expecting that he has to get me a gift.  If he does I'll be happy but if not, I'll still know that I'm loved.  Maybe by our 25th Valentine's Day together we'll finally have this figured out...but if not, I'll always have 2011.

A Puzzling Adventure

I always believed that I would be a great do-er of jigsaw puzzles.  It started when I was just a wee child.  I would work on my wooden puzzle that depicted a mother hippopotamus and her baby and involved, oh, maybe about seven pieces.  I worked feverishly numerous times reuniting that mother hippo and her baby, putting them back in order as if their very lives depended on it.  Then I graduated to the 25, and even 50 piece puzzles of furry kittens and sleepy puppies.  I was good at them.  Efficient.  I delighted in them.

So I always imagined that one day I would join my mother at her grown-up puzzles depicting the English countryside that were comprised of 1,000 or more tiny pieces.  However, when the time came for me to leave behind my childhood puzzles and join the world of adult jigsaw puzzles I found myself, well, disillusioned.  We would lay the puzzle out, flip the pieces over dividing the border pieces from the rest of the riff-raff, and with great anticipation start putting the pieces together.  But I found that sitting in front of seemingly millions of disconnected puzzle pieces that frankly, resembled nothing of the scene on the puzzle box when blown up to a larger size and chopped up like raw hamburger, was not relaxing or fun - but rather frustrating and futile.  I did not enjoy it.  I found it to be a giant waste of time that turned my brain to mush, made my neck hurt, and made we want to sweep the entire puzzle to the floor with a giant wave of my angry arm.  I was, in short, a great disappointment to myself. 

I gave up my puzzling ways.  I would stare in wonderment at my mother and sister who worked tirelessly at assembling these puzzles that were a staple in our house during the winter.  I envied them and their enjoyment.  Sometimes I would give it a go again to see if maybe something in my brain had clicked and I would now find this a pleasant past-time.  But nothing ever changed.  I would work for what seemed like hours to find two pieces that fit together and exhausted from the exertion, I would declare myself done. 

When I married Brian I discovered that he too was one of these odd breeds of people that enjoyed the process of piecing together a perfectly lovely picture that had been torn all to heck.  (Who ever came up with this sick idea?)  It is an endless source of amusement to me to see him drawn to puzzles that are laid out in people's homes.  An intensity enters his eyes and he slavishly labors over the puzzle, almost unable to pull himself away from it.  (One of the funniest things he's ever said to me was, "man, my back hurts from working on that puzzle."  Seriously!?) His child-like joy at working that puzzle is amazing and endearing.  I have to admit, he seems to be good at it. 

We've tried laying out puzzles here in the past because I know he enjoys them.  However, until recently our cats have always made that an even more frustrating and futile activity than what it already is.  (As in, we would wake up in the morning to find puzzle pieces all over the floor.)  But they are old, lazy, and fat and no longer express interest in...well, anything really.  So we are once again in the safe zone.  So this weekend, we purchased a puzzle at a thrift store and got to work. 

And - low and behold, I enjoyed working on that puzzle all weekend.  Is it that finally at the age of 33 I have enough patience and wisdom to find pleasure in the puzzle?  Or am I just bored and stir-crazy enough from winter that any task, regardless of how horrible it is, will appeal to me?  It also could be the fact that Brian and I made it a competitive sport.  I wanted to be better at it than him.  I became territorial.  (Don't you dare work on that turquoise dinghy!  That is mine!  And don't even think about touching the barn either.  I'm going to work on it!)  I trash talked.  (Yeah, I totally put together that sky border before you got your border pieces together.  And mine was WAY harder.)  I threw pieces into the area he was working on.  I blocked his light with my head.  I threw my elbow around.  I declared him arrogant.  At one point he said he might not be able to work on the puzzle with me anymore because I wasn't a good sport.  Whatever Mister High-and-Mighty.  Sheesh. 

Basically, it was a good time.  And I want to do it again.  And I feel so grown up and proud of myself now that I enjoy puzzles.  I feel like I have "arrived." 

And I also feel fairly geriatric, because at the age of 33, our wild and crazy weekend entailed putting on our pajamas, turning on some classic rock, and working on a jigsaw puzzle.  Well, call me old or lame if you will.  It was still a thoroughly relaxing and lovely weekend.

That Thing I Do

Every time I lose a piano student it feels like a punch in the gut.  It hurts.  I mourn and grieve.  I question my teaching abilities.  I wonder if there is more I could have done.  I feel like a total loser.

I go through this even when I sense it coming (because I can often feel it heading down the pike).  I experience the grief even when I know that the time is right for a student to quit and that it will be best for the student and myself.  I even mourn a little when it is a student that I never really "clicked" with or one that never did any work (making lesson time torture for both of us more than likely). 

So when, at the beginning of the week, I received a call from a mother of two students to inform me that they would be discontinuing lessons at the end of February (for reasons I totally understood), I found myself facing that familiar mixture of disappointment and regret again. 

I rarely talk about piano lessons in this blog.  Not because there isn't a wealth of material - because WOW! - there is a lot of good stuff there.  Not only are my students hilarious, but I continually learn so much through them.  But somehow it feels as though there is some unspoken teacher/student confidentiality vow that I have taken.  I don't ever want a student to feel as though they are the butt of a joke or are being violated in any way.  And I guess what happens at our lessons feels a bit private and maybe even a little sacred to me.

I have the privilege of meeting one-on-one with children and young adults once a week.  And some of these students I see once a week for six or more years!  We build a relationship, a trust that I take very seriously.  Some students open up to me at the first lesson but some relationships I have to coax and nurture and build.  I made a decision long ago that regardless of a student's performance at the piano, I was going to build a relationship with the person who comes to lessons each week. 

Because each student is a person:

• who is good at some things and not as good at others,
• who has passions and hobbies - even if it's not piano,
• who experiences angst and drama at school and occasionally gets their feelings hurt,
• who has tests to study for and lines to memorize for the school play,
• who has a beloved pet that just died,
• who is excited about a sleepover or cousins coming to visit,
• who has dreams of someday becoming something great. 

How narrow it is to only view them through the lens of the piano.  If I only viewed them through that lens I could potentially end up really disliking a student who is a delightful person.  So I try.  I try to get to know them all and value them for who they are.  Sometimes I fail and I never quite make that connection.  (And granted, I only have a few minutes a week which isn't super conducive to developing really deep feelings.)  Sometimes I am just not the right teacher for a particular student.  But I really hope that they can feel that I care.  I think they do.  I have even had a few students break down in tears when they told me they were going to quit.  Which then makes me cry and really, it's a big mess. 

Perhaps that is why it always hurts when it's time to say goodbye.  Maybe if I took a more clinical approach, more professional even, I could separate myself from the heartache.  I don't know if I want to.  I don't know if I would enjoy what I do as much without the richness of those relationships. 

And then, with perfect timing, a new student came to meet me at the end of this week.  One that will leave me eventually as they all do - but one that I think I will love working with.  I was reminded that there is a constant cycle to this job of mine, and the sting from earlier in the week lessened. 

Oops, I Did it Again

Well the Showalters are looking into refinancing the homestead.  What with me having given up some significant wages in the last year, and the interest rates being low, it looks like a way to possibly save a few bucks a month.  (What's that?  I could get a job you say?  Hmph.) 

We lined up an appraisal for Monday morning at 11:00 a.m.  Enough time for me to get my house, and myself, in tip-top shape for "the man" to come look at my home and judge the dickens out of it. 

Sunday night we made jokes about how I was going to be home by myself for the appraisal and that maybe I should show a little skin, if you know what I mean (wink, wink), in order to get a better value on the house.  Skin.  Honestly.  That's all we were talking about.  An ankle, maybe an exposed knee.  Get your minds out of the gutter people.  Alright, maybe flashing a hoot had been talked about.  But it was pure jest. 

Or so I thought.

Because honestly, who shows up an hour and fifteen minutes early to an appraisal?  When has a repair person, or the cable guy, or the plumber shown up early - ever?  The answer is: they don't.  If they give you a window they are always near the tail end of that window. 

So I woke up on Monday morning and got my house cleaned, all in my pj's.  Now all my pajamas are cozy, fleecy, utilitarian numbers.  So I often stay in them until I really need to get out of them.  Why get in clean clothes to clean the house and dirty them up?  I think it's good stewardship.  (Although I did have that awkward encounter with one of my piano students who popped by in the morning to reschedule her lesson last week.)  So at 9:45, a generous amount of time before my 11:00 appointment, I went into my bedroom and started changing.  One pair of jeans and a brassiere later came a knock on the door.  I immediately hit the deck like a gun shot had gone off. 

The problem is that several years ago we repainted our bedroom and hung up roman shades on the windows.  We quickly discovered that they are SEE THROUGH from the outside of the house!  It's ridiculous.  So I really need to get some fabric to hang behind them.  But the headboard of the bed covers the front window pretty good so unless you're standing on the porch, looking in to the front window, you really can't see much.  So I haven't worried about it even though I probably should get it taken care of. 

But who knows what the early appraiser saw.  Did he decide to do a little checking around before knocking on my door?  I can just hear him saying to his young son who was with him, "Son, this is why you don't call if you are going to show up early."  In the end it was a frazzled and embarrassed woman who answered the front door, having exposed herself to the working man. 

And no, it didn't seem to help the appraisal, which makes me feel all the dirtier.  Guess he didn't like what he saw.  Ugh. 

Week Report

Well, there's nothing much to report from here.  It's been a pretty quiet week overall. 

There was that one evening that Brian and I played euchre with friends and he went ape-crazy over a very well-played and strategic move that I made.  He yelled at me for minutes.  He pouted for hours.  I gently urged him to apologize for his behavior for about two days:

• Laying in bed saying, "are you sure there isn't anything you want to say to me?" 
• Kissing him goodbye as he heads to work fishing, "is that everything then? Does anything look a little different now that you've had a good night's sleep?" 
• Snuggling on the couch, whispering in his ear, "are you ready to admit you were wrong yet?"

But I got nothin'.  He is stubbornly clinging to his deluded sense of euchre morals. 

Then there was that one night that I went ape-crazy a few nights after the euchre incident.  And I mean, I really lost my cool in an uncharacteristic way and said a load of stuff that was cruel and untrue.  Geez Louise.  After thirteen years of marriage you'd think we'd have this figured out.  Clearly that is not the case.

I, however, apologized immediately.  (You like my self-righteous superiority?)

But I was still a little sore at him for a day or two. 

Then there was the evening that I decided to make venison chili that I simply couldn't enjoy.  And then in the morning I threw up.  HA!  It could have been that I didn't eat much of the chili therefore I stuffed myself with odds and ends I found in the fridge and chances are one of those things had, shall we say, turned?  But the chili put me in such a state of extreme hunger that I was forced to eat rotten food.  I still blame it on the chili.

And I'm glad it's no longer in my belly.

I don't know what I'm going to do with the remaining ground venison and the venison steaks seeing as I don't like it and will therefore, likely not be cooking with it.  Oh and poor Brian was SO excited about that meat.  SO EXCITED!  (A co-worker of his hunted Darrel the Christmas deer for us.)  I don't want to be wasteful but...gross.

And then there's this:

This is a beautiful calendar that Brian's mother gave us for Christmas.  And I hung it up with great joy when the new year hit.  (I actually REALLY love the ritual of changing the calendars.) 

But last week I looked more closely at it - and my mind when into a complete tailspin.  Honestly, it turned to mush for moments as I grappled with the utter confusion the images brought on.  Look more closely.

For the love of everything holy, who is the cruel person that decided this was a good idea?  It looks so much like a regular calendar that I had been reading the days all wrong.  For who knows how long?  (Well, probably not that long considering it's only the 12th.)  What if I've made crazy plans for 27th thinking it's a Saturday?  There is potential for mayhem here.  Now that I'm on to it's little tricks though, I'll be on my guard.  But not cool, calendar maker.  Not cool.  (But Linda, I do love the calendar.  I'm just saying, perhaps a warning would have been in order.)

Blah, Blah, Blah, New Years Resolutions, Blah, Blah

Oh 2011, how you loom brightly before me with your endless possibilities and promises of new/good things.  I have so many things that I resolve to do in this year that my head is swimming.  I was going to stick to just one thing and then I decided that lacked enough ambition for 2011 to respect. 

On new year's eve I decided I wanted to start a new tradition, inspired largely by the burning of Zozobra that I witnessed in New Mexico.  I found the burning of my "glooms" to be so cathartic that I wanted a little more of that in my life.  So I sent Brian outside with a challenge: to create fire using several pieces of soggy wood and a few newspapers.  He did not disappoint.  An hour later he had a blaze going worthy of burning the most wicked of glooms.  We wrote our woes down on slips of paper and cast them into the fire.  Gloom!  You shall haunt us no more!

Resolutions:  (Laces her fingers together, cracks her knuckles, rubs her hands together, prepares to type.)

1. As per my earlier entry, stop obsessing over what others think of me.  I have decided that when I find myself in the throes of obsession I will inform Brian who has been instructed to then slap me across the face and tell me to get a hold of myself, thereby creating a link between obsession and physical pain that should cure this bad habit.
2. Earn more money for our household, i.e. pull my own weight around here.
3. Stop obsessing over money and self-worth.
4. Drink more water for the love of Pete.
5. Read more books.
6. Stop feeling guilt over reading books.
7. Knit myself a garment that actually looks good on me.
8. Stop being a vampire bat and actually have a regular sleep schedule.
9. Move to Europe.
10. Be content in Indiana.
11. Become a travel agent.
12. Win the mega millions and be independently wealthy and move to Barbados.
13. Find out what I want to be when I grow up.
14. Embrace a simpler life - without feeling guilt that I am not living up to my potential.
15. Stop accumulating so much STUFF!  Stop buying stuff and wanting stuff...
16. Right after I get my new pair of boots.
17. Be kinder to Brian, avoiding references to his large head (both figuratively and literally) and the gray hairs on it.
18. Blog more.  I totally blew it last year.  I was going to try to beat my 2009 number and failed.
19. Be healthier - including the need to quit singing songs about how much I love butter.
20. Find the solution to world peace.

Okay, some of these are more dreams than resolutions.  But I don't care what you think.  (There.  See.  That wasn't so hard.)  HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!!