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.