Generally, I love scrapbooking. I love creating the layout designs, choosing colors to complement photos, devouring magazines and books to learn more, more, more. I love when people see my scrapbooks and are moved by them, whether to tears or laughter. Why does love always seem to lead to trouble?
For the past several years I've given family members scrapbooks - hard or digital copies - for Christmas. They're usually a huge hit. They were such a hit that my sister-in-law requested a scrapbook for her wedding gift. That was a year ago. I just can never seem to find the energy or the motivation to sit down and do it.
Then around the same time she asked I got the brilliant idea that I could do custom scrapbooks for people. My mom, trying to be supportive, decided to become my first customer. She ordered 3 identical scrapbooks for my kids, my brothers kids and for herself. The were supposed to be gifts for last Christmas.
It would seem that I am an incredible flake, and maybe on some level I am. But I am also responsible for 2 kids, a husband, a cat a house and a few jobs. I can't work on scrapbooks during the day because kids and scrapbook materials don't mix well. At night, I'm pretty much incapable of doing more than drool at the television until I pass out, which usually is about thirty minutes after my kids have gone to sleep.
Knowing that I have all these responsibilities, people have still made their requests. It's flattering on some level, but I think there may be a teensy bit of resentment. am I not stretched thin enough, people? Now, it's not like anyone is breathing down my neck for their books, rather I'm breathing down my own neck because I feel bad. I don't like to disappoint or flake out on people, but I only have a finite store of energy, which is usually depleted by five o'clock every day - I just don't have any more in me.
the books will get done. Maybe by Christmas, maybe by next year, who knows. I know one thing for certain: it's a darned good thing I never went forward with that business idea.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Saggy (pajama) Pants
Before I go any further, I should point out that I've been awake since 3:45 am, so I'm not particularly filled with sunshine and daisies this morning. I was awakened by my daughter who had kicked the covers off and was cold. But then I couldn't go back to sleep because I was cold and my pajamas were annoying me - mostly it was the pajamas.
I was very excited the other day when I went out and bought some new comfy jammies. They're quite nice - blue plaid, flannel. I was pleased. That is to say I was pleased until I put them on and discovered that they, like almost every-doggone-thing else, are low waisted. Did they have to do it to the pajama bottoms too?
Who the hell are clothing manufacturers dressing anyway? Certainly not me. I don't think I'm alone with my little bit of a gut from birthing two babies. Granted, not everyone in the world has a belly after they have kids, but I find it quite odd that in this country, which we are told has a pandemic obesity problem, there are more women with flat little model bellies than woman with more rounded ones.
I actually did some looking before I started ranting. It's damned near impossible to find pants that come to the waist anymore. They even have the nerve to advertise these waistlines as more comfortable. For whom? Are you kidding? Is it really more comfortable to have your navel hanging over your waistband and to feel like your pants are constantly falling off? Don't get me wrong, you can still get natural waisted pants, they just tend to fit and look like something my grandmother would have worn. Also, what's this nonsense about the 'natural waist'? Do they mean the natural waist of a short waisted person with long legs or the natural waist of a long waisted person with short legs? Because I'm neither, so I guess I'll just grab a fig leaf, thanks. Maybe that's the problem - it's too hard to figure out where the waist should be, so why not cut it out altogether?
I'm not even forty yet - I don't need to dress but so matronly; I'd just like to not accentuate the fact that I've put on a couple (dozen) pounds since I had my kids. And being that my hands are usually occupied, I'd prefer to not have to keep stopping to pull my pants up. Why is it so impossible to look cute AND keep your pants up AND not go bankrupt to do it?
And now it's the pajamas. The last thing anyone needs is to feel like their pants are falling off while they're trying to sleep! I thought they'd be okay and that as long as I had the drawstring tied, they'd stay put. Had I been able to sleep through the night I probably wouldn't have noticed.
For those of us who can't afford to spend hundreds of dollars on a pair of jeans and tend to shop at big retailers like Walmarts and Targets, there is sad little to choose from. Would someone please tell these clothing makers to cut us some slack...and maybe another inch at the waist?
I was very excited the other day when I went out and bought some new comfy jammies. They're quite nice - blue plaid, flannel. I was pleased. That is to say I was pleased until I put them on and discovered that they, like almost every-doggone-thing else, are low waisted. Did they have to do it to the pajama bottoms too?
Who the hell are clothing manufacturers dressing anyway? Certainly not me. I don't think I'm alone with my little bit of a gut from birthing two babies. Granted, not everyone in the world has a belly after they have kids, but I find it quite odd that in this country, which we are told has a pandemic obesity problem, there are more women with flat little model bellies than woman with more rounded ones.
I actually did some looking before I started ranting. It's damned near impossible to find pants that come to the waist anymore. They even have the nerve to advertise these waistlines as more comfortable. For whom? Are you kidding? Is it really more comfortable to have your navel hanging over your waistband and to feel like your pants are constantly falling off? Don't get me wrong, you can still get natural waisted pants, they just tend to fit and look like something my grandmother would have worn. Also, what's this nonsense about the 'natural waist'? Do they mean the natural waist of a short waisted person with long legs or the natural waist of a long waisted person with short legs? Because I'm neither, so I guess I'll just grab a fig leaf, thanks. Maybe that's the problem - it's too hard to figure out where the waist should be, so why not cut it out altogether?
I'm not even forty yet - I don't need to dress but so matronly; I'd just like to not accentuate the fact that I've put on a couple (dozen) pounds since I had my kids. And being that my hands are usually occupied, I'd prefer to not have to keep stopping to pull my pants up. Why is it so impossible to look cute AND keep your pants up AND not go bankrupt to do it?
And now it's the pajamas. The last thing anyone needs is to feel like their pants are falling off while they're trying to sleep! I thought they'd be okay and that as long as I had the drawstring tied, they'd stay put. Had I been able to sleep through the night I probably wouldn't have noticed.
For those of us who can't afford to spend hundreds of dollars on a pair of jeans and tend to shop at big retailers like Walmarts and Targets, there is sad little to choose from. Would someone please tell these clothing makers to cut us some slack...and maybe another inch at the waist?
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
It's that day again
I tend to not like remembering this day. Not that I don't think it deserves remembrance, it's just painful. I don't want to think of all the lives lost. I don't want to relive the conversation I was having with my mom while I was watching Good Morning America and wondering why that plane was so close to the Tower. I hate to remember the terror of not knowing where my family members were.
But I do remember those things, vividly. As I sat at the vet today, I watched the memorial on television. I didn't cry this year; it's only taken six years to get past that.
I've never attempted to visit Ground Zero, never been able to get up the nerve. Too many ghosts there. The din would break my mind and the emotional tumult would shatter what's left of my heart. I honestly don't know if I'd be able to physically walk out of that place, if I were in fact able to walk in.
And as if the loss of life were not enough to traumatize and entire world of people, I also get a bit misty over the destruction of the buildings themselves. They were a part of so many histories...I still have trouble believing that I will never be able to take my children to the top.
I remember the first time I visited the Twin Towers, and the only time I ever went to the top. It was Thanksgiving of 1984 - I was fourteen and my brother and his wife had taken me to the parade. That was my first and last Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. It was too cold for my taste; watching on television has always sufficed for me.
I remember visiting a church across the street. I want to say it was the oldest in the city, but I'm not certain of that fact, nor will I go look it up. I prefer to leave the memory just as it is. There were these statues, black metal, of people in different poses: a businessman sitting on a bench reading the paper, another suited gentleman walking down the street. One statue was on the steps of the church if I recall correctly. I was caught off guard and thought a couple of them were real. I don't know if they survived the attack, and I think I'm happier not knowing for sure. Then there's hope that they did.
The top of the tower was windy and I recall the feeling of the building swaying beneath me. It did nothing to soothe my fear of heights.
Today is pretty dismal - a stark contrast to the bright sunny morning of six years ago. That was a Tuesday as well. I think the rain makes it appropriately somber.
My heart goes out to all those families who lost loved ones in the tragedy.
But I do remember those things, vividly. As I sat at the vet today, I watched the memorial on television. I didn't cry this year; it's only taken six years to get past that.
I've never attempted to visit Ground Zero, never been able to get up the nerve. Too many ghosts there. The din would break my mind and the emotional tumult would shatter what's left of my heart. I honestly don't know if I'd be able to physically walk out of that place, if I were in fact able to walk in.
And as if the loss of life were not enough to traumatize and entire world of people, I also get a bit misty over the destruction of the buildings themselves. They were a part of so many histories...I still have trouble believing that I will never be able to take my children to the top.
I remember the first time I visited the Twin Towers, and the only time I ever went to the top. It was Thanksgiving of 1984 - I was fourteen and my brother and his wife had taken me to the parade. That was my first and last Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. It was too cold for my taste; watching on television has always sufficed for me.
I remember visiting a church across the street. I want to say it was the oldest in the city, but I'm not certain of that fact, nor will I go look it up. I prefer to leave the memory just as it is. There were these statues, black metal, of people in different poses: a businessman sitting on a bench reading the paper, another suited gentleman walking down the street. One statue was on the steps of the church if I recall correctly. I was caught off guard and thought a couple of them were real. I don't know if they survived the attack, and I think I'm happier not knowing for sure. Then there's hope that they did.
The top of the tower was windy and I recall the feeling of the building swaying beneath me. It did nothing to soothe my fear of heights.
Today is pretty dismal - a stark contrast to the bright sunny morning of six years ago. That was a Tuesday as well. I think the rain makes it appropriately somber.
My heart goes out to all those families who lost loved ones in the tragedy.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Random insights
I'm fading.
Fragments of myself have been slipping away piece by piece, and I'm not even sure sometimes who or what is left.
I used to dance - not well, but freely. I used to hit the club, check my Self in at the giant speaker in the corner, and then lost myself in the rhythms. But my husband doesn't dance, so now neither do I.
I used to sing. I wasn't terrible, but certainly no Patti La Belle. Still, I could often be seen in my car making the ugly faces, lettin' loose to the blasting stereo. Hip-hop (old-school), R & B, Classic Soul...Now I listen to kids' music, mostly, because my daughter complains when I try to listen to mine, and honestly, some of mine contains lyrics that I don't want the kids listening to. Also, my husband and I generally have divergent tastes, so we look for what's tolerable to the both of us and compromise.
Compromise. This is what happens when you marry outside of your own culture, except that it tends to end up swaying toward one or the other, so the compromise is inevitably imbalanced.
I'm Nemo the fish: snatched from my ocean and plunked into this fishbowl. Totally my own doing, but I still miss home. The other fish in this tank are reasonably nice, but they aren't enough, at least not yet, to make it home.
And yet, I've always straddled the lines between worlds, have always been multi-cultural in a sense. When I was very little, I enjoyed Barry Manilow just as much as disco music. Now the choices are more along the lines of: pasta and meatballs or rice and beans; hard rock or R & B; khakis and a polo shirt or baggy jeans and a t-shirt. Back in the day, though, they were: rice and beans or oxtails; Salsa or Hip-hop; bright florals or African prints. No big difference when you get right down to it. My cousin's friend once commented, "She's not black, she's Puerto Rican." Hmm...he must have been looking at someone across the street.
The difference is that right now my Self seems to be MIA. There was an apparent theft when I wasn't looking. I checked my Self somewhere, turned around for a second, and then it was gone.
It's really no wonder that I identify so much with Bella Swan - I am Bella in some ways, without the fun of having a sexy-as-hell vampire and werewolf in love with me (that I know of), and Talair. More accurately, Talair is me, or will be soon, although she doesn't know it yet. IT will be painful news to deliver.
So what's a fragmented gal like me to do? I suppose if I had money I could go take some sort of cultural dance class. If I had more time I could do more yoga; that at least helps to lift me above sides and fences, and I can just be without needing to choose. Yoga puts the pieces back together in such a way that the parts are irrelevant. There is only one whole.
For today, Dave is my glue. I've been listening to the Dave Matthews Band this morning, and he's been talking my ear off. Talair will be busy come November. DMB has become for me like that speaker in the club: I can check my Self in at Boyd's fiddle bow or Leroi's high hats and know that my Self will be safe when I get back. They never require that I choose, only that I listen and let go. Hmm...probably not the wisest thing to do while driving, by the way.
I am wondering if my depression is a cause or effect of this loss of identity. Perhaps it's a bit of both. At any rate, balancing right smack in the middle of the fence has felt pretty good today. I haven't felt like I'm missing anything. I've actually been just one person today - just me.
Fragments of myself have been slipping away piece by piece, and I'm not even sure sometimes who or what is left.
I used to dance - not well, but freely. I used to hit the club, check my Self in at the giant speaker in the corner, and then lost myself in the rhythms. But my husband doesn't dance, so now neither do I.
I used to sing. I wasn't terrible, but certainly no Patti La Belle. Still, I could often be seen in my car making the ugly faces, lettin' loose to the blasting stereo. Hip-hop (old-school), R & B, Classic Soul...Now I listen to kids' music, mostly, because my daughter complains when I try to listen to mine, and honestly, some of mine contains lyrics that I don't want the kids listening to. Also, my husband and I generally have divergent tastes, so we look for what's tolerable to the both of us and compromise.
Compromise. This is what happens when you marry outside of your own culture, except that it tends to end up swaying toward one or the other, so the compromise is inevitably imbalanced.
I'm Nemo the fish: snatched from my ocean and plunked into this fishbowl. Totally my own doing, but I still miss home. The other fish in this tank are reasonably nice, but they aren't enough, at least not yet, to make it home.
And yet, I've always straddled the lines between worlds, have always been multi-cultural in a sense. When I was very little, I enjoyed Barry Manilow just as much as disco music. Now the choices are more along the lines of: pasta and meatballs or rice and beans; hard rock or R & B; khakis and a polo shirt or baggy jeans and a t-shirt. Back in the day, though, they were: rice and beans or oxtails; Salsa or Hip-hop; bright florals or African prints. No big difference when you get right down to it. My cousin's friend once commented, "She's not black, she's Puerto Rican." Hmm...he must have been looking at someone across the street.
The difference is that right now my Self seems to be MIA. There was an apparent theft when I wasn't looking. I checked my Self somewhere, turned around for a second, and then it was gone.
It's really no wonder that I identify so much with Bella Swan - I am Bella in some ways, without the fun of having a sexy-as-hell vampire and werewolf in love with me (that I know of), and Talair. More accurately, Talair is me, or will be soon, although she doesn't know it yet. IT will be painful news to deliver.
So what's a fragmented gal like me to do? I suppose if I had money I could go take some sort of cultural dance class. If I had more time I could do more yoga; that at least helps to lift me above sides and fences, and I can just be without needing to choose. Yoga puts the pieces back together in such a way that the parts are irrelevant. There is only one whole.
For today, Dave is my glue. I've been listening to the Dave Matthews Band this morning, and he's been talking my ear off. Talair will be busy come November. DMB has become for me like that speaker in the club: I can check my Self in at Boyd's fiddle bow or Leroi's high hats and know that my Self will be safe when I get back. They never require that I choose, only that I listen and let go. Hmm...probably not the wisest thing to do while driving, by the way.
I am wondering if my depression is a cause or effect of this loss of identity. Perhaps it's a bit of both. At any rate, balancing right smack in the middle of the fence has felt pretty good today. I haven't felt like I'm missing anything. I've actually been just one person today - just me.
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