Emoti...con.

So, I was writing a facebook post yesterday and I realized that it was long enough to consider it as a blog post. Desperate as I am these days for content, I put it in the pocket of my Monday pants and pulled it out today.

I was thinking about then & now, and how I couldn't fathom then, being the lengthy letter crafter I was, writing the way I do now.

Yes, then, I doodled in the margins, drew hearts and smiley faces in-between the lines, and, occasionally, sealed them with a kiss - though that mostly in my mind. These were ancillary elements, not required for the reader to get my meaning.

Now, it seems that every electronic transmission requires a qualifier. A misunderstanding diffuser. That is, the emoticon.

So, now, to my deep thought on the unanticipated acts of my future. The other day, in a dashed off note, I accidentally typed a winky frowny instead of a winky smiley. It was a mistype, but I wondered, were it not: what is the emotion here? Cheeky, but damned grumpy about it? I'm giving you my shitbird face, but really it's just a front? Meet me in the corner and I'll confess to you how happy I really am?

And then I thought: what the hell? And, I'm still thinking that.

I Don’t Think We’re in Lansing Anymore…

Driving home from work today, I realized that the CD I was listening to had looped about three times, and the fact that it included alternate cuts of a couple of songs on it, I had metaphorically eaten a peanut butter & jelly sandwich for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Yes, Dave Brubeck’s Time Further Out is brilliant, but now it was stuck to the roof of my mouth.

I hit eject and tuned in to the standard rush-hour slot that typically features news of the day, traffic updates, and, as it was today, and interview with a local politician. The topic was a pretty controversial one, and the interviewee was on the opposite side of my opinion. I thought: good ol’ NPR. I know they’re legit when I don’t agree with everything they report on and everyone they talk to. It shows they are unbiased, as they should be.

But then suddenly my house was uprooted and I was no longer in Midwestern farm country. I heard the interviewer start to express an opinion. He abandoned any perceived objectivity and rallied with the interviewee. He even pointed listeners to a place where they could retrieve canned statements that they could send to their representatives in objection to the abomination that was in current discussion.

I know I said What the Fuck? aloud and also may have hit the brakes. This slowed me down enough to look at the channel and realize that I was no longer on NPR station 91.7, which is a mid-Michigan public radio feed that we had tuned into yesterday while road-tripping. Instead I had harnessed the batshit craziness known as 91.3, Grand Rapids. It’s actually a bit of a wonder that my car didn’t veer off the road from the misalignment or explode on the moment that such a message hit my nihilistic ears.

I am reminded that I need to send Michigan Radio my yearly contribution. With a thank you note. For asking me to listen to what I’ve heard and think; not take orders and get in line.

I Realize.

For the fourth time since 2009, I walked today with my family in the Komen Race for the Cure. The first year, I arranged it--on a high from learning that my sister would very well survive her diagnosis and the exhausting and difficult treatment that ensured that she would. She did, and we continued after that year over year.

I lost considerable steam when the Komen Foundation decided to cut funding for Planned Parenthood. (FOR CRYING OUT LOUD: what sane person is not in support of bringing children into world who are both wanted and expected?! Seriously.)

Plus, I have become somewhat doubtful of the results of such an effort and skeptical that the appropriation of funds goes to a so-called cure. (On an aside note, I believe that lifestyle and diet can be instrumental to prevention, which seems so much more effective than curing after the fact. Hmmm. Kind of like Planned Parenthood. But that's not profitable, is it?) 

I stopped raising funds for them after the first year. I go only these days because it pleases my family and it is a symbolic gesture of solidarity. And a reminder that everyone in my life is fragile. And temporary. No matter what.

So, I'd like to dedicate this post and this day to this wonderful song. Lest we forget.

Old Bags.

The big thrill of today was the Michigan Modernism Exposition, in good ol' Southfield. Not quite as big as I'd hoped, but my senses still got their fill.

I hadn't planned on buying anything, but a strange grouping of mugs featuring flying pigs, a school of fish, and a pair of dragons called me back for a second look.

Of course, the second look is merely the gateway to the parting with cash. Once I had the dragon mug in my hands and Ben was suggesting I drink wine from it while watching Game of Thrones, the deal was done.

The cranky, era-appropriate woman I bought it from was clearly unimpressed with my singular purchase and showed it by packing my little prize in a crumpled bag that was very likely from the same century. That is, definitely last century.

Just Winging It.

I was sitting at an extraordinarily long stoplight yesterday evening when two unusual-looking birds that appeared to be male and female of the same species caught my eye. Starlings, I learned from my research. They pecked and poked at the ground, and one simultaneously pooped, which actually kind of startled me—as if swallowing the scrap that was in its beak had immediately produced this result.

I got drawn into their business, and, for a moment, drifted into a daydream. Except for the whole dropping right where I'm eating part, suddenly being a bird seemed like a pretty good gig.

The ability to quickly flee a situation? That'd be a nice power to have. Traipsing around in the grass all day long? Beats putting on clothes, driving in traffic, and genuflecting to the man for the majority of the daylight hours.

So, I've decided that I'm going to be a bird in my next life. I'll just have to watch out for hawks, fast cats, and plate glass windows.     

Marooned in Dreamland.

I've just returned from a mis-routed flight that landed us in Albuquerque, New Mexico. We had a layover, so we visited an artists' community where I ran into an old coworker. He was painting an abstract piece and wearing a hat with Pippi Longstocking-like pigtails poking out from it.

Whew, that was weird...so happy to be back in my bed!

Except that Adam Levine's doppelgänger is sitting on me and tickling me in the most uncomfortable and almost terror-inducing way. I am writhing and screaming, but it just comes out in a muffled mwa... mmwaaa... mwwwwaaaah kind of way.

The crickets chirp and I am snoozing my alarm.

Oh. Good.

I'll Be Grateful When You're Nice.

What I left behind in 1991 was the desire to cover my rear window in stickers that promoted love, peace, and day-old jam bands. The better to watch my past in my mirror become faint and indistinct as I drove further and further away from it.

A few days ago, for the first time in so many years, I tagged the bumper of my car with a new message. One that embodies the spirit of the old days, but in a less posturizing kind of way. I think. I mean, I want to mean it...

 
In doing this, I acknowledge that some people will read it, and, therefore, I should be on better behavior while on the roads. Lest my message be rendered insincere. The problem is, some people are not beautiful, and rush hour traffic is an explicit way of understanding this.

What does it say when a woman driving the "just the way you are" vehicle flings a finger, shakes a fist, or tilts her head upward so that you, you shithead with your window down, can hear my personal, just for you expletives echoing more clearly through my sunroof?

We call that an incongruity.

So I am thinking about installing something akin to a vacancy/no vacancy sign. Something that I could switch on, when needed, that would append my message with: "Except you. You are actually an asshole. Go home and think about that."

That should do.

There Are Places I Remember.

So, that Chinese restaurant I worked at. It was owned by Kent and Mary Chen, but run by a wizened and weathered old bird named Dolly. She used to manage Dukes, for any of you in GR who know the reference.

The waitresses were all non-Asian women, and I surprisingly remember most of them, including their names. There were also two busboys, who were Chinese, named Bah (quiet, hunched, & shy...I can actually still replay his soft voice in my head) and Tahn (gregarious and personable; he occasionally waited tables and always made at least double of the rest of us).

The kitchen staff were all Mexicans. Tony was the lead cook and a ridiculous, mostly annoying flirt. Kent Chen owned a house where every one of them lived. Knowing what I know about Mr. C, it is very likely that they were illegal. But I'm not sure if I knew that at the time.

We had cockroaches. Gross, but true: few people cared because the food really was gorgeous. Hell, maybe it was the extra protein that made it so.

My fellow waitresses:

Mary, whose family came from Lebanon, once told me that the Turks claimed to have invented baklava, but that was bullshit; it was a Lebanese creation. Funny. I've heard this from nearly every country in that region. Sure, baklava is delicious, but this is your most important, most arguable claim?

Laura was a typical Midwesterner. Except she was in a sham marriage. I never knew all the details, but the mystery of this odd situation stuck with me. I ran into her half a year ago at the bookstore. She looked exactly, I mean exactly, the same—down to the tightly-pulled ponytail that sprouted from the top of her head. I'm talking 20+ years. No change. That's crazy.

Deb: told everyone that the delicious, honey-sweet rolls we served with every meal were rice rolls. I once noted aloud that I didn't know that and she said she'd just made it up. It seemed to please the customers that they were an ancient Chinese secret of sorts and so she continued to perpetuate the myth. Deb also had a 13-year-old daughter who participated in a study I did for a college course on learning and development.

There were two sisters whose names escape me, but I am hoping will come to me, but not necessarily in the middle of the night. It's not that important. They both worked alternately at Hong Kong Inn and Little Mexico, trading off when the exasperation of one exceeded the other. About ten years after, I did find the older sister bartending at the south of the border locale. She made me a Southern Comfort Manhattan with extra cherries.

That's about all.

Ancient Myths.

So I was thinking about two things yesterday: 1) how much better my life is now than when I was half my age 2) how drastically the world has changed since that time.

Because I'll need a topic for tomorrow, I may as well split these up, right?

In 1991, I drove a Chevy Citation that was covered in Grateful Dead decals and a COMPOST sticker that was meant as a noun for labeling of bins, but that I was using as a verb/suggestion/command (as in: I am an environmentally conscious individual and, like me, you really should...).

The washer fluid trigger hadn't worked since I bought it, and after a year or so of driving around with a bottle of generic Windex rolling around on my passenger side floor, and lurching out the window to spray any time I slowed to less than 20 MPH, my dad decided to fix it for me.

He did so as any practical/stingy person would do: with a standard light switch mounted to the dash. This worked, of course, but never once escaped the curiosity of new riders. (What is this for? Flip. Oh...weird.)

My one brag-worthy feature of this vehicle was that with the wide frame and hatchback, I could fold down the seats and transport a twin-sized mattress. This sounds way more romantic than it was, as my personal life was not just in shambles, but still smoldering from the carnage. The only pleasure associated with a bed in my back seat was that I was driving it to a new apartment where, presumably, life would suck less.

Did I mention that I worked as a waitress at a Chinese restaurant, then? The peculiarities of this particular chapter are so numerous that I'm not entirely sure where to start or stop. Their food was spectacular, though, and I gracelessly gained at least 10 pounds.

This was also the year that I decided to change my major (year four, mind you) but because I was actually all but finished, the only sensible thing to do was add on a minor. This is how you graduate college in just six short years!

And about midway through this 12-month experiment in living, I decided to become celibate. A born-again virgin, I think I called it. For about a year, as I recall. It was after (and likely because of) this that life became more placid. And the road ahead less cluttered with debris.

And there is more, but that's enough for today.

Prime Time.

Today is my birthday, and, as I've already noted to a friend, I feel twice as good as I was at 22.

1991. Fraternizing with goats.

2013. Upgraded to camels.

I have a whirlwind of thoughts connected to this, but all day I have been unable to form them into ones I want to share. I have also had the majority of my biddings this weekend handled by my "Birthday Slave." One can quickly gets used to such luxuries, and find any semblance of work to be the burden of mere peasants.

So, tomorrow, when I am replanted in reality, I will elaborate.

Paradise by the Satellite.

Well, we managed to break the Internet this morning. Through a process of elimination, we learned that I did not forget to pay the bill, that our hardware is seemingly functional, and that rebooting, while typically very effective, was not going to fix this one.

We're both fairly bright people, and, yet, this one has us stupefied. Our best guess is that we need a new wireless router. While it waits to be our salvation, a little bit of contemplation has me feeling mixed about how reliant we truly are.

If I didn't have these four bars, I'd probably be up the street at Starbucks with my laptop. Because, why? Not sure.

Judge Not, As They Say...

I’m going to say something here that may sound strange. I said it once already today: I wish the Boston bombers weren’t Muslims. (I'll qualify that with "suspects" and "presumably" for now.) It goes without saying (though, just in case, I will) that I wish infinitely more that this tragedy didn’t happen at all.

That said, it seems lately I am constantly defending people of the Islamic faith (as a whole) against those who treat the people and their faith as if they are all the same. Those who say that the heinous acts of a few are condoned by and even conducted by the masses. This isn’t true.

I don’t believe in their religion or their version of god any more than anyone else's, and I do believe that their views on women’s rights need to progress a great deal. (So do a lot of others’, as long as we’re mentioning it.) But, I have met more Muslims than the average Midwesterner and I can see no resemblance between their behavior and the extremists. In fact, so far, I’m finding these to be some of the most exceptionally kind, generous, and peaceful people I’ve met.

Can't we all just get along?

Are all Christians as deranged as the Westboro Baptist Church members? I don’t even need to answer that.

So...?     

Wait for It.

Truth is, I'm having a tough day. I've been thinking about one word to describe this day and I've decided on "tomorrow."

I can't always fix my mood or solve my challenges just by deciding I need to. Or muster the emotional wherewithal to accept that my problems are minuscule (which they are, of course.)

What I have is a proverbial batch of lemons that I'm not equipped to make lemonade with. So, instead, I've preserved them. I've prepared them, packed them away, and, in a few days they will be something quite different.

I really did make preserved lemons and I am looking forward to the results of my labor. SOON.

Don't Worry, Be Sorry.

Ever since I was a kid, I've never been able to hold a grudge. Or have the willpower to stay angry - even when I've really needed to and known it.

Though probably a virtue of sorts, this trait has rarely served me well. Makes me a bit of a pushover, I realize. But sustained tension and animosity make me uncomfortable. So I typically go to unnatural, unwarranted lengths to right the situation even when I'm not in necessarily in the wrong.

Making peace with my sister when she waged the war... Reconciling with exes when they caused the breach... Forgiving friends when they forgot to be one...

Though I don't have much disharmony in my life these days, I still have the same soft heart as always.

Damn it.

Am I Blue?

I'm deep in wellness mode, with our fitness challenge kicking off this week. In the last few weeks and particularly in the last two days, I've done damn near as much inciting as copy writing. Aye, it's a bit exhausting. But all for the good, especially for those who really need some encouragement—myself included in that batch.

As part of my research, I came upon this information about Blue Zones. That is, parts of the world where people live longer and better. Interesting stuff. And while I ended up reading it all, this section on the Power9 gives a nice, concise synopsis of the interrelations between the the top five zones. I recommend checking it out.

Oh, and I also took two quizzes and rated an adequate B on the happiness measure, plus I came in three years younger than I actually am on the vitality compass. Both recommended I find a faith to improve my life expectancy, but I think I'll be satisfied with the 88.9 years they gave me, without those years (and the many more they tell me I could accumulate by finding my religion) being sullied (and effectively drawn out) with fantasy. I'm good. Thanks.

Might change my mind around 88.875 though.  





 

So Lucky.

I was all ready to write about this show we've been watching on HBO called VICE (associated with the magazine, Fwhy). I wanted to talk about how these journalists have armor-clad balls. And about how grateful (for lack of a better word) I am that they are making this information about what's happening around the world available to us. And how I am never allowed ever to be unhappy about anything, especially Monday mornings, ever, ever again. Really, there is some terrible shit happening in the world, and while we all know this, they are showing us the reality in a way that our oh so knowing imaginations can't.

But as I'm paging through their site, I see something about Daft Punk, Pharrell, and Nile Rodgers (together) and I think, Oh, Hello!

This is why I wake up in the morning (more on this concept 2m I hope):

It's just a teaser, but I will still probably listen to this clip oh, about 24/7 until May 21st.

Enjoy!

PS: If it's true that Giorgio Moroder is another contributor, well, then, I might just flip my bonnet. I'm not sure what this means, but let's hope we all find out. 

The Dice Were Loaded from the Start.

Remember that boy from 1991 who wore cut-off jean shorts and nearly broke my heart had I not already been both skilled in and jaded by the art? Last night he confessed that he no longer believes in love. (I out him because I know that not one of my few readers knows of whom I speak. How funny that one can be incognito in such an open forum.)

I bring it up to wonder. He was one of my lot, who believed in a very fine house, with all the surroundings in it, including the intangibles. What happened? And what fell short in his experiences that led him here, to this place of despair?

Love is harder than it looks, even when it is natural and seems easy. What we think it is gets in the way, too. Not sure what I'm saying here; just thinking about his statement and remembering, once again, that so many years ago, there were those who seemed to have a handle on it and those who didn't. Those who didn't, searched. That's all.

Goodnight, friends.

PS: This song was the inspiration (a wedding song recommendation from him to a mutual friend) for his confession. Don't tell him, but I think in his heart of hearts, he still does. Believe in love, that is. 

Living the Dream.

I heard a modernized version of Our House by Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young the other day, and, after I finished flinching at the mediocrity of the interpretation, I drifted back to the early nineties, when I was living with my people and dreaming of a beautiful future. We were a fairly sentimental lot, and I recall many of us who felt that the life that was being had in this song was the one to be had. Simple, peaceful, loving, comfortable... all of these were ideals to aspire to.

And you know what? When I look at those friends now, those who I still keep in contact with, I realize that so many of us achieved it. Most, actually. Life is good. Just like we envisioned.

A Passion for Fashion.

I've spent much of today deeply troubled by a conversation that erupted on Project Runway last night. (It is good to have first world problems, yes?)

After one of the designers sent a rather indulgent piece down the runway (one that I loved, by the way), Nina Garcia, a judge, criticized it as inappropriate for the challenge because, "Fashion is not art!"

"It kind of is," Heidi Klum, another judge, countered. "Some of it is. If it’s not basic it is."

But Nina reiterated: "Fashion is not art. Stores are not museums. You go to stores to buy clothes. You do not go to stores to look at clothes."

{Hyperbole Alert} This might be the craziest thing I have ever heard!

Of course fashion is art. By its very nature, fashion is art. Apparel may not be art, if it serves only as function. But, fashion's only goal is to is to entice, to capture attention, to woo us with its patterns and prints and colors and pleats and rises and flares and crops and lines and collars and embellishments. It's these details that take clothing from need to want.

And, shame on you Nina, we do go to stores to look at clothes. (I'd pay admission for some.) If we didn't, no one would bother to artfully dress a window with one purpose in mind: to coax us through the doorway, to sample with our eyes the creations of masters.

Word to Your Amygdala.

I started the compulsory part of my day with an untoward outburst. And I directed it at the mediator rather than the aggressor, which only added to the inappropriateness of the event. And here's the thing: the five-minute task in question, had it been delegated to me by anyone else, I would have happily done. But, this person has so greatly overdrawn our relationship's bank account that she not only needs to bring the balance back into the positive digits, she also should pay all of those fees she's been racking up. She has a lot of fucking nerve, this one, writing another bad check.

I returned to my desk, muttering fairly audible obscenities, and logged on for the day. First email in my inbox? Word of the day.

Right.

The More Things Change...

We had our taxes done this evening by a wonderful CPA we’ve been seeing since before the turn of the aughts. He is tall and bony, with a hint of pre-pubescence in his voice and the scarcest of curls framing his overly-cheeky, slightly-freckled face. Imagine if Alfalfa and Alfred E. Newman were capable of procreation and you’d have their progeny.

Not exactly the features that elicit the calming peace of mind you want from someone handling your finances, but he has seen us through some errant years, some Schedule C, self-employment years, and one rough year when the Bordeaux, France-based company I worked for magnificently fucked things up.

Tonight I noted that he seems to have not changed a bit. Yet, it has been close to fifteen years. And then I thought: neither have we. At least in one very specific way. We have never once arrived with every piece of paperwork we need. Sometimes it’s just a quick jog out to the car to retrieve a page left behind. Sometimes it’s a drive home or a purse-rummaging or a phone call to the mortgage lender. Sometimes I completely forget to pay City taxes for the entire year and when he brings it up, I am surprisingly surprised as if I didn’t see that coming.

In short, we are not meant for this world of record keeping and currency shifting and balancing of scales. But we must exist in it. And that’s why we have Alfalfred. 

Carry On.

Three weeks after my passage to Arabia, I finally righted a bit of personal negligence—an action prompted by a coworker’s comment: “That must be your travel purse; it sure doesn’t look like an Allison purse.”

Correct.

The accessory in question is made of brown nylon with pockets inside of pockets, notches on top of notches, and zippers that zipper up pockets and notches. Attached on either side with carabiner clips is a canvas strap that quickly detaches for what I can only describe as an unforeseeable event. It is functional beyond words and being that functional is not in my personal dictionary this is an incongruity that cannot be sustained.

Because I am lazy (not too busy), I started the process by simply stuffing the smaller purse (which was also serving as a wallet) into a larger, infinitely more stylish purse. A couple of days later, the carabiners’ purpose became evident and I removed the strap—satisfactorily, yet only minimally lightening my load.

After my second attempt at conducting a transaction with an item that wasn’t currently in my temporary wallet, I dug my permanent wallet from my semi-permanent, pre-vacation purse (not to be confused with my post-vacation purse) and shoved that in as well. And, to cover all other possibilities, I grabbed the pre-vacation purse and tossed it in the back seat of my car. This gave me strange comfort, by the way.

Finally, yesterday, I relocated the entire contents of my travel purse to assigned spaces in my bag du jour. And, in doing so, I found this:

Oh! I momentarily forgot about this. I’ve been carrying it in every variation of a handbag I’ve owned since September 8, 2000. It remains folded exactly as it was when I first pocketed it. But how it came into my life is a story that belongs to others: two supremely cool people whose happiness, I believe, brings me good luck.

How Do I Look?

For, I'm not shitting you, 15 years I went to the same hairdresser. A wonderful guy; someone I truly liked. But, let's say two out of five times I came home from an appointment and spent the rest of the day or evening willing this new haircut to do something. Anything. Anything not strange or awkward. Ugh. The good to bad ratio was just enough weighted to the positive that I sat it out. For a very long time, as you now know.

In the spring of 2011, I finally decided it was time to break up. And while I planned to play the field for the foreseeable future, I ended up settling down with the first chick I met.

:::love:::

Our relationship was beautiful for nearly two years, until my beloved coiffeuse was unceremoniously released from her obligations at the salon where I visited her.

:::damn:::

Tonight, because she still is the best thing that ever happened to my hair follicles and all that emerges from them, I met her at her apartment. I squatted on a short stool in her kitchen while she conjured her spirits. I lied down on her kitchen counter and hung my head into her sink while she rinsed away the remainder of her elixir.

Ahhh. Magic, it is.   

I Must Be Stopped!

I complained Friday that I was feeling a bit overburdened by some extra mystery weight that's somehow attached itself to my body. I mentioned it again Saturday morning, in a somewhat whining tone, before my dance class. But when I started to list out to my instructor what I'd eaten the day before, it didn't sound like I'd get to blame this one on water weight.

Breakfast meeting at a café: one super-sized blueberry pancake with butter and syrup and a side of bacon.

Mid-morning: two large handfuls of Swedish Fish jelly beans (a diabolical marriage of my favorite treats. Grrr.)

Lunch: a bagel topped with melted cheese, eaten un-toasted, un-topped, in baby's-fist-sized bites while standing in my cubicle talking with two co-workers. THEN, because I felt like an asshole for everything I'd eaten so far, I ate an enormous, utterly unnecessary salad.

Mid-afternoon: back for more jelly beans and also a couple of pours of gummi bunnies directly into my mouth (which, despite their intriguing colors, taste exactly like Haribo bears. Disappointed. Ate them anyway.) About half an hour later, I dumped a big pile of pretzels sticks on my desk and powered through those as well.

Dinner: three slices of Vitales pizza with bacon & pepperoni and two tall Oberons. (Hence the listening to loud, girly dance music after we got home. Wheeee!)

Late-night: Large piece of cajun beef jerky from Kingma's.

Yes, when you say it all out loud, it sounds like a bit much, doesn't it?

I'm in the middle of cooking my penance right now. If it turns out tasty, I'll share it tomorrow.   

Technology is Beautiful.

We all know that I've been making an effort to takes pauses during the day—workdays in particular, since my weekends are generally full of movement, and mental challenges, and a diversity of activities. I've struggled to stay on task with this effort and have started to wonder if I will be able to make it happen consistently. 

Just in time, Harvard Business Review sent this article to my inbox, and it is exactly on point with what I've been trying to do. Besides backing up all of my suppositions, it gave a suggestion I hadn't thought of: a utility that forces a break. They recommended two, but neither is compatible with my MacBook, so I poked around and found a free one for OS X called Dejal Time Out. Don't tell the IT guy, but I downloaded it and started running it Friday.

It shuts me down at the intervals and durations I set, and while I have the option to postpone or skip my break altogether, the process it takes of fading out my work session is enough that I've already stopped what I'm doing—so why not roll with it?

To shepherd my brief interlude is an app I found for my iPhone called Take a Break that offers a guided meditation specifically adapted for work situations. Nice.

In short time, I expect to be infinitely more effective, creative, and balanced. I'll let you know the moment that kicks in. ;)

An Innocent Pleasure.

Oi! I just got accused of listening to Taylor Swift! No. Nope. No. No. Not even close. I was playing this:

You men might not notice the subtle differences in pop music, or feel the message in this one, but I'm telling you, it means something to damn near every woman I know. It yearns and empowers at the same time. And remains cool through it all. And even though it's an oldie (by current standards) I play it often. Preferably when I have the house to myself.    

Try it. You'll (maybe) like it.

Omega Is My Alpha?

Everything is tight. Even my yoga pants that have plenty of give in them are doing an awful lot of taking right now.

Really there's little worse than tight clothes, because they have a way, through their pinching here and wedging there, of constantly nagging about your dietary negligence. Ah, but there is hope for my slackened state of affairs: the upcoming fitness challenge at work of which I am the lead drum thumper.

It starts in a couple of weeks, and I have been up on my research so that I might appear that I have this role for a good reason. I'm mainly looking at some new ways of jump-starting my thyroid, which has struggled greatly over the last year. I discovered some information about wheatgrass and cod liver oil and visited the health food store today to gather supplies.

I started on the cod liver oil this afternoon and felt totally normal until I started some new techniques in dance class tonight. The moves are all ones I know, but we added a veil to mix and I completely fell apart. And, how interesting, I blamed the supplement; not the newness of the activity. I thought: wow, I isn't this nutrient supposed to help with brain function?

Yeah. But probably not within six hours, with added cognitive complications. Patience, girl. On all accounts.   
 

Practice Makes Perceptive.

I promise I’m not going to keep writing about this, but I have to report back on my final moment of reflection right before bed last night. It was actually an open household discussion about the necessity of doing what I said I was going to do.

Yesterday, I let it slip, I blew it off, I dined right over it...why? Not just because I forgot, but because everything is pretty calm right now in my world and I thought: Nope, I’m good.

We are conditioned these days to look at the lack of flames and smoke surrounding our lives as a sign of success. But it is in our times of contentment that we most need to delve deeper. After all, we are in the best rational and emotional state to do so. To not just aspire to finding serenity when we need it most, but to recognize that we should always be looking for it.

It’s more difficult in those temperate times, though, isn’t it? It is for me, anyway. I sat in my pauses today and thought...hmmm...tap, tap, tap...what to contemplate? What do my sensibilities need right now? I suppose it will get easier with time as I practice flexing my thinker. As long as I keep at it.  

Absent-Minded Professing.

All right, well, it’s quite clear now why the call to prayer exists. We are a forgetful kind, we humans. This morning, for my first reflection, I rolled over and fell back asleep; overslept, actually—a very palpable expression of my gratitude toward my life’s comforts, I guess. Hmmm.

I was in the CEO’s office during what was meant to be my mid-morning communion. It wasn’t anything hairy at all, but I still completely lost track of my self-imposed obligation, and didn’t think of it again until late afternoon. Bah, I thought. I convene with you (me) in the car.

Oh, shit; one hand gesture and a couple of my favorite expletives were the only dialogue I achieved on that ride. So much for decompressing.

Then, I was having dinner in the middle of my next scheduled discourse. It was an Arabic dish called mujaddara and it was delicious. Does that count?

One more left to go for today. It better be good, eh?

Stop (what you're doing). Look (inward). Listen (to your heart).

The great thing about being an atheist is that I can never be accused of cherry-picking which religious beliefs and practices I adhere to. With no pesky explaining to do, I can pluck the concepts that suit me from all the different trees and build my own personal, deity free doctrine.

It is with this notion in mind that I feel perfectly comfortable using the Islamic call to prayer for my own purposes, with modifications that fit my lifestyle.

Last night I looked up prayer times for my part of the world, and planned to begin my moments of reflection this morning. The first time was 6:04 p.m., six minutes before the alarm chirped the once soothing, now startling, sound of crickets.

The problem is, at 6:04 a.m., I have a foggy mind and little to pause on, as I’ve pretty much been pausing all night. So, I decided to move it to half past the hour and make this a time to set my intentions for the day. A warm, mushy bed is an ideal place to feel gratitude for my blessings and to form (or sometimes hew with an axe) a positive outlook.

Looking ahead, I knew the next time, 1:47 p.m., would probably be a little late. A couple of weeks ago, my day took a most indelicate tumble at exactly 10:36 a.m., so, bearing that in mind, I inserted one in-between at 10:15 a.m.

I adjusted the remaining times to 5:15 p.m. (ideally, I’ll be in mid-commute and, not so ideally, I’ll need to decompress); 7:45 p.m. (after, ideally, I’ve eaten a well-prepared meal that honors my body as well as the life forms that gave themselves up for it); and 10:15 (ideally again being the operative word, as I am preparing to achieve eight contiguous hours of sleep).

I have two more remaining for today and... Oh. Oops. I see that I’ve created six speculative moments. But since I don’t see one that I want to delete, I will stick with them for now. These are my rules, after all.