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Wednesday, January 07, 2004
a headache
I have, as previously mentioned, a some-say goofy aversion to taking analgesics for headaches. Well, perhaps aversion is too strong a word -- more like a shrugging don't-see-why-I-really-should attitude. Anyway. Today I have a headache which started last night as a little tickle behind my left eyebrow as I was finishing reading Possession (when I have the mental energy I will review that), then progressed to an outright pain behind my left eyebrow, the kind of pain that always makes me wonder in the back of my mind if it's some kind of aneurysm, but I think it's really related to my sinuses. Anyway. Today the headache is a bona-fide full-out headache, and I've exhausted my options. I've drunk plenty of water, eaten a good meal, practiced relaxation, taken a shower, and massaged my scalp. That works. The only problem is, when I stop massaging, the pain comes back. So either I need to sit and massage my head till my arms cease functioning (at which point the headache will come back anyway, and it is difficult to get anything done this way), or else I suppose it's time to actually take some Advil, in spite of the problem of wanting to know when whatever is causing the headache goes away. Barring, of course, the possibility of hiring or coercing someone to follow me around all day rubbing my head while I fold laundry, clean the house, cook supper, etc. Now that has appeal -- although it's wildly impractical, I suppose.
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Saturday, January 03, 2004
quiet blah kind of day
We finally had weather dry enough for me to try out the inline skates which I bought the day after Christmas. T was working outdoors and said (with his voice dripping amusement) that he felt like he should be videotaping my efforts. I said something to the effect of, "only if you have a death wish." I did manage to get the hang of it, with only one fall (in which the elbow pads paid for themselves by sparing me an ER visit for a cracked humerus, I think). Seems like it could be a decent way to get in better shape if I don't kill myself at it.
I had a sort of unsatisfying day overall. I wanted to GO, wanted to go to the book store and then drive across the valley to the coast, and really enjoy the beautiful clear weather, but T wanted to spend most of the day at home. To me, nice weather after a long wet spell means recreation and going somewhere (since I have, of course, just been spending the entire spell of wet weather indoors by the fire). To him, nice weather means that he finally has time to work on his automotive projects. Bummer.
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Friday, January 02, 2004
Is it worth putting on outdoor clothes?
We got a new keyboard from ebay today. It turned out that the guy had sent us a European keyboard by mistake -- which was interesting, but not very practical. And herein lies the all-time speed record in our household for destruction by a child: by the time I went to put the old keyboard back on the computer, C (that's C, I was getting tired of saying C, so just know from now on that C=C) had used her kid scissors to not only bend every pin in the old keyboard's connector, but also to break off the little doohickey in the middle of it that tells you which way to plug it into the port. Asked why, she said that she "wanted to make the sticks along the sides, not be on the sides anymore." Well, it worked. So for the time being I'm using an old keyboard, a good comfortable ergonomic one which had, at least when used with our old system, the unfortunate habit of simply ceasing to communicate with the computer at intervals, generally in the middle of a really sensitive or fun instant-messaging conversation.
I'm trying to decide if I want to travel alone to the Valley tonight, to browse and relax in Barnes and Noble, and make use of my gift cards, as well as doing some necessary shopping (like, for instance, for a new keyboard, since the whole "shift produces capital letters" concept seems to have just begun eluding this one completely; have to use caps lock). Part of me wants solitude and quiet and BOOKS (OK, it's just the b and the n that shift won't work with, that is truly bizarre), and part of me wants to sit at home with my agreeable family and my heating pad and A.S. Byatt's Possession instead of driving through the dark and the rain for 50 minutes each way. Not to mention that I'd have to change out of my pajamas to go to the bookstore. hmm. decisions, decisions.
the question mark doesn't work either. This settles it. best buy, here I come...
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Thursday, January 01, 2004
I DO NOT MAKE RESOLUTIONS
This was one of those days when inanimate objects conspired against me. As soon as I leave a room they all huddle and whisper about what they're going to do next. Everything from my daughter's candy jar to the carburetor on my husband's truck, not to mention the BLENDER, I think blenders are the leaders of the universal inanimate objects' plot to take over the cosmos conspiracy -- they've all snickered and suppressed giggles till their little inanimate faces turned puce, watching me deal with their freak-outs in rapid succession today. I NEED A PADDED CELL. thank you.
Other than that, well, one can't really think in terms of "other than that", can one, when one's entire existence has been consumed with this huge comedy of errors, but really, in spite of that, I am surviving and actually not, well, angry, or cranky, or even afflicted with that awful ears-about-to-whistle-like-twin-teakettle-spouts stressed-out kind of feeling. Perhaps someone slipped some Prozac into my diet Coke. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that I have had more sex in the past thirty days than in any other thirty days in my life to date, except possibly during the first month of my marriage, which really shouldn't count because for crying out loud, we had NO idea what we were doing, so those three times a day were all just practice runs. Anyway. I even did not have PMS this month AT ALL. ONCE, for one teeny MINUTE. I have a theory that all the oxytocin from all the, well, you know, that that all coursed through my system enough to put me on kind of a natural high. Or at least a natural tranquilizer/analgesic kind of thing. So, if I were going to make New Year's resolutions, which I'm not, I always resist the urge to do that just like I resisted that whole NaNoWriMo peer pressure thing -- IF I were going to make New Year's resolutions, I would resolve to keep this up. I think it has also definitely had a positive effect on T -- what else explains the fact that he disassembled and reassembled a carburetor in the pouring-down rain, in the dark, and even had one of those frightening things happen where the gas that's in the carburetor exploded while he was leaning over it, and it seared off part of his beard -- that even happened, and not once did he snap at me or somehow manage to imply that this whole thing had to be my fault just as certainly as if I had been the person on the assembly line making the fuel filter which had disintegrated and caused his truck to, well, to make us stand in the pouring-down rain in the dark while he disassembled the carburetor. And, as any mechanic's wife knows, part of the job description under "mechanic's wife" (this is for the wife of a professional or a recreational mechanic, mind you) reads: "will serve as the repository for release of any and all stress inflicted on mechanic by failure of vehicles to function as required." It's in there, just look. So, if I managed to waive that by encouraging us to exercise our marital privilege a bit more frequently than is perhaps normal, hey, this is a definite plus.
Or it could be that my husband is just the kind of man who keeps getting better and better with age (in TEMPERAMENT, I mean, get your mind out of the gutter...), and by the time he's 50 he'll be so perfect in every way that supermodels will hire hit men to take me out so that they can have a crack at him. It could be that.
Ooh, the rain started again. I was afraid it had gone away. Still hoping for snow, but I'm not counting on it.
My mom and I were looking at some of her old diaries today and it got me thinking about diaries. Not like diaryland diaries, but REAL diaries. It's a shame, there's such a paradox about them: Nobody reads them, so you can totally let yourself go in one and write whatever you want. But nobody reads them, so the motivation to write in one with any regularity is virtually nil. I think everyone knows that an online diary/journal/weblog is not really a real diary. A very few people actually do use them as such, and their journals are generally either so blushingly personal or so mind-numbingly dull that I can't stand it. No, for most people, this medium is a method of noting, in a public way, things we think are interesting or funny or clever or irritating or worth discussing, but definitely in a PUBLIC way. There are a lot of areas that I don't even touch on in here, and this would be the case even if nobody I knew read these entries at all; some things I just like to keep to myself. I might like to keep a record of them, but I don't have the discipline to sit and write about them every day. I think the reason that this diary has lasted so much longer than I predicted that it would in my first entry is that, at that time, I had envisioned using it as a real diary, but I quickly learned that I was not going to do that. A real diary takes more discipline, and more of a far-seeing attitude -- you're not writing this stuff down to vent, necessarily; you're not writing it to make anyone laugh or update anyone on what's going on; you're writing it so that years later you can have a record of your thoughts, your feelings, and the mundane events in your day-to-day life that you'd completely forget otherwise, but which might be worth remembering. But I, for one, simply lack the tenacity and the foresight and the discipline to keep a real diary, even though in ten years I may wish I had.
I almost, ALMOST gave in. I DO NOT MAKE RESOLUTIONS. But I do have a blank book sitting around here somewhere, and January 1st does seem like as good a day as any to start using it...
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Wednesday, December 31, 2003
blissfully content indeed
I must be one of the only people in the world for whom today is just another day. We never do a lot of New Year's celebration -- not being the types who look for any excuse for a good party these days, we'll probably just go to bed at our regular time, which may or may not be after midnight. It is a bit interesting to look back on one year and forward to the next, but considering that one will be very much like the other, that's not something I spend a whole heck of a lot of time or energy doing either. Really I'm not a stick-in-the-mud, I swear, I've just never done much for New Year's since the days that my friends and I would stay up watching movies and then call the operator at midnight to wish her (always a her!) a happy new year (we also once called the operator to ask her, because we were curious, where the operators went to work. Turns out they were in the basement of our local phone company's offices).
This year has been just amazingly happy for us. But every year generally is. I was really wondering about that yesterday -- why do I get to be the one? What caprice made God look at me and say, "that one, she's the one who gets to marry the man of her dreams, stay madly in love with him, have a beautiful family, endure just enough hardship to make her a better person without making her a nutcase, live where she wants to live, be surrounded by people she wants near her... yes, her." I look around at so many women my age, and they're full of angst about men, about their biological clocks, about whether there is someone out there who will make them happy, about the marriage they're in where they have all this dissatisfaction, about living far away from their families, and then I look at my life and I'm almost afraid to even admit I exist for fear that they'll mail-bomb me out of envy. Not that I'm the only happily married family woman in my late 20's in Western civilization -- but it does seem like I'm inordinately blessed. It was actually my husband walking around in his black work turtleneck with his sleeves pushed back that started me thinking about it last night. Oh, man, that is a good look on him. Whoever had the brilliant idea that the casual-dress Park Service uniform would include a black turtleneck in the winter has my unending gratitude. He comes home, takes off his outer khaki button-down, pushes up his sleeves, and rrrowrr. RRROOOOWWRRR.
[several minutes staring into space, fantasizing]
Yeah. What was I saying? Oh yes, looking at my husband. I feel like the school geek in some coming-of-age teen book, this nerdy awkward girl who somehow gets noticed by the guy all the girls want to be noticed by. Girls like I was just don't get to go out with men as, well, as rrroooowwwrrr as my husband is, they just don't. And the heady thing is, the thing that makes me dizzy and that I have a bit of a hard time wrapping my brain around, is that he looks at me and thinks that I'm, well, rrowwrr, for lack of a better descriptive term. Yeah, we're a pretty happy couple. Bring on 2004.
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Saturday, December 27, 2003
a long ramble, about nothing in particular, really
I've spent the day having a little private growl at my husband's boss, whose extreme need to be The Man Of The Hour has resulted in him calling my husband in to work with him for the last two days on something that could just as easily be done on Monday. This is the only time my husband has ever had a five-day weekend without having to take leave to get it, and for two of those days he's been in at work. His boss is just a big blue Meanie. [deleted long and sometimes funny tirade re: boss out of fear that either a) he would happen upon my diary and know he was being described and fire my husband on the spot or b) someone who knows both of us would read this and, in the usual way of our town's magical gossip mind-reading chain, without anyone ever verifiably telling anyone ANYTHING, the grapevine would carry my tirade to him, with the same end result as option a]
Other than the periodic loud, angry apostrophizing on my part towards the absent boss, the day's been quiet. If T were home it would be a perfect day -- cold outside, warm inside, nice and relaxing.
Ironic, isn't it, that I had just typed those words about fifteen minutes ago when my darling son managed to knock over a nearly-full gallon of milk? Imagine the chaos that began even as I typed the "g" in "relaxing", and it's almost funny, even to me. However, I have a question: At what age or stage do human reflexes improve to the point where a person will simply and quickly pick up, say, a gallon container of fluid when it's been tipped, rather than standing and staring in apparently impotent horror for a few seconds while the fluid obeys the laws of physics and goes glug glug splash splash onto the floor? I really want to know this. (at least the floor needed mopping anyway; it could have been worse).
I think I need a good dose of Austen to return to my former relaxed and happy state. As soon as I figure out what I'm making for dinner I'll indulge. And speaking of indulging, I have been outright avoiding my scale lately. It is looking resentfully at me every time I go past, but I just can't get involved with it right now. This is in large part the fault of my darling brother, who found the recipe for the world's most amazing clam chowder and brought the resulting big-bowl-o-bliss to our family Christmas dinner. Oh. My. Gosh. It was so good. And then how was I supposed to turn him down when he offered to send home leftovers? I swear this stuff probably has five thousand calories per serving (seriously, it consists mostly of equal portions heavy cream, half and half, whole milk, and bacon, if I remember right, with the requisite clam juice and all that as well. Well, here, here's the recipe), but it tastes so good that I was willing to eat it and face the consequences. I've finally finished the rest of the leftovers and I have sworn an oath on my size 12's not to make more than two batches of this heavenly stuff a year. Yikes. And January 1st, I am stepping on the scale whether I like it or not.
I bought a pair of inline skates with some Christmas money. I have all these grandiose plans of skating along with the kids as they ride their bicycles on bike paths. First I have to actually, um, put them on, and see if I can remain upright in them. I haven't stood on anything that rolled since roller rink trips in junior high, and maybe high school once or twice. Hmm, perhaps I should have bought the helmet as well as the knee pads, elbow pads, and gloves. If I suddenly disappear, you'll know it's because I'm in a Rollerblade-induced coma.
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Friday, December 26, 2003
old letters
Short entry tonight, I'm very tired. But I had fun this afternoon/evening, reading some old letters I'd written to a friend years ago; she sent them to me and I'm to send them back. I was quite a pitiful person at 18; so many plans that fell apart (and were pretty stupid to begin with), so many vows to get over the same worthless idiotic guy, so many execrable poems. OK, so four poems. At least, four that I'd sent her that she sent back to me. gag. Anyway. It was really fun to read them, and I'm amazed how much neater my handwriting was back in the days when I actually, well, wrote things. I was inspired to buy a really chintzy $1.99 pad of stationery at the grocery store and start actually writing letters. We'll see how long that lasts. The first one is going to be a thank you for the opportunity to stumble down memory lane like a loon. :)
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Thursday, December 25, 2003
template problems (and more)
My template disappeared. I guess I'm not the only one this happened to this week. I'll fix it when I get home. I'm at my parents' now. Meanwhile, here are four signs that you're a diaryland addict:
1. You mentally plan a diary entry about what you're doing, while you're doing it, all day long.
2. You log in on your parents' computer on Christmas, just to see what your diary looks like on their system.
3. You have dreams with other diaryland people in them (had dinner at Denny's with sundry in last night's episode, for example).
4. You spend more time typing about your experiences than you do experiencing them.
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Monday, December 22, 2003
my birthday party, and a resolution
recent googles: "altering driver's license" (!!); "Muleshoe Twiggy" (??); about eighty hits in the past week on "80's Music Quiz"
I haven't updated much lately; sorry about that. We had a busy and fun weekend; today was my birthday party (day itself is Thursday). I got some fun and thoughtful presents (darling cards from the kids too), and what's even better, we spent a nice day together as a family. We had a nice lunch/party and then drove to the city and walked down Christmas Tree Lane with my parents and my brother's family.
We're gearing up for Christmas. Still haven't wrapped a THING for the kids or T; all the presents are hidden around the house. That's going to be a project for the next few nights, needless to say.
I am also going to attempt to turn over a new leaf and really get on the ball (ack, I always mix my metaphors when I'm exhausted, sorry) about housework. Everyone in the house is happier when it's clean; shouldn't that be enough motivation to keep it that way, even if it means actually working at it, whether I feel like it or not? T in particular has been a bit on-edge lately, with a lot going on in several areas of his life, and I know (because he has told me in so many words) that everything feels so much lighter when he can come home to a clean house and move around in a clean house and go to bed in a clean house. So. The kids and I will work up a schedule and JUST DO IT. (and no computer for me till everything's checked off for the day! ack! Did I just say that?)
Before I go, here's my irritation du jour (this one's been festering a long time): Seeing cartoons, movies, pictures, cards, etc. wherein people are holding HOLLY over their heads pretending it's mistletoe. ARE YOU DOLTS? Holly: bright green; shiny; spiny leaves; red (poisonous) berries; grows in bush form. Mistletoe: subdued green color; very matte; round leaves; tiny, almost invisible white berries; actually a relatively ugly fungus-related parasite which proliferates on trees, to their detriment. It is nobody's best friend, and not very picturesque. But even so, please. PLEASE. Artists, filmmakers, etc., if you're gonna depict someone standing "under the mistletoe," for freak's sake get or draw some actual mistletoe! OK, I'm done. Back to your regularly scheduled holiday cheer.
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Thursday, December 18, 2003
life is good!
I hope putting this here doesn't completely tweak out my template for this entry (you can click on this picture to see it in better detail). I just had to post about how good my life is:
Note: I am relaxing on the couch. I am reading a nice thick WONDERFUL book. I have a diet Coke. It is lovely autumnal woodstove weather and I am wearing my red ribbed sweater and my new schoolgirl skirt (which, don't you just know, T just can't stand. Um, that's sarcasm). Also, this is one of the first pictures taken by our new-to-us digital camera.
Pardon me, must dash back to the couch; I just wanted to share.
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