Things that make me happy:
1. Quiet time on the couch with Lunchboy and the cats
2. Clean sheets, a down comforter and cool fall nights (read: good sleeping weather)
3. The end of baseball season—no more packed Green Line trains at rush hour
4. The little dances that wide receivers do after they get a touchdown
5. New issues of Vanity Fair, US Weekly and the New Yorker on my nightstand
6. The walk home from the Hancock tower to Union Square
7. Harvest pumpkin soup and any sandwich from ABP. I eat there 3-4 times a week—it’s getting out of hand.
8. When Scully falls asleep on my arm
9. When Cringer catches a milk bottle tab and sings so that we’ll know she’s killed her prey
10. Griffin curled up on my chest purring so hard that it’s a miracle she doesn’t have smoke coming out her ears
11. 200 pages left in a book I can’t put down
12. The clean calmness that comes after a good yoga practice
13. Coming home after the cleaning crew has been there
14. The ability to let go
15. When Lunchboy walks through the door on Thursday nights.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Not done baking--warm, delicious cookie me only months away
I feel like I blink and the week is over. There is no time and when there is time there is no energy. Work is good but very busy, which means no time to blog. I’m not complaining—I’d rather be busy than bored. By the time I get home at night, the last thing I want to do is look at the computer. Hence the lack of posts. Also, I can’t think of anything to write about. Every time an idea comes to mind, I feel like it sounds complainy and since my New Years resolution for 2006 was to think positively, I am trying finish up the year strong.
I could write about our weekend at Lunchboy’s company retreat in Pennsylvania this past weekend, but that was definitely not a positive experience.
Last night I dreamed that the Armstrongs lived around the corner. I kept going by to hang out with Heather, Jon and Leta, but I was doing something wrong—I don’t know what it was, but I just had a feeling that I was behaving inappropriately even though I wasn’t sure exactly what I was doing that was inappropriate, so they politely but firmly asked me not to come back.
The dream had more to do with the fact that I feel like I’m not being a very good friend right now than with the excessive number of blogs that I read (although who knows—I only realized my celebrity gossip habit was out of hand when I got a pedicure in LA and recognized 4-year-old Ava Witherspoon-Phillipe before I recognized her mother, so maybe dreaming about people I have only ever read about online is not a good sign). No time and no energy make Moxie a less empathic person. Now that daylight savings is in effect, I feel extra hibernatory. I don’t feel like I’m being very genuine or present in my friendships, and I’m certainly not putting as much effort into them as usual. I’m sorry—I will try to do better. My parents complained about this and all I could give them was that analogy from Buffy—right now my life is cookie dough. Once it’s cookies I’ll be back in the game. That should happen right around the beginning of March. My shrink says I have to stop trying to make everyone in my life happy, and while that’s easier said than done I am giving it my best shot.
I could write about our weekend at Lunchboy’s company retreat in Pennsylvania this past weekend, but that was definitely not a positive experience.
Last night I dreamed that the Armstrongs lived around the corner. I kept going by to hang out with Heather, Jon and Leta, but I was doing something wrong—I don’t know what it was, but I just had a feeling that I was behaving inappropriately even though I wasn’t sure exactly what I was doing that was inappropriate, so they politely but firmly asked me not to come back.
The dream had more to do with the fact that I feel like I’m not being a very good friend right now than with the excessive number of blogs that I read (although who knows—I only realized my celebrity gossip habit was out of hand when I got a pedicure in LA and recognized 4-year-old Ava Witherspoon-Phillipe before I recognized her mother, so maybe dreaming about people I have only ever read about online is not a good sign). No time and no energy make Moxie a less empathic person. Now that daylight savings is in effect, I feel extra hibernatory. I don’t feel like I’m being very genuine or present in my friendships, and I’m certainly not putting as much effort into them as usual. I’m sorry—I will try to do better. My parents complained about this and all I could give them was that analogy from Buffy—right now my life is cookie dough. Once it’s cookies I’ll be back in the game. That should happen right around the beginning of March. My shrink says I have to stop trying to make everyone in my life happy, and while that’s easier said than done I am giving it my best shot.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Two point conversion
I’m sick from dinner last night and also from the fact that thank you cards at Paper Source cost $24 for a box of 8. That’s highway robbery. Did I buy them? No. I know crafty people who make their own stationery and I admire them but I’m a bit too lazy for that. It could also be the bad chicken/shrimp that’s making me want to go back to bed.
We have a cake and a menu, but still no honeymoon. The honeymoon is proving to be surprisingly challenging, mostly due to the scarcity of travel agents. Mark that—the scarcity of good travel agents. We’ve found a couple that were more than willing to book us into hotels with terrible reviews or onto cruises that we didn’t want to take, but we’re still looking for someone who can help us find what we’re looking for. It would help if we really knew what we wanted, but that’s the fun of spontaneity. Hawaii? Sure! The Caribbean? Me likey the sun. But please, no open-air hotel rooms where the likelihood of spiders on my face at 2am is incredibly high.
Last night I dreamed that I was Deuce McAllister’s high school girlfriend, and I’d come back from the future to tell him what college football program he should pick to jumpstart his NFL career. This probably means that I need to cut way back on my Sunday football watching, but hey—it’s such a lovely way to zone out.
We have a cake and a menu, but still no honeymoon. The honeymoon is proving to be surprisingly challenging, mostly due to the scarcity of travel agents. Mark that—the scarcity of good travel agents. We’ve found a couple that were more than willing to book us into hotels with terrible reviews or onto cruises that we didn’t want to take, but we’re still looking for someone who can help us find what we’re looking for. It would help if we really knew what we wanted, but that’s the fun of spontaneity. Hawaii? Sure! The Caribbean? Me likey the sun. But please, no open-air hotel rooms where the likelihood of spiders on my face at 2am is incredibly high.
Last night I dreamed that I was Deuce McAllister’s high school girlfriend, and I’d come back from the future to tell him what college football program he should pick to jumpstart his NFL career. This probably means that I need to cut way back on my Sunday football watching, but hey—it’s such a lovely way to zone out.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Asclepias syriaca
On Sunday, we took advantage of the Patriots bye week and went apple picking. Which is to say, when the concept of a Sunday without mandatory football was broached, I latched onto it like a leech on those kids in Stand by Me and decided it was time to do something involving fresh air and seasonal fun. Don’t get me wrong—I am enjoying the football this year. But it’s good to mix things up a bit.
We went to an orchard in Groton because it’s late in the apple season and most of the orchards we found online were closed for picking. On the way out on 119, we passed a pumpkin patch. Not one of those roadside stalls piled high with pumpkins, but a real pick-your-own pumpkin patch. Neither of us had ever been to one of those before, so we pulled over and walked down to where the pumpkin vines covered a ten-acre field like old, gnarled knuckles. As we walked, the patch’s owner passed us on his tractor and roared out an extremely loud greeting. We giggled. Everyone was happy at the patch. Among the misshapen, the rotted, the still mostly green, and the way too big for our needs pumpkins, we found one that was just right, as well as a couple of brightly colored gourds. Carrying our finds back up the hill, the jocular farmer passed us again and roared out something else to the group he had on his hay-covered flatbed. If Santa Claus was real, he’d sound like this guy. We are so going back next year.
The orchard, once we found it, was perfect. Though we were late enough in the season that most of the trees only had apples on the top branches, this meant that we almost had the place to ourselves and that was better than picking at the height of the season. No jockeying for ladders with 6-year olds, no getting clocked on the head by apples that someone high in the tree shakes down by accident. We filled our two bags leisurely, climbing trees when we wanted to and walking between the rows in whichever direction seemed best. Along the way, I rediscovered a childhood obsession that I’d completely forgotten about---milkweed pods. They were everywhere, sprouting big white tufts of silky seed pods just begging to be flung in the air. So I flung—and flung and flung and flung. At some point in life I want milkweed in my back yard so that I can regress to age 5 whenever fall rolls around.
Then, tired and jonesing for apple cider doughnuts, we went home and watched football.
We went to an orchard in Groton because it’s late in the apple season and most of the orchards we found online were closed for picking. On the way out on 119, we passed a pumpkin patch. Not one of those roadside stalls piled high with pumpkins, but a real pick-your-own pumpkin patch. Neither of us had ever been to one of those before, so we pulled over and walked down to where the pumpkin vines covered a ten-acre field like old, gnarled knuckles. As we walked, the patch’s owner passed us on his tractor and roared out an extremely loud greeting. We giggled. Everyone was happy at the patch. Among the misshapen, the rotted, the still mostly green, and the way too big for our needs pumpkins, we found one that was just right, as well as a couple of brightly colored gourds. Carrying our finds back up the hill, the jocular farmer passed us again and roared out something else to the group he had on his hay-covered flatbed. If Santa Claus was real, he’d sound like this guy. We are so going back next year.
The orchard, once we found it, was perfect. Though we were late enough in the season that most of the trees only had apples on the top branches, this meant that we almost had the place to ourselves and that was better than picking at the height of the season. No jockeying for ladders with 6-year olds, no getting clocked on the head by apples that someone high in the tree shakes down by accident. We filled our two bags leisurely, climbing trees when we wanted to and walking between the rows in whichever direction seemed best. Along the way, I rediscovered a childhood obsession that I’d completely forgotten about---milkweed pods. They were everywhere, sprouting big white tufts of silky seed pods just begging to be flung in the air. So I flung—and flung and flung and flung. At some point in life I want milkweed in my back yard so that I can regress to age 5 whenever fall rolls around.
Then, tired and jonesing for apple cider doughnuts, we went home and watched football.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Strange Celebrity Dreams p.2
Last night I dreamed that Lunchboy and I had a threesome with Kristen Bell, who plays Veronica Mars. She was an active closet lesbian and snuck up on me in the shower.
No Colbert this time--sorry.
Now, let it be known that while Ms. Bell is certainly pretty, she is not on my "women don't do it for me but she would be an exception" list. Nor is she on Lunchboy's list (he says), though I'm sure he wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers. His response to me telling him about the dream went something like this:
"Ewww. She's not very hot. But YAY for the concept!!!"
Right. That'll happen as soon as I can hop in the sack with McSteamy and Clive Owen.
No Colbert this time--sorry.
Now, let it be known that while Ms. Bell is certainly pretty, she is not on my "women don't do it for me but she would be an exception" list. Nor is she on Lunchboy's list (he says), though I'm sure he wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers. His response to me telling him about the dream went something like this:
"Ewww. She's not very hot. But YAY for the concept!!!"
Right. That'll happen as soon as I can hop in the sack with McSteamy and Clive Owen.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Driven
Last week on Grey's Anatomy, Meredith had a great line in the middle of one of her great rants. "You have no idea how much effort this takes!" she yells at McVet and McSteamy. "I am plucked and waxed and shaved, and I have a clean shirt on. And all you can do is look at each other!"
It's no secret that upkeep is a bitch. In relationships, it can get easy to let things slide because really--what are they going to do if you aren't as polished as usual? In the past, with other men, I let things go a bit because I felt strongly that the men should love me no matter what I was wearing or how smooth my legs were, an argument that still rings true but only to a point. Lunchboy WOULD love me no matter what, but I choose not to walk that line.
That said, I had a moment of reflection last night while on the aesthetician's table. "Why do you do this?" she asked, after watching me flinch and bite my lip in pain. "I don't understand why this is all the rage." She's Indian and salt of the earth, and is clearly befuddled by all the women she sees who dislike their body hair. I didn't know what to tell her. Everyone has their reasons for the things they do. I know what mine are, but I wasn't going to say them out loud.
It's no secret that upkeep is a bitch. In relationships, it can get easy to let things slide because really--what are they going to do if you aren't as polished as usual? In the past, with other men, I let things go a bit because I felt strongly that the men should love me no matter what I was wearing or how smooth my legs were, an argument that still rings true but only to a point. Lunchboy WOULD love me no matter what, but I choose not to walk that line.
That said, I had a moment of reflection last night while on the aesthetician's table. "Why do you do this?" she asked, after watching me flinch and bite my lip in pain. "I don't understand why this is all the rage." She's Indian and salt of the earth, and is clearly befuddled by all the women she sees who dislike their body hair. I didn't know what to tell her. Everyone has their reasons for the things they do. I know what mine are, but I wasn't going to say them out loud.
Morning sugar
Jelly Belly jelly beans are by far the best beans out there, but they have one downside: you have to eat them one by one. Otherwise, instead of getting a pleasant mouthful of generically yummy sweetness, you get a mishmash of flavors that, separately, taste delicious but together taste like cough syrup.
Pick up this week’s issue of the Improper Bostonian. C-love has a kickass article about eating solo. There’s a lot to be said for eating alone and she does a really good job at explaining why it’s fun, even for people who avoid eating by themselves at all costs.
Pick up this week’s issue of the Improper Bostonian. C-love has a kickass article about eating solo. There’s a lot to be said for eating alone and she does a really good job at explaining why it’s fun, even for people who avoid eating by themselves at all costs.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Tastes like sugar
Last night I went to Cambridge Naturals to get a refill of my daily multi-vitamin. After prying my way through the safety seal and the wad of cotton before breakfast this morning, I discovered an object with which I once had a very close acquaintance: the silica gel pack.
When I was about six, I somehow got ahold of a bottle of vitamins—or maybe it was something else, I don’t remember but whatever it was had one of the silica packs. Anyway, I thought the silica pack looked like a single serving piece of candy, so I ate the whole thing. Down the hatch. Noticing that I was chewing on something, my mother figured out what I’d done, promptly had a small coronary and called poison control, who told her to feed me lots of oatmeal. Not feeling sick in the slightest, I had no clue why she was so upset. I was only disappointed that the silica hadn’t tasted like candy. It turned out fine. But now I smile whenever I see a silica gel pack.
When I was about six, I somehow got ahold of a bottle of vitamins—or maybe it was something else, I don’t remember but whatever it was had one of the silica packs. Anyway, I thought the silica pack looked like a single serving piece of candy, so I ate the whole thing. Down the hatch. Noticing that I was chewing on something, my mother figured out what I’d done, promptly had a small coronary and called poison control, who told her to feed me lots of oatmeal. Not feeling sick in the slightest, I had no clue why she was so upset. I was only disappointed that the silica hadn’t tasted like candy. It turned out fine. But now I smile whenever I see a silica gel pack.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
I don't keep going and going and going
My batteries are running low—literally. Last week the battery on my Mac laptop gave out, leading to a series of frustrating and disillusioning interactions with the people at my local Apple store. Then last night, the water bottle in my yoga bag spilled all over my cell phone and the battery did a little vibrating jig before it kicked the bucket. Apple is sending me a new battery but I have to head over to the Cingular store at lunch to see what I can do about the phone. What’s next—my watch? My car? It’s been an anti-Midas week, where everything I touch breaks. I won’t get into the mishap with Lunchboy’s Gamecube on Saturday, except to say that it was totally accidental.
After three blissful months of local projects that kept him home, Lunchboy is back on the road again for the foreseeable future. We are back to weeks measured by the time between when he leaves on Monday and gets back on Thursday. I get lonely and miss him when he’s away, but he’s the one stuck at Logan for 4 hours after getting up for a 6am flight. He’s the one who won’t get home until 11pm on Thursday. The cats don’t know what’s going on. They keep giving me these looks like, “WTF? Where IS he?”
Last night was the first night in months that I’ve slept alone, and I kept having extremely vivid dreams that there was someone else in the house, or that there was an intruder in the condo upstairs (I’m catsitting for our neighbors while they’re on their honeymoon). Usually I feel very safe in the house but without a working phone I felt vulnerable and powerless. In the dreams, I’d scream “Get out! Get out!” at the intruder, but then realize that I couldn’t call for help. Today, very tired.
After three blissful months of local projects that kept him home, Lunchboy is back on the road again for the foreseeable future. We are back to weeks measured by the time between when he leaves on Monday and gets back on Thursday. I get lonely and miss him when he’s away, but he’s the one stuck at Logan for 4 hours after getting up for a 6am flight. He’s the one who won’t get home until 11pm on Thursday. The cats don’t know what’s going on. They keep giving me these looks like, “WTF? Where IS he?”
Last night was the first night in months that I’ve slept alone, and I kept having extremely vivid dreams that there was someone else in the house, or that there was an intruder in the condo upstairs (I’m catsitting for our neighbors while they’re on their honeymoon). Usually I feel very safe in the house but without a working phone I felt vulnerable and powerless. In the dreams, I’d scream “Get out! Get out!” at the intruder, but then realize that I couldn’t call for help. Today, very tired.
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