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Thursday, October 14, 2010

Stepford Syndrome

Fed the family, fed the dogs, walked/jogged 7 miles, researched half-marathons, spoke to my Grandma on the phone, lifted weights, did the dishes and the laundry, wiped up counters and floors, dropped off kids, picked up kids (4tripstotal), talked to my sister, hosted a playdate, spoke to my neighbor lady, helped with homework, played with dogs, made blondies, walked Zack to playdate, talked to Jen on the phone, emailed, marked up the calendar, supported a fundraiser, addressed packages, looked for costumes, listened to football stats, welcomed my husband home, read during football practice, listened to a book on tape, watched Dexter with Greg. Laughed, lived, loved.

Yet.

I went to bed, wondering where my day went. Where all my days go. And why I don't get more done.

Seeing it in print is helpful. But why do I feel like I'm spinning my wheels?

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Florence. Oregon.

A certain dog I know loves the sand. And water.


Now that we are 60 miles from the Oregon Coast, it stands to reason that we can swing a day trip there, from time to time.
If only the sun could have joined us. She's sorta afraid of the coastline. Big baby ball of fire.
Not that my kids care.
Believe me when I tell you friends: That water is C O L D. Brrr

Wednesday, October 06, 2010

of feet and frustration

Some women make it look easy; they make it look effortless, this fashion thing. I've spent most of my life being haplessly unaware just how little of it comes to me at all.

Not that I care. Not most days.

But I recently found a darling pencil skirt at Goodwill, fulfilling my Great Skirt Fantasies. What is my GSF? Well, after wearing skirts all summer long, I would come across a batch of fall and winter skirts, skirts that beg to be worn with tights & boots. Skirts that play well with scarves and gloves. Skirts that would carry until spring. Skirts that may or may not like walking dogs, going to pumpkin patches and/or caramel apples. And skirts easy on the eyes and wallet.

One would think that if I could find my Soul Mate Skirt, I would be set.

One would hope that the neuropathy in my feet could just give me a break until I see my new acupuncturist in November, the earliest appointment I could get.

One could hope that I could come up with a cute outfit for this weekend's Wordstock festival in Portland.

This one girl was wrong. All my shoes hurt. Every non-geriatric, orthopedic-and-otherwise-shoe at every store I went to today - and I strongly dislike shopping - made me wince. Add a little neurotic episode of trying on most everything in my closet and I had ruined a perfectly good afternoon.

So I am pouting, and angry at myself, for being angry at my body.

'It's doing the best it can.'

I tell this to myself while I lament the time lost. I'm saying it while I bake cookies for the kids my body lovingly carried for me. While I make dinner in my new kitchen, the biggest kitchen I've ever had. (Pictures coming this week.)

They carry me.

I have no idea what I'll pack for my trip, but my feet will carry me and my silly insecurities.

Oy vey.


"I've got a perfect body, but sometimes I forget.
I've got a perfect body, because my eyelashes catch my sweat."

Sunday, October 03, 2010

another Sunday

I'm in the kitchen, boiling water, when I notice my son has abandoned the NFL game again, throwing a football around the backyard, undoubtedly re-enacting the day's plays.

I don't mind that he's peeled himself away from the couch; I wish he'd kindly take pity on my electric bill and turn the TV off when he grows restless. Besides: Ethan Hawke is reading Slaughterhouse-Five to me, while I pull raviolis from the fridge, saute scallops.

Ethan doesn't like competing with the fine men of ESPN, well-dressed in their tailored suits, suits designed for men with wide shoulders and early arthritis.

I turn off the TV as my boy bounds through the door, puzzled and sweaty.

'Why'd you turn off my show/game/Football prophet?'

I shake my head and go back to making dinner. My story of war and Dresden awaits; Uma's ex bides his time patiently.

I hit play.