Anne Evolves

Turn and Face the Strain

2011-04-25T21:39:00.002-05:00

I didn’t feel so great when I woke up this morning. I know why. One, I haven’t been exercising regularly for the past couple of weeks, and yesterday I walked a lot. My muscles are confused and consequently cranky. Two, since I never made it to the pharmacy to get my allergy medicine, my sinuses are swollen in protest. Three, as a direct result of the junk food I ate yesterday, my stomach is tossing acid around in revolt. In short, I haven’t been a model of good health lately and this morning felt it acutely.

I haven’t been exercising and eating correctly lately because I’m stressed out. Fitting time in to workout seems like a punishment when I’m working late most nights. Fast food and other edible comforts seem justifiable when I’m unhappy with my job. I’ve also been letting chores and errands, like pharmacy runs, slip because I’m distracted. I feel distracted because I’m not sleeping. I’m not sleeping because I’m not exercising and eating healthy. Not sleeping leads to more stress, which leads to… I’ll be honest: I’ve been having a major long-running pity party. My job sucks and I’ve been letting it suck down my personal life too.

Waking up this Easter morning, I felt how stupid that was. If ever there is a time to exercise and eat healthy and sleep well, it’s when you’re stressed. A sucky day at work is a reason to go to yoga, not an excuse to skip it. I know this, but I haven’t been acting on it. Instead, I’ve been feeling sorry for myself, as my last rant of a blog entry can attest. Someone suggested I take it down because it was so obviously an emotional vomit of an entry (my words, not hers). I considered taking it down because when I started this blog I intended it to be a record of the positive actions I take in my life, and that entry was not positive. I’ve decided to leave it, though, because it is honest. Anger and unhappiness is a part of everyone’s life at some point, and it certainly has been in my life lately. If my goal is to make myself a better Anne, I have to be honest about who I am. Right now, I’m a person who is unhappy with her job and who is letting it affect her life. Now I have to figure out how I’m going to get over this.

I’m not a traditionally religious person, but I feel there are valuable lessons to be learned and embraced from the stories and metaphors and wisdom that come from the world’s religions. I’m trying to tap into the ideas of renewal and restoration imbued in Easter celebrations. Today is a good day to start again, to make healthy choices and go back to the more positive me. I’m also considering that familiar prayer of “changing the things I can, accepting the things I can’t, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

Changing the stupid job, while not impossible, is going to take time and a whole lot of patience. However, the unhealthy eating, the lack of exercise, the sleeplessness, the feeling sorry for myself I can start tackling all of those today. I can control these things. I can be a better Anne.

It’s Awful

2011-03-30T21:43:00.002-05:00

How about this for a blog theme: Anne figures out how to quit her job.

My jobby job has turned into a nightmare. I know that must seem a bit melodramatic but I’ve literally had bad dreams about it so I’m feeling a bit inclined. This morning, I was practicing yogic breathing in my car so I wouldn't have a panic attack on the way to work. My job is awfully awful right now.

Part of it is that I’m on a terrible project. You know you’re on a terrible project when your coworkers start describing it as the “perfect storm.” It’s huge in size, quite literally double in size of other projects like it. It’s a Godzilla project. It has a short schedule for regular small projects, let alone a project that eats Tokyo. It has a huge staff assigned to it, but about 50% are on irregular part-time schedules, and only seven of us are in the same office. I also have another very big project that I’m expected to work on at the same time. That’s right, it’s Godzilla versus Mothra and half my army is invading Russia.

I have had bad projects before—bad-I-wanna-quit-my-job projects—but they always end. At some point the crisis is solved, or the mother of all manuals pubs, or someone comes to their senses and cancels the ridiculous print date. At some point that horrible feeling of claustrophobia passes and I stop dreading the next day at work and I don’t want to quit my job anymore. Godzilla goes back to the Island of Monsters.

I’m on week four of feeling claustrophobic. I had to force myself to get out of bed this morning. And yesterday morning. And the morning before that.

That’s because of the other part of the reason I’m miserable. I’m working with horrible coworkers. I’m working with people who don’t tell you when they are having problems, when they don’t know how to do what they need to, or that they won’t be making their deadlines. Instead, they say everything will be fine or they just refuse to do the work requested. Then they miss their deadlines by a week and turn over crap. And when they got called on the carpet for doing all of that, these horrible coworkers blamed me. By name. They went to my boss and said it was my fault.

My boss knows better. As do the other non-horrible coworkers who are this team. No one whose opinion I care about for one second believed that I was to blame for this. I had to suffer some cheap shots and play nice when I didn't want to, but no one thought I was to blame. Everyone knows who was responsible for the poor work and blown timeline. What is hard for me to deal with right now is that the responsible parties have not suffered any consequences for their actions.

Rather, I and my fellow non-horrible coworkers are working four times as hard as we were before and bending over backwards and playing nice to make the horrible people’s jobs as easy as possible so, just maybe, they’ll actually do them. Everyday I have to take phone calls from people who are incompetent and listen to them whine about doing the most basic functions of their jobs as they lob passive aggressive comments at me. They have still not made a deadline. They are still sending crap. They are still telling anyone who will listen how unreasonable I and my fellow non-horrible coworkers are being. They’ve taken to complaining about work they haven’t received yet. Preemptive blaming I suppose.

The managers that be are letting it happen. They are letting their good workers take up the slack and suffer for the horrible one’s incompetence. They are watching their deadlines and quality slide and saying, “It’ll be fine.” They are letting band-aid fixes work and not caring that the overall project process is hemorrhaging. They are relying upon me to get this sorted out.

Yes, this Godzilla project will end. Eventually, Mothra will go back to the Island of Monsters too. The horrible coworkers won’t go away though. They’re on a team that I will have to work with again. They are unlikely to change their opinion of me. They are unlikely to change their work ethic or improve their skill set. I can expect to see Son of Godzilla project in my future.

Or I can quit my job.

I Want a New Drug

2011-02-18T15:56:00.001-06:00

I’ve been thinking about changing the nature of this blog, or even doing away with this blog entirely and creating a new one. I’ve found that most blogs I like and return to have one central topic or idea that the author completely, sometimes obsessively, focuses on. It gives a cohesion to the blog that I feel is lacking in mine.

A vague, it’s about me, doesn’t seem like a really good blog hook. A friend of mine sent me a link to a blog about candy. That’s it. The bloggers go and find candy, eat the candy, and then write about it. It was a great blog! It was fun, it was fully developed, it kept my attention for several minutes when I should have otherwise been more productively engaged.

I want a blog like that. I want to have lots of witty articles about nothing in particular that amuse people for short bursts at a time. Now, I know what you’re saying, I already have a blog like that (because you all love me and my posts about being unmotivated). You (I’m totally convinced) are thoroughly entertained by me and my little inane posts about me. I don’t, however, have a blog that I’m entertained writing.

Oh don’t get me wrong, I spend oodles of time thinking about me and how to improve me. That’s why I thought this would be a great topic for a blog, because I’m all about me. I analyze me and my activities a whole lot, so I should have lots and lots to write about...right? Nope. No. Not really.

I like some of the stuff I’ve written, and I think the song lyrics for entry titles is brilliant of me, but I’m not as often inspired to write about me as I thought I would. I’m still thinking about me and actively trying to improve as a human being, but I’m not sure I want to write it all down and share it with you. Some of that stuff is too personal. Some of that stuff is still too fresh to know where I’m going with it. Some of that stuff is—oh, let’s face it—some of that stuff is just plain boring to anyone who isn’t me. So, consequently, my “I’m going to write one entry a week” blog hasn’t had any entries lately. I’ve just been too worn out from living my life to be enthralled about writing about it.

I need a hook. I need a blog about one thing and one thing only. Something gimmicky and with words that are easy to make puns out of. Something that I can take pictures of because I like blogs with pictures. Something I can be obsessive about because it enthralls me and I love sharing any and all info I have about it with you, my gentle readers.

If only I knew what that was.

You’re An Amateur

2011-01-19T20:15:00.000-06:00

Fake it until you make it.

That’s one of those self-help type of mantras that gets espoused a lot. I like the philosophy behind it. No one starts out perfect, you have to keep practicing. If you give up because you haven’t automatically started at perfect, you never arrive at perfect. The point is to keep on trying until you get there.

I’ve been saying this to myself a lot lately. I feel a little like I’m just going through the motions this week. At work, I’m not entirely sure I know what I’m doing, but everyone else seems to think that I know what I’m doing. My motivation for healthy living has waned somewhat, but I’m still practicing the rituals. My great ideas for the next American novel don’t actually involve any plots, so tonight I’m writing a blog entry.

Let’s face it, I’m faking it a bit right now. I’m not perfect. I’m trying. I’m in the process of getting better. That’s okay. If I fake it long enough, I’ll make it.

I’m the Sun

2010-12-29T15:47:00.000-06:00

So it’s almost New Year’s Day, and this is a blog about the journey of self-improvement...I guess I should just do the resolution entry and get it over with.

If you can’t tell, New Year’s resolutions aren’t really my thing. Don’t get me wrong, I love clear delineations: start points, dead lines, designated boxes, clearly marked folders, closed closet doors...they’re great! We should have cut-off points in our calendar where we call it quits for this year and move along to the next. It keeps things so nicely organized. I know exactly how to file my paperwork thanks to the time system. I take satisfaction in knowing that, if nothing else, my calendars are up to date.

I even don’t feel it’s silly to load certain emotional markers on particular days of the year. If we tried to live one emotional set of parameters all year long we’d...well, we’d fail miserably. Any old day I can be grouchy, make rude jokes about the government, and be morose. However, once a year it’s good to be reminded to tell everybody we love them, to be proud that we’re Americans, to laugh at death and wear ridiculous clothing, and yes, once a year to take a serious inventory of what we could improve about ourselves.

No, the concept of New Year’s resolutions really isn’t offensive to me. It’s just...I’m a naturally independent and stubborn person. Naturally independent and stubborn people generally don’t like the implication that we need to change. We prefer to offer advice rather than take it gracefully. Seeing a lot of news articles about how I should manage my money, manage my weight, manage my time, manage my stress, and manage whatever it is they assume I’m handling poorly as of 2010, makes me want to dig in my heels and say something like, “Manage yourself, buddy,” and metaphorically shake my fist.

I truly believe that, when it comes to change, the only impetus that one can actually rely on is oneself. The best advice in the world doesn’t mean anything until you are ready to listen. And listening to advice is useless until you actually act. I know how to manage my money, weight, time, and all that other stuff. Knowing how to do it isn’t the problem. The doing is crux of the matter. So, it is difficult to jump into the resolution spirit when I’m convinced that it’s me or nothing.

I concede, however, that being naturally independent and stubborn doesn’t mean I couldn’t use a little help. So, this year, perhaps I should to try and be open-minded to the advice givers of the world. Yes, in the end it does come down to me and my decision to act, but a little outside motivation, a few helpful hints, an article or two about keeping resolutions can’t hurt me. No reason to be stubborn for stubborn’s sake. No reason to take common sense advice as a personal attack on my skills at running my life.

This year, I resolve to be a little less resolute on my prior stand on resolutions.

Home

2010-12-10T14:38:00.002-06:00

December 10 – Wisdom

What was the wisest decision you made this year, and how did it play out?

I don’t know if it was my wisest, but it sure was a good one: I moved. I never got 100% comfortable in my last apartment. I had to move out of an apartment I loved into one that was “perfectly fine” due to monetary concerns, and I’m sure that colored my judgment somewhat. My last apartment wasn’t awful, but it was smaller. And darker. And the upstairs neighbors noisier. And the front office lost my packages. And...well, let’s face it, my last place just wasn’t “home, sweet home.”

I moved into a duplex this year. I’m not going to say it’s perfect (because I can think of two problems right off hand), but it is definitely an improvement. It’s big, it’s airy, and it’s just all around homey. It feels like my house and not just the place I’m temporary living to save money. It’s important for a home to be a home and not just a container of your stuff. My place is my little oasis from the rest of the world, and I’m glad to have it.

I love your friends, they’re all so arty.

2010-12-07T13:30:00.000-06:00

December 7 – Community. Where have you discovered community, online or otherwise, in 2010? What community would you like to join, create or more deeply connect with in 2011?

Erg...this is a stupid prompt...I discovered the TV show “Community” is pretty funny. Their Halloween episodes are high-lair-ree-us. The last one was a take-off on zombie movies...but I don’t think that’s what this prompt is about...

Oh I’ve got one! I discovered Etsy.com this past year. If you don’t know of Etsy, imagine if eBay had been created by artists. It’s an online community where makers-of-stuff can sell said stuff to the buyers-of-stuff. The stuff ranges from simple crafts to fancy art, and it’s all on a user-friendly forum. Two Christmas gifts have already been purchased. Etsy also features blogs and what-not for those who sell. I find it all so fascinating that I daydream of crossing over from a buyer to a seller. If I could just come up with that brilliant idea...

The Sweetest Thing

2010-12-06T14:25:00.003-06:00

December 6 – Make.

What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it?

I made a Christmas gift this weekend. I won’t go into details about what it is so no surprises will be ruined, but it was a good experience. I thought of this idea a while ago and debated whether the effort would be appreciated by the receiver of the gift. In the end I decided it would be, partly because I think it’s a good idea, but also because I realized that I really wanted to make it. The project is something that I’m good at and enjoy doing for myself, it seemed special to share it with someone else. It took more effort than I thought it would, but I finished it with a great sense of satisfaction. I think the gift receiver, even if they don’t particularly want the gift itself, will appreciate the thought. Making versus straight buying adds something to the experience for both the giver and the getter.

If You Start Me Up

2010-12-06T14:25:00.001-06:00

So, I'm trying this out: reverb10

I've been crazy busy recently and have missed writing. I'm hoping this will be a good way to initiate an entry or few. Plus, I love me some self-reflection.

On The Road Again

2010-11-24T12:12:00.005-06:00

I saw an interview with Willy Nelson where someone asked if he ever played Branson, Missouri. His immediate response was, “No,” and a vigorous shake of his head. He explained that audiences were “different” there. Having visited Branson recently I think I understand Willy’s reaction.

Branson seems to be diametrically opposed to itself. On one hand it is a beautiful part of the world: leaves changing colors, clear skies, streams winding through scenic cliffs. On the other hand, it is home to some of the tackiest buildings in the world: a recreation of Titanic running into an iceberg, King Kong scaling a sky scraper, Andy William’s Moon River Grill. The attitude of Branson also seems a bit contradictory. There was blatant patriotism on display, but several of the most popular attractions are foreign. Small town charm smothered by tourist commercialism. There was a slight tension to the place that is hard to explain.

My Aunt described one of the shows as, “Dolly Parton’s version of Medieval Times.” The fact that such a sentence could exist and make sense...but, seriously, that sort of sums it up. Las Vegas in the woods. But with no booze. Then there are the audiences. Willy is, no doubt, used to laidback beer-drinking good ol’ boys. Branson features a lot of retiree Church groups who splurge on ice tea. I wasn’t miserable in Branson, but I wasn’t quite comfortable there either. Imagine the South without hospitality. Or booze.

Then again, perhaps the contradiction lies within me. I would never say I need alcohol to have a good time, but clearly I missed it. I love tackiness, patriotism, and ice tea—why am I suddenly a snob about them? Perhaps, I just prefer such things to be a little more self-aware. (Not necessarily the ice tea, but...) I like Las Vegas because Las Vegas is proudly tacky. Las Vegas managed to make marble tacky and yet shows it off with élan. Branson has wrapped itself up in Americana so tightly that it seems to have missed the fact that it no longer resembles down-to-Earth America. Even as I criticize, however, I am aware that there were many parts of my Branson trip I thoroughly enjoyed. Below the bizarre exterior, there was quality. The restaurant didn’t have a beer list, but it did have the amazing goodness that is fried green tomatoes. The show might have been in a ridiculous building and have had a ridiculous premise, but it was a good show. The Titanic museum might be in a building made to look like the ship ramming into a papier-mâché iceberg, but it is a worthwhile museum. (Trust me, just get past the front door.) So why the hesitation in saying Branson is great place to visit?

Am I just too cool for Branson? Have I wrapped myself so tightly in my chic liberal merlot-drinking ways that I can’t enjoy something that doesn't fit into my preset notions of enjoyment? I’m choosing to think, no. I had fun, I took pictures, I bought the souvenir magnet. I tried to get as much out of the vacation as I would any other place in the world. I would even go back to Branson—no, really. Now that I’m a little more prepared for what to expect, I would pack my own bottle of wine, and enjoy this different type of kitsch for what it’s worth. Even if Willy and I happen to think other places are a little more worthwhile.

Here It Goes Again

2010-10-07T16:11:00.002-05:00

I haven’t written an entry in a while, but that’s because I’ve been a busy little bee buzzing away happily. I found my motivation. Well, that’s not entirely accurate, because I’m not sure when it got back or where it’s been (and my motivation isn’t talking). The important point is that it is back and I am enjoying the sensation.

Though I’m not sure I’ve got any insights into the mysteries of motivation, I have realized that a big boost of confidence in one area of your life will spill over into other parts of your life. My job has become challenging again, rather than just being a challenge. There are new and interesting tasks at hand and, so far, I’ve been accomplishing them well. I am meeting the challenge and being appreciated for it. At work! Who would have thought!?

Strangely enough, this has made other little bothersome things in my life seem less bothersome. I’ve already crossed a few “to do’s” off my Should List. I’ve even taken on a new personal project that could become quite complicated, but I’m going for it anyways. Perhaps, I’m just a little heady in the rush of positive emotions. Perhaps, I do thrive on stress and I just wish I was one of those laid-back gals. I’m not sure it matters, I’m just enjoying my motivation while it’s here.

Some Grief, Some Joy

2010-09-16T14:54:00.000-05:00

I spent Labor Day at my grandparents’ house. For the past few years, various members of the family have met there to enjoy one another’s company. Somewhere along the way, we solved the logistical problems of feeding a large group of people multiple days by deciding that a different branch of the family would cook each night. Last year, the dinner assignments split naturally among my mother and her siblings. This year, we were short an uncle and his branch to prepare food. My mother, half joking, suggested that my cousin and I take up the slack and make dinner one night.

I went for it. After all, I am a wannabe foodie and I knew that my cousin has some wicked entertaining skills—we could totally take on dinner one night! I am proud of my cooking skills. I have had lots of helpful instruction from various people in my life, and have watched a lot of Food Network, but a considerable amount of my skill is the result of me experimenting on myself. While I don’t think I have a natural talent for food creation (I would never be able to come up with a dish on “Chopped”), I know the cooking basics and can work a recipe. I consider my modest cooking abilities to be an accomplishment of practice and study and am always excited by the chance to show off a little.

The problem is, I have stage fright. That’s the best way I can put it. It is very similar to public speaking for me. I can know my topic, I can practice my speech, I can feel confident in myself...until I stand up in front of people. Then, without fail, my stomach back flips, I break a sweat, and my tongue seems much larger than it did before. No matter how prepared I am for a speech, I will always be nervous while giving it. I can have a recipe down, I can have cooked it a hundred times successfully, I can know my kitchen inside and out, but as soon as someone is in the room while I’m cooking I become hugely self-conscious. As soon as someone is about to take a bite of what I’ve cooked, I am convinced it is horrible-tasting poison.

I come from a loving and supporting family. I was in no way heckled while cooking. In fact, both my cousin and aunt were extremely helpful as I eeked and oohed my way through fixing dinner (eeking and oohing being my traditional method of dealing with nerves). My Mom, who I was determined to give the night off, even tagged in for the occasional assist. It was a team dinner, no doubt, but I knew that the main dish was still my choice and my responsibility, and the thought of that nearly gave me hives. I comforted myself with the thought that we could always get pizza delivered, even as my entire family was making affirmative comments. Only after everyone had eaten, after many compliments, after two family members asked for the recipe, could I relax a little bit and believe I hadn’t poisoned my loved ones.

What I find fascinating about all of this is that I feel at the same time both the need to show off my cooking talents and the secret doubt that I’m culinary disaster waiting to happen. I both want to cook for people and am terrified to cook for people simultaneously. I know I will continue to welcome opportunities to prepare meals for others, but history tells me that I’m going to freak out a little every time I do so.

As we were eating the shrimp and pasta dish that I had prepared, my aunt noticed I wasn’t eating very much. (My entire body was clenched as I waited to see if my grandmother would keel over onto her platter.) She told me that when she entertains that she often has “cook’s mouth.” She’s spends so much time and energy making sure everything is perfect for her guests she is unable to enjoy the meal for herself.

The idea of cook’s mouth makes me feel better about my love/hate relationship with cooking for others. Perhaps that duality is just a result of caring so much about the people I’m cooking for. (I really don’t want my grandmother to keel over while eating.) Perhaps, the stage fright is just proof of how invested I am in perfecting my dish. Or, perhaps, I’m just a tad insecure.

Still, I keep cooking. I keep welcoming the opportunities to cook for others. I’ll just have to keep on managing the minor freak outs as well.

Doing Pretty Good

2010-08-26T15:32:00.001-05:00

I have a sinus infection.

I have been congested and have had headaches, including one that went into migraine, but I thought to myself, “Stupid allergies.” I’ve also been somewhat achy (“Stupid working out.”), and keep going between feeling really hot (“Stupid Texas summer.”) and really cold (“Stupid Texas air conditioning.”). Then I was in tai chi class and was sweating buckets (“Stupid humidity.”), but tried to power through even as I felt weaker and weaker (“Stupid limbs made out of cement.”). At that point, my tai chi instructor walked over and told me to go lay down because I looked like I was about to pass out. When I got home that night, I cooled off, ate something with lots of protein, and generally rested. However, I couldn’t help but notice that I still felt light-headed. The next morning I felt the same.

Finally, I went to the doctor. I told her all about the light-headedness and the nearly passing out. Luckily, my doctor was a better detective than me and she thought to ask questions to find the other pertinent symptoms. After a very thorough examination, which included an EKG, a blood test for anemia, and a head x-ray, I got the diagnosis of a sinus infection.

Rather than feeling relieved that I didn’t have some bizarre light-headed disease, my first reaction was to be embarrassed. I had another sinus infection? Shouldn’t I know what those feel like by now? As I added up all the symptoms it seemed perfectly obvious...you know, right after somebody pointed it out to me. How could I have not realized it was a sinus infection?!

A few of my friends have been dealing with medical problems lately. I’m at least number four on the list of sinus infections, there have been a couple stomach bugs, and then there were some more serious, long-term issue diagnoses. All these problems run the gamut of corporeal existence, but I noticed a theme as I was discussing them with my various friends.

Embarrassment. Every one of my friends seemed to be embarrassed by the idea that their body was weak in some way. At least two friends used the word shame when discussing their medical condition. There was even a sense of guilt expressed.

It’s not a far leap, I suppose, for women in our society to be embarrassed by a medical hindrance. After all, we tend to spend a lot of time being self-conscious about our appearance. I suppose it all falls under that master category of “physical defect.” I know more than one woman who has trouble taking a compliment—

“Your hair looks nice!”

“I just wore it pulled back today because it’s windy outside.”

—so it’s no wonder then that we react poorly when someone actually confirms that something about our bodies is wrong. It’s as though someone announced out loud the dirty little secret we all know: our bodies aren’t perfect.

Even though this is just the universal human condition, we tend to act like it is some terrible mistake we have made. We immediately analyze our behavior to see how we brought this upon ourselves, how we could have avoided it, how others will treat us if they find out. We find we need to forgive ourselves for something we never chose to have happen to us. We find we have to account to others how this situation could have occurred.

Even for something as dumb as a sinus infection. I can’t tell you how much it bothers me that I haven’t done my laundry because I am exhausted from being sick and taking antibiotics. I feel I need to explain myself to people for the fact that I’ve been sleeping more than housekeeping. I have a good reason, really! Please, don’t judge me too harshly! Certainly, not as harshly as I tend to judge myself.

When I was in the doctor’s office, I received a reminder why I shouldn’t be so hard on myself for uncontrollable physicality. As the doctor reviewed the results from my EKG, she said, “You have a beautiful heartbeat. You work out, don’t you?” I was so surprised that I didn’t have a chance to retort with my usual, “Not as much as I should.” The fact of the matter is that I don’t feel I work out enough because I’m not losing weight. The outside part of me—the part that I’m used to feeling guilty about—seems to be pretty much same. It took an expert to point out that I do exercise regularly and that it is having a very good effect somewhere.

So I remind myself: I’m a healthy, beautiful woman who does not have medical training. It’s okay if I don’t immediately spot potential symptoms of minor illnesses. It’s not only okay, it’s normal, to occasionally be sick and tired. What is important is that I take care of myself as best I can, that I say “thank you” when someone compliments me, and that I give myself time to recover from minor illnesses before doing my laundry.

(Stupid sinus infections.)

Keep Pushin’

2010-08-12T13:30:00.003-05:00

What is motivation?

I know what inspiration is. I remember what it feels like when a new concept enters my mind. I remember what that excitement feels like. I know what satisfaction is. I know how the certainty of completion feels as it moves in my chest. I know what frustration is. I know how it lives in the back of my throat and behind my eyes. I know how it travels in waves.

But, what is motivation?

A clever, beautiful, strong-willed woman of my acquaintance is successful at family, education, and career. If I was asked to give examples of people who have their stuff together, she’d certainly be at the top of my list. Today she suffered a setback and decried that she had lost all her motivation.

It’s been bothering me ever since. I’m not particularly worried about her as she’s the type of gal that regroups and attacks from the left if the right isn’t working. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already moved on with a well-itemized action plan to counteract the situation. What she said, however, has stuck with me.

For a long while now I’ve been struggling. “I’m having a problem with my motivation,” has been a great little sound bite for me to describe this sense of personal struggle. Yet, when I heard it come from the mouth of a woman who seems to be so—I don’t know—well-organized at life, suddenly the statement seemed…

Meaningless? Stupid? Overly-dramatic? No. It was an honest moment of frustration and I knew how she felt and I sympathized. I responded with encouragement because I wanted her to get it back. It: that mystical motivation that we apparently all know we need.

But, what is motivation?

If you peruse Merriam-Webster long enough, you will get to motive. It comes from a variation on the Latin verb that means “to move.” Literally, motivation is what makes you move.

I think it’s what’s you have when you don’t have inspiration. I think it’s why you keep moving even when it doesn’t feel wonderful to move. I think it’s what convinces us that if we keep moving, eventually it will feel wonderful, eventually we’ll get inspired again. I think it’s the metaphorical moat that keeps despair from invading.

After an unexpected and negative outcome, my friend told me she didn’t feel like moving. Oh, how I know how that feels. I guess it seemed funny coming from her because she’s not good at sitting still. She’s isn’t the type to stop moving. I guess it bothered me because I worry that I am.

Am I moving or sitting still with a lot of talk?

I suppose it’s like sanity, if you are worried that you are losing it then you must still have some left. So, I have motivation.

Anybody know where I can pick up some of that inspiration stuff?

I Say No, No, No

2010-08-05T14:49:00.003-05:00

“Does Chinese food sound good?”

You would think I—wannabe foodie, Weight Watchers member, generally picky eater—would easily say “no” when Chinese, in fact, does not sound good that evening. Instead I say something like,

“Um...sure.”

In many ways, I’m a very opinionated person. I wouldn’t call myself picky, but boy am I particular. When I consider how opinionated I am on certain subjects, how willing I am to share my opinions on certain subjects, how much of a smart ass I can be, how easily I can hand out advice...it seems strange that I ever have trouble saying “no” when the answer to someone’s question is “no.”

I reason that I don’t not-like Chinese food. Sometimes I even crave Chinese food. So, if my friend wants Chinese food, I can certainly eat it. I can certainly not go with my first choice so my friend can have hers.

I always like to think that when I say “yes” when I’m thinking “no” it’s because I want everyone to be happy. I truly do believe in the golden rule of treating others as you would want to be treated. I think to myself, “What if I wanted Chinese tonight? I would want her to say ‘yes’.”

The truth is, a lot of the reason that I say “yes” when I’m thinking “no” is because I want people to like me. It’s not so much wanting my friend’s happiness, it’s being afraid of my friend’s rejection. That’s a horrible approach to decision making.

For one, and most obvious, something’s going on with my self-esteem when I find myself compulsively yes-ing. There are better ways to gain people’s love and friendship than eating unwanted food. I will not have failed in my ability to interact sociably if I do not go out for Chinese. Two, the idea gives very little credit to my friends. They love me more than my willingness to eat kung-pao chicken. They are not so shallow that they will hang up on me if I say no to Chinese food. Third, I don’t want to be that person. I really do want to make decisions based on people’s happiness, including my own, and not based on my personal fears.

I noticed an upswing in my yes-ing not too long ago. I think I’m afraid certain people in my life are there because of happenstance and not by choice. For example, does so-and-so at work chat with me because she really thinks I’m cool, or because I happen to sit closer to the restrooms than to her manager’s office and, therefore, geographically suited to avoiding work a little bit longer. I think that sort of paranoia is partly due to my natural shyness, and partly due to my ability to be really hard on myself about everything when one or two things aren’t going right.

That’s a lot of psychology to load into a decision on where to eat for dinner. (I hope all of you who have gotten this far in realize that “Chinese food” is a metaphor.)

In response, I’ve been trying out my no’s. (No, not my nose, my no’s.) I turned down going out when I had brought my lunch. I said “no” to driving when I had been driving all day. I said “no” to a favor when I knew I really didn’t want to do it. I told that annoying little voice of doubt that lives in my head to shut up when it questioned all of those decisions. I think no’s are good for me.

One, I’m getting a little of what I want and that makes me happy. Two, none of my friend’s have hung up the phone yet. In fact, if they’ve noticed the no’s, they haven’t let on. Three, I’m a little closer to the completely confident, happy, and trusting person I want to be.

"I'd rather we went out for Thai."

A Life of Confessions

2010-07-15T16:58:00.000-05:00

Wednesday is my day to write. I try to write everyday to get the practice in but life does get in the way, so Wednesday is my scheduled day to take the time to write despite laundry or phone calls or whatever. It’s a good plan except on days like this Wednesday where I really didn’t know what to write. I have a Last Saturday assignment I could have worked on—meh. I have interesting life events I could have related in humorous anecdotes—yawn. I have a list of writing exercises I found on someone else’s blog that I could have tried—bleah. None of those seemed appealing to me, so I decided to come up with my own writer’s block breakthrough. As you may have noticed, I started using song lyrics as the titles of my entries. So, I decided I’d let my iPod decide what my latest entry would be about. I set it to “shuffle,” pressed “play,” and awaited my fate: “Lazy Flies” by Beck.

Boy the flies have been bad in San Antonio this summer...

That’s no good! What kind of topic is that for a blog entry? Stupid iPod wanting me to write about flies.

Actually, “Lazy Flies” is a really good song. It is a quintessential Beck song—all esoteric lyrics and moody tonal quality with a bit of goofiness to show it doesn’t take itself too seriously. I envy that type of art when the artist is unabashedly weird or different or just doing what he or she wants and hopes the audience will just jump on board. I mean lyrics like:

Lazy flies are hovering about,
the magistrate, he puts on his gloves
and he looks to the clouds,
all pink and disheveled,
there must be some blueprint,
some creed of the devil,
inscribed in our minds...

That’s not exactly rock and roll, now is it? That’s a whole other type of song experience outside of your typical genres. That’s Beck. It’s amazing to me how uniquely Beck, Beck is. It reminds me of a book I just finished reading, Shades of Grey by Jasper Fforde. No ones’ writing is like Fforde’s writing. There is something just so Fforde about Fforde.

It’s too easy to describe his genre as sci-fi/fantasy. Jasper Fforde is more surrealist-satire-cum-sci-fi/fantasy. His books are set in whole other universes and are so weird yet so well done. I love that! I love how petty rules of reality don’t seem to affect his writing, and how he manages to pull off stories that are so very other-worldly.

That’s the sort of writer I want to be. I think about the latest story I’ve been trying to write. They (the great “They” of myth and tale) say to write what you know so my latest story stars an angsty female who’s confused about where to go in life. (Strangely enough.) Well, no wonder I don’t want to sit down and write about that. I have plenty of that all the time, I don’t want to spend my free time on that. I wouldn’t want to read about that, certainly. I want to read about parallel universes where people can only see the color red and they have to watch out for feral swans. Obviously, I don’t want to write about reality, I want to write weird out-there stuff and hope my audience jumps on board.

The problem is, how do you get people to jump on board. Seriously. How did Beck ever get a recording contract? Who read Fforde’s first book and thought, “Yeah, a detective who jumps into Jane Eyre to protect the main character—now that’s a story.” How do you know when your fun absurd writing is fun absurd brilliance and not just silly tripe?

Silly Tripe would be a great name for a band, but I digress. Currently, I’m trying to get published a book of poems about supernatural ravens who fly across cultures and have witty philosophical conversations before they meet God. As of yet, no one has jumped on board. Still, it was more fun writing that than it is writing about real life.

So, maybe my iPod has a point.

How Can You Tattoo Your Body

2010-06-30T16:42:00.003-05:00

Last week, I celebrated my 31st birthday by getting my second tattoo. I got my first tattoo on my 26th birthday and I liked the symmetry of getting the second one 5 years to the day. I also waited five years because I am very particular about permanent additions to my body. I used that time to find an image that meant something to me and to consider if I really wanted it on my body. The five year gap led to some interesting comments, though, from the older members of my tribe including, “I thought you got over that!”

Admittedly, tattoos hit primo fad stage during my college years. You couldn’t sneeze without hitting a classmate’s tribal armband or a sorority girl’s butterfly. Tattoos became as ubiquitous to youthful rebellion as trash can punch and loud music. Let’s face it, everybody who wanted to assert their individuality was doing it. Add that to the fact that to one generation previous, tattoos were something only a certain type of people (tacky people) had, it’s no wonder that the parents of the world consider tattoos to be an unfortunate trend they hope we’ll get over quickly.

And I suppose many of my age group did. Post-motherhood, a friend no longer finds the lone star above her ass in quite the same shape, nor quite so endearing. Another acquaintance only admits she has a tattoo when directly asked. “I was drunk in Hawaii,” she says as explanation of the three-line drawing of a quarter-sized flower on her ankle. Then there’s the coworker who claims to love her tattoo, but made sure to order special make-up to cover it up so it wouldn’t show as she walked down the aisle at her wedding. Like any good impulsive gesture of youth, tattoos are often treated with good-natured embarrassment. For some, they rank alongside prom pictures that feature mullets: that’s just something that we did once.

But then there are people like me. There are a few of us who didn’t get their tattoos because all the cool kids were getting one, and not all of us regret the decision. (At least, we haven’t gotten around to regretting them yet.) One friend still buys shirts based on whether they show off her artwork. Another, upon seeing my new tattoo, fell to classic tat-envy and went a got another piece that afternoon. As I admired her new sea turtle the following day she told me that her next will probably be a bird. “You don’t expect me to stop at 11 do you,” she laughed. I wonder if I ever hit 11 tattoos if my Mom will stop sounding so shocked over the phone.

I don’t expect to hit 11 tattoos (Mom and others who may frown upon such activities), but I love my tattoos. To me, I’m surprised that it is a surprise to anyone. I love artwork. I’ve studied art, I seek out art, I surround myself with art. I receive frequent comments from anyone who visits my workspace or my home on how much I seem to need to cover everything with art. It just seems like a logical next step to me. If I find something beautiful enough and meaningful enough that I want to carry it with me, why shouldn’t I?

No, it doesn’t hurt that much. Yes, there is a chance of infection but if I’m smart enough to find a good dentist then I’m smart enough to find a good artist. Oh yes, it might be a little tacky but it’s my kind of tacky. No, nobody’s every exploded in a CAT scan. And yes, I might regret it someday. Or, if I don’t ever regret it, I might at least be good-naturedly embarrassed by how I spent my 31st birthday. I might even cover it up when I walk down the aisle someday.

Right now, though, I want to show my tattoos off. I love them. The first is the Chartres labyrinth. I love that its four sections represent the seasons. I love that you have to give up control to walk a labyrinth and just trust that it will take you to the right place. I love the implication that just because you don’t know where you are going doesn’t mean you are lost. I love my new tattoo also. It’s based on a design from Mimbres pottery called “Night.” To me it’s like my own little universe swirling on my back. It’s unique, it’s southwestern, it’s pretty, and it’s mine. Both of them have become enough mine to make part of me. I get to become part of the art I love. Why get over that?

It’s All In Your Mind

2010-06-04T12:17:00.001-05:00

I read an article on the Weight Watchers^® site yesterday that discussed the connection between a cluttered home and putting on a few pounds around a waistline. The upshot was that the two are symptoms of the same problem: a need for instant gratification. We see something we want so we get it. Who cares if we don’t have space for it or don’t really need it. We wants it. (Especially if it has sprinkles.) In the need to feed our instant gratification we clutter our lives with junk and dust collectors and love handles.

Clutter is also the physical evidence of a scatterbrain. I say this, because I am one. Though my powers of concentration are flat out amazing when I have them turned on, they need to be—well—turned on. I have to make myself sit down and focus on a task in order to be able to—well—focus on a task. I listen to music at work so I’ll actually proofread at work rather than just snigger at the conversations the sales reps are having on the other side of cubicle wall. I schedule which nights I do certain chores around the house or they’ll never get done. I have to put time and effort into not being a scatterbrain because, I’m pretty sure, it’s my natural brain setting.

Seriously, I was slightly alarmed one night when the commercial for the treatment of adult ADD featured a woman named Anne. (“Oh crap, what was the first half of that commercial about, because somehow I think it might pertain to me?!”) I have also picked up, thumbed through, and put down dozens of books on feng shui. I always see an entry in those books that says something like, “Put things away. A cluttered home makes for a cluttered mind.” I figure if I ever get the clutter under control, I’ll go back, buy the book, and commence with the rest of the feng shui.

My extra poundage is a very similar story. When I pay attention to what I’m eating, I eat well. When I concentrate on being healthy, I’m a pretty healthy person. When I schedule the damn workouts, I exercise on a regular basis. When I give something my complete focus, I’m generally pretty good at it. So, why do I have trouble focusing? I have a cluttered mind.

No really! There’s a lot I want to do, there’s a lot I don’t want to do, there are a few stories I want to write, there is a lot of trivia to be memorized, there are countless song lyrics learned through osmosis, there are some fears, there are some doubts, there are at least three dirty jokes to be broken out at parties, and there is a whole bunch of other stuff sitting in piles in the metaphorical back room of my head. Much like there are un-hung pictures, piles of scrapbooking supplies, and loose “important” documents cluttering the actual back room of my duplex.

Luckily there is a cure for a cluttered mind, and it is not featured in TV commercials about adult ADD. (“Anne, what do you think? Anne?”) I have tried it and I recommend it to everyone: yoga. True yoga incorporates meditation. If you are just trying yoga-like exercises, or just meditating without any of the physical stuff, that’s fine, but you’re not getting that wonderful double-whammy of a good set followed by a deep meditation. It feels wonderful and it really does minimize the head clutter, which makes it a little easier to tackle the instant gratification-related clutter. I know this to be true because when I practiced yoga regularly I had a more peaceful mind. When I stopped practicing regularly, I had a noisier mind. Now that I’ve returned to regular practice—well—practice is the cure for everything.

With a Little Help From My Friends

2010-05-27T14:33:00.000-05:00

It’s hard to describe the excitement of having a creative idea and writing it down on paper. It’s somewhat on par with solving a puzzle. This puzzle, though, is invisible and your stomach tells you whether the pieces fit or not. The pieces fly at you fast and you have to put them together before they start to evaporate, which they do, even as you are using them. A lot of times it gets a bit messy, which leads to editing, but that’s a whole other type of board game. Every once and a while, though, the pieces click just right and it’s beautiful—when beautiful is an emotion, that’s good writing.

It’s been a while since I’ve felt like that. Recently, writing has been a chore. It’s something I’m supposed to do on a regular basis so I get better at it. You know, like keeping plants or sit-ups. When I consider what to do for the day, writing is not my first inclination. It falls somewhere after do the laundry but before water the plants. (At least, it will always beat sit-ups.)

I hate it when I feel this way. Most of the time I love writing and it is my excuse for not doing chores. I don’t know why sometimes ideas come to me and sometimes I’m blocked. I don’t know when I entered this latest malaise. All I know is sitting down to write this blog entry seemed hard enough without considering that great American novel I’ve been meaning to get to.

So, what’s the cure? It’s the same cure as for everything else: practice. So, I make myself sit down and write the non-puzzle like writing until that great sweep of inspiration hits me again. Hence, writing starts to feel like chore. It’s a bit of a Catch-22 (but without all the fascinating stream of consciousness).

The last time I felt this type of block, wanting to write but nowhere to go, I discussed it with my friend Aedee. She pointed out that we were always writing in college. It’s easy enough to see why: constant exposure to other art forms and philosophies, big gaps of time, and that college student’s self-importance that creates the need to share your specialness with the world (because that’s what the world’s been missing all this time!). There was something else, too. Aedee pointed out to me that we were constantly sharing our work with one another. We had our own small community of writers and it fostered creativity. It gave the boost of encouragement and feedback that is so often missing when you sit down to write alone and you’re not sure it’s worth it. The group atmosphere really did impact the joy of writing. Upon further discussion of the matter with our friend JS, we decided to form a writer’s group. It was informal, to say the least, but it was just enough of a nudge that my writing and, most importantly, my enthusiasm for writing improved. We called it Last Saturday based on the monthly meeting day.

Finding myself in the same writing predicament, but this time with Aedee and JS in Vermont, I enlisted Rae to help me re-form the group. We’ve only had one meeting so far and it was just the two of us, but it was a great meeting. It got me to write, it made me think about writing, and it sparked something. During Last Saturday, I couldn’t help but notice a small inkling of excitement, a slight sense of possibility, like when you click the first two pieces of a puzzle together.

Could Play a Guitar

2010-05-19T14:27:00.001-05:00

My friend Rae asked me the other day if I was still playing guitar. Apparently I’ve stopped bringing the conversation up every five minutes. Though my adventures as a Guitar Goddess have not been exciting enough to post, they have not ceased. In fact, I consider “Teach Myself Guitar” to be one of my more successful endeavors.

Though I cannot, as of yet, play anything that the world at large would call a “song,” I can hear a difference in the way that I play. I have a respectable six chords to my name (okay, maybe five; I can’t really play C but I know how I’m supposed to be able to play it if I had Gumby-fingers). I’ve moved strumming with chords from the “Impossibly Hard” category to the “I’m Not Too Bad at This” category, and I’m happily chewing through the guitar lessons on about.com.

The lessons are structured so that you practice the basics before you get to the real music (crazy, I know). The first couple of lessons feature scales and strumming exercises so that you can learn to move your hands around a guitar. This skill becomes important when you have to change chords mid-word during a song. Right now, my chord exchange time sounds something like this, “Take it ease.......................................................y.” Though the Eagles seem like a laid back sort of band, I’m sure they never intended that audience members would be able to make a cheese sandwich in the time it takes to play half of one of their lyrics. Thus, I practice the scales and strumming patterns daily.

Luckily I enjoy the technique practices. While, yes, they are rote, I do hear a difference in my attempts at playing songs. I’m confident that playing that one scale yet again will someday result in intricately-fingered guitar solos. I’m sure that if I just keep strumming a C chord, eventually it will sound like a C chord (even if my contorted fingers are callused and bleeding).

I like to think of it as the Karate Kid method. I just need to wax on/wax off enough and someday I’ll have crazy ninja guitar skills. Until then I shall play beautiful scale patterns and “take it ease...............................................y.”

I’m Just a Kid From the Milky Way

2010-04-27T22:01:00.002-05:00

I have added “saw a shuttle launch in person” to my Life List. A Life List is a list of those things that you’ve always wanted to try or do, or places you’ve always wanted to visit. I have also heard it referred to as a Bucket List after the movie of the same name where Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson play two old guys trying to do all the things they’ve always wanted to before they kick the proverbial bucket. There are two parts to the List: things I want to do, and things I’ve done.

I used to refer to crossing things off my Life’s List but then a friend pointed out that this made the list sound static, as if there were only so many things to do, they were set as is, and once they were done the list was over. If there is something that your Life List shouldn’t be, it’s static. Though the List must end at some point (buckets and all that), I much prefer thinking of my Life List as something that will grow and change as long as I continue to do so.

Things do change on the List. “Climb a mountain” has fallen away, I must admit. On the other hand, “eat squid cooked in its own ink” has been added. Then there are the things on the List that you didn’t know were to do’s until they were done. I knew I wanted “go on a whale watching tour” for quite a while before I did it, but I didn’t realize “seeing a roseate spoonbill in the wild” was worth being on the List till it happened. Truth be told, I didn’t even know what a roseate spoonbill was before I saw one. I recommend it as a worthy addition to anyone’s List. It came about for me as part of a larger Life’s List item: “see as many national parks/wildlife refuges/preserves as I possibly can.”

Last year at Thanksgiving my Mom said the classic List-triggering phrase, “I’ve always wanted to...” In this case, the second half of the sentence was “see a space shuttle launch.” I knew instantly that I too wanted to do this. In further conversation we discovered that my Dad also “had always wanted to.” We decided, then and there over turkey, that we would see a shuttle launch in the upcoming year because it was our last chance to see one.

Rule of thumb: a Life’s List item is more easily accomplished with a deadline. (“Go to Australia” has, for instance, has no deadline and has sat there for quite a while.) NASA is retiring the shuttle program and there are only so many flights left to see. So, if your Life’s List includes “see a shuttle launch,” you’ve got till the end of 2010. If your Life’s List does not include “see a shuttle launch” may I humbly suggest you reconsider.

To see the shuttle launch from the Astronaut Hall of Fame, my family and I left our hotel at 11:00 pm. The launch was scheduled for 6:00 am. We were told by the nice lady on the NASA hotline we needed to leave so early so as to beat traffic. The nice lady on the NASA hotline wasn’t kidding around. We were glad we got there when we did as we watched the traffic for seven hours, sitting outside in Florida swampland, waiting for a shuttle to launch. Though a balmy night, we got colder and colder as the dew descended and the breeze blew. The breeze was a disguised blessing, though, as it kept the mosquitoes at bay. Someone said something about the crowd scaring off alligators. I thought this was a joke until I took the official Kennedy Space Center tour and counted five alligators just from the bus. We tried to doze but, sitting in lawn chairs in an ever-growing crowd of excited people, it proved impossible. So we waited, shivered a little, and waited and waited for seven hours. Afterwards we waited in three hours of traffic, without having slept, to get back to the hotel. Why am I telling you all this? So you will believe the truth behind what I’m about to say.

GO SEE A SHUTTLE LAUNCH! It was all totally worth it! Seven hours of waiting for five minutes of adrenaline and it was worth it! It was so awesome! In every sense of the word, it was awesome! If you have the means, please, for me, go see a shuttle launch!

It happened right before dawn so we were staring into the dark. Then came the 30 second (if that) sunrise; except the sun was leaving a trail of smoke behind it and clearly twisting as it went up into the night sky. It’s at this point that the sound caught up with us. Remember, light travels faster than sound so we saw it before we heard it. Imagine the loudest, most window-rattling thunder you have ever heard in your life. Now imagine it at ground level and, instead of rattling windows, it’s rattling your insides. Then silence. Well, then silence except for all the birds going nuts from the crazy loud sound wave that just went by. We could still see the shuttle as it moved into orbit position and gradually became smaller and smaller so that it seemed as though it was becoming another star. As those of us Earth-bound chattered with the sudden influx of adrenaline, the real Sun began to rise in a more graceful manner without the fanfare. As it did, the light caught the twisting rocket trail and illuminated it with all the colors of a sunrise.

It was amazing. I would go again to the next one if it were more fiscally possible. I would go again to the one after that. I would go see every possible one I could until there were no more because it is like nothing else there is and I got to see it. My Life's List includes seeing a shuttle launch.

When Everything’s Lost, The Battle is Won

2010-04-19T10:58:00.001-05:00

Quite a bit of life has occurred between now and my previous post. On the shortlist, I’ve moved, been to a new part of the world, added a big check to my Life’s List, and broken another mirror before my previous gloomy seven years was up. As usual, when I have lots of things to write about, I’m too busy actually doing those things to write about them. I know I can always write about them retroactively, but do I write about them chronologically, by degree of interest, by importance in the grand scheme? If I went solely by momentary inclination, I have to admit that this would be a very whiny post about how I can’t believe I broke another stupid mirror. (I imagine such a post would be peppered with sound effects such as grrrrrrrr, argh, and harumph.) I have chosen to resist such a post, but I still find myself with a surfeit of topics.

This is a common theme in my life right now. I have a lot to do. Post-move I find myself with a quickly growing to-do list of projects around the house. First of all, I’m fairly certain that absolutely everything needs to be reorganized. Again. Then there are the little fix-its that accompany living in a duplex that I had not experienced in apartment dwelling. This is not a complaint, I like little fix-it projects because they are quickly managed but seem to contribute to my sense calm quickly. Flipping the fan blades so the white side is down rather that the fake wood-grain side still makes me happy and I did that a couple of weeks ago. It’s just that when there are fix-its everywhere and all you want to do is alphabetize your DVDs, it’s hard to know where to begin. (Strangely enough, it never seems to be with the DVDs.)

I have also returned from a vacation where I took lots of pictures and I’m a photo organization nut. I want to organize, remove red eye, print, post, and scrapbook! That takes a lot of time in a house where there are no towel bars. Worse yet, I’m two scrapbooks behind in terms of vacations and my scrapbook supplies may or may not be in the back room closet. Then there are the frames—oh, the frames!—which not only need to be updated and dusted, but actually hung.

You’d think that’d be enough wouldn’t you? Unfortunately, I insist on having a social life. When I could be switching doorknobs this weekend, I’m forced to attend Fiesta events with friends. An opportunity to write a post about Florida will be squandered on a birthday brunch. It’s all so much sometimes. (Imagine a dramatic sigh here.)

Isn’t there something else that I have to do? What is it again? I’m sure there is something that takes up a lot of time. Oh yeah, I have to work. A job sure cramps a gal’s schedule. It’s almost every day, takes like seven to eight hours at a time, and can really wear you out. It’s no wonder I’m not entirely sure what happened to all my washcloths. However, if I want to buy more of them, I have to keep going to that job thingy.

One of my friends (the one with the birthday this weekend, in fact) gave me permission to wait until my birthday in June to host a housewarming party. That was such a relief that I have decided to give myself permission to write about all my exciting life events later. I figure as long as I get the posts in before 2011, I’m good. Until “later,” however, I’m afraid I just don’t have time to write a post.

If It Makes You Happy

2010-03-03T20:35:00.000-06:00

I had a good day today. Why?

Well…

—I was presented with a series of small challenges all day long that required concentration but were still quickly surmounted.

—I did something that made me uncomfortable, but was thanked for it.

—I gave someone the answer she wanted.

—I completed a task with the confidence that I did it well.

—I erred on the side of hope rather than caution.

—Something I’ve been patient about, did pay off.

—One of my bigger problems remains unresolved but I know that I’ve done everything within my power to bring about its resolution.

—I wasn’t able to finish everything I had to do today, so I know I will have something for tomorrow.

—I reconnected with a friend I haven’t seen in a while.

—I organized my to-do list on color-coded sticky notes.

It really doesn’t take that much to sway a day into either the good or bad category. I’m glad that, today at least, I seem to be steadily moving toward good.

Homeward Bound

2010-02-24T16:26:00.000-06:00

When travelling in Alaska, a park ranger told us that the native tribes used practical place names. For instance, the direct translation of the name of one area was “Place Where it Floods in Spring.” The tribe always knew, then, they shouldn’t camp there in the spring because that is where it flooded when the snow melted. As I find myself looking for a new place to live, I can’t help but appreciate this system. How nice it would have been had that last duplex I looked at been called “White Trashville” rather than “Oak Wood,” I would have saved some gas driving to go look at it.

I don’t have to move. I live in a perfectly nice place. I am hoping, however, that I can find someplace better…maybe someplace a little bigger…maybe someplace without upstairs neighbors…maybe someplace where I can have covered parking…maybe someplace with two windows so I can get a cross-breeze.

It’s amazing the little things that contribute to our sense of happiness. I remember, a few years ago, looking for a new apartment that had its own washer/dryer connection. Oh the wonderment I felt at being able to wash my laundry in my own abode. No more laundromats for me! Such was the basis of my joy at the time. Now, it’s the lure of a second bedroom that causes me to explore the wilds of “Doorway to the Garage is in the Carpeted Master Bedroom” and “View of Auto Parts Store.”

I am the modern American nomad. I can’t afford the house I want, but I might be able to rent someplace a little bit nicer than I have now, so I must look. I must hoard the empty paper boxes at work, I must critically eye my belongings’ lug-worthiness, I must risk one more odd-smelling bathroom. There’s a chance I might fine, “Perfectly Nice Place to Rent While You Save Up For What You Really Want.”

You Could Have it so Much Better

2010-02-03T23:08:00.003-06:00

I was reading a friend’s blog earlier today. She is in the middle of pursuing what can only be described as a life calling. As she nears the resolution of whether or not this dream of hers will come true she wrote out the question that, no doubt, haunts her throughout this process: what will I do if it doesn’t go the way I want? The simple honesty of this question did not strike me as much as the sentence she wrote immediately after it. She told us, her readers, that the question was only rhetorical and that we shouldn’t respond with answers.

As someone who has received a lot of advice lately, I couldn’t help but empathize most with that second statement. At times, it seems I can’t utter a sentence without someone immediately offering me a suggestion. In complete fairness to my friends, most of the sentences to come out of my mouth lately have been complaints and laments. Such statements are open invitations to the world that I need help, are they not? The fact that my friends are so quick to offer me solutions only shows that I’ve communicated my problems well.

I truly believe this free advice is given to me in love, because I was ready to answer my fellow blogger’s question as soon as I read it with that same sense of love. I know exactly what I would say to her had she not, so helpfully, pointed out that she didn’t actually need a response to her question. In fact, the more I consider the topic of advice giving I am aware that, in happier times, I was the grand champion of advice giving! I couldn’t wait to hand out my oh-so-useful knowledge to anyone who needed it, whether they knew they needed it or not.

Happy people love to give advice. Why shouldn’t they? They want to spread the happy! We all want to lose weight, make money, find a trustworthy contractor, answer the big philosophical questions. We all know this, so, if one of us is successful, we want to share it with the others. Yet, somehow the sharing of our happiness ways transforms into instructions. “I found Jesus!” becomes “He’s right over here!” “Joe does my tile work,” evolves into a “Have you called Joe yet?” “I went back to school,” eventually leads to, “There are plenty of online classes available, you just have to look.” “Weight loss is hard,” sympathy can even turn into the accusatory, “You’ll never use that gym membership, will you?”

In a life naturally filled with ups and downs are we doomed to conversations that are naturally filled with complaints and suggestions? Is your level of happiness defined by what side of the advice you are on? I know I gave people a lot more of my opinions when I had more confidence in my own little space in the world. As I struggle now with doubts and worries and, evil so horrible, boredom, I don’t spread my philosophies so freely. I moan and bitch a lot. I get a lot of advice.

The happy try to spread their joy to the not so happy. What’s wrong with that? As my friend so succinctly stated in her own blog, the advice is not always required. Sometimes the statement of doubt is enough. Sometimes we just need to voice our worries and woes to the world, without comments. Sometimes we just want to be understood, not rescued. I know the obvious, but do you know the frustration?

I had two conversations with two different friends. I told both of them the same thing. My job is unfulfilling. One gave me a list of tasks to fix my problem and ended this list with, “There, I’ve given you your homework assignment.” The other one listened. When I was finished she said, “That sucks.” Both of them love me and said what they said because they care. They both said what they thought I needed to hear. One I walked away from still frustrated and slightly resentful. One I hung up the phone with, feeling better and missing her presence in Texas terribly.

Is one friend better than the other? Of course not, that’s not what I learned. I learned what made me feel better. I’ve been given some wonderful advice in my life and using it has led me to happiness. At this particular moment, though, it didn’t make me feel better. The next time my life is all sunshine and flowers and I’m happy as can be in my little space in the world, I’m going to try and keep some of my oh-so-useful knowledge to myself. I hope I’ve learned to be a better listener.

Very Superstitious

2010-01-20T15:49:00.000-06:00

A few years ago I broke a mirror. It was May and I was moving and in my packing rush the mirror paid the price. Did I as well? I remember thinking to myself with a slight laugh, “Well, there goes the next seven years.” Then I froze and realized that, as I was 23 at the time, I would be suffering bad luck till I was 30! That seemed like eons of time at that particular moment.

Am I superstitious? Not really. Well…

I read my horoscope everyday. I talk about things as omens. I often say things like, “Well, that just means it’s fate…” I don’t really believe these things though. I mean, not really. I’ve never based a major life decision on which house my moon is in or anything like that.

So, why am I so interested? Why do I know things like you don’t want the ace of swords to come up in your tarot card reading or that if you want to sell a house you should bury St. Francis upside down in your front yard? I suppose I’d like it if these things were true. It’s somewhat comforting to believe that when I bit my friend’s head off this morning it was because of the position of Mars, not that I was too tired to be polite. There is a certain amount of hope that the good luck symbols on my bracelet are strong enough to keep that one particular coworker from finding yet another flaw in our product. It’d be nice if all I had to do to make my life easier was wait for May.

Little superstitions help dull one’s sense of responsibility in other areas as well. I often have trouble making decisions. Whether big or small, it seems every change in my life has to be held for a standard internal debate period. It’s nice when my horoscope reassures me that today’s the day I should confront a loved one, or that this week isn’t the best to establish a new habit. Even as I read the words, though, I know they’re self-fulfilling prophecies. The only days I nod in agreement with my numerology report is when it already agrees with my established agenda. On the days where it in no way meets my expectations I laugh at how silly such things are and go about my way.

It’s like flipping a coin when you have to make a decision. Either it really doesn’t matter and both options are equally good and the coin flip will decide for you; or, as soon as you see which side comes up, you’ll know for sure which way you really wanted it to land based on your reaction. Plus, there’s the added benefit that if everything goes wrong with the choice you make, you can blame the gods of coin flipping.

Do silly little habits make me a better Anne? No, but after a really awful morning it’s nice to know there’s only four months till May.

Neo: “Morpheus, the Oracle said…”

Morpheus: “The Oracle said exactly what you needed to hear.”

2010

2010-01-11T22:13:00.000-06:00

I was out celebrating New Year’s Eve when my friend Rae asked me, “So, any resolutions?”

Well, no.

I didn’t make a conscious decision not to have resolutions, it just didn’t occur to me. I suppose it is because I didn’t really keep any of the ones I made the previous year. I’m not sure I accomplished anything terribly momentous in 2009. If any word describes 2009 for me, it’s unresolved.

I’m not trying to be dramatic. I have some great memories from the past year, but as I switch calendars I can’t help but notice that all the things that were bothering me at the beginning of 2009 are the same things that are bothering me at the beginning of 2010. My job is still unfulfilling, I still feel like I should be more ambitious, I still feel unhealthy in some of my habits, I still have this nagging doubt that I’m the one that’s getting in my own way.

I’m a big believer that the only one who can change me is me. I’m the only one who kick my own ass into doing something positive. I’m the only one who can kick my own ass and beat myself up and keep me from changing. I know this because I’ve changed myself for the better before. I’ve also talked myself out of a lot of good things due to fear and doubt. It’s a bit frustrating to find myself here again listening to the same internal dialog: I’ve got to do something, but it’s so hard, but I’m unhappy, but it could be worse…

At midnight the bar handed out cups of free champagne to toast the New Year. We all cheered and toasted one another and then swallowed some of the cheapest, nastiest if-you-want-to-call-it-champagne ever. I put my cup down and turned to one of my fellow partygoers, “I resolve to not drink cheap champagne in 2010!” She laughed and said, “Yeah, me too.”

That’s my resolution. I’m going to stop doing the stuff that makes me unhappy, and do stuff that makes me happy. It’d be a nice change.

Happy 2010!

Happy Holidays

2009-12-18T15:10:00.006-06:00

There’s a simple joy to food. It is a universal joy. We all need food. We all find certain foods pleasing. We all eat and share food. Food has its own special timeline: want, preparation, consumption, contentment. It can appeal to all the senses; though it doesn’t always have to appeal to the eye to taste good (oysters come to mind). It is such an understandable joy.

Perhaps that’s why it is such a dependable gift during the holidays. Who doesn’t love fudge? I’m sure the neighbors would like some pie. Let’s get together over tacos and reminisce about meals of yore. Food can be wrapped and portioned out and shared and appreciated by anyone. It is such a basic joy.

When the annual holiday potluck came along I signed up for a dessert, because you can never have too many desserts. I chose a new recipe, something a bit out of my comfort zone. If you can’t experiment on your coworkers, who can you experiment on? The recipe announced itself as apricot mishmishya. I modestly introduced them as apricot almond sweets.

A good holiday treat should be beautiful, sweeter than sweet, and easily shared. I am so happy to say I was successful on all fronts. Rather surprised at how pretty they turned out I showed them off to coworkers long before the potluck. Their sugar seemed to sparkle, their paper wrappers sounded like crinoline, their almonds were perfect accent pieces.

Could they taste as good as they looked? I watched carefully during the party to see how quickly they moved. A nice pick-up pace with a comforting “mmmm” now and then let me know that I had done well. My contribution to the soiree was appreciated.

As we were packing up the remnants of the feast, I only had a few left. Not bad for a five-dessert party. As I was about to close up my tin of sweets, our host said, “Oh Anne, did you make those? They are delectable!” With my heart glad I offered him the remainders. He happily accepted.

As I drove home, full and happy, I wondered if our host knew how much we appreciated his annual potluck. His home is always cozy and well-decorated. He provides the drinks, napkins, utensils, and comfortable surroundings that make a potluck lovely. Every year we happily await his party as a favorite way to celebrate the holidays. Does he know this? Do we show our gratitude properly? Do we say thank you enough?

I decided that a candied apricot thank you was, indeed, enough.

After all, food is a universal joy.

Ooh, ooh, she likes it!

2009-12-02T21:38:00.002-06:00

Did I mention I like instructions?

In one of my Internet forays for more information about my bourgeoning guitarist ways, I found About.com’s guide to guitars. While my blind-stumbling-wild method of teaching myself guitar held a certain amount of charm, I’m very happy to have found Mr. Dan Cross and his font of guitar knowledge featured at about.com.

It’s everything a new guitarist could want: beginner lessons, chord library, tuning guide…all in clear, easy-to-read instructions with illustrations. I especially appreciate the MP3 sound files, which let you know things like what the heck E is supposed to sound like anyway. There are even occasional words of encouragement for the weary-fingered.

I now know how to tune a guitar to itself and how to play six distinct chords, two scales, and a ridiculously simplified version of “Leaving on a Jet Plane.”

Yep. Rock star.

The most pleasant surprise I have discovered since beginning this guitar voyage: I really like playing guitar. Remember, mostly I’m playing finger exercises and limited chords, and yet, I really want to play them. I see my guitar and pick it up just to practice that C Major chord one more time. I keep playing that chromatic scale for the nth time even as my fingertips go numb. I’ve even trimmed down the fingernails on my left hand so I can play clearer chords. My fabulous lovely fingernails are a source of vanity for me (and they’re much prettier than yours). I trimmed them down! More than once! Seriously, this is a big deal for me. (This is also a good time for us all to consider just exactly how Dolly Parton manages to play her guitar with her long brightly-colored nails.)

I like when one of my experiments turns out and trying something new really does bring a sense of accomplishment, of joy. Maybe, someday, I really will sip my morning coffee as I strum my latest poetic folk song. Until then, I kind of like sipping my coffee along to the strains of G, G, G, G, C, C, C, C, D, D, D, D, D, D, D, D. (That’s the “kiss me and smile for me” part, in case you didn’t know.)

A Little Love

2009-11-11T14:47:00.004-06:00

My guitar was made in a small village near Patzcuaro, Michoacán, Mexico. My father bought it during one of his travels with the intent of teaching himself to play. He never did get around to the playing part and the guitar ended up sitting on one of his bookshelves, looking quite artistic if a bit dusty. When I mentioned that I had always wanted to learn to play guitar, my father was only too happy to pass it on to me. I think, perhaps, he grew tired of the artistic nature of a guitar propped on top of his bookshelf, or thought to himself, “That thing is really getting dusty,” or he felt bad that no one had gotten around to playing the guitar.

Musical instruments should be played after all. I’ve seen quite a few of them end up as dusty decorations in various places. Restaurants, especially, seem to have a fondness for parts of dented trombones and splayed accordions. It seems a shame. That wasn’t their purpose after all. I’m not sure anyone went to the trouble to make a functional instrument with the hopes that some day, just maybe, it’d grace a Chili’s. I imagine that several years ago, an older Mexican gentleman polished the new lacquer on my guitar with a slight smile of pride. A simple but nice guitar. Not so cheap to be a child’s toy, not so expensive to be passed over by the Americano who thinks he might like to learn to play. My father wiped all the dust off that guitar and happily handed it to me.

I didn’t know what to do with it, besides not put it anywhere near my bookshelf. (It’d just be embarrassing if we both let it become a dust catcher.) Luckily, I have friends who know about guitars. I gave it to my friend Ess and asked for his honest opinion. After restringing it, he propped the guitar on this knee and played. (Effortlessly. Just a random little song.) “It’s got a nice sound,” he announced and suddenly by guitar was a musical instrument again.

He did advise, however, that if I was going to play this guitar seriously, that’d I’d have to replace the nuts. (That’s what he called them.) Well, I have every intention of playing this guitar seriously so I determined it was time to go to a music store. First, I looked up online to see if those things were actually called nuts or was Ess just messing with me. I did find a couple of other websites where musicians referred to them as nuts so Ess isn’t full of it, he’s just one of those musician types. However, according to official encyclopedic-looking diagrams of guitars, the first fret is called the nut and the nuts are called tuning keys. Thus armed with new knowledge, I walked into Guitar Center and asked for turny-nobby-thingies for, you know, the strings.

The nice Guitar Center man sighed a little.

“What type of guitar is it?” he asked.

“It’s from Mexico,” I said.

“Is it classical, acoustic, electric?”

“Um…” (Did you know there was a difference between classical and acoustic? Me either.)

“Does it have a plug?”

“No,” this one I knew! “It does not have a plug!”

“I don’t suppose you brought it with you.” He sighed again.

“Yes, it’s in my car.”

A glimmer of hope gleamed in the nice Guitar Center man’s eyes.

“Okay, go get it and I can help you.”

After retrieving my guitar, telling its colorful past, and explaining that it was actually my friend who knew about guitars that told me I needed new turny-nobby-thingies, Mr. Guitar Center looked over my guitar and began turning the tuning keys.

“Did your friend say what was wrong with them?” he asked just as one of the keys came off in his hand. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I think that was it,” I said, very helpfully.

Mr. Guitar Center took me over to the counter told them what I needed and left me in their care. Behind the counter, the wall was covered with an array of guitar parts in plastic packaging. A very young man began pulling parts down and holding them up to my guitar. He would squint a little and then pull another part down and hold it up to my guitar.

“You have to find one that fits,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. I looked up the unending wall of parts and got a little dizzy.

The very young man was joined by, remarkably, an even younger woman who began to also stare at parts at the wall.

“How about that one?” she would ask and point at the wall towering over her.

The young man would reach to a part nowhere near where she was pointing.

“Yeah, that one should work,” she would say.

It’s at this point they began talking some bizarre guitar language. It reminded me a bit of when Ess told me I should get some new nuts. It was all English yet I really didn’t know what was going on. Remember, I was in a Guitar Center at the time so I was surrounded by cacophony and the towering walls of guitar parts. (In case you didn’t know, Guitar Centers have musical instruments that they just let people play willy-nilly. They’re quite noisy.) There was just too much going on to really pay attention to what they were saying. Instead, I just smiled and nodded and considered the child labor laws.

“Here. This should work,” the young man said finally.

“Oh, that’s going to look awesome,” the younger woman said.

I looked at their find. It was a set of some of the gaudiest looking tuning keys I had ever seen—which admittedly is not very many, but still. My guitar is a humble instrument with modest silver and off-white keys. The tuning keys in the package were shiny gold and pearlescent odes to Liberace. I was just about to ask for something less mariachi-pants, when I looked up to see the young people’s faces.

They just seemed so pleased with themselves, so proud they could help me so effectively. I realized that when they had been talking in that guitar-speak they had been praising my little dusty guitar. They didn’t see a bookshelf adornment; they saw a musical instrument that was in need of something shiny to catch the limelight.

“That’ll look so good,” the younger woman said nodding.

“It’s a good little guitar,” the young man said, “it just needs some love.”

I realized that gold mariachi-pants enthusiasm is just what this endeavor needed. If you’re going to teach yourself guitar at 30, if you’re a self-respecting feminist buying yourself a new set of nuts, if you’re going to replace tuning keys on a guitar you don’t even know how to tune, if you’re going to rely on the expertise of teenagers—you just have to go with these things. You just have to be a little silly, err on the side of Elvis, and embrace your inner Guitar Goddess.

With new tuning keys and a new attitude, El Senor Pantalones-de-Mariachi and I are ready go.

"A Modest Guitar" by Anne

"El Senor Pantalones-de-Mariachi " by Anne

Whole Lotta Love

2009-10-21T21:32:00.001-05:00

How does the saying go, “Life is what happens when you make other plans”? My little projects are generally more fun than laundry or dishes, but they don’t start to smell if I neglect them for a week. Consequently, it is my little projects that suffer. Occasionally I need to remind myself why it’s important to make time to devote myself to a project and not just to going to the grocery store.

My cool friend Mr. A.C. invited to me go see It Might Get Loud. It is a documentary featuring Jack White from the White Stripes, The Edge from U2, and Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin. The three talk about their favorite electric guitars, their love of electric guitars, how guitars changed their lives, and then they play some guitar. I mean, they play some guitar. It’s a guitar love fest and a love fest of three great guitarists and if you have ever liked listening to any rock song ever, you’ll enjoy this movie.

My favorite part is when Edge gets up and walks around the stage so he can get a closer look at Jimmy Page playing the opening riff to “Whole Lotta Love.”

I want to make time to teach myself guitar because I love this stuff. I love music. I love creation. I love that one good guitar story makes me itch to go home and strum a guitar.

No matter how many dishes there are in the sink.

Horseradish Repurposed

2009-10-12T14:40:00.001-05:00

I was watching “Tyler’s Ultimate” on the Food Network®. I like Tyler Florence because he makes delicious looking food and he’s rather tasty looking himself. Most of his dishes are not points friendly for those of us on Weight Watcher’s so I’ve never been tempted to try and prepare his recipes. However, in this particular episode he made a dish that inspired me: Horseradish and Sour Cream Mashed Potatoes.

Like any red-blooded American gal, I believe that a good dish of mashed potatoes is next to godliness. I’ve made and eaten many types of potatoes (mashed, smashed, and otherwise), but the horseradish take was new to me. If you click on his version you will see, it complicates the simple beauty that is mashed potatoes about as much as you can. Also, I can tell from the ingredients list that it would be a whopper on points.

If the key to a healthy planet is to reduce, reuse, recycle then the key to healthy eating is to lighten, replace, and avoid.

In the case of mashed potatoes, I choose to lighten. Flavor for potatoes typically comes from yummy fats like cream and butter. It is easy to lighten those, low-fat milk and butter substitute, but you lose flavor. You must replace the flavor with some other ingredient that is also low in fat but high in taste. Some basics include salt and pepper, chicken stock, and the ever glorious garlic. After watching “Tyler’s Ultimate,” I thought, why not horseradish?

Horseradish, like other members of the mustard family, has no fat to speak of and is a flavor powerhouse. It has a very strong bitter, somewhat sour, mustard-like flavor. It is the ingredient that gives tartar sauce its kick. It pairs well with roast beef but should always be handled in moderation. Horseradish can overwhelm other flavors easily if you get spoon happy with this particular condiment.

Is it healthy? It’s as healthy as wheat grass in a tofu shake…if you pay attention to what you are buying. Horseradish can be found in the spice aisle; it’s the white stuff in glass jars. There are two main types of horseradish available to purchase: prepared horseradish and horseradish sauce.

If you are being healthy minded you want prepared horseradish. Prepared horseradish is essentially the crushed plant preserved in vinegar. (Fun fact: horseradish is believed to get its name because, originally, horses were used to crush it to make it fit for consumption.)

Horseradish sauce is typically horseradish mixed with mayonnaise or other similar ingredients. It has a definite fat content and can raise your calories where the wholesome prepared horseradish will not.

For both types, once you open the jar store it in the fridge. It will last in there for quite a while. If your horseradish darkens in color in the jar in the fridge, throw it away, it’s gone bad.

I made mashed potatoes by boiling three diced potatoes in water. When I mashed, I added two tablespoons of margarine and two tablespoons of horseradish. That’s all I needed. The sauce-like texture of the horseradish supplanted the cream/milk generally used. A serving size came to a friendly three points and the flavor was outstanding. The horseradish gave the potatoes a kick that went excellently with the beef I served them with. Though I wouldn’t use this type of potatoes for every meal I make, it is a super tasty and healthy alternative to plain spuds.

The Easily Met Goal

2009-10-02T14:15:00.003-05:00

Photo by Anne

In my dreams of the perfect job, I believe the axiom, “If you have a job you love, you’ll never work a day in your life.” I love food; I think it would be great to be a food critic. I love music; I think it would be great to be a musician. I love to write; I think it would be great if someone would pay me to write. (Anyone?) There is one thing, however, that I love to do that I have decided that I don’t want to somehow turn into a job.

I love to travel. Well, I should clarify, I love to get away. I love to have lazy days in places other than my little home. I love to take longer than usual to do everything. I love to be a tourist. I love to read my tour book while taking the tour and listening to the tour guide. I love to take too many pictures of a thing that everyone else is taking pictures of and then pay a little too much for a kitschy souvenir with a picture of that thing on it. I love cruising there. I love road tripping there. I love taking a plane so I can spend more time at the there I’m going too. I love going on vacation.

If your travel somehow involves a job, I don’t think it can really be called a vacation. There are jobs that include travel. You can’t be lazy when you travel, though, because it’s part of your job. There are jobs that facilitate others’ vacations. You aren’t on vacation, though, they are. There are jobs writing about traveling. For instance, people write those guide books I read. Those people didn’t go on vacation though. They went on research trips. They actively sought out information and trivia and timetables and maps. They didn’t have it spoon fed to them on glossy pages with full-color photos and a Metro map in the back. If someone wanted to pay me to scrapbook my vacation photos the way I always do, we might have a deal. Otherwise, it’s okay. My vacations are my vacations and my dream job is what I’ll be doing so I can go on vacation.

So, what is my goal?

A few years ago I made the goal that I would go one new place a year. It has so far been a reasonable goal. Unlike, “See the world!” or “Visit every continent!” it is a graspable concept. It is also a goal that is flexible in the face of the wart-ridden fates of money and responsibility. My new place can be a grand adventure (cruise to Juneau, Alaska!) or it can be closer to home (road trip to Silver City, New Mexico!) or somewhere in between (visit friend in Chicago!), it just has to be a place I haven’t been to before. The place is good because it’s new. I have to change a little to visit this place. I have to incorporate a new set of images into my concept of the world. I get to try something new by being in this new place. Hopefully, I come out a little newer too. I’m now someone who has been to Juneau and Silver City and Chicago.

I just came back from Burlington, Vermont. I learned why there are paintings of rolling green hills with red barns and black and white cows and puffy clouds in blue skies; there is a part of the world that looks like that. I have now experienced the onset of fall in a place where fall is a distinct season. I’ve heard a crow caw as I crunched through leaves and breathed cold air. I now know that Vermonters are proud of being ecologically friendly in the same way that Texans are proud of largeness. I can picture where my best friend and her family lives. I can see why they like it. I can see why they want to come back. I know a bit more than before I went to Vermont.

I don’t know where my new place will be next year, but I’m excited by the idea of it. I’m excited that I’ll choose a place. I like that I won’t quite know what to expect. I like that I’ll learn something there. I like that I’ll be a person who visited there. I’ll like that I got away from here with no other purpose than to go there and enjoy being there.

It’s a big big world and I want to see all of it, one new place at a time.

Then I want to take its picture.

Did She Really Get That Wigged Out by a Capo?

2009-10-02T10:45:00.002-05:00

My blog is not real time. I wrote a few entries before I began posting so I would always have some banked and could post in a regular and timely manner. This plan worked brilliantly, until I went out of town. I could have posted right before I left and right after I returned so no one would be the wiser, but I did not. Instead, my little blog sat all alone with no updates. Today, I was embarrassed to discover that while I was away it sat on an especially silly entry.

You see, in real time, I moved past the capo incident quite quickly and went on to bigger and better guitar things. If you were just going by my blog, however, it seems I was thwarted by a bit of Italian.

Rest assured, the next day after I had gotten some sleep, I realized that capos are good things. They actually make playing a guitar easier. It is also really easy to MacGyver your own capo using rubber bands and a pencil.

Thus, I moved on with my guitar lessons till I went out of town. These exploits will be posted soon. No really. I intend to do it in a timely manner.

Really.

Photo by Anne

Guitar Lesson Four or Five-ish or Who’s Counting?

2009-09-19T10:49:00.002-05:00

So, I’ve got a song picked out—“Bookends”—and a will to learn it. My task the past few nights has been to learn the three chords of the song.

That’s it.

Baby steps, baby.

All I have to do is learn these three chords and I figure I’m halfway to Nashville (or Cleveland if you want to be a little bit Rock n’ Roll).

Each night I get a bit more sure of myself. D minor, my old friend, can be easily changed to C. And by “easily” I mean with a little counting and craning of the neck. F is nearly impossible to play for anyone of normal finger length, but I think I’m faking it pretty well.

I’m there. I’ve got my three chords. I’m ready to sing a moody folk song like nobody’s business.

Except…well…I’m pretty sure this song is a tad more complicated that just the three chords. At some point, and I’m fairly certain of this, Paul Simon uses his other hand in the song.

Time to return to my trusty songbook. Surely therein lies the answer.

Dots on grids. Hmmmm. That probably means something. And what’s this?

Capo fourth fret

What does that mean?

Okay, this is cool. I know my frets (they’re clearly illustrated in my Guitar Chord Bible). I know which is the fourth. All I have to do is figure out what a capo is.

Merriam-Webster Online

capo: the head of a branch of a crime syndicate

Okay, that’s not it.

A general Google of capo leads me to

Cyberfret.com’s compelling explanation.

Oh crap.

How does anyone learn to play the guitar? How did they ever invent the guitar in the first place? Why? Why would they do this?

I think it’s time for me to take a break again.

Unwarranted Optimism

2009-09-16T20:44:00.001-05:00

Guitar Lesson, Number Two. Okay. Here goes.

After my first attempt at guitar, I’ll admit it, I was a tad discouraged. Apparently, I’m not an intuitively gifted guitarist. I comforted myself with the knowledge that out there in the big big world are people who teach guitar. While, “I taught myself how to play guitar,” sounds much cooler than, “I learned how to play guitar at community college night classes,” I feel better knowing that I have a solid plan B available.

Thus reassured, I took another look at my songbook. I found The Little Black Songbook: Paul Simon on sale at Barnes & Noble. I love Paul Simon dearly. My subtitle is a quote from “Can’t Run But” off his The Rhythm of the Saints album. I bought his songbook because (a) I want to be the sort of person who buys the songbooks of musicians they love, (b) I love Paul Simon, and (c) I know most of his songs so well that I’ll be able to tell if I’m playing them correctly or not.

After calming down from the initial shock of “How many chords are there?!” I was able to see that the chords of each song are clearly labeled in the songbook, much how they are clearly labeled in my borrowed chord bible. I got out my iPod and began listening to Paul Simon songs for the simplest one I could learn. After calming down from the initial shock of “Why did I choose such a talented musician’s songbook?!” I found the perfect song: “Bookends.” I checked the songbook and, sure enough, there are only three chords! Plus, its one of those sad introspective Simon and Garfunkel songs so I can change chords really slowly. I can totally do this song!

Thus rearmed with completely unwarranted optimism, I began guitar lesson, number two: the easy song!

I started with D minor and I got that chord down cold. I even branched out to F and C. At the end I even tried changing between them, but only a couple times before I decided I could save “changing notes” for another lesson.

As I sit down to lesson three, I’m pretty sure the only thing that stuck from lesson two is that D minor chord.

I feel like a rock star.

Farncombe, T. (Ed.) (2008). The little black songbook: Paul Simon. New York: Fall River Press.

I’d play the Blues, but apparently that has a lot of chords.

2009-09-14T20:12:00.002-05:00

Guitar lesson, number one: I’ll read the book!

I’m good at books. I love instructions. (Seriously, you need to put together something IKEA® and I’m your gal.) Okay, the Guitar Chord Bible starts with “Introduction.” Well, that’s handy seeing as how I’m new to this whole guitar thing. Next, “How to use this book.” Numbered lists, arrowed illustrations, color coding—I’m in instructional heaven! Next, “The fingerboard.” Um, wow. A lot of stuff goes on with these guitars, but I’m still okay. Let’s keep going. “Chord Directory.” We start with C.

This is fret one so finger one goes here and finger two goes over here and finger three—we’re stretching a bit now—goes here and strum. And strum. Is it supposed to sound like that? Strum. Something’s off. Strum. My hand kinda looks like the picture. Strum.

Then I turn the guitar over.

Hey, that’s much better!

Apparently, it helps when you hold the guitar the right way.

Okay, let’s move on to…C. There are five C chords. No wait there’s ... flipping ... flipping ... flipping ... according to this book there are at least 90 variations on the C chord!

How does anyone play guitar? How was the guitar ever invented? Why? Why would they do this? There are two to three chords on each page and the book is 253 pages long?

I look at my songbook as though some answers might lie there. I can in no way relate what is printed in the songbook to what is being illustrated so clearly in the Guitar Chord Bible.

Clearly, I’m tired after my first guitar lesson. I’m sure guitar lesson, number two, will be much better.

Capone, P. (2006). Guitar chord bible: Over 500 illustrated chords for rock, blues, soul, country, jazz, and classical. London: Quarto Publishing PLC.

The Shoeless Scullery Maid

2009-09-11T21:26:00.004-05:00

Photo by Anne

I cook at home to save on Weight Watchers® points (goal: the healthier Anne) and to save money (goal: the fiscally responsible Anne). I am a recipe cook and try to incorporate one into my diet about once a week. I was thumbing through one of my cookbooks for this past weekend’s recipe when it occurred to me (cue trumpet flourish), “This is an opportunity to push my boundaries!” I rushed to my red folder (no kidding folks, I keep them in a red folder) of Ambitious Recipes to Try. You know the kind: those recipes you tear out of magazines, or you asked your friend to send you at that one dinner party, or you printed off the Food Network© website after watching too many cooking shows. (For those of you who don’t know the kind, just stay with me.)

I found my Ambitious Recipe: “Grilled Tuna Rolls.” I’d been watching the Barefoot Contessa and it was (a) a recipe that looked good and (b) a recipe that I actually thought I could cook. Let’s face it, Ina Garten is the sort of on-TV cook that uses parchment paper and herb grinders and several mixing bowls (goodness all those mixing bowls!). She has that Martha Stewart air about her as she trims fresh sage into yet another mixing bowl for the squab she’s grilling for her director friend who’ll be stopping by her garden party at sunset. The lady’s league ain’t mine. My one-by-one apartment doesn’t have enough storage for that many mixing bowls.

But the grilled tuna rolls were enticing and I’ve got a George Foreman© grill and a dream of being a food critic.

So here goes, Anne’s take on the Barefoot Contessa’s “Grilled Tuna Rolls.”

Health Factor: A friendly 5 pointer. Grilled tuna and avocado tossed in a light dressing on a wheat bun makes this a healthy option for most diets.

Money: I live in San Antonio and not the coastal fairyland where Ina knows her fishmonger by name. The fresh 1-pound tuna steak from the seafood counter weighed heavily on this week’s grocery budget at a whopping $15.00. I also had to purchase the sesame seeds (leave-out-able) and the wasabi (no regrets), which aren’t frequent contenders in other recipes. This was a definite splurge.

Ease: Easy peasy as a box of instant mac-and-cheesy. Grilling the tuna was a breeze on my George Foreman. The required cool down time of the tuna gave a nice opportunity to mix the dressing. Everything else (bun, arugula, avocado) was pretty much good to go.

Variations: I don’t really like onions. (I know, how can I be a food critic if I don’t like onions?!) I bravely added the scallions but the red onions were politely declined. To make up the fiber content of the missing onions, I added diced water chestnuts because (1) I love them, (2) I thought they would complement the tuna because in my mind those two things are both kind of Asian-y, and (3) I thought they would be a good crunch—like the original onions—that would be an interesting contrast to the avocado and tuna. I do not regret this substitution. It probably made the dish a bit blander, but it was good for my palate.

Also, and this was unplanned, I didn’t buy one large Hass avocado but, instead, two petite Hass avocados. One of the two had turned slightly and therefore was only partly usable. As a consequence, my avocado to tuna ratio was not quite as I hoped for.

Appearance: Not as delightful as Ina’s display on the show. This was mostly due to the fact that in my reality the tuna shreds as you cut it and the avocado is squishy. In her reality they were delightful blocks of contrasting color, not a tossed mess. Otherwise, the appearance of the meal was not too bad. I could serve this to people not related to me and expect them to eat it. (Note. The picture does not do my meal much justice. I’ve already added “Learn how to photograph food” to my list of goals.)

Taste: It was…um…weird. (No, not because of the water chestnuts.) I’ve eaten tuna sashimi before so I was sure that the rareness of the tuna would be no problem. However, there was an initial “eewww” reaction. I’m a firm believer that you should try something at least twice before you give up on it so I forged past the “eewww” and arrived, luckily, at “hmmmm.” This dish was definitely situated at the edge of my particular boundaries, but I was glad when I arrived at the destination.

Also, I piled on the arugula to have charming green leaves sprouting from my concoction. Arugula, if you don’t know, has a strong flavor. It is often included in the fancier tossed salads to give them a bit of zing. Its flavor is slightly bitter and, to me, what you would imagine green to taste like. The arugula overpowered the rest of the flavors initially. After my first bite I pruned a bit and that helped the situation. Later, in my leftovers, I left it out entirely and the sandwich became too bland. I say, use the arugula but in moderation

This might seem dumb, but I was a bit surprised when the first bite was cool. I, having actively taken part in the cooling process, should not have been surprised but—for some reason—I was expecting a warm tuna melt type of sandwich. (Despite all my efforts to the contrary.) This recipe is for a cool, limey tuna sandwich with a slight tang of spice. That’s what I got after the initial shock of not eating the sandwich I hadn’t made.

The grilled tuna rolls were, as Ina suggested, the cool sort of tuna salad sandwich that you would find at a picnic, but with an Asian flair. The avocado was a very nice complement to the rare tuna and I wish I had more of it in my version. The meal was flavorful and filling, while being just a tad funky.

Clean-up: The grill for the tuna, one bowl to mix the dressing, one bowl to mix everything, and a plate to serve. Not bad at all.

Leftovers: If kept properly in a sealable container in the fridge, tuna salad can last up to a week. General consensus, however, is that the salad's flavor starts to lose some of its charm after two to three days.

Despite all the lime juice in the dressing, the avocados turned brown in my plastic container. To prevent this (it works with guacamole), squeeze some more lime juice over the top of the mixture and then lay cling wrap across the top, preventing as much air exposure as possible. Next time you open the mixture, give every thing a good stir and that will distribute the added lime juice throughout.

Other than that, the mix was great the next night. I enjoyed my second sandwich more since I knew what to expect (and I went easy on the arugula).

Repeatability: This is the sort of recipe I would make to impress other people on an occasional basis, but I know that it’s not going to become one of my go-to standards. Good for a summer picnic, but not necessarily an ordinary Tuesday night dinner.

New thing I learned: The recipe calls for wasabi powder but in my local store’s Asian section I could only find wasabi paste in a tube (think travel size toothpaste). A quick Google told me that wasabi paste is made from mixing a little wasabi powder with water. If you have an option, the powder stores longer, but the paste requires no extra steps if you are having a sushi emergency. Either works for this recipe.

Project #3: Become a Famous Musician

2009-09-09T22:09:00.002-05:00

Actually, I’d settle for being any type of musician. My only real qualification for this goal is that I can recognize a song when I play it. Oh sure, like anyone listening to his or her iPod while typing away in his/her cubicle, I have dreamed about my moment on stage belting out my latest heartfelt rock ballad from my best-selling album, but I’ll start small.

In my youth my Mom gifted me with piano lessons. (It was a gift. I remember enjoying the experience.) On one birthday I received a harmonica and, as I recall, thought I was terribly gifted at the time. I also had a brief run in with French horn in school band but that experience is too intertwined with junior high awkwardness to ever be mentioned again.

Otherwise, my musical experience has consisted of coveting others’ musical genius and dreaming of making something so enjoyable and stirring myself. In my favorite daydreams I strum my acoustic guitar over my morning coffee while humming my latest poetic folk song.

I blithely mentioned to my friend CiCi that I had always wanted to learn to play guitar. It’s the sort of thing you say after all. It ranks with, “I’ve always wanted to try acupuncture” or “I hear kayaking is fun.” You say things like that and the other person smiles and nods and the conversation continues. Except with CiCi. She started sending me community class schedules and suggesting where to look for cheap guitars online. Ludicrous, I know! I told my Dad about my crazy friend who actually expected me to act on a lifelong inclination, and he said, “You know I still have that old guitar. You could have it.”

What is up with the universe?! The very idea of just going out and learning guitar just because I want to and owning a guitar so I can learn and…what is going on?! I’m much more comfortable with just talking about these things and the universe expects me to act?

If that weren’t enough, my other friend Rae has a fiancé, Ess, who turns out to be an actual musician. He not only taught himself guitar but can actually play music on a guitar! He restrung and tuned my out-of-nowhere free guitar in his spare time just ‘cuz. He told me my guitar (he actually referred to it as “your guitar” like I owned a guitar or something) had a nice sound. Rae lent me a chord bible and Ess suggested I get a songbook and practice. Practice. Practice. (Apparently, this is the solution to everything.)

So, here I am with a guitar, a guitar bible, a songbook, and a desire to be a musician. I think I’ll teach myself to play guitar.

What do you think? Two weeks?

Project #2: Become a Food Critic

2009-09-08T21:54:00.000-05:00

I, like many the average person, am not totally thrilled with my job. I’ve got a good job. A solid job. A regular paycheck sort of job. It’s not the best of jobs, it’s not the worst of jobs. It’s a far far more average job than any job I’ve had before.

I like to daydream about changing jobs.

So, in my ongoing effort to be more than the average person, I consider what would be a spectacular job. What sort of job would make me leap out of bed in the morning. (“Leap out of bed in the morning for” is about as high a rating as I can give something.) In my list of possible dream jobs: famous writer, famous musician, lottery winner, and food critic.

Oh yes. My name is Anne and I’m a foodie. Or, at least, a wannabe foodie. I am what happens when someone belongs to Weight Watchers® and watches too much Food Network©. That is to say, I obsess about food. I love food. I love junk food. I love gourmet food. I love all the food in between. I love talking about food. I love eating food. They should make me a food critic.

I see the latest food critic to be introduced on Iron Chef America and I wonder, “How do you get that job?!” According to about.com and other such sites, in order to become a food critic I need to write well and know everything about food and the food industry. It’s all downhill from there, I’m sure. The various online help-yourself sites advise practice. Practice. Practice. (Apparently, this is the solution to everything.)

So, the point of this entry: expect to see me write about food in the near future. I gotta get some practice in before Iron Chef calls.

So, what’s this blog about?

2009-09-07T21:38:00.002-05:00

I’m no Martha. Nor an Oprah, a Teresa, a Diana, nor an Eleanor. I’m not flying across the Atlantic, leading explorers across the West, or pulling off a tuxedo in a smoky jazz club in Berlin. I’m certainly not an astronaut. Pick any female icon (heck, pick a male one) and I’m not that. I’m an Anne. Most singularly and certainly an Anne.

I’m not a bad Anne. I’m a perfectly fine Anne. In fact, at certain points in time, I’m a pretty good Anne. But I’m not the best Anne. Certainly not the best Anne I could be. I know that I could be a spectacular Anne if I just tapped into my inner Anne-ness a bit more. That’s what this blog is about. It’s about me becoming a better me.

In my angst and my little poor-me parties I always wish to be more. To be something special and outstanding. And, on the good days, I get over myself and go do something about it. I work out or search for the dream job or call that friend from college I’ve owed a phone call to for forever. On a lot of days I sigh and eat low-fat ice cream snacks. On the worst of days I keep feeling sorry for myself.

This blog is dedicated to the good days. This is about the days where I try something new, or try to do something better, or try to be happier about how I’m doing things already. This blog is about being Anne. Anne is constantly (if slowly) trying to be better.