I am allergic to babies
December 5, 2009
I am allergic to babies. You heard me. I don’t think they’re cute and I don’t want to hold yours. I am also not a mother. Maybe if I had been, some innate susceptibility to pudgy faces with big doey eyes and 10 little sausage fingers and 10 little stubby toes would have been awakened in me. But I am not a mother and I am uncomfortable around babies.
I always figured I wanted kids—I’m a woman—I’m supposed to—right? And as an only child I always said that if I had one I’d have one more. When I was 25 and going through a dark emotional time, I came to the conclusion that one’s purpose in life was procreation of the species. I figured I’d be helping the cause by the time I was 30. Alas, then my only-child independence began to get in the way, and I know my lack of financial stability was a big hindrance as well. I was emotionally ready to be a mother, and kind of thinking that for me being a single mother would be preferable. However, I have never been in a position where I felt like I could afford to accomplish it on my own. And as I got older, my feeling that it was a necessary part of a currently satisfying life disappeared. I am happy as I am, just looking out for Number One. Selfish? Yeah. That’s one of the things I attribute to onlyness. I never had to share. What I am fairly certain of, however, is that 20, 30 years down the road when I’m a spinster with 37 cats and 3 rabbits, I will have a big hole in my heart where offspring could, and possibly should, have been. I will feel huge regret that I never opened myself up to a family. But that doesn’t mean I will go gaga for your baby. I will not. photo © ShutterstockNobody eats anybody else, so it???s alright
November 26, 2009
Okay, just so you know, it wasn’t my choice to finally write about my furry sweeties. Honest. I am merely a slave to the random topic that came up. So let’s not waste any more time.
My first rabbit (#1) was Hazel. He was a couple of years old when Dhia the cat arrived (tortoiseshell). She was six weeks old and imprinted on Hazel. I had never lived with a cat before, so when she was still spazzing out at close to two years old, I decided she needed a feline playmate. That’s when Yul came along (black). He was about three months old, still young enough to be influenced by rabbitly ways. Dhia and Yul were nice enough to each other, but they both loved Hazel. Hazel lived to the ripe old rabbit age of 10-1/2. His mind was still strong, but his little body gave out on him. He sat in a shallow cardboard box when I took him to the vet to be euthanized. He gnawed on the edges while we were waiting, until I stroked his head and told him he didn’t have to fight anymore. Don’t try and tell me we don’t have a connection with our animal friends. I waited a few months before I brought Hilda home as a nine-week-old bunny (#2). She was a Checkered Giant (papillon), a breed I had decided on a few years before, not that I was rushing Hazel. I named her Hilda because one day when Chris Gargan was asking about Hazel, he called him “Hilda” instead. It stuck in my mind. She was a fine rabbit, and Dhia and Yul loved her even more than they loved Hazel. Unfortunately, the breed is relatively short-lived, and we lost her at 3-1/2 to what seemed like a bunny heart attack. We were devastated. What am I saying? We’re devastated every time. I didn’t have any ideas for our next rabbit. One day I brought home Daisy (#3). She was a standard Rex who turned out to be defective in a number of ways. She had a full-blown case of cataracts at five months (successfully operated on), and when she was spayed, the vet discovered she had only one ovary. She only made it to about seven months. I came home from work one evening to find her in a bad way. We went right to the emergency clinic, but it wasn’t long before she checked out. I’m convinced she had fought to hold on until I gotten home and we could say good-bye. Soon thereafter, I contacted Hilda’s breeder for a new bunny, because I really liked the personality of the Checkered Giant. I brought home Belle(#4), and it was an instant lovefest between her and Dhia and Yul. Those cats adored that little creature, and I was convinced that she was going to be the perfect rabbit. She had all of the character of Hilda without the aggression. (Hilda sometimes had personal space issues with me. That’s how I got that scar on my lower lip.) But alas, she turned out to be a hemophiliac and died from post-spay internal bleeding at four months. Belle was our third rabbit gone in less than a year. Maybe you’ll think I’m nuts when I say that I think the cats were jaded by all those losses in their reception to Robbin (#5). He was about eight weeks old and the cats liked him well enough, yet were a little stand-offish with him. It was for that reason that when Robbin was about three, I decided that he needed a companion of his own kind. I took him on some bunny dates to the Humane Society, and he picked Bibi (#6). They doted on each other. Bibi had come from another multispecies household apparently and didn’t seem too bothered by Dhia and Yul, who by this time were in their mid-teens. Dhia had had a kidney attack and had to be hospitalized for five days. The vet was amazed that she pulled through. I visited her twice a day, and then gave her subcutaneous fluids for the last two years of her life. Yul had come down with hyperthyroidism and required twice-daily pills. He developed pneumonia at the end and didn’t make it through treatment at the vet’s office. He was 16-1/2. Dhia developed a bladder infection. She didn’t improve with initial treatment and when I took her back in for more potent antibiotics, she gave me a look willing it to stop. We gave her a different injection. She was 18. That was a hard one. She was my Sweet Pea. I figured it would be a good while before I began looking for a new cat. The universe had other plans. My mom volunteers with the rabbits at her local Humane Society in central Wisconsin and gets me to go to their website to check them out. After I lost Dhia (that was in a March), I casually clicked over to the Cats section and was struck by a bolt of lightning when I saw CJ’s mugshot (black, inset). Look at that little white tuft and that cocked head! It was April and karma kept her available until I could pass through town in May on my annual Chicago bowling tournament trip to pick her up. I kept directing my mom to visit her to see what she thought. My mom is not a cat person, but she and CJ formed an instant bond; so much so that when I met CJ for the first time, she shunned me for my mother. That was a year and a half ago. I don’t know if it was the stress of welcoming a new, young, boisterous cat but within weeks of CJ’s arrival, Bibi developed gut stasis (a common rabbit ailment) and never recovered from surgery. She was such a sweetheart, and I was worried about how Robbin would react. Bonded rabbits often go into steep decline when they lose their companion. But Robbin’s still going strong. I think because he was an only rabbit for a number of years, and was very definitely the alpha over everyone of every species, he bounced back with no ill-effect. We’ll just stay a one-rabbit family now. But CJ and Robbin never hit it off. I attribute that to CJ’s being a twoish-year-old adult by the time she met him. She was inexperienced in rabbit. She knew he was different but didn’t know what to do about it. It was for that reason that I decided she should have a feline companion, because she wanted to be friendly, but there wasn’t anyone to bond with. I went on a few cat dates and finally decided on Dasie (black and white). She was about eight months old when she came home about eight months ago, and has been the light of our lives. She and CJ didn’t take very long at all before they became buddies. I’m certain that they actually like each other, unlike Dhia and Yul who were civil but always a little chilly. You might think that CJ and Dasie would gang up on Robbin, but he’s still large and in charge. Neither cat really understands rabbit. They’re curious, but can’t stop themselves from swatting at his behind. This, in turn, causes Robbin to wheel around and chase the offending cat, sometimes back and forth from one end of the apartment to the other and sometimes not, but always with the result of the cat being treed on the bed, window sill, or other high place. I watch his ears. They’re not flattened against his back, so I think he’s not taking it too seriously. And I think the cats believe that it’s an elaborate form of play.Nobody eats anybody else, so it’s alright.
You???re gonna make it after all
November 24, 2009
I was talking to a new friend yesterday who wondered if maybe I wasn’t being a little unnecessarily hard on myself with all this talk of laziness and lack of motivation and sitting on my bum like some big old theater that’s been languishing without renovation for the last 10 years. So tonight I thought that, instead of regretting that I hadn’t written a proper entry last Friday when the topic was “Take something apart” and I had planned on that something being myself, I would try to look at myself a little objectively in the other direction and maybe see what he does.
[As a completely unrelated aside, those were two pretty long sentences. One of my current work projects is writing about science for six- or seven-year-olds. We must keep word count per sentence as small as possible, and vocabulary as simple. I feel very decadent with those two opening sentences written for adults!] It’s human nature to be hard on yourself and to have difficulty believing that you measure up to anyone else. In the end, you are your own worst critic. So what have I done for myself lately? As detailed in “Work out, work hard,” I have managed to keep up a workout regimen for eight months now. That’s pretty amazing. How many people do you know who buy the gym membership, go for a couple of weeks, and then just throw away the auto-payment every month? Maybe you’re one of them. GO TO THE GYM! Another unexpected achievement is how I’ve kept up with writing this blog for the last few weeks. Granted, I missed a few days last week, but that’s because my work schedule has gone into warp drive until the end of December. I try to do a little overtime on the evenings I’m home, and last week I had just gotten so tired that I had to mind my health and go to bed rather than stay up for another hour working on this. It’s been very exhilarating writing again. Part of the reason why I’m anxious to keep up with the daily entries is because I see it as practice for my second career as some sort of writer. And I see my second career as some sort of writer as part of what will facilitate my move to London. I may be deluded on that point but I don’t care. I’m having fun! HAVE FUN! I guess to an outsider, all the kids’ books that I’ve written for work might seem a little noteworthy. To me, it’s just what I’ve been doing every day for 12 years. I am completely blasé about it. But when I look at this photo of all of the books that I’ve authored together on my bookshelf, even I smile, cross my arms, and nod to myself. GIVE YOURSELF CREDIT! Maybe even my avid participation on the TweakToday.com website could be viewed as achievement but I think that’s stretching it. Still, DO SOMETHING NEW EVERY DAY! Okay, that’s all I’ve got. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The inspiration for tonight’s entry was the assignment of photographing a local public sculpture. I chose the bronze Mary Tyler Moore on Nicollet Mall, which is near where I work. The title comes from the lyrics of the theme song for the tv show, which I wanted to include in the vein of positive self-affirmation; I found a couple of videos of an early version (note that Mary’s driving a 1970 Ford Mustang—I wasn’t the only girl who liked them!) and a later version of the opening montage instead. In the Wikipedia entry about the show, I learned things about Mary that are now kind of interesting since I’ve lived in the Twin Cities for a long time, including that the deluxe apartment that she moved on up to was in the complex of now-not-glamorous high rises in my current home neighborhood.Rear view (I am a mushroom-head)
November 18, 2009
Do you ever wonder what you could have done differently? I do. Which is not to say I’m living in the past or that I’m a pessimist, because I’m not. I’m very positive. Oh, for sure, I have my downer moods (about every 28 days, if you know what I mean), but in general, I’m 98% a glass-half-full kind of person.
The big thing I know I could have done differently is to not have bought my condo. I’ve said before that if a decision needs to be made, I’ll make it. I might have made that decision a bit too hastily. I don’t think I have commitment issues, but maybe I do. I don’t like being pinned down with regard to anything. Maybe buying my condo wasn’t the best decision ever, because now I’m stuck with it. I don’t like being stuck with stuff.
No, I look upon each “mistake” as an opportunity to move forward. I have to. It was a mistake to buy this condo, but because I did, my parents were very generous to me with some of their inheritance money when my grandmother died, and now I have equity in the place that will allow me to financially proceed with other things. Plus, I actually feel like an adult now that I have a mortgage.
It was a mistake to twice take a calculus class, but failing twice showed me the road that allowed me to succeed with my career.
There were my early mistakes with relationships that made me into the cynical curmudgeon that I am, but … oh, wait.
Nah, I try to keep moving forward, however slowly. Sometimes it’s hard to tell that I am. Just ask the Shubert Theater about that; however, tomorrow one of us is having a groundbreaking for renovations and one of us isn’t.
I don’t pay a lot of attention to the past. I certainly should pay more attention to the future.
The world is flat
November 15, 2009
(Prologue: I thought this entry was going to be about artistic prowess or lack thereof, but it isn’t. I absolutely never intended for it to be even a third the length it is, but it is. But if you stick with it, you’ll learn a lot about how I got to where I am today.)
Introduction
I made and printed this woodcut at a real-world get-together with people I no longer stay in touch with. I lived in Madison, Wisconsin, for a few years completing my eternal college experience, and for 11 years after I moved away I looked forward to my annual pilgrimage back to Madison in June (usually on the weekend before my birthday) to go make art.
Chapter 1
I went to the University of Wisconsin to obtain on my Masters degree in meteorology, because I’ve always loved the weather. In making that decision, I didn’t take into account all the math and science I had not had as an English major for my Bachelor’s degree, not having taken more than algebra theretofore. (In a completely anomalous experience, I had the highest grade of the class in that course, with a 98.6% for the term. To this day, I’m not sure how that happened. All I can think of is that the instructor was the second best teacher I’ve ever had. We’ll get to the first by the end of this story, I promise.)
Before I could even start taking the meteorology courses, I first had to make up three semesters of calculus, two of physics, and one of chemistry. I managed to squeak by in trigonometry so that I could begin the calculus. I eked out a passing grade in chemistry by the hair of my chinny chin chin. But when it came to the calculus, I failed the class.
By now I was beginning my third semester in graduate school and I had changed my major to cartography, because I’ve always loved maps and I could see the writing on the wall. The math and science requirements were less stringent in cartography, though I did still havbe to get through the first calculus.
I had managed to be hired for an internship in the university’s map lab. They knew I didn’t have any computer experience. They plopped me down in front of what must have been a Mac, because I was to use Adobe Illustrator, probably version 0.5 or something. I hadn’t begun my transformation into geek yet. Bezier what? It was very frustrating, as I was provided with very little guidance. I became convinced that the department was an old boys network.
Meanwhile, I had joined the bowling club, because one of my regrets at the University of Minnesota during the acquisition of my Bachelor’s was that I hadn’t participated in any extracurricular, social activities. My parents had always trotted me off to Saturday morning kiddie leagues, and when I was in highschool, I was in some league or other, so for college I thought, what the heck. I learned that the squad for the college meets was drawn from bowling club participants, and as one of only six women members vying for five spots, I got to compete sometimes.
(Okay, I couldn’t stand it, I looked it up. That would have been around 1992 that I was attempting to use Illustrator. It looks like that would have been about version 4. I’ll stick with my contention that it was on a Mac—well, shoot, I guess I better check that, too—because even with my zero experience, I don’t remember that the computer itself got in my way, so it surely couldn’t have been a Windows machine. What Mac model? I can’t tell anything from these charts.)
Well, I flunked that second try a calculus, too. I attempted to negotiate with my cartography advisor but he was unwilling to work with me and my fate was sealed. I was booted out of graduate school in shame. That of course meant I couldn’t continue to participate in university bowling. That bummed me out. This was the crew that I rocked out to Faith No More’s “Epic” with.
The bowling advisor—I call him that because he was not himself a bowler, he wasn’t a coach, he was simply the guy in charge—suggested that I go to the local two-year school, Madison Area Technical College, to take their calculus course and then transfer the credits back to the UW. He had no idea what a life-changing suggestion that was.
Chapter 2
It was a glorious day when I walked into Madison Area Technical College resolute in my intent to sign up for calculus.
I must have been in some admissions-type area waiting to talk to someone, but I soon discovered a spinner rack of brochures for each of the school’s programs. I idly picked up the one detailing Commercial Art degree. I thought, hmm. I was a graphic design major for a semester during the eight years it took me to get my Bachelor’s degree. I did pretty well and thought it was interesting. Hmm. Maybe I’ll wander upstairs and have a chat with someone. That was the second life-changing action in this story.
(I didn’t stick with graphic design at the University of Minnesota because there is an acclaimed, dedicated four-year art school in Minneapolis and I didn’t feel like I’d be competitive with those graduates. For goodness sake, at the time, the U of M’s graphic design program was in the College of Home Economics.)
I got a quick summary from the department administrative assistant. She had me wait while she went to find one of the instructors who could talk to me more. She came back with Chris Gargan, the man to whom I owe the last 18 (and counting) years. (Wow about the years, when I put it like that. I always put it like that regarding Chris.)
We went down to the cafeteria and got some lunch. He told me about the program, the classes, other instructors, and generally seemed interested in me. That was a complete 180 from how I had been last treated at the University of Wisconsin. I was convinced. And because I already had the Bachelor’s degree, I didn’t have to take the basics, like economics, psychology, and college algebra. I could whiz through the two-year Associate of Applied Arts degree in a year and a half.
What a year and a half it was. The classes were taught by people who had actual practical experience in the areas they were teaching. Classes were small and there was plenty of opportunity for one-on-one interaction. Computers were just beginning to take over in the nascent field of desktop publishing. I learned Adobe Illustrator the right way!
Back to the original premise of this entry, sort of
After I graduated, I worked in Madison for a year, then moved back to Minneapolis. But I stayed in touch with the Madison people, and made that pilgrimage every June.
See, it wasn’t just any art-making get-together, it was Chris Gargan’s Paint ‘n’ Party. It was in his illustration class that I learned woodcutting, along with many other methods, including an architectural illustration of an old Victorian house in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, and an isometric, exploded illustration of a fuzzball shaver. Woodcutting is the one that stuck. It was a crude enough medium to forgive my inadequacies, but the end result usually had a wow factor.
So every summer, Chris hosted this art-making party at his farm 20 miles southwest of Madison. For the entire day, you’d sit in the yard, or find the right angle on the barn, or make a nest in the field and paint the landscape. In the evening, we all came back in to eat, drink, and hang our pieces in the barn for a show of the day’s efforts. Chris was the “judge” and came up with goofy prizes in what became standard categories.
I still can’t draw or paint by hand (unless I’m using my opposite hand, then the drawings have a certain charm, I think; see yesterday’s post), but thanks to Chris getting me to stick around for a degree, I rock Adobe Illustrator at work every day.
My croquet set won the Best Balance award that year, even thought the mallet stand is missing its side supports. I got a little trophy of a gymnast on a pommel horse.
My world and welcome to it
November 14, 2009
Today I lived my life vicariously through some people I don???t know. I???m learning about them as a result of frequenting the same online social space. I know them about as well as this drawing is similar to a photograph.
That doesn???t mean it isn???t fun or satisfying. In the real world, I???m not good at staying in touch. I???m even worse at getting together. So this online business works for me. I get some social interaction without as many demands on my inertia. I get to develop friendships with people who like me back in the same way. Sometimes I even feel popular.
I???m an only child, and I???ve always been good at amusing myself with no outside help. As the years go by, I seem to be getting better and better at it. Now I would adapt that statement to say that I???m very good at keeping busy with little face-to-face interaction. Maybe I???m becoming one of those antisocial internetter statistics. Maybe in 10 years I???ll be up to 42 cats.
I???m not saying I don???t like being around people (well, maybe a little). Sometimes I do just want to go out and do something. Some of you will remember a few weeks ago when I was wailing about not having somebody, anybody who I could call up for a spontaneous outing. Usually I am pretty okay with keeping to myself. I felt lonely that night.
I would say I have two generations of online friends. My first-generation circle consists of people who are friends with someone I actually know in person, who moved to California a few years ago. There is him, and also the people I think of as his first tier of friends because they do stuff together all the time. Then there is what I think of as his second tier, the friends of the friends who he doesn???t hang out with as often. I have met the first tier in person. And I have someone in the second tier to give a great big thank you to for introducing me to the website where I am now getting to know my second generation of online friends.
I don???t really know where I???m going with this. I like getting to know my online friends better; today I had a video chat via Skype with two of my second generation friends who are in London. I thought that was pretty exciting, and it provided a small consolation for the impossibility of my being able to join the group for their evening outing. Some of them in more geographically friendly circumstances are taking advantage of the opportunity to meet each other in person.
The drawing is how I imagine the evening might have gone.
Work out, work hard
November 11, 2009
Here’s where I wax enthusiastic about how I’ve actually stuck with working out since the end of March. If you’ve read the Inertia and Inertia 2 posts, you’ll know I’m not the most motivated person in the world. But I do like being healthy.
A couple of years ago, my weight had crept up to the highest ever. Not outrageously high, but higher than it should be. It was then that I began to embrace the South Beach philosophy of healthy eating. In a nutshell: eat lots of veggies and salad, cheese and eggs, moderate portions of meat. Small portions of whole grains. Avoid the white versions of things (flour, sugar, rice). Red wine is permitted. Potatoes and beer are the devil. Beer is the devil. For a couple of months I was very diligent and the pounds melted away. Then I became complacent because it seemed so easy. I’m still about 15 pounds down from that high point. About five pounds come and go, depending on how I’m eating and what time of the month it is. That old cliché? Well, if you’re a woman you know it’s true. The devil is in the details. I would say I’m about 50% compliant to the South Beach guidelines. If I gave up beer, that would rise to about 75%. Uh oh. I just need to have a little willpower and then I could make the food/pounds part of my healthy self kick back into gear. I don’t have willpower. I let myself not have willpower. Maybe that’s part of the problem with other areas of my life that lack accomplishment. This entry isn’t meant to be about weight and pounds. I want you to be amazed that after seven and a half months, my lazy self is still on a regular workout schedule of usually three times a week, always at least two, and only two or three times, only once a week. It’s never been more than seven days in between workouts. The magic bean? Curves for Women. About five or six years ago, I had belonged to Curves. I stuck with it for five months that time and loved it. Then I faded away, and then I moved. Last March, my coworker mentioned that she had joined her local Curves and I thought, hmm. I’m as out of shape as I’ve ever been, I like Curves, there’s one near the office, okay I’m signing up again. Plus this time around, my health insurance reimburses me about 40% of the fee if I go at least eight times a month. Not a problem. I love Curves even more now than I did then. For those of you unfamiliar with Curves, it’s a 30-minute workout. There are 12 machines, each of which works a different muscle group. You do a machine for 30 seconds, then move to a recovery station where you step or run or box or whatever in place for 30 seconds. Then on the next machine for 30 seconds, recover for 30 seconds and so on, until you’ve been on machines 22 times. That’s a total of 11 minutes working your muscles. Doesn’t sound like much, does it? That’s why I like it. It doesn’t seem like much when you’re doing it, either. But boy, is it a workout. You get what you give. The harder you push, the more resistance there is in the hydraulic pistons. Technology has stepped in since I was previously a member. New is the CurvesSmart Coach, a tag that you put in each machine that tells it how hard to work you based on your previous efforts. Everything saves to the computer so that you can easily track your progress. That’s what the report up top is. Within a month, my improved strength and stamina were obvious as I biked up long, gradual hills on the path along the Mississippi River, the same hills that the previous summer I had had to walk the bike up. It didn’t take me nearly as long to get loosened up for bowling. I jogged up stairs at the Metrodome during baseball games and wasn’t winded when I got to the top. Within the last month or so, I have realized that although I haven’t lost any weight to speak of, my wobbly bits are redistributing. I actually had to buy a smaller belt. I work hard at Curves and I’m beginning to see visual results. I know I haven’t been this fit for a long, long time. I’d really make progress if I could exorcise the devil.Inertia, part 2
November 9, 2009
Today I was asked to describe a problem I have. I volunteered that I am lazy. Maybe lazy isn’t quite the right way to put it. I certainly procrastinate. This body is at rest.
Let me think about this for a while. I don’t remember being lazy when I was a kid. In fact, I was always busy. I liked to draw and color, and listen to records. For a time we lived across the street from the library (the house two doors down from the Methodist Church, for those of you following along) and I was a constant patron. Oh how I loved to read. I made it through all of the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books. I played with my friends on my swingset in the back yard. (Memory: I had just woken up from a nap and it seems that my friends had congregated at my swingset without me. My mom told them not to do it again. I was peeking out from behind her silently thinking, “Yeah!”) The swingset didn’t make the trip to our next house because I was that much older, but I still loved to read and we had a nice back porch on which to do it. I developed a whole stable of imaginary horses and spent countless hours working out their pedigrees, making pictures, and reading my numerous horse magazines. I spent hours listening to music. Nope, as a kid I wasn’t lazy. So where did it come from and what can I do about it? I’m not saying I want to go all the way to Type A, but I feel like I’m at about Type G. C would be nice. Time to beat myself up. In college, I always worked well under pressure, in other words, at the last minute. Sure, I have deadlines at work but that’s not what I’m talking about. Maybe it is. Maybe my frail psyche is so wiped out at the end of the work day and week that I just can’t bear the thought of doing anything at home. If that were the case, it would seem pretty dumb, at least on the surface to the outsider looking in. Your brain likes to fool you. No harm to others or the world is coming from my not doing anything. It just lowers my self-esteem. What bothers me about my laziness is the lack of forward progress in my life in general. A large contributing factor to that is that I’m comfortable. I have liked my job for almost 15 years and I can pay my bills. But I’m not happy. I am and I’m not. On the surface, I’m usually in a good mood and I’m an indefatigable optimist and I have self-confidence. But deep down, I feel unfulfilled. For 11 years, I’ve been convinced that living in England is what I need, and yet I’ve done nothing to accomplish it. I know that the longer I wait the less likely it is to happen. Because of my age, I am less and less marketable for a job. Because of my parents’ age, I might feel obligated to take care of them. (Did I mention that I’m an only child? I’m kind of selfish, too. Lazy and selfish.) So what advice have I gotten?- Guilt myself into doing it.
- Give myself a day a week for guilt-free nothingness.
- Procrastination is really a perfectionism issue.
- Get other people to make me feel guilty.
- How would my child-self handle it?
Regardless of which method I employ, it unfortunately still comes down to me, myself, and Kelly. I’ll get back to you on how it’s going. Sometime.
photo © Shutterstock
Inertia
November 7, 2009
This is the Shubert Theater. Ten years ago, the Shubert Theater had its 15 minutes of fame when it became the heaviest structure ever moved, traveling a block and a half through downtown Minneapolis. Grandiose plans were made for its historical preservation and renovation. Then it sat untouched for ten years—a big, cream-colored brick that hasn’t accomplished anything lately. The Shubert Theater is an apt metaphor for my life.
The big thing that I want to accomplish is moving to London, England. I first visited Europe in 1989. I was just about to graduate from college (anecdote: My mom told her friend that I was finally graduating after eight years. Friend: What’s she getting her PhD in? Mom: Oh no, it’s just her Bachelor’s degree.) and my mom, who collects teddy bears, booked herself, my dad, and me on a group tour. It was a pretty interesting time to be toodling around Europe. We arrived and departed from Frankfurt; we were warned not to smile at the East German border patrol across the barbed wire lest they open fire, spent a few days swooning in Vienna, and got incredibly nostalgic driving our motorcoach past the American Embassy in Budapest on the 4th of July. The second teddy bear tour was to the UK in 1998. I knew I had found my soulmate. I can’t explain it, it was just a gut feeling that I was meant to live there. I’m a firm believer in intuition, instincts, and The Spark. It was a splendid two weeks. We spent the first few nights in London, then Brighton, then headed north. There were two nights in the Lake District followed by three nights in North Berwick, Scotland, just to the northeast of Edinburgh. On this trip, I remember that time in North Berwick most fondly, actually. Our hotel was an old Georgian manor with a golf course between it and the Firth of Forth. I spent two of the three evenings walking the beach, singing Del Amitri songs to myself. We ended with a few more nights in London, and by this time I was acclimated and loving it. I dragged my mom along on my pilgrimage to the Dr Marten’s shop in Covent Garden, where I also discovered Lush Soap. I didn’t get too crazy—it was a group tour with my mom after all—but the seeds were sown. I returned home and embraced as much day-to-day culture as I could from Minnesota. I listen to 5 Live Drive nearly every day (still sad that Jane Garvey moved on, though Anita Anand is a firecracker in her own right) and Clive Bull on LBC, and at this very moment I am resisting the urge to bawl like a baby at the way Barry’s treating Pat at Roy’s wake on Eastenders (I’m seven years behind). I made a friend because of LBC and rabbits, and made several trips to London until 2002, when the finances collapsed. The point isn’t for this to be a travelogue. I think you understand that I love England, or my slight experience of it. There are three other germane points. I’m coming up on my 15-year anniversary at my job. Groan. I’m comfortable and so don’t make a change, even though I think about doing so all the time now. For the most part, I have liked going to work every day and I have great bosses. If I didn’t and didn’t, I wouldn’t have. It’s hard to roust yourself when your laziness trumps your desires. I know it’s entirely within my power to effect a change. But I don’t. As well, four years ago I bought a condo. What was I thinking? Because not long after I paid too much for my home, the housing market tanked. I’m trapped in a mortgage for at least five years, I figure, until things begin to turn around. I hope I’ll be surprised that it doesn’t actually take that long. Recently, however, some stuff has happened with regard to my mortgage that lessens my financial constraints. So unfortunately, that will put the focus of failure more squarely on myself with regard to actually accomplishing something related to this dream I’ve had for 11 years. The Shubert and I have been sitting on our asses for a long time. But at least I don’t weigh as much.
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