My new year’s resolutions (how cliché, I know…)
Listen more. For the entirety of my life I have unapologetically been a talker. I tend to join every conversation, start up chats with strangers, and (sadly) sometimes even fail to hear what someone else is saying because I am merely listening for the opportunity to interject my own comment. I like that I am talker, but I am fearful that I have missed many a wonderful thought because I simply failed to listen. I am resolved to not only hear others, but to listen to what they are saying.
Work smarter. I like to think that I am appearing to work frequently enough, but I often find that I am not working wisely. I do a lot of sitting and mind wandering and day dreaming and internet shopping. I could be much more productive at work if I attempted to actually work. I am resolved to stay on focus more and to work smarter.
Set up housekeeping. I have my own apartment that has its own kind of charm… when it’s clean. I really, really need to put the dishes in the dishwasher as soon as I’m finished using them. I need to pick up all of my miscellaneous belongings before I go to bed each net. I need to hang up my clothes as soon as they are out of the dryer. I am resolved to set up housekeeping… for real.
And the most cliché of all—live a healthier life. I must eat healthier, exercise more, take my vitamins, have quiet time, etc. I mean it this time. Really. Stop smirking.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Blinded by Christmas
Well, Christmas has come and gone and, thankfully, I still have my vision. Well, some vision. My eyesight is absolutely dreadful, but more on that later. I'm always amazed at how busy the holiday season gets... parties and presents and family gatherings and what-not. I always get so excited about the upcoming events and then it all seems to pass in a blur. This year, the blur was both figurative and literal.
My sister, boyfriend and I piled about a zillion packages and all of our luggage into the car and made our way to the grand town of Roswell, NM, where my grandparents' happy home sits amongst other elderly alien-believers. It's not a short drive (6.5 hours or so), nor is it a scenic journey. We passed 256 tubmleweeds, 12 gas stations, one million oil pumps, and an armadillo.
Anyway, my grandparents' home is much like a New Mexican north pole. There is a life size Santa on the front porch, along with an operational train and toy car that would delight any toddler. Inside is crammed full of angels that light up, Santas that sing and dance, and little ice skaters that magically twist and turn on a plastic surface. Since my boyfriend joined us on this journey, he was rewarded with the guest bedroom while my sister and I were banished to inflatable beds in the living room. It's better than the floor... but not much.
It was while sleeping on this inflatable bed in the middle of the Christmas chaos that I awoke to a scorching pain in my right eye and through to the back of my head. I ran to the bathroom to find that my eye was blood-red, my face was starting to swell, and I couldn't see out of that eye. By no means a pleasant turn of events. I took my contacts out (something I should have done before I went to sleep... I know, I know), took a Bendaryl because my sister said that might help, and tried to go back to sleep. After praying that my eye didn't fall out or explode in my head, I managed to slide back into a nap.
The next morning the entire right side of my face was swollen, but the redness and turned to a more mild and less scary pink. My vision was horribly blurred, but the pain wasn't quite as sharp. I called my optometrist and he assured me that my cornea was not going to explode out of my head and set up an appointment for me once I returned to Texas. Within two days my vision was relatively back to normal and I was convinced that I wasn't going to die.
I have since learned that if you wear your contacts for too long, your body will start to think that the contacts are the enemy and will try to fight them off, hence the swelling. Stupid body... those contacts are the only way I can see to make sure the rest of me doesn't get hit by a bus. Anyway, I managed to scratch the lens of my right eye during that battle (hence redness and blurriness).
So let this be a lesson to you all... unless you want your holidays to be a literal blur, take your contacts out before you settle down for a long winter's nap.
I hope all of you out there had a pleasant Christmas, and I wish you a very happy new year.
My sister, boyfriend and I piled about a zillion packages and all of our luggage into the car and made our way to the grand town of Roswell, NM, where my grandparents' happy home sits amongst other elderly alien-believers. It's not a short drive (6.5 hours or so), nor is it a scenic journey. We passed 256 tubmleweeds, 12 gas stations, one million oil pumps, and an armadillo.
Anyway, my grandparents' home is much like a New Mexican north pole. There is a life size Santa on the front porch, along with an operational train and toy car that would delight any toddler. Inside is crammed full of angels that light up, Santas that sing and dance, and little ice skaters that magically twist and turn on a plastic surface. Since my boyfriend joined us on this journey, he was rewarded with the guest bedroom while my sister and I were banished to inflatable beds in the living room. It's better than the floor... but not much.
It was while sleeping on this inflatable bed in the middle of the Christmas chaos that I awoke to a scorching pain in my right eye and through to the back of my head. I ran to the bathroom to find that my eye was blood-red, my face was starting to swell, and I couldn't see out of that eye. By no means a pleasant turn of events. I took my contacts out (something I should have done before I went to sleep... I know, I know), took a Bendaryl because my sister said that might help, and tried to go back to sleep. After praying that my eye didn't fall out or explode in my head, I managed to slide back into a nap.
The next morning the entire right side of my face was swollen, but the redness and turned to a more mild and less scary pink. My vision was horribly blurred, but the pain wasn't quite as sharp. I called my optometrist and he assured me that my cornea was not going to explode out of my head and set up an appointment for me once I returned to Texas. Within two days my vision was relatively back to normal and I was convinced that I wasn't going to die.
I have since learned that if you wear your contacts for too long, your body will start to think that the contacts are the enemy and will try to fight them off, hence the swelling. Stupid body... those contacts are the only way I can see to make sure the rest of me doesn't get hit by a bus. Anyway, I managed to scratch the lens of my right eye during that battle (hence redness and blurriness).
So let this be a lesson to you all... unless you want your holidays to be a literal blur, take your contacts out before you settle down for a long winter's nap.
I hope all of you out there had a pleasant Christmas, and I wish you a very happy new year.
Friday, December 17, 2004
Stolen Pie
I really do love Christmas. I love the Christmas tree, the lights, the carolers, the crafts, and most of all, I love the homemade treats. I love my grandfather's sugar cookies and I love chocolate covered pretzels I make every year. Hard to beat, though, is my friend Sara's brownie pecan pie. It is simply the best pie in the whole world, so you can imagine my excitement when I came to work this morning and found a brownie pecan pie from Sara on my desk.
I refused to cut the pie and share it with my colleagues because once you cut a pie in a law office, you will not leave the premises with anything more than crumbles. I'm often amazed how quickly grown people can consume desert. My unwillingness to share was met with some sarcastic remarks that bounced off of me like rubber.
I feel that I have sufficiently set the stage for the near tragedy that followed... I came back from a very short trip to the copy room to find that the very pie I have described had been stolen! My favorite Christmas present was gone! The audacity! I stomped around the office laughing and accusing my office neighbors of having stolen my pastry. It turns out it was a practical joke and the pie was retrieved from a chair of an unknowing colleague with no harm down. The fear that the pie might have been sat upon, though, was palpable.
At the end of the day, I have learned a valuable lesson... two lessons, actually. (1) You should always share your pie, as you might end up with none at all if you don't; and (2) you should always make sure there isn't a pie in your chair before you sit down.
I refused to cut the pie and share it with my colleagues because once you cut a pie in a law office, you will not leave the premises with anything more than crumbles. I'm often amazed how quickly grown people can consume desert. My unwillingness to share was met with some sarcastic remarks that bounced off of me like rubber.
I feel that I have sufficiently set the stage for the near tragedy that followed... I came back from a very short trip to the copy room to find that the very pie I have described had been stolen! My favorite Christmas present was gone! The audacity! I stomped around the office laughing and accusing my office neighbors of having stolen my pastry. It turns out it was a practical joke and the pie was retrieved from a chair of an unknowing colleague with no harm down. The fear that the pie might have been sat upon, though, was palpable.
At the end of the day, I have learned a valuable lesson... two lessons, actually. (1) You should always share your pie, as you might end up with none at all if you don't; and (2) you should always make sure there isn't a pie in your chair before you sit down.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Iraqi Wool Prices
I wish it weren't so, but I get a great deal of pleasure out of material things. I'm trying to become more Ghandi-ish and gaining happiness from spiritual wellness and what-not, but for the time being, things of this world put a twinkle in my eye. I like things that sparkle; I like pants that make my rear look smaller than it is; I like "flourish" for my apartment; I like old quilts; and I LOVE cashmere.
Cashmere is a luxury goat fiber from animals raised in the mountains of India, Iraq and China. Cashmere, quite simply, is the world's most fabulous clothing material. I have a particular affinity for the cashmere sweater.
Yesterday I ran across a cashmere sweater that called my name and insisted upon my touching it. And then it required a trying on. And then, of course, it had to be purchased. (If you give a mouse a cookie...) I was standing in line to pay for it when it's coral-colored sister cried and cried about being left behind, so I ended up with a pair of silk/cashmere blend sweaters that are as happy in my life as I am to have them in mine. They were on sale, so I don't feel too badly.
As I was paying for these sweaters, though, I began to wonder why the price of cashmere hasn't increased with the price of gasoline. After all, the price of gas goes up because we are at war with Iraq, so one could only assume that the war would surely also affect the price of Iraqi goat wool. I think the American consumer is getting the raw end of the deal one way or the other... either we are paying too much for gasoline when we don't really need to or we have been paying too much for cashmere all along. I fear that the latter is the truth, but for my sanity's sake I'm going to continue to think that the price of cashmere has been driven sky high along with the price of gasoline and I just got a really good deal.
Cashmere is a luxury goat fiber from animals raised in the mountains of India, Iraq and China. Cashmere, quite simply, is the world's most fabulous clothing material. I have a particular affinity for the cashmere sweater.
Yesterday I ran across a cashmere sweater that called my name and insisted upon my touching it. And then it required a trying on. And then, of course, it had to be purchased. (If you give a mouse a cookie...) I was standing in line to pay for it when it's coral-colored sister cried and cried about being left behind, so I ended up with a pair of silk/cashmere blend sweaters that are as happy in my life as I am to have them in mine. They were on sale, so I don't feel too badly.
As I was paying for these sweaters, though, I began to wonder why the price of cashmere hasn't increased with the price of gasoline. After all, the price of gas goes up because we are at war with Iraq, so one could only assume that the war would surely also affect the price of Iraqi goat wool. I think the American consumer is getting the raw end of the deal one way or the other... either we are paying too much for gasoline when we don't really need to or we have been paying too much for cashmere all along. I fear that the latter is the truth, but for my sanity's sake I'm going to continue to think that the price of cashmere has been driven sky high along with the price of gasoline and I just got a really good deal.
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Bug Magnetism
I do not particularly care for bugs, but bugs are strangely drawn to me. It is a relationship much like the stuck-up cat that won't come to its owner, but rubs all over he who is allergic. Bugs are just drawn to me. I have been bitten by a mosquito in the middle of a thunderstorm and another on the 13th floor of a downtown skyscraper. I'm telling you--they seek me out.
A prime example of my bug magnetism occurred last night. I live in an apartment that I keep relatively cold. Last night was particularly chilly, as there was a hard freeze and I did not turn my heater on (which is another story entirely, relating to a current fear of carbon monoxide poisoning and a love of old quilts). I was lying in bed in flannel pajamas under a sheet, a comforter, and a quilt when I was bitten (twice, just to add insult to injury), by a bug. I'm not sure what kind of bug, but something that made a red mark and made me quite itchy. How can a person be bitten by an itch-inducing bug, under several layers of fabric, during a hard freeze? It is a mystery for the ages.
Consumer note: If a representative of "Off" or "Avon's Skin So Soft" is reading and would like to solicit my bug magnetism for some sort of research project, I'm free most weekends for a small fee.
A prime example of my bug magnetism occurred last night. I live in an apartment that I keep relatively cold. Last night was particularly chilly, as there was a hard freeze and I did not turn my heater on (which is another story entirely, relating to a current fear of carbon monoxide poisoning and a love of old quilts). I was lying in bed in flannel pajamas under a sheet, a comforter, and a quilt when I was bitten (twice, just to add insult to injury), by a bug. I'm not sure what kind of bug, but something that made a red mark and made me quite itchy. How can a person be bitten by an itch-inducing bug, under several layers of fabric, during a hard freeze? It is a mystery for the ages.
Consumer note: If a representative of "Off" or "Avon's Skin So Soft" is reading and would like to solicit my bug magnetism for some sort of research project, I'm free most weekends for a small fee.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
It's Not a Party Until the Firemen Show Up
I graduated from law school about 2 and a half years ago. Some of the best friends I have ever had, and dare say any person could have, graced the halls of Baylor Law School from 1999 until 2002. Since such friends are, needless to say, invaluable, I try to find ways to stay in touch with them. This holiday season, I thought it would be nice to host a "girls only" Friday night dinner party for a dozen of my closest law school friends.
I planned the party very carefully in my mind... crackers and luxurious cheeses to start; cranberry glazed chicken, potato casserole, and green beans for the meal; and a turtle cheesecake for desert. There would be wine, egg nog, and a festive peppermint martini. I did all the shopping, cleaned my apartment (no small task), had the potatoes in the oven, and had chilled the egg nog by the time my law school roommate showed up. The cranberry glazed chicken is her recipe, so she was gracious enough to come over an hour early and help me prepare the main course. I had marinated the chicken that morning, so all that was needed to start the chicken was a sesame oil and brown sugar glaze that was to be prepared stove top.
Just as we dumped 6 tablespoons of brown sugar into the skillet, there was a knock at my door. It was another guest ready to help with preparations and begin enjoying a holiday beverage. Just as I turned back to the stove, I realized my error. Brown sugar melts very quickly, then burns, and then produces an exorbitant amount of smoke... burned sugar smelling smoke that has hints of creme brule gone very wrong. We immediately took the sugar off of the burner and began to fan away the smoke and open the door to my patio. I opened my front door to allow for some air flow... another error. At this point I realize that my entire apartment is full of burnt sugar smoke and that the tainted air is flowing into the hall of my apartment complex.
My fire alarm begins to sound at an alarming intensity and I, along with my two friends, work frantically to wave air away from the alarm and try and disconnect it. This quickly became the least of my concerns, as a louder and more frantic-sounding alarm began to sound down the halls of my apartment complex. Fire doors slammed shut, the elevator stopped in its tracks, and strobe lights bounced off my neighbors' doors. I ran to the patio and called my leasing office to ask them to turn off the alarm just as I heard fire trucks screaming down the street. Within minutes two fire trucks, including one with a ladder that would have surely thrilled any four year old boy, appeared in my court yard. I leaned over my balcony railing and screamed "Excuse me, sir, there isn't a fire."
Almost immediately there was loud knocking on my door. I flung the door open to find myself looking at an axe. My eyes followed the weapon to the gloved hand that held it and then up to the gas mask (with oxygen tank attached), small brown eyes peaking through smudged glass, and a helmet. The nice public servant at my door asked if I was in any danger, to which I simply replied "I can't cook." I explained that we were glazing chicken (a detail I'm sure they did not care a bit about) and that it began smoking and got out of hand. I promised that everything was under control and that I did not need assistance but appreciated their prompt response and obvious readiness. Please keep in mind that all this is being screamed, as there is still an obnoxiously loud siren and strobe light bouncing off my walls. I was starting to wonder if the dozens of candles blazing on my mantle and various tables was somehow a bad idea for someone who can't melt sugar. The nice firemen, who now numbered three in my living room, couldn't help but chuckle at my failed attempt to emulate Martha Stewart. They declined an offer to stay for chicken (which I promised to bake safely in the oven in order to avoid further problems).
My next guests arrived just as the firetrucks and men with axes pulled out of my courtyard. One of my friends immediately launched into a story about how they had seen firetrucks leaving my complex, but was distracted by the smell of burnt sugar and sooty footprints in my entrance hall. It really isn't a party until the firemen show up.
I planned the party very carefully in my mind... crackers and luxurious cheeses to start; cranberry glazed chicken, potato casserole, and green beans for the meal; and a turtle cheesecake for desert. There would be wine, egg nog, and a festive peppermint martini. I did all the shopping, cleaned my apartment (no small task), had the potatoes in the oven, and had chilled the egg nog by the time my law school roommate showed up. The cranberry glazed chicken is her recipe, so she was gracious enough to come over an hour early and help me prepare the main course. I had marinated the chicken that morning, so all that was needed to start the chicken was a sesame oil and brown sugar glaze that was to be prepared stove top.
Just as we dumped 6 tablespoons of brown sugar into the skillet, there was a knock at my door. It was another guest ready to help with preparations and begin enjoying a holiday beverage. Just as I turned back to the stove, I realized my error. Brown sugar melts very quickly, then burns, and then produces an exorbitant amount of smoke... burned sugar smelling smoke that has hints of creme brule gone very wrong. We immediately took the sugar off of the burner and began to fan away the smoke and open the door to my patio. I opened my front door to allow for some air flow... another error. At this point I realize that my entire apartment is full of burnt sugar smoke and that the tainted air is flowing into the hall of my apartment complex.
My fire alarm begins to sound at an alarming intensity and I, along with my two friends, work frantically to wave air away from the alarm and try and disconnect it. This quickly became the least of my concerns, as a louder and more frantic-sounding alarm began to sound down the halls of my apartment complex. Fire doors slammed shut, the elevator stopped in its tracks, and strobe lights bounced off my neighbors' doors. I ran to the patio and called my leasing office to ask them to turn off the alarm just as I heard fire trucks screaming down the street. Within minutes two fire trucks, including one with a ladder that would have surely thrilled any four year old boy, appeared in my court yard. I leaned over my balcony railing and screamed "Excuse me, sir, there isn't a fire."
Almost immediately there was loud knocking on my door. I flung the door open to find myself looking at an axe. My eyes followed the weapon to the gloved hand that held it and then up to the gas mask (with oxygen tank attached), small brown eyes peaking through smudged glass, and a helmet. The nice public servant at my door asked if I was in any danger, to which I simply replied "I can't cook." I explained that we were glazing chicken (a detail I'm sure they did not care a bit about) and that it began smoking and got out of hand. I promised that everything was under control and that I did not need assistance but appreciated their prompt response and obvious readiness. Please keep in mind that all this is being screamed, as there is still an obnoxiously loud siren and strobe light bouncing off my walls. I was starting to wonder if the dozens of candles blazing on my mantle and various tables was somehow a bad idea for someone who can't melt sugar. The nice firemen, who now numbered three in my living room, couldn't help but chuckle at my failed attempt to emulate Martha Stewart. They declined an offer to stay for chicken (which I promised to bake safely in the oven in order to avoid further problems).
My next guests arrived just as the firetrucks and men with axes pulled out of my courtyard. One of my friends immediately launched into a story about how they had seen firetrucks leaving my complex, but was distracted by the smell of burnt sugar and sooty footprints in my entrance hall. It really isn't a party until the firemen show up.
Friday, December 10, 2004
Self indulgent?
I am starting this "blog thing" and wondering if it isn't a bit self-indulgent. I have always kept a journal / diary and secretly hoped that someday--after I died, of course--it would be discovered, published, and widely acclaimed as one of the most original and insightful texts ever put to paper. I have a sneaking supsicion this dream results from an early obsession with the Diary of Ann Frank.
It seems to me that a blog is nothing more than a public journal. Rather than waiting for the world to discover me, I am thrusting my thoughts and my words into the public. Self indulgent? Probably not. Horrifying? Definitely. I dream that my diary will be found after I die because the thought of someone reading it and NOT thinking that is anything short of spectacular, while I am alive to hear the criticism, is nothing short of crushing. Putting those words out there for the world to see, and hoping that the world will see, is scary. But how will I learn if I don't put the words out there? How will my mind expand to hold the world's thoughts if I don't let others bounce their thoughts off mine?
When all is said and done, I think keeping my journal secret and personal is self-indulgent. The blog seems to me to be quite the opposite.
It seems to me that a blog is nothing more than a public journal. Rather than waiting for the world to discover me, I am thrusting my thoughts and my words into the public. Self indulgent? Probably not. Horrifying? Definitely. I dream that my diary will be found after I die because the thought of someone reading it and NOT thinking that is anything short of spectacular, while I am alive to hear the criticism, is nothing short of crushing. Putting those words out there for the world to see, and hoping that the world will see, is scary. But how will I learn if I don't put the words out there? How will my mind expand to hold the world's thoughts if I don't let others bounce their thoughts off mine?
When all is said and done, I think keeping my journal secret and personal is self-indulgent. The blog seems to me to be quite the opposite.
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