Facebook Tells All

I finally finished one of my crochet projects that I started months ago. It was so long ago that I don’t remember which month it was… Anyhow, here’s a picture of the simple shrug that required almost as little brain power as the collective intelligence of the Real Housewives of OC. The hour or so I spent finishing the shrug really reminded me how much I enjoy crocheting, even if that puts me in the good company of women born during the first of the Roosevelt’s administration. (Yes, I know this is a ... "special" outfit....)

I’ve been watching a LOT of Real Housewives… Like a day’s work worth at a time.  The bulk of my Saturday and Sunday were spent on my butt, snuggled with puppies, 100% committed to the witchy words spewing forth from over-inflated lips. I loved every minute of it. J And not just OC; I’m primarily addicted to the New Jersey crew. As jacked up as my life has been for the last year, I can watch Housewives and be thankful that not every second of my life is a scene from Mean Girls on crack. My life, I have to hope, will one day go back to “normal”, where every other thought is not focused on things I can’t change, explain, or rationalize. 

I changed my relationship status on Facebook… I’ve debated it for a while.  There’s a big part of me that was violently opposed to choosing from a drop-down menu the qualifying descriptor of my personal life - the part of me that has put out more pictures than I had out before, the part that won’t move the tennis shoes in the bedroom, the part that despite all I may believe (or not) has silent conversations when something important happens.

But there was the other voice, the voice that is far more logical and maybe even truthful than I like hearing from on issues like this. How is it that the approaching week makes 4 months? How is that possible? I feel like I’m in some sort of limbo; I’m obviously not married, but I certainly don’t feel single. What an important choice to make though… I mean, the status you choose on Facebook, as we all know, is exceedingly important in defining who you are and your general course in life. (…feel the burn of my fiery sarcasm…)

But still – the act of clicking that drop-down menu took a lot of energy.

I opened it, looked at my choices, and closed it, no changes made.

I sat there for a bit, thinking, mulling over my options.

I opened it again.

I’m not married. I come home to dogs.

I’m not single.

Or maybe I’m just not ready for that word.

But then what does that leave me with? I opened it again. There’s the “W” word I could choose, but that seems a little more real than I want to advertise.

Without

Wistful

Weary

Wanting

Widowed

I clicked it… Leaving it set to “married” doesn’t make it any more true. Not changing it doesn’t make my current situation any less real. If nothing else, at least it’s a truthful representation of 2011, and if I’d like to come across as anything, I’d prefer it be truthful.

VERITAS

Totally Sexist

I had a revelation the other day:

I am sexist.

I have spent the better part of my (extensive) life relishing in my self-sufficiency. I remember telling a boy I dated in high school that I did not need him to open doors for me. I was a big girl, and I certainly had working limbs. At some point I realized that was excessive, and the opening of doors became a selling point for me. 

I'm sure some of it has stemmed from a pretty thick shy streak not everyone knows I have. In college, especially my first year and then when I transferred to WT, I would rather figure out how to do something myself than have to put myself out there enough to ask for help. In most cases, I've grown out of that, but there is still the voice that at times tells me I should just do it instead of bothering someone else. 

When I got married, a lot of that need for assistance dissolved. Tasks that ordinarily would have required asking for help, or solitarily "manning up" to the point of stupidity at times, were now delegated to Roger. My job now was to supportively watch. Over time the list of duties assigned to Roger grew to include not just heavy lifting or balancing on ladders but also the "man jobs": getting oil changed, mowing, changing air filters, taking out the trash on Tuesday mornings, feeding the doglets at ridiculous hours, killing bugs, etc. We, like most couples I would assume, found our rhythm of who did what and everyone was happy.

Re-assuming these rolls has not been easy. 

On Monday as I was driving to school, the sticker on my lower left windshield caught my eye: "4/11". CRAP! Anything car related has been a man job for several years now. The idea that I even have time for those tasks when I rarely leave the band hall is crazy. I, of course, did not leave school until almost 7:30 Monday night, and all inspection places at that point were closed. 

Tuesday afternoon, I just made it to a greasy spot in town advertising 10 minute oil changes and state inspections before it closed. I played on my phone while a guy that looked barely out of high school pulled my car into the garage. Several minutes later he walked out baring an apologetic expression that doesn't usually belong in these situations.

"I'm really sorry, ma'am, but uh.... you kinda failed."

"What? How did I fail?"

"Well, you have a headlight that's out."

"Is that something you can replace?"

"Um... yes.... usually... but no...."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that Volkswagons are crazy. I looked and can't figure out how to get the bulb out."

Okay... These are automobile "professionals"... They look at this stuff every day. Apparently, the establishment even does minor fixes, like said headlight replacement, on site if you fail inspection. Instead, this guy turned an obvious man job back over to me, a single woman, in addition to the failed inspection certificate with which I was presented. What is the point of the certificate anyhow??? To frame and declare my inability to take care of my car or even notice that while driving at night the lighting is a little off?

"My dad just replaced the headlight on the driver's side. Should I call him and ask him how he got to the bulb?"

"There is no way I'm going to try to take the bulb out. Volkswagons are crazy. If your dad was able to get the bulb out, you should probably call him and ask him to fix this one as well. Otherwise, you'll need to take it to a repair shop. In the meantime, you're still out of inspection, but if you bring back this certificate within 15 days we'll inspect it again for free!"

Woohoo. Free.

So I called my dad who told me to go to O'Reilly's and plead ignorance. At this point the frustration was building. I've already been turned down by one place, my dad lives too far away to make a trip up just to change a headlight, and *now* I'm forced to ask for help on a man job which goes against any feminist streak that might still secretly exist. But I persevered... I put on my best smile, marched into that O'Reilly's, and lied.

"I have a headlight out, and I've forgotten how to get to the bulb." Good job, Darcy...

"Well, let's go check it out."

The nice man behind the counter followed me to the parking lot and wasted no time, taking just seconds to say, "Oh... It's a Volkswagon"

I hadn't even popped the hood, which in and of itself took me almost a minute to find the release. 

"Yeah, these Volkswagons are crazy." You are kidding me... Two separate people in one day??? "They're proud of their German engineering, but the problem is all of us Americans are too stupid to figure it out! I see where the release for the bulb casing is on the other side, but it looks like you'd have to flat out remove the air filter to get to it on this side... Yeah, I don't touch these. You're gonna have to take it somewhere."

I was totally deflated. 

I asked for some suggestions as to where to take my car, perhaps a place with an oom-pa band, thanked him for his time, and got back in the car to head home. I backed up, pulled up to the street entrance, and let loose. 

"THIS IS NOT MY JOB!!! I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN CHARGE OF THE DAMN CAR! THIS IS NOT MY JOB!!!" 

I'm not even sure who or what I was yelling at, but there I was, with a problem on my hands that I obviously was not skilled enough to handle, and the people that probably should have been (without requiring an addition limb or first born) wouldn't even try. Headlights definitely qualify as a "man job", and while headstrong and most often capable, I, for the record, am not a man. 

I was inappropriately offended that this was now a task for which I was responsible, and with every other responsibility, left over from a life built for two to share, now solely up to me, I was overwhelmed. I think my eyes teared up a bit, but in the 2 or 3 minutes it took me to get home my frustration morphed into determination. 

That frickin bulb is getting changed, and it's getting changed tonight.

I ran into the house, fed the girls, and grabbed the packaging from the headlight dad replaced in March. I got right back into the car and drove to O'Reilly's. I marched straight up to the same guy, handed him the packaging, and declared that bulb would be changed... oh, yes... it would be changed...

I got home, dropped my purse in the grass, and popped the hood in record time. 

That's as far as I got.

I realized very quickly this was stupid. I had no idea what I was looking at, what the heck a bulb casing release was, or how in the world I would remove and then remember how to reassemble an air filter just to find the release. Luckily, my two awesome next door neighbors build cars. I sucked up all my lingering self-sufficiency, my pride, perhaps a gnat, and knocked on their door. 

Let me restate that my neighbors are awesome. They instantly followed me over to my driveway, barefoot, dinner now on hold, to fix it right then and there. Let me also restate that they build cars. They looked under the hood and said, "Huh..."

About an hour later, my bulb was changed, the air filter thingy vaccuumed out, it shown to me that my anti-freeze is crazy low (as are probably all of my car fluids), and the task completed. 

The car IS a man job... I'm sure there are good little feminists out there cringing that women's suffrage and that whole 60s and 70s era were all for nothing if even the intelligent, strong, self-supported women out there are still defining our roles as man's or woman's work. But you know, my neighbors left very dirty, and that engine looked hot, and I'm just not interested in that. 

It's a man job. 

I'll just have to be the one in charge of taking it to a man, and while that sucks, it is my new reality.

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Here's a picture from another man job I undertook today: trimming the holly in front of the house. I started the task about 2 weeks ago, but I am lucky to have a friend who lent me their electric trimmer to finish.

Where Does the Time Go?

This time of year, there never seems to be enough time. My weekends have been completely and wholly eaten by my job, and it has left me both physically and mentally exhausted. My emotions are up and down and teeter with the slightest of change. It's not my job; it's the not having time for release, for processing, for me.

At my favorite of "nurseries", the Natural Gardener, they sell these neat things that I will call light catchers for lack of a better name. We would often venture down south and make a day of visiting the Natural Gardener, wandering through the labyrinth of native plant-life, pottery, and decor (often with our doglets), and then make a Mangieri's Pizza run (often with the in-laws). The last couple of times, they had decorated this arbor with dozens of these light catchers. A mixture of beads and mirrors, they twirl in the breeze bouncing light in the shaded and dark corners like butterflies or tiny fairies. It's actually quite breath-taking in the quantities they have on display. Roger and I commented on multiple occasions that those would be cool on our back patio, but the $18 price tag for a string of beads always brought out the cheapskate in me.
          We had made a Natural Gardener/family day the Saturday before. We didn't buy anything. I went for inspiration for the upcoming spring. The girls (doglets) were super excited to be out and about... so many things to sniff! It was particularly breezy that Saturday. When we came to the arbor, the light catchers were being tossed about in a way that made these balls of light almost look like fireworks! Surely two intelligent people like us could figure out how to make some of these ourselves for way cheaper than $18. We decided that would be Roger's task that week: go to Hobby Lobby, find the materials we'd need to make our own light catchers, and start cranking 'em out so that our patio could be decorated with light and novelty.

Obviously, our plan never came to fruition, but months later, I still like the idea of hanging several in the back yard. Here are my first two attempts at light catchers... and interestingly, since I didn't own any of the materials to begin with, they cost way more than $18/piece to make. :) I chose jewel tones for the one on the left and cobalt ceramic beads for the one on right - Roger's favorite color.

I'm also in the process of working on a project that we started months ago: paving part of the flower bed in the front entry way. The flower bed is HUGE... and unfortunately the section closest to the front door gets not enough sun for sun-loving plants, like the salvia that currently fills the bed, but also receives too much afternoon heat for shade plants. However, on summer mornings it is cool and protected from the sun (contrary to the back patio), and we always thought if there were just more space in the front it would be great for morning coffee. As you can see, I've managed to lay and level 4 stones... 4 of probably 10. We bought a really cool Texas stone that you can just see a part of in the picture that will be featured in the middle. Between the stones, I'm packing crushed granite that matches the brick. It will be just enough space for a little bistro set.

The great thing about working on my household projects is also one of the things I love about yoga: it gives me a chance to take a break from my thoughts. Never in my life have I wanted so much to just calm the voice inside of me; the voice that worries, that remembers, that wishes, that plans... that REplans... the voice that while steadfast, strong, and true doesn't always pick the best time to present itself. The mindless work that goes into digging in the garden, gluing mirrors, and leveling stone gives me a break from ME and helps the time to tick by a little quicker, which is nice sometimes. I was shocked to realize last Monday that three months have ticked by. That's absurd. But despite the absurdity, life is trucking on, and I have more beads to thread, more stones to lay, more pictures to take, and more life to live one tick at a time.

The Tie That Binds

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I guess technically I've just made it through my first holiday, although Easter isn't one of those "big ones" that I know I'll face later. This afternoon my parents and I met Roger's family at Trattoria Lisina in Driftwood... long drive, well worth it. :) I indulged in a little lobster risotto, a nice chianti, and an overly rich coupling of cinnamon and hazelnut gelato.

 

I've wondered the last couple of months what would happen to those relationships as time goes by. I suppose there are some that would disagree, but I've always felt that I married into a family, not just the man. And I've always felt very lucky that the stars aligned in such a way that the family I legally joined is amazing.

While we were planning the memorial, there was a driving force that intertwined our lives during those two weeks, and as we all found ourselves breathing a sigh of... not relief, not completion... maybe a sigh of exhaustion when it was all over, one of my first thoughts was, "Aside from our trip to Ireland, will I see these people again?"
      
 I remember meeting Roger's family for the first time. It was actually his sister and niece that I met on this occasion. We had come back from a date, and the two of them were still up. His niece was 2 or 3 at the time. She was very intrigued by my red, faux-crocodile purse, and while the adults engaged in small talk, the niece raided my belongings. It turned out that she had recently acquired a children's book called My Granny's Purse that also had exciting things to excavate.
      
His parents reminded me so much of my own: teacher mom, beer-drinking dad... okay, that's simplifying their comparative qualities, but isn't the root of our existence truly a combination of the profession that calls us and our beverage of choice? ;)

I got to know his family really well on the first family vacation I took with them. We ventured to Concan to brave the wilds of the Frio River, which sounds ridiculous until the story morphs into the true story of a 20 minute tube ride turning into a 4-5 hour tubing disaster, the likes of which included taking the wrong branch of the river, no sunscreen, a rain and electrical storm, hiking with the tubes up a slick, muddy embankment to the very camp site in Deliverance, and asking the crazy hillbillies within to drive us back to our own cabin via the back of their truck. It became a fairly miserable afternoon that climaxed with one of my worst sunburns ever and the realization that I was so lucky to be joining this group of people in my marriage.

What happens to that history? What becomes of the stories we've written together on holidays and vacations, over glasses of wine and games of Scrabble, through the deaths and marriages of relatives? Where do we go from here when the original tie that bound us together is gone?

As we ate lunch today, I played photographer with my fancy toy. I'm still learning, but I think I got some great shots. There was obviously a missing chair from our table (and our table was noticeably quieter than the last time we at the trattoria when I constantly had to remind Roger that his voice carries like crazy), but what there wasn't was an awkwardness of not belonging. I love those guys like my own family because whether they like it or not, they are family, and not even death can dissolve the tie that binds. 

Whatever IS will be WAS. — Bhikkhu Ñanamoli

I've been reading about the truth of impermanence recently. It all started from an article I read on Huffington Post about what we could learn from the Japanese earthquakes. I have obviously learned through personal experience that absolutely nothing is as it was or as it will be. I'm certain I'm expert on at least that half of what Buddhists call "anicca"; it's how I am accepting this truth in it's ever changing form that I'm treading water. 

There have been a number of impacting moments in my life that have left me in a place I will call "not religious", at least for this impermanent moment. The last year has definitely led me to take a hard look at what I believe spiritually and existentially. I am what my sister believes to be a contradiction of terms: how can I be non-religious and so heartily believe in ghosts? :)

I'm intrigued by the ideas that follow my readings. One point that seems so simple but was one of my Oprah-guru's Aha moments for me was that suffering is the direct result of clinging to an impermanent status quo... of any sort, whether it be fluctuation of things, ideas, relationships, position, etc. The appropriate response would then be to recognize that nothing is as it was or as it will be, and so enjoy and revel in the present as it is one moment that will cease to be.

I can't decide if that is brilliant or a bit defeatist... maybe even cold.

I will admit, however, that I do believe there is a bit of that realized truth buried inside of me, even before I knew it had a name, and I think that understanding that, even on a subconscious level, has kept me sane, perhaps more sane than those that are still praying and hoping for a reason or a purpose.

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I did my own round of Ashtanga on my patio last night. It was both refreshing and mosquito attended.

Afterward I had Round 2 of Backyard Photo Safari! I call this one "View from Savasana" (my favorite yoga position hehehe).










The following could be a study in Impermanence via my new rose bush that replaced the one that melted. Several of these pictures came from what I'm going to call Chance Photography. For those, I set my camera to auto-focus, zoomed in close enough to get my potential subject where I might want it, and then held the camera away from my body, sometimes in really awkward positions like underneath the rose bush itself.

Click on photos for a better look. The one with the bud got an interesting focus. That one was a planned shot.

This one is neat as you can see the entire life cycle of a rose by looking right to left. :) 

Both of these shots were taken with my camera held underneath
the plant, away from my face ala auto-focus. Both came out
really cool, but I love how the fencing in the photo above
seems to make the image have movement. 

Death of a Rose Bush and Other Tiny Tales

kids size medium tshirt
now magnificent jewelry!

Oh my goodness, have the last 2 weeks been crazy!

I've had 2 band contests in 2 weeks, and even now that contest time is over, it seems like my "me time" still isn't clearing. I guess it's that time of year, and I did know what I was getting into when I chose this career.

I tried a new way of making my cool t-shirt necklace today with a $1 kids shirt from Hobby Lobby. Instead of cutting a bunch of singular rings like I did with my red necklace, I cut the shirt into t-shirt yarn, and then wrapped it around my bent knee, varying at what point on my leg I wrapped it so that I ended up with a variety of lengths.

These two experiments with the tree in the front yard look similar, but I like very different things 

about them. I like the focal point in the left, and I like how the blue of the sky pops through very 

subtly on the right picture. 

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My rose bush died.
I'm a really good gardner. I do everything exactly like my organic gurus tell me to. I amend the soil with a mixture of local compost and added garden soil. I use only the finest organic turkey poop :) fertilizer and products like Actinovate to stimulate healthy root growth. I break up the root clumps before I plant and always water the specimen about an hour before transplanting.

Being both careful and a cheapskate, I go through the same Central Texas Gardener approved process with every plant, and I usually have great success. When I bought my Olympiad rose bush during spring break, I followed the same protocol. It seemed happy; I saw some new growth in the form of tiny, red, baby leaflets over the course of a week or so.

As I've mentioned before, I regularly go through my gardens and inspect each plant, making mental documentation of growth, flowering, watering needs, dog holes... I then in turn respond to what I find in whatever way I believe will best help my plants to live a long, healthy, beautiful life. It was on our first crazy hot day a week or so ago that I first noticed it.

The base of my brand new rose bush was turning black. I've never seen anything like that before. Upon further inspection, I noticed that the tips of the branches that had been pruned while still in the greenhouse were also turning black. I scratched the discolored surface with my finger nail. The tissue was... squishy. I knew that probably wasn't a good sign.

The next day was even hotter. When I check on my rose bush what I found was shocking to say the least.

There was a puddle of wax at the base of the plant.
Wax.

I couldn't imagine where wax was coming from. As I looked at the branches, I could see some drip marks, just like you'd see on a candle. The plant had been coated in wax at some point. I can only imagine that this was done to prevent it from rotting during frequent, generic waterings in the greenhouse in which it was started or to prevent borers from burrowing into the tissue before it has a caring, attentive gardener tending to it at a permanent home.

Over the next several days, my poor rose bush from base to tip.... cooked... in the sun. I can't really find a better way to describe what has happening to it, and I had no luck on the internet trying to diagnosis its malady. The once green stems withered into a hard, black, crispy shadow of a plant. Each day a little more wax worked it's way down toward the mulch with which I had lovingly protected the soil. When I finally pulled the plant out of the ground last week it looked much like burned bacon.

Perhaps I'm way off base, but I have to assume that the precautions taken to protect this young rose bush when it was at a fragile point in its life added to its demise. I can't imagine that a wax coating hot enough to melt is positive for a tender, transplanted addition. The very barrier separating the young plant from all the potential evils of the yard smothered and baked it. My attempt at bringing new life into my gardens withered with the branches.

It's like the weed and feed we applied to our yard when we first moved in. It killed a lot of weeds. It pumped up our pathetic excuse for grass. But it also severely damaged the one tree in our yard. It's going on 3 years of gently coaxing it back to health.

Interesting how one form of life imitates another.



And I lost the receipt from the nameless big box home store, so I couldn't even get my money back! However, the NEW pink rose bush I got from my favorite organic garden store is doing well - no wax so far!

Strength?

I was just starting to believe that maybe I was as heartless as I tell my students I am.

It's been a couple of weeks I think since I cried. That just seems crazy considering that the single most important person in my life is, for all practical purposes, just... gone.

I wake up.
I get ready.
I make coffee that still isn't quite right.
I've started eating granola bars on the way to school - not even close to the oatmeal waiting for me as I used to leave the house - and they make my jaw hurt.
I invest the bulk of my energy on my job, and then I come home.
I usually call someone to make the time go by faster.
I feed the girls, walk them if it's still light.
I watch bad TV and eat boring food. It seems like such a waste to spend time cooking sometime creative just for me.
Some nights I get energetic and do something fun and crafty, like the t-shirt necklace on this post or learn something new about my nifty camera. I enjoy doing stuff like that.
I wash my face, turn on my bedside lamp, turn off the kitchen light, then the living room lamp (in this exact order), and plug in my phone with my White Noise app playing a never-ending shower.
I read some... maybe write in my journal I've started.
I turn off the lamp and snuggle down with the doglets.

But I haven't cried.

Throughout all of this, people have told me how strong I am. I'm the strongest person they know. I inspire them with this inner strength they don't think they have. And I know I'm strong. That has never been a question. What I wonder is how I can have this strength when about the worst thing that could possibly happen to a person has happened. I feel almost ashamed or embarrassed that I am this strong during something so terrible. I should be curled up in a fetal position, unable to work, unwilling to breathe. I'm 28 years old, and I have more god forsaken life experience than hopefully anyone will have before they die! ..... and I haven't cried in probably 2 or 3 weeks.  


This morning I went to my second yoga class. It feels so good afterward. In both classes, there have been these super advanced students in the room who take each position to a level at which my body just does not move yet. I'm amazed watching them. I catch myself sneaking long, penetrating stares at them in awe while I'm sure I'm supposed to be focusing my gaze on my thumbs or belly button. The control they exhibit over their bodies is inspiring! No movement is without purpose. A combination of strength and relaxation at the same time allows them to move slowly, carefully, exactly planned, with intent.

Control. 

I remember what it feels like to have that. 

This afternoon, way too early for the sun to have sunk to a comfortable temperature, I also mowed the yard and finished up with the weed eater. I mulched some leaves, pulled some weeds, and swept the back patio. It looks really nice out back. Roger would think so. He also would have laughed that I still think it's easier to mow like you vacuum... apparently that's not efficient.

I came inside, made me a glass of tea, and sat in the living room floor, too dirty to touch the couch. I drank most of the tea in one long drink. I sat there. The house was quiet aside from the washing machine. The doglets were tanning in the yard. All was still. I took in a deep breath, tired from the yoga, the yard work, the week of UIL, this 3rd cold I've had since Christmas. I let out my breath, and the flood began. 

It was like I was making up for lost time. I cried and cried and cried some more; big, heavy tears manifested from somewhere... I don't know where that kind of moisture comes from when you only drink coffee and diet Dr. Pepper. It wasn't just tears. I could *hear* myself crying. The only time I can honestly remember, maybe in my life, crying audibly was when I came home on what I now only refer to as "that night". I remember wondering "that night" if the sounds I heard were coming from me. I had only ever seen that in movies or on TV. Maybe that only happens when your soul hurts. 

For seriously an hour my eyes poured and my heart ached in a way it hasn't for a while. I think I've been so focused on UIL, being okay, functioning, the things I can control, that I've let what would have been a daily dose of sorrow build into something like a force of nature. I am okay, saddened and missing my husband greatly, but still okay, which is what made today a bit of a shock. I suppose it took my body finally being so tired and worn out that my heart got to take the reigns for a while.

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Earlier this week I attempted a project I saw on a couple of the blogs I follow. My favorite shirt of all time, my "Geek" shirt that I found for $5 at Abercrombie probably 10 years ago, has expired... and is now up-cycled into a fancy new necklace!