sueeeus

I think it was (Amanda) Soule Mama who started a corners of my home theme.  I like the idea, and the phrase.  I think it’s a flickr group, but I haven’t joined.  I get chastised enough for the amount of time I spend blogging.  Which heralds in the far too easy to assume tidings of guilt.  I was raised Catholic, after all.  Actually, I was pondering guilt in general, and thinking of writing something in the Sunday Confessions theme, while sitting in a chair that I recently placed in the corner of what used to be the dining room, gazing at the photos on the far wall, and that led me to want to talk about the corners of my home.  It’s all related.  I find rearranging furniture and rooms to be quite cathartic.  I’ve been participating in the office pool weight loss challenge and have only lost 5 pounds.  My doctor suggested that I exercise at least 45 minutes, 5 days a week, and don’t eat anything after 5:30 p.m.  I don’t even get home before 5:30, so this is not the easiest thing for me.  My coworker, who is charting the group’s progress, also pointed out that his trend analysis shows that I won’t meet my goal.  Nice of him, wasn’t it   My life and lifestyle being what it is, I don’t want to give up watching TV.  To compromise, the treadmill is now center stage in the dining room, along with my reading chair.  From the treadmill I have an excellent view of the television.  From the chair, I have a view of my photo wall.  (It’s not hard to see which ones are within reach of a certain very busy and curious one-year-old.)  Which brings me to the corners of my home.  Like I said, all related (in a very convoluted way).

In my home there is a wall of photos. Photos of family and friends.  Photos that bring back memories of life experiences.  I see Pea Soup in bloom with number one.  She is radiant.  I see my brother, the young sailor with hopes and dreams of family and fatherhood, of happily ever after.  A young man who lost hope.  I see brothers and sisters, parents and grandparents.  Children.  I see myself in times of love before love went sour.  Only three of the photos are new (Mr. Gadget’s kids, and my Boo, not visible in this image).  The others span about forty years, between 1956 and 1996.  I see a high school photo of my mother, a young beauty with hopes and dreams, so different from the woman I grew up with.  I see a brother as an infant, an innocent babe with a sparkle in his eyes.  Before life changed him.  Changed us all, with its ripples. My heart cries for the people in these pictures, wishing none of them had ever suffered any pain.  Wishing they could all have kept the sparkle, the twinkle, the effervescence of youth, of hope, of life, of love.  Wishing all their best dreams had come true.  “Life is pain, Princess.”  That’s what the Dread Pirate Roberts said to Buttercup.  He’s right, and it’s not all bad.  Pain brings with it lessons.  Lessons that open us up to the possibility of bigger and better things.  Had my own path not been what it was, with all its bumps, bends, turns, and sorrows, I wouldn’t have my precious Boo.  I can’t even imagine a life without him, and I wouldn’t change a single thing about the road that I have walked, if it meant I couldn’t have my Boo.  But my heart still cries for the sorrows of the people I love.  I wish that I could wish their sorrows away.  I wish that I could rain love down on them.

Three years ago I took the plunge into uncharted waters and said I do to Mr. Gadget.  I had assumed that I would marry young and be a stay-at-home-wife-and-mom-extraordinaire.  However.  My twenties drifted into my thirties.  The thirties marched relentlessly on.  Relationships crashed and burned waxed and waned.  Ours is not a magical tale of love and romance.  There is love.  There is romance.  Occasionally.  It’s not the stuff of country songs.  It’s not what I’d dreamed it would be.  Thank God!  Left to my own devices, I might have been a Stepford wife.  We are very different, the Cool Cat and I.  We have good times.  We have difficult times.  Communication is one of our biggest struggles, but when we laugh, oh how we laugh.  We are good together.  I like being a couple.  I like sharing a home, sharing a life.  I love sharing a child.

I found this Van Gogh painting with a dark haired buxom woman and a reddish blonde bearded man.  It was us.  Perfect for our wedding invitation.  We sort of eloped.  Decided to just go for it and do it.  Take the plunge.  The beauty of it is that my closest friends and family made it, even though it was short notice, and even though it was miles away.

When I returned to work, I sent this picture to my coworkers to announce what I’d done.  They all thought it was a joke.  An elaborate April Fool’s prank.  It was for real though.  (Sure wish that was my bejeweled showgirl figure.)

Happy Anniversary to my Gadget Man.

Because I am. I have a ribbon to prove it. Self-loathing is not all encompassing. I have some fine qualities that I appreciate in myself. However, I’m not wont to write about them. Journaling, and now, blogging, is usually where the troubles come out. Or the thrills. Moments of extremes. The daily grind is just that. Mundane. Who wants to write about it Who wants to read about it Although having the calm and mundane readily available to remind oneself of what is fine and good in life is somewhat valuable in the sense of bringing one’s perspective back to safer ground, rather than teetering on the extreme precipice, in danger of plummeting into depression from whence the recovery is an arduous task.

My extremes. The highs My Boo. Fun diversions and friendships discovered in the community of Blog. Triumphs in bargain hunting. Discoveries in general. The lows All the other drivel that takes place here. Alot of struggle coming to terms with the loss of my brother. Struggle over growing pains. Not just mine, but those of the people I love.

I have this poisoned mentality where I’ve somehow convinced myself that I have to wait to enjoy the things in life that people who don’t have weight problems get to enjoy. The beach. A tropical vacation. A cruise. Pampering. A night on the town. Dancing. Swimming. Shorts. Skirts. Heels. Shopping for clothes, period. It’s a sad and self-inflicted punishment. A poor body image is a prison. And it is poison. POISON! It’s an ugly self-loathing that is mostly undeserved. It doesn’t seem to be completely related to my actual weight. I’ve carried this diseased attitude around my entire life. I didn’t always look like a beached whale. But I must have thought I did. Looking back at old pictures, I wonder how I could possibly have been unhappy with how I looked. I looked good! By no means perfect. By no means Barbie or the girls in the media. Never frail. Always strong and sturdy. But always heavier than the average girl. And today Today I probably don’t truly look like a beached whale either, although much more so than the me of adolescence, some twenty five years ago.
Being accepted. It has alot to do with being accepted. Maybe I would have a healthy self image if I had been raised to feel wanted and accepted. I never cease to amaze myself that I can still be carrying thoughts like these around, when I’m an adult now. An adult! A D U L T. Over forty. FORTY! I would think I would have gotten over childhood by now.

I know better, but I don’t do better. I don’t know how to breach the void between knowing and doing. I can analyze it, intellectualize it, explain it. It boils down to caring what others think or might think. To elevating that over what I think. It’s a sick thing, to allow myself to let the imagined judgement of a total stranger, even, a nonexistent public, rob me of my living moments. It’s crazy. It’s stupid. But I still do it.

Today I found these words exploding from my being. Every time I hear a certain song I remember my brother and I cry, thinking of a young life that is over without experiencing Venice, Rome, Paris, Argentina. I sat at my desk all week long, completely wrapped up in the project I’m working on. I worked all day, every day, barely breaking for anything, through lunch, after quitting time, until the very last moment when I had to leave to get to daycare to collect my Boo. I get consumed in what I am doing, and while it means I’m super productive at work, it’s TOO MUCH. A life out of balance. It’s a character flaw. I need to learn how to put other things in focus, like allowing myself to take breaks, get some fresh air, take a walk, anything. STEP AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER. Something has to give, and what gives is my vessel, my body, my self. A desk job is not good for one’s physical condition. Cerebral fitness isn’t all that attractive, and I’m not so sure how healthy it is either. On the way home I see the sky is blue. The air is crisp. I feel it on my face before I get in my car. It feels so GOOD. I need to find some way to make a living that is more active. Because I want to LIVE! I want to BREATHE! I just don’t quite know what to do, though. Else I’d be doing it. So I simply say it.
I want to LIVE!
The words will have to do for now. When I picked up my beautiful boy this afternoon, I spun him around in circles a few times, this way and that, before putting him in the car. It was so crisp and cold, the cold air in his face took his breath away and he was delighted. We giggled for joy, breathing the air and spinning around. His wide open laugh with drool dribbling out is a beautiful sight to behold. Joy. It’s the picture of joy, and I love it, and savor it; am absolutely grateful to experience this moment of life. This is the kind of life I want to be living. Breathing! Dancing! Holding my boy!

Blackbird and several of her faithful readers commented about this meme, so I thought I’d give it a go myself…

My name….SueeeuS

childhood memory….A kiss on the forehead and a whispered “You’re a good kid” from my Grandpa while I was pretending to be asleep on Christmas Eve

fondest memory….Staying up late playing games and drinking tea with my brothers and sisters

soundtrack….The slap slap slap slap of my baby’s hands on the hardwood floors as he crawls to me as fast as his mighty little body can move

retreat….A woodsy place with a view of water, mountains, trees, blue skies, and white fluffy clouds

wildest dream….Look good in lingerie while performing lead guitar and vocals in a rock band

proudest moment….January 14, 2005, holding my son for the very first time

biggest challenge….Raising my child to be kind, strong, gentle, considerate, decent, and loving without giving him my ugly baggage

alarm clock….Set to wake to music on very very low volume

perfect day….The best of all possible worlds

first job….Youth Conservation Corps

indulgence….Blogging and TV

last purchase….Rapid rising yeast

favorite movie….Gigi, My Fair Lady

inspiration….hope of a brighter tomorrow

My life….is so much better than I give it credit for

My card is….American Express in the Costco 2% cash back flavor

I heard a quote the other day. You need to give yourself permission to live life more fully. It struck me as apropos in the aftermath of losing my brother. I’ve been moping about for weeks, wrestling with a multitude of emotions. Sorrow. Disappointment. Despair. Melancholy. Uncertainty. Guilt. Wistfulness. Anxiety. And such. It’s not just him. It’s the holidays. I think I struggle with general melancholy every year, brought on by a warped sense of how things should be. I’ve observed that how things are is often a state brought about by overcompensation for how things should have been. For instance. The whole commercialized gift-giving thing. I’ve watched friends and siblings overcompensate unhappy childhoods by showering their children with excesses. They take it for granted, expect bigger and better every year, and lack satisfaction unless the status quo has been met by name brand or dollar amount. There is no appreciation for the simple things. Things that actually have meaning. Or usefulness. Things that somebody thought about and put effort into making. Material things don’t make your children love you more. And they don’t make up for what was lacking in your own childhood.

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Sometimes I think empathy is a curse. Walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. Feel their pain. But to what end To what good How can I retain clarity of mind to gain wisdom and understanding, rather than get caught up, as I am so apt to do, and sink in, spiraling downward into gloom and despair

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Words are very powerful. Once you put them out there, into the universe, there’s no getting them back. For good or naught, they are launched on the winds of forever. That’s why I just deleted an hour’s worth of text. A pity party of one. What good would it serve, other than to get it off my chest I wrote it out, part of it anyway, and released some of the sadness and tension in so doing. It doesn’t have to be shared. It doesn’t have to go out into the universe where possibly it could bruise someone else.

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There is something that terrifies me. I realize, in many ways, I am very much like my brother. The one who found no recourse but to release himself from the confines of this earth. There are many ways in which I am not like him, though, and this helps assuage the fear. He was frighteningly intelligent. I am not. He was reckless. I am not. He was earnest to the (n)the degree. I am only earnest to the (n-3)rd degree. He drank beyond moderation. I do not. He was fearless. I am not. But in his heart of hearts We are the same. I think. I get him. I think.

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About living life more fully. What does that mean Those words sent me further into the mire until I pondered what is actually meaningful to me. More than anything, my beautiful boy. That after a lifetime of yearning, he IS my heart’s desire. To be sad that my life isn’t full is to tragically overlook how incredibly blessed I am. And what else is fulfilling, in the world of Squished Piggies A good job. A good wage. Food in the pantry. A roof over my head. A shirt on my back. A hot shower whenever I want it. The love of a good man. So I’m not a jet-setting glamour girl. I tried that. It wasn’t any more fulfilling than kicking back on the sectional with my man and my boy, watching TV. (But it would be nice to be in better shape and wear cute things, and it used to be fun to shop for cute things, back in the day.) So I’m not a socialite. The friends I do have are warm and wonderful. Not a bit superficial. It might be nice not to have to work for a living, but I like to work. It would certainly be nice to have more sleep, get more exercise, see more sunshine, breathe more fresh air, and eat more fresh food. I get some, so it’s still good.

I’ve been tagged! (Meme, thanks to Pea Soup)

id•i•o•syn•cra•sy – a structural or behavioural characteristic peculiar to an individual or group. Write down 5 of your own idiosyncrasies, then if you wish, tag 5 people.

1. I can’t seem to find a watch that will keep time when I wear it. I’ve had quartz watches and they run slow, even with new batteries. I’ve recently upgraded to a watch with an automatic movement, which ran fine for a while, but is now running fast. Maybe it’s because I don’t buy expensive watches, but I’m afraid to invest in one, just in case.
2. Coffee and Tea OCD – The color is of utmost importance, as is the brew! It must be rich and strong. Coffee with non-dairy creamer and no sweetener; tea with dairy creamer, preferably evaporated milk, and two sugars (but I can drink it without, if necessary –I had to, when I had gestational diabetes, and I survived). Both must be whitened to that gorgeous caramel color. Of course, the level in the cup matters as well. No more than 1 cm from the rim!! And don’t forget the cup! Medium size with a thin lip – no big thick dribbly ceramics/porcelains!! (I could go on – this probably doesn’t count as one idiosyncrasy!!!)
3. I can’t stand to have hair in my face. Bangs are okay, as long as they’re not in my eyes.
4. Everything in its place, and a place for everything (more OCD). I like the dishes and pots/pans to have a stable home so that I know exactly where they are when I go to use them. When my mom visited for a few weeks, she helped out alot, and put things away, but not in the right place. When she left, I put everything back where it belonged. I like order in the dishwasher as well. Forks in one compartment, big spoons in one, small spoons in one, etc. (When it’s time to put them away, this minimizes the amount of handling, thus promoting a more sanitary environment.) I can justify all my OCD!
5. I like to eat things one color or item at a time, even if the dish is a mix, like a salad or a stir fry. I’ll eat just the green things, then start on the red things, etc. or if the meal isn’t a mix, I’ll still tend to eat things one at a time, usually starting with the veggies. Shrimp fettucine I’ll eat all the shrimp first, then the pasta. I generally finish my plate (and it shows).

Sadly, I don’t know 5 bloggers well enough to tag them. If I were more brave, I’d pick 5 randomly. If somebody visits my blog and reads this, and hasn’t already been tagged, consider yourself tagged! (That’s as brave as I am at the moment.)

Mr. Squished Piggy has his own funny beverage idiosyncrasies. He won’t drink Coke unless it’s with ice, but he will drink Pepsi from a can or a bottle. He prefers soda with ice, and when we’re home, he wants the ice to first be rinsed with cold water until it’s done cracking and popping and then he likes the soda added slowly to the freshly rinsed (and drained) ice. He claims that there’s less foam and that this prolongs the carbonation. We are so well suited to each other in some ways!!

I found this list while going through some stacks of old papers. Sometimes I get way too caught up in my head and if I take a moment to write things out like this, it helps.

If life could be any way I want it to be, how would I want it to be

• I would want to wake up each morning feeling refreshed after having gotten a good night’s sleep
• I would like to have the time to enjoy a nice cup of something hot and soothing, while sitting in the morning sun, breathing in some fresh morning air
• I would like to take a nice morning walk and enjoy the fresh air
• I would like to begin and end the day with a tidy home
• I would like to earn my living by doing something that nourishes my heart and soul, as well as my mind
• I would like to live in a beautiful and peaceful home
• I would like to have the time and the energy to prepare delicious and healhty meals for my family
• I would like to have a happy and healthy family
• I would like to be a good mother
• I would like to have strong, loving and communicative relationships
• I would like to laugh with mirth
• I would like to make somebody smile
• I would like to be content with who I am and how I look
• I would like to have time to play
• I would like to have what I need
• I would like to have a place to put everything, and be able to find anything that I need
• I would like to feel healthy, energetic, and peaceful
• I would like to have no financial anxiety
• I would like to live in a peaceful place
• I would like to live in a place where the air is clean and fresh
• I would like to make it through the day without becoming angry, frustrated, annoyed, hurt, or anxious
• I would like to make it through the day without causing anybody else anger, frustration, annoyance, hurt, or anxiety
• I would like to begin and end the day with no residual resentment in my heart
• I would like to go to sleep at night knowing that I have lived the day thankfully and have honored the gift of life that I have been blessed with.

I’m new to Blogland and can’t help but follow links from here to there and back again. There are so many people out there in Blogland who share their beauty, be it photographs, musings, poems, crafts, paintings — all manner of creative pursuits. I see lists of what people have been reading, what they’ve been listening to. All these things blow my mind! Not that my mind is that small, but I am in part inspired by this outpouring of creativity that surrounds me, and in part baffled as to how people possibly find the time! (…Not to mention the inspiration and of course the ability…) I’ve made a few paintings here and there through the years, and I’ve taken a few decent photographs. I’ve written one or two poems that I might not be too embarrassed to publish. I’m merely a dabbler. I have no strong bent to any of these wonderful pursuits, yet I have a yearning. Oh to find my art, she muttered wistfully as her thoughts meandered off to other things.