On thinking for yourself

Today I am cranky. I'm really trying not to be, but I hear myself being short with people, and feel as though I can't help it.

I was talking with my father on the phone earlier, and it has really soured my mood.

I know my dad means well when he starts trying to tell me about the virtues of some bastardized interpretation of a bible verse, and how we really should take the lord's advice on a particular topic, and I can barely contain the bubbling frustration in me that wants to point out to him that he should probably read the entire book for himself before he starts spouting off about how great and true it is.

He knows I'm not a fan of religion, but it seems as if he thinks it's some sort of a phase that I will grow out of, and it frustrates me.

It is so hard for me to feel the way I do when I have spent much of my life admiring my dad for his intelligence and strength. I don't want my father to feel like I'm talking down to him, but some of the things he says really set me off. How can a man with so much wisdom not see the hypocrisy in some of the things that he says? How can he start quoting scripture as if he is speaking in truisms, when he's never actually read The Bible himself, only had it read to him bits and pieces at a time, followed by some perverse interpretation and prophesying from some middle-aged, over-privileged white dude telling him how to analyze and apply the information.

I just want to yell at him to THINK FOR HIMSELF!!! for once, and really listen to what he is saying. Really analyze where that information is coming from, when it is coming from, and really question how much sense it makes. Really!

He likes to say he's a Christian, and how good and noble that is, how wonderful a guide for living he has, and he easily ignores any criticism of his supposed religion. My father hasn't even stepped foot in a church, save for the occasional wedding or funeral, in at least two decades. I've never witnessed him reading any literature on the subject, or having any conversations with any clergy or other religious scholars. He has this tiny little bit of information, and he clings to it and quotes it as if it were the absolute and complete truth, and it is driving me just a little bit mad.

Though I disagree with religion in an utterly complete way, I can at least understand the extremely pious individuals who had studied "the word" intensely and have found themselves to be passionate about the subject. I can respect a religious scholar or a learned clergyman who is able to debate on the subject, and defend their viewpoint, as much as I disagree with them. But when someone has very little knowledge of the subject about which they are arguing, they immediately lose any credibility, and this is what frustrates me when it comes up in conversation with my father.

He will mention something to me about a certain bible passage, and how it is words to live by, and sometimes I cannot help myself... I will point out to him that lovely as that verse may be, it is mere pages away from this other verse talking about stoning someone to death for gathering wood on the sabbath. I will ask him how he can pick and choose which verses he believes and lives by, and which ones he disregards. I will ask him how he can call his god a loving one, when his god would wipe out an entire city for daring to not acknowledge him in the way that he would like. I will ask him how he can believe that this book is one of love and goodness when it is filled with so much hate and violence, and I am so irritated when he easily brushes these questions aside... dismisses them as not being the important parts... being the wrong part of the book.

Apparently the new testament is the right testament... the old one, the original one, the one which provides a foundation for the other, is all irrelevant in the face of the new testament. Apparently, upon sending Jesus to earth, God got to take a mulligan on the entire old testament.

Some days it is so hard for me to continue talking to my father about anything else when I am so sad for him that he truly believes the things that he is saying. I have such a hard time taking anything else he says seriously, and this makes me so angry with myself.

I love my father. I love him so much, and I aspire to be as kind and strong, and gentle as he is. I hope to be half as wonderful a parent as he was to me when I was a small girl. Nearly every happy moment I have from my childhood involves him somehow... his strong hands pushing me on a swing, or lifting me from a pool... the way he turned scrambled eggs with cheese into the exciting and enticing "Eggs Surprise" that I would beg him to cook for me when I would see him during our scheduled weekend visitation. My father was a strong beacon of light and strength for me during some pretty dark years growing up, and I don't ever want to lose that.

But more and more often I am finding myself losing my patience when speaking with him, because he keeps peppering our conversations with religion and I cannot stand it. My father is one of the people I cherish most, and I feel myself losing respect for him. It makes me feel sick and depressed. I want to be a good daughter. The problem is that my dad taught me to stand up for myself and what I beleive in (or what I don't, in this case I suppose). My dad taught me that my intelligence was my greatest asset, and that I should be strong and assertive, as well as kind and compassionate.

How can I be a good daughter, be kind to my father, and also be myself and stand up for what I know is right?

I made a video!

fat & happy

We had the boy's family come to our house for Christmas dinner for the first time, and I loved every minute of it! I have the "cooking gene", as well as it's chubby little sister the "feed people as much as humanly possible" gene, so preparing dinner for nine was a happy chore for me.

I wasn't sure at first if we would be able to squeeze seven adults and two kids into our tiny eat-in kitchen area that we call the dining room, but thanks to some folding chairs, a poker table, and a group of people who don't mind rubbing elbows while they eat, we worked it out.

I might also have the "Martha Stewart" gene, because I even baked gingerbread cookies and added each person's name in frosting in lieu of a place bard.
*insert pleased-with-myself giggles here*


I decided to be ambitious and try cooking the turkey differently than I have in the past and used Alton Brown's brining method - and it turned out fabulously:


I also served buttermilk biscuits, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, dressing, candied carrots, creamy dill potato salad, as well as apple-caramel cheesecake and apple crisp with ice cream for dessert.

Don't you feel fatter just reading that? lol


The only way I was able to pull it off was baking the biscuit and the desserts the day before, and preparing the sweet potato casserole so it just needed to be popped in the oven to warm while I carved the bird. I made a detailed schedule and solid plan for the day of and stuck to it.

Afterwards we all piled down into the rec room and watched a movie. We had to set up the air mattress due to a lack of seating, but it meant that the kiddos had a comfy place to fall asleep, as well as prime cuddling opportunities, so it was a good thing.

Everyone left happy, and just a little fatter, so I'm calling it a job-well-done.

:)

silver bells

My husband calls himself Roman Catholic (though non-practising) and I am an atheist (though I call myself a secular humanist), and we both love to celebrate Christmas (though in an entirely secular and commercially propogated way).

I am a big fan of hauling out our well-loved artificial tree and all the other sparkly, shiny bits that make our home feel so cheerful and inviting during the otherwise dull month of December.



Happy Holidays! :)

This is going to hurt tomorrow...

For the record, tonight I consumed:
1 bottle of cabernet sauvignon
+ several shots of hypnotique
+ a shot of strange Japanese liquer that we only purchase because it has weird floating fruits in it (we referred to it as testicle juice for the rest of the night)
+ chocolate martinis made with white rum because there was no vodka around
= a very good evening that will surely result in a headache for me.

That probably did not make any sense, but I don't care, because I am very very drunk.

Why am I tryng to blog while I am drunk?

Just because.

and that's when I killed him your honour...

The boy has has a couple of running jokes that he thinks are positively hilarious. The main one is annoying me into saying things to him sarcastically, and then turning my sarcasm against me... another is taking movie quotes and bastardizing them for his own purposes. In this case it's the "I am dangerous... ice... man." from Top Gun.

I realize that explaining this all probably kills any inherent humour in the exchange to follow, but I felt you might need the back story to understand our insanity.

So I was laying in bed this morning beside the boy, after waking him up...

The Boy: "Your eyes look tired"

Me: "Yeah, I am"

The Boy: "Ice Man"

Me: "What?"

The Boy: "You ARE tired... ice... man"

Me: "Not what I said"

The Boy: "Yes it is."

Me: "No, I said Yeah, I am"

The Boy: "See!"

Me: "No. You said that my eyes looked tired, and I agreed, because I am tired. I said Yeah, I am"

The Boy: "No, you said I am... tired"

Me: "Yeah, that's totally what I said, exactly."

The Boy: "See... I told you. Ice man."

Me: "Wow."

The Boy: "Man, that joke is awesome... seven years, and it's still awesome."

Me: "Why? Must you always do that?"

The Boy: "Yes. SEVEN YEARS."

Grace in small things - part 45

1. a trip to the local farmer's market with the boy
2. freshly made apple-cider doughnuts from the Mennonites
3. imagining that the doves and finches are appreciative, and somehow know it's us who fills the feeders in our yard
4. curling up on the sofa under a warm fleecy blanket
5. watching tv with the boy, and providing our own colour commentary to the silliness on the screen

I am participating in Grace in Small Things

the almosts and could-have-beens

I've been feeling nauseous off and on for the past three days. I'm attributing it to my meds, or that I started taking the pre-natals again (just in case we ever get lucky), or that it's just another symptom of the foul mood I've been in lately.

I do my best not to let the boy know just how foul I'm feeling lately because he worries so much. It's probably counter-productive, since I end up feeling cruddy longer because I'm holding it in... but I don't like that look he gets when he's worried about me... his brow is knit with concern and he is determined to fix me... to take on my stress, or ask an endless stream of questions until he gets to the bottom of what's bothering me. Sometimes I don't want to have to explain that there is nothing in particular that is bothering me, it's just that I am bothered in general. Does that even make sense?

Probably not.

So I'm sitting at my desk, working away... reconciling receipts, listing prints, and sipping on room-temperature water, trying to ignore that wave of yuckiness (is too a word spellchecker! Because I said so, that's why!) that comes and goes. I put my head down on the desk periodically and wait for it to go away. I'm trying to ignore it because I'm sure that it's nothing. I really am.

I won't let my mind go there anymore... I used to get just a little bit excited if I started feeling nauseous, because it could mean that we had succeeded... that my biology wasn't a failure after all! I don't allow myself to get my hopes up anymore because I don't want to feel like I'm mourning every time I bleed... especially when it comes late, as it often does. I don't like imagining that we were (at least partially) successful, and maybe conception had in fact occurred, and it's more than run-of-the-mill menses being flushed away.

I don't like knowing that it is often the case... that my problem isn't entirely with conception, but with getting it to stick. I don't know how to stop myself from grieving the almosts and the could-have-beens.

Then I get angry with myself for feeling like I'm losing hope... for not being more positive. As if a smile on my face will somehow a baby make. I try not to let it get to me when people say "maybe if you weren't trying so hard" or "maybe if you just stopped thinking about it... it will happen when it is meant to". Because it's somehow my fault that my plumbing doesn't work, right? Clearly I am subconsciously and deliberately self-defeating, psychically destroying each zygote with my negative thoughts! Thank you for pointing that out to me - it's all so clear now!!!

Grrrrrrr!!!

I know... I don't need to be an asshole about it. It's not anyone else's fault either, and their intentions are not to make me feel worse. I know that I should lighten up, and that there are other (very expensive) options out there for me... for us... but it's hard to be positive when the chaos in your uterus matches the clutter in your mind.

I know I shouldn't dwell, and I'm not trying to be this way... I swear that I don't live in my own perpetual self-pity party. I'm actually a pretty bubbly person... but sometimes I'm a mess, and I wish I was just a little less so.

I'm rambling. Again.

can I fake it 'till I make it?

I have these pictures in my mind that I need to get out.

That's the way my drawings and paintings start. But I try to get them out too quickly I think... I draw furiously, rushing to empty the image from my mind before it slips away, before the idea is gone... and the end result ends up feeling flat.

I feel like I should take more time with my pictures. Nurture them. Build them slowly, bits at a time. Leave them for a while and then revisit them. I beleive that this approach would produce better art... that the paintings and drawings, and little doodles and bits would have more emotion in them... I think that they would have more feeling, and consequently they would draw more people to them... maybe then I would be a "successful artist".

Maybe then more people would buy my work.

But I can't create this way. I want to. I need to. But I can't. Instead I am compelled to rush into it when the mood strikes, and work away at a feverish pace, producing many pieces in a night, until I am completely spent... until all the pictures and ideas are drained from my mind... my fingertips are numb... my hand is aching... my heart is empty... I push myself until I have to sleep.

It seems manic, almost. It is a little crazy, but that's the only way I know how to produce my art. One would think that this would result in fun, fiery paintings with lots of movement and texture and feeling... but what it produces are paintings of birds, and drawings of goldfish... sketches of dainty ballerinas in fluttery tutus.

If I'm feeling especially "indie" I might come up with a tattooed woman, or a sassy pin-up... but that's about as badass as my artwork can get.

I want more.

I want to produce giant pieces with thick flashes of colour, and found pieces of pages from old texts... swirling abstracts and striking colour fields... dark portraits of lost lovers with haunting eyes. But when I try to paint like that... when I try to get those images down on canvas, or paper, or whatever surface I can... what comes out feels fake. It feels like I'm trying too hard to be something that I'm not. It doesn't feel... authentic.

I don't know what I'm doing... I don't know who I am as an artist.

Why did I think this was a good idea again?

I get frustrated with myself for thinking that I could possibly make it as a full-time artist... as a small business owner... as my own boss. I'm not good enough. I'm not talented enough. I'm not strong enough. Sometimes I feel like I'm only pretending to be an artist, and that someone is going to notice... that they'll point out how there are too many brush strokes in that particular painting... I must have struggled to get the right gradation in the shading... Then everyone will know I'm not a "real" artist. I'm just good at faking it.

Okay. Breathe.

I know... we are all our own worst critics. I know that I can do more. I am capable. I am better than this. Maybe I just need to write affirmations like that all over my office and repeat them to myself all day... that wouldn't make me seem any more crazy, right?

Haha. Yup. Manic.

I don't know where I'm going with this, or why I even started typing this out. I probably shouldn't even hit publish. I don't know what I'm doing here, right now, this minute. Beating myself up because my sales aren't where I hoped they'd be when I decided to take this risk and focus on my art. What is the point of this? This isn't productive, and this won't help me be a better artist... and it's certainly doing nothing good for my level of anxiety.

I wish I could just get over myself and get on with it.

hide & seek

Grace in small things - part 44

1. feeling prepared for my first ever trade show since starting to do my art full time
2. how sweet and helpful the boy has been as preparations for this show have consumed my life recently
   
3. the yumminess of light cream cheese on a toasted blueberry bagel
4. the crisp smell of fall air in the morning
5. the soft purring from one of my cats, Shadow, as she sprawls across my arms, on the desk between me and my laptop

I am participating in Grace in Small Things

shine

This is the post where we cross over into too much information land... way, way TMI... A Public Service Announcement

I am sharing this as a note of warning to the ladies out there, so that they may learn from my daft mistake.

Always, and I mean ALWAYS... no matter what... even if you think your hands are clean...please, for the love of everything... make sure that you wash your hands thoroughly and completely before attempting to remove a Diva Cup...

Especially if you have very recently been rubbing Vicks Vapo-rub onto the chest of your ill husband.

*shudder*

Camphor and eucalyptus + sensitive lady bits = OW OW OW OW OMIGAWD OW!!!!!


That is all.

two years

This post is for you, "the boy", the love of my life...


We've been married for two years today... we've been together for more than seven in total. You are still my favourite person in the whole world.



My best friend, my lover, my parter in life.


Happy Anniversary.

Grace in small things part 43

1. enjoying the fall harvest of my vegetable garden
   
2. cooking with the last zucchini from my garden, as well as freshly picked tomatoes, peppers and herbs - that it was the last zucchini might just be the best part...
   
3. the way my house smells from the herbs and chicken - yum!
   
4. the fizziness of grapefruit soda, and how it tickles the roof of my mouth
   
5. a pretty pink scarf with black polka-dots on it
   

I am participating in Grace in Small Things

wind and rain and thunder and lightning

The sounds outside my office window are ferocious. I swear I can feel the house tremble from the thunder, and it's as if the whole structure is swaying, just slightly, from the force of the wind gusts. The rain sounds almost solid, beating against the glass. I've always loved a good thunderstorm. Ordinarily there is something about them that makes me feel peaceful... like drinking tea, curled up on the couch with a blanket. Tonight, or this morning rather, this particular storm sounds ominous and a little to close over the house... and the racket of it is doing nothing to improve my foul mood.

Maybe it's the quiet of this time in the morning that is amplifying the sounds and making them seem more powerful than they really are. Everyone else is in the deepest stages of sleep, and the house has settled...it's too early for people to be up and driving towards their day shifts, so the roads are free of traffic and the sidewalks are clear. The only sounds are the crashes from the sky and the howling wind. It's startling. It's haunting.

I keep toying with the idea of going outside and standing in the storm... face up to the sky... letting the rain and the wind whip my skin... allowing the cold to numb my body. I feel like maybe if I stand there long enough, and soak in enough of it, the numbness will reach my mind... and then I will have some rest tonight.

Typing that sentence feels melodramatic, and pitiful, and tired. It feels like I'm going on about nothing... like I have a woe-is-me attitude that would make you roll your eyes and think that I should just get over myself. You might think that I should just walk it off... suck it up... get on with it... I feel like I should be able to brush this aside... get over these feelings... but I can't... at least not tonight.

Tonight I am in a dark place. It's as if there is an invisible blanket wrapped around me... wrapping tighter and tighter... the pressure on my chest, and my temples, and my neck... my shoulders are tense and my legs are restless... I try to shake them out... shake it off... but the pressure keeps building... I feel as if I am burdened down with some great weight that I can't slide out from under. There is a buzzing in my ears... behind my eyes... a persistent hum that forces me to focus on little else but the pressure, and the tightness, and the humming, and this feeling like I need to run away somewhere and hide... somewhere that I can be still, and calm, and quiet.

And then there's a crash of thunder and I almost jump out of my skin. I'm nauseous and flighty and lethargic all at once. I'm a snivelling contradiction.

I focus on my breathing. Inhale deeply.... count to five.... hold it for five... exhale slowly... counting to five... hold it for five... inhale deeply... "Picture a plateau" the doctor has said... coping exercises... "Visualize yourself relaxing".... count to five... hold it for five...

The wind howls and breaks my focus... I want to cry... I want to cry out... I want to be okay.

I want to be better.

Grace in small things part 42

1. having a three hour and fifty-four minute long telephone conversation with my sister
2. being able to open up to my sister in ways that I haven't allowed myself in the past
3. being able to listen to her, and be there for her as well
4. remembering that we've gone through the same/similar crap, and that we're both just as damaged from it all
5. feeling a little less alone in the world

I am participating in Grace in Small Thing

executive in charge of seat warming

Our pug, Trevor Beans Tiberious Meliton Esquire, has decided that he is on the company payroll. Yup, again with the ridiculous name on a pet. You can call him Trevor, or T-Dawg. He responds to both.

When I sleep in, and the boy is working in the office, Trevor likes to occupy my seat... he's our office assistant/executive in charge of seat warming.

(That wall of paper taped together on the left side, on the end of my desk is to keep evil cats from jumping up onto paintings that may be still wet and on the desktop)

hummingbird in flight 1

my new space

Friday was my last day at the soul-sucking cube job. My last day of staring at that computer monitor and those beige walls and that evil old crone with the awful bleached hairdo.

I'm going to miss some things about my cube job, of course. I made friends in the three years I was there... it's hard to spend nine hours a day, five days a week with a group of people, and not get close to at least some of them. I will miss those people, and I will miss our daily conversations. I will miss that place for the social interaction, and of course the consistent paycheque... but I am happy to be out of that cube... out of that space, and into my home office full-time.

This is what I will be staring at for hours on end now instead. I have done my best to create a functional, comfortable space where I can be creative and productive. It is well ordered, and tidy.


Now if only I could get the space inside my head in as good a shape, I would be set.

It's funny how the giant leaps have been the easiest things this past year... surprisingly... but the baby steps, the slow and steady pace of treating my issues and managing my anxiety and depression, that's what's really kicking my ass...

I'm afraid that if I can't get out of my head and get on with things... if I can't figure out these baby steps, and get one foot in front of the other when it comes to my thoughts and emotions... then there is no way I can be successful with my big plans. I don't know how to focus on the big picture and getting down to the business of my new business, when I'm smack in the middle of one of what the boy and I refer to as my "sad for no reason" times.

I know what to do, and how to do it, but sometimes it's so hard to keep my mind on my goals when all I want to do is lay down in my room with the curtains closed and a blanket over my head. I'm afraid that I won't be motivated to succeed now that I'm not tied to an office schedule that determined my hours of productivity. I'm afraid of spending too much time inside my head. I'm afraid that the relief I feel from no longer being stressed out about my previous job is nothing in comparison to what I've got ahead of me.

Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right....