Finding Zen

C is for Cookie - Thats Good Enough For Me

I started to mark up this photograph to help you out.  Then I realized, no no no...this is not necessary.  You all are bright cookies.  Who needs directives here?  I came across these two pictures, and together they speak volumes of How It All Began. 

On the left we have Zack.  I'm guessing at the tender age of 2 or 3.  With what appears to be, a piece of fruit in his hand (show off).  So slim and trim, brimming with a healthy head of bowl-cut hair - toss that kid a few pitons and he's ready for Yosemite!  On the right, we have yours truly doubling her weight by the minute at age ohhh, 9 months with what is, no doubt, cookies in BOTH hands.  One feeding, the other in waiting.  A method known for its efficiency, marked  by fat rolls in the limbic and CHIN regions.  Much like a tree shows its age.  I got one roll per month of eating.  Had I three hands, there would have been three cookies - or maybe just two and a cup of coffee.  Looking with great concern at the photographer, most defiantly a cookie-stealing-suspect.  A few wispy head hairs struggling to breathe life atop a teletubbie hauss they affectionately call 'Thunderthighs'.  Conserving energy (to feed), she sits, waiting for someone to hose her down.

The very talented, D. Sharp has kindly requested that I participate in a meme.  I don't normally do these, but lately, I take whatever blog fodder I can get.  Without further adieu.  A few things you don't know about me - which might I add, is quite a challenge because there are few things I don't discuss here.  Leaving to the imagination is an alluring quality, I do not posses.

*I really want to get into Graphic Design.  It is my goal to do this for myself and with any luck & or success, it will enable me the flexibility to be available to my children while making some contribution to our family's income.  Which is all secondary to the fact that it would make me really happy to do design work.

*I purchased a vintage Polaroid camera months ago convinced it would be my next great hobby (shooting in and editing Polaroid shots...like Irene does).  It's still in the box it came shipped in - in my closet.  Why?  Because Polaroid film is like $500 dollars a cartridge.  I'm not ready for this hobby.

*This last summer I attempted Wendy's Sizzle sexy tank top.  I was so excited!  My first actual piece of clothing project.  I worked up the two panels front/back in no time.  I was thrilled.  It came along so nicely.  Then it was time to do SEAMING and FINISHING.  Bleh.  I couldn't work out the damn mattress stitch, and all my hard work seemed ruined in light of shitty seaming.  Not to mention when I put the thing on the sleeve openings were too tight (which is a HUGEMONGO issue I have) and the back panel was slightly longer than the front because I never counted rows...just used a measuring tape to decide when to stop.  ACK.  It sits in a basket in two pieces in Montana.  I would have burned it...but Vern wouldn't let me.  I told her to keep it out of my sight, and I didn't care what she did with it.  All this to say, I vowed to never again attempt a piece of clothing.  Until this...

*NIN.  That little yarn harlot!  Zack and I sat drooling over the sweater she WHIPPED UP for her cute hubby for Christmas.  I sat there feeling ashamed that I had the potential to make him nice things like that, but was on seaming strike.  He whimpered a bit and left the room - and I thought..dammit, now I have to make that fucker.  Why?  Because the boy is so dedicated to my shitty attempts at making things for him, he wears the ugliest little ill-fitting yarmulkas hats - like badges of honor.  I owe it to him.

*My new favorite blog to read.  Amy.  Now.  Granted, she is like my number one fan - I assure you this has nothing to do with my newfound obsession to her own writing.  And shes gorgeous.  Her wedding photos are all Sex in the City, and she's wicked smart.  Like...Grey's Anatomy smart.  AND..and and.  She's down with cows.  Cows and cashmere to be exact.  We would be good friends - I'm certain.

*I got a pair of really nice shoes for xmas.  But they're not just like any shoes.  They're like Jimmy Choooooooos.  But not.  More like, custom shoes made for people like Norah Jones, that belong in shadowboxes on your wall because they are like ART.  Vern and I had seen them at an art exhibit.  The little old man was there pluggin away working the leather, like Gepetto!  The whole thing was so romantic, reminded us of a time when things were tailor made, and not so replaceable.  A time when you got things FIXED because they were so expensive and the convenience of 'new and better' wasn't an option.   The quality and craftsmanship behind 'things' these days are gone.  Furniture, toys, clothes, you name it.  So she got them for me.  In the color I wanted, made especially for my feet.  And they are the most beautiful stunning shoes EVER.  Only problem is.  I'm afraid to wear them.  I wear them in the house on paper towels because they are too perfect.  The bottoms are the finest suede...you can't conceive of them getting dirty!  And where the hell am I going to go in my Picasso shoes?  KROGER - I THINK NOT.  So they sit in a box covered in tissue paper.  Begging to be worn.  And I think I may just need to get over it.

   

The Knitting Chest

While I'm on this whole Ode to Husband Won't You Please JUST GIVE IN Grace Me With Child thing - I might as well tell you about the coolness of his Christmas gift to me this year.  And while I'm at it, the mens in the house (all 2 of them) can be all "Isn't it about time for a gratuitous Jessica Biel shot already?" - to which I reply..."No.  It is not."

I am a knitter.  I love to knit.  I will knit just about anywhere, anytime.  I also have a tendency to get anxious much quicker than normal people.  While the xanex is nice for those completely unsolicited panic attacks on the interstate, knitting seems to be a wonderful substitute.  And yes, I have knitted while driving - but only while sitting in traffic (it was just a row?!).  But not on the interstate.  Because that would be very dangerous. 

I have knit in the tub (I'd give it a solid 7 on the technical difficulty scale), I've knit on the plane, knit while my grandmother laid in the room beside me...dying...very slowly.  It's a welcomed distraction in times when I'm antsy.  It's like smoking a bowl, only this way, I don't have to worry that the Taco Bell drive thru lady is secretly paging the police on that little mic on her lapel.  It's a set up.  And if you have to write a $2 dollar check for a burrito, than you must be stoned.  At this point in my life, thats too much drama for me.  I need something more reliable.  Something that makes me less paranoid.  Legal is good.  What I need - is fiber.  And boy do I have a stock pile of it.

Zack had been assessing my growing basket of yarn balls.  He'd noticed all the times I'd pile my project on my lap and have to go chasing after rolling balls across the hardwood floors.  He felt as though the yarn and all my knitting paraphernalia was beginning to take over my little slice of the family room.   Thus, he set out to construct the Pièce de résistance!

A knitting chest.  But of course!  Doesn't every knitter need a knitting chest?  And the best part?  This couldn't just be a box - Zack Pitts doesn't make boxes.  It had to be functional!  It had to serve a purpose!   Inside there is a compartment for all my books/patterns and he is making me a tray to sit on the top that slides back and forth (so I have access to the yarn) where I can put all my needles and doodads.  But the best part?  Well, it opens up to reveal a little box where my yarn balls go and feed me yarn!! How swell is that?  You know you want one.  I'd be happy to take orders.  It will only cost you about $1,000 dollas. 

      

Exploding Ovaries

All he wanted for Christmas was a book on how to make a BOW so he can get his own food (Omnivores Dilemma really did a number on him).  Mr. Pitts.  My hippy husband who looks good in anything...who can hang with Chris Sharma (bad-ass rock climber dude) and kayaks and makes beautiful furniture, who doesn't really have much to say that he hasn't thought about LOTS, and longs to just go BE in the mountains somewhere.  He'll be 32 soon.  Would like a little bit of land nearby some running water, some chickens and a pig.  And I want babies. 

(Oh shut up!  Show me a heterosexual woman of child bearing age who wouldn't want to co-mingle genes with some of that business up there?  Anyone?  Buehler?  I can't help it.  Biologically my body is like, YO - you need to do something with this fine brother already!  And I'm all like, YAH no shit!)

Can you just see it?  I'll be like Pioneer Woman before you know it. 

Writer's Rejection - Ouch.

With oh so much time on my hands these days, I recently submitted an essay to a really cool magazine publication here in Atlanta and elsewhere...called Skirt.  I forwarded it to the editor who thought it had a shot...who then forwarded it on to The Publisher.  I waited impatiently for a week, and finally got a response.  It read something like:

"I'm really sorry, but you're article sucked." 

Or maybe, that was my subconcious wanting a more direct and poignant rejection.  Because, you know, being un-employed AND writing shitty essays has been a life-long dream of mine.

Then it occured to me last night, AH HA!  This is why I have a BLOG!  This is why I am a BLOG-ER.  I forgot about this whole wonderful great audience of mine who doesn't care if I suck.  And while you won't pay me to read sucky posts, at least you all create the illusion for me that I am remotely entertaining.  So, while I'm pretty certain that were I to forward this on to Cosmo or something, they'd eat the shit up - my gut is telling me to keep this one 'in house'.

I present to you, (every single one of you, who come...and comment...and make me feel like a friggin rock star) the essay that failed to 'woo'.

I Broke Up.  With T. Bell.

Since I’m coming out with all this, I might as well confess, it wasn’t just T. Bell—but Mickey D. too.  I’ve had a relationship for as far back as I can remember.  It was an open one.  They both had something to offer the other didn’t.  Mickey D, the All American, and T. Bell had all the International flair I needed.  Some days the Number 2 Plain With A Medium Coke just wasn’t going to cut it and what I’d really need was a run for the border for a Double Decker Taco Supreme No Tomatoes, Extra Sour Cream.  If I was feeling particularly gluttonous, I might even indulge in the Caramel Apple Empanada.  After all, it’s only a dollar. Each satisfied my hunger like none other could, and then left me greasy and feeling like crap for the next hour.  It was a love-hate relationship—mainly love, I admit. But most of all it was a relationship of convenience.  And it was fast and cheap.  Which probably explains the dirty feeling afterwards…

Mickey D. has always accommodated my “special needs”—kind enough to custom make each order exactly the way I like it.  When I was younger I refused to wipe the ketchup and onions off a regular burger order. This irritated my mother, who was forced to be “that car” pulled over and waiting off to the side of the drive-through while they re-made it plain.  T. Bell and I didn’t really get acquainted so much until college.  Particularly between the hours of 12 and 5 A.M..  I’m sure Mickey D. was a little jealous during that time, but hey, T. Bell put the C in cheap and I like it cheap sometimes.  Until recently, I was probably a twice-a-weeker.  Either way, these relationships should have earned me at least a good four dress sizes over the course of the last 20 years, but alas –I lucked out.

At almost 30, I am fortunate enough to have not battled much with weight issues. Genes have surely played a role.  I may have been a bit bloated and puffy in college, but no one gets to look skinny and drink massive quantities of alcohol five days a week.  It just doesn’t work that way.  But like most women, I have through the years, scrutinized my body and entertained ways of becoming more fit.  There is always those 5 – 10 pounds that on a small frame, makes the difference between feeling like mouse or whale. 

Between the svelte genes and my general activity level I have managed to bide my time, eluding the dreaded 'Muffin Top'.  Not necessarily due to skill, or the discipline of practicing good eating habits.  Actually quite the opposite.  But even I know that this won’t last forever.  My mother, who in her young adult life was never more than a buck ten wet, has had to address a changing body in her 40’s, 50’s and now 60’s.  It’s just one of life’s inconvenient certainties.  Like emotional periods and designer jeans you can’t afford but need.  The metabolism will slow down.  So when it does, will there still be room for pizza, apple pie a’la mode, Starbucks lattes with whip, and most importantly my relationship with Mickey D. and T. Bell? I think even The Magic 8 Ball would reveal, “Not Likely”.

So I’ve tried them all.  There was Sugar Busters and The Zone, Atkins and Eating for Your Blood Type.  They all bounce from one extreme to the next, all of them like multiple-choice answers on a college exam.  If A then B but not C; all of the above; none of the above! They all state the obvious (Spaghettios and Pillsbury are not a part of a healthy balanced diet), and claim to have nailed the secret equation of proteins, carbs and fats.  You see, working out has never been my issue—committing myself to the gym has always been much easier than committing myself to the Fruits and Vegetables aisle.  That stuff just doesn’t do it for me.  Not nearly enough saturated fat and high fructose corn syrup for my taste. 

Inevitably every diet wagon I’ve hitched up to, has derailed. Mostly because I could fly under the ‘she’s had one too many visits with Mickey D.’ radar.  I should just revel in luck and young age, embrace that I could both continue to suck furiously from the fast-food teat, and wear a size Small.  No one can see my tortured intestines, the bloat, the gas, the obscene amount of work my metabolism had to do to keep me in those pants.  So what if I had the energy of a senior citizen and could sleep more than a college student?  What I have learned as I get older is that it’s as much, if not more, about how you feel that matters most.   And I wasn’t feeling so hot.

This past summer, my husband and I had an opportunity to leave behind our humid Atlanta city life and head for the breezy mountains of southern Montana—just north of Yellowstone.   We went from population four million, to population 272.  My in-laws have a cabin in a small community called Nye, who happened to be in need of two young working bodies.  To say country living frees one from the constant pressure and urgency of modern consumption, is a gross understatement.  I saved more money not buying ‘stuff’ in those three months than I have my entire adult life.  I had no idea I was spending that much at Target.

The long distance affair thing just wasn’t working out.  Mickey D. was a 40-minute drive away and after working eight-hour days in the sun, a turkey sandwich on white from the kitchen was just as nice.  T. Bell was a good two hours drive.  Needless to say, not in the cards.  For the first time ever in my life, I didn’t have the options I was accustomed to in the city—and not having those options gave me the opportunity to take a break, to reset my body and get more connected with its needs.  Somewhere out in those mountains I vowed to myself that the romance with Mickey D., T. Bell, and the like had to end. I saw “Supersize Me.” Food that doesn’t begin to rot after a few days, ain’t right. 

While it was easy to swear off fast food in the mountains, I knew the real challenge would occur when we returned and I would be forced to see Mickey D. and T. Bell twenty times on the way home from a days’ work.  But by the time we came home I no longer had the cravings I once had for them, and suddenly I realized how easy it was in a city with so many options, to simply make other choices.  Better choices.  Eureka!  Over the course of the last five months I have felt better than ever.  I no longer have stomach problems and have lost about five pounds.  Who knew that making such a minor tweak in my eating habits could change the way I think and feel about food? 

While at one time the idea of never seeing Mickey D. and T. Bell again seemed impossible to me, it was the most simplistic, sound change I’ve ever made in my life.  And totally attainable.  I just needed to discover that I could be in control.  That instead of looking for fast results and quick fixes, I could do more for myself with small mindful changes in habit than I ever could achieve thinking success has to mean huge sacrifices. Oh yeah, and one more thing – Chick F.’s don’t count.  I can still see Mr. Fil-A regularly.  There is absolutely nothing to contemplate about a piece of fried chicken breast on a biscuit.  I just skip the fries and tell myself it’s okay to keep one affair going.  

Might As Well Get Comfy

When we got married, one of Zack's 'assigned' jobs besides showing up on time without climbing chalk on his hands, was to build a arbor for our ceremony.  We needed something to say 'This is our spot'.  So in typical form he waited until the last few days, and was in the pasture for some 48 hours trying to get it done.  And of course, the end result as always - was brilliant.  Signature Zack Pitts work. 

Soon after the wedding we left for our trip, and during the five months we were gone, we often wondered how it was holding up.  To our surprise, it withstood it's first Montana winter, albeit slightly cockeyed.  You sorta had to tilt your head to make it all better, quite apropos of anyone's first year of marriage, let alone one of having to negotiate 180 consecutive days of where to eat, sleep and 'do'. 

We all have struggled over the last year with how to interpret the arbors 'lean'.  At times it has invitied some bad juju and we debated over whether or not to just take it down.  Then again, it's been such a striking fixture on the horizon - it would be sad to see it go.  The last discussion we all had, we decided it either needed to go or be reinforced and returned to its original state - knowing that at somepoint it would begin to rot, but we could at least enjoy it for a while longer.

About a month or so ago, we recieved word that a powerful storm blew through Nye - carrying with it winds upwards of 100mph.  As the community sits nestled in the Beartooth foothills, what we affectionately call the 'Nye Breeze' could easily lift a picnic table and carry it a few feet.   But this...this was the Nye Blow.  And it straight up blew the roof off the house down the road where my family stayed during the wedding.  They still haven't found their kitchen chairs.

Of course this all begged the question, was our already weakened little 'chulupa' still standing?  We all waited in suspense until Vern was able to get out there and assess the damage.  The cabin roof got hit pretty bad, several mature pines completely uprooted....but the arbor.  Still there.  We have now come to the conclusion, that this can only mean one thing:

Come hell or high water - or 100mph winds - we will make it.  We may end up a little gimpy, but nobody's going anywhere.  The Nye Breeze told us so.

Before:

   

After.  Pretty darn impressive if you ask this girl.