I like the idea of reincarnation (mostly - more on that in a bit). It's one of those things that I don't really believe in but think would be incredible if it were true.
I'm not in disbelief about reincarnation because I am a Christian. I don't think the two concepts are necessarily mutually exclusive. In fact, it makes sense to me that God might determine a person needed one more go (or twenty) for whatever reason. Without knowing for certain precisely what the afterlife is like ("good" seems a lacking description), it's not tough to imagine that perhaps we even choose to come back out of interest, or to complete something, or just a sense of not yet being done.
But reincarnation might have some faults. No one really talks about the possibility of coming back as something less than desirable. It might sound romantic to return as a butterfly, but really: a butterfly's life is like living in a continual episode of Survivor. Who wants to spend their days hiding from giant birds and eeking out droplets of nectar from plants to prevent starvation?
Or you could come back as one of those indigenous jungle people... the ones the world really knows very little about other than the fact that they still perform human sacrifices and live without indoor plumbing.
So I guess it's more accurate to say I like the idea of reincarnation only if I am guaranteed to return as a middle class or higher citizen of a developed country with nice parents who will buy me a pony.
Because other than that, what's the point of coming back again? ;)
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
A Kick In The Right Direction
The other day, sprawled on the floor with my pants hiked up because I was warm, my sister noted that my legs were pale.
Well, what she actually said was, "Your legs look ridiculous."
Compared to the skin on the back of my hand, my legs are from another ethnic group and country altogether. In Crayola terms, about twenty different, brilliant colors separate the hue of my legs from that of my arms and face.
I wear a lot of pants. Sunshine doesn't penetrate fabric very easily.
"I hate my legs so I wear a lot of pants," I said.
My sister pointed out two reasons I shouldn't hate my legs: they are long, and they are thin. And that's the point. My legs don't match the rest of me. It's as if someone photoshopped Naomi Campbell's legs onto an egg.
"So let's review," said my sister. "The choices are to appreciate your legs, get new legs, or not have legs. Girl, you need to put on some shorts this summer."
I definitely don't want to cut off my legs, which is the only way I'm aware of to either a) not have legs or b) get new legs, so I think beginning to appreciate my legs is probably the way to go.
So this spring and summer, I'm going to try wearing shorts. In the sun. In hopes of avoiding having my doctor tell me that I am now only Vitamin D deficient below my hips.
Who knows. I might even graduate someday to a skirt. But let's not get crazy quite yet.
Well, what she actually said was, "Your legs look ridiculous."
Compared to the skin on the back of my hand, my legs are from another ethnic group and country altogether. In Crayola terms, about twenty different, brilliant colors separate the hue of my legs from that of my arms and face.
I wear a lot of pants. Sunshine doesn't penetrate fabric very easily.
"I hate my legs so I wear a lot of pants," I said.
My sister pointed out two reasons I shouldn't hate my legs: they are long, and they are thin. And that's the point. My legs don't match the rest of me. It's as if someone photoshopped Naomi Campbell's legs onto an egg.
"So let's review," said my sister. "The choices are to appreciate your legs, get new legs, or not have legs. Girl, you need to put on some shorts this summer."
I definitely don't want to cut off my legs, which is the only way I'm aware of to either a) not have legs or b) get new legs, so I think beginning to appreciate my legs is probably the way to go.
So this spring and summer, I'm going to try wearing shorts. In the sun. In hopes of avoiding having my doctor tell me that I am now only Vitamin D deficient below my hips.
Who knows. I might even graduate someday to a skirt. But let's not get crazy quite yet.
Wednesday, March 07, 2012
I Love This Dresser
In fact, I love the entire Ikea Hemnes series.
Do I trust the Ikea Hemnes series? I have a love/hate relationship with this furniture. I love the crisp look (and loved it even more in yellow, which is no longer offered). Ikea furniture doesn't have dove tailed drawers and whatnot, but it's largely cute and functional.
Unfortunately, as the owner of a Hemnes chest (eight drawer), I can tell you that the drawers require periodic repair to the tune of about once a month. My husband gallantly swoops in and glues something together and voila! We're back to business. Disappointing, but not a game changer if the piece is used in a low traffic area, like in an entry where you're not opening the drawers daily. In my son's bedroom - perhaps not such a good idea in hindsight.
But I love me some Hemnes. They always catch my eye. Maybe one day they'll have one in robin's egg blue....
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
Count Your Blessings
In the grocery store on Sunday, I was overcome with a feeling of thankfulness. I was thankful that I was able to be in a grocery store; I didn't have to worry about where I would go to find food. I was grateful that I had the means to buy the food. I didn't have to prioritize quantity over quality; I didn't have to hope that what was in my cart qualified for the food stamp or WIC program. I was able to walk in the store, pick up food, and buy it freely.
So many people can't do that.
Visit Feeding America and find a food bank in your area to donate to today, if you're as fortunate as I am.
That is all.
So many people can't do that.
Visit Feeding America and find a food bank in your area to donate to today, if you're as fortunate as I am.
That is all.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
My Two Hundred Cents
In line at the drugstore yesterday, I found myself behind a woman who was being rude to the cashier. The cashier was a twenty year old guy - I recognized him as a friend of my oldest son's. He'd been in my basement several times, noshing on snacks, playing XBOX games and watching crude potty humor cartoons. In that "takes a village" sense, it kind of felt like she was yelling at one of my kids.
First, let me point out that she probably couldn't help herself. Anyone who is not Laura Ingalls but still chooses to wear mid-calf length boots with just below the knee skirts obviously has poor decision making skills, and I shouldn't judge. Nonetheless, I found myself judging this woman who decided to make a scene with a teenager over a two dollar coupon.
I realize two dollar coupons in a drugstore are on the higher end savings wise, but in the end: it's two dollars. I'm pretty sure my screaming threshold is no lower than a thousand dollars. Several hundred at worst. The loss of two dollars might not make me happy, but it isn't going to make me send verbal nastygrams to a cashier.
But I digress.
The cashier kept his voice calm and avoided eye contact in that way that barely post adolescent boys have perfected. He called his manager (at the Little House on the Prairie woman's snippy suggestion), who swooped in and told the woman that this glitch had been occurring all day and they would not charge her two dollars extra. The manager then pointedly looked at the cashier and said, "Don't worry, this is not your fault."
The customer said nothing else. What could she say? "I'm sorry I reacted as if this young man was willfully withholding two dollars from me based on my ugly boots, when it turns out he was just doing his job?"
Mean people suck. Especially when they're in less than desirable footwear.
First, let me point out that she probably couldn't help herself. Anyone who is not Laura Ingalls but still chooses to wear mid-calf length boots with just below the knee skirts obviously has poor decision making skills, and I shouldn't judge. Nonetheless, I found myself judging this woman who decided to make a scene with a teenager over a two dollar coupon.
I realize two dollar coupons in a drugstore are on the higher end savings wise, but in the end: it's two dollars. I'm pretty sure my screaming threshold is no lower than a thousand dollars. Several hundred at worst. The loss of two dollars might not make me happy, but it isn't going to make me send verbal nastygrams to a cashier.
But I digress.
The cashier kept his voice calm and avoided eye contact in that way that barely post adolescent boys have perfected. He called his manager (at the Little House on the Prairie woman's snippy suggestion), who swooped in and told the woman that this glitch had been occurring all day and they would not charge her two dollars extra. The manager then pointedly looked at the cashier and said, "Don't worry, this is not your fault."
The customer said nothing else. What could she say? "I'm sorry I reacted as if this young man was willfully withholding two dollars from me based on my ugly boots, when it turns out he was just doing his job?"
Mean people suck. Especially when they're in less than desirable footwear.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
And Here I Thought I Knew You
We were recently told that our dog, who we have loved and described for seven years as a mutt, is actually probably not a mutt.
She is more likely a Cur, which is a term that used to mean mutt, but when paired with other terms means not a mutt, or not in the sense of mutt that most people are used to hearing about. With me so far?
We'd suspected it after seeing a photo of a dog that looked identical to ours and finding out it was a Mountain Cur, and then it was confirmed by a new doctor at our veterinary office, who took one look at her and pronounced, "Oh! She's a Blackmouth Cur."
Curs, whether they be Mountain Curs or Blackmouth Curs or InsertDescriptionHere Curs are apparently dogs that were bred by people who didn't have the inclination or means to breed other well known breeds, and our pup, according to the vet, is almost assuredly a Blackmouth Cur. A check of her mouth and looking at a couple of web photos of Blackmouth Curs that look startlingly like her drove the idea home.
Our dog:
Blackmouthed Cur:
Here is the "sales" photo of our dog - the one that was listed on the adoption site:
And here is the Mountain Cur photo that started it all, the one that looks so much like our dog:
Huh.
Finding this out is a little like having your grandmother's old doily covered table handed down to you, and then you have a dinner party and a guest informs you that actually, the table is an antique Stickley. Or more accurately, an antique middle-of-the-road-breed, like Pottery Barn in one hundred years.
Huh.
We told all this to our dog, and she raised her snout knowingly and walked off with a bit of a huff. While this behavior also may have been because it was time to feed her dinner, I really think it was her way of saying, "Of course. I've listened to you describe me as a mutt for seven years and I still loved you, but really: did you think I was without breeding? Of all of us in this house, you thought I was the one without papers? Interesting."
There really was no need for her to get snooty about it. The place we adopted her from had also asserted that she was half Labrador Retriever, and if there was a dog further away from possession of any Lab DNA I have yet to meet it. So we were only working with what we were told.
So. We are the proud parents of, apparently, a Blackmouth Cur, who acts remarkably like a mutt and never bit us in stuck up frustration or otherwise gave us pause to think she was anything but. I think my husband, who is all about the value brand, may be a bit out of sorts over it. I can imagine our trip to adopt our next dog, with my husband asking for written reassurance that the dog of our choice has no elitest value whatsoever, and pondering whether or not Lands' End offers any sort of puppy that we might want to consider.
I will remind him that Curs are working dogs. Bred by working people. Very middle of the road. Barely an entry on Wikipedia. Nothing to panic about.
And often mistaken for mutts.
She is more likely a Cur, which is a term that used to mean mutt, but when paired with other terms means not a mutt, or not in the sense of mutt that most people are used to hearing about. With me so far?
We'd suspected it after seeing a photo of a dog that looked identical to ours and finding out it was a Mountain Cur, and then it was confirmed by a new doctor at our veterinary office, who took one look at her and pronounced, "Oh! She's a Blackmouth Cur."
Curs, whether they be Mountain Curs or Blackmouth Curs or InsertDescriptionHere Curs are apparently dogs that were bred by people who didn't have the inclination or means to breed other well known breeds, and our pup, according to the vet, is almost assuredly a Blackmouth Cur. A check of her mouth and looking at a couple of web photos of Blackmouth Curs that look startlingly like her drove the idea home.
Our dog:
Blackmouthed Cur:
Here is the "sales" photo of our dog - the one that was listed on the adoption site:
And here is the Mountain Cur photo that started it all, the one that looks so much like our dog:
Huh.
Finding this out is a little like having your grandmother's old doily covered table handed down to you, and then you have a dinner party and a guest informs you that actually, the table is an antique Stickley. Or more accurately, an antique middle-of-the-road-breed, like Pottery Barn in one hundred years.
Huh.
We told all this to our dog, and she raised her snout knowingly and walked off with a bit of a huff. While this behavior also may have been because it was time to feed her dinner, I really think it was her way of saying, "Of course. I've listened to you describe me as a mutt for seven years and I still loved you, but really: did you think I was without breeding? Of all of us in this house, you thought I was the one without papers? Interesting."
There really was no need for her to get snooty about it. The place we adopted her from had also asserted that she was half Labrador Retriever, and if there was a dog further away from possession of any Lab DNA I have yet to meet it. So we were only working with what we were told.
So. We are the proud parents of, apparently, a Blackmouth Cur, who acts remarkably like a mutt and never bit us in stuck up frustration or otherwise gave us pause to think she was anything but. I think my husband, who is all about the value brand, may be a bit out of sorts over it. I can imagine our trip to adopt our next dog, with my husband asking for written reassurance that the dog of our choice has no elitest value whatsoever, and pondering whether or not Lands' End offers any sort of puppy that we might want to consider.
I will remind him that Curs are working dogs. Bred by working people. Very middle of the road. Barely an entry on Wikipedia. Nothing to panic about.
And often mistaken for mutts.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Mission To Mars
If you want proof that men are different from women (because you've been sitting around waiting for it - just go with me here): consider my husband's libido.
His sex drive is like the post office motto. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor... there is nothing that counts as a potential downer. No pun intended. His libido is a completely separate entity, undeterred by such human fallacies as... well, any human fallacies.
Case in point. We watch a movie of such disturbing content I make him hold my hand from the living room to the bedroom after it's over, because I am certain something might get me on my way up the stairs if he does not. I cower under the covers, traumatized, in need of post traumatic stress therapy at the least and quite possibly a strong sedative so I don't lie awake in fear for the remainder of the decade (it's only 2012, you know).
And he's got The Look. You know, that Look, the one that immediately precedes The Hand. You know, The Hand that reaches across the bed to offer seemingly innocent things like a massage, only two minutes in you recall that your husband doesn't really offer massages, ever. THAT Hand.
Me: Seriously, dude?
Him: What? (massage continues)
Me: I'm a little concerned that you could have watched what we just watched and still arrived where you are right now. You're like, a BMW, with the zero to sixty in two point five seconds and all. Did you not SEE that movie?
Him: What? I'm not thinking about the movie.
Me: So you are able to process all that in the time it takes to brush our teeth?
Him (with uncertainty): Yes?
Really, if I admit it, I'm just jealous. For me, foreplay can literally be tied to actions that occurred three years ago. I'm just now remembering that in 2009 you didn't tell your mother to pepper her roasted potatoes when you KNOW I prefer roasted potatoes to have pepper, and therefore what I need is to talk about how you're not meeting my needs before I can give myself to you.
For him, foreplay begins the instant someone begins undressing, for whatever purpose they might be undressing. In fairness, and in his defense, my husband cooks and cleans and brings me glasses of wine and rubs my feet and does all those other things that a guy should do if he wants to get lucky later. Problem is, I tend to think that horrific movies and bad news over the telephone or, you know, a mild flu, negates these actions and puts us back to square one.
My husband does not return to square one. In fact, I am pretty sure he hasn't been at square one, or first base, for decades. He lives with the assumption of and the desire for a home run. What happened before he gets into bed is irrelevant.
And even as I give him the stink eye and wonder if he should talk to a good psychologist, I admit it: being go for launch at any given moment would be a neat problem to have.
Except when you're the launch pad five minutes after wishing you could rip your eyes out from a movie. I'm just saying.
His sex drive is like the post office motto. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor... there is nothing that counts as a potential downer. No pun intended. His libido is a completely separate entity, undeterred by such human fallacies as... well, any human fallacies.
Case in point. We watch a movie of such disturbing content I make him hold my hand from the living room to the bedroom after it's over, because I am certain something might get me on my way up the stairs if he does not. I cower under the covers, traumatized, in need of post traumatic stress therapy at the least and quite possibly a strong sedative so I don't lie awake in fear for the remainder of the decade (it's only 2012, you know).
And he's got The Look. You know, that Look, the one that immediately precedes The Hand. You know, The Hand that reaches across the bed to offer seemingly innocent things like a massage, only two minutes in you recall that your husband doesn't really offer massages, ever. THAT Hand.
Me: Seriously, dude?
Him: What? (massage continues)
Me: I'm a little concerned that you could have watched what we just watched and still arrived where you are right now. You're like, a BMW, with the zero to sixty in two point five seconds and all. Did you not SEE that movie?
Him: What? I'm not thinking about the movie.
Me: So you are able to process all that in the time it takes to brush our teeth?
Him (with uncertainty): Yes?
Really, if I admit it, I'm just jealous. For me, foreplay can literally be tied to actions that occurred three years ago. I'm just now remembering that in 2009 you didn't tell your mother to pepper her roasted potatoes when you KNOW I prefer roasted potatoes to have pepper, and therefore what I need is to talk about how you're not meeting my needs before I can give myself to you.
For him, foreplay begins the instant someone begins undressing, for whatever purpose they might be undressing. In fairness, and in his defense, my husband cooks and cleans and brings me glasses of wine and rubs my feet and does all those other things that a guy should do if he wants to get lucky later. Problem is, I tend to think that horrific movies and bad news over the telephone or, you know, a mild flu, negates these actions and puts us back to square one.
My husband does not return to square one. In fact, I am pretty sure he hasn't been at square one, or first base, for decades. He lives with the assumption of and the desire for a home run. What happened before he gets into bed is irrelevant.
And even as I give him the stink eye and wonder if he should talk to a good psychologist, I admit it: being go for launch at any given moment would be a neat problem to have.
Except when you're the launch pad five minutes after wishing you could rip your eyes out from a movie. I'm just saying.
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