Hey look, a pie

 

Check it out. I did domestic stuff, and it looks fantastic! I don't cook, as some of you know. I have a new need to learn to cook like a grown up -as opposed to cooking frozen not-meats in a convection oven or eating cold cereal while leaning over the kitchen sink- but nearly every time I do cooking I hurt something.

There was the time shortly after moving into a new apartment that I started a fire with butter; I wiped soot off the counters for two months. Or the time I burned my hand grabbing the handle of a skillet that had come out of a 350 degree oven only moments before.

I'm sure I've told you about my childhood, and how food would magically appear in front of me with absolutely no effort or decision required on my part. Until I moved out of my mom's house, food just happened around me (and if you know my mom, you'll know that food happened A LOT); once I was out on my own, pop-tarts and take-out pizza are what happened to me (and my ass).

So now I'm 30-I-don't-know and only just now learning The Cooking. Sometimes it's a disaster, but it often makes very pretty pictures. Oh and in case you're wondering, it's apple pie which I don't even like.

Ugh

This blog needs an update…

I didn't finish NaNo; didn't even come close. I'm still writing that silly novel though (and by 'writing' I mean 'thinking about writing', or 'not giving it up').

I still have a job, for now. No news on the structure or how future arrangements will be made. So I'm waiting, and I'm not very good at it.

One of my employees passed away a couple weeks ago and I've got odd feelings about it.

Holidays are kind of gross for me. Every year there are things I look forward to and enjoy very much, and every year I fight tears in silent, in-between moments of activity and I don't understand why.

The end.

Write-fail

Working on a ridiculous novel, and I don’t know where to take it. I don’t pre-write; I’m not adamantly opposed, I just don’t know how to do it. Outlines and drafts sort of escape me. This is what makes me feel like not-a-writer.

I went to an open lecture by a local author a couple years ago, and one of the bits of advice he gave is to get up early on the weekend and write for four hours each day. He said he wrote many novels in 8 hours bits of time over the weekend while maintaining his main career as a lawyer. I was impressed, and did that for one weekend. I got a lot of writing done, and most of it wasn’t even terrible; I didn’t stick with it though, and now I have no novels and a bunch of over-sleeping piled up behind me.

So now I’m working on a silly novel and even something as low stress as a stupid writing project that will never see the light of day is filling me with feelings of doubt and anxiety and failure.

Also, I’m hungry and evidently I can’t write when I’m hungry. Earlier it was coffee that I needed, and before that a cigarette (cause I still haven’t quit, if you’re wondering). Perhaps I am manufacturing reasons why I can’t write.

Is it cold in here? I need slippers…

Lacking momentum

Writing has a certain momentum, right? Fiction or flash or poetry or blogging… if you don't keep at it regularly the skill to create satisfying prose and annoyingly clever word usements atrophies.

It's disappointing to admit that this has happened to me. I have always gone through phases where I write less frequently, but the times for weeks on end when I'm constantly working on stuff in my head and waking up in the middle of the night to jot down ideas or whole paragraphs always felt like it balanced out the other times.

Up until a few weeks ago I was writing almost daily. Nothing earth-moving, and nothing worth sharing, but I was doing it. Usually while I did other morning-type business, which is the best time to spend a few minutes focused on nothing else because you're stuck in a 3x4 room, but whatever.

And then I made the mistake of verbalising it. I told a friend I was "writing more", because I was all pleased with me. And then, suddenly, I didn't write more. I wrote less, until I was writing nothing at all. This comes at a really gross time for me, because I was sort of preparing for NaNoWriMo and I was pretty excited for it. I've never participated, and the last two years something ridiculously unavoidable has come up and prevented me from having the emotional energy to do it.

This year, I just got lazy. Oh, I'm busy for sure and there are 42 other things that need my attention, but I really could have made time for it if my words hadn't dried up and blown away like one of those annoying weeds I used to make wishes on as a girl.

So I'm checking out the website and drooling over Scrivener and following the Facebook blah-blah and wishing I could find words that wanted to come out of my head.

I quit

So, I'm quitting smoking. Again. I'm a little pissed off about it too. I stopped smoking several years ago and managed to stick with it for about five years. Starting up again is the thing that pisses me off, though truthfully I really enjoyed smoking for this past year.

I think I'm genetically predisposed to do things that are not good for me. I do okay most of the time; I don't put really bad things into my body and I'm somewhat health conscious about what I eat - save for a weakness for those little chocolate frosted doughnuts from Hostess. You know the ones, they're bite-sized and leave your mouth feeling like you ate melted wax?

Unfortunately, I'm also genetically predisposed towards being lazy, which means getting less exercise than I should. So the result is that I sit around eating little doughnuts and smoking cigarettes.

So, quitting smoking. Wish me luck. Or maybe start saving coins to donate to my family for funeral expenses just in case I throw myself into traffic over the stress of it.

Yesterday

I stayed home yesterday so I wouldn't have to be around anyone else. I worked; I ate food that I didn't taste; I did laundry that I refused to fold. I thought about getting my life organised, but I couldn't find the motivation for it.

I was mostly okay. After all this time, it's easier to put my mind on other things. The pain is there, but it's easier to ignore. My sense of loss is numbed. What's left is sadness and confusion. I have gotten pretty good at dealing with that sadness and confusion though, so I felt okay.

And then I had a dream last night. In it, we were talking about his suicide. He told me everything; he explained the why of it all, and how he came to make that decision. The things he told me eased my mind, and helped me gain some perspective on how that affected me.

I woke up sobbing, and completely unable to remember the details of what he told me. Those answers I've craved for so long, that I felt like I had for such a brief moment, were gone. The clarity of the dream left me and what I found in its place was a bitterness I haven't felt for a long time, marked by a need for answers that I thought I'd put behind me.

And today I'm feeling all the numbed confusion I felt eleven years ago, when I woke up the day after to realise that my husband was dead and I didn't know why. My brain knows it was eleven years ago, but my heart feels like it was yesterday.

Unplanned

I did an unplanned run last night. I think those are the best kind. I have been away from running for a couple months, and have been smoking more and more, so planning running is becoming less appealing for me.

So last night when I had a sudden whim to run, I didn't talk myself out of it. It was just starting to cool off from a very warm day; fireworks were ramping up, despite most of them being illegal in my state; I'd had a couple days of heavy food and more alcohol than I normally consume, so it was really past time.

I asked The Roommate along, because it's always better with a buddy, and we set out on a run one minute/walk two minutes pace. We kept that up for a mile, then decided to take the rest of the exercise at a slower, more relaxed pace (on account of the smoking).

One of my favourite things to do is walk through neighbourhoods and imagine my life in the houses I see. I fantasize about where my furniture will be, or the room devoted solely to my knitting; I imagine myself in an overly-large kitchen, drinking wine and cooking pasta for one, and not sharing my space with another living being. I never fancied myself such a loner, but I find that when I'm constructing my life in my head there isn't anyone else there.

My life so far is as unplanned as last night's run. I'm not sure if I'm doing it right, and it doesn't always come out precisely how I want it; but I feel content for now, and that's something that feels a little new.

Reunion

I went to a family reunion last weekend. The concept of family has always been a bitter thing for me. My mom and I left ours many years ago; I didn't keep in touch with them, and when I did have contact it was fraught with emotional pain.

This reunion was particularly emotional; most of the people there I hadn't ever met, or I'd last seen when I was small enough that I don't remember them. With one exception: my aunt Donna.

Aunt Donna was my favourite growing up. She was a teenager when I was born, and I was her baby. We were close my whole childhood, until we weren't. I missed her, and I didn't even know it until I saw her again.

She's really amazing, and she's still my favourite. Or she's my favourite again. Aunt Donna is beautiful, inside and out, and I am quite thankful that she is in my life again.

The rest of the family is lovely as well. I have rarely felt so loved and accepted, so immediately at home as I did when I was with them.

Vomit, poetry-like

I was looking at my analytics data and I saw a hit on my blog that made me giggle. Someone (after my own heart, I might add) Googled the phrase "vomit haiku"; they landed here - and immediately bounced, no doubt utterly disappointed, having found neither vomit nor a haiku.

This is for you, unknown vomit poetry seeker:

Regurgitation
Clever little bits of life
You sought, so I wrote

I wish I was a fire engine

I'm feeling restless tonight. I want to run again, but ... (this is the part where I launch into my complaints) - I'm exhausted, my ankle hurts, it's late and I should get up early tomorrow, I have work I should be doing right now.

There's more, but I'll spare you. Mostly, I'm just restless. A couple really big things in my life are stalled right now, and I want to do something about them. Some of them I have no control over, and even when I do have control the doing is hard for me, so I'm stuck not-doing.

I'm also feeling a bit sorry for myself lately. It's embarrassing, really. I thought grown-ups weren't supposed to feel that way, but it turns out we totally do.

So, I'll do some knitting (leg-warmers, I know you want some); maybe take a bath with some new girly-smelling stuff I got in the mail today; maybe I'll work.

Or, you know, I'll go to bed on account of it being 9PM already.

/sigh

Take that!

Remember last week when I mockingly said I'd run twenty miles? It was a little joke with myself, a bit of good-natured fun poked at me because I'd just got done setting a goal I didn't keep, and I knew there was no way I'd rack up twenty miles.

Well, I did it. Actually, I did twenty-one miles, and now I'm sticking my tongue out at me for all the mockery.

I feel really good. Tired, sore in spots, but mostly good. I do an unladylike amount of eating these days, and I sleep far more than I used to. I don't think I will be able to run twenty miles every week, but I am really pleased with myself so far.

Also, having a hobby that requires shoes is maybe the sexiest thing about running.

Friday workouts

This week has been pretty stressful for me; despite really needing to run off some of that stress I can't find the motivation to do it. It's raining, and apparently I don't like running in the rain nearly as much as I thought I did yesterday.

I decided to re-visit the gym-ling in my apartment complex -I haven't worked out there since the last time Bunny and I were there... like two years ago- and see about this treadmill running.

And I realised almost immediately why I didn't stick with running last time: I hate the treadmill. I was so shocked at me. Not long ago I was contemplating what among my current furniture could be burned so I'd have room for a treadmill, so imagine my surprise when I wanted to cut my own feet off after running, well, not much on that wretched thing.

Today's workout was unsatifying. I did a few reps on some arm work-out machines (those machines are built for much larger people than me); some pathetic jogging on a great hulking beast of a rotten-mother-effing treadmill; and a wee bit of running in the parking lot on the way back to my apartment (I took the long way home).

And now I'm full of complaints. I have rain dripping down my most sensitive of spots; I have a twinge in my right ankle that won't go away; and now I'm just cranky. Thank Goddess for Fridays, and steak and beer, and Alias.

Happy weekend!

Rain

I discovered recently that I don't mind running in the rain. It's refreshing to have a little rain to cool me off; cleansing rain, washing away the sweat and frustration and stress of my days.

Today, it rained. A lot. I didn't do any running, so the rain was not refreshing. I was not cooled; frigid drops did not cleanse my stress.

They just made me mad. All over again.

Progress (and a touch of pride)

I went for an early morning run yesterday. I have been experimenting lately with sugar-intake before my runs, and I'm all stocked up on orange juice. I was really dragging yesterday morning and did something that I haven't done yet since I started running again: I put the music on.

I don't run with music. Partly because I typically run with buddies, and partly because the only time I ever run alone is during the wee, dark hours of the morning; having loud German industrial music blocking out all other sound when one is running in the dark seems like a dumb idea. I like being aware of my surroundings, and I like not being raped-and-murdered, so I leave the headphones at home.

I needed something to motivate me though and music is usually my go-to motivator, so I put the Rammstein on (one ear-bud only, so I could still hear bushes rustling and footsteps behind me) and I ran.

I ran for nearly seven minutes straight. I didn't mean to, I just forgot to get tired. This is a huge accomplishment for me, being out of shape (and a filthy smoker on top of that). When I realised how well I was doing, I nearly cried from the joy of having tangible, recordable proof of my progress.

This is what I love about running: the results are immediately evident. My clothes fit better within days; I had more energy and motivation to do things; I felt better emotionally; I felt stronger walking up and down my stairs with the laptop, handbag, gym bag, extra pair of shoes...

I even relish the aches and pains: sore muscles that prove I put effort into it; achy shin-bones that remind me to watch how I land; stiff joints that tell me when I need rest.

I'm a runner. The simplicity confounds me.

Running gems

 

Found this on my run tonight. I have a thing for playing cards, and when I find one I have to pick it up.

Spiritually, the number six is said to represent balance, harmony, serenity, and enlightenment. Since I find that running helps me with all of those things, this silly playing card seemed fitting.

Also, I like to find stuff.

Achievement-fail

 

I fail at achieving my goals. I almost wrote that I fail at goal-setting, but realised that 'goal-setting' totally isn't my problem. I set some very big goals for myself, when I set them. No, I fail at doing what I set out to do. I always have, for as long as I can remember.

Most of the things I have that I feel proud of I have attained with little effort and virtually no planning whatsoever. I worked hard to hold onto these things that make me proud, but how I got them in the first place to even know I wanted to hold onto them? Beats me. Maybe I'm lucky; maybe I'm in the right place at the right time (a phrase I dislike intensely, for those of you keeping track).

The goals that I actually set, though... oh how I fail at them. I've got some very fancy running goals: to run 20 miles in three weeks was my March goal (it was random, I ran a lot the first couple weeks then figured out I could totally do it); for April, 60 miles for the month; this week's smaller goal was to hit 18 miles.

Maybe these seem like lofty goals since I'm so new at running, but they felt attainable to me, right up to the moment I didn't get there. I was three miles short of my goal last month, and another three miles this week.

I know what you're thinking: get over it. Right? Of course, it's not the bane of my training, these three wee miles. I know this. I can still make my goal of 60 for the month, right?

My frustration is the knowledge that I know I should be able to reach it, and I intentionally didn't pick some unrealistic, un-achievable goal. I should be able to do it, I'm ready to do it. Except that I'm totally not. My body is tired, so I'm resting. I just feel guilty, like I should be doing more. Guilty towards what or whom, I haven't any idea but it's very big guilt (have I mentioned that I'm a recovering Catholic?).

So, my running shoes are lying right where I kicked them off this morning, and I'm resting. Even though I wanted more miles before the end of the week. Even though resting makes me feel bad. Even though I see the runners from my balcony when I go outside to smoke (got you, didn't I? Now you're really annoyed with me). The runners outside make me jealous; I want to dash outside and catch them, and make them tell me how they feel when they get all tripped up with failed goals.

Next week: 20 miles. Just 'cause I know I won't.

Lilacs

 

It's nearly Spring, and my lilacs are starting to look alive.

Can I tell you how much I hate Spring?

Running gems

 

I found this little rock on my morning run today. I thought it was a piece of candy at first (gross); when I realised it was a little rock, I picked it up.

I find myself attached to objects (sometimes more than people), and I sometimes associate these objects with my feeling of that particular time. This little rock looks like the sort of decorative bit one would put in a plant, and it was pretty once. It had a purpose at one point in its little rock life, until it ended up tossed into the street.

I was enjoying the run with a friend, enjoying the day -mildly warm, a little sunny, but still cool enough to enjoy a run. Something shiny caught my eye, and I immediately transferred all my good, happy feelings to this stupid little glass rock lying in the gutter.

Neighbourhood Jaunt

Today's run was very satisfying. Before I met up with my running buddy I focused on my breathing; I learned interesting things about how breathing while running affects your internal organs. Now that I understand a little better how my body works, I find the little physical aches and pains to be tolerable and not at all discouraging.

I also explored new neighbourhoods that I'd never been in, and I played at a playground for a few minutes - they have little spin-around toys I didn't have when I was a girl. It's a basin that you sit in and someone spins you around; not only does it go in circles, but it also tilts on its axis so you get a really dizzying feeling.

I didn't push myself too hard so my pace wasn't great, but I enjoyed myself. It is getting easier, and now that I know how to breathe the side-stitches I used to get are not nearly as bad now.

Running in the rain

I ran in the rain today. If you know me, you know I don't like rain. I don't like to be cold, first off; and I don't like to wear wet clothing.

But I ran in the rain, and it was good. My knees are hurting me, not a lot but a little. I found a dollar on my run today, lying wet and sad on the ground. I put it in my pocket and took it home.

And I splashed in puddles. That was my favourite part.

The ugly cake

 

I'm making green tea cakes for Bunny, because she's leaving next week and I promised her I would.

I have not much experience cooking; I'm something of a perfectionist, and I'd rather never do something at all than try it and fail. I want everything to come out just right the first time, and every time.

Life doesn't work that way though, and I have learned that particular lesson enough times that you'd think it would stick by now.

I was feeling a little sorry for myself as I made these tonight, until the last one came out of the steamer. It looks like a little cake-explosion, all lopsided and imperfect, sitting amongst some very lovely tea cakes. This should bother me, but the sheer ugliness of this particular cake makes me want to gobble it up and throw the others out.

I won't, because they're not really mine anymore; but I think I will make Bunny split this ugly one with me tomorrow.

Saturday

I saw a runner on the trail this morning. She had on great clothes and cute shoes and a baseball-style cap. She was maybe in her 50s, a little bit overweight, and looked like she was really struggling.

We met eyes, and she gave me a little thumb's up. We shared a big grin and I felt a part of something larger, just for a minute.

I ran with a buddy just under 3 miles; when I say that I ran, I really mean that I spent some time running and some time walking. I think it counts though, so I'm sticking with "I ran". My pace is getting slowly better, and I didn't feel like wheezing or dying.

Running

Oh, yeah. I'm a runner. Perhaps you've seen my widget? That's how committed I am.

It's a funny sort of thing, running. I've taken it up and put it down a few times over the years, and I've never enjoyed it. I never really got past the "I hate running" stage.

My friend, Bunny, is this fantastic runner. She's very good at it, and it's impressive and motivating watching her run. She's leaving soon, moving across the country, and I've recently got this idea that I should be running with her. I'll miss her desperately, and I'm enjoying running with her.

It occurred to me that I could have done this with her years ago. I had a little cry about that a few days ago, sort of kicking myself for not pursuing this sooner. I realised that even if I had, I would have grown bored and dropped it eventually (this happens to me, I'm a bit of a flake). As short as my time is, I'm glad I'm doing it now. Now it means something really special to me; there's a value here I may not have understood otherwise. I feel like she's passing on her running spirit to me, a little bit 'o Bunny that will stay with me wherever I go.

I wonder if she'll let me cut off her foot and keep it on my keychain?

un-NaNo

 

So, I've been writing again. I won't be done in a month, and I don't care that it's not November. My head is filled with it, and barely able to hold other things. There are a lot of other things it needs to be holding now, for sure, but I'm stuck on this story. I'm having fun writing it, even though I don't know where it's going.

I mean literally - I don't know what's going to happen when I sit down to write. I have vague ideas that I want to develope these scenes more and give some more background, but when I start writing they take over. I've heard about this, other writers have told me they experience this amazing phenomenon. I have to admit, I was secretly disappointed the first time I sat down to write and my character didn't come alive and control my pen. She just sort of sat there staring at me from the page, sullen and silent, while I struggled painfully through making her do interesting things. She fought me for a long time, until she didn't.

I haven't done any real writing in days, just jotting down notes on index cards (or the backs of receipts or typed out frustratingly on my iPhone). I did some brainstorming tonight, and I think I enjoy this part of writing more than the story-telling part.

Also, my main character cooks. I had no idea.

Ink

 

I met a lovely man today. He put ink on my body.

Therapy: free to good home

I have this therapist friend whom I see infrequently. She's got amazing red hair and vibrant eyes that see straight into me. Normally that might bother me a tiny little bit, but in addition to gorgeous hair and beautiful eyes, she also has a lovely heart. Though I see her so seldom, I really love her heart.

We met just before the worst time in my life so I feel like I met her yesterday, or a lifetime ago. We became close, because the worst time of my life was also a difficult and, I think, pivotal time for her as well; since that time we have drifted in and out of one anothers' lives, but every time I see her I feel as connected to her as I've ever been.

I count her among my pretend sisters - those women who love me, despite of me or because of me; those women who know me and have seen me at my best and worst; women who are imperfect, and who continue to be so dignified in their imperfection; inspiring women who withhold judgment but who are perpetually discerning and who don't leave me twisting in my emotional discomfort. I saw her today and she listened, much in the way I imagine she listens to her clients. She also shared, painful memories and experiences. I didn't feel like a client, but I left her today feeling uplifted and encouraged and cared for.

Thanks for the free therapy, Janys.

Glad for you

I was chatting with a friend the other day something big and scary in her life. It's wonderful too, for her. If it were my news, it would scare the pants off me; I'd be running into traffic praying for something large to hit me and kill me dead. Maybe one of those trucks that haul dirt, because I always wanted to be squished by a lot of dirt.

And I experienced a very interesting thing: I was so pleased for her. The very thing that would have me curled in a ball weeping was good for her. Maybe she'll need to curl in a ball and weep sometimes too, because hey - that helps. But she's happy, and I'm glad she's happy. That's a sort of new thing for me too - being glad when someone else is happy. I feel like I'm getting new emotions, for the very first time. They feel odd in my head, as though they don't quite belong to me yet. Like eating something brown and slimy and realising it tastes quite good.

I'm not sure what it's about, but there's room inside me again. It's small still, but I think it'll be good.

In the mood

I learned something new today: washing my hands helps me get in the mood to write. Huh. How did I not know this before? As a practicing pagan, I have rituals for everything. Tricks I use to put me in a specific frame of mind, ways of conditioning my mind to trigger a certain set of feelings or behaviours.

When I was a girl my mom took me to a child psychologist, Gloria. I don't recall how old I was, but young enough that Gloria didn't just come out and ask me questions or prompt me to talk about certain events, like you would with an adult. Gloria had a box of hats, and a little game made up around talking about specific things while wearing a certain hat. My favourite hat, in case you're wondering, was a Sherlock Holmes style hat that did not fit my head.

Pick a hat and every time you wear that hat you talk about your dad. The really neat part was when I didn't want to talk about my dad anymore, I took the hat off. That was a rule, and it was totally unbreakable. It created a safe space for me to control a session, while also teaching me about exercising communication skills (that young children have to be taught) and about setting boundaries. When I was in college, I had a homework hat; when I go to the office on weekends and absolutely have to focus on my work and get stuff done, I have a hat for that.

So, I've washed my hands and I'm ready to write. I will forever hold gratitude for Gloria and her silly box of hats.

Remember childhood?

 

Lazy summer days and warm nights sitting on the porch? I remember sun-tea in my grandparent's back yard and losing small toys in the pool filter. Digging in the dirt with sticks, because I liked being dirty.

I remember going to the drive-in with cousins and my favourite aunt. Motorcycle rides with my grandfather, and walking to the market with my dad for salami and mustard. I remember my toy room, full of barbies; and telling my baby cousin stories in the middle of the night when we were supposed to be sleeping.

I remember nap-time in Catholic school and a library shaped like a dome. I remember my third grade teacher - Mr. Wakefield-Evans, who used to share his croissants with me.

I remember these things like they happened to someone else. When did I get so grown-up and unhappy with life?

The Dalai Lama says:

"Giving is recognized as a virtue in every major religion and in every civilized society, and it clearly benefits both the giver and the receiver. The one who receives is relieved from the pangs of want. The one who gives can take comfort from the joy their gift brings to others."

I think I was born without this little notch in my spirit. The joy that my gifts bring others... it only works with very specific others. I know other people experience something like joy that they've done something wonderful for a stranger, but I don't get that.

I've given to strangers, or helped someone I didn't know because they needed it. Sometimes they appreciate it and sometimes they expected it so they weren't as grateful; either way, I didn't feel all pleased with myself and full of the knowledge that I was doing good work.

Do you have it?

I didn't write a novel

Guess what I didn't do last year. Go on, guess! No? Okay - remember NaNoWriMo? I was so excited to participate, I even bought a book written by the creator (I say that like it might be surprising that I bought a how-to book). I practised writing every day; I was going to write my pants off and complete a whole novel. Even if that novel was awful drivel, it was going to be a whole novel's-worth; that would be a huge accomplishment for me, considering I don't finish writing projects. Like, ever.

Well, I didn't do it. Work exploded on me in a fit of busy and I spent the month of November (as well as September, October, and December) with barely a day off. I didn't have time to write anything that wasn't associated with The Proposal.

I was a little sad to miss it. I realise that I don't need an organised event like that to do it anyway (and I may still), but I felt like the energy of people the world over feverishly writing bad novels would uplift me and provide encouragement. Sometimes I would see people at Starbuck's with headphones in their ears, a laptop open before them, brows furrowed and eyes dilated to pin-points and I assumed they were writing their novel-in-a-month. I wanted to cheer for them and shake their hands and say, "good job, you". I didn't want to break their concentration though, so I left them alone.

So, whatever. I didn't write a book. But I helped write a kick-ass proposal! Still waiting for the outcome of that, by the way.

/grumble

Pretty, broken things

 

Going through my pictures tonight, thinking of things I want to photograph this weekend, I ran across this.

I feel like this: something delicate and pretty lying on the ground, waiting to be crushed.

I hope it happens by a big, steel-toed boot.

Well, hello

I feel sort of funny here, which is how it happens when one spends so much time away from a blog. I've referred to my blog as a dear friend, but unlike my dearest friends the empty space here makes me feel itchy just coming back and sitting down for a chat without acknowledging my prolonged absence. Which, as a side note, makes me grateful for those friends I have who accept me back even when I don't call and don't write.

Instead of recounting every uncomfortable moment since I last updated I'll tell you instead what I did today:

I cleaned my desk. Removing empty soda cans and a bowl of old goldfishes (the baked snack cracker kind), plus a swipe with a rag made it home again.

I figured out some annoying batch scripting. I'm a goddess of simple programming, by the way. Feel free to take a few moments to wonder in awe at my extreme display of clever, go ahead.

I ate dinner (tacos - it's okay if you're jealous) while catching up on a favourite blog.

I got inspired by the aforementioned blog - to write and to take pretty pictures. The latter of which I will do this weekend while wandering around the city with my favourite Lindsey-Lush-Pants.

I am grateful today for ground meat and for the much-needed inspiration.