She's looking great!
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Funny
Me: I don't know why she continues to stalk my blog.
Friend: Dont be so shocked!
Me: Why not?
Friend: Because you're young, blonde, and hot!!!
Me: I owe you my first born for that!
Friend: Dont be so shocked!
Me: Why not?
Friend: Because you're young, blonde, and hot!!!
Me: I owe you my first born for that!
Monday, December 14, 2009
All I Want for Christmas...
Can I tell you something? If one more person asks me what I want for Christmas I may say a grenade launcher. So I can- wait, I’m not going to finish that sentence. It would be crossing a line. I’m not sure if it’s PMS or the fact that I’m just tired, but pondering the destruction I would like to create if one more person asks what they can get me to celebrate the birth of baby J, seems a bit over the top. Even for me.
Here’s the thing. For me, being asked what I want for Christmas is about as enjoyable as getting a pap smear. Because I’m not one of those people who formulates lists of what I want (and yes the fact that I can easily whip up a list of why I should be First Lady, but struggle to come up with a list of what I want PEOPLE TO BUY FOR ME has not been lost).
Besides the fact that I don’t have a zillion random ideas off the top of my head, I dislike the part where people judge what you say you DO want. For example:
Well-meaning gift buyer: Maya, have you given any thought as to what you want for Christmas?
Me: Um no. I guess maybe.. some shoes? Or some books? I could use a new desk lamp…
Well-meaning gift buyer: What’s wrong with the lamp you have now?
Me: Well nothing really. I just think, I could move the one I have to my beside table and then-
Well-meaning gift buyer: What?! That is ridiculous! You are a fool and a scally-wag for even suggesting such a thing! A pox on your house young lady! A POX ON YOUR HOUSE!
Okay, so I exaggerate.
Seriously though, I’m not sure when I stopped really having a list of things I want. It wasn’t as though one snowy Christmas I decided to swallow a boring pill and stop imagining, stop wishing. It just feels like, with each Christmas my list of things that I want that can be bought and wrapped with a pretty ribbon- decreases. Sure, I could say I want anything from my Christmas list last year , but I suspect if I didn’t get a diamond encrusted toothbrush for my birthday I might not be getting it now.
What I want nobody can give me, but this isn’t to say I don’t want. Oh goodness, I want. I want another hour in everyday so I can sleep-in without guilt. I want to know what to say to those people I don’t know what to say to anymore. I want my cashier at Safeway to look like she’s not going to kill herself if I say I don’t need my milk in a bag. I want to teach a grade 3 class where everyone can tie their own shoes. I want to do nothing without feeling like I should be doing something. I want someone to uncover a lost season of The West Wing. I want rainbows scheduled every Sunday, world peace and ovens to smell less like DEATH and more like gingerbread when they are self-cleaning.
And if you can figure out how to wrap up any of that in a bow, I will stop talking about the grenade launcher. Actually, if you get me the diamond encrusted toothbrush, ( or anything from La Perla, I will stop talking about the grenade launcher.
I promise.
Here’s the thing. For me, being asked what I want for Christmas is about as enjoyable as getting a pap smear. Because I’m not one of those people who formulates lists of what I want (and yes the fact that I can easily whip up a list of why I should be First Lady, but struggle to come up with a list of what I want PEOPLE TO BUY FOR ME has not been lost).
Besides the fact that I don’t have a zillion random ideas off the top of my head, I dislike the part where people judge what you say you DO want. For example:
Well-meaning gift buyer: Maya, have you given any thought as to what you want for Christmas?
Me: Um no. I guess maybe.. some shoes? Or some books? I could use a new desk lamp…
Well-meaning gift buyer: What’s wrong with the lamp you have now?
Me: Well nothing really. I just think, I could move the one I have to my beside table and then-
Well-meaning gift buyer: What?! That is ridiculous! You are a fool and a scally-wag for even suggesting such a thing! A pox on your house young lady! A POX ON YOUR HOUSE!
Okay, so I exaggerate.
Seriously though, I’m not sure when I stopped really having a list of things I want. It wasn’t as though one snowy Christmas I decided to swallow a boring pill and stop imagining, stop wishing. It just feels like, with each Christmas my list of things that I want that can be bought and wrapped with a pretty ribbon- decreases. Sure, I could say I want anything from my Christmas list last year , but I suspect if I didn’t get a diamond encrusted toothbrush for my birthday I might not be getting it now.
What I want nobody can give me, but this isn’t to say I don’t want. Oh goodness, I want. I want another hour in everyday so I can sleep-in without guilt. I want to know what to say to those people I don’t know what to say to anymore. I want my cashier at Safeway to look like she’s not going to kill herself if I say I don’t need my milk in a bag. I want to teach a grade 3 class where everyone can tie their own shoes. I want to do nothing without feeling like I should be doing something. I want someone to uncover a lost season of The West Wing. I want rainbows scheduled every Sunday, world peace and ovens to smell less like DEATH and more like gingerbread when they are self-cleaning.
And if you can figure out how to wrap up any of that in a bow, I will stop talking about the grenade launcher. Actually, if you get me the diamond encrusted toothbrush, ( or anything from La Perla, I will stop talking about the grenade launcher.
I promise.
Friday, December 11, 2009
A Simple Wish
Peace.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this word lately. It’s been coming up in Christmas carols and is stamped on my holiday cards. My glossy magazines are encouraging me to find it in myself and Oprah raves of how it’s changed her life. We wish it upon others, in the hope they can find a content calmness and we admire those who’ve attained it (The Dali Lama, I’m talking to you) for themselves.
I’m a person who struggles with peace. I’m a woman who reviews my mistakes regularly. Reflection is my self-imposed torture device. I lay awake thinking of the man I turned away, the shoes I didn’t buy, the trip I didn’t take. I bring up each memory, recounting every detail. And then, I fold it gently back up into my brain and bring down the next one off the shelf. A constant barrage of “You should have…”, “Why didn’t you…”, “That was awful that you..” ring through my ears. It’s hard to find inner peace when you want to curb stomp the part of you that is always so quick to judge. Who highlights what you wish you could forget. Who types up your flaws in 36 point font and flashes them in your head when you should be counting sheep.
Recently however, I’ve found myself feeling more peaceful. My life has not changed dramatically, yet I’m feeling more content than I have in a long time. Of course I still think of what I’ve done wrong in my life, but without the help of Oprah or repeated viewings of Star Wars, I’ve found a way to forgive myself. For the mistakes that I made, the words I can’t take back, the people I let go.
Who knows how long this moment of Zen will last. Whether I will go to sleep tonight and dream of George Clooney or lay uncomfortably in my bed recalling how awful I was that I once made my grade 6 crush cry, eventually I will sleep. And if I do fall off the Peace wagon, I will try again tomorrow. I will think of what has past and how I cannot change anything but now. I will wish to remember how good it feels when I realize I’m not angry about anything. How much better my body feels when it isn’t curled tight, each muscle filled with anxiety. How much more I enjoy sharing compliments than complaints. How it feels to have a light heart.
I will wish for peace.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this word lately. It’s been coming up in Christmas carols and is stamped on my holiday cards. My glossy magazines are encouraging me to find it in myself and Oprah raves of how it’s changed her life. We wish it upon others, in the hope they can find a content calmness and we admire those who’ve attained it (The Dali Lama, I’m talking to you) for themselves.
I’m a person who struggles with peace. I’m a woman who reviews my mistakes regularly. Reflection is my self-imposed torture device. I lay awake thinking of the man I turned away, the shoes I didn’t buy, the trip I didn’t take. I bring up each memory, recounting every detail. And then, I fold it gently back up into my brain and bring down the next one off the shelf. A constant barrage of “You should have…”, “Why didn’t you…”, “That was awful that you..” ring through my ears. It’s hard to find inner peace when you want to curb stomp the part of you that is always so quick to judge. Who highlights what you wish you could forget. Who types up your flaws in 36 point font and flashes them in your head when you should be counting sheep.
Recently however, I’ve found myself feeling more peaceful. My life has not changed dramatically, yet I’m feeling more content than I have in a long time. Of course I still think of what I’ve done wrong in my life, but without the help of Oprah or repeated viewings of Star Wars, I’ve found a way to forgive myself. For the mistakes that I made, the words I can’t take back, the people I let go.
Who knows how long this moment of Zen will last. Whether I will go to sleep tonight and dream of George Clooney or lay uncomfortably in my bed recalling how awful I was that I once made my grade 6 crush cry, eventually I will sleep. And if I do fall off the Peace wagon, I will try again tomorrow. I will think of what has past and how I cannot change anything but now. I will wish to remember how good it feels when I realize I’m not angry about anything. How much better my body feels when it isn’t curled tight, each muscle filled with anxiety. How much more I enjoy sharing compliments than complaints. How it feels to have a light heart.
I will wish for peace.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
How Do You Know?
If he always gives you the last bite of his sandwich or the first lick of his ice cream cone, then he loves you.
If he’s seen your high school prom photo and says he still loves you, then he loves you.
If he’s counted all your freckles,- even the ones behind your knees, then he loves you.
If, right before sleep, he leans in, buries his nose in your hair and inhales, and when you ask what he’s doing, he smiles a smile that reminds you of a secret and says ‘nothing’, then he loves you.
If he tells you that you make chickenpox sexy, then he loves you. He’s lying, but he loves you.
If he’s laid beside you in a too small bed, in a lit up room and listened as you told him all the ways you feel like you are failing, then he loves you.
If he remembers the name of your arch enemy from the sixth grade and hates her because he knows all about how she started the rumor that you only used boys deodorant, when you didn’t- then he loves you. And he hates her. But he loves you.
If he’s ever attempted to wash your hair because you said that scene in “Out of Africa” really gets you, then he loves you.
If he makes sure that you never have to sit beside his friend Michael, the one who never washes his hair, calls his penis “Frankie the Pork Sword” and smells like the bottom of a dumpster, then he loves you.
If you are Jennifer Anistan, then he loves you.
If he’s consumed your mom’s burnt chicken, let your brother win the basketball game and laughed too long and too hard at your dad’s jokes, then he loves you.
If he told you how him and his cousin ran out of school on the first day to get to their Mommies, then he loves you. Or, he’s made up the story to get into your pants. But he could love you.
If he tells you, “I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to”, then he loves you.
If he sits through “The Hills” every Monday night, then he loves you. And possibly Heidi. But he loves you.
If he introduces you to his daughter, then he loves you.
If during hour five of an eight hour roadtrip, he sees you are bored and flips the radio station to a horrifying boy band song and begins to serenade you with his best falsetto, while keeping the beat with his hand tapping your knee, and refuses to quit until you laugh, then he loves you.
If he’s ever bought you tampons, then he loves you.
If, while vertical, sober, and full clothed, and without hope or agenda, he tells you that he loves you, then he loves you.
If he knows exactly what scene in “Gone with the Wind” that makes you cry the hardest, and he waits until the movie is over before he begins to make fun of you for crying in the first place, then he loves you.
If his favorite stories are the ones of you as a kid, if he calls you ‘monkey’ in front of his friends, if he remembers that you like the kleenex with the lotion in it, if he allows you to use clorox all over the house, if he lets you eat his french fries when you know they are his favorite, if he makes small talk with your grandmother when you can’t deal with her crazy, if he tells you that your cute victory dance is worth his own defeat, if he checks the road conditions before you leave for a trip, if he’s ever attempted to sew a button on your favorite dress when you are running late, then he loves you.
Thats how you know!
If he’s seen your high school prom photo and says he still loves you, then he loves you.
If he’s counted all your freckles,- even the ones behind your knees, then he loves you.
If, right before sleep, he leans in, buries his nose in your hair and inhales, and when you ask what he’s doing, he smiles a smile that reminds you of a secret and says ‘nothing’, then he loves you.
If he tells you that you make chickenpox sexy, then he loves you. He’s lying, but he loves you.
If he’s laid beside you in a too small bed, in a lit up room and listened as you told him all the ways you feel like you are failing, then he loves you.
If he remembers the name of your arch enemy from the sixth grade and hates her because he knows all about how she started the rumor that you only used boys deodorant, when you didn’t- then he loves you. And he hates her. But he loves you.
If he’s ever attempted to wash your hair because you said that scene in “Out of Africa” really gets you, then he loves you.
If he makes sure that you never have to sit beside his friend Michael, the one who never washes his hair, calls his penis “Frankie the Pork Sword” and smells like the bottom of a dumpster, then he loves you.
If you are Jennifer Anistan, then he loves you.
If he’s consumed your mom’s burnt chicken, let your brother win the basketball game and laughed too long and too hard at your dad’s jokes, then he loves you.
If he told you how him and his cousin ran out of school on the first day to get to their Mommies, then he loves you. Or, he’s made up the story to get into your pants. But he could love you.
If he tells you, “I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to”, then he loves you.
If he sits through “The Hills” every Monday night, then he loves you. And possibly Heidi. But he loves you.
If he introduces you to his daughter, then he loves you.
If during hour five of an eight hour roadtrip, he sees you are bored and flips the radio station to a horrifying boy band song and begins to serenade you with his best falsetto, while keeping the beat with his hand tapping your knee, and refuses to quit until you laugh, then he loves you.
If he’s ever bought you tampons, then he loves you.
If, while vertical, sober, and full clothed, and without hope or agenda, he tells you that he loves you, then he loves you.
If he knows exactly what scene in “Gone with the Wind” that makes you cry the hardest, and he waits until the movie is over before he begins to make fun of you for crying in the first place, then he loves you.
If his favorite stories are the ones of you as a kid, if he calls you ‘monkey’ in front of his friends, if he remembers that you like the kleenex with the lotion in it, if he allows you to use clorox all over the house, if he lets you eat his french fries when you know they are his favorite, if he makes small talk with your grandmother when you can’t deal with her crazy, if he tells you that your cute victory dance is worth his own defeat, if he checks the road conditions before you leave for a trip, if he’s ever attempted to sew a button on your favorite dress when you are running late, then he loves you.
Thats how you know!
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