Vegetarian Frito Pie. Good for, well, all the things.

On this lovely dish, we have Fritos (obviously).  We have homemade vegetarian chili with black beans, kidney beans, onion, sweet pepper, and zucchini (of course!).   We have avocado, and sour cream, and freshly shredded cheddar (well, duh.) And we have onions and jalapenos that I lightly pickled in vinegar (yessssss).

And I got very close to finishing this painting of my copper winged-piggy bank, Bartholomew:

You are beautiful ... I must paint you.

Now that you know that I name all my ceramic creatures, you probably respect me less.  But that’s okay, because I made art.  I’ve always believed that art can be defined as a conversation between the person that creates and the person who observes.  My end of the conversation is, “Hey, look at Bartholomew, my copper winged-piggy bank.”

What is your reply?

Peace.

I spent a lot of time wondering and worry about whether or not I’m living up to what other people believe is my potential.  There it is.

The truth is, I probably could do anything I put my mind to.  I learn easily and well.  I test extremely well.  If I am motivated, I am unstoppable.    The only person that ever really tries to get in my way is, well, me.  And I can usually shut me up with the promise of a good scone.

So why, on paper, does it look like I haven’t done much with that potential to succeed?  I spend countless hours worrying that I won’t be seen as accomplished enough, cool enough, but that  doesn’t seem to get me motivated.

While I was slicing potatoes for a gratin, it occurred to me.  I am as successful as I really want to be right now.  I am a mother, wife, and friend.  I’m a damn good cook.  I’m usually patient and often kind.  I am beginning to reconnect with my writing (despite a four day absence here, sorry, y’all).  I am reading more, creating more, slowing down more often to be so fucking thankful that I can barely breathe for the beauty of it.  Why wouldn’t that be an absolutely beautiful definition of success?

It is.  So … goals.

• Cook amazing food.
• Write honest words.
• Value and trust my own definition of success.
• Be fluid enough to let the three above goals evolve and change as needed.

I am just as deaf as I am blind. The problems of deafness are deeper and more complex, if not more important than those of blindness. Deafness is a much worse misfortune. For it means the loss of the most vital stimulus– the sound of the voice that brings language, sets thoughts astir, and keeps us in the intellectual company of man.

Blindness separates us from things but deafness separates us from people.

Children who hear acquire language without any particular effort; the words that fall from others’ lips they catch on the wing, as it were, delightedly, while the little deaf child must trap them by a slow and often painful process. But whatever the process, the result is wonderful. Gradually from naming an object we advance step by step until we have traversed the vast distance between our first stammered syllable and the sweep of thought in a line of Shakespeare.

Helen Keller

Tomorrow, I’ll probably post more about this.   My son has a bilateral sensorineural hearing impairment that he was born with.  Right now, he’s having a really hard time in school because of it, even with aids. I am having a really hard time getting his primary teachers to understand what they are dealing with.

Right now, we have a new moon.  Yay!

What I’m saying is, new stuff is pretty awesome.

Also, I like numbers.  For the longest time, I never really had a lucky number.  It comes back to when someone asks me to name my favorite x (x being animal, plant, food, book, song, etc) .  How can I pick just one?  They’re all so cool, and for so many reasons.  Ultimately, though, I can narrow it down to two numbers.  Three and Seven.   So I like 37 and and 73 and any combination of those digits, as long as they are both there.  The challenge comes in when trying to pick out what day of the month I would then like best, because there is no 37 on the calendar.  Over time, I realized that 23 is my favorite calendar day.  I guess the two looks enough like a seven?  I don’t know.  As I said.  Crazy.

I like 23 so much that I moved my alternate birthday to June 23 (from February 10, because February is the worst month ever.  Cold.  Gray.  Dismal.  That’s why it’s the shortest month, because everyone hates it.)

So today, I’ve got my new (in the moon) and my stand-in favorite number (23).  Also, it’s the beginning of the Chinese New Year.  Not my tradition, but it’s a whole lot of people celebrating the new.

Every bit of this post could and should be explained in a way that doesn’t make me seem quite so … we’ll go with quirky, but I need to be working on a short story for a competition, and then I need to make dinner for some friends who are coming over.  I simply don’t have the time to seem like a functioning and totally not crazy member of society right now.

Plus, I love the word crazy.  Way more fun than going by a diagnosis all the time.

Also, I can’t seem to find a good way to end this.  I don’t want anyone to think I’m making light of mental health issues.  I am actually diagnosed bipolar.

But really, doesn’t crazy seem more fun?

Peace.

I toastered up an Eggo waffle, then sat down at the desk and wrote this on some post it notes.

Yeah. Don't.

Then I went to bed.

When I woke up this morning, I got up, got dressed, made a pot of tea and a batch of oatmeal scones.  I read stories and caught up with some old friends.  I caught up with myself a bit, too.  I haven’t felt the gnawing hunger in my gut that I’ve felt since last Monday.  I have been kinder in my thoughts and words.  I’ve been alone most of the day, but no lonely.  And despite a near-tragic lack of sleep from going to bed so into the quiet hours of the morning, I am not physically and mentally tired the way I’ve been for the past week.

Also, this was dinner, so that helped.

Ain't nothin' that some stir fried veggies and udon noodles can't fix, y'all.

Am I fixed?  No.  It’d be silly to think that one cathartic moment fixes the years of bad mental training I’ve forced upon myself.  But I’m trying.  And I feel very optimistic.  And a little silly.  In a good way.

By the way, if you haven’t seen United States of Tara yet, try to check it out.  The writing is superb, as is Toni Collette (duh.  Isn’t she always?)

Every time I am told that I have hurt someone, it wounds me.  I focus on it for weeks on end, ultimately compressing that injury into a tiny ball of scar tissue that hangs around in my heart.  When I want to sink into my own neuroses, I pull out that little ball of scar tissue, roll it around in my hands, taste it.  Remember why I am unworthy of even basic human respect … unworthy of treating myself kindly.

That’s pretty shitty behavior.  I don’t like about myself that I can wallow so effectively, and yet still find that I have done harm to others.  So the methods I have used (defending my actions, holding onto my offenses) hasn’t been effective.  It’s time to make a change.  So for that change, rather than defend myself, I’m going to explore all the ways my friend has a valid perception of me.

I try to parent my friends.  I want them to be safe, well, and very very happy.  I offer too much advice, too much unasked-for guidance to them, because I want them to find all the beauty and peace that they each deserve.  Though my motives are good, it is overbearing, and comes off as the behavior of a judgemental know-it-all.

I am opinionated.  So very opinionated.  And my opinions often come out before I word them carefully.  My opinions also often arrive before I realize that no one asked my opinion at all.

I can be very abrasive.  In the options of fight or flight, if I believe the wellbeing or feelings of my loved ones are at stake, I always choose fight.  I am often wrong that anything at all is at stake, and I therefore come off unnecessarily confrontational to the people I consider to be a threat to the ones I love.  Also, I am far too prone to believe that the danger to the person I love is themselves.  Fighting a friend to save that same friend is … well, fucking ridiculous.

I am sensitive.  Not sensitive … I am raw.  I am so easily hurt, or reminded of past hurts, by almost anything.  If I mention a personal interest and don’t receive a response, I know that I am being slighted.  If no one laughs at my jokes, I know that I will always be that awkward ugly girl in sixth grade who laughed at her own jokes.  That girl who still feels easily how mean the cool kids can be when you are a know-it-all weirdo.  That sensitivity feeds into how opinionated I can be, and a cycle gets created.

I am a procrastinator.  I wait to share all the ugly little scars and bruises that make up my psyche until everything in me is so tense and taut that I am more likely to lash out.

I wallow.  Hell, this whole post is about me trying to stop wallowing and continue to be a better person, so that probably goes without explanation.

The things above … I own those.  Those are in me.  I am that person.  All things that I can work on, do work on, and will continue to work on.  I can be more trusting of people in my life to make their own decisions.  I can be more patient with my opinions.  I can share more and judge less.

But I cannot quit wanting desperately for all the people I love to have all the happiness and beauty that their awesome existence (and their awesome gift to me by their existence) demands.  I will always want so much for everyone to find all the wonders of the world.  But maybe I can learn to accept that I don’t always have the right answers for them.  I can let them find these things for themselves, and just be so fucking thankful that I get to witness them doing so.

And maybe if I see it enough, I’ll start seeing more of the things that have got to be there for me to discover as well.  No one hates me as much as I do.  I have to believe that I am the one who has been wrong all along.

Peace.

So instead, today, I give you a list of what’s coming up in my world.

1. I signed up for NYC Midnight’s short story challenge, and that begins tomorrow.  I’ve been involved in a few of their past contests, and managed to win the 100 Character Micro-fiction contest back in the summer.  It’s all good fun, and the prompts tend to get my creativity fueled for a few months after any challenge.  Win either way.
2. I finished the unending scarf, and the rug-hooked pineapple.  I’ve now moved on to deciding what the next finished project will be, but my marathon rug-hooking session (I initially left out the rug from that phrase and it had a whole new meaning) left me with a weirdly sore and swollen middle finger, so I have to wait before I can craft again.  I used to be terrified of amputation, but now I’m only afraid of losing my middle finger.  I use it a lot.  Crafting.  Flipping birds.  Flipping OFF birds (fuckin’ birds).
3. I picked up a case for my phone today.  And some earbuds.  But the earbuds suck so I’m taking them back to the store.  I know you wanted to know.  You are welcome.
4. I am starting to crave the creation of some visual art.  I’m bad at art, but it’s all I can think about.  I’ll draw some stick figures soon, or something.

Peace!

After a few weeks, it all becomes an internal battle between loving myself for who I am and trying to be the best I can be, and absolutely loathing everything from my opinionated statements to the blackheads on the side of my nose to the sound of my own breathing.  Yesterday was a day where the loathing was beating up on the loving.  So I decided to finish the neverending scarf.

It finally ended.

Now that that is blocking, I had to decide on another long-delayed project from the craft cabinet/hellpit of making shit.  So speaking of hellpit:

Motherfucking rug-hooked pineapple, yo. Hardcore.

I can’t remember why I wanted to rug hook a pineapple, and I have no guesses as to how long ago I started this thing.  I picked up the kit at a Fiber Festival, maybe in Ohio, maybe in Wisconsin, maybe from the depths of home decor’s nightmares.  But here it is, a rug-hooked pineapple.  Or some of it.

By the rules of the challenge, until I finish this thing, I can’t work on anything else.   I’m hoping that is motivation enough to finish it quickly, because seriously.  Rug-hooked pineapple.

Peace.