On Achievement

FINALLY!

I crafted the elusive fingerless glove. If you know me and are a friend or kin to me, this benefits you. Fingerless gloves for all!

My hands are smiling.

Also, HAPPY HOLIDAYS dear readers.

On Knitting

If you read the previous post, you know I like getting crafty. I have an affinity for knitting, which I've been doing for about 7 or 8 years. For the the first 6 or so years, I was content making scarf after scarf in a variety of patterns, colors, and stitches. It recently occurred to me that I should be progressing in this craft, so this will be my winter of experimentation. With loads of support from my knit buddy numero uno, B, I've undertaken knitting in the round. I can now make a pretty decent glove. My next challenge is the dreaded sock.

Hopefully this season will breed tons of cool stuff that I could possibly end up selling . . . or bestowing as gifts.

Here's a recent pattern I've been working from: Pele

Just thought I'd share this, as it is the hobby that is consuming much of my time these days.

Updates and pictures to come.

On Joy

So a few days ago, my friend and sometimes life coach Kate passed a little mission on to me. I have to name six things I do for joy and then pass it on to 6 more creative bloggers. Sadly (or happily), all the creative bloggers I know have already received and fulfilled this little mission. Nonetheless, I present Six Things that Bring Me Joy:

1) Going to the craft store is one of my favorite things to do. Not sure how many of you know this buy I'm crafty. Not in the conniving soap opera way, in the I knit, crochet, and make and paint things for fun way. I love looking at the yarn and beads and buttons and ribbon and fantasizing about future projects. Taking me to a craft store is like taking a puppy to a Milkbone factory, which brings me to my next source of joy . . .

2) Petting/harassing/baby talking dogs - Everyone who knows me knows I'm am a dog fanatic. I absolutely love them, all of them. My neighborhood is filled with dogs and not a day goes by that I don't inform a neighbor of how cute their schnauzer is or ask to pet an enthusiastic choco lab. I have two dogs back home that I miss terrible, especially in the winter, which is prime bedtime snuggle season.

3) I feed pigeons. Yes what some call "flying rats." Not only do I feed them, I feed them from my palm. Baltimore is full of bold pigeons who will walk right up to you and, when offered, will pluck a piece of blueberry muffin from your hand. They are such sad, hated little birds and it makes me feel good to be kind to them.

4) I nap. Gratuitously. Not just an hour but 3 or 4 of dreamless, wonderful sleep. It does a body good. Yes, better than milk.

5) I give gifts, little ones, usually handmade -- a mix CD, a scarf, a pint of gin (I wish I could say I make gin) -- it's one of the ways I show my appreciation for the people I care about.

6) Kissing (no explanation required)

This list was fun to make and I've loved reading my fellow bloggers' lists. What's astounding is that all the listed joyful items were so very simple. I feel lucky to know such down to earth human beings. Taking stock in the things that give one joy is essential to a happy life. I hope everyone who reads this will take on this mission or at least think about the little things that keep us going and enjoying life.

On Shucking

Last weekend, the boyfriend and I made one of our weekly trips to Whole Foods. I'm not much for cooking, but I love grocery shopping. The Whole Foods doors are probably my favorite doors to walk through because upon entering you're hit with the delightful and surprisingly still lingering scent of cinnamon. I say surprisingly lingering because a few weeks ago the doorway was full of whole sticks, skinny tree branch size sticks, of real cinnamon. The cinnamon is long gone, but you wouldn't know it from smelling that entryway.

Cinnamon must have some favorable aroma therapy use because as soon as I walk through those doors I'm instantly put in a good mood. Aroma-marketing perhaps . . .

We wind our usual way through the store, making our requisite first stop in the fruit and veggies section. I should eat more fruit -- I've been trying -- but I basically have accepted that I'm a meatatarian. I'm ok with that. I can appreciate the colors though. Aesthetically, fruit and veggies are beautiful. The boyfriend and I discovered a some sort of fruit called a Buddha hands lemon, which basically looks like a tentacled lemon. We decided to rename it squid monster lemon and return for it once we figured out what to do with it. I like fruits and veggies because they're real lookers, much more visually stimulating than red/pink/gray meat. I'm all for feasting my eyes, sometimes my mouth, if I'm pressed upon.

We usually pass the seafood (bf is not a fan) but this trip oysters were on sale. Neither of us can turn down oysters and these were especially fresh, as in sealed shut and still alive. We decided to buy six.

Excited about fresh, FRESH oysters, we left soon after. I, now calling myself the walrus, and bf, the carpenter. How hard could shucking oysters be?

Hard.

Like every living thing, the oyster doesn't want to die and will use its natural defenses to keep from becoming dinner. Evolution did them well. Picking up the oyster and examining it, you are hardly able to see where the top and bottom meet. As long as they're cold (read: alive) they seal themselves shut, leading a very insular life. They only open when they die. Turning it round and round, if I didn't know any better, I'd think we'd just bought some exceptionally flat rocks. But boyfriend is a determined one and immediately went to prying at a possible hinge with a flat screwdriver. I, much more hesitant, got a butter knife and joined the struggle.

For at least ten minutes -- nothing. I swear the oysters were laughing at us. Little bubbles were forming at the "mouth" of one. Force wasn't working, so I decided to get literary by reciting "The Walrus and the Carpenter" to them. This was meant to scare them out of their shells, but I probably strengthened their resolve.

Finally, boyfriend got one open and I few minutes later I claimed my own. Small victories. It took us another 10 minutes to pry one more apart, after which we gave up. We put the remaining three oysters back on ice to let them think about their decision. We ate the three half-shelled ones and vowed never to shuck again.

***Fun Fact: If the oyster is really fresh, there's a good chance it's still alive when you eat it.

On Small Gatherings

Last Friday, I had a small gathering at my house that consisted of the boyfriend, my sister, her friend, and a friend of mine that was visiting from West Virginia. The whole thing started out kinda slow and awkward, with me suggesting several times that we just head over to Brewer's Art insanely early (8:30pm).

Five days later, I'm still wondering how this small, initially hopelessly boring gathering ended in an arrest, a freak out, an old school flash, and a little accident between one guest and my comforter.

. . . to be continued . . .

On Self-imposed Starvation

If you knew me, you know I would never starve myself. Even if you don't know me, you could probably guess my stance on food. It's wonderful. And it's especially wonderful if it involves cheese and/or meat and/or bread.

My entire childhood, I was thin thin thin. Like sickly thin, but not sick. I hated it. I wanted to look normal like other children, but at that time, I was genetically predisposed to being thin. I just couldn't help it. Despite my best efforts to gain weight (eating terrible things, drinking Ensure with every meal) I stayed small and got made fun of for all my trouble. The only good thing about being so thin was that I could eat anything I want and not worry about the consequences.

From sixth to twelfth grade, the question that was posed to me most by bullies and friends alike was, "Why are you so boney?"

Boney. I hate that word.

This all changed when I was 19. I started on this course of medicine (what and why in a future post). To my delight, I was gaining a little weight, getting a little curvy. Guys started paying attention, I had more confidence, and no one called me "boney" anymore.

__________________

Two days ago, I had an appointment with my PCP. I hadn't had a basic check up since I was 19. Long story short, I have gained a good deal of weight since then and the doctor thinks I should lose 40 pounds, putting me somewhere around 105-110.

Now, at 23, if I even smell something mildly fattening, it goes to my thighs. My situation has reversed: Putting on weight is no sweat. It's easy as pie (ha). Losing it is . . . well . . . a problem.

I love food. I do. Eating feels good and you need it to live. But I take it to a whole 'nother level.

I credit myself as being intelligent. But when it comes to food, I'm a moron. I love quesadillas and pizza and apple turnovers, cherry pies and creme brulee, bagels, eggs, BACON, sausages, chili, cheeseburgers. Vegetables? They come out of the ground and dirt is on the ground. Eww. My mind loves these fat foods, as well as my body, which loves them so much, it sees fit to hang on the best parts of them -- the mmm mmm mmm fatty parts. My curves were lovingly crafted with not a second thought as to the increasing amount of me I was carrying.

I can stand to lose weight. But 40lbs?!

Everyone I've told about this thinks it's crazy and that the most I should lose is 25lbs. I'm up to the challenge. I want to improve my health, feel better, and such. The thing is I LIKE the way I look now. I've wanted this body for years. I like my breasts and my wonderfully prominent bum, as the Boyfriend enjoys these things, too.

Sigh.

It's so strange to be told to diet when all my life I was encouraged to eat. Being black and Southern, "good eatin'" is apart of my upbringing. Black ideals of beauty and white ideals of beauty are markedly different. My doctor (actually nurse practitioner) is a 30ish white woman. To her, I probably look unhealthy and unattractive (it's funny because she couldn't have been more than 10lbs less than me, but I need to lose weight?). White beauty, that Hollywood ideal beauty (the Friends Construct) is THIN. I am not thin anymore and I'm fine with it. To black people, I'm the physical ideal.

Chest+booty+hips=Curves=beautiful.

The Boyfriend has encouraged me to eat to be healthy and not to eat to lose weight, which I think is a good idea. I like how I look, but I do need to take into consideration that I'm older, my metabolism isn't what it used to be, and I don't want to have a heart attack at 40. My sister told me to just not eat (she, at a svelte 115 and size 0, would know a little about eating less than necessary), but that's not an option.

So onward! For the past two days I've definitely cut my portions and calorie intake. It hasn't been hard thus far, just boring. I'll miss the anticipation of a sausage and pepperoni pizza and the magic of its delivery. I guess I'll have to get my kicks in other ways. Perhaps, some fun way of getting active?

Updates to come.

*Note: This will never become a diet blog. This blog is my emotional dumpster and being called fat for the first time in my life by a doctor -- TRAUMATIZING.

I should have offered her a kick in the face. I'm Tyra Banks fat, not Rosie O'Donnell fat, bitch.

On Americans

I've never been more proud to be one.

On Philosophizing

This is the beer I had last night.

Love.

On Hereditary Alcoholism

I'm not an alcoholic. Not even close. But, my mother and father are both recovering alcoholics (my dad is more than 20 years sober, my mom, maybe 5). It follows then, that my sister and I would enjoy the occasional drink. We're related after all. Though three years ago, we barely spoke to each other. Hardcore sibling rivalry in our teens made us enemies for years. Serious enemies, like HATE isn't a strong enough word.

Anyway, all's well now. Once or twice a month, we meet up for drinks at the Brewer's Art and hang out for a few hours. Our most recent trip was Tuesday. We met up earlier than expected. As I was taking the light rail home, she got on at a stop along the way. It was all "fancy meeting you here!" tho I would not say that out loud.

We made a quick stop at my house (had to pick up some jeans for returning) then headed to the Inner Harbor for a little consuming at Filene's (is it not our patriotic duty to stimulate the economy in these times?) and a quick pomegranate margarita at Cheesecake Factory (a place I only go to drink, never eat).

After the jaunt at the Harbor, we made our way back up Charles Street on ye olde number 61 (Baltimore City public transport - yes, in fact, we roll like celebrities). The bus brought us to the corner of Charles and Chase. We made our way down the steps and into the cellar of Brewer's Art.

It looked like a slow night, though it was only a little after 8. The bar gradually began to fill and we drank and talked and made eyes at other bar patrons. We planned out an elaborate scheme in which we might take this guy's cheeseburger. She told me stories about going out with a friend and the crazy things that happen to them. My favorite of the night:

This older man offered to buy them a shot. The friend (already drunk) slurred/asked the bartender for the best tequila they had. The bartender obliged, but when the man found out, he was livid. After yelling that he couldn't afford that and therefore, would not buy it, the bartender asked him what to do. And he grunted "Give 'em half of the best and half of the worst."

So they were presented with a tequila cocktail. I don't remember whether or not they drank it.

As these outings are becoming somewhat of a tradition for us, the night could not end without us going to XS for breakfast. As always, we ordered most of the sides and shared them tapas style. I made sure she got a cab home and got to bed a little after midnight.

Our relationship has changed so much over the years. We are in a good place right now and growing closer and I wish we hadn't lost so many years feuding. But if it took all of that to get here, I don't think I'd change a thing. I went to bed drunk and full of pancakes, thankful I have a sister to share beer and late night breakfast runs with.

On Falling in Love in Fall

Because cold weather lends itself to blankets and throws and flannel sheets, so many things are more easily accomplished under the covers.

Large hot chocolate is better shared because sharing is fun and sharing calories is better.

Another shared fall delight is colds. What's more romantic than exchanging microscopic varmints via close contact -- coughs, sneezes, keeeses.

Hugs are a plentiful necessity for warmth and cheer.

On Befriending Plant Life

A few weeks ago, while waiting on the number 27 bus with the boyfriend (J), I befriended a leaf called Mortimer. I suspect that his name was not always Mortimer, but I called him that and he did not protest. Mortimer is an autumn leaf, brown and crisp, one foot step away from being many Mortimers. Had I not saved him, he'd for sure have returned to the earth "from whence he came." It happened that the boyfriend and I were headed to a garden center to check out some herbs and flowers and such. Mortimer was along for the ride, but not without precaution. He insisted on being set between the pages of my used copy of Lolita -- oh literary leaf!

30 minutes later, Mortimer, the boyfriend, and I safely arrived at the garden center. Mortimer emerged from the pages intact and the 3 of us browsed the various greenery, with Mortimer perched between my thumb and index finger. We sniffed mint and basil and rosemary; admired the mini evergreens (charlie brown Christmas trees, I call them); and saw the biggest terracotta pot I've ever seen. Mortimer loved it at first, getting to see all his long lost cousins. And such variety, noted. I reminded him that there is no need to feel ugly when nothing looks the same. We came to the rose bushes on which not one flower lived, not even a rosebud and Mortimer thought, perhaps realizing for the first time, "I will dies soon like them." And he will. I could say nothing to change this. I returned Mortimer to the pages (once leaves like him and now reincarnated with ink and letters), our trip was winding down. The boyfriend bought some potting soil and after a brief meal and Guinness at a nearby tavern, we returned home.

Mortimer sits on my nightstand next to the stack of books that is constant flux (I can't read just one book at a time). I'm never home to give him the attention he needs. He's alive, pensive and small. But I do not think he is lonely, the books are there for his company and comfort. They died, too, just as he will. Their fate will not be his. But, rarely is the end the end. A cherry seed named Randal told me that.

On picking fights with strangers

I'm applying to grad school and had been, until now, dreading a question from overstuffed applications and daft admissions officers: What is something no one would know just by looking at you?

Answer: I'm the only person I know who makes at least one enemy a day. Why not, when it's so bleeping easy? The strength of my middle finger is becoming legendary. It turns potential suitors and other unfortunate assholes into circus animals. Smiling, tame puppets one moment, then growling, gnashing predators the next.

I laugh. I laugh and wave my finger some more. I throw it up behind me and let it linger until the traffic light changes (and they speed off in anger/disappointment) or they get tired of yelling my favorite of all obscenities and my de facto nickname -- You Bitch.

It's not even 4 and I've already made an enemy, despite being chained to a desk. This one is virtual and a stalker. Not my stalker, but my sister's. *cut to Robert De Niro or Mel Gibson or some tough guy sneering "Now it's personal."

She's my little sis (by two years) and more than capable of taking care of herself. Where she will ignore the problem -- hell she won't even consider it such -- I go on the hunt. Vendetta. However, This cyber-stalker just peeved me. Making comments on every picture of her. Quoth the stalker "sexy/mysterious."

Ick.

So, I found all the pictures of hers he commented on, and made comments about him. I've dubbed him "Creeper."

We'll see how this campaign goes.

The best advice I can give on picking fights with strangers is to be sure you're 1) bigger than they are; 2) of a different sex; 3) utilizing a different mode of transportation than you (i.e. you're walking, they're in a car); 4) prepared to fake a seizure or madness should they attack.

I have the small dog mentality. I bark and yap at bigger pups just to assert my dominance. True, my dominance is imagined, but isn't fun to make-believe?!

I'm looking forward to later, 5ish. Not only do I get to leave this ad agency hell, I get to have dinner with people I truly like and respect and am in awe of, S and B. I'm keeping my eye on the clock for din din in Hampden with my lady-friends.

That was not intended to rhyme, but it's delightful it turned out that way nonetheless.