the perils of leisure

I Am Not A Baby Person (Which Does NOT Make Me Evil)

Ok. please sit down, people, because this is going to be one long rant.

I like babies. I mean, they have their moments. They can be funny and goofy and warm and toasty. Holding them sometimes feels good. Occasionally, they even smell good. And, it is fun to marvel at how small everything is -- tiny toes, tiny hands, tiny nails, etc..

However, these babies, they can also be cranky. Cranky to the point where you can't believe those sounds are coming out of that small wriggling thing on mom's lap. Holding them can get tiring, especially when they insist on wiggling incessantly to where you panic, thinking their little heads are just going to snap.

And often, they don't smell very good.

So you see, I'm of the camp -- and there are many of us, I assure you, it's just that most of us are in the proverbial closet -- that sees both the good and the bad regarding baby maintenance. I am not one of those people who gushes every time they see a baby -- any baby, even Satan's spawn (you know who you are). As a matter of fact, truth be told, I don't think that every baby is cute (gasp). Some are downright surly and therefore, not cute. I also don't see every miniscule thing they do as cause for celebration. And, it kind of bugs me that they are in this limbo between being little human lumps who eat and poop, offering only the occasional smile, and actual people with personalities who can understand what they see and hear and provide feedback. In other words, I like them better when they grow out of the whole newborn phase.

But more than my general apathy toward babies, is my seething disdain for the cackling throngs of middle-aged women (you know the ones, they comprise most of the Oprah demographic) who turn into embarrassing displays of emotional abandon at the sight of a newborn. These people, mostly female, are my tipping points -- taking my general apathy and pushing it over to a rebelious dislike of all things baby.

So, really, it isn't so much babies that I have issues with, it's the types of adults described above which always seem to be around when babies are present. They sense my take-it-or-leave-it attitude toward fawning over a baby and become downright hostile. They can't believe that, possessing a pair of ovaries, I would actually be capable of walking away from a baby without the usual fanfare. They view me as a cold, hard shell of a woman with no maternal instincts -- destined to live an empty life.

And, maybe they're right. Maybe I am evil.

But seriously, when I'm telling you I really don't feel like holding your little grand niece while you go put in another load of laundry, do not, under any circumstances, look at me as though I've just bludgeoned someone to death and then proceed to ask me again and again (ignoring the fact that all of your immediate male family members are standing right next to you and could easily step-up to the plate and the fact that I have about ten things I'm in the middle of which demand immediate attention) while forcibly foisting her onto me. Because I will not be pleased.

See, I'm selective in my affections toward babies. I love my friends' children because they are a part of people I love and admire and because I've spent time with them and bonded with them and watched them eat fruity pebbles while simultaneously playing PS2. I also love any baby related to me because they're part of me and my family. Sometimes I see a stranger's offspring and something about him or her draws me over and I poke, prod, nudge, play and gush. But, if your kid is a total brat and annoys the shit out of me, or if he or she is your basic human newborn, offering no real reason to want to invest other than cuteness (which is totally subjective), then please don't expect me to gush or offer glowing reviews when I don't even know you.

It's like this: I generally dig babies to an extent. I don't dig them enough to gush at any random specimen placed before me. A lot of my affections toward specific babies comes from time investment or familiarity with said baby and it's parents (this includes online friends, offline friends and family members). As far as having one myself, I can take it or leave it. If it happened I'd most likely behave like everyone else and think that everything my baby did was just the cat's meow. Much like my obsession with my belly (the scar, the surgery, etc.), I'd probably talk about him or her incessantly and annoy everyone around me. But, I am just not into the general idea of them enough to be enthusiastic about each one that crosses my path.

This does not make me evil. I repeat, THIS DOES NOT MAKE ME EVIL.

Now, as far as random furry bits of cuteness, that's a whole other post. I guess you can say that in the same way some people are cat people or dog people and being of one or the other camp wouldn't necessarily hate or hurt or even dislike the opposing camp, I am the same way about babies and animal pals -- the latter being a place where all members thrill me and elicit compassion and empathy and where I choose to pitch my tent and the former being a camp I visit occasionally to see some members I really dig.

And, just so you don't think I'm some heartless shrew ('cause I know that's what some of you are thinking because you most likely ignored everything I wrote after I listed the negative aspects of this whole baby thing for me), I just spent an entire evening last Friday hanging out with my friends' kids, playing PS2, listening to her little son describe all of his drawings (there were about 60) in great detail and then baby-sitting and sucking snot out of E's baby cousin's nose.

Also, there's this.

And there you have it.

Ginger Altoid: Cruel joke or simple error in judgement?

Ginger Altoids=bad joke played on innocent hipsters.

Really, though, ginger and mint?

Anyway, after spitting out the Ginger Altoid (and no, I'm not implying that I am in any way hip, just that that's obviously the demographic they're marketing to), I had to cleanse my palette with some good 'ol fashioned Jolly Ranchers. Remember those?

I am such a product of my youth.

And, for those who care, it was watermelon. Also, you can find those Jolly Rancher sticks at your local iParty. Because, as we know, despite containing the same chemistry as the Jolly Rancher suckers, the sticks somehow taste better. Can't explain it, but it's true. It's like the whole Motrin vs. Advil thing with me. Motrin works, Advil doesn't. They're both Ibuprofin, yet for some reason, Advil does nothing for me. Also, the cream version of Aspercreme seems to work better for me than the lotion version. Again, same contents, different effects.

It's probably all psychological. Everything with me seems to be psychological, so why not this?
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[Listening to: Pearl from the album Whirlpool by Chapterhouse]

Fresh Start

I feel all fresh starty after this whole surgery thing. I could actually get all weird and meditative and go on and on about all of the weird body things that are happening to me which could be seen as metaphors for the psychological shifts in my thinking -- but I won't.

Instead, I'll just talk about the weird body stuff and maybe ruminate a little on my new outlook.

First of all, my belly button looks different. Squished. It's a strange thing to look down at something that is part of your body -- something that's looked the same way for thirty-three years -- and see it completely transformed, and, to actually miss the way it looked. I mean, I know it's only a belly button. I also know that were it not for the slicing of my innards I wouldn't be here now typing this into the internet ether. But, I miss my belly button!

Secondly, where my belly was once round and ball-like when bloated, it now looks like the McDonald's Arches. At the point where the skin meets -- the incision site, as it's called by my cutie-patootie surgeon (more on this later) -- things just sort of dip and it looks like a round, subtle "m." I miss my round belly!

Thirdly, there's the issue of my hair. Apparently, it's common for hair loss to occur after major surgery, but people, I love having hair and this is most disturbing. When you shower daily and discover a week's worth of hair at your feet -- it isn't pleasant. My doctor assures me that it is most likely temporary and that things should clear up in six months. But, she obviously doesn't get the intense anxiety I'm feeling around this matter. I have all sorts of scary life events to attend in May. Things like art college reunions**, my father's wedding and an anniversary party for my grandparent's sixtieth wedding anniversary -- all things I can't easily get out of and would actually like to attend -- and the prospect of seeing people I haven't seen in ten years while dealing with these surly cosmetic issues, doesn't thrill me.

**Can you people believe that my TEN YEAR RISD reunion is coming up? Ten years!

What have I learned from all of this?

One: I'm obviously not a good candidate for radical cosmetic surgery. I've sort of become attached to certain body parts and they way they look -- good or bad -- and I think I'd miss their former expressions.

Two: I'm still vain enough to be stressed out about hair loss when I should really be grateful that I'm here at all and that it is hopefully temporary and hopefully not the Big C.

But the reason I feel so fresh starty is that all of this feels like a purging. I feel like my paradigm has shifted and my body is following it's lead. Or something like that. And it feels like a chance to sort of reinvent myself.

Ugh. I know, I disgusted myself too, but that how it feels anyway.

But back to my Cutie Patootie surgeon. He's a very round person. He has a cute round head and roundish hands. He looks boyish, yet when he speaks, sounds like some sort of major book nerd. I love that! Every time he'd bend over my belly to examine the Incision Site, I'd get this irrepressible urge to pat him on the head. Thankfully, I resisted, but still! This man was up to his elbows with my innards and that in and of itself is a strange, strange thing. While I know nothing about him -- I feel...close. I mean, close in the sense that he handled my innards. Like that.

Wow. this was supposed to be all about new beginnings and new ideas and all of that and it turned into scattered ramblings about my belly (I just can't stop talking about it) and related body parts. I promise, at some point, I will get back to talking about normal stuff like a normal person.

My Little Fanboy

It's 6am, we're in bed -- awake. E is scrolling through the digital cable menu for something to lull us into sleep. As he's scrolling, I notice the fated title: Star Wars Episode Two. I inwardly cringe because I'm tired and I know what's coming. It isn't long before E notices that SWe2 (I made that up follwing in the great traditions of AHWoSG and LotR) is on and not long before we're watching Natalie Portman and the brillo-pad-haired guy (can't remember his name at the moment) frolic on the hill. It also isn't long before I am embroiled in a pulp-fiction-esque discourse on the inconsistencies between the original trilogy and the current films - a discussion we've had SEVERAL TIMES ALREADY, each time prompted by some wacky, obscure detail in one of the current films which doesn't meet with E's satisfaction.

Sigh. Damn you, Cox Cable!*

*And, really, why would anyone name their company "Cox?"

I roll over and quietly thank the Powers That Be that he doesn't like sports. Then, warm waves of mushy swirl over me because I realize that he doesn't like sports and I just can't believe how lucky I am to have my little fanboy.

Birthday Highlights

Excerpt from a phone call with Dad yesterday afternoon:

Dad: Hi sweetheart! Happy Birthday!
Me: Hi Daddy (yes, it's true, I still call him "Daddy")
Dad: Do you know how old you are?
Me: Uh, yeah! Do you know how old I am? (I'll never let my Dad forget that he couldn't remember how old I was one year)
Dad: [laughter] You're getting old, girl! [more laughter]
Me: [laughter and then shock at realization that, yes, I, in fact, AM OLD]
Dad: Ok, I have to get back to work. Stop by tonight so I can give you your gift.
Dad: Ok, bye Daddy (I continue to call him this partly because it makes me feel young. Sad and pathetic, yes, but true nonetheless)

Unlike most people who climb the age ladder, I actually like having my birthday acknowledged. People are so nice and warm when they realize you've managed to survive another year on the planet. All the cake and cookies and movies and goodies make for good distractions from the fact that I am one year closer to death. So, I say, bring it on!

Highlights:

1. Fresh tulips from Eric
2. Chocolate cherry cake
3. Movie passes
4. Love coupons promising foot rubs, dinner, massages and all sorts of other fun stuff
5. Fun phone calls and IMs from friends and family
6. Books
7. Moleskine sketchbook, notebook and squared book (for practising Kana)
8. Everyday Matters by Danny Gregory
9. Pimsleur Japanese language CDs
10. Cell phone (they finally broke me after years without this gadget!)

I say that the thirties are the new twenties. Yep, that's what I say and I'm stickin' to that. Ahem.

I Think I'm Learning Japanese

Somehow, I got it into my head that trying to learn Japanese would be a good idea right now.

It all started with my discovery of the Mythology section at the new Super Barnes and Noble down the road. I was looking for books on symbols for some illustration I'm working on, and not only did I find tons of stuff I had no idea existed, but I found a few side jems as well: a book on Japanese Myths and Folktales, Joseph Campbell's Asia Journals and this amazing, chunky coffee table monograph on Hokusai -- so lush and so thorough, I though I was going to cry. And, before I even made it to the Mythology section to look for books on symbology, I had picked up Haruki Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle because I have been in Japan-mode for about, well for years, actually, but recently it's gotten more intense. The universe or Buddha or someone has been throwing Japanese-related stuff at me for about six months now with uninterrupted fury, taking my interest in Japan and it's culture and art to a new level.

So anyway, through some weird series of successive tangents, I somehow ended up developing a fiery passion for learning Japanese. What was once a fleeting desire, has turned into an actual pursuit, complete with related art projects based on the origin and meaning of the pictograms (see the symbology connection? see?).

What this all boils down to is that I am currently using my sit-on-my-ass recouperating time to do some self-study of the Kana and Kanji in order to be well-prepared for a summer class.

A few notes on the whole mess:

1. The Japanese use three alphabets. THREE. THREE!

2. There are many books and many opinions on the best methods for self-study. So much so, that my brain has officially wrinkled. I think searching for the best materials has been harder than remembering the Kanji. Seriously.

3. This is so much fun and so cool, I can't stand it. Just yesterday, I was watching a bit of anime and I actually recognized some Japanese characters. Woo!

At the very least, I should get a good art project or two out of this whole mess and I may even come out of it with some basic knowledge of Japanese. Either way, it feels good to actually do something other than surfing the net while watching Ellen.

Here are some more books I've picked up from either the library or the store since the initial purchases:

Symbols of Japan: Thematic Motiffs In Art and Design by Merrily C. Baird

Narita Inspected by Lopetz (editor)

The Japanese Experience: Inevitable by Margrit Brehm (editor)

Essential Kanji by P.G. O'Neil

A Guide To Remembering Japanese Characters by Henshall

Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami

Haruki Murakami and The Music of Words by Rubin

There are more, but this is getting out-of-hand, so I'll stop here.

Scarbelly

So, ever since they cut a six inch hole in my abdomen, I've had the urge to share it with everyone I meet. I've become like those old ladies who discuss their health issues at tedious length with anyone who'll listen. You'd think I was the only one to ever go under the knife and have my innards splayed for all to see.

Sheesh!

If I'm not trying to whip off my jeans to display the scar, I'm going on and on about how weird it was to have someone else's blood products injected into my body. How during the first one, I was happily oblivious to the ten minute window from the point of injection where you can become VIOLENTLY ILL and how I was only told about this after the fact because everyone knew what an obsessive hypochondriac I am. Or, I'm telling people about how my potassium levels were so low they thought I was going to code and how even this crucial tidbit didn't deter me from refusing to take the inch thick, two-inch wide horse pill they tried to shove down my throat (I live on the edge). Or, I'm going on about how I thought I had Fibromyalgia previous to the surgery and how all of those aches and pains and wobbly attempts at walking were the result of a severe case of anemia. Or, I'm showing people my arms and pointing out the numerous bruises and weird little hard spots from all the IV's and blood tests that STILL linger even after two months. Or, I'm going on about my post-op infection (too nasty to mention here [yes, it's true]). Or, I'm extolling the many dark virtues of the morphine pump (oh, the morphine pump...). Or, I'm recounting the conversation the doctor had with me two days before release where he got all doom and gloom and explained that I seriously almost KICKED THE BUCKET.

During the past two months, I've sort of perfected the art of telling this tale. I've picked out all the highlights of the experience -- both good and bad -- and crafted them into vignettes which I recount the same way each time. People laugh, they express shock and horror and even ask questions in all the appropriate places. It's like some sort of monologue or stand-up routine or something.

It's gotten to the point where I'm actually bored with myself.

But not so bored that I'd be above posting pictures of the scar for posterity...

I'm just sayin.

Lo-Fi

This is all I could muster for now regarding the redesign. I've been too busy stuffing my face with generic brand shortbread cookies to really take the time needed for a full-fledged reorganization of my virtual self. Something new is in the works, it just isn't done yet and I started to feel like I wanted to post, so I came up with a Lo-Fi Transitional Approach (thanks, TypePad).

Down With 2003

For those of you still checking this page, wondering when/if i'll ever post again, I figured I should offer up some sort of explanation for my absence.

2003 ended with a nasty hospital stay involving lots of IVs, blood transfusions, removed appendixes (is that how you spell that or is it more like appendicis?), anemia, B12 deficiencies and other assorted nastiness.

Basically, my appendix ruptured on Thanksgiving Day and I ended up being whisked away for emergency surgery at around 2am.

Because of the assorted complications and a post-op infection, I am still not 100% and recovery has been slow -- hence the lack of updates.

Also, on top of everything else, my laptop died a fiery death in the hospital room during the second week.

BUT...

I have learned many things from this experience. Too many to list here and maybe requiring an entirely new post where I wax and wane about epiphanies and major life changes, but I don't have the energy or organization of mind to do it right now, so...

I'll leave you all with the promise of a new design soon, and more frequent updates (also soon).

Update

It's been a weird month, people. A weird, weird month.

Highlights Include:

1. I've discovered the fine art of knitting. It turns out to be just the thing I needed to get my creative juices juicing again. Actually making something with my own two hands (and a pair of fine Japanese Bamboo needles) that I can feel, see, hold and actually wear is just, well, swell. I finished my first scarf -- every newbie's initiation project -- and am ready to try some fingerless gloves knitted in the round with some double pointed needles. Yikes.

But the scarf! The scarf was made with fur, people, FUR! It measures about 10" x 50" and is so soft and warm it makes me want to cry. It's my Linus blanket. I carry it everywhere.

Also, the repetitious nature of the knitting is very meditative and calms my way too fragile nerves. Plus, it's fun to plot out the next project -- picking out luscious yarns, planning designs on grid paper, learning some new technique in general.

I am addicted.

I found myself at the damn bookstore the other night actually perusing the craft mags looking for the new holiday issues of all the knitting zines. How old am I?

2. The knitting has somehow penetrated the strange apathy that I'd developed toward anything design related. I can't explain it, but for the past few months, the thought of designing anything web or print related just made the fibers of my very being cringe. No original ideas were flowing for resume/portfolio redesigns and the blog, well, you've seen it and so you know.

But now, now I'm swirling with ideas. Ever since I sewed in my last yarn tail last night, I've had this weird and boundless creative impulse. Hopefully it'll last.

3. I've been listening to strangely epic amounts of Chritsmas music this past week. Normally I don't start until after Thanksgiving as a rule, but somehow I needed it earlier this year. It is a little strange listening to Christmas tunes on the iPod, but I don't care.

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Expect some design updates soon. Really!