52 Figs

Signature Cocktail....

2011-06-26T17:08:00.000-07:00

I finally made, drank and basked in my own signature cocktail. I researched a lot of cocktails to find just the right one.

Now, you may be wondering why a girl needs a signature cocktail and who on earth even has one? Well, people in my family have them. My sister's signature cocktail is a Pimm's (Pimm's served with ginger ale and/or lemonade and heaps of fresh fruit and cucumber....it's DELISH). Her husband's signature cocktail is red wine, which he drinks every night and which he wears every night at the corners of his mouth, sort of like a Frenchie Joker from the Batman & Robin movies.

Okay.....I'll let you take a moment with that mental image.

Anyhoo.....my other sister's signature drink is the Hot Toddy (whiskey, honey, lemon and black tea). She serves this when it's cold and wet outside, which means she can serve it year-round since she lives in the Pacific Northwest. She also serves Hot Buttered Rums, but I think the Hot Toddy is her signature. And it's so 'her.' If you met her, you'd understand.

My husband's signature cocktail/drink is Shiner Bock beer, from Shiner, Texas. He will drink other beers....but only if he has to. If you come to our house, you'll be served Shiner. If you don't like that, you can bring your own. We're strictly a Shiner or BYOB house in these here parts. (I don't really talk like that, just so you know)

My Father-in-Law drinks Courvoisier, which he refers to as 'the spirit that lives in the glass.' He's a good time after a glass or two of that stuff. He also really likes it when I whip up some Hot Buttered Rums for an after-the-kids-go-to-bed treat.

My mother has yet to identify a signature cocktail. She'll be tempted to steal mine, but she can't have it. She'll have to find her own. If I was to chose a cocktail for her, I'd chose something strong and classic, like scotch and soda or something like that. She is married to a manly-man now, and they live on the Oregon coast, so a stiff drink goes very well, I imagine, with the stiff winds of that particular area. I can picture her in the lovely window seat she has on her second floor, watching the ocean waves crash against the rocks, perhaps an elusive submarine emerges, and she drinks her scotch and soda and is happy to be indoors.

Well, that's just my suggestion.

On to my own cocktail. It's been a long time coming. First, it's part gin & tonic. I fell in love with the classic gin and tonic in college when we would drink it during the summers. My best friend at the time, Lori, and I would drink it before we'd go out for the evening, with loads of lime, and when I drink it now it makes me feel young again, young and Texan and on the verge of dancing the night away at The Midnight Rodeo.

Fast forward about 15 years and I'm in a liquor store on Bainbridge Island picking up tequila for my Brother-In-Law's birthday bash. He's the red wine drinker, but he also has a 'thing' for margaritas, which he serves on the rocks and so strong it could take the taste buds right off your tongue. So, I was there in the store and ready to pay and low-and-behold I saw a tiny bottle of the loveliest, most exquisite kind. It was all delicate and fluted, and I picked it up and bought it. Actually, I bought two. That night, at the big fete, we opened the bottles and passed around the liquor for everyone to try (communal style out of a brandy glass, cause that's the kind of people we are), and it was just the sweetest, most delicate thing I'd ever tasted. It's quite strong alone; though I'd drink it that way if need be. It's almost like a syrup, really; though the website says it has only half the sugar of most liquors. It's difficult to explain except to say it's like drinking a bouquet of sweet-smelling, late-blooming flowers. (I'm not sure what that means, by the way, but didn't it sound good?)

It was...........St. Germaine.

Have you heard of it? I hadn't. It's French (love it already) and made of elderflowers by some adorable French men who actually take the elderflowers to market by BICYCLE. I mean.....if that's not the dog's tuxedo?

Here is a photo so you can see just what I'm talking about:

Cute or cute?

Here is a photo of the bottle itself:

Lovely or lovely?

But St. Germaine alone couldn't be my signature cocktail. So, while perusing the St. Germaine website, I came across their recipe section and what did I find there??????

The St. Germaine Gin & Tonic.....two parts gin, one part St. Germaine and three parts tonic.

And just like that....my front porch became a little bit brighter. Signature cocktail....check.

PS - any photography tips are welcome....for your own sakes, people.

PS(2) - I keep seeing motorcycle sidecars up and down the Carolina highways and it's as if they're taunting me......

On my way.....

2011-05-24T10:35:00.000-07:00

Williams Sonoma London Double Old-Fashioned Glass

I am on my way to pick up the liquor to make my signature cocktail. After much thought and research, I have chosen one cocktail in particular to master and always have on-hand.

I looked at all sorts of cocktails over the last week or so. I think it should be sort of timeless, classic, nothing too flavored or syrupy or smacking of short skirts, late-night outings at bars and clubs and a morning hangover. Nothing Sex and the City.

So, I narrowed it down in my mind, and then I spoke to my sister, Andrea. Andrea is very confident and doesn't waffle over decisions (except slipper tubs and shutters). She knew straight away what she thought my cocktail should be, and interestingly it was exactly what I thought of first and ultimately came back to myself.

So.....I'm off to buy the necessary ingredients and give it a try. I'll make a lovely little tray tonight when Ray gets home.....because a signature cocktail should be a drink one drinks regularly.

That's what Andrea says, and I agree.....which is kind of what our lives as sisters have been like.....Andrea making strong pronouncements and me standing next to her, nodding my head, one hand sort of stuck in my hair, saying, "Uh huh, Uh huh."

I'm off..........more later.

Correction

2011-05-23T19:19:00.000-07:00

Apparently kings reign and horses have reins. Ouch. And I was an English major. I stand corrected.

The Love Fig

2011-05-23T05:31:00.001-07:00

I haven't written about this fig, because I was afraid it was fleeting, my new-found love. I thought it would be much like many other adventures in my life, super-exciting at first and then...a gradual slow-down. I've done a lot of that in my life, and now I'm more cautious. I feel I must take my time to see if something will stick with me, if I will love it even after it's hard.

I have been reading a book entitled The Intentional Family, and the author argues that something isn't a ritual until you've gone away from it and come back to it....and I love the idea of that. I love it because, as a perfectionist, I always feel that whatever it is I'm doing must be done right, perfectly, the first time. If not, then I simply wasn't meant to do it, am not good at it or can't fit it into my life. I don't allow for ups and downs.

Okay....onto the fig.

I began taking horseback riding lessons three weeks ago. It was all very flurry-like because it happened so quickly and without much thought. I just saw the trainer at the local spring street festival, and she had lesson times available at the exact time I had kid-free hours available, and we set it up and it was done. I arrived at the stable on the designated day and time, and Cackie was there, waiting for me.

Cackie is my trainer. Isn't that a total horse-training name? I don't know why I think it is, since I have no experience at all with horses, trainers or people named Cackie, but it fits very well in my mind. Cackie, the horse trainer.

I had no idea what to expect. The only thing I knew was that I wanted nothing to do with English riding and would insist on Western riding lessons. I once attended a horse show in DC, and I was more than horrified by the whole dressage bit, where the horses were prancing about the ring in all sorts of humiliating attire. No, I'd rather do barrel racing and wear fringed chaps than do any of that.

Cackie teaches English-style riding, saddle seat. Only.

Okay. I wasn't going to make a fuss, and the barn had shaggy barn dogs that were slightly mangy (in a rustic rather than dank way), and the horses were peeking out from their stalls to see who I was, and I couldn't very well turn tail and go home simply because I didn't like the saddle. I said nothing. I loved it all too much, and I wasn't even on the horse yet.

Cackie asked me, "Have you been on a horse before?"

I said, "Oh yes, I rode several days on a trail ride in China."

She kind of looked at me, and I assured her that when I said "I rode" what I meant was that I sat atop the horse (with much help getting me up there) and then let him do his thing while we rode through the mountains of Sichuan looking for camp. I never used the reigns. I never said anything to the horse at all, other than a few bits of encouragement that I'm sure he felt were condescending and tedious. Anyway, I told Cackie, "I don't even really know how to get up on one of those things."

She thought that was pretty funny and assured me that by the end of our lesson, I'd at least know that much.

I got up on the horse, Ace, and Cackie told me that she was going to teach me to post.

What?

Post.

This is when the rider moves up and down the saddle to the rhythm of the horse's trot. It sounds simple. It is not simple.

Add to this that an English saddle has no horn, and what on earth did I have to hang onto for dear life?

Add to that that Cackie wouldn't let me use the reigns until I could post not only without them, but without using my hands to hold on to anything....anything. Just my thighs. Just rest them on my thighs.

I figured it would take me about a year to do that.....but I gave it my full--force effort. I focused. I rose up and down in the saddle, wobbling more than a bit and sort of flopping about while double-boucning in the seat.

"Don't double bounce," Cackie called out. "Pretend the seat is on fire."

By the end of the first lesson, I was posting with no hands.

I know.

I have had five lessons so far. It is more fun than I've had in years. YEARS, I tell you. I can't hardly think of anything else, and when I'm home all I want to do is cook and clean and play with kids so that when the next lesson comes around, I am free to focus entirely on the lesson, the horse, the posting up and down with no hands. It is exhausting, physically but also mentally. I use all my attention, focus and determination to do well. I really want to do well, not because I want praise, but because I want to learn more. I can't learn more if I don't master each step, and I desperately want to do that. It is thrilling. It is totally unpredictable (for me), and just when I think I've got something down, Cackie says to me, "Okay, here are your reigns."

Lordy, it's just lovely with the reigns. There is more control. I can steer the horse (poorly but somewhat). Ace seems to know we're in business and gets to going at a faster clip when I have the reigns. I sit up higher and post better with the reigns. And then....just when the reigns are so exciting I can barely stand it.....Cackie says, "Okay, let's use a crop."

I could go on. Instead, I will just post a short video here. I will say, in my defense, that by the end of this lesson, I was riding without the lead. But what does it matter. All of it is just so thrilling. I get to go again tomorrow. I have no idea what I'll do in a week, when the kids are out of school and I might have to postpone the lessons. I will figure it out. I must.

Here is the video.....Cackie, Ace and MamaP.

Knitting.....fussy fig.

2011-05-05T12:18:00.001-07:00

I went to the knitting shop today, and Liz (my friend's aunt) told me emphatically that I cannot start to knit a sweater until I do a gauge.

That is, I have to determine if my yarn and needles will make the same size pattern that is called for. I have no other way to better describe it. You knitters know what I'm talking about.....

It's something I have avoided, and it speaks to an issue I have with myself that I'd like to overcome. Much like egg whites in a recipe, I am fearful of doing anything I don't already know how to do and that I am uncertain I will be able to do well. I know, for example, how to knit a baby blanket. So that's what I do. I knit baby blankets. But I'm fairly certain I'll mess up a sweater or socks or gloves, so I just avoid it and knit more baby blankets....or I cook egg-white-less cakes.....or I learn only Chinese (instead of a much more practical language), or I refuse to play any sports in public. Okay, you get the point. So, this sweater is more to me than a sweater. It's a chance to go further into a subject area I'm not particularly comfortable or confident with and to actually learn how to do something well instead of being a crafting dilettante.

Anyway, I'm doing the uber-popular Shalom cardigan. Over 4,000 people have knitted it on Ravelry, and everyone says it's simple and cute. I agree about the cute part. I think it looks cozy and not super complicated and a great project for the beginning knitter.

The woman who wrote the pattern has a blog, Involving the Senses, which I like. She makes me want to add pottery to my list of figs!

Anyway, I'm going to do the gauge tonight and take it back to the shop Saturday to see if I need different needles and/or yarn. At least I got to spend an hour today getting to know Liz, and I'm getting to work on my sweater!

MamaP

Quote 21 of 52

2011-05-04T06:54:00.000-07:00

I found this today, a Swedish proverb. I want to take it on my bathroom mirror to start each day.

Fear less, hope more, eat less, chew more, whine less, breathe more, talk less, say more, hate less, love more...and good things will be yours.

MamaP

New Figs....

2011-05-03T04:53:00.000-07:00

I've been gone a long time. Here's the truth....I'm not sure yet how to download photos from my phone to my new Mac (which I love, which is genius). So, I've been lazy about postings related to the last figs I plucked.

BUT, I'm determined to do it this week. It will be so simple and easy I'll kick myself, and I'm prepared for that.

Until then......new figs.

Saturday, on a lark, I took the kids to a street fair in town. I normally don't like that sort of thing: a hot day with crowds and junk food. The only part about that picture that is redeeming and compelling is, of course, the junk food. But as I'm trying to eat healthfully and give my body a chance of being able to get around at the age of 50, I'm forgoing hotdogs and funnel cakes. But, my kids wanted to go. As it turns out, street fairs in small, charming southern towns are delightful. It was a beautiful day. The kids were amazingly well-behaved. The hotdogs were hotdogs. And the people were all sweet and kind and there was nothing dodgy at all. We had a wonderful time.

AND......two things happened.

First, I came across a woman in a booth who has a riding stable 25 minutes from here (I now live in horse country). She gives beginner riding lessons. But she didn't have much time available in the mornings. She only has Tuesday and Thursday mornings.

She frowned.

Inside my chest, my heart did a little jig. I happen to ONLY have Tuesday and Thursday mornings available.

"It's fate," she said, taking the words out of my mouth.

Okay, but here's the best part. I was worried about the cost, since private riding lessons run $65/hr. around here. She gives them for $25/half-hour, with the entire half-hour on the horse, so the lesson runs longer than that. So, I will be going twice a week (when possible), and it will only cost me $50/week.

I start next Tuesday.

I know.

I will be reporting back. I wonder how long it will take me to be able to get on top of a horse and ride, at a gallop, freely, my hair flowing........

Okay. I'll stop.

Second fig. This is complicated but stick with me. I served in the Peace Corps with a girl whose mother is from the exact small southern town I now live. Her mother has passed away, but the girl's aunt and uncle still live here. The aunt works in a knitting store here in town.

I stopped in on Saturday, on our way back to the car. The woman, the aunt, wasn't in, but it turns out she teaches an drop-in knitting lesson/tutorial on Thursday mornings at 10:30.

I know!

So, this Thursday, I'm taking my big ball of yarn, my needles and my sweater pattern and getting started. GETTING STARTED.

Whew......

I'll post again with more details and results.

I've again got momentum.....

MamaP

A Poem for Bobby Wade

2011-04-19T04:51:00.000-07:00

Morning (for Bobby Wade)

Each morning, still dark

An hour before wakefulness

You come, tiny feet

Padding up the stairs quickly first

Then slowly, you crawl

Into my bed, your back to my chest.

You scoot, settle in

And you say to me in the softest voice

Good morning, it’s time.

I lean over, kiss the wiry strands of your hair

And beg, not yet.

Turning to me with a decided grunt you kiss me

So gently, on the cheek

That my heart cracks open like a coconut shell

Making room to love you more.

A Poem for Maggie

2011-04-18T05:44:00.000-07:00

Maggie's Poem:

Periphery

I see you when you

Think I’m not looking, when I’m

Scrubbing dishes, standing at the

Window, your arms and legs a hundred

miles a minute through the grass

Of the backyard, your hair

In a stream of gold behind your neck, your feet

Carrying you from one end of the earth to

Another.

I see you when you

Are alone, dancing to jazz standards in

A ballet leotard, pink with glittered straps

Across the carpet of your room

Elbows slightly bent, toes pointed

You learned in class, head and chin

Tilted up, you leap across the carpet

Taking flight, during a supposed

Nap.

I see you when you

think I’m too busy, between

moments of direction

Do this, don’t do that, are you

Listening to me? Between morning oatmeal,

Lunchtime questions (how do dogs pick things up?)

And evening books, when you are eager to know

If Alice makes it back up that

Hole.

I see a girl with eyes that wonder

Everything, stopping to see that a bird does

In fact have a red breast. I see a

Girl tenderly touching a blade of grass, just one

To see if it’s soft or coarse or nothing

At all. I see you, Maggie, from all angles,

All sides, right and left, up and down

Every corner of your soft heart and curious

Mind.

I see you. It is everything else that is

the periphery.

Fig 29 of 52

2011-04-16T06:29:00.000-07:00

I spend a lot of time thinking about the meaning of life. I think about what I'm supposed to be doing, what I've done in the past and what my future holds. I think about potential 'other' lives and I wonder if I've learned enough in this life that my next life will be a good life. I worry that I haven't learned enough in this life, and I fear that in another life I'll come back as a heroin junkie because I'll STILL have to learn lessons about control, fear and letting go.

In the midst of all this thinking and wondering and fearing and anticipating, I miss the point of today. I blow by the now, and maybe the lesson is that the now is the only thing that matters after all.

If I stop and look at the now, I see one thing: my children. I see them and I feel them, and sometimes I lie in bed at night and cry, because it's only when I am quiet and still and can feel the weight of all my chores and projects and goals lifted off my shoulders for an hour that I take the time to really see my kids and appreciate them and feel the love of being their mother.

I want my kids to know what I feel for them, and I want to take the time to express it (for myself as much as for them) in the only way I am able to fully express myself: through writing. So, I have written them poems, finally, after years of wanting to do it.

It took years because I was afraid my poems wouldn't be good enough. I was afraid that later in their lives, my kids would pull out the poems I wrote for them and laugh and read them aloud to a wife or husband and they would kind of smirk. I'm not sure why I have this fear, because I can't imagine doing that if someone wrote me a poem, particularly a parent. And I can't imagine my kids doing that either.

And anyway, life can't be about trying to anticipate another person's response, immediate or down the road. Life can only be about what we feel and know to be true, in this moment.

I'll post the poems later today......when I have a quiet moment.

MamaP

Quote 20 of 52

2011-04-14T12:51:00.000-07:00

Basically, anything Maya Angelou says is worth quoting. I particularly like this:

Life loves to be taken by the lapel and told, "I am with you kid. Let's go."

I mean, that sounds pretty good to me.

MamaP

Pilates Update.....

2011-04-14T05:03:00.000-07:00

I went to meet Gingy last night, the Pilates guru in town. She has a lovely little studio on the 2nd floor of an old apartment building, overlooking downtown.

As I took off my jacket and slipped out of my shoes, I said, "Gingy, let me be honest. I don't want to tone a little and feel better. I want to cut the crap. I want the saddlebags gone and the tummy pulled in, and I'm willing to work for it."

She looked at me briefly, for a split second, and then she broke into a wide smile and said, "We are going to work well together."

I spent nearly two hours with Gingy, although we only probably worked out for one hour. We chatted while we worked, and we chatted after we worked. It was a lovely few hours, particularly as I'm new in town and don't yet have any friends. Gingy and I had a lot in common.

Now, regarding the nitty-gritty of the workout, let me describe it as best I can. We used the machines the entire time. The exercises are very much like the exercises you might do in a Pilates video (think Windsor Pilates), except that you're using resistance bands attached to the machines, so there is a little added umph factor. And there isn't as much tendency to flail around on the machines, because your limbs are attached to straps and/or a bar. We did several leg exercises, which were familiar to me from Windsor Pilates. For example, we did leg circles. Only with the machine, instead of just circling your legs in the air, your feet are attached to a long strap, and the strap is attached to resistance, so when you move your leg in that wide circle, you're pulling weight. Add to that the up and down motion of the pad your lying against, and it's a much stronger, more fluid workout. You're not just sitting on the floor swinging your leg. You're moving up and down while circling your leg, which is attached to a weight. Same but different.

We did about 5 leg exercises, and Gingy was mindful of my form and of how my toes were pointed and/or flexed. It's easy to ignore that part of the equation in a video. If you're focusing simply on getting that leg around in a complete circle, you can forget altogether the position of toes, but toes matter and when you do leg circles with proper toe form, it really does add a whole other dimension to the practice.

We also did arms, again with the resistance bands, and we did abs. The ab exercises, in a sort of cat position, were lovely and I usually hate abs and didn't hate these at all. Everything is just very fluid and deliberate. That's a great word for Pilates: deliberate. Particularly if you're working with a trainer, who is focusing on your form and whether or not your abs are pulled in and flat while you're working your legs. I mean, it just feels like one whole complete package instead of focusing on one part of your body.

We did a little cardio, which consisted of lying on the pad, feet on a flat black surface at the end of the machine (sort of like those lying squat machines at the gym, where you press your feet flat and push up and down like a squat). Except that instead of pushing up and down, you jump up and down (still lying). So, it's like a little ballet jump (toes pointed), except you're lying down and your machine is still attached to resistance. I know. It's confusing. I will never be a Pilates technical writer.

We did about 10 different jumps, feet in different positions, landing in different positions. I could feel my legs the entire time, all the muscles worked from different angles. My heart rate got up there (nothing like Tracy of course), but nothing was hard or too difficult. The word that comes to my mind: gentle.

I know Gingy was going easy on me because I have a tendency for lower back pain and because it was my first time. I think I could stand a lot more resistance and a tougher regime, which I'm sure she could accommodate.

I asked Gingy how often she thought I should do Pilates to get a lovely, lean, sculpted body. She said: 4 times a week while adding other exercises to my program like biking and running. She said the key is to mix it up so the muscles never get used to one thing. She said to bike once a week, run three miles another day, do the mini trampoline the third day. Then, do Pilates 4 times a week. She was pretty sure that with that regimen, and with eating well, I could achieve pretty fantastic results in no time. I admit: I was sold on it myself. And it sounded exciting.

Then, just when I was getting depressed considering the cost ($50/hr. minimum), Gingy said to me, "Would you consider being my workout partner?"

My little brain lit up in all the right places and I heard: ding, ding, ding, ding.

"Yes," I said, not sure what that meant but knowing it sounded really great.

Gingy explained that she used to work out with a client on more of a buddy basis. She still looked at the woman's form and came up with a plan for each workout, but she also worked out with the woman, so that she could fit her own fitness into the day, which is difficult for her to do with a day full of clients (she teaches as many as 10 hrs. per day). She said she could help me and teach me, but she could also workout beside me and we could keep each other motivated. For this, she would charge me $25/hr. instead of $65/hr. or, if I bought large numbers of sessions, $65/hr.

I nearly fell over with excitement. Finally, my chance at Pilates in a way I could likely keep up with for months instead of weeks. I agreed readily, and we set about making our schedule. Since my husband works and is often out of town, and since I have only two mornings a week when both kids are in school, we decided evenings were best. She didn't have mornings open, but she could work out each evening at 6:30 or 7. I thought I could swing that, but I was clear that my husband would some days be out of town or have to work late. Fine. We agreed we'd work the schedule each week and go from there.

I got into my car beyond excited. Beyond.

Then, I got home. And my husband said: No.

I could give you the blow-by-blow, but that's tedious even for the two persons involved let alone those of you in the blogosphere. So, I'll just say, he had some legitimate points. Who wants to work a long day and then come home only to have his wife leave for an hour, so that he has to put kids in the bath and then to bed? And it was going to be about 3 nights a week, give or take.

And he said: No.

Since I can't do Pilates any other time right now, I will have to wait until a time when both kids are in school and I can work it into my schedule.

To say it's disappointing is an obvious understatement, but I am learning that life is about compromise and that one fig that must be put on hold doesn't mean I can't tackle another one with enthusiasm and zest. Life can't be about the perfect moment.

So, I do look forward to private Pilates lessons one day (hopefully with Gingy at her discounted rate). I think I may love Pilates enough to end up teaching it, which would be exciting and lovely. I think Pilates could do for my body what is difficult to do at home, simply because it's hard to focus on form and precision when one is focusing on just keeping one's leg in the air. I think Pilates would be fun to do with other women, and I think it's somewhere in my future.

Until then, my disappointment is somewhat eased by the fact that I have Tracy Anderson's videos, which are fabulous and which (if I focus and practice consistently) will give me great results and keep me fit. I'm really glad I spent the one hour with Gingy, even if it was only the one hour, because it reminded me how important it is to be mindful of my body while I'm exercising, no matter the exercise, to slow down, to focus and to enjoy. I will take this approach with me during my own home-workout routines and, hopefully, in my life in general.

And, as a parting note, when I feel disappointed or discouraged, I find it helpful to sit down and write a short list of what I'm grateful for, as a reminder of how bright my world really is. To that end:

1. I'm grateful that everyone in my family is healthy and that our bodies are all fit to take on something like Pilates....or running down a hill......or climbing on monkey bars.....or climbing into bed.

2. I'm grateful my husband has a job, that we don't have to worry about his losing his job and that we don't face the stress of an uncertain employment future.

3. I'm grateful that we found this place to live, which is so charming and lovely it makes me want to cry every time I go downtown, like yesterday when I was with my son and realized that our little town still has people selling the local paper on street corners. Is that charming or what?

So, there you have it.

MamaP

Another fig.....

2011-04-13T05:05:00.001-07:00

Tonight, at 6:30 PM, I have my first personal Pilates session.

I have to take a deep breath because when I received the confirmation e-mail this morning, it included the fees per session, and I've been thinking about it all morning.

These figs are getting expensive.

A one-time session, private, is $65. If you buy in bulk, it does reduce the cost to $550 for 10 sessions or $1,000 for 20 sessions. So, you can get down to $50/session. The sessions are 1 hr. long.

Obviously, the reason I've never before done private Pilates is the cost. I mean, if I go three times a week, at the discounted rate, that's still $150 per week. PER WEEK. That's $600 per month. Per MONTH. That's enough to rent an apartment. That's more than my car payment. That's more than I spend in one month on food for my entire family. Okay, now I'm getting depressed.

Yoga is only $150 per MONTH, not per week. Granted, that's not personal, private sessions. But still. STILL.

Okay, now I'm freaking out again. And this is why I've never done this. And frankly, I think it's a pretty good reason. I don't have $600/mo. for Pilates. And even if I did, I'm not sure that's how I'd chose to spend my money. BUT.....

There has always been a lingering suspicion or idea, hanging out in the back of my mind, that Pilates is the end-all-be-all of exercise, a marriage of mind and body - the gold standard. Now, I've tried yoga, and yoga is lovely except that I started to lose muscle tone and gain weight when I stopped doing my normal workouts (Tracy Anderson) and started doing yoga. And if I'm going to spend an hour and a half a day working out, I'd like to see some lovely results.

Tracy Anderson, however, does nothing for my mind. In fact, some of her expressions I think are actually negative. For example, she talks about being 'skinny' and 'tiny' and getting rid of 'trouble areas.' I don't like to think of being tiny and I certainly don't like to think of my body having problem areas. Also, Tracy's workouts aren't particularly gentle - well, the cardio isn't. They're tough. And you have to do them everyday.

If what people say about Pilates is true, you can miraculously change your body in only three sessions a week. Three.

I'm not sure I believe that. But it's time to finally see for myself. I'm going to discuss everything with my new Pilates guru, Gingy, tonight and see what she thinks - how often does she think I need sessions, can I do work at home, how many days a week should I work out, and should I be adding cardio to the mix?

Also, Gingy (according to her website) is quite interested in overall and nutrition including a focus on raw foods. I really can't wait to talk with this woman, to hear her ideas and experiences and to see where she thinks I should be heading for overall health.

I'll post back after my session to discuss my impressions, my plan and how the heck I think I may be able to fit all of this into my life.

Stay tuned......

MamaP

Done.....

2011-04-11T16:18:00.000-07:00

and delicious. By George, it worked! The angel food cake was a big success. I think the berries I served it with were an excellent choice, soaked as they were in sugar and Grand Marnier.

For the record, a child who eats his weight in such berries, dripping in liquor, is decidely happy after dinner. I believe he's running amuck as I type this.

Pics of the lovely cake:

MamaP

In the Oven

2011-04-11T08:36:00.000-07:00

I want to workout during naps today, so I threw together the angel food cake while my son played on the kitchen floor. The cake is now in the oven. Let me just say, that was a lot of sifting, and since I didn't have a hand mixer, I used my standing mixer the entire way through.

I don't have high hopes. While most recipe reviewers said the cake is fab, one woman said her came out a heaping flop of a mess, and I somehow think this will be my future.

26 minutes to go.....

A few pics.....

This seems like a waste, but I can't think of how a dozen egg yolks would fit into a healthy diet.....

The batter, in the pan.............

I'll let you know how it turns out.........hopefully well and we'll all be eating it with Aunt Andrea's famous berries after dinner!

MamaP

Today....a new fig.

2011-04-11T04:46:00.000-07:00

Today is a good day. It's a day for figs.

I am headed to the grocery store, where I will be buying a carton of eggs, setting them out at room temperature and preparing to make an angel food cake.

As part of my healthier eating program, I am trying to make one dessert a week for my family. Then, when the dessert is done, it's done. I hope this will make us more mindful of what we're eating, less inclined to eat packaged junk and give a certain festivity to our treats that just doesn't happen with a carton of ice cream or a box of store-bought cookies. I also want to include my kids in the process of baking, so that they get to enjoy the entire process. I find food is so much better and feels more special when I make it myself.

To that end, angel food cake.

Why angel food cake? Well, it's like many things in my life that I avoid. I had a bad experience. I once made an angel food cake, early on in my relationship with my husband. We'd only been dating six months, and I wanted to make a nice dessert for dinner. I spent several hours making the cake, a Martha Stewart recipe (those can be really hit or miss) that had berries swirled through the cake.

The entire thing was a flop. And by flop, I do mean FLOP. The cake just kind of caved in on itself, in a big flopping heap of sugar and egg whites.

I felt like a complete failure. I know some people would laugh or think the recipe was off or shrug and go buy ice cream. For me, however, it was just really disappointing, standing there with my deflated cake, nothing for dessert, my then-boyfriend trying to cheer me up with false words of encouragement.

From that point on, if I ever saw egg whites in a recipe (ever), I turned the page. I refused to even try. It's those dodgy egg whites that turn a simple recipe into a mine-field of culinary pitfalls.

Okay, well, I know that's a little dramatic. Still, it's true. I avoid egg-white recipes at all cost. And really, it was likely just that recipe. Or maybe it was simply a bit of technique, easily fixed. Whatever it is, it's time to overcome it and stop fearing the egg white.

Also, I really need a good angel food cake in my culinary repertoire. It's relatively healthy and low-fat, and it's best paired with fresh berries. So, it's time to face my fears (there really are fears) and try again.

I'll let you know how it comes out.

MamaP

Pics of Fig #50

2011-04-08T10:28:00.000-07:00

Here are pics from the Nordstrom website of what I bought. The dress is shown in blue, but I got black.

Fig #50 - Timeless Dress

2011-04-08T09:58:00.000-07:00

I didn't mean to buy the perfectly fit, timeless dress. I only meant to stop by Nordstrom's dress department and try to find something for the annual Founder's Day Dinner, celebrated every year to commemorate the founding of West Point. We were going to attend, and I needed a dress. The dress code was sort of hodge-podge (unusual for the military, but we were in CA after all).

So, I was looking for something along the semi-formal lines. I hit the dress department of Nordstrom and within minutes, my excitement diminished and I thought: really? People buy this crap? And let me say, it was real crap. Cheap fabric. Awful cuts. Dodgy buttons. Way too much in the way of sequins, and the dresses were mostly really short. Like, inches above the knee short. Who wears those?

I felt suddenly very old, like when my grandmother bemoans the state of anything modern: clothing, manners, vocabulary. Then, just when I was about to give up, I saw the designer clothing section. It's small in Sacramento, but I stopped and looked and thought: maybe, just maybe, there is something to it.

Here's the thing: I've always considered designer clothes to be a rip-off, a testament to vanity and an indication that our society has become wealthy enough to be bored enough to shell out thousands of dollars for clothes that, frankly, I don't think look any better than J Crew.

But, given the offerings I'd been subjected to view, I shrugged and thought I had nothing to lose. I'd try a dress on, see that it wasn't such a much and head home. I took three dresses into the dressing room (and let me tell you that the saleswomen in designer dresses is a different breed than her dodgy-low-end counterpart). I took an Armani, a St. John and a Dolce and Gabana. The D&G was a corset-style dress, which I thought was slightly trashy but was willing to try on simply to say I'd done it. So, I started with that. I slipped into it and the girl helped me button it up the back. And then she brought me a pair of Christian Louboutin heels (the perfect size - how did she know?). I slipped into the shoes and turned around to the mirror. WOW. WOW...............wow.

The dress fit perfectly. It was tight in the right spots and not so snug in the other spots, and just when you thought a corset dress might be slightly tawdry, it hit just below the knee, which made it seem....almost.....possibly....ladylike? I walked out of the dressing room and into the main dressing area, where they have the three-way mirrors. A woman came out of another dressing room, and she stopped right there and stood there with her mouth open and looked at me and said: you have to buy that dress.

This caused a few other doors to open, and all these women came out in various states of bra/panties/jeans half pulled up, and they all agreed. I had to buy the dress. The dress....was.....amazing.

I felt like a million bucks. Really. I went back inside and tried on the Armani. The quality of a designer dress, I realized, is undeniable. No loose strings. No dodgy length. The fabrics simply slide over your skin like silk, not clinging but fitting (I realized then and there that there is a difference). The Armani was lovey, but it was ever-so-slightly boxy for my frame, and while I didn't dislike it, I didn't love it.

Then, I tried on the St. John's. It was simple. Black knit, tank top, knee-length. I slipped it over my head and it fell to my knees in one simple swoop and along the way it decided to hit every curve I might want to accentuate and bypass any curves I may want to hide. It felt like pajamas. It fit....perfectly. I slipped into the Louboutins and walked out of the dressing room. This was the dress. It was THE dress. It was perfectly cut, made of soft, supple fabric, it didn't but fit like a glove, and it was knee-length, which is perfect for me. It could be paired with a cardigan, a suit jacket, a wide belt. It could be paired with pearls, a wide bangle, a broach. It was subtle enough to go with anything and special enough to make a statement.

It was also $700. I know. To be fair, the other two dresses were both almost $1,000. So, really, it was a bargain, right?

I thought about it. I called Ray. He laughed but said to buy it if I loved it that much. I hung up and thought about it some more. I bought the dress.

Then, I went downstairs and walked into the designer shoe section and bought a pair of Prada heels.

I tried on two pair: Prada and Cole Haan. On my feet, side by side, you can't tell the difference. They're both black, patent-leather, slight platform. They look identical, in fact. But oh Lordy....the feel. It's like the dress. The cut of the shoes.....the Prada.....is amazing. You know when you wear heels and there is that gap between your ankle and the back of the shoe? And it looks like your stumbling around in your mother's heels?

Ya, doesn't exist in Prada heels. The shoes feel like they were made, then and there, by a pair of Italian shoe elves who know my feet like they know the back of their tiny little elf hands.

So, I found not only the perfect, timeless little black dress, but I found the perfect, timeless black heels to go with it.

And the irony of it all: we ended up not going to the dinner after all!

But the dress is there, in my closet, and I sometimes walk around my room in shoes (you don't stumble and teeter around in Prada) and feel like a million bucks. So, you know, it's worth it.

MamaP

Another Poem

2011-04-05T05:51:00.000-07:00

I read this the other day, in Keillor's collection (which I'm still reading): Good Poems.

I love this poem, perhaps because I'm always in the process of either settling in or thinking of leaving. I wonder what I'll do when, one day, my husband leaves the Army and I'm able (and/or forced) to choose one place to call home. I have no idea where it will be, and I wonder if I'll start to feel that urge to move again once I've settled there for a few years.....

Anyway, this poem seems to speak to me right now, as we try again to settle into a new place, with all of the inherent excitement and struggle that comes along with a move.

where we are (Gerald Locklin)

i envy those
who live in two places:
new york, say, and london;
wales and spain;
l.a. and paris;
hawaii and switzerland.

there is always the anticipation
of the change, the chance that what is wrong
is the result of where you are. i have
always loved both the freshness of
arriving and the relief of leaving. with
two homes every move would be a homecoming.
i am not even considering the weather, hot
or cold, dry or wet: i am talking about hope.

*************************

My favorite line in the poem: "....the chance that what is wrong is the result of where you are."

MamaP

Fig #39: Leg Waxing

2011-03-18T05:00:00.000-07:00

I decided to have my legs waxed for my husband's return from war. I know. Maybe I should have planned a party or at least a night out, but all I could manage was a leg waxing, which was decided upon one morning while I happened to drive past a European Wax Center next to Trader Joe's. I was post-yoga, wearing knee-length yoga pants, a tank top and patent-leather ballet flats. I roped another mom into swapping kid-watching duties, as she wanted a pre-cruise waxing herself. She was going for a bikini wax. I was not.

When you get your first-time wax with European Wax Center, you get a complimentary wax - lip, brows or underarms. I was there for my legs, of course, but since I got a free hair removal thrown in, I chose underarms. Fifteen minutes later (who knew you needed an appointment?), I was told to strip down to my underwear.

Wait. WHAT?

I only needed my legs waxed, after all, and my armpits. What on earth did she need to have full-access for? The waxer (I'm sure there is a professional name for this, but I didn't think to ask), just smiled and looked at my yoga pants with a hint of resignation.

The worst part of having oneself waxed, by far, is standing there in a freezing-cold waxing room, with a woman (thank God it was a woman) you've never met, who is at least ten years your junior, in a nude-colored maternity thong and the evidence that you have never waxed before, anywhere.

Okay, well, that's her job, right? And I have to say she was a gem about it all. Very sweet and non-judgemental and efficient. So, we got down to it.

European Wax Center uses their own wax, which is very thick and kind of blue and requires no fabric strips at all....just the wax, which is applied with a large tongue depressor (and a bit of flourish). It then hardens and is ripped off one's body in a fell-swoop.

It HURTS. I mean, it hurts. It's as if you can feel every little tiny hair being ripped from its home, and each little homeless hair is screaming and clinging and begging not to go. I like to think they're all like little tree-hugging environmentalists chained to their favorite Redwood, facing down a large bulldozer with brave determination.

Okay. It hurts. I ended up only doing half a leg, because let me just tell you that it doesn't take just one little waxing. No. When you've never waxed at all, you must have several layers of wax applied and ripped off your leg to get each and every last hair, and it only hurts less each time because you become sort of numb to it. My legs were bright red. She kept applying more. She tried to distract me with the art of conversation (I think I've about got her signed up for a stint with the Peace Corps), but there is no getting away from the pain of this experience.

The legs were done. Sigh. Each leg was waxed about five or six times, certain areas more than others, stubborn hairs dealt with appropriately. Then my legs were rubbed down with some sort of soothing lotion (which was offered to me for purchase later), and my hair-removal-friend prepared for my underarms. You can imagine my fear and trepidation. I knew, now, what I was getting into, and I also knew my underarms had to be more painful than my legs.

I was right. It hurts more, if you can imagine, albeit in a different way. It's hard to describe. It's as if the different hairs have different personalities and respond uniquely to torture.

I had to have my underarms waxed 7 times each to remove all the hair. By the end I was sweating. I was holding my breath. It was like the moment just before a pap smear, when you try to be all calm and nonchalant but inside you're thinking: hell. not again. i've already had two kids for pete's sake.

I was done. The hair-removal woman was very excited. I tried to be very excited too, because this was my first waxing experience, and I was assured I'd love it, become addicted and be waiting with heady anticipation for my next appointment. But it was hard to imagine any such feelings with legs as red as lobster tails and pits to match.

The disappointment set in when I got home, took off my pants, showered and applied lotion. I had....stubble? Could it be? Yes. There was stubble. I had a friend feel my legs (I know), and she was also surprised. An avid waxer, she assured me there should be no stubble. "Baby soft," she said, and we both shook our heads. Hmmmm......

I was pretty sure I could get a softer, closer result with a plain old-fashioned razor. And truth-be-told, even the hair-removal expert at the Wax Center admitted she did her own legs with a razor at home. Still....I'd paid my money.

That night, I got out of the bath and was drying off when I felt my leg throbbing. I mean, it actually hurt. I looked down and was shocked to see swelling, redness and a blue streak between my calf muscle and ankle. I looked closer. I saw a large vein bulging and throbbing at the surface of my skin, and the entire area was red and hot.

As some of you may remember, I have a thing about the veins in the backs of my legs, and I realized with horror that the waxing had actually pulled a vein to the surface of my skin, and I had a slight panic attack with the idea that it may never go back. I may have a large, bulging vein there for....ever.

Beyond the cosmetic, what if I'd done something terrible to that poor vein and then it shut down the flow of blood to my feet and I started getting some kind of awful, poorly-circulated blue foot and I had to start wearing support hose and orthopedic shoes?

I swore then-and-there to never wax again. Ever. Not only had I possibly damaged my body, but I'd done it at great pain and expense (okay, $40) all so I could have stubble.

I was done. I swore it off. I admonished myself for another small, petty beauty treatment that highlighted my vanity. I shook my head, literally, and made myself a solemn vow: I'd never again do anything to my body that I couldn't do in the comfort of my own home.

And then.....just when I'd settled it all in my mind and felt noble (much like my tree hugging friends), I happened to raise my arms above my head and was shocked....amazed.....overjoyed?

I had NO ARMPIT HAIR AT ALL.....nothing. No hint of a 5-o'clock shadow. No stubble. No dodgy razor burn. No bumps. No red spots. Nothing but smooth skin.

They were the underarms of the Hollywood elite. I was Halle Berry, SJP, Nicole Kidman......I was shamelessly smooth.

I spent the next two weeks in awe of my armpits. They remained smooth and baby soft for weeks. Not hours. Not days (please). But weeks. And when the hair grew back in, it wasn't all short, prickly and dark. It was soft, dewy baby hair. Even if there was hair there, it wasn't offensive and unseemly. It was....lovely.

And just like that, I became addicted to waxing. The 411 on waxing? No legs (ever) again. I'll likely never muster the courage to get my bikini line waxed, and Lord help me if I ever consider the full down-under, which involves (I've been told) getting up on all fours, buck-naked. No. No, no.

But my underarms? Oh.....yes. Yes, yes, yes. I will be back...for my underarms.

Some things are worth the pain.

MamaP

Quote 19 of 52

2011-03-11T08:51:00.000-08:00

I realize I have a lot of quotes to make up. In fact, I'm getting a little tired of the quotes. I may substitute some poems for the next few weeks instead....I mean, how many inspirational bits does a girl need? They're all starting to run together. But maybe I'm just overwrought with moving, living out of a hotel and facing the thought of unloading my entire life in another town and another home after four days on the road with two kids and a husband who says things like: dear, you don't have to drive it like you stole it. (referring to the car, of course).

This morning's quote I love, however. And I think it's a helpful reminder for me, particularly when it feels my life isn't quite my own, what with the Army and the moving and the fact that my husband brings in all the cash.

How wrong is it for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself.

Anais Nin

With that, I'm signing off and heading south....taking the kids to Disneyland. This is going to be fun-fun. I can't wait.

MamaP

Fig #8 - Finding My Signature Scent

2011-03-07T05:33:00.000-08:00

As figs go, and as life experiences go, finding one's signature scent shouldn't be difficult, thought -provoking or enlightening. It should be simple and fun, take maybe an afternoon, and when one is finished with this task, I can't imagine one should feel anything other than a small sense of satisfaction and pleasure.

Not so for me.

I began my search at Nordstrom, and that was a little disappointing in and of itself. If I had lived in a larger, more glamorous city, I would have begun my search at Neiman's, Saks or (if I were in Paris, for example) a small, independent perfumerie with a little women in an Hermes scarf who could take one look at me, sum up my personality as intelligent chic and come wafting out of the back of her shop with the perfect blend of delicate florals, a hint of spice and a touch of something none of us can really put our finger on.

I started at Nordstrom, with my daughter sullenly in tow, and I just said this: I want to find my signature scent. I like floral perfumes that are light and classic. I don't like musky scents that are heavy....you know, like 'Opium' from the 80s.

The salesgirl gave me a dozen samples. Chloe. Prada Orange and Prada Iris. Several Chanel (I really, really, really wanted my signature scent to be Chanel). Gucci. Hermes. Versace.

The salesgirl gave my daughter a sample of a Coach perfume, which was very sweet. I mean, I wouldn't wear Coach but little M. was in heaven.

Okay. I took them all home in a little silver bag and put them on my bathroom counter and began plucking them out each morning (my eyes closed) and spraying them at my neck and wrists and then spending the day sniffing on and off to tell if one or the other took my breath away and screamed: I.Am.Yours.

I liked them all. Some were heavier than others. Prada were especially clean and crisp. I never wore one and then felt, later in the day, that it was awful or gave me a headache....I never wanted to take a hot shower and be done with any of them. And yet, none of them grabbed me, made me want to throw down $100 for a tiny bottle and call it my own.

One afternoon my daughter wanted me to share her perfume sample, which I'd all but forgotten about. I indulged her and sprayed some Coach 'Poppy' on my wrist, doing a mental eye roll because let's face it: I'm not a Coach 'Poppy' kind of girl. I'm a Chanel kind of girl. I'm a Prada kind of girl.

I didn't think a thing about it until I sat down to watch 'The Good Wife' that night (I so want to say that I sat down to read a copy of The New Yorker instead), and I was sitting there and I realized that I was smelling my wrist, over and over again, and I couldn't stop. It was lovely. The smell was lovely and I didn't want to stop smelling it. I remembered then that I'd sprayed on the Coach that afternoon, and I sat there watching 'The Good Wife' with my wrist all but glued to my nose.

I went back to the Prada, Gucci and Chanel for two more months. I tried very hard to love them. My husband returned to the States, and I tried very hard for him to love them so that maybe I would love them even more. Finally, I went to Nordstrom and asked for my own sample of Coach 'Poppy.' I put it on one afternoon before car shopping. I forgot about it, of course, and as I was shopping for a new car, I kept thinking: wow, this dealer has great smelling cars.

Of course, it was me.

And so it is that I have found my signature scent: Coach 'Poppy'

When I wear it, it smells like me....only better. (Should I be in marketing?)

I love the way it mixes with my skin and my own natural scent. I love smelling my clothes after I've worn it. I just love it.

I realize some stuff about me that maybe was lurking in the back of my head (as all realizations usually do) about who I am, how I view myself and how I want other people to view me. I know that sort of thing shouldn't really be illuminated via a perfume, but for me that's how it happened.

I have to ask myself why I want a signature scent to begin with, and when I do ask that question I realize that I want OTHER people to view me a certain way: classic, timeless, established. When I think of women for whom these adjectives are used (Grace Kelly, Audrey Hepburn, Michelle Obama),I want to be like these women, and maybe a part of me feels that if I set all the exterior conditions, I will be.

So I try to buy cashmere, wear neutrals, keep my heels a decent height and remember to polish my nails and trim my cuticles and forgo the red. I wear my hair in a classic style, try to limit the make-up and carry a buff-colored leather handbag that I'm sure will last a lifetime. And even if I am not aware of it every minute of every day, I am, in my own way, trying to create a certain kind of person in myself.

That woman does not wear Coach 'Poppy' - which is only a degree or two separated from Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson.

Except, I do. I wear Coach 'Poppy.' I love it. I can't take my wrist away from my nose.

So, when the move is final and we are settled, I'm going to head to the mall and plunk down my $100 for a bottle of perfume that maybe doesn't fit into the idea of who I want to be but that fits in perfectly with who I already am.

MamaP

Back....with apologies.....

2011-03-05T19:50:00.000-08:00

I am back and with a big ol' SORRY for being absent for 2 months. Life has been hectic and eventful. My husband returned from Afghanistan, we've been given new orders to move and I'm actually on the east coast now looking for our new home. Most of you who read this blog already know this, but for the passerby, this is my best and strongest case for my silence.

The good news is that even with all these changes and big events, I've managed to tackle a handful of figs. I know! A handful.

Here is a list of what I've experienced over the past two months:

1. I found my signature scent. I can't wait to blog about it.

2. I tried absinthe.

3. I bought the perfect, classic, timeless dress (and heels to go with it).

4. I visited Grandpa Bob.

5. I visited Napa.

6. I had my legs waxed.

7. I visited Yosemite.

WOW. I just made the list and now I realize how much I've done and I'm feeling that I kind of rock!

I learned a lot from each one. Some lessons were poignant and some were less-so. All of them were an experience, and I'll try to write about each one over the next few weeks. I'm also plugging away at 'Good Poems' and loving it. I read a few poems to my husband each night before we fall asleep, and it's a really lovely little way to end our nights. He lies in bed with his eyes closed, his hands clasped at his chest, above the sheets, a little corpse-like but quiet. He doesn't admit to liking it much, the poetry, but he chuckles now and then so I think he's getting something out of it. It's like trying to listen to self-improvement tapes while you sleep I guess.

For those of you who remain faithful and check in, even braving O'Keeffe's slightly dodgy photo....thank you. Really.

MamaP

Quote 18 of 52

2011-01-03T11:16:00.000-08:00

Today's quote I found because I was looking for a different quote by Georgia O'Keeffe. But then I stumbled on this quote, and I love it. I mean, it's simple enough, but it sums up how I feel and how I'd like to live.

I've been absolutely terrified every moment of my life - and I've never let it keep from doing a single thing I've wanted to do.

Georgia O'Keeffe

New Year.....

2011-01-03T06:35:00.000-08:00

Usually, as I ring in the New Year, I write out a list of resolutions. I like to be somewhat specific about it, as in exercising a certain number of days a week, or getting a certain number of hours of sleep or reading a certain number of books. I love numbers and lists, so it's a lovely combination. But this year, with my list of figs already in full-swing, I feel much less need to write out resolutions. I suppose my resolution is to simply keep enjoying my list....

To that end, I've been reading more Good Poems. Here is another that struck me:

What I Learned From My Mother
Julia Kasdorf

I learned from my mother how to love
the living, to have plenty of vases on hand
in case you have to rush to the hospital
with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants
still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars
large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole
grieving household, to cube home-canned pears
and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins
and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.
I learned to attend viewing even if I didn’t know
the deceased, to press the moist hands
of the living, to look in their eyes and offer
sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.
I learned that whatever we say means nothing,
what anyone will remember is that we came.
I learned to believe I had the power to ease
awful pains materially like an angel.
Like a doctor, I learned to create
from another’s suffering my own usefulness, and once
you know how to do this, you can never refuse.
To every house you enter, you must offer
healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,
the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.

_____________________________________________

That is it,the poem. I included it on this blog because of my strong reaction to it. I was in a bath, actually, when I read it, and I had the stongest urge to actually rip it out of the book. I hated it. Really hated it. I thought maybe it was because I have a sinus infection and maybe it was because I was tired and had read several poems already. I have realized that I can only read five or six at a time before I start skimming and before it gets tedious or overwhelming. So, with that in mind, I read the poem again the next day and the day after that. I really dislike this poem.

I hate that she used the word 'maroon' to describe the grape. It's a purple grape. And I don't like the use of the word 'sexual' in relation to the seeds. Grape seeds aren't sexual, particularly when preparing them during a time of mourning. I don't know. The whole thing sounded very self-involved to me (says the woman writing a blog about her own self-induced project to live a more meaningful life).

End of story: I just downright hated this poem. I don't dislike it. I don't shrug and think, that't not for me. I've done that with several of the poems in this collection.

No, I actually feel disturbed by this poem and want to, as I've said, tear it from the book.

Isn't it funny? Our reactions......

MamaP

Happy, Happy Christmas

2010-12-25T09:23:00.001-08:00

This morning, my son came downstairs and said to his grandpa: Happy Christmas Grandpa!

In the spirit of Christmas this year, and in keeping with the theme of poetry, a friend sent me this poem, which is partially quoted in the original movie: Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

Music and Moonlight (1874)

We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers,
Of the world for ever, it seems.

Merry Christmas!
MamaP

A 'Good' Poem

2010-12-20T06:32:00.000-08:00

So far, this is my favorite poem of Keillor's compilation. It is a poem by Anne Sexton. I've since looked into Sexton's work, and her life, and I suppose it's no surprise I love her. She was a contemporary of Plath, and I believe they actually studied together at university. Much of Sexton's work is on the darker side, at least from my perspective, but this poem is so lovely and full of hope I have read it over and over again, and each time I read it, I like it more. It was after reading this poem, in fact, that I began drawing hearts on the palms of my kids' hands each night before putting them to bed, kissing those palms and sending them off with my love for the night. Now, they do the same for me.

Welcome Morning (Anne Sexton)

There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry "hello there, Anne"
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.

All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though I often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn't share, I've heard,
dies young.

Quote 17 of 52

2010-12-19T06:26:00.000-08:00

This week's quote is appropriate for the week as I'm still working my way (lovingly) through Good Poems. It's a wonderful book, and I'll be posting my favorite poems (thus far) this week.

Today's quote is by Henry David Thoreau:

Colour, which is the poet's wealth, is so expensive that most take to mere outline sketches and become men of science.

This quote makes me wonder which aspects of my life lack color......

MamaP

Quote 16 of 52

2010-12-05T08:04:00.000-08:00

With Christmas coming on in a few weeks now, I have been thinking of ways to simplify my life and to "take it down a notch" this year - so that it's not a mad chaos of wrapping paper and toys. I admit that I love presents and just stuff in general, but the following quote makes me think about why I love all this stuff and what it adds (or how it detracts) from my life.

The quote is by Frank Lloyd Wright.

Many wealthy people are little more than janitors of their possessions.

MamaP

A Fig for my Kids.........

2010-11-30T12:08:00.000-08:00

Last week my son asked if he could climb the rock wall at the gym. He's finally heavy enough - 35 lbs. So, we got him in the harness and hooked him up so that he could climb and rappel. Then, he sort of froze and looked at the guy and said, "I don't want to do it. I'm scared." Then, the gym worker told my son, "Oh, don't worry. Look, your mom will do it first and show you."

And I'm all.......what?????

To rappel is on my list of 52 figs, sure. But it's one of those distant, hazy figs that I know one day I'll do because I started this list and will lose face if I can't finish it. It was never something I thought I'd do just because, even though the gym rock wall stares me in the face every week and even though there are harnesses and lines for rappelling just waiting to be used. No, I thought I'd wait for my husband to get home, to pump me full of Army-issued courage and bravery. He could yell things to me like, "Don't worry, dear. Pain is just fear leaving your body!"

But there I was, with my son's enormous blue eyes looking up at me. My kids know I'm afraid of heights, so I looked down at him and said, "Oh, son, I would but I'm afraid of heights."

Then, of course, I realized my moment to show my kids that even if you're afraid of something, you can still try. It was one of those after-school Hallmark moments, and I took it. I put on the harness and thought: I'll just climb a bit, not look down and be done with it.

I got about a quarter of the way up the wall and froze. My hands were shaking, and I had somehow (in less than three minutes) broken out into a crazy flop sweat. I couldn't go up and I couldn't go down. The gym guy was yelling, "It's okay, just let go." But I couldn't. Even though I was in a harness and linked to a wire, I was sure that if I let go I flop to the ground in a massive heap and probably break every bone in my body. I literally hung there in a slippery death-grip, and I'm not kidding when I tell you that I was only about five feet off the ground.

I slowly climbed back down. Forget rappelling. It was all I could do manage my feet on those slippery little rocks, one wobbly step at a time.

It took me three tries before I would let go and use the rope to rappel down. My kids were so excited, you can't believe it. I made it a third of the way up the wall that day, and even though I landed straight on my ass every time I got down, my kids were really just pumped.

We went to the rock wall three more times before I got it. Every time I do it, my hands shake and sweat. I can't look down. I just have to keep going. But yesterday, I got to the top and rappelled down, three times no less.

Fig.....checked. I have officially rappelled.

It feels great. I don't think I'll go climbing any mountains or anything crazy, but it feels good to know that I can face heights and get over it and do something I'm afraid of. I mean, this AND being able to braid challah. Is there anything I can't do?

MamaP

A Whole Book of Poetry

2010-11-29T07:00:00.000-08:00

November is coming to a close, and I haven't finished an entire book of poetry. I have one I have been reading, and it's lovely and wonderful and I enjoy it more than any other poetry I've ever read. It's an anthology entitled Good Poems and it's edited by Garrison Keillor (who doesn't love GK?). But it's long, and I'm only a third of the way through it.

So, the other day I thought: geez, I'll never finish in time. So, I got a slim little Lucille Clifton volume out and started reading that instead, which is wonderful too but isn't what I really want to be reading. I was just doing it because it's feasible and I could finish in a few days.

And then I thought: really, Amy? Really? You're competing with yourself and stressing out over reading a book of poetry, something that you should be enjoying and loving and doing in those few moments you have to settle down, sit with a cup of tea and relax?

So, the book of poetry will take some time. And I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that those of you who read this blog (are there four now?) aren't going to gasp in horror that it didn't get done "in time."

MamaP

Yoga........

2010-11-28T09:07:00.000-08:00

I'll admit I've lost track of which fig I'm supposed to be tackling in terms of numbers. It's all a blur now. But I have done yoga now, for three months straight, at least once a week. Whew. It took some determination, because there were certainly times I didn't want to do it. What is it about us that makes us dread doing stuff we actually love doing, once we get going? Anyway, I did it. Insert Fist Pump.

Here's the thing. I believe yoga could "change my life." I do. It's a beautiful expression of the harmony between one's mind and one's body. I think yoga is a form of meditation, because if you're really doing the poses and pushing yourself to go further, you can't be thinking about the grocery list or the kids or whatever it is we think about when we go for a jog. In fact, I never understood what people meant when they said running helps clear their head. For me, it only gets me further inside my head. And being further inside my head isn't always a place I need to go.

Yoga is different. You certainly use your body, push it to its limits, stretch it. And since there are different forms of yoga, you can be very active about it all, flowing through sun salutations so quickly and fluidly that you build up quite the sweat - especially in a heated room. So, I think yoga is a great "workout" if you're trying to workout. Of course, like anything, it matters the level and the amount of effort you put into it. You can slog through it and see any real benefit, and I don't even think you would get much mental benefit in slogging through it. I think that for yoga to truly be beneficial, you have to be stretching yourself. Otherwise, it's just going through the motions.

The thing I love about yoga, above all else, is that the focus isn't on being thin. It's not about whittling down this or that "problem" area (or at least it's not meant to be about that - we Americans have certainly bastardized it to that level in some areas). Yoga is about flow and balance, and while I practiced it in a room full of other students, everyone seemed so graceful and present. I saw people of all shapes and sizes. I remember one day, a woman in front of me was much larger than me. Normally, when it comes to sports/athletics, size matters. The slim girl is "better" than the heavier girl. Not so in yoga. This woman was so lovely, holding her poses with such grace and stability. I remember how nice her face looked as she held a pose, very calm and quiet. And there I was, the slim girl, all wobbly and half-tipping over. I used to look around the room and watch all the bodies, and yoga gives you such an appreciation for the body itself and for the strength and beauty of the body. I think this is something that makes yoga worth it if for no other reason. It reminded me of the purpose of a body and of how strong we can be when we're not focusing on bat-wing flab.

Having said all of this, I don't think I was supposed to be looking around the room at all the bodies. I mean, I think I was pretty much missing the point as I tipped over in triangle and arched my neck to see if the guy in front of me had his hand on his shin or on the floor. Really, why did I care? I'm not sure, but I did. I found studying yoga in a classroom setting to be HIGHLY distracting. But that's me. I'm fascinated by people. I'm fascinated by what they wear, how they talk, which hand gestures they use, how they talk to their children and spouses. The other day I saw a woman get into a car with a leopard-print steering-wheel cover. I have thought about that for weeks. Weeks. Leopard-print. Fascinating.

Thus, I found, in my three months, that studying yoga at home works best for me. I don't think it's any easier, if you push yourself from inside rather than from competing with others or having teacher Ping tell you, "You have more to give, Amy." I found a few yoga DVDs I like. I can put them into the player while the kids are sleeping and get a full 60 to 90 minutes at home. Then, I can shut it off and do the dishes.

And that brings me to my biggest issues with yoga. First, it takes a lot of time. It's at least 2 hrs. I have to drive to the studio. I have to get a spot and lay out my mat and wait. Then, we do the 75 or 90 minute class. Then, we get up and put our things away and get into our cars. Then I go home. It's at least 2 hrs. And I don't have 2 hrs. away from the house, without my kids for that. The precious time I have while the kids are at school is filled with errands, house keeping issues, appointments, etc. So, for me, right now, I can't fit yoga into my schedule more than once or twice a week. Well, I can but I won't. Because doing it would mean I would spend the rest of my day scurrying around to get everything else done, and that would stress me out. I do think I'll practice yoga regularly at some point. But it will have to be when I have more time.

Second, and here is my real issue, as wonderful as yoga is, it's not as good for keeping trim and fit as Tracy Anderson. I have yet to find anything that is. Anything. And Tracy Anderson is a commitment. Her videos are hard and time consuming. Even doing only one a day, it's an hour of working out. And I frankly can't work out more than an hour a day nor do I want to. I have struggled with this issue. On the one hand, Tracy is very effective, but her focus is very much on slimming, targeting "problem" areas and whittling one's thighs down. On the other hand, it works. Yoga is a beautiful practice and one that, coupled with a great diet, could definitely keep you slim and toned. But I'm going to say it. It just doesn't work as well as Tracy.

Third, and finally, I don't think yoga is beneficial (truly) unless you commit to it and do it at least five times a week. Doing it once or twice, even three times a week, was okay but I didn't notice any change in my mental state or in my body. I didn't feel even more flexible. I enjoyed the yoga. I liked how it made me feel. And I think true practice would be amazing, but once a week for three months was, if I'm honest, not at all amazing.

I'm learning in life that it's time to make choices. I can't be all things or do all things. I have to focus. I don't have the time or energy to pursue every goal I have ever made or seen or thought of in my life. Just like cleaning out one's closet, I think we have clean out our goals so that we make priorities and then see them through. This year has been especially helpful in doing this for me. As I work my way through this list, I'm able to see what really matters to me, what I am passionate about and how I want to spend my time.

For now, as much as I loved yoga, I'm shelving it. And moving on.

MamaP

Quote 15 of 52

2010-11-28T08:59:00.000-08:00

This week's quote is from a woman I read in college: George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans of Middlemarch fame). I love this quote, and I think it's true.

It is never too late to be what you might have been.

And so, in that vein, I plan to spend the week contemplating where I am, where I thought I'd be and what I want to be.

MamaP

Confession

2010-11-15T16:07:00.000-08:00

I have not been meditating. I know. I'm cringing.

I skipped one night, and then I skipped another night and then I thought to hell with it, I'd have to start over anyway. And there it is. I've not been meditating.

The thing about it is that it's really hard. I'm not sure why. It's only 10 minutes a day, and I do it when the kids are asleep and the house is quiet. But it's hard. I sit there and try to quiet my mind, and that's exhausting. It's not relaxing. I thought it would be relaxing, and I'd be all Zen about it, my knees crossed, my fingers held out just-so. But it's hard on my back, and focusing on my breathing isn't at all fun, and then my mind goes wandering down roads that have been left for so long they're now unpaved - for good reason. I hate those roads.

But I will start again. Tonight. I will start again because it's hard and when things are hard (especially mental things) that's usually when we need to commit to them the most. I'm not so good about doing the hard stuff, which is why there are still those unpaved roads.

MamaP

Quote 14 of 52

2010-11-15T15:47:00.000-08:00

I am late this week. But I am here nonetheless.....

This week's quote is from The Old Man and the Sea, which I should finish tonight. But I will blog about that later. For now, here is the quote:

But his left hand had always been a traitor and would not do what he called on it to do and he did not trust it.

I love this line, and I've re-read it several times and think about it throughout my day. The idea that a hand can be a traitor. Hemingway was brilliant. Just brilliant. It's only 26 words, and yet it tells the reader so much about the old man.

MamaP

Thoughts on Siddhartha

2010-11-07T12:21:00.000-08:00

There are books in one's life that are, well, life-changing. They resonate and stay with us, and we think about them years and decades later, and we sometimes return to them. I wondered, recently, if the book that has had the greatest and most profound impact on me (which I read at the age of 20) would today have as strong an impact on me if I read it again. I did read it again, and I have to say that the impact was not so surprising (I was anticipating it after all), but it was no less profound, 15 years later. I read the book three months ago, and I still think of it every day. It is Maugham's The Razor's Edge.

So it is with Siddhartha. Again, my experience with Siddhartha is not so surprising as my reaction to other books, simply because I was prepared for it. It's stronger when you find a book and have no idea it will impact you in any deep way. But when you purposely choose a book that has impacted so many others, your own reaction to it is tinged in a way, shaped to some extent by your expectation of it.

It doesn't, however, make the impact any less strong.

I think I was supposed to read Siddhartha at this exact moment in my life, because the ultimate message I take from this book is particularly comforting to me at this time. That message, if I have to filter it down to one, is that life is a journey, that it's never done, that we are never there, and if there is one goal, it is perhaps to end our lives at peace with ourselves. Making peace with any and everyone else are only steps toward that end-goal.

Reading this book makes me less afraid - of people, of experiences, of pain. Even in the end, when Siddhartha had gained and lost, was so disgusted with himself he wanted to throw his life away, even in the end, when he had quieted his spirit and was at peace with so little, his road lay out ahead of him, bumps and all. And perhaps his greatest bump, his hardest moment, came in the end of his life instead of the beginning or the middle. It came when he least expected it and he found himself suffering again.

I read once that Buddha said something to the effect of: All life is suffering, and all suffering is life.

I find this quote comforting and have always repeated it to myself in times of hardship, because I think we all need to believe that hardship has purpose. I was raised a Christian, so I was taught that suffering is punishment and that if one wants suffering to end, one has to only be good enough.

I think this is kind of a crock of shit.

Maybe suffering is just living, it's just part of what it means to be human, and we can't be good enough to escape it, because without it we wouldn't be living any more than if we never experienced joy.

In the end, I think Siddhartha's suffering taught him the ultimate lesson - to have empathy for others. I think that when we have compassion and empathy for others, we have somehow found a way to have empathy and compassion for ourselves.

I would recommend this book to others, but somehow, I feel that after reading it, recommending a book to others would kind of be missing the point.

I have thought, however, of the books that have most greatly impacted me and my life. I have come up with a list of 5, a monumental task of narrowing and cutting-down. Here are my top five books:

1. The Razor's Edge
2. Atlas Shrugged
3. The Bell Jar
4. Man's Search for Meaning
5. Their Eyes Were Watching God

I'm curious to hear yours.......please.

MamaP

Quote 13 of 52

2010-11-07T12:11:00.000-08:00

This week's quote is yet another from Siddhartha. I have been thinking about the book all week, and I have thought of this quote more than once, promising myself I will try to absorb it into my daily life:

I want to learn from myself, want to be my student, want to get to know myself, the secret of Siddhartha.

On Meditation

2010-11-05T07:36:00.000-07:00

I have been meditating each night. I meditate until I feel compelled to open my eyes, which has been 7 to 8 minutes. It's hard. It's harder than I could have imagined. I usually do it lying down, before I sleep, which is arguably not the "right" way to meditate. And it's still hard.

What's so hard? Well, it's hard to try to clear one's mind, to focus on breathing instead of the grocery list, whether or not the children have been properly raised and if my husband is safe and sound. My mind wants to run through that night's episode of Without a Trace, and then while it's reviewing the slides of that particular program, my mind wants to tell me that I shouldn't be watching that stuff anyway.

Then, I have to bring my mind back on track, which means focusing on the breath going in and out of my nose, hesitating at the top and the bottom of each breath before beginning again.

It goes like this for 7 minutes, and then I open my eyes. My mind has only been quiet a few seconds of that time, maybe. I have to continually bring my mind back to my breathing, where it sits for a second or two before moving on.....again.

I am reading a book entitled Mindfulness in Plain English (Gunaratana, 1996). It is a simple examination of meditation and explanation of how to apply and practice it in one's life.

I am hopeful meditation will be useful for me. There is a lot of mind that needs quieting up there.

Does anyone have any experience with meditation?

MamaP

1 Month, 4 Weeks, 30 Days: 4 Figs

2010-11-02T07:44:00.000-07:00

Instead of thinking in terms of a fig-a-week this month, I am thinking big, broad strokes. This month, I will take 4 figs and work them simultaneously. In fact, I've already started several.

1. Meditate Everyday For 1 Month

2. Submit a Romance Novel

3. Practice Yoga Regularly (at least once a week) for 3 months

4. Read an Entire Book of Poetry

So, by the end of November, I should have each of these figs under my belt. This week, I will write about why each fig made it onto the list and why I haven't yet done any of them.

The list is filling in.......

MamaP

PS - thoughts today on Siddhartha. I've been thinking..........

Report: Processed Food

2010-10-31T10:37:00.000-07:00

I didn't eat processed food for one week. Well, I admit to having a bite here and there of the kids' ham and cheese melts (and by bite, I truly mean tiny sliver). But, I ate no store-bought bread, no cereals, no treats, no candy, no cookies, etc.

I ate scrambled eggs, fruit, veggies, home-made turkey chili, home-made pumpkin bread, butter, milk, yogurt, peanut butter and drank a lot of coffee.

Here is what I found:

1. On the two days that I ate only fruits, veggies, peanut butter and oatmeal, I felt great. I lost 5 lbs. in two days. I didn't have big dips in my blood sugar levels. When I was hungry, I felt hungry but I didn't feel shaky/weak/confused/agitated. I simply felt hungry. I didn't feel cravings for foods, because when your only option is another hard-boiled egg, well you just don't want it that badly. When your option is Oreos, there is a much stronger pull.

2. On the days I introduced more carbs (albeit non-processed carbs) like rice, potatoes and home-made baked goods, I gained back the weight I'd lost and felt much more bloated. Much more.

3. When I ate too much, even if the food was unprocessed, I felt bloated and overly full.

4. When I was eating so well, on days one and two, I didn't find I needed to drink so much water. In fact, I only drank about 40 oz. on those days and still lost the weight and felt less bloated and lighter.

Overall, the experience taught me several things. One, I was eating a lot of processed food that I wasn't even thinking about: lunch meat, crackers, bread, a treat at Starbucks, etc. In addition to eating a ton of processed food, that left little room for fruits and veggies. I ate nearly twice as much fruits and veggies this week than in previous weeks. Second, food is food. If you eat too much of it, no matter what it is, you will feel unwell. Third, just because something is homemade and "unprocessed" doesn't make it healthy. Perhaps if I stuck to a much more rigid definition of "processed" it might make a difference (like not using wheat, dairy, etc.), but for my purposes, I simply meant no added ingredients I couldn't pronounce and stuff found in a box or can. I made lemon posset, for example. It has sugar, cream and lemon juice. That's it. And I ate it. And it's just simple junk food. It's not "healthy" because I can name all the ingredients.

In the end, I went from 138.6 pounds to 135.6 pounds. That's fine. It doesn't feel drastically different, though. Maybe because I've been eating lemon posset and home-made pumpkin bread slathered in real butter........

Still, the experience was extremely helpful in allowing me to see that it IS possible to live without processed food, that I WILL feel better with a diet richer in fruits and vegetables and that my blood sugar is directly linked to crap.

And now...........we're going to trick-or-treat and I'm going to wolf down some dodgy mini-Snickers bars.

MamaP

Quote 12 of 52

2010-10-31T08:21:00.000-07:00

This week's quote is from an author I admire but whom I've never been able to read with much gusto: TS Eliot. I have several of his plays and poetry collections sitting on my bookshelf , but I've never been able to sit down and gut it out. I do, however, love this quote:

One starts an action simply because one must do something.

Tooth Fairy Bag - Another Fig Plucked

2010-10-29T17:48:00.000-07:00

Today, I had six hours alone. Six. I hardly knew what to do with myself, and as I sat drinking Starbucks, listening to the quiet of the house, I thought it might be a great time to sew my little tooth fairy bag. I considered doing this as a project with Maggie, but I have recently come to accept myself and my limitations, and I know that a sewing project is hard enough for me as-is. I didn't want to subject poor Maggs-face to an episode that might include tears and/or the phrase, "For Christ's sake."

Okay, so I got out all my supplies (having to unearth them from the storage closet), and I threw them all on the table in typical Amy-fashion, all half-hazard and slightly askew. I had the computer and directions sitting next to me, and I began threading needles, cutting squares of fabric and sewing wonky stitches up and down pieces of purple felt, Van Morrison playing in the background, rocking my gypsy soul.

It was very easy, which means that if I'm saying that a kindergartner could easily have accomplished this task. The directions were cake. The bag came together just as described. It took me all of 50 minutes, and that includes time spent digging out my supplies, adding cream to my coffee and turning up Van more than once.

Here is the finished product:

It wasn't until later, driving around town feeling all domestic and crafty, that I realized I sewed the tooth all the way onto the bag, forgetting to leave the top open to hold the child's actual tooth.

For some reason, I thought this was hysterically funny, and I couldn't stop laughing about it for at least a full minute, nearly crying.

Incidentally, I went to Barnes & Noble and looked at other simple sewing books, particularly projects for kids (my level anyway). The thing about it is this: most handmade stuff just doesn't appeal to me. If I want a good tote bag, I'll get an LL Bean Boat & Tote. I can't imagine making my own clothes. I have no inclination to make clothes for my daughter's dolls. So......I'm glad I did it. I think hand-sewing is HIGHLY preferable to using a matching. And one day, I will sit in a rocking chair next to a fire, and I will quietly sew a quilt by hand.

Until then, everyone is getting tooth fairy bags.

MamaP

More on the diet........

2010-10-28T13:01:00.000-07:00

By "diet" I simply mean the diet of unprocessed food (as opposed to calorie reduction, etc.). Anyway, here's the thing: it's very hard to eat well if you eat out, at all. Yesterday, after a field trip to the pumpkin patch, Maggie and I went out to eat. I chose sushi, because I think of sushi as fairly healthy, fresh and unprocessed. I had a roll (crab, avocado, salmon on top) and I ate some of Maggie's chicken teriyaki and miso soup.

And then....I felt awful. I was very full. I felt sluggish all afternoon. And come on: I saw the people making the food right in front of me. What gives?

Then, I thought about the salt. The salt! I got on the scale this morning and am back to 135. That's fine, but I think the point is that when I lost those 5 lbs. and now that I've gained 2 back, I really think so much of it is the SALT. There is so much salt in processed food and in restaurant food. So much.....

When I cook at home, I use much less salt (and I'm pretty liberal with my salt), and when I'm focusing on eating fruits and veggies, well there's just not so much salt.

I ate some more of the leftover chicken teriyaki for lunch today, with steamed rice and peas. It's sitting a little heavy, but I'm okay with that.

So far, the days when I've felt the best (less bloated, more energy) are the days when I ate homemade, unprocessed, healthy food. I mean, of course it goes without saying. But saying something and experiencing something are two different things entirely.

Also, I got Jamie Oliver's e-mail this morning. If you all haven't seen his show, look it up online. I cried every week. He's really inspiring. In today's e-mail was a list of the top 10 worst processed foods. Here they are:

1. Chicken McNuggest (24%)
2. Hot Dogs (19%)
3. Fake Cheese (14%)
4. Lunchables (13%)
5. Spam (9%)
6. Twinkies (5%)
7. Soda (5%)
8. Artificial Sweeteners (4%)
9. Diet Versions (4%)
10. French Fries (3%)

Quite the list, huh?

Here's the link to Jamie's website:

www.jamieoliver.com

He's fabulous. His site has tons of recipes, too, and they're all very simple and unprocessed. They're not necessarily "healthy," but at least they're real.

MamaP

I Just Have to Say.........

2010-10-26T07:21:00.000-07:00

I was going to wait until next week to weigh myself after eating no processed food for a week. I will certainly weigh myself at that time, but I just wanted to write in today and give an update.

In two days, eating nothing processed but eating full meals and still eating within my calorie range (drinking wine, eating salmon & avocado and eggs), I have lost..........

5.4 lbs.

So, I started on Sunday weighing 138.6. Monday morning I weighed 135.8. Today, I weigh 133.2.

I have worked out for 3 weeks, hard. And I've not been able to break 135. Now, I stop eating junk, and I drop 5 lbs.

Okay....I'm off for the day.

MamaP

Wow....just a carrot

2010-10-25T15:12:00.000-07:00

I went to have my afternoon snack: a carrot and hummus. Then, I thought: does this hummus constitute a "processed" item? I mean, it does come in a tub, from the grocery store (Trader Joe's nonetheless). So, I looked at the label. Wow. There was some stuff I couldn't pronounce. In hummus!

I'm eating a raw carrot. And it stinks.

So far today, I've eaten:

Scottish oats, raspberries, 1 tsbs. pure maple syrup, 1 tbsp. half-n-half
Coffee w/half-n-half
1.5 hard boiled eggs
1 Banana
1 Apple w/2 tbsp. peanut butter (peanuts/salt only)
1 Carrot (large)
Handful of Strawberries (thank you California)
Water

MamaP

Figs 10 & 11

2010-10-25T11:14:00.000-07:00

This week I'm attempting two figs. First, I am not eating processed food for one week. I feel this is the perfect time to do this because since coming home from Paris, I've eaten nothing but junk. Well, that's not exactly true. I've eaten some good food, but I've complimented it with handfuls of dodgy stuff like bunny crackers, Honey-Nut Cheerios, Dairy Queen Blizzards, and peanut butter filled pretzels. It's been a binge. I have gained about 6 lbs. I am bloated and feel sluggish.

So.....I am going to attempt a week w/out processed food. This means no store-bought bread. No crackers or cookies (unless I make them myself). No candy. Nothing out of a box, unless for some reason I chose to make pasta. Then, I think I'll go with the dried stuff. But, the point is to stop eating all this stuff filled with junk and chemicals.

I'm not sure if I'll lose weight. I hope I'll feel better. I hope I'll sleep better. I've already done it for over 24 hrs. and I have to say, it's not exactly hard, but it does require some thinking and planning.

For example, I usually eat toast in the morning. I eat healthy bread (Milton's), but it's processed and, thus, is out. So, for the past two mornings, I've eaten oatmeal with pure maple syrup and berries.

For snacks, instead of eating handfuls of crackers, a bowl of Grape Nuts or a bite at Starbucks, I've eaten hard-boiled eggs and fruit.

For lunch, I've been eating home-made turkey chili with salad - home-made salad dressing (which is so much better anyway).

Last night, I ate salmon with mango-salsa and a glass of wine.

Now, I'm not out in the back planting wheat and corn and hoping to harvest it by Friday so I can eat some toast. I do realize that packaged/processed food can have a place in a healthy diet. But I also think an occasional detox from all of it does a body good, and I've always wanted to see if I can do it, if it will be difficult, and if it will be worth it.

So far, I've nearly eaten and had to clearly avoid the following: Honey-Nut Cherrios that my kids had spilled on the floor (yes, I was considering eating handfuls of them while I was helping the kids to clean them up), chocolates from See's candies (why do they give you samples?), a Smarties roll that my son got at gymnastics today, Goldfish crackers and leftover pasta my kids didn't eat (it was a Lean Cuisine, which they love and which my daughter always finishes by saying: You cook so good, Mommy).

I weighed in yesterday at 138.6 (for those of you following my other blog, you'll know what that means). I'll weigh in again this coming Sunday. I'm not trying to diet. I'm just getting rid of the processed junk. Home-made junk is totally acceptable.

Whew.....it's going to be a long but hopefully good week.

The second fig I want to tackle is sewing something by hand. I've thought about this for a long time, because I have this idea that sewing stuff makes you a better mom and person as a whole. I'm not sure why that is. I just have images in my mind of loving mothers in cozy houses whipping up adorable children's confections and quilts on their sewing machines, the foot pedal humming softly against the sound of children frolicking outdoors.

I know. Really, I have no idea where I get these ideas. I certainly wasn't raised with them.

Well, I have a sewing machine, which I bought so that I could make my sister's daughter a quilt. That quilt turned into a total fiasco. I was pregnant at the time, and the machine kept jamming, and I kept crying and my husband kept coming over to me and asking me (begging me) to give it up, buy a quilt and be done with it. But I was dead-set on that quilt, and when I finally finished it (you can't imagine the angst), it was not even usable because the damn thing was about to fall apart simply as I handed it over to my sister.

So, I put the machine away and swore it off. Then, I thought that maybe I could be a partial domestic goddess and go all 1872 on everyone and hand sew.

So, it's on my list. I would love to hand sew a quilt, but I also know my limitations, and so I'm going to start small..........very small.

Here is what I plan on making:

http://www.purlbee.com/tooth-fairy-bags/

Wish me luck. I am glad my husband is gone, because I suspect that something will go wrong here: I won't be able to properly cut the felt, my needle will break, etc., etc. Sigh. Then again, it could be a blast and then everyone I know will be getting tooth fairy bags for Christmas, and it will be my signature gift: tooth fairy bags and a bottle of booze.

Wish me luck...........

MamaP

Quote 11 of 52

2010-10-24T08:09:00.000-07:00

This week's quote comes from Siddhartha, which I have officially finished as of this morning.

I dog-eared the page with this quote, and when I finished the book and went back to read this particular passage, I loved it still.

Here it is:

Most people, Kamala, are like a falling leaf, which is blown and is turning around through the air, and wavers and tumbles to the ground. But others, a few, are like stars, they go on a fixed course, no wind reaches them, in themselves they have their law and their course.

When I first read this passage and underlined it, I thought that a person had to be one or the other. Now, as I think about Siddhartha's journey as a whole, I think a person most likely has to be both - a leaf at times, a star (hopefully) in others.

MamaP

Fit #7......again.......

2010-10-19T07:00:00.001-07:00

This week I am going to finish reading Siddhartha. Finally. I have to say that now that I'm half-way into the book, I'm enjoying it much more than I thought I would. It is compelling, and even if I can only muster a few pages a day, those pages leave me feeling quite full and satisfied. It is a thought-provoking book. I'm not sure I'd describe it as a novel. It reads sort of like a textbook at times, or one of those English poems that I could hardy get through during undergrad....you know, Chaucer and the like. Anyway, this is not exactly Outlander (yes, I loved that book), but I do find myself thinking about the book when I'm not reading it, and I also find myself examining my own life and its meaning more often. When I do this, I often think about Siddhartha's journey, which seems similar to my own at the moment, even if our circumstances are so drastically different. Maybe that's it though......circumstances are the small stuff.

Well, that's it for this week. I should post my impressions toward the end of the week. I am excited. It's nice to read a book of such substance, that I suspect will have a deep and lasting impact on my view of the world and my own life.

MamaP

The Visit

2010-10-18T11:14:00.000-07:00

I took Maggie last Wednesday for her visit to an art museum. As I posted earlier, there is a Wayne Thiebaud exhibit currently on display at a local museum, and I thought it would be perfect for a five-year old because Maggie does love cakes and pies and all things pink and purple.

We arrived at the museum, and Maggie was thrilled with just that. I'm not kidding, she was all beside herself to be going somewhere alone with me, somewhere she'd never before been, somewhere full of promise. I love seeing the world through her eyes because it reminds me that life is still exciting and wondrous, and seeing her so pump
ed to go to our little museum made me feel badly for thinking I had to put this visit off until I could take her to a "real" museum in New York, San Francisco or even DC.

Well, we arrived and got our tickets and each wore a little blue square sticker indicating we had paid our dues.

Right off the bat, Maggie was full of questions. There was a large wooden sculpture in the entrance of the museum made into the shape of an animal - antelope, deer, etc. - and she was very curious about this. When I told her it was made of wood and that art can be made of many different materials, well she was all obsessed with this idea for the rest of our visit. We walked past the wooden sculpture. Then, she ran over to an African mask and some clay vases. She was running up and down the halls, before we could even determine where the Theibaud paintings were housed, asking me, "What's this made out of? How about this one Mom?"

We finally did get to the exhibit. We looked at a few paintings on display outside the main room, and Maggie was fine with that but it was hard for her to stand still for very long, which meant that I only got a cursory glance at each piece. We did stop and look at one painting, a man in a tree, in a park, at night. Maggie was curious about this painting, because she couldn't figure out why a man was in a tree, in a suit, in the middle of the night. But then, just when I thought we'd have some sort of existential conversation about the meaning of life, Maggie was gone, running up and down the exhibit and saying, "Mommy, you have to see this painting. It's totally amazing."

That was her phrase for the day: totally amazing.

She liked Thiebaud's art and especially liked his work done in pastel-colored paint. She kept thinking the paintings were still wet, because the paint was very thick and still glossy looking. I tried to explain the concept of oil paint, but really I think I was just talking out of my ass because I have no idea why the paint still looked wet, if his thick brush strokes mean anything and how his paintings come out looking like something when, if you look up-close, it's all just a smattering of this and that, all half-hazard.

Then, Maggie came to a drawing, and it was hung next to a painting.

Maggie: "What is this one made out of?"

MamaP: "Pastels. They're like crayons. What do you think of it?"

Maggie: "I like it."

MamaP: "Does it look different to you, different from this other one?" And I pointed to the painting.

Maggie: "Yes, it's different."

MamaP: "How is the crayon drawing different from the painting?"

Maggie: "Well, the crayons stick to the paper and stay there. The paint just kind of drips down."

I wanted to kneel down to the floor and bow my head in thanks: she's brilliant. It's true.

We breezed through the exhibit, and I was at times a little frustrated that I couldn't linger, read about the work, decide how I felt about all of it. But Maggie was running amok and some other patrons (there was a van drop off from a local assisted-living facility) were giving me dirty looks.

We wandered around the rest of the museum, and for some reason Maggie was totally enthralled with the elevator. Now, the elevator was quite large and seemed somehow really modern and cool, but really, she's been in a thousand elevators. Still, this was really "great" and "cool."

There were, as I said, a lot of "totally amazing" pieces of art, and each room we entered I had Maggie point out which painting drew her attention first. They were usually paintings of flowers, and I don't really like flower paintings, but whatever. It was very cute.

I have to say that a lot of California art looks a lot like paint-by-numbers landscapes. But hey...who am I to say?

Then, just when our visit was coming to a close, Maggie entered the modern art section of the museum, and she fell in love and was utterly taken and mesmerized by a sculpture of a cowboy riding a flying horse that was attached to another flying horse, and the horses' eyes were made out of red light-bulbs.

This was truly, truly "totally amazing." This was stop-and-stand, mouth open in amazement amazing. Maggie walked around the entire thing, oohhing and ahhhing and asking me if I was actually seeing this thing.

I was. It was horrid. Wretched. God-awful.

But hey, who am I to say?

Then, when I thought it couldn't get worse (there was a ceramic sculpture done in that blue-and-white Dutch tile kind of ceramic - and the sculpture was a semi-automatic rifle and a grenade), Maggie fell in double-triple-love with a sculpture that was depicting a death-row inmate being put to death, and there were a bunch of protesters with signs depicting each side of the debate. And to top it all off, there was a foot pedal on the floor, and if you pushed the pedal the whole thing started flashing lights.

Dear God, Maggie pushed that pedal a thousand times.

When we left the exhibits, we headed downstairs to the cafe where Maggie chose a cupcake and chocolate milk. We split the cupcake and she sucked down the milk.

I asked her later what her favorite part of the day was, and she said the paintings and the cool elevator.

I have to say, my favorite part of the trip was seeing her so excited about the modern art stuff. I call it stuff. I should call it art, but I can't bring myself to type that out. Sigh....

Anyway, I loved it because she loved it without any preconception, without any idea of what she was loving or if it was the right thing to love or what other people (me, for instance) might say about it. She just loved it, red lights for eyes, foot pedal, everything aglow. It made me look at all of the art differently, because I realized how much we like or dislike what we experience based not on our own taste but on what society says is "right," and (to be honest) how we like to think of ourselves.

All-in-all, it was a lovely day. Maggie bought a Thiebaud post card in the gift shop and drew a heart-breaking picture of herself and her father, holding hands underneath a rainbow to send to him in Afghanistan. I nearly cried when I saw it.

And then I thought: now that is art.

MamaP

Quote 10 of 52

2010-10-18T07:38:00.000-07:00

This week's quote seems appropriate to me because I've been thinking lately of all the trips I want to take, all the countries I want to live in and the things I want to do when I finally get to these places - like development projects, rambling through the Cambodian jungle with my kids and horse-trekking in Iceland.

So, in light of these dreams, when I came across this quote, it reminded me that it's not just the destination that matters - something I know, of course, but a concept that is often difficult for me to apply to my daily life.

The quote is by Robert Louis Stevenson:

To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.

PS - the painting is of Stevenson and was done by John Singer Sargent, 1887. Wouldn't it be fabulous to have a painting of oneself by someone like Sargent???

Hope everyone is having a happy Monday. I'll be posting today about last week's fig - taking M. to the art museum for the Thiebaud exhibit. Good times!

MamaP

The Best

2010-10-12T07:48:00.000-07:00

Last night, as I was putting Maggie to bed, I told her we are going to the art museum this week to see an artist who paints cakes and pies.

Maggie, "We're going together, just you and me?"

MamaP, "Yes, just you and me. To the art musuem."

Maggie, "Is it close?"

MamaP, "Yes, only twenty minutes."

Maggie, "What will we do there?"

MamaP, "We'll look at the paintings and talk about them and tell each other what we think."

She thought about this for a few seconds, and then she reached up, put her hands on my cheeks and said, "You're the best."

Fig #9 - The Art Museum

2010-10-11T07:00:00.000-07:00

This week, I'm doing something I've wanted to do for a while now: I'm taking my daughter to an art museum.

My desire to do this began about two years ago, when I was sitting at the computer one day looking at art.com. Maggie came up to me, and I put her on my lap and we started looking at the art. I asked her which pieces she liked and which she didn't like, and even though she was 3 at the time, she had clear preferences and opinions. On top of just her likes and dislikes, I began to ask her about the art itself, about the paintings, and she started to tell me what she thought of them, why she liked them and what she thought about the subject matters. It was fascinating and enlightening and thrilling. We do it still; though I admit to being lazy about it recently. We do have a few Renoir books downstairs, and we sometimes flip through those, and Maggie tells me which ones she likes and why she likes them and what she thinks about them. It's all so wonderful because it makes me look at the paintings in a new light and I realize how powerful and compelling art is for all of us.

Maggie's favorite painting (thus far, obviously) is by Hopper. Her two favorite artists so far are Edward Hopper and Degas. She loves Degas because she loves ballet. But Hopper is her true love, and there hasn't been a painting of his that we've seen so far that she doesn't like. Well, but her favorite is entitled "Hotel Room."

I asked Maggie what she thought of this painting, and she said that the women in the painting looks sad to her. I think that's such an interesting observation and comment, and every time we come back to this painting, she says the same thing: that the woman is sad.

Interestingly, I was in Madrid a few months ago, and a friend suggested I go to see the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, a fabulous collection of art that is really staggering in that it was collected by one family. Anyway, I went, not knowing a thing about it, and low and behold, I walked up face-to-face with Hopper's piece, "Hotel Room."

I thought of Maggie and vowed to take her there one day, to show her the original piece of art and to see if she felt the same way about the painting in person.

So, this week I am taking Maggie to her first art museum. It's a small museum here in town, and I wouldn't have thought to take her here except for something that happened last week. I was getting the mail and I received a large envelope from a relative I rarely hear from. In fact, I'd not spoken to her in years. Inside was a small note and a newspaper clipping from the New York Times about a new exhibit at our local gallery from a famed local artist. I myself had never before heard of him, but when I read the article I was intrigued, and I vowed to take Maggie with me.

The artist is Wayne Thiebaud, and below I'll post a few of his pieces. Maggie and I are excited, and I think that while I'm there I'll sign her up for art classes. I can't wait to hear what she has to say about our visit, which I'm planning for Tuesday or Wednesday.

I think one of the best things about having kids is that you get to view the world through a whole new lens......

I'll post later about our big adventure...........

MamaP

Quote 9 of 52

2010-10-10T07:00:00.000-07:00

This week's quote is a classic. It's Emerson, and it reminds me that I have some Emerson and some Thoreau sitting next to my bed, given to me by a friend years ago I would have least expected to give me such a book. Well, there I go....adding to my reading list. I'm looking at Siddhartha right now.......Sigh.

The quote:

What lies between us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

Fig #8 - The Purge

2010-10-07T17:50:00.000-07:00

I have finally purged my closet. It took some time. In addition to being busy with other things (two dead car batteries, a faulty transmission and my in-laws visiting), I think it's just emotionally hard for me to part with old clothes. Well, it's hard to part with old anything: clothes, furniture, books, relationships. I think we do a lot of what we do in life because of habit, because what is comfortable is comfortable, even if it doesn't work. At least we know the bad, which is better than gambling on the different.

For me, clothes have been a challenge. I keep my clothes from my old self because, after having two kids, I think that getting back into my old clothes is a sort of badge-of-honor I need to earn and then wear on my sleeve. See, I didn't go to hell in a hand-basket just because I created, housed, birthed and fed two small beings.

I know. It's silly. I get it.

The China clothes were the hardest, because that was my thinnest self, and I always like to hold out that I'll get back to that girl. The word girl is about right, too, because I was 25 when I left China, which means I was 23 and/or 24 when I wore those clothes, and why the hell am I competing with a 23 year old anyway? And of course, I feel that if I get rid of those clothes, I'm somehow closing a door on that chapter of my life. I suppose it would be okay to close that door. I returned home 10 years ago, a decade. So, I suppose it's time to move on........

Well, as you may recall from those many moons ago, I wrote about the idea of turning all those China clothes into a quilt. Normally, I would toss this idea around my head for a while and then give up on it altogether for whatever reason: too expensive, can't quilt, etc.

But, with all these 52 figs hanging around in my head, I decided to get right on it, which I did. I finally admitted to myself that I hate sewing (I tried to deny that for a long time and had some really bad experiences with my sewing machine because of it). In light of this acceptance of myself, I looked on Craigslist and found a woman who happens to love sewing and specifically quilting. I met her a week later, carrying in all my loads of silk and cotton qi paos and Dynasty-style jackets.

Three weeks later, I met her again, and she had transformed my clothes into a beautiful, queen-sized quilt.

I have to tell you, honestly, hand to my heart, this quilt makes me happier than any object has made me in a long time. Happy-happy. I sit on it. I sit under it. I finger it. And I think about all the days I wore this particular dress to teach in, or that particular dress out for dinners or that silk jacket out with the Madames, a pair of motley Chinese women with a penchant for liquor and married men.

Emily, the quilter, included all the buttons and details from the dresses, so I can see the top of one or the bottom of another. I look at one patch of the quilt and see the slit of one cotton dress that hit me just above my knee, where a red satin frog-button sat. I see the ruffled collar of a cotton sun dress I wore my last summer in China. I look at the sleeve of a black silk jacket covered in butterflies that I had made my first weeks in Chengdu, that I wore at my swearing-in ceremony.

Wearing those clothes again couldn't have made me any happier than having this quilt. So, even if I set out to purge myself of all these extra clothes, I ended up acquiring a piece of my own history that is full of memory, that I can sit on top of or crawl underneath, forever.

Okay.....here are the pics:

The blue outline below is the Chinese double-happiness character. I had a tin coffee mug with this emblem painted onto the side, and I used that coffee mug every morning while I taught class. I drank instant Nescafe coffee out of it, and I swear that one day I will find a packet of that stuff and make it again, for old-times sake. Until then, the remnants of that old electric-blue Dynasty style jacket now detail double-happiness for me on my new quilt.

That's it. I sleep with it on me every night, grateful that fall has arrived in Nor Cal and I have use for my new quilt.

I love that I set out to do one thing - purge my closet - and ended up with something else in the process.

MamaP

Back: Quote 9 of 52

2010-10-06T07:34:00.000-07:00

I have been gone from 52 Figs for a month now, and in that time I've considered giving up on my little blog entirely. Here's the thing: when you blog, people comment on your blog. And sometimes those comments aren't very nice. Sometimes, those comments are sort of personal and wretched. So, I told myself that I would simply stop blogging. I was sort of going with the whole theory that I don't want to give someone the rope the hang me with.

But..........

In life, what would happen if we stopped doing what we love (and I love 52 figs) just because someone else didn't like it, had some awful comments about it or felt compelled to run it down?

So, I'm here and starting again with a fabulous quote from Robert Frost:

There is nothing I'm afraid of like scared people.

Catch-Up Week

2010-09-01T13:36:00.000-07:00

This week, I'm still working on several figs. I am still reading Siddhartha. I am still purging my closet - and getting close and feeling great - and I'm doing my weekly yoga. This will be my second week of yoga (I don't count that breezy gym class among them), and tomorrow will be another limb-shaking session.

I will move on next week with a new fig, hopefully having completed the closet and the book by Sunday.

Whew. These figs are all getting very ripe.

MamaP

2010-08-29T15:09:00.000-07:00

Today's quote isn't literary or high-brow at all. But, it's true. And this week, as I struggle to complete two figs: reading Siddhartha and purging my closet, it seems like just the quote to push me into another week.

On to the quote:

The naked truth is always better than the best-dressed lie.

Ann Landers

Along this vein, I have to say that I feel a bit as if I'm being pelted to death with figs. I mean, there has to be a happy balance between not being able to chose anything and feeling overwhelmed by the weekly schedule I've set for myself.

Sigh. Am I just being lazy?

With regard to Siddhartha: I love it. I'm on to the second part, and this is where I feel we're digging deep and getting into the meat of the story. BUT, this is not a late-night, before-bed, on-the-verge of sleep book. This is a book that requires attention. This is a book for sitting up, pen in hand, underlining compelling sentences, paragraphs, thoughts. This is a book you have to set down after only a few pages, because you have to digest it and think about it and read it again, and again, so that you feel you've built up the necessary layers to move forward.

It's either that, or I think you miss the point. And I have an inkling that Hesse does indeed have a point.

With regard to my closet: I am having this slight hang-up. I have purged a good portion of the closet. Today in fact I went through for a third visit, and I got rid of two black skirts I haven't worn in years but that fit me and look fine and blah, blah, blah. I mean, there's a reason I haven't worn them, right? Right. One makes me look like a giant black bell (think A-line), and the other is made of dodgy synthetic fabric that looks cheap no matter how cute it is.

Alas, I already feel better having tossed them.

Okay, here's the hang up - the Chinese section of my wardrobe. The part of my closet that represents my time in China, my Peace Corps years. For some reason, I feel that if I throw out all the dresses (many of which I had made while I was in China), I will somehow be tossing out the experience itself. I'm not sure why I feel this way, because intellectually I know it's silly. But emotionally, it feels like saying goodbye - forever, to an old friend.

Alas, I have an idea. I will cut them up and commission a quilt. Yes, a patchwork quilt, made up of all those dresses and shirts and skirts and jackets. I'll cut up the purses I had made, which I never use because they look silly. I'll cut up the gold and blue Mandarin style jacket that was a gift from Madame Zhou that makes me look like I just stepped out of a Chinese episode of Dynasty. I'll have to post a pic of that gem later, when the official purge is done.

Oh, I love it. I love it. Why do I need to write about it to figure it out? Why do the ideas come from my hands, at the keyboard, instead of through my heart and up to my mind?

Okay, well that's a little bit dramatic. Just a smidge.

I now need to research quilt making. I wonder how much this will cost.............

MamaP

The Two Yogas

2010-08-26T10:58:00.000-07:00

One of my figs is to practice yoga regularly, at least once a week, for three months. I see this as a tall order, because regularity/consistency is one of my major issues in life, and because I've started and stopped yoga several times through the years.

I always feel better when I practice yoga. Always. I love doing it. I love the way I feel after I do it. I love the way it makes me feel about my body, because the focus is on strength and appreciation of one's body rather than on the size of my thighs or the lifting of my ass. So, I think that if a woman is going to exercise, yoga is just about as good as it gets.

The reasons I've stopped doing yoga include: it's hard, it requires consistency and I usually like to listen to music while I exercise, and by music I mean tragic pop music like Katy Perry and John Cougar Mellencamp.

Well, last week, I took the yoga class at our gym. It was lovely. It was gentle, and the music was soft, and I felt so competent in all of the poses. It was a stretch without being a stretch, meaning I could do everything without any trouble at all. If anything, I felt a little disappointed that it wasn't more difficult. I have yoga DVDs at home that are much harder than gym yoga. But, it was a nice break and a gentle reminder of my body.

Well, based on my expertise and ease with yoga after that official gym class, I decided to take a class today at a yoga studio. I almost didn't make it, because I had to get the kids to school, so I was rushed. I also tried to talk myself out of it based on not having the right clothes. And then I almost forgot my mat.

Well, I gave myself a little talking-to in the car about doing vs. talking about doing, and I pulled up to the yoga studio with minutes to spare. The teacher was Chinese. I was thrilled. I still speak a little Chinese, and we chatted for a few minutes before class. Then, I walked into the heated room (hot yoga), and I saw the seriousness of the other students and I started to feel a little bit of fear in my heart. This wasn't the gym crowd. There was no chatting. These were all beautiful, lithe bodies stretched out on mats, composed and prepared for study.

Ping, the teacher from Taiwan, came into the room and we began. We got right down to it. There was no chatter, no sitting cross-legged for ten minutes. There was just movement. Today's yoga class was yin/yang yoga, and we started with yin. I'd tell you how we started, but I can't remember. I simply can't. It was only two hours ago, and I honestly can't remember what I did. I do remember that from the get-go, this wasn't my mother's yoga class. This was no simple gym class. This was YOGA. Sweet mama..........

I have never, ever, worked that hard at anything in my life other than childbirth. Ever. Tracy Anderson...........please. I mean, here's the thing. When you do at-home videos, there is nobody there to correct you, to tell you that you have more to give, to tell you to push harder, that you can do it, to throw your hips wider, to put your leg out further. There is only Tracy, with her perfectly coiffed hair and make-up, saying, "I know it's hard, but you really must do it."

Well, enter Ping. She is small and fit and at least 50. She won't let you get away with half-assing it. She will call you out: Amy, you can offer more. You must push harder. You are compensating.

And come on - it was only my first time, and she knew it!

I was shaking. I was obviously sweating, and by sweating I don't mean perspiring. No, that's what gentle southern women do. I was drenched in sweat. It was pouring down the sides of my arms and face. Just when I thought I couldn't stand a pose a second longer, she would tell us to go deeper, to stretch further. There was no sitting it out. There was no sense that if it was too hard you could simply go back to child's pose. And Ping was watching, all the time moving around the room. She must have re-positioned me at least 12 times. At least.

There were moments when I thought I'd collapse and give up and call out, in Chinese so the other students wouldn't understand: I can't do it. It's too hard.

But then I thought that maybe that's my problem in general. Whenever things get hard, I quit and tell myself it wasn't for me.

I kept going, even though I was shaking and I thought I'd die. I sort of actually longed to be in labor, because at least contractions only last a minute or so and then you have a breather. We held some of these positions for 3 minutes, and what seems feasible in the first thirty seconds becomes unbearable after a minute.

In the end, during our very last pose, before cool down, I was able to somehow contort my body into a bird-of-paradise pose, which I'd never before done and which only two other students were able to do. I did it. I stood up, and Ping saw me and she said, "Good Amy, keep going. Stretch your leg out. Kick it out straight."

I did. I kicked it out straight, and I somehow didn't collapse, and Ping said, "See everyone. She's doing it, and it's only her first day."

The woman next to me leaned over, when I had two feet back on the ground, and said, "That's amazing."

As we cooled-down, Ping talked about someone in our lives who might be suffering and how we could send them our healing energy. I thought of my daughter, Maggie, who is missing her father so much now and who is struggling with her anger and her emotions. I wanted to send her my healing energy because so much of the time I'm focused on dishes, or blogs or laundry or bopping around town, and I don't always know how to help Maggie deal with her emotions about her father's absence. So, I lay on the floor, my palms facing the sky, and I sent my daughter all of the healing thoughts I had, letting them flow out of that experience and into her soft little heart.

I think I'll give up the gym membership. It's time to get real. Three months. I can't wait to see what I can do.

MamaP

Top 5

2010-08-26T07:42:00.000-07:00

A reader asked, in the comments section of this week's quote, which 5 figs I would focus on if I had only a month or year to live. It's a compelling question, and while it might be an obvious question now that I think about it, I hadn't yet thought about it.

Top 5 figs?

Here they are, in no particular order.

1. Write a letter to Aunt Marie
2. Visit Grandpa Bob
3. Write poems to my children
4. Ride in a motorcycle sidecar
5. Ride a horse fast, at a solid gallop

I realize that when I make lists, I start to work the list instead of living each experience. I find myself each week thinking about which fig to start, and my thinking is shifting from what I really want to do or experience to what I have time for or feel I can feasibly accomplish in a few days.

It's not at all the point.

So, thank you Chad, for the thoughtful reminder.

MamaP

Fig #8

2010-08-23T20:13:00.000-07:00

This weeks' fig is something I've wanted to do for a long time but never have gotten around to it: purge my closet.

Just the words make me both excited and make me cringe. But, I'm determined to do it for several reasons. Those I will get to later in the week.

I have to admit that there is something nice about reading Siddhartha and purging my closet simultaneously. In fact, perhaps it's the reading of Siddhartha this weekend (though I still have half-way to go) that has inspired this desire to finally get cleaning.

More on my fascinating closet this week.........

MamaP

Quote 8 of 52

2010-08-22T08:07:00.000-07:00

This week's quote is from Sylvia Plath, and I chose it because I love it, I understand it and it seems applicable for this week - since I'll be finishing one fig (Siddhartha - page 18 as of this morning) and continuing on with another fig (still undetermined). So, I'll be simultaneously figging.

On to the quote.

If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I am neurotic as hell. I'll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days.

I have heard there are people who don't feel this way, and I guess I have to accept this is true. I mean, if someone tells it to you, then you have to believe it (I spent a lot of my youth not believing what people told me, and it was really exhausting). So, if someone tells me that he (let's face it - it's usually a he) doesn't want two mutually exclusive things at one time, that he doesn't think of life that way, that he isn't plagued by this sort of competing desire, well then I must believe it's true. It's just that there is a little place in the back of my mind that is screaming: liar. Okay, that's not very nice of me, and the fact is that it's not even accurate, because I think that it's likely true. I think there are people who want what life has to offer, who can take what comes and live in the moment and not want so much more that it makes them restless. I'm not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, I am jealous of these people because it is torture to want so many mutually exclusive things at one time. It's exhausting and overwhelming, because my wanting of them is just as strong for one as it is for the other, so there really is no relief in choosing one - the wanting doesn't go away. I am jealous of people (really, I am) who don't have this internal battle, who want one thing or another thing but none of those things really compete with each other, and the wanting of things isn't so strong as to make a person miserable.

But then I can't imagine being any other way, being without the wanting and the desire. I think it would be the death of me, even if it's already the death of me, and I think life would be boring and tedious without it. It's so normal for me that I think I would feel naked if I didn't experience these conflicting/competing desires on a regular basis.

I'm learning, however, that it doesn't really matter what another person is or if our own person makes us neurotic as hell. We are who we are; we can't change it. I really don't believe we can change the core of what we're made of, so the only option we're left with is to embrace it, try our best to temper whatever makes us (or others) miserable and make the most of it.

But the beautiful thing about writing is that we don't feel quite so alone when someone else expresses the same sentiment.

MamaP

100 Pages Is Much Harder.......

2010-08-20T21:49:00.000-07:00

I would have never thought 100 pages of anything could be so difficult that at the end of a full week, I would have gotten to only page 10. Well, it's true. I've managed only one chapter of Siddhartha (which means I'm being generous about getting to page 10). So far, it's your basic eastern-philosophy man's/search/meaning/odyssey/quest type of thing. I need to push through, however, because the cover assures me it's an all-time bestseller.

I'm off to take a hot bath, read about selfless suffering and attempt to complete my fig for the week, which I think speaks more to my self-competitive streak than anything else.

MamaP

Fig #7

2010-08-16T13:16:00.000-07:00

I have poured over my list several times these past few days, and I can come up with a good reason (or two) for not doing any of the items listed. I am still suffering from this cold, and while the symptoms are gradually going away - the coughing, stuffy head, sore throat - I am absolutely fatigued. Exhausted. And I have two kids to chase around the house all day, which means the house is a mess, the kids are filthy and they've escaped the side gate more than once. I think the neighbors might be wondering if I've taken to straight gin.

Anyway, the only fig I can imagine mustering in my current state is reading Siddhartha. I figure it's short, and I also figure that in my post-European-vacation let-down/depression, I need something to give me perspective and to really compel me to think of anything other Berthillon ice cream and Hemingway. Thus, I'm not reading The Old Man and the Sea.

Siddhartha is a whisper of a book at only 105 pages. Of course, it's usually these books that pack the most punch, so I am hopeful. I can't even tell you why I've always wanted to read it. I have no idea what it's about. I know that my mother and brother both loved it, though, and since we all tend to appreciate the same literature in our family, I have the sense I'll love it too.

My great aunt once sent me her old copy, the one she used as an English teacher. I have tried to read it several times but always failed because I found all of her notes and scribblings in the margins to be a huge distraction. So, I ordered my own copy from Amazon before I left for Paris, and it sits here waiting for me to begin.

I will begin today. I figure it comes on the heels of having just re-read Maugham's The Razor's Edge, and if any of you have read it, you'll know that Larry's journey must in some way mirror Hesse's story - at least I have an inkling in that direction. So, maybe it's the perfect time for my mind to absorb it.

MamaP

Fig #6: The Unexpected Fig

2010-08-15T08:07:00.000-07:00

As you know, I went to Europe to attend the wedding of a friend, a fellow Peace Corps volunteer. The wedding was in northern Spain, so after a few days in Paris (and one paltry sunrise), I took a 10-hour train ride from Paris to Spain and landed in a hotel with a few other Peace Corps gals, loads of coffee and heaps of bread (we had room service).

The wedding was the following day, and it was one of those weddings that makes you cry for the simplicity and sincerity of it. As I looked around the church, it was clear that every person there cared about the couple. There was none of that big-wedding-invite-everyone feeling. Nearly everyone in our row and in the rows above and behind us was all teary-eyed as the bride came down the aisle. It was touching because of the quiet emotion that sort of permeated this little Spanish cathedral perched on top of a hill overlooking the quaintest town I've seen in a long time.

Well, after the throwing of rose petals and pelting the couple with handfuls of rice, we all made our way to the reception, which ended up being a multi-course sit-down meal in a beautiful, sun-filled banquet hall that somehow makes American banquet halls seem all dingy and dark and missing a strobe light and disco ball.

Okay, I digress. Back to the food. I have to say that the dinner came on the heels of tapas, and I thought more than once of the ubiquitous Chinese expression: man, man chi. Slow, slow eat. They would always say it at dinners and banquets - eat slowly, enjoy yourself, have another glass of beer.........eat slowly.

So, the first course of our dinner was a fois gras and apple pate/terrine and slices of bread and toasts. It was lovely, and I had to stop myself half-way through eating it, reminding myself to slow, slow eat and wait for more to come.

Okay...........the second course was.........................SCALLOPS.

I know. Fig #28 on my list just happens to be EAT SCALLOPS.

I have to tell you why I've never eaten scallops. It all started back when I was a child, and my parents were divorced. My mother, sisters, brother and I all lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Oregon, and my mother was dating the man who would later become my step-father (for 7 years). I should also mention that I was raised Mormon, but my mother had sort of fallen off the wagon after her divorce (likely during my parents' marriage), and as much as we still went to church, there were these little paths taken that were definitely not sanctioned by the Joseph Smith.

For example, I found my mother in the back yard of the apartment complex one evening, on a lawn chair, in a bikini. I know. Well, as if being half-naked wasn't enough, my step-dad was there, and they were drinking wine. I think it might have been wine spritzers - those horrid Bartles and James things that were popular in the 80's - but whatever it was, the whole thing was very sordid and dangerous to my 8-year-old mind.

They were eating scallops. My step-dad offered one to me, and I declined. He insisted. I think I might have cried, and I think I was forced to take a bite, and of course I hated it and thought it was disgusting and have refused to even consider eating them again for the rest of my life.

So, there I am, at this lovely wedding reception, and along come a plate of scallops. I look across the table at a fellow Peace Corps volunteer and smile, because she follows me here at 52 Figs and she could appreciate the poignancy of this moment.

The scallops were actually not in full scallop form. They were mixed together with all sorts of cheese and cream, and they were served in big shells, all hot and bubbly, so it was sort of like eating scallops-light. I dug in, and I loved them of course. It's nice when it works out that way.

Luckily, my Peace Corps friend happens to be a fabulous photographer, and she took a photo of me with my surprise scallops. So, for those of you who don't know me, here I am - a plate of steaming, creamy scallops in my hands:

So, there it is. Me, eating scallops, at a gorgeous wedding of a great friend in a charming Spanish town. Does life get better?

MamaP

Quote 7 of 52

2010-08-15T07:15:00.000-07:00

I am still undecided as to which fig I'll attempt to pluck this week, so I can't find a necessarily applicable quote. Instead, I'll go with another favorite, and I've chosen one that is forceful and strong. Coming off the heels of my big European adventure and subsequent illness(s), I feel I need a good shove into this new week.

This week's quote comes from George Bernard Shaw:

You don't learn to hold your own in the world by standing on guard, but by attacking and getting well-hammered yourself.

Fig #5: Sunrise in Paris

2010-08-13T15:50:00.000-07:00

I watched the sun rise in Paris last week, Thursday morning, in the Bastille district around 5:00 AM.

My desire to watch the sun rise in Paris stems from a particular and unexpected moment 10 years ago, in Cambodia. I was traveling then with another Peace Corps volunteer, Sean, and he insisted that we watch the sun rise over Angkor Wat. We woke early, dressed in the dark and took off via moped to the temples. Sean, a budding photographer, was busy setting up his camera equipment and tripod, and I was sitting at the edge of the moat that surrounds the temple. I was tired. It was muggy but not yet hot, and it wasn't unpleasant. There were a lot of tourists there, given how early it was, and there was a kind of electricity in the air with everyone checking lenses, positioning tripods and then, finally, waiting for the sun.

I looked over my shoulder and saw a little Cambodian girl walking toward me, down the dirt road, barefoot, her hair ratty and falling at her shoulders. She approached me and said, in broken English, "You come with me. Mother have restaurant with coffee for you."

I shook my head, smiled and said, "No, no. I have to stay and watch the sun rise."

She looked at the temple and then back at me and smiled again. Then, she turned back down the dirt road and disappeared into the jungle. I turned back to the moat, a little disappointed because one of the truly great aspects of traveling in Cambodia is the wonderful coffee and freshly baked baguette that litter the roadsides.

The sky began shifting color, and the darkness that had carried me to the moat slowly began to creep away, until there was enough light for all of the cameras to begin clicking. I hung my feet over the edge of the moat, tilted my head back and waited for day.

Then, I heard the clinking of metal against glass and opened my eyes. The girl was back, this time carrying a tray that was bigger than she was, tottering along as best she could in those bare feet toward me. She wore the widest smile I've ever seen, and she stopped in front of me bearing a pot of French press coffee, a slim, hot baguette and a small bowl of jam.
I sat at the edge of the moat, watching the sun rise, eating warm bread and jam and swilling the best coffee in the world. The color of the sky changed from black to pale gray, to pink, to orange and finally to the bright blue of a hot jungle sun.

I always remember that morning, and when I think of Paris, I think I want to have a moment like that in Paris, since Paris is always my favorite city. I visited Paris the first and (until now) the only time in 1997, for the New Year weekend, with my sister and her British boyfriend. It was a wonderful weekend, and I remember loving all things Paris: the food, the coffee, the Seine, the Louvre, the pastries. One night, while my sister and James sat in their hotel room eating bread and cheese and watching CNN, I headed out into the streets in search of a phone card. I never found a phone card, but I did run into a young Parisian guy named Ludo who ended up giving me a personal tour of the city from about 10PM until 3AM the next morning. I remember watching the bakers on their way to work as we strolled, hand-in-hand, past this-and-that historic plaza, tomb or garden. It was a lovey way to see the city, and I think it was that night that I fell in love with Paris. Incidentally, I did not fall in love with Ludo because he was wearing a purple sweatshirt and a pair of ladies over-sized sunglasses - well into the night - which I think made him pretty much out of my league in more ways than one.

So, last week, while in Paris, I thought of the sunrise. It should have been easy, since the jet lag was awful. I had trouble sleeping at all, regardless of day or night, and I found myself wandering the streets in a sort of sleep-deprived haze. My hotel was safe and clean though a little uninspiring, and it wasn't until Thursday morning, three days into my trip, that I finally gave up on sleep altogether and set out to watch the sunrise. I was excited, if tired, because I was sure that if the sunrise in Cambodia was wonderful, the sunrise in Paris would be magnificent. I imagined a flood of color bouncing off the rooftops of the world's most romantic city. It was enough to compel me into a pair of pants, a sweater and ballet flats. I got coffee in the cafe, which was willing to make me a cup at 3AM, and that cup of coffee was very good, even if it came out of a machine, because I'm convinced that all coffee in Paris is good. It's like their greatest natural resource - some countries have diamonds or oil - Paris has the capacity for excellent coffee.

I sat outside my hotel, on a bench, sipping coffee and waiting for the magic to begin. I waited at least two hours. The city wasn't quiet. It was, even at 4AM, full of life. There were car horns blaring in the distance. I heard the sound of sirens flush past the hotel, to the north. The trash trucks and street sweepers were making their morning rounds, so the resounding thud of trash barrels hitting the pavement was the symphony of this particular experience.

The sun never did make an appearance in my sunrise over Paris. The sky just sort of changed color, gradually and slowly, without emphasis or aplomb. It was a dark gray and starless night (never really pitch black) and then it was the color of wet cement and then it was, finally, dove gray, the sun hiding behind a mass of shapeless clouds, obscured by a light drizzle of rain. I was so tired and disappointed that I didn't have the energy to even give up on the experience. Instead, I sat in the rain, my hair matted slightly against my cheek. I mean, the city didn't even have the courage to have an all-out thunderstorm. It was only a drizzle, which was even more depressing than if I had sat through torrid rains and somehow come out unscathed. No, there was nothing extraordinary in this moment, and when my hands were finally unable to properly hold my now-cold coffee cup (Styrofoam at that), I finally had to admit defeat and head back into the hotel.

The front-desk staff looked at me as if I'd lost my marbles and as if they wondered if they should call someone. I smiled, tossed the coffee into a trash bin and went back upstairs.

I undressed and got into bed and thought: that was a complete waste of a sunrise.

Then, as I drifted in and out of a restless sleep (why are people in hotels so loud? really, is it impossible to shut a door rather than letting it slam closed behind you?), I realized my mistake. My mistake was trying to recreate the magic I'd experienced in Cambodia. I thought that if I just happened upon something so extraordinary as that Cambodian sunrise, with my freshly pressed coffee and warm baguette, in the middle of the jungle, with a little Cambodian girl my ambassador to another hot, bright day - well, I thought I should be able to do even better in a city like Paris, a city of light, a city of love, a city that inspired Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Pound.

But my problem, I realized while listening to the couple next door argue over which museum to visit, was that you can't stage the extraordinary. When something is contrived, it loses its wonder. The Cambodian sunrise, which has remained a favorite among my memories for a decade now, was exceptional because I had no expectation of it. I was surprised by it, but I was also open to it, so that when it came out of nowhere (well, out of the jungle on a little metal tray), I embraced it and sat up to greet it without any idea of what it was I was greeting.

I realized that I have, for most of my life, tried to control my happiness. I mean, it sounds logical, right? We are Americans, after all. If we can't control our own destiny, what can we control?

But I think it's just that sense of control, or that fear perhaps of letting go, that restricts my experiences to the dull, one-dimensional events of a life that is only half-lived. It's hard to know when to push for something, when to take the proverbial bull-by-the-horns, and when to simply let life happen and be open to whichever experiences come our way.

Maybe life is a combination of both. Maybe we can only control up to a point, and then we have to close our eyes and jump.

Whatever it is we are supposed to do, I can tell you that I won't ever forget the Cambodian sunrise..........or the Paris half-sunrise either.

MamaP

Quote 6 of 52

2010-08-11T07:17:00.000-07:00

As I was unable to begin this week with a quote, I figure I should get on with it and at least end the week with a quote. I am only now getting over an awful cold/sinus infection that I will blame on two things: air travel and the fact that my body is obviously boycotting my return to the US. I blame the hives on this as well, even if they're getting better and my face is at least hive-free as of today. Anyway, the quote..........

I spent the first four days of my trip abroad in Paris, and while in Paris I spent a good deal of time drinking coffee, eating bread and reading Hemingway. I read, of course, A Moveable Feast, and this is my favorite quote from the book:

I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, "Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know."

I love this quote obviously as an aspiring writer, but I love it just as much in the context of life in general. I think that as we age, we come to appreciate the value of truth and we have less patience with or interest in falseness and/or facade. I find a certain freedom in being myself, and as I age, there is less fear surrounding truth, particularly as it applies to myself.

I love the last bit of Hemingway's quote: Write the truest sentence you know.

I think that I will apply it to life in general: be the truest person you know.

MamaP

Update

2010-08-11T07:11:00.000-07:00

Ah...it seems so long ago that I posted last, and it's only been just over a week. Alas, the big European vacation is over, and I'm back home with the kiddos and the grandmas and a bad case of hives that I seem to have picked up on the return flight home - along with a nasty sinus infection.

Oh well. It was worth it. I mean, if you're going to be miserable with jet lag and hives, at least it's on the heels of a fabulous vacation that included a seven-course Spanish dinner, a private tour of the Paris police station (totally unexpected and slightly dodgy), Brazilian mojitos with a kick and the sweetest wedding ever. Toss in a mini-Peace Corps reunion and a harrowing car ride from Burgos to Madrid, and it was pretty much good times all around.

I have much to write, and I realize now that I still haven't posted about my last fig - camping with my children. I will write about that asap.

More on Paris and Spain soon to come. Incidentally I can mark off 2 figs from the list, but they're not necessarily the ones I had in mind.........

MamaP

2010-08-02T07:45:00.000-07:00

My fig for this week is obviously related to my current position: Paris, France. Two of my figs are actually sort of Paris-dependent. One is to watch the sun rise in Paris:

*Photo taken from ParisDailyPhoto.com, Eric Tenin

The second fig/experience is to drink absinthe:

I plan to do them both while I'm here, and I'll blog about them separately over the next two weeks.

MamaP

Quote 5 of 52

2010-08-01T07:30:00.000-07:00

I am off to Paris this morning. I can hardly believe it. I've wanted to return to Paris since I first went, for New Year's Eve 1998. I only stayed the weekend, but I loved it and vowed that I would one day live there. This week, I'm spending a few days in Paris before heading over to Spain to attend a friend's wedding, and I couldn't be more excited. So.....in light of my travels, I'm posting a quote today from my favorite guy: Hemingway. He was, after all, the ultimate American in Paris.

*Hemingway, Paris, 1924

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.

Fig #4

2010-07-26T07:27:00.000-07:00

This week's fig is a big one: Take my kids camping.

This is big for me for several reasons. First, my husband is gone, so taking my kids camping will be a single-mom thing to do, and single-mom stuff has always scared me. I don't know why it is, but the thought of wrangling both my kids in the middle of the wilderness sounds exhausting and wrought with potential pitfalls, such as my child falling in a lake and floating off because I was concentrating on trying to somehow secure shelter.

I have been camping twice in my life. Well, there was Outdoor School in elementary school, but we stayed in cabins and it wasn't by choice, so I'm not going to count it. Incidentally, I only remember being really cold (it was in Oregon) and hating that experience, which may be why I've never had a love-affair with the whole camping idea to begin with.

So, my first real camping experience was in China. I took a horse-trekking excursion through northern Sichuan, from a charming little town up in the mountains called Songpan. When I say it was charming I'm not being facetious. It was one of those cities displayed in glossy photos in travel magazines. It was at one-time a walled-city, and the crumbling remnants of that wall still remain today. When you arrive in Songpan, you invariably arrive in the early evening, after a 10 hour bus ride from Chengdu, when the sky is hovering just between blue and gray and the air is crisp. I was there in October, when I had a break from school to celebrate Chinese National Day (think July 4th for us Americans). The Chinese take an entire week off for this event, and it was sort of the perfect time to travel: not too hot - not too cold.

Songpan is a little bit like stepping back in time. I say a little bit because the Communists have gotten their hands on the place, so there are the ubiquitous white-tiled buildings and other dodgy, gray, Communist structures. Usually, foreigners are forced to stay in hotels pre-approved by the Party itself (I'm sure there are some kick-backs involved in this process), but because my travel buddy and I spoke Chinese and a twinge of local dialect, we were allowed to stay at a cheaper guest house rather than the concrete, white-tiled slab the other tourists were directed toward. We stayed one night in the guest house before departing early the next morning on our trek. I recall only one thing about this guest house, and that was the bathroom. It was a squat toilet, of course, but it was porcelain and was flushable, so it wasn't altogether bad. Well, it wasn't bad until the next morning. Apparently, the water is turned off during the night, so all the offerings build up over night and greet you when you first go in for a morning wash. It was really awful.

The trek lasted a few days and nights, and our group consisted of myself, another PCV (Erin) and a few Japanese tourists. We were a motley crew, to be sure. Erin and I were all geared up in North Face fleeces, zip-off pants and hiking boots. The Japanese were decked out in brightly colored designer jeans, shoes and shirts, and it felt good to finally be an American tourist somewhere and not be the utterly ridiculous ones.

We rode our horses several hours each day. It was a slow pace. The horses were in no hurry, likely because they were old, worn and had little incentive to trudge along carrying loads of gear and a 130 pound foreigner. Still, we rode along, often at the very edge of steep drop-offs, and I feared more than once that my horse would simply dump me off the side of the mountain. He never did. At one point, while I was kneeling on the edge of an incline to take a photo, my horse did nudge me with his nose, and I sort of toppled down the incline and landed a few feet below, having grabbed hold of a small, frail tree trunk. Erin thought that was very funny.

Each afternoon we arrived at a pre-designated camp site and our guides made camp. When I say pre-designated I only mean that they meant to stop there. I don't mean there were any amenities. None, actually. There were no toilets. No running water. No trash cans. There was only a patch of clearing for our tents and supplies. And when I say tents, what I mean to say are long white pieces of cloth held up with sticks. There were no zippers. There was nothing on the ground other than the bare dirt and a few dirty blankets that had spent the day underneath our saddles. Oh, and our saddles? Those were our pillows. Right, so you got inside your tent, and there was a hairy, dirty blanket on the ground, and at the head of that was your horse saddle. Homey.

It was so cold that Erin and I couldn't sleep and huddled together for warmth - and this was with our polar North Face fleece jackets and special Smart Wool socks.

When we had to go potty in the middle of the night, we had to call out to our guide, who would come shuffling over from his neck of the woods. Incidentally, we had a very charming and good looking guide who was Muslim and one of China's many minority. I had a mild crush on him that was based, I'm sure, on some primal part of me that found a man in Communist-Army issued green tennis shoes and high-water pants attractive. He was so sweet about those midnight potty breaks. Well, we'd call him over, and he'd come and take us off into the woods. Erin had one of those REI headlamp things, and he got a big kick out of that. He thought it was the best thing ever..........and when we left Songpan, Erin gave it to him. I mean, he must have been the shit among the trekking guides after that.

So, the trip was a success because I did it and enjoyed it and didn't complain about lack of sanitation. At the end of the trip, our guide took us home with him that last night, and we ate a meal with his family. They lived in a fabulous home made of wood (again, everything in China is white tile, so wood was very bohemian), and they lived off this dirt road just as you made your way into town.

There were clumps of corn hanging to dry upside-down off the rafters of the second story, and the sky was so big behind that house, dark as it was in the night and filled with stars. We rarely saw stars in China, what with the pollution, so it really struck me there, just after nightfall, as our guide led us through the streets to his home. I should also mention that during our camping trip I'd gotten my only pair of pants thoroughly soaked at a hot springs, and though I left them dangling from the side of my horse for the remainder of the trip, they never dried. So, as I made my way to this Muslim family's home, I wore my fleece, my huge hiking boots and a pair of skin-tight silk underwear that I'd unfortunately bought one size too small.

As I said, he was Muslim, and his mother wore the headscarf, and they didn't eat meat. We ate dofu noodles, which were heavily spiced with Sichuan red peppers, and it was wonderful. We sat in their home, on a sofa, a TV blaring in the background, children running in and out, peeking at us from behind their mother's legs. We talked as much as we could, our Chinese being fairly limited at the time. There is a lot that can be said with a few words, a big bowl of steaming noodles and some smiles. I'm not sure how it happened, but I ended up wearing the Muslim hijab, and I have a grainy black-and-white photograph of me with it on, a weary smile on my face. I remember that picture being taken and not wanting to smile too big for fear I'd offend this woman and she'd think I was mocking her religion.

Anyway, that was my first camping experience. I went to Songpan again, with my Chinese boyfriend, and it was much less exciting because the Chinese don't get such a big kick out of nature and camping and trudging around a quaint little city with a crumbling old wall and some charming wooden houses.

I camped once in the States, just after I'd gotten home from China, with my mother's new husband. We went white-water rafting down an Oregon river, with a huge group of other rafters, and the difference between Oregon camping and Songpan camping is like the difference between a backpackers hostel in South East Asia and the Paris Ritz. My mom's husband was all about the fancy camping, with swank tents, a 2 burner stove, plenty of wine and excellent food. In fact, everyone on this trip camped this way, so the evenings were spent drinking wine around a camp fire, eating grilled shrimp and chatting with cute boys whose parents had dragged them along as well. I loved it, but I'm well aware that I loved it because I didn't have to lift a tiny finger other than to hoist myself on and off the raft each day and, of course, my wine glass at night. And yes, we used wine glasses.

So, I've camped. It's just that the thought of doing it with my kids has somehow always overwhelmed me so much that I've talked about it and thought about it and yet never done it. It always just seems like so much work.

This week, however, friends invited us to camp with them near our home. It's only a 45 minute drive for us, so it's not a long haul. When my friend suggested it, my first instinct was an internal groan. I was suddenly very tired. But then I said to myself: hey, this is life. this is having kids. get on with it.

We are meeting them at a campground and they have a pop-up trailer, and they have an 18-month old daughter. So, we'll be all crazy parents and kids together, and I'm thinking it may wear me out but it may well be fabulous and at least my kids will know the joys of dirt and food cooked over a fire instead of gelato at the mall.

Wish us luck...........

MamaP

Quote 4 of 52

2010-07-25T08:00:00.000-07:00

I think most of us have heard this week's quote many times over. It's quite famous. But what I love about the quote most is what comes toward the end of the quote - the bit about retreat and advance. It's funny because so often, that part isn't actually quoted. And yet, I feel that it's the meat of what Roosevelt is trying to say - that fear causes retreat when we should advance. Obviously, this can be taken in a military context, but I love to apply it to my own life. I feel, as I stand up and pluck these figs from my imaginary tree, that I'm advancing rather than retreating or, perhaps worse, sitting still.

The quote is from Franklin D. Roosevelt's First Inaugural Address - March 4, 1933:

So let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself - nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.

Thoughts on a Spray Tan

2010-07-24T19:32:00.000-07:00

I've had the spray tan now for a few days, and it's much, much better. In fact, it's nice. It is even-colored and not at all blotchy. It gives me a faint glow, nothing particularly noticeable. I'd say that it sort of just takes the edge off the starkness of my white skin. The shower and loofah obviously helped, and by the next morning, the green color was gone and I no longer looked like a part-time, volunteer fire-fighter.

So, I looked at myself and my first thought was this: I don't look better.

Hmmm.

I didn't look any worse. But even with that soft glow, I don't think I looked better. And I'd been waiting basically my whole life to look better.

I think what struck me most is that my skin didn't look like my skin. It looked like a tan person's skin, except that I'm not a tan person so my own personal coloring wasn't such a big hit with the spray tan. I think if my skin naturally tanned, things might be different. But since my skin doesn't naturally tan, it sort of just looked odd to me. Again, not bad but not good either. Just different.

I noticed that my eyes didn't stand out as much against the tanned skin as they do against my white skin, and I realized that I like my blue eyes in part because of how they play off my skin.

My lips also seem pale to me, not quite as pink. My lipstick and make-up look slightly off with this warmer skin. It all just doesn't seem to suit me as much.

I had a friend write me an e-mail after reading my first post on this blog, when I was floating in the pool contemplating my life. She said something that I don't think anyone has ever said to me before: she said that my skin is part of what makes me beautiful.

I have been thinking about that ever since she wrote it. It's the first time someone other than my mother has said I have nice skin - and even then my mother encourages me often to get tanning lotions. Isn't it nice when our parents give us those blessed mixed messages???

Anyway, my friend's comment made me realize that I've always thought of myself in terms of being on the cusp of being beautiful. If I only had tan skin, I'd be pretty. If I only lost 10 lbs, I'd be thin enough. But now that I've actually gone and gotten the spray tan, I realize that it doesn't make me any prettier; in fact, my skin looks best in its natural state, and I guess I have to give mad props to God for creating me right the first time, sans golden skin and all.

I think that if I have a beauty-based goal, it's got to be to love myself as I am, today, right now. I think that if I could teach my daughter one thing about herself it would be that - to love herself as she is, to appreciate what she's been given and to focus less on the outside and more on the inside. Because as I age, I do realize that it's the soul of who we are that gets us through the rough patches and enables us to celebrate the joy - it's never the size of our thighs or the color of our skin.

I know some people don't understand how a woman could be so consumed with a spray tan. But I think we all have our thing, and for whatever reason, it's our thing. It's that proverbial monkey on our back that tags along with us, sometimes in the forefront of our thinking and other times lingering behind but still somehow attached.

I sit here tonight, the remnants of my spray tan starting to fade, and I can't express how happy I am to have had this experience and to put it behind me. I look forward to my skin returning to its glaring white, and I hope that this feeling lingers, that it knocks that monkey officially off my back, allowing me to shift all of that mental energy to the experiences that will enrich my life.

Isn't it funny that in life, so often when we get what we think we wanted, it turns out we were wrong all along?

MamaP

*Photograph/Painting: John Singer Sargent - Madame X

The Spray Tan

2010-07-22T07:59:00.000-07:00

As I walked in for my much-anticipated spray tan, I thought about a lunch date I had about 12 years ago, when I was a fresh little thing just out of college. I was meeting a friend, a good friend, a male friend. I'd met this guy in college, when he was my waiter at Chili's. He was adorable. He was very nice, and we became fast friends and I was aware that he had a crush on me. This went on for several years; though he never came right out and admitted the crush. But, it was obvious not only to me but to others. I only mention this because it relates to our lunch date, which I'll get to in a minute.

This friend, I'll call him "R," was very sweet and good to me. We were friends all throughout college and kept in touch after graduating. I even visited him once, for a weekend, and we had that kind of friendship that is easy and fun and honest.

That honesty is a stickler, though.

So, fast-forward to our lunch date. I hadn't seen R in well over a year, and I was excited. We were meeting at a swank restaurant in Dallas, and I'd gotten all dressed up (like a good Texan girl) and was waiting at the table when he arrived. He walked toward me, all smiles and he hugged me in one of those big bear hugs that lasts a minute or two longer than it probably should, especially at a restaurant full of other people. We sat down. I put my napkin in my lap, and he looked at me and said, "God, you'd be gorgeous if you just had a tan."

I know.

Here's the thing: he was fairly pale, freckled, with strawberry-blond hair and a good extra 20 to 30 pounds. I mean, this guy was no American Gladiator.

I can only think that in his mind, he was giving me a compliment.

I thought about R as I arrived at the salon for my famed spray-on color. I had to take my kids. That's part of this whole year, actually - doing these 52 figs even when it's inconvenient or a hassle. It's hard for me to take my kids to things like a spray tan. I'm not one of those easy-going women who can somehow handle a brood of small children in a public place without alternating between a horrid sing-song voice of false enthusiasm and the clenched-teeth whisper of a mother at her wit's end. But this year I'm not going to say to myself: oh, I can't do that because I can't take the kids. I can't find a sitter. Blah, blah, blah.

So, I took the kids. I plied them with sugary treats from Peet's Coffee, which I held ransom until the very last minute before I headed back into the depths of the salon where the spray tans are doled out.

The receptionist promised to keep an eye on the kids, and the spray-tanner (I'm sure this woman has an official title I'm unaware of) also did the same. I left my kids with a carton of yogurt, a lemon-iced scone and two boxes of chocolate milk. Dear God, I thought. What will this waiting area look like when I return?

I followed the woman back, and I was somewhat calmed by the fact that she too had pale skin. She assured me I was going to love this, that it was going to be fabulous and that I'd be back again and again.

"Don't worry," she said. "You'll be a little blotchy and dark for a day, but when you shower later, it will wash off and you'll just have a nice glow."

"I won't be all streaked and orange?" I asked, still skeptical. I mean, I know other people get spray tans, but other people have natural pigments in their skin that lend themselves to color. I don't.

"Don't worry," she smiled, handing me a bottle of lotion and telling me to apply it to the bottoms of my feet, the palms of my hands and my knees and elbows. "You'll be great."

So, here's how it works - the spray tan. First, you are taken to a small room that has a tent in it. It's like a camping tent, except that it's very tall and just big enough to stand in. On the floor is a little pad of what looks like aluminum foil. You stand on that. You can chose to wear underwear or you can chose to go naked. I chose to go naked.

I asked the woman, "That doesn't bother you? To spray tan naked people all day long?"

She laughed and said, "Oh no. Just last week I had to hold a woman's boobs up for her to get underneath."

I sort of loved her right there and then.

Okay, so I stripped down, applied to the lotion to my hands and feet (I guess to keep from the spray tan collecting there) and then sort of just waited, half covering my naked breasts with one hand, my legs kind of crossed over one another. It was awkward. She finally came back.

"Ready?" she called to me. I assured her I was ready. She opened the door.

"Your kids are fine, just waiting for you and eating."

I loved her even more for checking on them for me.

So, we commenced. She took hold of a small tool with a long wand on the end of it, and she began to spray me down much like you might spray-paint a car. It was odd. I stood still, buck-naked, and watched her evenly apply a light mist to my body.

"Okay, turn," she said. I turned to the side and lifted my arm. I turned around. I turned to the other side. I closed my eyes for a light misting over my face.

It was all done in about 5 minutes. After that, she left me with the said machine, that had been converted into a dryer, and I stood there for another 5 minutes drying myself off. Then, I got dressed and walked out into the salon.

I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and my first thought was this: Holy Shit I Look Like George Hamilton.

As the day progressed, things only got worse. First, my bra wiped off the tanning solution around my boobs, and since my boobs are so small I have to wear a padded bra with chicken-cutlets, the area with the chicken-cutlets had apparently sweat so much that the solution had entirely worn off. So, my boobs alternated between deep orange, slight orange and stark white.

The woman had also failed to catch that area underneath my butt, that nice little spot where one's ass overhangs one's thighs. So, if I bent over, there were some really nice white creases there.

Also, after about two hours, my skin took on a strangely green pallor. It's hard to describe, so I'll just let a photo speak for itself.

All of this, however, is nothing compared with my face. My face. My face. My lips seemed to be gone from my face, because now instead of being white with pink lips, my lips are just the same color as the rest of my face, which is a very strange look. My face, after a few hours, was very dark. I looked like I'd just rescued a box of kittens from a smokey basement in Boca Raton, Florida.

I called my sister on Skype, and when she saw me she had to turn away. Finally, she just gave in and laughed openly. When she could talk she said, "Um, don't take this the wrong way, but you look like you're 80."

I hope this whole thing eases up with a good shower and some exfoliant!

MamaP

Fig #3

2010-07-19T19:15:00.000-07:00

This week's fig is going to be a spray tan. As you may recall, I have very white skin. My sister says it's more like translucent than actually just white, and you don't have to look awfully hard to see the veins running up and down the backs of my legs.

I think I have come to terms with my skin. I mean, I think there will always be a part of me that wishes I wasn't quite so glaringly white, but I have outgrown the phase of allowing it to stop me or hold me back. And in the past years, especially since living in Asia, I've grown to see it as a positive aspect of my appearance rather than something I should cover up and hide.

I know it seems like a lot of angst, the color of my skin. So lest you think I'm hung up on it for no good reason, allow me to regale you with a few stories of my romantic past.

In college, my freshman year, I dated a football player. Well, he was a little bit more than a football player. I lived in Texas, and I attended a Texas state school, so he was more of a football hero - as are all Texas football players (in the very least in their own minds). Not only did my boyfriend play football for our college, but he played baseball as well. He was quite the athlete. He was also very big. I use that word because there isn't another word to describe him. He had a medical condition (acromegaly - a hormone imbalance) that made him big. He was 6'3 inches tall and 275 of muscle. He was so big that my entire hand fit into the palm of his hand. His calf muscle was bigger than my thigh muscle (we measured them). He was blond and blue-eyed and tan. Everywhere we went, women sort of looked at him and smiled at him and threw themselves at him, all of which he laughed off with an affable shrug. So, right there you can kind of see that a girl might be a little insecure as his girlfriend, and then he was 24 and I was 19, and he was a senior, and I was a freshmen. Well, I could go on.

I remember several times waiting for him to pick me up in my dorm room only to find that he'd never gotten past the elevators, what with the small crowd of girls hovering around with their questions, and hair-twirling and infectious laughter.

Lest you think he wasn't a good boyfriend, I can assure you he was. He was very sweet, cooking for me and shuffling me all over town and spending hours sitting with me while I studied (he never did study, that I can recall, and yet he seemed to sail through his classes with ease - I guess that happens when one is a sports science major). Anyway, he was lovely. I was sick once and feeling pathetic and miserable, and I was all self-pitying and mopey and he said to me, "What do you want?" And I sort of threw myself on the floor and said, "I want cake."

I'm well aware, at the age of 34, how pitiful this story sounds.

Anyway, he got up and went out in a snow storm and got me two different kinds of cake and fed them to me from a palate on the floor, in front of a fire.

So, he was sort of great. The only thing I ever recall him being not-so-great about was my skin. He was, as I said, very tan. And he always hinted that he'd love it if I tanned. Finally, one day he just came out and said, "Will you go to a tanning booth if I pay for it?"

I didn't know what to say, and so I shrugged and agreed. I knew, of course, that I wouldn't actually tan. I mean, it wasn't as if I hadn't tried. But people never believed me. It's as if they thought I should just be trying harder or something.

I went to the tanning bed the next week. His excitement was palpable as I walked in and winked at him over my shoulder. Really, he could hardly contain himself.

In his defense, when I walked out 15 minutes later, red as a boiled lobster and sort of walking with my arms and legs splayed out to keep them from rubbing against each other, he was mortified and shocked and felt very badly. Very badly.

He never mentioned tanning again. But I knew how he felt about my skin, then, and it was always hard for me to wear shorts around him. And we lived in Texas, so the option of wearing jeans throughout the summer was slightly worse than my alabaster legs.

This week, since I've given the old tanning bed the college try (literally), I'm going to get a spray tan. I've used tanning lotions over the years and given up. Looking streaked and smelling as if I peed myself isn't worth it. But I've always wondered if a spray tan would look good. And I've talked about it for years.

I don't know what worries me more about it - that it will look (and smell) like crap or that it will be fabulous and I'll spend my family into deep debt from a tanning habit that stems from an insecurity about myself that is so superficial I am embarrassed to write about it.

MamaP

Quote 3 of 52

2010-07-18T07:46:00.000-07:00

And now a quote from my favorite author, Hemingway. I love this quote because, like Hemingway's writing, it's simple and to the point and yet says everything there is to say:

Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.

Jackpot

2010-07-14T14:43:00.000-07:00

I went to Nordstrom today to pick up my Creme de la Mer body lotion. You can imagine my delight when they told me that since I purchased the lotion, I was also going to be given a special anniversary gift. Now, let me just say that Creme de la Mer isn't known for gifts. They're not like Lancome or Clinique, who seem to have a constant rotation of "gifts-with-purchase." I've never before even seen a gift-with-purchase at la Mer.

Well, in addition to my bottle of lotion, I received a .24 oz. jar of actual Creme de la Mer face cream (which I use everyday), a small bottle of the tonic and a little jar of the eye concentrate. As if that wasn't enough, she threw in a small tube of the body creme, which is thicker than the lotion, and which I'm especially pleased with as my hands are beyond dry at the moment.

In addition to all of this, I tried the sunscreen. Now, let me say that sunscreen is very important to me - as you might imagine - given the whiteness of my skin (which my sister says is better described as "translucent"). I have tried every facial sunscreen on the market. I like Clinique City Block in 40 SPF and Cetephil's new facial moisturizer with SPF 50. Both are quite nice, but both do feel like sunscreen. They go on and leave just a hint of that white, sunscreen film, catching the tiny hairs across my face in a faint glow.

I didn't expect much from Creme de la Mer's sunscreen, because how can you really improve upon facial sunscreen? Well.........let me tell you, however they do it, they've done it. The sunscreen is incredibly light and soft. It feels like putting silk across your face. There is no white residue. None. It actually feels like a sheer coating of primer, which makes putting make-up on even nicer. I felt my skin was smoother after applying the sunscreen. It is lovely. It is an SPF 30 and has 4% zinc oxcide. And really, it doesn't take a heaping gob. The stuff really does smooth over the skin so that it only requires a small amount.

I bought it. It's $65 for a small tube, which should last me several months. I think it's totally worth the money.

I am excited about my body lotion. I will apply it today, when I get home from the pool, after I shower. It will be especially nice and luxurious after spending hours under the sun, slathered in drying sunscreen (I have to use an SPF factor of 50 to 70).

My sister read my post from the other day, and she called me and said, "I think your post makes you sound more frugal than you really are." She has a point. I'm not all Mrs. Frugal, coupon-shopper, never buy anything nice. When I spend money, I can really spend money. But the point is that I agonize over it, wring my hands, put it off, and then I end up returning much of what I purchase. The point of this experience is to buy a luxury item and to use it all with abandon, no hand-wringing, no dabbing it on once tiny minuscule amount at a time, no returning it. When I got home today, I tore off the packaging, put the lotion in my bathroom and threw the box away. It feels great.

MamaP

Fig #2

2010-07-12T07:00:00.000-07:00

For this week's experience, I've chosen #51 out of 52 figs to pursue: Buy a frivolous luxury item and use it all, with abandon.

I'm fully aware this might seem strange to add to a list of experiences one may have put off in her life, but I can assure you that for me, the idea of doing this is a little overwhelming. Let me explain.........

I have a friend. We were Peace Corps site mates in China for two years together. I remember when she would get a care package. It was always very exciting to get care packages, because they usually included food items that we couldn't get in China. Erin's parents always sent stuff like Cheetos, too, which was fabulous (you have no idea how much you miss junk food until it's gone........). Anyway, I remember when she'd get her packages. We'd have to go downtown to the post office, which we would usually do by taxi instead of bus, that's how excited we were. We'd haggle through the process of trying to explain, in Chinese, that we had a package from America. Most times, we'd be at the wrong post office, so we'd flag down another taxi and go careening through the madness of a Chinese city street, our hearts pumping with the prospect of processed cheese, in a can.

Erin would get her package, and we'd flag down another taxi, and then she'd open the box - right there, in the taxi. It always amazed me. She didn't wait. She didn't gingerly finger the box, gazing at the packaging tape or run her hand across the letters of her name. No, she simply tore into it and start pulling stuff out, shrieking with delight. And she'd open a bag of Doritos right then and there, offering some to me, and that's how we'd make it back to our campus, our fingers encrusted in Doritos-orange goo.

I visited my friend once at her home in Colorado, and she amazed me again. She got new pants, and when we got home, she stripped off her old pants, grabbed the new ones, tore off the tag, tossed it aside and slid right into those babies. She didn't put them in her closet, to look at them later. She didn't wait until she'd taken a shower. She didn't wait for a special event. No, she put them on and then went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea. I mean, those pants could have gotten dirty, for God's sake.

As you might have guessed, I am the antithesis of my friend. Before I buy an item, I agonize over it. I research it. I think about it. I discuss it ad nauseum with everyone I know. Then, I go and look it over. I might even put it into my cart. I stroll through the store and I think about it some more. Then, I look at it again. I put it back on the shelf, telling myself I don't need it. I go back to it. I do this over and over again, until I either put it back for good or finally buy it. Then, I get it home and put it away, safely in the back of my closet, still in the store bag, tags secure. About 70% of the time, I return it.

I bought Jimmy Choo shoes this summer, and I returned them. I return many of the clothing items I buy. I'm not sure why exactly I do this. I think it likely hearkens back to my childhood, when we had some lean years and money was tight and my parents told us all about it. Of course, when your mom is boiling water for baths on the stove, I guess that really does say it all.

I remember once, when I was about 10 or so, we got new shoes. They were white, and they were for church. We got them at Payless, but I didn't know at the time that Payless was cheap or discount. I only knew that I LOVED those white shoes. My mother told us to put them away until Sunday, which my sister and I did. We would take the boxes out from underneath our beds, after we'd been put down for the night, and look at our new shoes. I was afraid to wear them, afraid to spoil the newness of them, afraid that they'd become commonplace if I wore them.

I think I'm always afraid for the proverbial other-shoe to drop. I'll buy a luxury item, and if I use it then I can't return it, and we might go over our credit limit and then we'll lose our house and cars and be shuffling around from homeless shelter to homeless shelter in search of food. It's similar to the reason I never smoked pot: for fear that I'd end up in a gutter somewhere, hopelessly addicted to crack-cocaine, my teeth having rotted out.

As you can see, I take things to the extreme. I mean, we don't even carry credit card balances and invest heavily in our retirements (a point I push so hard on my husband has to remind me that we're living now, too).

There is an upside to this fear of mine, and that is that my husband never worries that I'll go out and spend us into oblivion. He always says that I'm "self regulating," and that gaining weight or spending money always bothers me much more than it bothers him, so he never has to say anything to me at all. I might come home with $500 worth of clothes, but he knows that likely $350 of those are going back to the store. And if I gain 5 lbs? He knows I'll eat salads and soups for a week to get it off.

I am, obviously, afraid that one tiny step will snowball into an avalanche of misfortune.

I am also afraid that if I use up all the good stuff in life, I'll be stuck with the leftovers - mediocrity. What happens when my fancy purse becomes commonplace? When it's not fancy anymore? What happens when I can afford to buy Jimmy Choos and there isn't the thrill of doing so? What happens when a stay at the Ritz is just a stay at the Ritz?

I'll be honest: I secretly feel sorry for rich people, because if anything could take the thrill out of life, it would be copious amounts of money. But I also kind of feel sorry for me, because the agony of all of this really takes the joy out of treating oneself, even if it's only once in a blue moon (as, really, it should be).

So, I am going to buy a luxury item, an item I've been wanting for over a year now. And I'm going to take it out of the bag, rip the tags off and use it. I'm not going to ration it out. I'm not going to take it one tiny smidgen at a time. I'm going to use it - not waste it, mind you - until it's gone. I'm going to enjoy it. I'm not going to worry about it. I'm going to see if it's worth it.

The item I'm going to buy is Creme de la Mer body lotion. I've wanted it for ages. I actually use (sparingly and with agony) their face cream. I love it. Well, I was given a sample of the body lotion a year ago, and I loved it too. I remember it being silky and smelling very good and feeling like I'd done something lovely to myself. But, I would never allow myself to spend the money.

The body lotion is about $200 for 10 oz.

I am going to Nordstrom this week to purchase it. I'll report back...........

MamaP

Quote 2 of 52

2010-07-11T06:00:00.000-07:00

This week's quote is from my second-favorite author (it's hard to write that because I love him so) - W. Somerset Maugham. My actual favorite author is Hemingway.....sigh. But, Maugham is a true love of mine, and he is the author of my favorite book - The Razor's Edge. That book led me to join the Peace Corps. It led my sister to head off to Europe and attend cooking school. And when my brother read it, he quit his job and beat-feet for Jackson Hole. My youngest sister refuses to read it. I can see her point.

Anyway, this quote is appropriate for this week's Fig, about which I will write more tomorrow.

For now........the quote:

It's a funny thing about life; if you refuse to accept anything but the best, you very often get it.

W. Somerset Maugham

The Challah That Keeps on Giving

2010-07-10T08:17:00.000-07:00

Last night, I decided to make baked French toast using our leftover challah, which was starting to dry out. I used a recipe from the Smitten Kitchen(http://smittenkitchen.com/2006/12/new-years-day-2001/ ). I've been wanting to try a recipe of hers for a long time. It was very easy, only taking about 10 minutes to put together. I baked it this morning, and the kids are still down there wiping their plates. It was easy, simple and good.

I can say, after this week, that challah is definitely worth the effort!

MamaP

A Thought.........

2010-07-08T07:57:00.001-07:00

I was toasting challah this morning for the kids, and I had a thought: I bet now that I've made challah, I can make homemade cinnamon rolls.

I've never made them because the idea of filling and rolling and cutting something has just seemed so complicated. But, then, a challah braid made me cry and I lived through it, so homemade cinnamon rolls might just doable as well.

I think that this is the point - that doing something makes us feel like we can do the next thing......and I think it's a cycle that keeps on going.

Anyone have a good cinnamon roll recipe?

MamaP

Holla for Challah

2010-07-07T14:07:00.001-07:00

It's done. Fig #1 is in the bag...........

My Fears Realized

2010-07-07T13:05:00.000-07:00

Well, at Whole Foods I asked a baker if it is a problem that my yeast didn't bubble up. She assured me it is a problem, telling me that it means the yeast is "dead." Great.

She suggested I try again, and I told her I tried two different packets of yeast, but she could only smile and shrug. She did tell me how challenging challah is, because of all the eggs and butter. She helped me understand whole process of challah, and by the end of our conversation I wanted to hug her because she'd been so kind. She really was very calm and helpful, and I thought - well, if I hadn't had the "dead" yeast, I wouldn't have met this wonderful baker who makes me feel that the kneading of bread is a spiritual practice in and of itself.

When I got home, I swore my dough had doubled in size. I mean, it was huge or anything, but it was bigger than before, so I decided to go with it and see where it takes me.

I took the dough out and cut it into four pieces and began rolling. I don't know why I think everything should be easy and happen quickly, but I became slightly frustrated with the dough because it wasn't forming into long rolls as quickly as I had anticipated. It actually took a lot of rolling. And then there was the issue of size, since some of my strands were thicker at one end that at the other, an issue I could never seem to resolve.

Well, my daughter was with me, working alongside me, rolling away. Hers was even wonkier than mine, and I realize that it's small and petty of me to compare my bread rolling skills to that of a 5 year old, but it did make me feel a little better that we were both struggling a bit.

Finally, I had four strands of equal size. I tried to braid it. I tried to braid it six times. I read the instructions and looked at the photos on Williams-Sonoma. I finally watched a cooking video off youtube, twice. I kept running upstairs to read/watch another time. I cried at one point - not big, sweeping tears but small little tear-pellets of frustration. I mean, is that homemade or what? Here, enjoy some of my homemade challah moistened with my own tears.

It didn't help that my daughter kept saying, "That's not right. Nope....that's all wrong. Doesn't look good."

I had to take a short break to offer her a lesson in tact and diplomacy that I fear went right over her small head. I suggested she go and watch TV.

I finally got it. It was thrilling. I'm not kidding. To see the braid come together was thrilling. It worked. I didn't have any missing strands. The braid was even and not at all wonky.

Here is a photo:

It might have been a nice braid, but when I laid it out next to the baking sheet, I realized it was far too long (likely because I'd braided it so many times, thus stretching the dough):

So, I took a knife and cut the braid into two.........voila.

I then covered the braids and let them rest for 60 minutes to rise again. I just went and checked on them, and they don't seem to have doubled in size again. Ouch. Oh well. I'm going to bake them anyway and I'll let you know how they turn out. I may be making challah again tomorrow...........sweet Lord.

MamaP

Making Challah - Part 1

2010-07-07T09:44:00.000-07:00

I started the challah this morning. I put on my favorite apron, an old apron given to me by my sister from her days at Le Cordon Bleu. It is white and very stained, and it makes me feel all professional and competent.

I started by combining two packets of yeast with one cup of warm water. After five minutes, nothing was happening. I was expecting some bubbling, but there was nothing. So, I called my sister. She suggested I add sugar. I did that. Nothing. She suggested I try another packet of yeast, and I did that. Nothing.

Now, by this point, I was starting to go down what my other sister refers to as the "Debbie Downer" road - thinking my bread was a bust, my yeast was bad and the whole thing was going to be a flop.

In addition to all of this, I was discussing with my sister my husband's response to my 52 Figs idea, and I was all can you believe he wanted me to wait for him to start my list? and my sister laughed and said, "Listen to what you're saying."

I said, "What do you mean?"

She said, "Well, you complain all the time that your husband ignores you and doesn't want to do stuff with you. Now he's excited to do something with you and you want to do it all yourself."

I said, "But, he's not even going to be home for seven months. Am I supposed to just wait for him? I mean, is this list about him?"

She said, "No, but you could talk to him about all the stuff on the list he wants to do with you, and during the next six months, you could do the other stuff."

I said, "Well, that's not really the point, at least for me."

We stopped talking then, so I could focus on my flat yeast. I decided to just try the yeast as it was, rather than running to the store to find more - I mean, in that time I could at least see if the dough will rise, right?

I got off the phone so I could make the dough, and my daughter joined me. It was a little stressful, making the dough with her, because I had to answer questions and discuss the bread while trying to read the recipe and measure ingredients, but I think she enjoyed it and so I'm happy we did that together. She ended up scraping the leftover dough bits from the bowl while I kneaded the bread.

At this point, the dough was very sticky and I thought: this is never going to come together.

I know - can you believe how quickly I shift into Debbie-Downer?

Well, I kept at it, all the while thinking about what my sister had to say and about how funny it is that two people (sisters even) can have such different views on the same subject. For me, setting aside my list to wait for my husband would only further exacerbate my feelings of waiting on everyone else before I can live my life (feelings that may or may not be accurate but that I have nonetheless). Also, asking him which figs he wants to do with me and setting those figs aside for his return just seems crazy to me. I mean, it seems like I'd be missing the whole point - which is to experience life now, to do what I've been too afraid or (frankly) lazy to do. I want to see how I might be changed by completing this year, and I don't want this to be about another person.

I think that my sister feels I'm selfish and that maybe I'm missing the point.

As I thought about this, my hands worked the dough back and forth, kneading one side and turning the dough over, kneading the other side. I watched the sticky, unkempt mess turn into a smooth, round ball. It was amazing. I loved it. I think bread machines are for the birds. The kneading is the absolute best part - aside from the eating.

I thought, too, about how it must have been in the past, before industrial bread - when mothers woke early, fathers already in the fields, and began their chores. I have a little Laura Ingalls Wilder picture book that I read to my daughter often, and in that book Wilder writes about the weekly chores and how each day was set aside for a specific chore: washing, baking, churning butter, etc. It seems like life in that manner would have a nice rhythm to it.

Here is a photo of my beautiful dough..........I'm off to Whole Foods for groceries. When I return, I guess we'll see how the yeast has done. Will it rise? Only the gods know........

MamaP

My Husband's Response

2010-07-06T11:48:00.000-07:00

I told my husband, who is overseas for the next 7 months in Afghanistan, about my whole 52 figs blog/concept. Much to my surprise, he was excited, noticeably so. I say this was surprising because my husband is a man who often tunes out when it comes to me and my "ideas." I put that word in quotes, because I have been a woman with a lot of ideas. I talk about what I'm going to do, what I want to do, what I'll do when x happens or when y happens. But, to be truthful, I actually DO very little in terms of real action, and what action I do take usually falls by the wayside within a few weeks or months.

I wasn't always this way, but that's a blog for another day.

Back to my husband. He has, over the years, learned to tune me out. I don't think his reaction to me is disrespect or even a lack of love (though it does sometimes feel that way). I think it's just a sort of desensitization after years of hearing me drone on and on about one thing or another. In fact, a few months ago, after an argument between the two of us over his apparent lack of listening skills, my husband finally said to me, "You know, I'll admit it. Sometimes I just stop listening to you."

I asked him, "Why?"

He said, "Because you talk a lot and sometimes I think you just want to talk. I don't think you really want me to answer."

I have to say that even if there is a bit of truth to his statement, it was a hurtful realization that my husband has begun to tune me out. It's like he took a No. 2 pencil and slowly began erasing me from the paper of our lives.

So, when I told him about 52 figs, and his excitement was palpable (even over a poor phone connection involving a disabled iPhone and a Magic Jack), I was surprised, pleasantly so.

My husband was most excited about my desire to drive a sports car with a stick shift, and he told me that it ABSOLUTELY is better than driving a "regular" car and that the stick shift is a MUST. I think that my desire to drive a sports car reminded him of his young-man days when he had a black Corvette. I mean, he still sometimes talks about that car, and in my mind I start to hear Springsteen's lyrics to 'Glory Days.'

He is also excited about my desire to rappel, to sail, to ride horseback and to ride in a motorcycle sidecar.

My husband said, "Have you ever skied?"

I said, "No. For some reason it's just not a big thing for me."

My husband said, "Oh, it's great. It's really great. You're out there in the mountains and just going so fast. I think you should put it on your list."

I said, "Well, the list is already made. So, we can do it for sure, but I don't want to change the list."

Then, when I spoke with my husband today he asked me what I was doing. I told him I was looking up the opera schedule for this year, thinking of going to the opera in October.

He said, "You're not going to wait for me?"

I said, "Well, you won't get home in time, and I only have a year. So, I'll have to go alone."

He said, "Well, can't you just start your year when I get home?"

I paused. I was surprised (again) by the question, by his interest and by his seeming desire to participate in something that I see as uniquely my own. They are my 52 figs.

I said, "Well, this is really kind of my list. I want to do it now. It's stuff I've wanted to do for along time."

He was quiet. I felt badly about it, and I started to try to think of ways I could mend the conversation and turn it around.

I said, "I can wait for you to rent the sports car. And do you know a place I can rappel?"

He said, "Oh, no. This is your list."

So, then I felt guilty and sorry but also a little angry and annoyed. I have spent the last five years at home with our kids, moving around the country to support my husband and putting my dreams on hold so that I can be the still part in the middle of all these moving parts. I won't say I haven't resented it at times, but I've done it because I truly believe it's in the best interst of our family and because, frankly, I said I'd do it when I told my husband I wanted to have a baby. This, too, is a post for another day.

But now, when I finally slap myself and say: Girl, it's your time. Get on with it now and don't wait for anyone else to make you happy or fill your bucket - now, my husband wants in and wants me to wait and feels left out.

Since being married, I've wondered a lot about the institution of marriage and if we, as a society, have outgrown it. Are we past the point of needing another person on a day-to-day basis? And if we aren't, what does that perpetual needing do not only to us as a couple but to as individual people? Can we be independent and dependent at the same time? And if we can, where is the line between them, which grows so blurry at times I'm afraid it's gone for good.

I'm not going to wait for my husband. I'm not going to give myself yet another reason to put off doing today what I could have done yesterday. I'm not going to keep looking to the future for my happiness when I can take small steps today, right now, toward a richer life - even if that life is baking challah or reading a novel or getting a spray tan (which I don't actually think will make me happier, but it's on the list nonetheless).

I will risk my husband's unhappiness because, frankly, I'd rather risk that than risk my own.

MamaP

Fig #1

2010-07-05T07:00:00.000-07:00

Each week, on Monday morning, I will post my choice for the week. As I said, some experiences will span many weeks (learning to play an instrument, reading The Brothers Karamazov), but each week I will focus my energies (both mental and physical) on one experience only.

This week I have chosen to bake challah. Simple enough, so it would seem. And yet....for years....I haven't done it. I first became interested in challah watching an old Sex in the City episode. I know. That's not very spiritual or domestic of me. But I remember watching Charlotte braid the challah, and from that point forward I seemed to see it everywhere and hear it raved about time and again. Challah this and challah that. My little sister even made her own, and she sent me a photograph of it and it was lovely. Really. It looked bakery-quality.

For those of you unfamiliar of challah, this is what it looks like:

Isn't it beautiful? Okay, so I will also admit that I've never even tasted challah. I know. And let me tell you why I've never tasted challah, because I've been tempted many times. But each time I am at a bakery or at Whole Foods and see a lovely, buttered loaf of the braided bread, I think to myself: No, I'll not buy it. I'll go home and make it instead.

So, I don't buy it, and when I get home all of my good intentions fall by the wayside because I am afraid. Afraid? Afraid of what? Well, here it is: I'm afraid to braid the dough. I know. It seems so simple, but there it is. I'm afraid of dough. I'm not having nightmares about it or anything. I don't wake up and slap my husband screaming: THE DOUGH, THE DOUGH!!!

But I'm afraid the dough won't rise. I'm afraid it will be too sticky. I'm afraid that I won't braid it properly and my wonky results will be a mockery of religious bread. What if it's terrible and I spend all day working on it and then I have to trash it because it's a flop?

Even as I'm typing this, it's hard to make the connection between my brain and my emotions, because clearly being afraid of dough is an emotional response. I mean, I bake and cook every day. I have even made homemade bread. And it was good. So, where does this fear of challah come from?

So, I have to do with the challah what I will have to do with all my fears..........face it and conquer it instead of turning tail and refusing to try anything at all at which there is the slightest inkling I might fail.

Because, after all, what's the worst that could happen? The dough won't rise. Okay. I won't braid it properly. Fine. It will burn. Oh well.

Oh well.

And if any of those things happens, I will resist the urge I've always had when I fail - to run away from the offensive experience and say to myself: fine. I don't bake challah. It's not for me.

I will resist this, and I will start again, with more yeast and more time and more braiding. And I will do it until I do it right. I will be Julia Child with her pounds of onions, and then I'll sit down with a cup of tea and break bread and think about what's on the list for next week.

Wish me luck and please......if there are any challah experts out there......give a girl some tips?

MamaP

The List

2010-07-04T13:00:00.000-07:00

As you can see, I have compiled my list of 52 figs, 52 experiences I plan to have over the course of the next year - a sort of right-now, in-the-moment bucket list. The list is made up of things I've wanted to do (and likely talked about doing) for several years, at least. For one reason or another, I haven't done them, and I decided that NOW is the time. Today.

The list isn't grandious. I've seen other bucket lists (perhaps that's not a completely accurate description of what I'm doing here), and these other bucket lists have things like go to the moon, climb Mt. Everest, meet Robin Williams (really, that was on a list, and I'm NOT knocking it). My point is, this list is simply a list of those things that I've shoved to one side, swept under the rug and shelved because I convinced myself they weren't a priority.

It's funny, because I sit in my house every day, and I go through the chores and rythms of a stay-at-home mom. I make toast and eggs. I vacuum. I get the kids ready for school and drive them there and pick them up. I grocery shop and pump gas and cook dinner. And in between all of those daily chores, I sit sometimes and feel that life is passing me by. It sometimes feels like groundhog's day, with the driving and the toast and eggs and another load of laundry. So one day, when I thought of all the things I could be doing and am not doing, I thought, I can do it. I swear I can.

Thus, the list.

I think that if you want to change any aspect of your life - a relationship, a job, one's financial status.......anything - you just have to do something. That's it. Doing something, anything, it will change things. But so much of the time, we don't do anything. We just do what we've been doing, but we don't do anything new, and it's the doing of something new that shifts everything. Even the smallest newness can give dimension to what before was flat, and I think that experience adds color.

So, there it is - my list and how I came about making it. More or less..........

MamaP

Quote 1 of 52

2010-07-04T06:26:00.000-07:00

I plan to begin each week with a quote that inspires me. These quotes sometimes inspire me in an encouraging way, they sometimes inspire in me contemplation, and they sometimes inspire me to think: what the hell? Really?

But they always inspire something.......and I think that's the point.

My second favorite quote (behind Plath's fig quotation, obviously) is this quote from Rainer Maria Rilke (Letters to a Young Poet, 1903):

...I would like to beg you dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

I love the idea of living into the answer instead of so desperately searching for it. And of course, I need a constant reminder of having patience with onself.

MamaP

Introduction to a Year

2010-07-03T13:42:00.000-07:00

I was floating in a pool yesterday, just a normal, average, everyday pool. It was at the gym, actually, and it was mid-morning. It was noteworthy not because the day was especially beautiful or because I was floating in the sea off the Italian coast. But my floating was noteworthy because as I lay there, under the big, hot California sun, I couldn't recall the last time I'd done any of those things: floated in water, been at a pool or worn a bathing suit.

If I dug deep into my mind, I seem to recall wearing a bathing suit last summer, for a brief period of time, because we'd been invited to a neighbor's pool party and because my kids couldn't have gone swimming without me. I remember feeling shy and embarrassed then, and I got straight into the pool (the water rigidly cold) and only stayed as long as it took to pacify my kids' desire to have a quick swim. I was happy when that desire abated and they ran off for hot dogs and juice boxes. Whew, I thought. I can get back to my black-and-white Ann Taylor cover up and hide these legs.

I have, since I can remember, hated wearing a bathing suit. Like many women, I am insecure about my body, but my insecurities are perhaps different from most women's insecurities. I am insecure, of course, about the size of my thighs, cellulite and the fact that my stomach pooches out a bit. But more so, I am insecure about the color of my skin, which is a glaring, in-your-face, smack-you-upside-the-head white. WHITE. Not pale. Not alabaster. Not ivory. There is no peaches-and-cream going on over these arms and legs. I am just a pasty, run-of-the-mill, glow-in-the-daylight white.

And since I can remember, I have been teased about this. Well, I shouldn't say teased. That's not the right word. The proper word would be closer to taunted and/or ridiculed.

As a child, I remember being called Casper. I remember lying in bed at night (really, I'm not exaggerating), and I would pray to God (I was raised Mormon so I thought this really would work) to make me tan by morning. I would fall off to sleep that way, and when I woke, I'd open my eyes and shut them again, remembering my prayer. My heart beat twice as fast, and I would think: maybe today.

Of course, I always opened my eyes to utter disappointment, throwing my chalky legs over the side of the bed and padding off down the hall to the bathroom, fighting tears, my head slumped in sullen resignation. And that was while I was young, growing up in Oregon. OREGON. I mean, come on. OREGON. It rains all the time in Oregon, and the people are pasty and ghastly and look as though they spent most of the year underneath a moss-covered rock. So, to be so teased and called-out for my white skin in a place full of people in my same predicament? Well, that should clue you in to the exact extent of what I'm talking about.

When I moved to Texas it was worse. Worse because Texas is an utter celebration of blond hair, blue eyes and tanned skin. It's like the human equivalent of the state flower (yellow rose) or that ubiquitous Lone Star. Texans like short shorts on a pair of long legs, and those legs are all the longer with glowing, golden skin and a pair of flip-flops at the end. I think Texas is even worse than California, because at least in California there is a little bit of diversity, some pale-skinned foreigners, the open-mindedness of places like LA and San Francisco, where you might have the faintest hope of at least being deemed interesting and unique.

In Texas, however, diversity comes in the form of the huge Hispanic population, which isn't exactly a bastion of paleness either.

The only time I ever felt good about my skin was when I lived in Asia, where white skin is ALL THE RAGE. I mean, it was crazy. People thought I was rich because my skin was so pale. I recall being at a department store once, and the ladies behind me whispering to each other about the beauty of my legs. I turned around to make sure they were talking about me, and one of the women smiled a big, wide, toothless smile and gave me a thumbs-up! Wow. For my skin.

Asian women often go about during summer months under the protective cover of an umbrella to save their skin from turning brown. They buy pots and tubes of crazy-expensive skin-whitening creams. They think a freckle is akin to a big, oozing, boiling zit.

But, alas, I live in America. I live in California.

So, I was floating, under that big sun, and as my feet bobbed and my arms drifted beyond my shoulders, I realized how lovey it was. The warmth of the sun beat against my face, and I felt my eyelids tingle against the brightness of it. I marveled in the juxtaposition of being on one side so cool against the water and on the other side so warm against the sun. It was quiet there, my ears submerged, and I thought: why have I not been doing this all summer long?

It hit me, immediately, that I've not been to the pool because of those long-standing fears that someone would stare at me, point at me, laugh at me or simply say (as has been said SO MANY times before): you'd be so pretty if you only had a tan.

I almost laughed out loud, to think that I'd been missing out on a summer spent floating on my back because I was afraid. Afraid.

I started to think about all of the things I haven't done because I have been afraid. It's not always a direct fear - like being afraid of someone laughing at me. Sometimes I'm afraid to spend the money. Sometimes I'm afraid to learn a new skill. Sometimes I'm afraid I won't have the time or the energy or the resources necessary to complete a task. I'm afraid of what people will say and (perhaps more often) of what they won't say. I am afraid of the future and of the past. I have let, I realized, fear dictate where I go and how I go about my daily life.

I realized that if I was missing out on something as simple as floating in a swimming pool on a Friday morning, I was likely missing out on much, much more. I got home, sat down and wrote out a list of things I've put off (for one reason or another), and I said to myself: Mama P - now is your time.

So, in the vein of Sylvia Plath's quotation above, I am going to stand up from the crotch of this fig tree and I'm going to pluck off as many figs this year as I possibly can. I expect some of them will be disappointing. Some of them may well be too ripe and others not ripe enough, but I am committed to the experience itself rather than finding the perfect moment, the perfect place, the perfect time so that everything will come out just right. Because I realized in that pool, that the only thing I know for certain is that life is NOW. I can live it or I can watch it wither and die.

Much of my bucket list (if you will) is comprised of small tasks or experiences, and as I wrote them all down I nearly laughed with the simplicity of most of them. They are easy. They are cheap. They often take only time, and not much of it. They sometimes take money, but they are all DO-ABLE. They are all within my reach, even if I might have to stretch a bit. When I thought about why I've not done them until now, I was torn between laughing or crying, such was the recognition that I've allowed myself to become stagnate and fearful for no good reason at all. The only thing holding me back is ME.

So, for the next year, for the next 52 weeks, I'll be checking off one experience off my list and writing about why it was I didn't do it to begin with, what it was like to do it and my impression after having completed it. Some tasks or goals will take longer than one week, and I suppose there will be weeks where I double-up on plucking these figs from my tree. But, I will blog each week about a different experience, and at the end of my year, I think (I'm almost certain) I will be changed by having completed all of it. There are times to sit still and to be quiet and to let the world come to you. And then there are times to go out and grab it.

MamaP