In case anyone is advice-shopping today: Just do it, damn it.
Life happens inside the large circle, not the small one. One thing I've personally learned, you can't take giant steps to get to the large circle. Small, maintainable steps will get you there faster, and are guaranteed to keep you hanging out where the magic happens, but you have to get started.
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I should clarify. By fell, I mean, jumped, with deliberate force, off the Diet Coke wagon. My plan for bashing my D.C. addiction, I thought, was a good one. I would buy the small 7.5 oz. mini cans (or as I like to call them, "baby Diet Cokes") and trick my brain into thinking, by holding onto the cold aluminum can, that I was drinking the normal 12 oz can of garbage and, therefore, I would consume less.
That isn't exactly how this mess played out. I just drank more baby Diet Cokes. I actually drank more than before! I did. I can't help but wonder if the Coca-Cola Corporation anticipated this happening and kicked me off the wagon before I could travel out of my own driveway? I feel better having confessed that my Diet Coke habit is still a habit. I'm trying again, and right now, I'm waiting for the wagon to circle back around and pick me the hell up, but I'm adorably disappointed in myself.
And...because Poseidon refers to Diet Coke as "Devil Juice," and I asked him to add D.C. to the grocery list, this is what I found waiting for me in the kitchen yesterday evening:
Amphitrite
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Combining three of our favorite things: Biking, football, and great beer. We biked 9.5 miles from our driveway to Sadlacks Heros (before they shut their doors in December), had a couple of beers and watched football, then walked next door to Schoolkids Records, spent $60 in CDs, then biked back home. What a gorgeous day! What a gorgeous week. The highlight of this week? My newly active self (after neck surgery in January) is now at the weight I was in 1995 (this picture was taken last week at the Hopscotch Music Festival 2013):
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I found solutions to two long-standing issues this morning...before 9am! This is especially important because I've been feeling so unproductive lately, and unable (or unwilling) to pin down the reason, exactly, but right now, this minute, the only one that counts, life is delicious.
Problem-solving. It's the new black.
Oh, and this photo has nada to do with problem solving (or maybe it does...jellyfish are brainless and spineless, yet they keep on keeping on), but I snapped it at the beach a couple of weeks ago and I must post it some damn place.
--Amphitrite
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(Photo source: http://www.theittybittykittycommittee.com)
Five Good Things to Absorb While You're Still Young:
(Original source: http://www.5ives.com/archives/2006/01/23/five-good-things-to-absorb-while-youre-still-young/)
--Amphitrite
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This could very well be one of the more difficult decisions I've ever had to make. The decision to shut the cats out of our bedroom at night after 13 years of attachment parenting. I've spoiled my cats from day one, and I know I have no one to blame for the neediness I've instilled in them, but moi.
Last week, we began the heartbreaking routine (heartbreaking for me...blissful for Poseidon) of closing our bedroom door at night, forcing Kwinn and Kat to sleep elsewhere in the house.
Why, after 13 years, do I do this? Simple. My sleep has become ever more restless, and my little furry babies are partly to blame (eh, ok, mostly to blame). If they wake up, and want attention, they bite me, or swat at me until I wake up and pet them. Being awakened from deep REM sleep by a couple of four-leggers biting my cheek is not cool, but again, I've allowed this behavior to develop over many years, and I always respond by petting them and cooing at them. They KNOW this. It is now problematic because their demands for attention have progressed aggressively, and something had to be done.
I'm very happy I finally decided to do this...if for no other reason than to make Poseidon stop declaring me "p-whipped."
--Amphritite
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I'm a recovering perfectionist. My recovery includes allowing myself to try new things without having to be an immediate whiz kid, so, on a whim, I took an introductory knitting class. Go me! I'm not sure why I chose knitting, other than it is a hobby less solitary than sewing, and I can hang out with Poseidon and watch a movie while knitting. I can't quite do that with the sewing machine.
Anyway, I enjoyed the knitting classes (2 classes total...an accelerated introduction, to say the least). We learned the knit stitch, the purl stitch, casting on, and binding off, so our instructor told us to consider ourselves "advanced beginners." We also learned how to read a knitting pattern, how to buy yarn, types of needles, resources for help, etc. My brain is sufficiently stuffed with knitting knowledge.
I've just completed my first project: A cotton washcloth. Well, I'm very nearly finished. Tonight I will bind off, and stare open-mouthed at my accomplishment with a celebratory beer. I'm so pleased with my progress (and that is what counts...as the well-grounded know, outside validation isn't going to fill in any emotional holes).
My washcloth isn't pretty. It's full of dropped stitches, me forgetting if I'm knitting or purling, and goofs too silly to fake, but I did it without breaking out in hives, punching myself in the face, or taking out Poseidon's left eye (or his right eye), and yesterday, I had the audacity to purchase yarn for my next washcloth.
--Amphitrite
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Carolyn Hax's advice column in the Washington Post is one of my favorite reads (mostly because of her writing style), and when I have downtime, I sift through the C. Hax archives.
Yesterday, I was clicking around in the archives, year 2010, and I landed on a column about a young girl having a tough time in high school. This poor girl is making the assumption that she is obligated to be perfect (ugh, like most high school students, myself included) or she would be a major letter-downer (I just made that up, or at least I think I did), and a portion of Carolyn's advice to this young woman made me smile, so I decided to quote her words here:
"...our imperfections not only make us lovable — and approachable — but also, ironically, bring out our best. To know and admit our shortcomings is the only way to master them."
I mean, who wants to hang out with someone perfect? Too much pressure!
I hope everyone has a pressure-free, fine weekend (yes, the weekend is finally here).
--Amphitrite
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This may be one of those tl;dr posts, but I designated tonight a "writing night" so I had pressure to produce. This was an essay I wrote a few years ago based on an old journal entry of mine from 1997. Oh, and just to be clear, I'm glad it didn't work out with my friend back then, or I wouldn't have met my Poseidon.
Here it is: The red crayon.
I had the greatest best friend in the world for a while in my mid-twenties. He was a co-worker I met when I moved to Philadelphia from Raleigh and we became instant best pals. We were inseparable. Max (that is what I’ll call him) and I loved the city and made it our duty to try every restaurant and bar in Philadelphia, and I think we actually did. We were such good friends that I even helped him paint the outside of his house (I’d never painted a house before, and I can promise you, I won’t ever do it again) when he was trying to sell it. The temperature was in the upper 90s with heavy humidity, and if that wasn’t bad enough, I got a terrible case of poison ivy by pulling weeds away from the house to keep them from getting into the wet paint. I needed 2 shots of cortisone from my dermatologist to get rid of it.
Why did I put myself through that agony? Because he was my best friend and he needed help. Max had gotten divorced three years before and he felt he needed to move on by selling his house and starting over. The weekend after we painted his house, I had a great idea on how I could help him move on. I told him we should have a yard sale and sell everything in his house. At first, he wanted nothing to do with my plan, but reluctantly agreed to let me have the yard sale as long has he didn’t have to do anything. I took charge and put up signs and I believe I even ran an ad in the paper. The night before the yard sale, I stayed over at his house and we went through everything he owned, deciding what was junk, what we could sell, and what he would keep.
The next morning, we got up around 6 am and started carrying furniture outside, followed by clothes, dishes, games, junk, books, records, television sets, knick knacks and things I can’t even put into a specific category. I asked him to help me price things, and he said he didn’t care what we charged, so I priced everything to sell! I’m not joking. I put a $10 price tag on an antique dresser. He wanted rid of everything. We had a steady stream of bargain hunters starting around 7 am. One of the shoppers wanted to buy all of the old board games we had outside, including the original Mousetrap. This shopper was a little odd because while money was changing hands, he began telling us that he was buying the board games for his son. He was trying to gain custody of his son, but his past mental health records were being brought into the mix. Strangers and the stuff they feel compelled to share.
By mid-afternoon, I had sold all of Max’s belongings and memories for a grand total of $155.25. He shook his head at the sadness of the fact that his entire household was worth less than $200.00. We decided to take the money and go out to dinner and a concert. We had a blast. That was one of the best nights I had ever had. Little did I know that this friendship would not last.
Our fun ended because Max felt we should date. He wasn’t satisfied being just my best friend anymore. I told him it wouldn’t work. We were meant to be great friends, and nothing more. We went along as if we had not had the dating discussion, and it seemed to be fine, at least to me. I put his ideas of dating and love out of my head and thought he had done the same, but he secretly carried a torch for me and brought it up a few more times. I really didn’t think much about it anymore until one day he told me he found someone he was interested in dating. I was so happy for him! Finally, we could still be good friends and I wouldn’t have to worry that I was hurting him. The irony here is that I was the one who began hurting. I started out being excited for him, but within days, things didn’t seem so cut and dry.
I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if I finally realized that maybe
I did have feelings for him, or if I felt like I was now going to lose my best
friend to another woman. Of course, it was the latter.
I was very depressed for a while after he began dating his new love because she of course replaced me. I tried to be happy for him and remain cheerful, and we made plans to hang out a few times, but it never happened, and I saw Max no more.
One beautiful Sunday morning, during my deepest depression after my ‘break up’ with Max, I walked around Old City to enjoy the day and do some people watching. As I walked down 2nd Street, something caught my eye. I saw a new, never-before-used red crayon. As soon as I saw it, looking so perfect, lying in the crack in the sidewalk, I felt happy. Maybe I felt happy because spring was coming, making the air calm and beautiful. I don’t know. I only know that perfect red crayon took my soul to a new place, a wonderful place. I plucked the crayon from its hiding spot and took it home. Its newness became a symbol of spring and health to me. I think that crayon saved my life. Who knew that one silly little red beacon of hope could help me move on? I still have the crayon today, tucked safely in my jewelry box and every time I see it, I get such a warm deep feeling in my soul and a smile on my face that cannot be contained.
Amphitrite
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I'm not the first person to write about soda addictions, and I won't be the last, but here begins my ridiculous, maudlin plea for sympathy: I've had a love affair with sodas my entire life. I want to gag just thinking about this, but I was practically raised on RC Cola. My family used to drink so much of this stuff that we had stacks and stacks of empty glass returnable RC Cola bottles in our home. Of course, we didn't call it RC Cola, we called it pop.
When I tried Coke (real Coca-Cola, that is), I never looked back. It became my 'pop' of choice. I drank Coke like water, in my teens and early 20s, never realizing how many empty calories I was consuming because I was still a skinny little twig with a kick-ass metabolism. I needed not worry about such things as calories. Until around the age of 28.
Even though I was putting on the pounds, I continued to drink Coke like it was a commodity not
I am an addict. I must have a Diet Coke first thing in the morning. Every morning. I want to stop. I chose not to make this a New Year's resolution because I usually don't make resolutions because it's just too much pressure to perform. I don't need that!
I know D.C. is bad for me. I do. Poseidon has emailed many articles to me about the theories of Diet Coke and the havoc it can wreak on one's system. I've read articles about Diet Coke eventually turning into formaldehyde
when inside the body. I'm a slow learner I suppose because none of this had me scared.
This week, and I don't know why I chose this week, I have started writing my Dear John letter to Diet Coke. I mean, I'm married, and Diet Coke has so many other hangers on, so this will be the best thing for us both. I need to close the door permanently, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Without sounding trite, I wish D.C. nothing but the best for the future.
--Amphritite
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