...and Deciding for Yourself Is Better than Trusting Sound Bytes

Read.  Trust your gut.  Go vote.
(Don't forget your i.d.)

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...and Finishing Last Is Better than NOT Finishing

Yup, I CAME IN DEAD LAST.

It took me seven hours, too. 

Two days later my chiropractor manipulated something in my foot/ankle region back to the spot it was supposed to be.  Yeah, it hurt - I wanted him dead for a few seconds and then...ahhhh...instant relief.  Where were you at mile 20, Dr. Schuler?  I could have cut my time down to six hours and 54 minutes or something.

Did I mention that I finished, though?

...and Your Mattress Is Better than Your Bank

I was told this morning that another friend is losing her house to foreclosure.  The auction is next week.

What would happen if the banks changed their policies and said yes to every short sale offer that was within $10,000 of the asking price?  I know, I know.  Everyone would offer $10,000 less, but SO WHAT?  Didn't they get bailed out? 

Of course, I take this personally - I lost my house last year.  Not an easy sentence to write for me.  Pride is a Clyburn trait, which is funny considering...well, never mind that.  We're also stubborn, so it took me a long time to just give up on keeping the money pit. Every repair was twice the mortgage payment.  Duct tape held that place together like bumper stickers keep the miracle van in one piece.  We got two offers that were turned down by the bank.  After the foreclosure, they sold it for $7500 less than the highest offer...

I get it. I do.  They make money.  Got it.  Fuckers.

I bought Pooka three goldfish last night and ended up talking with the petstore worker about the state of the union.  It was like he was a bartender, standing on the other side of that aquarium, listening to me talk about my week.  Then he started talking.  He was articulate, well-read, and wearing a Petco apron.  I shook his hand, and he walked us to the cash register to collect our 28 cents. 

We talked more about the legacy we're leaving our kids - how we're trying to make sure they end up closer to that 1% than to the place we're at today - what I call "upper lower-class."  The conversation was brief, but it reassured me that I'm in good company.

Why is it that the smartest people are doling out goldfish for a living?

...and Shuffling Is Better than Sleeping

So I finally did my 18-mile run Monday night.  OW!  I had my daughter without drugs and didn't hurt as much as I did those last five miles.

This morning I went out for my first run since.  The legs still hurt like they've never hurt before and I was tempted to bag it and just sleep a little longer.  I had good excuses:  today is Rhiannon's first day of kindergarten & she wanted to dress up - which could have taken a while, my legs are angry, my back hurts, the sun wasn't up, yada, yada, yada.

I laced up the shoes and went out.  I shuffled around the block (1.73 miles) in almost 26 excruciating minutes.

But I did it.

...and Not Making It Is Better than Not Attempting It

Didn't finish my 18-mile run last night.  At 10:30, my friend and I decided to call it a day.  We did 11.1 miles.  It's discouraging and has me feeling down, but I know it'll pass as soon as I make up the run. 

There is no way I'm not completing this marathon. Not finishing last night gave me this odd feeling in the pit of my stomach that I don't want to feel again. 

It could be that ulcer my mom always promised me, I guess...

...and Contemplating the Coolness of Your Parents Is Better than Dreading Their Visits

I've got the weirdest parents on the planet.

Before you formulate your arguments about why you feel YOUR parents are the weirdest, let me have my chance to explain. I promise to keep it simple.



Dad:

• grew up impoverished in Ash Creek, California, a tiny town close to the Oregon border.
• was in the Air Force during the Vietnam War.
• drove truck for decades.
• is obsessed with guns, has owned God-knows-how-many, has designed his own, is a card-carrying member of the NRA and would pay for my contact lenses by creating custom rifle butts from rough cut wood. It's a fascinating process to watch and he is an artist.
• is literally an artist. When I was seven, I found beautifully sketched nudes of my mother in the trash. She was offended and had thrown them out. Even at seven, I knew they were gorgeous. He can draw someone's face accurately within minutes and it looks like da Vinci threw it down...Generally, he sketches guns and bullets, though.
• can whistle like no one else and is offended by poor whistling skills in others. He can also sing and would entertain me by singing into the c.b. radio while I traveled in his truck with him. He yodels quite well, too.
• can blow the alto sax with the best of them. He might be a country boy, but the man has the soul of a black man from the Mississippi delta when he has a saxophone in his hands. I was always in awe as a kid and practiced every day hoping to make the instrument sound like he did. My grandmother knew he had talent and managed to get him a sax, though it was a hardship (there's a story of a sold cow...and a pissed off grandfather).
• cooks like no one else. Maybe it was growing up poor - he learned to make do - or maybe it was bunking with a chef from New Orleans during Vietnam. I grew up knowing the hotness of Cajun food. My dad and I would have Sunday brunch together (while my mom and brother slept) and he would show off. We would also have pepper-eating contests in the back garden, but that's another post.
• has the greenest thumb on the planet and was organic before it was a buzzword.
• taught me to read when I was three years old. He hates the education system, doesn't believe school is necessary, pulled me out of kindergarten because "it was useless," and taught me early algebra skills in third grade. I laughed watching Good Will Hunting, because my dad always said, "All you need is a library card and you'll know everything you need to know."
• comes across sort of simple when you first meet him. He wears suspenders and a short pompadour and talks like the backwoods boy that he is. Lingering underneath all of that is a genius.

Mom:

• grew up impoverished in the Philippines - until her mother inherited a bunch of money and property. Then she lived the rest of her young days with servants, going to private Catholic schools, and having clothes designed just for her based on pictures she ripped out of American magazines. She still owns beachfront property there.
• is a terrible cook, but doesn't know it. Seriously, I thought Filipino food sucked until high school when one of her friends came to visit and insisted on cooking. My mom cooks all meat until it looks like a bowl. An earthenware bowl...
• loves pop music and sings karaoke four to five times a week with her friends. She has a very expensive Japanese karaoke system that she'll bring to Boise once-in-a-while, just so she can make me sing. [Note: With my mom and daughter, I can really rock the mike.]
• was an incredible dancer and will shake it with my daughter when she comes to visit. Okay, I shake it, too...
• has O.C.D. that has never been treated. While growing up, my brother and I brushed and flossed before leaving the house - before EACH TIME we left the house. She carried a spray bottle of rubbing alcohol for our hands and the doors of public restrooms. My brother and I were always sick, since we weren't allowed an immune system.
• told me I could start wearing makeup when I was nine. I answered by saying,"I'm NINE!" She also always bought me mini skirts and tight dresses. (sigh) She loves all things girly and is delighted that Rhiannon is such a girly-girl, since I wasn't interested in clothes and all that until the fifth grade. [Note: I made up for that later.]
• has a college education and once thought she'd teach high school. She knows four languages and many Filipino dialects. She's a whiz at math - I think that's part of the O.C.D. - and never needs a calculator to add a bunch of prices together quickly and accurately, decimals included.
• got her first job in the States the summer before I started fifth grade so that she could buy me all the latest styles, pay for me to start having my hair professionally done and for dance and cheer. She was high society in the Philippines, but she worked as a motel maid here, because her education meant nothing. She worked a menial job so that I could fit in, and I appreciate her every day for that. She taught me that looks do matter and, instead of being angry about it and getting political, one should just embrace it and have fun. Get crazy with fashion, make it theatre, and you'll mock the mockers. She allowed me to be brave that way. Every season, she bought me new clothes. Every season means FOUR TIMES A YEAR, by the way.
• was never all that impressed by my academic prowess, but bragged to her friends about cheer and dance. She just sort of took it for granted I'd do well in school, so what was the big deal? She came to every game and every performance...and decorates her house with pictures of me in uniforms and costumes from all of it.
• drives me crazy most days and I have to bite my tongue a lot with her, but she always supported the artist in me and welcomed my friends with pizza and movies. She's flirty and odd and dyes her hair shades of red & orange that should never be on someone olive-complected, but she's also hilarious and fun and enjoys her grand-daughter in a way no one else can.

So, yeah, they're weird. They also think I can do no wrong most days. I used to always say I could go on a killing spree and they would just tell reporters, "She must've had her reasons." They never treated me like a child, even when I was one. I always had a say and my opinion still matters to them.


Who could ask for more than that?

...and Getting the Job Done Is Better than Bitching About It

Have I mentioned how small my house is? It's wee. Seriously, it's approximately 750 usable square feet.

And I might be into minimalism, but my husband and five-year-old daughter are not. My husband would argue that since I constantly buy books & magazines and art supplies I am not a true minimalist. Whatever.
The point is that this crowded messy house causes me to groan every time I enter it (the husband would trade out "groan" for "nag" or "bitch"). Today I finally realized the answer is not to hate my husband for not caring (why would he do something about it if he's fine with it?), the answer is to forgo writing my papers for school and get to organizing.

I worked for three hours and felt like I barely made a dent, BUT it's a start and I already like my spouse a little more for helping me move some furniture without making any "suggestions."